Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Mary Berri (Chapman)Hansbrough

1731 The Journey

RELUCTANTLY I laid aside my smiles,

Those little, pleasing knickknacks of the face,

And dropped the words accustomed to my tongue,

And took just half a breath in breathing’s space;

And then I drew the curtains of my eyes

And ceased to move, and rallied all my thought,

Selecting all the verity that lies

Through daily life, with false pretences fraught;

I sorted and arranged and packed my hope

And my despair together, in my heart;

I tied the strings and sealed the envelope

In which ambition, stifled, used to smart;

Took out my conscience—long since laid away—

And shook it, folded it, with thoughts like tears;

Revised my errors, sorted out the years

When doubt and egotism held their sway;

All this I did the night I heard them say

Beside the pillow, “She will die at dawn”—

And then they wept and called me by my name:

I would have liked to soothe them, but in vain—

I had so very little time to stay,

And so much packing to be done before

I put my fires out and closed my door

To catch the stage-coach which would pass that way

At dawn, and bear me down eternity.

I hurried—and grew weary and turned weak—

The time drew near,—oh, how I longed to speak

And tell them I was sorry to have been

So great a trouble; then a distant din,

A muffled rumble, and the coach drew near;

One weary moment, it will soon be here!

I sighed, and sank and dreamed myself away,

And then “Thank God, thank God!” I heard them say,

While with a pang, half wonderment, half pain,

I woke—and found the coach had missed the train!