Chapter 3

Every hour was winged with gladness While the sun went down the west, Till the chiming of the church-bell Told to all the hour for rest: Then the merry guests departed, Some a camp's rude couch to bide, Some to bright homes,--each invoking Blessings on the gentle bride.

Tranquilly the morning sunbeam Over field and hamlet stole, Wove a glory round each red leaf, Then effaced the Frost-king's scroll: Eyes responded to its greeting As a lake's still waters shine, Young hearts bounded,--and a gay group Sought the home of Madeline.

Bird-like voices 'neath the casement Chanted in the hazy air, A sweet orison for wakening,-- Half thanksgiving and half prayer. But no white hand drew the curtain From the vine-clad panes before, No light form, with buoyant footstep, Hastened to fling wide the door.

Moments numbered hours in passing 'Mid that silence, till a fear Of some unseen ill crept slowly Through the trembling minstrels near, Then with many a dark foreboding, They, the threshold hastened o'er, Paused not where a stain of crimson Curdled on the oaken floor;

But sought out the bridal chamber. God in Heaven! could it be Madeline who knelt before them In that trance of agony? Cold, inanimate beside her, By the ruthless Cow-boys slain In the night-time whilst defenceless, He she loved so well was lain;

O'er her bridal dress were scattered, Stains of fearful, fearful dye, And the soul's light beamed no longer From her tearless, vacant eye. Round her slight form hung the tresses Braided oft with pride and care, Silvered by that night of madness With its anguish and despair.

She lived on to see the roses Of another summer wane, But the light of reason never Shone in her sweet eyes again. Once where blue and sparkling waters Through a quiet valley run, Fertilizing field and garden, Wandered I at set of sun;

Twilight as a silver shadow O'er the softened landscape lay, When amid a straggling village Paused I in my rambling way. Plain and brown the church before me In the little graveyard stood, And the laborer's axe resounded Faintly, from the neighboring wood.

Through the low, half-open wicket Deeply worn, a pathway led: Silently I paced its windings Till I stood among the dead. Passing by the grave memorials Of departed worth and fame, Long I paused before a record That no pomp of words could claim:

Simple was the slab and lowly, Shaded by a fragrant vine, And the single name recorded, Plainly writ, was "Madeline." But beneath it through the clusters Of the jessamine I read, "_Spes_," engraved in bolder letters,-- This was all the marble said.

THE DEFORMED ARTIST.

The twilight o'er Italia's sky Had spread a shadowy veil, And one by one the solemn stars Looked forth, serene and pale; As quietly the waning light Through a high casement stole, And fell on one with silver hair, Who shrived a passing soul.

No costly pomp or luxury Relieved that chamber's gloom, But glowing forms, by limner's art Created, thronged the room: And as the low winds carried far The chime for evening prayer, The dying painter's earnest tones Fell on the languid air.

"The spectral form of Death is nigh, The thread of life is spun: Ave Maria! I have looked Upon my latest sun. And yet 't is not with pale disease This frame is worn away; Nor yet--nor yet with length of years;-- A child but yesterday,"

"I found within my father's hall No fervent love to claim, The curse that marked me at my birth Devoted me to shame. I saw that on my brother's brow Angelic beauty lay; The mirror gave me back a form That thrilled me with dismay."

"And soon I learned to shrink from all, The lowly and the high; To see but scorn on every lip, Contempt in every eye. And for a time e'en Nature's smile A bitter mockery wore, For beauty stamped each living thing The wide creation o'er,"

"And I alone was cursed and loathed: 'T was in a garden bower I mused one eve, and scalding tears Fell fast on many a flower; And when I rose, I marked, with awe And agonizing grief, A frail mimosa at my feet Fold close each fragile leaf."

"Alas! how dark my lot, if thus A plant could shrink from me! But when I looked again, I saw That from the honey-bee, The falling leaf, the bird's gay wing. It shrank with pain or fear: A kindred presence I had found,-- Life waxed sublimely clear."

"I climbed the lofty mountain height, And communed with the skies, And felt within my grateful heart New aspirations rise. Then, thirsting for a higher lore, I left my childhood's home, And stayed not till I gazed upon The hills of fallen Rome."

"I stood amid the glorious forms Immortal and divine, The painter's wand had summoned from The dim Ideal's shrine; And felt within my fevered soul Ambition's wasting fire, And seized the pencil, with a vague And passionate desire"

"To shadow forth, with lineaments Of earth, the phantom throng That swept before my sight in thought, And lived in storied song. Vain, vain the dream;--as well might I Aspire to light a star, Or pile the gorgeous sunset-clouds That glitter from afar."

"The threads of life have worn away; Discordantly they thrill; And soon the sounding chords will be For ever mute and still. And in the spirit-land that lies Beyond, so calm and gray, I shall aspire with truer aim:-- Ave Maria! pray!"

