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 PRESENTED BY 
 
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The Double Night 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By MORRISON HEADY. 
 
 V» 
 
 J 9 > 
 COURIER-JOURNAL JOB PRINTING CO. 
 
 Louisville, Ky. 
 
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 ;r ?rsbn). 
 
 24^7)2 
 
DEDICATION, 
 
 I dedicate this 'volume to three classes of its readers — to those 
 <Tvho shall read it once, to see Tvhat is in it; to those ivho shall read 
 it t^ce, to make sure they ha've seen Tvhat is in it; and to those 
 Tvho shall read it many times, still trusting to see more in it than 
 they may ha've seen already, and shall be sufficiently pleased to 
 pursue the quest. The first class shall ha've my good <v}ill; the 
 second, my gratitude; the third, my lo've, for such, being earnest 
 to find my best thoughts, must needs 'win my best lo've, and, <with 
 the finding and the "winning, find and <win my heart of hearts, — 
 their shrine forever. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The poems of Morrison Heady possess an almost 
 unique interest. They are the work of a man, who, 
 bhnd and deaf, has cultivated the muse in the gloom 
 of a *' Double Night" ; the work of a patient, cheer- 
 ful, undaunted thinker, who, amidst darkness, has 
 seen with the "inward eye"; amidst silence has 
 heard with the *'inv/ard ear." Isolated thus on the 
 very threshold of life, Mr. Heady has, notwithstand- 
 ing, maintained the keenest interest in literature, 
 science and affairs. He has led a singularly active 
 and rational life. He has studied closely, affec- 
 tionately, the books accessible to him ; he has devel- 
 oped remarkable manual skill, perfecting several 
 contrivances adapted to the use of the blind ; he has 
 kept in close touch with a large circle of friends, and, 
 with rare sagacity and good fortune, succeeded in 
 retaining his own youthful freshness of spirit by 
 attaching to himself many of the ** rising generation." 
 
 Morrison Heady was born in 1829, in Spencer 
 county, Kentucky, where he has spent most of his 
 life. He met, in childhood and youth, with several 
 serious accidents, resulting in total blindness at six- 
 
Vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 teen, and in gradually increasing deafness, becoming 
 complete at forty. From that time he could be com- 
 municated with only by means of a glove, upon which 
 were printed the letters of the alphabet. At fifty an 
 operation restored a bare gleam of vision, enabling 
 him to find his way by dayHght. 
 
 Before his blindness he had received the bare 
 rudiments of an English education in the country 
 schools of that day. Later he spent a year at the 
 Kentucky Institute for the Blind, and fourteen 
 months at the Ohio Institute, leaving the latter when 
 about twenty years of age. Meanwhile he had 
 applied himself earnestly to the study of music. His 
 mental activity seems to have been stimulated by his 
 deprivations. He read eagerly everything printed in 
 raised type, and, until he lost his hearing, extended 
 his knowledge of books with the aid of friends who 
 enjoyed reading aloud to him. 
 
 Of the poems in this volume, most were written 
 after Mr. Heady 's fortieth year. I have said they 
 are almost unique in interest ; nor do I use this term 
 simply because their author is blind and deaf. They 
 contain one of the most elaborate experiments in 
 hexameter yet made by an English poet, and that, 
 too, by an English poet entirely ignorant of the 
 classic models. The grammarian, Noble Butler, 
 once congratulated Mr. Heady on this fact, on the 
 ground that a knowledge of Homeric and Virgilian 
 hexameter could not but impede an English poet. 
 Whether fortunate or unfortunate in this respect, Mr. 
 
INTRODUCTION. vil 
 
 Heady may have done something toward setthng the 
 question of the possibility of the verse in Enghsh. 
 When he began his experiments with it he was under 
 the influence of Longfellow ; but he soon perceived 
 that Longfellow could not be his guide, and struck 
 out boldly for himself. He discarded wholly the idea 
 of quantity, and based his line on accent and syllabic, 
 number. In a few places he has even ventured on a 
 decided innovation in the shape of a foot of one sylla- 
 ble — a strong monosyllabic word, followed by a 
 marked pause, as in the latter of the two following 
 lines : 
 
 *• Hymnings Immortal, to which the numberless hearts of the living 
 Throb, throb throb, and measure the music forever." 
 
 Besides the present volume, Mr. Heady has 
 pubhshed " Burl," a vigorous story of pioneer life in 
 Kentucky, which will be re-issued if the demand for 
 another edition prove sufficiently strong. He is the 
 author, also, of "The Farmer Boy," a life of Wash- 
 ington, widely circulated thirty years ago ; and has 
 written several unpublished stories for children. It 
 seems to me well worth while, in these days, to bring 
 into notice a life thus spent. The spectacle of a 
 strong man, shut off by tragic mischance from 
 almost every path of usefulness, accepting his grim 
 fate with buoyant good humor, and triumphing over 
 darkness and loneliness — such a spectacle is, I say, 
 both rare and inspiring. There is no note of despair 
 
viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in his verse ; no trace of disappointment in his bear- 
 ing. I think of him when I read that noble sonnet 
 of Marston's: 
 
 " Sharp was the bread of my soul's nourishing 
 Which fate allowed, and bitter was the spring 
 Of which I drank and maddened, even as they 
 Who, wild with thirst at sea, will not delay, 
 But drink the brine and die of its sharp sting. 
 Not gentle was my war with chance ; and yet 
 I borrowed no man's sword ; alone I drew 
 And gave my slain fit burial out of view. 
 In secret places I and sorrow met. 
 So, when you count my sins, do not forget 
 To say I taxed not any one of you." 
 
 Abraham Flexner. 
 Louisville, December 21, 1900. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Thr Double Night : Page 
 
 I. Darkness 1 
 
 II. Silence 5 
 
 III. To the Shades 7 
 
 IV. Resignation 10 
 
 Psyche in the Seasons : 
 
 A Spring- Mornings 13 
 
 A Summer Noon 15 
 
 An Autumn Evening- 17 
 
 A Winter Night 19 
 
 Death of a Rose 2:i 
 
 Twice in Fancy 26 
 
 Cecile 30 
 
 Prelude to My Dream of Beethoven : 
 
 Dedication 31 
 
 Prelude 32 
 
 De Profundis : 
 
 Prelude 36 
 
 Immortality 38 
 
 Retribution 46 
 
 Interlude 52 
 
 ix 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 De Profundis — Continued. Page 
 
 God's Radius Vector 5H 
 
 Humanity and Evil, One 00 
 
 Coda 66 
 
 Fragments from an Unfinished Poem : 
 Part L 
 
 The Years Unveiled 69 
 
 The Fairy 73 
 
 Enchantress 75 
 
 The Goddess 77 
 
 The Ang-el 81 
 
 Part 11. The Ages. 
 
 Mirag-e 85 
 
 Beneath the Setting- Sun 90 
 
 Beneath the Stars 102 
 
 Cecilia, a Romance of Music and Love : 
 Part I. Allegro. 
 
 Prelude 116 
 
 Days Before the Day 120 
 
 Morning- of the Day 124 
 
 Evening of the Day 141 
 
 Night of the Day 163 
 
 The Crown of Martyrdom, a Legend of St. 
 
 Cecilia 167 
 
 Morning After the Day 189 
 
 The Midsummer-night's Dream (Annette to 
 Clarence) 204 
 
CONTENTS. Xi 
 
 Page 
 Cecilia, a Romance of Music and Love. — C-ontinued. 
 
 Part 11. Aihujio. 
 
 Interlude 215 
 
 Clarence to Cecilia 217 
 
 Silence and Music 225 
 
 The Vanisher 233 
 
 Thousand Isles 253 
 
 Self-Phantomed 263 
 
 Cecilia to Clarence 269 
 
 The Miniature 277 
 
 The Vision 283 
 
 Coda 295 
 
 Note 297 
 
 Indian Summer 302 
 
 The Invisible Mornin"- 307 
 
The double night, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 THE DOUBLE NIGHT. 
 
 TO THE SHADES OF MILTON AND BEETHOVEN. 
 
 I. 
 
 ]V\RKNESS. 
 
 There is a harp that once with dirges thrilled, 
 
 But now hangs hushed in leaden slumbers, 
 Save when the hand by grief untimely chilled, 
 
 Steals o'er its chords in faltering numbers. 
 It hangs in halls where shades of sorrow dwell, 
 Where echoless silence tolls the passing bell. 
 Where shadowless darkness weaves the shrouding 
 spell 
 
 Of dead delights and long-gone years. 
 Go bring it me, sweet friend, whoe'er thou art — 
 The sweeter still, if blithe — and ere we part, 
 A tale I'll weave, so sad 'twill wring thy heart 
 
 Of all its pity, all its tears. 
 
2 THE DOUBLE NIGHTo 
 
 As filful shadows round me gather fast, 
 
 And solemn watch my thoughts are holding, 
 Comes Memory, Panoramlst of the Past, 
 
 The rising morn of life unfolding. 
 Now fade from view all living toil and strife, 
 Time past is now my present ; death, my life ; 
 
 All that exists is obsolete ; 
 While o'er my soul there steals the pensive glow 
 Of sainted joys that young years only know, 
 And past scenes, looming dimly, rise and throw 
 
 Their lengthening shadows at my feet. 
 
 I see a morn, domed in by pictured skies. 
 And spread with blossoms of a thousand dyes; 
 
 The dew is on Its budding pleasures. 
 The gladsome early sunlight on it lies. 
 And to it from this dark my pent soul flies 
 
 As misers nightly to their treasures. 
 
 Another day. In sable vesture clad, 
 
 AH drear with newborn pleasures blighted. 
 Comes blindly groping through the twilight sad, 
 
 Like one in moonless mists benighted. 
 Oh, day unhappy, could oblivion roll 
 Its slumberous billows o'er my shrinking soul, 
 
 Scarce could I thee e'en then forget, 
 For life, bereft of light, no memory needs 
 To tell of night that ne'er to morning leads, 
 
 Of day that Is forever set. 
 
THE DOUBLE NIGHTo 3 
 
 From yonder sky the noonward sun was torn 
 
 Ere day-dawn's rosy hues had banished, 
 As starless midnight blotted out the morn 
 
 Ere childhood's dewy joys had vanished. 
 No slow-paced twilight ushered in the night ; 
 A spangled web, the heavens were swept from sight ; 
 
 The full moon fled and never waned; 
 And all of earth that's beautiful and fair 
 Became as shadows in the empty air — 
 
 A boundless, blackened blank remained ! 
 
 I heard the gates of night, with sullen jar, 
 
 Close on the cheerful day forever. 
 Hope from my sky sank like the Evening-star, 
 
 Which finds in darkness, zenith never: 
 Scarce could she more, where night held boundless 
 
 swa)', 
 Than through departed, vouch returning day 
 
 And shapes of beauty, grace and bloom, 
 And fair-formed joys that once around me danced 
 Bewildered grew where sunbeams never glanced, 
 
 And lost their way in that wide gloom. 
 
 Pensylla, many and fair have been the }'ears 
 Since last the starred expanse of heaven, 
 
 The sweet ascent of morn through smiles and tears, 
 The soft descent of pensive even. 
 
 Or sight of hill and plain, in green arrayed, 
 
4 THE DOUBLE NIGHT. 
 
 Vernal resplendence, or autumnal shade. 
 Or winter's sheen or summer's blaze, 
 
 Or those fair works that trophy man's abode, 
 
 Or him oft called the image of his God, 
 
 Shone on my rapt and wondering gaze. 
 
 Look, gentle guide ! thou seest the imperial sun 
 
 Forth sending far his ambient glory, 
 O'er laughing fields and frowning highlands dun, 
 
 O'er glancing streams and woodlands hoary. 
 In orient clouds he steeps his amber hair; 
 With beams far slanting through the flaming air, 
 Bids earth, with all her hymning sound, declare 
 
 The praise of everlasting light. 
 On my bared head I feel his pitying ray ; 
 He loves to shine on my benighted way ; 
 But, ah, Pensylla ! me he brings no day. 
 
 Nor yet his setting, deeper nigHt. 
 
 Prime gift of God, that veil'st His sovereign throne, 
 
 And dost of Him in sense remind me. 
 Blest light of heaven, why hast thou from me flown? 
 
 To these sad shades, why hast resigned me ? 
 On pinions of surpassing beauty borne, 
 When nature hails the glad advance of morn, 
 
 In thine unsullied loveliness 
 Thou comest, but to my darkened eyes in vain ; 
 My night, e'en in the noon of thy domain, 
 Yields not to thee, since joy of thine again 
 
 Can ne'er my dayless being bless. 
 
THE DOUBLE NIGHT. 5 
 
 II. 
 SILENCE. 
 
 Next, Silence, fit companion of the Night, 
 
 In depths more lone my being steeping. 
 Like the felt presence of an unseen sprite, 
 
 With muffled tread, comes creeping, creeping. 
 Before me close her smothering curtain swings, 
 And o'er my life a cumbering shadow flings, 
 
 Sinking with pitiless weight, and slow. 
 To shroud the last sweet glimpse of Earth and Man, 
 And set my limits to the narrow span 
 
 Of but an arm's length here below. 
 
 Oh, whither shall I fly, this stroke to shun ? 
 
 Where turn me, this side death and heaven? 
 Almost I would my course on earth were run, 
 
 And all to Night and vSilence given ! 
 I turn to man : can he but wnth me mourn ? 
 Alike we're helpless, and, as sea-waifs borne, 
 
 We to a common haven float. 
 To Him, th' All-seeing and All-hearing One, 
 Behold, I turn ! More hid than He there's none, 
 
 More silent none, none more remote ! 
 
 Alas ! Pensylla, stay that gentle tear ! 
 Now nearer come, I fain thy voice would hear — 
 Like music when the soul is dreaming. 
 
6 THE DOUBLE NIGHT. 
 
 Like music dropping from a far-off sphere, 
 Heard by the good, when Hfe's end draweth near, 
 
 It faintly comes, a spirit's seeming. 
 The sounds that once entranced me, ear and soul — 
 The voice of winds and waves, the thunder's roll, 
 
 The steed's proud neigh, and lamb's meek plaint, 
 The hum of bees, the vesper hymn of birds. 
 The rural harmony of flocks and herds, 
 The song of joy, or praise, and man's sweet words, 
 
 Come to me fainter, yet more faint. 
 
 Was my poor soul to God's great works so dull 
 
 That they from her must hide forever ? 
 Earth too replete with joy, too beautiful 
 
 For me, ingrate, that we must sever? 
 By blossom-scented airs that round mc blow, 
 By transient showers, the sun's impassioned glow, 
 And smell of woods and fields, alone I know 
 
 Of spring's approach, and summer's bloom ; 
 And by the air, with frost-nipped foliage sweet, 
 By noontide beams, low-slanting, scant of heat, 
 By icy winds, encumbering snow, and sleet, 
 
 Of autumn's blight, and winter's gloom. 
 
 As at the entrance of an untrod cave, 
 
 I shrink — so hushed the shades, and somber. 
 
 This death of sense makes life a breathing grave, 
 A vital death, a waking slumber ! 
 
 'Tis as the lieht itself of God were fled 
 
THE DOUBLE NIGHT. 
 
 And things of lite took shadow from the dead, 
 
 Nor hope of change, one ray I find ! 
 Yet must submit, though fled fore'er the light. 
 Though utter silence bring me double night, 
 
 Though to my insulated mind. 
 Her richest pages knowledge ne'er unfold, 
 And human face I ne'er again behold 
 
 Yet must submit, must be resigned ! 
 
 III. 
 
 TO THE SHADES. 
 
 To thee, blind Milton, solemn son of night, 
 Great exiled one from day's dominion bright, 
 
 Whose genius, steeped in truth and glory, 
 Like some wide orb of new-created light, 
 Rose on the world, bewildering mortal's sight, 
 
 I'll sing, till earth's young hills grow hoary ! 
 For what of joy I've found in life's dark way, 
 And what of excellence attain I may, 
 
 Some part is due thy wondrous rhyme, 
 Which sang the triumphs of Eternal Truth, 
 Revealed blest glimpses of immortal youth, 
 
 Of Heaven, ere angels sang of time, 
 Of light that o'er the embryon tumult broke, 
 Of earth, when mid the sinking stars she woke, 
 Till man, as if from heaven a seraph spoke, 
 
 Entranced, hung on thy strains sublime. 
 
8 THE DOUBLE NIGHT. 
 
 Day shuts on earth his one all-piercing eye, 
 
 That Night, her azure lids unsealing, 
 May ope her thousand in a loftier sky, 
 
 God's higher mysteries revealing. 
 Thus, when thy day from thee its light withdrew, 
 And o'er thee night its rueful shadows threw, 
 
 And ** from the cheerful ways of men " 
 Thou wert cut off, thy mind, thick set with eyes. 
 As night with stars, pierced thy enshrouded skies. 
 
 And proving most illumined then, 
 When darkest seeming, soared on star-eyed wings 
 Higher than night, to see and tell of things 
 
 Invisible to mortal ken. 
 
 O'er earth thy numbers shall not cease to roll 
 
 Till man, to live, who to them hearkened ; 
 Thy fame, no less immortal than thy soul. 
 
 Shall shine when yon proud sun is darkened. 
 Thee now, methinks, I see, O bard divine ! 
 Where ripen no fair joys that are not thine, 
 And God's full love is pleased on thee to shine, 
 
 Still by the sacred Muses fired. 
 And starred among the angelic minstrel band, 
 The epic lyre thou sway'st with sovereign hand, 
 While seraphs, e'en enraptured round thee stand 
 
 As one, like them, by God inspired. 
 
 Sublime Beethoven, wizard king of sound, 
 Once exiled from thy realm, but not discrowned, 
 E'en now my soul, in memory thrilling, 
 
THE DOUBLE NIGHT. 9 
 
 By thy surpassing strains, is oft spellbound, 
 As through the hush of years they still resound, 
 
 With music weird my spent ear filling, 
 When Silence clasped thee in her dismal spell. 
 And earth-born Music sang her sad farewell. 
 
 Thy mighty genius, as in scorn, 
 Arose in silent majesty to dwell, 
 Where from symphonic spheres thou heardst to swell, 
 
 As on celestial breezes borne, 
 Sounds heard by mortals only in their dreams, 
 Which, at thy bidding, wrought a thousand themes, 
 And, pouring down in rich, pellucid streams, 
 
 Filled organ grand and resonant horn ; 
 With rarest sweetness touched each dulcet string. 
 Made martial bugle and bold clarion ring. 
 Soft flute provoked, like the lone bird of spring, 
 
 Fo warble lays of love forlorn ; 
 Woke shrilly reed to many a pastoral note, 
 Thrilled witching lyre, and lips melodious smote. 
 Till earth, in tuneful ether, seemed to float, 
 
 As when first sang the stars of morn ! 
 Till wondering angels were entranced to chime, 
 With harp and choral tongue, thy strain sublime. 
 And bear thy soul beyond the reach of time, 
 
 Heaven^s halls harmonious to adorn. 
 
 Ah me! could I through '' drop serene" thus scan 
 Celestial things, else hid from mortal man, 
 I'd deem this night a day supernal ! 
 
10 THE DOUBLE NIGHT. 
 
 Could music breathed from some far singing sphere, 
 Float nightly down, and thrill my stricken ear, 
 I'd pray this hush might be eternal! 
 
 IV. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 Pensylla, look! with tremulous points of fire, 
 The sun, red-sinking, lights yon distant spire ; 
 
 O'er upland woods and lowland meadows 
 Spread, wide and level, his departing beams; 
 Then sinks to rest, as one sure of sweet dreams, 
 
 'Mid pillowing clouds and curtaining shadows. 
 Night draws her lucid shade o'er sky and earth ; 
 The twinkling centers of unknown days gleam forth. 
 The evening hymn of praise and song of mirth 
 
 Rise gratefully from man's abode. 
 Oh Night ! I love her somber majesty ! 
 'Tis sweet, her double solitude to me ! 
 Pensylla, leave me now! alone I'd be 
 
 With Darkness, Silence, and my God. 
 
 O Thou, whose shadow is but light's excess, 
 Whose presence nearest bides in silentness. 
 
 Whose love and goodness, half expended. 
 Shall yet all creatures infinitely bless, 
 And make, as never had been, all distress ! 
 
 Till this mortality is ended, 
 
THE doublp: night. 11 
 
 Oh, give me faith still ever to discern 
 
 Where we for strength, in weal or woe, should turn, 
 
 And our chief hopes be still enshrined ! 
 To one, for whom thy lamps now burn in vain, 
 Thine ear vouchsafe, and gracious hearing deign 
 
 The pleadings of a prisoned mind ! 
 Father, thy sun is set ; night veils the world, 
 That orbs more beauteous be to Man unfurled. 
 
 Then in my night, let me but find 
 New realms, where thought and fancy may rejoice ; 
 Let its long silence ne'er displace thy voice 
 From whispering hope and peace, and 'twere my 
 choice 
 
 To be thus smitten deaf and blind ! 
 Fill me with light and music from above. 
 And so inspire with truth, faith, courage, love, 
 That riiou and man my life-work may approve — 
 
 Father, to all, I'm then resigned ! 
 
 Harp of the mournful voice, now fare thee well ! 
 My sad song ended, ended is thy spell. 
 
 Perchance thine echoes, memory-haunting, 
 ?vlay oft awaken, shadowing forth the swell 
 Of long-sung monody and long-tolled knell. 
 
 And oe'r the dead past dirges chanting 
 Henceforth for me hang hushed in sorrow's hall ; 
 L-irt Night and Silence spread oblivion's pall 
 O'er earthly-blooming joys, that seared must fall, 
 
 And leave the stricken soul to weep. 
 
12 THE DOUBLE NIGHT- 
 
 For aye, till this devoted head be hoar, 
 And the swart angel whispering at the door ; 
 When I thy slumbers may disturb once more, 
 
 Ere double night bring double sleep. 
 Till then I sing in happier, bolder strains : 
 What's lost to me is God's, as what remains , 
 And He, who in a day all glorious reigns. 
 
 Just reckoning of my night will keep ! 
 
 1 85 3- 1 869-1900. 
 
PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS 
 
 A SPRING MORNING. 
 
 From the bright threshold of her orient towers, 
 The Morn, advancing, strokes with wakening palm 
 The dewy foreliead of the slumbering Earth ; 
 And as she comes, her ruddy steps imprint 
 The peaked clouds, as if the beautiful feet 
 Of them that bring glad tidings were abroad 
 On those ethereal mountains. Awake ! come forth, 
 My fair one ; let us hence to greet her steps 
 Ere from the flowery lap of hazy dell, 
 And breezy wooded top of burnished hill, 
 The sunbright borders of her misty skirts 
 She gather staid about her and withdraw. 
 In waning beauty, from the earth. See, lady, 
 With rosy, beckoning hand, and nods that send • 
 Her locks ambrosial flowing on the winds, 
 She bids us come, and in these prismed dews 
 Let fall by night in silent benediction, 
 Behold her how she multiplies her smiles 
 Of greeting, bright with pledges of the joys 
 Dispensed to all that court her earliest beams. 
 
 Blithe is her light, that, from the starred expanse 
 Of ether's serene ocean, wells and floods 
 With amber billows half our **sphery isle." 
 13 
 
14 PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS. 
 
 And sweet her breath, whether from humid depths 
 Of waving shade it comes, or grain fields glad 
 With waving sunshine, or from garden bowers 
 Or vines inwoven with enamehng bloom. 
 
 And pleasant is the voice of morn, fair lady, 
 Which, into many a rural descant wrought, 
 And cadence long drawn out, thou canst not choose 
 But hear delighted in the l}'ric streams 
 That leap hilarious from the jubilant hills, 
 And minstrel winds that sweep with whirring hands 
 Th' aeolian boughs of resonant groves, and sway 
 Them into airy bars of harmony ; 
 In the brisk clarion of her herald bird 
 And cheery hum of busy, foraging bee ; 
 In schoolboy's whistle, keen and brave, and scng 
 Of ploughman, wafting o'er the rustling m.aize. 
 But more delighted thou shalt be if once 
 Thou hear it in the sylvan matin song 
 Of all these happy, buxom little birds 
 That whistling, piping, trilling, warbling, cooing. 
 Fill earth and echoing sky, e'en to the gates 
 Of Glory, with melodious joy and praise. 
 
 But sweetest shalt thou find the voice of morn 
 If in the full and blended harmony 
 Of all these sounds thou hear it, and bethink 
 Thee of the deep significance expressed 
 Therein of youth and visionary days ; 
 When life, with painted fantasies o'ervapored, 
 Seems but a voyage across aerial seas ; 
 
PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS. 15 
 
 Whose past's a dream, unbroken by the present, 
 
 And in the future gathering glory still ; 
 
 Whose thoughts and fancies, but the nebulous glow 
 
 Of passions in the soul's immensity; 
 
 Whose hope, a star that scarce hath need to beam 
 
 Where th' everpresent sun of gladness shines. 
 
 A SUMMER NOON. 
 
 The morn is past, Pensylla. Day, in prime, 
 Stands on the summit of his shining arch. 
 With nought distinguishable to outward view 
 T' impersonate his universal presence. 
 Save his one burning eye of living light. 
 
 In fields and bushy wild the birds are mute, 
 The welcoming strains of whose glad minstrelsy 
 Led in the hours of morn, as if her dews 
 Were wanting to attune their feathery pipes. 
 In scattered dots of slowl}/ shifting shade, 
 The flocks and herds, now with cropped herbage 
 
 filled, 
 Composed and ruminating, wait the even. 
 Not in the ruffled crest of verduous hill, 
 Nor dimpled sheen of glassy, sliding stream. 
 Is there betrayal of a single gust. 
 Strayed vagabond. How tremulous the air 
 With heat ; yet to eye and ear how still withal! 
 'Tis midnight's hush, with radiance overlaid. 
 
 And yet 'tis but the calm of conscious power : 
 For Day, as mustering all his virtuous spells. 
 
16 PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS. 
 
 Now holds the earth with steep, magnetic rays, 
 Transfusing through her huge, quiescent frame 
 Perennial vigor, generative warmth ; 
 And to the verdure of her sloping zones 
 Imparting riper hues. The flowers resign 
 Their last sweet moisture to his thirsting beams, 
 In lieu of richer dyes, more solid sweets ; 
 The harvest goldens 'neath his ripening touch, 
 From pale to darker red the berries turn. 
 And o'er the apple's olive cheek there steals 
 A ruddier glow. Yet vanished by no means. 
 Nor shall be, e'en when summer's prime be past, 
 All signs of vernal immaturity ; 
 Seen in these Indian files of tasseling maize, 
 And orchards hung with crude, unsavory green. 
 Which autumn, mellowing evening of the year, 
 With tempering frost, to yellow ripeness brings, 
 To purple sweets, and red deliciousness. 
 
 The rythmic pause of life is past, 
 And slowly towards the springing goal of day 
 The hills and trees their dial shadows turn. 
 Now drives the farmer cheerily a-field 
 His lumbering reaper, whose revolving reel 
 With slow, successive stroke, bends the tall grain. 
 Compliant to the jagged sickle-edge 
 Of the fast cutting, level knife that strews 
 The smooth-shorn field with sheaves of unbound 
 Sfold. 
 
PSYCHE IN THE S:^ASONS. 17 
 
 A busy, blithesome tune this reaper sings, 
 As close at hand it rolls along the field, 
 With nicest cunning, clipping the yellow skirts 
 Of Ceres, as it goes. Receding now, 
 Its softened clamor, like the hum of bees 
 Cheerily down the stubbly vista comes. 
 Now hid from view behind the shaven crown 
 Of yonder low-browed hill, its muffled din, 
 Like some far watery roar, heard through the 
 
 depths 
 Of drowsy woods, provokes the listening ear 
 To listen still, and yet, and yet again ; 
 Till silence, for a space, holds all the air. 
 But scarce the echoes from their leafy perch 
 Have ceased their quavering hubbub, when, once 
 
 more, 
 Obstreperous, round yon bearded knoll it comes, 
 And with it, what dehghts the listener most, 
 Heart-easing laughter, shout, and brisk hurrah, 
 And labor-cheering song, which tell the praise 
 To bounteous Nature, inly sung, while Day 
 And Harvest, hand in hand, together wane. 
 
 AN AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 And now the mellowing hours bring on the Eve, 
 My fair one. Pensive, on the quiet scene. 
 Her lengthening shadows lie, of woods and hills. 
 And wreathing smoke betokening homely cheer. 
 2 
 
18 PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS. 
 
 From shedded hayricks and broad-breasted stacks, 
 From stubble dun, and meadows shorn, yet green 
 Again, and smell of lingering flowers that tell 
 Where Summer's golden sandals last were seen, 
 Comes what, immingled, seems the memory sweet 
 Of incense breathed at morn, now purer grown 
 By passage through the filtering fire of Noon. 
 From vocal streams, whose liquid choruses 
 Meet Silence midway in her soft descent ; 
 From choral winds that fill with whispered hymns 
 The mossy isles of leafy-vaulted woods, 
 And birds that poured their warbled ecstacies 
 O'er the bright edge of Day's decline, and song 
 Of jocund laborers homeward wending come 
 What seem sweet echoes of the voice of morn, 
 Heard through the interflow of noontide air. 
 Such anthems, Eve, in sign of worship sings ; 
 Such incense breathes, in sign of thankfulness. 
 
 Pure is her light that erst, as orient light. 
 From ether's serene ocean welled, and now, 
 Returning, pours its ebbing, golden floods 
 Sheer down the sloped sides of our floating isle, 
 And leaves it, drifting huge, among the stars, 
 A world of shades, the parted waves of ether, 
 In sphery music, closing from behind. 
 
 And now, a vision of ineffable beauty, 
 I see her, hovering o'er the glittering hills 
 
PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS. 19 
 
 The angel of the Day, sweet, solemn Eve ; 
 
 Her shadowy locks far waving, dropping dews 
 
 T' impearl the radiant forehead of her sister, Morn ; 
 
 Gemmed with the crescent Mocn her brow benign ; 
 
 Her stilly feet, with slumberons sandals winged ; 
 
 The floating volumes of her lucid stole. 
 
 Star-girt, and verged with shimmering light; her 
 
 hands 
 In benediction o'er the earth outstretched ; 
 All glistening her serene and fathomless eyes 
 With ravishing glimpses of Elysian fields ; 
 All musical, yet silent too, her lips 
 Ethereal, with the words once dropped from 
 
 heaven. 
 Whose echoes still in airs terrestrial live. 
 Sleep, sleep! " He giveth Mis beloved sleep." 
 
 A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 Night, as in rigid trance, now holds the Earth, 
 As pulseless as if Death, that mightier shade, 
 With icy wand, had smote her teeming forms 
 Of life and beauty, erst displayed in verdure, bloom. 
 And crowning fruit, and withering, without ruth, 
 Had left the memory only, or the hope. 
 And yet 'tis but a pause in Nature's pulse, 
 Where life lives on, unseen, unfelt, unheard. 
 As in the pauses of a symphony, 
 Unuttered music fills the listening soul. 
 
20 PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS. 
 
 And what is Night but Earth's own shadow, cast 
 In ether, by the Sun, that she may see, 
 If pure her airs, the heavens wherein she moves, 
 Erst hidden by the blue opaque of Day. 
 Another deep significance, hath night. 
 Around, far-ranging, sweeps her slender cone. 
 Which, like an index, traversing the heavens 
 And star by star, forever telling time, 
 Points, without ceasing, towards th' eternal noon. 
 While ring out all the midnight bells of Earth, 
 One after one, and chime the double hour. 
 
 And Death, the shadow on the brow of Fate, 
 The ambushed terror, ever lurking near — 
 Death may be but the winter of the Soul, 
 Wherein her germs of immortality 
 May gather strength and beauty for the Spring, 
 Which endeth not, e'en in the endless Summer. 
 O'er all the forms of matter hath he power, 
 That life may but be multiplied the more ; 
 But o'er the essence, or their elements, 
 He power hath none, for these, instinct with life 
 Imperishable, make Nature what she is, 
 Fit body to report to human sense. 
 The life of life, in proof whereof behold 
 The vernal resurrection of the flowers, 
 The autumnal ripening of unfailing fruits. 
 Which lend their forms, that from their elements 
 May spring the highest life, displayed in thought. 
 Sensation, motion — Man, the microcosm ! 
 
PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS. 21 
 
 Then Death is change; change, hfe ; and life and 
 
 change 
 And Death are one, and God the Hfe of all. 
 
 Darker and darker sink the shades of Earth ! 
 Brighter and brighter rise the lights of Heaven ! 
 O blest, subhme Apocalypse of Night, 
 That doth unfold in higher, wider view 
 Than Day the wonders of his brighter sphere, 
 New wonders, to attest how Wisdom, Love, 
 And Power Divine still manifest themselves 
 Beyond what we call destiny and time ! 
 Blest assurance that in the Universe 
 There's nothing lost, though lost to human ken ; 
 And that for immortality's full growth 
 There is of opportunity no end 
 Of uses and incentives and deliglits, 
 And hospitable worlds — no end, no end ' 
 
 Eternity, Pensylla, then, is ours, 
 Wherein to find more goodly grown what we 
 Amidst the shadows of this dim sojourn 
 Have lost or missed, of love or joy or beauty, 
 By fate, to opportunity adverse. 
 Or wise withholding of Divine Dispensing. 
 In sign whereof, see, on her ebon tower, 
 Which marks her eastern goal, Night hangs her 
 
 orb, 
 Clear beaming, as th' Apostle's shield of faith, 
 In that on its responsive disc is seen 
 
PSYCHE IN THE SEASONS. 
 
 The reflex glory of the Sun, unseen, 
 
 Which else to earthly view might seem as lost. 
 
 Nor in the realms of air alone is all 
 This glory spent : the snowy plains of earth, 
 Her frosty woods and hoary-headed hills, 
 Her frozen lakes and icy-crystal streams, 
 GHnt a wan, solemn splendor, like the smile 
 That sometimes after Death has fixed his seal. 
 Comes o'er the faces of the sainted dead, 
 As if the disembodied spirit, poised 
 On viewless wings, were lingering near to cast 
 Ere final parting, on the friend forsaken 
 Some faint beam, the pledge of light beyond. 
 Wherein all mortal soil is purged away, 
 And immortality's, pure robe put on. 
 ■ Then, to the spirit's perception unsuffused, 
 Death, the portentous phantom that appalls 
 The carnal sense of them who only see 
 The shadow cast and not the light obscured, 
 Is- but an usher at the vestibule 
 Of real life, opening its lucid ports 
 Scarce more than to admit the disenthralled, 
 Lest mortals, spying the radiant heights beyond, 
 Grow weary of this dusky vale, and hence. 
 Perforce, betake them ere his summons come. 
 1862-1869-1900. 
 
DEATH OF A ROSE. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY IN THE FIRST BLOOM OF 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 As I walked forth, one soft May morn, 
 
 I spied, embowered 'mid leaflets green, 
 All bright with dews, in starlight born, 
 
 Which lent her face a gladsome sheen — 
 A rose most beautiful. 
 Her fair form, steeped in lucid light, 
 
 Stood bending to the kissing gale. 
 Who lingered on his changeful flight, 
 
 To woo, with many an amorous tale, 
 The rose so beautiful. 
 
 Anon, I spied, one summer night, 
 
 The rose, forlorn, 'mid leaflets sear. 
 Her wan form steeped in pensive light, 
 
 Her pale cheek wet with sorrow's tear — 
 . In blight still beautiful. 
 Her faded charms soon strewed the ground. 
 
 When every gale that tuneful blows, 
 With muffled wings, came whispering round. 
 To sing the requiem of the rose — 
 In death still beautiful. 
 ?3 
 
DEATH OF A ROSE. 
 
 Then forthwith from her beauteous cheek 
 
 She, smihng, shook the hmpid tear, 
 And upward turned her face to speak. 
 In voice of perfume none may hear, 
 Of love unchangeable. 
 Down softly stole an answering beam, 
 
 It slid down through the twilight sad, 
 A.nd lighting, like an angel's dream, 
 
 Brought to the rose the tidings glad 
 Of love unchangeable. 
 
 The gale departed with a moan, 
 
 Yet on his wings her perfume sweet 
 Still lingered, like a silent tone 
 
 Which haunts where shades and echoes meet. 
 In halls of memory ; 
 Where hopes lie dead, though buried never ; 
 
 Where, like the lost lay of a lute. 
 Lives love's last song, though hushed fore'er ; 
 
 For unseen shades and echoes mute 
 » Do dwell in memory. 
 
 Drooping amid her leaflets sear, 
 
 The rose I spied one summer night. 
 
 Her pale cheek bright with sorrow's tear, 
 Her wan form steeped in pensive light ; 
 Still she was beautiful. 
 
 Her blighted charms soon strewed the ground. 
 When every tuneful wind that blows, 
 
DEATH OF A ROSE. 25 
 
 With muffled wings, came whispering round, 
 To sing the requiem of the rose — 
 In death still beautiful. 
 
 A thousand tremulous drops of light, 
 
 Like flaming dew the sky bespent; 
 But hers, of all the train most bright, 
 
 A star-beam from his mansion sent, 
 With joy unspeakable. 
 To bear from earth's ephemeral bowers 
 
 Her perfume soul, so light and free, 
 Up to the spirit-land of flowers. 
 
 Where odors sweet sing audibly 
 Of bliss unspeakable. 
 
 185.3. 
 
TWICE IN I^ ANCY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Her eyes were bright with a fateful Hght 
 
 And sable, as night, her hair ; 
 And gleamed her face with unearthly grace — 
 
 A countenance fearfully fair. 
 
 Her forehead stern was wont to burn 
 With ominous gleams of thought ; 
 
 And the flame of love, known never above, 
 A double obscurity wrought. 
 
 O'er her pale face, in fitful chase, 
 
 Like shadows of clouds o'er snow, 
 
 The dark smiles crept and her cold breath swept 
 All sights from earth but woe. 
 
 Oft, as she dreamed, on her heart there seemed 
 A nightmare's smothering weight, 
 
 And chills of dread her face o'erspread, 
 Like frost on a sculptured fate. 
 
 Round her dark form the omens of storm 
 Seemed ever to hang without breath, 
 
 And her clouds of hair made midnight there, 
 As dusk as the wings of death. 
 2() 
 
TWICE IN FANCY. 27 
 
 In her footsteps grew the cypress and yew, 
 
 All rigid with glittering sleet ; 
 And when she frowned, came night at a bound — 
 
 The sepulchcr yawned at my feet. 
 
 A silvery tongue, yet on it there hung 
 
 Nor hope, nor love, nor ruth ; 
 The frozen tones brought shuddering groans, 
 
 The wrinkles of age to youth. 
 
 They by me passed on a wailing blast, 
 
 Then crept into Memory's Hall, 
 Where, sometimes still, like an ice-hid rill, 
 
 Their tinkiings rise and fall. 
 
 A vision so rife with death in life, 
 
 With sounds so unearthly, drear, 
 Came never, I hope, within the scope 
 
 Of wakeful eye and ear. 
 
 In fancy born, like an arctic morn, 
 
 In fancy, it dusked, Hke even ; 
 It stole away at the break of day — 
 
 A long eclipse of Heaven. 
 
 II. 
 
 Her eyes were bright v^ith Elysian light — 
 And shining, as morning, her hair; 
 
 And beamed her face with celestial grace — 
 A countenance heavenly fair. 
 
28 . TWICE IN FANCY. 
 
 On her brow of snow, with a sun-like glow, 
 Thought's lucidest radiance played ; 
 
 And the light of love, known only above, 
 A heaven around her made. 
 
 On her fair face, in delicate chase, 
 Blithe smiles were wont to play, 
 
 Like sunbeams fleet, that dancing meet 
 On the morning face of day. 
 
 Oft, as she dreamed, a starlight seemed 
 
 On her beauteous face to rest, 
 Which told of a joy, where earthly alloy 
 
 Had passed from the souls of the blest. 
 
 Her ringlets shone, with a light their own, 
 
 The light of immortal youth, 
 Which made her seem with a nimbus to gleam- 
 
 The ideaHzed image of truth. 
 
 In her footsteps grew, all spangled with dew, 
 
 The violet, lily and rose ; 
 And when she smiled, danced day, like a child, 
 
 Sank night to sweeter repose. 
 
 And when she sang, such melody rang. 
 
 As made other melody mute. 
 For each sweet sound such resonance found. 
 
 As dwells in a soul-struck lute. 
 
TWICE IN FANCY. 29 
 
 They passed me by on an angel's sigh, 
 
 Then slept in Memory's Hall, 
 Where, ofttimes still, like a flower-hid rill, 
 
 Their cadences rise and fall. 
 
 A vision so fraught with such music and thought. 
 
 As made all heaven seem near, 
 Could never, I guess, come hither to bless, 
 
 But dreamful eye and ear. 
 
 In fancy born, like an orient morn, 
 
 In fancy it starred, Hke even ; 
 It melted away at the break of day — 
 
 A transient glimpse of Heaven 
 
 1 852-1869-1900. 
 
CFXILE. 
 
 A rose of June, superb and ^ay, 
 Dispensing sweetness all the clay, 
 B'lt deep embowered in thorny spray, 
 Was bright Cecile, my beauty. 
 
 A skylark springing from the green 
 To meet with song the morning sheen, 
 But singing sweetest when unseen, 
 Was blithe Cecile, my warbler. 
 
 A sunbeam from the depths of May, 
 A-flit along my fleckered way, 
 That would not go, nor yet would stay, 
 Was quaint Cecile, my fairy. 
 
 A star auroral to my night, 
 Presageful of a morning bright. 
 But vanishing ere yet 'twas light, 
 Was loved Cecile, my promise. 
 
 A dream that smiled in days of yore, 
 Forever smiled and fled before, 
 Then smiled in waking nevermo;'e. 
 Was lost Cecile, m}^ phantom. 
 
 A memory that comes at even, 
 
 To whisper o'er a promise given. 
 
 Whose sweet fulfillment waits in heaven. 
 
 Is blest Cecile, my angel. 
 
 1 872- 1 900. 
 
 30 
 
PRELUDE TO MY DREAM OF BEETHOVEN. 
 
 DEDICATED TO B. B. HUNTOON. 
 
 There are such friends, oh, brother mine 1 
 
 As add for aye to auld lang-syne, 
 
 Who stead us far beyond their guess, 
 
 Our second future doubly bless, 
 
 And make our sunset but the morn 
 
 To regions where our souls were born. 
 
 What mean these words thou dream 'st not now 
 
 But well may understand, ere thou 
 
 Hast dwelt in Heaven a hundred years, 
 
 And, in the music of the spheres, 
 
 Heard what it was to take his burden, 
 
 Whose love must prove thine only guerdon. 
 
 1898. 
 
 31 
 
PRELUDE TO MY DREAM OF BEETHOVEN. 
 
 Within the brain's immortal core, 
 
 E'er veiled from waking sight, 
 
 By dreamland's mystic light, 
 
 There is a secret postern door, 
 
 Watclied nightly by that gentle warder, Sleep, 
 
 Who, with enchanter hand, 
 
 Oft turns the golden key, 
 
 When straight that magic land, 
 
 Which none but dreamers see. 
 
 Is spied broad shimmering o'er the starry deep, 
 
 A splendor vast, yet undefined, 
 
 Till, taking shape ere long, 
 
 Its glorious visions throng 
 
 Those unknown chambers of the mind. 
 
 And when the prisoned soul espies 
 
 This postern door ajar. 
 
 Swift as a winged star. 
 
 Forth to that shadow world she hies, 
 
 To stray where soul in waking never strayed, 
 
 Or muse by haunted spring, 
 
 That shun the eye of noon ; 
 
 Or join in fairy rings 
 
 By glimpses of the moon, 
 
 (3r walk familiar with some mighty shade, 
 
 Till all is mist before the eyes. 
 
 And from a splendid dream 
 
 Comes scarce a golden beam 
 
 To gild the halls of memory. 
 
 32 
 
PRELUDE TO MY DREAM OF BEETHOVEN. 33 
 
 But oft the deepest deep is stirred, 
 
 The Innermost awakes, 
 
 When o'er the spirit breaks, 
 
 The music waking car ne'er heard, 
 
 The mysteries of fate are then laid bare ; 
 
 Life, death, immortal being 
 
 Their natural shapes assume ; 
 
 Dread glimpses of th' All-seeing 
 
 Come glimmering through the gloom; 
 
 Worlds unimagined fill the realms of air, 
 
 And words that make e'en angels dumb 
 
 In wondcrous measures chime 
 
 Of destinies sublime, 
 
 Which here begin the life to come. 
 
 And thus it chanced one summer night, 
 
 While slumber held me fast, 
 
 That memories of the past, 
 
 Entwining with vagaries bright, 
 
 The grotesque fabric of a vision wove. 
 
 My narrow room, I dreamed, 
 
 T' immensity outspread, 
 
 And in the void there gleamed 
 
 A wondrous hall instead 
 
 Of myriad columns, like some mythic grove, 
 
 When lighted by the stars at even, 
 
 W'hose Titan ranks, I wist, 
 
 Midway engirt with mist, 
 
 Upheld the dome itself of Heaven. 
 
PRELUDE TO MY DREAM OF BEETHOVEN. 
 
 Then straight a mighty presence filled 
 
 The vast expanse around 
 
 Which, centre nowhere, found 
 
 Save where my inmost being thrilled 
 
 With intimations of a rapture near, 
 
 So vibrant and agleam 
 
 With music and with light, 
 
 That deathlike dusk, 'twould seem, 
 
 Must shroud the dreamer's sight. 
 
 And deathlike hush suffused the dreamer's ear, 
 
 Ere aught so beautiful and sweet 
 
 Might safely be unsealed. 
 
 And to the soul revealed 
 
 That may not yet it's Maker meet. 
 
 That dusk, that hush passed like a swound. 
 
 When gleaming into view, 
 
 All thrilled with music through — 
 
 A scene made up of light and sound — 
 
 Before my soul the wondrous vision rose. 
 
 But, ah ! I must delay 
 
 Till earth-born joy and sorrow 
 
 Shall cease to make to-day 
 
 Th' enslaver of to-morrow. 
 
 The secrets of that vision to disclose. 
 
 Suffice it now, oh, brother mine! 
 
 It told of destiny, 
 
 Which immortality 
 
 May raise from human to divine. 
 
