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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3665-0.txt b/3665-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..88d6390 --- /dev/null +++ b/3665-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4963 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Maurine, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Maurine + and Other Poems + + +Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + + +Release Date: July 15, 2014 [eBook #3665] +[This file was first posted on July 9, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAURINE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + MAURINE + And Other Poems + + + BY + ELLA WHEELER WILCOX + + * * * * * + + _Popular Edition_, _with many New Poems_ + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD. + 12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN + LONDON + + 1910 + + _All rights reserved_ + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +Maurine 1 +All Roads that Lead to God are Good 129 +Dust-sealed 131 +“Advice” 133 +Over the Banisters 135 +The Past 137 +Secrets 138 +Applause 139 +The Story 140 +Lean Down 142 +Life 144 +The Christian’s New Year Prayer 145 +In the Night 147 +God’s Measure 149 +A March Snow 150 +Philosophy 151 +“Carlos” 152 +The Two Glasses 155 +La Mort d’Amour 158 +Love’s Sleep 160 +True Culture 162 +The Voluptuary 163 +The Coquette 165 +If 166 +Love’s Burial 168 +Lippo 170 +“Love is Enough” 172 +Life is Love 174 + + + + +MAURINE + + +PART I + + + I sat and sewed, and sang some tender tune, + Oh, beauteous was that morn in early June! + Mellow with sunlight, and with blossoms fair: + The climbing rose-tree grew about me there, + And checked with shade the sunny portico + Where, morns like this, I came to read, or sew. + + I heard the gate click, and a firm, quick tread + Upon the walk. No need to turn my head; + I would mistake, and doubt my own voice sounding, + Before his step upon the gravel bounding. + In an unstudied attitude of grace, + He stretched his comely form; and from his face + He tossed the dark, damp curls; and at my knees, + With his broad hat he fanned the lazy breeze, + And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes, + Of that strange hue we see in ocean dyes, + And call it blue sometimes and sometimes green, + And save in poet eyes, not elsewhere seen. + “Lest I should meet with my fair lady’s scorning, + For calling quite so early in the morning, + I’ve brought a passport that can never fail,” + He said, and, laughing, laid the morning mail + Upon my lap. “I’m welcome? so I thought! + I’ll figure by the letters that I brought + How glad you are to see me. Only one? + And that one from a lady? I’m undone! + That, lightly skimmed, you’ll think me _such_ a bore, + And wonder why I did not bring you four. + It’s ever thus: a woman cannot get + So many letters that she will not fret + O’er one that did not come.” + “I’ll prove you wrong,” + I answered gaily, “here upon the spot! + This little letter, precious if not long, + Is just the one, of all you might have brought, + To please me. You have heard me speak, I’m sure, + Of Helen Trevor: she writes here to say + She’s coming out to see me; and will stay + Till Autumn, maybe. She is, like her note, + Petite and dainty, tender, loving, pure. + You’d know her by a letter that she wrote, + For a sweet tinted thing. ’Tis always so:— + Letters all blots, though finely written, show + A slovenly person. Letters stiff and white + Bespeak a nature honest, plain, upright. + And tissuey, tinted, perfumed notes, like this, + Tell of a creature formed to pet and kiss.” + My listener heard me with a slow, odd smile; + Stretched in abandon at my feet, the while, + He fanned me idly with his broad-brimmed hat. + “Then all young ladies must be formed for that!” + He laughed, and said. + “Their letters read, and look, + As like as twenty copies of one book. + They’re written in a dainty, spider scrawl, + To ‘darling, precious Kate,’ or ‘Fan,’ or ‘Moll.’ + The ‘dearest, sweetest’ friend they ever had. + They say they ‘want to see you, oh, so bad!’ + Vow they’ll ‘forget you, never, _never_, oh!’ + And then they tell about a splendid beau— + A lovely hat—a charming dress, and send + A little scrap of this to every friend. + And then to close, for lack of something better, + They beg you’ll ‘read and burn this horrid letter.’” + + He watched me, smiling. He was prone to vex + And hector me with flings upon my sex. + He liked, he said, to have me flash and frown, + So he could tease me, and then laugh me down. + My storms of wrath amused him very much: + He liked to see me go off at a touch; + Anger became me—made my colour rise, + And gave an added lustre to my eyes. + So he would talk—and so he watched me now, + To see the hot flush mantle cheek and brow. + Instead, I answered coolly, with a smile, + Felling a seam with utmost care, meanwhile. + “The caustic tongue of Vivian Dangerfield + Is barbed as ever, for my sex, this morn. + Still unconvinced, no smallest point I yield. + Woman I love, and trust, despite your scorn. + There is some truth in what you say? Well, yes! + Your statements usually hold more or less. + Some women write weak letters—(some men do;) + Some make professions, knowing them untrue. + And woman’s friendship, in the time of need, + I own, too often proves a broken reed. + But I believe, and ever will contend, + Woman can be a sister woman’s friend, + Giving from out her large heart’s bounteous store + A living love—claiming to do no more + Than, through and by that love, she knows she can: + And living by her professions, _like a man_. + And such a tie, true friendship’s silken tether, + Binds Helen Trevor’s heart and mine together. + I love her for her beauty, meekness, grace; + For her white lily soul and angel face. + She loves me, for my greater strength, maybe; + Loves—and would give her heart’s best blood for me. + And I, to save her from a pain, or cross, + Would suffer any sacrifice or loss. + Such can be woman’s friendship for another. + Could man give more, or ask more from a brother?” + + I paused: and Vivian leaned his massive head + Against the pillar of the portico, + Smiled his slow, sceptic smile, then laughed, and said: + “Nay, surely not—if what you say be so. + You’ve made a statement, but no proof’s at hand. + Wait—do not flash your eyes so! Understand + I think you quite sincere in what you say: + You love your friend, and she loves you, to-day; + But friendship is not friendship at the best + Till circumstances put it to the test. + Man’s, less demonstrative, stands strain and tear, + While woman’s, half profession, fails to wear. + Two women love each other passing well— + Say Helen Trevor and Maurine La Pelle, + Just for example. + Let them daily meet + At ball and concert, in the church and street, + They kiss and coo, they visit, chat, caress; + Their love increases, rather than grows less; + And all goes well, till ‘Helen dear’ discovers + That ‘Maurine darling’ wins too many lovers. + + And then her ‘precious friend,’ her ‘pet,’ her ‘sweet,’ + Becomes a ‘minx,’ a ‘creature all deceit.’ + Let Helen smile too oft on Maurine’s beaux, + Or wear more stylish or becoming clothes, + Or sport a hat that has a longer feather— + And lo! the strain has broken ‘friendship’s tether.’ + Maurine’s sweet smile becomes a frown or pout; + ‘She’s just begun to find that Helen out.’ + The breach grows wider—anger fills each heart; + They drift asunder, whom ‘but death could part.’ + You shake your head? Oh, well, we’ll never know! + It is not likely Fate will test you so. + You’ll live, and love; and, meeting twice a year, + While life shall last, you’ll hold each other dear. + I pray it may be so; it were not best + To shake your faith in woman by the test. + Keep your belief, and nurse it while you can. + I’ve faith in woman’s friendship too—for man! + They’re true as steel, as mothers, friends, and wives: + And that’s enough to bless us all our lives. + That man’s a selfish fellow, and a bore, + Who is unsatisfied and asks for more.” + + “But there is need of more!” I here broke in. + “I hold that woman guilty of a sin, + Who would not cling to, and defend another, + As nobly as she would stand by a brother. + Who would not suffer for a sister’s sake, + And, were there need to prove her friendship, make + ‘Most any sacrifice, nor count the cost. + Who would not do this for a friend is lost + To every nobler principle.” + “Shame, shame!” + Cried Vivian, laughing, “for you now defame + The whole sweet sex; since there’s not one would do + The thing you name, nor would I want her to. + I love the sex. My mother was a woman— + I hope my wife will be, and wholly human. + And if she wants to make some sacrifice, + I’ll think her far more sensible and wise + To let her husband reap the benefit, + Instead of some old maid or senseless chit. + Selfish? Of course! I hold all love is so: + And I shall love my wife right well, I know. + Now there’s a point regarding selfish love, + You thirst to argue with me, and disprove. + But since these cosy hours will soon be gone, + And all our meetings broken in upon, + No more of these rare moments must be spent + In vain discussions, or in argument. + I wish Miss Trevor was in—Jericho! + (You see the selfishness begins to show.) + She wants to see you?—So do I: but she + Will gain her wish, by taking you from me. + ‘Come all the same?’ that means I’ll be allowed + To realize that ‘three can make a crowd.’ + I do not like to feel myself _de trop_. + With two girl cronies would I not be so? + My ring would interrupt some private chat. + You’d ask me in and take my cane and hat, + And speak about the lovely summer day, + And think—‘The lout! I wish he’d kept away.’ + Miss Trevor’d smile, but just to hide a pout + And count the moments till I was shown out. + And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing + That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing, + No, thanks, Maurine! The iron hand of Fate, + (Or otherwise Miss Trevor’s dainty fingers,) + Will bar my entrance into Eden’s gate; + And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers + At heaven’s portal, paying the price of sin, + Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in.” + + He looked so melancholy sitting there, + I laughed outright. “How well you act a part; + You look the very picture of despair! + You’ve missed your calling, sir! suppose you start + Upon a starring tour, and carve your name + With Booth’s and Barrett’s on the heights of Fame + But now, tabooing nonsense, I shall send + For you to help me entertain my friend, + Unless you come without it. ‘Cronies?’ True, + Wanting our ‘private chats’ as cronies do. + And we’ll take those, while you are reading Greek, + Or writing ‘Lines to Dora’s brow’ or ‘cheek.’ + But when you have an hour or two of leisure, + Call as you now do, and afford like pleasure. + For never yet did heaven’s sun shine on, + Or stars discover, that phenomenon, + In any country, or in any clime: + Two maids so bound, by ties of mind and heart, + They did not feel the heavy weight of time + In weeks of scenes wherein no man took part. + God made the sexes to associate: + Nor law of man, nor stern decree of Fate, + Can ever undo what His hand has done, + And, quite alone, make happy either one. + My Helen is an only child:—a pet + Of loving parents: and she never yet + Has been denied one boon for which she pleaded. + A fragile thing, her lightest wish was heeded. + Would she pluck roses? They must first be shorn, + By careful hands, of every hateful thorn, + And loving eyes must scan the pathway where + Her feet may tread, to see no stones are there. + She’ll grow dull here, in this secluded nook, + Unless you aid me in the pleasant task + Of entertaining. Drop in with your book— + Read, talk, sing for her sometimes. What I ask, + Do once, to please me: then there’ll be no need + For me to state the case again, or plead. + There’s nothing like a woman’s grace and beauty + To waken mankind to a sense of duty.” + + “I bow before the mandate of my queen: + Your slightest wish is law, Ma Belle Maurine,” + He answered, smiling, “I’m at your command; + Point but one lily finger, or your wand, + And you will find a willing slave obeying. + There goes my dinner bell! I hear it saying + I’ve spent two hours here, lying at your feet, + Not profitable, maybe—surely sweet. + All time is money; now were I to measure + The time I spend here by its solid pleasure, + And that were coined in dollars, then I’ve laid + Each day a fortune at your feet, fair maid. + There goes that bell again! I’ll say good-bye, + Or clouds will shadow my domestic sky. + I’ll come again, as you would have me do, + And see your friend, while she is seeing you. + That’s like by proxy being at a feast; + Unsatisfactory, to say the least.” + + He drew his fine shape up, and trod the land + With kingly grace. Passing the gate, his hand + He lightly placed the garden wall upon, + Leaped over like a leopard, and was gone. + + And, going, took the brightness from the place, + Yet left the June day with a sweeter grace, + And my young soul, so steeped in happy dreams, + Heaven itself seemed shown to me in gleams. + There is a time with lovers, when the heart + First slowly rouses from its dreamless sleep, + To all the tumult of a passion life, + Ere yet have wakened jealousy and strife. + Just as a young, untutored child will start + Out of a long hour’s slumber, sound and deep, + And lie and smile with rosy lips and cheeks, + In a sweet, restful trance, before it speaks. + A time when yet no word the spell has broken, + Save what the heart unto the soul has spoken, + In quickened throbs, and sighs but half suppressed + A time when that sweet truth, all unconfessed, + Gives added fragrance to the summer flowers, + A golden glory to the passing hours, + A hopeful beauty to the plainest face, + And lends to life a new and tender grace. + When the full heart has climbed the heights of bliss, + And, smiling, looks back o’er the golden past, + I think it finds no sweeter hour than this + In all love-life. For, later, when the last + Translucent drop o’erflows the cup of joy, + And love, more mighty than the heart’s control, + Surges in words of passion from the soul, + And vows are asked and given, shadows rise + Like mists before the sun in noonday skies, + Vague fears, that prove the brimming cup’s alloy; + A dread of change—the crowning moment’s curse, + Since what is perfect, change but renders worse: + A vain desire to cripple Time, who goes + Bearing our joys away, and bringing woes. + And later, doubts and jealousies awaken, + And plighted hearts are tempest-tossed and shaken. + Doubt sends a test, that goes a step too far, + A wound is made, that, healing, leaves a scar, + Or one heart, full with love’s sweet satisfaction, + Thinks truth once spoken always understood, + While one is pining for the tender action + And whispered word by which, of old, ’twas wooed. + + But this blest hour, in love’s glad, golden day, + Is like the dawning, ere the radiant ray + Of glowing Sol has burst upon the eye, + But yet is heralded in earth and sky, + Warm with its fervour, mellow with its light, + While Care still slumbers in the arms of night. + But Hope, awake, hears happy birdlings sing, + And thinks of all a summer day may bring. + + In this sweet calm, my young heart lay at rest, + Filled with a blissful sense of peace; nor guessed + That sullen clouds were gathering in the skies + To hide the glorious sun, ere it should rise. + + + +PART II + + + To little birds that never tire of humming + About the garden in the summer weather, + Aunt Ruth compared us, after Helen’s coming, + As we two roamed, or sat and talked together. + Twelve months apart, we had so much to say + Of school days gone—and time since passed away; + Of that old friend, and this; of what we’d done; + Of how our separate paths in life had run; + Of what we would do, in the coming years; + Of plans and castles, hopes and dreams and fears. + All these, and more, as soon as we found speech, + We touched upon, and skimmed from this to that. + But at the first each only gazed on each, + And, dumb with joy, that did not need a voice + Like lesser joys, to say, “Lo! I rejoice,” + With smiling eyes and clasping hands we sat + Wrapped in that peace, felt but with those dear, + Contented just to know each other near. + But when this silent eloquence gave place + To words, ’twas like the rising of a flood + Above a dam. We sat there, face to face, + And let our talk glide on where’er it would, + Speech never halting in its speed or zest, + Save when our rippling laughter let it rest; + Just as a stream will sometimes pause and play + About a bubbling spring, then dash away. + No wonder, then, the third day’s sun was nigh + Up to the zenith when my friend and I + Opened our eyes from slumber long and deep: + Nature demanding recompense for hours + Spent in the portico, among the flowers, + Halves of two nights we should have spent in sleep. + + So this third day, we breakfasted at one: + Then walked about the garden in the sun, + Hearing the thrushes and the robins sing, + And looking to see what buds were opening. + + The clock chimed three, and we yet strayed at will + About the yard in morning dishabille, + When Aunt Ruth came, with apron o’er her head, + Holding a letter in her hand, and said, + “Here is a note, from Vivian I opine; + At least his servant brought it. And now, girls, + You may think this is no concern of mine, + But in my day young ladies did not go + Till almost bed-time roaming to and fro + In morning wrappers, and with tangled curls, + The very pictures of forlorn distress. + ’Tis three o’clock, and time for you to dress. + Come! read your note and hurry in, Maurine, + And make yourself fit object to be seen.” + + Helen was bending o’er an almond bush, + And ere she looked up I had read the note, + And calmed my heart, that, bounding, sent a flush + To brow and cheek, at sight of aught _he_ wrote. + “Ma Belle Maurine:” (so Vivian’s billet ran,) + “Is it not time I saw your cherished guest? + ‘Pity the sorrows of a poor young man,’ + Banished from all that makes existence blest. + I’m dying to see—your friend; and I will come + And pay respects, hoping you’ll be at home + To-night at eight. Expectantly, V. D.” + + Inside my belt I slipped the billet, saying, + “Helen, go make yourself most fair to see: + Quick! hurry now! no time for more delaying! + In just five hours a caller will be here, + And you must look your prettiest, my dear! + Begin your toilet right away. I know + How long it takes you to arrange each bow— + To twist each curl, and loop your skirts aright. + And you must prove you are _au fait_ to-night, + And make a perfect toilet: for our caller + Is man, and critic, poet, artist, scholar, + And views with eyes of all.” + “Oh, oh! Maurine,” + Cried Helen with a well-feigned look of fear, + “You’ve frightened me so I shall not appear: + I’ll hide away, refusing to be seen + By such an ogre. Woe is me! bereft + Of all my friends, my peaceful home I’ve left, + And strayed away into the dreadful wood + To meet the fate of poor Red Riding Hood. + No, Maurine, no! you’ve given me such a fright, + I’ll not go near your ugly wolf to-night.” + + Meantime we’d left the garden; and I stood + In Helen’s room, where she had thrown herself + Upon a couch, and lay, a winsome elf, + Pouting and smiling, cheek upon her arm, + Not in the least a portrait of alarm. + “Now, sweet!” I coaxed, and knelt by her, “be good! + Go curl your hair; and please your own Maurine, + By putting on that lovely grenadine. + Not wolf, nor ogre, neither Caliban, + Nor Mephistopheles, you’ll meet to-night, + But what the ladies call ‘a nice young man’! + Yet one worth knowing—strong with health and might + Of perfect manhood; gifted, noble, wise; + Moving among his kind with loving eyes, + And helpful hand; progressive, brave, refined, + After the image of his Maker’s mind.” + + “Now, now, Maurine!” cried Helen, “I believe + It is your lover coming here this eve. + Why have you never written of him, pray? + Is the day set?—and when? Say, Maurine, say!” + + Had I betrayed by some too fervent word + The secret love that all my being stirred? + My lover? Ay! My heart proclaimed him so; + But first _his_ lips must win the sweet confession, + Ere even Helen be allowed to know. + I must straightway erase the slight impression + Made by the words just uttered. + “Foolish child!” + I gaily cried, “your fancy’s straying wild. + Just let a girl of eighteen hear the name + Of maid and youth uttered about one time, + And off her fancy goes, at break-neck pace, + Defying circumstances, reason, space— + And straightway builds romances so sublime + They put all Shakespeare’s dramas to the shame. + This Vivian Dangerfield is neighbour, friend, + And kind companion; bringing books and flowers. + And, by his thoughtful actions without end, + Helping me pass some otherwise long hours; + But he has never breathed a word of love. + If you still doubt me, listen while I prove + My statement by the letter that he wrote. + ‘Dying to meet—my friend!’ (she could not see + The dash between that meant so much to me). + ‘Will come this eve, at eight, and hopes we may + Be in to greet him.’ Now I think you’ll say + ’Tis not much like a lover’s tender note.” + + We laugh, we jest, not meaning what we say; + We hide our thoughts, by light words lightly spoken, + And pass on heedless, till we find one day + They’ve bruised our hearts, or left some other broken. + + I sought my room, and trilling some blithe air, + Opened my wardrobe, wondering what to wear. + Momentous question! femininely human! + More than all others, vexing mind of woman, + Since that sad day, when in her discontent, + To search for leaves, our fair first mother went. + All undecided what I should put on, + At length I made selection of a lawn— + White, with a tiny pink vine overrun:— + My simplest robe, but Vivian’s favourite one. + And placing a single flowret in my hair, + I crossed the hall to Helen’s chamber, where + I found her with her fair locks all let down, + Brushing the kinks out, with a pretty frown. + ’Twas like a picture, or a pleasing play, + To watch her make her toilet. She would stand, + And turn her head first this, and then that way, + Trying effect of ribbon, bow or band. + Then she would pick up something else, and curve + Her lovely neck, with cunning, bird-like grace, + And watch the mirror while she put it on, + With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face; + And then to view it all would sway and swerve + Her lithe young body, like a graceful swan. + + Helen was over medium height, and slender + Even to frailty. Her great, wistful eyes + Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies; + And through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender. + Her long, light hair was lustreless, except + Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams slept, + And on the earlocks; and she looped the curls + Back with a shell comb, studded thick with pearls, + Costly yet simple. Her pale loveliness, + That night, was heightened by her rich, black dress, + That trailed behind her, leaving half in sight + Her taper arms, and shoulders marble white. + + I was not tall as Helen, and my face + Was shaped and coloured like my grandsire’s race; + For through his veins my own received the warm, + Red blood of Southern France, which curved my form, + And glowed upon my cheek in crimson dyes, + And bronzed my hair, and darkled in my eyes. + And as the morning trails the skirts of night, + And dusky night puts on the garb of morn, + And walk together when the day is born, + So we two glided down the hall and stair, + Arm clasping arm, into the parlour, where + Sat Vivian, bathed in sunset’s gorgeous light. + He rose to greet us. Oh! his form was grand; + And he possessed that power, strange, occult, + Called magnetism, lacking better word, + Which moves the world, achieving great result + Where genius fails completely. Touch his hand, + It thrilled through all your being—meet his eye, + And you were moved, yet knew not how, or why. + Let him but rise, you felt the air was stirred + By an electric current. + + This strange force + Is mightier than genius. Rightly used, + It leads to grand achievements; all things yield + Before its mystic presence, and its field + Is broad as earth and heaven. But abused, + It sweeps like a poison simoon on its course, + Bearing miasma in its scorching breath, + And leaving all it touches struck with death. + + Far-reaching science shall yet tear away + The mystic garb that hides it from the day, + And drag it forth and bind it with its laws, + And make it serve the purposes of men, + Guided by common-sense and reason. Then + We’ll hear no more of séance, table-rapping, + And all that trash, o’er which the world is gaping, + Lost in effect, while science seeks the cause. + + Vivian was not conscious of his power: + Or, if he was, knew not its full extent. + He knew his glance would make a wild beast cower, + And yet he knew not that his large eyes sent + Into the heart of woman the same thrill + That made the lion servant of his will. + And even strong men felt it. + + He arose, + Reached forth his hand, and in it clasped my own, + While I held Helen’s; and he spoke some word + Of pleasant greeting in his low, round tone, + Unlike all other voices I have heard. + Just as the white cloud, at the sunrise, glows + With roseate colours, so the pallid hue + Of Helen’s cheek, like tinted sea-shells grew. + Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such + Was the all-mast’ring magic of his touch. + Then we sat down, and talked about the weather, + The neighbourhood—some author’s last new book. + But, when I could, I left the two together + To make acquaintance, saying I must look + After the chickens—my especial care; + And ran away and left them, laughing, there. + + Knee-deep, through clover, to the poplar grove, + I waded, where my pets were wont to rove: + And there I found the foolish mother hen + Brooding her chickens underneath a tree, + An easy prey for foxes. “Chick-a-dee,” + Quoth I, while reaching for the downy things + That, chirping, peeped from out the mother-wings, + “How very human is your folly! When + There waits a haven, pleasant, bright, and warm, + And one to lead you thither from the storm + And lurking dangers, yet you turn away, + And, thinking to be your own protector, stray + Into the open jaws of death: for, see! + An owl is sitting in this very tree + You thought safe shelter. Go now to your pen.” + And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen, + So like the human mother here again, + Moaning because a strong, protecting arm + Would shield her little ones from cold and harm, + I carried back my garden hat brimful + Of chirping chickens, like white balls of wool + And snugly housed them. + + And just then I heard + A sound like gentle winds among the trees, + Or pleasant waters in the summer, stirred + And set in motion by a passing breeze. + ’Twas Helen singing: and, as I drew near, + Another voice, a tenor full and clear, + Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite, + And flow on stronger in their wedded might. + + It was a way of Helen’s, not to sing + The songs that other people sang. She took + Sometimes an extract from an ancient book; + Again some floating, fragmentary thing. + And such she fitted to old melodies, + Or else composed the music. One of these + She sang that night; and Vivian caught the strain, + And joined her in the chorus, or refrain, + + +SONG. + + + Oh thou, mine other, stronger part! + Whom yet I cannot hear, or see, + Come thou, and take this loving heart, + That longs to yield its all to thee, + I call mine own—oh, come to me! + Love, answer back, I come to thee, + I come to thee. + + This hungry heart, so warm, so large, + Is far too great a care for me. + I have grown weary of the charge + I keep so sacredly for thee. + Come thou, and take my heart from me. + Love, answer back, I come to thee, + I come to thee. + + I am a-weary, waiting here + For one who tarries long from me. + Oh! art thou far, or art thou near? + And must I still be sad for thee? + Or wilt thou straightway come to me? + Love, answer, I am near to thee, + I come to thee. + + The melody, so full of plaintive chords, + Sobbed into silence—echoing down the strings + Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings. + Vivian had leaned upon the instrument + The while they sang. But, as he spoke those words, + “Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee,” + He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent + His lustrous, soulful, speaking gaze on me. + And my young heart, eager to own its king, + Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light + Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek + Hope’s rose-hued flag. There was no need to speak + I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen. “Sing + That song you sang a fragment of one night + Out on the porch, beginning, ‘Praise me not,’” + I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone + Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught + From some sad passing breeze, and made her own, + The echo of the wind-harp’s sighing strain, + Or the soft music of the falling rain. + + +SONG. + + + O praise me not with your lips, dear one! + Though your tender words I prize. + But dearer by far is the soulful gaze + Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes, + Your tender, loving eyes. + + O chide me not with your lips, dear one! + Though I cause your bosom sighs. + You can make repentance deeper far + By your sad, reproving eyes, + Your sorrowful, troubled eyes. + + Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds; + Above, in the beaming skies, + The constant stars say never a word, + But only smile with their eyes— + Smile on with their lustrous eyes. + + Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one; + On the wingèd wind speech flies. + But I read the truth of your noble heart + In your soulful, speaking eyes— + In your deep and beautiful eyes. + + The twilight darkened, round us, in the room, + While Helen sang; and, in the gathering gloom, + Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his, + And held it so; while Helen made the air + Languid with music. Then a step drew near, + And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell: + “Dear! dear! + Why, Maurie, Helen, children! how is this? + I hear you, but you have no light in there. + Your room is dark as Egypt. What a way + For folks to visit! Maurie, go, I pray, + And order lamps.” + And so there came a light, + And all the sweet dreams hovering around + The twilight shadows flitted in affright: + And e’en the music had a harsher sound. + In pleasant converse passed an hour away: + And Vivian planned a picnic for next day— + A drive the next, and rambles without end, + That he might help me entertain my friend. + And then he rose, bowed low, and passed from sight, + Like some great star that drops out from the night; + And Helen watched him through the shadows go, + And turned and said, her voice subdued and low, + “How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine, + A grander man I never yet have seen.” + + + +PART III + + + One golden twelfth-part of a checkered year; + One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirth, + With not a hint of shadows lurking near, + Or storm-clouds brewing. + + ’Twas a royal day: + Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth, + With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast, + And twined herself about him, as he lay + Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest. + She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace, + And hid him with her trailing robe of green, + And wound him in her long hair’s shimmering sheen, + And rained her ardent kisses on his face. + Through the glad glory of the summer land + Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand. + In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat-field, + White with the promise of a bounteous yield, + Across the late shorn meadow—down the hill, + Red with the tiger-lily blossoms, till + We stood upon the borders of the lake, + That like a pretty, placid infant, slept + Low at its base: and little ripples crept + Along its surface, just as dimples chase + Each other o’er an infant’s sleeping face. + Helen in idle hours had learned to make + A thousand pretty, feminine knick-knacks: + For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands— + Labour just suited to her dainty hands. + That morning she had been at work in wax, + Moulding a wreath of flowers for my room,— + Taking her patterns from the living blows, + In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom, + Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose, + And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch, + Resembling the living plants as much + As life is copied in the form of death: + These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath. + + And now the wreath was all completed, save + The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom, + A water-lily, dripping from the wave. + And ’twas in search of it that we had come + Down to the lake, and wandered on the beach, + To see if any lilies grew in reach. + Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been; + Some buds, with all their beauties folded in, + We found, but not the treasure that we sought. + And then we turned our footsteps to the spot + Where, all impatient of its chain, my boat, + The _Swan_, rocked, asking to be set afloat. + It was a dainty row-boat—strong, yet light; + Each side a swan was painted snowy white: + A present from my uncle, just before + He sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand, + Where freighted ships go sailing evermore, + But none return to tell us of the land. + I freed the _Swan_, and slowly rowed about, + Wherever sea-weeds, grass, or green leaves lifted + Their tips above the water. So we drifted, + While Helen, opposite, leaned idly out + And watched for lilies in the waves below, + And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air, + That soothed me like a mother’s lullabies. + I dropped the oars, and closed my sun-kissed eyes, + And let the boat go drifting here and there. + Oh, happy day! the last of that brief time + Of thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright, + Ere that disguisèd angel men call Woe + Leads the sad heart through valleys dark as night, + Up to the heights exalted and sublime. + On each blest, happy moment, I am fain + To linger long, ere I pass on to pain + And sorrow that succeeded. + + From day-dreams, + As golden as the summer noontide’s beams, + I was awakened by a voice that cried: + “Strange ship, ahoy! Fair frigate, whither bound?” + And, starting up, I cast my gaze around, + And saw a sail-boat o’er the water glide + Close to the _Swan_, like some live thing of grace; + And from it looked the glowing, handsome face + Of Vivian. + + “Beauteous sirens of the sea, + Come sail across the raging main with me!” + He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boat + Beside his own. “There, now! step in!” he said; + “I’ll land you anywhere you want to go— + My boat is safer far than yours, I know: + And much more pleasant with its sails all spread. + The _Swan_? We’ll take the oars, and let it float + Ashore at leisure. You, Maurine, sit there— + Miss Helen here. Ye gods and little fishes! + I’ve reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes. + Adieu despondency! farewell to care!” + + ’Twas done so quickly: that was Vivian’s way. + He did not wait for either yea or nay. + He gave commands, and left you with no choice + But just to do the bidding of his voice. + His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly face + Lent to his quick imperiousness a grace + And winning charm, completely stripping it + Of what might otherwise have seemed unfit. + Leaving no trace of tyranny, but just + That nameless force that seemed to say, “You must.” + Suiting its pretty title of the _Dawn_, + (So named, he said, that it might rhyme with _Swan_), + Vivian’s sail-boat was carpeted with blue, + While all its sails were of a pale rose hue. + The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze; + A poet’s fancy in an hour of ease. + + Whatever Vivian had was of the best. + His room was like some Sultan’s in the East. + His board was always spread as for a feast, + Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest. + He would go hungry sooner than he’d dine + At his own table if ’twere illy set. + He so loved things artistic in design— + Order and beauty, all about him. Yet + So kind he was, if it befell his lot + To dine within the humble peasant’s cot, + He made it seem his native soil to be, + And thus displayed the true gentility. + + Under the rosy banners of the _Dawn_, + Around the lake we drifted on, and on. + It was a time for dreams, and not for speech. + And so we floated on in silence, each + Weaving the fancies suiting such a day. + Helen leaned idly o’er the sail-boat’s side, + And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide; + And I among the cushions half reclined, + Half sat, and watched the fleecy clouds at play, + While Vivian with his blank-book, opposite, + In which he seemed to either sketch or write, + Was lost in inspiration of some kind. + + No time, no change, no scene, can e’er efface + My mind’s impression of that hour and place; + It stands out like a picture. O’er the years, + Black with their robes of sorrow—veiled with tears, + Lying with all their lengthened shapes between, + Untouched, undimmed, I still behold that scene. + Just as the last of Indian-summer days, + Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze, + Followed by dark and desolate December, + Through all the months of winter we remember. + + The sun slipped westward. That peculiar change + Which creeps into the air, and speaks of night + While yet the day is full of golden light, + We felt steal o’er us. + Vivian broke the spell + Of dream-fraught silence, throwing down his book: + “Young ladies, please allow me to arrange + These wraps about your shoulders. I know well + The fickle nature of our atmosphere,— + Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear,— + And go prepared for changes. Now you look, + Like—like—oh, where’s a pretty simile? + Had you a pocket mirror here you’d see + How well my native talent is displayed + In shawling you. Red on the brunette maid; + Blue on the blonde—and quite without design + (Oh, where _is_ that comparison of mine?) + Well—like a June rose and a violet blue + In one bouquet! I fancy that will do. + And now I crave your patience and a boon, + Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme, + A floating fancy of the summer time. + ’Tis neither witty, wonderful, nor wise, + So listen kindly—but don’t criticise + My maiden effort of the afternoon: + + “If all the ships I have at sea + Should come a-sailing home to me, + Ah, well! the harbour could not hold + So many sails as there would be + If all my ships came in from sea. + + “If half my ships came home from sea, + And brought their precious freight to me, + Ah, well! I should have wealth as great + As any king who sits in state— + So rich the treasures that would be + In half my ships now out at sea. + + “If just one ship I have at sea + Should come a-sailing home to me, + Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown: + For if the others all went down + Still rich and proud and glad I’d be, + If that one ship came back to me. + + “If that one ship went down at sea, + And all the others came to me, + Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, + With glory, honour, riches, gold, + The poorest soul on earth I’d be + If that one ship came not to me. + + “O skies be calm! O winds blow free— + Blow all my ships safe home to me. + But if thou sendest some a-wrack + To never more come sailing back, + Send any—all that skim the sea, + But bring my love-ship home to me.” + + Helen was leaning by me, and her head + Rested against my shoulder: as he read, + I stroked her hair, and watched the fleecy skies, + And when he finished, did not turn my eyes. + I felt too happy and too shy to meet + His gaze just then. I said, “’Tis very sweet, + And suits the day; does it not, Helen, dear?” + But Helen, voiceless, did not seem to hear. + “’Tis strange,” I added, “how you poets sing + So feelingly about the very thing + You care not for! and dress up an ideal + So well, it looks a living, breathing real! + Now, to a listener, your love song seemed + A heart’s out-pouring; yet I’ve heard you say + Almost the opposite; or that you deemed + Position, honour, glory, power, fame, + Gained without loss of conscience or good name, + The things to live for.” + “Have you? Well, you may,” + Laughed Vivian, “but ’twas years—or months’ ago! + And Solomon says wise men change, you know! + I now speak truth! if she I hold most dear + Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left, + My heart would find the years more lonely here + Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft, + And sent, an exile, to a foreign land.” + His voice was low, and measured: as he spoke, + New, unknown chords of melody awoke + Within my soul. I felt my heart expand + With that sweet fulness born of love. I turned + To hide the blushes on my cheek that burned, + And leaning over Helen, breathed her name. + She lay so motionless I thought she slept: + But, as I spoke, I saw her eyes unclose, + And o’er her face a sudden glory swept, + And a slight tremor thrilled all through her frame. + “Sweet friend,” I said, “your face is full of light: + What were the dreams that made your eyes so bright?” + She only smiled for answer, and arose + From her reclining posture at my side, + Threw back the clust’ring ringlets from her face + With a quick gesture, full of easy grace, + And, turning, spoke to Vivian. “Will you guide + The boat up near that little clump of green + Off to the right? There’s where the lilies grow. + We quite forgot our errand here, Maurine, + And our few moments have grown into hours. + What will Aunt Ruth think of our ling’ring so? + There—that will do—now I can reach the flowers.” + + “Hark! just hear that!” and Vivian broke forth singing, + “‘Row, brothers, row.’ The six o’clock bell’s ringing! + Who ever knew three hours to go so fast + In all the annals of the world, before? + I could have sworn not over one had passed. + Young ladies, I am forced to go ashore! + I thank you for the pleasure you have given; + This afternoon has been a glimpse of heaven. + Good-night—sweet dreams! and by your gracious leave, + I’ll pay my compliments to-morrow eve.” + + A smile, a bow, and he had gone his way: + And, in the waning glory of the day, + Down cool, green lanes, and through the length’ning shadows, + Silent, we wandered back across the meadows. + The wreath was finished, and adorned my room; + Long afterward, the lilies’ copied bloom + Was like a horrid spectre in my sight, + Staring upon me morning, noon, and night. + + The sun went down. The sad new moon rose up, + And passed before me like an empty cup, + The Great Unseen brims full of pain or bliss, + And gives His children, saying, “Drink of this.” + + A light wind, from the open casement, fanned + My brow and Helen’s, as we, hand in hand, + Sat looking out upon the twilight scene, + In dreamy silence. Helen’s dark-blue eyes, + Like two lost stars that wandered from the skies + Some night adown the meteor’s shining track, + And always had been grieving to go back, + Now gazed up, wistfully, at heaven’s dome, + And seemed to recognise and long for home. + Her sweet voice broke the silence: “Wish, Maurine, + Before you speak! you know the moon is new, + And anything you wish for will come true + Before it wanes. I do believe the sign! + Now tell me your wish, and I’ll tell you mine.” + + I turned and looked up at the slim young moon; + And, with an almost superstitious heart, + I sighed, “Oh, new moon! help me, by thine art, + To grow all grace and goodness, and to be + Worthy the love a true heart proffers me.” + Then smiling down, I said, “Dear one! my boon, + I fear, is quite too silly or too sweet + For my repeating: so we’ll let it stay + Between the moon and me. But if I may + I’ll listen now to your wish. Tell me, please!” + + All suddenly she nestled at my feet, + And hid her blushing face upon my knees. + Then drew my hand against her glowing cheek, + And, leaning on my breast, began to speak, + Half sighing out the words my tortured ear + Reached down to catch, while striving not to hear. + + “Can you not guess who ’twas about, Maurine? + Oh, my sweet friend! you must ere this have seen + The love I tried to cover from all eyes + And from myself. Ah, foolish little heart! + As well it might go seeking for some art + Whereby to hide the sun in noonday skies. + When first the strange sound of his voice I heard, + Looked on his noble face, and, touched his hand, + My slumb’ring heart thrilled through and through and stirred + As if to say, ‘I hear, and understand.’ + And day by day mine eyes were blest beholding + The inner beauty of his life, unfolding + In countless words and actions that portrayed + The noble stuff of which his soul was made. + And more and more I felt my heart upreaching + Toward the truth, drawn gently by his teaching, + As flowers are drawn by sunlight. And there grew + A strange, shy something in its depths, I knew + At length was love, because it was so sad + And yet so sweet, and made my heart so glad, + Yet seemed to pain me. Then, for very shame, + Lest all should read my secret and its name, + I strove to hide it in my breast away, + Where God could see it only. But each day + It seemed to grow within me, and would rise, + Like my own soul, and look forth from my eyes, + Defying bonds of silence; and would speak, + In its red-lettered language, on my cheek, + If but his name was uttered. You were kind, + My own Maurine! as you alone could be, + So long the sharer of my heart and mind, + While yet you saw, in seeming not to see. + In all the years we have been friends, my own, + And loved as women very rarely do, + My heart no sorrow and no joy has known + It has not shared at once, in full, with you. + And I so longed to speak to you of this, + When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss; + Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say, + In pity for my folly—‘Lack-a-day! + You are undone: because no mortal art + Can win the love of such a lofty heart.’ + And so I waited, silent and in pain, + Till I could know I did not love in vain. + And now I know, beyond a doubt or fear. + Did he not say, ‘If she I hold most dear + Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left, + My heart would find the years more lonely here + Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft, + And sent, an exile, to a foreign land’? + Oh, darling, you must _love_, to understand + The joy that thrilled all through me at those words. + It was as if a thousand singing birds + Within my heart broke forth in notes of praise. + I did not look up, but I knew his gaze + Was on my face, and that his eyes must see + The joy I felt almost transfigured me. + He loves me—loves me! so the birds kept singing, + And all my soul with that sweet strain is ringing. + If there were added but one drop of bliss, + No more my cup would hold: and so, this eve, + I made a wish that I might feel his kiss + Upon my lips, ere yon pale moon should leave + The stars all lonely, having waned away, + Too old and weak and bowed with care to stay.” + + Her voice sighed in silence. While she spoke + My heart writhed in me, praying she would cease— + Each word she uttered falling like a stroke + On my bare soul. And now a hush like death, + Save that ’twas broken by a quick-drawn breath, + Fell ’round me, but brought not the hoped-for peace. + For when the lash no longer leaves its blows, + The flesh still quivers, and the blood still flows. + + She nestled on my bosom like a child, + And ’neath her head my tortured heart throbbed wild + With pain and pity. She had told her tale— + Her self-deceiving story to the end. + How could I look down on her as she lay + So fair, and sweet, and lily-like, and frail— + A tender blossom on my breast, and say, + “Nay, you are wrong—you do mistake, dear friend! + ’Tis I am loved, not you”? Yet that were truth, + And she must know it later. + Should I speak, + And spread a ghastly pallor o’er the cheek + Flushed now with joy? And while I, doubting pondered, + She spoke again. “Maurine! I oft have wondered + Why you and Vivian were not lovers. He + Is all a heart could ask its king to be; + And you have beauty, intellect and youth. + I think it strange you have not loved each other— + Strange how he could pass by you for another + Not half so fair or worthy. Yet I know + A loving Father pre-arranged it so. + I think my heart has known him all these years, + And waited for him. And if when he came + It had been as a lover of my friend, + I should have recognised him, all the same, + As my soul-mate, and loved him to the end, + Hiding my grief, and forcing back my tears + Till on my heart, slow dropping, day by day, + Unseen they fell, and wore it all away. + And so a tender Father kept him free, + With all the largeness of his love, for me— + For me, unworthy such a precious gift! + Yet I will bend each effort of my life + To grow in grace and goodness, and to lift + My soul and spirit to his lofty height, + So to deserve that holy name, his wife. + Sweet friend, it fills my whole heart with delight + To breathe its long hid secret in your ear. + Speak, my Maurine, and say you love to hear!” + + The while she spoke, my active brain gave rise + To one great thought of mighty sacrifice + And self-denial. Oh! it blanched my cheek, + And wrung my soul; and from my heart it drove + All life and feeling. Coward-like, I strove + To send it from me; but I felt it cling + And hold fast on my mind like some live thing; + And all the Self within me felt its touch + And cried, “No, no! I cannot do so much— + I am not strong enough—there is no call.” + And then the voice of Helen bade me speak, + And with a calmness born of nerve, I said, + Scarce knowing what I uttered, “Sweetheart, all + Your joys and sorrows are with mine own wed. + I thank you for your confidence, and pray + I may deserve it always. But, dear one, + Something—perhaps our boat-ride in the sun— + Has set my head to aching. I must go + To bed directly; and you will, I know, + Grant me your pardon, and another day + We’ll talk of this together. Now good-night, + And angels guard you with their wings of light.” + + I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart, + And viewed her as I ne’er had done before. + I gazed upon her features o’er and o’er; + Marked her white, tender face—her fragile form, + Like some frail plant that withers in the storm; + Saw she was fairer in her new-found joy + Than e’er before; and thought, “Can I destroy + God’s handiwork, or leave it at the best + A broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?” + I bent my head and gave her one last kiss, + And sought my room, and found there such relief + As sad hearts feel when first alone with grief. + + The moon went down, slow sailing from my sight, + And left the stars to watch away the night. + O stars, sweet stars, so changeless and serene! + What depths of woe your pitying eyes have seen! + The proud sun sets, and leaves us with our sorrow, + To grope alone in darkness till the morrow. + The languid moon, e’en if she deigns to rise, + Soon seeks her couch, grown weary of our sighs; + But from the early gloaming till the day + Sends golden-liveried heralds forth to say + He comes in might; the patient stars shine on, + Steadfast and faithful, from twilight to dawn. + And, as they shone upon Gethsemane, + And watched the struggle of a God-like soul, + Now from the same far height they shone on me, + And saw the waves of anguish o’er me roll. + + The storm had come upon me all unseen: + No sound of thunder fell upon my ear; + No cloud arose to tell me it was near; + But under skies all sunlit, and serene, + I floated with the current of the stream, + And thought life all one golden-haloed dream. + When lo! a hurricane, with awful force, + Swept swift upon its devastating course, + Wrecked my frail bark, and cast me on the wave + Where all my hopes had found a sudden grave. + Love makes us blind and selfish; otherwise + I had seen Helen’s secret in her eyes; + So used I was to reading every look + In her sweet face, as I would read a book. + But now, made sightless by love’s blinding rays, + I had gone on unseeing, to the end + Where Pain dispelled the mist of golden haze + That walled me in, and lo! I found my friend + Who journeyed with me—at my very side— + Had been sore wounded to the heart, while I, + Both deaf and blind, saw not, nor heard her cry. + And then I sobbed, “O God! I would have died + To save her this.” And as I cried in pain, + There leaped forth from the still, white realm of Thought + Where Conscience dwells, that unimpassioned spot + As widely different from the heart’s domain + As north from south—the impulse felt before, + And put away; but now it rose once more, + In greater strength, and said, “Heart, wouldst thou prove + What lips have uttered? Then go, lay thy love + On Friendship’s altar, as thy offering.” + “Nay!” cried my heart, “ask any other thing— + Ask life itself—’twere easier sacrifice. + But ask not love, for that I cannot give.” + + “But,” spoke the voice, “the meanest insect dies, + And is no hero! heroes dare to live + When all that makes life sweet is snatched away.” + So with my heart, in converse, till the day, + In gold and crimson billows, rose and broke, + The voice of Conscience, all unwearied, spoke. + Love warred with Friendship, heart with Conscience fought, + Hours rolled away, and yet the end was not. + And wily Self, tricked out like tenderness, + Sighed, “Think how one, whose life thou wert to bless, + Will be cast down, and grope in doubt and fear! + Wouldst thou wound him, to give thy friend relief? + Can wrong make right?” + “Nay!” Conscience said, “but Pride + And Time can heal the saddest hurts of Love. + While Friendship’s wounds gape wide and yet more wide, + And bitter fountains of the spirit prove.” + + At length, exhausted with the wearing strife, + I cast the new-found burden of my life + On God’s broad breast, and sought that deep repose + That only he who watched with sorrow knows. + + + +PART IV + + + “Maurine, Maurine, ’tis ten o’clock! arise, + My pretty sluggard, open those dark eyes + And see where yonder sun is! Do you know + I made my toilet just four hours ago?” + + ’Twas Helen’s voice: and Helen’s gentle kiss + Fell on my cheek. As from a deep abyss, + I drew my weary self from that strange sleep + That rests not nor refreshes. Scarce awake + Or conscious, yet there seemed a heavy weight + Bound on my breast, as by a cruel Fate. + I knew not why, and yet I longed to weep. + Some dark cloud seemed to hang upon the day; + And, for a moment, in that trance I lay, + When suddenly the truth did o’er me break, + Like some great wave upon a helpless child. + The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife— + The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild, + And God gave back the burden of the life + He kept what time I slumbered. + “You are ill,” + Cried Helen, “with that blinding headache still! + You look so pale and weary. Now let me + Play nurse, Maurine, and care for you to-day! + And first I’ll suit some dainty to your taste, + And bring it to you, with a cup of tea.” + And off she ran, not waiting my reply. + But, wanting most the sunshine and the light, + I left my couch, and clothed myself in haste, + And, kneeling, sent to God an earnest cry + For help and guidance. + “Show Thou me the way, + Where duty leads, for I am blind! my sight + Obscured by self. Oh, lead my steps aright! + Help me see the path: and if it may, + Let this cup pass:—and yet, Thou heavenly One, + Thy will in all things, not mine own, be done.” + Rising, I went upon my way, receiving + The strength prayer gives alway to hearts believing. + I felt that unseen hands were leading me, + And knew the end was peace. + + “What! are you up?” + Cried Helen, coming with a tray, and cup, + Of tender toast and fragrant, smoking tea. + “You naughty girl! you should have stayed in bed + Until you ate your breakfast, and were better; + I’ve something hidden for you here—a letter. + But drink your tea before you read it, dear! + ’Tis from some distant cousin, auntie said, + And so you need not hurry. Now be good, + And mind your Helen.” + + So, in passive mood, + I laid the still unopened letter near, + And loitered at my breakfast more to please + My nurse, than any hunger to appease. + Then listlessly I broke the seal and read + The few lines written in a bold free hand: + “New London, Canada. Dear Coz. Maurine! + (In spite of generations stretched between + Our natural right to that most handy claim + Of cousinship, we’ll use it all the same) + I’m coming to see you! honestly, in truth! + I’ve threatened often—now I mean to act; + You’ll find my coming is a stubborn fact. + Keep quiet, though, and do not tell Aunt Ruth. + I wonder if she’ll know her petted boy + In spite of changes? Look for me until + You see me coming. As of old I’m still + Your faithful friend, and loving cousin, Roy.” + + So Roy was coming! He and I had played + As boy and girl, and later, youth and maid, + Full half our lives together. He had been, + Like me, an orphan; and the roof of kin + Gave both kind shelter. Swift years sped away + Ere change was felt: and then one summer day + A long-lost uncle sailed from India’s shore— + Made Roy his heir, and he was ours no more. + + “He’d write us daily, and we’d see his face + Once every year.” Such was his promise given + The morn he left. But now the years were seven + Since last he looked upon the olden place. + He’d been through college, travelled in all lands, + Sailed over seas, and trod the desert sands. + Would write and plan a visit, then, ere long, + Would write again from Egypt, or Hong Kong— + Some fancy called him thither unforeseen. + So years had passed, till seven lay between + His going and the coming of this note, + Which I hid in my bosom, and replied + To Aunt Ruth’s queries, “What the truant wrote?” + By saying he was still upon the wing, + And merely dropped a line, while journeying, + To say he lived: and she was satisfied. + + Sometimes it happens, in this world so strange, + A human heart will pass through mortal strife, + And writhe in torture: while the old sweet life, + So full of hope and beauty, bloom and grace, + Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain: + And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place— + A ghastly, pallid spectre of the slain. + Yet those in daily converse see no change + Nor dream the heart has suffered. + So that day + I passed along toward the troubled way + Stern duty pointed, and no mortal guessed + A mighty conflict had disturbed my breast. + + I had resolved to yield up to my friend + The man I loved. Since she, too, loved him so + I saw no other way in honour left. + She was so weak and fragile, once bereft + Of this great hope, that held her with such power, + She would wilt down, like some frost-bitten flower, + And swift, untimely death would be the end. + But I was strong; and hardy plants, which grow + In out-door soil, can bear bleak winds that blow + From Arctic lands, whereof a single breath + Would lay the hot-house blossom low in death. + + The hours went by, too slow, and yet too fast. + All day I argued with my foolish heart + That bade me play the shrinking coward’s part + And hide from pain. And when the day had past + And time for Vivian’s call drew near and nearer, + It pleaded, “Wait until the way seems clearer; + Say you are ill—or busy; keep away + Until you gather strength enough to play + The part you have resolved on.” + + “Nay, not so,” + Made answer clear-eyed Reason; “do you go + And put your resolution to the test. + Resolve, however nobly formed, at best + Is but a still-born babe of Thought until + It proves existence of its life and will + By sound or action.” + So when Helen came + And knelt by me, her fair face all aflame + With sudden blushes, whispering, “My sweet! + My heart can hear the music of his feet, + Go down with me to meet him,” I arose, + And went with her all calmly, as one goes + To look upon the dear face of the dead. + + That eve I know not what I did or said. + I was not cold—my manner was not strange; + Perchance I talked more freely than my wont, + But in my speech was naught could give affront; + Yet I conveyed, as only woman can, + That nameless _something_ which bespeaks a change. + + ’Tis in the power of woman, if she be + Whole-souled and noble, free from coquetry— + Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good, + To make herself and feelings understood + By nameless acts, thus sparing what to man, + However gently answered, causes pain, + The offering of his hand and heart in vain. + + She can be friendly, unrestrained, and kind + Assume no airs of pride or arrogance; + But in her voice, her manner, and her glance, + Convey that mystic something, undefined, + Which men fail not to understand and read, + And, when not blind with egoism, heed. + My task was harder—’twas the slow undoing + Of long sweet months of unimpeded wooing. + It was to hide and cover and conceal + The truth, assuming what I did not feel. + It was to dam love’s happy singing tide + That blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone + By feigned indiff’rence, till it turned aside + And changed its channel, leaving me alone + To walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draught + My lips had tasted, but another quaffed. + It could be done, for no words yet were spoken— + None to recall—no pledges to be broken. + “He will be grieved, then angry, cold, then cross,” + I reasoned, thinking what would be his part + In this strange drama. “Then, because he + Feels something lacking, to make good his loss + He’ll turn to Helen, and her gentle grace + And loving acts will win her soon the place + I hold to-day; and like a troubled dream + At length, our past, when he looks back, will seem.” + + That evening passed with music, chat, and song, + But hours that once had flown on airy wings + Now limped on weary, aching limbs along, + Each moment like some dreaded step that brings + A twinge of pain. + As Vivian rose to go, + Slow bending to me from his greater height, + He took my hand, and, looking in my eyes, + With tender questioning and pained surprise, + Said, “Maurine, you are not yourself to-night; + What is it? Are you ailing?” + “Ailing? No,” + I answered, laughing lightly, “I am not; + Just see my cheek, sir—is it thin, or pale? + Now, tell me, am I looking very frail?” + “Nay, nay,” he answered, “it cannot be _seen_, + The change I speak of—’twas more in your mien— + Preoccupation, or—I know not what! + Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does Maurine + Seem to have something on her mind this eve?” + “She does,” laughed Helen, “and I do believe + I know what ’tis! A letter came to-day + Which she read slyly, and then hid away + Close to her heart, not knowing I was near, + And since she’s been as you have seen her here. + See how she blushes! so my random shot + We must believe has struck a tender spot.” + + Her rippling laughter floated through the room, + And redder yet I felt the hot blood rise, + Then surge away, to leave me pale as death + Under the dark and swiftly gathering gloom + Of Vivian’s questioning, accusing eyes, + That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneath + That stern, fixed gaze, and stood spellbound until + He turned with sudden movement, gave his hand + To each in turn, and said: “You must not stand + Longer, young ladies, in this open door. + The air is heavy with a cold, damp chill. + We shall have rain to-morrow, or before. + Good-night.” + + He vanished in the darkling shade; + And so the dreaded evening found an end, + That saw me grasp the conscience-whetted blade, + And strike a blow for honour and for friend. + + “How swiftly passed the evening!” Helen sighed. + “How long the hours!” my tortured heart replied. + Joy, like a child, with lightsome steps doth glide + By Father Time, and, looking in his face, + Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair roadside, + “I could pluck more, but for thy hurried pace.” + The while her elder brother Pain, man grown, + Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone, + Looks to some distant hilltop, high and calm, + Where he shall find not only rest, but balm + For all his wounds, and cries, in tones of woe, + “Oh, Father Time! why is thy pace so slow?” + + Two days, all sad with lonely wind and rain, + Went sobbing by, repeating o’er and o’er + The miserere, desolate and drear, + Which every human heart must sometime hear. + Pain is but little varied. Its refrain, + Whate’er the words are, is for aye the same. + The third day brought a change, for with it came + Not only sunny smiles to Nature’s face, + But Roy, our Roy came back to us. Once more + We looked into his laughing, handsome eyes, + Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surprise + In no way puzzled her, for one glance told + What each succeeding one confirmed, that he + Who bent above her with the lissome grace + Of his fine form, though grown so tall, could be + No other than the Roy Montaine of old. + + It was a sweet reunion, and he brought + So much of sunshine with him that I caught, + Just from his smile alone, enough of gladness + To make my heart forget a time its sadness. + We talked together of the dear old days: + Leaving the present, with its depths and heights + Of life’s maturer sorrows and delights, + I turned back to my childhood’s level land, + And Roy and I, dear playmates, hand in hand, + Wandered in mem’ry through the olden ways. + + It was the second evening of his coming. + Helen was playing dreamily, and humming + Some wordless melody of white-souled thought, + While Roy and I sat by the open door, + Re-living childish incidents of yore. + My eyes were glowing, and my cheeks were hot + With warm young blood; excitement, joy, or pain + Alike would send swift coursing through each vein. + Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine, + And bringing vividly before my gaze + Some old adventure of those halcyon days, + When suddenly, in pauses of the talk, + I heard a well-known step upon the walk, + And looked up quickly to meet full in mine + The eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flash + Shot from their depths:—a sudden blaze of light + Like that swift followed by the thunder’s crash, + Which said, “Suspicion is confirmed by sight,” + As they fell on the pleasant doorway scene. + Then o’er his clear-cut face a cold, white look + Crept, like the pallid moonlight o’er a brook, + And, with a slight, proud bending of the head, + He stepped toward us haughtily, and said: + “Please pardon my intrusion, Miss Maurine, + I called to ask Miss Trevor for a book + She spoke of lending me; nay, sit you still, + And I, by grant of your permission, will + Pass by to where I hear her playing.” + “Stay,” + I said, “one moment, Vivian, if you please;” + And suddenly bereft of all my ease, + And scarcely knowing what to do or say, + Confused as any schoolgirl, I arose, + And some way made each to the other known. + They bowed, shook hands, then Vivian turned away + And sought out Helen, leaving us alone. + + “One of Miss Trevor’s or of Maurine’s beaux? + Which may he be, who cometh like a prince + With haughty bearing and an eagle eye?” + Roy queried, laughing; and I answered, “Since + You saw him pass me for Miss Trevor’s side, + I leave your own good judgment to reply.” + + And straightway caused the tide of talk to glide + In other channels, striving to dispel + The sudden gloom that o’er my spirit fell. + + We mortals are such hypocrites at best! + When Conscience tries our courage with a test, + And points to some steep pathway, we set out + Boldly, denying any fear or doubt; + But pause before the first rock in the way, + And, looking back, with tears, at Conscience, say: + “We are so sad, dear Conscience! for we would + Most gladly do what to thee seemeth good; + But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, so + Thou must point out some other way to go.” + Yet secretly we are rejoicing: and, + When right before our faces, as we stand + In seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain, + Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain, + And, loth to go, by every act reveal + What we so tried from Conscience to conceal. + + I saw that hour, the way made plain, to do + With scarce an effort what had seemed a strife + That would require the strength of my whole life. + + Women have quick perceptions, and I knew + That Vivian’s heart was full of jealous pain, + Suspecting—nay, _believing_—Roy Montaine + To be my lover. First my altered mien— + And next the letter—then the doorway scene— + My flushed face gazing in the one above + That bent so near me, and my strange confusion + When Vivian came all led to one conclusion: + That I had but been playing with his love, + As women sometimes cruelly do play + With hearts when their true lovers are away. + + There could be nothing easier than just + To let him linger on in this belief + Till hourly-fed Suspicion and Distrust + Should turn to scorn and anger all his grief. + Compared with me, so doubly sweet and pure + Would Helen seem, my purpose would be sure + And certain of completion in the end. + But now, the way was made so straight and clear, + My coward heart shrank back in guilty fear, + Till Conscience whispered with her “still small voice,” + “The precious time is passing—make thy choice— + Resign thy love, or slay thy trusting friend.” + + The growing moon, watched by the myriad eyes + Of countless stars, went sailing through the skies, + Like some young prince, rising to rule a nation, + To whom all eyes are turned in expectation. + A woman who possesses tact and art + And strength of will can take the hand of doom, + And walk on, smiling sweetly as she goes, + With rosy lips, and rounded cheeks of bloom, + Cheating a loud-tongued world that never knows + The pain and sorrow of her hidden heart. + And so I joined in Roy’s bright changing chat; + Answered his sallies—talked of this and that, + My brow unruffled as the calm, still wave + That tells not of the wrecked ship, and the grave + Beneath its surface. + Then we heard, ere long, + The sound of Helen’s gentle voice in song, + And, rising, entered where the subtle power + Of Vivian’s eyes, forgiving while accusing, + Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour; + But Roy, always polite and debonair + Where ladies were, now hung about my chair + With nameless delicate attentions, using + That air devotional, and those small arts + Acquaintance with society imparts + To men gallant by nature. + ’Twas my sex + And not myself he bowed to. Had my place + Been filled that evening by a dowager + Twice his own age, he would have given her + The same attentions. But they served to vex + Whatever hope in Vivian’s heart remained. + The cold, white look crept back upon his face, + Which told how deeply he was hurt and pained. + + Little by little all things had conspired + To bring events I dreaded, yet desired. + We were in constant intercourse: walks, rides, + Picnics and sails, filled weeks of golden weather, + And almost hourly we were thrown together. + No words were spoken of rebuke or scorn: + Good friends we seemed. But as a gulf divides + This land and that, though lying side by side, + So rolled a gulf between us—deep and wide— + The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly morn + And noon and night. + + Free and informal were + These picnics and excursions. Yet, although + Helen and I would sometimes choose to go + Without our escorts, leaving them quite free, + It happened alway Roy would seek out me + Ere passed the day, while Vivian walked with her. + I had no thought of flirting. Roy was just + Like some dear brother, and I quite forgot + The kinship was so distant it was not + Safe to rely upon in perfect trust, + Without reserve or caution. Many a time, + When there was some steep mountain-side to climb + And I grew weary, he would say, “Maurine, + Come rest you here.” And I would go and lean + My head upon his shoulder, or would stand + And let him hold in his my willing hand, + The while he stroked it gently with his own. + Or I would let him clasp me with his arm, + Nor entertained a thought of any harm, + Nor once supposed but Vivian was alone + In his suspicions. But ere long the truth + I learned in consternation! both Aunt Ruth + And Helen honestly, in faith, believed + That Roy and I were lovers. + + Undeceived, + Some careless words might open Vivian’s eyes + And spoil my plans. So reasoning in this wise, + To all their sallies I in jest replied, + To naught assented, and yet naught denied, + With Roy unchanged remaining, confident + Each understood just what the other meant. + + If I grew weary of this double part, + And self-imposed deception caused my heart + Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze + On Helen’s face: that wore a look ethereal, + As if she dwelt above the things material + And held communion with the angels. So + I fed my strength and courage through the days. + What time the harvest moon rose full and clear + And cast its ling’ring radiance on the earth, + We made a feast; and called from far and near, + Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth. + Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro; + But none more sweet than Helen’s. Robed in white, + She floated like a vision through the dance. + So frailly fragile and so phantom fair, + She seemed like some stray spirit of the air, + And was pursued by many an anxious glance + That looked to see her fading from the sight + Like figures that a dreamer sees at night. + And noble men and gallants graced the scene: + Yet none more noble or more grand of mien + Than Vivian—broad of chest and shoulder, tall + And finely formed, as any Grecian god + Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod. + His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those + Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose, + Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair + Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes + That could be cold as steel in winter air, + Or warm and sunny as Italian skies. + + Weary of mirth and music, and the sound + Of tripping feet, I sought a moment’s rest + Within the lib’ry, where a group I found + Of guests, discussing with apparent zest + Some theme of interest—Vivian, near the while, + Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile. + “Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,” + Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. “We + Have been discussing right before his face, + All unrebuked by him, as you may see, + A poem lately published by our friend: + And we are quite divided. I contend + The poem is a libel and untrue. + I hold the fickle women are but few, + Compared with those who are like yon fair moon + That, ever faithful, rises in her place + Whether she’s greeted by the flowers of June + Or cold and dreary stretches of white space.” + + “Oh!” cried another, “Mr. Dangerfield, + Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield + The crown to Semple, who, ’tis very plain, + Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane.” + + All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me, + I answered lightly, “My young friend, I fear + You chose a most unlucky simile + To prove the truth of woman. To her place + The moon does rise—but with a different face + Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear + The poem read, before I can consent + To pass my judgment on the sentiment.” + All clamoured that the author was the man + To read the poem: and, with tones that said + More than the cutting, scornful words he read, + Taking the book Guy gave him, he began: + + +HER LOVE. + + + The sands upon the ocean side + That change about with every tide, + And never true to one abide, + A woman’s love I liken to. + + The summer zephyrs, light and vain, + That sing the same alluring strain + To every grass blade on the plain— + A woman’s love is nothing more. + + The sunshine of an April day + That comes to warm you with its ray, + But while you smile has flown away— + A woman’s love is like to this. + + God made poor woman with no heart, + But gave her skill, and tact, and art, + And so she lives, and plays her part. + We must not blame, but pity her. + + She leans to man—but just to hear + The praise he whispers in her ear, + Herself, not him, she holdeth dear— + Oh, fool! to be deceived by her. + + To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs + The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts, + Then throws them lightly by and laughs, + Too weak to understand their pain. + + As changeful as the winds that blow + From every region, to and fro, + Devoid of heart, she cannot know + The suffering of a human heart. + + I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian’s eyes + Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise; + But lightly answered, toying with my fan, + “That sentiment is very like a man! + Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong; + We’re only frail and helpless, men are strong; + And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing + And make a shroud out of their suffering, + And drag the corpse about with them for years. + But we?—we mourn it for a day with tears! + And then we robe it for its last long rest, + And being women, feeble things at best, + We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so + We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low: + Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends + To do this service for her earthly friends, + The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep + Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep.” + + The laugh that followed had not died away + Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say + The band was tuning for our waltz, and so + Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow + And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent, + And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went + Out on the cool moonlighted portico, + And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head + Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent + His smiling eyes upon me, as he said: + “I’ll try the mesmerism of my touch + To work a cure: be very quiet now, + And let me make some passes o’er your brow. + Why, how it throbs! you’ve exercised too much! + I shall not let you dance again to-night.” + + Just then before us, in the broad moonlight, + Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face + To catch the teasing and mischievous glance + Of Helen’s eyes, as, heated by the dance, + Leaning on Vivian’s arm, she sought this place. + + “I beg your pardon,” came in that round tone + Of his low voice. “I think we do intrude.” + Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone + Ere I could speak or change my attitude. + + + +PART V + + + A visit to a cave some miles away + Was next in order. So, one sunny day, + Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing load + Of merry pleasure-seekers o’er the road. + A basket picnic, music, and croquet + Were in the programme. Skies were blue and clear, + And cool winds whispered of the Autumn near. + The merry-makers filled the time with pleasure: + Some floated to the music’s rhythmic measure, + Some played, some promenaded on the green. + Ticked off by happy hearts, the moments passed. + The afternoon, all glow and glimmer, came. + Helen and Roy were leaders of some game, + And Vivian was not visible. + + “Maurine, + I challenge you to climb yon cliff with me! + And who shall tire, or reach the summit last + Must pay a forfeit,” cried a romping maid. + “Come! start at once, or own you are afraid.” + So challenged I made ready for the race, + Deciding first the forfeit was to be + A handsome pair of bootees to replace + The victor’s loss who made the rough ascent. + The cliff was steep and stony. On we went + As eagerly as if the path was Fame, + And what we climbed for, glory and a name. + My hands were bruised; my garments sadly rent, + But on I clambered. Soon I heard a cry, + “Maurine! Maurine! my strength is wholly spent! + You’ve won the boots! I’m going back—good-bye!” + And back she turned, in spite of laugh and jeer. + + I reached the summit: and its solitude, + Wherein no living creature did intrude, + Save some sad birds that wheeled and circled near, + I found far sweeter than the scene below. + Alone with One who knew my hidden woe, + I did not feel so much alone as when + I mixed with th’ unthinking throngs of men. + + Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile place + I plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed, + That in our lives, albeit dark with shade + And rough and hard with labour, yet may grow + The flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace. + + As I walked on in meditative thought, + A serpent writhed across my pathway; not + A large or deadly serpent; yet the sight + Filled me with ghastly terror and affright. + I shrieked aloud: a darkness veiled my eyes— + And I fell fainting ’neath the watchful skies. + + I was no coward. Country-bred and born, + I had no feeling but the keenest scorn + For those fine lady “ah’s” and “oh’s” of fear + So much assumed (when any man is near). + But God implanted in each human heart + A natural horror, and a sickly dread + Of that accursèd, slimy, creeping thing + That squirms a limbless carcass o’er the ground. + And where that inborn loathing is not found + You’ll find the serpent qualities instead. + Who fears it not, himself is next of kin, + And in his bosom holds some treacherous art + Whereby to counteract its venomed sting. + And all are sired by Satan—Chief of Sin. + + Who loathes not that foul creature of the dust, + However fair in seeming, I distrust. + + I woke from my unconsciousness, to know + I leaned upon a broad and manly breast, + And Vivian’s voice was speaking, soft and low, + Sweet whispered words of passion, o’er and o’er. + I dared not breathe. Had I found Eden’s shore? + Was this a foretaste of eternal bliss? + “My love,” he sighed, his voice like winds that moan + Before a rain in Summer-time, “my own, + For one sweet stolen moment, lie and rest + Upon this heart that loves and hates you both! + O fair false face! Why were you made so fair! + O mouth of Southern sweetness! that ripe kiss + That hangs upon you, I do take an oath + _His_ lips shall never gather. There!—and there! + I steal it from him. Are you his—all his? + Nay, you are mine, this moment, as I dreamed— + Blind fool—believing you were what you seemed— + You would be mine in all the years to come. + Fair fiend! I love and hate you in a breath. + O God! if this white pallor were but _death_, + And I were stretched beside you, cold and dumb, + My arms about you, so—in fond embrace! + My lips pressed, so—upon your dying face!” + + “Woman, how dare you bring me to such shame! + How dare you drive me to an act like this, + To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss + You lured me on to think my rightful claim! + O frail and puny woman! could you know + The devil that you waken in the hearts + You snare and bind in your enticing arts, + The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow + Would freeze in terror. + + Strange you have such power + To please or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things— + Devoid of passion as a senseless flower! + Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings. + There, now I scorn you—scorn you from this hour, + And hate myself for having talked of love!” + + He pushed me from him. And I felt as those + Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above + Are closed against them. + + With a feigned surprise + I started up and opened wide my eyes, + And looked about. Then in confusion rose + And stood before him. + + “Pardon me, I pray!” + He said quite coldly. “Half an hour ago + I left you with the company below, + And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried, + It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm. + I came in time to see you swoon away. + You’ll need assistance down the rugged side + Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm.” + + So, formal and constrained, we passed along, + Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng + To have no further speech again that day. + + Next morn there came a bulky document, + The legal firm of Blank and Blank had sent, + Containing news unlooked for. An estate + Which proved a cosy fortune—nowise great + Or princely—had in France been left to me, + My grandsire’s last descendant. And it brought + A sense of joy and freedom in the thought + Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be + A panacea for my troubled mind, + That longed to leave the olden scenes behind + With all their recollections, and to flee + To some strange country. + + I was in such haste + To put between me and my native land + The briny ocean’s desolating waste, + I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned + To sail that week, two months: though she was fain + To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine + Would be our guide and escort. + + No one dreamed + The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed + To think good fortune had quite turned my brain. + One bright October morning, when the woods + Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods + In honour of the Frost King, Vivian came, + Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame,— + First trophies of the Autumn time. + + And Roy + Made a proposal that we all should go + And ramble in the forest for a while. + But Helen said she was not well—and so + Must stay at home. Then Vivian, with a smile, + Responded, “I will stay and talk to you, + And they may go;” at which her two cheeks grew + Like twin blush roses—dyed with love’s red wave, + Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy. + + And Vivian saw—and suddenly was grave. + Roy took my arm in that protecting way + Peculiar to some men, which seems to say, + “I shield my own,” a manner pleasing, e’en + When we are conscious that it does not mean + More than a simple courtesy. A woman + Whose heart is wholly feminine and human, + And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be + The object of that tender chivalry, + That guardianship which man bestows on her, + Yet mixed with deference; as if she were + Half child, half angel. + + Though she may be strong, + Noble and self-reliant, not afraid + To raise her hand and voice against all wrong + And all oppression, yet if she be made, + With all the independence of her thought, + A woman womanly, as God designed, + Albeit she may have as great a mind + As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm, + His muscle and his boldness she has not, + And cannot have without she loses what + Is far more precious, modesty and grace. + So, walking on in her appointed place, + She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend + But that she needs him for a guide and friend, + To shield her with his greater strength from harm. + We reached the forest; wandered to and fro + Through many a winding path and dim retreat, + Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat + Upon an oak-tree, which had been laid low + By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke. + And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge + On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge + Of sunny meadows lying at my feet. + One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb + That cast its checkered shadows over him; + And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised + And fixed upon me, silently he gazed + Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke: + “Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise, + And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes.” + + The smooth and even darkness of his cheek + Was stained one moment by a flush of red. + He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood + Still clinging to the branch above his head. + His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said, + With sudden passion, “Do you bid me speak? + I cannot, then, keep silence if I would. + That hateful fortune, coming as it did, + Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew + A harsh-tongued world would quickly misconstrue + My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet, + So big my heart has grown with love for you + I cannot shelter it or keep it hid. + And so I cast it throbbing at your feet, + For you to guard and cherish, or to break. + Maurine, I love you better than my life. + My friend—my cousin—be still more, my wife! + Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?” + + I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and numb + With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb + With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes + That looked no feeling but complete surprise. + He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek. + “Maurine, Maurine,” he whispered, “will you speak?” + + Then suddenly, as o’er some magic glass + One picture in a score of shapes will pass, + I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze. + First, as the playmate of my earlier days— + Next, as my kin—and then my valued friend, + And last, my lover. As when colours blend + In some unlooked-for group before our eyes, + We hold the glass, and look them o’er and o’er, + So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise, + In which he ne’er appeared to me before. + + His form was like a panther’s in its grace, + So lithe and supple, and of medium height, + And garbed in all the elegance of fashion. + His large black eyes were full of fire and passion, + And in expression fearless, firm, and bright. + His hair was like the very deeps of night, + And hung in raven clusters ’round a face + Of dark and flashing beauty. + + He was more + Like some romantic maiden’s grand ideal + Than like a common being. As I gazed + Upon the handsome face to mine upraised, + I saw before me, living, breathing, real, + The hero of my early day-dreams: though + So full my heart was with that clear-cut face, + Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero’s place, + I had not recognised him so before, + Or thought of him, save as a valued friend. + So now I called him, adding, + + “Foolish boy! + Each word of love you utter aims a blow + At that sweet trust I had reposed in you. + I was so certain I had found a true, + Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend, + And go on wholly trusting to the end. + Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy, + By turning to a lover?” + + “Why, indeed! + Because I loved you more than any brother, + Or any friend could love.” Then he began + To argue like a lawyer, and to plead + With all his eloquence. And, listening, + I strove to think it was a goodly thing + To be so fondly loved by such a man, + And it were best to give his wooing heed, + And not deny him. Then before my eyes, + In all its clear-cut majesty, that other + Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise + And rob my purpose of all life and strength. + + Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could, + With that impetuous, boyish eloquence. + He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should + Give some least hope; till, in my own defence, + I turned upon him, and replied at length: + “I thank you for the noble heart you offer: + But it deserves a true one in exchange. + I could love you if I loved not another + Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer.” + + Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I said: + “Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange; + But I love one I cannot hope to wed. + A river rolls between us, dark and deep. + To cross it—were to stain with blood my hand. + You force my speech on what I fain would keep + In my own bosom, but you understand? + My heart is given to love that’s sanctified, + And now can feel no other. + + Be you kind, + Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more, + Lest pleading and denying should divide + The hearts so long united. Let me find + In you my cousin and my friend of yore. + And now come home. The morning, all too soon + And unperceived, has melted into noon. + Helen will miss us, and we must return.” + + He took my hand, and helped me to arise, + Smiling upon me with his sad, dark eyes, + Where passion’s fires had, sudden, ceased to burn. + + “And so,” he said, “too soon and unforeseen + My friendship melted into love, Maurine. + But, sweet! I am not wholly in the blame + For what you term my folly. You forgot, + So long we’d known each other, I had not + In truth a brother’s or a cousin’s claim. + But I remembered, when through every nerve + Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began + To love you with that human love of man + For comely woman. By your coaxing arts, + You won your way into my heart of hearts, + And all Platonic feelings put to rout. + A maid should never lay aside reserve + With one who’s not her kinsman, out and out. + But as we now, with measured steps, retrace + The path we came, e’en so my heart I’ll send, + At your command, back to the olden place, + And strive to love you only as a friend.” + I felt the justice of his mild reproof, + But answered, laughing, “’Tis the same old cry: + ‘The woman tempted me, and I did eat.’ + Since Adam’s time we’ve heard it. But I’ll try + And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof + The fruit I never once had thought so sweet + ’Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner, + Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner. + And guard each act, that no least look betray + What’s passed between us.” + + Then I turned away + And sought my room, low humming some old air + That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes + Fell on a face so glorified and fair + All other senses, merged in that of sight, + Were lost in contemplation of the bright + And wond’rous picture, which had otherwise + Made dim my vision. + + Waiting in my room, + Her whole face lit as by an inward flame + That shed its halo ’round her, Helen stood; + Her fair hands folded like a lily’s leaves + Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves. + Upon her cheek the colour went and came + As sunlight flickers o’er a bed of bloom; + And, like some slim young sapling of the wood, + Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair + Fell ’round her loosely, in long curling strands + All unconfined, and as by loving hands + Tossed into bright confusion. + + Standing there, + Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem + Like some unearthly creature of a dream; + Until she started forward, gliding slowly, + And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly, + As one grown meek, and humble in an hour, + Bowing before some new and mighty power. + + “Maurine, Maurine!” she murmured, and again, + “Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!” + + And then, + Laying her love-light hands upon my head, + She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said + With voice that bore her joy in ev’ry tone, + As winds that blow across a garden bed + Are weighed with fragrance, “He is mine alone, + And I am his—all his—his very own. + So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie + Save one beneath God’s over-arching sky. + I could not wait to tell you of my bliss: + I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss.” + So hiding my heart’s trouble with a smile, + I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while + I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin, + When my lips fell where his so late had been. + And all day long I bore about with me + A sense of shame—yet mixed with satisfaction, + As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be + Sad with the guilt resulting from her action, + While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet. + That ev’ning when the house had settled down + To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept + A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown: + With steps like fall of thistle-down she came, + Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name, + Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet. + + “Sweetheart,” she murmured softly, “ere I sleep, + I needs must tell you all my tale of joy. + Beginning where you left us—you and Roy. + You saw the colour flame upon my cheek + When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he;— + And, when we were alone, he gazed at me + With such a strange look in his wond’rous eyes. + The silence deepened; and I tried to speak + Upon some common topic, but could not, + My heart was in such tumult. + + In this wise + Five happy moments glided by us, fraught + With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then, + And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair. + And, in his low voice, o’er and o’er again, + Said, ‘Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.’ + Then took my face, and turned it to the light, + And looking in my eyes, and seeing what + Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low, + ‘Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight. + You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?’ + And I made answer straightway, ‘With my life + And soul and strength I love you, O my love!’ + He leaned and took me gently to his breast, + And said, ‘Here then this dainty head shall rest + Henceforth for ever: O my little dove! + My lily-bud—my fragile blossom-wife!’ + + And then I told him all my thoughts; and he + Listened, with kisses for his comments, till + My tale was finished. Then he said, ‘I will + Be frank with you, my darling, from the start, + And hide no secret from you in my heart. + I love you, Helen, but you are not first + To rouse that love to being. Ere we met + I loved a woman madly—never dreaming + She was not all in truth she was in seeming. + Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed + Of God and man—a wily vain coquette. + I hate myself for having loved her. Yet + So much my heart spent on her, it must give + A love less ardent, and less prodigal, + Albeit just as tender and as true— + A milder, yet a faithful love to you. + Just as some evil fortune might befall + A man’s great riches, causing him to live + In some low cot, all unpretending, still + As much his home—as much his loved retreat, + As was the princely palace on the hill, + E’en so I give you all that’s left, my sweet! + Of my heart-fortune.’ + + ‘That were more to me,’ + I made swift smiling answer, ‘than to be + The worshipped consort of a king.’ And so + Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go + Until I vowed to wed him New Year day. + And I am sad because you go away + Before that time. I shall not feel half wed + Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay, + And be my bridesmaid.” + + “Nay, I cannot, dear! + ’Twould disarrange our plans for half a year. + I’ll be in Europe New Year day,” I said, + “And send congratulations by the cable.” + And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing + The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing, + The festal garments of a wedding scene, + While all my heart was hung with sorrow’s sable. + Forgetting for a season, that between + The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss, + I lived in my near future, confident + All would be as I planned it; and, across + The briny waste of waters, I should find + Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind. + The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed + And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed, + Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb + Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom. + + Roy left us for a time, and Helen went + To make the nuptial preparations. Then, + Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill: + Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill + Of two physicians could not stem the tide. + The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest, + Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds: and when + The Autumn day, that I had thought to be + Bounding upon the billows of the sea, + Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn, + Striving to keep away that unloved guest + Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn. + Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside + The suff’rer’s couch, Roy was my help and stay; + Others were kind, but he alone each day + Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face, + And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place + Like rays of light upon a darkened way. + November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill, + In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill. + Returning light and life dispelled the gloom + That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb. + Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better— + Was dressed each day, and walked about the room. + Then came one morning in the Eastern mail, + A little white-winged birdling of a letter. + I broke the seal and read, + + “Maurine, my own! + I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad. + I felt so sorry for you; and so sad + To think I left you when I did—alone + To bear your pain and worry, and those nights + Of weary, anxious watching. + + Vivian writes + Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail + Before the Springtime. So you’ll come and be + My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay. + But three weeks more of girlhood left to me. + Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day, + And make your preparations here. My sweet! + Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill— + I’m sorry she has suffered so; and still + I’m thankful something happened, so you stayed. + I’m sure my wedding would be incomplete + Without your presence. Selfish, I’m afraid + You’ll think your Helen. But I love you so, + How can I be quite willing you should go? + Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know, + And I will meet you, dearie! at the train. + Your happy, loving Helen.” + + Then the pain + That, hidden under later pain and care, + Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep, + Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep + My tortured heart in anguish and despair. + + I had relied too fully on my skill + In bending circumstances to my will: + And now I was rebuked and made to see + That God alone knoweth what is to be. + Then came a messenger from Vivian, who + Came not himself, as he was wont to do, + But sent his servant each new day to bring + A kindly message, or an offering + Of juicy fruits to cool the lips of fever, + Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom + To brighten up the convalescent’s room. + But now the servant only brought a line + From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine, + “Dear Sir, and Friend”—in letters bold and plain, + Written on cream-white paper, so it ran: + “It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor, + And therefore doubly so a wish of mine, + That you shall honour me next New Year Eve, + My wedding hour, by standing as best man. + Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe. + Being myself a novice in the art— + If I should fail in acting well my part, + I’ll need protection ’gainst the regiment + Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent + To stand by me in time of need, and shield + Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield.” + + The last least hope had vanished; I must drain, + E’en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain. + + + +PART VI + + + There was a week of bustle and of hurry; + A stately home echoed to voices sweet, + Calling, replying; and to tripping feet + Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro, + With all that girlish fluttering and flurry + Preceding such occasions. + + Helen’s room + Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom, + Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau. + My robe was fashioned by swift, skilful hands— + A thing of beauty, elegant and rich, + A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands; + And as I watched it growing, stitch by stitch, + I felt as one might feel who should behold + With vision trance-like, where his body lay + In deathly slumber, simulating clay, + His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold. + + I lived with ev’ry nerve upon the strain, + As men go into battle; and the pain, + That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed + Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed + From mortal eyes by superhuman power, + That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour. + What night the Old Year gave unto the New + The key of human happiness and woe, + The pointed stars, upon their field of blue, + Shone, white and perfect, o’er a world below, + Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed + In gleaming garments, decked with diadems, + Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest, + Coming o’erladen with a gift of gems. + The bustle of the dressing-room; the sound + Of eager voices in discourse; the clang + Of “sweet bells jangled”; thud of steel-clad feet + That beat swift music on the frozen ground— + All blent together in my brain, and rang + A medley of strange noises, incomplete, + And full of discords. + + Then out on the night + Streamed from the open vestibule, a light + That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod, + With all the hues of those that deck the sod. + The grand cathedral windows were ablaze + With gorgeous colours; through a sea of bloom, + Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom, + The bridal cortège passed. + + As some lost soul + Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze + Upon its coffined body, so I went + With that glad festal throng. The organ sent + Great waves of melody along the air, + That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray, + On happy hearts that listened. But to me + It sounded faintly, as if miles away, + A troubled spirit, sitting in despair + Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea, + Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole. + We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers, + The white-robed man of God stood forth. + + I heard + The solemn service open; through long hours + I seemed to stand and listen, while each word + Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay + Upon the coffin of the worshipped dead. + The stately father gave the bride away: + The bridegroom circled with a golden band + The taper finger of her dainty hand. + The last imposing, binding words were said— + “What God has joined let no man put asunder”— + And all my strife with self was at an end; + My lover was the husband of my friend. + + How strangely, in some awful hour of pain, + External trifles with our sorrows blend! + I never hear the mighty organ’s thunder, + I never catch the scent of heliotrope, + Nor see stained windows all ablaze with light, + Without that dizzy whirling of the brain, + And all the ghastly feeling of that night, + When my sick heart relinquished love and hope. + + The pain we feel so keenly may depart, + And e’en its memory cease to haunt the heart: + But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound + Will probe the closed recesses of the wound, + And for a moment bring the old-time smart. + + Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles, + Good-byes and farewells given; then across + The snowy waste of weary wintry miles, + Back to my girlhoods’ home, where, through each room, + For evermore pale phantoms of delight + Should aimless wander, always in my sight, + Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb + Wet with the tears of living pain and loss. + + The sleepless nights of watching and of care, + Followed by that one week of keenest pain, + Taxing my weakened system, and my brain, + Brought on a ling’ring illness. + + Day by day, + In that strange, apathetic state I lay, + Of mental and of physical despair. + I had no pain, no fever, and no chill, + But lay without ambition, strength, or will. + Knowing no wish for anything but rest, + Which seemed, of all God’s store of gifts, the best. + + Physicians came and shook their heads and sighed; + And to their score of questions I replied, + With but one languid answer, o’er and o’er, + “I am so weary—weary—nothing more.” + + I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered thing, + Flying through space with ever-aching wing, + Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white, + That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight, + But always one unchanging distance kept, + And woke more weary than before I slept. + + I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize, + A hand from heaven held down before my eyes. + All eagerness I sought it—it was gone, + But shone in all its beauty farther on. + I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest + Of that great prize, whereon was written “Rest,” + Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam, + And wakened doubly weary with my dream. + + I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain, + That saw a snow-white lily on the plain, + And left the cloud to nestle in her breast. + I fell and fell, but nevermore found rest— + I fell and fell, but found no stopping place, + Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space, + While space illimitable stretched before. + + And all these dreams but wearied me the more. + + Familiar voices sounded in my room— + Aunt Ruth’s, and Roy’s, and Helen’s: but they seemed + A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed, + And now remembered dimly. + + Wrapped in gloom, + My mind, o’ertaxed, lost hold of time at last, + Ignored its future, and forgot its past, + And groped along the present, as a light, + Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night, + Will flicker faintly. + + But I felt, at length, + When March winds brought vague rumours of the spring, + A certain sense of “restlessness with rest.” + My aching frame was weary of repose, + And wanted action. + + Then slow-creeping strength + Came back with Mem’ry, hand in hand, to bring + And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast, + Grim-visaged Recollection’s thorny rose. + I gained, and failed. One day could ride and walk, + The next would find me prostrate: while a flock + Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit + About the chambers of my heart, or sit, + Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings, + Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings, + That once resounded to Hope’s happy lays. + + So passed the ever-changing April days. + When May came, lightsome footed, o’er the lea, + Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy, + I bade farewell to home with secret joy, + And turned my wan face eastward to the sea. + Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands + Were one to him. Or Egypt’s burning sands, + Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome, + All were familiar as the fields of home. + + There was a year of wand’ring to and fro, + Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights; + Dwelling among the countless, rare delights + Of lands historic; turning dusty pages, + Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages + Gazing upon the scenes of bloody acts, + Of kings long buried—bare, unvarnished facts, + Surpassing wildest fictions of the brain; + Rubbing against all people, high and low, + And by this contact feeling Self to grow + Smaller and less important, and the vein + Of human kindness deeper, seeing God, + Unto the humble delver of the sod, + And to the ruling monarch on the throne, + Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain, + And that all hearts have feelings like our own. + + There is no school that disciplines the mind, + And broadens thought, like contact with mankind. + The college-prisoned graybeard, who has burned + The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned, + Till sciences or classics hold no lore + He has not conned and studied, o’er and o’er, + Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared + With some unlettered wand’rer, who has shared + The hospitalities of every land; + Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand; + Made man his study, and the world his college, + And gained this grand epitome of knowledge: + Each human being has a heart and soul, + And self is but an atom of the whole. + I hold he is best learnèd and most wise + Who best and most can love and sympathize. + Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained; + Our banded minds go round in little grooves; + But constant friction with the world removes + These iron foes to freedom, and we rise + To grander heights, and, all untrammelled, find + A better atmosphere and clearer skies; + And through its broadened realm, no longer chained, + Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind. + Where’er we chanced to wander or to roam, + Glad letters came from Helen; happy things, + Like little birds that followed on swift wings, + Bringing their tender messages from home. + Her days were poems, beautiful, complete. + The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet. + She was so happy—happy, and so blest. + + My heart had found contentment in that year. + With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer + The heart of youth turns ever to the light; + Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night, + But, in its very anguish and unrest, + It beats and tears the pall-like folds away, + And finds again the sunlight of the day. + + And yet, despite the changes without measure, + Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure; + Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart + Was conscious of a something lacking, where + Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair. + Now love was buried; and despair had flown + Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown + From heights serene and lofty; and the place + Where both had dwelt was empty, voiceless space. + And so I took my long-loved study, art, + The dreary vacuum in my life to fill, + And worked, and laboured, with a right good will. + Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy + Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy. + A dainty little lassie, Grace Kildare, + Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair, + And made him captive. + + We were thrown, by chance, + In contact with her people while in France + The previous season: she was wholly sweet + And fair and gentle; so naïve, and yet + So womanly, she was at once the pet + Of all our party; and, ere many days, + Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways, + Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet. + Her home was in the Highlands; and she came + Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame. + + Through all these months Roy had been true as steel; + And by his every action made me feel + He was my friend and brother, and no more, + The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore. + Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew + Whether the love he felt one time was dead, + Or only hidden, for my sake, from view. + So when he came to me one day, and said, + The velvet blackness of his eyes ashine + With light of love and triumph: “Cousin, mine, + Congratulate me! She whom I adore + Has pledged to me the promise of her hand; + Her heart I have already,” I was glad + With double gladness, for it freed my mind + Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad. + + From March till June had left her moons behind, + And merged her rose-red beauty in July, + There was no message from my native land. + Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned: + Death had been near to Helen, but passed by; + The danger was now over. God was kind; + The mother and the child were both alive; + No other child was ever known to thrive + As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say. + The infant was a wonder, every way. + And, at command of Helen, he would send + A lock of baby’s golden hair to me. + And did I, on my honour, ever see + Such hair before? Helen would write, ere long: + She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong— + Stronger than ever, so the doctors said. + I took the tiny ringlet, golden—fair, + Mayhap his hand had severed from the head + Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek + And to my lips, and kissed it o’er and o’er. + All my maternal instincts seemed to rise, + And clamour for their rights, while my wet eyes + Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair. + The woman struggled with her heart before! + It was the mother in me now did speak, + Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not, + And crying out against her barren lot. + + Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years + That stretched before me, dark with love’s eclipse; + And thought how my unmated heart would miss + The shelter of a broad and manly breast— + The strong, bold arm—the tender clinging kiss— + And all pure love’s possessions, manifold; + But now I wept a flood of bitter tears, + Thinking of little heads of shining gold, + That would not on my bosom sink to rest; + Of little hands that would not touch my cheek; + Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips, + That never in my list’ning ear would speak + The blessed name of mother. + + Oh, in woman + How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere + Unto her wond’ring, untaught mind unfolds + The myst’ry that is half divine, half human, + Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls + Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps + Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps, + And grows and strengthens with each riper year. + + As storms may gather in a placid sky, + And spend their fury, and then pass away, + Leaving again the blue of cloudless day, + E’en so the tempest of my grief passed by. + ’Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned, + With the deliberate purpose of my mind, + To my sweet friend. + + Relinquishing my love, + I gave my dearest hope of joy to her. + If God, from out His boundless store above, + Had chosen added blessings to confer, + I would rejoice, for her sake—not repine + That th’ immortal treasures were not mine. + + Better my lonely sorrow, than to know + My selfish joy had been another’s woe; + Better my grief and my strength to control, + Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul; + Better to go on, loveless, to the end, + Than wear love’s rose, whose thorn had slain my friend. + + Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart. + With will most resolute I set my aim + To enter on the weary race for Fame, + And if I failed to climb the dizzy height, + To reach some point of excellence in art. + + E’en as the Maker held earth incomplete, + Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod, + The perfect, living image of his God, + All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight, + Wherein the human figure had no part. + In that, all lines of symmetry did meet— + All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought + Enthusiasm in abundance, thought, + Much study, and some talent, day by day, + To help me in my efforts to portray + The wond’rous power, majesty and grace + Stamped on some form, or looking from some face. + This was to be my specialty: To take + Human emotion for my theme, and make + The unassisted form divine express + Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress; + And thus to build Fame’s monument above + The grave of my departed hope and love. + This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings + And soars beyond itself, or selfish things. + Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross, + Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss, + Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition, + Before it labours onward to fruition. + + But, as the lark from beds of bloom will rise + And sail and sing among the very skies, + Still mounting near and nearer to the light, + Impelled alone by love of upward flight, + So Genius soars—it does not need to climb— + Upon God-given wings, to heights sublime. + Some sportman’s shot, grazing the singer’s throat, + Some venomous assault of birds of prey, + May speed its flight toward the realm of day, + And tinge with triumph every liquid note. + So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet, + When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret. + + There is no balking Genius. Only death + Can silence it, or hinder. While there’s breath + Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod, + And lift itself to glory, and to God. + The acorn sprouted—weeds nor flowers can choke + The certain growth of th’ upreaching oak. + + Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind + Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind + Its selfish love and sorrow. + + Did I strive + To picture some emotion, lo! _his_ eyes, + Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes, + Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain + Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive. + Whate’er my subject, in some hue or line, + The glorious beauty of his face would shine. + + So for a time my labour seemed in vain, + Since it but freshened, and made keener yet, + The grief my heart was striving to forget. + While in his form all strength and magnitude + With grace and supple sinews were entwined, + While in his face all beauties were combined + Of perfect features, intellect and truth, + With all that fine rich colouring of youth, + How could my brush portray aught good or fair + Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude + Of him my soul had worshipped? + + But, at last, + Setting a watch upon my unwise heart, + That thus would mix its sorrow with my art, + I resolutely shut away the past, + And made the toilsome present passing bright + With dreams of what was hidden from my sight + In the far distant future, when the soil + Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil. + + + +PART VII + + + With much hard labour and some pleasure fraught, + The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught + My hand to grow more skilful in its art, + Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought + Sweet hope and resignation to my heart. + + Brief letters came from Helen, now and then: + She was quite well—oh yes! quite well, indeed! + But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by, + When baby, being older, should not need + Such constant care, she would grow strong again. + She was as happy as a soul could be; + No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; + She had not thought life held such depths of bliss. + Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss, + And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, + Not to come home and see ma’s little pearl. + No gift of costly jewels, or of gold, + Had been so precious or so dear to me, + As each brief line wherein her joy was told. + It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, + Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain. + + Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where + He built a pretty villa-like retreat. + And when the Roman Summer’s languid heat + Made work a punishment, I turned my face + Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace + Found rest and freedom from all thought and care. + + I was a willing worker. Not an hour + Passed idly by me: each, I would employ + To some good purpose, ere it glided on + To swell the tide of hours forever gone. + My first completed picture, known as “Joy,” + Won pleasant words of praise. “Possesses power,” + “Displays much talent,” “Very fairly done.” + So fell the comments on my grateful ear. + + Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near, + Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush + Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed, + With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush + Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried. + The careful study of long months, it won + Golden opinions; even bringing forth + That certain sign of merit—a critique + Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak + As empty heads that sang their praises—so + Proving conclusively the pictures’ worth. + These critics and reviewers do not use + Their precious ammunition to abuse + A worthless work. That, left alone, they know + Will find its proper level; and they aim + Their batteries at rising works which claim + Too much of public notice. But this shot + Resulted only in some noise, which brought + A dozen people, where one came before, + To view my pictures; and I had my hour + Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow’r. + An English Baron who had lived two score + Of his allotted three score years and ten + Bought both the pieces. He was very kind, + And so attentive, I, not being blind, + Must understand his meaning. + + Therefore, when + He said, + “Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife, + The ‘Joy’ and ‘Sorrow’ this dear hand portrayed + I have in my possession: now resign + Into my careful keeping, and make mine, + The joy and sorrow of your future life,”— + I was prepared to answer, but delayed, + Grown undecided suddenly. + + My mind + Argued the matter coolly pro and con, + And made resolve to speed his wooing on + And grant him favour. He was good and kind; + Not young, no doubt he would be quite content + With my respect, nor miss an ardent love; + Could give me ties of family and home; + And then, perhaps, my mind was not above + Setting some value on a titled name— + Ambitious woman’s weakness! + + Then my art + Would be encouraged and pursued the same, + And I could spend my winters all in Rome. + Love never more could touch my wasteful heart + That all its wealth upon one object spent. + Existence would be very bleak and cold, + After long years, when I was gray and old, + With neither home nor children. + + Once a wife, + I would forget the sorrow of my life, + And pile new sods upon the grave of pain. + My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard, + But made no comment. + + Then the Baron spoke, + And waited for my answer. All in vain + I strove for strength to utter that one word + My mind dictated. Moments rolled away— + Until at last my torpid heart awoke, + And forced my trembling lips to say him nay. + And then my eyes with sudden tears o’erran, + In pity for myself and for this man + Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise. + “Dear friend,” I cried, “dear generous friend, forgive + A troubled woman’s weakness! As I live, + In truth I meant to answer otherwise. + From out its store, my heart can give you naught + But honour and respect; and yet methought + I would give willing answer, did you sue. + But now I know ’twere cruel wrong I planned— + Taking a heart that beat with love most true, + And giving in exchange an empty hand. + Who weds for love alone, may not be wise: + Who weds without it, angels must despise. + Love and respect together must combine + To render marriage holy and divine; + And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys + Continuation of the nuptial joys, + And brings regret, and gloomy discontent + To put to rout each tender sentiment. + Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life + By that possession—an unloving wife; + Nor will I take the sin upon my soul + Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole. + However bleak may be my single lot, + I will not stain my life with such a blot. + Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide; + It holds some fairer woman for your bride; + I would I had a heart to give to you, + But, lacking it, can only say—adieu!” + + He whom temptation never has assailed, + Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength; + When sorely tried, we waver, but at length, + Rise up and turn away, not having failed. + + * * * * * + + The Autumn of the third year came and went; + The mild Italian winter was half spent, + When this brief message came across the sea: + “My darling! I am dying. Come to me. + Love, which so long the growing truth concealed, + Stands pale within its shadow. Oh, my sweet! + This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat— + Dying with very weight of bliss. Oh, come! + And take the legacy I leave to you, + Before these lips for evermore are dumb. + In life or death,—Yours, Helen Dangerfield.” + This plaintive letter bore a month old date; + And, wild with fears lest I had come too late, + I bade the old world and new friends adieu, + And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home, + I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome. + + All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear + That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled, + Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear, + Was passing from me; that she might be dead; + And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me, + Because I made no answer to her plea. + + “O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on, + Make haste before a wasting life is gone! + Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath! + And true in life, be true e’en unto death. + + “O, ship, sail on! and bear me o’er the tide + To her for whom my woman’s heart once died. + Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me, + And I would know what her last wish may be! + I have been true, so true, through all the past. + Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last.” + + So prayed my heart still o’er, and ever o’er, + Until the weary lagging ship reached shore. + All sad with fears that I had come too late, + By that strange source whence men communicate, + Though miles on miles of space between them lie, + I spoke with Vivian: “Does she live? Reply.” + The answer came. “She lives, but hasten, friend! + Her journey draweth swiftly to its end.” + + Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot, + My own dear home, the lane that led to his— + The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight, + Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might; + Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot, + But those sweet early years of lost delight, + Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss. + + I have a theory, vague, undefined, + That each emotion of the human mind, + Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair, + Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air, + Until it takes possession of some breast; + And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, + We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, + And bid it leave us wholly, and depart, + It does not die, it cannot die; but goes + And mingles with some restless wind that blows + About the region where it had its birth. + And though we wander over all the earth, + That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, + Invisible and clothèd like the air, + Hoping that we may yet again draw near, + And it may haply take us unaware, + And once more find safe shelter in the breast + It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest. + + Told by my heart, and wholly positive, + Some old emotion long had ceased to live; + That, were it called, it could not hear or come, + Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, + Yet, passing where it first sprang into life, + My very soul has suddenly been rife + With all the old intensity of feeling. + It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing + Into my heart from that departed day; + Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay. + + So now into my troubled heart, above + The present’s pain and sorrow, crept the love + And strife and passion of a bygone hour, + Possessed of all their olden might and power. + ’Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken + By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken, + And Vivian stood before us. + + But I saw + In him the husband of my friend alone. + The old emotions might at times return, + And smould’ring fires leap up an hour and burn; + But never yet had I transgressed God’s law, + By looking on the man I had resigned, + With any hidden feeling in my mind, + Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known + He was but little altered. From his face + The nonchalant and almost haughty grace, + The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes, + The years had stolen, leaving in their place + A settled sadness, which was not despair, + Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care, + But something like the vapour o’er the skies + Of Indian summer, beautiful to see, + But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be. + There was that in his face which cometh not, + Save when the soul has many a battle fought, + And conquered self by constant sacrifice. + + There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine, + Render the plainest features half divine. + All other artists strive and strive in vain, + To picture beauty perfect and complete. + Their statues only crumble at their feet, + Without the master touch of Faith and Pain. + And now his face, that perfect seemed before, + Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore + A look exalted, which the spirit gives + When soul has conquered, and the body lives + Subservient to its bidding. + + In a room + Which curtained out the February gloom, + And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers, + Rested the eye like one of Summer’s bowers, + I found my Helen, who was less mine now + Than Death’s; for on the marble of her brow + His seal was stamped indelibly. + + Her form + Was like the slender willow, when some storm + Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face, + Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue: + And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place, + Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue. + Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein, + And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain + Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light + Shone through and made her wasted features bright + With an unearthly beauty; and an awe + Crept o’er me, gazing on her, for I saw + She was so near to Heaven that I seemed + To look upon the face of one redeemed. + She turned the brilliant lustre of her eyes + Upon me. She had passed beyond surprise, + Or any strong emotion linked with clay. + But as I glided to her where she lay, + A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed + Her pallid features. “Welcome home!” she breathed + “Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and rejoice.” + And like the dying echo of a voice + Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear. + + I fell upon my knees beside her bed; + All agonies within my heart were wed, + While to the aching numbness of my grief, + Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear,— + The tortured soul’s most merciful relief. + Her wasted hand caressed my bended head + For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said, + In that low tone so like the wind’s refrain, + “Maurine, my own! give not away to pain; + The time is precious. Ere another dawn + My soul may hear the summons and pass on. + Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while, + And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak + With every hour that passes. I must speak + And make my dying wishes known to-night. + Go now.” And in the halo of her smile, + Which seemed to fill the room with golden light, + I turned and left her. + + Later, in the gloom + Of coming night, I entered that dim room, + And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand: + And on the pillow at her side there smiled + The beauteous count’nance of a sleeping child. + + “Maurine,” spoke Helen, “for three blissful years, + My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land; + And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy, + Without one drop of anguish or alloy. + And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall, + Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears, + And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all + Who linger long upon this troubled way, + God takes me to the realm of Endless Day, + To mingle with His angels, who alone + Can understand such bliss as I have known. + I do not murmur. God has heaped my measure, + In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure; + And, from the fulness of an earthly love, + I pass to th’ Immortal Arms above, + Before I even brush the skirts of Woe. + + “I leave my aged parents here below, + With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend! + Be kind to them, and love them to the end, + Which may not be far distant. + + And I leave + A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine. + From this most holy, sad and sacred eve, + Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep, + To love and shelter, to protect and guide.” + She touched the slumb’ring cherub at her side, + And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep, + And laid the precious burden on my breast. + + A solemn silence fell upon the scene. + And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed + My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek, + I felt it would be sacrilege to speak, + Such wordless joy possessed me. + + Oh! at last + This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past, + Had caused my soul such travail, was my own: + Through all the lonely coming years to be + Mine own to cherish—wholly mine alone. + And what I mourned so hopelessly as lost + Was now restored, and given back to me. + + The dying voice continued: + “In this child + You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost. + But all that was most pure and undefiled, + And good within me, lives in her again. + Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know, + Moving about the wide world, to and fro, + And through, and in the busy haunts of men, + Not always will his heart be dumb with woe, + But sometime waken to a later love. + Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed above + All selfish feelings! I would have it so. + While I am with the angels, blest and glad, + I would not have you sorrowing and sad, + In loneliness go mourning to the end. + But, love! I could not trust to any other + The sacred office of a foster-mother + To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend. + + “Teach her to love her father’s name, Maurine, + Where’er he wanders. Keep my memory green + In her young heart, and lead her in her youth, + To drink from th’ eternal fount of Truth; + Vex her not with sectarian discourse, + Nor strive to teach her piety by force; + Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds, + Nor frighten her with an avenging God, + Who rules His subjects with a burning rod; + But teach her that each mortal simply needs + To grow in hate of hate and love of love, + To gain a kingdom in the courts above. + + “Let her be free and natural as the flowers, + That smile and nod throughout the summer hours. + Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth, + But first impress upon her mind this truth: + No lasting happiness is e’er attained + Save when the heart some _other_ seeks to please. + The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained, + And full of gall and bitterness the lees. + Next to her God, teach her to love her land; + In her young bosom light the patriot’s flame + Until the heart within her shall expand + With love and fervour at her country’s name. + + “No coward-mother bears a valiant son. + And this, my last wish, is an earnest one. + + “Maurine, my o’er-taxed strength is waning; you + Have heard my wishes, and you will be true + In death as you have been in life, my own! + Now leave me for a little while alone + With him—my husband. Dear love! I shall rest + So sweetly with no care upon my breast. + Good-night, Maurine, come to me in the morning.” + + But lo! the Bridegroom with no further warning + Came for her at the dawning of the day. + She heard His voice, and smiled, and passed away + Without a struggle. + + Leaning o’er her bed + To give her greeting, I found but her clay, + And Vivian bowed beside it. + + And I said, + “Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request, + And when the night of fever and unrest + Melts in the morning of Eternity, + Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee. + + “I will come to thee in the morning, sweet! + I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet + Before God’s throne, and shall not be afraid. + Thou gav’st me trust, and it was not betrayed. + + “I will come to thee in the morning, dear! + The night is dark. I do not know how near + The morn may be of that Eternal Day; + I can but keep my faithful watch and pray. + + “I will come to thee in the morning, love! + Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above. + The way is troubled where my feet must climb, + Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime. + + “I will come in the morning, O mine own; + But for a time must grope my way alone, + Through tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn, + And I shall hear the summons, and pass on. + + “I will come in the morning. Rest secure! + My hope is certain and my faith is sure. + After the gloom and darkness of the night + I will come to thee with the morning light.” + + * * * * * + + Three peaceful years slipped silently away. + + We dwelt together in my childhood’s home, + Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May. + She was a fair and most exquisite child; + Her pensive face was delicate and mild + Like her dead mother’s; but through her dear eyes + Her father smiled upon me, day by day. + Afar in foreign countries did he roam, + Now resting under Italy’s blue skies, + And now with Roy in Scotland. + + And he sent + Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went + And what he saw, addressed to May or me. + And I would write and tell him how she grew— + And how she talked about him o’er the sea + In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew + His picture in the album; how each day + She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring + Her own papa back to his little May. + It was a warm bright morning in the Spring. + I sat in that same sunny portico, + Where I was sitting seven years ago + When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears, + As I looked back across the checkered years. + How many were the changes they had brought! + Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught + To my young heart had been of untold worth. + I had learned how to “suffer and grow strong”— + That knowledge which best serves us here on earth, + And brings reward in Heaven. + + Oh! how long + The years had been since that June morning when + I heard his step upon the walk, and yet + I seemed to hear its echo still. + + Just then + Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet, + And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land + Stood there before me!—holding out his hand + And smiling with those wond’rous eyes of old. + + To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child; + But she was shy, and clung to me, when told + This was papa, for whom her prayers were said. + She dropped her eyes and shook her little head, + And would not by his coaxing be beguiled, + Or go to him. + + Aunt Ruth was not at home, + And we two sat and talked, as strangers might, + Of distant countries which we both had seen. + But once I thought I saw his large eyes light + With sudden passion, when there came a pause + In our chit-chat, and then he spoke: + + “Maurine, + I saw a number of your friends in Rome. + We talked of you. They seemed surprised, because + You were not ’mong the seekers for a name. + They thought your whole ambition was for fame.” + + “It might have been,” I answered, “when my heart + Had nothing else to fill it. Now my art + Is but a recreation. I have _this_ + To love and live for, which I had not then.” + And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss + Upon my child’s fair brow. + + “And yet,” he said, + The old light leaping to his eyes again, + “And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed + A noble Baron! one of many men + Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet. + Why won the bravest of them no return?” + I bowed my head, nor dared his gaze to meet. + On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn, + And strong emotion strangled speech. + + He rose + And came and knelt beside me. + + “Sweet, my sweet!” + He murmured softly, “God in Heaven knows + How well I loved you seven years ago. + He only knows my anguish, and my grief, + When your own acts forced on me the belief + That I had been your plaything and your toy. + Yet from his lips I since have learned that Roy + Held no place nearer than a friend and brother. + And then a faint suspicion, undefined, + Of what had been—was—might be, stirred my mind, + And that great love, I thought died at a blow, + Rose up within me, strong with hope and life. + + “Before all heaven and the angel mother + Of this sweet child that slumbers on your heart, + Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife— + Mine own, forever, until death shall part!” + + Through happy mists of upward welling tears, + I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes. + “Dear heart,” I said, “if she who dwells above + Looks down upon us, from yon azure skies, + She can but bless us, knowing all these years + My soul had yearned in silence for the love + That crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak. + I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake. + For her sweet child’s, and for my own, I take + You back to be all mine, for evermore.” + + Just then the child upon my breast awoke + From her light sleep, and laid her downy cheek + Against her father as he knelt by me. + And this unconscious action seemed to be + A silent blessing, which the mother spoke + Gazing upon us from the mystic shore. + + + + +ALL ROADS THAT LEAD TO GOD ARE GOOD + + + All roads that lead to God are good. + What matters it, your faith, or mine? + Both centre at the goal divine + Of love’s eternal Brotherhood. + + The kindly life in house or street— + The life of prayer and mystic rite— + The student’s search for truth and light— + These paths at one great Junction meet. + + Before the oldest book was writ, + Full many a prehistoric soul + Arrived at this unchanging goal, + Through changeless Love, that leads to it. + + What matters that one found his Christ + In rising sun, or burning fire? + If faith within him did not tire, + His longing for the Truth sufficed. + + Before our modern hell was brought + To edify the modern world, + Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled + In lakes of fire by its own thought. + + A thousand creeds have come and gone, + But what is that to you or me? + Creeds are but branches of a tree— + The root of love lives on and on. + + Though branch by branch proves withered wood, + The root is warm with precious wine. + Then keep your faith and leave me mine— + All roads that lead to God are good. + + + + +DUST-SEALED + + + I know not wherefore, but mine eyes + See bloom, where other eyes see blight. + They find a rainbow, a sunrise, + Where others but discern deep night. + + Men call me an enthusiast, + And say I look through gilded haze: + Because where’er my gaze is cast, + I see something that calls for praise. + + I say, “Behold those lovely eyes— + That tinted cheek of flower-like grace.” + They answer in amused surprise: + “We thought it a common face.” + + I say, “Was ever seen more fair? + I seem to walk in Eden’s bowers.” + They answer, with a pitying air, + “The weeds are choking out the flowers.” + + I know not wherefore, but God lent + A deeper vision to my sight. + On whatsoe’er my gaze is bent + I catch the beauty Infinite; + + That underlying, hidden half + That all things hold of Deity. + So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh— + Their eyes are blind, they cannot see. + + + + +“ADVICE” + + + I must do as you do? Your way I own + Is a very good way. And still, + There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, + One over, one under the hill. + + You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, + That the prudent choose each time; + And you think me reckless and rash to-day, + Because I prefer to climb. + + Your path is the right one, and so is mine. + We are not like peas in a pod, + Compelled to lie in a certain line, + Or else be scattered abroad. + + ’Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend, + If we all went just one way; + Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end, + Though they lead apart to-day. + + You like the shade, and I like the sun; + You like an even pace, + I like to mix with the crowd and run, + And then rest after the race. + + I like danger, and storm and strife, + You like a peaceful time; + I like the passion and surge of life, + You like its gentle rhyme. + + You like buttercups, dewy sweet, + And crocuses, framed in snow; + I like roses, born of the heat, + And the red carnation’s glow. + + I must live my life, not yours, my friend, + For so it was written down; + We must follow our given paths to the end, + But I trust we shall meet—in town. + + + + +OVER THE BANISTERS + + + Over the banisters bends a face, + Daringly sweet and beguiling. + Somebody stands in careless grace + And watching the picture, smiling. + + The light burns dim in the hall below, + Nobody sees her standing, + Saying good-night again, soft and low, + Halfway up to the landing. + + Nobody only the eyes of brown, + Tender and full of meaning, + That smile on the fairest face in town, + Over the banisters leaning. + + Tired and sleepy, with drooping head, + I wonder why she lingers; + Now, when the good-nights all are said, + Why, somebody holds her fingers. + + He holds her fingers and draws her down, + Suddenly growing bolder, + Till the loose hair drops its masses brown + Like a mantle over his shoulder. + + Over the banisters soft hands, fair, + Brush his cheeks like a feather, + And bright brown tresses and dusky hair + Meet and mingle together. + + There’s a question asked, there’s a swift caress, + She has flown like a bird from the hallway, + But over the banisters drops a “Yes,” + That shall brighten the world for him alway. + + + + +THE PAST + + + I fling my past behind me like a robe + Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. + I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep + And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes + Of Oriental splendour, or complain + That I must needs discard it? I can weave + Upon the shuttles of the future years + A fabric far more durable. Subdued, + It may be, in the blending of its hues, + Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam + Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, + While over all a fadeless lustre lies, + And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, + My new robe shall be richer than the old. + + + + +SECRETS + + + Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone; + Why, even God’s stupendous secret, Death, + We one by one, with our expiring breath, + Do pale with wonder seize and make our own; + The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown, + Despite her careful hiding; and the air + Yields its mysterious marvels in despair + To swell the mighty store-house of things known. + In vain the sea expostulates and raves; + It cannot cover from the keen world’s sight + The curious wonders of its coral caves. + And so, despite thy caution or thy tears, + The prying fingers of detective years + Shall drag _thy_ secret out into the light. + + + + +APPLAUSE + + + I hold it one of the sad certain laws + Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind + Than that success which brings sure loss behind— + True greatness dies, when sounds the world’s applause + Fame blights the object it would bless, because + Weighed down with men’s expectancy, the mind + Can no more soar to those far heights, and find + That freedom which its inspiration was. + When once we listen to its noisy cheers + Or hear the populace’ approval, then + We catch no more the music of the spheres, + Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men. + Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears, + The plaudits of the world turn into sneers. + + + + +THE STORY + + + They met each other in the glade— + She lifted up her eyes; + Alack the day! Alack the maid! + She blushed in swift surprise. + Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes. + + The pail was full, the path was steep— + He reached to her his hand; + She felt her warm young pulses leap, + But did not understand. + Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand. + + She sat beside him in the wood— + He wooed with words and sighs; + Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good, + And maidens are not wise. + Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs. + + The summer sun shone fairly down, + The wind blew from the south; + As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown, + His kiss fell on her mouth. + Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth. + + And now the autumn time is near, + The lover roves away, + With breaking heart and falling tear, + She sits the livelong day. + Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away. + + + + +LEAN DOWN + + + Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine! + From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen + How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings, + I cannot grasp at once those better things + To which I in my inmost soul aspire. + Lean down and lift me higher. + + I grope along—not desolate or sad, + For youth and hope and health all keep me glad; + But too bright sunlight, sometimes, makes us blind, + And I do grope for heights I cannot find. + Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire— + Lean down and lift me higher. + + Not long ago we trod the self-same way. + Thou knowest how, from day to fleeting day + Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet + Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet, + But only served to hinder and to tire; + Lean down and lift me higher. + + Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene, + And left me here, my loved one, Josephine; + I am content to stay until the end, + For life is full of promise; but, my friend, + Canst thou not help me in my best desire + And lean, and lift me higher? + + Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise, + And quick to understand and sympathize + With all a full soul’s needs. It must be so, + Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know + Thou must see how I struggle and aspire— + Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire, + And lean, and lift me higher. + + + + +LIFE + + + I feel the great immensity of life. + All little aims slip from me, and I reach + My yearning soul toward the Infinite. + + As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves + Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower + For lovers’ secrets, or for children’s sports, + Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds, + And lets the eye behold it, limitless, + And full of winding mysteries of ways: + So now with life that reaches out before, + And borders on the unexplained Beyond. + + I see the stars above me, world on world: + I hear the awful language of all Space; + I feel the distant surging of great seas, + That hide the secrets of the Universe + In their eternal bosoms; and I know + That I am but an atom of the Whole. + + + + +THE CHRISTIAN’S NEW YEAR PRAYER + + + Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending + Through these glad New Year days, + To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending— + For e’en hard hearts do raise + Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power, + Or freedom from all care— + Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour, + Hear now a Christian’s prayer. + + Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me, + Be as a means of grace + To lead me up, no matter what betide me, + Nearer the Master’s face. + If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain + Where living waters play, + My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain, + Then cast them in my way. + + If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses + To shape it for Thy crown, + Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses, + With sorrows bear it down. + Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure, + And if I should complain, + Heap full of anguish yet another measure + Until I smile at pain. + Send dangers—deaths! but tell me how to dare them; + Enfold me in Thy care. + Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them— + This is a Christian’s prayer. + + + + +IN THE NIGHT + + + Sometimes at night, when I sit and write, + I hear the strangest things,— + As my brain grows hot with burning thought, + That struggles for form and wings, + I can hear the beat of my swift blood’s feet, + As it speeds with a rush and a whir + From heart to brain and back again, + Like a race-horse under the spur. + + With my soul’s fine ear I listen and hear + The tender Silence speak, + As it leans on the breast of Night to rest, + And presses his dusky cheek. + And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns + For something that is kin; + And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss, + As it folds and fondles Sin. + + In its hurrying race through leagues of space, + I can hear the Earth catch breath, + As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans, + And longs for the rest of Death. + And high and far, from a distant star, + Whose name is unknown to me, + I hear a voice that says, “Rejoice, + For I keep ward o’er thee!” + + Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range + Through the chambers of the night; + And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates + May hear, if he lists aright. + + + + +GOD’S MEASURE + + + God measures souls by their capacity + For entertaining his best Angel, Love. + Who loveth most is nearest kin to God, + Who is all Love, or Nothing. + + He who sits + And looks out on the palpitating world, + And feels his heart swell within him large enough + To hold all men within it, he is near + His great Creator’s standard, though he dwells + Outside the pale of churches, and knows not + A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line + Of Scripture even. What God wants of us + Is that outreaching bigness that ignores + All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, + And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace. + + + + +A MARCH SNOW + + + Let the old snow be covered with the new: + The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden. + Let it be hidden wholly from our view + By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden. + When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring’s feet, + Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet. + Let the old life be covered by the new: + The old past life so full of sad mistakes, + Let it be wholly hidden from the view + By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes. + Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring + Let the white mantle of repentance fling + Soft drapery about it, fold on fold, + Even as the new snow covers up the old. + + + + +PHILOSOPHY + + + At morn the wise man walked abroad, + Proud with the learning of great fools. + He laughed and said, “There is no God— + ’Tis force creates, ’tis reason rules.” + + Meek with the wisdom of great faith, + At night he knelt while angels smiled, + And wept and cried with anguished breath, + “Jehovah, _God_, save Thou my child.” + + + + +“CARLOS” + + + Last night I knelt low at my lady’s feet. + One soft, caressing hand played with my hair, + And one I kissed and fondled. Kneeling there, + I deemed my meed of happiness complete. + + She was so fair, so full of witching wiles— + Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye; + So womanly withal, but not too shy— + And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles. + + Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead sent, + Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness + Through all my frame. I trembled with excess + Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content. + + When any mortal dares to so rejoice, + I think a jealous Heaven, bending low, + Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow. + Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady’s voice. + + “My love!” she sighed, “my Carlos!” even now + I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath + Bearing to me those words of living death, + And starting out the cold drops on my brow. + + For I am _Paul_—not Carlos! Who is he + That, in the supreme hour of love’s delight, + Veiled by the shadows of the falling night, + She should breathe low his name, forgetting me? + + I will not ask her! ’twere a fruitless task, + For, woman-like, she would make me believe + Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve, + And call me cruel. Nay, I will not ask. + + But this man Carlos, whosoe’er he be, + Has turned my cup of nectar into gall, + Since I know he has claimed some one or all + Of these delights my lady grants to me. + + He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad + And tender twilight, when the day grew dim. + How else could I remind her so of him? + Why, reveries like these have made men mad! + + He must have felt her soft hand on his brow. + If Heaven were shocked at such presumptuous wrongs, + And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs, + _Still she remembers_, though she loves me now. + + And if he lives, and meets me to his cost, + Why, what avails it? I must hear and see + That curst name “Carlos” always haunting me— + So has another Paradise been lost. + + + + +THE TWO GLASSES + + + There sat two glasses filled to the brim, + On a rich man’s table, rim to rim. + One was ruddy and red as blood, + And one was clear as the crystal flood. + + Said the glass of wine to his paler brother, + “Let us tell tales of the past to each other; + I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth, + Where I was king, for I ruled in might; + For the proudest and grandest souls on earth + Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. + From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; + From the heights of fame I have hurled men down. + I have blasted many an honoured name; + I have taken virtue and given shame; + I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste, + That has made his future a barren waste. + Far greater than any king am I, + Or than any army beneath the sky. + I have made the arm of the driver fail, + And sent the train from the iron rail. + I have made good ships go down at sea, + And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. + Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; + And my might and power are over all! + Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine, + “Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?” + Said the water-glass: “I cannot boast + Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host, + But I can tell of hearts that were sad + By my crystal drops made bright and glad; + Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved; + Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved. + I have leapt through the valley, dashed down the mountain, + Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain. + I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, + And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; + I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain; + I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. + I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, + That ground out the flour, and turned at my will. + I can tell of manhood debased by you, + That I have uplifted and crowned anew. + I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; + I gladden the heart of man and maid; + I set the wine-chained captive free, + And all are better for knowing me.” + + These are the tales they told each other, + The glass of wine and its paler brother, + As they sat together, filled to the brim, + On a rich man’s table, rim to rim. + + + + +LA MORT D’AMOUR + + + When was it that love died? We were so fond, + So very fond a little while ago. + With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow, + We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond, + + When we should dwell together as one heart, + And scarce could wait that happy time to come. + Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb, + And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart. + + How was it that love died? I do not know. + I only know that all its grace untold + Has faded into gray! I miss the gold + From our dull skies; but did not see it go. + + Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure; + We thought of nothing else when it was ours; + We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers: + It was our all; why could it not endure? + + Alas, we know not how, or when, or why + This dear thing died. We only know it went, + And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; + We who found heaven once in each other’s sigh. + + How pitiful it is, and yet how true + That half the lovers in the world, one day, + Look questioning in each other’s eyes this way + And know love’s gone forever, as we do. + + Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, + As I look out o’er all the wide, sad earth + And see love’s flame gone out on many a hearth, + That those who would keep love must dwell apart. + + + + +LOVE’S SLEEP +(Vers de Société) + + + We’ll cover Love with roses, + And sweet sleep he shall take + None but a fool supposes + Love always keeps awake. + I’ve known loves without number— + True loves were they, and tried; + And just for want of slumber + They pined away and died. + + Our love was bright and cheerful + A little while agone; + Now he is pale and tearful, + And—yes, I’ve seen him yawn. + So tired is he of kisses + That he can only weep; + The one dear thing he misses + And longs for now is sleep. + + We could not let him leave us + One time, he was so dear, + But now it would not grieve us + If he slept half a year. + For he has had his season, + Like the lily and the rose, + And it but stands to reason + That he should want repose. + + We prized the smiling Cupid + Who made our days so bright; + But he has grown so stupid + We gladly say good-night. + And if he wakens tender + And fond, and fair as when + He filled our lives with splendour, + We’ll take him back again. + + And should he never waken, + As that perchance may be, + We will not weep forsaken, + But sing, “Love, tra-la-lee!” + + + + +TRUE CULTURE + + + The highest culture is to speak no ill, + The best reformer is the man whose eyes + Are quick to see all beauty and all worth; + And by his own discreet, well-ordered life, + Alone reproves the erring. + + When thy gaze + Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe. + But when it falls upon a fellow-man + Let kindliness control it; and refrain + From that belittling censure that springs forth + From common lips like weeds from marshy soil. + + + + +THE VOLUPTUARY + + + Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated, + Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified. + Life holds no thing to be anticipated, + And I am sad from being satisfied. + + The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain + Has left me now the highest point is gained. + The crystal spray that fell from Fame’s fair fountain + Was sweeter than the waters were when drained. + + The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure, + And which I purchased with my youth and strength, + Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasure + Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length. + + And love, all glowing with a golden glory, + Delighted me a season with its tale. + It pleased the longest, but at last the story, + So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale. + + I lived for self, and all I asked was given, + I have had all, and now am sick of bliss, + No other punishment designed by Heaven + Could strike me half so forcibly as this. + + I feel no sense of aught but enervation + In all the joys my selfish aims have brought, + And know no wish but for annihilation, + Since that would give me freedom from the thought + + Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated; + Some mighty loss to balance all his gain. + For him there is a hope not yet completed; + For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain. + + But cursed is he who has no balked ambition, + No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair, + But sick and sated with complete fruition, + Keeps not the pleasure even of despair. + + + + +THE COQUETTE + + + Alone she sat with her accusing heart, + That, like a restless comrade, frightened sleep, + And every thought that found her left a dart + That hurt her so, she could not even weep. + + Her heart that once had been a cup well filled + With love’s red wine, save for some drops of gall, + She knew was empty; though it had not spilled + Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all. + + She stood upon the grave of her dead truth, + And saw her soul’s bright armour red with rust, + And knew that all the riches of her youth + Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust. + + Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn, + Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate, + Made her cry out that she was ever born + To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate. + + + + +IF + + + Dear love, if you and I could sail away, + With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, + Across the waters of some unknown bay, + And find some island far from all the world; + + If we could dwell there, ever more alone, + While unrecorded years slip by apace, + Forgetting and forgotten and unknown + By aught save native song-birds of the place; + + If Winter never visited that land, + And Summer’s lap spilled o’er with fruits and flowers, + And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, + And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers; + + If from the fashions of the world set free, + And hid away from all its jealous strife, + I lived alone for you, and you for me— + Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life. + + But since we dwell here in the crowded way, + Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, + And all is commonplace and workaday, + As soon as love’s young honeymoon grows old; + + Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, + And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, + ’Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart + And go our ways alone, love, and forget. + + + + +LOVE’S BURIAL + + + Let us clear a little space, + And make Love a burial-place. + + He is dead, dear, as you see, + And he wearies you and me. + + Growing heavier, day by day, + Let us bury him, I say. + + Wings of dead white butterflies, + These shall shroud him, as he lies + + In his casket rich and rare, + Made of finest maiden-hair. + + With the pollen of the rose + Let us his white eyelids close. + + Put the rose thorn in his hand, + Shorn of leaves—you understand. + + Let some holy water fall + On his dead face, tears of gall— + + As we kneel by him and say, + “Dreams to dreams,” and turn away. + + Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust, + They will lower him to the dust. + + Let us part here with a kiss— + You go that way, I go this. + + Since we buried Love to-day + We will walk a separate way. + + + + +LIPPO + + + Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so, + I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; + Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes— + ’Twas thine own hand which dealt dear + Love’s death-blow. + + I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then + Thy heart was like a covered golden cup + Always above my eager lip held up. + I fancied thou wert not as other men. + + I knew that heart was filled with Love’s sweet wine, + Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip + Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip + Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine. + + Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled + Its precious contents. Even to the lees + Were offered to me, saying, “Drink of these!” + And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed. + + No word was left unsaid, no act undone, + To prove to me thou wert my abject slave. + Ah! Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save + One little drop of that sweet wine—but one— + + I still had loved thee, longing for it then. + But even the cup is mine. I look within, + And find it holds not one last drop to win, + And cast it down.—Thou art as other men. + + + + +“LOVE IS ENOUGH” + + + Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold. + Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness; + In those serene, Arcadian days of old + Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress, + The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia’s height + Lived only for dear love and love’s delight. + Love is enough. + + Love is enough. Why should we care for fame? + Ambition is a most unpleasant guest: + It lures us with the glory of a name + Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. + Let us stay here in this secluded place + Made beautiful by love’s endearing grace! + Love is enough. + + Love is enough. Why should we strive for power? + It brings men only envy and distrust. + The poor world’s homage pleases but an hour, + And earthly honours vanish in the dust. + The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate; + Let me be loved, and let who will be great. + Love is enough. + + Love is enough. Why should we ask for more? + What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? + What better boon of all their precious store + Than our fond hearts that love and love again? + Old love may die; new love is just as sweet; + And life is fair and all the world complete: + Love is enough! + + + + +LIFE IS LOVE + + + Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder? + Does anyone weep on a day like this, + With the sun above and the green earth under? + Why, what is life but a dream of bliss? + + With the sun and the skies and the birds above me, + Birds that sing as they wheel and fly— + With the winds to follow and say they loved me— + Who could be lonely? O ho, not I! + + Somebody said in the street this morning, + As I opened my window to let in the light, + That the darkest day of the world was dawning; + But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight + + One who claims that he knows about it + Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin; + But I and the bees and the birds—we doubt it, + And think it a world worth living in. + + Someone says that hearts are fickle, + That love is sorrow, that life is care, + And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle, + Gathers whatever is bright and fair. + + I told the thrush, and we laughed together— + Laughed till the woods were all a-ring; + And he said to me, as he plumed each feather, + “Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing!” + + Up he flew, but his song, remaining, + Rang like a bell in my heart all day, + And silenced the voices of weak complaining + That pipe like insects along the way. + + O world of light, and O world of beauty! + Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine? + Yes, life is love, and love is duty; + And what heart sorrows? O no, not mine! + + * * * * * + + THE END + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAURINE*** + + +******* This file should be named 3665-0.txt or 3665-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/6/6/3665 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Maurine + and Other Poems + + +Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + + +Release Date: July 15, 2014 [eBook #3665] +[This file was first posted on July 9, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAURINE*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" +src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>MAURINE<br /> +And Other Poems</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +ELLA WHEELER WILCOX</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Popular Edition</i>, <i>with +many New Poems</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT +GARDEN</span><br /> +LONDON</p> +<p style="text-align: center">1910</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Maurine</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>All Roads that Lead to God are Good</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Dust-sealed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page131">131</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“Advice”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Over the Banisters</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Past</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Secrets</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Applause</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Story</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lean Down</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page142">142</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Life</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Christian’s New Year Prayer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>In the Night</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>God’s Measure</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A March Snow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Philosophy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page151">151</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“Carlos”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Two Glasses</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>La Mort d’Amour</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Love’s Sleep</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page160">160</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>True Culture</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Voluptuary</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page163">163</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Coquette</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>If</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Love’s Burial</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lippo</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page170">170</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“Love is Enough”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Life is Love</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page174">174</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>MAURINE</h2> +<h3>PART I</h3> +<p class="poetry">I sat and sewed, and sang some tender tune,<br +/> +Oh, beauteous was that morn in early June!<br /> +Mellow with sunlight, and with blossoms fair:<br /> +The climbing rose-tree grew about me there,<br /> +And checked with shade the sunny portico<br /> +Where, morns like this, I came to read, or sew.</p> +<p class="poetry">I heard the gate click, and a firm, quick +tread<br /> +Upon the walk. No need to turn my head;<br /> +I would mistake, and doubt my own voice sounding,<br /> +Before his step upon the gravel bounding.<br /> +In an unstudied attitude of grace,<br /> +He stretched his comely form; and from his face<br /> +He tossed the dark, damp curls; and at my knees,<br /> +With his broad hat he fanned the lazy breeze,<br /> +And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes,<br /> +Of that strange hue we see in ocean dyes,<br /> +And call it blue sometimes and sometimes green,<br /> +<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>And save in +poet eyes, not elsewhere seen.<br /> +“Lest I should meet with my fair lady’s scorning,<br +/> +For calling quite so early in the morning,<br /> +I’ve brought a passport that can never fail,”<br /> +He said, and, laughing, laid the morning mail<br /> +Upon my lap. “I’m welcome? so I thought!<br /> +I’ll figure by the letters that I brought<br /> +How glad you are to see me. Only one?<br /> +And that one from a lady? I’m undone!<br /> +That, lightly skimmed, you’ll think me <i>such</i> a +bore,<br /> +And wonder why I did not bring you four.<br /> +It’s ever thus: a woman cannot get<br /> +So many letters that she will not fret<br /> +O’er one that did not come.”<br /> + +“I’ll prove you wrong,”<br /> +I answered gaily, “here upon the spot!<br /> +This little letter, precious if not long,<br /> +Is just the one, of all you might have brought,<br /> +To please me. You have heard me speak, I’m sure,<br +/> +Of Helen Trevor: she writes here to say<br /> +She’s coming out to see me; and will stay<br /> +Till Autumn, maybe. She is, like her note,<br /> +Petite and dainty, tender, loving, pure.<br /> +You’d know her by a letter that she wrote,<br /> +For a sweet tinted thing. ’Tis always so:—<br +/> +Letters all blots, though finely written, show<br /> +A slovenly person. Letters stiff and white<br /> +<a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>Bespeak a +nature honest, plain, upright.<br /> +And tissuey, tinted, perfumed notes, like this,<br /> +Tell of a creature formed to pet and kiss.”<br /> +My listener heard me with a slow, odd smile;<br /> +Stretched in abandon at my feet, the while,<br /> +He fanned me idly with his broad-brimmed hat.<br /> +“Then all young ladies must be formed for that!”<br +/> +He laughed, and said.<br /> + “Their +letters read, and look,<br /> +As like as twenty copies of one book.<br /> +They’re written in a dainty, spider scrawl,<br /> +To ‘darling, precious Kate,’ or ‘Fan,’ or +‘Moll.’<br /> +The ‘dearest, sweetest’ friend they ever had.<br /> +They say they ‘want to see you, oh, so bad!’<br /> +Vow they’ll ‘forget you, never, <i>never</i>, +oh!’<br /> +And then they tell about a splendid beau—<br /> +A lovely hat—a charming dress, and send<br /> +A little scrap of this to every friend.<br /> +And then to close, for lack of something better,<br /> +They beg you’ll ‘read and burn this horrid +letter.’”</p> +<p class="poetry">He watched me, smiling. He was prone to +vex<br /> +And hector me with flings upon my sex.<br /> +He liked, he said, to have me flash and frown,<br /> +So he could tease me, and then laugh me down.<br /> +My storms of wrath amused him very much:<br /> +He liked to see me go off at a touch;<br /> +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>Anger became +me—made my colour rise,<br /> +And gave an added lustre to my eyes.<br /> +So he would talk—and so he watched me now,<br /> +To see the hot flush mantle cheek and brow.<br /> +Instead, I answered coolly, with a smile,<br /> +Felling a seam with utmost care, meanwhile.<br /> +“The caustic tongue of Vivian Dangerfield<br /> +Is barbed as ever, for my sex, this morn.<br /> +Still unconvinced, no smallest point I yield.<br /> +Woman I love, and trust, despite your scorn.<br /> +There is some truth in what you say? Well, yes!<br /> +Your statements usually hold more or less.<br /> +Some women write weak letters—(some men do;)<br /> +Some make professions, knowing them untrue.<br /> +And woman’s friendship, in the time of need,<br /> +I own, too often proves a broken reed.<br /> +But I believe, and ever will contend,<br /> +Woman can be a sister woman’s friend,<br /> +Giving from out her large heart’s bounteous store<br /> +A living love—claiming to do no more<br /> +Than, through and by that love, she knows she can:<br /> +And living by her professions, <i>like a man</i>.<br /> +And such a tie, true friendship’s silken tether,<br /> +Binds Helen Trevor’s heart and mine together.<br /> +I love her for her beauty, meekness, grace;<br /> +For her white lily soul and angel face.<br /> +<a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>She loves +me, for my greater strength, maybe;<br /> +Loves—and would give her heart’s best blood for +me.<br /> +And I, to save her from a pain, or cross,<br /> +Would suffer any sacrifice or loss.<br /> +Such can be woman’s friendship for another.<br /> +Could man give more, or ask more from a brother?”</p> +<p class="poetry">I paused: and Vivian leaned his massive head<br +/> +Against the pillar of the portico,<br /> +Smiled his slow, sceptic smile, then laughed, and said:<br /> +“Nay, surely not—if what you say be so.<br /> +You’ve made a statement, but no proof’s at hand.<br +/> +Wait—do not flash your eyes so! Understand<br /> +I think you quite sincere in what you say:<br /> +You love your friend, and she loves you, to-day;<br /> +But friendship is not friendship at the best<br /> +Till circumstances put it to the test.<br /> +Man’s, less demonstrative, stands strain and tear,<br /> +While woman’s, half profession, fails to wear.<br /> +Two women love each other passing well—<br /> +Say Helen Trevor and Maurine La Pelle,<br /> +Just for example.<br /> + Let them daily +meet<br /> +At ball and concert, in the church and street,<br /> +They kiss and coo, they visit, chat, caress;<br /> +Their love increases, rather than grows less;<br /> +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>And all goes +well, till ‘Helen dear’ discovers<br /> +That ‘Maurine darling’ wins too many lovers.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then her ‘precious friend,’ her +‘pet,’ her ‘sweet,’<br /> +Becomes a ‘minx,’ a ‘creature all +deceit.’<br /> +Let Helen smile too oft on Maurine’s beaux,<br /> +Or wear more stylish or becoming clothes,<br /> +Or sport a hat that has a longer feather—<br /> +And lo! the strain has broken ‘friendship’s +tether.’<br /> +Maurine’s sweet smile becomes a frown or pout;<br /> +‘She’s just begun to find that Helen out.’<br +/> +The breach grows wider—anger fills each heart;<br /> +They drift asunder, whom ‘but death could part.’<br +/> +You shake your head? Oh, well, we’ll never know!<br +/> +It is not likely Fate will test you so.<br /> +You’ll live, and love; and, meeting twice a year,<br /> +While life shall last, you’ll hold each other dear.<br /> +I pray it may be so; it were not best<br /> +To shake your faith in woman by the test.<br /> +Keep your belief, and nurse it while you can.<br /> +I’ve faith in woman’s friendship too—for +man!<br /> +They’re true as steel, as mothers, friends, and wives:<br +/> +And that’s enough to bless us all our lives.<br /> +That man’s a selfish fellow, and a bore,<br /> +Who is unsatisfied and asks for more.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +7</span>“But there is need of more!” I here broke +in.<br /> +“I hold that woman guilty of a sin,<br /> +Who would not cling to, and defend another,<br /> +As nobly as she would stand by a brother.<br /> +Who would not suffer for a sister’s sake,<br /> +And, were there need to prove her friendship, make<br /> +‘Most any sacrifice, nor count the cost.<br /> +Who would not do this for a friend is lost<br /> +To every nobler principle.”<br /> + “Shame, +shame!”<br /> +Cried Vivian, laughing, “for you now defame<br /> +The whole sweet sex; since there’s not one would do<br /> +The thing you name, nor would I want her to.<br /> +I love the sex. My mother was a woman—<br /> +I hope my wife will be, and wholly human.<br /> +And if she wants to make some sacrifice,<br /> +I’ll think her far more sensible and wise<br /> +To let her husband reap the benefit,<br /> +Instead of some old maid or senseless chit.<br /> +Selfish? Of course! I hold all love is so:<br /> +And I shall love my wife right well, I know.<br /> +Now there’s a point regarding selfish love,<br /> +You thirst to argue with me, and disprove.<br /> +But since these cosy hours will soon be gone,<br /> +And all our meetings broken in upon,<br /> +No more of these rare moments must be spent<br /> +In vain discussions, or in argument.<br /> +<a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>I wish Miss +Trevor was in—Jericho!<br /> +(You see the selfishness begins to show.)<br /> +She wants to see you?—So do I: but she<br /> +Will gain her wish, by taking you from me.<br /> +‘Come all the same?’ that means I’ll be +allowed<br /> +To realize that ‘three can make a crowd.’<br /> +I do not like to feel myself <i>de trop</i>.<br /> +With two girl cronies would I not be so?<br /> +My ring would interrupt some private chat.<br /> +You’d ask me in and take my cane and hat,<br /> +And speak about the lovely summer day,<br /> +And think—‘The lout! I wish he’d kept +away.’<br /> +Miss Trevor’d smile, but just to hide a pout<br /> +And count the moments till I was shown out.<br /> +And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing<br /> +That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing,<br /> +No, thanks, Maurine! The iron hand of Fate,<br /> +(Or otherwise Miss Trevor’s dainty fingers,)<br /> +Will bar my entrance into Eden’s gate;<br /> +And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers<br /> +At heaven’s portal, paying the price of sin,<br /> +Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He looked so melancholy sitting there,<br /> +I laughed outright. “How well you act a part;<br /> +You look the very picture of despair!<br /> +You’ve missed your calling, sir! suppose you start<br /> +<a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>Upon a +starring tour, and carve your name<br /> +With Booth’s and Barrett’s on the heights of Fame<br +/> +But now, tabooing nonsense, I shall send<br /> +For you to help me entertain my friend,<br /> +Unless you come without it. ‘Cronies?’ +True,<br /> +Wanting our ‘private chats’ as cronies do.<br /> +And we’ll take those, while you are reading Greek,<br /> +Or writing ‘Lines to Dora’s brow’ or +‘cheek.’<br /> +But when you have an hour or two of leisure,<br /> +Call as you now do, and afford like pleasure.<br /> +For never yet did heaven’s sun shine on,<br /> +Or stars discover, that phenomenon,<br /> +In any country, or in any clime:<br /> +Two maids so bound, by ties of mind and heart,<br /> +They did not feel the heavy weight of time<br /> +In weeks of scenes wherein no man took part.<br /> +God made the sexes to associate:<br /> +Nor law of man, nor stern decree of Fate,<br /> +Can ever undo what His hand has done,<br /> +And, quite alone, make happy either one.<br /> +My Helen is an only child:—a pet<br /> +Of loving parents: and she never yet<br /> +Has been denied one boon for which she pleaded.<br /> +A fragile thing, her lightest wish was heeded.<br /> +Would she pluck roses? They must first be shorn,<br /> +By careful hands, of every hateful thorn,<br /> +And loving eyes must scan the pathway where<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>Her feet +may tread, to see no stones are there.<br /> +She’ll grow dull here, in this secluded nook,<br /> +Unless you aid me in the pleasant task<br /> +Of entertaining. Drop in with your book—<br /> +Read, talk, sing for her sometimes. What I ask,<br /> +Do once, to please me: then there’ll be no need<br /> +For me to state the case again, or plead.<br /> +There’s nothing like a woman’s grace and beauty<br /> +To waken mankind to a sense of duty.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I bow before the mandate of my queen:<br +/> +Your slightest wish is law, Ma Belle Maurine,”<br /> +He answered, smiling, “I’m at your command;<br /> +Point but one lily finger, or your wand,<br /> +And you will find a willing slave obeying.<br /> +There goes my dinner bell! I hear it saying<br /> +I’ve spent two hours here, lying at your feet,<br /> +Not profitable, maybe—surely sweet.<br /> +All time is money; now were I to measure<br /> +The time I spend here by its solid pleasure,<br /> +And that were coined in dollars, then I’ve laid<br /> +Each day a fortune at your feet, fair maid.<br /> +There goes that bell again! I’ll say good-bye,<br /> +Or clouds will shadow my domestic sky.<br /> +I’ll come again, as you would have me do,<br /> +And see your friend, while she is seeing you.<br /> +<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>That’s like by proxy being at a feast;<br /> +Unsatisfactory, to say the least.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He drew his fine shape up, and trod the land<br +/> +With kingly grace. Passing the gate, his hand<br /> +He lightly placed the garden wall upon,<br /> +Leaped over like a leopard, and was gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">And, going, took the brightness from the +place,<br /> +Yet left the June day with a sweeter grace,<br /> +And my young soul, so steeped in happy dreams,<br /> +Heaven itself seemed shown to me in gleams.<br /> +There is a time with lovers, when the heart<br /> +First slowly rouses from its dreamless sleep,<br /> +To all the tumult of a passion life,<br /> +Ere yet have wakened jealousy and strife.<br /> +Just as a young, untutored child will start<br /> +Out of a long hour’s slumber, sound and deep,<br /> +And lie and smile with rosy lips and cheeks,<br /> +In a sweet, restful trance, before it speaks.<br /> +A time when yet no word the spell has broken,<br /> +Save what the heart unto the soul has spoken,<br /> +In quickened throbs, and sighs but half suppressed<br /> +A time when that sweet truth, all unconfessed,<br /> +Gives added fragrance to the summer flowers,<br /> +A golden glory to the passing hours,<br /> +A hopeful beauty to the plainest face,<br /> +And lends to life a new and tender grace.<br /> +<a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>When the +full heart has climbed the heights of bliss,<br /> +And, smiling, looks back o’er the golden past,<br /> +I think it finds no sweeter hour than this<br /> +In all love-life. For, later, when the last<br /> +Translucent drop o’erflows the cup of joy,<br /> +And love, more mighty than the heart’s control,<br /> +Surges in words of passion from the soul,<br /> +And vows are asked and given, shadows rise<br /> +Like mists before the sun in noonday skies,<br /> +Vague fears, that prove the brimming cup’s alloy;<br /> +A dread of change—the crowning moment’s curse,<br /> +Since what is perfect, change but renders worse:<br /> +A vain desire to cripple Time, who goes<br /> +Bearing our joys away, and bringing woes.<br /> +And later, doubts and jealousies awaken,<br /> +And plighted hearts are tempest-tossed and shaken.<br /> +Doubt sends a test, that goes a step too far,<br /> +A wound is made, that, healing, leaves a scar,<br /> +Or one heart, full with love’s sweet satisfaction,<br /> +Thinks truth once spoken always understood,<br /> +While one is pining for the tender action<br /> +And whispered word by which, of old, ’twas wooed.</p> +<p class="poetry">But this blest hour, in love’s glad, +golden day,<br /> +Is like the dawning, ere the radiant ray<br /> +Of glowing Sol has burst upon the eye,<br /> +But yet is heralded in earth and sky,<br /> +<a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>Warm with +its fervour, mellow with its light,<br /> +While Care still slumbers in the arms of night.<br /> +But Hope, awake, hears happy birdlings sing,<br /> +And thinks of all a summer day may bring.</p> +<p class="poetry">In this sweet calm, my young heart lay at +rest,<br /> +Filled with a blissful sense of peace; nor guessed<br /> +That sullen clouds were gathering in the skies<br /> +To hide the glorious sun, ere it should rise.</p> +<h3>PART II</h3> +<p class="poetry">To little birds that never tire of humming<br +/> +About the garden in the summer weather,<br /> +Aunt Ruth compared us, after Helen’s coming,<br /> +As we two roamed, or sat and talked together.<br /> +Twelve months apart, we had so much to say<br /> +Of school days gone—and time since passed away;<br /> +Of that old friend, and this; of what we’d done;<br /> +Of how our separate paths in life had run;<br /> +Of what we would do, in the coming years;<br /> +Of plans and castles, hopes and dreams and fears.<br /> +All these, and more, as soon as we found speech,<br /> +We touched upon, and skimmed from this to that.<br /> +But at the first each only gazed on each,<br /> +And, dumb with joy, that did not need a voice<br /> +Like lesser joys, to say, “Lo! I rejoice,”<br +/> +<a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>With +smiling eyes and clasping hands we sat<br /> +Wrapped in that peace, felt but with those dear,<br /> +Contented just to know each other near.<br /> +But when this silent eloquence gave place<br /> +To words, ’twas like the rising of a flood<br /> +Above a dam. We sat there, face to face,<br /> +And let our talk glide on where’er it would,<br /> +Speech never halting in its speed or zest,<br /> +Save when our rippling laughter let it rest;<br /> +Just as a stream will sometimes pause and play<br /> +About a bubbling spring, then dash away.<br /> +No wonder, then, the third day’s sun was nigh<br /> +Up to the zenith when my friend and I<br /> +Opened our eyes from slumber long and deep:<br /> +Nature demanding recompense for hours<br /> +Spent in the portico, among the flowers,<br /> +Halves of two nights we should have spent in sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">So this third day, we breakfasted at one:<br /> +Then walked about the garden in the sun,<br /> +Hearing the thrushes and the robins sing,<br /> +And looking to see what buds were opening.</p> +<p class="poetry">The clock chimed three, and we yet strayed at +will<br /> +About the yard in morning dishabille,<br /> +When Aunt Ruth came, with apron o’er her head,<br /> +Holding a letter in her hand, and said,<br /> +<a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>“Here is a note, from Vivian I opine;<br /> +At least his servant brought it. And now, girls,<br /> +You may think this is no concern of mine,<br /> +But in my day young ladies did not go<br /> +Till almost bed-time roaming to and fro<br /> +In morning wrappers, and with tangled curls,<br /> +The very pictures of forlorn distress.<br /> +’Tis three o’clock, and time for you to dress.<br /> +Come! read your note and hurry in, Maurine,<br /> +And make yourself fit object to be seen.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Helen was bending o’er an almond bush,<br +/> +And ere she looked up I had read the note,<br /> +And calmed my heart, that, bounding, sent a flush<br /> +To brow and cheek, at sight of aught <i>he</i> wrote.<br /> +“Ma Belle Maurine:” (so Vivian’s billet +ran,)<br /> +“Is it not time I saw your cherished guest?<br /> +‘Pity the sorrows of a poor young man,’<br /> +Banished from all that makes existence blest.<br /> +I’m dying to see—your friend; and I will come<br /> +And pay respects, hoping you’ll be at home<br /> +To-night at eight. Expectantly, V. D.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Inside my belt I slipped the billet, saying,<br +/> +“Helen, go make yourself most fair to see:<br /> +Quick! hurry now! no time for more delaying!<br /> +<a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>In just +five hours a caller will be here,<br /> +And you must look your prettiest, my dear!<br /> +Begin your toilet right away. I know<br /> +How long it takes you to arrange each bow—<br /> +To twist each curl, and loop your skirts aright.<br /> +And you must prove you are <i>au fait</i> to-night,<br /> +And make a perfect toilet: for our caller<br /> +Is man, and critic, poet, artist, scholar,<br /> +And views with eyes of all.”<br /> + “Oh, +oh! Maurine,”<br /> +Cried Helen with a well-feigned look of fear,<br /> +“You’ve frightened me so I shall not appear:<br /> +I’ll hide away, refusing to be seen<br /> +By such an ogre. Woe is me! bereft<br /> +Of all my friends, my peaceful home I’ve left,<br /> +And strayed away into the dreadful wood<br /> +To meet the fate of poor Red Riding Hood.<br /> +No, Maurine, no! you’ve given me such a fright,<br /> +I’ll not go near your ugly wolf to-night.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Meantime we’d left the garden; and I +stood<br /> +In Helen’s room, where she had thrown herself<br /> +Upon a couch, and lay, a winsome elf,<br /> +Pouting and smiling, cheek upon her arm,<br /> +Not in the least a portrait of alarm.<br /> +“Now, sweet!” I coaxed, and knelt by her, “be +good!<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>Go curl +your hair; and please your own Maurine,<br /> +By putting on that lovely grenadine.<br /> +Not wolf, nor ogre, neither Caliban,<br /> +Nor Mephistopheles, you’ll meet to-night,<br /> +But what the ladies call ‘a nice young man’!<br /> +Yet one worth knowing—strong with health and might<br /> +Of perfect manhood; gifted, noble, wise;<br /> +Moving among his kind with loving eyes,<br /> +And helpful hand; progressive, brave, refined,<br /> +After the image of his Maker’s mind.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, now, Maurine!” cried Helen, +“I believe<br /> +It is your lover coming here this eve.<br /> +Why have you never written of him, pray?<br /> +Is the day set?—and when? Say, Maurine, +say!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Had I betrayed by some too fervent word<br /> +The secret love that all my being stirred?<br /> +My lover? Ay! My heart proclaimed him so;<br /> +But first <i>his</i> lips must win the sweet confession,<br /> +Ere even Helen be allowed to know.<br /> +I must straightway erase the slight impression<br /> +Made by the words just uttered.<br /> + “Foolish +child!”<br /> +I gaily cried, “your fancy’s straying wild.<br /> +Just let a girl of eighteen hear the name<br /> +Of maid and youth uttered about one time,<br /> +<a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>And off +her fancy goes, at break-neck pace,<br /> +Defying circumstances, reason, space—<br /> +And straightway builds romances so sublime<br /> +They put all Shakespeare’s dramas to the shame.<br /> +This Vivian Dangerfield is neighbour, friend,<br /> +And kind companion; bringing books and flowers.<br /> +And, by his thoughtful actions without end,<br /> +Helping me pass some otherwise long hours;<br /> +But he has never breathed a word of love.<br /> +If you still doubt me, listen while I prove<br /> +My statement by the letter that he wrote.<br /> +‘Dying to meet—my friend!’ (she could not +see<br /> +The dash between that meant so much to me).<br /> +‘Will come this eve, at eight, and hopes we may<br /> +Be in to greet him.’ Now I think you’ll say<br +/> +’Tis not much like a lover’s tender note.”</p> +<p class="poetry">We laugh, we jest, not meaning what we say;<br +/> +We hide our thoughts, by light words lightly spoken,<br /> +And pass on heedless, till we find one day<br /> +They’ve bruised our hearts, or left some other broken.</p> +<p class="poetry">I sought my room, and trilling some blithe +air,<br /> +Opened my wardrobe, wondering what to wear.<br /> +Momentous question! femininely human!<br /> +More than all others, vexing mind of woman,<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>Since that +sad day, when in her discontent,<br /> +To search for leaves, our fair first mother went.<br /> +All undecided what I should put on,<br /> +At length I made selection of a lawn—<br /> +White, with a tiny pink vine overrun:—<br /> +My simplest robe, but Vivian’s favourite one.<br /> +And placing a single flowret in my hair,<br /> +I crossed the hall to Helen’s chamber, where<br /> +I found her with her fair locks all let down,<br /> +Brushing the kinks out, with a pretty frown.<br /> +’Twas like a picture, or a pleasing play,<br /> +To watch her make her toilet. She would stand,<br /> +And turn her head first this, and then that way,<br /> +Trying effect of ribbon, bow or band.<br /> +Then she would pick up something else, and curve<br /> +Her lovely neck, with cunning, bird-like grace,<br /> +And watch the mirror while she put it on,<br /> +With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face;<br /> +And then to view it all would sway and swerve<br /> +Her lithe young body, like a graceful swan.</p> +<p class="poetry">Helen was over medium height, and slender<br /> +Even to frailty. Her great, wistful eyes<br /> +Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies;<br /> +And through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender.<br /> +Her long, light hair was lustreless, except<br /> +Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams slept,<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>And on the +earlocks; and she looped the curls<br /> +Back with a shell comb, studded thick with pearls,<br /> +Costly yet simple. Her pale loveliness,<br /> +That night, was heightened by her rich, black dress,<br /> +That trailed behind her, leaving half in sight<br /> +Her taper arms, and shoulders marble white.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was not tall as Helen, and my face<br /> +Was shaped and coloured like my grandsire’s race;<br /> +For through his veins my own received the warm,<br /> +Red blood of Southern France, which curved my form,<br /> +And glowed upon my cheek in crimson dyes,<br /> +And bronzed my hair, and darkled in my eyes.<br /> +And as the morning trails the skirts of night,<br /> +And dusky night puts on the garb of morn,<br /> +And walk together when the day is born,<br /> +So we two glided down the hall and stair,<br /> +Arm clasping arm, into the parlour, where<br /> +Sat Vivian, bathed in sunset’s gorgeous light.<br /> +He rose to greet us. Oh! his form was grand;<br /> +And he possessed that power, strange, occult,<br /> +Called magnetism, lacking better word,<br /> +Which moves the world, achieving great result<br /> +Where genius fails completely. Touch his hand,<br /> +It thrilled through all your being—meet his eye,<br /> +And you were moved, yet knew not how, or why.<br /> +<a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>Let him +but rise, you felt the air was stirred<br /> +By an electric current.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> This +strange force<br /> +Is mightier than genius. Rightly used,<br /> +It leads to grand achievements; all things yield<br /> +Before its mystic presence, and its field<br /> +Is broad as earth and heaven. But abused,<br /> +It sweeps like a poison simoon on its course,<br /> +Bearing miasma in its scorching breath,<br /> +And leaving all it touches struck with death.</p> +<p class="poetry">Far-reaching science shall yet tear away<br /> +The mystic garb that hides it from the day,<br /> +And drag it forth and bind it with its laws,<br /> +And make it serve the purposes of men,<br /> +Guided by common-sense and reason. Then<br /> +We’ll hear no more of séance, table-rapping,<br /> +And all that trash, o’er which the world is gaping,<br /> +Lost in effect, while science seeks the cause.</p> +<p class="poetry">Vivian was not conscious of his power:<br /> +Or, if he was, knew not its full extent.<br /> +He knew his glance would make a wild beast cower,<br /> +And yet he knew not that his large eyes sent<br /> +Into the heart of woman the same thrill<br /> +That made the lion servant of his will.<br /> +And even strong men felt it.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>He arose,<br +/> +Reached forth his hand, and in it clasped my own,<br /> +While I held Helen’s; and he spoke some word<br /> +Of pleasant greeting in his low, round tone,<br /> +Unlike all other voices I have heard.<br /> +Just as the white cloud, at the sunrise, glows<br /> +With roseate colours, so the pallid hue<br /> +Of Helen’s cheek, like tinted sea-shells grew.<br /> +Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such<br /> +Was the all-mast’ring magic of his touch.<br /> +Then we sat down, and talked about the weather,<br /> +The neighbourhood—some author’s last new book.<br /> +But, when I could, I left the two together<br /> +To make acquaintance, saying I must look<br /> +After the chickens—my especial care;<br /> +And ran away and left them, laughing, there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Knee-deep, through clover, to the poplar +grove,<br /> +I waded, where my pets were wont to rove:<br /> +And there I found the foolish mother hen<br /> +Brooding her chickens underneath a tree,<br /> +An easy prey for foxes. “Chick-a-dee,”<br /> +Quoth I, while reaching for the downy things<br /> +That, chirping, peeped from out the mother-wings,<br /> +“How very human is your folly! When<br /> +There waits a haven, pleasant, bright, and warm,<br /> +And one to lead you thither from the storm<br /> +<a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>And +lurking dangers, yet you turn away,<br /> +And, thinking to be your own protector, stray<br /> +Into the open jaws of death: for, see!<br /> +An owl is sitting in this very tree<br /> +You thought safe shelter. Go now to your pen.”<br /> +And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen,<br /> +So like the human mother here again,<br /> +Moaning because a strong, protecting arm<br /> +Would shield her little ones from cold and harm,<br /> +I carried back my garden hat brimful<br /> +Of chirping chickens, like white balls of wool<br /> +And snugly housed them.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +just then I heard<br /> +A sound like gentle winds among the trees,<br /> +Or pleasant waters in the summer, stirred<br /> +And set in motion by a passing breeze.<br /> +’Twas Helen singing: and, as I drew near,<br /> +Another voice, a tenor full and clear,<br /> +Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite,<br /> +And flow on stronger in their wedded might.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was a way of Helen’s, not to sing<br +/> +The songs that other people sang. She took<br /> +Sometimes an extract from an ancient book;<br /> +Again some floating, fragmentary thing.<br /> +And such she fitted to old melodies,<br /> +Or else composed the music. One of these<br /> +<a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>She sang +that night; and Vivian caught the strain,<br /> +And joined her in the chorus, or refrain,</p> +<h4>SONG.</h4> +<p class="poetry">Oh thou, mine other, stronger part!<br /> + Whom yet I cannot hear, or see,<br /> +Come thou, and take this loving heart,<br /> + That longs to yield its all to thee,<br /> + I call mine own—oh, come to me!<br /> + Love, answer back, I come to thee,<br /> + + +I come to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">This hungry heart, so warm, so large,<br /> + Is far too great a care for me.<br /> +I have grown weary of the charge<br /> + I keep so sacredly for thee.<br /> + Come thou, and take my heart from me.<br /> + Love, answer back, I come to thee,<br /> + + +I come to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">I am a-weary, waiting here<br /> + For one who tarries long from me.<br /> +Oh! art thou far, or art thou near?<br /> + And must I still be sad for thee?<br /> + Or wilt thou straightway come to me?<br /> + Love, answer, I am near to thee,<br /> + + +I come to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">The melody, so full of plaintive chords,<br /> +Sobbed into silence—echoing down the strings<br /> +Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings.<br /> +Vivian had leaned upon the instrument<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>The while +they sang. But, as he spoke those words,<br /> +“Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee,”<br /> +He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent<br /> +His lustrous, soulful, speaking gaze on me.