But still she trusted in me, though sick with hope deferred; No more among the village choir her voice was sweetest heard; For when the wild northeaster of the fourth long winter blew, So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced her through; And chill are the blasts of New England. At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore, And I thought to see old Windham and my patient love once more; When a kinsman’s letter reached me: “Come at once, or come too late! Your Katie’s strength is failing; if you love her, do not wait: Come back to the elms of New England.” O, it wrung my heart with sorrow! I left all else behind, And straight for dear New England I speeded like the wind. The day and night were blended till I reached my boyhood’s home, And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that I had not sooner come; And gray are the rocks of New England. I could not think ’twas Katie, who sat before me there Reading her Bible—’twas my gift—and pillowed in her chair. A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand,— She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white hand! But strong is the love of New England. Her hair had lost its tangle and was parted off her brow; She used to be a joyous girl,—but seemed an angel now,— Heaven’s darling, mine no longer; yet in her hazel eyes The same dear love-light glistened, as she soothed my bitter cries: And pure is the faith of New England. A month I watched her dying, pale, pale as any rose That drops its petals one by one and sweetens as it goes. My life was darkened when at last her large eyes closed in death, And I heard my own name whispered as she drew her parting breath; Still, still was the heart of New England. It was a woful funeral the coming sabbath-day; We bore her to the barren hill on which the graveyard lay, And when the narrow grave was filled, and what we might was done, Of all the stricken group around I was the loneliest one; And drear are the hills of New England. I gazed upon the stunted pines, the bleak November sky, And knew that buried deep with her my heart henceforth would lie; And waking in the solemn nights my thoughts still thither go To Katie, lying in her grave beneath the winter snow; And cold are the snows of New England. [Illustration: THE END] Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.