Chapter 2

Toil was not toil, except in name; Care was not care, but only means To feed with holy oil the flame That warmed her soul, and lit the scenes Through which her figure went and came.

Her smile of welcome was his meed; Her presence was his great reward; He questioned sadly if, indeed, He loved more loyally his Lord, Or if his Lord felt greater need.

And Mildred, vexed, misunderstood, Knew all his love, but might not tell How in his thought, so large and good, And in his heart, there did not dwell The measure of her womanhood.

She knew the girlish charm would fade; She knew the rapture would abate; That years would follow when the maid, Merged in the matron, and sedate With change, and sitting in the shade

Of a great nature, would become As poor and pitiful a thing As an old idol, and as dumb,-- A clog upon an upward wing,-- A value stricken from the sum

Which a true woman's hand would raise To mighty numbers, and endow With kingly power and crowning praise. She must be mate of his; but how? And, dreaming of a thousand ways

Her hands would work, her feet would tread, She thought to match him as a man! His books should be her daily bread; She would run swiftly where he ran, And follow closely where he led.

XVIII.

Since time began, the perfect day Has robbed the morrow of its wealth, And squandered, in its lavish sway, The balm and beauty of the stealth, And left its golden throne in gray.

So when the Sunday light declined, A cold wind sprang and shut the flowers Then vagrant voices, undefined, Grew louder through the evening hours, Till the old chimney howled and whined

As if it were a frightened beast, That witnessed from its dizzy post The loathsome forms and grewsome feast And hideous mirth of ghoul and ghost, As on they crowded from the East.

The willow, gathered into sheaves Of scorpions by spectral arms, Swung to and fro, and whipped the eaves, And filled the house with weird alarms That hissed from all its tortured leaves.

And in the midnight came the rain;-- In spiteful needles at the first; But soon on roof and window-pane The slowly gathered fury burst In floods that came, and came again,

And poured their roaring burden out. They swept along the sounding street, Then paused, and then with shriek and shout Hurtled as if a myriad feet Had joined the dread and deafening rout.

But ere the welcome morning broke, The loud wind fell, though gray and chill The drizzling rain and drifting smoke Drove slowly toward the westward hill, Half hidden in its phantom cloak.

And through the mist a clumsy smack, Deep loaded with her clumsy freight, With shifting boom and frequent tack, Like a huge ghost that wandered late, Reeled by upon her devious track.

XIX.

So Mildred, with prophetic ken, Saw in the long and rainy day The dreaded host of friendly men And friendly women, kept away, And time for love, and book, and pen.

But while she looked, with dreaming eyes And heart content, upon the scene, She saw a stalwart man arise Where the wild water lashed the green, And pause a breath, to signalize

Some one beyond her stinted view; Then turn with hurried feet, and straight The deep, rain-burdened grasses through, And through the manse's open gate, Pass to her door. At once she knew

That some faint soul, in sad extreme, Had sent for succor to the manse, And knew its master would redeem To sacred use the circumstance That made such havoc of her dream.

XX.

She saw the quiet men depart, She saw them leave the river-side, She saw them brave with sturdy art The surges of the angry tide, And disappear; the while her heart

Sank down in dismal loneliness. Then came her vexing thoughts again; And quick, as if she broke duress Of heavy weariness or pain, She sought the study's dim recess,

Where rank on rank, against the wall, The mighty men of every land Stood mutely waiting for the call Of him who, with his single hand, Had bravely met and mastered all.

The gray old monarchs of the pen Looked down with calm, benignant gaze, And Augustine and Origen And Ansel justified the ways-- The wondrous ways--of God with men.

Among the tall hierophants Angelical Aquinas stood; While Witsius held the "Covenants," And Irenaeus, wise and good, Couched low his silver-bearded lance

For strife with heresy and schism, And Turretin with lordly nod Gave system to the dogmatism That analyzed the thought of God As light is painted by a prism.

