Chapter 7

With much hard labour and some pleasure fraught, The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught My hand to grow more skilful in its art, Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.

Brief letters came from Helen, now and then: She was quite well—oh yes! quite well, indeed! But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by, When baby, being older, should not need Such constant care, she would grow strong again. She was as happy as a soul could be; No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; She had not thought life held such depths of bliss. Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss, And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, Not to come home and see ma’s little pearl. No gift of costly jewels, or of gold, Had been so precious or so dear to me, As each brief line wherein her joy was told. It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.

Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where He built a pretty villa-like retreat. And when the Roman Summer’s languid heat Made work a punishment, I turned my face Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.

I was a willing worker. Not an hour Passed idly by me: each, I would employ To some good purpose, ere it glided on To swell the tide of hours forever gone. My first completed picture, known as “Joy,” Won pleasant words of praise. “Possesses power,” “Displays much talent,” “Very fairly done.” So fell the comments on my grateful ear.

Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near, Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed, With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried. The careful study of long months, it won Golden opinions; even bringing forth That certain sign of merit—a critique Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak As empty heads that sang their praises—so Proving conclusively the pictures’ worth. These critics and reviewers do not use Their precious ammunition to abuse A worthless work. That, left alone, they know Will find its proper level; and they aim Their batteries at rising works which claim Too much of public notice. But this shot Resulted only in some noise, which brought A dozen people, where one came before, To view my pictures; and I had my hour Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow’r. An English Baron who had lived two score Of his allotted three score years and ten Bought both the pieces. He was very kind, And so attentive, I, not being blind, Must understand his meaning.

Therefore, when He said, “Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife, The ‘Joy’ and ‘Sorrow’ this dear hand portrayed I have in my possession: now resign Into my careful keeping, and make mine, The joy and sorrow of your future life,”— I was prepared to answer, but delayed, Grown undecided suddenly.

My mind Argued the matter coolly pro and con, And made resolve to speed his wooing on And grant him favour. He was good and kind; Not young, no doubt he would be quite content With my respect, nor miss an ardent love; Could give me ties of family and home; And then, perhaps, my mind was not above Setting some value on a titled name— Ambitious woman’s weakness!

Then my art Would be encouraged and pursued the same, And I could spend my winters all in Rome. Love never more could touch my wasteful heart That all its wealth upon one object spent. Existence would be very bleak and cold, After long years, when I was gray and old, With neither home nor children.

Once a wife, I would forget the sorrow of my life, And pile new sods upon the grave of pain. My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard, But made no comment.

Then the Baron spoke, And waited for my answer. All in vain I strove for strength to utter that one word My mind dictated. Moments rolled away— Until at last my torpid heart awoke, And forced my trembling lips to say him nay. And then my eyes with sudden tears o’erran, In pity for myself and for this man Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise. “Dear friend,” I cried, “dear generous friend, forgive A troubled woman’s weakness! As I live, In truth I meant to answer otherwise. From out its store, my heart can give you naught But honour and respect; and yet methought I would give willing answer, did you sue. But now I know ’twere cruel wrong I planned— Taking a heart that beat with love most true, And giving in exchange an empty hand. Who weds for love alone, may not be wise: Who weds without it, angels must despise. Love and respect together must combine To render marriage holy and divine; And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys Continuation of the nuptial joys, And brings regret, and gloomy discontent To put to rout each tender sentiment. Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life By that possession—an unloving wife; Nor will I take the sin upon my soul Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole. However bleak may be my single lot, I will not stain my life with such a blot. Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide; It holds some fairer woman for your bride; I would I had a heart to give to you, But, lacking it, can only say—adieu!”

He whom temptation never has assailed, Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength; When sorely tried, we waver, but at length, Rise up and turn away, not having failed.

* * * * *

The Autumn of the third year came and went; The mild Italian winter was half spent, When this brief message came across the sea: “My darling! I am dying. Come to me. Love, which so long the growing truth concealed, Stands pale within its shadow. Oh, my sweet! This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat— Dying with very weight of bliss. Oh, come! And take the legacy I leave to you, Before these lips for evermore are dumb. In life or death,—Yours, Helen Dangerfield.” This plaintive letter bore a month old date; And, wild with fears lest I had come too late, I bade the old world and new friends adieu, And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home, I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.

All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled, Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear, Was passing from me; that she might be dead; And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me, Because I made no answer to her plea.

“O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on, Make haste before a wasting life is gone! Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath! And true in life, be true e’en unto death.

“O, ship, sail on! and bear me o’er the tide To her for whom my woman’s heart once died. Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me, And I would know what her last wish may be! I have been true, so true, through all the past. Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last.”

So prayed my heart still o’er, and ever o’er, Until the weary lagging ship reached shore. All sad with fears that I had come too late, By that strange source whence men communicate, Though miles on miles of space between them lie, I spoke with Vivian: “Does she live? Reply.” The answer came. “She lives, but hasten, friend! Her journey draweth swiftly to its end.”

Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot, My own dear home, the lane that led to his— The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight, Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might; Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot, But those sweet early years of lost delight, Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.

I have a theory, vague, undefined, That each emotion of the human mind, Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair, Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air, Until it takes possession of some breast; And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, And bid it leave us wholly, and depart, It does not die, it cannot die; but goes And mingles with some restless wind that blows About the region where it had its birth. And though we wander over all the earth, That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, Invisible and clothèd like the air, Hoping that we may yet again draw near, And it may haply take us unaware, And once more find safe shelter in the breast It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.

Told by my heart, and wholly positive, Some old emotion long had ceased to live; That, were it called, it could not hear or come, Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, Yet, passing where it first sprang into life, My very soul has suddenly been rife With all the old intensity of feeling. It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing Into my heart from that departed day; Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.

So now into my troubled heart, above The present’s pain and sorrow, crept the love And strife and passion of a bygone hour, Possessed of all their olden might and power. ’Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken, And Vivian stood before us.

But I saw In him the husband of my friend alone. The old emotions might at times return, And smould’ring fires leap up an hour and burn; But never yet had I transgressed God’s law, By looking on the man I had resigned, With any hidden feeling in my mind, Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known He was but little altered. From his face The nonchalant and almost haughty grace, The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes, The years had stolen, leaving in their place A settled sadness, which was not despair, Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care, But something like the vapour o’er the skies Of Indian summer, beautiful to see, But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be. There was that in his face which cometh not, Save when the soul has many a battle fought, And conquered self by constant sacrifice.

There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine, Render the plainest features half divine. All other artists strive and strive in vain, To picture beauty perfect and complete. Their statues only crumble at their feet, Without the master touch of Faith and Pain. And now his face, that perfect seemed before, Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore A look exalted, which the spirit gives When soul has conquered, and the body lives Subservient to its bidding.

In a room Which curtained out the February gloom, And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers, Rested the eye like one of Summer’s bowers, I found my Helen, who was less mine now Than Death’s; for on the marble of her brow His seal was stamped indelibly.

Her form Was like the slender willow, when some storm Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face, Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue: And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place, Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue. Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein, And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light Shone through and made her wasted features bright With an unearthly beauty; and an awe Crept o’er me, gazing on her, for I saw She was so near to Heaven that I seemed To look upon the face of one redeemed. She turned the brilliant lustre of her eyes Upon me. She had passed beyond surprise, Or any strong emotion linked with clay. But as I glided to her where she lay, A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed Her pallid features. “Welcome home!” she breathed “Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and rejoice.” And like the dying echo of a voice Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.

I fell upon my knees beside her bed; All agonies within my heart were wed, While to the aching numbness of my grief, Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear,— The tortured soul’s most merciful relief. Her wasted hand caressed my bended head For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said, In that low tone so like the wind’s refrain, “Maurine, my own! give not away to pain; The time is precious. Ere another dawn My soul may hear the summons and pass on. Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while, And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak With every hour that passes. I must speak And make my dying wishes known to-night. Go now.” And in the halo of her smile, Which seemed to fill the room with golden light, I turned and left her.

Later, in the gloom Of coming night, I entered that dim room, And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand: And on the pillow at her side there smiled The beauteous count’nance of a sleeping child.

