Transcribed from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                          [Picture: Book cover]





                                 MAURINE
                             And Other Poems


                                    BY
                           ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

                                * * * * *

                 _Popular Edition_, _with many New Poems_

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                          GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
                12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
                                  LONDON

                                   1910

                          _All rights reserved_

                                * * * * *




CONTENTS

                                          PAGE
Maurine                                      1
All Roads that Lead to God are Good        129
Dust-sealed                                131
“Advice”                                   133
Over the Banisters                         135
The Past                                   137
Secrets                                    138
Applause                                   139
The Story                                  140
Lean Down                                  142
Life                                       144
The Christian’s New Year Prayer            145
In the Night                               147
God’s Measure                              149
A March Snow                               150
Philosophy                                 151
“Carlos”                                   152
The Two Glasses                            155
La Mort d’Amour                            158
Love’s Sleep                               160
True Culture                               162
The Voluptuary                             163
The Coquette                               165
If                                         166
Love’s Burial                              168
Lippo                                      170
“Love is Enough”                           172
Life is Love                               174




MAURINE


PART I


   I sat and sewed, and sang some tender tune,
   Oh, beauteous was that morn in early June!
   Mellow with sunlight, and with blossoms fair:
   The climbing rose-tree grew about me there,
   And checked with shade the sunny portico
   Where, morns like this, I came to read, or sew.

   I heard the gate click, and a firm, quick tread
   Upon the walk.  No need to turn my head;
   I would mistake, and doubt my own voice sounding,
   Before his step upon the gravel bounding.
   In an unstudied attitude of grace,
   He stretched his comely form; and from his face
   He tossed the dark, damp curls; and at my knees,
   With his broad hat he fanned the lazy breeze,
   And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes,
   Of that strange hue we see in ocean dyes,
   And call it blue sometimes and sometimes green,
   And save in poet eyes, not elsewhere seen.
   “Lest I should meet with my fair lady’s scorning,
   For calling quite so early in the morning,
   I’ve brought a passport that can never fail,”
   He said, and, laughing, laid the morning mail
   Upon my lap.  “I’m welcome? so I thought!
   I’ll figure by the letters that I brought
   How glad you are to see me.  Only one?
   And that one from a lady?  I’m undone!
   That, lightly skimmed, you’ll think me _such_ a bore,
   And wonder why I did not bring you four.
   It’s ever thus: a woman cannot get
   So many letters that she will not fret
   O’er one that did not come.”
            “I’ll prove you wrong,”
   I answered gaily, “here upon the spot!
   This little letter, precious if not long,
   Is just the one, of all you might have brought,
   To please me.  You have heard me speak, I’m sure,
   Of Helen Trevor: she writes here to say
   She’s coming out to see me; and will stay
   Till Autumn, maybe.  She is, like her note,
   Petite and dainty, tender, loving, pure.
   You’d know her by a letter that she wrote,
   For a sweet tinted thing.  ’Tis always so:—
   Letters all blots, though finely written, show
   A slovenly person.  Letters stiff and white
   Bespeak a nature honest, plain, upright.
   And tissuey, tinted, perfumed notes, like this,
   Tell of a creature formed to pet and kiss.”
   My listener heard me with a slow, odd smile;
   Stretched in abandon at my feet, the while,
   He fanned me idly with his broad-brimmed hat.
   “Then all young ladies must be formed for that!”
   He laughed, and said.
            “Their letters read, and look,
   As like as twenty copies of one book.
   They’re written in a dainty, spider scrawl,
   To ‘darling, precious Kate,’ or ‘Fan,’ or ‘Moll.’
   The ‘dearest, sweetest’ friend they ever had.
   They say they ‘want to see you, oh, so bad!’
   Vow they’ll ‘forget you, never, _never_, oh!’
   And then they tell about a splendid beau—
   A lovely hat—a charming dress, and send
   A little scrap of this to every friend.
   And then to close, for lack of something better,
   They beg you’ll ‘read and burn this horrid letter.’”

   He watched me, smiling.  He was prone to vex
   And hector me with flings upon my sex.
   He liked, he said, to have me flash and frown,
   So he could tease me, and then laugh me down.
   My storms of wrath amused him very much:
   He liked to see me go off at a touch;
   Anger became me—made my colour rise,
   And gave an added lustre to my eyes.
   So he would talk—and so he watched me now,
   To see the hot flush mantle cheek and brow.
   Instead, I answered coolly, with a smile,
   Felling a seam with utmost care, meanwhile.
   “The caustic tongue of Vivian Dangerfield
   Is barbed as ever, for my sex, this morn.
   Still unconvinced, no smallest point I yield.
   Woman I love, and trust, despite your scorn.
   There is some truth in what you say?  Well, yes!
   Your statements usually hold more or less.
   Some women write weak letters—(some men do;)
   Some make professions, knowing them untrue.
   And woman’s friendship, in the time of need,
   I own, too often proves a broken reed.
   But I believe, and ever will contend,
   Woman can be a sister woman’s friend,
   Giving from out her large heart’s bounteous store
   A living love—claiming to do no more
   Than, through and by that love, she knows she can:
   And living by her professions, _like a man_.
   And such a tie, true friendship’s silken tether,
   Binds Helen Trevor’s heart and mine together.
   I love her for her beauty, meekness, grace;
   For her white lily soul and angel face.
   She loves me, for my greater strength, maybe;
   Loves—and would give her heart’s best blood for me.
   And I, to save her from a pain, or cross,
   Would suffer any sacrifice or loss.
   Such can be woman’s friendship for another.
   Could man give more, or ask more from a brother?”

   I paused: and Vivian leaned his massive head
   Against the pillar of the portico,
   Smiled his slow, sceptic smile, then laughed, and said:
   “Nay, surely not—if what you say be so.
   You’ve made a statement, but no proof’s at hand.
   Wait—do not flash your eyes so!  Understand
   I think you quite sincere in what you say:
   You love your friend, and she loves you, to-day;
   But friendship is not friendship at the best
   Till circumstances put it to the test.
   Man’s, less demonstrative, stands strain and tear,
   While woman’s, half profession, fails to wear.
   Two women love each other passing well—
   Say Helen Trevor and Maurine La Pelle,
   Just for example.
            Let them daily meet
   At ball and concert, in the church and street,
   They kiss and coo, they visit, chat, caress;
   Their love increases, rather than grows less;
   And all goes well, till ‘Helen dear’ discovers
   That ‘Maurine darling’ wins too many lovers.

   And then her ‘precious friend,’ her ‘pet,’ her ‘sweet,’
   Becomes a ‘minx,’ a ‘creature all deceit.’
   Let Helen smile too oft on Maurine’s beaux,
   Or wear more stylish or becoming clothes,
   Or sport a hat that has a longer feather—
   And lo! the strain has broken ‘friendship’s tether.’
   Maurine’s sweet smile becomes a frown or pout;
   ‘She’s just begun to find that Helen out.’
   The breach grows wider—anger fills each heart;
   They drift asunder, whom ‘but death could part.’
   You shake your head?  Oh, well, we’ll never know!
   It is not likely Fate will test you so.
   You’ll live, and love; and, meeting twice a year,
   While life shall last, you’ll hold each other dear.
   I pray it may be so; it were not best
   To shake your faith in woman by the test.
   Keep your belief, and nurse it while you can.
   I’ve faith in woman’s friendship too—for man!
   They’re true as steel, as mothers, friends, and wives:
   And that’s enough to bless us all our lives.
   That man’s a selfish fellow, and a bore,
   Who is unsatisfied and asks for more.”

   “But there is need of more!” I here broke in.
   “I hold that woman guilty of a sin,
   Who would not cling to, and defend another,
   As nobly as she would stand by a brother.
   Who would not suffer for a sister’s sake,
   And, were there need to prove her friendship, make
   ‘Most any sacrifice, nor count the cost.
   Who would not do this for a friend is lost
   To every nobler principle.”
            “Shame, shame!”
   Cried Vivian, laughing, “for you now defame
   The whole sweet sex; since there’s not one would do
   The thing you name, nor would I want her to.
   I love the sex.  My mother was a woman—
   I hope my wife will be, and wholly human.
   And if she wants to make some sacrifice,
   I’ll think her far more sensible and wise
   To let her husband reap the benefit,
   Instead of some old maid or senseless chit.
   Selfish?  Of course!  I hold all love is so:
   And I shall love my wife right well, I know.
   Now there’s a point regarding selfish love,
   You thirst to argue with me, and disprove.
   But since these cosy hours will soon be gone,
   And all our meetings broken in upon,
   No more of these rare moments must be spent
   In vain discussions, or in argument.
   I wish Miss Trevor was in—Jericho!
   (You see the selfishness begins to show.)
   She wants to see you?—So do I: but she
   Will gain her wish, by taking you from me.
   ‘Come all the same?’ that means I’ll be allowed
   To realize that ‘three can make a crowd.’
   I do not like to feel myself _de trop_.
   With two girl cronies would I not be so?
   My ring would interrupt some private chat.
   You’d ask me in and take my cane and hat,
   And speak about the lovely summer day,
   And think—‘The lout!  I wish he’d kept away.’
   Miss Trevor’d smile, but just to hide a pout
   And count the moments till I was shown out.
   And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing
   That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing,
   No, thanks, Maurine!  The iron hand of Fate,
   (Or otherwise Miss Trevor’s dainty fingers,)
   Will bar my entrance into Eden’s gate;
   And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers
   At heaven’s portal, paying the price of sin,
   Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in.”

   He looked so melancholy sitting there,
   I laughed outright.  “How well you act a part;
   You look the very picture of despair!
   You’ve missed your calling, sir! suppose you start
   Upon a starring tour, and carve your name
   With Booth’s and Barrett’s on the heights of Fame
   But now, tabooing nonsense, I shall send
   For you to help me entertain my friend,
   Unless you come without it.  ‘Cronies?’  True,
   Wanting our ‘private chats’ as cronies do.
   And we’ll take those, while you are reading Greek,
   Or writing ‘Lines to Dora’s brow’ or ‘cheek.’
   But when you have an hour or two of leisure,
   Call as you now do, and afford like pleasure.
   For never yet did heaven’s sun shine on,
   Or stars discover, that phenomenon,
   In any country, or in any clime:
   Two maids so bound, by ties of mind and heart,
   They did not feel the heavy weight of time
   In weeks of scenes wherein no man took part.
   God made the sexes to associate:
   Nor law of man, nor stern decree of Fate,
   Can ever undo what His hand has done,
   And, quite alone, make happy either one.
   My Helen is an only child:—a pet
   Of loving parents: and she never yet
   Has been denied one boon for which she pleaded.
   A fragile thing, her lightest wish was heeded.
   Would she pluck roses?  They must first be shorn,
   By careful hands, of every hateful thorn,
   And loving eyes must scan the pathway where
   Her feet may tread, to see no stones are there.
   She’ll grow dull here, in this secluded nook,
   Unless you aid me in the pleasant task
   Of entertaining.  Drop in with your book—
   Read, talk, sing for her sometimes.  What I ask,
   Do once, to please me: then there’ll be no need
   For me to state the case again, or plead.
   There’s nothing like a woman’s grace and beauty
   To waken mankind to a sense of duty.”

   “I bow before the mandate of my queen:
   Your slightest wish is law, Ma Belle Maurine,”
   He answered, smiling, “I’m at your command;
   Point but one lily finger, or your wand,
   And you will find a willing slave obeying.
   There goes my dinner bell!  I hear it saying
   I’ve spent two hours here, lying at your feet,
   Not profitable, maybe—surely sweet.
   All time is money; now were I to measure
   The time I spend here by its solid pleasure,
   And that were coined in dollars, then I’ve laid
   Each day a fortune at your feet, fair maid.
   There goes that bell again!  I’ll say good-bye,
   Or clouds will shadow my domestic sky.
   I’ll come again, as you would have me do,
   And see your friend, while she is seeing you.
   That’s like by proxy being at a feast;
   Unsatisfactory, to say the least.”

   He drew his fine shape up, and trod the land
   With kingly grace.  Passing the gate, his hand
   He lightly placed the garden wall upon,
   Leaped over like a leopard, and was gone.

   And, going, took the brightness from the place,
   Yet left the June day with a sweeter grace,
   And my young soul, so steeped in happy dreams,
   Heaven itself seemed shown to me in gleams.
   There is a time with lovers, when the heart
   First slowly rouses from its dreamless sleep,
   To all the tumult of a passion life,
   Ere yet have wakened jealousy and strife.
   Just as a young, untutored child will start
   Out of a long hour’s slumber, sound and deep,
   And lie and smile with rosy lips and cheeks,
   In a sweet, restful trance, before it speaks.
   A time when yet no word the spell has broken,
   Save what the heart unto the soul has spoken,
   In quickened throbs, and sighs but half suppressed
   A time when that sweet truth, all unconfessed,
   Gives added fragrance to the summer flowers,
   A golden glory to the passing hours,
   A hopeful beauty to the plainest face,
   And lends to life a new and tender grace.
   When the full heart has climbed the heights of bliss,
   And, smiling, looks back o’er the golden past,
   I think it finds no sweeter hour than this
   In all love-life.  For, later, when the last
   Translucent drop o’erflows the cup of joy,
   And love, more mighty than the heart’s control,
   Surges in words of passion from the soul,
   And vows are asked and given, shadows rise
   Like mists before the sun in noonday skies,
   Vague fears, that prove the brimming cup’s alloy;
   A dread of change—the crowning moment’s curse,
   Since what is perfect, change but renders worse:
   A vain desire to cripple Time, who goes
   Bearing our joys away, and bringing woes.
   And later, doubts and jealousies awaken,
   And plighted hearts are tempest-tossed and shaken.
   Doubt sends a test, that goes a step too far,
   A wound is made, that, healing, leaves a scar,
   Or one heart, full with love’s sweet satisfaction,
   Thinks truth once spoken always understood,
   While one is pining for the tender action
   And whispered word by which, of old, ’twas wooed.

   But this blest hour, in love’s glad, golden day,
   Is like the dawning, ere the radiant ray
   Of glowing Sol has burst upon the eye,
   But yet is heralded in earth and sky,
   Warm with its fervour, mellow with its light,
   While Care still slumbers in the arms of night.
   But Hope, awake, hears happy birdlings sing,
   And thinks of all a summer day may bring.

   In this sweet calm, my young heart lay at rest,
   Filled with a blissful sense of peace; nor guessed
   That sullen clouds were gathering in the skies
   To hide the glorious sun, ere it should rise.



PART II


   To little birds that never tire of humming
   About the garden in the summer weather,
   Aunt Ruth compared us, after Helen’s coming,
   As we two roamed, or sat and talked together.
   Twelve months apart, we had so much to say
   Of school days gone—and time since passed away;
   Of that old friend, and this; of what we’d done;
   Of how our separate paths in life had run;
   Of what we would do, in the coming years;
   Of plans and castles, hopes and dreams and fears.
   All these, and more, as soon as we found speech,
   We touched upon, and skimmed from this to that.
   But at the first each only gazed on each,
   And, dumb with joy, that did not need a voice
   Like lesser joys, to say, “Lo!  I rejoice,”
   With smiling eyes and clasping hands we sat
   Wrapped in that peace, felt but with those dear,
   Contented just to know each other near.
   But when this silent eloquence gave place
   To words, ’twas like the rising of a flood
   Above a dam.  We sat there, face to face,
   And let our talk glide on where’er it would,
   Speech never halting in its speed or zest,
   Save when our rippling laughter let it rest;
   Just as a stream will sometimes pause and play
   About a bubbling spring, then dash away.
   No wonder, then, the third day’s sun was nigh
   Up to the zenith when my friend and I
   Opened our eyes from slumber long and deep:
   Nature demanding recompense for hours
   Spent in the portico, among the flowers,
   Halves of two nights we should have spent in sleep.

   So this third day, we breakfasted at one:
   Then walked about the garden in the sun,
   Hearing the thrushes and the robins sing,
   And looking to see what buds were opening.

   The clock chimed three, and we yet strayed at will
   About the yard in morning dishabille,
   When Aunt Ruth came, with apron o’er her head,
   Holding a letter in her hand, and said,
   “Here is a note, from Vivian I opine;
   At least his servant brought it.  And now, girls,
   You may think this is no concern of mine,
   But in my day young ladies did not go
   Till almost bed-time roaming to and fro
   In morning wrappers, and with tangled curls,
   The very pictures of forlorn distress.
   ’Tis three o’clock, and time for you to dress.
   Come! read your note and hurry in, Maurine,
   And make yourself fit object to be seen.”

   Helen was bending o’er an almond bush,
   And ere she looked up I had read the note,
   And calmed my heart, that, bounding, sent a flush
   To brow and cheek, at sight of aught _he_ wrote.
   “Ma Belle Maurine:” (so Vivian’s billet ran,)
   “Is it not time I saw your cherished guest?
   ‘Pity the sorrows of a poor young man,’
   Banished from all that makes existence blest.
   I’m dying to see—your friend; and I will come
   And pay respects, hoping you’ll be at home
   To-night at eight.  Expectantly, V. D.”

   Inside my belt I slipped the billet, saying,
   “Helen, go make yourself most fair to see:
   Quick! hurry now! no time for more delaying!
   In just five hours a caller will be here,
   And you must look your prettiest, my dear!
   Begin your toilet right away.  I know
   How long it takes you to arrange each bow—
   To twist each curl, and loop your skirts aright.
   And you must prove you are _au fait_ to-night,
   And make a perfect toilet: for our caller
   Is man, and critic, poet, artist, scholar,
   And views with eyes of all.”
            “Oh, oh!  Maurine,”
   Cried Helen with a well-feigned look of fear,
   “You’ve frightened me so I shall not appear:
   I’ll hide away, refusing to be seen
   By such an ogre.  Woe is me! bereft
   Of all my friends, my peaceful home I’ve left,
   And strayed away into the dreadful wood
   To meet the fate of poor Red Riding Hood.
   No, Maurine, no! you’ve given me such a fright,
   I’ll not go near your ugly wolf to-night.”

   Meantime we’d left the garden; and I stood
   In Helen’s room, where she had thrown herself
   Upon a couch, and lay, a winsome elf,
   Pouting and smiling, cheek upon her arm,
   Not in the least a portrait of alarm.
   “Now, sweet!” I coaxed, and knelt by her, “be good!
   Go curl your hair; and please your own Maurine,
   By putting on that lovely grenadine.
   Not wolf, nor ogre, neither Caliban,
   Nor Mephistopheles, you’ll meet to-night,
   But what the ladies call ‘a nice young man’!
   Yet one worth knowing—strong with health and might
   Of perfect manhood; gifted, noble, wise;
   Moving among his kind with loving eyes,
   And helpful hand; progressive, brave, refined,
   After the image of his Maker’s mind.”

   “Now, now, Maurine!” cried Helen, “I believe
   It is your lover coming here this eve.
   Why have you never written of him, pray?
   Is the day set?—and when?  Say, Maurine, say!”

   Had I betrayed by some too fervent word
   The secret love that all my being stirred?
   My lover?  Ay!  My heart proclaimed him so;
   But first _his_ lips must win the sweet confession,
   Ere even Helen be allowed to know.
   I must straightway erase the slight impression
   Made by the words just uttered.
            “Foolish child!”
   I gaily cried, “your fancy’s straying wild.
   Just let a girl of eighteen hear the name
   Of maid and youth uttered about one time,
   And off her fancy goes, at break-neck pace,
   Defying circumstances, reason, space—
   And straightway builds romances so sublime
   They put all Shakespeare’s dramas to the shame.
   This Vivian Dangerfield is neighbour, friend,
   And kind companion; bringing books and flowers.
   And, by his thoughtful actions without end,
   Helping me pass some otherwise long hours;
   But he has never breathed a word of love.
   If you still doubt me, listen while I prove
   My statement by the letter that he wrote.
   ‘Dying to meet—my friend!’ (she could not see
   The dash between that meant so much to me).
   ‘Will come this eve, at eight, and hopes we may
   Be in to greet him.’  Now I think you’ll say
   ’Tis not much like a lover’s tender note.”

   We laugh, we jest, not meaning what we say;
   We hide our thoughts, by light words lightly spoken,
   And pass on heedless, till we find one day
   They’ve bruised our hearts, or left some other broken.

   I sought my room, and trilling some blithe air,
   Opened my wardrobe, wondering what to wear.
   Momentous question! femininely human!
   More than all others, vexing mind of woman,
   Since that sad day, when in her discontent,
   To search for leaves, our fair first mother went.
   All undecided what I should put on,
   At length I made selection of a lawn—
   White, with a tiny pink vine overrun:—
   My simplest robe, but Vivian’s favourite one.
   And placing a single flowret in my hair,
   I crossed the hall to Helen’s chamber, where
   I found her with her fair locks all let down,
   Brushing the kinks out, with a pretty frown.
   ’Twas like a picture, or a pleasing play,
   To watch her make her toilet.  She would stand,
   And turn her head first this, and then that way,
   Trying effect of ribbon, bow or band.
   Then she would pick up something else, and curve
   Her lovely neck, with cunning, bird-like grace,
   And watch the mirror while she put it on,
   With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face;
   And then to view it all would sway and swerve
   Her lithe young body, like a graceful swan.

   Helen was over medium height, and slender
   Even to frailty.  Her great, wistful eyes
   Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies;
   And through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender.
   Her long, light hair was lustreless, except
   Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams slept,
   And on the earlocks; and she looped the curls
   Back with a shell comb, studded thick with pearls,
   Costly yet simple.  Her pale loveliness,
   That night, was heightened by her rich, black dress,
   That trailed behind her, leaving half in sight
   Her taper arms, and shoulders marble white.

   I was not tall as Helen, and my face
   Was shaped and coloured like my grandsire’s race;
   For through his veins my own received the warm,
   Red blood of Southern France, which curved my form,
   And glowed upon my cheek in crimson dyes,
   And bronzed my hair, and darkled in my eyes.
   And as the morning trails the skirts of night,
   And dusky night puts on the garb of morn,
   And walk together when the day is born,
   So we two glided down the hall and stair,
   Arm clasping arm, into the parlour, where
   Sat Vivian, bathed in sunset’s gorgeous light.
   He rose to greet us.  Oh! his form was grand;
   And he possessed that power, strange, occult,
   Called magnetism, lacking better word,
   Which moves the world, achieving great result
   Where genius fails completely.  Touch his hand,
   It thrilled through all your being—meet his eye,
   And you were moved, yet knew not how, or why.
   Let him but rise, you felt the air was stirred
   By an electric current.

            This strange force
   Is mightier than genius.  Rightly used,
   It leads to grand achievements; all things yield
   Before its mystic presence, and its field
   Is broad as earth and heaven.  But abused,
   It sweeps like a poison simoon on its course,
   Bearing miasma in its scorching breath,
   And leaving all it touches struck with death.

   Far-reaching science shall yet tear away
   The mystic garb that hides it from the day,
   And drag it forth and bind it with its laws,
   And make it serve the purposes of men,
   Guided by common-sense and reason.  Then
   We’ll hear no more of séance, table-rapping,
   And all that trash, o’er which the world is gaping,
   Lost in effect, while science seeks the cause.

   Vivian was not conscious of his power:
   Or, if he was, knew not its full extent.
   He knew his glance would make a wild beast cower,
   And yet he knew not that his large eyes sent
   Into the heart of woman the same thrill
   That made the lion servant of his will.
   And even strong men felt it.

            He arose,
   Reached forth his hand, and in it clasped my own,
   While I held Helen’s; and he spoke some word
   Of pleasant greeting in his low, round tone,
   Unlike all other voices I have heard.
   Just as the white cloud, at the sunrise, glows
   With roseate colours, so the pallid hue
   Of Helen’s cheek, like tinted sea-shells grew.
   Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such
   Was the all-mast’ring magic of his touch.
   Then we sat down, and talked about the weather,
   The neighbourhood—some author’s last new book.
   But, when I could, I left the two together
   To make acquaintance, saying I must look
   After the chickens—my especial care;
   And ran away and left them, laughing, there.

   Knee-deep, through clover, to the poplar grove,
   I waded, where my pets were wont to rove:
   And there I found the foolish mother hen
   Brooding her chickens underneath a tree,
   An easy prey for foxes.  “Chick-a-dee,”
   Quoth I, while reaching for the downy things
   That, chirping, peeped from out the mother-wings,
   “How very human is your folly!  When
   There waits a haven, pleasant, bright, and warm,
   And one to lead you thither from the storm
   And lurking dangers, yet you turn away,
   And, thinking to be your own protector, stray
   Into the open jaws of death: for, see!
   An owl is sitting in this very tree
   You thought safe shelter.  Go now to your pen.”
   And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen,
   So like the human mother here again,
   Moaning because a strong, protecting arm
   Would shield her little ones from cold and harm,
   I carried back my garden hat brimful
   Of chirping chickens, like white balls of wool
   And snugly housed them.

            And just then I heard
   A sound like gentle winds among the trees,
   Or pleasant waters in the summer, stirred
   And set in motion by a passing breeze.
   ’Twas Helen singing: and, as I drew near,
   Another voice, a tenor full and clear,
   Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite,
   And flow on stronger in their wedded might.

   It was a way of Helen’s, not to sing
   The songs that other people sang.  She took
   Sometimes an extract from an ancient book;
   Again some floating, fragmentary thing.
   And such she fitted to old melodies,
   Or else composed the music.  One of these
   She sang that night; and Vivian caught the strain,
   And joined her in the chorus, or refrain,


SONG.


   Oh thou, mine other, stronger part!
      Whom yet I cannot hear, or see,
   Come thou, and take this loving heart,
      That longs to yield its all to thee,
      I call mine own—oh, come to me!
      Love, answer back, I come to thee,
               I come to thee.

   This hungry heart, so warm, so large,
      Is far too great a care for me.
   I have grown weary of the charge
      I keep so sacredly for thee.
      Come thou, and take my heart from me.
      Love, answer back, I come to thee,
               I come to thee.

   I am a-weary, waiting here
      For one who tarries long from me.
   Oh! art thou far, or art thou near?
      And must I still be sad for thee?
      Or wilt thou straightway come to me?
      Love, answer, I am near to thee,
               I come to thee.

   The melody, so full of plaintive chords,
   Sobbed into silence—echoing down the strings
   Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings.
   Vivian had leaned upon the instrument
   The while they sang.  But, as he spoke those words,
   “Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee,”
   He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent
   His lustrous, soulful, speaking gaze on me.
   And my young heart, eager to own its king,
   Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light
   Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek
   Hope’s rose-hued flag.  There was no need to speak
   I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen.  “Sing
   That song you sang a fragment of one night
   Out on the porch, beginning, ‘Praise me not,’”
   I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone
   Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught
   From some sad passing breeze, and made her own,
   The echo of the wind-harp’s sighing strain,
   Or the soft music of the falling rain.


SONG.


   O praise me not with your lips, dear one!
      Though your tender words I prize.
   But dearer by far is the soulful gaze
      Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes,
            Your tender, loving eyes.

   O chide me not with your lips, dear one!
      Though I cause your bosom sighs.
   You can make repentance deeper far
      By your sad, reproving eyes,
            Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.

   Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;
      Above, in the beaming skies,
   The constant stars say never a word,
      But only smile with their eyes—
            Smile on with their lustrous eyes.

   Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one;
      On the wingèd wind speech flies.
   But I read the truth of your noble heart
      In your soulful, speaking eyes—
            In your deep and beautiful eyes.

   The twilight darkened, round us, in the room,
   While Helen sang; and, in the gathering gloom,
   Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his,
   And held it so; while Helen made the air
   Languid with music.  Then a step drew near,
   And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell:
               “Dear! dear!
   Why, Maurie, Helen, children! how is this?
   I hear you, but you have no light in there.
   Your room is dark as Egypt.  What a way
   For folks to visit!  Maurie, go, I pray,
   And order lamps.”
            And so there came a light,
   And all the sweet dreams hovering around
   The twilight shadows flitted in affright:
   And e’en the music had a harsher sound.
   In pleasant converse passed an hour away:
   And Vivian planned a picnic for next day—
   A drive the next, and rambles without end,
   That he might help me entertain my friend.
   And then he rose, bowed low, and passed from sight,
   Like some great star that drops out from the night;
   And Helen watched him through the shadows go,
   And turned and said, her voice subdued and low,
   “How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine,
   A grander man I never yet have seen.”



PART III


   One golden twelfth-part of a checkered year;
   One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirth,
   With not a hint of shadows lurking near,
   Or storm-clouds brewing.

               ’Twas a royal day:
   Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth,
   With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast,
   And twined herself about him, as he lay
   Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest.
   She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace,
   And hid him with her trailing robe of green,
   And wound him in her long hair’s shimmering sheen,
   And rained her ardent kisses on his face.
   Through the glad glory of the summer land
   Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand.
   In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat-field,
   White with the promise of a bounteous yield,
   Across the late shorn meadow—down the hill,
   Red with the tiger-lily blossoms, till
   We stood upon the borders of the lake,
   That like a pretty, placid infant, slept
   Low at its base: and little ripples crept
   Along its surface, just as dimples chase
   Each other o’er an infant’s sleeping face.
   Helen in idle hours had learned to make
   A thousand pretty, feminine knick-knacks:
   For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands—
   Labour just suited to her dainty hands.
   That morning she had been at work in wax,
   Moulding a wreath of flowers for my room,—
   Taking her patterns from the living blows,
   In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom,
   Fresh from my garden.  Fuchsia, tulip, rose,
   And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch,
   Resembling the living plants as much
   As life is copied in the form of death:
   These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath.

   And now the wreath was all completed, save
   The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom,
   A water-lily, dripping from the wave.
   And ’twas in search of it that we had come
   Down to the lake, and wandered on the beach,
   To see if any lilies grew in reach.
   Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been;
   Some buds, with all their beauties folded in,
   We found, but not the treasure that we sought.
   And then we turned our footsteps to the spot
   Where, all impatient of its chain, my boat,
   The _Swan_, rocked, asking to be set afloat.
   It was a dainty row-boat—strong, yet light;
   Each side a swan was painted snowy white:
   A present from my uncle, just before
   He sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand,
   Where freighted ships go sailing evermore,
   But none return to tell us of the land.
   I freed the _Swan_, and slowly rowed about,
   Wherever sea-weeds, grass, or green leaves lifted
   Their tips above the water.  So we drifted,
   While Helen, opposite, leaned idly out
   And watched for lilies in the waves below,
   And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air,
   That soothed me like a mother’s lullabies.
   I dropped the oars, and closed my sun-kissed eyes,
   And let the boat go drifting here and there.
   Oh, happy day! the last of that brief time
   Of thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright,
   Ere that disguisèd angel men call Woe
   Leads the sad heart through valleys dark as night,
   Up to the heights exalted and sublime.
   On each blest, happy moment, I am fain
   To linger long, ere I pass on to pain
   And sorrow that succeeded.

            From day-dreams,
   As golden as the summer noontide’s beams,
   I was awakened by a voice that cried:
   “Strange ship, ahoy!  Fair frigate, whither bound?”
   And, starting up, I cast my gaze around,
   And saw a sail-boat o’er the water glide
   Close to the _Swan_, like some live thing of grace;
   And from it looked the glowing, handsome face
   Of Vivian.

         “Beauteous sirens of the sea,
   Come sail across the raging main with me!”
   He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boat
   Beside his own.  “There, now! step in!” he said;
   “I’ll land you anywhere you want to go—
   My boat is safer far than yours, I know:
   And much more pleasant with its sails all spread.
   The _Swan_?  We’ll take the oars, and let it float
   Ashore at leisure.  You, Maurine, sit there—
   Miss Helen here.  Ye gods and little fishes!
   I’ve reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes.
   Adieu despondency! farewell to care!”

   ’Twas done so quickly: that was Vivian’s way.
   He did not wait for either yea or nay.
   He gave commands, and left you with no choice
   But just to do the bidding of his voice.
   His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly face
   Lent to his quick imperiousness a grace
   And winning charm, completely stripping it
   Of what might otherwise have seemed unfit.
   Leaving no trace of tyranny, but just
   That nameless force that seemed to say, “You must.”
   Suiting its pretty title of the _Dawn_,
   (So named, he said, that it might rhyme with _Swan_),
   Vivian’s sail-boat was carpeted with blue,
   While all its sails were of a pale rose hue.
   The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze;
   A poet’s fancy in an hour of ease.

   Whatever Vivian had was of the best.
   His room was like some Sultan’s in the East.
   His board was always spread as for a feast,
   Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest.
   He would go hungry sooner than he’d dine
   At his own table if ’twere illy set.
   He so loved things artistic in design—
   Order and beauty, all about him.  Yet
   So kind he was, if it befell his lot
   To dine within the humble peasant’s cot,
   He made it seem his native soil to be,
   And thus displayed the true gentility.

   Under the rosy banners of the _Dawn_,
   Around the lake we drifted on, and on.
   It was a time for dreams, and not for speech.
   And so we floated on in silence, each
   Weaving the fancies suiting such a day.
   Helen leaned idly o’er the sail-boat’s side,
   And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide;
   And I among the cushions half reclined,
   Half sat, and watched the fleecy clouds at play,
   While Vivian with his blank-book, opposite,
   In which he seemed to either sketch or write,
   Was lost in inspiration of some kind.

   No time, no change, no scene, can e’er efface
   My mind’s impression of that hour and place;
   It stands out like a picture.  O’er the years,
   Black with their robes of sorrow—veiled with tears,
   Lying with all their lengthened shapes between,
   Untouched, undimmed, I still behold that scene.
   Just as the last of Indian-summer days,
   Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze,
   Followed by dark and desolate December,
   Through all the months of winter we remember.

   The sun slipped westward.  That peculiar change
   Which creeps into the air, and speaks of night
   While yet the day is full of golden light,
   We felt steal o’er us.
            Vivian broke the spell
   Of dream-fraught silence, throwing down his book:
   “Young ladies, please allow me to arrange
   These wraps about your shoulders.  I know well
   The fickle nature of our atmosphere,—
   Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear,—
   And go prepared for changes.  Now you look,
   Like—like—oh, where’s a pretty simile?
   Had you a pocket mirror here you’d see
   How well my native talent is displayed
   In shawling you.  Red on the brunette maid;
   Blue on the blonde—and quite without design
   (Oh, where _is_ that comparison of mine?)
   Well—like a June rose and a violet blue
   In one bouquet!  I fancy that will do.
   And now I crave your patience and a boon,
   Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme,
   A floating fancy of the summer time.
   ’Tis neither witty, wonderful, nor wise,
   So listen kindly—but don’t criticise
   My maiden effort of the afternoon:

   “If all the ships I have at sea
   Should come a-sailing home to me,
   Ah, well! the harbour could not hold
   So many sails as there would be
   If all my ships came in from sea.

   “If half my ships came home from sea,
   And brought their precious freight to me,
   Ah, well!  I should have wealth as great
   As any king who sits in state—
   So rich the treasures that would be
   In half my ships now out at sea.

   “If just one ship I have at sea
   Should come a-sailing home to me,
   Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown:
   For if the others all went down
   Still rich and proud and glad I’d be,
   If that one ship came back to me.

   “If that one ship went down at sea,
   And all the others came to me,
   Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
   With glory, honour, riches, gold,
   The poorest soul on earth I’d be
   If that one ship came not to me.

   “O skies be calm!  O winds blow free—
   Blow all my ships safe home to me.
   But if thou sendest some a-wrack
   To never more come sailing back,
   Send any—all that skim the sea,
   But bring my love-ship home to me.”

   Helen was leaning by me, and her head
   Rested against my shoulder: as he read,
   I stroked her hair, and watched the fleecy skies,
   And when he finished, did not turn my eyes.
   I felt too happy and too shy to meet
   His gaze just then.  I said, “’Tis very sweet,
   And suits the day; does it not, Helen, dear?”
   But Helen, voiceless, did not seem to hear.
   “’Tis strange,” I added, “how you poets sing
   So feelingly about the very thing
   You care not for! and dress up an ideal
   So well, it looks a living, breathing real!
   Now, to a listener, your love song seemed
   A heart’s out-pouring; yet I’ve heard you say
   Almost the opposite; or that you deemed
   Position, honour, glory, power, fame,
   Gained without loss of conscience or good name,
   The things to live for.”
            “Have you?  Well, you may,”
   Laughed Vivian, “but ’twas years—or months’ ago!
   And Solomon says wise men change, you know!
   I now speak truth! if she I hold most dear
   Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left,
   My heart would find the years more lonely here
   Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,
   And sent, an exile, to a foreign land.”
   His voice was low, and measured: as he spoke,
   New, unknown chords of melody awoke
   Within my soul.  I felt my heart expand
   With that sweet fulness born of love.  I turned
   To hide the blushes on my cheek that burned,
   And leaning over Helen, breathed her name.
   She lay so motionless I thought she slept:
   But, as I spoke, I saw her eyes unclose,
   And o’er her face a sudden glory swept,
   And a slight tremor thrilled all through her frame.
   “Sweet friend,” I said, “your face is full of light:
   What were the dreams that made your eyes so bright?”
   She only smiled for answer, and arose
   From her reclining posture at my side,
   Threw back the clust’ring ringlets from her face
   With a quick gesture, full of easy grace,
   And, turning, spoke to Vivian.  “Will you guide
   The boat up near that little clump of green
   Off to the right?  There’s where the lilies grow.
   We quite forgot our errand here, Maurine,
   And our few moments have grown into hours.
   What will Aunt Ruth think of our ling’ring so?
   There—that will do—now I can reach the flowers.”

   “Hark! just hear that!” and Vivian broke forth singing,
   “‘Row, brothers, row.’  The six o’clock bell’s ringing!
   Who ever knew three hours to go so fast
   In all the annals of the world, before?
   I could have sworn not over one had passed.
   Young ladies, I am forced to go ashore!
   I thank you for the pleasure you have given;
   This afternoon has been a glimpse of heaven.
   Good-night—sweet dreams! and by your gracious leave,
   I’ll pay my compliments to-morrow eve.”

   A smile, a bow, and he had gone his way:
   And, in the waning glory of the day,
   Down cool, green lanes, and through the length’ning shadows,
   Silent, we wandered back across the meadows.
   The wreath was finished, and adorned my room;
   Long afterward, the lilies’ copied bloom
   Was like a horrid spectre in my sight,
   Staring upon me morning, noon, and night.

   The sun went down.  The sad new moon rose up,
   And passed before me like an empty cup,
   The Great Unseen brims full of pain or bliss,
   And gives His children, saying, “Drink of this.”

   A light wind, from the open casement, fanned
   My brow and Helen’s, as we, hand in hand,
   Sat looking out upon the twilight scene,
   In dreamy silence.  Helen’s dark-blue eyes,
   Like two lost stars that wandered from the skies
   Some night adown the meteor’s shining track,
   And always had been grieving to go back,
   Now gazed up, wistfully, at heaven’s dome,
   And seemed to recognise and long for home.
   Her sweet voice broke the silence: “Wish, Maurine,
   Before you speak! you know the moon is new,
   And anything you wish for will come true
   Before it wanes.  I do believe the sign!
   Now tell me your wish, and I’ll tell you mine.”

   I turned and looked up at the slim young moon;
   And, with an almost superstitious heart,
   I sighed, “Oh, new moon! help me, by thine art,
   To grow all grace and goodness, and to be
   Worthy the love a true heart proffers me.”
   Then smiling down, I said, “Dear one! my boon,
   I fear, is quite too silly or too sweet
   For my repeating: so we’ll let it stay
   Between the moon and me.  But if I may
   I’ll listen now to your wish.  Tell me, please!”

   All suddenly she nestled at my feet,
   And hid her blushing face upon my knees.
   Then drew my hand against her glowing cheek,
   And, leaning on my breast, began to speak,
   Half sighing out the words my tortured ear
   Reached down to catch, while striving not to hear.

   “Can you not guess who ’twas about, Maurine?
   Oh, my sweet friend! you must ere this have seen
   The love I tried to cover from all eyes
   And from myself.  Ah, foolish little heart!
   As well it might go seeking for some art
   Whereby to hide the sun in noonday skies.
   When first the strange sound of his voice I heard,
   Looked on his noble face, and, touched his hand,
   My slumb’ring heart thrilled through and through and stirred
   As if to say, ‘I hear, and understand.’
   And day by day mine eyes were blest beholding
   The inner beauty of his life, unfolding
   In countless words and actions that portrayed
   The noble stuff of which his soul was made.
   And more and more I felt my heart upreaching
   Toward the truth, drawn gently by his teaching,
   As flowers are drawn by sunlight.  And there grew
   A strange, shy something in its depths, I knew
   At length was love, because it was so sad
   And yet so sweet, and made my heart so glad,
   Yet seemed to pain me.  Then, for very shame,
   Lest all should read my secret and its name,
   I strove to hide it in my breast away,
   Where God could see it only.  But each day
   It seemed to grow within me, and would rise,
   Like my own soul, and look forth from my eyes,
   Defying bonds of silence; and would speak,
   In its red-lettered language, on my cheek,
   If but his name was uttered.  You were kind,
   My own Maurine! as you alone could be,
   So long the sharer of my heart and mind,
   While yet you saw, in seeming not to see.
   In all the years we have been friends, my own,
   And loved as women very rarely do,
   My heart no sorrow and no joy has known
   It has not shared at once, in full, with you.
   And I so longed to speak to you of this,
   When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss;
   Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say,
   In pity for my folly—‘Lack-a-day!
   You are undone: because no mortal art
   Can win the love of such a lofty heart.’
   And so I waited, silent and in pain,
   Till I could know I did not love in vain.
   And now I know, beyond a doubt or fear.
   Did he not say, ‘If she I hold most dear
   Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left,
   My heart would find the years more lonely here
   Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,
   And sent, an exile, to a foreign land’?
   Oh, darling, you must _love_, to understand
   The joy that thrilled all through me at those words.
   It was as if a thousand singing birds
   Within my heart broke forth in notes of praise.
   I did not look up, but I knew his gaze
   Was on my face, and that his eyes must see
   The joy I felt almost transfigured me.
   He loves me—loves me! so the birds kept singing,
   And all my soul with that sweet strain is ringing.
   If there were added but one drop of bliss,
   No more my cup would hold: and so, this eve,
   I made a wish that I might feel his kiss
   Upon my lips, ere yon pale moon should leave
   The stars all lonely, having waned away,
   Too old and weak and bowed with care to stay.”

   Her voice sighed in silence.  While she spoke
   My heart writhed in me, praying she would cease—
   Each word she uttered falling like a stroke
   On my bare soul.  And now a hush like death,
   Save that ’twas broken by a quick-drawn breath,
   Fell ’round me, but brought not the hoped-for peace.
   For when the lash no longer leaves its blows,
   The flesh still quivers, and the blood still flows.

   She nestled on my bosom like a child,
   And ’neath her head my tortured heart throbbed wild
   With pain and pity.  She had told her tale—
   Her self-deceiving story to the end.
   How could I look down on her as she lay
   So fair, and sweet, and lily-like, and frail—
   A tender blossom on my breast, and say,
   “Nay, you are wrong—you do mistake, dear friend!
   ’Tis I am loved, not you”?  Yet that were truth,
   And she must know it later.
            Should I speak,
   And spread a ghastly pallor o’er the cheek
   Flushed now with joy?  And while I, doubting pondered,
   She spoke again.  “Maurine!  I oft have wondered
   Why you and Vivian were not lovers.  He
   Is all a heart could ask its king to be;
   And you have beauty, intellect and youth.
   I think it strange you have not loved each other—
   Strange how he could pass by you for another
   Not half so fair or worthy.  Yet I know
   A loving Father pre-arranged it so.
   I think my heart has known him all these years,
   And waited for him.  And if when he came
   It had been as a lover of my friend,
   I should have recognised him, all the same,
   As my soul-mate, and loved him to the end,
   Hiding my grief, and forcing back my tears
   Till on my heart, slow dropping, day by day,
   Unseen they fell, and wore it all away.
   And so a tender Father kept him free,
   With all the largeness of his love, for me—
   For me, unworthy such a precious gift!
   Yet I will bend each effort of my life
   To grow in grace and goodness, and to lift
   My soul and spirit to his lofty height,
   So to deserve that holy name, his wife.
   Sweet friend, it fills my whole heart with delight
   To breathe its long hid secret in your ear.
   Speak, my Maurine, and say you love to hear!”

   The while she spoke, my active brain gave rise
   To one great thought of mighty sacrifice
   And self-denial.  Oh! it blanched my cheek,
   And wrung my soul; and from my heart it drove
   All life and feeling.  Coward-like, I strove
   To send it from me; but I felt it cling
   And hold fast on my mind like some live thing;
   And all the Self within me felt its touch
   And cried, “No, no!  I cannot do so much—
   I am not strong enough—there is no call.”
   And then the voice of Helen bade me speak,
   And with a calmness born of nerve, I said,
   Scarce knowing what I uttered, “Sweetheart, all
   Your joys and sorrows are with mine own wed.
   I thank you for your confidence, and pray
   I may deserve it always.  But, dear one,
   Something—perhaps our boat-ride in the sun—
   Has set my head to aching.  I must go
   To bed directly; and you will, I know,
   Grant me your pardon, and another day
   We’ll talk of this together.  Now good-night,
   And angels guard you with their wings of light.”

   I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart,
   And viewed her as I ne’er had done before.
   I gazed upon her features o’er and o’er;
   Marked her white, tender face—her fragile form,
   Like some frail plant that withers in the storm;
   Saw she was fairer in her new-found joy
   Than e’er before; and thought, “Can I destroy
   God’s handiwork, or leave it at the best
   A broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?”
   I bent my head and gave her one last kiss,
   And sought my room, and found there such relief
   As sad hearts feel when first alone with grief.

   The moon went down, slow sailing from my sight,
   And left the stars to watch away the night.
   O stars, sweet stars, so changeless and serene!
   What depths of woe your pitying eyes have seen!
   The proud sun sets, and leaves us with our sorrow,
   To grope alone in darkness till the morrow.
   The languid moon, e’en if she deigns to rise,
   Soon seeks her couch, grown weary of our sighs;
   But from the early gloaming till the day
   Sends golden-liveried heralds forth to say
   He comes in might; the patient stars shine on,
   Steadfast and faithful, from twilight to dawn.
   And, as they shone upon Gethsemane,
   And watched the struggle of a God-like soul,
   Now from the same far height they shone on me,
   And saw the waves of anguish o’er me roll.

   The storm had come upon me all unseen:
   No sound of thunder fell upon my ear;
   No cloud arose to tell me it was near;
   But under skies all sunlit, and serene,
   I floated with the current of the stream,
   And thought life all one golden-haloed dream.
   When lo! a hurricane, with awful force,
   Swept swift upon its devastating course,
   Wrecked my frail bark, and cast me on the wave
   Where all my hopes had found a sudden grave.
   Love makes us blind and selfish; otherwise
   I had seen Helen’s secret in her eyes;
   So used I was to reading every look
   In her sweet face, as I would read a book.
   But now, made sightless by love’s blinding rays,
   I had gone on unseeing, to the end
   Where Pain dispelled the mist of golden haze
   That walled me in, and lo!  I found my friend
   Who journeyed with me—at my very side—
   Had been sore wounded to the heart, while I,
   Both deaf and blind, saw not, nor heard her cry.
   And then I sobbed, “O God!  I would have died
   To save her this.”  And as I cried in pain,
   There leaped forth from the still, white realm of Thought
   Where Conscience dwells, that unimpassioned spot
   As widely different from the heart’s domain
   As north from south—the impulse felt before,
   And put away; but now it rose once more,
   In greater strength, and said, “Heart, wouldst thou prove
   What lips have uttered?  Then go, lay thy love
   On Friendship’s altar, as thy offering.”
   “Nay!” cried my heart, “ask any other thing—
   Ask life itself—’twere easier sacrifice.
   But ask not love, for that I cannot give.”

   “But,” spoke the voice, “the meanest insect dies,
   And is no hero! heroes dare to live
   When all that makes life sweet is snatched away.”
   So with my heart, in converse, till the day,
   In gold and crimson billows, rose and broke,
   The voice of Conscience, all unwearied, spoke.
   Love warred with Friendship, heart with Conscience fought,
   Hours rolled away, and yet the end was not.
   And wily Self, tricked out like tenderness,
   Sighed, “Think how one, whose life thou wert to bless,
   Will be cast down, and grope in doubt and fear!
   Wouldst thou wound him, to give thy friend relief?
   Can wrong make right?”
            “Nay!” Conscience said, “but Pride
   And Time can heal the saddest hurts of Love.
   While Friendship’s wounds gape wide and yet more wide,
   And bitter fountains of the spirit prove.”

   At length, exhausted with the wearing strife,
   I cast the new-found burden of my life
   On God’s broad breast, and sought that deep repose
   That only he who watched with sorrow knows.



PART IV


   “Maurine, Maurine, ’tis ten o’clock! arise,
   My pretty sluggard, open those dark eyes
   And see where yonder sun is!  Do you know
   I made my toilet just four hours ago?”

   ’Twas Helen’s voice: and Helen’s gentle kiss
   Fell on my cheek.  As from a deep abyss,
   I drew my weary self from that strange sleep
   That rests not nor refreshes.  Scarce awake
   Or conscious, yet there seemed a heavy weight
   Bound on my breast, as by a cruel Fate.
   I knew not why, and yet I longed to weep.
   Some dark cloud seemed to hang upon the day;
   And, for a moment, in that trance I lay,
   When suddenly the truth did o’er me break,
   Like some great wave upon a helpless child.
   The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife—
   The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild,
   And God gave back the burden of the life
   He kept what time I slumbered.
            “You are ill,”
   Cried Helen, “with that blinding headache still!
   You look so pale and weary.  Now let me
   Play nurse, Maurine, and care for you to-day!
   And first I’ll suit some dainty to your taste,
   And bring it to you, with a cup of tea.”
   And off she ran, not waiting my reply.
   But, wanting most the sunshine and the light,
   I left my couch, and clothed myself in haste,
   And, kneeling, sent to God an earnest cry
   For help and guidance.
            “Show Thou me the way,
   Where duty leads, for I am blind! my sight
   Obscured by self.  Oh, lead my steps aright!
   Help me see the path: and if it may,
   Let this cup pass:—and yet, Thou heavenly One,
   Thy will in all things, not mine own, be done.”
   Rising, I went upon my way, receiving
   The strength prayer gives alway to hearts believing.
   I felt that unseen hands were leading me,
   And knew the end was peace.

            “What! are you up?”
   Cried Helen, coming with a tray, and cup,
   Of tender toast and fragrant, smoking tea.
   “You naughty girl! you should have stayed in bed
   Until you ate your breakfast, and were better;
   I’ve something hidden for you here—a letter.
   But drink your tea before you read it, dear!
   ’Tis from some distant cousin, auntie said,
   And so you need not hurry.  Now be good,
   And mind your Helen.”

            So, in passive mood,
   I laid the still unopened letter near,
   And loitered at my breakfast more to please
   My nurse, than any hunger to appease.
   Then listlessly I broke the seal and read
   The few lines written in a bold free hand:
   “New London, Canada.  Dear Coz. Maurine!
   (In spite of generations stretched between
   Our natural right to that most handy claim
   Of cousinship, we’ll use it all the same)
   I’m coming to see you! honestly, in truth!
   I’ve threatened often—now I mean to act;
   You’ll find my coming is a stubborn fact.
   Keep quiet, though, and do not tell Aunt Ruth.
   I wonder if she’ll know her petted boy
   In spite of changes?  Look for me until
   You see me coming.  As of old I’m still
   Your faithful friend, and loving cousin, Roy.”

   So Roy was coming!  He and I had played
   As boy and girl, and later, youth and maid,
   Full half our lives together.  He had been,
   Like me, an orphan; and the roof of kin
   Gave both kind shelter.  Swift years sped away
   Ere change was felt: and then one summer day
   A long-lost uncle sailed from India’s shore—
   Made Roy his heir, and he was ours no more.

   “He’d write us daily, and we’d see his face
   Once every year.”  Such was his promise given
   The morn he left.  But now the years were seven
   Since last he looked upon the olden place.
   He’d been through college, travelled in all lands,
   Sailed over seas, and trod the desert sands.
   Would write and plan a visit, then, ere long,
   Would write again from Egypt, or Hong Kong—
   Some fancy called him thither unforeseen.
   So years had passed, till seven lay between
   His going and the coming of this note,
   Which I hid in my bosom, and replied
   To Aunt Ruth’s queries, “What the truant wrote?”
   By saying he was still upon the wing,
   And merely dropped a line, while journeying,
   To say he lived: and she was satisfied.

