A tomb where legal ghouls grow fat;
Where buried papers, fold on fold,
Crumble to dust, that‘ thwart the sun
Floats dim, a pallid ghost of gold.
The day is dying. All about,
Dark, threat'ning shadows lurk; but still
I ponder o'er a dead girl's name
Fast fading from a dead man's will.
Katrina Harland, fair and sweet,
Sole heiress of your father's land,
Full many a gallant wooer rode
To snare your heart, to win your hand.
And one, perchance — who loved you best,
Feared men might sneer — “he sought her gold” —
And never spoke, but turned away
Stubborn and proud, to call you cold.
Cold? Would I knew! Perhaps you loved,
And mourned him all a virgin life.
Perhaps forgot his very name
As happy mother, happy wife.
Unanswered, sad, I turn away —
“You loved her first, then?” First — well — no —
You little goose, the Harland will
Was proved full sixty years ago.
But Katrine's lands to-day are known
To lawyers as the Glass House tract;
Who were her heirs, no record shows;
The title's bad, in point of fact,
If she left children, at her death,
I've been retained to clear the title;
And all the questions, raised above,
Are, you'll perceive, extremely vital.