Chapter 10

And now I would set reason in array, Methought, and fight for freedom manfully, Till by long absence there would come a day When this my love would not be pain to me; But if I knew my rosebud fair and blest I should not pine to wear it on my breast.

The days fled on; another week should fling A foreign shadow on my lengthening way; Another week, yet nearness did not bring A braver heart that hard farewell to say. I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, Ere I had sought that window lighted from within.

Sinking and sinking, O my heart! my heart! Will absence heal thee whom its shade doth rend? I reached the little gate, and soft within The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend Her loveliness to me, and let me share The listless sweetness of those features fair.

Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom, Heavy for this our parting, I did stand; Beside her mother in the lighted room, She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand And as she read, her sweet voice floating through The open casement seemed to mourn me an adieu.

Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, And they sprung up like plants and spread them wide; Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday.

Ah, sweetest voice! how pensive were its tones, And how regretful its unconscious pause! "Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, And is our parting of to-night the cause? Ah, would it might be so!" I thought, and stood Listening entranced among the underwood.

I thought it would be something worth the pain Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, And take from them an answering look again: "When eastern palms," I thought, "about me rise, If I might carve our names upon the rind, Betrothed, I would not mourn, though leaving thee behind."

I can be patient, faithful, and most fond To unacknowledged love; I can be true To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, This yoke of mine that reaches not to you: O, how much more could costly parting buy-- If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh!

I listened, and she ceased to read; she turned Her face towards the laurels where I stood: Her mother spoke--O wonder! hardly learned; She said, "There is a rustling in the wood; Ah, child! if one draw near to bid farewell, Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell.

"My daughter, there is nothing held so dear As love, if only it be hard to win. The roses that in yonder hedge appear Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within; But since the hand may pluck them every day, Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away.

"My daughter, my beloved, be not you Like those same roses." O bewildering word! My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view: It cleared; still silence. No denial stirred The lips beloved; but straight, as one opprest, She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's breast.

This said, "My daughter, sorrow comes to all; Our life is checked with shadows manifold: But woman has this more--she may not call Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, And only born of absence and by thought, With thought and absence may return to nought."

And my belovèd lifted up her face, And moved her lips as if about to speak; She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, And the rich damask mantled in her cheek: I stood awaiting till she should deny Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by.

But, closer nestling to her mother's heart, She, blushing, said no word to break my trance, For I was breathless; and, with lips apart, Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance, And strove to move, but could not for the weight Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great,

Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh Breaking away, I left her on her knees, And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky, The sultry night of August. Through the trees, Giddy with gladness, to the porch I went, And hardly found the way for joyful wonderment.

Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit With both hands cherishing the graceful head, Smoothing the clustered hair, and parting it From the fair brow; she, rising, only said, In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, The careless greeting that I always heard;

And she resumed her merry, mocking smile, Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. O woman! thou wert fashioned to beguile: So have all sages said, all poets sung. She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, With smiles of gratulation on her lips!

And then she looked and faltered: I had grown So suddenly in life and soul a man: She moved her lips, but could not find a tone To set her mocking music to; began One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, And straight withdrew them, bashful through surprise

The color over cheek and bosom flushed; I might have heard the beating of her heart, But that mine own beat louder; when she blushed, The hand within mine own I felt to start, But would not change my pitiless decree To strive with her for might and mastery.

She looked again, as one that, half afraid, Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing; Or one beseeching "Do not me upbraid!" And then she trembled like the fluttering Of timid little birds, and silent stood, No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood.

She turned, and to an open casement moved With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze. And I on downcast lashes unreproved Could look as long as pleased me; while, the rays Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent, In modest silence to my words attent.

How fast the giddy whirling moments flew! The moon had set; I heard the midnight chime, Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. And I could wait unmoved the parting time. It came; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn.

A little waxen taper in her hand, Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, She looked like one of the celestial band, Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass Most human blushes; while, the soft light thrown On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grown.

Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed, Then gave her hand in token of farewell. And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell The story of my life, whose every line No other burden bore than--Eglantine.

Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind, The waxen taper burned full steadily; It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind To hear what lovers say, and her decree Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound.

O happiness! thou dost not leave a trace So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, Shed like a glory on her angel face, I can remember fully, and the sight Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise.

I can remember how the taper played Over her small hands and her vesture white; How it struck up into the trees, and laid Upon their under leaves unwonted light; And when she held it low, how far it spread O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed.

I can remember that we spoke full low, That neither doubted of the other's truth; And that with footsteps slower and more slow, Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth: Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame, We wandered till the gate of parting came.

But I forget the parting words she said, So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul; For one short moment human heart and head May bear such bliss--its present is the whole: I had that present, till in whispers fell With parting gesture her subdued farewell.

Farewell! she said, in act to turn away, But stood a moment yet to dry her tears, And suffered my enfolding arm to stay The time of her departure. O ye years That intervene betwixt that day and this! You all received your hue from that keen pain and bliss.

O mingled pain and bliss! O pain to break At once from happiness so lately found, And four long years to feel for her sweet sake The incompleteness of all sight and sound! But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine-- O bliss to come again and make her mine!

I cannot--O, I cannot more recall! But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest With musing over journeyings wide, and all Observance of this active-humored west, And swarming cities steeped in eastern day, With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array.

I turn away from these, and straight there will succeed (Shifting and changing at the restless will), Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead, White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, And scarcely show their heads above the grass.

--The red Sahara in an angry glow, With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, And women on their necks, from gazers veiled, And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand To groves of date-trees on the watered land.

Again--the brown sails of an Arab boat, Flapping by night upon a glassy sea, Whereon the moon and planets seem to float, More bright of hue than they were wont to be, While shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound, And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground.

Or far into the heat among the sands The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind, Drawn by the scent of water--and the bands Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest!

What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed, Setting his feet among oil-olive trees, Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud; And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas, Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks.

Enough: how vain this thinking to beguile, With recollected scenes, an aching breast! Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while? Ah, yes! for every landscape comes impressed-- Ay, written on, as by an iron pen-- With the same thought I nursed about her then.

Therefore let memory turn again to home; Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near; Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam, And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear; Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound Than ever thrilled but over English ground;

And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, Not doubting this to be the first of lands; And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet Some little village school-girls (with their hands Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, I count their English talk delightsome melody;

And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, That I may feast myself with hearing it, Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit-- Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show Where wild wood-strawberries in the copses grow.

So passed the day in this delightful land: My heart was thankful for the English tongue-- For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned-- For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung. I journeyed, and at glowing eventide Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside.

That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad To miss the flapping of the shrouds; but lo! A quiet dream of beings twain I had, Behind the curtain talking soft and low: Methought I did not heed their utterance fine, Till one of them said, softly, "Eglantine."

I started up awake, 'twas silence all: My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear: And "Ah!" methought, "how sweetly did it fall, Though but in dream, upon the listening ear! How sweet from other lips the name well known-- That name, so many a year heard only from mine own!"

I thought awhile, then slumber came to me, And tangled all my fancy in her maze, And I was drifting on a raft at sea. The near all ocean, and the far all haze; Through the while polished water sharks did glide, And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide.

"Have mercy, God!" but lo! my raft uprose; Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it; My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes, It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spring, She flew straight upward like a living thing.

But strange!--I went not also in that flight, For I was entering at a cavern's mouth; Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark.

The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night, And suddenly, as I went farther in, They opened, and they shot out lambent light; Then all at once arose a railing din That frighted me: "It is the ghosts," I said, And they are railing for their darkness fled.

"I hope they will not look me in the face; It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud;" I saw them troop before with jaunty pace, And one would shake off dust that soiled her shroud: But now, O joy unhoped! to calm my dread, Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead.

I climbed the lofty trees--the blanchèd trees-- The cleft was wide enough to let me through; I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. O happy chance! O fortune to admire! I stood beside my own loved village spire.

And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, Lo, far-off music--music in the night! So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk; It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, And in my dream, methought as it drew near The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear.

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain; The restless music fluttering like a bird Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid That I should die of grief when it did fade.

And it DID fade; but while with eager ear I drank its last long echo dying away, I was aware of footsteps that drew near, And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray: O soft above the hallowed place they trod-- Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod!

I turned--'twas even so--yes, Eglantine! For at the first I had divined the same; I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine, And said, "She is asleep:" still on she came; Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, And thought--"I know that this is but a dream."

My darling! O my darling! not the less My dream went on because I knew it such; She came towards me in her loveliness-- A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch; The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, The long white robe descended to her feet.

The fringèd lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed; Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, And her two hands were folded to her breast, With somewhat held between them heedfully. O fast asleep! and yet methought she knew And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through.

She sighed: my tears ran down for tenderness-- And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep? Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? "O if this be!" I said--"yet speak to me; I blame my very dream for cruelty."

Then from her stainless bosom she did take Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein, And with slow-moving lips a gesture make, As one that some forgotten words doth win: "They floated on the pool," methought she said, And water trickled from each lily's head.

It dropped upon her feet--I saw it gleam Along the ripples of her yellow hair. And stood apart, for only in a dream She would have come, methought, to meet me there. She spoke again--"Ah fair! ah fresh they shine! And there are many left, and these are mine."

I answered her with flattering accents meet-- "Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." "And sayest thou so?" she sighed in murmurs sweet; "I have nought else to give thee now, mine own! For it is night. Then take them, love!" said she: "They have been costly flowers to thee--and me."

While thus she said I took them from her hand, And, overcome with love and nearness, woke; And overcome with ruth that she should stand Barefooted in the grass; that, when she spoke, Her mystic words should take so sweet a tone, And of all names her lips should choose "My own"

I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, and soon Beheld the spire peer out above the hill. It was a sunny harvest afternoon. When by the churchyard wicket, standing still, I cast my eager eyes abroad to know If change had touched the scenes of long ago.

I looked across the hollow; sunbeams shone Upon the old house with the gable ends: "Save that the laurel trees are taller grown, No change," methought, "to its gray wall extends What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine! There did I sometime talk with Eglantine."

There standing with my very goal in sight, Over my haste did sudden quiet steal; I thought to dally with my own delight, Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, But taste the sweetness of a short delay, And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay.

The church was open; it perchance might be That there to offer thanks I might essay, Or rather, as I think, that I might see The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. But so it was; I crossed that portal wide, And felt my riot joy to calm subside.

The low depending curtains, gently swayed, Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow; But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade It seemed, save only for the rippling flow Of their long foldings, when the sunset air Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer.

I found her place, the ancient oaken stall, Where in her childhood I had seen her sit, Most saint-like and most tranquil there of all, Folding her hands, as if a dreaming fit-- A heavenly vision had before her strayed Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid.

I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat, And took it in my hand, and felt more near in fancy to her, finding it most sweet To think how very oft, low kneeling there, In her devout thoughts she had let me share, And set my graceless name in her pure prayer.

My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears-- In sooth they were the last I ever shed; For with them fell the cherished dreams of years. I looked, and on the wall above my head, Over her seat, there was a tablet placed, With one word only on the marble traced.--

Ah well! I would not overstate that woe, For I have had some blessings, little care; But since the falling of that heavy blow, God's earth has never seemed to me so fair; Nor any of his creatures so divine, Nor sleep so sweet;--the word was--EGLANTINE.

A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD.

(F.M.L.)

Living child or pictured cherub, Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace; And the mother, moving nearer, Looked it calmly in the face; Then with slight and quiet gesture, And with lips that scarcely smiled, Said--"A Portrait of my daughter When she was a child."

Easy thought was hers to fathom, Nothing hard her glance to read, For it seemed to say, "No praises For this little child I need: If you see, I see far better, And I will not feign to care For a stranger's prompt assurance That the face is fair."

Softly clasped and half extended, She her dimpled hands doth lay: So they doubtless placed them, saying-- "Little one, you must not play." And while yet his work was growing, This the painter's hand hath shown, That the little heart was making Pictures of its own.

Is it warm in that green valley, Vale of childhood, where you dwell? Is it calm in that green valley, Round whose bournes such great hills swell? Are there giants in the valley-- Giants leaving footprints yet? Are there angels in the valley? Tell me--I forget.

Answer, answer, for the lilies, Little one, o'ertop you much, And the mealy gold within them You can scarcely reach to touch; O how far their aspect differs, Looking up and looking down! You look up in that green valley-- Valley of renown.

Are there voices in the valley, Lying near the heavenly gate? When it opens, do the harp-strings, Touched within, reverberate? When, like shooting-stars, the angels To your couch at nightfall go, Are their swift wings heard to rustle? Tell me! for you know.

Yes, you know; and you are silent, Not a word shall asking win; Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, Fast it locks the secret in. Not a glimpse upon your present You unfold to glad my view; Ah, what secrets of your future I could tell to you!

Sunny present! thus I read it, By remembrance of my past:-- Its to-day and its to-morrow Are as lifetimes vague and vast; And each face in that green valley Takes for you an aspect mild, And each voice grows soft in saying-- "Kiss me, little child!"

As a boon the kiss is granted: Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, Takes the love without the trouble From those lips that with it meet; Gives the love, O pure! O tender! Of the valley where it grows, But the baby heart receiveth MORE THAN IT BESTOWS.

Comes the future to the present-- "Ah!" she saith, "too blithe of mood; Why that smile which seems to whisper-- 'I am happy, God is good?' God is good: that truth eternal Sown for you in happier years, I must tend it in my shadow, Water it with tears.

"Ah, sweet present! I must lead thee By a daylight more subdued; There must teach thee low to whisper-- 'I am mournful, God is good!'" Peace, thou future! clouds are coming, Stooping from the mountain crest, But that sunshine floods the valley: Let her--let her rest.

Comes the future to the present-- "Child," she saith, "and wilt thou rest? How long, child, before thy footsteps Fret to reach yon cloudy crest? Ah, the valley!--angels guard it, But the heights are brave to see; Looking down were long contentment: Come up, child, to me."

So she speaks, but do not heed her, Little maid with wondrous eyes, Not afraid, but clear and tender, Blue, and filled with prophecies; Thou for whom life's veil unlifted Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth-- Climb, but heights are cold.

There are buds that fold within them, Closed and covered from our sight, Many a richly tinted petal, Never looked on by the light: Fain to see their shrouded faces, Sun and dew are long at strife, Till at length the sweet buds open-- Such a bud is life.

When the rose of thine own being Shall reveal its central fold, Thou shalt look within and marvel, Fearing what thine eyes behold; What it shows and what it teaches Are not things wherewith to part; Thorny rose! that always costeth Beatings at the heart.

Look in fear, for there is dimness; Ills unshapen float anigh. Look in awe, for this same nature Once the Godhead deigned to die. Look in love, for He doth love it, And its tale is best of lore: Still humanity grows dearer, Being learned the more.

Learn, but not the less bethink thee How that all can mingle tears; But his joy can none discover, Save to them that are his peers; And that they whose lips do utter Language such as bards have sung-- Lo! their speech shall be to many As an unknown tongue.

Learn, that if to thee the meaning Of all other eyes be shown, Fewer eyes can ever front thee, That are skilled to read thine own; And that if thy love's deep current Many another's far outflows, Then thy heart must take forever, LESS THAN IT BESTOWS.

STRIFE AND PEACE.

(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, October 1861.)

The yellow poplar-leaves came down And like a carpet lay, No waftings were in the sunny air To flutter them away; And he stepped on blithe and debonair That warm October day.