Classic Poem

He was a miner, rough and swart of face,
Yet not unseemly featured, frank and brave.
She seemed the flower, that, full of gentle grace,
Sways with each zephyr rippling o'er the wave.

Lovely but wayward! — and a sense of wrong
Had filled with bitterness her girlish heart.
Rash words sprang to her lips, — " Who cares how long
Before we meet again? — 'tis well we part. "

He turned, yet more in sorrow than in pride;
Such words from her could only give him pain.
His noble nature could not stoop to chide.
He answered, " Ellen, we shall meet again. "

It might be something in his tone or air
Which filled her soul with vague and dismal dread.
She could not tell, but waited — till a glare
Broke forth at noon, and filled the mine with dead.

For weeks they sought his body. All but him
Were, one by one, drawn forth into the day.
But somewhere in the shadows vague and dim,
Unseen by mortal eye, her Alfred lay.

Full threescore years departed. In the mine
Another shaft was opened. Awestruck there
Stood the rough workmen. Down the steep incline
They viewed a face of manly beauty rare.

Some subtle chemistry of earth had kept
His form unaltered and his face unmarred.
He lay supine, with matted hair that swept
His brow, and hand uplifted for a guard.

But no one knew him of the crowds that came
To gaze upon his features; till at last
Approached a tottering, silver-headed dame,
Whose soul seemed wrapped in memories of the past.

Who, looking on him with a joyful cry, —
A cry that told of bitter years of pain, —
Sank down beside him. Lo! the prophecy
Had come to pass, and they had met again.