Chapter 5

And, wrapping her cloak round her withered form, She crept down the stairs of crumbling stone; Higher and fiercer raged the storm As she bent and plucked the rose--but one Had the tempest spared--and the winds did moan, And she thought that she heard o'er the voice of the storm, "Cecile! Cecile!"

She placed the rose on her bloodless breast, And dizzy and faint she reached the tower, And her strange eyes looked out again on the west, And a wave dashed up, as she looked from the tower, Like a hand, and lifted the roots of the flower, And swept it--carried it out to the west, From the Lady Cecile.

And like death was her face, when suddenly, Strangely--a tremulous golden gleam Pierced the pile of clouds, high-massed and gray, And the shining, quivering, golden beam Seemed a bridge of light--a gold highway Thrown o'er the wild waves of the bay; And the Lady Cecile

Did eagerly out of her lattice lean With her glad eyes bent on that bridge gold-bright, As if some form by her rapt eyes seen, Were beckoning her down that path of light, That quivering, shining, led from sight, Ending afar in the sunset sheen. And the Lady Cecile

Cried with her lips that erst were dumb "See! am I not true? your flower I wore," And her thin hand eagerly touched the flower, "He is smiling upon me! yes, love, I come." And a pleasant light, like the light of home, Lit her eyes, and life and pain were o'er To the Lady Cecile.

HOME.

A spirit is out to-night! His steeds are the winds; oh, list, How he madly sweeps o'er the clouds, And scatters the driving mist.

We will let the curtains fall Between us and the storm; Wheel the sofa up to the hearth, Where the fire is glowing warm.

Little student, leave your book, And come and sit by my side; If you dote on Tennyson so, I'll be jealous of him, my bride.

There, now I can call you my own! Let me push back the curls from your brow, And look in your dark eyes and see What my bird is thinking of now.

Is she thinking of some high perch Of freedom, and lofty flight? You smile; oh, little wild bird, You are hopelessly bound to-night!

You are bound with a golden ring, And your captor, like some grim knight, Will lock you up in the deepest cell Of his heart, and hide you from sight.

Sweetheart, sweetheart, do you hear far away The mournful voice of the sea? It is telling me of the time When I thought you were lost to me.

Nay, love, do not look so sad; It is over, the doubt and the pain; Hark! sweet, to the song of the fire, And the whisper of the rain.

STEPS WE CLIMB.

I.

Like idle clouds our lives move on, By change and chance as idly blown; Our hopes like netted sparrows fly, And vainly beat their wings and die. Fate conquers all with stony will, Oh, heart, be still--be still!

II.

No! change and chance are slaves that wait On Him who guides the clouds, not fate, But the High King rules seas and sun, He conquers, He, the Mighty One. So powerless, 'neath that changeless will, Oh, heart, be still--be still!

III.

As a young bird fallen from its nest Beats wildly the kind hand against That lifts it up, so tremblingly Our hearts lie in God's hand, as He Uplifts them by His loving will, Oh, heart, be still--be still!

IV.

Uplifts them to a perfect peace, A rest beyond all earthly ease, 'Neath the white shadow of the throne-- Low nest forever overshone By tenderest love, our Lord's dear will; Oh, heart, be still--be still!

SQUIRE PERCY'S PRIDE.

The Squire was none of your common men Whose ancestors nobody knows, But visible was his lineage In the lines of his Roman nose, That turned in the true patrician curve-- In the curl of his princely lips, In his slightly insolent eyelids, In his pointed finger-tips.

Very erect and grand looked the Squire As he walked o'er his broad estate, For he felt that the earth was honored In bearing his honorable weight; Proudly he strolled through his wooded park Deer-haunted and gloomily grand, Or gazed from his pillared porticoes On his far-outlying land.

In a tiny whitewashed cottage, Half-covered with roses wild, His cheerful-faced old gardener dwelt Alone with his motherless child; The Squire owned the very floor he trod, The grass in his garden lot, The poor man had only this one little lamb Yet he envied the rich man not.

Poor was the gardener, yet rich withal In this priceless pearl of a girl, So perfect a form, so faultless a face Never brightened the halls of an Earl; Her eyes were two fathomless stars of light, And they shone on the Squire day by day, Till their warm and perilous splendor So melted his pride away,

That he fain would have taken this pretty pet lamb To dwell in his stately fold, To fetter it fast with a jeweled chain, And cage it with bars of gold; But this coy little lamb loved its freedom, Not so free was she, though, to be true, But, oh, the dainty and shy little lamb Well her master's voice she knew.

'Twas vain for the Squire the story to tell Of his riches and high descent, As it fell into one rosy shell of an ear Out of its mate it went; How one grim old ancestor into the land With William the Conqueror came, She thought, the sweet, of a conqueror She knew with that very name.

So in this tender conflict The great man was forced to yield To the handsome, sunburnt ploughman Who sowed and reaped in his field; For vainly he poured out his glittering gifts, Vainly he plead and besought, Her heart was a tender and soft little heart, But it was not a heart to be bought.

So strange a thing I warrant you Happens not every day, That the pride that had thriven for centuries One slight little maiden should slay; Why the proud Squire's Roman features Quivered and burned with shame, And the picture of his grim ancestor Blushed in its antique frame.

Were this a romance, an idle tale, The Squire would sicken and die, Slain by the pitiless cruelty, Of her dark and dazzling eye; And she in some shadowy convent Would bow her beautiful head, But the hand that should have told penitent beads Wore a plain gold ring instead.

And he, not twice had his oak trees bloomed Ere he wedded a lady grand, Whose tall and towering family tree, Had for ages darkened the land; 'Twas a famous genealogical tree, With no modernly thrifty shoots, But a tree with a sap of royalty Encrusting its mossy old roots.

This leaf he plucked from the outmost twig Was somewhat withered, 'tis true, Long years had flown since it lightly danced To the summer air and the dew; Not much of a dowry brought she, In beauty or vulgar pelf, But she had two or three ancestors More than the Squire himself.

'Twas much to muse o'er their musty names, And to think that his children's brains Should be moved by the sanguine current, That had flown through such ancient veins; But I think, sometimes, in his secret heart, The Squire breathed woeful sighs For the fresh sweet face of the little maid, With the dark and wonderful eyes.

But she, no bird ever sang such songs To its mate from contented nest, As this wee waiting wife, when the twilight Was treading the glorious west; As she looked through the clustering roses, For the manly form that would come Up through the cool green evening fields To this sweet little wife and home.

She could see the great stone mansion Towering over the oaks' dark green, And the lawn like emerald velvet, Fit for the feet of a queen; But round this brown-eyed princess, Did Love his ermine fold, Queen was she of a richer realm, She had dearer wealth than gold.

ROSES OF JUNE.

She sat in the cottage door, and the fair June moon looked down On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face and sweet As the roses dewy white that grow so thick at her feet, White royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.

And one is clasped in her slender hand, and one on her bosom lies, And two rare blushing buds loop up her light brown hair, Ah, roses of June, you never looked on a face so white and fair, Such perfectly moulded lips, such sweet and heavenly eyes.

This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come to it to-day From the lordly groves of her palace home afar, But not to stay; there's a light on her brow like the light of a star, And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far away.

She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud of spring, And grew with its flowers, the fairest blossom of all, Till her friends ambitiously said she would grace the kingliest hall, And flattery breathed on her ear its passionate whispering.

A man of riches and taste saw the maiden's face, And thought her beauty would grace his stately southern home, So he took her there, with pictures from France, and statues from Rome, And marvellous works of art from many an ancient place.

He decked her in costly attire, and showed her beauty with pride As for sympathy and love, what need of these had she? He had placed her amidst the choicest treasures of land and sea, His marble Hebe never complained, and why should his bride?

He had polished the beautiful unknown gem and set it in gold, He had given her his name and his wealth, what more could she ask? When all other gifts were hers, it were surely an easy task Her pleading spirit's restless wings to fold.

The wise world called her blest, so heart be still, She had beauty, and splendor, and youth, and a husband calmly kind, And crowds of flattering friends her lofty mansion lined, And dark-browed slaves awaited her queenly will.

Why should she dream of the past, of the days of old, Of her childhood home, and more oft of the home of the dead, Of the grave where she went alone the night before she was wed, And knelt, with her pure cheek pressed to the marble cold?

It was not sin, she said, that those eyes of darkest blue Haunted her dreams more wildly from day to day, Since they looked on Heaven now, and she was so far away, She could love the dead and still be to the living true.

She could think of him, the one who loved her best, Of him who true had been if all the world deceived, Who felt all grief with her when she was grieved, And shared each joy that thrilled her girlish breast.

It was not sin that she heard that voice, gentle and deep, And the echo of a name--it was cut in marble now-- So it was not sin, she said, as she breathed it low In the midnight hour when all but she were asleep.

But she wearier grew of pride and pomp, like a home sick child she pined, And paler grew her cheek, as worn with a wearing pain, She said the fresh free country air would seem so sweet again, So she went to her childhood home, as a pilgrim goes to a shrine,

And she looked down the orchard path and the meadow's clover bloom; She stood by the stone-walled well that had mirrored her face when a child, She saw where the robins built, and her roses clambered wild, And lingered lost in thought in each low and rustic room.

And she sat in the cottage door while the fair June moon looked down On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face, and sweet As the roses wet with dew that grew so thick at her feet, White, royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.

But at night, when silence and sleep on the lonely hamlet fell Like a spirit clad in white through the graveyard gate she passed, And the stars bent down to hear, "I have come to you, love, at last," While through the valley solemnly sounded the midnight bell.

And her southern birds will wait her coming in vain, Their starry eyes impatiently pierce the palm-trees' shade, And her roses droop in their bowers, alone they'll wither and fade. Roses of June you are gone, but we know you will blossom again.

MAGDALENA.

Who falsely called thee destroyer, still white Angel of Death? Oh not a destroyer here, but a kind restorer, thou, For the guilty look is gone, died out with her failing breath, And the sinless peace of a babe has come to lip and brow.

Drowned in the heaving tide with her life, is her burden of woe, The dreary weight of sin, the woeful, troublesome years, The cold pure touch of the water has washed the shame from her brow Leaving a calm immortal, that looks like the chrism of peace.

I fancy her smile was like this, as she pulled at her mother's gown Drawing her out with childish fingers to watch the red of the skies On the old brown doorstep of home, while the peaceful sun went down, With her mother's hand on her brow, and the glow of the west in her eyes.

"An outcast vile and lost," you say, yes, she went astray, Astray, when the crimson wine of life ran fresh and wild, With mother's tender hand no more on her brow, put away The grasses beneath, and she was alone and almost a child.

Like a kid decoyed to its death, the stealthy panther lures, Mocking the voice of its dam, thus he led the innocent child Through her tenderness down to ruin, he is a friend of yours, And admired by all; as you say, "men will be wild."

But I wonder if God, so far above on His great white throne The clanging tumult of trouble and doubt that mortals vex; When the murmur of a crime sweeps up from earth with woeful moan, If He pauses, ere He condemns, to ask the offender's sex.

And if so, whether the weaker or stronger He blames the most, The tempter or tempted a tithe of His tender compassion claims, Whether the selfish or too unselfish, those who through love or lust are lost, He in His infinite wisdom and mercy most condemns.

Frown not, I know her evil our womanly nature shuns, Turns from, with shuddering horror; but now so low is her head For God's sake, woman, remember your own little ones Lying safely at home in their snow-white sheltered bed.

Your own little girls, for them does the flame of your anger burn, "Such creatures will draw down innocence into guilt and woe." I think from eternity vast she will scarcely return To entice them to sin, you can safely forgive her now.

"You will not countenance wrong, but fiercely war for the right Even unto the bitter death." Very good, you should do so, But, my friend, if your own secret thought had blossomed to light In temptation, you might have been in this outcast's place, you know.

So let us be pitiful, grateful that God's strong hand Has held our own, and the tale of a woman's despair And penitent sin, He stooped and wrote in the perishing sand; We carve the record in stone, weak, sinful souls that we are.

In the arms of the kind all-mother, but close to the sorrowful wave, With its voice no longer moaning to her a despairing call, But a dirge deploring and deep; we will make her grave, With healing grasses above her, and God over all.

MY ANGEL.

Last night she came unto me, And kneeling by my side, Laid her head upon my bosom, My beautiful, my bride; My lost one, with her soft dark eyes, And waves of sunny hair. I smoothed the shining tresses, With tearful, fond caresses, And words of thankful prayer.

And then a thrill of doubt and pain, My jealous heart swept o'er; We were parted--she was dwelling Upon a far-off shore; Yet He who made my sad heart, knew I loved her more and more; My love more true and perfect grew, As each dark day passed o'er; But she whose heart had been my own, Who loved me tenderly, Whose last low words I knelt to hear, Were, "How can I leave thee?"

And "Death would seem as sweet as life, Could we together be." Now, though we two were parted By such a distance wide, By such a strange and viewless realm, By such a boundless tide, Her gentle face was radiant With a surpassing bliss; She was happier in that distant land, Than she ever was in this. And in some other tenderness, Some other love divine, She had found a peace and happiness, She never found in mine.

So with a tender chiding, I could not quite suppress, Though well my darling knew I would not make her pleasures less. "Are you happy, love?" I said, "Are you happy, love, without me?" Then she raised her gentle head, And twined her arms about me; Yet while my tears fell faster, Beneath her mute caress, Her face had all the glory Of a sainted soul at rest; And her voice was sweet as music, "I am happy--I am blest."

"Do you know how lonely-hearted I have been each weary day, Praying that each passing hour Would bear my life away, That we might be united Upon that distant shore?"

"Laurence, we are not parted, I am with your evermore."

"I cannot see you, darling, Your face I cannot see."

"Can you see the moon's white fingers, That leads the pleading sea? Can you see the fragrance lingering Where summer roses be? The soft winds tender clasping, The close-enwrapping air Enfolding you--Oh, Laurence, I am with you everywhere."

Then while her face grew brighter As with a heavenly glow, In tenderness unspeakable, She kissed my lips and brow; Then I lost her--then she left me, As at the set of day The snowy clouds float outward, And melt in light away. I heard low strains of melody No earthly choir could sing, A light breath floated past me, As from a gliding wing; And on my darkened spirit There fell so bright a gleam, I knew the blessed vision Was not in truth a dream; Though death had won from my embrace, My beautiful, my bride, I had won a richer treasure, An angel by my side.

The Father careth for us all In pity, and I know My love is not forever gone From him who loved her so; When a few more days have drifted Their shadows over me, When the golden gates are lifted, My angel I shall see; Her veiled face in its glory Upon my gaze will rise, And Heaven will shine upon me Through the sweetness of her eyes.

GRIEF.

What though the Eden morns were sweet with song Passing all sweetness that our thought can reach; Crushing its flowers noon's chariot moved along In brightness far transcending mortal speech; Yet in the twilight shades did God appear, Oh welcome shadows so that He draw near.

Prosperity is flushed with Papal ease And grants indulgences to pride of word, Robing our soul in pomp and vanities, Ah! no fit dwelling for our gentle Lord; Grief rends those draperies of pride and sin, And so our Lord will deign to enter in.

Then carefully we curb each thought of wrong, We walk more softly, with more reverent feet-- As in His presence chamber, hush our tongue, And in the holy quiet, solemn, sweet, We feel His smile, we hear His voice so low, So we can bless Him that He gave us woe.

What cares the sailor in the sheltered cove For the past peril of the stormy sea; Dear from grief's storm the haven of His love, And so He bringeth us where we would be; We trust in Him, we lean upon His breast, Who shall make trouble when He giveth rest?

