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 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
■* 
 
 wj 
 
T 
 
 I 
 
 IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER STUDIES FOR POEMS. 
 
 \S\ 
 
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.■v'-*i?-i:;^a-..,.. 
 
 '^!!^"i " 'r'i--. 
 
IN BOHEMIA 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER STUDIES FOR POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. T. STERRY HUNT 
 
 (" CANADIENNE ") 
 
 I 
 
 TORONTO: 
 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS 
 
 1900 
 
i 
 
 Entered according to Act of the 
 Parliaineut of Canada, in the yeab 
 one thousand nine Inindred, by 
 Anna R. O. Hunt, at the Depart- 
 ment of Agrlc\Ut\ire. 
 
 '^V< 
 
 [:>^%.iS 
 
TO 
 
 THE SWEET AND SACRED MEMORY OF 
 
 (Clarice), 
 
 1869-1883, 
 
 THIS BOOK IS 
 
 GRATEFULLY AND LOVINGLY 
 
 DEDICATED. 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 ) 
 I 
 
i 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Prelude jj^ 
 
 In Bohemia : a Dramatic Sketch of the Present Day - - 13 
 
 3n prlmavcra. 
 
 A Christmas Song ei 
 
 Lines to a Water-Lily {Illus.) 53 
 
 We Are Three ce 
 
 Quatrain ™ -- 
 
 A Sunset Dream (Ancona, Northern Italy) .... 58 
 
 Spring 60 
 
 Lines on the Visit of Prince Jerome Napoleon to Canada, 
 
 August, 1861 Q2 
 
 The Song of the Jacobite Exile ge 
 
 To an English Violet in Foreign Liinds • - . (Illus.) 67 
 
 " Implora Pace " (Illus.) 71 
 
 A Summer's Day in Old Montreal .... (Illus.) 73 
 
 A First View of Quebec ye 
 
 Lines on the Death of the Right Klon. Sir George Comewall 
 
 Lewis, Bart., Secretary of War 78 
 
 Two Springs 80 
 
 April 82 
 
 "flcl mc330 Del cammin' e>i no0tta vita." 
 
 A Reminiscence of the Maine Coast lin Other Days (Hlui.) 87 
 
 Church of Notre Dame de Bonsecours • . . (Illus.) 89 
 
 Montreal in Autumn qi 
 
 An Oriental Salutation g^ 
 
 Lines to Frances o^ 
 
 Amine - 96 
 
 Fate and Free- Will ^ 
 
 ■ vii 
 
 wmmtM 
 

 Contents. 
 
 PagH, 
 
 In the Inn Parlor 104 
 
 The Roots of Life 106 
 
 At the End 109 
 
 Elmire's Portrait (Illus.) m 
 
 The Voyage of the "Petrel" 1 13 
 
 The Grave of Fenice (Illus.) 122 
 
 5n ^oreidn Xandd. 
 
 To My Sister of the Sacred Heart 127 
 
 Church Bells in Venice i.^o 
 
 At Fiesole, Northern Italy 130 
 
 Lines Suggested by the Two Stone Figures at the North 
 Entrance of Rouen Cathedral (Portail des Libraires), 
 
 September, 1871 132 
 
 The Prisoner of the Hunger Tower - - - (Illus.) 136 
 
 Mala Proibita, Mala in Se (Illus.) 144 
 
 pre00o dal iPine. 
 
 The Garden of Sleep I^q 
 
 In Memoriam (Primrose Day, J 885) 153 
 
 The Gipsy's Retrospect IC4 
 
 For the Dead lg- 
 
 The Fair Bridegroom ige 
 
 Laura Bridgman igg 
 
 Manasseh ---,---... jyo 
 
 A Brave Lady (Madame Alfred Dreyfus, 1894-99) - • - 172 
 
 M'ib (Illus.) 174 
 
 The Captive Knight to His Lady - - . . (j.lus.) 176 
 
 Manitoba j-- 
 
 A Question j^q 
 
 In the Shadows ig^ 
 
 In Memoriam (H. S. P.) 182 
 
 Fragments from the German of Heine jg^ 
 
 Lai jg5 
 
 Appendix igq 
 
 viii 
 
 1 1 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 The world is full of utterings ; speech 
 
 As breath is, to the soul ; 
 Each unto all, or all for each — 
 
 Their waves together roll. 
 
 And one more matters little; then 
 Behold ! its breathings pass : 
 
 Another shade, in sight of men, 
 Flits over churchyard grass. 
 
 ! 
 
3n Bobemia* 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Miss Feodore Medworth, who has seen trouble in her 
 past life. 
 
 Juliette Deane, her companion and friend, 
 
 Helen Osborne, an old schoolmate and acquaintance of 
 Feodore. 
 
 Laing Vincent, a barrister and friend of Feodore. 
 Miss Wentworth, a guest. 
 
 The scene is laid in the city of Mortville, in the Prov- 
 ince of Quebec. 
 
 Time : from five to ten years ago. 
 
 13 
 
 !■ 
 
SE«BOO«. 
 
 «ttV 
 
 NOT 
 
 BE SOLD 
 
 TBlSOLOOR^^OFtRT^i^'^ 
 
 
 ^D' 
 
 D^>^^sol^ 
 
 
 IN BOHEMIA: 
 A Dramatic Sketch of the Present Day. 
 
 " When hollow hearts shall wear a mask 
 'Twill break your own to see " — 
 
 — Balfe's "Bohemian Girl." 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Feodore and Juliette meet after an interval of 
 separation. 
 
 Jul. lEmbracing her.] Ah, what a pleasure it is to 
 meet again. 
 
 Feo. Is it not? I thought of you so often spend- 
 ing the pleasant June days with your father in his 
 country parish. I could not be so selfish as to call 
 you back sooner. 
 
 Jul. Thank you, dear. It was a pleasant little 
 vacation time, but I, too, often visited you in my 
 thoughts. How well you are looking. 
 
 '3 
 
IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 Feo. I am glad you think so. I feel well, indeed. 
 I have had a true holiday time. 
 
 Jul. That is good news. Dear old Niagara ! 
 Somehow I thought you would enjoy it. I hope 
 you had pleasant company. 
 
 Feo. {Blushing slightly^ Most pleasant — Mr. Laing 
 Vincent and his two children. 
 
 Jut [ With a half-suppressed smile.'] Ah, I see. And 
 they made themselves agreeable ? 
 
 Feo. Very much so, indeed. We were at the same 
 hotel, so naturally saw a great deal of one another. 
 The children got quite fond of me. 
 
 Jul. I don't doubt it. — [Aside.] And some one else 
 did, too, or I am much mistaken. — {Aloud.] But joking 
 apart, you do look wonderfully well — so much better 
 than when I left you. 
 
 Feo. I am not surprised. Each day I spent there 
 seemed to have its own store of brightness and in- 
 terest, and to be like some lovely fairy tale. Ah, me ! 
 how full the cup of life can be at some periods ; how 
 empty at others. 
 
 Jul. You have expressed a truth, dear, we women 
 know too well. But tell me some of your adven- 
 tures — let me play some part in your story, if only 
 as a listener. 
 
 Feo. I must tell you, then, that upon one occasion 
 Mr. Vincent saved my life. We were on Goat Island 
 — you know that lovely wild place. During our ra^m- 
 
 '4 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH, 
 
 bles I once got into a corner where I had a splendid 
 view of the Falls, but which turned out to be a little 
 too near to the terrible rush and swirl of the waters. 
 After looking at this for some little time I began to 
 feel quite giddy and might have fallen, but I suddenly 
 felt an arm thrown around me, and myself lifted to a 
 place of safety. 
 
 Jul. [ With a triumphant smile.] It was Mr. Vin- 
 cent, of course ? I was sure of it when you began 
 your story. Ah, me ! I know how you felt just as 
 though I had been there. And is that all you have 
 to tell me ? 
 
 Fm, [Opening her eyes.] Why, surely. Is not that 
 enough, that he should have saved my life by his 
 bravery and promptitude ? 
 
 Jul. Ah, yes ! that is all very well, but [in an 
 under voice] I am sure there is more behind.-M/^^^l 
 At any rate he will take a special interest in you 
 from this time for; ard. We always do when we 
 have helped anyone along the rough road of life Do 
 you remember the child I found crying in the street 
 one day, when I picked it up and took it home to its 
 parents ? Well, that child has been an object of 
 mterest to me ever since. I sometimes feel my feet 
 turnmg of their own accord towards the inodorous 
 back street where they lived, just to find how it is 
 gettmg along. Feodore [looking into her eyes], do you 
 Know, I had quite made up my mind that you would 
 
 ^5 
 
IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 P. 
 
 come back from this trip engaged to Mr. Vincent. 
 Are you sure you are not now ? 
 
 Feo. Quite sure. It would be stupid of me to 
 pretend ignorance of what you mean. I can only 
 say, Juliette, that I am not one to make a bid for 
 affection in any form. I have too much self-respect 
 — pr;de, i^ you like — for that. The world just now is 
 full of women far more attractive and brilliant than I, 
 who are satisjfied with a single life, or prefer it to the 
 terrible lottery of marriage. If a quiet destiny awaits 
 me, I think I shall accept it with calm content. 
 
 Jul. Ah, but 1 would like you i"^ have the bright- 
 est destiny in the world, dear. 
 
 Feo. [ Touched^ Thank you, dear. After all, there 
 are few sweeter things than .omen's friendship, when 
 it is genuine. But the difficulty is to get it so. 
 
 Jul. Ah, my dear, don't be sarcastic. 
 
 Feo. I am not sarcastic. It is wonderful how 
 little women rely upon each other, and what a want 
 of loyalty there is in their relations to each other. 
 Ask a commonplace man about some commonplace 
 acquaintance of his own sex and he will be careful 
 not to utter a word to his discredit ; ask a woman 
 about someone she calls a dear friend, and if there be 
 a trace of worry in her mind or pique in her temper 
 at the moment, it is best not to investigate her words 
 too closely. " Least said soonest mended." 
 
 Jul. [ With an arch smile.l Ah, my dear ! I would 
 
 i6 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 like to be a true and loyal friend to you so far as my 
 powers allow. 
 
 Feo. [ With tears in her eyes?[ Thank you, Juliette, 
 for thos2 words. They embolden me to say some- 
 thing that has been in my thoughts but which I never 
 brought to utterance before. You remember, Juliette, 
 in the days I first met and loved you, you were a 
 governess in the family of the Hon. C M 
 
 Jul. [ With a surprised look.] Well ? 
 
 Feo. There are so many sad influences in this 
 world— so many that drag one down. In those days 
 you attended a v, ry High church, and I know that 
 sometimes— for you have told me so— you went to 
 so-called confession. Juliette, beware of the black 
 cassock ; it is one of the blighting influences of the 
 world. All these months I have kept silence, but 
 now that you are engaged to that true-hearted On- 
 tario merchant who holds you as the very apple of 
 his eye, I feel I must speak. I am sure he would not 
 approve of confession. 
 
 Jul. [B/rishing furiously.] Feodore, I will be quite 
 frank with you. I have not been to that ordinance 
 for some time, and do not know that I shall ever go 
 again. 
 
 Feo. Thank God ! 
 
 Jul. And now that we have discussed my aflairs, I 
 want to say a word about your own. As long as Mr. 
 Vincent has saved your life— to say nothing about the 
 2 17 
 
 I k 
 
If 
 
 it 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ^M 
 
 ■ 
 
 attention he paid you beforehand, I think — putting 
 pride aside — the least you could do is to pay him 
 some little civil attention in the ordinary intercourse 
 of life. That is only what you owe to yourself 
 
 Feo. Ask him to tea ? 
 
 Jul. Yes ; why not ? Have a nice little company 
 of two or three to meet him. — [Asti/e.] That would 
 bring about a dMouement of some sort, or I am much 
 mistaken. 
 
 Feo. Well, I do not mind. Only just now I am 
 too tired to do anything but go upstairs and take a 
 rest. 
 
 Jul. And I must go and look after the house a 
 
 little. 
 
 \Exeunt Feodore and JULIETTE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Six days later. Juliette and Feodore in the library 
 of the latter's mansion. 
 
 Jul. And so, dear, to-morrow is the " great, th' im- 
 portant day " of our little entertainment. How I do 
 hope it will go ofif well ! 
 
 Feo. \A little heavily.'] Yes, indeed. 
 
 Jul. I have done my best, at any rate, to make it 
 a success. I have ordered plenty of flowers, which I 
 
 i8 
 
 ^ 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH, 
 
 wil' arrange myself about the dining and drawing- 
 rooms ; while the viands are all well chosen and the 
 guests equally so. Then, as a finish to the whole, 
 should the evening be fine— of which there is every 
 prospect— we might have a few colored lamps in your 
 pretty garden, and make the scene very effective in- 
 deed. The guests could walk there after tea, and it 
 would be a charming finale, and make them recall 
 the occasion with pleasure perhaps long after.— 
 [Aside.] How I trust it may be so ! 
 Feo. It all sounds charmingly. 
 Jul. I do think a "high tea" the most enjoyable 
 way, after all, of entertaining your friends. It has 
 not the heaviness and formality of a dinner, and you 
 get twice the amount of enjoyment out of it, while 
 the meal itself is often better. Also, wine is out of 
 the question, and you need only provide tea, coffee 
 and other harmless liquids, while there is more free- 
 dom regarding guests and in every other way. 
 
 Feo. You think, then, we have chosen our guests 
 well ? 
 
 Jul. I do, indeed. There is, first, Mr. Vincent, the 
 guest of the evening, the '' raison d'itre'' as they say 
 in your French country. Then there is that clever, 
 scholarly Dr. Asquith. 
 
 Feo. {More brightly:] He is for you, you know, 
 dear. I asked him with that intention. 
 
 Jul. Thank you ; but I am so anxious for every- 
 
 19 
 
v-il 
 
 IN BO, 'EMI A. 
 
 m 
 
 thing to go off well that I will not give up my time 
 to one alon' , but diffuse myself generally. Well, 
 next comes your old friend Miss Wcntworth, as good 
 and charming as a sunbeam. I feel, indeed, as if her 
 presence brought some benediction with it. Then 
 the musical Mr. Walters will make our party com- 
 plete. The numbers are just even — three ladies, 
 three gentlemen. I don't like an overplus in the 
 direction of the weaker sex, as is often the case. 
 
 Feo. {Constrainedly?^ What will you say, Juliette, 
 if I tell you that, without thinking enough about it, 
 and on the impulse of the moment, I have, I fear, 
 deranged the harmony of your plans. I am more sorry 
 than I can say. You may perhaps remember that old 
 schoolmate and friend of mine, Miss Helen Osborne, 
 of whom I have spoken to you sometimes ? Well, she 
 is making a short stay in Mortville just now, and 
 meeting her in the street the other day, I thought she 
 looked ^o lonely and depressed I wanted to show 
 her some attention, and, as I said, without thinking 
 enough about it, I asked her here. 
 
 Jul. {Pulling a longface^ For to-morrow evening ? 
 
 Feo. Yes. The words had scarcely left my lips 
 v/hen I was sorry and recollected everything ; only 
 my poor friend looked so gratified, that afterwards 
 when I would have recalled my invitation, I had not 
 the heart to do it. Please forgive me, dear. T feel as 
 if I had done something very wrong indeed, when I 
 
 20 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 t-^ 
 
 think how hard you have worked, and £re working, 
 to make this party a success. 
 
 Jul. {Resignedly ?[ Never mind that. Well, I am 
 sorry, of course ; but it cannot be helped. It was 
 just a piece of impulsive kindheartedness on your 
 part. We must make the best of it now. 
 
 Feo. Thank you. It is only one more, after all. 
 I don't see how it can make much difference in the 
 end. 
 
 Jul. That depends entirely on the sort of person 
 Miss Osborne is. Have I ever seen the lady ? 
 
 Feo. Why, yes indeed. Don't you remember that 
 lovely trip we took here, down the rapids, a year a^o 
 one bright morning? Helen was on the steamer 
 then, and I introduced her to you. 
 
 Jul. {Meditatively:^ I think I do remember Was 
 she a middle-sized, lady-like person, with cold grey 
 eyes ? ^ ^ 
 
 Feo. {Smil^ng^^ Why, yes; they were not much 
 like your soft, violet ones, my sweet Juliette ! But 
 you have to take people's faces as you find them I 
 beheve she has a kind heart of her own, and I have 
 known her a long time. 
 
 JUL All right, dear.-[^,/^,.] I fancy her face is 
 a selfish one, though.-[^/^«^.] We must not forget 
 her advent will necessitate our asking one more gen-' 
 tleman to keep the number even, and the time now 
 IS gettmg very short. 
 
 21 
 
!fi 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 \ 
 
 Feo. Oh, dear me, yes ! Would it not do to ask 
 our next-door neighbor Mrs. James' eldest son ? He 
 is a bright young man, and we have seen but little of 
 them for some time. It would be an attention, and 
 he might do as well as any one at a pinch. 
 
 Jul. Just as you think best. 
 
 Feo. Then I will write the invitation at once and 
 some one can take it without loss of time. I will go 
 to my room to do it. Good-bye. 
 
 [Exeunt Feodore and JULIETTE. 
 
 L' '• 
 
 
 t ' 
 
 i i 
 
 i« 
 
 n 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 4.30 P.M. on the following day. Feodore and Juliette 
 in a sitting-room on the ground floor. 
 
 Jul. What a lovely day it has been, though some- 
 what warm — and with the prospect of a lovely even- 
 ing to follow. We are fortunate indeed. My dear 
 \to Feodore], I see you are tired, and no wonder. I 
 want you to look your very best for our friends this 
 evening. Will you take my advice ? Go to your 
 room and rest on the sofa for a while before dressing ; 
 it will do you no end of good ; and let the dressing 
 itself be done after a leisurely fashion — it is too im- 
 portant a function nowadays to be hurried over. I 
 am going to take my own advice and lie down also. 
 
 22 
 
 I i \ 
 
 ■i J 
 
I 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 Feo. [Smtiing.] And you need it so much less 
 than I do, seeing that there are those eight or nine 
 good years to vour advantage between us. I feel 
 very old sometimes, when we are together. 
 
 Jul. You need not, then. Remember, a woman is 
 as old as she looks— it is only a man who is the age 
 of his years. You look so well and young, generally 
 speaking, that no one would guess you to be a few 
 months over thirty. I am sure Mr. Vincent must be 
 four or five years older at least. But you had better 
 let me go up with you and see you comfortably 
 established for a rest before I retire into private life. 
 
 Feo. You are a witch ! Well, dear, I will give in 
 to you. Only remember, should anything special 
 occur I want to be called at once. 
 
 [Exeunt Feodore and JULIETTE. 
 
 [They proceed upstairs, where Juliette settles her friend 
 in comfort on the sofa, well inclined for a nap, and retires. 
 Withm a quarter of an hour, however, Juliette retraces her 
 steps, and hesitatingly opens the door of her friend's 
 apartment.] 
 
 Jul. I feel so sorry, dear, to disturb you ; 1 cannot 
 bear to do it. But the old lady who goes in so much 
 for church work, and whom you have helped now and 
 again— Miss Manners, I think her name is— is here 
 and wants to see you badly. I only disturbed you 
 to know what to do. Shall I say you are engaged, 
 and ask her to call again some other day ? 
 
 23 
 
 )kmM 
 
 liM^ 
 
 MM 
 
I c=:3_- 
 
 I* 
 
 I 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Feo. Yes, please. 
 
 [Having lifted her head for a moment, Feodore now lays 
 it down again, among the pillows. Juliette, satisfied, is 
 about leaving the room, when her friend holds up a warn- 
 ing finger to check her.] 
 
 Feo. I cannot help it, Juliette ; I must see the 
 old lady after all. You know she w^as my mother's 
 friend, and I would not like to hurt her feelings. I 
 will see to it that she does not keep me more than a 
 few minutes. 
 
 Jul. I mistrust your firmness with her. You know 
 she is one of those who never know when to leave 
 ofif when once they begin talking. If the time is 
 overstepped I shall take the liberty of knocking and 
 stirring you up myself. 
 
 Feo. And welcome. But I don't think it will be 
 necessary. 
 
 [Feodore, descending the stairs, is closeted with the lady, 
 who at once plunges into business, and finds a thousand 
 points to invite discussion. Half an hour passes away, 
 when her friend's warning tap is heard at the door.] 
 
 Jul. Pardon me, my dear, but you are wanted. — 
 [ Whispering^ Is it not possible to make Miss Man- 
 ners understand that you have not a moment to 
 spare, and that she must call another day ? 
 
 [^Feodore hurriedly makes the requisite explanations, and 
 Miss Manners, with apologies, departs. Feodore, then 
 
 24 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 mounting to her room, devotes herself to the business of 
 the hour. Some time passes satisfactorily when Juliette's 
 step is heard on the stairs, and her face again seen at the 
 door.] 
 
 Jul. My dear, you have not had time to dress 
 properly, I know, yet, and I am the more sorry to 
 disturb you ; but alas ! everything seems at cross pur- 
 poses this afternoon. You did not expect any guest 
 to arrive so early as this, did you ? 
 
 Feo. Certainly not. Who has come then ? 
 Jul. Miss Helen Osborne. 
 
 Feo. I am surprised ; I thought she knew better 
 than that, only she has been stopping in country 
 towns and villages, and visiting friends in the States, 
 and of course their ways are different from ours. 
 
 Jul. That may be. I suppose you wish me to 
 entertain her till you come down ? 
 
 Feo. Surely, dear. You do that well, as you do 
 everything. It would be a great kindness. 
 
 Jul. Thank you. Well, I cannot say it will be a 
 pleasure, but I will do my best for your sake. Some- 
 how, her ways of looking at things in general are dif- 
 ferent from yours and mine. But I will leave you to 
 finish your toilette in peace. 
 
 [Exit Juliette. Twenty minutes are scarcely past, how- 
 ever, before she again presents herself, this time in a state 
 of repressed excitement.] 
 
 Jul. Mr. Vincent is coming up the street. I just 
 
 25 
 
1^ 
 
 i 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 \ 
 
 caught sight of him on the opposite side of the way. 
 He will ring the front-door bell directly. 
 
 Feo. {^Startled?^ Well, it cannot be helped. I am 
 nearly ready, you see. You will just have to enter- 
 tain them both for a little time. 
 
 Jul. I see you are getting into your dress, dear ; 
 and what a lovely one it is ! You will look charming 
 in it. I don't think I have ever seen it before. 
 
 Feo. No, it was made during your absence, by the 
 dressmaker you found for me. It is the latest style 
 of " confection " in black silk, lace and jet. 
 
 Jul. I am delighted with it. You will try not to 
 fail in your part, I see. 1 suppose I must certainly 
 introduce the two early guests to each other ? 
 
 Feo. Why, yes, of course. Say I shall be down 
 directly. 
 
 Jul. I don't like it. You know I never did quite 
 fancy her. And those fishy eyes of hers ! I am sure 
 she is one of those who, if given an inch, will take 
 an ell. Also, she will not fail to make the most of 
 the old friendship between you — or acquaintanceship 
 shall I say ? Alas, my dear, it is too dangerous to 
 give way to impulse sometimes ! 
 
 Feo. You are right, Juliette. It will be a lesson 
 to me for life. Still, I cannot see how any great harm 
 can result from her being here this one evening. 
 
 Jul. {Gloomily^ I hope not. There is the door 
 bell 1 By the way, I had nearly forgotten to give you 
 
 26 
 
 ■9 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 this. It came a little while ago, but I did not like to 
 disturb you. 
 
 [Here Juliette hands a note to her friend, who, tearing it 
 open, casts a hurried glance over the contents.] 
 
 Jul. I suppose it is from young James to say he 
 cannot come ? 
 
 Feo. Yes. He hoped to be able to do so, but 
 finds he has a previous engagement. I am sorry. 
 He would have been another gentleman to make our 
 numbers even at least, and perhaps prevent complica- 
 tions. But I must not detain you now. 
 
 \Exit Juliette. Ten minutes later Feodore, ready dressed 
 and looking her best, descends to the drawing-room, where 
 she finds a desultory conversation going on between the 
 two guests so lately thrown together. This continues until 
 the arrival of the others, when the social atmosphere clears 
 itself at once. Tea being shortly announced, goes off 
 well, with the exception of a tendency on Miss Osborne's 
 part to draw conversation in her direction, and make it 
 more or less constrained. The meal being over, the party 
 return to the drawing-room, when Juliette, stepping to a 
 window overlooking the garden, draws aside the curtain, 
 with an exclamation on the beauty of the night. All in 
 the room approach to look out, and a proposal for a stroll 
 in the grounds being made, it is acceded to at once.] 
 
 ViN. ^Approaching Feodore.] Miss Medworth, the 
 effect of the colored lamps in your garden is enchant- 
 ing. I would like to study it more closely. Will 
 you accept my escort ? 
 
 Feo. With great pleasure, sir. 
 
 27 
 
 mm 
 
 mmtm 
 
J] 
 
 tN BOHEMIA. 
 
 
 fj- 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 I ^ t 
 
 f 
 
 .^ 
 
 [He offers his arm, which she takes, and they step into 
 the hall on their way to the garden. As they do so, a 
 sudden ring is heard at the front-door bell. At the sound, 
 they retrace their steps to the drawing-room, while the 
 other guests, who, under the guidance of Juliette, are 
 looking for light wraps, etc., follow their example. The 
 door being opened, a tall figure is seen to walk into the 
 room opposite. Directly after, a maid approaches Feodore, 
 with a card on a tray.] 
 
 The Maid. The Reverend Mr. Rutland, ma'am, is 
 in the library. He has to leave by the first train 
 to-morrow morning, and would be so thankful if you 
 could see him for a few moments. He will not detain 
 you long. 
 
 Jul. [^Emphattcally.l Say you are engaged. — 
 [Aside.'] And he a Nonconformist, too — not even a 
 Churchman ! 
 
 Feo. [Plaintively.'] My dear, I cannot help it. He 
 has been the kindest of the kind to me, and helped 
 me in times of worry and trouble that I would not 
 like to live through a^ain. — [To the maid.] Say I will 
 come directly. — [ To Vincent.] I am sorry, Mr. Vin- 
 cent, for this interruption, but you see I cannot help 
 myself. I must see this clergyman. 
 
 ViN. Certainly, Miss Med worth. I will wait for 
 you here with pleasure. 
 
 Feo. [Smiling- faintly.] Oh, no, Mr. Vincent, I 
 could not think of that. You will do me a favor if 
 you will go into the garden with the others. 
 
 28 
 
ll 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 [Rising, she proceeds to the library, and the door is shut. 
 All the rest descend to the garden, with the exception of 
 Juliette, who waits for her friend. Half an hour passes 
 away before the clergyman is ushered to the door, which 
 Feodore closes behind him. She then rejoins her friend 
 in the drawing-room.] 
 
 Jul. Your ghostly counsellor kept you longer liian 
 he spoke of. 
 
 Feo. Yes, I know ; but I cannot feel sorry I saw 
 him — he is a thoroughly good man, and I rejoice to 
 have been of use to him. And, as you know, he is 
 starting on a long journey to-morrow, and I may not 
 see him for months or years — perhaps never. Our 
 conversation touched on many topics — the effects of 
 trial and suffering on different temperaments, for one. 
 He said that while sorrow crushed some natures to 
 the dust, and soured them hopelessly, others were 
 chastened and uplifted by it, and the world better for 
 their presence and experience. 
 
 Jul. {^Sarcastically:] I suppose Mr. Rutland thinks 
 there is no kind of suffering he does not know about. 
 Shall we go into the garden now, before the evening 
 is any older ? 
 
 Feo. Certainly, dear. 
 
 [Throwing a light wrap over her friend's shoulders, 
 Juliette leads the way out of the house and down the 
 steps into the garden.] 
 
 Feo. {Drawing a long breath.] Ah, the beautiful 
 
 29 
 
IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ' i 
 
 ■J 
 
 II 
 
 :L 
 
 
 soft darkness, the fresh, fragrant night air! It is a 
 dream of delight. 
 
 Jul. {^Emphatically.'] That is all very well ; but oh, 
 how different this is from the evening I worked for 
 and pictured to myself! 
 
 Feo. [ With a little gasp.] Alas, yes ! But things 
 may right themselves yet, after all. 
 
 Jul. We will see. I hope so with all my heart, 
 and would do my utmost to bring it about. But, 
 indeed, one of the worst kinds of suffering that/ know 
 of is to see things going desperately wrong and not 
 be able to move a finger to right them. 
 
 Feo. [After a pause, with forced gaiety.] Where can 
 the people have gone to, I wonder ? Coming straight 
 from a brightly lit house this garden seems very dark 
 to me. 
 
 Jul. I will tell you. But please come forward 
 a few yards to our old tree — that is a good place 
 for rest, and observation too. — [ They move forward 
 to an old acacia tree standing nearly at the point 
 where two paths intersect. Feodore leans against 
 it, as if weary.] There, you can see our good Miss 
 Wentworth sitting in the arbor against the wall, and 
 the two gentlemen with her. I was very glad things 
 arranged themselves in that fashion, for I wanted to 
 be free to look after you. Does not her light dress 
 come out beautifully in the lamplight ? It seems 
 to suit her. Now, there is a woman that it does one's 
 
 30 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 heart good to see. Would there were more like her 
 in the world ! 
 
 Feo. [ With energy.] You may say so, indeed. But 
 where are the others ? 
 
 Jul. There, in that far corner of the garden, where 
 the lamps are fewest. Do you see two shadowy forms 
 passing up and down, looking like figures in a dream ? 
 They are there, Mr. Vincent and Miss Osborne. Do 
 you know, I simply cannot call it good taste in her to 
 monopolize him as she does and cut him off from all 
 the others. 
 
 Feo. Certainly not. 
 
 Jul. And this has been going on for some time. 
 While you were closeted with your clergyman, I 
 stepped out here a moment to reconnoitre, and every- 
 thing was just as it is now. 
 
 Feo. [After a pause, looking aroimd her.] I think 
 I will walk forward and say a few words to Miss 
 Wentworth and her attendant cavaliers. Because 
 one guest, who was asked out of mistaken kindness, 
 has wounded me cruelly, is no reason why I should 
 not pay proper attention to the others, who have done 
 their duty. 
 
 [They walk to the arbor, and after exchanging greetings 
 and a few pleasant words with its occupants, return to their 
 former post of observation.] 
 
 Feo. [ With a quick breath^ How slowly the even- 
 ing draws on ! 
 
 31 
 
IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 1 
 
 Jul. It does indeed. Really, if that girl had the 
 slightest sense of honor she would give Mr. Vincent 
 up to you at once. The strength of her position is, 
 that neither of us can walk forward and ask her to do 
 so. Of course she saw everything that went on — 
 knew that you intended to walk with him, and that 
 he asked you specially, and proposed to wait in the 
 drawing-room for you. She might even have insight 
 enough to understand how the land lay altogether. 
 What may be her motive for acting as she has done 
 I cannot conceive. I paired her off at first with Dr. 
 Asquith, thinking he would be bright and scientific 
 enough even for her ; but when your clergyman ap- 
 peared, and she found the coast clear, she managed 
 to disembarrass herself of the doctor, and hovered 
 about Mr. Vincent till he offered his arm. Some 
 women can always get their own way. 
 
 Feo. [ With bitterness?^ And some not ! 
 
 Jul. It would be the greatest pleasure I could 
 have, to give her a piece of my mind. The worst of 
 people of her sort is, that when fairly brought to bay, 
 and confronted with their evil doings, they can always 
 find some snaky path of escape. Should anyone 
 demand from her the true story of this evening, she 
 might very plausibly answer that she was not aware 
 we were in the garden. Do you know, I think 
 it would be well, for both our sakes, to cut that 
 ground directly from under her feet. I therefore 
 
 32 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 propose that you and I should walk forward, as 
 nearly as we can without intrusion, to their place 
 of refuge, and enter into conversation in a raised 
 tone of voice. That would be sufficient proof of 
 our vicinity. 
 
 Feo. It is rather an undignified mode of proceed- 
 ing, but I can think of nothing better. " Necessity 
 knows no law." But oh, the minutes drag like hours 
 to-night ! 
 
 Jul. They do indeed. There is such an oppres- 
 sion in the air I have looked several times for signs 
 of thunder, but there are none. 
 
 Feo. Inward oppression blights like — [She pauses ^ 
 saying no more.] 
 
 [As they draw nearer to the delinquents, pacing up and 
 down, Juliette stoops and plucks a spray of southernwood, 
 which she holds out for her friend to inhale its fragrance.] 
 
 Jul. [In a raised voice.] There is something- so 
 bright and quaint about this garden of yours, Feo- 
 dorei I always did love it. And you have such 
 delicious old-fashioned things in it, too, such as one 
 reads of in gardens of romance. This bit of southern- 
 wood, for example ; how it reminds me of what we 
 were reading the other day, about the women in some 
 part of the country, I think New England, always 
 in olden times taking a bit of southernwood to church, 
 wrapped in a handkerchief, to help them through the 
 sermon. Do you know, in some moods I scarcely 
 3 33 
 
1 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 pluck a flower without thinking of all the men and 
 women in past days who, their hearts throbbing with 
 hope or fear, have plucked flowers like these — now 
 all dust together ! Well, I could never be one of 
 those who believe that a rose by any other name 
 would smell as sweet. 
 
 Feo. {Entering into the humor of the situation.'] 
 Nor could I. No other, certainly, would respond to 
 the lines we love so much : 
 
 " Et rose, elle a v^cu ce que vivent les roses, 
 L'espace d'un matin." 
 
 Do you know the language of flowers ? 
 
 Jul. I am sorry to say, no. In my school-girl 
 days the subject had a grea^ charm for me, and I 
 possessed a book containing the names of all the 
 flowers, with their meanings. But as I grew older so 
 many more important things pressed on me that that 
 went to the wall, and now I have forgotten nearly all 
 about it. 
 
 Feo. That is just my case, except, indeed, in re- 
 gard to such well-known flowers as forget-me-nots, 
 pansies, and other kindred ones, which tell their own 
 story. 
 
 Jul. Yes, and the sweet primrose of England, em- 
 blem of purity and truth. I will give you another 
 quotation for yours : 
 
 " Pale primroses, which die unmarried." 
 
 34 
 
 •!t 
 
\ 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 Feo. TKat is charming. Do you know the mean- 
 ing of southernwood, now ? 
 
 Jul. I am not certain, but [raising her voice] I 
 think it means deceit. That is likely, too, because it 
 belongs to the family of Wormwood, and that is gall 
 and bitterness. 
 
 Feo. [Sini/ing.] Hush ! 
 
 [They move, swiftly and silently, back to their old post 
 of observation, and a pause of a few moments ensues.] 
 
 Feo. [Bravefy.] Our little discussion on flowers 
 did me good just now, in spite of everything. But 
 what an evening it hps turned out altogether ! It 
 reminds me of a fantastic fairy tale I read in years 
 gone by, about some wild artist's country called 
 " Bohemia," where everything changed its appearance 
 continually, and nothing remained the same. There 
 are moments when I feel I shall wake up from this 
 nightmare and find the world just as it used to be — 
 Mr. Vincent the kindest of the kind, and looking in 
 whenever he had a leisure evening. Ah, me ! 
 
 Jul. Alas ! 
 
 [They remain for a time motionless, except that nervous 
 shudderings pass at intervals over Feodore's frame. Her 
 hands are very cold also, and Juliette essays to warm them, 
 but in vain.] 
 
 Feo. Juliette, I feel suddenly so weak I cannot 
 stay here longer. Will you help me a few steps on 
 
 35 
 

 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 towards the wall, where I will have something to lean 
 against, and may be able to go indoors directly ? 
 
 [Juliette at once assists her friend to the nearest, or 
 eastern, wall of the garden, and, after reclining against it a 
 few moments, Feodore declares herself better.] 
 
 Jul. Will you go in now, dear? 
 
 Feo. No, I feel the air is doing me good at last. 
 I must breathe it a little longer. 
 
 Jul. [Aside.] Then I may leave her with an' easy 
 conscience. Oh, what an overpowering anxiety I 
 feel to know something about what is going on at 
 the other end of the garden, and what that heartless 
 girl is really up to ! I think I must play eavesdropper 
 for once. I cannot bear to do it, but the circum- 
 stances are peculiar indeed, and I feel as if, for my 
 poor friend's sake even, I had a right to find out 
 something of what this mystery means. — [A/oud.] 
 Will you mind, dear, if I leave you for a few mo- 
 ments ? I shall be back directly. 
 
 Feo. [Still leaning against the wall."] No, only 
 don't be long. 
 
 [Juliette flies like a lapwing along the paths until she 
 reaches a deeply shadowed tree, much nearer to the de- 
 linquents than she and her friend were able to approach 
 before. Stepping cautiously onward and steadying herself 
 by grasping a long branch of the tree, she listens. At first 
 nothing but a confused murmur of souna reaches her ear ; 
 but gradually this clears itself, until she recognizes the dif- 
 ferent voices and is able to distinguish every word.] 
 
 36 
 
 
 I 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 i 
 
 Miss Osb. A very superior person indeed. That 
 is the universal opinion. Of course, you have seen 
 her? 
 
 ViN. I did once, and I must say I thought her a 
 hard, selfish woman of the world. 
 
 Miss Osb. [As if shocked.] Oh, surely not! Why, 
 as I said, she is a general favorite. She is so prac- 
 tical and sensible, and knows what everybody is 
 thinking and saying. Feodore's sister doted on her. 
 Of course, you would have heard all about Feodore's 
 younger sister, Mrs. Colonel Morley, now, I think, of 
 Cheltenham, England ? Perhaps you may have seen 
 her ; she has not been married long. 
 
 ViN. I may have caught a glimpse of her and for- 
 gotten it. You know I am not an old resident of 
 Mortville. 
 
 Miss Osb. Ah, well, she is a taking little creature, 
 much admired, and on the best of terms with Mrs. 
 Northcote. You may perhaps have heard that Mrs. 
 Northcote took a great interest in both the girls, and 
 saw a great deal of them after their mother's death. 
 Elsie she always got on well with, but Feodore fan- 
 cied she had literary abilities, and made everything 
 else bend to that. Instead of doing as others did — 
 going into society and enjoying life, which with her 
 fortune she could so well have done — she had masters 
 for various branches, and gave herself up to reading 
 and study like a hermit. This, of course, made her 
 
 37 
 
' 
 
 ii 
 
 i \ 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 i 
 
 - ! 
 i 
 J 
 
 ..i 
 r 
 
 I 
 
 \ 
 
 [ 
 
 ■i 
 
 •V 
 
 1- 
 
 ,i' 
 
 i 
 
 JN BOHEMIA. 
 
 dreamy and unpractical, and Mrs. Northcote tried to 
 combat that tendency in her, but only brought upon 
 herself a large amount of friction. For my own part 
 \sarcastically\ I never believed in those literary abili- 
 ties that some people troubled themselves about. I 
 thought she made herself unpractical for nothing. 
 
 ViN. {Pointedly^ Oh, how much you woi len like 
 to run each other down ! Now, my own idea would 
 be, if Miss Medworth finds so much enjoyment in 
 reading and study, why not let her be happy in her 
 own way ? It is what we all strive after. — [Aside.] 
 Only, though Feodore attracts me wonderfully, I 
 confess I would not like to give my poor children an 
 unpractical stepmother, or one who would be lacking 
 in womanly thoughtfulness towards them. It may 
 be all for the best that I found no opportunity for 
 speaking out to-night, though I would gladly have 
 made one. — [A loud.] Miss Osborne, don't you think 
 the evening is turning cooler ? The wind that just 
 met our faces was quite sharp. 
 
 Miss OSB. [Playfully.] Oh, not as bad as that ! It 
 feels so nice and cool after a hot day. Hark ! was 
 that a bird on the branch ? 
 
 [Juliette, panting with 'ndignation, now rushes to her 
 friend, whom she finds still leaning against the wall, but 
 quite inclined to go in.] 
 
 Feo. It has turned quite chilly in the last few 
 minutes. I had better not stay out longer. It would 
 
 38 
 
 I 
 
 '% 
 
 H 
 
 ui .j»... Mrr^' 
 

 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 hardly be pleasant to catch a severe cold as a climax 
 to the miseries of this tremendous day. 
 
 Jul. No, my poor dear. Oh, if I could only tell 
 you everything ! but I will not take up your time 
 now. That traitress ! well, you know I never did 
 like her. Ah, me, if I only had the power to punish 
 her as she deserves, or at the least give her such a 
 piece of my mind as she would not forget ! 
 
 Feo. {Languidly^ You cannot, so what is the use 
 of thinking about it ? 
 
 Jul. {Eagerly^ Ah, but I can, Feodore; not directly, 
 but still in a way her conscience cannot fail to under- 
 stand. You know I always meant to have a little 
 music as a finish to the entertainment that has turned 
 out such a failure. Well, we can have the miisic yet, 
 onl> it must be of a peculiarly stimulating nature. I 
 had not meant to sing myself, because you know my 
 voice has not the compass I could wish ; but now I 
 will sing, and do my best. And Mr. Walters shall 
 play the accompaniment. 
 
 Feo. What will you sing, then ? 
 
 Jul. My dear, it just occurred to me as I stood 
 here. (Let us walk up and down a moment, then 
 you will not feel chilly.) You remember that maga- 
 zine you picked up on our last trip with the article 
 on Columbus, made up of two pictures and some 
 verse?, that struck us so much ? In the first picture, 
 Columbus stands at the prow of his vessel, at mid- 
 39 
 
m' 
 
 ii' 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 II 
 
 night, hailing the lights on the shore, which mean the 
 discovery of America ; in the second, he lies on the 
 floor of a dark dungeon, chained to a pillar, with 
 such a look of despair on his face as I shall never 
 forget. It haunted me for days. No wonder the 
 poor man died a few years later, worn out with dis- 
 appointment and anguish. The verses, you may 
 remember, fitted in with the subject, and [^blushing 
 slightly\ at my request my old Welsh friend set 
 them to music not long ago. They will just go for 
 this occasion. 
 
 Feo. {^Rousing herself?^ It is a splendid idea ! 
 Thank you, Juliette. 
 
 Jul. Even if that girl should appear (as, of course, 
 she has the nerve to do) quite impassive, as if the 
 subject were miles away from her, Mr. Vincent, who 
 is a gentleman — only men are so easily influenced — 
 will know all it means. 
 
 Feo. Quite true, only we really must get back to 
 the house now without delay. 
 
 Jul. We will. I see the others are thinking of a 
 move, too. I noticed Miss Wentworth's light dress 
 glancing under the trees a moment ago. 
 
 [They adjourn to t.ie house and to the drawing-room, 
 whither all the others follow. Miss Osborne and Mr. Vin- 
 cent enter last. Juliette then proposes music and, all 
 consendng, she walks to the piano and sings :] 
 
 40 
 
 '< ' 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 The Doom of Greatness. 
 
 The Mariner stands upon the deck 
 
 And strains his eyes afar 
 To watch a glimmering, fateful speck 
 
 Under the midnight star. 
 
 And memory holds that picture well — 
 
 The Hero standing there ; 
 The lonely heart's triumphant swell, 
 
 The answer to his prayer. 
 
 But Victory is not all of life — 
 
 Another picture yet, 
 With shades of bitterness and strife 
 
 We never can forget. 
 
 The dungeon's walls are damp and cold, 
 And foul the dungeon's breath ; 
 
 Chained to a pillar the Hero bold, 
 And only waiting death. 
 
 And the shadow gathering, dull and mute, 
 
 Anguish that will not die — 
 What is it but the poison-fruit 
 
 Of human treachery ! 
 
 [As the last echo of Juliette's voice dies away a pause 
 ensues, and then a chorus of plaudits and demands for 
 
 41 
 
IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ^i] 
 
 
 "more." 
 
 The singer is evidently gratified by the interest 
 she has awakened.] 
 
 Feo. l^Who has advattced to the piano.'] I never 
 heard you sing so well, Juliette. I think you might 
 give us something else now. 
 
 Jul. Nothing as long as that, though. I will give 
 you a fragment I am very fond of — a nice little thing 
 to go to sleep upon. It is called 
 
 "With the Hunt.* 
 
 " The Fox set him down and looked about — 
 
 And many were feared to follow — 
 * May be I'm wrong,' says he, ' but I doubt 
 
 That you'll be as gay to-morrow. 
 For loud as you sing, and high as you ride, 
 
 And little you feel my sorrow, 
 I'll be free on the mountain side 
 While you'll lie low to-morrow.' " 
 
 [The song being finished, there are unmistakable signs 
 of moving on the part of the guests.] 
 
 Miss Went. {To Feodore.] I must thank you for 
 a most delightful evening. The music proved such 
 a treat that I was sorry we had lingered so long in 
 the garden. — {A pause.] As we all seem to be walking 
 home this fine night. Dr. Asquith and I were saying 
 how well we could arrange to escort your friend Miss 
 
 *See Appendix, Note A. 
 42 
 
 . I 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 Osborne to her boarding place without going more 
 than a step out of our way ; but I find Mr. Vincent 
 is going to take care of her. 
 
 [The friends exchange glances. As soon as Miss Osborne 
 had said her " good-nights " in an airy fashion, the gentle- 
 men advanced to take leave.] 
 
 ViN. I must thank you, Miss Medworth, for a 
 pleasant evening. As I have to leave town in a day 
 or two on urgent business, I may not be able to see 
 you for some little time. I am sorry. 
 
 Feo. Good-night, sir. 
 
 [The last guest having departed, the friends look at each 
 other again, but with guarded glances.] 
 
 Jul. It won't bear thinking of. Don't let it inter- 
 fere with your night's rest, dearest. I don't know 
 that any man is worth that. 
 
 Feo. [Smiling faintly .'] I think your Mr. Chetwynd 
 might be. 
 
 [Juliette bursts into tears. Feodore leans her head on 
 her friend's shoulder, and they clasp hands in silence.] 
 
 Jul. [Between her sobs.'] If I could do anything for 
 you, dearest ! 
 
 Feo. My friend, you are doing all that can be 
 done. The one drop of comfort in this bitter cup is 
 your loving kindness. I feel sure it will be returned 
 into your own bosom. Kiss me now, and good-night. 
 [They embrace with tears.] 
 
 [Exeunt Feodore and JULIETTE. 
 43 
 
T 
 
 li 
 
 ll. 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Ii*i! 
 
 m 
 
 \ 3 
 
 Scene IV. and last. 
 
 Ten years later. Feodore and Juliette (now Mrs. 
 Chetwynd) meet after a long separation. 
 
 Jul. Ah, the pleasure it is to see you again, Feo- 
 dore ! And how fresh and well you look ! It might 
 be only yesterday that we parted. 
 
 Feo. I can return the compliment with interest. 
 For myself, I have been travelling and vegetating, 
 while you have gone down into the thick of the fight 
 and got married. I think you must be a matron of 
 some eight or nine years' standing now. 
 
 Jul. You are right. I do wish you to see some- 
 thing of my dear husband — he is so good as well 
 as so nice. We are only here for a few hours, you 
 know. Mr. Chetwynd had to attend to some business 
 directly we arrived here, but knowing the unspeak- 
 able pleasure I should have in seeing you again, he 
 brought me here at once. Unfortunately, we must 
 take the train to-night to return to our children and 
 our Western home ; but my husband will be able 
 to call a little before the time of departure, and then 
 you can see him. As for seeing the children, ah, 
 me ! that pleasure must wait until you come out to 
 Manitoba, or I bring them here. 
 
 Feo. I shall be so pleased to meet your husband. 
 I used to know him, of course, in the old days when 
 he came courting you, but one's impressions need 
 
 44 
 
 r -i 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 reviving. How to be with you again brings back all 
 the past, Juliette I 
 
 Jul. Does it not? How many memories come 
 thronging into one's mind— the evening of that garden 
 party especially. Never shall I forget it. I only 
 heard a year or two ago that Mr. Vincent was mar- 
 ried at last. 
 
 Feo. And to a person who will make a much 
 better stepmother to his children than I should ever 
 have done. 
 
 Jul. lKindly:\ I don't know that. At least, 
 it is some consolation that he is not married to 
 Miss Osborne. I suppose you have not seen her 
 lately ? 
 
 Feo. Not for a long time. I believe she has been 
 travelling and visiting her friends in the States. 
 What a traitress she was ! Do you know, Juliette, it 
 strikes me, whenever I think of it, that women are,'as 
 a rule, curiously untrustworthy towards each other. 
 There is something rotten in that Denmark. How 
 we admire the brave, bright comradeship of men 
 with one another, shown all over the world— that is, 
 when the men are manly. Wherever the scene be 
 laid, whether in the plague-stricken cities of India or 
 on the blood-stained fields of Central Africa, the 
 human background is ever the same— the generous 
 instinct oi camaraderie, the readiness to stand shoulder 
 to shoulder, to help each other all they can in the 
 
 45 
 
» 
 
 . f 
 
 ' 1 
 
 11 
 
 
 /A^ BOHEMIA. 
 
 fierce battle of life- -a battle more desperate and 
 terrible by far than the mimic ones where they stand 
 to be shot at ! But whenever women come on the 
 scenp. there is apt to be with them some element 
 whi( itiates their relation to each other. 
 
 JUi^. After all that has come and gone, dearest, I 
 know not how to blame any views of yours. But 
 still I think you are hard on our sex. 
 
 Feo. Of course, I do not mean the noble, gracious 
 ones — the few who make this world worth living in, 
 and exalt our estimate of human nature. These are 
 all one could desire. No, I mean the ordinary rank 
 and file — the common multitude, without hearts or 
 br?ins. Nor am I alone in my views. Let me read 
 you ' ? words of a modern writer I am very fond of, 
 and "), I am glad to say, has made her mark on 
 her time. She says : ** Women have not, to begin 
 with, the esprit de corps which the most ordinary men 
 possess. With what difficulty can one squeeze out 
 of a man any fact that is detrimental to his friend, 
 or even to his acquaintance, however obviously neces- 
 sary it may be that the information should be asked 
 for and given. Yet I have known many good and 
 earnest and affectionate women who lead unselfish 
 lives, who will * give away ' their best woman friend 
 on the smallest provocation, or without any provoca- 
 tion at all. The causes of humiliation and disaster 
 in a woman's life seem to have no sacredness for her 
 
 46 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 women friends." These are telling and stinging 
 words, written by no prejudiced observer. 
 
 Jul. You may be right. I am sure you have given 
 much more thought to the subject than I have. Tell 
 me something about yourself. 
 
 Feo. Well, I have learned to know a little— only a 
 little— of the depths of those beautiful words of scrip- 
 ture, " Thy lovingkindness is better than life." And 
 do you remember how we used to pore over Mrs. 
 Browning together ? There are two lines of hers 
 that keep always echoing in my thoughts : 
 
 "Aye, sooth, we feel too strong in weal to need Thee on that 
 road ; 
 
 But, woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on 
 God." 
 
 [Exeunt Feodore and Juliette. 
 
 47 
 
3n primavera^ 
 
 (LYRICS OF YOUTH.) 
 
 
^^ii 
 
 Wf. 
 
 ■:■( 
 
 1 ! I. 
 
 ■■.f ' 
 
 r •■ 
 
 I j 
 
A CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 Again ! the skies are chilling now; 
 
 The snow is on the ground ; 
 Winter, with sullen, old-time brow, 
 
 Looks haughtily around. 
 But faces gay, and hearts as light 
 
 As sunbeams, tell at last 
 We dare to hope for something bright 
 
 Before the year is past ! 
 
 Upon these days the sunlight gleams 
 
 More peaceful and more fair ; 
 Can it be fancy ? but there seems 
 
 A fragrance in the air ; 
 That subtle brightness quivers through 
 
 Skies grey with winter's cold ; 
 That fragrance— 'tis the same we knew 
 
 On many a morn of old I 
 51 
 
tr; 
 
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 I 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 Conflicts may o'er our souls have passed, 
 
 So deadly and so deep, 
 That, while we live, the shadows cast 
 
 Will haunt us as we sleep ; 
 A light may from our hearts have gone 
 
 That nothing can restore ; 
 But, all the same, life passes on 
 
 With joy to thousands more ! 
 
 Now, well-remembered pictures crowd 
 
 Where'er we turn our eyes : 
 Upon bleak fields the snowy shroud, 
 
 Direct from Heaven, lies ; 
 And there is peace on all around, 
 
 As in the ancient days ; 
 And, ever rising from the ground, 
 
 The wealth of prayer and praise ! 
 
 Oh, might we but, in sweet content, 
 
 Accept the mighty will ! 
 Thanks, Lord, for all Thy mercies sent 
 
 To erring mortals still ; 
 So constant, all our lives we knew, 
 
 Their brightness round us cast ; 
 So many, undeserved and true, 
 
 We dare not count at last ! 
 
 52 
 
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LINES TO A WATER-LILY. 
 
 Oh, fair and pure upon the lake 
 
 Thy glossy leaves are spread ; 
 No fluttering winds thy sleep can wake 
 
 Among the ripples dead. 
 No clouds can that still beauty move 
 
 That cross the azure sky ; 
 Thou sleepest in the light of love 
 
 Shed o'er thee from on high. 
 
 No other flowers beside thee rest, 
 
 Thou, Lily, art alone ; 
 Thou wearest on thy virgin breast 
 
 No glory save thine own. 
 Thou watchest but the heavenly light 
 
 That gleams so far away ; 
 I see thee still, as sinks the night , 
 
 Fold up thy leaves and pray ! 
 
 53 
 
> 7 '• 
 
 I. t 
 
 »« 
 
 !:< 
 
 LINES TO A WATER-LILY. 
 
 And now float on — thy life is fair, 
 
 But thou art fairer still ; 
 Perhaps in gazing on thee there 
 
 Our hearts may cease to thrill. 
 Perhaps, descending from the sky, 
 
 Some glory still and deep 
 May light us, when we come to die. 
 
 As now it lights thy sleep ! 
 
 I i! 
 
 m 
 
 \ \ 
 
 54 
 
WE ARE THREE. 
 
 5 
 
 We are three— in love and pride 
 Our hearts walk daily side by side. 
 We are three — in hope and truth, 
 Linked by the golden dreams of youth. 
 
 We are three — yet of us one 
 Lies far beneath the Orient sun, 
 Where the pale palm-trees bend in pride 
 To kiss the earth where warriors died. 
 
 We are three— yet, 'neath the wave, 
 My love lies in a lonely grave ; 
 The waters flow upon his breast : 
 He sleeps in everlasting rest. 
 
 Those two are dead — I yet remain 
 Within this world of toil and pain ; 
 Yet, wheresoe'er my footsteps flee 
 I bear this token — we are three. 
 
 55 
 
 
 I 
 
 (1 
 
•^m; 
 
 I ' ' 
 
 '' 
 
 M M 
 
 ii 
 
 WE ARE THREE. 
 
 We are three — our love is more, 
 Our hearts are stronger than of yore. 
 Though their loved forms I cannot see, 
 We are together — we are three. 
 
 I wait — my life is dim and still ; 
 My worn-out heart no more can thrill ; 
 I wait for Death, my soul to free — 
 Yet even here we still are three. 
 
 O strange, sweet power ! what dreams can 
 
 reign 
 Like these so far from mortal pain ? 
 What hope, what glory can I see. 
 Fair as the sign — that we are three ? 
 
 s «l 
 
 56 
 
 it 
 
an 
 
 QUATRAIN. 
 
 Ever wake and never sleep 
 
 O straining eyes, that cannot weep ! 
 
 Ever sleep and never wake 
 
 O quiet heart that cannot break ! 
 
 57 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
. 
 
 w ; ' 
 
 i\ 
 
 I 
 
 
 ■■',! 
 
 ••" > 
 ,1) 
 
 : I; 
 
 » 
 
 A SUNSET DREAM. 
 
 (Ancona, Northern Italy.) 
 
 f,- 
 
 Ancona smiles before me now, 
 
 Under the sunset deep ; 
 Upon the mountain's darkening brow 
 
 Its glory seems to sleep. 
 Afar the wavelets rise and sink, 
 
 Floating in crimson fire ; 
 Afar, upon the ocean's brink, 
 
 I watch their light expire. 
 
 The night is soft, and on the air 
 
 Rises the evening song, 
 Sustained by many a fisher there. 
 
 The gleaming waves along. 
 The breeze floats gentle as a sigh. 
 
 Upheaved from maiden's breast ; 
 To blend, in mystic harmony. 
 
 With Earth's and Heaven's rest. 
 
 58 
 
 -ft 
 
 m 
 
 ii 
 
A SUNSET DREAM. 
 
 The sun has changed the sloping shore 
 
 To plains of Orient gold, 
 As though he sought, while yet no more, 
 
 The sleeping earth to fold. 
 And, where the mountain rises proud, 
 
 In shadowy stillness stern, 
 Some light from a late-lingering cloud 
 
 Seems yet in love to burn. 
 
 Ancona holds my fate on earth- 
 Some dim, unfathomed spell 
 
 Woke with the moment of my birth, 
 As shade or sunbeam fell ; 
 
 It binds me with a chain unseen 
 To that far land of power ; 
 
 Yet Fancy only wakes the scene 
 At sunset's magic hour. 
 
 Ancona ! Fair, and loved, and bright. 
 
 Perhaps, beneath the sky 
 That hides for me unearthly light— 
 
 I yet am doomed to die ! 
 Perhaps— but no, I will not speak 
 
 These visions of the past — 
 Yet on thy shores I still must seek 
 
 To know my doom at last i 
 
 59 
 
i ' 
 
 ■Mh t 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 t ^f 
 
 Listen ! Sweet voices call the Earth 
 
 To life and love again, 
 And stifle, in their wakening mirth, 
 
 The dreary Winter's pain. 
 'Tis the old tale, forever new, 
 
 Of Spring descending fair, 
 Stooping on fragrant winds to strew 
 
 The flowers that bind her hair — 
 And blushing, with a sweet surprise, 
 
 When Summer at her side 
 Starts up to look into her eyes, 
 
 And claim her for his bride. 
 
 
 I . 
 
 There is no coldness in her smile. 
 No mourning on her brow : 
 
 Even her tears all hearts beguile 
 To look upon her now. 
 60 
 
 
SPRING. 
 
 Surely she is some angel sent 
 
 fVom the far clouds above, 
 And to us mournful mortals lent 
 
 To teach us light and love ! 
 Surely no hearts resist her spell— 
 
 The spell of hope and peace ; 
 Surely with her must gladnes. dwell 
 
 And p =;sion's discord cease. 
 
 Would thou could'st be, O maiden sweet, 
 The guardian of our life, 
 
 Treading beneath thy happy feet 
 All earthly care and strife ! 
 
 Teaching that all is for the best. 
 That what we think our woes 
 
 But lead us sooner to the rest 
 From whence our being rose ; 
 
 That love reigns yet, serene and free- 
 No phantom of the past, 
 
 But a true power, whose light should be 
 Forever round us cast. 
 
 6i 
 
i 
 
 i. ■ "1 
 
 LINES 
 
 On the Visit of Prince Jerome Napoleon to 
 Canada, August, i86i. 
 
 f 
 
 At the time these verses were written, the author, in 
 common with many others, cherished the brightest visions of 
 an era of prosperity and progress for France — maierial, moral 
 and spiritual — in the not distant future. Succeeding events, 
 even before the Franco-German war of 1870, proved too well 
 the futility of such dreams. The lines are, however, given in 
 their entirety. 
 
 1 ) 
 
 i 
 
 1^ 
 
 I 
 
 A WELCOME ! Let no churlish thought 
 
 Disturb the generous pride 
 That bids us welcome as we ought 
 
 Napoleon to our side ! 
 A stranger, come across the sea 
 
 To view this land of ours. 
 To watch her careless, proud and free 
 
 In youth's all-conquering powers. 
 
 62 
 
PRINCE NAPOLEON'S VISIT TO CANADA. 
 
 His the Old World, and ours the New, 
 
 The present and the past, 
 Linked by sweet memories strong and true 
 
 While Time and Earth shall last. 
 
 The Bourbon lilies float no more 
 
 Upon the land and wave ; 
 The kings that foi.ght and ruled of yore 
 
 Lie mouldering in the grave : 
 France mourns them not-their work is done, 
 
 Their lineage passed away ; 
 And where once sank their reddening sun, 
 
 Now dawns a brighter day ! 
 Why linger by the Past, to see 
 
 Hopes fade in vain regret ? 
 No ! France must live and learn— to be 
 A nobler country yet ! 
 
 With all that Love could wish, to guide 
 
 Her wandering footsteps now ; 
 With Victory steadfast at her side, 
 
 Hope bright upon her brow— 
 A ruler, calm of heart and hand. 
 
 Prepared through life alone 
 To sway the sceptre if the land, 
 
 And sit upon her throne— 
 63 
 
PRINCE NAPOLEON'S VISIT TO CANADA, 
 
 All this hath France ; no ancient days 
 E'er found her fate so fair : 
 
 And eyes at last may on her gaze 
 Unshadowed by despair ! 
 
 Let but thy future, France, fulfil 
 
 This opening promise bright ; 
 Let Peace those surging passions still 
 
 That waken with thy might ; 
 Let that calm pride of worth be thine 
 
 That shames the pride of power, 
 And ever brightest seems to shine 
 
 In Misery's dc. kest hour ! 
 For us, we welcome here thy son 
 
 With greetings frank and free. 
 And claim him in our thoughts as one 
 
 That closer binds to thee ! 
 
 ' 'f 
 
 64 
 
THE SONG OF THE JACOBITE EXILE. 
 
 Sit thou, my daughter, on my knee : 
 
 Art dreaming of the past? 
 Have childhood's memories, fond and free. 
 
 Their magic o'er thee cast ? 
 Or dost thou trace in thought again 
 
 The happy dreams of yore, 
 How o'er our glorious land should reign 
 
 A rightful king once more ? 
 
 My child, my child ! a lot of tears 
 
 And strife is ours to bear, 
 Wasting our hearts, our hopes, our years, 
 
 In longing and despair ; 
 Yet own we still, through bitterest hour, 
 
 A refuge and a pride ; 
 For Honor hath a spell whose power 
 
 Is more than earth beside 
 5 65 
 
r 
 
 f 
 
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 SONG OF THE JACOBITE EXILE. 
 
 % 
 
 And if a nameless foreign tomb 
 
 Be ours at long and last, 
 Is our race, descending to its doom, 
 
 Unworthy of the past ? 
 The sun, that blazed in splendor fair. 
 
 Flooding the landscape round — 
 To sink, in hopeless darkness, where 
 
 No human voice is found — 
 
 Yet e'en through Death's most bitter sting, 
 
 Perhaps remembered more 
 Than when its triumph served to bring 
 
 Light to some happy shore — 
 How we, through Satan's snares beguiled, 
 
 Life's saving truths defy ! 
 *' 'Tis not all of life to live, my child, 
 
 Nor all of death io die." 
 
 66 
 
ting, 
 
 led, 
 

 it # 
 
5.: 
 
 TO AN ENGLISH VIOLET IN FOREIGN 
 
 LANDS. 
 
 The picturesque incident here commemorated occurred some 
 years ago. A British colonist having brought to the land of his 
 adoption (Australia), some specimens of English violets, they 
 were highly appreciated and became the objects of special 
 attention at a large evening assembly. 
 
 Within a curtained, lamp-lit room, 
 Fed with the breath of rich perfume, 
 Girt round with radiance, light and bloom, 
 
 The modest flower upraised its head, 
 And a soft, mystic fragrance shed. 
 Like Memory when our youth is fled. 
 
 I bent to look upon it there, 
 
 So soft, so feminine, so fair, 
 
 A flower for angel hands to bear ! 
 
 Yet exiled from its native land, 
 By unfamiliar breezes fanned, 
 A pilgrim on a foreign .strand ! 
 
 67 
 
 ::% 
 
on 
 
 
 I 5 
 
 TO AN ENGLISH VIOLET IN FOREIGN LANDS. 
 
 Pale English flower ! thou bring'st to me 
 Loved visions, wheresoe'er I be, 
 Of thy far land beyond the sea ! 
 
 A land of loveliness and dreams, 
 Where earth with living splendor teems. 
 Where e'en life's echo sweeter seems ! 
 
 Land of brave deeds and honor high. 
 Land of triumphal days gone by, 
 Where men press onward fearlessly ! 
 
 Because of freedom won of yore — 
 Where the slave walks, a slave no more, 
 And blessings rest upon the shore ! 
 
 The spirit of a lofty race, 
 
 Th' imperial will that keeps its place. 
 
 The scorn for all things foul and base — 
 
 These have their portion, yet we know 
 There is more in all than surface show — 
 The under-current sets below. 
 
 Because God's Word is cherished here. 
 Its brightness to men's vision clear, 
 While other lands in darkness fear ! 
 
 68 
 
 f 
 
TO AN ENGLISH VIOLET IN FOREIGN LANDS. 
 
 Recall that prince of heathen fame 
 Who o'er the distant ocean came, 
 Drawn by Victoria's lofty name. ' 
 
 He said, " O Queen, I ask of thee 
 What may the wondrous secret be, 
 Gives thy race power, by land and sea ? " 
 
 Victoria's gracious hand upraised 
 The Book : the while he stood amazed, 
 And all around in silence gazed. 
 
 " Behold the Secret and the Sign, 
 To fire the nation's spirit fine, 
 With something of its strength divine. 
 
 " On this foundation must we rest- 
 Seeking His Spirit to be our guest, 
 God's mercy in us made manifest."' 
 
 She ceased. The Book was in his hand 
 More precious through her soft command, 
 1 hat he should search and understand * 
 
 " This incident has been well commemorated by the artist ThlT^ TT^ 
 A copy of his picture is appended R^hinH u at • ' °^^^ J°"*^ ^^ker. 
 
 the b^ble to the heathen'you ht is see hf fiL^^'T 
 
 Behind the Hindoo Prince the oresentT if ^ '"""'"'^ Prince Consort, 
 
 late Lord Shaftesbury LestandTr The ."^ ^'''" ^ ^°""« '"-^ ^"^ 'he 
 not so well as it deserv« to be ^' ^' ^'"'""^ '^ *^" ^°°-"' '^^o^gh Perhaps 
 
 69 
 
f|! 
 
 ' M|i 
 
 \\ 
 
 TO AN ENGI rSH VIOLET IN fORElGI^ LANDS. 
 
 Violet ! these thoughts that oversweep 
 My spirit and heart, they are too deep— 
 O let them in thy fragrance sleep ! 
 
 And smile thy hour, 'neath foreign eyes, 
 Clad in as true and modest guise 
 As under England's quiet skies. 
 
 
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 70 
 
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 "IMPLORA PACE." 
 
 I 
 
 In the well-known " Life of Lord Byron," by Thomas Moore, 
 a touching incident, connecter^ with the poet's early Italian ii^c 
 IS narrated. During a shor: stay in Ferrara, m the y-nr ,810' 
 he visited the " Campo Santo," or burial-place of that town 
 and was particularly struck with the inscriptions on two tomb- 
 stonts-those of a man and a woman. The first ran : 
 
 the other, 
 
 " Martini Luigi 
 Implora pace," 
 
 ** Lucrezia Picini 
 Implora etema quiete." 
 
 linel^^ '■^'"embrance of these words suggested the following 
 
 The " Campo Santo ! "—Cypress dim 
 
 Along the churchyard wall ; 
 And here and there a gravestone grim 
 
 Leaning before it fall. 
 And moss and ivy trail around 
 
 Their long, neglected sprays— 
 Where one sad woman, from the ground, 
 
 " Eternal quiet " prays. 
 71 
 
 I 
 f 
 
ill 
 
 1 
 
 
 ''IMP LOR A pace:' 
 
 '* Eternal quiet ! " Not that, clear 
 
 Might beam upon her way 
 Lights that make radiant, even here, 
 
 This prison-house of clay : 
 Not hers at Hope's fair shrine to bow, 
 
 Nor Love's sweet empire own ; 
 She may have prized them once, but now 
 
 Eternal peace alone ! 
 
 
 
 ' i 
 
 % 
 
 % 
 
 li \ 
 
 ' I 
 
 " Eternal quiet ! " Oh, for thee 
 
 The aeons that came and passed, 
 Before the spirit's agony 
 
 Yearned for such doom at last ! 
 The mind may compass other scenes, 
 
 New realms, new victories make ; 
 But that "eternal 'juiet" means 
 
 A sleep that will not break ! 
 
 Poor heart ! we trust that, ere the end 
 
 (The grave that yawned for thee). 
 Thy spirit- eyes beheld that Friend 
 
 Whose death meant Rest — to be ; 
 Rest after strife — night's feverish dreams 
 
 Exchanged for morn's glad ray ; 
 Splendor that from God's mercy streams 
 
 For the corpse-lights of decay ! 
 72 
 
 y 
 
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mm 
 
 iS 
 
 ft 
 
 P 
 
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 mmmk 
 
 
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 W 
 
 tt 
 
 i 
 
 
A SUMMER'S DAY IN OLD MONTREAL. 
 (In Early Youth.) 
 
 No cloud upon that stainless blue 
 
 To dim the radiance bright, 
 That opes before our eager view 
 
 A vista of delight. 
 No breeze to stir th' enchanted air 
 
 Or wake the leaflets' pla}' ; 
 A brief Elysium, frail and fair, 
 
 This ripenmg Summer day ! 
 
 Along the streets there comes a breath 
 
 Redolent of the Past ; 
 Visions of thronging life and death 
 
 Their witchery round me cast. 
 Just so on Summer days of old 
 
 It looked— this town of ours ; 
 Just so the ancient echoes rolled 
 
 Around its streets and towers. 
 
 73 
 
 ■*j 
 
, hi' t 
 
 t 
 
 A SUMMER'S DA Y IN OLD MONTREAL. 
 
 (After.) 
 
 O'er brightest fancies shades must fall— 
 
 The shadow of the Cross. 
 O inward vision ! can we call 
 
 That sacred gravure loss ? 
 
 
 The city has spread, the city has gleamed, 
 
 In splendor far and wide ; 
 The light that once around it streamed, 
 
 My heart ! has sunk and died. 
 
 74 
 
t 
 
 i 
 
 A FIRST VIEW OF QUEBEC. 
 
 Bright in the morning fair, 
 Bright through the summer air, 
 Gilded with sunshine rare, 
 
 Quebec was seen. 
 Floated and curled in h'ght 
 The crested wavelets bright. 
 Around her guardian might— 
 
 The Fortress-Queen ! 
 
 I knew her — far away : 
 Before we reached the bay 
 Mine eyes could mark the sway 
 
 Of rampart-towers ; 
 Before her walls I knew. 
 Some instinct told me true 
 How near I was to view 
 
 Those ancient powers I 
 75 
 
 •^ 
 
«? 
 
 in<. 
 
 A FIRST VIEW OF QUEBEC. 
 
 Near — nearer yet we came ; 
 Rose dark her heights of fame 
 Against that field of flame, 
 
 The morning sky ; 
 Frowned down embrasures deep, 
 Gleamed cannon on the steep, 
 Flew stern above her Keep 
 
 One flag on high ! 
 
 Nor for the eye alone 
 
 These radiant pictures shone : 
 
 The lore of cycles flown 
 
 Seemed garnered here ; 
 The Present and the Past 
 Together smiled at last — 
 Spells round these walls were cast 
 
 That yet are near ! 
 
 Dark years have rushed between 
 Me and that radiant scene — 
 Old memories quick and keen 
 
 Are quenched in night ; 
 Yet, with Hope's wakening thrill, 
 Before my vision still 
 That city on the hill 
 
 Arises bright ! 
 76 
 
 , 
 
 1 
 
A FIRST VIEW OF QUEBEC. 
 
 Let but a stranger's praise 
 And long remembrance raise 
 Some sign upon the ways— 
 At least— 'tis true ; 
 
 And stand thou firm in' power 
 Braced for the darkest hour—' 
 May none around thee lower ! 
 Quebec— adieu ! 
 
 77 
 
LINES 
 On the Adjournment of the House of Commons, on 
 
 RECEIVING TIDINGS OF THE DeATH OF THE RiGHT 
 
 Hon. Sir George Cornewall Lewis, Bart., Secre- 
 tary OF War, April 14TH, 1863. 
 
 .h 
 
 The ranks are gathered — not to fight. 
 
 To struggle, or to dare ; 
 Ah, no — for on this meeting night 
 
 Far other thoughts are there. 
 Hushed is th' upbraiding word — the flow 
 
 Of passion calmed to peace : 
 One mightier shoots his bolt, and lo ! 
 
 Earth's petty tumults cease. 
 And faction's reign itself is past 
 
 For one brief, solemn hour : 
 As brothers here they bend at last 
 
 Before a sterner power ! 
 
 Few are the words, but fitly said. 
 That speak the sense of all — 
 
 That pay due honor to the dead, 
 His deeds and worth recall. 
 78 
 
3N 
 HT 
 
 DMATJf OF HT. HON. SIH GEORGE C. LEWIS. 
 
 Opponents rise to touch the theme 
 And speak with saddening praise 
 
 Of gifts and powers they well might deem 
 Deservmg longer days* 
 
 "^AnHl-lfr ""d^-'hat duty done- 
 
 ^nd, till the morrow's light 
 They leave the mighty pile alone, 
 
 1 o silence and to night ! 
 
 '"t^'b^tT" •' ^'V'°"'^ "°' t-^"^ '° thee 
 
 ^In bitterness and gloom • 
 
 y/^>' mercy only might decree 
 
 Ihemercvofthetombf 
 Grant us these years, that fade so fleet 
 To guide, in strength and power • ' 
 Grant us, prepared and calm, to me'et 
 
 1 he last and final hour- 
 Grant us, when all our path is trod 
 
 As loved to reach the grave 
 As he who rests beneath the sod 
 Where Cambrian blue-bells wave » 
 
 untin,ely death. '""" ^"^ '^''="'s. and their deep regret at his 
 
 79 
 

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 iP- 
 
if''! 
 
 TWO SPRINGS. 
 
 Last Spnng, when early on us fell 
 
 A blissful, sunlit day — 
 When Winter's ear might trace the knell 
 
 Foretelling his decay — 
 
 I — all my heart borne down with woe — 
 
 Swift to thy dwelling sped, 
 If haply from thy lips might flow 
 
 Some comfort for my dread. 
 
 I found thee in thy chamber fair, 
 Girt round with leaves and flowers ; 
 
 I might have thought my footsteps there 
 Strayed in a fairy's bowers. 
 
 I heard thy gentle lips renew 
 
 The hopes of earlier years ; 
 How swift those happy moments flew 
 
 That woke me from my fears ! 
 
 And yet thy life was dark — no more 
 Its vanished suns could shine ; 
 
 How my heart shamed itself before 
 The sweet content of thine ! 
 80 
 
 I 
 
f 
 
 TIVO SP/i/NGS. 
 
 I went— and with thy parting smile 
 Some fancy whispered free, 
 '* Ah, how our friendship shall beguile 
 The shades of Springs to be ! " 
 
 * * ♦ 
 
 ♦ ♦ « 
 
 * * * ♦ 
 
 ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 Once more the Spring looks down in light 
 
 On forest, mount and plain ; 
 Borne on victorious sunbeams bright 
 . Her love is ours again. 
 
 And yet, as to thy chamber sweet 
 My thoughts were wont to stray — 
 
 Now, if that memory loved they meet. 
 They shrink — and turn away. 
 
 And where my steps would turn to thee, 
 
 And linger at thy door. 
 They — while I own mortality — 
 
 Shall linger — nevermore ! 
 
 I pictured for thee Spring-times true 
 
 Of earthly light and love ; 
 Even while I hoped, thy spirit knew 
 
 Eternal Spring above ! 
 
 8i 
 
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mi 
 
 
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 h 
 
 »M 
 
 I I 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 A BROODING quiet on the sky, 
 
 A mist upon the land ; 
 And April rises, dropping shy 
 
 The blossoms from her hand. 
 
 Sweet the white mystery of her brow, 
 
 And soft those violet eyes 
 That now droop pensively, and now 
 
 Flash radiant as the skies ! 
 
 I knew thee, April, well and long ; 
 
 In happy seasons past 
 I watched thy radiance, heard thy song, 
 
 And hail thee still at last ! 
 
 Yet, art thou still the same ? I view 
 
 A spirit, varying, fair ; 
 But in her face the smiles I knew 
 
 Have caught a shade of care ! 
 82 
 
APRIL. 
 
 And where bright Nature bent to me, 
 
 A mother strange and sweet, 
 Now oft as fancy wills I flee — 
 
 But never to her feet ! 
 
 Surely the willows droop no more 
 
 With their sweet grace of old ; 
 Surely the passionate eves of yore 
 
 Turned earth to brighter gold. 
 
 And yet — still flowers our glances meet ; 
 
 Suns shine as once they shone. 
 Where can the change be, Spring-time sweet, 
 
 Save in myself alone ? 
 
 83 
 
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 ''ncl me330 bel cammtn^ bi noatra vita. 
 
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 i 
 
^ 
 
 A REMINISCENCE OF THE MAINE COAST 
 IN OTHER DAYS. 
 
 "It was many and many a year ago, 
 In a kingdom by the sea "— 
 
 —Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 " So fast does a little leaven spread within us— so incal- 
 culable IS the effect of one persona'ity on another." 
 
 —George Eliot. 
 
 To Frances. 
 
 A CHARM I cannot trace or know 
 
 A passion strange and sweet- 
 Enchains me, till myself I throw 
 In spirit at thy feet ! 
 
 Thy hair is darkness, and thine eyes 
 Flash deep with southern fire ; 
 
 Close in my heart their mystery lies, 
 A mystery and desire ! 
 87 
 
tfi ■ , 
 
 ■■'? 
 
 : s* > 
 
 h 
 
 I' 
 R 
 
 REMINISCENCE OF THE MAINE COAST. 
 
 Thy lips— red clusters, opening sweet, 
 The hidden pearls disclose ; 
 
 Two flowers in fairest compass meet — 
 The lily and the rose. 
 
 The figure of a sylph's or fay's 
 
 Is thine—and only Grace 
 Within the shadow of thy ways 
 
 Makes her abiding-place. 
 
 My life is richer that I came 
 Thus where thy presence cast 
 
 A witchery that I dare not name. 
 But only feel at last ! 
 
 And now — in little space I see 
 That spell shall all be o'er— 
 
 The vision I have seen shall be 
 Laid with the lights of yore. 
 
 And I— when I recall the gleam 
 Thou shedd'st on skies of grey, 
 
 Shall murmur, " 'Twas a radiant dream 
 That shone — and passed away ! " 
 
 4 I 
 
 88 
 

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 < 
 
 I i 
 
 )''. 
 
 H 
 
 »kiJ 
 
CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME DE 
 BONSECOURS. 
 
 (Erected lyyj.) 
 
 (Written for Frances.) 
 
 Dear relic of a fruitful Past ! 
 
 Not yet thy work is done, 
 Though lingering years have o'er thee cast 
 
 Their shadow and their sun ; 
 Thou wearest yet, serene and free, 
 
 The ancient stately grace ; 
 And strangers come to look on thee, 
 
 And know thee in thy place ! 
 
 The autumn breeze, in tenderest mood, 
 
 Its magic on thee lays ; 
 And ever o'er thee seems to brood 
 
 The light of other days. 
 The mart is close ; more swiftly on 
 
 Rushes the living tide ! 
 On all, methinks, those cycles gone 
 
 Breathe as they pass thy side. 
 89 
 
Hit 
 
 r.t 
 
 
 k 
 
 I'j 
 
 'I 
 
 1 1 
 
 CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME DE BONSECOURS. 
 
 V^'hat tales thy stones could tell— of power, 
 
 Of promise and decay — 
 The glorious visions of an hour 
 
 That rose and passed away ! 
 What scenes those silent walls might see ! 
 
 Vain suppliance, mad regret, 
 Whose memory, in these days, may be 
 
 A troubled darkness yet ! 
 
 J 
 
 
 Thy aisles the swelling strains have known 
 
 Of Victory's days of pride ; 
 A radiance through their gloom has shone 
 
 On bridegroom and on bride. 
 And then those other seasons gr-w — 
 
 When Plague was in the air — 
 When myriads saw their doom, and knew 
 
 Nothing was left— but Prayer. 
 
 % 
 
 Those days are o'er ! Still to the skies 
 
 Thou lookest, full and free ; 
 Firm, as we hope, thou yet mayst rise. 
 
 For many a year to be. 
 All round thee altered ; landmarks flown, 
 
 The ways, the looks of yore ; 
 But the Man's nature thou hast known. 
 
 That changes — nevermore I 
 
 90 
 
 III 
 
I 
 
 
 MONTREAL IN AUTUMN. 
 (To Frances.) 
 
 My walks lie now among the leaves, 
 Crimson, and gold, and brown ; 
 
 For Nature her sweet broidery weaves 
 O'er all the dreary town. 
 
 Slow wandering, in some nook I stand, 
 And linger — while the grace. 
 
 Now spreading broadcast o'er the land, 
 Shines " in a shady place ! " 
 
 The mountain from these slopes is seen, 
 A rain-bowed, dazzling height. 
 
 As if the Summer's sombre green 
 Had lost itself in light. 
 91 
 
r? 
 
 
 
 MONTREAL IN AUyUMN. 
 
 And still no glare upon the sky — 
 But softest, dreamiest rays 
 
 Look down through mists to sanctify 
 These mellow Autumn days ! 
 
 Yet never did fair scene but bring 
 Some thoughts that were not fair ; 
 
 The shadow of a phantom wing 
 Forever in the air ! 
 
 Why, when these Autumn leaflets fall, 
 
 So coldly and so sere, 
 Should they those vanished hours recall, 
 
 Made by thy presence dear ? 
 
 Ah, friend ! Those memories bring to me 
 
 Not bliss so much as pain ; 
 The burden of my thought must be, 
 
 When shall we meet again ? 
 
 
 
 .t i 
 
 $3 
 
J 
 
 I 
 
 AN ORIENTAL SALUTATION. 
 "Peace be with you." 
 
 (Written for Frances.) 
 
 Peace be with you ! Peace at night, 
 
 In the obscure and solemn light ; 
 
 Peace at morn, when, softly gay, 
 
 Those fair eyes open to the day ; 
 
 Peace, while earth's light is round thee ; peace 
 
 Beyond thy dream ; when earth shall cease ; 
 
 Peace forever ! But for me. 
 
 What peace is there—save with thee ? 
 
 93 
 
 _J 
 
r'l: 
 
 •> 
 
 m. 
 
 LINES TO FRANCES. 
 
 When first I met your glance, my friend, 
 Some instinct seemed to speak, 
 
 And murmur, " Here life's quest may end ; 
 Behold the heart you seek ! 
 
 " Long, long the watch, the waiting ; long 
 The hope, the fell despair ; 
 A Presence rises from the throng, 
 The answer to thy prayer ! 
 
 " Now drop the burden of thy fears, 
 Thy sorrows put away ; 
 The light that in thy East appears 
 Shines to the perfect day. 
 
 " For thee no more the bitter gloom — 
 The threatenings of the past ; 
 Thy spirit, ransomed from its tomb, 
 Leaps to its life at last ! " 
 
 t 
 
 94 
 
LINES TO FRANCES. 
 
 What was thy charm ? Not till this hour 
 Could earthly spell command 
 
 For me the witchery and the power 
 Held in thy careless hand ! 
 
 Was it that in some vanished year, 
 
 Lost, lost in mists of yore. 
 Thy soul was part of mine— and here 
 
 Reclaimed its own once more ? 
 
 I know not. Friend, thou mayst not see 
 (Thou shouldst not— it is best) 
 
 All thy affection is to me. 
 My refuge and my rest ! 
 
 The clouds may lower around, and dart 
 
 The lightnings on the gale ; 
 But — still thine image in my heart — 
 
 On, on ! I will not quail ! 
 
 95 
 

 li; : 
 
 
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 11 
 
 li 
 
 AMINE. 
 (With Thought of Frances.) 
 
 " Speech is but broken light upon the depth 
 Of the unspoken." 
 
 — George Eliot. 
 
 " Where dwells she ? " "Seest thou in the vale 
 Yon gracious mansion rise — 
 Where trees wave softest to the gale, 
 And sweetest sunshine lies ? 
 
 " The vines arch o'er the balcony ; 
 The roses bloom beyond ; 
 The joyous birds, on every tree, 
 To Nature's joy respond." 
 
 " What is her destiny ? How speeds 
 For her that shadow — Life ? 
 How are fulfilled th' immortal needs ? 
 And how is met — the strife ? " 
 96 
 

 AMINE. 
 
 " Her husband bears, known far and near, 
 A true and honored name ; 
 A seaman once, he would not fear 
 Aught on this earth but shame. 
 
 " Wealth is his now— his toils are done : 
 Yet, more than all beside. 
 The wife his constancy hath won, 
 His treasure and his pride ! 
 
 " The very apple of his eye. 
 Stranger ! 'tis even so— 
 How a strong man can love, and why, 
 Perhaps you may not know. 
 
 " There plays, beside the lady's knee, 
 A boy of fairy grace, 
 In whom already you may see 
 The fairy mother's face I " 
 
 " Is she so fair, then ^ » "I have seen, 
 O stranger, many lands ; 
 Stood on Columbia's prairies green, 
 Arabia's desert sands ; 
 
 " And fair ones I have known, who taught 
 My heart to feel their power ; 
 Yet never met I, to my thought. 
 One like this English flower ! ' 
 7 97 
 
M 
 
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 rr 
 I- . 
 
 '•' ' ' 
 
 AMINE. 
 
 " When I look on her face, meseems 
 I stand in moonlight pale, 
 Stirless ; nor can explain the dreams 
 That o'er my thoughts prevail ! 
 
 " So gracious, too ! There's not a boor 
 Her look might chance to meet, 
 
 Eut for her sake would toil endure 
 
 Would worship at her feet ! " 
 
 " You paint," I said, " a mortal lot 
 From mortal terrors free ; 
 Without a bitterness or blot ; 
 Almost too bright to be ! 
 
 " So sweet, so loved, so beautiful ! 
 All brightness round h . cast ; 
 Her cup of bliss must be so full. 
 It should run o'er at last ! " 
 
 " Stranger ! I gave thee naught but truth ; 
 And yet— if thou shouldst spy, 
 In all her beauty and her youth, 
 Th' Enchantress pass thee by, 
 
 " To God, thy Father, bend the knee. 
 And of His mercy crave 
 For her, as happiest doom, to be 
 This hour within her grave ! " 
 98 
 
FATE AND FREE-WILL. 
 (To Frances. The Last.) 
 
 My heart so beat, I flew so fast— 
 This cannot be "Too late !" at la"st. 
 
 They said that she was dying ; though 
 How true the tale I could not know. 
 Such life as dwelt in her, by right, 
 Could death put, instant, out of sight ? 
 
 How many years we spent apart ! 
 How old this aching at my heart ! 
 
 That morn we met ! I know it well ; 
 How fair the early sunlight fell 
 On lawn and terrace, lifted brave 
 High o'er the sleeping azure wave ! 
 Behind, the stately mansion rose ; 
 Its secrets locked in grim repose. ' 
 How bloomed, those peaceful morning hours 
 In sheltered balcony, the flowers ! 
 
 99 
 
FATE AND FREE-WILL. 
 
 
 How, like all dazzling gems in one, 
 Glittered that sea beneath the sun ! 
 How airs, that might have vexed the day, 
 In softest distance died away ! 
 
 ! 
 
 
 How hints would come, in pausing note, 
 
 Of sea-girt mariners afloat ! 
 
 How zephyrs, from some far-off shore 
 
 Would round them nameless fragrance pour ! 
 
 How sent the bird, unfaltering, there 
 
 His song into the upper air ! 
 
 How earth and sky, and wave and beam, 
 
 Made all the world one fairy dream. 
 
 With hope, youth, joy, enchantment rife ; 
 
 Might I not feei in love with life ? 
 
 Ah, yes ! I joyed in Nature's lore ; 
 
 But knew — there wanted something more. 
 
 That came. A figure passed me by 
 As, leaning from the balcony. 
 Seaward I looked. A figure slight, 
 With unheard step, and eyes of night. 
 Though fixed and far my gaze was bent, 
 I kncvv that something came and went. 
 Retracing swift her noiseless ways — 
 I turned ; the sunlight drooped to haze — 
 And our eyes met — in a long gaze. 
 
 lOO 
 
FATE AND FREE-WILL. 
 
 A long gaze ! The first is past ; 
 There must be thousands ere the last ! 
 Describe her ! Words, thus coldly dealt, 
 To paint what is not seen, but felt I 
 Or— could a painter fix the dyes 
 That hover betwixt earth and skies ? 
 
 She was my focus ; in one blaze 
 Drew all my scattered spirit-rays. 
 
 Life dwelt within her ; life so keen 
 And quick, naught else could intervene. 
 She with you, breathing earthly breath, 
 There was no room for thoughts of death I 
 
 One moment I describe— retrace ; 
 Upon the darkness paint her face! 
 
 A brow broad, generous, gentle ; ^y^s 
 More deeply black than midnight skies 
 Which held so much within those deeps 
 Where, in its home, the spirit sleeps. 
 That this strange thought at times I knew- 
 Those e^^es—were they a dream, or true? 
 Yet, fancying thus, I need but turn 
 Where, in their love, could lightnings burn- 
 Or, where each curve and line was grace 
 Look on that sparkling, fairy face— 
 
 lOZ 
 
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 I' ft 
 
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 FATE AND FREE-WILL. 
 
 Or list those tones so rich, so sweet, 
 That made Life's music all complete, 
 To crusl self-torments in their birth. 
 To know her woman of the earth ! 
 Those eyes — they must be true, for me — 
 So much I needed them — and thee. 
 
 She of my life was star, was queen ; 
 But ah, what shadows rushed between ! 
 
 There were long years — I breathed, I felt ; 
 At times this darkness seemed to melt, 
 And through its dying mists of strife 
 Show me a glory as of Life. 
 But even as I beheld, and knew 
 All else was false, this only true — 
 The light would fall, the peace be o'er, 
 Life's poison hold my life once more. 
 
 Past all. Only by God's sweet grace 
 Now can I meet thee, face to face. 
 
 I T 
 
 (To Clarice.) 
 
 Her motto : ** Let the words of my mouth, and the medita- 
 tion of my heart be alway acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my 
 Strength, and my Redeemer."— Psalm xix (P. B.) 
 
 " I felt .... that she would not only influence me 
 to think purely and nobly, but would aid me in the search after 
 God. In such a relation of love to religion, the vulgar mind 
 
 102 
 
FATE AND FREE-WILL. 
 
 i 
 
 >i 
 
 will ever imagine ground for ridicule ; but those who have most 
 regarded human nature know well enough that the two have 
 constantly manifested themselves in the closest relation ; while 
 even the poorest love is the enemy of selfishness unto the death 
 for either the one or the other must give up the ghost Not 
 only must God be in all that is human, but of it He must be the 
 root." 
 
 —George Macdonald. 
 
 A spirit, formed of light and flame- 
 Straight into a dark heart you came. 
 
 When first your face I chanced to meet, 
 I thought, " How fair it is ! How sweet! 
 
 But nothing then my eyes could see 
 Of messages it held— for me. 
 
 Still that face drew me, day by day, 
 As some fair prospect, far away, 
 Seen often, and more near, will send 
 
 Its beauty with our lives to blend 
 
 And linger by us— to the end. 
 
 Yet why say on? These eyes may trace, 
 Perhaps no more, O gentle face, 
 Those lines of beauty and of power 
 That made thee dearer, hour by hour ; 
 Perhaps no more into my skies 
 Shall break the light of those blue eyes— 
 Yet may I not their deeps forget, 
 Till all my earthly suns have set. 
 
 103 
 
IN THE INN PARLOR. 
 
 ;-■'< 
 
 I 
 
 (To Clarice.) 
 
 'Tis an unhomelike, pallid room, 
 
 Yet something strangely fair 
 Would hold, for me, its midnight gloom- 
 
 A soul was rescued there. 
 O worldly heart, that lackest faith 
 
 In power thou hast not known ! 
 What could His meaning be, who saith 
 
 " Live not by bread alone " ? 
 
 We sit together there— the saint, 
 
 The sinner !—I and she. 
 Those wondrous eyes, in longing faint. 
 
 Fixed, only, upon me. 
 Her breath, her presence, o'er me sweeps, 
 
 The silent days are past ; 
 Thou hast heard me. Lord ! Out of the deeps 
 
 Have I not cried at last ? 
 104 
 
 i»«i5-=*»fetT 
 
i 
 
 IN THE INN PARLOR. 
 
 Her eyes looked down into my soul ; 
 
 They read the ruin there ; 
 There was no need to speak—the whole 
 
 To that sweet glance was bare. 
 That glance on mine, these words she said, 
 To me, of hope bereaved— 
 " The Lord hates nothing He has made • " 
 She spake, and I believed. 
 
 Since then, there may be soul-distress, 
 
 There may be wrestlings sore ; 
 But the old poison-bitterness 
 
 Returneth— nevermore. 
 Graven on my soul, those words I read, 
 
 And in their strength abide ; 
 Yc ..—such assurance could I need. 
 
 When thou wert by my side ? 
 
 los 
 
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 Uf 
 
 THE ROOTS OF LIFE. 
 
 *■ 
 
 
 (Written for Clarice.) 
 
 Thy fair, new chamber, Love, I see- 
 So bright, I had not known ; 
 
 But in it thou hast left for me 
 This crucifix alone. 
 
 And by that sign I recognize 
 
 That sacred symbol still ; 
 Thou art mine own beneath the skies, 
 
 In happiness or ill. 
 
 At times the shadow of thy doom 
 Falls o'er a smiling land ; 
 
 None reach thee in thy living tomb, 
 For none can understand. 
 
 io6 
 
THE ROOTS OF LIFE. 
 
 And then a weight men call despair 
 Tightens and stops thy breath : 
 
 And then God's crystal azure there 
 Fades to a mask of death. 
 
 And then, Love, I have seen thee lie 
 With dust upon thy head, 
 
 A ghost beneath the peaceful sky, 
 And than the dead more dead. 
 
 But is it that thy soul could be 
 Spurned thus from Love divine ? 
 
 Beyond this darkness could I see 
 No glorious future shine ? 
 
 Ah, Love ! the death-in-life we meet 
 To death itself might blind. 
 
 Ah, Love ! can any words be sweet 
 When Love is not behind ? 
 
 Those days are passed for thee, and now 
 
 Thou walkest in the light ; 
 God left upon thy glorious brow 
 
 No scars to tell of fight. 
 107 
 
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 k 
 
 I 
 
 T'Arfi' ROOTS OF LIFE. 
 
 Only thou hast at times a gaze 
 His chosen ones must wear, 
 
 TeHing, for those who look, of days 
 Saved in the deeps of prayer. 
 
 But here thou art, and in thy hand 
 My own— the strife is o'er ; 
 
 And the sweet crucifix must stand 
 Between us evermore. 
 
 And words like these seem hovering near 
 By wrath and tempest nursed • 
 " Love thou thy God, and dare not fear, 
 Because He loved thee first." 
 
 \ ' I 
 
 io8 
 
T 
 
 AT THE END. 
 (Written for Clarice.) 
 
 " I saw, also, that there was an ocean of darknes.; an^ ^- *i, 
 
 or :f^:^„:r t:z i^jt.:'?^--^ 
 
 God." ' ' ^^"^ *^^ '"finite love of 
 
 -George Fox's Journal. 
 
 This, not that, is true, mine own ; 
 
 True— far beyond these sighs •' 
 Just as I see not eyes alone 
 
 Looking from out thine eyes. 
 
 Just as I hear not issuing words 
 
 From out those lips serene ; 
 Instead-the truth of flashing swords 
 
 Such as might guard a queen. 
 
 There is a spirit-radiancy 
 
 That sight must all forego ; 
 It is not thy mortality 
 
 A-i>^v-ii mat iiiaKes me know. 
 109 
 
AT THE END. 
 
 m 
 
 w* 1 
 
 1 i 
 
 lit' 
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 Thus, when all hopes but mockery seem, 
 
 All shadows one — Despair ; 
 Thyself, the Real within a dream, 
 
 Flashest upon me there ; 
 
 And, whatsoever light or grace 
 
 May yet be mine, I see 
 No sweeter memory than that face, 
 
 God's loving thought for me ! 
 
 The days depart ; the black waves rise 
 
 About life's barren strand ; 
 There is no freshness in the skies, 
 
 No greenness on the land. 
 
 But God looks on ; His hand is there. 
 Where nought but chaos seems ; 
 
 He brings, from discords of despair. 
 The music of our dreams. 
 
 
 V. I 
 
 And now, loc close ! the black waves creep, 
 Lessening their noisome strife ; 
 
 And other waters o'er them sweep. 
 Bearing the hues of life. 
 
 These tnumph, and not those ! We see 
 
 The olive-branch, the dove ; 
 Not Death, but Life, our destiny ; 
 
 Not Hate at last, but Love, 
 no 
 
 ill 
 
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eem, 
 
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 creep, 
 
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 mi 
 
ELMIRE'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 beau., . ; ,„, „,„,_ P^s^r^Xsi/e ' et;:^': 
 
 those who knew her bese, best understood the difficul v „J 
 g.v.ng an adequate presentment of such a sub ec ThTs is 
 only an attempt. "ujecc. i nis is 
 
 Her eyes were deep, her face serene ; 
 The presence of a crownt^d queen 
 Was hers ; with every word she spake 
 A beauty over life would break. 
 No meaner thoughts could live, that you 
 Once brought before that earnest view • 
 Despair was not, beneath the skies 
 When you had looked into her eyes 
 The petty things, the common ways 
 That fill so much of all our days, 
 Were not the same, methinks, to' her • 
 The pulses of her life would stir 
 With larger meanings, loftier powers • 
 Her soul stood nearer home than ours 
 The strength one mortal life may hold. 
 Can It by word or pen be told ? 
 
 Ill 
 
I 
 
 m f 
 
 ELMIRE'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 Sequel. 
 
 {Many Years After.) 
 
 / J 
 
 ' r 
 
 All is past ; Earth's sounds of strife, 
 
 Shadows of fear or foes ; 
 The treasured, gentle woman's life 
 
 Has found its gentle close. 
 The earth is poorer, drearier now 
 
 That that sweet sun is set ; 
 The love-light quenched beneath the brow 
 
 We never can forget. 
 In visions fair we watch thee stand 
 
 Glad on the Eternal shore, 
 But the royal heart, the royal hand. 
 
 Can help us here no more. 
 O treasured ore I remorseful love 
 
 Pictures thy smile serene, 
 The tenderest mortal lips could move, 
 
 The fittest for a Queen : 
 Recalls the words those lips would part. 
 
 Their maxims true and wise ; 
 Recalls that loftiest mother-heart, 
 
 The home of Sacrifice ; 
 Recalls, O humble Christian, still 
 
 I'hat crowning memory sweet. 
 Of a pure life, self-conquering will. 
 
 Laid at the Master's feet. 
 
 112 
 
 !-■ » 
 
I 
 
 e, 
 
 lie brow 
 
 3ve, 
 part, 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF THE "PETREL." 
 (Clarice and Isabel.) 
 
 harbor s" I as 'L he I? "^ ''"'^™ ''""'"' '» " 
 his face upturned ;„ He 'rT" '""*'" °" '"' ""'» ^eck, 
 will, in a long praye, ' ' ""y"" ^'"""^ ^ '"'"'^' '' you 
 cealed that in that cas'e I'm," / "°"""' " "■""" ^e con- 
 
 0. .hat there :T'd:t:it: ':n:T" r '''"'' 
 
 remember a .ime-a long .in,e of coW of .' ill' ' ., ' '°° "'" 
 
 • • • I even know there was a sto,™ TTL"""""™- 
 hour or one dav Fnr n!, T ' ^"^ ""»' "»' of ori 
 
 stars appeared;' we casrwhho"" ""'u'^"''' "'"Oersunnor 
 of the ship ; a heLv eml«?T """ ''""'' "'* '"^'''i"? "ut 
 
 should be LVedtr fa „Tw;''^r«„":^!" "^ "■" -^ 
 
 the crew perished."-" V.LLETTE," Chap. ',v '' "'' '°"' 
 
 I- Clarice. 
 
 Fair friend, whose softest eyes, intent, 
 
 buch witchery o'er me cast • 
 Thou ask'st me, then, how I have spent 
 
 1 hose days of absence— past ? 
 
 8 
 
 "3 
 
if ' f 
 
 T/fE VOYAGE OF THE ''PETREL:' 
 
 Those eyes — ^I shall not let them keep 
 
 My actual presence nigh ; 
 Nor with their radiant rangings sweep 
 
 The cold Reality. 
 
 Yet — such their mercy and their power — 
 
 Half would I let them know 
 This history, in some deepest hour 
 
 Of love for all below. 
 
 I) 
 
 Take up the riddle of my life : 
 Where thy resemblance shone, 
 
 With all sweet hopes and meanings rife. 
 See vacancy alone. 
 
 ■■'f 
 
 Bound to some port I needs must be ; 
 
 It matters little where ; 
 Behold me, then, on a calm sea 
 
 Whose waters are Despair. 
 
 Yet naught affects it this that I, 
 Serene, perhaps, and bland, 
 
 Should watch my vessel quietly 
 Leave out of sight the land ; 
 114 
 
 i ! 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE '' PETREW 
 
 Like Egypt's love, I may recline 
 
 On couches soft and deep, 
 And breathe the happiest airs divine 
 
 In simulated sleep ; 
 
 Or list the deep-voiced sailors' song. 
 
 While rough but faithful hands 
 Prepare my ship for voyage long 
 
 Among the unknown lands. 
 
 Not even a cloudlet floats, to speck 
 
 The blue and dree my air ; 
 The steersman lies upon the deck. 
 
 Buried, perhaps, in prayer. 
 
 This Lethesn quiet ! Must it cease ? 
 
 Balm for the heart opprest ? 
 Ah ! Is it, then, a conquered peace, 
 
 Or but deceitful rest ? 
 
 Fast drew that season to its close ; 
 
 As, by some careless word 
 
 Dropped suddenly from its r-pose— 
 
 We know the heart is stirred ; 
 
 "5 
 
IP 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF THE ''PETREL:' 
 
 I 
 
 r 
 
 li* i 
 
 So, when I heard a dreary sound 
 Low muttering far away, 
 
 I knew the tempest was unbound, 
 Ready to meet its prey. 
 
 I knew — I shuddered. With earth's woe 
 Must earth's frail hearts despond ; 
 
 What will be, will be ; this we know ; 
 Why seek to pierce beyond ? 
 
 ■.,: ;' I 
 
 t. 
 
 I waited, reckless half, in thought, 
 
 If that sea were my grave. 
 Waited — while, rising, round me wrought 
 
 The powers of wind and wave. 
 
 'H 
 
 
 Strange deeps in Life, in Nature, form 
 
 Before the expectant eye ; 
 Not for one hour, nor day, that storm 
 
 Might rave beneath that sky. 
 
 N' ' ** 
 
 Nothing foreboded lip to Hp ; 
 
 Even closer human bands ; 
 There were firm hearts within that ship, 
 
 And strong and faithful hands. 
 ii6 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE ''PETREL!^ 
 
 Yet, to my thought, it seemed to be 
 In that drear dark unknown 
 
 When th' others drew so close, for me 
 Marked out to stand alone. 
 
 I cried unto the winds and waves ; 
 
 Methought their sole reply 
 Was but to uprear their ink-black caves 
 
 Against the angry sky. 
 
 Nor sun, nor stars ! but, worst of all, 
 
 The bitterest I could prove. 
 This thought : God's power hid let me fall 
 
 From His, and human, love. 
 
 The storm's force lessening not, at last 
 With our own trembling hands 
 
 Out of the ship we tackling cast— 
 And on for unknown lands. 
 
 All elements in Earth or Heaven 
 Seemed in that hour to meet ; 
 
 Dreamed I, from out that ruptured levin, 
 Fell on us radiance sweet ! 
 
 117 
 
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 THE VOYAGE OF THE ''PETREL.'' 
 
 But O my heart ! how mayst thou show 
 
 The horror, the despair ? 
 It was in that hour thou said'st ** My woe 
 
 Is more than I can bear." 
 
 But did God leave thee comfortlr ^s, 
 
 This cup of doom to fill ? 
 Unknown to thee, in storm and stress, 
 
 His Arm upheld thee still. 
 
 But oh, it was so dark, so deep ! 
 
 No help, no comfort near ! 
 Tossed on such waves might I not sleep 
 
 Without a hope or fear ? 
 
 The winds and wayes some secret tell, 
 Through all their leagues of grey ; 
 
 Was it this, then — or a sweet love-spell — 
 That tore Death's clutch away ? 
 
 \ 
 
 II. Isabel. 
 
 I ''lept, and woke. The world was fair ; 
 
 Soft sunbeams round me shone ; 
 The wreck beneath me floated bare, 
 
 And I alone, alone. 
 ii8 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE ''PETRELS 
 
 A million jewels seemed to melt 
 Where might have been my tomb ; 
 
 Land rose so near, methought I felt 
 The freshness of its bloom. 
 
 Radiance was all around me thrown, 
 And subtle odors sweet. 
 
 But it was I ; I was still alone- 
 All comfort incomplete. 
 
 The laden orange-boughs beneath 
 One stepped, whose gentle eyes 
 
 In tender darkness seemed to sheathe 
 A light from Paradise. 
 
 Even as I looked, my shattered wreck 
 
 Drew nearer to the strand. 
 And from the engulphing, spar-strewn deck 
 
 I leaped— to seize her hand. 
 
 And we were friends, and walked below 
 The spreading branches high. 
 
 Just as, in youth, I had seemed to know 
 Some vision of the sky. 
 119 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE ''PETREL:' 
 
 But this was real — and real to me 
 
 Her love serene and fair. 
 Must not all being come to be 
 
 Dissolved in grateful prayer? 
 
 Ah, Love ! — why mourn the past, when Hate 
 
 Flew far, in wrath and pain ? 
 Ah, Love ! — what matter if, though la.., 
 
 We lean on Love again ? 
 
 How strangely now I felt it true. 
 What sweet lips once had said ; 
 
 Think NOT God has forgotten you. 
 And Satan's hosts are fled. 
 
 He has not forgotten ! I have won 
 
 More than I dare receive. 
 He has not forgotten ! — And His Son ? 
 
 At last I can believe. 
 
 He has taken me from out my doom, 
 
 Set me in peace and might ; 
 This earth I looked to have been my tomb 
 
 Becomes again delight. 
 1 20 
 
 I)' I' 
 
 I 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE '"PETREL" 
 
 After long, poisonous anguish dumb, 
 
 Love came and set me free. 
 And— I awoke. There was Death for some, 
 
 But there was Life for me. 
 
 There are hushed and darkling mysteries still 
 Through worlds we dare not sound ; 
 
 But God all waiting hearts can fill 
 From His own depths profound. 
 
 This story of my voyage is true ; 
 
 To all who prosper, known. 
 In fine, the ship was lost, the crew 
 
 Perished, save I alone. 
 
 121 
 
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 THE GRAVE OF FENICE. 
 
 Miranda Metcalfe Aldis, second daughter of the late Hon. 
 Judge Aldis, of St. Albans, Vermont, and afterwards of Wash- 
 ington, D.C. Though called away on the very threshold of life 
 — at the age of sixteen — this young girl's gifts of mind and heart 
 will, by those who had the privilege of knowing her, never be 
 forgotten. 
 
 She rests, then ! Solemn be that rest — 
 
 After life's fever, sleep ! 
 That heart, with passionate hopes oppressed, 
 
 With longings strange and deep. 
 Has found its quiet. O'er her here 
 
 How soft the grasses wave ! 
 O stranger ! Bring thy hope, thy fear. 
 
 Not unto this fair grave ! 
 
 She who rests here — I cannot see 
 
 One touch of nature fled ! 
 Ever, in lingering thought, to me 
 
 She lives — she is not dead ! 
 It is as though, by some strange chance, 
 
 Wandering, with spirit sore, 
 I might behold that upward glance — 
 
 Fenice ! mine once more ! 
 
 122 
 
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late Hon. 
 of Wash- 
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THE GRAVE OF FEN ICE. 
 
 Sixteen ! Those years when some have told 
 
 They are but children still ; 
 Life's deeps, as yet, may not unfold, 
 
 The slumbering heart to thrill ; 
 But she, when dropt God's sudden call 
 
 Into her youthful sky, 
 It was as she had known the All, 
 
 And now — could only die ! 
 
 The All ! But she had known a youth 
 
 Rich with imperial hours ; 
 Steeped in a natural girlish truth, 
 
 Balmy with breath of flowers ; 
 Life said, in accents that seemed true, 
 
 " My child ! I give thee days 
 To wind, 'neath skies of deepest blue. 
 
 Only in radiant ways." 
 
 She listened, she believed ; her ear 
 
 Could but such promise greet ; 
 Nor might a thought intrude, of fear, 
 
 Beside its music sweet ; 
 She walked, as reading a fair tale, 
 
 Down some enchanted land : 
 Sudden the brilliance seemed to fail. 
 
 The book fell from her hand ! 
 123 
 

 
 i'V: 
 
 THE GRAVE OF FENICE. 
 
 And she beheld, where Fancy drew 
 
 Arcades of glorious bloom, 
 That, through a mist, her pathway grew 
 
 A pathway to the tomb ! 
 
 hat gentle spirit, warmed and cheered 
 
 By all it met below, 
 Was doomed. What then she felt or feared 
 
 I do not seek to know. 
 
 -,» ' 
 
 But this I know — that here, serene. 
 
 Safe from the world's cold breath, 
 My fair Fenice lies, a queen, 
 
 Sleeping the sleep of death ! 
 T'he pale hands crossed ; I know, e'en yet 
 
 In thought, their touch benign ; 
 ^*nd closed the eyes which never met, 
 
 With aught but sweetness, mine I 
 
 We were together once, in truth ; 
 
 Our souls together ; still 
 Those so departed days of youth 
 
 Come back, one heart to thrill ; 
 But now a wanderer I must be. 
 
 Bound on some wayward quest, 
 While, set so far apart from me, 
 
 She lies in holy rest. 
 124 
 
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 TO MY SISTER OF THE SACRED HEART. 
 {Triniia dei Monti, Rome, February, 187 1.) 
 
 My Sister ! In your thoughts of me 
 
 Trust not these mortal sighs. 
 
 Press on my heart your hand, and see 
 
 The longing in my eyes ! 
 
 How many a picture Fancy drew 
 
 In the proud da^'s of yore, 
 
 Vanished in blackness as she knew 
 
 Her suns could shine no more ! 
 
 Into the dust her life she flung, 
 
 Its bloom to ashes passed. 
 
 But from those ashes, Sister, sprung 
 
 A flower more sweet at last. 
 
 I hold, in my heart's treasury, 
 That lovely heart of yours ! 
 I wonder, in your thoughts of me, 
 If the same spell endures ! 
 
 127 
 
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 TO MY SISTER OF THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 
 I wonder, in the quietness 
 
 That fills your lofty days, 
 
 Through those calm hours, when they suppress 
 
 Their outward prayer and praise, 
 
 I wonder — nay, I wonder not, 
 
 O Sister, fair and sweet. 
 
 That memory seeks some sacred spot 
 
 To worship at your feet ! 
 
 Perhaps through all we feel of worth 
 
 Steals the dissolveriw Pain ; 
 
 Perhaps, my Sister, not on earth 
 
 Are we to meet again ; 
 
 But oh, God-cherished, loveliest one. 
 
 Who hushed a stranger's sighs. 
 
 And gave to view that Mercy's sun 
 
 Whose radiance filled her eyes ; 
 
 Perhaps, when stilled these notes below, 
 
 When passed this earthly shore, 
 
 In thee my grateful heart shall know 
 
 Christ's image evermore. 
 
 128 
 
CHURCH BELLS IN VENICE. 
 (Santa Zacaria.) 
 
 They steal me back to other days 
 They smooth to youth my brow'- 
 
 As through Venetian air I gaze ' 
 They flood the landscape now. 
 
 They lift the struggling spirit high 
 
 Out of its pains and woe, 
 And set it near some cloudless sky 
 
 As m the long ago ; 
 
 They praise, entreat, complain, adore, 
 They soothe, and they awake 
 
 Sound-waves that strike some holier shore 
 And the soul's silence break. 
 
 Earth's self-reproach and penitence 
 
 Seems uttered in their tone • 
 Clouds gather round their heights intense, 
 
 10 mortal eyes unknown. 
 
 And still those echoes, rising true. 
 
 Earth's deadlier vapors oart 
 While in the space they leave we view 
 
 All that should fill the heart. 
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 AT FIESOLE, NORTHERN ITALY. 
 {April, 1871.) 
 
 The fair, fair hills of Florence gleam 
 
 Around, beside, on high ; 
 Thy life itself thou feel'st a dream, 
 
 Under such lovely sky ! 
 
 f ! 
 
 Upon such fields might well have striven 
 
 Man's old despairs in vain ; 
 Thou think'st at last, " Here life was given 
 
 For peace— but not for pain ! " 
 
 130 
 
 1 '■ 
 
AT FIESOLE, NORTHERN ITALY. 
 
 Sequel. 
 
 {In After Years.) 
 
 Mysterious questions ! Evermore, 
 Along life's way-worn, surf-beat shore, 
 The problems come that came of yore. 
 And then in Paradises sweet. 
 Full of such balm to these tired feet, 
 As words can never rightly gxv^^ 
 Where 'tis but joy to breathe and live. 
 As in that fairest land below, 
 The seat of Empire long ago. 
 And now of Memory, 'neath whose skies 
 The doom of Fascination lies. 
 Nor do we forget the poet, whose breath 
 (A power evolving life from death) 
 Thrilled, as he spoke those passionate words 
 ^^ That stir our being's deepest chords— 
 " Open my heart and you will see 
 Graved inside of it, * Italy.' " * 
 
 I 
 
 * Robert Browning. 
 
 131 
 

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 Suggested by the Two Stone Figures at the North 
 
 Entrance of Rouen Cathedral (Portail 
 
 des libraires), september, 1871. 
 
 For ages they have dwelt in stone, 
 
 Two mystic figures fair ; 
 For ages passers-by have known 
 
 A fragrance — as of prayer. 
 How long some tender chisel wrought 
 
 To leave those forms of peace ! 
 Even yet the sculptor's pious thought 
 
 Its working shall not cease. 
 
 * * * * ♦ ♦ « 
 
 133 
 
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 TWO STONE FIGURES AT ROUEN CATHEDRAL, 
 
 Girt round by all the city's din, 
 
 The brave cathedral stands ;' 
 A spark of fire, those deeps within, 
 
 Dropt down from Heavenly hands ; 
 It flings the splendor of a dream 
 
 Upon th' unlovely street ; 
 And in its strength all forms supreme 
 
 All holiest symbols, meet. 
 
 Yet men in every beauty see 
 
 The one last touch divine ; 
 And for each heart there seems to be 
 
 Some special lighted shrine. 
 Thus, in no other outward nook 
 
 So was my spirit bowed, 
 As where these figures seemed to look 
 
 Upon the passing crowd. 
 
 They are so sweet ! as they had come 
 
 Borne soft through midnight air 
 To bring some soul, oppressed and dumb 
 
 1 he vision of a prayer ; 
 Which, in that sudden light set free, 
 
 He, who such waiting bore, 
 Had, after, fixed in stone, to be 
 
 An offering evermore. 
 
TPVO STONE FIGURES AT ROUEN CATHEDRAL 
 
 
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 They are so stern ! because they know 
 
 No faintest link with sin ; 
 Soft figures, fleeing all below 
 . The Heavenly grace to win ; 
 And, to my thought, the haloes true, 
 
 That ever round them came, 
 Turned each heart outward to our view, 
 
 Most different, yet the same. 
 
 u 
 
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 Clad in monk's robe and cowl is one ; 
 
 Down-bent the waiting eyes ; 
 His hands are crossed ; his eyes upon 
 
 The earth, not in the skies. 
 Yet, patient traveller in this clime, 
 
 Loving and loved in strife. 
 How far beyond these shades of time 
 
 Is lived his truest life ! 
 
 His is a spirit ; sad, yet true — 
 
 Feeling its weight of sin ; 
 Ordained, that very anguish through. 
 
 Pardon and peace to win ; 
 But yet — the Shadow. For the Light, 
 
 In radiant angel guise, 
 His comrade stands, with eyes of might 
 
 Uplifted to the skies ! 
 134 
 
TIVO STONE FIGURES AT ROUEN CATHEDRAL. 
 
 Uplifted ! Not a touch of ftar 
 
 Dwells on that star-like brow ; 
 If sorrow dimmed those features here, 
 
 The stains are vanished now. 
 How merciful the thought, to abid:^ 
 
 Through years of sinful breath. 
 In homes that vtight be glorified 
 
 Thus by the hand of death ! 
 
 Two products are they, of one root, 
 These loving figures fair ; 
 
 Type of the seed and of the fruit- 
 Earthly and Heavenly prayer. 
 
 One without other might not be ; 
 Though every cloud should burst 
 
 To show us light's intensity. 
 We need the shadow first. 
 
 Many and marvellous years have flown 
 
 Since hands, so skilled and blest, 
 To shape these angel thoughts in stone, 
 
 Have crossed themselves in rest ; 
 The sculptor's soul might seek in vain 
 
 His world of hopes and fears, 
 But yet his message shall remain. 
 
 And speak through all the years. 
 135 
 
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 THE PRISONER OF THE HUNGER 
 
 TOWER. 
 
 Among the many interesting monuments of its past history 
 to be seen in the old Bohemian city of Prague, none is more 
 fascinating to the traveller than a rude circular stone structure, 
 dating, apparently, from the thirteenth or fourteenth century. 
 It is commonly called the " Hunger Tower," and, as its too 
 suggestive name implies, those who had specially offended 
 against the laws of the State, civil or religious, were there put 
 to death by starvation. It contains two upper stories, and a 
 dungeon or oubliette^ into which those condemned to suffer the 
 worst penalty of the law were lowered. The two upper stories 
 contain many little cells, some with rough, unglazed windows 
 barred with iron, and others with a simple niche, or blind win- 
 dow, at the end. In one of these cells, about seven feet by 
 four, many of the stones from this niche are displaced, and lie 
 in confusion with the hardened mortar, showing plainly that 
 some unfortunate captive had made desperate efforts to work 
 through the wall in this direction, and so reach the outer world, 
 from which he must have felt himself so cruelly debarred. The 
 implements he used can only be conjectured. The old cicerone, 
 on being asked what was done with him for thus attempting to 
 escape, shrugged her shoulders and answered indifferently, 
 " Oh, taken out and beheaded next day." 
 
 136 
 
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THE PRISONER OF THE HUNGER TOWER, 
 
 He stood within his narrow cell, 
 
 So narrow, loathsome, dim ; 
 Was there a God ?~and could these cries-. 
 
 His creature's— reach to Him ? 
 He looked into his heart ; 'twas naught 
 
 But bitter to the brim. 
 
 " I know," he thought, "this morn of June, 
 Outside, the lindens play ; 
 The love-birds sing their madrigals, 
 
 Soaring from earth away ; 
 The glorious sun looks down from Heaven 
 Serene upon the day." 
 
 " My God I " he said ; not that he thought 
 There could be such a one. 
 But that such words break from the lips 
 
 When man is most undone, 
 Even by such instinct as the flowers 
 Turn with to seek the sun. 
 
 He said no more. Goes ever aught 
 As deep as earth's despair, 
 
 Save those two living, dying words, 
 The briefest, longest prayer ? 
 
 My God ! if we believe, He is— 
 Enough ; our life is there. 
 
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 THE PRISONER OF THE HUNGER TOWER. 
 
 As in some torpid trance of shame, 
 Slow went the hours and days ; 
 
 Sometimes the sunlight burnt to flame, 
 Sometimes it sank to haze : 
 
 It was the same to him ; his eyes 
 On stone and darkness gaze. 
 
 One night — it was a night when storm 
 And rain were on the blast — 
 
 His hands, cold lying on the stones 
 O'er which so oft they passed. 
 
 Shrunk, as they clutched a nail ; he felt 
 A flash, of joy at last ! 
 
 He grasped it firm. " In days of old, 
 
 Now dead as leaves that fall, 
 Earth's pomps and gauds were mine — 
 those powers 
 
 Whose worth v\ e dare not call — 
 And now this rusty nail shall bear 
 
 The palm before them all !" 
 
 He groped to the blind niche, that turned 
 
 Toward the outer air ; 
 His hands were strung with steel ; he lost, 
 
 A moment, his despair ; 
 And in that moment o'er him came 
 
 A thought — that was a prayer. 
 138 
 
 11 . 
 
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THE PRISONER OF THE HUNGER TOWER. 
 
 He worked_he toiled. The drops would stand 
 
 Like beads upon his brow ; 
 The tissues of that hapless frame 
 
 Such unused toil would bow ; 
 What mattered it ?— his breath 'came free, 
 
 He had an interest now ! 
 
 Once, tired, he leaned against the wall ; 
 
 It was a summer night ; 
 (Half guessing how he might have come 
 
 From darkness near to light ;) 
 The measured sound of church bells came 
 
 Piercing that stony might ! 
 
 Was it he who heard ? The hands fell free, 
 
 The heart forgot its fears ; 
 He in that moment tenderly 
 
 Recalled his vanished years ; 
 And, as he liirtened, could it be ? 
 
 This— that he felt— was tears. 
 
 " I have walked," he said, " in such a blur 
 
 Of horror and of pain, 
 I wonder not the bitterness 
 
 Has gone into my brain ; 
 I deemed not God could so be God, 
 
 To give such hour again !" 
 
 139 
 
I I 
 
 THE PRISONER OF THE HUNGER TOWER. 
 
 h * \\s> 
 
 He saw himself in boyhood's hour 
 (A radiant, fleeting dream) ; 
 
 The earliest lights of Faith and Love 
 Fresh on his memory gleam ; 
 
 He saw fair Ermentrudis walk 
 By the golden Moldau stream. 
 
 " In retrospect I can recall 
 
 God's finger in the past ; 
 I can behold (though I have not long) 
 
 His mercy o'er me cast ; 
 Can it be for token of the end 
 
 That I know these truths at last?" 
 
 He listened to that music still, 
 
 With thoughts so sweet and strange ! 
 
 Upon the breathless dungeon ?:r 
 There passed a sudden change ; 
 
 Whence came these sounds ? — and whence 
 these eyes 
 That o'er him seemed to range ? 
 
 i» 
 
 They noted all ; the rusty nail 
 
 Fallen down upon the floor ; 
 The misplaced stones, that told the tale 
 
 Of hope revived once more ; 
 The prisoner's face, though wan and pale, 
 
 Lit by the drea .ns of yore ! 
 140 
 
THE PRISONER OF THE HUNGER TOWER. 
 
 Each noted, with triumphal brow ; 
 
 For him the die was cast ; 
 This life of all mysterious woe 
 
 Foreknew its conflicts passed. 
 His days were justly forfeit now 
 
 To the outraged laws at last ! 
 
 "Prisoner," the eldest said, "you were pent 
 
 Here in this narrow room ; 
 Men well had deemed you penitent- 
 Hid in such dungeon gloom ; 
 Now mercy pleads in vain ; you are sent 
 To-morrow to your doom !" 
 
 The door clanged close. The mournful eyes 
 Dazed by that cruel light, ' 
 
 Fell back upon their destinies— 
 The shadow and the night ; 
 
 And yet-and yet-not quite'the same- 
 They had known at last their might ! 
 
 A shiver rustled through his frame ; 
 
 A shiver— not of fear ; 
 His eyes were fixed, yet one might see 
 
 Their vision soft and clear; 
 And yet he crouched toon the ground 
 
 As though some foe were near. 
 141 
 
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 TNE PRISONER OF THE HUNGER TOWER. 
 
 Was it so to end — the agony 
 
 Of that most bitter breath — 
 The dreams, the aspirings, that must see 
 
 How slow Hope perisheth ; 
 Then the after quiet, that might be, 
 
 At last, the spirit's death ? 
 
 Earth's battles are forever so 
 Through all conflicting powers ; 
 
 Soil must be tortured ere it show 
 The summer fruits and flowers ; 
 
 No eye but God's could ever know 
 Of his last earthly hours. 
 
 J 
 
 The morn is here ! In sullen file 
 The guards before the gate 
 
 Are gathered ; then, a little while 
 Below the lindens wait ; 
 
 And then they enter, and they stand 
 To bear him to his fate. 
 
 He is led forth then. How does he look, 
 
 O men, of women born ? 
 Fiends might their lesson take from you 
 
 Of cruelty and scorn ; 
 Yet he has little left to bear 
 
 Upon this summer morn. 
 142 
 

 THE PRISONER OF THE HUNGER TOWER, 
 
 Still in the courtyard stands a tree, 
 
 Lopped, dreary and aghast- 
 Stands where that prisoner, gagged and bound, 
 
 liefore the axe was cast- 
 Where, in God's gentle sunshine, he 
 
 From night to morning passed ! 
 
 What know we more ? The unseen world 
 
 1 he mystic realms untrod, 
 The Being that lifts us far above 
 The creatures of the sod, 
 " The world's great altar-stairs that slope 
 Through darkness up to God "— - 
 
 These are the things by which we live, 
 By which we live and die ; 
 " God's reservations " still must be 
 
 Treasures of life put by : 
 Can the creature to its Maker say, 
 " Teach me all things, low and high ?" 
 
 On « the little less, the little more," 
 
 Blessing or blight attend ; 
 What power can gauge the hidden deeps 
 
 In the sacred name of— Friend ? 
 Even the true spirits gone before 
 May help us to the end. 
 143 
 
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 MALA PROIBITA, MALA IN SE. 
 
 r I 
 
 Record of a walk with a good-natured German gossip, in 
 the environs of Warmbrunn, Prussian Silesia, a watering-place 
 among the Riesengebirge, or Giant Mountains. The spiritual 
 atmosphere of this and similar walks was unsatisfactory in the 
 extreme, being highly flavored with scandal, backbiting (under 
 a decent varnish of sentimentality) — in a word, Klatscherei. 
 Warmbrunn has been called a " Klatschnest" and any traveller 
 conversant with the idioms of the Fatherland understands only 
 too well all that this term imports. 
 
 Flesh lies around us everywhere ; 
 God help us in our lieart's despair. 
 
 I WALKED within a limiling land. 
 The mountains stood on either hand, 
 Strife with their peace to overwhelm, 
 Fair guardians of a fairer realm. 
 They drew their outlines, soft and high, 
 Against the pureness of the sky ; 
 Their height, their distance, grew to me 
 Ideals of mystic liberty. 
 
 144 
 
 
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 Valleys and streamlets at their feet 
 Made the fair picture all complete, 
 And my soul quieted its sighs 
 To gaze upon their destinies. 
 
 I walked with pleasant comrades there ; 
 
 The mountains towered divinely fair ; 
 
 The air was balm ; there came to me 
 
 A sense of utter misery. 
 
 Their talk— what was it ? Heart, o'erthrow 
 
 Fair visions of the long ago— 
 
 Accept the emptiness of days 
 
 That know not yearning, power, or praise ; 
 Even then thou wilt— not glad— behold 
 The shutting of the gates of gold— 
 The poisoning of the radiant thought 
 That means all meanings Life has wrought— 
 Sweet Hope's destruction, Satan's reignr 
 Echoes of madness, violence, pain- 
 Man's swelling words that, like fierce seas. 
 Bring shadows o'er God's silences ! 
 
 But He remembered ! I could see, 
 When other noontides rose for me. 
 
 I walked, then, with a little child ; 
 His face, his spirit, undefiled ; 
 lo 145 
 
I (■ 
 
 MALA PROIBITA, MALA IN SE. 
 
 His fancies ranging, wide and true 
 As those far hills beyond his view ; 
 His soft, small brain in quietness 
 Gathering all powers that yet should bless. 
 He dwelt not with the things of time. 
 But of th' Eternities sublime — 
 And Life's Medusa-horrors fell 
 Before that gentle spectacle. 
 
 " A little child shall lead them ! " True ; 
 O my sad heart, was this iox you? 
 
 111 
 
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THE GARDEN OF SLEEP. 
 (Russian Churchyard at Wiesbaden.) 
 
 Among the many interesting towns scattered along the 
 world-famed Rhine route, Wiesbaden occupies a prominent 
 place. True, it lacks the historical and antiquarian interest 
 possessed by some, but remains the most charming resort 
 possible for health or plea-ire-seekers, who visit it annually by 
 hundreds and thousands. O.ie of the special points of interest 
 which s.ght-seers make a business of visiting is the magnificent 
 Greek chapel on the Neroberg-a prettily wooded hill just 
 outside the city-erected in memory of the Duchess Elizabeth 
 Michailowna, a beautiful Russian princess who died in the 
 flower of her years. The chapel itself is beautiful- the monu- 
 ment, one of the masterpieces of modern sculpture. Connected 
 with the sacred edifice is a small but most picturesque burial- 
 ground. So many Russians of the best families continually visit 
 Wiesbaden that it is not surprising to find many of the monu- 
 ments indicative of the rank and wealth of their possessors 
 Many of them are also highly symbolical, bearing sculptured 
 representations of the Lamb with the Cross, and other em- 
 blems of our faith. At the time of the writer's last visit to 
 this place, in the autumn of 1884, there had two or three days 
 previously been a light fall of snow, just enough to veil the 
 
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 ground without weighing too heavily upon it. On one of the 
 graves thus whitely draped grew a magnificent rose-bush in 
 fullest bloom. The marvellous contrast between the outward 
 suggestions of death ..nd life thus presented to the eye — the 
 plant, as it were, breathing and blooming — compared with the 
 dead white and black beneath, produced an impression never 
 to be forgotten. 
 
 1 
 
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 A MYSTIC scene ! so quiet, sweet — 
 The mountain and the graves — 
 
 And sacred dust beneath our feet, 
 Relics the spirit craves ! 
 
 And then above the monuments, 
 
 That symbol life in life. 
 To mark how here they struck their tents 
 
 And wandered from the strife. 
 
 The delicate snow lies all around — 
 
 So thin and light its sheath, 
 No weight is cast upon the ground 
 
 Or on the forms beneath. 
 
 And, ah ! from hidden nook we see, 
 Flusht with their own bright grace, 
 
 Tv.w'd roses, smiling tenderly, 
 As in the Winter's face. 
 150 
 
1 one of the 
 ose-bush in 
 he outward 
 le eye — the 
 ed with the 
 ssion never 
 
 THE GARDEN OF SLEEP. ' 
 
 So strange and fairy-like the scene 
 
 Amid this mortal doom, 
 Nature's sweet colors, rose and green. 
 
 The portal of the tomb. 
 
 My heart could but with passionate throes 
 
 Dwell on this waiting dust. 
 And ask, " Is even this green and rose 
 
 A symbol of the Just ? " 
 
 tents 
 
 a 
 
 151 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 (Primrose Day, 1885.) 
 
 Most noble spirit ! rare and true, 
 
 Not fitly cherished here ! 
 
 Held but this hand one wreath of rue, 
 
 One primrose for thy bier ! 
 
 Thy own faint favorite — spirit born 
 
 Of March and April's showers, 
 
 Type to us of another morn 
 
 In happier spher.'s than ours ! 
 
 For many a year shall English eyes, 
 
 Noting that golden bloom, 
 
 Connect it with thy prophecies. 
 
 Recall thee in thy tomb ! 
 
 m 
 
 ^ 
 
 Oh, what a life was thine ! how full 
 Of all experience deep ! 
 Though there were hours so pitiful. 
 Ere thou might'st '* fall on sleep," 
 152 
 
 
i 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Thy star rose tremulous, lurid, bright, 
 Aglow with mystic flame — 
 Thou borest, read) for the fight. 
 
 An old and honored name 
 
 Genius thy sphere-like forehead crowned, 
 
 Youth urged thy maiden sword— 
 
 Thou wouldst fight, on thy own conflict 
 
 ground, 
 The battles of thy Lord I 
 
 Thou hadst thy failings— be it so ; 
 
 Around us, anguish, strife, 
 
 Is it that we all scathless go 
 
 Along our path of life ? 
 
 Most generous heart, most lofty mind ! 
 
 The virtues of thy race, 
 
 Methinks, might in thy being find 
 
 Their fit abiding place ! 
 
 All is so lost — we count the years 
 
 Since thy last sunbeams set ; 
 
 Yet lingers, even below our tears, 
 
 One passionate, long regret. 
 
 153 
 
 I 
 
w 
 
 
 : ■//' 
 
 !v } 
 
 THE GIPSY'S RETROSPECT. 
 
 (From His Death-Bed.) 
 
 I. 
 
 '™' 
 
 m 
 
 J . If- : 
 
 m 
 
 I WAS a child. The earth, the sky, 
 The long-descending beam, 
 
 Made life the all I could not fly, 
 A riddlf * and a dream. 
 
 Its web above me grew and grew, 
 Woven in a mystic shroud ; 
 
 While rny wild heart existence drew 
 From every flower and cloud. 
 
 And if the skies were dim, I L '^ught 
 My hopes to darkening lands ; 
 
 And if the heaven was fair, methought 
 My spirit clapped h-^r hands. 
 J 54 
 
 -|Wg 
 
THE GIPSY'S RETROSPECT. 
 
 O Sun ! O Mother ! thou wert mine 
 In those fair summers past : 
 
 The days I worshipped at thy shrine- 
 Hast thou forgot at last ? 
 
 It is so much to breathe— to be- 
 More than all words have told ! 
 
 My eyes, even through Death's shadow, see 
 More clearly than of old. 
 
 This was my time— that time when I, 
 
 Before my days of strife, 
 Knew not what fate should o'er me lie, 
 
 But lived an inward life. 
 
 Then quiet Clotho to me came, 
 
 And took me by the hand : 
 A gentle, yet mysterious dame 
 
 I could not understand. 
 And under noontide's deepening flame 
 
 She led me through the land. 
 
 II. 
 
 The days passed on. The shadows deep 
 
 Of Life upon me rose. 
 I had done with fairy tales of sleep - 
 
 I had to meet my foes. 
 155 
 
 
I 
 
 TJ/E GlPSrs RETROSPECT. 
 
 The World, the Flesh, the Devil ! See ! 
 
 I have known them, each and all ; 
 If Saint Aloysius had been me, 
 
 He had answered to their call. 
 
 Yet one thing might have saved me yet- 
 
 I asked a perfect friend, 
 One to reproach not, nor forget, 
 
 But love until the end. 
 
 ''^1? 
 
 God's love, perchance, demands that we 
 Lean on Him through the strife ; 
 
 Such blessing came not then to me — 
 Snare of our earthly life. 
 
 III. 
 
 The days passed on. In manhood's prime 
 All know some radiant hours ; 
 
 Are there not also things whose slime 
 One finds among the flowers ? 
 
 Everywhere, everywhere the same ; 
 
 Wherever eyes may fall — 
 Or thought pause — still the hue of shame. 
 
 The serpent's trail, o'er all. 
 156 
 
THE GIPSY'S RETROSPECT. 
 
 My visions fell before me then- 
 Fell — for they could not save. 
 " Deceitful are the hearts of men, 
 And cruel as the grave." 
 
 " From my youth up Thy terrors, Lord, 
 I have suffered in my mind." 
 When I am gone, be this dread word 
 The last I leave behind. 
 
 He paused— were they death-damps glistening 
 cold 
 
 Upon his marble brow ? 
 Of the lordly power and strength of old 
 
 There were no traces now. 
 
 
 There was more than mine could understand 
 In that deep-eyed, earnest gaze ; 
 
 And my hand still sought to reach his hand 
 For the clasp of other days. 
 
 Through backward wastes of hope and fear 
 
 How Memory pours its tide ! 
 We had comrades been for many a year 
 
 And I was at his side. 
 157 
 
THE GIPSY'S RETROSPECT. 
 
 I-K^. 
 
 O the mystic depth of Friendship's chords, 
 Long echoing through the Past ! 
 
 And I feared those mournful, bitter words 
 Might be for me the last. 
 
 But the low breath came back tenderly — 
 Once more the utterance came ; 
 
 O the Gipsy's voice was sweet to me 
 Like some beloved name. 
 
 I 
 
 And the mellow fire burned steadily ; 
 
 Its coals were caverns vast, 
 Within whose depths we could but see 
 
 Strange pictures of the past ! 
 
 % 
 
 He said : '* The Book is at my side, 
 And earthly hopes are o'er ; 
 
 I drift, like a boat upon the tide, 
 Fast to an unknown shore." 
 
 p. I 
 
 O the long-past, brilliant Summer suns ! 
 
 And O, the grass and flowers ! 
 And the Gipsy's blood forever runs 
 
 To passion-laden hours. 
 158 
 
 Ai 
 
THE GIPSTS RETROSPECT. 
 
 I used to think for me they came— 
 
 The changing opal h'ghts, 
 The hours that wrought the sea to flame, 
 
 The halcyon days and nights. 
 
 I deemed no spirit so well as mine 
 
 Knew Nature's mystic art ; 
 And I pictured future hours divine— 
 
 I, with my broken heart ! 
 
 And was there love ?— I cannot say : 
 
 I know that rays of gold 
 Streamed for me round some hidden way, 
 
 A secret yet untold. 
 
 I have stood beside thee, and my hand 
 
 By clasp of thine was blest. 
 Oh, in that hour I touched the strand 
 
 Of long-lost Isles of Rest ! 
 
 Do I seek for Friendship, to atone 
 For the yearnings of the past ? 
 
 Not so— we must stand alone, alone, 
 Through the struggle to the last!* 
 159 
 
THE GIPSTS RETROSPECT. 
 
 Vs • 
 
 \ \^. 
 
 And we seek for earthly friends who strive 
 
 To help as here they know ; 
 But, God ! — to have one friend alive 
 
 Above, and not below ! 
 
 Can the truest friendship more than give 
 Of its dearest things and best ? 
 
 'Tis through one Sacrifice we live, 
 On one Atonement rest. 
 
 yi\n 
 
 I judge myself, and my thoughts are dark ; 
 
 But He, whose thoughts are high, 
 Will not quench the tiniest, feeblest spark 
 
 That burns beneath His eye. 
 
 I 
 
 The mercy that bade the Singer rise 
 From depths of anguished night — 
 
 The mercy that heard Manasseh's cries, 
 That King of Evil Might— 
 
 That mercy liveth, reigneth now, 
 And when our hearts are tried, 
 
 Ah, can we not remember how 
 One heart was broken beside ? 
 1 60 
 
THE GIPSrS RETROSPECT, 
 
 "Smitten of God and cursed; " even so ; 
 With this thy stress is o'er. 
 We tread no darker paths below 
 Than He hath trodden before. 
 
 And then, " Why hast Thou, for our gloom 
 
 Thus left Thy Father's hall?" 
 Not for the righteous am I come, 
 
 But sinners to recall. 
 
 What is Man's thought ? The Pharisee, 
 
 Serenely passing by, 
 Pausing but to smt'le scornfully 
 
 On all that meets his eye. 
 
 When Man's true spirit is dead within. 
 Why Life's poor semblance wear ? 
 
 Where is not consciousness of sin, 
 What need of sinner's prayer ? 
 
 His thoughts from ours lie far apart, 
 Beyond these earthly sighs ; 
 " A broken and a contrite heart, 
 Lord ! Thou wilt not despise." 
 " i6i 
 
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 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
1^ MP.. 
 
 
 
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mmm 
 
 THE GIPSY'S RETROSPECT. 
 
 There fell a silence. Leaning still, 
 
 I strove some sound to hear, 
 And in the silence, hushed and chill, 
 -s*i.I felt the dawn was near. 
 
 I through the silence did not cease 
 From inward songs of praise ; 
 
 For the Gipsy had laid down in peace 
 The burden of his days. 
 
 h i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 n 
 
 I 
 
 ir 
 
 162 
 
FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 {In Memory of Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, 
 died January 14th, i8g2.) 
 
 Up to th' unyielding, iron skies, 
 
 And onward to the strand, 
 A weight of bitterest winter lies 
 
 Upon the Mother Land ! 
 Pictures of greenness and of flowers. 
 
 The summer's smiles of yore, 
 Look to U3, in these mournful hours. 
 
 Vanished for evermore ! 
 
 But most of all, the band of steel 
 
 That binds our hearts to-day. 
 The weight we every moment feel, 
 
 And cannot put away — 
 The promised gay and glad career. 
 
 Finished before begun ! 
 The nation's youthful hope lies here, 
 
 So set this rising sun ! 
 163 
 
 '1 
 
 I! 
 
 1 
 
m .If 
 
 ;"l" 
 
 Hi 
 
 ;h! 
 
 
 ;.:' m 
 
 Li 
 
 ill 
 
 
 FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 For festive robes a funeral shroud ; 
 
 For life's most brilliant bloom, 
 Filled with all echoes sweet and proud, 
 
 The trophies of the tomb ! 
 Yet e'en these depths are tender, true. 
 
 All that the heart endears ; 
 The saddened crowds that meet our view, 
 
 The bride's, the people's tears ! 
 
 ■ < 
 
 
 i' 
 
 j'ii 
 
 s 
 
 t i 
 
 II 
 
 ';!• 
 
 : 
 
 Perhaps 'tis best. There might have been 
 
 Sad and unworthy days — 
 Echoes of strife disturbed the scene, 
 
 Silenced the people's praise. 
 Now all is past. We think of thee 
 
 Only as stainless, brave ; 
 And sweetest spells wake melody 
 
 Above thy early grave ! 
 
 164 
 
THE FAIR BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 O SWEET, sweet Death ! Thou seem'st to rise 
 
 Out of the sunset deep ; 
 Thou kissest me between the eyes, 
 
 To wake me from my sleep. 
 
 Life's sleep of woe ! Thou honorest me ; 
 
 1 rest within thine arms ; 
 Held in that clasp, I can but see 
 
 Thy pity and thy charms. 
 
 " My Heart ! " thou sayest, " my Heart ! I 
 yearned 
 For thee, in all thy ways : 
 Saw how, each hour, thy spirit turned 
 From Earth's embitteied days. 
 165 
 
 
 BjHMgifl 
 
IM 
 
 h^ 
 
 ^1 
 
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 )'- 
 
 
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 ti 
 
 
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 III 
 
 V'; ! 1. V 
 
 m 
 
 THE FAIR BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 " It mattered not, by land or sea, 
 Ever thy sorrows there ; 
 The peace these hands have kept for thee 
 Shall match thy long despair. 
 
 " For these slow clouds there shall be skies 
 Serene as thy desire ; 
 For tears that never left thine eyes, 
 A vision as of fire. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " For words that died in agony, 
 Triumphant hymns shall wave 
 Their soft tone-banners, true and free, 
 Above thy happy grave." 
 
 Sequel. 
 
 {After Many Years.) 
 
 O fool and blind ! that thou shouldst deem 
 
 (Thou in thy careless pride) 
 Life might be but a fairy's dream — 
 
 Ignoring aught beside ! 
 
 !.'( 
 
 Noting the anguish, loss and strife, 
 That on this earth we see ; 
 
 To dream God's discipline of Life 
 Should stand aside for thee ! 
 i66 
 
The pair bridegroom. 
 
 Thou mayst picfure jocund songs of mirth, 
 
 Dances on flowery sod — 
 There was One who walked alone on earth, 
 
 Alone the wine-press trod. 
 
 O mystery — that we seek not all 
 That true, unaltering Friend ! 
 
 O mystery — that our spirits call 
 For pleasure to the end ! 
 
 167 
 
t r 
 
 I. 
 
 If V ' 
 
 i'l. I 
 
 I' . 
 
 i 'H 
 
 I' I 
 
 \i 
 
 LAURA BRIDGMAN. 
 
 Deaf, Dumb, Blind. 
 
 Born i82g; Died i88g. 
 
 A LIFE whose hidden mystery 
 Lies deeper far than tears ; 
 
 A life, O Lord ! given back to Thee, 
 But lived for sixty years ! 
 
 Through sun and shower, through gleam and 
 shade, 
 
 As mortal footsteps wend ; 
 A life to make men's souls afraid — 
 
 But we have seen the end ! 
 
 t\ 
 
 A prison ! How we shrink and cower, 
 
 And picture poisoning woe, 
 For those who must, through many an hour, 
 
 Its spell of darkness know ! 
 i68 
 
LAURA BRIDGMAN. 
 
 But this poor, burdened spirit knew 
 (Nor bought by guiltiness) 
 
 Prison existence through and through 
 Its bitter pang and stress : 
 
 What landmarks had she in her life 
 What sudden flutterings near ? 
 
 What fairy signs of inward strife ? 
 What lover's vows to hear ? 
 
 Ah, me ! the love that can redeem 
 _^Can fill each passionate breast • 
 
 The "Lover of her Soul "supreme 
 Has ta'en her to His Rest 
 
 169 
 
P ■ 
 
 i 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 MANASSEH. 
 (//. Chronicles^ Chap, jj.) 
 
 O'ER endless lands our thoughts find scope, 
 
 And th' immemorial sea — 
 God of all pity and all hope, 
 
 Give us to rest in Thee ! 
 
 In grey and mystic years agone, 
 
 A monarch on his throne 
 Met God's commands with wrath and scorn, 
 
 Lived but for self alone. 
 
 The world around looked fair and sweet, 
 
 The world he could but trust ; 
 He walked with wayward, haughty feet 
 
 To fix his power in dust. 
 
 For him were warning voices dumb, 
 
 And idol altars high ; 
 The lightning flashes did not come, 
 
 And the days drifted by. 
 170 
 
MANASSEH. 
 
 Even more-the loftiest spirits of good. 
 
 Who strove to stay his power 
 Bore witness to his lust for blood 
 
 In many a martyr hour.* 
 
 God is not mocked. The silence stirs ; 
 
 The time of grace is past ; 
 And now the all-fateful messengers 
 
 Have reached the king at last. 
 
 From days of power and sunniness 
 
 Thrust darkling into strife, 
 Through e.ery anguished pang and stress, 
 
 Manasseh woke to life. 
 
 Trailed in the dust, ^ succor nigh, 
 
 Around him darkness, fear 
 Mourned he at last, «' If I might die. 
 
 Or if— the Lord would hear ! " 
 
 The dust of many centuries folds 
 Around that distant day ; 
 
 The all-radiant lesson that it holds 
 We may not cast away. 
 
 * See Appendix, Note B, 
 171 
 
 \\ 
 

 A BRAVE LADY. 
 
 (Madame Alfred Dreyfus, 1894- 1899.) 
 
 . ^ 
 
 True heart ! Life's shadows come and go; 
 
 (Dark shadows o'er thee rest) ; 
 But in thy love and in thy woe 
 
 AHke thou must be blest : 
 For comfort o'er those souls must sweep 
 
 Through years of misery, 
 Who love and tenderness can keep 
 
 As in the days gone by ! 
 
 K: 1 
 
 h\ i 
 
 m 
 
 A maid most rarely beautiful 
 
 Thou wast, and true and sweet, 
 When first a heart's devotion full 
 
 Was lavished at thy feet ! 
 And when that love thou didst return 
 
 With youth's divinest trust, 
 Ah, me ! what happiest fires may burn, 
 
 And yet die down to dust I 
 172 
 
 hm$n 
 
 
A BRAVE LADY. 
 
 Thine has not died-through strife and sin, 
 
 Mahce of leaguered foes, 
 Thy constancy its way would win, 
 
 Thy spirit firmer rose. 
 All Satan's power thou hast repelled 
 
 And only kept in view 
 That which thy love-dreams first beheld, 
 
 1 he honored and the true ! 
 
 Whate'er the end, O woman fair! 
 
 Whether at last may break 
 The light cf hope above despair. 
 
 Or even .or thy sweet sake- 
 One truth is clear-God's gracious sign. 
 
 1 111 our last suns have set— 
 This love and constancy of thine 
 
 Shall be remembered yet ! 
 
 i 
 
 I7J 
 
ft 
 
 'W 
 
 ■a 
 
 •f i 
 
 MAB. 
 
 Only and beloved daughter and youngest child of Henry 
 Clarke, Esq., of Bedford, near Halifax, Nova Scotia. This 
 dear child, who left this world for a better at the early age of 
 9 years and 12 days, was gifted by Nature with manners so 
 unusually gracious and sweet, and a heart so warm, as to win 
 the affections of all with whom she came in contact, and leave 
 behind her the most fragrant of memories. 
 
 A SUNBEAM on a darkening plain. 
 Flower on a snow-cliff s brow ; 
 
 S'lch in this world of toil and pain, 
 O dearest Mab, wert thou ! 
 
 'jjfi 
 
 I look back, back upon the days — 
 The days so few, so sweet — 
 
 When I, too, walked along the ways 
 Trod by those childish feet. 
 174 
 
enry 
 This 
 je of 
 rs so 
 ) win 
 eave 
 
 II 
 
1. 
 
 M 
 
 1- , 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 > 
 
 
 1'^ 
 
 
AfAB. 
 
 All was so h'ttle, yet so much ! 
 
 A presence light and fair— 
 An earnest look, a finger-touch, 
 
 A gleam of golden hair. 
 
 It was a hidden, magic time 
 Outside the gates of strife ; 
 
 A glimpse of Heavenly love sublime 
 Shed on this pilgrim life. 
 
 DearMab! I run my mournful race : 
 My heart would almost say : 
 " P^ead for me at the throne of grace 
 As in that vanished day!" 
 
 But no-ah, no ! The tenderest tone 
 That earthly love could gWe 
 
 Shows naught beside His love unknown 
 Who died that we might Wvq. 
 
 Sweet Mab! thy little force was spent 
 
 In journeying to the tomb ; 
 Thou wert not given to us, bu't lent— 
 
 A bud that might not bloom ! 
 
 God's mercy tempers, full and free. 
 
 The burdens that we bear ; 
 Thou com'st not back to us, but we 
 
 May live to meet thee there ! 
 175 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
|{ s;-:: 
 
 ^'^^ 
 
 Rl'lr i 
 
 V' <i 
 
 J4 
 
 iv 
 
 mm 
 
 
 THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT TO HIS LADY. 
 
 
 >■'! 
 
 ];^| 
 
 l|!* 
 
 Ml' 
 
 u'ph 
 
 (Dream-Life.) 
 
 Away, away ! It is not I 
 
 (As in days of happier breath) 
 
 Who every moment seem to die, 
 Breathing this air of death ! 
 
 Not so — yet God is merciful, 
 
 And there are blessed hours 
 When, through this trance of anguish dull, 
 
 Pierces the scent of flowers ; 
 
 And o'er long terraces I rove, 
 Where I have walked my last — 
 
 Dream-splendors come to me, my love, 
 As sweet as in the past ! 
 176 
 
^^y^. 
 
 ^DY. 
 
 A\ dull, 
 
 love, 
 
WW 
 
 
 Ek 
 
 1 
 
 11 
 
 f] 
 
 i 
 
 - 
 
MANITOBA. 
 Before the Conflict— 1895. 
 
 well-known "SchoTn!^^,^^^"''^ '" ^^^'^ ""^^ to the 
 the years 1895 97 ^ " '''"'^'^" P^^'^^"' — '"^ 
 
 A HOLY fire expands thy breast, 
 
 Its passion lights thy brow • 
 Brave land ! If e'er thou wouldst be blest, 
 
 Keep to this firmness now ! 
 Slaves are we not, to crouch and creep 
 
 When evil powers are met ; 
 Ah God be thanked ! the heart can leap- 
 
 We have a Country yet 
 
 Life is not much when manhood wanes 
 
 And self-respect is dead ; 
 There is many and many a 'sin that chains 
 
 ihelivmgto the dead. 
 In every heart, in each career, 
 
 Some conflict there must be ; 
 God gives to generous spirits here 
 
 The happiest destiny. 
 
 12 
 
 177 
 
 1 
 
MANITOBA. 
 
 All strength be thine, fair Western land ! 
 
 May hope and victory meet — 
 Uplift thy power on every hand 
 
 Bring blessings to thy feet ! 
 For the world's glance will follow thee 
 
 With longing and with tears ; 
 Thou bear'st the banner of the free, 
 
 To consecrate the years. 
 
 After— 1897. 
 
 Benign, blest country ! Thou shalt lead 
 
 The van of hope and power ; 
 All who have helped thee in thy need. 
 
 Rejoice in triumph's hour. 
 The smile of bright Prosperity 
 
 Rest on thy hills and plains, 
 And the strong touch of Liberty 
 
 Pour life into thy veins ! 
 
 Mysterious world ! the clouds of fear 
 
 Are lowering on thy brow ; 
 Spirits of evil, far and near. 
 
 Lean from their watch-tower now. 
 But God reigns yet ; His message throws 
 
 Noon on our darkest night. 
 What punishment is meet for those 
 
 Who keep it from our sight ? 
 178 
 
A QUESTION. 
 
 If thy life were bound up utterly 
 In some other life— so, walking free 
 Through the deserts of mortality— 
 
 Ah me ! how the wise Apostle saith 
 
 (With his calming power, like the night-wind's 
 
 breath). 
 Would it be, at last, for life or death ? 
 
 179 
 
i>J i . .L 
 
 IN THE SHADOWS. 
 
 Inscribed to the Right Reverend J. C. Ryle, D.D. 
 Lord Bishop of Liverpool. 
 
 m 
 
 Alas, my heart ! look where we will, 
 
 Upon delights or woes, 
 Life is a mystery, deepening still 
 
 From birth-hour to its close. 
 
 Our looks strive upward, but they fall, 
 'Twixt longing and despair ; 
 
 Night's mantle darkens over all, 
 And lo — the end is there ! 
 
 For the good that thou hast brought to me, 
 
 Amidst my hopes and fears, 
 May the LORD requite it unto thee 
 
 Through all thy gracious years ! 
 1 80 
 
le, 
 
 IN THE SHADOWS. 
 
 I was not the only one, I know, 
 But my heart was racked so sore— 
 
 Methought there were {^^ indeed below 
 To need thy comfort more ! 
 
 D.D. 
 
 The heart and flesh go ever down 
 
 Downward to meet the sod : 
 
 But the soul thou liftest to its crown, 
 Communion with its God ! 
 
 i8i 
 
.fi 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 H. s. P. 
 
 'it 
 <'•■ 
 
 't 
 
 i 
 
 ii.. 
 
 te. 
 
 ** Her mirth the world required ; 
 She bathed it in smiles of glee, 
 But her heart was tired, tired — 
 And now they let her be." 
 
 —Matthew Arnold. 
 
 A SPIRIT as sweet, beneath the skies, 
 As e'er drew mortal breath ; 
 
 A fair, bright spirit — in her eyes 
 The look of early death ! 
 
 O the cold, indifferent hearts that move 
 
 Along life's common ways ! 
 But with thee, O sweetest ! there was Love, 
 
 Its tenderest blame and praise. 
 182 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 And such wondrous graces, rare and free, 
 
 Were gathered to our sight, 
 Thou seemest, in my memory, 
 
 A gift of flame and light ! 
 
 O we wander, borne by many a breeze, 
 From many a distant strand ; 
 
 And I voyaged lonely, over seas — 
 My life was in my hand. 
 
 That desolate life, despairing, dull, 
 Caught fire from thy sweet breath ; 
 
 Thou, young, beloved and beautiful — 
 And I — to see thy death ! 
 
 
 But thou hast a happier home than this. 
 Poor child of light and love ! 
 
 A home of righteousness and bliss. 
 In the fair fields above. 
 
 The storm of life is past for thee, 
 
 Vanished i^s grief and care ; 
 Thou art in the haven where thou wouldst be, 
 
 Hast met thy Saviour there. 
 183 
 

 i ! 
 
 FRAGMENTS 
 
 From the German of Heine. 
 
 - .i ■ 
 
 m 
 
 I. 
 
 Death is the night, so cool and free ; 
 
 Our life the sultry day ; 
 Already fades its light for me ; 
 
 I am weary of the way. 
 
 Above my bed a tree grows near ; 
 
 There sings the nightingale ; 
 She only sings of love ; I hear, 
 
 Even in my dreams, her tale. 
 
 fj' : 
 
 If 
 
 If ■ 
 
 
 ii 
 
 i t. 
 
 n. 
 
 I wept once in my sleep ; I thought 
 Thou wast laid within the grave ; 
 
 I woke, and that dark dream had brought 
 Salt tears my cheeks to lave. 
 
 184 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM HEINE. 
 
 I wept once in my sleep ; I dreamed 
 
 Thou hadst forsaken me ; 
 I woke, the mournful torrents streamed 
 
 Yet long and bitterly. 
 
 I wept once in my sleep ; I dreamed 
 Thou still to me wast good ; 
 
 I woke, and yet forever streamed 
 My passionate weeping's flood. 
 
 i8s 
 
•1/ 
 
 
 LAI. 
 
 Lais were the lyric poetry of the old French poets, who 
 were imitated by some amongst the English. They were prin- 
 cipally used on melancholy subjects, and are said to have been 
 formed on the model of the trochaic verses of the Greek and 
 Latin tragedies. P^re Mourguy gives us a pleasing instance of 
 one of these ancient lais, in his " Treatise of Frenc oetry " : 
 
 r\ 
 
 SUR I'appuis du monde 
 
 Que f ut il qu'on fonde? 
 
 D'espoir ? 
 
 Cette mer profonde 
 
 En debris feconde 
 
 Fait voir 
 
 Calme au matin, Tonde 
 
 Et I'orage y gronde 
 
 Le soir. 
 
 i86 
 
I 
 
 10 
 
 n- 
 ;n 
 id 
 of 
 
 LAI. 
 
 Translation. 
 
 In the world's faiths— uncertain, blind— 
 
 What is the trust our hearts may find 
 
 Hope's dream of light ? — 
 
 That dim, profound, and treacherous sea, 
 
 Fruitful in wrecks and woes to be, 
 
 Gives to our sight. 
 
 Seems calm at morn — where surging wave 
 
 And hurrying tempests howl and rave— 
 
 Ere sinks the night ! 
 
 187 
 
pII 
 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 Note A.— "With the Hunt" (p. 42).— I can lay no claim to this 
 exquisite little lyric. It is by the late Charles Lever, and has been set 
 to music. 
 
 Note B.— " Manasseh " (p. 170).— All the chroniclers of this far-off 
 time agree in dwelling on the sanguinary character of Manasseh's reign 
 —that is, the earlier, godless part. Among the many who fell victims 
 to a savage and idolatrous rigime, the most distinguished was probably 
 the prophet Isaiah. Tradition brings out with peculiar emphasis the 
 ghastly detail of his having been sawn asunder with a wooden saw. 
 
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