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' '%: »f^ ■■»: "^^"MM? ; ' i,K:' .'iir ,/VJl- rf^?-:--; "^ / ■ ■ w : - ■t ■■« ( ... . '■■:si'- ' ... •••'■t. Kfn^'^ST'sb^ ' ♦ ♦ ♦ A l^omanee of pathetdand. BY / HENRY FAULKNER DARNELL. AUTHOR OF 'A NA TIOlSl'S THANKSGIVING," " SONGS OF THE SEASONS," " PHILIP HAZELBROOK," &>€. publishers : MacCalu & Company, 237-9 Dock Street, Philadelphia. 13^1. t I 1 1 ■. y Entered, accord'ing to Act of Congress, in the year 1891, by Henry Faulkner Darnell, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. DEDICATION. TO A CHILD-FRIEND. Come out of the Past, little maiden, Just as I knew thee of old, — A vision of childish beauty, All lovely, half coy, half bold ; With a golden g-lory about thee In thy tresses floating free, And thy dark brown eyes all beamingr With the spiiit of mischievous glee. Come out of the Past, my darling, For the Present is all too sad, And there's little left in the world now To make the spirit glad ; But one old-time glance of your eye, dear, And one tender touch of your hand, Would come, like the perfume of flowers. O'er a waste and weary land. Come out of the Past, my child-friend, If only for one brief hou::* ; Be to me all you were, dear. When first I felt your power ; Weave but once more around me The tender, magical spell That compassed my willing spirit With the chains it loved so well. DEDICATION. Come out of the Past, little maiden, Just as you used to bo, And take once more in the gloaming: Your old place on my knee : List, dear, to another story. As you loved to do of yore, Heed not the undertone, dear. From a heart too often sore. Alas ! for earth's purest treasures, That scenes and hearts must change ; And, in life's sad transmutations, Familiar thing-s grow strange. As the bud opens into the blossom, So maturity follows yout!". ; But where, in the waste of the Future, Is the fruitage of love and truth ? Alas I that the little maiden Must grow into woman and wife, And I go lonelier downward The shadier side of life. We cannot set back the hands, dear. That move o'er the dial of Time ; Or summon again the sunshine That hath passed to another clime. Then stay in the Past, my child-friend, A memory tender, and fair ; Lest the chilling blasts of the Future, Or the Present with its glare, Congeal the warm tide of affection That flowed so full and free. Or dry up that love's pure lountain Thy presence awoke in me. KINDESLIEBE. RESUME. THE Vicomte de Luys — a young French nobleman of wealth and distinction, and of somewhat ad- vanced political and religious opinions — by his marriage with a young lady of high birth and great beauty, incurs the jealousy and hatred of a powerful kinsman, high in the favor both of the Court and the Church. Being accused of heresy, in order to escape a lettre de cachet he is compelled to fly the country. His lands are confiscated, and his infant heir falls into the hands of his enemies ; but eluding their pursuit, he places his young wife in concealment and leaves his native land, hoping that in a little while the storm will have blown over, and he may be able to return to her with safety. Finding refuge in a retired village amid the Lower Alps, he endeavors during his stay among them, to im- prove the lot of the simple inhabitants ; and finally loses his life in the effort to rescue the victims of a fearful avalanche which has desolated almost the entire valley. KKSUMK. Marie de Liiys, his wife, wearying at last of her con- finement and solitude, sets out in search of her lost husband and child. Hefore her steadfast purpose prisons, convents, hospitals, all yield her admittance. f'or a time her search is vain; but at Icnjith in the sick ward of the Convent Orpl anage at Drc'pignc she discov- ers her lost child. This aflfectinfj scene is witnessed by the Lady Abbess, to whose care the child had been entrusted. After a severe conflict within herself, the child is spirited away, and the poor mother goes forth into the world again more hopeless than ever. The Lady Abbess, however, does not betray her secret. Reaching the Alnine village which had been the scene of her husband's heroic death, she finds his "nameless grave," the whole story of his courage and devotion being narrated to her by a young girl to whom he had shewn kindness, and with whom he had left the proofs of his identity. After passing some years in this remote village — during which period many journeys were undertaken with a view to the discovery of her child — she comes to the town of Stoltzenberg-am-Rhein, at the season of the Annual Fair. Here her sympathy is excited by the pitiful story of a young mother dying in her confinement. In ministering to her, she discovers that she is the young bride of her long-lost child, who, having in his youth escaped from his captors, had crossed the borders of France and entered the German army. Rising in the service, he had ■1 KKSUMK. 5 attracted the notice and j;aincd tlie affection of one of the youn^ princes, in consequence of which he had been made a captain in the Royal Guard. In this position he wins the heart of the fair and gentle Margarethc, daughter of the proud and powerful 13aron Rudersdorf. Regardless of everything but their own happiness, they fly from the Court and are secretly married. Ruined and disgraced, the young husband dies in pov- erty and obscurity. The child-wife lingers only to give birth to an infant daughter, and to die in the arms of her husband's mother, who is thus at last rewarded by the acquisition of the "last link" that binds her to earth, with all the necessary evidence to establish the child's identity. Resenting the treatment to which her son had been subjected by its lord, and uncertain as to her future course, she yet decides to remove to Rudersdorf. Here, the Baron's attention is singularly directed to the child ; and — on the sudden demise of the now aged Marie de Luys— she is adopted by him, as one thrown friendless and forlorn upon the world. Eventually her real lineage is discovered, and, in the sunshine of the child's love and devotion to him, the Baron's heart blossoms out again in kindness and sym- pathy to all around him. The reign of tyranny and harshness is past— the fruit of blighted hopes and wounded affection— and Rudersdorf once more is the scene of prosperity and peace. CONTENTS. CAXTO. I. A Summer- Day, . II. An Oread, III. A Day-Uream, . W. The Mountain- Cot, V. La Belle F^rance, \'I. Marie de Luys, VII. The Lady Abbess, VHI. The Secret Discovered, . IX. Les Basses Alpes, X. The Wayside Cross, XI. Lconie Duvergne, XII. The Stranger-Friend, XIII. La Gorge de St. Barthelemi, XIV. The Nameless Grave, XV. The Waterfall, . XVI. The Annual Fair, . XVTI. The Baron, .... XVIII. Margarethc, , XIX. Edelweiss XX. At Rest XXI. The Dream Fulfilled, . XXII. Sunset, .... I'ACJE. 9 15 20 27 38 43 52 62 75 81 90 98 104 1 12 118 130 138 144 153 160 169 '83 •r^,r:^f":""^ Cciwio I. A SUMMER-DAY. Errata ^k ),^ p. 41, line 16, for " umvrung^' read '^iitirnfijj^.^' P. 42, line 8, for " Justi e,'' read '« jHsfuy. " P. 128, line 16, for ^' dears'" read ''hares.'' P. 132, line 15, for " 7'^n' " read '' stretit^^f/i aiit/y P. 133, line 13, for "./.f" read " SAe." A solemn hush lay on the air, As if a presence floated there, And, wide diffused, the sense of rest A heavenly visitant confessed. No flutt'ring sound of leaf or wing Chimed with the dripping of the spring; lO KINDESLIEBE. No wild-flower stirred on slender stem, Nor shook its starry diadem. All motionless the lily-bells, Exhaling fragrance from their cells. Beneath their footsteps, all unheard. The zephyrs left the leaves unstirred. The gentle murmur of the bees Amid the blooming flowers and trees An invitation seemed to ease, As lazily thev come and go, Yet loth their labor to forego. By distance softened, came the song Of streams that wind the rocks among, Or over moss and pebbles stray, Sweet-singing on their devious; way. i The winding valley lay below. Bathed in the sun's meridian glow ; Where through the rich and level meads The river flows, all fringed with reeds, Or overhung with foliage rank, Trailing from either verdant bank. O'er all the scene the quiet steals, And ev'ry sense the influence feels. The laborer leans upon his plough And wipes the moisture from his brow, A SUMMER-DAY. While passive stand the panting steeds And quaff the fiagrrnce of the meads. The shepherd, prone upon his back, Pursues his dreams beneath the stack, As fumes, like those from Lethe's bowl, Steep in forgetfulness his soul. Mis flocks, unwatched, refuse to stray, But gather where the shadows play. His reedy pipe beside him lies As fast each blissful moment flies ; It lacks the breath once wont to fill And wake the echoes of the hill. II A dozen rods beneath the feet, Just where two roads, converging, meet, Is seen the straggling village street. With many a cottage, small and white, 'Mid bowering trees half-hid from sight, And clust'ring 'neath an ancient spire, Like children 'round an aged sire To catch the benediction shed Upon each bowed and rev'rent head. The tortuous path which climbs the ridge Diverges hard beside a bridge — A structure rude — which spans the stream W'th many a pier and stalwart beam, 12 KINDESLIEBE. And gives a passage free and wide Athwart the broad and ample tide. Beyond, emerging from the green And undulating vale, is seen An ancient pile, whose towers gray Have held with undisputed sway That fair domain for ii-any a day. Yea, centuries have come and gone. Yet stoutly, still, it holds its own ; For never has a stranger hand Detached one single rood of land. The weapon which the prize had won Preserved it still from sire to son, And 'mid the castled keeps most famed Not one with Rudersdorf was named. On those grim walls had warders kept Their vigils true, while ladies slept. Forth from those towers thro' many a night Had blazed the ruddy beacon-light, To call the vassals from their farms And hard-earned rest to fly to arms ; While through those pierced turrets, high, Had flashed the dread artillery. Drawbridge and moat, now all o'ergrown. Their proper uses once had known; Hi m 6-i*' ^ m '§ ■•l\ ... , ;■•*• v;* ■■■f. •.'-J ^'i.i»tV .:t. ^■il'M^■ ':^ ■ • ■ '.V ^■.. night ■^ . ..«y ., ■■.^ ■>?; •A' ^- - "*^J,s'>» ,"'• ■ .••;¥:^ilULJti«.ii, ■'■*??: 'i<-<.. - •> I . 1 '. _r .. I ' &n f Rofie grim iwciffc Ra^ txlar^f re ftopf ^Beir ttigtfe frue, toBifc fa^t>D efepf." — Canto 1. M A SUMMER- DAY. 1 3 And oft in many a sudden fray Had safely barred and kept the way, To hold victorious foes at bay Until — responsive to the flame Which gleamed aloft —the rescue came. Oft had those terraced lawns, so green, Been witness to some bloody scene : Oft, where those crystal fountains pour Their silver streams, had human gore Sprung freely from the hearts of all At Honour's or at Friendship's call ; Or when some last and desperate stand Was made for king and fatherland. Within, in spite of all the change Which makes things most familiar strange, The Past had left full many a trace Which time nor taste could quite efface. Some stain upon the threshold fair ; Some dent upon the oaken stair ; A rusted brand, or broken shield, Or battle-axe none now could wield, Would tell of some illustrious page Which glorified the feudal age, 14 KINDESLIEBE. When might was right o'er all the land- When honors fled the weakling's hand, And o'er life's wild and troubled sea Gleamed the fcir star of chivalry. "BPW II' -»»«^ Canio II. AN OREAD. Beside the rocky ledge that bound The narrow path that upward wound, There, half-reclining in the shade By level boughs of hawthorn made, Lay, dreamily, a little maid. Eight summers fair had o'er her flown, Eight winters' snows had come and gone Only to find her sweeter still — That tender flower beside the hill. Her slender figure, lightly posed, Her native ease and grace disclosed : Her hands were clasped beneath her head- Her only pillow, lightly spread. Upon her lap, her broad hat set, Held flow'rets fair — wild mignonette, l6 KINDESLIEBE. With many a child of copse and dell, And those which bloom on rock and fell. Here, creepers, too, and tendrils fair, Comminglinpf with the blossoms rare. Proclaimed the graceful, childish art In which she late had played her part ; 'Till, drooping 'neath the midday heat, She ceased to weave the garlands sweet. So rich in native loveliness. But little need had she of dress. Which oft, for meretricious ends, Impairs the charms which Nature lends. Her scanty frock scarce reached the knee, And left the neck and shoulders free ; Bare were her limbs, and bare her arms. Displaying all their dimpled charms : Bare were the rosy, blue-veined feet, To climb the hills so light and fleet, Though near her, by the rivulet. The tiny shoes and hose were set ; Not such as village maidens wear. But fashioned wilh a tend'rer care. And telling, 'mid this rocky waste. Of loving thought and purer taste. AN OREAD. 17 From ofif her forehead, broad and fair, All richly streamed her ruddy hair ; Like the first tint on autumn leaf, Or like the yellow grain in sheaf; Or like the sunrise when its gold Is tinged with colors manifold. Her eyes, beneath their lids concealed. Kept their blue depths all unrevealed. The slender outlines of her cheek Refinement's subtle grace bespeak ; While on her brow there sat enshrined That perfect purity of mind That knows no contact with mankind. 'Tis passing strange, how oft we find In spots where Nature's most unkind, A something still of heavenly birth To bless and beautify the earth ; Which charms the view where'er we rove, From earth beneath or skies above, And testifies that " God is love." Some lichen clinging to the rock — Sole witness of the earthquake's shock — Which rears, amid the calm and storm. To heaven its huge fantastic form : 1 8 KINDESLIEBE. Some quaint, distorted, ancient tree. To which the moss clings lovingly : Some brooklet, leaping into sight And sparkling in its devious flight : Sunbeams that flicker 'mid the shade By rocks and trees commingling made : Some tuneful bird with plumage bright. Or insect flashing in the light : Some tiny flower, like mountain maid, That shuns the meadow and the glade. Content to trust her modest charms To the wild tempest's rugged arms. E'en so in humblest homes we see — Where the stern hand of Poverty Condemns to plain and scanty fare, And robs of many a blessing rare — A true refinement linger still. Beyond the vulgar worldling's skill. The cultured eye of Taste to fill. What forms of beauty and of grace — What charms of figure and of face The artist's eye may often trace In some secluded, homely place ! Some Dryad in the tangled wood : Some Naiad by the spring or flood : ■-s^r-""' AN OREAD. 19 Some fair Rebecca by the well : Some Helen in the bosky dell : Some barefoot gypsy by the way, Or some Maud Muller, raking hay : Some peasant-girl the hearth beside, Whom, for true worth and beauty's pride, A prince or peer might make his bride ; Whose spirit pure, and queenly grace, Might well adorn earth's highest place. » * Such, Fatherland, the blossoms fair, Which crown thy homes with beauty rare; Which in thy forests, dark and deep. Forth from the cabin thresholds peep ; Which by thy castled crags and streams Shed on fond hearts their sunny beams. And make them glow with love and pride In lowly vale — on bleak hillside. Such, graced with modesty and truth, And filled with tenderness and ruth. Have blest thee in the ages past — Shall blegs thee still, as time doth last ; Shall spread thy fame o'er land and sea And make thee mother of a free, And brave, and noble progeny ! tanio III. A DAY-DREAM. How long she slept she could not tell, So soft and sweet the witching spell. How fast the fleeting moments flew, Her charmed senses never knew : Onward they sped with pinions light, Leaving no trace to mark their flight, As when the last expiring motion Of ripples dies upon the ocean. And now, as o'er the lovely sleeper And o'er the scene the rest grows deeper. It seems as if a charm were laid By magic power on stream and glade. And all the powers in earth and air Were lulled into a slumber fair; And she— though little rustic maid, In simple russet garb arrayed — A DAY-DREAM. 21 Had, like the fabled princess, been The reigning beauty of the scene. But o'er her senses, steeped and bound In slumber's witchery profound, There comes a strange, mysterious so;and : A rustling, as of garments bright — A beating, as of pinions light; Whilst — soft as starlight on the lake. Or zephyr stealing thro' the break ; And, light as dewdrops on the grass. Which gleam, like diamonds, as we pass — There seeks the portal of her ear, In tones most musically clear. Inspiring more of awe than fear, This sweet refrain : SONG. " Little maid, with deep blue eyes — Blue as heaven above thee. Leading ever to the skies All who truly love thee ; Little knowest thou thy power To revive and cherish Love, like torn and trampled flower. Doomed to fade and perish. ""■""▼S-VT^ 22 KINCESLIEBE. " Like the little beam that glances Through the cottage door, Tremulously moves and dances On the oaken floor : Like the summer bird that singeth To the sons of toil ; Like the op'ning bud that bringeth Hope of future spoil : " Thine to bear to home and hearth Peace, and hope, and beauty ; Thine to show to those on earth, * Love the highest duty.' Thou who cheer'st the lone hillside, Charm now the castle's sadness ; Scatter blessings far and wide — Fill the land with gladness. " To the Baron, sad and lonely, Daily bring a flower ; His bruised spirit needeth only Love's reviving power. I, it is, who bid thee stay not — I, in Paradise ; Be to him what I now may not — * Kleine Edelweis.' I A DAY-DREAM. 23 " Thou must know no doubt nor fear, Modest little maiden ; I will surely linger near With sweet comfort laden. Deem not that his heart is cold — Cruel or untender ; Let love make thy spirit bold Service sweet to render. " 'Neath the desert, parched and weary, Freshest springs abide; Under shadows, dark and dreary, Purest flow'rets hide : Pain and sorrow oft may harden TendVest hearts and true, Until — token sweet of pardon — Heaven's light shineth through. See, the Baron doth appear, Modest little maiden ; Give to him thy off'ring dear, With its incense laden. If he look into thine eyes, With the love-light beaming. As if searching through the skies In his silent dreaming : 24 KINDESLIEBE. " If, as one whose heart is riven, He shall silent stand ; If he sigh, and look to heaven — Take thy tender hand ; Know that I am still beside thee — ' Kleine Edelweiss ' — To his love, that I confide thee — I, in Paradise." The voice is still. The slumb'rer wakes, As daylight thro' her vision breaks. Each sense, benumb'd, regains its sway ; The ling'ring echoes roll away. And, mingling with the airy tide, Are wafted upward far and wide. Her eyelids quiver, then reveal The awe and v onder they conceal. With throbbing heart and flushing cheek All powerless to think or speak — Observant, rapt and motionless. She sits, like ancient prophetess, Awaiting in the sacred shrine The awful oracle divine. Whether some power of earth or air Had left its mystic impress there ; ir •T' A DAY-DREAM. 2$ Some fay or sprite, in ling'ring near. Had breathed the music in her ear ; Or whether, as she hghtly slept. Some subtle influence round her crept, And — Reason, for the time, dethroned — Each wand'ring sense no sov'reign owned, But, mingling their fantastic hues, A light delusive did diffuse. In which, distinctly seen and heard. Came vision bright and whispered word ; She questions not. One startled look She casts around on bank and brook — Adown the path and on the fell, Whose rugged form she knows so well — With parted lips and straining sense. Picture of startled innocence ; Or like some nymph beside the stream, Awakened from a blissful dream By stranger step or presence rude Which dares to break her solitude : Then, starting, with a single bound She lights, like bird, upon the ground. No single instant does she stay ; But, darting cross the rocky way, 26 KINDESLIEBE. Climbs deftly up the further bank, O'erhung with verdure rich and dank, Just where adown the mossy walls In countless tiny waterfalls The brooklet glides from stone to stone In sweet and endless monotone. Nor does she cease her rapid flight Until — a dear and welcome sight — Within an aged granddame's arms She refuge finds from all alarms. ■ / tanio IV. THE MOUNTAIN-COT. Beneath where splintered rocks protrude Some hand had raised a cabin rude ; Though partly hut, and partly cave, It yet a homelike shelter gave, And lent to age and childhood sweet A peaceful and secure retreat. The walls were formed of turf and stone Where the dark rock gave bulwark none. O'erhead, the sloping rafters bore A roof of thatch ; the earthen floor, Though cold and bare, was trim and neat And daily trod by patient feet. The door, which all could ope at will. Betrayed a certain rustic skill, As, free, between its posts it hung And loosely on its hinges swung ; 28 KINDESLIEBE. And, guiltless all of bolt or stay, Ne'er failed the wand'rer on his way. In summer, o'er the rude porch meet The climbing roses fresh and sweet, With honeysuckle, rich and rare. Dispensing perfume on the air. In winter, when upon the hill The murmur of the brook is still. And all the fragrant blossoms, strewn — Like cherished friends, all dead and gone- No longer cheer the cabin lone : When, yielding to the northern blast. The trees their leafy crowns have cast ; Save the dull firs and steadfast pines. Whose changeless aspect ne'er declines : When snow upon the path lies deep. And, week by week, the rugged steep Is trodden by no friendly form With word of cheer from out the storm : Then hath the outcast ne'er in vain Pleaded his hunger, cold, or pain ; Or failed within its walls to find A shelter from the piercing wind. Too oft less cruel than his kind. THE MOUNTAIN-COT. 29 How is it that in homes like this We find so much of truest bh'ss ? A peaceful calm — a cheerfulness, Which stately mansions rarely bless ? How oft from poverty will spring Content which riches cannot bring ! How oft the mealiest hut doth know True charity's most generous flow ; And ready gift from peasant's board Shame the slow alms from Dives' hoard ! Is it that they who sparest live Learn best how sweet it is to give ? That, aye, the self-indulgent soul Gains smallest good — gives meanest dole ? Alike, in sunshine or in cloud — In summer's wreaths or winter's shroud, The little hut, so lone and still. Maintained its place beside the hill. Th' unflinching rock, like friend well tried. Defense and comfort still supplied : It broke the fury of the blast, And in its arms embraced it fast ; ."Bore snow and rain upon its crest, And gave it warmth from out its breast ; And, when upon the thirsty glade '•fz- -vrr '' in7""""":ii-;"^'».'''. -»^. t:.- :r r"'.-: <>, ;V'^'»'fr^.''^ V^^w r 'Ty. v 30 KINDESLIEBE. Th i torrid breezes hotly played, A coolness lent and grateful shade. Retired, the simple dwelling stood A stone-cast from the mountain road, Whence but a devious path upwound Where crags and tangled shrubs abound. Its presence nothing did disclose B!'t curling smoke- wreaths, which uprose And, circling in the atmosphere. Betrayed some habitation near. The cabin-rooms were two in all, With rustic porch instead of hall ; The outer, though of higher state — , Parlor and kitchen — knew no grate. Yet from that low hearth's genial blaze Came warmth and cheer in dreariest days; As, flick'ring with uncertain gleam, It shadows chased from beam to beam. No need to tell the treasures scant Which yet did meet each actual want ; The table, and the pallet-bed With snowy coverlet o'erspread ; The few rush chairs, the chimney shelt Which bore its proud display of delf ; THE MOUNTAIN-COT. 3 1 Not all of modest earthenware, But here and there some relic rare, Speaking of unforgotten times To the sad heart, like distant chimes. Here, 'neath the shelter of the hill. Two forms had found a haven, still — The one in childhood's sweetest prime, The other bowed by care and time — Unnoted save by that keen Eye Whose piercing gaze naught can defy ; But which alike on each doth fall. And lets its mercy light on all : Not only on the giant oak, Which proudly scorns the thunder-stroke; But on the wild-flower, by the lea Content to nestle timidly. What marked resemblance oft we see Betwixt old age and infancy ! When not one line of care is traced, Or every furrow is effaced : When all is bright with life's first bloom. Or with the light beyond the tomb : When reigns the calm the strife before, Or the sweet peace when conflict's o'er. 32 KINDESLIEBE. E'en so, between old age and youth — The two extremes, where love and truth Are found with least of earth's alloy, And meet with least of life's annoy — The confines of life's narrow sea, Embosom'd in eternity — We see full oft a trust complete — Communion, perfect, pure and sweet. And thus it was with those who found A home within the narrow bound Which that rude peasant-hut supplied, Safe shelter'd in the bleak hillside. Despite disparity of years — Childhood's bright hopes and age's fears, It seemed as if no earthly strain Could part the ties which held these twain. Each to the full tide of content That filled both hearts, all willing, lent Her individual complement; And bore her share to that sweet whole Of peace which reigned in either soul. If on the bowed and weary head Time had its hoar-frost thickly spread. THE MOUNTAIN-COT. 33 It had not dimmed the fearless eye Nor marred the contour of the face ; Nor from the figure's symmetry- Detracted all of that sweet grace, Which in the zenith of her pride, Ere she did reign a peerless bride. Had won her husband's roving eye To life-long, fond idolatry. Like some rare, graceful column, wrought By tasteful hand, and richly dight, Which, to an early ruin brought. Must yet, perforce, but charm the sight. And even in its ruin show The splendor which it once did know ; So every look and gesture told Of former state — of lineage old. And rarely failed that to reveal Which prudence oft would fain conceal. So in the child, low at her feet, Whose slender arms embrace her knee, A charming miniature complete Of one who smiles on her, we see; For in that childlike form combine Distinctive features of each line 34 KINDESLIEBE. Of whose commingled progeny Sole representative is she. Saxon her ruddy hair and face, And Frank her figure's slender grace, With all its suppleness and ease — Her sweet and winning coquetries. She had her mother's orbs of blue, And tender heart and simple faith ; Her father's spirit, pure and true. Which never knew dishonor's breath ; Which never failed a friend in need. Or sacrificed his fame for greed. But spite of many a lingering trace. As oft is seen, of mingled race ; And spite of all the lapse of years And furnace-fires of trial and pain, The list'ner in the child appears Restored to youthfulness again. While in the matron, sear, we see The child of half a century. And as she tells her simple tale — With cheeks, now flushed, now deathly pale, With catching breath, dilating eye And tones of deepest mystery — / I THE MOUNTAIN-COT. 3 c The hearer feels a numbness creep O'er every sense—through every h*mb, As Eli felt, when roused from sleep Within the sacred temple, dim, To hear the youthful prophet tell The awful doom he knew too well. Perchance, within the vision bright " She sees a deeper meaning lie A beam from Heaven sent to light The gloomy path of destiny : A message, fraught with meaning clear At least for one sad, waiting ear. Anon, she soothes with accents kind The tumult of the troubled mind. She tells how, in the ages past When night her sable mantle cast O'er all the world, and slumber sealed The eyes of men— had God revealed Unto His chosen ones of old His providences manifold. She tells of Bethel's traveler, lone, But pillowed on the dewy stone. And pictures to the child's rapt sight The glitt'ring throng of angels bright: , 36 KINDESLIEBE. How Joseph read the will divine In Pharaoh's lean and favored kine : How, led by dreams, the Virgin mild To Egypt bore the Holy Child Until the tyrant's course was sped : How, o'er the martyr's dying head The op'ning heav'ns their glory shed, Changing his last expiring cry To highest strain of ecstasy : How, by such means, the Father still His children guides from heav'n above- Makes them, unconscious, yet fulfill His marv'lous purposes of love. And as the throbbing ocean yields To the sweet hush of eventide, Till o'er its boundless azure fields The boist'rous waves at last subside ; So yields the child's revealed distress Beneath her voice and soft caress. Inspired now with purpose high. As conscious of her ministry, She seeks once more the rocky way, Prepared the summons to obey. ******* THE MOUNTAIN-COT. 37 Ah ! blessed faith that childhood owns — Too little prized — too early lost ; But when our bread has turned to stones We see at what a bitter cost Was bought the freedom we would gain At any price of future pain. Tis only when upon the shoals, Or when the deadly reef's in sight, We learn the need, for human souls, Of some celestial beacon light, To guide us through the billows' strife To haven of a peaceful life. Canto V. LA BELLE FRANCE. Among the records of old France — The abode of genius and romance; The ancient home of chivalry And grace and old-time courtesy; Whose varied pages, darkly fair, Are full of transformations rare ; Whose glorious victories, grave defeats, The scroll of History still repeats — Among those records, dread as night, Too foul to bear the day's clear light, Is that which tells the destiny Of Vicomte Floribel de Luys. The victim of a kinsman's hate And envious spleen and jealous rage. We can but parallel his fate In such a clime and such an age. V ' LA BELLE FRANCE. Arraigned on charge of heresy — The vengeance of the Papal See Invoked upon his guiltless head, His country and his home he fled. Robbed of his wealth and acres fair — His title-deeds and infant heir, Only at peril of his life He found safe harborage for his wife. Then vanished from her hiding-place, But anxious to remov^ all trace That might betray the chosen spot And make her sharer of his lot. 39 * * * Marv'lous the history of that land, Replete with contradictions grand ! Renowned alike through all the earth For wildest frenzy — lightest mirth ; Prolific in the arts of life. Yet favored scene of civil strife ; Whose children, in the bitter school Of tyranny and long misrule. Have in this latter century known The awful fruit of ill seed sown ; Reaping in agony and tears The harvest of a thousand years, 40 KJNDESMEBE. And in the purple vintage trod Beholding the avenging rod Of an all-just, all-seeing God. " How long ? How long ? " The cry how vain P>oni spirits chafing 'neath the chain, As through the changeless years that roll The iron eats into the soul ! Till bosoms which in silence bore Full many a painful, festering sore Without a single moan or plaint, Madden'd at length past all restraint, Gave to a fury, too long pent, A terrible and sudden vent ; And made the startled sky, serene. Witness of many an awful scene — The " Commune " and the guillotine. How sad to scan, in ages dark. The regime of the " grand monarque ! " Th' exactions of the old " noblesse ;" The tyranny without redress ; The uncontrolled licentiousness. Which spared no home in search of prey And flaunted in the light of day : When, fallen from her high estate. The Church, the minion of the great, LA BELLE FRANCE. 4 1 No more to virtue sliclter gave, But trampled upon Freedom's grave ; And, faithless to her mission high — Engine of bitter cruelty — In iron fetters bound the soul And sought the conscience to control, Making religion in each eye Synonymous with tyranny. Who can, unmoved, such scenes recall — Enough the stoutest *^o appall — Nor feel amid the gath'rmg gloom Forebodings of approaching doom ? The shadows of the dread Bastille ; The ghastly horrors they conceal ; " Lettres de cachet ; ' the noisome cell ; The nameless grave ; the unj^rung knell ; The dungeon floor, thro' long years trod ; The fruitless prayers upsent to God ; The deep-drawn sighs ; the bitter groans, Unheard beneath these pond'rous stones ; The imprecations loud and deep, Suppress'd and stifled but to sleep Until the dawn of hope should break And vengeance overwhelming wake : KINDESLIKBE. Must these cry ever from the dust Nor wake a retribution just ? Fearful th' accumulated rage Thus nursed and fed thro' many an age ! Which in its all-consuming ire Distinguished naught 'twixt son and sire; But, in one common sacrifice To outraged Justice', bitter cries, Doomed innocence'and guilt alike To dungeon, block and sword and pike, And left upon the land a stain Which must through centuries remain. Who that recalls such scenes as these, Birt in such consummation sees The dire effects of saddest cause— The breach of God's and Nature's laws. ^"-^sfffry Cdwio VI. MARIE DE LUYS. Victim of cruel tyranny, In covert lay Marie de Luys, All breathless, like the hunted fawn, Awaiting freedom's blessed dawn. Some time, within her safe retreat, She bore her lot with patience sweet. But when long months had glided by, Fretting with care her spirit high, And still no single message bore Its comfort to her bosom sore From him, her only tie to life, She wearied of the endless strife. She dried her eyes of useless tears ; Despair grew stronger than her fears : And, as the life-boat trims its sail To tempt the billow and the gale rj-rjriww^^'^^rir^rnrr'ji 44 KINDESLIEBE. But little need to seek disguise To render strange to human eyes I, Some shipwrecked mariner to save From painful death and watery grave, She left her haven, safe, to seek — f How strong is faith in woman weak ! — Throughout the v/orld with effort wild Some tidings of her spouse and child. Despite the Inquisition dread — Despite the price upon her head, With instinct true and purpose high She dared th* unequal strife to try With courage born of agony. / Ah ! who shall tell in fitting song Her dauntless courage — journeyings long ? The bitter cup 'twas hers to drain Of mingled hardship and of pain ? The burden of the cross she bore — In spirit strong — in body faint — Nor uttered in her anguish sore One single murmur of complaint? 'Tis not alone the Master sweet Must tread those paths with bleeding feet ; But in each human life must be Some semblance of Gethsemane. I k i I, I F ! J* I! MARIE DE LUVS. 4$ The reigning beauty of a court — • The queen of many a tilt and sport — The youthful maiden in her pride — The glittering courtier's peerless bride. 'Tis not alone the hand of Time That marreth beauty ere its prime ; That steals the fresh cheek's tender bloom, And leaves the pallor of the tomb ; Blanches the locks and bows the frame, And dims the dark eye's liquid flame. Anguish and pain — consuming cares Form ordeal more cruel than "shares," O'er which the patient victim trod, Appealing from mankind to God. Thus, in her agonized distress, But little of youth's loveliness Clung to the sad, bereaved form, As forth she went to brave the storm Of human hate and human guile. And set against each Papal wile Her woman's purpose, strong and true — Let come what may, to die or do. Who, in that weak and shrunken frame — That cheek to which no color came ; 46 KINDESLIEBE. That silvering and disheveled hair, Once dark as night and dressed with care ; Those sunken eyes whose proud light shone Amid the brightest round a throne ; That humble garb, in which arrayed. Her way throughout the land she made — The fair and high-born bride could see Of Vicomte Floribel de Luys ? Full oiten, helpless and forlorn. She started forth at early dawn Persistent in her lofty quest, Hope still alive within her breast. Full often, with the setting sun — Another long day's journey done — She paused, a suppliant, before Some kindly peasant's humble door, To gain the needed food and rest For body faint and soul opprest. Though still sufficed her little hoard For simple lodging — scanty board. But rarely would her host receive The modest sum her pride would give : She bore her passport in her face — Her sadden'd air and nameless grace ; And frequent kindnesses, unbought, 1 i I MARIE DE LUVS. 47 As tribute to her grief were brought, While oft was benediction sought. How many a town and village street Was trodden by those weary feet Within the space of one brief year Will ne'er be told in human ear. The foes with which she had to deal Were keen and cold, as polished steel. And knew no mercy in their zeal. The quenchless wrath she dared to brave Paused not at confines of the grave ; But followed on, relentless still, Lacking the power but not the will The soul's eternal peace to kill. Like one of old who dared to cast The awful thunderbolts of Jove, It ruthless sought to blight and blast The sweetest fruits of truth and love. The dark recesses of the tomb. Round which the flowers of pity bloom — Which hold the withered hopes of years — If consecrate alone with tears, Could guard no proudest earthly name Nor shield the purest earthly fame ; 48 KINDESLIEBE. But, 'neath those curses, deep and dread. Gave e'en the memory of the dead — • Condemned through all posterity — To never-ending infamy. 'Tis wonderful what patient faith, Allied with courage firm and true, In noble life or constant death. For highest ends can dare and do ! When in our erring eyes most weak. It seems from higher source to seek A strength beyond all human power, | To meet the crisis of the hour ; And, in the triumphs it achieves. Room only for our wonder leaves. Witness its power, ye prison doors ! Behind whose bolts all hope hath fled ; Ye cold and silent dungeon floors ! Which echoed to her gentle tread. Witness, ye reeking cells ! which, sealed By monarch's signet, yet revealed To her keen eyes your secret woe And made her pity overflow. Witness, ye warders ! brave and stern, Whose purpose strong no foes could turn ; MARIE DE LUYS. 49 Who — ev'ry hope of safety lost — Would perish, faithful, at your post; Who, proof alike 'gainst gold and fears, Were melted by a woman's tears. Bear witness, too, ye convent walls. And silent cloisters pale and dim ! Whose tranquil gloom the soul enthralls, Where falls the sound of vesper hymn : Where many a storm-tost soul hath found A haven from life's troubled sea, And in devotion's endless round A sweet, if dull, monotony. Guarded with strict and jealous care, The timid flock, safe folded there — Condemn'd to utmost privacy — Subject to closest scrutiny — What hope of access, if unmeet, Within such sacred, still retreat ? Yet hath its aspect, gloomy — cold, No terrors for a spirit bold. Since in the strictest devotee Still lingers something womanly ; A tender pity for distress — Compassion sweet for k iieliness, 5^ KINDESLIEBE. And sympathy for cares that vex The best or weakest of her sex. And so it is, the generous heart Least mindful of its inward smart— The spirit that for private vice Demands the highest sacrifice- Most gently deal with sin and woe, And readiest charity bestow. Thus, though each ward all rigidly Stood forth the convent lock within, Would Pity turn the willing key And let the weary wand'rer in ; Sole refuge there in all the world For one from fame and fortune hurled. Full often, as a pilgrim saint— And saint she was in very deed— Or, oftener, as a wand'rer faint, She gained relief in time of need. Sometimes, but as a child of shame, Admittance only could she find. Where some small, faint and flickering flame Of hope would lead her eager mind. Sinner or saint, it mattered not Her spirit pure knew stain nor blot: MARIE DE LUYS. 5 I Alike she bore the look of scorn — The rev'rent gaze, of pity born — The blessing of the aged priest — His prayer that. " from all sin releas'd, Her troubled spirit might find peace And all her weary wanderings cease." One purpose only in her mind, She left all other care behind, And entrance only sought to gain Where — living, dying or in pain^ In the loved objects of her soul. She yet might find her hope's bright goal. tanto VII. THE LADY ABBESS. The ancient village of Drepigne Lifts from the vale its towers gray Just as it did in the years gone by, Though buorn of its former dignity. Like warrior old, it boasts its scars. Gained in the endless border wars ' Ere it fell to the greedy Franks a prey, Yielding itself to a stranger's sway, Till another turn of Fortune's wheel— Whether for woe, or whether for weal- Should see once more the prize restored, By the refluent tide of the Saxon horde,' To the ancient rule of a German lord. Little of state or grandeur now It boasts, as it looks from the gentle brow THE LADY ABBESS. 53 Of the swelling hill, on whose lowly crest The peaceful walls of a convent rest. Endow'd by the gift of a perished race, It holds within its close embrace A school and orphanage, trim and neat, Where shame and poverty yet may meet, For their friendless offspring, with safe retreat. In the midst of this fair, sequestered vale Where rural plenty and peace prevail. The earthen ramparts, long o'erthrown, With clinging verdure and moss o'ergrown, Furnish a pleasance safe and meet For lightsome gambols of youthful feet ; As over again, in mimic show. The lads will storm from the moat below — Now a tangled mass of reeds and fern — The crumbling keep where, fierce and stern, The deadly conflict once did rage In those border fights which, many a page. Darkened and stained, in that distant age. A ruined chateau, long decayed, Still lends a charm to the verdant glade : Its princely owners, of lands jreft. Years since th* ancestral home had left ; 54 KINDESLIEBE. And — be it by right, or be it by guile — The Church now owns for many a mile The goodly champaign, wide and fair, Which knows, it is said, no living heir; And thus it is that, for lands and gold, Few do a richer dower hold Than the convent and school of the " order gray" In the ancient village of Drepigne. * Hard by the old gray convent wall, Under the poplars straight and tall. Clad in her sombre garb of gray, The Lady Abbess was wont to stray In the deep'ning shade of the parting day. Whether she simply mused — or prayed. Perhaps she herself could scarce have said, For hither and thither thought will fly. As gossamer floats in summer sky — Now uprising — now descending — Feeling ever the impulse lending. 'Tis hard by simply " telling a bead " Such volatile matter as thought to lead — Subject to every kind of emotion — In the sacred channel of deep devotion. THE LADY ABBESS. $5 The Abbess, for all her tranquil mood, Was yet, we know, but flesh and blood ; And under the snow-white bands that crossed Her woman's breast, was a woman's heart, Like many another, tempest-tossed — Conquered, it may be, only in part. Fasting and prayer will curb desire, Yet still will smoulder the hidden fire. Though rarely may rise its potent breath From the chamber of throbbing flesh beneath ; For the Past is ever hard to forget. And it needs to watch by the embers yet. Noble in mien and noble by birth, With a history none will read on earth, Worsted too soon in the early strife. She had taken the vows of a celibate life. How soon — how late the yearning came For a freedom lost, we ne'er may know ; Since never yet the forbidden flame Has shed on her path its lurid glow. Quiet and cheerful, she wends her way. Bearing her burden day by day : In vigils and prayers her life is spent ; Scarcely the needful care is lent 56 KINDESMEHE. To physical ease and physical health, For body and soul, and talent and wealth Were long since vowed to the life now led — An off'ring fair on the altar spread ; And of all the " order" most famed was she For penance, for prayers, for charity. Is it she never dares to stay The ceaseless round from day to day ? Is it she fears the brief release, Should the constant strain one instant cease And leave the struggling spirit free ? 'Tis well, no mortal the springs may see, And that mind is to mind a mystery ! We only know, what all knew well — What ev'ry mother her child would tell ; That over mountam and over moor, In princely hall or cabin poor. There is not one but holds her dear, All thro' the country, far and near ; And never ceases to bless, and pray For the saintly lady who still holds sway O'er the convent and school of Drepigne. But from the conclave whence bishop and priest Control the " order," this much at least THE LADY ABBESS. 57 Had managed to leak from some cranny out, And — as such things are — was wafted about ; That her heart was all too tender and true For many a work an abbess should do. She might lash herself with a scourge of steel, But pity for others she yet must feel ; She listened too oft to the tale of woe — Was moved too soon by the tear's o'erflow ; She let the sinner too lightly depart, And counted as penance the broken heart ; That — whether in want, in sin, or shame — A sister was yet a sister the same. Doubtless, many a fitter tool For church behest and convent rule Could readily here or there be found, In those dark days, the country round ; And more than once was the question mooted, " Could not the abbey be better suited ? " But, spite of a frequent check and frown, She had long since lived such efforts down; Her rank, her wealth, her spotless fame, Had proved a strong, resistless claim. And left her supreme in her calm domain In that ancient village of fair Lorraine. 58 KINDESLIEBE. If thus, commercing with the sky, There would yet escape for earth a sigh; And if the spirit at times would beat Against the walls of its still retreat ; None but itself, wounded and sore, Could tell of the secret pain it bore; For, under that calm and peaceful mien. Never a single trace was seen. As over the crater the grass grows green Where Nature's mightiest throes have been. So years of penance and vigil had press'd On those proud features their stamp of rest. Saintly Abbess of Drepigne, Thine indeed the more excellent way ! More truly than holy bishop or priest Hast thou fathomed the mind of the blessed Christ The God who suffered — the Man who died — The great, true Heart of The Crucified. ******* 1e* In the convent chapel, hoar and dim. The nuns are singing the Vesper hymn; Rising and falling in dirge-like strain, The holy words fall clear and plain On the ear of a wand'rer, faint and lone. Resting awhile by the cold gray stont : THE LADY ABBESS. 39 " PRO MISERICORDIA SUPPLICIUM. " Pater potentissime — Jesu carissime — Nostri miserere ! Spiritus almissfme-- Deus sanctissime— Nostri miserere I "Judex exorabilis — Salvator amabilis — Nostri miserere ! Consolator mirabilis— Deus laudabilis— Nostri miserere ! ft " Diurno periculo — Nocturno cubiculo — Nostri miserere I In vitae saeculo — In mortis articulo — Nostri miserere ! " Like voices from the distant Past, Those holy words so sweetly sung, When ev'ry pulse with hope beat fast- When heart was light and spirit young. 6o KINDESLIEBE. What are the echoes, soft and low, They wake in the silent depths below, As the list'ner hangs on the dying strain, Craving those liquid notes again. As the pilgrim, parched, on arid plain ? Glist'ning tears, in her dark eyes shining, Gleam, like stars, through the evening haze. Telling 'mid gloom of Hope's declining Of vanished joys cf early days. A silent foot-fall upon the grass — A shadow upon the cold, gray stone ; A sudden thrill, as oft will pass When the spirit feels 'tis not alone ; Accents subdue \ yet sweet and clear, As move the very soul to hear ; A kindly hand on the weary head By storms so cruelly buffeted : " Daughter, the evening air is chill ; You are weary climbing the rugged hill. Rest awhile in our calm retreat, And find in our convent shelter meet. You are spent with hunger- move with pain, Unused, no doubt, to such a strain. "r- . Came fi'fte a feni>er, fioff careaB." ~C,7///0 /'//. mi-' ..:'»> ife^ >l ' '. . » . " )', '■ i fv ,;:y'J«« :' ^■'* ..■ •■•■'' J: '^^■■i^■•■.•i■ ;. *■■ },■>'■'■ '■. 'M .;^;?: ;?:• ■ ./•:.■:; THE LADY ABBESS. 6l Too slightly fashion'd your tender frame — Nay, shrink not ! I ask nor state, nor name. By no such coin need traveler pay For food and rest in Drepigne. ' »> Her loving speech, like Gilead's balm. Falls on the spirit, faint, which hears ; Freighted, it seems, with a holy calm, Leaving unstirred the jealous fears. She takes the hand — in womanly ruth Laid on her weary, drooping head — Still fresh with the delicate hue of youth, And light and soft, as the snow-flake shed. Lifted in prayer, or laden with dole, It bears the charm of a loving soul. Ne'er had it needless burden laid, Nor ever a sacred trust betrayed ; Those aye were blessed it sought to bless, And its very touch, in the heart's distress, Came like a tender, soft caress. i ■■ ~'/rr^r w^^ ' ^wm t(xnio VIII. THE SECRET DISCOVERED. A child of sorrow, want or shame — Unasked her lineage, state or name— The lady Abbess' wish expressed Gains for the wanderer food and rest. " Rest ? Rest ? " Alas ! Where is it found ? Not in the convent's endless round Can wifely longing be supplied Or a mother's yearnings be satisfied. Only on earth, if love be given Its long-sought prize: if not, in Heaven. Ah ! who could see the craving look That passionless face so quickly took. As, under the shade of that convent gray. She watched th' unconscious babes at play, ■" •T' THE SECRET DISCOVERED. 63 And fail to tell that a mother's heart Beat strong and wild in that aching breast, Which never should see its longing part Till its pulse should be for aye at rest ? And if to the Abbess' watchful eyes That sight first brought a mute surprise, 'Twas changed full soon to a glad content ; For a sickness fell on the little fold, And soon were the faithful sisters spent, Watching alike the young and old. And a willing helper were pleased to see In such a dire extremity. And as they marked her patience rare, Marvelous skill and tender care ; The magical power of tone and touch. As over the moaning sufferer's couch She bent, like an angel of peace and love From the heaven of mercy and grace above ; None but acknowledged, from envy free, The tact and skill of Soeur Marie; For by such name, and such alone. Was the stranger guest in the convent known. And still, as the summer grew, the heat On those rolling plains more fiercely beat. 64 KINDESLIEBE. The sluggish winds refused to blow From the distant ranges, capt with snow ; Nor bore to the parch -^d lips and brow The fresh air, never so craved as now, When the fever-fires that raged beneath Withered and scorched, like furnace breath. E'en in the convent, high, and free To every blast from the arching heaven. With its walls of solid masonry, No grateful coolness yet was given. Night and day were wild heads tost Hither and thither on restless pillows, Like hopeless vessels, their rudder lost. Which rise and fall with the heaving billows. The day is gone — the lights are dim In the fever-ward at Drepigne ; And an awe is felt, for a shadow, grim. Hangs, like a pall, from day to day. Again and again, with noiseless tread, Has the silent messenger come and gone ; Another cot vacant, and in its stead, In the convent yard, another stone. THE SECRET DISCOVERED. 6$ The night is fair — the moon is high, Round and bright in a cloudless sky; So bright that the goodliest planet pales In the sea of space where she, peerless, sails. So clear her light that one may trace Each line of pain in the sufferer's face, Or read from the missal the ev'ning prayer. Ah! all too still the scene, and fair; And all too deadly the burden'd air, When only the gracious wind and rain Can end the season of fear and pain. Long trained, 'twould seem, to vigil and fast, Needing but little of change or rest; First to come and lingering last. By no toil subdued — no heat opprest, One silent figure is bending yet O'er a tiny cot near the casement free, Parting the clustering curls of jet And wiping the forehead tenderly. A beautiful child, with classic face Such as the antique sculptures wear ; A freak of nature, or of a race Crowned with an order of beauty rare, That for pride of person and mien might mate With the highest in any land or state. 65 KINDESLIEBE. Scarce had a second summer shed Its fragrant blossoms o'er that fair head, But already, in view of the envious tomb, Had gathered dark omens of early doom. Hour by hour, the pulse beat quicker — Day by day, deeper and thicker The black, impalpable, pitiless cloud. Waiting that failing form to shroud. Who was he? Whence was he? None could tell, For convent walls kept their secrets well ; And no venial sin it was to pry, In those dark days long since gone by. Into many a painful mystery. Now and anon through that tender frame A thrill of sharper suffering came : The little patient would writhe and groan. Touching the heart with pitiful moan, Or fling his arms, or flash his eyes, And strive from the clinging arms to rise ; Till soon, the fruitless conflict o'er, He'd sink on the faithful breast once more, So pale and rigid — so calm and still, 'Twould seem that Death had had his fill. THE SECRET DISCOVERED. 67 Just such a Spasm had come and gone, And Soeur Marie was watching alone. The terrible struggle overpast, Drooped the weary head at last As fell the sad tears, thick and fast, Over the little form, opprest, And the pain-drawn features now at rest. To quicken the blood's returning tide She bears the child to the casement wide, Praying for one faint breath of air To summon the life to those features fair. As the silv'ry moonlight, flick'ring, falls On those delicate lines, once more at peace, What is it that memory fond, recalls — That makes her very pulse to cease ? That bids her hope, when hope is dead, And cling to a Past forever fled ? With trembling fingers she bares the breast Where the little heart so feebly beats. On what does her gaze so wildly rest ? What is that sign her vision greets ? Naught but a little purple stain — A stain, as of wine, on the shoulder white. But gleaming forth, distinct and plain. Dagger-shaped, in the sheeny light. 68 KINDESLIEBE. She staggers — she reels ! An instant more, The convent walls had thrill'd to a cry As only comes from a spirit sore i In the hour of deepest agony; When excess of joy, or pain, or grief Finds in such voice a swift relief. But quick and sharp the warning flies, As 'cross the heavens the lightning's gleam, That, one such cry, and the new-found prize Would elude the grasp, like an empty dreaiii. Wonderful instinct ! true and strong, Needing no reas'ning process long, But reaching the goal with single bound ' Or ever another aid be found. h No cry is heard ; but, ah ! the strain In that quiv'ring frame shews all too plain. The ashen pallor of brow and cheeks — - , The swollen veins, like leaden streaks — |^ The eyes, transfixed — expressionless — Picture the spirit's mute distress. Then one convulsive, sudden throb — A long — long sigh, more like a sob, K K THE SECRET DISCOVEREIJ. 69 And a bountiful rush of blessed tears, Bearing away on its gen'rous tide All the sorrow -nd care of years Into the v/aste of waters wide. Eagerly, fondly, fiercely prest In the close embrace of that loving breast, 'Twould seem from that warm fount of life Fresh strength was drawp. for the bitter strife. Certain it is, from that same hour There came a virtue, or healing power To the feeble frame on the very brink Of the grave to which it seemed doomed to sink. Breasting ihe force of Death's dark flood. Like him of old, she bravely " stood Between the living and the dead," And once again " the plague was stayed." Can it be that love hath power to stay The heav'nward path of the parting breath ? That aught but the powV divine, his prey Can snatch from the cruel grasp of Death ? ) Or can it reverse the dread decree ? Or plead for a special clemency ? 70 KINDESLIEBE. Unuttered though the stifled cry- That, on the wings of night upborne, Had told to the whole community Of a long-lost hope's most blessed dawn ; It had not failed that eye had seen, In one so calm, the tempest wrought, Or of that struggle witness been, With but one meaning surely fraught. The lady Abbess, in nightly round, Had never shunned the sick and pained ; Each had in her a mother found, And ready sympathy had gained. Ah ! not a mother' s, since, perforce, From no terrestrial, human source But has maternal anguish known Has love, maternal, ever flown. ^^ ^^ ^F ^ ^F ^F ^ ^r In the convent chapel, still and lone, Prostrate before the altar of stone — "^Vhere stands the Virgin Mother, mild, And in her arms the Holy Child — A suppliant figure mutely bends — Upward her pleading glances sends. Her hair dishevel'd, disorder'd dress, Witness her spirit's sore distress, THE SECRET DISCOVERED. 7 1 E'en as the inward, stifled moan, Burden'd, it seemed, with sadder tone For the anguish within the bosom pent Which might not find itself a vent. Ah ! for the spirit, pure and true, Only anxious the right to do ; When a wall of darkness seems to hide The path before, and on either side Duty and love the heart divide. Is there a spot 'twixt right and wrong, Bound by a line so thin and fine That, e'en when the motive's pure and strong. The path of duty is hard to define ? Where eaily training and early creed May rill tae mind with so deep a haze, Or such distrust o*" self may breed As to render the road a trackless maz . ? Reared from a child in convent school, Under the Church's sacred rule; To all her edicts taught to bow, And loyal to her order s solemn vow ; 72 KINDESLIEBE. Yet dowered with heart so sensitive To the tender claims of pity and love, That e'en reproof she needs must give To sorrow the gentle soul would move ; What wonder oft her path was drear, Since out of the darkened heav'n above There came no voice, in accents clear, Proclaiming love duty, and duty love ; That, of all the holy and blessed Three, The greatest and sweetest is Charity. " Only a sign — one little sign ; Some outward act — some voice within" — She pleads with tears at the sacred shrine — " To keep the conscience free from sin : " The slightest change in the marble face, Chiseled with exquisite taste and skill, In which the suppliant yet might trace With eye of faith the Father's will. Dare she list to the mute appeal Of that moon-lit scene in the convent ward? Or must she, stern as the pitiless steel, Slay the bright hope by Heaven restored ? THE SECRET DISCOVERED. 73 Dare she list to the tender yearning That seems to rise from her inmost soul ? Or, like some false fire, fiercely burning, Must it yield at once to sharp control? " O Virgin Mother ! whose tender breast Was pierced and torn by the cruel sword, When sadly thy weeping eyes did rest On the bleeding form of thy Son and Lord. Thou who, in virgin purity. Didst bear the pangs of maternity ! Say, in the light of the Holy Heaven, Is not a mother's love full claim To the helpless offspring by Nature given. E'en though it bear the brand of shame ?" »****♦** * Hour by hour she pleads and prays — Hither and thither her purpose sv/ays ; But still, in the faint and flick'ring flame, No answering glow on that visage came. Cold and beautiful still, as the dead From whom all passion of life hath fled, The sacred sculpture gazed below And mutely smiled on her pain and woe. Still from within no answer, clear, Came to the suppliant spirit's ear : 74 KINDESLIEBE. But when the sun with its rising beams Once more o'er the earth in beauty shone, The mother lay wrapt in golden dreams With a soul at peace, but the child — was gone. I Canto IX. LES BASSES ALPES. O fairest land of liberty ! Where, like the bounding chamois, free, A mountain people have maintained The priceless boon of freedom, gained By noblest deeds of courage high Through many a bygone century: Where on each rugged mountain steep And in each lonely, still recess, The bones of many a patriot sleep 'Mid Nature's grandest loveliness. And the rude blasts that hurry by Chant an unending elegy. O fairest land of glittering heights ! Whose varied hue the eye delights ; 76 KINDESLIEBE. Where, nestling 'neath thy mountain crests, Thy hamlets fair, like eagles' nests. Hang in the blue immensity A thousand feet above the sea. And through whose winding vales are seen Thy peaceful homes 'mid pastures green. O fairest land ! whose wilds have been Witness of many a bloody scene — Whose proud achievements, clothed in song, Shall echo through the ages long : Down whose defiles, so dark and deep, The fearful avalanches sweep. No swifter in their sheer descent, Or wider in their ruin lent, Than thy brave sons, when in their wrath They stayed the proud invader's path ; And with the weappns Nature gave Made for their foes one common grave 'Neath rocks and trees, in fury hurled, As from their roots by tempest whirled. Making astounded Europe see Humbled, her proudest chivalry, Before thy free-born peasantry. LES BASSES ALPES. 7/ What though thy peaks can ne'er forego Their crowns of everlasting snow: What though thy glaciers, wide and deep, Like doom itself, resistless creep; And through thy craggy wiJds the blast J All pitilessly hurries past, And Nature in her sternest moods Is seen in thy vast solitudes : Yet, when the gath'ring storms are o'er And on thy realms she smiles once more. What land on earth can equal thine In all the beauties which combine To make it in the traveler's eyes A perfect earthly paradise ? When all thy glitt'ring mountain peaks The rosy morning faintly streaks. Or evening sheds its crimson glow Upon their robes of driven snow : When, first, returning smiles of Spring Life to thy frozen torrents bring. And, flashing each from hidden cell, They, joyful, leap from rock and fell Or, like the captive., just unbound. Fill all the balmy air around With their glad song's rejoicing sound : yS KINDESLIEBE. When from the valleys at their feet Winter withdraws her winding sheet, And all thy hills and dells are seen Bedecked once more in vivid green : When in each most sequestered nook Is heard the voice of bird and brook ; And even on the rocky ledge, Beside the chilly glacier's edge, The timid wild-flower yet doth dare To spread its blossoms soft and fair : When e'en the deep and dread crevasse Is wreathed with tender ferns and grass : Then where on earth doth Nature stand More truly beautiful and grand ? Where homage more unfeigned demand Than in the sturdy Switzer's land ? And richer treasures yet than those Which come as Nature's choicest gift, The homes amid thy hills disclose And far and wide thy fame uplift ; A people, hardy, temperate, true, With hearts to feel and hands to do ; Who, though their earthly lot was cast 'Mid empires, powerful and vast. Yet kept their freedom to the last. ■ LES BASSES ALPES. 79 And, come what might, yet dared be free In face of proudest tyranny. The child that first beholds the light Beneath some soaring Alpine height ; That grows familiar with its form. And early learns to brave the storm, Looking with firm and dauntless eye On all the tumult of the sky ; That daily breathes a mountain air And feasts upon its beauties rare ; That fearless leaps from rock to rock, All heedless of the thunder-shock. Well skill'd with steadfast foot and brain The loftiest peaks, secure, to gain ; That hourly faces dangers grim At peril both of life and limb ; How shall such offspring ever be Aught else but constant, brave, and free ? Thus oft hath Liberty — denied All refuge but the bleak hillside — Found shelter in the peace that fills The bosom of thy glorious hills. Here, by thy peaks which tower to heaven, Was promise of protection given. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 UUi. 111= 1.4 ill 1.6 V] '^ 7: ^ O 7 /A '<^. ^4 1 d \ 8o KINDESLIEBE. Here, by their strong and friendly aid — When leagued Oppression stood arrayed- Was kept one spot of holy ground Where Freedom still a refuge found. ' tanio X. THE WAYSIDE CROSS. The crimson sun had sunk to rest Behind a lofty Alpine crest, Beneath whose shelter lay unroll'd A landscape, picturesque and bold. Whose undulations, deep and wide, Like ocean billows in their pride. Stretched from its base on every side. J ust where the shadows deepest lay, And eariiest fades the light of day, A winding valley mig;ht be seen Threading its way the crags between. Dotted with many a humble cot Where dwells, contented with his lot, 82 KINDESLIEBE. The hardy mountaineer whose heart Craves not a prouder, loftier part In this world's eager, madding strife. Or on the battlefield of life. The chime that told the sunset hour Had sounded from the convent tower, And from the humble village spire An answering echo softly came, As if to wake each pure desire. And quench each false, unholy flame. Bidding each restless spirit cease From selfish toil, and seek for peace At that one source of love profound Where only, perfect, it is found. Just where the road the valley spurns And up the steep abruptly turns. There stands within a deep recess, 'Gainst the huge rock's ungainliness, A wooden cross, all rudely wrought, And yet enough to lure the thought Of pasLer-by to Him who bore. With loving heart and spirit sore, A weightier load of grief and pain Than all who follow in His train. ' THE WAYSIDE CROSS. Little it knew of sculptor's art — Made no appeal to cultured taste ; Yet, doubtless, it had done its part For God and man in that wild waste, And mingled with the dross of earth A something of a nobler worth. Before the cross, upon her knees, A peasant girl all meekly drooped. And lightly on the fresh'ning breeze Her dark locks fluttered, as she stooped An instant, as in reverent prayer ; Then, lifted up her dark gray eyes, As if to read an answer there * In the still radiance of the skies. But on their calm, unruffled face There came no hand divine to trace, As on the proud Chaldean's hall, One single sentence to appall The suppliant's heart, or one sweet word To soothe a breast by sorrow stirred. But, lo 1 a rustling on the air — A footfall on the pathway bare ; But, pastime of the idle wind, No echo in that heart they find. 83 84 KINUESLIEBE. 'Tis but a woman's patient tread, Only a bowed and weary head : Only a figure — faint, opprest — Pursuing till its goal is won ; Only a spirit seeking rest, Yet in the wide world finding none. A little space, amazed, she stands With straining eyes and trembling hands ; As in the very house of death, She scarcely dares to draw her breath. Then, in its sweet intensity, Her soul goes out in sympathy To that lone form and piteous face. Which, in the hour of pain and loss, Had found their fitting resting-place Beneath the shadow of the cross. No need of mystic lore to know The secret of that pictured woe ; Experience holds the truest key To every human agony. The bleeding feet themselves have trod The thorny path ordained of God ; The trembling lips the cup have drained From v;hich life's sweetest hopes were strained ; THE WAYSIDE CROSS. 85 'The empty shrine in which, bereft, No earthly idol now is left ; The exile for whose safe return No blazing hearth shall brightly burn — Who through the earth, from end to end, Can call no living mortal friend : Ah ! who, than these, can sooner trace In every feature of the face — In seamed brow, unkindling eye, Where gleams no more Hope's courage high — In quivering lip — uncertain gait — The victim of an unkind fate ; That direst form of earth's distress, Born of an utter loneliness ? No need for her who gazed, to frame That lot in any earthly name ; No need to gauge by process slow The measure of that silent v/oe ; Needless the rushing tide of tears Which soothes the heart that sorrow sears ; Needless the passionate, bitter moan — " Alone ! Alone ! " Ined ; With footstep light, the wand'rer steals, To where the youthful suppliant kneels ; 86 KINDESLIEBE. Beside her sinks upon the sward And leans the drooping form toward. One arm with eager, tender haste, She wreathes around the slender waist ; Draws the fair head upon her breast — By its own weight of care opprest — As o'er that bosom's tempest, wild, There comes a voice — how soft ! " My child ! " One sudden and convulsive start — One flutt'ring of the guileless heart ; One troubled look of doubt and fear — One glance into those eyes so clear, And, every mist of doubt dispelled, She, eager, sought the peace that welled From their pure depth's unsullied spring To which, no more, defilements cling — Whose troubled and embittered tide The " branch divine " had purified : Then on that loving, faithful breast A haven found of peace and rest. " My child, you weep ! Have need to weep For those dear forms in death who sleep. And yet — they sleep! The conflict o'er, For them, life's cares can vex no more. THE WAYSIDE CROSS. 8/ They rest in peace ! No cruel hate — More cruel than Death — can separate Thy love from them — their love from thee, Now theirs and thine eternally. At least each dear, familiar name Thy quiv'ring lips may seek to frame, And make no secret of the grief Which in such solace finds relief; Whilst, o'er the mound which love uprears, May fall the consecrating tears. " Beside thee one whose deeper woe E'en such poor comfort must forego : Whose tend'rest ties to earth are broken — Whose dearest idols are o'erthrown. And yet their names must ne'er be spoken — In life, or death, must be unknown. Wrapped in impenetrable cloud — Less merciful than death's pure shroud — Their fate, unsolved, must yet remain, Whilst Hope, still baffled, seeks in vain Sonie faint and glimmering light to gain. The strongest prayer that faith can wing To Heaven, all answer fails to bring ; Or, like the dove from out the ark. Goes forth upon the waters dark — ^ '." fip ■ ™'f!Pi"-' 88 KINDESLIEBE. Circling awhile in aimless flight Above the overwhelming tide — Only once more within to light, Still yearning and unsatisfied. " If thou canst trust a friend like me — Too reft of all that earth can give, To harbor thought of harm to thee. Or care to labor to deceive — Let me thy loneliness befriend ; Let me with thee my wand'rings end, And let our separate woes, combined, A common consolation find ! " How sweet are sympathy and cheer. E'en when the spirit seems so sear That not one single flower or blade Can venture to uplift its head ! How sooii beneath their timely aid The spirit, crushed — forlorn— dismayed. Recruits its s':rength, at least in part; And hope, rekindled in the heart. Puts forth again its petals fair To let the sunlight settle there. THE WAYSIDE CROSS. 89 So — list'ning to the stranger's speech Which falls, like dew on arid plain, And gazing on those eyes which teach So much of triumph over pain — The suppliant, rising to her feet, Takes the kind hands within her own. With grateful deference, soft and sweet, She leads her to a chalet lone. Deserted now by all who gave It warmth and beauty — light and peace. And still and cheerless, as the grave, Where all earth's varied trials must cease. Here — sweet companion of her woe — She bids her further toil forego, And share with h^*; the simple lot And unpretending peasant's cot; Which, else, her unprotected years Must quit in homelessness and tears. 5* tanio XL LEONIE DUVERGNE. Ah ! how describe the sense of rest The wand'rer's mind and limbs confessed? How calm the haven she had found After the dull and weary round, The strain of which she never knew Until the needed respite drew Her grateful heart at length to see Its absolute necessity! How welcome, too, the links of love Which common sorrow swiftly wove, To bind two wounded hearts as one In close and sweet communion ! The maiden's tale was quickly told. For grief in youth finds ready tongue. Her friend had little to unfold She could confide to one so young ; I.KONIE DUVKKGNE. 91 And yet, in spite of all her fears, Some fragments of her life would fall, For kindly hearts and willing ears Make ever good confessional. A father lost when Alpine snow Lay deep amid the mountain rifts, And all the winding vale below Was overwhelmed with mighty drifts : A mother, victim of disease Which spares not Edens such as these. But leaves the trace of sin's sad blight E'en on these plains of spotless white. A youth left friendless and forlorn, To higher hopes and prospects born : This was the substance of a tale Which, when recounted, could not fail To waken in her hearer free And unrestrained sympathy. But still another name was found, With those best loved, all closely bound ; Which — mourned with almost equal pain — Must ever in her mind remain. "A friend?" "No more. But, oh, how dear!" No youthful lover — this was clear. 92 KINDESLIEBE. His mention made no pulse to gain, Nor brought upon her cheek a stain ; And yet his loss had wrought her pain, "A kinsman?" "No." "A stranger?" "Yes. His name — condition, none could guess." "A peasant?" "No." "French? German? Swiss?" " We had no certain c^ue to this.. He spake in many tongues with ease, And used them oft his hosts to please; Yet left behind no single trace Of home or lineage, rank or race." Such were the answers freely made And such the interest betrayed, As, sitting in the ev'ning, still, Beneath the shadow of the hill, Her friend, at first, to speed the hoir., Would question after question shower. But, as the answers strangely came, Again revived, the stifled flame Began to flicker in the heart So often doomed from hope to part And see its light, so soft and fair, But set once more in dark despair. LEONIE DUVERGNE. Ah ! could it be that all her toil Should bring her but to such a goal? That this should be the highest spoil Vouchsafed to fill her yearning soul ? Only the record of a life Yielded so early in the strife ; The memory of a spirit, pure, Which ever constant must endure, Until the heart that it had lighted — At length by woe, persistent, blighted — Itself should cease to live and burn, And " dust to dust " again return. 93 It needed but a little skill. Directed by an eager will — The smallest exercise of force. To draw from such a willing source The history of the peaceful close Of his mysterious career. Who 'mid these liills had found repose Denied him in his native sphere : To gain, in simplest forms of speech, A truer tribute to his worth Than storied monuments which preach The virtues of the lords of earth ; 94 KINDESLIEBE. Shewing how man can brave the blast Of human hate and bigotry, And keep, untainted to the last, His spirit's truth and purity. " When came he?" "On an autumn eve. The reapers had begun to leave Their daily toil ; and through the street Were hying to the calm retreat Of their rude homes, which 'mid the wild In rustic loveliness still smiled, And lent a charm to all the scene Which, else, too desolate had been. " The sky above was clear and calm. The air around was soft as balm. The sun, behind the mountain crest. Was glorifying all the West. The ruddy tint upon the leaves Well matched in hue the standing sheaves. All Nature donned her suit of brown. Save where the snow-wreaths ceaseless crown The peaks which soar above the range Of elemental strife and change. " Here was a wagon full of grain Attended by a merry train, m LEONIE DUVEKGNE. The mules all brave with ribbons gay — The village girls in bright array — The lads with scythes and sickles keen- Old men on alpenstocks who lean. Here was a drove of lowing kine, And there a woman serving wine, The product of the native vine. " Low-seated on the shaven grass, I watched the gay procession pass — With many a kindly nod and smile, And many a coy and harmless wile For friends of past and present days, Who, eager, sought to fix my gaze — Unconscious, till the street was free. Of one, who, resting wearily Beneath a rocky crag, had been Amused spectator of the scene. " A blush — a start — a passing shade, My marked disfavor had betrayed At what I deemed, in my surprise, Contemptuous look in stranger eyes. But, instantly approaching near. The traveler in his accents clear — With grace of manner all his own. Begged pardon for an interest shewn 95 r 96 KINDESLIEBE. In such a scene of happy mirth 'But rarely given,' he said, *to earth. And like a cordial to the heart Which in such pleasures knows no part.' " No more could maiden heart resist Such full ame7tde^ than mountain mist Withstand the sun's concentrate powers, When all its rising beams it showers Upon the valleys dark bulow And makes them 'neath its radiance glow. And when he told of journeyings long — Of failing health, and soul opprest — Only sustained by purpose strong. And asked for shelter and for rest ; My pity gave with tearful eye What pride, offended, would deny. " I led him to the vine-clad cot, A stone cast only from the spot, And made his wants and weakness known To her who had been left alone Of all my early friends to be The guardian of my infancy. A kindly welcome there, I knew, Would but be deemed the traveler's due; For at that lowly threshold few ■.-■,.,"!''.' J.~- r'jjrrw." LEONIE DUVERGNE. Could plead in vain, if frank and free. The rites of hospitality. " Twas strange we never paused to mark How fast and firm our friendship grew ; And, though the days were short and dark, How fleet and light the moments flew. With heavy heart and failing health, The stranger, it would seem, had wealth ; Ample at least for all the care He needed, and the simple fare Which seemed sufficient to invite His pure, unpampered appetite, Leaving his generous spirit free For noblest acts of cb-'-itv. Had he been born a mountain child And known no home but some such wild, More suited he could scarce have been To such a life and such a scene." 97 tanio XII. THE STRANGER-FRIEND. " How shall I tell of all he wrought To cheer the heart — to raise the mind, Till every deed and every thought A loftier level seemed to find ? How, skilled in many a useful art. He sou^;; at his talents to impart, And taught the villagers to turn Their native skill to higher spoil, And win more suitable return For honest and ingenious toil ? How, the long winter days and nights — When fierce winds raged upon the heights- Were seasons now of calm delights. As giving brain and hand employ — Lending to life a sweeter joy. THE STRANGER-FRIEND. And bringing, in the days to come, Full many a comfort to each home. Making those humble thresholds free From chilling gloom of poverty ? " Full oft, when daily toils were o'er, He would disclose his goodly store Of varied knowledge, rich and rare — For he had traveled everywhere — And by the blazing hearth instil Such lessons as, the mind, would fill With aspirations pure and high The nobler paths of life to try ? 99 « > Twas from his lips had flowed the truth, As ne'er before it blessed my youth. I learned the Ristory of our land ; How it had sheltered many a band — Whose worth the world might never know- In their dark hour of pain and woe. But most I learned to pity those, Down-trodden by their ruthless foes Because, in soul, they dared be free. And scorned a spiritual tyranny. *' He taught my careless eyes to trace A Father's love in every place, :oo KINDESLIEBE. Till mount and rock, and stream and dell Seemed portions of a temple gra> . — That, in it, He Himself might dwell — The Lord of all the earth had planned; And how the Master once had said, ' The hairs were told on every head, And not a sparrow fell, but He Did hold it in His memory* " How blithely sped the winter night When, in the huge log's fitful light, An eager group of young and old Sat list'ning, rapt, to stories told Of German, French, or Switzer's lands : How dauntlessly their noble bands Stood forth in fierce and bloody fight For fatherland, and home, and right ; And gave no thought to limb or life In such a cause, and such a strife. And, as all marked his look of pride — - The fire that sparkled in his eye, He might have been a captain, tried. Leading his hosts to victory. THE STRANGER-FRIEND. lOI " E'en the good nirc^ old and gray, Would smoke his pipe the blaze before, And while the ev'ning hours away With interchange of ancient lore. . He learned to love the stranger youth. First, doubtless, for the stamp of truth He wore upon his open face ; But none the less for that sweet grace Of speech and manner, which would thrall With wond'rous charm the hearts of all. " He loved to hear him talk of Art — Of many a custom, quaint and old: But, when some deeper thought his heart Would warm, and waxed his spirit bold — Launched on resentment's gen'rous tide — And he denounced in accents stern The petty tyranny that tried The rule of conscience to o'erturn. The aged priest would shake his head, And glance around with aspect grave, As with a certain, secret dread For one so heedless and so brave : For Rome, though shorn of temporal powers, Yet largely sways these realms of ours, 102 KINDESLIEBE. And has her zealots everywhere, Too ready to display their care For that blest Faith, whose highest pfea, Their blinded eyes have failed to see, Is the sweet grace of charity. " No doubt the good man in his mind Was questioning what this >varmth might be, And feared lest some should seek to find A lurking taint of heresy. Yet, in this still, secluded vale But few, if any, ever heard Of doubts that, minds without the pale Of Holy Church, so deeply stirred. We knew no heroes but the saints, Whose pictured lives we learned by rote ; And felt no burden in restraints Whose weight we ne'er had paused to note. The graver thoughts which, some, perplexed — The claims that, others, sorely vexed, Produced no ripple on the sea Of our more peaceful piety. " But, if from larger knowledge free, We little knew of bigotry : THE STRANGER-FRIEND. By priest or abbess, man or maid, A kindly welcome e'er was said, And none would fail with aid to bless A heretic, if in distress." 103 DC, te. Canfo XIIL LA GORGE DE ST. BARTHELEMI. " Alas ! that, o'er a scene so bright, Should fall so terrible a night As that which broke the pleasing spell- Of which I tremble as I tell. " Low-seated in the ruddy glow, Where all too fast the moments go, Or busy with some light employ, We never dreamed how brief our joy, Nor read the meaning of the gloom - Presaging such an awful doom. No heart grew faint — no cheek grew pale, Nor failed the joke — the song — the tale ; Not one among us thought to see So awful a catastrophe. LA GORGE HE ST. nARTHKLKMI. IO5 " Week after week the winds had swept Around our happy mountain land. Higher and higher tlie snow line crept — A fathom deep it seemed to stand. More fearful grew the gath'ring drifts In dark ravines and craggy rifts, Whilst o'er the undulating dales A white and billowy waste prevails. Vast wreaths, like shrouds, hang overhead — The mountain passes none can tread. The very prince of mountaineers — A hardy Swiss, who mocked at fears, Brave Paul Leroux — was well-nin:h lost In bringing in the weekly post; The only intercourse we knew With those beyond, for mails were few And travelers rarely came to see La Gorge de Saint Barthelemi. " E'en twixt the dwellings scattered 4vide Throughout the neighb'ring country-side, But little contact now was known. In many a hut and cabin lone The tinkling of the convent-bell The lapse of time alone would tell ; io6 KINDESLIEBE. And, sounding thro' the thin crisp air, Would toll the hour for praise and prayer, Reechoing from hill to hill That 'God was in His temple still,' And yet looked down in love divine From every snow-clad mountain shrine. ■t " Was it that, in our happiness. We failed His holy name to bless ? Or was it, that the silence deep Had lulled our watchful fears to sleep ? *Tis certain, when the wak'ning came, It startled old and young the same. The patriarch, witness, spared to be, Of a revolving century. Had never known the weather break, Or bitter frost its hold forsake. So early in the new-born year Upon the hillside far and near. All prayed they might not live to see Again such widespread misery. " For suddenly the wind had veered, While o'er the steel-blue heavens fair Dark forms of threat'ning cloud appear'd. And soft and sluggish grew the air. LA GORGE DE ST. BARTHELEMI. 10/ So thick the mists that clung to earth One could not see a yard before ; The hardiest dared not venture forth A single rod from out the door. Eye read in eye the growing awe — Silent, we wait — the sudden thaw. " Only in such a place and scene Can any learn alight what mean These awful words. How dire and fell, The woe and ruin which they tell ! No horrors wrought by flood or fire — No earthquake's shock, or dread disease Such terror and dismay inspire In dwellers in such spots as these ; Since, in one common loss combined, Friends — fortune — life and all, they find. " E'en when at length the day-break fell, So deep the gloom that hedged us in, That not a living soul could tell When night did cease and day begin. But, with the setting of the sun, The gath'ring clouds in fury broke. Like liquid fire, the flashes ran Across the heav'ns. The thunder woke io8 KINDESLIEBE. The echoes of the frozen hills. The hollow earth, responsive, thrills. Then, as each cheek grows deathly pale, Down pours the mingled rain and hail, In one long wild and furious rush. We count each heart-beat in the hush Between each fearful thunder peal, Which makes th'=: cabin rock and reel — Our cold limbs quiver as we kneel. '• The little flock the cot could hold Were penned, like trembling sheep, in fold. More distant from the mountain-side. It left a margin safe and wide To stem the avalanche's tide. Within — some twenty souls in all — We cower as the storms appall ; For, save our chalet — which was found Removed, and on a rising ground — No other shelter, safe, was near Short of the Convent of St. Cyr, Whose walls were distant many a rood, Whilst raged between the swollen flood. LA GORGE DE ST. BARTHELEMI. ICX) " I know not what the others thought, Or what they prayed, or what they felt ; For terror, silence deep had wrought. But, as beside the hearth I knelt, It seemed as if the past, unrolled, Gave back that awful night of old, When Israel's God — about to free His people from captivity — Bade them, the ' paschal lamb,' to slay And sprinkle blood upon the door ; Waiting in faith the coming day, Till the Destroyer should pass o'er. " All through the night we knelt and prayed. No hand divine the tempest stayed. But when, increasing in its might, The storm had reached its utmost height, There came upon each ear a roar. Such as not one had heard before. It seemed that e'en the tempest failed. The stoutest heart with horror quailed. As in the pine-log's fitful blaze We, trembling, sought each other's gaze. The cheeks of all with terror blanch Before the awful avalanche. no KINDESLIEBE. " O fearful night ! whose hours must move So cruelly slow for those whose love Could but ill broqk such long suspense — When every single nerve was tense. O fearful night ! which, ere it parts, Takes life and hope from countless hearts. What strongest exercise of thought Could estimate thy ruin wrought ? " Twas midday ere the tempest ceased ; And all our little band, released. Prepared to venture forth and try Th' extent of the calamity. Alas ! it far outweighed our fears ; Too great for words — too deep for tears. I, Leonie Duvergne, would die. Rather than life and fortune buy With such another agony ! *' For miles and miles the snow prevails O'er mountain slopes and winding vales. Save the old church and convent walls, A habitation, scarce is seen ; " Where once, at frequent intervals, A hundred smiling homes had been. LA GORGE DE ST. BARTHELEMI. I I I Over some thousand peaceful dead That spotless shroud was deeply spread. *Twas far into the summer, bright, When the last corpse was brought to light. They knew no requiem but the wail Of bitter blasts which hurried by : No watchers but the bleak hills, pale, Beneath Heav'n's spacious canopy. " Such was the record, when, at last, The sum of all our loss was cast. But weeks passed by before we knew ; For, daily, here and there, a few Were rescued from untimely grave By that devored band, and brave. Who, forth, with dauntless spirit went. Day after day — though chill and spent — And labored on in face of doom To save their friends from living tomb." Canio XIV. THE NAMELESS GRAVE. " And foremost in this noble toil — To snatch from Death his buried spoil — Our stranger-friend. A friend indeed, Who never, in our deepest need. Did fail our drooping hearts to cheer With promise of deliv'rance near : Who, ever first to do and plan, Devised the rescue — led the van, And knew no rest by day nor night In all that long and desperate fight; Until, o'ertaxed, his youthful strength — His dauntless will succumbed at length. And from that little pallet-bed. Surrounded by a grieving band, His generous soul its passage sped And left us for the spirit-land." THE NAMELESS GKAVE. 113 " And did he naught to you reveal Ere death his constant lips did seal? Speak nothing of his friends — his home ? Where he was bound ? Whence he did come ? " " But little. Though, when fever raged, He wrestled, like a lion caged ; And strove, as for his very life. To reach his absent child and wife. But when the kindly cure stood Beside his couch, and raised the rood, And questioned, * if, in faith, he died Of the dear Lord — the Crucified? And steadfast in the one true fold Ordained by God in days of old ? ' Then, seemed to fall a holy balm. And, grew, his spirit, wond'rous calm. A smile of heavenly sweetness came, And kindled in his eyes a flame. He upward gazed, all rapt, to Heaven- Not one but caught the answer given : "'The blessing of a holy priest Comes, father, to a soul released. Like the last beam of setting sun, To smile upon a journey done. 6* 114 KINDESLIKBIi. Such blessing doth my spirit crave ; 'Twill cheer my passage to the grave. I hold the faith — love all mankind ; Still in the Church I refuge find, And pray that, in the days in store, She learn and teach His spirit more.* " The gentle sisters, in their zeal, But rarely left his chamber free. Beside his couch in prayer they kneel, Unceasing in their ministry. But once, these summoned from his side, And I a watching all alone — He found the space, too long denied, And charged me thus, in lowered tone " ' Dear Leonie, come here and kneel. Let me your gentle hand-clasp feel. Though soft, I know it true as steel. You love me — all of you — I think ; And now, upon the very brink Of death's profound and dark abyss, The only grace I ask, is this : *"I care not where my grave is made, Nor what the tribute to it paid ; .» ■ THE NAMELESS GRAVE. II5 And, yet, it brings me joy to know, That sometimes thither you will go, And drop at least a tender tear Where lies a friend and brother, dear. But, o'er that spot, where'er it be, I would each traveler should see The sacred sign ; and on its face. Would have some hand th* inscription trace Engraven on this signet ring; To which, I charge thee ! steadfast cling. Then, with my wallet, let it be Interred and guarded sacredly, Till one may come who bears my name The solemn trust at length to claim. Mark the initials closely ! See ! 'Tis hers alone who gives the key, For I am—' " ** Floribel de Luys ! Ah, yes, my heart ! Thine instinct true Would guide me right at last, I knew. Though, wrapped in death, my love, I find, The savor he hath left behind Is yet so full of comfort, sweet, I cannot deem it all a cheat. Il6 KINDESLIEBE. Sweet Leonic, I claim my dust ! I claim — his w'^e — -thy sacred trust ! And ever, till this heart be cold, It shall thy tender form enfold, And benediction seek for thee For all thy sweet fidelity." ******* How oft at eventide they stray, To where, in peaceful shadow, lay The little mound with wooden cross Which told of all their common loss, No need to tell ; for deepest grief Will seek at times such sweet relief, And strength and consolation gain E'en in the memory of its pain. Suffice to know, that mutual love. And mutual sympathy and cheer, Like Heaven's own sunshine from above. Dispensed their solace year by year. The individual burden, shared, Seemed robbed of half its weary load ; And each was many a dark hour spared. As they pursued the common road. And when the history of the vale Became well-nigh a world-wide tale, THE NAMELKSS GRAVE. 117 And, daily, curious trav'lcrs came To view the scene of such ill fame; Not one but sought the church-yard, green, Where might the stranger's grave be seen ; And tried to read, but all in vain, The monogram — distinct and plain — Which held within its letters, three. The still unraveled mystery ; For, faithful to his very dust Did Leonie preserve her trust. E'en when long years shall have effaced The touching lines, so rudely traced — Those simple souls, beyond the skies. Found rest and peace in Paradise, For whom he fell in sacrifice ; Rehearsed by many a cottage hearth, His deeds shall yet be known on earth, And still his lasting record be : " gere fiec— emBafmeb in memory— @ fxitnt) of §t (fattaefemi." tanio XV. THE WATERFALL Ten fleeting years have swiftly sped — Ten years of calm content and peace. Fair Leonie long since is wed ; Andj when her daily labors cease, Will often come with children twain, As spring resumes her beauteous reign And frees the valley and the plain. Beneath the roof-tree loved so well. Where now, alone, her friend doth dwell. Ah ! not a/ofie, whose pathway lies 'Mid s^d, but fondest memories : Where ev'ry hour, from first to last, Brings converse with a sacred Past : THK WATKKFALL. I IQ When all on which we rest our eyes A sweet companionship implies : When ev'ry zephyr seems to thrill The. heart, and stir the withered leaves Of perish'd joys, whose fragrance still The present sadness yet relieves : When breathes through all an undertone From friends beloved, now dead and gone — Ah ! this is not to be alone. Within those kindly, shelt'ring walls Did he not draw his parting breath ? How ev'ry object still recalls That peaceful — that heroic death ! Guarded, like shrine, that chamber still, In which his dying charge was heard ; In face of Leonie's firm will No single article was stirr'd. And now another vigil keeps — Beside that pallet prays and weeps, And feels in all the peaceful air A holy presence ling'ring there, Which chases all her doub*s and fears And brings a gladness thro' her tears. So in the works of love, by one Thus truly loved so well begun, I20 KINDESLIEBI;. She finds a solace wond'rous sweet, And t;oil enough for wiUing feet; For soon, through all the winding vale. Is known full well that visage pale — That slender form and quiet mien — That smile, so kindly and serene. With thrifty spouse, yet kind and free, No further need had Leonie Of that poor cabin which had been A witness to the painful scene Which ever in her past career Stands forth begirt with awe and fear. A modest compensation paid — Which she would gladly have gainsaid — Secured her friend a tranquil home, Until at least the time should come When once again, the weary wild, She needs must tread, to seek her child. How oft in her divided heart The tide of conflict ebbed and flowed ! Now all was ready to depart — The last prayer said — last look bestowed Upon the chamber, fair and still — Upon the mound beside the hill. THE WATERFALL. E'en with her journey duly planned, With scrip prepared and staff in hand, There yet would come a sudden change, Born of some intuition strange; And with a burst of sudden grief — The charged spirit's best relief — Her steadfast will subdued once more, She gave the bitter contest o'er, And clung to that secluded spot From which his memory parted not; And which, like magnet, held her soul With irresistible control. 121 Though oft renewed this inward strife, How calm without the daily life ! That heart itself but knew the cost Each time the fight was won or lost. And when at length an aged crone Was cast upon the world alone, Helpless and friendless, it appeared As if her prayer at last were heard, And Heaven itself had found a way By which her home might be preserved, And she left free to go or stay As frequent as her purpose served. •^T' 7 122 KINDESLIEBE. How silently the years go by ! Or bright or dark, or grave or gay, How well-nigh imperceptibly To-day fades into yesterday ! We wake to find the task undone, Or else, perchance, but scarce begun, Which we had vowed should see its close Before another sun uprose. And so it was with her who found Amid these hills this refuge sweet, And chastened joy within the round Once trodden by her loved one's feet. A few brief pilgrimages made. It may be in as many years, Where'er her eager steps were led By dawning hopes or quicken'd fears, Had but sufficed to feed the flam.e From whence the ceaseless yearning came. And served but to revive the stinsr A tender conscience yet will bring. Though reason hath the charge denied, And love itself is satisfied. THE WATERFALL. 123 With soul oppressed and ill at ease, Beyond her wont she heedless strays To catch the fresh'ning western breeze That round the height above her plays — Scales the steep rocks, confus'dly piled, On which the summer still hath smiled, And left its tufts of tend'rest green Where'er its footsteps, light, have been. Guided by what? or whom ? her eye, Attracted, lights admiringly Upon a deep, romantic glen, Untrod, if not unknown of men. Here, in fantastic garb arrayed, Nature her wildest charms displayed, And wood and water, rocks and fern Lent grace to all her features steru. Enraptured by the wiid'ring scene, She stays to feast each eager sense On all the sweets the spot serene Seems but too willing to dispense ; Then, sinking on a rocky bank *Bove which the brushwood, rich and rank. Hath, interweaving, cast a shade. As if for halting pilgrim made, 124 KINDESLIEBE. She yields herself at length, opprest. To quiet thought and needed rest. Whence is it we so freely draw On Nature's vast and varied store, Yet rarely give her credit due For each sweet draught of bliss we knew ? By ev'ry fair and gracious gift She would the sordid soul uplift. In all her leafy temples, green, She preaches of the Great Unseen, And fills the far-reechoing skies With never-ending symphonies. Whate'er the scene, where'er the spot — E'en when, too rapt, we heed it not— She soothes the soul with peace divine. Upon its wounds pours oil and wine. And for distressed and troubled minds Some blessed antidote still finds. How many an ingrate never knew From whence he hope and courage drew For all the daily wear of life, And all the anguish and the strife. Until the light of heav'n hath paled— The bounteous source of blessing failed. THE WATERFALL. 125 And left, alike, to hearing — sij^ht. Unbroken silence — deepest night ! Ah ! did such thoughts as these possess Her brain in this sweet wilderness ? On which had rested peace profound But for the constant babbling sound Of yonder waterfall, which leapt From rock to rock, or, eager, crept Between the jagged boulders, gray. Which gave its waters devious way. If so, they moved to other strain. As plainer still, and still more plain, There grew a method in its tone Which spake unto her bosom lone. And — with a meaning full and clear She paled and trembled but to hear — Seemed with her inmost thoughts to chime. For, in a weird and endless rhyme, It framed the purpose of her heart, From which, though oft constrained to part. She never yet had wholly lost ; And which, however great the cost, She felt she must again renew Ere yet another summer flew. T *(VT7 T?r' - ■■(f.-w^;^ ■..,..- - .'*-7"^^ ^i^.Wfjpiwfi i' * wilj.' n .unri .1 ^ 126 KINDESLIEBE. Intent, she heeds — still more intent; Yea, all her soul, it seemed, she lent. As thus the ceaseless waters sang, The while from ledge to ledge they sprang Unceasingly : SONG OF THE WATERFALL. Up in the mountain I leave the fountain Where my glittering crystals first saw the light My course, unending, Forever wending, I journey along by day and by night. Hurrying ever — Loitering never, Hither and thither, my way I take ; Gallantly leaping — Silently creeping Over the rocky ledge — under the brake. Under the noonlight — Under the moonlight — Under the pale blue gleam of the stars ; Darting and quivering, Starting and shivering. My bosom all bright with their silver bars. THE WATERFALL. 12/ By rock or heather, Spite of all weather, The mountains reecho my murmuring song; Ne'er am I lonely — , One purpose only In all my bright ripples that hurry along. Ne'er do I waver From fear or from favor — From summer's soft smiles, or from winter's sharp cold. Streams, slowly stealing. May know congealing. But never a spirit that's steadfast and bold. Ne'er am I weary, Lightsome or dreary The wildering way that is given me to tread ; Be the sun beaming, Or lightning gleaming Through the dark thunder-cloud looming o'er- head. Singing or sighing. Onward still hying. Ne'er can I pause till my journey is done ; 128 KINDESLIEBE. Ever in motion Till, in the ocean, I mingle forever my waters in one. Thus with the rhythm of the stream. Her long-repressed emotions seem With freshen'd energy to move. She hears an inward voice approve The spirit of its endless song, As, eddying the rocks among, It speeds, so resolute and strong. No longer on the turf she lies, As one all listless and forlorn. A fli-e is kindled in her eyes. Not new, but only newly born. She stands erect upon her feet, And bears her patient head to Heaven. She renders thanks and praises meet For strength and courage freshly given : Then, as her wav'ring spirit grows The stronger for the brief repose, She summons all its latent might ; Prepares again for that fierce fight, So oft resumed — so often lost, .And that at such a bitter cost '■■!*• .V- •.. • lAji :>!■,, :•■ .A ,■■■•■:■ ■ ■■■:• iv.'V. ,,'-V' ' ..■■■ ■>s;' :;^'/'W:''' ^^^ KINDESLIEDE. " 1" I" IT'- 156 KINDLSLIEBE. That — wounded, hcartsore, desolate — He well-nigh loathed his rank and state, And left to cold and selfish hands Both duty's, yea, and fame's demands ? Till, through the country far and wide, That race was scorned, once named with pride. And Rudersdorf's princely domain, Where peace and plenty once did reign, Became one universal scene Of tyranny and avarice, mean. ******** On this sad history, often heard. The mountain child had sadly mused, As pity, sweet, her heart had stirred And tears her gentle eyes suffused. Full oft, when, sporting by the brook. She saw the old man, lonely, pass, She'd steal a sympathizing look, Half hidden in the ferns and grass. But never, to the left or right, Was once the Baron known to turn. Upon the ground was fixed his sight. His aspect, proud and cold and stern. EDELWEISS. Seemed ne'er to catch a softer glow From all the beaming heavens above, Nor, by the smiling earth below, Was won to kindness and to love. But now, beneath an impulse, strange, She does not dare to disobey, All wondering at the sudden change, She seeks the narrow, rocky way. With downcast eyes and blushing cheek— With graceful attitude and meek, She stands an instant in his path : And then, as if to ward his wrath, She drops upon her bended knee In sweet, old-fashioned courtesy, Lifting above her drooping head Her simple wild-wood offering. O'er which kind Nature's hand had spread The perfumes, manifold, which cling. How will he view her action bold ? And she, so young, and he, so old; He, of so lofty a degree, And she, a child of poverty; He, with the star upon his breast, And she, so poorly, coarsely drcst. »5; I5«^ KINDESLIEBE. Ne'er had she scanned, with spirit sore, Her humble raiment thus before ; Been conscious of her tangled hair — Her limbs and feet, so brown and bare. And well might thoughts like these career Through slA the labyrinth of her brain, As, alternating, hope and fear Within her throbbing bosom reign : For, standing rooted to the ground. Like timepiece in its daily round All sudden checked, the baron's gaze Seemed as obscured by sudden haze. He stood, as in a gloom profound, Straining the ear for guiding sound. Then, dreamily, as he who wakes From deepest sleep when daylight breaks To flood with beauty all the earth And give a myriad flow'rets birth. He saw the child upon her knee. All veiled in maiden modesty. He saw the offering in her hand — Fair product of the mountain land, And read, in its simplicity, i ler sweet and childlike sympathy. EDELWEISS. 1 59 A tremor passed through all his frame, As to his eyes the moisture came. The flood-gates, closed for many years Scarce held the rising tide of tears. His voice grew husky, low, and weak — He dared not trust himself to speak ; But, bending to the kneeling child — More lovely 'mid that mountain wild — He lifts her gently from the ground — Looks for an instant, wond'ring, round : Then, gazing in her deep blue eyes — Wide open now with mute surprise — As one who pierces through the skies, In low, half-uttered accents cries — ** Liebe kleine Edelweiss !" A moment— and, the weakness past. The skies again are overcast — The precious vision qu'ckly flown, And he is once again — alone. Ali kindly on the drooping head A trembling hand is lightly laid; A tear lies on the open brow From which all fear hath vanish'd now, And once again he breasts the hill As fall the ev'ning shadows chill. tanio XX. AT REST. Twere sweet tu tell in simple song How, constant, thro' the summer long The little maid at close of day- Would meet the Baron on his way, And never, as the sunlight paled, To pay her simple tribute failed. Not as the sullen vassal yields The hard-earned produce of his fields. But as a simple, tender heart Will seek its pity to impart : Not in the firstlings of the fold — In luscious fruits, or grain, or gold : Only the wildflowcrs, sweet, that wreathe Thy woods and dells, fair Fatherland ! And their fond memory bequeath To thy brave sons on distant strand ; AT RFST. 16 1 And which — in exile, sickness, death — To many a wand'rer on the earth, Come, h'ke a fresh, reviving breath. From the dear soil that gave him birth. 'Twere sweet to tell how, sad and stern, He gave her, first, but little heed ; Would scarce his glance upon her turn. But, silent, on his path proceed : How, soon, the listless eye would light Upon that picture, pure and bright. Until a moist'ning of the eye — A nervous trembling in the hand • That on his staff pressed heavily, ■.Vould shew the effort to command The rising tide that surged below And threatened instant overflow. But, as the daylight comes and goes, That slender form familiar grows; And dearer, yea, and dearer yet. That picture, fair, so rudely set. And as he sees the childish awe Melt into soft and sunny smiles, What could the chill heart do but thaw Before such captivating wiles 8* J. 1 62 KINDESLIEBE. As rarely fail to thrill the soul And make it own their soft control ? So, day by day, his way he took Past mossy bank and babbling brook. A something — what he could not tell — Would lead him still towards the fell ; A something that his heart would crave — A something that the contact gave. As Memory links some scene gone by With passing glint of summer sky ; With ling'ring echo of a strain That thrilled with mingled joy and pain ; With parting breath of perfume, sweet, Exhaled in softer, sunnier climes, Which comes, the vacant heart, to greet From the dead joys of earlier times : So to each charmed and thrilling sense Would these their subtle power dispense. And so the summer days went by, And suns uprose and set again. And flowers came to bloom and die. And ruddier grew the .-ipening grain. AT REST. 163 And so within the old man's breast Still mellower grew the frozen heart, As to the rugged mountain-crest Sunset doth warmer hue impart. His eyes had learned to seek the place Where, tye, the childish figure stood With downcast look and glowing face, Sweet denizen of fell and wood. Perhaps himself could scarcely tell How strong the tie, how sweet the spell Which Past and Present wrought so well: Yet, in the answering look and smile Her simple, childish arts beguile. The little " oread," doubtless, read How surely had her mission sped. But, on an autumn eve, it chanced, Deserted was the rocky way. Ne'er had the golden sunbeams danced More lightly on each quiv'ring spray. Ne'er had a softer, balmier air Breathed on those scenes so passing fair. Ne'er sang the birds in blither tone ; Nor, gayer, on its pathway, lone. Rippled the brook o'er turf and slone. 164 KINDESLIEIJE, Upon the distant forest, dun, The sinking, well-nigh level sun Had background formed of brown and gold, A beauteous setting, fit to hold The fairest type of form or face Which such a paradise could grace. E'en to the Baron's listless eye The scene stood forth invitingly, As once again he onward pressed To the rough hill's familiar crest. But, where the murmuring brook did cross. All deviously, the mountain way. What was the sudden sense of loss That seemed his upward path to stay ? There stood before him, in the wild. No fairy form of mountain child With cheeks aglow. No ruddy hair Was given to the fresh'ning air. From out those orbs of deepest blue. Beamed not the glance, so pure and true. Whose tender light he loved to greet. There shone no fair and dimpled feet Upon the turf, so soft and green. Where, late, was wont, the syl .ai queen, To stand in innocence serene. AT KEST. 165 Unlifted were the slender hands Which had unwound the Past's stern bands, And, by their simple offering, won To life and hope, a heart undone. He paused an instant, troubled — dazed, Then eagerly around him gazed. If haply, thro' the leafy screen. That childish form might yet be seen. But when upon his heart, forlorn, Th' unwelcome truth at length was borne, It seemed a sudden weakness came. A trembling seized his stalwart frame, And, sinking on a friendly stone, He knew himself again — alone. E'en this faint gleam of joy must be Too bright to gild his destiny. How long he might have wrestled there In silence with his dark despair. We may not know. Upon the air There came a pitiful, low moan, As from those walls of living stone, Followed by cries of grief and pain As leave but hearts whose love is slain. l66 KINDESLIEBE. Upstarting with the thn'Hing sound, He gains the rock with single bound, Where thro' tli' embowering trees he spies The smoke-wreaths circlinj^' to the skies. A moment, and the porch is pass'd — His shadow on the threshold cast ; And, silent, o'er the earthen floor He seeks the inner chamber door. 'Tis open; and anon he sees A group of women on their knees Around the simple pallet bed Whereon a dying form is spread, O'er which a hallowed cahn is shed. Whatever pangs that spirit bore ; However faint that heart, and sore ; Whatever lines of grief and care Were ploughed upon that forehead fair ; However rough the pathway prest To reach the goal of final rest ; There now was left no lingering trace To mar the beauty of a face Where righteousness and peace had met. And immortality had set Its awful seal. * # * )|( « m HI I AT REST. 167 » As, when the storm, its course, has run, The skies will clear at set of sun ; As, when hath passed the winter long, Comes spring with perfume and with song ; So often, at the close of life — Though one long scene of pain and strife — Will shine amid the gath'ring cloud A light which naught on earth can shroud, Nor dark, funereal plumes that wave. Nor all the horrors of the grave. Beneath it, soft, the eyelids close. The weary spirit seeks repose. The hands fold gently on the breast Where all emotion is at rest. The furrows leave the tranquil brow, The cheeks assume a parting glow ; And the whole aspect of the scene Is full of peacefulness serene. ******** Wjth dimpled arms around her thrown — The ruddy locks about her spread — The child's fresh cheek against her own — The parting soul had well-nigh fled. That shadow through the doorway cast, And through the chamber gliding past— 1 68 KINDESLIEUE, Though not a sound had reached the ear, Tells of a human presence near, And seems the parting soul to stay An instant on its heavenward way. A smile — so sweet, its only birth Could be of Heaven, not of earth — Once more relights the kindling eyes Too soon to commerce with the skies. It flickers on the lips and cheek. She cannot rise — she may not speak; But, as the old man, reverent, stands, She takes the little slender hands. Sets them within the trembling grasp Which tightens with protecting clasp ; Then, by the final effort spent. Breathes forth her spirit, all content. Canio XXL THE DREAM FULFILLED. The solemn looks which witness lent — The silence round that lifeless dust, As with a holy sacrament, Had sealed that sacred, parting trust. The Baron, 'mid the mute surprise, Closes himself the sightless eyes. Then, with that aspect resolute Which brooks nor question nor dispute, Issues to those who round him stand, In accents low, each brief command; Provides for all with fitting care ; Assigns to each her proper share — Attention meet, protection sure, The funeral rites and sepulture. IVAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 £ 111 lino 1.8 1.4 111.6 V} m^ '/ M #% > "^x ^^^>-^ % V <^ V irt jL. i^ ^ I/O KINDESLIEBE. Low-seated by that silent coiich, Upon the child he lays a touch, So soft and tender as to leave No place for doubt, no room to grieve. All gently striving to unbind The arms around the corse entwined. He takes the child all tenderly And draws her, passive, to his knee. He wreathes her arms about his neck — Which, ne'er did fairer collar deck — And lays her drooping head to rest Upon his strong and craving breast, Just where the star, resplendent, gleams : And never had its proudest beams Gleamed forth more beauteous on the sight, Or shone with more of lustre bright, Than those moist eyes and wistful face, So full of sorrow's touching grace, Which 'neath those locks so full and free Upturn to his so timidly. How paint the feelings of the child, As now, adown the steep hillside, She leaves the dear, congenial wild, Clinging all closely to her guide i THE DREAM FULFILLED. With instinct true, to childhood known, And not reserved for brute alone? Unmindful they of aught beside — What eye might scorn, or lip deride ; Each found in each a something more Than either e'er had found before; Both felt it good for them to be Thus in each othec's company. Together down the tortuous road They sought the Baron's proud abode. Together through the village passed, Where many a curious glance was cast. What tender tie these twain could hold ? And she, so young, and he, so old ; He, of so lofty a degree. And she, a child of penury; He, with the star upon his breast, And she, in rustic habit drest. But, gazing in the saddened face Where pity, sweet, she yet can trace, She heeds not now, with spirit sore. Her simple raiment, scorned before — Her tangled locks of ruddy hair — Her shapely limbs, so brown and bare. 171 172 kindesliebp:. The deeper anguish swallows all, And leaves no space for troubles small. But in her loneliness and grief — His presence brings a sweet relief. Of every natural tie bereft — With not one kindred bosom left On which to lean her childish head — On which her welling tears to shed. She, like the little tendril, flings Her hopes around the friendly form, Which now alone protection brings — Her only refuge from the storm. And little doth the Baron reck What clothes his little charge bedeck. One hand within his own enclasped. He heeds not that the other grasped, All loosely bound, her little hoard Of treasures, long so safely stored. He sees alone the streaming hair — The beaming brow — the visage fair — The large blue orbs, so deep and clear, Which seem, as from another sphere. To bring again from yonder skies His " liebe kleine Edelweiss." *l* "P ▼ T* n* *^ '^ I* L THE DREAM FULFILLED. 1 73 And now the village lies behind. The bridge that spans the stream is crossed. Through avenues with lindens lined, The child moves on, in wonder lost. They pass beneath the frowning gate Which oft had turned the tide of war, Still girt with much of ancient state Though marked by many a dint and scar ; Where on the 'scutcheon, gray and old. Wrought with enamel and with gold, Some ling'ring traces, yet did shine, Of power which graced the ancient line. In spite of all her ewe and fears, E'en through the mist of unshed tears, She notes how changed was all the scene Where once the reign of taste had been. Here rose the grass above the knees. Here bowed to earth the ancient trees. Oppressed beneath the heavy weight Of unpruned limbs, left desolate. Here, all untrimmed, the garden beds. Across the walks the briar spreads. And many a vase of sculptured stone — Abloom with flowers in days by-gone — Stands weather-stained and moss o'ergrown. 1/4 KINDESLIEBE. Here, scarce above the fountain's brim, The sluggish waters slowly ooze, Once leaping o'er the marble rim A grateful coolness to diffuse, And, sparkling in the changeful light. Each drop, with flash of diamond, bright. They pass within the castle door. They tread the tesselated floor, Awaking echoes, as they go, That seem to speak of long ago. From many a picture, fair and bright — From many an efifigy of stone, Shine features, fine, and eyes whose light Find their reflection in her own. Though all unconscious of her claim To share their titles or their name. Unheeded still, their footsteps fall, In that well-nigh deserted hall, Where once the belted barons sate Begirt with pageantry and state ; And wassail shout and laughter gay Full oft was heard till break of day, And children sported mid the throng, And echoed loud the battle-song. THE DREAM FULFILLED. 1/5 No liveried lackeys line the way Their servile deference to pay. Amid the shadows, softly blent, The Baron's eyes are downward bent; The child's with wonder larger grow As hand in hand they, silent, go Adown those once resplendent halls, Where still upon the tarnished walls May yet be seen in proud display The spoils of many a bloody fray ; Where stalwart knights, in armor drest, Stand, lifelike, forth with helm and crest, Which oft, like storm-bird in the sky, Had gleamed above the conflict high. Anon they reach an open door With crimson portiere draped before. The Baron, silent, leads the way Where, sad, he broods from day to day In sombre silence — painful thought, Little doing — heeding naught. Only busy with the past — Counting o'er the blossoms cast From off that proud ancestral tree. Of which the last on earth is he. Doomed now to hopeless misery. 1/6 KINDESLIEBE. An antique chamber, oaken cei'ed, With panels, wrought with taste and care ; With storied windows that revealed In rich designs a genius rare ; With pictures limned by master-hands, And treasures borne from distant lands; With many a volume, richly dight, Of learning sage, or fancy bright ; With German lore or wit of France ; With monkish legend- gay romance, And all that wealth and taste can give To make it privilege to live. Beside the oriel, through whose panes The sunset falls in crimson stains Upon the polished oaken floor, And all the chamber's goodly store, Was set a carved ebon chair, High-wrought, and of a iinish rare. Upon its back, in filigree — Once a bright blaze of heraldry — Was traced in exquisite design The arms of each converging line That centred in that aged form Alone had braved foul fortune's storm. THE DREAM FULFILLED. ijy And now, within its close embrace, He bows his head a Httle space. With downcast eyes and folded h-nds The mountain-child before him stands ; Her homespun raiment, coarse and spare— Her neck and limbs and feet still bare ; But in the meshes of her hair, And on her brow and lips and cheek The sunbeams weave such colors rare As human art may vainly seek. She seems no more a peasant child Brought from some lonely, rocky wild • But a " creation " such as, vain, Hath filled full many an artist's brain Who yet hath lacked the taste and skill To make its charms the canvas fill. It seems to glorify the room- Banish the all-pervading gloom. And tell of happiness in store When fell despair shall blight no n.ore. And when the old man fain would raise His drooping head, and fondly gaze, Perchance these thoughts thrill through his heart, And bid the brooding clouds depart • 9 178 KINDKSLIEBE. Or, threading back the lapse of years — With all their sorrows, pains and fears — He sees the lost child of his love Come down to bless him from above — To bid his spirit's yearning cease, And crown his latest hours with peace. Emotions, long suppressed, arise And surge within his bosom lone : They beam a welcome from his eyes — ■ They thrill in every look and tone ; As, flinging wide his hung'ring arms, He bids her cease her vain alarms. And, like his long-lost darling, come To warm and cheer an old man's home. The outstretched arms — the pleading look, No other answer seemed to brook. With one loud sob of joy and grief — One deep-drawn sigh of sweet relief; With fond, shy look and mantling face, She springs into his warm embrace. Finding at last a fitting rest Upon that yearning, faithful breast. THE DREAM FULFILLED. 1/9 Time fails to tell How, 'ncath her gentle, loving reign, The wither'd heart grew young again ; How, soon, the darkness disappeared And all the dull horizon cleared ; How, through the hamlets far and wide, By kindly hands, were wants supplied ; How, under wise and loving rule, Throve cottage home and village school ; How, hope and courage, well-nigh spent. Revived, and flourished sweet content. How, once again, that ancient hall Reechoed with the pleasant sound Of laughter, as the evenings fall In pallid mists on all around, Or when the gathering tempest's shout Forbids all contact from without. How, once again, the gardens fair Grew bright with blossoms rich and rare ; How, fountains glittered in the light. Whilst, on the turf, so soft and bright. Were groups of sportive children seen. Enlivening the festive scene. As old and young, with heart and voice, In sweet domestic love, rejoice. i8o KINDESLIEBE. How, Rudcrsdorf's stern, gloomy lord-.— Again to hopeful life restored — No more in solitude repined, But did increasing honor find Around the throne and 'mid his peers, A goodly sight, for all his years. How, something of its ancient state Did still upon the castle wait. With less of coldness and of pride. And more of kindness and of love, That made its influence far and wide A benison from Heaven above. How — once, where curses, loud and deep, Were heard against th' unfeeling hand That seemed with iron hold to keep The peasants serfs upon the land — Came smiles, and tears, and blessings sv/eet, Thankful a milder rule to greet. ^r T» tv *!* 1* •I* t* 1* First, as a little waif, upcast Upon the shore by tempest-blast, And for the memories of the Past, He took the child into his heart ; Nor did he know how strangely fast She won him by each childish art. TIIK DREAM FULFILLED. l8i 'Twas only after years had flown, And she into his life had grown So deeply as to know no fear That aught, his love, could quench or sear. He chanced to note her little store — Which ne'er had met his gaze before — The necklet with its links of gold, The jeweled locket which did hold The face of her, in days gone by, Wept with so sore an agony. Ah ! then, he knew, by witness strong, That righted was the bitter wrong Which, through these years of woe and pain, A burden on his soul had lain — That, in the child whose tender grace Had filled his days with new delight, Was one who, in his heart, her place Held by inalienable right. And years go by on lightsome wing, And each has meed of peace to bring. Till on one fair, auspicious day. When earth was clothed in garlands gay. Upon the balmy air there swells The happy sound of wedding-bells ; K\JM. ^MM m V I/1AI copies of the work forw Such a recognition is b; of attainment, and cont more valuable on this following is an exact cc ment submitted to us : Kaibeblich Deutsce Washington, Jai Rev. Henry Faulkner Avon, N. Y.— Dear Sir, — By order Government I have th( you tha» His Majesty, th Her Majesty, the Empres been so gracious as to a( unies of your work, " K mance of Fatherland, wl sented to them. I am li express to you herewith ' Imperial Majesties. Very respec Charge D' Affaires ot th( t \ (8 of the work forwarded to them, a recognition is by no means easy tainnient, and consequently is the ! valuable on this account. The wing is an exact copy of the docu- i submitted to us : Kaibeblich Deutsche Gesandtbchaft, Washington, January 7th, 1892. Henry Faulkner Darnell, D. D., on, N. Y.- ar Sir, — By order of the Imperial rnment I have the honor to inform iha* His Majesty, the Emperor, as also Majesty, the Empress Frederick, hfive so gracious as to accept the two vol- } of your ^7Fork, " Kindesliebe," a Ro- se of Fatherland, which you have pre. !d to them. I am likewise charged to ess to you herewith the thanks of their jrial Majesties. Very respectfully, A. V, MUMM, ge D'Aflfaires ot the German Empire. Wc stay the beating And v: th the setting ol Glance back upon th| Then, to the failing eye How small the space tl| How fine the interval tl| These phases found in How brief the spaces till These stations on the fl From ihe A-'on Springs Herald, A meb tiompllment to an ATon Antlior. That " a love of literature makes the whole world akin" has been proved time and time again. We are pleased to be able to record a remarkable in- stance of this in the case of a work re- cently put forth by an author well known in this vicinity. The latest pub- lication of the Rev. H. F. Darnall, is a poetical romance, entitled " Kindes- liebe." a romance of Fatherland, which has already been accorded a hearty wel- come in this country. It is now our privilege to put on record the following letter from the charge' d' affaires of the German Empire, in which it is an- nounced that the above mentioned work has been graciously accepted by the Emperor William and the Empress Frederick of Germany, who have in due form returned their thanks for the copies of the work forwarded to them. Such a recognition is by no means easy of attainment, and consequently is the more valuable on this account. The following is an exact copy of the docu- ment submitted to us : Kaiserlich Deutsche Gesandtschaft, Washington, January 7th, 1892. Rev. Henby Faulkner Darnell, D. D., Avon, N. Y.— Dear Sir, — By order of the Imperial Government I have the honor to inform you tha» His Majesty, the Emperor, as a)so Her Majesty, the Empress Frederick, have been so gracious as to accept the two vol- umes of your work, *' Kindesliebe," a Ro- mance of Fathorland, which you have pre. sented to them. I am likewise charged to express to you herewith the thanks of their Imperial Majesties. Very respectfully, ^ A. V. MUMM, Oharge D' Affaires ot the German Empire.