Chapter 2
Eileen of four, Eileen of smiles; Eileen of five, Eileen of tears; Eileen of ten, of fifteen years, Eileen of youth And woman's wiles; Eileen of twenty, In love's land, Eileen all tender In her bliss, Untouched by sorrow's treacherous kiss, And the sly weapon in life's hand,-- Eileen aroused to share all fate, Eileen a wife, Pale, beautiful, Eileen most grave And dutiful, Mourning her dreams in queenly state. Eileen! Eileen!....
BROKEN-HEARTED.
"Cross my hands upon my breast," Read her last behest. "Turn my cheek upon the pillow, As resting from life's stormy billow With sleep's fine zest!"
"Cross my hands upon my breast," Read her last behest, "That the patient bones may lie In form of thanks eternally, Grimly expressed!"
We clasped her hands upon her breast: Oh mockery at misery's hest! We hid in flowers her body's grief,-- Counting by many a rose and leaf Her days unblessed!
THE CYNIC'S FEALTY.
We all have hearts that shake alike Beneath the arias of Fate's hand; Although the cynics sneering stand, These too the deathless powers strike.
A trembling lover's infinite trust, To the last drop of doating blood, Feels not alone the ocean flood Of desperate grief, when dreams are dust.
The scornfullest souls, with mourning eyes, Pant o'er again their ghostly ways;-- Dread night-paths, where were gleaming days When life was lovelier than the skies!
THE GIRLS WE MIGHT HAVE WED.
Come, brothers, let us sing a dirge,-- A dirge for myriad chances dead; In grief your mournful accents merge: Sing, sing the girls we might have wed!
Sweet lips were those we never pressed In love that never lost the dew In sunlight of a love confessed,-- Kind were the girls we never knew!
Sing low, sing low, while in the glow Of fancy's hour those forms we trace, Hovering around the years that go; Those years our lives can ne'er replace!
Sweet lips are those that never turn A cruel word; dear eyes that lead The heart on in a blithe concern; White hand of her we did not wed;
Fair hair or dark, that falls along A form that never shrinks with time; Bright image of a realm of song, Standing beside our years of prime;--
When you shall go, then may we know The heart is dead, the man is old. Life can no other charm bestow When girls we might have loved turn cold!
"NEITHER!"
So ancient to myself I seem, I might have crossed grave Styx's stream A year ago;-- My word, 'tis so;-- And now be wandering with my sires In that rare world we wonder o'er, Half disbelieve, and prize the more!
Yet spruce I am, and still can mix My wits with all the sparkling tricks, A youth and girl At twenty's whirl Play round each other's bosom fires, On this brisk earth I once enjoyed:-- But now I'm otherwise employed!
Am I a thing without a name; A sort of dummy in the game? "Not young, not old:" A world is told Of misery in that lengthened phrase; Yet, gad, although my coat be smooth, My forehead's wrinkled,--that's the truth!
I hardly know which road to go. With youth? Perhaps. With age? Oh no! Well, then, with those Who share my woes, Doomed to mere fashionable ways,-- Fair matrons, cigarettes, and tea, Sighs, mirrors, and society?
Is it a folly still to twirl, And smirk and promenade and querl About the town? I'll put this down: A man becomes downright _blast_ Before he knows that he is either That, or what I am--call it, "Neither."
Oh, for a hint what we shall do, We bucks whose comedy is through! Who'd be sedate? And yet I hate To pose persistently to-day As one just trying flights, you know, When I _did_ try them long ago!
Suppose I hurry up the tide Of age, and bravely drift beside Those hoary dogs Who lie like logs Around the clubs where life is hushed? My blood runs cold! What? Say farewell To this year's new bewildering belle!
Hold, man, the secret broad and huge, With every well-known subterfuge! If bald and gray And thin, still say You're only thirty: don't be crushed; But when your voice shakes o'er a pun, Be off to China:--your day's done!
USED UP.
Hand me my light gloves, James; I'm off for the waltzing world, The kingdom of Strauss and that-- Where is my old crush-hat? _Is_ my hair properly curled? Call in the daytime, James.
Think of me, won't you, James, When I am rosily twirling The "Rose of a garden of girls," The Pearl among circling pearls, In a mesh of melodious whirling? Envy me, won't you, James?
For a heart lost along with her fan, For a nice sense of honor flown, For the care of an invalid soul, And tastes far beyond my control,-- I have for my precious own The fame of a "waltzing man."
If I don't come, come for me, James. Ah, the waltz is my mastering passion! The trip-tripping airs are as sweet As love to my turning feet, While I clasp the fair doll of fashion, My _fiancée_. But come for me, James.
The heart which I lost--it is strange-- I've been told it will yet be my death; And I think it quite likely I might Waltz once too often to-night, In spite of the music and Beth. Death's a difficult move to arrange.
Pray smoke by the fire, old boy, And find yourself whiskey and books. If I should not turn up, then, at two Or three, you will know I need you. If I'm dead, you must pardon my looks As I lie in the ball-room, old boy.
A YOUTH'S SUICIDE.
He handed his life a poisoned draught, With a scornful smile and a cold, cold glance, And the merry bystanders loudly laughed (For the rollicking world was gay!).
He thought she knew not the juice, perchance; But her tears fell down to her sobbing lips While the merry-makers turned to the dance (The world was mocking fate that day!).
To his life he kissed his finger-tips: "Drink deep the beaker, and so farewell!" Then slowly the poisoned draught she sips (How they laugh at her meek dismay!).
He sprang to her arm, which loosely fell, Crying: "No! not yet that dire eclipse!" Now loud laughed the dancers, and whirled pell-mell (While the echoes hurried away!).
The mad world clustered, it seemed, around. "Farewell!" she sighed, sinking; then from afar Flowed the pealing laughter and wassail's sound (For the dead the world will not stay!).
TWENTY BOLD MARINERS.
Twenty bold mariners went to the wave, Twenty sweet breezes blew over the main; All were so hearty, so free, and so brave,-- But they never came back again!
Half the wild ocean rose up to the clouds, Half the broad sky scowled in thunder and rain; Twenty white crests rose around them like shrouds, And they stayed in the dancing main!
This is easy to sing, and often to mourn, And the breaking of dawn is no newer to-day; But those who die young, or are left forlorn, Think grief is no older than they!
IN THE ARTILLERY.
We are moving on in silence, Save for rattling iron and steel, And a skirmish echoing round us, Showering faintly, peal on peal.
Like a lion roars the North wind As a-horse we sternly clank, While beside the guns our men drop, Slyly shot from either flank.
You are musing, love, and smiling By the hearth-fire of the Mill, While the tangled oaks are cracking Boughs upon the windy hill.
I can see the moonlight shining Over fields of frozen calm; I can hear the chapel organ, And the singing of the psalm.
Fare you well, then, English village, Which of all I loved the most, Where my ghost alone can wander Once again, when life is lost.
Fare you well, then, Sally Dorset; You will never utter wail For the soldier dead who loved you With these tears of no avail!
I can see your drowsy lashes Lifting as you hear them read Prayers in mercy for our souls' shrift When we come to our last need.
I forgive you, matchless beauty, Proudly conscious of your fame, Loved by many a luckless youngster Who will ne'er forget your name!
Merry, though so cold of answer, With a laughing glance of steel, How your face swept like a banner, Blushing down the village reel!
As you dance before my vision On this deadly foreign morn, Death is charmed into the soothing Of the love you chose to scorn.
We shall die--our hours are numbered-- As the sunlight dawns serene Over yonder mountain ridges, Rimming round this battle scene.
I shall die--few will return, dear; I shall be of those who stay: England sent us, but a handful, Among hordes of heathen clay.
We will show the world how England Has no dross to spend in war; When she throws away her soldiers, They are soldiers to the core.
You will wake to hear the twitter Of the early sparrow's note: I shall lie beneath the heavens, With the death-grip at my throat!
THE LOST BATTLE
To his heart it struck such terror That he laughed a laugh of scorn,-- The man in the soldier's doublet, With the sword so bravely worn.
It struck his heart like the frost-wind To find his comrades fled, While the battle-field was guarded By the heroes who lay dead.
He drew his sword in the sunlight, And called with a long halloo: "Dead men, there is one living Shall stay it out with you!"
He raised a ragged standard, This lonely soul in war, And called the foe to onset, With shouts they heard afar.
They galloped swiftly toward him. The banner floated wide; It sank; he sank beside it Upon his sword, and died.
THE OUTGOING RACE.
The mothers wish for no more daughters; There is no future before them. They bow their heads and their pride At the end of the many tribes' journey.
The mothers weep over their children, Loved and unwelcome together, Who should have been dreamed, not born, Since there is no road for the Indian.
The mothers see into the future, Beyond the end of that Chieftain Who shall be the last of the race Which allowed only death to a coward.
The square, cold cheeks, lips firm-set, The hot, straight glance, and the throat-line, Held like a stag's on the cliff, Shall be swept by the night-winds, and vanish!
HIDDEN HISTORY.
I.
There was a maiden in a land Was buried with all honor fine, For they said she had dared her pulsing life To save a silent, holy shrine.
The cannon rode by the church's door, The men's wild faces flashed in the sun; The woman had guarded with rifle poised, While the cassocked priests had run.
Ah, no! To save her pulsing life The woman like a reindeer turned, While hostile armies rolled by her in clouds, And miles of sun and metal burned.
But who should know? For she was dead Before the leathern curtain's wall, When came her wide-eyed comrades, and found Her body and her weapon, all.
II.
There was a woman left to die Who never told her sacrifice, But trusted for her crown to God, As to its value and device.
No land was prouder for her heart, No word has echoed long her deed, And where she has lain, the angel flower Looks like a common weed.
A BALLAD OF THE MIST.
"I love the Lady of Merle," he said. "She is not for thee!" her suitor cried. And in the valley the lovers fought By the salt river's tide.
The braver fell on the dewy sward: The unloved lover returned once more; In yellow satin the lady came And met him at the door.
"Hast thou heard, dark Edith," laughed he grim, "Poor Hugh hath craved thee many a day? Soon would it have been too late for him His low-born will to say.
"I struck a blade where lay his heart's love, And voice for thee have I left him none, To brag he still seeks thee over the hills When thou and I are one!"
Fearless across the wide country Rode the dark Lady Edith of Merle; She looked at the headlands soft with haze, And the moor's mists of pearl.
The moon it struggled to see her pass Through its half-lit veils of driving gray; But moonbeams were slower than the steed That Edith rode away.
Oh, what was her guerdon and her haste, While cried the far screech-owl in the tree, And to her heart crept its note so lone, Beating tremulously?
About her a black scarf floated thin, And over her cheek the mist fell cold, And shuddered the moon between its rifts Of dark cloud's silvery fold.
Oh, white fire of the nightly sky When burns the moon's wonder wide and far, And every cloud illumed with flame Engulfs a shaken star!
* * * * *
Bright as comes morning from the hill, There comes a face to her lover's eyes; Her love she tells; and he, dying, smiles,-- And smiles yet in the skies.
He is dead, and closer breathe the mists; He is dead, the owlet moans remote; He is buried, and the moon draws near, To gaze and hide and float.
Fearless within the churchyard's spell The white-browed lady doth stand and sigh; She loves the mist, and the grave, and the moon, And the owl's quivering cry.
THE DREAMING WHEEL.
Down slant the moonbeams to the floor Through the garret's scented air, And show a thin-spoked spinning-wheel, Standing ten years and more Far from the hearth-stone's woe and weal,-- The ghost of a lost day's care!
And over the dreaming spinning-wheel, That has not stirred so long, The weaving spiders spin a veil, A silvery shroud for its human zeal And usefulness, with their fingers pale, The shadowy lights among.
See! in the moonlight cold and gray A thoughtful maiden stands; And though she blames not overmuch With her sweet lips the great world's way, Yet sad and slow she stoops to touch The still wheel with her hands.
"Forsaken wheel! when you first came To clothe young hearts and old, Our ancestors were glad to wear Your woof, nor knew the shame Which later days have bred, to share The homespun's simple fold!
"My lover's gone to win for me, With tender pride and care, Riches to garnish all our days; But love thrives in simplicity As well as in the prouder ways, If noble thought is there!
"When our strong grandsires vowed to wed, Stout knots of wool, and corn, Were gathered in, and hardly more Of what will count not when we're dead! Life brought them to a happy shore, Who set their sails at dawn.
"O silent wheel! we weave a sad, Weak fabric of our days; The faith that moved thee long is gone; Forgot, the couple, lass and lad, Who loved with courage deeply drawn, Heeding but God's delays!
"On thy long loneliness the sun Blazes in dread, the moon Shines with a pitiless, threatening hue! And while the golden sand-grains run, Old age comes nearer; and like you I may be standing silent--soon!
"Then turn, my lover, turn your eyes Back to the humble door; Waste not the youthful years in hand. See where the truest comfort lies, And join the freer old-time band, Nor crave a worldly store!
"In Freedom's land let no one know Even the chain of ease, Nor bow to royal Luxury's glance. From peasant-hands fair art can grow; From the rough brow thought springs with lance And helmet: God loves these!"
She wept; then raised her head, and swung The aged wheel with whispering whir; And as it turned, it softly sung (In fancy) this response to her:--
"I had not spun the sower's shirt, I had not kept the children warm, If I had found a wearing harm In my monotonous toil alert.
"To those who wait with eager eyes And ready hands and tender hearts,-- They find the giant year, that parts, Hath forged strong links with paradise!
"Sigh not that Time doth turn the glass To let the golden sand-grains run, While longer shadows of the sun Fall o'er the spring-time, bonny lass!
"The circumstances of a life Are little things compared to it; The way love's shown is ever fit; Thank God, who gives us love, not strife!
"And if I do not stand beside The hearth, as fifty years ago, No current of the years that flow Can rob the radiance from a bride!
"I know not why the world should change, I know not why my day is done; And yet this limit of my zone Hints of the limit to all range.
"Man's progress always alters tint, As mountains move from rose to gray; Yet like their shapes, love still doth stay The same, complete,--'tis God's imprint.
"And yet I dream Time yet may turn Its wheel to weave the humbler thought, As in old days. When joy is sought, Men find it where the hearth-fires burn."
THE ROADS THAT MEET.
ART.
One is so fair, I turn to go, As others go, its beckoning length; Such paths can never lead to woe, I say in eager, early strength. What is the goal? Visions of heaven, wake; But the wind's whispers round me roll: "For you, mistake!"
LOVE.
One leads beneath high oaks, and birds Choose there their joyous revelry; The sunbeams glint in golden herds, The river mirrors silently. Under these trees My heart would bound or break; Tell me what goal, resonant breeze? "For you, mistake!"
CHARITY.
What is there left? The arid way, The chilling height, whence all the world Looks little, and each radiant day, Like the soul's banner, flies unfurled. May I stand here; In this rare ether slake My reverential lips, and fear No last mistake?
Some spirits wander till they die, With shattered thoughts and trembling hands; What jarred their natures hopelessly No living wight yet understands. There is no goal, Whatever end they make; Though prayers each trusting step control, They win mistake.
This is so true, we dare not learn Its force until our hopes are old, And, skyward, God's star-beacons burn The brighter as our hearts grow cold. If all we miss, In the great plans that shake The world, still God has need of this,-- Even our mistake.
A PASSING VOICE.
"Turn me a rhyme," said Fate, "Turn me a rhyme: A swift and deadly hate Blows headlong towards thee in the teeth of Time. Write! or thy words will fall too late."
"Write me a fold," said Fate, "Write me a fold, Life to conciliate, Of words red with thine heart's blood, hotly told. Then, kings may envy thine estate!"
"Make thee a fame," said Fate, "Make thee a fame To storm the heaven-hung gate, Unbarred alone to the victorious name Which has Art's conquerors to mate."
"Die in thy shame," said Fate, "Die in thy shame! Naught here can compensate But the proud radiance of that glorious flame, Genius: fade, thou, unconsecrate!"
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Along the Shore, by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop