She seeks the brook that once she loved, By stealth in twilight hour, And, musing on that peaceful scene, She sadly thought “what might have been,” Had traitors love, with gilded mien, Not charmed with subtle power.
Then came the flood of bitter tears, Heart-chiding and misgiving, When stilling all her future fears, As she a fancied footstep hears, She takes a leap and disappears, And ends the pain of living.
Despairing death her early doom, Young, wretched, and mistaken, Her innocence and beauty gone, Her life cut off in early morn, Her broken heart in anguish torn, Deserted and forsaken.
And where is he whose treach’rous wiles Have driven her to madness? Whose hollow heart and sinful soul Betrayed, while under love’s control, The trusting heart we here enroll Upon life’s book of sadness?
Her icy form drifts down the stream, While he pursues his pleasures; The world looks on his murd’rous deeds With leniency, and scarcely heeds The ruin wrought, or wrong that pleads For justice in God’s measures.
We want to go to “Iceland,” Or to the “polar seas;” We want to hug an “iceberg,” Or raise a “family breeze;” We want to see a white frost All o’er our grassy earth; We want to have a snow storm Give winter early birth; A “cold” would be a godsend, Indeed, we’d like a “chill;” A “coolness” with our dearest friend Would help to “fill the bill.” A “cool reception” we’d enjoy, Also, a “freezing” bow, And “frosted feet” we’d think a treat If we could have them now. We’d like our home an “ice house,” Our bed a bank of snow, We’d have “refrigerator” cars To take us to and fro; We’d love to live in Lapland, For reasons of our own, Or spend our summer holidays Within the “frigid zone.” Why they call this world a “cold world” We surely cannot tell, We think this summer proves it Almost as hot as “Hades.”
Our precious babe, our household pet, “The well spring of our pleasure,” Each hour welcomes some new art Endearing this our treasure; Its many little winning ways, Its cunning tricks and baby plays Bewitches beyond measure.
We watch it bud from day to day, Developing new beauties; A wonder in precociousness, Performing baby duties;
It laughs, and coos, and “patty cakes,” And plays with rings and rattles, And reaches out its dimpled hands. For all the goods and chattels That tend to brighten babyhood. And for them begs and battles;
