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                              TWO WOMEN.




                              TWO WOMEN:

                                 1862.

                               _A POEM._

                                  BY

                      CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

                 (REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.)

                               NEW YORK:

                       D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,

                        549 AND 551 BROADWAY.

                                 1877.

                             COPYRIGHT BY

                       D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,

                                 1877.




        TWO WOMEN.

        1862.




        _ONE._


    Through miles of green cornfields that lusty
      And strong face the sun and rejoice
    In his heat, where the brown bees go dusty
      With pollen from flowers of their choice,
    ’Mong myriads down by the river
      Who offer their honey, the train
    Flies south with a whir and a shiver,
    Flies south through the lowlands that quiver
              With ripening grain--

    Fair wheat, like a lady for fancies,
      Who bends to the breeze, while the corn
    Held stiff all his stubborn green lances
      The moment his curled leaf was born;
    And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping
      The shores of the river whose tide--
    Slow moving, brown tide--holds the keeping
    Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping,
              Couched lions, each side.

    Hair curlless, and hid, and smooth-banded,
      Blue innocent maidenly eyes,
    That gaze at the lawless rough-handed
      Young soldiers with grieving surprise
    At oaths on their lips, the deriding
      And jestings that load every breath,
    While on with dread swiftness are gliding
    Their moments, and o’er them is biding
              The shadow of death!

    Face clear-cut and pearly, a slender
      Small maiden with calm, home-bred air;
    No deep-tinted hues you might lend her
      Could touch the faint gold of her hair,
    The blue of her eyes, or the neatness
      Of quaint little gown, smoothly spun
    From threads of soft gray, whose completeness
    Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness--
              A lily turned nun.

    Ohio shines on to her border,
      Ohio all golden with grain;
    The river comes up at her order,
      And curves toward the incoming train;
    “The river! The river! O borrow
      A speed that is swifter-- Afar
    Kentucky! Haste, haste, thou To-morrow!”
    Poor lads, dreaming not of the sorrow,
              The anguish of war.




        _THE OTHER._


    West from the Capital’s crowded throng
    The fiery engine rushed along,
    Over the road where danger lay
    On each bridge and curve of the midnight way,
    Shooting across the rivers’ laps,
    Up the mountains, into the gaps,
    Through West Virginia like the wind,
    Fire and sword coming on behind,
    Whistling defiance that echoed back
    To mountain guerrillas burning the track,
    “Do the worst, ye rebels, that ye can do
    To the train that follows, but _I_ go through!”

    A motley crowd--the city thief;
    The man of God; the polished chief
    Of a band of gamblers; the traitor spy;
    The correspondent with quick, sharp eye;
    The speculator who boldly made
    His fifty per cent. in a driving trade
    At the edge of the war; the clean lank clerk
    Sent West for sanitary work;
    The bounty-jumper; the lordling born
    Viewing the country with wondering scorn--
    A strange assemblage filled the car
    That dared the midnight border-band,
    Where life and death went hand-in-hand
    Those strange and breathless days of war.

    The conductor’s lantern moves along,
    Slowly lighting the motley throng
    Face by face; what sudden gleam
    Flashes back in the lantern’s beam
    Through shadows down at the rearward door?
    The conductor pauses; all eyes explore
    The darkened corner: a woman’s face
    Thrown back asleep--the shimmer of lace,
    The sheen of silk, the yellow of gold,
    The flash of jewels, the careless fold
    Of an India shawl that half concealed
    The curves superb which the light revealed;
    A sweep of shoulder, a rounded arm,
    A perfect hand that lay soft and warm
    On the dingy seat; all the outlines rare
    Of a Milo Venus slumbered there
    ’Neath the costly silk whose heaviest fold
    Subordinate seemed--unnoticed mould
    For the form beneath.

                            The sumptuous grace
    Of the careless pose, the sleeping face,
    Transfixed all eyes, and together drew
    One and all for a nearer view:
    The lank clerk hasted, the gambler trod
    On the heels of the gazing man of God;
    The correspondent took out his book,
    Sharpened his pencil with eager look;
    The soldiers fought as to who should pass
    The first; the lord peered through his glass,
    But no sooner saw the sleeping face
    Than he too hasted and left his place
    To join the crowd.
                        Then, ere any spoke,
    But all eager gazed, the lady woke.

    Dark-brown, sleepy, velvet eyes,
    Lifted up in soft surprise,
    A wealth of hair of auburn red,
    Falling in braids from the regal head
    Whose little hat with waving plume
    Lay on the floor--while a faint perfume,
    The roses, crushed in sleep, betrayed,
    Tangled within the loosened braid;
    Bold features, Nubian lips, a skin
    Creamy pallid, the red within
    Mixed with brown where the shadow lies
    Dark beneath the lustrous eyes.
    She smiles; all hearts are at her feet.
    She turns; each hastens to his seat.
    The car is changed to a sacred place
    Lighted by one fair woman’s face;
    In sudden silence on they ride,
    The lord and the gambler, side by side,
    The traitor spy, the priest as well,
    Bound for the time by a common spell,
    And each might be in thought and mien
    A loyal knight escorting his queen,
    So instant and so measureless
    Is the power of a perfect loveliness.




        _THE MEETING._


    The Western city with the Roman name,
    The vine-decked river winding round the hills,
    Are left behind; the pearly maid who came
    Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills
    The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea,
    Is riding southward on the cautious train,
    That feels its way along, and nervously
    Hurries around the curve and o’er the bridge,
    Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge--
    The wild adventurous cavalry campaign
    That Morgan and his men, bold riders all,
    Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years,
    So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears,
    That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall,
    When men in city offices feel yet
    The old wild thrill of “Boots and saddles all!”
    The dashing raid they cannot quite forget
    Despite the hasty graves that silent lie
    Along its route; at home the women sigh,
    Gazing across the still untrodden ways,
    Across the fields, across the lonely moor,
    “O for the breathless ardor of those days
    When we were all so happy, though so poor!”

                          The maiden sits alone;
    The raw recruits are scattered through the car,
    Talking of all the splendors of the war,
    With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone.
    In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view,
    Like opening wood-flower pearled with morning dew,
    She shines among them in her radiance pure,
    Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure
    They’re very wicked--hoping that the day
    Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away,
    And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies,
    To the far farm-house where her lover lies,
    Wounded--alone.
                    The rattling speed turns slow,
    Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go,
    The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down;
    The young conductor comes--(there was a face
    He noted in the night)--“Madam, your place
    Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town
    We take on other soldiers. If you change
    Your seat and join that little lady, then
    It will not seem so lonely or so strange
    For you, as here among so many men.”
    Lifting her fair face from the battered seat,
    Where she had slumbered like a weary child,
    The lady, with obedience full sweet
    To his young manhood’s eager craving, smiled
    And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way;
    She followed in her lovely disarray.
    The clinging silk disclosed the archèd foot,
    Hidden within the dainty satin boot,
    Dead-black against the dead-white even hue
    Of silken stocking, gleaming into view
    One moment; then the lady sleepily
    Adjusted with a touch her drapery,
    And tried to loop in place a falling braid,
    And smooth the rippling waves the night had made;
    While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane
    Set her bright gems to flashing back again;
    And all men’s eyes in that Kentucky car
    Grew on her face, as all men’s eyes had done
    On the night-train that brought her from afar,
    Over the mountains west from Washington.

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

                                             Haply met,
    This country maiden, sweet as mignonette,
    No doubt the pride of some small Western town:--
    Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown,
    So prim--so dull--a fashion five years old!

        THE MAIDEN (_thinking_).

                                                How odd, how bold,
    That silken robe--those waves of costly lace,
    That falling hair, the shadows ’neath the eyes,
    Surely those diamonds are out of place--
    Strange, that a lady should in such a guise
    Be here alone!

        THE LADY.

                   Allow me, mademoiselle,
    Our good conductor thinks it would be well
    That we should keep together, since the car
    Will soon be overcrowded, and we are
    The only women.--May I have a seat
    In this safe little corner by your side?
    Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet
    So sweet a friend to share the long day’s ride!--
    That is, if yours be long?

        THE MAIDEN.

    To Benton’s Mill.

        THE LADY.

    I go beyond, not far--I think we pass
    Your station just before Waunona Hill;
    But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass.
    Do you not love that land?

        THE MAIDEN.

                               I do not know
    Aught of it.

        THE LADY.

                 Yes; but surely you have heard
    Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow,
    Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd
    Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred
    For victory--the rare Kentucky speed
    That wins the races?

        THE MAIDEN.

                         Yes; I’ve heard it said
    They were good worthy horses.--But indeed
    I know not much of horses.

        THE LADY.

                               Then the land--
    The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass,
    The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand
    That scarce an English dukedom may surpass
    In velvet beauty--while its royal sweep
    Over the country miles and miles away,
    Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep
    Their distance from each other, proud array
    Of single elms that stand apart to show
    How gracefully their swaying branches grow,
    While little swells of turf roll up and fall
    Like waves of summer sea, and over all
    You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass
    Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.--
    But you will see it.

        THE MAIDEN.

                         No; I cannot stay
    But a few hours--at most, a single day.

        THE LADY (_unheeding_).

                                            I think I like the best,
    Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed,
    The Arab courser of our own new West,
    The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed
    Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins
    The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand
    In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins,
    And those slow, cautious judges on the stand,
    Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill
    That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still?

        THE MAIDEN.

