PART II.

LOVE.

As from a deep, dead sea, by drastic lift Of pent volcanic fires, the dripping form Of a new island swells to meet the air, And, after months of idle basking, feels The prickly feet of life from countless germs Creeping along its sides, and reaching up In fern and flower to the life-giving sun, So from my grief I rose, and so at length I felt new life returning: so I felt The life already wakened stretching forth To stronger light and purer atmosphere. But most I longed for human love--the source (So sadly closed), from which my life had drawn Its sweetest inspiration and reward. I could not pray, nor could my spirit win From sights and sounds of nature the response It vaguely yearned for. They assailed my sense With senseless seeming of the hum and whirl Of vast machinery, whose motive power Sought its own ends, or wrought for ministry To other life than mine.

I could stand still, And see the trains sweep by; could hear the roar Of thundering wheels; could watch the pearly plumes That floated where they flew; could catch a glimpse Of thousand happy faces at the glass; But felt that all their freighted life and wealth Were nought to me, and moved toward other souls In other latitudes.

A year had flown, And more, when, on a Sunday morn in June, I wandered out, to wear away the hours Of growing restlessness. The worshippers Were thronging to the service of the day, And gave me sidelong stare, or shunned me quite; As if they knew me for a reprobate, And feared a taint of death.

I took the road That eastward cleft the town, and sought the bridge That spanned the river, reaching which I crossed. Then deep within the stripes of springing corn I found the shadow of an elm, and lay Stretched on the downy grass for listless hours, Dreaming of days gone by, or turning o'er With careless hand the pages of a book I had brought with me.

Tired at length I rose, And, touched by some light impulse, moved along The old, familiar road. I loitered on In a blind reverie, nor marked the while The furlongs or the time, until the spell In a full burst of music was dissolved. I startled as one startles from a dream, And saw the church of Hadley, from whose doors, Open to summer air, the choral hymn Poured out its measured tides, and rose and fell Upon the silence in broad cadences, As from a far, careering sea, the waves Lift into silver swells the sleeping breasts Of land-locked bays.

I heard the sound of flutes And hoarse, sonorous viols, in accord With happy human voices,--and one voice-- A woman's or an angel's--that compelled My feet to swift approach. A thread of gold, Through all the web of sound, I followed it Till, by the stress of some strange sympathy, And by no act of will, I joined my voice To that one voice of melody, and sang.

The heart is wiser than the intellect, And works with swifter hands and surer feet Toward wise conclusions. So, without resort To reason, in my heart I knew that she Who sang had suffered--knew that she had grieved, Had hungered, struggled, kissed the cheek of death, And ranged the scale of passions till her soul Was deep, and wide, and soft with sympathy;-- Nay, more than this: that she had found at last Peace like a river, on whose waveless tide She floated while she sang. This was the key That loosed my prisoned voice, and filled my eyes With tender tears, and touched to life again My better nature.

When the choral closed, And the last chord in silence lapsed away, I raised my eyes, and, nodding to the beck Of the old, slippered sexton, I went in,-- Not (shall it be confessed?) to find the God At whose plain altar bowed the rural throng; But, through a voice, to follow to its source The influence that moved me.

I was late; And many eyes looked up as I advanced Through the broad aisle, and took a seat that turned My face to all the faces in the house. I scanned the simpering girls within the choir, But found not what I sought; and then my eyes With rambling inquisition swept the pews, Pausing at every maiden face in vain. One head, that crowned a tall and slender form, Was bowed with reverent grace upon the rail Before her; and, although I caught no glimpse Of her sweet face, I knew such face was there, And there the voice.

It was Communion Day. The simple table underneath the desk Was draped with linen, on whose snow was spread The feast of love--the vases filled with wine, The separated bread and circling cups. The venerable pastor had come down From his high pulpit, and assumed the seat Of presidence, and, with benignant eyes, Sat smiling on his flock. The deacons all Rose from their pews--four old, brown-handed men With frosty hair--and took the ancient chairs That flanked the table. All the house was still Save here and there the rustle of a silk Or folding of a fan; and over all Brooded the dove of peace. I had no part In the fair spectacle, but I could feel That it was beautiful and sweet as heaven. When the old pastor rose, with solemn mien, I looked to see the lady lift her head; But still she bowed; and then I heard these words; "The person who unites with us to-day Will take her place before me in the aisle, To give her answer to our creed, and speak The pledges of our covenant."

Then first I saw her face. With modest grace she rose, Lifted her hat, and gave it to the hand Of a companion, and within the aisle Stood out alone. My heart beat thick and fast With vision of her perfect loveliness, And apprehension of the heroism That shone within her eyes, and made her act A Christ-like sacrifice.

O! eyes of blue! O! lily throat and cheeks of faintest rose! O! brow serene, enthroned in holy thought! O! soft, brown sweeps of hair! O! shapely grace Of maidenhood, enrobed in virgin white! Why, in your rapt unconsciousness of me And all around you--in the presence-hall Of God and angels--at the marriage-feast Of Jesus and his chosen--did my eyes Profane the hour with other feast than yours?

I heard the "You Believe" of the old creed Of puritan New England; and I heard The old "You Promise" of its covenant. Her bow of reverent assent to all The knotty dogmas, and her silent pledge Of faithfulness and fellowship, I saw. These formularies were the frame of oak-- Gnarled, strongly carved, and swart with age and use-- Which held the lovely picture of my saint, And showed her saintliness and beauty well.

At close of the recital and response, The pastor raised the plain, baptismal bowl, And she, the maiden devotee, advanced And knelt before him. Lifting then her eyes To him and heaven, with look of earnest faith And perfect consecration, she received Upon her brow the water from his hand. The trickling chrism shone on her cheeks like tears, The while he joined her lovely name with God's: "KATHRINA, I BAPTIZE THEE IN THE NAME OF FATHER, SON, AND HOLY GHOST, AMEN!"

Still kneeling like a saint before a shrine, She closed her eyes. Then lifting up toward heaven His hands, the pastor prayed,--prayed that her soul Might be forever kept from stain and sin; That Christ might live in her, and through her life Shine into other souls; might give her strength To master all temptation, and to keep The vows that day assumed; might comfort her In every sorrow, and, in death's dread hour, Bear her in hopeful triumph to the rest Prepared for those who love him.

All this scene I saw through blinding tears. The poetry That like a soft aureola embraced Within its cope those two contrasted forms; The eager observation and the hush That reigned through all the house; the breathless spell Of sweet solemnity and tender awe Which held all hearts, when she, The Beautiful, Received the sign of marriage to The Good, O'erwhelmed me, and I wept. Shall I confess That in the struggle to repress my tears And hold my swelling heart, I grudged her gift, And felt that, by the measure she had risen, She had put space between herself and me, And quenched my hope?

She stood while courtesy Of formal Christian welcome was bestowed; Then straightway sought her seat, as though no eyes But those of One unseen observed her steps. I saw her taste the sacramental bread, And touch the silver chalice to her lips; And while she thought of Him, The Spotless One Whose flesh and blood were symboled to her heart, And worshipped in her thought, I ate and drank Her virgin beauty--with what guilty sense Of profanation!

Last, the closing hymn Gave me her voice again; and this I drank; Nay, this invaded and pervaded me. Its subtile search found out the sleeping chords Of sympathy; and on the bridge of sound It built between our souls, I crossed, and saw Into the depths of purity and love-- The full, pathetic power of womanhood-- From which the structure sprang. Just once I caught her eyes. She blushed with consciousness Of my strong gaze; but paused not in her hymn Till she had given to every word the wings That bore it, like a singing bird, toward heaven.

The benediction fell; and then the throng Passed slowly out. I was the last to go. I saw a man whom I had known, and shrank Both from his greetings and his questionings. One thing I learned: that she who thus had joined This cluster of disciples was not born And reared among their number: that was plain. I saw it in her bearing and her dress; In that unconsciousness of self that comes Of gentle breeding, and society Of gentle men and women; in the ease With which she bore the awkward deference Of those who spoke with her adown the aisle; In distant and admiring gaze of men, And the cold scrutiny of village girls Who passed for belles.

I stood upon the steps-- The last who left the door--and there I found The lady and her friend. The elder turned, And with a cordial greeting took my hand, And rallied me on my forgetfulness. Her eyes, her smile, her manner and her voice Touched the quick springs of memory, and I spoke Her name.

She was my mother's early friend, Whose face I had not seen in all the years That had flown over us, since, from her door, I chased her lamb to where I found--myself. She spoke with tender words and swimming eyes Of her I mourned, and questioned me like one Who felt a mother's anxious interest In all my cares and plans. Why did I not In all my maunderings and wanderings Remember I had friends, and visit them-- Not missing her? Her niece was with her now; Would live with her, perhaps--("a lovely girl!"-- In whisper); and they both would so much like To see me at their house! (whisper again: "Poor child! I fear it is but dull for her, Here in the country.") Then with sudden thought-- "Kathrina!"

With a blushing smile she turned (She had heard every word), and then her aunt-- Her voluble, dear aunt--presented me As an old friend--the son of an old friend-- Whose eyes had promised he would visit them, Although, in her monopoly of speech, She had quite shut him from the chance to say So much as that.

I caught the period Quick as it dropped, and spoke the happiness I had in meeting them, and gave the pledge-- No costly thing to give--to end my walks On pleasant nightfalls at the little house Under the mountain.

I had spoken more, But then the carriage, with its single horse, For which they waited, rattled to the steps, And we descended. To their lofty seats I helped the pair, and in my own I held For one sweet moment, hand of all the hands In the wide world I longed to clasp the most. A courteous "Good Evening, Sir," was all I won From its possessor; but her lively aunt With playful menace shook her fan at me, And said: "Remember, Paul!" and rode away.

"A worldly woman, Sir!" growled a grum throat, I turned, and saw the sexton. Query: "which?" "I mean the aunt." ... "And what about the niece?" "Too fine for common people!" (with a shrug). "I think she is," I said, with quiet voice, And turned my feet toward home.

A pious girl! And what could I be to a pious girl? What could she be to me? Weak questions, these: And vain perhaps; but such as young men ask On slighter spur than mine.

She had bestowed Her love, her life, her goodly self on heaven, And had been nobly earnest in her gift. Before all lovers she had chosen Christ; Before all idols, God; before all wish And will of loving man, her heart and hand Were pledged to duty. Could she be a wife? Could she be mine, with such unstinted wealth Of love, and love's devotion, as I craved? Would she not leave me for a Sunday School Before the first moon's wane? Would she not seek The cant and snuffle of conventicles "At early candle-light," and sing her hymns To drivelling boors, and cheat me of her songs? Would she exhaust herself in "doing good" After the modern styles--in patching quilts, And knitting socks, and bearing feeble tracts To dirty little children--not to speak Of larger work for missionary folk? Would there not come a time (O! fateful time!) When Dorcas and her host would fill my house, And I by courtesy be held at home To entertain their twaddle, and to smile, While in God's name and lovely Charity's They would consume my substance? Would she not Become the stern and stately president Of some society, or figure in the list Of slim directresses in spectacles?

So much for questions: then reflections came. These pious women make more careful wives Than giddy ones. They do not run away, Though, doubtless, husbands live whose hearts would heal, Broken by such a blow! The time they give To worship and to pious offices Defrauds the mirror mainly; and the gold That goes for charity goes not for gems.

Besides, these pious and believing wives Make gentle mothers, who, with self-control And patient firmness, train their children well-- A fact to be remembered. But, alas! They train their husbands too, and undertake A mission to their souls, so gently pushed, So tenderly, they may not take offence, Or punish with rebuff; and yet, dear hearts! With such persistence, that they reach the raw Before they know it: so it comes to tears At last, with comfort in an upper room. But then--a seal is sacred to them, and a purse Or pocket-book, though in a dressing-room With shutters and a key!

Thus wrapped in thought And selfish calculation of the claims Of one my peer, or my superior, In every personal and moral grace, I walked along, till, on my consciousness, Flashed the absurdity of my conceits And my assumptions, and I laughed outright-- Laughed at myself, so loudly and so long That I was startled. Not for many months Had sound of mirth escaped me; and my voice Rang strangely in my ears, as if the lips Of one long dead had spoken.

I received The token of returning healthfulness With warm self-gratulation. I had touched The magic hand that held new life for me: The cloud was lifted, and the burden gone. The leaf within my book of fate, that gloomed With awful records, washed and blotched by tears-- Blown by a woman's breath from finger-tip's They knew not what they did--was folded back; And all the next white page held but one word, One word of gold and flame--its title-crown-- That wrought a rosy nimbus for itself; And that one word was LOVE.

The laggard days My pride or my propriety imposed Upon desire, before my eyes could see The object of my new-born passion, passed; And in the low hours of an afternoon. Bright with the largess of kingly shower Whose chariot-wheels still thundered in the East, Leaving the West aflame, I sought the meads, And once again, thrilled by foretasted joy, Walked toward the mountain.

While I walked, the rain Fell like a veil of gauze between my eyes And the blue wall; and from the precious spot That held the object of my thought, there sprang An iridal effulgence, faint at first, But brightening fast, and leaping to an arch That spanned the heavens--a miracle of light! "There's treasure where the rainbow rests," I said. Would it evade me, as, for years untold, It had evaded every childish dupe Whose feet had chased the bright, elusive cheat? Would it evade me? Question that arose, And loomed with darker front and huger form Than the dark mountain, and more darkly loomed And higher rose as the long path grew short! Would it evade me? Like a passing smile The rainbow faded from the mountain's face; And Hope's resplendent iris, which illumed My question, grew phantasmal, and at length Evanished, leaving but a doubtful blur. Would it evade me? Gods! what wealth or waste Of precious life awaited the reply! Was it a coward's shudder that o'erswept My frame at thought of possible repulse And possible relapse?

"Oh! there he comes!" I heard the mistress of the cottage say Behind a honeysuckle. Did I smile? It was because the fancy crossed me then That the announcement was like one which rings Over the polar seas, when, from his perch, The lookout bruits a long-expected whale! Then sweeping the piazza from the spot Where with her niece she sat, she hailed me with: "So, you are come at last! How very sad These men have so much business! Tell me how You got away; how soon you must return; Who suffers by your absence; what the news, And whether you are well."

Brisk medicine These words to me, and timely given. They broke The spell of fear, and banished my restraint. She took my arm, and led me to her niece, Who greeted me as if some special grace Of courtesy were due, to make amends For the familiar badinage her aunt Had poured upon me.

They had come without-- One with her work, the other with her book-- To taste the freshness of the evening air, Washed of the hot day's dust by rain; to hear The robin's hymn of joy; and watch the clouds That canopied with gold the sinking sun. The maiden in a pale-blue, muslin robe-- Dyed with forget-me-nots, I fancied then, And sweet with life in every fold, I knew-- A blush-rose at her throat, and in her hair A sprig of green and white, was lovelier Than sky or landscape; and her low words fell More musically than the robin's hymn. So, with my back to other scene and sound, I faced the faces, took the proffered chair And looked and listened.

"Tell us of yourself," Spoke the blunt aunt, with license of her years. "What are you doing now?"

"Nothing," I said.

"And were you not the boy who was to grow Into a great, good man, and write fine books, And have no end of fame?"

The question cut Deeper than she intended. The hot blush And stammering answer told her of the hurt, And tenderly she tried to heal the wound: "I know that you have suffered; but your hours Must not be told by tears. The life that goes In unavailing sorrow goes to waste."

"True," I replied, "but work may not be done Without a motive. Never worthy man Worked worthily who was not moved by love. When she I loved, and she who loved me died, My motive died; and it can never rise Till trump of love shall call it from the dust To resurrection."

I spoke earnestly, Without a thought that other ears than hers Were listening to my words; but when I looked, I saw the maiden's eyes were dim with tears. I knew her own experience was touched, And that her heart made answer to my own In perfect sympathy.

To change the drift, I took her book, and read the title-page: "So you like poetry," I said.

