LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 dS^qu/"M (Bop^rigli If xt. 
 
 Shelf .JMli. 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
HER LOVER'S FRIEND, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
HER LOVER'S FRIEND, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 NORA PERRY. 
 
 
 BOSTON: 
 HOUGHTON, OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 
 
 1880. 
 

 Copyright, 1879, 
 By NORA PERRY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE! 
 
 STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
 
 H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Page 
 Her Lover's Friend . 9 
 
 For the King 22 
 
 The Famous Free-Lance 30 
 
 From a Convent 35 
 
 Lady Wentworth 46 
 
 The King's Kiss 65 
 
 Barbara . . 69 
 
 A Tramp . ... 82 
 
 Sweet Sixteen -95 
 
 He and She 99 
 
 Repentant 101 
 
 The Wreck of the Gloucester Fishing Fleet . 103 
 
 The Rebel Flower 107 
 
 The Wager 112 
 
 If I were You, Sir 115 
 
 Three Destinies 118 
 
 A Deux Temps 120 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 In the Dark • . . . . 124 
 
 In Extremis 129 
 
 Prophecy 132 
 
 Transformation .......... 135 
 
 April Weather 139 
 
 At Ivry .... ..... 142 
 
 Only a Week Ago 145 
 
 Yesterday 147 
 
 The Maid of Honor 149 
 
 Kiss and Cure . 158 
 
 Baby May .161 
 
 Bunker Hill in 1875 ^4 
 
 The Wren and the Bobolink 168 
 
 Boston Boys 176 
 
 A Little Girl's Wonder 182 
 
HER LOVER'S FRIEND. 
 
 Last night I made a solemn vow 
 Heaven knows I meant to keep ; and now, 
 With all my purpose gone astray, 
 I have no will to say her nay. 
 What could I say to her in truth ? 
 What choice have I just now, forsooth, 
 But straight to serve her at her need ; 
 For, am I not her friend indeed — 
 Her friend and his ? Can I forget 
 Three months ago, when first I met 
 Her sweet fair face, and heard her say, 
 " What, Lawrence's friend ! " then, half in play, 
 
10 HER LOVER'S FRIEND. 
 
 " His friends are mine, you know ; " and so 
 We laughed, shook hands, and turned to go 
 Together down the Roman Hill. 
 Even as she spoke I felt a thrill 
 Of newer life, a fresh surprise, 
 I did not care to analyze. 
 And she ? I was her lover's friend ; 
 That thought was quite enough to send 
 A deepening dimple round her mouth. 
 Since then, now east, now west, now south, 
 From Venice to the Apennine, 
 And up the Rhone, and down the Rhine, 
 I Ve wandered, always at her side, 
 A sort of walking-stick and guide. 
 What else was there for me to do 
 When in this land to her so new, 
 
HER LOVERS FRIEND. II 
 
 To me so long familiar grown, 
 
 I found her with a chaperone 
 
 As inexperienced as herself, 
 
 And half the time laid on the shelf 
 
 With some neuralgic nerve of pain, 
 
 Or mild, mysterious migraine ; 
 
 A brother, too, of scarce more use, — 
 
 A boy half wild to make excuse 
 
 For some rash venture rashly planned, 
 
 To take his pleasure in the land 
 
 He knew not of, — what could I do? 
 
 Not surely turn and say adieu, 
 
 And leave them in this sorry plight. 
 
 Besides, I had no need of flight, 
 
 It seemed to me, in those first days, 
 
 When all her ways I made my ways. 
 
12 HER LOVERS FRIEND. 
 
 I was her friend, and Lawrence's friend, 
 
 To serve her was the natural end 
 
 Of such a friendliness as ours : 
 
 But when I came to count the hours 
 
 That held me from the daily sight 
 
 Of her sweet face, I knew, despite 
 
 The plausible fine lies I told 
 
 Even to myself, that 't was the old, 
 
 Old story that had come to me 
 
 Three thousand miles across the sea. 
 
 Then was the time, I knew, for flight ; 
 
 But then I had not measured quite 
 
 The weakness of my vaunted strength. 
 
 I fancied that within the length 
 
 And narrow limit of this chain 
 
 Of friendship, I could fast maintain 
 
HER LOVERS FRIEND. J 
 
 The outward semblance of that state 
 Of pulseless calm which mocking Fate 
 Had thrust upon me from the start ; 
 But when I thought I had my part 
 Complete and sure, my marble mask 
 Adjusted close, sudden the task 
 That I had set myself became 
 A maddening torture, and the flame, 
 Now held in check, I knew, one day 
 Would break its bonds and have its way 
 In wild, swift speech, or wild caress. 
 This was the end, I felt, unless 
 I turned and fled ; to-morrow night 
 I had resolved upon my flight, 
 When comes this message to defeat 
 My specious purpose, and complete 
 
14 HER LOVERS FRIEND. 
 
 The irony of mocking Fate, 
 
 Which hunts me down like hungry hate. 
 
 " Poor Frank," the message runs, " has met 
 With serious mischance, upset 
 
 ' At Fiesole, just at the height 
 Of Badia, — will you come to-night ?" 
 So, pouf ! my fine intentions fly 
 To the four winds of heaven; while I, 
 Football of Fate again, return 
 To the sweet Hades where I burn 
 With untold passion and despair, 
 Beneath the marble mask I wear ; 
 Until, until some fatal day, 
 Some fatal hour, I fling away 
 In one wild moment all disguise, 
 And stand before her startled eyes 
 
HER LOVERS FRIEND. 1 5 
 
 Myself, — a man whose pulses beat 
 To madder measures than are meet 
 For any friendship under heaven 
 That man hath known or woman given, 
 Throughout the world, since life began ; 
 For man is, after all, but man, — 
 A half-wild creature, held and swayed 
 By impulses that have betrayed 
 His vaunted wisdom and his dower 
 Of manly reason since the hour 
 He walked in Paradise, and found 
 The limit of his earthly bound. 
 And I, like all the race, I stand 
 Within temptation's border-land, 
 And cheat myself from day to day 
 With wild imaginings, that stray 
 
1 6 HER LOVER'S FRIEND. 
 
 Far into that proscribed domain 
 Which is not mine or mine to gain ; 
 But barred from me by that grim Fate 
 That I 've no power or will — yet wait ! 
 Why cheat myself again? I know 
 Too well, too well, that I would throw 
 This thing that we call honor here — 
 That all men, nay, that I've held dear — 
 To the wild winds of heaven, or hell, 
 If I but thought that she — Ah, well ! 
 What mad and futile dream is this, 
 When with the wicked will I miss 
 The power to win, — the power to win ! 
 There lies my safety, then, within 
 That bitter fact. What need have I 
 To fret and fume, then, if the die 
 
HER LOVERS FRIEND. 1 7 
 
 Is thus irrevocably cast, 
 And all her heart is fixed and fast, 
 Beyond my reach, beyond my grasp ? 
 Beyond my reach ! If I should clasp 
 Her in my arms, and let her know 
 How all my pulses come and go 
 For love of her ; — if I should strain 
 Her once against my breast, I'd gain 
 My heaven with her, against all ties, 
 All bonds and bars : — no, no more lies! 
 No fool's pretense to cheat the spell ; 
 To-night, at least, 'fore God I'll tell 
 The truth, — yes, once for all, — now while 
 I gird myself to meet her smile, 
 When I shall look upon her face, 
 And hear her tender voice, and trace 
 
1 8 HER LOVER'S FRIEND. 
 
 The blind emotion struggling there 
 
 Unconsciously and unaware, 
 
 And know that at a touch or word 
 
 The sleeping princess would be stirred 
 
 Within her heart, and all her soul, 
 
 Obedient to my control, 
 
 Would turn to mine, as turns the flower 
 
 Responsive to the mastering power 
 
 Of the one sun within the heaven. 
 
 And in that moment would be given 
 
 Enough of earthly bliss to me 
 
 To pay for all the misery 
 
 That I have known or yet may know. 
 
 Since Fate, then, has forbade me go, 
 
 Perhaps the rest is also planned, 
 
 Perhaps ordained, that from her hand 
 
HER LOVERS FRIEND. 1 9 
 
 I shall grasp boldly all this bliss, 
 And lose the world within a kiss. 
 What is it, then, that holds me back? 
 What courage is it that I lack ? 
 Since all the truth I have confest, 
 What holds me from her tender breast? 
 Not honor, my confession shows, 
 Nor the world's virtue as it goes. 
 What, then ; what, then ? this only, love ! 
 Sometimes it happens that above 
 The strongest passion man may know, 
 A stronger power will gain and grow, 
 And hold him from himself, until 
 Broken upon its wheel, his will 
 And greed of sense will lie supine, 
 Conquered, if not destroyed ; so mine 
 
20 HER LOVERS FRIEND. 
 
 May broken be, for her sweet sake; 
 So love may conquer love, and break 
 Its pride of passion and of power, 
 Crush all its hopes to save its flower 
 Of love from any soil or stain, 
 Or shadow of remorseful pain. 
 For what new bliss I might inspire 
 Could shield her from the scorching fire 
 Of fierce remorse, whose withering flame 
 Would cast a blight of ban and blame 
 Upon her tender woman's heart, 
 That no new passion and no art 
 That I possessed, could ever quite 
 Remove and leave her life as white 
 And clean as in the days before 
 We met. With God's help, then, one more 
 
HER LOVER'S FRIEND. 21 
 
 •Sharp struggle with the demon here 
 Within my breast, and she, "my dear 
 And only love," unharmed shall go 
 Of any. word of mine, nor know 
 What traitor passion has possess't 
 In friendly guise, her own sweet breast. 
 
FOR THE KING. 
 
 This is the way my hair was fixt 
 
 The night, that night I danced with the king, — 
 Curl over curl, and in betwixt 
 
 The piled up mass, a slender string 
 
 Of ruby beads running like fire 
 Against my night-black clouds of hair. 
 
 And my dress, — oh, I danced in silk attire, 
 And the king looked down, and called me fair ! 
 
 Full twenty years ago since then, — 
 And such a life-time in between 
 
FOR THE KING. 23 
 
 Of loves and hopes and hates ; yet when, 
 Just now, " He is dead," they said, that scene 
 
 Sprang all at once from under the dust 
 Of the crowded years, and plain as day, 
 
 I saw the king — my king there, just 
 As he stood on that night, away 
 
 In that far back, beautiful time, 
 
 When the world was young, and happy, and 
 fair ; 
 And I saw myself all in my prime, 
 
 With the ruby beads in my night-black hair. 
 
 A big brave king was this king of ours 
 From first to last. Oh, my father knew, 
 
24 FOR THE KING. 
 
 He knew how he fought the Austrian powers 
 At Novara there, when the bullets flew 
 
 Like fiery hail, to Italy's cost. 
 
 And how. at the close of the day he swore, 
 On the battle-field so hardly lost, 
 
 Shaking his sword wet red with gore, 
 
 To make Italy free from end to end. 
 
 Oh, my father knew, and we all know now, 
 That he meant what he said, to be Italy's 
 friend, 
 
 And to keep to the last his kingly vow. 
 
 And how he has kept it, well we know — 
 The people of Italy who were ground 
 
FOR THE KING. 25 
 
 Under the tyrant foot of the foe, 
 Or fast in priestly tyranny bound. 
 
 One by one he has shaken free 
 
 The shackles that fettered us, till we stand, 
 From shore to shore of lake and sea, 
 
 A peaceful and united land. 
 
 A big brave king from first to last, 
 But never a courtier; that was a part 
 
 For which our soldier was not cast 
 By nature's mould or worldly art. 
 
 But an honest man, that was the name 
 From first to last he had rightly earned ; 
 
 And men less honest to their shame, 
 Courtiers living the life he spurned, 
 
26 FOR THE KING. 
 
 Of smooth deceit, that never spared 
 Maid or wife in their mad pursuit, 
 
 Whispered what they had never dared 
 Boldly speak for the king's dispute, — 
 
 That, coarse of fibre, and coarse of grain, 
 His pleasures, were those of a roystering 
 groom. 
 This was the measure, and this the strain, 
 Of the gossip that found the breadth and 
 room 
 
 Of palace and court to fester in. 
 
 But we, the people with whom they said 
 He spent his moments of roystering sin, 
 
 We knew him sound of heart and of head, 
 
FOR THE KING. 27 
 
 And that where he went no withering flame 
 Followed his feet and marked the way ; 
 
 No innocent creature owed her shame 
 
 To a king who stooped to kiss and betray. 
 
 I was the beauty of the town, 
 
 When he danced with me at Piedmont 
 there, 
 And much too vain, alas, to frown 
 
 At the flattering tongue that called me 
 fair. 
 
 And I cannot tell what might have been, 
 Or where my feet had gone astray, 
 
 If this hero king had stooped to win 
 My foolish heart ere he went his way. 
 
28 FOR THE KING. 
 
 But not a word he said to me 
 
 Could have made my mother's heart dfraid, 
 Though his soldier's speech was blunt, and 
 free 
 
 Of flattering praise for the little maid 
 
 Who looked at him with worshiping eyes 
 Beneath her night-black clouds of hair. 
 
 Oh, mother of God, to think of the lies 
 
 They have told of him who could shelter and 
 spare 
 
 A foolish, innocent heart like this, 
 Ready to follow wherever he led, 
 
 And barter the world for a royal kiss ! 
 Oh, when Italy judges her royal dead, 
 
FOR THE KING. 29 
 
 Let her think of this record a woman can bring 
 To add to his score ; then crown him once 
 more 
 
 As Italy's hero and Italy's king, 
 
 From the heights of Savoy to Sicily's shore. 
 
THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 
 
 (REIGN OF CHARLES THE FIFTH.) 
 
 Five centuries and more ago, 
 When English Edward at Bordeaux 
 Flung back upon the proud French king 
 His bold reply of threatening 
 To the imperious French demand, 
 He little recked that all the land 
 At sound of the usurpers threat 
 Would then and there forswear, forget, 
 Their wild contentions, and unite 
 For France alone in his despite. 
 But from his vantage-ground the king 
 Said to his heralds, "Go and bring 
 
THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 3'I 
 
 My Breton soldier to me here, 
 
 Bertrand Du Guesclin, who is dear 
 
 To every loyal heart in France ; 
 
 Go bring him here, my bold free-lance. ,v 
 
 And when he came, this Breton chief, 
 
 Whose sword had won broad lands in fief 
 
 Throughout the valley of the Seine, — 
 
 Restored to France her own again, — 
 
 The king, amidst his nobles there, 
 
 Turned with a smiling, gracious air 
 
 Of gracious greeting to Bertrand, 
 
 And said, "Du Guesclin, from my hand 
 
 I pray you take my royal sword, 
 
 And gainst the usurper's ruffian horde 
 
 Fight for your king, my brave free-lance, 
 
 Henceforth as Constable of France." 
 
32 THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 
 
 Red rose the blood of swift surprise 
 To Bertrand's cheek. " Ah, sins ! " he cries, 
 " I am not fit, a rough free-lance, 
 Above these gentlemen of France 
 To take my rank." But, as he spoke, 
 From all the assembled throng there broke 
 A hearty cheer for Lord Bertrand, 
 The chosen soldier of the land ! 
 So, sped alike by prince and king, 
 He put aside his faltering, 
 This modest Breton chief, whose name 
 Already rang with warlike fame ; 
 And buckling on his sovereign's sword, 
 Rode forth against the invading horde, 
 With fifty thousand men-at-lance, 
 The flower and chivalry of France. 
 
THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 33 
 
 All Europe rang with his renown 
 When, conquering hero, he rode down 
 To storm and take the rebel band 
 That held Auvergne's fair border-land. 
 High beat the French king's heart with pride. 
 
 "What may not France become," he cried, 
 
 "With brave Du Guesclin for my sword 
 Against the whole usurping horde !" 
 Ev'n as he spoke, with eyes that glowed, 
 Into the palace court-yard rode 
 A breathless herald for the king. 
 
 "What news," the king cried, "do you bring 
 Of fair Auvergne ? " " 'Tis ours, my liege." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " the king laughed ; " and the siege, 
 How sped the siege ? " " The siege sped well." 
 
 " And Lord Bertrand ? " " O sire, he fell 
 3 
 
34 THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 
 
 When all was won, and at the gate ' 
 Is lying now in mournful state. 
 His last words, sire, to those who bent 
 Above his couch, before he went, 
 
 1 Remember, comrades, when you stand 
 A hostile force in any land, 
 The women, children, and the poor 
 Are not your foes/ " Low to the floor 
 The herald bowed before the king, 
 His message ended. " Go and bring 
 My hero here," the sovereign said, 
 In faltering tones, — " my hero dead ; 
 And write above his silent breast, 
 
 1 Here lies the bravest and the best, 
 The truest gentleman of France, — 
 Bertrand Du Guesclin, the free-lance/ " 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 How the sun shines to-day down the long, 
 
 busy street, 
 That I cannot see, where I cannot meet 
 Beneath its glad glow the faces I know — 
 God ! to think it is only a swift year ago 
 
 I looked on those faces that smiled back at 
 
 me, 
 As I walked there or rode there as idle and 
 
 free 
 As they are to-day — to-day, while I pine, 
 Shut out from their life in this prison of mine. 
 
36 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 "Shut out from their life of the world and its 
 
 evil, 
 From temptation and sin, the flesh and the 
 
 devil," 
 Drones the priest at confession, the abbess at 
 
 prayer, 
 While I listen uncomforted, dumb with despair. 
 
 Then back to my duties, the weary routine 
 Of petty dull cares, which they think is to 
 
 wean 
 My passionate heart from its folly and sin, 
 Purge my soul of the lusts of the flesh, win 
 
 My slumbering soul to repentance and shame 
 Of this stubborn wild will, till spent like a 
 flame, 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 37 
 
 I lie at their feet, who once looked above 
 Their sordid dull earth, when I looked at my 
 love ! 
 
 My love ! when he held me that night on his 
 
 breast, 
 When he lifted my face there and prest 
 His warm kisses to lips that returned 
 Every kiss with a heart throb, I learned 
 
 More of heaven than the priest can reveal 
 
 In a million confessions, or the abbess can 
 
 feel, 
 Though she weary the saints with her prayers ! 
 And that night — that night down the parapet 
 
 stairs, 
 
38 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 When Pietro the spy led them on to discover 
 
 Our trysting-place there, was I shamed for my 
 lover 
 
 Or the love that I felt ? Oh ! Leonardo, Leo- 
 nardo, 
 
 When you leapt to your feet and facing the 
 foe 
 
 Held me closer and closer, while you flung in 
 their teeth 
 
 The base words that they spoke, my fond heart 
 beneath 
 
 Its swift shock of terror gave one throb of de- 
 light ! 
 
 And Leonardo, Leonardo, my love, on that 
 night 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 39 
 
 Mounted higher and higher, rose to heaven 
 
 like a flame, 
 This love which they dare call my sin and my 
 
 shame. 
 Shame ! if twelve months before they had met 
 
 us, we two 
 By the parapet stairs, and all of them knew 
 
 We were lovers as now, do you think they 'd 
 
 have spurned 
 Us like that ? No, my uncle, the abbe, had 
 
 turned 
 On his heel with a smile, and a word it may 
 
 be 
 Of reproof for the hour, nothing more, and 
 
 we, 
 
40 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 Half abashed, half elate, had loitered behind, 
 Well aware by that smile that you 'd find 
 More smiles than reproof on your suit. 
 Ah, why was the future so mute? 
 
 Why, when the gods beckoned on, did we lin- 
 ger and wait, 
 Playing lightly with love, while our fate 
 Lurked grimly and dark overhead ? 
 Why at that hour had no warning voice sped 
 
 Straight to our blind, sleeping souls, waked us 
 there 
 
 From this trance that has wrought our de- 
 spair ? 
 
 But no ; while coy and coquettish I turned 
 
 All your earnest to jest, though I yearned 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 4 1 
 
 Out of sight for the day or the night 
 That would bring me again the delight 
 Of your glance or the touch of your hand, 
 The Duke, riding by, saw me stand 
 
 Looking down from the balcony there 
 
 That fronts to the street — and he saw I was 
 
 fair! 
 Then he came with his suit, and we woke from 
 
 our trance, 
 Dropped our masks of gay jest, and you spoke; 
 
 but what chance 
 
 Had your name, Leonardo, against a Duke's 
 
 name, 
 Your love suit against a Duke's noble claim ? 
 
42 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 What chance had my prayers or my tears when 
 
 a crown 
 'Twixt these prayers and these tears glittered 
 
 down 
 
 On their sight ? When Church and the State 
 
 Could be served, what mattered my love or my 
 hate ? 
 
 My hate ! when it dawned on me then all they 
 meant 
 
 By their smooth lying words, I seemed to re- 
 lent 
 
 From that day, merged my passion in duty, 
 Donned the Duke's ring, and smiled when he 
 flattered my beauty — 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 43 
 
 Tricked them all, Leonardo ! matched their cun- 
 ning and guile 
 By my wit, my craft over theirs — the wile 
 
 Of a woman 'gainst the fine priestly art 
 
 Of the abbe s — 'gainst his cool, clever head, 
 
 my heart, 
 Which won and still won, gained time for us 
 
 there 
 To count up our chances of hope or despair, 
 
 To plan 'twixt our kisses a sudden bold flight 
 To Palermo; then over the sea, where no right 
 Of abbe or priest could divide us, made one 
 'Neath the eagles of France. But Pietro, base 
 son 
 
44 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 Of the basest of traitors — Pietro the spy 
 Proved his false, evil blood. God ! with heaven 
 
 so nigh 
 That a devil like that had the power 
 To change our heaven to his hell in an hour ! 
 
 Our heaven ! Oh, Leonardo, Leonardo, 
 
 Do they think in this prison I'll learn to 
 
 forego 
 This heaven ? In these walls to lose and forget 
 The warmth of your love ? Fools, I will baf- 
 fle them yet, 
 
 Find my way to your arms ere another year 
 
 goes. 
 Ah, Leonardo, it must be ; God would not im- 
 
 pose 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 45 
 
 This long death in life in this prison for me ! 
 Only twenty last year, youth's blood strong 
 and free 
 
 In my veins, youth's fire at my heart ! 
 
 Oh, Leonardo, Leonardo, we to part, 
 
 We to wait for that world we know not, when 
 
 this 
 Lifts up to our lips the full measure of bliss ! 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 "She shall marry me yet," he smiling said — 
 
 Smiling, and under his breath — but red 
 
 As flame his dark cheek glowed, and bale-fire 
 
 burned 
 In his passionate eyes, as he swiftly turned 
 
 Out of the sunshine into the shade — ■ 
 Out of the sunshine she had made 
 But a moment before — this girl with a face 
 Whose very frown had a winsome grace, 
 
 They used to swear, in that old, old time, 
 When her beauty was in its wonderful prime, 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 47 
 
 When her laughing eyes, of golden brown, 
 Were the toast and rage of Portsmouth town, 
 
 Of Hampshire's Portsmouth, there by the sea, 
 Where the Wentworths ruled and held in fee 
 Half the country side of rock and shore, 
 For a hundred and fifty years or more. 
 
 "She shall marry me yet ! " 'Twas the Went- 
 
 worth blood 
 That rose up then in that turbulent flood, — 
 The Wentworth purpose that under his breath 
 Would hold to its passionate will till death. 
 
 " She shall marry me yet ! " And down he 
 
 strode 
 Across the pathway, across the road, 
 
48 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 With a firm, quick step, and a firm, quick heart, 
 To work his will and to play his part 
 
 And a difficult part it was to play, 
 
 For the Wentworth blood ran either way, — 
 
 His mother'sx blood that held him tied 
 
 By kinsman bonds on either side. 
 
 But as mother's blood leaves stronger trace 
 Than father's blood in a turbulent race, 
 It may have been that his willful way 
 Had the stronger current to move and sway. 
 
 At all events, as the months wore on, 
 And no tidings came from her Cousin John, 
 To the beautiful toast of Portsmouth town, 
 The Wentworth temper rose up to drown 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 49 
 
 The passionate Wentworth love in her breast, 
 And the Wentworth pride helped on the 
 
 rest : 
 And six months after her laughing scorn 
 Of her dark-eyed suitor, suing forlorn, 
 
 She stood by his side one autumn day, 
 A beautiful bride : he had won his way ; 
 But the gossips said that a bride never wore 
 In Portsmouth town such a look before. 
 
 Seven years after John Wentworth came 
 Back to his home with a foreign fame : 
 Back he came to rule and to reign, 
 As the Wentworths had ruled and ruled 
 again, 
 
50 LADY WENT WORTH. 
 
 From father to son, in Hampshire State. 
 Seven years after : why he tarried so late — 
 So late and so long in a foreign land — 
 Was a riddle not easy to understand. 
 
 Yet late as he came, a welcome burned 
 In a hundred hearth-fires. Wherever he turned 
 A hand stretched out and a smile awaited 
 This kinsman of theirs so long belated. 
 
 But amid this lavish neighborly cheer 
 He missed a face he had once held dear. 
 " My Cousin Frances : where doth she hide ? " 
 He questioned at last. "She watches beside 
 
 A sick man's bed : a good nurse, I should say, 
 To keep the blue-devil bailiffs away." 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 5 I 
 
 That night John Wentworth knocked at the door 
 Of his cousins house. A foot on the floor, 
 
 A whisper of silk, and there she stood. 
 
 In that moment John Wentworth's cousinly mood 
 
 Melted away like frost at the fire. 
 
 He thought he had killed the old desire ; 
 
 He thought that love and hate both lay 
 Slain by the past at that long late day ; 
 He thought — but what matters it now 
 The thought that had been, when on cheek and 
 brow 
 
 Flames the signal torch from his wakened heart ? 
 What matters it now the cousinly part 
 
52 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 He had fancied was his, when his pulses beat 
 With that swift, wild throb, as their glances 
 meet ? 
 
 But he curbed the Wentworth temper awhile, 
 As he bent in greeting, and hoped, with a smile, 
 That he found her well. Hearing the state 
 Of her goodman's health, he could not wait 
 
 His cousinly sympathy to convey. 
 A tedious illness he had heard them say ; 
 But the town was eloquent of her care, 
 Which had certainly left her no less fair 
 
 Than he remembered her seven years since — 
 He turned a moment as he saw her wince — 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 53 
 
 Turned, and with a purpose fell, 
 
 In a sneering, passionate tone, " Ah, well ! 
 
 "Women, we know, have a potent charm 
 To ward themselves from trouble and harm. ,, 
 She caught the sneer, and stayed him there, 
 With a passionate cry : how did he dare, 
 
 Who had played so falsely these seven long 
 
 years, 
 To fling at her feet his idle sneers ? 
 " / false ! " He laughed. " Madam, where went 
 Those fine love-letters I foolishly sent 
 
 "Across the seas in those old, old days? 
 I waited long —'tis a pretty amaze 
 
54 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 I 
 
 You feign, my cousin — I waited long 
 
 For a word or a sign, for my faith was strong 
 
 " In that old, sweet time ; but the months went 
 
 by,' 
 
 And never a line came back, and I 
 
 Still clung to my faith, till a morning in May 
 
 There came to me news of a wedding-day 
 
 " Here in Portsmouth town, and the bride 
 Was the girl who had stood at my side 
 And sworn to be mine six months before — 
 You shiver, my cousin : the wind from the shore 
 
 " Blows harshly to-night." A gesture here 
 Checked his bitter reproach his menacing sneer, 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 55 
 
 And a hoarse voice cried, "John Wentworth, 
 
 wait 
 Ere you dower me with the dower of hate. 
 
 " No letter of yours from over the sea 
 In that old, old time came ever to me ; 
 Day after day the months went by — 
 Day after day, and what was I 
 
 " But a maiden scorned ? Day after day 
 
 The months went by ; when I heard them say 
 
 That John Wentworth stayed 
 
 To woo and win an English maid, 
 
 " My spirit rose like our swift shore tide — 
 Twas the Wentworth temper, the Wentworth 
 pride — 
 
56 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 And — your cousin and mine had wooed me 
 
 long: 
 His love was sure and my hate was strong — 
 
 " Quick, passionate hate for the suitor fine, 
 The false, false gallant who over his wine 
 Could pledge new loves while the old love 
 
 waited, 
 Faithful and fond, this lover belated." 
 
 " Sweetheart ! " Back she started in swift af- 
 fright 
 
 At this fond, bold cry, and the red turned 
 white 
 
 In her oval cheek. A moment more, 
 
 And swiftly striding across the floor, 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 57 
 
 This lover belated, who missed his bride 
 Seven years ago, is at her side ; 
 And the fond, bold voice on her listening ear 
 On her listening heart, over every fear, 
 
 Like a rising river, gains and gains, 
 
 While unreckoned, unheeded, the swift night 
 
 wanes, 
 Till the clock strikes twelve on the landing 
 
 stair ; 
 Then John Wentworth turns with a gallant air, 
 
 And embraces his cousin as a kinsman may, 
 Though all the gossips be looking that way. 
 Yet his parting words, whispered low in her ear, 
 Were never meant for a gossip to hear. 
 
58 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 But long "before the spring had come 
 To Portsmouth shores, in many a home 
 The gossips' tongues were making bold 
 With the Wentworth name ; and the story told, 
 
 Which ran through the town like a breath of 
 
 flame, 
 Was this : that John Wentworth never came 
 To his cousin's house but by signal or sign, 
 A silken scarf or a kerchief fine 
 
 Flung out of the casement, or at night 
 In the western window a candle's light. 
 And the gossips, observant, would smile, and say, 
 " So ! the sick man sleeps at this hour of the 
 day ! " 
 
LADY WENT WORTH. 59 
 
 Or at evening, when the candle flares 
 
 In the western window, "Dame Frances' cares 
 
 Are over early, it seems, to-night." 
 
 If Dame Frances caught this bale and blight 
 
 Of the gossips' tongues, little she recked : 
 
 No Wentworth yet was ever checked 
 
 By a gossip's tongue, however bold. 
 
 But there comes a day when the kerchief's fold 
 
 Is missed at the casement, and that night 
 No candle flares its signal light. 
 When another morning dawns again 
 The tolling Portsmouth bells explain 
 
 The missing candle, the kerchief fine. 
 Dame Frances now of signal or sign 
 
60 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 Has little need; in the chamber there, 
 Where a sick man yesterday claimed her care, 
 
 A dead man lies in solemn state ; 
 
 And peering at the linen and plate 
 
 Down stairs, the neighbors, under their breath, 
 
 Talk of the sick man, and his death ; 
 
 Of the widow's prospects ; and one more bold 
 Hints that ere the year's grown old 
 The Wentworth mansion across the way 
 Will have a mistress fine and gay. 
 
 But ere a month had passed of the year, 
 All the seamstresses far and near, 
 In and out of Portsmouth town, 
 Were sewing fast at a wedding-gown 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 6 1 
 
 Of brocaded satin, foreign and rare, 
 For dame Frances Atkinson to wear. 
 " Shame ! " cried the gossips, far and wide, 
 And " Shame ! " cried the Wentworths in their 
 pride — 
 
 All the Wentworth kin in Hampshire State. 
 This haste was unseemly ; she 'd only to wait 
 In her widow's weeds a year and a day, 
 And not a gossip could say her nay. 
 
 Then up she spoke, this willful dame — 
 
 Scornfully spoke, with a tongue of flame : 
 
 " Seven years I have served the Wentworth 
 
 pride ; 
 Seven years with a Wentworth courage lied 
 
62 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 11 To the world with my smiling face, 
 To find at the end — no sovereign grace 
 To save my soul, but a curse alone, 
 The curse of a lie that shamed my own ! 
 
 " Cheated and' tricked seven weary years, 
 
 Won by a lie — no lying tears 
 
 Have I to waste, no time to wait 
 
 On the man who dies seven years too late ! " 
 
 Scared and shocked the Wentworths stared 
 At this reckless dame, whose passion dared 
 To cast at the dead man, scarcely cold 
 In his fresh-turned grave, these accusals bold. 
 
 Scared and shocked, but never a word 
 Of ban or blame was ever heard 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 63 
 
 From their lips again, and come the day 
 When my Lady Wentworth, fine and gay, 
 
 Reigned in the Wentworth mansion there, 
 Not a gossip in Portsmouth but spoke her fair. 
 But under their breaths, when twilight fell, 
 Under their breaths, they would sometimes tell 
 
 The old, old story of signal and sign, 
 The candle flame, and the kerchief fine; 
 And under their breaths would croak a fear 
 That my lady had lent but too willing an ear 
 
 To the evil whispered against the dead, - 
 The doubtful tale so suddenly sped 
 From mouth to mouth, while for yea or nay, 
 Helpless and dumb the dead man lay. 
 
64 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 But never upon my lady's face, 
 Never a doubt showed sign or trace, 
 As she looked the curious gossips down 
 In the little world of Portsmouth town — 
 
 Never a doubt from year to year, 
 
 Never a doubt, and never a fear ; 
 
 For whatever the truth of the troubled past, 
 
 My lady had come to her own at last ! 
 
THE KING'S KISS. 
 
 " How long," he asked, " will you remember 
 this — 
 How long ? " Then downward bent 
 His kingly head, and on her lips a kiss 
 Fell like a flame — a flame that sent 
 Through every vein 
 Love's joy and pain ; 
 " How long," he asked, " will you remember 
 this ? " 
 
 " How long ? " She lifted from his breast a 
 cheek 
 Red with her sacred love, 
 5 
 
66 the king's kiss. 
 
 Yet when her redder lips essayed to speak, 
 And when her heart did move 
 
 To answer grave and sweet, 
 Somehow a smile unmeet 
 
 Broke waywardly across red lips and cheek. 
 
 " How long, how long, will I remember this ? 
 
 Say you" she murmured low — 
 " Say you " — and while she trembled with her 
 bliss, 
 That smile went to and fro 
 
 Across her flushing face, 
 And hid a graver grace — 
 " Say you, how long will you remember this ? " 
 
 He bent above her in that moment's bliss, 
 He held her close and fast; 
 
THE KING'S KISS. 6j 
 
 " How long, how long, will I remember this ? 
 Until I cross at last, 
 
 With failing, dying breath, 
 That river men call Death — 
 
 So long, so long, will I remember this ! " 
 
 But, when apart they stood, did he remember 
 
 His words that summer day ? 
 Did he remember through the long December 
 The warmth and love of May, 
 
 The warmth, and love, and bliss, 
 The meaning of that kiss, 
 When kingdoms stood between — did he re- 
 member ? 
 
 Ah ! who can say for him ? For her we know 
 The king's kiss was her crown ; 
 
68 the king's kiss. 
 
 For her we know no agony of woe, 
 No other smile or frown, 
 
 Could make her heart forswear 
 That summer morning there, 
 
 Beneath the forest trees of Fontainebleau. 
 
BARBARA. 
 
 There's her picture, hanging on the wall, — 
 
 Copley's work, a century ago ; 
 See the grace with which that silken shawl 
 
 Droops from off the shoulders' rosy snow! 
 
 See the carriage of that haughty head ; 
 
 See the latent scorn in those dark eyes ; 
 Only the mournful mouth of blossom red 
 
 All the haughty splendor soft belies. 
 
 " My Lady Barbara " they called her then ; 
 'Twas in the old gay days of George's reign, 
 
yO BARBARA. 
 
 My Lady Barbara ! In the eyes of men 
 No fairer beauty ever breathed disdain 
 
 From lovely lips or scornful, radiant eyes ; 
 
 Yet all her beauty brought no dower but pain, 
 For all her beauty could not win the prize 
 
 That she had staked her hope of heaven to 
 gain. 
 
 ■ 
 She laughed at love and lovers till he came, 
 
 And laughed the more, and flung her idle threat 
 Of idle scorn, when others spoke his name, 
 
 And said, " My haughty lady '11 get 
 
 " Her match if not her master here." 
 
 Her scornful, laughing threat rang up and 
 down, 
 
BARBARA. 7 1 
 
 And where he rode or feasted met his ear; 
 And where he rode or feasted though the 
 town 
 
 She held aloof awhile with cunning guile. 
 
 He gave no sign ; a stranger in the place, 
 He rode and feasted, gave back smile for 
 smile. 
 
 One night he smiled upon her waiting face, 
 
 Then bent a moment, looked and smiled again.. 
 
 Low laughed she under breath : " So this 
 
 is he 
 
 Who conquers women's hearts, this startled 
 
 swain, 
 
 Whose heart is in his eyes, 't is clear to see." 
 
72 BARBARA. 
 
 " Whose heart is in his eyes " — and thinking 
 this, 
 She gave him smile for smile, and glance for 
 glance. 
 He came at her command ; she did not miss 
 His presence day or night, at feast or dance. 
 
 What was it that she missed as time went by ! 
 
 What was it that she sought and sought in 
 
 vain, 
 
 In soft and courtly phrase, and glance of eye ? 
 
 What was it that she missed and could not 
 
 gain ? 
 
 " His heart is in his eyes," she 'd lightly said, 
 And left unsaid the vow to win and wear ; 
 
BARBARA. 73 
 
 And looking in those eyes, her own heart bled, 
 And broke at last with love's despair. 
 
 Her master, not her match, she 'd found indeed ; 
 
 And, like the fair, fond women Shakespeare 
 
 drew, 
 
 She flushed and paled with love, and gave no 
 
 heed 
 
 That all the jeering town her passion knew. 
 
 No vision of the truth pierced through her 
 pride, 
 Till winter came and went, and spring was 
 nigh; 
 He but delayed, she thought, to seek a bride, 
 His reverent love ranked over-high. 
 
74 BARBARA. 
 
 And, dreaming thus, poor sweetheart, fell the 
 blow, 
 
 And half the town stood staring at the sight : 
 'T was at the Province House, beneath the glow 
 
 Of festal lamps one festal night. 
 
 High beat her heart beneath her bodice-belt ; 
 
 Her cheek was like the rose, her eyes 
 Like stars, triumphant, fond, as if she felt, 
 
 " To-night, to-night, my beauty wins the 
 prize ! " 
 
 A moment thus she stood superbly fair, 
 An image of exultant youth and grace, 
 
 That seemed to say, " With time and care 
 I have no part nor place." 
 
BARBARA. 75 
 
 Then all at once a whisper met her ear : 
 " Look ! there he comes, his sweetheart on 
 his arm, 
 The girl from over seas." She turned, without 
 a fear, 
 Without a thought of coming ill or harm, 
 
 This proud, unconscious Barbara, to see 
 Whose sweetheart was so trumpeted by- 
 fame, 
 And she not know ; she turned to see 
 
 His face — his cruel, splendid face — that 
 came 
 
 Between her soul and heaven : his face 
 Bent smiling down, smiling and fond 
 
76 BARBARA. 
 
 To seek another face, not hers ; another face — 
 Good God ! was this the sweetheart from be- 
 yond 
 
 The seas they'd whispered of? No, no, 'twas 
 chance — 
 Some fool had blundered ; this was she 
 Of whom the provost's wife had spoke, her 
 guest from France, 
 Late come, to find herself unknown, and 
 he 
 
 In kindness, like a gallant knight, 
 
 Paid his devoirs in courteous word and deed, 
 His gentle service, as a gallant might 
 
 To serve a stranger s need. 
 
BARBARA. J? 
 
 And with the thought a smile across her face 
 Flashed lightning-like ; for there he came, 
 
 This gallant knight, with sudden, hastening 
 pace, 
 And smiles to meet her own. Like flame, 
 
 Her cheek, that had been pale with pain, now 
 burned ; 
 Like flame, her fierce heart leaped with love 
 and pride : 
 " Mine ! mine ! " her eyes declared. He touched 
 her hand, then turned 
 To her who hung upon his arm. " My bride, 
 
 u Come Easter-morn," he said ; " a stranger here, 
 Brought by her kinsman to my waiting love ; 
 
78 BARBARA. 
 
 If Lady Barbara, whose welcome cheer 
 I know so well, would welcome her, above 
 
 " All favors would a bridegroom prize " — 
 Here all at once a smothered sound 
 
 Broke off his silken speech of lies ; 
 
 And cries of " Coward ! caitiff ! hound ! " 
 
 Rang down the room ; and Barbara stood 
 Incarnate Hate, who but a little space 
 
 Ago was Love's ideal womanhood. 
 
 Thus for a moment gloomed her face, 
 
 And, like the caitiff she had named him there, 
 He shrank beneath her withering word and 
 look. 
 
BARBARA. 79 
 
 Not this the triumph he had planned with care, 
 Not this the end, this mighty wrath that 
 shook 
 
 And swayed the throng, till men — ay, those 
 whose suit 
 She 'd laughed to scorn in other days — 
 Turned judge of him, as there he cowered, 
 mute, 
 Before the lightning of her speech and gaze ! 
 
 The very air seemed full of menace then, 
 Of muttering thunder, soon to break and 
 fall 
 
 In storm upon his recreant head ; when, 
 Almost as she spoke, they saw her tall, 
 
80 BARBARA. 
 
 Straight figure sway and bend, her eyes grow 
 dim ; 
 And, ere a hand could reach to save, she fell, 
 A senseless heap, prone at the feet of him 
 Whose mocking love had turned her heaven 
 to hell. 
 
 Then for a moment all the throng lost sight 
 Of aught but that still semblance lying there, 
 
 And only when they saw returning light 
 
 Of life upon her face they whispered, " Where 
 
 " Is he, this coward, who has fled before 
 His dastard's work ? " Ay, where was he ? 
 
 Not then, not there, nor ever any more 
 They saw his cruel face : across the sea 
 
BARBARA. 8 1 
 
 That very night, with her whom he that night 
 Proclaimed his bride, come Easter-morn, 
 
 He fled away. That very night, 
 Indifferent of all her scorn, 
 
 Dead to revenge, forgetting hate, 
 
 In blessed trance poor Barbara lay, — 
 
 In blessed trance that seemed to wait 
 .From hour to hour, from day to day, 
 
 Until a day rose dim with rain, 
 
 An April day, chill and forlorn ; 
 Then broke the trance, and out of pain 
 
 She slipped from earth — on Easter-morn ! 
 6 
 
A TRAMP. 
 
 HIS STORY. 
 
 Tramp ? Yes, I 'm a tramp, and one of the 
 
 worst of the kind, 
 Thinks my lady who peers at me there through 
 
 the bars of her blind, 
 As I lounge in the shade of the tree here, and 
 
 greedily munch 
 The broken bread-crusts which she y d airily call 
 
 my lunch. 
 My lunch ! That sounds well to a man who 
 
 for forty-eight hours 
 Hasn't broken his fast until now — now, while 
 
 he devours 
 
A TRAMP. 83 
 
 The broken bread-scraps that stick in his starv- 
 ing throat, 
 
 Which he cools now and then, as my lady 
 takes pains to note, 
 
 From a rummy old flask, which she thinks she 
 can smell 
 
 From behind her blind-bars, as the vintage of 
 hell. 
 
 She 'd never believe, though I poured it out at 
 her feet, 
 
 That it was only a draught of the ale that 
 Adam found sweet. 
 
 How her impulse of charity chills at this vil- 
 lanous sign, 
 
 While, through the window below, on the side- 
 board carven and fine, 
 
84 A TRAMP. 
 
 I can see the decanters filled with old Madeira 
 
 and sherry, 
 For respectable lips to drain, till the wits grow 
 
 mellow and merry ! 
 Well, my lady, I wonder what you would 
 
 say, 
 If I should rise in my rags, and tell you that 
 
 in my day 
 I had toasted as fair as you in wine of the 
 
 choicest and best, 
 And been of the rich and the gay a courted 
 
 and flattered guest ? 
 Believe me? No, you'd turn with scorn from 
 
 my tale, 
 And send for the nearest police to lodge me 
 
 in jail 
 
A TRAMP. 85 
 
 For a lying vagrant and nuisance, plying the 
 
 trade 
 Of a swindler for the chance of a theft to be 
 
 made. 
 And the police : I can see my gentleman's 
 
 face 
 As the story is told — a tramp is a tramp, all 
 
 base 
 Through and through, a bundle of rags and of 
 
 lies, 
 One begetting another, both stripped clean of 
 
 disguise 
 In that sharp professional sight on the watch 
 
 for a thief. 
 And I can hear my gentleman's voice, curt with 
 
 unbelief, 
 
86 A TRAMP. 
 
 As he stabs me here and there with a question 
 
 or two : 
 Yes, a curious story, indeed, if it chance to be 
 
 true ! 
 But men so high in the world wouldn't let an 
 
 old comrade diite 
 On beggarly crusts ; they 'd feast him on wood- 
 
 cock and wine ! 
 Would they ? Ah, my professional friend ! 
 Your wisdom is not of this world of "the 
 
 upper West End." 
 Of crime and of vice you Ve a knowledge far 
 
 beyond mine ; 
 But of the friendship that lavishes woodcock 
 
 and wine 
 
A TRAMP. 87 
 
 On the man who 's at odds with Fortune and 
 
 Fate, 
 A poor, shabby devil without worldly estate, 
 Who has once been as high as now he is 
 
 low, 
 I think I may venture to swear that I know 
 All the ins and the outs ; and the outs, let me 
 
 say, 
 By a heavy majority carry the day! 
 But 't was never the way of the world to look 
 
 back 
 For the unfortunate rider who slipped in the 
 
 track ; 
 Once down, he may scramble to foot as he can ; 
 But the chance is, once down, that a luckier 
 
 man 
 
88 A TRAMP. 
 
 Closes in to the line and fills up his place, 
 And he finds ere he knows that he's out of 
 
 the race. 
 So I slipped from the track, and the world 
 
 doubtless thinks 
 
 Lost the race like a coward who shivers and 
 shrinks 
 
 From the brunt of the battle, sneaking out of 
 
 the strife, 
 For the shameless, sweet sloth of the vaga- 
 bond's life. 
 Oh, my world ! so you judge from your fine, 
 
 airy height 
 Of respectable sin, the poor luckless wight 
 Who has lost in the race and drifted below 
 Your chariot-wheels. God ! what do you know 
 
A TRAMP. 89 
 
 Of the straits men may come to when flung to 
 
 the wall, 
 Out of pluck, out of pocket, — in short, stripped 
 
 of all 
 That can give a man reason or courage to face 
 His fellows once more in the heat of the 
 
 race ! 
 You to talk in that virtuous, copy-book way 
 Of the certain rewards that are sure to repay 
 Honest worth and endeavor; you to preach 
 
 and to prate 
 As you sit at your ease high in church and in 
 
 state 
 Of adversity's uses and poverty's gains ! 
 Oh, my world ! let me say, as a fool for your 
 
 pains, 
 
90 A TRAMP. 
 
 And a selfish old braggart, you '11 rank with the 
 
 best ; 
 While I — well, I sat with you once as your 
 
 guest, 
 And I know you, my world, for your wisdom 
 
 was mine 
 In those days when we feasted on woodcock 
 
 and wine. 
 But since then I have tasted a vintage that 
 
 brings 
 A wisdom denied to courtiers and kings ! 
 'T is the vintage that 's grown from the vine 
 
 we may call 
 The vine of experience, and bitter as gall 
 It has shown me the folly of faith here below 
 In those fine little saws and proverbs that glow 
 
A TRAMP. 91 
 
 Like a coal from the altar of heaven till the day 
 That we bring them to bank with their prom- 
 ise to pay. 
 There 's that one about honest worth and en- 
 deavor, 
 With its certain rewards. Well, perhaps I 'm 
 
 not clever 
 At counting rewards ; perhaps I should find 
 My reward in my conscience, and thus go it 
 
 blind. 
 But though I have kept this conscience as fair 
 Perhaps as my lady who peers at me there, 
 I am not of that sort of ethereal stuff 
 To sup on a conscience and find it enough. 
 Yet no epicure's feast do I hanker for now, 
 But that promise fulfilled, "By the sweat of 
 thy brow 
 
92 A TRAMP. 
 
 Shalt thou eat." A curse, yet a pledge, there 
 
 it stands, 
 To crumble and fall at the touch of my hands, 
 Like the fine little proverbs I mouthed in the 
 
 days 
 When, a fool, I fancied I knew all the ways 
 Of life and the world. Good God ! did I know 
 That one day I should wander like this to and fro 
 Through the breadth of the land, a man with- 
 out stain 
 Of a crime, seeking vainly that toil that shall 
 
 gain 
 The bread and the breath of his life, his place 
 Once more among men, a chance to lift up his 
 
 face 
 Unashamed to the light of the heavens, and the 
 gaze 
 
A TRAMP. 93 
 
 Of the curious world, from whose open highways 
 He has shrunk step by step in his terrible straits, 
 With the demon of Death and Despair that waits 
 For its prey, beckoning on and still on day by 
 
 day; 
 While afar, in the life I had left, in the open 
 
 highway 
 Of the world, men, my fellows, a brief space ago, 
 Sitting snug in high places, well fed, and aglow 
 With that wisdom that carries the fool's cur- 
 rent stamp, 
 Set their dull wits to solve that problem the 
 
 tramp ! 
 Not "a man like themselves, but a " creature," a 
 
 " thing," 
 A nuisance to legislate over, and bring 
 
94 A TRAMP. 
 
 To the test of the law, by which shall abide 
 This "creature" and " nuisance," they calmly 
 
 decide. 
 So you gather us up, so you measure us all, 
 A bundle of tares, nothing else. O Saul 
 Midst the prophets ! O fool deaf and blind ! 
 While you fashion your laws for men, not man- 
 kind, 
 I, out of your world, ask myself if the Man — 
 The Man we call Christ — would have followed 
 your plan ? 
 
SWEET SIXTEEN. 
 
 " You think the world is only made 
 For you and such as you," he said. 
 Laughing aloud in boyish scorn, 
 Of boyish mirth and mischief born. 
 
 She never turned from where she stood 
 Prinking her little silken snood 
 Of silken curls before the glass ; 
 She never turned to see him pass, 
 
 Nor answered him, save with a laugh 
 That half confessed his boyish " chaff." 
 But left alone, confronted there 
 With her own image fresh and fair, 
 
g6 SWEET SIXTEEN. 
 
 A sudden blush lit up her face 
 With newer youth and fresher grace, 
 And eyes that were demurely fixed 
 A moment since, with thought unmixed, 
 
 Upon the smoothing of a tress, 
 Now sparkled soft with consciousness; 
 "Why not, why not?" she lightly cried, 
 Out of the gay exultant pride, 
 
 The sweet wild insolence of youth; 
 "Why not for me, for me, forsooth, 
 And such as me the world be made, 
 For me its glories all arrayed ? 
 
 "For since the world and life begun, 
 What poet's measures have not run 
 
SWEET SIXTEEN. 97 
 
 Through all the strains of minstrelsy 
 In praise of me, and such as me ? 
 
 " For youth and beauty in their day 
 Have ruled the world and will for aye. 
 One, greatest of them all, has sung 
 In verse that through the world has rung. 
 
 " And here 's my day to live and reign, 
 To take the joy and leave the pain 
 From this old world, that 's made for me, 
 For me, for me and such as me ! " 
 
 Gay laughter rang through every word, 
 And yet beneath the laughter stirred 
 7 
 
98 SWEET SIXTEEN. 
 
 A something more than jesting play, ■ 
 Just sweet sixteen that very day, 
 
 She half believed in sober truth, 
 In the sweet insolence of youth, 
 That all for her, a foolish maid, 
 The world's gay glories were arrayed. 
 
HE AND SHE. 
 
 I 'll be at the window as he goes by, 
 As he goes by, — 
 
 He '11 lift his head to look at the sky, 
 The western sky, 
 
 To see if the sun has set for fair, — 
 And suddenly there 
 
 Against the sky in the golden air 
 
 He '11 see a pair 
 Of familiar eyes ; and I shall see 
 
 As he looks at me 
 A sudden smile and a nod, maybe ; 
 
 All this in three 
 
100 HE AND SIJE. 
 
 Or perhaps in four swift moments — then, 
 
 Ah, then.. 
 In another moment the world of men 
 
 For him, or, when 
 The street is turned, a different face 
 
 To take my place, 
 While I by my window here retrace 
 
 Each line of the" face 
 Which smiled at me, as it passed me by 
 
 With a glance of the eye 
 That swept me in with the western sky, 
 
 The sunset sky. 
 To-morrow I shall be at the window when 
 
 He passes again ; 
 He will smile and nod — and then, ah then - 
 
 The same old story over again ! 
 
REPENTANT. 
 
 Day after day, I look for and wait for 
 
 The glimpse of her figure, the sight of hef 
 face ; 
 
 Day after day, too soon or too late for 
 Her going or coming, I trace and retrace, 
 
 With hope born anew, the ways that she 
 passes ; 
 With hope born anew, each morning I miss 
 her. 
 A winter of search, and now the young grasses 
 Are breaking the earth : shall I meet, shall I 
 kiss her 
 
102 REPENTANT. 
 
 To-morrow, or next day ? Oh, my little hurt dar- 
 ling, 
 Give me chance for a moment to comfort 
 and heal 
 The hurt that I gave you ; just a moment, my 
 darling, 
 Let me look in your face, in your eyes, to 
 reveal 
 
 All my heart with its passion of love and its 
 sorrow, 
 Its grief and contrition, its pain for your 
 pain : 
 Ah, thus for a moment, to-day, or to-mor- 
 row, 
 To show her my heart — to win her again ! 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER 
 FISHING FLEET. 
 
 Hints of the spring were in the air, 
 And March winds had a breath of May 
 
 That whispered hope and not despair, 
 The other day, the other day, 
 
 When came to us that dreadful tale 
 
 Of how the Gloucester fleet went down 
 
 In that wild February gale, 
 
 When we were safe within the town : 
 
 When we were safe and did not know, 
 That not for twenty years or more, 
 
104 WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER FLEET. 
 
 Had such a tempest come to blow 
 Across the cruel shoaling shore 
 
 Of George's Bank, as blew that day, 
 When high upon its treacherous tide 
 
 The Gloucester fleet at anchor lay- 
 In all its comely strength and pride. 
 
 More than a hundred men went down — 
 The whole stanch fleet, with every sail, 
 
 While we were safe within the town, 
 Sure they would weather every gale. 
 
 Perhaps we danced, perhaps we sung, 
 Without a hint of pain or death, 
 
 While they upon the rocks were flung, 
 Fighting for life with bated breath. 
 
WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER FLEET. 105 
 
 When, vanquished, they at length went down, 
 They must have thought in that despair 
 
 Of wife and child in Gloucester town, 
 
 And breathed for them one piteous prayer 
 
 Of wild appeal — for times were hard 
 Upon old Gloucester's sandy shore, 
 
 And men were scarpe to watch and ward 
 And keep the wolf from out the door ; 
 
 And now, and now ! what would they do, 
 These wives and children in their strait ? 
 
 Oh brave wrung hearts, if you but knew 
 How all New England, at your fate, 
 
 Sprung to its feet, stretched forth its hands, 
 To keep the wolf you dreaded so 
 
106 WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER FLEET. 
 
 From out your homes on Gloucester sands ! 
 But ah, perhaps, if we could know, 
 
 You still keep watch and ward above 
 The cherished homes you left behind, 
 
 And read with eyes of clearer love 
 The meaning that to us is blind, 
 
 Of that dark day when you went down, 
 Off George's Bank, with every sail, 
 
 While we were safe within the town, 
 In that wild February gale. 
 
THE REBEL FLOWER. 
 
 Across the garden paths she led 
 Her Tory guest, with stately tread; 
 A Boston beauty in her prime, 
 With courage equal to the time 
 That tried men's souls, her loyal heart 
 Cried out against the craven part 
 It was her irksome fate to play 
 As courteous hostess on that day. 
 
 A gracious, gallant air he wore, 
 A gracious, gallant rank he bore, 
 This Tory guest, yet well she knew 
 Beneath the air, the rank, perdue, 
 
108 THE REBEL FLOWER. 
 
 A crafty treacherous purpose hid, 
 As poisons lurked beneath the lid 
 Of jeweled caskets long ago, 
 When every friend might prove a foe. 
 
 The garden beds were gay with bloom, — 
 Fair treasures which have given room 
 Long since at Fashion's stern decree 
 To splendors from across the sea. 
 For close beside the stately rose, 
 No tyranny can e'er depose, 
 The sturdy camomile did lift 
 Its myriad blossoms' snowy drift. 
 
 " What flower is this ? " The Tory guest 
 Half paused to ask in idle quest. 
 
THE REBEL FLOWER. IO9 
 
 A moment's thought, then sweet and clear, 
 
 "The Rebel flower, we call it here," 
 
 She answered him, this Boston dame 
 
 Of lovely mien and rebel fame. 
 
 " How 's this ? " he laughed ; and laughing 
 
 sent 
 A keen look at the. fair face bent 
 
 In modest musing on the flower 
 
 She'd newly named within that hour. 
 
 " How 's this, sweet dame, and why, pray tell, 
 
 So fair a flower a name so fell 
 
 Should win and wear ? " A swift smile sped 
 
 Across her face, then slow she said, 
 
 "Because, my lord, this flower that's won 
 
 Your meed of praise, when trampled on, 
 
IIO THE REBEL FLOWER. 
 
 Springs from the dust and thrives anew 
 In fresher vigor than it knew 
 Before such blows of fortune came, — 
 Thus rightly winning name and fame." 
 " Ah, ha ! " laughed out the Tory guest 
 At this bold speech, "a pretty jest 
 I* faith, sweet dame, and bravely said. 
 When next we meet, perhaps a tread 
 
 Of weightier heels may have crushed out 
 These boasted claims, and put to rout 
 Your rebel flowers till name and fame 
 Are lost beneath the dust of shame." 
 She laughed him back, with laughter born 
 Of gay disdain and sparkling scorn. 
 u When next we meet, my lord," she said, 
 "This rebel flower will lift its head 
 
THE REBEL FLOWER. Ill 
 
 In lustier vigor than before, 
 And name and fame for evermore 
 Shall flourish bravely in the land 
 Despite th' oppressors' heel or hand!" 
 
 When next they met, my lord had laid 
 His sword beneath the rebel blade, 
 And she who prophesied the fate 
 Of British valor, stood in state 
 On British soil, an honored guest, 
 Wearing upon her lovely breast, 
 In smiling triumph for that hour, 
 A posy called " The Rebel Flower ! " 
 
THE WAGER. 
 
 One by one they sped by us, their sails drip- 
 ping wet, 
 For the heavens had opened their sluices of 
 rain; 
 And I sat in the bows of the little Coquette, 
 Scoring the time with Major Duane. 
 
 The wind was blowing from south and from 
 east, — 
 
 A beautiful breeze just spoiled by the rain ; 
 And there I had bet twelve pairs at the least 
 
 Of " Couvoisier's best" with this Major Duane : 
 
THE WAGER. 113 
 
 Staked them all on that little Alarm, Florry dear, 
 Which had won me my gloves again and again, 
 
 If the sky had been decently sunny and clear, — 
 But my fate was to lose to this Major Duane ! 
 
 And 'twas Harrison Blake who advised me to 
 stake 
 On the little Alarm, which but for the rain 
 Had won me my gloves ; though I never told 
 Blake 
 I was going to bet there with Major Duane. 
 
 Poor Harry! he has always been jealous, you 
 know, 
 The whole summer through, of this Major 
 Duane ; 
 
 8 
 
114 THE WAGER. 
 
 And now — well, it 's queer how oddly things 
 
 go, 
 For the Major has won by this chance of the 
 rain 
 
 Something more than the gloves : for I staked 
 in a freak 
 
 My hand with the gloves, hardly thinking again 
 Of the matter, my dear, so swift went the week, 
 
 And so sure did I feel that this Major Duane 
 
 Would lose while I won. And now 'tis quite 
 clear 
 
 To my mind, at least, — that just for that rain 
 I couldn't with honor refuse, Florry dear, 
 
 To pay up my debts to Major Duane. 
 
IF I WERE YOU, SIR. 
 
 If I were you, sir, 
 
 I would not sue, sir, 
 For any woman's love day after day : 
 
 I 'd never stand, sir, 
 
 At her command, sir, 
 Year in and out in this fond, foolish way. 
 
 Across my face, sir, 
 I 'd have the grace, sir, 
 
 Or mother-wit, to pull a gayer mask, 
 And wait to find, sir, 
 What was her mind, sir, 
 
 Before I 'd grovel at her feet to ask. 
 
Il6 IF I WERE YOU, SIR. 
 
 All very well, sir, 
 
 For you to tell, sir, 
 Of that grand poet in the ..olden time, 
 
 Whose fine advice, sir, 
 
 Was so concise, sir, 
 In that immortal strain of gallant rhyme. 
 
 It does not fit, sir, 
 
 Your case a bit, sir; 
 He never meant a man should pray and pray 
 
 With such an air, sir, 
 
 Of poor despair, sir, 
 For any woman's love day after day. 
 
 If you will read, sir, 
 The verse with heed, sir, 
 
IF I WERE YOU, SIR. 1 17 
 
 You'll see it ruus as clearly as it may, 
 That every man, sir, 
 Should take his answer, 
 
 With manly courage, be it yea or nay. 
 
 Then cease your sighs, sir : 
 
 No man's a prize, sir, 
 In any woman's sight, just let me say, 
 
 Who 's not too high, sir, 
 
 To sigh and die, sir, 
 For any woman's love, day after day. 
 
THREE DESTINIES. 
 
 Three roses nod and talk 
 Across a garden walk ; 
 One, lifting up her head, 
 Clad all in damask red, 
 Cries gayly in her pride, 
 " To-night, full far and wide, 
 My beauty shall be seen, 
 Adorning Beauty's queen." 
 
 " And I," the blush-rose cries, 
 " Shall be the envied prize 
 A lover shall convey, 
 Before the end of day, 
 
THREE DESTINIES. I 19 
 
 Unto a maiden fair, 
 And she will kiss and wear 
 My blushes in her breast : 
 There I shall sleep and rest." 
 
 " And I," the white rose sighs, — 
 
 " Before the sunshine dies, 
 I shall lie hid from sight 
 Within a grave's dark night ; 
 But not in vain my bloom, 
 If I have cheered the gloom, 
 Or helped to soothe and bless 
 A mourner's loneliness." 
 
A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 Yes, this is our dance, this waltz from the 
 Duchess ; 
 What is that you are saying ? — 
 You thought I was playing 
 You false, with this waltz, this dance from the 
 Duchess ? 
 
 You thought I had rather be sitting and talk- 
 ing 
 With that little M'Manners 
 There, under the banners, 
 Or it may be, perhaps, in the corridors, walk- 
 ing, 
 
A DEUX TEMPS. 121 
 
 Instead of remembering this dance here with 
 you, sir ; 
 This dance from the Duchess, 
 The lovely Grand Duchess, 
 The sweetest deux temps ? Ah, if you but knew, 
 sir, 
 
 How I dote on the Duchess, with its gliding 
 and sliding 
 Soft measure for measure, 
 You 'd know from such pleasure 
 
 My feet would never go straying or hiding. 
 
 What is that ? You might have known it was 
 merely, 
 This special sweet measure, 
 
122 A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 The dance, not the pleasure 
 Of dancing with you here ? Well, really, you Ve 
 nearly 
 
 Persuaded me, sir, that such was the reason ; 
 And I 'm sure I would fain, sir, 
 If you go on in this strain, sir, 
 
 Walk and talk with M'Manners to the end of 
 the season. 
 
 And to the end of my life, too, perhaps is my 
 meaning ? 
 Well, no; for M'Manners 
 There under the banners, 
 Just when we encountered you waiting and lean- 
 ing 
 
A DEUX TEMPS. 123 
 
 Against the bay-window, had confessed a rela- 
 tion 
 I guessed days ago — 
 His engagement, you know, 
 To that little — Now, Harry, dorit kiss me 
 before all creation ! 
 
IN THE DARK. 
 
 This is my little sweetheart dead. 
 Blue were her eyes, and her cheek was red 
 And warm at my touch when I saw her last, 
 When she smiled on me and held me fast. 
 
 With the light, soft clasp of her slender hand ; 
 And now beside her I may stand and stand 
 Hour after hour, and no blush would rise 
 On her dead white cheek, and her shut blue 
 eyes 
 
 Will never unclose at my kiss or call. 
 If this is the end ; if this be all 
 
IN THE DARK, 125 
 
 That I am to know of this woman dear ; 
 If the beautiful spirit I knew, lies here, 
 
 With the beautiful body cold and still ; 
 If while I stand here now and thrill 
 With my yearning memories sore at heart 
 For a token or sign to rend apart 
 
 The pitiless veil, there is nothing beyond ; 
 If this woman, so fair, so fine, so fond 
 A week ago — fond, fine and fair 
 With the life, the soul that shone out there, 
 
 In her eyes, her voice, which made her in truth 
 The woman I loved ; if this woman forsooth 
 Is dead as this dead clay that lies 
 Under my gaze with close-shut eyes, 
 
126 IN THE DARK. 
 
 Then what is the meaning of life, when death 
 Can break it all, as breaks at a breath 
 The child's blown bubble afloat in the sun ? 
 What is the meaning, if all is done 
 
 When this breath goes out into empty air, 
 Like this childish plaything, flimsy and fair ? 
 What is the meaning of love's long pain, 
 The yearning memories that rend and strain 
 
 The living heart or the living soul, 
 If this is the end, if this is the whole 
 Of life and death, — this little span 
 That drops in the dark before the plan 
 
 Which the brain conceives is half complete, 
 Making life but the bubble's empty cheat ? 
 
IN THE DARK. \2J 
 
 When, a year ago, through all the maze 
 Of speculation's far-hung haze, 
 
 I followed on with careless tread, 
 / had not looked then on my dead — 
 My dead so infinitely dear, 
 My dead that coldly lying here 
 
 Mocks my fond heart with semblance fair, 
 Chills me with measureless despair. 
 Then I could calmly measure fate 
 With Nature's laws, and speculate 
 
 On all the doubts that science brings ; 
 Now, standing here, what is it springs 
 Within my soul, that makes despair 
 Not quite despair ? O fond, O fair, 
 
128 IN THE DARK. 
 
 Oh, little sweetheart, dead to me, 
 Somewhere or other thou must wait for me, 
 Somewhere, somewhere, I shall not look in vain 
 To find thy living face, thy living love again. 
 
IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 Oh, my loveling, to shield you and cover you 
 From all the bleak winds that riot and rave, 
 
 To have and to hold you, to love and watch 
 over ,you, — 
 This is the boon of all others I crave. 
 
 Ah ! is it God or blind Fate that denies me 
 This boon that alone can give value to life ? 
 
 Ah ! is it God or blind Fate that defies 
 me 
 To turn all your innocent days into strife ? 
 
 9 
 
I30 IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 Oh, innocent days, with never a blight there, 
 
 Oh, innocent heart of my innocent dove, 
 God give me the grace, if He gives me no right 
 there, 
 To show her the best, not the worst, of my 
 love ! 
 
 God give me the grace to give her, if need be, 
 Only passionless peace, only tenderest care, 
 
 Through year after year, though agonies lead 
 me 
 Still year after year to the gates of despair. 
 
 Let me suffer alone the pangs of repression ; 
 Let me conquer and die, if need for my 
 love, 
 
IN EXTREMIS. I3I 
 
 Or conquer and live through the " clefts of 
 confession," 
 While unconquered, unharmed, rests my in- 
 nocent dove. 
 
PROPHECY. 
 
 I thought our olden friendship dead, 
 Or with the long years long since fled; 
 Yet a sweet, faint ghost came back 
 Down the winding dizzy track, 
 
 As we met upon the street, 
 And a moment stopped to greet, — 
 Making some cool, common speech, 
 Just a moment, each to each; 
 
 Knowing each how wide our ways 
 Led apart from those far days; 
 
PROPHECY. 133 
 
 How other hopes and plans came in, 
 With their promises, to win 
 
 Thought and soul and heart away 
 From the memories of that day. 
 Yet as there we met and talked, 
 As you turned, and, turning, walked 
 
 Down the street a pace or two, 
 Something cordial, old yet new, 
 Stirred within me sweet and faint, 
 Like a ghostly, sweet complaint ; 
 
 Something whispered me, and said : 
 " All those years, so still and dead, 
 With a blessing shall come back 
 Down their winding dizzy track — 
 
134 PROPHECY. 
 
 " Like a friend, shall some time say : 
 * I am with you, though away, 
 And the love you thought so slight 
 And so poor a thing, shall light 
 
 " ' All your life unto the end/ " 
 Thus my long-forgotten friend, 
 Or his soul, spoke unto me 
 In these words of prophecy. 
 
TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Clouds hung above the dusty street ; 
 The sunless air was faint with heat ; 
 The heavy odors were not sweet. 
 
