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diff --git a/3665-h/3665-h.htm b/3665-h/3665-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..550b0fe --- /dev/null +++ b/3665-h/3665-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5284 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Maurine, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +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: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAURINE*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" +src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>MAURINE<br /> +And Other Poems</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +ELLA WHEELER WILCOX</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Popular Edition</i>, <i>with +many New Poems</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT +GARDEN</span><br /> +LONDON</p> +<p style="text-align: center">1910</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Maurine</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>All Roads that Lead to God are Good</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Dust-sealed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page131">131</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“Advice”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Over the Banisters</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Past</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Secrets</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Applause</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Story</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lean Down</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page142">142</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Life</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Christian’s New Year Prayer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>In the Night</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>God’s Measure</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A March Snow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Philosophy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page151">151</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“Carlos”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Two Glasses</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>La Mort d’Amour</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Love’s Sleep</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page160">160</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>True Culture</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Voluptuary</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page163">163</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Coquette</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>If</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Love’s Burial</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lippo</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page170">170</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“Love is Enough”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Life is Love</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page174">174</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>MAURINE</h2> +<h3>PART I</h3> +<p class="poetry">I sat and sewed, and sang some tender tune,<br +/> +Oh, beauteous was that morn in early June!<br /> +Mellow with sunlight, and with blossoms fair:<br /> +The climbing rose-tree grew about me there,<br /> +And checked with shade the sunny portico<br /> +Where, morns like this, I came to read, or sew.</p> +<p class="poetry">I heard the gate click, and a firm, quick +tread<br /> +Upon the walk. No need to turn my head;<br /> +I would mistake, and doubt my own voice sounding,<br /> +Before his step upon the gravel bounding.<br /> +In an unstudied attitude of grace,<br /> +He stretched his comely form; and from his face<br /> +He tossed the dark, damp curls; and at my knees,<br /> +With his broad hat he fanned the lazy breeze,<br /> +And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes,<br /> +Of that strange hue we see in ocean dyes,<br /> +And call it blue sometimes and sometimes green,<br /> +<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>And save in +poet eyes, not elsewhere seen.<br /> +“Lest I should meet with my fair lady’s scorning,<br +/> +For calling quite so early in the morning,<br /> +I’ve brought a passport that can never fail,”<br /> +He said, and, laughing, laid the morning mail<br /> +Upon my lap. “I’m welcome? so I thought!<br /> +I’ll figure by the letters that I brought<br /> +How glad you are to see me. Only one?<br /> +And that one from a lady? I’m undone!<br /> +That, lightly skimmed, you’ll think me <i>such</i> a +bore,<br /> +And wonder why I did not bring you four.<br /> +It’s ever thus: a woman cannot get<br /> +So many letters that she will not fret<br /> +O’er one that did not come.”<br /> + +“I’ll prove you wrong,”<br /> +I answered gaily, “here upon the spot!<br /> +This little letter, precious if not long,<br /> +Is just the one, of all you might have brought,<br /> +To please me. You have heard me speak, I’m sure,<br +/> +Of Helen Trevor: she writes here to say<br /> +She’s coming out to see me; and will stay<br /> +Till Autumn, maybe. She is, like her note,<br /> +Petite and dainty, tender, loving, pure.<br /> +You’d know her by a letter that she wrote,<br /> +For a sweet tinted thing. ’Tis always so:—<br +/> +Letters all blots, though finely written, show<br /> +A slovenly person. Letters stiff and white<br /> +<a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>Bespeak a +nature honest, plain, upright.<br /> +And tissuey, tinted, perfumed notes, like this,<br /> +Tell of a creature formed to pet and kiss.”<br /> +My listener heard me with a slow, odd smile;<br /> +Stretched in abandon at my feet, the while,<br /> +He fanned me idly with his broad-brimmed hat.<br /> +“Then all young ladies must be formed for that!”<br +/> +He laughed, and said.<br /> + “Their +letters read, and look,<br /> +As like as twenty copies of one book.<br /> +They’re written in a dainty, spider scrawl,<br /> +To ‘darling, precious Kate,’ or ‘Fan,’ or +‘Moll.’<br /> +The ‘dearest, sweetest’ friend they ever had.<br /> +They say they ‘want to see you, oh, so bad!’<br /> +Vow they’ll ‘forget you, never, <i>never</i>, +oh!’<br /> +And then they tell about a splendid beau—<br /> +A lovely hat—a charming dress, and send<br /> +A little scrap of this to every friend.<br /> +And then to close, for lack of something better,<br /> +They beg you’ll ‘read and burn this horrid +letter.’”</p> +<p class="poetry">He watched me, smiling. He was prone to +vex<br /> +And hector me with flings upon my sex.<br /> +He liked, he said, to have me flash and frown,<br /> +So he could tease me, and then laugh me down.<br /> +My storms of wrath amused him very much:<br /> +He liked to see me go off at a touch;<br /> +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>Anger became +me—made my colour rise,<br /> +And gave an added lustre to my eyes.<br /> +So he would talk—and so he watched me now,<br /> +To see the hot flush mantle cheek and brow.<br /> +Instead, I answered coolly, with a smile,<br /> +Felling a seam with utmost care, meanwhile.<br /> +“The caustic tongue of Vivian Dangerfield<br /> +Is barbed as ever, for my sex, this morn.<br /> +Still unconvinced, no smallest point I yield.<br /> +Woman I love, and trust, despite your scorn.<br /> +There is some truth in what you say? Well, yes!<br /> +Your statements usually hold more or less.<br /> +Some women write weak letters—(some men do;)<br /> +Some make professions, knowing them untrue.<br /> +And woman’s friendship, in the time of need,<br /> +I own, too often proves a broken reed.<br /> +But I believe, and ever will contend,<br /> +Woman can be a sister woman’s friend,<br /> +Giving from out her large heart’s bounteous store<br /> +A living love—claiming to do no more<br /> +Than, through and by that love, she knows she can:<br /> +And living by her professions, <i>like a man</i>.<br /> +And such a tie, true friendship’s silken tether,<br /> +Binds Helen Trevor’s heart and mine together.<br /> +I love her for her beauty, meekness, grace;<br /> +For her white lily soul and angel face.<br /> +<a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>She loves +me, for my greater strength, maybe;<br /> +Loves—and would give her heart’s best blood for +me.<br /> +And I, to save her from a pain, or cross,<br /> +Would suffer any sacrifice or loss.<br /> +Such can be woman’s friendship for another.<br /> +Could man give more, or ask more from a brother?”</p> +<p class="poetry">I paused: and Vivian leaned his massive head<br +/> +Against the pillar of the portico,<br /> +Smiled his slow, sceptic smile, then laughed, and said:<br /> +“Nay, surely not—if what you say be so.<br /> +You’ve made a statement, but no proof’s at hand.<br +/> +Wait—do not flash your eyes so! Understand<br /> +I think you quite sincere in what you say:<br /> +You love your friend, and she loves you, to-day;<br /> +But friendship is not friendship at the best<br /> +Till circumstances put it to the test.<br /> +Man’s, less demonstrative, stands strain and tear,<br /> +While woman’s, half profession, fails to wear.<br /> +Two women love each other passing well—<br /> +Say Helen Trevor and Maurine La Pelle,<br /> +Just for example.<br /> + Let them daily +meet<br /> +At ball and concert, in the church and street,<br /> +They kiss and coo, they visit, chat, caress;<br /> +Their love increases, rather than grows less;<br /> +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>And all goes +well, till ‘Helen dear’ discovers<br /> +That ‘Maurine darling’ wins too many lovers.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then her ‘precious friend,’ her +‘pet,’ her ‘sweet,’<br /> +Becomes a ‘minx,’ a ‘creature all +deceit.’<br /> +Let Helen smile too oft on Maurine’s beaux,<br /> +Or wear more stylish or becoming clothes,<br /> +Or sport a hat that has a longer feather—<br /> +And lo! the strain has broken ‘friendship’s +tether.’<br /> +Maurine’s sweet smile becomes a frown or pout;<br /> +‘She’s just begun to find that Helen out.’<br +/> +The breach grows wider—anger fills each heart;<br /> +They drift asunder, whom ‘but death could part.’<br +/> +You shake your head? Oh, well, we’ll never know!<br +/> +It is not likely Fate will test you so.<br /> +You’ll live, and love; and, meeting twice a year,<br /> +While life shall last, you’ll hold each other dear.<br /> +I pray it may be so; it were not best<br /> +To shake your faith in woman by the test.<br /> +Keep your belief, and nurse it while you can.<br /> +I’ve faith in woman’s friendship too—for +man!<br /> +They’re true as steel, as mothers, friends, and wives:<br +/> +And that’s enough to bless us all our lives.<br /> +That man’s a selfish fellow, and a bore,<br /> +Who is unsatisfied and asks for more.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +7</span>“But there is need of more!” I here broke +in.<br /> +“I hold that woman guilty of a sin,<br /> +Who would not cling to, and defend another,<br /> +As nobly as she would stand by a brother.<br /> +Who would not suffer for a sister’s sake,<br /> +And, were there need to prove her friendship, make<br /> +‘Most any sacrifice, nor count the cost.<br /> +Who would not do this for a friend is lost<br /> +To every nobler principle.”<br /> + “Shame, +shame!”<br /> +Cried Vivian, laughing, “for you now defame<br /> +The whole sweet sex; since there’s not one would do<br /> +The thing you name, nor would I want her to.<br /> +I love the sex. My mother was a woman—<br /> +I hope my wife will be, and wholly human.<br /> +And if she wants to make some sacrifice,<br /> +I’ll think her far more sensible and wise<br /> +To let her husband reap the benefit,<br /> +Instead of some old maid or senseless chit.<br /> +Selfish? Of course! I hold all love is so:<br /> +And I shall love my wife right well, I know.<br /> +Now there’s a point regarding selfish love,<br /> +You thirst to argue with me, and disprove.<br /> +But since these cosy hours will soon be gone,<br /> +And all our meetings broken in upon,<br /> +No more of these rare moments must be spent<br /> +In vain discussions, or in argument.<br /> +<a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>I wish Miss +Trevor was in—Jericho!<br /> +(You see the selfishness begins to show.)<br /> +She wants to see you?—So do I: but she<br /> +Will gain her wish, by taking you from me.<br /> +‘Come all the same?’ that means I’ll be +allowed<br /> +To realize that ‘three can make a crowd.’<br /> +I do not like to feel myself <i>de trop</i>.<br /> +With two girl cronies would I not be so?<br /> +My ring would interrupt some private chat.<br /> +You’d ask me in and take my cane and hat,<br /> +And speak about the lovely summer day,<br /> +And think—‘The lout! I wish he’d kept +away.’<br /> +Miss Trevor’d smile, but just to hide a pout<br /> +And count the moments till I was shown out.<br /> +And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing<br /> +That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing,<br /> +No, thanks, Maurine! The iron hand of Fate,<br /> +(Or otherwise Miss Trevor’s dainty fingers,)<br /> +Will bar my entrance into Eden’s gate;<br /> +And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers<br /> +At heaven’s portal, paying the price of sin,<br /> +Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He looked so melancholy sitting there,<br /> +I laughed outright. “How well you act a part;<br /> +You look the very picture of despair!<br /> +You’ve missed your calling, sir! suppose you start<br /> +<a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>Upon a +starring tour, and carve your name<br /> +With Booth’s and Barrett’s on the heights of Fame<br +/> +But now, tabooing nonsense, I shall send<br /> +For you to help me entertain my friend,<br /> +Unless you come without it. ‘Cronies?’ +True,<br /> +Wanting our ‘private chats’ as cronies do.<br /> +And we’ll take those, while you are reading Greek,<br /> +Or writing ‘Lines to Dora’s brow’ or +‘cheek.’<br /> +But when you have an hour or two of leisure,<br /> +Call as you now do, and afford like pleasure.<br /> +For never yet did heaven’s sun shine on,<br /> +Or stars discover, that phenomenon,<br /> +In any country, or in any clime:<br /> +Two maids so bound, by ties of mind and heart,<br /> +They did not feel the heavy weight of time<br /> +In weeks of scenes wherein no man took part.<br /> +God made the sexes to associate:<br /> +Nor law of man, nor stern decree of Fate,<br /> +Can ever undo what His hand has done,<br /> +And, quite alone, make happy either one.<br /> +My Helen is an only child:—a pet<br /> +Of loving parents: and she never yet<br /> +Has been denied one boon for which she pleaded.<br /> +A fragile thing, her lightest wish was heeded.<br /> +Would she pluck roses? They must first be shorn,<br /> +By careful hands, of every hateful thorn,<br /> +And loving eyes must scan the pathway where<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>Her feet +may tread, to see no stones are there.<br /> +She’ll grow dull here, in this secluded nook,<br /> +Unless you aid me in the pleasant task<br /> +Of entertaining. Drop in with your book—<br /> +Read, talk, sing for her sometimes. What I ask,<br /> +Do once, to please me: then there’ll be no need<br /> +For me to state the case again, or plead.<br /> +There’s nothing like a woman’s grace and beauty<br /> +To waken mankind to a sense of duty.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I bow before the mandate of my queen:<br +/> +Your slightest wish is law, Ma Belle Maurine,”<br /> +He answered, smiling, “I’m at your command;<br /> +Point but one lily finger, or your wand,<br /> +And you will find a willing slave obeying.<br /> +There goes my dinner bell! I hear it saying<br /> +I’ve spent two hours here, lying at your feet,<br /> +Not profitable, maybe—surely sweet.<br /> +All time is money; now were I to measure<br /> +The time I spend here by its solid pleasure,<br /> +And that were coined in dollars, then I’ve laid<br /> +Each day a fortune at your feet, fair maid.<br /> +There goes that bell again! I’ll say good-bye,<br /> +Or clouds will shadow my domestic sky.<br /> +I’ll come again, as you would have me do,<br /> +And see your friend, while she is seeing you.<br /> +<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>That’s like by proxy being at a feast;<br /> +Unsatisfactory, to say the least.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He drew his fine shape up, and trod the land<br +/> +With kingly grace. Passing the gate, his hand<br /> +He lightly placed the garden wall upon,<br /> +Leaped over like a leopard, and was gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">And, going, took the brightness from the +place,<br /> +Yet left the June day with a sweeter grace,<br /> +And my young soul, so steeped in happy dreams,<br /> +Heaven itself seemed shown to me in gleams.<br /> +There is a time with lovers, when the heart<br /> +First slowly rouses from its dreamless sleep,<br /> +To all the tumult of a passion life,<br /> +Ere yet have wakened jealousy and strife.<br /> +Just as a young, untutored child will start<br /> +Out of a long hour’s slumber, sound and deep,<br /> +And lie and smile with rosy lips and cheeks,<br /> +In a sweet, restful trance, before it speaks.<br /> +A time when yet no word the spell has broken,<br /> +Save what the heart unto the soul has spoken,<br /> +In quickened throbs, and sighs but half suppressed<br /> +A time when that sweet truth, all unconfessed,<br /> +Gives added fragrance to the summer flowers,<br /> +A golden glory to the passing hours,<br /> +A hopeful beauty to the plainest face,<br /> +And lends to life a new and tender grace.<br /> +<a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>When the +full heart has climbed the heights of bliss,<br /> +And, smiling, looks back o’er the golden past,<br /> +I think it finds no sweeter hour than this<br /> +In all love-life. For, later, when the last<br /> +Translucent drop o’erflows the cup of joy,<br /> +And love, more mighty than the heart’s control,<br /> +Surges in words of passion from the soul,<br /> +And vows are asked and given, shadows rise<br /> +Like mists before the sun in noonday skies,<br /> +Vague fears, that prove the brimming cup’s alloy;<br /> +A dread of change—the crowning moment’s curse,<br /> +Since what is perfect, change but renders worse:<br /> +A vain desire to cripple Time, who goes<br /> +Bearing our joys away, and bringing woes.<br /> +And later, doubts and jealousies awaken,<br /> +And plighted hearts are tempest-tossed and shaken.<br /> +Doubt sends a test, that goes a step too far,<br /> +A wound is made, that, healing, leaves a scar,<br /> +Or one heart, full with love’s sweet satisfaction,<br /> +Thinks truth once spoken always understood,<br /> +While one is pining for the tender action<br /> +And whispered word by which, of old, ’twas wooed.</p> +<p class="poetry">But this blest hour, in love’s glad, +golden day,<br /> +Is like the dawning, ere the radiant ray<br /> +Of glowing Sol has burst upon the eye,<br /> +But yet is heralded in earth and sky,<br /> +<a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>Warm with +its fervour, mellow with its light,<br /> +While Care still slumbers in the arms of night.<br /> +But Hope, awake, hears happy birdlings sing,<br /> +And thinks of all a summer day may bring.</p> +<p class="poetry">In this sweet calm, my young heart lay at +rest,<br /> +Filled with a blissful sense of peace; nor guessed<br /> +That sullen clouds were gathering in the skies<br /> +To hide the glorious sun, ere it should rise.</p> +<h3>PART II</h3> +<p class="poetry">To little birds that never tire of humming<br +/> +About the garden in the summer weather,<br /> +Aunt Ruth compared us, after Helen’s coming,<br /> +As we two roamed, or sat and talked together.<br /> +Twelve months apart, we had so much to say<br /> +Of school days gone—and time since passed away;<br /> +Of that old friend, and this; of what we’d done;<br /> +Of how our separate paths in life had run;<br /> +Of what we would do, in the coming years;<br /> +Of plans and castles, hopes and dreams and fears.<br /> +All these, and more, as soon as we found speech,<br /> +We touched upon, and skimmed from this to that.<br /> +But at the first each only gazed on each,<br /> +And, dumb with joy, that did not need a voice<br /> +Like lesser joys, to say, “Lo! I rejoice,”<br +/> +<a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>With +smiling eyes and clasping hands we sat<br /> +Wrapped in that peace, felt but with those dear,<br /> +Contented just to know each other near.<br /> +But when this silent eloquence gave place<br /> +To words, ’twas like the rising of a flood<br /> +Above a dam. We sat there, face to face,<br /> +And let our talk glide on where’er it would,<br /> +Speech never halting in its speed or zest,<br /> +Save when our rippling laughter let it rest;<br /> +Just as a stream will sometimes pause and play<br /> +About a bubbling spring, then dash away.<br /> +No wonder, then, the third day’s sun was nigh<br /> +Up to the zenith when my friend and I<br /> +Opened our eyes from slumber long and deep:<br /> +Nature demanding recompense for hours<br /> +Spent in the portico, among the flowers,<br /> +Halves of two nights we should have spent in sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">So this third day, we breakfasted at one:<br /> +Then walked about the garden in the sun,<br /> +Hearing the thrushes and the robins sing,<br /> +And looking to see what buds were opening.</p> +<p class="poetry">The clock chimed three, and we yet strayed at +will<br /> +About the yard in morning dishabille,<br /> +When Aunt Ruth came, with apron o’er her head,<br /> +Holding a letter in her hand, and said,<br /> +<a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>“Here is a note, from Vivian I opine;<br /> +At least his servant brought it. And now, girls,<br /> +You may think this is no concern of mine,<br /> +But in my day young ladies did not go<br /> +Till almost bed-time roaming to and fro<br /> +In morning wrappers, and with tangled curls,<br /> +The very pictures of forlorn distress.<br /> +’Tis three o’clock, and time for you to dress.<br /> +Come! read your note and hurry in, Maurine,<br /> +And make yourself fit object to be seen.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Helen was bending o’er an almond bush,<br +/> +And ere she looked up I had read the note,<br /> +And calmed my heart, that, bounding, sent a flush<br /> +To brow and cheek, at sight of aught <i>he</i> wrote.<br /> +“Ma Belle Maurine:” (so Vivian’s billet +ran,)<br /> +“Is it not time I saw your cherished guest?<br /> +‘Pity the sorrows of a poor young man,’<br /> +Banished from all that makes existence blest.<br /> +I’m dying to see—your friend; and I will come<br /> +And pay respects, hoping you’ll be at home<br /> +To-night at eight. Expectantly, V. D.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Inside my belt I slipped the billet, saying,<br +/> +“Helen, go make yourself most fair to see:<br /> +Quick! hurry now! no time for more delaying!<br /> +<a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>In just +five hours a caller will be here,<br /> +And you must look your prettiest, my dear!<br /> +Begin your toilet right away. I know<br /> +How long it takes you to arrange each bow—<br /> +To twist each curl, and loop your skirts aright.<br /> +And you must prove you are <i>au fait</i> to-night,<br /> +And make a perfect toilet: for our caller<br /> +Is man, and critic, poet, artist, scholar,<br /> +And views with eyes of all.”<br /> + “Oh, +oh! Maurine,”<br /> +Cried Helen with a well-feigned look of fear,<br /> +“You’ve frightened me so I shall not appear:<br /> +I’ll hide away, refusing to be seen<br /> +By such an ogre. Woe is me! bereft<br /> +Of all my friends, my peaceful home I’ve left,<br /> +And strayed away into the dreadful wood<br /> +To meet the fate of poor Red Riding Hood.<br /> +No, Maurine, no! you’ve given me such a fright,<br /> +I’ll not go near your ugly wolf to-night.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Meantime we’d left the garden; and I +stood<br /> +In Helen’s room, where she had thrown herself<br /> +Upon a couch, and lay, a winsome elf,<br /> +Pouting and smiling, cheek upon her arm,<br /> +Not in the least a portrait of alarm.<br /> +“Now, sweet!” I coaxed, and knelt by her, “be +good!<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>Go curl +your hair; and please your own Maurine,<br /> +By putting on that lovely grenadine.<br /> +Not wolf, nor ogre, neither Caliban,<br /> +Nor Mephistopheles, you’ll meet to-night,<br /> +But what the ladies call ‘a nice young man’!<br /> +Yet one worth knowing—strong with health and might<br /> +Of perfect manhood; gifted, noble, wise;<br /> +Moving among his kind with loving eyes,<br /> +And helpful hand; progressive, brave, refined,<br /> +After the image of his Maker’s mind.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, now, Maurine!” cried Helen, +“I believe<br /> +It is your lover coming here this eve.<br /> +Why have you never written of him, pray?<br /> +Is the day set?—and when? Say, Maurine, +say!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Had I betrayed by some too fervent word<br /> +The secret love that all my being stirred?<br /> +My lover? Ay! My heart proclaimed him so;<br /> +But first <i>his</i> lips must win the sweet confession,<br /> +Ere even Helen be allowed to know.<br /> +I must straightway erase the slight impression<br /> +Made by the words just uttered.<br /> + “Foolish +child!”<br /> +I gaily cried, “your fancy’s straying wild.<br /> +Just let a girl of eighteen hear the name<br /> +Of maid and youth uttered about one time,<br /> +<a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>And off +her fancy goes, at break-neck pace,<br /> +Defying circumstances, reason, space—<br /> +And straightway builds romances so sublime<br /> +They put all Shakespeare’s dramas to the shame.<br /> +This Vivian Dangerfield is neighbour, friend,<br /> +And kind companion; bringing books and flowers.<br /> +And, by his thoughtful actions without end,<br /> +Helping me pass some otherwise long hours;<br /> +But he has never breathed a word of love.<br /> +If you still doubt me, listen while I prove<br /> +My statement by the letter that he wrote.<br /> +‘Dying to meet—my friend!’ (she could not +see<br /> +The dash between that meant so much to me).<br /> +‘Will come this eve, at eight, and hopes we may<br /> +Be in to greet him.’ Now I think you’ll say<br +/> +’Tis not much like a lover’s tender note.”</p> +<p class="poetry">We laugh, we jest, not meaning what we say;<br +/> +We hide our thoughts, by light words lightly spoken,<br /> +And pass on heedless, till we find one day<br /> +They’ve bruised our hearts, or left some other broken.</p> +<p class="poetry">I sought my room, and trilling some blithe +air,<br /> +Opened my wardrobe, wondering what to wear.