“Maurine,” spoke Helen, “for three blissful years, My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land; And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy, Without one drop of anguish or alloy. And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall, Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears, And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all Who linger long upon this troubled way, God takes me to the realm of Endless Day, To mingle with His angels, who alone Can understand such bliss as I have known. I do not murmur. God has heaped my measure, In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure; And, from the fulness of an earthly love, I pass to th’ Immortal Arms above, Before I even brush the skirts of Woe.

“I leave my aged parents here below, With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend! Be kind to them, and love them to the end, Which may not be far distant.

And I leave A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine. From this most holy, sad and sacred eve, Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep, To love and shelter, to protect and guide.” She touched the slumb’ring cherub at her side, And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep, And laid the precious burden on my breast.

A solemn silence fell upon the scene. And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek, I felt it would be sacrilege to speak, Such wordless joy possessed me.

Oh! at last This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past, Had caused my soul such travail, was my own: Through all the lonely coming years to be Mine own to cherish—wholly mine alone. And what I mourned so hopelessly as lost Was now restored, and given back to me.

The dying voice continued: “In this child You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost. But all that was most pure and undefiled, And good within me, lives in her again. Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know, Moving about the wide world, to and fro, And through, and in the busy haunts of men, Not always will his heart be dumb with woe, But sometime waken to a later love. Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed above All selfish feelings! I would have it so. While I am with the angels, blest and glad, I would not have you sorrowing and sad, In loneliness go mourning to the end. But, love! I could not trust to any other The sacred office of a foster-mother To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend.

“Teach her to love her father’s name, Maurine, Where’er he wanders. Keep my memory green In her young heart, and lead her in her youth, To drink from th’ eternal fount of Truth; Vex her not with sectarian discourse, Nor strive to teach her piety by force; Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds, Nor frighten her with an avenging God, Who rules His subjects with a burning rod; But teach her that each mortal simply needs To grow in hate of hate and love of love, To gain a kingdom in the courts above.

“Let her be free and natural as the flowers, That smile and nod throughout the summer hours. Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth, But first impress upon her mind this truth: No lasting happiness is e’er attained Save when the heart some _other_ seeks to please. The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained, And full of gall and bitterness the lees. Next to her God, teach her to love her land; In her young bosom light the patriot’s flame Until the heart within her shall expand With love and fervour at her country’s name.

“No coward-mother bears a valiant son. And this, my last wish, is an earnest one.

“Maurine, my o’er-taxed strength is waning; you Have heard my wishes, and you will be true In death as you have been in life, my own! Now leave me for a little while alone With him—my husband. Dear love! I shall rest So sweetly with no care upon my breast. Good-night, Maurine, come to me in the morning.”

But lo! the Bridegroom with no further warning Came for her at the dawning of the day. She heard His voice, and smiled, and passed away Without a struggle.

Leaning o’er her bed To give her greeting, I found but her clay, And Vivian bowed beside it.

And I said, “Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request, And when the night of fever and unrest Melts in the morning of Eternity, Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee.

“I will come to thee in the morning, sweet! I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet Before God’s throne, and shall not be afraid. Thou gav’st me trust, and it was not betrayed.

“I will come to thee in the morning, dear! The night is dark. I do not know how near The morn may be of that Eternal Day; I can but keep my faithful watch and pray.

“I will come to thee in the morning, love! Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above. The way is troubled where my feet must climb, Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime.

“I will come in the morning, O mine own; But for a time must grope my way alone, Through tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn, And I shall hear the summons, and pass on.

“I will come in the morning. Rest secure! My hope is certain and my faith is sure. After the gloom and darkness of the night I will come to thee with the morning light.”

* * * * *

Three peaceful years slipped silently away.

We dwelt together in my childhood’s home, Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May. She was a fair and most exquisite child; Her pensive face was delicate and mild Like her dead mother’s; but through her dear eyes Her father smiled upon me, day by day. Afar in foreign countries did he roam, Now resting under Italy’s blue skies, And now with Roy in Scotland.

And he sent Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went And what he saw, addressed to May or me. And I would write and tell him how she grew— And how she talked about him o’er the sea In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew His picture in the album; how each day She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring Her own papa back to his little May. It was a warm bright morning in the Spring. I sat in that same sunny portico, Where I was sitting seven years ago When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears, As I looked back across the checkered years. How many were the changes they had brought! Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught To my young heart had been of untold worth. I had learned how to “suffer and grow strong”— That knowledge which best serves us here on earth, And brings reward in Heaven.

Oh! how long The years had been since that June morning when I heard his step upon the walk, and yet I seemed to hear its echo still.

Just then Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet, And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land Stood there before me!—holding out his hand And smiling with those wond’rous eyes of old.

To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child; But she was shy, and clung to me, when told This was papa, for whom her prayers were said. She dropped her eyes and shook her little head, And would not by his coaxing be beguiled, Or go to him.

Aunt Ruth was not at home, And we two sat and talked, as strangers might, Of distant countries which we both had seen. But once I thought I saw his large eyes light With sudden passion, when there came a pause In our chit-chat, and then he spoke:

“Maurine, I saw a number of your friends in Rome. We talked of you. They seemed surprised, because You were not ’mong the seekers for a name. They thought your whole ambition was for fame.”

“It might have been,” I answered, “when my heart Had nothing else to fill it. Now my art Is but a recreation. I have _this_ To love and live for, which I had not then.” And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss Upon my child’s fair brow.

“And yet,” he said, The old light leaping to his eyes again, “And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed A noble Baron! one of many men Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet. Why won the bravest of them no return?” I bowed my head, nor dared his gaze to meet. On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn, And strong emotion strangled speech.

He rose And came and knelt beside me.

“Sweet, my sweet!” He murmured softly, “God in Heaven knows How well I loved you seven years ago. He only knows my anguish, and my grief, When your own acts forced on me the belief That I had been your plaything and your toy. Yet from his lips I since have learned that Roy Held no place nearer than a friend and brother. And then a faint suspicion, undefined, Of what had been—was—might be, stirred my mind, And that great love, I thought died at a blow, Rose up within me, strong with hope and life.

“Before all heaven and the angel mother Of this sweet child that slumbers on your heart, Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife— Mine own, forever, until death shall part!”

Through happy mists of upward welling tears, I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes. “Dear heart,” I said, “if she who dwells above Looks down upon us, from yon azure skies, She can but bless us, knowing all these years My soul had yearned in silence for the love That crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak. I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake. For her sweet child’s, and for my own, I take You back to be all mine, for evermore.”

Just then the child upon my breast awoke From her light sleep, and laid her downy cheek Against her father as he knelt by me. And this unconscious action seemed to be A silent blessing, which the mother spoke Gazing upon us from the mystic shore.

ALL ROADS THAT LEAD TO GOD ARE GOOD

All roads that lead to God are good. What matters it, your faith, or mine? Both centre at the goal divine Of love’s eternal Brotherhood.

The kindly life in house or street— The life of prayer and mystic rite— The student’s search for truth and light— These paths at one great Junction meet.

Before the oldest book was writ, Full many a prehistoric soul Arrived at this unchanging goal, Through changeless Love, that leads to it.

What matters that one found his Christ In rising sun, or burning fire? If faith within him did not tire, His longing for the Truth sufficed.

Before our modern hell was brought To edify the modern world, Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled In lakes of fire by its own thought.

A thousand creeds have come and gone, But what is that to you or me? Creeds are but branches of a tree— The root of love lives on and on.

Though branch by branch proves withered wood, The root is warm with precious wine. Then keep your faith and leave me mine— All roads that lead to God are good.

DUST-SEALED

I know not wherefore, but mine eyes See bloom, where other eyes see blight. They find a rainbow, a sunrise, Where others but discern deep night.

Men call me an enthusiast, And say I look through gilded haze: Because where’er my gaze is cast, I see something that calls for praise.

I say, “Behold those lovely eyes— That tinted cheek of flower-like grace.” They answer in amused surprise: “We thought it a common face.”

I say, “Was ever seen more fair? I seem to walk in Eden’s bowers.” They answer, with a pitying air, “The weeds are choking out the flowers.”

I know not wherefore, but God lent A deeper vision to my sight. On whatsoe’er my gaze is bent I catch the beauty Infinite;

That underlying, hidden half That all things hold of Deity. So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh— Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.

“ADVICE”

I must do as you do? Your way I own Is a very good way. And still, There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, That the prudent choose each time; And you think me reckless and rash to-day, Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine. We are not like peas in a pod, Compelled to lie in a certain line, Or else be scattered abroad.

’Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend, If we all went just one way; Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end, Though they lead apart to-day.

You like the shade, and I like the sun; You like an even pace, I like to mix with the crowd and run, And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm and strife, You like a peaceful time; I like the passion and surge of life, You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet, And crocuses, framed in snow; I like roses, born of the heat, And the red carnation’s glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend, For so it was written down; We must follow our given paths to the end, But I trust we shall meet—in town.

OVER THE BANISTERS

Over the banisters bends a face, Daringly sweet and beguiling. Somebody stands in careless grace And watching the picture, smiling.

The light burns dim in the hall below, Nobody sees her standing, Saying good-night again, soft and low, Halfway up to the landing.

Nobody only the eyes of brown, Tender and full of meaning, That smile on the fairest face in town, Over the banisters leaning.

Tired and sleepy, with drooping head, I wonder why she lingers; Now, when the good-nights all are said, Why, somebody holds her fingers.

He holds her fingers and draws her down, Suddenly growing bolder, Till the loose hair drops its masses brown Like a mantle over his shoulder.

Over the banisters soft hands, fair, Brush his cheeks like a feather, And bright brown tresses and dusky hair Meet and mingle together.

There’s a question asked, there’s a swift caress, She has flown like a bird from the hallway, But over the banisters drops a “Yes,” That shall brighten the world for him alway.

THE PAST

I fling my past behind me like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendour, or complain That I must needs discard it? I can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years A fabric far more durable. Subdued, It may be, in the blending of its hues, Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, While over all a fadeless lustre lies, And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, My new robe shall be richer than the old.

SECRETS

Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone; Why, even God’s stupendous secret, Death, We one by one, with our expiring breath, Do pale with wonder seize and make our own; The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown, Despite her careful hiding; and the air Yields its mysterious marvels in despair To swell the mighty store-house of things known. In vain the sea expostulates and raves; It cannot cover from the keen world’s sight The curious wonders of its coral caves. And so, despite thy caution or thy tears, The prying fingers of detective years Shall drag _thy_ secret out into the light.

APPLAUSE

I hold it one of the sad certain laws Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind Than that success which brings sure loss behind— True greatness dies, when sounds the world’s applause Fame blights the object it would bless, because Weighed down with men’s expectancy, the mind Can no more soar to those far heights, and find That freedom which its inspiration was. When once we listen to its noisy cheers Or hear the populace’ approval, then We catch no more the music of the spheres, Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men. Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears, The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.

THE STORY

They met each other in the glade— She lifted up her eyes; Alack the day! Alack the maid! She blushed in swift surprise. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.

The pail was full, the path was steep— He reached to her his hand; She felt her warm young pulses leap, But did not understand. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.

She sat beside him in the wood— He wooed with words and sighs; Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good, And maidens are not wise. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs.

The summer sun shone fairly down, The wind blew from the south; As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown, His kiss fell on her mouth. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.

And now the autumn time is near, The lover roves away, With breaking heart and falling tear, She sits the livelong day. Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.

LEAN DOWN

Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine! From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings, I cannot grasp at once those better things To which I in my inmost soul aspire. Lean down and lift me higher.

I grope along—not desolate or sad, For youth and hope and health all keep me glad; But too bright sunlight, sometimes, makes us blind, And I do grope for heights I cannot find. Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire— Lean down and lift me higher.

Not long ago we trod the self-same way. Thou knowest how, from day to fleeting day Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet, But only served to hinder and to tire; Lean down and lift me higher.

Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene, And left me here, my loved one, Josephine; I am content to stay until the end, For life is full of promise; but, my friend, Canst thou not help me in my best desire And lean, and lift me higher?

Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise, And quick to understand and sympathize With all a full soul’s needs. It must be so, Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know Thou must see how I struggle and aspire— Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire, And lean, and lift me higher.

