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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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