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Toronto : kUSSELL WILKINSON, TUBLISHER, 25 COLBORNE ST. 1872. .f / Toronto : Hunter, Rose & Co., Printers. IP 1 t-l ■-■l i ^^•^^ •«— ^^ ./. y ^<-/ r<^ r K. -.i 4; v^ t-v^^^ » 't.t£ i Fool that I was ! 1 7vill rehearse my fault : /, ivingh'ss, thought myself on high to lift Among the winged — I set these feet that halt To run against the swift. And yet this man, that loved me so, can write — 77iat lover mc, I would say, can let me see; Or fain would have me think he counts but light These Honors lost to me. \The Letter of his Friend.} ' ' What are they ? that old house of yours which gave .Such welcomes oft to me, the sunbeams fall Still down the squaies of blue and white which pave Its hospitable hall. " A brave old house ! a garden full of bees, Large dropping jioppies, and queen holly- hocks, With butterflies for crowns — tree peonies And pinks and goldilocks. "Go, when the shadow of your house is long Uj^on the garden — when some new waked bird, Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song, And not a leaf is stirred ; " But every one drops dew from either edge Upon its fellow, while an amber ray Slants up among the tree-tops like a wedge Of liquid gold — to play "Over and undtr them, and so to fall Upon that lane of water lying below — That piece of sky let in, that you do call A pond, but which I know "To be a deep and wondrous world ; for I Have seen the trees within it — marvellous things : So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly But she would smite her wings j — " Go there, I say ; stand at the water's brink, And shoals of spotted grayling you shall see Basking between the shadows — look, and think ' This beauty is for me ; " ' For me this freshness in the morning hours; For me the water's clear tranquility ; For me that soft descent of chestnut flowers; The cushat's cry for me. " 'The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat ; The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill ; The sedgy brook whereby the retl kine meet And wade and drink their fill. * " Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea All fair with v/ing-like sails you may discern ; Be glad, and say ' This beauty is for me — A thing to love and learn. " 'For me the bounding in of tides ; for me The laying bare of sands when they retreat ; The purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee When waves and sunshine meet. ' "So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount To that long chamber in the roof ; there tell Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count And prize and ponder well. " The lookings onward of the race before It had a past to make it look behind ; Its reverent wonders, and its doubtings sore, Its ado.ations blind, ' ' The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow Of chants to freedom by the old world sung; The sweet love cadences that long ago Dropped from the old-world tongue. "And then this new- world lore that takes ac- count Of tangled star-dust ; maps the triple whirl Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount And greet the Irish Earl ; "Or float across the tube that Herschel sways, Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist ; Or hang or droop along the heaven'y ways. Like scarfs of amethyst. :k HONORS. \u y-y O strange it is and wide the new-world lore, *■ For next it treateth of our native dust ! Must dig out buried monsters and explore The green earth's fruitful crust ; "Must write the story of her seething youth — How lizards paddled in her lukewarrr seas ; Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth Count seasons on her trees j "Must know her weip;ht, and pry into her age, Count her old l)each lines by her tidal swell ; Her sunken mountains name, her craters gauge, Her cold volcanoes tell ; "And treat her as a ball that one might pass From this hand to the other — such a ball As he could measure with a blade of grass, And say it was but small ! "Honors! O friend, I pray you bear with me; The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands. And leisurely the opal murmuring sea Breaks on her yellow sands ; "And leisurely the ring-dove on her nt . Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell; And leisurely down '".ill fiom ferny crest The dew-drops on the well ; "And leisurely your life and spirit grew. With yet the time to grow and ripen free : No judgment past withdraws that boon from you. Nor granteth it to me. "Still must I plod, and still in cities moil ; From precious leisure, learned leisure far. Dull my best self v\ ith handling common soil ; Yet mine tliose honors are. "Mine they ure called ; they area name which nitans, This man hnd steady pulses, tranquil nerves ; Here, as in other fields, the most he ;;^!eans Y'Jho works and never swerves. " ' We measure not his mind; we cannot tell What lieth und-^r, over, or beside The test we put him to ; he doth excel We know where he is tried ; " 'But, if he boast some further excellence — Mind to create as well as to attain ; To sway his peers by golden eloquence, As wind doth shift a fane ; " 'To sing among the poets — we are nought : We cannot drop a line into that sea And read its fathoms off, nor g'»uge a thought. Nor map a simile. " *It may be of all voices sublunar The only one he echoes we did try; We may have come upon the only star That twinkles in his sky. ' " And so it was with me." false my friend I False, false, a random charge, a blame tirtdue ; Wrest rot fair reasoning to a crooked end : False, false, as you are true! But I read on : "And so it was with me ; Your golden constellations lying apart They neither hailed nor greeted heartily, Nor noted on their chart, "And yet to you and not to me belong Those finer instincts that, like second sight And hearing, catch creation's undersong. And see by inner light. "You are a well, whereon I, gazing, see Reflections of the upper heavens — a well From whence come deep deep echoesupto me — Some underwave's low swell. "I cannot soar into the heights you show. Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal ; But it is much that high things are to know, That deep things are to feel. "'Tis yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast Some human truth, whose workings recondite Were unattired in -vords, and manifest And hold it forth to light, ' 'And cry, ' Behold this thing that I have found. ' And though they knew not of it till that day, Nor should have done with no man to expound Its meaning, yet they say, " ' We do accept it : lower than the shoals We skim, this diver went, nor did create, But find it for us deeper ir our souls That we can penetrate. ' "You were to me the world's interpreter. The man that taught me nature's unknown tongue. And to the notes of her wild dulcimer First set sweet words and sung. "And what am I to you? A steady hand To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal ; Merely a man that loves you and will stand By you, whate'er befall. "But need we praise his tendance tutelar Who feeds a flame that warms him? Yet 'tis true I love you for the sake of what you are, And not of what you ^o : — "As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue The one revoTveth ; through his course im- mense Might love his fellow of the damask hue, For like, and difference. HONORS. 1 ly friend I neufidue I end : me; art 1 g id sight ng. 1 5ee . well ptome — 1 Kow, ■ reveal ; 1 Bcnow, 1 1 of" your Becondite He found.' Hhnt day, H:x pound H-eate, "For different pathways ever more decreed To intersect, but not to interfere ; For common goal, two aspects, and one speed, One centre and one year ; "For deep affinities, Li drawings strong. That by their nature each must needs exert ; For loved alliance, and for union long. That stands before desert. "And yet desert makes brighter not the less, For nearest his own star he shall not fail To think those rays unmatched for nobleness, That distance counts but pale. "Be pale afar, since still to me you shine, And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold;"— Ahi tJiere^s the thought zvhich makes his random line Dear as refined gold ! Then shall I drink this draught of oxymel. Part sweet, part sharp ? Myself o'er prized to know Is sharp ; the cause is sivtet, and truth to tell . Few would that cause forego, Which is, that this of all the men on earth Doth loz'e me well enough to count me great — To think my soul and his of equal girth — liberal estiinate ! And yet it is so ; he is bound to me, For human love makes aliens near of kin ; By it I rise, there is equality : I rise to thee, my twin. "Take courage," — courage! ay, my purple peer, I will take courage: for thy Tyrian rays Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear And healing is thy prais. "Take courage," quoth he, "and respect the mind Your Mnker gave, for good your fate fulfil ; The fate round many hearts your own to wind, " Twin soul, I will! I will' iknown ^$. Ind Ihal; land ir I? Yet [in blue tse im- HONORS. HONORS.— PART II. ^s The Answer. S one who, journeying, checks the rein in haste Because a chasm doth yawn across his way Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced For climber to essay — As such an one, being brought to sudden stand, Doubts all his foregone path if 'twere the true, And turns to this and then to the other hand As knowing not what to do, — So I, being checked, am with my path at strife Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end. False path ! it cost me priceless years of life, My well-beloved fritnid. There fell a flute when Ganymede went up — The flute that he was wont to play upon : It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup, And freckled cowslips wan — Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and mute, He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing, Aspiring, panting — ay, it dropped — the flute Erewhile a cherished thing. Among the delicate grasses and the bells Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, I picked up such a flute, and its clear swells To my young lips replied. I played thereon, and its response was sweet ; But, lo, they took from me that solacing reed. "O shame!" they said ; "such music is not meet ; Go up like Ganymede. "Go up, despise these humble grassy things. Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud." Alas ! though ne'er for me those eagle wings Stooped from their eyrie proud. My flute ! and flung away its echoes sleep ; But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low ; And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded deep Under the drifting snow. Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise, And left to rot loetwixt the sea and land, My helpless spirit lies. Ruing, 1 think for what then was I made ; What end nppoint'.'d for — what use designed ? Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed — Unveil these eyes gone blind. My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day O.er our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled. So thick, one standing on their brink might say, Lo, here doth end the world. A white abyss beneath, and nought beside ; Yet, hark ! a cropping sound not ten feet down ; Soon 1 could tracesome browsing lambsthat hied Through rock-paths cleft and brown. And here and there green tuft: of grass peered through, Salt lavender, and sea thrift ; then behold, The mist, suljsiding ever, bared to view A beast of giant mould. She seemed a great sea monster lying content With all her cubs aliout her: butdeep— deep — The subtile mist went floating ; its descent Showed the world's end was steep. It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo. The sprawling monster was a rock ; her brood Were boulders, whereon scamews white as snow Sat watching for their food. Then once again it sank, its day was done : Part rolled away, part vanished utterly, And glimmering softly under the white sun, Behold ! a great white sea. O that the mist which veileth my To-come Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes A worthy path ! I 'd count not wearisome Long toil nor enterprise. But strain to reach it ; ay, with wrestlings stout And hopes that even in the dark will grow (Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out). And ploddings wary and slow. Is there such path already made lo fit The measure of my foot? It shall atone For much, if I at length may light on it And know it for mine own. HONORS. sand bhandise, |ide ; esigned ? t- rayed — fled, kght say, fide ; Btdown; jhat hied rown. peered ehold, antent |deep — lent )P- Ir brood lis snow lie : |y. liun. le eyes le stout trow I out), lie But is there none? why, then 'tis more than well : And glad at heart myself will hew one out, Let me be only sure ; for, sooih to tell. The sorest dole is doubt — Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars All sweetest colors in its dimness same ; A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stars Beholding, we misname. A ripple on the inner sea, wh.ich shakes Those images that on its breast reposed ; A fold upon the wind-swayed flag, that breaks The motlo it disclosed. doubt! O doubt! I know my destiny; I feel thee fluttering bird -like in my breast; 1 cannot loose, l)ut I will sing to thee, And flatter thee to rest. There is no certainty, "my bosom's guest," No proving for the things whereof ye wot ; For, like the dead to sight unmr.nifest, They are, and they are not. But surely as they are, for God is truth, And as they are not, for we saw them die. So surely from the heaven drops light for youth. If you will walk thereby. And can I see this light? It may be so; "But see it thus and thus," my fathers said. The living do not rule this world ; ah, no ! It is the dead, the dead. Shall I be slave to every noble soul. Study the dead, and to their spirit . bend ; Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll, And make self-rule my end ? Thought from without — O shall I take on trust And life from other modelled steal or win ; Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust My true life from within. O, let me be myself! But where, O where, Under this heap of precedent, this mound Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrance rare. Shall the Myself be found ? O thou Myself, thy fathers thee debarred None of their wisdom, but their folly came Therewith ; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard For thee to quit the same. With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, And with tradition tarnished His revealed ; With vain protections they endangered youth, With layings bare they sealed, Wliat aileth thee, myself? Alas ! thy hands Are tireJ with old opinions — heir and son, Thou hast inherited thy father's lands And all his debts thereon. O that some power would give me Adam's eyes ! O for the straight simplicity of Eve ! For I see nought, or grow, poor fool, too wise With seeing to believe. Exemplars may be heaped until they hide The rules that they were made to render plain; Love may be watched, her nature to decide, Until love's self doth wane. Ah me I and when forgotten and foregone We leave the learning of departed days, And cease the generations past to con, Their wisdom and their ways — When fain to learn we lean into the dark. And grope to feel the floor of the abyss. Or find the secret boundary lines which mark Where soul and matter kiss — Fair world! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak With beating their bruised wings against the rim That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek The distant and the dim. We pant, we strain like birds against their wiresj Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond j— And what avails, if still to our desires Those far-off gulfs respond? Contentment comes not therefore; still there lies An outer distance when the first is hailed. And still for ever yawns before our eyes An UTMOST — that is veiled. Searching those edges of the universe. We leave the central fields a fallow part ; To find the eye more precious things amerce, And starve the darkened heart. Then all goes wrong : the old foundations rock ; One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod ; One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock Shall move the seat of God. A little way, a very little way (Life is so short), they dig into the rind. And they are very sorry, so they say, — Sorry for what they find. But truth is sacred — ay, and must be told : There is a story long beloved of man ; We must forego it, for it will not hold — Nature had no such plan. 8 HONORS. And then, " if God hath said it," some should cry, "We have the story from the fountain-head : " Why, then, what better than the old reply. The first "Yea, hath God said?" The garden, O the garden, must it go. Source of our hope and our most dear regret? The ancient story, must it no more show How men may win it yet ? And all upon the Titan child's decree. The baby science, bom but yesterday, That in its rash unlearned infancy With shells and stones at play. And delving in the outworks of this world, And little crevices that it could reach, Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled Under an ancient beach. And other waifs that lay to its young mind Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie. By gain whereof it could not fail to find Much proof of ancientry, Hints at a pedigree withdrawn and vast, Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, Or soulless origin, and twilight passed In the primeval seas. Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been Of truth not meant for man inheritor ; As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen And not provided for ! Knowledge ordained to live ! although the fate Of much that went before it was — to die, And be called ignorance by such as wait Till the next drift comes by, O marvellous credulity oi man ! If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know Or follow up the mighty Artisan Unless He willed it so? And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth That of the Made He shall be found at fault. And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth By force or by assault ? But if He keeps not secret — if thine eyes He openeth to His wondrous work of late — Think how in soberness thy wisdom lies. And have the grace to wait. Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson fret, Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, Because thou canst not reconcile as yet The Worker and the word. Either the Worker did in ancient da)rs Give us the word. His tale of love and might ; (And if in truth He gave it us, who says He did not give it right ?) Or else He gave it not, and then indeed We know not if He is — by whom our years Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead, And the unfathered spheres. We sit unovmed upon our burial sod, And know not whence we come or whose we be, Comfortless mourners for the mount of God, The rocks of Calvary : Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page Wrought us by some who thought with death to cope ; Despairing comforters, from age to age Sowing the seeds of hope : Gracious deceivers who have lifted us Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth ; Beneficent liars, who have gifted us With sacred love of truth ! Farewell to them : yet pause ere thou unmoor And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas ; How wert thou bettered so, or more secure Thou, and thy destinies? And if thou searchest, and art made to fear Facing of unread riddles dark and hard, And mastering not their majesty austere, Their meaning locked and barred : How would it make the weight and wonder less. If, lifted from immortal shoulders down. The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness In realms without a crown. And (if there were no God) were left to rue Dominion of the air and of the fire ? Then if there be a God, " Let God be true, And every man a liar. " But as for me, I do not speak as one That is exempt : I am with life at feud : My heart reproacheth me, as there were none Of so small gratitude. Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine. And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubt ? That which I know, and that which I divine, Alas 1 have left thee out. I have aspired to know the iright of God, As if the story of His love was fiirled, Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod Of this redeemed world : — Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep. To grope for that abyss whence evil grew, And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep. Hungry and desolate flew j HONORS. bed jour years ioth lead, ar whose God, P page lith death Inknown inmoor 1 seas ; pure lear k ll: ler less, fn, IBS As if their legions did not one day crowd The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to seel As if a sacred head had never bowed In death for man — for me ; Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings In that dark country where those evil ones Trail their unhallowed wings. And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee, And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow? Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea? Art Thou his kinsman now? O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough ! O man, with eyes majestic after death, Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, Whose lips drawn human breath ! By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, By that one nature which doth hold us kin, By that high heaven where, sinless. Thou dost shine To draw us sinners in. By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall, By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, I pray Thee visit me. Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away. Die ene the guest adored she entertain — Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day Should miss Thy heavenly reign. Come weary-eyed from seeking in the night Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold, Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light. And cannot find their fold. And deign, O Watcher, with the sleepless brow,- Pathetic in its yearning — deign reply : Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou Wouldst take from such as I ? Are there no briars across Thy pathway thrust?' Are there no thorns that compass it about? Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust My hands to gather out ? O, if Thou vrilt, and if such bliss might be, It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay — Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me ? — There is a better way. What though unmarked the happy workman toil, And break unthanked of man the stubborn clod? It is enough, for sacred is the soil, Dear are the hills of God. Far better in its place the lowliest bird Should sing aright to Him the I vljest song. Than that a seraph strayed should lu.e the word And sing His glory wrong. Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, Thou dost all earthly good by much excel ;. Thou and God's blessing are enough for me ^ My work, my work — farewell ! lone ime, DUbt? tine, 40^ eep, eep. 10 REQUIESCAT IN PACE! REQUIESCAT IN PACE :i MY heart, my heart is sick awish- iiig and awaiting: Tlie lad loolc up his Icnapsack, he went, lie went his way ; And I loohecl on for his coming, as a prisoner through the grating Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day. On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other, Tne strong terrible mountains, he longed, he longed to be ; And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother, And till I said "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me. He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them, Of the st'jrm winds that beat them, their thunder-r^nts and scars, And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atwecn them, And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His crocus stars. He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces. And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar ; Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces. Like sloops against their cruel strength: then he wrote no more. O the silence that came next, the patience and long aching ! They never said so much as "He was a dear loved son ; " Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness breaking : "Ah! wherefore did he leave us so — this, our only one ? " They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors prayed them, At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and change to be ; And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency affrayed them. Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took me. It was three months and over since the dear lad had started : Oa the green doAvns at Cromer I sat to see the view j Oa an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern had parted, Betwix.t the lall white light house towers, the old and the new. Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stooping, And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet dye ; And he dyed the lighthouse tow, is; every bird with wliite wing swooping Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky. Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and heather. Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer town ; And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet featV^er Torn Irom the folded wings of clouds, while he settled down. When I looked, I dared not sigh : — In the light of God's splendor. With His daily blue and gold, who am I ? what am I? But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign and tender, Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and sky. for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble ! On that suliry August eve trouble had made me meek ; 1 was tired of my sorrow — O so faint, for it was double In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak 1 And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eye.v were feeding, And the dull ears with murmur of waters satisfied ; But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy leading Across the bounds of waking life to the other side. And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters turning. And saw the flukes of scarlet from wave to wave tossed on ; REQUIESCAT IN PACE! II the dear lit to see llie ling I towers, sun was I with a every Ind the |d over over like a while [n the xml? hd an /n oa \t and lade for it could Imed laters my [ther raste le to And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning On the clear remote sea reaches ; for the sun was gone. Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water — A question as I took it, for soon an answer came From the tall white ruined lighthouse : " If it be the old man's daughter That we wot of," ran the answer, "what then — who's to blame? " I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken : A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched to sea ; Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken, And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me. I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him ; " He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun ; Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him : Ay, the old man was a good man — and his work was done." The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed, Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed, And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted, Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost. I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth The great hood below its mouth ; " then the bird made reply, " If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrewmouse knoweth, And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye." And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping ; And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake, "What I said was 'more's the pity; 'if the heart be long past hoping, Let it say of death, ' I know it,' or doubt on and break. "Men must die — one dies by day, and near him moans his mother. They dig his grave, tread it down, and go kora it full loth : And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other, And the snows give him a burial — and God loves them both. "The first hath no advantage — it shall not soothe his slumber That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep ; For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber. That in a golden mesh of HIS callow eaglets sleep. " Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it. And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too ; It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it, And he met it on the mountain — why then make ado ? " With that he spread his white wings, and swept acro-is the water. Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down ; And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, "the old man's daughter," And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town. And I said, "Is that the sky, all grey and silver suited?" And I thought, "Is that the sea that lies so while and wan ? I have dreamed as I remember : give me time — I was reputed Once to have a steady courage— O, I fear 'tis gone ! " And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis beating. So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood ; I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting, But I need not, need not tell it — where would be the good ? " Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother? For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still. While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother. That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill ? " I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter. But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. 13 REQUIESCAT IN PACE! What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter ? He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er come down. But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee ! O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed ! From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee ; I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head. Fare thee well, my love of loves 1 would 1 had died before thee ! O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow. Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee. And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow ! ^^ SUPPER AT THE MILL. 13 on the |ild I had ir thee I jep away land thy SUPPER AT THE MILL. Mother. ELL, Frances, Frances. Well, good mother, how are you? . M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm: I think 'tis mostly warm on market days. I met with George behind the mill : said he, "Mother, go in and rest awhile." F. Ay, do. And stay to supper ; put your basket down. M. Why, now, it is not heavy ? F. Willie, man. Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no ! Some call good churning luck; but luck or skill. Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all ? M. All but this pat that I put by for George ; He always loved my butter. F. That he did M. And has your speckled hen brought off her brood ? F. Not yet ; but that old duck I told you of, She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. Child. And, Granny, they're so yellow. 31. Ay, my lad, Yellow a go\d. — yellow as Willie's hair. C. They're all mine, Granny — father says they're mine. M. To think of that ! F. Yes, Granny, only think! Why, father means to sell them when they're fat, And put the money in the savings bank, And all against our Willie goes to school : But Willie would not touch them — no, not he ; He knows that father would be angry else. C. But I want one to play with — O, I want A little yellow duck to take to bed ! M. What 1 would ye rob the poor old mother, then ? [awhile ; F. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe 'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib. [Exit Frances. [Mother sings to the infant. ] Playing on the viiginals, Who but I ? Sae glad, sae free. Smelling for all cordials, The green mint and marjorie ; Set among the budding broom. Kingcup and daffodilly, By my side I made him room : O love my Willie 1 "Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," Sang he to my nimble strain ; Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed Till my heartstrings rang again : By the broom, the bonny broom. Kingcup and daffodilly, In my heart I made him room : O love my Willie ! "Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, ' ' I must go, yet pipe and play ; Soon I'll come and ask of thee For an answer yea or nay ;" And I waited till the flocks Panted in yon waters stilly. And the corn stood in the shocks : love my Willie ! I thought first when thou didst come 1 would wear the ring for thee, But the year told out its sum Ere again thou sat'st by me ; Thou hadst nought to ask that day By kingcup and daffodilly ; I said neither yea nor nay : O love my Willie ! Enter George, G, Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more. Since I set eyes on you. M. Ay, George, my dear, I reckon you've been busy : so have we. G. And how does father ? M. He gets through his work. But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear ; He's not so young.'you know, by twenty years, As I am — not so young by twenty years. And I'm past sixty. G. Yethe's hale and stout. And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe ; And seems to take a pleasure in his cows. And a pride, too. M. And well he may, my dear. G, Give me the little one, he tires your arm; He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue. He almost wears our lives out with his noise Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep. What ! you young villain, would you clench your fist In father's curls ? a dusty father, sure. And you're as clean as wax. Ay, you may laugh M SUPPER AT THE MiLL, Hut if you live a seven yonrs more or so, These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down As many rat-iioles as are round the mere ; And you'll love mud, ail manner of mud and dirt As your father did afore you, and you'll wavle After young water-birds ; and you'll get bogged Setting of eel-tray)s, and you'll soil your clothes, And come home lorn and dripping ; then, you know, You'll feel the stick — you'll feel the stick, my lad! Enter Frances. F. You should not talk so to the blessed babe — How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven Before the time you tell of M. Look at him : So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes ! He thrives my dear. F. Yes, that he does, thank God My children are all strong. Al. 'Tis n\uch to say : Sick children fret their mothers' hearts to shreds, And do no cfedit to their keep nor care ; Wliere is your little lass ? F. Your daughter came And begged her of us for a week or so. M. Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might. For she can sit at ease and pay her way , A sober husband, too — a cheerful man — Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her ; Yet she is never easy, never glad, Because she has not children. Weli-a-day ! If she could know how hard her mother worked, And what ado 1 had, and what a moil With my half-dozen ! Children, ay, forsooth. They bnng their own love with them when they come, But if they come not there is peace and rest ; The pretty lambs ! and yet she cries for more : Why, the world's full of them, and so is heaven — They are not rare. G. No, mother, not at all ; But Hannah mu^t not keep our Fanny long — She spoils her. M. Ah ! folks spoil their children now ; When I was a young woman 'twns not so ; We made our children fear us, m: them work, Kept them in order. G- Were not proud of them — Eh, mother? M. I set store by mine, 'tis true, But then I had good cause. G. My lad, d'ye hear? Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud ! She never spoilt your father — no, not she. Nor never made him sing at harvest-home. Nor at the forge, nor at the leaker's shop. Nor to the doctor while she lay abed Sick, and he crept up stairs to share her broth, M. Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's more, Your father loved to hear you sing — he did, Although, good man, he could not tell one tune From the other. /'. No, he got his voice from you : Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. G. What must I sing ? A The ballad of the man That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. G. Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves ; But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off. And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in : Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs And let's to supper shortly. \Sings.'\ My neighbor White — we met to-day — He always had a cheerful way. As if he breathed at ease ; My neighbor White lives down the glade. And I live higher, in the shade Of my old walnut-trees. So many lads and lasses small. To feed them all, to clothe them all, Must surely tax his wit ; I see his thatch when I look out, His branching roses creep about, And vines half smother it. There white-haired urchins climb his eaves. And little watch-fires heap with leaves, And milky filberts hoard ; And there his oldest daughter stands With downcast eyes and skilful hands Before her ironing-board. She comforts all her mother's days. And with her sweet obedient ways She makes her labor light ; So sweet to hear, so fair to see ! O, she is much too good for me, That lovely Lettice White ! 'Tis hard to feel oneself a fool ! With that same lass I went to school — I then was great and wise ; She read upon an easier book, And I — I never cared to look Into her shy blue eyes. And now I know they must be there, Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair That will not raise their rim : If maids be shy, he cures who can ; But if a man be shy — a man — Why then the worse for him ! • My mother cries, " For such a lad A wife is easy to be had And always to be found ; ' A finer scholar scarce can be. And for a foot and leg," says she, " He beats the country round ! % i SUPPER AT THE MILL. 15 [ngest, and, -he did, A\ one tune I from you : id to sleep, i>f the man |ind. II crimson nnet off. tresses in : Icik some jlade. leaves, " My hr.ndsome hoy must stoop his head To clear lier door whom he would wed," Weak praise, but fondly sung ! " O niolher ! scholars somelinies fail — And what can foot and leg avail To him that wants a tongue ?" When by her ironing-board I sit, Her little sisters round me flit, And bring me forth their store ; Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, And small sweet apples, bright of hue And crimson to the core. But she abideth silent, fair ; All shaded by her llaxeii hair The blushes come and go j I look, and I no more can speak Than the red sun that on her cheek Smiles as he lieth low. Sometimes the roses by the latch, , Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch, Come sailing down like birds ; When from their drifts her board I clear, She thanks me, but I scarce can hear The shyly uttered words. Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White By daylight and by candlelight When we two were apart, Soiiie better day come on apace. And let me tell her face to face, " Maiden, thou hast my heart." How gently rock yon poplars h.gh Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored ! She sees them all, sweet Lettice White j I'll e'en go sit again to-night Beside her ironing-board ! Why, you young rascal ! who would think it now ? No sooner do I stop than you look up. Wlict would you have your poor old father do? 'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. M. He heard the bacon sputter on the fork. And heard his mother's step across the floor. Where did you get that song? — 'tis new tome. G. I bought it of a pedler. /J. Did you so ? Well, you were always for the love songs, George. /". My dear, just lay his head upon your arm. And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more He needs must sleep — his eyes are full of sleep. G. Do you sing, mother. /". Ay, good mother, do ; 'Tis long since we have heard you. yJ/. Like enough J I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads I used to sing to slet-i) o'eilop me now. What should I sing for ? G. Why, to pleasure us. Sine; in the chimney corner, where you sit, And I'll pace gently with the little one. When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries, For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, And a scarlet sun doth rise ; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, And the icy founts run free. And the bergs begin to bow their heads, And plunge, and sail in the sea. O my lost love, and my own, own love. And my love that loved me so ! Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below ? Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, I remember all that I said, And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more Till the sea gives up her dead. Thou didst set thy foot on the ship and sail To the ice-fields and the snow ; Thou wert sad, for thy love did nought avail. And the end I could not know ; How could I tell I should love thee to-day. Whom that day I held not dear? How could I know I should love thee away When I did not love thee anear ? We shall walk no more through the sodden plain With the faded bents o'erspread, We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, Where thy last farewell was said : But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead. F. Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in ; And, molher, will you please to draw your chair ? — The supper's ready. -^^- ■'' ^ f6 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. \ s SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. ijHILE ripening com grew thick and deep, And here and there men stood to reap, 'One morn I put my heart to sleep. And to the lanes I took my way. The goldfinch on a thistle-head Stood scattering seedlets while she fed ; TiiC wrens their pretty gossip spread, Or joined a random roundelay. On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, And thick the way-side clovers grew ; The feeding bee had much to do, So fast did honey-drops exude : She sucked a*- ' murmured, and was gone, And lit on other blooms anon. The while I learned a lesson on The source and sense of quietude. For sheep-bells chiming from a wold, Or bleat of lamb within its fold, Or cooing of love-legends old To dove-wives make not quiet less ; Ecstatic chirp of winged thing Or bubbling of the water-spring. Are sounds that more than silence bring Itself and its delightsomeness. While thus I went to gladness fain, I had but walked a mile or twain Before my heart woke up again, As dreaming she had slept too late ; The morning freshness that she viewed With her own meanings she endued. And touched with her solicitude The natures she did meditate. " If quiet is, for it I wait ; To it, ah ! let me wed my fate. And, like a sad wife, supplicate My roving lord no more to flee ; If leisure is — but, ah ! 'tis not — 'Tis long past praying for, God wot j The fashion of it men forgot, About the age of chivalry. " Sweet is the leisure of the bird ; She craves no time for work deferred ; Her wings are not to aching stirred Providing for her helpless ones. Fair is the leisure of the wheat ; All night the damps about it fleet } All day it basketh in the heat, And grows, and whispers orisons. *' Grand is the leisure of the earth ; She gives her happy myriads birth, And after harvest fears not dearth, Hut goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim. Dread is the leisure up above The while I le sits whose name is Love, And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, To wit if she would fly to him. "lie waits for us, while, houseless things, We beat about with bruisdd wings On the dark floods and water-springs. The mined world, the desolate sea ; With open windows from the prime All night, all day. He waits sublime, Until the fulness of the time Decreed from His eternity. " Where is our leisure? — Give us rest. Where is the quiet we possessed ? We must have had it once — were blest With peace whose phantoms yet entice. Sorely the mother of mankind Longed for the garden left behind ; For we still prove some yearnings blind Inherited from Paradise." " Hold, heart !" I cried ; "for trouble sleeps ; I hear no sound of aught that weeps ; I will not look into thy deeps — I am afraid, I am afraid ! " " Afraid ! " she saith ; " and yet 'tis true That what man dreads he still should view — Should do the thing he fears to do. And storm the ghosts in ambuscade." "What good?" I sigh. " Was reason meant To straighten branches that are bent. Or soothe an ancient discontent, The instinct of a race dethroned ? Ah ! doubly should that instinct go Must the four rivers cease to flow, Nor yield those rumors sweet and low Wherewith man's life is undertoned." "Yet had I but the past," she cries, " And it was lost, I would arise And comfort me some otherwise. But more than loss about me clings : I am but restless with my race ; The whispers from a heavenly place, Once dropped among us, seem to chase Rest with their prophet-visitinjp». SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. »7 P> Jeeps J leant *' The race is like a child, as yet Too young for all things lo be set Plainly before him with no let Or hindrance meet for his degree ; But ne'erthelcss by much too old Not to perceive that men withhold More of the story than is told, And so infer a mystery. ** If the Celestials daily fly With messages on missions high, And float, our masts and turrets nigh. Conversing on Heaven's great intents ; What wonder hints of coming things, Whereto man's hope and ycainiiig clings, Should drop like feathers from their wings, And give us vague presentiments ? " And as the waxing moon can take The tidal waters in her wake And lead them round and round to break Obedient to her drawings dim ; So may the movements of His mind, The first Great Father of mankind, Affect with answering movements blind. And draw the souls that breathe by Him. •' We had a message long ago, That like a river pe.ice should flow, AVid Eden bloom agai.i below. We heard, and we began to wait : Full soon that message men forgot ; Yet waiting is their destined lot, And waiting for they know not what They strive with yearnings passionate. " Regret and faith alike enchain ; There was a loss, there comes a gain ; We stand at fault betwixt the twain, And that is veiled for which we pant. Our lives are short, our ten times seven ; We think the councils held in Heaven Sit long, ere yet that blissful leaven Work peace amongst the militant. "Then we blame God that sin should be : Adam began it at the tree, * The woman whom Thou gavest me ; ' And we adopt his dark device. long Thou tarriest ! come and reign, And bring forgiveness in Thy train, And give us in our hands again The apples of Thy Paradise. " "Far-seeing heart ! if that be all, The happy things that did not fall," 1 sighed, " from every coppice call They never from that garden went. Behold their joy, so comfort thee, Behold the blossom and the bee, For they are yet as good and free As when poor Eve was innocent. " But reason thus : ' If we sank low, If the lost garden we forego, Each in his day, nor ever know 3 Hut in our poet souls his face ; Yet we may rise until we reach A height untold of in its speech — A lesson that it could not teach Learn in this darker dwelling-place.' " And reason on : ' We take the spoil ; Loss made us poets, and the soil Taught us great patience in our toil, And life is kin to God through death. Christ were not One with us but so, And if bereft of Him we go ; Dearer the heavenly mansions grow, His home, to uan that wandereth.' "Content thee so, and ease thy smart." With that she slept again, my heart, And I admired and took my i>art With crowds of happy things the while : With open velvet butterflies That swung and spread their peacock eyes. As if they cared no more to rise From oflf their beds of camomile. The blackcaps in an orchard met, Praising the berries while they ate : The finch that flew her beak to whet Before she joined them on the tree ; The water-mouse among the reeds — His bright eyes glancing black as beads, So happy with a bunch of seeds — I felt their gladness heartily. But I came on, I smelt the hav, And up the hills I took my way. And down them still made holid.iy, And walked, and wearied not a whit ; But ever with the lane I went U itil it dropped with steep descent. Cut deep into the rock, a tent Of maple branches roofing it. Adown the rocks small runlets wept. And reckless ivies leaned and crept, And little spots of sunshine slept On its brown steeps and made them fair ; And broader beams athwart it shot, Where martins cheeped in many a knot, For they had ta'en a sandy plot And scooped another Petra there. And deeper down, hemmed in and hid From upper light and life amid The swallows gossiping, I ihrid Its mazes, till the dipping land Sank to the level of my lane : That was the last hill of the chain, And fair below I saw the plain That seemed cold cheer to reprimand. Half drowned in sleepy peace it lay, As satiate with the boundless play Of sunshine on its green array. And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue To keep it safe rose up beliind, As with a charmed ring to bind i8 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. I The glassy sea, where clouds might find A place to bring their shadows to. I said, and blest that pastoral grace, " How sweet thou art, thou sunny place ! Thy God approves thy sn iling face ; " But straight my heart put in a word ; She said, "Albeit thy face I bless, There have been times, sweet wilderness, When I have wished to love thee less, Such pangs thy smile administered." But, lo ! I reached a field of wheat, And by its gate full clear and sweet A workman sang, while at his feet Played a younrj child, all life and stir — A three years' cnild, with rosy lip. Who in the song had partnership, Made happy with each falling chip Dropped by the busy carpenter. This, reared a new gate for the old, And louci the tuneful measure rolled, B'lt stopped as I came up to hold Some kindly talk of passing things. Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien ; Of all men's faces, calm or keen, A better I have never seen In all my lonely wanderings. i*..nd how it was I scarce can tell. We seemed to please each other well ; I lingered till a noonday bell Had sounded, and his task was done. An oak had screened us from the heat ; And 'neath it in the standing wheat, A cradle and a faii retreat, Full sweetly slept t; i little one. The workman rested from his stroke, And manly v/ere the words he spoke. Until the smiling babe awoke And prayed to hin^ for milk and food. Then to a runlet forth he went. And brought a wallet from the bent, And bade me to the meal, intent I should not quit his neighborhood. '• For here," said he, "are bread and beer. And meat enough to make good cheer ; Sir, eat with me, and have no fear. For none upon my work depend. Saving this child ; and I may say That I am rich, for every day I put by somewhat ; therefore stay. And to such eating condescend." We ate. The child — child fair to see — Began to cling about his knee. And he down leaning fatherly Received some softly prattled prayer ; He smiled as if to list were ot'lm, And with his labor-hardened palm Pushed from the baby-forehead calm Those shining locks that clustered there. The rosy mouth made fresh essay — " O would he sing or would he play ?" I looked, my thought would make its way— » " Fair is your child of face and limb. The round blue eyes full sweetly shine." He answered me with glance benign — " Ay, Sir ; but he is none of mine. Although I set great store by him." With that, as if his heart was fain To open — nathless not complain — He let my quiet questions gain His story : " Not of kin to me," Repeating; "but asleep, awake. For worse, for better, him I take. To cherish for my dead wife's sake, And count him as her legacy. " I married with the sweetest lass T?;at ever stepped on meadow grass ; That ever at her looking-glass Some pleasure took, some natural care ; That ever swept a cottage floor And worked .ill day, nor e'er gave o'er Till eve, then watched beside the door Till her good man should meet her there. " But I lost all in its fresh prime ; My wife fell ill before her time — Just as the bells began to chime One Sunday morn. By next day's light Her little babe was bom and dead. And she, unconscious what she said. With feeble hands about her spread. Sought it with yearnings infinite. " With mother-longing still beguiled, And lost in fever-fancies wild. She piteoiisly bemoaned her child That we had stolen, she said, away. And ten sad days she sighed to me, ' I cannot rest until I see My pretty one ! I think that he Smiled in my face but yesterday.' "Then she would change, and faintly try To sing some tender lullaby ; And ' Ah !' would moan, ' if I should die. Who, sweetest babe, woukl cherish thee?' Then weep, ' My pretty boy is grown ; With tender feet on the cold stone He stands, for he can stand alone, And no one ieads him motherly..' "Then she with dying movements slow Would seem to knit, or seem to sew : ' His feet are bare, he must not go Unshod :' and as her death drew on, *0 little baby,' she would sigh ; ' My little child, I cannot die Till I have you to slumber nigh — You, you to set mine eyes upon.' " When she spake thus, and moaning lay. They said. ' She cannot pass away, So sore she longs :' and as the day SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 19 I?" Is way— ire ; Ihere. Ight Broke on the hills, I left her side. Mourning along this lane I went ; Some travelling folk had pitched their tent Up yonder : there a woman, bent With age, sat meanly canopied. " A twelvemonths' child was at her side : 'Whose infant may that be?' I cried. ' His that will own him,' she replied ; ' His mother's dead, no worse could be.' ' Since you can give — or else I erred — See, you are taken at your word,' Quoth I ; ' That child is mine ; I heard. And own him ! Rise, and give him me. ' " She rose amazed, but cursed me too ; f'ho could not hold such luck for true, But gave him soon, with small ado. I laid him by my Lucy's side : Close to her face that baby crept. And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept ; Then, while upon her arm he slept. She passed, for she was satisfied. "I loved her well, I wept her sore, And when her funeral left my door I thought that I should never more Feel any pleasure near me glow ; But I have learned, though this I had, 'Tis sometimes natural to be glad. And no man can be always sad Unless he wills to have it so. "Oh, I had heavy nights at first, And daily wakening was the worst : For then my grief arose, and burst Like something fresh upon my head .; Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, I was not pleased — I wished to go Mourning adown this vale of woe, For all my life uncomforted. iitf " I grudged myself the lightsome air, That makes man cheerful unaware ; When comfort came, I did not care To take it in, to feel it stir : And yet God took wit?i me His plan. And now for my appointed span I think I am a happier man For having wed and wept for her. " Because no natural tie remains, On this small thing I spend my gains ; God makes me love him for my pains, And binds me so to wholesome care : I would not lose from my past life That happy year, that happy wife ! Yet now I wage no useless strife With feelings blithe and debonair, ** I have the courage to be gay, Although she lieth lapped away Under the daisies, for I say, * Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst see :' My constant thought makes manifest I have not what I love the best. But I must thank God for the rest While I hold heaven a verity. " He rose, upon his shoulder set The child, and while vrith vague regret We parted, pleased that we had met. My heart did with herself confer ; With wholesome shame she did repent Her reasonings idly eloquent. And said, " I might be more content : Bu! God go with the carpenter." lee?' -^ 20 THE STAR S MONUMENT. m THE STAR'S MONUMENT. IN THE CONCLUDING PART OF A DISCOURSE ON FAME. [//e thinks.] F there be memory in the world to come, If thought recur to SOME things silenced here, Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb. But find expression in that hap- pier sphere ; It shall not be denied their utmost sum Of love, to speak without fault or fear, But utter to the harp with changes sweet Words that, forbidden still, then heaven were incomplete. [He speaks.] Now let us talk about the ancient days. And things which happened long before our birth : It is a pity to lament that praise Should be no shadow in the train of worth. What is it. Madam, that your heart dismays ? Why murmur at the course of this vast earth? Think rather of the work than of the praise ; Come, we will talk about the ancient days. There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he) ; I will relate his story to you now. While through the branches of this apple-tree Some spots of sunshine flicker on your brow; While eveiy flower ' ath on its breast a bee, And every bird in stirring doth endow The grass with falling blooms that smoothly glide. As ships drop down a river with the tide. For telling of his tale no fitter place Than this old orchard, sloping to the west ; Through its pink dome of blossom I can trace Some overlying azure ; for the rest, These flowery branches round us interlace ; The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest ; Who talks of fame while the religious spring Offers the incense of her blossoming ? There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane, Took to his heart the hope that destiny Had singled him this guerdon to obtain, That by the power of his sweet miastrelsy Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gain. And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. " Master, good e'en to ye ! " a woodman said, Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. '* This hour is fine " — the Poet bowed his head. "More fine," bethought, " O friend ! to me appears The sunset than to you ; finer the spread Of orange lustre through these azure spheres, Where little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep, Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. " O finer far ! What work so high as mine, Interpreter betwixt the world and man. Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, The mysteiy she wraps her in to scan ; Her unsyllabic voices to combine, And serve her with such love as poets can ; With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, Then die, and leave the poem to mankind? " O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired ! Early and late my heart appeals to me, And says, ' O work, O will — Thou man be fired To earn this lot, ' — she says, ' I would not be A worker for mine own bread, or one hired For mine own profit. O, I would be free To work for others ; love so earned of them Should be my wages and my diadem. " 'Then when I died I should not fall,' says she, ' Like dropping flowers that no man noticeth. But like a great branch of some stately tree Rent in a tempest, and flung down to death, Thick with green leafage — so that piteously Each passer by that ruin shuddereth. And saith, The gap this branch hath left is wide ; The loss thereof can never be supplied.' " But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so. Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye. And saw two slender branches that did grow, And from it rising spring and flourish high ; Their tops were twined together fast, and, lo. Their shadow crossed the path as he went by- \~ 1 ^ THE star's monument. 31 should tr eyes said, |ith his i head, tome leres, sheep, me, It one. pan ; J bind. p be [otbe (ed Free |m ; she, ceth, eath, bft is Jlo, Ivcnt The shadow of a wild rose and a briar. And it was shaped in sen\blance like a lyre. In sooth, a lyre ! and as the soft air played, Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. '♦ O emblem meet for me ! " the Poet said ; " Ay, I accept and own thee for my right ; The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid, Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light : Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain. And, supple, it will bend and rise again. "This lyre is cast across the dusty way. The common path that common men pursue; I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay. Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew. And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew. That 'neath men's feet its image still may be While yet it waves above them, living lyre, like thee ! " But, even as the Poet spoke, behold He lifted up his face toward the sky ; The ruddy sun dipt under the grey wold. His shadowy lyre was gone ; and, passing by. The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold Their temper on those branches twain to try, And all their loveliness and leafage sweet Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. " Ah ! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, "That for myself I coveted but now. Too soon, methinks, thou hast been false to me; The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow." Then straightway turned he from it hastily. As dream that waking sense will disallow ; And while the highway heavenward paled apace. He went on westward to his dwelling-place. He went on steadily, while far and fast The summer darkness dropped upon the world, A gentle air among the cloudlets passed And fanned away their crimson; then it curled The yellow poppies in the field, and cast A dimness on the grasses, for it furled Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain That eve had left upon the pastoral plain. He reached his city. Lo ! the darkened street Where he abode was full of gazing crowds ; He heard the muffled tread of many feet ; A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. "What mark ye there," said he, "and where- fore meet?" Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrowds ; It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars — What lies beyond it but the nightly stars ? " Then did the gazing crowd to him aver They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid ; For that in sooth an old Astronomer Down from his roof had rushed into their mid, Frighted, and fain with others to confer, That he had cried, " O sirs ! " — and upward bid Them gaze — " O sirs, a light is quenched afar; Look up, my masters, we have lost a star ! " The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterhood Swam in the dewy heaven. The very skies Were mutable ; for all amazed he stood To see that truly not in any wise He could behold them as of old, nor could His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot. But when he told them over, one was not. While yet he gazed and pondered reverently. The fickle folk began to move away. " It is but one star less for us to see ; And what does one star signify?" quoth they ; "The heavens are full of them." "But, ah ! " said he, "That star was bright while yet she lasted." "Ay!" They answered: "praise her. Poet, an' ye will; Some are now shining that are brighter still." " Poor star i to be disparaged so soon On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed; "That men should miss, and straight deny her noon Its brightness ! " But the people in their pride Said, " How are we beholden? 'twas no boon She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide: She could not choose but shine, nor could we know Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." The Poet answered sadly, " That is true ! " And then he thought upon unthankfulness ; While some went homeward ; and the residue, Reflecting that the stars are numberless. Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few. So short the shining that his path may bless; To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips, And thought no more upon the star's eclipse. But he, the Poet, could not rest content Till he had found that old Astronomer ; Therefore at midnight to his house he went. And prayed him to be his tale's interpreter. And yet upon the heaven his eyes he bent, Hearing the marvel ; yet he sought for her That was awanting, in the hope her face Once more might fill its reft abiding-place. 32 THE star's monument. i! Then said the old Astronomer : " My son, I sat alone upon my roof to-night ; I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely shun To fringe the edges of the western light ; I marked those ancient clusters one by one, The same that blessed our old forefather's sight : For God alone is older — none but He ■ Can charge the stars with mutability : *'The elders of the night, the steadfast stars, The old, old stars which God has let us see, That they might be our soul's auxiliars. And help us to the truth how young we be — "God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars And a little clay being over of them — He Had made our world and us thereof, yet given. To humble us, the sight of His great heaven. "But ah! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen The death of light, the end of old renown ; A shrinking back of glory that had been, A dread eclipse before the Eternal's frown. How soon a little grass will grow between These eyes and those appointed to look down Upon a world that was not made on high Till the last scenes of their long empiry ! "To-night that shining cluster now despoiled Lay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood ; Sweet was its light to me that long had toiled, It gleimed and trembled o'er the distant wood ; Blown in a pile the clouds from it recoiled, Cool twilight up the sky her way made good ; I saw, but not believed — it was so strange — That one of those same stars had suffered change. '/The darkness gathered, and methought she spread. Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned ; But notwithstanding to myself I said — ' The stars are changeless ; sure some mote hath stained Mine eyes, and her fair glory minishdd. ' Of age and failing vision I complained. And thought ' some vapor in the heavens doth swim. That makes her look so large and yet so dim.' " But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peers In her red presence showed but wan and white ; For like a living coal beheld through tears She glowed and quivered with a gloomy light ; Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears. Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night ; Like one who throws his arms up to the sky And bows down suffering, hopeless of reply. "At length, as if an everlasting Hand Had taken hold upon her in her place. And swiftly, like a golden grain of sand. Through all the deep infinitudes of space Was drawing her — God's truth as here I stand — Backward and inward to itself ; her face Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no more Than smallest atom on a boundless shore. " And she that was so fair, I saw her lie, The smallest thing in God's great firmament. Till night was at the darkest, and on high Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent ; I strained, to follow her, each aching eye, So swiftly at her Maker's will she went ; I looked again — I looked — the star was gone, And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone." "Gone !" said the Poet, "and about to be Forgotten : O, how sad a fate is hers !" " How is it sad, my son?" all reverently The old man answered ; " though she minis- ters No longer with her lamp to me and thee. She has fulfilled her mission. God transfers Or dims her ray ; yet was she blest as bright, For all her life was spent in giving light." " Her mission she fulfilled assuredly," The Poet cried : ' ' but, O unhappy star ! None praise and few will bear in memory The name she went by. O, from far, from far Comes down, methinks, her mournful voice to me. Full of regrets that men so thankless are." So said, he told that old Astronomer All that the gazing crowd had said of her. And he went on to speak in bitter wise, As one who seems to tell another's fate, But feels that nearer meaning underlies. And points its sadness to his own estate : " If such be the reward," he said with sighs, "Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate — If such be thy reward, hard case is thine ! It had been better for thee not to shine. " If to reflect a light that is divine Makes that which doth reflect it better seen, And if to see is to contemn the shrine, 'Twere surely better it had never been : It had been better for her not to shine, And for me not to sing. Better, I ween. For us to yield no more that radiance biight. For them, to lack the light than scorn the light." Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he); And then he paused, and sighed, and turned to look Upon the lady's downcast eyes, and see li^. THE STARS MONTTMENT, as pace stand — face more re. (ament, Iht was |e, lit; [gone, le had Ibe It" iminis- insfers [ight, ir! from lice to Ihs, late- iseen, jeen, (ht, the Isaid Irned How fast the honey bees in settling shook Those apple blossoms on her from the tree ; He watched her busy fingers as they took And slipped the knotted thread, and thought how much He would have given that hand to hold — to touch. At length, as suddenly become aware Of this long pause, she lifted up her face. And he withdrew his eyes — she looked so fair And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. "" Ah ! little dreams she of the restless care," He thought, "that makes my heart to throb apace : Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends No thrill to her calm pulse — we are but FRIENDS." Ah ! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand Were hid beyond yon towering maple trees ! Ah ! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand — Dark shadow — fast advancing to my knees ; Ah ! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned By feigning gladness to arrive at ease ; Ah ! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends ; I must remember that we are but friends. And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, In sweet regretful tones that lady said : "It seemeth that the fame you would forego The Poet whom you tell of coveted ; But I would fain, methinks, his story know. And was he loved ? " said she, ' ' or was he wed? And had he friends ? " " One friend, perhaps," said he, *' But for the rest, I pray you let it be." Ah ! little bird (he thought), most patient bird. Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through, By so much as my reason is preferred Above thine instinct, I my work would do Better than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirred This hour thy wing. Ah ! russet bird, I sue For a like patience to wear through these hours — Bird on thy nest among the apple flowers. I will not speak — I will not speak to thee, My star ! and soon to be my lost, lost star. The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me, So high above me and beyond so far ; I can forego thee, but not bear to see My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar : That were a base return for thy sweet light. Shine, though I never more shall see that thou art bright. Never ! Tis certain that no hope is — none ! No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear, The hardest part of my hard task is done ; Thy calm assures me that I am not dear ; Though far and fast the rapid moments run, Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear; Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart She is. I am her friend, and I depart. Silent she had been, but she raised her face ; "And will you end," said she, "this half- told tale?" " Yes, it were best," he answered her. "The place Wnere I left off was where he felt to fail His courage. Madam, through the fancy bas^i That they who love, endure, or work, may rail And cease — if all their love, the works they wrought, And their endurance, men have set at nought." " It had been better for me NOT to sing," My Poet said, " and for her not to shine ; " But him the old man answered, sorrowing, " My son, did God who made her, the Divine Lighter of suns, when down to that bright ring He cast her, like some gleaming almandine, And set her in her place, begirt with rays, Say unto her 'Give light,' or say 'Earn praise ? ' " The Poet said, " He made her to give light." "My son," the old man answered, "blest are such ; A blessed lot is theirs ; but if each night Mankind had praised her radiance — inasmuch As praise had never made it wax more bright, And cannot now rekindle with its touch Her lost effulgence, it is nought. I wot That praise was not her blessing nor her lot. " "Ay," said the Poet, " I my words abjure, And I repent me that I uttered them ; But by her light and by its forfeiture She shall not pass without her requiem. Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure; Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem, Shall be remembered ; though she sought not fame. It shall be busy with her beauteous name. "For I will raise in her bright memory, Lost now on earth, a lasting monument, And graven on it shall recorded be That all her rays to light mankind were spent; And I will sing albeit none heedeth me. On her exemplar being still intent : While in men's sight shall stand the record thus— ' So long as she did last she lighted us.' " So said, he raised, according to his vow, On the green grass, where oft his townsfolk met. 24 THE STARS MONUMENT. I Under the shadow of a leafy bough That leaned toward a singing rivulet, One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow, The image of the vanished star was set ; And this was graven on the pure white stone In golden letters — "While she lived she SHONE." Madam, I cannot give this story well — My heart is beating to another chime ; My voice must needs a different cadence swell; It is yon singing bird, which all the time Wooeth its nested mate, that doth dispel My thoughts. What, deem you, could a lover's rhyme The sweetness of that passionate lay excel ? soft, O low her voice — " I cannot tell." [He thittks.'\ The old man — aye he spoke, he was not hard ; " She was his joy," he said, "his comforter. But he would trust me. I was not debarred Whate'er my heart approved to say to her." Approved ! O torn and tempted and ill-starred And breaking heart, approve not nor demur; It is the serpent that beguileth thee With "God doth know" beneath this apple- tree. Yea, God doth know, and only God doth know. Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee ! 1 bear Thy curse primeval, and I go ; But heavier than on Adam falls on me My tillage of the wilderness ; for, lo ! I leave behind the woman, and I see As 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'er To hide her from my sight for evermore. [He speaks. "^ I am a fool, with sudden start he cried. To let the song-bird work me such unrest : If I break off again, I pray you chide, For morning fleeteth, with my tale at best Half told. That white stone. Madam, gleamed beside The little rivulet, and all men pressed To read the lost one's story traced thc-eon, The golden legend — "While she lived she shone." And, Madam, when the Poet heard them read, And children spell the letters softly through. It may be that he felt at heart some need, Some craving to be thus remembered too ; It may be that he wondered if indeed He must die wholly when he passed from view ; It may be, wished, when death his eyes made dim, That some kind hand would raise such stone for him. But shortly, as there comes to most of us, There came to him the need to quit his home; To tell you why were simply hazardous. What said I, Madam ? — men were made to roam My meaning is. It hath been always thus : They are athirst for mountains and sea foamj Heirs of this world, what wonder if perchance They long to see their grand inheritance ? He left his city, and went forth to teach Mankind, his peers, the hidden harmony That underlies God's discords, and to reach And touch the master-string that like a sigh Thrills in their souls, as if it would beseech Some hand to sound it, and to satisfy Its yearning for expression : but no word Till poet touch it hath to make its music heard.. [He thinks.] I know that God is good, though evil dwells Among us, and doth all things holiest share; That there is joy in heaven, while yet our knells Sound for the souls which He has summoned there ; That painful love unsatisfied hath spells Earned by its smart to soothe its fellow's care : But yet this atom cannot in the whole Forget itself — it aches a separate souL [He speaks. 1 But, Madam, to my Poet I return. With his sweet cadences of woven words He made their rude untutored hearts to bum And melt like gold refined. No brooding birds Sing better of the love that doth sojourn Hid in the nest of home, which softly girds The beating heart of life ; and strait though it be. Is straitness better than wide liberty ? He taught them, and they learned, but not the less Remained unconscious whence that lore they drew. But dreamed that of their native nobleness Some lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew; His glorious maxims in a lowly dress, Like seed sown broadcast, spnmg in all men's view. The sower, passing onward, was not known. And all men reaped the harvest as their own. It may be. Madam, ;hat those ballads sweet, Whose rhythmic measures yesterday we sung^ Which time and changes make not obsolete. But (as u river bears down blossoms flung Upon its breast) take with them while they fleet- It may be from his lyre that first they sprung? THE star's monument. 2S us, lis hornet .IS. made to I thus : jsea foam J ^rchance Ice? ih lony Ireach 1e a sigh peech V Vd tc heard.^ iwells [it share; ar knell* imoned fellow's brds bum' poding girds Dugh it lot the re they |ss fanted, men'* Iwn, awn. [eet, 1 sung, tte, Pg they Irungt But who can tell, since work surviveth fame? — The rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name. He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust — So long he wandered sowing worthy seed, Watering of wayside buds that were adust, And touching for the common ear his reed — So long to wear away the cankering rust That dulls the gold of life — so long to plead With sweetest music for all souls oppressed, That he was old ere he had thought of rest. Old and grey-headed, leaning on a staff. To that great city of his birth he came, And at its gates he paused with wondering laugh To think how changed were all his thoughts of fame Since first he carved the golden epitaph To keep in memory a worthy name. And thought forgetfulness had been its doom But for a few bright letters on a tomb. The old Astronomer had long since died ; The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed ; Strange were the domes that rose on every side ; Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst ; The men of yesterday their business plied ; No face was left that he had known at first ; And in the city gardens, lo ! he sees The saplings that he set are stately trees. Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade. Behold ! he marks the fair white monument, And on its face the golden words displayed. For sixty years their lustre have not spent ; He sitteth by it and is not afraid, But in its shadow he is well content ; And envies not, though bright their gleamings are. The golden letters of the vanished star. He gazeth up : exceeding bright appears That golden legend to his aged eyes. For they are dazzled till they fill with tears, And his lost Youth doth like a vision rise ; She saith to him. ' In all these toilsome years, What hast tliou won by work or enterprise ? What hast thou won to make amends to thee, As thou didst swear to do for loss of me ? "O man! O white-haired man," the vision said, " Since we two sat beside this monument Life's clearest hues are all evanished, •The golden wealth thou hadst of me is spent; The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are shed ; The music is played out that with thee went." " Peace, peace ! " he cried ; " I lost thee, but, in truth. There are worse losses than the loss of youth." He said not what those losses were — but I — But I must leave them, for the time draws near. Some lose not only joy, but memory Of how it felt J not love that was so dear Lose only, but the steadfast certainty That once they had it ; doubt comes on, then fear. And after that despondency. I wis The Poet must have meant such loss as this. But while he sat and pondered on his youth. He said, *' It did one deed that doth remain, For it preserved the memory and the truth Of her that now doth neither set nor wane, But shine in all men's thoughts ; nor sink forsooth, And be forgotten like the summer rain. O, it is good that man should not forget Or benefits foregone or brightness set ! " He spoke and said, " My lot contenteth me ; I am right glad for this her "orthy fame ; That which was good and g t I fain would see Drawn with a halo round what rests — its name." This while the Poet said, behold, there came A workman with his tools anear the tree, And when he read the words he paused awhile And pondered on them with a wondering smile. And then he said, "I pray you. Sir, what mean The golden letters of this monument ? " In wonder quoth the Poet, " Hast thou been A dweller near at hand, and their intent Hast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seen The marble earlier?" "Ay," said he, and leant Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh, And say it was a marvel, and pass by. Then said the Poet. " This is strange to me." But as he mused, with trouble in his mind, A band of maids approached him leisurely, Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind ; And of their rosy lips requested he, As one that for a doubt would solving find. The tale, if tale there were, of that white stone. And those fair letters — "While she lived she shone." Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay, "O, Sir," saith one, "this monument is old; But we have heard our virtuous mothers say That by their mothers thus the tale was told: A Poet made it ; journeying then away, He left us ; and though some the meaning hold For other than the ancient one, yet we Receive this legend for a certainty : — "There was a lily once, most purely white, Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew; ra6 THE star's monument. Its starry blossom it unclosed by night, And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight, Until a stomiy wind arose and blew. And when he came once more his flower to greet Its fallen petals drifted to his feet. "And for his beautiful white lily's sake, That she might be remembered where her scent Had been right sweet, he said that he would make In her dear memory a monument : For she was purer than a driven flake Of snow, and in her grace most excellent ; The loveliest life that death did ever mar, As beautiful to gaze on as a star." "I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her, "And I am glad that I have heard your tale." With that they passed ; and as an inlander. Having heard breakers raging in a gale And falling down in thunder, will aver That still, when far away in grassy vale. He seems to hear those seething waters bound, So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. He leaned his face upon his hand, and thought And thought, until a youth came by that way; And once again of him the Poet sought The story of the star. But, well-a-day ! He said, "The meaning with much doubt is fraught. The sense thereof can no man surely say ; For still tradition sways the common ear. That of a truth a star did disappear. •"But they who look beneath the outer shell That wraps the 'kernel of the people's lore,' Hold THAT for superstition ; and they tell That seven lovely sisters dwelt of yore In this old city, where it so befell That one a Poet loved ; that, furthermore, As stars above she was pure and good. And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. '" So beautiful they were, those virgins seven, That all men called them clustered stars in song. Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven : But woman bideth not beneath it long j For O, alas ! alas ! one fated even. When stars their azure deeps began to throng. That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim. And all their lustrous shining waned to him. "In summer dusk she drooped her head and sighed Until what time the evening star went down, .And all the other stars did shining bide Clear in the lustre of their old renown, And then — the virgin laid her down and died : Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown, Forgot the sisters whom she loved before. And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." "A mournful tale, in truth," the lady saith : " But did he truly grieve for evermore?" " It may be you forget," he answereth. That this is but a fable at the core O' the other fable." "Though it be but breath," She asketh, "was it true?" Then he, "This lore. Since it is fable, either way may go ; Then, if it please you, think it might be so." "Nay, but," she saith, "if I had told your tale. The virgin should have lived his home to bless. Or, must she die, I would have made to fail His useless love." "I tell you not the less," He sighs, " because it was of no avail : His heart the Poet would not dispossess Thereof. But let us leave the fable now. My Poet heard it with an aching brow." And he made answer thus, "I thank thee, youth ; Strange is thy story to these aged ears. But I bethink me thou hast told a truth Under the guise of fable. If my tears. Thou lost beloved star, lost now, forsooth. Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers. So new thou shouldst be deemed as newly seen, For men forget that thou hast ever been. " There was a morning when I longed for fame, There was a noontide when I passed it by. There is an evening when I think not shame Its substance and its being to deny ; For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name Of him that wrought them shall they leave to die ; Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, They change the deeds that first ennobled it. " O golden letters of this monument ! O words to celebrate a loved renown Lost now or wrested ! and to fancies lent, Or on a fabled forehead set for crown, For my departed star, I am content. Though legends dim and years her memory drown : For what were fame to her, compared and set By this great truth which ye make lustrous yet?" " Adieu ! " the Poet said, " my vanished star, Thy duty and thy happiness were one. Work IS heaven's best ; its fame is sublunar : The fame thou dost not need — the work is done. THE STARS MONUMENT. 27 xnd died : 's crown, I fore, Vore." saith : ire?" be but Then he, pe so." aid your lome to \o fail le less," 6ess I" thee, |th, ig thy newly • fame, by, une name leave mt, it. For thee I am content that these things are ; More than content were I, my race being run. Might it be true of me, though none thereon Should muse regretful — ' While he lived he shone.'" So said, the Poet rose and went his way. And that same lot he proved whereof he spake. Madam, my story is told out ; the day Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake The morning. That which endeth call a lay. Sung after pause — a motto in the break Between two chapters of a tale not new, Not joyful — but a common tale. Adieu ! And that same God who made your face so fair, And gave your woman's heart its tenderness. So shield the blessing he implanted there, That it may never turn to your distress. And never cost you trouble or despair, Nor granted leave the granter comfortless ; But like a river blest where'er it flows. Be still receiving while it still bestows. Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat mute In the soft shadow of the apple-tree ; The sky-lark's song rang like a joyous flute. The brook went prattling past her restlessly: She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute; It was the wind that sighed, it was not she : And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said. We cannot tell, for none interpreted. Their counsels might be hard to reconcile, They might not suit the moment or the spot. She rose, and laid her work aside the while Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot ; She looked upon him with an almost smile, And held to him a hand that faltered not. One moment — bird and brook went warbling on. And the wind sighed again — and he was gone. So quietly, as if she heard no more Or skylark in the azure overhead, Or water sli]>ping past the cressy shore, Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled — So quietly, until the alders hoar Took him beneath them ; till the downward spread Of planes engulfed him in their leafy seas — She stood beneath her rose-flushed apple-trees. And then she stooped toward the mossy grass. And gathered up her work and went her way; Straight to that ancient turret she did pass, And startled back some fawns that were at play. She did not sigh, she never said " Alas ! " Although he was her friend : but still that Where elm and hornbeam spread a towermg dome. She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. And did she love him ? — what if she did not ? Then home was still the home of happiest years ; Nor thought was exiled to partake his lot, Nor heart lost courage through foreboding fears ; Nor echo did against her secret plot, Nor music her betray to painful tears ; Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim, And riches poverty because of him. But did she love him ? — what and if she did ? Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand, Nor show the secret waters that lie hid In arid valleys of that desert land. Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid, Or bring the help which tarries near to hand. Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyes That gaze up dying into alien skies. |mory set Irous ^^ Istar, r ' rk is a8 A DEAD YEAR. A DEAD YEAR. TOOK a year out of my life and story — A dead year, and said, * ' I will hew thee a tomb ! •All the kings of the nations lie in glory ; ' Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred ^^ gloom ; Swathed in linen, and precious un- guents old ; Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold. " Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory, Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flittermouse — Each with his name on his brow. 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory, Every one in his own house : ' Then why not thou ? "Year," I said, "thou shalt not lack Bribes to bar thy coming back ; Doth old Egypt wear her best In the chambers of her rest ? Doth she take to her last bed Beaten gold and glorious red ? Envy not ! for thou wilt wear In the dark a shroud as fair ; Golden with the sunny ray Thou withdrawest from my day ; Wrought upon with colours fine Stolen from this life of mine : Like the dusty Libyan kings, Lie with two wide open wings On thy breast, as if to say. On these wings hope flew away ; And so housed, and thus adorned, Not forgotten, but not scorned. Let the dark for evermore Close thee when I close the door ; And the dust for ages fall In the creases of thy pall ; And no voice nor visit rude Break thy sealed solitude." I took the year out of my life and story. The dead year, and said, " I have hewed thee a tomb ! 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; But for the sword, and sceptre, and diadem, Sure thou didst reign like them." So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary, According to my vow ; For I said, "The kings of the nations lie in glory, And so shall thou 1 " " Rock," I said, "thy ribs are strong, That I bring thee giiard it long ; Hide the light from buried eyes — Hide it lest the dead arise." "Year," I said, and turned away, " I am free of thee this day ; All that we two only know, I forgive and I forego. So thy face no more I meet In the field or in the street." Thus we parted, she and I ; Life hid death, and put it by ; Life hid death, and said, " Be free ! I have no more need of thee. " No more need ! O mad mistake. With repentance in its wake ! Ignorant, and rash, and blind. Life had left the grave behind ; But had locked within its hold With the spices and the gold. All she had to keep her warm In the raging of the storm. Scarce the sunset bloom was gone. And the little stars outshone. Ere the dead year, stiff and stark, Drew me to her in the dark ; Death drew life to come to her. Beating at her sepulchre. Crying out, ' ' How can I part With the best share of my heart ? Lo, it lies upon the bier. Captive with the buried year. my heart ! " and I fell prone, Weeping at the sealed stone ; " Year among the shades," I said, " Since I live, and thou art dead, Let my captive heart be free Like a bird to fly to me." And I stayed some voice to win, None answered from within ; And I kissed the door — and night Deepened till the stars waxed bright ; And I saw them set and wane. And the world turn green again. "So," I whispered, "open door, 1 must tread this palace floor — Sealed palace, rich and dim. vfiammm A DEAD YEAR. 29 md hoary, pons He in strong, Let a narrow sunbeam swim After me and on me spread While I look upon my dead ; Let a little warmth be free To come after ; let me see Through the doorway, when I sit Looking out, the swallows flit, Settling not till daylight goes ; Let me smell the wild white rose. Smell the woodbine and the May ; Mark, upon a sunny day. Sated from their blossoms rise Honey-bees and butterflies. Let me hear, O ! let me hear. Sitting by my buried year, Finches chirping to their young. And the little noises flung Out of clefts where rabbits play, Or from falling water-spray ; And the gracious echoes woke By man's work : the woodman's stroke. Shout of shepherd, whistlings blithe. And the whetting of the scythe ; Let this be, lest shut and furled From the well-belov6d world, I forget her yearnings old, And her troubles manifold, Strivings sore, submissions meet, And my pulse no longer beat. Keeping time and bearing part With the pulse of her great heart. " So I swing open door and shade Take me : I am not afraid. For the time will not be long ; Soon I shall have waxen strong — Strong enough my own to win From the grave italics within." And I entered. On her bier Quiet lay the buried year ; I sat down where I could see Life without and sunshine free, Death within. And I between, Waited my own heart to wean From the shroud that shatled her In the rock-hewn sepulchre — Waited till the dead should say, " Heart, be free of me this day " — Waited with a patient will — And I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL. I take the year back to my life and story. The dead year, andsay, "I willshareinthy tomb. ' All the kings of the nations lie in glory;' Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ! They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and diadem, But thou excellest them ; For life doth make thy grave her oratory. And the crown is still on thy brow ' All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' And so dost thou. " 3© REFLECTIONS. REFLECTIONS. Written for The Portfolio Sjociety, July, 1862. ! .1 Looking over a Gate at a Pool in a Field, |(IIAT change has made the pas- tures sweet And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a gold- en hem ? This lovely world, the hills, the sward — They all look fresh, as if our But yesterday had finished them. And here's the field with light aglow ; How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, And how its wet leaves trembling shine I Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea Below the level brosvsing line. I see the pool more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, I saw reflected yesterday A maiden with a milking-pail. There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist, The other lifted to her pail. She rosy in the moniing light, Among the water-daisies white. Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. Against her ankles as she trod. The lucky buttercups did nod. I leaned upon the gate to see : The sweet thing looked, but did not speak ; A dimple came in either cheek, And all my heart was gone from me. Then, as I lingered on the gate. And she came up like coming fate, I saw my picture in her eyes — Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes. Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among white-headed majesties, I said, " A tale w.is made of old That I would fain to thee unfold ; Ah ! let me — let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head ; " I cannot heed it now," she said, " P'or carrying of the milking-pail." She laughed. What good to make ado ? I held the gate, and she came through, And took her homeward path anon. From the clear pool her face had fled ; It rested on my heart instead. Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content, So sweet and stately on she went, Right careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door The maiden with the milking-pail. II. For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, How fine, how blest a thing is work ! For work does good when reasons fail — Good ; yet the axe at every stroke The echo of a name awoke — Her name is Mary Martindale. I'm glad that echo was not heard Aright by other men : a bird Knows doubtless what his own notes tell And I know not; but I can say I felt as shame-faced all that day As if folks heard her name right well. And when the west began to glow I went — I could not choose but go — To that same dairy on the hill ; And while sweet Mary moved about Within, I came to her without. And leaned upon the window-sill. The garden border where I stood Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. I spoke — ^her answer seemed to fail : I smelt the pinks I could not see ; The dusk came down and sheltered me, And in the dusk she heard my tale. REFLECTIONS. And what is left that I should tell ? I begged a kiss, I pleaded well : The rosebud lins did long decline ; But yet I think, I think 'tis true, That, leaned at last into the dew. One little instant they were mine. 3» O life ! how dear thou hast become : She laughed at dawn, ami I was dumb, But evening counsels best prevail. Fair shines the blue that o'er her spreads, Green be the pastures where she treads, The maiden with the milking-pail I ^^ "j 3* THE LETTER L. THE LETTER L. ABSENT. E sat on f^-jis:" slopes that meet Witli suddt. dip the level strand ; The trees hung overhead — our feet Were on the sand. Two silent gi.ls, a thoughtful man, W° sunned ourselves in open light, And felt such April airs as fan The Isle of Wight ; And smelt the wall-flower in the crag V.'hereon that dainty waft had fed, Wliich made the bell-hung cowslip wag Her delicate head ; And let alighting jackdaws feet Adovvn it open-winged, and pass Till they could touch with outspread feet The warmed grass. The happy wave ran up and rang Like service bells a long way off. And ("own a little freshet sprang From mossy trough, And splashed into a rain of spray, And fretted on with daylight's loss, Because so many blue-bells lay Leaning across. Blue martins gossiped in the sun, And pairs of chattering daws flew by. And sailing brigs rocked softly on In company. Wild cherry boughs above us spread The whitest shade was ever seen, And flickerj flicker, came and fled Sun spots between. Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom As babes will sigh for deep content When their sweet hearts for peace make room, As given, not lent. And we saw on ; we said no word. And one was lost in musings rare, One buoyant as the waft that stirred Her shining hair. His eyes were bent upon the sand, Unfathomed deeps within them lay, A slender rod was in his hand — A hazel spray. Her eyes were resting on his face, As shyly glad by stealth to glean Impressions of his manly grace And guarded mien ; The mouth with steady sweetness set, And eyes conveying unaware The distant hint of some regret That harbored there. She gazed, and in the tender flush That made her face like roses blown, And in the radiance and the hush. Her thought was shown. It was a happ> thing to sit So near nor mar his reverie ; She looked not for a part in it, So meek was she. But it was solace for her eyes. And for her heart, that yearned to him, To watch apart in loving wise Those musings dim. Lost — lost, and gone ! The Pelham woods V/ere full of doves that cooed at ease ; The orchis filled her purple hoods For dainty bees. He heard not ; all the delicate air Was fresh with falling water-spray : It mattered not — he was not there. But far away. Till with the hazel in his hand, Still drowned in thought, it thus befell : He drew a letter on the sand — The letter L. And looking on it straight there wrought A ruddy flus .bout his brow ; His letter wokt. nim : absent thought Rushed homeward now. And half-abashed, his hasty touch Effaced it with a tell-tale care, As if his action had been much, And not his air. u THE LETl'ER L. 33 lim, roods in And she? she watched his open palm Smooth out the letter from the sand. And rose, with aspect almost calm, And filled her hand With cherry bloom, and moved away To gather wild forget-me-not, And let her errant footsteps ?tray To one sweet spot. As if she coveted the fair White linen of the silver-weed, And cuckoo-pint that shaded there Empurpled seed. She had not feared, as I divine. Because she had not hoped. Alas I The sorrow of it ! for that sign Came but to pass ; And yet it robbed her of the right To give, who looked not to receive, And made her blush in love's despite That she should grieve. A shape in white, she turned to gaze ; Her eyes were shaded with her hand. And half-way up the winding ways We saw her stand. Green hollows of the fringed cliff. Red rocks that under waters show, Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff, Were spread below. She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, Perhaps to think ; but who can tell, How heavy on her heart must lie The letter L ! She came anon with quiet grace ; And "What,' she munnured, '* silent yet !" He answered, " 'Tis a haunted place. And spell-beset. *' O speak to us, and break the spell !" "The spell is broken," she replied. "I crossed the running brook, it fell. It could not bide. "And I have brought a budding world, Of orchis spires and daisies rank. And ferny plumes but half uncurled. From yonder bank ; " And I shall weave of them a crown, And at the well-head launch it free, That so the brook may float it down. And out to sea. "There may it to some English hands From fairy meadow seem to come ; The fairj-est of fairy lands — The land of home. " " Weave on," he said, and as she wove We told how currents in the deep, With branches from a lemon grove, Blue bergs will sweep. And messages from shipwrecked folk Will navigate the moon-led main. And painted boards of splintered oak Their port regain. Then floated out by vagrant thought. My soul beheld on torrid sand The wasteful water set at nought Man's skilful hand, And suck out gold-dust from the box. And wash it down in weedy whirls. And split the wine-keg on the rocks, And- lose the pearls. "Ah ! why to that which needs it not," Methought, "should costly things be given? How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, On this side heaven !" So lAusing, did mine ears awake To maiden tones of sweet reserve, And manly speech that seemed to make The steady curve Of lips that uttered it defer Their guard, and soften for the thought : She listened, and his talk with her Was fancy fraughl. "There is not much in liberty" — With doubtful pauses he began ; And said to her and said to me, " There was a man — " There was a man who dreamed one night That his dead father came to him ; And said, when fire was low, and light Was burning dim — " ' Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride. Unloved, unloving, wilt thuu roam ? Sure home is best !' The son replied, * I have no home. ' " ' Shall not I speak ?' his father said, ' Who early chose a youthful wife. And worketl for her, and with hei led My happy life. " ' Ay, I will speak, for I was young As thou art now, when I did hold The pratding sweetness of thy tongue Dearer than gold ; " * And rosy from thy noonday sleep Would bear thee to admiring kin. And all thy pretty looks would keep My heart within. 4 34 THE LETTER L. " 'Then after, 'mid thy young allies- For thee ambition flushed my brow — I coveted the schoolboy prize Far more than thou. " ' I thought for thee, I thought for all My gamesome imps that round me grew ; The dews of blessing heaviest fall Where care falls too. " ' And I that sent my boys away, In yout'iful strength to earn their bread, And dietl before the hair was grey Upon my head — '"I say to thee, though free from care, A lonely lot, an aimless life, The crowning comfort is not there — Son, take a wife.* " ' Father beloved,' the son replied. And failed to gather to his breast, With arms in darkness searching wide, The formless guest. •* • I am but free, as sorrow is. To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk ; And free, as sick men are, I wis To rise and walk. " ' And free, as poor men are, to buy If they have nought wherewith to pay ; Nor hope, the debt before they die, To wipe away. " ' What 'vails it there are wives to win. And faithful hearts for those to yearn, Who find not aught thereto akin To make return ? " * Shall he take much who little gives. And dwells in spirit far away. When she that in his presence lives, Doth never stray, " 'But waking, guideth as beseems The happy house in order trim, And tends her babes ; and sleeping, dreams Of them, and him ? "O base, O cold,' " — while thus he spake The dream broke off, the vision fled ; He carrietl on his speech awake And sighing said — " * I had — ah happy man ! — I had A precious jewel in my breast, And while I kept it I was glad At work, at rest ! •' ' Call it a heart, and call it strong As upward stroke of eagle's wing ; Then call it weak, you shall not wrong The beating thing. " ' In tangles of the jungle reed, Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes. In shipwreck drifting with the weed 'Neath rainy skies, " ' Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen,, At danger gazed with awed delight. As if sea would not drown, I ween, Nor serpent bite, '"I had — ah happy ! but 'tis gone. The priceless jewel ; one came by. And saw and stood awhile to con With curious eye, " 'And wished for it, and faintly smiled From under lashes black as doom, With subtle sweetness, tender, mild. That did illume " ' The perfect fece, and shed on it A charm, half feeling, half surprise. And brim mth drtums the exquisite Brown bl.ssed eyes. " 'Was it for this, no more but this, I took and laid it in her hand. By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, By frown unmanned ? " ' It was for this — and O farewell The fearless foot, the present mind, And steady will to breast the swell And face the wind ! " ' I gave the jewel from my breast, She played with it a little while As I sailed down into the west. Fed by her smile ; " ' Then weary of it — far from land. With sigh as deep as destiny. She let it drop from her fair hand Into the sea, " ' And watched it sink ; and I — and I, — What shall I do, for all in vain ? No wave will bring, no gold will buy. No toil attain ; " ' Nor any diver reach to raise My jewel from the blue abyss ; Or could they, still I should but praise Their work amiss. " ' Thrown, thrown away! But I love yet The fair, fair hand which did the deed : That wayward sweetness to forget Were bitter meed. " ' No, let it lie, and let the wave Roll over it for evermore ; Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave — The sea her store. THE LETTER L. 35 Msnif. " ' My heart, my sometime happy heart ! And O for once let me complain, I must forego life's better part — Man's dearer gain. ** ' I worked afar that I might rear A peaceful home on English soil ; I labored for the gold and gear — I loved my toil. " • For ever in my spirit spake The natural whisper, " Well 'twill be When loving wife and children break Their bread with thee !" " ' The gathered gold is turned to dross, The wife hath faded into air, My heart is thrown away, my loss I cannot spare. " ' Not spare unsated thought her food — No, not one rustle of the fold. Nor scent of eastern sandalwood, Nor gleam of gold ; " * Nor quaint devices of the shawl, Far less the drooping lashes meek ; The gracious figure, lithe and tall. The dimpled cheek ; " *'And all the wonders of her eyes, And sweet caprices of her air, Albeit, indignant reason cries, Fool ! have a care. " ' Fool ! join not madness tn mistake ; Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit ; Only that she thy heart might break — She wanted it, '* 'Only the conquered thing to chain So fast that none might set it free. Nor other woman there might reign And comfort thee. " 'Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet ; Love dead outside her closiVl door, And passion fainting at her feet To wake no more ; ** * What canst thou give that unknown bride Whom thou didst work for in the waste. Ere fated love was born, and cried — Was dead, ungraced ? *"No more but this, the partial care, The natural kindness for its own, The trust that waxeth unaware, As worth is known : " * Observance, and complacent thought Indulgent, and the honor due That many another man has brought Who brought love too. " ' Nay, then, forbid it Heaven ! ' he said, ' The saintly vision fades from me ; bands and chains ! I cannot wed — I am not free. ' " With that he raised his face to view ; "What think you," asking, "of my tale? And was he right to let the dew Of mom exhale, " And burdened in the noontide sun, The grateful shade of home forego — Could he be right — I ask as one Who fain would know ? " He spoke to her and spoke to me ; The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek ; The woven crown lay on her knee ; She would not speak. And I with doubtful pause — averse To let occasion drift away — 1 answered — " If his case were worse Than word can say, "Time is a healer of sick hearts. And women have been known to choose, With purpose to allay their smarts, And tend their bruise, "These for themselves. Content to give. In their own lavish love complete, Taking for sole prerogative Their tendance sweet, " Such meeting in their diadem Of crowning love's ethereal fire, Himself he robs who robbeth them Of their desire. " Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried Against his lot that evensong, I judge him honest, and ilecide That he was wrong. " " ^Vhen I am judged, ah may my fate," He whispered, " in thy code be read ! Be thou both judge and advocate." Then turned, he said — " Fair weaver ! " touching, while he spoke, The woven crown, the weaving hand, " And do you this decree revoke, Or may it stand ? " This friend, you ever think her right — She is not wrong, then ? " Soft and low The little trembling word took flight : She answered, "No." i 36 THE LETTER L. "^ I PRESENT. A meadow wliere the grass was deep, Rich, sijuaie, and golden to the view, A belt of elms with level sweep About it grew. The sun Ijeat down on it, the line Of shade was clear beneath the trees; There, by a clustering eglantine, We sat at ease. And O the buttercups ! that field O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam- Where France set up his lilied shield, His oriflamb, And Henry's lion-standard rolled : What was it to their matchless sheen, Their million million drops of gold Among the green ! We sat at ease in peaceful trust, For he had written, " Let us meet; My wife grew tired of smoke and dust. Ami London heat, " And I have found a quiet grange, Set back in meadows sloping west, And there our little ones can range And she can rest. " Come down, that we may show the view. And she may hear your voice again, And talk her woman's talk with you Along the lane. " Since he had drawn with listless hand The letter, six long years had fled, And winds had blown about the sand. And they were wed. Two rosy urchins near liim played. Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships That with his knife for them he made Of elder slips. And where the flowers were thickest shed. Each blossom like a burnished gem, A creeping baby reared its head, And cooed at them. And calm was on the father's face, And love was in the mother's eyes ; She looked and listened from her place, In lender wise. She did not need to raise her voice That they might hear, she sat so nigh ; Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, And soft reply. Holding our quiet talk apart Of household things ; till, all unsealed. The guarded outworks of the heart Began to yield ; And much that pradence will not dip The pen to fix and send away, Passed safely over from the lip That summer day. " I should be happy," with a look Towards her husband where he lay, Lost in the pages of his book. Soft did she say. '* I am, and yet no lot below For one whole day eludeth care ; To marriage all the stories flow. And finish there : " As if with marriage came the end. The entrance into settled rest. The calm ti > \hich love's tossings tend, T quiet breast. " For me love played the low preludes. Yet life began but with the ring. Such infinite solicitudes Around it cling. " I did not for my heart divine Her destiny so meek to grow ; The higher nature matched with mine Will have it so. " Still I consider it, and still Acknowledge it my master made, Above me by the steadier will Of nought afraid. " Above me by the candid speech ; The temperate judgment of its own ; The keener thoughts that grasp and reach At things unknown. " But I look up and he looks down. And thus our mar>ied eyes can meet ; Unclouded his, and clear of frown. And gravely sweet. " And yet, O good, O wise and true ! I would for all my fealty. That I could be as nmch to you As you to me ; " And knew the deep secure content Of wives who have been hardly won, And, long petitioned, gave assent, Jealous of none. "But proudly sure ir. all the earth No other in that homage shares. Nor other woman's face or worth Ls prized as theirs." I said : ^* And yd no lot bdoiv For one whole day eludeth care. Your thought. " She answered, " Even so, I would beware THE LETTER L. 37 ' * Regretful questionings ; be sure That very seldom do they rise, Nor for myself do I endure — I sympathize. "For once" — she turned away her head, Across the grass she swept her hand — " There was a letter once, she said, " Upon the sand." *' There was, in truth, a letter writ On sand," I said, " and swept from view ; But that same hand which fashioned it Is given to you. " Efface the letter ; wherefore keep An image which the sands forego?" " Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep," She answered low, "I could not choose but wake it now ; For do but turn aside your face, A house on yonder hilly l)row Your eyes may trace. "The chestnut shelteri^- it ; ah me, That I should ]'ave so taint a heart ! But yestereve, as by the sea I sat apart, " I heard a name, I saw a hand Of passing stranger point that way — And will he meet her on the strand, When late we stray ? " For she is come, for she is there, I heard it in the dusk, and heard Admiring words, that named her fair, But little stirred "By beauty of the wood and wave. And weary of an old man's sway ; For it was sweeter to enslave Than to obey." — The voice of one that near us stood, The rustle of a silken fold, A scent of eastern sandalwood, A gleam of gold ! A lady ! in the narrow space Between the husband and the wife. But nearest him, — A^g showed a face With dangers rife ; A subtle smile that dimpling fled. As night-black lashes rose and fell : I looked, and to myself I said, "The letter L." He, too, looked up, and with arrest Of breath and motion lield his gaze, Nor cared to hide within liis breast His deep amaze : Nor spoke till on her near advance His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue ; And with his change of countenance Hers altered too. "Leiiore ! " his voice was like the cry Of one entreating ; and he said But chat — then paused with such a sigh As mourns the dead. And seated near, with no demur Of bashful doubt nhe silence broke, Though I alone could answer her When first she spoke. She looked : her eyes were beauty's own ; She shed their sweetness into his ; Nor spared the married wife one moan That bitterest is. She spoke, and lo, her loveliness Methought she damaged with her tongue ; And every sentence made it less. So false they rung. The rallying voice, the light demand, Half flippant, half unsatisfied ; The vanity sincere and bland — The answers v,k\e. And now her talk was of the East, And next her talk was of the sea ; " And has ihe love for it increased You shared with me ? " He answered not, but grave and still With earnest eyes her face perused. And locked his lips with steady will. As one that mused — That mused and wondered. Why his gaze Should dwell on her, methought, was plain; But reason that should wontlcr raise I sought in vain. And near and near the children drew, Attracted by her rich arrny, And genis that trembling into view I ,ike raindrops lay. He spoke : the wife her baby took And pressed the little face to hers ; What pain soe'er her bosom shook, What jealous stirs Might stab her heart, she hid them so. The cooing babe a veil supplied ; And if she listened none might know. Or if she sighed ; Or if forecasting grief and care I'aconscious solace thence she drew, -ind lulled her babe, and unaware Lulled sorrow too. [> •! 38 The lady, she interpreter For looks or language wanted none, If yet dominion stayed with her — So lightly won ; If yet the heart she wounded sore Could yearn to her, and let her see The homage that was evermore Disloyalty ; If sign would yield that it had bled. Or rallied from the faithless blow, Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, She craved to know. Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, Her asking eyes would round him shine ; But guarded lips and scctled mien Refused the sign. And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, The wonder yet within his breast. It seemed a watchful part he played Against her quest. Until with accent of regret She touched upon the past once more, As if she dared him to forget His dream of yore. And words of little weight let fall The fancy of the lower mind ; How waxing life must needs leave all Its best behind ; How he had said that "he would fain (One morning on the halcyon sea) That life would at a stand remain Eternally ; "And sails be mirrored in the deep, As then they were for evermore, And happy spirits wake and sleep Afar from shore : " The well-contented heart be fed Ever as then, and all the world (It were not small) unshadowed When sails were furled. " Your words " — a pause, and quietly With touch of calm self ridicule ; " It may be so — for then," said he, "I was a fool." With that he took his book, and left An awkward silence to my care, That soon I filled with questions deft And debnair ; THE LETTER L. And slid into an easy vein. The favorite picture of the year ; The grouse upon her lord's domain — The salmon weir ; Till she could feign a sudden thought Upon neglected guests and rise. And make us her adieux, with nought In her dark eyes Acknowledging or shame or pain ; But just unveiling for our view A little smile of still disdain As she withdrew. Then nearer did the sunshine creep, And warmer came the wafting breeze ; The little babe was fast asleep On mother's knees. Fair was the face that o'er it leant, The cheeks w t'l beauteous blushes dyed ; The downcast lashes, shyly bent. That failed to hide Some tender shame. She did not see ; She felt his eyes that would not stir. She looked upon her babe, and he So looked at her. So grave, so wondering, so content, As one new waked to conscious life. Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, He said, "My wife." " My wife, how beautiful you are ! " Then closer at her side reclined, " The bold brown woman from afar Comes, to me blind. " And by comparison, I see The majesty of matron grace, And learn how pure, how fair can be My own wife's face : " Pure with all faithful passion, fair With tender smiles that corne and go ; And comforting as April air After the snow. " Fool that I was ! my spirit frets And marvels at the humbling truth, That I have deigned to spend regrets On my bruised youth. " Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh, And shamed me for the mad mistake ; I thank my God He could deny. And she forsake. '4i ^ LJLiL THE LETTER L. 39 "Ah, who am I, that God hath saved Me from the doom I did desire, And crossed the lot myself had craved, To set me higher ? "What have I done that He should bow From heaven to choose a wife for me? And what deserved, He should endow My home with thee? "My wife ! " With that she turned her face To kiss the hand about her neck ; And I went down and sought the place Where leaped the beck — The busy beck, that still would nm And fall, and falter its refrain ; And pause and shimmer in the sun, And fall again. It led me to the sandy shore. We sang together, it and T — " The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, The shadows fly." I lost it on the sandy shore, *' O wife ! " its latest murmurs fell, •'0 wife, be glad, and fear no more ^ The letter L," I 40 THE HIGH TIDE. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. I ■•^v- {I57I.) HE old mayor climbed the belfiy tower, Tlie ringers ran by two, by three ; ' ' Pull, if ye never pulled before ; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, playuppe, O Boston bells ! Ply all your changes, all your swells ! Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.' " Men say it was a stolen tyde — The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall : And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; The level sun, like raddy ore. Lay sinking in the barren skies ; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. *• Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along ; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth. From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song — " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, " r"or the dews will soone be falling ; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow ; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, "When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be scene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene ; And lo ! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came down that kindly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby," Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie. And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea ? They ring the tune of Enderby ! ' ' P'or evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down ; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne : But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ?' " I looked without, and lo ! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main : He raised a shout as he drew on. Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth ! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. ) " The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace. And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market place." He shook as one that looks on death : " God save you, mother !" straight he saith j " Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" " Good Sonne, where Lindis winds her way, With her two bairns I marked her long ; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." K THE HIGH TIDE. 4» ine : be? He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, " Ho Enderby !" They rang " '1 he Brides of Enderby !" "With that he cried and beat his breast j For lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud ; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward pressed Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — Then beaten foam flew round about — Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : The feet had hardly time to flee Before it break against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by ; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the churcli tower, red and high — A lurid mark and dread to see ; And awsome bells they were to mee. That in the dark rang " Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; And I — my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death ! O lost ! my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more ? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare j The waters laid thee at his doore. Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Down drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass. That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! To manye more than myne and mee : But each will mourn his own (she saith). And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling. Ere the early dews be falling ; I shall never hear her song, " Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth ; From the meads where melick groweth. When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver ; Stand beside the sobbing river. Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To tlie sandy lonesome shore ; I shall never hear her calling, ' ' Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Light- foot ; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. Hollow, hollow ; Come uppe Liglitfoot, rise and follow ; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head j Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." ■n; I 4i AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. (THE parson's brother, SISTER, AND TWO CHILDREN.) \ i Preface, HAT wonder man should fail to stay A nursling wafted froniabove, Thegrowth celestial come astray That tender growth whose name is Love 1 It is as if high winds in heaven Had shaken I he celestial trees, And to this earth below had given Some feathered seeds from one of these. O perfect love that 'durcth long ! Dear growth, that shaded by the palms, And breathed on by the angel's song, Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms ! How great the task to guard thee here, Where wind is rougli, and frost is keen, And all the ground with doubt and fear Is chequered birth and death between ! Space is against thee — it can part ; Time is against thee — it can chill ; Words — they but render half the heart ; Deeds — they are poor to our rich will. Merton. — Though she had loved me, I had never bound Her beauty to my darkness ; that had been Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near Into a face all shadow, than to stand Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. I think so, and I loved her ; therefore I Have no complaint ; albeit she is not mine : And yet — and yet, withdrawing I would fain She would have pleaded duty — would have said "My father wills it;" would have turned away, As lingering, or unwillingly ; for then She would have done no damage to the past : Now she has roughly used it — flung it down And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, "Sir, I have promised; therefore, lo ! my hand "— Would I have taken it ? Ah no ! by all Most sacred, no ! I would for my sole share Have taken first her recollected blush The day I won her ; next her shining tears — The tears of our long parting ; and for all The rest — her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry, That day or night ( I know not which it was, The days being always night), that darkest night, When being led to her I heard her cry, " O blind ! blind ! blind ! " Go with thy chosen mate : The fashion of thy going nearly cured The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak That half my thoughts go after thee ; but not So weak that I desire to have it so. Jessie, seated at the piano, sitigs. When the dimpled water slippeth. Full of laughter, on its way. And her wing the wagtail dippeth. Running by the brink at play ; When the poplar leaves atremble Turn their edges to the light. And the far-up clouds resemble Veils of gauze most clear and white ; And the sunbeams fall and flatter, Woodland moss and branches brown. And the glossy finches chatter Up and down, up and down ; Though the heart be not attending. Having music of her own, On the grass, through meadows wending, It is sweet to walk alone. When the falling waters utter Something mournful on their way, And departing swallows flutter. Taking leave of bank and brae ; When the chaffinch idly sitteth With her mate upon the sheaves. And the wistful robin flitteth Over beds of yellow leaves ; When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder Evil fate, float by and frown, And the listless wind doth wander Up and down, up and down : Though the heart be not attending, Having sorrows of her own. Through the fields and fallows wending, It is sad to walk alone. Merton. — Blind ! blind I blind ! Oh ! sitting in the dark for evermore, t I AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 43 I tears — Irall cry, |it was, darkest In mate jut not liite ; rown, [nding, londer ling, And doing nothing — putting out n hand To feel what lies about me, and to say Not "This is l)lue or red," but "This is cold, And this the sun is shining on, and this I know not till they tell its name to me." that I might behold once more, my God ! The shining rulers of the night and day ; Or a star twinkling, ; or an almond tree, Pink with her blossoms and alive with bees, Standing against the azure ! O my sight ! Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells Of memory — that only lightsome place Where lingers yet the dayspring of my youth : The years of mourning for thy death arc long. Be kind, sweet memory ! O desert me not ! For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas, Fringed with their cocoa-palms, and dwarf red crags. Whereon the placid moon doth "rest her chin;" For oft by favor of thy visitings 1 feel the dimness of an Indian night, And lo ! the sun is coming. Red as nist Between the latticed blind his presence burns, A ruby ladder running up the wall ; And all the dust printed with pigeons' feet, Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings, And the red flowers give hack at once the dew, For night is gone, and day is born so fast, And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight. The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade, And while she calls to sleep and dreams "Come on, Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes, Which having opened, lo ! she is no more. O misery and mourning ! I have felt — Yes, I have felt like some deserted world That God had done with, and had cast aside To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space, He never looking on it any mon^ — Untilled, no use^ no pleasure, not desired, Nor lighted on by angels in their flight From heaven to happier planets, and the race That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead. Could such a world have hope that some blest day God would remember her, and fashion her Anew? yessie. What dearest ? Did you speak to me? Child. I think he spoke to us. M. No, little elves, You were so quiet that I half forgot Your neighborhood. What are you doingthere? y. They sit together on the window-mat Nursing their dolls. C. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls — Our be't dolls, that you gave us. M. Did you say The afternoon was bright ? y- Yes, bright indeed ! The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames All red and orange. C. I can see niy father — Look 1 look 1 the leaves are falling on his gown. Al. Where? C. In the churchyard, Uncle — he is gone ; He passed behind the tower. M. I heard a bell : There is a funeral, then, behind the church. 2W Child, Are the trees sorry when their leaves drop off? \st Child. You talk such silly words ; — no, not at all. There goes another leaf. 2nd Child. I did not see. i.r/ Child. Look ! on the grass, between the little hills. Just where they planted Amy. y- Amy died — Dear lilllc Amy ! when you talk of her. Say, she is gone to heaven. znd Child They planted her — Will she conic uj) next year ? 1st Child. No, not so Boon ; But some day God will call her to come up. And then she will. I'apa knows everything — He said she would before he planted her. znd Child. It was at night she went to hea- ven. Last night We saw a star before we went to bed. \st Child. Yes, Uncle, did you know ? A large bright star, And at her side she had some little ones — Some young ones. M. Young ones! no, my little maid, Those stars are very old. 1st Child. What ! all of them ? M. Yes. \st Child. Older than our father ? M. Older, far. 2nd Child. They must be tired of shining there so long. Perhaps they wish they might come down. y. Perhaps ! Dear children, talk of what you uaderstand. Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up That last night's wind has loosened. 1st Child. May we help? Aunt, may we help to nail them ? y. We shall see. Go, find and bring the hammer and some shreds. \Steps outside the windo7V, lifts a branch, and sings. ] Should I change my allegiance for rancor If fortune changes her side ? Or Should I, like a vessel at anchor, Turn with the turn of the tide ? Lift ! O lift, thou lowering sky ; An thou wilt, thy gloom forego ! An thou wilt not, he and I Need not part for drifts of snow. M. [ivithin.'] Lift ! no, thou lowering sky, thou wilt not lift — Thy motto readeth, " Never," 44 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. I Children. Here they nre I Here are the nails I and may we help ? J. You shall, If I should want help. \st Child. Will you want it, then ? Please want it — we like nailing. 2ud Child. Yes, we do. y. It seems I ought to want it ; hold the bough, And each may nail in turn. \Sings.\ Like a daisy I was, near him growing : Must 1 move because favors flag, And be like a brown wall-t1owcr blowing Far out of reach in a crag? Lift ! O lift, thou lowering sky ; An thou canst thy blue regain ! An thou canst not, he and 1 Need not part for drops of rain. \st Child. Now, have we nailed enough ? y. \t rains the cncpeys.'\ Yes, you may go ; But ilo not play too near the churchyard path. M. {ivithin.] Even misfortune does not strike so near As my dependence. O, in youth and strength To sit a timid coward in the dark. And feel before 1 set a cautious step ! It is so very dark, so far move dark Than any night that day comes after — night In which there would be stars, or else at least The silvered portion of a sombre cloud Through which the moon is plunging. y. [tnlififij^.] Merton ! M. Yes. y. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear ? JIf. No ; e'en my solitude is not mine now, And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. Alas ! far more than eyesight have I lost ; For manly cuurage driflelh after it — E'en as a splintered spar would chifl away From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I com- plain — Like a weak ailing woman I complain. y. For the first time. M. I cannot bear the dark. y. My brother ! you do bear it — bear it well — Have bor\ie it twelve long months, and not complained. Comfort your heart with music : all the air Is warm with sunbeams Avhere the organ stands. You like to feel them on you. . Come and play. M. My fate, my fate is lonely ! y. So it is— I know it is. A/. And pity breaks my heart. y. Does it, dear Merton ? Af. Yes, I say it does. What ! do you think I am so dull of ear That I can mark no changes in the tones That reach me ? Once I liked not girlish pride And that coy quiet, chary of reply, That held me distant : now the sweetest lip» Open to entertain me — fairest hands Are proffered me to guide. y. That is not well ? M. No ; give me coldness, pride, or still disdain. Gentle withdrawal. (Jive me anything Hut this — a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, Whereof I may expect, I may exact. Considerate care, and have it — gentle sjieech. And have it. Give me anything but this ! For they who give it, give it in the faith That I will not misdeem them, and forget My doom so far as to perceive thereby Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain ; They wound me — O they cut me to the heart I When have 1 said to any one of them, " I am a blind and desolate man ;— come here, I pray you— be as eyes to me?" When said, Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands That clasp a life-long captive's through the grate. And who will ever lend her delicate aid To guide me, dark incumbrance that I am !-=- When have I said to her, "Comforting voice, Belonging to a face unknown, I pray He my wife's voice ? " y. Never, my brother — no, You never have ! M. What could she think of me If 1 forgot myself so far? or what Could she reply ? y. You ask not as men ask Who care for an opinion, else perhaps, Although I am not sure — although, jierhaps, I have no right to give one — I should say She would reply, " I will ! " Afterthought. Man dwells apart, though not alone, He walks among his jieers unread ; The best of thoughts which he hath known, For lack of listeners are not said. Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles. He saith, " They dwell not lone like men, Forgetful that their sunilecked smiles FLash far beyond each other's ken." He looks on God's eternal suns That sprinkle the celestial blue, And saith, " Ah ! happy shining ones, I would that men were grouped like you 1 " Yet this is sure : the loveliest star That clustered with its peers we see, Only because from us so far Doth near its fellows seem to be. iJL [etest lips well ? lie, or still \^ ease, |c speech, (!iis! f.iith forget loiiyht too Itlie heart 1 bonic here, |iien said, ^'cet liancls lough the lid jl am !-=- ■iig voice, [lier — no, Ink of mo » |ihaps, say \>\\n. men. low ! " SONOS OF SEVEN. > 45 SONGS OF SEVEN SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION HERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover. There's no rain left in heaven : I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; My liirthday les.sons are done ; The lambs play always, they know no better ; They are only one times one. moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low ; You were bright ! idi bright I but your light is failing — You are nothing now but a bow. You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face ? 1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold ! O brave marsh niarybuds, rich and yellow. Give me your money to hold ! O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! cuckoopint, toll me the ]nirple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell ! And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away ; 1 am old I you may trust me, linnet, linnet — I am seven times one to-day. SEVKN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes. How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And hells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily. While a boy listened alone ; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells 1 I forgive you ; your good days are over. And mine, they are yet to be ; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover ; You leave the story to me. The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow ; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: O, children take long to grow. I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late ; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster. For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall dis- cover, While dear hands are laid on my head ; " The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said." I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree ; The bells cannot rmg it, but long years, O bring it ! Such as I wish it to be. SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. I leaned out of window, I smelt the whir.e clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; " Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightin- gale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near. For my love he is late ! "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, t L 46 SONGS OF SEVEN. The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters grow. Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. "You night moths that hover where honey ' rims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; You glc worms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep — "Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night. " By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover. Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright. SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. Heigh ho ! daisies and but'iercups. Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses. And dance with tht cuckoo-buds slender and small ! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all. Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups ! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; Sing them a song of the pretty hetlge-sparrow. That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ; Sing, " 1 leart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow " — Sing once, and sing it again. Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, ' Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow ; A ship sails afar over warm ocean watc^, And liaply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now I Heigh ',0 ! daisies and buttercups. Fair yellow daffodils, stately ami tall — A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall I Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over all ! SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake ; " Let me bleed ! O let me alone, Since I must not break ! " For children wake, though fathers sleep With a stone at foot and at head : sleepless God, for ever keep, ' Keep both living and dead ! 1 lift mine eyes, and what to see, But a world happy and fair! I have not wished it to moum with me — Comfort is not there. O what anear but golden brooms, And a waste of reedy rills ! what afar but the fine glooms On the rare blue hills ! 1 shall not die, but live for lore — How bitter it is to part ! to meet thee, my love, once more ! O my heart, my heart I No more to hear, no more to see ! that an echo might wake And waft one note of thy psalm to me Ere my heart-strings break ! 1 should know it how faint soe'er, And with angel voices blent ; O once to feel thy spirit anear ; 1 could be content ! Or once between the gates of gold, While an entering angel trod. But once — thee sitting to behold On the hills of God ! SEVEN TIMES SIX, GIVING IN MARRIAGE. To bear, to nurse, to rear. To watch, and then to lose : To see my bright ones disappear. Drawn up like morning dews — To bear, to nurse, to rear. To watch, and then to lose ; This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose. To hear, to heed, to wed. And with thy lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart. To hear, to heed, to wed. This while thou idst I smiled. J srrow and Ipassing its SONGS OF SEVEN. 47 lOOD. Ln lep llAGE. For now it was not God who said, •'Mother, give ME thy child." O fond, O fool, and blind, To God I gave with tears ; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears — fond, O fool, and blind, God guards in happier spheres ; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years. To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views ; Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in nought accuse ; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love — and then to lose. SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME, T. A song of a boat : — There was once a boat on a billow ; Lightly she rocked to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow. And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow. n. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Wei/, curtseying over the billow, I markt d her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam. And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; And n.y thoughts all day were about the boat And my dreims upon the pillow. III- 1 pray you hear my song of a boat. For it is but short : — My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea. And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore. For he came not back to me — Ah me ! IV. A song of a nest : — There was once a nest in a hollow : Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed. Soft and warm, and full to the brim — Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, With buttercup buds to follow. I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long : — You shall never light, in a summer quest The bushes among — Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter. That wind-like did come and go. VI. I had a nestful once of my own, Ah h^ppy, happy I ! Right dearly I loved them : but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly — O, one after one they flew away Far up to the heavenly blue. To the better country, the upper day, And — I wish I was going too. * ..^ VII, I pray you, what is the nest to me, My empty nest ? And Avhat is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west ? Can I call that home where I anchor yet. Though my good man has sailed ? Can I call that home where my nest was set. Now all its hope hath failed ? Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be : There is the home where my thoughts are sent. The only home for me — Ah me ! 48 A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. E reached the place by night, And heard the waves break- ing ; They came to meet us with candles alight To show the path we were taking. A myrtle trained on the gate, was '.vh'te With tufted flowers down shaking. With head beneath her wing. The little wren was sleeping — So near, I had found it an easy thing To steal her for my keeping From the myrtle bough that with easy swing Across the path was sweeping. Down rocky steps rough-hewed, Where cup-mosses flowered, And under the trees, all twisted and rude, Wherewith the dell was dowered. They led us, where deep in its solitude Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered. The thatch was all bespread With climbing passion flowers ; " They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed That day in genial showers. " Was never a sweetc- nest," we said, "Than this little nest of ours." We laid us down to sleep : But as for me — waking, I marked the plunge of the muffled deep On iis sandy reaches breaking ; For heart -joyance doth sometimes keep From slumber, like heart-aching. And I was glad that night. With no reason ready. To give my own heart for its deep delight, That flowed like some tidal eddy. Or shone like a star that was rising bright With comforting radiance steady. But on a sudden— hark ! Music struck asunder Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in the dark. So sweet was the unseen wonder ; So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mark, The trouble that joy kept under. I rose — the moon outshone : I saw the sea heaving, And a little vessel sailing alone, The small crisp wavelet cleaving ; 'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown — Was the track of sweetness leaving. We know they music made In heaven, ere man's creation ; But when God threw it down to us that strayed, It dropt with larr.entation. And ever since doth its sweetness shade With sighs for its first station. Its joy suggests regret — Its most for more is yearning ; And it brings to the soul that its voice hath met No rest that cadence learning. But a conscious part in the sighs that fret , Its nature for returning. Eve, sweet Eve ! methought When sometimes comfort winning; As she watched the first children's tender sport. Sole joy bom since her sinning, If a bird anear them sang, it brought The pang as at beginning. While swam the unshed tear. Her prattlers little heeding, Would murmur, "This bird, with its carol clear, When the red clay was kneaden, . And God made Adam our father dear, Sang to him thus in Eden." The moon went in — the sky And earth and sea hiding, 1 laid me down, with the yearning sigh Of that strain in my heart abiding ; I slept, and the barque that had .sailed so nigh In my dream was ever gliding. I slept, but waked amazed With sudden noise frighted, And voices without, and a flash that dazed My eyes from candles lighted. " Ah ! surely," methought, " by these shouts upraised. Some travellers are benighted." A voice was at my side — ' ' Waken, madam, waken ! The long prayed-for ship at her anchordoth ride. Let tht child from its rest be taken. For the captain doth weary both for babe and for bride — Waken, madam, waken ! A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 49 ■nown- Ltrayed, " The home you left but late, He speeds to it light-hearted ; By the wires he sent this news, and straight To you with it they started. " O joy for a yearning heart too great, O union for the parted ! We rose up in the night, The morning star was shining ; "We carried the child in its sluaiber light Out by the myrtles twining ; Orion over the sea hung bright, And glorious in declining. Mother, to meet her son, Smiled first, then wept the rather ; And wife, to bind up those links undone, And cherished words to gather, And to show the face of her little one, That had never seen its father. That cottage in a chine. We were not to behold it ; But there may the purest of sunbeams shine, May freshest flowers enfold it. For sake of the news which our hearts must twine With the bower where we were told it ! Now oft, left lone again. Sit mother and sit daughter. And bless the good ship that sailed over the main. And the favoring winds that brought her ; While still some new beauty they fable and feign For the cottage by the water. lath met ■ sport. ll clear, |o nigh led Ishouts I ride, ic and ' so PERSEPHONE. PERSEPHONE. Written for The Portfoiio Society, January, 1862. Subject given — ^^ Light and Shade." HE stepped upon Sicilian grass, Demeter's daughter fresh and fair, A child of light, a radiant lass. And gamesome as the morning air. The daffodils were fair to see. They nodded lightly on the lea, Persephone — Persephone ! Lo ! one she marked of rarer growth Than orchis or anemone ; For it the maiden left them both. And parted from her company. Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still. And stooped to gather by the rill The daffodil, the daffodil. "What ailed the meadow that it shook ? What ailed the air of Sicily ? She wondered by the brattling brook, And trembled with the trembling lea. " The coal-black horses rise — they rise : O mother, mother ! " low she cries — Persephone — Persephone ! " O light, light, light ! " she cries, "farewell ; The coal-black horses wait for me. O shade of shades, where I must dwell, ' Demeter, mother, far from thee ! Ah, fated doom that I fulfil ! Ah, fateful flower beside the rill ! The daffodil, the daffodil ! " What ails her that she comes not home ? Demeter seeks her far and wide. And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam From many a mom till eventide. " My life, immortal though it be, Is nought," she cries, " for want of thee, Persephone, Persephone ! "■Meadows of Enna, let the rain No longer drop to feed your rills, Nor dew refresh the fields again. With all their nodding daffodils ! Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea. Where thou, dear heart, were reft from me — Persephone — Persephone ! " She reigns upon her dusky throne, 'Mid shades of heroes dread to see ; Among the dead she breathes alone, Persephone — Persephone ! Or seated on the Elysian hill She dreams of earthly daylight still, And murmurs of the daffodil. A voice in Hades soundeth clear. The shadows mourn and flit below ; It cries — "Thou Lord of Hades, hear. And let Demeter's daughter go. The lender corn upon the lea Droops in her goddess gloom when she Cries for her lost Persephone. " From land to land she raging flies, The green fruit falleth in her wake. And harvest fields beneath her eyes To earth the grain unripened shake. Arise, and set the maiden free ; Why should the world such sorrow dree By reason of Persephone? " He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds : " Love, eat with me this parting day ; Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds — Demeter's daughter, wouldst away? " The gates of Hades set her free ; " She will return full soon," saith he — " My wife, my wife Persephone." Low laughs the dark king on his throne— " I gave her of pomegranate seeds." Demeter's daughter stands alone Upon the fair Eleusian meads. Her mother meets her. " Hail ! " saith she ; " And doth our daylight dazzle thee, My love, my child Persephone ? "What moved thee, davighter, to forsake Thy fellow-maids that fatal mom. And give thy dark lord power to take Thee living to his realm forlom ? " Her lips reply without her will. As one addressed who slumbereth still— " The daffodil, the daffodil ! " PERSEPHONE. s» me — Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, And sunny wafts that round her stir, Her cheek upon her mother's breast — Demeter's iiisses comfort her. Calm Qreen of Hades, art thou she Wliu stepped so lightly on the lea — Persephone, Persephone ? When in her destined course, the moon Meets the deep shadow of this world, Antl laboring on doth seem to swoon Through awful wastes of dimness whirled — Emerged at length, no trace hath she Of that dark hour of destiny, Still silvery sweet — Persephone. The greater world may near the less. And draw it through her weltering shade, But not one biding trace impress Of all the darkness that she made ; The greater soul that draweth thee Hath left his shadow plain to see On thy fair face, Persephone ! Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well The wife should love her destiny : They part, and yet, as legends tell, She mourns her lost Persephone ; While chant the maids of Enna still — "O fateful flower beside the rill — The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 4^- khe ; I Sa A SEA SONO. A SEA SONG. LD Albion sat on a crag of late, And sung out — "Ahoy! ahoy! Long life to the captain, good luck to the mate, And this to my sailor boy ! Come over, come home. Through the salt sea foam, My sailor, my sailor boy ! *• Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, A crown for my sailor's head. And all for the worth of a widowed queen. And the love of the noble dead, And the fear and fame Of the island's name Where my boy was born and bred. " Content thee, content thee, let it alone, Thou marked for a choice so rare ; Though treaties be treaties, never a throne Was proffered for cause as fair. Yet come to me home. Through the salt sea foam, For the Greek must ask elsewhere. "'Tis pity, my sailor, but who can tell? Many lands they look to me ; One of these might be wanting a Prince as well. But that's as hereafter may be. " She raised her white head And laughed ; and she said " That's as hereafter may be." 1^ :1 ' BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 33 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. rell. T WPS a village built in a green rent, ' Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay, A reef of level rock runs out to sea, And you may lie on it and look sheer down, Just where the ' ' Grace of Sunder- land" was lost, And see the elastic banners of the dulse Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot Over and under it, like silver boats Turning at will and plying under water. There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, My brother and I, and half the village lads, For an old fisherman had called to us With •• Sirs, the syle be come." •* And what are they ?" My brother said. " Good lack !" the old man cried. And shook his head ; "to think you gentlefolk Should ask what syle be ! Look you ; I can't say What syle be called in your fine dictionaries, Nor what name God Almighty calls them by When their food's ready and He sends them south ; But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle, And when they're grown, why then we call them herring. I tell you, Sir, the water is as full Of them as pastures be of blades of grass ; You'll draw a score out in a landing net. And none of them be longer than a pin. "Syle ! ay, indeed, we should be badly off, I reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls," He grumbled on in his quaint piety, " And all his other birds, if He should say I will not drive my syle into the south ; The fisher folk may do without my syle, And do without the shoals of fish it draws To follow and feed on it." This said, we made Ourpeace with him by means of twosmall coins, And down we ran and lay upon the reef, And saw the swimming infants, emerald green, In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb Bringing them iii ; while sleek, and not intent On chase, but taking that which came to hand. The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam Between ; and settling on the polished sea, A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly In social rings, and twittered while they fed. The village dogs and ours, elate and brave, Lay looking over, barking at the fish ; Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait, And when they heaved and floundered on the rock. In beauteous misery, a sudden pat Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away, At distance eye them with sagacious doubt, And shrink half frighted fromtheslippery things. And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow Rose high enough to drive us from the reef ; The fisher lads went home across the sand j We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, Talking and looking down. It was not talk Of much significance, except for this — That we had more in common than of old. For both were tired, I with overwork, He with inaction ; I was glad at.heart To rest, and he was glad to have an ear That he could grumble to, and half in jest Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, And the misfortune of a good estate — Misfortune that was sure to pull him down. Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man : Indeed he felt himself deteriorate Already. Thereupon he sent down showers Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily Into the seething wave. And as for me, I railed at him and at ingratitude, While rifling of the basket he had slung Across his shoulders ; then with right good will We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, Like l.iborers, ov like eager workhouse folk At Yuletide dinner ; or, to say the whole At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth, Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine — This, man that never felt an ache or pain In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew The trouble of an unforgiven grudge. The sting of a regretted meanness, nor The desperate struggle of the unendowed For place and for possession — he began To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought ; Sending it out with cogitative pause, As if the scene where he had shaped it first Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind Whether his dignity it well beseemed To sing of pretty maiden : 54 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. Goldilocks sat on the grass, Tying up of posies rare ; Hardly could a sunbeam pass Through the cloud that was her hair. Purple orchis lasteth long, Primroi^e flowers arc pale and clear ; O the maiden sang a song It would do you good to hear ! Sad before her leaned the boy, " Goldilocks that I love well, Happy creature fair and coy, Think o' me. Sweet Amabel." Goldilocks she shook apart. Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes ; Like a blossom on her heart Opened out her first surprise. As a gloriole sign o' grace, Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, On the blooming, childlike face, Dimple, dimple, come and go. Give her time ; on grass and sky Let her gaze if she be fain : As they looked ere he drew nigh. They will never look again. Ah ! the playtime she has known, While her goldilocks grew long. Is it like a nestling flown. Childhood over like a song ? Yes, the boy may clear his brow. Though she thinks to say him nay, When she sighs, " I cannot now — Come again some other day. " " Hold ! there," he cried, half angry with him- self ; " That ending goes amiss :" then turned again To the old argument that we had held — " Now look you !" said my brother, " you may talk Till, weary of the talk, I answer ' Ay, There's reason in your words ;' and you may ialk Till I go on to say, ' This should be so ;' And you may talk till I shall further own ' It IS so ; yes, I am a lucky dog !' Yet not the less shall I next morning wake, And with a natural and fervent sigh. Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim ' What an unlucky dog I am !' " And here He broke into a laugh. " But as for you — You ! on all hands you have the best of me ; Men have not robbed YOU of your birthright — work. Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field, Nor wedded heiresses against their will. Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor over- reached. That you might drone a useless life away 'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms And half a dozen bogs. " " O rare !" I cried ; " His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent : Now we behold how far bad actions reach I Because five hundred years ago a Knight Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard ; Because three hundred years ago a squire — Against her will, and for her fair estate — Married a very ugly, red-haired maid, The blest inheritor of all their pelf, While in the full enjoyment of the same, Sighs on his own confession every day. He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, Nor eats of beef but thinking on that wrong ; Then, yet the more to be revenged on them. And shame tlieir ancient pride, if they should know. Works hard as any horse for his degree. And takes to writing verses." "Ay," he .said, Half laughing at himself. " Yet you and I, But for those tresses which enrich us yet With sonif'what of the hue that partial fame Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs. But when it flames round brows of younger sons, Just red — mere red ; why, but for this, I say, And but for selfish getting of the land. And beggarly entailing it, we two. To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read. We might have been two horny-handed boors — Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors — Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, Or soiling our dull souls and consciences With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. "What, chorus ! are you dumb? you should have cried, * So good comes out of evil ; ' " and with that, As if all pauses it was natural To seize for songs, his voice broke out again : Coo, dove, to thy married mate — She has two warm eggs in her nest : Tell her the hours are few to wait Ere life shall dawn on their rest ; And thy young shell peck at the shells, elate With a dream of her brooding breast. Coo, dove, for she counts the hours. Her fair wings ache for flight : By day the apple has grown in the flowers, And the moon has grown by night, ' And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers. Yet they will not seek the light. Coo, dove ; but what of the sky ? And what if the storm-wind swell. And the reeling branch come down from on high To the grass where daisies dwell. And the brood beloved should with them lie Or ever they break the shell ? ♦- » f: BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 55 lin's VSi h Vlcl [id, |l. Ic I'irs, pger bed, fing luld Ills irs, pm nm em t< t Coo, dove ; and yet l)lack clouds lower, Like fate, on the far-olT sea : Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, As on wings of destiny. Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, As they broke over mine and me ? What next ? — we started lik- to girls, for lo ! The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane. Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud, •'Good lack! how sweet the gentleman does sing- So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. Why, Mike's a child to him, a two-years child — A Chrisom child." "Who's Mike?" my brother growled A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman — " Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more ; But he can sing when he takes on to sing. So loud there's not a sparrow in the sjjire But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate. As we were shoving off the mackerel boats. Said he, 'I'll wager that's the sort o' sc-g They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea."" "There, fisherman," quoth I, "he showed his wit. Your mate ; he marked the sound of savage war — Gunpowder, groans, hot shot, and bursting shells. And 'murderous messages' delivered by Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men." "Ay, ay. Sir!" quoth the fisherman. "Have done ! " My brother. And I — "The gift belongs to few Of sending farther than the words can reach Their spirit and expression;" still — "Have done ! " He cried; and then, "I rolled the rubbish out More loudly than the meaning warranted, To air my lungs — I thought not on the words. " Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, "So Mike rolls out the psalm ; you'll hear him. Sir, Please God you live till Sunday." ' ' Even so : And you, too, fishennan ; for here, they say, You are all church-goers. " " Surely, Sir," quoth he. Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head And wrinkled face ; then sitting by us said, As one that utters with a quiet mind Unchallenged truth — " 'Tis lucky for the boats,^' The boats ! 'tis lucky for the boats ! Our eyes Were drawn to him as either fain would say. What ! do they send the psahn up in the spire And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats ? But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, That all his life had been a church-goer. Familiar with celestial cadences. Informed of all he could receive, and sure Of all he understood — he sat content. And we kept silence. In his reverend face There was a simpleness we could not sound ; Much truth had passed him overhead ; some error He had trod under foot ; — God comfort him ! He could not learn of us, for we were young And he was old, and so we gave it up ; And the sun went into the west, and down Upon the water stooped an orange cloud. And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad To wear its colors; and the sullry air Went out to sea, and jiuffed the sails of ships With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass : It took moreover music, for across The heather belt and over pastuie land Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, And parted time into divisions rare. Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. " They ring for service," cjuoth the fisherman; "Our parson preaches in the church to-night." "And do the people go?" my brother asked. "Ay, Sir; they count it mean to stay away, He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, Our parson; half a head above us all." "That's a great gift and notable," said I. "Ay, Sir; and when he was a younger man He went out in the lifeboat very oft. Before the 'Grace of Sunderland' was wrecked. He's never been his own man since that hour ; For there were thirty men aboard of her, Anigh as close as you are now to me, And ne'er a one was saved. They're lying now, With two small children in a row : the church And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few Have any names. She bumped upon the reef; Our parson, my young son, and several more Were lashed together with a two inch rope. And crept along to her ; their mates ashore Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, The sea was all a boiling seething froth. And God Almighty's guns were going off. And the land trembled. "When she took the ground. She went to pieces like a lock of hay Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that. The captain reeled on deck with two small things. ^ 56 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. One in each arm — his little lad and lass. Their hair was long, and blew before his face, Or else we thought he had been saved ; he fell. But held them mat. The crew, poor luckless souls 1 The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed, Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, The dear breath beaten out of them ? not one Jumped from the wreck I'pon the reef to catch The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back With eyes wide open. But the captain lay And clung — the only man alive. They pray- ed— ' For God's sake, captain throw the children here!' 'Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; and then she struck ; And he threw one, a pretty two-years child ; But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, And down he went. They say they heard him cry. "Then he rose up and took the other one, And all our men reached out their hungry arms. And cried out, 'Throw her, throw her!* and he did: He threw her right against the parson's breast, And all at once a sea broke over them, And they that saw it from the shore have said It struck the wreck and piecemeal scattered it, Just as a woman might the lump of salt That 'twixt her hands into the kneading-oan She breaks and crumbles on her rising b ^d. "We hauled our men in: two of them were dead — The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down; Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb ; We often see him stand beside her grave : But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. "I ask your pardon, Sirs; I prate and prate, And never have I said what brought me here. Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine." "Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied; "A boat, his boat;" and off he went well pleased. We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on, And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. And up and down among the heather beds, And up and down between the sheaves, we sped. Doubling and winding ; for a long ravine Ran up into the land and cut us off. Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. And rent with many a crevice, where the wind Had laid up drifts of empty eggshells, swept From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. So as it chanced we lighted on a path That led into a nutwood ; and our talk Was louder than beseemed, if we had known, With argument and laughter ; for the path. As we sped onward, took a sudden turn Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, And close upon a porch, face to face With those within, and with the thirty graves. We heard the voice of one who preached with- in, And stopped. " Come on," my brother whis- pered me ; " It were more decent that we enter now ; Come on ! we'll hear this rare old demigod : I like strong men and large ; I like grey heads. And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be With shouting in the storm." It was not hoarse, The voice that preached to those few fishermen And women, nursing mothers with the babes Hushed on their breasts ; and yet it held them not : Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, And were apprised that, though he saw us not. The parson knew that he had lost the eyes And ears of those before him, for he made A pause — a long dead pause — and dropped his arms. And stood awaiting, till I felt the red Mount to my brow. And a soft fluttering stir Passed over all, and every mother hushed The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, But diffident of his ; then with a sigh Fronted the folk, lifted his grand grey head, And said, as one that pondered now the words He had been preaching on with new surprise, And found fresh marvel in their sound, " Be- hold 1 Behold ! " saith He, " I stand at the door and knock." Then said the parson : " What I and shall He wait. And must He wait, not only till we say, ' Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept, The children sleep, the mackerel -boats are in, And all the nets are mended ; therefore I Will slowly to the door and open it ; ' But must He also wait where still, behold ! He stands and knocks, while we do say, 'Good Lord, The gentlefolk are come to worship here, And I will up and open to Thee soon ; But first I pray a little longer wait, For I am taken up with them ; my eyes ' ^ k'l- •• ( BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 57 pwept I'DlOtS. known, |ath, grass, Jgraves, Id with- r whis- [ heads, lis may loarse, prmen t)abes them Lt us, IwaJl, I sat, as not, |es le bed his bad, I words ])rise, Be- 3r and ill He Irth is re in, h J iGood Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, And count the gains I think to make by them ; Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord I Therefore have patience with me — wait, dear Lordl Or come again ? ' What ! must He wait for THIS — For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still. Waiting for this, He, patient, railcth not ; Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, ' Behold ! I stand at the door and knock.' O patient hand 1 Knocking and waiting — knocking in the night When work is done ! I charge you, by the sea Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by The might of Him that made it — fishermen I I charge you, mothers ! by the mother's milk He drew, and by His Father, God over all Blessed for ever, that ye answer Him ! Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned ; If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. Albeit the place be bare for poverty, And comfortless for lack of plenishing. Be not abashed lor that, but open it. And take Him in that comes to sup with thee ; ' Behold I ' He saith, ' I stand at the door and knock.' " Now, hear me : there be troubles in this world That no man can escape, and there is one That lieth hard md heavy on my soul. Concerning that which is to come : — I say As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, I will not bear this one — I cannot bear This ONE — I cannot bear the weight of you — You — every one of you, body and soul ; You, with the care you suffer, and the loss That you sustain ; you, with the growing up To peril, may be with the growing old To want, unless before I stand with you At the great white throne, I may be free of all. And utter to the full what shall discharge Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait A day, for every time the black clouds rise, And the gale freshens, still I search my soul To find if there be ought that can persuade To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile From evil, that I (miserable man ! If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. ** So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, Or rolled in by the billows to the edge Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say Never, ' Old man, you told us not of this ; You left us fisher-lads that had to toil 5)ver in danger of the secret stab Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger ; winds Of breath more murderous than the cannon's ; waves Mighty to rock us to our death ; and gulfs Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in : This crime be on your head ; and as for us— What shall we do? but rather^nay, not so, I will not think it , I will leave the dead. Appealing but to life : I am afraid Of you, but not so much ii you have sinned As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. The day was, I have been afraid of pride — Hard man's hard pride ; but now I am afraid Of man's humility. I counsel you. By the great God's great humbleness, and by His pity. Be not humble over-much. See I I will show at whose unopened doors He stands and knocks, that you may never say, ' I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost ; He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.' " See here ! it is the night ! it is the night ! And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow. And the wan moon upon a casement shines — A casement crusted o er with frosty leaves. That make her ray less bright along the floor. A woman sits, with hands upon her knees. Poor tired soul ! and she has nought to do. For there is neither fire nor candle light : The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth ; The rushlight flickered down an hour ago ; Her children wail a little in their sleep For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound Was not enough, another comes to her. Over God's uadefiled snow — a song — Nay, never hang your heads — I say, a song. " And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots That drink the night out and their earnings there, And drink their manly strength and courage, down, And drink away the little children's bread. And starve her, starving by the self-same act Her tender suckling, that with piteous eyes Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop That feed the others ? Does she curse the song ? I think not, fishermen ; I have not heard Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. To-morrow she will say a bitter thing. Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show — A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse — ' My master is not worse than many men ; ' But now, ay, now, she sitteth dumb and still ; No food, no comfort, cold and poverty Bearing her down. My heart is sore for her ; How long, how long? When troubles come of God, When men are frozen out of work, when wives Are sick, when working fathers fail and die. When boats go down at sea — then nought be- hooves 58 UROTHERS, AND A SERMON. l.iko patience ; l)iit for troiiljles wioujjhl (jf men Patience is hard — I tell you it is hard. ** O thou poor soul ! it is the niRht — the niyht ; Agu'nst thy door drifts u\y the silent snow, Blocking thy threshhold : 'P'all,' thou sayest, ' fall, fall, Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot, Am not I fallen ? wake uj) and jiipe, O wind, Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my door : Merciful wind, siny me a hoarse rough song, For there is other music made to-night That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea. Heavily jilunge. Shoot on, white waterfidl. O, 1 could long like thy cold icicles Freeze, freeze, and hang ujion the frosty clift And not complain, so I might melt at last In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do ? " But woe is me ! I think there is no sun ; My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark : None care for me. The children cry for bread. And I have none, and nought can comfort me; Even if the heavens were free to such as I, It were not much, for death is long to wait, And heaven is far to go ! ' "And speak 'st thou thus, Despairing of the sun that sets to thee. And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, And of the heaven that licth far from thee ? Peace, peace, fond fool ! One draweth near tly door Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow; Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face. The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart. And bless with saintly hand. What ! is it long To wait and far to go? Thou shalt not go ; Behold, across the snow to thee He comes. Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait ? Thou shalt not wait : 'This night, this night,' He saith, * I stand at the door and knock. ' "It is enough — can such an one be here — Yea, here ? O God forgive you, fishermen ! One ? is there only one ? But do thou know, woman jiale for want, if thou art here. That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven. And, coveting the heart a hard man broke. One standeth patient, watching in the night, And waiting in the daytime. What shall be If thou wilt answer ? He will smile on thee ; One smile of His shall be enough to heal The wound of man's neglect ; and He will sigh, Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure ; And He will speak — speak in the desolate night, In the dark night : ' For me a thoniy crown Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands And feet : there was an earthquake, and I died ; 1 died, and am alive for evermore. " ' I died for thee ; for thee I am alive, Anil my humanity doth mourn for thee, For thou art mine, and all thy little ones. They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons Of Ciod are singing, and, behold, the heart Is troubled : yet the nations walk in white ; They have forgotten how to weep ; and thou Shalt also come, and I will foster Ihec And satisfy thy soul ; and thou shalt warm Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. A little while— it is a little while — A little while, and I will comfort thee, 1 go away, but I will come again.' " But hear me yet. There was a poor old man Who sat and listened to the raging sea, And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs As like to tear them down. lie lay at night ; And ' Lortl have mercy on the lads,' said he, 'That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine ? For when the gale gets up, and when the wind Flings at the window, when it beats the roof. And lulls, and stops, and rouses up again, And cuts the crest clean otT the plunging wave. And scatters it like feathers up the field. Why, then I think of my two lads : my lads That would have worked and never let me want, And never let me take the jiarish pay. No, none of mine ; my lads were drowned at sea — My two — before the most of these were born. I know liow sharp that cuts, since my poor wife Walked up and down, and still walked up and down. And I walked after, and one could not hear A word the other said, for wind and sea That ragetland beatand thundered in the night — The awfullest, the longest, lightest night That ever parents had to spend— a moon That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. Ah me ! and other men have lost their lads, And other women wiped their poor dead mouths. And got them home and dried them in the house. And seen the driftwood lie along the coast, That was a tidy boat but one d.iy back. And seen next tide the neighbors gather it To lay it on their fires. Ay, I was strong And able-bodied — loved my work ; — but now I am a useless hull : 'tis time I sunk ; I am in all men's way ; I trouble them ; I am a trouble to myself : but yet I feel for mariners of stormy nights. And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay 1 If I had learning I would pray the Lord To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no ; Book-learaing is a world too hard for me : But I make bold to say, ' O Lord, good Lord, I am a broken-down poor man, a fool To speak to Thee : but in the Book 'tis writ. HROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 59 Ive, |ec, rnc'S, jUoUl, Ihc |e the sons lieart Iwliite ; |m(1 thou Iwann )f God. old man 111 iiif^lit ; |ai(l he, nunc of I he wind |e roof, lin, ■if; wave. ]i, |y l.ids le want, fvncd at born. 3or wife I up and Ihear flight- It P K wave. fads, dead lin the St, lit now ay ! > ^ord, kit. As I hear say from ollicrs tliat can read, How, when Thou earnest, Thou didst love the sea, And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure Thou knowest all the peril they go through. And .all their trouble. As for me, good Lord, I have no boat ; I am too old, too old — My lads are drowned ; I buried my poor wife; My little lassos died so long ago That mostly 1 forget what they were like. Thou knowest, Lord ; they were such little ones I know they went to Thee, but I forget Their faces, though I missed them sore. O Lord, I was a strong man ; I have drawn good food And made good money out of Thy great sea : But yet I cried for them at nights ; and now Although I be so old, I miss my lads. And there be many folks this stormy night Heavy with fears for theirs. Merciful Lord, Comfort them ; save their honest boys, their pride. And let them hear next ebb the bicssedcst. Best sound — the boat keels grating on the sand. " ' I cannot pray with finer words : I know Nothing ; I have no learning, cannot learn — Too old, too old. They say I want for nought, I have the parish pay ; but I am dull Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. God save me— I have been a sinful man — And save the lives of them that still can work, For they are good to mc ; ay, good to 'ne. But, Lord, I am a trouble ' and 1 sit, And I am lonesome, .and the nights are few That any think to come and draw a chair. And sit in my poor place and talk awhile. Why should they come, forsooth ? Only the wind Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, The only thing God made that has a mind To enter in.' * ' Yea, thus the old man spake : These were the last words of his aged mouth — But One did knock. One came to sup with him. That humble, weak old man ; knocked at his door In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. I tell you that one knocked while it was dark, Save where their foaming passion had made white Those livid seething billows. What He said In that poor place where He did talk awhile, I cannot tell : but this I am assured, That when the neighbors came the morrow mom. What time the wind had bated, and the sun Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile He passed away in, and they said. ' He looks As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, And with that rapturous smile held out his arms "Vo come to Him.' '* Can such an one be here, So old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail ? The Lord be good to thee, thou jjoor old man ; It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut To such .as have not learning ! Nay, nay, nay, He condescends to them of low estate ; To such as are despised He cometh down, Stands at the door and knocks. "Yet bear with me. I have a message ; I have more to say. Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sm — That burden ten times heavier to be borne? What think you ? Shall the virtuous have His care Alone ? O virtuous women, think not scorn, For you may lift your taccs everywhere ; And now that it grows dusk, and 1 can see None though they front me straight, 1 fain would tell A certain thing to you. 1 say Xo you ; And if it doth concern you, as methinks It doth, then surely it concemeth all, I say that there was once — I say not here — I say that there was once a castaway. And she was weeping, weeping bitterly ; Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry That choked itself in sobs — ' O my good name ! O my good name !' And none did hear h<^r cry t N.ay ; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell. And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still She, storm-tost as the storming elements — She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, ' O my good name !' And then the thunder- cloud Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shook The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. But she — if any neighbor had come in (None did) : if any neighbors had come in They might have seen her crying on her knees, And sobbing ' Lost, lost, lost !' beating her breast — Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns, The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage Nor any patience heal — beating her brow, Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt. " O ye good women, it is hard to leave The paths of virtue, and return again. What if this sinner wept, and none of you Comforted her ? And what if she did strive To mend, and none of you believed her strife. Nor looked upon her ? Mark, I do not say. Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame That she had aught against you, though your feet Never drew near her door, But I beseech Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem A woman kneeled at consecrated feet. Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. I 60 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. What then? I think that yet our Lord is pitiful : T think I see the castaway e'en now 1 And she is not alone : the heavy rain Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls, But she is lying at the sacred feet Of One transfigured. " And her tears flow down, Down to her lips — her lips that kiss the print Of nails ; and love is like to break her heart ! Love and repentance — for it still doth work Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet. And bruise the thorn-crowned head. '* O Lord, our Lord, How great is Thy compassion ! Come, good Lord, For we will open. Come this night, good Lord ; Stand at the door and knock. " And is this all ?— Trouble, old age and simpleness and sin — This all ? It might be all some other night : But this night, if a voice said ' Give account Whom hast thou with thee ?' then must I reply, 'Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strength. Rich vfith all treasure drawn up from the crypt Where lies the learning of the ancient world — Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon The strand of life, as driftweed after storms ; Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads. And the dread purity of Alpine snows. Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed For ages from mankind — outlying worlds, And many moondd spheres — and Thy great store Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here Powders the pale leaves of Auriculas. This do I know, but. Lord, I know not more. Not more concerning them — concerning Thee, I know Thy bounty ; where Thou givest much Standing without, :' any call Thee in Thou givest morr .' Speak, then, O rich and strong : Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand Of him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear ; The patient foot its thankless quest refrain. The wounded heart for evermore withdraw." I have heard many speak, but this one man — So anxious not to go to heaven alone — This one man I remember, and his look, Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased, And out in darkness with the fisher folk We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss. And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain From the dim storehouse of sensations past The impress full of tender awe, that night, Which fell on me ! It was as if thft Chi st Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home. And any of the footsteps following us Might have been His. Foi Gr< ^^ A WEDDING SONG. orlds. Thy great vhich here ■-*i lot more. ing Thee, /est much > rich and ,nd forbear ; efrain, idraw." >e man — ! ceased, Ik of moss, ig beck, d regain past Sht, hrst track us I A WEDDING SONG. the OME up the broad river, Thames, my Dane, My Dane with the beautiful eyes! Thousands and thousands await thee full fain, And talk of the wind and the skies. Fear not from folk and from _ . country to part, O, I swear it is wisely done : For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, As becometh my father's son. Great London was shouting as I went down, bhe is worthy," I said, "of this- What shall I give who have promised a crown? U, hrst I will give her a kiss." ^Dane'^ ^" ^""^ ^""""^^^ ^^^' ""^ ^*"*' "^^ Through the waving wonderful crowd : Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, Like mighty thunders and loud. And they said '« He is young, the lad we love, 1 he heir of the Isles is young : abOT ^^^"^ °^ ^'^ mother, and one gone Can neither be said nor sung. ^txrl^^f ""? ^ pledge— he will do his part With the best of his race and name :" And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, As may suit with my mother's fame. i 62 THE FOUR BRIDGES. THE FOUR BRIDGES. LOVE this grey old church, the low, long nave, The ivied chancel and the slen- der spire ; No less its shadow on each heav- ing grave, With growing osier bound, or living briar ; I love those yew-tree tmnks, where stand arrayed So many deep-cut names of youth and maid. A simple custom this — I love it well — A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth ; How many an eve, their linked names to spell. Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth ! When work was over, and the new-cut hay Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. Ah ! many an eve, while I was yet a boy. Some village hind has beckoned me aside, And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy. To carve the letters of his rastic bride. And make them clear to read as graven stone, Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. For none could carve like me, and here they stand. Fathers and mothers of this present race ; And underscored by some less practised hand, That fain the story of its line would trace, With children's names, and number, and the day When any called to God have passed away. I look upon them, and I turn aside, As oft when curving them I did erewhile ; And there I see those wooden bridges wide That cross the marshy hollow ; there the stile In reeds imbedded, and the swelling down. And the white road toward the distant town. But those old bridges claim another look. Our brattling river tumbles through the one; The second spans a shallow, weedy brook ; Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, Like two long stilly pools, and on their breasts Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' nests. And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, And then a floating crown of lily flowers, And yet within small silver-budded weeds ; But each clear centre evermore embowers A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see The little minnows darting restlessly. My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet ; Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices ? Why in your beauty are you thus complete, You silver ships — you floating palaces ? O ! if need be, you must allure man's eye, Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? O why? O ! O ! the world is wide, you lily flowers, It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, Where every night bathe crowds of stars ; and bowers Of spiceiy hang over. Sweet air cools And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie : Why are ye not content to reign there ? Why ? That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell How it is linked with all my early joy. There was a little foot that I loved well, It danced across them when I was a boy ; * There was a careless voice that used to sing; There was a child, a sweet and happy thing. Oft through that matted wood of oak and birch She came from yonder house upon the hill ; She crossed the wooden bridges to the church. And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill ; But loved to watch the floating lilies best. Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest ; Linger and linger with her wistful eyes Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white And soft on crimson water ; for the skies Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down. To flush the spaces of their clustering crown. Till the green nishes — O, so glossy green — The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake ; And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queen So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, And hover on the flowers — atrial things, With little rainbows flickering on their wings. Ah ! my heart dear ! the polished pools lie still, Like lanes of water reddened by the west, Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill, The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast ; We scared her oft in childhoo |uickly told. My seven years' service strict as his of old. 1 must be brief: the twilight shadows grow. And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, And scented wafts of wind that come and go Have lifted dew from honied clover heads ; The seven stars shine out above the mill, The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still, Hush ! hush ! the nightingale begins to sing. And stops, as ill-contented with her note ; Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing. Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat. Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. The seven stars upon the nearest pool Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves And move like glowworms ; wafting bree-es cool Come dovm along the water, and it heaves And bubbles in the sedge ; while deep and wide The dim night settles on the country side. I know this scene by heart. O ! once before I saw the seven stars float to and fro. And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore To mark the starry picture spread below : Its silence made the tumult in my breast More audible ; its peace revealed my own un- rest. I paused, then hurried on ; my heart beat quick ; I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent. And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick ; Then darkling through the close green maples went And saw — there felt love's keenest pangs begin — An oriel window lighted from within — I saw — and felt that they were scarcely cares Which I had known before ; I drew more near. And O ! methought how sore It frets and wears The soul to part with that it holds so dear ; 'Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, And I was come to part with Eglantine. For life was bitter through those words re- pressed. And youth was burdened with unspokcft vows ; Love unrequited brooded in my breast. And shrank, at glance, from the belov&d brows : And three long months, heart-sick, my foot withdrawn, I had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn — Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less Still followed in her wake, though far behind; And I, being parted from her loveliness, Looked at the picture of her in my mind : I lived alone, I walked with soul opprest, And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest. Then I had risen to struggle with my heart, And said — "O heart! the world is fresh and fair, THE FOUR BRIDGES. 65 lurried fs her len glea. Ives, Iree-es laves wide Ifore lore un- beat Isteop lazels iples fangs (res lore rears re- \kcti. ivM toot |> or tss Ind; And I am young ; but this thy restless smart Changes to bitterness the morning air : t will, I must, these weary fetters break — I will be free, if only for her sake. " O let me trouble her no more with sighs ! Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time : Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes With the green forests of a softer clime, Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave And long monotonous rockings of the wave. "Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, Where, wading uu breast-high in yellow bloom, Untamed of man, the shy white llama feeds — There would I journey and forget my doom; Or far, O far as sunrise I would see The level prairie stretch away from me. "Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, Where fathom long the blood-red dulses grow. Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze, Lashing the tide to foam ; while calm below The muddy mandrakes throng those waters warm, And purple, gold, blossoms swarm." and green, the living So of my father I did win consent, With importunities repeated long, To make that duty which had been my bent To dig with strangers alien tombs among. And bound to them through desert leagues to pace. Or track up rivers to their starting-place. For this I had done battle and had won. But not alone to tread Arabian sands. Measure the shadows of a southern sun. Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands ; But for the dreara wlierewith I thought to cope — The grief of love unmated with love's hope. And now I would set reason in array, Methought, and fight for freedom manflilly, Till by long absence there would come a day When this my love would not be pain tome; But if I knew my roselnid fair and blest I should not pine to wear it on my breast. The days fled on : another week should fling A foreign shadow on my lengthening way ; Another week, yet nearness did not bring A braver heart that hard farewell to say. I let the last day wane, the dusk begin. Ere I had sought that window lighted from within. Sinking and sinking, O my heart ! my heart ! Will absence heal thee whom its shade dotli rend ? I reached the little gate, and soft within The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend Her loveliness to me, and let me share] The listless sweetness of those features fair. Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom. Heavy for this our parting, I did stand ; Beside her mother in the lighted room. She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand; And as she read, her sweet voice floating through The open casement seemed to mourn me an adieu. Youth ! youth ! how buoyant are thy hopes ! they turn. Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. My hopes were buried in a funeral urn. And they sprung up like plants and spread them wide ; Though I had schooled and reasoned them away. They gathered smiling near and prayed a holi- day. Ah, sweetest voice ! how pensive were its tones. And how regretful its unconscious pause ! "Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, And is our parting of to-night the cause? Ah, would it might be so ! " 1 thought, and stood Listening entranced among the undei-wood. I thought it would be something worth the pain Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, And take from them an answering look again : "When eastern palms," I thought, "about me rise. If I might carve our names upon the rind, Betrothed, I would not mourn, though leaving thee behind. " I can be patient, faithful, and most fond To unacknowledged love ; I can be true To tills sweet thraldom, this unequal bond. This yoke of mine that reaches not to you : O, iiow much more could costly parting buy — If not a pledge, one kiss, or failing that, a sigh ! I listened, and she ceased to read ; she turned Her face toward the laurels where I stood : Her mother spoke — O wonder ! hardly learned ; She said, "There is a rustling in the wood: Ah, child ! if one draw near to bid farewell. Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. ' ' My daughter, there is nothing held so dear As love, if only it be hard to win. The roses that in yonder hedge appear Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within ; But since the hand may pluck them every day. Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away. T*,i| 66 THE FOUR BRIDGES. "My daughter, my belov6d, be not you Like those same roses." O bewildering word ! My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view : It cleared ; still silence. No denial stirred The lips beloved ; but straight, as one opprest, She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's breast. This said, "My daughter, sorrow comes to all; Our life is checked with shadows manifold : But woman has this more — she may not call Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, And only born of absence and by thought. With thought and absence may return to nought. " And my beloved lifted up her face, And moved her lips as if about to speak ; She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, And the rich damask mantled in her cheek: I stood awaiting till she should deny Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by. But, closer nestling to her mother's heart. She, blushing, said no word to break my trance. For I was breathless ; and, with lips apart. Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance. And strove to move, but could not for the weight Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great. Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh Breaking away, I left her on her knees. And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky. The sultry night of August. Through the trees, Giddy with gladness, to the porch I went. And hardly found the way for joyful wonder- ment. Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit With both hands cherishing the graceful head, Smootliing the clustered hair, and parting it From the fair brow ; she, rising, only said. In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word. The careless greeting that I always heard ; And she resumed her merry, mocking smile. Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. O woman ! thou wert fashioned to beguile : So have all sages said, all poets sung. She .spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, With smiles of gratulation on her lips. And then she looked and faltered : I had grown So suddenly in life and soul a man : She moved her lips, but could not find a tone To set her mocking music to; began One strxiggle for dominion, raised her eyes, And straight withdrew them, bashful through surprise. The color over cheek and bosom flushed ; I might have heard the beating of her heart, But that mine own beat louder ; when she blushed, The hand within mine own I felt to start, But would not change my pitiless decree To strive with her for might and mastery. She looked again, as one that, half afraid, Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing ; Or one beseeching " Do not me upbraid ! " And then she trembled like the fluttering Of timid little birds, and silent stood. No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood. She turned, and to an open casement moved With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze, And I on downcast lashes unreproved Could look as long as pleased me ; while, the rays Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent. In modest silence to my words attent. How fast the giddy whirling moments flew ! The moon bad set ; I heard the midnight chime ; Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. And I could wait unmoved the parting time. It came ; for by a sudden impulse drawn, She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn. A little waxen taper in her hand. Her feet upon the dry antl dewless grass. She looked like one of the celestial band, Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass Most human blushes ; while, the soft light thrown On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grown. Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed, Then gave her hand in token of farewell, And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide. Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell The story of my life, whose every line No other burden bore than — Eglantine. Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind. The waxen taper burned full steadily ; It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind To hear what lovers say, and her decree Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound. O happiness ! thou dost not leave a trace So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, Shed like a glory on her angel face, I can remember fully, and the sight Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes. And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. i I heart, |n she ^rt, I" |g id. led baze, Ihile, pent, ! light |han me. In. ss ?ht iret I to THE FOUR BRIDGES. 67 I can remember how the taper played Over her small hands and her vesture white; How it stnick up into the trees, ami laid Upon their under leaves unwonted light ; And when she held it low, how far it spread O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. I can remember that we spoke full low, That neither doul'ted of the other's tnith ; And that with foots > ops slower and more slow, Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth : Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame, "We wander till the gate of parting came. But 1 forget the parting words she said, So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul ; For one short moment human heart and head May bear such bliss — its present is the whole: I had that present, till in whispers fell With parting gesture her subdued farewell. Farewell ! she said, in act to turn away, But stood a moment still to dry her tears, And suffered my enfolding arm to stay The time of her departure. O ye years That intervene betwixt that day and this ! You all received your hue from that keen pain and bliss. O mingled pain and bliss ! O pain to break At once from happiness so lately found, And four long years to feel for her sweet sake The incompleteness of all sight and sound. But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine — bliss to come again and make her mine ! 1 cannot — O, I cannot more recall ! But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest With musing over joumeyings wide, and all Observance of this active-humored west. And swarming cities steejied in eastern day, With swarthy tril>es in gold and striped array. I turn from these, and straight there will succeed (Shifting and changing at the restless will), Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead. White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, And scarcely show their heads above the grass. — The red Sahara in an angry glow. With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow. And women on their necks, from gazers veiled. And sun-swart guides wlio toil across the sand To groves of date-trees on the watered land. Again — the brown sails of an Aral) boat, Flap))ing by night upon a glassy sea, Whereon the moon and planets seem to float. More bright of hue than they were wont to be, While shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound. And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground. Or far into the heat among the sands The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind. Drawn by the scent of water — and the bands Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest ! What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed. Setting his feet among oil-olive trees. Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud ; And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas. Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. Enough : how vain this thinking to beguile, With recollected scenes, an aching breast ! Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while ? Ah, yes ! for every landscape comes im- pressed — Ay, written on, as by an iron pen — With the same thought I nursed about her then. Therefore let memoiy turn again to home ; Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near ; Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam. And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear ; Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound Than ever thrilled but over English ground ; And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, Not doubting this to be the first of lands ; And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet Some little village schoolgirls (with their 1,,.,- -1.. iiauu!5 Full of forget-me-nots), who greeting me, I coimt their English talk delightsome melody ; And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, That I may feast myself with hearing it. Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit— Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show Where wild wood strawberries in the copses grow. So passed the day in this delig.'.lsome land : My heart was thankful for the English tongue — For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned — For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung, I journeyed, and at glowing eventide Stopped at a nistic inn by the wayside. n 111 4 68 THE FOUR BRIDGES. ' That night I shimbered sweetly, l)eing riglit To miss tlie flaiiping of tlie shrouds ; hut lo ! A quiet dream of beings twain [ hail, lieliind tlie curtain talking soft and low : Methought 1 did not heed their utterance fine, Till one of them said softly, "Eglantine." I started up awake, 'twas silence all : My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear ; And "Ah!" methought, "how sweetly did it fall. Though but in a dream, upon the listening ear ! How sweet from other lips the name well known — That name, so many a year heard only from mine own ! I thought awhile, then slumber came to mc, And tangled all my fancy in her maze. And I was drifting on a raft at sea. The near all ocean, and the far all haze ; Through the white polished water sharks did glide, And up in heaven I saw stars to guide. " Have mercy, God !" but lo ! my raft uprose ; Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it ; My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes. It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden sjiring. It ilew straight upward like a living thing. But strange ! — I went not also in that flight, For I was entering at a cavern's mouth ; Trees grew within, and screaminj birds of night Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark. The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night. And suddenly, as I went farther in. They opened, and they shot out land)ent light ; Tlien all at once arose a railing din That frighted mc : "It is the ghosts," I said, " And they are ra'ling for their darkness fled. " I hope they M'ill not look nie in the fiice; It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud ;" I saw them troo]) before with jaunty pace, And one would shake off dust that soiled her shroud : But now, O joy unhoped ! to calm my dread, Somemoonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhcad. I climbed the lofty trees — the blanched trees — The cleft was wide enough lo let me through ; I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze. And stepped on churchyard gra.sses wet with dew. happy chance ! O fortune to admire ! 1 stood beside my own loved village spire. And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, Lo, far ofT music — music in the night ! So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk ; It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, And in my dream, methought as it drew near The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear. Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred. For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain ; The restless music fluttering like a bird Bemoaned herself, and dropjied to earth again, Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid That I should die of grief when it did fade. And it DID fade ; but while with eager ear I drank its last long echo dying away, I was aware of footsteps that drew near. And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray : soft above the hallowed place they trod — Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod ! 1 turned — ^'twas even so — yes. Eglantine ! For at the first I had divined the same ; I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine. And said " She is asleep ;" still on she came ; Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam. And thought — "I know that this is but a dream." My darling ! O my darling ! not the less My dream went on because I knew it such ; She came towards me in her loveliness — A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch ; The rippling gold did on her bosom meet. The long white robe descended to her feet. The filng6d lids drooped low, as sleep- oppressed ; Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, And her two hands were fokled to her breast. With somewhat held between them heedfully. O fast asleep ! and yet methought she knew And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through. She sighed ; my tears ran down for tentlerness — "And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep ? Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, Welting thy steps in dewy grasses deep ? if tiiis be ! '' I said— "yet speak to me ; 1 blame my very dream for cruelty." Then from her stainless bosom she did lake Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein, And with slow-moving lips a gesture make. As one that some forgotten words doth win : THE FOUR BRIDGES. 69 ^ith [ply Irtli to lal "They floated on the pool," methought she said, And water trickled from each lily's head. It dropped upon her feet — I saw it gleam Along the ripples of her yellow hair, And stood apart, for only in a dream She would have come, methought, to meet me there. She spoke again — "Ah fair I ah fresh they shine ! And there are many left, and these are mine. " I answered her with flattering accents meet — " Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown," " And sayest thou so?" she sighed in murmurs sweet ; " I have nought else to give thee now, mine own ! For it is night. Then take them, love !" said she : "They have been costly flowers to thee— and me." While thus she said I took them from her hand, And, overcome with love and nearness woke ; And overcome with ruth that she should stand Barefooted on the grass that; when she spoke. Her mystic words should take so s\^■oet a tone. And of all names her lips should choose "My own." I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, and soon Beheld the spii'e peer out above the hill : It was a sunny harvest afternoon. When by the churchyard wicket, standing still, I cast my eager eyes abroad to know If change had touched the scenes of long ago. I looked across the hollow ; sunbeams shone Upon the old house with the gable ends : " Save that the laurel-trees are taller grown, No change," methought, "to its grey wall extends. What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine ! There did I sometime talk with Eglantine." There standing with my very goal in sight. Over my haste -'id sudden quiet steal ; I thought to dally with my own delight, Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, But taste the sweetness of a short delay. And for a little moment hold the bliss at Ijay. The church was open ; it perchance might be That there to offer thanks I might essay, Or rather, as I think, that I might see The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. But so it was ; I crossed that portal wide. And felt my riot joy to calm subside. The low depending curtains, gently swayed, Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow ; But, ne'crthelcss, all silence and all shade It seemed, save only for the rippling flow Of their long foldings, when the sunset air Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer, I found her place, the ancient oaken stall. Where in her childhood I had seen her sit. Most saint-like and most tranquil there of all, P'olding her hands, as if a dreaming fit — A heavenly vision had before her strayed Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid. I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat, And took it in my hand, and felt more near In fancy to her, finding it most sweet To think how very oft, low kneeling there. In her devout thoughts she had let me share. And set my graceless name in her pure prayer. My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears — In sooth they were the last I ever shed ; For with them fell the cherislied dream of years. I looked, and on the wall above my head, Over her seat, there was a tablet placed, With one word only on the marble traced. — Ah, well ! I would not overstate that woe, For I have had some blessings, little care ; But since the falling of that heavy blow, God's earth has never seemed to me so fair ; Nor any of His creatures so divine, Nor sleep so sweet ; — the word was — Eglan- tine. I 70 A MOTHER SHOWING HER CHILD'S PORTRAIT A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. (K. M. L.) IVING CHILD or pictured chenib Ne'er o'ci matched its baby grace ; And the mother, moving nearer, Looked it calmly in the face ; Then with slight and quiet gesture, And with lips that scarcely smiled. Said — "A Portrait of my daughter When she was a child." Easy thought was hers to fatliom, Nothing hard her glance to read, For it seemed to say, ' ' No praises For this little child I need : If you see, I see far better, And I will not feign to care For a stranger's prompt assurance That the face is fair." Softly clasped and half extended. She her dimpled haii i; doth lay : So they doubtless place 1 them, saying— " Little one, you m'. ;it not play." And while yet his work was growing. This the painter's hand iiath shown. That the httle heart was making Pictures of its own. Is it warm in that green valley. Vale of childhood, where you dwell ? Is it calm in that green valley. Round whose bounies such great hills swell ? Are there giants in the valley — Giants leaving footprints yet ? Are there angels in the valley ? Tell me — I forget. Answer, answer, for the lilies. Little one, o'ertop you much. And the mealy gold within them You can scarcely reach to touch ; O how far their aspect differs. Looking up and looking down ! You look up in that green valley — Valley of renown. Are there voices in the valley. Lying near the heavenly gate ? When it opens, do the harp-strings, Touched within, reverberate ? When, like shooting-stars, the angels To your couch at nightfall go. Are their swift wings heard to rustle ? Tell me ! for you know. Yes, you know ; and you are silent, Not a word shall asking win ; Little mouth more sweet than rosebud Fast it locks the secret in. Not a glimpse upon your present You unfold to glad my view ; Ah, what secrets of your future 1 could tell to you ! Sunny present ! thus I read it. By remembrance of my \ Its to-day and its to-r v Are as lifetimes • a vas. And each face in thai g.ccn valley Takes for you an aspect mild, And each voice grows soft iu raying — "Kiss me, little child !" As a boon the kiss is granted ; Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, Takes the love without the trouble From those lips that with it meet ; Gives the love, O pure ! O tender ! Of the valley where it grows, But the baby heart receiveth MORK THAN IT BESTOWS. Comes the future to the present — "Ah !" she saith, " too blithe of mood ; Why that smile which seems to whisper — ' I am happy, God is good ?' God IS good : that tnith eternal Sown for you in happier years, I must tend it in my shadow, Water it with tears. "Ah, sweet present ! I must lead thee By a daylight more subdued ; There must teach thee low to whisper — ' I am mournful, God is good !' " Peace, thou future ! clouds are coming, Stooping from the mountain crest, But that sunshine floods the valley Let her — let her rest. Comes the future to the present — "Child," she saith, "and wilt thou rest? How long, child, before thy footsteps Fret to reach yon cloudy crest ? Ah, the valley ! — angels guard it. But the heights are brave to see ; Looking down were long contentment : Come up, child, to me." So she speaks, but do not heed her, Little maid witli wondrous eyes, Not afraid, but clear and tender, 1. A MOTHER SHOWING HER CHILD S PORTRAIT. 71 »;! Blue, and filled with prophecies ; Thou for whom life's veil unlifted Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth — Climb, but heights are cold. There are buds that fold within them. Closed and covered from our sight. Many a richly-tinted petal, Never looked on by the light : Fain to sec their shrouded faces. Sun and dew are long at strife. Till at length the sweet buds open — Such a bud is life. When the rose of thine own being Shall reveal its central fold, Thou shalt look within and marvel. Fearing what thine eyes behold ; What it shows and what it teaches Are not things wherewith to part ; Thorny rose ! that always costeth Beatings at the heart. Look in fear, for there is dimness ; Ills unshapen float anigh. Look in awe : for this same nature Once the Godhead deigned to die. Look in love, for lie iloth love it. And its tale is best of lore : Still humanity grows dearer. Being learned the more. Learn, but not the less bethink thee How that all can mingle tears ; But his joy can none discover, Save to them that are his peers ; And that they whose lips do utter Language such as bards have sung — Lo ! their speech shall be to many As an unknown tongue. Learn, that if to thee the meaning Of all other eyes be shown. Fewer eyes can ever front thee, That are skilled to read thine own ; And that if thy love's deep current Many another's far outflows Then thy heart must take for ever Less than it bestows. ^ 72 STRIFE AND PEACE. STRIFE AND PEACE. Written for The Portfolio Society, Octol)er, 1861. vw HE yellow poplar leaves came down, And like a carpet lay. No v/aflinj.;s were in the sunny air To tlulier them away ; And he stepped on l^lithe and debonair That warm October day. " The boy," saith lie, " hath got his own, But sore has been the figlit, For ere his life began the strife That ceased but yesternight ; For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read, And read it not aright. '• His cause was argued in the court Before his christening day, And counsel was heard, anti judge demurred. And bitter waxed the fray ; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way. ** Against each one did each contend, And all against the heir. I would not bend, for I knew the end — I have it for my share. And nought repent, though my first friend From henceforth I must spare. " Manor and moor and farm and wold Their greed begmdged him sore. And parchments old with passionate hold They guarded heretofore ; And they carped at signature and seal, But they may carp no more. " An old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain. And I feel the fret that urged me yet That warfare to maintain ; P'or an enemy's loss may well be set Above an infant's gain. •' An enemy's loss I go to prove ; Laugh out tliou little heir ! Laugli in his face who vowed to chase Thee from thy birthright fair ; For I come to set thee in thy place : Langh out, and do not spare." A man of strife, in wrathful mood He neared the nurse's door ; With poplar leaves the roof and eaves Were thickly scattered o'er. And yellow as they a sunbeam lay Along the cottage floor. "Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," He hears the fond nurse say ; " And if angels stand at thy right hand, As now belike they may. And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, I fear them not this day. "Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, It was all one to me, For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung Than coin6d gold and fee ; And ever the while thy waking smile It was right fair to see. " Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know V.Hio gruiigod and who transgressed ; Thee to retain I was full fain. But God, He knoweth best ! And His peace upon thy brow lies plain As the sunshine on thy breast !" The man of strife, he enters in. Looks, and his pride doth cease ; Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow Trouble, and no release ; But the babe whose life awoke the strife Hath entered into peace. STOI^Y OF DOOM AND OTHER POEMS.. i m 1. ini< ^-* ■/■."" f OEMS. m THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. SAW in a vision once, our mother- sphere The world, her fixed fon 'ioom^d oval tracing, Rolling and rolling :i and resting never, While like a phantom fell, be- hind her pacing The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear Fled as slie fled and hung to h forever. Great heaven ! methought, how strange a doom to share. Would I may never bear Inevitable darkness after me (Darkness endowed with dniwings strong. And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), rJor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep. As she feels night pursuing through the long Illimitable reaches of "the vasty deep." God save you gentlefolks. There was a man Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran Among the logs upon liis hearth, uul shed A comfortable glow, both warm and dim. On crimson curtains that encompassed him. Right stately was his chamber, soft and white The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. Wh.at mattered it to him through all thai night The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase. That drave and drave and found no settling- place? What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, Or snov might drift athwart his window- pane .'' Hi bare a charmed life against their shock, Secure from cold, hunger and weather stain; Fixed in his right, and born to good estate, From common ills set by and separate. From work and want and fear of want apart. This man (men called him Justice Wilver- more) — This man had comforted his cheerful heart With all that it desired from every shore. He had a right, — the right of gold is strong, — He stood upon his right his whole life long. Custom makes all things easy, and content Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, A range of sordid hovels stretched away. What causr had he to think on them forsooth ? What cause that night beyond another night? He was familiar even from his youth With their long ruin and their evil plight. The wintry wind would search them like a scout, The water froze within as freely as without. He think upon them ? No ! They were for- lorn, So were the coweiing inmates whom they held ; A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, Ever complaining : infancy or eld Alike. But there was rent, or long ago Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. For this they stood ; and wnat his thoughts might be This winur night, I know not ; but I know That, while the creeping tlame fed silently And cast upon his bet! a crimson glow. The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. He dreamed that over him a shadow came ; And when he looked to find the cause, behold Soil".'.' person kiitlt betv on him and the flame* A cowering figure of one frail and old, — A woman ; and she prayed as he descried. And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. ¥iV, 70 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUh« *' Good heaven ! " the Justice cried, and being distraught, He called not to her, but he looked again : She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught Upon her head ; and she did quake amain. And spread her wasted hands and poor attire To gather in the brightness of his fire. "I know you, woman!" then the Justice cried; " I know that woman well," he cricil aloud; "The shepherd Aveland's widow: (Jod me guide ! A pauper kneeling on my hearth" : and bowed, The hag, like one at heme, its warmth to share ! "How dares she to intrude? What does she here? "Ho, woman, ho !" — but yet she did not stir. Though from her lips a luful pitiining broke; " I'll ring my people up to deal with her ; I'll rouse the house," he cried ; but while he spoke He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, Another form,— a Darkness with r\ head. Then, in a rage, he shouted "Who are you?" For little in the gloom lie might -Hscern. " Speak out ; speak now ; or I will make you rue The hour !" b'l. uier>i was silence, and astern, Dark face from j.w. the dusk appeared to lean. And then again drew back, and was not seen. "God !" cried the dreaming man, right im- piously, "What have I done, that these my sleep affray !" "God !" said the Phantom, "I appeal to Thee, Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." " God !" sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, "I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, "Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here !" And lo ! it pointed in the falling light Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, " Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer ; But first to tell /^/- tale that kneeleth there." " //^ N>^^ rc» 1 86 LAURANCE. LAURANCE. E knew she did not love him ; but so long As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt At ease, and did not find his love a pain. He had much deference in his na- "5^ ture, need To honor, — it became him : he was frank, F'resh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and stiong, — Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came Before him first, he looked at her, and looked No more, but colored to his hcallhful brow. And wished himself a better man, and thought On certain things, and wished they were undone. Because her girlish innocence, the grace Of her unblemished pureness, wrought in him A longing and aspiring, and a shame To think how wicked was the world, — that world Which he must walk in, — while from her (and such As she was) it vas hidden ; there was made A clean path, and the girl moved on like one In some enchanted ring. In his young heart She reigned, with all the beauties that she had. And all the virtues that he rightly took For granted ; there he set her with her crown, And at her fiist enthronement he turned out Much that was best away, for unaware His thoughts grew noble. She was always there And knew it not, and he grew like to her, And like to what he thought her. Now he dwelt With kin that loved him well, — two fine old folk, A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame, — Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. To these one daughter had been born, one child. And as she grew to woman, "Look," they said, " She must not leave us ; let us build a wing, With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange ; There may she dwell, with her good man, and all God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth Married a cu 'ate, —handsome, poor in purse,. Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived Under her father's roof as they had planned. Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled The house with children ; four were born to tliem. Then came a sickly season ; fever spread .\mong the poor. The curate, never slack In duly, praying by the sick, or, worse. Burying tlie dead, when all the air was clogged With jioisonous mist, was stricken; long he lay Sick, almost to the death, and when his head He lifted from the pillow, there was left One only of that pretty flock : his girls. His three, were cold beneath the sod ; his boy, Their eldest born, remained. The drooping wife Bcie her great sorrow in such quiet wise. Thai first they marvelled at her, then they tried To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, Lamenting, and not sparing ; but she sighed, " Let me alone ; it will not be for long." Then did her mother treniljle, murmuring out, " Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon, O, when you see this other little face, You will, please God, be comforted." She said, " I shall not live to see it ; " but she did, — A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright When she would plead with them, " Take nie away. Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast That chills my tender babe ; she cannot thrive Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." Then all they journeyed south together, mute With past and coming sorrow, till the sun. In gardens edging the blue tideless main. Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts. And all went better for a while ; but not For long. They sitting by the orange trees Once rested, and the wife was very still : A woman with narcissus flowers heaped up Let down her basket from. her head, but paused With pitying gesture, and drew near and stoo])cd, Taking a white \\\\d face u|ion her breast. The liitle babe on its poor mother's knees. None marking it, none knowing else, had died. The fading mother could not stay behind. Her heart was broken ; but it awed tliem most To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life, Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. purse, lived Imned. |iey filled born to hid Mack clogged Ig he lay lis head Ift his boy, [ing wife fe, |icy tried ^rief, lighed, l It tng out, 1)0 soon, Ihe said, Ic bright Take me It thrive Vl." mute hun, I at their It trees up I paused ir and 1st. Jes, Id died. ll. In most Jfor life, ladly. LAURANCE. 87 After, these three, who loved each other well, Brought their one child away, and they were best Together in the wide old grange. Full oft The father with the mother talked of her, Their daughier, but the husband nevermore ; He looked for solace in his work, and gave His mind to teach his boy. And time went on. Until the grandsire prayed those other two, "Now part with him; it must be; for his good : He rules and knows it ; choose for him a school, Let him have all the advantages, and all Good training that should make a gentleman." With that they parted from their boy, and lived Longing between his holidays, and lime Sped ; he grew on till he had oighteea years. His father loved him, wislied to make of him Another parson ; but the farmer's wife Murmured at that — " No, no, they learned bad ways. They ran in debt at college ; she had heard That many rued the day they sent their boys To college" : and between ihe two broke in His grandsire, "l'"ind a sober, honest man, A scholar, for our lad should see the world While he is young, that he may marry young. He will not settle and be satisfied Till he has run al)out the world awhile. Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, And had no chance to do it. Send him off, A sober man being found to trust him with, — One with the fear of God l^efore his eyes." And he prevailed ; the careful father chose A tutor, young, the worthy matron thought, — In truth, not ten years older tlian her boy, And glad as he to range, and keen for snows. Desert, and ocean. Anil they made strange choice Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, And pushed up north in whaling shi|)s, to feel What cold was, see the blowing whale come up. And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet s\m Went round and round, crowd on ihe clear blue berg. The.\ did the Hrappers have them ; and they heanl Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men That mocked the forest wonners ; and they saw Over the open, raging uji like dooni, The dangerous dust-cloud that was full of eyes — The bisons. So were three years gone like one ; And the old cities drew them for a while, Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine; They have hiil many sons hard by their seats, But all the air is stirring with them still, The waters nuninur of them, skies at eve Are stained witi\ their rich blood, and every sound Means men. At last, the fourth year nmning out, The youth came home. And all the cheerful house Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame Was full of joy. But in the father's heart Abode a painful doubt. "It is not well; He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. I do not care that my one son shoukl sleep Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake Only to ride to cover." Not the less The grandsire pondered. "Ay, the boy must WORK Or ST'tCNi) ; and I must let him spend ; just stay Awhile with us, and then from time 'to time Have leave to be away with those fine folk With whom, these many yt^rs, at school, and now. During his sojourn in the foreign towns, He has been made familiar." Thus a month Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth. The quick elastic step, and joyous mind. Ever expectant of it knew not what, But something higlier than has e'er been born Of easy slumber and sweet competence. And as for him, the while they thought and thought, A comfortable instinct let him know How they had waitctl for him to complete And give a meaning to their lives ; and still At home, but with a sense of newness there, And frank nd fresh as in the school-boy days, He oft — invading of his father's haunts, The study where he passed the silent morn — Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy The piicfl-up books, uncut as yet ; or wake To guide with iiim by night the tube, and search, Ay, think to find new stars ; then, risen betimes. Would ride about the farm, and list the talk Of his hale grand.sire. But a day came round. When, after peering in his mother's room, Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped A door, and found the rosy grandmother Ensconced and happy in her sjiecial ]Mide, Her store-room. She was corking syrups rare. Am! fruits all sparkling in a crystal coal. Here, after choice of certain cakes well known, He, sitting on her bacon chest at ease. Sang as he watched her, till right sudrlenly, As if a new thought came, "Goody," quoth he, "What, think you, do they want to do with me? What have they planned for me that I should do?" "Do, laddie!" quoth she, faltering, half in tears ; " Are you not happy with us? not content? Why would ye go away ? There is no need 88 LAURANCE. That ye should no at all. O, bide at home. Have we not plenty ? " I did not wish to go. " 'Even so," he said ; "Nay, then," quoth she, " Be idle ; let me see your blessed face. What, is the horse your father chose for you Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, re- main ; Do as you will, so you but do it here. You shall not want for money." But his arms Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth With comical discomfiture. "What then," She sighed, " what is it, child, that you would like?" "Why," said he, "farming." And she looked at him, Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find Some fitness in the worker for the work, And she found none. A certain grace there was Of movement, and a beauty in the face, Sunbrowned and healthful beauty, that had come From his grave father ; and she thought, " Good lack, A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. He walks — why, how he walks ! if I should meet One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask. And who may that be? " So the foolish thought Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed, "We planned to make of you — a gentleman." And, with engaging sweet audacity, — She thought it nothing less, — he, looking up, With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, "And haven't you done it?" Quoth she, lovingly, " I think we h ive, laddie ; I think we have." "TL^n," quoth he, "I may do what best I like ; It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise To help me in it, and to let me farm ; I think of getting into mischief else ! " "No! do ye laddie?" quoth the dame, and laughed. " But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, "To let me have the farm he bought last year, The little one, to manage. I like land ; I want soi;.e." And she, womanlike, gave way, Convinced ; and promised, and made good her word. And that same night upon the matter spoke, In presence of the father and the son. "Roger," quoth she, "our Laurance wants to farm ; "I think he might do worse." The father sat Mute, but right glad. The grandson, breaking in, Set all his wisii and his ambition forth ; But cunnJ! 'v the old man hid his joy, And made iditions with a faint clemur. Then, pausi- , " Let your father speak, " quoth he ; " I am content if he is." At his word The parson took him ; ay, and, parson like, Put a religious meaning in the v\ ork, Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed. II. Thus all were satisfied, and, day by day, For two sweet years a happy coarse was theirs; Happy, bat yet the fortunate, the young Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife, — A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen Of sight and hearing to the delicate Beauty and music of an altered world, — Began to walk in that mysterious light Which doth reveal and yet transform ; which gives Destmy, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, Intenser meaning ; in disquieting Lifts up ; a shining light : men call it Love. Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved ; A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. She never turned from him with sweet caprice, Noi changing moved his soul to troublous hope. Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low. But excellent in youthful grace came up ; And, ere his words were ready, passing on, Had left him all a-tremble ; yet made sure Tiiat by her own true will, and fixed intent. She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit He knew she did not love him, yet so long As of a rival unaware, he dwelt All in the present, without fear, or hope. Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, And could not get his head above its wave To search the far horizon, or to mark Whereto it drifted him. So long, so long ; Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate. Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale All in the tolling out of noon. 'Twas thus : Snow-time was come ; it had been snowing hard ; Across the churchyard path he walked ; the clock LAURANCE. 89 ice wants to le father sat |n, breaking Irth; |oy. smur. ^ak," quoth Drd son like, IS son God and (day, ] was theirs; |)ung |red on his keen Iht ]m ; which |\nd life, |ii Love. ke loved ; sincere, jet caprice, troublous 2S low, up ; ling on, \e sure intent, Ire, albeit lo long |ope, eep sea of wave |s fate, lught him they iwas thus : snowing liked ; the Began .j strike, and, as he passed the porch, Hall' turning, through a sense that came to hir As of some presence in it, he beheld His love, and she had come for shelter there ; And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, The blush of happiness ; and one held up Her ungloved hand in both his own, stooped Toward it, sitting by her. O, her eyes Were full of peace and tender light : looked One moment in the ungraced lover's face While he was passing in the snow ; and he Received the story, while he raised his hat Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike. And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on ; And in a certain way he marked the snow. And walked, and came upon the open heath ; And in a certain way he maiked the cold. And walked as one that had no starting-place Might walk, but not to any certain goal. And he strode on toward a hollow part. Where from the hillside gravel had been dug. And he wa? conscious of a cry, and went. Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not ; Till a small farm-house drudge, a half-grown girl, Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay Against the bushes, crying, "God! O God, O my good God, he sends us help at last." Then, looking hard upon her • ".me, to him The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed. And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. " I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears ; "Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child. As praying him to take it ; and he did ; And gave lo her the shawl, and swathed his charge In the foklings of his plaid; and when it thrust Its small round face against his breast, and felt With small red h\inds for warmth, unbearable Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart. For the poor upland dwellers had been out Since morning dawn, at early milking time, Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now. Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold. Hardly prevail«l his arm to drag her on. That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child Had triotherly cared to shield. So toiling through The great white storm coming, and coming yet, And coming till the world confounded sat With all her fair familiar features gone, The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl. He led or bore them, and the little one Peered from her shelter, pleased ; but oft woul ' mourn The elder, " They will beat me : O my can, 1 left my can of milk upon the moor." And he compared her trouble with his own. And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen ; It filled her to the putting down of pain And hunger, — what could his do more ? He brought The children to their home, and suddenly Regained himself, and, wondering at himself, Tliat he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, The weary wailing of the girl, he paid Money to buy her pardon ; heard them say, ' ' Peace, we ha^'e feared for you ; forget the milk. It is no matter ! " and went forth again And waded in the snow, and quietly Considered in his patience what to do With all the dull remainder of his days. With dusk he was at liome, and felt it good To hear his kindred talking, for it broke A mocking endless echo in his soul, "It is no matter ! " and lie could not choose But mutter though the weariness o'ercame His spirit, " Peace, it is no matter ; peace, It is no matter ! " For he felt that all Was as it had been, and his father's heart Was easy, knowing not how that same day Hope with her tender colors and delight (He should not care to have him know) were dead ; Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, It was no matter. And he heard them talk Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, And profitatile markets. All for him Tiieir p'ans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam About his head, whenever there was pause ; " It is no matter ! " And his greater self Arose in him and fought. " It matters much. It matters all to these, that .lot to-day Nor ever they should know it. I will hide The wound ; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. What ! shall 1 make these three to drink of rue. Because my cup is bitter ? " And he thrust Himself in thought away, and made his ears Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem Another, to make answer, when they spoke, As there had been no snow-storm, and no porch. And no despair. So this went on awhile Until the snow had melted from the wold, And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane. Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. ff 90 LAURANCE. Then, even to trembling he was moved ; his speech Faltered ; but when the common kindly words Of greeting were all saiJ, and she passed on, He could not bear her sweetness and his pain. "Muriel ! " he cried ; and when she heard her name. She turned, "You know I love you," he broke out. She auswered, "Yes," and sighed, "O, pardon me, Pardon me," quoth the lover ; "let me rest In certainty, and liear it from your mouth : Is he with whom I saw you once of late To call you wife ? " "I hope so," she replied; And over all her face the rose-bloom came, As, thinking on that other, unaware Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her. Standing to answer him with lovely shame, Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, A quickened sense of his great impotence To drive away tiie doom got hold on him ; He set his teeth to force the unbearable Misery bark ; his wide-awakened eyes Flashed as with flame. And she, all overawed And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, And trembled at the deep slie could not sound, — A passionate nature in a storm, — a heart Wild witii a mortal pain, and in the grasp Of an immortal love. "Farewell," he said, Recovering words ; and, when she gave her hand, "My thanks for your good candor; for I feel That it has cost you something."' Then, the blush Yet on her face, she said : "It was your due: But keep tliis matter from your friends and kin. We would not have it known." Then, cold and ]3roud. Because there leaped from under his straight lids, And instantly was veiled a keen surprise, — "He wills it, and I therefore think it well." Thereon they parted; but from that time forth. Whether they met on festal eve, in field Or at the church, she ever bore herself Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain ; The disapproval hastily betrayed And quickly hidden hurt her. "'T'was a grace," She thought, "to tell this man the thing he asked. And he rewards me with surprise. I like No one's surjirise, and least of all bestowed Where he bestowed it." But the spring came on. Looking to wed in April, all her thoughts Grew loving ; she would fain the world had waxed More happy with her happiness, and oft Walking among the flowery woods she felt Their loveliness reach down into her heart. And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, The rapture that was satisfied with light, The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite Expansion, thri;ii^di the lovely, longed-for spring. And as for him — (Some narrow hearts there are That suffer blight when that they fed upon. As something to complete their being, fails. And they retire into their holds and pine, And long restrained grow stern. But some there are That in a sacred want and hunger rise. And I'raw the misery home and live with it. And excellent in honor wait, and will That somewhat good should yet be found in it. Else wherefore were they born?) — and as for him. He loved her, but his peace and welfare made The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange Threw do oft in- felt lieart, [growth, ^ht, honged-for there are I upon, [, fails, t)ine, TlJut some nth it, 11 l)iind in it, Ind as for |are made cheerful [e garden for him. td, wed. 1 a.s of old. went on, Spring y'mg home lown, lie ly place bnj; on lupellcd Is love, lired J near. |ig there. I.ord. ir stayed, lopped her ■et le Ise flowers, Ids But he hnisl go ; trht else to LAURANCE. 91 Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near, And would have had her take it from his hand; But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, And then remembering him and his long love, She said, " I thank you ; pray you now forget. Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes Softened ; but he was dumb, till through the trees Suddenly broke upon their quietude The woman and her child. And Muriel said, " What will you ? " She made answer quick and keen, " Your name, my lady ; 'tis your name I want. Tell me your name." Not startled, not dis- pleased. But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, As if considering in how short a while It would he changed, she lifted uji her face And gave it, and the little child drew near And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke : "Your errand with this lady?" "And your right To ask it ?" she broke out with sudden heat And passion: "What is that to you? Poor chikl ! Madam ! " And Muriel lifted up her face And looked, — they looked into each other's eyes. " That man who comes," the clear-voiced wo- man cried, — " That man with whom you think tn wed so soon, — You must not heed him. What ! the world is full Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, Better than he, — that I should say it !- far Better.-" And down her face the large tears ran. And Muriel's wiid diiated eyes looked up. Taking a terrible meaning from her words ; And Laurance stared about him, half in doubt If this were real, for all things were so blithe, And soft air tossed the little flowers about ; The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped. Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both Were quiet, gazjng in each other's eyes. He found his voice, and spoke: "This is not well. Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong ; A man that could desert and plan to wed Will not his purpose yield to God and right. Only to law. You, whom I pity so much. If you be come this day to urge a claim. You will not tell me that your claim will hold ; 'Tis only, if I read aright, the oUl, Sorrowful, hateful story." Muriel sighed With a dull patience that he marvelled at : " Be plain with me. I know not what to think. Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? Be plain with me." And all too quietly, With running down of tears, the answer came, "Ay, madam, ay ! the worse for him and me." Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear. And cried upon him with a bitter cry. Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back. With such affright and violent anger stirred. He broke from out the thicket to her side. Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, She sat ; and, stepping close, that woman came And faccil him. Then said Muriel, " O my heart, Herbert ! " — and he was dumb and ground his teeth. And lificd i;]'' his hand and looked at it. And at the woman ; but a nian was there Who whirled her from her place and thrust himself Between them ; he ^"as strong, — a stalwart man : And Herbert, thinking on it, knew his name. "What good," quoth he, "though you and I shoud strive And wrestle on this April day ? A word, And not a blow, is what these women want : Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak With passion and great anguish, flung himself Upon the seat and cried, " O lost, my love ! O Muriel, Muriel !" And the woman spoke, " Sir, 'twas an evil day you wtd with me : And you were young ; I know it, sir, right well. Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubled you, Not for myself, nor for your child. 1 know We are not equal." "Hold!" he cried' "have done ; Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. Get from me ! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed ! All's done. You hear it, Muriel ; if you can, O sweet, forgive me." Then the woman moved Slowly away ; her little singing child Went in her wake ; and Muriel dropped her hands. And sat before these two that loved her so. Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, She knew, but yet she could not hear the words ; And afterwards the man she loved stooped down And kissed her forehead once, and then with- drew To look at her, and with a gesture pray Her jiardon. And she tried to speak, but failed. And presently, and soon, O, — he was gone. She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone. Remained beside her ; and she put her hand Before her face again, and afterward H ' 9a LAURANCE. ! 'I i She heard a voice, as if, a long way o(T, Some one entreated, but she could not heed. Thereon lie drew her hand away, and raised Her passive from her seat. So then she knew That he would have her go with him, go home, — It was not far to go,— a dreary home. A crippled aunt, of l)irth and lineage high, Had, in her youth, and for a place and home, Married the stern old rector ; and the girl Dwelt with them : she was orphaned, — had no • kin Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, And spared to her the telling of this woe. He sought her kindred where they sat apart, And laid before them all the cruel thing, As he had seen it. After, he retired ; And restless, and not master of himself. He day and night haunted the rectory lanes ; And all things, even to the spreading out Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground. Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace And glory and great light on mountain heads, — All things were leagued against him, ministered By likeness or by contrast to his love. But what was that to Muriel, though her peace He would have purchased for her with all prayers, And costly passionate, despairing tears ? O, what to her that he should find it worse To bear her life's undoing than his own. She let him see her, and she made no moan. But talked full calmly of indifferent things, Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes And lovely wasted cheek, he started up With "This I cannot bear!" and shamed to feel His manhood giving way, and utterly Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain. Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, Battling and chiding with himself, liie maze. She suffered, and he could not make her well For all his loving ; he was naught to her. And now his passionate nature, set astir, Fought with the pain that could not be en- dured ; And like a wild thing, suddenly aware That it is caged, which flings and bruises all Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged Against the misery : then he made all worse With tears. But when he came to her again, Willing to talk as they had talked before. She sighed, and said, wiih that strange quiet- ness, "I know you have been crying:" and she bent Her own fair head and wept. She felt the cold— The freezing cold that deadened all her life — Give way a little ; for this passionate Sorrow, and all for her relieved her heart. And brought some natural warmth, some na- tural tears. III. And after that, though oft he sought her door, He might not see her. First they said to him, "She is not well;" and afterwards, "Her wish Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste They took her from the place, because so fast She faded. As for him, — though youth and strength Can bear the weight as of a world, at last The burden of it tells, — he heard it .said, When autumn came, "The poor .sweet thing will die : That shock was mortal." And he cared no more To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, Good, kindly women ; and he wrote to th.-m, Praying that he might see her eie she died. So in her patience she permitted him To be about her, for it eased his heart ; And as for her that was to die soon, What did it signify ? She let him weep Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke Pitying words, and then they made him go. It was enough, they said ; her time was short. And he had seen her. He mad seen, and felt The bitterness of death ; but he went home, Being satisfied in that great longing now, And able to endure what might befall. And Muriel lay, and faded with the year ; She lay at the door of death, that opened not To take her in ; for when the days once more Began a little to increase, she felt, — And it was sweet to her, she was so young, — She felt a longing for the time of flowers. And dreamed that she was walking in that wood With her two feet among the primroses. Then when the violet opened, she rose up And walked. The tender leaf and tender light Did solace her ; but she was white and wan, The shadow of that Muriel in the wood Who listened to those deadly words. And now Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder- rose In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped. Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay. And drifted not at all. The lilac spread Odorous essence round her ; and full oft. When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer. LAURANCE. 95 le Iheart, some na- her door, laid to him, Ids, "Her kse so fast [youth and lit last [said, |\veet thing cared no I, the blight journeyed |her k"n, to th -ni, |te died. irf, Iveep 1 couch, she I him go. was short, ;n, and felt |nt home, now, ill. year ; Ipened not lonce more young, — 3wers, 6ng in that loses. ]-ose up [tender light land wan, kfood And now bloom, [he guelder- [er dropped. Ire it lay, Ipread Idl oft, tulses cheer, She, faded, sat among the May-tide M'lom, And with a reverent quiet in lier soul. Took back — it was His will — her time, and sat Learning again to live. Thus as she sat Upon a day, she was aware of one Who at a distance marked lier. This again Another day, and she was ve: ed, for yet She longed for quiet ; but she heard a foot Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. "Laurance!" And all impatient of unrest And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, As if her soul upbraided him, she said, "Why have you done this thing?" He an- swered her, "I am not always master in the fight : 1 could not help it." "What!" she sighed, "notyet! O, I am sorry"; and she talked to him As one who looked to live, imploring him, — "Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long; It wearies me to think of this your love. Forget me!" He made answer, "I will try. The task will take me all my life to learn. Or, were it learned, I know not how to live ; This pain is part of life and being now, — It is myself; but yet — but I will try." Then she spoke friendly to him, — of his home. His father, and the old, brave, loving folk ; She bade him think of them. And not her words, But having seen her, satisfied his heart. He left her, and went home to live his life. And all the summer heard it said of her, "Yet, she grows stronger;" but when the autumn came Again she drooped. A bitter thing it is To lose at once the lover and the love ; For who receiveth not may yet keep life In the spirit with bestowal. But for her. This Muriel, all w^s gone. The man she loved. Not only from her present had withdrawn, But from her past, and there was no such man, There never ha