Great Luther, with his great disputes, And Calvin, with his finished scheme, And Charnock, with his "Attributes," And Taylor with his poet's dream Of theologic flowers and flutes,

And Thomas Fuller, old and quaint, And Cudworth, dry with dust of gold, And South, the sharp and witty saint, With Howe and Owen--broad and bold-- And Leighton still without the taint

Of earth upon his robe of white, Stood side by side with Hobbes and Locke, And, braced by many an acolyte, With Edwards standing on his rock, And all New England's men of might,

Whose gifts and offices divine Had crowned her with a kingly crown, And solemn doctors from the Rhine, With Fichte, Kant, and Hegel, down Through all the long and stately line!

As Mildred saw the awful host, She felt within no motive stir To realize her girlish boast, And knew they held no more for her Than if each volume were a ghost.

XXI.

She sat in Philip's vacant chair, And pondered long her doubtful way; And, in her impotent despair, Lifted her longing eyes to pray, When on a shelf, far up, and bare,

She saw an ancient volume lie; And straight her rising thought was checked. What were its dubious treasures? Why Had it been banished from respect, And from its owner's hand and eye?

The more she gazed, the stronger grew The wish to hold it in her hand. Strange fancies round the volume flew, And changed the dust their pinions fanned To atmospheres of red and blue,

That blent in purple aureole,-- As if a lymph of sweetest life Stood warm within a golden bowl, Crowned with its odor-cloud, and rife With strength and solace for her soul!

And there it lay beyond her arm, And wrought its fine and wondrous spell, With all its hoard of good or harm, Till curious Mildred, struggling well, Surrendered to the mighty charm.

The steps were scaled for boon or bale, The book was lifted from its place, And, bowing to the fragrant grail, She drank with pleased and eager face This draught from off an Eastern tale:

Selim, the haughty Jehangir, the Conqueror of the Earth, With royal pomps and pageantries and rites of festal mirth Was set to celebrate the day--the white day--of his birth.

His red pavilions, stretching wide, crowned all with globes of gold, And tipped with pinnacles of fire and streamers manifold, Flamed with such splendor that the sun at noon looked pale and cold!

And right and left, along, the plain, far as the eye could gaze, His nobles and retainers who were tented in the blaze, Kept revel high in honor of that day of all the days.

The earth was spread, the walls were hung, with silken fabrics fine, And arabesque and lotus-flower bore each the broidered sign Of jewels plucked from land and sea, and red gold from the mine.

Upon his throne he sat alone, half buried in the gems That strewed his tapestries like stars, and tipped their tawny hems, And glittered with the glory of a hundred diadems.

He saw from his pavilion door the nodding heron plumes His nobles wore upon their brows, while, from the rosy glooms Which hid his harem, came low songs, on wings of rare perfumes!

The elephants, a thousand strong, had passed his dreaming eye, Caparisoned with golden plates on head and breast and thigh, And a hundred flashing troops of horse unmarked had thundered by.

He sat upon old Akbar's throne, the heir of power and fame, But all his glory was as dust, and dust his wondrous name-- Swept into air, and scattered far, by one consuming flame!

For on that day of all the days, and in that festal hour, He sickened with his glory and grew weary of his power, And pined to bind upon his breast his harem's choicest flower,

"Oh Nourmahal! oh Nourmahal! why sit I here," he cried,-- "The victim of these gaudy shows, and of my haughty pride, When thou art dearer to my soul than all the world beside!

"Thy eyes are brighter than the gems piled round gilded seat; Thy cheeks are softer than the silks that shimmer at my feet, And purer heart than thine in woman's breast hath never beat!

"My first love--and my only love--Oh babe of Candahar! Torn from my boyish arms at first, and, like a silver star Shining within another heaven, and worshipped from afar,

"Thou art my own at last, my own! I pine to see thy face; Come to me, Nourmahal! Oh come, and hallow with thy grace The glories that without thy love are meaningless and base!"

He spoke a word, and, quick as light, before him lying prone A dark-eyed page, with gilded vest and crimson-belted zone, Looked up with waiting ear to mark the message from the throne.

"Go summon Nourmahal, my queen; and when her radiance comes, Bear my command of silence to the vinas and the drums, And for your guerdon take your choice of all these gilded crumbs."

He tossed a handful of the gems down where his minion lay, Who snatched a jewel from the drift, and swiftly sped away With his command to Nourmahal, who waited to obey.

But needlessly the mandate fell of silence on the crowd, For when the Empress swept the path, ten thousand heads were bowed, And drum and vina ceased their din, and no one spoke aloud.

As comes the moon from out the sea with her attendant breeze, As sweeps the morning up the hills and blossoms in the trees, So Nourmahal to Selim came: then fell upon her knees!

The envious jewels looked at her with chill, barbaric stare, The cloth-of-gold she knelt upon grew lusterless and bare, And all the place was cooler in the darkness of her hair.

And while she knelt in queenly pride and beauty strange and wild, And held her breast with both her palms and looked on him and smiled, She seemed no more of common earth, but Casyapa's child.

He bent to her as thus she smiled; he kissed her lifted cheek; "Oh Nourmahal," he murmured low, "more dear than I can speak, I'm weary of my lonely life: give me the rest I seek."

She rose and paced the silken floor, as if in mad caprice, Then paused, and from the Empress changed to improvisatrice, And wove this song--a golden chain--that led him into peace:

Lovely children of the light, Draped in radiant locks and pinions,-- Red and purple, blue and white-- In their beautiful dominions, On the earth and in the spheres, Dwell the little glendoveers.

And the red can know no change, And the blue are blue forever, And the yellow wings may range Toward the white or purple never. But they mingle free from strife, For their color is their life.

When their color dies, they die,-- Blent with earth or ether slowly-- Leaving where their spirits lie, Not a stain, so pure and holy Is the essence and the thought Which their fading brings to naught!

Each contented with the hue Which indues his wings of beauty, Red or yellow, white or blue, Sings the measure of his duty Through the summer clouds in peace, And delights that never cease.

Not with envy love they more Locks and pinions purple-tinted, Nor with jealousy adore Those whose pleasures are unstinted, And whose purple hair and wings Give them place with queens and kings.

When a purple glendoveer Flits along the mute expanses, They surround him, far and near, With their glancing wings and dances, And do honor to the hue Loved by all and worn by few.

In the days long gone, alas! Two upon a cloud, low-seated, Saw their pinions in the glass Of a silver lake repeated. One was blue and one was red, And the lovely pair were wed.

"Purple wings are very fine," Spoke the voice of Ruby, gently: "Ay" said Sapphire, "they're divine!"-- Looking at his blue intently. "But we're blest," said Ruby, then, "And we'll not complain like men."

Sapphire stretched his loving arms, And she nestled on his bosom, While his heart inhaled her charms As the sense inhales a blossom;-- Drank her wholly, tint and tone, Blent her being with his own.

Rapture passed, they raised their eyes, But were startled into clamor Of a marvellous surprise! Was it color! was it glamour! Purple-tinted, sweet and warm, Was each wing and folded form!

Who had wrought it--how it came-- These were what the twain disputed. How were mingled smoke and flame Into royal hue transmuted? Each was right, the other wrong: But their quarrel was not long,

For the moment that their speech Differed o'er their little story, Swiftly faded off from each Every trace of purple glory, Blue was bluer than before, And the red was red once more.

Then they knew that both were wrong, And in sympathy of sorrow Learned that each was only strong In the power to lend and borrow,-- That the purple never grew But by grace of red to blue.

So, embracing in content, Hearts and wings again united, Red and blue in purple blent, And their holy troth replighted, Both, as happy as the day, Kissed, and rose, and flew away!

And for twice a thousand years, Floating through the radiant ether, Lived the happy glendoveers, Of the other, jealous neither,-- Sapphire naught without the red, Ruby still by blue bested.

But when weary of their life, They came down to earth at even-- Purple husband, purple wife-- From the upper deeps of heaven, And reclined upon the grass, That their little lives might pass.

Wing to wing and arms enwreathed, Sank they from their life's long dreaming;-- Into earth their souls they breathed; But when morning's light was streaming, All their joys and sweet regrets Bloomed in banks of violets!

As from its dimpled fountain, at its own capricious will, Each step a note of music, and each fall and flash a thrill, The rill goes singing to the meadow levels and is still,

So fell from Nourmahal her song upon the captive sense; It dashed in spray against the throne, it tinkled through the tents, And died at last among the flowery banks of recompense;

For when great Selim marked her fire, and read her riddle well, And watched her from the flushing to the fading of the spell, He sprang forgetful, from his seat, and caught her as she fell.

He raised her in his tender arms; he bore her to his throne: "No more, oh! Nourmahal, my wife, no more I sit alone; And the future for the dreary past shall royally atone!"

He called to him the princes and the nobles of the land, Then took the signet-ring from his, and placed it on her hand, And bade them honor as his own, fair Nourmahal's command.

And on the minted silver that his largess scattered wide, And on the gold of commerce, till the mighty Selim died, Her name and his in shining boss stood equal, side by side.

XXII.

The opening of the wondrous tome Was like the opening of a door Into a vast and pictured dome, Crowded, from vaulted roof to floor, With secrets of her life and home.

To be like Philip was to be Another Philip--only less! To win his wit in full degree Would bear to him but nothingness, From one no wiser grown than he!

If blue and red in Hindostan Were blue and red at home, she knew That she--a woman, he--a man, Could never wear the royal hue Till blue and red together ran

In complement of each to each; She might not tint his life at all By learning wisdom he could teach; So what she gave, though poor and small, Should be of that beyond his reach.

Where Philip fed, she would not feed; Where Philip walked, she would not go; The books he read she would not read, But live her separate life, and, so, Have sole supplies to meet his need.

He held his mission and his range; His way and work were all his own; And she would give him in exchange What she could win and she alone, Of life and learning, fresh and strange.

XXIII.

While thus she sat in musing mood, Determining her life's emprise, The sunlight flushed the distant wood, Then, coming closer, filled her eyes, And glorified her solitude.

The clouds were shivered by the lance Sped downward by the morning sun, And from her heart, in swift advance, The shadows vanished, one by one, Till more than sunlight filled the manse.

She closed the volume with a gust That sprent the light with powdered gold; Then placed it high to hide and rust Where, curious and over-bold She found it, lying in its dust.

Her soul was light, her path was plain; One shadow only drooped above,-- The shadow of a heart and brain So charged with overwhelming love That it oppressed and gave her pain.

The modest comb that kept her hair; To Philip was a golden crown; And every ringlet was a snare, And every hat, and every gown And slipper, something more than fair.

His love had glorified her grace, And she was his, and not her own,-- So wholly his she had no place Beside him on his lonely throne, Or share in love's divine embrace.

And knowing that the coming days Would strip her features of their mask, That duty then would speak her praise, And love become a loyal task, Save he should find beneath the glaze

His fiery love of her had spread, Diviner things he had not seen, She feared her woman's heart and head Were armed with charms and powers too mean To win the boon she coveted.

But still she saw and held her plan, And fear made way for springing hope. If she was man's, then hers was man: Both held their own in even scope; And then and there her life began.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHIES.

I.

A wife is like an unknown sea;-- Least known to him who thinks he knows Where all the shores of promise be, Where lie the islands of repose, And where the rocks that he must flee.

Capricious winds, uncertain tides, Drive the young sailor on and on, Till all his charts and all his guides Prove false, and vain conceit is gone, And only docile love abides.

Where lay the shallows of the maid, No plummet line the wife may sound; Where round the sunny islands played The pulses of the great profound, Lies low the treacherous everglade.

And sailing, he becomes, perforce, Discoverer of a lovely world; And finds, whate'er may be his course, Green lands within white seas impearled, And streams of unsuspected source

Which feed with gold delicious fruits, Kept by unguessed Hesperides, Or cool the lips of gentle brutes That breed and browse among the trees Whose wind-tossed limbs and leaves are lutes,

The maiden free, the maiden wed, Can never, never be the same. A new life springs from out the dead, And, with the speaking of a name, A breath upon the marriage-bed,

She finds herself a something new-- (Which he learns later, but no less); And good and evil, false and true, May change their features--who can guess?-- Seen close, or from another view.

For maiden life, with all its fire, Is hid within a grated cell, Where every fancy and desire And graceless passion, guarded well, Sits dumb behind the woven wire.

Marriage is freedom: only when The husband turns the prison-key Knows she herself; nor even then Knows she more wisely well than he, Who finds himself least wise of men.

New duties bring new powers to birth, And new relations, new surprise Of depths of weakness or of worth, Until he doubt if her disguise Mask more of heaven, or more of earth.

Tears spring beneath a careless touch; Endurance hardens with a word; She holds a trifle with a clutch So strangely, childishly absurd, That he who loves and pardons much

Doubts if her wayward wit be sane, When straight beyond his manly power She stiffens to the awful strain Of some supreme or crucial hour, And stands unblanched in fiercest pain!

A jealous thought, a petty pique, Enwraps in gloom, or bursts in storm; She questions all that love may speak, And weighs its tone, and marks its form, Or yields her frailty to a freak

That vexes him or breeds disgust; Then rises in heroic flame, And treads a danger into dust, Or puts his doubting soul to shame With love unfeigned and perfect trust.

Still seas unknown the husband sails; Life-long the lovely marvel lasts; In golden calms or driving gales, With silent prow, or reeling masts, Each hour a fresh surprise unveils.

The brooding, threatening bank of mist Grows into groups of virid isles, By sea embraced and sunlight kissed, Or breaks into resplendent smiles Of cinnabar and amethyst!

No day so bright but scuds may fall, No day so still but winds may blow; No morn so dismal with the pall Of wintry storm, but stars may glow When evening gathers, over all!

And so thought Philip, when, in haste Returning from his lengthened stay-- The river and the lawn retraced-- He found his Mildred blithe and gay, And all his anxious care a waste.

To be half vexed that she could thrive Without him through a morning's span, Upon the honey in her hive, Was but to prove himself a man, And show that he was quite alive!

II.

A sympathetic word or kiss, (Mildred had insight to discern,) Though grateful quite, is quite amiss, In leading to the life etern The soul that has no bread in this.

The present want must aye be fed, And first relieved the present care: "Give us this day our daily bread" Must be recited in our prayer Before "forgive us" may be said.

And he who lifts a soul from vice, And leads the way to better lands; Must part his raiment, share his slice, And oft with weary, bleeding hands, Pave the long path with sacrifice.

So on a pleasant summer morn, Wrapped in her motive, sweet and safe, She sought the homes of sin and scorn, And found her little Sunday waif Ragged, and hungry, and forlorn.

She called her quickly to her knee; And with her came a motley troop Of children, poor and foul as she, Who gathered in a curious group, And ceased their play, to hear and see.

Tanned brown by all the summer suns, With brutish brows and vacant eyes, They drank her speech and ate her buns, While she behind their sad disguise Beheld her dear Lord's "little ones."

She stood like Ruth amid the wheat, With ready hand and sickle keen, And looked on all with aspect sweet; For where she only thought to glean, She found a harvest round her feet.

Ah! little need the tale to write Of garments begged from door to door, Of needles plying in the night, And money gathered from the store Alike of screw and Sybarite,

With which to clothe the little flock. She went like one sent forth of God To loose the bolts of heart and lock, And with the smiting of her rod To call a flood from every rock.

And little need the tale to tell How, when the Sunday came again, A wondrous change the group befell, And how from every noisome den, Responding to the chapel bell,

They issued forth with shout and call, And Mildred walking at their head, Who, with her silken parasol, Bannered the army that she led, And with low words commanded all.

The little army walked through smiles That hung like lamps above their march, And lit their swart and straggling files, While bending elm and plumy larch Shaped into broad cathedral aisles