Three Hours; Or, The Vigil Of Love: First Hour
1.
Many,
many
years
ago,
When
the
months
moved
very
slow,
Keeping
time
with
minds
of
men,—-
Human
thought
was
slumbering
then;
Long
ago
a
Cottage
stood
Where
God's
Temple
rises
now,
And
there
frowned
a
sullen
wood
On
a
bleak
Hill's
shaggy
brow,
Just
above
the
humble
dwelling:—-
'Tis
no
fairy
Tale
I'm
telling,
But
a
History
of
the
heart,
When
nature
triumphed
over
art.
The
scenery
then
was
wild
and
strange,
But
time
and
man
have
wrought
a
change.
As
Thought
can
use
the
lightning's
wings,
A
single
season
often
brings
Such
plans
of
power
and
deeds
of
fame
As
centuries
past
could
never
claim.
The
shaggy
Hill
is
smiling
now,
Like
warrior
who
has
won
the
day,
And
on
its
green,
uplifted
brow
The
palace
of
a
State
holds
sway;
And
yet,
like
hopes
that
never
die,
Beneath
the
Pile,
our
gaze
that
wins,
Roots
of
the
sere,
old
forest
lie
That
flourished
ere
my
Tale
begins.
2.
"Nine
o'clock!"—-it
strikes
the
hour,
Not
the
clock
of
the
lofty
tower,—-
Many
a
conquering
year
must
go,
Bearing
its
banner
of
bloom
and
blight,
Gathering
its
spoils
of
joy
and
wo,
Ere
stands
the
Church
on
the
Cottage
site!
"Nine
o'clock—-he
is
not
here—-
I
cannot
check
this
creeping
fear,
That
thrills
my
heart
at
Time's
death-tone,
—-It
strikes
so
loud
when
I'm
all
alone!"
She
raised
her
eyes
to
the
old
brass
clock,
Whose
calm
face
seemed
her
fears
to
mock;
It
stood
in
pride
so
stiff
and
tall,
As
though
it
propped
the
Cottage
wall,
And
to
and
fro
swung
its
pendulum
ball.
3.
We
feel
there
is
a
God
above
When
seeing
tokens
of
His
love,—-
That
angels
there
must
be
on
high
When
human
beauty
meets
our
eye.
And
oh!
how
angel
lovely
seemed
The
Lady
of
that
Cottage
home,—-
It
was
as
though
some
Bard
had
dreamed
A
radiant
star-nymph
on
him
beamed,
And
when
he
woke
had
found
her
come!
4.
As
easy
'twere
the
nymph
to
bind
As
tell
the
charm
the
Lady
bore;
True
beauty
never
was
defined—-
And
features
painted
to
the
mind
Are
perfect
only
to
the
blind
Who
never
scan
the
image
o'er.—-
Oh!
very
beautiful
was
she,
A
loveliness
most
rare
to
see.
Her
eyes
were
like
th'ethereal
hue
From
Chimborazo's
skyward
view,
When
stars
begin
to
tremble
through,
And
not
a
vapor
dims
the
blue;—-
And
clustering
curls
of
soft,
blond
hair,
Around
her
throat
and
shoulders
flow
Like
morning
light
on
mountain
snow,—-
And
face
so
delicately
fair!
'Twas
like
a
lily
newly
blown,
Or,
like
breathing
Parian
stone,
Softened
by
a
heart
within,
Sending
love-light
through
the
skin!
Ay,
the
soul's
transparent
vase
Seemed
that
pure,
pale,
loving
face.
5.
Kneeling
by
a
cradle-bed,
On
the
clock
she
gazed
in
awe,—-
Turning
thence,
her
fears
seemed
fled
When
her
sleeping
boy
she
saw;
And
her
beauty
caught
new
grace,
As
she
smiled,
a
trusting
smile,
Sad
forebodings
had
given
place,
Hope,
like
new-fledged
dove,
the
while,
Nestled
in
her
mother's
breast
As
she
watched
her
infant's
rest.
6.
"Better,
ay,
he'll
soon
be
well—-
Saviour-God,
I
bless
thy
name!"
Silvery
sweet
her
accents
fell,—-
From
her
heart
the
blessing
came.
Then
she
rose
and
gently
raised
The
pine-knots
on
the
hearth
that
blazed;
Beneath
her
touch
they
burn
so
bright
Every
shadow
seems
to
flee:—-
The
bed's
blue
damask
canopy,
And
a
tall,
carved
chair
of
ebony,
Stiff
as
knight
in
armor
dight,
Were
strongly
painted
in
the
light;—-
And
strangely
mingling
with
them,
stood,
Like
humble
friends,
the
bench
of
wood,
And
table,
shaped
with
axe
and
saw—-
On
which
a
silver
flagon
shone,—-
None
of
these
her
notice
draw;
The
Lady's
gaze
is
turned
alone
On
a
rude
shelf
filled
with
books;
Or,
as
listening
for
his
moan,
On
her
sleeping
boy
she
looks.
7.
A
blessing
on
the
printer's
art!
Books
are
the
Mentors
of
the
heart.
The
burning
soul,
the
burdened
mind,
In
books
alone
companions
find.
We
never
speak
our
deepest
feelings;
Our
holiest
hopes
have
no
revealings,
Save
in
the
gleams
that
light
the
face,
Or
fancies
that
the
pen
may
trace:
And
hence
to
books
the
heart
must
turn,
When
with
unspoken
thoughts
we
yearn;
And
gather
from
the
silent
page
The
just
reproof,
the
counsel
sage,
The
consolation
kind
and
true
That
soothes
and
heals
the
wounded
heart,
As
on
the
broken
plant
the
dew
Calls
forth
fresh
leaves
and
buds
to
view,
More
lovely
as
the
old
depart.
8.
And
when,
with
gloomy
fears
oppressed,
The
trembling-hearted
fain
would
rest,
No
opiate
like
a
book,
that
charms,
By
its
deep
spell,
the
mind's
alarms;
Opening,
as
Genius
has
the
key,
Some
haunt
of
mirth,
or
mystery,
Or
trusting
faith,
or
tender
love,
As
vista
to
the
heaven
above,
Where
the
lone
wandering
one
may
come,
Refreshed
and
glad,
as
though
at
home;
And
feel
the
soul
has
wells
of
joy,
Like
springs
that
gush
in
cavern's
gloom,
And
hopes
like
gold
without
alloy,
Or
diamonds
buried
in
a
tomb.
9.
But
there's
a
fever
of
the
soul,
Beyond
this
opiate
control;
When
the
book-charm
its
influence
loses,
The
mind
will
wander
where
it
chooses:
We
see
the
page,
but
never
heed,
Or
thought
is
busy
while
we
read;
And
strange
revealings
fill
the
gloom—-
A
song
of
joy,
or
dirge
of
doom
Seems
writ
on
every
page
we
turn,
With
spirit
lore
we
fain
would
learn.
10.
Even
thus
she
sat
in
reverie,
An
open
book
upon
her
knee,
That
Lady
pale,
while
far
away
Her
thoughts,
like
truant
children,
stray.
Her
heart—-no,
not
her
heart—-went
back,
'Twas
memory
trod
the
long,
dim
track.
On,
on,
like
beam
of
light
she
sped,
Or
thought
that
flies
to
seek
the
dead;
On,
over
the
ocean's
wintry
foam,
Where
surges
heave
as
mountains
high,
As
'twere
to
join
the
sea
and
sky;
And
now
the
blesséd
land
is
nigh—-
And
she
has
reached
her
childhood's
home!
She
sees
the
grand
ancestral
Hall,
The
pictured
warriors
on
the
wall,—-
There
frowns
a
grim
old
ancestor,
As
might
have
scowled
the
Saxon
Knight,
Who
perished
in
the
fatal
fight
That
made
Duke
William
"Conqueror!"
Then
came
a
Lady,
very
fair,
Even
in
her
faded
semblance
there,
Companioned
by
a
stern,
dark
Knight,—-
Like
morning
shrinking
back
from
night—-
And
told,
like
page
of
History,
The
Talbot's
genealogy;—-
Told,
too,
how
stern
the
sires
had
been—-
Their
harsh
and
haughty
Norman
blood;
While
gentler
flowed
the
stream
within
The
Saxon
daughters,
fair
and
good.
And
she,
the
lovely
dreamer
there,
Like
marble
form
in
the
tall,
dark
chair,
She
was
the
last
Lord
Talbot's
heir!
11.
Grace
Talbot!
in
her
pride
of
place
She
had
been
called
the
Lady
Grace.
And
since
her
gentle
mother
died,—-
The
daughter
then
was
only
seven—-
She
had
been
taught
to
foster
pride,
As
though
high
birth
might
be
allied,
Or
rather
was,
to
rank
in
heaven!
Her
stern,
cold
father
loved
her
not,
And
often
murmured
at
the
lot
That
gave
no
son
to
well
the
fame
And
honors
of
the
Talbot
name.
But
as
his
bud
became
a
flower,
His
selfish
soul
was
gratified;
He
saw
her
wondrous
beauty's
power
Would
be
the
prop
to
raise
his
pride—-
As
vine
the
bending
tree
sustains,
And
with
its
foliage
hides
the
stains—-
And
she
should
wed,
to
please
her
sire,
A
noble
duke
with
vast
estate;
Ah!
her
destiny
was
higher,
Far,
far
above
the
worldly
great.
12.
'Tis
well
there
are
some
minds
on
earth
That
bear
the
impress
of
the
skies,
Hearts
that
seem
hallowed
from
their
birth,
A
pure
and
willing
sacrifice
To
lure
the
loving
angels
near
Our
low
abode
of
sin
and
fear,
And
show
the
soul
a
title
clear
To
hope
for
immortality,
By
proving
what
the
good
can
be.
'Tis
well
for
us
that
such
a
soul
Will
'scape
the
snare
of
earth's
control;
That
wealth,
and
rank,
and
pride
in
vain
Attempt
o'er
such
a
heart
to
reign.
And
when
a
gentle
being
bears
This
sweetest
seal
of
woman's
mind,
The
virtues
like
a
garland
wears,
And
makes
her
very
pleasures
kind,—-
Then,
with
the
lapsing
years
that
steal
The
loveliness
of
youth
away,
Will
come
the
graces
that
reveal
The
angel
in
the
form
of
clay.
13.
And
thus
the
gentle
Grace
seemed
come,
Like
dove,
that
wandered
from
its
home
In
heaven,
the
olive-leaf
to
bring,
And
harbinger
the
human
spring;
When
love
shall
bloom
without
a
thorn,
And
peace
descend
like
April
showers,
And
hopes
of
bliss
that
gild
youth's
morn
Grow
brightest
in
life's
evening
hours.
14.
They
met—-the
lovely
Lady
Grace
And
Sydney
Morton
met!
A
scion
he
of
the
strong-souled
race
Whose
Bible
was
their
Amulet;
A
model
of
the
heaven-taught
man
That
rose
in
the
ranks
of
the
Puritan!
Bold
in
the
cause
of
God
he
stood,
Like
Templar
in
the
Holy
Land;
And
never
Knight
of
princely
blood
In
lady's
bower
more
bland.
His
high,
broad
forehead,
marble
fair,
Told
of
the
power
of
Thought
within;
And
strength
was
in
his
raven
hair,—-
But
when
he
smiled
a
spell
was
there
That
more
than
power
or
strength
could
win.
And
to
the
loved
and
good
his
eye,
That
glowed
with
purpose
firm
and
high,
Was
mild
as
light
when
storms
go
by:
—-But
when
it
flashed
his
spirit's
might
Against
the
foes
of
truth
and
right,
'Twas
like
the
bold
from
cloud
of
night!
15.
They
met—-the
lovely
Lady
Grace
And
Sydney
Morton
met,
As
kindred
stars
will
find
their
place
Within
a
cluster
set.
They
met
and
loved,
as
such
hearts
would,
They
loved
the
true,
the
pure,
the
good
That
each
could
in
the
other
see;
They
loved
the
charms
that
last
for
ever—-
And
vain
it
were
such
hearts
to
sever,
—-True
love
is
for
eternity.
16.
The
history
of
their
truthful
love,
And
all
that
served
their
faith
to
prove,
And
all
the
trials
that
befell—-
These
were
a
tale
o'er
long
to
tell.
'Tis
sad
to
think,
beneath
the
sun,
What
deeds
of
darkness
have
been
done!
What
multitudes
have
pined
and
died
Through
human
prejudice
and
pride!
What
prison
secrets
will
be
told
When
the
last
Record
is
unrolled!
God's
Record
of
the
sins
of
men—-
Oh!
where
will
flee
the
guilty
then?
Thanks
be
to
God,
one
Land
is
free
From
deeds
of
blood
iniquity!
The
"bannered
stars"
have
never
shed
Their
glory
o'er
a
victim's
head;
Nor
drop
of
blood
has
flowed
to
dower
The
fabric
of
the
Union's
power!
17.
But
to
our
Tale—-we
may
not
here
Its
strange
and
sudden
turns
make
clear;
How
deep
within
a
dungeon
chained
Morton
was
sentenced
to
the
block,
And
but
one
day
of
life
remained,
When
he
was
told,
as
if
to
mock
His
sorrows,
that
his
day
of
death
Would
be
Grace
Talbot's
bridal
day!
(Her
haughty
sire
had
thus
decreed
His
pride
and
vengeance
both
to
feed
Ah!
well
he
used
his
parting
breath,
For
when
the
hours
had
passed
away,
His
cell
and
chains
were
found
alone—-
Prisoner
and
keeper
both
were
gone!
And
she
went,
too,
his
Grace,
his
wife,
His
all
of
wealth,
his
more
than
life,
She
fled
with
Morton
over
the
sea—-
Such
was
their
love's
sharp
history.
18.
Her
cottage
home
the
sequel
tells—-
They
reached
the
green
Peninsula,
Where
the
Tri-Mountain
sentinels
Looked
over
the
broad
Bay!
O
glorious
scene
of
Land
and
Sea!
There
Morton
felt
that
he
was
free;
And
in
his
consecrating
prayer,
When
to
the
New-World's
hope
and
faith
He
pledged
his
race
for
life
and
death,
Besought
his
God,
with
earnest
zeal,
As
Moses
for
his
brethren's
weal,
That
Freedom's
birth-place
might
be
THERE:
Her
light
go
forth,
till
o'er
the
earth
All
nations
hailed
its
place
of
birth;
And
Boston
should
become
to
them
As
Liberty's
Jerusalem!
Sarah Josepha Hale
Sarah Josepha Hale was born on October 24th, 1788 in Newport, New Hampshire. Her parents were strong advocates for education of both sexes. Therefore, Hale was taught well beyond the normal age for a woman. Later, she married a lawyer David Hale, who supported her in all scholarly endeavors. Sadly, her husband died after only nine years of marriage, leaving Hale a widow with five children. She turned to poetry as a form of income. Her most famous book, titled Poems for Our Children included a beloved story from her childhood. “Mary Had a Little Lamb” was instantly a popular nursey rhyme.