 And heavy, heavy hung the day, 
 And life drooped dull with dull decay, 
 Beneath the clouds of sodden gray. 
 
 There was no beauty anywhere. 
 
 One could not pierce the dusty air. 
 
 The world seemed dim with drudging care 
 
1 36 TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Its wheels of traffic, greed, and gain, 
 
 Relentless over joy or pain, 
 
 Crushed close and fast, a strident strain 
 
 Of blatant noise, that filled the air, 
 
 The sunless, dreary, dusty air, 
 
 Till noise, and noise seemed everywhere ; 
 
 And only noise, with nothing sweet 
 Through all the sunless heavy heat, 
 From end to end of all the street. 
 
 " Oh, ' dismal day, when will' you go ? 
 Oh, dreary day ! " she cried ; when lo, 
 The dreary day was all aglow ! 
 
TRANSFORMATION. 1 37 
 
 Though clouds still hung in sunless air, 
 There was new beauty everywhere, 
 And slipped the world its cloak of care. 
 
 And wheels of traffic, greed, and gain 
 Rolled as before with strident strain, 
 Relentless over joy or pain. 
 
 But all at once, to music set, 
 
 She heard far off the clang and fret, 
 
 Or heard with ears that soon forget. 
 
 What was it, was it changed the day 
 From drooping life and dull decay ? 
 What light across the dusty way 
 
1 3 8 TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Shone suddenly so fair and free, 
 Made all the dismal shadows flee ? 
 Oh, never yet on land or sea, 
 
 From any sky of any clime, 
 
 Rose that fair light, which old as Time, 
 
 Yet fresh as Nature in its prime, 
 
 Transfigures by its tender grace, 
 All in a moment's flying space, 
 Some sudden smile upon the face 
 
 We know and know not, till the day, 
 Transfigured, too, from dull decay, 
 Springs suddenly to blooming May. 
 
APRIL WEATHER. 
 
 Oh, this April weather — 
 Breath of balm and snow, 
 
 June and March together 
 In an hour or so ! 
 
 Something altogether 
 
 Charming in it, too ; 
 Not the worst of weather 
 
 When the sun shines through ; 
 
 Not the worst of weather, 
 Though a moment more, 
 
I4O APRIL WEATHER. 
 
 Finds one's patience, rather 
 Like to run ashore. 
 
 Take it altogether, 
 
 Would I change it, though, 
 Miss this April weather, 
 
 Breath of balm and snow ? 
 
 Taken altogether, 
 
 It is dear to me, 
 This queer April weather, 
 
 For I seem to see, 
 
 Taken altogether, 
 It 's the counterpart, 
 
 This queer April weather, 
 Of — yourself, Sweetheart. 
 
APRIL WEATHER. I4I 
 
 And taken altogether, 
 
 Would I change you, though, 
 Miss your April weather ? 
 
 Ah, no ! no ! 
 
AT IVRY. 
 
 At Ivry, on that day, 
 
 On that day 
 When the king kept at bay, 
 By the magic of his sword 
 
 Never lowered, 
 All the rabble rebel horde, — 
 In the thickest of the fight, 
 
 Out of sight 
 All at once dropped the white 
 Flying plume that he wore. 
 
 Such a roar 
 Then arose, as they bore 
 
AT IVRY. 143 
 
 Down the battle sodden plain, 
 
 Mid the slain, 
 Where the arrows fell like rain, 
 But suddenly just here, 
 
 Loud and clear, 
 At the very height of fear, 
 
 Cheer on cheer 
 Rose and rose, till the cry, 
 
 High and high, 
 Seemed to rend the very sky. 
 Then out streaming debonair 
 
 To the air 
 Flew the white plume of Navarre. 
 When the tide of battle turned, 
 
 And they learned 
 Whose valiant sword had spurned 
 
144 AT IVRY - 
 
 The enemy's sharp blade 
 
 Ere it laid 
 In death's melancholy shade 
 The knight of Navarre, — 
 
 All the air 
 Once again resounded there 
 With their cheers' hearty ring. 
 
 But the king, 
 Through his tears, said faltering, — 
 " He gave his life for mine, 
 
 Poured the wine 
 Of that gallant blood, in fine, 
 At my feet, to repay, — 
 
 To repay, 
 As he swore, the debt of yesterday ! " 
 
ONLY A WEEK AGO. 
 
 Only a week ago the warmth and glow 
 
 Of sweetest summer time ; 
 Only a week ago the bud and blow 
 
 Of some fair tropic clime. 
 
 Only a week ago, and now the glow 
 
 Of fervid heat has turned 
 To wintry snow, and sharp winds blow 
 
 Where tropic splendors burned. 
 
 Only a week ago — ah, very low 
 My cherished buds are lying ; 
 
 10 
 
I46 ONLY A WEEK AGO. 
 
 So low, so low, I do not know 
 If they are dead or dying. 
 
 So low, so low, drenched all with mire and 
 snow, 
 
 Their beauty smirched with earth ; 
 So low, so low — only God's breath can blow 
 
 Them back to fresher birth. 
 
YESTERDAY. 
 
 What if but yesterday 
 I laughed and said him nay, 
 When here's to-day, to-day 
 To change my mind and say 
 A sweeter word than nay. 
 
 What if but yesterday 
 I told him that my nay 
 Could never turn to yea, 
 Though he should pray and pray 
 Forever and a day. 
 
I48 YESTERDAY. 
 
 What if but yesterday- 
 He swore he would obey 
 My cruel will, nor stay 
 To further sue or pray, — 
 Then strode in wrath away. 
 
 What if but yesterday 
 Like this he strode away, 
 When here 's to-day, to-day 
 For him to hear me say, — 
 " I love you, Love, to-day ! " 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 Across the room where'er I turned, 
 Her mournful glances followed me 
 
 From day to day, with eyes that burned 
 In sad and splendid mystery ; 
 
 From day to day since first she came 
 A fugitive from that fair land 
 
 Of sunny France, when all its fame 
 Was shadowed by the mighty hand 
 
 Of the resistless German foe, — 
 A fugitive, yet sacred charge 
 
150 THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 From one who gave back blow for blow 
 Of German steel and charge for charge 
 
 Of German guns, until before 
 The fiery hail his gracious life 
 
 Went out for France, and with it bore, 
 Vain sacrifice of vainer strife, 
 
 His stainless name. The last of all 
 His noble race, did he divine 
 
 That from a stranger's alien wall 
 
 His fair ancestress' face would shine ? 
 
 That glance for glance, she would return 
 
 My fascinated gaze, until 
 Behind the semblance seemed to burn 
 
 A spirit that might wake at will 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 151 
 
 Some moment into sudden speech ; 
 
 Some moment when the world at rest 
 In shrouding slumbers, she might reach 
 
 My waking ear — this silent guest, 
 
 Break from the bondage of her trance, 
 Slip softly from her painted screen 
 
 And speak to me of that fair France 
 When Marie Antoinette was Queen. 
 
 Day after day this fancy grew 
 
 Beneath the melancholy light 
 Of those dark eyes of Norman blue ; 
 
 Day after day, until a night 
 
 Of brooding storm, I woke and slept, 
 And woke again, to find the room 
 
152 THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 A blaze of light, wherein there stept 
 My Maid of Honor in her bloom 
 
 Of splendid youth, just as she stood 
 When Marie Antoinette was Queen, — 
 
 A living rose whose noble blood 
 Paid forfeit on the guillotine. 
 
 I held my breath, but not with fear — 
 My heart was beating with desire, — 
 
 When soft upon my listening ear 
 Her voice rose like a silver lyre : 
 
 " He was the last of all our race, 
 
 The last and best, who loved his kind 
 And gave his lifetime to efface 
 The trail of sin we 'd left behind. 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 1 53 
 
 " Favored of Heaven, we thought our class, 
 Set high above the common herd 
 Our ancient race — alas, alas, 
 
 When through our idle pleasures stirred 
 
 "The boding breeze of discontent, 
 
 And men cried out against the laws, 
 We did not know then all it meant ; 
 We did not know that in the jaws 
 
 " Of blackest Hell we should be hurled 
 Just at our revel's royal height ; 
 As through the streets our chariots whirled 
 We did not heed the threatening night. 
 
 " But when beside the Queen I stood 
 
 That dreadful day and heard those cries 
 
154 THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 Of rage for blood, our hated blood, 
 
 Ring from the throng we dared despise, 
 
 "I saw the centuries roll back 
 
 Red with the wrongs that we had done, 
 And all along the lurid track, 
 As in a vision, one by one, 
 
 " The tyrant kings who had forsworn 
 Their oaths of fealty, broken faith 
 With France, and Frenchmen yet unborn, 
 Each branded with their country's scathe, 
 
 "Rose up before me till appalled, 
 
 I shrank with horror and despair; 
 Then through the din a low voice called 
 Upon my name, — I turned and there 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 1 55 
 
 " I saw the face of him, our knight, 
 Who made the glory of our name.. 
 
 1 Be patient, brave/ he cried, ' the blight 
 Of centuries of sin and shame 
 
 " ' In this dread hour begins to lift 
 
 Its sullen shade ; when time shall bring 
 Another cycle through the drift 
 
 Of burdened years, prelate and king 
 
 " * In this fair France shall have stept down 
 From off their thrones, have laid aside 
 Once and for all sceptre and crown, 
 While we who thought we vainly died 
 
 " ' Shall watch the bravest and the best 
 The last of lordly lines expire, 
 
156 THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 And know at length God gives his rest 
 To souls long tried by flame and fire, 
 
 " ' That with the debt of blood and race, 
 By blood and race at last repaid, 
 We expiate, by Heaven's dear grace, 
 The sins by which we were betrayed/ 
 
 Here suddenly, like music spent, 
 
 The sweet voice ceased, and all that bloom 
 
 Of youth and beauty that had lent 
 Such grace and glory to my room, 
 
 Faded and vanished from my gaze. 
 
 A moment more, and there, ah there, 
 Behind the portrait's painted glaze 
 
 That face so radiantly fair 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 1 57 
 
 Looked down upon me as before. — 
 Was it a dream that she had stept 
 
 Just now across my chamber floor, 
 Was it a dream while I had slept ? 
 
KISS AND CURE. 
 
 She swung her gilded scissors to and fro, 
 And round and round her hand of rosy snow, 
 Or held them glittering like a lance at rest, 
 The time she spent in converse with her guest : 
 She swung them round and round and to and 
 
 fro, 
 Until they pierced the hand of rosy snow, 
 Until they dipped their cruel tips within 
 The warm red blood beneath the tender skin. 
 She swung them down at that with half a cry, 
 And half a laugh that ended in a sigh. 
 And with an answering laugh in gayest jest, 
 He bent above the little hand and prest 
 
KISS AND CURE. 1 59 
 
 A pitying kiss of playful tenderness 
 
 Upon the wound that flawed that loveliness 
 
 Of rosy snowy flesh with tiny brand, 
 
 "Thus let me kiss and cure the little hand," 
 
 He gayly lightly cried ; . but as he prest 
 
 Warm lips to warm sweet flesh, the idle jest 
 
 Suddenly to ardent earnest thrilled and beat 
 
 And brought an eager wooer to her feet. 
 
 The tiny wound he 'd gallantly essayed 
 
 To kiss and cure, had in that moment made 
 
 A wider wound within the healer's heart, 
 
 That must in turn be healed with cunning art. 
 
 And kneeling at her feet he urged his plea, — 
 
 " Be my physician, love, and heal for me 
 
 The greater wound this little wound has made, 
 
 Within my heart of hearts," he fondly prayed. 
 
l6o KISS AND CURE. 
 
 A moment halting 'twixt a smile and frown 
 She left him in despair, then bending down, 
 Paid back the debt of healing with a sure 
 Swift touch — at which he cried : " to make the 
 
 cure 
 Entirely certain, love, I clearly see 
 There is no way now left for you and me 
 But to agree that while our lives endure 
 Each other's wounds like this, we'll kiss and 
 
 cure ! " 
 
BABY-MAY. 
 
 Only just the other day, 
 On the very first of May, 
 Nature had an opening 
 Of the treasures of the spring. 
 
 Apple-blossoms made a show 
 Like a shower of summer snow ; 
 Dandelions lifted up 
 Here and there a yellow cup. 
 
 Crocuses pushed through the mold 
 
 Little disks of burnished gold ; 
 ii 
 
l62 BABY-MAY. 
 
 And the violets, trimmed with dew, 
 Shivered in their cloaks of blue. 
 
 All the flowers had to tell 
 The, adventures that befell, 
 In their journey back again 
 To the summer sun and rain. 
 
 At the last a gentle tone 
 Murmured softly, " I alone 
 Have had heavenly work to do ; 
 For, when through the April dew 
 
 "I was hastening along, 
 Singing very low my song, 
 To my baby-buds of May, 
 Soft I heard an angel say : 
 
BABY MAY. 1 63 
 
 " ' Dear Arbutus, wait and take 
 Another baby in your wake, — 
 And deliver her with care 
 At a certain house and square, 
 
 " 1 1 will whisper in your ear, 
 
 If you'll bend a moment here; — 
 Then perhaps for thanks and pay 
 They will name her, — Baby May/ " 
 
BUNKER HILL IN 1875. 
 
 Beat, beat, went the drums, and the fifers 
 played sweet, 
 
 To the tramp, tramp, tramp, of the forty thou- 
 sand feet 
 
 Of the twenty thousand soldiers, as they 
 marched all together, 
 
 North and south, south' and north, in the "sweet 
 summer weather. 
 
 Plumes playing in the air,, and banners over- 
 head, 
 
 Blowing out to the breeze, blue and white, 
 white and red, 
 
BUNKER HILL IN 1875. 165 
 
 And every now and then, oh, the cheer and 
 
 the shout 
 That from the waiting throng over all the 
 
 drums rang out ! 
 
 And southern soldiers' eyes how they brightened 
 
 with surprise, 
 As the shouting and the cheering rose up to 
 
 the skies ! 
 "But how very queer to cheer," says curious 
 
 little Joe, 
 " And to celebrate a day when the British beat, 
 
 you know ! " 
 
 Yes, the British beat at Bunker Hill, 't is very 
 true ; but why ? 
 
1 66 BUNKER HILL IN 1 875. 
 
 Because the Yankee powder-horns, my little 
 
 Joe, went dry ; 
 While Yankee courage on that day filled all 
 
 the land with wonder, 
 And lifted up the hearts of men to break their 
 
 bonds asunder. 
 
 So 't is Yankee pluck, my little Joe, we cele- 
 brate to-day, 
 
 With beating drums, and bugle notes, and ban- 
 ners floating gay. 
 
 Yet something more than Yankee pluck inspired 
 our wild huzzas, 
 
 As looking down the glittering line we saw the 
 Stripes and Stars 
 
BUNKER HILL IN 1875. 167 
 
 Wave gayly over North and South, as in the 
 
 summer weather 
 Like brothers on to Bunker Hill they took 
 
 their march together — 
 Like brothers, they who face to face so little 
 
 while ago 
 Met savagely on southern soil, as bitter foe to 
 
 foe. 
 
 Ah, child, if Bunker Hill before filled every 
 
 heart with wonder, 
 To-day, be sure, 't is doubly dear, when, all the 
 
 bonds asunder, 
 We clasp the hands that once were foes, and 
 
 in the summer weather 
 Bless God anew for Bunker Hill, that 's brought 
 
 us all together. 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 " Cherink ! cherink ! " 
 
 Sang the Bobolink. 
 "What do you think, 
 
 To my surprise, 
 With my two eyes 
 I saw last night ? " 
 
 " Ho, ho, ho, ho ! " 
 
 Sang the Wren below, 
 "How should I know 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 1 69 
 
 What can surprise 
 Such wonderful eyes 
 So keen and bright ? " 
 
 "Cherink! cherink! ,, 
 
 Snapped the Bobolink. 
 "I know what you think. 
 
 That my wonderful eyes 
 Are far too wise 
 For a youth like me ! " 
 
 " Ho, ho, ho, ho ! " 
 
 Laughed the Wren below. 
 " If you 're sure you know, 
 Mr. Bobolink, 
 Just what I think, 
 Why can't you see ? " — 
 
170 THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 " Cherink ! cherink ! " 
 Quick as a wink 
 Mr. Bobolink 
 
 Interrupted here, 
 As if he 'd a fear 
 That cunning Miss Wren, 
 
 With her little " Ho, ho!" 
 Saw too much, you know, 
 From her branch below, 
 Of his frisky ways, 
 Through the summer days, 
 In his bachelor's den. 
 
 So soft and low 
 
 Rang the little " Ho, ho ! " 
 
 In the branch below, 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. I/I 
 
 At Bobolink's huff ; 
 
 It was fun enough 
 
 For little Miss Wren 
 
 To catch Bobolink, 
 
 All in a wink, 
 
 Before he could think, 
 
 In a box like this, — 
 Ah, a sly little miss 
 Was this Miss Wren. 
 
 For soft and low 
 Her little "Ho, ho!" 
 Rang there below, 
 
 As if she could, 
 If she only would, 
 Tell, oh, such things 
 
172 THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 Of her neighbor's slips, 
 
 And frisky skips, 
 
 And sly little sips, 
 
 Not once in a way, 
 But every day, 
 At forbidden springs. 
 
 Precious few 
 
 Were the things she knew, 
 
 And all this ado 
 
 Was just to get 
 Bobolink in a pet 
 With her quizzical way, 
 
 Then fizz and flash, 
 For Robin was rash, 
 Out she knew would dash 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 1 73 
 
 As quick as a wink — 
 Ah, poor Bobolink, 
 All his secrets gay. 
 
 So sweet and low 
 
 Rings the little " Ho, ho ! " 
 
 In the branch below, 
 
 At Bobolink's huff; 
 
 It is fun enough 
 For little Miss Wren 
 
 To catch Bobolink, 
 All in a wink, 
 Before he can think, 
 
 In. a box like this, — 
 Ah, a sly little miss 
 Is this Miss Wren, 
 
174 THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 Wherever you find 
 
 Her crafty kind : 
 
 For it is n't confined 
 
 To the feathered side, 
 But far and wide 
 In the world of men 
 
 This little " Ho, ho ! " 
 • Rings soft and low, 
 And before you know 
 
 Just what you 're about, 
 You are all found out 
 By some little Miss Wren, 
 
 Who, with cunning wit, 
 Has turned and hit 
 Your temper a bit, 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 1 75 
 
 And like poor Bobolink, 
 When you 've time to think, 
 You find to your cost, 
 
 A little too late, 
 
 As you contemplate 
 
 Your foolish state 
 
 From day to day, 
 That nothing can pay* 
 For a temper lost. 
 
BOSTON BOYS. 
 
 grandfather's story. 
 
 What! you want to hear a story all about 
 that old-time glory, 
 When your grandsires fought for freedom 
 against the British crown ; 
 When King George's red-coats mustered all 
 their forces, to be flustered 
 By our Yankee raw recruits, from each vil- 
 lage and each town ; 
 
 And the very boys protested, when they thought 
 their rights molested. 
 
BOSTON BOYS. 1 77 
 
 My father used to tell us how the British 
 
 General stared 
 With a curious, dazed expression when the 
 
 youngsters in procession 
 Filed before him in a column, not a whit 
 
 put out or scared. 
 
 Then the leader told his story, — told the 
 haughty, handsome Tory 
 How his troops there, on the mall there 
 (what you call " the Common," dears), 
 All the winter through .had vexed them, med- 
 dled with them, and perplexed them, 
 Flinging back to their remonstrance, only 
 laughter, threats, and sneers. 
 
 12 
 
I78 BOSTON BOYS. 
 
 " What ! " the General cried in wonder, — and 
 his tones were tones of thunder, — 
 " xAxe these the rebel lessons that your fa- 
 thers taught you, pray ? 
 Did they send such lads as you here, to make 
 such bold ado here, 
 And flout King George's officers upon the 
 King's highway ? " 
 
 Up the little leader started, while heat light- 
 ning flashed and darted 
 From his blue eyes, as he answered, stout 
 of voice, with all his might : 
 " No one taught us, let me say, sir, — no one 
 sent us here to-day, sir ; 
 But we 're Yankees, Yankees, Yankees, and 
 we know that we are right ! 
 
BOSTON BOYS. 1 79 
 
 u And your soldiers at the first, sir, on the 
 mall there, did their worst, sir ; 
 Pulled our snow hills down we 'd built there, 
 broke the ice upon our pond. 
 'Help it, help it if you can, then'!' back they 
 answered every man then, 
 When we asked them, sir, to quit it ; and 
 we said, ' This goes beyond 
 
 u ' Soldiers' rights or soldiers' orders, for we Ve 
 kept within our borders 
 To the south'ard of the mall there, where 
 we Ve always had our play ! ' " — 
 " Where you always shall hereafter, undisturbed 
 by threats or laughter 
 From my officers or soldiers. Go, my brave 
 boys, from this day 
 
l8o BOSTON BOYS. 
 
 " Troops of mine shall never harm you, never 
 trouble or alarm you," 
 Suddenly the British Gen'ral, moved with 
 admiration, cried. 
 In a minute caps were swinging, five and 
 twenty voices ringing 
 In a shout and cheer that summoned every 
 neighbor far and wide. 
 
 And these neighbors told the story how the 
 haughty, handsome Tory, 
 Bowing, smiling, hat in hand there, faced 
 the little rebel band ; 
 How he said, just then and after, half in ear- 
 nest, half in laughter : 
 " So it seems the very children strike for 
 freedom in this land ! " 
 
BOSTON BOYS. l8l 
 
 So I tell you now the story all about that old- 
 time glory, 
 As my father's father told it long and long 
 ago to me ; 
 How they met and had it out there, what he 
 called their bloodless bout there ; 
 
 How he felt " What ! was he there, 
 
 then ? " Why, the leader, that was he ! 
 
A LITTLE GIRL'S WONDER. 
 
 What do the birds say, I wonder, I wonder, 
 With their chitter and chatter ? It is n't all 
 play. 
 Do they scold, do they fret at some boggle or 
 blunder, 
 As we fret, as we scold, day after day ? 
 
 Do their hearts ever ache, I wonder, I wonder, 
 
 At anything else than the danger that comes 
 
 When some enemy threatens them over or 
 
 under 
 
 The great, leafy boughs of their great, leafy 
 
 homes ? 
 
A LITTLE GIRL'S WONDER. 1 83 
 
 Do they vow to be friends, I wonder, I wonder, 
 With promises fair and promises sweet, 
 
 Then, quick as a wink, at a word fall asunder, 
 As human friends do, in a moment of heat ? 
 
 But day after day I may wonder and wonder, 
 And ask them no end of such questions as 
 these, — 
 
 With chitter, and chatter, now over, now under, 
 The big, leafy boughs of the big, leafy trees, 
 
 They dart and they skim, with their bills full 
 of plunder, 
 
 But never a word of an answer they give, 
 And never a word shall I get, though I wonder 
 
 From morning till night, as long as I live. 
 

 <. W 
 
 
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