In the Record Room, Surrogate’s Office
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.