PRELUDE TO MY DREAM OF BEETHOVEN. SCf 
 
 Of life, immortalized by death, 
 
 or laws too godly great 
 
 For man's crude dreams of fate! 
 
 Of hopes, imparadised by faith ; 
 
 Of loves that doubt and tremble nevermore; 
 
 Of joys that ever grow 
 
 More heavenly from earth's sorrows — 
 
 Of days that come and go, 
 
 All dreamless of their morrows; 
 
 Of power and glory, gods themselves adore! 
 
 Then, was it not, oh, brother mine! 
 
 A dream of destiny, 
 
 Which immortality 
 
 Must raise from human to divine? 
 
 18^6-1900. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 Watchman, who long in hope hast walked the walls, 
 The stars perusing with prophetic ken, 
 And mayst behold the signal lights of God 
 Ascending from afar— what of the night ? 
 Canst aught discern betokening day at hand, — 
 Some glimmer of the bright and morning star? 
 Oh, turn thee towards the city of our love, 
 That once beheld the day — still ever towards 
 Jerusalem, and tell us of the night ! 
 
 The night is cloudless as the brow divine ; 
 A fathomless serenity so clear 
 That in ten thousand insulated spheres, 
 Which catch and sparkle back the primal light, 
 The eternal day I see still coming on. 
 And ever still 'tis morning, noon or even, 
 As sense immortal takes the glory in — 
 Glory so broad that could we view it all 
 Earth's shadow in it would to us appear, 
 As man's at noon, on earth's illumined disk. 
 But the blest Day, Day of Immanuel, Day 
 Long hoped, and which, perchance, might be fore- 
 stalled, 
 If speed we forth to meet it — see I not. 
 
 36 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 37 
 
 Yet round my towers, winds of auroral breath, 
 
 All redolent of sunsmit groves and fields, 
 
 Come singing o'er the verges of the east, 
 
 Telling 'tis near. The starry eyes of Heaven 
 
 Whose gliding glances, erring never, led 
 
 The trembling wanderer through the perilous night, 
 
 Their blue lids soon shall close before the Eye 
 
 That closes never, and the moon e'en now 
 
 Bright as the shield of faith, shall cease ere long 
 
 To be the evidence of Light not seen. 
 
 Ye dwellers in a dreaming world, come up ! 
 And look ye towards the city of our love ! 
 Behold ye not the bright and morning star? 
 There imaged shines the everlasting Sun ! 
 Return ! abide in hope ! wait still for Him, 
 Who came from Hades, His garments red with blood ; 
 He came and went, again He came and went; 
 Again shall come His garments white with light, 
 Then goes no more, for cometh then the end! 
 Whence, whither, to w^hat end, how and by whom, 
 His word attests th' immortal word, which finds 
 Immortal echo in the human heart 
 And makes immortal life, immortal bliss! 
 Our Morning Star, He shines, till we to light 
 May grow inured, when God, our Sun, shall shine, 
 Who ne'er hath ceased to shine and shine forever. 
 
38 DE PROrUNDIS. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 There comes a day — it comes but once in years — 
 It comes upon us ever unawares, 
 When, what we are, what were, what shall be, stand 
 In triune link, each conscious of itself, 
 And to the others seeming scarce akin, 
 A company bewildered and aghast ! 
 Here stand we questioning if what we are 
 Implies our future longer than our past. 
 Or with the eternal, co-eternal both, 
 Since must unending, unbeginning be. 
 Beyond our dawnings back we guessing grope 
 To what we were, ere dawnings were at all — 
 A thought yet unexpressed in th' AUwise mind. 
 Beyond our wanings, on we dreaming fly 
 To what we shall be, when we shall be — what; 
 A thought that better ne'er had been expressed, 
 Affirm it — then our Maker we impeach! 
 Deny it — then we justify ourselves! 
 God help us ! one step from our little sphere 
 Of time, and change and circumstance, and straight 
 We plunge into the abyss of being, lost 
 E'en midst the dwarfish shadows we ourselves 
 Are casting in the universal day. 
 And ere unto our finite mysteries 
 We can return, content our own to solve, 
 Solutions of the Infinite we'd dare, 
 Raising the questions creedless faith ignores. 
 But which, just men, with hearts seraphic flamed 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 39 
 
 For truth divine, on bended knees, have asked 
 And turned for answer each to his own creed; 
 Where, although finding not, there still they search 
 And yet again, and still are left enquiring: 
 
 Can all effects flow from the First Great Cause? 
 Could aught that is be other than it is, 
 And Great First Cause not other than it was ? 
 Could aught unwished spring from creative power, 
 Or, sprung not thence, could finite power create? 
 Could human will thwart will divine, and not, 
 From finite cause force infinite effect? 
 If here on earth must good begin or fail, 
 Why then, not here with failure, end who fails? 
 Can evil be ascribed to man, as source. 
 And God, as source of man, stand unimpeached? 
 
 Questions which but inevitably beat 
 Each other back still towards the Great First Cause, 
 But midway checked in reverent fear of wrong. 
 Are stayed for answer and solution, where, 
 In some crude waste, unfilled by omnipresence, 
 Ungovernable by omnipotence, 
 A self-made god of evil, by mischance 
 Inscrutable, a biding place has found 
 And power creative, by self-perversion gained. 
 But creedless faith for love still fondly pleads, 
 Love, but for which, never had life been given, 
 And thus, all reverent, fain would protest! 
 
 In God if all beginnings be, and good, 
 In God and no less good, must be all ends. 
 Since, utter evil, as the great effect, 
 
40 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Some fault would argue in the Great First Cause. 
 
 Lacking the witness of desired effect, 
 
 Cause must lack that from which effect should 
 
 flow. 
 What He creates must be to His delight ; 
 No other end compatible with self, 
 Conjoined with power to do what self would will. 
 To His delight then to the utmost good 
 Of that which He creates, what phase soe'er, 
 In its development it may assume ; 
 Since, to the will and power to do He brings 
 Goodness to prompt and wisdom to direct, 
 Boundless in that, infallible in this ; 
 And to create for less than utmost good 
 Were to abridge His own delight, or will 
 Attest, with less than utmost good content. 
 Or power, unequal, such will to perform — 
 Necessity, not choice, the end of all. 
 Where were the father in God to give thee being. 
 And finding thee a thing He ne'er could bless, 
 The unsought burden doom thee still to bear. 
 To serve, not Him, but some necessity, 
 By Him denounced as barren of all good? 
 Better forever uncreated than 
 Created, be the unblest of God ! and this. 
 Indeed, were to be that which never was. 
 Part of Himself, His life He ne'er could give. 
 Without that other part of Him — His love, 
 Which makes the gift a blessing. Once so given, 
 'Twere glory gained to make more glorious still 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 41 
 
 The gift which should report His praise and show 
 Eternal goodness in the endless good. 
 
 Then in thy gift of immortality, 
 Rejoice, O man ! though infinitely short, 
 Of possible development in good. 
 Thy beauty blemished and thy powers impaired 
 By self, self-circumscribed to its own ends, 
 Still in thy glorious origin behold 
 Earnest of destiny more glorious still, 
 Ever thy Maker vindicates His own. 
 
 But soft ! think not thy God created thee, 
 For thine own evil self. Self, sole to self, 
 Must self-existent, self-sufficient be, 
 To be, at all, and being such were God, 
 For infinitely greater things than self, 
 He destined thee — e'en for the All-in-AU : 
 Creating thee, that, through thy finite unit, 
 His infinite unit might to myriad grow, 
 And, myriadizing to infinitude, 
 Make, by efflux, recipiency for good 
 Which, unreported, undispensed, unshared. 
 Were self-abridgement of divine delight, 
 Cause, without consequence — means without ends, 
 Sun, without planets, on voids would spend his 
 beams. 
 
 Thus shall thy human, gathering life and strength, 
 Beauty and blessedness from His Divine, 
 And growing like to that from which it gathers, 
 Make manifest the ever present good, 
 Which else, were nothingness to finite sense. 
 
42 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 To manifest the human less and less, 
 The divine more and more must be the end 
 Of man's existence ; else must he resolve 
 Into the embryon elements of his being, 
 From sheer self-insufficiency to make 
 Existence conscious. Yet towards neither point 
 Could he so near attain as not to find 
 Himself still infinitely short of both ; 
 Both points attained he'd grow the All-in- All ; 
 The last without the first, the all in man ; 
 The first, without the last, a self-surcease. 
 Then man can never show his evil less, 
 Save by revealing God's good more and more ; 
 His immortality to this sole end ; 
 What other end could call for means so great? 
 What other means so aptly meet such end ? 
 And recompense the pain, mortality 
 Must suffer to begin the work divine, 
 The recompense beginning with the work, 
 Since showing God is realizing Heaven. 
 
 O glorious boon of immortality — 
 Means to such end I eternity for self? 
 How many find the three-score years and ten 
 Too long for that ! who making self their all, 
 Cross and recross the stormy little gulf; 
 Wreck and re-wreck upon it's arid shores; 
 Deep, deeper drink the bitter Dead Sea wave, 
 Which sickens unto death, yet still allures 
 The suicide to drink and drink again, 
 Till gulf, engulfed, is lost in the Outer Deep. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 43 
 
 Immortal being, nor more than this to be ? 
 
 Better the ephemeral phantom thing of earth 
 
 Th' atheist deems thee ; and for earth alone 
 
 The sum and scope, ephemeral were too long, 
 
 Phantom too real ; naught were better still. 
 
 To compensate her insufficiencies 
 
 Must earth still look to Heaven, as man to God, 
 
 And bid her sons not to expect of her 
 
 More than the present offers or the past 
 
 Has given, and by the given, the offered, rate, 
 
 For she, like them, is but a finite self. 
 
 As manifestations of the Infinite 
 Must to the finite, through the finite come, 
 Our evil, soon or late, purged and subdued, 
 Must show God's good; our human. His Divine — 
 Best made revealment shown resemblance most ; 
 Though ever still the imaged and the image 
 Infinitudes, eternities apart ! 
 
 Brightest he shows through hero, martyr, saint ; 
 Warmest through hearts of universal love ; 
 But clearest through the man, too meek, too pure. 
 Too reverent to be conscious that he shows 
 More than his own God-trusting human self. 
 Like him, who, from the depths of Grab's Cave, 
 Beheld before him, o'er the Outer Deep, 
 The trailing glories of Jehovah pass. 
 Wider than sunrise, brighter than the sun. 
 And when adown the mountain came he, lo ! 
 His mortal lineaments all glorified 
 
44 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 With the dread vision — glorified the more, 
 Because he wist not that his face did shine. 
 
 Full on that glory who shall look and live ? 
 As towards the sun we shrink to lift our eyes 
 Fain to content us with his bright reflex 
 In planet, moon, and shadow-fleckered earth ; 
 So, for that terrible effulgence, lo ! 
 Yon firmament of lights responsive, where. 
 In grand perspective, hero, martyr, saint. 
 Souls of the just, made perfect in the heavens. 
 Angel, archangel, each a glowing orb. 
 Expanding, brightening as the scale ascends — 
 Flash down, from sphere to sphere the dread unseen ; 
 Till reached the utmost scope of human ken 
 In the far, shining majesty of Him 
 The Man Divine, the bright and Morning Star, 
 And Express Image of the Eternal Sun. 
 
 Perspective grand, indeed ! which from thus low, 
 Thus dark, unfolds such amplitudes of glory. 
 Yet 'tis a consummation faith alone. 
 Which sees true providence through seeming fate, 
 ■Sweet life and heaven through bitter death and 
 
 hell, 
 And seeing, leads the way- — can bring to pass. 
 Be that thy guide ! what other hast thou here ? 
 Poor flesh-blind wanderer, groping through the years, 
 Invisible to thy self and stumbling o'er 
 The apocalypse of each unfolded day, 
 Days gone, scarce better read than days to come. 
 Be that clear star thy guide until the years 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 45 
 
 And ages, measuring out in mystic dance, 
 The stages of thy trial, shall declare 
 Thy morn of victory risen and meet to stand 
 All glorified with some small beam of Him, 
 From whom to be, is blessedness forever. 
 If else, a misbegotten thing thou wert, 
 Forced monstrous and excrescent on the lap 
 Of universal beauty ; there to scowl, 
 The mockery of infinite perfection ; 
 A means to eternize sin, and pain, and death, 
 Which, serving no beneficient end, were proof 
 Of less than Infinite Wisdom to create, 
 Of less than Infinite Goodness to preserve ; 
 Of Infinite Justice less, not to destroy; 
 And undestroyed and indestructible, 
 A curse thou wert more dire than utter death. 
 A curse ? and whence ? not from the God of love, 
 Who ne'er bestowed a gift he could not bless ; 
 Nor from the God of truth who never spoke, 
 That an immortal falsehood might respond. 
 Then thou, O waif of chance, canst have no part. 
 No place with Him in all His universe, 
 And never hadst ; but art an alien here, 
 Benighted in His everlasting light. 
 Sprung is thy being from some other source 
 Than Him; elsewhere thy dwelling to be found 
 And solve the problem of thy destiny. 
 Then get thee hence, intruder ! seek thy home 
 Beyond the bounds of boundless good, where he 
 Thy Eblis God, with stygian horrors girt 
 
4f) DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 And ambushed in th' abyss of night may end 
 In death what he began in malediction. 
 
 Yet this were but a blasphemous conceit, 
 Forced into spectral being from gloomy dreams 
 Which hover o'er the earth and find their way 
 Into men's creeds as things for grave belief. 
 Faith that was born with thine immortal being, 
 And, therefore, forming part, as light of fire — 
 The faith that's childlike, the only faith can hear 
 The still small voice of Fatherhood Divine. 
 Whose whispers bind the noises of the world 
 Into a harmony, heard not, as yet — 
 Such faith attests thee of Jehovah sprung 
 And reason coincides, and both withhold 
 Their sanction from the sophistry that life, 
 Begun in God, could end in endless hell ! 
 Ends, where good ends, attest beginnings bad ! 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Hell suits him best, who making self his all, 
 Makes where to enjoy that paltry choice the be.st; 
 For as he seeks, and seeks he but his choice, 
 Man finds in God, his heaven ; in self, his hell. 
 Each ends where it begins ; this, with the good 
 It does ; which done, cause, in effect, is lost ; 
 That, with the good it is, which ever was. 
 Must ever be, till hell itself be heaven. 
 But soft ! of retribution there's no lack, 
 Though linked to evil, as effect to cause ; 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 47 
 
 The harsh reaction of a law transgressed ; 
 
 Not the infliction of a God incensed. 
 
 The law, true Nemesis, unto itself, 
 
 Attesting, by its self-sufficiency, 
 
 Its self-sufficient author; who but needs 
 
 His perfect means, his perfect end to gain, 
 
 Come life or death, come recompense or loss. 
 
 If death, there's in his teemings, higher life ; 
 
 In his bestowal, richer gifts, if loss. 
 
 Then retribution, judgment, hell, or what 
 
 You will, beneficient still the end thereof! 
 
 More than to humble man for evil-being ; 
 
 More than to punish him for evil-doing; 
 
 E'en to admonish him, through pain and loss, 
 
 To keep the elements of his nature close 
 
 Within the bounds prescribed, where self-contained, 
 
 Each in self abnegation to the rest, 
 
 In self-subjection all, to the All-in- All — 
 
 They may in their true form, as perfect means. 
 
 The perfect ends of infinite good subserve. 
 
 In the broad sense of self-sufficiency. 
 Full freedom never was, can never be 
 In human will. That were an attribute 
 Impossible to else than perfect good. 
 Which being without bounds, no border leaves 
 Debatable for thwarting limitations, 
 And without center, no weaker points presents 
 Assailable for clashing contradictions. 
 Just as we finite agents think and feel, 
 And think and feel we from heredity. 
 
48 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Environment, fortuity, or choice — 
 
 Will shapes her course — the passion, motive, thought, 
 
 Dominant at the time th' impelling force. 
 
 If good, 'tis unto God, with freedom more; 
 
 If evil, unto self, with freedom less, 
 
 Our freedom waxing with our growth in good ; 
 
 This never perfect, full, then, never that — 
 
 Our freedom waning with our growth in evil ; 
 
 This never utter lost, then, never that — 
 
 Enough e'er left for choice which looks to God ; 
 
 For lost were selfhood, with all freedom lost ; 
 
 As gained were Godhead, with all freedom gained. 
 
 Then with such freedom as from good we gain 
 Or lose from evil, choose we as we list. 
 Or peradventure follow unawares. 
 Obedience or transgression, God or self. 
 From self to God obedience tending, finds 
 In th' All-in-All, no bounds to its delight. 
 From self to self, transgression tending, finds 
 In finite bounds, a yet more finite joy. 
 When comes the harsh recoil of self on self. 
 Seeking within its own exhausted range 
 For that which through self-insufficiency 
 Is lost or passed from pleasure into pain. 
 Pain, whatsoe'er its nature or its source, 
 Being but lack of self-sufficiency. 
 Makes fittest means to keep that truth in mind 
 And show the creature that within himself 
 Complete he ne'er can be, but must his all 
 From his Creator still derive or cease. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 49 
 
 Self, sole to self, shall lose at last all joy 
 
 In suicidal greediness of sin. 
 
 Self, pledged to God, shall lose at last all pain 
 
 In fortifying recipiency of good. 
 
 The last transgression reached, and utter death, 
 
 Sin's consummation nigh, pain's last appeal 
 
 As to the instinct of self-preservation, 
 
 To bring man back to obedience and to God, 
 
 With whom to be in harmony, is heaven, 
 
 'Gainst whom to stand in contradiction, hell! 
 
 Beyond this, retribution were to keep 
 
 The guilty ever in the guilt chastised 
 
 And make bad worse to merit hell the more ; 
 
 Confirming that by punishment which grace 
 
 All-powerful had been powerless to reclaim. 
 
 Economy, strange, indeed, which bids us waste 
 Eternity to atone for wasting time; 
 To forfeit immortality to hell ; 
 For giving not mortality to heaven ; 
 And pay the debt to infinite justice due, 
 If not by life accepted in the flesh, 
 By death undying suffered in the spirit. 
 Justice? God's justice touches but Himself 
 And needs but His own grace to meet its claims — 
 Himself unto Himself, sponsor for all. 
 And yet not truly so, were He to leave 
 Each of that All unanswerable to Him ; 
 That were to abstract Himself from His own works 
 And make the automatic to His will 
 
 And not intelligential of His wish ; 
 4 
 
50 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 For through responsibihty alone — 
 
 Umbihcus 'twixt creature and Creator, — 
 
 Could His divine into our human flow, 
 
 His good in us become a quickening force. 
 
 Without that vital chord, lifeless we'd live 
 
 And grow the monsters gloomy creeds have feigned, 
 
 To keep their logic and their God abreast ; 
 
 The made made wrong to make the Maker right ; 
 
 Creation by destruction rectified; 
 
 The Father's failure to advance His sons 
 
 Shown still to triumph in the penal judge. 
 
 But God's beginnings having ends to suit, 
 Beginnings good, to ends as good, must lead. 
 E'en though the way through hell itself should 
 
 lie, 
 Which, co-existent with a finite need. 
 Must with that need surcease — a transient stage 
 Of progress, not a final goal or being. 
 Man hath no goals, where God hath not a shrine , 
 No destiny, where God is not the life ; 
 No part, no place, where God is not still All. 
 He, to immortalize a pain, too good. 
 Too wise, a hopeless failure to create — 
 Asks of, his creatures only that which best 
 Shall meet the ends he purposed in their being ; 
 And soon or late is that requirement met, 
 Else would effect belie the great first cause 
 And show the sequel left to fate or chance ; — 
 Means insufficient to the ends proposed. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 51 
 
 The births abortive of the finite mind — 
 The monster evils which have done their work, 
 Made good more good from, being themselves sub- 
 dued, — 
 The past receives them for its own, and, whilst 
 They may instruct or warn, keeps them in view; 
 Then, shrouding, rolls the dead deformities 
 Into the tomb of things begot amiss — 
 The limbo-sink of entities unblest ! 
 Tomb, huge enough to take in hell itself, 
 And shall, with every ghastly dream of death, 
 That ever ambushed in the shades of sin 
 To daunt the guilty and benighted soul ! 
 With every sophistry of human law 
 Which feigns that good in some, which evil is 
 In others ; that commendable on earth, 
 Which reprehensible is deemed in heaven ; 
 And that to one a blessing or an honor, 
 Which, to another, is a curse or a shame ! 
 With every dark solution of the law 
 Divine, which making man a failure, life 
 But the beginning of the failure, death 
 But the continuance of the failure, earth 
 It's cradle, hell its goal, — would show God's will 
 Ruled by necessity, not led by choice. 
 Abridge His goodness, wisdom, power, delight ; 
 Whilst setting to His wrath no bounds, have Him 
 To curse His creatures, as forever bad, 
 Whom He has failed to make one moment good ! 
 Ay, huge enough for this and more, till tomb 
 
52 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Itself shall vanish, sunk with vanished earth. 
 
 In God's clear realms of beauty, love, and truth ! 
 
 No longer needed, shall no longer be ! 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 A Hving spark, struck from the Living Sun, 
 Floats glimmering through the nebulous abyss; 
 Becomes anon a flame, or bright or dark, 
 As it takes shading from the deeps around ; 
 A shadow casting in its native light ; 
 As fire, that burning in the sunshine, casts 
 Its shadow on the ground, light breaking light, 
 Breaking the less, as clearer burns the flame. 
 Then, flame of mine, burn clear ! nor self-eclipsed, 
 Nor aught eclipsing, break that goodly light. 
 From faUing in its beauty, strength and joy, 
 On aught that lives, or man, or bird, or beast. 
 Come not betwixt that blessing and their need ; 
 Lest it from thee forever be withdrawn ; 
 But on through thy being let it shine. 
 As shines the sun on heaven's bow-listed clouds. 
 And through the pictured windows of the morn. 
 Where light is varied only to reveal 
 How manifold its forms of beauty are. 
 As shadows be but interrupted light. 
 Evils may be but interrupted good ; 
 Eclipses, not extinguishments of glory, 
 Brief obscurations of the Living Sun, 
 Which on the unjust shines, and through the just. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 53 
 
 Then, flame of mine, purge from thine essence all 
 That may obstruct or blur the goodly light, 
 That they who grope in self-eclipse may see 
 Through thee, as through a window open to heaven. 
 How the Great Sun is shining on us all, — 
 How lovingly, how beautifully shining! 
 Till setting thee among his little stars, 
 In his vast dome of constellated life, 
 A scintillating witness of his glory. 
 In thee, well pleased his image he beholds ! 
 
 god's radius vector. 
 
 •*I am! how little more I know ! '' 
 
 O friend, 
 Whom in the abyss of being once I met 
 And heard thee utter things which made this heart 
 Within me burn, these words of thine I cite, 
 Protestive. More we know than that we are ; — 
 We know God is and such as might, indeed, 
 Aver, " I am ! how little more I know ! " 
 We know He is, and was, because we know 
 We are and were not. In ourselves made known 
 The great effect, makes known the Great First Cause ; 
 This best divined, as that best understood ; 
 Best imaged this, as that least like itself. 
 Cause needs no witness, save its own effect ; 
 Effect no voucher, save the Great First Cause. 
 
 ''I am," the Infinite Unit and "We are," 
 The infinite number make the All-in-All. 
 But, oh, the infiniteness of that Unit ! 
 
54 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 l^y numbers to be totalized no more 
 
 Than, by His moments, Time's eternal now. 
 
 Though myriad worlds their living myriads teem, 
 
 From unbeginning to unending days, 
 
 No more the number to the Unit still 
 
 Than stars to space ; and iridescent gleam, 
 
 Reveahng but infinitudes of blue. 
 
 Fond were it not, in us, O friend, to hope 
 Our little sparks could unextinguished live 
 Through such immensities of time and being; . 
 Or, not extinguished, be overlooked and lost 
 As but the scintillated thoughts of God, 
 Dropped in the nebulous abyss unrecked. 
 Ay, fond, indeed ! were not He, too, as we, 
 **A centered self! " Centered, while omnipresent! 
 The centered life, whence, whither flows all being ; 
 The centered cause, whence radiate all effects ; 
 The centered force, which holds all finite minds 
 Poised betwixt good and evil, God and self. 
 Insphered in this ubiquitous centered self, 
 Nor more from God, than from himself, could 
 
 man 
 Be lost ; no more with God at tangents play. 
 Than earth with sun. For, like his native sphere, 
 Man is a planet ; not the wanderer deemed. 
 Pursuing paths inscrutably erratic — 
 Progressing, retrograding, standing still; 
 With phases as inscrutably diverse ; 
 But in an orbit moving without rest 
 Round to opposing foci, God and self; 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 55 
 
 Centrifugal to this, centripetal 
 To that; part of the scheme which binds forever 
 Human to human, human to Divine, — 
 The scheme Newtonian of the moral world ! 
 Eccentric more and more the orbit grows 
 As self recedes from God ; yet, though it play 
 Cometic eccentricity — e'en though, 
 From pole to pole, it cut the ecliptic plane 
 Of revolution, none the less it shows 
 The full consummate product of the law 
 Which binds the universal frame than were it 
 A normal orbit in the normal plane. 
 Let man project his orbit as he list, 
 God's Radius Vector ever sums the same. 
 And be aphelion foci where they may, 
 Diverse or multitudinous soe'er. 
 One perihelion focus, fixed, eterne, 
 O'ermasters, binds and harmonizes all. 
 Though in his orbit man should whirl away 
 With the momentum of his native world 
 And flee so far that perihelion day 
 Should take the pallid cast of lunar night, 
 Ever that omnipresent, centered force 
 Pursues, anticipates, forestalls him still; 
 Yet, with such gentle curb, he feels it not, — 
 His freedom as a planet all untouched. 
 Slowly the primal impetus abates 
 Day after day, year after year, perchance, 
 Age after age, decrepitly he creeps 
 Through the cold twilights of aphelion gloom ; 
 
56 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 And there, from sheer decrepitude, should stop 
 And stand forever still, a lifeless lump, 
 Or sink inert into th' abyss of night. 
 
 But once, aphelion limits reached, and force 
 Projectile by attractive overcome, 
 Homeward he tends. As slow and slower erst 
 He fled, now fast and faster he returns ; 
 For that excess of force, which focused self 
 So far from God and stretched aphelion lengths 
 Beyond due planetary bounds, must needs 
 Be compensated b}' excess reversed. 
 Besides, proportionately as the span 
 Betwixt the foci widens, nearer to each 
 The planet comes ; too near to self for God ; 
 Too near to God for self — strange, though, this seems ! 
 At God, there's dearth of self, or that which lives, 
 Dazed by the fervors of the torrid day. 
 At self, there's dearth of God, or that which lifes, 
 Chilled by the rigors of the arctic night. 
 A steep, impetuous plunge, a shrinking rush, 
 A quivering bursting forth, and he has passed 
 The fiery perihelion and with force 
 Projectile by attractive thus renewed. 
 Once more aphelion-bound, he whirls away; 
 Yet, whether near and swift, or far and slow, 
 God's Radius Vector summing still the same. 
 
 And so for days, years, centuries, perchance, 
 His barren eccentricities he plays 
 Between these self-consumptions of his human, 
 These terrible renovations from Divine. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 57 
 
 Centuries? Ay. And death between? Ay, death, 
 
 Or second birth, or what you will, between ! 
 
 This law of universal gravitation 
 
 Rules mind, not matter ; is by spiritual ruled. 
 
 Not by material. Could she die from loss 
 
 Of that electric life which thrills her frame. 
 
 No less a planet for that change would Earth 
 
 Be subject still to planetary law — ^ 
 
 Matter controlled by matter, just the same. 
 
 So when he doffs that envelope of clay 
 
 He deems a clog to his incipient being. 
 
 The planet man pursues his orbit still, 
 
 Spirit controlled by spirit, just the same; 
 
 Death but the silent, unexpected blow. 
 
 Which from the ambushed hand of casualty, 
 
 Accelerates momentum, or retards, 
 
 And less eccentric makes, or more, as points 
 
 God's Radius Vector at the hour of change. 
 
 But destiny pursued, cometic thus — 
 Through chastening fires of life fleeing from death, 
 Through numbing shades of death creeping from life — 
 Were waste, indeed, of Husbandry Divine. 
 Verily, God is infinitely rich; 
 But He is infinitely frugal too. 
 As by His all pervading force which binds 
 Matter to matter, preserved is every star, 
 So by His all-enduring love which binds 
 Spirit to spirit, saved is every soul; 
 Woe worth the work, worth but the waste, when 
 wrought ! 
 
58 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Here ends the parallel 'twixt earth and man. 
 Earth, in the Alpha has perfection found ; 
 Man, in th' Omega, must perfection seek, 
 The living planet round a Living Sun 
 Revolves, and by his living will impelled. 
 Which in a planetary sense is free, 
 Can shape and time his orbit as he list. 
 So he obey the primal law of life — 
 Move he must ever, else forever cease. 
 And in an orbit must he move, since hnes 
 Which tend not to return into themselves. 
 Tend towards inanes where harmonies are lost. 
 .Vnd round two foci must he still revolve; 
 Not round self only; that were to divide 
 Effect from cause, and cease from lack of God, 
 Nor yet God only ; that were to confound 
 Effect with cause, and cease from lack of self. 
 Then, too, that sun to planet may dispense. 
 Planet for sun reflect the Living Light, 
 Whose beams on finite entities unshed, 
 On infinite vacuities were spent. 
 
 Two foci? Then, the perfect circle lies 
 Beyond the human scope. Even so. To God 
 Alone perfections absolute belong, 
 Since there alone they find unfailing source. 
 Consummate freedom, undivided range ; — 
 A centre everywhere, without a point, 
 And everywhere a circle without bounds. 
 Of us are but approximations asked ; 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 59 
 
 But never must approximation cease: 
 Though beyond reach, perfection still the aim. 
 
 Eccentric less and less the orbit grows, 
 As self approaches God; wide and more wide, 
 God's Radius in its perihelion sweeps ; 
 For widening ever shall man his orbit find, 
 As yields he freely to that golden cord, 
 Which, while it tends to centre him in God, 
 Tends yet of God to yield him more and more. 
 Umbilicus of destin}^ divine. 
 Which springing from the infinites of life, 
 Tends ever towards the infinites of good ; 
 It sweeps forever summing still the same, 
 God's compensation thence forever full, 
 Man's recompense forever more and more. 
 
 Oh, friend ! is this too, but to dream and wake 
 To find the great enigma still unsolved ? 
 Perhaps? And right thou may'st be., after all, 
 That little more we know than that we are. 
 E'en were it guessed and Earth, from pole to pole, 
 Waked all her echoes to reverb it, whence 
 Comes confirmation of solution found? 
 Earth can but echo what Earth to Earth affirms. 
 Voids insulate the sphery from the sphery ; 
 The outer deep, the living from the dead, 
 And flesh, the living from the living, — left 
 Each world, each soul, in solitude with God; 
 Who, though the AU-in-All, is beyond all, 
 
60 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 And in that infinite beyondness holds 
 The secrets of His being and our own, 
 Till to our immortality He lend 
 The master-key to open and explore. 
 Meanwhile what can we but abide in faith 
 And let the noisy years go sounding on 
 Between the silences, e'en as they list? 
 They tell of bright eternities behind ; 
 Why not predict of brighter stih before? 
 Though perfect, God is still a waxing glory, 
 Viewed in the waxing glory of His works ; 
 In matter, brightening into forms of life ; 
 In life, expanding into His own image. 
 
 HUMANITY AND EVIL, ONE. 
 
 Evil, come whence it may, or how, is here ; 
 And so is God, His presence in the world, 
 The world all His, must sanction what is in it ; 
 And where He is, His life is and His love. 
 Strong both against the fear, that all's not well. 
 His sovereign will, the will omnipotent, 
 Could never brook a state of things, adverse 
 To His designs, — just ever, and all wise. 
 
 Then may we not, and with all reverence, too. 
 And perfect faith in His omniscience, look 
 For some beneficent purpose in this thing 
 Called Evil? Ruled, not ruling; feared, not loved; 
 Subservient always to the ends of use ; 
 Borne with a broad, unjustified at home, 
 
DE PROFUNDUS. 61 
 
 And bearing in the freedom of its choice " 
 
 The only test of fealty to God, — 
 
 May evil not be that prerequisite 
 
 To good which in the finite mind, makes good 
 
 A living entity an active force ? 
 
 Else passive, unconfirmed, perchance, unknown, 
 
 'Tis only by antithesis in sense. 
 
 That thought attains to positive conception ; 
 
 And only by antagonism in will, 
 
 That action grows to positive performance. 
 
 Had evil no existence, then were good 
 
 But as a monarch crowned, and naught to govern ; 
 
 But as a champion arm^ed, and naught to conquer; 
 
 Governing nothing, conquering nothing, will, 
 
 Forceless, without diverse incentive; thought, 
 
 Formless, without diverse conception, — what, 
 
 Then, but a shadowless reflex of light. 
 
 An automatic iconism of life, 
 
 This incarnated, unattested good? 
 
 Yea, more, and still, all reverently spoken, 
 May evil not be rationally viewed 
 As man's essential nature, selfhood, all ? 
 The principle which constitutes him man, 
 As God's antithesis ; e'en whilst endov/ed 
 With attributes, which, making life divine 
 Of possible attainment, may at last 
 Reveal him in the likeness of his Maker? 
 
 If evil be humanity itself. 
 No need, in holy fear of blasphemy, 
 To ignore the Great First Cause, to seek this side, 
 
62 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Its author, in a finite agent, who, 
 By self-perversion, boasts creative power. 
 It is ; Nor yet had need to be, except 
 Omniscience chose its being- to ordain. 
 Our very hfe, it could not cease t' exist, 
 More than could we ; nor less can ever show, 
 Save by comparison only with the good, 
 Which, by influx, it gathers from without — 
 The Effluence Divine prompt evermore 
 To flow into the soul that freely opens. 
 
 To be the evil thing, man is, is right ; — 
 'Tis all he can be, not to be the All. 
 To do the evil thing, man does and wills. 
 And wills it to the thriftless ends of self, — 
 Why, there, he makes the means to good the ends 
 Of being; and selfward making, makes that wrong 
 Which, Godward, had been right. The life within 
 Is sundered from the good without, and thus 
 Unfortified, unnourished, unsustained, 
 Develops into sin ; and self-deprived 
 Of his true nourishment, man turns and preys 
 Upon himself, and by the mortal gorge 
 Grows monstrous. The Sun, Eternal, now shut out. 
 Can shine but on his life, not through his being ; 
 Which, with the baleful exhalations brewed 
 In the unsunned waters of his spirit's deep, 
 He vaults and of it makes pestiferous night, 
 Blotting the universal day. He sinks ; 
 Sinks through the seas of life into himself, 
 The den of ghouls, which prey upon the dead, 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 63 
 
 The void which Omnipresence can not fill : 
 Through seas of death, deeper into himself, 
 Till by the dead cold weight of sin drawn down, 
 He sounds th' abyss and at the bottom finds 
 His self-engendered hell. Self, before God, 
 He chose ; and where his choice, lo! his reward! 
 
 Die now he would of very famine ; since, 
 'Tis self-consumed to be, to be self-fed. 
 Evil, the human part of life, and hence 
 But finite, limits needs must have, as means 
 To ends within itself It has sustained 
 The human by its dead vitality, 
 Till death, of dead, must come, as life of quick. 
 But deeper in the spirit than in the flesh, 
 Guardian of immortality itself, 
 Still lives the instinct of self-preservation. 
 By this undying monitor impelled, 
 Although to stupefaction gorged and starved, 
 BHnd and decrepit, he comes groping forth 
 A ghastly thing, from out the deathful wastes 
 Of sin into the living fields of good. 
 Unknowing where he is, scarce knowing what 
 He seeks, but reaching forth his hand for life. 
 
 Oh, love, which loveliest seems when on the thing, 
 Unlovely most, its light divine abideth ! 
 Oh, justice! which like mercy most appears 
 When truest to itself and justice all ! 
 The Hand, that's ne'er withdrawn, meets his,with bread 
 Unto the life it gave, which yet to man 
 Shall prove a blessing, and to God a glory 
 
64 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 The starved thing feeds, nor knows more whence or 
 
 what 
 It is, he feeds on, than the newborn babe, 
 The sweet, pure stream of Hfe it draws, e'en whilst 
 It slumbers in her arms who lent it being. 
 Anon it comes to his remembrance what the 
 Gift is, who the Giver ; and sweet, oh sweet, 
 Beyond all dreamed-of sweetness to his soul, 
 This long-since slighted, long-forgotten Good ! 
 He trembles, lest his evil, self-embaned, 
 Embaned e'en this pure fruit, and once more make 
 Life death, death, life ; self once more helled in self. 
 Now wakes the memory of what he was 
 In that far-distant world of earth, where past 
 The morning of his being, his mortal life; 
 That solid, healthful world, where so much good 
 Might have been done, from so much evil doing; 
 Such victories achieved from self, subdued, 
 And made submissive to the Will Divine ! 
 Now, like a forfeited paradise, it seems 
 To his grieved mind, as o'er the fruitless wastes 
 Of his existence, the odors come, which tell 
 Of fruitage grovv^ing as immortal there, 
 As in the empyrean fields of God. 
 
 Say, rising from thus low, shall such ne'er stand 
 Among the highest? From thus dark, ne'er shine 
 Among the brightest? Prithee, peace, my soul! 
 Sound, if thou wilt, the abyss of hell ; 'tis thine ! 
 Not thine to search the mysteries of heaven ! 
 Yet granting this vouchsafed, and on him still 
 
DE PKOFUNDIS. 
 
 Abiding, though to paradise advanced, 
 Some traces of that dark and terrible night, 
 Would not the waning shadow of him who fell, 
 More than "the waxing glory of him who stood, 
 Attest the omnipotence of good o'er evil ? 
 The power of love to raise a soul to heaven, 
 Who, self-enguifed, had else been left in heU? 
 Ay, would it; and to justice no offense. 
 Dear though to us, our evil human self, 
 'Tis dearer far to Him, the Self Divine, 
 Whose life is in us and had ne'er been given, 
 Save to such ends, as best report the Giver ; 
 Reporting best, when self, with good endued, 
 Affords to good, else vague to finite sense, 
 A visible presentiment and design ; 
 And vindicating thus its Author's aim, 
 Reveals His justice, with His purpose joined. 
 And purpose looking heavenward evermore. 
 Let hell, or what else intervene as will. 
 Justice, His glory is the end of all ! 
 Shown meetest in the glory of His works ! 
 In good beginnings pledged to better ends! 
 In mind all-wise, forecasting to such ends ; 
 In power all-mighty, to subserve such mind; 
 In boundless goodness, prompting, soul in all. 
 Far more the glory, then, the justice, too. 
 To raise a soul from lowest to Himself, 
 Than from Himself, to lowest let it sink. 
 Without some pledge of resurrection blest, 
 And fatherhood which fathers still its own. 
 5 
 
titt DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Then in the scale of being he shall rise, 
 But, O ye centuries, how slow ! the life, 
 Lost in the past, must yet be truly lived, 
 That immortality be truly born ; 
 And ages now of effort ever checked 
 By self, still ever losing sight of God, 
 Must do the work that years have left undone. 
 But God, in His abysses waits for all ! 
 In His abysses, labor evermore, 
 And truly, to immortalize the life 
 That He hath given, He giveth all who will 
 To labor with Him, His Eternal Now ; — 
 Day of Emanuel, whose eleventh hour 
 Shall ere be passed, its curfew ne'er be tolled, 
 Until 'tis time the stars put out their fires, 
 And sleep abysmal overwhelm the world ! 
 Sponsorial stands the Maker to His making ! 
 
 CODA. 
 
 Watchman, who still in faith dost walk the walls, 
 Still seeking ever, with star-enlightened eyes. 
 To read our destiny in signs remote, — 
 What of the night ? Dost see no signal lights 
 Sent cheering upward from the dread abyss ? 
 Doth not the morning star begin to pale, 
 As from before the advance of sovereign glory ? 
 Those cloven beams which, quivering, rise and 
 sink, 
 
DE PROPUNDIS. 67 
 
 Like that auroral wonder of the north, 
 
 Portend they not the advent of the day ? 
 
 Oh, turn thee towards that vision-lighted land. 
 
 That once God-lighted city of our love, 
 
 And tell us of the night ! We wait, We yearn ! 
 
 No signal lights, more than the eternal stars, 
 See I in all the blue ascents of heaven ; 
 Nor doth the morning star begin to pale, 
 Still hovering o'er the horizon of our dreams. 
 But there beneath, where day's bright arch should 
 
 spring, 
 An orient sheen begins to adumbrate 
 The glorious presence, whence those cloven beams, — 
 Far shimmerings of the Shining Infinite, 
 To lend the shades of man's incipient being 
 Some tinge auroral of celestial day — 
 Day still of hope ! Still waiting but for faith. 
 
 Ye dwellers in a doubting world, come up! 
 And once more look ye towards Jerusalem, 
 Where, through the shades of prophet-visioned 
 
 ages, 
 A dream of gold and consecrated stones, 
 Untempled altars, untabernacled shrines, 
 Unshutting gates, and saintly mansionries. 
 With God-sent heralds, speeding earthward ever, 
 And shining ones, whose forms of living light 
 Declare the else unseen Unsetting Sun, — 
 All glorified she gleams, miraged in heaven. 
 Beneath the bright and morning star. His bride, — 
 Millennial Metropolis of Earth ! 
 
68 DE PROFUNDIS, 
 
 Ye prophets of Jehovah, come and read, 
 While yet the dome, insphering the dome of day, 
 All pictured with the dreams of earth enskied, 
 Glows with the symbols of the Hand Divine, 
 And, with illumined eyes, interpret us 
 The dread handwriting on those sapphire walls ! 
 Ah ! ye are silent, yet your silence speaks 
 Interpretations truest. What we know, 
 Or what, in fond conceit, we seem to know, 
 Is oft but what is guessed, and what is guessed, 
 To-morrow shown erroneous, knowledge grows 
 The dream of yesternight. Yet may we not. 
 From those celestial traceries, divine 
 More than a meaningless magnificence ? 
 Call them the fiery hieroglyphs of God, 
 Traced on the infinite blue scroll, and left 
 For immortality, in them, to read 
 The mysteries too dread for mortal thought ; 
 And through them, solve the problem, star by star 
 System by system, of high destiny ; 
 Which never solved, though solving ever, spreads, 
 Advances, rises, brightens, grows, in strength, 
 The Great Effect approaching, evermore, 
 The Great First Cause, and }'et, forever more, 
 Eternities! infinitudes between! 
 
 1862-1873-1900, 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED 
 rOEM. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 THE YEARS UNVEILED. 
 
 The days to be, arc clays to her tliat are ; 
 The days that are, are days to her agone ; 
 The days agone, as days that never were. 
 She never was, and yet forever is ; 
 Her presence in the shadows of to-d;i)'. 
 Her dwelhng" in the glories of to-morrow. 
 
 Her form, in aU the fulhiess of its beauty 
 Completeness of its lineaments divine, 
 Is rarely to our mortal eyes revealed. 
 Days, years, perchance, steal on and steal away, 
 And, save in flitting distant glimpses caught 
 From midst the ever rising exhalations. 
 The miracle of joy and beauty glides 
 Still on before us, viewless as a song. 
 Sometimes her radiant hand is all we see, 
 Stretched beckoning forth from out a sable void, 
 Or but the glancings of her winged feet. 
 Up Hope's far hills, that rise but to recede, 
 All bright with flowers that bloom but to allure ; 
 Or but the gleamings of lier winged scarf, 
 09 
 
70 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Which, rainbow-Hke, attestive of her beams, 
 
 Bespeak her near, illumining the clouds, 
 
 While songs of joy, which, sung we know not where, 
 
 Give blessedness to that we know not why ; 
 
 As when a skylark, jubilant among 
 
 The irised vapors of a showery sky. 
 
 Floats, singing 'mid the smiles and tears of eve, 
 
 And lends the scene the magic of a voice. 
 
 Rarer still, her beauteous face we see 
 Turn full and bright upon us from a depth, 
 Far and serene, of glories circling round, 
 As though a window in the front of heaven 
 Were open, and an angel looking forth, 
 To bless our mortal eyes with one clear glimpse 
 Of bliss and beauty in the life divine. 
 
 Then comes a day more rare than halcyon days, 
 When a great calm, as at the voice of Him 
 Who stilled the GaHlean billows, falls 
 On the vexed waters of the spirit's deep. 
 And there is heavenly silence for a space — 
 No quivering in the air of pain or strife ; 
 No cloud of woe or menace in the sky. 
 No thing of evil scowling through the dark, 
 For lo ! He comes walking upon the sea ! 
 Thoughts tender, rapt, unspeakably devout, 
 The very ecstacy of human pity, 
 The very blissfulness of adoration. 
 Fill and dissolve us; lost are we to self, 
 Merged in the depths of universal love. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 71 
 
 Surely some heavenly revelation is at hand- 
 It e'en must be ; why else this holy calm ? 
 Why this Sabbatic gladness in the soul ? 
 Our eyes are on the mystic curtain, erst 
 All dusk before us. Luminous it grows, 
 Translucent, clear, and through a vista now 
 Of days, perspecting earth with heaven, we look, 
 And lo ! the angel of the beckoning hand. 
 The ever-present and the never-near, 
 In beauty's full idealization, smiles 
 Upon us there from out th' abyss of dreams ! 
 Are we still in the flesh ? or have we slept 
 The sleep whose waking is from life to life ? 
 She shimmers with the radiance of a day, 
 Which, but for her, were light to earth unknown. 
 She shimmers, too, with living gems and pearls. 
 Self-luminous, like the stars, and seeming part 
 Of her own life, so like to smiles their lights! 
 They glisten diadem-like around her brow ; 
 Impearls the guerdons in her radiant hand ; 
 Bespangs the winged sandals of her feet ; 
 vStud the sun-beauties of her winged bow ; 
 Emboss the verges of her azure stole ; 
 Jewel the harp, now silent at her side, 
 As 'twere a constellation bodied forth. 
 In outlines shapen and distinguishable, 
 From out a nebuled depth of sphery fires. 
 Her presence is around us like the morn ; 
 Yet, like the sun of morn, her form itself, 
 
72 FRAGMENTS FKOM AN UNFINISHP^D POEM. 
 
 So pkiiii to view, how far away it seems! 
 And farther still the ineffable delights, 
 Which, from the depths of her elysian eyes 
 And through the aureola gleaming round 
 Her form divine, to our enraptured gaze 
 Come thronging on in endless revelation. 
 Making each moment seern as evermore ! 
 Her voice is but the song which from the soul 
 Goes forth in echoes, glancing from to-day 
 Into the morns of morrows still to come. 
 And listened to, as were it not our own. 
 Though filling now the ear, 'tis like that song 
 In John's Apocalypse of things still hid, 
 Which, sounding through the future, fills the earth 
 With 'echoes, ere yet heard in heaven, were sung. 
 But now, while through her aureola come 
 Those far-off glimpses of Elysian days, 
 Fler voice is silent, her harmonious form 
 Before us floating, like a visible song. 
 
 Her hand is on her harp ; the harp whose strains 
 Thrilled through the universal Hymn, when sang 
 The sons of morning o'er the infant world ! 
 Thrilled through the anthems of angelic choirs. 
 Jubilant o'er the infant Prince of Peace 
 Through hymns of martyrs dying for the truth ! 
 Through songs of heroes battling for the right ! 
 Through lays of bards who fain would give a voice 
 To man's diviner being, and call it forth 
 From out the baleful shadows of a life 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 73 
 
 Wliich e'en amidst a universe of life, 
 
 And lii^lit and music, lives not, sees, nor hears. 
 
 The harp whose strains have thrilled through every 
 
 song, 
 Howc'er so sad, or lowly, or so faint, 
 That ever went out from the human heart 
 In yearnings to the universal kindred ; 
 That ever went up from the human soul, 
 In worship to the universal Father ! 
 Vnit hushed is now her harp, as hushed her voice, 
 A music-linking silence left on both. 
 She must be hid in shadows when she sings ; 
 Through clouds, that light of earth ma\- not 
 
 illumine. 
 Nor mortal vision pierce, best comes her song. 
 Then is the need, that the sufficient joy, 
 Were she to wake her sphery numbers now, 
 Hearing and seeing would dissolve the soul 
 And leave it as it was, ere yet in\-oked 
 From out its native deep — a tone, a beam, 
 In the universe of harmony and light. 
 
 THE FAIRY. 
 
 Scene after scene, in ever-varying hues, 
 She conjures up before our dreaming eyes. 
 Now on the glimmering borders of to-morrow ; 
 Now on the verges of the far-off years ; 
 Then on the mystic confines of a world 
 
74 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Whose unimag-ined glimpses fade away 
 
 Into abysses more profound than death — 
 
 A void, where e'en her starry beams are lost. 
 
 The vista she unfolds before the child 
 Seems scarcely wider than his father's lawn, 
 Or longer than the vernal-suited hour 
 That's tripping by ; but long and wide enough 
 To meet the universal Charmer in 
 Whose dancing step and warbled summons now 
 Begin to echo 'mid the scenes of morn. 
 Though tiny to our eyes that vista seems, 
 For tiny entities, 'tis region large; 
 Since through it shines, made populous by Her 
 With swarms of chubby fancies and delights, 
 A fostering beam of that Unsetting Sun, 
 Whose radiance, glimmering through our infant 
 
 years, 
 Leaves in the adult soul a twilight sense 
 That it still shines around us and forever. 
 
 * * * * Oh, stand aside ! 
 
 Bring not the shadow of thy troubled life 
 Between his morning and that little chink, 
 Through which sweet heaven would fain upon him 
 
 shine 
 Upon thee, too, and fain forever shine ! 
 Aside ! and speed the little pilgrim on ! 
 For now he lives and moves and has his being 
 
P^KAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 75 
 
 In the blest Presence, thou hast long forsaken — 
 That single beam, of whose all-fostering light 
 Is worth thy world of gilded exhalations. 
 Aside ! and let him have his play with her, 
 His fill of gazing on her beauteous form, 
 Whilst yet the vernal sun is warm upon it, 
 With vernal gales aeolean in her harp. 
 At least, the bright remembrance let him keep, 
 In earnest, haply, of a brighter hope, 
 Which for fulfillment looks to heavenly day. 
 For nevermore shall she so near him come. 
 So sweetly real make her presence felt ; 
 Nor he so dally with her shining locks. 
 Upon her lap so lay a burdened head 
 And dream his mother's singing him to sleep. 
 Upon that head the radiant hand shall rest. 
 In present benediction, nevermore. 
 
 ENCHANTRESS. 
 
 The glimmering borders of to-morrow passed. 
 The child is now the youth. The vista widens ; 
 A floating world of ever-shifting bounds, 
 Of indeterminate forms, but boasting hues 
 More gorgeous than an orient paradise, 
 Smiles in alluring loveliness before him. 
 Summer and spring dance hand in hand along 
 The blooming valleys, and if now and then, 
 With step more staid, autumn should chance to 
 come 
 
FRAC^.MENTS PROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Tis but te:) touch with her tr'ansmutini;- liand 
 
 The ckistercd fruits and change their green to 
 
 gold. 
 The hills around swell high and bold and smooth ; 
 Yet though their flowery tops are in the skies, 
 They are too near to take the hue of heaven. 
 The sweet paternal light is seen no more, 
 Since felt no more the child's revealing faith :— 
 A dreamy radiance on the scene, instead. 
 As if a morning in the month of June 
 Had spread its golden shimmerings o'er the hills 
 And veiled the valleys in its silvery haze. 
 
 Th' enchantress, viewless by her own enchant- 
 ments, 
 Now tunes her harp and sings a song of joy. 
 Herself unseen, so is her voice unheard, 
 Lost mid its own entrancing echoes, sounds 
 Which well beseem this brilliant shadow-world, 
 As suiting best his ear, whose eye, bewitched, 
 Sees naught, save what is painted on the air. 
 But these, assembled in harmonious throngs. 
 Make resonant all the air, voiceful each hill, 
 Musical every vale, and weave themselves 
 By fancy's help, into a thousand themes 
 Of youthful pleasure, romance and renown. 
 The monarch of this visionary realm, 
 He revels in its plenitude of sound, 
 He riots in its affluence of mist, 
 And glories in the freedom of his reign. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 77 
 
 Yet the young dreamer knows 'tis but a dream; 
 But dreams it will not always be a dream, 
 And hence must needs be something real now, 
 Which leaves him half convinced he wrongs the 
 
 dream 
 To doubt it. So he waives the question, lest 
 Of what delight the dream is offering now 
 Himself he should defraud, and waning faith 
 Frustrate its realization in the end. 
 He'll dream the dreanj into a waking joy; 
 Chasing the shadows into solid forms, 
 Listing the echoes into solid sounds, 
 O'erleaping cause to overtake effect. 
 
 Till': (ionnKss. 
 
 The dreaming youth is now the planning man. 
 The high meridian of his day attained, 
 He sees his vista spread into a world 
 Of boundaries less indeterminate, 
 Of figures more colossal and defined. 
 Of views more ample and diversified ; 
 Hut showing less of splendor in its skies, 
 Less of the ethereal in its airs and hues, 
 Yet not without a radiance of its own, 
 Steady and strong and clear, like of a noon 
 In summer, when the days begin to take 
 The tinge of autumn ; when the sun looks down 
 On harvests reaped and harvests to be reaped, 
 
FRAHMKNTS FROM AN UNFINISJIKD TOh'^M. 
 
 On meadows shorn, but robed in second i^reen 
 And counterfeiting spring along the vales, 
 Groves, orchards, gardens, where full summer 
 
 reigns, 
 In gifts autumnal, vernal in delights. 
 
 Verging the far horizon to the west, 
 A half- tamed realm, majestic in extent, 
 Magnificent in promise, smiles in view, 
 lidding the man come take his place amc^ng 
 The pioneers of human progress where, 
 With eyes e'er towards the sunset goals of earth, 
 The star of empire burning o'er their heads, 
 They're struggling through the stubborn ques- 
 tionings 
 Of life's inscrutable realities. 
 To find in dreams the substance of their hopes. 
 Eastward great cities, domed and towered, 
 mirage 
 Themselves along the horizon, one by one. 
 Inviting him to come, his aid to lend 
 In solving some great problem of the age. 
 Whence, haply, may be conjured up some word, 
 Which, like the mystical name of God, once known, 
 Should need but to be spoken to unfold 
 The mysteries of life, and this side death 
 Brine home the realization of the dream. 
 He feels the throbbings of their mighty hearts; 
 Marks how their busy multitudes press on, 
 Still on forever in the phantom chase. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 79 
 
 How from them swells the smoke, the hum, the 
 
 roar, 
 Betokening human enterprise and thought, 
 All strained and concentrated to one end, 
 Quest of the ever-sought, the never-found ! 
 Their domes and spires look out upon the sea. 
 There, too, mid towering masts and gleaming sails, 
 Themselves like phantoms in the phantom-chase, 
 He sees the smoke, still hears the hum and roar, 
 Attesting how on ocean as on land. 
 It still goes on, the life-long, time-long toil, 
 To realize realities from dreams — 
 A prospect vast and glorious ; but of earth ! 
 Still is the sweet paternal light unseen 
 And unillumined by that unsetting sun ; 
 'Tis but a consummation without life, 
 A realization where fruition fails. 
 
 ^ Jp '!» • 'K 'i^ 
 
 The fair enchantress is the goddess now. 
 Bounteous as Ceres, beauteous as Pallas. 
 If knew he only where and how to find 
 What she is offering, what she would reveal. 
 With voice more mellow and with harp more tense. 
 She breathes a bolder and a loftier strain 
 Though she herself is far away beyond 
 The listening vales, beyond the watching hills, 
 Beyond the shadow-world she conjures up ; 
 And if she seems anear, 'tis that her song 
 Finds in the whispering galleries of the soul 
 
80 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 So many echoes waiting to repeat 
 The melody, the harmony, the chime, 
 The ecstasy, the ravishment, the joy. 
 But for the echoes, still no ear hath he, 
 Although a lyrist who would fain attune 
 His numbers to the music of the spheres. 
 
 >\t ^. >;< .[; ,\: 
 
 This miracle has sorrow scarce performed, 
 When, hark ! again it sounds, that voice divine, 
 And now so near, and yet so high withal ; 
 'Twould seem she must be singing on the moun- 
 tains, 
 And beautiful on the mountains is her song. 
 He lets the echoes pass unheeded by 
 To mingle with the shadows, that the voice 
 He may distinctly hear and learn the song, 
 Whether the burden be of earth or heaven. 
 It is of both — earth first, heaven last; and, oh ! 
 'Tis passing strange that when she sings of heaven 
 She nearer seems than when she sings of earth. 
 
 A humbler, and yet higher, purpose now 
 He carries with him into life's great work. 
 He shall not live to realize the dream ; 
 That would of welcome rob kind Death ; dear Life 
 Of chief incentive t' action and to thought. 
 Blest Immortality of full fruition. 
 But there's a sober confidence of peace 
 In all his thoughts, which now may well suffice. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. SI 
 
 Since 'tis the pledge of work well done, of faith 
 
 Well kept, true earnest of immortal bliss ; 
 
 A realization better for the needs 
 
 Of his incipient being than the dream 
 
 Could e'er have promised, promising fulfilled. 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 The verges of far-off years are passed. 
 The vista which now lies before the Sire 
 Seems scarcely wider than his native vale, 
 Or longer than the winter-suited eve 
 That's creeping by ; but long and wide enough 
 To meet the universal Phantom in, 
 Whose muffled step and whispered summons soon 
 Shall break the silence of the outer deep. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ rjC ?fC 
 
 Say, reverend Sire, who on the gray old hills 
 Standst watching in the winter evening light, 
 What vision is it thy dim eyes behold, 
 Beyond the glimpses of the setting sun, 
 That they do gleam, as with prophetic ken ? 
 Thou treadest no more the throngful ways of men ; 
 Behind thee hast the shadows of this world, 
 And what's before more clearly must discern 
 Than we, who in them yet bewildered stray 
 And do yet press on in the phantom-chase. 
 Which thou didst follow to thy true-love's grave ; 
 And do yet dream the dream which thou didst 
 dream. 
 
82 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Till through the gates of light which let her in, 
 Thou caught'st a glimpse of blessedness divine, 
 Whose living radiance pierced it through and 
 
 through, 
 Revealing what it was, a painted mist. 
 Then tell us, reverend Sire, what thou behold'st 
 There in the depths before thee, so serene 
 And blue they seem to us an azure sea. 
 Whose farther shores meet only heavenward eyes. 
 Is She still there, the bright and beauteous One, 
 Who in thy infancy a Fairy played, 
 A sweet Enchantress warbled in thy youth. 
 And in thy prime a Goddess glorious smiled. 
 Till angel-Hke, she strengthened and sustained. 
 The soft reflex of unseen glory rests 
 Upon thee, and thy head is forward bent, 
 As though ineffable music met thy ear. 
 Then tell us. Father, what thou seest, what thou 
 hear'st. 
 
 I see a light ; it cleaves the mystic shades ; 
 But whence it comes is now not mine to see. 
 Yet in my soul I know that 'tis a beam 
 Of that Paternity Divine which makes 
 Perpetual morn around us. In that light 
 I see her form, whose shadows, hear her voice 
 Whose echoes, have allured me on to this ; 
 Th* Enchantress of the beautified To-day, 
 The angel of the glorified Hereafter, 
 On the starred threshold of the heavenly ports 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 83 
 
 She Stands, the archetype of heavenly bhss ; 
 "Not irised round with floating glories now, 
 Whereof our mortal fancies v/ere wont to build 
 Visions and dreams, but clear set as that star 
 Which zenithed o'er the Infant Prince of Peace. 
 Wide as the expanded wings of sunset, stand 
 The gates, and, vaulting to the Even-star, 
 As wide stand open ; never are they shut ; 
 Shall never be, while there's one wanderer left 
 Benighted in the Outer Deep. For light 
 To lead him to his God he shall not lack ; 
 'Tis there forever, centered in her form 
 And radiated from the bliss she types, 
 Biune of promise and fulfillment, hope 
 And faith. Her goal is that unshutting gate, 
 There her Omega, whose Alpha is on earth. 
 What we behold of her, here in the flesh, 
 Are but her adumbrations, kept displayed 
 Before us to allure us on and on 
 Through life's realities, too earthly else 
 For the best instincts of the soul which joys 
 In visions of its ultimate perfection, 
 But must through suffering that perfection reach, 
 Through imperfection that perfection know. 
 
 But what from round her greets my spirit's eye? 
 Beauty of unimaginable forms 
 And brightness, imaging the Dread Unseen ! 
 And what from round her greets my spirit's ear ? 
 Music of unimaginable sounds 
 
84 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 And sweetness, echoing the Dread Unheard ! 
 But sohd hfe, undreaming bHss in all ! 
 A mist comes o'er rhine eyes; it is too bright! 
 A hush falls on mine ears ; it is too sweet ! 
 The universal Phantom, the Mighty One, 
 Who, though the dread hereafter be his home, 
 Forever haunts the twilight of the present, 
 Is all I now can see ; his muffled step 
 And whispered summons all I now can hear. 
 My soul stands up to meet him face to face ; 
 For here's the point where fourscore years ago 
 He said he'd keep his tryst with me. Tis kept ; 
 I feel his presence like a slumberous weight, 
 My frame oppressing, like an ocean-depth 
 Of dusk and silence closing round my being, 
 To insulate it from the shores of Earth 
 And send it drifting to the shores of Heaven. 
 But gentle with me is the Mighty One, 
 Mild as a father to his trembling child ; 
 He whispers to my soul: *' Be not afraid ! " 
 On my bowed head lays his all-powerful hand 
 . In benediction — yea, in benediction ! 
 What else could Death, with that Victorious Hand 
 Upon me, too, which robbed him of his stand ? 
 What else were Death than second birth from life 
 To life, with those deep yearnings of the soul 
 To find, to know, the author of its being. 
 Which once awakened, must forever live 
 And make for Immortality, true life, 
 Make Immortality, God's true attest. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 85 
 
 PART II. THE AGES. 
 
 MIRAGE. 
 
 Wider the veil is drawn aside and higher. 
 Before us Hcs tlic world of her creating, 
 An isthmus old as Man and long as Time, 
 Stretching in evershifting light and shade 
 O'er the dusk bosom of the Eternal Sea 
 And linking this terrestrial promontory 
 To the celestial continent beyond. 
 A causeway traveled never yet by Man, 
 Since built of hopes whose consummation rests 
 Upon a wisdom man has not attained. 
 Nor shall, until he learns the simple t ruth — 
 Simple, yet baffling ever human wit — 
 That for the gifts it holds for him in trust 
 The Future but inherits from the present, 
 As doth the Present from the Past, and rich 
 Or poor the heir, as he himself bequeaths. 
 
 High on a sun-bright mount, its shadow cast 
 Upon us from the light of days to dawn, 
 In luminous magnificence upreared, 
 Her temple stands, as 'twere the ports to heaven. 
 Its morning windows front the evening sun ; 
 Its columns, into grove-like foliage branched 
 And ranked in endless vistas, prop a roof 
 All pinnacled with heavenward aspirations 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 And statued o'er with Hope's divinest forms. 
 To heaven itself aspires the crystal dome, 
 And everywhere within, without, the walls 
 Are pictured o'er with visions of the soul, 
 Which, in descending scale, towards sculptured 
 
 base 
 And floor mosaic with Hope's adumbrations, 
 Appear in colors more and more opaque, 
 But more and more serene as they approach 
 The azure arches, whence they spread themselves, 
 Like constellations, o'er the starry dome 
 And there gleam out, as painted on the sky. 
 In orient hues of luminous enamel. 
 Long streams of light run shimmering up the dome 
 And, meeting on the summit, shoot a jet 
 Of golden fire against the cope of Heaven, 
 And, there again dividing, wind and wreathe 
 Their palmy spray into a crown of glory, 
 Whose light auroral gilds the eves of life 
 And beacons, like a star, th' eternal sea. 
 
 Here is her temple, here she lives enshrined — 
 God's painter of a beauty yet unformed ; 
 God's minstrel of a music yet unvoiced ; 
 She who was twinned with Fate, but sent before 
 Into th' abyss to lead her sister on ; 
 She who, in clouds and fiery pillars hid, 
 And singing ever of the promised land, 
 Hath led the tribes and kindreds of our race, 
 Age after age in their stupendous march. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 87 
 
 Across the great and terrible wilderness 
 
 Of entities uncouth and shadows dire, 
 
 With perils ever lurking on the wastes, 
 
 With the swart banner lowering in the sky, 
 
 And the dread trump denouncing from the mount. 
 
 We march. We march ! The desert, still the 
 
 desert ! 
 And on it still the false mirage which paints 
 The Promised Land ; and o'er it still the mist 
 Which glints the Promised Day. The Land, oh, 
 
 where ? 
 The Day, oh, when ? 'Tis vain ; we'll march ro 
 
 more ! 
 Forever in the middle of the desert, 
 Forever in the middle of the night ! 
 We'll halt I * >!^ * we'll sleep ! 
 Thou Shape among the Shadows, and thou Voice 
 Among the Echoes, lure us on no more ! 
 We'll halt ! - - * we'll sleep ! 
 
 Ye birds of morning, sing no more for us ! 
 Ye sons of glory, for us no longer wait ! 
 We'll halt ! '^ "^ * we'll sleep ! 
 
 Here in the middle of the desert, halt, 
 Here in the middle of the night * ''^ * sleep ! 
 
 The beckoning hand, colossal now in might, 
 As it were the Titan guardian of a sphere, 
 Clasping a sinking world to bear it up, 
 Is stretched forth from the cloud and held on high. 
 
88 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 The Opaque of gloom grows luminous and clear ; 
 
 A glorious exhalation fills the void, 
 
 Of sunbeams, clouds and rainbows intermixed, 
 
 Which blend themselves into a scene — a dream, 
 
 And o'er the desert spreads a new mirage. 
 
 Perchance some legendary oasis, 
 
 Known in the golden centuries of old, 
 
 But long lost sight of 'mid the wastes of time, 
 
 Now rediscovered — a paradise regained. 
 
 Or, haply, some Utopia found at last, 
 
 All smiling in millennial peace and beauty 
 
 And stretching in millennial length beyond 
 
 The poet's dream, beyond the prophet's vision. 
 
 And vivifying all, as soul of all. 
 
 Yet coming from afar, as if it were 
 
 A seraph calling from the gates of heaven. 
 
 That Voice Divine, whose echoes, from the earth 
 
 Rebounding, live among the stars forever. 
 
 Ye heirs of Earth ! behold the Promised Land ! 
 
 'Tis here, 'tis everywhere, and yours. Come on ! 
 
 Ye sons of Time, behold the Promised Day! 
 
 'Tis now, 'tis evermore, and yours ! Come on ! 
 
 The Shape among the shadows and the Voice 
 
 Among the echoes lure you on, indeed. 
 
 But on, still on to destiny in God. 
 
 In Paradise the birds of morning sing ; 
 
 In Paradise the sons of glory wait ; 
 
 They sing, they wait in Paradise for you ! 
 
 Come on I * * * Come on ! 
 
FRAGMENTS PROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 89 
 
 The world arises and obeys the Voice, 
 
 As one that's known, though vaguely guessed the 
 
 song. 
 The cloud by day, the pillar of fire by night 
 Move on ; the mighty march begins anew ; 
 The morning and mirage receding draw 
 Their soft enchantments o'er the rugged scene 
 Nor vanish, saving to unvail some good, 
 Some happy ccmsummation dreamed not of, 
 From which some other dream is conjured up 
 To be in turn pursued, in turn to fade, 
 In turn attesting that the goals of Earth, 
 Obstructing passage to the goals of Heaven, 
 Were ever better sought than found, and so, 
 From age to age, the Phantom -chase goes on I 
 
 Sons of the visionary ages, weep ! 
 Weep as ye will ! Weep as ye must ! 'Tis all 
 Ye can do with your doubting human hearts 
 Beating against the immuring phantasies 
 Of your self-masoned prison, your hopes pent in, 
 Your faith shut out, and with faith, God ! ay, weep ! 
 But Hst! Oh, list ! ye can not choose but hear it 
 Above the whirlwind's roar, the earthquake's 
 
 wreck, 
 The still, small voice, which, breathing through the 
 
 hush 
 Of Death, from deep to deep, from life to hfe, 
 Still whispers, whispers evermore : ** All's well ! " 
 
90 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 BENEATH THE SETTING SUN. 
 
 His feet are in the shadows of the night ; 
 But far above in the clear sheens of Heaven, 
 The God-illumined solitudes of thought, 
 His Titan front he rears, and o'er a world 
 Of half-discovered, half-remembered truths, 
 Looks to discern whence comes the vision vast, 
 Which years ago gloomed out before his soul, 
 And now, an adumbrated destiny. 
 Shades and defines the tracings of his life. 
 
 Around him, all benighted and bedrowsed, 
 
 And jostling each the other in the dark, 
 
 The sluggard nations go, with mist-blind eyes, 
 
 Exploring their own phantasies for truth 
 
 And knowledge, which in vapors they have lost 
 
 And through the clouds themselves have conjured 
 
 up, 
 Seek wide and wild the Bright and Morning Star! 
 And finding not, through fog, o'er moor and fen, 
 By friar's lantern led, still on they grope : 
 Not in their dreams can he his vision trace. 
 Beyond him rise the shades of ages hoar. 
 And half unveiling their receding heads, 
 Their mighty palimpsest to him unroll. 
 Where, through the fables and traditions writ 
 By ruder ages since, he reads a lore, 
 Raised and expunged to every eye but his. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 91 
 
 Which syllables, in words oracular, 
 
 A sphery theory of the earth and hints 
 
 At unknown worlds beneath the setting sun. 
 
 Westward, still westward, westward evermore, 
 His solemn and prophetic eyes he turns. 
 Sublime in height, stupendous in extent, 
 Awful in mystery and majesty, 
 In beauty like the Eden lost, it looms 
 Above the unvoyaged and mysterious deep — 
 The vision of his life a hemisphere 
 Of undiscovered continents and seas. 
 The realms of oriental potentates, 
 The worlds of eastern prodigies and myths, 
 In solid fact beneath the setting sun. 
 
 His destiny is in it. 'Tis for him 
 To go, to find ; the mystery dissolve. 
 Which since creation's morn, with chaos gloom 
 And horrors dim has walled the world around. 
 The word of Holy Writ is on th* event ; 
 Him it declares the chosen one of heaven 
 To bring together th' ends of th' earth 
 And lead all nations, kindreds, tongues — a blessed 
 
 host — 
 Under the banner of the world's Redeemer. 
 
 To the great monarchs of his twilight age 
 One after one, his vision he unfolds ; 
 The manner of its realization shows, 
 The glory of its realization paints, 
 
92 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Implores their sovereign's countenance and aid. 
 One after one, they look forth from the mist ; 
 The Setting Sun they see, the vasty deep 
 Beneath the chaos gloom beyond ; nor more 
 Then summon they the wisdom of their realms, 
 The versed in entities of their own time, 
 The skillful in the lore of ages gone, 
 To meet in councils solemn and august, 
 With more instructed eyes to read his dream. 
 Those to the achievements of the present bound 
 See not what more the future can bring forth, 
 And that pronounce impossible which stands 
 At variance with their own experiences. 
 These, wedded to the visions of the past, 
 Dream not what more the present can conceive, 
 And that pronounce irrational which stands 
 In contradiction to their own conceits. 
 Those bid him go and tempt not God with aims 
 Beyond the scope of human power to reach ; 
 These bid him go nor blaspheme God with dreams 
 Beyond all knowledge, sacred and profane. 
 
 He goes ; goes thrice, and thrice again must go, 
 And hope would die but for undying faith. 
 From land to land the vision of his life 
 He carries, and the burden of his soul. 
 In courts of kings, a friendless suitor now, 
 A warrior now, in crusades of the Faith ; 
 Then, like a soul this side the Outer Deep, 
 Left homeless and forsaken, up and down 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 93 
 
 The twilight borders of the sea-locked world, 
 
 Fronting the setting sun, nearest his dreams— 
 
 E'en from the fire-walled chaos of the South 
 
 To the ice-bolted chaos of the North 
 
 He roams, and everywhere a sign to point, 
 
 A voice to speak, confirming confirmations. 
 
 The isles of ocean westward nod their heads 
 
 And tell of beauteous sisters o'er the sea. 
 
 The winds of ocean westward "blow, and, thence 
 
 Returning, whisper of the spicy shores 
 
 They've wooed and kissed beneath the Setting Sun. 
 
 The waves of ocean shouted in his ear 
 
 And from a world scarce more than chaos deemed 
 
 Bring him the Dead to witness their report ; 
 
 Whilst from the Delphic caverns of the past 
 
 For aye that voice oracular he hears : 
 
 Follow the Setting Sun— thine is the mission ! 
 
 Follow the Setting Sun— thine is the glory ! 
 
 So from sad prime to melancholy age, 
 A score of years, he dreams and struggles on ; 
 Now chased by storms nigh to the shores of death ; 
 Then pinned by calms to shores of life as dead, 
 And never the star to turn the potent beam 
 Propitious towards the haven of his hopes. 
 His head is hoary as the hoary sea ; 
 As troubled as the troubled sea his soul. 
 Clouds, not of doubt, but of the waning years,— 
 The winter evening shadows now begin 
 
94 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 To gather o'er the vision of his hfe, 
 And after all his sad, laborious years 
 Heroic strugglings 'gainst the storms of fate, 
 And splendid plannings midst his wrecks of hopes 
 What if in death his vision should go down, 
 And one who thus had never hoped and planned, 
 Thus never struggled, realize his dream ; 
 The way explore he had in darkness found ; 
 The harvest reap which he in poverty sowed ; 
 The honors bear he in obscurity earned, 
 What then should be his destiny, his meed ? 
 This? And th' oblivion of the aimless ? No ! 
 The purpose never fails that springs from truth 
 And rests on faith and lives in hope and seeks 
 The good of Man, the glory of Jehovah. 
 For springing, resting, living, seeking thus 
 It stands forever registered in heaven, 
 The passport thither signed by God, and there 
 The valid more if here 'twas not endorsed. 
 The brighter there if here it wanted light, 
 The more triumphant there if here it failed. 
 
 At last he finds her, the angel of his Hfe, 
 The partner of his mission and renown. 
 The royal diadem is on her brow. 
 With majesty imperial in her port ; 
 But womanly are her eyes, pure and serene, 
 And bright with sympathy and hope for all, 
 Where she the truth and noble purpose finds. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 95 
 
 She comes forth from the shadows Hke the morn, 
 To meet him in the day, where he subHme 
 In soUtudes abides. She hears, she looks ; 
 Looks with illumined eyes which scan the deep 
 And pierce to things beyond the chaos gloom, 
 When from them breaks a royal light which 
 
 spreads 
 Fair morning o'er the vision of his life 
 And hides the evening shadows on its face — 
 The light, the star, which henceforth in his sky, 
 His cynosure of destiny, shall shine; 
 Shine through the noontide splendors of his fame, 
 Shine through the clouds of his tempestuous eve, 
 Nor on him set until it sets forever. 
 
 His star behind, the Setting Sun before, 
 The wisest dreamer of the dreaming earth 
 To his great vision sets at last his face, 
 Bright with the day that's dawning in the west. 
 With joy he spreads the broad wings of his ship 
 And mounts the vast rotundity of earth — 
 The boundless concave of the sky above, 
 The boundless convex of the sea beneath — 
 A shpere insphered, as imaged in his dreams. 
 And there, betwixt the blue abysses reared, 
 A memory colossal he shall stand. 
 The light betwixt the worlds of here and there, 
 A voice betwixt the times of now and then — 
 The hoary genius of the hoary sea. 
 
96 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 The sole light shining through that primal dusk, 
 The sole voice sounding through the primal hush, 
 Fearlessly on his God-illumined way, 
 Right on against the chaos gloom he steers. 
 Farther and farther it recedes and leaves 
 View after view of that unvoyaged deep 
 Unshadowed and serene before his bark- 
 View after view, till, gathering up its shrouds 
 From off the sea, it rolls upon the land — 
 The vision of his life, there to dissolve 
 In light, light so resplendent, it would seem 
 A new creation morn had dawned, indeed ! 
 
 Gloria in excelsis ! 'Tis achieved ! 
 Honor to him, the chosen, by whom achieved ! 
 Angels record it in the book of life ! 
 Men shall emblaze it on the scroll of fame ! 
 In love, the book ; the scroll, in thanks praise ! 
 
 Upon the shores of that mysterious world, 
 Erst haunted by the spirit of his dreams. 
 He stands, and far and wide, o'er land and sea, 
 The confines of a brighter future there 
 Unfurls, and in the van of ages plants 
 His standard, blazoned with his cynosure 
 Of Destiny and symbol of the cross, 
 The witness of his suffering and his faith. 
 His triumph. There he leaves it high advanced 
 And gleaming in the anticipated light 
 Of yet some other promised day for Man, 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. !>7 
 
 Until the nations, in their westward march, 
 
 Shall meet conflicting round its glorious folds, 
 
 When to his standard it shall bow, whom men, 
 
 In canonizing memory shall call 
 
 The Father of his Country and her glory, 
 
 The Sun of Freedom to his native land, 
 
 Its morning star to lands still in the night ! 
 
 His Star before, the Setting Sun behind, 
 The hoary Jason of the golden west. 
 In sublime triumph homeward turns his face, 
 Bright with the visions of the visions seen 
 In waking, where he saw them in his dreams, 
 And with the glory, solemn all, as bright. 
 The sunbeams following in his foaming wake, 
 The vista he is cleaving through the dark, 
 Make of the foam a clew of golden light 
 To that vast labyrinth of land and sea 
 Which all-mysterious, as the world of shades. 
 Mysterious e'en to him who holds the clew, 
 Is opening to the twilights of the east. 
 The glimmerings of the Bright and Morning 
 
 Star. 
 Now hemisphere to hemisphere is joined. 
 And brought together are the ends o' the earths 
 Like one, who, passing from the shores of time 
 To shores beyond the Outer Deep, comes back 
 With visions of their wonders, he returns ; 
 A man has risen and, with the man, a world ! 
 
 7 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 From the dull sleep of ages up they spring, 
 The sluggard nations, wakened by the light, 
 Which through the curtained windows of the west 
 Comes streaming in, as unanticipated 
 As 'twere a morning from the Setting Sun. 
 Eastward the clouds of that long night rolled 
 
 back, 
 Land after land, year after year, till o'er 
 The regions of the rising sun they bide. 
 The wall of chaos-gloom which prisons Earth, 
 E'en time itself is leveled to the face 
 Of things that are, that are to be, and were ; 
 A hoar illusion of the monstrous past. 
 Gone at a touch. And now the world is free, 
 Environed only by the walls of Heaven. 
 The speculations of the present take 
 A wider, bolder, higher, happier range ; 
 The visions of the future gather strength 
 And brightness from the morning shining round ; 
 And the colossal spectres of the past 
 Dissolve in light, or, not dissolving, stand 
 In shadows less obscure. Surely thus freed, 
 Illumined thus, thus richly dowered, the world 
 At last its present happiness shall find ! 
 
 Still with the mist of dreaming in their eyes, 
 Westward the new awakened nations gaze. 
 Sublime in height, stupendous in extent, 
 Awful in mystery and majesty, 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 99 
 
 In beauty like the Eden lost and found, 
 It looms above the deep, a world miraged 
 Into the future from th' Atlantan past. 
 
 Visions of unimagined splendors rise 
 From out the shadows, gleam along the heights ; 
 Rumors of unimagined riches run 
 Along the shores, resound from isle to isle. 
 Those gather shape and color as they rise ; 
 These strength and volume as they run, and o'er 
 The sea tumultuously come floating on 
 The mingled phantasies of light and sound. 
 
 Thither they haste, the half awakened nations, 
 With hands outstretched, their hearts and dreams 
 
 on fire. 
 They scour the seas, isles, continent explore, 
 And o'er them in the names'of God and king, 
 And with magnificent solemnities, 
 Their banners waving, to each other shout 
 Across the startled seas, " Behold, 'tis ours." 
 
 But other hopes and visions there have home ; 
 The hopes and visions of a race unknown ; 
 Simpler, perchance, a fewer, but as strong 
 And cherished and as earnestly pursued ; 
 And others still come following o'er the sea 
 As brightly gilded, or of heavenlier hue. 
 And all as firmly on fulfillment bent. 
 And so, betwixt the visions, there is war, 
 When fades at once and from the earth forever 
 The joy, the glory of that Sunset dream ! 
 
100 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Still o'er the shores, by him from night invoked, 
 Still in the van of ages high advanced, 
 Still gleaming in the light of days undawned — 
 It waves — the banner which he planted, when 
 Beneath the Setting Sun he found and oped 
 The morning portals of another world, 
 The brighter future, in whose sky should shine 
 The Sun of Freedom and her Morning Star. 
 The banner bright with visions of his soul 
 And planted in the fond, yet sublime, hope 
 That ne'er might its beneficent folds be furled 
 Till it had brought all nations, kindreds, tongues, 
 Under the banner of the world's Redeemer! 
 But pass the nations to and fro beneath 
 The glorious shadow and behold it not, 
 The mist of dreaming ever in their eyes, 
 Pass to and fro and to each other cry 
 Across the mocking seas, The land, The land ! 
 Which he found here beneath the Setting Sun ! 
 Where is that Promised Land ? We find it not ! 
 Nor shall ye, O ye gropers blind in light, 
 Because you will not walk where God would lead ! 
 Ye ingrates hunting in a bounteous world, 
 Because ye will not reap where God has sown ! 
 Ye skeptics, questioning in a world of truth. 
 Because ye will not read what God has writ ! 
 In characters of beauty, light, and love, 
 On land and sea, on the starred scroll of heaven, 
 On the fair tablets of His word divine. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 101 
 
 This is the land whereof the voice, in clouds 
 
 And fiery pillars hid, has ever sung; 
 
 The promised land, the inheritance of old, 
 
 The land that's here, that's everywhere, and yours ! 
 
 And that ye find it not, ye have o'erlaid 
 
 And shrouded it with your unhallowed dreams; 
 
 Your selfward hopes, which raised unrighteous 
 
 hands 
 Against the simple, childlike, faunlike hopes 
 Smiling for ages here before ye came ; 
 Against the simple, patient, piteous hopes 
 Which followed trembling in your mighty march. 
 Still with the shadows of a mournful past 
 Upon them, nor with more of future light 
 Than sends through clouds but melancholy day. 
 So far as ye shall find, hold and enjoy. 
 Ye haVe destroyed what God created ; what 
 He wrote, erased ; annulled v/hat He decreed. 
 Then vain your seeking, O ye blind in light! 
 Look up ! read, read his Testament, who stands 
 The light, the voice, betwixt the worlds, the times ! 
 Behold where with the symbols of his faith 
 And visions of his soul emblazoned round 
 'Tis written on yon banner, high enskied. 
 Which o'er the sunset land of Then with hymns 
 Of thanks he reared and left unfurled in heaven — 
 The shadow of majestic fatherhood 
 To bless the heritage for faith bestowed. 
 In hope bequeathed. Look up, O ye, his heirs, 
 That hope fulfill ; that faith by faith confirm ! 
 
102 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 BENEATH THE STARS. 
 
 The sun of freedom to his native land, 
 Its morning star still in the night, 
 Has risen ; and lo ! The future from the star, 
 More mornlike than the present, from the sun. 
 
 Colossal, yet symmetrical, he stands, 
 'Twixt the crude visions of the days agone, 
 Wrought and distorted into facts uncouth, 
 And the fair vision of the days to come, 
 Shaped into plans for execution ripe. 
 From those the old world must be soon divorced, 
 Or nevermore renew her youthful prime ; 
 To these the new world must be wedded soon, 
 Or lapse at once into decrepit age. ^ 
 
 Dusk with the shades of danger, doubt, and 
 
 death, 
 The clouds of war hang round his Titan breast ; 
 But on his head, in the serene of heaven, 
 The mystic morn of God shines strong and clear, 
 And o'er those deathful shadows casts a gleam 
 Of living radiance. None but he, whom faith 
 Has raised above the storm, may }^et behold 
 Round him a youthful and heroic race. 
 Sprung from the banished good of every land, 
 And burning with the truth which banned their 
 
 sires, 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 103 
 
 Are struggling, under his God guided hand, 
 
 The dignity of manhood to redeem. 
 
 Youthful ? They were but yesterday the waifs, 
 
 The unwished offspring, of tyrannic power ; 
 
 Unwished, unblest, and foundling left disowned 
 
 At the closed gates of freedom's future home, 
 
 The nursling of the wilderness, to shift 
 
 Until in him a father should be found — 
 
 The wilderness, that mother wolf, which nursed 
 
 Imperial Rome, now nursing into life 
 
 The mightier empire of the latter day. 
 
 Nay, scarce a nation yet ; yet single-handed 
 
 Struggling against the tyrannies of old. 
 
 Strong, because old, unquestioned, unimpeached; 
 
 Which magnifying into more than man, 
 
 The few dwarf into less than man, the many ; 
 
 Make rulers of the freaks of birth, and set 
 
 The accident, the idiot, knave or sot, 
 
 O'er God's own people ; bid receive for law 
 
 And creed the dictates of his lust and pride, 
 
 And for adorable divinity 
 
 Whatever image he may christen God — 
 
 The image here, the fiery furnace there. 
 
 Who so will bow be such forever slave ! 
 
 Nor yet all single-handed and alone ; 
 They war for freedom, such as he may bless. 
 Whose blessing gained is victory ensured ; 
 Since 'tis a freedom wide as earth, for earth, 
 Has room, complete as man for man can make ; 
 
104 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Since him it owns sole king, sole judge, sole priest ; 
 Utters no mandates pleading his decree ; 
 Sets up no image graven with his name. 
 Who so will war be such forever free ! 
 
 Across the great and terrible wilderness, 
 Betwixt the Egypts of a past scarce gone, 
 And Canaans of a future far away, 
 With wastes behind, where old delusions lower ; 
 With voids before, where young illusions smile ; 
 With gloo'ms around, where scowls the demon 
 
 War, 
 With all his shadows, pestilent and dire, 
 And Death, the monarch-shadow over all — 
 Serenely brave, a warrior-patriarch, 
 He leads this youthful and heroic race. 
 With sword outstretched and rested on a rock, 
 'Till set of sun, he stays their faltering hopes. 
 With voice, not trumpet-like, but, as it were, 
 Whispered thunder, with vibrations deep 
 And silent, filling all the land and felt. 
 Rather than heard, he bids his people stand — 
 Stand for the freedom wherein manhood dwells, 
 The boon Jehovah with his image gave — 
 Gave to preserve that image undefaced, 
 Stand for it as a right due t' every man 
 Who'd fain with every man a blessing share. 
 Stand for it, till the problem they have solved 
 That man a bondman need not be t' obey; 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 105 
 
 A king he need not be to rule; that best 
 They rule who under rule have learned to obey ; 
 Best they obey the sovereign o'er themselves 
 And stand they do ! and lo ! the problem solved ! 
 Surely, oh, surely ! this shall prove no dream ! 
 
 But who is he, this warrior-patriarch, 
 Who hath done this mighty work ? what manner 
 
 of man 
 To open to the world a view so grand ? 
 Man such as rarely ever lived so near 
 The making of his Maker, whilst withal 
 So largely the development of stern 
 And rugged contact with his fellowmen. 
 Man in whom faith is sovereign over hope ; 
 Reason and will o'er fancy and desire ; 
 Wisdom o'er genius, o'er ambition, pride ; 
 And hence a man who never had a dream, 
 Nor vain regret, nor doubt of aught that God 
 Hath promised, fear of aught that man can threaten. 
 He has no dreams — the present good is all 
 Which God for present use and joy has given ; 
 To look for better in the future waiting 
 Were to disparage Giver and the gift, 
 And lose the substance of the things that are, 
 In grasping at the shadow of the things 
 That are not ; he will live a solid life ; 
 And if thereby he make his present good, 
 Assuredly God will make his future blest. 
 
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 When he would look into the days to be 
 
 'Tis through the Hghts and shadows of the days 
 
 That have been — turns his back upon his hopes, 
 
 Upon his fears, and so, by retrospection, 
 
 Shapes apprehension, or anticipation. 
 
 Seen as reflected in that dusky mirror, 
 
 To-morrow's phantoms, be they bright or dark, 
 
 Take more determinate forms than in the gloom 
 
 Or sunshine of to-day ; the bright subdued, 
 
 The dark illumined — God's sheen and shadows all. 
 
 Ponderous and slow of thought, of reason strong 
 And dominant over fancy and self-love, 
 He leaves all visions to the many, who, 
 Though wise in thought, must look to those, the 
 
 few, 
 The wise in action, to transmute for them 
 Their gilded fancies into golden facts, 
 Thus, though no vision hath he of his own, 
 With wisdom, fancy-free and clear as light, 
 Into the dreams of other men he looks, 
 And if their tracings show the lines of truth, 
 His solid wisdom gives them solid form. 
 As founders give the painted likeness bronze, 
 And tangible realities they stand. 
 Thus lacks he least in lacking dreaming most — 
 His hopes abridged, to full fruition growing. 
 
 Too earnest all, e'en for enthusiasm 
 To lend its fervors to his zeal for good, 
 And love of truth, his deeds are but his thoughts. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 107 
 
 Void ambition, he leads but for their weal, 
 
 Who follow, as content himself to follow, 
 
 When they are wisely led ; thus leading oft 
 
 With best effect, when he but following seems, 
 
 All earnest thus, thus leading and thus led, 
 
 Made up of reason and undreaming faith, 
 
 His great career is simple and straightforward. 
 
 By slow and massive impetus of will 
 
 Unswervingly impelled to right results. 
 
 Attained the right result, he is content; 
 
 Too proud to glory — he it is attains; 
 
 For to this warrior-patriarch belongs 
 
 A virtue never before in warrior found, 
 
 And marvellous most of all. Too just to claim 
 
 What others helped to earn ; too wise to take 
 
 The gilded shadow for the golden good 
 
 He gives, too proud for both — his worth transcends 
 
 That last infirmity of * noble mind. ' 
 
 If that, indeed, infirmity ye call. 
 
 Which, mighty in the mightiest, rules the world, 
 
 To enterprise and destiny imparts 
 
 Aim and momentum, and, if high the aims, 
 
 Starts self-love on the way to Love Divine. 
 
 Since, stimulating self-love to aspire, 
 
 To do, to suffer, till love for what is sought 
 
 Grows from the seeking, prompting virtue, even, 
 
 To nobler virtue, it impels to ends 
 
 Which virtue else were feeble to attain. 
 
 Those ends, without that stimulus attained, 
 
108 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Beyond man's merit must that virtue be. 
 
 Much glory has he as a warrior won ; 
 
 As patriot, statesman more ; still more that not 
 
 For fame he wrought ; but most that when he'd 
 
 wrought 
 And won he wist not that his face did shine. 
 Oft, as he looks into that dusky mirror, 
 He something sees which clouds his soul's serene 
 And spreads in shadowy portents o'er his thoughts ; 
 And e'er he goes his way, roll o'er the land 
 Once more the calm, low thunders of his voice, 
 In words of solemn warning to his people, 
 With fatherly farewells, words from a soul, 
 Where hope is merged in faith ; words from a 
 
 mind, 
 Where wisdom into awful prescience grows ; 
 Words from the past which to each scheming day 
 Seem but th' oracular forebodings meant 
 For some sad future far beyond to-morrow. 
 Oh, that to-day to yesterday would hearken ! 
 Ne'er for fulfillment should to-morrow come. 
 
 Then goes the warrior-patriarch his way ; 
 And there's a benediction on the people; 
 And there's an image set up in the land, 
 Which shall among the hoary ages rise, 
 Colossal and majestic, as gray sphinx 
 Among the pyramids of Nilus old ; 
 In aspect, too, as solemn and benign — 
 The iconized presentment to the world 
 Of national paternity and life. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 109 
 
 America, so long as that great image, 
 In aspect thus unclouded and benign, 
 Commands the horizon of thy destiny, 
 Thine shall be freedom, glory thine and power ! 
 
 The man of action and undreaming faith, 
 
 Of verities by simple wisdom found, 
 
 Has left a consummation of good things 
 
 So glorious that the world has fallen afresh 
 
 To building visions, scanning ever more 
 
 The imagings of that Hesperian Dream — 
 
 The hope of nations and the dread of kings. 
 
 From out those teemful depths of Primal light, 
 
 Thirteen fair stars, with Primal light for more, 
 
 Have grouped themselves into a constellation, 
 
 The shaping figure whereof is that bird, 
 
 Who builds his aerie mid the storms of earth 
 
 And plumes his pinions mid the calms of heaven. 
 
 Impatient of the night, ere yet the east 
 
 Glints with the dawn, he spurns the crest of earth 
 
 And with steep pinions scales the lofty sky, 
 
 To meet in th' open depths of heaven the day 
 
 That comes too slowly on ; till now the crest 
 
 Of darkness spurning, like another star 
 
 Of morning, winged and plumed, he gleams on 
 
 high 
 And flashes down to the benighted world 
 Below, his witness of th' approaching sun. 
 
110 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 That constellation, rising, shining there, 
 Where rose and shone that sunset dream of old, 
 Columbia be it called ! In song, at least. 
 Oh, give our native land that glorious name ! 
 In reparation, slight howe'er it be, 
 To the wronged man, who from the tomb of 
 
 things 
 Atlantan called her forth and, from her face 
 Stripping the shrouding shadows, waved her 
 
 towards 
 That brighter future,- in whose sky should shine 
 The sun of Freedom and her Morning Star. 
 Shame, that in history she bears it not ! 
 'Twould glorify her thus to stand emblazed. 
 Perpetual monument, graved with his name 
 And giving it a place among the nations. 
 Perpetual witness, answering to his name 
 And giving it an echo in the world 
 Which should forever tell her thanks, his fame. 
 
 When the Hesperian wonder first arose, 
 So like to auroral light she seemed that e'en 
 As when the vision of Columbus made 
 Orient the regions of the setting sun, 
 A thousand irised banners were unfurled, 
 And sounding through the dreams of earth was 
 
 heard, 
 From hope's aerial watch-towers the glad cry — 
 ''The morning cometh ! yea, the morning cometh!" 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. Ill 
 
 Soon was another light discerned, diffused 
 Throughout the apparition with a gleam 
 So like that of the Bright and Morning Star, 
 'Twould seem the Promised Day had dawned, 
 
 indeed — 
 The day that's now, that's evermore, and ours, 
 And needing but the eye of faith to see, 
 The heart of universal love to feel, 
 The mind of simple wisdom to use aright. 
 Verily, so it seemed, and so had been 
 But that the stubborn, self-benighted world 
 Must still persist in looking for the day 
 To dawn within the limits of her own 
 Nocturnal shadow, nor would turn her face 
 To the great sun, who fain had on her shone. 
 Slowly it fades away, that beauteous light. 
 From the fair aspect of Columbia, queen 
 Of constellation ; her bridal veil is gone. 
 The virgin radiance left on her by him, 
 Her patriarch, her genius, and her glory. 
 And lo ! his image, now all clouded o'er, 
 As 'twere a prophet old, with mantled face 
 To hide the vision he perforce must see ! 
 A little while, and o'er her starred expanse, 
 I^^-om out her own resplendent depths, a night 
 Of blood-red darkness, fiery gloom has crept — 
 On Earth's scarred face, another crimson blotch. 
 Hushed is the song of morning; silent stand 
 The watchers on the towers ; yet will they not 
 
112 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Their banners lower ; still shall those rainbow folds 
 
 Along the horizon of the future gleam, 
 
 Nor droop, nor fade while that Hesperian hope 
 
 Displays a star or shows one single ray 
 
 Of that blest Primal light which gave her birth. 
 
 Still one by one come gleaming forth the stars. 
 Five-fold the primal number now bespang 
 The constellation ; his all-embracing wings. 
 The imperial bird expanding wider yet 
 And higher, the gathering splendors to enfold, 
 Till with their glittering orbs all spangled o'er 
 He trips from Cancer to the Polar seas, 
 His feet upon the sunset wave, his crest 
 Higher than ever gleams the Evening Star; 
 And such the splendor in the sky that earth's 
 Remotest mountains cast their shadow in it, 
 As in the sunshine of a summer's eve. 
 
 Columbia, thou art in the ascending scale 
 Of earthly power and grandeur and renown ! 
 Nor is the day far distant, when enthroned 
 Betwixt the rising and the setting sun, 
 Crowned with thy growing diadem of stars, 
 Puissant in the wisdom of thy laws, 
 Beneficent in the freedom of thy sway, 
 Magnificent in the vastness of thy works, 
 Illustrious in the achievements of thy sons, 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 113 
 
 Rich with the spoils of every age and clime, 
 
 Feared, courted, honored, reverenced by all 
 
 nations, 
 
 Matchless in might and glory— thou shalt stand 
 
 Queen of the earth ! but woe betide the day ! 
 
 Never on empire rose yet day so bright 
 
 Which went not down in night as dark. Its beams 
 
 Not effluent from the universal sun. 
 
 Like meteors, self-ignited live in earth's 
 
 Nocturnal shadow, gathering fire and strength 
 
 But from the flight that wastes them ; then in earth's 
 
 Nocturnal shadow, self-extinguished, die, 
 
 As die all things where truth is not the life. 
 
 Thus, since the world was, hath it ever been ; 
 
 Nor are thy aims and aspirations such 
 
 That thou should'st hope exemption fron"i a doom, 
 
 The inevitable end of destinies, 
 
 Based on the unstable elements of earth. 
 
 Thou art but in the cycle of the world's 
 
 Great casualties, which in perpetual round. 
 
 In scale ascending and descending, lead 
 
 Nation by nation to empire and to ruin, 
 
 And once a ruin, empire nevermore. 
 
 But from without thy ruin ne'er shall come — 
 
 The banded powers of earth could not prevail 
 
 Against thee. Deep within the danger lurks; 
 
 Lust of vain glory, lust of wealth and power, 
 
 E'en now as rife in thee as in the most 
 
 Unmitigated monarchy on earth — 
 8 
 
114 FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Thy bosomed foes allure thee to the day, 
 Day of excessive and preposterous glory; 
 And, bosomed still, betray thee to the night — 
 Night of excessive, but proportioned gloom. 
 
 Down sweeps th' Hesperian wonder, all aflame, 
 Till in the welter of distempered dreams, 
 Half sunk, with all her stars, she pours across 
 The shrinking and astonished earth a glare. 
 Wrathful and red as doomsday's setting sun ; 
 Then, asteroidal, sinks in chaos, night ! 
 
 Flee, Angel of the ever-Beckoning hand, 
 And far-off voice of echoes ever near! 
 Flee now thy home in th' ever-still to-morrow. 
 To dwell in realms where earth is but a name. 
 But ere thou fleest send back for once thy Voice 
 Into the mournful murmurs of to-day, 
 And lifting it at least above it's echoes. 
 Cry to the watchers on thy morning towers : 
 " Behold ! the Omega of earth's fairest hopes, 
 Whose Alpha shone in Sinai's burning sky ! " 
 
 Is this, indeed, the Omega, then, of thee, 
 Columbia, daughter of undreaming faith ? 
 A blot on earth, for th' Alpha traced in heaven ? 
 No ! shine thou shalt, th' Omega yet of hopes ! 
 Rise, as ne'er yet empire from ruin rose ! 
 Still in thy embers lives that vital spark 
 Which, once felt in the soul, burns there forever ! 
 That love of freedom, which fruition seeks 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 115 
 
 In the universal sharing of the gift. 
 
 That spark, thy dissolution shall survive 
 
 And quicken thee to glorious resurrection. 
 
 Thy constellated splendors shall resolve 
 
 Themselves into one solid luminary, 
 
 Broad as the sun and radiant with the sheen, 
 
 The beauty of the Bright and Morning Star. 
 
 Thy bird imperial, from thy fiery womb, 
 
 Shall rise the Phoenix — -uncompanioned bird, 
 
 Without beginning, without end of days ; 
 
 Who builds and kindles his own funeral-pile, 
 
 Fanning the flames with wings, themselves aflame; 
 
 And whilst the night spreads visions o'er the world, 
 
 Burns and renews his immortality. 
 
 Bursts then more glorious from the procreant 
 
 flames. 
 And all agleam with brighter days to dawn, 
 O'er the millennial ages bends his flight. 
 Immortal Herald of the Promised Day — 
 Blest day, that's now, that's evermore, and ours ! 
 
 1 872-1900. 
 
As the lines of the verse in which this poem is written are too long 
 for the width of the page, and must be broken to be brought within 
 limits, I have thought it best to break them myself, and at the rythmic 
 pauses. This arrangement will not only give the page a more symmet- 
 rical appearance, but will assist the reader in anticipating the modula- 
 tions of the measure. 
 
 CECILIA, 
 
 A ROMANCE OF MUSIC AND LOVE. 
 
 PART I. ALLEGRO. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 Fairy-like first she came 
 
 and enchanted a day of my boyhood, 
 Danced and sang and was gone, 
 
 enchanting the days of my Hfetime. 
 Phantom-Hke next she came 
 
 and shone on the morn of my manhood ; 
 Shone for a moment, a joy, 
 
 to vanish forever, a sorrow! 
 Angel-Hke now she comes 
 
 and opes to my innermost being. 
 Through night's dusk and hush 
 
 the glory and music of heaven, 
 Why am I still thus haunted, 
 
 a man on the summits of autumn ? 
 116 
 
CECILIA. 11' 
 
 Spring's green mounts all blue 
 
 in the magical distance behind me, 
 Bluer, indeed, than the hills, 
 
 all snowily rising before me ? 
 Fain would I follow the voice, 
 
 aye summoning me from the shadows, 
 Bidding me forth to accomplish 
 
 a destiny worthy of manhood. 
 But with that vision of beauty, 
 
 that dream of an earthly Elysium, 
 Coming and never abiding, 
 
 receding, and never departing, — 
 Fled my delight, my faith, 
 
 in the tangible good of existence ; 
 Fled the afflatus that might 
 
 to the beautiful good have inspired me. 
 Yet, unimpaired are my powers, 
 
 suspended, not weakened by sorrow. 
 Could I the spell dissolve, 
 
 by love and fancy engendered. 
 Might I, perchance, e'en yet 
 
 mine earthly mission accomplish. 
 Which, unfinished, thus left, 
 
 were a void in my being forever! 
 Let me a legend recall. 
 
 In days long gone was a painter 
 Ofttimes haunted in sleep 
 
 by a vision of marvelous beauty, 
 Sometimes, too, as he sat 
 
 in his lonely studio painting. 
 
118 CECILIA. 
 
 Would it unbidden steal out 
 
 and image itself on his canvas, 
 Brightly eclipsing wJiat erst 
 
 had seemed the ideal of beauty, 
 Till it by contrast bred 
 
 a feeling of loathing within him, 
 E'en for the art by which 
 
 he was rising to riches and glory. 
 Yet forbore he to give it 
 
 a visible form and expression, 
 Lest the depicting should 
 
 to a blurred remembrance convert it. 
 Leaving, instead of the dream, 
 
 a stillborn image of beauty. 
 But in delight unshared 
 
 is an element ever of sadness. 
 Which may at last tinge bliss 
 
 itself with a somber complexion ; 
 Whether he smiles or weeps, 
 
 must Man have sympathy ever ; — 
 ]\Iorn it brings to his joy; 
 
 morn's harbinger-star, to his sorrow, 
 ''Phantasy-birth of my soul 
 
 no longer haunt and enthrall me, 
 Saddening my life with dreams, 
 
 transcending the reach of the mortal ! 
 Get thee out of my dreams ! 
 
 Be bound with colors to canvas ; 
 Henceforth, thou, thyself, 
 
 my captive in beauteous durance ; 
 
CECILIA. 119 
 
 Else to my soul must earth 
 
 be ever a vision-lit dungeon ! 
 Out, and reveal to the world 
 
 what thou hast revealed to thy dreamer! " 
 Came then triumph and joy, 
 
 expanding to glorious freedom ; 
 Lived now the phantasy-birth, 
 
 the artist's loveliest offspring. 
 Not that a birth so rare 
 
 might fully be given to canvas; 
 But 'twas enough to enshrine 
 
 as a visible standard of beauty 
 Higher than any his art 
 
 had ever evoked from his fancy, 
 And the delight, now shared, 
 
 was the heavenly part of the vision. 
 As did the painter of old, 
 
 e'en so will I with my life-dream, 
 Rising again, like him, 
 
 to the power and freedom of manhood. 
 Let me nevermore bow 
 
 to my vision, as were it an idol, 
 Lavishing on it the gifts 
 
 entrusted to me for my brother; 
 Let me send it for aye 
 
 from memory's sacred seclusion. 
 Bidding the gentlest winds 
 
 in melodious pity to waft it, 
 Whithersoe'er response, 
 
 in kindred sympathy waits it. 
 
120 CECILIA. 
 
 DAYS BEFORE THE DAY. 
 
 Deep in that beautiful land, 
 
 the Paradise once of the hunter, 
 Cluster the fair young towns 
 
 which sprung from the primitive forest, 
 Highways, smooth and broad, 
 
 invitingly leading among them ; 
 Hemming them roundj rich lawns 
 
 embroidered with remnants of woodland ; 
 Emerald fields of May 
 
 engoldened in June or October; 
 Meads, now summer-embrowned, 
 
 then mimicking spring in September ; 
 Crofts here shagged with clover, 
 
 there smoothly mantled with blue-grass; 
 Homes of rural ease 
 
 embosomed in verdant seclusion ; 
 Whilst, as were it in love 
 
 with this delectable region, 
 See how strays the Kentucky, 
 
 * as loath to render its tribute 
 To the imperial flood 
 
 once called the **The Beautiful River." 
 One of these fair young towns, 
 
 the fairest of all, was my birthplace — 
 Where, as in tiptoe dance, 
 
 went speeding the days of my boyhood. 
 
CECILIA. 121 
 
 Like a procession of youths, 
 
 with flowers enwreathed and engirdled, 
 Hying them forth to the woods 
 
 to keep their tryst with the springtime. 
 Bright as it was, and bhthe, 
 
 my morning of life had its shadow; — 
 I, from my infant years, 
 
 was a brotherless, sisterless orphan ; 
 Lack, though, never I knew 
 
 of affluent, fostering kindred, 
 Lovingly ever to stand 'twixt me 
 
 and the shadow I saw not. 
 Blended with each dear scene 
 
 that brightened or darkened my boyhood, 
 No less intimate part 
 
 of each dear scene of my manhood, 
 Music has filled my soul 
 
 with the joy of its heavenly presence. 
 One of my first recollections 
 
 is that of my being a warbler. 
 Echoing each sweet sound 
 
 in the compass of nature around me ; 
 Then improvising strains, 
 
 where infantine fancy and feeling 
 Oft would utter themselves 
 
 in cadences tinily rhythmic ; 
 Violin then and piano 
 
 with resonant thrillings entranced me, 
 Till, with the tuneful years, 
 
 became I a juvenile artist, 
 
122 CECILIA. 
 
 With a mirage of sound 
 
 exhaled from remembrance and fancy, 
 Floating before me for aye, 
 
 alluring me onward forever! 
 
 But his welcome he bates, 
 
 who Hngers long on the threshold, 
 Ward was I to an uncle, 
 
 who, during the autumn and winter, 
 Made his abode in town, 
 
 then near the romantic Kentucky, 
 Where was the place called ''home," 
 
 in memory linked with the summer. 
 On a superb green knoll 
 
 commanding a glorious prospect. 
 With its environing lawns, 
 
 its gardens, orchards and woodlands, 
 With its blue limestone walls 
 
 and loftily porticoed doorway, — 
 Stately it stood and quaint, 
 
 the homestead dear to remembrance. 
 Time, with mellowing hand, 
 
 had made it a part of the landscape, 
 Quite as in keeping therewith 
 
 as were it a natural outgrowth, 
 And with the lives and loves 
 
 of four generations had blessed it. 
 Here, in my schoolboy days, 
 
 I spent my summer vacations; — 
 
CECILIA. 123 
 
 Happiest days of my Ivappiest years, 
 
 and the influent presence, 
 Blue-eyed cousin Annette, 
 
 myliighest conception of woman,- — 
 Blue-eyed, too, in a way 
 
 which made one think of the angels. 
 Seventeen summers had passed, 
 
 and I was a junior at Harvard ; 
 Though to Kentucky returned, 
 
 was spending, as wont, my vacation. 
 There at Jessamine Hill, 
 
 the summit of joy to my boyhood. 
 One fair day in June 
 
 I abandoned myself to a picnic. 
 Held on Holiday Hill, 
 
 a picturesque eminence near us, 
 Dancing till set of sun, 
 
 with many a frolicsome damsel ; 
 Home at eve returned 
 
 I was drowsily seeking my chamber. 
 When, through the dusk, called cousin Annette, 
 
 and a moment detained me. 
 ''Clarence, along with the guests 
 
 whom we are expecting to-morrow 
 Comes that little French Creole, 
 
 or rather that little enchantress, 
 Whom you remember, no doubt, 
 
 as my last winter's pet at New Orleans ; 
 Muster your manhood, then, 
 
 for she shall be left to your wisdom. " 
 
1'24 CECILIA. 
 
 "Muster my wisdom, rather, 
 
 if I am to meet an enchantress, 
 Backed by the flower which helped 
 
 Ulysses to circumvent Circe ; 
 Else, on two legs more 
 
 I trot with the donkeys to pasture. 
 Juniors love to air 
 
 the musty conceits of the classics. 
 
 MORNING OF THE DAY. 
 
 Indian-summer-like haze 
 
 had long since veiled my remembrance 
 Of the eventful day — the day 
 
 I was born into dream-life. 
 But as I write, my memory grows 
 
 unwontedly lucid, 
 Making each scene, each word, 
 
 each trivial circumstance stand out 
 Vividly colored and clearly defined 
 
 as a vision of hasheesh. 
 Mother of beauteous days — 
 
 fair June to perfection had ripened ; — 
 Infinite seas of blue, 
 
 and through them softly upheaving, 
 Sea-nymph-hke, the morn, 
 
 all kirtled with golden and crimson, 
 Radiant hands aloft 
 
 in wide benediction extended. 
 
CECILIA. 125 
 
 Flower and shrub and tree 
 
 impearled with pendulous dew-drops; 
 Tuneful the orchards and groves 
 
 with the music of zephyr and song-bird; 
 Tuneful the grain-fields, far and wide, 
 
 with chorusing reapers, 
 Leveling, swath on swath, 
 
 the billowy gold of the harvest, 
 Earth in green, and heaven in blue, 
 
 seemed ready for wedlock, 
 Needing but something in Man, 
 
 forever as one to unite them ! 
 All returns to me now 
 
 with the cast of yesterday's freshness. 
 Yesterday scarce too near 
 
 for that day of consummate fruition. 
 Blithe, as the bhthe June morn 
 
 and fair as the flowers around her. 
 Cousin Annette, in the garden, 
 
 is gathering roses and lilies ; 
 I, in the library, reading; — 
 
 the chamber quaint and secluded. 
 Hung with engravings and maps 
 
 and one magnificent painting. 
 Which o'erhangs the mantle, 
 
 displaying a scene from Mazcppa. 
 There, on an antique stand, 
 
 my velveted violin slumbers, — 
 Elf-maid, ever at hand to speak 
 
 and interpret the voiceless. 
 
126 CECILIA. 
 
 Reading, with boyish delight, 
 
 the exploits of the great Don Quixote. 
 Now to the Black Hills come, 
 
 I meet Cardenio, love-mad, 
 Barefoot, roaming the wilds, 
 
 his torn dress smelling of amber. 
 Love-lorn Dorothy wandering lone, 
 
 disguised as a shepherd ; 
 False Fernando and true Lucinda 
 
 as yet in the back ground. 
 Squire on his errand of love 
 
 and shirking it under a hedgerow ; 
 Barber and priest in quest of the knight, 
 
 safe home to return him ; — 
 Meanwhile, stripped of his armor, 
 
 his hose, his doublet, and-so-forth. 
 Knight to the hills retired, 
 
 is practicing desperate lover. 
 Reading, laughing, dreaming, 
 
 not noting what passes around me, 
 Till from the lawn the sound 
 
 of wheels and hoofs intermingled, 
 Tells that the guests are coming. 
 
 I go to the window to view them ; 
 Gracefully sweeping the avenue bends, 
 
 some mounted on horseback, 
 Others in carriages borne, 
 
 they come; now dusky in shadow, 
 Gleaming and flashing in sunlight now, 
 
 until with the last bend, 
 
CECILIA. 127 
 
 Brought in parallel line 
 
 with the river ward front of the mansion, 
 One by one they arrive, 
 
 dismount, alight and are welcomed, 
 All are now on the ground, 
 
 and brilliantly flecking the greensward, 
 Over the yard they glide 
 
 and enter the porticoed doorway, 
 Filling the house with a musical hum 
 
 and a delicate perfume. 
 Idly I listen awhile, 
 
 then turn me again to my romance, 
 Standing now as I read, 
 
 my book on the desk of the book-case, 
 Soon are the guests forgotten, 
 
 unnoted the hum of their voices. — 
 All goes well at the inn, 
 
 the Knight of La Mancha quiescent ; 
 Dorothy finds her Fernando, 
 
 Cardenio finds his Lucinda; 
 Sped by those lucky conjunctures 
 
 of happenings, goings, and comings. 
 Ruling in romance ever, — 
 
 artistic fatality call it, 
 Happy the sorrowful grow, 
 
 beyond what hope could have promised, 
 Saner than ever the, mad, 
 
 the fickle than evermore constant. 
 Conscious I now become 
 
 of a delicate Arabic perfume. 
 
128 CECILIA. 
 
 Effluent, so it might seem, 
 
 from the robes of the beautiful Mooress. 
 But with the perfume comes ere long 
 
 an impression of presence ; — 
 Like one touched in sleep, 
 
 I start, glance over my shoulder, 
 Then, in a trice entranced, 
 
 stand squarely confronting the vision ! 
 'Twas the little French Creole, 
 
 to whom on the previous evening 
 Cousin Annette had referred, — 
 
 a brunette little fairy of fourteen, 
 Though, at the first glance, noting 
 
 her womanly fullness of figure, 
 Scarcely my junior I deemed her. 
 
 The picture surmounting the mantle, 
 Which, through the vistaed doors, 
 
 might partly be seen from the parlors, 
 Had, as I soon divined, 
 
 her bright curiosity tempted, 
 And, for a nearer survey, 
 
 she had ventured to enter the chamber ; 
 Entering, too, so softly, 
 
 that might I have followed my hero 
 Back to La Mancha home, 
 
 had the viewless Eden she moved in. 
 Breathing round me its sweets, 
 
 not made me aware of her presence. 
 What, after ''angel " and "light" 
 
 are the words I may choose to describe her- 
 
CECILIA. 129 
 
 Object the fairest that ever 
 
 has gladdened or saddened my vision? 
 Hopeless I feel at the task, 
 
 as the painter, when would he on canvas, 
 Image the lily and rose, 
 
 bespangled with diamond dew-drops, 
 Sun-lit waves of the sea 
 
 or the spirit-Hke tints of the rainbow. 
 Bright before me she stood 
 
 arrayed in the colors of morning. 
 Hung to a necklace of coral, 
 
 a gold-star, studded with rubies, 
 Glowed on the full young bosom, 
 
 as were it a crystalized love-flame; 
 Down to the shoulders the rich hair flowed 
 
 in glistering wavelets, 
 Dark and bright, like the shadow and gleam 
 
 of a zephyr-kissed streamlet. 
 Brow auroral, and eyes — 
 
 let me dip my pen in a sunbeam ! 
 Luminous, though so dark, 
 
 while soft as the tenderest azure ; 
 Large, yet still would dilate 
 
 as seeking more joy for dispensing ; 
 Eyes, investing with beauty 
 
 the humblest object they looked on ; 
 Eyes, whose brightness was veiled 
 
 by lashes of silken redundance, — 
 Depths of embowering shade, 
 
 y through which the enchanted beholder 
 
130 CECILIA. 
 
 Might the Elysium view, 
 
 where innocence made its own sunshine. 
 Dreamily scanning my face she stood ; 
 
 her right arm akimbo, 
 Pendant the left, her fingers at play 
 
 with the ends of her girdle. 
 Attitude girlish enough, 
 
 yet something of stateliness marked it, 
 Whilst, in the lights of the face 
 
 an infantine innocence lingered, 
 Such as the soul, which passes 
 
 from earth unto heaven in childhood, 
 Still may retain e'en after advanced 
 
 to the spheres of the angels. 
 O'er all hung that charm 
 
 so rare in personal beauty. 
 Though no beauty, nor grace, 
 
 nor modesty perfect without it, — 
 Charm of the self-unconscious. 
 
 Her eyes were on mine in full brightness, 
 Yet with a look as objective, 
 
 as were I the painted Mazeppa. 
 But, as if finding in mine some tokens 
 
 of sympathies kindred, 
 Brightened that look ere long 
 
 to a smile, like a friend's recognition — 
 Brightened, till under the lashes 
 
 a distant merriment twinkled ; 
 Stately else her mien, 
 
 a sweet self-possession abiding. 
 
CECILIA. 131 
 
 How many moments, or minutes 
 
 we stood thus gazing, I know not ; 
 Ere they were ended, a soul-acquaintance 
 
 had opened between us. 
 * ' That is a beautiful book ; 
 
 more pitiful, though, than amusing, 
 Let men laugh as they will." 
 
 The vision the first to break silence, 
 And so sweet the voice 
 
 the vision but gathered enhancement ; 
 But no message from heaven ; 
 
 no warbled summons from fay-land. 
 Bidding me come and be happy. 
 
 And yet, I ween, 'twas the best thing 
 She or any one else 
 
 just then and there, could have thought of; 
 Silence was so displaced 
 
 as to be in a moment forgotten ; 
 That point gained, came flowingly on 
 
 discourse and acquaintance. 
 ** Beautiful, yes ; but how 
 
 does it happen a girl should have known it?" 
 ** Why, to be sure, by reading it. sir," 
 
 she smilingly answered. 
 ** Pardon me, please ; I was thinking 
 
 that girls never read Don Quix-ote." 
 " Seldom they do, I believe ; 
 
 nor had I, it is ever so likely. 
 But for an uncle of mine, who is blind, 
 
 for whose pleasure I read it. 
 
132 CECILIA. 
 
 When we began it, I was all in a quiver, 
 
 it seemed such a big book. 
 Mannish, heavy and dry ; 
 
 But as farther and farther we went on. 
 Better and better it pleased me, 
 
 and long before we were half through, 
 There I was dodging my music and lessons, 
 
 to get off to uncle, 
 When he would sometimes say — 
 
 * the Cecilias ever were martyrs.' 
 'Quix-ote, 'though, was a bother; 
 
 for uncle would have it 'Kehotee,' 
 Donn * Kehotee,* so I would ' Kehotee ' 
 
 for two or three chapters, 
 When, as easy as ever, 'twas 
 
 ' Quix-ote ' again, * Don Quix-ote.' " 
 ** Girls," I sagely remarked, 
 
 *' care less for humor than romance ; 
 You, though, so I should think, 
 
 have relished the fun in Don Quix-ote- 
 Don Keehotee, I mean ! " 
 
 She almost laughed, as she answered : 
 ** Well, not so very much either, 
 
 though uncle would relish it vastly ; 
 Sometimes heartily laughing, 
 
 when I could see nothing amusing. 
 * Uncle,' I once said, *how 
 
 can you laugh at a man so deluded. 
 Whilst so nobly in earnest, 
 
 and thinking it all so heroic ? 
 
CECILIA. 133 
 
 I am half crying.' How softly 
 
 he stroked my head, as he answered : 
 ' Right, my dear girl, right ; 
 
 a more pitiful story than this is 
 Never was joined to laughter. 
 
 Our laughing is often but crying.' " 
 Thrilled into silence I was, 
 
 till then never dreaming that something 
 Might be found in the book 
 
 more true and deep than its satire. 
 This I was pondering still, 
 
 when gracefully changed she the subject, 
 Still with her eyes on mine 
 
 and not on the object she spoke of, 
 Which was her way, indeed, 
 
 whatever it was she referred to. 
 ** There is a violin here, 
 
 I see, and my sympathy tells me 
 Who the musician must be — 
 
 it would so please me to hear you." 
 Straight to the door I went 
 
 to shut in my noise from the parlors ; 
 Straight to the stand then went, 
 
 and disencouching the Elf-maid, 
 Softly awoke her voice, 
 
 my fingers at first their own masters, 
 Brightly observant she stood, 
 
 for a brief space, where I had left her. 
 Then most quietly seating herself 
 
 on an opposite sofa, 
 
134 CECILIA. 
 
 Fixed her eyes on mine, 
 
 in listening, gazing attention, 
 Self-surrendered at once 
 
 to be led as the music would lead her. 
 * ' Oh, so beautiful ! please 
 
 yet another, and after that, six more. 
 First, though, tell me if ever 
 
 you visited Louisiana ? " 
 *' Never." 
 
 ** Perhaps the West Indies. No ? 
 
 Assuredly France, then ? " 
 ** Never outside of Kentucky, 
 
 Except 'twixt here and New England." 
 **Then I but dream I've seen you before. 
 
 Play on, if you please, sir." 
 So in varying strains 
 
 of lively and plaintive I played on, 
 Watching those listening eyes 
 
 which seemed translating the music 
 Into a language of dreams. 
 
 If bUthe the measure, their joyance 
 Danced and played with itself 
 
 in the bower-like shade of the lashes ; 
 Plaintive the measure, they made for themselves 
 
 a summery twilight. 
 Which to the joyance lent 
 
 a sheen delectably tender. 
 Suddenly shifted I then 
 
 into one of Rossini's gay waltzes; 
 
CECILIA. 136 
 
 Up she sprang and round 
 
 and round went airily dancing, 
 Treading the measure with motion as light, 
 
 as lightsome as sea-nymph, 
 Skipping from wave to wave, 
 
 in springtime freedom and gladness. 
 As she went breezily round, 
 
 that exquisite Orient perfume, 
 Which I associate still 
 
 with the scenes of that beautiful morning. 
 Left in the air a spell, 
 
 as shed from the wings of a fairy. 
 All aglow was I now 
 
 and all athrill was the Elf-maid, 
 Speaking in such weird tones 
 
 as never before had she uttered. 
 Telling, or seeming to tell 
 
 of mystic acquaintance between her 
 And the aerial dancer 
 
 in soft undulation before me. 
 Making of visible grace 
 
 a visible echo to music ; 
 Till, like the sea-nymph wafted ashore 
 
 and dropt by the billows, 
 Down on a sofa she sank 
 
 in rosy suffusion, exclaiming: 
 * * Oh, my heart ! Hov/ delightful ! 
 
 Never before did I dance so ! " 
 Prompt as an echo, I answered : 
 
 **And never before did I play so ; 
 
136 CECILIA. 
 
 You and the Elf-maid seem 
 
 to be known to each other. Who are you ? " 
 ** Just a forlorn little girl, 
 
 brought here to Kentucky for schooling." 
 " Whence have the hard hearts brought you, 
 
 and where will the hard hearts school you ? " 
 " Whence is Louisiana, 
 
 and where is Nazareth Convent." 
 " You are a Catholic, then, I should think, 
 
 from your comings and goings." 
 *'Oh, I suppose so, if being baptized 
 when a baby, would make me ; 
 But says uncle, ' no grace in the man, 
 
 no grace in the ism.' 
 Protestant, you, I presume, — 
 
 this being a Protestant country." 
 " Protestant? Hardly ; a title were that 
 too good for my goodness. 
 Pass, though, must I for something, 
 
 so call me a Protestant scapegrace." 
 ** Well, though you dodge your ism, 
 
 I hope you acknowledge your name, sir?" 
 Laughing, I answered : ''To give it in full ; 
 
 John Clarence Adair, Miss ; 
 Clarence for good boy. Jack 
 
 for bad, I answer to either." 
 " Then will I call you Clarence ; 
 
 your Jack, for a rollicking fiddler, 
 Does well enough ; 
 
 but you are immensely more than a fiddler ; 
 
CECILIA. 137 
 
 You are a genuine artist ; 
 
 and were you again to be christened, 
 * Nicolo,' would I suggest, as your sponsor." 
 
 "And why would you call me 
 Nicolo?" 
 
 **That was the name of the great Paganini, 
 you know, sir." 
 " What! have you heard of the great Paganini?" 
 "Not only heard of him, 
 But I have heard him." 
 
 " Bless me ! where ? " 
 
 "In Paris, a year since." 
 " Well, I'd give my head 
 
 for the ears that have heard Paganini." 
 Clapped she her hands and laughed, 
 so merrily laughing that master 
 More than half opined 
 
 he must be amazingly funny. 
 "Then, till I am christened anew, 
 
 'tis Clarence that you are to call me ; 
 And what shall I call you, please?" 
 
 " Cecile Rochelle is my name, sir." 
 ' ' You and your name seem French ; 
 
 yet English you speak, like a native." 
 " English and native, indeed ! 
 
 My grandparents, yes, and the great-grands, 
 Too, so far as I know, 
 
 were all natives of Louisiana ; 
 But at the nunnery there, 
 
 'twas Creole, nothing but ' Creole ! ' 
 
138 CECILIA. 
 
 Why are not Creoles American, sir, 
 as much as the Yankees ? " 
 ' * Some day Boston will say that you are, 
 and then shall you be so." 
 Prettily laughed she again, 
 
 that genial little French Creole. 
 Then to a window she went, 
 
 and after surveying the prospect 
 Which it commanded, said : 
 
 **A beautiful land is Kentucky ; 
 Beautiful, too, this home. 
 
 But is it your father who lives here ? " 
 * ' No, my uncle ; my father 
 
 and mother have long ago left me." 
 " Good they must have been, 
 
 or they never had left you so happy." 
 **Good, indeed ; but how 
 
 do you know that I am so happy ?" 
 " You, I can see, are as I, 
 
 and I am so happy I sometimes 
 Wonder if really see I 
 
 the same world others find fault with; 
 Though how beautiful 'twas, 
 
 scarce knowing, till seeing Kentucky, 
 These green hills and dales 
 
 are to me most novel and lovely ; 
 Over them, all day long, 
 
 I could ramble and never grow weary. 
 " How you charm me now ! 
 
 You'll let me this afternoon take you 
 
CECILIA. 139 
 
 Over to Holiday Hill, 
 
 the place where we muster our picnics." 
 ** Thank you ; surely you may, 
 
 for that, indeed, would dehght me." 
 ** But my Cousin Annette 
 
 must lend you a pair of her gaiters, 
 Else, out there on the hills, 
 
 those dainty silk slippers might fail you 
 As the miraculous glass ones 
 
 did our poor Cinderella." 
 "Possibly, though, that loss 
 
 might win me a Prince for a husband, 
 But, at the risk of defrauding myself, 
 
 I'll borrow the gaiters ; 
 Though, like a good girl, first 
 
 go to mother and get her permission." 
 *' Then your mother is with you ? " 
 
 *' Oh, yes, and so is my father." 
 ** I was so bold when you came, 
 
 as to peep at you all through the window; 
 But, in particular, marked 
 
 a young man mounted on horseback. 
 Long black hair and mustache, 
 
 and such a magnificent rider ! 
 Grand enough looking, indeed, 
 
 to be an incognito marquis." 
 ** No, just Jules de Villiers, 
 
 my foster-brother, an orphan, 
 Who, as ward to my father, 
 
 has lived in our family always. 
 
140 CECILIA. 
 
 When they decided to put me to school 
 
 up here in Kentucky, 
 All came along for a tour 
 
 and are going to give me an airing 
 Out on the lakes and down the St. Lawrence 
 
 and up the White Mountains ; — 
 Round about Newport, too, 
 
 and Boston, of course, if I die there; — 
 One good peep at the world, 
 
 ere shutting me up in a convent. " 
 Cousin Annette now came, 
 
 her blue eyes visibly brightening, 
 Seeing how rosy it looked, 
 
 the sky of our dawning acquaintance. 
 ' ' Music is called for now, 
 
 and your mother, Cecile, is pretending 
 She cannot sing without you, 
 
 and I with more reason, protesting 
 I can not play without Clarence. 
 
 But waiving all this, you are called for. 
 So, to the parlors we went, 
 
 and the rest of the morning was music. 
 
CECILIA. 141 
 
 EVENING OF THE DAY. 
 
 Golden on river and wood, 
 
 on half-shorn meadow and grain-field, 
 Smile of the bounteous Pan, 
 
 lay glowing the afternoon sunlight, 
 Doming the flower-bedecked 
 
 and sheaf-strewn temple of Nature, 
 O'er Earth hung the sky 
 
 in ever-ascending sereneness. 
 Though to intenseness sunny, 
 
 a fresh and delicate coolness 
 Breathed from wood and stream, 
 
 with the fluttering fanning of zephyrs, — 
 Flocks of ethereal birds 
 
 invisibly whirring above us, 
 TeUing, or trying to tell, 
 
 of fairy-lands smiling before us. 
 What with that beautiful girl 
 
 and what with that beautiful evening, 
 Hand in hand with the one 
 
 and all aglow with the other, — 
 Roamed by the woods and fields, 
 
 as were it a juvenile Eden. 
 Oh, how full seemed Earth, 
 
 with her and me in it together! 
 Never till then had I known 
 
 how much it had lacked of completeness ; 
 
142 CECILIA. 
 
 Never since then have known 
 
 a day of fruition so perfect ! 
 Traversing first a lawn 
 
 and then a sweet-scented meadow, 
 Reached we a blue-grass grove, 
 
 which, all aglimmer with sun-spots, 
 Told how the Nymphs and Apollo, 
 
 for joy of the summer, had danced there. 
 Leaving the green turf spanged 
 
 with prints of their luminous sandals. 
 Talking and laughing, we sped, 
 
 the envy of fairies and birdHngs; 
 Skipping from shade to shade, 
 
 like wood-sprites dodging the sunbeams ; 
 Oft, in wordless glee, 
 
 we paused to gaze at each other, — 
 Ears too clogged and slow 
 
 to catch and distinguish the fancies. 
 Which, on fay-like wings, 
 
 unceasingly flitted between us. 
 Now through a gateway passing, 
 
 we entered the primitive wildwood, 
 Somber, lofty and dense, 
 
 with bright green thickets of pawpaw, 
 Sweet pennyroyal in beds, 
 
 wild jessamine mantling the branches, 
 Of the recumbent trees, 
 
 and filling the air with its fragrance. 
 Scanning the ancient trees, 
 
 impressible little French Creole, 
 
CECILIA. 143 
 
 Awe-Struck, quieted down, 
 
 as quite unawares she were ushered 
 Into the somber midst 
 
 of sanctified elders at worship. 
 Softly withdrawing her hand from mine, 
 
 she mounted a tree-trunk, 
 Which, all moss-grown, lay 
 
 in parallel line with the wood-path. 
 Here, for a while, she stood, 
 
 quite dreamily gazing about her; 
 Pretty the picture she made, 
 
 as vividly now I recall it. 
 Shading the bright French face, 
 
 a hat, like a Spanish sombrero, 
 Such as in throngful streets 
 
 had lent her an air of seclusion ; 
 Glowing the fair young form 
 
 in colors of tropical brightness, 
 Making a luminous spot 
 
 in the dusky shades of the forest. 
 Just then crossing the wood, 
 
 on his way to a neighboring meadow, 
 Gleaming scythe on shoulder, 
 
 a black man chanced to be passing. 
 French-like, suddenly brightening, 
 
 exclaims she in nursery sing-song : 
 ' ' Heigho ! babes in the woods ! 
 
 our uncle, the wicked old miser. 
 Counting our money at home ; 
 
 and pat to the rest of it, just look— 
 
144 CECILIA. 
 
 Yonder our murderer comes, 
 
 with sword drawn, ready to kill us ! 
 Though he will not have the heart." 
 
 Our improvised sable assassin 
 Stopped and stood stock-still, 
 
 agape at the bright apparition. 
 ** No, his heart is too tender for that ; 
 
 and yet must the poor man 
 Look to his wages, — wife in rags, 
 
 his little ones hungry. 
 So he will bid us sit down in the shade 
 
 till he goes to a farm-house, 
 Where he will get us some butter and bread, 
 
 But leave us to starve here 
 All alone in the woods. 
 
 Then come, distressed little brother, 
 Let's go pick us some berries, 
 
 then seek us a tree in the greenwood, 
 Say our prayers and die 
 
 to be covered with leaves in the mornint 
 Sable assassin revives, 
 
 and veering wide of the tree-trunk, 
 Goes his way with a grin 
 
 and a constant looking behind him. 
 'Twas so happily done, 
 
 I was thrown into heartiest laughter, 
 Then laughed ladykin, too, 
 
 on the tree trunk skipping and dancing ; 
 Laughed and skipped we both, 
 
 till losing its somber decorum. 
 
CECILIA. • 145 
 
 Laughed the old wood, too, 
 
 in a way right weird and outlandish. 
 ''Oh! Cecile, a kiss ! " 
 
 what could have incited such boldness ? 
 Surely some Puck of the woods 
 
 to give Oberon something to laugh at. 
 Checking her mirth, she glanced at me 
 
 and then up the pathway : 
 " If you can catch me — wait ! 
 
 You jump at the word like a monkey ; — 
 Now, sir, you stay here 
 
 and allow me the start of you somewhat." 
 Then, o'er moss and knots, 
 
 and archly, piquantly wary, 
 Mincingly picked she her way 
 
 to the uttermost end of the tree trunk, 
 Whence to the wide, low stump of an oak, 
 
 which stood by the roadside, 
 Twenty rods distant or more, 
 
 she pointed and finished her challenge : 
 "Catch me before I can gain yon stump, 
 
 and, perhaps, you may kiss me ! " 
 And, with the '* kiss me " off 
 
 she had flung, and now up the pathway, — 
 Hat in hand, with ribbons 
 
 and ringlets streaming behind her, 
 Glancing repeatedly back, 
 
 as oft excitedly laughing, 
 Fleet as a young gazelle, — 
 
 she was speeding away through the green- 
 
 10 ^^°°d- 
 
146 ' CECILIA. 
 
 Swift of foot was the youth 
 
 and verily great the incentive ! 
 Rut she had gained the goal 
 
 and was mounting it, when overtaken. 
 Tip-toe, spinning around, 
 
 thus crowed she over my failure : 
 " Oh, but you didn't! " 
 
 '' But why was the didn't? " 
 
 " Because of the couldn't! " 
 " Yes, because of the couldn't, and 
 
 that was because of your wouldn't. 
 Give me a possible chance, 
 
 another on fairer conditions." 
 ' ' No, not another, or you'll 
 
 be thinking that I am a tomboy ; 
 Nor shall you kiss me, or you'll 
 
 be thinking that I am a cheap one ; — 
 ' Kisses, ' says Uncle, ' are like good advice — 
 less given, more valued.' " 
 ' ' Well, you'll let a boy swing you ; 
 
 just see how humble you've made me ! " 
 " Oh, if there's comfort in that, 
 
 you may swing me as high as the tree-tops. " 
 " Hie us along, then. 
 
 Holiday Hill here rises before us." 
 With mock shyness taking the hand, 
 I pleadingly offered. 
 Lightly she leaped to the ground, 
 
 and blithely our ramble resumed we. 
 
CECILIA. 147 
 
 High and steep was the hill, 
 
 but benched with ledges of limestone, 
 Yielded us rest to our need. 
 
 So shelving was it in places 
 As to oblige Cecile 
 
 to cling to my hand as we clambered. 
 Sweet to be thus clung to ; 
 
 for Clarence, too gentle the hillside. 
 Made he the most of it, though ; 
 
 on each mossed bench, as they gained it ; 
 Spreading his handkerchief blue 
 
 and gallantly seating her on it ; 
 Fanning her then with his hat, 
 
 where, glowing to rosiness, seemed she 
 Some fair sylph of the morn 
 
 astray in the afternoon sunlight. 
 Thus interluded with rest, 
 
 the ascent proved easy and pleasant. 
 Pluming the hill's crest rose 
 
 a magnificent cluster of maples, 
 Under whose interlaced limbs, 
 
 a long, low arbor for dancing, 
 Furnished with rustic seats, 
 
 the smooth floor covered with sawdust. 
 Reared its roof of boughs, 
 
 which, recently cut from the main- stems, 
 Loaded the air with the saddening scent 
 
 of withering foliage. 
 Hard by hung the swing, 
 
 a two-pronged sycamore sapling, 
 
148 CECILIA. 
 
 Swung by a hickory bow 
 
 to the outstretched arm of a maple ; 
 Yoking the prongs, a wide, smooth board 
 
 for seating the swinger. 
 "In, Cecile, and take 
 
 a bird's-eye view of our river." 
 Eagerly in she sprang, 
 
 and I, by the help of a plow-line, 
 Soon, In magnificent arcs, 
 
 had her sweeping and fluttering past me, 
 Till she was almost touching 
 
 the nethermost spray of the tree-boughs, 
 Higher than which I forebore, 
 
 lest dizzy and faint it would make her, 
 ''Stop now, Clarence." 
 
 I left the swing to its own oscillations. 
 ''What! were you frightened?" 
 
 "Assuredly not; 'twas simply delightful. 
 But my play was Clarence's work. 
 
 So now, if you please, sir — " 
 " Nonsense ! Up again ! Higher 
 
 and elbow the birds from their perches ! " 
 And in a trice, she was sent 
 
 sublimely soaring and plunging. 
 Into the tree's green depths, 
 
 like a bird in a flutter of gladness, 
 Aye, with girlish delight, 
 
 she would smile in my face as she passed me; 
 Bird-like, in the ascents 
 
 glance over the glorious landscape. 
 
CECILIA. 149 
 
 " This is delightful, indeed ; 
 
 but only to me can it seem so, 
 Please, then, thank you, sir, stop." 
 
 I left the swing to its freedom. 
 * ' What a heroic young lady, 
 
 as brave as an Amazon," cried I, 
 Catching the swing in my hand 
 
 and assisting her whilst she alighted, 
 "Amazons, uncle has told me, 
 
 were never the nicest of ladies. 
 Just belligerent tomboys." 
 
 ''Well, Amazon, tomboy, or what not. 
 Thankful am I that you 
 
 stand here on good terra firma ; 
 Suddenly nervous I grow, 
 
 bethinking me what might have happened ; — 
 Swings are treacherous, girls 
 
 light-headed, and gravity — bless me ! " 
 Then to the arbor repairing, 
 
 on one of the benches we rested. 
 Side by side, as complete 
 
 in each other as two robin redbreasts. 
 There, but yesterday, danced 
 
 had I with many a damsel, 
 Fair then seeming, but now 
 
 of a common-place prettiness only, 
 When I compared their charms 
 
 with the exquisite graces beside me. 
 Whilst so beautiful, airy was she 
 
 and elastic as wood-nymph. 
 
loO CECILIA . 
 
 Needing, when weary, but change of dehght, 
 
 for rest and refreshment. 
 Came at length, for once, 
 
 a pause in the juvenile confab. 
 Darts she away from my side 
 
 and skippingly rounding the arbor. 
 Fetches on tiptoe a sylph-like caper 
 
 and merrily cries out : 
 ' ' Clarence, how nice it would be 
 
 if you just had your violin out here ! 
 Then you could play and I dance." 
 
 *^ril sing you a waltz if you'll dance it." 
 "Sing, then, ' Waltz Cinderella, ' 
 
 the first one you played me this morning." 
 So I began my singing, 
 
 and little French Creole her dancing; 
 Phantasy-motion, where substance seemed 
 
 of ethereal lightness, 
 Glidingly, wavingly, round 
 
 and round she flitted before me. 
 Hat in hand and held 
 
 at a level which brought with a soft sweep 
 Over my head, as she passed, 
 
 its fluttering roseate streamers. 
 Sometimes held so high 
 
 as tippingly only to touch me — 
 Each time, each red cheek 
 
 a dimple of merriment showing. 
 ' * Faster ; I'm going to sleep ! " 
 
 now bringing the hat with a smart slap 
 
CECILIA. 15] 
 
 Down on my head. I quickened my singing, 
 
 she quickened her dancing, 
 Dizzily spinning around, 
 
 hke a leaf in a miniature whirlwind, 
 Swayed, though, still by the music, 
 
 till nearly exhausted, I cried out, — 
 *' Promenade all to your seats! " 
 
 With a short, gay laugh, she abruptly 
 Dropt on an opposite bench, 
 
 and reclining at once on her elbow, 
 Rested for full three minutes, 
 
 though scarce more spent than a fairy, 
 Who, for joy of the moon, 
 
 has tripped all night on the greensward. 
 '* Clarence," began she at length, 
 
 reclining still on her elbow, 
 Head in hand, and eyes 
 
 perusively scanning my features — 
 ** You are a handsome boy, 
 
 or youth, perhaps, I should call you ; 
 Stay where you are, though, boys, 
 
 like hills, look best at a distance, 
 Save when helping poor girls to climb them. 
 
 So stay where you are, sir. 
 Just as you are, too, gracefully lolling ; 
 
 I'm taking your likeness." 
 Then her artist-like scanning, 
 
 in artist-like silence, resumed she : 
 ** Eyes, like his Cousin Annette's ; 
 
 and her's are the bluest and brightest 
 
152 CECILIA. 
 
 Ever were under the sky ; 
 
 such eyes for Heavenward looking ! 
 Saints must love such eyes 
 
 and be kindest to those who possess them. 
 Dark brown, close-curled hair, — 
 
 for a fine }'oung- junior at Harvard, 
 Somewhat girlish, I think ; 
 
 but manly enough is the forehead, 
 Though rather white, and the cheek 
 
 were better with more of a sunburn." 
 Here she came over to me 
 
 and comparingly placed her brunette hand 
 Side by side with my own. 
 
 ''Just note, now, the difference, will you? 
 You so American, I so French ; 
 
 I envy you almost." 
 Much surprised I was, 
 
 till then scarce more than deciding 
 That the brunette was her style. 
 
 So brilliant and clear the complexion, 
 Perfect the blending of hue with hue, 
 
 of feature with feature, 
 Whilst so lucid the light 
 
 the eyes shed over the blending, 
 Naught suggestive was felt, 
 
 or fair or dark to determine. 
 Still with her eyes on mine, 
 
 she found her seat and resumed it, 
 All as objective, as though 
 
 I too were not taking a likeness. 
 
CECILIA. 153 
 
 Thus for a while we sat, 
 
 regarding each other in silence, 
 I quite rapt in her beauty, 
 
 so strangely at times it bespelled me. 
 '' Well, you were there and audience here, 
 
 what have you to say, sir?" 
 " Much if I could but say it. 
 
 As that is impossible, nothing. 
 You say something for me, and in French, 
 
 the language of music — 
 Anything, matters not what, 
 
 that whilst to your voice I'm listening, 
 May I determine its color — 
 
 a fancy I owe to a dear friend, 
 Who, for many years blind, 
 
 associates colors with music. 
 As he no longer can see 
 
 the instrument, singer or speaker, 
 Wont is he now to refer 
 
 his impression of colors to that sense 
 Which is directly addressed 
 
 nor brief nor capricious the transfer. 
 Each sound ever retaining the hue 
 
 which first he assigns it." 
 ** Uncle would tell you the same 
 
 of himself, and of Mendelssohn, also. 
 You, though, furnish your something 
 
 in English and then I will French it." 
 **No, recite me the song 
 
 you oftenest sing for Cecilia." 
 
154 CECILIA. 
 
 * ' That will I surely not do, 
 
 lest might it be telling a secret. 
 Here's a ballad from Hugo, 
 
 more pat to a gentleman's fancy. 
 
 ' ' Shut is thy door and the gray dawn breaking ; 
 Singing the skylark cherry and shrill. 
 
 Shut is thy door and the roses awaking ! 
 What ! my fair one, slumbering still ? 
 Oh, awake and list to my lay ; 
 List to the lover who comes with the day — 
 Singing and weeping ! 
 
 " Hark! to my fair one Nature is calling ; 
 Morn would tell her of light from above ; 
 
 Birds of the songs that from Heaven are falling, 
 Whilst this heart would whisper its love, 
 Oh, awake and list to my lay, 
 List to the lover who comes with the day — 
 Singing and weeping. 
 
 ' ' Thee I admire for the best that is woman, 
 Loveliness such as for worship were meet ! 
 
 Thee I adore as the angel in human, 
 Through whom Heaven has made me complete. 
 Oh, then awake and list to my lay, 
 List to the lover who comes with the day — 
 Singing and weeping." 
 
CECILIA. 155 
 
 Pleasant to watch the rose-red hps, 
 
 as smiHngly parted, 
 Showing the tips of the pearl-white teeth, 
 
 they fashioned the accents 
 Of the melodious language, 
 
 her mother in infancy taught her. 
 Pleasanter, listing the rose-red voice, — 
 
 for such was its color, 
 Lucidly brilliant, yet soft, 
 
 with a sheen suggestive of coral. 
 Playing my thoughts were still 
 
 with this freak of the senses and fancy 
 When she arose and began 
 
 a roundabout tour of the arbor, 
 Pausing at intervals, where 
 
 a tree -framed, spray-curtained window, 
 Breaking the wood's high walls, 
 
 a partial view might reveal her 
 Of the diversified scene 
 
 our central summit commanded. 
 There in the foreground lay, 
 
 with their manifold colored enclosure, 
 Blithe with the lowing of herds 
 
 and the voices of chorusing reapers, 
 Some of the fairest domains 
 
 that afternoon sun was beholding ; 
 Part of the prospect, Jessamine Hill, 
 
 that fairest of homesteads, 
 Deep in the shrubbery lapped 
 
 and crested with feathery fir-trees. 
 
156 CECILIA. 
 
 Far in the background, capped with woods, 
 
 or mantled with grain-fields, 
 Just as they varied from peak to plateau, 
 
 extended the bold bluffs 
 Of the romantic Kentucky, 
 
 while through the precipitous dingles, 
 Somberly sinking between, 
 
 were views to be caught of the canyon 
 And of the river itself, 
 
 in far-sent, shimmering glimpses. 
 Fitful zephyrs, the while, 
 
 their leaf-reeds tuning and blowing ; 
 Constant brooks the while 
 
 their liquid cadences warbling ; 
 Filled was the sylvan scene 
 
 with the pastoral lyrics of Nature : 
 June's sun glowing on all 
 
 and June's sky over all smiling, 
 Told of love ever present, 
 
 of benisons ever descending. 
 Seated I still remained, 
 
 admiringly watching Cecilia, 
 As, unconsciously humming 
 
 the air of an Ave Maria, 
 And still pausing at times, 
 
 her round she slowly continued. 
 I could not see her face, 
 
 till the turn at the end of the arbor 
 Brought it again to my view, 
 
 with its clear-cut, sculpturesque profile. 
 
CECILIA. 157 
 
 Pensive now it had grown 
 
 to almost womanly sweetness. 
 After our trial of speed, 
 
 a little coquettish had seemed she ; 
 This but a transient mood 
 
 had left her solemnly thoughtful, 
 y\s were the morn-bright soul 
 
 o'er-spelled and becalmed by the evening. 
 " Is it not, Clarence, a beautiful world 
 
 God gives us to live in ? 
 Could it be summer forever, 
 
 and we as children forever, 
 Free in this glorious land 
 
 to ramble together as list we, 
 Mother and father and cousin Annette, 
 
 and the rest of the dear ones. 
 There at Jessamine Hill, 
 
 to welcome our coming at evening, — 
 Really do I believe 
 
 this were my choice for a heaven." 
 *' Good, Cecile, and mine, 
 
 be only a violin added, 
 Music to dance to being — 
 
 but fain would I ask you a question : 
 First, though, won't you be seated ? " 
 
 She seating herself, I continued : 
 ' ' Never before have I thought 
 
 to ask a girl such a question ; 
 None have I met, perhaps, 
 
 whose answer might have been trusted. 
 
158 CECILIA. 
 
 You, though, will frankly own 
 
 if conscious you are of your beauty." 
 ''Yes, when of it reminded." 
 
 "And that without vanity? " asked I. 
 Thoughtfully paused she, as though 
 
 the point, to decide, was a new one : 
 '' Mother would tell you that God, 
 
 in giving us beauty, requires us 
 Ever to hold it as His, 
 
 a gift in trust to his credit. 
 Hence, to be vain of it means 
 
 to deny and defraud the true owner, 
 Setting it up in the heart, 
 
 to stand in the place of his image, — 
 Pitiful worship of self, 
 
 far worse than the worship of idols, 
 So, as mother would wish, 
 
 I fain would think of the treasure 
 I'hink of it scarcely at all 
 
 and then with gratitude only. 
 Knowing, as need I must, 
 
 how it pleases those whom I love best." * 
 ** Yes, Cecile, and me, 
 
 beyond aught ever I looked on ; 
 Pleasing the more that you 
 
 as a gift from Heaven regard it. 
 
 * Turner was showing some of his friends one of his landscape 
 paintings, to which he had given a sky of the purest, deepest cerulean 
 hue. 
 
 "I never saw a sky like that," said one of the ladies, who, being 
 English bred, had nrobably never seen a sky that was unsullied by fog 
 or smoke. 
 
 " But would you not like to see such a sky? " drily asked the painter. 
 
CECILIA. 159 
 
 Since seeing you, I've seen 
 
 new beauty in all that's around me, 
 Wondering much what it meant ; 
 
 but now I well understand it; 
 Through your eyes, not mine, 
 
 unconsciously have I been looking; 
 Eyes, which, seeing wherever they turn, 
 
 God's beauty and goodness. 
 Over them shed their light 
 
 and help the less gifted to sec them." 
 She had given me wings; 
 
 that flight had else been beyond me. 
 Higher, perchance, I had flown, 
 
 had only my violin been there. 
 Came then over her face 
 
 a smile most sweet and peculiar ; 
 Such as seldom comes 
 
 where self is already self-conscious. 
 But how oft we mark it 
 
 in bright and susceptible infants, 
 When, with a pat on the cheek, 
 
 we say to them, "Pretty one, sweet one! " 
 Then in our faces they smile, 
 
 not flattered, just pleased, they delight us. 
 Smile, like that which illumes 
 
 the face of a beauteous angel, 
 Who, though conscious of being 
 
 the object of rapt admiration, 
 Thinks of the glory, not 
 
 of the creature, but of the Creator. 
 
160 CECILIA. 
 
 Such her smile as she answered, 
 
 '* How sweet will be that to remember! 
 Yet do I know full well 
 
 that never could I have so helped you, 
 But for the strange new thoughts 
 
 your presence and music have brought me. 
 Somehow, though, I am sad, 
 
 as I look on this sweetfaced evening. 
 There is upon it a light, 
 
 which seeming as other than sunlight, 
 Comes to my heart like the farewell smile 
 
 of a dearly beloved one, 
 Whilst with the light, a voice 
 
 which says, with sweetest reluctance, — 
 That so happy a day 
 
 can come but once in a lifetime.'" 
 Kow were the tears in her eyes, 
 
 which, stealing out, hung on the lashes. 
 Hung till they dropped, unconsciously shed. 
 
 I looked on the landscape; 
 'Twas, indeed, as she said, 
 
 that smile in the light of the evening ; 
 But it was through her eyes, 
 
 not mine, that I could behold it. 
 Yet, reluctant to own 
 
 the reality of It, I answered : 
 ^' Maybe Cecile, the shadows, 
 
 have something to do with that fancy ; 
 Long are they growing and telling 
 
 our day of delight is departing, 
 
CECILIA. 161 
 
 Telling us, too, 'tis time 
 
 we ought to be getting us homeward." 
 Lingering, hand-in-hand, 
 
 we quitted the spot and descended ; 
 Went, like a juvenile Adam and Eve, 
 
 from a juvenile Eden ; 
 Innocent though, and yet. 
 
 with the shadow of forfeiture o'er us, 
 Watched, too, I ween, by the eyes 
 
 which once in heavenly pity 
 Watched the primitive pair, 
 
 departing from forfeited Eden. 
 Homeward we went b}' a way 
 
 which led through another wild woodland, . 
 Clumped with wild jessamine vines 
 
 and mottled with patches of wild flowers. 
 Here, on the day's bright verge, 
 
 'mid far-flung shadows and sunbeams. 
 Must we loiter awhile 
 
 to adorn one another with garlands. 
 These wov'n soon and exchanged, 
 
 a broad wreath deftly I braided, 
 Flowers and spray intermingling, 
 
 and taking her girdle to bind it, 
 Kirtled therewith Cecilia's waist 
 
 and made her a wood-nymph. 
 Meantime, busy was she 
 
 with a wreath of delicate flowerets, 
 
 Trimming my panama hat, 
 
 and then to secure the adornment, 
 11 
 
162 CECILIA. 
 
 Robbing her Spanish sombrero 
 
 of one of its roseate ribbons. 
 Finished the wreath, I kneeled 
 
 to receive it, as were it of bay leaves 
 Twined for the victor's brow. 
 
 Serenely smiling, my wood-nymph 
 Placed the hat on my head, 
 
 then stepping admiringly backward, 
 Gracefully waved her hand, 
 
 spontaneously making the gesture, 
 Used by the deaf-and-dumb 
 
 for expressing intense admiration. 
 Then, with the garlands in hand, 
 
 which each for the other had plaited. 
 Once more homeward we hied, 
 
 by this time merry as ever. 
 When we arrived we found 
 
 that our company all had departed. 
 Those except from afar, 
 
 who with us would tarry till morning ; 
 Out on the lawn were these, 
 
 in free and pleasant dispersion, 
 Under the reddening glow 
 
 of sapphire gilded and silvered, 
 All in wondering gaze 
 
 at the ever-new miracle — sunset ! 
 
CECILIA. 163 
 
 NIGHT OF THE DAY, 
 
 Gone was the golden day ; 
 
 but the silvery night was yet left us ; 
 Body of glory departed 
 
 and coming the spirit-like shadow ; 
 With its blue palimpsest scroll, 
 
 where the ages have written their visions, 
 Whilst through the wildering maze, 
 
 still evermore shining those star-words, 
 Telling of destiny meant 
 
 for life and love everlasting. 
 Sweetly, solemnly smiles 
 
 the hovering, spirit-like shadow, 
 Smiles on the homes of the East, 
 
 where life from dreams is awaking ; 
 Smiles on the homes of the West, 
 
 where life into dreams is relapsing ; 
 Smiles on grassy Kentucky, 
 
 on flowery Louisiana ; 
 Smiles on Jessamine Hill, 
 
 as surely it never has elsewhere ! 
 What doth the west-wind tell 
 
 of the hovering, spirit-like shadow, 
 That, with their whispering leaves, 
 
 the old trees fain would repeat it, 
 For the delight of the twain, 
 
 who make of the mystery, moonlight. 
 
164 CECILIA. 
 
 Out on the portico, guests 
 
 and household, all were assembled ; 
 (Keeping indoors, when Nature, 
 
 for vespers was trimming her star-lamps, 
 Tuning for vespers her winds, 
 
 were self-exclusion from worship.) 
 Three of us sat on the steps, 
 
 on the bottom one we, on the top one 
 Cousin Annette, close by, 
 
 to lend us younglings a half-ear. 
 Whilst she talked with the rest. 
 
 The steps on which we were seated, 
 Edged three sides of the floor 
 
 and with the Corinthian columns, 
 Were of blue limestone hewn ; 
 
 the portico, loftily rising, 
 High as the mansion itself, 
 
 and spacious, too, in proportion, 
 Showed a stately crown 
 
 in a pediment handsomely corniced, 
 Here in the glimmering dusk, 
 
 we sat, all pleasantly talking ; 
 Little French Creole, as elders 
 
 were present, now charmingly childlike. 
 Whilst, as juvenile, I, 
 
 chamelion, aye to her changes. 
 " If dear uncle were here 
 
 this girl would be perfectly happy. 
 Would you could meet him, Clarence ! 
 
 his stories, I know, would delight you. 
 
CECILIA. 165 
 
 Why, he'll start to tell you 
 
 a rigmarole, such as Aladdin, 
 Bring in the Beauties and Jacks, 
 
 or anything else you may call for, 
 Tumble and tangle them up 
 
 and straighten them out as he pleases, 
 Wash the old characters' faces, 
 
 bedizen them out in new costumes, 
 Making them say and do 
 
 . what nobody else ever thought of, 
 And before knowing it — there ! 
 
 you've had a magnificent romance." 
 ''Tell me one of his stories, Cecile." 
 
 "Well, what shall I tell you?" 
 ''Anything, so it goes on, 
 
 and always tries to go faster, 
 And you might quicken the speed 
 
 with the help of a marvelous fiddle." 
 " Fiddle ? I'll see. " And she mused for a moment. 
 
 " No, hardly a fiddle. 
 Only a marvelous horn ; 
 
 we can make us a fiddle of that, though, 
 Just be careful it comes out dry 
 
 from the fount of the Naiad." 
 " Apter, I guess, to come out dry 
 
 from the oak of a Dryad. 
 No wet fiddles for me ; 
 
 and now I bethink me in earnest. 
 Much should I rather you'd tell me 
 
 a legend concerning your namesake. 
 
166 CECILIA. 
 
 St. Cecilia, she being 
 
 the saint of all saints to musicians.*' 
 '* Uncle has told me a story, 
 
 a beautiful one of her wedding ; 
 Told it so often, I know it by heart ; 
 
 and yet am I doubtful 
 If it would interest you." 
 
 " Go to ! why should you be doubtful ? " 
 ' ' Well, 'tis so full of the martyr, 
 
 it scarcely names the musician , 
 Then such a Catholic story, 
 
 and you are a ' Protestant scapegrace. ' " 
 " What I am, never mind now ; 
 
 if it pleases the Protestant scapegrace, 
 Who knows but it may help 
 
 to make him a Catholic scapegoat." 
 So, without further ado, 
 
 Cecilia recited the legend. 
 
CECILIA. 16^ 
 
 THE CROWN OF MARTYRDOM, 
 A L,egend of St. Cecilia. 
 
 Once in the darkest days 
 
 of the city men call ' The Eternal, ' 
 Dwelt in a stately home, 
 
 a rare and adorable maiden ; 
 Peerless in beauty and riches 
 
 and all but princely of kindred. 
 But of the world's pomps little she recked, 
 
 whose eyes from her childhood 
 Many a vision had seen 
 
 of heavenly riches and splendors ; 
 God in the highest her Father, 
 
 the children of heaven her kindred. 
 For to the courts of the blest, 
 
 she'd found the imperial signet. 
 Talisman potent to open 
 
 the portals unknown to the mortal, — 
 Even the Pearl without Price, 
 
 which glowed with the name of Messiah. 
 So serene was her soul, 
 
 her thoughts so pure and exalted. 
 Angels would quit their homes 
 
 for the joy of her beauteous presence, 
 Keeping all evil afar, 
 
 that ever the glories revealed her 
 
168 CECILIA. 
 
 Might on her pure eyes shine, 
 
 unsuUied by taint of the earthly. 
 But in the Faith she stood all lone 
 
 in the house of her fathers ; 
 Faith of the outcast still, 
 
 the poor, the oppressed and the exiled ; 
 Shining the Light of the World 
 
 in secret and perilous places ; 
 True life leading to death, 
 
 true glory to shame and dishonor. 
 Shorn of its pristine beauty, 
 
 the worship of .Nature no longer, 
 Naught had idolatry left 
 
 but pomps and the law of prescription, 
 Bigotry blind and fierce, 
 
 to show for the ancient religion. 
 Well her danger she knew, 
 
 but would unto martyrdom brave it, 
 Death would but vivify life, 
 
 dishonor but magnify glory ; 
 Earth but merge into heaven 
 
 and into the angel the human. 
 Solemnly vowed that fair young girl 
 
 to consecrate virtue, 
 Riches, life, her all 
 
 to the Crucified Beauty and Glory, 
 Living for aye the virgin bride 
 
 of the Heavenly Bridegroom. 
 But whilst thus she dreamed 
 
 and made her solitude blissful, 
 
CECILIA. 169 
 
 Promised was she by her sire 
 
 to a youth who devotedly loved her. 
 Rigid the laws of the king, 
 
 more rigid the laws of the father ; 
 Wed him she must or die ! 
 
 There followed a terrible conflict, 
 Daughter of man and daughter of God 
 
 together contending 
 Till to her sad soul came 
 
 the voice of her guardian angel ; 
 " Wed him, daughter of Man ! 
 
 Entreat him and he will absolve thee ! 
 Wed him, daughter of God ; 
 
 Command him and he will obey thee ! 
 Yielded she then to her fate, 
 
 thus guided by heavenly promptings. 
 Solemn, indeed, was the marriage-feast 
 
 of the sanctified virgin ! 
 Wearing a golden veil 
 
 and robes of golden and silken, 
 Gems and pearls in her hair, 
 
 she shone resplendent as Iris. 
 But when anon he repaired 
 
 to the nuptial chamber, the bridegroom 
 Found her waiting him there 
 
 in robes of immaculate whiteness, 
 Snowily veiled her face ; 
 
 and fixed she stood as a statue ; 
 Fixed as a statue, he, 
 
 as there by a phantom confronted. 
 
170 CECILIA. 
 
 **Is it Cecilia, my bride, 
 
 in vestal garments, I find here ? " 
 " It is Cecilia," she said. 
 
 "To assure me of that, I will kiss thee." 
 Closely held she her veil ; 
 
 as through it he playfully kissed her, 
 Met him the softest breath 
 
 of a rare and delectable perfume, 
 Like that of roses and lilies 
 
 and seeming to come from her tresses. 
 Wondering much, he said : 
 
 "Though this be the month of November 
 Here is my snow-clad bride, 
 
 all sweet with the breath of the summer." 
 "Noble Valerian, a secret 
 
 have I to entrust to thy keeping ; 
 Swear by the thing thou deem'st most 
 
 sacred^ thou ever wilt keep it." 
 "Since under oath to keep thee, 
 
 to keep thine were my privilege also ; 
 Yet will I swear, and swearing 
 
 by that I deem as most sacred, 
 Swear by my lov^e for thee, 
 
 my beauteous, peerless, Cecilia." 
 "Harder, methinks, thou wilt find 
 
 thy bride to keep than her secret. 
 Womanly, then, I confide it ; 
 
 as manly receive it, I pray thee ! 
 Ere I was promised to thee, 
 
 affianced was I to another, 
 
CECILIA. 171 
 
 And unto him was vowed 
 
 to live a perpetual virgin. 
 List, those vows abide 
 
 and shouldst thou seek to profane them, 
 Mighty is one to avenge, — 
 
 my guardian angel and witness ! " 
 Darkened the bridegroom's brow ; 
 
 his hand he laid on his poniard. 
 ' * I will respect thy vows 
 
 and keep in all honor thy secret ; 
 But if another man's love 
 
 interposes between us, ye both die ! " 
 " Hear me. Valerian, then, 
 
 if thou deem'st me unwomanly, slay me ! 
 Thou hast no rival on Earth ; 
 
 this mine is the Heavenly Bridegroom, 
 Son of the God of Gods 
 
 and of Mary, the Nazarene Virgin." 
 Sternly he checked her : " Being 
 
 thus plighted, why wed then another, 
 Mocking the man who adored 
 
 thee with merely the semblance of wedlock ?' ' 
 Wept she then and betrayed 
 
 true woman still left in the angel. 
 *' Oh, that thought ! It has cost me 
 
 the bitterest tears of my lifetime. 
 Tears that have channeled miy soul. 
 
 But, noble Valerian, hear me ! 
 What could a weak girl 
 
 do? As a reverent, dutiful daughter, 
 
172 CECILIA. 
 
 Yield I must to paternal command, 
 
 whilst deeming as sacred, 
 Still more sacred and binding 
 
 the duty I owed my religion, 
 Which in Rome heretical deemed, 
 
 were scarce to be pleaded. 
 In my distress, I turned 
 
 to my guardian angel for counsel. 
 * Wed,' said he, ' this youth, 
 
 and trust for the rest to his honor. 
 He will not only absolve 
 
 his bride from forced obligations. 
 But, through her, rich offerings bring 
 
 to the Heavenly Bridegroom.' " 
 ''Nothing, CeciHa, stands 
 
 under Heaven that I am more sure of 
 Than of thy virtue and truth. 
 
 But to color my faith with my knowledge 
 Fain would I see with eyes 
 
 of mine this guardian angel ! " 
 ' ' That were a vision too bright 
 
 for eyes unlit by the glory 
 Shed from the light of our faith ; 
 
 and that is the reason thou see'st not 
 What here circles my brow, 
 
 whose summery fragrance delights thee. 
 Even a crown of roses 
 
 and HHes from Heaven's own gardens. 
 Yet but a token Is this 
 
 that crowned for martyrdom's triumphs, 
 
CECILIA. 173 
 
 Martyrdom witnessing him 
 
 the Crucified Beauty and Glory, 
 Stands Ceciha, thy bride. 
 
 Though virgin vows interposed not, 
 Soon had she vanished away 
 
 from the shadowy things of thy Hfetime. 
 Yet, oh generous friend, 
 
 still strong is the human within me, 
 Mine acknowledging thine 
 
 in pity and womanly yearnings. 
 But the divine from above which prompts 
 
 our best aspirations, 
 Power, that evermore keeps 
 
 our destinies heavenward tending, — 
 Lo ! is stronger still ; 
 
 and stronger in thee than thou dreamest, — 
 Thine acknowledging mine 
 
 in pure and exalted aspirings ; 
 Sympathies springing from loves 
 
 the human could never give birth to. 
 Yet, had the loves not spoken, 
 
 these roses and lilies had told me. 
 Though to thee viewless the flowers, 
 
 apparent to thee is their perfume, 
 Bless'd assurance that thou 
 
 art not far from the gardens of Jesus! 
 Oh, then enter and ever more dwell 
 
 with Him and His angels ! " 
 '* Sweet is thy voice, as were it 
 
 already the voice of an angel ; 
 
174 CECILIA. 
 
 Let me behold thy face." 
 
 The white veil gently he lifted. 
 "Face all angel-like, too! 
 
 Enshroud it no more, I beseech you, 
 Lest a light I lose 
 
 which there and for me I see dawning. 
 Tell me, bride of my soul, 
 
 since henceforth such I must deem thee, 
 Tell me, to see what thou see'st 
 
 and lov'st with the love of a martyr, 
 How may my eyes be illumed, 
 
 my heart made pure to receive it ? " 
 '' Go," she joyfully cried, 
 
 "oh, speed thee to Urban, our bishop, 
 Who can reveal thee all 
 
 and sanctify thee to receive it. 
 Under the bans of the world's stern ruler, 
 
 he lies in concealment. 
 Deepen the Catacombs' maze, 
 
 a ghastly security finding ; 
 Fleeing from death to the dead, 
 
 from the dead dispensing the deathless ! 
 But if thou follow the Appian Way 
 
 to the hut by the league-stone. 
 There some beggars, who love me, 
 
 abide, and to Urban will lead thee." 
 Then did Valerian go, 
 
 but when he was come to the league-stone. 
 There, instead of a beggar, 
 
 a shape of celestial brightness. 
 
CECILIA. 175 
 
 Found he waiting his coming, 
 
 of beauty so lucidly blooming, 
 Seemed she to glister still 
 
 with the sheens of Elysian mornings. 
 Blissfulness purely divine 
 
 imbued the human within her ; 
 But with a cast which told 
 
 'twas the purchase of martyrdom's anguish. 
 ''Thou, who hast wedded and nobly absolved 
 
 a sanctified virgin, 
 Finding acceptance in Him, 
 
 the Crucified Beauty and Glory, 
 Find In His hand-maid here. 
 
 a redeemed one ready to lead thee, 
 Where, 'mid shades of death, 
 
 his life-light shineth undying." 
 Plainly heard he the voice ; 
 
 and yet, to Valerian's spirit, 
 Seemed it to come from afar, 
 
 as were it from heaven descending. 
 Swift to be led and to lead, 
 
 all silently glided they onward ; 
 Now o'er star-lit fields, 
 
 and now through the groves of the temples, 
 Where, with altars high 
 
 and priests in solemn attendance, 
 Under the sombre trees, 
 
 stood many a mythical statue, 
 Shadowing forth the faith 
 
 of the pagan and bigoted Roman. 
 
176 CECILIA. 
 
 There, for ages had stood, 
 
 the tempests of Heaven defying ; 
 But as Valerian's guide, 
 
 in Heaven's serenity passed them, 
 And the Divine, through her, 
 
 with its terrible radiance smote then\ 
 Bending their marble knees 
 
 and stately heads in submission, 
 Prone to the earth they sank, 
 
 disshrined and humbled forever. 
 Yawned before them anon 
 
 the Catacombs' horrible entrance. 
 Through it she glided and all 
 
 unshrinking, Valerian followed ; 
 Yea, through the jaws of death, 
 
 had followed that living resplendence ! 
 Scarce had they entered, when solemn and low 
 
 from the innermost chamber, 
 Filling the corridors dark, 
 
 came strains of worshiping music. 
 ''List, oh list," she said, 
 
 her beauty new beauties assumiing, 
 ** Hear in those hymns, the voice of thy bride, 
 
 the angeHc Cecilia ! 
 Till through her, sang Heaven, 
 
 the worshiping Christians were songless, 
 Silently sending their praise 
 
 to be voiced and choired by the angels." 
 
CECILIA. 177 
 
 Reached a chapeled vault, 
 
 the radiant messenger vanished, 
 Leaving Valerian there 
 
 In the presence of Urban, the bishop. 
 "Christian Father, this night have I wedded 
 
 the virgin Cecilia, 
 Virgin still, and she sends 
 
 me to thee for the Truth that redeems us." 
 Down on his knees sank Urban 
 
 and long and fervently prayed he. 
 When was ended the prayer, 
 
 St. Paul's beatified spirit 
 Suddenly shone In their midst, 
 
 displaying before them the Gospels, 
 Written in letters of gold. 
 
 As the luminous scroll was unfolded. 
 Book by book, Valerian's eyes, 
 
 divinely directed. 
 Sought the particular truths 
 
 most near to the dawnings within him. 
 Broke then the light on his soul 
 
 and fervently thus did he witness. 
 
 ** Truth must be his, whose words on earth 
 the Divine could awaken ! 
 Life be his, who on earth could live 
 
 the life of the angels ! 
 Powers be his, who on earth could erect 
 a Heavenly Kingdom ! 
 12 
 
178 CECILIA. 
 
 Glory be his, who, Lord of the Heavens, 
 to Earth could exile Him ! 
 
 Crowns be his, who offers to earth 
 
 but the cross that He died on. 
 
 Father, the Cross for the Crown I will bear. 
 Receive and anoint me." 
 
 And with his eyes made clear 
 
 to see the invisible glory, 
 Heart made pure to receive it, 
 
 Valerian stood a redeemed one. 
 Then with the Pope's benediction, 
 
 and snow-white garments now wearing, 
 Glided he back through the night, 
 
 like a spirit in glad resurrection. 
 When to the chamber returned, 
 
 a wondrous vision beheld he. 
 Burned no taper within, 
 
 no moonlight shone through the casement ; 
 Yet was the room all bright 
 
 with the radiance of the immortal. 
 Kneeling was she in prayer, 
 
 a nimbus quivering round her ; 
 Viewless no longer to him 
 
 her crown of roses and lilies ; 
 Nor, where he stood at her side, 
 
 her glorious guardian angel, 
 Who, as Valerian entered, 
 
 with his words shed softer than moonbeams 
 
CECILIA. 179 
 
 Held forth a crown like hers, 
 
 still fresh with the dews of Elysium. 
 ** Virgin bride, arise! 
 
 thy petition for Him is accepted. 
 Virgin bridegroom, come 
 
 and be crowned with thy bride unto triumphs. 
 Twain in chastity stand ye, 
 
 but one in martyrdom's wedlock. 
 Crowned unto death with deathless flowers, 
 
 which witnessing henceforth 
 How ye have suffered and triumphed, 
 
 shall ever in Heaven attest you 
 Worthy to sit at the feast 
 
 of the Bridegroom who hath redeemed you. 
 Sunk in dishonor 
 
 was He, that ye might rise unto glory ; 
 Crowned with thorns, that ye 
 
 might wear these lilies and roses ; 
 Which are to thorns, as martyrdom's pangs 
 
 to Divine Crucifixion ; 
 Which are to thorns, as the lives ye receive 
 
 to the lives ye relinquish. 
 Then, that the life of lives, 
 
 with the God of Gods, is the martyr's, 
 Joy to the martyr's bride 
 
 and joy to the martyr's bridegroom/* 
 
180 CECILIA. 
 
 Little French Creole had gone 
 
 but a few lines on in her legend, 
 When, suspending their talk, 
 
 the elders had soberly listened, 
 She too rapt in her theme 
 
 to notice the silence around her. 
 Waiting till they had resumed, 
 
 I ventured to offer a comment. 
 
 '*That had the sound, indeed, 
 
 of a strangely beautiful story, 
 Seeing I listened as would I 
 
 to one of Beethoven's Adagios, 
 Which I can better absorb 
 
 by dreaming than wide-awake thinking. 
 Dreaming, though, I suspect, 
 
 were hardly the mood for your legend, 
 Leaving the good sense out 
 
 and only absorbing the music. 
 Then, too, whilst she spoke, 
 
 so awfully womanly seemed she 
 That, for watching Cecile, 
 
 I could scarce keep sight of Cecilia. 
 Even with all my wits 
 
 awake and on duty, 'tis doubtful 
 I could quite understand it. 
 
 But you, Cecile, understand it." 
 ** Oh no, indeed, not as it is meant, 
 
 but just as I take it. 
 
CECILIA. 181 
 
 Uncle is often too deep, 
 
 you must know, for my comprehension. 
 You now tell me a story." 
 
 ** And spoil yours ? " 
 
 ** Why should it, I wonder?" 
 ** Fancy how it would look — 
 
 a crock with poppies and sunflowers 
 Set by an antique vase. 
 
 with Heaven's own roses and lilies, — 
 Then shall you see why." 
 ^'No, 
 being tired of roses and lilies, 
 Glad should I be to rest my eyes 
 
 on poppies and sunflowers." 
 ** Fancy, then, how it would sound, 
 
 for a rollicking fiddler to come in 
 Fiddling- his reels, 
 
 where angels but now were harping their 
 anthems," 
 **No, if he fiddled it well, 
 
 I'd think no more of the anthems, 
 Heathenish girl that I am, 
 
 but fall to skipping and dancing." 
 '• Fancy again, then — " 
 "No, 
 I'll fancy no more of your nonsense." 
 Here an agreeable end 
 
 was put to the juvenile contest. 
 Songs, they said, they must have, 
 
 and sung out there in the moonlight ; 
 
182 CECILIA. 
 
 All unaccompanied, too, 
 
 by sound of guitar or piano. 
 So, Cecile must go 
 
 and sing in duet with her mother. 
 And it was music to haunt ; 
 
 for when into silence resolved it, 
 Scarce could silence return 
 
 to the echoing ear that had listened. 
 Well I remember each song, 
 
 and some of them, never to this day 
 Have I recalled or heard, 
 
 but vividly comes to remembrance, 
 Back through the gathering dreams, 
 
 the beautiful mother and daughter, 
 Giving to night a voice 
 
 the resounding years have not silenced. 
 When the duets were sung, 
 
 her foster-brother and father, 
 Joining Cecile and her mother, 
 
 some glees completed the programme. 
 
 But on the closing song, 
 
 I fain would in memory linger ; 
 Serenade, solemn and sweet, 
 
 fit voice to the spirit-like shadow. 
 First, indeterminate chords, 
 
 scarce more than aeolian breathings, 
 Stealing from far on the ear, 
 
 as still on the borders of dreamland ; 
 
CECILIA. 183 
 
 Stealing so soft that silence, 
 
 'twixt waking and sleeping, still slumbers ; 
 Dying away then, merged and lost 
 
 in the fathomless moonlight ; 
 Thence, though, soon to return, 
 
 less shadowy than from the dreamlight. 
 Now full-flowing the harmony surges, 
 
 and reaching our rapt souls. 
 Lifts them up and bears them away 
 
 into memory's twilights. 
 There to be softly dropt 
 
 and left deliciously drifting, — 
 Drifting from dreams to dreams, 
 
 and Elysian vanishing ever. 
 Exquisite blending of voices : 
 
 My blind friend, granting him present, 
 Would have described the effect 
 
 as an exquisite blending of colors. 
 Slumberous dawn-gray bass, 
 
 to jet black shading when lowest ; 
 Mellowest gold-red tenor, 
 
 to sun-red flashing when highest ; 
 Tenderest violet alto, 
 
 to rose-red brightening in rising, — 
 All intervolved, interfused, 
 
 and to make the impression more dream-like, 
 All, as a background self-subdued 
 
 to that girlish soprano, 
 Which, now rosy, now purple, 
 
 with silvery gleamings in rising, 
 
184 CECILIA. 
 
 Shone forth clearly defined 
 
 from the harmony's glistering fabric, 
 As the ethereal bow 
 
 from the many-hued glories of evening. 
 Something though in this song, 
 
 far deeper, was joined to the dreamlight, 
 Breathing as did it, the purest, 
 
 the highest of love's aspirations ; 
 Though in so tender a strain, 
 
 so fraught with ineffable yearnings. 
 That, if a hope rose with it, 
 
 in Heaven must wait the fulfillment. 
 Ecstasy e'en in despair, 
 
 a blissfulness only to dream on, 
 E'en while augured the void, 
 
 the dreamer must feel upon waking, — 
 Void more felt, that its seat 
 
 was erst the abode of such rapture. 
 Sad, oh sad, the music, 
 
 whose echoes betray the prophetic ! 
 Echo, the blithe hath none, 
 
 beyond the delight it is giving. 
 This I divined not then ; 
 
 but memory tells me I felt it. 
 Seeming to hear in the words 
 
 which formed an irregular burden, — 
 'Sleep on, take your rest.' — 
 
 Those tremulous, powerful accents, 
 Which in world-wide echoes, 
 
 from dear Gethsemane went forth, . 
 
CECILIA. 185 
 
 Speaking the heavens of love, 
 
 the Divine then breathed through the human. 
 Tears irrepressibly welled in my eyes, 
 
 like the music, prophetic ;- — 
 Tears for the sorrows that haunt us, 
 
 their shadowings ever around us ! 
 Tears for the joys that elude us, 
 
 their vanishings ever before us ! 
 Nor in mine only, but tears 
 
 in the eyes of all who were listening ; 
 Yet were the singers serene, 
 
 subdued to a musical calmness 
 Too profound for emotion, 
 
 with something of awfulness in it. 
 Like of the heavenly choirs, 
 
 when tuning their harmonies earthward, 
 Sing they the martyrdoms meet 
 
 for bliss and the highest perfections. 
 Scarce could I tell when it ceased, 
 
 the silence which followed the close 
 Seeming to lengthen it 
 
 as adding to music a twilight. 
 Softly descending the steps, 
 
 Cecile reseated her near me. 
 But how womanly grown ! 
 
 The passionate music had aged her 
 Out of the juvenile sphere 
 
 in which I had hitherto viewed her. 
 She had returned to my side ; 
 
 was looking up at me and smiUng, — 
 
186 CECTLIA. 
 
 Smiling as glad to be back ; 
 
 yet was it a brightness so star-like, 
 Scarce could I deem her the girl 
 
 with whom I had played in the greenwood. 
 Mute we sat, till the rest 
 
 had broken the resonant silence, 
 When I began : ''Your music, Cecile, 
 
 has filled me with sadness ; 
 Yet do I rather enjoy 
 
 my something other than Clarence. 
 How does Cecile enjoy 
 
 her something else than Cecilia ? " 
 * ' Am I not now Cecilia ? ' ' 
 
 '* Oh yes, in the canonized fashion ; 
 Not, though, little Cecile, 
 
 the girl who tripped to my music. 
 Laughed at my nonsense ; you look 
 
 like a thing I could never come near to." 
 ' ' That is because I am sleepy 
 
 and slipping from you into dreamland ; 
 But if Cousin Annette 
 
 will please be seated beside me. 
 Lending her lap for a pillow, 
 
 I'll sleep five minutes, then wake up, 
 Little Cecile once more 
 
 the thing you can come anear to." 
 Cousin Annette acquiesced 
 
 and declining upon her, Cecilia 
 Sank in a moment to sleep; 
 
 our far-stretched afternoon ramble, 
 
CECILIA. 187 
 
 Though so lightly sped, 
 
 had wearied her more than she knew of. 
 Thus in oblivion sweet, 
 
 all beauteous lay she before us. 
 Shadowy flowing of tresses, 
 
 whence came delectable perfume, 
 Calling to mind the crown 
 
 of invisible roses and lilies ; 
 Face upturned to the hallowing light 
 
 of the spirit-like shadow. 
 Hallowing, since there finding 
 
 a place for unsullied reflection. 
 Silently on it we gazed, 
 
 her right hand dropping beside me, 
 Gently I took it In mine; 
 
 a responsive clasp that abided, 
 Softly responsive still, 
 
 revealed that the spirit but slumbered. 
 Exquisite lips just parted, 
 
 a sweet smile coming and going, 
 As if a memory bright 
 
 a dream's bright form were assuming. 
 Face so pure in sleep, 
 
 could never in waking express aught. 
 Angels might not see 
 
 and smiHngly, lovingly tell of. 
 " Sleep on, take your rest, " 
 
 the words of the serenade's burden 
 Haunted my rapt soul still, 
 
 a nameless sadness inducing. 
 
188 CECILIA. 
 
 " Is she not beautiful, Clarence? " 
 
 said Cousin Annette in a Avhisper. 
 Whispering, too, I replied, 
 
 '' Beyond aught ever I dreamed of. 
 Yet 'tis a beauty that saddens 
 
 me, too, as well as delights me ; " 
 ** Why, dear cousin, is this ? " 
 
 ''Because it seems to be Heaven's 
 Rather than Earth's, thus making us feel 
 
 as were it beyond us, 
 Only prospectively ours 
 
 an earnest of beauty immortal ! " 
 " What, do you mean she must die ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, her mother was doubtless 
 Just as beautiful once 
 
 and the same thing imaged to others, 
 Making it manifest still 
 
 in the beautiful life she is living." 
 Over the lovely girl, 
 
 thus sat we talking in whispers, 
 Till the old clock on the stairs 
 
 announced the hour of eleven ; 
 Then did her father come down, 
 
 but seeing her sleeping so child-like — 
 " Let her sleep on," he said, 
 
 and taking her up in his fond arms, 
 Bore her softly to bed ; 
 
 The rest of us presently followed. 
 
CECILIA. 
 
 189 
 
 And, ere long, lay Jessamine Hill 
 asleep in the moonlight, 
 
 Lulled and bedreamed by sweet alternations 
 of silence and night- winds. 
 
 MORNING AFTER THE DAY. 
 
 Up rose gladsome Phoebus 
 
 and up rose gladsomer Clarence : 
 When had he risen so early, 
 
 and yet from slumbers so dreamless? 
 He but awoke to a dream, 
 
 as yet too real for slumber. 
 Down to the library stealing, 
 
 I woke the voice of the Elf-maid, 
 Yet so softly as might 
 
 but lengthen the dreams of the sleepers. 
 (Though Cecile may hear it 
 
 and hearing, bethink her to join me.) 
 Facing the window, I sat, 
 
 to enjoy with the music the morning, 
 Whence came influence sweet, 
 
 immingling itself with the music. 
 As the impromptu birth 
 
 of young and exuberant fancy. 
 (Though not come for an hour, 
 
 nor think of it then, peradventure.) 
 So I played on, with my mind, 
 
 but half on the music and morning, 
 
190 CECILIA. 
 
 Till with the two came blended 
 
 that delicate Orient perfume, 
 Telling of Paradise near ; 
 
 when there stood she in the doorway, 
 Fresh as Aurora bedewed, 
 
 scarce lacking the star in the forehead. 
 Down in the window she sat, 
 
 directly confronting m.e, saying : 
 ''Here is the youth and here is the maid 
 
 and here, too, the chamber, 
 Where one morning in June — 
 
 or am I at home and but dreaming?" 
 ''True to the letter, Cecile, 
 
 and delighted am I to confirm it. 
 How are your fancies this morning?" 
 
 "Assuredly those of a lady, 
 When I bethink me how 
 
 I was carried to bed like a baby. 
 What can you say for your own ? " 
 
 "That heard you but now from the Elf- 
 maid." 
 "Yes, and glorious, too, 
 
 and glorious still, said the Elf-maid." 
 "Not so glorious, though, 
 
 as sorry, pitiful, mournful, 
 That, so soon must go 
 
 the fairy who danced to our music." 
 Brighter, the bright face grew. 
 
 Prelusive this briUiant suggestion : 
 
CECILIA. 191 
 
 "Clarence, you, too, go; 
 
 and we'll climb the white mountains to- 
 gether. 
 Bunker Hill Monument, too, 
 
 and see the perfections of Boston, 
 Visit Niagara, voyage the Lakes, 
 
 descend the St. Lawrence, 
 Take long rambles at Newport, 
 
 picking up shells on the sea-shore. 
 Do but say you'll go and, oh, 
 
 so glad it will make me." 
 ' ' Too glad would it make me ; 
 
 and with you I'd ramble, Cecilia, 
 Green earth over and over, 
 
 but, oh, I am only a boy yet ! " 
 * ' Pity the boy and the girl 
 
 are not yet the man and the woman ! " 
 Thus she spoke, and softly 
 
 the strings of my instrument thrumming. 
 Long in silence I sat; 
 
 she meanwhile smiling serenely. 
 Bright eyes full upon mine, 
 
 although the look that illumed them 
 Seemed on something to rest 
 
 beyond their natural vision. 
 " Ever your eyes are on mine ; 
 
 what is it, CeciHa, you see there?" 
 "You," she replied, "your soul, 
 
 a thing I have learned to delight in, — 
 
192 CECILIA. 
 
 Yes and to love." 
 
 More softly the strings of my instrument 
 thrumming, 
 Longer in silence I sat, 
 
 to the fullest returning, as needs must, 
 Look for look, though quite 
 
 at a loss how to shape her an answer. 
 None, though, seemed she as yet to expect, 
 
 as were she still speaking. 
 Which, in effect, she was, 
 
 for silence in her was expression. 
 E'en for a tell-tale blush 
 
 too self-unconscious, she sat there. 
 Elbow resting on knee, 
 
 chin resting in hand, and her large eyes 
 Now as solemn as bright. 
 
 The pause full meted, resumed she ; 
 ** Many times yesterday, Clarence, 
 
 I looked In your eyes and beheld there 
 You, your soul, I mean, 
 
 and felt that to mine it was kindred. 
 Which was why I could see it, 
 
 though wondering what it betokened. 
 Late in the evening, though, 
 
 when you so earnestly told me 
 How when we were together, 
 
 you saw new beauty in all things. 
 Guessed I then what it meant ; 
 
 that we were ordained for each other. 
 
CECILIA. 193 
 
 Then, too, after we'd sung 
 
 and I slept by your side in the moonlight, 
 Something spoke to my heart, 
 
 my guess most sweetly confirming. 
 Once in the night I awoke, 
 
 your music still haunting my spirit 
 Seeming as yesterday's voice 
 
 and making me fancy that we two 
 Never had lived in a time 
 
 when were we unknown to each other ; 
 That we had met in a land 
 
 where the angels sing with the dwellers. 
 Then did I think of some Hnes 
 
 I oft hear uncle repeating, 
 Which I will try to recall : 
 
 ' Our birth is a sleep, a forgetting ; 
 Elsewhere has set the soul 
 
 which here rises with us, our life-star; 
 Trailings of glory, we com.e 
 
 from our Father's imperial palace, — 
 Trailings and wanings, but Heaven 
 
 still lying about us in childhood.' 
 No, that's nothing but prose ; 
 
 I'm getting it all in a tangle, 
 So I will stop just there; 
 
 too beautiful is it to jumble." 
 Paused she smiling, then added: *' You 
 
 now will go with me surely." 
 **Come I will when a man, 
 
 If then the woman Cecilia 
 13 
 
194 CECILIA. 
 
 Only remembers how 
 
 the girl Cecile would have blessed me." 
 ** But she would bless you now ; 
 
 no mother have you, and no father ; 
 Share with me mine, my sweet, sweet home, 
 
 my beautiful city. 
 Whilst we are yet so young, 
 
 can live we as brother and sister ; 
 Then, like father and mother, 
 
 and happy are they as the angels." 
 How should I meetly respond ? 
 
 My love, by sympathy found out, 
 Ere well known to myself, 
 
 why, then, should her own be a secret? 
 She was so natural, needs she must 
 
 be guided by nature. 
 Whilst too true to herself 
 
 to find in that mentor a false one. 
 From the beginning, indeed, 
 
 our love, by look and by gesture. 
 Even by love's own words, 
 
 unconsciously had we been speaking. 
 Now rise mine to my lips 
 
 as it might, no utterance found it ; 
 None but the now scarce audible thrummings. 
 
 Had less of the child-like. 
 More of the girl-like shown in her manner, 
 
 I could have forestalled her. 
 Gallantly, too, instead 
 
 of thus waiting.at home for the wooer. 
 
CECILIA. 195 
 
 But in this very directness, 
 
 this infantine clearness, was something 
 Harder to meet than art,-— 
 
 that questionless, reverent trusting, 
 Which referring its loves 
 
 and hopes to divine dispensation, 
 Sanctifies them and hence 
 
 feels sure of response and fulfillment. 
 Solemn as all this was, 
 
 a somewhat ludicrous fancy 
 Must obtrude itself, 
 
 despite my wish to repulse it : 
 Here a frolicsome boy, 
 
 and there a juvenile angel, 
 Bidding him fly with her, wings 
 
 or not, to a juvenile Eden, 
 Somewhere under the sky, 
 
 and happy she'd make him forever. 
 When at last did I speak, 
 
 'twas an utterance suddenly prompted, 
 "That you do really see my soul, 
 
 no longer I question. 
 For in your eyes now I see 
 
 yours, and to see it, Cecilia, 
 Is to discern in your dream 
 
 the beautiful meaning you give it." 
 **Yes, and I want you to see it. 
 
 That tells me again it is Clarence, 
 Who, with my God, my mother 
 
 and father, must ever have part there." 
 
196 CECILIA. 
 
 Out of self-consciousness thrilled 
 
 at last, I fervently answered : 
 ' * You have a tongue for your heart ; 
 
 were I, Cecilia, so gifted. 
 Then could I tell you how proud, 
 
 how more than happy you make me. 
 Tell, in suitable words, 
 
 the love your beauty, your goodness, 
 All that you have and are, 
 
 so strangely awaken within me. 
 This great love you give me, 
 
 surpasses, I know, my deserving ; 
 But it will make me deserving, 
 
 if aught under Heaven can do it ; 
 Keeping in mind what I hope for 
 
 may make me what I aspire to. 
 When I am that and a man, 
 
 and the woman remembers the promise 
 Made by the girl long since, 
 
 I'll come, of men, the most happy." 
 Now was each bright eye 
 
 more liquid than bright, as she answered 
 '* So be it then, as would it were now ! 
 
 and ever the kind saints, 
 Morning and evening, I'll pray 
 
 to shield you, prosper and bless you." 
 Then with her chin in her hand, 
 
 for several moments, she sat there. 
 Smiling, as were our dream 
 
 already a realization. 
 
CECILIA. 197 
 
 Sweet were her silences, sweet as her words, 
 
 new sweetness preluding. 
 *'No, 'twere hardly a possible thing; 
 
 we have never met elsewhere 
 Just for the first time met 
 
 to see in each other our futures." 
 Musingly said she at length, 
 
 and again was expressively silent. 
 "Is there a farewell smile 
 
 in the light of this morning, Cecilia? " 
 Turning her eyes, she glanced 
 
 through the window that opened beyond me. 
 *' No, not a farewell smile ; a smile 
 
 of heavenly welcome. 
 Now, let the Elf-maid speak 
 
 and something as glad as the morning." 
 So a fantasia I played, 
 
 a dilution of Mendelssohn's Spring Song, — 
 Music suggestive of flowers 
 
 and birds and exuberant sunshine. 
 Played till my listener's eyes 
 
 began to take shadow from dreamland. 
 Breaking abruptly off, I exclaimed, 
 
 "But tell me, Cecilia, 
 Sure are you now you'll never turn saint 
 
 and canonize me, too ? 
 If you are going to martyr your boy, 
 
 he must modulate somewhere." 
 Waking up, merrily laughed 
 
 that genial little French Creole. 
 
198 CECILIA. 
 
 ** Oh, don't modulate there ! 
 
 No substance here for a martyr ; 
 Your CeciHa for that 
 
 is far too human a body ; 
 Never may she be crowned 
 
 with invisible roses and liUes. 
 Had she the mending of things, 
 
 she'd say to the dwellers in convents, 
 ' Give poor Earth her due ; 
 
 sweet Heaven will never be jealous : 
 Nuns and monks do well, 
 
 but wives and husbands do better.'" 
 '' Bless me ! if that's your style, 
 
 for martyrdom stand we already ! 
 That, of itself, were enough 
 
 for two invisible chaplets." 
 Girl, now uppermost, laughed she again 
 
 and taking the Elf-maid, 
 Merrily sawed her strings. 
 
 '* If could I but play on the fiddle ! 
 You, though, will teach me, and fiddlers both, 
 
 farewell to your martyrs! " 
 Thus, in a fashion our own, 
 
 our young hearts truly we plighted ; 
 All as instinctively, too, 
 
 as birdlings met in the greenwood ; 
 Pleased with each other, 
 
 together they sing, build nests, and are 
 happy. 
 
CECILIA. 199 
 
 Nor less happy, I ween, 
 
 for a timely summons to breakfast ; 
 Nor less hungry, I ween, 
 
 for all their wooing and cooing. 
 There, with the elder guests 
 
 and the household waiting to greet them. 
 Home-sweet feelings awoke 
 
 to the new dream lending enhancement. 
 Past this cheerfulle8t hour 
 
 in the daily renewal of life's course. 
 Blithely, one and all, 
 
 to the portico then we betook us. 
 There to receive in our hearts 
 
 the sweet benedictio'ns of morning. 
 Whilst they were dewy from Heaven 
 
 and burdened the songs of the zephyr. 
 We were together alone 
 
 no more till the moment of parting ; 
 But we'd had our say, 
 
 and now on one of the benches, 
 Shyly apart we sat, 
 
 with clearest, silentest love-stream 
 Smihngly flowing betwixt, 
 
 till smilingly gliding betwixt us, 
 Down sat cousin Annette, 
 
 and, bridge-like, spanning the streamlet. 
 Offered the dreamers a way 
 
 of midway coming together, 
 Which, in a twinkling, seen, 
 
 they skipped, at once to Elysium, 
 
200 CECILIA. 
 
 Thanking, with gratitude rare, 
 
 the bridge that was helping them over. 
 Smiling, I said, was Annette ; 
 
 so, doubtless, the rest of the elders ; 
 Whilst all innocent we, 
 
 how obvious made we the vision, 
 Wherein now we were living 
 
 and moving and having our being. 
 French-like, suddenly rallying spirits, 
 
 our little French Creole 
 Now was herself once more, 
 
 or rather her fairy-self, something 
 Arch, fatastic, unique, 
 
 its bright, gay presence betraying 
 Oft in fairy-like freaks, 
 
 as well as in fairy-like fancies. 
 Darting away from our side, 
 
 she now goes skipping and dancing 
 Into the house, and skipping and dancing, 
 
 returns with the Elf-maid, 
 Held, Terpsichore-Hke, 
 
 which pleadingly handing the owner, 
 Airily poised she stands, 
 
 as awaiting but music to float on. 
 Blithely it flows and blithely she floats ; 
 
 on roundelay wavelets 
 Now, as were she a Naiad, 
 
 askip on a zephyr-swept streamlet ; 
 Then more stately, on long waltz waves, 
 
 as were she a sea-nymph, 
 
CECILIA. 201 
 
 Letting herself waft freely away 
 
 on the billows of ocean. 
 Soon, though, softened she down 
 
 to the self-unconscious and dream-like 
 Till scarce seemed she aware 
 
 of more than music and motion. 
 When in this mood, her beauty and grace 
 
 seemed kindred to ether. 
 Something which, Undine-like, 
 
 might float in the air till it melted. 
 Those, familiar with me watched her, 
 
 in wonderment gazing ; 
 Those familiar with her watched me, 
 
 in wonderment listening ; 
 All, save Jules de Villiers, 
 
 who divided his notice between us. 
 Joy in his eyes when he gazed, 
 
 with a shadow of pain when he listened. 
 Why, I divined not then, 
 
 though afterward well understood it 
 Thus, half-dreaming herself, 
 
 she, dream-like, floated before us 
 Till, surceasing the music 
 
 and nothing remaining to float on, 
 Like a somnambulist roused, 
 
 she sank down softly beside us. 
 Now drawn up in front of the mansion, 
 
 the carriages waited. 
 Come was the hour of parting ; 
 
 of hours the sweetest and saddest. 
 
202 CECILIA. 
 
 When the departing would stay, 
 
 as fain the others be going. 
 Up to their rooms our guests withdrew 
 
 to prepare for departure ; 
 Into the Hbrary 
 
 I, and tenderly cradled the Elf-maid. 
 There in pensive mood, 
 
 I was standing at one of the windows, 
 When Cecile I spied, 
 
 where out in the yard she was stroUing, 
 CuUing at intervals, flowers, 
 
 till, come to a Jessamine arbor, 
 Standing near the stile, 
 
 she presently entered and vanished. 
 Speeding at once to her side, 
 
 I found her arranging a posey 
 Out of the flowers, where strewn 
 
 on a rustic bench she had thrown them. 
 Gauntleted, hatted, she'd come, 
 
 and there but awaited the others. 
 Spoke she never a word, 
 
 nor even looked up as I entered. 
 Catching the spell of the moment, 
 
 in silence, I handed the fair girl, 
 One by one, the flowers, 
 
 which she, in silence, receiving, 
 Placed them each to the other, as seemed 
 
 my choice to determine. 
 When the bouquet was arranged, 
 
 with one of her ribbons she tied it ; 
 
CECILIA. 203 
 
 Placed it then in my hand 
 
 and looking up wistfully smiling, 
 Eyes all glistering, said : 
 
 *' I culled the flowers for mother; 
 You, though, keep them." 
 
 "And given me thus, will keep them forever." 
 " No, just keep them, till meet. we again, 
 
 when you shall have fresh ones.'' 
 Sweetly with this she smiled ; 
 
 more sweetly still, as she added : 
 ** These for the young girl's promise, 
 
 and those for the woman's fulfillment. 
 But, goodbye ! they are coming : — 
 
 Goodbye : — Now Clarence may kiss me." 
 One long, lingering kiss, 
 
 and ere the delight of it ended — 
 (Child-like offered, girl-like yielded, 
 
 woman-like bated — ) 
 Forth from her eyes a warm gush came, 
 
 bedewing both faces. 
 And, with that kiss, she had entered 
 
 my innermost being forever ! 
 And with that kiss she was gone 
 
 from the uttermost reach of my lifetime. 
 Set was the sun of my joy, 
 
 my young dream's gathering twilight. 
 Body of glory departed 
 
 and coming the spirit-like shadows. 
 
204 CECILIA, 
 
 THE MIDSUMMER-NIGIIT S DREAM. 
 Annette to Clarence. 
 
 Clarence, dear Cousin and Friend : 
 
 To ascend at once to the climax, 
 Drive to the Ne Plus Ultra, 
 
 with never a circumlocution, 
 Rise to the beautiful real, 
 
 except through the kindred ideal, 
 Were unbeseeming, I think, 
 
 and you'd say, shockingly vulgar. 
 Therefore shaping my course 
 
 in conformity to the artistic, 
 Shall I begin by announcing 
 
 that even but yesterday saw I, — 
 Saw with my bodily eyes, 
 
 Titania, Queen of the fairies ; 
 Yes, and as vividly, too, 
 
 as ever was seen that illusion. 
 Haunting the shadows and sheens 
 
 of that day-dreamed midsummer-night's 
 dream. 
 Midway up the ascent, 
 
 I may, without overabruptness, 
 Kise with you now to the summit, 
 
 to-wit — that yesterday only, 
 Saw I, heard I, kissed 
 
 our peerless little French Creole, 
 
CECILIA. 
 
 205 
 
 Fay that alighted on Jessamine Hill 
 
 and bewitched you a year since. 
 Yesterday then, I was present 
 
 at Nazareth Convent Commencement; 
 Where, as the crowning performance, 
 
 was given the Midsummer-night's Dream- 
 That is to say, those parts 
 
 where figure the fays in the forest, 
 With some changes suggested 
 
 by Mendelssohn's use of the drama. 
 Winged were the actors with gauze 
 
 and scarfed with irised illusion. 
 Shod with tinseled slippers 
 
 and crowned with chaplets of hare-bells ; 
 Queen of the fairies, Cecilia, 
 
 a big girl, Bottom the Weaver, 
 Wise and beautiful Bottom, 
 
 'translated,' indeed, to perfection! 
 It was so donkily human, 
 
 or should I say, humanly donkey ! 
 But of Titania — was ever 
 
 Titania so like the Titania 
 Seen by the glorious Dreamer, 
 
 aflit in the midsummer's moonlight? 
 Whimsical, amorous, wayward, 
 
 fantastic, imperious, stately — 
 Each mood coupled with charms, 
 
 we deem uniquely Cecilia's. 
 How she squared with the King ! 
 
 I hardly had thought it was in her : 
 
206 CECILIA. 
 
 "Set your heart at rest ; 
 
 the fairyland buys not the changeHng ! " 
 Said with a positive, piquant hauteur, 
 
 I leave you to fancy. 
 When she slept, and the King 
 
 was juicing her eyes with the love-flower, 
 Said a susceptible youth, 
 
 who sat within hearing behind me : 
 *' Orbs divine, when ye open, 
 
 your first beams shed upon this one, 
 When be shriveled forever 
 
 the herb to unspell the illusion. 
 Soft ! sweet Bottom for that ! 
 
 Dick Bottom, I'd give thee my fool's head 
 Only to wear that knoul, 
 
 so soon to be circled with roses ; 
 But to possess those fair large ears 
 
 for sleeking and kissing. — 
 Oh ! ! but hush, the angel 
 
 is clearing his throat for a ditty." 
 When she awoke and spied 
 
 the sweet-faced Bottom anear her. 
 Scarce could the look she wore 
 
 have seemed more that of illusion, 
 E'en had the flower possessed 
 
 the witchery which was pretended. 
 " Sing, gentle mortal, sing ! 
 
 mine ear with thy voice is enamored, 
 As mine eyes with thy shape, 
 
 that, perforce, I am moved, at the first sight, 
 
CECILIA. 207 
 
 By thy fair virtue's force, 
 
 to say, to swear that I love thee." 
 All as enamored and earnest, 
 
 as innocent all of absurdness, 
 Seeminf^, indeed, throughout, 
 
 as unconscious that she was but acting, 
 As if Titania herself 
 
 it had been in a real unreal. 
 Come was the closing scene, 
 
 the fairies now dancing their roundel 
 New in amit)- all, 
 
 the Queen had surrendered the changeling. 
 Mazily, round and round, 
 
 like a beautiful vision they floated, 
 Wafted on fairy-like music, 
 
 and soul to the vision Titania. 
 Up to this point she has seemed 
 
 oblivious quite of spectators ; 
 Now, in the way you remember, 
 
 she's dreamily gazing about her, 
 Suddenly comes to a pause, 
 
 aerially balanced on tip-toe, 
 Throws up her arms, like a bird 
 
 of paradise spreading its pinions ; 
 Then in that voice of soft, 
 
 yet far-reaching silvery clearness, 
 Queen of the fairies exclaims: 
 
 "It's cousin Annette ! oh, delightful!" • 
 Fetching a skip of joy, 
 
 so prettily nimble and fay-like, 
 
208 CECILIA. 
 
 Part of the dance it seemed, 
 
 if Oberon only had met it 
 With a fantastic to match ; 
 
 but, counterparts suddenly failing. 
 What could he do but stop and stare 
 
 and stand at a nonplus ? 
 Counterparts failing again, 
 
 must needs stand Puck at a nonplus ; 
 So, in sequence on, 
 
 till stands the whole dream at a nonplus. 
 Just though, when in the music 
 
 the ear anticipates closes, 
 But ere sequences end, 
 
 away from the stage having bounded, 
 Lo ! up the aisle comes flitting 
 
 Titania, queen of the fairies ; 
 And the next moment, between 
 
 her embraces and rapturous kisses, 
 Nigh am I smothered. The eyes 
 
 of the audience follow the tangent; 
 Down, with waking effect, 
 
 comes sweeping the premature curtain. 
 Music, by this time, ceased, 
 
 on all the awfuUest silence, 
 AwfuUest concentration 
 
 of curious, wondering optics. 
 Putting my Hps to her ear 
 
 as soon as admitting, I whisper — 
 " Dearest girl, do you know 
 
 where you are and what you are doing?" 
 
CECILIA. 209 
 
 Like a somnabulist roused, 
 
 she gazes bewildered about her ; 
 ^'Ohrny! what have I done? 
 
 Goodbye, till after a minute! " 
 And with a flutter of elfin alarm, 
 
 yet merriment also, 
 Back the fay queen flits 
 
 and vanishes, maybe in the moonlight. 
 '*Hail Columbia! exclaims that youth," 
 
 in a whistle-like whisper, 
 *' Prettiest part of the play ; 
 
 an improvement on glorious William ! " 
 There, as I afterwards learned, 
 
 was Mother Superior waiting. 
 Ready with awful Nemesis frown, 
 
 to give her the moral ; 
 When the delinquent fay, 
 
 as penitent now as delinquent, 
 Ran right up and embracing the waist 
 
 of the reverend lady. 
 Buried her face in the sablest 
 
 of bosoms and burst out acrying, 
 ' ' Oh, mother Catharine, please I 
 
 I didn't know what I was doing! 
 Really didn't ! oh, do but please ! 
 
 and do but forgive me ! " 
 What could Mother Superior do 
 
 but '* please" and forgive her? 
 Then, what the nuns but smile, 
 
 and what laugh than the fairies. 
 
210 CECILIA. 
 
 After awhile, in the parlor, 
 
 a little subdued, she rejoined me. 
 Yes, and still with a trace 
 
 of that pretty forgetfulness showing, 
 Which but now had betrayed 
 
 itself in a way so fantastic. 
 Poor girl, she had forgotten, 
 
 in laying aside her regalia. 
 All bedreamed as she was, 
 
 to doff her chaplet of hare-bells, 
 Which thus unawares worn, 
 
 but made her uniqueness the sweeter. 
 Not, though, long subdued, 
 
 she allured me out to the garden, 
 Where, through the flowery maze, 
 
 to the quietest arbor, she led me, 
 Bird-like voice in bird-like chime 
 
 with the Eden-like prospect. 
 When we had seated ourselves, 
 
 she was silent for several moments, 
 Fondling with one hand, mine, 
 
 my neck with the other caressing. 
 Face to mine upturned 
 
 and so transparently smiling, 
 No more could it have blushed 
 
 than sky turn red without vapor. 
 ''How it delights me, cousin Annette, 
 
 to look into your sky-like, 
 Clarence-like eyes, and the more, 
 
 that it was not Clarence who sat there. 
 
CECILIA. 211 
 
 Such a day-dreamer am I 
 
 and so lost in my reveries sometimes 
 That, before knowing it, there, 
 
 IVe made some ridiculous blunder. 
 Most extravagant, though, 
 
 when dancing or listening to music. 
 So it must hap in the hall 
 
 just now, and hap at the instant 
 When nigh ended our play, 
 
 and nothing but dancing to think of, 
 Which can be done without thinking, 
 
 the band began playing that roundel 
 Clarence, that morning out there 
 
 on the portico played, you remember. 
 So, from their Midsummer-night's Dream, 
 
 into my Midsummer-day's Dream 
 Straightway must I slide, 
 
 and there I was dreaming it over. 
 When, through the mist I was in, 
 
 and kin to my uppermost fancy, 
 Shone two great blue eyes, 
 
 a reality making, as did it. 
 Still more real my dreaming, 
 
 in some sort present the absent, 
 Made me, in waking, do that, 
 
 I'd scarce in sleeping have dreamed of, 
 Act the fantastic fool ! 
 
 So when I was brought to my senses. 
 There was our Lady Titania 
 
 displaying her fairy-land make-up, 
 
212 CECILIA. 
 
 Moonshine, wings and all, 
 
 in the wide-awake horror of daylight. 
 But how limp I grow, 
 
 just thinking if Clarence had been there! 
 What might have come of it, hard 
 
 were to tell ; but something so dreadful, 
 Good Mother Catharine, good 
 
 as she is, had never forgiven ; 
 Here, no remission for such, 
 
 no masses, no prayers hereafter ! 
 Still, more dreadful, how 
 
 would Clarence have taken the sally ? 
 Doubtless, as did Dick Bottom, 
 
 have snubbed the amorous lady : 
 * Mistress, methinks you should have little reason 
 
 for that demonstration ; 
 But your reason and love 
 
 now-a-days keep little together.' " 
 So, transparently smiling, 
 
 she went on talking of Clarence. 
 Natures, to Nature so near, 
 
 feel never the need of concealment. 
 '' Queen of the Fairies, this crown for Clarence, 
 
 I said, at the same time 
 Lifting the wreath from her head, 
 
 she innocent still of its presence. 
 "Oh, now, cousin Annette! 
 
 that can not be possible, surely ! 
 Well, so flurried I was, 
 
 I wonder the wings are not with it." 
 
CECILIA. 213 
 
 Then with a look made up 
 
 of annoyance and fun, she continued : 
 * * That was a beautiful figure 
 
 to make with my friends in the parlor ! 
 Yes, and the girls all saw it ; 
 
 but just to have something to laugh at. 
 Said to each other — ' don't tell 
 
 her ' — -the whispering, tittering ninnies. 
 But they may laugh till I cry, 
 
 and I never yet cried for a titter. 
 Beautiful actress, too, 
 
 who still in acting her own part, 
 Needs but act the fool. 
 
 'Tis living on after the killing ; 
 Sweet-faced Bottom revealing himself: 
 
 ' I, Pyramus, ladies, 
 Am not Pyramus, just Dick Bottom ; 
 
 no killing in earnest.' 
 ' I, Titania, am not 
 
 Titania, Queen of the Fairies, 
 J ust Cecile, a school-girl ; 
 
 no vanishing here into moonshine.' " 
 " But will the Queen not deign 
 
 to grant my humble petition ? " 
 '*0h, I forgot! why yes, 
 
 if you really think it would please him, 
 Take them, cousin Annette, 
 
 these flowers to Clarence and tell him — " 
 Here, for a space, 
 
 she paused, her bright eyes gathering shadow, 
 
214 CECILIA. 
 
 E'en as the sky, when night 
 
 makes lucid the veil of the Heavens; 
 Sweetest solemnity gathered, 
 
 as thus more slowly resumed she, 
 " Tell him the flowers, though fading, 
 
 attest my unfading remembrance. 
 Tell him these flowers, though dying, 
 
 attest my undying affection ! 
 Tell him, these flowers, when dead, 
 
 will plead for his little French Creole, 
 Bidding him bring them to her 
 
 and witness how truly she promised. 
 Plead they her cause in vain, 
 
 be suffered to perish forgotten, — 
 Crowned with invisible flowers, 
 
 then stands another Cecilia! 
 But he is mine and will come, 
 
 'Tis manifest destiny says so ; 
 Into his soul I have looked 
 
 and my own soul's image beheld there. 
 Heaven, if earth does not, 
 
 will prove we are meant for each other." 
 And with these soul-deep words, 
 
 the girl in the woman had vanished. 
 
CECILIA. 215 
 
 PART II. ADAGIO. 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 Long were to tell of hopes, 
 
 where June seemed evermore blooming, 
 Long to tell of doubts, 
 
 where June seemed evermore fading, 
 Long to tell of the proofs 
 
 of reciprocal love and remembrance, 
 Breaking like snatches of song, 
 
 the dream-painted silence between us. 
 Seasons were summing up years, 
 
 but the vision that shone on my boyhood, 
 Haunted my destiny still, 
 
 ensouling the hopes of my manhood ; 
 Star-like, glimmering now 
 
 in the uttermost skies of my future ; 
 Gleaming out now in the past, 
 
 a vision for memory only ; 
 Then on the morn -bright verge 
 
 of the morrow that never came nearer. 
 Fay-like, flitting and dancing 
 
 and smilingly waving me onward. 
 But, on a fresh June eve, 
 
 in the June-fresh morn of my manhood, 
 Stood it, though still with a cast 
 
 of the mystic hereafter upon it. 
 
21() CECILIA. 
 
 Vividly present before me, 
 
 that thing of intangible fancies, 
 'Twixt me and sunset stood, 
 
 and smiling as though it were saying- 
 ' ' Let the delights of the past 
 
 to the hopes of the future be wedded 
 Come to me now, ere to-day 
 
 be the yesterday, gone and forever ! 
 Then to the vision which once 
 
 had seemed to my spirit so present. 
 Vision which smiled in to-day, 
 
 but spoke and dwelt in tomorrow, 
 Penned I the thoughts of my soul 
 
 and a cast in my destiny ventured ; 
 Whilst 'twixt day and night 
 
 hung sunset's flaming enchantments ; 
 Whilst from evening clouds 
 
 and twilight's magical dimness 
 Memory's glorified forms 
 
 assumed preternatural brightness ; 
 Whilst from the full orbed moon 
 
 a smile, like a hope in fulfillment. 
 Came, with a sheen from the stars, 
 
 as were it not meant for the present. 
 But, for the futures, where 
 
 the immortal alone are the living. 
 Things there be, not seen, 
 
 until they have vanished forever ! 
 
CECILIA. 217 
 
 CLARENXE TO CECILIA. 
 
 Once on a bright June morn, 
 
 the brightest, for I was a boy then, 
 Stood before me a shape, 
 
 I scarce may affirm was a damsel, 
 So like a fairy she came 
 
 and so like an angel departed ; 
 Whilst in the hours between, 
 
 the three so charmingly blended, 
 Oft I question myself 
 
 if else it were than a vision. 
 But when I open my Shelley, 
 
 my sky-lark, nightingale Shelley, 
 Turning the leaves I come 
 
 to the long-shrined relics of wild-flowers, 
 Whereof, a wreath for my head 
 
 She, fay-like, wove in the greenwood. 
 What, though, signifies this? 
 
 Titania garlanded Bottom, 
 Ears and all, with roses, 
 
 then vanished at dawn and forsook him. 
 But with a rose-red ribbon 
 
 she never, I ween, could have bound them, 
 Nor from her own fair head, 
 
 have sent him her chaplet of hare-bells ; 
 Else would sweet-faced Dick 
 
 have thenceforth lived a bewitched one, 
 
218 CECILIA. 
 
 Sure there was something more 
 
 than a dream in that midsummer-night 
 dream. 
 Call it whatever you list, 
 
 or damsel, or fairy, or angel, — 
 With it I talked and played 
 
 and led it through meadow and greenwood; 
 E'en of it craved a kiss, 
 
 and the shape said "Yes, when you catch 
 me." 
 Eager the chase, but in vain ; 
 
 then did it triumphantly mock me. 
 Damsel, beyond all doubt, 
 
 and yet so humanly lovely, 
 Never might youth lament 
 
 'twere other than fairy or angel. 
 But when the night was come 
 
 and the soft, still sheen of the moonlight 
 Lay on the slumbering earth, 
 
 like the smile of a slumbering beauty. 
 Sang she then with her mother 
 
 full many a famous old lyric ; 
 Strains entrancing enough 
 
 to echo the music we hear not, 
 Thrilling the resonant spheres, 
 
 God giveth the angels to sing in. 
 Then by the spell of her song, 
 
 a creature intangible once more 
 Did she become to my fancy — 
 
 a joy that had flitted beyond me, 
 
CECILIA. 219 
 
 Touching my heart with a sense 
 
 of loneliness, e'en of desertion. 
 But whilst yet I thrilled 
 
 with the strains into silence resolving, 
 Came she and sat by my side 
 
 and, child-like, there in the moonlight 
 Slept, her hand in mine, 
 
 as were she a beauteous sister. 
 Known till that day never, 
 
 and brought to me then by the angels. 
 When though morn was come 
 
 and I woke her with cadences bird-like, 
 Bird-like came she to me, 
 
 and our young hearts sang to each other ; 
 Nor such hearts, I ween, 
 
 as sing between brother and sister ; 
 She would be mine, I hers, 
 
 let only the years, in their bright course. 
 Bring us the bright day, brightest 
 
 that ever sweet Heaven gave birth to. 
 Such full-arched, fuU-hued,- 
 
 our summer's day span of acquaintance. 
 Days are as years, when meet two souls, 
 
 whose destinies Hnk them 
 For the immortal hereafter ; 
 
 for such having nothing between them 
 Either to fear or conceal, 
 
 can read and interpret each other 
 E'en by the light which each, 
 
 unawares, on the other is shedding. 
 
220 CECILIA. 
 
 Seeing, they know, and, seen, they are known, 
 
 like spirits unbodied : — 
 Then did she go her way ; 
 
 and her going resembled the silence 
 Following passionate song, 
 
 which, deeply thrilling us, sounding, 
 Ceasing, haunts us still, 
 
 inducing an exquisite sadness, 
 Which, for exquisite joy, 
 
 we'd scarce for the mofhent surrender. 
 Years have passed since then 
 
 and ripened my youth into manhood. 
 I have remembered *' Remember ! " 
 
 have more than remembered Cecilia. 
 Of the remembrance made, 
 
 a guardian-angel to keep me 
 Pure and unspotted from vice. 
 
 Have conjured up from it a phantom, 
 Which, pervading my life 
 
 with influence heavenward ever, 
 Smiles through all I delight in, 
 
 abides in all I aspire to; 
 Lives in the beauties around me, 
 
 a bodiless presence in nature ; 
 Now as hope in a sun-rise ; 
 
 as memory now in a sun-set ; 
 Souling a rainbow then, 
 
 as a true-love's heaven-blest promise. 
 But in its moonHght hauntings, 
 
 oh, weird is the spell of its presence. 
 
CECILIA. 221 
 
 Then it becomes a voice 
 
 to echo the music we hear not, — 
 Hymnings immortal to which 
 
 the numberless hearts of the living 
 Throb, throb, throb, 
 
 and measure the music forever; 
 Measure and knowing it not, 
 
 yet needing but faith to be conscious. 
 Ah! but where is the faith? 
 
 It goes with the child of our earth-life, 
 Lost to the needs of our being, 
 
 until it returns with the angel ! 
 Never, ah, never till then 
 
 can the moment that's passing suffice us! 
 Nor the sufficient to-day 
 
 sufficiently pledge for the morrow ! 
 
 Words, my gentle Cecilia, 
 
 I've written whose meaning I knew not, 
 Until to my ear I addressed them, 
 
 and now but vaguely divine them. 
 So unfamiliar they seem. 
 
 I pause and fain would erase them ; 
 But there is something that whispers — 
 
 perchance the echo-voiced phantom — 
 " Let them remain, though sad; 
 
 true prophecy in them abideth ! 
 There is no prophecy true, but the sad, 
 
 if the burden be earthward ! 
 
222 CECILIA. 
 
 Ay, and no prophecy sad, 
 
 but the false, if the burden be heavenward ! " 
 Well, these Sibylline words, 
 
 my dearest Cecilia, I ponder. 
 Ere I commit them to one 
 
 so tenderly joyous and trusting. 
 Mine they are not, nor yet are they yours, 
 
 though the phantom's so like you. 
 Which though a birth of my own, 
 
 oft deals in enigmas beyond me. 
 So, let it pass with a smile ; 
 
 and still let to-day on to-morrow, 
 Build fair visions ; without them, 
 
 a blank blue sky were the future. 
 Like of a midsummer's drought, 
 
 devoid of those vapory glories, 
 Which, tho' bringing not, tell 
 
 of the sweet rain coming on sometime. 
 Why so oft displayed 
 
 those vapory glories above us. 
 But to remind us 
 
 as oft of the glories more solid beyond them? 
 Let but " Come" be the word, 
 
 as Cecile for Cecilia promised. 
 Build shall we then and adorn 
 
 such fabrics of joy and enchantment 
 As were never yet reared 
 
 on the azure peaks of the future. 
 You are a woman already ; 
 
 while I scarce more than a youth yet. 
 
CECILIA. 223 
 
 Three years give that youth 
 
 to fit him for hfe and CeciUa, — 
 Make himself worthy to be and to have, 
 
 and thus be it ordered : 
 First — my cynosure favoring still — 
 
 I'll come to New Orleans, 
 Spend the green winter with you 
 
 till the green grown vernal with blossoms. 
 Then and thence embark 
 
 for the land of Beethoven and Mozart, 
 There for a season worship and serve 
 
 in the temple of music, 
 Which a refined young soul 
 
 so aptly has christened — " Cecilia ! " 
 Three years give me to haunt 
 
 those scenes of sonorous seclusion, 
 Drink from the heaven-sprung streams 
 
 of Mendelssohn, Schubert, Beethoven, 
 That to my art 
 
 I may bring an afflatus the purest and 
 highest. 
 Then on the pinions of love, 
 
 as winged I were for the aidens 
 Back from Cecilia, saint, 
 
 I fly to Cecilia, angel ! 
 Yours, till then and evermore yours, 
 
 devotedly, 
 
 Clarence. 
 
224 CECILIA. 
 
 p. S. • Sent with this 
 
 is a charming musical novel, 
 Written, 'twill please you to hear, 
 
 by an English maiden of sixteen. 
 In its felicitous pages, 
 
 the musical college at Leipsic 
 Bears, as elsewhere it meetly might, 
 
 the name of Cecilia. 
 Pleased with a name which twins 
 
 the dominant loves of my lifetime, 
 Tempted am I to adopt 
 
 and use it, as were it the true one. 
 Cousin Annette sends Little French Creole 
 
 a miniature portrait, 
 Work of her own deft hand ; — 
 
 an unco laddie-like likeness 
 Of a young gentleman who, 
 
 for a reason, would fain appear olden 
 Cousin, tho' married, still lives 
 
 at Jessamine Hill, the old homestead ; 
 Happy in two eyes blue as her own, 
 
 that have been for a twelve-month 
 Taking in, giving out sunshine, 
 
 imparting the graces of childhood 
 To the delightful spot, 
 
 where heaven, once opening its windows. 
 Gave two youthful souls 
 
 one bhssful day in a lifetime. 
 
CECILIA. 225 
 
 SILENCE AND MUSIC. 
 
 Weeks of suspense, and yet 
 
 from the bright South never an answer. 
 Waif of the thievish winds 
 
 and false waves made of my letter! 
 Tho' no longer she loved me, 
 
 the generous-hearted Cecilia 
 True to the angel in woman, 
 
 would never with silence afflict me. 
 Followed another more earnest ;— 
 
 a third then, brief and impassioned. 
 Months of suspense and still 
 
 from the far South, never a whisper ! 
 Next to the anguish death 
 
 inflicts upon human affection, 
 Comes to the soul that other 
 
 so like it, the anguish of silence. 
 Over my love crept doubts, 
 
 which seemed the suggestions of reason, 
 Faith in my dream, to the matter-of-fact, 
 
 imperceptible yielding. 
 Think how long it has been 
 
 since you met and that meeting your sole 
 one. 
 Whilst your betrothal, the rathe bloom 
 
 merely of juvenile fancy. 
 
 Spring can not promise for summer, 
 
 the May bud speak for the June rose. 
 15 
 
226 CECILIA. 
 
 Under an ardent sky, 
 
 that rose, already expanded, 
 Looks on you now in the hght 
 
 of a far-off vernal remembrance ; 
 But as a day-dream, lodged 
 
 by the soul in its summer pavilion, 
 Deemed unworthy to enter 
 
 its glorious innermost chambers, 
 Even the dream may be lost 
 
 In the selfish fruitions of wedlock. 
 Came then a rumor, tho' whence, 
 
 to this day, never appearing, 
 Plausibly shaping itself 
 
 and wickedly whispering — "wedded. 
 " Wedded to Jules de ViUiers 
 
 and gone to the Isle of St. Vincento" 
 Doubts, thus started by silence, 
 
 and meeting the echoing rumor, 
 Urged at last to the fatal belief 
 
 that the dream I had lived in 
 Far too splendid had been 
 
 for earth-life realization. 
 Up with thy heart and away 
 
 to the shrine of the only Cecilia 
 Worthy thy worship and love ! 
 
 With singleness ever more serve her. 
 Make thy art thy all, 
 
 and think of this vanished Cecilia 
 But as an echo-voiced phantom, indeed, 
 
 no more to be dreamed of! 
 
CECILIA. 227 
 
 Three swift weeks and the land 
 
 of my birth was a vision of sun-set, 
 Fresh scrolled, lying behind, 
 
 with palimpsest Europe before me. 
 There, mid the scenes of the past, 
 
 I lost my American newne^ss ; 
 Found a new present and thence 
 
 a new-planned future projected, 
 Where nor part nor place 
 
 nor admittance seemed left for the phantom 
 Till I imagined my soul 
 
 was freed of the mystical presence. 
 When tho' at length I sought 
 
 Cecilia's dreamy seclusion, 
 Did it return and abide 
 
 and all the more vividly haunt me, 
 As if amidst those sweet alternations 
 
 of music and silence, 
 Ever the day's course there, 
 
 its true life were it renewing, 
 Finding in these just what 
 
 was friendliest to its existence. 
 But to my art it proved 
 
 a prompt and enduring afflatus 
 Furnishing theme for the lyric, 
 
 embodiment for the symphonic ; 
 Some time, too, with that spell — 
 
 the intangible magic of Weirdness, 
 Swiftly the three years passed 
 
 and I was accounted an artist. 
 
228 CECILIA. 
 
 Came then a graduate's concert 
 
 and crowning the graduate's programme, 
 CompHment paid to my land 
 
 and not to my claims as an artist, 
 My first orchestral effort — 
 
 a symphony voiced by the pliantom, 
 Where, outside of myself, 
 
 I'd set it, I fancied, forever. 
 As the composer, 
 
 needs must I conduct the performance. 
 Confident, buoyant, allegro, 
 
 illumined with amorous sunlight ; 
 Diffident, yearning adagio, 
 
 bedreaming as midsummer twilight ; 
 Minuet weird, as strains 
 
 for elfin dancing by moonlight ; 
 Presto, impassioned, suspensive, 
 
 despairing — somber as starlight ; 
 Thence, with a struggle, ascending 
 
 to glorious freedom and morning. 
 As the performance went on, 
 
 like a voice in my ear ever speaking 
 Came first violin, played 
 
 by a young Hungarian Magyar. 
 O, how blithe, how tender, 
 
 fantastic, impassioned, despairing 
 Came my own cadences back on my soul, 
 
 as that youth reproduced them ! 
 That night, after the concert, 
 
 the young Hungarian sought me, 
 
CECILIA. 
 
 229 
 
 Gently drawing me forth 
 
 for a talk and ramble by moonlight, 
 As was oft our wont, 
 
 for much I loved and admired him. 
 " Friend of my soul, you've given 
 
 a voice to a dream I once lived in. 
 
 Never before 
 
 spoke music to me in strains so like 
 language." 
 Then did he tell me a tale of love, 
 
 the sweetest, the saddest 
 Ever was breathed in my ear 
 
 by the heart that told its own sorrow. 
 And to my own so Hke, 
 
 my own must follow responsive. 
 Xhus — interchanging our hearts, 
 
 we unawares rambled till morning ; 
 And — it was strange to note 
 
 how this sympathetic inshrining 
 Brought our divinities down 
 
 to the human and lightened our thraldom 
 Whilst investing them 
 
 with graces more humanly lovely. 
 Filling our hearts with thoughts of them 
 
 more humanly tender. 
 
 Fare-thee-well, CeciHa ! 
 
 Of shrines under Heaven the purest ! 
 If I have faithfully served, 
 
 if rendered acceptable worship, 
 
230 CECILIA. 
 
 May the beatified virgin, 
 
 maternally over thee watching, 
 Guide to my soul the afflatus 
 
 which breathed through hers and attuned it, 
 That, in a far off land 
 
 of songless mornings and evenings, 
 Truly re-echo I may, 
 
 the harmonies thou hast vouchsafed me ! 
 Hail ! young world of the west ! 
 
 magnificent birth of the present ! 
 Land without rival on earth, 
 
 in the destiny over thee pending ! 
 But on thy peerless morn a cloud 
 
 is there and a silence ; 
 Beauty and music, as births of thine, 
 
 still sleep in the future. 
 But from thy great young heart, 
 
 the responsive echo but send me 
 Voiced, that silence shall grow 
 
 with the music of mightiest minstrel. 
 Ah, fond, credulous youth ! 
 
 though glorious such an ambition, 
 Little thou knew'st to whom, 
 
 for whom that promise so splendid ! 
 Made to a land, whose life 
 
 was still in the morning of childhood ; 
 Made for thyself, whom fate, 
 
 with a whisper, should evermore silence ! 
 Now in that land too young in song, 
 
 to be more than a listener, 
 
CECILIA. 231 
 
 Passing, from town to town, 
 
 in a linked ovation of music, 
 Welcomed was he, as one, 
 
 who brings through the slumbering morning, 
 Earnest of dreamed-of joy. 
 
 His symphony everywhere triumphed, 
 Hailed as a true art work, 
 
 despite the fantastic that marked it. 
 Name to his offspring, none had he 
 
 given nor ever intended ; 
 But by coincidence strange 
 
 it grew to be known as "The Phantom." 
 For, as already had he, 
 
 now questioned many a listener 
 What those strange sounds meant, 
 
 so near them and yet so beyond them ! 
 Now as the voice of a joy 
 
 which smiles, whilst angels are weeping — 
 Weeping that earth can no more 
 
 than dimly foreshadow for Heaven. 
 Then as the voice of a sorrow 
 
 that weeps, whilst angels are smiling — 
 Smiling that Heaven can more 
 
 than recompense earth's disappointment. 
 Wonderful was it to watch 
 
 the upturned faces beneath him. 
 Varying ever their cast 
 
 to the strains of the phantasy music ; — 
 Some into dreams entranced ; 
 
 some roused to questioning wonder; 
 
232 CECILIA. 
 
 Others bedewed with tears, 
 
 bespeaking experience kindred ; 
 Whilst on all he discerned, 
 
 the tokens of sympathy's silence — 
 Silence, the artist so loves, 
 
 as the soul's true echo to music, 
 Haply the soul itself. 
 
 And thus, for a season, his progress; 
 Hero was he of the day, 
 
 his name with his art in affiance. 
 Vistaed before him appeared 
 
 the goals of a glorious future ; 
 Theater, college and press 
 
 resounding with splendid predictions 
 Of the new musical age 
 
 that seemed on America dawning ; 
 When, in a moment, his star 
 
 dropped, meteor-Hke, from the zenith, 
 Locked his destiny stood, 
 
 all hushed into phantom-like silence ! 
 
CECILIA. 233 
 
 THE VANISHER. 
 
 Homeward bear me now, 
 
 oh, homeward, Beautiful River ! 
 Since I beheld thee last, 
 
 full many a stream have I traversed. 
 Richer in trophies of art, 
 
 in memories of the heroic : 
 But of them all, not one 
 
 so fair to my alien vision, 
 Dear to my homeless heart, 
 
 as thou, O Beautiful River ! 
 Eden-fair June had returned, 
 
 the sweetest and saddest of seasons 
 Now to my soul it had grown, 
 
 as part of my love and my soirow ; 
 Whilst its skies and bloom 
 
 the medium giving them color. 
 Till had my sorrow, too, taken 
 
 a tinge of the rosy and azure, 
 E'en as the wept-out cloud 
 
 takes brightness and beauty from sunshine. 
 June once more I saw 
 
 on my native Kentucky's fair landscapes, 
 Hope transporting me forward 
 
 and memory back to the homestead, 
 Now thrice dear to my heart, 
 
 so long to its pleasures a stranger. 
 
234 CECILIA. 
 
 Then as I looked on the scene, 
 
 came into my memory thronging 
 Many a tuneful strain 
 
 from the years I had spent at '* Ceciha, " 
 Chimingly linking to song 
 
 the feelings and thoughts of the moment, 
 Thus investing the day 
 
 with the joy of an audible presence, 
 Ever-and-aye, as I looked, 
 
 I saw in the afternoon sunlight 
 Glintings and gleamings of glory 
 
 I never before had beheld there ; 
 E'en the reflex, it seemed, 
 
 of a far-off, beauteous morning, 
 Through the abysmal dusk 
 
 of earth's futurity shining, 
 Shining for me, for all, 
 
 however so lonely and homeless. 
 And to behold it was only to feel 
 
 it ever had been there. 
 Ever should be, no matter 
 
 how dark earth's glooms and eclipses ! 
 Only to feel there waited, 
 
 for love and reunion a homestead, 
 Lapped in the blissful depths 
 
 of ** God's invisible morning," 
 So let me call it, called 
 
 so by one who had seen it before me ! 
 Blest revelation ! had ever 
 
 a joy so exalted possessed me ? 
 
CECILIA. 235 
 
 Though too yearning for full fruition 
 
 this side the immortal ; 
 Whilst in my heart it awoke 
 
 a strange, new love for the human. 
 Love, with pity so mixed 
 
 that pity itself was a rapture. 
 Scarce had seen I the morning 
 
 and scarce had felt I the rapture 
 When, in my soul, I knew 
 
 it sprung from my love for Cecilia. 
 Love — should I call it — a dream 
 
 now only in memory living ? 
 Passion divorced from hope? 
 
 The answer is hid in the question ; — 
 Find it, who can ; I've failed. 
 
 And yet had my life been the purer, 
 Brighter my fame should be, 
 
 perchance for the beautiful vision. 
 Which, to my art now wedded, 
 
 would prove an enduring afflatus. 
 Making Cecilia to me, 
 
 as the glorified Laura to Petrarch, 
 
 Wrapt in these thoughts, I was pacing 
 the hurricane-deck of a steamer, 
 
 Still on my musical tour, 
 
 my orchestral company with me. 
 
 Bound for a beautiful city, 
 
 far down the Beautiful River. 
 
236 CECILIA. 
 
 Day had eved with sweet interminglings 
 
 of shower and sunshine ; 
 One broad sea of luminous gold, 
 
 the sky to the westward ; 
 Red clouds flecking the azure above, 
 
 like flocks of flamingoes, 
 Hovering o'er the Isles of Rest 
 
 at tropical sunset. 
 Far to the northward, strongly defined 
 
 as mountains of granite, 
 Clusters of cloud-built Alps 
 
 gleamed loftily o'er the horizon. 
 Purple and gray at the base, 
 
 the higher acclivities snow-white, 
 Glowing the uppermost peaks 
 
 with a faint suffusion of redness, 
 As I had seen it on Alpine snows 
 
 from vapory sunsets. 
 Seemed I to see in them 
 
 the peaks of spirit-land mountains ; 
 Almost to hear in them 
 
 the strains of spirit-land music 
 All this beauty above, 
 
 and below, in the water, its image. 
 There, too, image, in part, 
 
 of a mildly diversified landscape, — 
 Narrowing here to a bank-line, 
 
 fringed with bushes and osiers; 
 Broadening there to a hill-range, 
 
 crested with loftiest forests ; 
 
CECILIA. 237 
 
 Here, with its mansion, a knoll ; 
 
 an upland dell, with its farm-house 
 There ; and everywhere, mottling 
 
 the prevalent green of the valley, 
 Meadows and grain-fields, jubilant now 
 
 with the advent of harvest. 
 Sometimes separate showers 
 
 would shiftingly fall in the distance, 
 Gleamingly veiling the hills 
 
 with a tissue of watery sunshine. 
 Far down stream now appeared 
 
 a motionless speck on the river ; 
 Recognized soon as an up-bound packet 
 
 aground on a sand bar. 
 Prompt to her aid, veered ours from its course 
 
 and ran close alongside. 
 Thronging her hurricane deck, 
 
 was a number of gentlemen pacing 
 Leisurely to and fro, 
 
 whilst grouped in a flower-like cluster, 
 Forward the pilot-house, stood 
 
 a brilliant assemblage of ladies, 
 All attracted aloft 
 
 by the charms of the summery prospect. 
 Paused had I in my walk, 
 
 attentively watching the two boats, 
 As with their joint crews, ready they made 
 
 for the work of dislodgement. 
 When first-cornet came up, 
 
 with all the wind instrument players, 
 
238 CECILIA. 
 
 Saying to me, as he passed, 
 
 " A beautiful bride and her bridesmaids, 
 So we are told, stand there ; 
 
 we are going to give them a greeting." 
 Forming in front of the ladies, 
 
 their greeting right cheerily gave they — 
 Epithalamial strains 
 
 from Mendelssohn's Midsummer-Night's 
 Dream. 
 Soon were the passengers, erst 
 
 wide scattered about the two vessels. 
 Gathered around the musicians, 
 
 or opposite them in a cluster. 
 Watching the boatmen still, 
 
 I remained where first I had halted. 
 " Clarence ! Clarence!" a voice 
 
 in startHng relief from the music. 
 And with the voice, to my breast, 
 
 a fan came fluttering softly. 
 Looking up quickly, there, 
 
 on the verge of the opposite vessel — 
 Beautiful Heaven! what saw I? 
 
 The Dream, the Afflatus, the Phantom ! 
 **Is it Cecile — Cecilia Rochelle, 
 
 I see here before me ? " 
 "It is Cecilia," she said, 
 
 and said it so slowly and softly. 
 Straight stood silence between us, 
 
 as, jealous that more should be spoken, 
 
CECILIA. 239 
 
 She had withdrawn from the crowd, 
 
 her ear too dainty and cultured 
 For those jubilant strains, 
 
 untempered by mellowing distance. 
 Thus, in a moment, undreamed, 
 
 her fate-led spirit had found me. 
 Seven long years, and the woman 
 
 as like to the girl I had known her 
 As is the full-blown rose 
 
 to the half-blown. Woman or Phantom, 
 Stood she facing me there, 
 
 in the full unfoldings of beauty ; 
 Facing me smilingly, too ; 
 
 and yet in the smiling was something 
 Hard, indeed, to conceive 
 
 of the child-like, joyous Cecilia. 
 Bright was the look, but bright, 
 
 like the sheen of an arctic midsummer, 
 Light too aslant for warmth ; — • 
 
 a far-off, spirit-like smiling, 
 Touching me then with a sense 
 
 of measureless distance between us, 
 Afterwards haunting me oft 
 
 as the light of immaculate sadness. 
 Eastward even but now 
 
 I had looked and not seen it — the rainbov/ ; — 
 Now it was there, full-arched, 
 
 full-arched its spirit-like double. 
 
240 CECILIA. 
 
 Sunset's glorious birth, 
 
 divinest expression of Nature ; 
 And, as if part of the birth, 
 
 unwittingly shining Cecilia, 
 Iris-like, high o'erscarfed 
 
 with the symbol of heavenly promise. 
 Nearer together the two boats came, 
 
 now all but in contact. 
 Heaven was in the event ; 
 
 and for privacy, there was the music, 
 Screen propitious as night. 
 
 I broke, perforce, the chill silence. 
 ** Such an unheard of thing, 
 
 this meeting between us, Cecilia, 
 Words have I none for the thoughts 
 
 confusedly crowding upon me. 
 When it is past and too late, 
 
 what fain I had said will be present ; 
 Powerless now I feel, 
 
 our silence of years to break meetly." 
 Facing was she 
 
 the sun, whose disc now stood on the river; 
 So, ere speaking, her eyes, 
 
 with her hand, for a moment she shaded, 
 Bending their gaze into mine, 
 
 as my innermost soul she were searching. 
 Back in their depths was a mist of doubt, 
 
 which presently vanished ; 
 Then did her pure young soul 
 
 look mournfully forth from their brightness. 
 
CECILIA. 241 
 
 Speak too, it must, or speak 
 
 never more this side the immortal. 
 ** Yes, I can see it, the soul, 
 
 where mine that morning was imaged ; 
 See, too, it is the same. 
 
 Then speak I may without erring. 
 Brief is our time and I feel 
 
 we shall never meet more, but as souls meet ; 
 Quickly, then, tell me why 
 
 you never would come to me, Clarence." 
 ** Thrice I wrote and again, 
 
 imploring fulfillment of promise. 
 Did Cecile say ' Come ? ' " 
 
 ** Assuredly, Clarence, she did so. 
 Earnest as maiden may speak, 
 
 'twas ' Come ; I do but await you. ' " 
 Quickly I answered, * ' Never, 
 
 Cecilia, never a whisper 
 Did I receive in response, 
 
 nor cause could divine for yoiu* silence 
 Till I considered that years 
 
 had passed since the time of our meeting, 
 You a woman already, 
 
 while I scarce more than a school-boy. 
 Then, too, did I bethink me 
 
 that you, so lovely and gifted, 
 Drawing all hearts to yourself, 
 
 had one, peradventure, attracted, 
 More to the woman's ideal. 
 
 The doubt had scarcely possessed me. 
 
242 CECILIA. 
 
 When a distinct report 
 
 came plausibly whispering — ' Wedded ! ' '* 
 Self disappointed, then, ceased 
 
 I to hope, yet ever still loving. 
 Whilst upbraiding you not, 
 
 reflecting how idle that girl-love 
 Now might seem to the woman. 
 
 But once more, gentle Cecilia, 
 Once more ' come ' be the word 
 
 and this little gulf here between us, 
 Narrowing still, I'll leap 
 
 and nevermore leave the dear presence." 
 "It is too late, too late ! 
 
 An impassable gulf is between us, 
 Wide as life and deep as death." 
 
 A moment then paused she. 
 * ' This is my bridal-tour, Clarence ; 
 
 I scarce need say who my husband! " 
 Longer paused she again. 
 
 She saw how her words had unmanned me. 
 There was a conflict, duty 
 
 at war with a nameless affection. 
 How should the sympathy, yearning to speak, 
 
 find meetest expression ? 
 ** Noblest of men is Jules, 
 
 and ever as now have I loved him, 
 Tenderly loved ; yet not 
 
 with the heart I plighted to Clarence, 
 Still is it yours, that little girl's love 
 
 and Heaven will prove it. 
 
CECILIA. 243 
 
 Though, as my happiness here, 
 
 your love seemed gone from my life-time, 
 Still had I faith in the voice 
 
 which spoke so oft to my girlhood — 
 * Somewhere shall you twain 
 
 be one in immortal affection.' 
 How I have bided the silence 
 
 and mystery, Heaven's my witness. 
 Even till you had returned 
 
 from abroad and were breaking the silence 
 Genius shares with the angels. 
 
 Your music was thrilling a nation, 
 Sending its echoes before it, 
 
 and 'mid them waited your true love. 
 Weaving a crown of your triumphs. 
 
 One prayer for you had been answered.. 
 But to the hope that had listened 
 
 so long, 'twas a silence unbroken. 
 Meanwhile loves at home, 
 
 so long importuning, protesting, 
 Woke me at last from a dream 
 
 which had but remembrance to rest on. 
 Heavenward hope and faith, 
 
 and now it is past reparation ; 
 None can I render, none ; 
 
 can only beseech your forgiveness.'* 
 '*0h, Cecile, to hear you 
 
 thus pleading to me for forgiveness, 
 When but I am to blame, 
 
 has broken the heart you appeal to ! 
 
244 CECILIA, 
 
 Where is forgiveness for me, 
 
 for doubting a love so confiding? 
 Child-like, yet so enduring, 
 
 and heaven's sweet sanction upon it! 
 Doubting a love like this, 
 
 I have wronged beyond reparation 
 Both your soul and mine, 
 
 which ever for yours interceded — 
 * Love like hers, is beyond 
 
 world's wisdom. Away with world's wisdom, 
 Seek her unbidden and hear 
 
 from her own lips final decision.' 
 Where, in that fateful hour, 
 
 oh, where was my monitor angel ? 
 When in the Aidens we meet 
 
 and may love each other and sin not, 
 If, to be sundered thus 
 
 forbids not the hope of reunion. 
 Suppliant then will I kneel, 
 
 that Httle girl's pardon imploring ; 
 Now to implore were to claim 
 
 the return of the forfeited treasure 
 Which must never be mine 
 
 while earth's blind fates are between us." 
 Heretofore, tearlessly sad their light ; 
 
 but now in those pure eyes. 
 Sorrow and sympathy, not 
 
 to be spoken, their dews intermingled. 
 O'er them pressed she her hand ; 
 
 but the tell-tale tears through the fingers 
 
CECILIA, 245 
 
 Would come trickling forth. 
 
 She checked them, turning them inward. 
 *' If in these tears be sin, 
 
 sweet heaven be pitiful of them ! 
 'Tis not Jules' wife, 
 
 but Clarence's little girl sheds them ! " 
 Sophistry call this not ; 
 
 the recording angel, it may be. 
 Humanly sighed, as he wrote it, 
 
 but, smiling divinely, erased it. 
 Though she had ceased to weep, 
 
 and sweet composure recovered, 
 Sadder than womanly tears, 
 
 that childlike smiling in anguish. 
 Never a tear shed I ; 
 
 my sorrow the tide that in flowing. 
 Finding no vent through the eyes, 
 
 ebbs heavily back on the pent soul, 
 Dead-Sea-like, a bitter 
 
 forever from finding no outlet. 
 Dimmer the rainbow now 
 
 than erst its spirit-like double. 
 Soft the music, but still 
 
 to our interview privacy lending — 
 Screen under which we had broken our silence 
 
 and God alone heard us, 
 Soft, now playing the band 
 
 the Adagio part of the ' Phantom,' 
 Into a serenade wrought 
 
 from the orchestral score by first cornet. 
 
246 CECILIA. 
 
 Strange that then and there 
 
 should have spoken the voice of my Hfe 
 dream ! 
 Stranger still, now seemed 
 
 Cecilia to notice the music ; 
 Her soul listening to mine, 
 
 by mystic sympathy prompted. 
 Now, with tug and heave, 
 
 and with wheels reversed, had the two boats 
 Struggled away from the bar, 
 
 the helped as free as the helper. 
 Slowly began they then 
 
 to move on their separate courses ; 
 Motion felt as doom 
 
 from power immense and relentless. 
 "Clarence, adieu! we meet ! " 
 
 *' But part, Cecilia ; God speed you." 
 One step forward she took, 
 
 with clasped hands sHghtly extended ; 
 Stood then solemn, as night, 
 
 where the moon is not and the stars all. 
 Slowly widened the gulf, 
 
 erewhile so narrow between us. 
 Now stood he at her side, 
 
 oblivious all of the shadow 
 Which between them had come, 
 
 nor gone the hour that had brought it. 
 Never, as then, have I felt 
 
 how utterly helpless the human, 
 
CECILIA. 247 
 
 When the ' Too late ! too late ! ' 
 
 through the deeps of our being come sounding. 
 Two souls stood we there, 
 
 in manifest consonant dual, 
 Needing but union on earth 
 
 to realize Heaven's fruitions. 
 Seven long years had we yearned 
 
 for each other with purest affections ; 
 Something fortuitous, slight, 
 
 perchance, had kept us asunder ; 
 Now had we met, as come from the regions 
 
 of morning and evening, 
 But for a moment to see 
 
 our might-have-been realized vision 
 Color itself on the sky, 
 
 like a pictured window there opened, 
 All aglow with the light 
 
 of that far off beauteous morning, 
 Only to fade in that light, 
 
 as but now faded a rainbow. 
 Swiftly widened the gulf, 
 
 the invisible, visibly typing. 
 Swiftly asunder still, 
 
 the two waifs ever more drifting, 
 Borne on diverse streams 
 
 in the depths of eternity's ocean. 
 Would they not meet, not meet, 
 
 and once more bring us together. 
 Somewhere under that Eye, 
 
 All-prescient Pity, but brightens? 
 
248 CECILIA. 
 
 Anywhere, under that Love 
 
 All-fostering, pity but sweetens. 
 Kept she her place by his side, 
 
 till a v/ood-fringed bend of the river 
 Roughly obtruded its shade 
 
 when vanished my Phantom, — my Angel! 
 And with the vanishing hush 
 
 surceasing the phantomi-born music ; 
 Twilight making, with glimmer and gloom, 
 
 all spectral the landscape. 
 Spectral the world ! There long I stood, 
 
 on vacancy gazing, 
 Visioning still that bliss, 
 
 which Heaven to realize for us,1 
 Earth must deny. Adieu ! 
 
 Through all my being still sounded ; 
 Through an abyss, the word 
 
 seemed sinking, sinking forever! 
 Hushed the spirit-heard strains, 
 
 which all day long had entranced me, 
 Hushed, to be heard no more, 
 
 till faith in my soul resurrected. 
 Night sank down, and night 
 
 where the moon was not and the stars all, 
 Solemn and pure as that soul, 
 
 where the love was not and the hopes all. 
 Yet, where the love should be all, 
 
 when vanished the hopes in fulfillment. 
 I was now pacing the deck, 
 
 whence long since all had departed. 
 
CECILIA, 249 
 
 All save me and the pilot, 
 
 there duskily seen in his turret. 
 Ere long pausing, where erst I 
 
 had stood, confronting my life-dream, 
 Something I see at my feet, 
 
 a gleam in the dubious starlight. 
 Lo ! a treasure, and mine — 
 
 Cecilia's fan, the light missile, 
 Thing of Japanese art, 
 
 uniquely enameled and pictured. 
 Gently I spread it — a breath 
 
 of that selfsame Arabic perfume 
 Wafts me in memory back 
 
 to the home of my love and that June day, 
 Long, long shrined in my heart ! 
 
 the sylph as first I beheld her 
 There in the library, under the scowl 
 
 of the hapless Mazeppa. 
 Sweet talk over my book ; 
 
 the Elf-maid fairy-like dancing ; 
 Arbor and swing in the woods ; 
 
 the duets of mother and daughter ; 
 Beauteous face, in sleep upturned 
 
 a-gleam in the moonlight ; 
 Beauteous face, in love upturned 
 
 a-glow in the sunlight ; 
 Beauteous face, in tears upturned, 
 
 with that one sweet surrender, 
 Sealing our pure young love. 
 
 Oh, beautiful, pitiful Heaven ! 
 
250 CECILIA. 
 
 Slowly I fold the fan 
 
 enshrouding it close in my kerchief, 
 As were the odor a soul 
 
 and, like an Egyptian embalmer, 
 Would I imprison it there. 
 
 Still upward would it come steaHng, 
 As o'er shrouded saint, 
 
 the odor of sanctity lingers. 
 And with this phantasy, came it again — 
 
 the Phantom, the Phantom ! 
 Though not now, as of yore, 
 
 to echo the music we hear not ; 
 Only to echo, re-echo, 
 
 through all my desolate being 
 Evermore echo " Adieu ! " 
 
 and the blest in Paradise singing ! 
 Solemnly knelling the hour, 
 
 the banks of the river responding, 
 Up came pealing the midnight bells 
 
 of the glimmering city. 
 Slower and softer grew 
 
 the leviathian breathings beneath me, 
 Then imperceptibly ceased, 
 
 and the boat, with a swing and a soft heave, 
 Lay at her destined wharf, 
 
 'mid the monstrous brood of the river, 
 Lining the stream's dim verge, 
 
 all hushed and duskily drowsing ; 
 They, who beneath me had slept, slept on ; 
 
 as oblivious watched on 
 
CECILIA. 251 
 
 They who above me had watched, — 
 
 the slumberless stars, that beheld me 
 All night pace that deck, 
 
 the eventfullest spot of my lifetime ; 
 There — untimely met, 
 
 my future and past had collided ; 
 New hopes wrecked in a trice, 
 
 old memories shivered and mangled, 
 Broadcast flung and strewn 
 
 on the desolate waste of the present. 
 Linger I would o'er the wreck, 
 
 despairingly watching the fragments 
 Drifting away, till lost 
 
 in the shadows before and behind me. 
 Waning moon and morning star, 
 
 shone pallidly, brightly 
 O'er the horizon together, 
 
 in vanishing, promising beauty, 
 Both attesting alike 
 
 one viewless, beneficent glory. 
 Oh, for the bright and morning star, 
 
 which never shall vanish, 
 Save in the light of the AU-in-All, 
 
 the Sovereign Glory ! 
 Image of Sovereign Glory uprose, 
 
 and over the sweet Earth 
 Stretched its hands of light 
 
 in the never-withheld benediction. 
 Once more saw I the day, 
 
 but not the beatified morning, 
 
252 CECILIA. 
 
 Erst so bright in my soul, 
 
 since hushed the strains that had voiced it. 
 Dark, oh, dark the eclipse 
 
 which follows the glimpsing of Heaven ! 
 Yet, tho' I saw not, felt not, 
 
 my spirit still knew it was present ; 
 Doomsday could not efface 
 
 the remembrance of that revelation ! 
 God, in that hour, I thanked ; 
 
 for even the memory thanked Him ! 
 But the acknowledgment went with a pang, 
 
 which, drawing it earthward, 
 Bore it away to the future, 
 
 its validness lost to the present, 
 Faith, in trance, awaiting 
 
 the day of its final requickening. 
 Hope, a thing of the past, 
 
 on vanishings only abiding. 
 
CECILIA. 253 
 
 THOUSAND ISLES. 
 
 High o'er June's last day 
 
 had hung- the perfection of sunset, 
 Jessamine Hill for the hour 
 
 a transfigured, etherealized landscape, 
 Then through the glorious wanings, 
 
 behold the perfection of twilight, — 
 Hushed and passion-subduing, 
 
 as were it a hallowing presence, 
 Souling the memories dear, 
 
 at each step thronging around me. 
 I, from wanderings far, 
 
 had returned to the scenes of my boyhood, 
 Where, as an Eden miraged, 
 
 had opened the morn of my dream-life. 
 Cousin Annette and I 
 
 sat together alone in the twilight, 
 Where, on a night like this, 
 
 in the days of brightest remembrance,- 
 Listened had we entranced 
 
 to the songs of the beautiful strangers. 
 Then in that hour, when friends 
 
 to each other as shadows appearing, 
 Soul draws nearer to soul, 
 
 I told of my vanished Cecilia ; 
 Grief more bitter to tell, 
 
 since a sufferer, too, was the vanished, 
 
254 CECILIA. 
 
 Bitterer still that now 
 
 must self-reproach ever haunt me. 
 When, with many a pause, 
 
 the sweet, sad story was ended, 
 , Silent Annette still sat, 
 
 in womanly sympathy waiting, 
 As if again I'd pause, 
 
 the next scene duly to ponder ; 
 Long thus sat, then spoke : 
 
 "Leave out, dear Clarence, the sequel; 
 Too well, that I know ! " 
 
 *'The sequel, dear cousin, the sequel? 
 Surely my story is finished! " 
 
 *'0h! dear heart, you know not the rest, 
 then!" 
 * ' All I know, I have told ; 
 
 if there's a sequel beyond this. 
 Cousin must tell it to me." 
 
 ' * I fain would be spared the recital ! 
 It is too sad to be told 
 
 to the heart that must feel it the deepest.*' 
 "Then she is dead! " I exclaimed. 
 
 Annette, for a moment, was silent. 
 * ' Yes, she foreboded aright ; 
 
 you shall never meet more, but as souls 
 meet! " 
 Then, so solemn a pause, 
 
 so suddenly heavenward lifting, 
 So, with the sacred fraught, — 
 
 it seemed profaneness to break it. 
 
CECILIA. 255 
 
 ** speak on, sweetest of friends; 
 
 'tis meet that all should be told me. 
 So, with soft, low voice, 
 
 my cousin related the sequel. 
 
 ''Still on their bridal tour North, 
 
 were Jules de Villiers and Cecilia, 
 Out on Ontario now 
 
 and bound for the Canada Cities. 
 Fairest of days just gone, 
 
 with sunset only too gorgeous; 
 Fairest of nights now come, 
 
 with twilight only too hushful, 
 Skies too starry and still, 
 
 too still and starry the waters. 
 O'er which plyed her way 
 
 the magnificent steamer that bore them, 
 Well sped, steadily on, 
 
 a traveling glimmer in darkness. 
 In her saloons was the soft, sweet tumult 
 
 of music and dancing. 
 But to the blithesome call, 
 
 Cecilia, for once, was unmindful ; 
 Though arrayed for the dance, 
 
 all pensive and silent she sat there, 
 Dreamily watching the dancers, 
 
 and when they besought her to join them, 
 Shook she her head, her bright eyes brighter 
 
 with Heaven's impendings. 
 
256 CECILIA. 
 
 Hushed was the music at once — 
 
 all mirth, in a moment, extinguished. 
 Ere you could look and say — 
 
 ' It is coming ! ' come was the tempest, 
 Beating the waters with thunderous wings, 
 
 and driving the brave boat 
 Blindly, hither and thither, 
 
 as were it no more than a foam-wreath. 
 Nearing the foot of the lake 
 
 when the storm overtook her, the vessel 
 Soon through the maze of the Thousand Isles 
 
 was rushing bewildered, 
 When, with a crash, she struck 
 
 and now lay utterly helpless, • 
 
 Under the storm's full rage 
 
 which erst had only pursued her. 
 Scarce had she struck, when cries of 'Fire,' 
 
 more terrible nowhere 
 Than amid wind and waves, 
 
 in the ears of the passengers sounded, 
 Bringing that thrill to the heart, 
 
 which, once felt, never forgotten 
 Fanned by the winds, the flames 
 
 could only be stayed while the life boats 
 Bore off the passengers, load by load, 
 
 to a neighboring island. 
 But in the height of the storm 
 
 and midway the perilous passage. 
 Chanced it so that the boat 
 
 which bore De VilUers and Cecilia 
 
CECILIA. 257 
 
 Swamped from a violent gust. 
 
 Her less unfortunate bridesmaids, 
 Safe already ashore, 
 
 by the light of that terrible flambeau. 
 Witnessed all; saw her 
 
 go drifting away on the billows, 
 Kept afloat by the buoys 
 
 with which her waist he had girdled ; 
 Him, swim after her, reach her, 
 
 and pushing her onward before him, 
 Manfully make for the shore. 
 
 But ere they could gain it, a strong wave 
 Came and forced them asunder 
 
 and bore her away to the channel. 
 He, a magnificent swimmer, 
 
 immediately rallying, followed ; 
 His life could he have saved, 
 
 but hers was his, and more precious. 
 Hopelessly yielding to fate, 
 
 despairingly struggling against it, 
 Swiftly they glided from glare to gloom 
 
 and vanished to perish. 
 Long ere the night went, gone the storm. 
 
 Next morning at sunrise, 
 Up the St. Lawrence came rowing 
 
 a crew of Canadian boatmen, 
 Timinp" to song their oars, 
 
 when spied they a weird apparition. 
 Brightly flecking the stream — 
 
 the corpse of a beautiful woman, 
 17 
 
258 CECILIA. 
 
 Drifting in upright pose, 
 
 arrayed as for music and dancing, 
 Sparkling with costly gems, 
 
 her long hair floating around her, 
 Hands devoutly clasped, 
 
 as if kneeled she to God in the waters. 
 Beauteous face upturned, 
 
 serene as the Heavens it looked to. 
 During the night having noted 
 
 the dull red glare to the westward 
 Tokening a vessel on fire, 
 
 the boatmen guessed they beheld there 
 One of the passengers lost, 
 
 and drawing her out of the water, 
 Into the boat, at once 
 
 to the scene of catastrophe bore her. 
 Oh, what a waif for the like ! 
 
 Incongruous seems it, as nightmare ! 
 Yet, though rugged the men, 
 
 attested they still that in all hearts, 
 Pity's the same, when tragic 
 
 the end of the lovely and youthful. 
 Silently up they came 
 
 and there on the little green island. 
 Tenderly laid her down 
 
 at the feet of her sorrowing bridesmaids. 
 Image of slumberous rest, 
 
 the hands still clasped on the bosom, 
 Shining her gems still where 
 
 her lovely companions had placed them. 
 
CECILIA. 259 
 
 Then, as they looked on her face, 
 
 upturned to the pitying sunHght, 
 Marked they on it a smile 
 
 they never before had beheld there, 
 One of exalted trust, 
 
 which told that never could drift she. 
 Out of the reach of Him, 
 
 who, in sovereignty, walketh the waters ! 
 Death, ere letting her in, 
 
 had opened the heavenly portals. 
 And the divine efflux 
 
 that had smitten her face, still abided. 
 Mute, though, the lips, that smile still spoke, 
 
 still answering, ' All's well ! ' " 
 
 Silently weeping, we sat, 
 
 and shrined was the sorrow forever ! 
 But from the sky of the night, 
 
 a voice of starry remoteness 
 Whispered unto my soul, 
 
 as from the abyss of the future, — 
 ''Thine is she now, whom death 
 
 hath led into heavenly freedom ! 
 Thine, where hopes coalesce 
 
 and die in eternal fulfillment ! 
 Thine, where loves coalesce 
 
 and live in immortal fruition ! " 
 But, oh, pitiful was it 
 
 to think of that life so consummate — 
 
260 CECILIA. 
 
 So o'erbrimmed with joy, 
 
 with love so imbued and imbuing, — 
 That, in a moment, all this— 
 
 I must not, durst not, repeat it ! 
 Verily, like to Himself, 
 
 must God's laws, ever to be such, 
 Vindicate still their own 
 
 and acknowledge in men no distinction. 
 Whether the evil or good, 
 
 the hateful or loveable cross them. 
 Hold they on in their course, 
 
 implicit, unswerving, relentless. 
 Questionless all, if for life or death, 
 
 for joy or for sorrow. 
 Yet, peradventure — assuredly now — 
 
 nay, stand and affirm it, — 
 All as beneficent, too, 
 
 these blind, unchangeable forces ; 
 Since tend they as they will, 
 
 the end is the same in true sequence, 
 Life unto life — preserving for earth, 
 
 destroying for heaven. 
 Lycidas Shelley, Shelley, 
 
 high priest in the worship of beauty. 
 Sinks to his watery grave 
 
 and scarce at his destiny's summit ; 
 Life's star suddenly set, 
 
 shot, meteor-like, from the zenith; 
 Earth's most beautiful flame 
 
 o'erwhelmed and quenched in an Instant, 
 
CECILIA. 261 
 
 Glorious dreams of good, 
 
 ineffable visions of beaut}', 
 Lifelong quest of truth 
 
 and the unhid treasure yet found not. 
 All ignored by the laws, 
 
 which, under Direction Omniscient 
 Swayed by Omnipotent Will, 
 
 hold blindly evermore onward. 
 Sinks to his watery grave, 
 
 and the sunbeams dancing as blithely 
 O'er the entombing gulf, 
 
 as o'er blest Galilee's waters, 
 Once submiss to the tread 
 
 of sovereign, glorified Manhood. 
 What ! no meaning in this ? 
 
 Were there in this loss, in this sorrow, 
 Loss beyond restitution, 
 
 and sorrow beyond consolation. 
 Say, would the deep not moan, 
 
 the light not blench and betray it ? 
 Ay, sicken and die, 
 
 and, dying, precipitate doomsday ! 
 But for life or death, 
 
 God's witness is Nature that all's well: 
 Seen in the dancing of waves 
 
 and heard in the loon's wild laughter, 
 O'er the heads of the wrecked, 
 
 in dusk oblivion drifting ; 
 Seen in the springing of grass, 
 
 and heard in the lark's high warblings. 
 
262 CECILIA. 
 
 O'er the bones of the slain, 
 
 in glorious memory resting ; 
 Seen in the blooming of flowers, 
 
 and heard in the dove's low cooings, 
 O'er the hearts of the seared, 
 
 in cherished remembrance reposing; — 
 Wrecked, or slain, or seared, 
 
 and seen or heard, 'tis a witness 
 All may see and hear, 
 
 whose souls are to Heaven ascending. 
 Tend they then as they will, 
 
 these blind, unchangeable forces. 
 Tend, as will and must, 
 
 the same reunite, that divide us. 
 Soul transcends them all, 
 
 through death still answering — "All's well !" 
 
CECILIA. 263 
 
 SELF-PHANTOMEI). 
 
 -All's well!" - - "^ * "All's well!" 
 Ever-and-aye, to my faltering lips 
 
 would the sibylline accents rise, 
 And ever-and-aye. 
 
 Shrink back from my heart unacknowledged. 
 Old years went and still 
 
 in the morn of my destiny left me. 
 New years came and still 
 
 in the eve of my destiny found me ; 
 ]S"oon, had I none, since gone 
 
 with my dream my hope and ambition; 
 Hopeless the more, that so long 
 
 I had hoped and so near what I'd hoped for, 
 Aimless the more, that so high 
 
 I had aimed and so near what I'd aimed at, 
 'Twas as If Hea.ven had sent 
 
 a fair young angel to tell me 
 Eden's delights were mine, 
 
 her love, her guardian presence. 
 Loved I but in return 
 
 and kept full faith in her promise, 
 But for a few fleet years, 
 
 and then for fulfillment had sought her. 
 Faith had I lost, and lost was my Eden ; 
 
 and with the illusions. 
 Which had illumed the future, 
 
 the solid delights of the present. 
 
264 CECILIA . 
 
 Edens ne'er bloomed on earth, 
 
 which robbed not earth of the Heaven, 
 Hers already, when found, 
 
 and found in faith and contentment. 
 Earthward, hope but dreams, 
 
 still questioning ever the human ; 
 Heavenward, more than dreams, 
 
 the Divine implicitly trusting. 
 Earthward had mine been, heavenward hers, 
 
 and hers still abided. 
 Far less bitterly though 
 
 I regretted the loss of my Eden 
 Than I reproached myself 
 
 for the lack of faith that had lost it, 
 And the distress it had caused 
 
 that love, so trusting and child-like, — 
 Pitying, tender remorse, 
 
 and with it a sympathy mingling, 
 New and strange to my heart, 
 
 for the wretched wherever I found them. 
 Chiefly the death -bereaved, 
 
 the love-denied, and the homeless. 
 Music still lived in my soul, 
 
 an essential part of my selfhood ; 
 But I composed no more 
 
 since gone from my soul the afflatus. 
 Yet was my symphony sometimes played 
 
 and still with the wonder, 
 Oft expressed, that he, 
 
 who had risen from silence so grandly, 
 
CECILIA. 265 
 
 Should into silence at once relapse 
 
 and ever remain there. 
 Phantom-like ever the music, 
 
 as phantom-like now the musician, 
 Haunting the dawn of a day 
 
 which seemed but awaiting his summons, 
 Till in his self-made twilight, 
 
 was lost the ephemeral wonder. 
 Yes, still lived in my soul, 
 
 but now so tinctured with, steeped in, 
 Joined to that other great love, 
 
 the two indivisibly blended ; 
 Union less to be severed 
 
 than that between flower and perfume ; 
 Reticent both to the world 
 
 both living in sacred seclusion. 
 
 There is a fair young city, 
 
 far down the Beautiful River, 
 Where, as it makes a magnificent bend, 
 
 it suddenly swiftens. 
 Sending its powerful flood, 
 
 in tumultuous, tortuous currents, 
 Over a broad, low ledge 
 
 of wave-like, isleted limestone, 
 Brimming its high banks o'er 
 
 with tremulous murmurs and echoes. 
 Hence, when Sunday is come, 
 
 with church-bells tolling for worship. 
 
2(56 CECILIA. 
 
 Now that the streets are hushed, 
 
 its murmurings enter the city, 
 Adding to Sabbath calm 
 
 the sense of ubiquitous presence. 
 This place now was my home ; 
 
 if home may be called the lone dwelling 
 Where, through the lingering years, 
 
 comes never a brother or sister, 
 Never a wife in happy suspense 
 
 sits listing your coming ; 
 Never a babe to brighten your life 
 
 with the being you lent it ; 
 Never a friend to linger and say — 
 
 '* 'Tis pleasant to be here." 
 Such my home, and here ; 
 
 one night I was pacing my chamber, 
 Having been seated for hours 
 
 in solitude at the piano. 
 Playing and much absorbed 
 
 in Mendelssohn's Midsummer-Night's Dream. 
 Music gives memory voice 
 
 and makes it an audible presence ; 
 Making it now call back 
 
 a far-off, dear reminiscence. 
 Sweet with Cousin Annette 
 
 and bright with the Queen of the Fairies. 
 Years, since I looked at that letter ; 
 
 I'll read it to-night and, perchance, dream ! 
 Many a home-sweet letter 
 
 had I in my youth from my cousin, 
 
CECILIA. 267 
 
 Which, with fond regard, 
 
 I kept in an ivory casket, 
 Somewhat apart in my desk, 
 
 and there in a similar casket, 
 Though in a separate drawer, 
 
 my all that was left of Cecilia 
 So to my desk I went 
 
 and searched for that Nazareth letter. 
 But ere finding it, found 
 
 I another whose seal was unbroken. 
 Soft! what's this! what's this? 
 
 Its envelope white, with a rose-tinge 
 Matching the rest ; the hand-writing, too, 
 
 resembling my cousin's ; 
 But when I glanced at the pale 
 
 and all but illegible post-mark, — ■ 
 Beautiful Heaven ! what saw I ? 
 
 ^ New Orleans, Louisiana. ' 
 Long I sat there, reading, 
 
 re-reading that fair superscription ; 
 With soft emphasis then 
 
 the letter I laid on the table, 
 And, as if present the dead, 
 
 with hushed feet paced the apartment. 
 Yes, it had come ; perchance, 
 
 been laid on my desk in my absence, 
 Or, still likelier, whilst 
 
 I was present, absorbed in my music. 
 How it had chanced to be there, 
 
 I now -could only conjecture. 
 
268 CECILIA. 
 
 Often my drawer was open ; 
 
 a frolicksome breeze, peradventure, 
 Catching it up from the top of the desk, 
 
 had flirted it thither. 
 Finding it there, I had 
 
 in a moment of thoughtful abstraction, 
 Laid it away with my cousin's, 
 
 misled by the likeness between them. 
 There for a score of years 
 
 had it waited to tell of the young love. 
 Which was bidding me come 
 
 to perfect our dream by my presence. 
 Long since that was for me. 
 
 Shall hallowing silence still keep it ? 
 But she was Clarence's then, 
 
 his own little girl, and that girl-love 
 Lived on innocent still in the woman. 
 
 Still mine, then, the treasure. 
 Slowly the seal 
 
 I broke ; an exquisite ivory tablet 
 Dropped to the table, blank side up. 
 
 I let it remain there. 
 Forth came stealing a breath 
 
 of that balmy, Arabic perfume, 
 Part of the memory still, 
 
 though here the faintest of sweetness, 
 Yet so unique, I'd caught it, 
 
 and Eden all bloominij around me. 
 
CECILIA. 269 
 
 CECILIA TO CLARENCE. 
 
 ** Once on a sweet June morn, 
 
 the sweetest, for I was a girl then, 
 As in a far bright land, 
 
 a stranger delighted I wandered, 
 Met I a youth so fair, 
 
 with eyes so sunny and sky-like, 
 Seemed he the visible soul 
 
 of that June day shining around us. 
 Day of the days of my life ! 
 
 and my memory luminous with it, 
 Sun-steeped, diamond-like, 
 
 at night still giving out sunshine. 
 Day, my girlhood ending, 
 
 my womanhood era beginning. 
 Epoch, whence to date 
 
 the little events of my lifetime 
 ' This happed after. ' * Before happed that. ' 
 
 And chronicled stands it. 
 Days so perfect and happy 
 
 can come but once in a lifetime ; 
 Once come, once felt, gone, 
 
 and never again to be hoped for. 
 That this day, though, should 
 
 of all others so haunt my remembrance 
 Partly is due to the spell 
 
 that youth left on it by music. 
 
270 CECILIA. 
 
 Ever remember I best, 
 
 when music, with memory blended, 
 Gives my remembrance voice 
 
 to answer me when I m.ay summon. 
 How he my heart strings thrilled, 
 
 until to his own they responded ; 
 Thrilling them then the more, 
 
 until to his own he attuned them. 
 Ever mine eyes sought his, 
 
 save when I would dance, and to dance were 
 Only to float on his -sounds, 
 
 as a swan on mellifluous waters. 
 When I recall those strains 
 
 I feel that so to entrance me 
 Genius must have produced them, 
 
 and that in the future, a silence 
 Waits to be broken by him as broken 
 
 to-day by the masters. 
 Oft as I gazed in his eyes, 
 
 those eyes so sunny and sky-like, 
 Would I recall a dream 
 
 which oft had haunted my slumbers ; 
 Dream of a joy I had lost 
 
 in a far-off beauteous morning, 
 Too far off, indeed, 
 
 to have dawned outside of Elysium, 
 Nearly too far for dreams. 
 
 But always seemed it to shimmer 
 Over a bright green isle 
 
 in the midst of cerulean waters, 
 
CECILIA. 271 
 
 Under cerulean skies, 
 
 and the waters and skies so responsive 
 Each to the other's dehghts, 
 
 the isle seemed floating between them. 
 Fairies had touched, it seemed, 
 
 the clouds of a mid-ocean sunrise, 
 Changing their vapory hues 
 
 to water-sheen, verdure and blossoms ; 
 Whilst o'er all that light 
 
 we associate ever with childhood. 
 Light which makes us feel 
 
 as Heaven were smiling through Nature. 
 Here a seeker I strayed, 
 
 yet scarcely knowing what seeking. 
 Suddenly there was a change — 
 
 a morn all bright without sunshine 
 Mystic effulgence of glory, 
 
 which, soul-like, lived in the landscape. 
 What I sought I found in that light, 
 
 and was evermore happy. 
 When it is thus, for thus 
 
 it ever now rises before me, 
 Brings it a sense as though 
 
 outside of to-day I had wandered. 
 Where immortahty grows 
 
 a conscious, palpable presence. 
 But in the night of that day 
 
 I dreamed it again, and, on waking, 
 Knew what it was, the joy 
 
 I had lost and found in that morning, 
 
272 CECILIA. 
 
 Even the soul of that youth, 
 
 with which his eyes were illumined; 
 Soul as lucidly pure, 
 
 as his own ethereal music ; 
 Depths of being so clear, 
 
 my own soul's image I saw there ; 
 Else I should never, 
 
 could never, have slumbered so sweetly be- 
 side him. 
 Else I should never, surely 
 
 could never, have told him I loved him, 
 E'en ere the youth had breathed 
 
 a whisper of love to the damsel. 
 
 But, dear Clarence, no more 
 
 can I write thus distantly of you, 
 Earnestly longing the while 
 
 to speak all presently to you. 
 Yes, though only a school girl promised, 
 
 the woman remembers. 
 Why should she not? In promising Clarence, 
 
 she promised Cecilia, — 
 Promised her all her heart could ask 
 
 for what she was giving. 
 But, sweet friend, what mean 
 
 those words so sadly prophetic. 
 All unwittingly woven 
 
 'twould seem, in the web of your visions, 
 E'en as the flittings of ominous birds 
 
 and the shadows of dark clouds 
 
CECILIA. 273 
 
 Crossing the sky are woofed in the web 
 
 of the fate-weaving sisters. 
 Then, too, why should you Hnk 
 
 your remembrance of me with a phantom ? 
 Phantoms are ominous, either 
 
 of pains they forestall by presaging. 
 Or delight they annul 
 
 by promises passing performance. 
 Do not invest your true-love thus 
 
 with intangible fancies; 
 Being your true-love makes 
 
 her as real as man would have woman. 
 Soft! What say these words of my own? 
 
 Why, simply, that I, too, 
 Have as unwittingly, yes, 
 
 and as sadly, been playing the prophet. 
 Now the peculiar gleam 
 
 in the light of that sweet June evening, 
 As of a farewell smile, 
 
 comes vividly back to remembrance. 
 With what prompted it then, 
 
 and what next morning'it prompted, 
 When we had plighted our hearts, 
 
 and you asked if then I could see it. 
 Strange to tell, those words 
 
 and the words of your echo-voiced phantom 
 Seem interpreting now 
 
 the mysterious lights of my vision. 
 
 Bringing a sense to my soul 
 
 of deathful silence and distance 
 18 
 
274 CECILIA. 
 
 Whilst the nearer your image, 
 
 with love more tender and instant. 
 
 Well, I've had a good cry; 
 
 and, woman -like, scarce know the reason, 
 Either for crying at all, 
 
 or feeling the better for crying. 
 Yet but a spring-shower was it, 
 
 and now I will beam out my sunshine; 
 Set up my rainbow, set it up, too, 
 
 in dupHcate fullness, 
 Over our dreams of each other, 
 
 your visions of musical glory. 
 Over the all that's ours. 
 
 Then build, as you will, in the future. 
 Your Cecilia shall help you, 
 
 so far as a woman's devotion, 
 Sympathy, love, can avail. 
 
 In these she will dower you richly ; 
 Hope has she, too, and enough 
 
 to gild witli perennial sunshine 
 All the fair structures you 
 
 may erect in the magic hereafter. 
 Somewhere there shall we meet ; 
 
 and whether 'twill be with the blue sky 
 Doming our heaven above us, 
 
 or doming its earth underneath us, 
 All is Immanuel still, 
 
 and this. His world, but the star-domed 
 
 3 
 
CECILIA. 275 
 
 Vestibule, open for aye 
 
 to the halls of the heavenly homestead, 
 Where we may stand and wait 
 
 in His invisible morning, — 
 Light wherein all joys 
 
 here planted for Heaven shall ripen. 
 Yes, come ! Ne'er sets 
 
 your cynosure, wander where list you ! 
 Longed had I for the day 
 
 since there at the jessamined window 
 All bedreamed I sat, 
 
 my gaze on the wondering blue e}'cs, 
 Bent upon mine and the Elf-maid warbling 
 
 what we had but whispered. 
 ' Spend the green winter with me,' 
 
 and on to the summery springtime ; 
 Then to the holiest shrine 
 
 bore ever the name of Cecilia, 
 Go ; drink deep her founts 
 
 till your genius find the elixir, 
 Which shall endue it with power 
 
 and spirit and beauty immortal. 
 Stay three years, if needs must, four ; 
 
 my love shall be patient. 
 Only but speed you fair, 
 
 but think of me, write to me often. 
 Sometimes come to me, too, 
 
 and that shall suffice me — almost. 
 Till sweet heaven shall bring you in fine 
 
 to your truest Cecilia. 
 
276 CECILIA. 
 
 p. S. Why should he call it 
 
 '*an unco laddie-like likeness?" 
 Scarce could penciled lines 
 
 be further from memory's image, 
 Whilst so true to the image 
 
 which fancy, from memory, pictured. 
 Cousin Annette, in painting the eyes, 
 
 had but to depict hers. 
 Come to man's estate, 
 
 and this she has done to perfection. 
 Mother affirms that, mine 
 
 is a trespass on the ideal ; 
 That, to flatter his art, 
 
 the artist has flattered his subject. 
 Certainly, much is assumed 
 
 that Nature herself never dreamed of. 
 But this silence of mine, 
 
 from three of your letters unanswered, — 
 Three and the last so unlike 
 
 my sun-bright Clarence, my Phoebus, — 
 Must not go unexplained. 
 
 When those dear wanderers reached me, 
 Gone, on a visit, were we, 
 
 to some of our numerous French kin. 
 Who dwell, scattered amongst 
 
 the green depths of the West Indies, 
 Whence we have just returned. 
 
 In sequence still of the voyage. 
 Seem I half made up 
 
 of plunging, billowy motion ; 
 
CECILIA. 277 
 
 Hence, perchance, the swirls 
 
 of this somewhat billowy letter. 
 
 But when anon we meet, 
 
 such summery quiet and gladness 
 
 All my being shall fill, 
 
 you'll scarcely know your 
 
 Cecilia. 
 
 thp: miniature. 
 
 Such the letter, in words ; 
 
 the words, to the thoughts they suggested. 
 But, as the outside hues 
 
 on the pictured pane of a window. 
 To the ethereal beauty, 
 
 which there, from heavenward, meets you. 
 Not smit only, but pierced 
 
 and illumed by the light that reveals it. 
 Sadly prophetic, indeed, 
 
 of ** deathful silence and distance ! " 
 Yet, as prophetic, albeit, 
 
 of deathless music and presence ! 
 Slight, oh ! slight, are the bonds 
 
 that hold us to bliss and the loved one ! 
 There an unseen Eden 
 
 lay spread all smiling before me, 
 Offering me its delights, 
 
 its flowers, its fruitage, its perfume. 
 
278 CECILIA. 
 
 Over the evening hills, 
 
 a frolicsome zephyr came rambling ; 
 Hither and thither it played, 
 
 no end by to play as it listed. 
 Scarcely swayed it the grass, 
 
 or awoke a whir in the greenwood ; 
 Scarcely dimpled the sheen 
 
 of the sunset-imaging streamlet; 
 Scarcely could it have pushed 
 
 Ceciha's curls from her forehead ; 
 Yet this wandering breath, 
 
 all wayward as was it, and mindless, 
 Wafted an Eden away, 
 
 along with the vapors of evening ; 
 Bore on its wings a cloud 
 
 that has darkened the sky of a lifetime ; 
 Blew a whole destiny wide of its course, 
 
 to the drifting and aimless. 
 Gently I folded and laid it away 
 
 as a consecrate relic. 
 Blank side up, had the tablet remained. 
 
 Shall I look on the portrait ? 
 What is portrayed there never was mine ; 
 
 that passed to another. 
 Soft ! the soul, perchance, 
 
 may be traced in the beauty there imaged. 
 That I may justly claim ; • 
 
 will glance at it but for a moment. 
 Proves it to be not mine, 
 
 let gentle oblivion claim it. 
 
CECILIA. 279 
 
 I had only to turn it, 
 
 the soul's own image to see there : — 
 Beauty that might bedream 
 
 the sleep of a youthful immortal ! 
 See, too, my little girl 
 
 still fresh in the soul of the woman. 
 Mine, then, mine ! an image to circle 
 
 with consecrate tapers. 
 Only the head and neck 
 
 appeared in this miniature portrait. 
 Physical beauty intense, 
 
 with health exuberant glowing ; 
 Yet by the spiritual fined 
 
 and to the ideal exalted. 
 Gleamingly down to the ears 
 
 the dark hair rippled in wavelets, 
 Thence in wavelets still, 
 
 to the rich braids showing in glimpses 
 Over the caught from crown, 
 
 while round the Aurora-like forehead 
 Ringlets, too girlish for womanish thralls, 
 
 caressingly clustered. 
 Heightening the gleam of the hair 
 
 and forming a luminous background, 
 Shone a resplendence golden, 
 
 itself relieved against azure. 
 Forth from this nimbus-like cloud, 
 
 two spirit-like hands were extended 
 Clasping the ends of an irised scarf, 
 
 and over the young head 
 
280 CECILIA. 
 
 Holding in arched distension, 
 
 the symbol of heavenly promise. 
 Over our dreams of each other, 
 
 set up, indeed, was her rainbow! 
 But by what art had the painter 
 
 depicted the eyes of his subject? 
 That with the changing lights, 
 
 of living intelligence, shone they, 
 As they had shone of yore, 
 
 an eloquence making of silence. 
 Smiling the red, ripe lips, 
 
 still with the sweet reassurance — 
 ** Yes, come ! ne'er sets 
 
 your cynosure, wander where list you. 
 Could it be, heard I a voice ? 
 
 or was it but memory speaking ? 
 There was a silence ; the midnight bells, 
 
 then pealing, disturbed not 
 Hush like that which follows in dreams 
 
 the voice of the angels. 
 Does Cecilia, indeed, 
 
 revisit the haunts of the mortal ? 
 Thus to my soul I spoke 
 
 and, save to that echoless listener, 
 Never in all those hermitized years 
 
 that name had I uttered ; 
 Shrining my sorrow and love 
 
 in jealous, idolatrous silence ; 
 Reticent e'en with Annette, 
 
 whose sisterly spirit and counsel 
 
CECILIA. 281 
 
 Much might have done to abridge 
 
 this dreamed-away best of my lifetime. 
 Came now into my heart 
 
 an unspeakable yearning to see her, 
 Gushing up, like that felt 
 
 by the homesick child in the nighttime,— 
 See her, tell her, hear 
 
 her tell of the beautiful lost one. 
 Whose words, spoken on earth, 
 
 could only in heaven be answered. 
 I will revisit the spot, 
 
 retrace the scenes of that one day. 
 Which in my memory shines, 
 
 as though it had dawned in Elysium. 
 Nature speaks in to-day, 
 
 but never is heard till to-morrow. 
 Haply, what spoke she then 
 
 I now may hear and interpret. 
 As the resolve was formed, 
 
 the eyes of the image before me 
 Seemed to increase their light 
 
 as smiling in bright approbation. 
 Setting the tablet leant, 
 
 and directly facing the lamplight, 
 Head in elbow-prop, 
 
 I sat all dreamfully gazing 
 Into those girl-angel eyes, 
 
 till weird with the dreamfulness grew they 
 Planet-like all aglow 
 
 with the sheens of invisible glory : 
 
282 CECILIA. 
 
 Dreamfully gazing, and yet 
 
 with strained intensity listening, 
 As who listens to hear 
 
 a fateful step on the threshold. 
 Lucid the tablet now, 
 
 as were it a heavenly window ; 
 Lucid the portrait, too, 
 
 as were it the face of an angel, 
 SmiHngly towards me turned 
 
 from the halls of the heavenly homestead. 
 Hark ! the drowsy bells — just one ; — 
 
 then slumberous silence. 
 Vanishings flittingly shadow the face, 
 
 then vanishings vanish. 
 Colorless, soundless, formless dreams — 
 
 oblivion senseless. 
 Echoings, glimmerings far and faint — 
 
 a surging awakening 
 From the immortal we feel, 
 
 to meet the immortal we dream of, — 
 Passed in a moment from night, 
 
 to God's invisible Morning ! 
 
CECILIA. 283 
 
 THE VISION.'"^ 
 
 Through a long vista of shadows 
 
 that luminous grew in perspective, 
 Saw I a bright green isle 
 
 in the midst of cerulean waters ; 
 Level and summited verdure, 
 
 enameling crystalline blueness ; 
 Level and steep-running waters 
 
 ensilvering emerald greenness. 
 On a majestic mount 
 
 that embroidered the sky with its gardens, 
 Towered a stately fane, 
 
 with domes and terrets of sapphire, 
 Whence, or sung or played, 
 
 flowed strains of celestial sweetness. 
 Bright this beauty above, 
 
 with image as bright in the waters, 
 Whose broad gleam was the plane 
 
 where two transparencies blended ; 
 Whilst o'er all that mystic effulgence, 
 
 the morn without sunlight. 
 Issuing forth from the temple, 
 
 a glory, elliptic in outline, 
 
 "When I was twenty-five years of age, I had a dream of Beethoven, 
 in which I seemed to hear, peradventure did hear, the great master play 
 one of his majestic slow movements, and such music it was as I had never 
 heard in my waking senses. What I heard in my dream I have imagined 
 Clarence as hearing in his vision, with such additions as grow too 
 obviously out of the subject to require explanation. It may not be 
 irrelevant to mention here that the short poem entitled " Prelude to My 
 Dream of Beethoven " owes its origin to the same circumstance. 
 
284 CECILIA. 
 
 Mist-like, glided adown 
 
 the blooming parterres of the mountain. 
 Mist-like, swept the sea 
 
 and entered the vista of shadows, 
 Gilding the bright as it passed, 
 
 and luminous making the dusky ; 
 Entered my room ; — my room ? 
 
 Its walls and ceiling had vanished, 
 Lost in abysmal night ; 
 
 a circle of columns stupendous 
 Rising, instead, from, the measureless floor, 
 
 and propping the ' ' star-domed 
 Vestibule, open for aye 
 
 to the halls of the Heavenly Homestead." 
 Naught that pertained to my room 
 
 now visible, save the piano. 
 Awe-struck, bowed, I stood, 
 
 the glory now motionless near me. 
 Forth from its disc emerged, 
 
 oh, beautiful Heaven! Cecilia! 
 Came and confronted me there, 
 
 a soul all purged of the mortal, 
 Azure-robed and crowned 
 
 with the roses and lilies of Aiden. 
 Beautiful ever her eyes, 
 
 as agleam with the glory we see not ; 
 Awfully beautiful now, 
 
 as eyes that had looked on the Dread Ones, 
 Death and God, and drawn 
 
 from the seeing new life and divineness. 
 
 
CECILIA. 285 
 
 Beautiful ever her voice, 
 
 as attuned to the music we hear not ; 
 Awfully beautiful now, 
 
 as a voice that had sung with the angels, 
 Where death's dream is past 
 
 and life's dream never a dream more ! 
 *' Oh, my erring belov'd ! 
 
 I'm come, under favor of Heaven, 
 For the revealment of that 
 
 which alone can unite us hereafter. 
 Sins my belov'd, in giving 
 
 his life and his soul to a vision ; 
 Due that life to our brother, 
 
 and due that soul to our Father ; 
 Naught to Cecilia due, 
 
 but his faith and his human affections ; 
 Pure in these and constant in that ; 
 
 God, only, for worship." 
 Words of rebuke, with looks and tones 
 
 of love and compassion 
 Words could not tell ; to my conscience a pang, 
 
 to my spirit a rapture. 
 "Tenderly given your just rebuke; 
 
 my fault I acknowledge ; 
 Bitterly self-condemned 
 
 already I stood and atoneless. 
 Fain would I tell you more ; 
 
 but here in the silence is something, 
 Which, like an ocean's weight, 
 
 o'erwhelms my unfortified spirit. 
 
286 CECILIA. 
 
 If it's the Infinite Presence, 
 
 oh, help me, Cecilia, to bear it ! " 
 Tenderly took she my hand ; 
 
 a thrill, and straight I was strengthened, 
 Brought by my true-love's touch 
 
 into harmony with the celestial. 
 But, with the strengthening, came 
 
 an impression of personal presence. 
 Sense of a sympathy, such 
 
 as awakes the divine in the human, 
 Bringing us nearer to God, 
 
 and nearer, through Him, to each other. 
 Awe-struck, lowering my voice, 
 
 my eyes on the glory, I whispered : — 
 "Tell me, Cecilia, with whom you come; 
 
 I can not behold him. 
 Yet do I feel he illumes 
 
 yon orb which hither has brought you ; 
 Some dread genius, who, 
 
 in the might of his sympathy, daunts me ! " 
 '^One I have brought to emancipate you 
 
 from inglorious thraldom. 
 Further than this and who it may be, 
 
 himself will reveal you ; 
 Under his fatherly shadow I'm come, 
 
 my Clarence to rescue." 
 To the piano then glided this glory, 
 
 and nearer Cecilia 
 Drew to my side ; with hands interclasped, 
 
 we stood as for wedlock, 
 
CECILIA. 287 
 
 Eyes turned reverent towards 
 
 that viewless, palpable presence. 
 But when the silence was broken, 
 
 no manner of instrument broke it 
 Heard I ever before ; 
 
 the sounds, though struck out and bell-like, 
 Were as prolonged and sustained, 
 
 as breathed from the pipes of an organ : 
 Swelling, while bell-like ; 
 
 clashing, while horn-like ; warbling, while 
 lyre-like ; 
 All intermingled and spherily chiming, 
 
 and resonance finding, 
 Deep and full, in what seemed 
 
 the crystalline sphere of my being. 
 First a chaos of sounds 
 
 and silence, musingly mingled ; 
 Then upburst the theme 
 
 from a murmur of ocean-like breathings ; — 
 Unison simple and grand 
 
 as the mundane prelude — " Let light be ! " 
 Till into harmony suddenly spreading, 
 
 when suddenly light was. 
 With an Aeolian thrill 
 
 shook every chord of my being ; 
 For the sublimely arched, 
 
 cathedral-like harmony told me 
 Who the musician must be, 
 
 and an answering thrill from Cecilia, 
 
288 CECILIA. 
 
 Making our interlocked hands vibrate, 
 
 responded — '' Beethoven ! " 
 Oh, for the words to describe 
 
 that indescribable music ! 
 Not only audibly spoke it, 
 
 but even as visibly shone it ! 
 Each clear note, as it rang out, 
 
 effulged a luminous color, 
 Like an electric flash 
 
 or a streak of Doreal splendor, 
 Taking its place in an air-drawn score, 
 
 a sound-panorama, 
 Slowly unfolding itself 
 
 and inscrutably shifted before me. 
 As came gleaming forth, 
 
 from the steadfast discs of the glory. 
 Measure by measure the music, 
 
 so vanished it, measure by measure. 
 Far in the voidness, merged in the dusk 
 
 of futurity's silence. 
 Some of the sounds were as stars, 
 
 distinctly spangling the blankness ; 
 Nebulous some, resolvable 
 
 but to angelic perception ; 
 Others as wedges or bars 
 
 of gold or silver or coral. 
 Chords presented themselves 
 
 all streaked with the hues of the rainbow, 
 Here, in rising, fining 
 
 to azure or silvery whiteness ; 
 
 1 
 
CECILIA. 289 
 
 There, in sinking, shading . 
 
 to gray and to ebony blackness. 
 These were subordinate sounds, 
 
 and to these were subordinate others, 
 Which, interstrewn, as gems, 
 
 or streamed and showered, as sunbeams 
 Through a stained window, enriched 
 
 this visible fabric of music. 
 Varying never its hue, 
 
 the whiteness of increate essence, 
 Varying never its course, 
 
 still ever forever ascending, 
 Lifting the mass as it rose, 
 
 interfusing, determining, binding, 
 Making what else were chaos, 
 
 a fabric of order and beauty, 
 Through all shone the theme, 
 
 and still with the burden — " Let light be! '* 
 True, it would vanish 
 
 at times, obscured by the harmony closing 
 Too intervolved and dense ; 
 
 yet then, though I heard not and saw not, 
 Still could I feel it was there, 
 
 and when once more it would shine out 
 Sequent perception I had 
 
 that the harmony still had expressed it. 
 Whence those measuring beats 
 
 in tollings remote and abysmal ? 
 
 As on a mountain afar 
 
 a mighty archangel were standing, 
 19 
 
290 CECILIA. 
 
 Striking with cyclop sledge 
 
 the resounding shell of the heavens, 
 Telling out slowly the years, 
 
 as slowly the centuries summed them. 
 Ever repeated ere ceasing, 
 
 and softly rising ere lapsing, 
 Swell on swell they rolled, 
 
 like the star-lit billows of ocean. 
 To the resplendence of sound, 
 
 a dusk cerulean background. 
 Oh, for the words to reveal 
 
 the apocalypse voiced by that music ! 
 Words so fraught must come 
 
 whence comes what the words should 
 embody. 
 I can only affirm, 
 
 it breathed the divine through the human. 
 That to my soul it revealed 
 
 the invisible Morn of Jehovah, 
 Lighting the shadows of earth 
 
 and making them part of its glory, 
 Troubled though seemed they, and dark 
 
 to the gropers bewildered among them, 
 That to my soul it revealed 
 
 Man's destiny, here and hereafter. 
 As a symphonic design, 
 
 where discord justly with concord 
 Holds co-ordinate part 
 
 in the symphony's dominant motives. 
 
CECILIA. 291 
 
 Roar and howl and moan 
 
 as it may, the terrestrial prelude. 
 Once, though know I not how, 
 
 but minghng themselves with the music, 
 Came to my soul those thoughts 
 
 which burdened the soul of Cecilia, 
 Taking her words and tones, as singing 
 
 were she to her loved one, 
 Though by my side, all silent she stood, 
 
 only listening, listening ! 
 '* There is no joy to suffice, 
 
 no vision of hope to be trusted, 
 Coming between us and God 
 
 and wanting the stamp of his image. 
 Hope from Heaven no bliss, 
 
 on earth bestowing no blessing. 
 Cast not to-day 
 
 from thy life, 'tis more than thy God can 
 restore thee ! 
 Rob not thyself of His gifts, 
 
 by sharing them not with thy brother ! 
 Shadows are ours to shine in 
 
 and image the glory we see not ; 
 Discords ours to sing in 
 
 and echo the music we hear not. 
 Imaging, echoing thus, 
 
 reveal we the Infinite Presence ! 
 Oh, then image and echo 
 
 for God, thyself and thy brother! " 
 
292 CECILIA. 
 
 Then with a strain so grand, 
 
 so passing all human conception, 
 I but listened o'erwhelmed, 
 
 this Destiny Symphony ended, 
 God's part seeming the silence 
 
 which followed the awful finale, 
 Surging o'er my soul, 
 
 as were it His personal presence, 
 Filling at once the void 
 
 which else had forever abyssed me. 
 Still with her hand in mine, 
 
 had stood Cecilia beside me. 
 We had not spoken nor looks interchanged 
 
 while the symphony sounded; 
 Nor had need, so thrilled, 
 
 sympathetic, accordant, responsive, 
 By such music as could 
 
 into one deep consciousness blend us. 
 Now with ineffable love 
 
 her beauty immortal illuming, 
 Turned she to me and spoke; 
 
 and her voice, while it deepened the silence, 
 Seemed yet a part of the music, 
 
 the soul of a melody speaking. 
 " We by that music are joined 
 
 in blest immortality's wedlock. 
 It has assayed us and proved 
 
 that our counterparts dwell in each other. 
 Go with the love that attends 
 
 you, then come to the love that awaits you. '* 
 
CECILIA. 293 
 
 . Came then a kiss on my lips, 
 
 a bliss, a pang, — and the vision 
 Vanished, merged, not lost, 
 
 in that Morn of the Present Hereafter. 
 Back into life I swooned, 
 
 awoke, — and there, with rainbow 
 Hovering over them still, 
 
 the nimbus gleaming around them. 
 Were those girl-angel eyes, 
 
 still smiling in sweet reassurance. 
 Naught of their weirdness left, 
 
 but the woman agleam with the angel, 
 They had been watching my vision-lit face 
 
 through the slumberous silence. 
 Face all wet with tears, 
 
 the heavenly music had fountained. 
 Dimly the lamp-light burned ; — 
 
 I looked, and, lo ! it was morning ! 
 
 All day long I wrote : 
 
 had never my brain been so lucid. 
 Hand so untiring and swift ; 
 
 of effort I hardly was conscious. 
 Was I inspired ? There were times 
 
 when the viewless, palpable presence, 
 So pervading the vision, 
 
 appeared to return on my spirit. 
 Whether 'twas thus, or that thought 
 
 assumed preternatural swiftness, 
 
29-4 CECILIA. 
 
 As the extended effect 
 
 of what it ah'eady had fed on, 
 Clearly I can not determine ; 
 
 can only affirm that at nightfall 
 There on my desk, in a score, 
 
 lay written the vision-heard music ; — 
 Echo and shadow, indeed, 
 
 but echo and shadow of Heaven. 
 Earth, thenceforward, for Avhich 
 
 shouJd be the more solid and tuneful, 
 Give it but silence to speak in, 
 
 responsive remembrance to live in. 
 Over the manuscript still 
 
 I lingered, solemnly musing. 
 Suddenly into my thoughts 
 
 the Phantom Symphony glided. 
 Once more 
 
 taking my pen, with a tremor, I wrote on 
 the fly-leaf 
 of the new opus, its name, 
 
 and "The Angel Symphony," named it! 
 Mine, as ever the Angel ; 
 
 not mine, as ever the Phantom ! 
 
CECILIA. 295 
 
 CODA. 
 
 Fields of immaculate Whiteness 
 
 and skies of immaculate blueness 
 Into one splendor merge 
 
 the homes of the dead and the living. 
 Only the night gone, Heaven 
 
 in stormy obscurity shrouded, 
 Wrought that saintly veil 
 
 and over the face of the dead Earth 
 Spread its glittering folds, 
 
 then came forth smiling benignly; 
 Smiling benignly on Death 
 
 and the dread, ubiquitous shadow 
 Palpably hovering o'er 
 
 the beauty and joy he has blasted ! 
 Ay, but death unto life, 
 
 else Heaven had never been Heaven ! 
 Terrible call him no more, 
 
 who comes as a Heavenly Bridegroom, 
 Claiming the white-veiled Earth, 
 
 as his, under God's benediction. 
 Now in perfection is night ; 
 
 a shadow of fathomless clearness ; 
 Lucid the walls of the sky, 
 
 and manifest now in the glories 
 Day so jealously hides, 
 
 the compensative power of darkness, 
 
296 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Solemnly sheening the snow, 
 
 the spirit-like shadow of sunlight 
 Comes as a spirit-like smile 
 
 from the bride of the beautiful Terror. 
 Shimmering now is that smite 
 
 o'er Jessamine Hill, the old homestead, 
 Where, as a concord true, 
 
 we dropt into destiny's anthem ; 
 Shimmering o'er the hills 
 
 of the winding Beautiful River, 
 Where met, severed for Earth, 
 
 the twain for Heaven united ; 
 Shimmering o'er the Isles 
 
 of glorious, mighty St. Lawrence, 
 Where she, perfect in beauty, 
 
 with destiny's newness upon her. 
 Passed from God unto God, 
 
 all mine in the light of His Morning! 
 Shimmering near and far, 
 
 and yet wheresoever it shimmers — 
 Here on Jessamine Hill 
 
 or there on the Beautiful River, 
 Or on the Thousand Isles— 
 
 for the white-veiled bride of the Terror, 
 Speaks that spirit-like smile, 
 
 through Death still answering— "All's well!" 
 1 873- 1 900. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 When I had written my Cecilia ten times over, 
 from beginning to end, and was on the eve of giving 
 it what I earnestly hoped would prove its final form, 
 two or three of my best friends, the fated few, to 
 whom I submitted it for criticism, were so kind as to 
 help me find a good deal of fault with it, thus, 
 according to the law of compensation, extracting out 
 of the favor they were doing for me, perforce, a 
 little wholesome revenge. This statement of the 
 case, however, is less a truth than a fact. My friends 
 were as lenient as an obscure author could reasonably 
 expect ; but, having given me a fair start in the right 
 direction, they were so judicious — a hint to the wise 
 being sufficient — as to let me go on and find out the 
 rest of the faults for myself, which I did, with singular 
 severity of self-criticism, recasting hundreds of lines 
 which they had been so indulgent as to wink at, and, 
 it may be, so sensitive to as to wince at. 
 
 But what impressed them as too faulty to be 
 forgiven, without immense merit to balance it, was the 
 length of the poem, and this, they assured me, was 
 far too great for these latter days of the nineteenth 
 century, which were too noisy, hurried and swift for 
 the long and quiet pauses necessary to the due con- 
 sideration and full enjoyment of aught so far removed 
 from the present habits of thought as poetry — days 
 
 297 
 
so crowded, too, with new and wonderful things, and 
 so bent upon appropriating, utihzing, and enjoying 
 them all that they could hardly wait for the sun to 
 rise and grudged to see him set. Therefore I needed 
 to be reminded that the notions entertained of poetry 
 by such an age must be altogether different from the 
 old-fashioned ones I cherished, and that, when poetry 
 was called for at all, it must be something short and 
 swift, begin and end abruptly, and embody as much 
 as were possible to be felt in less than an hour, nor 
 more than could be forgotten in less than a day. 
 Then, too, in order to remove it as far as possible 
 from the promiscuous jangle of prose, such a compo- 
 sition should have a harmonious jingle, and this it 
 should get by having attached to the end of every 
 line a little bell, so to speak, which must be in chime 
 with a similar appendage to some other line ; though, 
 occasionally, the chime may be addressed to the eye, 
 as well as the ear, just as, in architecture, a blind 
 window may be introduced, at intervals, in order to 
 keep up continuities. 
 
 I am almost half ashamed to confess that I have 
 always been troubled with a mental bias, which has 
 hindered me from attaching to this feature of poetic 
 composition that high value it seems entitled to by 
 long established taste, for it is really very ingenious 
 and no less useful than ornamental. Besides amusing 
 the eye and ear by inciting them to anticipate its 
 recurrence, it serves to keep the reader at easy and 
 regular intervals, reminding him of the fact that he is 
 
 298 
 
not reading prose ; and, likewise, it helps him to 
 remember, at least for the time being — what may 
 never be again— what might otherwise be so slightly- 
 marked as to escape his notice, thus giving to airy 
 nothing, if not exactly a local habitation, at least a 
 pleasant stopping-place, where it may lodge for the 
 fleeting hour, till ousted by the throng of new-comers, 
 each importunate to be heard, and all rushing 
 higgledy-piggledy onward between the half- forgotten 
 yesterday and the half-projected to-morrow. 
 
 What my friends, then, gave me to understand 
 regarding the present literary taste left me with but 
 slight hope that my poem could meet with any great 
 degree of favor, even granting that the thoughts it 
 embodies might be found of merit sufficient to atone 
 for its unusual length and more unusual form. 
 
 It could not tell you distinctly where it began or 
 ended ; it had but slight reference to any particular 
 time, place, or subject ; and it was wholly destitute 
 of the tuneful chime, deemed now-a-days so indis- 
 pensable to poetic composition, expressing as it did 
 its thoughts and emotions in a measure unfamiliar to 
 the popular ear. To change the form, with any hke- 
 lihood of a happy result, was out of the question ; 
 this being, as it seemed to me, inseparable from the 
 nature and the drift of the theme. The length, per- 
 haps, might be reduced to somewhat more endurable 
 limits, without detriment to artistic effect, possibly to 
 its enhancement. This sacrifice to the prevailing 
 taste, v/ith some natural reluctance, I consented to 
 
 299 
 
make, and to the extent of nearly five hundred Hnes, 
 which, as being of a retrospective character, and 
 occurring near the close of the poem, seemed to me 
 less essential to its completeness, as a whole, than 
 many other passages of less poetic significance. 
 
 Beside the two or three friends upon whose 
 counsel I made this abridgement, there was yet 
 another, who, having read the poem nearly as often 
 as I had written it, was, perhaps, more familiar with 
 it than any of the rest. When I informed this friend 
 of the change I had made she expressed much 
 regret thereat, as the part omitted embraced some 
 passages which she had always regarded as among 
 the best of the poem. So earnest, indeed, and em- 
 phatic was her protest that I began at once to con- 
 sider if I might not yet, to some extent, rectify the 
 mistake, if mistake it was, by appending to the main 
 work, in fragmentary form, the passages whose 
 omission she most regretted. This I have ventured 
 to do, though it is with much diffidence that I sub- 
 mit the result to the more critical of my readers, but 
 who, I humbly hope, will help each other to bear in 
 mind that these passages were not omitted to make 
 the poem better, but shorter, and shorter for their 
 sakes. If, then, shorter for their sakes, it were but 
 considerate and courteous in me to warn them that, 
 if they are perfectly satisfied with the length of the 
 poem as it now stands, they need not take the 
 additional trouble to read the additional lines, unless, 
 indeed, they should have the curiosity to find out for 
 
 300 
 
themselves to what extent they have been defrauded 
 by my critics 
 
 In conclusion I shall say, and must say, that, 
 inasmuch as I should never have dared to introduce 
 into my book so novel a feature, but for the earnest 
 protest of this friend — Mrs. M. W. B., of Sheibyville, 
 Ky. — and, inasmuch as these passages are indebted 
 to her for their preservation, it seems to me it were 
 but meet that I should dedicate them to her, which 
 I do, with many a pleasant and grateful remembrance 
 of the sweet and encouraging interest she has man- 
 ifested in the long, slow growth and development of 
 this poem. This last offering of my old fancy, in 
 which I have found more unalloyed delight than in 
 aught else I liave ever attempted to accomplish. 
 
 301 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Never had I, since then, 
 
 re-entered the dream-haunted precincts 
 But that over my soul 
 
 the past seemed refluent coming, 
 Hiding to-day from view ; 
 
 and now, to deepen this feeling, 
 Years had elapsed since I 
 
 a visit had made the old homestead. 
 Then to enhance yet more 
 
 this sense of the long ago vanished, 
 Indian summer, waif of the year, 
 
 bemisted the landscape. 
 O'er life's seared delights 
 
 diffusing its azure enchantments, 
 While suggesting, too, 
 
 an image of memory's dimness. 
 
 Never since, hand-in-hand, 
 
 with that beautiful girl, I had traced them 
 Had I retraced the paths 
 
 of that blissful afternoon ramble. 
 Lest should memory lose 
 
 the fitful charm of enchantment, 
 302 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 303 
 
 Which, with frequency holds 
 
 but shy and dubious consort, 
 I'll retrace them now 
 
 and leave those memories sainted. 
 
 Now once more and alone, 
 
 on Holiday Hill I am standing, 
 Pleased to find it still 
 
 the center of summer rejoicings, 
 Though to hopes and dreams, 
 
 a whole generation behind me. 
 Where the old arbor stood 
 
 another repeating the model, 
 Rears its sun-crisped roof 
 
 and shows, for a shade, but a shadow ; 
 Each faint breeze, as it sighs througli the ruin, 
 
 a phantom-like whisper ; 
 Each seared leaf, as it sinks to the ground, 
 
 a phantom-like footstep. 
 Here, through the mellowing day 
 
 in fond retrospection I linger. 
 Pacing to and fro, 
 
 where, flitting and waving before me. 
 Dance did she, and smile, 
 
 in sylph-like beauty and gladness. 
 Then was the world all fresh, 
 
 and our two hearts made it an Eden ; 
 Now all seared was the world, 
 
 and the one heart finds it a desert. 
 
;U)4 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Of the diversified scene 
 
 the festal summit commanded, 
 Spoken have I elsewhere, 
 
 as in the perfection of summer, 
 Emerald June, 'twas viewed ; 
 
 now in the perfection of autumn, 
 Golden October, it lay, 
 
 the ripe fulfillment of promise. 
 More diversified still, 
 
 benignant more and as lovely. 
 Gray, though, meadow and field, 
 
 and the shadier slopes of the woodland 
 Russet with cast-off leaves, 
 
 still green were the pastures of bluegrass) 
 Greener the inmost trees, 
 
 the outmost gorgeously painted, 
 By the magician. Frost, 
 
 with crimson, purple and golden. 
 Yet, be the hues of the scene 
 
 and its phases however contrasted, 
 Mellow the blending shows, 
 
 as softened by Indian Summer, 
 Which, o'erspreading the whole 
 
 with a spirit-like tissue of azure, 
 Seems to have drawn from the sky 
 
 to glorify Earth for a season, 
 Lending her scenes of life and decay 
 
 a heavenly semblance. 
 Angels seem to have lowered 
 
 a veil of cerulean softness, 
 
INDIAN SUilMER. 305 
 
 Fraught with heavenly shapes, 
 
 which need but heavenward yearnings 
 In the beholder's soul, 
 
 to be viewed in their actual glor}\ 
 This, and over it all 
 
 that solemn resplendence of sunshine 
 Only October reveals — 
 
 a light, which e'er to my fancy 
 Seemed as a gleam on to-day, 
 
 from far-off yesterday's faUing, 
 Blending the present and past. 
 
 And now, as I looked on the prospect 
 Through that haze of its own, 
 
 and the haze of autumnal remembrance, 
 Back that light came gUmpsing through 
 
 the gathering shadows, 
 Tinged and etherialized with the sheens 
 
 of that glorified evening. 
 Mingled with them the ** farewell smile," 
 
 so strangely then fancied 
 "Yet so happy a day 
 
 can come but once in a lifetime ! " 
 Was that truly a voice ? 
 
 Half startled, I paused for a moment, 
 Where she'd spoken those words. 
 
 Could miemor\'- speak so distinctly? 
 Thrilled, as were it, indeed, 
 
 the voice of invisible presence, 
 Listening, still I stood, 
 
 enraptured, wondering, doubting; 
 20 
 
30(3 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Then my pacing resumed, 
 
 till, the wavering gnomons of sunset 
 Bidding the lingerer go, 
 
 I homeward went by the wildwood, 
 Where, in our young-life joy, 
 
 we had decked one another with wild flowers. 
 There had they bloomed on still, 
 
 and the brighter and fresher it may be, 
 Having so helped to make 
 
 one blissful day in a lifetime. 
 Spectacle strange to view 
 
 to me, at the moment, it seemed so, 
 This, of a middle-aged man 
 
 retracing the steps of a young girl, 
 Long since vanished from earth. 
 
 But first love, live it the one love, 
 Makes in the soul perennial spring 
 
 of thought and emotion, 
 Which life's winter but holds in suspense 
 
 for the winterless Eden. 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 307 
 
 THE INVISIBLE MORNING. 
 
 'i^ ;:; * ;K ^1= 
 
 Now was the solitude mine, 
 
 and therein the haze and the moonHght. 
 Pensive, I sat me down 
 
 where she, in her beauty, had slumbered, 
 Whimsical, this may seem, 
 
 but, whether it pines or rejoices, 
 Ever in love is a trait 
 
 of either the fond or fantastic, 
 Scarcely to be conceived 
 
 except by experience kindred. 
 Was it a presence I felt, 
 
 or merely that memory's magic, 
 Conjuring now on the spot, 
 
 lent fancy unwonted distinctness ? 
 Memory, fancy, or else 
 
 with ecstacy strange I was thrilling. 
 ''Beautiful face, look forth, 
 
 for but one fugitive moment ! 
 Fain would I once more see 
 
 that smile of immaculate gladness. 
 Which to my young life came 
 
 as a beam from the morn of our Father, 
 Morn that's evermore now, 
 
 and joy that's never tomorrow ! 
 Once to me it came, 
 
 through a June day's showers and sunshine ! 
 
308 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Brighter and brighter it grew, 
 
 as near and nearer approached one 
 Whom it was like — we met ; 
 
 in her smiles I beheld an Elysium 
 Gone, no sooner than come ; 
 
 in her tears a more than Elysium, 
 Coming, but, oh ! when ? 
 
 Thus angel-Hke, phantom-like, came she ; 
 Phantom-like, angel-like, went, 
 
 and with her the glorious glimpsings. 
 Leaving earth so dark 
 
 my heaven itself was benighted ! 
 Oh, if present, indeed, 
 
 through the mystical shadows between us, 
 Send some token that still 
 
 that blissful morn is around us ! 
 That, in its light, we twain 
 
 shall yet find destiny's union ! " 
 
 Led by memory still, 
 
 I sit at the library window, 
 Softly repeating the call, 
 
 whose cadences, breathing entreaty, 
 Brought to me once what seemed 
 
 a beauteous birth of the morning, 
 Soon, that something I feel — 
 
 what call it but spiritual presence ? 
 Softer, around me, than shade, 
 
 and words heard only in spirit. 
 
INDIAN SUMMKK. 309 
 
 Breathed from the silence without, 
 
 make love to the silence within me. 
 ** Drawn to you now, as of yore, 
 
 again I respond to your summons. 
 Still your counterpart true, 
 
 in thee, themes of destiny's anthem ; 
 Still your true love, too, 
 
 as the loves immortal shall witness. 
 But confronting you here, 
 
 as on that heaven-blest morning, 
 Scanning your inmost soul, 
 
 too plainly my image I see there. 
 Darkly eclipsed in His, 
 
 whose light is the life of reunion. 
 Even the image of God. 
 
 Till that, in the soul, is made perfect, 
 Perfect fulfillment of hope 
 
 were happiness vain to be looked for ; 
 Since, the Giver ignored, 
 
 we rob ourselves of the one thing 
 Making the gift a boon, 
 
 His Fatherly blessings upon it. 
 Clarence was given to me, 
 
 Cecilia to you, but the good gift 
 Never can truly be ours, 
 
 till giving ourselves to the giver, 
 Yielding our all to the All-in- All, 
 
 the Giver, we also 
 Make with the gift our own, 
 
 possessed and possessing forever. 
 
310 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Back to the world, then, go ; 
 
 that also make a possession. 
 Destiny needs him who, 
 
 by suffering, greatens his manhood. 
 Give but your love to the dead ; 
 
 both Hfe and love to the living. 
 Then, in thy triumph, join me here, 
 
 in the morn of our Father, 
 * Morn that's evermore now, 
 
 and joy that's never to-morrow? ' 
 Yours were the words, and spoken 
 
 because your beloved was near you, 
 Yearning, striving to tell 
 
 how sweet, how beautiful all things 
 Seem in that glory. Adieu ! 
 
 to-night ; in that morn shall you meet me ! 
 Farther and farther away 
 
 have drawn the inaudible whispers : 
 Borne from my ear, 'twould seem, 
 
 but the refluent tide of an ocean. 
 Was, it though, truly a voice 
 
 from the land of the mystic hereafter ? 
 Or but fancy, at play 
 
 with things remembered or dreamed of? 
 
 Now, for the first time since, 
 
 I entered the jessamine arbor. 
 New was it then and gay, 
 
 the trellis work brilliantly painted, 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 311 
 
 Through the luxuriant vines 
 
 appearing the sky but in glimpses. 
 Old is it now and gray, 
 
 the frost-thinned foliage showing 
 Broad, bright gleams of the sky, 
 
 as were it that morn of the shall-be, 
 Seen o'ertraced and flecked 
 
 by the withered delights of the once-was. 
 Once more seem I to see 
 
 the upturned face of the fair girl. 
 Bright with smiles and tears 
 
 and fresh as the roses she offered. 
 Once more seem to hear 
 
 the childlike adieu that then thrilled me, 
 Thrilling me now, for scarce have I heard it, 
 
 when, softly, the sequel 
 Seems on my lips impressed, 
 
 and with it, the breath of a perfume, 
 Faint from a brow enwreathed 
 
 with the roses and lilies of adieu. 
 And with the kiss, or fancy 
 
 again, she is gone from my lifetime ; 
 O'er my spirit again, 
 
 that young love loneliness stealing, 
 Future, present, and past, 
 
 again, for the moment, all youthful. 
 
 Sympathy's transfiguration 
 
 to youth's immortality witness ! 
 
312 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Wondrous is it, tlie cliange 
 
 the old face gathers in Hstening, 
 One in particular, linked 
 
 with the memories dearest to childhood, 
 When life's crises come 
 
 and the voice of the dearly beloved one 
 Must for sympathy speak, 
 
 or joy, or sorrow the burden, 
 Waning, without it, the joy; 
 
 without it, waxing the sorrow, 
 Waning, till lost in grief; 
 
 till lost in delirium, waxing ! 
 Then will the time-worn face 
 
 assume in mystic presentment 
 What it expressed long since 
 
 of youthful thought and emotion ; 
 Seared, indeed, and dimmed, 
 
 but strangely yearning and wistful, 
 Whilst revealing in all, 
 
 by years and experience left there, 
 Gleams of a beauty that youth 
 
 ascends to only through sorrow. 
 Even so proved it now, 
 
 the old face listening before me. 
 Grew so like the Annette's 
 
 I'd loved and admired in my boyhood, 
 I, for the time, forgot 
 
 'twas that of a middle-aged mother. 
 If it be, marked she, too, 
 
 a similar transfiguration. 
 
INDIAN SUMMKR. 313 
 
 Lighting his face, who spoke, 
 
 then : '* Verily, youth is immortal ! " 
 " Here is her letter, Annette," 
 
 I said, as my story I ended. 
 " In it her miniature smiles, 
 
 the earnest of beauty immortal, 
 You suggested that night, 
 
 as slumbering lay she before us. 
 Well may they speak for themselves, 
 
 that have taught me, as were it from heaven, 
 There's no joy to suffice, 
 
 no vision of hope to be trusted, 
 Coming between us and God, 
 
 and wanting the stamp of His image." 
 Tenderly took she the letter, 
 
 and twice o'er tenderly read it ; 
 Then on the miniature long did look, 
 
 the talisman tablet, 
 Which might have opened to me 
 
 the gates of an earthly Elysium. 
 Came she then to my side, 
 
 and, resting her hand on my shoulder, 
 Thus, in low sweet voice, 
 
 her womanly sympathy offered. 
 ** Dear heart, what have you missed! 
 
 what heavens of love and of beauty ! 
 Ail from the merest mischance, 
 
 a fortuitous juncture of trifles, 
 Scarce sufficient to rob 
 
 an aimless child of its plaything ! 
 
314 INJ3IAN SUMMER. 
 
 But, to the faith that adores, 
 
 may not the fortuitous something 
 Deeply significant speak, 
 
 which tells of beneficent wisdom ? 
 Such faith ever affirms it, 
 
 and, living it, manifest makes it ; 
 Shows that never to chance 
 
 had our earthly hopes been abandoned. 
 Purposed not God for us 
 
 more good than their realization 
 Even himself, the All ! 
 
 for when, to the Father of Fathers, 
 Draw we so near, as when, 
 
 by the adverse, torn from each other ? 
 Realize him, and, oh ! you'll realize yet 
 
 this beautiful Hfe-dream, 
 Which, from withholding on earth, 
 
 must gather enhancement from heaven, 
 Having too much, e'en now, 
 
 of the heavenly, not to be some day. 
 More than earth e'er dreamed. 
 
 With God the life of your vision, 
 Naught can sever you twain, 
 
 but the fleet years thinning between you, 
 Thinning and clearing the sky 
 
 for the unseen morn of our Father, 
 Over whose dawn she shines, 
 
 your star of hope and fulfillment, 
 Shining till she and you 
 
 make one full beam of that glory." 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 315 
 
 « 
 
 Friend, whose sympathy bides 
 
 to the close of this hngering story, 
 If, in the shadows of life, 
 
 a phantom of love ever haunt theCj 
 Ere of the day that's thine, 
 
 the living to-day, it defraud thee, 
 Giving, in lieu, the dead, 
 
 or the unborn days of thy lifetime, 
 Go not to man with thy grief, 
 
 but to man's true comforter, woman ! 
 She can do more for thy heart, 
 
 as much for thy reason and manhood. 
 Woman will share thee her love, 
 
 where man would but give thee his wisdom, 
 Taking thy bitter and giving her sweet, 
 
 from the bitter still sweeter; 
 And for the memory, which 
 
 would beshadow thy love to a phantom, 
 Hope will she give thee and faith 
 
 to find in the phantom, thy angel. 
 
 Thus did the lone old dreamer, 
 
 ere bidding adieu to his life dream, 
 Over in memory view 
 
 what once in hope he had pictured. 
 Long had he felt that the dream 
 
 has miraged but a distant enchantment, 
 Scarce more fitted to live 
 
 through earth-life's dissonant changes 
 
316 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Than through the changeful year, 
 
 a June-day's verdure and* sunshme. 
 Yet had he never essayed 
 
 from fancy's realm to unsphere it, 
 Lest, in the real, he lost 
 
 his cherished ideal of beauty. 
 Now had he done so and found 
 
 that, whilst his hopes she was blighting, 
 Earth was fruiting his needs, 
 
 in hopes to heaven transplanting ; 
 Found how greatly he'd erred 
 
 in asking more than contentment 
 Of a fortuitous world, 
 
 of destiny more than a trial ; 
 Found to his sorrow and shame, 
 
 how foolishly, sadly had sinned he, 
 Failing to realize life — 
 
 life, failing to realize visions ! 
 
 1873-1900. 
 
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