   Sometimes it happens, in this world so strange,
   A human heart will pass through mortal strife,
   And writhe in torture: while the old sweet life,
   So full of hope and beauty, bloom and grace,
   Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain:
   And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place—
   A ghastly, pallid spectre of the slain.
   Yet those in daily converse see no change
   Nor dream the heart has suffered.
            So that day
   I passed along toward the troubled way
   Stern duty pointed, and no mortal guessed
   A mighty conflict had disturbed my breast.

   I had resolved to yield up to my friend
   The man I loved.  Since she, too, loved him so
   I saw no other way in honour left.
   She was so weak and fragile, once bereft
   Of this great hope, that held her with such power,
   She would wilt down, like some frost-bitten flower,
   And swift, untimely death would be the end.
   But I was strong; and hardy plants, which grow
   In out-door soil, can bear bleak winds that blow
   From Arctic lands, whereof a single breath
   Would lay the hot-house blossom low in death.

   The hours went by, too slow, and yet too fast.
   All day I argued with my foolish heart
   That bade me play the shrinking coward’s part
   And hide from pain.  And when the day had past
   And time for Vivian’s call drew near and nearer,
   It pleaded, “Wait until the way seems clearer;
   Say you are ill—or busy; keep away
   Until you gather strength enough to play
   The part you have resolved on.”

            “Nay, not so,”
   Made answer clear-eyed Reason; “do you go
   And put your resolution to the test.
   Resolve, however nobly formed, at best
   Is but a still-born babe of Thought until
   It proves existence of its life and will
   By sound or action.”
            So when Helen came
   And knelt by me, her fair face all aflame
   With sudden blushes, whispering, “My sweet!
   My heart can hear the music of his feet,
   Go down with me to meet him,” I arose,
   And went with her all calmly, as one goes
   To look upon the dear face of the dead.

   That eve I know not what I did or said.
   I was not cold—my manner was not strange;
   Perchance I talked more freely than my wont,
   But in my speech was naught could give affront;
   Yet I conveyed, as only woman can,
   That nameless _something_ which bespeaks a change.

   ’Tis in the power of woman, if she be
   Whole-souled and noble, free from coquetry—
   Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good,
   To make herself and feelings understood
   By nameless acts, thus sparing what to man,
   However gently answered, causes pain,
   The offering of his hand and heart in vain.

   She can be friendly, unrestrained, and kind
   Assume no airs of pride or arrogance;
   But in her voice, her manner, and her glance,
   Convey that mystic something, undefined,
   Which men fail not to understand and read,
   And, when not blind with egoism, heed.
   My task was harder—’twas the slow undoing
   Of long sweet months of unimpeded wooing.
   It was to hide and cover and conceal
   The truth, assuming what I did not feel.
   It was to dam love’s happy singing tide
   That blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone
   By feigned indiff’rence, till it turned aside
   And changed its channel, leaving me alone
   To walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draught
   My lips had tasted, but another quaffed.
   It could be done, for no words yet were spoken—
   None to recall—no pledges to be broken.
   “He will be grieved, then angry, cold, then cross,”
   I reasoned, thinking what would be his part
   In this strange drama.  “Then, because he
   Feels something lacking, to make good his loss
   He’ll turn to Helen, and her gentle grace
   And loving acts will win her soon the place
   I hold to-day; and like a troubled dream
   At length, our past, when he looks back, will seem.”

   That evening passed with music, chat, and song,
   But hours that once had flown on airy wings
   Now limped on weary, aching limbs along,
   Each moment like some dreaded step that brings
   A twinge of pain.
            As Vivian rose to go,
   Slow bending to me from his greater height,
   He took my hand, and, looking in my eyes,
   With tender questioning and pained surprise,
   Said, “Maurine, you are not yourself to-night;
   What is it?  Are you ailing?”
            “Ailing?  No,”
   I answered, laughing lightly, “I am not;
   Just see my cheek, sir—is it thin, or pale?
   Now, tell me, am I looking very frail?”
   “Nay, nay,” he answered, “it cannot be _seen_,
   The change I speak of—’twas more in your mien—
   Preoccupation, or—I know not what!
   Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does Maurine
   Seem to have something on her mind this eve?”
   “She does,” laughed Helen, “and I do believe
   I know what ’tis!  A letter came to-day
   Which she read slyly, and then hid away
   Close to her heart, not knowing I was near,
   And since she’s been as you have seen her here.
   See how she blushes! so my random shot
   We must believe has struck a tender spot.”

   Her rippling laughter floated through the room,
   And redder yet I felt the hot blood rise,
   Then surge away, to leave me pale as death
   Under the dark and swiftly gathering gloom
   Of Vivian’s questioning, accusing eyes,
   That searched my soul.  I almost shrieked beneath
   That stern, fixed gaze, and stood spellbound until
   He turned with sudden movement, gave his hand
   To each in turn, and said: “You must not stand
   Longer, young ladies, in this open door.
   The air is heavy with a cold, damp chill.
   We shall have rain to-morrow, or before.
   Good-night.”

      He vanished in the darkling shade;
   And so the dreaded evening found an end,
   That saw me grasp the conscience-whetted blade,
   And strike a blow for honour and for friend.

   “How swiftly passed the evening!” Helen sighed.
   “How long the hours!” my tortured heart replied.
   Joy, like a child, with lightsome steps doth glide
   By Father Time, and, looking in his face,
   Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair roadside,
   “I could pluck more, but for thy hurried pace.”
   The while her elder brother Pain, man grown,
   Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone,
   Looks to some distant hilltop, high and calm,
   Where he shall find not only rest, but balm
   For all his wounds, and cries, in tones of woe,
   “Oh, Father Time! why is thy pace so slow?”

   Two days, all sad with lonely wind and rain,
   Went sobbing by, repeating o’er and o’er
   The miserere, desolate and drear,
   Which every human heart must sometime hear.
   Pain is but little varied.  Its refrain,
   Whate’er the words are, is for aye the same.
   The third day brought a change, for with it came
   Not only sunny smiles to Nature’s face,
   But Roy, our Roy came back to us.  Once more
   We looked into his laughing, handsome eyes,
   Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surprise
   In no way puzzled her, for one glance told
   What each succeeding one confirmed, that he
   Who bent above her with the lissome grace
   Of his fine form, though grown so tall, could be
   No other than the Roy Montaine of old.

   It was a sweet reunion, and he brought
   So much of sunshine with him that I caught,
   Just from his smile alone, enough of gladness
   To make my heart forget a time its sadness.
   We talked together of the dear old days:
   Leaving the present, with its depths and heights
   Of life’s maturer sorrows and delights,
   I turned back to my childhood’s level land,
   And Roy and I, dear playmates, hand in hand,
   Wandered in mem’ry through the olden ways.

   It was the second evening of his coming.
   Helen was playing dreamily, and humming
   Some wordless melody of white-souled thought,
   While Roy and I sat by the open door,
   Re-living childish incidents of yore.
   My eyes were glowing, and my cheeks were hot
   With warm young blood; excitement, joy, or pain
   Alike would send swift coursing through each vein.
   Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine,
   And bringing vividly before my gaze
   Some old adventure of those halcyon days,
   When suddenly, in pauses of the talk,
   I heard a well-known step upon the walk,
   And looked up quickly to meet full in mine
   The eyes of Vivian Dangerfield.  A flash
   Shot from their depths:—a sudden blaze of light
   Like that swift followed by the thunder’s crash,
   Which said, “Suspicion is confirmed by sight,”
   As they fell on the pleasant doorway scene.
   Then o’er his clear-cut face a cold, white look
   Crept, like the pallid moonlight o’er a brook,
   And, with a slight, proud bending of the head,
   He stepped toward us haughtily, and said:
   “Please pardon my intrusion, Miss Maurine,
   I called to ask Miss Trevor for a book
   She spoke of lending me; nay, sit you still,
   And I, by grant of your permission, will
   Pass by to where I hear her playing.”
               “Stay,”
   I said, “one moment, Vivian, if you please;”
   And suddenly bereft of all my ease,
   And scarcely knowing what to do or say,
   Confused as any schoolgirl, I arose,
   And some way made each to the other known.
   They bowed, shook hands, then Vivian turned away
   And sought out Helen, leaving us alone.

   “One of Miss Trevor’s or of Maurine’s beaux?
   Which may he be, who cometh like a prince
   With haughty bearing and an eagle eye?”
   Roy queried, laughing; and I answered, “Since
   You saw him pass me for Miss Trevor’s side,
   I leave your own good judgment to reply.”

   And straightway caused the tide of talk to glide
   In other channels, striving to dispel
   The sudden gloom that o’er my spirit fell.

   We mortals are such hypocrites at best!
   When Conscience tries our courage with a test,
   And points to some steep pathway, we set out
   Boldly, denying any fear or doubt;
   But pause before the first rock in the way,
   And, looking back, with tears, at Conscience, say:
   “We are so sad, dear Conscience! for we would
   Most gladly do what to thee seemeth good;
   But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, so
   Thou must point out some other way to go.”
   Yet secretly we are rejoicing: and,
   When right before our faces, as we stand
   In seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain,
   Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain,
   And, loth to go, by every act reveal
   What we so tried from Conscience to conceal.

   I saw that hour, the way made plain, to do
   With scarce an effort what had seemed a strife
   That would require the strength of my whole life.

   Women have quick perceptions, and I knew
   That Vivian’s heart was full of jealous pain,
   Suspecting—nay, _believing_—Roy Montaine
   To be my lover.  First my altered mien—
   And next the letter—then the doorway scene—
   My flushed face gazing in the one above
   That bent so near me, and my strange confusion
   When Vivian came all led to one conclusion:
   That I had but been playing with his love,
   As women sometimes cruelly do play
   With hearts when their true lovers are away.

   There could be nothing easier than just
   To let him linger on in this belief
   Till hourly-fed Suspicion and Distrust
   Should turn to scorn and anger all his grief.
   Compared with me, so doubly sweet and pure
   Would Helen seem, my purpose would be sure
   And certain of completion in the end.
   But now, the way was made so straight and clear,
   My coward heart shrank back in guilty fear,
   Till Conscience whispered with her “still small voice,”
   “The precious time is passing—make thy choice—
   Resign thy love, or slay thy trusting friend.”

   The growing moon, watched by the myriad eyes
   Of countless stars, went sailing through the skies,
   Like some young prince, rising to rule a nation,
   To whom all eyes are turned in expectation.
   A woman who possesses tact and art
   And strength of will can take the hand of doom,
   And walk on, smiling sweetly as she goes,
   With rosy lips, and rounded cheeks of bloom,
   Cheating a loud-tongued world that never knows
   The pain and sorrow of her hidden heart.
   And so I joined in Roy’s bright changing chat;
   Answered his sallies—talked of this and that,
   My brow unruffled as the calm, still wave
   That tells not of the wrecked ship, and the grave
   Beneath its surface.
            Then we heard, ere long,
   The sound of Helen’s gentle voice in song,
   And, rising, entered where the subtle power
   Of Vivian’s eyes, forgiving while accusing,
   Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour;
   But Roy, always polite and debonair
   Where ladies were, now hung about my chair
   With nameless delicate attentions, using
   That air devotional, and those small arts
   Acquaintance with society imparts
   To men gallant by nature.
            ’Twas my sex
   And not myself he bowed to.  Had my place
   Been filled that evening by a dowager
   Twice his own age, he would have given her
   The same attentions.  But they served to vex
   Whatever hope in Vivian’s heart remained.
   The cold, white look crept back upon his face,
   Which told how deeply he was hurt and pained.

   Little by little all things had conspired
   To bring events I dreaded, yet desired.
   We were in constant intercourse: walks, rides,
   Picnics and sails, filled weeks of golden weather,
   And almost hourly we were thrown together.
   No words were spoken of rebuke or scorn:
   Good friends we seemed.  But as a gulf divides
   This land and that, though lying side by side,
   So rolled a gulf between us—deep and wide—
   The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly morn
   And noon and night.

            Free and informal were
   These picnics and excursions.  Yet, although
   Helen and I would sometimes choose to go
   Without our escorts, leaving them quite free,
   It happened alway Roy would seek out me
   Ere passed the day, while Vivian walked with her.
   I had no thought of flirting.  Roy was just
   Like some dear brother, and I quite forgot
   The kinship was so distant it was not
   Safe to rely upon in perfect trust,
   Without reserve or caution.  Many a time,
   When there was some steep mountain-side to climb
   And I grew weary, he would say, “Maurine,
   Come rest you here.”  And I would go and lean
   My head upon his shoulder, or would stand
   And let him hold in his my willing hand,
   The while he stroked it gently with his own.
   Or I would let him clasp me with his arm,
   Nor entertained a thought of any harm,
   Nor once supposed but Vivian was alone
   In his suspicions.  But ere long the truth
   I learned in consternation! both Aunt Ruth
   And Helen honestly, in faith, believed
   That Roy and I were lovers.

            Undeceived,
   Some careless words might open Vivian’s eyes
   And spoil my plans.  So reasoning in this wise,
   To all their sallies I in jest replied,
   To naught assented, and yet naught denied,
   With Roy unchanged remaining, confident
   Each understood just what the other meant.

   If I grew weary of this double part,
   And self-imposed deception caused my heart
   Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze
   On Helen’s face: that wore a look ethereal,
   As if she dwelt above the things material
   And held communion with the angels.  So
   I fed my strength and courage through the days.
   What time the harvest moon rose full and clear
   And cast its ling’ring radiance on the earth,
   We made a feast; and called from far and near,
   Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth.
   Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro;
   But none more sweet than Helen’s.  Robed in white,
   She floated like a vision through the dance.
   So frailly fragile and so phantom fair,
   She seemed like some stray spirit of the air,
   And was pursued by many an anxious glance
   That looked to see her fading from the sight
   Like figures that a dreamer sees at night.
   And noble men and gallants graced the scene:
   Yet none more noble or more grand of mien
   Than Vivian—broad of chest and shoulder, tall
   And finely formed, as any Grecian god
   Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.
   His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those
   Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose,
   Was it in hue and feature.  Framed in hair
   Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes
   That could be cold as steel in winter air,
   Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.

   Weary of mirth and music, and the sound
   Of tripping feet, I sought a moment’s rest
   Within the lib’ry, where a group I found
   Of guests, discussing with apparent zest
   Some theme of interest—Vivian, near the while,
   Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile.
   “Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,”
   Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered.  “We
   Have been discussing right before his face,
   All unrebuked by him, as you may see,
   A poem lately published by our friend:
   And we are quite divided.  I contend
   The poem is a libel and untrue.
   I hold the fickle women are but few,
   Compared with those who are like yon fair moon
   That, ever faithful, rises in her place
   Whether she’s greeted by the flowers of June
   Or cold and dreary stretches of white space.”

   “Oh!” cried another, “Mr. Dangerfield,
   Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield
   The crown to Semple, who, ’tis very plain,
   Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane.”

   All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me,
   I answered lightly, “My young friend, I fear
   You chose a most unlucky simile
   To prove the truth of woman.  To her place
   The moon does rise—but with a different face
   Each time she comes.  But now I needs must hear
   The poem read, before I can consent
   To pass my judgment on the sentiment.”
   All clamoured that the author was the man
   To read the poem: and, with tones that said
   More than the cutting, scornful words he read,
   Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:


HER LOVE.


   The sands upon the ocean side
   That change about with every tide,
   And never true to one abide,
      A woman’s love I liken to.

   The summer zephyrs, light and vain,
   That sing the same alluring strain
   To every grass blade on the plain—
      A woman’s love is nothing more.

   The sunshine of an April day
   That comes to warm you with its ray,
   But while you smile has flown away—
      A woman’s love is like to this.

   God made poor woman with no heart,
   But gave her skill, and tact, and art,
   And so she lives, and plays her part.
      We must not blame, but pity her.

   She leans to man—but just to hear
   The praise he whispers in her ear,
   Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—
      Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.

   To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs
   The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts,
   Then throws them lightly by and laughs,
      Too weak to understand their pain.

   As changeful as the winds that blow
   From every region, to and fro,
   Devoid of heart, she cannot know
      The suffering of a human heart.

   I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian’s eyes
   Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise;
   But lightly answered, toying with my fan,
   “That sentiment is very like a man!
   Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong;
   We’re only frail and helpless, men are strong;
   And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing
   And make a shroud out of their suffering,
   And drag the corpse about with them for years.
   But we?—we mourn it for a day with tears!
   And then we robe it for its last long rest,
   And being women, feeble things at best,
   We cannot dig the grave ourselves.  And so
   We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low:
   Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends
   To do this service for her earthly friends,
   The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep
   Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep.”

   The laugh that followed had not died away
   Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say
   The band was tuning for our waltz, and so
   Back to the ball-room bore me.  In the glow
   And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent,
   And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went
   Out on the cool moonlighted portico,
   And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head
   Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent
   His smiling eyes upon me, as he said:
   “I’ll try the mesmerism of my touch
   To work a cure: be very quiet now,
   And let me make some passes o’er your brow.
   Why, how it throbs! you’ve exercised too much!
   I shall not let you dance again to-night.”

   Just then before us, in the broad moonlight,
   Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face
   To catch the teasing and mischievous glance
   Of Helen’s eyes, as, heated by the dance,
   Leaning on Vivian’s arm, she sought this place.

   “I beg your pardon,” came in that round tone
   Of his low voice.  “I think we do intrude.”
   Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone
   Ere I could speak or change my attitude.



PART V


   A visit to a cave some miles away
   Was next in order.  So, one sunny day,
   Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing load
   Of merry pleasure-seekers o’er the road.
   A basket picnic, music, and croquet
   Were in the programme.  Skies were blue and clear,
   And cool winds whispered of the Autumn near.
   The merry-makers filled the time with pleasure:
   Some floated to the music’s rhythmic measure,
   Some played, some promenaded on the green.
   Ticked off by happy hearts, the moments passed.
   The afternoon, all glow and glimmer, came.
   Helen and Roy were leaders of some game,
   And Vivian was not visible.

         “Maurine,
   I challenge you to climb yon cliff with me!
   And who shall tire, or reach the summit last
   Must pay a forfeit,” cried a romping maid.
   “Come! start at once, or own you are afraid.”
   So challenged I made ready for the race,
   Deciding first the forfeit was to be
   A handsome pair of bootees to replace
   The victor’s loss who made the rough ascent.
   The cliff was steep and stony.  On we went
   As eagerly as if the path was Fame,
   And what we climbed for, glory and a name.
   My hands were bruised; my garments sadly rent,
   But on I clambered.  Soon I heard a cry,
   “Maurine!  Maurine! my strength is wholly spent!
   You’ve won the boots!  I’m going back—good-bye!”
   And back she turned, in spite of laugh and jeer.

   I reached the summit: and its solitude,
   Wherein no living creature did intrude,
   Save some sad birds that wheeled and circled near,
   I found far sweeter than the scene below.
   Alone with One who knew my hidden woe,
   I did not feel so much alone as when
   I mixed with th’ unthinking throngs of men.

   Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile place
   I plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed,
   That in our lives, albeit dark with shade
   And rough and hard with labour, yet may grow
   The flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace.

   As I walked on in meditative thought,
   A serpent writhed across my pathway; not
   A large or deadly serpent; yet the sight
   Filled me with ghastly terror and affright.
   I shrieked aloud: a darkness veiled my eyes—
   And I fell fainting ’neath the watchful skies.

   I was no coward.  Country-bred and born,
   I had no feeling but the keenest scorn
   For those fine lady “ah’s” and “oh’s” of fear
   So much assumed (when any man is near).
   But God implanted in each human heart
   A natural horror, and a sickly dread
   Of that accursèd, slimy, creeping thing
   That squirms a limbless carcass o’er the ground.
   And where that inborn loathing is not found
   You’ll find the serpent qualities instead.
   Who fears it not, himself is next of kin,
   And in his bosom holds some treacherous art
   Whereby to counteract its venomed sting.
   And all are sired by Satan—Chief of Sin.

   Who loathes not that foul creature of the dust,
   However fair in seeming, I distrust.

   I woke from my unconsciousness, to know
   I leaned upon a broad and manly breast,
   And Vivian’s voice was speaking, soft and low,
   Sweet whispered words of passion, o’er and o’er.
   I dared not breathe.  Had I found Eden’s shore?
   Was this a foretaste of eternal bliss?
   “My love,” he sighed, his voice like winds that moan
   Before a rain in Summer-time, “my own,
   For one sweet stolen moment, lie and rest
   Upon this heart that loves and hates you both!
   O fair false face!  Why were you made so fair!
   O mouth of Southern sweetness! that ripe kiss
   That hangs upon you, I do take an oath
   _His_ lips shall never gather.  There!—and there!
   I steal it from him.  Are you his—all his?
   Nay, you are mine, this moment, as I dreamed—
   Blind fool—believing you were what you seemed—
   You would be mine in all the years to come.
   Fair fiend!  I love and hate you in a breath.
   O God! if this white pallor were but _death_,
   And I were stretched beside you, cold and dumb,
   My arms about you, so—in fond embrace!
   My lips pressed, so—upon your dying face!”

   “Woman, how dare you bring me to such shame!
   How dare you drive me to an act like this,
   To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss
   You lured me on to think my rightful claim!
   O frail and puny woman! could you know
   The devil that you waken in the hearts
   You snare and bind in your enticing arts,
   The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow
   Would freeze in terror.

            Strange you have such power
   To please or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things—
   Devoid of passion as a senseless flower!
   Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings.
   There, now I scorn you—scorn you from this hour,
   And hate myself for having talked of love!”

   He pushed me from him.  And I felt as those
   Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above
   Are closed against them.

            With a feigned surprise
   I started up and opened wide my eyes,
   And looked about.  Then in confusion rose
   And stood before him.

            “Pardon me, I pray!”
   He said quite coldly.  “Half an hour ago
   I left you with the company below,
   And sought this cliff.  A moment since you cried,
   It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm.
   I came in time to see you swoon away.
   You’ll need assistance down the rugged side
   Of this steep cliff.  I pray you take my arm.”

   So, formal and constrained, we passed along,
   Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng
   To have no further speech again that day.

   Next morn there came a bulky document,
   The legal firm of Blank and Blank had sent,
   Containing news unlooked for.  An estate
   Which proved a cosy fortune—nowise great
   Or princely—had in France been left to me,
   My grandsire’s last descendant.  And it brought
   A sense of joy and freedom in the thought
   Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be
   A panacea for my troubled mind,
   That longed to leave the olden scenes behind
   With all their recollections, and to flee
   To some strange country.

               I was in such haste
   To put between me and my native land
   The briny ocean’s desolating waste,
   I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned
   To sail that week, two months: though she was fain
   To wait until the Springtime.  Roy Montaine
   Would be our guide and escort.

               No one dreamed
   The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed
   To think good fortune had quite turned my brain.
   One bright October morning, when the woods
   Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods
   In honour of the Frost King, Vivian came,
   Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame,—
   First trophies of the Autumn time.

            And Roy
   Made a proposal that we all should go
   And ramble in the forest for a while.
   But Helen said she was not well—and so
   Must stay at home.  Then Vivian, with a smile,
   Responded, “I will stay and talk to you,
   And they may go;” at which her two cheeks grew
   Like twin blush roses—dyed with love’s red wave,
   Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy.

   And Vivian saw—and suddenly was grave.
   Roy took my arm in that protecting way
   Peculiar to some men, which seems to say,
   “I shield my own,” a manner pleasing, e’en
   When we are conscious that it does not mean
   More than a simple courtesy.  A woman
   Whose heart is wholly feminine and human,
   And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be
   The object of that tender chivalry,
   That guardianship which man bestows on her,
   Yet mixed with deference; as if she were
   Half child, half angel.

            Though she may be strong,
   Noble and self-reliant, not afraid
   To raise her hand and voice against all wrong
   And all oppression, yet if she be made,
   With all the independence of her thought,
   A woman womanly, as God designed,
   Albeit she may have as great a mind
   As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm,
   His muscle and his boldness she has not,
   And cannot have without she loses what
   Is far more precious, modesty and grace.
   So, walking on in her appointed place,
   She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend
   But that she needs him for a guide and friend,
   To shield her with his greater strength from harm.
   We reached the forest; wandered to and fro
   Through many a winding path and dim retreat,
   Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat
   Upon an oak-tree, which had been laid low
   By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke.
   And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge
   On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge
   Of sunny meadows lying at my feet.
   One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb
   That cast its checkered shadows over him;
   And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised
   And fixed upon me, silently he gazed
   Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke:
   “Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise,
   And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes.”

   The smooth and even darkness of his cheek
   Was stained one moment by a flush of red.
   He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood
   Still clinging to the branch above his head.
   His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said,
   With sudden passion, “Do you bid me speak?
   I cannot, then, keep silence if I would.
   That hateful fortune, coming as it did,
   Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew
   A harsh-tongued world would quickly misconstrue
   My motive for a meaner one.  But, sweet,
   So big my heart has grown with love for you
   I cannot shelter it or keep it hid.
   And so I cast it throbbing at your feet,
   For you to guard and cherish, or to break.
   Maurine, I love you better than my life.
   My friend—my cousin—be still more, my wife!
   Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?”

   I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and numb
   With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb
   With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes
   That looked no feeling but complete surprise.
   He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek.
   “Maurine, Maurine,” he whispered, “will you speak?”

   Then suddenly, as o’er some magic glass
   One picture in a score of shapes will pass,
   I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze.
   First, as the playmate of my earlier days—
   Next, as my kin—and then my valued friend,
   And last, my lover.  As when colours blend
   In some unlooked-for group before our eyes,
   We hold the glass, and look them o’er and o’er,
   So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise,
   In which he ne’er appeared to me before.

   His form was like a panther’s in its grace,
   So lithe and supple, and of medium height,
   And garbed in all the elegance of fashion.
   His large black eyes were full of fire and passion,
   And in expression fearless, firm, and bright.
   His hair was like the very deeps of night,
   And hung in raven clusters ’round a face
   Of dark and flashing beauty.

            He was more
   Like some romantic maiden’s grand ideal
   Than like a common being.  As I gazed
   Upon the handsome face to mine upraised,
   I saw before me, living, breathing, real,
   The hero of my early day-dreams: though
   So full my heart was with that clear-cut face,
   Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero’s place,
   I had not recognised him so before,
   Or thought of him, save as a valued friend.
   So now I called him, adding,

            “Foolish boy!
   Each word of love you utter aims a blow
   At that sweet trust I had reposed in you.
   I was so certain I had found a true,
   Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend,
   And go on wholly trusting to the end.
   Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy,
   By turning to a lover?”

            “Why, indeed!
   Because I loved you more than any brother,
   Or any friend could love.”  Then he began
   To argue like a lawyer, and to plead
   With all his eloquence.  And, listening,
   I strove to think it was a goodly thing
   To be so fondly loved by such a man,
   And it were best to give his wooing heed,
   And not deny him.  Then before my eyes,
   In all its clear-cut majesty, that other
   Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise
   And rob my purpose of all life and strength.

   Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could,
   With that impetuous, boyish eloquence.
   He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should
   Give some least hope; till, in my own defence,
   I turned upon him, and replied at length:
   “I thank you for the noble heart you offer:
   But it deserves a true one in exchange.
   I could love you if I loved not another
   Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer.”

   Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I said:
   “Dear Roy!  I know my words seem very strange;
   But I love one I cannot hope to wed.
   A river rolls between us, dark and deep.
   To cross it—were to stain with blood my hand.
   You force my speech on what I fain would keep
   In my own bosom, but you understand?
   My heart is given to love that’s sanctified,
   And now can feel no other.

            Be you kind,
   Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more,
   Lest pleading and denying should divide
   The hearts so long united.  Let me find
   In you my cousin and my friend of yore.
   And now come home.  The morning, all too soon
   And unperceived, has melted into noon.
   Helen will miss us, and we must return.”

   He took my hand, and helped me to arise,
   Smiling upon me with his sad, dark eyes,
   Where passion’s fires had, sudden, ceased to burn.

   “And so,” he said, “too soon and unforeseen
   My friendship melted into love, Maurine.
   But, sweet!  I am not wholly in the blame
   For what you term my folly.  You forgot,
   So long we’d known each other, I had not
   In truth a brother’s or a cousin’s claim.
   But I remembered, when through every nerve
   Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began
   To love you with that human love of man
   For comely woman.  By your coaxing arts,
   You won your way into my heart of hearts,
   And all Platonic feelings put to rout.
   A maid should never lay aside reserve
   With one who’s not her kinsman, out and out.
   But as we now, with measured steps, retrace
   The path we came, e’en so my heart I’ll send,
   At your command, back to the olden place,
   And strive to love you only as a friend.”
   I felt the justice of his mild reproof,
   But answered, laughing, “’Tis the same old cry:
   ‘The woman tempted me, and I did eat.’
   Since Adam’s time we’ve heard it.  But I’ll try
   And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof
   The fruit I never once had thought so sweet
   ’Twould tempt you any.  Now go dress for dinner,
   Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner.
   And guard each act, that no least look betray
   What’s passed between us.”

            Then I turned away
   And sought my room, low humming some old air
   That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes
   Fell on a face so glorified and fair
   All other senses, merged in that of sight,
   Were lost in contemplation of the bright
   And wond’rous picture, which had otherwise
   Made dim my vision.

            Waiting in my room,
   Her whole face lit as by an inward flame
   That shed its halo ’round her, Helen stood;
   Her fair hands folded like a lily’s leaves
   Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves.
   Upon her cheek the colour went and came
   As sunlight flickers o’er a bed of bloom;
   And, like some slim young sapling of the wood,
   Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair
   Fell ’round her loosely, in long curling strands
   All unconfined, and as by loving hands
   Tossed into bright confusion.

            Standing there,
   Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem
   Like some unearthly creature of a dream;
   Until she started forward, gliding slowly,
   And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly,
   As one grown meek, and humble in an hour,
   Bowing before some new and mighty power.

   “Maurine, Maurine!” she murmured, and again,
   “Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!”

            And then,
   Laying her love-light hands upon my head,
   She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said
   With voice that bore her joy in ev’ry tone,
   As winds that blow across a garden bed
   Are weighed with fragrance, “He is mine alone,
   And I am his—all his—his very own.
   So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie
   Save one beneath God’s over-arching sky.
   I could not wait to tell you of my bliss:
   I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss.”
   So hiding my heart’s trouble with a smile,
   I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while
   I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin,
   When my lips fell where his so late had been.
   And all day long I bore about with me
   A sense of shame—yet mixed with satisfaction,
   As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be
   Sad with the guilt resulting from her action,
   While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet.
   That ev’ning when the house had settled down
   To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept
   A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown:
   With steps like fall of thistle-down she came,
   Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name,
   Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet.

   “Sweetheart,” she murmured softly, “ere I sleep,
   I needs must tell you all my tale of joy.
   Beginning where you left us—you and Roy.
   You saw the colour flame upon my cheek
   When Vivian spoke of staying.  So did he;—
   And, when we were alone, he gazed at me
   With such a strange look in his wond’rous eyes.
   The silence deepened; and I tried to speak
   Upon some common topic, but could not,
   My heart was in such tumult.

            In this wise
   Five happy moments glided by us, fraught
   With hours of feeling.  Vivian rose up then,
   And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair.
   And, in his low voice, o’er and o’er again,
   Said, ‘Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.’
   Then took my face, and turned it to the light,
   And looking in my eyes, and seeing what
   Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low,
   ‘Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight.
   You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?’
   And I made answer straightway, ‘With my life
   And soul and strength I love you, O my love!’
   He leaned and took me gently to his breast,
   And said, ‘Here then this dainty head shall rest
   Henceforth for ever: O my little dove!
   My lily-bud—my fragile blossom-wife!’

   And then I told him all my thoughts; and he
   Listened, with kisses for his comments, till
   My tale was finished.  Then he said, ‘I will
   Be frank with you, my darling, from the start,
   And hide no secret from you in my heart.
   I love you, Helen, but you are not first
   To rouse that love to being.  Ere we met
   I loved a woman madly—never dreaming
   She was not all in truth she was in seeming.
   Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed
   Of God and man—a wily vain coquette.
   I hate myself for having loved her.  Yet
   So much my heart spent on her, it must give
   A love less ardent, and less prodigal,
   Albeit just as tender and as true—
   A milder, yet a faithful love to you.
   Just as some evil fortune might befall
   A man’s great riches, causing him to live
   In some low cot, all unpretending, still
   As much his home—as much his loved retreat,
   As was the princely palace on the hill,
   E’en so I give you all that’s left, my sweet!
   Of my heart-fortune.’

            ‘That were more to me,’
   I made swift smiling answer, ‘than to be
   The worshipped consort of a king.’  And so
   Our faith was pledged.  But Vivian would not go
   Until I vowed to wed him New Year day.
   And I am sad because you go away
   Before that time.  I shall not feel half wed
   Without you here.  Postpone your trip and stay,
   And be my bridesmaid.”

            “Nay, I cannot, dear!
   ’Twould disarrange our plans for half a year.
   I’ll be in Europe New Year day,” I said,
   “And send congratulations by the cable.”
   And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing
   The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing,
   The festal garments of a wedding scene,
   While all my heart was hung with sorrow’s sable.
   Forgetting for a season, that between
   The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss,
   I lived in my near future, confident
   All would be as I planned it; and, across
   The briny waste of waters, I should find
   Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind.
   The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed
   And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed,
   Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb
   Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom.

   Roy left us for a time, and Helen went
   To make the nuptial preparations.  Then,
   Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill:
   Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill
   Of two physicians could not stem the tide.
   The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest,
   Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds: and when
   The Autumn day, that I had thought to be
   Bounding upon the billows of the sea,
   Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn,
   Striving to keep away that unloved guest
   Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn.
   Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside
   The suff’rer’s couch, Roy was my help and stay;
   Others were kind, but he alone each day
   Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face,
   And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place
   Like rays of light upon a darkened way.
   November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill,
   In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill.
   Returning light and life dispelled the gloom
   That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb.
   Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better—
   Was dressed each day, and walked about the room.
   Then came one morning in the Eastern mail,
   A little white-winged birdling of a letter.
   I broke the seal and read,

            “Maurine, my own!
   I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad.
   I felt so sorry for you; and so sad
   To think I left you when I did—alone
   To bear your pain and worry, and those nights
   Of weary, anxious watching.

            Vivian writes
   Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail
   Before the Springtime.  So you’ll come and be
   My bridesmaid, darling!  Do not say me nay.
   But three weeks more of girlhood left to me.
   Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day,
   And make your preparations here.  My sweet!
   Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill—
   I’m sorry she has suffered so; and still
   I’m thankful something happened, so you stayed.
   I’m sure my wedding would be incomplete
   Without your presence.  Selfish, I’m afraid
   You’ll think your Helen.  But I love you so,
   How can I be quite willing you should go?
   Come Christmas Eve, or earlier.  Let me know,
   And I will meet you, dearie! at the train.
   Your happy, loving Helen.”

            Then the pain
   That, hidden under later pain and care,
   Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep,
   Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep
   My tortured heart in anguish and despair.

   I had relied too fully on my skill
   In bending circumstances to my will:
   And now I was rebuked and made to see
   That God alone knoweth what is to be.
   Then came a messenger from Vivian, who
   Came not himself, as he was wont to do,
   But sent his servant each new day to bring
   A kindly message, or an offering
   Of juicy fruits to cool the lips of fever,
   Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom
   To brighten up the convalescent’s room.
   But now the servant only brought a line
   From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine,
   “Dear Sir, and Friend”—in letters bold and plain,
   Written on cream-white paper, so it ran:
   “It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor,
   And therefore doubly so a wish of mine,
   That you shall honour me next New Year Eve,
   My wedding hour, by standing as best man.
   Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe.
   Being myself a novice in the art—
   If I should fail in acting well my part,
   I’ll need protection ’gainst the regiment
   Of outraged ladies.  So, I pray, consent
   To stand by me in time of need, and shield
   Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield.”

   The last least hope had vanished; I must drain,
   E’en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.



PART VI


   There was a week of bustle and of hurry;
   A stately home echoed to voices sweet,
   Calling, replying; and to tripping feet
   Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro,
   With all that girlish fluttering and flurry
   Preceding such occasions.

            Helen’s room
   Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom,
   Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau.
   My robe was fashioned by swift, skilful hands—
   A thing of beauty, elegant and rich,
   A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands;
   And as I watched it growing, stitch by stitch,
   I felt as one might feel who should behold
   With vision trance-like, where his body lay
   In deathly slumber, simulating clay,
   His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold.

   I lived with ev’ry nerve upon the strain,
   As men go into battle; and the pain,
   That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed
   Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed
   From mortal eyes by superhuman power,
   That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour.
   What night the Old Year gave unto the New
   The key of human happiness and woe,
   The pointed stars, upon their field of blue,
   Shone, white and perfect, o’er a world below,
   Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed
   In gleaming garments, decked with diadems,
   Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest,
   Coming o’erladen with a gift of gems.
   The bustle of the dressing-room; the sound
   Of eager voices in discourse; the clang
   Of “sweet bells jangled”; thud of steel-clad feet
   That beat swift music on the frozen ground—
   All blent together in my brain, and rang
   A medley of strange noises, incomplete,
   And full of discords.

            Then out on the night
   Streamed from the open vestibule, a light
   That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod,
   With all the hues of those that deck the sod.
   The grand cathedral windows were ablaze
   With gorgeous colours; through a sea of bloom,
   Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom,
   The bridal cortège passed.

            As some lost soul
   Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze
   Upon its coffined body, so I went
   With that glad festal throng.  The organ sent
   Great waves of melody along the air,
   That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray,
   On happy hearts that listened.  But to me
   It sounded faintly, as if miles away,
   A troubled spirit, sitting in despair
   Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea,
   Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole.
   We paused before the altar.  Framed in flowers,
   The white-robed man of God stood forth.

            I heard
   The solemn service open; through long hours
   I seemed to stand and listen, while each word
   Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay
   Upon the coffin of the worshipped dead.
   The stately father gave the bride away:
   The bridegroom circled with a golden band
   The taper finger of her dainty hand.
   The last imposing, binding words were said—
   “What God has joined let no man put asunder”—
   And all my strife with self was at an end;
   My lover was the husband of my friend.

   How strangely, in some awful hour of pain,
   External trifles with our sorrows blend!
   I never hear the mighty organ’s thunder,
   I never catch the scent of heliotrope,
   Nor see stained windows all ablaze with light,
   Without that dizzy whirling of the brain,
   And all the ghastly feeling of that night,
   When my sick heart relinquished love and hope.

   The pain we feel so keenly may depart,
   And e’en its memory cease to haunt the heart:
   But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound
   Will probe the closed recesses of the wound,
   And for a moment bring the old-time smart.

   Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles,
   Good-byes and farewells given; then across
   The snowy waste of weary wintry miles,
   Back to my girlhoods’ home, where, through each room,
   For evermore pale phantoms of delight
   Should aimless wander, always in my sight,
   Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb
   Wet with the tears of living pain and loss.

   The sleepless nights of watching and of care,
   Followed by that one week of keenest pain,
   Taxing my weakened system, and my brain,
   Brought on a ling’ring illness.

            Day by day,
   In that strange, apathetic state I lay,
   Of mental and of physical despair.
   I had no pain, no fever, and no chill,
   But lay without ambition, strength, or will.
   Knowing no wish for anything but rest,
   Which seemed, of all God’s store of gifts, the best.

   Physicians came and shook their heads and sighed;
   And to their score of questions I replied,
   With but one languid answer, o’er and o’er,
   “I am so weary—weary—nothing more.”

   I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered thing,
   Flying through space with ever-aching wing,
   Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white,
   That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight,
   But always one unchanging distance kept,
   And woke more weary than before I slept.

   I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize,
   A hand from heaven held down before my eyes.
   All eagerness I sought it—it was gone,
   But shone in all its beauty farther on.
   I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest
   Of that great prize, whereon was written “Rest,”
   Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam,
   And wakened doubly weary with my dream.

   I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain,
   That saw a snow-white lily on the plain,
   And left the cloud to nestle in her breast.
   I fell and fell, but nevermore found rest—
   I fell and fell, but found no stopping place,
   Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space,
   While space illimitable stretched before.

   And all these dreams but wearied me the more.

   Familiar voices sounded in my room—
   Aunt Ruth’s, and Roy’s, and Helen’s: but they seemed
   A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed,
   And now remembered dimly.

            Wrapped in gloom,
   My mind, o’ertaxed, lost hold of time at last,
   Ignored its future, and forgot its past,
   And groped along the present, as a light,
   Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night,
   Will flicker faintly.

            But I felt, at length,
   When March winds brought vague rumours of the spring,
   A certain sense of “restlessness with rest.”
   My aching frame was weary of repose,
   And wanted action.

            Then slow-creeping strength
   Came back with Mem’ry, hand in hand, to bring
   And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast,
   Grim-visaged Recollection’s thorny rose.
   I gained, and failed.  One day could ride and walk,
   The next would find me prostrate: while a flock
   Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit
   About the chambers of my heart, or sit,
   Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings,
   Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings,
   That once resounded to Hope’s happy lays.

   So passed the ever-changing April days.
   When May came, lightsome footed, o’er the lea,
   Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy,
   I bade farewell to home with secret joy,
   And turned my wan face eastward to the sea.
   Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands
   Were one to him.  Or Egypt’s burning sands,
   Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome,
   All were familiar as the fields of home.

   There was a year of wand’ring to and fro,
   Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights;
   Dwelling among the countless, rare delights
   Of lands historic; turning dusty pages,
   Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages
   Gazing upon the scenes of bloody acts,
   Of kings long buried—bare, unvarnished facts,
   Surpassing wildest fictions of the brain;
   Rubbing against all people, high and low,
   And by this contact feeling Self to grow
   Smaller and less important, and the vein
   Of human kindness deeper, seeing God,
   Unto the humble delver of the sod,
   And to the ruling monarch on the throne,
   Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain,
   And that all hearts have feelings like our own.

   There is no school that disciplines the mind,
   And broadens thought, like contact with mankind.
   The college-prisoned graybeard, who has burned
   The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned,
   Till sciences or classics hold no lore
   He has not conned and studied, o’er and o’er,
   Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared
   With some unlettered wand’rer, who has shared
   The hospitalities of every land;
   Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand;
   Made man his study, and the world his college,
   And gained this grand epitome of knowledge:
   Each human being has a heart and soul,
   And self is but an atom of the whole.
   I hold he is best learnèd and most wise
   Who best and most can love and sympathize.
   Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained;
   Our banded minds go round in little grooves;
   But constant friction with the world removes
   These iron foes to freedom, and we rise
   To grander heights, and, all untrammelled, find
   A better atmosphere and clearer skies;
   And through its broadened realm, no longer chained,
   Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind.
   Where’er we chanced to wander or to roam,
   Glad letters came from Helen; happy things,
   Like little birds that followed on swift wings,
   Bringing their tender messages from home.
   Her days were poems, beautiful, complete.
   The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet.
   She was so happy—happy, and so blest.

   My heart had found contentment in that year.
   With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer
   The heart of youth turns ever to the light;
   Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night,
   But, in its very anguish and unrest,
   It beats and tears the pall-like folds away,
   And finds again the sunlight of the day.

   And yet, despite the changes without measure,
   Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure;
   Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart
   Was conscious of a something lacking, where
   Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair.
   Now love was buried; and despair had flown
   Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown
   From heights serene and lofty; and the place
   Where both had dwelt was empty, voiceless space.
   And so I took my long-loved study, art,
   The dreary vacuum in my life to fill,
   And worked, and laboured, with a right good will.
   Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy
   Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy.
   A dainty little lassie, Grace Kildare,
   Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair,
   And made him captive.

            We were thrown, by chance,
   In contact with her people while in France
   The previous season: she was wholly sweet
   And fair and gentle; so naïve, and yet
   So womanly, she was at once the pet
   Of all our party; and, ere many days,
   Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways,
   Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet.
   Her home was in the Highlands; and she came
   Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame.

   Through all these months Roy had been true as steel;
   And by his every action made me feel
   He was my friend and brother, and no more,
   The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore.
   Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew
   Whether the love he felt one time was dead,
   Or only hidden, for my sake, from view.
   So when he came to me one day, and said,
   The velvet blackness of his eyes ashine
   With light of love and triumph: “Cousin, mine,
   Congratulate me!  She whom I adore
   Has pledged to me the promise of her hand;
   Her heart I have already,” I was glad
   With double gladness, for it freed my mind
   Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad.

   From March till June had left her moons behind,
   And merged her rose-red beauty in July,
   There was no message from my native land.
   Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned:
   Death had been near to Helen, but passed by;
   The danger was now over.  God was kind;
   The mother and the child were both alive;
   No other child was ever known to thrive
   As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say.
   The infant was a wonder, every way.
   And, at command of Helen, he would send
   A lock of baby’s golden hair to me.
   And did I, on my honour, ever see
   Such hair before?  Helen would write, ere long:
   She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong—
   Stronger than ever, so the doctors said.
   I took the tiny ringlet, golden—fair,
   Mayhap his hand had severed from the head
   Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek
   And to my lips, and kissed it o’er and o’er.
   All my maternal instincts seemed to rise,
   And clamour for their rights, while my wet eyes
   Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair.
   The woman struggled with her heart before!
   It was the mother in me now did speak,
   Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not,
   And crying out against her barren lot.

   Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years
   That stretched before me, dark with love’s eclipse;
   And thought how my unmated heart would miss
   The shelter of a broad and manly breast—
   The strong, bold arm—the tender clinging kiss—
   And all pure love’s possessions, manifold;
   But now I wept a flood of bitter tears,
   Thinking of little heads of shining gold,
   That would not on my bosom sink to rest;
   Of little hands that would not touch my cheek;
   Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips,
   That never in my list’ning ear would speak
   The blessed name of mother.

            Oh, in woman
   How mighty is the love of offspring!  Ere
   Unto her wond’ring, untaught mind unfolds
   The myst’ry that is half divine, half human,
   Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls
   Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps
   Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps,
   And grows and strengthens with each riper year.

   As storms may gather in a placid sky,
   And spend their fury, and then pass away,
   Leaving again the blue of cloudless day,
   E’en so the tempest of my grief passed by.
   ’Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned,
   With the deliberate purpose of my mind,
   To my sweet friend.

            Relinquishing my love,
   I gave my dearest hope of joy to her.
   If God, from out His boundless store above,
   Had chosen added blessings to confer,
   I would rejoice, for her sake—not repine
   That th’ immortal treasures were not mine.

   Better my lonely sorrow, than to know
   My selfish joy had been another’s woe;
   Better my grief and my strength to control,
   Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul;
   Better to go on, loveless, to the end,
   Than wear love’s rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.

   Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart.
   With will most resolute I set my aim
   To enter on the weary race for Fame,
   And if I failed to climb the dizzy height,
   To reach some point of excellence in art.

   E’en as the Maker held earth incomplete,
   Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod,
   The perfect, living image of his God,
   All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight,
   Wherein the human figure had no part.
   In that, all lines of symmetry did meet—
   All hues of beauty mingle.  So I brought
   Enthusiasm in abundance, thought,
   Much study, and some talent, day by day,
   To help me in my efforts to portray
   The wond’rous power, majesty and grace
   Stamped on some form, or looking from some face.
   This was to be my specialty: To take
   Human emotion for my theme, and make
   The unassisted form divine express
   Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress;
   And thus to build Fame’s monument above
   The grave of my departed hope and love.
   This is not Genius.  Genius spreads its wings
   And soars beyond itself, or selfish things.
   Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross,
   Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss,
   Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition,
   Before it labours onward to fruition.

   But, as the lark from beds of bloom will rise
   And sail and sing among the very skies,
   Still mounting near and nearer to the light,
   Impelled alone by love of upward flight,
   So Genius soars—it does not need to climb—
   Upon God-given wings, to heights sublime.
   Some sportman’s shot, grazing the singer’s throat,
   Some venomous assault of birds of prey,
   May speed its flight toward the realm of day,
   And tinge with triumph every liquid note.
   So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet,
   When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret.

   There is no balking Genius.  Only death
   Can silence it, or hinder.  While there’s breath
   Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod,
   And lift itself to glory, and to God.
   The acorn sprouted—weeds nor flowers can choke
   The certain growth of th’ upreaching oak.

   Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind
   Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind
   Its selfish love and sorrow.

            Did I strive
   To picture some emotion, lo! _his_ eyes,
   Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes,
   Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain
   Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive.
   Whate’er my subject, in some hue or line,
   The glorious beauty of his face would shine.

   So for a time my labour seemed in vain,
   Since it but freshened, and made keener yet,
   The grief my heart was striving to forget.
   While in his form all strength and magnitude
   With grace and supple sinews were entwined,
   While in his face all beauties were combined
   Of perfect features, intellect and truth,
   With all that fine rich colouring of youth,
   How could my brush portray aught good or fair
   Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude
   Of him my soul had worshipped?

            But, at last,
   Setting a watch upon my unwise heart,
   That thus would mix its sorrow with my art,
   I resolutely shut away the past,
   And made the toilsome present passing bright
   With dreams of what was hidden from my sight
   In the far distant future, when the soil
   Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.



PART VII


   With much hard labour and some pleasure fraught,
   The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught
   My hand to grow more skilful in its art,
   Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought
   Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.

   Brief letters came from Helen, now and then:
   She was quite well—oh yes! quite well, indeed!
   But still so weak and nervous.  By-and-by,
   When baby, being older, should not need
   Such constant care, she would grow strong again.
   She was as happy as a soul could be;
   No least cloud hovered in her azure sky;
   She had not thought life held such depths of bliss.
   Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss,
   And said she was a naughty, naughty girl,
   Not to come home and see ma’s little pearl.
   No gift of costly jewels, or of gold,
   Had been so precious or so dear to me,
   As each brief line wherein her joy was told.
   It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain,
   Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.

   Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where
   He built a pretty villa-like retreat.
   And when the Roman Summer’s languid heat
   Made work a punishment, I turned my face
   Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace
   Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.

   I was a willing worker.  Not an hour
   Passed idly by me: each, I would employ
   To some good purpose, ere it glided on
   To swell the tide of hours forever gone.
   My first completed picture, known as “Joy,”
   Won pleasant words of praise.  “Possesses power,”
   “Displays much talent,” “Very fairly done.”
   So fell the comments on my grateful ear.

   Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near,
   Walks her sad sister Sorrow.  So my brush
   Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed,
   With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush
   Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried.
   The careful study of long months, it won
   Golden opinions; even bringing forth
   That certain sign of merit—a critique
   Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak
   As empty heads that sang their praises—so
   Proving conclusively the pictures’ worth.
   These critics and reviewers do not use
   Their precious ammunition to abuse
   A worthless work.  That, left alone, they know
   Will find its proper level; and they aim
   Their batteries at rising works which claim
   Too much of public notice.  But this shot
   Resulted only in some noise, which brought
   A dozen people, where one came before,
   To view my pictures; and I had my hour
   Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow’r.
   An English Baron who had lived two score
   Of his allotted three score years and ten
   Bought both the pieces.  He was very kind,
   And so attentive, I, not being blind,
   Must understand his meaning.

            Therefore, when
   He said,
         “Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife,
   The ‘Joy’ and ‘Sorrow’ this dear hand portrayed
   I have in my possession: now resign
   Into my careful keeping, and make mine,
   The joy and sorrow of your future life,”—
   I was prepared to answer, but delayed,
   Grown undecided suddenly.

         My mind
   Argued the matter coolly pro and con,
   And made resolve to speed his wooing on
   And grant him favour.  He was good and kind;
   Not young, no doubt he would be quite content
   With my respect, nor miss an ardent love;
   Could give me ties of family and home;
   And then, perhaps, my mind was not above
   Setting some value on a titled name—
   Ambitious woman’s weakness!

         Then my art
   Would be encouraged and pursued the same,
   And I could spend my winters all in Rome.
   Love never more could touch my wasteful heart
   That all its wealth upon one object spent.
   Existence would be very bleak and cold,
   After long years, when I was gray and old,
   With neither home nor children.

         Once a wife,
   I would forget the sorrow of my life,
   And pile new sods upon the grave of pain.
   My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard,
   But made no comment.

         Then the Baron spoke,
   And waited for my answer.  All in vain
   I strove for strength to utter that one word
   My mind dictated.  Moments rolled away—
   Until at last my torpid heart awoke,
   And forced my trembling lips to say him nay.
   And then my eyes with sudden tears o’erran,
   In pity for myself and for this man
   Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise.
   “Dear friend,” I cried, “dear generous friend, forgive
   A troubled woman’s weakness!  As I live,
   In truth I meant to answer otherwise.
   From out its store, my heart can give you naught
   But honour and respect; and yet methought
   I would give willing answer, did you sue.
   But now I know ’twere cruel wrong I planned—
   Taking a heart that beat with love most true,
   And giving in exchange an empty hand.
   Who weds for love alone, may not be wise:
   Who weds without it, angels must despise.
   Love and respect together must combine
   To render marriage holy and divine;
   And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys
   Continuation of the nuptial joys,
   And brings regret, and gloomy discontent
   To put to rout each tender sentiment.
   Nay, nay!  I will not burden all your life
   By that possession—an unloving wife;
   Nor will I take the sin upon my soul
   Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole.
   However bleak may be my single lot,
   I will not stain my life with such a blot.
   Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide;
   It holds some fairer woman for your bride;
   I would I had a heart to give to you,
   But, lacking it, can only say—adieu!”

   He whom temptation never has assailed,
   Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength;
   When sorely tried, we waver, but at length,
   Rise up and turn away, not having failed.

                                * * * * *

   The Autumn of the third year came and went;
   The mild Italian winter was half spent,
   When this brief message came across the sea:
   “My darling!  I am dying.  Come to me.
   Love, which so long the growing truth concealed,
   Stands pale within its shadow.  Oh, my sweet!
   This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat—
   Dying with very weight of bliss.  Oh, come!
   And take the legacy I leave to you,
   Before these lips for evermore are dumb.
   In life or death,—Yours, Helen Dangerfield.”
   This plaintive letter bore a month old date;
   And, wild with fears lest I had come too late,
   I bade the old world and new friends adieu,
   And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home,
   I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.

   All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear
   That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled,
   Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear,
   Was passing from me; that she might be dead;
   And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me,
   Because I made no answer to her plea.

   “O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on,
   Make haste before a wasting life is gone!
   Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath!
   And true in life, be true e’en unto death.

   “O, ship, sail on! and bear me o’er the tide
   To her for whom my woman’s heart once died.
   Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me,
   And I would know what her last wish may be!
   I have been true, so true, through all the past.
   Sail, sail, O, ship!  I would not fail at last.”

   So prayed my heart still o’er, and ever o’er,
   Until the weary lagging ship reached shore.
   All sad with fears that I had come too late,
   By that strange source whence men communicate,
   Though miles on miles of space between them lie,
   I spoke with Vivian: “Does she live?  Reply.”
   The answer came.  “She lives, but hasten, friend!
   Her journey draweth swiftly to its end.”

   Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot,
   My own dear home, the lane that led to his—
   The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight,
   Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might;
   Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot,
   But those sweet early years of lost delight,
   Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.

   I have a theory, vague, undefined,
   That each emotion of the human mind,
   Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair,
   Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air,
   Until it takes possession of some breast;
   And, when at length, grown weary of unrest,
   We rise up strong and cast it from the heart,
   And bid it leave us wholly, and depart,
   It does not die, it cannot die; but goes
   And mingles with some restless wind that blows
   About the region where it had its birth.
   And though we wander over all the earth,
   That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year,
   Invisible and clothèd like the air,
   Hoping that we may yet again draw near,
   And it may haply take us unaware,
   And once more find safe shelter in the breast
   It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.

   Told by my heart, and wholly positive,
   Some old emotion long had ceased to live;
   That, were it called, it could not hear or come,
   Because it was so voiceless and so dumb,
   Yet, passing where it first sprang into life,
   My very soul has suddenly been rife
   With all the old intensity of feeling.
   It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing
   Into my heart from that departed day;
   Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.

   So now into my troubled heart, above
   The present’s pain and sorrow, crept the love
   And strife and passion of a bygone hour,
   Possessed of all their olden might and power.
   ’Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken
   By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken,
   And Vivian stood before us.

            But I saw
   In him the husband of my friend alone.
   The old emotions might at times return,
   And smould’ring fires leap up an hour and burn;
   But never yet had I transgressed God’s law,
   By looking on the man I had resigned,
   With any hidden feeling in my mind,
   Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known
   He was but little altered.  From his face
   The nonchalant and almost haughty grace,
   The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes,
   The years had stolen, leaving in their place
   A settled sadness, which was not despair,
   Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care,
   But something like the vapour o’er the skies
   Of Indian summer, beautiful to see,
   But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be.
   There was that in his face which cometh not,
   Save when the soul has many a battle fought,
   And conquered self by constant sacrifice.

   There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine,
   Render the plainest features half divine.
   All other artists strive and strive in vain,
   To picture beauty perfect and complete.
   Their statues only crumble at their feet,
   Without the master touch of Faith and Pain.
   And now his face, that perfect seemed before,
   Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore
   A look exalted, which the spirit gives
   When soul has conquered, and the body lives
   Subservient to its bidding.

            In a room
   Which curtained out the February gloom,
   And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers,
   Rested the eye like one of Summer’s bowers,
   I found my Helen, who was less mine now
   Than Death’s; for on the marble of her brow
   His seal was stamped indelibly.

            Her form
   Was like the slender willow, when some storm
   Has stripped it bare of foliage.  Her face,
   Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue:
   And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place,
   Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue.
   Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein,
   And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain
   Which is not uttered.  Yet an inward light
   Shone through and made her wasted features bright
   With an unearthly beauty; and an awe
   Crept o’er me, gazing on her, for I saw
   She was so near to Heaven that I seemed
   To look upon the face of one redeemed.
   She turned the brilliant lustre of her eyes
   Upon me.  She had passed beyond surprise,
   Or any strong emotion linked with clay.
   But as I glided to her where she lay,
   A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed
   Her pallid features.  “Welcome home!” she breathed
   “Dear hands! dear lips!  I touch you and rejoice.”
   And like the dying echo of a voice
   Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.

   I fell upon my knees beside her bed;
   All agonies within my heart were wed,
   While to the aching numbness of my grief,
   Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear,—
   The tortured soul’s most merciful relief.
   Her wasted hand caressed my bended head
   For one sad, sacred moment.  Then she said,
   In that low tone so like the wind’s refrain,
   “Maurine, my own! give not away to pain;
   The time is precious.  Ere another dawn
   My soul may hear the summons and pass on.
   Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while,
   And when refreshed, come hither.  I grow weak
   With every hour that passes.  I must speak
   And make my dying wishes known to-night.
   Go now.”  And in the halo of her smile,
   Which seemed to fill the room with golden light,
   I turned and left her.

            Later, in the gloom
   Of coming night, I entered that dim room,
   And sat down by her.  Vivian held her hand:
   And on the pillow at her side there smiled
   The beauteous count’nance of a sleeping child.

   “Maurine,” spoke Helen, “for three blissful years,
   My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land;
   And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy,
   Without one drop of anguish or alloy.
   And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall,
   Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears,
   And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all
   Who linger long upon this troubled way,
   God takes me to the realm of Endless Day,
   To mingle with His angels, who alone
   Can understand such bliss as I have known.
   I do not murmur.  God has heaped my measure,
   In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure;
   And, from the fulness of an earthly love,
   I pass to th’ Immortal Arms above,
   Before I even brush the skirts of Woe.

   “I leave my aged parents here below,
   With none to comfort them.  Maurine, sweet friend!
   Be kind to them, and love them to the end,
   Which may not be far distant.

            And I leave
   A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine.
   From this most holy, sad and sacred eve,
   Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep,
   To love and shelter, to protect and guide.”
   She touched the slumb’ring cherub at her side,
   And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep,
   And laid the precious burden on my breast.

   A solemn silence fell upon the scene.
   And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed
   My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek,
   I felt it would be sacrilege to speak,
   Such wordless joy possessed me.

            Oh! at last
   This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past,
   Had caused my soul such travail, was my own:
   Through all the lonely coming years to be
   Mine own to cherish—wholly mine alone.
   And what I mourned so hopelessly as lost
   Was now restored, and given back to me.

   The dying voice continued:
            “In this child
   You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost.
   But all that was most pure and undefiled,
   And good within me, lives in her again.
   Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know,
   Moving about the wide world, to and fro,
   And through, and in the busy haunts of men,
   Not always will his heart be dumb with woe,
   But sometime waken to a later love.
   Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed above
   All selfish feelings!  I would have it so.
   While I am with the angels, blest and glad,
   I would not have you sorrowing and sad,
   In loneliness go mourning to the end.
   But, love!  I could not trust to any other
   The sacred office of a foster-mother
   To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend.

   “Teach her to love her father’s name, Maurine,
   Where’er he wanders.  Keep my memory green
   In her young heart, and lead her in her youth,
   To drink from th’ eternal fount of Truth;
   Vex her not with sectarian discourse,
   Nor strive to teach her piety by force;
   Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds,
   Nor frighten her with an avenging God,
   Who rules His subjects with a burning rod;
   But teach her that each mortal simply needs
   To grow in hate of hate and love of love,
   To gain a kingdom in the courts above.

   “Let her be free and natural as the flowers,
   That smile and nod throughout the summer hours.
   Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth,
   But first impress upon her mind this truth:
   No lasting happiness is e’er attained
   Save when the heart some _other_ seeks to please.
   The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained,
   And full of gall and bitterness the lees.
   Next to her God, teach her to love her land;
   In her young bosom light the patriot’s flame
   Until the heart within her shall expand
   With love and fervour at her country’s name.

   “No coward-mother bears a valiant son.
   And this, my last wish, is an earnest one.

   “Maurine, my o’er-taxed strength is waning; you
   Have heard my wishes, and you will be true
   In death as you have been in life, my own!
   Now leave me for a little while alone
   With him—my husband.  Dear love!  I shall rest
   So sweetly with no care upon my breast.
   Good-night, Maurine, come to me in the morning.”

   But lo! the Bridegroom with no further warning
   Came for her at the dawning of the day.
   She heard His voice, and smiled, and passed away
   Without a struggle.

            Leaning o’er her bed
   To give her greeting, I found but her clay,
   And Vivian bowed beside it.

            And I said,
   “Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request,
   And when the night of fever and unrest
   Melts in the morning of Eternity,
   Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee.

   “I will come to thee in the morning, sweet!
   I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet
   Before God’s throne, and shall not be afraid.
   Thou gav’st me trust, and it was not betrayed.

   “I will come to thee in the morning, dear!
   The night is dark.  I do not know how near
   The morn may be of that Eternal Day;
   I can but keep my faithful watch and pray.

   “I will come to thee in the morning, love!
   Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above.
   The way is troubled where my feet must climb,
   Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime.

   “I will come in the morning, O mine own;
   But for a time must grope my way alone,
   Through tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn,
   And I shall hear the summons, and pass on.

   “I will come in the morning.  Rest secure!
   My hope is certain and my faith is sure.
   After the gloom and darkness of the night
   I will come to thee with the morning light.”

                                  * * * * *

   Three peaceful years slipped silently away.

   We dwelt together in my childhood’s home,
   Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May.
   She was a fair and most exquisite child;
   Her pensive face was delicate and mild
   Like her dead mother’s; but through her dear eyes
   Her father smiled upon me, day by day.
   Afar in foreign countries did he roam,
   Now resting under Italy’s blue skies,
   And now with Roy in Scotland.

            And he sent
   Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went
   And what he saw, addressed to May or me.
   And I would write and tell him how she grew—
   And how she talked about him o’er the sea
   In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew
   His picture in the album; how each day
   She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring
   Her own papa back to his little May.
   It was a warm bright morning in the Spring.
   I sat in that same sunny portico,
   Where I was sitting seven years ago
   When Vivian came.  My eyes were full of tears,
   As I looked back across the checkered years.
   How many were the changes they had brought!
   Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught
   To my young heart had been of untold worth.
   I had learned how to “suffer and grow strong”—
   That knowledge which best serves us here on earth,
   And brings reward in Heaven.

            Oh! how long
   The years had been since that June morning when
   I heard his step upon the walk, and yet
   I seemed to hear its echo still.

            Just then
   Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet,
   And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land
   Stood there before me!—holding out his hand
   And smiling with those wond’rous eyes of old.

   To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child;
   But she was shy, and clung to me, when told
   This was papa, for whom her prayers were said.
   She dropped her eyes and shook her little head,
   And would not by his coaxing be beguiled,
   Or go to him.

            Aunt Ruth was not at home,
   And we two sat and talked, as strangers might,
   Of distant countries which we both had seen.
   But once I thought I saw his large eyes light
   With sudden passion, when there came a pause
   In our chit-chat, and then he spoke:

            “Maurine,
   I saw a number of your friends in Rome.
   We talked of you.  They seemed surprised, because
   You were not ’mong the seekers for a name.
   They thought your whole ambition was for fame.”

   “It might have been,” I answered, “when my heart
   Had nothing else to fill it.  Now my art
   Is but a recreation.  I have _this_
   To love and live for, which I had not then.”
   And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss
   Upon my child’s fair brow.

            “And yet,” he said,
   The old light leaping to his eyes again,
   “And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed
   A noble Baron! one of many men
   Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet.
   Why won the bravest of them no return?”
   I bowed my head, nor dared his gaze to meet.
   On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn,
   And strong emotion strangled speech.

            He rose
   And came and knelt beside me.

            “Sweet, my sweet!”
   He murmured softly, “God in Heaven knows
   How well I loved you seven years ago.
   He only knows my anguish, and my grief,
   When your own acts forced on me the belief
   That I had been your plaything and your toy.
   Yet from his lips I since have learned that Roy
   Held no place nearer than a friend and brother.
   And then a faint suspicion, undefined,
   Of what had been—was—might be, stirred my mind,
   And that great love, I thought died at a blow,
   Rose up within me, strong with hope and life.

   “Before all heaven and the angel mother
   Of this sweet child that slumbers on your heart,
   Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife—
   Mine own, forever, until death shall part!”

   Through happy mists of upward welling tears,
   I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes.
   “Dear heart,” I said, “if she who dwells above
   Looks down upon us, from yon azure skies,
   She can but bless us, knowing all these years
   My soul had yearned in silence for the love
   That crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak.
   I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake.
   For her sweet child’s, and for my own, I take
   You back to be all mine, for evermore.”

   Just then the child upon my breast awoke
   From her light sleep, and laid her downy cheek
   Against her father as he knelt by me.
   And this unconscious action seemed to be
   A silent blessing, which the mother spoke
   Gazing upon us from the mystic shore.




ALL ROADS THAT LEAD TO GOD ARE GOOD


   All roads that lead to God are good.
      What matters it, your faith, or mine?
      Both centre at the goal divine
   Of love’s eternal Brotherhood.

   The kindly life in house or street—
      The life of prayer and mystic rite—
      The student’s search for truth and light—
   These paths at one great Junction meet.

   Before the oldest book was writ,
      Full many a prehistoric soul
      Arrived at this unchanging goal,
   Through changeless Love, that leads to it.

   What matters that one found his Christ
      In rising sun, or burning fire?
      If faith within him did not tire,
   His longing for the Truth sufficed.

   Before our modern hell was brought
      To edify the modern world,
      Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled
   In lakes of fire by its own thought.

   A thousand creeds have come and gone,
      But what is that to you or me?
      Creeds are but branches of a tree—
   The root of love lives on and on.

   Though branch by branch proves withered wood,
      The root is warm with precious wine.
      Then keep your faith and leave me mine—
   All roads that lead to God are good.




DUST-SEALED


   I know not wherefore, but mine eyes
      See bloom, where other eyes see blight.
   They find a rainbow, a sunrise,
      Where others but discern deep night.

   Men call me an enthusiast,
      And say I look through gilded haze:
   Because where’er my gaze is cast,
      I see something that calls for praise.

   I say, “Behold those lovely eyes—
      That tinted cheek of flower-like grace.”
   They answer in amused surprise:
      “We thought it a common face.”

   I say, “Was ever seen more fair?
      I seem to walk in Eden’s bowers.”
   They answer, with a pitying air,
      “The weeds are choking out the flowers.”

   I know not wherefore, but God lent
      A deeper vision to my sight.
   On whatsoe’er my gaze is bent
      I catch the beauty Infinite;

   That underlying, hidden half
      That all things hold of Deity.
   So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh—
      Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.




“ADVICE”


   I must do as you do?  Your way I own
      Is a very good way.  And still,
   There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,
      One over, one under the hill.

   You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,
      That the prudent choose each time;
   And you think me reckless and rash to-day,
      Because I prefer to climb.

   Your path is the right one, and so is mine.
      We are not like peas in a pod,
   Compelled to lie in a certain line,
      Or else be scattered abroad.

   ’Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend,
      If we all went just one way;
   Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,
      Though they lead apart to-day.

   You like the shade, and I like the sun;
      You like an even pace,
   I like to mix with the crowd and run,
      And then rest after the race.

   I like danger, and storm and strife,
      You like a peaceful time;
   I like the passion and surge of life,
      You like its gentle rhyme.

   You like buttercups, dewy sweet,
      And crocuses, framed in snow;
   I like roses, born of the heat,
      And the red carnation’s glow.

   I must live my life, not yours, my friend,
      For so it was written down;
   We must follow our given paths to the end,
      But I trust we shall meet—in town.




OVER THE BANISTERS


   Over the banisters bends a face,
      Daringly sweet and beguiling.
   Somebody stands in careless grace
      And watching the picture, smiling.

   The light burns dim in the hall below,
      Nobody sees her standing,
   Saying good-night again, soft and low,
      Halfway up to the landing.

   Nobody only the eyes of brown,
      Tender and full of meaning,
   That smile on the fairest face in town,
      Over the banisters leaning.

   Tired and sleepy, with drooping head,
      I wonder why she lingers;
   Now, when the good-nights all are said,
      Why, somebody holds her fingers.

   He holds her fingers and draws her down,
      Suddenly growing bolder,
   Till the loose hair drops its masses brown
      Like a mantle over his shoulder.

   Over the banisters soft hands, fair,
      Brush his cheeks like a feather,
   And bright brown tresses and dusky hair
      Meet and mingle together.

   There’s a question asked, there’s a swift caress,
      She has flown like a bird from the hallway,
   But over the banisters drops a “Yes,”
      That shall brighten the world for him alway.




THE PAST


   I fling my past behind me like a robe
   Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.
   I have outgrown it.  Wherefore should I weep
   And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
   Of Oriental splendour, or complain
   That I must needs discard it?  I can weave
   Upon the shuttles of the future years
   A fabric far more durable.  Subdued,
   It may be, in the blending of its hues,
   Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam
   Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
   While over all a fadeless lustre lies,
   And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
   My new robe shall be richer than the old.




SECRETS


   Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone;
      Why, even God’s stupendous secret, Death,
      We one by one, with our expiring breath,
   Do pale with wonder seize and make our own;
   The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown,
      Despite her careful hiding; and the air
      Yields its mysterious marvels in despair
   To swell the mighty store-house of things known.
   In vain the sea expostulates and raves;
      It cannot cover from the keen world’s sight
      The curious wonders of its coral caves.
   And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,
   The prying fingers of detective years
      Shall drag _thy_ secret out into the light.




APPLAUSE


   I hold it one of the sad certain laws
   Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind
   Than that success which brings sure loss behind—
   True greatness dies, when sounds the world’s applause
   Fame blights the object it would bless, because
      Weighed down with men’s expectancy, the mind
      Can no more soar to those far heights, and find
   That freedom which its inspiration was.
   When once we listen to its noisy cheers
      Or hear the populace’ approval, then
   We catch no more the music of the spheres,
      Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men.
   Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears,
   The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.




THE STORY


   They met each other in the glade—
      She lifted up her eyes;
   Alack the day!  Alack the maid!
      She blushed in swift surprise.
   Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.

   The pail was full, the path was steep—
      He reached to her his hand;
   She felt her warm young pulses leap,
      But did not understand.
   Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.

   She sat beside him in the wood—
      He wooed with words and sighs;
   Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good,
      And maidens are not wise.
   Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs.

   The summer sun shone fairly down,
      The wind blew from the south;
   As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,
      His kiss fell on her mouth.
   Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.

   And now the autumn time is near,
      The lover roves away,
   With breaking heart and falling tear,
      She sits the livelong day.
   Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.




LEAN DOWN


   Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine!
   From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen
   How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings,
   I cannot grasp at once those better things
   To which I in my inmost soul aspire.
   Lean down and lift me higher.

   I grope along—not desolate or sad,
   For youth and hope and health all keep me glad;
   But too bright sunlight, sometimes, makes us blind,
   And I do grope for heights I cannot find.
   Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire—
   Lean down and lift me higher.

   Not long ago we trod the self-same way.
   Thou knowest how, from day to fleeting day
   Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet
   Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet,
   But only served to hinder and to tire;
   Lean down and lift me higher.

   Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene,
   And left me here, my loved one, Josephine;
   I am content to stay until the end,
   For life is full of promise; but, my friend,
   Canst thou not help me in my best desire
   And lean, and lift me higher?

   Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise,
   And quick to understand and sympathize
   With all a full soul’s needs.  It must be so,
   Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know
   Thou must see how I struggle and aspire—
   Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire,
   And lean, and lift me higher.




LIFE


   I feel the great immensity of life.
   All little aims slip from me, and I reach
   My yearning soul toward the Infinite.

   As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves
   Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower
   For lovers’ secrets, or for children’s sports,
   Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds,
   And lets the eye behold it, limitless,
   And full of winding mysteries of ways:
   So now with life that reaches out before,
   And borders on the unexplained Beyond.

   I see the stars above me, world on world:
   I hear the awful language of all Space;
   I feel the distant surging of great seas,
   That hide the secrets of the Universe
   In their eternal bosoms; and I know
   That I am but an atom of the Whole.




THE CHRISTIAN’S NEW YEAR PRAYER


   Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending
      Through these glad New Year days,
   To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending—
      For e’en hard hearts do raise
   Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power,
      Or freedom from all care—
   Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour,
      Hear now a Christian’s prayer.

   Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me,
      Be as a means of grace
   To lead me up, no matter what betide me,
      Nearer the Master’s face.
   If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain
      Where living waters play,
   My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain,
      Then cast them in my way.

   If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses
      To shape it for Thy crown,
   Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses,
      With sorrows bear it down.
   Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure,
      And if I should complain,
   Heap full of anguish yet another measure
      Until I smile at pain.
   Send dangers—deaths! but tell me how to dare them;
      Enfold me in Thy care.
   Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them—
   This is a Christian’s prayer.




IN THE NIGHT


   Sometimes at night, when I sit and write,
      I hear the strangest things,—
   As my brain grows hot with burning thought,
      That struggles for form and wings,
   I can hear the beat of my swift blood’s feet,
      As it speeds with a rush and a whir
   From heart to brain and back again,
      Like a race-horse under the spur.

   With my soul’s fine ear I listen and hear
      The tender Silence speak,
   As it leans on the breast of Night to rest,
      And presses his dusky cheek.
   And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns
      For something that is kin;
   And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss,
      As it folds and fondles Sin.

   In its hurrying race through leagues of space,
      I can hear the Earth catch breath,
   As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans,
      And longs for the rest of Death.
   And high and far, from a distant star,
      Whose name is unknown to me,
   I hear a voice that says, “Rejoice,
      For I keep ward o’er thee!”

   Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range
      Through the chambers of the night;
   And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates
      May hear, if he lists aright.




GOD’S MEASURE


   God measures souls by their capacity
   For entertaining his best Angel, Love.
   Who loveth most is nearest kin to God,
   Who is all Love, or Nothing.

            He who sits
   And looks out on the palpitating world,
   And feels his heart swell within him large enough
   To hold all men within it, he is near
   His great Creator’s standard, though he dwells
   Outside the pale of churches, and knows not
   A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line
   Of Scripture even.  What God wants of us
   Is that outreaching bigness that ignores
   All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds,
   And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.




A MARCH SNOW


   Let the old snow be covered with the new:
   The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.
   Let it be hidden wholly from our view
      By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden.
   When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring’s feet,
   Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.
   Let the old life be covered by the new:
      The old past life so full of sad mistakes,
   Let it be wholly hidden from the view
      By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.
   Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring
   Let the white mantle of repentance fling
   Soft drapery about it, fold on fold,
   Even as the new snow covers up the old.




PHILOSOPHY


   At morn the wise man walked abroad,
      Proud with the learning of great fools.
   He laughed and said, “There is no God—
      ’Tis force creates, ’tis reason rules.”

   Meek with the wisdom of great faith,
      At night he knelt while angels smiled,
   And wept and cried with anguished breath,
      “Jehovah, _God_, save Thou my child.”




“CARLOS”


   Last night I knelt low at my lady’s feet.
   One soft, caressing hand played with my hair,
   And one I kissed and fondled.  Kneeling there,
   I deemed my meed of happiness complete.

   She was so fair, so full of witching wiles—
   Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye;
   So womanly withal, but not too shy—
   And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles.

   Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead sent,
   Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness
   Through all my frame.  I trembled with excess
   Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content.

   When any mortal dares to so rejoice,
   I think a jealous Heaven, bending low,
   Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow.
   Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady’s voice.

   “My love!” she sighed, “my Carlos!” even now
   I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath
   Bearing to me those words of living death,
   And starting out the cold drops on my brow.

   For I am _Paul_—not Carlos!  Who is he
   That, in the supreme hour of love’s delight,
   Veiled by the shadows of the falling night,
   She should breathe low his name, forgetting me?

   I will not ask her! ’twere a fruitless task,
   For, woman-like, she would make me believe
   Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve,
   And call me cruel.  Nay, I will not ask.

   But this man Carlos, whosoe’er he be,
   Has turned my cup of nectar into gall,
   Since I know he has claimed some one or all
   Of these delights my lady grants to me.

   He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad
   And tender twilight, when the day grew dim.
   How else could I remind her so of him?
   Why, reveries like these have made men mad!

   He must have felt her soft hand on his brow.
   If Heaven were shocked at such presumptuous wrongs,
   And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs,
   _Still she remembers_, though she loves me now.

   And if he lives, and meets me to his cost,
   Why, what avails it?  I must hear and see
   That curst name “Carlos” always haunting me—
   So has another Paradise been lost.




THE TWO GLASSES


   There sat two glasses filled to the brim,
      On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.
      One was ruddy and red as blood,
   And one was clear as the crystal flood.

   Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
   “Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
   I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth,
   Where I was king, for I ruled in might;
   For the proudest and grandest souls on earth
   Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
   From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
   From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
   I have blasted many an honoured name;
   I have taken virtue and given shame;
   I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
   That has made his future a barren waste.
   Far greater than any king am I,
   Or than any army beneath the sky.
   I have made the arm of the driver fail,
   And sent the train from the iron rail.
   I have made good ships go down at sea,
   And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
   Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;
   And my might and power are over all!
   Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine,
   “Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”
   Said the water-glass: “I cannot boast
   Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,
   But I can tell of hearts that were sad
   By my crystal drops made bright and glad;
   Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;
   Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
   I have leapt through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
   Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
   I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,
   And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;
   I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;
   I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
   I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
   That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.
   I can tell of manhood debased by you,
   That I have uplifted and crowned anew.
   I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
   I gladden the heart of man and maid;
   I set the wine-chained captive free,
   And all are better for knowing me.”

   These are the tales they told each other,
   The glass of wine and its paler brother,
   As they sat together, filled to the brim,
   On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.




LA MORT D’AMOUR


   When was it that love died?  We were so fond,
      So very fond a little while ago.
      With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow,
   We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,

   When we should dwell together as one heart,
      And scarce could wait that happy time to come.
      Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb,
   And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.

   How was it that love died?  I do not know.
      I only know that all its grace untold
      Has faded into gray!  I miss the gold
   From our dull skies; but did not see it go.

   Why should love die?  We prized it, I am sure;
      We thought of nothing else when it was ours;
      We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers:
   It was our all; why could it not endure?

   Alas, we know not how, or when, or why
      This dear thing died.  We only know it went,
      And left us dull, cold, and indifferent;
   We who found heaven once in each other’s sigh.

   How pitiful it is, and yet how true
      That half the lovers in the world, one day,
      Look questioning in each other’s eyes this way
   And know love’s gone forever, as we do.

   Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart,
      As I look out o’er all the wide, sad earth
      And see love’s flame gone out on many a hearth,
   That those who would keep love must dwell apart.




LOVE’S SLEEP
(Vers de Société)


   We’ll cover Love with roses,
      And sweet sleep he shall take
   None but a fool supposes
      Love always keeps awake.
   I’ve known loves without number—
      True loves were they, and tried;
   And just for want of slumber
      They pined away and died.

   Our love was bright and cheerful
      A little while agone;
   Now he is pale and tearful,
      And—yes, I’ve seen him yawn.
   So tired is he of kisses
      That he can only weep;
   The one dear thing he misses
      And longs for now is sleep.

   We could not let him leave us
      One time, he was so dear,
   But now it would not grieve us
      If he slept half a year.
   For he has had his season,
      Like the lily and the rose,
   And it but stands to reason
      That he should want repose.

   We prized the smiling Cupid
      Who made our days so bright;
   But he has grown so stupid
      We gladly say good-night.
   And if he wakens tender
      And fond, and fair as when
   He filled our lives with splendour,
      We’ll take him back again.

   And should he never waken,
      As that perchance may be,
   We will not weep forsaken,
      But sing, “Love, tra-la-lee!”




TRUE CULTURE


   The highest culture is to speak no ill,
   The best reformer is the man whose eyes
   Are quick to see all beauty and all worth;
   And by his own discreet, well-ordered life,
   Alone reproves the erring.

         When thy gaze
   Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe.
   But when it falls upon a fellow-man
   Let kindliness control it; and refrain
   From that belittling censure that springs forth
   From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.




THE VOLUPTUARY


   Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated,
      Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified.
   Life holds no thing to be anticipated,
      And I am sad from being satisfied.

   The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain
      Has left me now the highest point is gained.
   The crystal spray that fell from Fame’s fair fountain
      Was sweeter than the waters were when drained.

   The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure,
      And which I purchased with my youth and strength,
   Pleased me a moment.  But the empty treasure
      Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length.

   And love, all glowing with a golden glory,
      Delighted me a season with its tale.
   It pleased the longest, but at last the story,
      So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.

   I lived for self, and all I asked was given,
      I have had all, and now am sick of bliss,
   No other punishment designed by Heaven
      Could strike me half so forcibly as this.

   I feel no sense of aught but enervation
      In all the joys my selfish aims have brought,
   And know no wish but for annihilation,
      Since that would give me freedom from the thought

   Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated;
      Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.
   For him there is a hope not yet completed;
      For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.

   But cursed is he who has no balked ambition,
      No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair,
   But sick and sated with complete fruition,
      Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.




THE COQUETTE


   Alone she sat with her accusing heart,
      That, like a restless comrade, frightened sleep,
   And every thought that found her left a dart
      That hurt her so, she could not even weep.

   Her heart that once had been a cup well filled
      With love’s red wine, save for some drops of gall,
   She knew was empty; though it had not spilled
      Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.

   She stood upon the grave of her dead truth,
      And saw her soul’s bright armour red with rust,
   And knew that all the riches of her youth
      Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.

   Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn,
      Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate,
   Made her cry out that she was ever born
      To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.




IF


   Dear love, if you and I could sail away,
      With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled,
   Across the waters of some unknown bay,
      And find some island far from all the world;

   If we could dwell there, ever more alone,
      While unrecorded years slip by apace,
   Forgetting and forgotten and unknown
      By aught save native song-birds of the place;

   If Winter never visited that land,
      And Summer’s lap spilled o’er with fruits and flowers,
   And tropic trees cast shade on every hand,
      And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;

   If from the fashions of the world set free,
      And hid away from all its jealous strife,
   I lived alone for you, and you for me—
      Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.

   But since we dwell here in the crowded way,
      Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold,
   And all is commonplace and workaday,
      As soon as love’s young honeymoon grows old;

   Since fashion rules and nature yields to art,
      And life is hurt by daily jar and fret,
   ’Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart
      And go our ways alone, love, and forget.




LOVE’S BURIAL


   Let us clear a little space,
   And make Love a burial-place.

   He is dead, dear, as you see,
   And he wearies you and me.

   Growing heavier, day by day,
   Let us bury him, I say.

   Wings of dead white butterflies,
   These shall shroud him, as he lies

   In his casket rich and rare,
   Made of finest maiden-hair.

   With the pollen of the rose
   Let us his white eyelids close.

   Put the rose thorn in his hand,
   Shorn of leaves—you understand.

   Let some holy water fall
   On his dead face, tears of gall—

   As we kneel by him and say,
   “Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.

   Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust,
   They will lower him to the dust.

   Let us part here with a kiss—
   You go that way, I go this.

   Since we buried Love to-day
   We will walk a separate way.




LIPPO


   Now we must part, my Lippo.  Even so,
   I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise;
   Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes—
   ’Twas thine own hand which dealt dear
   Love’s death-blow.

   I loved thee fondly yesterday.  Till then
   Thy heart was like a covered golden cup
   Always above my eager lip held up.
   I fancied thou wert not as other men.

   I knew that heart was filled with Love’s sweet wine,
   Pressed wholly for my drinking.  And my lip
   Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip
   Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.

   Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled
   Its precious contents.  Even to the lees
   Were offered to me, saying, “Drink of these!”
   And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed.

   No word was left unsaid, no act undone,
   To prove to me thou wert my abject slave.
   Ah!  Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save
   One little drop of that sweet wine—but one—

   I still had loved thee, longing for it then.
   But even the cup is mine.  I look within,
   And find it holds not one last drop to win,
   And cast it down.—Thou art as other men.




“LOVE IS ENOUGH”


   Love is enough.  Let us not ask for gold.
      Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness;
   In those serene, Arcadian days of old
      Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress,
   The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia’s height
   Lived only for dear love and love’s delight.
            Love is enough.

   Love is enough.  Why should we care for fame?
      Ambition is a most unpleasant guest:
   It lures us with the glory of a name
      Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest.
   Let us stay here in this secluded place
   Made beautiful by love’s endearing grace!
            Love is enough.

   Love is enough.  Why should we strive for power?
      It brings men only envy and distrust.
   The poor world’s homage pleases but an hour,
      And earthly honours vanish in the dust.
   The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate;
   Let me be loved, and let who will be great.
            Love is enough.

   Love is enough.  Why should we ask for more?
      What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?
   What better boon of all their precious store
      Than our fond hearts that love and love again?
   Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;
   And life is fair and all the world complete:
            Love is enough!




LIFE IS LOVE


   Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?
      Does anyone weep on a day like this,
   With the sun above and the green earth under?
      Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

   With the sun and the skies and the birds above me,
      Birds that sing as they wheel and fly—
   With the winds to follow and say they loved me—
      Who could be lonely?  O ho, not I!

   Somebody said in the street this morning,
      As I opened my window to let in the light,
   That the darkest day of the world was dawning;
      But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight

   One who claims that he knows about it
      Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin;
   But I and the bees and the birds—we doubt it,
      And think it a world worth living in.

   Someone says that hearts are fickle,
      That love is sorrow, that life is care,
   And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle,
      Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

   I told the thrush, and we laughed together—
      Laughed till the woods were all a-ring;
   And he said to me, as he plumed each feather,
      “Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing!”

   Up he flew, but his song, remaining,
      Rang like a bell in my heart all day,
   And silenced the voices of weak complaining
      That pipe like insects along the way.

   O world of light, and O world of beauty!
      Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?
   Yes, life is love, and love is duty;
      And what heart sorrows?  O no, not mine!

                                * * * * *

                                 THE END

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

              BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD