Chapter 6
So he sailed; but saddest 'tis alway Not for those who go, but for those who stay; And her sweet eyes gathered a shadow dim As days went by with no news of him, And weeks and months, but at last it came, As the gray moor shone with the sunset flame Her quick eyes glanced the strange lines o'er, Then she fell like dead on the cottage floor.
'Twas a stranded ship on a rocky coast, One true heart brave, when hope was lost, How he toiled till all the shore had gained, And only a baby form remained On ship, how he breasted the surging tide With Death a-wrestling side by side, How he lifted the child to its mother's knee, As a great wave washed him out to sea.
And for days the maid in the cottage door Sat and looked o'er the dreary moor, Her cheeks grew white 'neath her blinding tears, And the sunset rays seemed cruel spears That pierced her heart; and ashen gray Turned the earth and sky, the night, the day; But at last a star shone high above-- The tender star of the heavenly love.
For as her life ebbed day by day, The High Countrie, the Fair alway, Rose 'fore her eyes, the safe, sweet home, And she seemed to hear, "Love, will you come?" And so one eve when a bridge of gold Seemed spanning the last sea dim and cold, She went to him, for aye to be In the fairest land beyond the sea.
THE MESSENGER.
Is his form hidden by some cliff or crag, Or does he loiter on the shelving shore? We know not, though we know he waits for us, Somewhere upon the road that lies before.
And when he bids us we must follow him, Must leave our half-drawn nets, our houses, lands, And those we love the most, and best, ah they In vain will cling to us with pleading hands!
He will not wait for us to gird our robes, And be they white as saints, or soiled and dim, We can but gather them around our form, And take his icy hand and follow him.
Oh! will our palm cling to another palm Loath, loath to loose our hold of love's warm grasp. Or shall we free our hand from the hand of grief, And reach it gladly out to meet his clasp?
Sometimes I marvel when we two shall meet, When I shall hear that stealthy step, and see The unseen form that haunteth mortal dreams, The stern-browed face, the eyes of mystery.
Shall I be waiting for some wished-for wealth, Impatient, by the shore of a purple sea? But when the vessel's keel grates on the sand, Will HE lean down its side and call to me?
Shall I in thymy pastures cool and sweet See the lark soaring through the rosy air? Ah, then, will his dark face look down on me, 'Neath the white splendor of the morning star.
Shall I be resting from the noonday blaze, In the rich summer of a blossoming land, And idly glancing through the lotus leaves, Behold the shadow of his beckoning hand?
Or in some inland village, shaded deep, With silence brooding o'er the quiet place, Shall I look from some lattice crowned with flowers, In the calm twilight and behold his face?
Or shall I over such a lonely way, Beset with fears, my weary footsteps wend, So desolate, that I shall greet his face With joy as a desired and welcome friend?
Oh, little matters it when we shall meet, Upon the quiet shore, or on the sea, If he shall lead us to the golden gate, Dear Lord, if he shall lead us unto Thee.
SLEEP.
Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright, Blessed and beautiful dreams.
Bring the exile to his home again, Let him catch the gleam of its low white wall; Let his wife cling to his neck and weep, And his children come at their father's call.
Give to the mother the child she lost, Laid from her heart to a clay-cold bed; Let its breath float over her tear-wet cheek, And her cold heart warm 'neath its bright young head.
Take the sinner's hand and lead him back To his sinless youth and his mother's knee; Let him kneel again 'neath her tender look, And murmur the prayer of his infancy.
Lead the aged into that wondrous clime, Home of their youth and land of their bliss; Let them forget in that beautiful world, The sin and the sorrow of this.
And gently lead my love, my own, Tenderly clasp her snow-white hand, Wrap her in garments of soft repose, And lead her into your mystic land.
Let your fairest handmaids bow at her feet, Her path o'er your loveliest roses be; And let all the flowers with their perfumed lips Whisper of me--of me.
Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright, Blessed and beautiful dreams.
THE SONG OF THE SIREN.
Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea, The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before; I stand a fairy shape upon the shadow of a cliff Where the water's drowsy ripple laps the phantom of a shore, And, oh, so fair, so fair am I, I draw all hearts to me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
All the glory of my golden tresses gleams upon the air, How it falls about my snowy shoulders, round and bare and white; My lips are full of love as rounded grapes are full of wine, And my eyes are large and languid, and full of dewy light; Oh, I lure the idle landsmen many a league for love of me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
Sometimes they press so near that my breath is on their cheek, And their eager hands can almost touch the glowing bowl I bear, They can see the beaded froth, the ruby glitter of the wine, Then I slip from their embraces like a breath of summer air; Oh, I lightly, lightly glide away, they come no nigher me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
Sometimes I float along a-standing in a boat, Before the ships becalmed, where dusky sailors stand, And the helmsman drops his oar, and the lookout leaves his glass, So I beckon them, and lure them, with the whiteness of my hand; Oh, this the song I sing, well they listen unto me? For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
Would you from toil and labor flee, Oh float ye out on this wonderful sea, From islands of spice the zephyrs blow, Swaying the galleys to and fro; Silken sails and a balmy breeze Shall waft you unto a perfect ease.
Fold your hands and rest, and rest, The sun sails on from the east to the west, The days will come, and the days will go, What good can man for his labor show In passionless peace, come float with me Over the waves of this wonderful sea.
Would you forget, oh sorrowful soul, Come and drink of this golden bowl, With jewelled poppies about the rim, Drink of the wine that flushes its brim, And drown all your haunting memories there, Your woe and your weary care.
Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea, The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before; Oh, the mystic music ripples, how they break in rosy spray, But the crystal wave will mock them, they will reach it nevermore, For it glides away, I glide away, they come no nigher me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
EIGHTEEN SIXTY-TWO.
I.
There's a tear in your eye, little Sybil, Gathering large and slow; Oh, Sybil, sweet little Sybil, What are you thinking of now?
Push back the velvet curtains That darken the lonely room, For shadows peer out of the crimson depths, And the statues gleam white in the gloom.
How the cannons' thunder rolls along, And shakes the lattice and wall, Oh, Sybil, sweet little Sybil, What if your father should fall?
The smoky clouds sweep up from the field And darken the earth and sea, "God save him! God save him!" Wherever he may be.
II.
Oh, pretty dark-eyed bird of the South, With your face so mournful and white There is many a little Northern girl That is breathing that prayer to-night.
There's a little girl on the hills of Maine Looking out through the fading light, She looks down the winding path, and says, "He will surely come to-night!"
The table is set, the lamp is trimmed, The fire has a ruddy glow That streams like a beacon down the path, To the dusky valley below.
There is smiling hope on the pretty face Pressed so close to the pane, And her eyes are like blue violets After a summer rain.
III.
How you tremble, little Sybil, At the cannons' dreadful sound, Did you see far away, the fallen steed, And its rider prone on the ground?
The dark brown locks so low in the dust, The scarf with a crimson stain-- Oh, Sybil, poor little Sybil, He will not come back again.
IV.
Right gallantly and well he fought Hand to hand with as brave a foe, Their faces hid by the nodding plumes, And the dense clouds hanging low.
Did they think, these hot-blooded captains, That Death was so close by their side, When Howard has fallen, the bravest-- Rung out on the air far and wide.
"Howard?" His foeman kneels by his side, And raises his head to his knee-- Oh, God! that brothers should part in youth, And thus should their meeting be.
Unheard is the deafening battle roar, Unseen is that dying look; He hears but the sound of a childish laugh, And the song of a Northern brook.
He sees two white forms kneeling In the twilight sweet and dim, One low couch angel-guarded, By a mother's evening hymn.
V.
The Angel of Death came down with the night, Came down with the gathering gloom; God pity the little dark-eyed girl, Alone in the lonely room.
But still by his side his brother kneels, Chill horror has frozen his veins; He heeds not the glancing shower of shells, That with red fire glitters and rains.
And he heeds not the fiery cavalry charge, That sweeps like a billow on To death, oh, the bravest and saddest sight, That man ever gazed upon!
The last shot! What is one life To the battle's gory gain? But, alas, for the little blue-eyed maid Away on the hills of Maine!
AWEARY.
The clouds that vex the upper deep Stay not the white sail of the moon; And lips may moan, and hearts may weep, The sad old earth goes rolling on.
O'er smiling vale, and sighing lake, One shadow cold is overthrown; And souls may faint, and hearts may break, The sad old earth goes rolling on.
TOO LOW.
"My house is thatched with violet leaves And paved with daisies fine, Scarlet berries droop over its eaves, Tall grasses round it shine; With softest down I have lined my nest, Securely now will I sit and rest.
"When their wings break from their silvery shell, Touched by my tender care, Here shall my little ones safely dwell, Little ones soft and fair; Some summer morn they shall try their wings While their father sits by my side and sings."
Hard by, just over the streamlet's edge A great rock towered in might, High up, half hidden in moss and sedge, Were safe little nooks and bright; Ah well for the bird with her tender breast, Had she flown to the rock to build her nest!
Poor bird, she built her nest too low; Alas! for the bird, alas! That she chose that spot to her woe In the low dewy grass; For the reaper came with his gleaming blade. Alas for love in the violet shade!
AT LAST.
What though upon a wintry sea our life bark sails, What though we tremble 'neath its cruel gales, Its icy blast; We see a happy port lie far before, We see its shining waves, its sunny shore, Where we shall wander, and forget the troubled past, At last.
No storms approach that quiet shore, no night Falls on its silver streams, and valleys bright, And gardens vast; Within that pleasant land of perfect peace Our toil-worn feet shall stay, our wanderings cease; There shall we, resting, all forget the past, At last.
The sorrows we have hid in silent weariness, As birds above a wounded, bleeding breast, Their bright plumes cast; The griefs like mourners in a dark array, That haunt our footsteps here, will flee away, And leave us to forget the sorrowful past, At last.
Voices we loved sound from those far-off lands, And thrill our hearts; life's golden sands Are dropping fast; Soon shall we meet by the river of peace, and say, As the night flees before the eye of day, So faded from our eyes the mournful past, At last.
TWILIGHT.
Draped in shadows stands the mountain Against the eastern sky, Above it the fair summer moon Looks downward tenderly; And Venus in the glowing west, Opens her languid eye.
Now the winds breathe softer music, Half a song, and half a sigh; While twilight wraps her purple veil Around us silently, And our thoughts appear like pictures, Pictures shaded wondrously.
Quiet landscapes, sweet and lonely, Silvery sea, and shadowy glade, Forest lakes by man forsaken, Where the white fawn's steps are stayed; And contadinos straying 'Neath the Pantheon's solemn shade.
And we see the wave bridged over By the moonlight's mystic link, Desert wells by tall palms shaded, Where dusky camels drink; While dark-eyed Arab maidens Fill their pitchers at the brink.
And secluded convent chapels, Where veiled nuns kneel to pray, With a dim light streaming o'er them Through arches quaint and gray, While down the long and winding aisles Low music dies away.
There is a starry twilight Of the soul, as sadly fair, When our wild emotions are at rest, Like the pale nuns at prayer; And our griefs are hushed like sleepers, And put off the robes of care.
THE SEWING-GIRL.
I asked to see the dead man's face, As I gave the servant my well-filled basket; And she deigned to lead me, a wondrous grace, Where he lay asleep in his rosewood casket. I was only the sewing-girl, and he the heir to this princely palace. Flowers, white flowers, everywhere, In odorous cross, and anchor, and chalice. The smallest leaf might touch his hair; But I--my God! I must stand apart, With my hands pressed silently on my heart, I must not touch the least brown curl; For I was only the sewing-girl.
If his stately mother knew what I know, As she weeping stood by his side this morning, Would she clasp me in motherly love and woe-- Or drive me out in the cold with scorning? If she knew that I loved him better than life, Better than death; since for him I gave My hopes of rest, that I faced life's strife, And renounced the quiet and restful grave, When his strong, true hand drew me back that day, When woe, and want, and the want of pity Drove me down where the cold waves lay Like wolves round the walls of this cruel city. "Not much?" would she say with her proud lip's curl-- "Only the life of a sewing-girl?"
Now love for me in his heart did linger-- I saw the lady, his promised bride, I saw his ring on her slender finger, As she weeping stood by his mother's side. That same ring shone, as he lifted me Dripping and cold from the sea-waves bitter. I had thought Heaven's light I next should see, But earth's sun shone in its ruby glitter; I had thought when I looked in the Lord's mild face, That He would forgive my rashness and sin, When He knew there was not a single place, Not a place so small that I could creep in. And I wanted a home, and I longed for love, And God and mother were both above. But he showed me my sin, and taught me to live, Above this life of tumult and whirl, Though I was only a sewing-girl.
What shall I do with the life he won, From death that day, in a hard-won battle? Shall I lay it down e'er the rising sun Looks down on the city's roar and rattle? Shall I lay it down e'er the midnight dim With horrible shadows is roofed and paved? No, I will make it so pure and sweet, That angels shall say with smiles to him, When we meet above on the golden street: "Behold the soul of her you saved." Maybe it shall add to his crown one pearl, Though only the soul of a sewing-girl.
HARRY THE FIRST.
In his arm-chair, warmly cushioned, In the quiet earned by labor, Life's reposeful Indian summer, Grandpa sits; and lets the paper Lie upon his knee unheeded. Shine his cheeks like winter apples, Gleams his smile like autumn sunshine, As he looks on little Harry, First-born of the house of Graham, Bravely cutting teeth in silence, Cutting teeth with looks heroic. Some deep thought seems moving Grandpa, Ponders he awhile in silence, Then he turns, and says to Grandma, "Nancy, do you think that ever There was such a child before?"
Grandma, with prim precision The seam-stitch impaleth deftly On her sharp and glittering needle, Then she turns and answers calmly, With a deep assurance--"Never Was there such a child before!"
Papa thinks so, but in manly Dignity controls his feelings; More than half a year a father, He must show a cool composure, He must stately be if ever. But his dark eyes plainly tell it, Tell it, as he sayeth proudly, "Papa's man is little Harry."
Mamma, maybe, does not speak it, But she prints the thought on velvet, Rosy-hued, with fondest kisses, When the pink, soft page is lying Folded closely to her bosom.
A little farther goes his auntie, Aged fourteen--age of fancy; She looks down the future ages With her wise, prophetic vision; Sees the babies pass before her, Babies of the twentieth century, All the long and dusty ages, To the thousand years of glory. Oh, the host of bright-eyed children, Thronging like the stars at midnight, Faces sweet and countless, as the Rose-leaves of a thousand summers. All the pretty heads so curly That shall hold a riper wisdom Than our youthful planet dreams of; All the ranks of dimple shoulders, That shall move Time's rolling chariot Nearer to the golden city; Vieweth these the blue-eyed prophet, Still the oracle says calmly, Speaks the seer with golden tresses-- "No! there never was, nor will be Such a child as our Harry, Such a noble boy as Harry."
Summer brings a wealth of flowers, Flowers of every form and color, Orange, crimson, royal purple, All along the mountain passes, All along the pleasant valley, Low the emerald branches bendeth With their weight of summer glory.
But they do not waken in us Half the tender, blissful feeling, Half the pure and sweet emotion As the first spring-flower in April, With its lashes tinged with crimson, Partly raised from eyes half-timid, Fearful that the snow will drown it; How we love the dainty blossom, How we wear it in our bosom.
Just so with the tree ancestral, Many flowers may blossom on it, But the first wee bud that's grafted, To its heart, ah, how we love it; Others may be loved as fondly, But they are not loved so proudly, Loved so blindly, so entirely.
Yes, when first the heart's door opens To the touch of baby fingers, Quick the dimpled feet will bear them To the dearest place and warmest Plenty room enough for other Buds of beauty, buds of promise, In the heart's capacious chambers; But the first is firmly settled-- Little Harry's firmly settled In the centre of affection; Later ones must settle round him.
THE CRIMINAL'S BETROTHED.
As on a waveless sea, a vessel strikes Upon a treacherous rock; Waking the sailors from their happy dreams By the swift, terrible shock.
Dreaming of shaded village streets, and home, Forgetting the cruel sea Till the shock came--so woke I, yet I know 'Twas Love, I loved, not he.
'Tis not the star the wave so wildly clasps, Only its form reflected in the stream; 'Tis not a broken heart I mourn, Only a broken dream.
I should have died when he was brought so low, Had it been him I loved, Died clinging to him, as to the blasted oak The ivy clings unmoved.
'Twas Love that looked on me with strange, sweet eyes Burning with marvellous flame; Love was the idol that I worshipped, though I gave to it his name.
I gave to Love his name, his glance, his brow, His low-toned voice, his smile, Oh, soul be patient; I can sever them But yet a little while--
Before I put away these outward forms Deceiving, sweet disguises, which Love wore Let my heart break into regretful tears Just once, and then no more.
Just once, as fond friends watch the fading sail Bearing away a guest of truest worth, They give this little time to grief, and then Return to their desolate hearth,
And build new fires, and gather dewy flowers, Let the pure air into the vacant room, So light, and bloom, and sweetness, all Shall penetrate its gloom.
I will be patient, in a little time Quiet, and full of rest, Gods's peace will come, and, like a soft-winged bird, Settle upon my breast.
Not always thus shall beat my restless heart Like a wild eagle 'gainst its prison-bars; In some calm twilight of the future time I will sit, calm-browed, underneath the stars.
GONE BEFORE.
Smooth the hair; Silken waves of sunny brown Lay upon the white brow down, Crowned with the blossoms rare; Lilies on a golden stream, Ne'er to float in summer air Wreathed with meadow daisies fair. Lay away the broken crown And your broken dream, With one shining tress of hair, Nevermore to need your care.
A WOMAN'S HEART.
My heart sings like a bird to-night That flies to its nest in the soft twilight, And sings in its brooding bliss; Ah! I so low, and he so high, What could he find to love? I cry, Did ever love stoop so low as this?
As a miser jealously counts his gold, I sit and dream of my wealth untold, From the curious world apart; Too sacred my joy for another eye, I treasure it tenderly, silently, And hide it away in my heart.
Dearer to me than the costliest crown That ever on queenly forehead shone Is the kiss he left on my brow; Would I change his smile for a royal gem? His love for a monarch's diadem? Change it? Ah, no, ah, no!
My heart sings like a bird to-night That flies away to its nest of light To brood o'er its living bliss; Ah! I so low, and he so high, What could he find to love? I cry, Did ever love stoop so low as this?
WARNING.
When enwrapped in rosy pleasure, Our careless pulses beat, With a rhythm sweet, sweet, To the music's merry measure.
When world waves rise around us, With soft transparent weight, Light in seeming, yet so great, The liquid chains have bound us.
Then softly downward falling, If we listen, we can hear, From a purer atmosphere, A warning and a calling.
'Tis not uttered to our ear, To our spirit it is spoken, In the wonderful, unbroken Heavenly speech that spirits hear.
Strange and solemn doth it roll Downward like a yearning cry, From that belfry far on high, Warning, calling to our soul.
Ever, ever, doth it roll, Our angel guards the tower, Ringing, ringing, every hour, Warning, calling to our soul.
GENIEVE TO HER LOVER.
I turn the key in this idle hour Of an ivory box, and looking, lo-- See only dust--the dust of a flower; The waters will ebb, the waters will flow, And dreams will come, and dreams will go, Forever.
Oh, friend, if you and I should meet Beneath the boughs of the bending lime, Should you in the same low voice repeat The tender words of the old love rhyme, It could not bring back the same old time, Never.
When you laid this rose against my brow, I was quite unused to the ways of men, With my trusting heart; I am wiser now, So I smile, remembering my heart-throbs then, The dust of a rose cannot blossom again, Never.
The brow that you praised has colder grown, And hearts will change, I suppose they must, A rose to be lasting, should blossom in stone, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Dead are the rose, the love, and the trust, Forever.
THE WILD ROSE.
In a waste of yellow sand, on the brow of a dreary hill, A slight little slip of a rose struggled up to the light, The seed maybe was sown there by the south wind's idle will, But there it grew and blossomed, pale and white. Only one flower it bore, and that was frail and small, But I think it was brave to try to grow at all.