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THE 
 
 Oil. 
 
 A POEM 
 
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 TROY, N. Y. : 
 
 WM. H. YOUNG & BLAKE. 
 1874. 
 

 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1874, 
 by Wm. H. Young & Blake, in the office of the Librarian of 
 Congress at Washington. 
 
^0 i)^t Plemorg 
 of 
 
 Pg lister. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 This poem, with the exception only of a little of the 
 last part, was written while I was yet under twenty 
 years of age, and it was finished shortly after the com- 
 pletion of my twentieth year. I feel, therefore, that I 
 must ask encouragement rather than hope to please. 
 
 I desire, also, to make two formal acknowledge- 
 ments : first, to Mr. F. J, Parmenter for his early 
 encouragement and kindness even more than for his 
 valuable assistance during the process of publication ; 
 and, secondly, to one whose generous criticism has not, 
 I hope, been ill appreciated, but whose name I have no 
 right to connect with my rhymes. 
 
 The order, to which I have here given the more 
 
 metrical name of the " Sisters of the Tomb," is one of 
 
 the most beautiful institutions of the Church of Rome 
 
 and is called the " Sisters of the Visitation." 
 
 T. G. 
 Oak lands. May 14th, 1874. 
 
BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW. 
 
 Part I, 
 Part II, 
 Part III, 
 Part IV, 
 
 The Nun at the Shrine. 
 The Deserted Home. 
 At the Death-Bed. 
 Nunc Dimittis. 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW. 
 
 Part I. 
 THE NUN AT THE SHRINE. 
 I. 
 'Tvvas autumn, and an autumn's sun 
 
 Had dyed with many a golden ray 
 The leaves that floated one by one 
 
 Adown the mellow sunset spray ; 
 The Thousand Isles, in placid rest. 
 
 Bathed at the stream their j^ebbled feet ; 
 As infant's hand on mother's breast 
 
 The murm'ring waters 'gainst them beat. 
 The birds had ceased their happy cries 
 And seemed to gaze with loving eyes 
 Upon the transient hues, that fade 
 When Winter's step steals through the glade. 
 Amongst her. sisters one small isle 
 Seemed youngest and its beauteous smile, 
 Bright with the freshness of the day, 
 Shared in the waters' gentle play. 
 Back from the bound'ry, where the trees 
 Caught in their tops the dying breeze, 
 
Neglected, stood a marble shrine, 
 Masked by a wreathing ivy vine; 
 And, whether placed by Nature's hand 
 Or beauty by devotion planned, 
 Upwards and downwards there it grew 
 Till faint as Heaven shining through 
 The ritual of Romish pride 
 The marble met the eventide. 
 A cross, indeed, once capped the stone, 
 
 But, fallen to the earth 
 Since Nature marked the spot her own, 
 The wood-moss on its sides had grown 
 
 And shown its humble birth. 
 Once round it rang the orisons 
 Of many priests and mighty ones. 
 And virtue still was said to rise 
 From it, when virtue's glad surprise 
 Heard the unfrequent laudate tones 
 As some strange worshipper should share 
 With nature's supplicants a prayer. 
 
 n. 
 
 Such was the hour and such the scene 
 When, glancing the bright boughs between, 
 With veil uplifted from her face, 
 A nun gazed on the holy place. 
 
9 
 
 Her brow was smooth, her cheek was fair 
 And youth and love had painted there 
 The bkish that tells a maiden's heart 
 Hath secret causance for its start. 
 It was a modest, startled blush — 
 Half-pale a part, a part half-flush. 
 But pale and flush both mingling o'er 
 The fairest skin that nun e'er wore ; 
 And where it died it scarcely died 
 Away, but rather seemed to hide. 
 And lingering 'neath the whitest skin. 
 It blushed without and burned within. 
 Meek tho' her glance, and downward turned. 
 More than religion in it burned 
 As though it asked her God to take 
 "Her love — but for a softer sake 
 Where youth hath borrowed from devotion 
 A tender mask for its emotion. 
 Devotion steals affection's charm. 
 And sways the heart with virtue's arm. 
 
 HL 
 
 And now the tears are gathering in her eye, 
 And under the coarse sack-cloth heaves her 
 breast 
 
As with the stubborn pow'r of love's deep 
 sigh :— 
 She kneels — her brow is to the marble press- 
 Her pale lips quiver into broken prayer [ed; 
 That welleth up from fountains secret-sealed, 
 Emotion trembles into dulcet air 
 
 Till all her virgin purpose is revealed ; 
 But sobs burst forth, and moves the glowing 
 form 
 And the fair fingers twine their fragile 
 threads 
 Within each other, and the breath so warm 
 
 Congealing dew drops on the marble sheds — 
 Pure as the tears, that wander from her eyes 
 Rather than drop ; or on the long, dark lid 
 Dwell with a fond delight that grief belies 
 And kissing, fall but when the glance is 
 hid. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Humbled at thy sacred shrine 
 Where mine ancestors have prayed 
 
 In a long, unbroken line, 
 
 Mary, Mother all divine, 
 I an aching heart have laid. 
 
 It is not that mv heart rebels 
 
Against one promise 1 have made ; 
 It is not that my conscience tells 
 
 That I would have one vow unsaid ; 
 But, like the tone of silver bells, 
 
 The past o'ercomes me when it swells : 
 And many things I have to say, 
 And many prayers have I to pray ; 
 But, for confession, mortal ear 
 Is fitting not my tale to hear. 
 The sisters of my holy vow 
 
 Are dead to earth and dead to me — 
 r have not one assistant now 
 
 Save only Thee. 
 I hoped that they would share my woes 
 And soothe the pangs of studied throes, 
 ■But every nun that wears our veil 
 Hath, though forgotten, such a tale ; 
 And if they heard my broken plaint 
 Each heart would throb, each sense grow 
 With all the joys they threw away, [faint 
 
 Or buried here for slow decay. 
 My early love, but late forsworn. 
 As Mother-Saint thou wilt not scorn ; 
 To thee alone can I confide 
 The hopes that have forever died — 
 Consign them only to thy keeping 
 
Through this Ufe of loveless weeping, 
 And pray thee for their safe return 
 Beyond the Shadow and the Urn. 
 
 V. 
 
 " The first fond memories that come 
 From that dead past which is not dumb 
 Replace my mother's hand in mine 
 And give mine ear her voice divine. 
 Then years fly by, far swifter than 
 In childhood's happy round they ran ; 
 Beside me stands the handsome boy 
 Who gave my very girlhood joy. 
 Again his boyish face and form — 
 
 Again his manly grace I see ; 
 Again I feel the pressure warm, 
 
 Again he smiles — and smiles on me ! 
 Ah, boyish face, can mem'ry tell 
 How long I loved thee, and how well } 
 How long thine image I adored 
 And unto thee my spirit poured 
 (As only loving woman can) 
 And in the boyhood loved the man ! 
 Lo, when he came — to manhood grown— 
 And whispered me his loved, his own, 
 How gladly lea})ed I to his arms 
 
And clung to wrap me in his charms ! 
 The l)iirning kiss — the loving clasj) — 
 The welcome fond — the parting grasp — 
 How each returns and each in vain ; 
 They do not soothe, they cannot pain ! 
 But, Mother, mem'ry cannot sin ; 
 My heart is pure — ah, look within 
 And say if it hath one intent 
 To win them back, though it lament ! 
 Another is his wife, and she 
 Hath only love and prayer from me, 
 Yet o'er the past her wandering wing 
 In vain the present strives to fling. 
 We loved ; he was mine own ; and he 
 Owes one poor privilege to me — 
 That I may think of life when bright ; 
 And, wronging none, I keep that right. 
 He is not what he was and now 
 
 He could not be what he hath been. 
 But ne'er a power — not e'en my vow — 
 
 Can make that pure, sweet past a sin. 
 'T is only by the whisp'ring tongue 
 That gathers poisons from among 
 The withered flowers the past doth store. 
 That man defiles the fame of Yore — 
 
 The purest deeds 
 
And virtue's seeds 
 May poison by the telling o'er. 
 I call them back, but not to blame him 
 
 That I'm not with him to-day; 
 Woman's wile at last o'ercame him, 
 But she triumphed not: — defame him? 
 
 She could but betray ! 
 She was beautiful, and far, 
 
 Far more beautiful than I ; 
 Mine the beauty of the star. 
 
 Hers the splendor of the sky. 
 Lies are painful, pois'nous things — 
 E'en detected they have stings — 
 And she wove them till, in sooth, 
 Truth seemed lie and falsehood truth. 
 Thus I fell from his esteem — 
 Fell, our love a broken dream. 
 Still he loved me ! It had seemed 
 Incest to him had he dreamed 
 Of loving her who had undone 
 Trust and trusting, both in one. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Had he lingered longer thus 
 Fortune might have smiled on us, 
 For to me he would have turned 
 
15 
 
 When his wrath itself ()utl)urncd, 
 And my truth he would ha\ e learned; 
 But too soon he met a lass 
 
 Fair and young, with light hair curling 
 Like a patent dreaminess 
 
 Round the face whose lips were purling, 
 Purling ever, like a brook 
 From its sweet secluded nook. 
 And her fresh face, where her heart 
 Shone without the mask of art. 
 Fixed his fierce and restless mind 
 Half by contrast. He grew^ kind ; 
 Then he lingered, gladly pleased 
 By the charms his pain that eased ; 
 And, still willing to find pleasure. 
 Tuned him to the joyful measure 
 Of her tones, while music rang 
 Whether she conversed or sang v 
 
 In the portals of an ear 
 That listened best when she was near. 
 Soon he thought he loved her, and 
 Stormed her heart to steal her hand ; 
 But he know^s not wdiither fled 
 The wTetched maid he should have wed ; 
 Knows not, and he shall not know- 
 Till life's ending ends my woe. 
 
i6 
 
 He hath learned to love ere this 
 
 Her who claimed his nuptial kiss ; 
 
 And wilt thou, O mother, keeping 
 
 Every cause for pain or weeping 
 
 From their lives, watch o'er their sleeping 
 
 May he grow in love for her 
 
 And forget what once we were ! 
 