"So well my aunt Finds fault with me."

"You write, perhaps?"

"Not I."

"A happy woman!" I exclaimed; "in truth, The first I ever found affecting art Who shunned expression by it. If a girl Like painting, she must paint; if poetry, She must write verses. Can you tell me why (For sex marks no distinction in this thing). Men with a taste for art in finest forms Cherish the fancy that they may become, Or are, Art's masters? You shall see a man Who never drew a line or struck an arc Direct an architect, and spoil his work, Because, forsooth! he likes a tasteful house! He likes a muffin, but he does not go Into his kitchen to instruct his cook,-- Nay, that were insult. He admires fine clothes, But trusts his tailor. Only in those arts Which issue from creative potencies Does his conceit engage him. He could learn The baker's trade, and learn to cut a coat, But never learn to do that one great deed Which he essays."

"'Tis not a strange mistake-- These people make"--she answered, thoughtfully. "Art gives them pleasure; and they honor those Whose heads and hands produce it. If they see The length and breadth and beauty of a thought Embodied by another,--if they hold The taste, the culture, the capacity, To measure values in the things of art, Why cannot they create? Why cannot they Win to themselves the honor they bestow On those who feed them? Is it very strange That those who know how sweet the gratitude Which the true artist stirs, should burn to taste That gratitude themselves?"

"Not strange, perhaps," I said, "and yet, it is a sad mistake; For countless noble lives have gone to waste In work which it inspired."

Here spoke the aunt: "You are a precious pair; and if you know What you are talking of, you know a deal More than your elders. By your royal leave, I will retire; for I can lay the cloth For kings and queens though I may fail to know Their lore and language. You can eat, I think; And hear a tea-bell, though you hear not me." Thus speaking, in her crisp, good-natured way, The lady left us.

When she passed the door, And laughter at her jest had had its way, I said: "It takes all sorts to make a world."

"How many, think you? Only one, two, three," The maiden said. "Here we have all the world In this one cottage--artist, teacher, taught, In--not to mar the order of the scale For courtesy--yourself, myself, my aunt. You are an artist, so my aunt reports; But, as an artist, you are nought to her. And now, to broach a petted theory, Let me presume too boldly, while I say She cannot understand you, though I can; You cannot measure her, though she is wise. You have not much for her, and that you have You cannot teach her; but I, knowing her, Can pick from your creations crumbs of thought She will find manna. In the hands of Christ The five loaves grew, the fishes multiplied; And he to his disciples gave the feast-- They to the multitude. Artists are few, Teachers are thousands, and the world is large. Artists are nearest God. Into their souls He breathes his life, and from their hands it comes In fair, articulate forms to bless the world; And yet, these forms may never bless the world Except its teachers take them in their hands, And give each man his portion."

As she spoke In earnest eloquence, I could have knelt, And worshipped her. Her delicate cheek was flushed, Her eyes were filled with light, and her closed book Was pressed against her heart, whose throbbing tide Thridded her temples. I was half amused, Half rapt in admiration; and she saw That in my eyes at which she blushed and paused. "Your pardon, Sir," she said. "It ill becomes A teacher to instruct an artist."

"Nay, It does become you wondrously," I said With light but earnest words. "Pray you go on; And pardon all that my unconscious eyes Have done to stop you."

"I have little more That I would care to say: you have my thought," She answered; "yet there's very much to say, And you should say it."

"Not I, lady, no: A poet is not practical like you, Nor sensible like you. You can teach him As well as tamer folk. In truth, I think He needs instruction quite as much as they For whom he writes."

"That's possible," she said With an arch smile.

"Will you explain yourself?"

"Well--if you wish it--yes:" she made reply. "And first, my auditor must know that I Relieve in inspiration, though he knows So much as that already, from my words,-- Believe that God inspires the poet's soul,-- That he gives eyes to see, and ears to hear What in his realm holds finest ministry For highest aptitudes and needs of men, And skill to mould it into forms of art Which shall present it to the world he serves. Sometimes the poet writes with fire; with blood Sometimes; sometimes with blackest ink: It matters not. God finds his mighty way Into his verse. The dimmest window-panes Let in the morning light, and in that light Our faces shine with kindled sense of God And his unwearied goodness; but the glass Gets little good of it; nay, it retains Its chill and grime beyond the power of light To warm or whiten. E'en the prophet's ass Had better eyes than he who strode his back, And, though the prophet bore the word of God, Did finer reverence. The Psalmist's soul Was not a fitting place for psalms like his To dwell in over-long, while waiting words, If I read rightly. As for the old seers, Whose eyes God touched with vision of the life Of the unfolding ages, I must doubt Whether they comprehended what they saw, Or knew what they recorded. It remains For the world's teachers to expound their words; To probe their mysteries; and relegate The truth they hold in blind significance Into the fair domains of history And human knowledge. Am I understood?"

"You are," I answered; "and I cannot say You flatter me. God takes within his hand A thing of his contrivance which we call A poet: then he puts it to his lips, And speaks his word, and puts it down again-- The instrument not better and not worse For being handled;--not improved a whit In quality, by quality of that Which it conveys. Do I report aright? Or do you prompt me?"

"You are very apt," She said, "at learning, but a little bald In statement. Nathless, be it as you say; And we shall see how it is possible That poets need instruction quite as much As those for whom they write. What sad, bad men The brightest geniuses have been! How weak, How mean in character! how foul in life! How feebly have the best of them retained The wealth of good and beauty which has flowed In crystal streams from God, the fountain head, Through them to fertilize the world! Nay, worse, How many of them have infused the tide With tincture of their own impurity, To poison sweetest, unsuspecting lips, And breed diseases in the finest blood! And poets not alone, and not the worst; But painters, sculptors--those whose kingly power And aptitude for utterance divine Have made them artists:--how have these contemned In countless instances the God of Heaven Who filled them with his fire! Think you that these Could compass their achievements of themselves? Can streams surpass their fountains?"

"Nay," I said, In quick response, "Your argument is good; But is the artist nothing? Is he nought But an apt tool--a mouth-piece for a voice? You make him but the spigot of a cask Round which you, teachers, wait with silver cups To bear away the wine that leaves it dry. You magnify your office."

"We do all Wait upon God for every grace and good," She then rejoined. "You take it at first hand, And we from yours: the multitude from ours. It may leach through our souls, if our poor wills Retain it not, and drench the fragrant sand. And if I magnify my office--well! 'Tis a great office. What would come of all The music of the masters, did not we Wait at their doors, to publish to the world What God has told them? They would be as mute As the dumb Sphynx. They write a symphony, An opera, an oratorio, In language that the teacher understands, And straight the whole world echoes to its strains It shrills and thunders through cathedral glooms From golden organ-tubes and voiceful choirs; The halls of art of both the hemispheres Resound with its divinest melodies; The street stirs with the impulse, and we hear The blare of martial trumpets, and the tramp Of bannered armies swaying to its rhythm; The hurdy-gurdies and the whistling boys Adopt the lighter strains; and round and round A million souls its hovering fancies float, Like butterflies above a fair parterre, Till, settling one by one, they sleep at last; And lo! two petals more on every flower! And this not all; for though the master die, The teacher lives forever. On and on, Through all the generations, he shall preach The beautiful evangel;--on and on, Till our poor race has passed the tortuous years That lie prevening the millennium, And slid into that broad and open sea, He shall sail singing still the songs he learned In the world's youth, and sing them o'er and o'er To lapping waters, till the thousand leagues Are overpast, and argosy and crew Ride at their port."

"True as to facts," I said "And as to prophecies, most credible; But, as an illustration, false, I think. That which the voice and instrument may do For the composer, types may do for those Who mint their thoughts in verse. Music is writ In language that the people do not read-- Is lame in that--and needs interpreters; While poetry, e'en in its noblest forms And boldest flights, speaks their vernacular. Your aunt can read the book within your hand As well as you, if she desire, yet finds Your score all Greek, until you vocalize Its wealth of hidden meaning. As for arts Which meet the eye in picture and in form, They ask no mediator but the light-- No grace but privilege to shine with naught Between them and the light. They are themselves Expositors of that which they expose, Or they are nothing. All the middle-men-- The fools profound--who take it on their tongues To play the showmen, strutting up and down, And mouthing of the beauty that they hide, Are an impertinence."

"You leave no room For critics," she suggested, with a smile. "We must not spoil a trade, or starve the wives And innocent babes it feeds."

"No care for them!" I made reply. "They do not need much room-- Men of their build--and what they need they take. The feeble conies burrow in the rocks; But the trees grow, and we are not aware Of space encumbered by them."

"Yet the fact Still stands untouched," she added, thoughtfully, "That greatest artists speak to fewest souls, Or speak to them directly. They have need Of no such ministry as waits the beck Of the composer; but they need the life, If not the learning, of the cultured few Who understand them. If from out my book I gather that which feeds me, and inspires A nobler, sweeter beauty in my life, And give my life to those who cannot win From the dim text such boon, then have I borne A blessing from the book, and been its best Interpreter. The bread that comes from heaven Needs finest breaking. Some there doubtless are-- Some ready souls--that take the morsel pure Divided to their need; but multitudes Must have it in admixtures, menstruums, And forms that human hands or human life Have moulded. Though the multitudes may find Something to stir and lift their sluggish souls In sight of great cathedrals, or in view Of noble pictures, yet they see not all, And not the best. That which they do not see Must enter higher souls, and there, by art Or life, be fashioned to their want."

"Your thought Grows subtle," I responded, "and I grant Its force and beauty. If the round truth lie Somewhere between us, and I see the face It turns to me in stronger light than you Reveal its opposite, why, let the fault be mine; It is not yours. You have instructed me, And won my thanks."

"Instructed you?" she said, With a fine blush: "you mock, you humble me. And have I talked so much, with such an air, That, either earnestly or in a jest, You can say this to me?"

"'Tis not a sin, In latitude of ours," I made reply, "To talk philosophy; 'tis only rare For beardless lips to do so. I have caught From yours a finer, more suggestive scheme Than all the wise have taught me by their books, Or by their voices. I will think of it."

"Now may you be forgiven!" the aunt exclaimed, Approaching unobserved. "There never lived A quieter, more plainly speaking girl, Than my Kathrina. All these weeks and months, I have heard nought from her but common sense; But when you came, why, off she went; though where It's more than I know. You, sir, have the blame; And you must lift your spell, and give her back Just as you found her."

"She has practised well Her scheme on us. She breaks to you the bread That meets your want; to me, that meets my own," I said, in answering.

"Well," spoke the aunt, "I think I'll try my hand at breaking bread: So, follow me."

We followed to her board, And there, in converse suited to the hour And presence of our hostess, proved ourselves-- Quite to that lady's liking--of the earth. We ate her jumbles for her, sipped her tea, And revelled in the spicy succulence Of her preserves.

While still I sat at ease, The maiden's eye, with quick, uneasy glance, Sought the clock's dial. Then she turned to me. And said with sweet, respectful courtesy: "Pray you excuse my presence for an hour. A duty calls me out; and that performed, I will return."

I saw she marked my look Of disappointment--that it staggered her-- The while with words of stiffest commonplace I gave assent. But she was on her feet; And soon I heard her light step on the stair, Seeking her chamber.

"Whither will she go At such an hour as this, from you and me?" I coldly questioned of the keen-eyed aunt.

"You men are very curious," she said. "I knew you'd ask me. Can't a lady stir, But you must call her to account? Who knows She may not have some rustic lover here With whom she keeps her tryst? 'Tis an old trick, Not wholly out of fashion in these parts. What matters it? She orders her own ways, And has discretion."

With lugubrious voice I said: "You trifle, madam, with my wish. I know the lady has no lover here, And so do you."

"I'm not so sure of that!" My hostess made response; and then she laughed A rippling, rollicking roulade, and shook Her finger at me, till my temples burned With the hot shame she summoned.

"There!" I said; "You've done your worst, and learned so much, at least-- That I admire your niece. _I_ curious! Well, you are curious and cunning too. Now, in the moment of your victory, Be generous; and tell me what may call The lady from us."

"It is Thursday night," She answered soberly,--"the weekly hour At which our quiet neighborhood convenes For social worship. You may guess the rest Without my telling; but you cannot know With what anticipated joy she leaves Our company, or with what shining face She will return."

At that, I heard her dress Sliding the flight, and rising, made my way To meet her at its foot. A happy smile Illumed her features, as she gave her hand With thought of parting. I had rallied all My self-control and gallantry meanwhile, And said: "Not here. I'll with you, by your leave, So far as you may walk."

There was a flash Of gladness in her eyes, and in her thanks A subtler charm than gratitude.

I bade My hostess a "good-night," and left her door. Declining her entreaty to return. We walked in silence, side by side, a space, And then, with feigned indifference, I spoke: "Your aunt has told me of your errand; else, It had been modest in me to withhold This tendance on your steps. She tells me you Are quite a devotee. Whom do you meet, In neighborhood like this, to give a zest To hour like this?"

"Brothers and sisters all," She said in low reply; "and as for zest, There's never lack of it where there is love. When families convene, they have no need Of more than love to give them festal joy; Nor do they with discrimination judge Between the high and humble. These are one; Love makes them one."

"And you are one with these?"

"Though most unworthy of such fellowship, I trust that I am one with these;--that they Are one with me, and reckon me among Their number."

"Can they do you any good?"

"They can," she said, "but were it otherwise, I can serve them; and so should seek them still. I help them in their songs."

We reached too soon The open doorway of the humble hut Which, far long years, had held the village school, And, at a little distance, paused. The room, Battered and black by wantonest abuse Of the rude youth, was lit by feeble lamps, Brought by the villagers; and scattered round Upon the high, hacked benches, hardly less Rude and rough-worn than they, the worshippers In silence sat. It was no place for words. I took the lady's hand, and said "good-night!" In whisper. Then she turned, and disappeared Within the sheltered gloom; but I could see The care-worn cheeks light up with pleasant fire As she passed in; and e'en the fainting lamps Flared with new life, the while they caught the breath Of her sweet robe. Then with an angry heart I turned away, and, wrapped in selfish thought, Took up the walk toward home.

This homely group Of Yankee lollards she preferred to me! These poor, pinched boobies, with their silly wives-- Ah! these were they who gave her overmuch In the bestowal of their fellowship! These crowned her with a peerless privilege, Permitting her to sit with them an hour As a dear sister! How my sore self-love Burned with the hot affront!

With lips compressed, Or blurting forth their anger and disgust, I strode the meadows, stalked the silent town, And growled and groaned in sullen helplessness About the streets, until the midnight bell Tolled from the old church tower;--in helplessness, For, mattered nothing what or who she was (I had not dared or cared to question that), Or how offensive in her piety And her devotion to the tasteless cult Of the weak throng, I was her slave; and she-- Her own and God's. The miserable strife Between my love of self and love of her I knew was bootless; and the trenchant truth Cut to the quick. She held within her hand My heart, my life, my doom, yet knew it not; And had she known, her soul was under vows Which would forever make subordinate Their recognized possession.

But the morn Brought with it better mood and calmer thought: I had the grace to gauge the heartlessness Of my exactions, and the power to crush The tyrant wish to tear her from the throne To which she clung. I said: "So she love me As a true woman loves, and give herself-- Her sweet, pure self--to me, and fill my home With her dear presence, loyal still to me In wifely love and wifely offices, Though she abide in Christian loyalty By Christian vows, she shall have liberty, And hold it as her right."

She was my peer; No weakling girl, who would surrender will And life and reason, with her loving heart, To her possessor;--no soft, clinging thing Who would find breath alone within the arms Of a strong master, and obediently Wait on his whims in slavish carefulness;-- No fawning, cringing spaniel, to attend His royal pleasure, and account herself Rewarded by his pats and pretty words, But a round woman, who, with insight keen, Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well Her womanhood; had spread before her feet A fine philosophy to guide her steps; Had won a faith to which her life was brought In strict adjustment--brain and heart meanwhile Working in conscious harmony and rhythm With the great scheme of God's great universe, On toward her being's end.

I could but know Her motives were superior to mine. I could but feel that in her loyalty To God and duty, she condemned my life. Into her woman's heart, thrown open wide In holy charity, she had drawn all Of human kind, and found no humblest soul Too humble for her entertainment,--none So weak it could return no grateful boon For what she gave; and standing modestly Within her scheme, with meekest reverence She bowed to those above her, yet with strong And hearty confidence assumed a place In service of the world, as minister Ordained of heaven to break to it the bread She took from other hands. And she was one Who could see all there was of good in me,-- Could measure well the product of my power, And give it impulse and direction: nay, Could supplement my power; and help my heart Against its foes.

The moment that I thrust The selfish thirsting for monopoly Of her affections from my godless heart, She entered in, and reigned a goddess there. If she had fascinated me before, And fired my heart with passion, now she bent My spirit to profound respect. I bowed To the fair graces of her character, Her queenly gifts, and the beneficence Of her devoted life, with humbled heart And self-depreciation. All of God That the world held for me, I found in her; And in her, all the God I sought. She was My saviour from myself and from my sins; For, with my worship of the excellence Which she embodied, came the purity And peace to which, through all my troubled life, I had been stranger. Thoughts and feelings all Were sublimated by the subtle flame Which warmed and wrapped me; and I walked as one Might walk on air, with things of earth beneath, Breathing a rare, supernal atmosphere Which every sense and faculty informed With light and life divine.

What need to tell Of the succeeding summer days, and all Their deeds and incidents? They floated by Like silent sails upon a summer sea, That, sweeping in from farthest heaven at morn, Traverse the vision, and at evening slide Out into heaven again, their pennant-flames The rosy dawns and day-falls. O'er and o'er, I walked the path, and crossed the stream, that lay Between me and the idol of my heart; And every day, in every circumstance, I found her still the same, yet not the same; For, every day, some unsuspected grace, Or some fresh revelation of her wealth Of character and culture, touched my heart To new surprise, and overflowed the cup Whose wine was life to me.

Though I could see That I was not unwelcome; though I knew I gave a zest to her sequestered life, I had built up so high my only hope On her affection--I had given myself So wholly to the venture for her hand, I did not dare to speak of love, or ask The question which, unasked, held hopefully My destiny: which answered, might bring doom Of madness or of death.

Meanwhile, I learned The lady's history from other lips Than hers--her aunt's. Alas! the old, old tale! She had been bred to luxury; and all That wealth could purchase for her, or the friends Swarmed by its golden glamour could bestow, She had possessed. But he who won the wealth, Reaching for more, slipped from his height and fell Dragging his house to ruin. Then he died-- Died in disgrace; and all his thousand friends Fell off, and left his pampered family, The while the noisy auctioneer knocked down His house and household gods, and set adrift The helpless life thus cruelly bereft. The mother lived a month: the rest went forth, Not knowing whither; but they found among The poor a shelter for their poverty,-- Kathrina with her aunt. Thus, in few words, A tragedy of heart-breaks and of death, Such as the world abounds with.

But this girl, With her quick instincts and her brave, good heart. Determined she would live awhile, and learn What lesson God would teach her. This she sought, And, seeking, found, or thought she found. How well She learned the lesson--what the lesson was-- Her life, thus far revealed, and waiting still My feeble record, shall disclose. Enough, Just now and here, that out of it she bore A noble womanhood, accepting all Her great misfortunes as the discipline Of a paternal hand, in love prescribed To lead her to her place, and whiten her For Christian service.

All the summer fled; And still my heart delayed. One pleasant eve, When first the creaking of the crickets told Of Autumn's opening door, I went with her To ramble in the fields. We touched the hem Of the dark mountain's robe, that falls in folds Of emerald sward around his feet, and there Upon its tufted velvet we sat down. It was my time to speak, but I was dumb; And silence, painful and portentous, hung Upon us both. At length, she turned and said: "Some days have passed since you were latest here. Have you been ill?"

"No, I have been at work," I answered,--"at my own delightful work; The first since first we met. The record lies Where I may reach it at a word from you. Command, and I will read it."

"I command," She said, responding with a laugh. "Nay, I Entreat. I used your word, but this is mine, And has a better sound from lips of mine. I am your waiting auditor."

I read:

"Was it the tale of a talking bird? Was it a dream of the night? When have I seen it? Where have I heard Of the haps of a dainty craft, that stirred My spirit with affright?

"The shallop stands out from the sheltered bay With a burden of spirits twain,-- A woman who lifts her eyes to pray, A tall youth, trolling a roundelay, And before them night, and the main!

"O! Star of The Sea! They will come to harm: Nor master nor sailor is there! The youth clasps the mast with his sinewy arm, And laughs! Does he hold in his bosom a charm That will baffle the sprites of the air?

O! woe to the delicate ship! O! woe! For the sun is sunk, and behold! The trooping phantoms that come and go In the sky above and the waves below! Ho! The wind blows wild and cold.

"The woman is weeping in weak despair; The youth still clings to the mast, With cheeks aflame, and with eyes that stare At the phantoms hovering everywhere; And the storm-rack rises fast!

"The phantoms close on the flying bark; They flutter about her peak; They sweep in swarms from the outer dark; But the youth at the mast stands still and stark, While they flap his stinging cheek.

"O! fierce was the shout of the goblins then! How the gibber and laugh went round! The shout and the laugh of a thousand men, Echoed and answered, and echoed again, Would have been a feebler sound.

"They shiver the bolts that the lightning flings; They bellow and roar and hiss; They splash the deck with their slimy wings-- Monstrous, horrible, ghastly things-- That climb from the foul abyss.

"Straight toward the blackness drove the ship; But the youth still clung to the mast: 'I have read,' quoth he, with a proud, cold lip, 'That the devil gets never a man on the hip Whom he scares not, first or last.'

"No star shines out at the woman's prayer; O! madly distraught is she! And the bark drives on with her wild despair With shrieking fiends in the crowded air, And fiends on the swarming sea.

"Nearer the blackness loomed; and the bark Scudded before the breeze; Nearer the blackness loomed, and hark! The crash of breakers out of the dark, And the shock of plunging seas!

"Then out of the water before their sight A shape loomed bare and black! So black that the darkness bloomed with white; So black that the lightning grew strangely bright And it lay in the shallop's track!

"O! woe! for the woman's wits ran daft With the fearful bruit and burst; She sprang to her feet, and flitting aft, She plunged in the sea, and the black waves quaffed The sweet life they had cursed.

"Light leaped the bark on the mountain-breast Of a tenth-wave out to land; While the sprites of the sea fell off to rest, And the youth, unharmed, became the guest Of the elves of the silent land.

"With banter and buffet they pressed around; They tied his strong hands fast; But he laughed, and said, 'I have read and found That the devil throws never a man to the ground Whom he scares not, first or last.'

"Under the charred and ghastly gloom, Over the flinty stones, They led him forth to his terrible doom, And, plunged in a deep and noisome tomb, They sat him among the bones.

"They left him there in the crawling mire: They could neither maim nor kill: For fiends of water, and earth, and fire, Are baffled and beaten by the ire Of a dauntless human will.

"Days flushed and faded, months passed away, He knew by the golden light That shot, through a loop in the wall, the ray Which parted the short and slender day From the long and doleful night.

"Was it a vision that cheated his eyes? Was he awake, or no? He stared through the loop with keen surprise. For he saw a sweet angel from the skies, With white wings, folded low.

"Could she not loose him from his thrall, And lead him into the light? 'Ah me!' he murmured, 'I dare not call, Lest she may doubt it a goblin's waul, And leave me in swift affright!'

"She plumed her wings with a noiseless haste; He could neither call nor cry: She vanished into the sunny waste, Into far blue air that he longed to taste; And he cursed that he could not die.

"But she came again, and every day He worshipped her where she shone; And again she left him and floated away, But his faithless tongue refused to pray For the boon she could give alone.

"And there he sits in his dumb despair, And his watching eyes grow dim: Would God that his coward lips might dare To utter the word to the angel fair, That is life or death to him!"

I marked her as I read, a furtive glance Filling each pause. The passion of the piece, Flaming and fading, ever and anon, Mirrored itself within her tender eyes, Themselves the mirror of her tender soul, And fixed attent upon my face the while.

She had not caught my meaning, but had heard Only a weird, wild story. When I paused, Folding the manuscript, I saw a shade Of disappointment sweep her face, and marked A question rising in her eyes. She knew That I was waiting for her words, and turned Her look away, and for long moments gazed Into the brooding dusk.

"Speak it!" I said.

"'Twas very strange and sad," she answered me. "Why do you write such things?--or, writing such, Leave them so incomplete? The prisoned youth, Thus unreleased, will haunt me while I live. I shudder while I think of him."

Then I: "The poem will be finished, by-and-by, For this is history, and antedates No fact that it records. Whether this youth Shall live entombed, or reach the blessed air, Depends upon his angel; for he calls-- I hear him call, and call again her name Kathrina! O! Kathrina!"

Like the flash Of the hot lightning, the significance Of the strange vision gleamed upon her face In a bright, throbbing flame, that fell full soon To ashen paleness. By unconscious will We both arose. She vainly tried to speak, And gazed into my eyes with such a look Of tender questioning, of half-reproach, Of struggling, doubting, hesitating joy, As few men ever see, and none but once.

Are there not lofty moments, when the soul Leaps to the front of being, casting off The robes and clumsy instruments of sense, And, postured in its immortality, Reveals its independence of the clod In which it dwells?--moments in which the earth And all material things, all sights and sounds, All signals, ministries, interpreters, Relapse to nothing, and the interflow Of thought and feeling, love and life go on Between two spirits, raised to sympathy By an inspiring passion, as, in heaven, The body dust, within an orb outlived, It shall go on forever?

Moments like these-- Nay, these in very truth--were given us then. Who shall expound--ah! who but God alone, The everlasting mystery of love? She spoke not, but I knew that she was mine. I breathed no word, but she was well assured That I was wholly hers.

In what disguise Our love had hid, and wrought its miracle; Behind what semblance of indifference, Or play of courtesy, it spun the cords That bound our hearts in one, was mystery Like love itself. The swift intelligence Of interchange of perfect faith and troth, Of gift of life and person, of the thrill Of triumph in my soul and gratitude In hers, without a gesture, or a word, Was like the converse of the continents Tracking with voiceless flight the slender wire That underlay the throbbing mystery Between our souls, and made our heart-beats one. I opened wide my arms, and she, my own, Sobbed on my breast with such excess of joy, In such embrace of passionate tenderness, As heaven may yield again, but never earth.

Slow in the golden twilight, toward her home, Her hand upon my arm, we loitered on, Silent at first, and then with quiet speech Broaching our plans, or tracing in review The history of our springing love, when she, Lifting her soft blue eyes to mine:

"Dear Paul! There are some things, and some I will not name, That make me sad, e'en in this height of joy. In the wild lay that you have read to-night, You make too much of me. No heart of man, Though loving well and loving worthily, Can be content with any human love. No woman, though the pride and paragon Of all her sex, can take the place of God. No angel she: nor is she quite a man In power and courage,--gifts which charm her most And which, possessing most, disrobe her charms, And make her less a woman. If she stand In fair equality with man--his mate-- Each unto each the rounded complement Of their humanity, it is enough; And such equality must ever lie In their unequal gifts. This thing, at least, Is true as God: she is not more than he, And sits upon no throne. To be adored By man, she must be placed upon a throne Built by his hands, and sit an idol there, Degraded by the measure of the flight Between God's thought and man's."

Responding, I "Fix your own place, my love; it is your right, 'Tis well to have a theory, and sit In the centre of it, mistress of its law, And subject also;--to set men up here And women there, in a fine equipoise Of gift and grace and import. It conveys To nicely-working minds a pleasant sense Of order, like a well-appointed room, Where one may see, in various stuffs and wares, Forethoughts of color brought to harmony; Strict balancings of quantity and form; Flowers in the centre, and, beside the grate, A rack for shovel and tongs. But minds like these (Your pardon, love!) are likely to arrange The window-lights to save the furniture, And spoil the pictures on the wall. And you, In the adjustment of your theory, Would shut the light from her whose mind informs Its harmonies. All worship, in my thought, Goes hand in hand with love. We cannot love, And fail to worship what we love. While you Worship the strength and courage which you find In him who has your heart, he bows to all Of faith and sweetness which he finds in you. If, in our worship, we have need to build Noblest ideals, taking much from God With which to make them perfect in our eyes, Shall God mark blame? We worship him the while, In attributes his own, or attributes With which our thought invests him. As for me-- It is no secret--I am what you call A godless man; yet what is worshipful, Or seems to be so, that with all my heart I worship; and I worship while I love. You deem yourself the dwelling-place of God, And keep your spirit cleanly for his feet. All merit you abjure, ascribing all To him who dwells within you. How can you Forbid that I fall down and worship you, When what I find to worship is not yours, But God's alone? I know the ecstasy Enlarges, strengthens, purifies my soul, And blesses me with peace. My love, my life, You are my all. I have no other good, And, in this moment of my happiness, I ask no other."

Tears were in her eyes, Her clasped hands clinging fondly to my arm, While under droop of lashes she replied: "I feel, dear Paul, that this is sophistry. It does not touch my judgment or my heart With motive of conviction. In what way God may be working to reclaim your will And worship to himself, I cannot know. If through your love for me, or mine for you, Then, as his grateful, willing instrument, I yield myself to him. But this is true: God is not worshipped in his attributes. I do not love your attributes, but you. Your attributes all meet me otherwhere, Blended in other personalities, Nor do I love, nor do I worship them, Or those who bear them. E'en the spotted pard Will dare a danger which will make you pale, But shall his courage steal my heart from you? You cheat your conscience, for you know that I May like your attributes, yet love not you; Nay, worship them indeed, despising you. I do not argue this to damp your joy, But make it rational. If you presume Perfection in me,--if you lavish all The largess of your worship and your love On me, imposing on my head a crown Stolen from God's, there surely waits your heart The pang of disappointment. There will come A sad, sad time, when, in your famished soul, The cry for something more, and more divine, Will rise, nor be repressed."

There is a charm In earnestness, when it inspires the lips Of one we love, that spoils their argument, And yields so much of pleasure and of pride, That the conviction which they seek evades Their eager fingers, and with throbbing wings Crows from its covert.

She was casuist, Cunning and clear; and I was proud of her; And though I knew that she had swept away My refuges of lies like chaff, and proved My fair words fustian, I was moved to mirth Over the solemn ruin. Had it been A decent thing to do, I should have laughed Full in her face; but knowing that her words Were offspring of her conscience and her love, I could no less than hold respectfully Her earnest warning.

"Well, I'll take the risk," I said. "While you shall have the argument, I will have you, who, on the whole, I like Better than that. And you shall have your way, And I my own, in common liberty, With things like these. You, doubtless, are to me What I am not to you. We are unlike In life and circumstance--alike alone In this: that better than all else on earth We love each other. This is basis broad For happiness, or broad enough for me. If you build better, you are fortunate, Ay, fortunate indeed; and some fine day We'll talk about it. Let us have to-night Joy in our new possessions, and defer This little joust of wits and consciences To more convenient season."

We had reached The cottage door at this; and there her aunt Awaited our return. So, hand in hand, Assuming show of rustic bashfulness, We paused before her, and with bows profound Made our obeisance.

"Well?" she said at length; "Well?--and what of it?"

"Are you not surprised?" I asked.

"Surprised, indeed! Surprised at what?"

"At what you see: and this! and this!" I said, Planting a kiss upon each lovely cheek Of my betrothed, that straightway bloomed with rose. "What! are you blind, my aunt?"

"You silly fools! I've seen it from the first," she answered me. "No doubt you thought that you were very deep, Very mysterious--all that sort of thing. I've watched you, and if you, young man, had been Aught but a coward, it had come before, And saved some sleep o' nights to both of you. But down upon your knees, for benison Of one who loves you both."

We knelt, and then She kissed us, leaving on our cheeks the tear That sprang to brim the moment. Her shrewd eyes That melted in the sympathy of love, Would not meet ours again, but turned away, And sought in solitude to drain themselves Of their strange passion.

God forbid that I, With weak and sacrilegious lips, betray The confidence of love; or tear aside The secrecy behind whose snowy folds Honor and virgin modesty retire For holiest communion! For the fire Which burns upon that altar is of God. Its tongues of flame, throughout all time and space, Speak but one language, understood by all, But sacred ever to the wedded hearts That listen to their breathings.

In the deep hours of night I left the cottage, brain and heart o'erfilled With the ethereal vintage I had quaffed. Disturbing not the drowsy ferryman, I slipped his little wherry from the sand, And in the star-sprent river lipped the oars That pulled me homeward. The enchanting tide Was smooth continuation of the dream On which my spirit, holily afloat, Had glided through long hours of happiness. Earth, by the strange, delicious ecstasy, Was changed to paradise; and something kin To gratitude arose within my soul-- A fleeting passion, dying all too soon, Lacking the root which faith alone can feed.

I touched the shore; but when my hasting feet Started the homeward walk, there came a change. Down from the quiet stars there fell a voice, Heard in the innermost, that troubled me: "She is not more than you: why worship her? And she will die: what will remain for you? You may die first, indeed: then what resource? You have no sympathy with her in things Ordained within, her conscience and her life The things supreme: can there be marriage thus? Is e'en such bliss as may be possible Sure to be yours? Fate has a thousand hands To dash your lifted cup."

With thoughts like these, A vague uneasiness invaded me, And toned the triumph of my passion, till, Almost in anger, I exclaimed at last: "This is reaction. I have flown too high Above the healthy level, and I feel The press of denser air. The equipoise Of circumstance and feeling will be reached All in good time. Rest and to-morrow's sun Will bring the remedy, and, with the mists, This cloud will pass away."

Then with clenched hands I swore I would be happy,--that my soul Should find its satisfaction in her love; And that, if there should ever come a time Of cold satiety, or I should find Weakness or fault where I had thought was strength And full perfection, I would e'en endow Her poverty with all the hoarded wealth Of my imagination, making her The woman of my want, in plenitude Of strength and loveliness.

The breezy days Over whose waves my buoyant life careered, Rolled to October, falling on its beach With bursts of mellow music; and I leaped Upon the longed-for shore; for, in that month, My dear betrothed, deferring to the stress Of my impatient wish, had promised me Her hand in wedlock.

Ere the happy day Dawned on the world, the world was draped in robes Meet for the nuptials. Baths of sunny haze, Steeping the ripened leaves from day to day, And dainty kisses of the frost at night, Joined in the subtile alchemy that wrought Such miracles of change, that myriad trees Which pranked the meads and clothed the forest glooms Bloomed with the tints of Eden. Had the earth Been splashed with blood of grapes from every clime, Tinted from topaz to dim carbuncle, Or orient ruby, it would not have been Drenched with such waste of color. All the hues The rainbow knows, and all that meet the eye In flowers of field and garden, joined to tell Each tree's close-folded secret. Side by side Rose sister maples, some in amber gold, Others incarnadine or tipped with flame; And oaks that for a hundred years had stood, And flouted one another through the storms-- Boasting their might--proclaimed their pique or pride In dun, or dyes of Tyre. The sumac-leaves Blazed with such scarlet that the crimson fruit Which hung among their flames was touched to guise Of dim and dying embers; while the hills That met the sky at the horizon's rim-- Dabbled with rose among the evergreens, Or stretching off in sweeps of clouted crimson--glowed As if the archery of sunset clouds, By squads and fierce battalions, had rained down Its barbed and feathered fire, and left it fast To advertise th' exploit.

In such pomp Of autumn glory, by the simplest rites, Kathrina gave her hand to me, and I Pledged truth and life to her. I bore her home Through shocks of maize, revealing half their gold; Past gazing harvesters with creaking wains That brimmed with fruitage--my adored, my wife, Fruition of my hope--the proudest freight That ever passed that way!

My troops of friends, Grown strangely warm and strangely numerous With scent of novelty and pleasant cheer, Assisted me to place upon her throne My household queen. Right royally she sat The new-born dignity. Most graciously She spoke and smiled among the silken clouds That, fold on perfumed fold, like frankincense Enveloped her, through half the festal night, With welcome and good wishes. I was proud: For was not I a king where she was queen? And queen she was--though consort in my home, Queen regnant in the realm of womanhood, By right of every charm.

Into her place, As mistress of all home economies, She slid without a jar, as if the Fates, By concert of foreordinate design, Had fitted her for it, and it for her, And, having joined them well, were satisfied. Obedient to the orbit of our love, We came and went, revolving round our home In spheral harmony--twin stars made one, And loyal to one law.

When at our board, All viands lifted by her hand became Ambrosial; and her light, elastic step From room to room, in busy household cares, Timed with my heart, and filled me with a sense Of harmony and peace. Days, weeks, and months Lapsed like soft measures, rhyming each with each. All charged with thoughtful ministries to me, And not to me alone; for I was proud To know that she was counted by the good As a good power among them,--by the poor, As angel sent of God, on whom they called His blessing down.

She held her separate life Of prayer and Christian service, without show Of sanctity, without obtrusiveness; And, though I could but know she never sought A blessing for herself, forgetting me In her petition, not in all those months Did word of difference betray the gulf Between our souls and lives. She had her plan: I guessed it, and respected it. She felt That if her life were not an argument To move me, nothing that her lips might say Could win me to her wish. Pride would repel What it could not refute, and pleasantry Parry the thrusts that love could not resent.

A whole year sped, yet not a line of verse Had grown beneath my pen. When I essayed To brace my powers to effort, and to call Forth from their camp and covert the bright ranks Of tuneful numbers, no responsive shout Answered the bugle-blast, and from my hand-- Irresolute and nerveless as a babe's-- My falchion fell.

She rallied me on this; But I had nought to say, save this, perhaps: That she, being all my world, had left no room For other occupation than my love. She did not smile at this: it was no jest, But saddest truth. I had grown enervate In the warm atmosphere which I had breathed; And this, with consciousness that in her soul-- As warm with love as mine--each gentle power Was kindling with new life from day to day, Growing with my decline.

Well, in good time, There came to us a child, the miniature Of her on whose dear breast my babyhood Was nursed and cradled; and my happy heart. Charged with a double tenderness, received And blessed the precious gift. Another fount Of human love gurgled to meet my lips. Another store of good, as rich and pure, In its own kind, as that from which I drank, Was thus discovered to my taste, and I Feasted upon its fulness.

With the gift That brimmed my cup of joy, there came a grace To her who bore it of fresh loveliness. If I had loved the maiden and the bride, The mother, through whose pain my heart had won Its new possession, fastened to my heart With a new sympathy. Whatever dross Our months of intimacy had betrayed Within her character, was purged away, And she was left pure gold. Nay, I should say, Whatever goodness had not been revealed Through the relations of her heart to mine As loving maid and mistress, found the light Through her maternity. A heavenly change Passed o'er her soul and o'er her pallid face, As if the unconscious yearning of a life Had found full satisfaction in the birth Of the new being. Her long weariness Was but a trance of peace and gratitude; And as she lay--her babe upon her breast, Her eyelids closed--I could but feel that heaven, Should it hold all the good of which she dreamed Had little more for her.

And when again She moved about the house, in ministry To me and to her helpless child, I knew That I had tasted every precious good That woman bears to man. Ay, more than this: That not one man in thousands had received Such largess of affection, and such prize Of womanhood, as I had found in her, And made my own. The whole enchanting round Of pure, domestic commerce had been mine. A lover blest, a husband satisfied, A father crowned! Love had no other boon To offer me, and held within its gift No other title.

Thus, within the space Of two swift years, I traversed the domain Of novelty, and learned that I must glean The garnered fields of my experience To gratify the greed that still possessed My sateless heart. The time had come to me-- Which I had half foreseen--when, by my will, My interest in those I loved should live Predominant in all my life. I nursed With jealous care my passion for my wife. I raised her to an apotheosis In my imagination, where I bowed And paid my constant homage. I was still Her fond and loyal lover; but my heart, That had so freely drunk, with full content, Had seen the bottom of the cup she held; And what remained but tricks to eke it out, And artifice to give it piquancy, And sips to cool my tongue, the while my heart Was hollow with its thirst? My little child Was precious to my soul beyond all price; Mother and babe were all that they could be To any heart of man; and yet--and yet!

Of all the dull, dead weights man ever bore, Sure, none can wear the soul with discontent Like consciousness of power unused. To feel That one has gift to move the multitude,-- To act upon the life of humankind By force of will, or fire of eloquence, Or voice of lofty art, and yet, to feel No stir of mighty motive in the soul To action or endeavor; to behold The fairest prizes of this fleeting life Borne off by patient men who, day by day, By bravest toil and struggle, reach the heights Of great achievement, toiling, struggling thus With a strong joy, and with a fine contempt For soft and selfish passion; to see this, Yet cling to such a passion, like a slave Who hugs his chains in sluggish impotence, Refusing freedom lest he lose the crust The chain of bondage warrants him--ah! this Is misery indeed!

Such misery Was mine. I held the consciousness of power To labor even-headed with the best Who wrought for fame, or strove to make themselves Felt in the world's great life; and yet, I felt No lift to enterprise, from heaven above Or earth beneath; for neither God nor man Lived in my love. My home held all my world; Yet it was evident--I felt, I knew-- That nought could fill my opening want but toil; And there were times when I had hailed with joy The curse of poverty, compelling me To labor for my bread, and for the bread Of those I loved.

My neighbors all around Were happy in their work. The plodding hind Who served my hand, or groomed my petted horse. Whistled about his work with merry heart, And filled his measure of content with toil. In all the streets and all the busy fields, Men were astir, and doing with their might What their hands found to do. They drove the plough, They trafficked, builded, delved, they spun and wove, They taught and preached, they hasted up and down Each on his little errand, and their eyes Were full of eager fire, as if the earth And all its vast concerns were on their hands. Their homes were fresh with guerdon every night, And ripe with impulse to new industry At each new dawn.

I saw all this, but knew That they were not like me--were most unlike In constitution and condition. Thus, My power to do, and do the single thing My power was shaped to do, became, instead Of wings to bear me, weights to burden me. The moiling multitude for little tasks Found little motives plenty; but for me, Who in my indolence they all despised-- Not understanding me--no motive rose To lash or lead. Even the Jove I dreamed Would give me impulse had defrauded me. Feeble and proud; strong, yet emasculate; Centred in self, and still despising self; Goaded, yet held; convinced, but never moved? Such conflict ofttimes held and harried me That death had met with welcome. If I read, I read to kill my time. No interest In the great thoughts of others moved my soul, Because I had no object; useless quite The knowledge and the culture I possessed; And if I rode, the stale monotony Of the familiar landscapes sickened me.

In these dull years, my toddling little wean Grew into prattling childhood, and I gained Such fresh delight from her as kept my heart From fatal gloom; but more and more I shunned The world around me, more and more drew in The circle of my life, until, at last, My home became my hermitage. I knew The dissolution of the spell would come, And, though I dreaded it, I longed to greet The crash and transformation. If my pride Forbade the full confession to my wife That time had verified her prophecy, It failed to hold the truth from her. She read, With a true woman's insight, all my heart; But with a woman's sensitiveness shrank From questions which might seem to carry blame; And so, for years, there lay between our souls The bar of silence.

One sweet summer eve, After my lamb was folded and before The lamps were lighted, as I sat alone Within my room, I heard reluctant feet Seeking my door. They paused, and then I heard:

"May I come in?"

"Ay, you may always come; And you are welcome always," I replied.

The room was dim, but I could see her face Was pale, and her long lashes wet. "Your seat"-- I said, with open arms. Upon my knee, One hand upon my shoulder, she sank down As if the heart within her breast were lead, And she were weary with its weight.

"My wife, What burden now?" I asked her tenderly.

She fixed her swimming eyes on mine, and said: "My dear, you are not happy. Years have gone Since you have been content. I bring no words Of blame against you: you have been to me A comfort and a joy. Your constancy Has honored me as few of all my sex Are honored by your own; but while you pine With secret pain, I am so wholly yours That I must pine with you. I've waited long For you to speak; and now I come to you To ask you this one question: Is there aught Of toil or sacrifice within my power To ease your heart, or give you liberty Beyond the round to which you hold your feet? Speak freely, frankly, as to one who loves Her husband better than her only child, And better than herself."

I drew her head Down to my cheek, and said: "My angel wife! Whatever torment or disquietude I may have suffered, you have never been Its cause, or its occasion. You are all-- You have been all--that womanhood can be To manhood's want; and in your woman's love And woman's pain, I have found every good My life has known since first our lives were joined. You knew me better than I knew myself; And your prophetic words have haunted me Like thoughts of retribution: '_There will come 'A sad, sad time, when in your famished soul 'The cry for something more, and more divine 'Will rise, nor be repressed._' For something more My spirit clamors: nothing more divine I ask for."

"What shall be this 'something more'?

"Work," I replied; "ay, work, but never here; Work among men, where I may feel the touch Of kindred life; work where the multitudes Are surging; work where brains and hands Are struggling for the prizes of the world; Work where my spirit, driven to its bent By competitions and grand rivalries, Shall vindicate its own pre-eminence, And wring from a reluctant world the meed Of approbation and respect for which It yearns with awful hunger; work, indeed, Which shall compel the homage of the souls That creep around me here, and pity you Because, forsooth, the Fates have hobbled you With a dull drone. I know how sweet the love Of two fond souls; and I will have the hearts Of millions. These shall satisfy my greed, And round the measure of my life; and these My work shall win me."

At these childish words She raised her head, and with a sweet, sad smile Of love and pity blent, made her response: "Not yet, my husband--if your wife may speak A thought that crosses yours--not yet have you Found the great secret of content. But work May help you toward it, and in any case Is better far than idleness. For this, You ask of me to sacrifice this home And all the truest friends my life has gained. I do it from this moment; glad to prove, At any tender cost, my love for you, And faith in your endeavor. I will go To any spot of earth where you may lead, And go rejoicing. Let us go at once!"

"I burn my ships behind me," I replied. "Measure the cost: be sure no secret hope Of late return be found among the flames; For, if I go, I leave no single thread, Save that which binds me to my mother's grave. To draw me back."

"My love shall be the torch To light the fire," she answered.

Then we rose, And, with a kiss, marked a full period To love's excess, and with a sweet embrace Wrote the initial of a stronger life.

A REFLECTION.

Oh! not by bread alone is manhood nourished To its supreme estate! By every word of God have lived and flourished The good men and the great. Ay, not by bread alone!

"Oh! not by bread alone!" the sweet rose, breathing In throbs of perfume, speaks; "But myriad hands, in earth and air, are wreathing The blushes for my cheeks. Ay, not by bread alone!"

"Oh! not by bread alone!" proclaims in thunder The old oak from his crest; "But suns and storms upon me, and deep under, The rocks in which I rest. Ay, not by bread alone!"

"Oh! not by bread alone!" The truth flies singing In voices of the birds; And from a thousand pastured hills is ringing The answer of the herds: "Ay, not by bread alone!"

Oh! not by bread alone! for life and being Are finely complex all, And increment, with element agreeing, Must feed them, or they fall. Ay, not by bread alone!

Oh! not by love alone, though strongest, purest That ever swayed the heart; For strongest passion evermore the surest Defrauds each manly part. Ay, not by love alone!

Oh! not by love alone is power engendered. Until within the soul The gift of every motive has been rendered, It is not strong and whole. Ay, not by love alone!

Oh! not by love alone is manhood nourished To its supreme estate: By every word of God have lived and flourished The good men and the great. Ay, not by love alone!