<br /> +And my young heart, eager to own its king,<br /> +Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light<br /> +Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek<br /> +Hope’s rose-hued flag. There was no need to speak<br +/> +I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen. “Sing<br /> +That song you sang a fragment of one night<br /> +Out on the porch, beginning, ‘Praise me +not,’”<br /> +I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone<br /> +Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught<br /> +From some sad passing breeze, and made her own,<br /> +The echo of the wind-harp’s sighing strain,<br /> +Or the soft music of the falling rain.</p> +<h4>SONG.</h4> +<p class="poetry">O praise me not with your lips, dear one!<br /> + Though your tender words I prize.<br /> +But dearer by far is the soulful gaze<br /> + Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes,<br /> + Your tender, +loving eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">O chide me not with your lips, dear one!<br /> + Though I cause your bosom sighs.<br /> +You can make repentance deeper far<br /> + By your sad, reproving eyes,<br /> + Your sorrowful, +troubled eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;<br /> + Above, in the beaming skies,<br /> +The constant stars say never a word,<br /> + But only smile with their eyes—<br /> + Smile on with +their lustrous eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear +one;<br /> + On the wingèd wind speech flies.<br /> +But I read the truth of your noble heart<br /> + In your soulful, speaking eyes—<br /> + In your deep and +beautiful eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">The twilight darkened, round us, in the +room,<br /> +While Helen sang; and, in the gathering gloom,<br /> +Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his,<br /> +And held it so; while Helen made the air<br /> +Languid with music. Then a step drew near,<br /> +And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell:<br /> + + +“Dear! dear!<br /> +Why, Maurie, Helen, children! how is this?<br /> +I hear you, but you have no light in there.<br /> +Your room is dark as Egypt. What a way<br /> +For folks to visit! Maurie, go, I pray,<br /> +And order lamps.”<br /> + And so there +came a light,<br /> +And all the sweet dreams hovering around<br /> +The twilight shadows flitted in affright:<br /> +And e’en the music had a harsher sound.<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>In +pleasant converse passed an hour away:<br /> +And Vivian planned a picnic for next day—<br /> +A drive the next, and rambles without end,<br /> +That he might help me entertain my friend.<br /> +And then he rose, bowed low, and passed from sight,<br /> +Like some great star that drops out from the night;<br /> +And Helen watched him through the shadows go,<br /> +And turned and said, her voice subdued and low,<br /> +“How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine,<br /> +A grander man I never yet have seen.”</p> +<h3>PART III</h3> +<p class="poetry">One golden twelfth-part of a checkered year;<br +/> +One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirth,<br /> +With not a hint of shadows lurking near,<br /> +Or storm-clouds brewing.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ’Twas +a royal day:<br /> +Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth,<br /> +With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast,<br /> +And twined herself about him, as he lay<br /> +Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest.<br /> +She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace,<br /> +And hid him with her trailing robe of green,<br /> +And wound him in her long hair’s shimmering sheen,<br /> +And rained her ardent kisses on his face.<br /> +<a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>Through +the glad glory of the summer land<br /> +Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand.<br /> +In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat-field,<br /> +White with the promise of a bounteous yield,<br /> +Across the late shorn meadow—down the hill,<br /> +Red with the tiger-lily blossoms, till<br /> +We stood upon the borders of the lake,<br /> +That like a pretty, placid infant, slept<br /> +Low at its base: and little ripples crept<br /> +Along its surface, just as dimples chase<br /> +Each other o’er an infant’s sleeping face.<br /> +Helen in idle hours had learned to make<br /> +A thousand pretty, feminine knick-knacks:<br /> +For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands—<br /> +Labour just suited to her dainty hands.<br /> +That morning she had been at work in wax,<br /> +Moulding a wreath of flowers for my room,—<br /> +Taking her patterns from the living blows,<br /> +In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom,<br /> +Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose,<br /> +And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch,<br /> +Resembling the living plants as much<br /> +As life is copied in the form of death:<br /> +These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now the wreath was all completed, save<br +/> +The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom,<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>A +water-lily, dripping from the wave.<br /> +And ’twas in search of it that we had come<br /> +Down to the lake, and wandered on the beach,<br /> +To see if any lilies grew in reach.<br /> +Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been;<br /> +Some buds, with all their beauties folded in,<br /> +We found, but not the treasure that we sought.<br /> +And then we turned our footsteps to the spot<br /> +Where, all impatient of its chain, my boat,<br /> +The <i>Swan</i>, rocked, asking to be set afloat.<br /> +It was a dainty row-boat—strong, yet light;<br /> +Each side a swan was painted snowy white:<br /> +A present from my uncle, just before<br /> +He sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand,<br /> +Where freighted ships go sailing evermore,<br /> +But none return to tell us of the land.<br /> +I freed the <i>Swan</i>, and slowly rowed about,<br /> +Wherever sea-weeds, grass, or green leaves lifted<br /> +Their tips above the water. So we drifted,<br /> +While Helen, opposite, leaned idly out<br /> +And watched for lilies in the waves below,<br /> +And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air,<br /> +That soothed me like a mother’s lullabies.<br /> +I dropped the oars, and closed my sun-kissed eyes,<br /> +And let the boat go drifting here and there.<br /> +Oh, happy day! the last of that brief time<br /> +Of thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright,<br /> +<a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>Ere that +disguisèd angel men call Woe<br /> +Leads the sad heart through valleys dark as night,<br /> +Up to the heights exalted and sublime.<br /> +On each blest, happy moment, I am fain<br /> +To linger long, ere I pass on to pain<br /> +And sorrow that succeeded.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> From +day-dreams,<br /> +As golden as the summer noontide’s beams,<br /> +I was awakened by a voice that cried:<br /> +“Strange ship, ahoy! Fair frigate, whither +bound?”<br /> +And, starting up, I cast my gaze around,<br /> +And saw a sail-boat o’er the water glide<br /> +Close to the <i>Swan</i>, like some live thing of grace;<br /> +And from it looked the glowing, handsome face<br /> +Of Vivian.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Beauteous +sirens of the sea,<br /> +Come sail across the raging main with me!”<br /> +He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boat<br /> +Beside his own. “There, now! step in!” he +said;<br /> +“I’ll land you anywhere you want to go—<br /> +My boat is safer far than yours, I know:<br /> +And much more pleasant with its sails all spread.<br /> +The <i>Swan</i>? We’ll take the oars, and let it +float<br /> +Ashore at leisure. You, Maurine, sit there—<br /> +<a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>Miss Helen +here. Ye gods and little fishes!<br /> +I’ve reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes.<br /> +Adieu despondency! farewell to care!”</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas done so quickly: that was +Vivian’s way.<br /> +He did not wait for either yea or nay.<br /> +He gave commands, and left you with no choice<br /> +But just to do the bidding of his voice.<br /> +His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly face<br /> +Lent to his quick imperiousness a grace<br /> +And winning charm, completely stripping it<br /> +Of what might otherwise have seemed unfit.<br /> +Leaving no trace of tyranny, but just<br /> +That nameless force that seemed to say, “You +must.”<br /> +Suiting its pretty title of the <i>Dawn</i>,<br /> +(So named, he said, that it might rhyme with <i>Swan</i>),<br /> +Vivian’s sail-boat was carpeted with blue,<br /> +While all its sails were of a pale rose hue.<br /> +The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze;<br /> +A poet’s fancy in an hour of ease.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whatever Vivian had was of the best.<br /> +His room was like some Sultan’s in the East.<br /> +His board was always spread as for a feast,<br /> +Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest.<br /> +He would go hungry sooner than he’d dine<br /> +At his own table if ’twere illy set.<br /> +<a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>He so +loved things artistic in design—<br /> +Order and beauty, all about him. Yet<br /> +So kind he was, if it befell his lot<br /> +To dine within the humble peasant’s cot,<br /> +He made it seem his native soil to be,<br /> +And thus displayed the true gentility.</p> +<p class="poetry">Under the rosy banners of the <i>Dawn</i>,<br +/> +Around the lake we drifted on, and on.<br /> +It was a time for dreams, and not for speech.<br /> +And so we floated on in silence, each<br /> +Weaving the fancies suiting such a day.<br /> +Helen leaned idly o’er the sail-boat’s side,<br /> +And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide;<br /> +And I among the cushions half reclined,<br /> +Half sat, and watched the fleecy clouds at play,<br /> +While Vivian with his blank-book, opposite,<br /> +In which he seemed to either sketch or write,<br /> +Was lost in inspiration of some kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">No time, no change, no scene, can e’er +efface<br /> +My mind’s impression of that hour and place;<br /> +It stands out like a picture. O’er the years,<br /> +Black with their robes of sorrow—veiled with tears,<br /> +Lying with all their lengthened shapes between,<br /> +Untouched, undimmed, I still behold that scene.<br /> +<a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>Just as +the last of Indian-summer days,<br /> +Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze,<br /> +Followed by dark and desolate December,<br /> +Through all the months of winter we remember.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sun slipped westward. That peculiar +change<br /> +Which creeps into the air, and speaks of night<br /> +While yet the day is full of golden light,<br /> +We felt steal o’er us.<br /> + Vivian broke the +spell<br /> +Of dream-fraught silence, throwing down his book:<br /> +“Young ladies, please allow me to arrange<br /> +These wraps about your shoulders. I know well<br /> +The fickle nature of our atmosphere,—<br /> +Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear,—<br /> +And go prepared for changes. Now you look,<br /> +Like—like—oh, where’s a pretty simile?<br /> +Had you a pocket mirror here you’d see<br /> +How well my native talent is displayed<br /> +In shawling you. Red on the brunette maid;<br /> +Blue on the blonde—and quite without design<br /> +(Oh, where <i>is</i> that comparison of mine?)<br /> +Well—like a June rose and a violet blue<br /> +In one bouquet! I fancy that will do.<br /> +And now I crave your patience and a boon,<br /> +Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme,<br /> +A floating fancy of the summer time.<br /> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>’Tis +neither witty, wonderful, nor wise,<br /> +So listen kindly—but don’t criticise<br /> +My maiden effort of the afternoon:</p> +<p class="poetry">“If all the ships I have at sea<br /> +Should come a-sailing home to me,<br /> +Ah, well! the harbour could not hold<br /> +So many sails as there would be<br /> +If all my ships came in from sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If half my ships came home from sea,<br +/> +And brought their precious freight to me,<br /> +Ah, well! I should have wealth as great<br /> +As any king who sits in state—<br /> +So rich the treasures that would be<br /> +In half my ships now out at sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If just one ship I have at sea<br /> +Should come a-sailing home to me,<br /> +Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown:<br /> +For if the others all went down<br /> +Still rich and proud and glad I’d be,<br /> +If that one ship came back to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If that one ship went down at sea,<br /> +And all the others came to me,<br /> +Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,<br /> +With glory, honour, riches, gold,<br /> +The poorest soul on earth I’d be<br /> +If that one ship came not to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O skies be calm! O winds blow +free—<br /> +Blow all my ships safe home to me.<br /> +But if thou sendest some a-wrack<br /> +To never more come sailing back,<br /> +Send any—all that skim the sea,<br /> +But bring my love-ship home to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>Helen was leaning by me, and her head<br /> +Rested against my shoulder: as he read,<br /> +I stroked her hair, and watched the fleecy skies,<br /> +And when he finished, did not turn my eyes.<br /> +I felt too happy and too shy to meet<br /> +His gaze just then. I said, “’Tis very +sweet,<br /> +And suits the day; does it not, Helen, dear?”<br /> +But Helen, voiceless, did not seem to hear.<br /> +“’Tis strange,” I added, “how you poets +sing<br /> +So feelingly about the very thing<br /> +You care not for! and dress up an ideal<br /> +So well, it looks a living, breathing real!<br /> +Now, to a listener, your love song seemed<br /> +A heart’s out-pouring; yet I’ve heard you say<br /> +Almost the opposite; or that you deemed<br /> +Position, honour, glory, power, fame,<br /> +Gained without loss of conscience or good name,<br /> +The things to live for.”<br /> + “Have +you? Well, you may,”<br /> +Laughed Vivian, “but ’twas years—or +months’ ago!<br /> +And Solomon says wise men change, you know!<br /> +I now speak truth! if she I hold most dear<br /> +Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left,<br /> +My heart would find the years more lonely here<br /> +Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,<br /> +And sent, an exile, to a foreign land.”<br /> +<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>His voice +was low, and measured: as he spoke,<br /> +New, unknown chords of melody awoke<br /> +Within my soul. I felt my heart expand<br /> +With that sweet fulness born of love. I turned<br /> +To hide the blushes on my cheek that burned,<br /> +And leaning over Helen, breathed her name.<br /> +She lay so motionless I thought she slept:<br /> +But, as I spoke, I saw her eyes unclose,<br /> +And o’er her face a sudden glory swept,<br /> +And a slight tremor thrilled all through her frame.<br /> +“Sweet friend,” I said, “your face is full of +light:<br /> +What were the dreams that made your eyes so bright?”<br /> +She only smiled for answer, and arose<br /> +From her reclining posture at my side,<br /> +Threw back the clust’ring ringlets from her face<br /> +With a quick gesture, full of easy grace,<br /> +And, turning, spoke to Vivian. “Will you guide<br /> +The boat up near that little clump of green<br /> +Off to the right? There’s where the lilies grow.<br +/> +We quite forgot our errand here, Maurine,<br /> +And our few moments have grown into hours.<br /> +What will Aunt Ruth think of our ling’ring so?<br /> +There—that will do—now I can reach the +flowers.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Hark! just hear that!” and Vivian +broke forth singing,<br /> +“‘Row, brothers, row.’ The six +o’clock bell’s ringing!<br /> +<a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>Who ever +knew three hours to go so fast<br /> +In all the annals of the world, before?<br /> +I could have sworn not over one had passed.<br /> +Young ladies, I am forced to go ashore!<br /> +I thank you for the pleasure you have given;<br /> +This afternoon has been a glimpse of heaven.<br /> +Good-night—sweet dreams! and by your gracious leave,<br /> +I’ll pay my compliments to-morrow eve.”</p> +<p class="poetry">A smile, a bow, and he had gone his way:<br /> +And, in the waning glory of the day,<br /> +Down cool, green lanes, and through the length’ning +shadows,<br /> +Silent, we wandered back across the meadows.<br /> +The wreath was finished, and adorned my room;<br /> +Long afterward, the lilies’ copied bloom<br /> +Was like a horrid spectre in my sight,<br /> +Staring upon me morning, noon, and night.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sun went down. The sad new moon rose +up,<br /> +And passed before me like an empty cup,<br /> +The Great Unseen brims full of pain or bliss,<br /> +And gives His children, saying, “Drink of this.”</p> +<p class="poetry">A light wind, from the open casement, fanned<br +/> +My brow and Helen’s, as we, hand in hand,<br /> +<a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>Sat +looking out upon the twilight scene,<br /> +In dreamy silence. Helen’s dark-blue eyes,<br /> +Like two lost stars that wandered from the skies<br /> +Some night adown the meteor’s shining track,<br /> +And always had been grieving to go back,<br /> +Now gazed up, wistfully, at heaven’s dome,<br /> +And seemed to recognise and long for home.<br /> +Her sweet voice broke the silence: “Wish, Maurine,<br /> +Before you speak! you know the moon is new,<br /> +And anything you wish for will come true<br /> +Before it wanes. I do believe the sign!<br /> +Now tell me your wish, and I’ll tell you mine.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I turned and looked up at the slim young +moon;<br /> +And, with an almost superstitious heart,<br /> +I sighed, “Oh, new moon! help me, by thine art,<br /> +To grow all grace and goodness, and to be<br /> +Worthy the love a true heart proffers me.”<br /> +Then smiling down, I said, “Dear one! my boon,<br /> +I fear, is quite too silly or too sweet<br /> +For my repeating: so we’ll let it stay<br /> +Between the moon and me. But if I may<br /> +I’ll listen now to your wish. Tell me, +please!”</p> +<p class="poetry">All suddenly she nestled at my feet,<br /> +And hid her blushing face upon my knees.<br /> +Then drew my hand against her glowing cheek,<br /> +And, leaning on my breast, began to speak,<br /> +<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>Half +sighing out the words my tortured ear<br /> +Reached down to catch, while striving not to hear.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Can you not guess who ’twas about, +Maurine?<br /> +Oh, my sweet friend! you must ere this have seen<br /> +The love I tried to cover from all eyes<br /> +And from myself. Ah, foolish little heart!<br /> +As well it might go seeking for some art<br /> +Whereby to hide the sun in noonday skies.<br /> +When first the strange sound of his voice I heard,<br /> +Looked on his noble face, and, touched his hand,<br /> +My slumb’ring heart thrilled through and through and +stirred<br /> +As if to say, ‘I hear, and understand.’<br /> +And day by day mine eyes were blest beholding<br /> +The inner beauty of his life, unfolding<br /> +In countless words and actions that portrayed<br /> +The noble stuff of which his soul was made.<br /> +And more and more I felt my heart upreaching<br /> +Toward the truth, drawn gently by his teaching,<br /> +As flowers are drawn by sunlight. And there grew<br /> +A strange, shy something in its depths, I knew<br /> +At length was love, because it was so sad<br /> +And yet so sweet, and made my heart so glad,<br /> +Yet seemed to pain me. Then, for very shame,<br /> +Lest all should read my secret and its name,<br /> +I strove to hide it in my breast away,<br /> +<a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>Where God +could see it only. But each day<br /> +It seemed to grow within me, and would rise,<br /> +Like my own soul, and look forth from my eyes,<br /> +Defying bonds of silence; and would speak,<br /> +In its red-lettered language, on my cheek,<br /> +If but his name was uttered. You were kind,<br /> +My own Maurine! as you alone could be,<br /> +So long the sharer of my heart and mind,<br /> +While yet you saw, in seeming not to see.<br /> +In all the years we have been friends, my own,<br /> +And loved as women very rarely do,<br /> +My heart no sorrow and no joy has known<br /> +It has not shared at once, in full, with you.<br /> +And I so longed to speak to you of this,<br /> +When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss;<br /> +Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say,<br /> +In pity for my folly—‘Lack-a-day!<br /> +You are undone: because no mortal art<br /> +Can win the love of such a lofty heart.’<br /> +And so I waited, silent and in pain,<br /> +Till I could know I did not love in vain.<br /> +And now I know, beyond a doubt or fear.<br /> +Did he not say, ‘If she I hold most dear<br /> +Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left,<br /> +My heart would find the years more lonely here<br /> +Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,<br /> +And sent, an exile, to a foreign land’?<br /> +<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>Oh, +darling, you must <i>love</i>, to understand<br /> +The joy that thrilled all through me at those words.<br /> +It was as if a thousand singing birds<br /> +Within my heart broke forth in notes of praise.<br /> +I did not look up, but I knew his gaze<br /> +Was on my face, and that his eyes must see<br /> +The joy I felt almost transfigured me.<br /> +He loves me—loves me! so the birds kept singing,<br /> +And all my soul with that sweet strain is ringing.<br /> +If there were added but one drop of bliss,<br /> +No more my cup would hold: and so, this eve,<br /> +I made a wish that I might feel his kiss<br /> +Upon my lips, ere yon pale moon should leave<br /> +The stars all lonely, having waned away,<br /> +Too old and weak and bowed with care to stay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Her voice sighed in silence. While she +spoke<br /> +My heart writhed in me, praying she would cease—<br /> +Each word she uttered falling like a stroke<br /> +On my bare soul. And now a hush like death,<br /> +Save that ’twas broken by a quick-drawn breath,<br /> +Fell ’round me, but brought not the hoped-for peace.<br /> +For when the lash no longer leaves its blows,<br /> +The flesh still quivers, and the blood still flows.</p> +<p class="poetry">She nestled on my bosom like a child,<br /> +And ’neath her head my tortured heart throbbed wild<br /> +<a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>With pain +and pity. She had told her tale—<br /> +Her self-deceiving story to the end.<br /> +How could I look down on her as she lay<br /> +So fair, and sweet, and lily-like, and frail—<br /> +A tender blossom on my breast, and say,<br /> +“Nay, you are wrong—you do mistake, dear friend!<br +/> +’Tis I am loved, not you”? Yet that were +truth,<br /> +And she must know it later.<br /> + Should I +speak,<br /> +And spread a ghastly pallor o’er the cheek<br /> +Flushed now with joy? And while I, doubting pondered,<br /> +She spoke again. “Maurine! I oft have +wondered<br /> +Why you and Vivian were not lovers. He<br /> +Is all a heart could ask its king to be;<br /> +And you have beauty, intellect and youth.<br /> +I think it strange you have not loved each other—<br /> +Strange how he could pass by you for another<br /> +Not half so fair or worthy. Yet I know<br /> +A loving Father pre-arranged it so.<br /> +I think my heart has known him all these years,<br /> +And waited for him. And if when he came<br /> +It had been as a lover of my friend,<br /> +I should have recognised him, all the same,<br /> +As my soul-mate, and loved him to the end,<br /> +Hiding my grief, and forcing back my tears<br /> +Till on my heart, slow dropping, day by day,<br /> +<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>Unseen +they fell, and wore it all away.<br /> +And so a tender Father kept him free,<br /> +With all the largeness of his love, for me—<br /> +For me, unworthy such a precious gift!<br /> +Yet I will bend each effort of my life<br /> +To grow in grace and goodness, and to lift<br /> +My soul and spirit to his lofty height,<br /> +So to deserve that holy name, his wife.<br /> +Sweet friend, it fills my whole heart with delight<br /> +To breathe its long hid secret in your ear.<br /> +Speak, my Maurine, and say you love to hear!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The while she spoke, my active brain gave +rise<br /> +To one great thought of mighty sacrifice<br /> +And self-denial. Oh! it blanched my cheek,<br /> +And wrung my soul; and from my heart it drove<br /> +All life and feeling. Coward-like, I strove<br /> +To send it from me; but I felt it cling<br /> +And hold fast on my mind like some live thing;<br /> +And all the Self within me felt its touch<br /> +And cried, “No, no! I cannot do so much—<br /> +I am not strong enough—there is no call.”<br /> +And then the voice of Helen bade me speak,<br /> +And with a calmness born of nerve, I said,<br /> +Scarce knowing what I uttered, “Sweetheart, all<br /> +Your joys and sorrows are with mine own wed.<br /> +I thank you for your confidence, and pray<br /> +<a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>I may +deserve it always. But, dear one,<br /> +Something—perhaps our boat-ride in the sun—<br /> +Has set my head to aching. I must go<br /> +To bed directly; and you will, I know,<br /> +Grant me your pardon, and another day<br /> +We’ll talk of this together. Now good-night,<br /> +And angels guard you with their wings of light.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart,<br +/> +And viewed her as I ne’er had done before.<br /> +I gazed upon her features o’er and o’er;<br /> +Marked her white, tender face—her fragile form,<br /> +Like some frail plant that withers in the storm;<br /> +Saw she was fairer in her new-found joy<br /> +Than e’er before; and thought, “Can I destroy<br /> +God’s handiwork, or leave it at the best<br /> +A broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?”<br /> +I bent my head and gave her one last kiss,<br /> +And sought my room, and found there such relief<br /> +As sad hearts feel when first alone with grief.</p> +<p class="poetry">The moon went down, slow sailing from my +sight,<br /> +And left the stars to watch away the night.<br /> +O stars, sweet stars, so changeless and serene!<br /> +What depths of woe your pitying eyes have seen!<br /> +The proud sun sets, and leaves us with our sorrow,<br /> +To grope alone in darkness till the morrow.<br /> +<a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>The +languid moon, e’en if she deigns to rise,<br /> +Soon seeks her couch, grown weary of our sighs;<br /> +But from the early gloaming till the day<br /> +Sends golden-liveried heralds forth to say<br /> +He comes in might; the patient stars shine on,<br /> +Steadfast and faithful, from twilight to dawn.<br /> +And, as they shone upon Gethsemane,<br /> +And watched the struggle of a God-like soul,<br /> +Now from the same far height they shone on me,<br /> +And saw the waves of anguish o’er me roll.</p> +<p class="poetry">The storm had come upon me all unseen:<br /> +No sound of thunder fell upon my ear;<br /> +No cloud arose to tell me it was near;<br /> +But under skies all sunlit, and serene,<br /> +I floated with the current of the stream,<br /> +And thought life all one golden-haloed dream.<br /> +When lo! a hurricane, with awful force,<br /> +Swept swift upon its devastating course,<br /> +Wrecked my frail bark, and cast me on the wave<br /> +Where all my hopes had found a sudden grave.<br /> +Love makes us blind and selfish; otherwise<br /> +I had seen Helen’s secret in her eyes;<br /> +So used I was to reading every look<br /> +In her sweet face, as I would read a book.<br /> +But now, made sightless by love’s blinding rays,<br /> +I had gone on unseeing, to the end<br /> +<a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>Where Pain +dispelled the mist of golden haze<br /> +That walled me in, and lo! I found my friend<br /> +Who journeyed with me—at my very side—<br /> +Had been sore wounded to the heart, while I,<br /> +Both deaf and blind, saw not, nor heard her cry.<br /> +And then I sobbed, “O God! I would have died<br /> +To save her this.” And as I cried in pain,<br /> +There leaped forth from the still, white realm of Thought<br /> +Where Conscience dwells, that unimpassioned spot<br /> +As widely different from the heart’s domain<br /> +As north from south—the impulse felt before,<br /> +And put away; but now it rose once more,<br /> +In greater strength, and said, “Heart, wouldst thou +prove<br /> +What lips have uttered? Then go, lay thy love<br /> +On Friendship’s altar, as thy offering.”<br /> +“Nay!” cried my heart, “ask any other +thing—<br /> +Ask life itself—’twere easier sacrifice.<br /> +But ask not love, for that I cannot give.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But,” spoke the voice, “the +meanest insect dies,<br /> +And is no hero! heroes dare to live<br /> +When all that makes life sweet is snatched away.”<br /> +So with my heart, in converse, till the day,<br /> +In gold and crimson billows, rose and broke,<br /> +The voice of Conscience, all unwearied, spoke.<br /> +<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>Love +warred with Friendship, heart with Conscience fought,<br /> +Hours rolled away, and yet the end was not.<br /> +And wily Self, tricked out like tenderness,<br /> +Sighed, “Think how one, whose life thou wert to bless,<br +/> +Will be cast down, and grope in doubt and fear!<br /> +Wouldst thou wound him, to give thy friend relief?<br /> +Can wrong make right?”<br /> + +“Nay!” Conscience said, “but Pride<br /> +And Time can heal the saddest hurts of Love.<br /> +While Friendship’s wounds gape wide and yet more wide,<br +/> +And bitter fountains of the spirit prove.”</p> +<p class="poetry">At length, exhausted with the wearing +strife,<br /> +I cast the new-found burden of my life<br /> +On God’s broad breast, and sought that deep repose<br /> +That only he who watched with sorrow knows.</p> +<h3>PART IV</h3> +<p class="poetry">“Maurine, Maurine, ’tis ten +o’clock! arise,<br /> +My pretty sluggard, open those dark eyes<br /> +And see where yonder sun is! Do you know<br /> +I made my toilet just four hours ago?”</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas Helen’s voice: and +Helen’s gentle kiss<br /> +Fell on my cheek. As from a deep abyss,<br /> +<a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>I drew my +weary self from that strange sleep<br /> +That rests not nor refreshes. Scarce awake<br /> +Or conscious, yet there seemed a heavy weight<br /> +Bound on my breast, as by a cruel Fate.<br /> +I knew not why, and yet I longed to weep.<br /> +Some dark cloud seemed to hang upon the day;<br /> +And, for a moment, in that trance I lay,<br /> +When suddenly the truth did o’er me break,<br /> +Like some great wave upon a helpless child.<br /> +The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife—<br /> +The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild,<br /> +And God gave back the burden of the life<br /> +He kept what time I slumbered.<br /> + “You are +ill,”<br /> +Cried Helen, “with that blinding headache still!<br /> +You look so pale and weary. Now let me<br /> +Play nurse, Maurine, and care for you to-day!<br /> +And first I’ll suit some dainty to your taste,<br /> +And bring it to you, with a cup of tea.”<br /> +And off she ran, not waiting my reply.<br /> +But, wanting most the sunshine and the light,<br /> +I left my couch, and clothed myself in haste,<br /> +And, kneeling, sent to God an earnest cry<br /> +For help and guidance.<br /> + “Show Thou +me the way,<br /> +Where duty leads, for I am blind! my sight<br /> +Obscured by self. Oh, lead my steps aright!<br /> +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>Help me +see the path: and if it may,<br /> +Let this cup pass:—and yet, Thou heavenly One,<br /> +Thy will in all things, not mine own, be done.”<br /> +Rising, I went upon my way, receiving<br /> +The strength prayer gives alway to hearts believing.<br /> +I felt that unseen hands were leading me,<br /> +And knew the end was peace.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “What! +are you up?”<br /> +Cried Helen, coming with a tray, and cup,<br /> +Of tender toast and fragrant, smoking tea.<br /> +“You naughty girl! you should have stayed in bed<br /> +Until you ate your breakfast, and were better;<br /> +I’ve something hidden for you here—a letter.<br /> +But drink your tea before you read it, dear!<br /> +’Tis from some distant cousin, auntie said,<br /> +And so you need not hurry. Now be good,<br /> +And mind your Helen.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> So, +in passive mood,<br /> +I laid the still unopened letter near,<br /> +And loitered at my breakfast more to please<br /> +My nurse, than any hunger to appease.<br /> +Then listlessly I broke the seal and read<br /> +The few lines written in a bold free hand:<br /> +“New London, Canada. Dear Coz. Maurine!<br /> +(In spite of generations stretched between<br /> +Our natural right to that most handy claim<br /> +Of cousinship, we’ll use it all the same)<br /> +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>I’m +coming to see you! honestly, in truth!<br /> +I’ve threatened often—now I mean to act;<br /> +You’ll find my coming is a stubborn fact.<br /> +Keep quiet, though, and do not tell Aunt Ruth.<br /> +I wonder if she’ll know her petted boy<br /> +In spite of changes? Look for me until<br /> +You see me coming. As of old I’m still<br /> +Your faithful friend, and loving cousin, Roy.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So Roy was coming! He and I had played<br +/> +As boy and girl, and later, youth and maid,<br /> +Full half our lives together. He had been,<br /> +Like me, an orphan; and the roof of kin<br /> +Gave both kind shelter. Swift years sped away<br /> +Ere change was felt: and then one summer day<br /> +A long-lost uncle sailed from India’s shore—<br /> +Made Roy his heir, and he was ours no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He’d write us daily, and +we’d see his face<br /> +Once every year.” Such was his promise given<br /> +The morn he left. But now the years were seven<br /> +Since last he looked upon the olden place.<br /> +He’d been through college, travelled in all lands,<br /> +Sailed over seas, and trod the desert sands.<br /> +Would write and plan a visit, then, ere long,<br /> +Would write again from Egypt, or Hong Kong—<br /> +Some fancy called him thither unforeseen.<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>So years +had passed, till seven lay between<br /> +His going and the coming of this note,<br /> +Which I hid in my bosom, and replied<br /> +To Aunt Ruth’s queries, “What the truant +wrote?”<br /> +By saying he was still upon the wing,<br /> +And merely dropped a line, while journeying,<br /> +To say he lived: and she was satisfied.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes it happens, in this world so +strange,<br /> +A human heart will pass through mortal strife,<br /> +And writhe in torture: while the old sweet life,<br /> +So full of hope and beauty, bloom and grace,<br /> +Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain:<br /> +And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place—<br /> +A ghastly, pallid spectre of the slain.<br /> +Yet those in daily converse see no change<br /> +Nor dream the heart has suffered.<br /> + So that day<br +/> +I passed along toward the troubled way<br /> +Stern duty pointed, and no mortal guessed<br /> +A mighty conflict had disturbed my breast.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had resolved to yield up to my friend<br /> +The man I loved. Since she, too, loved him so<br /> +I saw no other way in honour left.<br /> +She was so weak and fragile, once bereft<br /> +Of this great hope, that held her with such power,<br /> +<a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>She would +wilt down, like some frost-bitten flower,<br /> +And swift, untimely death would be the end.<br /> +But I was strong; and hardy plants, which grow<br /> +In out-door soil, can bear bleak winds that blow<br /> +From Arctic lands, whereof a single breath<br /> +Would lay the hot-house blossom low in death.</p> +<p class="poetry">The hours went by, too slow, and yet too +fast.<br /> +All day I argued with my foolish heart<br /> +That bade me play the shrinking coward’s part<br /> +And hide from pain. And when the day had past<br /> +And time for Vivian’s call drew near and nearer,<br /> +It pleaded, “Wait until the way seems clearer;<br /> +Say you are ill—or busy; keep away<br /> +Until you gather strength enough to play<br /> +The part you have resolved on.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Nay, +not so,”<br /> +Made answer clear-eyed Reason; “do you go<br /> +And put your resolution to the test.<br /> +Resolve, however nobly formed, at best<br /> +Is but a still-born babe of Thought until<br /> +It proves existence of its life and will<br /> +By sound or action.”<br /> + So when Helen +came<br /> +And knelt by me, her fair face all aflame<br /> +With sudden blushes, whispering, “My sweet!<br /> +My heart can hear the music of his feet,<br /> +<a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>Go down +with me to meet him,” I arose,<br /> +And went with her all calmly, as one goes<br /> +To look upon the dear face of the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">That eve I know not what I did or said.<br /> +I was not cold—my manner was not strange;<br /> +Perchance I talked more freely than my wont,<br /> +But in my speech was naught could give affront;<br /> +Yet I conveyed, as only woman can,<br /> +That nameless <i>something</i> which bespeaks a change.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis in the power of woman, if she be<br +/> +Whole-souled and noble, free from coquetry—<br /> +Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good,<br /> +To make herself and feelings understood<br /> +By nameless acts, thus sparing what to man,<br /> +However gently answered, causes pain,<br /> +The offering of his hand and heart in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">She can be friendly, unrestrained, and kind<br +/> +Assume no airs of pride or arrogance;<br /> +But in her voice, her manner, and her glance,<br /> +Convey that mystic something, undefined,<br /> +Which men fail not to understand and read,<br /> +And, when not blind with egoism, heed.<br /> +My task was harder—’twas the slow undoing<br /> +Of long sweet months of unimpeded wooing.<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>It was to +hide and cover and conceal<br /> +The truth, assuming what I did not feel.<br /> +It was to dam love’s happy singing tide<br /> +That blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone<br /> +By feigned indiff’rence, till it turned aside<br /> +And changed its channel, leaving me alone<br /> +To walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draught<br /> +My lips had tasted, but another quaffed.<br /> +It could be done, for no words yet were spoken—<br /> +None to recall—no pledges to be broken.<br /> +“He will be grieved, then angry, cold, then +cross,”<br /> +I reasoned, thinking what would be his part<br /> +In this strange drama. “Then, because he<br /> +Feels something lacking, to make good his loss<br /> +He’ll turn to Helen, and her gentle grace<br /> +And loving acts will win her soon the place<br /> +I hold to-day; and like a troubled dream<br /> +At length, our past, when he looks back, will seem.”</p> +<p class="poetry">That evening passed with music, chat, and +song,<br /> +But hours that once had flown on airy wings<br /> +Now limped on weary, aching limbs along,<br /> +Each moment like some dreaded step that brings<br /> +A twinge of pain.<br /> + As Vivian rose +to go,<br /> +Slow bending to me from his greater height,<br /> +He took my hand, and, looking in my eyes,<br /> +<a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>With +tender questioning and pained surprise,<br /> +Said, “Maurine, you are not yourself to-night;<br /> +What is it? Are you ailing?”<br /> + +“Ailing? No,”<br /> +I answered, laughing lightly, “I am not;<br /> +Just see my cheek, sir—is it thin, or pale?<br /> +Now, tell me, am I looking very frail?”<br /> +“Nay, nay,” he answered, “it cannot be +<i>seen</i>,<br /> +The change I speak of—’twas more in your +mien—<br /> +Preoccupation, or—I know not what!<br /> +Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does Maurine<br /> +Seem to have something on her mind this eve?”<br /> +“She does,” laughed Helen, “and I do believe<br +/> +I know what ’tis! A letter came to-day<br /> +Which she read slyly, and then hid away<br /> +Close to her heart, not knowing I was near,<br /> +And since she’s been as you have seen her here.<br /> +See how she blushes! so my random shot<br /> +We must believe has struck a tender spot.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Her rippling laughter floated through the +room,<br /> +And redder yet I felt the hot blood rise,<br /> +Then surge away, to leave me pale as death<br /> +Under the dark and swiftly gathering gloom<br /> +Of Vivian’s questioning, accusing eyes,<br /> +That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneath<br /> +That stern, fixed gaze, and stood spellbound until<br /> +<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>He turned +with sudden movement, gave his hand<br /> +To each in turn, and said: “You must not stand<br /> +Longer, young ladies, in this open door.<br /> +The air is heavy with a cold, damp chill.<br /> +We shall have rain to-morrow, or before.<br /> +Good-night.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> He vanished in the darkling +shade;<br /> +And so the dreaded evening found an end,<br /> +That saw me grasp the conscience-whetted blade,<br /> +And strike a blow for honour and for friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">“How swiftly passed the evening!” +Helen sighed.<br /> +“How long the hours!” my tortured heart replied.<br +/> +Joy, like a child, with lightsome steps doth glide<br /> +By Father Time, and, looking in his face,<br /> +Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair roadside,<br /> +“I could pluck more, but for thy hurried pace.”<br /> +The while her elder brother Pain, man grown,<br /> +Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone,<br /> +Looks to some distant hilltop, high and calm,<br /> +Where he shall find not only rest, but balm<br /> +For all his wounds, and cries, in tones of woe,<br /> +“Oh, Father Time! why is thy pace so slow?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Two days, all sad with lonely wind and rain,<br +/> +Went sobbing by, repeating o’er and o’er<br /> +The miserere, desolate and drear,<br /> +Which every human heart must sometime hear.<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>Pain is +but little varied. Its refrain,<br /> +Whate’er the words are, is for aye the same.<br /> +The third day brought a change, for with it came<br /> +Not only sunny smiles to Nature’s face,<br /> +But Roy, our Roy came back to us. Once more<br /> +We looked into his laughing, handsome eyes,<br /> +Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surprise<br /> +In no way puzzled her, for one glance told<br /> +What each succeeding one confirmed, that he<br /> +Who bent above her with the lissome grace<br /> +Of his fine form, though grown so tall, could be<br /> +No other than the Roy Montaine of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was a sweet reunion, and he brought<br /> +So much of sunshine with him that I caught,<br /> +Just from his smile alone, enough of gladness<br /> +To make my heart forget a time its sadness.<br /> +We talked together of the dear old days:<br /> +Leaving the present, with its depths and heights<br /> +Of life’s maturer sorrows and delights,<br /> +I turned back to my childhood’s level land,<br /> +And Roy and I, dear playmates, hand in hand,<br /> +Wandered in mem’ry through the olden ways.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was the second evening of his coming.<br /> +Helen was playing dreamily, and humming<br /> +Some wordless melody of white-souled thought,<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>While Roy +and I sat by the open door,<br /> +Re-living childish incidents of yore.<br /> +My eyes were glowing, and my cheeks were hot<br /> +With warm young blood; excitement, joy, or pain<br /> +Alike would send swift coursing through each vein.<br /> +Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine,<br /> +And bringing vividly before my gaze<br /> +Some old adventure of those halcyon days,<br /> +When suddenly, in pauses of the talk,<br /> +I heard a well-known step upon the walk,<br /> +And looked up quickly to meet full in mine<br /> +The eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flash<br /> +Shot from their depths:—a sudden blaze of light<br /> +Like that swift followed by the thunder’s crash,<br /> +Which said, “Suspicion is confirmed by sight,”<br /> +As they fell on the pleasant doorway scene.<br /> +Then o’er his clear-cut face a cold, white look<br /> +Crept, like the pallid moonlight o’er a brook,<br /> +And, with a slight, proud bending of the head,<br /> +He stepped toward us haughtily, and said:<br /> +“Please pardon my intrusion, Miss Maurine,<br /> +I called to ask Miss Trevor for a book<br /> +She spoke of lending me; nay, sit you still,<br /> +And I, by grant of your permission, will<br /> +Pass by to where I hear her playing.”<br /> + + +“Stay,”<br /> +I said, “one moment, Vivian, if you please;”<br /> +<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>And +suddenly bereft of all my ease,<br /> +And scarcely knowing what to do or say,<br /> +Confused as any schoolgirl, I arose,<br /> +And some way made each to the other known.<br /> +They bowed, shook hands, then Vivian turned away<br /> +And sought out Helen, leaving us alone.</p> +<p class="poetry">“One of Miss Trevor’s or of +Maurine’s beaux?<br /> +Which may he be, who cometh like a prince<br /> +With haughty bearing and an eagle eye?”<br /> +Roy queried, laughing; and I answered, “Since<br /> +You saw him pass me for Miss Trevor’s side,<br /> +I leave your own good judgment to reply.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And straightway caused the tide of talk to +glide<br /> +In other channels, striving to dispel<br /> +The sudden gloom that o’er my spirit fell.</p> +<p class="poetry">We mortals are such hypocrites at best!<br /> +When Conscience tries our courage with a test,<br /> +And points to some steep pathway, we set out<br /> +Boldly, denying any fear or doubt;<br /> +But pause before the first rock in the way,<br /> +And, looking back, with tears, at Conscience, say:<br /> +“We are so sad, dear Conscience! for we would<br /> +Most gladly do what to thee seemeth good;<br /> +But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, so<br /> +Thou must point out some other way to go.”<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>Yet +secretly we are rejoicing: and,<br /> +When right before our faces, as we stand<br /> +In seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain,<br /> +Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain,<br /> +And, loth to go, by every act reveal<br /> +What we so tried from Conscience to conceal.</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw that hour, the way made plain, to do<br +/> +With scarce an effort what had seemed a strife<br /> +That would require the strength of my whole life.</p> +<p class="poetry">Women have quick perceptions, and I knew<br /> +That Vivian’s heart was full of jealous pain,<br /> +Suspecting—nay, <i>believing</i>—Roy Montaine<br /> +To be my lover. First my altered mien—<br /> +And next the letter—then the doorway scene—<br /> +My flushed face gazing in the one above<br /> +That bent so near me, and my strange confusion<br /> +When Vivian came all led to one conclusion:<br /> +That I had but been playing with his love,<br /> +As women sometimes cruelly do play<br /> +With hearts when their true lovers are away.</p> +<p class="poetry">There could be nothing easier than just<br /> +To let him linger on in this belief<br /> +Till hourly-fed Suspicion and Distrust<br /> +Should turn to scorn and anger all his grief.<br /> +<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Compared +with me, so doubly sweet and pure<br /> +Would Helen seem, my purpose would be sure<br /> +And certain of completion in the end.<br /> +But now, the way was made so straight and clear,<br /> +My coward heart shrank back in guilty fear,<br /> +Till Conscience whispered with her “still small +voice,”<br /> +“The precious time is passing—make thy +choice—<br /> +Resign thy love, or slay thy trusting friend.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The growing moon, watched by the myriad eyes<br +/> +Of countless stars, went sailing through the skies,<br /> +Like some young prince, rising to rule a nation,<br /> +To whom all eyes are turned in expectation.<br /> +A woman who possesses tact and art<br /> +And strength of will can take the hand of doom,<br /> +And walk on, smiling sweetly as she goes,<br /> +With rosy lips, and rounded cheeks of bloom,<br /> +Cheating a loud-tongued world that never knows<br /> +The pain and sorrow of her hidden heart.<br /> +And so I joined in Roy’s bright changing chat;<br /> +Answered his sallies—talked of this and that,<br /> +My brow unruffled as the calm, still wave<br /> +That tells not of the wrecked ship, and the grave<br /> +Beneath its surface.<br /> + Then we heard, +ere long,<br /> +The sound of Helen’s gentle voice in song,<br /> +And, rising, entered where the subtle power<br /> +<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>Of +Vivian’s eyes, forgiving while accusing,<br /> +Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour;<br /> +But Roy, always polite and debonair<br /> +Where ladies were, now hung about my chair<br /> +With nameless delicate attentions, using<br /> +That air devotional, and those small arts<br /> +Acquaintance with society imparts<br /> +To men gallant by nature.<br /> + ’Twas my +sex<br /> +And not myself he bowed to. Had my place<br /> +Been filled that evening by a dowager<br /> +Twice his own age, he would have given her<br /> +The same attentions. But they served to vex<br /> +Whatever hope in Vivian’s heart remained.<br /> +The cold, white look crept back upon his face,<br /> +Which told how deeply he was hurt and pained.</p> +<p class="poetry">Little by little all things had conspired<br /> +To bring events I dreaded, yet desired.<br /> +We were in constant intercourse: walks, rides,<br /> +Picnics and sails, filled weeks of golden weather,<br /> +And almost hourly we were thrown together.<br /> +No words were spoken of rebuke or scorn:<br /> +Good friends we seemed. But as a gulf divides<br /> +This land and that, though lying side by side,<br /> +So rolled a gulf between us—deep and wide—<br /> +The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly morn<br /> +And noon and night.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>Free and +informal were<br /> +These picnics and excursions. Yet, although<br /> +Helen and I would sometimes choose to go<br /> +Without our escorts, leaving them quite free,<br /> +It happened alway Roy would seek out me<br /> +Ere passed the day, while Vivian walked with her.<br /> +I had no thought of flirting. Roy was just<br /> +Like some dear brother, and I quite forgot<br /> +The kinship was so distant it was not<br /> +Safe to rely upon in perfect trust,<br /> +Without reserve or caution. Many a time,<br /> +When there was some steep mountain-side to climb<br /> +And I grew weary, he would say, “Maurine,<br /> +Come rest you here.” And I would go and lean<br /> +My head upon his shoulder, or would stand<br /> +And let him hold in his my willing hand,<br /> +The while he stroked it gently with his own.<br /> +Or I would let him clasp me with his arm,<br /> +Nor entertained a thought of any harm,<br /> +Nor once supposed but Vivian was alone<br /> +In his suspicions. But ere long the truth<br /> +I learned in consternation! both Aunt Ruth<br /> +And Helen honestly, in faith, believed<br /> +That Roy and I were lovers.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Undeceived,<br +/> +Some careless words might open Vivian’s eyes<br /> +<a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>And spoil +my plans. So reasoning in this wise,<br /> +To all their sallies I in jest replied,<br /> +To naught assented, and yet naught denied,<br /> +With Roy unchanged remaining, confident<br /> +Each understood just what the other meant.</p> +<p class="poetry">If I grew weary of this double part,<br /> +And self-imposed deception caused my heart<br /> +Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze<br /> +On Helen’s face: that wore a look ethereal,<br /> +As if she dwelt above the things material<br /> +And held communion with the angels. So<br /> +I fed my strength and courage through the days.<br /> +What time the harvest moon rose full and clear<br /> +And cast its ling’ring radiance on the earth,<br /> +We made a feast; and called from far and near,<br /> +Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth.<br /> +Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro;<br /> +But none more sweet than Helen’s. Robed in white,<br +/> +She floated like a vision through the dance.<br /> +So frailly fragile and so phantom fair,<br /> +She seemed like some stray spirit of the air,<br /> +And was pursued by many an anxious glance<br /> +That looked to see her fading from the sight<br /> +Like figures that a dreamer sees at night.<br /> +<a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>And noble +men and gallants graced the scene:<br /> +Yet none more noble or more grand of mien<br /> +Than Vivian—broad of chest and shoulder, tall<br /> +And finely formed, as any Grecian god<br /> +Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.<br /> +His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those<br /> +Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose,<br /> +Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair<br /> +Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes<br /> +That could be cold as steel in winter air,<br /> +Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.</p> +<p class="poetry">Weary of mirth and music, and the sound<br /> +Of tripping feet, I sought a moment’s rest<br /> +Within the lib’ry, where a group I found<br /> +Of guests, discussing with apparent zest<br /> +Some theme of interest—Vivian, near the while,<br /> +Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile.<br /> +“Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,”<br /> +Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. “We<br /> +Have been discussing right before his face,<br /> +All unrebuked by him, as you may see,<br /> +A poem lately published by our friend:<br /> +And we are quite divided. I contend<br /> +The poem is a libel and untrue.<br /> +I hold the fickle women are but few,<br /> +Compared with those who are like yon fair moon<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>That, ever +faithful, rises in her place<br /> +Whether she’s greeted by the flowers of June<br /> +Or cold and dreary stretches of white space.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh!” cried another, “Mr. +Dangerfield,<br /> +Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield<br /> +The crown to Semple, who, ’tis very plain,<br /> +Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane.”</p> +<p class="poetry">All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to +me,<br /> +I answered lightly, “My young friend, I fear<br /> +You chose a most unlucky simile<br /> +To prove the truth of woman. To her place<br /> +The moon does rise—but with a different face<br /> +Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear<br /> +The poem read, before I can consent<br /> +To pass my judgment on the sentiment.”<br /> +All clamoured that the author was the man<br /> +To read the poem: and, with tones that said<br /> +More than the cutting, scornful words he read,<br /> +Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:</p> +<h4>HER LOVE.</h4> +<p class="poetry">The sands upon the ocean side<br /> +That change about with every tide,<br /> +And never true to one abide,<br /> + A woman’s love I liken to.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>The summer zephyrs, light and vain,<br /> +That sing the same alluring strain<br /> +To every grass blade on the plain—<br /> + A woman’s love is nothing more.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sunshine of an April day<br /> +That comes to warm you with its ray,<br /> +But while you smile has flown away—<br /> + A woman’s love is like to this.</p> +<p class="poetry">God made poor woman with no heart,<br /> +But gave her skill, and tact, and art,<br /> +And so she lives, and plays her part.<br /> + We must not blame, but pity her.</p> +<p class="poetry">She leans to man—but just to hear<br /> +The praise he whispers in her ear,<br /> +Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—<br /> + Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.</p> +<p class="poetry">To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs<br /> +The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts,<br /> +Then throws them lightly by and laughs,<br /> + Too weak to understand their pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">As changeful as the winds that blow<br /> +From every region, to and fro,<br /> +Devoid of heart, she cannot know<br /> + The suffering of a human heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian’s +eyes<br /> +Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise;<br /> +But lightly answered, toying with my fan,<br /> +“That sentiment is very like a man!<br /> +<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>Men call +us fickle, but they do us wrong;<br /> +We’re only frail and helpless, men are strong;<br /> +And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing<br /> +And make a shroud out of their suffering,<br /> +And drag the corpse about with them for years.<br /> +But we?—we mourn it for a day with tears!<br /> +And then we robe it for its last long rest,<br /> +And being women, feeble things at best,<br /> +We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so<br /> +We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low:<br /> +Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends<br /> +To do this service for her earthly friends,<br /> +The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep<br /> +Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The laugh that followed had not died away<br /> +Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say<br /> +The band was tuning for our waltz, and so<br /> +Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow<br /> +And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent,<br /> +And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went<br /> +Out on the cool moonlighted portico,<br /> +And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head<br /> +Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent<br /> +His smiling eyes upon me, as he said:<br /> +“I’ll try the mesmerism of my touch<br /> +<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>To work a +cure: be very quiet now,<br /> +And let me make some passes o’er your brow.<br /> +Why, how it throbs! you’ve exercised too much!<br /> +I shall not let you dance again to-night.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Just then before us, in the broad moonlight,<br +/> +Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face<br /> +To catch the teasing and mischievous glance<br /> +Of Helen’s eyes, as, heated by the dance,<br /> +Leaning on Vivian’s arm, she sought this place.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I beg your pardon,” came in that +round tone<br /> +Of his low voice. “I think we do intrude.”<br +/> +Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone<br /> +Ere I could speak or change my attitude.</p> +<h3>PART V</h3> +<p class="poetry">A visit to a cave some miles away<br /> +Was next in order. So, one sunny day,<br /> +Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing load<br /> +Of merry pleasure-seekers o’er the road.<br /> +A basket picnic, music, and croquet<br /> +Were in the programme. Skies were blue and clear,<br /> +And cool winds whispered of the Autumn near.<br /> +The merry-makers filled the time with pleasure:<br /> +Some floated to the music’s rhythmic measure,<br /> +Some played, some promenaded on the green.<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>Ticked off +by happy hearts, the moments passed.<br /> +The afternoon, all glow and glimmer, came.<br /> +Helen and Roy were leaders of some game,<br /> +And Vivian was not visible.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Maurine,<br +/> +I challenge you to climb yon cliff with me!<br /> +And who shall tire, or reach the summit last<br /> +Must pay a forfeit,” cried a romping maid.<br /> +“Come! start at once, or own you are afraid.”<br /> +So challenged I made ready for the race,<br /> +Deciding first the forfeit was to be<br /> +A handsome pair of bootees to replace<br /> +The victor’s loss who made the rough ascent.<br /> +The cliff was steep and stony. On we went<br /> +As eagerly as if the path was Fame,<br /> +And what we climbed for, glory and a name.<br /> +My hands were bruised; my garments sadly rent,<br /> +But on I clambered. Soon I heard a cry,<br /> +“Maurine! Maurine! my strength is wholly spent!<br /> +You’ve won the boots! I’m going +back—good-bye!”<br /> +And back she turned, in spite of laugh and jeer.</p> +<p class="poetry">I reached the summit: and its solitude,<br /> +Wherein no living creature did intrude,<br /> +Save some sad birds that wheeled and circled near,<br /> +I found far sweeter than the scene below.<br /> +Alone with One who knew my hidden woe,<br /> +<a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>I did not +feel so much alone as when<br /> +I mixed with th’ unthinking throngs of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile +place<br /> +I plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed,<br /> +That in our lives, albeit dark with shade<br /> +And rough and hard with labour, yet may grow<br /> +The flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace.</p> +<p class="poetry">As I walked on in meditative thought,<br /> +A serpent writhed across my pathway; not<br /> +A large or deadly serpent; yet the sight<br /> +Filled me with ghastly terror and affright.<br /> +I shrieked aloud: a darkness veiled my eyes—<br /> +And I fell fainting ’neath the watchful skies.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was no coward. Country-bred and +born,<br /> +I had no feeling but the keenest scorn<br /> +For those fine lady “ah’s” and +“oh’s” of fear<br /> +So much assumed (when any man is near).<br /> +But God implanted in each human heart<br /> +A natural horror, and a sickly dread<br /> +Of that accursèd, slimy, creeping thing<br /> +That squirms a limbless carcass o’er the ground.<br /> +And where that inborn loathing is not found<br /> +You’ll find the serpent qualities instead.<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>Who fears +it not, himself is next of kin,<br /> +And in his bosom holds some treacherous art<br /> +Whereby to counteract its venomed sting.<br /> +And all are sired by Satan—Chief of Sin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who loathes not that foul creature of the +dust,<br /> +However fair in seeming, I distrust.</p> +<p class="poetry">I woke from my unconsciousness, to know<br /> +I leaned upon a broad and manly breast,<br /> +And Vivian’s voice was speaking, soft and low,<br /> +Sweet whispered words of passion, o’er and o’er.<br +/> +I dared not breathe. Had I found Eden’s shore?<br /> +Was this a foretaste of eternal bliss?<br /> +“My love,” he sighed, his voice like winds that +moan<br /> +Before a rain in Summer-time, “my own,<br /> +For one sweet stolen moment, lie and rest<br /> +Upon this heart that loves and hates you both!<br /> +O fair false face! Why were you made so fair!<br /> +O mouth of Southern sweetness! that ripe kiss<br /> +That hangs upon you, I do take an oath<br /> +<i>His</i> lips shall never gather. There!—and +there!<br /> +I steal it from him. Are you his—all his?<br /> +Nay, you are mine, this moment, as I dreamed—<br /> +Blind fool—believing you were what you seemed—<br /> +You would be mine in all the years to come.<br /> +Fair fiend! I love and hate you in a breath.<br /> +<a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>O God! if +this white pallor were but <i>death</i>,<br /> +And I were stretched beside you, cold and dumb,<br /> +My arms about you, so—in fond embrace!<br /> +My lips pressed, so—upon your dying face!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Woman, how dare you bring me to such +shame!<br /> +How dare you drive me to an act like this,<br /> +To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss<br /> +You lured me on to think my rightful claim!<br /> +O frail and puny woman! could you know<br /> +The devil that you waken in the hearts<br /> +You snare and bind in your enticing arts,<br /> +The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow<br /> +Would freeze in terror.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Strange +you have such power<br /> +To please or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things—<br /> +Devoid of passion as a senseless flower!<br /> +Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings.<br /> +There, now I scorn you—scorn you from this hour,<br /> +And hate myself for having talked of love!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He pushed me from him. And I felt as +those<br /> +Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above<br /> +Are closed against them.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> With +a feigned surprise<br /> +I started up and opened wide my eyes,<br /> +<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>And looked +about. Then in confusion rose<br /> +And stood before him.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Pardon +me, I pray!”<br /> +He said quite coldly. “Half an hour ago<br /> +I left you with the company below,<br /> +And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried,<br /> +It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm.<br /> +I came in time to see you swoon away.<br /> +You’ll need assistance down the rugged side<br /> +Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So, formal and constrained, we passed along,<br +/> +Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng<br /> +To have no further speech again that day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next morn there came a bulky document,<br /> +The legal firm of Blank and Blank had sent,<br /> +Containing news unlooked for. An estate<br /> +Which proved a cosy fortune—nowise great<br /> +Or princely—had in France been left to me,<br /> +My grandsire’s last descendant. And it brought<br /> +A sense of joy and freedom in the thought<br /> +Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be<br /> +A panacea for my troubled mind,<br /> +That longed to leave the olden scenes behind<br /> +With all their recollections, and to flee<br /> +To some strange country.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>I was in such +haste<br /> +To put between me and my native land<br /> +The briny ocean’s desolating waste,<br /> +I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned<br /> +To sail that week, two months: though she was fain<br /> +To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine<br /> +Would be our guide and escort.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> No +one dreamed<br /> +The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed<br /> +To think good fortune had quite turned my brain.<br /> +One bright October morning, when the woods<br /> +Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods<br /> +In honour of the Frost King, Vivian came,<br /> +Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame,—<br +/> +First trophies of the Autumn time.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +Roy<br /> +Made a proposal that we all should go<br /> +And ramble in the forest for a while.<br /> +But Helen said she was not well—and so<br /> +Must stay at home. Then Vivian, with a smile,<br /> +Responded, “I will stay and talk to you,<br /> +And they may go;” at which her two cheeks grew<br /> +Like twin blush roses—dyed with love’s red wave,<br +/> +Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Vivian saw—and suddenly was grave.<br +/> +<a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>Roy took +my arm in that protecting way<br /> +Peculiar to some men, which seems to say,<br /> +“I shield my own,” a manner pleasing, e’en<br +/> +When we are conscious that it does not mean<br /> +More than a simple courtesy. A woman<br /> +Whose heart is wholly feminine and human,<br /> +And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be<br /> +The object of that tender chivalry,<br /> +That guardianship which man bestows on her,<br /> +Yet mixed with deference; as if she were<br /> +Half child, half angel.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Though +she may be strong,<br /> +Noble and self-reliant, not afraid<br /> +To raise her hand and voice against all wrong<br /> +And all oppression, yet if she be made,<br /> +With all the independence of her thought,<br /> +A woman womanly, as God designed,<br /> +Albeit she may have as great a mind<br /> +As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm,<br /> +His muscle and his boldness she has not,<br /> +And cannot have without she loses what<br /> +Is far more precious, modesty and grace.<br /> +So, walking on in her appointed place,<br /> +She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend<br /> +But that she needs him for a guide and friend,<br /> +To shield her with his greater strength from harm.<br /> +<a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>We reached +the forest; wandered to and fro<br /> +Through many a winding path and dim retreat,<br /> +Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat<br /> +Upon an oak-tree, which had been laid low<br /> +By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke.<br /> +And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge<br /> +On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge<br /> +Of sunny meadows lying at my feet.<br /> +One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb<br /> +That cast its checkered shadows over him;<br /> +And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised<br /> +And fixed upon me, silently he gazed<br /> +Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke:<br /> +“Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise,<br /> +And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The smooth and even darkness of his cheek<br /> +Was stained one moment by a flush of red.<br /> +He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood<br /> +Still clinging to the branch above his head.<br /> +His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said,<br /> +With sudden passion, “Do you bid me speak?<br /> +I cannot, then, keep silence if I would.<br /> +That hateful fortune, coming as it did,<br /> +Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew<br /> +A harsh-tongued world would quickly misconstrue<br /> +My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet,<br /> +<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>So big my +heart has grown with love for you<br /> +I cannot shelter it or keep it hid.<br /> +And so I cast it throbbing at your feet,<br /> +For you to guard and cherish, or to break.<br /> +Maurine, I love you better than my life.<br /> +My friend—my cousin—be still more, my wife!<br /> +Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?”</p> +<p class="poetry">I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and +numb<br /> +With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb<br /> +With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes<br /> +That looked no feeling but complete surprise.<br /> +He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek.<br /> +“Maurine, Maurine,” he whispered, “will you +speak?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then suddenly, as o’er some magic +glass<br /> +One picture in a score of shapes will pass,<br /> +I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze.<br /> +First, as the playmate of my earlier days—<br /> +Next, as my kin—and then my valued friend,<br /> +And last, my lover. As when colours blend<br /> +In some unlooked-for group before our eyes,<br /> +We hold the glass, and look them o’er and o’er,<br /> +So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise,<br /> +In which he ne’er appeared to me before.</p> +<p class="poetry">His form was like a panther’s in its +grace,<br /> +So lithe and supple, and of medium height,<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>And garbed +in all the elegance of fashion.<br /> +His large black eyes were full of fire and passion,<br /> +And in expression fearless, firm, and bright.<br /> +His hair was like the very deeps of night,<br /> +And hung in raven clusters ’round a face<br /> +Of dark and flashing beauty.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +was more<br /> +Like some romantic maiden’s grand ideal<br /> +Than like a common being. As I gazed<br /> +Upon the handsome face to mine upraised,<br /> +I saw before me, living, breathing, real,<br /> +The hero of my early day-dreams: though<br /> +So full my heart was with that clear-cut face,<br /> +Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero’s place,<br /> +I had not recognised him so before,<br /> +Or thought of him, save as a valued friend.<br /> +So now I called him, adding,</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Foolish +boy!<br /> +Each word of love you utter aims a blow<br /> +At that sweet trust I had reposed in you.<br /> +I was so certain I had found a true,<br /> +Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend,<br /> +And go on wholly trusting to the end.<br /> +Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy,<br /> +By turning to a lover?”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Why, +indeed!<br /> +Because I loved you more than any brother,<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Or any +friend could love.” Then he began<br /> +To argue like a lawyer, and to plead<br /> +With all his eloquence. And, listening,<br /> +I strove to think it was a goodly thing<br /> +To be so fondly loved by such a man,<br /> +And it were best to give his wooing heed,<br /> +And not deny him. Then before my eyes,<br /> +In all its clear-cut majesty, that other<br /> +Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise<br /> +And rob my purpose of all life and strength.</p> +<p class="poetry">Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could,<br /> +With that impetuous, boyish eloquence.<br /> +He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should<br /> +Give some least hope; till, in my own defence,<br /> +I turned upon him, and replied at length:<br /> +“I thank you for the noble heart you offer:<br /> +But it deserves a true one in exchange.<br /> +I could love you if I loved not another<br /> +Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I +said:<br /> +“Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange;<br /> +But I love one I cannot hope to wed.<br /> +A river rolls between us, dark and deep.<br /> +To cross it—were to stain with blood my hand.<br /> +You force my speech on what I fain would keep<br /> +In my own bosom, but you understand?<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>My heart +is given to love that’s sanctified,<br /> +And now can feel no other.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Be +you kind,<br /> +Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more,<br /> +Lest pleading and denying should divide<br /> +The hearts so long united. Let me find<br /> +In you my cousin and my friend of yore.<br /> +And now come home. The morning, all too soon<br /> +And unperceived, has melted into noon.<br /> +Helen will miss us, and we must return.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He took my hand, and helped me to arise,<br /> +Smiling upon me with his sad, dark eyes,<br /> +Where passion’s fires had, sudden, ceased to burn.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And so,” he said, “too soon +and unforeseen<br /> +My friendship melted into love, Maurine.<br /> +But, sweet! I am not wholly in the blame<br /> +For what you term my folly. You forgot,<br /> +So long we’d known each other, I had not<br /> +In truth a brother’s or a cousin’s claim.<br /> +But I remembered, when through every nerve<br /> +Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began<br /> +To love you with that human love of man<br /> +For comely woman. By your coaxing arts,<br /> +You won your way into my heart of hearts,<br /> +And all Platonic feelings put to rout.<br /> +<a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>A maid +should never lay aside reserve<br /> +With one who’s not her kinsman, out and out.<br /> +But as we now, with measured steps, retrace<br /> +The path we came, e’en so my heart I’ll send,<br /> +At your command, back to the olden place,<br /> +And strive to love you only as a friend.”<br /> +I felt the justice of his mild reproof,<br /> +But answered, laughing, “’Tis the same old cry:<br /> +‘The woman tempted me, and I did eat.’<br /> +Since Adam’s time we’ve heard it. But +I’ll try<br /> +And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof<br /> +The fruit I never once had thought so sweet<br /> +’Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner,<br /> +Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner.<br /> +And guard each act, that no least look betray<br /> +What’s passed between us.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +I turned away<br /> +And sought my room, low humming some old air<br /> +That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes<br /> +Fell on a face so glorified and fair<br /> +All other senses, merged in that of sight,<br /> +Were lost in contemplation of the bright<br /> +And wond’rous picture, which had otherwise<br /> +Made dim my vision.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Waiting +in my room,<br /> +Her whole face lit as by an inward flame<br /> +That shed its halo ’round her, Helen stood;<br /> +<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>Her fair +hands folded like a lily’s leaves<br /> +Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves.<br /> +Upon her cheek the colour went and came<br /> +As sunlight flickers o’er a bed of bloom;<br /> +And, like some slim young sapling of the wood,<br /> +Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair<br /> +Fell ’round her loosely, in long curling strands<br /> +All unconfined, and as by loving hands<br /> +Tossed into bright confusion.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Standing +there,<br /> +Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem<br /> +Like some unearthly creature of a dream;<br /> +Until she started forward, gliding slowly,<br /> +And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly,<br /> +As one grown meek, and humble in an hour,<br /> +Bowing before some new and mighty power.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Maurine, Maurine!” she murmured, +and again,<br /> +“Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +then,<br /> +Laying her love-light hands upon my head,<br /> +She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said<br /> +With voice that bore her joy in ev’ry tone,<br /> +As winds that blow across a garden bed<br /> +Are weighed with fragrance, “He is mine alone,<br /> +And I am his—all his—his very own.<br /> +So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie<br /> +<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>Save one +beneath God’s over-arching sky.<br /> +I could not wait to tell you of my bliss:<br /> +I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss.”<br /> +So hiding my heart’s trouble with a smile,<br /> +I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while<br /> +I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin,<br /> +When my lips fell where his so late had been.<br /> +And all day long I bore about with me<br /> +A sense of shame—yet mixed with satisfaction,<br /> +As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be<br /> +Sad with the guilt resulting from her action,<br /> +While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet.<br /> +That ev’ning when the house had settled down<br /> +To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept<br /> +A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown:<br /> +With steps like fall of thistle-down she came,<br /> +Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name,<br /> +Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Sweetheart,” she murmured softly, +“ere I sleep,<br /> +I needs must tell you all my tale of joy.<br /> +Beginning where you left us—you and Roy.<br /> +You saw the colour flame upon my cheek<br /> +When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he;—<br /> +And, when we were alone, he gazed at me<br /> +With such a strange look in his wond’rous eyes.<br /> +<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>The +silence deepened; and I tried to speak<br /> +Upon some common topic, but could not,<br /> +My heart was in such tumult.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> In +this wise<br /> +Five happy moments glided by us, fraught<br /> +With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then,<br /> +And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair.<br /> +And, in his low voice, o’er and o’er again,<br /> +Said, ‘Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.’<br /> +Then took my face, and turned it to the light,<br /> +And looking in my eyes, and seeing what<br /> +Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low,<br /> +‘Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight.<br /> +You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?’<br /> +And I made answer straightway, ‘With my life<br /> +And soul and strength I love you, O my love!’<br /> +He leaned and took me gently to his breast,<br /> +And said, ‘Here then this dainty head shall rest<br /> +Henceforth for ever: O my little dove!<br /> +My lily-bud—my fragile blossom-wife!’</p> +<p class="poetry">And then I told him all my thoughts; and he<br +/> +Listened, with kisses for his comments, till<br /> +My tale was finished. Then he said, ‘I will<br /> +Be frank with you, my darling, from the start,<br /> +And hide no secret from you in my heart.<br /> +I love you, Helen, but you are not first<br /> +To rouse that love to being. Ere we met<br /> +<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>I loved a +woman madly—never dreaming<br /> +She was not all in truth she was in seeming.<br /> +Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed<br /> +Of God and man—a wily vain coquette.<br /> +I hate myself for having loved her. Yet<br /> +So much my heart spent on her, it must give<br /> +A love less ardent, and less prodigal,<br /> +Albeit just as tender and as true—<br /> +A milder, yet a faithful love to you.<br /> +Just as some evil fortune might befall<br /> +A man’s great riches, causing him to live<br /> +In some low cot, all unpretending, still<br /> +As much his home—as much his loved retreat,<br /> +As was the princely palace on the hill,<br /> +E’en so I give you all that’s left, my sweet!<br /> +Of my heart-fortune.’</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ‘That +were more to me,’<br /> +I made swift smiling answer, ‘than to be<br /> +The worshipped consort of a king.’ And so<br /> +Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go<br /> +Until I vowed to wed him New Year day.<br /> +And I am sad because you go away<br /> +Before that time. I shall not feel half wed<br /> +Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay,<br /> +And be my bridesmaid.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Nay, +I cannot, dear!<br /> +’Twould disarrange our plans for half a year.<br /> +<a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>I’ll +be in Europe New Year day,” I said,<br /> +“And send congratulations by the cable.”<br /> +And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing<br /> +The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing,<br /> +The festal garments of a wedding scene,<br /> +While all my heart was hung with sorrow’s sable.<br /> +Forgetting for a season, that between<br /> +The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss,<br /> +I lived in my near future, confident<br /> +All would be as I planned it; and, across<br /> +The briny waste of waters, I should find<br /> +Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind.<br /> +The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed<br /> +And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed,<br /> +Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb<br /> +Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom.</p> +<p class="poetry">Roy left us for a time, and Helen went<br /> +To make the nuptial preparations. Then,<br /> +Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill:<br /> +Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill<br /> +Of two physicians could not stem the tide.<br /> +The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest,<br /> +Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds: and when<br /> +The Autumn day, that I had thought to be<br /> +Bounding upon the billows of the sea,<br /> +Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn,<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>Striving +to keep away that unloved guest<br /> +Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn.<br /> +Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside<br /> +The suff’rer’s couch, Roy was my help and stay;<br /> +Others were kind, but he alone each day<br /> +Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face,<br /> +And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place<br /> +Like rays of light upon a darkened way.<br /> +November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill,<br /> +In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill.<br /> +Returning light and life dispelled the gloom<br /> +That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb.<br /> +Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better—<br /> +Was dressed each day, and walked about the room.<br /> +Then came one morning in the Eastern mail,<br /> +A little white-winged birdling of a letter.<br /> +I broke the seal and read,</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Maurine, +my own!<br /> +I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad.<br /> +I felt so sorry for you; and so sad<br /> +To think I left you when I did—alone<br /> +To bear your pain and worry, and those nights<br /> +Of weary, anxious watching.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Vivian +writes<br /> +Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail<br /> +Before the Springtime. So you’ll come and be<br /> +My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay.<br /> +<a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>But three +weeks more of girlhood left to me.<br /> +Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day,<br /> +And make your preparations here. My sweet!<br /> +Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill—<br /> +I’m sorry she has suffered so; and still<br /> +I’m thankful something happened, so you stayed.<br /> +I’m sure my wedding would be incomplete<br /> +Without your presence. Selfish, I’m afraid<br /> +You’ll think your Helen. But I love you so,<br /> +How can I be quite willing you should go?<br /> +Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know,<br /> +And I will meet you, dearie! at the train.<br /> +Your happy, loving Helen.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +the pain<br /> +That, hidden under later pain and care,<br /> +Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep,<br /> +Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep<br /> +My tortured heart in anguish and despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had relied too fully on my skill<br /> +In bending circumstances to my will:<br /> +And now I was rebuked and made to see<br /> +That God alone knoweth what is to be.<br /> +Then came a messenger from Vivian, who<br /> +Came not himself, as he was wont to do,<br /> +But sent his servant each new day to bring<br /> +A kindly message, or an offering<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Of juicy +fruits to cool the lips of fever,<br /> +Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom<br /> +To brighten up the convalescent’s room.<br /> +But now the servant only brought a line<br /> +From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine,<br /> +“Dear Sir, and Friend”—in letters bold and +plain,<br /> +Written on cream-white paper, so it ran:<br /> +“It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor,<br /> +And therefore doubly so a wish of mine,<br /> +That you shall honour me next New Year Eve,<br /> +My wedding hour, by standing as best man.<br /> +Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe.<br /> +Being myself a novice in the art—<br /> +If I should fail in acting well my part,<br /> +I’ll need protection ’gainst the regiment<br /> +Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent<br /> +To stand by me in time of need, and shield<br /> +Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The last least hope had vanished; I must +drain,<br /> +E’en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.</p> +<h3><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>PART +VI</h3> +<p class="poetry">There was a week of bustle and of hurry;<br /> +A stately home echoed to voices sweet,<br /> +Calling, replying; and to tripping feet<br /> +Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro,<br /> +With all that girlish fluttering and flurry<br /> +Preceding such occasions.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Helen’s +room<br /> +Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom,<br /> +Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau.<br /> +My robe was fashioned by swift, skilful hands—<br /> +A thing of beauty, elegant and rich,<br /> +A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands;<br /> +And as I watched it growing, stitch by stitch,<br /> +I felt as one might feel who should behold<br /> +With vision trance-like, where his body lay<br /> +In deathly slumber, simulating clay,<br /> +His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold.</p> +<p class="poetry">I lived with ev’ry nerve upon the +strain,<br /> +As men go into battle; and the pain,<br /> +That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed<br /> +Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed<br /> +From mortal eyes by superhuman power,<br /> +That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour.<br /> +<a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>What night +the Old Year gave unto the New<br /> +The key of human happiness and woe,<br /> +The pointed stars, upon their field of blue,<br /> +Shone, white and perfect, o’er a world below,<br /> +Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed<br /> +In gleaming garments, decked with diadems,<br /> +Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest,<br /> +Coming o’erladen with a gift of gems.<br /> +The bustle of the dressing-room; the sound<br /> +Of eager voices in discourse; the clang<br /> +Of “sweet bells jangled”; thud of steel-clad feet<br +/> +That beat swift music on the frozen ground—<br /> +All blent together in my brain, and rang<br /> +A medley of strange noises, incomplete,<br /> +And full of discords.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +out on the night<br /> +Streamed from the open vestibule, a light<br /> +That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod,<br /> +With all the hues of those that deck the sod.<br /> +The grand cathedral windows were ablaze<br /> +With gorgeous colours; through a sea of bloom,<br /> +Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom,<br /> +The bridal cortège passed.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> As +some lost soul<br /> +Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze<br /> +Upon its coffined body, so I went<br /> +<a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>With that +glad festal throng. The organ sent<br /> +Great waves of melody along the air,<br /> +That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray,<br /> +On happy hearts that listened. But to me<br /> +It sounded faintly, as if miles away,<br /> +A troubled spirit, sitting in despair<br /> +Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea,<br /> +Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole.<br /> +We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers,<br /> +The white-robed man of God stood forth.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> I +heard<br /> +The solemn service open; through long hours<br /> +I seemed to stand and listen, while each word<br /> +Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay<br /> +Upon the coffin of the worshipped dead.<br /> +The stately father gave the bride away:<br /> +The bridegroom circled with a golden band<br /> +The taper finger of her dainty hand.<br /> +The last imposing, binding words were said—<br /> +“What God has joined let no man put +asunder”—<br /> +And all my strife with self was at an end;<br /> +My lover was the husband of my friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">How strangely, in some awful hour of pain,<br +/> +External trifles with our sorrows blend!<br /> +I never hear the mighty organ’s thunder,<br /> +I never catch the scent of heliotrope,<br /> +<a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>Nor see +stained windows all ablaze with light,<br /> +Without that dizzy whirling of the brain,<br /> +And all the ghastly feeling of that night,<br /> +When my sick heart relinquished love and hope.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pain we feel so keenly may depart,<br /> +And e’en its memory cease to haunt the heart:<br /> +But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound<br /> +Will probe the closed recesses of the wound,<br /> +And for a moment bring the old-time smart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles,<br +/> +Good-byes and farewells given; then across<br /> +The snowy waste of weary wintry miles,<br /> +Back to my girlhoods’ home, where, through each room,<br /> +For evermore pale phantoms of delight<br /> +Should aimless wander, always in my sight,<br /> +Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb<br /> +Wet with the tears of living pain and loss.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sleepless nights of watching and of +care,<br /> +Followed by that one week of keenest pain,<br /> +Taxing my weakened system, and my brain,<br /> +Brought on a ling’ring illness.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Day +by day,<br /> +In that strange, apathetic state I lay,<br /> +Of mental and of physical despair.<br /> +<a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>I had no +pain, no fever, and no chill,<br /> +But lay without ambition, strength, or will.<br /> +Knowing no wish for anything but rest,<br /> +Which seemed, of all God’s store of gifts, the best.</p> +<p class="poetry">Physicians came and shook their heads and +sighed;<br /> +And to their score of questions I replied,<br /> +With but one languid answer, o’er and o’er,<br /> +“I am so weary—weary—nothing more.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered +thing,<br /> +Flying through space with ever-aching wing,<br /> +Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white,<br /> +That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight,<br /> +But always one unchanging distance kept,<br /> +And woke more weary than before I slept.</p> +<p class="poetry">I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize,<br +/> +A hand from heaven held down before my eyes.<br /> +All eagerness I sought it—it was gone,<br /> +But shone in all its beauty farther on.<br /> +I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest<br /> +Of that great prize, whereon was written “Rest,”<br +/> +Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam,<br /> +And wakened doubly weary with my dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain,<br /> +That saw a snow-white lily on the plain,<br /> +And left the cloud to nestle in her breast.<br /> +<a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>I fell and +fell, but nevermore found rest—<br /> +I fell and fell, but found no stopping place,<br /> +Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space,<br /> +While space illimitable stretched before.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all these dreams but wearied me the +more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Familiar voices sounded in my room—<br /> +Aunt Ruth’s, and Roy’s, and Helen’s: but they +seemed<br /> +A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed,<br /> +And now remembered dimly.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Wrapped +in gloom,<br /> +My mind, o’ertaxed, lost hold of time at last,<br /> +Ignored its future, and forgot its past,<br /> +And groped along the present, as a light,<br /> +Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night,<br /> +Will flicker faintly.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +I felt, at length,<br /> +When March winds brought vague rumours of the spring,<br /> +A certain sense of “restlessness with rest.”<br /> +My aching frame was weary of repose,<br /> +And wanted action.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +slow-creeping strength<br /> +Came back with Mem’ry, hand in hand, to bring<br /> +And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast,<br /> +Grim-visaged Recollection’s thorny rose.<br /> +<a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>I gained, +and failed. One day could ride and walk,<br /> +The next would find me prostrate: while a flock<br /> +Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit<br /> +About the chambers of my heart, or sit,<br /> +Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings,<br /> +Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings,<br /> +That once resounded to Hope’s happy lays.</p> +<p class="poetry">So passed the ever-changing April days.<br /> +When May came, lightsome footed, o’er the lea,<br /> +Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy,<br /> +I bade farewell to home with secret joy,<br /> +And turned my wan face eastward to the sea.<br /> +Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands<br /> +Were one to him. Or Egypt’s burning sands,<br /> +Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome,<br /> +All were familiar as the fields of home.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a year of wand’ring to and +fro,<br /> +Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights;<br /> +Dwelling among the countless, rare delights<br /> +Of lands historic; turning dusty pages,<br /> +Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages<br /> +Gazing upon the scenes of bloody acts,<br /> +Of kings long buried—bare, unvarnished facts,<br /> +Surpassing wildest fictions of the brain;<br /> +<a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Rubbing +against all people, high and low,<br /> +And by this contact feeling Self to grow<br /> +Smaller and less important, and the vein<br /> +Of human kindness deeper, seeing God,<br /> +Unto the humble delver of the sod,<br /> +And to the ruling monarch on the throne,<br /> +Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain,<br /> +And that all hearts have feelings like our own.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no school that disciplines the +mind,<br /> +And broadens thought, like contact with mankind.<br /> +The college-prisoned graybeard, who has burned<br /> +The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned,<br /> +Till sciences or classics hold no lore<br /> +He has not conned and studied, o’er and o’er,<br /> +Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared<br /> +With some unlettered wand’rer, who has shared<br /> +The hospitalities of every land;<br /> +Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand;<br /> +Made man his study, and the world his college,<br /> +And gained this grand epitome of knowledge:<br /> +Each human being has a heart and soul,<br /> +And self is but an atom of the whole.<br /> +I hold he is best learnèd and most wise<br /> +Who best and most can love and sympathize.<br /> +Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained;<br /> +<a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>Our banded +minds go round in little grooves;<br /> +But constant friction with the world removes<br /> +These iron foes to freedom, and we rise<br /> +To grander heights, and, all untrammelled, find<br /> +A better atmosphere and clearer skies;<br /> +And through its broadened realm, no longer chained,<br /> +Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind.<br /> +Where’er we chanced to wander or to roam,<br /> +Glad letters came from Helen; happy things,<br /> +Like little birds that followed on swift wings,<br /> +Bringing their tender messages from home.<br /> +Her days were poems, beautiful, complete.<br /> +The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet.<br /> +She was so happy—happy, and so blest.</p> +<p class="poetry">My heart had found contentment in that year.<br +/> +With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer<br /> +The heart of youth turns ever to the light;<br /> +Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night,<br /> +But, in its very anguish and unrest,<br /> +It beats and tears the pall-like folds away,<br /> +And finds again the sunlight of the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet, despite the changes without +measure,<br /> +Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure;<br /> +Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart<br /> +<a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>Was +conscious of a something lacking, where<br /> +Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair.<br /> +Now love was buried; and despair had flown<br /> +Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown<br /> +From heights serene and lofty; and the place<br /> +Where both had dwelt was empty, voiceless space.<br /> +And so I took my long-loved study, art,<br /> +The dreary vacuum in my life to fill,<br /> +And worked, and laboured, with a right good will.<br /> +Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy<br /> +Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy.<br /> +A dainty little lassie, Grace Kildare,<br /> +Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair,<br /> +And made him captive.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> We +were thrown, by chance,<br /> +In contact with her people while in France<br /> +The previous season: she was wholly sweet<br /> +And fair and gentle; so naïve, and yet<br /> +So womanly, she was at once the pet<br /> +Of all our party; and, ere many days,<br /> +Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways,<br /> +Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet.<br /> +Her home was in the Highlands; and she came<br /> +Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through all these months Roy had been true as +steel;<br /> +And by his every action made me feel<br /> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>He was +my friend and brother, and no more,<br /> +The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore.<br /> +Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew<br /> +Whether the love he felt one time was dead,<br /> +Or only hidden, for my sake, from view.<br /> +So when he came to me one day, and said,<br /> +The velvet blackness of his eyes ashine<br /> +With light of love and triumph: “Cousin, mine,<br /> +Congratulate me! She whom I adore<br /> +Has pledged to me the promise of her hand;<br /> +Her heart I have already,” I was glad<br /> +With double gladness, for it freed my mind<br /> +Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad.</p> +<p class="poetry">From March till June had left her moons +behind,<br /> +And merged her rose-red beauty in July,<br /> +There was no message from my native land.<br /> +Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned:<br /> +Death had been near to Helen, but passed by;<br /> +The danger was now over. God was kind;<br /> +The mother and the child were both alive;<br /> +No other child was ever known to thrive<br /> +As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say.<br /> +The infant was a wonder, every way.<br /> +And, at command of Helen, he would send<br /> +A lock of baby’s golden hair to me.<br /> +And did I, on my honour, ever see<br /> +<a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>Such +hair before? Helen would write, ere long:<br /> +She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong—<br /> +Stronger than ever, so the doctors said.<br /> +I took the tiny ringlet, golden—fair,<br /> +Mayhap his hand had severed from the head<br /> +Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek<br /> +And to my lips, and kissed it o’er and o’er.<br /> +All my maternal instincts seemed to rise,<br /> +And clamour for their rights, while my wet eyes<br /> +Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair.<br /> +The woman struggled with her heart before!<br /> +It was the mother in me now did speak,<br /> +Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not,<br /> +And crying out against her barren lot.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years<br /> +That stretched before me, dark with love’s eclipse;<br /> +And thought how my unmated heart would miss<br /> +The shelter of a broad and manly breast—<br /> +The strong, bold arm—the tender clinging kiss—<br /> +And all pure love’s possessions, manifold;<br /> +But now I wept a flood of bitter tears,<br /> +Thinking of little heads of shining gold,<br /> +That would not on my bosom sink to rest;<br /> +Of little hands that would not touch my cheek;<br /> +Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips,<br /> +<a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>That +never in my list’ning ear would speak<br /> +The blessed name of mother.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Oh, +in woman<br /> +How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere<br /> +Unto her wond’ring, untaught mind unfolds<br /> +The myst’ry that is half divine, half human,<br /> +Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls<br /> +Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps<br /> +Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps,<br /> +And grows and strengthens with each riper year.</p> +<p class="poetry">As storms may gather in a placid sky,<br /> +And spend their fury, and then pass away,<br /> +Leaving again the blue of cloudless day,<br /> +E’en so the tempest of my grief passed by.<br /> +’Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned,<br /> +With the deliberate purpose of my mind,<br /> +To my sweet friend.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Relinquishing +my love,<br /> +I gave my dearest hope of joy to her.<br /> +If God, from out His boundless store above,<br /> +Had chosen added blessings to confer,<br /> +I would rejoice, for her sake—not repine<br /> +That th’ immortal treasures were not mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Better my lonely sorrow, than to know<br /> +My selfish joy had been another’s woe;<br /> +<a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>Better +my grief and my strength to control,<br /> +Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul;<br /> +Better to go on, loveless, to the end,<br /> +Than wear love’s rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">Work is the salve that heals the wounded +heart.<br /> +With will most resolute I set my aim<br /> +To enter on the weary race for Fame,<br /> +And if I failed to climb the dizzy height,<br /> +To reach some point of excellence in art.</p> +<p class="poetry">E’en as the Maker held earth +incomplete,<br /> +Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod,<br /> +The perfect, living image of his God,<br /> +All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight,<br /> +Wherein the human figure had no part.<br /> +In that, all lines of symmetry did meet—<br /> +All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought<br /> +Enthusiasm in abundance, thought,<br /> +Much study, and some talent, day by day,<br /> +To help me in my efforts to portray<br /> +The wond’rous power, majesty and grace<br /> +Stamped on some form, or looking from some face.<br /> +This was to be my specialty: To take<br /> +Human emotion for my theme, and make<br /> +The unassisted form divine express<br /> +Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress;<br /> +<a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>And thus +to build Fame’s monument above<br /> +The grave of my departed hope and love.<br /> +This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings<br /> +And soars beyond itself, or selfish things.<br /> +Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross,<br /> +Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss,<br /> +Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition,<br /> +Before it labours onward to fruition.</p> +<p class="poetry">But, as the lark from beds of bloom will +rise<br /> +And sail and sing among the very skies,<br /> +Still mounting near and nearer to the light,<br /> +Impelled alone by love of upward flight,<br /> +So Genius soars—it does not need to climb—<br /> +Upon God-given wings, to heights sublime.<br /> +Some sportman’s shot, grazing the singer’s throat,<br +/> +Some venomous assault of birds of prey,<br /> +May speed its flight toward the realm of day,<br /> +And tinge with triumph every liquid note.<br /> +So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet,<br /> +When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no balking Genius. Only death<br +/> +Can silence it, or hinder. While there’s breath<br /> +Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod,<br /> +And lift itself to glory, and to God.<br /> +<a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>The +acorn sprouted—weeds nor flowers can choke<br /> +The certain growth of th’ upreaching oak.</p> +<p class="poetry">Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind<br /> +Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind<br /> +Its selfish love and sorrow.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Did +I strive<br /> +To picture some emotion, lo! <i>his</i> eyes,<br /> +Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes,<br /> +Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain<br /> +Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive.<br /> +Whate’er my subject, in some hue or line,<br /> +The glorious beauty of his face would shine.</p> +<p class="poetry">So for a time my labour seemed in vain,<br /> +Since it but freshened, and made keener yet,<br /> +The grief my heart was striving to forget.<br /> +While in his form all strength and magnitude<br /> +With grace and supple sinews were entwined,<br /> +While in his face all beauties were combined<br /> +Of perfect features, intellect and truth,<br /> +With all that fine rich colouring of youth,<br /> +How could my brush portray aught good or fair<br /> +Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude<br /> +Of him my soul had worshipped?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But, +at last,<br /> +Setting a watch upon my unwise heart,<br /> +<a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>That +thus would mix its sorrow with my art,<br /> +I resolutely shut away the past,<br /> +And made the toilsome present passing bright<br /> +With dreams of what was hidden from my sight<br /> +In the far distant future, when the soil<br /> +Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.</p> +<h3>PART VII</h3> +<p class="poetry">With much hard labour and some pleasure +fraught,<br /> +The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught<br /> +My hand to grow more skilful in its art,<br /> +Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought<br /> +Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Brief letters came from Helen, now and then:<br +/> +She was quite well—oh yes! quite well, indeed!<br /> +But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by,<br /> +When baby, being older, should not need<br /> +Such constant care, she would grow strong again.<br /> +She was as happy as a soul could be;<br /> +No least cloud hovered in her azure sky;<br /> +She had not thought life held such depths of bliss.<br /> +Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss,<br /> +And said she was a naughty, naughty girl,<br /> +Not to come home and see ma’s little pearl.<br /> +<a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>No gift +of costly jewels, or of gold,<br /> +Had been so precious or so dear to me,<br /> +As each brief line wherein her joy was told.<br /> +It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain,<br /> +Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, +where<br /> +He built a pretty villa-like retreat.<br /> +And when the Roman Summer’s languid heat<br /> +Made work a punishment, I turned my face<br /> +Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace<br /> +Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was a willing worker. Not an hour<br /> +Passed idly by me: each, I would employ<br /> +To some good purpose, ere it glided on<br /> +To swell the tide of hours forever gone.<br /> +My first completed picture, known as “Joy,”<br /> +Won pleasant words of praise. “Possesses +power,”<br /> +“Displays much talent,” “Very fairly +done.”<br /> +So fell the comments on my grateful ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near,<br +/> +Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush<br /> +Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed,<br /> +With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush<br /> +Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried.<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>The +careful study of long months, it won<br /> +Golden opinions; even bringing forth<br /> +That certain sign of merit—a critique<br /> +Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak<br /> +As empty heads that sang their praises—so<br /> +Proving conclusively the pictures’ worth.<br /> +These critics and reviewers do not use<br /> +Their precious ammunition to abuse<br /> +A worthless work. That, left alone, they know<br /> +Will find its proper level; and they aim<br /> +Their batteries at rising works which claim<br /> +Too much of public notice. But this shot<br /> +Resulted only in some noise, which brought<br /> +A dozen people, where one came before,<br /> +To view my pictures; and I had my hour<br /> +Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow’r.<br /> +An English Baron who had lived two score<br /> +Of his allotted three score years and ten<br /> +Bought both the pieces. He was very kind,<br /> +And so attentive, I, not being blind,<br /> +Must understand his meaning.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Therefore, +when<br /> +He said,<br /> + “Sweet friend, whom I would +make my wife,<br /> +The ‘Joy’ and ‘Sorrow’ this dear hand +portrayed<br /> +I have in my possession: now resign<br /> +Into my careful keeping, and make mine,<br /> +The joy and sorrow of your future life,”—<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>I was +prepared to answer, but delayed,<br /> +Grown undecided suddenly.</p> +<p class="poetry"> My mind<br +/> +Argued the matter coolly pro and con,<br /> +And made resolve to speed his wooing on<br /> +And grant him favour. He was good and kind;<br /> +Not young, no doubt he would be quite content<br /> +With my respect, nor miss an ardent love;<br /> +Could give me ties of family and home;<br /> +And then, perhaps, my mind was not above<br /> +Setting some value on a titled name—<br /> +Ambitious woman’s weakness!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then my +art<br /> +Would be encouraged and pursued the same,<br /> +And I could spend my winters all in Rome.<br /> +Love never more could touch my wasteful heart<br /> +That all its wealth upon one object spent.<br /> +Existence would be very bleak and cold,<br /> +After long years, when I was gray and old,<br /> +With neither home nor children.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Once a +wife,<br /> +I would forget the sorrow of my life,<br /> +And pile new sods upon the grave of pain.<br /> +My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard,<br /> +But made no comment.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then the +Baron spoke,<br /> +And waited for my answer. All in vain<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>I strove +for strength to utter that one word<br /> +My mind dictated. Moments rolled away—<br /> +Until at last my torpid heart awoke,<br /> +And forced my trembling lips to say him nay.<br /> +And then my eyes with sudden tears o’erran,<br /> +In pity for myself and for this man<br /> +Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise.<br /> +“Dear friend,” I cried, “dear generous friend, +forgive<br /> +A troubled woman’s weakness! As I live,<br /> +In truth I meant to answer otherwise.<br /> +From out its store, my heart can give you naught<br /> +But honour and respect; and yet methought<br /> +I would give willing answer, did you sue.<br /> +But now I know ’twere cruel wrong I planned—<br /> +Taking a heart that beat with love most true,<br /> +And giving in exchange an empty hand.<br /> +Who weds for love alone, may not be wise:<br /> +Who weds without it, angels must despise.<br /> +Love and respect together must combine<br /> +To render marriage holy and divine;<br /> +And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys<br /> +Continuation of the nuptial joys,<br /> +And brings regret, and gloomy discontent<br /> +To put to rout each tender sentiment.<br /> +Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life<br /> +By that possession—an unloving wife;<br /> +<a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>Nor will +I take the sin upon my soul<br /> +Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole.<br /> +However bleak may be my single lot,<br /> +I will not stain my life with such a blot.<br /> +Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide;<br /> +It holds some fairer woman for your bride;<br /> +I would I had a heart to give to you,<br /> +But, lacking it, can only say—adieu!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He whom temptation never has assailed,<br /> +Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength;<br /> +When sorely tried, we waver, but at length,<br /> +Rise up and turn away, not having failed.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">The Autumn of the third year came and went;<br +/> +The mild Italian winter was half spent,<br /> +When this brief message came across the sea:<br /> +“My darling! I am dying. Come to me.<br /> +Love, which so long the growing truth concealed,<br /> +Stands pale within its shadow. Oh, my sweet!<br /> +This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat—<br /> +Dying with very weight of bliss. Oh, come!<br /> +And take the legacy I leave to you,<br /> +Before these lips for evermore are dumb.<br /> +In life or death,—Yours, Helen Dangerfield.”<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>This +plaintive letter bore a month old date;<br /> +And, wild with fears lest I had come too late,<br /> +I bade the old world and new friends adieu,<br /> +And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home,<br /> +I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.</p> +<p class="poetry">All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild +fear<br /> +That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled,<br /> +Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear,<br /> +Was passing from me; that she might be dead;<br /> +And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me,<br /> +Because I made no answer to her plea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly +on,<br /> +Make haste before a wasting life is gone!<br /> +Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath!<br /> +And true in life, be true e’en unto death.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O, ship, sail on! and bear me o’er +the tide<br /> +To her for whom my woman’s heart once died.<br /> +Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me,<br /> +And I would know what her last wish may be!<br /> +I have been true, so true, through all the past.<br /> +Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So prayed my heart still o’er, and ever +o’er,<br /> +Until the weary lagging ship reached shore.<br /> +<a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>All sad +with fears that I had come too late,<br /> +By that strange source whence men communicate,<br /> +Though miles on miles of space between them lie,<br /> +I spoke with Vivian: “Does she live? Reply.”<br +/> +The answer came. “She lives, but hasten, friend!<br +/> +Her journey draweth swiftly to its end.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot,<br /> +My own dear home, the lane that led to his—<br /> +The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight,<br /> +Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might;<br /> +Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot,<br /> +But those sweet early years of lost delight,<br /> +Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have a theory, vague, undefined,<br /> +That each emotion of the human mind,<br /> +Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair,<br /> +Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air,<br /> +Until it takes possession of some breast;<br /> +And, when at length, grown weary of unrest,<br /> +We rise up strong and cast it from the heart,<br /> +And bid it leave us wholly, and depart,<br /> +It does not die, it cannot die; but goes<br /> +And mingles with some restless wind that blows<br /> +About the region where it had its birth.<br /> +And though we wander over all the earth,<br /> +<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>That +spirit waits, and lingers, year by year,<br /> +Invisible and clothèd like the air,<br /> +Hoping that we may yet again draw near,<br /> +And it may haply take us unaware,<br /> +And once more find safe shelter in the breast<br /> +It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Told by my heart, and wholly positive,<br /> +Some old emotion long had ceased to live;<br /> +That, were it called, it could not hear or come,<br /> +Because it was so voiceless and so dumb,<br /> +Yet, passing where it first sprang into life,<br /> +My very soul has suddenly been rife<br /> +With all the old intensity of feeling.<br /> +It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing<br /> +Into my heart from that departed day;<br /> +Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.</p> +<p class="poetry">So now into my troubled heart, above<br /> +The present’s pain and sorrow, crept the love<br /> +And strife and passion of a bygone hour,<br /> +Possessed of all their olden might and power.<br /> +’Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken<br /> +By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken,<br /> +And Vivian stood before us.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +I saw<br /> +In him the husband of my friend alone.<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>The old +emotions might at times return,<br /> +And smould’ring fires leap up an hour and burn;<br /> +But never yet had I transgressed God’s law,<br /> +By looking on the man I had resigned,<br /> +With any hidden feeling in my mind,<br /> +Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known<br /> +He was but little altered. From his face<br /> +The nonchalant and almost haughty grace,<br /> +The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes,<br /> +The years had stolen, leaving in their place<br /> +A settled sadness, which was not despair,<br /> +Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care,<br /> +But something like the vapour o’er the skies<br /> +Of Indian summer, beautiful to see,<br /> +But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be.<br /> +There was that in his face which cometh not,<br /> +Save when the soul has many a battle fought,<br /> +And conquered self by constant sacrifice.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are two sculptors, who, with chisels +fine,<br /> +Render the plainest features half divine.<br /> +All other artists strive and strive in vain,<br /> +To picture beauty perfect and complete.<br /> +Their statues only crumble at their feet,<br /> +Without the master touch of Faith and Pain.<br /> +And now his face, that perfect seemed before,<br /> +Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore<br /> +<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>A look +exalted, which the spirit gives<br /> +When soul has conquered, and the body lives<br /> +Subservient to its bidding.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> In +a room<br /> +Which curtained out the February gloom,<br /> +And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers,<br /> +Rested the eye like one of Summer’s bowers,<br /> +I found my Helen, who was less mine now<br /> +Than Death’s; for on the marble of her brow<br /> +His seal was stamped indelibly.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Her +form<br /> +Was like the slender willow, when some storm<br /> +Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face,<br /> +Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue:<br /> +And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place,<br /> +Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue.<br /> +Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein,<br /> +And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain<br /> +Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light<br /> +Shone through and made her wasted features bright<br /> +With an unearthly beauty; and an awe<br /> +Crept o’er me, gazing on her, for I saw<br /> +She was so near to Heaven that I seemed<br /> +To look upon the face of one redeemed.<br /> +She turned the brilliant lustre of her eyes<br /> +Upon me. She had passed beyond surprise,<br /> +<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Or any +strong emotion linked with clay.<br /> +But as I glided to her where she lay,<br /> +A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed<br /> +Her pallid features. “Welcome home!” she +breathed<br /> +“Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and +rejoice.”<br /> +And like the dying echo of a voice<br /> +Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">I fell upon my knees beside her bed;<br /> +All agonies within my heart were wed,<br /> +While to the aching numbness of my grief,<br /> +Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear,—<br /> +The tortured soul’s most merciful relief.<br /> +Her wasted hand caressed my bended head<br /> +For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said,<br /> +In that low tone so like the wind’s refrain,<br /> +“Maurine, my own! give not away to pain;<br /> +The time is precious. Ere another dawn<br /> +My soul may hear the summons and pass on.<br /> +Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while,<br /> +And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak<br /> +With every hour that passes. I must speak<br /> +And make my dying wishes known to-night.<br /> +Go now.” And in the halo of her smile,<br /> +Which seemed to fill the room with golden light,<br /> +I turned and left her.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>Later, in +the gloom<br /> +Of coming night, I entered that dim room,<br /> +And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand:<br /> +And on the pillow at her side there smiled<br /> +The beauteous count’nance of a sleeping child.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Maurine,” spoke Helen, “for +three blissful years,<br /> +My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land;<br /> +And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy,<br /> +Without one drop of anguish or alloy.<br /> +And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall,<br /> +Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears,<br /> +And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all<br /> +Who linger long upon this troubled way,<br /> +God takes me to the realm of Endless Day,<br /> +To mingle with His angels, who alone<br /> +Can understand such bliss as I have known.<br /> +I do not murmur. God has heaped my measure,<br /> +In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure;<br /> +And, from the fulness of an earthly love,<br /> +I pass to th’ Immortal Arms above,<br /> +Before I even brush the skirts of Woe.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I leave my aged parents here below,<br +/> +With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend!<br /> +Be kind to them, and love them to the end,<br /> +<a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>Which +may not be far distant.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +I leave<br /> +A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine.<br /> +From this most holy, sad and sacred eve,<br /> +Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep,<br /> +To love and shelter, to protect and guide.”<br /> +She touched the slumb’ring cherub at her side,<br /> +And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep,<br /> +And laid the precious burden on my breast.</p> +<p class="poetry">A solemn silence fell upon the scene.<br /> +And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed<br /> +My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek,<br /> +I felt it would be sacrilege to speak,<br /> +Such wordless joy possessed me.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Oh! +at last<br /> +This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past,<br /> +Had caused my soul such travail, was my own:<br /> +Through all the lonely coming years to be<br /> +Mine own to cherish—wholly mine alone.<br /> +And what I mourned so hopelessly as lost<br /> +Was now restored, and given back to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">The dying voice continued:<br /> + “In this +child<br /> +You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost.<br /> +But all that was most pure and undefiled,<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>And good +within me, lives in her again.<br /> +Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know,<br /> +Moving about the wide world, to and fro,<br /> +And through, and in the busy haunts of men,<br /> +Not always will his heart be dumb with woe,<br /> +But sometime waken to a later love.<br /> +Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed above<br /> +All selfish feelings! I would have it so.<br /> +While I am with the angels, blest and glad,<br /> +I would not have you sorrowing and sad,<br /> +In loneliness go mourning to the end.<br /> +But, love! I could not trust to any other<br /> +The sacred office of a foster-mother<br /> +To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Teach her to love her father’s +name, Maurine,<br /> +Where’er he wanders. Keep my memory green<br /> +In her young heart, and lead her in her youth,<br /> +To drink from th’ eternal fount of Truth;<br /> +Vex her not with sectarian discourse,<br /> +Nor strive to teach her piety by force;<br /> +Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds,<br /> +Nor frighten her with an avenging God,<br /> +Who rules His subjects with a burning rod;<br /> +But teach her that each mortal simply needs<br /> +To grow in hate of hate and love of love,<br /> +To gain a kingdom in the courts above.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>“Let her be free and natural as the flowers,<br +/> +That smile and nod throughout the summer hours.<br /> +Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth,<br /> +But first impress upon her mind this truth:<br /> +No lasting happiness is e’er attained<br /> +Save when the heart some <i>other</i> seeks to please.<br /> +The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained,<br /> +And full of gall and bitterness the lees.<br /> +Next to her God, teach her to love her land;<br /> +In her young bosom light the patriot’s flame<br /> +Until the heart within her shall expand<br /> +With love and fervour at her country’s name.</p> +<p class="poetry">“No coward-mother bears a valiant son.<br +/> +And this, my last wish, is an earnest one.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Maurine, my o’er-taxed strength is +waning; you<br /> +Have heard my wishes, and you will be true<br /> +In death as you have been in life, my own!<br /> +Now leave me for a little while alone<br /> +With him—my husband. Dear love! I shall rest<br +/> +So sweetly with no care upon my breast.<br /> +Good-night, Maurine, come to me in the morning.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But lo! the Bridegroom with no further +warning<br /> +Came for her at the dawning of the day.<br /> +<a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>She +heard His voice, and smiled, and passed away<br /> +Without a struggle.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Leaning +o’er her bed<br /> +To give her greeting, I found but her clay,<br /> +And Vivian bowed beside it.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +I said,<br /> +“Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request,<br /> +And when the night of fever and unrest<br /> +Melts in the morning of Eternity,<br /> +Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come to thee in the morning, +sweet!<br /> +I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet<br /> +Before God’s throne, and shall not be afraid.<br /> +Thou gav’st me trust, and it was not betrayed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come to thee in the morning, +dear!<br /> +The night is dark. I do not know how near<br /> +The morn may be of that Eternal Day;<br /> +I can but keep my faithful watch and pray.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come to thee in the morning, +love!<br /> +Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above.<br /> +The way is troubled where my feet must climb,<br /> +Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come in the morning, O mine +own;<br /> +But for a time must grope my way alone,<br /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>Through +tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn,<br /> +And I shall hear the summons, and pass on.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come in the morning. Rest +secure!<br /> +My hope is certain and my faith is sure.<br /> +After the gloom and darkness of the night<br /> +I will come to thee with the morning light.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Three peaceful years slipped silently away.</p> +<p class="poetry">We dwelt together in my childhood’s +home,<br /> +Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May.<br /> +She was a fair and most exquisite child;<br /> +Her pensive face was delicate and mild<br /> +Like her dead mother’s; but through her dear eyes<br /> +Her father smiled upon me, day by day.<br /> +Afar in foreign countries did he roam,<br /> +Now resting under Italy’s blue skies,<br /> +And now with Roy in Scotland.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +he sent<br /> +Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went<br /> +And what he saw, addressed to May or me.<br /> +And I would write and tell him how she grew—<br /> +And how she talked about him o’er the sea<br /> +In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew<br /> +His picture in the album; how each day<br /> +She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring<br /> +Her own papa back to his little May.<br /> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>It was a +warm bright morning in the Spring.<br /> +I sat in that same sunny portico,<br /> +Where I was sitting seven years ago<br /> +When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears,<br /> +As I looked back across the checkered years.<br /> +How many were the changes they had brought!<br /> +Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught<br /> +To my young heart had been of untold worth.<br /> +I had learned how to “suffer and grow +strong”—<br /> +That knowledge which best serves us here on earth,<br /> +And brings reward in Heaven.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Oh! +how long<br /> +The years had been since that June morning when<br /> +I heard his step upon the walk, and yet<br /> +I seemed to hear its echo still.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Just +then<br /> +Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet,<br /> +And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land<br /> +Stood there before me!—holding out his hand<br /> +And smiling with those wond’rous eyes of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">To hide my tears, I ran and brought his +child;<br /> +But she was shy, and clung to me, when told<br /> +This was papa, for whom her prayers were said.<br /> +She dropped her eyes and shook her little head,<br /> +And would not by his coaxing be beguiled,<br /> +Or go to him.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>Aunt Ruth +was not at home,<br /> +And we two sat and talked, as strangers might,<br /> +Of distant countries which we both had seen.<br /> +But once I thought I saw his large eyes light<br /> +With sudden passion, when there came a pause<br /> +In our chit-chat, and then he spoke:</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Maurine,<br +/> +I saw a number of your friends in Rome.<br /> +We talked of you. They seemed surprised, because<br /> +You were not ’mong the seekers for a name.<br /> +They thought your whole ambition was for fame.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It might have been,” I answered, +“when my heart<br /> +Had nothing else to fill it. Now my art<br /> +Is but a recreation. I have <i>this</i><br /> +To love and live for, which I had not then.”<br /> +And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss<br /> +Upon my child’s fair brow.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “And +yet,” he said,<br /> +The old light leaping to his eyes again,<br /> +“And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed<br /> +A noble Baron! one of many men<br /> +Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet.<br /> +Why won the bravest of them no return?”<br /> +<a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>I bowed +my head, nor dared his gaze to meet.<br /> +On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn,<br /> +And strong emotion strangled speech.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +rose<br /> +And came and knelt beside me.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Sweet, +my sweet!”<br /> +He murmured softly, “God in Heaven knows<br /> +How well I loved you seven years ago.<br /> +He only knows my anguish, and my grief,<br /> +When your own acts forced on me the belief<br /> +That I had been your plaything and your toy.<br /> +Yet from his lips I since have learned that Roy<br /> +Held no place nearer than a friend and brother.<br /> +And then a faint suspicion, undefined,<br /> +Of what had been—was—might be, stirred my mind,<br /> +And that great love, I thought died at a blow,<br /> +Rose up within me, strong with hope and life.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Before all heaven and the angel +mother<br /> +Of this sweet child that slumbers on your heart,<br /> +Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife—<br /> +Mine own, forever, until death shall part!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Through happy mists of upward welling tears,<br +/> +I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes.<br /> +“Dear heart,” I said, “if she who dwells +above<br /> +Looks down upon us, from yon azure skies,<br /> +<a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>She can +but bless us, knowing all these years<br /> +My soul had yearned in silence for the love<br /> +That crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak.<br /> +I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake.<br /> +For her sweet child’s, and for my own, I take<br /> +You back to be all mine, for evermore.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Just then the child upon my breast awoke<br /> +From her light sleep, and laid her downy cheek<br /> +Against her father as he knelt by me.<br /> +And this unconscious action seemed to be<br /> +A silent blessing, which the mother spoke<br /> +Gazing upon us from the mystic shore.</p> +<h2><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>ALL +ROADS THAT LEAD TO GOD ARE GOOD</h2> +<p class="poetry">All roads that lead to God are good.<br /> + What matters it, your faith, or mine?<br /> + Both centre at the goal divine<br /> +Of love’s eternal Brotherhood.</p> +<p class="poetry">The kindly life in house or street—<br /> + The life of prayer and mystic rite—<br /> + The student’s search for truth and +light—<br /> +These paths at one great Junction meet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Before the oldest book was writ,<br /> + Full many a prehistoric soul<br /> + Arrived at this unchanging goal,<br /> +Through changeless Love, that leads to it.</p> +<p class="poetry">What matters that one found his Christ<br /> + In rising sun, or burning fire?<br /> + If faith within him did not tire,<br /> +His longing for the Truth sufficed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>Before our modern hell was brought<br /> + To edify the modern world,<br /> + Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled<br /> +In lakes of fire by its own thought.</p> +<p class="poetry">A thousand creeds have come and gone,<br /> + But what is that to you or me?<br /> + Creeds are but branches of a tree—<br /> +The root of love lives on and on.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though branch by branch proves withered +wood,<br /> + The root is warm with precious wine.<br /> + Then keep your faith and leave me mine—<br /> +All roads that lead to God are good.</p> +<h2><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>DUST-SEALED</h2> +<p class="poetry">I know not wherefore, but mine eyes<br /> + See bloom, where other eyes see blight.<br /> +They find a rainbow, a sunrise,<br /> + Where others but discern deep night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Men call me an enthusiast,<br /> + And say I look through gilded haze:<br /> +Because where’er my gaze is cast,<br /> + I see something that calls for praise.</p> +<p class="poetry">I say, “Behold those lovely +eyes—<br /> + That tinted cheek of flower-like grace.”<br /> +They answer in amused surprise:<br /> + “We thought it a common face.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I say, “Was ever seen more fair?<br /> + I seem to walk in Eden’s bowers.”<br /> +They answer, with a pitying air,<br /> + “The weeds are choking out the +flowers.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>I know not wherefore, but God lent<br /> + A deeper vision to my sight.<br /> +On whatsoe’er my gaze is bent<br /> + I catch the beauty Infinite;</p> +<p class="poetry">That underlying, hidden half<br /> + That all things hold of Deity.<br /> +So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh—<br /> + Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.</p> +<h2><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>“ADVICE”</h2> +<p class="poetry">I must do as you do? Your way I own<br /> + Is a very good way. And still,<br /> +There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,<br /> + One over, one under the hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">You are treading the safe and the well-worn +way,<br /> + That the prudent choose each time;<br /> +And you think me reckless and rash to-day,<br /> + Because I prefer to climb.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your path is the right one, and so is mine.<br +/> + We are not like peas in a pod,<br /> +Compelled to lie in a certain line,<br /> + Or else be scattered abroad.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twere a dull old world, methinks, my +friend,<br /> + If we all went just one way;<br /> +Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,<br /> + Though they lead apart to-day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>You like the shade, and I like the sun;<br /> + You like an even pace,<br /> +I like to mix with the crowd and run,<br /> + And then rest after the race.</p> +<p class="poetry">I like danger, and storm and strife,<br /> + You like a peaceful time;<br /> +I like the passion and surge of life,<br /> + You like its gentle rhyme.</p> +<p class="poetry">You like buttercups, dewy sweet,<br /> + And crocuses, framed in snow;<br /> +I like roses, born of the heat,<br /> + And the red carnation’s glow.</p> +<p class="poetry">I must live my life, not yours, my friend,<br +/> + For so it was written down;<br /> +We must follow our given paths to the end,<br /> + But I trust we shall meet—in town.</p> +<h2><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>OVER +THE BANISTERS</h2> +<p class="poetry">Over the banisters bends a face,<br /> + Daringly sweet and beguiling.<br /> +Somebody stands in careless grace<br /> + And watching the picture, smiling.</p> +<p class="poetry">The light burns dim in the hall below,<br /> + Nobody sees her standing,<br /> +Saying good-night again, soft and low,<br /> + Halfway up to the landing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nobody only the eyes of brown,<br /> + Tender and full of meaning,<br /> +That smile on the fairest face in town,<br /> + Over the banisters leaning.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tired and sleepy, with drooping head,<br /> + I wonder why she lingers;<br /> +Now, when the good-nights all are said,<br /> + Why, somebody holds her fingers.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>He holds her fingers and draws her down,<br /> + Suddenly growing bolder,<br /> +Till the loose hair drops its masses brown<br /> + Like a mantle over his shoulder.</p> +<p class="poetry">Over the banisters soft hands, fair,<br /> + Brush his cheeks like a feather,<br /> +And bright brown tresses and dusky hair<br /> + Meet and mingle together.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s a question asked, there’s a +swift caress,<br /> + She has flown like a bird from the hallway,<br /> +But over the banisters drops a “Yes,”<br /> + That shall brighten the world for him alway.</p> +<h2><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>THE +PAST</h2> +<p class="poetry">I fling my past behind me like a robe<br /> +Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.<br /> +I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep<br /> +And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes<br /> +Of Oriental splendour, or complain<br /> +That I must needs discard it? I can weave<br /> +Upon the shuttles of the future years<br /> +A fabric far more durable. Subdued,<br /> +It may be, in the blending of its hues,<br /> +Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam<br /> +Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,<br /> +While over all a fadeless lustre lies,<br /> +And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,<br /> +My new robe shall be richer than the old.</p> +<h2><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>SECRETS</h2> +<p class="poetry">Think not some knowledge rests with thee +alone;<br /> + Why, even God’s stupendous secret, Death,<br +/> + We one by one, with our expiring breath,<br /> +Do pale with wonder seize and make our own;<br /> +The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown,<br /> + Despite her careful hiding; and the air<br /> + Yields its mysterious marvels in despair<br /> +To swell the mighty store-house of things known.<br /> +In vain the sea expostulates and raves;<br /> + It cannot cover from the keen world’s sight<br +/> + The curious wonders of its coral caves.<br /> +And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,<br /> +The prying fingers of detective years<br /> + Shall drag <i>thy</i> secret out into the light.</p> +<h2><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>APPLAUSE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I hold it one of the sad certain laws<br /> +Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind<br /> +Than that success which brings sure loss behind—<br /> +True greatness dies, when sounds the world’s applause<br /> +Fame blights the object it would bless, because<br /> + Weighed down with men’s expectancy, the +mind<br /> + Can no more soar to those far heights, and find<br +/> +That freedom which its inspiration was.<br /> +When once we listen to its noisy cheers<br /> + Or hear the populace’ approval, then<br /> +We catch no more the music of the spheres,<br /> + Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men.<br /> +Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears,<br /> +The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.</p> +<h2><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>THE +STORY</h2> +<p class="poetry">They met each other in the glade—<br /> + She lifted up her eyes;<br /> +Alack the day! Alack the maid!<br /> + She blushed in swift surprise.<br /> +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pail was full, the path was steep—<br +/> + He reached to her his hand;<br /> +She felt her warm young pulses leap,<br /> + But did not understand.<br /> +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">She sat beside him in the wood—<br /> + He wooed with words and sighs;<br /> +Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good,<br /> + And maidens are not wise.<br /> +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>The summer sun shone fairly down,<br /> + The wind blew from the south;<br /> +As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,<br /> + His kiss fell on her mouth.<br /> +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now the autumn time is near,<br /> + The lover roves away,<br /> +With breaking heart and falling tear,<br /> + She sits the livelong day.<br /> +Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.</p> +<h2><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>LEAN +DOWN</h2> +<p class="poetry">Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine!<br /> +From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen<br /> +How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings,<br /> +I cannot grasp at once those better things<br /> +To which I in my inmost soul aspire.<br /> +Lean down and lift me higher.</p> +<p class="poetry">I grope along—not desolate or sad,<br /> +For youth and hope and health all keep me glad;<br /> +But too bright sunlight, sometimes, makes us blind,<br /> +And I do grope for heights I cannot find.<br /> +Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire—<br /> +Lean down and lift me higher.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not long ago we trod the self-same way.<br /> +Thou knowest how, from day to fleeting day<br /> +Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet<br /> +Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet,<br /> +But only served to hinder and to tire;<br /> +Lean down and lift me higher.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene,<br /> +And left me here, my loved one, Josephine;<br /> +I am content to stay until the end,<br /> +For life is full of promise; but, my friend,<br /> +Canst thou not help me in my best desire<br /> +And lean, and lift me higher?</p> +<p class="poetry">Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and +wise,<br /> +And quick to understand and sympathize<br /> +With all a full soul’s needs. It must be so,<br /> +Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know<br /> +Thou must see how I struggle and aspire—<br /> +Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire,<br /> +And lean, and lift me higher.</p> +<h2><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>LIFE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I feel the great immensity of life.<br /> +All little aims slip from me, and I reach<br /> +My yearning soul toward the Infinite.</p> +<p class="poetry">As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves<br +/> +Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower<br /> +For lovers’ secrets, or for children’s sports,<br /> +Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds,<br /> +And lets the eye behold it, limitless,<br /> +And full of winding mysteries of ways:<br /> +So now with life that reaches out before,<br /> +And borders on the unexplained Beyond.</p> +<p class="poetry">I see the stars above me, world on world:<br /> +I hear the awful language of all Space;<br /> +I feel the distant surging of great seas,<br /> +That hide the secrets of the Universe<br /> +In their eternal bosoms; and I know<br /> +That I am but an atom of the Whole.</p> +<h2><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>THE +CHRISTIAN’S NEW YEAR PRAYER</h2> +<p class="poetry">Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low +bending<br /> + Through these glad New Year days,<br /> +To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending—<br /> + For e’en hard hearts do raise<br /> +Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power,<br /> + Or freedom from all care—<br /> +Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour,<br /> + Hear now a Christian’s prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let this young year that, silent, walks beside +me,<br /> + Be as a means of grace<br /> +To lead me up, no matter what betide me,<br /> + Nearer the Master’s face.<br /> +If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain<br /> + Where living waters play,<br /> +My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain,<br /> + Then cast them in my way.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses<br /> + To shape it for Thy crown,<br /> +Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses,<br /> + With sorrows bear it down.<br /> +Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure,<br /> + And if I should complain,<br /> +Heap full of anguish yet another measure<br /> + Until I smile at pain.<br /> +Send dangers—deaths! but tell me how to dare them;<br /> + Enfold me in Thy care.<br /> +Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them—<br +/> +This is a Christian’s prayer.</p> +<h2><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>IN +THE NIGHT</h2> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes at night, when I sit and write,<br /> + I hear the strangest things,—<br /> +As my brain grows hot with burning thought,<br /> + That struggles for form and wings,<br /> +I can hear the beat of my swift blood’s feet,<br /> + As it speeds with a rush and a whir<br /> +From heart to brain and back again,<br /> + Like a race-horse under the spur.</p> +<p class="poetry">With my soul’s fine ear I listen and +hear<br /> + The tender Silence speak,<br /> +As it leans on the breast of Night to rest,<br /> + And presses his dusky cheek.<br /> +And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns<br /> + For something that is kin;<br /> +And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss,<br /> + As it folds and fondles Sin.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>In its hurrying race through leagues of space,<br /> + I can hear the Earth catch breath,<br /> +As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans,<br /> + And longs for the rest of Death.<br /> +And high and far, from a distant star,<br /> + Whose name is unknown to me,<br /> +I hear a voice that says, “Rejoice,<br /> + For I keep ward o’er thee!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that +range<br /> + Through the chambers of the night;<br /> +And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates<br /> + May hear, if he lists aright.</p> +<h2><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>GOD’S MEASURE</h2> +<p class="poetry">God measures souls by their capacity<br /> +For entertaining his best Angel, Love.<br /> +Who loveth most is nearest kin to God,<br /> +Who is all Love, or Nothing.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +who sits<br /> +And looks out on the palpitating world,<br /> +And feels his heart swell within him large enough<br /> +To hold all men within it, he is near<br /> +His great Creator’s standard, though he dwells<br /> +Outside the pale of churches, and knows not<br /> +A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line<br /> +Of Scripture even. What God wants of us<br /> +Is that outreaching bigness that ignores<br /> +All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds,<br /> +And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.</p> +<h2><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>A +MARCH SNOW</h2> +<p class="poetry">Let the old snow be covered with the new:<br /> +The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.<br /> +Let it be hidden wholly from our view<br /> + By pure white flakes, all trackless and +untrodden.<br /> +When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring’s feet,<br /> +Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.<br /> +Let the old life be covered by the new:<br /> + The old past life so full of sad mistakes,<br /> +Let it be wholly hidden from the view<br /> + By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.<br /> +Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring<br /> +Let the white mantle of repentance fling<br /> +Soft drapery about it, fold on fold,<br /> +Even as the new snow covers up the old.</p> +<h2><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>PHILOSOPHY</h2> +<p class="poetry">At morn the wise man walked abroad,<br /> + Proud with the learning of great fools.<br /> +He laughed and said, “There is no God—<br /> + ’Tis force creates, ’tis reason +rules.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Meek with the wisdom of great faith,<br /> + At night he knelt while angels smiled,<br /> +And wept and cried with anguished breath,<br /> + “Jehovah, <i>God</i>, save Thou my +child.”</p> +<h2><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>“CARLOS”</h2> +<p class="poetry">Last night I knelt low at my lady’s +feet.<br /> +One soft, caressing hand played with my hair,<br /> +And one I kissed and fondled. Kneeling there,<br /> +I deemed my meed of happiness complete.</p> +<p class="poetry">She was so fair, so full of witching +wiles—<br /> +Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye;<br /> +So womanly withal, but not too shy—<br /> +And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead +sent,<br /> +Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness<br /> +Through all my frame. I trembled with excess<br /> +Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content.</p> +<p class="poetry">When any mortal dares to so rejoice,<br /> +I think a jealous Heaven, bending low,<br /> +Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow.<br /> +Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady’s voice.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>“My love!” she sighed, “my +Carlos!” even now<br /> +I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath<br /> +Bearing to me those words of living death,<br /> +And starting out the cold drops on my brow.</p> +<p class="poetry">For I am <i>Paul</i>—not Carlos! +Who is he<br /> +That, in the supreme hour of love’s delight,<br /> +Veiled by the shadows of the falling night,<br /> +She should breathe low his name, forgetting me?</p> +<p class="poetry">I will not ask her! ’twere a fruitless +task,<br /> +For, woman-like, she would make me believe<br /> +Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve,<br /> +And call me cruel. Nay, I will not ask.</p> +<p class="poetry">But this man Carlos, whosoe’er he be,<br +/> +Has turned my cup of nectar into gall,<br /> +Since I know he has claimed some one or all<br /> +Of these delights my lady grants to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad<br /> +And tender twilight, when the day grew dim.<br /> +How else could I remind her so of him?<br /> +Why, reveries like these have made men mad!</p> +<p class="poetry">He must have felt her soft hand on his brow.<br +/> +If Heaven were shocked at such presumptuous wrongs,<br /> +And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs,<br /> +<i>Still she remembers</i>, though she loves me now.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if he lives, and meets me to his cost,<br +/> +Why, what avails it? I must hear and see<br /> +That curst name “Carlos” always haunting me—<br +/> +So has another Paradise been lost.</p> +<h2><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>THE +TWO GLASSES</h2> +<p class="poetry">There sat two glasses filled to the brim,<br /> + On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.<br /> + One was ruddy and red as blood,<br /> +And one was clear as the crystal flood.</p> +<p class="poetry">Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,<br +/> +“Let us tell tales of the past to each other;<br /> +I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth,<br /> +Where I was king, for I ruled in might;<br /> +For the proudest and grandest souls on earth<br /> +Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.<br /> +From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;<br /> +From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.<br /> +I have blasted many an honoured name;<br /> +I have taken virtue and given shame;<br /> +I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,<br /> +That has made his future a barren waste.<br /> +Far greater than any king am I,<br /> +Or than any army beneath the sky.<br /> +<a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>I have +made the arm of the driver fail,<br /> +And sent the train from the iron rail.<br /> +I have made good ships go down at sea,<br /> +And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.<br /> +Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;<br /> +And my might and power are over all!<br /> +Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine,<br /> +“Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”<br /> +Said the water-glass: “I cannot boast<br /> +Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,<br /> +But I can tell of hearts that were sad<br /> +By my crystal drops made bright and glad;<br /> +Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;<br /> +Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.<br /> +I have leapt through the valley, dashed down the mountain,<br /> +Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.<br /> +I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,<br /> +And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;<br /> +I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;<br /> +I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.<br /> +I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,<br /> +That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.<br /> +I can tell of manhood debased by you,<br /> +That I have uplifted and crowned anew.<br /> +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>I cheer, +I help, I strengthen and aid;<br /> +I gladden the heart of man and maid;<br /> +I set the wine-chained captive free,<br /> +And all are better for knowing me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">These are the tales they told each other,<br /> +The glass of wine and its paler brother,<br /> +As they sat together, filled to the brim,<br /> +On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.</p> +<h2><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>LA +MORT D’AMOUR</h2> +<p class="poetry">When was it that love died? We were so +fond,<br /> + So very fond a little while ago.<br /> + With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow,<br /> +We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,</p> +<p class="poetry">When we should dwell together as one heart,<br +/> + And scarce could wait that happy time to come.<br /> + Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb,<br /> +And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.</p> +<p class="poetry">How was it that love died? I do not +know.<br /> + I only know that all its grace untold<br /> + Has faded into gray! I miss the gold<br /> +From our dull skies; but did not see it go.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why should love die? We prized it, I am +sure;<br /> + We thought of nothing else when it was ours;<br /> + We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers:<br /> +It was our all; why could it not endure?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>Alas, we know not how, or when, or why<br /> + This dear thing died. We only know it went,<br +/> + And left us dull, cold, and indifferent;<br /> +We who found heaven once in each other’s sigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">How pitiful it is, and yet how true<br /> + That half the lovers in the world, one day,<br /> + Look questioning in each other’s eyes this +way<br /> +And know love’s gone forever, as we do.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear +heart,<br /> + As I look out o’er all the wide, sad earth<br +/> + And see love’s flame gone out on many a +hearth,<br /> +That those who would keep love must dwell apart.</p> +<h2><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>LOVE’S SLEEP<br /> +(Vers de Société)</h2> +<p class="poetry">We’ll cover Love with roses,<br /> + And sweet sleep he shall take<br /> +None but a fool supposes<br /> + Love always keeps awake.<br /> +I’ve known loves without number—<br /> + True loves were they, and tried;<br /> +And just for want of slumber<br /> + They pined away and died.</p> +<p class="poetry">Our love was bright and cheerful<br /> + A little while agone;<br /> +Now he is pale and tearful,<br /> + And—yes, I’ve seen him yawn.<br /> +So tired is he of kisses<br /> + That he can only weep;<br /> +The one dear thing he misses<br /> + And longs for now is sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>We could not let him leave us<br /> + One time, he was so dear,<br /> +But now it would not grieve us<br /> + If he slept half a year.<br /> +For he has had his season,<br /> + Like the lily and the rose,<br /> +And it but stands to reason<br /> + That he should want repose.</p> +<p class="poetry">We prized the smiling Cupid<br /> + Who made our days so bright;<br /> +But he has grown so stupid<br /> + We gladly say good-night.<br /> +And if he wakens tender<br /> + And fond, and fair as when<br /> +He filled our lives with splendour,<br /> + We’ll take him back again.</p> +<p class="poetry">And should he never waken,<br /> + As that perchance may be,<br /> +We will not weep forsaken,<br /> + But sing, “Love, tra-la-lee!”</p> +<h2><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>TRUE +CULTURE</h2> +<p class="poetry">The highest culture is to speak no ill,<br /> +The best reformer is the man whose eyes<br /> +Are quick to see all beauty and all worth;<br /> +And by his own discreet, well-ordered life,<br /> +Alone reproves the erring.</p> +<p class="poetry"> When thy +gaze<br /> +Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe.<br /> +But when it falls upon a fellow-man<br /> +Let kindliness control it; and refrain<br /> +From that belittling censure that springs forth<br /> +From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.</p> +<h2><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>THE +VOLUPTUARY</h2> +<p class="poetry">Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated,<br /> + Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified.<br /> +Life holds no thing to be anticipated,<br /> + And I am sad from being satisfied.</p> +<p class="poetry">The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain<br /> + Has left me now the highest point is gained.<br /> +The crystal spray that fell from Fame’s fair fountain<br /> + Was sweeter than the waters were when drained.</p> +<p class="poetry">The gilded apple which the world calls +pleasure,<br /> + And which I purchased with my youth and strength,<br +/> +Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasure<br /> + Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length.</p> +<p class="poetry">And love, all glowing with a golden glory,<br +/> + Delighted me a season with its tale.<br /> +It pleased the longest, but at last the story,<br /> + So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>I lived for self, and all I asked was given,<br /> + I have had all, and now am sick of bliss,<br /> +No other punishment designed by Heaven<br /> + Could strike me half so forcibly as this.</p> +<p class="poetry">I feel no sense of aught but enervation<br /> + In all the joys my selfish aims have brought,<br /> +And know no wish but for annihilation,<br /> + Since that would give me freedom from the +thought</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated;<br +/> + Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.<br /> +For him there is a hope not yet completed;<br /> + For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">But cursed is he who has no balked ambition,<br +/> + No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair,<br /> +But sick and sated with complete fruition,<br /> + Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.</p> +<h2><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>THE +COQUETTE</h2> +<p class="poetry">Alone she sat with her accusing heart,<br /> + That, like a restless comrade, frightened sleep,<br +/> +And every thought that found her left a dart<br /> + That hurt her so, she could not even weep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her heart that once had been a cup well +filled<br /> + With love’s red wine, save for some drops of +gall,<br /> +She knew was empty; though it had not spilled<br /> + Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.</p> +<p class="poetry">She stood upon the grave of her dead truth,<br +/> + And saw her soul’s bright armour red with +rust,<br /> +And knew that all the riches of her youth<br /> + Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love that had turned to bitter, biting +scorn,<br /> + Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate,<br +/> +Made her cry out that she was ever born<br /> + To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.</p> +<h2><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>IF</h2> +<p class="poetry">Dear love, if you and I could sail away,<br /> + With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled,<br /> +Across the waters of some unknown bay,<br /> + And find some island far from all the world;</p> +<p class="poetry">If we could dwell there, ever more alone,<br /> + While unrecorded years slip by apace,<br /> +Forgetting and forgotten and unknown<br /> + By aught save native song-birds of the place;</p> +<p class="poetry">If Winter never visited that land,<br /> + And Summer’s lap spilled o’er with +fruits and flowers,<br /> +And tropic trees cast shade on every hand,<br /> + And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting +bowers;</p> +<p class="poetry">If from the fashions of the world set free,<br +/> + And hid away from all its jealous strife,<br /> +I lived alone for you, and you for me—<br /> + Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>But since we dwell here in the crowded way,<br /> + Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold,<br +/> +And all is commonplace and workaday,<br /> + As soon as love’s young honeymoon grows +old;</p> +<p class="poetry">Since fashion rules and nature yields to +art,<br /> + And life is hurt by daily jar and fret,<br /> +’Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart<br /> + And go our ways alone, love, and forget.</p> +<h2><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>LOVE’S BURIAL</h2> +<p class="poetry">Let us clear a little space,<br /> +And make Love a burial-place.</p> +<p class="poetry">He is dead, dear, as you see,<br /> +And he wearies you and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Growing heavier, day by day,<br /> +Let us bury him, I say.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wings of dead white butterflies,<br /> +These shall shroud him, as he lies</p> +<p class="poetry">In his casket rich and rare,<br /> +Made of finest maiden-hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">With the pollen of the rose<br /> +Let us his white eyelids close.</p> +<p class="poetry">Put the rose thorn in his hand,<br /> +Shorn of leaves—you understand.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let some holy water fall<br /> +On his dead face, tears of gall—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span>As we kneel by him and say,<br /> +“Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust,<br /> +They will lower him to the dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let us part here with a kiss—<br /> +You go that way, I go this.</p> +<p class="poetry">Since we buried Love to-day<br /> +We will walk a separate way.</p> +<h2><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>LIPPO</h2> +<p class="poetry">Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so,<br +/> +I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise;<br /> +Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes—<br /> +’Twas thine own hand which dealt dear<br /> +Love’s death-blow.</p> +<p class="poetry">I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till +then<br /> +Thy heart was like a covered golden cup<br /> +Always above my eager lip held up.<br /> +I fancied thou wert not as other men.</p> +<p class="poetry">I knew that heart was filled with Love’s +sweet wine,<br /> +Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip<br /> +Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip<br /> +Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup +spilled<br /> +Its precious contents. Even to the lees<br /> +Were offered to me, saying, “Drink of these!”<br /> +And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>No word was left unsaid, no act undone,<br /> +To prove to me thou wert my abject slave.<br /> +Ah! Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save<br /> +One little drop of that sweet wine—but one—</p> +<p class="poetry">I still had loved thee, longing for it then.<br +/> +But even the cup is mine. I look within,<br /> +And find it holds not one last drop to win,<br /> +And cast it down.—Thou art as other men.</p> +<h2><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>“LOVE IS ENOUGH”</h2> +<p class="poetry">Love is enough. Let us not ask for +gold.<br /> + Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and +selfishness;<br /> +In those serene, Arcadian days of old<br /> + Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress,<br +/> +The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia’s height<br /> +Lived only for dear love and love’s delight.<br /> + Love is +enough.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love is enough. Why should we care for +fame?<br /> + Ambition is a most unpleasant guest:<br /> +It lures us with the glory of a name<br /> + Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest.<br /> +Let us stay here in this secluded place<br /> +Made beautiful by love’s endearing grace!<br /> + Love is +enough.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love is enough. Why should we strive for +power?<br /> + It brings men only envy and distrust.<br /> +The poor world’s homage pleases but an hour,<br /> + And earthly honours vanish in the dust.<br /> +<a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>The +grandest lives are ofttimes desolate;<br /> +Let me be loved, and let who will be great.<br /> + Love is +enough.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love is enough. Why should we ask for +more?<br /> + What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?<br /> +What better boon of all their precious store<br /> + Than our fond hearts that love and love again?<br /> +Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;<br /> +And life is fair and all the world complete:<br /> + Love is +enough!</p> +<h2><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>LIFE +IS LOVE</h2> +<p class="poetry">Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?<br /> + Does anyone weep on a day like this,<br /> +With the sun above and the green earth under?<br /> + Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?</p> +<p class="poetry">With the sun and the skies and the birds above +me,<br /> + Birds that sing as they wheel and fly—<br /> +With the winds to follow and say they loved me—<br /> + Who could be lonely? O ho, not I!</p> +<p class="poetry">Somebody said in the street this morning,<br /> + As I opened my window to let in the light,<br /> +That the darkest day of the world was dawning;<br /> + But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight</p> +<p class="poetry">One who claims that he knows about it<br /> + Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin;<br /> +But I and the bees and the birds—we doubt it,<br /> + And think it a world worth living in.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>Someone says that hearts are fickle,<br /> + That love is sorrow, that life is care,<br /> +And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle,<br /> + Gathers whatever is bright and fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">I told the thrush, and we laughed +together—<br /> + Laughed till the woods were all a-ring;<br /> +And he said to me, as he plumed each feather,<br /> + “Well, people must croak, if they cannot +sing!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Up he flew, but his song, remaining,<br /> + Rang like a bell in my heart all day,<br /> +And silenced the voices of weak complaining<br /> + That pipe like insects along the way.</p> +<p class="poetry">O world of light, and O world of beauty!<br /> + Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?<br /> +Yes, life is love, and love is duty;<br /> + And what heart sorrows? O no, not mine!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>THE END</b></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BILLING AND +SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD</span></p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAURINE***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 3665-h.htm or 3665-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/6/6/3665 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.06/12/01*END* +[Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart +and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] +[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales +of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or +software or any other related product without express permission.] + + + + + +This etext was produced by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk, +from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition. + + + + + +MAURINE AND OTHER POEMS + +by Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + + + +Contents: + + Maurine + All Roads that Lead to God are Good + Dust-sealed + "Advice" + Over the Banisters + The Past + Secrets + Applause + The Story + Lean Down + Life + The Christian's New Year Prayer + In the Night + God's Measure + A March Snow + Philosophy + "Carlos" + The Two Glasses + La Mort d'Amour + Love's Sleep + True Culture + The Voluptuary + The Coquette + If + Love's Burial + Lippo + "Love is Enough" + Life is Love + + + +MAURINE + + + +PART I + + +I sat and sewed, and sang some tender tune, +Oh, beauteous was that morn in early June! +Mellow with sunlight, and with blossoms fair: +The climbing rose-tree grew about me there, +And checked with shade the sunny portico +Where, morns like this, I came to read, or sew. + +I heard the gate click, and a firm, quick tread +Upon the walk. No need to turn my head; +I would mistake, and doubt my own voice sounding, +Before his step upon the gravel bounding. +In an unstudied attitude of grace, +He stretched his comely form; and from his face +He tossed the dark, damp curls; and at my knees, +With his broad hat he fanned the lazy breeze, +And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes, +Of that strange hue we see in ocean dyes, +And call it blue sometimes and sometimes green, +And save in poet eyes, not elsewhere seen. +"Lest I should meet with my fair lady's scorning, +For calling quite so early in the morning, +I've brought a passport that can never fail," +He said, and, laughing, laid the morning mail +Upon my lap. "I'm welcome? so I thought! +I'll figure by the letters that I brought +How glad you are to see me. Only one? +And that one from a lady? I'm undone! +That, lightly skimmed, you'll think me SUCH a bore, +And wonder why I did not bring you four. +It's ever thus: a woman cannot get +So many letters that she will not fret +O'er one that did not come." + "I'll prove you wrong," +I answered gaily, "here upon the spot! +This little letter, precious if not long, +Is just the one, of all you might have brought, +To please me. You have heard me speak, I'm sure, +Of Helen Trevor: she writes here to say +She's coming out to see me; and will stay +Till Autumn, maybe. She is, like her note, +Petite and dainty, tender, loving, pure. +You'd know her by a letter that she wrote, +For a sweet tinted thing. 'Tis always so:- +Letters all blots, though finely written, show +A slovenly person. Letters stiff and white +Bespeak a nature honest, plain, upright. +And tissuey, tinted, perfumed notes, like this, +Tell of a creature formed to pet and kiss." +My listener heard me with a slow, odd smile; +Stretched in abandon at my feet, the while, +He fanned me idly with his broad-brimmed hat. +"Then all young ladies must be formed for that!" +He laughed, and said. + "Their letters read, and look, +As like as twenty copies of one book. +They're written in a dainty, spider scrawl, +To 'darling, precious Kate,' or 'Fan,' or 'Moll.' +The 'dearest, sweetest' friend they ever had. +They say they 'want to see you, oh, so bad!' +Vow they'll 'forget you, never, NEVER, oh!' +And then they tell about a splendid beau - +A lovely hat--a charming dress, and send +A little scrap of this to every friend. +And then to close, for lack of something better, +They beg you'll 'read and burn this horrid letter.'" + +He watched me, smiling. He was prone to vex +And hector me with flings upon my sex. +He liked, he said, to have me flash and frown, +So he could tease me, and then laugh me down. +My storms of wrath amused him very much: +He liked to see me go off at a touch; +Anger became me--made my colour rise, +And gave an added lustre to my eyes. +So he would talk--and so he watched me now, +To see the hot flush mantle cheek and brow. +Instead, I answered coolly, with a smile, +Felling a seam with utmost care, meanwhile. +"The caustic tongue of Vivian Dangerfield +Is barbed as ever, for my sex, this morn. +Still unconvinced, no smallest point I yield. +Woman I love, and trust, despite your scorn. +There is some truth in what you say? Well, yes! +Your statements usually hold more or less. +Some women write weak letters--(some men do;) +Some make professions, knowing them untrue. +And woman's friendship, in the time of need, +I own, too often proves a broken reed. +But I believe, and ever will contend, +Woman can be a sister woman's friend, +Giving from out her large heart's bounteous store +A living love--claiming to do no more +Than, through and by that love, she knows she can: +And living by her professions, LIKE A MAN. +And such a tie, true friendship's silken tether, +Binds Helen Trevor's heart and mine together. +I love her for her beauty, meekness, grace; +For her white lily soul and angel face. +She loves me, for my greater strength, maybe; +Loves--and would give her heart's best blood for me. +And I, to save her from a pain, or cross, +Would suffer any sacrifice or loss. +Such can be woman's friendship for another. +Could man give more, or ask more from a brother?" + +I paused: and Vivian leaned his massive head +Against the pillar of the portico, +Smiled his slow, sceptic smile, then laughed, and said: +"Nay, surely not--if what you say be so. +You've made a statement, but no proof's at hand. +Wait--do not flash your eyes so! Understand +I think you quite sincere in what you say: +You love your friend, and she loves you, to-day; +But friendship is not friendship at the best +Till circumstances put it to the test. +Man's, less demonstrative, stands strain and tear, +While woman's, half profession, fails to wear. +Two women love each other passing well - +Say Helen Trevor and Maurine La Pelle, +Just for example. + Let them daily meet +At ball and concert, in the church and street, +They kiss and coo, they visit, chat, caress; +Their love increases, rather than grows less; +And all goes well, till 'Helen dear' discovers +That 'Maurine darling' wins too many lovers. + +And then her 'precious friend,' her 'pet,' her 'sweet,' +Becomes a 'minx,' a 'creature all deceit.' +Let Helen smile too oft on Maurine's beaux, +Or wear more stylish or becoming clothes, +Or sport a hat that has a longer feather - +And lo! the strain has broken 'friendship's tether.' +Maurine's sweet smile becomes a frown or pout; +'She's just begun to find that Helen out.' +The breach grows wider--anger fills each heart; +They drift asunder, whom 'but death could part.' +You shake your head? Oh, well, we'll never know! +It is not likely Fate will test you so. +You'll live, and love; and, meeting twice a year, +While life shall last, you'll hold each other dear. +I pray it may be so; it were not best +To shake your faith in woman by the test. +Keep your belief, and nurse it while you can. +I've faith in woman's friendship too--for man! +They're true as steel, as mothers, friends, and wives: +And that's enough to bless us all our lives. +That man's a selfish fellow, and a bore, +Who is unsatisfied and asks for more." +"But there is need of more!" I here broke in. +"I hold that woman guilty of a sin, +Who would not cling to, and defend another, +As nobly as she would stand by a brother. +Who would not suffer for a sister's sake, +And, were there need to prove her friendship, make +'Most any sacrifice, nor count the cost. +Who would not do this for a friend is lost +To every nobler principle." + "Shame, shame!" +Cried Vivian, laughing, "for you now defame +The whole sweet sex; since there's not one would do +The thing you name, nor would I want her to. +I love the sex. My mother was a woman - +I hope my wife will be, and wholly human. +And if she wants to make some sacrifice, +I'll think her far more sensible and wise +To let her husband reap the benefit, +Instead of some old maid or senseless chit. +Selfish? Of course! I hold all love is so: +And I shall love my wife right well, I know. +Now there's a point regarding selfish love, +You thirst to argue with me, and disprove. +But since these cosy hours will soon be gone, +And all our meetings broken in upon, +No more of these rare moments must be spent +In vain discussions, or in argument. +I wish Miss Trevor was in--Jericho! +(You see the selfishness begins to show.) +She wants to see you?--So do I: but she +Will gain her wish, by taking you from me. +'Come all the same?' that means I'll be allowed +To realize that 'three can make a crowd.' +I do not like to feel myself de trop. +With two girl cronies would I not be so? +My ring would interrupt some private chat. +You'd ask me in and take my cane and hat, +And speak about the lovely summer day, +And think--'The lout! I wish he'd kept away.' +Miss Trevor'd smile, but just to hide a pout +And count the moments till I was shown out. +And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing +That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing, +No, thanks, Maurine! The iron hand of Fate, +(Or otherwise Miss Trevor's dainty fingers,) +Will bar my entrance into Eden's gate; +And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers +At heaven's portal, paying the price of sin, +Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in." + +He looked so melancholy sitting there, +I laughed outright. "How well you act a part; +You look the very picture of despair! +You've missed your calling, sir! suppose you start +Upon a starring tour, and carve your name +With Booth's and Barrett's on the heights of Fame +But now, tabooing nonsense, I shall send +For you to help me entertain my friend, +Unless you come without it. 'Cronies?' True, +Wanting our 'private chats' as cronies do. +And we'll take those, while you are reading Greek, +Or writing 'Lines to Dora's brow' or 'cheek.' +But when you have an hour or two of leisure, +Call as you now do, and afford like pleasure. +For never yet did heaven's sun shine on, +Or stars discover, that phenomenon, +In any country, or in any clime: +Two maids so bound, by ties of mind and heart, +They did not feel the heavy weight of time +In weeks of scenes wherein no man took part. +God made the sexes to associate: +Nor law of man, nor stern decree of Fate, +Can ever undo what His hand has done, +And, quite alone, make happy either one. +My Helen is an only child:- a pet +Of loving parents: and she never yet +Has been denied one boon for which she pleaded. +A fragile thing, her lightest wish was heeded. +Would she pluck roses? They must first be shorn, +By careful hands, of every hateful thorn, +And loving eyes must scan the pathway where +Her feet may tread, to see no stones are there. +She'll grow dull here, in this secluded nook, +Unless you aid me in the pleasant task +Of entertaining. Drop in with your book - +Read, talk, sing for her sometimes. What I ask, +Do once, to please me: then there'll be no need +For me to state the case again, or plead. +There's nothing like a woman's grace and beauty +To waken mankind to a sense of duty." + +"I bow before the mandate of my queen: +Your slightest wish is law, Ma Belle Maurine," +He answered, smiling, "I'm at your command; +Point but one lily finger, or your wand, +And you will find a willing slave obeying. +There goes my dinner bell! I hear it saying +I've spent two hours here, lying at your feet, +Not profitable, maybe--surely sweet. +All time is money; now were I to measure +The time I spend here by its solid pleasure, +And that were coined in dollars, then I've laid +Each day a fortune at your feet, fair maid. +There goes that bell again! I'll say good-bye, +Or clouds will shadow my domestic sky. +I'll come again, as you would have me do, +And see your friend, while she is seeing you. +That's like by proxy being at a feast; +Unsatisfactory, to say the least." + +He drew his fine shape up, and trod the land +With kingly grace. Passing the gate, his hand +He lightly placed the garden wall upon, +Leaped over like a leopard, and was gone. + +And, going, took the brightness from the place, +Yet left the June day with a sweeter grace, +And my young soul, so steeped in happy dreams, +Heaven itself seemed shown to me in gleams. +There is a time with lovers, when the heart +First slowly rouses from its dreamless sleep, +To all the tumult of a passion life, +Ere yet have wakened jealousy and strife. +Just as a young, untutored child will start +Out of a long hour's slumber, sound and deep, +And lie and smile with rosy lips and cheeks, +In a sweet, restful trance, before it speaks. +A time when yet no word the spell has broken, +Save what the heart unto the soul has spoken, +In quickened throbs, and sighs but half suppressed +A time when that sweet truth, all unconfessed, +Gives added fragrance to the summer flowers, +A golden glory to the passing hours, +A hopeful beauty to the plainest face, +And lends to life a new and tender grace. +When the full heart has climbed the heights of bliss, +And, smiling, looks back o'er the golden past, +I think it finds no sweeter hour than this +In all love-life. For, later, when the last +Translucent drop o'erflows the cup of joy, +And love, more mighty than the heart's control, +Surges in words of passion from the soul, +And vows are asked and given, shadows rise +Like mists before the sun in noonday skies, +Vague fears, that prove the brimming cup's alloy; +A dread of change--the crowning moment's curse, +Since what is perfect, change but renders worse: +A vain desire to cripple Time, who goes +Bearing our joys away, and bringing woes. +And later, doubts and jealousies awaken, +And plighted hearts are tempest-tossed and shaken. +Doubt sends a test, that goes a step too far, +A wound is made, that, healing, leaves a scar, +Or one heart, full with love's sweet satisfaction, +Thinks truth once spoken always understood, +While one is pining for the tender action +And whispered word by which, of old, 'twas wooed. + +But this blest hour, in love's glad, golden day, +Is like the dawning, ere the radiant ray +Of glowing Sol has burst upon the eye, +But yet is heralded in earth and sky, +Warm with its fervour, mellow with its light, +While Care still slumbers in the arms of night. +But Hope, awake, hears happy birdlings sing, +And thinks of all a summer day may bring. + +In this sweet calm, my young heart lay at rest, +Filled with a blissful sense of peace; nor guessed +That sullen clouds were gathering in the skies +To hide the glorious sun, ere it should rise. + +PART II + +To little birds that never tire of humming +About the garden in the summer weather, +Aunt Ruth compared us, after Helen's coming, +As we two roamed, or sat and talked together. +Twelve months apart, we had so much to say +Of school days gone--and time since passed away; +Of that old friend, and this; of what we'd done; +Of how our separate paths in life had run; +Of what we would do, in the coming years; +Of plans and castles, hopes and dreams and fears. +All these, and more, as soon as we found speech, +We touched upon, and skimmed from this to that. +But at the first each only gazed on each, +And, dumb with joy, that did not need a voice +Like lesser joys, to say, "Lo! I rejoice," +With smiling eyes and clasping hands we sat +Wrapped in that peace, felt but with those dear, +Contented just to know each other near. +But when this silent eloquence gave place +To words, 'twas like the rising of a flood +Above a dam. We sat there, face to face, +And let our talk glide on where'er it would, +Speech never halting in its speed or zest, +Save when our rippling laughter let it rest; +Just as a stream will sometimes pause and play +About a bubbling spring, then dash away. +No wonder, then, the third day's sun was nigh +Up to the zenith when my friend and I +Opened our eyes from slumber long and deep: +Nature demanding recompense for hours +Spent in the portico, among the flowers, +Halves of two nights we should have spent in sleep. + +So this third day, we breakfasted at one: +Then walked about the garden in the sun, +Hearing the thrushes and the robins sing, +And looking to see what buds were opening. + +The clock chimed three, and we yet strayed at will +About the yard in morning dishabille, +When Aunt Ruth came, with apron o'er her head, +Holding a letter in her hand, and said, +"Here is a note, from Vivian I opine; +At least his servant brought it. And now, girls, +You may think this is no concern of mine, +But in my day young ladies did not go +Till almost bed-time roaming to and fro +In morning wrappers, and with tangled curls, +The very pictures of forlorn distress. +'Tis three o'clock, and time for you to dress. +Come! read your note and hurry in, Maurine, +And make yourself fit object to be seen." + +Helen was bending o'er an almond bush, +And ere she looked up I had read the note, +And calmed my heart, that, bounding, sent a flush +To brow and cheek, at sight of aught HE wrote. +"Ma Belle Maurine:" (so Vivian's billet ran,) +"Is it not time I saw your cherished guest? +'Pity the sorrows of a poor young man,' +Banished from all that makes existence blest. +I'm dying to see--your friend; and I will come +And pay respects, hoping you'll be at home +To-night at eight. Expectantly, V. D." + +Inside my belt I slipped the billet, saying, +"Helen, go make yourself most fair to see: +Quick! hurry now! no time for more delaying! +In just five hours a caller will be here, +And you must look your prettiest, my dear! +Begin your toilet right away. I know +How long it takes you to arrange each bow - +To twist each curl, and loop your skirts aright. +And you must prove you are au fait to-night, +And make a perfect toilet: for our caller +Is man, and critic, poet, artist, scholar, +And views with eyes of all." + "Oh, oh! Maurine," +Cried Helen with a well-feigned look of fear, +"You've frightened me so I shall not appear: +I'll hide away, refusing to be seen +By such an ogre. Woe is me! bereft +Of all my friends, my peaceful home I've left, +And strayed away into the dreadful wood +To meet the fate of poor Red Riding Hood. +No, Maurine, no! you've given me such a fright, +I'll not go near your ugly wolf to-night." + +Meantime we'd left the garden; and I stood +In Helen's room, where she had thrown herself +Upon a couch, and lay, a winsome elf, +Pouting and smiling, cheek upon her arm, +Not in the least a portrait of alarm. +"Now, sweet!" I coaxed, and knelt by her, "be good! +Go curl your hair; and please your own Maurine, +By putting on that lovely grenadine. +Not wolf, nor ogre, neither Caliban, +Nor Mephistopheles, you'll meet to-night, +But what the ladies call 'a nice young man'! +Yet one worth knowing--strong with health and might +Of perfect manhood; gifted, noble, wise; +Moving among his kind with loving eyes, +And helpful hand; progressive, brave, refined, +After the image of his Maker's mind." + +"Now, now, Maurine!" cried Helen, "I believe +It is your lover coming here this eve. +Why have you never written of him, pray? +Is the day set?--and when? Say, Maurine, say!" + +Had I betrayed by some too fervent word +The secret love that all my being stirred? +My lover? Ay! My heart proclaimed him so; +But first HIS lips must win the sweet confession, +Ere even Helen be allowed to know. +I must straightway erase the slight impression +Made by the words just uttered. + "Foolish child!" +I gaily cried, "your fancy's straying wild. +Just let a girl of eighteen hear the name +Of maid and youth uttered about one time, +And off her fancy goes, at break-neck pace, +Defying circumstances, reason, space - +And straightway builds romances so sublime +They put all Shakespeare's dramas to the shame. +This Vivian Dangerfield is neighbour, friend, +And kind companion; bringing books and flowers. +And, by his thoughtful actions without end, +Helping me pass some otherwise long hours; +But he has never breathed a word of love. +If you still doubt me, listen while I prove +My statement by the letter that he wrote. +'Dying to meet--my friend!' (she could not see +The dash between that meant so much to me). +'Will come this eve, at eight, and hopes we may +Be in to greet him.' Now I think you'll say +'Tis not much like a lover's tender note." + +We laugh, we jest, not meaning what we say; +We hide our thoughts, by light words lightly spoken, +And pass on heedless, till we find one day +They've bruised our hearts, or left some other broken. + +I sought my room, and trilling some blithe air, +Opened my wardrobe, wondering what to wear. +Momentous question! femininely human! +More than all others, vexing mind of woman, +Since that sad day, when in her discontent, +To search for leaves, our fair first mother went. +All undecided what I should put on, +At length I made selection of a lawn - +White, with a tiny pink vine overrun:- +My simplest robe, but Vivian's favourite one. +And placing a single flowret in my hair, +I crossed the hall to Helen's chamber, where +I found her with her fair locks all let down, +Brushing the kinks out, with a pretty frown. +'Twas like a picture, or a pleasing play, +To watch her make her toilet. She would stand, +And turn her head first this, and then that way, +Trying effect of ribbon, bow or band. +Then she would pick up something else, and curve +Her lovely neck, with cunning, bird-like grace, +And watch the mirror while she put it on, +With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face; +And then to view it all would sway and swerve +Her lithe young body, like a graceful swan. + +Helen was over medium height, and slender +Even to frailty. Her great, wistful eyes +Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies; +And through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender. +Her long, light hair was lustreless, except +Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams slept, +And on the earlocks; and she looped the curls +Back with a shell comb, studded thick with pearls, +Costly yet simple. Her pale loveliness, +That night, was heightened by her rich, black dress, +That trailed behind her, leaving half in sight +Her taper arms, and shoulders marble white. + +I was not tall as Helen, and my face +Was shaped and coloured like my grandsire's race; +For through his veins my own received the warm, +Red blood of Southern France, which curved my form, +And glowed upon my cheek in crimson dyes, +And bronzed my hair, and darkled in my eyes. +And as the morning trails the skirts of night, +And dusky night puts on the garb of morn, +And walk together when the day is born, +So we two glided down the hall and stair, +Arm clasping arm, into the parlour, where +Sat Vivian, bathed in sunset's gorgeous light. +He rose to greet us. Oh! his form was grand; +And he possessed that power, strange, occult, +Called magnetism, lacking better word, +Which moves the world, achieving great result +Where genius fails completely. Touch his hand, +It thrilled through all your being--meet his eye, +And you were moved, yet knew not how, or why. +Let him but rise, you felt the air was stirred +By an electric current. + + This strange force +Is mightier than genius. Rightly used, +It leads to grand achievements; all things yield +Before its mystic presence, and its field +Is broad as earth and heaven. But abused, +It sweeps like a poison simoon on its course, +Bearing miasma in its scorching breath, +And leaving all it touches struck with death. + +Far-reaching science shall yet tear away +The mystic garb that hides it from the day, +And drag it forth and bind it with its laws, +And make it serve the purposes of men, +Guided by common-sense and reason. Then +We'll hear no more of seance, table-rapping, +And all that trash, o'er which the world is gaping, +Lost in effect, while science seeks the cause. + +Vivian was not conscious of his power: +Or, if he was, knew not its full extent. +He knew his glance would make a wild beast cower, +And yet he knew not that his large eyes sent +Into the heart of woman the same thrill +That made the lion servant of his will. +And even strong men felt it. + + He arose, +Reached forth his hand, and in it clasped my own, +While I held Helen's; and he spoke some word +Of pleasant greeting in his low, round tone, +Unlike all other voices I have heard. +Just as the white cloud, at the sunrise, glows +With roseate colours, so the pallid hue +Of Helen's cheek, like tinted sea-shells grew. +Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such +Was the all-mast'ring magic of his touch. +Then we sat down, and talked about the weather, +The neighbourhood--some author's last new book. +But, when I could, I left the two together +To make acquaintance, saying I must look +After the chickens--my especial care; +And ran away and left them, laughing, there. + +Knee-deep, through clover, to the poplar grove, +I waded, where my pets were wont to rove: +And there I found the foolish mother hen +Brooding her chickens underneath a tree, +An easy prey for foxes. "Chick-a-dee," +Quoth I, while reaching for the downy things +That, chirping, peeped from out the mother-wings, +"How very human is your folly! When +There waits a haven, pleasant, bright, and warm, +And one to lead you thither from the storm +And lurking dangers, yet you turn away, +And, thinking to be your own protector, stray +Into the open jaws of death: for, see! +An owl is sitting in this very tree +You thought safe shelter. Go now to your pen." +And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen, +So like the human mother here again, +Moaning because a strong, protecting arm +Would shield her little ones from cold and harm, +I carried back my garden hat brimful +Of chirping chickens, like white balls of wool +And snugly housed them. + + And just then I heard +A sound like gentle winds among the trees, +Or pleasant waters in the summer, stirred +And set in motion by a passing breeze. +'Twas Helen singing: and, as I drew near, +Another voice, a tenor full and clear, +Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite, +And flow on stronger in their wedded might. + +It was a way of Helen's, not to sing +The songs that other people sang. She took +Sometimes an extract from an ancient book; +Again some floating, fragmentary thing. +And such she fitted to old melodies, +Or else composed the music. One of these +She sang that night; and Vivian caught the strain, +And joined her in the chorus, or refrain, + +SONG. + +Oh thou, mine other, stronger part! + Whom yet I cannot hear, or see, +Come thou, and take this loving heart, + That longs to yield its all to thee, + I call mine own--oh, come to me! + Love, answer back, I come to thee, + I come to thee. + +This hungry heart, so warm, so large, + Is far too great a care for me. +I have grown weary of the charge + I keep so sacredly for thee. + Come thou, and take my heart from me. + Love, answer back, I come to thee, + I come to thee. + +I am a-weary, waiting here + For one who tarries long from me. +Oh! art thou far, or art thou near? + And must I still be sad for thee? + Or wilt thou straightway come to me? + Love, answer, I am near to thee, + I come to thee. + + +The melody, so full of plaintive chords, +Sobbed into silence--echoing down the strings +Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings. +Vivian had leaned upon the instrument +The while they sang. But, as he spoke those words, +"Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee," +He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent +His lustrous, soulful, speaking gaze on me. +And my young heart, eager to own its king, +Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light +Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek +Hope's rose-hued flag. There was no need to speak +I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen. "Sing +That song you sang a fragment of one night +Out on the porch, beginning, 'Praise me not,'" +I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone +Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught +From some sad passing breeze, and made her own, +The echo of the wind-harp's sighing strain, +Or the soft music of the falling rain. + + +SONG. + +O praise me not with your lips, dear one! + Though your tender words I prize. +But dearer by far is the soulful gaze + Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes, + Your tender, loving eyes. + +O chide me not with your lips, dear one! + Though I cause your bosom sighs. +You can make repentance deeper far + By your sad, reproving eyes, + Your sorrowful, troubled eyes. + +Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds; + Above, in the beaming skies, +The constant stars say never a word, + But only smile with their eyes - + Smile on with their lustrous eyes. + +Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one; + On the winged wind speech flies. +But I read the truth of your noble heart + In your soulful, speaking eyes - + In your deep and beautiful eyes. + + +The twilight darkened, round us, in the room, +While Helen sang; and, in the gathering gloom, +Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his, +And held it so; while Helen made the air +Languid with music. Then a step drew near, +And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell: + "Dear! dear! +Why, Maurie, Helen, children! how is this? +I hear you, but you have no light in there. +Your room is dark as Egypt. What a way +For folks to visit! Maurie, go, I pray, +And order lamps." + And so there came a light, +And all the sweet dreams hovering around +The twilight shadows flitted in affright: +And e'en the music had a harsher sound. +In pleasant converse passed an hour away: +And Vivian planned a picnic for next day - +A drive the next, and rambles without end, +That he might help me entertain my friend. +And then he rose, bowed low, and passed from sight, +Like some great star that drops out from the night; +And Helen watched him through the shadows go, +And turned and said, her voice subdued and low, +"How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine, +A grander man I never yet have seen." + + +PART III + + +One golden twelfth-part of a checkered year; +One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirth, +With not a hint of shadows lurking near, +Or storm-clouds brewing. + + 'Twas a royal day: +Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth, +With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast, +And twined herself about him, as he lay +Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest. +She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace, +And hid him with her trailing robe of green, +And wound him in her long hair's shimmering sheen, +And rained her ardent kisses on his face. +Through the glad glory of the summer land +Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand. +In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat-field, +White with the promise of a bounteous yield, +Across the late shorn meadow--down the hill, +Red with the tiger-lily blossoms, till +We stood upon the borders of the lake, +That like a pretty, placid infant, slept +Low at its base: and little ripples crept +Along its surface, just as dimples chase +Each other o'er an infant's sleeping face. +Helen in idle hours had learned to make +A thousand pretty, feminine knick-knacks: +For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands - +Labour just suited to her dainty hands. +That morning she had been at work in wax, +Moulding a wreath of flowers for my room, - +Taking her patterns from the living blows, +In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom, +Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose, +And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch, +Resembling the living plants as much +As life is copied in the form of death: +These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath. + +And now the wreath was all completed, save +The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom, +A water-lily, dripping from the wave. +And 'twas in search of it that we had come +Down to the lake, and wandered on the beach, +To see if any lilies grew in reach. +Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been; +Some buds, with all their beauties folded in, +We found, but not the treasure that we sought. +And then we turned our footsteps to the spot +Where, all impatient of its chain, my boat, +The Swan, rocked, asking to be set afloat. +It was a dainty row-boat--strong, yet light; +Each side a swan was painted snowy white: +A present from my uncle, just before +He sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand, +Where freighted ships go sailing evermore, +But none return to tell us of the land. +I freed the Swan, and slowly rowed about, +Wherever sea-weeds, grass, or green leaves lifted +Their tips above the water. So we drifted, +While Helen, opposite, leaned idly out +And watched for lilies in the waves below, +And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air, +That soothed me like a mother's lullabies. +I dropped the oars, and closed my sun-kissed eyes, +And let the boat go drifting here and there. +Oh, happy day! the last of that brief time +Of thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright, +Ere that disguised angel men call Woe +Leads the sad heart through valleys dark as night, +Up to the heights exalted and sublime. +On each blest, happy moment, I am fain +To linger long, ere I pass on to pain +And sorrow that succeeded. + + From day-dreams, +As golden as the summer noontide's beams, +I was awakened by a voice that cried: +"Strange ship, ahoy! Fair frigate, whither bound?" +And, starting up, I cast my gaze around, +And saw a sail-boat o'er the water glide +Close to the Swan, like some live thing of grace; +And from it looked the glowing, handsome face +Of Vivian. + + "Beauteous sirens of the sea, +Come sail across the raging main with me!" +He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boat +Beside his own. "There, now! step in!" he said; +"I'll land you anywhere you want to go - +My boat is safer far than yours, I know: +And much more pleasant with its sails all spread. +The Swan? We'll take the oars, and let it float +Ashore at leisure. You, Maurine, sit there - +Miss Helen here. Ye gods and little fishes! +I've reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes. +Adieu despondency! farewell to care!" + +'Twas done so quickly: that was Vivian's way. +He did not wait for either yea or nay. +He gave commands, and left you with no choice +But just to do the bidding of his voice. +His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly face +Lent to his quick imperiousness a grace +And winning charm, completely stripping it +Of what might otherwise have seemed unfit. +Leaving no trace of tyranny, but just +That nameless force that seemed to say, "You must." +Suiting its pretty title of the Dawn, +(So named, he said, that it might rhyme with Swan), +Vivian's sail-boat was carpeted with blue, +While all its sails were of a pale rose hue. +The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze; +A poet's fancy in an hour of ease. + +Whatever Vivian had was of the best. +His room was like some Sultan's in the East. +His board was always spread as for a feast, +Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest. +He would go hungry sooner than he'd dine +At his own table if 'twere illy set. +He so loved things artistic in design - +Order and beauty, all about him. Yet +So kind he was, if it befell his lot +To dine within the humble peasant's cot, +He made it seem his native soil to be, +And thus displayed the true gentility. + +Under the rosy banners of the Dawn, +Around the lake we drifted on, and on. +It was a time for dreams, and not for speech. +And so we floated on in silence, each +Weaving the fancies suiting such a day. +Helen leaned idly o'er the sail-boat's side, +And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide; +And I among the cushions half reclined, +Half sat, and watched the fleecy clouds at play, +While Vivian with his blank-book, opposite, +In which he seemed to either sketch or write, +Was lost in inspiration of some kind. + +No time, no change, no scene, can e'er efface +My mind's impression of that hour and place; +It stands out like a picture. O'er the years, +Black with their robes of sorrow--veiled with tears, +Lying with all their lengthened shapes between, +Untouched, undimmed, I still behold that scene. +Just as the last of Indian-summer days, +Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze, +Followed by dark and desolate December, +Through all the months of winter we remember. + +The sun slipped westward. That peculiar change +Which creeps into the air, and speaks of night +While yet the day is full of golden light, +We felt steal o'er us. + Vivian broke the spell +Of dream-fraught silence, throwing down his book: +"Young ladies, please allow me to arrange +These wraps about your shoulders. I know well +The fickle nature of our atmosphere, - +Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear, - +And go prepared for changes. Now you look, +Like--like--oh, where's a pretty simile? +Had you a pocket mirror here you'd see +How well my native talent is displayed +In shawling you. Red on the brunette maid; +Blue on the blonde--and quite without design +(Oh, where IS that comparison of mine?) +Well--like a June rose and a violet blue +In one bouquet! I fancy that will do. +And now I crave your patience and a boon, +Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme, +A floating fancy of the summer time. +'Tis neither witty, wonderful, nor wise, +So listen kindly--but don't criticise +My maiden effort of the afternoon: + +"If all the ships I have at sea +Should come a-sailing home to me, +Ah, well! the harbour could not hold +So many sails as there would be +If all my ships came in from sea. + +"If half my ships came home from sea, +And brought their precious freight to me, +Ah, well! I should have wealth as great +As any king who sits in state - +So rich the treasures that would be +In half my ships now out at sea. + +"If just one ship I have at sea +Should come a-sailing home to me, +Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown: +For if the others all went down +Still rich and proud and glad I'd be, +If that one ship came back to me. + +"If that one ship went down at sea, +And all the others came to me, +Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, +With glory, honour, riches, gold, +The poorest soul on earth I'd be +If that one ship came not to me. + +"O skies be calm! O winds blow free - +Blow all my ships safe home to me. +But if thou sendest some a-wrack +To never more come sailing back, +Send any--all that skim the sea, +But bring my love-ship home to me." + + +Helen was leaning by me, and her head +Rested against my shoulder: as he read, +I stroked her hair, and watched the fleecy skies, +And when he finished, did not turn my eyes. +I felt too happy and too shy to meet +His gaze just then. I said, "'Tis very sweet, +And suits the day; does it not, Helen, dear?" +But Helen, voiceless, did not seem to hear. +"'Tis strange," I added, "how you poets sing +So feelingly about the very thing +You care not for! and dress up an ideal +So well, it looks a living, breathing real! +Now, to a listener, your love song seemed +A heart's out-pouring; yet I've heard you say +Almost the opposite; or that you deemed +Position, honour, glory, power, fame, +Gained without loss of conscience or good name, +The things to live for." + "Have you? Well, you may," +Laughed Vivian, "but 'twas years--or months' ago! +And Solomon says wise men change, you know! +I now speak truth! if she I hold most dear +Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left, +My heart would find the years more lonely here +Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft, +And sent, an exile, to a foreign land." +His voice was low, and measured: as he spoke, +New, unknown chords of melody awoke +Within my soul. I felt my heart expand +With that sweet fulness born of love. I turned +To hide the blushes on my cheek that burned, +And leaning over Helen, breathed her name. +She lay so motionless I thought she slept: +But, as I spoke, I saw her eyes unclose, +And o'er her face a sudden glory swept, +And a slight tremor thrilled all through her frame. +"Sweet friend," I said, "your face is full of light +What were the dreams that made your eyes so bright?" +She only smiled for answer, and arose +From her reclining posture at my side, +Threw back the clust'ring ringlets from her face +With a quick gesture, full of easy grace, +And, turning, spoke to Vivian. "Will you guide +The boat up near that little clump of green +Off to the right? There's where the lilies grow. +We quite forgot our errand here, Maurine, +And our few moments have grown into hours. +What will Aunt Ruth think of our ling'ring so? +There--that will do--now I can reach the flowers." + +"Hark! just hear that!" and Vivian broke forth singing, +"'Row, brothers, row.' The six o'clock bell's ringing! +Who ever knew three hours to go so fast +In all the annals of the world, before? +I could have sworn not over one had passed. +Young ladies, I am forced to go ashore! +I thank you for the pleasure you have given; +This afternoon has been a glimpse of heaven. +Good-night--sweet dreams! and by your gracious leave, +I'll pay my compliments to-morrow eve." + +A smile, a bow, and he had gone his way: +And, in the waning glory of the day, +Down cool, green lanes, and through the length'ning shadows, +Silent, we wandered back across the meadows. +The wreath was finished, and adorned my room; +Long afterward, the lilies' copied bloom +Was like a horrid spectre in my sight, +Staring upon me morning, noon, and night. + +The sun went down. The sad new moon rose up, +And passed before me like an empty cup, +The Great Unseen brims full of pain or bliss, +And gives His children, saying, "Drink of this." + +A light wind, from the open casement, fanned +My brow and Helen's, as we, hand in hand, +Sat looking out upon the twilight scene, +In dreamy silence. Helen's dark-blue eyes, +Like two lost stars that wandered from the skies +Some night adown the meteor's shining track, +And always had been grieving to go back, +Now gazed up, wistfully, at heaven's dome, +And seemed to recognise and long for home. +Her sweet voice broke the silence: "Wish, Maurine, +Before you speak! you know the moon is new, +And anything you wish for will come true +Before it wanes. I do believe the sign! +Now tell me your wish, and I'll tell you mine." + +I turned and looked up at the slim young moon; +And, with an almost superstitious heart, +I sighed, "Oh, new moon! help me, by thine art, +To grow all grace and goodness, and to be +Worthy the love a true heart proffers me." +Then smiling down, I said, "Dear one! my boon, +I fear, is quite too silly or too sweet +For my repeating: so we'll let it stay +Between the moon and me. But if I may +I'll listen now to your wish. Tell me, please!" + +All suddenly she nestled at my feet, +And hid her blushing face upon my knees. +Then drew my hand against her glowing cheek, +And, leaning on my breast, began to speak, +Half sighing out the words my tortured ear +Reached down to catch, while striving not to hear. + +"Can you not guess who 'twas about, Maurine? +Oh, my sweet friend! you must ere this have seen +The love I tried to cover from all eyes +And from myself. Ah, foolish little heart! +As well it might go seeking for some art +Whereby to hide the sun in noonday skies. +When first the strange sound of his voice I heard, +Looked on his noble face, and, touched his hand, +My slumb'ring heart thrilled through and through and stirred +As if to say, 'I hear, and understand.' +And day by day mine eyes were blest beholding +The inner beauty of his life, unfolding +In countless words and actions that portrayed +The noble stuff of which his soul was made. +And more and more I felt my heart upreaching +Toward the truth, drawn gently by his teaching, +As flowers are drawn by sunlight. And there grew +A strange, shy something in its depths, I knew +At length was love, because it was so sad +And yet so sweet, and made my heart so glad, +Yet seemed to pain me. Then, for very shame, +Lest all should read my secret and its name, +I strove to hide it in my breast away, +Where God could see it only. But each day +It seemed to grow within me, and would rise, +Like my own soul, and look forth from my eyes, +Defying bonds of silence; and would speak, +In its red-lettered language, on my cheek, +If but his name was uttered. You were kind, +My own Maurine! as you alone could be, +So long the sharer of my heart and mind, +While yet you saw, in seeming not to see. +In all the years we have been friends, my own, +And loved as women very rarely do, +My heart no sorrow and no joy has known +It has not shared at once, in full, with you. +And I so longed to speak to you of this, +When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss; +Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say, +In pity for my folly--'Lack-a-day! +You are undone: because no mortal art +Can win the love of such a lofty heart.' +And so I waited, silent and in pain, +Till I could know I did not love in vain. +And now I know, beyond a doubt or fear. +Did he not say, 'If she I hold most dear +Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left, +My heart would find the years more lonely here +Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft, +And sent, an exile, to a foreign land'? +Oh, darling, you must LOVE, to understand +The joy that thrilled all through me at those words. +It was as if a thousand singing birds +Within my heart broke forth in notes of praise. +I did not look up, but I knew his gaze +Was on my face, and that his eyes must see +The joy I felt almost transfigured me. +He loves me--loves me! so the birds kept singing, +And all my soul with that sweet strain is ringing. +If there were added but one drop of bliss, +No more my cup would hold: and so, this eve, +I made a wish that I might feel his kiss +Upon my lips, ere yon pale moon should leave +The stars all lonely, having waned away, +Too old and weak and bowed with care to stay." + +Her voice sighed in silence. While she spoke +My heart writhed in me, praying she would cease - +Each word she uttered falling like a stroke +On my bare soul. And now a hush like death, +Save that 'twas broken by a quick-drawn breath, +Fell 'round me, but brought not the hoped-for peace. +For when the lash no longer leaves its blows, +The flesh still quivers, and the blood still flows. + +She nestled on my bosom like a child, +And 'neath her head my tortured heart throbbed wild +With pain and pity. She had told her tale - +Her self-deceiving story to the end. +How could I look down on her as she lay +So fair, and sweet, and lily-like, and frail - +A tender blossom on my breast, and say, +"Nay, you are wrong--you do mistake, dear friend! +'Tis I am loved, not you"? Yet that were truth, +And she must know it later. + Should I speak, +And spread a ghastly pallor o'er the cheek +Flushed now with joy? And while I, doubting pondered, +She spoke again. "Maurine! I oft have wondered +Why you and Vivian were not lovers. He +Is all a heart could ask its king to be; +And you have beauty, intellect and youth. +I think it strange you have not loved each other - +Strange how he could pass by you for another +Not half so fair or worthy. Yet I know +A loving Father pre-arranged it so. +I think my heart has known him all these years, +And waited for him. And if when he came +It had been as a lover of my friend, +I should have recognised him, all the same, +As my soul-mate, and loved him to the end, +Hiding my grief, and forcing back my tears +Till on my heart, slow dropping, day by day, +Unseen they fell, and wore it all away. +And so a tender Father kept him free, +With all the largeness of his love, for me - +For me, unworthy such a precious gift! +Yet I will bend each effort of my life +To grow in grace and goodness, and to lift +My soul and spirit to his lofty height, +So to deserve that holy name, his wife. +Sweet friend, it fills my whole heart with delight +To breathe its long hid secret in your ear. +Speak, my Maurine, and say you love to hear!" + +The while she spoke, my active brain gave rise +To one great thought of mighty sacrifice +And self-denial. Oh! it blanched my cheek, +And wrung my soul; and from my heart it drove +All life and feeling. Coward-like, I strove +To send it from me; but I felt it cling +And hold fast on my mind like some live thing; +And all the Self within me felt its touch +And cried, "No, no! I cannot do so much - +I am not strong enough--there is no call." +And then the voice of Helen bade me speak, +And with a calmness born of nerve, I said, +Scarce knowing what I uttered, "Sweetheart, all +Your joys and sorrows are with mine own wed. +I thank you for your confidence, and pray +I may deserve it always. But, dear one, +Something--perhaps our boat-ride in the sun - +Has set my head to aching. I must go +To bed directly; and you will, I know, +Grant me your pardon, and another day +We'll talk of this together. Now good-night, +And angels guard you with their wings of light." + +I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart, +And viewed her as I ne'er had done before. +I gazed upon her features o'er and o'er; +Marked her white, tender face--her fragile form, +Like some frail plant that withers in the storm; +Saw she was fairer in her new-found joy +Than e'er before; and thought, "Can I destroy +God's handiwork, or leave it at the best +A broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?" +I bent my head and gave her one last kiss, +And sought my room, and found there such relief +As sad hearts feel when first alone with grief. + +The moon went down, slow sailing from my sight, +And left the stars to watch away the night. +O stars, sweet stars, so changeless and serene! +What depths of woe your pitying eyes have seen! +The proud sun sets, and leaves us with our sorrow, +To grope alone in darkness till the morrow. +The languid moon, e'en if she deigns to rise, +Soon seeks her couch, grown weary of our sighs; +But from the early gloaming till the day +Sends golden-liveried heralds forth to say +He comes in might; the patient stars shine on, +Steadfast and faithful, from twilight to dawn. +And, as they shone upon Gethsemane, +And watched the struggle of a God-like soul, +Now from the same far height they shone on me, +And saw the waves of anguish o'er me roll. + +The storm had come upon me all unseen: +No sound of thunder fell upon my ear; +No cloud arose to tell me it was near; +But under skies all sunlit, and serene, +I floated with the current of the stream, +And thought life all one golden-haloed dream. +When lo! a hurricane, with awful force, +Swept swift upon its devastating course, +Wrecked my frail bark, and cast me on the wave +Where all my hopes had found a sudden grave. +Love makes us blind and selfish; otherwise +I had seen Helen's secret in her eyes; +So used I was to reading every look +In her sweet face, as I would read a book. +But now, made sightless by love's blinding rays, +I had gone on unseeing, to the end +Where Pain dispelled the mist of golden haze +That walled me in, and lo! I found my friend +Who journeyed with me--at my very side - +Had been sore wounded to the heart, while I, +Both deaf and blind, saw not, nor heard her cry. +And then I sobbed, "O God! I would have died +To save her this." And as I cried in pain, +There leaped forth from the still, white realm of Thought +Where Conscience dwells, that unimpassioned spot +As widely different from the heart's domain +As north from south--the impulse felt before, +And put away; but now it rose once more, +In greater strength, and said, "Heart, wouldst thou prove +What lips have uttered? Then go, lay thy love +On Friendship's altar, as thy offering." +"Nay!" cried my heart, "ask any other thing - +Ask life itself--'twere easier sacrifice. +But ask not love, for that I cannot give." + +"But," spoke the voice, "the meanest insect dies, +And is no hero! heroes dare to live +When all that makes life sweet is snatched away." +So with my heart, in converse, till the day, +In gold and crimson billows, rose and broke, +The voice of Conscience, all unwearied, spoke. +Love warred with Friendship, heart with Conscience fought, +Hours rolled away, and yet the end was not. +And wily Self, tricked out like tenderness, +Sighed, "Think how one, whose life thou wert to bless, +Will be cast down, and grope in doubt and fear! +Wouldst thou wound him, to give thy friend relief? +Can wrong make right?" + "Nay!" Conscience said, "but Pride +And Time can heal the saddest hurts of Love. +While Friendship's wounds gape wide and yet more wide, +And bitter fountains of the spirit prove." + +At length, exhausted with the wearing strife, +I cast the new-found burden of my life +On God's broad breast, and sought that deep repose +That only he who watched with sorrow knows. + + +PART IV + + +"Maurine, Maurine, 'tis ten o'clock! arise, +My pretty sluggard, open those dark eyes +And see where yonder sun is! Do you know +I made my toilet just four hours ago?" + +'Twas Helen's voice: and Helen's gentle kiss +Fell on my cheek. As from a deep abyss, +I drew my weary self from that strange sleep +That rests not nor refreshes. Scarce awake +Or conscious, yet there seemed a heavy weight +Bound on my breast, as by a cruel Fate. +I knew not why, and yet I longed to weep. +Some dark cloud seemed to hang upon the day; +And, for a moment, in that trance I lay, +When suddenly the truth did o'er me break, +Like some great wave upon a helpless child. +The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife - +The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild, +And God gave back the burden of the life +He kept what time I slumbered. + "You are ill," +Cried Helen, "with that blinding headache still! +You look so pale and weary. Now let me +Play nurse, Maurine, and care for you to-day! +And first I'll suit some dainty to your taste, +And bring it to you, with a cup of tea." +And off she ran, not waiting my reply. +But, wanting most the sunshine and the light, +I left my couch, and clothed myself in haste, +And, kneeling, sent to God an earnest cry +For help and guidance. + "Show Thou me the way, +Where duty leads, for I am blind! my sight +Obscured by self. Oh, lead my steps aright! +Help me see the path: and if it may, +Let this cup pass:- and yet, Thou heavenly One, +Thy will in all things, not mine own, be done." +Rising, I went upon my way, receiving +The strength prayer gives alway to hearts believing. +I felt that unseen hands were leading me, +And knew the end was peace. + + "What! are you up?" +Cried Helen, coming with a tray, and cup, +Of tender toast and fragrant, smoking tea. +"You naughty girl! you should have stayed in bed +Until you ate your breakfast, and were better; +I've something hidden for you here--a letter. +But drink your tea before you read it, dear! +'Tis from some distant cousin, auntie said, +And so you need not hurry. Now be good, +And mind your Helen." + + So, in passive mood, +I laid the still unopened letter near, +And loitered at my breakfast more to please +My nurse, than any hunger to appease. +Then listlessly I broke the seal and read +The few lines written in a bold free hand: +"New London, Canada. Dear Coz. Maurine! +(In spite of generations stretched between +Our natural right to that most handy claim +Of cousinship, we'll use it all the same) +I'm coming to see you! honestly, in truth! +I've threatened often--now I mean to act; +You'll find my coming is a stubborn fact. +Keep quiet, though, and do not tell Aunt Ruth. +I wonder if she'll know her petted boy +In spite of changes? Look for me until +You see me coming. As of old I'm still +Your faithful friend, and loving cousin, Roy." + +So Roy was coming! He and I had played +As boy and girl, and later, youth and maid, +Full half our lives together. He had been, +Like me, an orphan; and the roof of kin +Gave both kind shelter. Swift years sped away +Ere change was felt: and then one summer day +A long-lost uncle sailed from India's shore - +Made Roy his heir, and he was ours no more. + +"He'd write us daily, and we'd see his face +Once every year." Such was his promise given +The morn he left. But now the years were seven +Since last he looked upon the olden place. +He'd been through college, travelled in all lands, +Sailed over seas, and trod the desert sands. +Would write and plan a visit, then, ere long, +Would write again from Egypt, or Hong Kong - +Some fancy called him thither unforeseen. +So years had passed, till seven lay between +His going and the coming of this note, +Which I hid in my bosom, and replied +To Aunt Ruth's queries, "What the truant wrote?" +By saying he was still upon the wing, +And merely dropped a line, while journeying, +To say he lived: and she was satisfied. + +Sometimes it happens, in this world so strange, +A human heart will pass through mortal strife, +And writhe in torture: while the old sweet life, +So full of hope and beauty, bloom and grace, +Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain: +And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place - +A ghastly, pallid spectre of the slain. +Yet those in daily converse see no change +Nor dream the heart has suffered. + So that day +I passed along toward the troubled way +Stern duty pointed, and no mortal guessed +A mighty conflict had disturbed my breast. + +I had resolved to yield up to my friend +The man I loved. Since she, too, loved him so +I saw no other way in honour left. +She was so weak and fragile, once bereft +Of this great hope, that held her with such power, +She would wilt down, like some frost-bitten flower, +And swift, untimely death would be the end. +But I was strong; and hardy plants, which grow +In out-door soil, can bear bleak winds that blow +From Arctic lands, whereof a single breath +Would lay the hot-house blossom low in death. + +The hours went by, too slow, and yet too fast. +All day I argued with my foolish heart +That bade me play the shrinking coward's part +And hide from pain. And when the day had past +And time for Vivian's call drew near and nearer, +It pleaded, "Wait until the way seems clearer; +Say you are ill--or busy; keep away +Until you gather strength enough to play +The part you have resolved on." + + "Nay, not so," +Made answer clear-eyed Reason; "do you go +And put your resolution to the test. +Resolve, however nobly formed, at best +Is but a still-born babe of Thought until +It proves existence of its life and will +By sound or action." + So when Helen came +And knelt by me, her fair face all aflame +With sudden blushes, whispering, "My sweet! +My heart can hear the music of his feet, +Go down with me to meet him," I arose, +And went with her all calmly, as one goes +To look upon the dear face of the dead. + +That eve I know not what I did or said. +I was not cold--my manner was not strange; +Perchance I talked more freely than my wont, +But in my speech was naught could give affront; +Yet I conveyed, as only woman can, +That nameless SOMETHING which bespeaks a chance. + +'Tis in the power of woman, if she be +Whole-souled and noble, free from coquetry - +Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good, +To make herself and feelings understood +By nameless acts, thus sparing what to man, +However gently answered, causes pain, +The offering of his hand and heart in vain. + +She can be friendly, unrestrained, and kind +Assume no airs of pride or arrogance; +But in her voice, her manner, and her glance, +Convey that mystic something, undefined, +Which men fail not to understand and read, +And, when not blind with egoism, heed. +My task was harder--'twas the slow undoing +Of long sweet months of unimpeded wooing. +It was to hide and cover and conceal +The truth, assuming what I did not feel. +It was to dam love's happy singing tide +That blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone +By feigned indiff'rence, till it turned aside +And changed its channel, leaving me alone +To walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draught +My lips had tasted, but another quaffed. +It could be done, for no words yet were spoken - +None to recall--no pledges to be broken. +"He will be grieved, then angry, cold, then cross," +I reasoned, thinking what would be his part +In this strange drama. "Then, because he +Feels something lacking, to make good his loss +He'll turn to Helen, and her gentle grace +And loving acts will win her soon the place +I hold to-day; and like a troubled dream +At length, our past, when he looks back, will seem." + +That evening passed with music, chat, and song, +But hours that once had flown on airy wings +Now limped on weary, aching limbs along, +Each moment like some dreaded step that brings +A twinge of pain. + As Vivian rose to go, +Slow bending to me from his greater height, +He took my hand, and, looking in my eyes, +With tender questioning and pained surprise, +Said, "Maurine, you are not yourself to-night; +What is it? Are you ailing?" + "Ailing? No," +I answered, laughing lightly, "I am not; +Just see my cheek, sir--is it thin, or pale? +Now, tell me, am I looking very frail?" +"Nay, nay," he answered, "it cannot be SEEN, +The change I speak of--'twas more in your mien - +Preoccupation, or--I know not what! +Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does Maurine +Seem to have something on her mind this eve?" +"She does," laughed Helen, "and I do believe +I know what 'tis! A letter came to-day +Which she read slyly, and then hid away +Close to her heart, not knowing I was near, +And since she's been as you have seen her here. +See how she blushes! so my random shot +We must believe has struck a tender spot." + +Her rippling laughter floated through the room, +And redder yet I felt the hot blood rise, +Then surge away, to leave me pale as death +Under the dark and swiftly gathering gloom +Of Vivian's questioning, accusing eyes, +That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneath +That stern, fixed gaze, and stood spellbound until +He turned with sudden movement, gave his hand +To each in turn, and said: "You must not stand +Longer, young ladies, in this open door. +The air is heavy with a cold, damp chill. +We shall have rain to-morrow, or before. +Good-night." + + He vanished in the darkling shade; +And so the dreaded evening found an end, +That saw me grasp the conscience-whetted blade, +And strike a blow for honour and for friend. + +"How swiftly passed the evening!" Helen sighed. +"How long the hours!" my tortured heart replied. +Joy, like a child, with lightsome steps doth glide +By Father Time, and, looking in his face, +Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair roadside, +"I could pluck more, but for thy hurried pace." +The while her elder brother Pain, man grown, +Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone, +Looks to some distant hilltop, high and calm, +Where he shall find not only rest, but balm +For all his wounds, and cries, in tones of woe, +"Oh, Father Time! why is thy pace so slow?" + +Two days, all sad with lonely wind and rain, +Went sobbing by, repeating o'er and o'er +The miserere, desolate and drear, +Which every human heart must sometime hear. +Pain is but little varied. Its refrain, +Whate'er the words are, is for aye the same. +The third day brought a change, for with it came +Not only sunny smiles to Nature's face, +But Roy, our Roy came back to us. Once more +We looked into his laughing, handsome eyes, +Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surprise +In no way puzzled her, for one glance told +What each succeeding one confirmed, that he +Who bent above her with the lissome grace +Of his fine form, though grown so tall, could be +No other than the Roy Montaine of old. + +It was a sweet reunion, and he brought +So much of sunshine with him that I caught, +Just from his smile alone, enough of gladness +To make my heart forget a time its sadness. +We talked together of the dear old days: +Leaving the present, with its depths and heights +Of life's maturer sorrows and delights, +I turned back to my childhood's level land, +And Roy and I, dear playmates, hand in hand, +Wandered in mem'ry through the olden ways. + +It was the second evening of his coming. +Helen was playing dreamily, and humming +Some wordless melody of white-souled thought, +While Roy and I sat by the open door, +Re-living childish incidents of yore. +My eyes were glowing, and my cheeks were hot +With warm young blood; excitement, joy, or pain +Alike would send swift coursing through each vein. +Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine, +And bringing vividly before my gaze +Some old adventure of those halcyon days, +When suddenly, in pauses of the talk, +I heard a well-known step upon the walk, +And looked up quickly to meet full in mine +The eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flash +Shot from their depths:- a sudden blaze of light +Like that swift followed by the thunder's crash, +Which said, "Suspicion is confirmed by sight," +As they fell on the pleasant doorway scene. +Then o'er his clear-cut face a cold, white look +Crept, like the pallid moonlight o'er a brook, +And, with a slight, proud bending of the head, +He stepped toward us haughtily, and said: +"Please pardon my intrusion, Miss Maurine, +I called to ask Miss Trevor for a book +She spoke of lending me; nay, sit you still, +And I, by grant of your permission, will +Pass by to where I hear her playing." + "Stay," +I said, "one moment, Vivian, if you please;" +And suddenly bereft of all my ease, +And scarcely knowing what to do or say, +Confused as any schoolgirl, I arose, +And some way made each to the other known. +They bowed, shook hands, then Vivian turned away +And sought out Helen, leaving us alone. + +"One of Miss Trevor's or of Maurine's beaux? +Which may he be, who cometh like a prince +With haughty bearing and an eagle eye?" +Roy queried, laughing; and I answered, "Since +You saw him pass me for Miss Trevor's side, +I leave your own good judgment to reply." + +And straightway caused the tide of talk to glide +In other channels, striving to dispel +The sudden gloom that o'er my spirit fell. + +We mortals are such hypocrites at best! +When Conscience tries our courage with a test, +And points to some steep pathway, we set out +Boldly, denying any fear or doubt; +But pause before the first rock in the way, +And, looking back, with tears, at Conscience, say: +"We are so sad, dear Conscience! for we would +Most gladly do what to thee seemeth good; +But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, so +Thou must point out some other way to go." +Yet secretly we are rejoicing: and, +When right before our faces, as we stand +In seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain, +Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain, +And, loth to go, by every act reveal +What we so tried from Conscience to conceal. + +I saw that hour, the way made plain, to do +With scarce an effort what had seemed a strife +That would require the strength of my whole life. + +Women have quick perceptions, and I knew +That Vivian's heart was full of jealous pain, +Suspecting--nay, BELIEVING--Roy Montaine +To be my lover. First my altered mien - +And next the letter--then the doorway scene - +My flushed face gazing in the one above +That bent so near me, and my strange confusion +When Vivian came all led to one conclusion: +That I had but been playing with his love, +As women sometimes cruelly do play +With hearts when their true lovers are away. + +There could be nothing easier than just +To let him linger on in this belief +Till hourly-fed Suspicion and Distrust +Should turn to scorn and anger all his grief. +Compared with me, so doubly sweet and pure +Would Helen seem, my purpose would be sure +And certain of completion in the end. +But now, the way was made so straight and clear, +My coward heart shrank back in guilty fear, +Till Conscience whispered with her "still small voice," +"The precious time is passing--make thy choice - +Resign thy love, or slay thy trusting friend." + +The growing moon, watched by the myriad eyes +Of countless stars, went sailing through the skies, +Like some young prince, rising to rule a nation, +To whom all eyes are turned in expectation. +A woman who possesses tact and art +And strength of will can take the hand of doom, +And walk on, smiling sweetly as she goes, +With rosy lips, and rounded cheeks of bloom, +Cheating a loud-tongued world that never knows +The pain and sorrow of her hidden heart. +And so I joined in Roy's bright changing chat; +Answered his sallies--talked of this and that, +My brow unruffled as the calm, still wave +That tells not of the wrecked ship, and the grave +Beneath its surface. + Then we heard, ere long, +The sound of Helen's gentle voice in song, +And, rising, entered where the subtle power +Of Vivian's eyes, forgiving while accusing, +Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour; +But Roy, always polite and debonair +Where ladies were, now hung about my chair +With nameless delicate attentions, using +That air devotional, and those small arts +Acquaintance with society imparts +To men gallant by nature. + 'Twas my sex +And not myself he bowed to. Had my place +Been filled that evening by a dowager +Twice his own age, he would have given her +The same attentions. But they served to vex +Whatever hope in Vivian's heart remained. +The cold, white look crept back upon his face, +Which told how deeply he was hurt and pained. + +Little by little all things had conspired +To bring events I dreaded, yet desired. +We were in constant intercourse: walks, rides, +Picnics and sails, filled weeks of golden weather, +And almost hourly we were thrown together. +No words were spoken of rebuke or scorn: +Good friends we seemed. But as a gulf divides +This land and that, though lying side by side, +So rolled a gulf between us--deep and wide - +The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly morn +And noon and night. + + Free and informal were +These picnics and excursions. Yet, although +Helen and I would sometimes choose to go +Without our escorts, leaving them quite free, +It happened alway Roy would seek out me +Ere passed the day, while Vivian walked with her. +I had no thought of flirting. Roy was just +Like some dear brother, and I quite forgot +The kinship was so distant it was not +Safe to rely upon in perfect trust, +Without reserve or caution. Many a time, +When there was some steep mountain-side to climb +And I grew weary, he would say, "Maurine, +Come rest you here." And I would go and lean +My head upon his shoulder, or would stand +And let him hold in his my willing hand, +The while he stroked it gently with his own. +Or I would let him clasp me with his arm, +Nor entertained a thought of any harm, +Nor once supposed but Vivian was alone +In his suspicions. But ere long the truth +I learned in consternation! both Aunt Ruth +And Helen honestly, in faith, believed +That Roy and I were lovers. + + Undeceived, +Some careless words might open Vivian's eyes +And spoil my plans. So reasoning in this wise, +To all their sallies I in jest replied, +To naught assented, and yet naught denied, +With Roy unchanged remaining, confident +Each understood just what the other meant. + +If I grew weary of this double part, +And self-imposed deception caused my heart +Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze +On Helen's face: that wore a look ethereal, +As if she dwelt above the things material +And held communion with the angels. So +I fed my strength and courage through the days. +What time the harvest moon rose full and clear +And cast its ling'ring radiance on the earth, +We made a feast; and called from far and near, +Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth. +Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro; +But none more sweet than Helen's. Robed in white, +She floated like a vision through the dance. +So frailly fragile and so phantom fair, +She seemed like some stray spirit of the air, +And was pursued by many an anxious glance +That looked to see her fading from the sight +Like figures that a dreamer sees at night. +And noble men and gallants graced the scene: +Yet none more noble or more grand of mien +Than Vivian--broad of chest and shoulder, tall +And finely formed, as any Grecian god +Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod. +His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those +Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose, +Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair +Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes +That could be cold as steel in winter air, +Or warm and sunny as Italian skies. + +Weary of mirth and music, and the sound +Of tripping feet, I sought a moment's rest +Within the lib'ry, where a group I found +Of guests, discussing with apparent zest +Some theme of interest--Vivian, near the while, +Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile. +"Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you," +Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. "We +Have been discussing right before his face, +All unrebuked by him, as you may see, +A poem lately published by our friend: +And we are quite divided. I contend +The poem is a libel and untrue. +I hold the fickle women are but few, +Compared with those who are like yon fair moon +That, ever faithful, rises in her place +Whether she's greeted by the flowers of June +Or cold and dreary stretches of white space." + +"Oh!" cried another, "Mr. Dangerfield, +Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield +The crown to Semple, who, 'tis very plain, +Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane." + +All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me, +I answered lightly, "My young friend, I fear +You chose a most unlucky simile +To prove the truth of woman. To her place +The moon does rise--but with a different face +Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear +The poem read, before I can consent +To pass my judgment on the sentiment." +All clamoured that the author was the man +To read the poem: and, with tones that said +More than the cutting, scornful words he read, +Taking the book Guy gave him, he began: + + +HER LOVE. + + +The sands upon the ocean side +That change about with every tide, +And never true to one abide, + A woman's love I liken to. + +The summer zephyrs, light and vain, +That sing the same alluring strain +To every grass blade on the plain - + A woman's love is nothing more. + +The sunshine of an April day +That comes to warm you with its ray, +But while you smile has flown away - + A woman's love is like to this. + +God made poor woman with no heart, +But gave her skill, and tact, and art, +And so she lives, and plays her part. + We must not blame, but pity her. + +She leans to man--but just to hear +The praise he whispers in her ear, +Herself, not him, she holdeth dear - + Oh, fool! to be deceived by her. + +To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs +The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts, +Then throws them lightly by and laughs, + Too weak to understand their pain. + +As changeful as the winds that blow +From every region, to and fro, +Devoid of heart, she cannot know + The suffering of a human heart. + + +I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian's eyes +Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise; +But lightly answered, toying with my fan, +"That sentiment is very like a man! +Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong; +We're only frail and helpless, men are strong; +And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing +And make a shroud out of their suffering, +And drag the corpse about with them for years. +But we?--we mourn it for a day with tears! +And then we robe it for its last long rest, +And being women, feeble things at best, +We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so +We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low: +Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends +To do this service for her earthly friends, +The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep +Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep." + +The laugh that followed had not died away +Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say +The band was tuning for our waltz, and so +Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow +And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent, +And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went +Out on the cool moonlighted portico, +And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head +Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent +His smiling eyes upon me, as he said: +"I'll try the mesmerism of my touch +To work a cure: be very quiet now, +And let me make some passes o'er your brow. +Why, how it throbs! you've exercised too much! +I shall not let you dance again to-night." + +Just then before us, in the broad moonlight, +Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face +To catch the teasing and mischievous glance +Of Helen's eyes, as, heated by the dance, +Leaning on Vivian's arm, she sought this place. + +"I beg your pardon," came in that round tone +Of his low voice. "I think we do intrude." +Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone +Ere I could speak or change my attitude. + + +PART V + + +A visit to a cave some miles away +Was next in order. So, one sunny day, +Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing load +Of merry pleasure-seekers o'er the road. +A basket picnic, music, and croquet +Were in the programme. Skies were blue and clear, +And cool winds whispered of the Autumn near. +The merry-makers filled the time with pleasure: +Some floated to the music's rhythmic measure, +Some played, some promenaded on the green. +Ticked off by happy hearts, the moments passed. +The afternoon, all glow and glimmer, came. +Helen and Roy were leaders of some game, +And Vivian was not visible. + + "Maurine, +I challenge you to climb yon cliff with me! +And who shall tire, or reach the summit last +Must pay a forfeit," cried a romping maid. +"Come! start at once, or own you are afraid." +So challenged I made ready for the race, +Deciding first the forfeit was to be +A handsome pair of bootees to replace +The victor's loss who made the rough ascent. +The cliff was steep and stony. On we went +As eagerly as if the path was Fame, +And what we climbed for, glory and a name. +My hands were bruised; my garments sadly rent, +But on I clambered. Soon I heard a cry, +"Maurine! Maurine! my strength is wholly spent! +You've won the boots! I'm going back--good-bye!" +And back she turned, in spite of laugh and jeer. + +I reached the summit: and its solitude, +Wherein no living creature did intrude, +Save some sad birds that wheeled and circled near, +I found far sweeter than the scene below. +Alone with One who knew my hidden woe, +I did not feel so much alone as when +I mixed with th' unthinking throngs of men. + +Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile place +I plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed, +That in our lives, albeit dark with shade +And rough and hard with labour, yet may grow +The flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace. + +As I walked on in meditative thought, +A serpent writhed across my pathway; not +A large or deadly serpent; yet the sight +Filled me with ghastly terror and affright. +I shrieked aloud: a darkness veiled my eyes - +And I fell fainting 'neath the watchful skies. + +I was no coward. Country-bred and born, +I had no feeling but the keenest scorn +For those fine lady "ah's" and "oh's" of fear +So much assumed (when any man is near). +But God implanted in each human heart +A natural horror, and a sickly dread +Of that accursed, slimy, creeping thing +That squirms a limbless carcass o'er the ground. +And where that inborn loathing is not found +You'll find the serpent qualities instead. +Who fears it not, himself is next of kin, +And in his bosom holds some treacherous art +Whereby to counteract its venomed sting. +And all are sired by Satan--Chief of Sin. + +Who loathes not that foul creature of the dust, +However fair in seeming, I distrust. + +I woke from my unconsciousness, to know +I leaned upon a broad and manly breast, +And Vivian's voice was speaking, soft and low, +Sweet whispered words of passion, o'er and o'er. +I dared not breathe. Had I found Eden's shore? +Was this a foretaste of eternal bliss? +"My love," he sighed, his voice like winds that moan +Before a rain in Summer-time, "my own, +For one sweet stolen moment, lie and rest +Upon this heart that loves and hates you both! +O fair false face! Why were you made so fair! +O mouth of Southern sweetness! that ripe kiss +That hangs upon you, I do take an oath +HIS lips shall never gather. There!--and there! +I steal it from him. Are you his--all his? +Nay, you are mine, this moment, as I dreamed - +Blind fool--believing you were what you seemed - +You would be mine in all the years to come. +Fair fiend! I love and hate you in a breath. +O God! if this white pallor were but DEATH, +And I were stretched beside you, cold and dumb, +My arms about you, so--in fond embrace! +My lips pressed, so--upon your dying face!" + +"Woman, how dare you bring me to such shame! +How dare you drive me to an act like this, +To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss +You lured me on to think my rightful claim! +O frail and puny woman! could you know +The devil that you waken in the hearts +You snare and bind in your enticing arts, +The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow +Would freeze in terror. + + Strange you have such power +To please or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things - +Devoid of passion as a senseless flower! +Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings. +There, now I scorn you--scorn you from this hour, +And hate myself for having talked of love!" + +He pushed me from him. And I felt as those +Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above +Are closed against them. + + With a feigned surprise +I started up and opened wide my eyes, +And looked about. Then in confusion rose +And stood before him. + + "Pardon me, I pray!" +He said quite coldly. "Half an hour ago +I left you with the company below, +And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried, +It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm. +I came in time to see you swoon away. +You'll need assistance down the rugged side +Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm." + +So, formal and constrained, we passed along, +Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng +To have no further speech again that day. + +Next morn there came a bulky document, +The legal firm of Blank and Blank had sent, +Containing news unlooked for. An estate +Which proved a cosy fortune--nowise great +Or princely--had in France been left to me, +My grandsire's last descendant. And it brought +A sense of joy and freedom in the thought +Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be +A panacea for my troubled mind, +That longed to leave the olden scenes behind +With all their recollections, and to flee +To some strange country. + + I was in such haste +To put between me and my native land +The briny ocean's desolating waste, +I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned +To sail that week, two months: though she was fain +To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine +Would be our guide and escort. + + No one dreamed +The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed +To think good fortune had quite turned my brain. +One bright October morning, when the woods +Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods +In honour of the Frost King, Vivian came, +Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame, - +First trophies of the Autumn time. + + And Roy +Made a proposal that we all should go +And ramble in the forest for a while. +But Helen said she was not well--and so +Must stay at home. Then Vivian, with a smile, +Responded, "I will stay and talk to you, +And they may go;" at which her two cheeks grew +Like twin blush roses--dyed with love's red wave, +Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy. + +And Vivian saw--and suddenly was grave. +Roy took my arm in that protecting way +Peculiar to some men, which seems to say, +"I shield my own," a manner pleasing, e'en +When we are conscious that it does not mean +More than a simple courtesy. A woman +Whose heart is wholly feminine and human, +And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be +The object of that tender chivalry, +That guardianship which man bestows on her, +Yet mixed with deference; as if she were +Half child, half angel. + + Though she may be strong, +Noble and self-reliant, not afraid +To raise her hand and voice against all wrong +And all oppression, yet if she be made, +With all the independence of her thought, +A woman womanly, as God designed, +Albeit she may have as great a mind +As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm, +His muscle and his boldness she has not, +And cannot have without she loses what +Is far more precious, modesty and grace. +So, walking on in her appointed place, +She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend +But that she needs him for a guide and friend, +To shield her with his greater strength from harm. +We reached the forest; wandered to and fro +Through many a winding path and dim retreat, +Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat +Upon an oak-tree, which had been laid low +By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke. +And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge +On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge +Of sunny meadows lying at my feet. +One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb +That cast its checkered shadows over him; +And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised +And fixed upon me, silently he gazed +Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke: +"Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise, +And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes." + +The smooth and even darkness of his cheek +Was stained one moment by a flush of red. +He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood +Still clinging to the branch above his head. +His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said, +With sudden passion, "Do you bid me speak? +I cannot, then, keep silence if I would. +That hateful fortune, coming as it did, +Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew +A harsh-tongued world would quickly misconstrue +My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet, +So big my heart has grown with love for you +I cannot shelter it or keep it hid. +And so I cast it throbbing at your feet, +For you to guard and cherish, or to break. +Maurine, I love you better than my life. +My friend--my cousin--be still more, my wife! +Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?" + +I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and numb +With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb +With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes +That looked no feeling but complete surprise. +He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek. +"Maurine, Maurine," he whispered, "will you speak?" + +Then suddenly, as o'er some magic glass +One picture in a score of shapes will pass, +I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze. +First, as the playmate of my earlier days - +Next, as my kin--and then my valued friend, +And last, my lover. As when colours blend +In some unlooked-for group before our eyes, +We hold the glass, and look them o'er and o'er, +So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise, +In which he ne'er appeared to me before. + +His form was like a panther's in its grace, +So lithe and supple, and of medium height, +And garbed in all the elegance of fashion. +His large black eyes were full of fire and passion, +And in expression fearless, firm, and bright. +His hair was like the very deeps of night, +And hung in raven clusters 'round a face +Of dark and flashing beauty. + + He was more +Like some romantic maiden's grand ideal +Than like a common being. As I gazed +Upon the handsome face to mine upraised, +I saw before me, living, breathing, real, +The hero of my early day-dreams: though +So full my heart was with that clear-cut face, +Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero's place, +I had not recognised him so before, +Or thought of him, save as a valued friend. +So now I called him, adding, + + "Foolish boy! +Each word of love you utter aims a blow +At that sweet trust I had reposed in you. +I was so certain I had found a true, +Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend, +And go on wholly trusting to the end. +Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy, +By turning to a lover?" + + "Why, indeed! +Because I loved you more than any brother, +Or any friend could love." Then he began +To argue like a lawyer, and to plead +With all his eloquence. And, listening, +I strove to think it was a goodly thing +To be so fondly loved by such a man, +And it were best to give his wooing heed, +And not deny him. Then before my eyes, +In all its clear-cut majesty, that other +Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise +And rob my purpose of all life and strength. + +Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could, +With that impetuous, boyish eloquence. +He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should +Give some least hope; till, in my own defence, +I turned upon him, and replied at length: +"I thank you for the noble heart you offer: +But it deserves a true one in exchange. +I could love you if I loved not another +Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer." + +Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I said: +"Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange; +But I love one I cannot hope to wed. +A river rolls between us, dark and deep. +To cross it--were to stain with blood my hand. +You force my speech on what I fain would keep +In my own bosom, but you understand? +My heart is given to love that's sanctified, +And now can feel no other. + + Be you kind, +Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more, +Lest pleading and denying should divide +The hearts so long united. Let me find +In you my cousin and my friend of yore. +And now come home. The morning, all too soon +And unperceived, has melted into noon. +Helen will miss us, and we must return." + +He took my hand, and helped me to arise, +Smiling upon me with his sad, dark eyes, +Where passion's fires had, sudden, ceased to burn. + +"And so," he said, "too soon and unforeseen +My friendship melted into love, Maurine. +But, sweet! I am not wholly in the blame +For what you term my folly. You forgot, +So long we'd known each other, I had not +In truth a brother's or a cousin's claim. +But I remembered, when through every nerve +Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began +To love you with that human love of man +For comely woman. By your coaxing arts, +You won your way into my heart of hearts, +And all Platonic feelings put to rout. +A maid should never lay aside reserve +With one who's not her kinsman, out and out. +But as we now, with measured steps, retrace +The path we came, e'en so my heart I'll send, +At your command, back to the olden place, +And strive to love you only as a friend." +I felt the justice of his mild reproof, +But answered, laughing, "'Tis the same old cry: +'The woman tempted me, and I did eat.' +Since Adam's time we've heard it. But I'll try +And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof +The fruit I never once had thought so sweet +'Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner, +Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner. +And guard each act, that no least look betray +What's passed between us." + + Then I turned away +And sought my room, low humming some old air +That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes +Fell on a face so glorified and fair +All other senses, merged in that of sight, +Were lost in contemplation of the bright +And wond'rous picture, which had otherwise +Made dim my vision. + + Waiting in my room, +Her whole face lit as by an inward flame +That shed its halo 'round her, Helen stood; +Her fair hands folded like a lily's leaves +Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves. +Upon her cheek the colour went and came +As sunlight flickers o'er a bed of bloom; +And, like some slim young sapling of the wood, +Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair +Fell 'round her loosely, in long curling strands +All unconfined, and as by loving hands +Tossed into bright confusion. + + Standing there, +Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem +Like some unearthly creature of a dream; +Until she started forward, gliding slowly, +And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly, +As one grown meek, and humble in an hour, +Bowing before some new and mighty power. + +"Maurine, Maurine!" she murmured, and again, +"Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!" + + And then, +Laying her love-light hands upon my head, +She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said +With voice that bore her joy in ev'ry tone, +As winds that blow across a garden bed +Are weighed with fragrance, "He is mine alone, +And I am his--all his--his very own. +So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie +Save one beneath God's over-arching sky. +I could not wait to tell you of my bliss: +I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss." +So hiding my heart's trouble with a smile, +I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while +I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin, +When my lips fell where his so late had been. +And all day long I bore about with me +A sense of shame--yet mixed with satisfaction, +As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be +Sad with the guilt resulting from her action, +While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet. +That ev'ning when the house had settled down +To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept +A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown: +With steps like fall of thistle-down she came, +Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name, +Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet. + +"Sweetheart," she murmured softly, "ere I sleep, +I needs must tell you all my tale of joy. +Beginning where you left us--you and Roy. +You saw the colour flame upon my cheek +When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he; - +And, when we were alone, he gazed at me +With such a strange look in his wond'rous eyes. +The silence deepened; and I tried to speak +Upon some common topic, but could not, +My heart was in such tumult. + + In this wise +Five happy moments glided by us, fraught +With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then, +And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair. +And, in his low voice, o'er and o'er again, +Said, 'Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.' +Then took my face, and turned it to the light, +And looking in my eyes, and seeing what +Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low, +'Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight. +You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?' +And I made answer straightway, 'With my life +And soul and strength I love you, O my love!' +He leaned and took me gently to his breast, +And said, 'Here then this dainty head shall rest +Henceforth for ever: O my little dove! +My lily-bud--my fragile blossom-wife!' + +And then I told him all my thoughts; and he +Listened, with kisses for his comments, till +My tale was finished. Then he said, 'I will +Be frank with you, my darling, from the start, +And hide no secret from you in my heart. +I love you, Helen, but you are not first +To rouse that love to being. Ere we met +I loved a woman madly--never dreaming +She was not all in truth she was in seeming. +Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed +Of God and man--a wily vain coquette. +I hate myself for having loved her. Yet +So much my heart spent on her, it must give +A love less ardent, and less prodigal, +Albeit just as tender and as true - +A milder, yet a faithful love to you. +Just as some evil fortune might befall +A man's great riches, causing him to live +In some low cot, all unpretending, still +As much his home--as much his loved retreat, +As was the princely palace on the hill, +E'en so I give you all that's left, my sweet! +Of my heart-fortune.' + + 'That were more to me,' +I made swift smiling answer, 'than to be +The worshipped consort of a king.' And so +Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go +Until I vowed to wed him New Year day. +And I am sad because you go away +Before that time. I shall not feel half wed +Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay, +And be my bridesmaid." + + "Nay, I cannot, dear! +'Twould disarrange our plans for half a year. +I'll be in Europe New Year day," I said, +"And send congratulations by the cable." +And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing +The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing, +The festal garments of a wedding scene, +While all my heart was hung with sorrow's sable. +Forgetting for a season, that between +The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss, +I lived in my near future, confident +All would be as I planned it; and, across +The briny waste of waters, I should find +Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind. +The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed +And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed, +Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb +Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom. + +Roy left us for a time, and Helen went +To make the nuptial preparations. Then, +Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill: +Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill +Of two physicians could not stem the tide. +The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest, +Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds: and when +The Autumn day, that I had thought to be +Bounding upon the billows of the sea, +Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn, +Striving to keep away that unloved guest +Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn. +Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside +The suff'rer's couch, Roy was my help and stay; +Others were kind, but he alone each day +Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face, +And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place +Like rays of light upon a darkened way. +November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill, +In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill. +Returning light and life dispelled the gloom +That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb. +Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better - +Was dressed each day, and walked about the room. +Then came one morning in the Eastern mail, +A little white-winged birdling of a letter. +I broke the seal and read, + + "Maurine, my own! +I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad. +I felt so sorry for you; and so sad +To think I left you when I did--alone +To bear your pain and worry, and those nights +Of weary, anxious watching. + + Vivian writes +Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail +Before the Springtime. So you'll come and be +My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay. +But three weeks more of girlhood left to me. +Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day, +And make your preparations here. My sweet! +Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill - +I'm sorry she has suffered so; and still +I'm thankful something happened, so you stayed. +I'm sure my wedding would be incomplete +Without your presence. Selfish, I'm afraid +You'll think your Helen. But I love you so, +How can I be quite willing you should go? +Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know, +And I will meet you, dearie! at the train. +Your happy, loving Helen." + + Then the pain +That, hidden under later pain and care, +Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep, +Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep +My tortured heart in anguish and despair. + +I had relied too fully on my skill +In bending circumstances to my will: +And now I was rebuked and made to see +That God alone knoweth what is to be. +Then came a messenger from Vivian, who +Came not himself, as he was wont to do, +But sent his servant each new day to bring +A kindly message, or an offering +Of juicy fruits to cool the lips of fever, +Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom +To brighten up the convalescent's room. +But now the servant only brought a line +From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine, +"Dear Sir, and Friend"--in letters bold and plain, +Written on cream-white paper, so it ran: +"It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor, +And therefore doubly so a wish of mine, +That you shall honour me next New Year Eve, +My wedding hour, by standing as best man. +Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe. +Being myself a novice in the art - +If I should fail in acting well my part, +I'll need protection 'gainst the regiment +Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent +To stand by me in time of need, and shield +Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield." + +The last least hope had vanished; I must drain, +E'en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain. + + +PART VI + + +There was a week of bustle and of hurry; +A stately home echoed to voices sweet, +Calling, replying; and to tripping feet +Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro, +With all that girlish fluttering and flurry +Preceding such occasions. + + Helen's room +Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom, +Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau. +My robe was fashioned by swift, skilful hands - +A thing of beauty, elegant and rich, +A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands; +And as I watched it growing, stitch by stitch, +I felt as one might feel who should behold +With vision trance-like, where his body lay +In deathly slumber, simulating clay, +His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold. + +I lived with ev'ry nerve upon the strain, +As men go into battle; and the pain, +That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed +Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed +From mortal eyes by superhuman power, +That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour. +What night the Old Year gave unto the New +The key of human happiness and woe, +The pointed stars, upon their field of blue, +Shone, white and perfect, o'er a world below, +Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed +In gleaming garments, decked with diadems, +Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest, +Coming o'erladen with a gift of gems. +The bustle of the dressing-room; the sound +Of eager voices in discourse; the clang +Of "sweet bells jangled"; thud of steel-clad feet +That beat swift music on the frozen ground - +All blent together in my brain, and rang +A medley of strange noises, incomplete, +And full of discords. + + Then out on the night +Streamed from the open vestibule, a light +That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod, +With all the hues of those that deck the sod. +The grand cathedral windows were ablaze +With gorgeous colours; through a sea of bloom, +Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom, +The bridal cortege passed. + + As some lost soul +Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze +Upon its coffined body, so I went +With that glad festal throng. The organ sent +Great waves of melody along the air, +That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray, +On happy hearts that listened. But to me +It sounded faintly, as if miles away, +A troubled spirit, sitting in despair +Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea, +Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole. +We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers, +The white-robed man of God stood forth. + + I heard +The solemn service open; through long hours +I seemed to stand and listen, while each word +Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay +Upon the coffin of the worshipped dead. +The stately father gave the bride away: +The bridegroom circled with a golden band +The taper finger of her dainty hand. +The last imposing, binding words were said - +"What God has joined let no man put asunder" - +And all my strife with self was at an end; +My lover was the husband of my friend. + +How strangely, in some awful hour of pain, +External trifles with our sorrows blend! +I never hear the mighty organ's thunder, +I never catch the scent of heliotrope, +Nor see stained windows all ablaze with light, +Without that dizzy whirling of the brain, +And all the ghastly feeling of that night, +When my sick heart relinquished love and hope. + +The pain we feel so keenly may depart, +And e'en its memory cease to haunt the heart: +But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound +Will probe the closed recesses of the wound, +And for a moment bring the old-time smart. + +Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles, +Good-byes and farewells given; then across +The snowy waste of weary wintry miles, +Back to my girlhoods' home, where, through each room, +For evermore pale phantoms of delight +Should aimless wander, always in my sight, +Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb +Wet with the tears of living pain and loss. + +The sleepless nights of watching and of care, +Followed by that one week of keenest pain, +Taxing my weakened system, and my brain, +Brought on a ling'ring illness. + + Day by day, +In that strange, apathetic state I lay, +Of mental and of physical despair. +I had no pain, no fever, and no chill, +But lay without ambition, strength, or will. +Knowing no wish for anything but rest, +Which seemed, of all God's store of gifts, the best. + +Physicians came and shook their heads and sighed; +And to their score of questions I replied, +With but one languid answer, o'er and o'er, +"I am so weary--weary--nothing more." + +I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered thing, +Flying through space with ever-aching wing, +Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white, +That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight, +But always one unchanging distance kept, +And woke more weary than before I slept. + +I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize, +A hand from heaven held down before my eyes. +All eagerness I sought it--it was gone, +But shone in all its beauty farther on. +I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest +Of that great prize, whereon was written "Rest," +Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam, +And wakened doubly weary with my dream. + +I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain, +That saw a snow-white lily on the plain, +And left the cloud to nestle in her breast. +I fell and fell, but nevermore found rest - +I fell and fell, but found no stopping place, +Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space, +While space illimitable stretched before. + +And all these dreams but wearied me the more. + +Familiar voices sounded in my room - +Aunt Ruth's, and Roy's, and Helen's: but they seemed +A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed, +And now remembered dimly. + + Wrapped in gloom, +My mind, o'ertaxed, lost hold of time at last, +Ignored its future, and forgot its past, +And groped along the present, as a light, +Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night, +Will flicker faintly. + + But I felt, at length, +When March winds brought vague rumours of the spring, +A certain sense of "restlessness with rest." +My aching frame was weary of repose, +And wanted action. + + Then slow-creeping strength +Came back with Mem'ry, hand in hand, to bring +And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast, +Grim-visaged Recollection's thorny rose. +I gained, and failed. One day could ride and walk, +The next would find me prostrate: while a flock +Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit +About the chambers of my heart, or sit, +Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings, +Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings, +That once resounded to Hope's happy lays. + +So passed the ever-changing April days. +When May came, lightsome footed, o'er the lea, +Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy, +I bade farewell to home with secret joy, +And turned my wan face eastward to the sea. +Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands +Were one to him. Or Egypt's burning sands, +Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome, +All were familiar as the fields of home. + +There was a year of wand'ring to and fro, +Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights; +Dwelling among the countless, rare delights +Of lands historic; turning dusty pages, +Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages +Gazing upon the scenes of bloody acts, +Of kings long buried--bare, unvarnished facts, +Surpassing wildest fictions of the brain; +Rubbing against all people, high and low, +And by this contact feeling Self to grow +Smaller and less important, and the vein +Of human kindness deeper, seeing God, +Unto the humble delver of the sod, +And to the ruling monarch on the throne, +Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain, +And that all hearts have feelings like our own. + +There is no school that disciplines the mind, +And broadens thought, like contact with mankind. +The college-prisoned graybeard, who has burned +The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned, +Till sciences or classics hold no lore +He has not conned and studied, o'er and o'er, +Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared +With some unlettered wand'rer, who has shared +The hospitalities of every land; +Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand; +Made man his study, and the world his college, +And gained this grand epitome of knowledge: +Each human being has a heart and soul, +And self is but an atom of the whole. +I hold he is best learned and most wise +Who best and most can love and sympathize. +Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained; +Our banded minds go round in little grooves; +But constant friction with the world removes +These iron foes to freedom, and we rise +To grander heights, and, all untrammelled, find +A better atmosphere and clearer skies; +And through its broadened realm, no longer chained, +Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind. +Where'er we chanced to wander or to roam, +Glad letters came from Helen; happy things, +Like little birds that followed on swift wings, +Bringing their tender messages from home. +Her days were poems, beautiful, complete. +The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet. +She was so happy--happy, and so blest. + +My heart had found contentment in that year. +With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer +The heart of youth turns ever to the light; +Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night, +But, in its very anguish and unrest, +It beats and tears the pall-like folds away, +And finds again the sunlight of the day. + +And yet, despite the changes without measure, +Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure; +Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart +Was conscious of a something lacking, where +Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair. +Now love was buried; and despair had flown +Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown +From heights serene and lofty; and the place +Where both had dwelt was empty, voiceless space. +And so I took my long-loved study, art, +The dreary vacuum in my life to fill, +And worked, and laboured, with a right good will. +Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy +Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy. +A dainty little lassie, Grace Kildare, +Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair, +And made him captive. + + We were thrown, by chance, +In contact with her people while in France +The previous season: she was wholly sweet +And fair and gentle; so naive, and yet +So womanly, she was at once the pet +Of all our party; and, ere many days, +Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways, +Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet. +Her home was in the Highlands; and she came +Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame. + +Through all these months Roy had been true as steel; +And by his every action made me feel +He was my friend and brother, and no more, +The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore. +Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew +Whether the love he felt one time was dead, +Or only hidden, for my sake, from view. +So when he came to me one day, and said, +The velvet blackness of his eyes ashine +With light of love and triumph: "Cousin, mine, +Congratulate me! She whom I adore +Has pledged to me the promise of her hand; +Her heart I have already," I was glad +With double gladness, for it freed my mind +Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad. + +From March till June had left her moons behind, +And merged her rose-red beauty in July, +There was no message from my native land. +Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned: +Death had been near to Helen, but passed by; +The danger was now over. God was kind; +The mother and the child were both alive; +No other child was ever known to thrive +As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say. +The infant was a wonder, every way. +And, at command of Helen, he would send +A lock of baby's golden hair to me. +And did I, on my honour, ever see +Such hair before? Helen would write, ere long: +She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong - +Stronger than ever, so the doctors said. +I took the tiny ringlet, golden--fair, +Mayhap his hand had severed from the head +Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek +And to my lips, and kissed it o'er and o'er. +All my maternal instincts seemed to rise, +And clamour for their rights, while my wet eyes +Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair. +The woman struggled with her heart before! +It was the mother in me now did speak, +Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not, +And crying out against her barren lot. + +Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years +That stretched before me, dark with love's eclipse; +And thought how my unmated heart would miss +The shelter of a broad and manly breast - +The strong, bold arm--the tender clinging kiss - +And all pure love's possessions, manifold; +But now I wept a flood of bitter tears, +Thinking of little heads of shining gold, +That would not on my bosom sink to rest; +Of little hands that would not touch my cheek; +Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips, +That never in my list'ning ear would speak +The blessed name of mother. + + Oh, in woman +How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere +Unto her wond'ring, untaught mind unfolds +The myst'ry that is half divine, half human, +Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls +Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps +Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps, +And grows and strengthens with each riper year. + +As storms may gather in a placid sky, +And spend their fury, and then pass away, +Leaving again the blue of cloudless day, +E'en so the tempest of my grief passed by. +'Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned, +With the deliberate purpose of my mind, +To my sweet friend. + + Relinquishing my love, +I gave my dearest hope of joy to her. +If God, from out His boundless store above, +Had chosen added blessings to confer, +I would rejoice, for her sake--not repine +That th' immortal treasures were not mine. + +Better my lonely sorrow, than to know +My selfish joy had been another's woe; +Better my grief and my strength to control, +Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul; +Better to go on, loveless, to the end, +Than wear love's rose, whose thorn had slain my friend. + +Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart. +With will most resolute I set my aim +To enter on the weary race for Fame, +And if I failed to climb the dizzy height, +To reach some point of excellence in art. + +E'en as the Maker held earth incomplete, +Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod, +The perfect, living image of his God, +All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight, +Wherein the human figure had no part. +In that, all lines of symmetry did meet - +All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought +Enthusiasm in abundance, thought, +Much study, and some talent, day by day, +To help me in my efforts to portray +The wond'rous power, majesty and grace +Stamped on some form, or looking from some face. +This was to be my specialty: To take +Human emotion for my theme, and make +The unassisted form divine express +Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress; +And thus to build Fame's monument above +The grave of my departed hope and love. +This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings +And soars beyond itself, or selfish things. +Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross, +Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss, +Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition, +Before it labours onward to fruition. + +But, as the lark from beds of bloom will rise +And sail and sing among the very skies, +Still mounting near and nearer to the light, +Impelled wings, to heights sublime. +Impelled alone by love of upward flight, +So Genius soars--it does not need to climb - +Some sportman's shot, grazing the singer's throat, +Some venomous assault of birds of prey, +May speed its flight toward the realm of day, +And tinge with triumph every liquid note. +So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet, +When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret. + +There is no balking Genius. Only death +Can silence it, or hinder. While there's breath +Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod, +And lift itself to glory, and to God. +The acorn sprouted--weeds nor flowers can choke +The certain growth of th' upreaching oak. + +Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind +Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind +Its selfish love and sorrow. + + Did I strive +To picture some emotion, lo! HIS eyes, +Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes, +Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain +Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive. +Whate'er my subject, in some hue or line, +The glorious beauty of his face would shine. + +So for a time my labour seemed in vain, +Since it but freshened, and made keener yet, +The grief my heart was striving to forget. +While in his form all strength and magnitude +With grace and supple sinews were entwined, +While in his face all beauties were combined +Of perfect features, intellect and truth, +With all that fine rich colouring of youth, +How could my brush portray aught good or fair +Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude +Of him my soul had worshipped? + + But, at last, +Setting a watch upon my unwise heart, +That thus would mix its sorrow with my art, +I resolutely shut away the past, +And made the toilsome present passing bright +With dreams of what was hidden from my sight +In the far distant future, when the soil +Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil. + + +PART VII + + +With much hard labour and some pleasure fraught, +The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught +My hand to grow more skilful in its art, +Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought +Sweet hope and resignation to my heart. + +Brief letters came from Helen, now and then: +She was quite well--oh yes! quite well, indeed! +But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by, +When baby, being older, should not need +Such constant care, she would grow strong again. +She was as happy as a soul could be; +No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; +She had not thought life held such depths of bliss. +Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss, +And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, +Not to come home and see ma's little pearl. +No gift of costly jewels, or of gold, +Had been so precious or so dear to me, +As each brief line wherein her joy was told. +It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, +Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain. + +Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where +He built a pretty villa-like retreat. +And when the Roman Summer's languid heat +Made work a punishment, I turned my face +Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace +Found rest and freedom from all thought and care. + +I was a willing worker. Not an hour +Passed idly by me: each, I would employ +To some good purpose, ere it glided on +To swell the tide of hours forever gone. +My first completed picture, known as "Joy," +Won pleasant words of praise. "Possesses power," +"Displays much talent," "Very fairly done." +So fell the comments on my grateful ear. + +Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near, +Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush +Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed, +With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush +Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried. +The careful study of long months, it won +Golden opinions; even bringing forth +That certain sign of merit--a critique +Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak +As empty heads that sang their praises--so +Proving conclusively the pictures' worth. +These critics and reviewers do not use +Their precious ammunition to abuse +A worthless work. That, left alone, they know +Will find its proper level; and they aim +Their batteries at rising works which claim +Too much of public notice. But this shot +Resulted only in some noise, which brought +A dozen people, where one came before, +To view my pictures; and I had my hour +Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow'r. +An English Baron who had lived two score +Of his allotted three score years and ten +Bought both the pieces. He was very kind, +And so attentive, I, not being blind, +Must understand his meaning. + + Therefore, when +He said, + "Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife, +The 'Joy' and 'Sorrow' this dear hand portrayed +I have in my possession: now resign +Into my careful keeping, and make mine, +The joy and sorrow of your future life," - +I was prepared to answer, but delayed, +Grown undecided suddenly. + + My mind +Argued the matter coolly pro and con, +And made resolve to speed his wooing on +And grant him favour. He was good and kind; +Not young, no doubt he would be quite content +With my respect, nor miss an ardent love; +Could give me ties of family and home; +And then, perhaps, my mind was not above +Setting some value on a titled name - +Ambitious woman's weakness! + + Then my art +Would be encouraged and pursued the same, +And I could spend my winters all in Rome. +Love never more could touch my wasteful heart +That all its wealth upon one object spent. +Existence would be very bleak and cold, +After long years, when I was gray and old, +With neither home nor children. + + Once a wife, +I would forget the sorrow of my life, +And pile new sods upon the grave of pain. +My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard, +But made no comment. + + Then the Baron spoke, +And waited for my answer. All in vain +I strove for strength to utter that one word +My mind dictated. Moments rolled away - +Until at last my torpid heart awoke, +And forced my trembling lips to say him nay. +And then my eyes with sudden tears o'erran, +In pity for myself and for this man +Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise. +"Dear friend," I cried, "dear generous friend, forgive +A troubled woman's weakness! As I live, +In truth I meant to answer otherwise. +From out its store, my heart can give you naught +But honour and respect; and yet methought +I would give willing answer, did you sue. +But now I know 'twere cruel wrong I planned - +Taking a heart that beat with love most true, +And giving in exchange an empty hand. +Who weds for love alone, may not be wise: +Who weds without it, angels must despise. +Love and respect together must combine +To render marriage holy and divine; +And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys +Continuation of the nuptial joys, +And brings regret, and gloomy discontent +To put to rout each tender sentiment. +Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life +By that possession--an unloving wife; +Nor will I take the sin upon my soul +Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole. +However bleak may be my single lot, +I will not stain my life with such a blot. +Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide; +It holds some fairer woman for your bride; +I would I had a heart to give to you, +But, lacking it, can only say--adieu!" + +He whom temptation never has assailed, +Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength; +When sorely tried, we waver, but at length, +Rise up and turn away, not having failed. + +* * * + +The Autumn of the third year came and went; +The mild Italian winter was half spent, +When this brief message came across the sea: +"My darling! I am dying. Come to me. +Love, which so long the growing truth concealed, +Stands pale within its shadow. Oh, my sweet! +This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat - +Dying with very weight of bliss. Oh, come! +And take the legacy I leave to you, +Before these lips for evermore are dumb. +In life or death,--Yours, Helen Dangerfield." +This plaintive letter bore a month old date; +And, wild with fears lest I had come too late, +I bade the old world and new friends adieu, +And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home, +I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome. + +All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear +That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled, +Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear, +Was passing from me; that she might be dead; +And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me, +Because I made no answer to her plea. + +"O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on, +Make haste before a wasting life is gone! +Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath! +And true in life, be true e'en unto death. + +"O, ship, sail on! and bear me o'er the tide +To her for whom my woman's heart once died. +Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me, +And I would know what her last wish may be! +I have been true, so true, through all the past. +Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last." + +So prayed my heart still o'er, and ever o'er, +Until the weary lagging ship reached shore. +All sad with fears that I had come too late, +By that strange source whence men communicate, +Though miles on miles of space between them lie, +I spoke with Vivian: "Does she live? Reply." +The answer came. "She lives, but hasten, friend! +Her journey draweth swiftly to its end." + +Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot, +My own dear home, the lane that led to his - +The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight, +Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might; +Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot, +But those sweet early years of lost delight, +Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss. + +I have a theory, vague, undefined, +That each emotion of the human mind, +Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair, +Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air, +Until it takes possession of some breast; +And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, +We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, +And bid it leave us wholly, and depart, +It does not die, it cannot die; but goes +And mingles with some restless wind that blows +About the region where it had its birth. +And though we wander over all the earth, +That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, +Invisible and clothed like the air, +Hoping that we may yet again draw near, +And it may haply take us unaware, +And once more find safe shelter in the breast +It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest. + +Told by my heart, and wholly positive, +Some old emotion long had ceased to live; +That, were it called, it could not hear or come, +Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, +Yet, passing where it first sprang into life, +My very soul has suddenly been rife +With all the old intensity of feeling. +It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing +Into my heart from that departed day; +Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay. + +So now into my troubled heart, above +The present's pain and sorrow, crept the love +And strife and passion of a bygone hour, +Possessed of all their olden might and power. +'Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken +By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken, +And Vivian stood before us. + + But I saw +In him the husband of my friend alone. +The old emotions might at times return, +And smould'ring fires leap up an hour and burn; +But never yet had I transgressed God's law, +By looking on the man I had resigned, +With any hidden feeling in my mind, +Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known +He was but little altered. From his face +The nonchalant and almost haughty grace, +The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes, +The years had stolen, leaving in their place +A settled sadness, which was not despair, +Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care, +But something like the vapour o'er the skies +Of Indian summer, beautiful to see, +But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be. +There was that in his face which cometh not, +Save when the soul has many a battle fought, +And conquered self by constant sacrifice. + +There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine, +Render the plainest features half divine. +All other artists strive and strive in vain, +To picture beauty perfect and complete. +Their statues only crumble at their feet, +Without the master touch of Faith and Pain. +And now his face, that perfect seemed before, +Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore +A look exalted, which the spirit gives +When soul has conquered, and the body lives +Subservient to its bidding. + + In a room +Which curtained out the February gloom, +And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers, +Rested the eye like one of Summer's bowers, +I found my Helen, who was less mine now +Than Death's; for on the marble of her brow +His seal was stamped indelibly. + + Her form +Was like the slender willow, when some storm +Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face, +Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue: +And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place, +Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue. +Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein, +And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain +Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light +Shone through and made her wasted features bright +With an unearthly beauty; and an awe +Crept o'er me, gazing on her, for I saw +She was so near to Heaven that I seemed +To look upon the face of one redeemed. +She turned the brilliant lustre of her eyes +Upon me. She had passed beyond surprise, +Or any strong emotion linked with clay. +But as I glided to her where she lay, +A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed +Her pallid features. "Welcome home!" she breathed +"Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and rejoice." +And like the dying echo of a voice +Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear. + +I fell upon my knees beside her bed; +All agonies within my heart were wed, +While to the aching numbness of my grief, +Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear, - +The tortured soul's most merciful relief. +Her wasted hand caressed my bended head +For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said, +In that low tone so like the wind's refrain, +"Maurine, my own! give not away to pain; +The time is precious. Ere another dawn +My soul may hear the summons and pass on. +Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while, +And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak +With every hour that passes. I must speak +And make my dying wishes known to-night. +Go now." And in the halo of her smile, +Which seemed to fill the room with golden light, +I turned and left her. + + Later, in the gloom +Of coming night, I entered that dim room, +And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand: +And on the pillow at her side there smiled +The beauteous count'nance of a sleeping child. + +"Maurine," spoke Helen, "for three blissful years, +My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land; +And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy, +Without one drop of anguish or alloy. +And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall, +Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears, +And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all +Who linger long upon this troubled way, +God takes me to the realm of Endless Day, +To mingle with His angels, who alone +Can understand such bliss as I have known. +I do not murmur. God has heaped my measure, +In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure; +And, from the fulness of an earthly love, +I pass to th' Immortal Arms above, +Before I even brush the skirts of Woe. + +"I leave my aged parents here below, +With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend! +Be kind to them, and love them to the end, +Which may not be far distant. + + And I leave +A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine. +From this most holy, sad and sacred eve, +Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep, +To love and shelter, to protect and guide." +She touched the slumb'ring cherub at her side, +And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep, +And laid the precious burden on my breast. + +A solemn silence fell upon the scene. +And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed +My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek, +I felt it would be sacrilege to speak, +Such wordless joy possessed me. + + Oh! at last +This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past, +Had caused my soul such travail, was my own: +Through all the lonely coming years to be +Mine own to cherish--wholly mine alone. +And what I mourned so hopelessly as lost +Was now restored, and given back to me. + +The dying voice continued: + "In this child +You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost. +But all that was most pure and undefiled, +And good within me, lives in her again. +Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know, +Moving about the wide world, to and fro, +And through, and in the busy haunts of men, +Not always will his heart be dumb with woe, +But sometime waken to a later love. +Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed above +All selfish feelings! I would have it so. +While I am with the angels, blest and glad, +I would not have you sorrowing and sad, +In loneliness go mourning to the end. +But, love! I could not trust to any other +The sacred office of a foster-mother +To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend. + +"Teach her to love her father's name, Maurine, +Where'er he wanders. Keep my memory green +In her young heart, and lead her in her youth, +To drink from th' eternal fount of Truth; +Vex her not with sectarian discourse, +Nor strive to teach her piety by force; +Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds, +Nor frighten her with an avenging God, +Who rules His subjects with a burning rod; +But teach her that each mortal simply needs +To grow in hate of hate and love of love, +To gain a kingdom in the courts above. +"Let her be free and natural as the flowers, +That smile and nod throughout the summer hours. +Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth, +But first impress upon her mind this truth: +No lasting happiness is e'er attained +Save when the heart some OTHER seeks to please. +The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained, +And full of gall and bitterness the lees. +Next to her God, teach her to love her land; +In her young bosom light the patriot's flame +Until the heart within her shall expand +With love and fervour at her country's name. + +"No coward-mother bears a valiant son. +And this, my last wish, is an earnest one. + +"Maurine, my o'er-taxed strength is waning; you +Have heard my wishes, and you will be true +In death as you have been in life, my own! +Now leave me for a little while alone +With him--my husband. Dear love! I shall rest +So sweetly with no care upon my breast. +Good-night, Maurine, come to me in the morning." + +But lo! the Bridegroom with no further warning +Came for her at the dawning of the day. +She heard His voice, and smiled, and passed away +Without a struggle. + + Leaning o'er her bed +To give her greeting, I found but her clay, +And Vivian bowed beside it. + + And I said, +"Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request, +And when the night of fever and unrest +Melts in the morning of Eternity, +Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee. + +"I will come to thee in the morning, sweet! +I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet +Before God's throne, and shall not be afraid. +Thou gav'st me trust, and it was not betrayed. + +"I will come to thee in the morning, dear! +The night is dark. I do not know how near +The morn may be of that Eternal Day; +I can but keep my faithful watch and pray. + +"I will come to thee in the morning, love! +Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above. +The way is troubled where my feet must climb, +Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime. + +"I will come in the morning, O mine own; +But for a time must grope my way alone, +Through tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn, +And I shall hear the summons, and pass on. + +"I will come in the morning. Rest secure! +My hope is certain and my faith is sure. +After the gloom and darkness of the night +I will come to thee with the morning light." + +* * * + +Three peaceful years slipped silently away. + +We dwelt together in my childhood's home, +Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May. +She was a fair and most exquisite child; +Her pensive face was delicate and mild +Like her dead mother's; but through her dear eyes +Her father smiled upon me, day by day. +Afar in foreign countries did he roam, +Now resting under Italy's blue skies, +And now with Roy in Scotland. + + And he sent +Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went +And what he saw, addressed to May or me. +And I would write and tell him how she grew - +And how she talked about him o'er the sea +In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew +His picture in the album; how each day +She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring +Her own papa back to his little May. +It was a warm bright morning in the Spring. +I sat in that same sunny portico, +Where I was sitting seven years ago +When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears, +As I looked back across the checkered years. +How many were the changes they had brought! +Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught +To my young heart had been of untold worth. +I had learned how to "suffer and grow strong" - +That knowledge which best serves us here on earth, +And brings reward in Heaven. + + Oh! how long +The years had been since that June morning when +I heard his step upon the walk, and yet +I seemed to hear its echo still. + + Just then +Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet, +And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land +Stood there before me!--holding out his hand +And smiling with those wond'rous eyes of old. + +To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child; +But she was shy, and clung to me, when told +This was papa, for whom her prayers were said. +She dropped her eyes and shook her little head, +And would not by his coaxing be beguiled, +Or go to him. + + Aunt Ruth was not at home, +And we two sat and talked, as strangers might, +Of distant countries which we both had seen. +But once I thought I saw his large eyes light +With sudden passion, when there came a pause +In our chit-chat, and then he spoke: + + "Maurine, +I saw a number of your friends in Rome. +We talked of you. They seemed surprised, because +You were not 'mong the seekers for a name. +They thought your whole ambition was for fame." + +"It might have been," I answered, "when my heart +Had nothing else to fill it. Now my art +Is but a recreation. I have THIS +To love and live for, which I had not then." +And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss +Upon my child's fair brow. + + "And yet," he said, +The old light leaping to his eyes again, +"And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed +A noble Baron! one of many men +Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet. +Why won the bravest of them no return?" +I bowed my head, nor dared his gaze to meet. +On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn, +And strong emotion strangled speech. + + He rose +And came and knelt beside me. + + "Sweet, my sweet!" +He murmured softly, "God in Heaven knows +How well I loved you seven years ago. +He only knows my anguish, and my grief, +When your own acts forced on me the belief +That I had been your plaything and your toy. +Yet from his lips I since have learned that Roy +Held no place nearer than a friend and brother. +And then a faint suspicion, undefined, +Of what had been--was--might be, stirred my mind, +And that great love, I thought died at a blow, +Rose up within me, strong with hope and life. + +"Before all heaven and the angel mother +Of this sweet child that slumbers on your heart, +Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife - +Mine own, forever, until death shall part!" + +Through happy mists of upward welling tears, +I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes. +"Dear heart," I said, "if she who dwells above +Looks down upon us, from yon azure skies, +She can but bless us, knowing all these years +My soul had yearned in silence for the love +That crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak. +I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake. +For her sweet child's, and for my own, I take +You back to be all mine, for evermore." + +Just then the child upon my breast awoke +From her light sleep, and laid her downy cheek +Against her father as he knelt by me. +And this unconscious action seemed to be +A silent blessing, which the mother spoke +Gazing upon us from the mystic shore. + + + +ALL ROADS THAT LEAD TO GOD ARE GOOD + + + +All roads that lead to God are good. + What matters it, your faith, or mine? + Both centre at the goal divine +Of love's eternal Brotherhood. + +The kindly life in house or street - + The life of prayer and mystic rite - + The student's search for truth and light - +These paths at one great Junction meet. + +Before the oldest book was writ, + Full many a prehistoric soul + Arrived at this unchanging goal, +Through changeless Love, that leads to it. + +What matters that one found his Christ + In rising sun, or burning fire? + If faith within him did not tire, +His longing for the Truth sufficed. + +Before our modern hell was brought + To edify the modern world, + Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled +In lakes of fire by its own thought. + +A thousand creeds have come and gone, + But what is that to you or me? + Creeds are but branches of a tree - +The root of love lives on and on. + +Though branch by branch proves withered wood, + The root is warm with precious wine. + Then keep your faith and leave me mine - +All roads that lead to God are good. + + + +DUST-SEALED + + + +I know not wherefore, but mine eyes + See bloom, where other eyes see blight. +They find a rainbow, a sunrise, + Where others but discern deep night. + +Men call me an enthusiast, + And say I look through gilded haze: +Because where'er my gaze is cast, + I see something that calls for praise. + +I say, "Behold those lovely eyes - + That tinted cheek of flower-like grace." +They answer in amused surprise: + "We thought it a common face." + +I say, "Was ever seen more fair? + I seem to walk in Eden's bowers." +They answer, with a pitying air, + "The weeds are choking out the flowers." + +I know not wherefore, but God lent + A deeper vision to my sight. +On whatsoe'er my gaze is bent + I catch the beauty Infinite; + +That underlying, hidden half + That all things hold of Deity. +So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh - + Their eyes are blind, they cannot see. + + + +"ADVICE" + + + +I must do as you do? Your way I own + Is a very good way. And still, +There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, + One over, one under the hill. + +You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, + That the prudent choose each time; +And you think me reckless and rash to-day, + Because I prefer to climb. + +Your path is the right one, and so is mine. + We are not like peas in a pod, +Compelled to lie in a certain line, + Or else be scattered abroad. + +'Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend, + If we all went just one way; +Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end, + Though they lead apart to-day. + +You like the shade, and I like the sun; + You like an even pace, + I like to mix with the crowd and run, + And then rest after the race. + +I like danger, and storm and strife, + You like a peaceful time; +I like the passion and surge of life, + You like its gentle rhyme. + +You like buttercups, dewy sweet, + And crocuses, framed in snow; +I like roses, born of the heat, + And the red carnation's glow. + +I must live my life, not yours, my friend, + For so it was written down; +We must follow our given paths to the end, + But I trust we shall meet--in town. + + + +OVER THE BANISTERS + + + +Over the banisters bends a face, + Daringly sweet and beguiling. +Somebody stands in careless grace + And watching the picture, smiling. + +The light burns dim in the hall below, + Nobody sees her standing, +Saying good-night again, soft and low, + Halfway up to the landing. + +Nobody only the eyes of brown, + Tender and full of meaning, +That smile on the fairest face in town, + Over the banisters leaning. + +Tired and sleepy, with drooping head, + I wonder why she lingers; +Now, when the good-nights all are said, + Why, somebody holds her fingers. + +He holds her fingers and draws her down, + Suddenly growing bolder, +Till the loose hair drops its masses brown + Like a mantle over his shoulder. + +Over the banisters soft hands, fair, + Brush his cheeks like a feather, +And bright brown tresses and dusky hair + Meet and mingle together. + +There's a question asked, there's a swift caress, + She has flown like a bird from the hallway, +But over the banisters drops a "Yes," + That shall brighten the world for him alway. + + + +THE PAST + + + +I fling my past behind me like a robe +Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. +I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep +And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes +Of Oriental splendour, or complain +That I must needs discard it? I can weave +Upon the shuttles of the future years +A fabric far more durable. Subdued, +It may be, in the blending of its hues, +Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam +Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, +While over all a fadeless lustre lies, +And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, +My new robe shall be richer than the old. + + + +SECRETS + + + +Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone; + Why, even God's stupendous secret, Death, + We one by one, with our expiring breath, +Do pale with wonder seize and make our own; +The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown, + Despite her careful hiding; and the air + Yields its mysterious marvels in despair +To swell the mighty store-house of things known. +In vain the sea expostulates and raves; + It cannot cover from the keen world's sight + The curious wonders of its coral caves. +And so, despite thy caution or thy tears, +The prying fingers of detective years + Shall drag THY secret out into the light. + + + +APPLAUSE + + + +I hold it one of the sad certain laws +Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind +Than that success which brings sure loss behind - +True greatness dies, when sounds the world's applause +Fame blights the object it would bless, because + Weighed down with men's expectancy, the mind + Can no more soar to those far heights, and find +That freedom which its inspiration was. +When once we listen to its noisy cheers + Or hear the populace' approval, then +We catch no more the music of the spheres, + Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men. +Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears, +The plaudits of the world turn into sneers. + + + +THE STORY + + + +They met each other in the glade - + She lifted up her eyes; +Alack the day! Alack the maid! + She blushed in swift surprise. +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes. + +The pail was full, the path was steep - + He reached to her his hand; +She felt her warm young pulses leap, + But did not understand. +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand. + +She sat beside him in the wood - + He wooed with words and sighs; +Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good, + And maidens are not wise. +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs. + +The summer sun shone fairly down, + The wind blew from the south; +As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown, + His kiss fell on her mouth. +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth. + +And now the autumn time is near, + The lover roves away, +With breaking heart and falling tear, + She sits the livelong day. +Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away. + + + +LEAN DOWN + + + +Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine! +From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen +How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings, +I cannot grasp at once those better things +To which I in my inmost soul aspire. +Lean down and lift me higher. + +I grope along--not desolate or sad, +For youth and hope and health all keep me glad; +But too bright sunlight, sometimes, makes us blind, +And I do grope for heights I cannot find. +Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire - +Lean down and lift me higher. + +Not long ago we trod the self-same way. +Thou knowest how, from day to fleeting day +Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet +Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet, +But only served to hinder and to tire; +Lean down and lift me higher. + +Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene, +And left me here, my loved one, Josephine; +I am content to stay until the end, +For life is full of promise; but, my friend, +Canst thou not help me in my best desire +And lean, and lift me higher? + +Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise, +And quick to understand and sympathize +With all a full soul's needs. It must be so, +Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know +Thou must see how I struggle and aspire - +Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire, +And lean, and lift me higher. + + + +LIFE + + + +I feel the great immensity of life. +All little aims slip from me, and I reach +My yearning soul toward the Infinite. + +As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves +Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower +For lovers' secrets, or for children's sports, +Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds, +And lets the eye behold it, limitless, +And full of winding mysteries of ways: +So now with life that reaches out before, +And borders on the unexplained Beyond. + +I see the stars above me, world on world: +I hear the awful language of all Space; +I feel the distant surging of great seas, +That hide the secrets of the Universe +In their eternal bosoms; and I know +That I am but an atom of the Whole. + + + +THE CHRISTIAN'S NEW YEAR PRAYER + + + +Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending + Through these glad New Year days, +To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending - + For e'en hard hearts do raise +Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power, + Or freedom from all care - +Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour, + Hear now a Christian's prayer. + +Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me, + Be as a means of grace +To lead me up, no matter what betide me, + Nearer the Master's face. +If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain + Where living waters play, +My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain, + Then cast them in my way. + +If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses + To shape it for Thy crown, +Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses, + With sorrows bear it down. +Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure, + And if I should complain, +Heap full of anguish yet another measure + Until I smile at pain. +Send dangers--deaths! but tell me how to dare them; + Enfold me in Thy care. +Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them - +This is a Christian's prayer. + + + +IN THE NIGHT + + + +Sometimes at night, when I sit and write, + I hear the strangest things, - +As my brain grows hot with burning thought, + That struggles for form and wings, +I can hear the beat of my swift blood's feet, + As it speeds with a rush and a whir +From heart to brain and back again, + Like a race-horse under the spur. + +With my soul's fine ear I listen and hear + The tender Silence speak, +As it leans on the breast of Night to rest, + And presses his dusky cheek. +And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns + For something that is kin; +And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss, + As it folds and fondles Sin. + +In its hurrying race through leagues of space, + I can hear the Earth catch breath, +As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans, + And longs for the rest of Death. +And high and far, from a distant star, + Whose name is unknown to me, +I hear a voice that says, "Rejoice, + For I keep ward o'er thee!" + +Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range + Through the chambers of the night; +And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates + May hear, if he lists aright. + + + +GOD'S MEASURE + + + +God measures souls by their capacity +For entertaining his best Angel, Love. +Who loveth most is nearest kin to God, +Who is all Love, or Nothing. + + He who sits +And looks out on the palpitating world, +And feels his heart swell within him large enough +To hold all men within it, he is near +His great Creator's standard, though he dwells +Outside the pale of churches, and knows not +A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line +Of Scripture even. What God wants of us +Is that outreaching bigness that ignores +All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, +And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace. + + + +A MARCH SNOW + + + +Let the old snow be covered with the new: +The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden. +Let it be hidden wholly from our view + By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden. +When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring's feet, +Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet. +Let the old life be covered by the new: + The old past life so full of sad mistakes, +Let it be wholly hidden from the view + By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes. +Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring +Let the white mantle of repentance fling +Soft drapery about it, fold on fold, +Even as the new snow covers up the old. + + + +PHILOSOPHY + + + +At morn the wise man walked abroad, + Proud with the learning of great fools. +He laughed and said, "There is no God - + 'Tis force creates, 'tis reason rules." + +Meek with the wisdom of great faith, + At night he knelt while angels smiled, +And wept and cried with anguished breath, + "Jehovah, GOD, save Thou my child." + + + +"CARLOS" + + + +Last night I knelt low at my lady's feet. +One soft, caressing hand played with my hair, +And one I kissed and fondled. Kneeling there, +I deemed my meed of happiness complete. + +She was so fair, so full of witching wiles - +Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye; +So womanly withal, but not too shy - +And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles. + +Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead sent, +Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness +Through all my frame. I trembled with excess +Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content. + +When any mortal dares to so rejoice, +I think a jealous Heaven, bending low, +Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow. +Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady's voice. + +"My love!" she sighed, "my Carlos!" even now +I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath +Bearing to me those words of living death, +And starting out the cold drops on my brow. + +For I am PAUL--not Carlos! Who is he +That, in the supreme hour of love's delight, +Veiled by the shadows of the falling night, +She should breathe low his name, forgetting me? + +I will not ask her! 'twere a fruitless task, +For, woman-like, she would make me believe +Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve, +And call me cruel. Nay, I will not ask. + +But this man Carlos, whosoe'er he be, +Has turned my cup of nectar into gall, +Since I know he has claimed some one or all +Of these delights my lady grants to me. + +He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad +And tender twilight, when the day grew dim. +How else could I remind her so of him? +Why, reveries like these have made men mad! + +He must have felt her soft hand on his brow. +If Heaven were shocked at such presumptuous wrongs, +And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs, +STILL SHE REMEMBERS, though she loves me now. + +And if he lives, and meets me to his cost, +Why, what avails it? I must hear and see +That curst name "Carlos" always haunting me - +So has another Paradise been lost. + + + +THE TWO GLASSES + + + +There sat two glasses filled to the brim, + On a rich man's table, rim to rim. + One was ruddy and red as blood, +And one was clear as the crystal flood. + +Said the glass of wine to his paler brother, +"Let us tell tales of the past to each other; +I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth, +Where I was king, for I ruled in might; +For the proudest and grandest souls on earth +Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. +From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; +From the heights of fame I have hurled men down. +I have blasted many an honoured name; +I have taken virtue and given shame; +I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste, +That has made his future a barren waste. +Far greater than any king am I, +Or than any army beneath the sky. +I have made the arm of the driver fail, +And sent the train from the iron rail. +I have made good ships go down at sea, +And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. +Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; +And my might and power are over all! +Ho, ho! pale brother," said the wine, +"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" +Said the water-glass: "I cannot boast +Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host, +But I can tell of hearts that were sad +By my crystal drops made bright and glad; +Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved; +Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved. +I have leapt through the valley, dashed down the mountain, +Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain. +I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, +And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; +I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain; +I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. +I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, +That ground out the flour, and turned at my will. +I can tell of manhood debased by you, +That I have uplifted and crowned anew. +I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; +I gladden the heart of man and maid; +I set the wine-chained captive free, +And all are better for knowing me." + +These are the tales they told each other, +The glass of wine and its paler brother, +As they sat together, filled to the brim, +On a rich man's table, rim to rim. + + + +LA MORT D'AMOUR + + + +When was it that love died? We were so fond, + So very fond a little while ago. + With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow, +We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond, + +When we should dwell together as one heart, + And scarce could wait that happy time to come. + Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb, +And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart. + +How was it that love died? I do not know. + I only know that all its grace untold + Has faded into gray! I miss the gold +From our dull skies; but did not see it go. + +Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure; + We thought of nothing else when it was ours; + We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers: +It was our all; why could it not endure? + +Alas, we know not how, or when, or why + This dear thing died. We only know it went, + And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; +We who found heaven once in each other's sigh. + +How pitiful it is, and yet how true + That half the lovers in the world, one day, + Look questioning in each other's eyes this way +And know love's gone forever, as we do. + +Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, + As I look out o'er all the wide, sad earth + And see love's flame gone out on many a hearth, +That those who would keep love must dwell apart. + + + +LOVE'S SLEEP +(Vers de Societe) + + + +We'll cover Love with roses, + And sweet sleep he shall take +None but a fool supposes + Love always keeps awake. +I've known loves without number - + True loves were they, and tried; +And just for want of slumber + They pined away and died. + +Our love was bright and cheerful + A little while agone; +Now he is pale and tearful, + And--yes, I've seen him yawn. +So tired is he of kisses + That he can only weep; +The one dear thing he misses + And longs for now is sleep. + +We could not let him leave us + One time, he was so dear, +But now it would not grieve us + If he slept half a year. +For he has had his season, + Like the lily and the rose, +And it but stands to reason + That he should want repose. + +We prized the smiling Cupid + Who made our days so bright; +But he has grown so stupid + We gladly say good-night. +And if he wakens tender + And fond, and fair as when +He filled our lives with splendour, + We'll take him back again. + +And should he never waken, + As that perchance may be, +We will not weep forsaken, + But sing, "Love, tra-la-lee!" + + + +TRUE CULTURE + + + +The highest culture is to speak no ill, +The best reformer is the man whose eyes +Are quick to see all beauty and all worth; +And by his own discreet, well-ordered life, +Alone reproves the erring. + + When thy gaze +Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe. +But when it falls upon a fellow-man +Let kindliness control it; and refrain +From that belittling censure that springs forth +From common lips like weeds from marshy soil. + + + +THE VOLUPTUARY + + + +Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated, + Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified. +Life holds no thing to be anticipated, + And I am sad from being satisfied. + +The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain + Has left me now the highest point is gained. +The crystal spray that fell from Fame's fair fountain + Was sweeter than the waters were when drained. + +The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure, + And which I purchased with my youth and strength, +Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasure + Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length. + +And love, all glowing with a golden glory, + Delighted me a season with its tale. +It pleased the longest, but at last the story, + So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale. + +I lived for self, and all I asked was given, + I have had all, and now am sick of bliss, +No other punishment designed by Heaven + Could strike me half so forcibly as this. + +I feel no sense of aught but enervation + In all the joys my selfish aims have brought, +And know no wish but for annihilation, + Since that would give me freedom from the thought + +Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated; + Some mighty loss to balance all his gain. +For him there is a hope not yet completed; + For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain. + +But cursed is he who has no balked ambition, + No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair, +But sick and sated with complete fruition, + Keeps not the pleasure even of despair. + + + +THE COQUETTE + + + +Alone she sat with her accusing heart, + That, like a restless comrade, frightened sleep, +And every thought that found her left a dart + That hurt her so, she could not even weep. + +Her heart that once had been a cup well filled + With love's red wine, save for some drops of gall, +She knew was empty; though it had not spilled + Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all. + +She stood upon the grave of her dead truth, + And saw her soul's bright armour red with rust, +And knew that all the riches of her youth + Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust. + +Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn, + Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate, +Made her cry out that she was ever born + To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate. + + + +IF + + + +Dear love, if you and I could sail away, + With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, +Across the waters of some unknown bay, + And find some island far from all the world; + +If we could dwell there, ever more alone, + While unrecorded years slip by apace, +Forgetting and forgotten and unknown + By aught save native song-birds of the place; + +If Winter never visited that land, + And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers, +And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, + And twined boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers; + +If from the fashions of the world set free, + And hid away from all its jealous strife, +I lived alone for you, and you for me - + Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life. + +But since we dwell here in the crowded way, + Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, +And all is commonplace and workaday, + As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old; + +Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, + And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, +'Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart + And go our ways alone, love, and forget. + + + +LOVE'S BURIAL + + + +Let us clear a little space, +And make Love a burial-place. + +He is dead, dear, as you see, +And he wearies you and me. + +Growing heavier, day by day, +Let us bury him, I say. + +Wings of dead white butterflies, +These shall shroud him, as he lies + +In his casket rich and rare, +Made of finest maiden-hair. + +With the pollen of the rose +Let us his white eyelids close. + +Put the rose thorn in his hand, +Shorn of leaves--you understand. + +Let some holy water fall +On his dead face, tears of gall - + +As we kneel by him and say, +"Dreams to dreams," and turn away. + +Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust, +They will lower him to the dust. + +Let us part here with a kiss - +You go that way, I go this. + +Since we buried Love to-day +We will walk a separate way. + + + +LIPPO + + + +Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so, +I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; +Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes - +'Twas thine own hand which dealt dear +Love's death-blow. + +I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then +Thy heart was like a covered golden cup +Always above my eager lip held up. +I fancied thou wert not as other men. + +I knew that heart was filled with Love's sweet wine, +Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip +Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip +Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine. + +Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled +Its precious contents. Even to the lees +Were offered to me, saying, "Drink of these!" +And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed. + +No word was left unsaid, no act undone, +To prove to me thou wert my abject slave. +Ah! Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save +One little drop of that sweet wine--but one - + +I still had loved thee, longing for it then. +But even the cup is mine. I look within, +And find it holds not one last drop to win, +And cast it down.--Thou art as other men. + + + +"LOVE IS ENOUGH" + + + +Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold. + Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness; +In those serene, Arcadian days of old + Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress, +The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia's height +Lived only for dear love and love's delight. + Love is enough. + +Love is enough. Why should we care for fame? + Ambition is a most unpleasant guest: +It lures us with the glory of a name + Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. +Let us stay here in this secluded place +Made beautiful by love's endearing grace! + Love is enough. + +Love is enough. Why should we strive for power? + It brings men only envy and distrust. +The poor world's homage pleases but an hour, + And earthly honours vanish in the dust. +The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate; +Let me be loved, and let who will be great. + Love is enough. + +Love is enough. Why should we ask for more? + What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? +What better boon of all their precious store + Than our fond hearts that love and love again? +Old love may die; new love is just as sweet; +And life is fair and all the world complete: + Love is enough! + + + +LIFE IS LOVE + + + +Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder? + Does anyone weep on a day like this, +With the sun above and the green earth under? + Why, what is life but a dream of bliss? + +With the sun and the skies and the birds above me, + Birds that sing as they wheel and fly - +With the winds to follow and say they loved me - + Who could be lonely? O ho, not I! + +Somebody said in the street this morning, + As I opened my window to let in the light, +That the darkest day of the world was dawning; + But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight + +One who claims that he knows about it + Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin; +But I and the bees and the birds--we doubt it, + And think it a world worth living in. + +Someone says that hearts are fickle, + That love is sorrow, that life is care, +And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle, + Gathers whatever is bright and fair. + +I told the thrush, and we laughed together - + Laughed till the woods were all a-ring; +And he said to me, as he plumed each feather, + "Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing!" + +Up he flew, but his song, remaining, + Rang like a bell in my heart all day, +And silenced the voices of weak complaining + That pipe like insects along the way. + +O world of light, and O world of beauty! + Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine? +Yes, life is love, and love is duty; + And what heart sorrows? O no, not mine! + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Maurine etc., by Ella Wheeler Wilcox + diff --git a/old/maurn10.zip b/old/maurn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d42611c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/maurn10.zip |