<br /> +Momentous question! femininely human!<br /> +More than all others, vexing mind of woman,<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>Since that +sad day, when in her discontent,<br /> +To search for leaves, our fair first mother went.<br /> +All undecided what I should put on,<br /> +At length I made selection of a lawn—<br /> +White, with a tiny pink vine overrun:—<br /> +My simplest robe, but Vivian’s favourite one.<br /> +And placing a single flowret in my hair,<br /> +I crossed the hall to Helen’s chamber, where<br /> +I found her with her fair locks all let down,<br /> +Brushing the kinks out, with a pretty frown.<br /> +’Twas like a picture, or a pleasing play,<br /> +To watch her make her toilet. She would stand,<br /> +And turn her head first this, and then that way,<br /> +Trying effect of ribbon, bow or band.<br /> +Then she would pick up something else, and curve<br /> +Her lovely neck, with cunning, bird-like grace,<br /> +And watch the mirror while she put it on,<br /> +With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face;<br /> +And then to view it all would sway and swerve<br /> +Her lithe young body, like a graceful swan.</p> +<p class="poetry">Helen was over medium height, and slender<br /> +Even to frailty. Her great, wistful eyes<br /> +Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies;<br /> +And through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender.<br /> +Her long, light hair was lustreless, except<br /> +Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams slept,<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>And on the +earlocks; and she looped the curls<br /> +Back with a shell comb, studded thick with pearls,<br /> +Costly yet simple. Her pale loveliness,<br /> +That night, was heightened by her rich, black dress,<br /> +That trailed behind her, leaving half in sight<br /> +Her taper arms, and shoulders marble white.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was not tall as Helen, and my face<br /> +Was shaped and coloured like my grandsire’s race;<br /> +For through his veins my own received the warm,<br /> +Red blood of Southern France, which curved my form,<br /> +And glowed upon my cheek in crimson dyes,<br /> +And bronzed my hair, and darkled in my eyes.<br /> +And as the morning trails the skirts of night,<br /> +And dusky night puts on the garb of morn,<br /> +And walk together when the day is born,<br /> +So we two glided down the hall and stair,<br /> +Arm clasping arm, into the parlour, where<br /> +Sat Vivian, bathed in sunset’s gorgeous light.<br /> +He rose to greet us. Oh! his form was grand;<br /> +And he possessed that power, strange, occult,<br /> +Called magnetism, lacking better word,<br /> +Which moves the world, achieving great result<br /> +Where genius fails completely. Touch his hand,<br /> +It thrilled through all your being—meet his eye,<br /> +And you were moved, yet knew not how, or why.<br /> +<a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>Let him +but rise, you felt the air was stirred<br /> +By an electric current.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> This +strange force<br /> +Is mightier than genius. Rightly used,<br /> +It leads to grand achievements; all things yield<br /> +Before its mystic presence, and its field<br /> +Is broad as earth and heaven. But abused,<br /> +It sweeps like a poison simoon on its course,<br /> +Bearing miasma in its scorching breath,<br /> +And leaving all it touches struck with death.</p> +<p class="poetry">Far-reaching science shall yet tear away<br /> +The mystic garb that hides it from the day,<br /> +And drag it forth and bind it with its laws,<br /> +And make it serve the purposes of men,<br /> +Guided by common-sense and reason. Then<br /> +We’ll hear no more of séance, table-rapping,<br /> +And all that trash, o’er which the world is gaping,<br /> +Lost in effect, while science seeks the cause.</p> +<p class="poetry">Vivian was not conscious of his power:<br /> +Or, if he was, knew not its full extent.<br /> +He knew his glance would make a wild beast cower,<br /> +And yet he knew not that his large eyes sent<br /> +Into the heart of woman the same thrill<br /> +That made the lion servant of his will.<br /> +And even strong men felt it.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>He arose,<br +/> +Reached forth his hand, and in it clasped my own,<br /> +While I held Helen’s; and he spoke some word<br /> +Of pleasant greeting in his low, round tone,<br /> +Unlike all other voices I have heard.<br /> +Just as the white cloud, at the sunrise, glows<br /> +With roseate colours, so the pallid hue<br /> +Of Helen’s cheek, like tinted sea-shells grew.<br /> +Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such<br /> +Was the all-mast’ring magic of his touch.<br /> +Then we sat down, and talked about the weather,<br /> +The neighbourhood—some author’s last new book.<br /> +But, when I could, I left the two together<br /> +To make acquaintance, saying I must look<br /> +After the chickens—my especial care;<br /> +And ran away and left them, laughing, there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Knee-deep, through clover, to the poplar +grove,<br /> +I waded, where my pets were wont to rove:<br /> +And there I found the foolish mother hen<br /> +Brooding her chickens underneath a tree,<br /> +An easy prey for foxes. “Chick-a-dee,”<br /> +Quoth I, while reaching for the downy things<br /> +That, chirping, peeped from out the mother-wings,<br /> +“How very human is your folly! When<br /> +There waits a haven, pleasant, bright, and warm,<br /> +And one to lead you thither from the storm<br /> +<a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>And +lurking dangers, yet you turn away,<br /> +And, thinking to be your own protector, stray<br /> +Into the open jaws of death: for, see!<br /> +An owl is sitting in this very tree<br /> +You thought safe shelter. Go now to your pen.”<br /> +And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen,<br /> +So like the human mother here again,<br /> +Moaning because a strong, protecting arm<br /> +Would shield her little ones from cold and harm,<br /> +I carried back my garden hat brimful<br /> +Of chirping chickens, like white balls of wool<br /> +And snugly housed them.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +just then I heard<br /> +A sound like gentle winds among the trees,<br /> +Or pleasant waters in the summer, stirred<br /> +And set in motion by a passing breeze.<br /> +’Twas Helen singing: and, as I drew near,<br /> +Another voice, a tenor full and clear,<br /> +Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite,<br /> +And flow on stronger in their wedded might.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was a way of Helen’s, not to sing<br +/> +The songs that other people sang. She took<br /> +Sometimes an extract from an ancient book;<br /> +Again some floating, fragmentary thing.<br /> +And such she fitted to old melodies,<br /> +Or else composed the music. One of these<br /> +<a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>She sang +that night; and Vivian caught the strain,<br /> +And joined her in the chorus, or refrain,</p> +<h4>SONG.</h4> +<p class="poetry">Oh thou, mine other, stronger part!<br /> + Whom yet I cannot hear, or see,<br /> +Come thou, and take this loving heart,<br /> + That longs to yield its all to thee,<br /> + I call mine own—oh, come to me!<br /> + Love, answer back, I come to thee,<br /> + + +I come to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">This hungry heart, so warm, so large,<br /> + Is far too great a care for me.<br /> +I have grown weary of the charge<br /> + I keep so sacredly for thee.<br /> + Come thou, and take my heart from me.<br /> + Love, answer back, I come to thee,<br /> + + +I come to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">I am a-weary, waiting here<br /> + For one who tarries long from me.<br /> +Oh! art thou far, or art thou near?<br /> + And must I still be sad for thee?<br /> + Or wilt thou straightway come to me?<br /> + Love, answer, I am near to thee,<br /> + + +I come to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">The melody, so full of plaintive chords,<br /> +Sobbed into silence—echoing down the strings<br /> +Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings.<br /> +Vivian had leaned upon the instrument<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>The while +they sang. But, as he spoke those words,<br /> +“Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee,”<br /> +He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent<br /> +His lustrous, soulful, speaking gaze on me.<br /> +And my young heart, eager to own its king,<br /> +Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light<br /> +Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek<br /> +Hope’s rose-hued flag. There was no need to speak<br +/> +I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen. “Sing<br /> +That song you sang a fragment of one night<br /> +Out on the porch, beginning, ‘Praise me +not,’”<br /> +I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone<br /> +Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught<br /> +From some sad passing breeze, and made her own,<br /> +The echo of the wind-harp’s sighing strain,<br /> +Or the soft music of the falling rain.</p> +<h4>SONG.</h4> +<p class="poetry">O praise me not with your lips, dear one!<br /> + Though your tender words I prize.<br /> +But dearer by far is the soulful gaze<br /> + Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes,<br /> + Your tender, +loving eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">O chide me not with your lips, dear one!<br /> + Though I cause your bosom sighs.<br /> +You can make repentance deeper far<br /> + By your sad, reproving eyes,<br /> + Your sorrowful, +troubled eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;<br /> + Above, in the beaming skies,<br /> +The constant stars say never a word,<br /> + But only smile with their eyes—<br /> + Smile on with +their lustrous eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear +one;<br /> + On the wingèd wind speech flies.<br /> +But I read the truth of your noble heart<br /> + In your soulful, speaking eyes—<br /> + In your deep and +beautiful eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">The twilight darkened, round us, in the +room,<br /> +While Helen sang; and, in the gathering gloom,<br /> +Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his,<br /> +And held it so; while Helen made the air<br /> +Languid with music. Then a step drew near,<br /> +And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell:<br /> + + +“Dear! dear!<br /> +Why, Maurie, Helen, children! how is this?<br /> +I hear you, but you have no light in there.<br /> +Your room is dark as Egypt. What a way<br /> +For folks to visit! Maurie, go, I pray,<br /> +And order lamps.”<br /> + And so there +came a light,<br /> +And all the sweet dreams hovering around<br /> +The twilight shadows flitted in affright:<br /> +And e’en the music had a harsher sound.<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>In +pleasant converse passed an hour away:<br /> +And Vivian planned a picnic for next day—<br /> +A drive the next, and rambles without end,<br /> +That he might help me entertain my friend.<br /> +And then he rose, bowed low, and passed from sight,<br /> +Like some great star that drops out from the night;<br /> +And Helen watched him through the shadows go,<br /> +And turned and said, her voice subdued and low,<br /> +“How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine,<br /> +A grander man I never yet have seen.”</p> +<h3>PART III</h3> +<p class="poetry">One golden twelfth-part of a checkered year;<br +/> +One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirth,<br /> +With not a hint of shadows lurking near,<br /> +Or storm-clouds brewing.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ’Twas +a royal day:<br /> +Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth,<br /> +With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast,<br /> +And twined herself about him, as he lay<br /> +Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest.<br /> +She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace,<br /> +And hid him with her trailing robe of green,<br /> +And wound him in her long hair’s shimmering sheen,<br /> +And rained her ardent kisses on his face.<br /> +<a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>Through +the glad glory of the summer land<br /> +Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand.<br /> +In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat-field,<br /> +White with the promise of a bounteous yield,<br /> +Across the late shorn meadow—down the hill,<br /> +Red with the tiger-lily blossoms, till<br /> +We stood upon the borders of the lake,<br /> +That like a pretty, placid infant, slept<br /> +Low at its base: and little ripples crept<br /> +Along its surface, just as dimples chase<br /> +Each other o’er an infant’s sleeping face.<br /> +Helen in idle hours had learned to make<br /> +A thousand pretty, feminine knick-knacks:<br /> +For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands—<br /> +Labour just suited to her dainty hands.<br /> +That morning she had been at work in wax,<br /> +Moulding a wreath of flowers for my room,—<br /> +Taking her patterns from the living blows,<br /> +In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom,<br /> +Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose,<br /> +And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch,<br /> +Resembling the living plants as much<br /> +As life is copied in the form of death:<br /> +These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now the wreath was all completed, save<br +/> +The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom,<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>A +water-lily, dripping from the wave.<br /> +And ’twas in search of it that we had come<br /> +Down to the lake, and wandered on the beach,<br /> +To see if any lilies grew in reach.<br /> +Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been;<br /> +Some buds, with all their beauties folded in,<br /> +We found, but not the treasure that we sought.<br /> +And then we turned our footsteps to the spot<br /> +Where, all impatient of its chain, my boat,<br /> +The <i>Swan</i>, rocked, asking to be set afloat.<br /> +It was a dainty row-boat—strong, yet light;<br /> +Each side a swan was painted snowy white:<br /> +A present from my uncle, just before<br /> +He sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand,<br /> +Where freighted ships go sailing evermore,<br /> +But none return to tell us of the land.<br /> +I freed the <i>Swan</i>, and slowly rowed about,<br /> +Wherever sea-weeds, grass, or green leaves lifted<br /> +Their tips above the water. So we drifted,<br /> +While Helen, opposite, leaned idly out<br /> +And watched for lilies in the waves below,<br /> +And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air,<br /> +That soothed me like a mother’s lullabies.<br /> +I dropped the oars, and closed my sun-kissed eyes,<br /> +And let the boat go drifting here and there.<br /> +Oh, happy day! the last of that brief time<br /> +Of thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright,<br /> +<a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>Ere that +disguisèd angel men call Woe<br /> +Leads the sad heart through valleys dark as night,<br /> +Up to the heights exalted and sublime.<br /> +On each blest, happy moment, I am fain<br /> +To linger long, ere I pass on to pain<br /> +And sorrow that succeeded.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> From +day-dreams,<br /> +As golden as the summer noontide’s beams,<br /> +I was awakened by a voice that cried:<br /> +“Strange ship, ahoy! Fair frigate, whither +bound?”<br /> +And, starting up, I cast my gaze around,<br /> +And saw a sail-boat o’er the water glide<br /> +Close to the <i>Swan</i>, like some live thing of grace;<br /> +And from it looked the glowing, handsome face<br /> +Of Vivian.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Beauteous +sirens of the sea,<br /> +Come sail across the raging main with me!”<br /> +He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boat<br /> +Beside his own. “There, now! step in!” he +said;<br /> +“I’ll land you anywhere you want to go—<br /> +My boat is safer far than yours, I know:<br /> +And much more pleasant with its sails all spread.<br /> +The <i>Swan</i>? We’ll take the oars, and let it +float<br /> +Ashore at leisure. You, Maurine, sit there—<br /> +<a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>Miss Helen +here. Ye gods and little fishes!<br /> +I’ve reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes.<br /> +Adieu despondency! farewell to care!”</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas done so quickly: that was +Vivian’s way.<br /> +He did not wait for either yea or nay.<br /> +He gave commands, and left you with no choice<br /> +But just to do the bidding of his voice.<br /> +His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly face<br /> +Lent to his quick imperiousness a grace<br /> +And winning charm, completely stripping it<br /> +Of what might otherwise have seemed unfit.<br /> +Leaving no trace of tyranny, but just<br /> +That nameless force that seemed to say, “You +must.”<br /> +Suiting its pretty title of the <i>Dawn</i>,<br /> +(So named, he said, that it might rhyme with <i>Swan</i>),<br /> +Vivian’s sail-boat was carpeted with blue,<br /> +While all its sails were of a pale rose hue.<br /> +The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze;<br /> +A poet’s fancy in an hour of ease.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whatever Vivian had was of the best.<br /> +His room was like some Sultan’s in the East.<br /> +His board was always spread as for a feast,<br /> +Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest.<br /> +He would go hungry sooner than he’d dine<br /> +At his own table if ’twere illy set.<br /> +<a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>He so +loved things artistic in design—<br /> +Order and beauty, all about him. Yet<br /> +So kind he was, if it befell his lot<br /> +To dine within the humble peasant’s cot,<br /> +He made it seem his native soil to be,<br /> +And thus displayed the true gentility.</p> +<p class="poetry">Under the rosy banners of the <i>Dawn</i>,<br +/> +Around the lake we drifted on, and on.<br /> +It was a time for dreams, and not for speech.<br /> +And so we floated on in silence, each<br /> +Weaving the fancies suiting such a day.<br /> +Helen leaned idly o’er the sail-boat’s side,<br /> +And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide;<br /> +And I among the cushions half reclined,<br /> +Half sat, and watched the fleecy clouds at play,<br /> +While Vivian with his blank-book, opposite,<br /> +In which he seemed to either sketch or write,<br /> +Was lost in inspiration of some kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">No time, no change, no scene, can e’er +efface<br /> +My mind’s impression of that hour and place;<br /> +It stands out like a picture. O’er the years,<br /> +Black with their robes of sorrow—veiled with tears,<br /> +Lying with all their lengthened shapes between,<br /> +Untouched, undimmed, I still behold that scene.<br /> +<a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>Just as +the last of Indian-summer days,<br /> +Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze,<br /> +Followed by dark and desolate December,<br /> +Through all the months of winter we remember.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sun slipped westward. That peculiar +change<br /> +Which creeps into the air, and speaks of night<br /> +While yet the day is full of golden light,<br /> +We felt steal o’er us.<br /> + Vivian broke the +spell<br /> +Of dream-fraught silence, throwing down his book:<br /> +“Young ladies, please allow me to arrange<br /> +These wraps about your shoulders. I know well<br /> +The fickle nature of our atmosphere,—<br /> +Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear,—<br /> +And go prepared for changes. Now you look,<br /> +Like—like—oh, where’s a pretty simile?<br /> +Had you a pocket mirror here you’d see<br /> +How well my native talent is displayed<br /> +In shawling you. Red on the brunette maid;<br /> +Blue on the blonde—and quite without design<br /> +(Oh, where <i>is</i> that comparison of mine?)<br /> +Well—like a June rose and a violet blue<br /> +In one bouquet! I fancy that will do.<br /> +And now I crave your patience and a boon,<br /> +Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme,<br /> +A floating fancy of the summer time.<br /> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>’Tis +neither witty, wonderful, nor wise,<br /> +So listen kindly—but don’t criticise<br /> +My maiden effort of the afternoon:</p> +<p class="poetry">“If all the ships I have at sea<br /> +Should come a-sailing home to me,<br /> +Ah, well! the harbour could not hold<br /> +So many sails as there would be<br /> +If all my ships came in from sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If half my ships came home from sea,<br +/> +And brought their precious freight to me,<br /> +Ah, well! I should have wealth as great<br /> +As any king who sits in state—<br /> +So rich the treasures that would be<br /> +In half my ships now out at sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If just one ship I have at sea<br /> +Should come a-sailing home to me,<br /> +Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown:<br /> +For if the others all went down<br /> +Still rich and proud and glad I’d be,<br /> +If that one ship came back to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If that one ship went down at sea,<br /> +And all the others came to me,<br /> +Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,<br /> +With glory, honour, riches, gold,<br /> +The poorest soul on earth I’d be<br /> +If that one ship came not to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O skies be calm! O winds blow +free—<br /> +Blow all my ships safe home to me.<br /> +But if thou sendest some a-wrack<br /> +To never more come sailing back,<br /> +Send any—all that skim the sea,<br /> +But bring my love-ship home to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>Helen was leaning by me, and her head<br /> +Rested against my shoulder: as he read,<br /> +I stroked her hair, and watched the fleecy skies,<br /> +And when he finished, did not turn my eyes.<br /> +I felt too happy and too shy to meet<br /> +His gaze just then. I said, “’Tis very +sweet,<br /> +And suits the day; does it not, Helen, dear?”<br /> +But Helen, voiceless, did not seem to hear.<br /> +“’Tis strange,” I added, “how you poets +sing<br /> +So feelingly about the very thing<br /> +You care not for! and dress up an ideal<br /> +So well, it looks a living, breathing real!<br /> +Now, to a listener, your love song seemed<br /> +A heart’s out-pouring; yet I’ve heard you say<br /> +Almost the opposite; or that you deemed<br /> +Position, honour, glory, power, fame,<br /> +Gained without loss of conscience or good name,<br /> +The things to live for.”<br /> + “Have +you? Well, you may,”<br /> +Laughed Vivian, “but ’twas years—or +months’ ago!<br /> +And Solomon says wise men change, you know!<br /> +I now speak truth! if she I hold most dear<br /> +Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left,<br /> +My heart would find the years more lonely here<br /> +Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,<br /> +And sent, an exile, to a foreign land.”<br /> +<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>His voice +was low, and measured: as he spoke,<br /> +New, unknown chords of melody awoke<br /> +Within my soul. I felt my heart expand<br /> +With that sweet fulness born of love. I turned<br /> +To hide the blushes on my cheek that burned,<br /> +And leaning over Helen, breathed her name.<br /> +She lay so motionless I thought she slept:<br /> +But, as I spoke, I saw her eyes unclose,<br /> +And o’er her face a sudden glory swept,<br /> +And a slight tremor thrilled all through her frame.<br /> +“Sweet friend,” I said, “your face is full of +light:<br /> +What were the dreams that made your eyes so bright?”<br /> +She only smiled for answer, and arose<br /> +From her reclining posture at my side,<br /> +Threw back the clust’ring ringlets from her face<br /> +With a quick gesture, full of easy grace,<br /> +And, turning, spoke to Vivian. “Will you guide<br /> +The boat up near that little clump of green<br /> +Off to the right? There’s where the lilies grow.<br +/> +We quite forgot our errand here, Maurine,<br /> +And our few moments have grown into hours.<br /> +What will Aunt Ruth think of our ling’ring so?<br /> +There—that will do—now I can reach the +flowers.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Hark! just hear that!” and Vivian +broke forth singing,<br /> +“‘Row, brothers, row.’ The six +o’clock bell’s ringing!<br /> +<a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>Who ever +knew three hours to go so fast<br /> +In all the annals of the world, before?<br /> +I could have sworn not over one had passed.<br /> +Young ladies, I am forced to go ashore!<br /> +I thank you for the pleasure you have given;<br /> +This afternoon has been a glimpse of heaven.<br /> +Good-night—sweet dreams! and by your gracious leave,<br /> +I’ll pay my compliments to-morrow eve.”</p> +<p class="poetry">A smile, a bow, and he had gone his way:<br /> +And, in the waning glory of the day,<br /> +Down cool, green lanes, and through the length’ning +shadows,<br /> +Silent, we wandered back across the meadows.<br /> +The wreath was finished, and adorned my room;<br /> +Long afterward, the lilies’ copied bloom<br /> +Was like a horrid spectre in my sight,<br /> +Staring upon me morning, noon, and night.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sun went down. The sad new moon rose +up,<br /> +And passed before me like an empty cup,<br /> +The Great Unseen brims full of pain or bliss,<br /> +And gives His children, saying, “Drink of this.”</p> +<p class="poetry">A light wind, from the open casement, fanned<br +/> +My brow and Helen’s, as we, hand in hand,<br /> +<a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>Sat +looking out upon the twilight scene,<br /> +In dreamy silence. Helen’s dark-blue eyes,<br /> +Like two lost stars that wandered from the skies<br /> +Some night adown the meteor’s shining track,<br /> +And always had been grieving to go back,<br /> +Now gazed up, wistfully, at heaven’s dome,<br /> +And seemed to recognise and long for home.<br /> +Her sweet voice broke the silence: “Wish, Maurine,<br /> +Before you speak! you know the moon is new,<br /> +And anything you wish for will come true<br /> +Before it wanes. I do believe the sign!<br /> +Now tell me your wish, and I’ll tell you mine.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I turned and looked up at the slim young +moon;<br /> +And, with an almost superstitious heart,<br /> +I sighed, “Oh, new moon! help me, by thine art,<br /> +To grow all grace and goodness, and to be<br /> +Worthy the love a true heart proffers me.”<br /> +Then smiling down, I said, “Dear one! my boon,<br /> +I fear, is quite too silly or too sweet<br /> +For my repeating: so we’ll let it stay<br /> +Between the moon and me. But if I may<br /> +I’ll listen now to your wish. Tell me, +please!”</p> +<p class="poetry">All suddenly she nestled at my feet,<br /> +And hid her blushing face upon my knees.<br /> +Then drew my hand against her glowing cheek,<br /> +And, leaning on my breast, began to speak,<br /> +<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>Half +sighing out the words my tortured ear<br /> +Reached down to catch, while striving not to hear.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Can you not guess who ’twas about, +Maurine?<br /> +Oh, my sweet friend! you must ere this have seen<br /> +The love I tried to cover from all eyes<br /> +And from myself. Ah, foolish little heart!<br /> +As well it might go seeking for some art<br /> +Whereby to hide the sun in noonday skies.<br /> +When first the strange sound of his voice I heard,<br /> +Looked on his noble face, and, touched his hand,<br /> +My slumb’ring heart thrilled through and through and +stirred<br /> +As if to say, ‘I hear, and understand.’<br /> +And day by day mine eyes were blest beholding<br /> +The inner beauty of his life, unfolding<br /> +In countless words and actions that portrayed<br /> +The noble stuff of which his soul was made.<br /> +And more and more I felt my heart upreaching<br /> +Toward the truth, drawn gently by his teaching,<br /> +As flowers are drawn by sunlight. And there grew<br /> +A strange, shy something in its depths, I knew<br /> +At length was love, because it was so sad<br /> +And yet so sweet, and made my heart so glad,<br /> +Yet seemed to pain me. Then, for very shame,<br /> +Lest all should read my secret and its name,<br /> +I strove to hide it in my breast away,<br /> +<a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>Where God +could see it only. But each day<br /> +It seemed to grow within me, and would rise,<br /> +Like my own soul, and look forth from my eyes,<br /> +Defying bonds of silence; and would speak,<br /> +In its red-lettered language, on my cheek,<br /> +If but his name was uttered. You were kind,<br /> +My own Maurine! as you alone could be,<br /> +So long the sharer of my heart and mind,<br /> +While yet you saw, in seeming not to see.<br /> +In all the years we have been friends, my own,<br /> +And loved as women very rarely do,<br /> +My heart no sorrow and no joy has known<br /> +It has not shared at once, in full, with you.<br /> +And I so longed to speak to you of this,<br /> +When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss;<br /> +Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say,<br /> +In pity for my folly—‘Lack-a-day!<br /> +You are undone: because no mortal art<br /> +Can win the love of such a lofty heart.’<br /> +And so I waited, silent and in pain,<br /> +Till I could know I did not love in vain.<br /> +And now I know, beyond a doubt or fear.<br /> +Did he not say, ‘If she I hold most dear<br /> +Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left,<br /> +My heart would find the years more lonely here<br /> +Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,<br /> +And sent, an exile, to a foreign land’?<br /> +<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>Oh, +darling, you must <i>love</i>, to understand<br /> +The joy that thrilled all through me at those words.<br /> +It was as if a thousand singing birds<br /> +Within my heart broke forth in notes of praise.<br /> +I did not look up, but I knew his gaze<br /> +Was on my face, and that his eyes must see<br /> +The joy I felt almost transfigured me.<br /> +He loves me—loves me! so the birds kept singing,<br /> +And all my soul with that sweet strain is ringing.<br /> +If there were added but one drop of bliss,<br /> +No more my cup would hold: and so, this eve,<br /> +I made a wish that I might feel his kiss<br /> +Upon my lips, ere yon pale moon should leave<br /> +The stars all lonely, having waned away,<br /> +Too old and weak and bowed with care to stay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Her voice sighed in silence. While she +spoke<br /> +My heart writhed in me, praying she would cease—<br /> +Each word she uttered falling like a stroke<br /> +On my bare soul. And now a hush like death,<br /> +Save that ’twas broken by a quick-drawn breath,<br /> +Fell ’round me, but brought not the hoped-for peace.<br /> +For when the lash no longer leaves its blows,<br /> +The flesh still quivers, and the blood still flows.</p> +<p class="poetry">She nestled on my bosom like a child,<br /> +And ’neath her head my tortured heart throbbed wild<br /> +<a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>With pain +and pity. She had told her tale—<br /> +Her self-deceiving story to the end.<br /> +How could I look down on her as she lay<br /> +So fair, and sweet, and lily-like, and frail—<br /> +A tender blossom on my breast, and say,<br /> +“Nay, you are wrong—you do mistake, dear friend!<br +/> +’Tis I am loved, not you”? Yet that were +truth,<br /> +And she must know it later.<br /> + Should I +speak,<br /> +And spread a ghastly pallor o’er the cheek<br /> +Flushed now with joy? And while I, doubting pondered,<br /> +She spoke again. “Maurine! I oft have +wondered<br /> +Why you and Vivian were not lovers. He<br /> +Is all a heart could ask its king to be;<br /> +And you have beauty, intellect and youth.<br /> +I think it strange you have not loved each other—<br /> +Strange how he could pass by you for another<br /> +Not half so fair or worthy. Yet I know<br /> +A loving Father pre-arranged it so.<br /> +I think my heart has known him all these years,<br /> +And waited for him. And if when he came<br /> +It had been as a lover of my friend,<br /> +I should have recognised him, all the same,<br /> +As my soul-mate, and loved him to the end,<br /> +Hiding my grief, and forcing back my tears<br /> +Till on my heart, slow dropping, day by day,<br /> +<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>Unseen +they fell, and wore it all away.<br /> +And so a tender Father kept him free,<br /> +With all the largeness of his love, for me—<br /> +For me, unworthy such a precious gift!<br /> +Yet I will bend each effort of my life<br /> +To grow in grace and goodness, and to lift<br /> +My soul and spirit to his lofty height,<br /> +So to deserve that holy name, his wife.<br /> +Sweet friend, it fills my whole heart with delight<br /> +To breathe its long hid secret in your ear.<br /> +Speak, my Maurine, and say you love to hear!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The while she spoke, my active brain gave +rise<br /> +To one great thought of mighty sacrifice<br /> +And self-denial. Oh! it blanched my cheek,<br /> +And wrung my soul; and from my heart it drove<br /> +All life and feeling. Coward-like, I strove<br /> +To send it from me; but I felt it cling<br /> +And hold fast on my mind like some live thing;<br /> +And all the Self within me felt its touch<br /> +And cried, “No, no! I cannot do so much—<br /> +I am not strong enough—there is no call.”<br /> +And then the voice of Helen bade me speak,<br /> +And with a calmness born of nerve, I said,<br /> +Scarce knowing what I uttered, “Sweetheart, all<br /> +Your joys and sorrows are with mine own wed.<br /> +I thank you for your confidence, and pray<br /> +<a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>I may +deserve it always. But, dear one,<br /> +Something—perhaps our boat-ride in the sun—<br /> +Has set my head to aching. I must go<br /> +To bed directly; and you will, I know,<br /> +Grant me your pardon, and another day<br /> +We’ll talk of this together. Now good-night,<br /> +And angels guard you with their wings of light.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart,<br +/> +And viewed her as I ne’er had done before.<br /> +I gazed upon her features o’er and o’er;<br /> +Marked her white, tender face—her fragile form,<br /> +Like some frail plant that withers in the storm;<br /> +Saw she was fairer in her new-found joy<br /> +Than e’er before; and thought, “Can I destroy<br /> +God’s handiwork, or leave it at the best<br /> +A broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?”<br /> +I bent my head and gave her one last kiss,<br /> +And sought my room, and found there such relief<br /> +As sad hearts feel when first alone with grief.</p> +<p class="poetry">The moon went down, slow sailing from my +sight,<br /> +And left the stars to watch away the night.<br /> +O stars, sweet stars, so changeless and serene!<br /> +What depths of woe your pitying eyes have seen!<br /> +The proud sun sets, and leaves us with our sorrow,<br /> +To grope alone in darkness till the morrow.<br /> +<a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>The +languid moon, e’en if she deigns to rise,<br /> +Soon seeks her couch, grown weary of our sighs;<br /> +But from the early gloaming till the day<br /> +Sends golden-liveried heralds forth to say<br /> +He comes in might; the patient stars shine on,<br /> +Steadfast and faithful, from twilight to dawn.<br /> +And, as they shone upon Gethsemane,<br /> +And watched the struggle of a God-like soul,<br /> +Now from the same far height they shone on me,<br /> +And saw the waves of anguish o’er me roll.</p> +<p class="poetry">The storm had come upon me all unseen:<br /> +No sound of thunder fell upon my ear;<br /> +No cloud arose to tell me it was near;<br /> +But under skies all sunlit, and serene,<br /> +I floated with the current of the stream,<br /> +And thought life all one golden-haloed dream.<br /> +When lo! a hurricane, with awful force,<br /> +Swept swift upon its devastating course,<br /> +Wrecked my frail bark, and cast me on the wave<br /> +Where all my hopes had found a sudden grave.<br /> +Love makes us blind and selfish; otherwise<br /> +I had seen Helen’s secret in her eyes;<br /> +So used I was to reading every look<br /> +In her sweet face, as I would read a book.<br /> +But now, made sightless by love’s blinding rays,<br /> +I had gone on unseeing, to the end<br /> +<a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>Where Pain +dispelled the mist of golden haze<br /> +That walled me in, and lo! I found my friend<br /> +Who journeyed with me—at my very side—<br /> +Had been sore wounded to the heart, while I,<br /> +Both deaf and blind, saw not, nor heard her cry.<br /> +And then I sobbed, “O God! I would have died<br /> +To save her this.” And as I cried in pain,<br /> +There leaped forth from the still, white realm of Thought<br /> +Where Conscience dwells, that unimpassioned spot<br /> +As widely different from the heart’s domain<br /> +As north from south—the impulse felt before,<br /> +And put away; but now it rose once more,<br /> +In greater strength, and said, “Heart, wouldst thou +prove<br /> +What lips have uttered? Then go, lay thy love<br /> +On Friendship’s altar, as thy offering.”<br /> +“Nay!” cried my heart, “ask any other +thing—<br /> +Ask life itself—’twere easier sacrifice.<br /> +But ask not love, for that I cannot give.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But,” spoke the voice, “the +meanest insect dies,<br /> +And is no hero! heroes dare to live<br /> +When all that makes life sweet is snatched away.”<br /> +So with my heart, in converse, till the day,<br /> +In gold and crimson billows, rose and broke,<br /> +The voice of Conscience, all unwearied, spoke.<br /> +<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>Love +warred with Friendship, heart with Conscience fought,<br /> +Hours rolled away, and yet the end was not.<br /> +And wily Self, tricked out like tenderness,<br /> +Sighed, “Think how one, whose life thou wert to bless,<br +/> +Will be cast down, and grope in doubt and fear!<br /> +Wouldst thou wound him, to give thy friend relief?<br /> +Can wrong make right?”<br /> + +“Nay!” Conscience said, “but Pride<br /> +And Time can heal the saddest hurts of Love.<br /> +While Friendship’s wounds gape wide and yet more wide,<br +/> +And bitter fountains of the spirit prove.”</p> +<p class="poetry">At length, exhausted with the wearing +strife,<br /> +I cast the new-found burden of my life<br /> +On God’s broad breast, and sought that deep repose<br /> +That only he who watched with sorrow knows.</p> +<h3>PART IV</h3> +<p class="poetry">“Maurine, Maurine, ’tis ten +o’clock! arise,<br /> +My pretty sluggard, open those dark eyes<br /> +And see where yonder sun is! Do you know<br /> +I made my toilet just four hours ago?”</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas Helen’s voice: and +Helen’s gentle kiss<br /> +Fell on my cheek. As from a deep abyss,<br /> +<a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>I drew my +weary self from that strange sleep<br /> +That rests not nor refreshes. Scarce awake<br /> +Or conscious, yet there seemed a heavy weight<br /> +Bound on my breast, as by a cruel Fate.<br /> +I knew not why, and yet I longed to weep.<br /> +Some dark cloud seemed to hang upon the day;<br /> +And, for a moment, in that trance I lay,<br /> +When suddenly the truth did o’er me break,<br /> +Like some great wave upon a helpless child.<br /> +The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife—<br /> +The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild,<br /> +And God gave back the burden of the life<br /> +He kept what time I slumbered.<br /> + “You are +ill,”<br /> +Cried Helen, “with that blinding headache still!<br /> +You look so pale and weary. Now let me<br /> +Play nurse, Maurine, and care for you to-day!<br /> +And first I’ll suit some dainty to your taste,<br /> +And bring it to you, with a cup of tea.”<br /> +And off she ran, not waiting my reply.<br /> +But, wanting most the sunshine and the light,<br /> +I left my couch, and clothed myself in haste,<br /> +And, kneeling, sent to God an earnest cry<br /> +For help and guidance.<br /> + “Show Thou +me the way,<br /> +Where duty leads, for I am blind! my sight<br /> +Obscured by self. Oh, lead my steps aright!<br /> +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>Help me +see the path: and if it may,<br /> +Let this cup pass:—and yet, Thou heavenly One,<br /> +Thy will in all things, not mine own, be done.”<br /> +Rising, I went upon my way, receiving<br /> +The strength prayer gives alway to hearts believing.<br /> +I felt that unseen hands were leading me,<br /> +And knew the end was peace.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “What! +are you up?”<br /> +Cried Helen, coming with a tray, and cup,<br /> +Of tender toast and fragrant, smoking tea.<br /> +“You naughty girl! you should have stayed in bed<br /> +Until you ate your breakfast, and were better;<br /> +I’ve something hidden for you here—a letter.<br /> +But drink your tea before you read it, dear!<br /> +’Tis from some distant cousin, auntie said,<br /> +And so you need not hurry. Now be good,<br /> +And mind your Helen.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> So, +in passive mood,<br /> +I laid the still unopened letter near,<br /> +And loitered at my breakfast more to please<br /> +My nurse, than any hunger to appease.<br /> +Then listlessly I broke the seal and read<br /> +The few lines written in a bold free hand:<br /> +“New London, Canada. Dear Coz. Maurine!<br /> +(In spite of generations stretched between<br /> +Our natural right to that most handy claim<br /> +Of cousinship, we’ll use it all the same)<br /> +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>I’m +coming to see you! honestly, in truth!<br /> +I’ve threatened often—now I mean to act;<br /> +You’ll find my coming is a stubborn fact.<br /> +Keep quiet, though, and do not tell Aunt Ruth.<br /> +I wonder if she’ll know her petted boy<br /> +In spite of changes? Look for me until<br /> +You see me coming. As of old I’m still<br /> +Your faithful friend, and loving cousin, Roy.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So Roy was coming! He and I had played<br +/> +As boy and girl, and later, youth and maid,<br /> +Full half our lives together. He had been,<br /> +Like me, an orphan; and the roof of kin<br /> +Gave both kind shelter. Swift years sped away<br /> +Ere change was felt: and then one summer day<br /> +A long-lost uncle sailed from India’s shore—<br /> +Made Roy his heir, and he was ours no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He’d write us daily, and +we’d see his face<br /> +Once every year.” Such was his promise given<br /> +The morn he left. But now the years were seven<br /> +Since last he looked upon the olden place.<br /> +He’d been through college, travelled in all lands,<br /> +Sailed over seas, and trod the desert sands.<br /> +Would write and plan a visit, then, ere long,<br /> +Would write again from Egypt, or Hong Kong—<br /> +Some fancy called him thither unforeseen.<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>So years +had passed, till seven lay between<br /> +His going and the coming of this note,<br /> +Which I hid in my bosom, and replied<br /> +To Aunt Ruth’s queries, “What the truant +wrote?”<br /> +By saying he was still upon the wing,<br /> +And merely dropped a line, while journeying,<br /> +To say he lived: and she was satisfied.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes it happens, in this world so +strange,<br /> +A human heart will pass through mortal strife,<br /> +And writhe in torture: while the old sweet life,<br /> +So full of hope and beauty, bloom and grace,<br /> +Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain:<br /> +And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place—<br /> +A ghastly, pallid spectre of the slain.<br /> +Yet those in daily converse see no change<br /> +Nor dream the heart has suffered.<br /> + So that day<br +/> +I passed along toward the troubled way<br /> +Stern duty pointed, and no mortal guessed<br /> +A mighty conflict had disturbed my breast.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had resolved to yield up to my friend<br /> +The man I loved. Since she, too, loved him so<br /> +I saw no other way in honour left.<br /> +She was so weak and fragile, once bereft<br /> +Of this great hope, that held her with such power,<br /> +<a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>She would +wilt down, like some frost-bitten flower,<br /> +And swift, untimely death would be the end.<br /> +But I was strong; and hardy plants, which grow<br /> +In out-door soil, can bear bleak winds that blow<br /> +From Arctic lands, whereof a single breath<br /> +Would lay the hot-house blossom low in death.</p> +<p class="poetry">The hours went by, too slow, and yet too +fast.<br /> +All day I argued with my foolish heart<br /> +That bade me play the shrinking coward’s part<br /> +And hide from pain. And when the day had past<br /> +And time for Vivian’s call drew near and nearer,<br /> +It pleaded, “Wait until the way seems clearer;<br /> +Say you are ill—or busy; keep away<br /> +Until you gather strength enough to play<br /> +The part you have resolved on.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Nay, +not so,”<br /> +Made answer clear-eyed Reason; “do you go<br /> +And put your resolution to the test.<br /> +Resolve, however nobly formed, at best<br /> +Is but a still-born babe of Thought until<br /> +It proves existence of its life and will<br /> +By sound or action.”<br /> + So when Helen +came<br /> +And knelt by me, her fair face all aflame<br /> +With sudden blushes, whispering, “My sweet!<br /> +My heart can hear the music of his feet,<br /> +<a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>Go down +with me to meet him,” I arose,<br /> +And went with her all calmly, as one goes<br /> +To look upon the dear face of the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">That eve I know not what I did or said.<br /> +I was not cold—my manner was not strange;<br /> +Perchance I talked more freely than my wont,<br /> +But in my speech was naught could give affront;<br /> +Yet I conveyed, as only woman can,<br /> +That nameless <i>something</i> which bespeaks a change.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis in the power of woman, if she be<br +/> +Whole-souled and noble, free from coquetry—<br /> +Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good,<br /> +To make herself and feelings understood<br /> +By nameless acts, thus sparing what to man,<br /> +However gently answered, causes pain,<br /> +The offering of his hand and heart in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">She can be friendly, unrestrained, and kind<br +/> +Assume no airs of pride or arrogance;<br /> +But in her voice, her manner, and her glance,<br /> +Convey that mystic something, undefined,<br /> +Which men fail not to understand and read,<br /> +And, when not blind with egoism, heed.<br /> +My task was harder—’twas the slow undoing<br /> +Of long sweet months of unimpeded wooing.<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>It was to +hide and cover and conceal<br /> +The truth, assuming what I did not feel.<br /> +It was to dam love’s happy singing tide<br /> +That blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone<br /> +By feigned indiff’rence, till it turned aside<br /> +And changed its channel, leaving me alone<br /> +To walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draught<br /> +My lips had tasted, but another quaffed.<br /> +It could be done, for no words yet were spoken—<br /> +None to recall—no pledges to be broken.<br /> +“He will be grieved, then angry, cold, then +cross,”<br /> +I reasoned, thinking what would be his part<br /> +In this strange drama. “Then, because he<br /> +Feels something lacking, to make good his loss<br /> +He’ll turn to Helen, and her gentle grace<br /> +And loving acts will win her soon the place<br /> +I hold to-day; and like a troubled dream<br /> +At length, our past, when he looks back, will seem.”</p> +<p class="poetry">That evening passed with music, chat, and +song,<br /> +But hours that once had flown on airy wings<br /> +Now limped on weary, aching limbs along,<br /> +Each moment like some dreaded step that brings<br /> +A twinge of pain.<br /> + As Vivian rose +to go,<br /> +Slow bending to me from his greater height,<br /> +He took my hand, and, looking in my eyes,<br /> +<a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>With +tender questioning and pained surprise,<br /> +Said, “Maurine, you are not yourself to-night;<br /> +What is it? Are you ailing?”<br /> + +“Ailing? No,”<br /> +I answered, laughing lightly, “I am not;<br /> +Just see my cheek, sir—is it thin, or pale?<br /> +Now, tell me, am I looking very frail?”<br /> +“Nay, nay,” he answered, “it cannot be +<i>seen</i>,<br /> +The change I speak of—’twas more in your +mien—<br /> +Preoccupation, or—I know not what!<br /> +Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does Maurine<br /> +Seem to have something on her mind this eve?”<br /> +“She does,” laughed Helen, “and I do believe<br +/> +I know what ’tis! A letter came to-day<br /> +Which she read slyly, and then hid away<br /> +Close to her heart, not knowing I was near,<br /> +And since she’s been as you have seen her here.<br /> +See how she blushes! so my random shot<br /> +We must believe has struck a tender spot.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Her rippling laughter floated through the +room,<br /> +And redder yet I felt the hot blood rise,<br /> +Then surge away, to leave me pale as death<br /> +Under the dark and swiftly gathering gloom<br /> +Of Vivian’s questioning, accusing eyes,<br /> +That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneath<br /> +That stern, fixed gaze, and stood spellbound until<br /> +<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>He turned +with sudden movement, gave his hand<br /> +To each in turn, and said: “You must not stand<br /> +Longer, young ladies, in this open door.<br /> +The air is heavy with a cold, damp chill.<br /> +We shall have rain to-morrow, or before.<br /> +Good-night.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> He vanished in the darkling +shade;<br /> +And so the dreaded evening found an end,<br /> +That saw me grasp the conscience-whetted blade,<br /> +And strike a blow for honour and for friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">“How swiftly passed the evening!” +Helen sighed.<br /> +“How long the hours!” my tortured heart replied.<br +/> +Joy, like a child, with lightsome steps doth glide<br /> +By Father Time, and, looking in his face,<br /> +Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair roadside,<br /> +“I could pluck more, but for thy hurried pace.”<br /> +The while her elder brother Pain, man grown,<br /> +Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone,<br /> +Looks to some distant hilltop, high and calm,<br /> +Where he shall find not only rest, but balm<br /> +For all his wounds, and cries, in tones of woe,<br /> +“Oh, Father Time! why is thy pace so slow?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Two days, all sad with lonely wind and rain,<br +/> +Went sobbing by, repeating o’er and o’er<br /> +The miserere, desolate and drear,<br /> +Which every human heart must sometime hear.<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>Pain is +but little varied. Its refrain,<br /> +Whate’er the words are, is for aye the same.<br /> +The third day brought a change, for with it came<br /> +Not only sunny smiles to Nature’s face,<br /> +But Roy, our Roy came back to us. Once more<br /> +We looked into his laughing, handsome eyes,<br /> +Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surprise<br /> +In no way puzzled her, for one glance told<br /> +What each succeeding one confirmed, that he<br /> +Who bent above her with the lissome grace<br /> +Of his fine form, though grown so tall, could be<br /> +No other than the Roy Montaine of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was a sweet reunion, and he brought<br /> +So much of sunshine with him that I caught,<br /> +Just from his smile alone, enough of gladness<br /> +To make my heart forget a time its sadness.<br /> +We talked together of the dear old days:<br /> +Leaving the present, with its depths and heights<br /> +Of life’s maturer sorrows and delights,<br /> +I turned back to my childhood’s level land,<br /> +And Roy and I, dear playmates, hand in hand,<br /> +Wandered in mem’ry through the olden ways.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was the second evening of his coming.<br /> +Helen was playing dreamily, and humming<br /> +Some wordless melody of white-souled thought,<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>While Roy +and I sat by the open door,<br /> +Re-living childish incidents of yore.<br /> +My eyes were glowing, and my cheeks were hot<br /> +With warm young blood; excitement, joy, or pain<br /> +Alike would send swift coursing through each vein.<br /> +Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine,<br /> +And bringing vividly before my gaze<br /> +Some old adventure of those halcyon days,<br /> +When suddenly, in pauses of the talk,<br /> +I heard a well-known step upon the walk,<br /> +And looked up quickly to meet full in mine<br /> +The eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flash<br /> +Shot from their depths:—a sudden blaze of light<br /> +Like that swift followed by the thunder’s crash,<br /> +Which said, “Suspicion is confirmed by sight,”<br /> +As they fell on the pleasant doorway scene.<br /> +Then o’er his clear-cut face a cold, white look<br /> +Crept, like the pallid moonlight o’er a brook,<br /> +And, with a slight, proud bending of the head,<br /> +He stepped toward us haughtily, and said:<br /> +“Please pardon my intrusion, Miss Maurine,<br /> +I called to ask Miss Trevor for a book<br /> +She spoke of lending me; nay, sit you still,<br /> +And I, by grant of your permission, will<br /> +Pass by to where I hear her playing.”<br /> + + +“Stay,”<br /> +I said, “one moment, Vivian, if you please;”<br /> +<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>And +suddenly bereft of all my ease,<br /> +And scarcely knowing what to do or say,<br /> +Confused as any schoolgirl, I arose,<br /> +And some way made each to the other known.<br /> +They bowed, shook hands, then Vivian turned away<br /> +And sought out Helen, leaving us alone.</p> +<p class="poetry">“One of Miss Trevor’s or of +Maurine’s beaux?<br /> +Which may he be, who cometh like a prince<br /> +With haughty bearing and an eagle eye?”<br /> +Roy queried, laughing; and I answered, “Since<br /> +You saw him pass me for Miss Trevor’s side,<br /> +I leave your own good judgment to reply.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And straightway caused the tide of talk to +glide<br /> +In other channels, striving to dispel<br /> +The sudden gloom that o’er my spirit fell.</p> +<p class="poetry">We mortals are such hypocrites at best!<br /> +When Conscience tries our courage with a test,<br /> +And points to some steep pathway, we set out<br /> +Boldly, denying any fear or doubt;<br /> +But pause before the first rock in the way,<br /> +And, looking back, with tears, at Conscience, say:<br /> +“We are so sad, dear Conscience! for we would<br /> +Most gladly do what to thee seemeth good;<br /> +But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, so<br /> +Thou must point out some other way to go.”<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>Yet +secretly we are rejoicing: and,<br /> +When right before our faces, as we stand<br /> +In seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain,<br /> +Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain,<br /> +And, loth to go, by every act reveal<br /> +What we so tried from Conscience to conceal.</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw that hour, the way made plain, to do<br +/> +With scarce an effort what had seemed a strife<br /> +That would require the strength of my whole life.</p> +<p class="poetry">Women have quick perceptions, and I knew<br /> +That Vivian’s heart was full of jealous pain,<br /> +Suspecting—nay, <i>believing</i>—Roy Montaine<br /> +To be my lover. First my altered mien—<br /> +And next the letter—then the doorway scene—<br /> +My flushed face gazing in the one above<br /> +That bent so near me, and my strange confusion<br /> +When Vivian came all led to one conclusion:<br /> +That I had but been playing with his love,<br /> +As women sometimes cruelly do play<br /> +With hearts when their true lovers are away.</p> +<p class="poetry">There could be nothing easier than just<br /> +To let him linger on in this belief<br /> +Till hourly-fed Suspicion and Distrust<br /> +Should turn to scorn and anger all his grief.<br /> +<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Compared +with me, so doubly sweet and pure<br /> +Would Helen seem, my purpose would be sure<br /> +And certain of completion in the end.<br /> +But now, the way was made so straight and clear,<br /> +My coward heart shrank back in guilty fear,<br /> +Till Conscience whispered with her “still small +voice,”<br /> +“The precious time is passing—make thy +choice—<br /> +Resign thy love, or slay thy trusting friend.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The growing moon, watched by the myriad eyes<br +/> +Of countless stars, went sailing through the skies,<br /> +Like some young prince, rising to rule a nation,<br /> +To whom all eyes are turned in expectation.<br /> +A woman who possesses tact and art<br /> +And strength of will can take the hand of doom,<br /> +And walk on, smiling sweetly as she goes,<br /> +With rosy lips, and rounded cheeks of bloom,<br /> +Cheating a loud-tongued world that never knows<br /> +The pain and sorrow of her hidden heart.<br /> +And so I joined in Roy’s bright changing chat;<br /> +Answered his sallies—talked of this and that,<br /> +My brow unruffled as the calm, still wave<br /> +That tells not of the wrecked ship, and the grave<br /> +Beneath its surface.<br /> + Then we heard, +ere long,<br /> +The sound of Helen’s gentle voice in song,<br /> +And, rising, entered where the subtle power<br /> +<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>Of +Vivian’s eyes, forgiving while accusing,<br /> +Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour;<br /> +But Roy, always polite and debonair<br /> +Where ladies were, now hung about my chair<br /> +With nameless delicate attentions, using<br /> +That air devotional, and those small arts<br /> +Acquaintance with society imparts<br /> +To men gallant by nature.<br /> + ’Twas my +sex<br /> +And not myself he bowed to. Had my place<br /> +Been filled that evening by a dowager<br /> +Twice his own age, he would have given her<br /> +The same attentions. But they served to vex<br /> +Whatever hope in Vivian’s heart remained.<br /> +The cold, white look crept back upon his face,<br /> +Which told how deeply he was hurt and pained.</p> +<p class="poetry">Little by little all things had conspired<br /> +To bring events I dreaded, yet desired.<br /> +We were in constant intercourse: walks, rides,<br /> +Picnics and sails, filled weeks of golden weather,<br /> +And almost hourly we were thrown together.<br /> +No words were spoken of rebuke or scorn:<br /> +Good friends we seemed. But as a gulf divides<br /> +This land and that, though lying side by side,<br /> +So rolled a gulf between us—deep and wide—<br /> +The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly morn<br /> +And noon and night.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>Free and +informal were<br /> +These picnics and excursions. Yet, although<br /> +Helen and I would sometimes choose to go<br /> +Without our escorts, leaving them quite free,<br /> +It happened alway Roy would seek out me<br /> +Ere passed the day, while Vivian walked with her.<br /> +I had no thought of flirting. Roy was just<br /> +Like some dear brother, and I quite forgot<br /> +The kinship was so distant it was not<br /> +Safe to rely upon in perfect trust,<br /> +Without reserve or caution. Many a time,<br /> +When there was some steep mountain-side to climb<br /> +And I grew weary, he would say, “Maurine,<br /> +Come rest you here.” And I would go and lean<br /> +My head upon his shoulder, or would stand<br /> +And let him hold in his my willing hand,<br /> +The while he stroked it gently with his own.<br /> +Or I would let him clasp me with his arm,<br /> +Nor entertained a thought of any harm,<br /> +Nor once supposed but Vivian was alone<br /> +In his suspicions. But ere long the truth<br /> +I learned in consternation! both Aunt Ruth<br /> +And Helen honestly, in faith, believed<br /> +That Roy and I were lovers.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Undeceived,<br +/> +Some careless words might open Vivian’s eyes<br /> +<a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>And spoil +my plans. So reasoning in this wise,<br /> +To all their sallies I in jest replied,<br /> +To naught assented, and yet naught denied,<br /> +With Roy unchanged remaining, confident<br /> +Each understood just what the other meant.</p> +<p class="poetry">If I grew weary of this double part,<br /> +And self-imposed deception caused my heart<br /> +Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze<br /> +On Helen’s face: that wore a look ethereal,<br /> +As if she dwelt above the things material<br /> +And held communion with the angels. So<br /> +I fed my strength and courage through the days.<br /> +What time the harvest moon rose full and clear<br /> +And cast its ling’ring radiance on the earth,<br /> +We made a feast; and called from far and near,<br /> +Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth.<br /> +Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro;<br /> +But none more sweet than Helen’s. Robed in white,<br +/> +She floated like a vision through the dance.<br /> +So frailly fragile and so phantom fair,<br /> +She seemed like some stray spirit of the air,<br /> +And was pursued by many an anxious glance<br /> +That looked to see her fading from the sight<br /> +Like figures that a dreamer sees at night.<br /> +<a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>And noble +men and gallants graced the scene:<br /> +Yet none more noble or more grand of mien<br /> +Than Vivian—broad of chest and shoulder, tall<br /> +And finely formed, as any Grecian god<br /> +Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.<br /> +His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those<br /> +Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose,<br /> +Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair<br /> +Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes<br /> +That could be cold as steel in winter air,<br /> +Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.</p> +<p class="poetry">Weary of mirth and music, and the sound<br /> +Of tripping feet, I sought a moment’s rest<br /> +Within the lib’ry, where a group I found<br /> +Of guests, discussing with apparent zest<br /> +Some theme of interest—Vivian, near the while,<br /> +Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile.<br /> +“Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,”<br /> +Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. “We<br /> +Have been discussing right before his face,<br /> +All unrebuked by him, as you may see,<br /> +A poem lately published by our friend:<br /> +And we are quite divided. I contend<br /> +The poem is a libel and untrue.<br /> +I hold the fickle women are but few,<br /> +Compared with those who are like yon fair moon<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>That, ever +faithful, rises in her place<br /> +Whether she’s greeted by the flowers of June<br /> +Or cold and dreary stretches of white space.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh!” cried another, “Mr. +Dangerfield,<br /> +Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield<br /> +The crown to Semple, who, ’tis very plain,<br /> +Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane.”</p> +<p class="poetry">All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to +me,<br /> +I answered lightly, “My young friend, I fear<br /> +You chose a most unlucky simile<br /> +To prove the truth of woman. To her place<br /> +The moon does rise—but with a different face<br /> +Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear<br /> +The poem read, before I can consent<br /> +To pass my judgment on the sentiment.”<br /> +All clamoured that the author was the man<br /> +To read the poem: and, with tones that said<br /> +More than the cutting, scornful words he read,<br /> +Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:</p> +<h4>HER LOVE.</h4> +<p class="poetry">The sands upon the ocean side<br /> +That change about with every tide,<br /> +And never true to one abide,<br /> + A woman’s love I liken to.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>The summer zephyrs, light and vain,<br /> +That sing the same alluring strain<br /> +To every grass blade on the plain—<br /> + A woman’s love is nothing more.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sunshine of an April day<br /> +That comes to warm you with its ray,<br /> +But while you smile has flown away—<br /> + A woman’s love is like to this.</p> +<p class="poetry">God made poor woman with no heart,<br /> +But gave her skill, and tact, and art,<br /> +And so she lives, and plays her part.<br /> + We must not blame, but pity her.</p> +<p class="poetry">She leans to man—but just to hear<br /> +The praise he whispers in her ear,<br /> +Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—<br /> + Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.</p> +<p class="poetry">To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs<br /> +The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts,<br /> +Then throws them lightly by and laughs,<br /> + Too weak to understand their pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">As changeful as the winds that blow<br /> +From every region, to and fro,<br /> +Devoid of heart, she cannot know<br /> + The suffering of a human heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian’s +eyes<br /> +Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise;<br /> +But lightly answered, toying with my fan,<br /> +“That sentiment is very like a man!<br /> +<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>Men call +us fickle, but they do us wrong;<br /> +We’re only frail and helpless, men are strong;<br /> +And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing<br /> +And make a shroud out of their suffering,<br /> +And drag the corpse about with them for years.<br /> +But we?—we mourn it for a day with tears!<br /> +And then we robe it for its last long rest,<br /> +And being women, feeble things at best,<br /> +We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so<br /> +We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low:<br /> +Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends<br /> +To do this service for her earthly friends,<br /> +The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep<br /> +Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The laugh that followed had not died away<br /> +Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say<br /> +The band was tuning for our waltz, and so<br /> +Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow<br /> +And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent,<br /> +And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went<br /> +Out on the cool moonlighted portico,<br /> +And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head<br /> +Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent<br /> +His smiling eyes upon me, as he said:<br /> +“I’ll try the mesmerism of my touch<br /> +<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>To work a +cure: be very quiet now,<br /> +And let me make some passes o’er your brow.<br /> +Why, how it throbs! you’ve exercised too much!<br /> +I shall not let you dance again to-night.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Just then before us, in the broad moonlight,<br +/> +Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face<br /> +To catch the teasing and mischievous glance<br /> +Of Helen’s eyes, as, heated by the dance,<br /> +Leaning on Vivian’s arm, she sought this place.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I beg your pardon,” came in that +round tone<br /> +Of his low voice. “I think we do intrude.”<br +/> +Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone<br /> +Ere I could speak or change my attitude.</p> +<h3>PART V</h3> +<p class="poetry">A visit to a cave some miles away<br /> +Was next in order. So, one sunny day,<br /> +Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing load<br /> +Of merry pleasure-seekers o’er the road.<br /> +A basket picnic, music, and croquet<br /> +Were in the programme. Skies were blue and clear,<br /> +And cool winds whispered of the Autumn near.<br /> +The merry-makers filled the time with pleasure:<br /> +Some floated to the music’s rhythmic measure,<br /> +Some played, some promenaded on the green.<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>Ticked off +by happy hearts, the moments passed.<br /> +The afternoon, all glow and glimmer, came.<br /> +Helen and Roy were leaders of some game,<br /> +And Vivian was not visible.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Maurine,<br +/> +I challenge you to climb yon cliff with me!<br /> +And who shall tire, or reach the summit last<br /> +Must pay a forfeit,” cried a romping maid.<br /> +“Come! start at once, or own you are afraid.”<br /> +So challenged I made ready for the race,<br /> +Deciding first the forfeit was to be<br /> +A handsome pair of bootees to replace<br /> +The victor’s loss who made the rough ascent.<br /> +The cliff was steep and stony. On we went<br /> +As eagerly as if the path was Fame,<br /> +And what we climbed for, glory and a name.<br /> +My hands were bruised; my garments sadly rent,<br /> +But on I clambered. Soon I heard a cry,<br /> +“Maurine! Maurine! my strength is wholly spent!<br /> +You’ve won the boots! I’m going +back—good-bye!”<br /> +And back she turned, in spite of laugh and jeer.</p> +<p class="poetry">I reached the summit: and its solitude,<br /> +Wherein no living creature did intrude,<br /> +Save some sad birds that wheeled and circled near,<br /> +I found far sweeter than the scene below.<br /> +Alone with One who knew my hidden woe,<br /> +<a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>I did not +feel so much alone as when<br /> +I mixed with th’ unthinking throngs of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile +place<br /> +I plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed,<br /> +That in our lives, albeit dark with shade<br /> +And rough and hard with labour, yet may grow<br /> +The flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace.</p> +<p class="poetry">As I walked on in meditative thought,<br /> +A serpent writhed across my pathway; not<br /> +A large or deadly serpent; yet the sight<br /> +Filled me with ghastly terror and affright.<br /> +I shrieked aloud: a darkness veiled my eyes—<br /> +And I fell fainting ’neath the watchful skies.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was no coward. Country-bred and +born,<br /> +I had no feeling but the keenest scorn<br /> +For those fine lady “ah’s” and +“oh’s” of fear<br /> +So much assumed (when any man is near).<br /> +But God implanted in each human heart<br /> +A natural horror, and a sickly dread<br /> +Of that accursèd, slimy, creeping thing<br /> +That squirms a limbless carcass o’er the ground.<br /> +And where that inborn loathing is not found<br /> +You’ll find the serpent qualities instead.<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>Who fears +it not, himself is next of kin,<br /> +And in his bosom holds some treacherous art<br /> +Whereby to counteract its venomed sting.<br /> +And all are sired by Satan—Chief of Sin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who loathes not that foul creature of the +dust,<br /> +However fair in seeming, I distrust.</p> +<p class="poetry">I woke from my unconsciousness, to know<br /> +I leaned upon a broad and manly breast,<br /> +And Vivian’s voice was speaking, soft and low,<br /> +Sweet whispered words of passion, o’er and o’er.<br +/> +I dared not breathe. Had I found Eden’s shore?<br /> +Was this a foretaste of eternal bliss?<br /> +“My love,” he sighed, his voice like winds that +moan<br /> +Before a rain in Summer-time, “my own,<br /> +For one sweet stolen moment, lie and rest<br /> +Upon this heart that loves and hates you both!<br /> +O fair false face! Why were you made so fair!<br /> +O mouth of Southern sweetness! that ripe kiss<br /> +That hangs upon you, I do take an oath<br /> +<i>His</i> lips shall never gather. There!—and +there!<br /> +I steal it from him. Are you his—all his?<br /> +Nay, you are mine, this moment, as I dreamed—<br /> +Blind fool—believing you were what you seemed—<br /> +You would be mine in all the years to come.<br /> +Fair fiend! I love and hate you in a breath.<br /> +<a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>O God! if +this white pallor were but <i>death</i>,<br /> +And I were stretched beside you, cold and dumb,<br /> +My arms about you, so—in fond embrace!<br /> +My lips pressed, so—upon your dying face!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Woman, how dare you bring me to such +shame!<br /> +How dare you drive me to an act like this,<br /> +To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss<br /> +You lured me on to think my rightful claim!<br /> +O frail and puny woman! could you know<br /> +The devil that you waken in the hearts<br /> +You snare and bind in your enticing arts,<br /> +The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow<br /> +Would freeze in terror.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Strange +you have such power<br /> +To please or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things—<br /> +Devoid of passion as a senseless flower!<br /> +Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings.<br /> +There, now I scorn you—scorn you from this hour,<br /> +And hate myself for having talked of love!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He pushed me from him. And I felt as +those<br /> +Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above<br /> +Are closed against them.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> With +a feigned surprise<br /> +I started up and opened wide my eyes,<br /> +<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>And looked +about. Then in confusion rose<br /> +And stood before him.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Pardon +me, I pray!”<br /> +He said quite coldly. “Half an hour ago<br /> +I left you with the company below,<br /> +And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried,<br /> +It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm.<br /> +I came in time to see you swoon away.<br /> +You’ll need assistance down the rugged side<br /> +Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So, formal and constrained, we passed along,<br +/> +Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng<br /> +To have no further speech again that day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next morn there came a bulky document,<br /> +The legal firm of Blank and Blank had sent,<br /> +Containing news unlooked for. An estate<br /> +Which proved a cosy fortune—nowise great<br /> +Or princely—had in France been left to me,<br /> +My grandsire’s last descendant. And it brought<br /> +A sense of joy and freedom in the thought<br /> +Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be<br /> +A panacea for my troubled mind,<br /> +That longed to leave the olden scenes behind<br /> +With all their recollections, and to flee<br /> +To some strange country.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>I was in such +haste<br /> +To put between me and my native land<br /> +The briny ocean’s desolating waste,<br /> +I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned<br /> +To sail that week, two months: though she was fain<br /> +To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine<br /> +Would be our guide and escort.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> No +one dreamed<br /> +The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed<br /> +To think good fortune had quite turned my brain.<br /> +One bright October morning, when the woods<br /> +Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods<br /> +In honour of the Frost King, Vivian came,<br /> +Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame,—<br +/> +First trophies of the Autumn time.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +Roy<br /> +Made a proposal that we all should go<br /> +And ramble in the forest for a while.<br /> +But Helen said she was not well—and so<br /> +Must stay at home. Then Vivian, with a smile,<br /> +Responded, “I will stay and talk to you,<br /> +And they may go;” at which her two cheeks grew<br /> +Like twin blush roses—dyed with love’s red wave,<br +/> +Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Vivian saw—and suddenly was grave.<br +/> +<a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>Roy took +my arm in that protecting way<br /> +Peculiar to some men, which seems to say,<br /> +“I shield my own,” a manner pleasing, e’en<br +/> +When we are conscious that it does not mean<br /> +More than a simple courtesy. A woman<br /> +Whose heart is wholly feminine and human,<br /> +And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be<br /> +The object of that tender chivalry,<br /> +That guardianship which man bestows on her,<br /> +Yet mixed with deference; as if she were<br /> +Half child, half angel.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Though +she may be strong,<br /> +Noble and self-reliant, not afraid<br /> +To raise her hand and voice against all wrong<br /> +And all oppression, yet if she be made,<br /> +With all the independence of her thought,<br /> +A woman womanly, as God designed,<br /> +Albeit she may have as great a mind<br /> +As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm,<br /> +His muscle and his boldness she has not,<br /> +And cannot have without she loses what<br /> +Is far more precious, modesty and grace.<br /> +So, walking on in her appointed place,<br /> +She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend<br /> +But that she needs him for a guide and friend,<br /> +To shield her with his greater strength from harm.<br /> +<a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>We reached +the forest; wandered to and fro<br /> +Through many a winding path and dim retreat,<br /> +Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat<br /> +Upon an oak-tree, which had been laid low<br /> +By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke.<br /> +And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge<br /> +On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge<br /> +Of sunny meadows lying at my feet.<br /> +One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb<br /> +That cast its checkered shadows over him;<br /> +And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised<br /> +And fixed upon me, silently he gazed<br /> +Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke:<br /> +“Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise,<br /> +And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The smooth and even darkness of his cheek<br /> +Was stained one moment by a flush of red.<br /> +He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood<br /> +Still clinging to the branch above his head.<br /> +His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said,<br /> +With sudden passion, “Do you bid me speak?<br /> +I cannot, then, keep silence if I would.<br /> +That hateful fortune, coming as it did,<br /> +Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew<br /> +A harsh-tongued world would quickly misconstrue<br /> +My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet,<br /> +<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>So big my +heart has grown with love for you<br /> +I cannot shelter it or keep it hid.<br /> +And so I cast it throbbing at your feet,<br /> +For you to guard and cherish, or to break.<br /> +Maurine, I love you better than my life.<br /> +My friend—my cousin—be still more, my wife!<br /> +Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?”</p> +<p class="poetry">I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and +numb<br /> +With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb<br /> +With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes<br /> +That looked no feeling but complete surprise.<br /> +He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek.<br /> +“Maurine, Maurine,” he whispered, “will you +speak?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then suddenly, as o’er some magic +glass<br /> +One picture in a score of shapes will pass,<br /> +I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze.<br /> +First, as the playmate of my earlier days—<br /> +Next, as my kin—and then my valued friend,<br /> +And last, my lover. As when colours blend<br /> +In some unlooked-for group before our eyes,<br /> +We hold the glass, and look them o’er and o’er,<br /> +So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise,<br /> +In which he ne’er appeared to me before.</p> +<p class="poetry">His form was like a panther’s in its +grace,<br /> +So lithe and supple, and of medium height,<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>And garbed +in all the elegance of fashion.<br /> +His large black eyes were full of fire and passion,<br /> +And in expression fearless, firm, and bright.<br /> +His hair was like the very deeps of night,<br /> +And hung in raven clusters ’round a face<br /> +Of dark and flashing beauty.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +was more<br /> +Like some romantic maiden’s grand ideal<br /> +Than like a common being. As I gazed<br /> +Upon the handsome face to mine upraised,<br /> +I saw before me, living, breathing, real,<br /> +The hero of my early day-dreams: though<br /> +So full my heart was with that clear-cut face,<br /> +Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero’s place,<br /> +I had not recognised him so before,<br /> +Or thought of him, save as a valued friend.<br /> +So now I called him, adding,</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Foolish +boy!<br /> +Each word of love you utter aims a blow<br /> +At that sweet trust I had reposed in you.<br /> +I was so certain I had found a true,<br /> +Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend,<br /> +And go on wholly trusting to the end.<br /> +Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy,<br /> +By turning to a lover?”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Why, +indeed!<br /> +Because I loved you more than any brother,<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Or any +friend could love.” Then he began<br /> +To argue like a lawyer, and to plead<br /> +With all his eloquence. And, listening,<br /> +I strove to think it was a goodly thing<br /> +To be so fondly loved by such a man,<br /> +And it were best to give his wooing heed,<br /> +And not deny him. Then before my eyes,<br /> +In all its clear-cut majesty, that other<br /> +Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise<br /> +And rob my purpose of all life and strength.</p> +<p class="poetry">Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could,<br /> +With that impetuous, boyish eloquence.<br /> +He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should<br /> +Give some least hope; till, in my own defence,<br /> +I turned upon him, and replied at length:<br /> +“I thank you for the noble heart you offer:<br /> +But it deserves a true one in exchange.<br /> +I could love you if I loved not another<br /> +Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I +said:<br /> +“Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange;<br /> +But I love one I cannot hope to wed.<br /> +A river rolls between us, dark and deep.<br /> +To cross it—were to stain with blood my hand.<br /> +You force my speech on what I fain would keep<br /> +In my own bosom, but you understand?<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>My heart +is given to love that’s sanctified,<br /> +And now can feel no other.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Be +you kind,<br /> +Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more,<br /> +Lest pleading and denying should divide<br /> +The hearts so long united. Let me find<br /> +In you my cousin and my friend of yore.<br /> +And now come home. The morning, all too soon<br /> +And unperceived, has melted into noon.<br /> +Helen will miss us, and we must return.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He took my hand, and helped me to arise,<br /> +Smiling upon me with his sad, dark eyes,<br /> +Where passion’s fires had, sudden, ceased to burn.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And so,” he said, “too soon +and unforeseen<br /> +My friendship melted into love, Maurine.<br /> +But, sweet! I am not wholly in the blame<br /> +For what you term my folly. You forgot,<br /> +So long we’d known each other, I had not<br /> +In truth a brother’s or a cousin’s claim.<br /> +But I remembered, when through every nerve<br /> +Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began<br /> +To love you with that human love of man<br /> +For comely woman. By your coaxing arts,<br /> +You won your way into my heart of hearts,<br /> +And all Platonic feelings put to rout.<br /> +<a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>A maid +should never lay aside reserve<br /> +With one who’s not her kinsman, out and out.<br /> +But as we now, with measured steps, retrace<br /> +The path we came, e’en so my heart I’ll send,<br /> +At your command, back to the olden place,<br /> +And strive to love you only as a friend.”<br /> +I felt the justice of his mild reproof,<br /> +But answered, laughing, “’Tis the same old cry:<br /> +‘The woman tempted me, and I did eat.’<br /> +Since Adam’s time we’ve heard it. But +I’ll try<br /> +And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof<br /> +The fruit I never once had thought so sweet<br /> +’Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner,<br /> +Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner.<br /> +And guard each act, that no least look betray<br /> +What’s passed between us.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +I turned away<br /> +And sought my room, low humming some old air<br /> +That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes<br /> +Fell on a face so glorified and fair<br /> +All other senses, merged in that of sight,<br /> +Were lost in contemplation of the bright<br /> +And wond’rous picture, which had otherwise<br /> +Made dim my vision.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Waiting +in my room,<br /> +Her whole face lit as by an inward flame<br /> +That shed its halo ’round her, Helen stood;<br /> +<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>Her fair +hands folded like a lily’s leaves<br /> +Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves.<br /> +Upon her cheek the colour went and came<br /> +As sunlight flickers o’er a bed of bloom;<br /> +And, like some slim young sapling of the wood,<br /> +Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair<br /> +Fell ’round her loosely, in long curling strands<br /> +All unconfined, and as by loving hands<br /> +Tossed into bright confusion.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Standing +there,<br /> +Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem<br /> +Like some unearthly creature of a dream;<br /> +Until she started forward, gliding slowly,<br /> +And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly,<br /> +As one grown meek, and humble in an hour,<br /> +Bowing before some new and mighty power.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Maurine, Maurine!” she murmured, +and again,<br /> +“Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +then,<br /> +Laying her love-light hands upon my head,<br /> +She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said<br /> +With voice that bore her joy in ev’ry tone,<br /> +As winds that blow across a garden bed<br /> +Are weighed with fragrance, “He is mine alone,<br /> +And I am his—all his—his very own.<br /> +So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie<br /> +<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>Save one +beneath God’s over-arching sky.<br /> +I could not wait to tell you of my bliss:<br /> +I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss.”<br /> +So hiding my heart’s trouble with a smile,<br /> +I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while<br /> +I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin,<br /> +When my lips fell where his so late had been.<br /> +And all day long I bore about with me<br /> +A sense of shame—yet mixed with satisfaction,<br /> +As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be<br /> +Sad with the guilt resulting from her action,<br /> +While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet.<br /> +That ev’ning when the house had settled down<br /> +To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept<br /> +A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown:<br /> +With steps like fall of thistle-down she came,<br /> +Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name,<br /> +Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Sweetheart,” she murmured softly, +“ere I sleep,<br /> +I needs must tell you all my tale of joy.<br /> +Beginning where you left us—you and Roy.<br /> +You saw the colour flame upon my cheek<br /> +When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he;—<br /> +And, when we were alone, he gazed at me<br /> +With such a strange look in his wond’rous eyes.<br /> +<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>The +silence deepened; and I tried to speak<br /> +Upon some common topic, but could not,<br /> +My heart was in such tumult.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> In +this wise<br /> +Five happy moments glided by us, fraught<br /> +With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then,<br /> +And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair.<br /> +And, in his low voice, o’er and o’er again,<br /> +Said, ‘Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.’<br /> +Then took my face, and turned it to the light,<br /> +And looking in my eyes, and seeing what<br /> +Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low,<br /> +‘Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight.<br /> +You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?’<br /> +And I made answer straightway, ‘With my life<br /> +And soul and strength I love you, O my love!’<br /> +He leaned and took me gently to his breast,<br /> +And said, ‘Here then this dainty head shall rest<br /> +Henceforth for ever: O my little dove!<br /> +My lily-bud—my fragile blossom-wife!’</p> +<p class="poetry">And then I told him all my thoughts; and he<br +/> +Listened, with kisses for his comments, till<br /> +My tale was finished. Then he said, ‘I will<br /> +Be frank with you, my darling, from the start,<br /> +And hide no secret from you in my heart.<br /> +I love you, Helen, but you are not first<br /> +To rouse that love to being. Ere we met<br /> +<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>I loved a +woman madly—never dreaming<br /> +She was not all in truth she was in seeming.<br /> +Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed<br /> +Of God and man—a wily vain coquette.<br /> +I hate myself for having loved her. Yet<br /> +So much my heart spent on her, it must give<br /> +A love less ardent, and less prodigal,<br /> +Albeit just as tender and as true—<br /> +A milder, yet a faithful love to you.<br /> +Just as some evil fortune might befall<br /> +A man’s great riches, causing him to live<br /> +In some low cot, all unpretending, still<br /> +As much his home—as much his loved retreat,<br /> +As was the princely palace on the hill,<br /> +E’en so I give you all that’s left, my sweet!<br /> +Of my heart-fortune.’</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ‘That +were more to me,’<br /> +I made swift smiling answer, ‘than to be<br /> +The worshipped consort of a king.’ And so<br /> +Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go<br /> +Until I vowed to wed him New Year day.<br /> +And I am sad because you go away<br /> +Before that time. I shall not feel half wed<br /> +Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay,<br /> +And be my bridesmaid.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Nay, +I cannot, dear!<br /> +’Twould disarrange our plans for half a year.<br /> +<a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>I’ll +be in Europe New Year day,” I said,<br /> +“And send congratulations by the cable.”<br /> +And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing<br /> +The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing,<br /> +The festal garments of a wedding scene,<br /> +While all my heart was hung with sorrow’s sable.<br /> +Forgetting for a season, that between<br /> +The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss,<br /> +I lived in my near future, confident<br /> +All would be as I planned it; and, across<br /> +The briny waste of waters, I should find<br /> +Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind.<br /> +The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed<br /> +And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed,<br /> +Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb<br /> +Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom.</p> +<p class="poetry">Roy left us for a time, and Helen went<br /> +To make the nuptial preparations. Then,<br /> +Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill:<br /> +Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill<br /> +Of two physicians could not stem the tide.<br /> +The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest,<br /> +Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds: and when<br /> +The Autumn day, that I had thought to be<br /> +Bounding upon the billows of the sea,<br /> +Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn,<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>Striving +to keep away that unloved guest<br /> +Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn.<br /> +Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside<br /> +The suff’rer’s couch, Roy was my help and stay;<br /> +Others were kind, but he alone each day<br /> +Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face,<br /> +And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place<br /> +Like rays of light upon a darkened way.<br /> +November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill,<br /> +In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill.<br /> +Returning light and life dispelled the gloom<br /> +That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb.<br /> +Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better—<br /> +Was dressed each day, and walked about the room.<br /> +Then came one morning in the Eastern mail,<br /> +A little white-winged birdling of a letter.<br /> +I broke the seal and read,</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Maurine, +my own!<br /> +I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad.<br /> +I felt so sorry for you; and so sad<br /> +To think I left you when I did—alone<br /> +To bear your pain and worry, and those nights<br /> +Of weary, anxious watching.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Vivian +writes<br /> +Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail<br /> +Before the Springtime. So you’ll come and be<br /> +My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay.<br /> +<a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>But three +weeks more of girlhood left to me.<br /> +Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day,<br /> +And make your preparations here. My sweet!<br /> +Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill—<br /> +I’m sorry she has suffered so; and still<br /> +I’m thankful something happened, so you stayed.<br /> +I’m sure my wedding would be incomplete<br /> +Without your presence. Selfish, I’m afraid<br /> +You’ll think your Helen. But I love you so,<br /> +How can I be quite willing you should go?<br /> +Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know,<br /> +And I will meet you, dearie! at the train.<br /> +Your happy, loving Helen.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +the pain<br /> +That, hidden under later pain and care,<br /> +Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep,<br /> +Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep<br /> +My tortured heart in anguish and despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had relied too fully on my skill<br /> +In bending circumstances to my will:<br /> +And now I was rebuked and made to see<br /> +That God alone knoweth what is to be.<br /> +Then came a messenger from Vivian, who<br /> +Came not himself, as he was wont to do,<br /> +But sent his servant each new day to bring<br /> +A kindly message, or an offering<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Of juicy +fruits to cool the lips of fever,<br /> +Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom<br /> +To brighten up the convalescent’s room.<br /> +But now the servant only brought a line<br /> +From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine,<br /> +“Dear Sir, and Friend”—in letters bold and +plain,<br /> +Written on cream-white paper, so it ran:<br /> +“It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor,<br /> +And therefore doubly so a wish of mine,<br /> +That you shall honour me next New Year Eve,<br /> +My wedding hour, by standing as best man.<br /> +Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe.<br /> +Being myself a novice in the art—<br /> +If I should fail in acting well my part,<br /> +I’ll need protection ’gainst the regiment<br /> +Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent<br /> +To stand by me in time of need, and shield<br /> +Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The last least hope had vanished; I must +drain,<br /> +E’en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.</p> +<h3><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>PART +VI</h3> +<p class="poetry">There was a week of bustle and of hurry;<br /> +A stately home echoed to voices sweet,<br /> +Calling, replying; and to tripping feet<br /> +Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro,<br /> +With all that girlish fluttering and flurry<br /> +Preceding such occasions.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Helen’s +room<br /> +Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom,<br /> +Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau.<br /> +My robe was fashioned by swift, skilful hands—<br /> +A thing of beauty, elegant and rich,<br /> +A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands;<br /> +And as I watched it growing, stitch by stitch,<br /> +I felt as one might feel who should behold<br /> +With vision trance-like, where his body lay<br /> +In deathly slumber, simulating clay,<br /> +His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold.</p> +<p class="poetry">I lived with ev’ry nerve upon the +strain,<br /> +As men go into battle; and the pain,<br /> +That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed<br /> +Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed<br /> +From mortal eyes by superhuman power,<br /> +That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour.<br /> +<a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>What night +the Old Year gave unto the New<br /> +The key of human happiness and woe,<br /> +The pointed stars, upon their field of blue,<br /> +Shone, white and perfect, o’er a world below,<br /> +Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed<br /> +In gleaming garments, decked with diadems,<br /> +Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest,<br /> +Coming o’erladen with a gift of gems.<br /> +The bustle of the dressing-room; the sound<br /> +Of eager voices in discourse; the clang<br /> +Of “sweet bells jangled”; thud of steel-clad feet<br +/> +That beat swift music on the frozen ground—<br /> +All blent together in my brain, and rang<br /> +A medley of strange noises, incomplete,<br /> +And full of discords.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +out on the night<br /> +Streamed from the open vestibule, a light<br /> +That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod,<br /> +With all the hues of those that deck the sod.<br /> +The grand cathedral windows were ablaze<br /> +With gorgeous colours; through a sea of bloom,<br /> +Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom,<br /> +The bridal cortège passed.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> As +some lost soul<br /> +Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze<br /> +Upon its coffined body, so I went<br /> +<a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>With that +glad festal throng. The organ sent<br /> +Great waves of melody along the air,<br /> +That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray,<br /> +On happy hearts that listened. But to me<br /> +It sounded faintly, as if miles away,<br /> +A troubled spirit, sitting in despair<br /> +Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea,<br /> +Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole.<br /> +We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers,<br /> +The white-robed man of God stood forth.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> I +heard<br /> +The solemn service open; through long hours<br /> +I seemed to stand and listen, while each word<br /> +Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay<br /> +Upon the coffin of the worshipped dead.<br /> +The stately father gave the bride away:<br /> +The bridegroom circled with a golden band<br /> +The taper finger of her dainty hand.<br /> +The last imposing, binding words were said—<br /> +“What God has joined let no man put +asunder”—<br /> +And all my strife with self was at an end;<br /> +My lover was the husband of my friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">How strangely, in some awful hour of pain,<br +/> +External trifles with our sorrows blend!<br /> +I never hear the mighty organ’s thunder,<br /> +I never catch the scent of heliotrope,<br /> +<a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>Nor see +stained windows all ablaze with light,<br /> +Without that dizzy whirling of the brain,<br /> +And all the ghastly feeling of that night,<br /> +When my sick heart relinquished love and hope.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pain we feel so keenly may depart,<br /> +And e’en its memory cease to haunt the heart:<br /> +But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound<br /> +Will probe the closed recesses of the wound,<br /> +And for a moment bring the old-time smart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles,<br +/> +Good-byes and farewells given; then across<br /> +The snowy waste of weary wintry miles,<br /> +Back to my girlhoods’ home, where, through each room,<br /> +For evermore pale phantoms of delight<br /> +Should aimless wander, always in my sight,<br /> +Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb<br /> +Wet with the tears of living pain and loss.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sleepless nights of watching and of +care,<br /> +Followed by that one week of keenest pain,<br /> +Taxing my weakened system, and my brain,<br /> +Brought on a ling’ring illness.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Day +by day,<br /> +In that strange, apathetic state I lay,<br /> +Of mental and of physical despair.<br /> +<a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>I had no +pain, no fever, and no chill,<br /> +But lay without ambition, strength, or will.<br /> +Knowing no wish for anything but rest,<br /> +Which seemed, of all God’s store of gifts, the best.</p> +<p class="poetry">Physicians came and shook their heads and +sighed;<br /> +And to their score of questions I replied,<br /> +With but one languid answer, o’er and o’er,<br /> +“I am so weary—weary—nothing more.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered +thing,<br /> +Flying through space with ever-aching wing,<br /> +Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white,<br /> +That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight,<br /> +But always one unchanging distance kept,<br /> +And woke more weary than before I slept.</p> +<p class="poetry">I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize,<br +/> +A hand from heaven held down before my eyes.<br /> +All eagerness I sought it—it was gone,<br /> +But shone in all its beauty farther on.<br /> +I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest<br /> +Of that great prize, whereon was written “Rest,”<br +/> +Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam,<br /> +And wakened doubly weary with my dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain,<br /> +That saw a snow-white lily on the plain,<br /> +And left the cloud to nestle in her breast.<br /> +<a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>I fell and +fell, but nevermore found rest—<br /> +I fell and fell, but found no stopping place,<br /> +Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space,<br /> +While space illimitable stretched before.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all these dreams but wearied me the +more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Familiar voices sounded in my room—<br /> +Aunt Ruth’s, and Roy’s, and Helen’s: but they +seemed<br /> +A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed,<br /> +And now remembered dimly.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Wrapped +in gloom,<br /> +My mind, o’ertaxed, lost hold of time at last,<br /> +Ignored its future, and forgot its past,<br /> +And groped along the present, as a light,<br /> +Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night,<br /> +Will flicker faintly.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +I felt, at length,<br /> +When March winds brought vague rumours of the spring,<br /> +A certain sense of “restlessness with rest.”<br /> +My aching frame was weary of repose,<br /> +And wanted action.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +slow-creeping strength<br /> +Came back with Mem’ry, hand in hand, to bring<br /> +And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast,<br /> +Grim-visaged Recollection’s thorny rose.<br /> +<a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>I gained, +and failed. One day could ride and walk,<br /> +The next would find me prostrate: while a flock<br /> +Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit<br /> +About the chambers of my heart, or sit,<br /> +Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings,<br /> +Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings,<br /> +That once resounded to Hope’s happy lays.</p> +<p class="poetry">So passed the ever-changing April days.<br /> +When May came, lightsome footed, o’er the lea,<br /> +Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy,<br /> +I bade farewell to home with secret joy,<br /> +And turned my wan face eastward to the sea.<br /> +Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands<br /> +Were one to him. Or Egypt’s burning sands,<br /> +Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome,<br /> +All were familiar as the fields of home.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a year of wand’ring to and +fro,<br /> +Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights;<br /> +Dwelling among the countless, rare delights<br /> +Of lands historic; turning dusty pages,<br /> +Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages<br /> +Gazing upon the scenes of bloody acts,<br /> +Of kings long buried—bare, unvarnished facts,<br /> +Surpassing wildest fictions of the brain;<br /> +<a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Rubbing +against all people, high and low,<br /> +And by this contact feeling Self to grow<br /> +Smaller and less important, and the vein<br /> +Of human kindness deeper, seeing God,<br /> +Unto the humble delver of the sod,<br /> +And to the ruling monarch on the throne,<br /> +Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain,<br /> +And that all hearts have feelings like our own.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no school that disciplines the +mind,<br /> +And broadens thought, like contact with mankind.<br /> +The college-prisoned graybeard, who has burned<br /> +The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned,<br /> +Till sciences or classics hold no lore<br /> +He has not conned and studied, o’er and o’er,<br /> +Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared<br /> +With some unlettered wand’rer, who has shared<br /> +The hospitalities of every land;<br /> +Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand;<br /> +Made man his study, and the world his college,<br /> +And gained this grand epitome of knowledge:<br /> +Each human being has a heart and soul,<br /> +And self is but an atom of the whole.<br /> +I hold he is best learnèd and most wise<br /> +Who best and most can love and sympathize.<br /> +Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained;<br /> +<a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>Our banded +minds go round in little grooves;<br /> +But constant friction with the world removes<br /> +These iron foes to freedom, and we rise<br /> +To grander heights, and, all untrammelled, find<br /> +A better atmosphere and clearer skies;<br /> +And through its broadened realm, no longer chained,<br /> +Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind.<br /> +Where’er we chanced to wander or to roam,<br /> +Glad letters came from Helen; happy things,<br /> +Like little birds that followed on swift wings,<br /> +Bringing their tender messages from home.<br /> +Her days were poems, beautiful, complete.<br /> +The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet.<br /> +She was so happy—happy, and so blest.</p> +<p class="poetry">My heart had found contentment in that year.<br +/> +With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer<br /> +The heart of youth turns ever to the light;<br /> +Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night,<br /> +But, in its very anguish and unrest,<br /> +It beats and tears the pall-like folds away,<br /> +And finds again the sunlight of the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet, despite the changes without +measure,<br /> +Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure;<br /> +Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart<br /> +<a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>Was +conscious of a something lacking, where<br /> +Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair.<br /> +Now love was buried; and despair had flown<br /> +Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown<br /> +From heights serene and lofty; and the place<br /> +Where both had dwelt was empty, voiceless space.<br /> +And so I took my long-loved study, art,<br /> +The dreary vacuum in my life to fill,<br /> +And worked, and laboured, with a right good will.<br /> +Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy<br /> +Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy.<br /> +A dainty little lassie, Grace Kildare,<br /> +Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair,<br /> +And made him captive.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> We +were thrown, by chance,<br /> +In contact with her people while in France<br /> +The previous season: she was wholly sweet<br /> +And fair and gentle; so naïve, and yet<br /> +So womanly, she was at once the pet<br /> +Of all our party; and, ere many days,<br /> +Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways,<br /> +Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet.<br /> +Her home was in the Highlands; and she came<br /> +Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through all these months Roy had been true as +steel;<br /> +And by his every action made me feel<br /> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>He was +my friend and brother, and no more,<br /> +The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore.<br /> +Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew<br /> +Whether the love he felt one time was dead,<br /> +Or only hidden, for my sake, from view.<br /> +So when he came to me one day, and said,<br /> +The velvet blackness of his eyes ashine<br /> +With light of love and triumph: “Cousin, mine,<br /> +Congratulate me! She whom I adore<br /> +Has pledged to me the promise of her hand;<br /> +Her heart I have already,” I was glad<br /> +With double gladness, for it freed my mind<br /> +Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad.</p> +<p class="poetry">From March till June had left her moons +behind,<br /> +And merged her rose-red beauty in July,<br /> +There was no message from my native land.<br /> +Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned:<br /> +Death had been near to Helen, but passed by;<br /> +The danger was now over. God was kind;<br /> +The mother and the child were both alive;<br /> +No other child was ever known to thrive<br /> +As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say.<br /> +The infant was a wonder, every way.<br /> +And, at command of Helen, he would send<br /> +A lock of baby’s golden hair to me.<br /> +And did I, on my honour, ever see<br /> +<a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>Such +hair before? Helen would write, ere long:<br /> +She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong—<br /> +Stronger than ever, so the doctors said.<br /> +I took the tiny ringlet, golden—fair,<br /> +Mayhap his hand had severed from the head<br /> +Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek<br /> +And to my lips, and kissed it o’er and o’er.<br /> +All my maternal instincts seemed to rise,<br /> +And clamour for their rights, while my wet eyes<br /> +Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair.<br /> +The woman struggled with her heart before!<br /> +It was the mother in me now did speak,<br /> +Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not,<br /> +And crying out against her barren lot.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years<br /> +That stretched before me, dark with love’s eclipse;<br /> +And thought how my unmated heart would miss<br /> +The shelter of a broad and manly breast—<br /> +The strong, bold arm—the tender clinging kiss—<br /> +And all pure love’s possessions, manifold;<br /> +But now I wept a flood of bitter tears,<br /> +Thinking of little heads of shining gold,<br /> +That would not on my bosom sink to rest;<br /> +Of little hands that would not touch my cheek;<br /> +Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips,<br /> +<a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>That +never in my list’ning ear would speak<br /> +The blessed name of mother.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Oh, +in woman<br /> +How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere<br /> +Unto her wond’ring, untaught mind unfolds<br /> +The myst’ry that is half divine, half human,<br /> +Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls<br /> +Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps<br /> +Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps,<br /> +And grows and strengthens with each riper year.</p> +<p class="poetry">As storms may gather in a placid sky,<br /> +And spend their fury, and then pass away,<br /> +Leaving again the blue of cloudless day,<br /> +E’en so the tempest of my grief passed by.<br /> +’Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned,<br /> +With the deliberate purpose of my mind,<br /> +To my sweet friend.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Relinquishing +my love,<br /> +I gave my dearest hope of joy to her.<br /> +If God, from out His boundless store above,<br /> +Had chosen added blessings to confer,<br /> +I would rejoice, for her sake—not repine<br /> +That th’ immortal treasures were not mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Better my lonely sorrow, than to know<br /> +My selfish joy had been another’s woe;<br /> +<a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>Better +my grief and my strength to control,<br /> +Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul;<br /> +Better to go on, loveless, to the end,<br /> +Than wear love’s rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">Work is the salve that heals the wounded +heart.<br /> +With will most resolute I set my aim<br /> +To enter on the weary race for Fame,<br /> +And if I failed to climb the dizzy height,<br /> +To reach some point of excellence in art.</p> +<p class="poetry">E’en as the Maker held earth +incomplete,<br /> +Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod,<br /> +The perfect, living image of his God,<br /> +All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight,<br /> +Wherein the human figure had no part.<br /> +In that, all lines of symmetry did meet—<br /> +All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought<br /> +Enthusiasm in abundance, thought,<br /> +Much study, and some talent, day by day,<br /> +To help me in my efforts to portray<br /> +The wond’rous power, majesty and grace<br /> +Stamped on some form, or looking from some face.<br /> +This was to be my specialty: To take<br /> +Human emotion for my theme, and make<br /> +The unassisted form divine express<br /> +Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress;<br /> +<a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>And thus +to build Fame’s monument above<br /> +The grave of my departed hope and love.<br /> +This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings<br /> +And soars beyond itself, or selfish things.<br /> +Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross,<br /> +Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss,<br /> +Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition,<br /> +Before it labours onward to fruition.</p> +<p class="poetry">But, as the lark from beds of bloom will +rise<br /> +And sail and sing among the very skies,<br /> +Still mounting near and nearer to the light,<br /> +Impelled alone by love of upward flight,<br /> +So Genius soars—it does not need to climb—<br /> +Upon God-given wings, to heights sublime.<br /> +Some sportman’s shot, grazing the singer’s throat,<br +/> +Some venomous assault of birds of prey,<br /> +May speed its flight toward the realm of day,<br /> +And tinge with triumph every liquid note.<br /> +So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet,<br /> +When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no balking Genius. Only death<br +/> +Can silence it, or hinder. While there’s breath<br /> +Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod,<br /> +And lift itself to glory, and to God.<br /> +<a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>The +acorn sprouted—weeds nor flowers can choke<br /> +The certain growth of th’ upreaching oak.</p> +<p class="poetry">Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind<br /> +Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind<br /> +Its selfish love and sorrow.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Did +I strive<br /> +To picture some emotion, lo! <i>his</i> eyes,<br /> +Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes,<br /> +Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain<br /> +Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive.<br /> +Whate’er my subject, in some hue or line,<br /> +The glorious beauty of his face would shine.</p> +<p class="poetry">So for a time my labour seemed in vain,<br /> +Since it but freshened, and made keener yet,<br /> +The grief my heart was striving to forget.<br /> +While in his form all strength and magnitude<br /> +With grace and supple sinews were entwined,<br /> +While in his face all beauties were combined<br /> +Of perfect features, intellect and truth,<br /> +With all that fine rich colouring of youth,<br /> +How could my brush portray aught good or fair<br /> +Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude<br /> +Of him my soul had worshipped?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But, +at last,<br /> +Setting a watch upon my unwise heart,<br /> +<a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>That +thus would mix its sorrow with my art,<br /> +I resolutely shut away the past,<br /> +And made the toilsome present passing bright<br /> +With dreams of what was hidden from my sight<br /> +In the far distant future, when the soil<br /> +Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.</p> +<h3>PART VII</h3> +<p class="poetry">With much hard labour and some pleasure +fraught,<br /> +The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught<br /> +My hand to grow more skilful in its art,<br /> +Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought<br /> +Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Brief letters came from Helen, now and then:<br +/> +She was quite well—oh yes! quite well, indeed!<br /> +But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by,<br /> +When baby, being older, should not need<br /> +Such constant care, she would grow strong again.<br /> +She was as happy as a soul could be;<br /> +No least cloud hovered in her azure sky;<br /> +She had not thought life held such depths of bliss.<br /> +Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss,<br /> +And said she was a naughty, naughty girl,<br /> +Not to come home and see ma’s little pearl.<br /> +<a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>No gift +of costly jewels, or of gold,<br /> +Had been so precious or so dear to me,<br /> +As each brief line wherein her joy was told.<br /> +It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain,<br /> +Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, +where<br /> +He built a pretty villa-like retreat.<br /> +And when the Roman Summer’s languid heat<br /> +Made work a punishment, I turned my face<br /> +Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace<br /> +Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was a willing worker. Not an hour<br /> +Passed idly by me: each, I would employ<br /> +To some good purpose, ere it glided on<br /> +To swell the tide of hours forever gone.<br /> +My first completed picture, known as “Joy,”<br /> +Won pleasant words of praise. “Possesses +power,”<br /> +“Displays much talent,” “Very fairly +done.”<br /> +So fell the comments on my grateful ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near,<br +/> +Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush<br /> +Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed,<br /> +With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush<br /> +Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried.<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>The +careful study of long months, it won<br /> +Golden opinions; even bringing forth<br /> +That certain sign of merit—a critique<br /> +Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak<br /> +As empty heads that sang their praises—so<br /> +Proving conclusively the pictures’ worth.<br /> +These critics and reviewers do not use<br /> +Their precious ammunition to abuse<br /> +A worthless work. That, left alone, they know<br /> +Will find its proper level; and they aim<br /> +Their batteries at rising works which claim<br /> +Too much of public notice. But this shot<br /> +Resulted only in some noise, which brought<br /> +A dozen people, where one came before,<br /> +To view my pictures; and I had my hour<br /> +Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow’r.<br /> +An English Baron who had lived two score<br /> +Of his allotted three score years and ten<br /> +Bought both the pieces. He was very kind,<br /> +And so attentive, I, not being blind,<br /> +Must understand his meaning.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Therefore, +when<br /> +He said,<br /> + “Sweet friend, whom I would +make my wife,<br /> +The ‘Joy’ and ‘Sorrow’ this dear hand +portrayed<br /> +I have in my possession: now resign<br /> +Into my careful keeping, and make mine,<br /> +The joy and sorrow of your future life,”—<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>I was +prepared to answer, but delayed,<br /> +Grown undecided suddenly.</p> +<p class="poetry"> My mind<br +/> +Argued the matter coolly pro and con,<br /> +And made resolve to speed his wooing on<br /> +And grant him favour. He was good and kind;<br /> +Not young, no doubt he would be quite content<br /> +With my respect, nor miss an ardent love;<br /> +Could give me ties of family and home;<br /> +And then, perhaps, my mind was not above<br /> +Setting some value on a titled name—<br /> +Ambitious woman’s weakness!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then my +art<br /> +Would be encouraged and pursued the same,<br /> +And I could spend my winters all in Rome.<br /> +Love never more could touch my wasteful heart<br /> +That all its wealth upon one object spent.<br /> +Existence would be very bleak and cold,<br /> +After long years, when I was gray and old,<br /> +With neither home nor children.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Once a +wife,<br /> +I would forget the sorrow of my life,<br /> +And pile new sods upon the grave of pain.<br /> +My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard,<br /> +But made no comment.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then the +Baron spoke,<br /> +And waited for my answer. All in vain<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>I strove +for strength to utter that one word<br /> +My mind dictated. Moments rolled away—<br /> +Until at last my torpid heart awoke,<br /> +And forced my trembling lips to say him nay.<br /> +And then my eyes with sudden tears o’erran,<br /> +In pity for myself and for this man<br /> +Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise.<br /> +“Dear friend,” I cried, “dear generous friend, +forgive<br /> +A troubled woman’s weakness! As I live,<br /> +In truth I meant to answer otherwise.<br /> +From out its store, my heart can give you naught<br /> +But honour and respect; and yet methought<br /> +I would give willing answer, did you sue.<br /> +But now I know ’twere cruel wrong I planned—<br /> +Taking a heart that beat with love most true,<br /> +And giving in exchange an empty hand.<br /> +Who weds for love alone, may not be wise:<br /> +Who weds without it, angels must despise.<br /> +Love and respect together must combine<br /> +To render marriage holy and divine;<br /> +And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys<br /> +Continuation of the nuptial joys,<br /> +And brings regret, and gloomy discontent<br /> +To put to rout each tender sentiment.<br /> +Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life<br /> +By that possession—an unloving wife;<br /> +<a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>Nor will +I take the sin upon my soul<br /> +Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole.<br /> +However bleak may be my single lot,<br /> +I will not stain my life with such a blot.<br /> +Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide;<br /> +It holds some fairer woman for your bride;<br /> +I would I had a heart to give to you,<br /> +But, lacking it, can only say—adieu!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He whom temptation never has assailed,<br /> +Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength;<br /> +When sorely tried, we waver, but at length,<br /> +Rise up and turn away, not having failed.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">The Autumn of the third year came and went;<br +/> +The mild Italian winter was half spent,<br /> +When this brief message came across the sea:<br /> +“My darling! I am dying. Come to me.<br /> +Love, which so long the growing truth concealed,<br /> +Stands pale within its shadow. Oh, my sweet!<br /> +This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat—<br /> +Dying with very weight of bliss. Oh, come!<br /> +And take the legacy I leave to you,<br /> +Before these lips for evermore are dumb.<br /> +In life or death,—Yours, Helen Dangerfield.”<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>This +plaintive letter bore a month old date;<br /> +And, wild with fears lest I had come too late,<br /> +I bade the old world and new friends adieu,<br /> +And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home,<br /> +I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.</p> +<p class="poetry">All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild +fear<br /> +That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled,<br /> +Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear,<br /> +Was passing from me; that she might be dead;<br /> +And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me,<br /> +Because I made no answer to her plea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly +on,<br /> +Make haste before a wasting life is gone!<br /> +Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath!<br /> +And true in life, be true e’en unto death.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O, ship, sail on! and bear me o’er +the tide<br /> +To her for whom my woman’s heart once died.<br /> +Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me,<br /> +And I would know what her last wish may be!<br /> +I have been true, so true, through all the past.<br /> +Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So prayed my heart still o’er, and ever +o’er,<br /> +Until the weary lagging ship reached shore.<br /> +<a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>All sad +with fears that I had come too late,<br /> +By that strange source whence men communicate,<br /> +Though miles on miles of space between them lie,<br /> +I spoke with Vivian: “Does she live? Reply.”<br +/> +The answer came. “She lives, but hasten, friend!<br +/> +Her journey draweth swiftly to its end.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot,<br /> +My own dear home, the lane that led to his—<br /> +The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight,<br /> +Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might;<br /> +Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot,<br /> +But those sweet early years of lost delight,<br /> +Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have a theory, vague, undefined,<br /> +That each emotion of the human mind,<br /> +Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair,<br /> +Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air,<br /> +Until it takes possession of some breast;<br /> +And, when at length, grown weary of unrest,<br /> +We rise up strong and cast it from the heart,<br /> +And bid it leave us wholly, and depart,<br /> +It does not die, it cannot die; but goes<br /> +And mingles with some restless wind that blows<br /> +About the region where it had its birth.<br /> +And though we wander over all the earth,<br /> +<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>That +spirit waits, and lingers, year by year,<br /> +Invisible and clothèd like the air,<br /> +Hoping that we may yet again draw near,<br /> +And it may haply take us unaware,<br /> +And once more find safe shelter in the breast<br /> +It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Told by my heart, and wholly positive,<br /> +Some old emotion long had ceased to live;<br /> +That, were it called, it could not hear or come,<br /> +Because it was so voiceless and so dumb,<br /> +Yet, passing where it first sprang into life,<br /> +My very soul has suddenly been rife<br /> +With all the old intensity of feeling.<br /> +It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing<br /> +Into my heart from that departed day;<br /> +Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.</p> +<p class="poetry">So now into my troubled heart, above<br /> +The present’s pain and sorrow, crept the love<br /> +And strife and passion of a bygone hour,<br /> +Possessed of all their olden might and power.<br /> +’Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken<br /> +By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken,<br /> +And Vivian stood before us.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +I saw<br /> +In him the husband of my friend alone.<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>The old +emotions might at times return,<br /> +And smould’ring fires leap up an hour and burn;<br /> +But never yet had I transgressed God’s law,<br /> +By looking on the man I had resigned,<br /> +With any hidden feeling in my mind,<br /> +Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known<br /> +He was but little altered. From his face<br /> +The nonchalant and almost haughty grace,<br /> +The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes,<br /> +The years had stolen, leaving in their place<br /> +A settled sadness, which was not despair,<br /> +Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care,<br /> +But something like the vapour o’er the skies<br /> +Of Indian summer, beautiful to see,<br /> +But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be.<br /> +There was that in his face which cometh not,<br /> +Save when the soul has many a battle fought,<br /> +And conquered self by constant sacrifice.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are two sculptors, who, with chisels +fine,<br /> +Render the plainest features half divine.<br /> +All other artists strive and strive in vain,<br /> +To picture beauty perfect and complete.<br /> +Their statues only crumble at their feet,<br /> +Without the master touch of Faith and Pain.<br /> +And now his face, that perfect seemed before,<br /> +Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore<br /> +<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>A look +exalted, which the spirit gives<br /> +When soul has conquered, and the body lives<br /> +Subservient to its bidding.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> In +a room<br /> +Which curtained out the February gloom,<br /> +And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers,<br /> +Rested the eye like one of Summer’s bowers,<br /> +I found my Helen, who was less mine now<br /> +Than Death’s; for on the marble of her brow<br /> +His seal was stamped indelibly.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Her +form<br /> +Was like the slender willow, when some storm<br /> +Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face,<br /> +Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue:<br /> +And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place,<br /> +Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue.<br /> +Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein,<br /> +And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain<br /> +Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light<br /> +Shone through and made her wasted features bright<br /> +With an unearthly beauty; and an awe<br /> +Crept o’er me, gazing on her, for I saw<br /> +She was so near to Heaven that I seemed<br /> +To look upon the face of one redeemed.<br /> +She turned the brilliant lustre of her eyes<br /> +Upon me. She had passed beyond surprise,<br /> +<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Or any +strong emotion linked with clay.<br /> +But as I glided to her where she lay,<br /> +A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed<br /> +Her pallid features. “Welcome home!” she +breathed<br /> +“Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and +rejoice.”<br /> +And like the dying echo of a voice<br /> +Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">I fell upon my knees beside her bed;<br /> +All agonies within my heart were wed,<br /> +While to the aching numbness of my grief,<br /> +Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear,—<br /> +The tortured soul’s most merciful relief.<br /> +Her wasted hand caressed my bended head<br /> +For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said,<br /> +In that low tone so like the wind’s refrain,<br /> +“Maurine, my own! give not away to pain;<br /> +The time is precious. Ere another dawn<br /> +My soul may hear the summons and pass on.<br /> +Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while,<br /> +And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak<br /> +With every hour that passes. I must speak<br /> +And make my dying wishes known to-night.<br /> +Go now.” And in the halo of her smile,<br /> +Which seemed to fill the room with golden light,<br /> +I turned and left her.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>Later, in +the gloom<br /> +Of coming night, I entered that dim room,<br /> +And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand:<br /> +And on the pillow at her side there smiled<br /> +The beauteous count’nance of a sleeping child.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Maurine,” spoke Helen, “for +three blissful years,<br /> +My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land;<br /> +And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy,<br /> +Without one drop of anguish or alloy.<br /> +And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall,<br /> +Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears,<br /> +And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all<br /> +Who linger long upon this troubled way,<br /> +God takes me to the realm of Endless Day,<br /> +To mingle with His angels, who alone<br /> +Can understand such bliss as I have known.<br /> +I do not murmur. God has heaped my measure,<br /> +In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure;<br /> +And, from the fulness of an earthly love,<br /> +I pass to th’ Immortal Arms above,<br /> +Before I even brush the skirts of Woe.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I leave my aged parents here below,<br +/> +With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend!<br /> +Be kind to them, and love them to the end,<br /> +<a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>Which +may not be far distant.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +I leave<br /> +A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine.<br /> +From this most holy, sad and sacred eve,<br /> +Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep,<br /> +To love and shelter, to protect and guide.”<br /> +She touched the slumb’ring cherub at her side,<br /> +And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep,<br /> +And laid the precious burden on my breast.</p> +<p class="poetry">A solemn silence fell upon the scene.<br /> +And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed<br /> +My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek,<br /> +I felt it would be sacrilege to speak,<br /> +Such wordless joy possessed me.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Oh! +at last<br /> +This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past,<br /> +Had caused my soul such travail, was my own:<br /> +Through all the lonely coming years to be<br /> +Mine own to cherish—wholly mine alone.<br /> +And what I mourned so hopelessly as lost<br /> +Was now restored, and given back to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">The dying voice continued:<br /> + “In this +child<br /> +You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost.<br /> +But all that was most pure and undefiled,<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>And good +within me, lives in her again.<br /> +Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know,<br /> +Moving about the wide world, to and fro,<br /> +And through, and in the busy haunts of men,<br /> +Not always will his heart be dumb with woe,<br /> +But sometime waken to a later love.<br /> +Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed above<br /> +All selfish feelings! I would have it so.<br /> +While I am with the angels, blest and glad,<br /> +I would not have you sorrowing and sad,<br /> +In loneliness go mourning to the end.<br /> +But, love! I could not trust to any other<br /> +The sacred office of a foster-mother<br /> +To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Teach her to love her father’s +name, Maurine,<br /> +Where’er he wanders. Keep my memory green<br /> +In her young heart, and lead her in her youth,<br /> +To drink from th’ eternal fount of Truth;<br /> +Vex her not with sectarian discourse,<br /> +Nor strive to teach her piety by force;<br /> +Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds,<br /> +Nor frighten her with an avenging God,<br /> +Who rules His subjects with a burning rod;<br /> +But teach her that each mortal simply needs<br /> +To grow in hate of hate and love of love,<br /> +To gain a kingdom in the courts above.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>“Let her be free and natural as the flowers,<br +/> +That smile and nod throughout the summer hours.<br /> +Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth,<br /> +But first impress upon her mind this truth:<br /> +No lasting happiness is e’er attained<br /> +Save when the heart some <i>other</i> seeks to please.<br /> +The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained,<br /> +And full of gall and bitterness the lees.<br /> +Next to her God, teach her to love her land;<br /> +In her young bosom light the patriot’s flame<br /> +Until the heart within her shall expand<br /> +With love and fervour at her country’s name.</p> +<p class="poetry">“No coward-mother bears a valiant son.<br +/> +And this, my last wish, is an earnest one.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Maurine, my o’er-taxed strength is +waning; you<br /> +Have heard my wishes, and you will be true<br /> +In death as you have been in life, my own!<br /> +Now leave me for a little while alone<br /> +With him—my husband. Dear love! I shall rest<br +/> +So sweetly with no care upon my breast.<br /> +Good-night, Maurine, come to me in the morning.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But lo! the Bridegroom with no further +warning<br /> +Came for her at the dawning of the day.<br /> +<a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>She +heard His voice, and smiled, and passed away<br /> +Without a struggle.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Leaning +o’er her bed<br /> +To give her greeting, I found but her clay,<br /> +And Vivian bowed beside it.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +I said,<br /> +“Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request,<br /> +And when the night of fever and unrest<br /> +Melts in the morning of Eternity,<br /> +Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come to thee in the morning, +sweet!<br /> +I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet<br /> +Before God’s throne, and shall not be afraid.<br /> +Thou gav’st me trust, and it was not betrayed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come to thee in the morning, +dear!<br /> +The night is dark. I do not know how near<br /> +The morn may be of that Eternal Day;<br /> +I can but keep my faithful watch and pray.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come to thee in the morning, +love!<br /> +Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above.<br /> +The way is troubled where my feet must climb,<br /> +Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come in the morning, O mine +own;<br /> +But for a time must grope my way alone,<br /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>Through +tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn,<br /> +And I shall hear the summons, and pass on.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will come in the morning. Rest +secure!<br /> +My hope is certain and my faith is sure.<br /> +After the gloom and darkness of the night<br /> +I will come to thee with the morning light.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Three peaceful years slipped silently away.</p> +<p class="poetry">We dwelt together in my childhood’s +home,<br /> +Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May.<br /> +She was a fair and most exquisite child;<br /> +Her pensive face was delicate and mild<br /> +Like her dead mother’s; but through her dear eyes<br /> +Her father smiled upon me, day by day.<br /> +Afar in foreign countries did he roam,<br /> +Now resting under Italy’s blue skies,<br /> +And now with Roy in Scotland.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +he sent<br /> +Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went<br /> +And what he saw, addressed to May or me.<br /> +And I would write and tell him how she grew—<br /> +And how she talked about him o’er the sea<br /> +In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew<br /> +His picture in the album; how each day<br /> +She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring<br /> +Her own papa back to his little May.<br /> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>It was a +warm bright morning in the Spring.<br /> +I sat in that same sunny portico,<br /> +Where I was sitting seven years ago<br /> +When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears,<br /> +As I looked back across the checkered years.<br /> +How many were the changes they had brought!<br /> +Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught<br /> +To my young heart had been of untold worth.<br /> +I had learned how to “suffer and grow +strong”—<br /> +That knowledge which best serves us here on earth,<br /> +And brings reward in Heaven.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Oh! +how long<br /> +The years had been since that June morning when<br /> +I heard his step upon the walk, and yet<br /> +I seemed to hear its echo still.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Just +then<br /> +Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet,<br /> +And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land<br /> +Stood there before me!—holding out his hand<br /> +And smiling with those wond’rous eyes of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">To hide my tears, I ran and brought his +child;<br /> +But she was shy, and clung to me, when told<br /> +This was papa, for whom her prayers were said.<br /> +She dropped her eyes and shook her little head,<br /> +And would not by his coaxing be beguiled,<br /> +Or go to him.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>Aunt Ruth +was not at home,<br /> +And we two sat and talked, as strangers might,<br /> +Of distant countries which we both had seen.<br /> +But once I thought I saw his large eyes light<br /> +With sudden passion, when there came a pause<br /> +In our chit-chat, and then he spoke:</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Maurine,<br +/> +I saw a number of your friends in Rome.<br /> +We talked of you. They seemed surprised, because<br /> +You were not ’mong the seekers for a name.<br /> +They thought your whole ambition was for fame.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It might have been,” I answered, +“when my heart<br /> +Had nothing else to fill it. Now my art<br /> +Is but a recreation. I have <i>this</i><br /> +To love and live for, which I had not then.”<br /> +And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss<br /> +Upon my child’s fair brow.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “And +yet,” he said,<br /> +The old light leaping to his eyes again,<br /> +“And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed<br /> +A noble Baron! one of many men<br /> +Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet.<br /> +Why won the bravest of them no return?”<br /> +<a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>I bowed +my head, nor dared his gaze to meet.<br /> +On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn,<br /> +And strong emotion strangled speech.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +rose<br /> +And came and knelt beside me.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Sweet, +my sweet!”<br /> +He murmured softly, “God in Heaven knows<br /> +How well I loved you seven years ago.<br /> +He only knows my anguish, and my grief,<br /> +When your own acts forced on me the belief<br /> +That I had been your plaything and your toy.<br /> +Yet from his lips I since have learned that Roy<br /> +Held no place nearer than a friend and brother.<br /> +And then a faint suspicion, undefined,<br /> +Of what had been—was—might be, stirred my mind,<br /> +And that great love, I thought died at a blow,<br /> +Rose up within me, strong with hope and life.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Before all heaven and the angel +mother<br /> +Of this sweet child that slumbers on your heart,<br /> +Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife—<br /> +Mine own, forever, until death shall part!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Through happy mists of upward welling tears,<br +/> +I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes.<br /> +“Dear heart,” I said, “if she who dwells +above<br /> +Looks down upon us, from yon azure skies,<br /> +<a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>She can +but bless us, knowing all these years<br /> +My soul had yearned in silence for the love<br /> +That crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak.<br /> +I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake.<br /> +For her sweet child’s, and for my own, I take<br /> +You back to be all mine, for evermore.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Just then the child upon my breast awoke<br /> +From her light sleep, and laid her downy cheek<br /> +Against her father as he knelt by me.<br /> +And this unconscious action seemed to be<br /> +A silent blessing, which the mother spoke<br /> +Gazing upon us from the mystic shore.</p> +<h2><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>ALL +ROADS THAT LEAD TO GOD ARE GOOD</h2> +<p class="poetry">All roads that lead to God are good.<br /> + What matters it, your faith, or mine?<br /> + Both centre at the goal divine<br /> +Of love’s eternal Brotherhood.</p> +<p class="poetry">The kindly life in house or street—<br /> + The life of prayer and mystic rite—<br /> + The student’s search for truth and +light—<br /> +These paths at one great Junction meet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Before the oldest book was writ,<br /> + Full many a prehistoric soul<br /> + Arrived at this unchanging goal,<br /> +Through changeless Love, that leads to it.</p> +<p class="poetry">What matters that one found his Christ<br /> + In rising sun, or burning fire?<br /> + If faith within him did not tire,<br /> +His longing for the Truth sufficed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>Before our modern hell was brought<br /> + To edify the modern world,<br /> + Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled<br /> +In lakes of fire by its own thought.</p> +<p class="poetry">A thousand creeds have come and gone,<br /> + But what is that to you or me?<br /> + Creeds are but branches of a tree—<br /> +The root of love lives on and on.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though branch by branch proves withered +wood,<br /> + The root is warm with precious wine.<br /> + Then keep your faith and leave me mine—<br /> +All roads that lead to God are good.</p> +<h2><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>DUST-SEALED</h2> +<p class="poetry">I know not wherefore, but mine eyes<br /> + See bloom, where other eyes see blight.<br /> +They find a rainbow, a sunrise,<br /> + Where others but discern deep night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Men call me an enthusiast,<br /> + And say I look through gilded haze:<br /> +Because where’er my gaze is cast,<br /> + I see something that calls for praise.</p> +<p class="poetry">I say, “Behold those lovely +eyes—<br /> + That tinted cheek of flower-like grace.”<br /> +They answer in amused surprise:<br /> + “We thought it a common face.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I say, “Was ever seen more fair?<br /> + I seem to walk in Eden’s bowers.”<br /> +They answer, with a pitying air,<br /> + “The weeds are choking out the +flowers.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>I know not wherefore, but God lent<br /> + A deeper vision to my sight.<br /> +On whatsoe’er my gaze is bent<br /> + I catch the beauty Infinite;</p> +<p class="poetry">That underlying, hidden half<br /> + That all things hold of Deity.<br /> +So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh—<br /> + Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.</p> +<h2><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>“ADVICE”</h2> +<p class="poetry">I must do as you do? Your way I own<br /> + Is a very good way. And still,<br /> +There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,<br /> + One over, one under the hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">You are treading the safe and the well-worn +way,<br /> + That the prudent choose each time;<br /> +And you think me reckless and rash to-day,<br /> + Because I prefer to climb.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your path is the right one, and so is mine.<br +/> + We are not like peas in a pod,<br /> +Compelled to lie in a certain line,<br /> + Or else be scattered abroad.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twere a dull old world, methinks, my +friend,<br /> + If we all went just one way;<br /> +Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,<br /> + Though they lead apart to-day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>You like the shade, and I like the sun;<br /> + You like an even pace,<br /> +I like to mix with the crowd and run,<br /> + And then rest after the race.</p> +<p class="poetry">I like danger, and storm and strife,<br /> + You like a peaceful time;<br /> +I like the passion and surge of life,<br /> + You like its gentle rhyme.</p> +<p class="poetry">You like buttercups, dewy sweet,<br /> + And crocuses, framed in snow;<br /> +I like roses, born of the heat,<br /> + And the red carnation’s glow.</p> +<p class="poetry">I must live my life, not yours, my friend,<br +/> + For so it was written down;<br /> +We must follow our given paths to the end,<br /> + But I trust we shall meet—in town.</p> +<h2><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>OVER +THE BANISTERS</h2> +<p class="poetry">Over the banisters bends a face,<br /> + Daringly sweet and beguiling.<br /> +Somebody stands in careless grace<br /> + And watching the picture, smiling.</p> +<p class="poetry">The light burns dim in the hall below,<br /> + Nobody sees her standing,<br /> +Saying good-night again, soft and low,<br /> + Halfway up to the landing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nobody only the eyes of brown,<br /> + Tender and full of meaning,<br /> +That smile on the fairest face in town,<br /> + Over the banisters leaning.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tired and sleepy, with drooping head,<br /> + I wonder why she lingers;<br /> +Now, when the good-nights all are said,<br /> + Why, somebody holds her fingers.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>He holds her fingers and draws her down,<br /> + Suddenly growing bolder,<br /> +Till the loose hair drops its masses brown<br /> + Like a mantle over his shoulder.</p> +<p class="poetry">Over the banisters soft hands, fair,<br /> + Brush his cheeks like a feather,<br /> +And bright brown tresses and dusky hair<br /> + Meet and mingle together.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s a question asked, there’s a +swift caress,<br /> + She has flown like a bird from the hallway,<br /> +But over the banisters drops a “Yes,”<br /> + That shall brighten the world for him alway.</p> +<h2><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>THE +PAST</h2> +<p class="poetry">I fling my past behind me like a robe<br /> +Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.<br /> +I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep<br /> +And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes<br /> +Of Oriental splendour, or complain<br /> +That I must needs discard it? I can weave<br /> +Upon the shuttles of the future years<br /> +A fabric far more durable. Subdued,<br /> +It may be, in the blending of its hues,<br /> +Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam<br /> +Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,<br /> +While over all a fadeless lustre lies,<br /> +And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,<br /> +My new robe shall be richer than the old.</p> +<h2><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>SECRETS</h2> +<p class="poetry">Think not some knowledge rests with thee +alone;<br /> + Why, even God’s stupendous secret, Death,<br +/> + We one by one, with our expiring breath,<br /> +Do pale with wonder seize and make our own;<br /> +The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown,<br /> + Despite her careful hiding; and the air<br /> + Yields its mysterious marvels in despair<br /> +To swell the mighty store-house of things known.<br /> +In vain the sea expostulates and raves;<br /> + It cannot cover from the keen world’s sight<br +/> + The curious wonders of its coral caves.<br /> +And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,<br /> +The prying fingers of detective years<br /> + Shall drag <i>thy</i> secret out into the light.</p> +<h2><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>APPLAUSE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I hold it one of the sad certain laws<br /> +Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind<br /> +Than that success which brings sure loss behind—<br /> +True greatness dies, when sounds the world’s applause<br /> +Fame blights the object it would bless, because<br /> + Weighed down with men’s expectancy, the +mind<br /> + Can no more soar to those far heights, and find<br +/> +That freedom which its inspiration was.<br /> +When once we listen to its noisy cheers<br /> + Or hear the populace’ approval, then<br /> +We catch no more the music of the spheres,<br /> + Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men.<br /> +Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears,<br /> +The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.</p> +<h2><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>THE +STORY</h2> +<p class="poetry">They met each other in the glade—<br /> + She lifted up her eyes;<br /> +Alack the day! Alack the maid!<br /> + She blushed in swift surprise.<br /> +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pail was full, the path was steep—<br +/> + He reached to her his hand;<br /> +She felt her warm young pulses leap,<br /> + But did not understand.<br /> +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">She sat beside him in the wood—<br /> + He wooed with words and sighs;<br /> +Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good,<br /> + And maidens are not wise.<br /> +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>The summer sun shone fairly down,<br /> + The wind blew from the south;<br /> +As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,<br /> + His kiss fell on her mouth.<br /> +Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now the autumn time is near,<br /> + The lover roves away,<br /> +With breaking heart and falling tear,<br /> + She sits the livelong day.<br /> +Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.</p> +<h2><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>LEAN +DOWN</h2> +<p class="poetry">Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine!<br /> +From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen<br /> +How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings,<br /> +I cannot grasp at once those better things<br /> +To which I in my inmost soul aspire.<br /> +Lean down and lift me higher.</p> +<p class="poetry">I grope along—not desolate or sad,<br /> +For youth and hope and health all keep me glad;<br /> +But too bright sunlight, sometimes, makes us blind,<br /> +And I do grope for heights I cannot find.<br /> +Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire—<br /> +Lean down and lift me higher.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not long ago we trod the self-same way.<br /> +Thou knowest how, from day to fleeting day<br /> +Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet<br /> +Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet,<br /> +But only served to hinder and to tire;<br /> +Lean down and lift me higher.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene,<br /> +And left me here, my loved one, Josephine;<br /> +I am content to stay until the end,<br /> +For life is full of promise; but, my friend,<br /> +Canst thou not help me in my best desire<br /> +And lean, and lift me higher?</p> +<p class="poetry">Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and +wise,<br /> +And quick to understand and sympathize<br /> +With all a full soul’s needs. It must be so,<br /> +Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know<br /> +Thou must see how I struggle and aspire—<br /> +Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire,<br /> +And lean, and lift me higher.</p> +<h2><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>LIFE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I feel the great immensity of life.<br /> +All little aims slip from me, and I reach<br /> +My yearning soul toward the Infinite.</p> +<p class="poetry">As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves<br +/> +Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower<br /> +For lovers’ secrets, or for children’s sports,<br /> +Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds,<br /> +And lets the eye behold it, limitless,<br /> +And full of winding mysteries of ways:<br /> +So now with life that reaches out before,<br /> +And borders on the unexplained Beyond.</p> +<p class="poetry">I see the stars above me, world on world:<br /> +I hear the awful language of all Space;<br /> +I feel the distant surging of great seas,<br /> +That hide the secrets of the Universe<br /> +In their eternal bosoms; and I know<br /> +That I am but an atom of the Whole.</p> +<h2><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>THE +CHRISTIAN’S NEW YEAR PRAYER</h2> +<p class="poetry">Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low +bending<br /> + Through these glad New Year days,<br /> +To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending—<br /> + For e’en hard hearts do raise<br /> +Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power,<br /> + Or freedom from all care—<br /> +Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour,<br /> + Hear now a Christian’s prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let this young year that, silent, walks beside +me,<br /> + Be as a means of grace<br /> +To lead me up, no matter what betide me,<br /> + Nearer the Master’s face.<br /> +If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain<br /> + Where living waters play,<br /> +My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain,<br /> + Then cast them in my way.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses<br /> + To shape it for Thy crown,<br /> +Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses,<br /> + With sorrows bear it down.<br /> +Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure,<br /> + And if I should complain,<br /> +Heap full of anguish yet another measure<br /> + Until I smile at pain.<br /> +Send dangers—deaths! but tell me how to dare them;<br /> + Enfold me in Thy care.<br /> +Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them—<br +/> +This is a Christian’s prayer.</p> +<h2><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>IN +THE NIGHT</h2> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes at night, when I sit and write,<br /> + I hear the strangest things,—<br /> +As my brain grows hot with burning thought,<br /> + That struggles for form and wings,<br /> +I can hear the beat of my swift blood’s feet,<br /> + As it speeds with a rush and a whir<br /> +From heart to brain and back again,<br /> + Like a race-horse under the spur.</p> +<p class="poetry">With my soul’s fine ear I listen and +hear<br /> + The tender Silence speak,<br /> +As it leans on the breast of Night to rest,<br /> + And presses his dusky cheek.<br /> +And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns<br /> + For something that is kin;<br /> +And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss,<br /> + As it folds and fondles Sin.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>In its hurrying race through leagues of space,<br /> + I can hear the Earth catch breath,<br /> +As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans,<br /> + And longs for the rest of Death.<br /> +And high and far, from a distant star,<br /> + Whose name is unknown to me,<br /> +I hear a voice that says, “Rejoice,<br /> + For I keep ward o’er thee!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that +range<br /> + Through the chambers of the night;<br /> +And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates<br /> + May hear, if he lists aright.</p> +<h2><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>GOD’S MEASURE</h2> +<p class="poetry">God measures souls by their capacity<br /> +For entertaining his best Angel, Love.<br /> +Who loveth most is nearest kin to God,<br /> +Who is all Love, or Nothing.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +who sits<br /> +And looks out on the palpitating world,<br /> +And feels his heart swell within him large enough<br /> +To hold all men within it, he is near<br /> +His great Creator’s standard, though he dwells<br /> +Outside the pale of churches, and knows not<br /> +A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line<br /> +Of Scripture even. What God wants of us<br /> +Is that outreaching bigness that ignores<br /> +All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds,<br /> +And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.</p> +<h2><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>A +MARCH SNOW</h2> +<p class="poetry">Let the old snow be covered with the new:<br /> +The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.<br /> +Let it be hidden wholly from our view<br /> + By pure white flakes, all trackless and +untrodden.<br /> +When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring’s feet,<br /> +Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.<br /> +Let the old life be covered by the new:<br /> + The old past life so full of sad mistakes,<br /> +Let it be wholly hidden from the view<br /> + By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.<br /> +Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring<br /> +Let the white mantle of repentance fling<br /> +Soft drapery about it, fold on fold,<br /> +Even as the new snow covers up the old.</p> +<h2><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>PHILOSOPHY</h2> +<p class="poetry">At morn the wise man walked abroad,<br /> + Proud with the learning of great fools.<br /> +He laughed and said, “There is no God—<br /> + ’Tis force creates, ’tis reason +rules.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Meek with the wisdom of great faith,<br /> + At night he knelt while angels smiled,<br /> +And wept and cried with anguished breath,<br /> + “Jehovah, <i>God</i>, save Thou my +child.”</p> +<h2><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>“CARLOS”</h2> +<p class="poetry">Last night I knelt low at my lady’s +feet.<br /> +One soft, caressing hand played with my hair,<br /> +And one I kissed and fondled. Kneeling there,<br /> +I deemed my meed of happiness complete.</p> +<p class="poetry">She was so fair, so full of witching +wiles—<br /> +Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye;<br /> +So womanly withal, but not too shy—<br /> +And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead +sent,<br /> +Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness<br /> +Through all my frame. I trembled with excess<br /> +Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content.</p> +<p class="poetry">When any mortal dares to so rejoice,<br /> +I think a jealous Heaven, bending low,<br /> +Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow.<br /> +Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady’s voice.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>“My love!” she sighed, “my +Carlos!” even now<br /> +I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath<br /> +Bearing to me those words of living death,<br /> +And starting out the cold drops on my brow.</p> +<p class="poetry">For I am <i>Paul</i>—not Carlos! +Who is he<br /> +That, in the supreme hour of love’s delight,<br /> +Veiled by the shadows of the falling night,<br /> +She should breathe low his name, forgetting me?</p> +<p class="poetry">I will not ask her! ’twere a fruitless +task,<br /> +For, woman-like, she would make me believe<br /> +Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve,<br /> +And call me cruel. Nay, I will not ask.</p> +<p class="poetry">But this man Carlos, whosoe’er he be,<br +/> +Has turned my cup of nectar into gall,<br /> +Since I know he has claimed some one or all<br /> +Of these delights my lady grants to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad<br /> +And tender twilight, when the day grew dim.<br /> +How else could I remind her so of him?<br /> +Why, reveries like these have made men mad!</p> +<p class="poetry">He must have felt her soft hand on his brow.<br +/> +If Heaven were shocked at such presumptuous wrongs,<br /> +And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs,<br /> +<i>Still she remembers</i>, though she loves me now.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if he lives, and meets me to his cost,<br +/> +Why, what avails it? I must hear and see<br /> +That curst name “Carlos” always haunting me—<br +/> +So has another Paradise been lost.</p> +<h2><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>THE +TWO GLASSES</h2> +<p class="poetry">There sat two glasses filled to the brim,<br /> + On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.<br /> + One was ruddy and red as blood,<br /> +And one was clear as the crystal flood.</p> +<p class="poetry">Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,<br +/> +“Let us tell tales of the past to each other;<br /> +I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth,<br /> +Where I was king, for I ruled in might;<br /> +For the proudest and grandest souls on earth<br /> +Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.<br /> +From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;<br /> +From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.<br /> +I have blasted many an honoured name;<br /> +I have taken virtue and given shame;<br /> +I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,<br /> +That has made his future a barren waste.<br /> +Far greater than any king am I,<br /> +Or than any army beneath the sky.<br /> +<a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>I have +made the arm of the driver fail,<br /> +And sent the train from the iron rail.<br /> +I have made good ships go down at sea,<br /> +And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.<br /> +Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;<br /> +And my might and power are over all!<br /> +Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine,<br /> +“Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”<br /> +Said the water-glass: “I cannot boast<br /> +Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,<br /> +But I can tell of hearts that were sad<br /> +By my crystal drops made bright and glad;<br /> +Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;<br /> +Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.<br /> +I have leapt through the valley, dashed down the mountain,<br /> +Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.<br /> +I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,<br /> +And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;<br /> +I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;<br /> +I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.<br /> +I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,<br /> +That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.<br /> +I can tell of manhood debased by you,<br /> +That I have uplifted and crowned anew.<br /> +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>I cheer, +I help, I strengthen and aid;<br /> +I gladden the heart of man and maid;<br /> +I set the wine-chained captive free,<br /> +And all are better for knowing me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">These are the tales they told each other,<br /> +The glass of wine and its paler brother,<br /> +As they sat together, filled to the brim,<br /> +On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.</p> +<h2><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>LA +MORT D’AMOUR</h2> +<p class="poetry">When was it that love died? We were so +fond,<br /> + So very fond a little while ago.<br /> + With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow,<br /> +We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,</p> +<p class="poetry">When we should dwell together as one heart,<br +/> + And scarce could wait that happy time to come.<br /> + Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb,<br /> +And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.</p> +<p class="poetry">How was it that love died? I do not +know.<br /> + I only know that all its grace untold<br /> + Has faded into gray! I miss the gold<br /> +From our dull skies; but did not see it go.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why should love die? We prized it, I am +sure;<br /> + We thought of nothing else when it was ours;<br /> + We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers:<br /> +It was our all; why could it not endure?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>Alas, we know not how, or when, or why<br /> + This dear thing died. We only know it went,<br +/> + And left us dull, cold, and indifferent;<br /> +We who found heaven once in each other’s sigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">How pitiful it is, and yet how true<br /> + That half the lovers in the world, one day,<br /> + Look questioning in each other’s eyes this +way<br /> +And know love’s gone forever, as we do.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear +heart,<br /> + As I look out o’er all the wide, sad earth<br +/> + And see love’s flame gone out on many a +hearth,<br /> +That those who would keep love must dwell apart.</p> +<h2><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>LOVE’S SLEEP<br /> +(Vers de Société)</h2> +<p class="poetry">We’ll cover Love with roses,<br /> + And sweet sleep he shall take<br /> +None but a fool supposes<br /> + Love always keeps awake.<br /> +I’ve known loves without number—<br /> + True loves were they, and tried;<br /> +And just for want of slumber<br /> + They pined away and died.</p> +<p class="poetry">Our love was bright and cheerful<br /> + A little while agone;<br /> +Now he is pale and tearful,<br /> + And—yes, I’ve seen him yawn.<br /> +So tired is he of kisses<br /> + That he can only weep;<br /> +The one dear thing he misses<br /> + And longs for now is sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>We could not let him leave us<br /> + One time, he was so dear,<br /> +But now it would not grieve us<br /> + If he slept half a year.<br /> +For he has had his season,<br /> + Like the lily and the rose,<br /> +And it but stands to reason<br /> + That he should want repose.</p> +<p class="poetry">We prized the smiling Cupid<br /> + Who made our days so bright;<br /> +But he has grown so stupid<br /> + We gladly say good-night.<br /> +And if he wakens tender<br /> + And fond, and fair as when<br /> +He filled our lives with splendour,<br /> + We’ll take him back again.</p> +<p class="poetry">And should he never waken,<br /> + As that perchance may be,<br /> +We will not weep forsaken,<br /> + But sing, “Love, tra-la-lee!”</p> +<h2><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>TRUE +CULTURE</h2> +<p class="poetry">The highest culture is to speak no ill,<br /> +The best reformer is the man whose eyes<br /> +Are quick to see all beauty and all worth;<br /> +And by his own discreet, well-ordered life,<br /> +Alone reproves the erring.</p> +<p class="poetry"> When thy +gaze<br /> +Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe.<br /> +But when it falls upon a fellow-man<br /> +Let kindliness control it; and refrain<br /> +From that belittling censure that springs forth<br /> +From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.</p> +<h2><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>THE +VOLUPTUARY</h2> +<p class="poetry">Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated,<br /> + Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified.<br /> +Life holds no thing to be anticipated,<br /> + And I am sad from being satisfied.</p> +<p class="poetry">The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain<br /> + Has left me now the highest point is gained.<br /> +The crystal spray that fell from Fame’s fair fountain<br /> + Was sweeter than the waters were when drained.</p> +<p class="poetry">The gilded apple which the world calls +pleasure,<br /> + And which I purchased with my youth and strength,<br +/> +Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasure<br /> + Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length.</p> +<p class="poetry">And love, all glowing with a golden glory,<br +/> + Delighted me a season with its tale.<br /> +It pleased the longest, but at last the story,<br /> + So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>I lived for self, and all I asked was given,<br /> + I have had all, and now am sick of bliss,<br /> +No other punishment designed by Heaven<br /> + Could strike me half so forcibly as this.</p> +<p class="poetry">I feel no sense of aught but enervation<br /> + In all the joys my selfish aims have brought,<br /> +And know no wish but for annihilation,<br /> + Since that would give me freedom from the +thought</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated;<br +/> + Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.<br /> +For him there is a hope not yet completed;<br /> + For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">But cursed is he who has no balked ambition,<br +/> + No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair,<br /> +But sick and sated with complete fruition,<br /> + Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.</p> +<h2><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>THE +COQUETTE</h2> +<p class="poetry">Alone she sat with her accusing heart,<br /> + That, like a restless comrade, frightened sleep,<br +/> +And every thought that found her left a dart<br /> + That hurt her so, she could not even weep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her heart that once had been a cup well +filled<br /> + With love’s red wine, save for some drops of +gall,<br /> +She knew was empty; though it had not spilled<br /> + Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.</p> +<p class="poetry">She stood upon the grave of her dead truth,<br +/> + And saw her soul’s bright armour red with +rust,<br /> +And knew that all the riches of her youth<br /> + Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love that had turned to bitter, biting +scorn,<br /> + Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate,<br +/> +Made her cry out that she was ever born<br /> + To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.</p> +<h2><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>IF</h2> +<p class="poetry">Dear love, if you and I could sail away,<br /> + With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled,<br /> +Across the waters of some unknown bay,<br /> + And find some island far from all the world;</p> +<p class="poetry">If we could dwell there, ever more alone,<br /> + While unrecorded years slip by apace,<br /> +Forgetting and forgotten and unknown<br /> + By aught save native song-birds of the place;</p> +<p class="poetry">If Winter never visited that land,<br /> + And Summer’s lap spilled o’er with +fruits and flowers,<br /> +And tropic trees cast shade on every hand,<br /> + And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting +bowers;</p> +<p class="poetry">If from the fashions of the world set free,<br +/> + And hid away from all its jealous strife,<br /> +I lived alone for you, and you for me—<br /> + Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>But since we dwell here in the crowded way,<br /> + Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold,<br +/> +And all is commonplace and workaday,<br /> + As soon as love’s young honeymoon grows +old;</p> +<p class="poetry">Since fashion rules and nature yields to +art,<br /> + And life is hurt by daily jar and fret,<br /> +’Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart<br /> + And go our ways alone, love, and forget.</p> +<h2><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>LOVE’S BURIAL</h2> +<p class="poetry">Let us clear a little space,<br /> +And make Love a burial-place.</p> +<p class="poetry">He is dead, dear, as you see,<br /> +And he wearies you and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Growing heavier, day by day,<br /> +Let us bury him, I say.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wings of dead white butterflies,<br /> +These shall shroud him, as he lies</p> +<p class="poetry">In his casket rich and rare,<br /> +Made of finest maiden-hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">With the pollen of the rose<br /> +Let us his white eyelids close.</p> +<p class="poetry">Put the rose thorn in his hand,<br /> +Shorn of leaves—you understand.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let some holy water fall<br /> +On his dead face, tears of gall—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span>As we kneel by him and say,<br /> +“Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust,<br /> +They will lower him to the dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let us part here with a kiss—<br /> +You go that way, I go this.</p> +<p class="poetry">Since we buried Love to-day<br /> +We will walk a separate way.</p> +<h2><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>LIPPO</h2> +<p class="poetry">Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so,<br +/> +I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise;<br /> +Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes—<br /> +’Twas thine own hand which dealt dear<br /> +Love’s death-blow.</p> +<p class="poetry">I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till +then<br /> +Thy heart was like a covered golden cup<br /> +Always above my eager lip held up.<br /> +I fancied thou wert not as other men.</p> +<p class="poetry">I knew that heart was filled with Love’s +sweet wine,<br /> +Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip<br /> +Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip<br /> +Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup +spilled<br /> +Its precious contents. Even to the lees<br /> +Were offered to me, saying, “Drink of these!”<br /> +And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>No word was left unsaid, no act undone,<br /> +To prove to me thou wert my abject slave.<br /> +Ah! Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save<br /> +One little drop of that sweet wine—but one—</p> +<p class="poetry">I still had loved thee, longing for it then.<br +/> +But even the cup is mine. I look within,<br /> +And find it holds not one last drop to win,<br /> +And cast it down.—Thou art as other men.</p> +<h2><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>“LOVE IS ENOUGH”</h2> +<p class="poetry">Love is enough. Let us not ask for +gold.<br /> + Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and +selfishness;<br /> +In those serene, Arcadian days of old<br /> + Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress,<br +/> +The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia’s height<br /> +Lived only for dear love and love’s delight.<br /> + Love is +enough.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love is enough. Why should we care for +fame?<br /> + Ambition is a most unpleasant guest:<br /> +It lures us with the glory of a name<br /> + Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest.<br /> +Let us stay here in this secluded place<br /> +Made beautiful by love’s endearing grace!<br /> + Love is +enough.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love is enough. Why should we strive for +power?<br /> + It brings men only envy and distrust.<br /> +The poor world’s homage pleases but an hour,<br /> + And earthly honours vanish in the dust.<br /> +<a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>The +grandest lives are ofttimes desolate;<br /> +Let me be loved, and let who will be great.<br /> + Love is +enough.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love is enough. Why should we ask for +more?<br /> + What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?<br /> +What better boon of all their precious store<br /> + Than our fond hearts that love and love again?<br /> +Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;<br /> +And life is fair and all the world complete:<br /> + Love is +enough!</p> +<h2><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>LIFE +IS LOVE</h2> +<p class="poetry">Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?<br /> + Does anyone weep on a day like this,<br /> +With the sun above and the green earth under?<br /> + Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?</p> +<p class="poetry">With the sun and the skies and the birds above +me,<br /> + Birds that sing as they wheel and fly—<br /> +With the winds to follow and say they loved me—<br /> + Who could be lonely? O ho, not I!</p> +<p class="poetry">Somebody said in the street this morning,<br /> + As I opened my window to let in the light,<br /> +That the darkest day of the world was dawning;<br /> + But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight</p> +<p class="poetry">One who claims that he knows about it<br /> + Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin;<br /> +But I and the bees and the birds—we doubt it,<br /> + And think it a world worth living in.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>Someone says that hearts are fickle,<br /> + That love is sorrow, that life is care,<br /> +And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle,<br /> + Gathers whatever is bright and fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">I told the thrush, and we laughed +together—<br /> + Laughed till the woods were all a-ring;<br /> +And he said to me, as he plumed each feather,<br /> + “Well, people must croak, if they cannot +sing!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Up he flew, but his song, remaining,<br /> + Rang like a bell in my heart all day,<br /> +And silenced the voices of weak complaining<br /> + That pipe like insects along the way.</p> +<p class="poetry">O world of light, and O world of beauty!<br /> + Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?<br /> +Yes, life is love, and love is duty;<br /> + And what heart sorrows? O no, not mine!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>THE END</b></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BILLING AND +SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD</span></p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAURINE***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 3665-h.htm or 3665-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/6/6/3665 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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