Chapter 5

Life has lost savour since you and I parted; I have been lonely, and you have been sad. Youth is too brief to be sorrowful-hearted— Come! and again let us laugh and be glad. Lips should not sigh that are fashioned to kiss— Breasts should not ache that joy’s secrets have found. Come! but remember, in spite of all this, I must be free, Love, while you must be bound.

You must be bound to be true while you live, And I keep my freedom for ever, as now. You must ask only for that which I give— Kisses and love-words, but never a vow. Come! I am lonely, and long for your smile, Bring back the lost lovely Summer to me! Come! but remember, remember the while, That you must be bound, Love, and I must be free.

AQUILEIA

[On the election of the Roman Emperor Maximus, by the Senate, A.D. 238, a powerful army, headed by the Thracian giant Maximus, laid siege to Aquileia. Though poorly prepared for war, the constancy of her citizens rendered her impregnable. The women of Aquileia cut off their hair to make ropes for the military engines. The small body of troops was directed by Chrispinus, a Lieutenant of the Senate. Apollo was the deity supposed to protect them.—_Gibbon’s Roman History_.]

“The ropes, the ropes! Apollo send us ropes,” Chrispinus cried, “or death attends our hopes.” Then panic reigned, and many a mournful sound Hurt the cleft air; for where could ropes be found?

Up rose a Roman mother; tall was she As her own son, a youth of noble height. A little child was clinging to her knee— She loosed his twining arms and put him down, And her dark eyes flashed with a sudden light.

How like a queen she stood! her royal crown, The rich dark masses of her splendid hair. Just flecked with spots of sunshine here and there, Twined round her brow; ’twas like a coronet, Where gems of gold lie bedded deep in jet.

She loosed the comb that held the shining strands, And threaded out the meshes with her hands. The purple mass fell to her garment’s hem. A queen new clothed without her diadem She stood before her subjects.

“Now,” she cried, “Give me thy sword, Julianus!” And her son Unsheathed the blade (that had not left his side Save when it sought a foeman’s blood to shed), Awed by her regal bearing, and obeyed.

With the white beauty of her firm fair hand She clasped the hilt; then severed, one by one, Her gold-flecked purple tresses. Strand on strand, Free e’en as foes had fallen by that blade, Robbed of its massive wealth of curl and coil, Yet like some antique model, rose her head In all its classic beauty.

“See!” she said, And pointed to the shining mound of hair; “Apollo makes swift answer to thy prayer, Chrispinus. Quick! now, soldiers, to thy toil!” Forth from a thousand throats what seemed one voice Rose shrilly, filling all the air with cheer. “Lo!” quoth the foe, “our enemies rejoice!” Well might the Thracian giant quake with fear! For while skilled hands caught up the gleaming threads And bound them into cords, a hundred heads Yielded their beauteous tresses to the sword, And cast them down to swell the precious hoard.

Nor was the noble sacrifice in vain Another day beheld the giant slain.

WISHES FOR A LITTLE GIRL

What would I ask the kindly fates to give To crown her life, if I could have my way? My strongest wishes would be negative, If they would but obey.

Give her not greatness. For great souls must stand Alone and lonely in this little world: Cleft rocks that show the great Creator’s hand, Thither by earthquakes hurled.

Give her not genius. Spare her the cruel pain Of finding her whole life a prey for daws; Of hearing with quickened sense and burning brain The world’s sneer-tinged applause.

Give her not perfect beauty’s gifts. For then Her truthful mirror would infuse her mind With love for self, and for the praise of men, That lowers woman-kind.

But make her fair and comely to the sight, Give her more heart than brain, more love than pride. Let her be tender-thoughted, cheerful, bright, Some strong man’s star and guide.

Not vainly questioning why she was sent Into this restless world of toil and strife, Let her go bravely on her way, content To make the best of life.

ROMNEY

Nay, Romney, nay—I will not hear you say Those words again: “I love you, love you sweet!” You are profane—blasphemous. I repeat, You are no actor for so grand a play.

You love with all your heart? Well, that may be; Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I try To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry— I who have had a full bowl proffered me—

A new bowl brimming with a draught divine, One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips? Think you I even care to bathe my lips With this poor sweetened water you call wine?

And though I spilled the nectar ere ’twas quaffed, And broke the bowl in wanton folly, yet I would die of my thirst ere I would wet My burning lips with any meaner draught.

So leave me, Romney. One who has seen a play Enacted by a star cannot endure To see it rendered by an amateur. You know not what Love is—now go away!

MY HOME

This is the place that I love the best, A little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest, Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees, Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seen Sifts through the vine-made window screen— Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June, the west wind free The breath of the clover brings to me. All through the languid July day I catch the scent of the new-mown hay.

The morning glories and scarlet vine Over the doorway twist and twine; And every day, when the house is still, The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun I sink to sleep when the day is done; And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed, By a singing-bird on the roof o’erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome Are the living pictures I see at home— My aged father, with frosted hair, And mother’s face like a painting rare Far from the city’s dust and heat, I get but sounds and odours sweet. Who can wonder I love to stay, Week after week, here hidden away, In this sly nook that I love the best— The little brown house, like a ground-bird’s nest?

TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY? A GIRL’S REVERIE

Mother says, “Be in no hurry, Marriage oft means care and worry.”

Auntie says, with manner grave, “Wife is synonym for slave.”

Father asks, in tones commanding, “How does Bradstreet rate his standing?”

Sister crooning to her twins, Sighs, “With marriage care begins.”

Grandma, near life’s closing days, Murmurs, “Sweet are girlhood’s ways.”

Maud, twice widowed (“sod and grass”) Looks at me and moans “Alas!”

They are six, and I am one, Life for me has just begun.

They are older, calmer, wiser: Age should aye be youth’s adviser.

They must know—and yet, dear me, When in Harry’s eyes I see

All the world of love there burning— On my six advisers turning,

I make answer, “Oh, but Harry Is not like most men who marry.

“Fate has offered me a prize, Life with love means Paradise.

“Life without it is not worth All the foolish joys of earth.”

So, in spite of all they say, I shall name the wedding day.

AN AFTERNOON

I am stirred by the dream of an afternoon Of a perfect day—though it was not June; The lilt of winds, and the droning tune That a busy city was humming.

And a bronze-brown head, and lips like wine Leaning out through the window-vine A-list for steps that were maybe mine— Eager steps that were coming.

I can see it all, as a dreamer may— The tender smile on your lips that day, And the glow on your cheek as we rode away Into the golden weather.

And a love-light shone in your eyes of brown— I swear there did!—as we drove down The crowded avenue out of the town, Through shadowy lanes, together:

Drove out into the sunset-skies That glowed with wonderful crimson dyes; And with soul and spirit, and heart and eyes, We silently drank their splendour.

But the golden glory that lit the place Was not alone from the sunset’s grace— For I saw in your fair, uplifted face A light that was wondrously tender.

I say I saw it. And yet to-day I ask myself, in a cynical way, Was it only a part you had learned to play, To see me act the lover?

And I curse myself for a fool. And yet I would willingly die without one regret Could I bring back the day whose sun has set— And you—and live it over.

RIVER AND SEA

We stood by the river that swept In its glory and grandeur away; But never a pulse o’ me leapt, And you wondered at me that day.

We stood by the lake as it lay With its dimpled face turned to the light; Was it strange I had nothing to say To so fair and enchanting a sight?

I look on your tresses of gold— You are fair and a thing to be loved— Do you think I am heartless and cold That I look and am wholly unmoved?

One answer, dear friend, I will make To the questions your eyes ask of me: “Talk not of the river or lake To those who have looked on the sea”

WHAT HAPPENS?

When thy hand touches mine, through all the mesh Of intricate and interlacèd veins Shoot swift delights that border on keen pains: Flesh thrills to thrilling flesh.

When in thine eager eyes I look to find A comrade to my thought, thy ready brain Delves down and makes its inmost meaning plain: Mind answers unto mind.

When hands and eyes are hid by seas that roll Wide wastes between us, still so near thou art I count the very pulses of thy heart: Soul speaketh unto soul.

So every law, or human or divine, In heart and brain and spirit makes thee mine.

POSSESSION

That which we had we still possess, Though leaves may drop and stars may fall; No circumstance can make it less, Or take it from us, all in all.

That which is lost we did not own; We only held it for a day— A leaf by careless breezes blown; No fate could take our own away.

I hold it as a changeless law From which no soul can sway or swerve, We have that in us which will draw Whate’er we need or most deserve.

Even as the magnet to the steel Our souls are to our best desires; The Fates have hearts and they can feel— They know what each true life requires.

We think we lose when we most gain; We call joys ended ere begun; When stars fade out do skies complain, Or glory in the rising sun?

No fate could rob us of our own— No circumstance can make it less; What time removes was but a loan, For what was ours we still possess.

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_Printed by Hazell_, _Watson & Viney_, _Ld._, _London and Aylesbury_.