Chapter 3

The paths that led with devious trend To where the ivied chapel stood, There their long passage found its end, And there they gathered in a brood Of gentle clamor round their friend.

A score pressed in on either side To share the burden of her care, And hearts and house gave entrance wide To those to whom the words of prayer Were stranger than the curse of pride.

And Mildred who, without a thought Of glory in her week's long task, This marvel of the week had wrought, Had earned the boon she would not ask, And won more love than she had sought.

III.

As two who walk through forest aisles, Lit all the way by forest flowers, Divide at morn through twin defiles To meet again in distant hours, With plunder plucked from all the miles,

So Philip and his Mildred went Into their walks of daily life,-- Parting at morn with sweet consent, And--tireless husband, busy wife-- Together when the day was spent,

Bringing the treasures they had won From sundered tracks of enterprise, To learn from each what each had done, And prove each other grown more wise Than when the morning was begun.

He strengthened her with manly thought And learning, gathered from the great; And she, whose quicker eye had caught The treasures of the broad estate Of common life and learning, brought

Her gleanings from the level field, And gave them gladly to his hands, Who had not dreamed that they could yield Such sheaves, or hold within their bands Such wealth of lovely flowers concealed.

His grave discourse, his judgment sure, Gave tone and temper to her soul, While her swift thoughts and vision pure, And mirth that would not brook control, And wit that kept him insecure

Within his dignified repose, Refreshed and quickened him like wine. No tender word or dainty gloze Could give him pleasure half so fine As that which tingled to her blows.

He gave her food for heart and mind, And raised her toward his higher plane; She showed him that his eyes were blind; She proved his lofty wisdom vain, And held him humbly with his kind.

IV.

Oh blessed sleep! in which exempt From our tired selves long hours we lie, Our vapid worthlessness undreamt, And our poor spirits saved thereby From perishing of self-contempt!

We weary of our petty aims; We sicken with our selfish deeds; We shrink and shrivel, in the flames That low desire ignites and feeds, And grudge the debt that duty claims.

Oh sweet forgetfulness of sleep! Oh bliss, to drop the pride of dress, And all the shams o'er which we weep, And, toward our native nothingness, To drop ten thousand fathoms deep!

At morning only--strong, erect-- We face our mirrors not ashamed; For then alone we meet unflecked The image we at evening blamed, And find refreshed our self-respect.

Ah! little wonderment that those, Who see us most and love us best, Find that a true affection grows The more when, in its parted nest, It spends long hours in lone repose!

Our fruit grows dead in pulp and rind When seen and handled overmuch; The roses fade, our fingers bind; And with familiar kiss and touch The graces wither from our kind.

Man lives on love, at love's expense, And woman, so her love be sweet; Best honey palls upon the sense When it is tempted to repeat Too oft its fine experience.

And Mildred, with instinctive skill, And loving neither most nor least, Stood out from Philip's grasping will, And gave, where he desired a feast, The taste that left him hungry still.

She hid her heart behind a mask, And held him to his manly course; One hour in love she bade him bask, And then she drove, with playful force, The laggard to his daily task.

They went their way and kept their care, And met again their toil complete, Like angels on a heavenly stair, Or pilgrims in a golden street, Grown stronger one, and one more fair!

V.

As one worn down by petty pains, With fevered head and restless limb, Flies from the toil that stings and stains, And all the cares that wearied him, And same far, silent summit gains;

And in its strong, sweet atmosphere, Or in the blue, or in the green, Finds his discomforts disappear, And loses in the pure serene The garnered humors of a year;

And sees not how and knows not when The old vexations leave their seat, So Philip, happiest of men, Saw all his petty cares retreat, And vanish, not to come again.

Where he had thought to shield and serve, Himself had ministry instead, He heard no vexing call to swerve From larger toil, for labors sped By smaller hand and finer nerve.

In deft and deferential ways She took the house by silent siege; And Dinah, warmest in her praise, Grew, unaware, her loyal liege, And served her truly all her days.

And many a sad and stricken maid, And many a lorn and widowed life That came for counsel or for aid To Philip, met the pastor's wife, And on her heart their burden laid.

VI.

He gave her what she took--her will; And made it space for life full-orbed. He learned at last that every rill Loses its freshness, when absorbed By the great stream that turns the mill.

With hand ungrasping for her dower, He found its royal income his; And every swiftly kindling power-- Self-moved in its activities-- Becoming brighter every hour.

The air is sweet which we inspire When it is free to come and go; And sound of brook and scent of briar Rise freshest where the breezes blow, That feed our breath and fan our fire.

That love is weak which is too strong; A man may be a woman's grave; The right of love swells oft to wrong, And silken bonds may bind a slave As truly as a leathern thong.

We may not dine upon the bird That fills our home with minstrelsy; The living vine may never gird Too firm and close the living tree, Without sad sacrifice incurred.

The crystal goblet that we drain Will be forever after dry; But he who sips, and sips again, And leaves it to the open sky, Will find it filled with dew and rain.

The lilies burst, the roses blow Into divinest balm and bloom, When free above and free below; And life and love must have large room, That life and love may largest grow.

So Philip learned (what Mildred saw), That love was like a well profound, From which two souls had right to draw, And in whose waters would be drowned The one who took the other's law.

VII.

Ambition was an alien word, Which Mildred faintly understood; Its poisoned breathing had not blurred The whiteness of her womanhood, Nor had its blatant trumpet stirred

To quicker pulse her heart content. In social tasks and home employ, She did not question what it meant; But bore her woman's lot with joy And sweetness, wheresoe'er she went.

If ever with unconscious thrill It touched her, in some vagrant dream, She only wished that God would fill With larger tide the goodly stream That flowed beside her, strong and still.

She knew that love was more than fame, And happy conscience more than love;-- Far off and wild, the wings of flame! Close by, the pinions of the dove That hovered white above her name!

She honored Philip as a man, And joyed in his supreme estate; But never dreamed that under ban She lives who never can be great, Or chieftain of a crowd or clan.

The public eye was like a knife That pierced and plagued her shrinking heart. To be a woman, and a wife, With privilege to dwell apart, And hold unseen her modest life--

Alike from praise and blame aloof, And free to live and move in peace Beneath love's consecrated roof-- Was boon so great she could not cease Her thanks for the divine behoof.

Black turns to brown and blue to blight Beneath the blemish of the sun; And e'en the spotless robe of white, Worn overlong, grows dim and dun Through the strange alchemy of light.

Nor wives nor maidens, weak or brave, Can stand and face the public stare, And win the plaudits that they crave, And stem the hisses that they dare, And modest truth and beauty save.

No woman, in her soul, is she Who longs to poise above the roar Of motley multitudes, and be The idol at whose feet they pour The wine of their idolatry.

Coarse labor makes its doer coarse; Great burdens harden softest hands; A gentle voice grows harsh and hoarse That warns and threatens and commands Beyond the measure of its force.

Oh sweet, beyond all speech, to feel Within no answer to the drum, Or echo to the bugle-peal, That calls to duties which benumb In service of the commonweal!

Oh sweet to feel, beyond all speech, That most and best of human kind Have leave to live beyond the reach Of toil that tarnishes, and find No tongue but Envy's to impeach!

Oh sweet, that most unnoticed deeds Give play to fine, heroic blood!-- That hid from light, and shut from weeds, The rose is fairer in its bud Than in the blossom that succeeds!

He is the helpless slave who must; And she enfranchised who may sit Unblamed above the din and dust, Where stronger hands and coarser wit Strive equally for crown and crust.

So ran her thought, and broader yet, Who scanned her own by Philip's pace; And never did the wife forget Her grateful tribute for the grace That charged her with so sweet a debt.

So ran her thought; and in her breast Her wifely pride to pity grew, That Philip, by his Lord's behest-- To duty and to nature true-- Must do his bravest and his best.

Through winter's cold and summer's heat, Where all might praise and all might blame, And thus be topic of the street, And see his fair and honest name A football, kicked by careless feet.

She loved her creed, and doubting not She read it well from Nature's scroll, She found no line or word to blot; But, from her woman's modest soul, Thanked her Creator for her lot.

VIII.

He who, upon an Alpine peak, Stands, when the sunrise lifts the East, And gilds the crown and lights the cheek Of largest monarch down to least, Of all the summits cold and bleak,

Finds sadly that it brings no boon For all his long and toilsome leagues, And chill at once and weary soon, Rests from his fevers and fatigues, And waits the recompense of noon,

For then the valleys, near and far, The hillsides, fretted by the vine, The glacier-drift and torrent-scar Whose restless waters shoot and shine, And many a tarn, that like a star

Trembles and flames with stress of light, And many a hamlet and chalet That dots with brown, or paints with white, The landscape quivering in the day, With beauty all his toil requite.

Mountains, from mountain altitudes Are only hills, as bleak and bare; And he whose daring step intrudes Upon their grandeur, and the rare Cold light or gloom that o'er them broods,

Finds that with even brow to stand Among the heights that bade him climb, Is loss of all that made them grand, While all of lovely and sublime Looks up to him from lake and land.

Great men are few, and stand apart; And seem divinest when remote. From brain to brain, and heart to heart, No thoughts of genial commerce float; Each holds his own exclusive mart.

And when we meet them, face to face, And hand to hand their greatness greet, Our steps we willingly retrace, And gather humbly at their feet, With those who live upon their grace.

And man and woman--mount and vale-- Have charms, each from the other seen,-- The robe of rose, the coat of mail: The springing turf, the black ravine: The tossing pines, the waving swale:

Which please the sight with constant joy. Thus living, each has power to call The other's thoughts with sweet decoy, And one can rise and one can fall But to distemper or destroy.

The dewy meadow breeds the cloud That rises on ethereal wings, And wraps the mountain in a shroud From which the living lightning springs And torrents pour, that, lithe and loud,

Leap down in service to the plains, Or feed the fountains at their source; And only thus the mountain gains The vital fulness of the force That fills the meadow's myriad veins.

In fair, reciprocal exchange Of good which each appropriates, The meadow and the mountain-range Nourish their beautiful estates; And lofty wild and lowly grange

Thrive on the commerce thus ordained; And not a reek ascends the rock, And not a drift of dew is rained, But eyrie-brood and tended flock By the sweet gift is entertained.

A meadow may be fair and broad, And hold a river in its rest; Or small, arid with the silver gaud Of a lone lakelet on its breast, Or but a patch, that, overawed,

Clings humbly to the mountain's hem: It matters not: it is the charm That cheers his life, and holds the stem Of every flower that tempts his arm, Or greets his snowy diadem.

Dolts talk of largest and of least, And worse than dolts are they who prate Of Beauty captive to the Beast; For man in woman finds his mate, And thrones her equal at his feast.

She matches meekness with his might, And patience with his power to act,-- His judgment with her quicker sight; And wins by subtlety and tact The battles he can only fight.

And she who strives to take the van In conflict, or the common way, Does outrage to the heavenly plan, And outrage to the finer clay That makes her beautiful to man.

All this, and more than this, she saw Who reigned in Philip's house and heart. Far off, he seemed without a flaw; Close by, her tasteless counterpart, And slave to Nature's common law.

To climb with fierce, familiar stride His dizzy paths of life and thought, Would but degrade him from her pride, And bring the majesty to naught Which love and distance magnified.

If she should grow like him, she knew He would admire and love her less; The eagle's image might be true, But eagle of the wilderness Would find no consort in the view.

A woman, in her woman's sphere, A loyal wife and worshipper, She only thirsted to appear As fair to him as he to her, And fairer still, from year to year.

And he who quickly learned to purge His fancy of the tender whim That she was floating at the verge Of womanhood, half hid to him, Saw her with gracious mien emerge,

And stand full-robed upon the shore, With faculties and charms unguessed; With wondrous eyes that looked before, And hands that helped and words that blessed-- The mistress of an alien lore

Beyond the wisdom of the schools And all his manly power to win; With handicraft of tricks and tools That conjured marvels with a pin, And miracles with skeins and spools!

She seemed to mock his dusty dearth With flowers that sprang beneath his eyes; Till all he was, seemed little worth, And she he deemed so little wise, Became the wisest of the earth.

In all the struggles of his soul, And all the strifes his soul abhorred, She shone before him like a goal-- A shady power of fresh reward-- A shallop riding in the mole,

That waited with obedient helm To bear him over sparkling seas, Into a new and fragrant realm, Before the vigor of a breeze That drove, but would not overwhelm.

IX.

The river of their life was one; The shores, down which they passed were two; One mirrored mountains, huge and dun, The other crimped the green and blue, And sparkled in the kindly sun!

Twin barks, with answering flags, they moved With even canvas down the stream, In smooth or ruffled waters grooved, And found such islands in their dream As rest and loving speech behooved.

Ah fair the goodly gardens smiled On Philip at his rougher strand! And grandly loomed the summits, isled In seas of cloud, to her who scanned From her far shore the lofty wild.

Two lives, two loves--both self-forgot In loving homage to their oath; Two lives, two loves, but living not By ministry that reached them both In service of a common lot,

They sailed the stream, and every mile Broadened with beauty as they passed; And fruitful shore and trysting-isle, And all love's intercourse were glassed And blessed in Heaven's benignant smile.

X.

To symmetry the oak is grown Which all winds visit on the lea, While that which lists the monotone Of the long blast that sweeps the sea, And answers to its breath alone,

Turns with aversion from the breeze, And stretches all its stunted limbs Landward and heavenward, toward the trees That listen to a thousand hymns, And grow to grander destinies.

Man may not live on whitest loaves, With all of coarser good dismissed; He pines and starves who never roves Beyond the holy eucharist, To gather of the fields and groves.

And he who seeks to fill his heart With solace of a single friend, Will find refreshment but in part, Or, sadder still, will find the end Of all his reach of thought and art.

They who love best need friendship most; Hearts only thrive on varied good; And he who gathers from a host Of friendly hearts his daily food, Is the best friend that we can boast.

She left her husband with his friends; She called them round him at her board; And found their culture made amends For all the time that, from her hoard, She spared him for these nobler ends.

He was her lover; that sufficed: His home was in the Holy Place With that of the Beloved Christ; And friendship had no subtle grace By which his love could be enticed.

Of all his friends, she was but one: She held with them a common field. Exclusive right, with love begun, Ended with love, and stood repealed, Leaving his friendship free to run

Toward man or woman, all unmissed. She knew she had no right to bind His friendship to her single wrist, So long as love was true and kind, And made her its monopolist,

No time was grudged with jealous greed Which either books or friendship claimed. He was her friend, and she had need Of all--unhindered and unblamed That he could win, through word or deed.

Her friend waxed great as grew the man; Her temple swelled as rose her priest-- With power to bless and right to ban-- And all who served him, most or least,-- From chorister and sacristan

To those whose frankincense and myrrh Perfumed the sacred courts with alms,-- Were gracious ministers to her, Who found the largess in her palms, And him the friendly almoner.

LOVE'S CONSUMMATIONS.

The summer passed, the autumn came; The world swung over toward the night; The forests robed themselves in flame, Then faded slowly into white; And set within a crystal frame

Of frozen streams, the shaggy boles Of oak and elm, with leafless crowns, Were painted stark upon the knolls; And cots and villages and towns On virgin canvas glowed like coals

In tawny-red, or strove in vain To shame the white in which they stood. The fairest tint was but a stain Upon the snow, that quenched the wood, And paved the street, and draped the plain!

II.

Oh! Southern cheeks are quick to feel The magic finger of the frost; And Mildred heard but one long peal From the fierce Arctic, which embossed Her window-panes, and set the seal

Of cold on all her eye beheld, When through her veins there swept new fire, And, in her answering bosom, swelled New purposes and new desire, And force to higher deeds impelled.

Ah! well for her the languor cast That followed from her Southern clime! The time would come--was coming fast,-- Love's consummated, crowning time-- Of which her heart had antepast!

A strange new life was in her breast; Her eyes were full of wondrous dreams; She sailed all whiles from crest to crest Of a broad ocean, through whose gleams She saw an island wrapped in rest!

And as she drove across the sea, Toward the fair port that fixed her gaze, Her life was like a rosary, Whose slowly counted beads were days Of prayer for one that was to be!

III.

Oh roses, roses! Who shall sing The beauty of the flowers of God! Or thank the angel from whose wing The seeds are scattered on the sod From which such bloom and perfume spring!

Sure they have heavenly genesis Which make a heaven of every place; Which company our bale and bliss, And never to our sinning race Speak aught unhallowed, or amiss!

When love is grieved, their buds atone; When love is wed, their forms are near; They blend their breathing with the moan Of love when dying, and the bier Is white with them in every zone.

No spot is mean that they begem; No nosegay fair that holds them not; They melt the pride and stir the phlegm Of lord and churl, in court and cot, And weave a common diadem

For human brows where'er they grow. They write all languages of red, They speak all dialects of snow, And all the words of gold are said With fragrant meanings where they blow!

Oh sweetest flowers! Oh flowers divine! In which God comes so closely down, We gather from his chosen sign The tints that cluster in his crown-- The perfume of his breath benign!

Oh sweetest flowers! Oh flowers that hold The fragrant life of Paradise For a brief day, shut told in fold, That we may drink it in a trice, And drop the empty pink and gold!

Oh sweetest flowers, that have a breath For every passion that we feel! That tell us what the Master saith Of blessing, in our woe and weal, And all events of life and death!

IV.

The time of roses came again; And one had bloomed within the manse, Bloomed in a burst of midnight pain, And plumed its life in fair expanse, Beneath love's nursing sun and rain.

In calyx fair of lilied lawn, Wrapped in the mosses of the lamb, Long days it lightened toward the dawn Of the bright-blushing oriflamme, That on two happy faces shone.

Such tendance ne'er had flower before! Such beauty ne'er had flower returned! Found on that distant island-shore, Whose secret she at last had learned, And made her own for evermore,

Mildred consigned it to her breast; And though she knew it took its hue From her, it seemed the Lord's bequest,-- Still sparkling with the heavenly dew, And still with heavenly beauty dressed.

Oh roses! ye were wondrous fair That summer by the river side! For hearts were blooming everywhere, In sympathy of love and pride, With that which came to Mildred's care.

And rose as red as rose could be Filled Philip's breast with largest bloom, And cast its fragrance far and free, And filled his lonely, silent room With rapture of paternity!

V.

The evening fell on field and street; The glow-worm lit his phosphor lamp, For fairy forms and fairy feet, That gathered for their nightly tramp Where grass was green and flowers were sweet.

In devious circles, round and round, The night-hawk coursed the twilight sky, Or shot like lightning the profound, With breezy thunder in the cry That marked his furious rebound!

The zephyrs breathed through elm and ash From new-mown hay and heliotrope, And came through Philip's open sash With sheen of stars that lit the cope, And twinkling of the fire-fly's flash.

He thought of Mildred and his boy; And something moved him more than pride, And purer than his manly joy; For while these swelled with turbid tide, His gratitude had no alloy.

He heard the baby's weary plaint; He heard the mother's soothing words; And sitting in his hushed restraint, One voice was murmur of the birds, And one the hymning of a saint!

And as he sat alone, immersed In the fond fancies of the time, Her voice in mellow music burst, And by a rhythmic stair of rhyme Led down to sleep the child she nursed.