WILD OATS.

Oh gay young husbandmen would you be sure of a crop Upspringing rankly, an abundant and bountiful yield? Go forth in the morning, and sow on your life's broad field This pleasantly odorous seed, then smooth the ground on top, Or leave it rough, with the utmost undeceit, Never you fear, it will thriftily thrive and grow, Loading the harvest plain beneath your feet, With the ripened sheaves of shame, remorse, and woe.

You have but to sow the seed, no care will it want, For he who soweth tares while the husbandman sleeps Taketh unwearied pains, a vigilant guard he keeps Tirelessly watching, and tending each evil plant. These are his pleasure gardens, leased to him through time Where he walketh to and fro, chanting a demon song; Tending with ghastly fingers, the scarlet buds of wrong, And drinking greedily in the sweet perfume of crime.

And of all the seeds, the one that thriftiest thrives Is the color of ruby wine, when it flashes high-- Who would think the tiny seed so fair to the eye Could cast such a deadly shade over countless lives, And branch out into murder in one springing shoot; Thrifty branches of sin, bristling with thorns of woe Shadowing graves where broken hearts lie low, And minds that were God-like lowered beneath the brute.

AUTUMN.

How the sumac banners bent, dripping as if with blood, What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air; A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depth of the silent wood, And in my heart was crying the raven of despair, Thrilling my being through with its bitter, bitter cry-- "It were better to die, it were better to die."

For she, my love, my fate, she sat by my side On a fallen oak, her cheek all flushed with a bashful shame, Telling me what her innocent heart had hid-- "For was not I her brother, her dear brother, all but in name." I listened to her low words, but turned my face away-- Away from her eyes' soft light, and the mocking light of the day.

"He was noble and proud," she said, "and had chosen her from all The haughty ladies, and great; she didn't deserve her lot." I knew her peer could never be found in palace or hall, And my white face told my thought, but she saw it not. She was crushing some scarlet leaves in her dainty fingers of snow, Her maiden joy crowning her face with a radiant glow.

"She had wanted me to know," and then a smile and a blush; Her smile was always just like a baby's smile, and the red Came to her cheek at a word or a glance--then there fell a hush. She was waiting some word from me, I knew, so I said, "May Heaven bless you both"--words spoken full quietly, And she, God bless her, never knew how much they cost to me.

How the sumac banners bent, dripping as if with blood, What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air; A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depths of the silent wood, And in my heart was crying the raven of despair, Thrilling my being through with its desolate, desolate cry-- "It were better to die, it were better to die."

The white dawn follows the darkness; out of the years' decay Shineth the golden fire that gildeth the autumn with light; From another's sin and loss, cometh this good to me, By another's fall am I raised to this blissful height. "Let me be humble," said my heart, as from her sweet lips fell, "Let a prayer for him arise, with the sound of our marriage bell."

THE FAIREST LAND.

'Twas a bleak dull moor that stretched before The low stone porch of the cottage door, And standing there was youth and maid, He for long journeying seemed arrayed, And the sunset flamed in the burnished west, And a proud throb beat in the young man's breast, As he whispered, "Sweet, will you come to me In that fairer land beyond the sea?"

"The wonderful western land; in dreams I have seen its prairies green, and gleams Of its shining waterfalls, valleys fair, And a voice in my dreams has called me there Where man is a man, and not a clod, And must bend the knee to none but God. A home will I make for thee and me In that fairer land beyond the sea."

"But the cruel seas where the fated ships Go down to their doom"--But he kissed the lips-- The trembling lips, till they smiled again, And his bright hopes cheered her heart's dull pain, And she laid her head on his hopeful breast, And looked with him to the glowing west, And said, "I will come, I will come to thee To that fairer land beyond the seas."

And the crimson light changed to daffodil-- To ashen gray, but they stood there still, And high o'er the west shone the evening star As still he pictured that home afar-- "The peace and the bliss our own at last When this dreary parting all is past, When my heart's dear love, you come to me In that fairer land beyond the sea."