 VH. 
 
 " Mary, not that coals be shed ' 
 
 On my poor undoer's head, \ 
 
 Rises this my humble prayer ; 
 
 That thou over her should 'st care. \ 
 
 1 forgive her — and if / j 
 
 Why not thou, O Virgin, why ? \ 
 
 Save the life thus ill beginning ; 
 And reclaim her from her sinning; 
 
 Lead her to the Heavenly Throne \ 
 
 In a glory all thine own. ' 
 
 And for her, this side the grave, j 
 
 Blessings, years and love I crave ; \ 
 May her babes — if with them blessed — 
 Nurse infant kindness to her breast ; 
 May her husband o'er her sod 
 Bow to mem'rv — and to God. 
 
17 
 
 And still with heart to love the past 
 Cry, " Lord, Thy will be, first and last ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Forgiving prayer had soothed her pain, 
 But tears too soon burst forth again. 
 The hands unclasped to bless another 
 Close quick and tight her grief to smother. 
 And yet the sobs are soft and low, 
 With more of sadness than of woe ; 
 And as the tears flow more and more 
 The storm of sobs drift slowly o'er. 
 Ah ! those who think the hearts are dead 
 
 That beat beneath the formal veil. 
 Know not each humble, weary head. 
 Reposing on the scanty bed, 
 Through many a night hot tears hath shed 
 
 While telling o'er to self its tale. 
 That pulse, which moves as with the wheel 
 
 Of time, hath oft another motion. 
 From secret spring or sudden reel 
 
 Of frenzied, though suppressed emotion. 
 The dust which years have left unstirred 
 
 Needs little brushing to reveal 
 The saint who scorned, the weak who erred, 
 
 Or lorn, lost love those robes conceal. 
 
 2 
 
It may be charity to think 
 
 Those breasts have lost their sense of woe, 
 But many a mourning soul would shrink 
 
 The fearful pangs 'tis theirs to know ; 
 For they are buried, but their hearts 
 
 Oft live without the prison wall, 
 And many a prayer to God imparts 
 The fearful truth that Romish arts 
 
 The flesh — but not the soul — may thrall. 
 
 IX. 
 And thus, the tears and trembling gone, 
 
 The sobbing all passed o'er, 
 The prayer of the forsaken one 
 
 Is on her lips once more. 
 ." One other prayer my heart would make ; 
 
 That ere his eye in death grow dim 
 And ere his soul its flight shall take 
 
 He learn my truth to trust and him. 
 'Tis true, however sweet my vow 
 'Twould not be mine were life not now 
 Despoiled of all it hoped and sought, 
 Yea, life's best boon — its wealth of thought ! 
 And now my course may be a sin 
 To flee the world God placed me in ; 
 He made in me a woman's heart 
 
That yearned to play the mother's part, 
 And longed to see my loved one's grace 
 Recopied in mine infant's face — 
 Recopied still, but blent with mine 
 In harmony, by hand divine — 
 Th' incorporation of the souls 
 Whose dual life one love controls, 
 A poetry no pen can write, 
 The poetry of sense and sight. 
 And if, when of that thought bereft, 
 I sought not with what hope was left 
 To build a future of content 
 With man for its embellishment. 
 Why deem that sin the action moved 
 That saved me from a life unloved ? 
 
 X. 
 
 " When each fond memory of yore 
 
 Shall vanish to return no more 
 
 Or when that lost love, scarce grown dim 
 
 With age, shall wake no thought in him 
 
 Rebellious to the love of life — 
 
 Sworn, granted, wedded to his wife — 
 
 Then may he know that not in vain 
 
 He trusted ; may he feel no pain 
 
 To think what I have suffered, though 
 
He bless that faith which ends in woe. 
 I'hus, shrouded by the holy name, 
 A love remains — but not the same — 
 I ask but justice from his mind, 
 Till now so loved, till now so kind ; 
 That he may know he wrongly deemed 
 Of one who ne'er of falsehood dreamed. 
 Thus, Nevylle's name again I take 
 Upon my lips for love's sweet sake. 
 And on my lips that name now dies 
 Until we meet 'neath brighter skies 
 Than earth's. But if in Paradise 
 His soul shall speak to mine and say. 
 That dark deception passed away 
 Before the grave entombed his form. 
 While life was bright and love was warm- 
 To me with that, thy promise, cheered 
 No path is dark, no fate is feared. 
 
 XL 
 
 " And child-like Edith — ah, may she 
 Have ne'er a cause for pain in me 
 Or in that love that late was mine. 
 
 Sweet child of loveliness — O saint. 
 On other mortal face than thine 
 
 If e'er thy semblance God did paint 
 
21 
 
 'Tis hers that bears the cast divine. 
 
 The spirit laughing on the lips 
 
 The soul that with her accents slips 
 
 From hers into each other heart — 
 
 Say are they all thine own, or part ? 
 
 The modest, gentle, bright blue eye ; 
 
 Her soft, m.elodious, touching sigh ; 
 
 Her small white hand whose touch is light 
 
 As breezes of a summer night ; 
 
 Her blush of joyous, healthful pink — 
 
 All these may well forbid him think 
 
 Of one who faded from his life 
 
 To leave him Edith as his wife. 
 
 xn. 
 
 " And Thou, O Lord of woe and weal. 
 Vouchsafe each, every wound to heal 
 
 Of husband and of mate ; 
 But for myself, I ask thine aid 
 And comfort in my hope betrayed 
 
 And patience still to wait 
 That sweet reward of after time. 
 Which comes when purged from sin and crime, 
 
 And Cometh not too late." 
 
2 2 
 
 XIII. 
 
 She stooped and kissed the cold, white stone 
 
 Nor kissed it once and once alone ; 
 
 She rose, she stooped again, she wept ; 
 
 Then rather from the spot she crept 
 
 Than walked. Her footfall ling'ring dwelt 
 
 As if she less perceived than felt 
 
 That she was passing from the place. 
 
 Anon she stopped and glanced a space 
 
 Behind, until among the trees 
 
 She lost the shrine and heard the breeze ; 
 
 Then sinking o'er the western hill 
 
 She saw the sun. A moment still 
 
 She stood and raised her finger till 
 
 It dwelt upon her lips as though 
 
 Admonishing the water's flow 
 
 To still its music and attend 
 
 To voices on the whisp'ring wind — 
 
 Or was it done to hush the tone 
 
 Of voices in her heart alone } 
 
 Upon her lips the trembling sigh 
 
 Still softly rose as soft to die. 
 
 And was she pond'ring on her way^ 
 
 Or fearful of the dying day .? 
 
 Nay, nay ; her eyes, beyond the skies, 
 
 Were building up a Paradise ; 
 
The dreamy gaze that in them shone 
 Was picturing the love now flown. 
 Far in the deep intensity 
 Of heaven's pure immensity 
 She pictured scenes that long ago 
 She saw and knew and loved to know. 
 Ah, how will nature backward turn 
 To hearts that beat and loves that burn 
 In memory, (if there alone,) 
 And hopes that are no longer known. 
 The twilight from behind the hills 
 Steals softly to her heart, and fills 
 Her being with that sweet repose 
 Of heav'n which seldom mortal knows ; 
 Existence seems suspended here 
 And shifted to some far off sphere 
 Behind the purple and the gold 
 Of heaven's banneret unrolled. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Is her heart softly beating as other hearts beat ? 
 Are her thoughts in the hour for other hearts 
 
 mete ? 
 Yes, mete ; but O who can resolve and decide 
 What infinite sense of her spirit hath dried 
 The tear which now falls not, or hushed the 
 
 sad heart 
 
24 
 
 That seems from her soul in her transport to 
 
 part ? 
 What eye can now follow exactly the path 
 And behold the same sights which her clear 
 
 vision hath 
 In this moment beheld, or what writer can read 
 The writing revealed unto her in her need 
 Of an heavenly succor ? To some souls is 
 
 given 
 The power to read all the scripture of heaven, 
 But the time and the manner are not of our 
 
 choice ; 
 God wills with His will and He speaks with 
 
 His voice ; 
 And 'tis ours if we hear to obey, with no word 
 Of all that the spirit from Spirit hath heard. 
 When from that communion she turned her 
 
 at length 
 On her brow shone the halo of heavenly 
 
 strength 
 For her struggle. She passed swiftly down to 
 
 the shore. 
 Pushed out from the sand and the river sped 
 
 o'er 
 In a light barken shallop, which cut through 
 
 the wave 
 
25 
 
 Like the angel of light when he cometh to 
 
 save ; 
 Two ripples of glory shot out from the bow 
 Like the smiles of the angel recording her 
 
 vow. 
 In that converse of spirit a change o'er her 
 
 passed, 
 And the sore troubled bosom was tranquil at 
 
 last. 
 And far through the shade of the gathering 
 
 night 
 Still broke on the vision those ripples of light, 
 As reflected from some unseen source in the 
 
 sky, 
 Or shot from the depths of the Guardian Eye, 
 Still marking her way. When the shallop 
 
 stood still 
 Underneath the grey convent concealed by 
 
 the hill 
 And its fostering shadow, the evening begun 
 To illumine the heavens. Farewell to the nun. 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW. 
 
 Part II. 
 THE DESERTED HOME. 
 
 I. 
 
 By the spectre shadows dark'ning still 
 The evening seeks the eastern hill 
 And, slow descending to the vale, 
 Pervades the landscape, wan and pale. 
 The stars, as wak'ning from a dream. 
 
 From heaven peep uncertain forth ; 
 A trembling, weak and changeful beam 
 
 Of love from each descends to earth ; 
 The sunset clouds are gone from sight 
 And day hath faded into night. 
 And where the cottage light burns low, 
 In measured music, soft and slow, 
 The vesper hymnal's monotone 
 Dies in the silence, heard by none 
 Except the singer's household small 
 And the resounding, barren wall. 
 