LIFE

I feel the great immensity of life. All little aims slip from me, and I reach My yearning soul toward the Infinite.

As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower For lovers’ secrets, or for children’s sports, Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds, And lets the eye behold it, limitless, And full of winding mysteries of ways: So now with life that reaches out before, And borders on the unexplained Beyond.

I see the stars above me, world on world: I hear the awful language of all Space; I feel the distant surging of great seas, That hide the secrets of the Universe In their eternal bosoms; and I know That I am but an atom of the Whole.

THE CHRISTIAN’S NEW YEAR PRAYER

Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending Through these glad New Year days, To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending— For e’en hard hearts do raise Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power, Or freedom from all care— Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour, Hear now a Christian’s prayer.

Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me, Be as a means of grace To lead me up, no matter what betide me, Nearer the Master’s face. If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain Where living waters play, My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain, Then cast them in my way.

If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses To shape it for Thy crown, Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses, With sorrows bear it down. Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure, And if I should complain, Heap full of anguish yet another measure Until I smile at pain. Send dangers—deaths! but tell me how to dare them; Enfold me in Thy care. Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them— This is a Christian’s prayer.

IN THE NIGHT

Sometimes at night, when I sit and write, I hear the strangest things,— As my brain grows hot with burning thought, That struggles for form and wings, I can hear the beat of my swift blood’s feet, As it speeds with a rush and a whir From heart to brain and back again, Like a race-horse under the spur.

With my soul’s fine ear I listen and hear The tender Silence speak, As it leans on the breast of Night to rest, And presses his dusky cheek. And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns For something that is kin; And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss, As it folds and fondles Sin.

In its hurrying race through leagues of space, I can hear the Earth catch breath, As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans, And longs for the rest of Death. And high and far, from a distant star, Whose name is unknown to me, I hear a voice that says, “Rejoice, For I keep ward o’er thee!”

Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range Through the chambers of the night; And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates May hear, if he lists aright.

GOD’S MEASURE

God measures souls by their capacity For entertaining his best Angel, Love. Who loveth most is nearest kin to God, Who is all Love, or Nothing.

He who sits And looks out on the palpitating world, And feels his heart swell within him large enough To hold all men within it, he is near His great Creator’s standard, though he dwells Outside the pale of churches, and knows not A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line Of Scripture even. What God wants of us Is that outreaching bigness that ignores All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.

A MARCH SNOW

Let the old snow be covered with the new: The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden. Let it be hidden wholly from our view By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden. When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring’s feet, Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet. Let the old life be covered by the new: The old past life so full of sad mistakes, Let it be wholly hidden from the view By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes. Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring Let the white mantle of repentance fling Soft drapery about it, fold on fold, Even as the new snow covers up the old.

PHILOSOPHY

At morn the wise man walked abroad, Proud with the learning of great fools. He laughed and said, “There is no God— ’Tis force creates, ’tis reason rules.”

Meek with the wisdom of great faith, At night he knelt while angels smiled, And wept and cried with anguished breath, “Jehovah, _God_, save Thou my child.”

“CARLOS”

Last night I knelt low at my lady’s feet. One soft, caressing hand played with my hair, And one I kissed and fondled. Kneeling there, I deemed my meed of happiness complete.

She was so fair, so full of witching wiles— Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye; So womanly withal, but not too shy— And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles.

Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead sent, Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness Through all my frame. I trembled with excess Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content.

When any mortal dares to so rejoice, I think a jealous Heaven, bending low, Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow. Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady’s voice.

“My love!” she sighed, “my Carlos!” even now I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath Bearing to me those words of living death, And starting out the cold drops on my brow.

For I am _Paul_—not Carlos! Who is he That, in the supreme hour of love’s delight, Veiled by the shadows of the falling night, She should breathe low his name, forgetting me?

I will not ask her! ’twere a fruitless task, For, woman-like, she would make me believe Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve, And call me cruel. Nay, I will not ask.

But this man Carlos, whosoe’er he be, Has turned my cup of nectar into gall, Since I know he has claimed some one or all Of these delights my lady grants to me.

He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad And tender twilight, when the day grew dim. How else could I remind her so of him? Why, reveries like these have made men mad!

He must have felt her soft hand on his brow. If Heaven were shocked at such presumptuous wrongs, And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs, _Still she remembers_, though she loves me now.

And if he lives, and meets me to his cost, Why, what avails it? I must hear and see That curst name “Carlos” always haunting me— So has another Paradise been lost.

THE TWO GLASSES

There sat two glasses filled to the brim, On a rich man’s table, rim to rim. One was ruddy and red as blood, And one was clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother, “Let us tell tales of the past to each other; I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth, Where I was king, for I ruled in might; For the proudest and grandest souls on earth Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; From the heights of fame I have hurled men down. I have blasted many an honoured name; I have taken virtue and given shame; I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste, That has made his future a barren waste. Far greater than any king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky. I have made the arm of the driver fail, And sent the train from the iron rail. I have made good ships go down at sea, And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; And my might and power are over all! Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine, “Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?” Said the water-glass: “I cannot boast Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host, But I can tell of hearts that were sad By my crystal drops made bright and glad; Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved; Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved. I have leapt through the valley, dashed down the mountain, Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain. I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain; I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will. I can tell of manhood debased by you, That I have uplifted and crowned anew. I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the wine-chained captive free, And all are better for knowing me.”

These are the tales they told each other, The glass of wine and its paler brother, As they sat together, filled to the brim, On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.

LA MORT D’AMOUR

When was it that love died? We were so fond, So very fond a little while ago. With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow, We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,

When we should dwell together as one heart, And scarce could wait that happy time to come. Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb, And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.

How was it that love died? I do not know. I only know that all its grace untold Has faded into gray! I miss the gold From our dull skies; but did not see it go.

Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure; We thought of nothing else when it was ours; We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers: It was our all; why could it not endure?

Alas, we know not how, or when, or why This dear thing died. We only know it went, And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; We who found heaven once in each other’s sigh.

How pitiful it is, and yet how true That half the lovers in the world, one day, Look questioning in each other’s eyes this way And know love’s gone forever, as we do.

Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, As I look out o’er all the wide, sad earth And see love’s flame gone out on many a hearth, That those who would keep love must dwell apart.

LOVE’S SLEEP (Vers de Société)

We’ll cover Love with roses, And sweet sleep he shall take None but a fool supposes Love always keeps awake. I’ve known loves without number— True loves were they, and tried; And just for want of slumber They pined away and died.

Our love was bright and cheerful A little while agone; Now he is pale and tearful, And—yes, I’ve seen him yawn. So tired is he of kisses That he can only weep; The one dear thing he misses And longs for now is sleep.

We could not let him leave us One time, he was so dear, But now it would not grieve us If he slept half a year. For he has had his season, Like the lily and the rose, And it but stands to reason That he should want repose.

We prized the smiling Cupid Who made our days so bright; But he has grown so stupid We gladly say good-night. And if he wakens tender And fond, and fair as when He filled our lives with splendour, We’ll take him back again.

And should he never waken, As that perchance may be, We will not weep forsaken, But sing, “Love, tra-la-lee!”

TRUE CULTURE

The highest culture is to speak no ill, The best reformer is the man whose eyes Are quick to see all beauty and all worth; And by his own discreet, well-ordered life, Alone reproves the erring.

When thy gaze Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe. But when it falls upon a fellow-man Let kindliness control it; and refrain From that belittling censure that springs forth From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.

THE VOLUPTUARY

Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated, Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified. Life holds no thing to be anticipated, And I am sad from being satisfied.

The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain Has left me now the highest point is gained. The crystal spray that fell from Fame’s fair fountain Was sweeter than the waters were when drained.

The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure, And which I purchased with my youth and strength, Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasure Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length.

And love, all glowing with a golden glory, Delighted me a season with its tale. It pleased the longest, but at last the story, So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.

I lived for self, and all I asked was given, I have had all, and now am sick of bliss, No other punishment designed by Heaven Could strike me half so forcibly as this.

I feel no sense of aught but enervation In all the joys my selfish aims have brought, And know no wish but for annihilation, Since that would give me freedom from the thought

Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated; Some mighty loss to balance all his gain. For him there is a hope not yet completed; For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.

