Illustrated poems / by L. H. Sigourney ; with designs by Felix O.C. Darley [electronic text]

TO-MORROW.

ONCE when the traveller's coach o'er England's vales Paused at its destined goal, an aged crone Came from a neighbouring cottage, with such speed As weary years might make, and with red eye Scanning each passenger, in hurried tones Demanded, "Has he come?" "No, not to-day; To-morrow," was the answer. So, she turn'd, Raising her shrivel'd finger, with a look Half-credulous, half-reproachful, murmuring low, "To-morrow," and went homeward. A sad tale Was hers, they said. She and her husband shared, From early days, a life of honest toil, Content, though poor. One only son they had, Healthful and bright, and to their simple thought Both wise and fair. The father was a man Austere and passionate, who loved his boy With pride that could not bear to brook his faults

Nor patiently to mend them. As he grew Toward man's estate, the mother's readier tact Discern'd the change of character that meets With chafing neck the yoke of discipline, And humour'd it; while to the sire he seem'd Still but a child, and so he treated him. When eighteen summers threw a ripening tinge O'er brow and cheek, the father, at some fault Born more of rashness than of turpitude, Struck him in wrath, and turn'd him from his door With bitter words. The youth, who shared too deep The fiery temper of his father's blood, Vow'd to return no more. The mother wept, And wildly pray'd her husband to forgive, And call him back. But he, with aspect stern, Bade her be silent, adding that the boy Was by her folly and indulgence spoil'd Beyond reclaim. And so she shuddering took The tear and prayer back to her inmost soul, And waited till the passion-storm should slack, And die away. Long was that night of wo, Yet mid its dreary watch, she thank'd her God When, after hours of tossing, blessed sleep Stole o'er the moody man. With quiet morn Relentings came, and that ill-smother'd pang

With which an unruled spirit takes the lash Of keen remorse. Awhile with shame he strove, And then he bade the woman seek her son, If so she will'd. Alas! it was too late. He was a listed soldier for a land Beyond the seas, nor would their little all Suffice to buy him back. 'Twere long to tell How pain and loneliness and sorrow took Their Shylock-payment for that passion-gust. Or how the father, when his hour had come, Said, with a trembling lip and hollow voice, "Would that our boy were here!" or how the wife, In tenderest ministrations round his bed, And in her widow'd mourning, echoed still His dying words, "Oh! that our boy were here."

Years sped, and oft her soldier's letters came Replete with filial love, and penitence, And promise of return. But then, her soul Was wrung by cruel tidings, that he lay Wounded and sick in foreign hospitals. A line traced faintly by his own dear hand Relieved the torture. He was order'd home, Among the invalids. Joy, long unknown

Rush'd through her desolate heart. To hear his voice, To gaze into his eyes, to part the locks On his pure forehead, to prepare his food, And nurse his feebleness, she ask'd no more.

Again his childhood's long forsaken couch Put forth its snowy pillow, and once more, The well-saved curtain of flower'd muslin deck'd The lowly casement where he erst did love To sit and read. The cushion'd chair, that cheer'd His father's lingering sickness, should be his; And on the little table at his side The hour-glass stood, whose ever-shifting sands Had pleased him when a boy. The appointed morn Drew slowly on. The cheerful coals were heap'd In the small grate, and ere the coach arrived She with her throbbing heart stood eager there. "Has Willie come?" Each traveller, intent On his own destination, heeded not To make reply. "Coachman! is Willie there?"

"Willie? No! no!" in a hoarse, hurried voice, Came the gruff answer. "Know ye not he's dead,

Good woman? Dead! And buried on the coast, Four days ago." But a kind stranger mark'd How the strong surge of speechless agony Swept o'er each feature, and in pity said, "Perchance he'll come to-morrow." Home she went, Struck to the soul and wept the livelong night, Insensible to comfort, and to all Who spake the usual words of sympathy, Answering nothing. But when day return'd, And the slight hammer of the cottage-clock Announced the hour at which her absent son Had been expected, suddenly she rose, And dress'd herself and threw her mantle on, And as the coachman check'd his foaming steeds, Stood eager by his side. "Is Willie there? My Willie? Say!" While he, by pity school'd, Answer'd, "Tomorrow." And though years have fled, And still her limbs grow weaker, and the hairs Whiter and thinner on her wrinkled brow, Yet duly, when the shrill horn o'er the hills Preludeth the approaching traveller,

That poor, demented woman hurries forth To speak her only question, and receive That one reply, To-morrow. And on that Fragment of hope deferr'd, doth her worn heart Feed and survive. Lull'd by those syren words, "To-morrow," which from childhood's trustful dawn Have lured us all. When Reason sank In the wild wreck of Grief, maternal Love Caught at that empty sound, and clasp'd it close, And grappled to it, like a broken oar, To breast the shoreless ocean of despair.