Part 2

As we pass by the roses, Into your finger-tip Bruise you the thorn. Quick at the prick you start, Crying, "Alas, the smart! Farewell, my pleasant friend, Wisely our way we wend Out of the reach of roses."

Oh, we pass by the roses! Where does the red drop drip? Where is the thorn? What though 'tis hid and pressed Piercing into my breast? Scathless, I stretch my hand; Strong as their roots I stand, And dare to trust the roses.

THE INDIAN GIRL.

A PICTURE BY WALTER SHIRLAW.

She standeth silent as a thought Too sacred to be uttered; all Her face unfurling like a flower That at a breath too near will shut. Her life a little golden clock Whose shining hands, arrested, stay Forever at the hour of Love.

She doubts, she dares, she dreams--of what? I ask; she, shrinking, answers not, She swims before me, dim, a cup Of waste, untasted tenderness. I drink, I dread, until I seem (Myself unto myself) to be He whom she chose, and charmed--and missed, On some faint Asiatic day Of languorous summer, ages since.

SEALED.

"Shall I pour you the wine," she said, "The wine that is rare and red? Sweeter the cup for the drop."-- "But why do you shrink and stop?"

"The seal of the wine Has a sacred sign; I am afraid," she said.

"I love and revere You more for your fear, Than I do for your wine," he said.

GUINEVERE.

Of Guinevere from Arthur separate, And separate from Launcelot and the world, And shielded in the convent with her sin, As one draws fast a veil upon a face That 's marred, but only holds the scar more close Against the burning brain--I read to-day This legend; and if other yet than I Have read, or said, how know I? for the text Was written in the story we have learned, Between the ashen lines, invisible, In hieroglyphs that blazed and leaped like light Unto the eyes. A thousand times we read; A thousand turn the page and understand, And think we know the record of a life, When lo! if we will open once again The awful volume, hid, mysterious, Intent, there lies the unseen alphabet-- Re-reads the tale from breath to death, and spells A living language that we never knew.

This that I read was one short song of hers, A fragment, I interpret, or a lost Faint prelude to another--missing too. She sang it (says the text) one summer night, After the vespers, when the Abbess passed And blessed her; when the nuns were gone, and when She, kneeling in her drowsy cell, had said Her prayers (poor soul!), her sorrowful prayers, in which She had besought the Lord, for His dear sake, And love and pity of His Only Son, To wash her of her stain, and make her fit On summer nights, behind the convent bars And on stone-floors, with bruised lips, to pray Away all vision but repentance from her soul.

When, kneeling as she was, her limbs Refused to bear her, and she fell afaint From weariness and striving to become A holy woman, all her splendid length Upon the ground, and groveled there, aghast That buried nature was not dead in her, But lived, a rebel through her fair, fierce youth; Aghast to find that clasped hands would clench; Aghast to feel that praying lips refused Like saints to murmur on, but shrank And quivered dumb. "Alas! I cannot pray!" Cried Guinevere. "I cannot pray! I will Not lie! God is an honest God, and I Will be an honest sinner to his face. Will it be wicked if I sing? Oh! let Me sing a little, of I know not what; Let me just sing, I know not why. For lips Grow stiff with praying _all_ the night. Let me believe that I am happy, too. A blessed blessed woman, who is fit To sing because she did not sin; or else That God forgot it for a little while And does not mind me very much. Dear Lord," (Said Guinevere), "wilt thou not listen while I sing, as well as while I pray? I shall Feel safer so. For I have naught to say God should not hear. The song comes as the prayer Doth come. Thou listenest. I sing." ...

_Purple the night, and high were the skies, and higher The eyes that leaned like the stars of my soul, to me. Whom loveth the Queen? Him who hath right to crown her. Who but the King is he?_

_Sultry the day, and gold was the hair, and golden The mist that blinded my soul away from me. Dethroned for a dream, for a gleam, for a glance, for a color, How could the crowned be?_

_Life goeth by like a deed, nor returneth forever. Death cometh on, fleet-footed as pity should be. Hush! When she waketh at last and looketh about her, Whom will a woman see?_

Thus in her cell, Deep in the summer night, sang Guinevere-- A little, broken, blind, sweet melody-- And then she kneeled upon the convent floor, And, peaceful, finished all her prayer and slept; For she had naught to say God might not hear.

SUNG TO A FRIEND.

The tide is rising, rising Out of the infinite sea; From ripple, to wave, to billow, Past beryl and gold and crimson, A prism of perfect splendor; What shall the white surf be?

The sacred tide is rising, Rising for you and me. Defiant across the breaker, Wave unto wave must answer, The sea to the shore will follow; When shall the great flood be?

The tide must turn falling, falling Back to the awful sea. Thus far shalt thou go, no farther. The color sinks to the shadow, The paean sobs into silence, Where shall the ebb-line be?

By the weeds left blazing, beating Like heart-throbs of the sea, By the law of the land and the ocean, By the Hand that holdeth the torrent, I summon the tide eternal To flow for you and me!

INCOMPLETION.

Perhaps the bud lost from the loaded tree The sweetest blossom of the May would be;

Or wildest song that summer could have heard Is dumb within the throat of the dead bird.

The perfect statue that all men have sought May in some crippled hand be hid, unwrought.

Which of our dearest dead betook his flight Into the rose-red star that fell last night?

The words forever by thy lips unsaid Had been the crown of life upon thy head.

The splendid sun of all my days might be The love that I shall never give to thee.

RAFE'S CHASM.

CAPE ANN, SEPTEMBER SURF. 1882.

White fire upon the gray-green waste of waves, The low light of the breaker flares. Ah, see! Outbursting on a sky of steel and ice, The baffled sun stabs wildly at the gale. The water rises like a god aglow, Who all too long hath slept, and dreamed too sure, And finds his goddess fled his empty arms. Silent, the mighty cliff receives at last That rage of elemental tenderness, The old, omnipotent caress she knows. Yet once the solid earth did melt for her And, pitying, made retreat before her flight; Would she have hidden her forever there? Or did she, wavering, linger long enough To let the accustomed torrent chase her down? Over the neck of the gorge, I cling. Lean desperately! He who feared a chasm's edge Were never the one to see The torment and the triumph hid Where the deep surges be. I pierce the gulf; I sweep the coast Where wide the tide swings free; I search as never soul sought before. There is not patience enough in all the shore, There is not passion enough in all the sea, To tell my love for thee.

GALATEA.

A moment's grace, Pygmalion! Let me be A breath's space longer on this hither hand Of fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet. Whether to be thy statue or thy bride-- An instant spare me! Terrible the choice, As no man knoweth, being only man; Nor any, saving her who hath been stone And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse? Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart? Repose eternal for a woman's lot? Forego God's quiet for the love of man? To float on his uncertain tenderness, A wave tossed up the shore of his desire, To ebb and flow whene'er it pleaseth him; Remembered at his leisure, and forgot, Worshiped and worried, clasped and dropped at mood, Or soothed or gashed at mercy of his will, Now Paradise my portion, and now Hell; And every single, several nerve that beats In soul or body, like some rare vase, thrust In fire at first, and then in frost, until The fine, protesting fibre snaps?

Oh, who Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this? What woman out of all the breathing world Would be a woman, could her heart select, Or love her lover, could her life prevent? Then let me be that only, only one; Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme, No other ever made, or can, or shall. Behold, the future shall stand still to ask, What man was worth a price so isolate? And rate thee at its value for all time.

For I am driven by an awful Law. See! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me, And carves me like a chisel at my heart. 'T is stronger than the woman or the man; 'T is greater than all torment or delight; 'T is mightier than the marble or the flesh. Obedient be the sculptor and the stone! Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all The pangs that woman ever bore for man; Thine I elect to be, denying them; Thine I elect to be, defying them; Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them; And being thine forever, bless I them!

Pygmalion! Take me from my pedestal, And set me lower--lower, Love!--that I May be a woman, and look up to thee; And looking, longing, loving, give and take The human kisses worth the worst that thou By thine own nature shalt inflict on me.

PART OF THE PRICE.

Take back, my friend, the gifts once given. No fairer find I this side Heaven With which to bless thee, than thine own Resource of blessing. Mine alone To render what is mine to lose. No niggard am I with it. Choose! Lavish, I keep not any part Of that great price within my heart. Wilt thou the quiet comfort have? Thine be it, daily, to the grave! The courage, shining down from one Whose answering eyes put out the sun? The tenderness that touched the nerve Like music? Oh, I bid these serve Thee, soothe thee, watchful of thy need While mine is unattended; feed Thy heart while mine goes famished. Glad, I give the dearest thing I had. Impoverished, can I find or spare Aught else to thee of rich or rare? Sweet thoughts that through the soul do sing, And deeds like loving hands that cling, And loyal faith--a sentry--nigh, And prayers all rose-clouds hovering high? Nay, nay; I keep not any. Hold The wealth I leave with fingers cold And trembling in thine own. One thing Alone I do deny to bring And give again to thee. Not now, Nor ever, Dear, shalt thou learn how To wrest it from me. Test thy strength! By the world's measures, height or length-- Too weak art thou, too weak to gain, By sleight of tenderness or snatch of pain --At thine own most or least--to take from me Mine own ideal lost--and saved--of thee.

EURYDICE.

_Listening._

A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES.

I.

As sentient as a wedding-bell, The vibrant air throbs calling her Whose eager body, earwise curved, Leans listening at the heart of hell. She is one nerve of hearing, strained To love and suffer, hope and fear-- Thus, hearkening for her Love, she waits, Whom no man's daring heart has gained.

II.

Oh, to be sound to such an ear! Song, carol, vesper, comfort near, Sweet words, at sweetest, whispered low, Or dearer silence, happiest so. By little languages of love Her finer audience to prove; A tenderness untried, to fit To soul and sense so exquisite; The blessed Orpheus to be At last, to such Eurydice!

* * * * *

III.

I listened in hell! I listened in hell! Down in the dark I heard your soul Singing mine out to the holy sun. Deep in the dark I heard your feet Ringing the way of Love in hell. Into the flame you strode and stood. Out of the flame you bore me well, As I listened in hell.

IV.

I listen in hell! I listen in hell! Who trod the fire? Where was the scorch? Clutched, clasped, and saved, what a tale was to tell ----Heaven come down to hell! Oh, like a spirit you strove for my sake! Oh, like a man you looked back for your own! Back, though you loved me heavenly well, Back, though you lost me. The gods did decree, And I listen in hell.

ELAINE AND ELAINE.

I.

Dead, she drifted to his feet. Tell us, Love, is Death so sweet?

Oh! the river floweth deep. Fathoms deeper is her sleep.

Oh! the current driveth strong. Wilder tides drive souls along.

Drifting, though he loved her not, To the heart of Launcelot,

Let her pass; it is her place. Death hath given her this grace.

Let her pass; she resteth well. What her dreams are, who can tell?

Mute the steersman; why, if he Speaketh not a word, should we?

II.

Dead, she drifteth to his feet. Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet.

Living, he had loved her well. High as Heaven and deep as Hell.

Yet that voyage she stayeth not. Wait you for her, Launcelot?

Oh! the river floweth fast. Who is justified at last?

Locked her lips are. Hush! If she Sayeth nothing, how should we?

III.

THE POET AND THE POEM.

Upon the city called the Friends' The light of waking spring Fell vivid as the shadow thrown Far from the gleaming wing Of a great golden bird, that fled Before us loitering.

In hours before the spring, how light The pulse of heaviest feet! And quick the slowest hopes to stir To measures fine and fleet. And warm will grow the bitterest heart To shelter fancies sweet.

Securely looks the city down On her own fret and toil; She hides a heart of perfect peace Behind her veins' turmoil-- A breathing-space removed apart From out their stir and soil.

Our reverent feet that golden day Stood in a quiet place, That held repressed--I know not what Of such a poignant grace As falls, if dumb with life untold, Upon a human face.

To fashion silence into words The softest, teach me how! I know the place is Silence caught A-dreaming, then and now. I only know 't was blue above, And it was green below.

And where the deepening sunshine found And held a holy mood, Lowly and old, of outline quaint, In mingled brick and wood, Clasped in the arms of ivy vines A nestling cottage stood:

A thing so hidden and so fair, So pure that it would seem Hewn out of nothing earthlier Than a young poet's dream, Of nothing sadder than the lights That through the ivies gleam.

"Tell me," I said, while shrill the birds Sang through the garden space, To her who guided me--"tell me The story of the place." She lifted, in her Quaker cap, A peaceful, puzzled face,

Surveyed me with an aged, calm, And unpoetic eye; And peacefully, but puzzled half, Half tolerant, made reply: "The people come to see that house-- Indeed, I know not why,

"Except thee know the poem there-- 'T was written long since, yet His name who wrote it, now--in fact-- I cannot seem to get-- His name who wrote that poetry I always do forget.

"_Hers_ was Evangeline; and here In sound of Christ Church bells She found her lover in this house, Or so I 've heard folks tell. But most I know is, that's her name, And his was Gabriel.

"I 've heard she found him dying, in The room behind that door, (One of the Friends' old almshouses, Perhaps thee 've heard before;) Perhaps thee 've heard about her all That I can tell, and more.

"Thee can believe she found him here, If thee do so incline. Folks have their fashions in belief-- That may be one of thine. I 'm sure his name was Gabriel, And hers Evangeline."

She turned her to her common work And unpoetic ways, Nor knew the rare, sweet note she struck Resounding to your praise, O Poet of our common nights, And of our care-worn days!

Translator of our golden mood, And of our leaden hour! Immortal thus shall poet gauge The horizon of his power. Wear in your crown of laurel leaves, The little ivy flower!

And happy be the singer called To such a lofty lot! And ever blessed be the heart Hid in the simple spot Where Evangeline was loved and wept, And Longfellow forgot.

O striving soul! strive quietly, Whate'er thou art or dost, Sweetest the strain, when in the song The singer has been lost; Truest the work, when 't is the deed, Not doer, counts for most!

The shadow of the golden wing Grew deep where'er it fell. The heart it brooded over will Remember long and well Full many a subtle thing, too sweet Or else too sad to tell.

Forever fall the light of spring Fair as that day it fell, Where Evangeline, led by your voice, O solemn Christ Church bell! For lovers of all springs, all climes, At last found Gabriel.

OVERTASKED.

It was a weary hour, I looked in the lily-bell. How holy is the flower! It leaned like an angel against the light; "O soul!" it said, sighing, "be white, be white!"

I stretched my arms for rest, I turned to the evening cloud-- A vision how fair, how blest! "Low heart," it called, softly, "arise and fly. It were yours to reach levels as high as I."

I stooped to the hoary wave That wept on the darkening shore. It sobbed to me: "Oh, be brave! Whatever you do, or dare, or will, Like me to go striving, unresting still."

STRANDED.

O busy ships! that smile in sailing In a glory Like a dream, From the colors of the harbor to the colors of the sea. In singing words or in bewailing, Tell the story As you gleam, Tell the story, guess the language of my idle hours for me.

O busy waves! so blest in bruising Your white faces On the shore. So happy to be wasted with the purpose of the sea, Content to leave with it the choosing Of your places Evermore, Whisper but the far sea-meaning of my stranded life for me.

Gray the sails grow in departing Like fleet swallows To the South. Stern the tide turns in its parting, As it follows With dumb mouth. In the stillness and the sternness God makes answer unto me.

GLOUCESTER HARBOR.

One shadow glides from the dumb shore, And one from every silent sail. One cloud the averted heavens wear, A soft mask, thin and frail.

Oh, silver is the lessening rain, And yellow was the weary drouth. The reef her warning finger puts Upon the harbor's mouth.

Her thin, wan finger, stiff and stark, She holds by night, she holds by day. Ask, if you will. No answer makes The sombre, guarded bay.

The fleet, with idle canvas hung, Like a brute life, sleeps patiently. The headlights nod across the cliff, The fog blows out to sea.

There is no color on the tide, No color on the helpless sky; Across the beach,--a safe, small sound-- The grass-hid crickets cry.

And through the dusk I hear the keels Of home-bound boats grate low and sweet. O happy lights! O watching eyes! Leap out the sound to greet.

O tender arms that meet and clasp! Gather and cherish while ye may. The morrow knoweth God. Ye know Your own are yours to-day.

Forever from the Gloucester winds The cries of hungry children start. There breaks in every Gloucester wave A widowed woman's heart.

THE TERRIBLE TEST.

Separate, upon the folded page Of myth or marvel, sad or glad, The test that gave the Lord to thee, And thee to us, O Galahad!

"Found pure in deed, and word, and thought," The creature of our dream and guess, The vision of the brain thou art, The eidolon of holiness.

Man with the power of the God, Man with the weaknesses of men, Whose lips the Sangreal leaned to feed, "Whose strength was the strength of ten,"

We read--and smile; no man thou wast; No human pulses thine could be; With downcast eyes we read--and sigh; So terrible is purity!

O fairest legend of the years, With folded wings, go, silently! O flower of knighthood, yield your place To One who comes from Galilee!

To wounded feet that shrink and bleed, But press and climb the narrow way,-- The same old way our own must step, Forever, yesterday, to-day.

For soul can be what soul hath been, And feet can tread where feet have trod. Enough, to know that once the clay Hath worn the features of the God.

MY DREAMS ARE OF THE SEA.

My dreams are of the Sea. All night the living waters stepped Stately and steadily. All night the wind Conducted them. With forehead high, a rock, Glittering with joy, stood to receive the shock Of the flood-tide. I saw it in the mind Of sleep and silence. When I woke, I wept.

My dreams are of the Sea. But oh, it is the Sea of Glass! I met that other tide as I desired. Alone, the rock and I leaned to the wave,-- A foolish suicide, that scooped its grave Within the piteous sand. Now I am tired. It died and it was buried. Let me pass.

SONG.

The firelight listens on the floor To hear the wild winds blow. Within, the bursting roses burn, Without, there slides the snow.

Across the flower I see the flake Pass mirrored, mystic, slow. Oh, blooms and storms must blush and freeze, While seasons come and go!

I lift the sash--and live, the gale Comes leaping to my call. The rose is but a painted one That hangs upon the wall.

AN INTERPRETATION.

CHOPIN.

Prelude in C Minor, Opus 28.

From whirlwind to shower, From noon-glare to shadow, From the plough to the vesper, A day is gone. From passion to purpose, From turmoil to rest, From discord to harmony, Life moveth on.

From terror and heartbreak, From anger of anguish, From vigil and famine, A soul has gone. By mercy of mystery, Through trust which is best, To feasting and sleeping now, God calleth on.

THE SPHINX.[1]

O glad girls' faces, hushed and fair! how shall I sing for ye? For the grave picture of a sphinx is all that I can see.

Vain is the driving of the sand, and vain the desert's art; The years strive with her, but she holds the lion in her heart.

Baffled or fostered, patient still, the perfect purpose clings; Flying or folded, strong as stone, she wears the eagle's wings.

Eastward she looks; against the sky the eternal morning lies; Silent or pleading, veiled or free, she lifts the woman's eyes.

O grave girls' faces, listening kind! glad will I sing for ye, While the proud figure of the sphinx is all that I can see.

[1] Written for a graduating class at Abbott Academy.

VICTURAE SALUTAMUS.[1]

Shall we who are about to live, Cry like a clarion on the battle-field? Or weep before 't is fought, the fight to yield? Thou that hast been and yet that art to be Named by our name, that art the First and Last! Womanhood of the future and the past! Thee we salute, below the breath. Oh, give To us the courage of our mystery. ... Pealing, the clock of Time Has struck the Woman's Hour.... We hear it on our knees. For ah, no power Is ours to trip too lightly to the rhyme Of idle words that fan the summer air, Of bounding words that leap the years to come. Ideal of ourselves! We dream and dare. Victurae salutamus! _Thou_ art dumb.

[1] Written for the first commencement at Smith College.

THE ERMINE.

I read of the ermine to-day, Of the ermine who will not step By the feint of a step in the mire,-- The creature who will not stain Her garment of wild, white fire;