Chapter 4

But oh, my roses, how their great pure faces Beseech me as they bend from sculptured column. So with my wet cheek closely pressed against them, I listen to their pleadings sweet and solemn. Oh, Memory, if an hour of gloom and grieving I here have known, that hour before me set; But all the peace and joy I am leaving, In mercy, Memory, let me forget.

Oh, home! if here a frown has ever chilled me, Let it now rise and darken on my sight. If a harsh word or look has ever grieved me, Let me remember that harsh word to-night. But all the tender words, the fond caressing, The loving smiles that daily I have met, The patient mother love, God's crowning blessing, In mercy, Memory, let me forget.

Here she has kissed me with fond looks of greeting; Will that smile fade when waiting me no longer? Oh, true first love, tender and changing never; But there's a love that nearer is and stronger-- He comes! I kneel and kiss the stone, oh, mother, Where you have stood and blessed me with your eyes; Forgive--forgive me, mother--father--brother-- For oh, he loves me--and love sanctifies.

COMFORT.

Once through an autumn wood I roamed in tearful mood, By grief dismayed, doubting, and ill at ease; When from a leafless oak, Methought low murmurs broke, Complaining accents, as of words like these:

"Incline thy mighty ear Great Mother Earth, and hear How I, thy child, am sorely vexed and tossed; No one to heed my moan, I shudder here, alone With my destroyers, wind and snow, and frost.

Then low and unaware This answer cleaved the air, This tender answer, "Doubting one be still; Oh trust to me, and know The wind, the frost, the snow, Are but my servants sent to do my will.

"For the destroyer frost, His labor is not lost, Rid thee he shall of many noisome things; And thou shalt praise the snow When drinking far below Refreshment sweet from overflowing springs.

"My child thou'rt not alone, I love thee, hear thy moan, But winds that fret thee only causeth thee To more securely stand, More firmly clasp my hand, And soaring upward, closer cling to me."

Then from my burdened heart The shadows did depart, Then said I softly--"winds of sorrow blow So I but closer cling To thee, my Lord, my King, Who loves me, even me, so weak and low."

JENNY ALLEN.

I never shall hear your voice again, Your voice so gentle and low But the thought of you, Jenny Allen, Will go with me where I go. Your sweet voice drowns the Atlantic wave And the rush of the Alpine snow.

You were very fair, Jenny Allen, Fair as a woodland rose; Your heart was pure as an angel's heart, Too good for earth and its woes, And I loved you, Jenny Allen, With a sorrowful love, God knows.

You loved me, Jenny Allen, My sorrow made me wise; And I read your heart, 'twas an easy task, For within your clear blue eyes, Your pure and innocent thoughts shone out Like stars from the summer skies.

He had riches and fame with his seventy years When he won you for his wife; You were but a child, and poor, and tired, Tired of toil and strife; And you only thought of rest, poor dove, When you sold your beautiful life.

Alas, for the hour I entered in Your halls of lordly mirth; For I lost there, Jenny Allen, All that gives life worth; You taught your teacher, Jenny, The saddest lesson of earth.

Ah, woe's the hour I ever stepped Your mansion walls within; For you loved me, Jenny Allen, But you never dreamed 'twas sin; Your heart was white as a lily's heart, When it drinks the sunshine in.

God pity me, Jenny Allen, That I ever loved you so, I would have died to give you peace, And I only gave you woe; For your eyes looked like a wounded dove's, When I told you I must go.

You were but a child, Jenny Allen, But that hour made you wise; A woman's grief and holy strength Sprang up in your mournful eyes; Ah, you were an angel, Jenny, An angel in woman's guise.

But a pitiful, pitiful look, Jenny, Your seraph features wore, As I left you that dark autumn morn, Left you forevermore; And heaven seemed shut against me As I blindly shut that door.

The years have rained on you golden gifts, You dwell in a queenly show; There are jewels of price in your silken hair, And upon your neck of snow. Do you ever think of me, Jenny, And the dream of the long ago?

I have sat me down under foreign skies Afire with an Orient glow; I have seen the moon gild the desert sand, And silver the Arctic snow, But the thought of you Jenny Allen, Goes with me where I go.