THE CHILD'S APPEAL.

AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AND REIGN OF ROBESPIERRE.

Day dawned above a city's mart, Yet not 'mid peace and prayer: The shouts of frenzied multitudes Were on the thrilling air.

A guiltless man to death was led, Through crowded streets and wide, And a fairy child, with waving curls, Was clinging to his side.

The father's brow with pride was calm, But, trusting and serene, The child's was like the Holy One's In Raphael's paintings seen.

She shrank not from the heartless throng, Nor from the scaffold high; But now and then, with beaming smile, Addressed her parent's eye.

Athwart the golden flood of morn Was poised the wing of Death, As 'neath the fearful guillotine The doomed one drew his breath.

Then all of fiercest agony The human heart can bear, Was suffered in the brief caress, The wild, half-uttered prayer.

Then she, the child, beseechingly Upraised her eyes of blue, And whispered, while her cheek grew pale, "I am to go with you!"

The murmur of impatient fiends Rang in her infant ear, And purpose strong woke in her heart, And spoke in accent clear:--

"They tore my mother from our side, In the dark prison's cell; Her eyes were filled with tears,--she had No time to say farewell.

"And you were all that loved me then, And you are pale with care, And every night a silver thread Has mingled with your hair.

"My mother used to tell me of A better land afar, I've seen it through the prison bars Where burns the evening star.

"O let us find a new home there, I will be brave and true; You cannot leave me here alone, O let me die with you!"

The gentle tones were drowned by shrill And long-protracted cries; The father on his darling gazed, The child looked on the skies.

Anon, far up the cloudless blue, Unseen by mortal eye, God's angels with two spirits passed To purer realms on high.

The one was touched with earthly hues, And dim with earthly care, The other, as a lily's cup, Unutterably fair.

THE DYING YEAR

With dirge-like music, low, Sounds forth again the solemn harp of Time; Mass for the buried hours, a funeral chime O'er human joy and woe. The sere leaves wail around thy passing bier, Speed to thy dreamless rest, departing year!

Yet, ere thy sable pall Cross the wide threshold of the mighty Past, Give back the treasures on thy bosom cast; Earth would her gems recall: Give back the lily's bloom and violet's breath, The summer leaves that bowed before the reaper Death.

Give back the dreams of fame, The aspirations strong for glory won; Hopes that went out perchance when set thy sun, Nor left nor trace nor name: Give back the wasted hours, half-uttered prayer, The high resolves forgot that stained thine annals fair.

Give back the flow of thought, That woke within the poet's yearning breast, Soothing its wild and passionate unrest; Love's rainbow-visions, wrought Of youth's deep, fearless trust, that light the scroll With an intenser glow,--records of heart and soul!

Give back--for thou hast more-- Give back the kindly words we loved so well, Voices, whose music on the spirit fell, But tenderness to pour; The steps that never now around us tread, Faces that haunt our sleep: give back, give back the dead.

Give back!--who shall explore Creation's boundless realms to mark thy prey? Who mount where man has never thought to sway, Or science dared to soar? Oh! who shall tell what suns have set for aye, What worlds gone out, what systems passed away?

Not till the stars shall fall, And earth and sky before God's mandate flee, Shall human vision look, or spirit see, Beneath thy mystic pall: But hark! with accent clear, and flute-like swell, Floats up the New Year's voice,--Departed one, farewell!

SONG OF THE NEW YEAR.

As the bright flowers start from their wintry tomb, I've sprung from the depths of futurity's gloom; With the glory of Hope on my unshadowed brow, But a fear at my heart, earth welcomes me now. I come and bear with me a measureless flow, Of infinite joy and of infinite woe: The banquet's light jest and the penitent prayer, The sweet laugh of gladness, the wail of despair, The warm words of welcome, and broken farewell, The strains of rich music, the funeral knell, The fair bridal wreath, and the robe for the dead, O how will they meet in the path I shall tread! O how will they mingle where'er I pass by, As sunshine and storm in the rainbow on high!

Yet start not, nor shrink from the race I must run; I've peace and repose for the heart-stricken one, And strength for the weary who fail in the strife, And falter before the great warfare of Life. I've love for the friendless; a morrow of light For him who is wrapped in adversity's night; With trust for the doubting, a field for the soul, That has dared from its loftier purpose to stroll, To haste to the conflict, and blot out the shame With the deeds of repentance, and resolute aim To seek, 'mid the struggle with tempters and sin, The high meed of virtue triumphant to win.