    I ne’er have seen race-horses, or a race.

        THE LADY.

    I crave your pardon; in your gentle face
    I read reproof.

        THE MAIDEN.

    I judge not any man.

        THE LADY.

    Nor woman?

        THE MAIDEN.

               If you force reply, I can
    Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race,
    For gamblers’ prizes, seems not worthy place
    For women--nor for men, indeed, if they
    Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play,
    The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance,
    The deadly poison of all games of chance--
    All these are sinful.

        THE LADY.

                          Ah! poor sins, how stern
    The judge! I knew ye not for sins--I learn
    For the first time that ye are evil. Go,
    Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe--
    Alas! And David Garrick!--Where’s the harm
    In David?

        THE MAIDEN.

    I know not the gentleman.

        THE LADY.

    Nay, he’s a play; a comedy so warm,
    So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can,
    _I_ weep. And must I yield my crystal glass,
    Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine,
    That makes a dreary dinner-party pass
    In rosy light, where after-fancies shine--
    Things that one might have said?--And then the dance,
    The _valse à deux temps_, if your partner chance
    To be a lover--

        THE MAIDEN.

                     Madam, pray excuse
    My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse
    To dwell on themes like these.

        THE LADY.

                                   Did I begin
    The themes, or you?

        THE MAIDEN.

                        But _I_ dwelt on the sin,
    And you--

        THE LADY.

              Upon the good. Did I not well?
    I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle.

        THE MAIDEN.

    Forgive me, lady, but I cannot jest,
    I bear too anxious heart within my breast;
    One dear to me lies wounded, and I go
    To find him, help him home with tender care--
    To home and health, God willing.

        THE LADY.

                                     Is it so?
    Strange--but ah! no. The wounded are not rare,
    Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war.--
    But he will yet recover; I feel sure
    That one beloved by heart so good, so pure
    As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star
    Is fortunate.

        THE MAIDEN.

                  Not in the stars, I trust.
    We are but wretched creatures of the dust,
    Sinful, and desperately wicked; still,
    It is in mercy our Creator’s will
    To hear our prayers.

        THE LADY.

                         And do you then believe
    He grants all heart-felt prayers? One might conceive
    A case: Suppose a loving mother prays
    For her son’s life; he, worn with life’s hard ways,
    Entreats his God for death with equal power
    And fervor.

        THE MAIDEN.

    It is wrong to pray for death.

        THE LADY.

    I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour
    A farmer prays for rain; with ’bated breath
    A mother, hastening to a dying child,
    Prays for fair weather?--But you do not deign
    To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled
    That little, silver smile! I might explain
    My meaning further; but why should I shake
    Your happy faith?

        THE MAIDEN.

    You could not.

        THE LADY.

                                     Nay, that’s true;
    You are the kind that walks up to the stake
    Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue
    For pardon, and I pray you tell me all
    This tale of yours. When did your lover fall--
    What battle-field?

        THE MAIDEN.

                       Not any well-known name;
    It was not Heaven’s pleasure that the fame
    Of well-known battle should be his. A band
    Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land,
    Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way.

        THE LADY.

    Guerrillas?

        THE MAIDEN.

    Yes; John Morgan’s.

        THE LADY.

                                    Maybe so,
    And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name
    That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow,
    Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame
    Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may--
    Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan’s men
    Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen
    Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map
    Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks
    Where they have been; now near, now miles away,
    From river lowland to the mountain-gap,
    Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks
    When _they_ ride by, no well-versed tongues betray
    Their resting-place; Kentucky knows her own,
    Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass
    Across her borders north from Tennessee,
    Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass,
    The land of home, the land they long to see,
    The lovely rolling land. We might have known
    That come they would!

        THE MAIDEN.

    You are Kentucky-bred?

        THE LADY.

    I come from Washington. Nay--but I read
    The doubt you try to hide. Be frank--confess--
    I am that mythical adventuress
    That thrives in Washington these troublous days--
    The country correspondent’s tale?

        THE MAIDEN.

                                      Your dress--
    And--something in your air--

        THE LADY.

                                 I give you praise
    For rare sincerity. Go on.

        THE MAIDEN.

                               Your tone,
    Your words, seem strange.--But then, I’ve never known
    A woman like you.

        THE LADY (_aside_).

                      Yet we are not few,
    Thank Heaven, for the world’s sake! It would starve
    If gray was all its color, and the dew
    Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste
    It seeks the royal purples, and draws down
    The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste,
    And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown
    Upon its brow; and then, its hands do carve
    The vine-leaves into marble.
                                 But the hue
    Of thoughts like these she knows not--and in vain
    To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain
    Hear her small story.
    (_Speaks._) Did he fall alone,
    Your gallant soldier-boy? And how to you
    Came the sad news?

        THE MAIDEN.

                       A farmer heard him moan
    While passing--bore him to the camp, and there
    A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word
    Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard,
    I left my mother, ill, for in despair
    He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know
    That they had written, for hot fever drove
    His thoughts with whips of flame.--O cruel woe,--O my poor love--
    My Willie!

        THE LADY.

               Do not grieve, fair child. This day
    Will see you by his side--nay, if you will,
    Then lay your head here--weep your grief away.
    Tears are a luxury--yes, take your fill;
    For stranger as I am, my heart is warm
    To woman’s sorrow, and this woman’s arm
    That holds you is a loyal one and kind.
    (_Thinking._) O gentle maiden-mind,
    How lovely art thou--like the limpid brook
    In whose small depths my child-eyes loved to look
    In the spring days! Thy little simple fears
    Are wept away. Ah! could _I_ call the tears
    At will to soothe the parched heat of my heart!
                                      --O beautiful lost Faith,
    I knew you once--but now, like shadowy wraith,
    You meet me in this little maiden’s eyes,
    And gaze from out their blue in sad surprise
    At the great gulf between us. Far apart,
    In truth, we’ve drifted--drifted. Gentle ghost
    Of past outgrown, thy land the hazy coast
    Of dreamless ignorance; I must put out
    My eyes to live with you again. The doubt,
    The honest, earnest doubt, is upward growth
    Of the strong mind--the struggle of the seed
    Up to the broad, free air. Contented sloth
    Of the blind clods around it sees no need
    For change--nay, deems, indeed, all change a crime;
    “All things remain as in our fathers’ time--
    What gain ye then by growing?”
                                   “Air--free air!
    E’en though I die of hunger and despair,
    I go,” the mind replies.

        THE MAIDEN (_thinking_).

                             How kind, how warm
    Her sympathy! I could no more resist
    Her questions, than the large clasp of her arm
    That drew me down. How tenderly she kissed
    My forehead! strange that so much good should dwell
    With so much ill. This shining, costly dress,
    A garb that shows a sinful worldliness,
    Troubles my heart.
                       Ah, I remember well
    How hard I worked after that letter came
    Telling of Willie--and my sisters all,
    How swift we sewed! For I had suffered shame
    At traveling in house-garb.
                              --I feel a call
    To bring this wanderer back into the fold,
    This poor lost sinner straying in the cold
    Outside the church’s pale. Should I not try
    To show her all the sad deficiency,
    The desperate poverty of life like hers,
    The utter falseness of its every breath,
    The pity that within my bosom stirs
    For thinking of the horrors after death
    Awaiting her?

        THE LADY.

                  Quite calm, again? That’s well.
    Wilt taste a peach? My basket holds a store
    Of luscious peaches. Ah! she weaves a spell,
    This lovely sorceress of fruit; what more
    Can man ask from the earth? There is no cost
    Too great for peaches. I have felt surprise
    Through all my life that fair Eve should have lost
    That mythic Asian land of Paradise
    For a poor plebeian apple! Now a peach,
    Pulpy, pink-veined, hanging within her reach,
    Might well have tempted her.

                                 Oh, these long hours!--
    Whence comes this faint perfume of hot-house flowers--
    Tea-roses?

        THE MAIDEN.

               Tangled in your loosened hair
    Are roses.

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

               Nita must have twined them there--
    The opera--I know now; I have sped
    So swift across the country, my poor head
    Is turned.--The opera? Yes; then--O heart,
    How hast thou bled! [_Dashes away tears._]
    (_Speaks._) Sweet child, I pray you tell
    Again your budding romance, all the part
    Where he first spoke. You’d known him long and well,
    Your Willie?

        THE MAIDEN.

                 Yes; in childhood we had been
    Two little lovers o’er the alphabet;
    Then one day--I had grown to just sixteen--
    Down in the apple-orchard--there--we met,
    By chance--and--

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

                     Blush, thou fine-grained little cheek,
    It comforts me to see that e’en thy meek
    Child-beauty knows enough of love to blush.
    (_Speaks._) Nay, you flush
    So prettily! Well, must _I_ tell the rest?
    You knew, then, all at once, you loved him best,
    This gallant Willie?

        THE MAIDEN (_thinking_).

                          What has come to me
    That I do answer, from reserve so free,
    This stranger’s questions? Yet may it not chance
    My confidence shall win hers in return?
    I must press on, nor give one backward glance--
    Must follow up my gain by words that burn
    With charity and Christian zeal.
    (_Speaks._) Yes; then
    We were betrothed. I wore his mother’s ring,--
    And Willie joined the church; before all men
    He made the promises and vows which bring
    A blessing down from God. Dear lady, strength
    From Heaven came to us. Could I endure
    This absence, silence, all the weary length
    Of hours and days and months, were I not sure
    That God was with my Willie? If on you
    Sorrow has fallen, lady (and those tears
    Showed me its presence), seek the good, the true,
    In this sad life; a prayer can calm all fears;
    Yield all your troubles to your God’s control,
    And He will bless you. Ah! where should _I_ be
    Did I not know that in my Willie’s soul
    Came first the love of God, then love for me?

        THE LADY.

    His love for you comes _second_?

        THE MAIDEN.

                                     Would you have
    A mortal love come first?

        THE LADY.

                              Sweet heart, I crave
    Your pardon. For your gentle Christian zeal
    I thank you. Wear this gem--’twill make me feel
    That I am something to you when we part.
    But what the “silence?”

        THE MAIDEN.

                            Ten months (they seem years!)
    Since Willie joined the army; and my heart
    Bore it until his letters ceased; then tears
    Would come--would come!

        THE LADY.

    Why should the letters cease?

        THE MAIDEN.

    I know not; I could only pray for peace,
    And his return. No doubt he could not write,
    Perplexed with many duties; his the care
    Of a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight,
    The new recruits are drilled.

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

        Oh, faith most rare! (_Speaks._) Had you no doubts?

        THE MAIDEN.

                                   Why should I doubt? We are
    Betrothed--the same forever, near or far!
                                            --He knew my trust
    Was boundless as his own.

        THE LADY.

                              But still you must
    In reason have known something--must have heard
    Or else imagined--

        THE MAIDEN.

                       For three months no word
    Until this letter; from its page I learned
    That my poor Willie had but just returned
    To the brigade, when struck down unaware.
    It seems he had been three months absent.

        THE LADY.

    --Where?

        THE MAIDEN.

    They did not say. I hope to bear him home
    To-morrow; for in truth I scarce could come,
    So ill my mother, and so full my hands
    Of household cares; but, Willie understands.

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

    _Ciel!_ faith like this is senseless--or sublime!
    Which is it?
    (_Speaks_). But three months--so long a time--

        THE MAIDEN.

    Were it three years, ’twould be the same. The troth
    We plighted, freely, lovingly, from both
    Our true hearts came.

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

                          And may as freely go--
    Such things have happened! But I will not show
    One glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trust
    She cherishes; as soon my hand could thrust
    A knife in the dove’s breast.
      (_Speaks._) You’ll find him, dear;
    All will go well; take courage. Not severe
    His wound?

        THE MAIDEN.

               Not unto death; but fever bound
    His senses. When the troops moved on, they found
    A kindly woman near by Benton’s Mill;
    And there he lies, poor Willie, up above
    In her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill:
    “Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”--
    Here is his picture.

        THE LADY.

                         What! ’tis Meredith!
    The girl is mad!--Give it me forthwith!
    How came you by it?

        THE MAIDEN.

                        Madam, you will break
    The chain. I beg--

        THE LADY.

                       Here is some strange mistake.
    This picture shows me Meredith Reid.

        THE MAIDEN.

                                         Yes, Reid
    Is Willie’s name; and Meredith, indeed,
    Is his name also--Meredith Wilmer. I
    Like not long names, so gave him, lovingly,
    The pet name Willie.

        THE LADY.

                         O ye Powers above!
    The “pet name Willie!” Would you try to chain
    Phœbus Apollo with your baby-love
    And baby-titles? Scarce can I refrain
    My hands from crushing you!--
                                  You are that girl,
    Then, the boy’s fancy. Yes, I heard the tale
    He tried to tell me; but it was so old,
    So very old! I stopped him with a curl
    Laid playfully across his lips. “Nay, hold!
    Enough, enough,” I said; “of what avail
    The rest? I know it all; ’tis e’er the same
    Old story of the country lad’s first flame
    That burns the stubble out. Now by this spell
    Forget it all.” He did; and it was well
    He did.

        THE MAIDEN.

            Never! oh, never! Though you prove
    The whole as clear as light, I’d ne’er receive
    One word. As in my life, so I believe
    In Willie!

        THE LADY.

               Fool and blind! your God above
    Knows that I lie not when I say that he
    You dwarf with your weak names is mine, mine, mine!
    He worships me--dost hear? He worships _me_,
    Me only! What art thou, a feeble child,
    That _thou_ shouldst speak of loving? Haste, aside,
    Lest we should drown you in the torrent wild
    Of our strong meeting loves, that may not bide
    Nor know your dying, even; feeble weed
    Tossed on the shore--[_The maiden faints._
                          Why could I not divine
    The truth at first? [_Fans her._
                        Fierce love, why shouldst thou kill
    This little one? The child hath done no ill,
    Poor wounded, broken blossom. I should pour
    My gentlest pity--

        THE MAIDEN (_recovering_).

                       Madam, thanks; no more
    Do I require your aid.

        THE LADY (_aside_).

                           How calm she seems,
    How cold her far-off eyes! Poor little heart.
    The pity of it! all its happy dreams,
    With a whole life’s idolatry to part
    In one short moment.
    (_Speaks._) Child, let us be friends;
    Not ours the fault, it is the work of Fate.
    And now, before your hapless journey ends,
    Say, in sweet charity, you do not hate
    Me for my love. Trust me, I’ll tend him well;
    As mine own heart’s blood, will I care for him
    Till strong again. Then shall he come and tell
    The whole to you--the cup from dregs to brim--
                                     How, with undoubting faith
    In the young fancy that he thought was love
    For you, he came a-down the glittering path
    Of Washington society; above
    The throng I saw his noble Saxon head,
    Sunny with curls, towering among the rest
    In calm security--scorn that is bred
    Of virtue, and that largeness which your West
    With its wide sweep of fields gives to her sons--
    A certain careless largeness in the look,
    As though a thousand prairie-miles it took
    Within its easy range.
                           Ah! blindly runs
    Our fate. We met, we two so far apart
    In every thought, in life, in soul, in heart--
    Our very beings clashed. He, fair, severe;
    I, dark and free; his days a routine clear,
    Lighted by conscience; I, in waking dream
    Of colors, music, warmth, the scents of flowers,
    The sweep of velvet, and the diamond’s gleam,
    A cloud of romance heavy on the air,
    The boudoir curtained from the light of day,
    Where all the highest came to call me fair,
    And whispered vows I laughed in scorn away.
    Was it my fault that Nature chose to give
    The splendid beauty of this hair, these eyes,
    This creamy skin? And if the golden prize
    Of fortune came to me, should I not live
    In the rich luxury my being craved?
    I give my word, I no more thought of time--
    Whether ’twas squandered, trifled with, or saved,
    Than the red rose in all her damask prime.
    Each day I filled with joys full to the brim--
    The rarest fruits and wines, the costliest lace,
    The ecstasy of music, every whim
    For some new folly gratified, the grace
    Of statues idealized in niches, touch
    Of softest fabrics. Ah! the world holds much
    For those who love her; and I never heard
    In all my happy glowing life one word
    Against her, till--he came!
                                We met, we loved,
    Like flash of lightning from a cloudless sky,
    So sudden, strange, the white intensity--
    Intensity resistless! Swift there moved
    Within his heart a force unknown before,
    That swept his being from that early faith
    Across a sea, and cast it on the shore
    Prone at my feet.
                      He minded not if death
    Came, so he could but gaze upon my face.

    --But, bending where he lay (the youthful grace
    Of his strong manhood, in humility
    Prone, by love’s lightnings), so I bended me
    Down to his lips, and gave him--all!
                                         Sweet girl,
    Forgive me for the guiltless robbery,
    Forgive him, swept by fateful Destiny!
    He spoke of one, the child-love of his youth;
    I told of my child-marriage. But, in truth,
    No barrier, had it been a thousand-fold
    Stronger than boyish promise, e’er could hold
    Natures like ours!
                       You see it, do you not?
    You understand it all.
                         --I had forgot,
    But this the half-way town; the train runs slow,
    No better place than this. But, ere you go,
    Give me one silent hand-clasp, little pearl.
    I ask you not to speak, for words would seem
    Too hard, too hard. Yet, some time, when the dream
    Of girlhood has dissolved before the heat
    Of real love, you will forgive me, sweet.

        THE MAIDEN.

    I fail to comprehend you. Go? Go where?

        THE LADY.

    Back to your home; here waits the north-bound train;
    ’Twill bear you safely. To go on were pain
    Most needless--cruel.

        THE MAIDEN.

                          I am not aware
    That I have said aught of returning. Vain
    Your false and evil story. I have heard
    Of such as you; but never, on my word
    As lady and as Christian, did I think
    To find myself thus side by side with one
    Who flaunts her ignominy on the brink
    Of dark perdition!
                       Ah! my Willie won
    The strong heart’s victory when he turned away
    From your devices, as I _know_ he turned.
    Although you follow him in this array
    Of sin, I _know_ your evil smiles he spurned
    With virtuous contempt--the son of prayers,
    The young knight of the church! My bosom shares
    His scorn; take back your ring, false woman. Go!
    Move from my side.

        THE LADY.

