Telling her of foreign countries:little store had she of learning,So her earnest,simple spirit answered as he touched the string;Day by day,to these bright fancies all her silent thoughts were turning,Seeing every radiant picture framed within her golden Ring.
Oh,poor heart--love,if thou willest;but,thine own soul still possessing,Live thy life:not a reflection or a shadow of his own:Lean as fondly,as completely,as thou willest--but confessing That thy strength is God's,and therefore can,if need be,stand alone.
Little means were there around her to make farther,wider ranges,Where her loving gentle spirit could try any stronger flight;And she turned aside,half fearing that fresh thoughts were fickle changes -That she MUST stay as he left her on that farewell summer night.
Love should still be guide and leader,like a herald should have risen,Lighting up the long dark vistas,conquering all opposing fates;But new claims,new thoughts,new duties found her heart a silent prison,And found Love,with folded pinions,like a jailer by the gates.
Yet why blame her?it had needed greater strength than she was given To have gone against the current that so calmly flowed along;Nothing fresh came near the village save the rain and dew of heaven,And her nature was too passive,and her love perhaps too strong.
The great world of thought,that rushes down the years,and onward sweeping Bears upon its mighty billows in its progress each and all,Flowed so far away,its murmur did not rouse them from their sleeping;Life and Time and Truth were speaking,but they did not hear their call.
Years flowed on;and every morning heard her prayer grow lower,deeper,As she called all blessings on him,and bade every ill depart,And each night when the cold moonlight shone upon that quiet sleeper,It would show her ring that glittered with each throbbing of her heart.
Years passed on.Fame came for Philip in a full,o'erflowing measure;He was spoken of and honoured through the breadth of many lands,And he wrote it all to Mildred,as if praise were only pleasure,As if fame were only honour,when he laid them in her hands.
Mildred heard it without wonder,as a sure result expected,For how could it fail,since merit and renown go side by side:And the neighbours who first fancied genius ought to be suspected,Might at last give up their caution,and could own him now with pride.
Years flowed on.These empty honours led to others they called better,He had saved some slender fortune,and might claim his bride at last:Mildred,grown so used to waiting,felt half startled by the letter That now made her future certain,and would consecrate her past.
And he came:grown sterner,older--changed indeed:a grave reliance Had replaced his eager manner,and the quick short speech of old:
He had gone forth with a spirit half of hope and half defiance;He returned with proud assurance half disdainful and half cold.
Yet his old self seemed returning while he stood sometimes,and listened To her calm soft voice,relating all the thoughts of these long years;And if Mildred's heart was heavy,and at times her blue eyes glistened,Still in thought she would not whisper aught of sorrow or of fears.
