Poems (Douglas)/The Vacant Chair

by Sarah Parker Douglas

The Vacant Chair.

Say, who is she with azure eye,
 And cheek so warmly, softly glowing,
And hair as if the sunset's dye
 Was all its brightness there bestowing;
And brow as stainless as the wreath
 Of snowy flowers her head adorning,
And rose-bud lips that seem to breathe
 The balmy sweets of summer morning?

How graceful flow her swan-like dress,
 And gleams beneath her scarf so thin,
A glow of healthful loveliness
 In the wan rose hue of her skin,
As if the softest, slightest touch
 O'er marble neck and arm were laid—
So very faint the dye, just such
 As gives that lovely life warm shade.

Well might the eye with rapture trace
 On that fair brow each guileless charm,
And linger o'er that witching face,
 And o'er that bright and peerless form.

Well might young Edward, as his eye
 Dwelt fondly on his beauteous bride,
Exclaim, in his soul's ecstacy,
 "Of Erin's maids she is the pride!
My Nora, dear, this life's a dream,
 One happy, sunny dream about thee;
To me this dear green isle would seem
 A barren wilderness without thee!"

But where has her young husband flown?
 Why sit the guests so silent there?
The shades of night have stolen on,
 And yet is his a vacant chair.
Pale is the cheek of that young bride,
 The smile from her sweet lip is fled;
Her bridal wreath is flung aside,
 And droop'd in agony her head.

Had he deserted her? ah, no!
 His was a heart could know no change;
His was a love whose fervent glow
 Time could not quench; and yet how strange,
That he had smiling left her side,
 And bounded through a fragrant dell
To gather, for his lovely bride,
 Her fav'rite rose and heather bell.

He promised, with his fondest smile,
 Soon to rejoin them in the grove,
She saw him cross the grassy stile—
 But he returns not to his love
And they have search'd the valleys round,
 And sought him on the lone sea-shore,
Call'd loudly on his name; no sound
 In answer came, save ocean's roar.

Now months and years have onward roll'd,
 And yet no word to the bereft,
Of their dear lost one: still they hold
 That day as sacred when he left
His happy home; still on that day
 His widow'd bride, the fond and fair,
Bedecks her in the same array,
 And takes her seat beside his chair,

That vacant chair, oft wet with tears
 Wrung from fond hearts, with woe replete,
It stands unoccupied for years,
 And no one dares profane that seat.
The bridal day again returns,
 They sit in silence round the board,
Each tear-fraught eye in muteness mourns
 For the long absent, long deplored.

But who is he that rudely throws
 Himself upon that hallow'd seat?
With out-stretch'd hand each guest arose
 To raise the offender on his feet.
The stranger bared his head, and waved
 The dark locks from his sun-burnt brow;
Fair Nora's bosom wildly heaved,
 Her cheek burn'd with a sudden glow:

"Oh! Edward, Edward, it is you!"
 The seaman grasped his sinking bride;
"My Nora, ever fond and true!
 My father, and my friends!" he cried.
A shout of welcome and surprise
 Burst loudly from each wond'ring guest:
And started to the seaman's eyes
 A tear that joy and love express'd.

That eve he left them he had been
 Surrounded by a war-ship's crew,
Convey'd on board, toss'd on the main
 Long, long ere night her curtain drew:
And he had ocean battles fought,
 Been captured on a foreign shore—
Made his escape, and fondly sought
 The joys of his dear home once more!