But cursed is he who has no balked ambition, No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair, But sick and sated with complete fruition, Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.

THE COQUETTE

Alone she sat with her accusing heart, That, like a restless comrade, frightened sleep, And every thought that found her left a dart That hurt her so, she could not even weep.

Her heart that once had been a cup well filled With love’s red wine, save for some drops of gall, She knew was empty; though it had not spilled Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.

She stood upon the grave of her dead truth, And saw her soul’s bright armour red with rust, And knew that all the riches of her youth Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.

Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn, Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate, Made her cry out that she was ever born To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.

IF

Dear love, if you and I could sail away, With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, Across the waters of some unknown bay, And find some island far from all the world;

If we could dwell there, ever more alone, While unrecorded years slip by apace, Forgetting and forgotten and unknown By aught save native song-birds of the place;

If Winter never visited that land, And Summer’s lap spilled o’er with fruits and flowers, And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;

If from the fashions of the world set free, And hid away from all its jealous strife, I lived alone for you, and you for me— Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.

But since we dwell here in the crowded way, Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, And all is commonplace and workaday, As soon as love’s young honeymoon grows old;

Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, ’Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart And go our ways alone, love, and forget.

LOVE’S BURIAL

Let us clear a little space, And make Love a burial-place.

He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me.

Growing heavier, day by day, Let us bury him, I say.

Wings of dead white butterflies, These shall shroud him, as he lies

In his casket rich and rare, Made of finest maiden-hair.

With the pollen of the rose Let us his white eyelids close.

Put the rose thorn in his hand, Shorn of leaves—you understand.

Let some holy water fall On his dead face, tears of gall—

As we kneel by him and say, “Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.

Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust, They will lower him to the dust.

Let us part here with a kiss— You go that way, I go this.

Since we buried Love to-day We will walk a separate way.

LIPPO

Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so, I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes— ’Twas thine own hand which dealt dear Love’s death-blow.

I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then Thy heart was like a covered golden cup Always above my eager lip held up. I fancied thou wert not as other men.

I knew that heart was filled with Love’s sweet wine, Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.

Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled Its precious contents. Even to the lees Were offered to me, saying, “Drink of these!” And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed.

No word was left unsaid, no act undone, To prove to me thou wert my abject slave. Ah! Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save One little drop of that sweet wine—but one—

I still had loved thee, longing for it then. But even the cup is mine. I look within, And find it holds not one last drop to win, And cast it down.—Thou art as other men.

“LOVE IS ENOUGH”

Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold. Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness; In those serene, Arcadian days of old Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress, The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia’s height Lived only for dear love and love’s delight. Love is enough.

Love is enough. Why should we care for fame? Ambition is a most unpleasant guest: It lures us with the glory of a name Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. Let us stay here in this secluded place Made beautiful by love’s endearing grace! Love is enough.

Love is enough. Why should we strive for power? It brings men only envy and distrust. The poor world’s homage pleases but an hour, And earthly honours vanish in the dust. The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate; Let me be loved, and let who will be great. Love is enough.

Love is enough. Why should we ask for more? What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? What better boon of all their precious store Than our fond hearts that love and love again? Old love may die; new love is just as sweet; And life is fair and all the world complete: Love is enough!

LIFE IS LOVE

Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder? Does anyone weep on a day like this, With the sun above and the green earth under? Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

With the sun and the skies and the birds above me, Birds that sing as they wheel and fly— With the winds to follow and say they loved me— Who could be lonely? O ho, not I!

Somebody said in the street this morning, As I opened my window to let in the light, That the darkest day of the world was dawning; But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight

One who claims that he knows about it Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin; But I and the bees and the birds—we doubt it, And think it a world worth living in.

Someone says that hearts are fickle, That love is sorrow, that life is care, And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle, Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

I told the thrush, and we laughed together— Laughed till the woods were all a-ring; And he said to me, as he plumed each feather, “Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing!”

Up he flew, but his song, remaining, Rang like a bell in my heart all day, And silenced the voices of weak complaining That pipe like insects along the way.

O world of light, and O world of beauty! Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine? Yes, life is love, and love is duty; And what heart sorrows? O no, not mine!

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THE END

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BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD