Part 3

“Did you not know Me, my child?” the lips and eyes that were all love seemed to say to her. “You have thought the thoughts that I inspired, you have spoken my words, you set forth to fight on my side in the battle against evil; and yet you forget me, and have often gone near to deny me, while I was standing by your side and giving you the strength to speak and think. Look at me now, and see if I am not better than the images that have hid me from you.”—_A Doubting Heart._

THE day is long, and the day is hard; We are tired of the march and of keeping guard, Tired of the sense of a fight to be won, Of days to live through and of work to be done, Tired of ourselves and of being alone.

And all the while, did we only see, We walk in the Lord’s own company; We fight, but ’tis he who nerves our arm, He turns the arrows which else might harm, And out of the storm he brings a calm.

The work which we count so hard to do, He makes it easy, for he works too; The days that are long to live are his, A bit of his bright eternities, And close to our need his helping is.

O eyes that were holden and blinded quite, And caught no glimpse of the guiding light! O deaf, deaf ears which did not hear The heavenly garment trailing near! O faithless heart, which dared to fear!

ONLY A DREAM.

I DREAMED we sat within a shaded place, Where mournful waters fell, and no sun shone; And suddenly, a smile upon his face, There came to us a winged, mysterious one, And said, with pitying eyes: “O mourning souls, arise!

“Take up your travelling staves, your sandals lace, And journey to the Northland and the snow, Where wild and leaping Borealis trace Fantastic, glistening dances to and fro; Where suns at midnight beam, to fright the sleeper’s dream.

“There, in the icy, solitary waste, God’s goodness grants this boon,—that thou shalt see, And hold communion for a little space With that dear child so lately gone from thee. Arise, and haste away; God may not let her stay.”

So we arose, and quickly we went forth; How could we slight such all undreamed-of boon? And when we reached the ultimate far North— All in a hush of frozen afternoon, Lit by a dim sun-ray, liker to night than day—

There, o’er the white bare feld we saw her come, Our little maid, in the dear guise we knew, With the same look she used to wear at home, The same sweet eyes of deepest, dark-fringed blue; Her steps they made no sound upon the icy ground.

She kissed us gently, and she stood and smiled, While close we clasped and questioned her, and strove To win some hint or answer from the child That should appease the hunger of our love, Something to soothe the pain when she must go again.

And was she happy, happier than of old? Did heaven fulfil its promises of bliss? And had she seen our other dead, and told The story of that loving faithfulness Which held them dearly yet and never would forget?

To all these questions she made no replies: She only smiled a softly wistful smile, And looked with gentle eyes into our eyes, And kissed us back; and in a little while She said, “Now I must go; my Lady told me so.”

Then jealously we cried: “What is the name Of this thy ‘Lady’? Is she good to thee? Has she above all other angels claim To thine obedience, dear; or can it be The Mother of our Lord?” She answered not a word!

But sighed, and laid her finger on her lips, And kissed us all, and straightway from our sight, As twilight wanes and melts in night’s eclipse, She vanished, and we looked to left and right, And wildly called her name, but, oh! no answer came.

And with the anguished call the vision broke, The equal sky of summer shone o’erhead; The earliest birds were singing as I woke.— All was a dream, except that she was dead, And that familiar pain I tasted once again.

Thank God, it was a dream! How could we bear To see her stand with wistful eyes down bent, In the old likeness that she used to wear, And know her sad and only half-content, And shy and puzzled even, as if not used to heaven?

Better, far better, not to know or see! O Lord, whose faithfulness all ages prove, We trust the darling of our hearts to thee, Asking no explanations of thy love; Keep thou her safe alway, and give her back some day.

AT THE ALTAR.

I KNEEL before thine altar, Lord, and fain a gift would bring, But all I have is worthless and unfit for offering; A foolish heart, a foolish dream, a foolish, fruitless pain,— Such are my all; O Love of Love, do not the gift disdain!

And even as earthly monarchs do, who take the tribute given, And quick restore, by royal grace increased to seven times seven, So take, O Lord, my offering, and vouchsafe me presently, For emptiness thy fulness, for my hunger thy supply.

I lay my heart down at thy feet, that tired heart and old, Whose youthful throb has grown so faint, whose youthful fire so cold; Heart of the world’s heart, Lord of joy, and mighty Lord of pain, Take thou the gift, and quicken it, and give it back again.

My foolish dream, so dear, so prized, baptized in many tears, Loved even as sickly children are, the more for doubts and fears, O Lord, whose word is faithfulness eternal to endure, Take it; and give me, in its stead, the Hope that standeth sure.

The pain, that half was baffled will, which could not bear to die, And, stilled by day, would stir by night and wake me with its cry, That pain so close, so intimate, that Death could scarce destroy, I leave it, Lord, before thy feet; give me instead thy joy.