THE UNSEEN CITY.

Not far away does that bright city stand, 'Tis but the mist o'er its dividing stream, That wraps the glory of its glitt'ring strand, Its radiant skies, and mountains silvery gleam; Oh, often in the blindness of our fate We wander very near the city's gate.

We love that unseen city, and we yearn Ever within our earthly homes to see Its golden towers, that in the sunset burn, Its white walls rising from the quiet sea; Its mansions gleaming with immortal glow, Filled with the treasure lost to us below.

Yes, dear ones that we loved and lost are there; Bright in that fair clime beam those sweet eyes now; Fanned by its soft breeze floats the shining hair, Hair we have smoothed back from the gentlest brow; Softest white hands we kissed and clasped in ours Slipped from our grasp, lured by its glowing flowers.

Fairer it seems, its velvet walks were sweet, Dearer its quiet streets, with gold paved o'er, Since o'er them lightly fall the little feet-- The light feet bounding through our homes no more; Oh, heart's dear music, tearfully missed, That city's filled with melody like this.

It is not far away; down from its arches roll Anthems too sacred for the outward ear, Pouring their haunting sweetness on the soul; Oh, how our waiting spirits thrill to hear, In listening to the low bewildering strain, Voices they said we should not hear again.

Oh, dear to us that city. He is there, He whom unseen we love; no need of light; His tender eyes illume the crystal air Where His beloved walk in vesture white, What though on earth they wandered, poor, distressed, And saw through tears His glory, now they rest.

Oh, that fair city, shining o'er the tide, Thither we journey through the storm and night; But soon shall we adown its still bay glide, Soon will the city's gate gleam on our sight, There with our own forever shall we be, In that fair city rising from the sea.

THE WAGES OF SIN.

I am an outcast, sinful and vile I know, But what are you, my lady, so fair, and proud, and high? The fringe of your robe just touched me, me so low-- Your feet defiled, I saw the scorn in your eye, And the jeweled hand, that drew back your garments fine. What should you say if I told you to your face Your robes are dyed with as deep a stain as mine, The only difference is you are better paid for disgrace.

You loved a man, you promised to be his bride, Strong vows you gave, you were in the sight of Heaven his wife, And when you sold yourself for another's wealth, he died; And what is that but murder? To take a life That is a little beyond my guilt, I ween, To murder the one you love is a crime of deeper grade Than mine, yet in purple you walk on the earth a queen; I think the wages of sin are very unequally paid.

For what did you receive when you sold yourself for his gold, When with guilty loathing you plighted your white, false hand, A palace in town and country, his name long centuries old, A carriage with coachmen and footmen, wealth in broad tracts of land, Wealth in coffers and vaults, high station, the family gems, For these you stood at God's altar and swore to a lie; But smother your conscience to silence if it condemns, With this you are liberally paid for your life of infamy.

What wages did I receive when I gave myself for his love, So young, so weak, and loving him, loving him so-- What did I get for my sin, O merciful God above! But the terrible, terrible wages--pain and want and woe; The world's scorn, and my own contempt and disdain, The hideous hue of guilt that stares in every eye. Like you I cannot 'broider with gold my garments' stain, You see, my lady, you get far better wages than I.

In your constancy to sin you far exceed my power, Since that day marked with blackness from other days-- The day before your marriage--never since that hour Have I heard his voice, have I looked upon his face; For I threw his gold at his feet and stole away Anywhere--anywhere--only out of his sight, Longing to hide from the mocking glare of the day, Longing to cover my eyes forever away from the light.

And long I strove to hate him, for I thought I was so young, a friendless orphan left to his care, It was a terrible sin that he had wrought, And since I had the burden of guilt to bear It was enough without the wild despair of love, So I strove to reason my passionate love to hate. Can we kneel with tears and bid the strong sun move Away from the sky? It is vain to war with fate.

That a hard life I have lived since then, 'tis true, My hands are unblackened by sinful wages since that day, And my baby died, I was not fit, God knew To guide a sinless soul, so He took my bird away; And my heart was empty and lone as a robin's winter nest, With the trusting eyes that never looked scornfully, The head that nestled fearlessly on my guilty breast, And the little constant hands that clung to me, even me.

But I knew it were best for God to unclasp her hand From mine, while yet she clung to it in trust, Than for her to draw it from me, live to understand, Blush for her mother--had she lived she must. And then she had her father's smile, and his soft, dark eyes, Maybe she would have had his fair, false ways--his heart. It is well that she passed through the starry gate of the skies Though it closed and bars us forever and ever apart.

For I am a sinful woman, well I know, And though by others' sins my own are not excused Things seem so strange to me in this strange world of woe, In a maze of doubt and wonder I get confused; Whether a sin of impulse, born of a fatal love, Is worse than deliberate bargain, a life of legal shame, Legal below, I think in the courts above The heavenly scribes will call a crime by its right name.

But we stand before the wise, wise judgment-seat Of the world, and it calls you pure, That in your pearl-gemmed breast all saintly virtues meet, Holier than other holy women, higher, truer, So sweet a creature an angel in woman's guise. They would not wonder much, though much they might admire, Should you be caught again up to your native skies From an alien world in a chariot of fire.

So we stand before the tender judgment-seat Of the world, and it calls me vile, So low that it is a wonder God will let His joyous sunshine gild my guilty head with its smiles, An outcast barred beyond the pale of hope, Beyond the lamp of their mercy's flickering light, They would scarcely wonder if the earth should ope And swallow up the wretch from their vexed sight.

Before another judgment-seat one day we will stand You and I, my lady, and he by our side, He who won my heart, who held my life in his hand, He who bought you with gold to be his bride; Before an assembled world we shall stand, we three, To meet from the merciful Judge our doom of weal or woe, He holds His righteous balance true and evenly, And which is the vilest sinner we then shall know.

ISABELLE AND I.

Isabelle has gold, and lands, Fate gave her a fair lot; Like the white lilies of the field Her soft hands toil not. I gaze upon her splendor Without an envious sigh; I have no wealth in lands and gold, And yet sweet peace have I.

I know the blue sky smiles as bright On the low field violet, As on the proud crest of the pine On loftiest mountain set. I am content--God loveth all, And if He tenderly The sparrow guides, He knoweth best The place where I should be.

Her violet velvet curtains trail Down to the floor, But brightly God's rich sunshine streams Into my cottage door; And not a picture on her walls, Hath beauty unto me, Like that which from my window frame I daily lean to see.

She has known such pomp, she careth not, For any humble sight; Flowers bending o'er the brook's green edge, To her give no delight; She tends her costly eastern bird With gold upon its wing; But her wild roses bloom for me, For me her wild birds sing.

She tires of home, and fain would see The brightest clime of earth, And so she sails for summer lands With friends to share her mirth; She waves her jewelled hand to me The opal spray-clouds fly; She leaves me with the fading shore-- Do I envy her? not I.

She will see the sailor's hardened palms Curbing the toiling sails, She will faint beneath the tropic calms And face the angry gales. She will labor for her happiness While I've no need to speak, But on a lotus leaf I float, Unto the land they seek.

There, like a dream from out the wave, I see a city rise, I stand entranced, as by a spell, Upon the Bridge of Sighs. The low and measured dip of oars Falls softly on my ear Blent with the tender evening song, Of some swart gondolier.

And down from marble terraces Veiled ladies slowly pass, And, entering antique barges, Glide down the streets of glass; And eyes filled with the dew and fire Of their own midnight sky, Gleam full on me, as silently The gondolas float by.

The sunset burns, and turns the wave To an enchanted stream, And far up on the shadowy steeps The white walled convents gleam, The music of their bells float out-- The sweet wind bears it by, Adown the warm and sunny slopes, Where purple vineyards lie.

And I stand in old cathedrals, By tombs of buried kings, White angels bend above them-- Mute guard with folded wings. Far down the aisle the organ peals, The priests are knelt in prayer And memories flood its ancient walls, As the music fills the air.

I may not see that blessed land, But she roams o'er the sod The Lord's pure eyes have hallowed, Where once His feet have trod. Yet He in mercy has drawn near, He has me comforted-- So near He seemed I almost felt His hand upon my head.

And I with slow and reverent steps Through ancient cities roam, Treading o'er crumbling columns, The dust of spire and dome; The tall and shattered arches Their flickering shadows cast, Like bent and hoary spectres, Low murmuring of the past.

And Isabelle toils o'er the Alps, Through fields of ice and snow, To see the lofty glaciers Flash in the sun's red glow. I feel no cold, and yet on high Their shining spires I see. Why should I envy Isabelle? Why should she pity me?

Why should I envy Isabelle When thus so easily, Upon a tropic flower's perfume I float across the sea?

GOOD-BY.

Again I see that May moon shine, Dost thou remember, soul of mine? I held your hand in mine, you know, And as I bent to whisper low, A tender light was in your eye, "Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by."

There came a time my lips were white Beneath the pale and cold moonlight, And burning words I might not speak, You read, love, in my ashen cheek, As my whole heart breathed in this one cry, "Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by."

Time's waves that roll so swift and fleet Have borne you far from me, my sweet, Have borne you to a sunny bay, Where brightest sunshine gilds your way, Do these words ever dim your sky-- Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by?

I cannot tell, but this I know They go with me where'er I go, I hear them in the crowded mart, At midnight lone, they chill my heart-- They dim for me the earth and sky, Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart good-by.

And in that hour of mystery, When loved ones shall bend over me, Near ones to kiss my lips and weep, As nearer steals the dreamless sleep, From all I'll turn with this last sigh, "Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by."

THE SEA-CAPTAIN'S WOOING.

Put the crown of your love on my forehead, Its sweet links clasped with a kiss, And all the great monarchs of England Never wore such a gem as this. Give me your hand, little maiden, That sceptre so pearly white, And I'll envy not the kingliest wand That ever waved in might.

I know 'tis like asking a morning cloud With a grim old mountain to stay, But your love would soften its ruggedness, And melt its roughness away. I have seen a delicate rosy cloud, A rough, gray cliff enfold, Till his heart was warmed by its loveliness, And his brow was tinged with its gold.

Oh, poor and mean does my life show Compared with the beauty of thine, Like a diamond embedded in granite Your life would be set in mine; But a faithful love should guard you, And shelter you from life's storm, The rock must be shivered to atoms Ere its treasure should come to harm.

How your sweet face has shone on me From the tropics' midnight sea, When the sailors slept, and I kept watch Alone with my God and thee. I know your heart is relenting, The tender look in your eyes Seems like that sky's soft splendor When the sun was beginning to rise.

You need not veil their glorious light With your eyelids' cloud of snow, A tell-tale bird with a crimson wing On your cheek flies to and fro; And whispers to me such blissful hope That my foolish tears will start, Ah, little bird! your fluttering wing Is folded on my heart.

IONE.

I might strive as well to melt to softness the soulless breast Of some fair and saintly image, carven out of stone, With my smile, as to stir you heart from its icy rest, Or win a tender glance from your royal eyes, Ione; But your sad smile lures me on, as toward some fatal rock Is the fond wave drawn, but to break with passionate moan. Break! to be spurned from its cold feet with a stony shock, As you would spurn my suppliant heart from your feet, Ione.

Ione, there is a grave in the churchyard under the hill, The villagers shun like the unblest haunt of a ghost, Dropped there out of a dark spring night, I remember still, For a foreign ship had anchored that night on the coast; On the gray stone tablet is written this one word "Rest." Did he who sleeps underneath seek for it vainly here? What is the secret hidden there in the buried breast, The secret deeper sunken by dripping rains each year.

When autumn's bending boughs and harvests burdened the ground An early laborer, chancing to pass that way alone, Saw a small glove gleaming whitely upon the mound, And into the delicate wrist was woven "Ione," And he said as he dropped it again his eye did mark-- For this unknown, unhallowed grave had been shunned by all-- A narrow footpath winding through to the lofty wall, That guards the wild grandeur and gloom of your father's park.

'Tis well to put small faith in a simple rustic's eye, This story your father heard, and haughtily denied, The grass waves rankly now, and gives the fellow the lie, How many secrets the tall, deceitful grasses hide, Patting the turf that covers a maiden's innocent rest, And creeping and winding old haunted ruins among, As silently smooth's the mould above the murdered breast, Smothering down to deeper silence a buried wrong.

In your father's gallery once, I saw your pictured face, Ione you were not always so sad and pale as this, No beauty in all the long line of your noble race Had eyes so softly bathed in bright bewitchment of bliss, You were just nineteen, they said--it was painted in Spain The year before you came--it was on your foreign tour, By an artist too low to be reached by your disdain, A delicate, passionate-hearted boy, proud and poor.

So said the rumors floating to us across the sea, You had only an invalid mother with you there, I fancy that then you set your heart's pure feelings free For the first time, far from your proud old father's care, For you used to wander down the shaded garden ways, Your slight hand closely clasped by the fair-haired English youth, His blue eyes bent on your blushing face, so rumor says, Though such light birds are not to be trusted much in truth.

Your face is not the face that looked from the antique frame, Ione, and even that is gone from the oaken wall; That picture that never was painted for gold or fame, So vowed the artist friend who went with me to the hall; But the pain on your white brow sits regally I ween, The smile on your perfect lips is perilously sweet, My slavish glances crown you my love, my fate, my queen, As you pass in peerless beauty adown the village street.

SUMMER DAYS.

Like emerald lakes the meadows lie, And daisies dot the main; The sunbeams from the deep blue sky Drop down in golden rain, And gild the lily's silver bell, And coax buds apart, But I miss the sunshine of my youth, The summer of my heart.

The wild birds sing the same glad song They sang in days of yore; The laughing rivulet glides along, Low whispering to the shore, And its mystic water turns to gold The sunbeam's quivering dart, But I miss the sunshine of my youth, The summer of my heart.

The south wind murmurs tenderly To the complaining leaves; The Flower Queen gorgeous tapestry Of rose and purple weaves. Yes, Nature's smile, the wary while, Wears all its olden truth, But I miss the sunshine of my heart, The summer of my youth.

THE LADY CECILE.

Sitting alone in the windy tower, While the waves leap high, or are low at rest, What does she think of, hour by hour, With her strange eyes bent on the distant west, And a fresh white rose on her withered breast, What does she think of, hour by hour? The Lady Cecile.

Low under the lattice, day by day, White homeward sails like swallows come, But the sad eyes look afar and away, And the sailors' songs as they near their home, No glance may win, for she sitteth dumb, With her sad eyes looking afar and away, The Lady Cecile.

Just forty years has she dwelt alone With an ancient servant, grim and gray, Sat alone under sun and moon; But once each year, on the third of June, She treads the creaking staircase down, But back in her tower with the dying day, Is the Lady Cecile.

Beneath the tower of the lonesome hall, Stone stairs creep down where the slow tide flows, There, out of a niche in the mouldering wall, Low leaneth a royal tropical rose: Who set it there none cares, nor knows, Long years ago in the mouldering wall, But the Lady Cecile.

But each third of June as the sun dips low, She descends the stairs to the water's verge, And plucks a rose from the lowest bough Which the lapping waves almost submerge, And what forms out of the deep, resurge To vex her, maybe, with mournful brow, Knows the Lady Cecile.

Her locks are sown with silver hairs, And the face they shroud is pale and wan; Once it was sweet as the rose she wears, Though the perfect lips wore a proud disdain! But the rose-face paled by time and pain, No new springs know, like the flower she wears, The Lady Cecile.

Why does she set the fresh white rose So faithfully over her silent breast? And what her thoughts are nobody knows, She sits with her secret hid, unguessed, With her strange eyes bent on the distant west, So the slow years come, and the slow year goes, O'er the Lady Cecile.

Forty years! and June the third Came with a storm--loud the winds did blow-- And up in her tower the lady heard The deep waves calling her far below; Wild they leaped and surged, wild the winds did blow, And, listening alone, she thought she heard "Cecile! Cecile!"