[From The Legend of St. Olaf's Kirk.] VALBORG WATCHING AXEL'S DEPARTURE. AT kirk knelt Valborg, the cold altar-stone The dull tramp of his troopers, up she fared With words' cheap guise of sympathy. There perched She pushed her face between the mullions, looked And through the clear air watched it, tossing, pass And blow to southward, catching light and shade And with him brave the sea-breeze. Aimlessly She sought the scattered gold-threads that had formed With dull do-over of mean drudgeries, And miserable cheer of pitying mouths Whistling and whipping through small round of change How slow the crutches of the limping years! I gave my precious one back to the daisies, From where they caught their color she came; HE erred, no doubt, perhaps he And now, when I look in the face of sinned; a daisy, My little girl's face I see, I see! My tears, down dropping, with theirs commingle, And they give my precious one back to me. And not for those that fall! I have lost a thought that many a No, I'm not what I was yesterday, year Was most familiar food To my inmost mind, by night or day, In merry or plaintive mood; I have lost a hope, that many a year Looked far on a gleaming way, When the walls of Life were closing round, And the sky was sombre gray. Though change there be little to see. And he who still and silent sits Owe Blessings that hope has ne'er defined Till from his busy thoughts they flow. He came not, -no, he came not, - Fast silent tears were flowing, Thus all must work with head or When something stood behind, hand, A hand was on my shoulder, |