Part 4
THE MAIDEN (_laying her head on the pillow_).
Oh, farewell, My love! my love! my love! [_Weeps._
THE LADY.
Child, do not sob. Come to me--let me hold you; who can tell, Perhaps he hears you, though so still. We’ll stand Together by his side--thus, hand-in-hand-- And gaze on his calm face.
WOMAN OF THE HOUSE (_below_).
The wagon’s here.
THE MAIDEN.
Alas! and I must hasten. Kiss me, dear; Indeed, I love you now.
THE LADY.
And I have tried To make you. [_They embrace.--Exit_ MAIDEN.
THE LADY (_throwing herself down beside the body_).
Meredith, art satisfied?
_EARTH TO EARTH._
Wrapped in his cloak, they bore him forth at dawn, The soldier dead, dead in his gallant strength, Young manhood’s prime. The heavy fold withdrawn Showed his calm face; while all his rigid length Lay stiff beneath the covering, the feet Turned up to heaven like marble. Breezes played Soft in his curling hair, the fragrance sweet Of the wild-brier roses incense made, And one bird sang a chant. Yet recks it not, This quiet body going to its grave, Feet foremost, folded hands, if the storm rave Or the sun shine. Henceforth nor part nor lot Hath it with men--the tale is told, all’s o’er; Its place shall know its step, its voice, no more; Its memory shall pass away; its name, For all its evil or for all its worth, Whether bedecked with reverence or blame, Shall soon be clean forgotten.-- Earth to earth!
The lady walked alone. Her glorious hair Still held its roses crushed; the chill despair That numbed her being could not dim the light Of all her flashing jewels, nor the bright Sheen of her draperies. The summer sun Rose in the east and showed the open grave Close at her feet; but, ere the work begun-- Lowering the clay (O proud humanity! Is this thy end?)--she gentle signal gave To lay the body down, and, by its side Kneeling, kissed brow and lips, fondly as bride Might kiss; and, as she clung there, secretly A shining ring left on the cold dead hand, And covered it from view; then slowly rose And gave them place. But ere the tightening rope Had done its duty, o’er the eastern slope Rode horsemen, and the little group of those Who gazed, drew back, and eyed askance the band. They turned, they drew their reins--a sight to see Indeed, this lady clad so royally, Alone, beside a grave. She raised her eyes, And the bold leader bared his lofty head Before her to his saddle-bow; the guise Of bold, rough-riding trooper could not hide The gallant grace that thus its homage paid To so much beauty. At his signal mute, The little band, Kentucky’s secret pride, His daring followers in many a raid And many a hair-breadth ’scape, made swift salute, And, all dismounting, honor to the dead Paid silently, not knowing ’twas their own Bullet by night that laid him there:--so strange The riddle of men’s life, its little range Thick with crossed fates, though each one stands alone To mortal eyes. The rope slackened, the clay Had reached its final resting-place. Then she Who loved him best, in all her rich array Stepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands cast The first clod on his heart. “I yield to thee, Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fast As sacred trust! ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!’” Then, rising, with her lovely face upturned To the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned, “I know that my Redeemer lives,” she said; “He that believes on him, though he were dead, Yet shall he live!” And so passed from their sight.
The troopers ride away, On to the south; the men who fill the grave With hurried shovelfuls in whispers say, “That’s part of Morgan’s band.” And one, a slave, Looks down the road, and mutters: “That was him-- Young Cap’en Morgan’s self! These eyes is dim, But they knows Morgan! Morgan!--what! why, bless Your hearts, _I_ know him, and I know Black Bess-- ’Twas Bess he rode.”
And now the work is done; On from their northern raid the troopers pass Fleet to the south; the grave is filled, and gone Even the slave. Forever still, alone, Her letters and bright picture on his breast, Her sparkling spousal-ring on his dead hand, The golden-haired young soldier lies at rest Where o’er his head the steely shadows pass, Far in the fair Kentucky border-land, The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass.
1864.
_WASHINGTON._
THE LADY (_with an open letter_).
Married! Nay, now the little vexing fear That troubled the calm hollow of my grief With its small aching is withdrawn, and clear The certainty--she never loved him. Brief Her forgetting--brief!--But I will not chide; All happiness go with thee, gentle bride, And of my gold a sister’s share! To wed Another, and once his! O golden head Under the grass, how jealous is my heart Of thy remembrance! Yet I should be glad She loved thee not, for then no evil part I played, e’en though unconsciously. Oh, mad, Mad, mad my love for thee! the same to-day-- The same, the same. I could not be a wife-- I could not stop the sun! No love but thee, My own, my own! no kiss but thine--no voice To call me those sweet names that memory Brings back with tears. Ah! had I any choice, I still must love thee down beneath the sod More than all else--though grandest soul that God Had ever made did woo me. Love, my heart Is thine, and ever must be thine; thy name Is branded there! Yet must I live my life.
SERVANT (_announcing_).
The Count.
THE LADY.
Another? Ah! poor fools. The game Doth while away my time. Yes, I do play My part with smiles that are not wholly feigned, For life is strong, and I am young.--There reigned A queen once, who, though dead, could not lay down Her long-used sceptre; with her jeweled crown Upon her head, she sat and meted out Reward and justice; nor did any doubt Her life was gone. Were not her robes the same-- Her jewels bright? And had she not a name Borne wide upon the winds for loveliness? She could not stop--she needs must reign--_noblesse Oblige_! So I. But she--married! a wife! Who once was his! Oh, horrible! a life Of treason to his memory, a long Lie! But, ah! no, she never loved him. _I_ Do hold myself as his, and loyally, Royally, keep my vow.
SERVANT.
What shall I say, Madam?
THE LADY (_speaks_).
Show in the Count. (_Aside._) Ah! well-a-day! One must do something.
THE COUNT (_entering_).
_Madame, je viens_--
_LAKE ERIE._
THE MAIDEN (_rising from her knees_).
My marriage-morning! Lord, give me thy grace For the new duties of a wedded life. The letters have I burned; And now--the picture. Oh, dear boyish face, One look--the last! Yet had I been thy wife, Willie, I had been true to thee--returned All thy affection to the full. She said Love was “a sacrifice.” It is; as--thus: Get thee behind me, Past! [_Burns the picture._ --Which one of us Was truest? But why ask? She wronged the dead With many lovers--nay, her very dress Showed not one trace of sorrow. --I confess I never thought her fair, although the throng Do call her so, they tell me. --Long, how long I wore the heavy crape that checked my breath, And went about as one who sorroweth; And I did sorrow! Slow months passed, and I Gave every thought to tearful memory; My grief grew selfish. Then--he brought his suit-- My mother wept and prayed. What right had I To crush two lives? If by the sacrifice I make them happy, is it not large price For my poor, broken years? How earnestly I strove to do the right! The patient fruit Of years of prayer came to my aid, and now I stand in bridal white. Lord, hear my vow: Oh, may I make him happy! Not a thought Of any other love shall mar the troth I give for _this_ life. Evils, troubles, naught But death, shall part us. Thus the marriage-oath. But after--_then_--O Willie!
THE MOTHER (_entering_).
Art thou dressed? That’s well, dear one. Never has mother blessed A child more dutiful, more good. Come, love, The bridegroom waits.
THE END.
* * * * *
TWO WOMEN:
_A POEM_.
BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
[REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.]
_From the Springfield Republican._
“Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson’s poem, ‘Two Women,’ begun in the January and finished in the February number of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, is of such remarkable quality as to deserve a wider reading than it is likely to have. To read it in completeness gives one, beyond its faults--which are principally those of imperfect versification and a certain formality of phraseology--a sense of power in character-drawing (coloring enough, too, for that matter), in dramatic situation and in expression of deep emotions, which is rarely met with. The contrast between the magnificent woman of the world and the Puritan country-girl is done in true masterly way, and that the one should continue faithful to love through her life, though still reigning in social royalty, while the other marries as piously as she mourned, and puts away the dead youth’s memory forever--is perfectly true to their natures. To present such marked types in rivalry, and show the self-abnegation in the rich nature and the innocent self-absorption of the narrow nature, was well worth while. The poem would make quite a little book, and better merits such treatment than most verses that receive it.”
_From the New York Evening Post._
“In the poem ‘Two Women,’ the first half of which appeared in the January number of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, and the last half of which has just now come to us in the February number of that magazine, there is something, we think, which takes the piece out of the category of ordinary magazine-work, and entitles it to special attention. The poem is long enough, for one thing, to fill a little volume, if it were printed as it is the custom to print books of poetry, and while it is rugged, faulty, and in many respects defective, it is nevertheless strong, dramatic, and full of the flavor of the soil. The two women who gave it its name are types of two well-defined classes of American women, but they are sharply drawn as individuals also, and their characters are presented with a boldness and a degree of distinctness which is possible only at the hands of a writer of very considerable dramatic power.”
_From the Providence Journal._
“A story in verse, which enchains the attention with fascinating power, ... produces an intensely emotional effect upon the reader, and at the same time an involuntary tribute to the originality and noteworthy ability of the writer.”
_From the Detroit Post._
“One of the most powerful pieces of magazine-writing we have seen in a long time.... Shows a far-reaching knowledge of human nature, a dramatic grasp and force, and a power of description and expression seldom seen.”
One Volume. Cloth. 12mo.
D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers.