The Rothers
They brought him home as cold as stone,
Into his house they bore him in;
Nor at his burial any one
Was there to mourn him, of his kin,
Save those two babies, grave and grand
In black, who could not understand.
Poor wondering children, clad in crape.
Who knew not what they had to mourn,
Careful their sash should keep its shape
That papa, when he should return,
Might praise each little stiff new gown—
All day they never would sit down.
Poor, childish mutes, they stood all day
With outspread skirts and outspread hair.
And baby lips, less pink than grey
(So pale they were), and solemn stare;
They watched our mourning, pained and dumb.
Wondering when papa would come,
And give them each a ride on his horse.
And toss them both in the air, and say
"A Rother is sure in the saddle, of course.
But never a Rother rode better than they,"
And sent them up to bed at last
To sleep till morning, sound and fast.
At last each whitish-flaxen head
Drooped heavily, each baby-cheek
Its pallid shadow-roses shed—
The straight black legs grew soft and weak—
Father and frocks alike forgot
They fell asleep, and sorrowed not,
Yet pitiable they were, alone
They were, twin heiresses of five.
With lands and houses of their own,
And never a friend in the world alive
Save one old great-aunt, over in France,
Who knew them not, nor cared, perchance.
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