Part 13

“Nay, friend, but wisdom learn from one Who long on earth has wrought; Our ways would leave us wrecks undone, If but of earth we thought.

“A double life we all must live,— Of spirit and of flesh; And but the former life can give A joy forever fresh.

“Look up; there looms a region nigh, And there the Master is; And if like Him live you and I, Then you and I live His.

“When all day long of Him I muse, And all day with Him live, The glory that the spirit views Dims all that earth can give.”

I heard his words, and went my way, My lesson learn’d betimes; No more I felt could I obey A voice that rail’d at rhymes.

Oh what were life without the worth Of ideality,— Its home, heaven’s halo round the earth; Its language, poetry.

The world of deeds whose armor gleams May light the path to right Far less than rays that rise in dreams, And days that dawn at night.

God’s brightest light illumes the soul. That light this life denies Till earth’s horizons lift and roll Like lids from opening eyes.

THE MOURNER ANSWERED.

Amid the twilight’s gathering gloom, She knelt beside her babe’s new tomb. “My child,” she sigh’d, “did heaven not know How deep and dread would be my woe? For this did nature give thee birth, For this,—to bury thee?—O God!” She groan’d, then started. Earth to earth, Her lips had kiss’d the common sod.

“Amid life’s flowers that fade and fall, What need to pluck a bud so small? With ripen’d harvests full supplied, What need had heaven of thee?” she cried; Then mark’d the flowers that, while she stoop’d, E’en yet made sweet her last-brought wreath: Those full-blown all had dropt or droop’d; The buds alone bloom’d bright beneath.

“Why leave, O God,” was then her moan, “My widow’d soul still more alone? Why wrest from life the last thing dear? What harm that love should linger here?” And lo, the neighboring spire above Rang forth its evening call to prayer; And music fill’d from lips of love The House of God whose door was there.

THE VACANT ROOM.

Ah, wraith-lit star, that shone afar, And lured my eager footsteps on! This door I pass, and find, alas, The friend for whom I long’d is gone. O think how drear mere sands appear To travellers worn who pray for springs. More drear this place without the face I sought to cheer my wanderings.

Have diamonds rare no gleams to spare The light that their own light would shun? Do roses droop when many a group Of clouds crowd off the autumn sun? The gem and rose less dull repose When all are gone that caused their worth, Than lip and eye when none are nigh With smiles that break in bursts of mirth.

Are lovers wild, when maidens mild Their wisest ways of wooing shun? Do mothers weep, when waked from sleep Whose dream restored a long-lost son? Ah, scarce the man’s or mother’s plans Appear so rudely overthrown, As his whose thought in vain here sought A word to echo back his own.

But time speeds on, and duties wan, Like ghosts untombed, forbid my stay; But though I go, this note shall show The loss, my friend, you cause to-day. It craves a thought for him who sought A sight of eyes that light it now; For him who waits till kindlier fates His hopes a kindlier fate allow.

THANKSGIVING DAY.

I Sought the house Thanksgiving Day, And found its inmates all away, Save her who sat before the fire, And, by her side, her palsied sire.

At play, betwixt her fingers white, A needle nimbly glanced the light; But oft her eyes it could not stay, To either side would glance away.

And on her right hand, open spread, There lay the Book of God she read; And on her left I just could trace An infant namesake’s pictured face.

The Book of God, the housekeeper, The babe that had been named for her, The book and babe and she between,— Through doors ajar I mark’d the scene.

And, while she sat before me so, Content to share another’s woe; A captive for her sisters gone, Whom all their joy depended on;

Cheer’d now to read of heavenly worth For souls denying self on earth; Moved now to do the deed she should, Lest wrong should lead that child from good;—

Another soul, my heart felt sure Could keep, if so surrounded, pure,— If there God lured his thought above, And here one shared his name and love.

The scene was homely; yes, I know, But homely scenes may haunt one so!— That still her sweet face with me stays, My days are all Thanksgiving Days.

A MISAPPREHENSION

NOT UNCOMMON.

In loneliness I wander’d; When, lo, above me, ringing Amid the breeze That shook the trees, I heard a bird’s glad singing. I looked, and through the leaves could see The warbler nod and chirp for me. “One friend is left me yet,” thought I, And ventur’d near The song to hear; But when he saw me drawing nigh, Alas, in fright He took to flight! Not, not for me had been his care. He sang to greet the sunny air, And serve his own sweet nature.

In loneliness I ponder’d; And lo, sweet laughter woke there The gentlest rills, That broke in trills About the lips that spoke there. Through smiles and blushes burst the glee,— And eyes that fill’d and flash’d for me. “Her soul,” I thought, “has heard my sigh”; And, drawing near, I bade her hear My tale of love—but from her eye The joy had flown. Not I alone, Alas, not I had been her care. She fill’d the world with sweetness there, To serve her own sweet nature.

AUNTY’S ANSWER.

My child, you come, and ask me why, The reason why I stared at you?— Ah, darling, one can use her eye!— Nay, did I stare?—You saw me too?

I stared, then, at these great round eyes; And thought of all that each would see, Of all the cares, and all the cries, Ere you were old, you sprite, like me.

And then I saw these tiny ears, And thought of how they both would grow, And thrill and tremble, ere the years Had taught them all they had to know.

I saw these dainty limbs here, too, That run and jump and snatch and throw; And thought how little mine can do— Ah me, not always was it so!

And what of these things?—Nothing, dear. You ask’d me only, that is all; And old is aunty, old and queer; So kiss me, child, and catch the ball.

Alas, the darling!—How could I Tell her the thought?—It touch’d me so To think how—were she but to die Before she learn’d it all, you know.

HIS LOVE’S FRUITION.

“Come, Love, be mine,” the boy implored; And from his fresh young heart there pour’d Full streams of life that flush’d his face And thrill’d his breast for Love’s embrace. “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied; “The worth of boyhood must be tried.” So, like the spring’s uncertain sun, Love lured his hope; but was not won.

“Come, Love, be mine,” the young man pray’d, As if some angel were the maid; And could with bliss have knelt beside The only power that awed his pride. “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied; “For vintage-time must life provide.” So brightly, like a summer-sun, Love cheer’d his way; but was not won.

“Come, Love, be mine,” the strong man urged; “The mounts above in cloud are merged; And, hand in hand with thee, my life Will better brave the looming strife.” “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied, “The harvests wait; the fields are wide.” So, clouded like an autumn-sun, Love veil’d her light, and was not won.

“Come, Love, be mine,” the old man said; And meekly bow’d his whiten’d head; Then, while it sank against his breast, “O Love, has life not won its rest?” “I come,” his Love at last replied; And clasp’d him; but he only sigh’d. And, faint and chill, life’s wintry sun In gold had set; his Love was won.

WHAT WOULD I GIVE.

WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY IN GERMANY.

There, where the flowers more fragrant lie, Crushed by the crowds that have pass’d them by, Stands a chapel; and oft from its door Hymns of the lowly worshippers pour, Crush’d like the flowers, I trow. O little Church, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy sweet souls know!

There, where the trees on the great knoll sway Swept by the wind that they fail to stay, Bend great crowds, while organ and bell Hail God’s Host that is deigning to dwell Shrined in their church below. O great Church, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy hush’d throngs know!

There on the cliff that chancels the park, Nigh to the cloud where is trilling the lark, Men and maidens dance to the lay Blown by the blasts of the trumpeters gay, Fluttering to and fro. O gay Cliff, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy light hearts know!

There, where the sun burns all the view, What sounds there in the boundless blue? Faith—is it more than a meek despair? Truth—than one’s own note echoed in air? Hope—than his dawn’s bright dew? O hush’d Heaven, but what would I give, How would I love, and how would I live, To know the soul’s tale to be true!

DRAMATIC.

IDEALS MADE REAL.

I.

It seem’d a rare and royal friendship, ours, The very sovereignty of sympathy; Begun so early too—mere lads we were— And now I never look back there again But, swept like shading from a hero’s face In pictures,—those of Rembrandt,—all the school Appear in hues of dim uncertainty Surrounding Elbert, shining in relief.

Not strange was it; too tender was I made; Nor oft had felt a touch save that of age, When moulding all my methods to its own. Kept back from contact with rough boys at play, Till sensitive and shrinking as a girl, A hint of their regard could master me; No maiden, dreaming of her wedding day, Could wake at morning with more trembling hopes Than I, when looking forward to my school. But when I reach’d it, not a Bluebeard more Could have disturb’d a trusting bride’s romance.

II.

At first, they lodged me there with such a loon! “Our clown!” so said the boys; and clown he was; Would tease all day, and tumble round all night; And, every morning, sure as came the sun, Would start and rout me out, with strap in hand, Plied like a coach-whip round my dancing shape, Well put to blush until I dodged away.

A chum had Elbert too; and, like my own, A wild boy caged, who seem’d more wild at times Through beating at his bars, a hapless wretch. And when our happier love had flower’d in us, Half pitying each other, half this chum, Which pity grew, we both stood round, scarce loath To note his own wild set inflating him With well-blown whims that swell’d his empty pride Forsooth, the better bubble he could be, The better hope we two could have of what Should blow him from us. Then the blow came on:— A gust of scolding struck him, and he went,— Obey’d the call that had been mouthed for him,— An inn-clerk’s, as I think,—and bow’d content To sink from view like Paul, one gloomy night, From out the window of his room; while we, Much giggling, flung his luggage after him.

III.

My friend, thus widow’d, caused that our school’s head, Already nodding o’er his noonday pipe, Should beck at sever’d dreams with one nod more, And so consent to our dreams. Room-mates made, We slamm’d his door and woke him; not ourselves. Our dreamland lasted, that is, when we two Were by ourselves. When more surrounded us— You know boy-friends are shy: is it a trait, Their shielding of their hearts, that fits them thus For life-tilts of their manhood?—How we two Would rasp each other when the world look’d on! In truth, each seem’d to wear his nature’s coat The soft side inward, comforting himself, And turn the rough side only toward the world. If strangers chafed against it, yet oneself And friend were saved this.

When thus Elbert’s cloak Was mine, and mine was his, and both held both, No proof could have convinced me in those days His peer had ever liv’d. What seem’d in him So mild and beautiful, was more than marks Mere difference between a porcupine Provok’d and peaceable. The kind was new; Not human, so angelic. Ay, that soul, As pure as loving, and as fine as frank, I half believe to-day, as I did then, Stood strange amid his comrades of the play As dogwood, wedded to the skies of spring, White in a wilderness of wintry pines. Ah me, could all find all on earth so dear, Christ’s work were common. I had died for him. In fact, to shield the rogue, I just escap’d That very fate a score of times or more, Bluft, bruis’d, and battling for him on the green.

IV.

Our love kept warm until our school-day-sun Had set; and afterwards the smouldering fires Were fed by letters, and rekindl’d oft By friction of a frequent intercourse Through visits in vacations; then, for years, Behind it there was left a lingering light Pervading moods of memory like the rays Pour’d through a prism, wherein the commonest hues Will spray to uncommon colors when they break. In truth, I never see to-day a face Where flash the kindling feelings of a boy, But back of it, I seem to feel the warmth Of Elbert’s heart. No school-boy past me bounds But his dear presence comes to leap the years, And rush on recollection, with a force That brings from depths of joy, still’d long ago, A spray as fresh as dash’d from them when first They stream’d in cataracts. With love like his To flood its brim, my soul appear’d so full That, overflowing at each human touch, Its pleasures could not stagnate. But, you know How fly the clouds above us, and in drought The old springs fail; and long we liv’d apart.

V.

Then Elbert, when we met, talk’d much of this: How, all its chairs made vacant one by one, Th’ applause rose thinner at his bachelor-club; How, brief as birds’, are human mating-times; How men, mere songs forgot, withdraw to nests— To homes—their worlds, where all the sky is fill’d With sunny smiles they love, and shadowy locks. How sweet were life whose light and shade were these!

“We, Norman,” said he, “were contented once; To love each other only; but men part; And I confess that, while this light of love Plays lambent round so many glowing lips, I feel as chill, and lost, and out of place, As one lone dew-drop, prison’d in a shade Of universal noon.” “The sun,” said I, “Will free it, by and by. Our time will come.”

“Must come,” replied he, “or I go to it. Henceforth, let beauty’s beams but gleam for me, I shall not shun them, as has been my wont, But make my eyes a sun-glass for my heart, And let them burn it.”

“May they burn,” I cried, “Until love’s fragrant opiate fume so strong It make your brain beclouded as a Turk’s. But I, alas, though wild o’er many a maid, Am never mad enough to marry her.”

“You poets,” laugh’d he, “soar above earth so That common clouds like these can reach you not. But why say ‘clouds’? for clouds rise o’er a flame That smoulders. Love that burns is always clear.”

“But mine will not burn clearly, till it show A woman,” said I, “fitted for a mate, Whose mind, like yours, can really match my own. Till then must memory, jealous for her past, Out-do love’s hope that cannot promise more.”

“But maidens,” cried he, “are not loved like men. Bind beauty to their souls, then weigh the twain. If one weigh naught, he waives his judgment then. We must be practical.”

Thus Elbert spoke, While I, for whom these light and vapory moods Had gather’d o’er that soul in slightest clouds, Not tokening the storm that yet should burst, Smiled only, thinking how, where throbb’d his heart, Some maid unnamed must surely stand and knock; Though this I had forgotten, save for that Which happen’d later. You shall hear of it.

VI.

It came in Dresden, something like a year More late than when my plan for life was changed. The change seem’d sudden; but, you know, the blow That swept from me my parents, fortune, all, Could not but stun me, and I could not think. No other theme seem’d mine; I could not write.

So came my change—no myth—I felt it all:— One time, when, lonely, I to Christ had knelt, I rose to seem not lonely; I was His, He mine. I vow’d to live then but for Him, To break away from every cord of Earth, And make my life accordant with his own. Not only would I think the truth, but yield Each grain in all my being to the truth, And sow in wildest wastes, where all should germ In generations growing toward the good.

But still, a novice yet, though, like St. Paul, To will was present with me; to perform I found not how; but, on performance bent, Within a chancel chanting with the choir, I stood before an altar, half the day, And half before my books, with cravings pale For church and stole and sermons of my own.

VII.

Then was it Elbert’s friendship further’d me. For finding me, and staring at my face, And books, and cassock—when the puzzle pass’d,— He, humbling to my humor, praised the priest And all the powers of priesthood, till delight Relax’d the rigor of my rôle; and then He wedged the wisdom of his own desire Within my dreams, and broke apart their spell, And drew aside the curtains of their couch, And spoke of dawn, and light for all the world.

“First learn about this world,” he urged, “and then Learn how to help it. Minds like mine,” he said, “Should teach, revise, reform, and start the thought To counteract ill aim’d philosophy. Here loom’d an end worth reaching! which to reach ’Twere well to cross the sea.—His purse was mine. And go you as a student,” Elbert said, “Nor clad so like a priest, for whom all earth Will don some Sabbath-day demean; go free To find the man, hard by his work, at home.”

Thus pleading many days, at last he won; And, yielding to his wish, the sea I cross’d.

VIII.

Soon, borne to Dresden for a leisure week, With whom, one morning, should I chance to meet But Elbert’s elder sister?—now grown staid And matronly withal, a second wife, In charge of half a dozen sturdy boys; Though these I saw not then; but all alone, Much flush’d and flurried, sweeping up the street, She stopp’d, and cried abruptly, “Why, my friend, Are you here, Norman?—you?—where from?—how long? Not heard of you for years! That Elbert, drone, Will never write the news. How glad I am To see a man on hand when needed once! Two girls, young friends of mine, just come to town, Have lost their trunks,—and I my husband too,— And there they stand amid such throngs of men!— And did you note the statues in Berlin, In all the streets?—of warriors, every one! And these two girls, here travelling, by themselves, Where might makes right, and woman slighted is, Not strange it is their feelings toward you men, In heat of indignation seething up, Should brew some barm at times of bitterness!”

IX.

Thus, rattling on, she led me, as confused As feels a warrior at the morning drum, Till came a sight supreme, arousing me:— Two bright eyes only, sparkling in the light, Where flush’d a face that flared, then hid itself Behind a travelling hood, befleck’d with dust, And fring’d with venturous locks of careless hair.

“I have them now!” it cried; and straight began A tale, strain’d sweeter through those lips aglow Than sunset music. Then, when all was told, The name I heard was “Edith.” Bowing low, “Well done!” essay’d I; then,—to bandy back That charge against the men I just had heard From her who brought me,—“Well done as a man!”

X.

“That speech,” laugh’d she thus bandied, “scarce deserves Our ‘Well done as a woman!’—Edith, hark, His praise for you is, ‘Well done as a man!’”

Then Edith, echoing after, naïvely dropt, “I tell you—nay—I will not say it though.”

“Please do?” I ventur’d. “Nay; it may offend,” Replied she; while her shoulders gently shrugg’d As if to tempt me like two dainty doors, Doors all but swung ajar before a heart That love was dared to enter! “Nay,” I said, “I vow you such a deal of patience now!”

“I do not know,” she answer’d; “am not sure. Your manly patience might break loose to sigh More hints about my manhood! Just to think That half of all mankind are merely girls And so must borrow all their tact from men!”

“Not so,” I said; “not so; but commonly.”—

“Ah, commonly! and what,” she sigh’d, “is this That men-minds do so well?—discriminate? Yet even I, dull woman, I can see Brains differ in their grain. But men, forsooth, Feel so much matter lodged in their brains—eh?— That they weigh mind like matter in the lump, And judge of character, as if ’twere clay:— This forms a man—has wisdom, firmness, power; And that, a maid—is foolish, fickle, frail, And never can be wholly safe, forsooth, Except when subject to a man, her lord!”

“Ah, but,” I said, “we men all prize you so! To hold you ours, our pride seems infinite. Thus lifted up by you, it is your fault If we seem lords to you.” “Is it?” she ask’d, “Or have you seem’d so long our lords, you think Your lording over us has trained in us What still needs lording over? Fashion yields A man, at times, exemption from her forms, But woman never. Wherefore, pray, is this? Do not they both have souls? and both aspire? Must one class only slave it to her sex?— I think the soul of woman as of man May show some mastery over its abode.”

“But yet,” I said, “You know, her frame divine— And soul, too—men confuse things—who can tell Which is the soul?”

She answer’d absently: “In truth they do confuse things! only wise, As owls that blink at light!—so blind—nor see What day dawns with a wife’s enfranchisement; Ambitious, but forgetting that the meek, Inherit heaven, or that the oppressor dwarfs His own surroundings; that if pride stoop not, Then must the soul; that earthly lords must bend, And lift their consorts to their own prized seats, As equals, queens; or else must house with slaves, And make the slavish habits there their own.”

XI.

“Well said!” I thought. “Disown it, though she may, This maiden’s mood is manlier than she deems”; And, as with manhood, so my wits went forth To find a way to test her further still.