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BITTEE-SWEET, 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 j/ttrHOLLAND, 
 
 AOTBOR OF " THE BAT PATH," " TITCOMB'S LKTTEBS, 
 
 THIRTIETH EDITION. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 SCEIBNEH, ARMSTRONG & CO., 
 
 654 BKOADWAY. 
 
 1873. 
 

 Entereo, &ccor<lin4> W Aelot Coagreds. Ir. the year 1868. bf 
 
 CflAKLES SCKIBNER, 
 
 ia the Clerk's Office of the District Conrt of the United States fcr tb« 
 Southera District of New York- 
 
 JUL 2 4 IQ'*^ 
 
 N 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 -o- 
 
 FAOl 
 PlOTURB, ^ 
 
 Persons, ». ••....•. 14 
 Prelude^ 18 
 
 FIRST MOVEMENT—COLLOQUIAL. 
 The Question Stated and Argued, . . . . 25 
 
 EIRST EPISODE, 
 The Question Illustrated by Nature, .... 69 
 
 SECOND MOVEMENT— NARRATIVE. 
 The Question Illustrated by Experience, ... 89 
 
 SECOND EPISODE, 
 The Question Illustrated by Story, ..... 157 
 
 THIRD MOVEMENT— DRAMATIC. 
 The Question Illustrated by the Denouement, . .183 
 L'Envoy, 218 
 
PICTUEE 
 
 Winter's wild birthniglit! In the fretful East 
 
 The uneasy wind moans with its sense of cold, 
 
 And sends its sighs through gloomy mountain gorge, 
 
 Along the valley, up the whitening hill, 
 
 To tease the sighing spmts of the pines. 
 
 And waste in dismal woods their chilly life. 
 
 The sky is dark, and on the huddled leaves — 
 
 The restless, rusthng leaves — sifts do-^Ti its sleet, 
 
 Till the sharp crystals pin them to the earth, 
 
 And they grow still beneath the rising storm. 
 
 The roofless bullock hugs the sheltering stack, 
 
 vYith cringing head and closely gathered feet, 
 
 nd waits with dumb endurance for the mom. 
 
 Deep in a gustv cavern of the barn 
 
 1* 
 
10 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 The witless calf stands blatant at his chain ; 
 While the brute mother, pent ^^^thin her stall, 
 With the wild stress of uistinct goes distraiighb, 
 And frets her horns, and bellows tin-oiigh the night. 
 The stream runs black ; and the far waterfall 
 That sang so sweetly through the summer eves, 
 And swelled and swayed to Zephyr's softest breath, 
 Leaps with a sullen roar the dark abyss, 
 And howls its hoarse responses to the w^ind. 
 The mill is still. The distant factory, 
 That swarmed yestreen with many-fingered life, 
 And bridged the river with a hundred bars 
 Of molten light, is dark, and lifts its bulk 
 With dim, uncertain angles, to the sky. 
 
 iti ^ * * * na 
 
 Yet lower bows the storm. The leafless trees 
 Lash their lithe limbs, and, with majestic voice. 
 Call to each other through the deepening gloom ; 
 And slender trimks that lean on burly boughs 
 Shi'iek vnth the sharp abrasion ; njid the oak^ 
 
BITTER-SWEET. U 
 
 Mellowed in fibre by unnumbered frosts, 
 Yields to the shoulder of the Titan Blast, 
 Forsakes its poise, and, with a booming crash, 
 Sweeps a fierce passage to the smothered rocks, 
 4nd lies a shattered ruin. 
 
 V H* 'p H^ T» •}• t€ 
 
 Other scene: — 
 Across the swale, half up the pine-capped hill. 
 Stands the old farm-house with its clump of barns — 
 The old red farm-house — dim and dmi to-night. 
 Save where the ruddy firelights from the hearth 
 Flap their bright wings against the window panes, — 
 A billowy swarm that beat their slender bars, 
 Or seek the night to leave their track of flame 
 Upon the sleet, or sit, with shifting feet 
 And restless plumes, among the poplar boughs — 
 The spectral poplars, standing at the gate. 
 
 And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong, 
 
 WTiose thin white hair, and cheeks of fiuTowed bronze, 
 
12 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And ancient dress, betray the patriarch, 
 Stands at the window, listening to the stoi*m 
 And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame — 
 Moved by the wind — ^it wraps and glorifies 
 His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows 
 Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise, 
 That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles. 
 And now it passes, and a sweeter shape 
 Stands in its place. O blest maternity! 
 Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace, 
 Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe ; 
 And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps. 
 Illuminates the pair, how like they seem, 
 O Virgin Mother ! to thyself and thine ! 
 Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold 
 To hearken to the voice of God without : 
 " Speak, mighty One ! Thy little seiwant hears !*' 
 And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares 
 Comes to the T^ondow in her loosened robe, — 
 Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand, — 
 
BITTER-SWEET. IS 
 
 A.nd, as the noise of winds and waters swells, 
 It shapes the song of triumph to her lips : 
 *' The horse and he who rode are overthrown !" 
 And now a man of noble port and brow, 
 And aspect of benignant majesty, 
 Assumes the vacant niche, while either side 
 Press the fair forms of children, and I hear. 
 ^'Suffer the little ones to come to me.!*' 
 
PEBSOI^B. 
 
 FIere dwells the good old fanner, Israel, 
 
 In his ancestral home — a Puritan 
 
 Who reads his Bible daily, loves his God, 
 
 And lives serenely in the faith of Christ. 
 
 For three score years and ten his life has rnn 
 
 Tlu'ough varied scenes of happiness and woe ; 
 
 But, constant through the wide vicissitude, 
 
 He has confessed the giver of his joys, 
 
 And kissed the hand that took them ; and whene'er 
 
 Bereavement h:is oppressed his soul with grief. 
 
 Or sharp misfortune stnng liis heart with pain, 
 
 Ue has bowed down in chiMlike faith, and said, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 16 
 
 "Tliy will, O God — thy will be done, not mine'" 
 
 (lis gentle wife, a dozen summers since, 
 
 Passed from liis faithful arms and went to heaven ; 
 
 And her best gift — a maiden sweetly namea — 
 
 His daughter Ruth — orders the ancient house, 
 
 And fills her mother's place beside the bop.rd, 
 
 And cheers his life with songs and industry. 
 
 But who are these who crowd the house to-night — 
 
 A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgiims, who, 
 
 Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours 
 
 With the sweet jargon of a festival ? 
 
 Who are these fothers ? who these mothers? who 
 
 These pleasant children, rude with health and joy ? 
 
 It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve ; 
 
 A]id gathered home, from fresher homes around, 
 
 Th.e old man's children keep the holiday — 
 
 In dear ISTew England, since the fathers slept — 
 
 The sweetest holiday of all the year. 
 
 John comes with Prudence and her little girls, 
 
16 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys — 
 
 Fair boys and gMs with good old Scripture names — 
 
 Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel ; 
 
 And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house, 
 
 Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day 
 
 By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe 
 
 And the tall poet David, at whoS3 side 
 
 She went away. And seated in the midst, 
 
 Mary, a foster-daughter of the house, 
 
 Of alien blood — self-aliened many a year — 
 
 Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes 
 
 Bring all the wondering children to her knee, 
 
 Weeps Avith the strange excess of happiness, 
 
 And sighs with joy. 
 
 Wliat recks the driving storm 
 Of such a scene as this ? And what reck these 
 Of such a storm ? For every heavy gust 
 That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet, 
 And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 17 
 
 A-Tid rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat 
 Through all its sooiy caverns shrieks and howls, 
 They give full bursts of careless merriment, 
 Or songs that send it baffled on its way. 
 
 t 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 DoL'BT takes to wings on such a night as this ; 
 And while the traveller liiigs liis fluttering cloak, 
 And -Staggers o'er the weary waste alone, 
 Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face, 
 And wheel above, or hnnt his fainting soul. 
 As, ^vith relentless greed, a vulture throng, 
 With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes 
 Of the last camel of the caravan. 
 Arid Faith takes foiTns and -svings on such a night. 
 V^Hiere love burns brightly at the household hearth, 
 And from the altar of each peaceful heart 
 Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks. 
 And every pulse with sympathetic throb 
 Tells the true rhvllmi of trustfulest content, 
 
BITTEK-S WEET. 19 
 
 Thoy flutter in and out, and touch to smiles 
 Tiie sleeping lips of infancy ; and fan 
 Tlie blush that hghts the modest maiden's cheeks; 
 And toss the Iock« of children at their play. 
 
 Silence is vocal if we listen well ; 
 
 And Life and Being sing in dullest ears 
 
 From morn to night, from night to morn again, 
 
 With fine articulations ; but when God 
 
 Disturbs the soul witii terror, or inspires 
 
 With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith 
 
 Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves; 
 
 And we look up to where the pleasant sky 
 
 Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song. 
 
 ^ Song o{ IDouM 
 
 The day is quenched, and the sun is fled ; 
 
 God has forgotten the world ! 
 Tlie moon is gone, and the stars are dead 
 
 God has foro^otten the world f 
 
2C BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Evil has won in the horrid feud 
 
 Of ages with The Thi'one ; 
 Evil stands on the neck of Good, 
 
 And rules the world alone. 
 
 There is no good ; there is no God ; 
 
 And Faith is a heartless cheat 
 Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, 
 
 And scatters thorns for the feet. 
 
 What are prayers in the lips of death, 
 Filling and chilling witli haU ? 
 
 What are prayers but wasted breath 
 Beaten back by the gale ? 
 
 The day is quenched, and the sun is fled ; 
 
 God has forgotten the world I 
 The moon is gone and the stars are dead j 
 
 God has forgotten the world ! 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 21 
 
 a ^ons Hi jFaitt 
 
 Day will return with a fresher boon ; 
 
 God will remember the world ! 
 Night will come with a newer moon j 
 
 God will remember the world I 
 
 Evil is only the slave of Good ; 
 
 Sorrow the servant of Joy ; 
 And the soul is mad that refuses food 
 
 Of the meanest in God's employ. 
 
 The fountain of joy is fed by tears, 
 And love is lit by the breath of sighs ; 
 
 The deepest griefs and the wildest fears 
 Have holiest ministries. 
 
 Strong gi-ows the oak in the sweeping storm 
 Safely the flower sleeps under the snow ; 
 
22 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And the farmer's hearth is never warm 
 Till the cold v/ind starts to blow. 
 
 Day will return with a fresher boon j 
 God will remember the world I 
 
 Night will come with a newer moon \ 
 God will remember the world I 
 
FIBGT MOYEMEI^T 
 
 ^"^OI-LOQUIAL 
 
FIEST MOVEME¥'i\ 
 
 LOCALITY — The square room of a Nmo Engla/nd farm-kouse. 
 
 PRESENT — ISKAEL, head of the family ; John, Petee, David, PATraNOay 
 Pbudenoe, Gbace, Maky, Euth, and Childken. 
 
 THE QUESTION STATED AND AKGUED. 
 ISKA.EL. 
 
 Ruth, touch the cradle Boys, you must be still I 
 The baby cannot sleep in such a noise. 
 May, Grace, stir not ; she'll soothe him soon enoughj 
 And tell him more sweet stuff in half an hour 
 Than you can dream, in dreaming half a year 
 
26 B I T T E R - S W E E T . 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 [Kneeling and rocking the cradU 
 
 What IS the little one thinking about ? 
 Very wonderM things, no doubt. 
 Unwritten history I 
 XJnfathomed mystery ! 
 Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 
 And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, 
 As if his head were as full of kinks 
 And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
 Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
 Punctured by puis, and tortured by fears, 
 Our little nephew will lose two years ; 
 And he'll never know 
 Where the summers go ; — 
 He need not laugh, for he'll find it bo ! 
 
 Wlio can tell what a baby thinks ? 
 Who can follow th« gossamer links 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 27 
 
 By which the maniiLkhi feels his way 
 Out from the sliore of the great unknown. 
 Blind, and wailing, and alone, 
 
 Into the light of day ? — 
 Out from the shore of the unkno^Ti sea, 
 Tossing in pitiful agony, — 
 Of the unkno^yn sea that reels and rolls, 
 Specked with the barks of little souls- 
 Barks that were launched on the other side, 
 And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide I 
 
 What does he think of his mother's eyes ? 
 What does he think of his mother's hair ? 
 
 What of the cradle-roof that flies 
 Forward and backward through the air ? 
 
 What does he think of his mother's breast- 
 Bare and beautifiil, smooth and white, 
 Seeking it ever wdth fresh deliglit— 
 
 Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? 
 What does he think when her quick embracs 
 i^resses his hand and buries his face 
 
28 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Deep where tlie heart-throbs sink and swell 
 With a tenderness she can never tell, 
 Though she murmur the words 
 Of all the birds — 
 Words she has learned to murmur well ? 
 Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 
 I can see the shadow creep 
 Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, 
 Over his brow, and over his lips, 
 Out to his little finger-tips ! 
 Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
 Down he goes ! Down he goes ! 
 
 [Eising and carefully retreating to h&r seat. 
 
 See! He is hushed in sweet repos ! 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 [ Yawning. 
 
 Behold a miracle ! Music transformed 
 To morpnine, and the drowsy god invoked 
 (iy the poor prattle of a maiden's tongue ! 
 A moment more, and we should all have gone 
 
B I T T E E - S W E E T . 29 
 
 Down into dreamland Avitli the babe ! Ah, weh » 
 There is no end of wonders. 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 None, indeed ! 
 When lazy poets who have gorged themselves, 
 And cannot keep awake, make the attempt 
 To shift the burden of their drowsiness, 
 And charge a girl with what they owe to greed. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 At your old tricks again ! No sleep induced 
 By song of yours, or any other bird's. 
 Can linger long when you begin to talk. 
 Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save 
 The trouble of my rising. 
 
 BUTH. 
 
 [Advancing and kneeling by the side of Qrac4 
 Sister mine. 
 Ko'w give the proof of your obedience 
 
30 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 To your imperious lord ! Strike, if you dare ! 
 I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand. 
 Ua! king; ha! poet; who is master now- 
 Baby or husband ? Pr'ythee, tell me that. 
 Were I a man, — ^thank Heaven I am not ! — 
 And had a wife who cared not for my will 
 More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself 
 Or wear an apron. See ! she kisses me I 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 And answers to my will, though well she knows 
 I'll spare to her so terrible a task, 
 And take the awful burden on myself; 
 Which I win do, in future, if she please I 
 
 BUTH. 
 
 Now have yoti conquered ! Look I I am your slave. 
 Denounce me, scourge me, anything but kiss ; 
 For life is sweet, and I alone am left 
 To comfort an old man. 
 
Bitter-sweet. 3] 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 Ruth, that will do I 
 Kemember I'm a Justice of the Peace, 
 And bide no quarrels ; and if you and David 
 Persist hi strife, I'll place you under bonds 
 For good behavior, or condemn you both 
 To solitary durance for the night. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 Father, you fail to understand the case. 
 And do me wrong. David has threatened me 
 With an assault that proves intent to kill ; 
 4nd here's my sister Grace, his wedded wife, 
 Who'll take her oath, that just a year ago 
 He entered into bonds to keep the peace 
 Toward me and womankind. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 I'm quite asleep. 
 
32 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 We'll all agree, then, to pronounce it quits. 
 
 RXTTH. 
 
 Till he awake again, of course. T trust 
 I have sufficient gallantry to grant 
 A nap between encounters, to a foe 
 With odds against him. 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 Peace, niy daughter, peace ! 
 You've had your full revenge, and we have had 
 Enough of laughter since the day began. 
 We must not squander all these precious hours 
 In jest and merriment ; for when the sun 
 Shall rise to-morrow, we shall separate, 
 Not knowing we shali ever meet again. 
 Meetings like this are rare this side of Heaven, 
 And seem to me the best mementoes lefl 
 Of Eden's hours. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 3li 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 Most certainly the best, 
 And quite the rarest, but, unluckily. 
 The weakest, as Ave know ; for sin and pain 
 And evils multiform, that swarm the earth, 
 And poison all our joys and all our hearts, 
 Remind us most of Eden's forfeit bliss. 
 
 DAVID 
 
 Forfeit through woman. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 Forfeit through her power ; — 
 A power not lost, as most men know, I think. 
 Beyond the knowledge of their trustful wives. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 [Rising, and walking hurriedly tc the window. 
 
 Tis a wild night A\'ithout. 
 
84 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 KUTH. 
 
 And getting wild 
 Within. Now Grace, I — all of us — protest 
 Against a scene to-night. Look! You have driven 
 One to the window blushing, and your lord, 
 With lowering brow, is making stern essay 
 To stare the fire-dogs out of countenance. 
 These honest brothers, with their honest wives, 
 Grow glum and solemn, too, as if they feared 
 At the next gust to see the windows burst, 
 Or a riven poplar crashing through the roof. 
 And think of me ! — a simple-hearted maid 
 Who learned from Cowper only yesterday 
 (Or a schoolmaster, with a handsome face, 
 And a strange passion for the text), the fact. 
 That w^edded bliss alone survives the fall. 
 I'm shocked ; I'm frightened ; and I'll never wed 
 Unless I — change my mind ! 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 35 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 And I consent. 
 
 DAVID, 
 
 And the schoolmaster with the handsome fac« 
 Propose. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 Your pardon, father, for the jest I 
 But I have never patience with the ills 
 That make intrusion on my happy hours. 
 I know the world is full of evil things. 
 And shudder with the consciousness. I know 
 That care has iron cro^vns for many brows; 
 That Calvaries are everywhere, whereon 
 Vh'tue is crucified, and nails and spears 
 Draw guiltless blood ; that sorrow sits and drinks 
 At sweetest hearts, till all their life is dry ; 
 That gentle spirits on the rack of pain 
 
36 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Gro\\ faint or fierce, and pray and curse by turns ; 
 
 Tliat Hell's temptations, clad in Heavenly guise 
 
 And armed with might, lie evei'more in wait 
 
 Along life's path, giving assault to all — 
 
 Fatal to most ; that Death stalks through the earto, 
 
 Choosing his victims, sparmg none at last; 
 
 That in each shadow of a pleasant tree 
 
 A grief sits sadly sobbing to its leaves ; 
 
 And that beside each fearful soul there walks 
 
 The dim, gaunt phantom of uncertamty. 
 
 Bidding it look before, where none may see, 
 
 And all must go ; but I forget it all — 
 
 I thrust it fi'om me always when 1 may ; 
 
 Else I should faint with fear, or drown myself 
 
 In pity. God forgive me ! but I've thought 
 
 A thousand times that if I had His power. 
 
 Or He my love, we'd have a different world 
 
 From this we live in. 
 
BITTEK-SWEET. 37 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 Those are sinful thoughts, 
 My daughter, and too surely hidicate 
 A wilful soul, unreconciled to God. 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 So you have told me often. You have said 
 That God is just, and I have looked around 
 To seek the pi-oof hi Iiuman lot, in vain. 
 The rain fills kindly on the just man's fields, 
 But on the unjust man's more kindly still ; 
 And I have never known the winter's blast. 
 Or the quick lightning, or tlie pestilence, 
 Make nice discriminations when let slip 
 From God's right hand, 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 'Tis a great mystery ; 
 Yet God is just, and, — blessed be His name ' 
 
3S BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Is loving too. I know that I am weak, 
 
 Aud that the pathway of His Providence 
 
 Is on the hills where I may never climb. 
 
 Therefore my reason yields her hand to Faith, 
 
 And follows meekly where the angel leads. 
 
 I see the rich man have his portion here, 
 
 And Lazarus, in glorified repose. 
 
 Sleep like a jewel on the breast of Faith 
 
 In Heaven's broad light. I see that whom God loves 
 
 He chastens sorely, but I ask not why. 
 
 I only know that God is just and good : 
 
 All else is mystery. Why evil lives 
 
 Within His universe, I may not know. 
 
 I know it lives, and taints the vital air ; 
 
 And that in ways inscrutable to me — 
 
 Yet compromising not his soundless love 
 
 And boundless power — it lives against His will. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 89 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 I am not satisfied. If evil live 
 
 Against God's will, evil is king of all, 
 
 And they do well who worship Lucifer, 
 
 I am not satisfied. My reason spurns 
 
 Such prostitution to absurdities. 
 
 I know that you are happy ; but I shrink 
 
 From your blind faith with loathing and with fear. 
 
 And feel that I must win it, if I win, 
 
 With the surrender, not of will alone, 
 
 But of the noblest faculty that God 
 
 Has crowned me with. 
 
 is; 
 
 O blind and stubborn child I 
 My light, my joy, my burden and my grief! 
 How would I lead you to the wells of peace, 
 And see you dip your fevered palms and drink ! 
 Gladly to purchase this would I lay down 
 
40 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 The precious remnant of my life, and sleep, 
 Wrapped iu the faith you spurn, till the archangel 
 Sounds the last trump. But God^s good will be done ! 
 I leave you with Him. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 Father, talk not thus ! 
 Oh, do not blame me ! I would do it all, 
 If but to bless you with a single joy; 
 But I am helpless. 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 God will help you, Ruth. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 To quench my reason ? Can I ask the boon ? 
 My lips would blister with the blasphemy, 
 cannot take your faith ; and that is why 
 I Avould forcret that I am in a world 
 
BITTEK-SWEET. 4\ 
 
 Where evii lives, and why I guard my joys 
 With such a jealous care. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 There, Ruth, sit down I 
 ^is the old question, with the old reply. 
 You fly along the path, with bleeding feet, 
 Where many feet have flown and bled before ; 
 And he who seeks to guide you to the goal. 
 Has (let me say it, father,) stopped far short, 
 And taken refuge at a wayside inn, 
 Whose haunted halls and mazy passages 
 Receive no light, save through the riddled roof, 
 Pierced thick by pilgrim staves, that Faith may lie 
 Upon its back, and only gaze on Heaven. 
 I would not banish evil if I could ; 
 Nor would I be so deep in love with joy 
 As to seek for it in forgetfulness, 
 Through faith or fear. 
 
A2 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 Teach me the better way, 
 An (3 every expiration from ray lips 
 Shall be a grateful blessing on your head; 
 And in the coining world I'll seek the side 
 Of no more gracious angel than the man 
 Who gives me brotherhood by leading me 
 Home with himself to heaven, 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 My son, 
 Be careful of your words ! 'Tis no light thing 
 To take the guidance of a straying soul. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 I mark the burden well, and love it, too. 
 Because I lo\e the girl and love her lord, 
 And seek to vindicate His love to her 
 And waken hers for Him. Be this my plea: 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 43 
 
 Gcni is almighty — all-benevolent; 
 And naught exists save by His loving wilL 
 Evil, or what we reckon such, exists, 
 And not against His will; else the Supreme 
 Is subject, and we have in place of God 
 A phantom nothing, with a phantom name. 
 Therefore I care not whether He ordain 
 That evil live, or whether He permit ; 
 Therefore I ask not why, in either case, 
 As if Pie meant to curse me, but I ask 
 What He would have this evil do for me? 
 What is its mission? what its ministry? 
 What golden fruit lies hidden in its husk? 
 How shall it nurse my virtue, nerve my will, 
 Chasten my passions, purify my love. 
 And make me in some goodly sense like Him 
 Who bore the cross of evil while He lived, 
 Who hung and bled upon it when He died, 
 And now, in glory, wears the victor's crown? 
 
44 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 If evil, then, have privilege and part 
 
 In the economy of holiness, 
 
 Why came the Christ to save us from its power 
 
 And bring us restoration of the blii^ 
 
 Lost in the lapse of Eden ? 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 And would you 
 Or Ruth have restoration of that bliss, 
 And welcome transplantation to the state 
 Associate mth it? 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 Would I? Would I not! 
 Oh, I have dreamed of it a thousand times, 
 Sleeping and waking, since the torch of thought 
 Flashed into flame at Revelation's touch, 
 And filled my spirit with its quenchless fire. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 45 
 
 M'jst envious dreams of innocence and joy 
 
 Have haunted me, — dreams that were born in sin, 
 
 Yet swathed in stainless snow. I've dreamed, and 
 
 dreamed, 
 Of wondrous trees, cro^vned with perennial green, 
 Whose soft still shadows gleamed with golden lamps 
 Of pensile fruitage, or were flushed with life 
 Radifint and timeful when broad flocks of birds 
 Swept in and out like sheets of livhig flame. 
 I've dreamed of aisles tufted with velvet grass, 
 And bordered with the strange intelligence 
 Of myriad loving eyes among the flowers. 
 That watched me with a curious, calm delight, 
 As rows of wayside cherubim may ^vatch 
 A new soul, walking into Paradise. 
 I've dreamed of sunsets when the sun supine r, 
 Lay rocking on the ocean like a god, "^ 
 
 And threw his weary arms far up the sky, 
 And with vermillion-tinted fingers toyed 
 With the long trecses of the evening star. 
 
4:6 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 I've dreamed of dreams more beautiful than all — 
 
 Dreams that were music, perfume, vision, bliss, — 
 
 Blent and sublimed, till I have stood enwi'apped 
 
 In the quick essence of an atmosphere 
 
 That made me tremble to unclose my eyes 
 
 Lest I should look on God. And I have dreamed 
 
 Of sinless men and maids, mated in heaven. 
 
 Ere yet their souls had sought for beauteous forms 
 
 To give them human sense and residence, 
 
 Moving through all this realm of choice delights 
 
 For ever and for aye ; with hands and hearts 
 
 Immaculate as light; without a thought 
 
 Of evil, and without a name for fear. 
 
 Oh, when I wake from happy dreams like these, 
 
 To the old consciousness that I must die, 
 
 To the old presence of a guilty heart, 
 
 To the old fear that haunts me night and day, 
 
 AVhy should I not dej^lore the graceless fall 
 
 That makes me what I am, and shuts me out 
 
 From a condition and society 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 47 
 
 As much above a sinful maiden's dreams 
 4s Eden blest sm-passes Eden cm-st? 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 So you would be another Eve, and so — 
 Fall with the first temptation, like herself! 
 God seeks for virtue; you for innocence. 
 You'U find it in the cradle — ^nowhere else — 
 Save in your dreams, among the grown up babes 
 That dwelt in Eden — powerless, pulpy souls 
 That showed a dimple for each touch of sin, 
 God seeks for virtue, and, that it may live, 
 It must resist, and that which it resists 
 Must live. Believe me, God has other thought 
 Than restoration of our fallen race 
 To its primeval innocence and bliss. 
 If Jesus Christ — as we are taught — was slain 
 From the foundation of the world, it was 
 JJecause our evil lived in essence then — 
 Coeval mth the great, mysterious fact. 
 
4b BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And He was slain that we mioht be transformed,— 
 
 Not into Adam's sweet similitude — 
 
 Bat the more glorious image of Himself,^ 
 
 A resolution of our destiny 
 
 As high transcending Eden's life and lot 
 
 As he surpasses Eden's fallen lord. 
 
 EUTII. 
 
 Fou're very bold, my brother, very bold. 
 Did I not know you for ry^ earnest man, 
 WTien sacred theme, ^jve you to utterance, 
 I'd chide you for those most irreverent words 
 Which make essential to the Christian scheme 
 That which the scheme was made to kill, or cured. 
 
 Y'et they do save some very awkward words, 
 That limp to make apology for God, 
 And, while they justify Him, half confess 
 The adverse verdict of appearances. 
 
BITTER-SAVEET. 49 
 
 r am asliamed that in this Christian age 
 
 The pious throng still hug the fallacy 
 
 That this dear world of ours was not ordained 
 
 The theatre of e\'il; for no law 
 
 Declared of God from all eternity 
 
 Can live a moment save by lease of pain. 
 
 Law cannot live, e'en in God's inniost thought, 
 
 Save by the side of evil. What were law 
 
 But a weak jest without its penaltv ? 
 
 Ncvei a law was born that did not fly 
 
 Forth from the bosom of Omnipotence 
 
 Matched, wing-and-wing, with evil and with good, 
 
 Avenger and re warder — both of God. 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 I face your thought and give it audience; 
 But I cannot embrace it till it come 
 With some of truth's credentials in its hands— 
 The fruits of gracious ministries. 
 
50 BITTER-SWEET, 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Does he 
 Who, driven to labor by the threat'ning weeds, 
 And forced to give his acres light and air 
 And traps for dew and reservoirs for rain, 
 Till, in the smoky light of harvest time, 
 The ragged husks reveal the golden corn. 
 Ask truth's credentials of the weeds? Does he 
 Who prunes the orchard boughs, or tills the field, 
 Or fells the forests, or pursues their prey, 
 Until the gnarly muscles of his limbs 
 And the free blood that thrills in all his veins 
 Betray the health that toil alone secures. 
 Ask truth's credentials at the hand of toil? 
 Do you ask truth's credentials of the storm, 
 Which, while we entertain communion here, 
 3Iakes better music for our huddling hearts 
 Than choirs of stars can sing in fairest nights? 
 Yet weeds are evils — evils toil and storm. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 51 
 
 We may suspect the fair, smooth face of good ; 
 
 But evil, that assails us undisguised, 
 
 Bears evermore God's warrant in its hands. 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 I fear these silver sophistries of yours. 
 
 If my poor judgment gives them honest weight, 
 
 Far less than thirty will betray your Lord. 
 
 You call that evil which is good, and good 
 
 That which is evil. You apologize 
 
 For that which God must hate, and justify 
 
 The life and perpetuity of that 
 
 Which seta itself against His holiness. 
 
 And sends its discords through the universe 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 I sorrrow if I shock you, for I seek 
 To comfort and inspire. I see around 
 A silent company of doubtful soula; 
 But 1 may challenge any one of them 
 
52 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 To quote the meanest blessing of its life, 
 
 And prove that evil did not make tlie gift, 
 
 Oi beai it from the giver to its hands. 
 
 The great salvation wrought by Jesus Christ — 
 
 That sank an Adam to reveal a God — 
 
 Had never come, but at the call of sin. 
 
 No risen Lord could eat the feast of love 
 
 Here on the earth, or yonder in the sky, 
 
 Had He not lain within the sepulchre. 
 
 'Tis not the lightly laden heart of man 
 
 That loves the best the hand that blesses all ; 
 
 But that which, groaning with its weight of sin, 
 
 Meets with the mercy that forgiveth much. 
 
 God never fails in an experiment, 
 
 Nor tries experiment upon a race 
 
 But to educe its highest style of life, 
 
 And sublimate its issues. Thus to me 
 
 Evil is not a mystery, but a means 
 
 Selected from the infinite resource 
 
 To make the most of me. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 53 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 Thank God for light I 
 These truths are slowly dawning on my soul, 
 And take position in the Urmament 
 That spans my thought, like stars that know their 
 
 place. 
 Dear Lord ! what visions crowd before my eyes — 
 Visions drawn forth from memory's mysteries 
 By the sweet shining of these holy lights ! 
 I see a girl, once lightest in the dance. 
 And maddest with the gayety of life, 
 Grow pale and pulseless, wasting day by day. 
 While death lies idly dreaming in her breast, 
 Blighting her breath, and poisoning her blood. 
 I see her frantic with a fearful thought 
 That haunts and horrifies her shrinkmg soul. 
 And bursts in sighs and sobs and feverish prayers; 
 And now, at last, the awfid struggle ends. 
 A sweet smile sits upon her angel face, 
 
54 BITTER-SWEET, 
 
 And [.eace, with downy bosom, nestles close 
 
 Where her worn heart throbs faintly; closer still 
 
 As the death shadows gather; closer still, 
 
 As, on wliite wings, the outward-going soul 
 
 Flies to a home it never would have sought, 
 
 Had a great evil failed to point the way. 
 
 I see a youth whom God has crowned with power 
 
 And cursed with poverty. With bravest heart 
 
 He struggles with his lot, through toilsome years, — 
 
 Kept to his task by daily want of bread. 
 
 And kept to virtue by his daily task, — 
 
 Till, gaining manhood in the manly strife, — 
 
 The fire that fills him smitten from a flint — 
 
 The strength that arms him wi*ested from a fiend — 
 
 He stands, at last, a master of himself, 
 
 And, in that grace, a master of his kind. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Familiar visions these, but ever full 
 Of inspiration and significance. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 55 
 
 Now that your eyes are opened and you see, 
 Your heart should take swift cognizance, and feel. 
 How do these visions move you i* 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 Like the hand 
 Of a strong angel on my shoulder laid. 
 Touching the secret of the spirit's wings. 
 My heart grows brave. I'm ready now to work-^ 
 To work with God, and suffer with His Christ; 
 Adopt His measures, and abide His means. 
 If, in the law that spans the universe 
 (The law its maker may not disobey). 
 Virtue may only grow from innocence 
 Through a great struggle with opposing ill; 
 If I must win my way to perfectness 
 In the sad path of suffering, like Him 
 TJie over-flowing river of whose life 
 Touches the flood-mark of humanity 
 Ori the white pillars of the heavenly throne, 
 
56 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Then welcome evil ! Welcome sickness, toil, 
 Sorrow and pain, the fear and fact of deatli ! 
 
 And welcome sin? 
 
 BUTH. 
 
 Ah, David ! welcome sin ? 
 
 DAYID. 
 
 The fact of sin — so much ; — it must needs be 
 
 Offences come; if woe to him by whom, 
 
 Then with good reason ; but the fact of sin 
 
 Unlocked the door to highest destiny. 
 
 That Christ might enter in and lead the way. 
 
 God loves not sin, nor I ; but in the throng 
 
 Of evils that assail us, there are none 
 
 That yield their strength to Virtue's struggling ami 
 
 "With such munificent reward of power 
 
 As great temptations. We may win by toil 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 67 
 
 Endurance ; saintly fortitude by ])ain ; 
 
 By sickness, patience ; faith and trust by fear ; 
 
 But the great stimulus that spurs to life, 
 
 And crowds to generous development 
 
 Each chastened power and passion of the soul. 
 
 Is the temptation of the soul to sin. 
 
 Resisted, and re-conquered, evermore, 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 I am content ; and now that I have caught 
 
 Bright glimpses of the outlines of your scheme. 
 
 As of a landscape, graded to the sky, 
 
 And seen through trees while passing, I desire 
 
 No vision further till I make survey 
 
 In some good time when I may come alone, 
 
 And drink its beauty and its blessedness. 
 
 I've been forgetful in my earnestness. 
 
 And wearied every one with talk. These boys 
 
 Are restive grown, or nodding in their chairs, 
 
 And older heads are set, as if for sleep. 
 
 3* 
 
58 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 [ beg their pardon for my theft of time, 
 And will offend no more. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Ruth, is it right 
 To leave a brother in such plight as this — 
 Either to imitate your courtesy, 
 Or by your act to be adjudged a boor ? 
 
 EtJTH. 
 
 Heaven grant you never note a sin of mine 
 Save of your own construction! 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 Let it pass! 
 I see the speU of thoughtfulness is gone, 
 Or going swiftly. I wiU not complain; 
 But ere these lads are fastened to their games, 
 And thoughts arise discordant with our theme, 
 Let us with gratitude approach the throne 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 69 
 
 And worship God. I wish once more to lead 
 Your hearts in prayer, and follow with ray own 
 The leading of your song of thankfulness. 
 Then will I lease and leave you for the night 
 To such divertiseraent as suits the time, 
 And meets your humor. 
 
 [They all arise and ilie old man prays, 
 
 ETJTH. 
 
 [After a pause, 
 David, let us see 
 Whether your memory prove as true as mine. 
 Do you recall the promise made by you 
 This night one year ago,— to write a hymn 
 For this occasion? 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 I recall, and keep. 
 Here are the copies, written fairly out. 
 Here,— father, Mary, Ruth, and all the rest ; 
 There's one for each. JSTow what shall be the tune? 
 
60 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 riie old One Hundred tli — noblest tune of tunes ! 
 Old tunes are precious to me as old paths 
 In which I wandered when a happy boy. 
 In truth, they are the old paths of my soul, 
 Oft trod, well worn, familiar, up to God. 
 
 [In which all unite to sing. 
 
 For Summer's bloom and Autumn's blight, 
 For bending wheat and blasted maize, 
 
 For health and sickness, Lord of light, 
 And Lord of darkness, hear our praise I 
 
 We trace to Tliee our joys and woes, — 
 To Thee of causes still the cause, — 
 
 We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows; 
 We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. Cl 
 
 We bring no sorrows to Thy tlirone ; 
 
 We come to Thee with no complaint • 
 In Providence Thy will is done, 
 
 And that is sacred to the saint. 
 
 Here on this blest Thanksgiving Night ; 
 
 We raise to Thee our grateful voice ; 
 For what Thou doest, Lord, is right; 
 
 And thus believing, we rejoice. 
 
 GUACE. 
 
 A good old tune, indeed, and strongly sung ; 
 But, in my mind, the man who wrote the hymn 
 Had seemed more modest, had he paused awhile, 
 Ere by a trick he furnished other tongues 
 With words he only has the heart to sing. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Oh, Gracel Dear Grace 1 
 
^2 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 BUXn. 
 
 You may well cry for grace, 
 If that's the company you have to keep. 
 
 GEACE. 
 
 I thougnt you convert to his sophistry. 
 It makes no difference to him, you know, 
 Whether I plague or please. 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 It does to you. 
 
 ISRAEL. 
 
 There, children ! No more bitter words like those ! 
 
 I do not understand them; they awake 
 
 A sad uneasiness within my heart. 
 
 I found but Christian meaning in the hymn ; 
 
 Aye, I could say ameii to every hue, 
 
 As to the breathings of my o^vn poor prayer. 
 
 But let us talk no more. I'll to my bed. 
 
 Good night, my children ! Happy thoughts be youri 
 
 Till sleep arrive — then hapj^y dreams till dawn ! 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 63 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Father, good night ! 
 
 [Israel retires. 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 There, little boys and girls— 
 Off to the kitchen ! IS'ow there's fiin for you. 
 Play blind-man's-buff until you break your heads ; 
 And then sit down beside the roaring fire, 
 And with wild stories scare yourselves to death. 
 We'll all be out there, by-and-by. Meanwhile, 
 I'll try the cellar ; and if David, here. 
 Will promise good behavior, he shall be 
 My candle-bearer, basket-bearer, and — 
 But no ! The pitcher I will bear myself. 
 I'll never trust a pitcher to a man 
 Under this house, and — seventy years of age. 
 
 [Tlie children rush out of the room with a shout, which wake 
 the baby. 
 That noisy little youngster on the floor 
 Slept through theology, but wakes with mirth — 
 
f^: B I T T E 11 - S ^V E E T . 
 
 Precocious little creature ! He must go 
 
 Up to his chamber. Come, Grace, take him off,-— 
 
 Biisket and all. Mary will lend a hand. 
 
 And keep you company until he sleeps. 
 
 [Grace and Mary remove the cradle to the chamber, and David 
 and Ruth retire to the cellar. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 [Rising and yawning. 
 Isn't she the strangest girl you ever saw ? 
 
 PRUDENCE. 
 
 Queer, rather, I should say. Grace, now, is strange. 
 
 I think she treats her husband shamefully. 
 
 I can't imagine what possesses her. 
 
 Thus to toss taunts at him with every word. 
 
 If in his doctrines there be truth enough, 
 
 He'll be a saint. 
 
 PATIEXCE. 
 
 If he live long enough. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 65 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Well, now I tell you, such wild men as he, — 
 Men who have crazy crotchets in their lieads,— 
 Can't make a woman happy. Don't you see ? 
 He isn't settled. He has wandered off 
 From the old landmarks, and has lost himself. 
 I may judge wrongly ; but if truth were told 
 There'd be excuse for Grace, I warrant ye. 
 Grace is a right good girl, or was, before 
 She married David. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 Everybody says 
 He makes provision for his family, 
 Like a good husband. 
 
 PETEB. 
 
 We can hardly tell. 
 When men get loose in their theology 
 The screws are started up in everything 
 
66 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Of course, I don't apologize for Grace. 
 I tliiDk slie might have done more prudently 
 Than introduce her troubles "here to night, 
 But, after all, we do not know the cause 
 That stirs her fretfulness. 
 
 Well, let it go ! 
 What does the evening's talk amount to ? Who 
 Is wiser for the wisdom of the hour ? 
 The good old paths are good enough for me. 
 The fathers walked to heaven in them, and we, 
 By following meekly where they trod, may reach 
 The home they found. There will be mysteries ; 
 Let those who like, bother their heads with them, 
 If Ruth and David seek to fathom all, 
 I wish them patience in their bootless quest. 
 For one, I'm glad the ir:V-y talk is done, 
 And we, alone. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 And I. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 67 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I, too. 
 
 PRUDENCE. 
 
 And I. 
 
FIEST EPISODE 
 
 LOCALITY— 2^6 Cellar Stairs and ths Cellar, 
 
 PRESENT— David and Ruth. 
 
 THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY NATURE. 
 
 KUTH. 
 
 I/OOK where you step, or you'll stumble ! 
 Care for your coat, or you'll crock it ! 
 
 Down with your cro^\Ti, man ! Be humble I 
 Put your head into your pocket, 
 Else Bomothing or other will knock it. 
 
 Don t hit that jar of cucumbers 
 
70 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Standing on the broad stair ! 
 They have not waked from their slumbers 
 Since they stood there. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Yet they have lived in a constant jar I 
 What remarkable sleepers they are I 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 Turn to the left — shun the wall — 
 One step more — that is all ! 
 Now we are safe on the ground 
 I wiU show you around. 
 
 Sixteen barrels of cider 
 Ripening all in a row ! 
 Open the vent-channels wider ! 
 See the froth, drifted like snow, 
 
Ji 1 T T E R - S W E E T . 71 
 
 Blown by the tempest below I 
 
 Those delectable juices 
 
 Flowed through the sinuous sluices 
 
 Of sweet springs under the orchard ; 
 
 Climbed into fountains that chained them ; 
 
 Dripped into cups that retained them, 
 
 And swelled till they dropped, and we gained them. 
 
 Then they were gathered and tortured 
 
 By passage from hopper to vat. 
 
 And fell — every apple crushed flat. 
 
 Ah ! how the bees gathered round them, 
 
 And how delicious they found them ! 
 
 Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover, 
 
 Was platted, and smoothly turned over. 
 
 Weaving a neatly-ribbed basket ; 
 
 And, as they built up the casket. 
 
 In went the pulp by the scoop-full, 
 
 Till the juice flowed by the stoup-fulI,^» 
 
 Filling the half of a puncheon 
 
 While the men swallowed their luncheon. 
 
72 B I T T E II - S W E E T . 
 
 Pure grew the stream with the stresf^ 
 
 Of the lever and screw^ 
 Till the last drops from the press 
 
 Were as bright as the dew. 
 There were these juices spilled ; 
 There were these barrels filled ; 
 Sixteen barrels of cider — 
 Ripening all in a row ! 
 Open the vent-channels wdder ! 
 See the fi-oth, drifted like snow, 
 Blown by the tempest below I 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Hearts, like apples, are hard and sour, 
 Till crushed by Pain's resistless power ; 
 And yield their juices rich and bland 
 To none but Sorrow's heavy hand. 
 I'he purest streams of human love 
 Flow naturally never, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 5-3 
 
 But gush by pressure from above, 
 With God's hand on the lever. 
 The first are turbidest and meanest ; 
 The last are sweetest and serenest. 
 
 KUTH. 
 
 Sermon quite short for the text ! 
 
 What shall we hit upon next ? 
 
 Lift up the lid of that cask ; 
 See if the brine be abundant ; 
 
 Easy for me were the task 
 To make it redundant 
 
 With tears for my beautiiid Zephyr- 
 Pet of the pasture and stall — • 
 
 V\niitest and comeliest heifer, 
 Gentlest of all ! 
 
 Oh, it seemed cruel to slay her I 
 But they insulted my prayer 
 Foi' her careless and innocent life. 
 
74 B I T T E K • S \V E E T . 
 
 And the creature was brought to the knife 
 With gratitude in her eye ; 
 For they patted her back, and chafed her head, 
 And coaxed her with softest words, as they led 
 
 Her up to the ring to die. 
 Do you blame me for cr\ing 
 When my Zephyr was dying ? 
 I shut my room and my ears, 
 And opened my heart and my tears, 
 And wept for the half of a day ; 
 
 And I could not go 
 
 To the rooms below 
 Till the butcher went away. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Life evermore is fed by death, 
 
 In earth and sea and sky; 
 And, that a rose may breathe its breatn, 
 Something must die. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 75 
 
 Earth is a sepulchre of flowers, 
 
 Whose vitalizmg mould 
 Through boundless transmutation towers, 
 In green and gold. 
 
 The oak tree, struggling with the blast, 
 
 Devours its father tree, 
 And sheds its leaves and drops its mast, 
 That more may be. 
 
 The falcon preys upon the finch, 
 
 The finch upon the fly 
 And nought will loose the hunger-pinch 
 But death's wild cry. 
 
 The milk-haired heifer's life must pass 
 
 That it may fill your own. 
 As passed the sweet life of the grass 
 She fed upon. 
 
76 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Tlie power enslaved by yonder cask 
 
 •Shall many burdens bear; 
 Shall nerve the toiler at his task, 
 The soul at prayer. 
 
 From lowly woe springs lordly joy; 
 
 From humbler good diviner; 
 The greater life must aye destroy 
 And drink the minor. 
 
 From hand to hand life's cup is passed 
 
 Up Being's piled gradation, 
 Till men to angels yield at last 
 The rich collation. 
 
 BUTH. 
 
 Well, we are done with the brute; 
 Now let us look at the fruity — 
 Every barrel, I'm told, 
 From grafts half a dozen years old. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 7? 
 
 That is a barrel of russets; 
 But we can hardly discuss its 
 
 Spheres of frost and flint, 
 TilJ, smitten by thoughts of Spring, 
 And the old tree blossoming, 
 Their bronze takes a yellower tint. 
 And the pulp grows mellower in't. 
 But oh! when they're sick Avith the savors 
 
 Of sweets that they dream of, 
 Sure, all the toothsomest flavors 
 
 They hold the cream of! 
 You will be begging in May, 
 In your irresistible way, 
 For a peck of the apples in gray. 
 
 Those are the pearmains, I think,— 
 Bland and insipid as eggs; 
 They were too lazy to drink 
 
 The light to its dregs, 
 And left them upon the lind — 
 
78 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 A delicate film of blue — 
 Leave them alone; — I can find 
 Better apples for you. 
 
 Those are the Rhode Island greenings; 
 Excellent apples for pies; 
 There are no mystical meanings 
 In fruit of that color and size, 
 ^ey are too coarse and too juiceful; 
 •JThey are too large and too useful. 
 
 There are the Baldwins and Flyers, 
 Wrapped in their beautiful fires! 
 Color forks up fi-om their stems 
 
 As if painted by Flora, 
 Or as out from the pole stream the flames 
 Of the Northern Aurora. 
 
 Here shall our quest have a close; 
 Fill up your basket with tliose; 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 79 
 
 Bite through their vesture ol flame. 
 
 And then you will gather 
 All that is meant by the name, 
 
 « Seek-no-farther !" 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 The native orchard's fairest trees, 
 
 Wild springing on the hill, 
 Bear no such precious fruits as these. 
 And never will; 
 
 Till axe and saw and pruning knife 
 
 Cut fi'om them every bough, 
 And they receive a gentler life 
 
 Than crowns them now. 
 
 And Nature's children, evermore, 
 
 Though grown to stately stature, 
 Must bear the fruit tJieir fathers bore- 
 Thc fruit of iiaLure ; 
 
80 BJTTEK- SWEET, 
 
 Till e-sery thrifty vice is made 
 
 The shoulder for a cion, 
 Cut from the bending trees that shade 
 The hiUs of Zion. 
 
 Sorrow must crop each passion-shoot, 
 
 And pain each lust mferual, 
 Or human life can bear no fruit 
 To life eternal. 
 
 For angels wait on Providence; 
 
 And mark the sundered places, 
 To griift Tvith gentlest instruments 
 The heavenly graces, 
 
 KUTH. 
 
 Well, you're a curious creature! 
 Vou should have been a preacher. 
 But look at thai bin of potatoes— 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 81 
 
 Grown in all singular shapes — 
 Reel and in clusters, like grapes. 
 
 Or more like tomatoes. 
 Those are Merino es, I guess ; 
 
 Yery prolific and cheap ; 
 They make an excellent mess 
 
 Foi- a cow, or a sheep. 
 And are good for the table, they say, 
 When the winter has passed away. 
 
 Those are my beautiful Carters ; 
 Every one doomed to be martyi-s 
 
 To the eccentric desire 
 Of Christian people to skin thenij— 
 
 Brought to the trial of fire 
 For the good that is in them! 
 Ivory tubers — divide one ! 
 
 Ivory all the way tlii-ough I 
 
 leaver a hollow inside one; 
 
 Never a core, black or lA-ie I 
 4* 
 
S2 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 All, you should taste them when roasted ! 
 
 (Chestnuts are not half so good ;) 
 And you would find that I've boasted 
 
 Less than I should. 
 They make the meal for Sunday noon ; 
 
 And, if ever you eat one, let me beg 
 
 You to manage it just as you do an egg. 
 Take a pat of butter, a silver spoon, 
 And wrap yom- napkin round the shell : 
 Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell 
 Of a white-lipped morning-glory? 
 Well, that's the rest of the story ! 
 But it's very singular, surely. 
 They should produce so poorly. 
 Father knows that I want them, 
 So he continues to plant them ; 
 But, if I try to argue the question. 
 
 He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will ; 
 And puts me down with the stale suggestion — 
 
 " Small potatoes, and few in a hill." 
 
B i T T E K - S W E E T . 88 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Tims is it over all the earth ! 
 
 That which we call the fairest, 
 And prize for its surpassing worth. 
 Is always rarest. 
 
 Iron is heaped in mountain piles, 
 And gluts the laggard forges ; 
 But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles 
 And lonely gorges. 
 
 The snowy marble flecks the land 
 
 With heaped and rounded ledges, 
 But diamonds hide within the sand 
 Their starry edges. 
 
 The finny armies clog the twine 
 
 That sweeps the lazy river, 
 But pearls come singly from the brine, 
 With the pale diver. 
 
84 BITTER' SW EET. 
 
 God gives no value unto men 
 
 Unmatched by meed of labor ; 
 And Cost of Worth has ever been 
 The closest neighbor. 
 
 Wide is the gate and broad the way 
 
 That open to perdition, 
 And countless multitudes are they 
 Who seek admission. 
 
 But strait the gate, the path unkind, 
 
 That lead to life immortal. 
 And few the careful feet that find 
 The hidden portal. 
 
 All common good has connnon price ; 
 
 Exceeding good, exceeding ; 
 Christ bought the keys of Paradise 
 By cruel bleeding; 
 
 And every soul that wins a i.lace 
 Upon its hills of pleasure. 
 
JUTTERSWEET. 86 
 
 Must gi\e Its all, and beg for grace 
 To fill the measure. 
 
 Were every liill a precious mine, 
 And golden all the mountains ; 
 Were all the rivers fed with wine 
 By tireless fountains ; 
 
 Life would be ravished of its zest, 
 
 And shorn of its ambition. 
 And sink into the dreamless rest 
 Of inanition. 
 
 Up the broad stairs that Value rears 
 Stand motives beck'ning earthward 
 To summon men to nobler spheres, 
 
 -iind lead them worth ward. 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 I'm afraid to show you anything more ; 
 For pai'snips and ait are so ver}^ h>ng, 
 
86 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 That the passage back to the cellar-door 
 
 Would be through a mile of soug. 
 But Truth owns me for an honest teller; 
 
 And, if the honest truth be told, 
 1 am mdebted to you and the cellar 
 
 For a lesson and a cold. 
 And one or the other cheats my sight; 
 
 (O silly giri I for shame !) 
 Barrels are hooped w^th rmgs of light, 
 
 And stopped \vith tongues of flame. 
 Apples have conquered original sin, 
 
 Manna is pickled Lq brine, 
 Philosophy fills the potato bin. 
 
 And cider will soon be wine. 
 So crown the basket wdth mellow fruit, 
 
 And brun the pitcher with pearls; 
 And we'll see how the old-time dainties suit 
 
 Tlie old-time boys and gu'ls. 
 
 [They ascend the stairs. 
 
BBCOKD MOVEMENT 
 
 ^'ARRATIYE. 
 
SECOND MOVEMENT. 
 
 LOCALITY—^ CMmUr. 
 PKK8ENT— Gkaok, Maky, and 1M Baby. 
 
 I'HE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY EXPERIENCE, 
 
 GKACE. 
 
 [Sings. 
 
 Ilitlier, Sleep ! A mother wants thee I 
 
 Come with velvet arms! 
 Fold the "baby that she grants thee 
 
 To thy own soil charms! 
 
 Bear him into Dreamland lightly! 
 Give him sight of flowers ! 
 
0^ B ITTE Pw- S \V E ET. 
 
 Do not bring him back till brightly 
 Break the mornmg hours! 
 
 Close his eyes mth gentle fingers! 
 
 Cross his hands of snow I 
 Tell the angels where he lingers 
 
 They must whisper low ! 
 
 I will guard thy spell unbroken 
 
 If thou hear my call ; 
 Come then, Sleep! I wait the token 
 
 Of thy downy thrall. 
 
 Now I see his sweet lips moving; 
 
 He is in thy keep; 
 Other milk the babe is proving 
 
 At the bi-eabt of sleep ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence I 
 Sleep like a bud; fjv soon the sun of life 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 91 
 
 With ardors quick and passionate shall rise, 
 
 And, with hot kisses, part the fragrant lips — 
 
 The folded petals of thy soul ! Alas ! 
 
 What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then 1 
 
 What pride and pain, ambition and despair, 
 
 Desire, satiety, and all that fill 
 
 With misery life's fretful enterprise. 
 
 Shall wrench and blanch thee, till thou fall at last, 
 
 Joy after joy down fluttering to the earth, 
 
 To be apportioned to the elements! 
 
 I marvel, baby, whether it were ill 
 
 That he who planted thee should pluck thee now, 
 
 And save thee from the blight that comes on all, 
 
 I marvel whether it would not be well 
 
 That the frail bud should burst in Paradise, 
 
 On the full throbbing of an angel's heart I 
 
 GEACB 
 
 Oh, speak not thns! The thought is terrible. 
 He is my all ; and yot, it sickens me 
 
92 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 To tbink that he wiU grow to be a man. 
 If he were not a boy ! 
 
 IIARY. 
 
 Were not a boy ? 
 That wakens other tlionglits. Thank God for that I 
 To be a man, if aught, is privilege 
 Precious and peerless. While I bide content 
 The modest lot of woman, all my soul 
 Gives truest manhood humblest reverence. 
 It is a great and god-like thing to do ! 
 *Tis a great thing, I think, to be a man. 
 Man fells the forests, ploughs and tills the fields, 
 And heaps the granai-ies that feed the world. 
 At his behest swift Commerce spreads her wings, 
 And tires the sinewy sea-birds as she flies, 
 Fanning the solitudes from clime to clime. 
 Smoke-crested cities rise beneath his hand, 
 And roar through ages with the din of trade. 
 Steam is the fleet-winged herald of his ^nll, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 98 
 
 Joining the angel of the Apocalypse 
 
 Mid sound and smoke and wond'rous civcnm&tance, 
 
 And with one foot npon the conquered sea 
 
 And one upon the subject land, proclahns 
 
 That space shall be no more. The lightnings veil 
 
 Their fiery forms to wait upon his thought, 
 
 And give it wing, as unseen spirits pause 
 
 To bear to God the burden of his prayer. 
 
 God crowns him with the gift of eloquence, 
 
 And puts a harp into his tuneful hands. 
 
 And makes him both his prophet and his priest. 
 
 'Twas in his form the great Immanuel 
 
 Revealed himself; the Apostohc Twelve, 
 
 Like those who since have ministered the Word, 
 
 Were men. 'Tis a great thing to be a man. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 And fortunate to liave an advocate 
 Across whose memory convenient clouds 
 Oome floating at convenient intervals. 
 
94 BITTERS VV^EET. 
 
 The harvest fields that man has honored most 
 
 Are those where human life is reaped like grain. 
 
 There never rose a mart, nor shone a sail, 
 
 N'or sprang a great invention into birth, 
 
 By other motive tlian man's love of gold. 
 
 It is for wrong that he is eloquent ; 
 
 For lust that he indites his sweetest songs. 
 
 Christ was betrayed by treason of a man, 
 
 And scourged and hung upon a tree by men ; 
 
 And the sad women who were at his cross, 
 
 And sought him early at the sepulchre. 
 
 And since that day, in gentle multitudes 
 
 Have loved and followed him, have been "Qaa's 
 
 slaves, — 
 The victims of his power and his desire. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 And you, a wedded wife — well wedded, too, 
 Can say all this, and say it bitterty! 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 95 
 
 GKArE. 
 
 Perhaps because a wife ; perhaps becaufje — 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Hush, Grace ! No more ! I beg you, say no more. 
 
 Kay ! I will leave yon at another word ; 
 
 For I could listen to a blasphemy, 
 
 Falling from bestial lips, with lighter chill 
 
 Than to the mad complainings of a soul 
 
 Wliich God has favored as he favors few. 
 
 I dare not listen when a woman's voice. 
 
 Which blessings strive to smother, flings them off 
 
 In mad contempt. I dare not hear the words 
 
 Whose utterance all the gentle loves dissuade 
 
 By kisses which are reasons, while a throng 
 
 Of friendships, comforts, and sv>^eet charitiesh— . 
 
 The almoners of the All-Bountiful — 
 
 With folded wings stand sadly looking on. 
 
 Believe me, Grace, the pioneer of judgment — 
 
9Q BITTERSWEET^ 
 
 Ordained, commissioned — is Ingratitude ; 
 
 For where it moves, good withers ; blessings die ; 
 
 Till a clean path is left for Providence, 
 
 Who never sows a good the second time 
 
 Till the torn bosom of the graceless soil 
 
 Is ready for the seed. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 Oh, could you know 
 The anguish of my heart, you would not chide \ 
 If I repine, it is because my lot 
 Is not the blessed thing it seems to you. 
 O Mary! Could vou know ! Could you but know I 
 
 MART. 
 
 Then why not tell me all ? You know me, love. 
 And know that secrets make their gra\es with me 
 So, tell me all ; for I do promise you 
 Such sympathy as God through suffering 
 
BITTER-SWEET 
 
 Has given me power to grant to such as you. 
 I bought it dearly, aud its largess waits 
 The oj)ening of your heart. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 I am ashamed, — 
 [n truth, I am ashamed — to tell you alL 
 You will not lauoli at me ? 
 
 MAKY. 
 
 I laugh at you? 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 Forgive me, Mary, for my heart is weak ; 
 Distrustful of itself and all the world. 
 Ah, well ! To what strange issues leads our life I 
 It seems but yesterday that you were brought 
 To this old house, an orphaned little girl, 
 Whose lai'ge shy eyes, pale cheeks, and shrijiking 
 ways 
 
98 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Filled all onr „earts -with wonder, as we stood 
 
 And stared at you, until your heart o'erfiiled 
 
 Witi. the oppressive strangeness, and you wept. 
 
 Yes, I remember how I pitied you — 
 
 I who had never wept, nor even siglied, 
 
 Save on the bosom of my gentle mother ; 
 
 For my quick heart caught all your history 
 
 When with a hurried step you sought the sun, 
 
 And pressed your eyes against the window-pane 
 
 That God's sweet light might dry them. Well ] kncx^', 
 
 Though all untaught, that you were motherless. 
 
 And I remember how I followed you, — 
 
 Embraced and kissed you — kissed your tears away — 
 
 Tears that came faster, till they bathed the lips 
 
 That would have sealed their flooded fountain-heads ; 
 
 And then we wound our arms around each other, 
 
 And passed out — out under the pleasant sky, 
 
 And stood among the lilies at the door. 
 
 I gave no fonnnl comfort ; you, no thanks ; 
 
BITTER-SWEET. ^ 
 
 For tears had been your language, kisses mine, 
 And we were friends. We talked about our dolls, 
 And all the pretty playthings we possessed. 
 Then we revealed, with childish vanity, 
 Our little stores of knowledge. I was full 
 Of a sweet marvel when you pointed out 
 The yellow thighs of bees that, half asleep, 
 Plundered the secrets of the lily-bells, 
 And called the golden pigment honey-comb. 
 And your black eyes were opened very wide 
 Wlien I related how, one sunny day, 
 1 found a well, half-covered, down the lane, 
 That was so deep and clear that I could see 
 Straight through the world, into another sky I 
 
 MART. 
 
 Do you remember how the Guinea hens 
 
 Set up a scream upon the garden wall. 
 
 That frightened me to running, when you screamed 
 
 With laughter quite as loud ? 
 
iOO BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 GEACE. 
 
 Aye, very well ; 
 But Ixetter still the scene that followed all. 
 Oh, tlml has lingered in my memory 
 Like that divinest di"eam of Raphael — 
 The Dresden virgin prisoned in a print — 
 That watched Avith me in sickness tlu-ough long weeks. 
 And from its frame upon the chamber-Avall 
 Breathed constant benedictions, till I learned 
 To love the presence like a Roman samt. 
 
 My mother called us m ; and at her knee, 
 
 Embracing still, we stood, and felt her smile 
 
 Shine on our up-turned faces like the hght 
 
 Of the soft summer moon. And then she stooped ; 
 
 And when she kissed us, I could see the tears 
 
 Brimming her eyes. O sweet experiment ! 
 
 To try if love of Jesus and of me 
 
 Could make our kisses equal to her lips I 
 
 Tlien straight my prescient heart set up a soDg, 
 
BITTER -SWEET. 101 
 
 And fluttel^3d in my bosom like a bird. 
 
 I knew a blessing was about to fall, 
 
 As robins know the coming of the rain, 
 
 And bruit the joyous secret, ere its steps 
 
 Are heard upon the mountain tops. I knew 
 
 You were to be my sister; and my Iieart 
 
 Was almost bursting with its love and pride. 
 
 I could not wait to hear the kindly words 
 
 Our mother spoke — her 'counsels and commands — 
 
 For you were mine — my sister ! So I tore 
 
 Your cliiigiiig hand fi-om hers with rude constraint, 
 
 And took you to my chamber, where I played 
 
 Witli you, in selfish sense of property, 
 
 The whole bright afternoon. 
 
 And here again, 
 Within this same old chamber we are met. 
 We told our secrets to each other then ; 
 Thus let us tell them now ; and you shall be 
 To my grief-burdened soul what you have said, 
 So many times that I have been to yours. 
 
102 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Alas I I never meant to tell my tale 
 To other ear than God's ; but you have claims 
 Upon my confidence, — claims just rehearsed, 
 And other claims which you have never known. 
 
 GEACB. 
 
 And other claims which I have never known ! 
 
 You speak in riddles, love. I only know 
 
 You grew to womanhood, were beautiful, 
 
 Were loved and wooed, were married and were blest 
 
 That after passage of mysterious years 
 
 We heard sad stories of your misery. 
 
 And rumors of desertion ; but your pen 
 
 Revealed no secrets of your altered life. 
 
 Enough for me that you are here to-night, 
 
 And have an ear for sorrow, and a heart 
 
 Which dl-appointment has inhabited. 
 
B T T T E R • S W E E T . 103 
 
 My history you know. A twelvemonth since 
 
 This fearful, festive night, and in this house, 
 
 I gave my hand to one whom I believed 
 
 To he the noblest man God ever made; — 
 
 A man w4io seemed to my infatuate heart 
 
 Heaven's chosen genius, through whose tuneful soiil 
 
 Tlie choicest harmonies of life should flow, 
 
 Growing articulate upon his lips 
 
 In numbers to enchant a willing world. 
 
 I cannot tell you of the pride that filled 
 
 My bosom, as I marked his manly form. 
 
 And read his soul through his effulgent eyes. 
 
 And heard the wondrous music of his voice. 
 
 That swept the chords of feeling in all hearts 
 
 With such divine persuasion as might grow 
 
 Under the transit of an angel's hand. 
 
 And, then, to thhik that I, a farmer's child. 
 
 Should be the woman culled from all the world 
 
 To be that man's companion, — to abide 
 
 The nearest soul to such a soul — to sit 
 
104 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Close by the fountain of his peerless life — 
 The welling centre of his loving thouglits — 
 And drink, myself, the sweetest and the best, — 
 To lay my head apon his breast, and feel 
 That of all precious burdens it had borne 
 That was most precious — Oh ! my heart was wild 
 With the delirium of happiness — 
 But, Mary, you are weej^hig ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Mark it not. 
 Your words wake memories which you may guess, 
 And thoughts which you may sometune know — ^not now 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 Well, we were married, as I said; and I 
 Was not unthankful utterly, I think ; 
 Though, if the awful question had come then. 
 And stood before me with a brow severe 
 And steady linger, biddiiig me decide 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 105 
 
 Wliicb of the two I loved the more, the God 
 
 Who gave my husband to me, or his gift, 
 
 1 know I should have groaned, and shut my eyes. 
 
 We passed a honeymoon whose atmosphere, 
 
 Flooded with inspiration, and embraced 
 
 }3y a wide sky set full of starry thoughts, 
 
 And constellated visions of deligl^t, 
 
 Still wraps me in my dreams — itself a dream. 
 
 The full moon waned at last, and in my sky. 
 
 With horn inverted, gave its sign of tears ; 
 
 And then, when wasted to a skeleton. 
 
 It sank into a heavhig sea of tears 
 
 That caught its tumult from my sighing soul. 
 
 My husband, who had spent whole months ^vith me, 
 
 Tib he was wedded to my every thought. 
 
 Left me through dreary hours, — nay, days, — alone I 
 
 k pleaded business — business day and night; 
 
 jeaving me with a formal kiss at morn. 
 And meeting me with strange reserve at eve; 
 
106 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And I could mark tlie sea of tenderness 
 
 LTpou whose beach I had sat down for life, 
 
 Hoping to feel for ever, as at first, 
 
 The love-breeze from its billows, and to clasp 
 
 With open arms the silver surf that ran 
 
 To wreck itself uj^on ray bosom, ebb, 
 
 Day after day receding, till the sand 
 
 Grew dry and hot, and the old hulls appeared 
 
 Of hopes sent out upon that faitliless main 
 
 Since woman loved, and he she loved was false. 
 
 Night after night I sat the evening out, 
 
 And heard the clock tick on the mantel-tree 
 
 Till it grew irl^some to mo, and I grudged 
 
 The careless pleasures of the kitchen maids 
 
 Whose distant laughter shocked the lapsing hours, 
 
 MAKY. 
 
 But did youi husband never tell the cause 
 Of this neglect ? 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 107 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 Never an honest word. 
 He told me lie was writing; and, at home, 
 Sat down with heart absorbed and absent look. 
 I was offended, and upbraided him. 
 I knew he had a secret, and that from 
 The centre of its closely coihng folds 
 A cunning serpent's head, with forked tongue, 
 Swayed with a double story — one for me. 
 And one for whom I knew not — whom he knew. 
 His words, which wandered first as carelessly 
 As the free footsteps of a boy, were trained 
 To the stern paces of a sentinel 
 Guarding a prison door, and never tripped I 
 With a suggestion. 
 
 I despaired at last 
 Of winning what I sought by wiles and prayers ; 
 So, through long nights of sleej)lessness I lay, 
 Aiid held my ear beside his silent lips—- 
 
108 BITTER-SWEET, 
 
 An eager cup — ready to catch the gush 
 
 Of the pent waters, if a dream-swung rod 
 
 Should smite his bosom. It was all in vain. 
 
 And tlius months passed away, and all the while 
 
 Another heart was beating under mine. 
 
 May Heaven forgive me ! but I grieved the charms 
 
 The unborn thing was stealing, for I felt 
 
 That in my insufficiency of po\ver 
 
 1 had no charm to lose. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 And did he not, 
 In this most tender trial of your heart, 
 Turn in relentmg ? — give you sympathy ? 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 No — yes ! Perhaps he pitied me, and that 
 Indeed was very pitiful ; for what 
 lias love to do with pity ? When a wLfe 
 Has sunk so hopelessly in the regard 
 
BITTEK SWEET. 109 
 
 Of Iiim she loves tliat he cac pity her, — 
 
 Ii;is Slink so low that she may only share 
 
 The tribute which a mute humanity 
 
 Bestows on those wliom Providence has struck 
 
 AVith helpless poveity, or foul disease ; 
 
 She may be pitied, both by earth aiul heaven, 
 
 Because he pities her. A pitied child 
 
 That begs its bread from door to door is blest; 
 
 A wife who begs for love and confidence, 
 
 And gets but alms from pity, is accurst. 
 
 Well, time passed on ; and rumor came at last 
 To tell the story of my husband's shame 
 And my dishonor. He was seen at night, 
 Walking in l->nely streets Avith one Avhose eyes 
 Were blacker than the night, — whose little hand 
 Was clinging to his arm. Both were absorbed 
 In the half- whispered converse of the time; 
 And both, as if accustomed to the path, 
 Turned down an alley, climbed a tlight of steps 
 
no BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Entered a door, and closed it after them — 
 
 A door of adamant 'twixt hope and me. 
 
 I had my secret ; and I kept it, too. 
 
 I knew his haimt, and it was watched for me, 
 
 Till douht and prayers for doubt, — pale flowers 
 
 I nourished with my tears — were crushed 
 
 By the relentless hand of Certainty. 
 
 Oh, Mary! Mary! Those were fearful days. 
 My wrongs and all their shameful history 
 Were opened to me daily, leaf by leaf, 
 Though he had only shown their title-page: 
 That page was his ; the rest were in my heart. 
 I knew that he had left my home for her's; 
 I knew his nightly labor was to feed 
 Other than me ; — that he was loaded do\m 
 With cares that ^vere the price of sinful love. 
 
 MA.RY. 
 
 Grace, in your heart do you beheve all this? 
 
BITTER-SWEET. Ill 
 
 I fear — ^I know— yoii do your husband wron^. 
 He is not competent for treachery. 
 He is too good, too noble, to desert 
 The woman whom he only loves too w^eli. 
 You love him not! 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 I love him not? Alas! 
 1 am more angry mth myself than him 
 That, spite his falsehood to his marriage vows, 
 And spite my hate, I love the traitor still. 
 I love him not? Why am I here to-night- 
 Here where my girlhood's withered hopes are stre^vn 
 Through every room for him to trample on — 
 But in my pride to show him to you all, 
 With the dear child that publishes a love 
 That blessed me once, e'en if it curse me now ? 
 Yow know I do my husband wrong 1 You thmk, 
 Because he can talk smoothly, and befool 
 A simple ear with pious sophistries, 
 
112 BITT C il-SVv'EET. 
 
 lie mi!st be e'en the saintly man lie seems. 
 
 We heard Lim talk to-night; it was done well. 
 
 I saw the triumph of his argument, 
 
 And I was proud, thougli full of spite the wliile. 
 
 His stuff was meant for me ; and, with intent, 
 
 For selfish purpose, or in irony, 
 
 He tossed me bitterness, and called it sweet. 
 
 ?ily heart rebelled, and now^ you know the cause 
 
 Of my harsh words to him. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 'Tis very sad ! 
 Oh very — very sad ! Pray you go on ! 
 Who is this woman? 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 I have never learned. 
 I only know she stole my husband's heart. 
 And made me very wretched. I suppose 
 That at the time my little bale was born. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 113 
 
 She went away; for David was at Lome 
 For many clays. That pain w^as bliss to me — 
 I need no argument to teacli me that — 
 V/Iiich caused neglect of her, and gave offence. 
 Since tiien, he lias not where to go from me; 
 And, loving well his child, he stays at home. 
 
 So he lugs round his secret, and I mine. 
 
 I call him, husband ; and he calls me, wife ; 
 
 And I, who once was like an April day, 
 
 That finds quick tears in every cloud, have steeled 
 
 My heart against my fate, and now am calm. 
 
 I will live on; and though these simple folk 
 
 Who call me sister understand me not, 
 
 It matters little. There is one who does; 
 
 And he .shall have no liberty of love 
 
 By any word of mine. 'Tis w^oman's lot, 
 
 And man's most weak and wicked ^vantonness. 
 
 Mine is like other husbands, I suppose ; 
 
 No v/oi'se — no better. 
 
iU BITTER- SV»^EET. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Ask you sympathy 
 Of such as I? I cannot give it you, 
 For YOU have shut me from the privilege. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 I asked it once ; you gave me unbelief. 
 
 I had no choice but to grow hard again. 
 
 *Tis my misfortune and my misery 
 
 Tliat every hand whose friendly ministry 
 
 My poor heart cra\'es, is held— withheld — by him 
 
 And I must freeze that I may stand alone, 
 
 JfARY. 
 
 And so, because one man is false, or you 
 Imagine him to be, all men are false ; 
 Do I speak rightly? 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 H'ave it your own way. 
 Men fit to love, and fitted to be loved, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 115 
 
 Aie prone to falsehood. I will not gainsay 
 Tlie common virtue of the common herd. 
 I prize it as I do the goodish men 
 Who hold the goodish stuff, and knovv'' it not.^ 
 These serve to fill an eas}^-going world, 
 And that to clothe it with complacency. 
 
 MAKY. 
 
 I had not thought misantliropy like this 
 Could lodge with you; so I must e'en confess 
 A tale which never passed my lips before. 
 Nor sent its flush to any cheek but mine. 
 In this, I'll prove my friendship, if I lose 
 The friendship which demands the saci-iiice. 
 
 I have come back, a worse than widowed wife ; 
 Yet I went out with dream as briglit as yours,— 
 Nay, brighter, — for the birds were smging then, 
 And apple-blossoms drifted on the ground 
 Where snow-flakes fell and flew v\lieu you were" wod. 
 
116 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 The skies were soft ; the roses budded full : 
 
 The mepvds and swelling uplands fresh and green ;- 
 
 The very atmosjDhere was full of love. 
 
 It was no girlish carelessness of heart 
 
 That kept my eyes from tears, as I went forta 
 
 From this dear shelter of the orphan child. 
 
 I felt that God was smiling on my lot, 
 
 And made the airs his angels to convey 
 
 To every sense and sensibility 
 
 The message ot his favor. £.very sound 
 
 Was music to me ; every sight was peace ; 
 
 And brcathhig was ihe drinking or perfume, 
 
 T said, content, and full oi gratitude, 
 
 " This is as God would have it ; and he speaks 
 
 These pleasant languages to tell me so." 
 
 But I liad no such honey-moon as yours. 
 A i'ew brief days of happiness, and then 
 The dream was over. I had married one 
 Who was tiie sport of vagrant impulses 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 117 
 
 We bad not been a fortnight wed, wlien he 
 
 Caiue home to me with brandy in his brain— 
 
 A maudlin fool — for love like mnie to hide 
 
 As if he were an unclean beast. O Grace I 
 
 I cannot paint the horrors of that night. 
 
 My heart, till then serene, and safely kept 
 
 In Trust's strong citadel, quaked all night long, 
 
 As tower and bastion fell before the rush 
 
 Of fierce convictions ; and the tumbling walls 
 
 Boomed with dull throbs of ruin through my brain. 
 
 And there wore palaces that leaned on this — 
 
 Castles of air, in Ions: and glittering lines, 
 
 Which melted into air, and pierced the blue 
 
 Tliat marks the star-strewn vault of heaven ; — all fell, 
 
 Yv^ith a faint crash like that wliich scares the soul 
 
 When dissolution shivers through a dre:iia 
 
 Smitten by nightmare, — fell and faded all 
 
 To utter nothingness; and when tlie morn 
 
 F'lamed up the East, and with its crimson wing'^ 
 
 Brushed out the paling stars that all tlie i light 
 
lis BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 In silent, slow procession, one by one, 
 Had gazed u})on me through the open sash, 
 And passed along, it found me desolate. 
 
 The stupid dreamer at my side awoke. 
 And with such helpless anguish as they feel 
 Who know that they are weak as well as vile, 
 I saw, through all his forward promises. 
 Excuses, prayers, and pledges that were oaths 
 (AVhat he, poor boaster, thought I could not see) 
 That he was shorn of w^ill, and that his heart 
 Was as defenceless as a little child's ; — 
 That underneath his fair good fellowship 
 He was debauched, and dead in love with sin ;— 
 That love of me had made liim what I loved, — 
 That I could only hold him till the wave 
 Of some o'erwbelming impulse should sweep in, 
 To lift his feet and bear him from my arms. 
 ^ felt that morn, when he went trembling forth. 
 With bloodshot eyes and forehend hot with woe, 
 
B I T T E R - S AV E E T . 119 
 
 That thenceforth strife would be 'twixt Hell and me— 
 The odds against me — for my husband's soul. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 Poor dove ! Poor Mary ! Have you suffered thus ? 
 You had not even pride to keep you up. 
 Were he my husband, I had left him then — 
 The ingrate 1 
 
 MAEY. 
 
 Not if yon had loved as I ; 
 Yet what you know is but a bitter drop 
 Of the full cup of gall that I have drained. 
 Had he left me unstained, — had I rebelled 
 Against the influence by wliich he sought 
 To bring me to a compromise with liim, — 
 To make my shrinking soul meet his half "wajj — - 
 It had been better ; but he had an art, 
 When appetite or passion moved in him, 
 That clothed his sins with fair apologies, 
 
120 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And smoothed the ^vi-inkles of a haggard guilt 
 
 Witli the good-natured hand of charity. 
 
 Ho kne^ he was a fool, he said, and said again ^ 
 
 But human nature would be what it was, 
 
 And life had never zest enough to bear 
 
 Too much dilution ; those who work like slaves 
 
 Must have their days of frolic and of fun. 
 
 He doubted whether God would punish sin ; 
 
 God v/as, in flict, too good to punish sin ; 
 
 For sin itself was a compounded tluug. 
 
 With weakness for its prime ingredient. 
 
 And thus he fooled a heart that loved him well; 
 
 And it went toward his heart by slow degreea, 
 
 Till Virtue seemed a frigid anchorite, 
 
 And Vice, a jolly fellow — bad enough. 
 
 But not so bad as Christian people think. 
 
 Tliis was the cunning work of months — nay, years 
 Arid, meantime, Edward sank from bad to worse. 
 But he had conquered. "Wine v/as on Ids board, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 121 
 
 Witliout my jjrotest — with a glass for me! 
 
 His boon companions came and went, and made 
 
 My home their rendezvous with my consent. 
 
 The doughty oath that shocked my ears at first, 
 
 The doubtful jest that meant, or might not mean, 
 
 That which sliould set a woman's brow aflame, 
 
 Became at last (oh, shame of womanhood !) 
 
 A thing to frown at with a covert smile ; 
 
 A thing to smile at with a decent frown ; 
 
 A thing to steal a grace from, as I feigned 
 
 The innocence of deaf unconsciousness. 
 
 And I became a jester. I could jest 
 
 In a wild way on sacred things and themes; 
 
 And I have thought that in his better moods 
 
 My husband shrank ^ath horror from the work 
 
 Which he had wrought in me. 
 
 I do not know 
 J, during all these downward-tendhig years, 
 Ed^vard kept well bis faitb with me. I know 
 
122 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 He used to tell mc, in his boastful way, 
 llow he had broke the hearts of pretty maids, 
 And that if he were single — well-a-day ! 
 riie time was past for thinking upon tliat I 
 And I had heart to toss the badina<T:e 
 Back in his teeth, with pay of kindred coin ; 
 And tell him lies to stir his bestial mirth ; 
 And make my boast of conquests; and pretend 
 That the true heart I had bestowed on him 
 Had flown, and left him but an empty hand. 
 
 I had some days of pain and penitence. 
 I saw where all must end. I saw, too well, 
 Edward was growing idle, — that his form 
 Was gathering disgustful corpulence, — 
 That he was going down, and dragging me 
 To shame and ruin, beggary and death. 
 But judgment came, and overshadov/ed us ; 
 And one quick bolt shot from the awful cloud 
 Severed the tie that bound two wortljless lives. 
 
BITTER-SWEET 123 
 
 What God bath joined together, God may part • — • 
 Grace, have you thought of that ? 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 Tou scare me, Mary ! 
 N ay ! Do not turn on me with such a look I 
 Its dread suggestion gives my heart a pang 
 That stops its painful beating. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Let it pass ! 
 One morn we woke with the first flush of light, 
 Our windows jarring with the cannonade 
 That ushered in the nation's festal day. 
 The village streets were full of men and boys. 
 And resonant with rattlmg mimicry 
 Of the black-throated monsters on the hill,— 
 A crashing, crepitating war of fire, — 
 And as we listened to the fitful feud, 
 Dull detonations came from far away, 
 
124: BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 l*uls:ing along the fretted atmosphere, 
 
 To tell that in the ruder villages 
 
 I'he day had noisy greeting, as in ours. 
 
 I know not why it was, but then, and there, 
 
 I felt a sinking sadness, passing tears — 
 
 A dark foreboding I could not dissolve, 
 
 Nor drive away. But when, next morn, I woke 
 
 In the sweet stillness of the Sabbath day, 
 
 And found myself alone, I knew that hearts 
 
 Which once have been God's temple, and in wliich 
 
 Something divine still lingers, feel the throb 
 
 Along the lines that bind them to The Throne 
 
 When judgment issues; and, though dumb and blind, 
 
 Shudder and famt T\dth prophecies of ill. 
 
 How — by what cause — calamity should come, 
 
 1 could not guess ; ttiai it was imminent. 
 
 Seemed just as certain as the morning's dawn. 
 
 We were to have a gala day, indeed. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 125 
 
 Tljere were to be processions and parades 
 
 A great oration in a mammoth tent, 
 
 With dinner followmg, and toast and speech 
 
 By all the wordy magnates of the town ; 
 
 A grand balloon ascension afterwards ; 
 
 And, in the evening, fireworks on the hill. 
 
 I knew that drink would flow from morn till night 
 
 In a wild maelstrom, cu'cling slow around 
 
 The village rim, in bright careering waves, 
 
 But growing turbulent, and changed to ink 
 
 Around the village centre, till, at last, 
 
 The whirling, gurgling vortex would engulf 
 
 A maddened multitude in drunkenness. 
 
 And this was in my thought (the while my heart 
 
 Was palpitating with its nameless fear). 
 
 As, wrapped in vaguest dreams, and purposeless, 
 
 I laced my shoe and gazed upon the sky. 
 
 Then strange determination stirred in me ; 
 
 And, turning sharply on my chair, I said, 
 
 ** Edward, where'er you go to-day, I go !" 
 
126 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 If I Lad smitten him upon the face, 
 
 It had not tingled ^nth a hotter flame. 
 
 lie turned upon me with a look of hate — 
 
 A something worse than anger — and, with oaths, 
 
 Raved like a fiend, and cursed me for a fool. 
 
 But I was firm; he could not shake my will; 
 
 So, through the morning, until afternoon, 
 
 He stayed at home, and drank and drank again, 
 
 Watching the clock, and pacing ap and down. 
 
 Until, at length, he came and sat by me, 
 
 To try his hackneyed tricks of blandishment. 
 
 He had not meant, he said, to give offence; 
 
 But women in a crowd were out of place. 
 
 He wished to see the aeronauts embark, 
 
 And meet some friends; but there would be a tlirong 
 
 Of boys and drunken boors around the car, 
 
 And I should not enjoy it; more than this. 
 
 The rise would be a finer spectacle 
 
 At home than on the ground. I gave assent, 
 
 And he went out. Of course, 1 followed him : 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 12' 
 
 For I had learned to read liim, and I knew 
 Til ere was some precious scheme of sm on foot. 
 
 The crowd was heavy, and his form w^as lost 
 Quick as it touched the mass; but I pressed on, 
 Wild shouts and laughter punishing my ears, 
 Till I could see the bloated, breathing cone, 
 As if it were some monster of the sky 
 Caught by a net and fastened to the earth — 
 A butt for jeers to all the merry mob. 
 But I was distant still; and if a man 
 In mad impatience tore a passage from 
 The crowd that pressed upon him, or a girl, 
 Frightened or fainting, was allowed escape, 
 I slid like w^ater to the vacant space. 
 And thus, by deftly won advances, gained 
 The stand I coveted. 
 
 We waited long; 
 And as the curious gazers stood and talked 
 
123 BITIEE-SWEEI. 
 
 A). out the diverse currents of the an-, 
 And wondered u^here the daring voyagers 
 Would find a landing-place, a young man said. 
 In Avords intended for a spicy jest, 
 A man and woman living in the town 
 Had taken passage overland for hell! 
 
 Then at a distance rose a scattering shout 
 
 That fixed the vision of the multitude, 
 
 Standing on eager tiptoe, and afar 
 
 I saw the crowd give way, and make a path 
 
 For the pale heroes of the crazy hour. 
 
 Hats w^ere tossed wildly as they struggled on. 
 
 And the gap closed behind them, till, at length, 
 
 They stood within the ring. Oh, damning sight! 
 
 The woman was a painted courtezan ; 
 
 Thf man, my uusoana i i was aumo as aeatn. 
 
 My teetn nCr? blenched together like a vice. 
 
 And every heavy heart-throb was a cuix.. 
 
 But there 1 stood, and saw the shame go on. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 129 
 
 Tliey took their seats the signal gun was fired; 
 riie cords were loosed, and then the billowy bulfe 
 Shot toward the zenith ! 
 
 Never bent the shy 
 With a more cloudless depth of blue than then ; 
 And, as they rose, I saw his foithless arm 
 Slide o'er her shoulder, and her dizzy head 
 Drop on his breast. Then I became insane. 
 I felt that I was struggling with a dream — 
 A horrid phantasm I could not shake off. 
 The hollow sky was swinging like a bell ; 
 The silken monster swinging like its tongue; 
 And as it reeled from side to side, the roar 
 Of voices round me rang, and rang again, 
 Tolling the dreadful knell of my despair. 
 
 \t the last moment I could trace his form, 
 i<]d\vard leaned over from his giddy seat, 
 And tossed out soniethino- on tlie air. I saw 
 
130 B I T T E R - S W E E T . 
 
 Tlie little missive fluttering slowly doA\Ti, 
 
 And stretched my hand to catch it, for I knew, 
 
 Or thought I knew, that it would come to me. 
 
 And it did come to me — as if it slid 
 
 Upon the cord that bound my heart to his — 
 
 Strained to its utmost tension — snapped at labt, 
 
 I marked it as it fell. It was a rose. 
 
 I grasped it madly as it struck my hand, 
 
 And buried all its thorns within my palm ; 
 
 But the fierce pain released my prisoned voice, 
 
 And, with a shriek, I staggered, swooned, and fell. 
 
 That night was brushed from life. A passing frienci 
 
 Directed those who bore me rudely off; 
 
 And I was carried to my home, and laid 
 
 Entranced upon my bed. The Sabbath morn 
 
 That followed all this din and devilry 
 
 Swung noiseless wide its doors of yellow light. 
 
 And in the hallowed stillness I awoke. 
 
 My heart was still ; I cou;d not stir a hand. 
 
BITTER-SWEET 131 
 
 f thought that I v/as dying, or was dead, — 
 
 That I had slipped through smooth unconsciousness 
 
 Into the everhisting silences. 
 
 I could not speak ; but winning strength, at last, 
 
 1 turned my eyes to seek for Edward's face, 
 
 And saw an unpressed pillow. He was gonel 
 
 I was oppressed with awful sense of loss; 
 
 And, as a mother, by a turbid sea 
 
 That has engulfed her fairest child, sits down 
 
 And moans over the waters, and looks out 
 
 With curious despair upon the waves, 
 
 Until she marks a lock of floating hair, 
 
 ^nd by its threads of gold draws slowly in, 
 
 ^nd clasps and presses to her frenzied breast 
 
 The form it has no power to warm again, 
 
 So I, beside the sea of memory, 
 
 \iay feebly moaning, yearning for a clew 
 
 By which to reach my own extinguished life. 
 
 It came. A burning pain shot through my palm. 
 
132 BITTER-SWEET.. 
 
 And tliorns awoke what Ihonis had ])ut to sleep 
 It all came back to me — tlie roar, tlie rush, 
 The upturned faces, the insane hurras, 
 The skyward shooting spectacle, the shame — 
 And then I swooned again. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 But was he killed ? 
 Did his foolhardy ventnre end m wreck? 
 Or did it end in something worse than wreck? 
 Surely, he came again! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 To me, no more. 
 He had his reasons, and I knew them soon ; 
 But, first, the fire enkindled in my brain 
 Burnt through long weeks of fever — burnt my frame 
 Until it lay upon the sheet as white 
 As the pale ashes of a wasted coal. 
 TJien, when strength came to me, and I could sit, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 133 
 
 «>> 
 Braced by tlio double pillows that were mine, 
 
 A kind friend took my liand, and told me ali 
 
 The day that Edwai-d left me was the last 
 
 He could have been my husband; for the next ' 
 
 Disclosed his intamy and my disgrace. 
 
 He was a thief, and had been one, for years, — • 
 
 Defrauding those whose gold he held in trust; 
 
 And he was ruined — ruined utterly. 
 
 The very bed I sat on w^as not his, 
 
 Nor mine, except by tender charity. 
 
 A guilty secret menacing behind, 
 
 A guilty passion burning in his heart, 
 
 And, by his side, a guilty paramour, 
 
 He seized upon this reckless v>'lum, and fled 
 
 From those he knew would curse him ere hf slept. 
 
 My cup was filled with wormwood; and it grew 
 J Jitter and still more bitter, day by day, 
 Ciianging from shame and liate, to stern revenge. 
 
l?)4. BITTER- S WE ET. 
 
 r.ife had no more for mo. My home was lost; 
 My heart unfitted to return to tliis; 
 And. reckless of the future, I went forth — 
 A woman stricken, maddened, desperate. 
 fl sought the city witli as sure a scent 
 As vultures track a carcass through the air. 
 I knew him tliere, delivered up to sin, 
 And longed to taunt him with his infamy, — 
 To haunt his haunts; to sting his perjured soul 
 Vv^ith sharp reproaches; and to scare his eyes 
 With visions of his work upon my face. 
 
 But God had other means than my revenge 
 To hmnble him, and other thought for me. 
 I saw him only once ; we did not meet ; 
 There was a street between us; yet it seemed 
 Wide as the unbridged gulf that yawns between 
 'Die rich man and the beggar. 
 
 'Twas at da^vn. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 18.^, 
 
 r ha.l arisen fi-om the sleepless Led 
 
 Which my scant means had purchased, and gone forth 
 
 To taste the air, and cool my burning brow. 
 
 I wandered on, not knowing where I went, 
 
 Nor caring whither. There were feAv astir; 
 
 The market wagons lumbered slowly in. 
 
 Piled hign with carcasses of slaughtered lambs, 
 
 Baskets of unhusked corn, and mint, and all 
 
 The fresh, green things that grow m country fields. 
 
 I read the sicrns — the lono- and curious names — 
 
 And Avondered Avho invented them, and if 
 
 Their owners knew how very strange they were. 
 
 A corps of weary firemen met me once, 
 
 Late home from service, with their gaudy car, 
 
 And loud with careless curses. Then I stopped, 
 
 And chatted with a frowsy-headed girl 
 
 Who knelt among her draggled skirts, and scrubbed 
 
 The heel -worn door-steps of a faded house. 
 
 Then, as I left her, and resumed my walk, 
 
 I larned my eyes across the street, and saw 
 
136 BITTE K -S \V i::£T. 
 
 A siglil wliicli stoj)i)ed my feet, ray breutli, my iaeart 
 
 It was my husband. Oh, how sadly changed ! 
 
 liis bloodshiOt eyes stared from an anxious face; 
 
 His hat was battered, and liis clothes were torn 
 
 And splashed with mud. Ilis poisoned frame 
 
 Had slirunk av/ay, until his garments hung 
 
 In folds abc.it him. Then I knew it all: 
 
 His life had been a measureless debauch 
 
 Since his most shameless flight; and in his eye, 
 
 Eager and strained, and peermg down the stairs 
 
 Tiiat tumbled to the ante-rooms of hell, 
 
 I saw the thirst which only death can quench. 
 
 He did not raise his eyes ; I did not speak ; 
 
 There was no work for me to do on Imu; 
 
 And when, at last, he tottered down the steps 
 
 Of a dark gin-shop, I was satisfied. 
 
 And half relentingly retraced my Avay. 
 
 4 
 v/ cannot tell the story of the months 
 
 That followed tlii:^. I toiled and toiled fur bread. 
 
BITTEK -SWEET. Vdl 
 
 And for the shelter of one stmgy room. 
 
 Temptfition, wliich tlie hand of poverty 
 
 ijcars oft seductiveiy to woman's lips, 
 
 To me came not. I hated men like beasts; 
 
 Their tlatterhig words, and wicked, wanton leers, 
 
 Sickened me with ineffable disgust. 
 
 Al length there came a change. One warm Spring eve^ 
 
 As I sat idly dreamhig of the past, 
 
 And questioning the future, my quick ear 
 
 Caught somid of feet upon the creaking staii's, 
 
 And a light rap delivered at my door. 
 
 I said, "Come in!" with half defiant voice, 
 
 Although I longed to see a human face, 
 
 And needed labor for my idle hands. 
 
 But when the door was opened, and there stood 
 
 A man before me, with an eye as pure 
 
 And brow as fair as any little child's, 
 
 Matched with a form and carriage Avhich combined 
 
 All manly beauty, dignity, and grace, 
 
I o8 B I T T E R - S ^V E E T . 
 
 A (]nick bliisli overwhelmed my pallid clietks, 
 And, ere I knew, and by no act of will, 
 ( rose and gave liim gentle com*tesy. 
 
 He took a seat, and spoke with pleasant voice 
 Of many pleasant tilings — the pleasant sky, 
 The stars, the opening foliage in the park ; 
 And then ne came to business. He would have 
 A piece of exquisite embroidery ; 
 My hand was cunning if report were true ; 
 Would it oblige him? It would do, I said-. 
 That which it could to satisfy his wish ; 
 And when he took the delicate pattern out, 
 And spread the dainty fabric on his knees, 
 I knew he had a wife. 
 
 He went away 
 With kind "Good night," and said that, with my Icavej 
 !fe\l call and watch the progress cf the work. 
 I marked his careful stor^.? adown the stairs, 
 
BITTER-SWEET, 189 
 
 AikI men, his brisk, firm tread upon the pave, 
 
 Till in the dull roar of the distant streets 
 
 It mingled and Avas lost. Then I was lost, — 
 
 Lost in a wild, wide-rangmg reverie — 
 
 From which I roused not till the midnight hush 
 
 Was broken by the toll from twenty towers. 
 
 This is a man, I said ; a man in truth ; 
 
 My room has known the presence of a man, 
 
 And it has gathered dignity from him. 
 
 I felt my being flooded with new life. 
 
 My heart was warm ; my poor, sore-footed thoughts 
 
 Sprang up full fledged througli ether ; and I felt 
 
 Like the sick woman who had touched the hem 
 
 Of Jesus' garment, when through aU her vems 
 
 Leaped the swift tides of youth. 
 
 He had a wife I 
 Why, to a wrecked, forsaken thing like me 
 Did that thought bring a pang ? I did not know } 
 
140 B 1 T T E li - S \V K K T 
 
 Hut. truth to tell, it gave me stinging paiii. 
 
 II he was noble, }ie was naught to me ; 
 
 If he was great, it only made me less ; 
 
 If he loved truly, I v>'as not enriched. 
 
 So, in my selfishness, I almost cursed 
 
 The unknown woman, thought for whom had brought 
 
 Her loving husband to me. What was I 
 
 To him ? Naught but a poor unfortunate, 
 
 Picking her bread up at a needle's point. 
 
 He'll come and criticise my handiwork, 
 
 I said, and when it is at last complete, 
 
 He'll draw his purse and give me so much gold ; 
 
 And then, forgetting me for ever, go 
 
 And gather fragrant kisses for the boon. 
 
 From lips that do not know their privilege. 
 
 I could be nothing but the medium 
 
 Through which his love should pass to reach its slirine 
 
 The glass through ^rhich the sun's electric beams 
 
 Kindles the rose's heart, and still remains 
 
 Chill and serene itself — without reward 1 
 
B I TT E R - S W E E T . 141 
 
 Tlien came to me the thoiiglit of my great wioug. 
 
 A man had spoiled my heart, degraded me ; 
 
 A v^anton woman had defrauded me ; 
 
 I would get reparation how I could ! 
 
 He must be something to me — I to him ! 
 
 All men, however good, are weak, I thought ; 
 
 And if I can arrest no beam of love ' 
 
 By right of nature or by leave of law, 
 
 I'll stain the glass ! And the last words T said, 
 
 As I lay do^vn u]->on my bed to dream, 
 
 Were those four words of sm : " I'll stain the glasa !" 
 
 GEACE. 
 
 Mary, I cannot hear you more ; your tale, 
 So bitter and so passing pitiful 
 I liave forgotten tears, and feel my eyes 
 Bum dry and hot with looking at your facC;, 
 Now gathers blackness, and grows horrible. 
 
H2 BITTER-SWEET„ 
 
 arARY. 
 Nay, you must hear rae out ; I cannot pause ; 
 And Lave no worse to say than I have said- 
 Thank God, and him who put away my toils ! 
 
 He came, and came again ; and every charm 
 God had bestoweTl on me, or art could frame, 
 I used with keenest ingenuities 
 To fascinate the sensuous element 
 O'er which, mistrusted, and but half asleep, 
 Ills conscience and propriety stood guard. 
 I told with tears the story of my woe ; 
 He listened to me w^itli a thoughtful face, 
 And sadly sighed ; and thus I won his ruth. 
 And then I told him how my life was lost ;— 
 How earth had nothing more for me but pain | 
 Not e'en a friend. At this, he took my hand. 
 And said, out of his nobleness of heart. 
 That I should have an honest friend in him ; 
 On wliich 1 bowed my head upon his arm, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 14:3 
 
 And wept again, as if my heart would break 
 
 With the full pressure of its gratitude. 
 
 He fat me gently off, and read my face : 
 
 I stood before him hopeless, helpless, his ! 
 
 His swift soul gathered what I meant it should. 
 
 He sighed and trembled ; then he crossed the flooTs 
 
 And gazed with eye abstracted on the sky ; 
 
 Then came and looked at me ; then turned, 
 
 As if affrighted at his springing thoughts, 
 
 And, with abruptest movement, left the room. 
 
 This time he took with him the broidered thing 
 
 That I had wrouglit for him ; and when I oped 
 
 The little purse that he rewarded me, 
 
 I found full golden payment five times told. 
 
 Given from pity ? thought I, — that alone V 
 
 Is maniy pity so munificent ? 
 
 '*ity has mixtures that it knows not of I 
 
 It was a cruel triumph, and I speak 
 
1^4: BITTER-SWEET, 
 
 Of it with utter penitence and shame. 
 
 1 knew that he would come again ; I knew 
 
 His feet w^ould bring him, though his soul rebelled 
 
 I knew that cheated heart of his would toy 
 
 Wic!: the seductive chains that gave it thrall, 
 
 And strive to reconcile its perjury 
 
 With its own conscience of the better way, 
 
 By fabrication of apologies 
 
 It knew were false. 
 
 And he did come again; 
 Confessing a strange interest in me, 
 And doing for me many kindly deeds. 
 I knew the nature of tlie sympathy 
 That drew him to my side, better than he ; 
 ThouG^h I could see that solenm chancre in him 
 ^^hich every face will wear, when Heaven and lleD 
 Are struggling in the heart ^or masierv. 
 He was unhappy ; every sudden sound 
 Startled his apprehensions ; from his lieart 
 
BITTER-SWEEl', 145 
 
 Rose lieavy suspirntions, charged with prayer, 
 
 Desire, and deprecation, and remorse ; — • 
 
 Sighs like volcanic breathings — sighs that scorched 
 
 His parching lips and spread his face with ashes,-— 
 
 Sighs born in such convulsions of the soul 
 
 That his strong frame quaked like Vesuvius, 
 
 Burdened with restless la^va. 
 
 Day by day 
 I marked this dalliance with sinful thought, 
 Without a throb of pity in my heart. 
 I look his gifts, which brought immunity 
 From toil and care, as if they were my right. 
 Day after day I saw my power increase. 
 Until that noble spirit was a slave — 
 A craven, helpless, self-suspected slave. 
 
 But this was not to last — thank God and him ! 
 One night he came, and there had been a change. 
 My band was kindly taken, but not held 
 
146 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 In tlie way wonted. He was self-jiossessed ; 
 
 The powers of darkness and his Christian hean 
 
 Had had a struggle — his the victoiy ; 
 
 And on his manly brow the benison 
 
 Of a majestic peace had been imposed. 
 
 Was I to lose the guerdon of ray guile ? 
 
 He was my all, and by the only means 
 
 Left to a helpless, recMeas thing, like me : 
 
 My heart made pledge the strife should be renewed. 
 
 I took no notice of his altered mood, 
 
 But strove, by all the tricks of* tenderness, 
 
 To fan to life again the drooping flame 
 
 Within his heart ; — with what success, at last, 
 
 Tlie sequel shall reveal. 
 
 Strange fire came do^\Ti 
 Responsive to my call, and the quick flash 
 That shrivelled resolution, vanquished will, 
 And with a blood-red flame consumed the crown 
 Of peace upon his brow, taught him how weak — 
 
BITTEK-SWEET. 1-^1 
 
 How miserably imbecile — he had become, 
 
 rampering with temptation. Such a groan, 
 
 Wrung from such agony, as then he breathed, 
 
 Pray Heaven my ears may never hear again i 
 
 He smote his forehead with his rigid palm. 
 
 And sank, as if the blow had stunned him, to his 
 
 knees, 
 And there, with face pressed Lard upon his hands, 
 Gave utterance to frenzied sobs and prayers — 
 The wild articulations of despair. 
 I was confounded. He — a man — thought I, 
 Blind with remorse by simple look at sin ! 
 And I — a woman — in the devil's hands, 
 Luring him Helhvard with no blush of shame ! 
 The thought came swift from God, and pierced my 
 
 heart, 
 Like a barbed arrow ; and it quivered there 
 Tlirough whiles of tumult — quivered — and was fast 1 
 
 Tlius, while I stood and marked his kneeling form, 
 
148 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Still shocked by deep convulsions, such a light 
 
 Illumed my soul, and flooded all the room, 
 
 That, without thought, I said, "The Lord is here !'» 
 
 Then straight my sjiirit heard these wondrous words 
 
 '* Tempted in all points like ourselves, was He — 
 
 Tempted, but sinless." Oh, what majesty 
 
 Of meanmg did those precious words convey ! 
 
 'Twas through temptation, thought I, that the Lord- 
 
 The mediator between God and men — 
 
 Reached down the hand of sympathetic love 
 
 To meet the grasp of lost Humanity ; 
 
 And this man, kneeliug, has the Lord in him, 
 
 And comes to mediate 'twixt Christ and me, 
 
 " Tempted but sinless ;" — one hand grasping mine, 
 
 The other Christ's. 
 
 Why had he suffered thi/s? 
 Why had his heart been led far down to mine, 
 To beat in sinful sympathy with mine. 
 But that my b^^rt should cling to his and him, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 149 
 
 And follow his withdrawal to the heights 
 From whence he had descended ? Then I learned 
 Why Christ was tempted ; and, as broad and full, 
 The heart of the great secret was revealed, 
 And I perceived God's dealings with my soul, 
 I knelt beside the tortured man and wept, 
 And cried to Heaven for mercy. As I prayed, 
 My soul cast off its shameful enterprise ; 
 And when it fell, I saw my godless self — 
 My own degraded, tainted, guilty heart, 
 Which it had hidden from me. Oh, the pang — 
 The poignant throe of uttermost despair- 
 That followed the discovery ! I felt 
 That I was lost beyond the grace of God ; 
 And my heart turned with instinct sure and swift 
 To the strong struggler, praying at my side. 
 And begged his succor and his prayers. I felt 
 That he must lead me up to where the hand 
 Of Jesus could lay hold on me, or I was doomecL 
 
150 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Temptation's spell was past. He took my hand, 
 
 And, as he prayed that we might be forgiven. 
 
 And pledged our future loyalty to God 
 
 And his white throne within our hearts, I gave 
 
 Responses to each promise ; then I crowned 
 
 His closing utterance with such Amen 
 
 As weak hearts, conscious of their weakness, give 
 
 When, bowed to dust., and clinging to the robes 
 
 Of outraged mercy, they devote themselves 
 
 Once and for ever to the pitying Christ. 
 
 Then we arose and stood upon our feet. 
 
 He gave me no reproaches, but with voice 
 
 Attempered to his altered mood, confessed 
 
 His own blameworthiness, and pressed the prayer 
 
 That I would pardon him, as he believed 
 
 That God had pardoned; but my Iieart was full,- 
 
 So fidl of its sore sense of wrong to him. 
 
 Of the deep guilt of shameful jmrposea 
 
 And treachery to wortliy womanhood, 
 
BITTEK-S WEET. 151 
 
 That I could not repeat Ms Christian words, 
 Asking forbearance cd my own behalf. 
 
 He sat before me for a golden hour; 
 
 And gaA'e me counsel and encouragement, 
 
 Till, like broad gates, the possibilities 
 
 Of a serener and a higher life 
 
 Were thrown wide open to my eager feet, 
 
 And I resolved that I would enter in, 
 
 And, with God's gracious help, go no more out. 
 
 For weeks he watched me with stern cai-efulnesa, 
 Nourished my resolution, prayed with me, 
 And led me, step by step, to higher ground. 
 Till, gathering impulse in the upward walk. 
 And strength in purer air, and keener sight 
 In the sweet light that dawmed upon my soul, 
 I grasped the arm of Jesus, aiid was safe. 
 And now, when I look back upon my life, 
 It seems as if that nobie man were sent 
 
152 BITTEK-SWEET. 
 
 To give me rescue from the pit of death. 
 
 But from his distant height he could not reach 
 
 And act ujDon my soul; so Heaven allowed 
 
 Temptation's ladder 'twixt his soul and mine 
 
 That they might meet and yield his mission thrift. 
 
 I doubt not in my grateful soul to-night 
 
 That had he stayed mthin his higher world, 
 
 And tried to call me to him, I had spurned 
 
 Alike his mission and his ministry. 
 
 That he was tempted, was at once my sin 
 
 And my salvation. That he sinned in thought. 
 
 And fiercely wrestled with temptation, won 
 
 For his own spirit that humility 
 
 Which God had sought to clothe him with in vahi, 
 
 By other measures, and that strength which springs 
 
 From a great conflict and a victory. 
 
 Wo talked of this ; and on our bended knees 
 
 We blessed the Great Dispenser for the moan 
 
 By which we both had learned our shiful selves, 
 
 And found the way to a divhier life. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 153 
 
 So, with my chastened heart and life, I come 
 Back to my home, to live — perhaps to die. 
 (lod's love has been in all this discipline; 
 God's love has used those awful sins of mine 
 To make me good and haj^py. I can mourn 
 Over my husband ; I can pray for him, 
 Nay, I forgive him; for I know the power 
 With wliich temptation comes to stronger men. 
 I know the power with which it came to me. 
 
 And now, dear Grace, my story is complete. 
 You have received it with dumb wonderment, 
 And it has been too long. Tell me what thought 
 Stirs in your face, and waits for utterance. 
 
 GEACE. 
 
 That I have suffered little — trusted less; 
 That I have failed in charity, and been 
 Unjust to all men — specially to one. 
 [ did not think there lived a liian on earth 
 
154 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Who had such virtue as this fi'ieiul of yours,— 
 
 Weak, and yet strong. 'Twere but humanity 
 
 To give hhn pity in liis av/ful strife; 
 
 To stint the meed of reverence and praise 
 
 For his triumpliant conquest of liimself, 
 
 Were hifamy. I love and honor liim; 
 
 And if I knew my hushand were as strong, 
 
 I could fall down before, and worship him ; 
 
 I could fall down, and wet his feet with tears — 
 
 Tears penitential for the grievous wrong 
 
 That I have done liim. But alas ! alas ! 
 
 The thouglit ccmes back again. O God in Heaven 
 
 Help me Avith patience to await the hour 
 
 When the great purpose of thy discipline 
 
 Shall be revealed, and, like this chastened one, 
 
 I can behold it, and be satisfied. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Hark ! They are cnllhig u^ below, I think. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 156 
 
 We must go down. We'll talk of this again 
 Wlieii we have leisure. Kiss the little one, 
 And thank his wearv brain it sleeps so well. 
 
 (They descend. 
 
SECOND EPISODE. 
 
 LOCVLITY— 77i6 Kitchen. 
 PRESENT — .Joseph, Samcel, Kehf.kah, and otiier Coildkes. 
 
 THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY STOKY. 
 
 JOSEPH. 
 
 Elave we not li.id ** Button-Bntton " enough, 
 And "Forfeits," and all such silly stuff? 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 U'(>l!, we were playing " Blind-Man*s-Buff " 
 Until you fellj and rose in a huff, 
 
168 BITTER-SWEEIc 
 
 And declared the game was too rude and rough. 
 Poor boy! What a pity he ii>n't tough 1 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! what a pretty boy I 
 Papa's delight, and mamma's joy! 
 Wouldn't he like to go to bed, 
 And have a cabbage-leaf on his head ? 
 
 JOSErH. 
 
 Laugh, if you like to ! Laugh till yor '« gray j 
 
 But I guess you'd laugh another way 
 
 If you'd hit your toe, and fallen like me, 
 
 And cut a bloody gash in your knee, 
 
 And bumped your nose and bruised your shin, 
 
 Tumbling over the rolling-pin 
 
 That rolled to the floor in the awful din 
 
 Til at followed the fall of the row of tin 
 
 Tliat stood u})on the dresser. 
 
BITTEU-SWEET. 159 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 Guess again— deal Jttle gucsser ! 
 You wouldn't catch this boy lopping his wrng, 
 Or whining over anything. 
 So stir your stumps, 
 Forget your bumps, 
 Get out of your dumps, 
 And up and at it again ; 
 For the clock is striking ten, 
 And Ruth will come pretty soon and say, 
 '* Go to your heds 
 You sleepy heads !" 
 So— quick I What shall we play ? 
 
 EEBEKAH. 
 
 T wouldn't play any more, 
 For Joseph is tired and sore 
 With his fall upon the floor 
 
160 BITTER-SWEfiT 
 
 AM*. 
 
 riien be shall tell a story. 
 
 JOSEPH, 
 
 About old Mother Moray ? 
 
 No I Tell us another 
 
 JOSEPH. 
 
 About my brother ? 
 
 EEBKKAH. 
 
 Now, Joseph, you sliall be good. 
 
 And do as you'd be done b)' ; 
 
 We didn't mean to be rude 
 
 When you fell and began to cry; 
 
 We wanted to make you forget your pain 5 
 
 But it fiets you, and we'll not laugh again. 
 
BITTER-SWEET, 161 
 
 JOSEPH 
 
 Well, if you'll all sit still, 
 
 And not be frisknig about, 
 
 ISTor utter a wliisper till 
 
 You've heard my story out, 
 
 I'll tell you a tale as weird 
 
 As ever you heard in your lives, 
 
 Of a man with a long blue beard, 
 
 And the way he treated his wives. 
 
 am:.. 
 
 Oh, that will be nice ! 
 We'll be still as mice. 
 
 JOSEPH. 
 
 [Relates the old story of Blue Beard, and David and Rdtb iad» 
 from the cellar unperceived. 
 
 Centuries since there flourished a man, 
 (A cruel old Tartar as rich as tb.e Kliau,) 
 
162 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Wliose castle was built on a splendid plan, 
 
 With gardens and groves and plantations; 
 But liis shaggy beard was as blue as the sky, 
 And he lived alone, for his neighbors were shy, 
 And had heard hard stories, by the by, 
 About his doniesti relations. 
 
 Just on the opposite side of the plain 
 
 A widow abode, with her daughters twain, 
 
 And one of them — neither cross nor vain — 
 
 Was a beautiful little treasure ; 
 So he sent them an invitation to tea, 
 And ha\dng a natural wish to see 
 His wonderful castle and gardens, all three 
 
 Said they'd do themselves the pleasure. 
 
 As soon as there happened a pleasact day, 
 They dressed themselves in a sumptuous way, 
 And rode to the castle as proud an 1 gay 
 As silks and jewels co M make llem; 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 163 
 
 And they v/ere received in the finest style, 
 And saw everything that was worth their wnile, 
 fr the halls of Blue Beard's grand old pile, 
 Where lie was so kind as to take them. 
 
 The ladies were all enchanted quite ; 
 For they found old Blue Beard so polite 
 That they did not suffer at ail from fright, 
 
 And frequently called thereafter ; 
 Then he offered to marry the younger one, 
 And as she was willing the thing was done, 
 And celebrated by all the ton 
 
 With feasting and with laughter. 
 
 As knid a husband as ever was seen 
 
 Was Blue Beard then, for a month, I ween; 
 
 And she was as proud as any queen, 
 
 Aid as happy as she could be, too ; 
 But her husband called her to him one day, 
 And said, " My dear, I am going a'.vay ; 
 
i6-i BITTEE-SWEET. 
 
 It -vvill not be long that I shall stay; 
 There is business for me to see to. 
 
 " The keys of my castle I leave with you ; 
 
 But if you value my love, be true, 
 
 And forbear to enter the Chamber of Blue f 
 
 Farewell, Fatbna ! Remember !" 
 Fatima promised liim ; then she ran 
 To visit the rooms with her sister Ann ; 
 But when she had finished the tour, she began 
 
 To think about the Blue Chamber. 
 
 Well, the w^oman was curiously inclined, 
 So she left her sister and prudence behind, 
 (With a little excuse) and started to find 
 
 The mystery forbidden. 
 She i)aused at the door ; — all was still as night I 
 She opened it: then throngli the dim, blue light 
 There blistered her vision the horrible sight 
 
 That was in that chamber hidden. 
 
BITTEPwS WEET. 1(51 
 
 The room was gloomy and damp and wide, 
 And the floor was red with the bloody tide 
 From headless women, laid side by side, 
 
 T?ie wives of her lord and master ! 
 ^'lightened and fainting, she dropped the key, 
 But seized it and lifted it quickly; then she 
 Hurried as swiftly as she could flee 
 
 From the scene of the disaster. 
 
 She tried to forget the terrible dead. 
 
 But shrieked when she saw that the key was red. 
 
 And sickened and shook ^viih an a\A'ful dread 
 
 When she heard Blue Beard ^\'as coming. 
 He did not appear to notice her pain; 
 But he took his keys, and seeing the stain, 
 He stopped in the middle of the refrain 
 
 That he had been quietly humming. ^ 
 
 *» Mighty well, madam !" said he, " mighty weW I 
 What does this little blood-stain tell ? 
 
166 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Y"oii've broken your promise ; prepare to dwell 
 With the wives I've had before you ! 
 
 You've broken your promise, and you shall die." 
 
 Then Fatima, supposing her death was nigh, 
 
 Fell on her knees and began to cry, 
 " Have mercy, I implore you !" 
 
 ** No !" shouted Blue Beard, drawing his sword ^ 
 "You shall die this very minute," he roared. 
 " Grant me time to prepare to meet ray Lord,*> 
 
 The terrified woman entreated. 
 " Only ten minutes," he roared again ; 
 And holding his watch by its great gold chain, 
 He marked on the dial the fatal ten, 
 
 And retired till they were completed. 
 
 *' Sister, oh, sister, fly up to the tower ! 
 Look for release from this murderer's power ! 
 Our brothers should be here this very hour ; — 
 Speak ! Does there come assistance !" 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 167 
 
 "No: I see nothing but sheep on the hill.»» 
 " I.ook agam, sister !" *' I'm looking still, 
 l>ut naught can I see, whether good or ill, 
 Save a flurry of dust in the distance." 
 
 " Time's up !" shouted Blue Beard, out from his room 
 " This moment shall v.itness your terrible doom, 
 And give you a dwelling within the room 
 
 Whose secrets you have invaded." 
 " Comes there no help for my terrible need ?" 
 "There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed." 
 " Oh ! tell them to ride very fast indeed, 
 
 Or I must meet death unaided." 
 
 " Time's fully up ! Now have done with your prayer," 
 Shouts:! Blue Beard, swinging his sword on the stair; 
 Then he entered, and grasping her beautiful hair, 
 
 Swung his glittermg weapon around him; 
 But a loud knock rang at the castle gate. 
 And Fatima was saved from her hori'ible fate. 
 
168 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 For, shocked with surprise, he paused too late; 
 And then the two soldiers found him. 
 
 They were her brothers, and quick as they knew 
 What the fiend was doing, their swords they di-ew, 
 And attacked him fiercely, and ran hun through, 
 
 So that soon he was mortally wounded. 
 With a wild remorse was his conscience filled 
 When he thought of the hapless wives he had killed j 
 But quickly the last of his blood was spilled, 
 
 And his dying groan was sounded. 
 
 As soon as Fatima recovered from fright. 
 
 She embraced her brothers with great delight; 
 
 And they were as glad and as grateful quite 
 
 As she was glad and grateful. 
 Then they all went out from that scene of pain, 
 And sought in quietude to regain 
 Hieir minds, which had come to be quite insane, 
 
 Tn 8 ')lace so horrid and hateful. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 169 
 
 Twas a private funeral Blue Beard had; 
 
 For the people knew he was very bad, 
 
 And, tliough they said nothmg, they all were glad 
 
 For the fall of the evil-doer ; 
 But Fatima first ordered some graves to be made, 
 And there the unfortunate ladies were laid, 
 And after some painful months, with the aid 
 
 Of her friends, her spirits came to her. 
 
 Then slie cheered the hearts of the suffering poor, 
 And an acre of land around each door, 
 And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more, 
 
 To her tenantry she granted. 
 So all of them had enough to eat, 
 And their love for her was so complete 
 They would kiss the dust from her little feet. 
 
 Or do anything she wanted. 
 
 ('apilall Capital' Wasn't it good! 
 
170 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 I slionld l&e to Lavo been lier brother; 
 
 If I had been one, you may guess there would 
 
 liave been little work for the other. 
 
 I'd have run him riglit through the heart, just so 
 
 And cut off his head at a single blow, 
 
 And killed him so quickly he'd never know 
 
 What it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe? 
 
 JOSEPH. 
 
 You are very brave with your bragging tongue; 
 But if you had been there, you'd have sung 
 
 A very different tune. 
 Poor Blue Beard! He would have been afraid 
 Of a little boy with a penknife blade. 
 
 Or a tiny pe^vter spoon 1 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 It makes no difference wnat you say 
 (Pretty Uttle boy, aiiaid to l-'ayl) 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 171 
 
 But it served him riglitly any wav, 
 
 And gave him just his due. 
 And wasn't it good that his httle wife 
 Should live in his castle the rest of her life, 
 
 And have all his money too ? 
 
 REBEKAH, 
 
 I'm thinking of the ladies who 
 Were lying in the Chamber Blue, 
 With aU their small necks cut in two. 
 
 I see them Ipng, half a score, 
 In a long row upon the floor, 
 Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore. 
 
 I know the sweet Fatima would 
 Have put their heads on if she could; 
 And made them live — she was so good ; 
 
172 B I T T E R - S ^V E E I . 
 
 And washed their faces at the sink; 
 But Blue Beard was not sane, I thinks 
 I wonder if he did not drink! 
 
 For no man in his proper mind 
 Would be so cruelly inclined 
 Afi to kill ladies who were kind. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 \_Stepping fonoard with David 
 Story and comment alike are bad ; 
 These little fellows are raving mad 
 
 With thinking what they should do, 
 Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had 
 Given her heart — and her head — to a lad 
 Like the man with the Beard of Blue. 
 Each little jacket 
 Is now a packet 
 Of murderous thoughts and fancies j 
 Oh, the gentle trade 
 By which fiends are made 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 178 
 
 With the ready aid 
 
 Of these bloody old romances ! 
 And the little girl takes the woman's turn, 
 And thinks that the old curmudgeon 
 Wlio owned a castle, and rolled in gold 
 Over fields and gardens manifold, 
 And kept in his house a family tomb, 
 With his bowling course and his billiard-room, 
 Where he could preserve his precious dead, 
 Who took the kiss of the bridal bed 
 From one who straightway took their head, 
 And threw it away with the pair of gioves 
 In which he wedded his hapless loves, 
 
 Had some excuse for his dudgeon. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 We learn by contrast to admire 
 Tlie beauty that enchains us; 
 And know the object of desire 
 By that which pains us. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 The roses blushing at the door, 
 
 The laj^se of leafy June, 
 The singing bii'ds, the sunny shore, 
 The summer moon ; — 
 
 All these entrance the eye or ear 
 
 By mnate grace and charm ; 
 But o'er them, reaching through the year 
 Hangs Winter's arm. 
 
 To give to memory the sign, 
 
 The index of our bliss, 
 And show by contrast how divine 
 The Summer is. 
 
 From chilling blasts and stormy skiefi. 
 
 Bare hills and icy streams. 
 Touched into fairest life arise 
 Our summer dreams. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 175 
 
 And virtue never seems so fair 
 
 As when we lift our gaze 
 From the red eyes and bloody hair 
 That vice displays. 
 
 We are too low, — our eyes too dark 
 
 Love's height to estimate, 
 Save as we note the sunken mark 
 Of brutal Hate. 
 
 So this ensanguined tale shall move 
 
 Aright each little dreamer, 
 And Blue Beard teach them how to lov» 
 The sweet Fatima. 
 
 They hate his crimes, and it is well; 
 
 They pity those who died ; 
 Their sense of justice v hen he fell 
 Was satisiied. 
 
176 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 No fierce revenges are the friut 
 
 Of their just indignation ; 
 They sit in judgment on the brute, 
 And condemnation ; 
 
 And turn to her, his rescued wife, 
 
 Her deeds so kind and human, 
 And love the beauty of her life, 
 And bless the woman. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 That is the way I supposed you would twist it; 
 And now that the boys are disposed of, 
 And the moral so handsomely closed off. 
 What do you say of the girl? That she missed it. 
 When she thought of old Blue Beard as &>*me do oi 
 
 Judas, 
 Wlio with this notion essay to delude us: 
 That when he relented, 
 And fiercely repented, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 177 
 
 He was hardly so bad 
 As be commonly had 
 The foi-time to be represented? 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 The noblest pity in the earth 
 
 Is that bestowed on sin. 
 The Great Salvation had its birth 
 That ruth within. 
 
 The girl is nearest God, in fact; 
 
 The boy gives crime its due ; 
 She blames the author of the act, 
 And pities too. 
 
 Thus, from this strange excess of wrong, 
 
 Her tender heart has caught 
 The noblest truth, the sweetest song. 
 The Saviour taught. 
 
178 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 So, more than measm-ed homily, 
 
 Of sage, or priest, or preacher, 
 Is this wild tale of cruelty 
 
 Love's gentle teacher. 
 
 It tells of sin, its deep remorse. 
 
 Its fitting recompense, 
 And vindicates the taidy course 
 Of Providence. 
 
 These boyish bosoms are on fire 
 
 With chivalric possession, 
 And burn with just and manly ire 
 Against oppression. 
 
 The glory and the gi-ace of hfe. 
 
 And Love's surpassing sweetness, 
 
 Hise from the monster to the wife 
 
 In high comi)letcncss ; 
 
BITTEB-SWBET. 179 
 
 And thence look down with mercy's eye 
 
 On sin's accurst abuses, 
 And seek to wrest from charity 
 Some fair excuses. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 These greedy mouths are watering 
 For the fruit within the basket ; 
 And, although they will not ask it, 
 Their jack-knives all are burning 
 And their eager hands are yearning 
 
 For the peeling and the quartering. 
 So let us have done with our talk ; 
 For they are too tired to say their prayers. 
 And the time is come they should walk 
 From *;he story below to the story up stairs 
 
l\e:iED MOVEMENT. 
 
 Q- 
 
 DHAMATIO, 
 
THE THIED MOVEMENT 
 
 LOCALITY— The Kitchm. 
 PKEBENT-— Da^id, Euth, John, Prtkb, PurDTatoK, and Pathkob. 
 
 THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY THE DENOUEMENT 
 JOHN. 
 
 Since the old gentleman retired to bed, 
 
 Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Rmh, 
 
 Have wasted thirty minutes underground 
 
 In explorations. One would think the house 
 
 Covered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave, 
 
 And they had lost themselves. Mary and Grace 
 
184 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Still hold their chamber and their confereu^je, 
 
 And pour into each other's greedy ears 
 
 'j'heir stream of talk, whose low, monotonous hum, 
 
 Would lull to slumber any storm but this. 
 
 The children are play-tired and gone to bed; 
 
 And one may know by looking round the room 
 
 Their place of sport was here. And we, plain folk, 
 
 Who have no gift of speech, especially 
 
 On themes which we and none may understand, 
 
 Have yawned and nodded in the great square room, 
 
 And wondered if the parted family 
 
 Would ever meet again. 
 
 m 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 John, do you see 
 Tlie apples and the cider on the hearth? 
 If I remember rightly, you discuss 
 Such themes as these with noticeable zest 
 A.nd pleasant tokens of intelligence; 
 
BITTER-SWEET. l85 
 
 Rather preferring scanty company 
 
 To the full circle. So, sir, take the lead, 
 
 And help yourself. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Aye! That I will, and give 
 Your welcome invitation currency. 
 In the old-fashioned way. Come! Help yourselves I 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 \LooJcing out from the loindmc 
 
 The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls ! 
 The atmosphere is plunging like the sea 
 Against the woods, and pouring on the night 
 The roar of breakers, while the blinding spray 
 O'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting on 
 In lines as level as the window-bars. 
 What curious visions, in a night like this, 
 Will the eye conjure from the rocks and trees, 
 And zigzag fences! I was almost sure 
 
186 BITTER SWEET. 
 
 I saw a man staggering along the road 
 
 A moment since ; but instantly the shape 
 
 Dropped from my sight. Hark! Was not that a call- 
 
 k human voice ? There's a conspiracy 
 
 Between my eyes and ears to play me tricks, 
 
 Else wanders there abroad some hapless soul 
 
 Who needs assistance. There he stands again, 
 
 And with unsteady essay strives to breast 
 
 The tempest. Hush ! Did you not hear that cry ? 
 
 Quick, brothers! We riust out, and give our aid. 
 
 None but a dying and despairing man 
 
 Ever gave utterance to a cry like that. 
 
 Kay, wait for nothing. Follow me 1 
 
 BUTH. 
 
 Alas I 
 Wlio can he be, who on a night like this, 
 And on tnis night, of all nights in the year, 
 Holds to the highway, ^omoless ? 
 
BITTER-SWEET. IB7 
 
 PEUDENCE. 
 
 Probably 
 Some neigbbor started from bis borne in quest 
 Of a pbysician ; or, more likely still, 
 Some poor inebriate, sadly overcome 
 By bis sad keeping of the boUday. 
 I bope they'll give bim quarters in tbe barn; 
 If he sleep here, there'll be no sleep for me. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 I'll not believe it was a man at all; 
 David and Ruth are always seeing things 
 That no one else sees. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 I see plainly now 
 What we shall all see plainly, soon enough. 
 Tiie man is dead, and tbey are bearing bim 
 As if he were a, log. Quick! Stir tbe tire, 
 
188 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And clear the settle! We must lay him there. 
 
 I will bring cordials, and flannel stuffs 
 
 With which to chafe him ; open wide the door. 
 
 [The men enter, bearing a body apparently lifeless, which they la^ 
 upon the settle, 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Now do my bidding, orderly and swiit; 
 
 And we may save from death a fellow man. 
 
 Peter, relieve him of those frozen shoes, 
 
 And wrap his feet in flannel. This way, Ruth! 
 
 Administer that cordial yourself. 
 
 John, you are strong, and that rough hand of yours 
 
 Will chafe him well. Work with a will, I sayl 
 ******* 
 
 My hand is on his heart, and I can feel 
 
 Both warmth and motion. If we persevere, 
 
 Ele will bo saved. Work with a will, I sayl 
 
 iN 4: * ♦ 4« ♦ * 
 
 A groan? Ha! That is good. Another groan? 
 Better and better 1 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 189 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 It is down at last! — 
 A spoonful of the cordial. His breath 
 Comes feebly, but is warm upon my hand. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Give him brisk treatment, and persistent, tooi 
 And we shall be rewarded presently, 
 For there is life in him. 
 
 H: 4: ♦ H( ♦ * « 
 
 He moves his lips 
 
 And tries to speak. 
 
 ******* 
 
 And now he opes his eyes. 
 
 What eyes ! How wandering and wild they are ! 
 
 [7b the stranger 
 
 We are your friends. We found you overcome 
 
 By the cold storm without, and brought you in. 
 
 We are your friends, I say; so be at ease, 
 
190 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And let us do according to your need, 
 Wliat is your wish? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 My friends ? O God in Heaven ! 
 Tliey've cheated me! I'm in the hospital. 
 Oh, it was cruel to deceive me thus! 
 No, you are not my friends. What bitter pain 
 Racks my poor body! 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Poor man, how he raves I 
 Let us be silent while the warmth and wine 
 Provoke his sluggish blood to steady flow, 
 And each dead sense comes back to hfe agam. 
 O'er the same path of torture which it trod 
 When it went out from him. He'll slumber so >tt. 
 And, when he wakens, we may talk with him. 
 
BITTER-SWEET 191 
 
 PEUDENCE 
 
 [Sotto voce. 
 Shall 1 not call the family? I think 
 Mary and Grace must both be very cold; 
 And they know nothing of this strange affair. 
 I'll wait them at the landing, and secure 
 Their silent entrance. 
 
 DAVXD, 
 
 If it please you — well. 
 [Prudence retires, and returns iviih Grack and Mart 
 
 MART. 
 
 Why ! We heard nothmg of it — Grace and I : — 
 What a cadaverous hand ! How blue and thin I 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 At his first wUd awaking he bemoaned 
 His fancied durance in a hospital ; 
 
192 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 And since he spoke so strangely, I have thought 
 lie may have fled a mad-house. Matters not I 
 We've done our duty, and preserved his life. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Hhall I disturb him if I look at him ? 
 I'm strangely curious to see his face. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Go. Move you carefully, and bring us word 
 Whether he sleeps. 
 
 [Maey rises, goes to the settle, and sinks hack fainting t 
 
 Why ! What ails the gii'l ? 
 I thought her nerves were iron. Dash her brow 
 And oathe her temples ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 There — there, — that will da. 
 *Tl8 over now. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 193 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 The man is speaking. Hush I 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Oh, what a heavenly dream ! But it is past, 
 
 Like all my heavenly dreams, for never more 
 Shall dream entrance me. Death has never dreams, 
 But everlasting wakefulness. The eye 
 Of the quick spirit that has dropped the flesh 
 May close no more in slumber. 
 
 « « >i« >i: « * « 
 
 I must die ! 
 This painless spell which binds my weary limbs— 
 This peace ineffable of soul and sense — 
 Is dissolution's herald, and gives note 
 That life is conquered and the struggle o'er. 
 But I had hoped to see her ere I died ; 
 »To kneel for pardon, and implore one kiss, 
 Pledge to ray soul that in the coming heaven 
 We should not meet as strangers, but rejoin 
 
194 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Our liearts and lives so madly sundered here, 
 Through fault and freak of mine. But it is well 
 God's will be done ! 
 
 He ****** 
 
 I dreamed that I had reached 
 The old red farm-house, — that I saw the light 
 Flaming as brightly as in other times 
 It flushed the kitchen windows ; and that forms 
 Were sliding to and fro in joyous life, 
 Rt;jstless to give me welcome. Then I dreamed 
 Of the dear woman who went out with me 
 One sweet spring morning, in her own sweet spring, 
 
 To wretchedness and ruin. Oh, forgive — 
 
 Dear, pitying Christ, forgive this cruel wrong, 
 And let me die ! Oh, let me — let me die I 
 Mary ! my Mary ! Could you only know 
 How I have suffered since I fled from you, — 
 How I have sorrow^ed through long months of pain, 
 And prayed for pardon, — you would pardon me. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 195 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 [Sotto voce. 
 
 Mary, what means this ? Does he dream alone. 
 Or are we dreaming ? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Edward, I am here . 
 1 am your Mary ! Know you not my face ? 
 My husband, speak to me ! Oh, speak once more I 
 This is no dream, but kind reality. 
 
 EDWARD. 
 
 [Baising himself, and looking wildly aramdL 
 
 You, Mary ? Is this heaven, and am I dead ? 
 I did not know you died : when did you die ? 
 And John and Peter, Grace and little Ruth 
 Grown to a woman ; are they all with you ? 
 »Tis very strange ! O pity me, my friends I 
 For God has pitied me, and pardoned, too : 
 
196 - BITTER- SWEET. 
 
 Else I should not be here. Nay, you seem cold. 
 
 And look on me with sad severity. 
 
 Have you no pardoning word — no smile for me ? 
 
 MART. 
 
 This is not Heaven's but Earth's reality; 
 
 This is the farm-house — these your wife and friends. 
 
 I hold yom- hand, and I forgive you all. 
 
 Pray you recline ! You are not strong enough 
 
 To bear this yet. 
 
 EDWARD. 
 
 [Sinking back. 
 
 toiling heart ! O sick and sinking heart 1 
 
 Give me one hour of service, ere I die I 
 
 This is no dream. This hand is precious flesh, 
 
 And I am here where I have prayed to be. 
 
 My God, I thank thee ! Thou hast heard my prayer, 
 
 And, in its answer, given me a pledge 
 
 Of the acceptance of my penitence. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 19' 
 
 How have I yearned for this one priceless hoiirl 
 Cling to me, clearest, while my feet go down 
 Into the silent stream; nor loose your hold, 
 Till angels grasp me on the other side. 
 
 MAKT. 
 
 Kdward, you are not dying — must not die; 
 For only now are we prepared to live. 
 You must have quiet, and a night of rest. 
 Be silent, if you love me ! 
 
 EDWARD. 
 
 If I love? 
 Ah, Mary! never till this blessed hour, 
 When power and passion, lust and pride are gone, 
 Ilave I perceived what wedded love may be; — • 
 vlnutterable fondness, soul for soul; 
 Profoundest tenderness between two hearts 
 Allied by nature, interlocked by life. 
 
198 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 I know that I shall die ; but the low clouds 
 That closed my mental vision have retired, 
 And left a sky as clear and calm as Heaven. 
 1 must talk now, or never more on earth; 
 So do not hinder me. 
 
 MART. 
 
 Have you a wish 
 That I can gratify? Have you any worda 
 To send to other friends? 
 
 EDWAKD. 
 
 I have no friendfl 
 But you and these, and only wish to leave 
 My worthless name and memory redeemed 
 Within your hearts to pitying respect. 
 I liave no strength, and it becomes me not, 
 To tell the story of my life of sin. 
 1 was a drunkard, thief, adulterer; 
 
 [ Weepmq 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 199 
 
 And lied from sliame, with shame, to find remors^ . 
 
 I liud but few months of debauchery, 
 
 iNirsued with mad intent to damp or drown 
 
 The flames of a consuming conscience, when 
 
 My body, poisoned, crippled with disease. 
 
 Refused the guilty service of my soul. 
 
 And at mid-day fell prone upon the street. 
 
 Thence I was carried to a hospital. 
 
 And there I woke to that delirium 
 
 Which none but drunkards this side of the pit 
 
 May even dream of. 
 
 But at last there came, 
 With abstinence and kindly medicines, 
 Release from pain and peaceful sanity; 
 And then Christ found me, ready for His hand. 
 I was not ready for Him when He came 
 And asked me for my youth; and when He knocked 
 At my heart's door in manhood's early prime 
 With tenderest monitions, I debarred 
 
200 B I T T E R - S W E fi T . 
 
 His wailing feet with promise and excuse; 
 
 And when, in after years, absorbed in sin. 
 
 The gentle summons swelled to thundeiings 
 
 That echoed through the chambers of my soul 
 
 With threats of vengeance, I shut up my ears ; 
 
 And then He went away, and let me rush 
 
 "w ithout arrest, or protest, toward the pit. 
 
 i made swift passage downward, till, at length, 
 
 I had be^jome a miserable wreck — 
 
 Pleasure behind me; only pain before; 
 
 My life lived out ; the fires of passion dead ; 
 
 Without a fi'iend ; no pride, no power, no hope ; 
 
 No motive in me e'en to wish for life. 
 
 Then, as I said, Christ came, with stern and sad 
 
 Reminders of Hia mercy and my guilt, 
 
 And the door fell before Him. 
 
 I went out, 
 And trod the wildernesses of remorse 
 For many days. Then from their outer verge, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 201 
 
 Tortured and blinded, I plunged madiy down 
 
 Into the sullen bosom of des[>air; 
 
 But strength from Heaven was given me, and pr(^ 
 
 served 
 Breath in my bosom, till a light stream. 'd up 
 Upon the other shore, and I struck out 
 On the cold waters, struggling for my life. 
 Fainting I reached the beach, and on my knees 
 Climbed up the thorny hill of penitence, 
 Till I could see, upon its distant brow, 
 The Saviour beck'ning. Then I ran — I flew"-— 
 And grasped his outstretched hand. It lifted me 
 High on the eve^-lasting rock, and then 
 it folded me, with ail my griefs and tears, 
 My RiT>iJck body and my guilt-stained soul, 
 To the great Leart that throbs for all the world. 
 
 MAEY. 
 
 Dear Lord, I bless thee ! Tiiou liast heard my prayer, 
 
2 »2 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 J ad saved the wanderer! Hear it once again, 
 fld lengthen out the life tliou hast redeemed! 
 
 EDWABD. 
 
 Mary, ray wife, forbear! I may not give 
 
 Response to such petition. I have prayed 
 
 That I may die. When first the love Divine 
 
 Received me on its bosom, and in mine 
 
 I felt the springing of another life, 
 
 I begged the Lord to grant me two requests 
 
 The first that I might die, and in that world 
 
 Where passion sleeps, and only influence 
 
 From Him and those who cluster at His thro::^<^ 
 
 Breathes on the soul, the germ of His great Iir<fe, 
 
 Bursting within me, might be perfected. 
 
 The second, that your life, my love, and mine 
 
 Might be once more united on the earth 
 
 In holy marriage, and that mine might be 
 
 Breathed out at last within your lovir.g ai-ma. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 203 
 
 One prayer is granted, and the other waits 
 But a brief space for its accomplishment. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Bnt why this prayer to die? Still lo-vdng me,— 
 With the great motive for desiring life 
 And the deep secret of enjoyment won, — 
 Why pray for death? 
 
 EDWARD. 
 
 Do you not know me, Mary? 
 I am afraid to live, for I am weak. 
 I've found a treasure only life can steal ; 
 I've won a jewel only death will keep. 
 In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearl 
 Would not be safe. That which I would not take 
 When health was with me, — which I spurned away 
 So long as I had power to sin, I fear 
 Would be surrendered with that power's return 
 And the temptation to its exercise. 
 Por soul like mine, diseased in every part, 
 
204 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 There is but oue condition in which grace 
 May give it service, bor my malady 
 The Great Physician draw.'s the blood away 
 That only flows to feed its baleful tires; 
 For only thus the balsam and the balm 
 May touch the springs of heaUng. 
 
 So I pray 
 To be delivered from myself, — to be 
 Delivered from necessity of ill, — 
 To be secured fiom bringing harm to you. 
 Oh, what a boon is death to tlie sick soul! 
 I greet it with a joy that passes speech. 
 Were the whole world to come before me now,— 
 Wealth with it? treasures; Pleasure witli its cup; 
 Power robed in pnrj^le; Beauty in its })rldo. 
 And with Love'"^ sweetest blossoms gaihinded ; 
 Fame with its bnys, and Giory willi its crown,— 
 To tempt me li^'-^ward, I would turn away, 
 And stretch my ''.'aiids witli utter eai;t'rness 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 206 
 
 Toward the pale angel waiting for me now, 
 And give mv hand to him, to be led out, 
 .S(ii-ene]y singing, to tae land of shade. 
 
 MAEY. 
 
 Edward, 1 yield you. I would not retain 
 One who nas strayed so long fiom God and heaven, 
 When his weak feet have found the only path 
 Open for such as he. 
 
 EDWARD. 
 
 My strength recedes; 
 But ere it foil, tell me how fares your life. 
 You have seen sorrow ; but it comforts me 
 To hear the language of a chastened soul 
 From one perverted by my guilty hand. 
 You spea'K the dialect of the redeemed— 
 The Heaven-accepted. Tell me it is so, 
 And you are happy. 
 
206 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 With sweet hope and trust 
 J may reply, 'tis as you think and wish. 
 1 liave seen sorrow, surely, and the more 
 That I have seen ^\hat was far worse; but God 
 Sent his own servant to me to restore 
 My sadly straying feet to the sure path ; 
 And in my soul I have the pledge of grace 
 Which shall sullice to keep them there. 
 
 EDWARD. 
 
 Ah, joy ! 
 You found a friend; and my o'erllowing heart. 
 Welling with gratitude, pours out to him 
 For his kind ministry its fitting meed. 
 Oh, breathe his name to me, that my poor lips 
 May bind it to a benison, and that. 
 While dying, I may whisper it Avith those — • 
 Jesus and Mary — which I love the l)est. 
 Name him, I pray you. 
 
B I T T K R - S W E E T . 20"] 
 
 MART. 
 
 You would ask of me 
 To bear your thanks to liim, and to rehearse 
 Your dying words? 
 
 GKACE. 
 
 He asks your good friend's name 
 You do not understand him. 
 
 ItARY. 
 
 It is hard 
 To give denial to a dying wish ; 
 But, Edward, I've no right to speak his name. 
 He was a Christian man, and you may give 
 Of the full largess of your gratitude 
 All, without robbing God, you have to givCj 
 And fail, e'en then, of worthy recompense, 
 
 EDWAED. 
 
 Four will is mine. 
 
208 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 GKACE. 
 
 Nay, Mary, tell it him ! 
 Where is he gomg he should bruit the name? 
 Uemembjr where he lies, and that no eais 
 Save those of angels — — 
 
 MARY. 
 
 There are others hero 
 Who may not hear it. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 We will all retire. 
 It IS not proper w^e should Unger here, 
 Barrmg tlie sacred confidence of hearts 
 Parting so sadly. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Mary, you must yield, 
 Nor keep the secret longer from your friend* 
 
 MARY, 
 
 David, you know not vv^hat you say. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 20^ 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 I know ; 
 So give the dying man no more delay. 
 
 MARY 
 
 I will declare it under your command. 
 
 This stranger friend — stranger for many months— 
 
 This man, selectest instrument of Heaven, 
 
 Who gave me succor in my hour of need, 
 
 Snatched me from ruin, rescued me from want. 
 
 Counselled and cheered me, prayed with me, and then 
 
 Led me with careful hand into the hght. 
 
 Was he now bending over you in tears — 
 
 David, my brother 1 
 
 EDWARD. 
 
 Blessed be his nainei 
 Brother Dy every law, above — below i 
 
210 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 [Pale and trembling, 
 David ? My husband ? Did I hear ariglit ? 
 You are not jesting ! Sure you would not jest 
 At such a juncture ! Speak, my husband, speak ! 
 Is this a plot to cheat a dying man, 
 Or cheat a wife who, if it be no plot. 
 Is worthy death ? What can you mean by this ? 
 
 MAKY. 
 
 Not more nor less than my true words convey 
 
 GKACK. 
 
 Nay, David, tell me I 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Mary's words are truth, 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 O mean and jealous heart whnt hast thou done I 
 Wliat wrong to honor, 'OjiiKi to Clii-isiiaii love. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 211 
 
 And shame to self beyond self-pardoning I 
 
 ![o\v can I evar lift my faithless eyes 
 
 To those true eyes that I have counted false; 
 
 Or meet those hps that I have chai-ged vv^ith lies; 
 
 Or win the dear embraces I have spurned? 
 
 most unhappy, most unworthy wife ! 
 
 Ko one but he who still has clung to thee, — 
 Proud, and imperious, and hnjjenitent,— 
 No one but he who has in silence borne 
 Thy peevish criminations and complaints 
 Can now forgive thee, when in deepest shame 
 Thou bowest with confession of thy faults. 
 Dear husband ! Da\id ! Look upon your wife I 
 Behold one kneeling never knelt to you ! 
 
 1 have abused you and your faithful love, 
 And, in my great humiliation, pray 
 
 Y"ou will not trample me beneath your feet, 
 "^ity my weakness, and remember, too, 
 That Love was jealous of thee, and not ITate — 
 I'hat it was Love's own pride tormented me. 
 
212 BITTER-SWEET, 
 
 My husband take me once more to your arms, 
 
 And kiss me in forgiveness ; ' say that you 
 
 Will be my counsellor, my friend, my love ; 
 
 Aiid I will give myself to you again, 
 
 To be all yours — my reason, confidence, 
 
 My faith and trust all yours, my hearths best lova. 
 
 My service and my prayers, all yours — all youi'sl 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Rise, dearest, rise ! It gives me only pain 
 
 That such as you should kneel to such as I. 
 
 Your words hiform me that you know how wak 
 
 I am w^hom you have only fancied weak. 
 
 Forgive you ? I forgive you everything ; 
 
 And take the pardon which your prayer insures. 
 
 Let this embrace, this kiss, be evidence 
 
 Oar jarring hearts catch common rhythm again, 
 
 And we are lovers. 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 213 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 Hush ! You trouble bim, 
 lie understands tbis scene no more tban we. 
 Mary, be speaks to you. 
 
 EDWARD. 
 
 Dear wife, farewell ! 
 The room grows dim, and silently and soft 
 The veil is di'opping 'twixt my eyes and yours, 
 \VTiicb soon will bide me from you — you from me. 
 Only one band is warm ; it rests in yours, 
 Whose fiill, sweet pulses throb along my arm, 
 So that I live upon them. Cling to me 1 
 And thus your life, after my life is past, 
 Shall lay me gently in the arms of Death. 
 Thus shall you link your beuig with a soul 
 Gazmg unveiled upon the Great White Throne. 
 
 Deal hearts of love surrounding me, farewell I 
 
 I cannot gee you now ; or, if I do, 
 
 10 
 
2H BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 You are trail sfigiired. There are floating forms 
 
 That whisper over me like summer leaves ; 
 
 And now there comes, and spreads through all njy son! 
 
 Delicious influx of another hfe, 
 
 From out whose essence spring, like hving flowers, 
 
 Angelic senses with quick ultimates, 
 
 That catch the rustle of etherial robes, 
 
 And the thin chime of melting minstrelsy — 
 
 Rising and falling — answered far away — 
 
 As Echo, dreaming in the twilight woods, 
 
 Repeats the warble of her twilight birds. 
 
 And flowers that mock the Iris toss their cups 
 
 In the impulsive ether, and spill out 
 
 Sweet tides of perfume, fragrant deluges, 
 
 Flooding my spirit like an angel's breath. 
 
 « 4: ^ 4: He « « 
 
 And still the throng increases ; still unfold 
 \7ith broader span and more elusive sweep 
 The radiant vistas of a world divine. 
 But O my soul ! what vision rises now I 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 215 
 
 Far, far away, white blazing like the sim, 
 
 In deepest distance and on liighest height, 
 
 Through w^alls diaphanous, and atmosphere 
 
 Flecked with unnumbered foims of missive power, 
 
 Out-going fleetly and returning slow, 
 
 A presence shmes I may not jienetrate ; 
 
 But on a throne, with smile hieflable, 
 
 I see a form my conscious sj^irit knows. 
 
 Jesus, my Saviour! Jesus, Lamb of God! 
 
 Jesus who taketh from me all my sins, 
 
 And from the world! Jesus, I come to thee! 
 
 Come thou to me ! O come. Lord, quickly ! Come I 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Flo^wn on the wings of rapture ! Is this death ? 
 His heart is still; his beaded brow is cold; 
 Hi? wasted breast struggles for breath no more; 
 And iiis pale features, hardened v/ith the stress 
 or Lil'e^s resistance, momently subside 
 Into a smile, calm as a twiliglit lake, 
 
216 BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Sprent with the images of rising stars. 
 
 We have seen Evil iii his countless forms 
 
 In these poor lives ; have met his armed hosts 
 
 lu dread encounter and discomfiture; 
 
 And languished in captivity to them, 
 
 Until we lost our courage and our faith ; 
 
 And here we see their Chieftain — Terror's Kmgl 
 
 He cuts the knot that bhids a weary soul 
 
 To faithless passions, sateless appetites, 
 
 And powers perverted, and it Hies away 
 
 Singing toward Heaven. He turns and looks at us, 
 
 And finds us weeping with our gratitude — 
 
 Full of sweet sorrow, — sorrow sweeter far 
 
 Than the supremest ecstasy of joy. 
 
 And this is death I Think you that raptured soul 
 Now walking humbly in the golden streets, 
 Bearing the precious burden of a love 
 Too great for utterance, or >vilh hushed heart 
 Drinking the music of the r:m^so:ned throng, 
 
BITTER-SWEET. 217 
 
 Counts death an evil ? — evil, sickness, pain, 
 
 Calamity, or aught that God prescribed 
 
 To cure it of its sin, or bring it v/here 
 
 The healing hand of Christ might touch it ? No t 
 
 He is a man to-night — a man in Jhrist. 
 
 This was his childhood, here ; and as we give 
 
 A smile of wonder to the little woes 
 
 That drew the tears from out our own young eyea- 
 
 The kind corrections and severe coDstraints 
 
 Imposed by those who loved us — so ne sees 
 
 A father's chastisement in all the ill 
 
 That filled his life with darkness; so he sees 
 
 In every evil a kind instrument 
 
 To chasten, elevate, correct, subdue, 
 
 And fit him for that heavenly estate^ — 
 
 Saintship in Christ—the Manhood Absolute? 
 
L'ENYOY. 
 
 Midnight and silence I In the West, unveiled, 
 The broad, full moon is shining, Tvdth the starg^ 
 On mount and valley, forest, roof, and rock, 
 On billowy hills smooth-stretcliing to the sky, 
 On rail and wall, on all things far and near, 
 Cling the bright crystals, — all the earth a floor 
 Of polished silver, pranked with bending forms 
 ITpliiling to the light their precious weight 
 Of pearls and diamonds, set in palest gold. 
 The storm is dead ; and when it rolled away 
 It bOok no star from heaven, but left to earth 
 Such legacy of beauty as The Wind — 
 Tlie light-robed shepherdess from Cuban groves— 
 Driving soft showers before her, and warm airs, 
 And her wide-scatt> />' riockts of wet-winijed hirdfi. 
 
BITTER-SWEET, 21U 
 
 Never bestowed upon the waiting Spring. 
 
 Pale, silent, smiling, cold, and beautiful > 
 
 Do storms die thus? And is it this to die? 
 
 Midnight and silence I In that hallowed room 
 God's full-orbed peace is shining, with the stars. 
 On head and hand, on brow, and lip, and ■:!ye, 
 On folded arms, on broad un moving breast, 
 On the white-sanded floor, on everything. 
 Rests the pale radiance, while bending forms 
 Stand all around,, loaded with precious weight 
 Of jfwela such as holy angels wear. 
 The man is dead; and when he passed away 
 He blotted out no good, but left behind 
 Such wealth of faith, such store of love and trust, 
 As breath of joy, in-floating from the isles 
 Smiled on by ceaseless summer, and indued 
 With foliage and floAvers perennial, 
 Never conveyed to the enchanted soul. 
 Do men die thus? And is it this to die? 
 
220 BITTERSWEET, 
 
 Midnight and silence ! At each waiting bed, 
 Husband and wife, embracing, kneel in prayer, 
 And lips nnused to such a benison 
 Breathe blessings upon evil, and give thanks 
 For knowledge of its sacred ministry. 
 An infant nestles on a mother's bieast, 
 Whose head is pillowed where it has not lain 
 For months of wasted life — the tale all told, 
 And confidence and love for-aye secure 
 
 The widow and the virgin: where are they? 
 
 The morn shall find them watching with the dead. 
 
 Like the two angels at the tomb of Christ, — 
 
 One at the head, the other at the foot, — 
 
 Guardmg a sepulchre whose occupant 
 
 lias risen, and rolled the heavy stone away! 
 
 THE WSIX 
 
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