' : '■ 
 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 ; — 
 
 Chap.-pr*: „ Copyright No. 
 
 Shelf.ii.39? Gc(* 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 

THE GOLDEN SHUTTLE 
 
 BY 
 MARION FRANKLIN HAM 
 
 &> 
 
 ■ tH •? $ W? 
 
 <>» 
 
 y/fft/S"' 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 PRINTED BY J. J. LITTLE & CO. 
 
 1896 
 
 h 
 
 V-—"' 
 

 Copyright, 1896, by 
 MARION F. HAM 
 
 
 /Z-3Zf$3 
 
£o mg (glotfytx, 
 
 WHOSE UNTIRING DEVOTION HAS 
 MADE THIS VOLUME POSSIBLE. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. PASTORALS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Reaper, n 
 
 Bob White, 12 
 
 The Cider-mill, 14 
 
 December, 17 
 
 Eventide, 18 
 
 II. LIFE. 
 
 One Day, 21 
 
 My Reliquary 22 
 
 Autumn, 24 
 
 To-morrow, 25 
 
 The Table of Fate, 26 
 
 Compensation 28 
 
 Bereavement, 29 
 
 The Question of it, 3° 
 
 Justice, 3 1 
 
 The Harvest, 3 2 
 
 5 
 
The Way of the World, . 
 
 When the Daylight Fades, 
 
 The Quest of Life, 
 
 Change, 
 
 The Measure of Life, 
 
 The Hunchback, 
 
 The Future, 
 
 Crucifixion, 
 
 The Poet's Sacrifice, 
 
 The Last Lesson, 
 
 The Book of Remembrance, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 33 
 34 
 36 
 
 33 
 
 39 
 40 
 
 4i 
 42 
 43 
 45 
 46 
 
 III. LOVE. 
 
 Measure for Measure, 
 
 Dawn, .... 
 
 Mother-love, 
 
 The Awakening, 
 
 Ad Mortem, 
 
 Roses of June, 
 
 Love's Resurrection, 
 
 My Lady, 
 
 Good-by, 
 
 Destiny, 
 
 Two Sides of a Question, 
 
 Banished, 
 
 June, .... 
 
 49 
 
 50 
 51 
 52 
 54 
 55 
 56 
 57 
 59 
 60 
 61 
 63 
 65 
 
IV. FAITH. 
 
 " As Little Children," 
 A Prayer, 
 Character. . . 
 Thanksgiving, 
 
 67 
 68 
 69 
 70 
 
 V. MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Eugene Field, 
 A Fading Type, . 
 Edgar W. Nye, . 
 Queen of Sunny-land, 
 The Cotton-Flower, 
 The Spectre of India, 
 Liberty Bell, 
 My Fate, 
 
 Marah, 
 
 71 
 72 
 
 75 
 76 
 73 
 80 
 82 
 84 
 
 86 
 
On Fancy's loom my thought hath sped 
 The golden shuttle through and through ; 
 
 And now I break the slackened thread, 
 And give the finished cloth to you. 
 
 A fabric spun with simple art, 
 
 As weaving of some good house-wife ; 
 
 The pattern of a human heart 
 
 Wrought in the warp and woof of life. 
 
I. PASTORALS. 
 
 THE REAPER. 
 
 With blithesome song the jocund reaper Dawn, 
 Through dewy fields of blue, comes trudging by ; 
 
 And with his silver sickle keen and wan 
 He reaps the twinkling harvest of the sky. 
 
BOB WHITE. 
 
 Shrill and clear from coppice near, 
 
 A song within the woodland ringing, 
 A treble note from silver throat, 
 The siren of the fields is singing — 
 
 Bob— Bob— White ! 
 And from the height the answer sweet 
 Floats faintly o'er the rippling wheat — 
 Bob— White ! 
 
 The elder-flowers in snowy showers 
 
 Upon the velvet turf are falling, 
 And where they lie the soft winds sigh, 
 The while the fluted voice is calling — 
 Bob— Bob— White ! 
 And far across the yellow grain 
 The wafted echo swells again — 
 
 Bob— White ! 
 
 The purple mist by sunbeams kissed 
 
 Drifts upward toward the morning's splendor ; 
 And through the haze of shaded ways 
 
 The plaintive reed pipes low and tender — 
 Bob— Bob— White ! 
 
While fainter, sweeter, softer grown 
 The answer on the breeze is blown — 
 Bob— White ! 
 
 The shadows sleep in hollows deep ; 
 
 The dewy pawpaw leaves are thrilling ; 
 The silence broods o'er solitudes 
 
 Unbroken, save one pure note trilling — 
 Bob— Bob— White ! 
 So pure, so clear, so sweetly rare, 
 The answer steals upon the air — 
 
 Bob— White ! 
 
 O song of youth ! of love and truth ! 
 
 Of mellow days forever dying ! 
 Still through the years my sad heart hears 
 Your tender cadence sighing, sighing — 
 Bob— Bob— White ! 
 And far across life's troubled ways 
 The echo comes from boyhood days — 
 Bob— White ! 
 
 13 
 
THE CIDER-MILL. 
 
 Through the years I send you greeting, 
 Long-forgotten cider-mill ; 
 Like an echo from my childhood, 
 I can hear your music still, 
 
 Creaking, creaking, 
 
 Slowly creaking, 
 While the horse goes round ; 
 Keeping time in woful squeaking 
 To the laughter and the shrieking 
 And the shouts of merriment ; 
 Till again I catch the scent 
 Of the russet pomace steaming ; 
 And again, in wistful dreaming, 
 I can see the mellow splendor 
 Of the luscious apples gleaming, 
 Heaped upon the swarded ground. 
 
 Oh, the amber-tinted cider ! 
 How it bubbled, how it flowed, 
 In the gold of autumn sunshine 
 How it glistened, how it glowed, 
 14 
 
How it darkled, 
 
 How it sparkled 
 With a glitter as it ran ; 
 How it gurgled, trickling, rushing. 
 Foaming, frothing, leaping, gushing, 
 As no other liquid can ; 
 Then, in wanton idleness, 
 How it loitered, slipping, slipping, 
 While the honey-bees were sipping 
 Draughts of beaded nectar 
 From the brown drops, dripping, dripping, 
 O'er the red lips of the press. 
 
 in. 
 Idle dreams ! Again I draw 
 Through a yellow barley-straw 
 Magic vintage, sweeter, rarer 
 Than Olympian wine, forsooth ; 
 And my eager lips I steep, 
 Drinking long and drinking deep, 
 Till my shrivelled cheeks are ruddy 
 With the long-lost glow of youth. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Long embalmed in dusty silence, 
 Shrouded with the rust of years, 
 Old companion, here I pledge you 
 In a brimming cup of tears. 
 15 
 
Vacant places, 
 
 Vanished faces, 
 From the shadows speak to me ; 
 Boyish lips now mute forever, 
 Hands estranged, that I may never 
 Clasp, save in Eternity. 
 With your song have passed away 
 Boyhood's wealth of lusty treasure, 
 Sunny hours of careless pleasure ; 
 And my heart, grown old in sorrow, 
 Marches to a sadder measure : 
 You and I have had our day. 
 
 16 
 
DECEMBER. 
 
 Within the leafless wood, the plaintive wail 
 Of shuddering branches mingles with the sound 
 Of sedge that moans along the frosted ground. 
 The withered rushes bend before the gale ; 
 And in the tangled brush a shrill-voiced quail 
 Answers his mate ; solemn and profound, 
 The deep-toned baying of a distant hound 
 Swells, echoing through the silence of the vale, 
 While from his snowy covert on the hill, 
 A hare, with faltering step and timid ear, 
 Steals guiltily across the frozen rill, 
 And leaves his lost foe clamoring in the rear. 
 A shadow falls upon the silent mill, 
 And night has closed the eyelids of the year. 
 
EVENTIDE. 
 
 In the hush of twilight, falling, 
 Hear the blithesome robin calling. 
 Where the solemn fir-tree sighs, 
 With a plaintive voice he cries, 
 While the sun, in glory, dies 
 In the west. 
 
 Where the apple-bloom is white, 
 There he pauses in his flight ; 
 At the shrine of spring, adoring, 
 Tenderly his heart outpouring ; 
 And I listen in the gloom, 
 While the sun-light, through the bloom, 
 Flashes like a crimson plume 
 On his breast. 
 
 Where the locust-blossoms sway 
 On their gnarled bough of gray, 
 There he drinks the scented sweetness, 
 All the rarefied completeness 
 Of the day. 
 iS 
 
Where the dewy meadow sleeps, 
 Where the blackened furrow creeps, 
 Where the lisping cedar moans, 
 There his vesper song intones, 
 Softly calling ! calling ! calling ! 
 Notes of liquid clearness falling, 
 Till my heart with gladness leaps, 
 Till my heart with sadness weeps 
 At his lay. 
 
 Plumed minstrel of the spring, 
 Teach me how thy throat devises, 
 In this troubled world, to sing ; 
 Teach me how thy song arises 
 Sweet and clear. 
 
 Let my spirit learn of thee 
 Some new art of minstrelsy ; 
 Some sweet cadence for my song 
 That shall boldly shame the wrong, 
 And proclaim, anew, the right. 
 And like thee, when life is done, 
 With a song to welcome night, 
 Let me face the setting sun 
 Without fear. 
 
 19 
 
II. LIFE. 
 
 ONE DAY. 
 
 Take what thou wilt, O Time, but spare me this 
 One jewelled day set round with hours of bliss, 
 One perfect day that all too soon was past, 
 In all my memory the first and last. 
 Whatever else thy ruthless blade shall glean, 
 Leave this poor gift for my remorseful gaze, 
 That I may crown it with a wreath of green 
 And call it king of days. 
 
MY RELIQUARY. 
 
 A curious room in my heart have I, 
 
 A quaint old nook and a rare, 
 Where I keep the relics of days gone by 
 
 For the folk who go visiting there. 
 
 Now, this is a hope that is fled, I say, 
 And this is a dream that is past ; 
 
 And that — why, that is a wedding-day 
 That I did not use at the last. 
 
 And this is a face that is dead to me ; 
 
 And here is the love of a friend 
 Who played me false ; and this, as you see, 
 
 Is a message I did not send. 
 
 And that ? Oh, that — how soon we forget— 
 
 Is a word that I left unsaid ; 
 And this is the ghost of an old regret 
 That I took from the lips of the dead. 
 
This is a baby's credulous kiss 
 That was given to me one day ; 
 
 And over there is the mummied bliss 
 Of a summer that could not stay. 
 
 Here is the sound of a woman's name 
 That I loved in the long ago ; 
 
 And there is the blush of a scarlet shame, 
 And this is a day of woe. 
 
 So I have classed and labelled them all, 
 And put them each on its shelf ; 
 
 And the door is open to friends who call, 
 But I keep the key myself. 
 
 23 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 The scarlet flame, the falling leaf, 
 And one white frost upon the lea ; 
 
 The withered hope, the blighting grief, 
 And life is not the same to me. 
 
 24 
 
TO-MORROW. 
 
 What is the dream of a time long dead 
 
 That it should cause me sorrow ? 
 I have no idle tears to be shed, 
 For the dead are dead when all is said, 
 And the living live for the morrow. 
 
 What is the secret sweet of tears, 
 That I should know but weeping ? 
 
 Hath life no gayer theme for mine ears ? 
 
 Peace ! peace I pray ! for the coming years 
 Have grief enough in their keeping. 
 
 Then it's one sigh for the days of yore, 
 
 And hail to the dawning morrow. 
 I stand on the future's sunlit shore 
 To welcome happiness once more 
 And speed the parting sorrow. 
 
 25 
 
THE TABLE OF FATE. 
 
 LIFE, THE FRIEND. 
 
 Good Rogue, thy humor beareth well the heat 
 
 Of our long strife ; a lusty knave art thou, 
 
 And passing jocular I will allow ; 
 
 Yet is thy laughter something less complete — 
 
 A jot less hearty than I deem is meet 
 
 For one so fairly spoken ; and look thee, now, 
 
 Thou varlet ! since I think me well, thy brow 
 
 Bears oft a scowl ; aye, more, thy stubborn feet 
 
 Are mostly laggard when I would be fast ; 
 
 I cast my dice to find with much surprise 
 Thy throw the merest trifle better cast ; 
 I smile — and thou art sad ; I frown — thine eyes 
 Are shut with mirth ; but marry ! I at last 
 Like thee full well with all thy tricks and lies. 
 
 DEATH, THE STRANGER. 
 
 And thou, lean Sir, of lank and woful face, 
 I like not overmuch that phiz of thine ; 
 I prithee, fill this honest cup of mine 
 And teach thy lips the smack of whole-souled grace. 
 26 
 
Come, shake the dice and match my single ace — 
 (Thy blood, methinks, hath pressing need of wine.) 
 Thou wilt not ? Then, perchance, if thou wouldst 
 
 dine 
 Thy sapless limbs might tread a merrier pace. 
 
 A sullen wight, tho' I do speak thee fair ; 
 Turn where I will thy starved eyes follow me ; 
 Thy spider shape doth fawn upon my chair ; 
 I love not such officious constancy ; 
 And knowing thee thus much, I have no care 
 To cast away my good friend, Life, for thee. 
 
 -l 
 
COMPENSATION. 
 
 The youthful poet thought to win renown 
 From learned critics of the higher art ; 
 
 And dying, found at last his long-sought crown 
 Within a simple rustic's honest heart. 
 
 23 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 As mariners who sail a troubled sea, 
 
 We sleep and dream that law has kindlier grown, 
 
 And wake to find that in the watches lone 
 
 He whom we loved the most has ceased to be. 
 
 To-day he is ; to-morrow, mystery 
 
 Has sealed the portals of the Great Unknown ; 
 
 And for our ceaseless prayers, no answering tone 
 
 Shall break the silence of Eternity. 
 
 Awed by the stillness of the darkened room 
 We watch the landscape glimmer into tears, 
 With pallid lips that whisper in the gloom 
 Lest they disturb the peace of marble ears ; 
 And crowning all, the shadow of the tomb 
 Falls hopelessly across the coming years. 
 
 29 
 
THE QUESTION OF IT. 
 
 How shall it be when this unceasing stress 
 Of urgent action is removed from me ? 
 When I no longer with vain buzzings strive 
 Against the web of life ; no longer press 
 The fleeing heels of Opportunity ; 
 And have no hour to go or to arrive ? 
 
 When there is found a little time to die, 
 With nothing left to do or think or crave, 
 Shall I have patience then to merely lie 
 Within the narrow silence of a grave ? 
 
 30 
 
JUSTICE. 
 
 A Hagar, branded with a life-long scar, 
 Too frail a bark to stem the waves of fate ; 
 
 Wrecked where love's breakers kiss the white-lipped 
 bar — 
 Betrayed — cast out — forever desolate — 
 
 Alone she trod the desert of despair, 
 Her sole inheritance a tainted name ; , 
 
 With drawn white lips repeating but one prayer, 
 To die and bury all the sin and shame. 
 
 Poor broken heart, yet faithful to the last 
 
 To one who bore no weight of guilt, and gave 
 
 In after life no thought to that dark past 
 Until he stood beside her new-made grave. 
 
 So weaveth Life her web, while Law is dumb, 
 And Justice gropeth blindly in the night ; 
 
 Yet speaketh always of a time to come, 
 
 When wrong shall bow before triumphant right. 
 
 31 
 
THE HARVEST. 
 
 He sowed the hours of youth with reckless hand, 
 And thought to gather stores of ripened grain ; 
 
 The harvest came, and from a barren land 
 He reaped the tares of bitterness and pain. 
 
 32 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 With brooding mien from day to day he passed 
 Among the busy toilers of the throng ; 
 Content with waiting, leaving to the strong 
 The great achievement, scorning to the last 
 The golden apples which ambition cast. 
 An idle singer of an idle song ; 
 A dreamer, dreaming all the summer long, 
 While lesser souls their sordid stores amassed. 
 
 Men shunned him that his speech was not their 
 
 own, 
 And gaunt Misfortune chose him for her mate ; 
 Amid the brawling strife he moved alone, 
 Misunderstood, his large heart desolate ; 
 And dying, save for gossip, passed unknown, 
 But on his tomb they wrote, " This man was great." 
 
 33 
 
WHEN THE DAYLIGHT FADES. 
 
 When the daylight fades and the shadows gather 
 
 o'er me, 
 Shutting out the splendor of the crimson west ; 
 When the stars shine forth in their majesty before 
 
 me, 
 Steadfast, peaceful harbingers of rest ; 
 It is then the heart is seeking a kindred touch and 
 
 tone, 
 With love-light eyes are speaking and the soul 
 
 divines its own ; 
 With a calmer, clearer vision I can view the world 
 
 of strife, 
 And the hour of twilight gives me sweeter, truer 
 
 aims in life, 
 If the ones I love are near me when the daylight 
 
 fades. 
 
 When the daylight fades and the shadows gather 
 
 o'er me, 
 Shutting out the splendor of the crimson west ; 
 When I grope in the mists that slowly rise before 
 
 me, 
 Fainting in the valley of the last long rest ; 
 34 
 
I shall not fear the pallor as it steals upon my 
 face, 
 
 The mystic twilight falling o'er the things of time 
 and place. 
 
 I shall not shrink and tremble when I feel the chil- 
 ling breath, 
 
 The shadowy arms about me, and the icy kiss of 
 Death, 
 
 If the ones I love are near me when the daylight 
 fades. 
 
 35 
 
THE QUEST OF LIFE. 
 
 Youth, in the morning, took my hand and said, 
 
 " I pray thee, come with me, 
 
 And I will straightway bring thee to thy goal ; 
 
 The realm thou seekest lies within the scope 
 
 Of yon bowed sky ; Love waiteth on ahead, 
 
 And when his hand hath touched thine eyes, thy 
 
 soul 
 Shall see its fair ideal." So, filled with hope, 
 I bore him company. 
 
 With tripping feet the boy pursued the day, 
 And wooed mine ear with prattle, till I said, 
 " This rosy youngster knoweth well the way," 
 And followed gladly where the stripling led. 
 
 At noon, bronzed Manhood stood to face the sun, 
 
 And gravely welcomed me. 
 
 With bearded lips he spake, and took my hand, 
 
 " Youth knoweth naught of this fair realm Ideal ; 
 
 A dreamer, he, who thinketh but to run 
 
 On witless quests ; if thou wouldst reach this 
 
 land, 
 Come, follow me." And so, through woe and weal, 
 
 I bore him company. 
 36 
 
All through the day's fierce heat he led the way, 
 Stern-browed and silent, and I followed him 
 Until the gold had faded into gray, 
 And my sad eyes with unshed tears were dim. 
 
 At night, Old Age sat crooning by the way, 
 And mumbling, spake to me. 
 With palsied hand, that trembled in mine own, 
 He plucked me back, " O man, pray mend thy gait 
 To suit my need ; behold, thy locks are gray, 
 And Youth and Manhood let thee walk alone." 
 And so, to humor him who bade me wait, 
 I bore him company. 
 
 Until at last, we stayed our halting pace 
 
 Beside an open grave, and then he said, 
 
 " Pray, rest thee here ; thou canst not find the 
 
 place, 
 For they who enter there are called the dead. " 
 
 37 
 
CHANGE. 
 
 On every wrinkled cliff the law I see, 
 
 And grieve the more to know that it must be ; 
 
 A little space my soul is wed to thee, 
 
 And then thou art no more the same to me. 
 
 38 
 
THE MEASURE OF LIFE. 
 
 Or young or old ? how wouldst thou fix mine 
 
 age? 
 Count off my life like beads strung on the years ? 
 Or add my days like ciphers on a page ? 
 What matter if my locks be dark or gray ? 
 Some lives are measured by a dial of tears 
 That mark the three-score years in one sad day. 
 
 39 
 
THE HUNCHBACK. 
 
 Misshapen Dwarf, ill-favored heir of woe, 
 What greater bliss couldst thy cramped spirit know 
 Than, when it cometh to the other side, 
 To meet this withered body glorified ? 
 
 40 
 
THE FUTURE. 
 
 Gray Sphinx on life's mysterious borderland, 
 
 Worn smooth by touch of lips that question thee ; 
 
 Grim warder of all things that are to be ; 
 
 Dark monument of silence ; in thy hand 
 
 Thou holdest life and death the while Time's sand, 
 
 Forever drifting, shrouds thee noiselessly. 
 
 Beside the tideless Nile, Eternity, 
 
 Thou standest lonely on thy desert strand. 
 
 Unfathomed orbs, that scan the dawning years 
 
 With changeless stare as in some ancient spell. 
 
 Above the great salt sea of human tears 
 
 Cold Stone, thou guardest thy dark secret well ; 
 
 Whate'er the Veiled Beyond speaks to thine ears, 
 
 To waiting souls thy lips may never tell. 
 
 4! 
 
CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 Woe unto him who hath the poet's ear, 
 Attuned to Nature's sweeter melody ; 
 
 Life's discord, by this keener sense made clear, 
 Shall be, to him, a constant Calvary. 
 
 42 
 
THE POET'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 O jealous Muse ! what wilt thou more ? 
 Youth took the vow, before thy shrine, 
 To guard the fire it knew divine ; 
 An exile on thy sacred shore, 
 In vestal raiment, daily bore 
 Its gift of dreams, to kneel alone 
 And deck thy mystic altar-stone. 
 
 And Manhood, with its riper years, 
 
 A suppliant at thy temple gate, 
 
 Obeyed the Oracle of Fate ; 
 
 Besieged, with patient prayer, thine ears ; 
 
 Still sacrificed with pain and tears ; 
 
 Unheeded by the scornful throng, 
 
 Still knelt before the shrine of song. 
 
 The love, that should have blessed his life, 
 Found no sweet hope to give increase ; 
 He put away the dream of peace, 
 And chose the lot of lonely strife. 
 Thou wert his mother, sister, wife ; 
 In all the world's immensity 
 He found no one to love but thee. 
 43 
 
Ambition tempted, with its power, 
 Its chaplet for his silvered hair ; 
 Its promise that his brow should wear 
 The guerdon of some future hour ; 
 He plucked it ere it reached its flower, 
 Unmindful of its luring sweet, 
 And humbly laid it at thy feet. 
 
 Relentless Muse ! thou hast his store 
 
 Of all the world hath counted gain ; 
 
 His strength of sinew and of brain, 
 
 His love — his hope — what wilt thou more ? 
 
 Age totters, giftless, at thy door. 
 
 What shall it profit now to live ? 
 
 He hath naught left but life to give. 
 
 44 
 
THE LAST LESSON. 
 
 How pitiful it is that pompous man, 
 When age hath rounded out his little span, 
 Must pause and put life's weighty problems by 
 To learn the simple lesson how to die. 
 
 45 
 
THE BOOK OF REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 To-day I called the names of the friends 
 That I loved in the days of yore, 
 
 And one by one they answered me 
 From every clime and shore. 
 
 In the book of remembrance, page by page 
 
 I turned the leaves of the past, 
 And found each face unchanged in its place, 
 
 As mine eyes beheld it last. 
 
 And as they answered, I checked them off 
 On the faded scroll of the years, 
 
 And lovingly marked them living or dead, 
 And blotted each name with tears. 
 
 Idly blown on the winds of Time, 
 Or whirled in the storm and strife ; 
 
 Scattered like leaves in an autumn gale, 
 They drift in the paths of life. 
 
 One for a faith he held supreme, 
 
 Dead in a heathen land ; 
 One, pursued by a deathless grief, 
 
 Presses a foreign strand. 
 46 
 
One to the ermine, one to the gown, 
 
 One to the pitiless wave ; 
 One to the call of his country's flag, 
 
 And one in a pauper's grave. 
 
 One with a girlish face too fair, 
 
 Dead to her kith and kin ; 
 Buried alive in the hopeless maze 
 
 Of a city's gilded sin. 
 
 Leaves adrift on the winds of Time, 
 
 Scattered o'er land and sea ; 
 Oh, who shall gather the friends I have lost 
 
 And bring them back to me ? 
 
 47 
 
III. LOVE. 
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 My soul, anhungered, came and begged of thee 
 A single crust of love from all thy store ; 
 
 Thy soul denied it, and in poverty 
 Behold thou sittest begging evermore. 
 
 49 
 
DAWN. 
 
 Pale in the east the star of morning glows, 
 One flashing gem set in the dead world's pall ; 
 The lark pipes plaintively his matin call, 
 And cool upon my brow the east wind blows ; 
 The sombre Night unfurls her ebon wing 
 Above the furrowed fields of rustling corn, 
 Half stays her noiseless flight to face the morn, 
 Then steals away like some uncanny thing. 
 
 Break, ruddy morn ! The purple mists hang low ; 
 The dew hath kissed the lips of golden grain ; 
 The dying moon floats like a blood-red stain 
 Upon the night's dark robe ; and now I know 
 The mystery of death ; and I have said 
 Love's last farewell to her who lieth dead. 
 
 50 
 
MOTHER-LOVE. 
 
 O'erweening mother-love, that still can see 
 In furrowed brow and bearded lip, the trace 
 
 Of that she holds most dear in memory, 
 Love's dimpled prototype — a baby's face. 
 
 51 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 Ask me not of love ; I do not know 
 
 How lilies blow, 
 Or first the tufted larch begins its green ; 
 How secretly the apple-bloom grows white, 
 Or how the lilacs spin their purple sheen 
 Upon the russet boughs in one short night. 
 
 I know not how the locust, blossoming 
 
 In early spring, 
 Expands the withered roughness of its cell, 
 Till all the air is perfumed with its breath ; 
 Or how the furry willow-catkins swell 
 To sudden freshness from a stem of death. 
 
 Day breaks, and lo ! the daffodils unfold 
 
 Their hearts of gold ; 
 The jasmine bursts its buds within the hour ; 
 The barren meadow, wooed by one warm sun, 
 Arrays itself in myriad leaf and flower — 
 I know not how these miracles are done. 
 52 
 
Nor know I by what sweet and subtle art 
 
 Love warms the heart ; 
 A clearer sapphire crowns the mellow noon ; 
 A mystic glamour gilds the commonplace ; 
 A brighter crescent rims the golden moon, 
 And all things image one beloved face. 
 
 53 
 
AD MORTEM. 
 
 Across the sky a pallid vapor drifts ; 
 
 Below the moon a star gleams faintly bright ; 
 A sobbing pine tree, solitary, lifts 
 
 Its sombre branches through the purple night. 
 
 And I, an hour ago, dreamed life was sweet, 
 Nor knew that death had touched my heart's 
 desire; 
 
 In one brief moment, kneeling at her feet, 
 I saw within her eyes my hope expire. 
 
 Within the shrouded copse a night-bird's wail 
 Divides the silence, and my stricken heart, 
 
 Like some poor wounded thing whose pulses fail, 
 Stands idle, where two lives forever part. 
 
 Not wholly idle ; in my veins the throb 
 Of hot rebellion leaps in one long strife, 
 
 That dies imploring in the pine-tree's sob, 
 And leaves me but the ghost of love and life. 
 
 54 
 
ROSES OF JUNE. 
 
 Roses of June, farewell : you were dear to me. 
 Redolent roses of June, with your perfumed breath 
 You have woven a spell for me that naught but 
 
 death 
 Can rob of its sacred charm. I wonder if she 
 Will think of you, blossoms of Paradise, white and 
 
 red, 
 Creamy and rare, clingingly soft and tender, 
 Passionate, luscious and ripe in your red-lipped 
 
 splendor — 
 I wonder if she will remember the words we said ? 
 
 Roses of June, farewell. I have shrined you here 
 In my heart of hearts ; and silently cold and fair, 
 Calmly, breathlessly, still, in her white hands there, 
 Like roses carven in stone, you trail on the bier, 
 Wet with the glistening dew. I wonder if she 
 Will remember you, roses of June, will care for you 
 
 now — 
 White as her cold, dead face — will think of the vow, 
 Her pledge, in life or in death to be true to me ? 
 
 55 
 
LOVE'S RESURRECTION. 
 
 They told me Love was dead, and 'round the bier 
 I twined a cypress wreath with moan and tear. 
 
 Upon the cold, white brow my kisses fell, 
 Mingling with waxen leaves of immortelle. 
 
 The pulseless hands I clasped in mute despair, 
 And shuddered that no life thrill lingered there. 
 
 Across the pallid face I drew the sheet 
 And placed the funeral tapers at the feet. 
 
 Then from the shrouded form I turned away, 
 Hope gone from life, and brightness from the day. 
 
 Deep in the gloomy past I vainly strove 
 To bury that fair face of my dead Love. 
 
 To-day within the crowded streets I saw, 
 As if to mock me by some strange new law, 
 
 Love, face to face, and as he passed me by 
 
 He, smiling, said, " Love sleeps, but cannot die." 
 
 56 
 
MY LADY. 
 
 My love she is so fair to see, 
 
 So gracious and so queenly ; 
 Her winsome smile it is to me 
 The sun that shineth constantly, 
 And lighteth all serenely. 
 
 Her bonny face 
 
 It hath the grace 
 Of gladsome days in June-time ; 
 
 Her laughing eyes 
 
 Are like the skies 
 That melt in blue at noon-time. 
 
 My love she is so true to me, 
 And keepeth troth so sweetly ; 
 
 Whate'er my lot in life may be, 
 
 In fortune or adversity, 
 
 Her heart is mine completely. 
 
 Her lips they wear 
 
 The crimson rare 
 Of summer's reddest roses ; 
 
 The creamy sheen 
 
 Of pearls between, 
 Each dimpled smile discloses. 
 57 
 
My love she is so dear to me, 
 So kind, withal, and tender, 
 If these were days of chivalry, 
 Ah, me ! I'd spill right willingly 
 My life's-blood to defend her. 
 
 Oh, sweet and true, 
 
 My whole life through 
 God grant I may be near thee, 
 
 Thy heart mine own, 
 
 And mine alone, 
 To comfort and to cheer me. 
 
 58 
 
GOOD-BY. 
 
 Good-by, Old Year, good-by, 
 'Tis better thou shouldst die ; 
 The golden glow of spring is fled, 
 And summer's scarlet rose is dead, 
 The autumn's last sad word is said, 
 The taper burneth low, and so 
 Good-by, good-by. 
 
 Good-by, Old Year, good-by, 
 Life's golden cruse is dry ; 
 The frost is white on mead and wold ; 
 Love's truest vows are vows untold, 
 And hearts, estranged, are grown so cold 
 The light it burneth low, and so 
 Good-by, good-by. 
 
 59 
 
DESTINY. 
 
 O silent lute, I saw a hand 
 That could have shaped thy melody, 
 And set thy prisoned spirit free ; 
 The touch to master and command. 
 So near it came, thy trembling strings 
 Leaped up and thrilled like living things ; 
 And then it passed, forevermore, 
 And left thee silent as before. 
 
 ii. 
 
 O lonely heart, I saw a face 
 That could have voiced the deepest strain 
 Of all thy passion's joy and pain. 
 So near it came, a moment's space 
 Turned from its course, as if it heard 
 The accent of thy greeting word ; 
 And then passed on, unconsciously, 
 And was forever lost to thee. 
 
 60 
 
TWO SIDES OF A QUESTION. 
 
 " I will not wed," the maiden said ; 
 
 The lover sighed, " Ah me ! 
 Ah, me ! ah, me ! for eyes of blue ; 
 Alas ! there are no eyes so true, 
 Ah, woe is me ! what shall I do ? 
 
 O cruel maid ! " cried he. 
 
 With pensive mood the maiden viewed 
 
 This lover, so declined ; 
 " I pray you, sir, be not cast down, 
 And if you cannot find in town 
 More pleasing eyes of gray or brown, 
 
 Perhaps I'll change my mind." 
 
 Cheered by her art, the swain took heart ; 
 
 And, much to her surprise, 
 With blighted hope he did not die ; 
 And strange to say, as days went by, 
 He quite forgot to pine and sigh 
 
 For her reproachful eyes. 
 61 
 
" Now come," she said, " and we will wed, 
 
 I cannot be unkind." 
 " Though eyes of blue are true," quoth he, 
 " I've found a pair of brown, you see, 
 And so, sweet maid, it cannot be, 
 
 Because I've changed my mind." 
 
 62 
 
BANISHED. 
 
 " Banished," so the sentence read, 
 Without hope of commutation ; 
 
 Thus on my offending head 
 Fell the ax of condemnation. 
 
 Kinder fate, by far, had I 
 
 Merely been condemned to die. 
 
 Not for plots against the state, 
 Lawless bribes or crafty treason ; 
 
 Crimes like these, however great, 
 Stand within the pale of reason. 
 
 My offence could only be 
 
 Punished by one penalty. 
 
 Not for scoffing pope or creed, 
 Am I doomed to sadly languish ; 
 
 Gladly for my faith I'd bleed 
 At the stake in mortal anguish. 
 
 But to sentence, so unkind, 
 
 Who, oh, who could be resigned ? 
 63 
 
Banished from my lady's face, 
 And the verdict is official ; 
 
 Useless to appeal the case, 
 Since her ruling is judicial ; 
 
 Just decree, you will infer, 
 
 For my crime was loving her. 
 
 64 
 
JUNE. 
 
 O fleeting June ! if I could grasp and hold thee ; 
 
 With loving fingers stay thy winged flight. 
 Oh, if within mine arms I could enfold thee, 
 
 And keep, for aye, thy season of delight. 
 
 Vain wish ; fair month, thy happy hours are flowing, 
 Like grains of golden sand, away from me. 
 
 Dear Love, good-by, since thou so soon art going, 
 My heart's best wish shall go with June and thee. 
 
 65 
 
IV. FAITH. 
 
 "AS LITTLE CHILDREN." 
 
 O fragile babyhood, so constantly 
 Attempting thy one task ; my strong hands yearn 
 To shape the yielding progress of thy feet. 
 And so will God have thoughtful care for me, 
 When my slow, faltering feet begin to learn 
 The strange, new steps of living made complete. 
 
 67 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 Through mine impatient' tears still let me see 
 Thy face, O God ! benign as mother-love 
 And calm with that great peace that is to be ; 
 Still let me hear Thy tender voice above 
 The waves of sadness and the storms of sorrow ; 
 Still would I trust the larger thought of Thee, 
 And know that what thou hast withheld from me 
 To-day — shall bless me on some glad to-morrow. 
 
 68 
 
CHARACTER. 
 
 Lift up thine eyes, behold ! the dawning light 
 Foretells the coming of the perfect day. 
 Stand for the good tho' evil shall dismay, 
 Eternal Truth leads onward through the night ; 
 Faint not, brave heart, still battle for the right ; 
 God's word is progress, walk thou in His way. 
 O doubting soul, learn fervently to pray, 
 And thou shalt be the victor in the fight. 
 
 To purity of thought and deed aspire ; 
 Live nobly, let thy charity increase ; 
 Then shall thy voice be like a silver lyre 
 Attuned to music that shall never cease ; 
 Thy face be radiant with celestial fire, 
 And thou shalt wear the diadem of peace. 
 
 69 
 
THANKSGIVING. 
 
 No thanks to give, 
 On this most hallowed day ? 
 Ungracious soul, I question thee, 
 Hast thou no word of thanks to say ? 
 No little meed of gratefulness ? 
 Is there not something left to bless ? 
 However poor thy lot may be, 
 Hath God not let thee live ? 
 
 70 
 
V. MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 EUGENE FIELD. 
 
 But yesterday he was, and lo ! to-day 
 
 Upon his lips there is not any breath 
 
 To tell me how he fared along the way ; 
 
 And yet, methinks, beside his pulseless clay 
 
 I kneel and listen till I hear him say, 
 
 " I'll sing more sweetly for the sleep of death." 
 
 7i 
 
A FADING TYPE. 
 
 Thoughtless cause of this stray rhyme, 
 Relic of the olden time, 
 Ante-bellum landmark, set 
 Like some curious old vignette ; 
 Toothless gums and locks as white 
 As a snow-drift in the night ; 
 Faded eyes that seem to gaze 
 Wistfully across the haze 
 Of the years. 
 
 One of old Virginia's slaves ; 
 Time is weaving o'er the graves 
 Of the friends he used to know, 
 Wreaths of blossoms and of snow. 
 Leaning on his cane he stands, 
 Waiting for the shifting sands 
 To be run ; and I confess 
 His pathetic loneliness 
 Moves to tears. 
 
 When he meets me in the street, 
 Bows and grins and scrapes his feet ; 
 
 72 
 
Doffs his battered tile to me 
 With a stately courtesy ; 
 And a reverential grace 
 Drifts across his wrinkled face 
 When I lift my hat to him, 
 Gently, as I'd touch the rim 
 To a saint. 
 
 As I watch him limp away, 
 Visions of a happier day 
 Throng upon me. Like a dream 
 Jewels flash and satins gleam, 
 Splendor gilds the cobwebbed rust, 
 Love reanimates the dust 
 Of the dark and silent tomb ; 
 And I picture in the gloom 
 Figures quaint. 
 
 In the sighing of the breeze 
 Through deserted balconies, 
 Music swells in ghostly tone, 
 Sobbing like the sea's low moan. 
 Voices of the hallowed dead, 
 Speaking of a grandeur fled, 
 Haunt me as he hobbles by, 
 Till I turn, and, musing, sigh, 
 " He's the last." 
 73 
 
Ivy grows upon the wall 
 Of that crumbling southern hall. 
 Years have numbered full a score 
 Since a foot hath crossed the floor. 
 Death, with sickle poised in air 
 O'er the bent form standing there, 
 Grimly spares the grain, long ripe, 
 Knowing that he is a type 
 Of the past. 
 
 74 
 
EDGAR W. NYE. 
 
 No more the pleasing jest, the genial flow 
 Of mirth, the wit and wisdom haply wed ; 
 
 With him all smiles have passed away, and so 
 The world shall laugh no more, since Nye is dead. 
 
 75 
 
QUEEN OF SUNNY-LAND. 
 
 Little Queen of Sunny-land, 
 Rosy cheek and dimpled hand, 
 
 Witching eyes of blue ; 
 With a crown of golden tresses, 
 Lips inviting love's caresses, 
 
 Oh, what shall I do ? 
 
 If I kiss my lady fair 
 
 On her cheeks and on her hair 
 
 And her red lips, too, 
 I will forfeit royal favor ; 
 Yet, to hesitate or waver 
 
 Will my love undo. 
 
 Coyly 'neath her silken lashes, 
 Suddenly the laughter flashes 
 
 Swiftly into view ; 
 Then her eyes are veiled demurely, 
 And her pouting lips are surely 
 
 Urging me to woo. 
 
 Softer cheek or bluer eye, 
 Sweeter lips for kisses, I 
 Vow I never knew ; 
 76 
 
And my sweetheart's age is four ; 
 Could I really love her more 
 Were she twenty-two ? 
 
 Little Queen of Sunny-land, 
 Rosy cheek and dimpled hand, 
 
 Tender eyes of blue ; 
 Some one told me, just in fun, 
 God has never made but one 
 
 Queen as fair as you. 
 
 77 
 
THE COTTON-FLOWER. 
 
 Oh, the cotton-flower is a flower so fair 
 That I hold it a flower beyond compare, 
 As it nods and sways in the languorous air 
 
 Of the valleys of Tennessee ; 
 And in all the bloom of the earth I find 
 No bud or blossom or tendril twined 
 
 That is half so dear to me. 
 
 The haughty knights of a legion prance 
 
 To the clanking rhythm of scabbard and lance, 
 
 Each bearing the fleur-de-lis of France 
 
 Emblazoned on his shield ; 
 With flaunting plumes in the eventide, 
 For the wounded honor of France they ride 
 
 To die on a bloody field. 
 
 And again, at the break of morn, I see 
 The flower of England's chivalry 
 Upheld on the green of a British lea 
 
 In the face of England's foes, 
 Till her stalwart yeomen, sturdy and brave, 
 Falter and faint as they strike to save 
 
 The bonny English rose. 
 73 
 
But a fiercer strife in a fairer land, 
 Where the sons of a severed nation stand, 
 Wrings from the grasp of the Southern hand 
 
 Its brief ensign of power ; 
 And a chivalry nobler than yeoman or knight 
 Pours out its blood in a hopeless fight 
 
 For the trampled cotton-flower. 
 
 Emblem of all that was lost that day ; 
 
 Yet the eyes that weep and the lips that pray 
 
 For the dead of the blue and the dead of the gray 
 
 Are one, in the new regime; 
 And the martial flower of the South of old 
 On the banner of Peace is traced in gold, 
 
 Like a beacon star agleam. 
 
 79 
 
THE SPECTRE OF INDIA. 
 
 From its home in the slime of the Ganges' bank, 
 Where the death dews, cold and clammy and dank, 
 
 Hold their eternal sway, 
 A spectre glides with a stealthy tread, 
 And wherever it thrusts its grinning head 
 The livid forms of the ghastly dead 
 
 Lie heaped along the way. 
 
 Deathless king in his jungle lair, 
 
 Where the poisonous lilies give to the air 
 
 The treacherous sweets of their breath ; 
 Where the rushes trail in the oozing mud, 
 And the sun sinks down like a ball of blood, 
 The monster up from the stagnant flood 
 
 Stalks, arm in arm with Death. 
 
 Fiend of the Orient, hollow-eyed, 
 
 And the fierce death-demon, side by side 
 
 Hand in skeleton hand — 
 Together they enter the shuddering West, 
 Hoarse with laughter and mocking jest, 
 Intent on the theme of their merciless quest, 
 
 They ravage sea and land. 
 
Wail of women and groan of men, 
 Shrieks, that ring and echo again ; 
 
 " Oh, for a breath of frost ! " 
 Upturned faces writhen and white, 
 Wildly stare in the garish light, 
 And the death bells toll in the solemn night 
 
 A requiem for the lost. 
 
 The blood of the living runs cold with fear 
 Where these twain cast the horrible leer 
 
 Of their ghoulish, sightless eyes ; 
 And their deadly touch in the city's heat 
 Stills the maddening hurry of feet ; 
 And the dead-cart stops in the silent street 
 
 Where the last man falls and dies. 
 
 81 
 
LIBERTY BELL. 
 
 No more, O Independence Bell ! 
 Thy solemn melody shall swell ; 
 No more thy iron tongue shall tell 
 
 The tidings that all men are free. 
 Upon thy rusted lips is laid 
 A living wreath, that shall not fade, 
 A tribute to the voice that made 
 
 A nation heir to liberty. 
 
 Defender of the trampled right ; 
 Brave herald of the morning light 
 That swept away the gloomy night 
 
 Of English pride and tyranny ; 
 The tocsin of the justified, 
 That sounded freedom far and wide, 
 Till patriots met and fought and died 
 
 That new-born liberty might be. 
 
 Twelve stirring decades marching by 
 Behold the stars and stripes on high ; 
 Still see the eagle cleave the sky 
 To fix his talons in the sun. 
 
 82 
 
Beneath the hallowed flag we stand, 
 United still in heart and hand, 
 As when thy summons roused the land 
 From Moultrie's Fort to Lexington. 
 
 With wrinkled art, gray Time, the sage, 
 Hath wrought upon thy metal page 
 The annals of our passing age, 
 
 That men may see and still rejoice. 
 Bred in each freeman's blood and bone, 
 Fed by each patriot's dying moan, 
 The spirit of thy joyous tone 
 
 Still speaks, as with a living voice. 
 
 Eternal silence guardeth thee 
 
 Who once proclaimed a nation free ; 
 
 Forever hushed the minstrelsy 
 
 That taught the world a strange, new song ; 
 Yet, in the throbbing hearts of men, 
 That song shall rise and live again, 
 The theme of every tongue and pen, 
 
 That right is mightier than wrong. 
 
 83 
 
MY FATE. 
 
 There were two little eyes, 
 And you may not think it true, 
 But they were so very blue 
 
 (Please believe me), 
 That I straightway lost my heart, 
 For I reasoned from the start 
 That they surely knew no art 
 
 To deceive me. 
 
 There was a little hand, 
 
 And you may not think it right, 
 But it was so soft and white 
 
 That I squeezed it. 
 It was very plain to me 
 That there ne'er again would be 
 Such an opportunity, 
 
 And I seized it. 
 
 There was a little mouth, 
 
 And you may not think it just, 
 But I felt as if I must, 
 And I kissed it. 
 84 
 
Such a very, very dear, 
 Rosy little mouth — I fear 
 You'd have thought me very queer 
 To have missed it. 
 
 There was a little ear, 
 
 And I know not what you'll think, 
 But it was so very pink 
 
 That I couldn't 
 Quite resist its charm, and so 
 I whispered something, very low. 
 Something — well — perhaps you know, 
 
 That I shouldn't. 
 
 Such a very charming maid, 
 
 You will guess she was my fate ; 
 Though a trifle young, I'll state, 
 
 And it grieved me. 
 But I held her with a sigh 
 Till she fixed her mouth to cry, 
 Then the smiling nurse came by 
 
 And relieved me. 
 
 3s 
 
MARAH. 
 
 A package of letters, neatly tied, 
 
 The postman's gift to me ; 
 With the daintiest, creamiest note beside, 
 
 And a ring for company. 
 
 None the worse for a journey made 
 
 In a musty government sack ; 
 Villainous taste I had displayed 
 
 Not to welcome them back. 
 
 Prettily bound with a fillet of blue, 
 
 The color that I love best ; 
 Considerate thought, and feminine, too, 
 
 In faith, a capital jest. 
 
 And the ring, it must have proved too small, 
 Or the least little jot too plain ; 
 
 A thoroughly womanly method, withal, 
 To save me a moment of pain. 
 
 The note, a model of elegant form, 
 And neither too long nor too brief, 
 
 Nor freezingly cool, nor torridly warm ; 
 With a seal in bass-relief. 
 
 86 
 
The old address as a graceful foil, 
 
 The feint of a perfected art ; 
 A parry, a thrust, a swift recoil, 
 
 And the steel hath pierced my heart. 
 
 Nay ! not the blade of an honest fight 
 That strikes me down where I stand, 
 
 But a delicate dagger of black and white, 
 In a woman's cowardly hand. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Give me but time, a little time, I pray ! 
 
 The fleeting respite of a single day, 
 
 In which to build again the shattered hope ; 
 
 To frame again, with bruised and faltering hand, 
 
 The structure of a life ; in some far land, 
 
 Re-shape a dream in some new horoscope. 
 
 With these scarred remnants of a broken trust, 
 
 Raise, once again, a ruin from the dust. 
 
 in. 
 
 O world of change, of chance, of aimless plan, 
 Launched on a shoreless sea of space ; 
 Thy motley crew, the grovelling thing called man, 
 Thy port, no clime nor time nor place. 
 
 Thou Great Unseen, who shaped a puny earth, 
 Take back thine alms, I did not ask for birth ; 
 
 87 
 
Throw me no paltry gift of thankless breath ; 
 I scorn the crust of life, give me but death. 
 
 How swift the shadows creep upon the light, 
 And radiant noon fades into rayless night ; 
 How small a thing shall cause a hope to fail ; 
 A breath that leaves becalmed the drooping sail. 
 
 Away from self, away ! no matter where ; 
 Give me but room to battle with despair ! 
 Along the stream and through the silent wood ; 
 The darkness, falling, suits my hopeless mood. 
 
 Clear in the tremulous dusk, a star is hung in the 
 
 east, 
 With its blood-red heart of fire ; a glittering eye of 
 
 light, 
 Fierce with a sudden blaze as a torch upflared in 
 
 the night ; 
 Quivering, scintillant, broad, with its glory of gold 
 
 released ; 
 And faint in the far-off west is the scarlet glow, 
 
 where the sun 
 Hath left the blush of his passionate kiss on the 
 
 maiden sky ; 
 And here in my heart is the throb of a woman's 
 
 treacherous sigh ; 
 
The smouldering fire of a love with which I have 
 sworn to be done ; 
 Of a love that will not die. 
 
 Palpitant, luminous, cold in the after-glow, O star ! 
 With the baleful, languorous light of a woman's 
 
 eyes in your heart ; 
 Have you learned the cunning things of a 
 
 woman's crafty art ? 
 Too fierce for the orb of love ; too pale for the 
 
 star of war ; 
 With the taunting, scornful curve of remembered 
 
 lips you seem 
 To mock my dark unrest, to mock with an inso- 
 lent stare ; 
 Do you smile at a broken vow that your smile is 
 
 so cruelly fair ? 
 A vow, ah God ! that I'd swear was naught but a 
 
 sweet, sweet dream, 
 Were it not for this black despair. 
 
 O radiant star ! you are fair, when the tides of my 
 
 pulse are low ; 
 And the floods of ravenous torture ebb in my 
 
 heart and brain ; 
 When Reason, placed at the helm, can stem the 
 
 ocean of pain, 
 And the tempest of grief is lulled to the calm of a 
 
 hopeless woe. 
 
And she was fair to me once — how fair I pray to 
 forget — 
 
 And scoff as I may at the faith, the heartless, 
 passionless deed, 
 
 That left my stricken heart no power but the 
 power to bleed, 
 
 The love that was lives on, like the perfume cling- 
 ing yet 
 To the crushed and broken reed. 
 
 For I, in my faithless mood, with the maddening 
 smart of my wound, 
 
 Would blindly question the good and the truth of 
 inanimate things ; 
 
 Would fiercely upbraid and accuse while I hug the 
 folly that stings ; 
 
 Till, drugged with the sullen pain, my rancorous 
 heart has swooned, 
 
 And I hear no more the surge of a sorrow beat- 
 ing the shore ; 
 
 The shriek of a baffled soul in its first wild burst 
 of grief ; 
 
 Sleep, with a prayer on my lips, for the perma- 
 nent peace of relief ; 
 
 Sleep and dream the old, old dream of love, once 
 more, 
 That waking, was so brief. 
 
 90 
 
V. 
 
 A faint red glow along the east ; 
 The crimson gaping of a wound 
 That widens as the pale night dies. 
 The waking call of bird and beast, 
 With drowsy voices, half attuned 
 To wind that feebly sobs and cries. 
 
 A cheerless morning, ashen gray, 
 The promise of a troubled day. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I lived but in the sunshine of her eyes, 
 
 The tender smile, the greeting low and sweet ; 
 Can I forget the path by which my feet 
 
 Climbed up through sorrow into Paradise? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Woman ! other hand than thine 
 Had faltered ere it struck the blow ; 
 Had weakened ere it dared despoil 
 The fruitage of so fair a soil. 
 Inconstant man ? yea, have it so ; 
 I grant him passions less divine, 
 And blush to own him kin of mine. 
 Ignoble, craven, lecherous, base, 
 I cast the shame into his face ; 
 And still the larger mood hath sway, 
 He strikes, but only strikes to slay. 
 91 
 
While through the scorched and swollen vein 
 The subtler venom of thy sting 
 
 Creeps on, until the tortured brain 
 Goes mad with endless suffering. 
 
 More dreaded than the asp art thou, 
 O fragile queen of serpent-kind ; 
 
 To thee all deadly things must bow ; 
 Thy poison preyeth on the mind. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For scorn of the one shall I scorn her kind, 
 
 And hate them all for her sake ? 
 Let me temper the hardened steel of my mind 
 In the hope that at last, perchance, I may find 
 Some good in the sex ; 
 Yet why should I vex 
 My overwrought heart till it break ? 
 
 And where shall a man make search for truth 
 
 When the soul of truth is a lie ? 
 Delilahs, all of them, never a Ruth ! 
 
 I will hate them all till I die ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 In calmer mood I had reasoned more, 
 Had called to my aid the larger thought ; 
 For every loss is there not a gain ? 
 A measured peace for a measured pain ? 
 
 92 
 
A right for a wrong, a crown for a cross ? 
 A fair exchange is all that I sought ; 
 A fair exchange is all that is wrought. 
 To know the sex as it is, what more 
 Could I gain for a trifling loss ? 
 
 A soul's unfaltering trust I give 
 For a knowledge bitter as gall ; 
 
 And whether I die or whether I live, 
 The bargain covers it all. 
 
 Conveniently my lady wears her love, 
 First jilting this one, then adoring that ; 
 
 With careless ease as she would change her glove ; 
 Now on, now off, with each new style of hat ; 
 
 Her pensive brow, entangled in a frown, 
 
 Makes choice of lover with her choice of gown. 
 
 Debating with all gravity, which hue, 
 
 Or blonde, or olive, be more picturesque ; 
 
 If tall or short men match a russet shoe ; 
 If stout or lean men suit an evening dress. 
 
 Such problems claim dear Marah's thoughtful care ; 
 
 Stupendous questions for a mind so rare. 
 
 Poor, boastful heart ! thy value is but slight ; 
 A trinket to be worn with flippant grace, 
 Till some more pleasing gewgaw shall efface 
 93 
 
The memory of thy greatness in her sight, 
 A season thou didst prove her sole delight ; 
 And in thy newness she was satisfied ; 
 She wearies, and the toy is cast aside. 
 
 Blind, drivelling fool ! in love with folly still ; 
 A puppet meet to tempt her idle hand ; 
 A tinkling trifle, shaped but for her will, 
 To dangle at her bracelet's jingling band ; 
 With too great love behold a man unmanned ; 
 Ah, I could curse the weakness that hath led 
 This double curse to fall upon my head ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet is it strange that a trust should fail ? 
 
 That a love should know decline ? 
 
 The hills grow old and the seasons fade, 
 
 And change is written in sun and shade, 
 
 And the heart, it is so frail. 
 
 But to cut me off with a line ; 
 
 That, scrawled in haste, as if it had been 
 
 The eager wish of her delicate pen 
 
 To be quick rid of the task ; 
 
 Was it kind ? was it just, I ask ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 Poor striving feet, with gait so set 
 To outstrip thy pursuer, Grief, 
 94 
 
Canst thou not mend thy stumbling pace 
 And leave behind a woman's face ? 
 
 Through brambled field and clover, wet, 
 
 Along the shelving ledge of stone, 
 
 Across the hillside, overgrown 
 
 With spreading dog-wood, half unblown ; 
 
 I brush aside the startled leaf ; 
 
 Here is the spot where last we met. 
 
 And yonder path, I see her yet, 
 
 With eyes so sweetly raised to mine ; 
 
 I would, and yet would not forget 
 
 How on her face the fair sun shone, 
 
 An aureole of golden light ; 
 
 Her dress, a dream of filmy white ; 
 
 Her hair, uncoiled in waves of brown, 
 
 To clasp the thorn that plucked it down ; 
 
 I shut mine eyes, I must not let 
 
 These white lips make their cursed moan, 
 
 For now I walk the path alone. 
 
 And here upon my face I fall, 
 With strong hands clenched into the sod, 
 And pray with muffled voice, and call, 
 And kiss the ground her feet have trod. 
 
 And echoes from the solitude, 
 With mocking voices, gibe and cry ; 
 O Nature, bending where I lie, 
 
 95 
 
Be patient with my faithless mood, 
 It is so hard for love to die. 
 
 Here in the silence, let me learn 
 The lesson written everywhere. 
 In nature's realm where'er I turn, 
 Confronting me I find it there ; 
 From giant oak-tree gaunt and tall, 
 To swaying blossom frail and fair, 
 In peaceful nest and caverned lair, 
 One law prevails and governs all. 
 
 The right of might, the meed of greed ; 
 To take who may and keep who can ; 
 And ever, since the world began, 
 The selfish aim and lawless plan 
 Have been the ruling thought of man. 
 
 Howe'er he frameth code and creed ; 
 The brute within him still must feed. 
 
 I question not the power that made 
 The love of self a law supreme ; 
 And why should I forget its code ? 
 Here in the dust, like some crushed toad, 
 Or writhing worm beneath a heel. 
 I reap no harvest that I sowed ; 
 Is not the debt I owed her, paid ? 
 Have I no manhood left to feel, 
 That I should lie and nurse a dream ? 
 96 
 
Now let the worm, despised, turn ; 
 Too long it grovels in the dust. 
 With very shame my wet cheeks burn, 
 That senseless rock and flower and tree, 
 With curious eyes, should bend to see 
 A soul's o'erpowering agony. 
 To rudely rend and sting and thrust 
 Is nature's first and last decree. 
 I rise again, and proudly spurn 
 The thought of all she was to me. 
 
 From this time forth I war with fate, 
 And love shall be but love of hate. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yet how shall I descend to cherish hate ? 
 The favorite weakness of the little mind ; 
 The venom of impotence ; petty sting 
 To him whose majesty o'ertoppeth fate ; 
 Shall not my soul have fortitude to find 
 Revenge in pity for so frail a thing ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Upon the rocky ledge I stand, 
 And sweep the broad expanse of land ; 
 So light a mien doth nature wear ; 
 So false the smile she turns to me ; 
 I sadly muse how very fair 
 A cheerless day can grow to be. 
 97 
 
In all the solitude profound, 
 There breaks but one insistent sound ; 
 A voice that seems to faintly call 
 From some secluded spot remote, 
 With endless murmur of one note, 
 The sobbing of a water-fall. 
 
 I watch the bird on poised wing, 
 That drifts across the sea of blue ; 
 So faint, and far, and growing less, 
 Until its form is lost to view. 
 Farewell to thee, ill-omened speck ; 
 So fades from me the sweetest thing 
 That ever in my life I knew ; 
 A love that came to briefly bless 
 And leave me but a stranded wreck. 
 
 xv. 
 
 smiling day, with placid sky, 
 And violets beneath my feet ; 
 And golden gems set in the green 
 Of meadows, stretching miles away ; 
 And sloping hills that lie between, 
 With grazing flocks and lambs at play ; 
 You are not fair, you are not sweet, 
 
 1 will not have it so — you lie ! 
 
 Poor will, so proud and yet so meek, 
 Because of strength thou seemest weak ; 
 
A soul, less constant, had ere this 
 Forgotten its departed bliss. 
 Why shouldst thou seek a lonely dell 
 Where once a woman smiled on thee, 
 And muse and brood and idly dwell 
 Upon a love that cannot be ? 
 
 O Marah, to my life so bound, 
 By ties so strange and sad and sweet ; 
 With lips that will not fashion sound, 
 Once more thy last words I repeat, 
 And strive to go, and yet would stay ; 
 How can I put the dream away ? 
 As long as this sad heart shall beat, 
 Whatever soil hath touched thy feet, 
 Shall be my sacred ground. 
 
 And be thou true or false to me, 
 I cannot be untrue to thee. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Now let me go from this dark spot ; 
 Mine eyes are sick of sylvan scenes. 
 
 Of leafy bowers, 
 
 And nodding flowers, 
 And mewling wren and croaking thrush, 
 Let moon-struck poets rave and sing ; 
 Or some poor fool, with stick and brush, 
 Gone mad about the gentle spring, 
 99 
 
Come hither with his daubing-pot 
 And make a study all in greens. 
 
 With morbid thought my brow is hot, 
 
 And moist my hands within the palm ; 
 
 And through my veins, in throbbing streams, 
 
 I feel the crimson current run. 
 
 And now, fierce heart, thou shalt be calm, 
 
 And grimly face the bitter lot 
 
 That fate appoints ; for I have done 
 
 With all this whining brood of dreams. 
 
 And swiftly striding from the steeps, 
 
 I plunge through clinging brush-wood, down, 
 
 To loiter where the streamlet creeps ; 
 
 I loathe the gaudy spires of town ! 
 
 The monuments of doting zeal ; 
 Lean fingers pointing to the sky, 
 Like gilded sign-boards reared on high, 
 To teach a trust I cannot feel. 
 
 What doth it profit me to tread 
 With tireless feet, the pleasant ways 
 Where once she bore me company ? 
 And marvel how she seemed so kind, 
 Recalling all the things she said ; 
 So childish now it seems in me, 
 To picture with unwearied mind, 
 The happiness of other days. 
 
XVII. 
 
 But one day past (so dark the space 
 
 That stretcheth out between ; 
 Such desert leagues, I fancy, lie 
 Between God's face and souls that die) 
 I walked with her, and all the day 
 Was rife with sheen of burnished gold, 
 
 And all the fields were green. 
 I walked with her, and every place 
 Was sweet with her uplifted face, 
 And every flower along the way, 
 
 Its scented secret told. 
 
 We stood upon the arched span 
 
 Above the rippling stream ; 
 And watched the trembling shadows creep 
 Across the waters, clear and deep, 
 And babbling voices far below, 
 With drowsy murmurs, sobbed and sighed 
 
 Like music in a dream. 
 And as the idle current ran, 
 Mine eyes had naught to do but scan 
 A flawless face, set in the glow 
 
 Of golden eventide. 
 
 We watched the slender swallows skim 
 
 Along the crimson west ; 
 I gazed, and saw but her flushed cheek, 
 And sighed, and strove, and could not speak ; 
 
 IOI 
 
My pulses shook their veined control, 
 And clamorous love in ecstasy 
 
 Cried out within my breast. 
 Like some great organ's rolling hymn, 
 With chant of saint and seraphim, 
 Her presence flooded all my soul 
 
 With solemn melody. 
 
 Glimmering dusk in the silent street, 
 And one far light on the hill ; 
 
 And sudden peace enfolded me, 
 
 Weird presage of a grief to be ; 
 
 The fatal calm before the storm ; 
 
 I moved as one divining fate, 
 Yet scorning its worst ill. 
 
 My heart had deemed it bliss complete 
 
 To cast itself beneath her feet ; 
 
 I merely bowed, with faultless form, 
 And left her at the gate. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And now against the bridge I lean, 
 
 With folded arms upon the rail, 
 
 And watch the eddies, far below, 
 
 In swirling circles rise and flow 
 
 And break against the stubborn pier. 
 
 My shadow, dancing in the sheen, 
 
 A trembling ghost wrought in the green 
 
Of restless waters, cool and clear ; 
 A wavering figure tall and frail, 
 Forever forming but to fail. 
 
 I watch the passing of a leaf, 
 
 A tiny life, so strange, so brief ; 
 
 Afloat upon the sweeping tide, 
 
 The plaything of each sportive wave ; 
 
 Content to drift, and satisfied 
 
 To find its end in any grave. 
 
 A fated thing, yet caring naught 
 To loose its hold and fall and fade 
 And die among the water-cress. 
 Resistless, passive, with no thought 
 That sunlight merges into shade, 
 And shade into forgetfulness. 
 
 And I, upon a darker flood, 
 More helpless than the fallen leaf ; 
 With straining sinews, surging blood, 
 Would seek to stem the tide of grief ; 
 And strive and fail, to feel my soul 
 Swept downward to an unknown goal. 
 
 A fruitless task that wins no shore, 
 I supplicate a heedless ear ; 
 These foolish lips shall pray no more 
 Unto a Power that will not hear. 
 103 
 
Oh, if I could be satisfied 
 To drift upon the fatal tide. 
 
 So slight a wall 'twixt life and death, 
 
 To pierce it, such an easy task ; 
 
 A slender blade, so keen and thin, 
 
 To puncture this defenceless mask 
 
 And let the begging sunlight in ; 
 
 A wound so small that none would ask 
 
 The reason of his secret sin, 
 
 Or marvel that he chose not breath. 
 
 The strangling of a sudden fear, 
 The crushing of a fragile bone ; 
 A spasm in the troubled brain, 
 To every one but God, unknown, 
 So simple, yet so swift and sure, 
 I wonder why I long endure 
 The goading of so keen a pain ; 
 I could so quickly end it here. 
 
 To step beyond this oaken plank, 
 And shudder once, with sudden gasp, 
 To feel the chilling waters' clasp, 
 And then the blind, unthinking grasp 
 At nothing in the void — then blank. 
 104 
 
At best, the common end is near, 
 I cannot cheat the shroud and bier ; 
 A fleeting day, why should I wait 
 The coming of so sure a fate ? 
 
 And far across the rail I bend 
 To gaze into the peaceful stream ; 
 Is life so worthless, that I deem 
 It fitted to so base an end ? 
 
 Ignoble thought ! Thou craven mind ! 
 
 To hug a devil in such guise. 
 
 And still the voice within my breast 
 
 Beguiles me with its pleasant lies ; 
 
 How sweet would be the changeless rest ; 
 
 I turn again to gaze, and find 
 
 Upon me fixed, her laughing eyes, 
 
 Disdainful, yet not all unkind. 
 
 Illusion of an eye o'erwrought ; 
 
 Fine business for a man of thought 
 
 To loll above a turbid stream, 
 
 And mope and mourn and sigh and dream. 
 
 Apt clown ! Thou hast no need of school 
 To learn of cap and bells and ruff ; 
 A woman's smile is quite enough 
 To make thee play the arrant fool. 
 105 
 
XX. 
 
 O silent face, forever at my side, 
 With watchful eyes lest I forget the past ; 
 Thy ceaseless vigil keeping to the last. 
 O famished lips whose bread hath been denied ; 
 Starved heart that liveth on unsatisfied ; 
 Unwedded arms outstretched to fondly press 
 The form beloved, and clasp but emptiness ; 
 O time to come, so freighted with despair ; 
 How shall my faithless soul have strength to bear 
 The burden of the years ? 
 
 Let me forget the past — let me forget ! 
 Or still remembering, be still unmoved. 
 Still seeing, see as though I saw it not, 
 And hearing, heed as though I heard it not ; 
 Oh, let it chance that I may cheat regret 
 By some sweet miracle, and thus escape 
 The constant torture of this haunting shape. 
 Remember all save that I lived unloved ; 
 Remember all, yet have mine eyelids wet 
 With no remorseful tears. 
 
 A mossy knoll on which to lie 
 And stare into a vacant sky. 
 1 06 
 
With fingers clasped beneath my head, 
 
 To rest upon a fragrant bed 
 
 And watch the sunset's flaming red. 
 
 Pale crescent moon, 
 
 An hour too soon 
 Thou comest from thy hiding-place ; 
 
 With fleecy rim 
 
 So white and dim, 
 I would that I could see thy face. 
 
 So bright the light, 
 I scarce can trace 
 Thy spectral flight 
 Through azure space. 
 
 An hour too soon, an hour too late ; 
 What matters it to thee or me ? 
 For I, henceforth, like thou, shall be 
 Indifferent to any fate. 
 
 xxn. 
 Daisies for a lover's chain, 
 
 Trembling with a new delight ; 
 Emblems, pure, of innocence, 
 
 For a bridal robe of white. 
 
 Myrtle and forget-me-not, 
 One for love, I love but thee ; 
 
 And the blossom too, perchance 
 Now thou wilt remember me. 
 107 
 
Primrose for a sign of youth ; 
 
 Love is always young, they say ; 
 And a cowslip, pensiveness, 
 
 I shall think of thee for aye. 
 
 Daffodil, I pluck thee here, 
 
 Unrequited love art thou ; 
 And a red anemone, 
 
 For I am forsaken now. 
 
 Buttercups for riches, too, 
 
 Fleeting as the zephyr's breath ; 
 
 And a yellow asphodel, 
 Faithful even unto death. 
 
 Cold narcissus, love of self ; 
 
 Marah, this I choose for thee ; 
 And a scarlet pimpernel, 
 
 Nevermore the same to me. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Useless baubles to cumber the earth ; 
 To push and crowd for an inch of soil, 
 Which gained, can never be called your own. 
 Lowly of caste and paupers by birth ; 
 Half-breed brothers to men who toil 
 For a cot and a crust and a scanty bone. 
 108 
 
What if I sent you thus to her ? 
 
 And bade you plead for a broken heart ; 
 
 With innocent lips and artless art, 
 
 To take my role and play my part, 
 
 And seek to touch her and make her feel ? 
 
 Nay ! all the gifts I could send would stir 
 
 No chord of pity in her for me ; 
 
 As she has willed it so let it be ; 
 
 I crush you, savagely, under my heel. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 What to me are seasons fleeting, 
 
 Leaf or flower or shade or shine ? 
 Spring hath brought no tender greeting 
 
 In her smiles for me or mine ; 
 Voices in the silence breaking, 
 
 Murmur of inconstancy ; 
 In my dreams or in my waking, 
 Now deriding, now forsaking, 
 With their endless plaints are making 
 
 Life a hateful thing to me. 
 
 What to me is sunlight gleaming 
 
 On the tinted lips of flowers, 
 Or the noisy brooklet steaming 
 
 In the mist of sudden showers ? 
 What to me are swallows flying 
 109 
 
In the limpid vault of blue, 
 While a trust betrayed, is dying, 
 And a haggard sorrow crying, 
 While a broken heart is sighing 
 
 For a love that was untrue ? 
 
 What to me are cowslips golden, 
 
 Smiling at their lover sun, 
 Since my heart is not beholden 
 
 To the smiles of any one ? 
 What to me are daisies thrilling 
 
 At the dewdrop's stolen kiss ; 
 Or the jaunty bluebird filling 
 All the air with happy trilling, 
 While a broken vow is killing 
 
 My one dream of perfect bliss ? 
 
 Idle May-winds softly blowing 
 
 Through the hawthorn's snowy bloom, 
 Bring the sound of far herds, lowing 
 
 Faintly in the twilight gloom. 
 Church-bells in the distance swelling, 
 
 Smite upon my troubled ear, 
 Till my soul cries out, rebelling 
 At their iron-throated knelling, 
 That persistently is telling 
 
 Of a dead love on its bier. 
 
Spare me ! O ye bells of sorrow ! 
 
 Throbbing in the heart of May ; 
 Marah ! loved and lost, the morrow 
 
 Should have been our wedding day. 
 Spare me ! spare me ! hoarse bells pealing 
 
 In the blazing western sky ; 
 Drunken wave tones, madly reeling, 
 Sibilants of torture stealing, 
 Lest upon the dank earth kneeling 
 
 I shall curse your chimes and die. 
 
 Other songs, in days as mellow, 
 
 May employ a sweeter lute ; 
 Other seasons waxing yellow, 
 
 With a fuller store of fruit. 
 But no more the slow sap creeping 
 
 In the pulses of the spring, 
 Shall be met by passion leaping 
 From the heart she held in keeping, 
 From a heart forever weeping 
 
 A returned betrothal ring. 
 
 Other lips, divinely fashioned, 
 
 In the days that are to come, 
 Shall present their kiss impassioned, 
 
 But to find mine cold and dumb. 
 Other loves, with eager faces, 
 
Enter where I dwell alone ; 
 Searching in the gloomy places 
 For the old love's tender graces, 
 And shall find but crumbling traces 
 
 Of a heart long turned to stone. 
 
 Once, but once, in all the June-time, 
 
 Doth the robin choose his mate ; 
 Once, and only once, at noon-time, 
 
 Gains the sun his proud estate. 
 Once the fire of true love burning 
 
 On the altars of the fair, 
 Serves the eye for its discerning, 
 Brooks not long delay or turning ; 
 Dies forever at the spurning, 
 
 Leaving naught but ashes there. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Coquettish May, with eyes of blue 
 
 And lips of scarlet sunset fair ; 
 So like a woman's moods are you, 
 So true the false, so false the true, 
 I trust no guise that you may wear. 
 
 Upon my cheek a drop of rain, 
 Gives warning that you change again. 
 
 In vain I seek to read your eyes, 
 From grave to gay your fancy flies. 
 
So warm you seemed, I grew too bold, 
 And lo ! you freeze with sudden cold. 
 
 And now, with chilled and aching form, 
 I leave behind the coming storm. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Another day hath crawled its length, 
 
 With spiteful hiss ; distorted like 
 
 An angry serpent reared to strike. 
 
 I fear no more Time's venomed fang ; 
 
 Its worst was spent in that first pang 
 
 That withered heart and mind and strength. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 To-night as I returned, with listless head 
 Bowed down upon my breast, and aimless feet 
 Set grudgingly to bear me through the gloom ; 
 Scarce heeding that the village lights were near, 
 I chose, unconsciously, a silent street, 
 Sweet with the scent of falling apple-bloom, 
 And wandered on, by some vague longing led 
 To seek once more the scenes that were so dear. 
 
 A wish but half expressed, half undefined, 
 To pass along the old familiar way. 
 A pleading heart against a stubborn mind 
 Persuadingly prevailed, and shaped my course 
 Through devious turnings, as the magnet's sway 
 Compels the needle to its latent source. 
 "3 
 
And ere I sensed the purpose of my thought, 
 That I might rudely strangle the desire, 
 My feet, by long-established habit taught, 
 Made awkward pause before her very gate ; 
 And then the sudden shame swept like a fire 
 Across my face ; a warning sent too late. 
 
 Untimely hour ! and yet how should I know 
 That Providence, or Fate would have it so ? 
 Or chance, or luck, or any name you will ; 
 Howe'er we conjure names to fit a foe, 
 An enemy the power remaineth, still. 
 
 Crushed by the weight of a terrible woe, 
 Marah, weeping alone ? by right 
 
 I had no reason to think it so ; 
 
 Yet I was not quite prepared for the sight 
 
 That stung mine eyes with a scorching pain 
 
 And etched its outline into my brain. 
 
 And all my being went out in the look 
 
 That I turned for a single moment on her. 
 
 My heart stopped suddenly, rigidly still, 
 And I could not think nor breathe nor stir, 
 
 Till the savage instinct conquered my will 
 
 With a murderous, insane longing to kill ; 
 "4 
 
The panting thirst of a brutish hate ; 
 
 And I ground my teeth and I clutched the gate 
 
 Till the fretted balustrades trembled and shook. 
 
 And then I staggered away from the light, 
 
 And fled like a spirit of evil portent, 
 
 Scourged and driven from Eden of old ; 
 
 Beset by a flaming sword in my flight, 
 
 Heir to a bitterness not to be told ; 
 
 Stumbling aimlessly on in the night 
 
 Till the strength of the demon within was spent. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Can I wish him well who took from me 
 The soul of my soul in a day ? 
 
 Who stole, though it be unwittingly, 
 The life of my life away ? 
 
 Let me be fair, 
 
 For I cursed him there 
 Till I shudder to think that it might come true ; 
 
 As long as I live 
 
 I cannot forgive ! 
 An eye for an eye, just law of the Jew ; 
 Measure for measure is all that is due. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 A beau ideal for a taste refined ; 
 I remember him, now that I bring it to mind, 
 "5 
 
I met him one day in the hall, 
 
 With his lavender gloves and his glossy hat, 
 
 Bowing and scraping his fond adieu ; 
 
 A heavier figure than mine, and tall, 
 
 With an insolent swagger ; and I recall 
 
 How he faced about for a better view, 
 
 And I hated him then for that. 
 
 An air of ownership, poorly concealed, 
 As if he would stoop to patronize me. 
 A plebeian garbed in a gentleman's coat, 
 With a few set phrases, conned by rote ; 
 A sickly polish that only revealed 
 The vulgar type of his low degree. 
 
 And Marah, delaying him when he would go, 
 Smiling, affable, gracious and bland, 
 With never the faintest trace of a blush, 
 When he dared, at parting, to touch her hand 
 With his pouching lips ; though she saw the flush 
 That mantled my cheek with an angry glow. 
 
 And when he was gone, with a languishing eye 
 And a Judas lip upraised to mine own, 
 She purred and wheedled and smoothed my ire, 
 And artfully whispered her prettiest vow, 
 Till she stroked the wrinkles out of my brow, 
 And I passed the matter in silence by. 
 A judgment sent, for I ought to have know 
 That always under a smoke there is fire. 
 116 
 
XXXI. 
 
 I am glad that I did not interfere, 
 
 With a charming tete-a-tete; 
 Her visitor, clad in faultless attire, 
 
 Like a figure struck from a fashion plate, 
 Gracefully posed with his back to the fire, 
 
 As I doubt not he is accustomed to do ; 
 
 I fancy to him it is nothing new, 
 For I marked him well 
 By the light that fell 
 From the pendent globes on the chandelier. 
 
 A pompous form on the rug he stood, 
 With a shoulder broad and square ; 
 
 I could not slander him if I would, 
 A splendid animal, groomed with care. 
 
 A grosser texture than mine, and framed 
 Like a regal monarch of beasts, untamed. 
 
 An excellent shape for a naval dance ; 
 A broadcloth model of dandified grace, 
 With a curled mustache and a wide expanse 
 Of linen, irreproachably white, 
 Stabbed by an oval of glittering light. 
 The man attained in all but his face ; 
 The highest evolved from the lowest place ; 
 An ideal goal for a struggling race. 
 117 
 
And she, with the wiles 
 
 Of her damnable smiles, 
 Weaving a web for a gaudy fly ; 
 
 A bait well cast 
 
 To hook him fast 
 And skilfully land him high and dry. 
 
 Tolling him on with a siren voice 
 Pitched in a minor key ; 
 Touching the chords of a love-lorn air, 
 With jewelled fingers slender and fair, 
 Her eyelids drooped with an artful care ; 
 The dolt ! I wish him well of his choice, 
 She has sung it a thousand times to me. 
 
 Perhaps — ah, well, perhaps I do her wrong. 
 By chance he called, by chance she was polite ; 
 An outward mask to hide an inward sorrow. 
 It surely is no crime to sing a song ; 
 Perhaps, who knows ? she may be in the right, 
 And she will send me other word to-morrow. 
 
 Perchance, to try me she hath made this test, 
 And I shall find it, after all, a jest. 
 
 How sweet it is to entertain a doubt ; 
 To meet it on the threshold of the heart, 
 With cordial clasp and bounteous welcome spread 
 118 
 
With cheerful care to bustle in and out, 
 Serving the guest, that he be wined and fed, 
 And so remain to heal a sorrow's smart. 
 
 Most honored visitor, if he but stay 
 Till all thy grievances be soothed away. 
 
 I would be more than just ; perhaps 'tis better 
 That I should read again her courteous letter. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Before the burnished rods of the grate 
 I count the letters in my hand, 
 
 And vacillate 
 
 'Twixt love and hate, 
 And twirl the tiny golden band. 
 
 The ring I bore to her one night, 
 And placed it with such frank delight 
 Upon her finger small and white, 
 
 And kissed it there, 
 
 And bade her wear 
 The jewel that so pleased us both ; 
 A symbol of our plighted troth. 
 
 So evenly the balance swings, 
 
 It would but take 
 
 A word to make 
 Me trample on the paltry things. 
 119 
 
And I, perforce, must make reply, 
 
 And couch it in such civil speech 
 
 As will not challenge or impeach 
 
 My honor as a gentleman. 
 
 In rounded terms construct a lie, 
 
 Full courteously as liars can ; 
 
 Some well-turned phrase that shall conceal 
 
 How very much she makes me feel. 
 
 And leaning on the shelf, I hold 
 The trinkets that were dear to me ; 
 A carven frame, her photograph, 
 With pouting lips and eyes that half 
 Persuade mine own sad lips to laugh. 
 A wayward curl that will entwine 
 About my fingers lovingly. 
 A flippant message, curt and cold ; 
 
 And thus she thinks 
 
 To break the links 
 That bound her life to mine. 
 
 Impassive face ! for shame ! for shame ! 
 
 O soulless thing, 
 
 You shall not wring 
 Another cry from this proud heart ; 
 I tear you from my life apart, 
 And cast you thus into the flame, 
 So shrivel up and writhe and turn, 
 I gloat above you while you burn. 
 
My answer ? ah, how shall I send 
 My answer to her charming note ? 
 Here on the marble hearth it lies, 
 A blackened ash among the soot ; 
 I kick it with contemptuous foot. 
 My answer ? take it ! I despise 
 The weak unwomanly hand that wrote 
 A thing so vile ; thus let it end. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 All night upon the window pane 
 The sobbing wind hath beat the rain ; 
 Beat, beat into my throbbing brain 
 
 Its ceaseless burden of despair. 
 All night the lattice, ivy grown, 
 Against the hollow casement blown, 
 With fretful voice hath made it moan, 
 
 And echoes answered everywhere. 
 
 The night-lamp's feeble arc of light 
 Hath vainly sought to pierce the night, 
 A beacon star to shape the flight 
 
 Of one poor moth content to die. 
 And I, as swift to beat my wings 
 Against the flame the poet sings, 
 And reap the death the false light brings, 
 
 What more than blinded moth am I ? 
 
What more ? make answer, wailing boughs, 
 Who know the worth of woman's vows, 
 What secret source of light endows 
 
 This feeble mind with keener wit ? 
 To spend its days in wistful sighs, 
 To covet that which early dies, 
 And strand at last on gilded lies ; 
 
 This is the depth and breadth of it. 
 
 The busy clock, with muffled beat, 
 Hath marked the passing of my feet ; 
 Forever striving to repeat 
 
 Her name in every silver tone. 
 The shadow that hath followed me 
 All night with ghoulish mimicry, 
 Hath turned at dawn's gray light to flee, 
 
 And I am left, at last, alone. 
 
 With fruitless toil, in sweat and tears, 
 To till and sow the passing years, 
 That age may bear its ripened ears, 
 
 A harvest that no hand shall reap. 
 Or worse, to drift, a languid soul, 
 Whose planless purpose seeks no goal ; 
 A little space to play its role, 
 
 And then lie down to dreamless sleep. 
 
 Alone ? I am alone no more ; 
 
 A footstep sounds along the floor ; 
 
 A voice above the tempest's roar 
 
Breaks on my silent watch, at last ; 
 A face again is raised to mine, 
 Her face, yet fairer, more divine ; 
 It is the spirit at whose shrine 
 
 I worshipped in the happy past. 
 
 And now, at last, at last I know 
 The crowning grief of deathless woe ; 
 In life or death, where'er I go. 
 
 Thy spirit form shall go with me. 
 The shadow of my gayest mood, 
 The ghost to haunt my solitude, 
 The face on which my soul shall brood 
 
 Through all the vast eternity. 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 To-day as I hurried across the street, 
 
 I met her coach on the crossing-stone ; 
 
 With coachman bolt-upright in his seat, 
 
 Stiffly topped with a shining tile, 
 
 Decked and plumed in the latest style, 
 
 With buttons and trappings and gloves complete. 
 
 And Marah, out for a drive, alone, 
 
 Turned her head as I sought to pass, 
 
 And bowed and smiled through the carriage glass. 
 
 And I, possessed by a sudden pique, 
 With scornful lips and colorless cheek, 
 
 123 
 
Met her eyes with a haughty gaze 
 That set her imperious face ablaze, 
 Stood aside for her dapple grays, 
 Lowered mine own and would not speak. 
 
 Purse-proud spurner of honest worth, 
 Waste no trumpery smiles on me ; 
 
 Though thou wert heiress to half the earth, 
 I would scorn to be mated with thee. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 The church door standing an inch ajar, 
 
 Tempts mine eye 
 
 As I wander by, 
 And pushing aside the oaken bar, 
 I enter and sit in a lonely pew. 
 And here in the calm of this holy place 
 The light shines full on my troubled face ; 
 As if an angel had led me in 
 To shrive my soul of its selfish sin 
 And sweep and garnish my life anew. 
 
 A wavering melody, plaintive and soft, 
 Floating down from the organ-loft, 
 Rebukes my thought with its theme of peace ; 
 And I watch the organist, sitting alone, 
 Gravely bending his head to play, 
 Till I vaguely wish that the tones would cease, 
 124 
 
And I bow my head with a smothered moan 
 And move my lips and cannot pray. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Where shall I turn for solace and aid ? 
 
 To the popular shrine of a modern lust ; 
 With men bowed down to the Molech of trade, 
 
 And charity broken and trailed in the dust ? 
 
 To grapple with God, like Jacob of old, 
 And wrest a blessing at dawn of light ? 
 
 Baffled and blinded I cannot lay hold ; 
 
 The Angel hath mocked me and passed in the 
 night. 
 
 Mystery, theory, sophistry, cant ; 
 
 Ignorance sowing a pestilent seed 
 That Faith may nurture a poisonous plant 
 
 And ripen the fruit of a narrow creed. 
 
 Sect against sect with tooth and claw, 
 Red with the passion of zealous heat ; 
 
 Preaching the letter of Christian law 
 
 And trampling the spirit under their feet. 
 
 Building a babel of sounding terms 
 
 That bigoted pride may climb to the skies ; 
 
 Stirring a nest of noxious worms, 
 
 Loosing a swarm of mischievous flies. 
 125 
 
Orthodox, heterodox, choose who can, 
 
 With churchmen shouting their tenets aloud ; 
 
 Feeding the dogma and starving the man, 
 To capture the ears of a clamorous crowd. 
 
 Faith against science, war to the knife, 
 
 If God be God, or Baal be Baal ; 
 Truth against error, a life for a life, 
 
 Pantheist, Polytheist, which shall prevail ? 
 
 Gnostic, armed with a knowledge complete, 
 Thumbing the Universe, page by page ; 
 
 Skeptic, blatant with gross conceit, 
 
 Crying down prophet and seer and sage. 
 
 Romanist, Calvinist, Fatalist, all 
 
 Claiming the secret essence of light ; 
 
 Juggling the truth like a fakir's ball, 
 
 Fixing the standard of right with might. 
 
 Atheist, lifting no voice on high, 
 
 Stretching no faltering hands to God ; 
 
 To live, to love, to hope, to die, 
 
 And mingle with nature beneath the sod. 
 
 Dreariest thought that mind can frame. 
 
 Shall God be thwarted and balked in his might, 
 That he should fashion a living flame 
 
 To see it quenched in eternal night ? 
 126 
 
XXXVIII. 
 
 Nay, in my heart a growing hope hath sway 
 That struggling faith shall not be overthrown, 
 Nor groping truth be left to walk alone ; 
 
 That somewhere darkness mergeth into day. 
 
 Strength ! strength ! that I may kiss the smiting rod ; 
 
 On bended knee receive the chastening ; 
 
 With patience bear whate'er the years may bring, 
 And through it all still keep my faith in God. 
 ****** 
 Once more, through all the channels of the spring, 
 
 The genial streams of life have made their way ; 
 With generous currents stirred each barren thing 
 
 To put aside its sorrow and be gay. 
 
 Once more, with princely air and lavish hand 
 The liberal season hath bestowed its dower ; 
 
 With bursting plenitude bedecked the land 
 In ample robes of leaf and bud and flower. 
 
 And so from death life builds her secret cells, 
 And out of sorrow faith constructs a hope ; 
 
 From dead bereavement living purpose swells, 
 Unfolding nobler motive, wider scope. 
 
 With broader vision these unfaithful eyes 
 Are taught to look beyond the cross, and see 
 
 Through falling tears, the waiting crown that lies 
 So darkly veiled in dim futurity. 
 127 
 
Through all my being flows the gracious tide 
 Of simple faith until my life is full ; 
 
 By stern affliction tried and purified, 
 And in my breast a peace ineffable. 
 
 My spirit rests in one abiding thought, 
 
 That He who planned in wisdom, will but send 
 
 The means by which perfection may be wrought, 
 And every wrong be righted in the end. 
 
 128 
 
j i