PATIENCE DOW.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 1911, 20 April 1874, Page 4

PATIENCE DOW.

Home from the mill came Patience Dow ; She did not smile, she would not talk ; And now she was all tears, and now, As fierce as is a captive hawk. Unmindful of her faded gown, She sat with folded hands all day, Her long hair falling tangled down, Her Bad eyes gazing far away, Where, past the fields, a silver line, She saw the distant river shine. But, when she thought herself alone, One night, they heard her muttering low, In such a chill, despairing tone, It seemed the east wind's sullen moan : " Ah me ! the days, they move bo slow ! I care not if they're fair or foul ; ,They creep along — I know not how ; I only know he loved me onee — He does not love me now !" One morning, vacant was her rftom ; And, in the clover wet. with dew, A narrow line of broken bloom Showed some one had been passing through ; And, following the track, it led Across a field of Summer grain, Out where the thorny blackberries shed Their blossoms in the narrow lane, Down which the cattle went to drink In Summer, from the river's brink. " The river !" Hope within them sank j The fatal thought that drew her there They knew, before, among the rank, White-blossomed weeds upon the bank, They found the shawl Bhe used to wear, And on it pinned a little note : " Oh, blame me not!" it read, "for when I once am free, my soul will float To him ! He cannot leave me then ! I know not if 'tis right or wrong — I go from life — I care not how ; I only know he loved me onee — He does not love me now !" In the farm graveyard, 'neath the black Funereal pine-trees on the hill, The poor, worn form the stream gave back They laid in slumber, cold and still. Her secret slept with her; none knew Whose fickle smile had left the pain That cursed her life; to one thought true, Her vision-haunted, wandering brain, Secure from all, hid safe from blame, In life and death had kept his name. Yet often, with a thrill of fear, Her mother, as Bhe lies awake At night, will fancy she can hear A voice, whose tone is like the drear, Low sound the graveyard pine-trees make : " I know not if 'tis right or wrong — Igo from life- 1 -! care not how ; I only know he loved me onee — He does not love me now !"