                       Dear Heaven, now I know
    How pitiless these Christians!
                                   Unfledged girl,
    Your little, narrow, pharisaic pride
    Deserves no pity; jealousy’s wild whirl
    Excuse might be, since that is born of love;
    But _this_ is scorn, and, by the God above,
    I’ll set you in your place!
                                Do _you_ decide
    The right and wrong for this broad world of ours,
    Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyes
    Veiled o’er with prejudice are yet so wise
    That they must judge the earth, and call it good
    Or evil as it follows their small rules,
    The petty, narrow dogmas of the schools
    That hang on Calvin!
                         Doubtless prairie-flowers
    Esteem the hot-house roses evil all;
    But yet I think not that the roses should
    Go into mourning therefor!
                               Oh, the small,
    Most small foundation for a vast conceit!
    Is it a merit that you never learned
    But one side of this life? Because you dwelt
    Down in a dell, there were no uplands sweet,
    No breezy mountain-tops? _You_ never yearned
    For freedom, born a slave! You never felt
    The thrill of rapture, the wild ecstasy
    Of mere existence that strong natures know,
    The deep and long-drawn breaths, the burning glow
    Of blood that sunward leaps; but, in your dell,
    You said: “This is the world. If all, like me,
    Walked on this one straight line, all would go well!”
                                                          O fool! O blind!
    O little ant toiling along the ground!
    You cannot see the eagle on the wind
    Soaring aloft; and so you go your round
    And measure out the earth with your small line,
    An inch for all infinity! “Thus mine
    Doth make the measure; thus it is.”
                                        Proud girl!
    You call me evil. There is not a curl
    In all this loosened hair which is not free
    From sin as your smooth locks. Turn; look at me!
    I flout you with my beauty! From my youth
    Beside my mother’s chair, by God’s own truth,
    I’ve led a life as sinless as your own.
    Your innocence is ignorance; but I
    Have seen the Tempter on his shining throne,
    And said him nay. You craven weaklings die
    From fear of dangers I have faced! I hold
    Those lives far nobler that contend and win
    The close, hard fight with beautiful, fierce Sin,
    Than those that go untempted to their graves,
    Deeming the ignorance that haply saves
    Their souls, some splendid wisdom of their own!
                                                You fold
    Yourself in scornful silence? I could smile,
    O childish heart, so free from worldly guile,
    Were I not angered by your littleness.
                                      You judge my dress
    The garb of sin? Listen. I sat and heard
    The opera; by chance there fell a word
    Behind me from a group of men who fill
    Night after night my box. My heart stood still.
    I asked--they told the name. “Wounded,” they said,
    “A letter in the journal here.” I read,
    Faced them with level eyes; they did not know,
    But wondered, caught the truth, to see me go
    Straight to my carriage. “Drive! The midnight train.”
    We reached it, breathless.
                              Had I worn fair white,
    A ballroom-robe, I’d do the same to gain
    One moment more of time.

        THE MAIDEN.

                              And by what right--
    Are you his wife?

        THE LADY.

                      I am not; but to-night
    I shall be, if I live. Your scorn, poor child,
    Is thrown away. Bound by his soldier’s oath,
    I would not keep him. No Omphale I,
    Though he be Hercules. We plighted troth,
    And then, when called, he went from me--to die
    If need be. I remember that I smiled
    When they marched by!
                          Love for my country burns
    Within my heart; but this was love for him.
    I could not brook him, one who backward turns
    For loving wife; his passion must not dim
    The soldier’s courage stern. Then I had wealth,
    The golden wealth left me by that old man
    Who called me wife for four short months; by stealth
    He won me, but a child; the quiet plan
    Was deftly laid. I do not blame him now.
    My mother dead--one kind thought was to save
    My budding youth from harm. The thoughtless vow
    I made was soon dissevered by the grave,
    And I was left alone. Since then I’ve breathed
    All pleasures as the flowers breathe in the sun,
    At heart as innocent as they; red-wreathed
    My careless life with roses, till the one
    Came! Then the red turned purple deep, the hope
    Found itself love; the rose was heliotrope.
                                                There needed much
    To do with lawyers’ pens ere I could give
    My hand again; so that dear, longed-for touch
    Was set by me for the full-blooming day
    When Peace shall drive the demon War away
    Forever. I was wrong. Oh, let him live,
    Kind God! Love shall be wronged no more--no more.
    All my own heart’s life will I gladly pour
    For one small hour of his.--Wait--wait--I fly
    To thee, my love, on swiftest wings! Thy cry
    The depths of grief too hot for tears doth move:
    “Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”

        THE MAIDEN.

    It was not you he called!

        THE LADY.

    Ah! yes.

        THE MAIDEN.

                                       He is
    _Not_ false; I’ll ne’er believe it, woman.

        THE LADY.

                                               His
    The falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptorn
    By the great flood, and onward madly borne
    With the wild, foaming torrent miles away.--
    No doubt he loved the violet that grew
    In the still woods ere the floods came; he knew
    Not then of roses!

        THE MAIDEN.

                      Cruel eyes, I say
    But this to all your flashings--you have lied
    To me in all!

        THE LADY.

                 Look, then, here at my side
    His letters--read them. Did he love me? Read!
    Aha! you flush, you tremble, there’s no need
    To show you more; the strong words blanch your cheek.
    See, here his picture; could I make it speak,
    How it would kill you! Yes, I wear it there
    Close to my heart. Know you this golden hair
    That lies beside it?

        THE MAIDEN.

                         Should he now confess
    The whole--yes, tell me all your tale was true,
    I would not leave him to you, sorceress!
    I’d snatch him from the burning--I would sue
    His pardon down from heaven. I shall win
    Him yet, false woman, and his grievous sin
    Shall be forgiven.
    (_Bows her head upon her hands._) O God let him die
    Rather than live for one who doth belie
    All I have learned of Thee!

        _Train stops suddenly._--_Enter_ CONDUCTOR.

        CONDUCTOR.

                               The bridge is down,
    The train can go no farther. Morgan’s band
    Were here last night! There is a little town
    Off on the right, and there, I understand,
    You ladies can find horses. Benton’s Mill
    Is but a short drive from Waunona Hill.--
    Can I assist you?

        THE MAIDEN.

    Thanks; I must not wait. [_Exit._

        THE LADY.

    Yes; that my basket--that my shawl. O Fate!
    How burdened are we women! Sir, you are
    Most kind; and may I trouble you thus far?
    Find me the fleetest horses; I must reach
    Waunona Hill this night. I do beseech
    All haste; a thousand dollars will I give
    For this one ride. [_Exeunt._

        A SOLDIER.

                       Say, boys, I’d like to live
    Where I could see that woman! I could fight
    A regiment of rebels in her sight--
    Couldn’t you?

        THE OTHERS.

    Yes--yes! [_Exeunt omnes._




        _THE DRIVE._


        THE LADY (_thinking_).

    O fair Kentucky! border-land of war,
    Thou rovest like a gypsy at thy will
    Between the angry South and stubborn North.
    Across thy boundaries many times from far
    Sweep Morgan’s men, the troopers bold who fill
    Ohio with alarm; then, marching forth
    In well-drilled ranks with flag, and fife, and drum,
    From camp and town the steady blue-coats come,
    March east, march west, march north, march south, and find
    No enemy except the lawless wind.
    No sooner gone--Lo! presto through the glen
    Is heard the midnight ride of Morgan’s men:
    They ford the rivers by the light of stars,
    The ringing hoofs sound through the mountain-pass;
    They draw not rein until their glad huzzas
    Are echoing through the land of the Blue Grass.
                                                  --O lovely land,
    O swell of grassy billows far and near,
    O wild, free elms, whose swaying arms expand
    As if to clasp me, hold my love as dear
    As thine own son! I hasten to his side--
    Ye roads, lie smooth; ye streams, make safe the ford;
    O chivalrous Kentucky, help the bride
    Though thou hast wounded with thy rebel sword
    The foeman bridegroom!

           *       *       *       *       *

    .... Can it be that girl
    Who rides in front? I thought her left behind
    In that small town. _Ciel!_ would I could hurl
    The slim thing down this bank! Would I could bind
    Those prim, long-fingered, proper hands of hers
    Behind her drooping, narrow-shouldered back,
    And send her home! A heart like that transfers
    Its measured, pale affections readily,
    If the small rules it calleth piety
    Step in between them. Otherwise, the crack
    Of doom would not avail to break the cord
    Which is not love so much as given word
    And fealty, that conscientiousness
    Which weigheth all things be they more or less,
    From fold of ribbon to a marriage-vow,
    With self-same scales of duty. Shall I now
    Ride on and pass her--for her horse will fail
    Before the hour is out? Of what avail
    Her journey?
    (_Speaks._) Driver, press forward.--Nay, stop--
    (_Aside._) O what a child am I to waver thus!
    I know not how to be ungenerous,
    Though I may try--God knows I truly tried.
    What’s this upon my hand? Did a tear drop?
    (_Speaks._) By your side
    Behold me, maiden; will you ride with me?
    My horses fleet and strong.

        THE MAIDEN.

    I thank you--no.

        THE LADY (_aside_).

    She said me nay; then why am I not free
    To leave her here, and let my swift steeds go
    On like the wind?
    (_Speaks._) Ho! driver--
    (_Aside._) But, alas!
    I cannot.
    (_Speaks._) Child, my horses soon will pass
    In spite of me; they are so fleet they need
    The curb to check them in their flying speed.
    Ours the same journey: why should we not ride
    Together?

        THE MAIDEN.

    Never!

        THE LADY.

                    Then I must abide
    By your decision.--Driver, pass.
    (_Thinking._) I take
    Her at her word. In truth, for her own sake
    ’Twere charity to leave her, hasten on,
    Find my own love, and with him swift be gone
    Ere she can reach him; for his ardor strong
                          (Curbed, loyal heart, so long!),
    Heightened by fever, will o’ersweep all bounds,
    And fall around me in a fiery shower
    Of passion’s words.-- And yet--this inner power--
    This strange, unloving justice that surrounds
    My careless conscience, _will_ not let me go!
    (_Speaks._) Ho!
    Driver, turn back.
                     --Maiden, I ask again--
    I cannot take advantage. Come with me;
    That horse will fail you soon--ask; both these men
    Will tell you so.--Come, child--we will agree
    The ride shall count as naught; nay, when we reach
    The farm-house, all shall be as though no speech
    Had ever passed between us--we will meet
    Beside his couch as strangers.
    (_Speaks._) There’s defeat
    For thee, O whispering tempter!

        THE MAIDEN (_to the men_).

                                   Is it true?
    Will the horse fail?

        ONE OF THE MEN.

    Yes.

        THE MAIDEN.

                              Madam, then with you
    I needs must ride.--I pray you take my share
    Of payment; it were more than I could bear
    To be indebted to you.

        THE LADY.

    Nay--the sum
    Was but a trifle.
    (_Aside._) Now forgive me, truth.
    But was it not a trifle to such wealth--
    Such wealth as mine?
    (_Speaks._) Heard you that distant drum
    Borne on the wind a moment? Ah! our youth
    Is thrilled with the great pulses of this war.
    How fast we live--how full each crowded hour
    Of hot excitements! Naught is done by stealth,
    The little secrecies of other days
    Thrown to the winds; the clang and charge afar
    On the red battle-field, the news that sways
    Now to, now fro, ’twixt victory and defeat;
    The distant cry of “Extra!” down the street
    In the gray dawnings, and our breathless haste
    To read the tidings--all this mighty power
    Hath burned in flame the day of little things,
    Curled like a scroll--and now we face the kings,
    The terrible, the glorious gods of war.
    --The maid forgets her shyness; wherefore waste
    One moment when the next may call him forth
    Ne’er to return to her? The dear old North
    May take her lover--but he shall not go
    With lips unkissed to meet his Southern foe;
    Her last embrace will cheer him on his round
    Now back, now forth, over the frozen ground
    Through the long night.
                          --And when the hasty word
    “Only one day; be ready, love,” is heard,
    The soft consent is instant, and there swells
    Amid the cannonade faint wedding-bells
    From distant village; then, as swift away
    The soldier bridegroom rides--he may not stay.
    And she?--She would not keep him, though the tears
    Blind her sweet eyes that follow him, and fears
    Crowd her faint heart and take away her breath,
    As on her white robe falls the shade of Death
    That waits for him at Shiloh!
                                  O these days!
    When we have all gone back to peaceful ways,
    Shall we not find sweet Peace a little dull?
    --You do not speak.

        THE MAIDEN.

                        Madam, my heart is full
    Of other thoughts.

        THE LADY.

                      Of love?--Pray--what is love?
    How should a woman love?--Although we hate
    Each other well, we need not try to prove
    Our hate by silence--for there is a fate
    Against it in us women; speak we must,
    And ever shall until we’re turned to dust,
    Nay--I’m not sure but even then we talk
    From grave to grave under the churchyard-walk--
    Whose bones last longest--whose the finest shroud--
    And--is there not a most unseemly crowd
    In pauper’s corner yonder?
                             --You are shocked?
    You do not see, then, that I only mocked
    At my own fears--as those poor French lads sang
    Their gayest songs at the red barricade,
    Clear on the air their boyish voices rang
    In chorus, even while the bayonet made
    An end of them.--He may be suffering now--
    He may be calling--
                        There! I’ve made a vow
    To keep on talking. So, then--tell me, pray,
    How should a woman love?

        THE MAIDEN.

                             I can but say
    How I do love.

        THE LADY.

    And how?

        THE MAIDEN.

    With faith and prayer.

        THE LADY.

    I, too; my faith is absolute. We share
    That good in common. I believe his love
    Is great as mine, and mine--oh, could I prove
    My love by dying for him, far too small
    The test; I’d give my love, my soul, my all,
    In life, in death, in immortality,
    Content in hell itself (if there be hells--
    Which much I doubt)--content, so I could be
    With him!

        THE MAIDEN.

              Is it a woman’s tongue that tells
    This blasphemy? When I said faith, I meant
    A faith in God.

        THE LADY.

                    And God is love! He sent
    This love that fills my heart. Oh, most divine--
    Oh, nearest to him of all earthly things,
    A love that passeth self--a love like mine
    That passeth understanding. The bird sings
    Because it is the only way he knows
    To praise his Maker; and a love that flows
    Like mine is worship, too--a hymn that rolls
    Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls
    To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice;
    It formed a part of worship once, and I
    Do hold it now the part that deepest lies
    In woman’s love, the dim sanctuary
    Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept
    E’en from the one she loves: all told, except
    This mystic feeling which she may not know
    How to express in words--the martyr’s glow
    Idealized--the wish to give him joy
    Through her own suffering, and so destroy
    All part that self might play--to offer pure
    Her love to her heart’s idol. Strange, obscure,
    Sacred, but mighty, is this longing; I
    Can feel though not define it. I would die
    To make him happy!

        THE MAIDEN.

                       As his happiness
    Depends on me, then can you do no less
    Than yield him to me--if you love him thus.

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

    “As,” said she? Heart, but this is fabulous,
    This calm security of hers!
    (_Speaks._) Why, child,
    Hast never heard of passion, and its wild,
    Impetuous, unreasoning assault
    On souls that know not their own depths? The fault
    Not his: he was but young, he did not know
    Himself. Might he not love me even though
    Thou wert the best? Have pity! I appeal
    To all the woman in thee. Dost thou feel
    That one touch of his hand would call the blood
    Out from thy heart in an o’erwhelming flood
    To meet it?

        THE MAIDEN.

    Nay, I know not what you speak.

        THE LADY.

    Thou dost not, that I see. Thy pearly cheek
    Keeps its fair white.
                          Sweet child, he’s that and more
    To me. Ah, let me kneel; thus I implore
    That thou wouldst yield him to me--all the right
    His boyhood promise gave thee.

        THE MAIDEN.

                                   In the sight
    Of Heaven we are betrothed; I cannot break
    My word.

        THE LADY.

             Oh, not for mine, but for _his_ sake!
    He loves me!

        THE MAIDEN.

                Only madness, that will burn
    And die to ashes; but, the fever past,
    The old, pure love will steadfastly return
    And take its rightful place.

        THE LADY.

                                 But should it last,
    This fever-madness? should he ask your grace,
    And say he loved me best?

        THE MAIDEN.

                              Then, to his face
    I’d answer, Never! What! leave him to sin?

        THE LADY.

    And what the sin?

        THE MAIDEN.

                     You! you! You have no faith,
    No creed, that I can learn. The Bible saith
    All such are evil.

        THE LADY (_aside_).

                       Why did I begin
    Such hopeless contest?
    (_Speaks._) Child, if he should lie
    Before us now, and one said he must die
    Or love me, wouldst thou yield?

        THE MAIDEN.

                                    Never; as dead
    He would be in God’s hands; living--

        THE LADY.

    In mine.

        THE MAIDEN.

    That is, in atheism.

        THE LADY.

                         Have I said
    Aught atheistical? Because my faith
    Is broader than its own, this conscience saith
    I am an atheist! Ah, child, is thine
    A better faith? Yet, be it what it may,
    Should he now lie before us here, and say
    He loved thee best, I’d yield him though my heart
    Should stop--though I should die. Yea, for his sake,
    To make him happy, I would even take
    Annihilation!--let the vital spark
    Called soul be turned to nothing.

        THE MAIDEN.

                                      Far apart
    Our motives; mine is clear with duty--

        THE LADY.

                                          Dark
    And heavy mine with love.

        THE MAIDEN.

                              You talk of death
    With frequent phrase, as though a little thing,
    A matter merely of the will and breath,
    It were to face the judgment, and the King
    Who has not summoned you. Your flippant tongue
    Rolls out its offers as a song is sung,
    And, both mean nothing; for the chance to die
    For one we love, that glorious gift, comes now
    But rarely in this life that you and I
    Must bear our part in. Thus, no empty vow
    Do _I_ repeat; and yet, I surely know,
    At duty’s call right calmly could I go
    Up the red scaffold’s stairs.

        THE LADY.

                                  I well believe
    Thee, steadfast maiden-voice. Nay, I conceive
    _My_ love, _thy_ duty, are alike--the same
    Self-sacrifice under a various name
    According to our natures. I would yield,
    And thou refuse to yield, from the same love;
    I’d have him happy here, and thou--above.
    For thus we look at life.
                             The book is sealed
    That holds our fate--we may not look within;
    But this I know, that, be it deadly sin
    Or highest good, he loves me!

        THE MAIDEN.

                                 There are loves--
    And loves!

        THE LADY.

              So be it. All this word-work proves
    Nothing. Then let it end. Though there’s a charm
    In speech--but you are tired. ’Twill be no harm
    To rest you on my shoulder, though its creed
    (Poor shoulder!) is not orthodox.

        THE MAIDEN.

                                      Indeed,
    I need not rest.

        THE LADY.

                     Well, then, I’m half asleep
    Myself, and you the silent watch may keep.--
    (_Thinking._) I’ve whiled the time away; but, thou dear God,
    Who made me, how with bleeding feet have trod
    The toiling moments through my heart! I pray
    (For I believe that prayer may aid the soul,
    Though not the body nor the fixed control
    Of Nature) that his love may hold its sway
    E’en as I saw him last, when, at my feet,
    He lavished his young heart in burning tide
    Of loving words. Oh, not for mine own joy,
    But his, I pray this prayer; do thou destroy
    All my own part in it.--Ah, love, full sweet
    Shall be our meeting. Lo! the longed-for bride
    Comes--of her own accord. There is no bliss,
    Even in heaven, greater than the kiss
    That I do keep for thee!

        THE MAIDEN (_thinking_).

                             O God, thy will
    Be done--yes, first of all, be done! (Bide still,
    Thou wicked, rebel heart!) Yet, O Lord, grant
    This grace to me, a lowly supplicant.
    My mind is vexèd, evil thoughts do rage
    Within my soul; O Merciful, assuage
    The suffering I endure!--If it is true
    My poor boy loves this woman--and what is
    Is ever for the best--create anew
    Her soul that it may surely leaven his
    With holiness. Oh, stretch Thy mighty arm
    And win her to Thy fold, that she may be
    A godly woman, graced with piety,
    Turned from the error of her ways, the harm
    Of all her worldliness, the sinful charm
    Of her fair face (if it be fair, though I
    Think her too brown) changed by humility
    To decorous sweetness.--
                              Lord, look in my heart;
    I may not know myself; search every part,
    And give me grace to say that I will yield
    My love to hers if Thy will stands revealed
    In his swift preference.
                              Yet, in pity, hear--
    Change her, Lord--make her good! [_Weeps._

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

                                     Is that a tear
    On her soft cheek? She has her little griefs,
    Then, as the children have; their small beliefs
    Are sometimes brought to naught--no fairies live,
    And dolls are sawdust!--
                              Love, I do forgive
    Your boyish fancy, for she’s lily fair;
    But no more could content you now than dew
    Could hope to fill Niagara with its rare,
    Fine drops that string the grass-blade’s shining hue,
    Upon the brink.--Dearest, I call! Oh, see
    How all my being rushes toward thee! Wait,
    E’en though before thine eyes bright heaven’s gate
    Let out its light: angels might envy thee
    Such love as I shall give thee--wait! oh, wait!




        _THE FARM-HOUSE._


        THE LADY.

    The sun is setting, we have passed the mill
    Some time; the house is near Waunona Hill,
    But the road smooth this way--which doth account
    For the discrepancy of names. The gleam
    Of the low sun shines out beneath that mass
    Of purple thunder-cloud; when we surmount
    This little swell of land, its slanting beam
    Will light up all the lances of the grass,
    The steely hue, the blue of the Blue Grass.

           *       *       *       *       *

    That is the house off on the right; I know
    By intuition.

        THE MAIDEN.

    It may hold--the worst!

        THE LADY.

    Art faint?

        THE MAIDEN.

               ’Twill pass. Lady, I enter first--
    First and alone!

        THE LADY.

                    Child, if I thought his heart
    Longed for the sight of you, I’d let you go;
    Nay, I would make you! As it is--
                                      But no,
    It cannot be.

        THE MAIDEN (_clasping her hands_).

                  Lord, give me strength! I yield;
    Go you the first. Ah! [_Sobs._

        THE LADY.

                          Yours the nobler part;
    _I_ cannot yield. (And yet it is for him
    I hold this “cannot” firm.) What might you wield
    With that unflinching conscience-power! See, dim
    Mine eyes--
                There; we will go together--thus!
    God help us both! [_They enter the house._
                      Yes, we have come, we two,
    His nearest, dearest. Is it perilous,
    The fever? Where--above? That stair? We go--
    Come, child--come, child.

        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

                             Dear ladies, you should know
    Before--

        THE LADY.

    Come!

        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

    He--

        THE LADY.

                       Child, must I wait for you
    Here at his door!

        THE MAIDEN.

                     I come; but something cold
    Has touched my heart.

        THE LADY.

    Then stay, coward!

        THE MAIDEN.

                                             Nay, hold;
    I come. [_They mount the stairs together._
    (_Crying out above._) But he is dead--my Willie!

        THE LADY (_above_).

                                   Fate,
    You’ve gained the day at last! Yes, he is dead!




        _BY THE DEAD._


        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

    He died last night at three--quite easily.

        THE LADY.

    Alone?

        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

    A surgeon from the camp was here.

        THE LADY.

    Where is the man?

        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

    Gone back.

        THE LADY.

                               Send for him.
                                             See,
    Here is a trifle; though it cannot clear
    Our debt to you, yet take it.

        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

                                  But you give
    Too much.

        THE LADY.

    Keep it.

        THE MAIDEN (_kneeling by the bedside_).

                       O Willie! can I live
    Without you? Love, my love, why are you dead
    And I alive? O noble, golden head,
    Whose every curl I know, how still you lie
    On this poor pillow, and how dreamlessly
    You sleep! But waken now; look on me, dear;
    Open those close-shut eyes, for I am here--
    Yes, here all this long way from home. Oh, speak--
    Speak to me, Willie.--Ah, how cold his cheek--
    How icy cold! O God! he’s dead, he’s dead!

        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

    Yes, he is dead, dead as King David. Truth
    He was right handsome for a Yankee youth--
    Rode his horse well.

        THE LADY (_aside_).

    I love you, Meredith.

        THE MAIDEN.

    What’s this upon the table near his hand? [_Opens the package._
    My picture--yes, my letters--all! Herewith
    I know--I know he loved me!

        THE LADY (_thinking_).

                                Cover worn,
    Creased in its folds, unopened, and forlorn--
    Yes, I remember it. I would not look
    Within;--unopened since that day.
                                      He took
    The poor thing forth with dying loyalty
    To send to her.

        THE MAIDEN.

                    O Lord, I understand
    Thy purpose; ’twas to try my faith. I kneel
    To thank thee that mercy doth reveal
    The whole to my poor heart. He loved me--me,
    Me only!

        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

             Would you like to see the wound
    Here in his arm?--Why, if she hasn’t swooned!

        THE LADY.

    Take her below, and care for her, poor child!

    [_Exit woman, carrying the maiden in her arms._

                                Brain, art thou wild,
    Distraught, that thou canst all things calmly hear
    And answer, when my pulses reel, my heart
    Stands still, and cold through every vital part
    Death breathes his icy breath?
                                    Oh, my own love!
    I clasp thee in my arms, come back to me!
    O ice-cold lips I kiss, ye are as dear
    As ever! Come! Thy idol waits for thee,
    Waits--weeps.
                   Dost thou not hear me there above
    Where thou hast gone? Come back and take the bride
    Who nestles weeping, longing, at the side
    Of thy deserted body. Oh! most fair
    Thy earthly tenement, the golden hair
    Curls as when my poor fingers twined it last,
    Thy head upon my breast. O brownèd cheek!
    Can I not warm thee with mine own? Oh, speak--
    Speak to me, Meredith!
                            Poor wounded arm,
    Dear blood; here will I hold thee close and warm
    Upon my heart. Dost thou not feel me now?
    And now? And now? Do I not hold thee fast?
    Hast thou not longed for me?
                                I gave my vow
    To be thine own. See! I am come. My hand
    I lay in thine. Oh, speak to me! Command
    My every breath; full humbly I obey,
    The true wife longs to feel a master’s sway,
    Longs to do homage, so her idol prove
    Ruler--nay, despot of her willing love.
    Didst thou not hear me whisper while she spake.
    “I love thee--oh, I love thee, Meredith?”
    I would not that her childish grief should break
    Thy peace up in thy heaven; even there
    Thou longest for my love, and near the stair
    Where souls come up from earth thou’rt standing now
    Watching for me. O darling, from thy brow
    I catch the radiance!
                        She is not thine,
    Thou art not hers. The boyish pledge wherewith
    She strives to hold thee was the radiancy
    Of early dawn, which now the mighty sun
    Hath swept away in fervent heat; nor thee
    Nor her it binds. Her pretty youth will run
    Its swift course to some other love; Fate
    Ne’er lets such sweet maids pine, though they may try;
    A few months lent to tearful constancy,
    The next to chastened sorrow, slow decline
    To resignation; then, the well-masked bait
    Of making some one happy, though at cost
    Of sweet self-sacrifice, which soon is lost
    In that content which, if not real love,
    Looks strangely like it! But why should I prove
    What thou dost know already, freed from time
    And finite bonds, my darling?
                                  Love sublime,
    Art thou not God? Then let him down to me
    For one short moment. See! in agony
    I cling to the cold body; let him touch
    Me once with this dear hand; it is not much
    I ask--one clasp, one word.
                                  What! nothing? Then
    I call down vengeance on this God of men
    Who makes us at his will, and gives us hearts
    Only to rend them in a hundred parts,
    And see them quiver--bleed! I, creature, dare
    To call aloud for justice; my despair
    Our great far-off Creator doth arraign
    Before the bar to answer for the pain
    I suffer now. It is too much--too much!
    O woe! woe! woe! the human soul can such
    Intensity of sorrow not withstand,
    But, lifting up on high its fettered hand,
    Can only cry aloud in agony,
    And blindly, wildly curse its God and die!
                            How dare you take,
    You Death, my love away from me? The old,
    The weak, the loveless, the forlorn, were there
    In crowds, and none to miss them. But your cold
    And heartless eye did mark that he was fair,
    And that I loved him? From your dreadful hold
    I snatch my darling, and he yet shall wake
    From out your sleep by my caresses. See,
    See how I love him! Ah, shall I not win
    His life back with my lips, that lovingly
    Do cling to his? And, though you do begin
    Your icy work, these arms shall keep him warm--
    Nay, more: my loving verily disarm
    E’en you, O King of Terrors! You shall turn
    And give him back to me; a heart shall burn
    Under your ribs at last from very sight
    Of my fierce, tearless grief.
                                --O sorry plight
    Of my poor darling in this barren room,
    Where only his gold curls do light the gloom!
    But we will change all that. This evening, dear,
    Shall be our bridal: wilt thou take me, here,
    And thus?--in this array--this falling hair--
    Crushed robes? And yet, believe me, I am fair
    As ever.
              Love, love, love! oh, speak to me!
    I will not listen in my misery
    If thy heart beat--
                        God! it is cold!
          [_Falls to the floor._

        _Enter the_ SURGEON.

        SURGEON.

                                        Art ill,
    Madam?--

        THE LADY (_rising_).

             Thanks, sir. But sorrow cannot kill.
    Would that it could! Nay, I sit by his side--
    Thus. Now tell all--all--all.

        SURGEON.

                                  You cannot hide
    The deadly faintness that has paled your cheek;
    Let me get--

        THE LADY.

                 Nothing. Nothing can avail,
    Good sir; my very heart’s blood has turned pale.
    Struck by God’s lightning, do you talk to me
    Of faintness? Only tell your tale--speak, speak;
    You saw him die?

        SURGEON.

                     I did; right tranquilly
    He passed away this morning, with your name
    Upon his lips--for you are Helena?

        THE LADY.

    I am.

        SURGEON.

          I saw your picture.
    (_Aside._) Yes, the same.
    Hair, eyes. What Titian tints!
    (_Speaks._) He made me lay
    Your letters and your picture on his heart
    Before he died; he would not from them part
    For e’en one moment.

        THE LADY.

                         Lift them not, they’re mine;
    My hand alone must touch the holy shrine
    Of love and death where the poor relics lie--
    Darling (_bends, and kisses the letters_), because you loved them!
                  Let them die,
    Go to the grave with him, there on his breast,
    Where I would gladly die too--be at rest
    Forever.--And he spake of me?

        SURGEON.

                                 He said
    That you would come, for he had sent you word.

        THE LADY.

    I ne’er received it; ’twas by chance I heard,
    A passing chance.

        SURGEON.

    The lines were down--

        THE LADY.

                                            And may
    They never rise again that failed that day,
    And left him dying here! Go on; he said--

        SURGEON.

    That you would come, and grieved that o’er his head
    The turf might close ere you could reach his side
    And give him one last kiss.
                                And then--he died.

        THE LADY.

    No more?

        SURGEON.

             No more. Ah, yes, one other thing:
    Short time before, he feebly bade me bring
    That package on the table--but ’tis torn--
    Some one has opened it! It looked well worn,
    In old, unbroken foldings when I brought
    It from his satchel. Who could thus have wrought
    On other’s property?

        THE LADY.

                         The owner.--Then
    He said--

        SURGEON.

             To give it you, for you would know
    Its history, and where it swift should go;
    The name was writ within.

        THE LADY (_aside_).

                              Yes, love; amen!
    Be it according to thy wish.
    (_Speaks._) Pray take
    This fee, good sir. I would that for his sake--
    Your kindness to him--I could send your name
    Ringing through all the West in silver fame.--
    At dawn, you said, the burial? Then leave
    Me here alone with him. I well believe
    You’ll show me further kindness. Speak no word
    Beyond your doctor’s art to that poor child
    Who weeps below. I would not that she heard
    Aught more of grief.
          [_Exit_ SURGEON.
                        Ah! all my passion wild
    Has gone; now come the softening woman tears.--
    Forgive me, great Creator, that I spake
    In my sharp agony. O do thou take
    The bitterness from out my soul; I know
    Naught, but thou knowest all! Then let my woe,
    The poor blind woe we short-lived mortals bear,
    Be my sad plea.--
                      I knew, through my despair,
    You loved me to the last. Death had no fears
    For you, my love; you met him with my name,
    As talisman of the undying flame
    That leaps o’er the black chasm of the grave
    And mounts to heaven. But I will not rave,
    When you died softly.

                          Ah! you love me there
    As well as here. God never made me fair
    For nothing; now, I know the gift he gave
    That I might take my place with you at last,
    Equal in loveliness, though years had passed
    Since you first breathed the air above the skies,
    The beauty-giving air of paradise.
    Fair are you now, my love, but not like me:
    Mine is the goddess-bloom, the rarity
    Of perfect loveliness; yours, the bright charm
    Of strong young manhood, whose encircling arm
    Could bend me like a reed. Oh, for one clasp
    Of that strong arm!--
                          Hist! was not that the hasp
    Of the old door below? She comes; I hear
    Her light step on the stair.
                                Darling, no fear
    Need trouble you upon your couch; to me
    A sacred trust this gentle girl shall be
    Through life. Did you not love her once?

        THE MAIDEN (_entering_).

                                             I pray
    Forgiveness thus to leave you here so long;
    I did not mean it, but I swooned away
    Before I knew it.

        THE LADY.

                      Thanks. There was no wrong;
    I liked the vigil.

        THE MAIDEN (_going to the bedside_).

                      Sweet those eyes--the brow
    How calm! I would not bring life to him now
    E’en if I could; gone to his God--at rest
    From all earth’s toil.
                          Dear love, upon thy breast
    I lay my hand; I yield thee back to Him
    Who gave thee to me; and, if thou hast wrought
    Wrong to our troth in deed, or word, or thought,
    I now forgive thee. Sleep in peace; the dim,
    Dark grave has its awaking.
                                As the hart
    Longed for the water-brooks, so have I yearned
    For token, Willie, that thy love returned
    To me at last. Lo! now I can depart
    In peace.--My picture, letters! Thou wast true,
    Wast true to me, thank God!--
    (_Turning._) Madam, to you
    I owe apology.

        THE LADY.

                   Never! But throw
    Your gentle arms around me--thus. And so
    Give me a blessing.

        THE MAIDEN.

                        But I’ve robbed you--you
    Who loved him also; though to me was due
    This love of his; at least--

        THE LADY.

                                 Sweet doubter, yes;
    I grant thee all. But, as I kneel, O bless
    This heart that bows before thee; all its sin--
    If it be sin--forgive; and take, within
    Thy pure love, me, thy sister, who must live
    Long years--long years! O child, who dost forgive
    More than thou knowest, lay thy sister-hand
    In blessing!

        THE MAIDEN.

                Though I do not understand,
    Yet will I thus content thee: Now the Lord
    Bless thee, and keep thee by his holy word;
    Be gracious to thee, that thy faith increase;
    Lift up his countenance, and give thee peace,
    Now and forever!

        THE LADY.

                    Amen. May it prove--
    This peace--what thou dost think it.

        THE MAIDEN.

                                         I must go;
    The horses wait for me. Now that I know
    He’s safe with God, the living claim my care.--
    My mother--ah, full selfish was the love
    That made me leave her so; I could despair
    Of mine own self, if God were not so good,
    Long-suffering, and kind.
                                O could I stay!
    But I must reach the train at break of day.
    I take my letters and the picture.--Should
    Your duties call you not so soon, oh wait,
    See his dear head laid low by careful hand,
    And say a prayer above the grave.

        THE LADY (_aside_).

                                     O Fate,
    How doth she innocently torture--rack
    My soul with hard realities! I stand
    And hear her talk of graves!--O God, the black,
    Damp earth over my darling!

        THE MAIDEN (_turning to the bedside_).

                               Love, farewell!
    I kiss thee once.--Lady, you do not mind?
    It was but once. I would not seem unkind;
    I would not wound you needlessly.

        THE LADY (_aside_).

                                      O swell,
    Proud heart, to bursting, but gainsay her not!

        THE MAIDEN.

    I know full well that yours the harder lot,
    Dear lady; but, forgive me, he was mine
    Long, long before. It were too much to ask
    That I should not be glad his heart returned
    To me, his bride betrothed--to know he yearned
    For me before he died. I cannot mask
    My joy because you loved him too.

        THE LADY.

                                      Nay, thine
    All joy that thou canst take; I would not rob
    Thee of one little hair’s-breadth.

        THE MAIDEN (_laying her head on the pillow_).

                                      Oh, farewell,
    My love! my love! my love! [_Weeps._

        THE LADY.

                              Child, do not sob.
    Come to me--let me hold you; who can tell,
    Perhaps he hears you, though so still. We’ll stand
    Together by his side--thus, hand-in-hand--
    And gaze on his calm face.

        WOMAN OF THE HOUSE (_below_).

    The wagon’s here.

        THE MAIDEN.

    Alas! and I must hasten. Kiss me, dear;
    Indeed, I love you now.

        THE LADY.

                            And I have tried
    To make you. [_They embrace.--Exit_ MAIDEN.

        THE LADY (_throwing herself down beside the body_).

    Meredith, art satisfied?




        _EARTH TO EARTH._


    Wrapped in his cloak, they bore him forth at dawn,
    The soldier dead, dead in his gallant strength,
    Young manhood’s prime. The heavy fold withdrawn
    Showed his calm face; while all his rigid length
    Lay stiff beneath the covering, the feet
    Turned up to heaven like marble. Breezes played
    Soft in his curling hair, the fragrance sweet
    Of the wild-brier roses incense made,
    And one bird sang a chant.
                                Yet recks it not,
    This quiet body going to its grave,
    Feet foremost, folded hands, if the storm rave
    Or the sun shine. Henceforth nor part nor lot
    Hath it with men--the tale is told, all’s o’er;
    Its place shall know its step, its voice, no more;
    Its memory shall pass away; its name,
    For all its evil or for all its worth,
    Whether bedecked with reverence or blame,
    Shall soon be clean forgotten.--
                                      Earth to earth!

    The lady walked alone. Her glorious hair
    Still held its roses crushed; the chill despair
    That numbed her being could not dim the light
    Of all her flashing jewels, nor the bright
    Sheen of her draperies.
                             The summer sun
    Rose in the east and showed the open grave
    Close at her feet; but, ere the work begun--
    Lowering the clay (O proud humanity!
    Is this thy end?)--she gentle signal gave
    To lay the body down, and, by its side
    Kneeling, kissed brow and lips, fondly as bride
    Might kiss; and, as she clung there, secretly
    A shining ring left on the cold dead hand,
    And covered it from view; then slowly rose
    And gave them place.
                          But ere the tightening rope
    Had done its duty, o’er the eastern slope
    Rode horsemen, and the little group of those
    Who gazed, drew back, and eyed askance the band.
    They turned, they drew their reins--a sight to see
    Indeed, this lady clad so royally,
    Alone, beside a grave.
                            She raised her eyes,
    And the bold leader bared his lofty head
    Before her to his saddle-bow; the guise
    Of bold, rough-riding trooper could not hide
    The gallant grace that thus its homage paid
    To so much beauty. At his signal mute,
    The little band, Kentucky’s secret pride,
    His daring followers in many a raid
    And many a hair-breadth ’scape, made swift salute,
    And, all dismounting, honor to the dead
    Paid silently, not knowing ’twas their own
    Bullet by night that laid him there:--so strange
    The riddle of men’s life, its little range
    Thick with crossed fates, though each one stands alone
    To mortal eyes.
                     The rope slackened, the clay
    Had reached its final resting-place. Then she
    Who loved him best, in all her rich array
    Stepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands cast
    The first clod on his heart. “I yield to thee,
    Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fast
                                         As sacred trust!
    ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!’”
    Then, rising, with her lovely face upturned
    To the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned,
    “I know that my Redeemer lives,” she said;
    “He that believes on him, though he were dead,
    Yet shall he live!”
                         And so passed from their sight.

                                The troopers ride away,
    On to the south; the men who fill the grave
    With hurried shovelfuls in whispers say,
    “That’s part of Morgan’s band.” And one, a slave,
    Looks down the road, and mutters: “That was him--
    Young Cap’en Morgan’s self! These eyes is dim,
    But they knows Morgan! Morgan!--what! why, bless
    Your hearts, _I_ know him, and I know Black Bess--
    ’Twas Bess he rode.”

                          And now the work is done;
    On from their northern raid the troopers pass
    Fleet to the south; the grave is filled, and gone
    Even the slave.
                     Forever still, alone,
    Her letters and bright picture on his breast,
    Her sparkling spousal-ring on his dead hand,
    The golden-haired young soldier lies at rest
    Where o’er his head the steely shadows pass,
    Far in the fair Kentucky border-land,
    The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass.




        1864.

        _WASHINGTON._


        THE LADY (_with an open letter_).

    Married! Nay, now the little vexing fear
    That troubled the calm hollow of my grief
    With its small aching is withdrawn, and clear
    The certainty--she never loved him. Brief
    Her forgetting--brief!--But I will not chide;
    All happiness go with thee, gentle bride,
    And of my gold a sister’s share!
                                    To wed
    Another, and once his! O golden head
    Under the grass, how jealous is my heart
    Of thy remembrance! Yet I should be glad
    She loved thee not, for then no evil part
    I played, e’en though unconsciously.
                                        Oh, mad,
    Mad, mad my love for thee! the same to-day--
    The same, the same. I could not be a wife--
    I could not stop the sun! No love but thee,
    My own, my own! no kiss but thine--no voice
    To call me those sweet names that memory
    Brings back with tears. Ah! had I any choice,
    I still must love thee down beneath the sod
    More than all else--though grandest soul that God
    Had ever made did woo me. Love, my heart
    Is thine, and ever must be thine; thy name
    Is branded there!
                      Yet must I live my life.

        SERVANT (_announcing_).

    The Count.

        THE LADY.

               Another? Ah! poor fools. The game
    Doth while away my time. Yes, I do play
    My part with smiles that are not wholly feigned,
    For life is strong, and I am young.--There reigned
    A queen once, who, though dead, could not lay down
    Her long-used sceptre; with her jeweled crown
    Upon her head, she sat and meted out
    Reward and justice; nor did any doubt
    Her life was gone. Were not her robes the same--
    Her jewels bright? And had she not a name
    Borne wide upon the winds for loveliness?
    She could not stop--she needs must reign--_noblesse
    Oblige_! So I.
                    But she--married! a wife!
    Who once was his! Oh, horrible! a life
    Of treason to his memory, a long
    Lie! But, ah! no, she never loved him. _I_
    Do hold myself as his, and loyally,
    Royally, keep my vow.

        SERVANT.

                          What shall I say,
    Madam?

        THE LADY (_speaks_).

          Show in the Count.
    (_Aside._) Ah! well-a-day!
    One must do something.

        THE COUNT (_entering_).

    _Madame, je viens_--




        _LAKE ERIE._


        THE MAIDEN (_rising from her knees_).

    My marriage-morning! Lord, give me thy grace
    For the new duties of a wedded life.
                              The letters have I burned;
    And now--the picture. Oh, dear boyish face,
    One look--the last! Yet had I been thy wife,
    Willie, I had been true to thee--returned
    All thy affection to the full.
                                  She said
    Love was “a sacrifice.” It is; as--thus:
    Get thee behind me, Past! [_Burns the picture._
                             --Which one of us
    Was truest? But why ask? She wronged the dead
    With many lovers--nay, her very dress
    Showed not one trace of sorrow.
                                    --I confess
    I never thought her fair, although the throng
    Do call her so, they tell me.
                                --Long, how long
    I wore the heavy crape that checked my breath,
    And went about as one who sorroweth;
    And I did sorrow! Slow months passed, and I
    Gave every thought to tearful memory;
    My grief grew selfish.
                            Then--he brought his suit--
    My mother wept and prayed. What right had I
    To crush two lives? If by the sacrifice
    I make them happy, is it not large price
    For my poor, broken years? How earnestly
    I strove to do the right!
                               The patient fruit
    Of years of prayer came to my aid, and now
    I stand in bridal white. Lord, hear my vow:
    Oh, may I make him happy! Not a thought
    Of any other love shall mar the troth
    I give for _this_ life. Evils, troubles, naught
    But death, shall part us. Thus the marriage-oath.
    But after--_then_--O Willie!

        THE MOTHER (_entering_).

                                      Art thou dressed?
    That’s well, dear one. Never has mother blessed
    A child more dutiful, more good.
                                      Come, love,
    The bridegroom waits.

        THE END.

[Illustration: text decoration]

       *       *       *       *       *

                              TWO WOMEN:

                               _A POEM_.

                BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

                 [REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.]

                  _From the Springfield Republican._

“Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson’s poem, ‘Two Women,’ begun in the
January and finished in the February number of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, is of
such remarkable quality as to deserve a wider reading than it is likely
to have. To read it in completeness gives one, beyond its faults--which
are principally those of imperfect versification and a certain formality
of phraseology--a sense of power in character-drawing (coloring enough,
too, for that matter), in dramatic situation and in expression of deep
emotions, which is rarely met with. The contrast between the magnificent
woman of the world and the Puritan country-girl is done in true masterly
way, and that the one should continue faithful to love through her life,
though still reigning in social royalty, while the other marries as
piously as she mourned, and puts away the dead youth’s memory
forever--is perfectly true to their natures. To present such marked
types in rivalry, and show the self-abnegation in the rich nature and
the innocent self-absorption of the narrow nature, was well worth while.
The poem would make quite a little book, and better merits such
treatment than most verses that receive it.”


_From the New York Evening Post._

“In the poem ‘Two Women,’ the first half of which appeared in the
January number of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, and the last half of which has
just now come to us in the February number of that magazine, there is
something, we think, which takes the piece out of the category of
ordinary magazine-work, and entitles it to special attention. The poem
is long enough, for one thing, to fill a little volume, if it were
printed as it is the custom to print books of poetry, and while it is
rugged, faulty, and in many respects defective, it is nevertheless
strong, dramatic, and full of the flavor of the soil. The two women who
gave it its name are types of two well-defined classes of American
women, but they are sharply drawn as individuals also, and their
characters are presented with a boldness and a degree of distinctness
which is possible only at the hands of a writer of very considerable
dramatic power.”


_From the Providence Journal._

“A story in verse, which enchains the attention with fascinating power,
... produces an intensely emotional effect upon the reader, and at the
same time an involuntary tribute to the originality and noteworthy
ability of the writer.”


_From the Detroit Post._

“One of the most powerful pieces of magazine-writing we have seen in a
long time.... Shows a far-reaching knowledge of human nature, a dramatic
grasp and force, and a power of description and expression seldom seen.”


One Volume. Cloth. 12mo.

    D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers.