Part 8

But, as in and out and round about, the silver pins among, Flashed the white hand of the lady, and the shining bobbins swung,

Lo! a web of fairy lightness like the misty robe she wore, Swiftly grew beneath her fingers, drifting downward to the floor!

And as Rena looked and wondered, inch by inch the marvel grew, Till the eastern windows brightened as the gray dawn struggled through.

Then the lady’s hand touched Rena’s, and she pointed far away, Where the palace towers were gleaming in the first red light of day.

But when once again the maiden turned her glance within the room, With the lady fair had vanished all the splendor and perfume.

Still the satin cushion lay there, quaintly fashioned, strangely set With the silver pins that spanned it like a branching coronet;

Still the light web she had woven lay in drifts upon the floor, Like the mist wreaths resting softly on some lone, enchanted shore!

III.

Slowly Rena raised the cushion, with her sweet eyes shining clear, Lightly tossed the fairy bobbins, half in gladness, half in fear.

Ah! not vain had been her watching as the lovely lady wrought; All the magic of her fingers her own cunning hand had caught!

Many a day above the cushion Rena’s peerless head was bent, And through many a solemn night she labored on with sweet intent.

For, mayhap, the mystic marvels that she wove might bring her gold— A fair dowry fit to match the pride of Hildebrand the Bold!

Then she braided up her long hair, and put on her russet gown, And with wicker basket laden passed she swiftly through the town,

To the palace where Queen Ildegar, with dames of high degree, In a lofty oriel window sat, the beauteous morn to see.

In the door-way she stood meekly, till the queen said, “Maiden fair, What have you in yonder basket that you carry with such care?”

Eagerly she raised her blue eyes, hovering smiles and tears between, Then across the room she glided, and knelt down before the queen.

Lifting up the wicker cover, “Saints in heaven!” cried Ildegar, “Here are tissues fit for angels, wrought with wreath and point and star,

In most curious devices! Never saw I aught so rare— Where found you these frail webs woven of the lightest summer air?”

“Well they may be fit for angels,” said she, underneath her breath; “O my lady, hear a story that is strange and true as death.”

But ere yet the tale was ended, up rose good Queen Ildegar, And she sent her knights and pages to the castle riding far.

“Bring me Hildebrand and Volmar, ere the sun goes down!” she cried, “Ho! my ladies, for a wedding, and your queen shall bless the bride!

I will buy these airy wonders, and this maiden in her hand Shall a dowry hold as royal as the noblest in the land.”

So they combed her shining tresses, and they brought her robes of silk, Broidered thick with gold and silver, on a ground as white as milk.

But she whispered, “Sweetest ladies, let me wear my russet gown, That I wore this happy morning walking blithely through the town.

I am but a peasant maiden, all unused to grand estate, And for robes of silken splendor, dearest ladies, let me wait!”

Then the good queen, smiling brightly, from the wicker basket took Lightest web of quaintest pattern, and its filmy folds out-shook.

With her own white hand she laid it over Rena’s golden hair, And she cried, “Oh, look, my ladies! Ne’er before was bride so fair!”

A SECRET

It is your secret and mine, love! Ah, me! how the dreary rain With a slow persistence, all day long Dropped on the window-pane! The chamber was weird with shadows And dark with the deepening gloom Where you in your royal womanhood, Lay waiting for the tomb.

They had robed you all in white, love; In your hair was a single rose— A marble rose it might well have been In its cold and still repose! O, paler than yonder carven saint, And calm as the angels are, You seemed so near me, my beloved, Yet were, alas, so far!

I do not know if I wept, love; But my soul rose up and said— “My heart shall speak unto her heart, Though here she is lying—dead! I will give her a last love-token That shall be to her a sign In the dark grave—or beyond it— Of this deathless love of mine.”

So I sought me a little scroll, love; And thereon, in eager haste, Lest another’s eye should read them Some mystic words I traced. Then close in your claspèd fingers, Close in your waxen hand, I placed the scroll for an amulet, Sure you would understand!

The secret is yours and mine, love! Only we two may know What words shine clear in the darkness, Of your grave so green and low. But if when we meet hereafter, In the dawn of some fairer day, You whisper those mystical words, love, It is all I would have you say!

THIS DAY

I wonder what is this day to you, Looking down from the upper skies! Is there a pang at your gentle heart? Is there a shade in your tender eyes? Do you think up there of the whispered words That thrilled your soul long years ago? Does ever a haunting undertone Blend with the chantings sweet and low?

When this day dawned (if where you are Skies grow red when the morn is near) Did you know that before its close The love once yours would be on its bier? Did you know that another’s lip Would redden with kisses once your own, And the golden cup of a younger life O’erflow with the wine once yours alone?

Do you remember? Ah, my saint, Bend your ear from the ether blue! Have you risen to heights so far That earth and its loves are nought to you? Do you care that your place is filled? Does it matter that now at last The turf above you has grown so deep That its shadow overlies your past?

O, belovèd, I may not know! Heaven is afar, and the grave is dumb, And out of the silence so profound Neither token nor voice may come! We try to think that we understand; But whether you wake, or whether you sleep, Or whether our deeds are aught to you, Is still a mystery strange and deep!

“CHRISTUS!”

Over the desolate sea-side town With a terrible tumult the night came down, And the fierce wind swept through the empty street, With the drifting snow for a winding-sheet. Elsie, the fisherman’s daughter, in bed Lay and listened in awe and dread, But sprang to her feet in sudden fear When over the tempest, loud and clear, A voice cried, “Christus!”

“Christus! Christus!” and nothing more. Was it a cry at the cottage-door? She left her chamber with flying feet; She loosened the bolts with fingers fleet; She lifted the latch, but only the din Of the furious storm and the snow swept in. She looked without: not a soul was there, But still rang out on the startled air The strange cry, “Christus!”

“Christus! Christus!” She slept at last, Though the old house rocked in the wintry blast; And when she awoke the world was still, A wide, white silence from sea to hill. No creature stirred in the morning glow; There was not a footprint in the snow; Yet again through the hush, as faint and far As if it came from another star, A voice sighed “Christus!”

“Christus! Christus!” Who can it be, O Christ our Lord, that is calling Thee In a foreign tongue, with a woe as wild As that of some lost, forsaken child? She turned from the window with a startled gaze: She clasped her hands in a pale amaze, Hearkening still, till again she heard, As in a waking dream, the word— That strange word, “Christus!”

Then over the hill with weary feet She toiled through the drifts to the village-street. The villagers gathered in eager haste, And all day long in the snowy waste They sought in vain for the one who cried To Him who of old was crucified: Then, turning away with a laugh, they said, “’Twas only the wild wind overhead, Your cry of ‘Christus!’”

She watched their going with earnest eyes: Hark! what voice to the taunt replies? The trees were still as if struck with death; The wind was soft as a baby’s breath; The sobbing sea was asleep at last, Scourged no more by the furious blast; Yet, surely as ever from human tongue A cry of grief or despair was wrung, Some voice sighed, “Christus!”

Burned on her cheek a sudden flame As her heart’s strong throbbings went and came, And she stood alone on the lonely shore, Gazing the wide black waters o’er. “Whether it comes from heaven or hell, This voice I have learned to know too well— Whether from lips alive or dead, Or from the hovering air,” she said— “Whether it comes from sea or land, I will not sleep till I understand This cry of ‘Christus!’”

“Christus! Christus!” Faint and slow Rose the wail from the drifted snow Under a low-browed, beetling rock, Strong to withstand the whirlwind’s shock. There, in the heart of the snowy mound, The buried form of a man she found— A Spanish sailor, with beard of brown Over his red scarf flowing down, And jewelled ears that were strange to see. She was bending over it, when—ah me! The shrill cry, “Christus!”

Rang out as if from the stony lips Whence life had parted in drear eclipse, As if the soul of the dead man cried Again unto Christ the Crucified. The rose had fled from her cheeks so red, But still she knelt by his side and said, Under her breath, “I must understand Whether from heaven or sea or land Comes that cry, ‘Christus!’”

She laid her hand on the pulseless breast! What fluttered beneath the crimson vest? A bird with plumage of green and gold, Nestling away from the piercing cold, Was folded close to the silent heart From which it had felt the life depart; And when she held it against her cheek, As plainly as ever a bird could speak It sobbed out, ‘Christus!’”

And evermore when the winds blew loud, And the trees in the grasp of the storm were bowed, And the lowering wings of the tempest beat The drifting snow in the village-street, Just as its master in death had cried To Christ, the Holy, the Crucified, Pouring his soul in one wild word— Pray God that the cry in heaven was heard!— The bird cried, “Christus!”

THE KISS

When you lay before me dead, In your pallid rest, On those passive lips of thine Not one kiss I pressed!

Did you wonder—looking down From some higher sphere— Knowing how we two had loved Many and many a year?

Did you think me strange and cold When I did not touch, Even with reverent finger-tips, What I had loved so much?

Ah! when last you kissed me, dear, Know you what you said? “Take this last kiss, my beloved, Soon shall I be dead!

Keep it for a solemn sign, Through our love’s long night, Till you give it back again On some morning bright.”

So I gave you no caress; But, remembering this, Warm upon my lips I keep Your last living kiss!

WHAT SHE THOUGHT

Marion showed me her wedding-gown And her veil of gossamer lace to-night, And the orange-blooms that to-morrow morn Shall fade in her soft hair’s golden light. But Philip came to the open door: Like the heart of a wild-rose glowed her cheek, And they wandered off through the garden-paths So blest that they did not care to speak.

I wonder how it seems to be loved; To know you are fair in someone’s eyes; That upon someone your beauty dawns Every day as a new surprise; To know that, whether you weep or smile, Whether your mood be grave or gay, Somebody thinks you, all the while, Sweeter than any flower of May.

I wonder what it would be to love: That, I think, would be sweeter far,— To know that one out of all the world Was lord of your life, your king, your star! They talk of love’s sweet tumult and pain: I am not sure that I understand, Though—a thrill ran down to my finger-tips Once when—somebody—touched my hand!

I wonder what it would be to dream Of a child that might one day be your own; Of the hidden springs of your life a part, Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone. Marion stooped one day to kiss A beggar’s babe with a tender grace; While some sweet thought, like a prophecy, Looked from her pure Madonna face.

I wonder what it must be to think To-morrow will be your wedding-day, And you, in the radiant sunset glow Down fragrant flowery paths will stray, As Marion does this blessed night, With Philip, lost in a blissful dream. Can she feel his heart through the silence beat? Does he see her eyes in the starlight gleam?

Questioning thus, my days go on; But never an answer comes to me: All love’s mysteries, sweet as strange, Sealed away from my life must be. Yet still I dream, O heart of mine! Of a beautiful city that lies afar; And there, some time, I shall drop the mask, And be shapely and fair as others are.

WHAT NEED?

_“What need has the singer to sing? And why should your poet to-day His pale little garland of poesy bring, On the altar to lay? High-priests of song the harp-strings swept Ages before he smiled or wept!”_

What need have the roses to bloom? And why do the tall lilies grow? And why do the violets shed their perfume When night-winds breathe low? They are no whit more bright and fair Than flowers that breathed in Eden’s air!

What need have the stars to shine on? Or the clouds to grow red in the west, When the sun, like a king, from the fields he has won, Goes grandly to rest? No brighter they than stars and skies That greeted Eve’s sweet, wondering eyes!

What need has the eagle to soar So proudly straight up to the sun? Or the robin such jubilant music to pour When day is begun? The eagles soared, the robins sung, As high, as sweet, when earth was young!

What need, do you ask me? Each day Hath a song and a prayer of its own, As each June hath its crown of fresh roses, each May Its bright emerald throne! Its own high thought each age shall stir, Each needs its own interpreter!

And thou, O, my poet, sing on! Sing on until love shall grow old; Till patience and faith their last triumphs have won, And truth is a tale that is told! Doubt not, thy song shall still be new While life endures and God is true!

TWO

We two will stand in the shadow here, To see the bride as she passes by; Ring soft and low, ring loud and clear, Ye chiming bells that swing on high! Look! look! she comes! The air grows sweet With the fragrant breath of the orange blooms, And the flowers she treads beneath her feet Die in a flood of rare perfumes!

She comes! she comes! The happy bells With joyous clamor fill the air, While the great organ dies and swells, Soaring to trembling heights of prayer! Oh! rare are her robes of silken sheen, And the pearls that gleam on her bosom’s snow; But rarer the grace of her royal mien, Her hair’s fine gold, and her cheek’s young glow.

Dainty and fair as a folded rose, Fresh as a violet dewy sweet, Chaste as a lily, she hardly knows That there are rough paths for other feet. For Love hath shielded her; Honor kept Watch beside her by night and day; And Evil out from her sight hath crept, Trailing its slow length far away.

Now in her perfect womanhood, In all the wealth of her matchless charms, Lovely and beautiful, pure and good, She yields herself to her lover’s arms. Hark! how the jubilant voices ring! Lo! as we stand in the shadow here, While far above us the gay bells swing, I catch the gleam of a happy tear!

The pageant is over. Come with me To the other side of the town, I pray, Ere the sun goes down in the darkening sea, And night falls around us, chill and gray. In the dim church porch an hour ago, We waited the bride’s fair face to see; Now Life has a sadder sight to show, A darker picture for you and me.

No need to seek for the shadow here; There are shadows lurking everywhere; These streets in the brightest day are drear, And black as the blackness of despair. But this is the house. Take heed, my friend, The stairs are rotten, the way is dim; And up the flights, as we still ascend, Creep stealthy phantoms dark and grim.

Enter this chamber. Day by day, Alone in this chill and ghostly room, A child—a woman—which is it, pray?— Despairingly waits for the hour of doom! Ah! as she wrings her hands so pale, No gleam of a wedding ring you see; There is nothing to tell. You know the tale— God help her now in her misery!

I dare not judge her. I only know That love was to her a sin and a snare, While to the bride of an hour ago It brought all blessings its hands could bear! I only know that to one it came Laden with honor, and joy, and peace; Its gifts to the other were woe and shame, And a burning pain that shall never cease!

I only know that the soul of one Has been a pearl in a golden case; That of the other a pebble thrown Idly down in a way-side place, Where all day long strange footsteps trod, And the bold, bright sun drank up the dew! Yet both were women. O righteous God, Thou only canst judge between the two!

UNANSWERED

Where mountain-peaks rose far and high Into the blue, unclouded sky, And waves of green, like billowy seas, Tossed proudly in the freshening breeze,

I rode one morning, late in June. The glad winds sang a pleasant tune; The air, like draughts of rarest wine, Made every breath a joy divine.

With roses all the way was bright; Yet there upon that upland height The darlings of the early spring— Blue violets—were blossoming.

And all the meadows, wide unrolled, Were green and silver, green and gold, Where buttercups and daisies spun Their shining tissues in the sun.

Over its shallow, pebbly bed, A sparkling river gayly sped, Nor cared that deeper waters bore A grander freight from shore to shore.

It sung, it danced, it laughed, it played, In sunshine now, and now in shade; While every gnarled tree joyed to make A greener garland for its sake.

Deep peace was in the summer air, A peace all nature seemed to share; Yet even there I could not flee The shadow of life’s mystery!

A farmhouse stood beside the way, Low-roofed and rambling, quaint and gray; And where the friendly door swung wide Red roses climbed on either side.

And thither, down the winding road Near which the sparkling river flowed, In groups, in pairs, the neighbors pressed, Each in his Sunday raiment dressed.

A sober calm was on each face; Sweet stillness brooded o’er the place; Yet something of a festal air The youths and maidens seemed to wear.

But, as I passed, an idle breeze Swept through the quivering maple-trees; Chased by the winds in merry rout, A fair, light curtain floated out.

And this I saw: a quiet room Adorned with flowers of richest bloom— A lily here, a garland there— Fragrance and silence everywhere.

Then on I rode. But if a bride Should there her happy blushes hide, Or if beyond my vision lay Some pale face shrouded from the day,

I could not tell. O joy and Pain, Your voices join in one refrain! So like ye are, we may not know If this be gladness, this be woe!

THE CLAY TO THE ROSE

O beautiful, royal Rose, O Rose, so fair and sweet! Queen of the garden art thou, And I—the Clay at thy feet!

The butterfly hovers about thee; The brown bee kisses thy lips; And the humming-bird, reckless rover, Their marvellous sweetness sips.

The sunshine hastes to caress thee Flying on pinions fleet; The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom, But I—I lie at thy feet!

The radiant morning crowns thee; And the noon’s hot heart is thine; And the starry night enfolds thee In the might of its love divine;

I hear the warm rain whisper Its message soft and sweet; And the south-wind’s passionate murmur, While I lie low at thy feet!

It is not mine to approach thee; I never may kiss thy lips, Or touch the hem of thy garment With tremulous finger-tips.

Yet, O thou beautiful Rose! Queen rose, so fair and sweet, What were lover or crown to thee Without the Clay at thy feet?

AT THE LAST

Will the day ever come, I wonder, When I shall be glad to know That my hands will be folded under The next white fall of the snow? To know that when next the clover Wooeth the wandering bee, Its crimson tide will drift over All that is left of me?

Will I ever be tired of living, And be glad to go to my rest, With a cool and fragrant lily Asleep on my silent breast? Will my eyes grow weary of seeing, As the hours pass, one by one, Till I long for the hush and the darkness As I never longed for the sun?

God knoweth! Sometime, it may be, I shall smile to hear you say: “Dear heart! she will not waken At the dawn of another day!” And sometime, love, it may be, I shall whisper under my breath: “The happiest hour of my life, dear, Is this—the hour of my death!”

TO THE “BOUQUET CLUB”

O Rosebud garland of girls! Who ask for a song from me, To what sweet air shall I set my lay? What shall its key-note be? The flowers have gone from wood and hill; The rippling river lies white and still; And the birds that sang on the maple bough, Afar in the South are singing now!

O Rosebud garland of girls! If the whole glad year were May; If winds sang low in the clustering leaves, And roses bloomed alway; If youth were all that there is of life; If the years brought nothing of care or strife, Nor ever a cloud to the ether blue, It were easy to sing a song for you!

Yet, O my garland of girls! Is there nothing better than May? The golden glow of the harvest time! The rest of the Autumn day! This thought I give to you all to keep: Who soweth good seed shall surely reap; The year grows rich as it groweth old, And life’s latest sands are its sands of gold!

EVENTIDE

Whenever, with reverent footsteps, I pass through the open door Of Memory’s stately palace, Where dwell the days of yore, One scene, like a lovely vision, Comes to me o’er and o’er.

’Tis a dim, fire-lighted chamber; There are pictures on the wall; And around them dance the shadows Grotesque and weird and tall, As the flames on the storied hearth-stone Wavering rise and fall.

An ancient cabinet stands there, That came from beyond the seas, With a breath of spicy odors Caught from the Indian breeze; And its fluted doors and moldings Are dark with mysteries.