27 
 
 The night bird hath not spread its wing, 
 
 And through the air no noxious thing 
 
 Of evil augury or mien 
 
 Flits ominous, unheard, unseen. 
 
 And as the mantle spreads above 
 
 All cares are melted into love. 
 
 The crescent moon, with silver smile, 
 
 Sails up the silent arc of space 
 And seeks amid the stars, the while. 
 
 To hide its modest, melting grace. 
 And down from vaulting and from dome 
 Descends the peace of rest and home. 
 
 II. 
 
 Descends, but not with equal flight, 
 
 The boon of nature and of night. 
 
 With heaving breast — with hurried tread — ■ 
 
 With eye which, searching, seems to dread 
 
 The learning of its easeless range — 
 
 With brow o'er which comes change on 
 
 change — 
 With hands not clasped as in despair. 
 But clinched as if all woe was there — - 
 Turns and returns his gloomy hall 
 (The scene but late of beauty's thrall) 
 The wifeless husband. Him no more 
 
28 
 
 A soft smile meeteth at the door — • 
 No golden hair upon his shoulder 
 Rests, as love grows softer, bolder; 
 No little hand rests on his arm — 
 Upon his cheek no breathing warm 
 With faintly varying cadence tells 
 The kindred heart that sinks and swells. 
 His life hath ne'er a sovereign now, 
 No smile his lip — no hope his brow ; 
 And e'en his voice hath lost the tone 
 Of sweetness known to her alone : — 
 To her alone since first his ire 
 Waked the torturing fever-fire 
 Of dark remorse, that slumb'ring burned 
 To rise before howe'er he turned 
 To save him from its ceaseless flame 
 
 And told him by its angry smart 
 He was a husband but in name 
 
 And that no wife possessed his heart. 
 
 HI. 
 
 And she had seen — that wretched maid 
 Whom he had made his wedded wife — 
 
 That while a cold respect he paid 
 To her, another ruled his life. 
 
 Not hers the fault, she loved him well — 
 
29 
 
 Too well to rest beside his form 
 And see his breast for another swell — 
 
 The sigh with another's name was warm. 
 Ah, blame her not too rashly yet ! 
 Fore'er her sun of hope seemed set 
 And over her sky the clouds grew dun 
 And her stars passed slowly, one by one, 
 Out of her vision — into the night 
 Which closed on her hungry, vacant sight. 
 No sympathy came from the man whose bed 
 Was graced by the woman's queenly head 
 And she looked abroad, without, above. 
 For a woman's mete and a manly love. 
 There came to their board at length a guest 
 Who loved her better than all the rest. 
 For he saw in the droop of her soft blue eye 
 The sense of a tear though the drop was dry ; 
 He saw in the curl of her queenly lip 
 
 A stern despite of her woman's heart — 
 An angry pity — as if the grip 
 
 Of some sorrow chilled her childish art. 
 And slow to her secret the stranger stole — 
 There into her heart — then into her soul — 
 And then in the gush of her love's young 
 
 dream 
 She guiltily floated along the stream. 
 
30 
 
 So swift her barque and so light the oar, 
 She scarcely noted her length from shore 
 Until she had gone beyond recover 
 And bound herself to her sinful lover. 
 Ah, 'twere a sight for the good to see, 
 The blush of a sin's first misery — 
 How bright it breaks o'er the waxen skin. 
 Like the dawn of a love long hid within — 
 How faintly fused with the fair white neck. 
 That fatal sign of the spirit's wreck ! 
 For all that beauty is base, I ween, 
 And forever flies when once is seen. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And over the brow of the frail young wife — 
 
 Over the white of her heaving breast — 
 Had passed the storm of that bitter strife 
 
 Which left her shame — her sin — confessed. 
 It were no sight to tell — she stood 
 In the charms of her matchless womanhood. 
 Her head drooped down o'er the zones of snow 
 That pulsed 'neath her guilty love and woe. j 
 Half-hung she back, from time to tide \ 
 
 The face of the faithless, tainted bride — 1 
 
 Half-sought to weep on his bosom strong ! 
 
 Her woman's heart and her woman's wrong; 
 
31 
 
 But she could not weep for she felt that now 
 She was the bride of a broken vow. 
 
 V. 
 
 No sooner came her grief and pain — 
 Her longing to be pure again — 
 Than she resolved her home to fly, 
 And distant dwell and distant die. 
 Then he who had betrayed the wife 
 Assumed the keeping of her life 
 And gave her in exchange for fame 
 The means of living. But the name 
 Which guards alone a woman's rest 
 Was wanting — nor could he supply 
 The vacant mind, the wand'ring eye, 
 The love-lorn craving of her breast. 
 And thus she fled, the child of gloom — 
 Her life a blank — her hope the tomb — 
 And what for her a fitting bed 
 Save that which shrouds and shields the dead ? 
 But vainly strove her fleeting smile 
 To thank him for his care, the while ; 
 For as she fled she left behind 
 All joy, all love, all peace of mind. 
 
32 
 
 VI. 
 
 And he, the husband, from afar 
 
 Returns to rest from the fatigue 
 Of public toil and wordy war, 
 
 Where peace and love together league. 
 To quiet wedded is his mind 
 And each emotion grows more kind; 
 But, as he gains his home more near, 
 Wakes a sudden sense of fear ; 
 And a dread, still half unknown. 
 Forces from his lips a groan. 
 Calamity hath oft a pow'r 
 To tell or to foretell its hour. 
 And miles away we hear the call 
 Which flings o'er mirth a sudden pall. 
 The porch to which her steps e'er sprung 
 
 To glad him with a woman's kiss 
 Was silent — e'en the lamps that hung 
 In doleful sadness slowly swung 
 
 Through dark, unlighted gloominess. 
 With hurried step he treads the floor 
 But falters as he nears the door. 
 Where custom taught the wife to wait 
 Th' expected coming of her mate. 
 When stayed beyond its wonted time ; 
 And with the stealthy hand of crime 
 
33 
 
 He touches but not springs the lock, 
 
 His trembling hands refuse to knock. 
 
 And like detected vice he reels 
 
 But thinks not, hopes not — he but feels. 
 
 So silent all, without, within, 
 
 His pulse in contrast seems a din ; 
 
 And thrice his struggles fail before 
 
 The bolt revolves and turns the door. 
 
 The rays that light the spacious hall 
 
 But dimly enter, if at all, 
 
 And 'round the borders of the room 
 
 A shadow dwells as 'round the tomb. 
 
 Full long he ponders, doubting half 
 
 What sounds are ringing in his ears, 
 And if it be the fiendish laugh 
 
 Of Momus jeering at his fears ; 
 He looks and thinks to see the face 
 In all its sireless lack of grace 
 Fresh springing from the womb of night 
 And, failing, doubts he sees aright. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Far through the gloom a shimmering 
 Faint draws the outlines of a door 
 
 Upon the night — a glimmering 
 As of a taper. Hope once more 
 3 
 
34 
 
 Springs up within his sinking heart 
 That sickens in its joyful start. 
 Across the floor his hurried tread 
 With desp'rate firmness now is sped; 
 No falt'ring now for hope supplies 
 The strength far spent in agonies, 
 But in the flood of sudden light 
 New cause he finds to curse his sight. 
 The room is empty, woman's form 
 Not there, though there her pillow warm- 
 Warm with the damp of sorrow's dew 
 Late fallen from her eyes of blue ; 
 For there before her flight from home. 
 By sadness and by love o'ercome, 
 She bowed her head in one pure prayer 
 For strength in him his woe to bear, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "So fades the dream of life," he said, 
 And sank, though conscious, on her bed 
 For hours he lay and if he felt 
 No voice upon his anguish dwelt. 
 And if he wept his burning eye 
 Consumed the drop, the lid was dry. 
 No word escaped him as he lay. 
 Nor moved he till the break of day ; 
 
35 
 
 He marked not how the taper burned, 
 
 Or minutes into hours turned ; 
 
 He knew not if he slept or dreamed 
 
 But what an age that night-watch seemed ! 
 
 And 'twas not till with noisy clang 
 
 The old awak'ning echoes rang, 
 
 And till the household waked from sleep, 
 
 He felt him back to living creep ; 
 
 And then it was not till the maid 
 
 With softly simpering accents prayed 
 
 Admittance to her morning task 
 
 That he bethought the time to ask. 
 
 With shriek to hear such voice reply 
 
 To her accustomed inquiry, 
 
 The handmaid fled to tell the rest 
 
 Of ghosts, and have her sins confessed. 
 
 Then mem'ry from suspended sway 
 
 Returned and he beheld the day, 
 
 But blushed to think the menials' tale 
 
 Of that stern truth he could not veil ; 
 
 And as he came, unheard, unknown. 
 
 To find his bird of promise flown. 
 
 He silently forsook the bed 
 
 And to his own apartment sped. 
 
36 
 
 IX. 
 
 And Nevylle starts before his glass 
 To see the phantom o'er it pass — 
 A shadow of what yesterday 
 He deemed himself — and well he may ! 
 His startled glance, his gloomy brow, 
 Have lost — he knoweth why, not how — 
 The cheer, the frankness and the pride 
 Once in them; and the locks that- hide 
 That massive forehead and its woe 
 Have just a sprinkling now of snow. 
 And silver threads which were not there 
 Have frosted what before was fair. 
 
 X. 
 
 All this has passed, and weeks beside 
 
 Have sadly changed the haughty lord ; 
 The mind which many a foe defied 
 Hath yielded of its own accord ; 
 And now, the captive of his sorrow. 
 He heeds no night and hails no morrow ; 
 But oft the cloud upon his brow 
 Grows darker than his lot is now. 
 And he hath learned to wear the chains 
 His frail wife forged and bear the pains 
 She left to prey upon his frame. 
 
37 
 
 And toils no more for wealth or fame. 
 But one sad thought fills up the measure 
 
 Time hath fixed for all his sense, 
 He shuns no grief and seeks no pleasure- 
 Mourns, but follows not his treasure — 
 
 Who can find lost innocence ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 So gently fall the shades of night 
 He deems them but the fault of sight, 
 And now he starts and talks to air — 
 Sole confidant of his despair — 
 " O may I never see her face ! 
 The melting smile, the modest grace — 
 Forever fled, forever dead — 
 I ne'er can bring them back again, 
 Let mem'ry be the only pain. 
 I knew not how I loved her — she 
 Knew less how she was loved by me, 
 But had she staid the truth to know 
 All time should into transport flow ; 
 And had I learned it ere I lost. 
 Her love had thawed my bosom's frost. 
 My coldness — not affection's want. 
 But the derangement of a heart 
 Which steels itself against the taunt 
 
38 
 
 Of phantoms that its alleys haunt — 
 
 Was of my very love a part ; 
 For had I been less cold to life 
 
 And all things living except her, 
 Affection would have lost the strife 
 
 And love would long for things that were. 
 But now — too late for retrospection, 
 A madd'ning, bitter recollection — 
 The past dies out ; the future — blank ! 
 The present with its poisons rank 
 Debauches pow'r to serve my kind 
 And barren leaves both heart and mind." 
 
 XII. 
 A knock comes softly at his door; 
 
 He starts to hear a woman's voice — 
 A voice which he hath heard before 
 Or thinks he hath — in days of yore. 
 
 Those accents sure were once his choice 
 Of all whose music woman owns. 
 They chill him to his very bones ! 
 So changed they seem — and yet the same — 
 He dares not give the sounds a name. 
 Can it be she, the false, returned — 
 Her charms despised, her beauty spurned ? 
 And how shall he, weak, tortured man, 
 
39 
 
 Her charms without compassion scan ? 
 
 The hot blood flows upon his brain 
 
 Until he groans aloud from pain, 
 
 And twice he strives to speak, but fails, 
 
 So long the fearful pang prevails. 
 
 It must be she, for he forbade 
 
 Each frightened menial to invade 
 
 The silence of that chamber, where 
 
 He built a temple to despair. 
 
 That voice so strangely moves his soul 
 
 It swells without, beyond control. 
 
 XIII. 
 " A Sister of the Tomb would ask 
 Admittance to perform a task " — 
 Again he hears those accents ring 
 But now nor pain nor joy they bring ; 
 It cannot be — his mind, o'erstrung. 
 To false conclusion must have sprung. 
 However strongly he believed 
 He quickly owns himself deceived 
 And softly answers " Enter here 
 Whatever brings or balm or bier, 
 And if thy summons comes for me 
 Thrice welcome shall thy mission be." 
 
40 
 XIV. 
 
 The Sister entered : in the room 
 
 No light relieved its awful gloom 
 
 And she was startled it would seem 
 
 So sudden leaned she on the beam — 
 
 Heavily leaned she 'gainst the door 
 
 And almost sank upon the floor. 
 
 Her veil was folded back, with art 
 
 To hide, yet left her eyes a part 
 
 From whence they wandered to the form 
 
 Of him who shook beneath the storm 
 
 That late broke o'er him. Nevylle soon 
 
 His face upraised to ask her boon, 
 
 But started and his glance expressed 
 
 What dread new swelled within his breast ; 
 
 And each upon the other gazed, 
 
 As silent each as each amazed. 
 
 His dark eye scanned the sable shroud ; 
 
 His head he raised — his glance grew proud ; 
 
 Some curving of the slender mould — 
 
 The form, the eyes, the mantle's fold — 
 
 Or was it something further back 
 
 On mem'ry's beaten, blotted track — 
 
 An indistinct, a ghostly thought — 
 
 Fierce, fleeting, faded, but not caught — 
 
 That roused the feeling late repressed ? 
 
And his suspicious glance professed 
 
 The query of her strange intent. 
 
 The stranger's eyes, upon him bent, 
 
 Seemed making every pencilled line 
 
 Of form, or face, or feature fine ; 
 
 She seemed to watch each fleeting thought 
 
 Pass o'er his face where each was wrought, 
 
 And o'er his brow his palm he pressed 
 
 As if he would conceal the rest. 
 
 Thus masking with his trembling hand 
 
 His mind, his husky tones demand 
 
 What would she here 1 from whence she came .'' 
 
 And what her mission } and — her name } 
 
 XV. 
 
 " There is a Sisterhood, of whom 
 
 The right to tend those near the tomb ; 
 
 And, if it be within their pow'r 
 
 They soothe and glad the dying hour. 
 
 I have a mission from the grave. 
 
 And one poor boon of thee to crave. 
 
 The lines I bear may tell the tale 
 
 So sanctioned by my serge and veil." 
 
 Too slight, too tall that floating form. 
 
 Too deep her voice, her glance too warm 
 
 For Edith's having ; but no wave 
 
42 
 
 Of all that shrouded cast but gave 
 Familiar somethings to his mind, 
 Emotions vague and ill-defined. 
 She speaks and gives him what appears 
 A page o'erblotted fresh with tears, 
 And vain he strives to strike the light 
 Which must reveal the truth at sight, 
 But crushes in his palm the sheet 
 As if the nails with flesh would meet. 
 The loosened veil falls all around 
 The nun — at last the light is found. 
 'Tis Edith's ! — hers the failing pen 
 That wrote the fearful words. Again 
 He sinks and now his dark'ning eye 
 Bedews the words which scarce are dry. 
 He only knows they come too late 
 To save or change his awful fate. 
 And then the soul of injured man 
 Forbids his tears and bids him scan 
 The writing coldly, nor forget — 
 Though she was dear — his wrongs live yet. 
 His wrongs 1 — yes, they alone now live — 
 He doubts 'tis right he should forgive. 
 
43 
 XVI. 
 
 Edith's Letter. 
 
 All my life is nearly spent, 
 All my sins in one are blent ; 
 From my soul escapes one cry — 
 Love, forgive me ere I die. 
 
 Well I know the right is lost, 
 Error — yes, and crime — the cost, 
 Which was mine to link thy name 
 With my fortune and my fame. 
 
 But for those bright days of yore 
 Let me hear thy voice once more, 
 Though I hear it but in blame — 
 Call me by the once loved name ! 
 
 Let the lips where mine have clung- 
 Let those arms whereon I hung — 
 Their last office now perform 
 On my swiftly sinking form. 
 
 Hear the love you did not prize, 
 Look once more on these blue eyes 
 And if then thou still canst hate — 
 God's forgiveness comes too late. 
 
44 
 
 XVII. 
 
 His blanching cheek but flashing eye, 
 
 His drooping head but clouded brow, 
 Half make her hope his kind reply ; 
 
 But chase the fond reliance now. 
 And more than once he starts to speak 
 
 And more than once his head he lifts, 
 The tears bedew his manly cheek 
 
 But many a gleam of hatred drifts 
 Into his eyes, though hate be weak. 
 At length he turns all white and pale 
 To her who shrinks beneath the veil. 
 " No, never!" thus he speaks, "my life 
 She poisoned — and to call her wife — 
 To clasp, e'en dying, in my arms 
 Her cursed though surpassing charms 
 And perjure self to save her soul 
 By saying I forgive the whole — 
 No, never ! 'Tis not in my heart 
 To pardon or forget a part. 
 My lordly name, my place on earth, 
 My very pride of noble birth 
 She crushed : the meanest serf that toils 
 In safety, shudders and recoils 
 From such a life as mine is now 
 And smiles upon his wife, whose vow 
 
45 
 
 Remains unbroken — pities me 
 
 If once my sudden age he see ! 
 
 I said my name, my pride she crushed — 
 
 She trampled them among the dust — 
 
 She spat upon me and my race 
 
 And flung the insult in my face. 
 
 And you, who have espoused her cause 
 
 Through license of your saintly laws, 
 
 Go forth — and never darken more. 
 
 For such a plaint, my darkened door. — 
 
 But hold !" he falters, as the nun 
 
 Shrinks back, her hasty flight begun, 
 
 " If I can add by purse or pow'r. 
 
 One comfort to her dying hour 
 
 So much I would. Where shall we find 
 
 This — wife ! so loving, pure and kind .''" 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The Sister paused and glanced around 
 
 As if to circumscribe the sound 
 
 Which she should utter. Then once more 
 
 Drew nearer from the open door. 
 
 " I would not have her dwelling known 
 
 To any save yourself alone." 
 
 She softly whispers in his ears 
 
 Then drops her veil and — disappears. 
 
46 
 
 XIX. 
 
 In vain his voice — his piercing call 
 Goes down the wide, resounding hall 
 The nun is fled, the time is past, 
 Hath Fate her latest hazard fast ? 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW. 
 
 Part III. 
 AT THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 I. 
 
 I wrote that Edith when she fled 
 Left every sweet sensation dead 
 And the tears of deep-toned sadness, 
 Rising in her hours of gladness, 
 Might have driven both to madness. 
 But she strove to press them down — 
 Strove her own despair to drown — 
 Calm was she when he was by ; 
 Or if tears were in her eye. 
 With a woman's graceful charm 
 She assuaged his fond alarm — 
 Laughed, or swept, away the show 
 That became her beauty so. 
 Hearts there are which will not break 
 For their own redemption's sake. 
 Hearts there are which cannot bear 
 One brief moment of despair ; 
 
48 
 
 But some hearts, with sadness fraught, 
 
 Nurse and love its very thought. 
 
 And such an heart in Edith's breast 
 
 Would not let her sorrow rest ; 
 
 While her spirit, curbed and bounded, 
 
 On all sides by grief surrounded. 
 
 Preyed upon her fragile frame 
 
 Till at last her sickness came. 
 
 When first she saw the hectic flush 
 
 Tint her cheek with brighter blush. 
 
 Tears of joy in silence flowed 
 
 From her eyes, and pleasure glowed 
 
 On her face like childhood's bloom. 
 
 Thus, she smiled upon the tomb 
 
 While she knew the time was near 
 
 When her crime should disappear 
 
 In the memory of one 
 
 Who, undoing, was undone; 
 
 And when he might mourn the life 
 
 Of his false, self-punished wife, 
 
 And she held a firm belief 
 
 In man's mercy unto grief. 
 
 From the man she had served to the man she 
 
 had wronged 
 She fled, and each feeling thereafter belonged 
 
49 
 
 To the sins of the past. If she thought of 
 
 that one 
 Through whom all her sin and her falsehood 
 
 begun 
 She thought to forgive ; and she wished to 
 
 forget, 
 In the one only hope that was dear to her yet, 
 The darkness and danger, the time and the 
 
 tears 
 That had withered her life in life's earliest 
 
 years. 
 Him, too, would she see ere she closed her 
 
 sad eyes 
 On the tumult of earth — saw the peace of the 
 
 skies — 
 His hand would she take and his honor would 
 
 ask 
 To leave all her sin 'neath the piteous mask. 
 Which death should afford; but she could not 
 
 then stay 
 For e'en this. She set out on her desolate way 
 In the night and the storm, 'midst the wind 
 
 and the rain, 
 And sped on her journey through panic and 
 
 pain. 
 If voices were born on the keen, bitter blast 
 
50 
 
 They seemed but to whisper "Haste, haste !" 
 
 as they passed. 
 No need ; for the fugutive stopped not to rest 
 From the pain of her feet or the pangs of her 
 
 breast, 
 She saw but the death-bed where Nevylle 
 
 should weep 
 Hot tears of forgiveness and soothe her to 
 
 sleep ; 
 She paused not to think this would hasten the 
 
 end — 
 She only knew whither that journey would 
 
 tend. 
 And e'en had she thought it had gladdened 
 
 her more 
 To think that the pang should the sooner be 
 
 o'er. 
 
 n. 
 
 In night she fled and she returned in storm, 
 Her blood ran cold where once its course was 
 
 warm, 
 Grief sat majestic on her features fair ; 
 Youth, beauty, woman's love — not health — 
 
 were there. 
 And thus returned she to the town where he, 
 
51 
 
 Her husband once — but now her judge — 
 
 should be. 
 The dark, forsaken suburbs gave her tread 
 A dismal echo clothed in silence dread ; 
 And yet she traced the cold, deserted street 
 With ah ! how weary, yet how willing, feet ! 
 Still on she went but wanted no respect, 
 None near to gibe if no one to protect ; 
 She noted but the darkness all around. 
 The total absence of all cheerful sound ; 
 But now and then the tell-tale corner lamp 
 Shone on her clothing wet, her face so damp. 
 No window yields a single ray of cheer 
 Or tells one watcher of a kindred fear — 
 Yes, one ! She stops — she gazes on that light 
 As though her soul depended on the sight ; 
 She clasps her hands and leans against the 
 
 walls — 
 Groans, deeply breathes, weeps, trembles — all 
 
 but falls. 
 There, opposite, a picture — 'tis not one 
 That oft we gaze on as life's course is run — 
 And God for its unfrequency we thank ! 
 A man is gazing on the outer blank — 
 A man, lone, weary, wasted and in tears ; 
 
52 
 
 Torn, writhing, trembling — trembling not with 
 
 fears. 
 An instant stands he thus, puts out the lamp 
 And flings the casement open to the damp. 
 As thus he gazes on the darkened street. 
 The moon bursts sudden through the cloudy 
 
 sheet; 
 A crouching figure 'neath the opposing wall 
 Arrests the glances flashing as they fall, 
 But scarce the beam reveals the presence when 
 The brightness flies and darkness reigns again. 
 He heeded but to murmur " Some poor soul 
 Life's byways searching for life's final goal !" 
 Nor thought before another night went by 
 He might be asked to see that sinner die. 
 
 HI. 
 
 " Thank God ! for the suburbs in safety are 
 
 passed 
 And into the city I hurry at last, 
 To hide for a while from the sight of my kind 
 And then leave but dust for a cofftn behind." 
 So she spoke to herself and turned into a lane 
 Not known to the proud, to the wealthy, or vain; 
 But ah, how familiar to many a wretch 
 Who begged for a living and died in a ditch ! 
 
53 
 
 'Twixt homes that were squalid to one that 
 
 was neat 
 She sped on the wings of her small, bleeding 
 
 feet; 
 She heeded not whether they pained or were 
 
 sore, 
 For she knew that her journey of anguish was 
 
 o'er. 
 She sped up the stair and she knocked at the 
 
 door, 
 But fainted and fell on the carpetless floor. 
 The inmate — once servant and nurse — now 
 
 her host 
 First feared the young life which she nourished 
 
 was lost ; 
 But when she recovered no long, tearful tale 
 Was needed from Edith, the truth to unveil : 
 Her story was known, her condition perceived, 
 A Father was sent for, her bosom relieved 
 Of its terrible burden of falsehood and shame ; 
 And from her confession all tranquilly came 
 The tears of repentance — the dews of a love 
 Which finds for our sinning a mercy above. 
 But when he had gone he had sent to his place 
 A nun to perform the last office of grace. 
 To care for the sinner absolved, and to tend 
 
54 
 
 That wreck of a life till it drew to its end. 
 And strange did it seem to the old nurse's 
 
 mind, 
 So loving, so tender, so much more than kind 
 The sister had grown in that hour of woe. 
 Each flower the climate and season could know 
 Was sent by the stranger to gladden Uie bed 
 Which each of them knew would be that of 
 
 the dead. 
 From morning to night had the Sister remained 
 To mark every step which disease had attained 
 And under the shadow of night she had left, 
 With a note for the husband, forsaken, bereft. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then Edith had asked and the hostess had 
 
 tried 
 To refuse her request for one other beside ; 
 In vain, for though dying she could not forget 
 That the cup of her misery was not full yet 
 Till he, too, had received her forgiveness and 
 
 heard 
 His peace from the lips of the woman who 
 
 erred — 
 Erred with him. And, persuaded against her 
 
 own mind, 
 
55 
 
 The woman had gone the destroyer to find. 
 Not far the address which the poor, dying 
 
 wife 
 Gave the nurse, and a sense of the shortness 
 
 of life 
 Gave wings and a will to the servant of yore. 
 She found him and told him ; the hour not 
 
 o'er. 
 They crept up the stairs and they opened the 
 
 door. 
 
 V. 
 
 The breath of the flowers had scented the air 
 
 That stirred in the room, but a Shadow was 
 there — 
 
 A terrible Shadow ! Though dead to the 
 sight, 
 
 It came on the wings of the breezes of night ; 
 
 It came and its presence was fearfully felt. 
 
 Though nowhere the visible form of it dwelt. 
 
 They looked, but no shade in the recess re- 
 posed, 
 
 The night was without and the casement was 
 closed ; 
 
 It swathed not the curtained and motionless 
 bed; 
 
56 
 
 It wrapped not the beautiful, slumbering head ; 
 It kissed not those lips and it clasped not that 
 
 hand — 
 It hid not away in the rich golden strand 
 Of that fair loosened hair — and the white 
 
 bosom heaved 
 With the softest of breathings e'er woman 
 
 received. 
 It lingered not e'en in the corners — nor hid 
 'Neath the sorrowful droop of that white, 
 
 waxen lid ; 
 For Edith awak'ning the lid was upraised 
 And forth from the orb all her bright spirit 
 
 gazed. 
 'Twas the glance of an angel, a beam from the 
 
 sky, 
 That shot from the blue of her beautiful eye. 
 O, Phantom or Shadow, whatever thou art, 
 Thou dwellest alone in the depths of the heart ! 
 The man bowed his head as if weakness to 
 
 hide. 
 Then sprang from the door and knelt down at 
 
 her side 
 And silently buried his face — far too strong 
 For the words he would speak swelled the 
 
 sense of her wrong. 
 
57 
 
 VI. 
 
 She took his nerveless hand in hers 
 
 And raised her smiling face, 
 For sleep had wiped away her tears 
 
 And left it naught but grace. 
 " I have not one reproach to make, 
 
 As you expect," she said; 
 " 'Twas only for your comfort's sake 
 
 I called you to my bed. 
 Nay, ask not my forgiveness now, 
 
 'Twas given long ago 
 Ere death had paled my childish brow, 
 
 Ere hope gave place to woe. 
 I do not ask a single tear 
 From thee to grace my early bier, 
 I do not summon thy remorse 
 To do poor justice to my corse ; 
 For tomb, for grave, for shroud, for pall- 
 I look to him I wronged for all. 
 I summon thee to tell thee here 
 
 That all has been forgiven^ 
 No ghost shall wander from its sphere 
 To wring from thee an idle tear 
 
 Or turn thy thoughts from Heaven 
 Unto the hell that might be thine 
 
58 
 
 Within thy breast — the cause is flown 
 For you created none in mine. 
 My wickedness was all mine own. 
 And, if to thee I yielded, know 
 Not that my chiefest cause for woe 
 Though great alone the pang might be 
 Awakened by that thought in me. 
 Till yester-night I falsely dreamed 
 An hell born lie. Poor wretch, I deemed 
 Another owned my husband's heart 
 And with that base belief a part 
 Of all my guilt was born within , 
 The evil germ soon sprang to sin. 
 Had it been thus I might have died 
 And charged the falseness of the bride 
 To him who wedded me, to own 
 Allegiance at another throne ; 
 Yet had I such excuse my crime 
 Had tinged the ashen face of time 
 
 As with the blush of maiden shame. 
 Why did I sin ? — ah, why does woman 
 Ever sin ? — because she's human ! 
 
 I know not how ; a sickness came 
 Upon my spirit and — I fell ! 
 I could not stay my crime to tell, 
 Nor could disguise with pitying power 
 
59 
 
 Have stolen from remorse one hour. j 
 
 Unthinking, without love for thee I 
 
 And wishing only to be free j 
 
 From those endearments I had cursed, j 
 
 I fled with thee because the first 'I 
 
 To proffer me the means of flight. 
 
 Enough of this ! — 'twas yesternight ' 
 
 I saw my wretched husband standing 
 
 Alone — I should have been beside 
 The wreck which seemed itself demanding 
 
 God's vengeance on the faithless bride 
 Who shrank and cowered thus to see 
 Her handiwork of misery. 
 
 Then, like creation's dawning light ; 
 
 The truth burst sudden on my sight ; | 
 
 He loved me then, he loves me still 
 
 Though I have caused his every ill. ' 
 
 I will not picture thee the face, 
 But late the throne of manly grace, 
 
 So changed. Each pencilling of care t 
 
 Was but what I had graven there. [ 
 
 I have forgiven thee — depart 
 
 And leave me with my broken heart. j 
 
 Nay — not one kiss — go, you have heard j 
 
 All, all ; but whatsoe'er the word \ 
 
 My crime to name, 
 
6o 
 
 Voii should not blame ; 
 When speaking of me say — 'She erred.' 
 
 VII. 
 
 He rose. The parting kiss denied, 
 
 To kiss her by a look he tried. 
 
 His eyes with such a yearning dwelt 
 
 Upon her lips so full and warm 
 That kisses seemed in air to melt 
 
 And wing them from her glowing form, j^ 
 He gazed until her bright eyes turned ^ 
 
 Full on him — so intense their light, 
 He shrank beneath them. Though he yearned 
 
 To stay, they forced him from her sight. 
 That flashing glance had all that still 
 He saw in womanhood — the Will. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Another hour is gone ; the nun 
 
 Her journey sped, the mission done — 
 
 Returned. And with a calm despair 
 
 The broken heart endured the tale, 
 Told with a kind, carressing care. 
 
 The harshness of the truth to veil. 
 And Edith with beseeching eyes 
 In which the tears all slowly rise 
 
6i 
 
 And folded hands that choke the sob 
 Mhat gushes with each wild heart throb 
 Kjazed long, then motioned to her side 
 The nun. But vain to speak she tried ; 
 For if she spake, so soft and low 
 Her voice, it died in speechless woe ; 
 Till the nun with a kind and a holy care 
 Stooped, kissed her brow and brushed back 
 
 the hair," 
 Back from her temples broad and fair — 
 Embraced her form and bade her rest 
 Her weary head on a weary breast. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And like sisters they talked and like sisters 
 they turned 
 Back, back to the past that contrasted the 
 now. 
 Till innocent joy in their warm glances burned 
 And memory wiped all the frost from each 
 brow. 
 Then heart to heart opening revealed the deep 
 springs 
 Of each being now wandered astray. 
 From the courses life's streams should have 
 run, to the things 
 
62 
 
 Which had brought them together to-day. 
 They talked of their loves as of things that 
 were gone, 
 Their sorrows as things that were past, 
 Their joys and their blessings as things yet to 
 come. 
 Their hopes as uniting at last 
 In an unconceived future, where He who had 
 
 made 
 Should forgive the betrayer and bless the be- 
 trayed. 
 And then, when that past was retraced and 
 re-told. 
 The dying one talked of the future of him 
 Who, long left behind her, no longer con- 
 trolled 
 By one thought that should hamper the proud 
 or the bold. 
 Should sink her in memory, painful but 
 dim. 
 
 X. 
 
 " O, sister, he will love again — 
 Nay, now he loves another more 
 
 Than I have ever, ever been 
 
 Beloved — he loved her long before. 
 
1 
 
 63 1 
 
 1 
 'Tis sad to think when I am dead I 
 
 Another's child may grace his knee , 
 
 And he, by new caresses led, 
 By purer, fresher loving fed. 
 May only of my frailty think 
 And from that mem'ry tortured shrink — 
 
 From mem'ry as from me : 
 And in his child no trace shall live 
 
 Of her he will not now forgive. '■ 
 
 Will he never toy with a golden curl 
 And think of the joyous, thoughtless girl ; 
 
 Whose heart he won and who gave that heart 
 In exchange for what she deemed a part 
 Of a loving care ; while another could claim \ 
 
 The heart which he gave not with his name ?" 
 
 XI. 
 
 Upon the Sister's cheek the flush 
 
 Of feeling deepened to the blush 
 
 Of angry pride. She raised her crest 
 
 And quickly drew away her breast 
 
 From the reposing head which lay 
 
 Soft nestled as the dying day 
 
 Upon the bosom of the West. ! 
 
 But in an instant bowed her head 
 
 To Edith's ear and softly said, ' 
 
 " The object of that love is dead." I 
 
64 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Dead !" In that syllable a tone 
 Had more than triumph's self should own. 
 " Dead .?" When once more her accents came 
 Nor tone, nor glance, nor speech the same. 
 Ah, triumph may a moment stay 
 
 The kindly tide which flows beneath 
 A tortured love, but short the play 
 
 Of triumph when 'tis one with death. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Yes, dead to him and dead to earth 
 And dead to all that gave love birth. 
 The veil entombs her. 'Tis her hand 
 That soothes thy journey from the land 
 Of sin and sinners to the realm . 
 Whose glories awe, whose joys o'erwhelm." 
 The Sister paused and sudden stole 
 To Edith's eyes her grateful soul 
 And in that glance there was a joy 
 Which had not now one base alloy. 
 Her arms extend and Edith grasps 
 That kindred form in one long clasp. 
 Then faints. When sense returned, a space 
 She lingers in that fond embrace 
 While her pale lips take up the thread 
 Of converse where sensation fled. 
 
65 
 XIV. 
 
 There's a hurry of feet in the rough paved 
 
 way, 
 And the sound of a voice. With a strange 
 
 dismay . 
 The heart of the dying those accents caught, 
 So long unheard, so fondly sought. 
 O, husband, haste if you wish to see 
 That glance ere it close for eternity ! 
 For a change has passed o'er the cheek, and 
 
 the eye 
 Is all more dim though the lid be dry. 
 The veil which the nun had drawn aside 
 
 She adjusts with a silent dignity, 
 Her worldly sympathy to hide. 
 
 And whispers low, " Say naught of me." 
 With a childish smile poor Edith turned ; 
 No light but love on her features burned ; 
 " Oh, joy !" she said, " he hath heard my cry — 
 Sweet hope, in my husband's arms to die ! 
 For his noble heart will in death forgive 
 The sin which could not itself outlive. 
 I will call up the days of my radiant youth, 
 I will summon bright fancies long faded to 
 
 truth ; 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 To aid, by the contrast of present and past, 
 The climax of pathos which conquers at last. 
 
 XV. 
 
 She ceased. In the open door there stood 
 The judge of her fallen womanhood. 
 The lip compressed, the stern gray eye, 
 
 The stately but subdued command 
 Of each emotion, and the sigh — 
 
 The frosted hair, through which his hand 
 Forgetful strayed, or strayed to wrench 
 From agony its violence — 
 They seemed to freeze her very sense ; 
 While he, too, rested on her form 
 His eye so cold but once so warm. 
 No trace of crime was written there. 
 Nor wrinkled brow, nor beauty's wear ; 
 The writing was but death's; and fair 
 That very writing of decay, 
 So sweetly on her cheek it lay. 
 But scarce a moment dare he stand 
 And trust him to his own command. 
 He sank unbidden on a chair, 
 And hid his face from Edith's stare. 
 
67 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And where were the words which the wife 
 
 should speak ? 
 Where were the fancies she should seek ? 
 Ah ! fitter than prayer on the penitent's tongue 
 The act into which her humility sprung ; 
 For forth from the bed she all silently crept, 
 Along to his feet — there she sank and she 
 
 wept. 
 Oh ! ye who have seen all the transport of woe, 
 Indulged by the wretch whom no mercy may 
 
 know 
 From the hands of the law save the end of his 
 
 life. 
 Can ye measure by this all the grief of that 
 
 wife ? 
 He takes not his judgment from him who 
 
 is slain, 
 He pleads not his plea and displays not his 
 
 pain 
 To the dead that he murdered — beholds not 
 
 the sight 
 Of the spirit he cast from its dwelling of might ; 
 But she — she had loved, and she felt in that 
 
 time 
 
6^ 
 
 That love had but slaughtered itself by its 
 
 crime. 
 On love though she hung and to man though 
 
 she prayed, 
 That love she had tortured, that man she 
 
 betrayed. 
 
 XVII. 
 He sat all unheeding, and if she was heard, 
 His lips never parted, his arms never stirred 
 From their desolate folding above the dark 
 
 breast. 
 But ever more tightly, more firmly, were 
 
 pressed ; 
 And he waited for words and for prayers, 
 
 while her woe 
 Seemed slowly subsiding, so lessened its show. 
 But the nun, starting forth from the gloom 
 
 with a cry. 
 Shook his manhood — " O, husband, be quick, 
 
 ere she die ! " 
 He looked ; o'er that face like a fast flying 
 
 cloud 
 A shadow had passed : and his stern spirit 
 
 bowed. 
 Quick parted his arms and as quick to his 
 
 breast 
 
69 
 
 He gathered that form swiftly sinking to rest, 
 And to rest at his feet — unforgiven. Not vain 
 Her hope of man's mercy to womanhood's 
 pain. 
 
 XVHl. 
 
 *' O, Edith, my loved, my forgiven, my wife, 
 But tarry a space on the confines of life — 
 But speak to me — say that, my coldness for- 
 given, 
 You wish that our souls be united in Heaven !" 
 A smile flitted o'er the pale face — in the eyes 
 That had stolen their blue from the fair sum- 
 mer skies 
 Shone the gleam of a joy not of earth — 'twas 
 
 the soul 
 Sent back from the bright world — sent back 
 
 to the goal. 
 Her lips murmured " Husband ! " but, ere on 
 
 the bed 
 He laid down his darling, his Edith was dead. 
 Yes ; the sighs and the sobbings, they now 
 
 had passed o'er, 
 And the echo had died on the echoless shore. 
 They heard the sough of the wings of Death, 
 As the angel came on the evening's breath ; 
 
70 
 
 They heard the music of worlds above 
 Move to the measure of Godlike love ; 
 And they thought they heard, as the sash they 
 
 threw 
 Wide to the starlight and the dew, 
 A voice on the still and the startled air — 
 The spirits' hymn to the mourner there. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Oh ! weep not for me, when my tomb you 
 
 see, 
 For my soul from the bonds of sin is free ; 
 And fresh from a husband's sweet embrace 
 I wing my way to my Maker's face. 
 Forgiveness of man and the mercy of God 
 Shall hallow and freshen the sinner's sod ; 
 What death hath brought no life could bring, 
 Hail to mortality's kindly king ! 
 He sends me before, to prepare for thee 
 A home in the depths of eternity. 
 And the changing year, with its cycle bright, 
 Shall bring by day and shall nurse by night 
 Sweet hope ; till up from the mystery 
 Of thy soul's unwritten history 
 Shall come prophetic voices, and their song 
 Shall be of worlds where naught that is is 
 
 wron^." 
 
THE BRIDE OF THE BROKEN VOW 
 
 Part IV. 
 NUNC DIMITTIS. 
 
 1. 
 *' There are sins to be forgiven 
 
 Ere there breaks another day, 
 Souls there are to wend to heaven 
 
 By the selfsame way. 
 
 Hear my latest prayer, I pray, 
 And when he is dying — dying — 
 
 Hither send for me ; 
 Ere the morning breeze is sighing, 
 
 I would with him be. 
 And if he shall ask thee whom 
 
 Thou art calling to his side. 
 Say the sister of the tomb 
 
 Who attended on his bride." 
 Grey hairs were on the speaker's head ; 
 From dark grey eyes her tears were shed, 
 But in those eyes still shone the rays 
 Of younger hopes and brighter days. 
 
72 
 
 Long years had passed since Nevylle's wife 
 Had closed her eyes on sin and life ; 
 And death had come once more, to take 
 The heart which would, but could not break. 
 For, when beneath the sod, his mind 
 And heart to Edith grew more kind ; 
 And in that hour a subtle bliss 
 Had mingled with his bitterness ; 
 For she, the loving wife though frail, 
 Now wrapped in death's all-sacred veil, 
 Had died as one who sins should die — 
 With aching heart and hopeful eye — 
 And when he forgave her he fondly forgave 
 Nor cherished aversion to brood o'er her grave, 
 
 n. 
 
 The sister, to whom the grey sister was speak- 
 ing, 
 Is now in the streets and her pathway is 
 
 seeking, 
 Along to the home of the husband, now low 
 Down the hill-side of life on his journey of 
 
 woe. 
 At length she is sitting and holding the hand 
 Of the slumbering husband. How slowly 
 the sand 
 
73 
 
 In hour-glass runs ! But he wakes and he 
 
 seeks 
 For something he hath not, and faintly he 
 speaks. 
 
 III. 
 " Turn the light lower — rake the fire down — 
 Cease from thy watching and thy care a 
 while — 
 Hand me your casket — leave me now, alone 
 To learn the last of woman and her wile ! 
 Nay, I shall need thee not ; close fast the door 
 And do not come until you hear my voice. 
 While the weird shadows fall along the floor, 
 I pluck thy secret, casket — not from choice, 
 But the necessity of rounding life 
 
 With the full knowledge of another's sin. 
 Through younger years I feared the bitter 
 strife. 
 But now no lover — husband — judge — be- 
 gin ! 
 And these slight clasps her lily hands have 
 pressed 
 And to their frailty trusted.^ Well, more 
 frail 
 The very ties which bound her woman's 
 breast — 
 
74 
 
 I tempt these, Edith — and like thee they 
 fail ! " 
 He spake, and, speaking, burst the slender 
 
 bands, 
 More softly pliant to her softer hands ; 
 And found within the casket, treasured there. 
 The slightest gifts which claim a woman's care. 
 Love's first, fond mementoes, — the flower he 
 
 stole 
 To speak in its beautiful language his soul — 
 The bud which he gave, and the gift she re- 
 ceived — 
 The knot which he tied, and symbol be- 
 lieved — 
 The lightest of lines drawn by love's ready 
 
 pen 
 Comes back to his soul, like an echo again 
 Coming back from the cavernous rocks of the 
 
 past. 
 Just reaching his ear — echo latest and last 
 Of the voice of his youth, given thus to his 
 
 age- 
 Yet time hath not made it the voice of the 
 
 sage ! 
 Each flower, consigned to that mystical cript, 
 Preserved ; though forever the honey be sipped, 
 
75 
 
 All there ! And the portrait her bosom had 
 
 worn, 
 While yet she had dreamed of its minature 
 
 born 
 From her womb — yes, that too — she had left 
 
 him, to tell 
 She naught from his heaven took forth to her 
 
 hell, 
 Save the love which had gone with her down 
 
 to her grave. 
 She had left each fond token that ever could 
 
 save 
 From her barren existence one moment of 
 
 sorrow, 
 And cancelled the past while she shrank from 
 
 the morrow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He pauses sadly, while considering o'er. 
 The hopes, the dreams, the days, that are no 
 
 more ; 
 And, as he lifts them, softly he lays down 
 Each precious relic of love's broken crown. 
 And oft he heaves a sudden, pent up sigh, 
 When bounds his heart or lights his aged eye, 
 Beholding one of those neglected things 
 
76 
 
 To which a sentiment so often clings ; 
 
 And yet — so slight they seem — he doubts the 
 
 fair 
 E'er read the half of what was written there. 
 In the rose which we give to the loved one is 
 oft 
 A beauty by all who behold it descried ; 
 And, pleased by the surface of leaves folded 
 soft, 
 Few guess at the writing that's folded inside. 
 Thus, under the rose leaves a secret may lie 
 Safe hid till the bud to a blossom has 
 blown ; 
 But breathe on its tissue the breath of a sigh, 
 And unfolding its leaves it will answer our 
 moan. 
 She rightly read them, and her woman's breast 
 Accepted in them all the secret rest ; 
 And sympathetic tears brought forth anew 
 The treasured thought that shone transparent 
 
 through 
 Some bit of ribbon or a faded leaf, 
 While love enjoyed the rapture of its grief, 
 But now he starts and shrieks as if in pain 
 To see a glove that crumpled long hath lain 
 Within the casket. On his heart its mate 
 
77 
 
 Lay years ago and there hath lain of late. 
 She gave it him upon the night when, bold, 
 His love leaped up — when glances, words, all 
 
 told 
 The conquest finished — when he bowed his 
 
 knee 
 And life in woman's bondsman breathed more 
 
 free. 
 Beneath are packets and the last he takes. 
 But falters, trembles ere the seal he breaks. 
 " This womanhood's repentance, like her 
 
 crime. 
 The child conceived by circumstance or time, 
 Not labored long but springing from the womb 
 Of sin spontaneous, the babe of gloom ! 
 And gloom a goodly heritage hath left 
 The lines of all their circumstance bereft ! 
 The writer, gone — the reader soon shall be 
 A mould'ring mass, a soulless entity — 
 Yet, Edith, I have loved thee all these years 
 And reckoned flying time by falling tears ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 Is manhood's self not graced by sudden tears, 
 That sweeten property of purer years ? 
 When shocks have blunted sense against the 
 woes 
 
78 1 
 
 At which our first bright, fleeting tear drop ; 
 
 flows, 1 
 
 Doth time deny that natural relief 1 
 To all our deeper and more noble grief ? 
 
 Nay, tears in man have all the grateful bloom j 
 
 Which sanctifies a sorrow or a tomb ! i 
 And wept the husband as his dark eye traced 
 
 The wandering words, swift written, half | 
 
 erased " * 
 By tear drops which, though years ago they 
 
 dried, i 
 
 Still haunt the husband, still accuse the bride, i 
 
 VI. I 
 
 " I feared that thou wouldst break my heart — 
 
 My heart is broken ; I depart ; 
 
 From thee ; I fly — I know not where — 1 
 
 To deeper pain, more dark despair. ' 
 
 O would my breaking heart might cry ^ ; 
 
 ' Thou bad'st me break, with thee I die ! ' . 
 It can not. God may comfort thee ; 
 But, husband, who can comfort me ? 
 
 Behold my story and thy soul ] 
 
 Shall soon its bitter sense have read ; j 
 My life hath burst my love's control 
 
 Or else I were not doomed, but dead." 
 
79 
 
 VII. 
 
 There fell from the packet a letter — it lay 
 At his feet in the fire-light's fanciful play, 
 Chequered o'er by both crimson and shadow. 
 
 E'en so 
 Her young life's bright promise contrasted 
 
 the woe 
 That was doubtless there written. He raises 
 
 it slow, 
 But he starts, and the eye which disease 
 
 could not rob 
 Of its fire, now flashes ; his arteries throb 
 As when he refused the first prayer of the nun, 
 And gave to remorse what remorse had un- 
 done ; 
 And such, on that night, was the voice of his 
 
 pain 
 As agony calls to his lips once again. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " That writing is man's ! And can Edith have 
 
 sought 
 To show me the means by which ruin was 
 
 wrought ? 
 Could she ask me, or wish me to gaze on the 
 
 page 
 
8o 
 
 Whose every stain must a torture enrage 
 To a maddening, desperate feeling of hate ; 
 For her, for myself, for my vengeance, too 
 
 late ? 
 And a cursed desire of crime, on my head, 
 Which, spared me when living, may damn me 
 
 when dead ? 
 And must I know that God denies the grace 
 To me, He gave to all ! The serpent's race 
 I may not crush, and yet he drew the sword 
 Of quenchless fire, to thwart my last accord ; 
 And bar mine entrance to that cherished home 
 Of all, the Past ; and turned me forth to roam 
 A pensioner upon the future's barren plain. 
 Seek where I will, no Eden blooms again ; 
 And if I find a flow'r, 'tis not as fair 
 As was the poorest weed I counted there !" 
 
 IX. 
 
 And Nevylle long in deepest doubt remains, 
 While doubt upon conviction slowly gains; 
 And yet he thinks he knows the letters' form. 
 They seem familiar. When his youth was 
 
 warm. 
 He might have written thus. The lines are 
 
 his! 
 
A letter to his first love ? That it is ! 
 He tears the letter from its winding sheet — 
 That letter never sent ? Emotions meet, 
 And meet contending, in his troubled soul ; 
 Their surges, starting, widen o'er the whole 
 Broad ocean of his thought. With trembling 
 
 frame 
 He stands, no longer his the right to blame. 
 That letter, full of love's first, bitter smart, 
 The frenzied, final effort of his heart 
 To join the bands which woman's tongue un- 
 tied. 
 Which bound a plighted other for his bride, 
 Had asked an explanation, ne'er received ; 
 And while it never reached her, he believed 
 A lying lip, whose poisoned breath had made 
 His life a dark one, e'er it was betrayed. 
 " He ne'er could love another, though a bride 
 Might sit in after years his form beside " — 
 " He could not love again ; his love was dead. 
 Distasteful, moulded " — " life was over-fed 
 With loving." Well might words like these 
 Have helped suspicion to the full disease 
 Of her frail heart, which after-life had proved 
 Accursed in one thing — that is wholly loved ! 
 He bowed his head and sank within his chair, 
 6 
 
82 
 
 And ran his trembling fingers through his hair. 
 He sobbed in deeper grief than till that time 
 He ever felt. Why wonder at the crime 
 Those words created in a breast whose all 
 Seemed given over to a foreign thrall ? 
 
 X. 
 
 "And yet how sweetly, ere her death, 
 She meekly and imchiding prayed ; 
 And with her latest angel-breath 
 
 Blessed him who chiefly had betrayed ! 
 And, when her voice refused its tone, 
 What blessings spoke her glance alone ! 
 Oh ! Edith, from thy brighter sphere 
 Look down, and soothe mine anguish here." 
 Ah ! those whom we most in our life have 
 
 condemned. 
 Chid, censured and blamed, and when dy- 
 ing, contemned. 
 Are those whom we seek, when too late, to 
 
 enshrine 
 In that crypt of our spirit most truly divine. 
 A thousand excuses for each of their acts 
 Start up from the mystical record of facts ; 
 And who shall say that, far above. 
 No angel whispers our words of love 
 
«3 
 
 To those who are waiting within the bright 
 
 gates 
 With love which increases as still it awaits ? 
 That unhappy letter, so fatal to all — 
 To her whom he lost and to her in whose fall 
 It played such a terrible, murderous part — 
 To the queen of his youth and the wife of 
 
 his heart — 
 He flings to the fire. But, deeply within, 
 The flame of a fearful remembrance of sin 
 Is burning, more fierce than the flame of the 
 
 coal — 
 It blisters his brain and it enters his soul. 
 Then a sigh rises soft, from behind, to his ears 
 And he turns when surprise has arrested his 
 
 tears. 
 'Tis a nun. Mute and motionless, gazing she 
 
 stands 
 And she points to the sheet which he cast 
 
 from his hands : 
 As her deep, dark grey eyes seem to pierce 
 
 through the veil 
 He shrinks from the presence and feels he is 
 
 palts. 
 And the gaudy flame with its crimson lip 
 Kisses the letter's rosy tip, 
 
84 
 
 And, ling'ring along the dainty edge, 
 
 Inserts 'twixt the folds its crimson wedge ; 
 
 Then burst in a joyous spire away. 
 
 To turn again in its phantom play 
 
 Back to the words of love, that there 
 
 Are cast to its kind, confiding care ; 
 
 But his eyes and his heart are there alone 
 
 With the few soft words which are Edith's 
 
 own. 
 The tender confidant still pursues 
 The chase of a love which it would not lose ; 
 And hunts from its lair each hidden word. 
 Or mind, or pulse, or tear that stirred. 
 It lights each stroke of the rapid pen 
 To fire and to flame again ; 
 It kisses the words that his lips have kissed ; 
 It hisses the traces of tears, till mist 
 Like incense rises from the leaves ; 
 It gladly drinks what deepest grieves. 
 And all is now a livid mass. 
 Turning aside like molten glass 
 From the heat which scorches anew. And 
 
 still, 
 With a blist'ring grasp and horrid will, 
 The element wages unequal fight 
 'Gainst a foe so frail and a prey so slight ; 
 
«5 
 
 And then, with the start of a frighted faun, 
 The words, the note and flame are gone. 
 The blackness spread and the ashes come — 
 The writing of ruin is gathered home ! 
 
 XL 
 
 One sob from the lips which the church-craft 
 
 had sealed 
 Burst forth, deep and low ; and that one sob 
 
 revealed 
 The woman to him who had loved her in years 
 When love in its song had no discord of tears. 
 He turned to address her and reached out 
 
 his hand. 
 Could the bride of the church obey that de- 
 mand ? 
 Ah, no ! for a moment she gave it, then broke 
 From his grasp and retreated a space as he 
 
 spoke. 
 " Oh ! phantom of that one indefinite thought 
 Which died from my life but whose impress 
 
 was caught 
 Ere my jubilant soul in its bright op'ning days 
 Conceived of the grand and the luminous rays 
 God made to burst from it in manhood, why 
 
 now 
 
86 
 
 Repent at my grave of thy falsified vow ? 
 
 Canst thou call up my years from the grave 
 where they lie ? 
 
 If thy staff burst the rock, lo ! the river is 
 dry; 
 
 The flood hath escaped and hath sank in the 
 sand, 
 
 Nor gladdened the thirsty, nor watered the 
 land." 
 
 The quivering lips of the nun were com- 
 pressed 
 
 And something of anguish their folding con- 
 fessed : — 
 
 " Thy years ? let them lie where my love long 
 hath lain ; 
 
 If the river were opened its flowing were vain ; 
 
 The rays of thy soul still illumine my life 
 
 But thy heart is entombed with the dust of 
 thy wife. 
 
 What love I have left, my religion may claim. 
 
 But ne'er a repentance is linked with thy 
 name; 
 
 No vows have I broken and one have I kept 
 
 In pain, while I watched, and in peace, while 
 I slept; 
 
 'Tis that which devoted to thee all my love 
 
 Save that which I owe to One Other, above !" 
 
87 
 XII. 
 
 " Deceive not the dying," was Nevylle's reply, 
 " Nor win from my lips at the price of a lie 
 A blessing which God shall return on thy 
 
 head 
 A curse more abhorred than the curse of the 
 
 dead. 
 If true thou hast been, then, oh ! loved of my 
 
 youth, 
 Explain all the falsehood accepted for truth ; 
 But, lost one, deceive not the heart of the 
 
 dying. 
 Nor poison mine ear with the breath of thy 
 
 lying." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The sister drew her figure proudly high ; 
 
 Proud curled her lip and flashed her angry 
 eye. 
 
 " I come not as one whom your words can 
 degrade ; 
 
 I come not to tell how my youth was be- 
 trayed ; 
 
 I come not as one for forgiveness to bow : 
 
 But, clothed in the might of my creed and my 
 vow, 
 
88 
 
 With the seal of the mother-saint stamped on 
 my brow, 
 
 I tell thee thy first love was true to thee. Now 
 
 Can thy cold heart suspect my intent to de- 
 ceive ?" 
 
 Lord Nevylle bowed low, as he said, " I be- 
 lieve ; 
 
 And belief carries with it repentance and 
 sorrow. 
 
 Thy vengeance shall come with the dawning 
 to-morrow !" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Quick sprang the tears to that grey sister's 
 
 eye. 
 She strove to speak but could no more than 
 
 try; 
 She hurried from the room and came no more 
 Until the sinking of her heart was o'er, 
 Lest her heart should break vows long re- 
 corded above 
 And the close of her life know one hour of 
 
 love. 
 But when again to the room she hied. 
 To watch the wash of the ebbing tide 
 Of life, as it drifted away in the sea 
 
89 
 
 Of a vague and dismal mystery, 
 
 She caught his voice as the door she passed- 
 
 " Edith, darling, I come at last — 
 
 " I come !" and, as he spake, the breath 
 
 All softly trembled into death. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh ! pow'r of woman, you conceal 
 The very woes you cannot heal ; 
 For while the life shone in his eye 
 The nun all motionless stood by, 
 Whate'er she wished to feel or felt, 
 Within her heart a secret dwelt. 
 No motion told she longed to clasp. 
 His tortured form in one warm grasp. 
 No tear above his couch was shed 
 To tell the heart's old love not dead; 
 She would not take one thought away 
 From wedded wife or senseless clay, 
 Although to glad her aching heart, 
 Nor steal however small a part 
 Of time, from mem'ry ; for she felt 
 That on his wife each feeling dwelt — 
 And rightly dwelt — forgiving still, 
 With new forgiveness, every ill. 
 She knew his thoughts were sacred then 
 
9° 
 
 To her who was not — but had been ! 
 And if her accents shook at times, 
 'Twas like the jar of holy chimes, 
 Tuned to song more grand than love ; 
 Of something living from above. 
 Not dying here. But when his breast 
 Had ceased to heave and was at rest, 
 She bowed her o'er his senseless form 
 And printed one long kiss and warm 
 On those beloved lips, whose dew 
 From warmth to love's last coldness grew. 
 
ERRATA 
 
 Page 9, line 17, for " IV hen' youth," read " When 
 youth." 
 
 Page 30, line 21, for "from time to tide" read "from 
 him to hide." 
 
 Page 73, line 5, for " Hand me yotc7' casket," read 
 " Hand me iw/ casket." 
 
 Page 74, line 9, for " and symbol believed," read 
 " and its symbol believed." 
 
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