All empty-handed came I in, full-handed forth I go; Go thou beside me, Lord of Grace, and keep me ever so. Thanks are poor things for such wide good, but all my life is thine,— Thou who hast turned my stones to bread, my water into wine.

ETERNITY.

O LITTLE waves, which kiss the sands With cool, caressing lips of foam, And murmurs soft, and outstretched hands, Like glad, tired children nearing home, O little waves, so soft, so small, How are you linked, if linked at all, To those mid-ocean billows strong, By fierce winds scourged and driven along, Tossed up to heaven, and then again Sucked in black gulfs of whelming main; Never at rest and never spent? Urged by a speeding discontent, A seething strife which knows not ease, Are you akin to such as these? The little waves they flash and rise, And lisp this answer wonderingly, With laughter in their glancing eyes: “They are the sea—we are the sea.” O small, spent waves of surging time, Which break and fall upon life’s shore With soft and intermittent chime, A moment seen, then seen no more, How are you linked, if linked you be, To that great dark eternity Which stretches far beyond our gaze, And rounds our nights and rounds our days? We see its darkling billows flow, But dare not follow where they go, Nor guess what distance dim and vast They span to find a shore at last. O little waves, what share have ye In this great dim eternity? The fleet waves answer as they run: “Or near, or far, one name have we, Time and eternity are one; It is the sea—we are the sea.”

RESTFULNESS.

LONG time my restless wishes fought and strove, Long time I bent me to the heavy task Of winning such full recompense of love As dream could paint, importunate fancy ask.

Morning and night a hunger filled my soul; Ever my eager hands went out to sue; And still I sped toward a shifting goal, And still the horizon widened as I flew.

There was no joy in love, but jealous wrath; I walked athirst all day, and did not heed The wayside brooks which followed by my path And held their cooling threadlets to my need.

But now, these warring fancies left behind, I sit in clear air with the sun o’erhead, And take my share, repining not, and find Perpetual feast in just such daily bread:

Asking no more than what unasked is sent; Freedom is dearer still than love may be; And I, my dearest, am at last content, Content to love thee and to leave thee free.

Love me then not, for pity nor for prayer, But as the sunshine loveth and the rain, Which speed them gladly through the upper air Because the gracious pathway is made plain.

And as we watch the slant lines, gold and dun, Bridge heaven’s distance all intent to bless, And cavil not if we or other one Shall have the larger portion or the less,

So with unvexèd eye I mark and see Where blessed and blessing your sweet days are spent; And though another win more love from thee, Having my share I am therewith content.

IN AND ON.

_On_ earth as _in_ heaven.—_The Lord’s Prayer._

ON earth we take but feeble hold; Joy is not confident or bold; We dare not strike deep roots and stay, Nor trust to-morrow or to-day. We scatter grain beneath frail skies, And note its shoot and watch its rise, And do not know or guess a whit What other hands shall garner it. We raise our songs, but fast and soon Our voices unto silence die, And other voices end the tune Which, too, shall falter presently. “Forever” is our idle oath; But while the word is on our lip Night falls, and past and future both Out of our hold and keeping slip. We dare not love as angels may, Lest love should fail us or betray; And life goes on and we go hence, Nor never know continuance.

In heaven is safety and sure peace; There is no waning nor decrease. The endless ages ebb and flow, The endless harvests riper grow; Fast in the rich eternal mould The heart’s deep roots take hold, take hold With the strong joy of permanence, Never to be transplanted thence. Sweet songs are sung to very close, Sweet closes recommence and blend; And still as rose-bud answers rose The new strains grow, the old strains end. Forever means forever there; New joy past sorrow reconciles, And hung in clear and golden air An undeceiving morrow smiles. While Love the law and Love the sun Blesses and warms and saves each one; And God’s dear will, our earthly prayer, Is made quite plain and perfect there.

A DAY-TIME MOON.

UP in the shining and sun-lighted blue, Where foam-white clouds sail like a fairy fleet, The pale moon hovers, glimmering wanly through, Like a sad chord in chorus gay and sweet.

Frailer than cloud she seems, and torn and frayed; A little wandering fragment, drifting slow, Of that brave golden summer moon which made Midnight so beautiful awhile ago.

Why comes she back at this untimely hour, When noon is nigh and birds are singing clear, And the fierce sun, her rival, burns with power?— What can the poor, the pretty moon want here?

Does she feel lonely in the peopled sky, The only moon among a starry host; They all together in brave company, She wandering solitary as a ghost?

Or does she grieve that we so soon forget The perfect beauty of her tempered ray, Drowsily praising her sweet beams, but yet Keeping our real joyance for the day?

Poor, pallid moon, with a reproachful face She eyes the humming world as on it moves, Yearning through the vast intervening space For some one who remembers her and loves.

And like a homesick spirit, sad at heart, To heaven’s happy ways not wonted yet, She seems to murmur when she strays apart: “I still am faithful; but you all forget.”

A MIDNIGHT SUN.

FEARFUL of rivalry thou canst not be. How should the pure, pale moon dispute the sun; Or the innumerable company Of scintillant stars, though banded all as one?

One glance of thy hot anger can dismay The boldest planet till he fades and flees, And hastes to bury his affrighted ray In far, uncalculated distances.

Why linger then to rule the midnight sky, Baffling celestial rule, and vexing men Who watched thy sinking but an hour gone by Only to see thee turn thy steps again?

The drowsy birds are drooping on the trees, The cock’s faint crow but dimly prophesies; The weary peasant slumbers ill at ease, And blinks and winks, half wakes and rubs his eyes.

The east it flushes wanly, as in doubt; Foams with unrest the roused and wrathful sea; The scared moon peeped, then turned her round about, And fled across the heavens at sight of thee.

Sovereign of day thou art by law divine, None shall thy rulership or sway divide; The dawning and the rosy morn are thine, The busy afternoon and hot noontide.

But dusk of breezy twilight firefly-lit, With chirp of drowsy bird and flash of dew, And children clasping sleep while shunning it, And midnight, with its deep, mysterious blue,—

These are the properties and appanage Of sovereign Night, thy equal and thy foe; And when she cometh and flings down her gage And claims her kingdom, ’tis thy time to go.

And when in turn thou comest she must flee. Each has a realm, and each must reign alone; And not for her remains and not for thee To seize and claim an undivided throne.

The sky it loves thee, but it loves the moon; The world it needs thee, but it needs the night. Blind us not, then, with thine inopportune, Bewildering, and unexpected light.

Leave us to sleep, and duly take thy rest. Vain is the plea; the king is on his way, And, following his tossing golden crest, Comes the long train of hours, and it is Day.

HER VOICE.

K. R. J.

WHERE is the voice gone which so many years, Each year grown sweeter, rose in glorious song, Interpreting to all our hearts and ears Ecstasy, passion, pain, the yearning strong Of baffled love, the patience stronger yet, The pang of hope, the sweetness of regret?

How should that perish which seemed born of heaven And framed to breathe the meaning of the skies? Can music render back such gift once given; Or bear to know some subtlest harmonies Must evermore go half expressed, perceived, Forever thwarted and forever grieved?

Heaven did not need her voice; its courts are full Of choristers angelic trained for praise. No note is lacking in the wonderful According chorus, which, untired, always Sings, “Holy, holy, holy!” round the throne; But earth seems dumb to us now it is gone!

God does not grudge us anything of good! And I will dare to fancy when she died, And on the sweet lips which so featly wooed Music, the guest, to enter and abide, Death laid his hand, and with insistence strong Shut in the secret of their power of song,—

That the dear voice, thus sadly dispossessed And reft of home, sped forth upon its road, And like a lost and lonely child, in quest Of shelter, sought another warm abode In human shape,—some gentle, new-born thing, Where it might fold its torn and beaten wing.

And if, long years from now, we catch a strain Which has the old, familiar, rapturous thrill, We shall smile, saying, “There it is again! It is not dead, it wakes in music still. Hark! how the lovely accents soar and float, A skylark singing from a woman’s throat!”

A FLORENTINE JULIET.

WHAT is it, my Renzo? What is thy desire? To hear my story, hear the whole of it? And with a shamefaced air and reddened cheek That “others know it all, and why not thou?” Who has been talking to thee of me, then; Setting thee on to question and suspect? Ah, boy, with eyes still full of childish dreams, And yet with manhood on the firm young lip, ’Tis a hard thing to ask me, and a strange! A woman does not easily lay bare Her history, which is her very heart, Even to that piece of her she calls her son! Son he may be, but still he is a man, And she, though mother, is a woman still; And men and women are made different, And vainly ’gainst the barrier of sex They beat and beat,—all their lives long they beat, And never pass, never quite understand! Yet must I do this hard thing for thy sake, Since who shall do it for thee, if not I? Thy father, who had else more fitly told, Is at the wars, the weary, wasting wars;— Long years ago he sailed unto the wars, And, dead or living, comes not back to us. Unhappy is the son who, woman-bred, Knows not the firm feel of a father’s hand; And I, widow or wife, I know not which, Wofulest widow, still more woful wife! Must frame my faltering tongue to tell the tale, And snatch my thoughts back from their present pain To the old days, the hard and cruel days, Full of sharp hatred and stern vengeances, Which yet were beautiful to him and me Who lived and loved each other and were young; But unto thee, born in a softer hour, Come as dim echoes of some warlike peal.

Thou bearest an honorable name, my son, Two mighty houses meet and blend in thee; For I, thy mother, of the warlike line Of Bardi, lords of Florence in past time, Was daughter, and thy sire Ippolito Sprang from the Buondelmonti, their sworn foes; For we were Guelph and they were Ghibelline, And centuries of wrong, and seas of blood, And old traditional hatreds sundered us. Even in my babyhood I heard the name Of Buondelmonti uttered ’twixt set teeth And coupled with a curse, and I would pout, And knit my brows, and clench my tiny fist And whimper at the very sound of it; Whereat my father, stout Amérigo, Would catch me up and toss me overhead, And swear I was best Bardi of them all; And if his sons but matched his only maid They’d make quick work of the black Ghibellines And of the Buondelmonti!

So I grew To woman’s stature, and men called me fair, And suitors, like a flight of bees, began To hum and cluster wheresoe’er I moved; And then there came the day,—that fateful day, When little Gian, my father’s latest born, Was carried for chrism to the baptistery; And standing, all unaware, beside the font, I looked across the dim and crowded church And saw a face—a dazzling, youthful face! A face that smote my vision like a star; With golden locks, and eyes divinely bright Like San Michele in the picture there— Fixed upon mine.

Had any whispered then It was Ippolito, our foeman’s son, At whom I gazed, I should have turned away, My father’s daughter sure had turned away. But nothing warned me, nothing hindered him; We looked upon each other, Fate so willed, And with our eyes our hearts met!

“Cursed cur,” My brother muttered, fingering at his sword, “I’ll teach you to ogle us when this is done!” “Who is it, then?” I whispered, and he told; And with the name I felt my heart like lead Turn cold and cold and suddenly sink down.

And still that tender, radiant gaze wooed mine, And still I felt the enchantment burn and burn, But would not turn my head or look again; And all that night I lay and felt those eyes, And day by day they seemed to follow me, Like unknown planets of some strange new heaven Whose depths I dared not question or explore; And love and hate so strove for mastery Within my girl’s heart, made their battle-field, That all my forces failed and life grew faint.

He, for his part, set forth with heart afire To learn my name,—sad knowledge, easy gained, Leaving the learner stricken with a chill! And after that, whenever I might go To ball or feast, I saw him, only him! And while the other cavaliers pressed round To praise my face or dress, or hold my fan, Or bid me to the dance, he stood aloof With passionate eyes, but never might draw near. For still my brother Piero or my sire Were close behind, with dark set brows intent To watch him that he did not dare to speak. Only his eyes met mine, and in my cheeks I felt the guilty color grow and grow; And once, when all were masqued, amid the crowd A hand touched mine, and oh, I knew ’twas his! At last, with baffling of his heart-sick hope And long suspense and sorrow, he fell ill; And in a moment when life’s tide ran low He told his mother all; she, loving him well And loath to see him perish thus forlorn, Became his ally, spoke him words of cheer, And with my cousin Contessa, her sworn friend, She counsel took; and so, betwixt the two, It came about that on a day of spring When almond blossoms whitened the brown boughs And olives were in bud and all birds sang, We met,—a meeting cunningly contrived, In an old villa garden past the walls. My mother had led me thither, knowing naught, And I, naught knowing, had wandered for a space Among the boskage and the fragrant vines, And, standing by a water-fount of stone Listening the tinkle and the cool, wet splash Of the thin drip, and thinking still of him (For I went thinking of him all the day), I heard the soft throb of a mandolin, And next a voice, divinely sweet it seemed, A voice unheard till then, and yet I knew The voice for his; and this the song it sang:—

“Ah, thorns so sharp, so strong! Ah, path so hard, so long! What do I care? Thither I fare! My Rose is there!

“Ah, life so dear, so brief! Ah, death, the end of grief! All I can bear, all will I dare! My Rose is there!”

The music ceased, the while spell-bound I stayed; Then came a rustle,—he was at my feet!

Few moments might we stay, and few words speak; But love is swift of tongue! all was arranged,— The plan of our escape, the hour, the place, And that Ippolito, next night but two, With a rope-ladder hidden ’neath his cloak, Should stand beneath my window. Once on ground A priest should wait to bind us quickly one. Then a mad gallop, ere the dawn of day, Would set us safely forth beyond the rule Of the Black Lily. Next, as hand in hand We stood, our lips met in a first long kiss, And then we parted.

With his vanishing The thing grew like a dream, and as in dream I seemed to walk the next day and the next; For all my thoughts were of that coming night, And all my fear was lest it should not come. And all the old-time animosities, And all the hates bred in me from a child, And feudal faiths and loyalties were dead,— I was no more a Bardi; Love ruled all.

It came, the night, and on the stroke of twelve I stood at casement, wrapped in veil, with mask And muffling cloak laid ready close beside; And there I stood and watched, and heard the bells Strike one, two, three, and saw the rose of dawn Deepen to day, and still my love came not.