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Volume 3 (1858-1859) (592 pages)
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Page: of 592
THIS LITTLE LOCK OF GOLDEN HAIR. 171
from this brutal death.” With this purpose the two went among the excited
crowd. The humane willingly adopted
their beliet, and at length, by their earnest representations, he was pardoned by
the majority and led away in sullen silence.
When they returned to Clare with
this cheering intelligence, she desired
them to raise her that she might see the
“Gold Lake.” It was, mdeed, a lake of
rare beauty, and in its lucid waves they
told her that myriads of shining fish
turned their golden sides mockingly to
the gold-hunter, as if they triumphed in
having duped “Old Kentuck.” “It isa
lovely lake,” she said, ‘‘and if not filled
with gold, Heaven may send the wealth
of health and content to those who dwell
on its borders—those blessings which
money cannot buy. Oh, my dearest husband, I feel now in my dying hour, that
the wild fatalism we embraced was mockery to the Supreme Being—instead of
seeking His service and glory, we have
been wrapt in a mad human worship.
God is taking me from you now, Oscar
because my heart made youitsidol. Dear
Frank, Heaven will reward your deyotion, Oh, God, forgive ” and her
faltering prayer was checked by the life
current in rapid tides from her mouth.
For some moments they caught her
whispered ravings of home, love, gold,
mingled with prayers. Then suddenly
she raised and exclaimed, ‘Oscar, Frank,
let us go—I see the city with golden
streets!” and her gentle spirit thither
winged its flight.
Sadly they laid the pure, the beautiful,
the devoted, in her lonely grave, in the
pine shade, on the shores of that fatal
lake, and the two mourners parted withouta word. The splendid Oscar Moreland, broken-hearted, lives the lonely life
of aminer. Frank Besoir, the embryo
artist and poet, roams over the mountains
preaching the truths learned from Clare’s
dying lips. Yet, on the anniversary of
her death, they meet at the little green
mound, where their earthly idol sleeps,
the three victims of —“ Gold Lake.”
THIS LITTLE LOCK OF GOLDEN TLAIR.
BY G. T. SPROAT.
This little lock of golden hair!
’Tis all that’s left me now,
Of one that was so dear to me, [glee,
With his light blue eye and his laugh of
And polished and ivory brow.
This little lock of golden hair!
Oh! how it speaks to me!
Of prattling lips, now heard no more,—
Of light feet skimming the nursery floor,
In merry and childish glee.
This little lock of golden hair!
I sit o’er it and weep; [fast
And thoughts come thronging thick and
From out the darkness of the Past,
Where silent memories sleep.
This little lock of golden hair!
’Tis changed an angel’s now !. —
How beautiful the gems are set
Within ihe sparkling coronet,
That glitters on his brow!