Unsullied and pure is the future's broad scroll, And as leaf after leaf from its folds shall unroll, The warp and the woof they are woven by me, But the shadows and coloring rest, mortal, with thee. 'T is thine to cast over those leaves as they bloom, The sunlight of morning or hues of the tomb; Though moments of sorrow to all must be given, There 's a vista of light that leads up to heaven; Nor utterly starless the path thou hast trod, Till thy heart prove a traitor to thee or to God.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

I looked upon the fair young flowers That in our gardens bloom, Gazed on their winning loveliness, And then upon the tomb; I looked upon the smiling earth, The blue and cloudless sky, And murmured in my spirit's depths, "O I can never die!"

I heard my sister's joyous laugh, As she danced lightly by, Her heart was glad with love and hope, Its pulse with youth beat high; I sought my mother's quiet smile, She fondly drew me nigh, And still I said within my heart, "O I can never die!"

Stern winter came,--the fairy flowers Were swept by storms away, And swiftly passed the verdant bloom Of summer's lovely day; My mother's smile grew more serene, And brighter was her eye, And now I know her only as An angel in the sky.

And sorrow's wing had cast a shade Upon my sister's smile, Had checked the voice of gladsome mirth, And bounding step the while; And when the bright spring came again, And clouds forsook the sky, Then I knelt down and thanked my God There was a time to die.

THE FALL OF JERUSALEM.

The sunset on Judah's high places grew pale, And purple tints shadowed the gorge and the vale, While Venus in beauty, with dilating eye, Out-riding the star-host, looked down from the sky On the city that struggled with foemen below,-- Jerusalem, peerless in grandeur and woe! O'er the fast crumbling walls thronged the cohorts of Rome, Their batteries thundered on palace and dome, And the children of Israel in voiceless despair At the foot of the Temple had breathed a last prayer; For their armies were spent in the unequal strife, And Famine was maddening the pulses of life, The pestilence lurked in the zephyr's soft breath, And the gall-drops were poured from the drawn sword of Death.

The Night with starred garments moved noiseless on high, When they felt a hot blast on the cool air draw nigh;-- Did pinions infernal rejoicing sweep by? They beheld a wild flash o'er the firmament shine;-- Came there aid from above,--a legation divine? There is fire on the mount, there is smoke in the air; The red flames shoot upward with bright, spectral glare; Men of Jacob, draw nigh, but like Moses unshod, 'T is the shrine of Jehovah, the temple of God. The cherubim drooped and the pomegranates lay In the dust with the lamps that had glimmered all day; The censers and altar the ashes must claim, Though their unalloyed gold be the gold of Parvaim.

Fierce raged the consumer insatiate and strong, And cursed was its light by that soul-stricken throng, Who beheld their destruction and anguish and shame, Engraved by the lurid and forked tongues of flame, On pillar and pommel and chapiter high, Distinct as the law they had dared to defy, Was traced through the cloud where the Deity shone By the finger of God on the tablets of stone; They beheld e'en the Holy of Holies consume; Then with frenzied bemoaning lamented their doom.

The cedars of Lebanon thrilled with the wail That swept like a torrent Jehoshaphat's vale; Mount Tabor and Zion re-echoed afar The voice of lamenting for Judah's lost star; The Kedron replied from its sanctified glade; The olive-leaves shook in Gethsemane's shade; And a strange world came forth from the regions of space And hung like a sword o'er the grave of that race; While the watchman, who terror-struck gazed on the sight, Not a signal gave forth from his fire-girded height, But breathlessly muttered, with cold lips and pale, "'T is the tenth day of Lous,--Jerusalem, wail!"

Day dawned o'er Judea, but never again Might the sunbeam in splendor flash back from her fane. No prophet stood forth, and, with prescience sublime, Told of light in the Future unkindled by Time: No poet-king sounded his lyre o'er her tomb; No ruler went up 'mid the cloud's awful gloom And fervently plead with Jehovah's fierce ire; No God on Mount Sinai descended in fire; The eyes of the daughters of Rachel were dim; The priesthood were anguished by visions of HIM Who, patient and God-like, climbed Calvary's side; The ancient men sorrowed by Siloah's tide, And Israel to shame and oppression were sold, To bondage and exile for ages untold; And the hearts of the captives grew hollow and dry As the fruit that o'er Sodom hangs fair to the eye.

THE FIRST LOOK.

I heard the strokes of the midnight bell As they thrilled the quiet air, And saw the soft, white curtains wave In the lamp's uncertain glare; And felt the breath of the July night, Laden with fragrance and warmth and blight.

I knew that scarcely an hour before, With plaintive and feeble wail, A spirit had entered the gates of time, A being helpless and frail; That cradled beside me the stranger lay, Though I had not dared o'er her face to pray.

But roused by the voice of the midnight chime, O'er the little one I bent, And soft, sweet eyes were upraised to mine, As blue as the firmament,-- Eyes that had never beheld the day, Or the chastened light of the moonbeam's ray.

O wonderful meeting, on the verge Of Life and the dark BEYOND! O wonderful glance from soul to soul United by tenderest bond! The one corroded with earth and care, The other as falling snow-flakes fair;--

The one oppressed with contrition's tear, Familiar with grief and sin, The other with naught but the angel's face Who ushered the human in; The one a wrestler with Fate's decrees, The other environed with saintly ease;--

The one acquainted with Death and change, And with anguish faint and pale, The other as fresh as the earliest rose That opened in Eden's vale. Dear Lord! that ever the blight should fall, That sin should sully and Death appall!

THE DAUGHTER OF JEPHTHAH AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

Night bent o'er the mountains With aspect serene; The deep waters slept 'Neath the moon's pallid sheen, And the stars in their courses Moved noiseless on high, As a soul, when it cleaveth In thought the blue sky.

The low winds were spent With the fever of day, And stirred scarce a leaf Of the green wood's array; And the white, fleecy clouds Hovered light on the air, Like an angel's wing, bent For a penitent prayer.

Sleep hushed in the city The tumult and strife, And calmed in the spirit The unrest of life: But one, where Mount Lebanon Lifted its snow, Slumbered not till the morn Wakened earth with its glow.

Beneath the dark cedars, Majestic, sublime, That for ages had mocked Both at tempest and Time, In whose tops the wild eagle His eyrie had made, She knelt with pale cheek In the damp, mossy glade.

The small hands were folded In worship divine, And the silent leaves thrilled. In that lone forest shrine, With the voice of the pleader, That, earnest and low, Was sad as the sea-shell's And plaintive with woe.

She prayed not for life, Though Youth's early bloom Glowed on her fair cheek, And recoiled from the tomb; But a heart pure and strong, Sublimed by its pain,-- A spirit attuned To the seraph's bright strain.

She saw not the dark boughs That, spectral and hoar, With lattice-work rude Arched her wide temple o'er; She marked not their shadows Gigantic and dim; Her soul was communing In triumph with Him;--

With the Ancient of Days, Who from mercy-seat high Beheld the pale pleader With vigilant eye; And Peace with white pinion Came down from His throne, And the gleam of her wing On that fair forehead shone.

O Thou that upholdest The feeble and frail, And leadest the pilgrim Through Life's narrow vale! When the days that are measured My spirit below Shall have ceased to the past From the future to flow,--

May the Summoner find me As placid and strong, As meet for endurance Of agony long, With a faith as divine And vision as clear, As the watchers who wept On the hills of Judæa!

MONA LISA.

Leonardo da Vinci is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of Mona Lisa, a fair Florentine, without being able to come up to the idea of her beauty.

Artist! lay the brush aside; Twilight gathers chill and gray; Turn the picture to the wall,-- Thou hast wrought in vain to-day.

Thrice twelve months have hastened by Since thy canvas first grew bright With that brow's bewitching beauty, And that dark eye's melting light.

But the early morning shineth On thy tireless labors yet, And the portrait stands before thee Till the evening sun has set.

Faultless is the robe that falleth Round that form of matchless grace; Faultless is the softened outline Of the fair and oval face.

Thou hast caught the wondrous beauty Of the round cheek's roseate hue, And the full, red lips are smiling As this morn they smiled on you.

To that Lady thou hast given Immortality below; Wherefore then, with moody glances, Dost thou from thy labor go?

From the living face of beauty Beams the soul's expressive ray, And with all thy god-like genius This thou never canst portray.

Of the countless throng around me Each hath labors like to thine, Each, methinks, some Mona Lisa In his spirit's inmost shrine.

Visions haunt us from our childhood Of a love so pure, so true, Time and tears, and care and anguish, Leave it steadfast, fair and new;--

Visions that elude for ever, As the silent years depart, Some unhappy ones and weary,-- Mona Lisas of the heart.

Gleams of that divine completeness God's angelic ones attain, Pass amid our toils before us, And we emulate in vain.

Poet fancies crowd the spirit, We would print upon the scroll-- But that perfect utterance faileth-- Mona Lisas of the soul.

SPRING LILIES.

'Neath their green and cool cathedrals, In the garden lilies bloom, Casting to the fresh Spring Zephyrs Peal on peal of sweet perfume. Often have I, pausing near them When the sunset flushed the sky, Seen the coral bells vibrating With their fragrant harmony.

And, within my quiet dwelling, I have now a Lily fair, Whose young spirit's sweet Spring budding Watch I with unfailing care: God, in placing her beside me, Made my being most complete, And my heart keeps time for ever With the music of her feet.

I remember not, while gazing In her earnest eyes of blue, That the earth has aught of sorrow Aught less innocent and true; And the restlessness and longing Wakened by the cares of day, With the burden and the tumult, In her presence fall away.