LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf ..H-Ur^ -^^^ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. By GEORGE KLINGLE. IN THE NAME OF THE KING. " MAKE THY WAY MINE, and OTHER POEMS." " LAUS DEO." Frederick A. Stokes Company, Publishers, New York. PERDITA A BOOK OF VERSES by/ VrTt George^Klingle ci>-^*^^ BUFFALO CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 1894 -/W -f'. :^A Copyright, 1S94, By GEORGE KLINGLE. PRINTED BY CHARLES WELLS MOULTON, Buffalo, N. Y. ^J }JIU (JfCivyyUcL ^tUyyiCt^ J cUoUccUZ cut^ paald c^/^ UrcriJf/iU (H. iHiuQ Icu'd o/ Clu ^^tJ- CI aCTLoLtU. UvUacL dx rnu UrClr CONTENTS. I- PAGE Perdita 9 That Wag of a Brother 12 Robina's Meshes 15 The Inquisitive Prior 19 Ah Me! 23 The Penitent Monk 25 II. My World 33 The Unbidden Guest 35 If Vou Have Loved 37 The Journey 38 Nature's Interludes 39 lusT One 41 Red Ashes .42 [oy's Hour 44 Time's Arrows 46 For Peace 47 Joy 48 Memory-Land 50 Tide of the World 51 What of Our Gold? 52 The Soul's Day and Night 53 Words Are Immortal 54 CONTENTS. Our Hidden World 55 The Supreme Voice 57 Promise of the Unseen 58 Joy's Price. . 59 The One Symphony 60 Unsatisfied 61 To-Morrow 63 III. Her Haunted Wall 67 Dreaming Dreams 69 Fair Love 70 Brebantio's Legacy 72 Casa Del Eco 73 Love's Measure 76 Blighted 77 Italy 78 The Gondolier's Lament 80 Madaline 82 The Fisher-Girl's Death Song 83 The Model 85 The Outcast's Last Dream 87 The Unforgotten 88 Rodrigo's Invocation 89 The Harper's Lament 91 The Voice She Heard 93 Bettine 95 Their Tribute 97 Not Blind 98 I. PERDITA. PERDITA stole my heart, she did! she did! And whirled and twirled me as she bid, She did; and stamped her silken clogs at me just when she would. And shook her saucy head — you know she could, And can, Compel the heart of any man. Perdita vowed she loved me. Mortal man May doubt Perdita if he can. He can; I could not, would not if I could, and humbly vowed To love her even in my sleety shroud. And do, And so, you know, would you. Perdita' s fancies have half driven me mad. She really, truely is too bad. Too bad, but so enchantinlgy, bewitchingly divine, And quite entirely mine You see: — I know you envy me. lO PERDITA Perdita's maid must twirl and quirl her hair Like any pyramid in air: Take care to twist it out again, and have it spread to bleach On pasteboard circle, where the sun may reach And bake — Gold locks of black locks make. Perdita's clogs must be the richest kind Of satin ones; before, behind Soft lined, and covered well with twists of fillagree; Her petticoats of saten must agree With them From waist to hem. Perdita's fluffy skirts embroidered round, Sleeves big enough for any gown, I found must from Damascus come, or some far heathen place, Alack ! and then there was her corsage lace — And is; Truly a shame it is! If all San Marco's riches were but mine; If I with ducats did but shine. And twine my fingers into gold at every lapping fold Where doublets could a single ducat hold PERDITA II I yet Perdita's needs had never met. Perdita scores my heart she does, she does; My ears are deaf with such a buzz, A buzz, and when I would be sleeping sweetly in my bed, I must be twirling in some dance instead. And smile As if I liked the style. Perdita yet will have me dead, she will; My limbs are lank; I stoop until, Until my breath it goes so weaSened, when I try to sing, She tosses back her head, and laughs — the wicked thing — My hair ? — A dozen spears stand in the air. Perdita vows if I should dare to die She would detain me from the sky. And fly beside me, but I know, for all, she would not go, She likes it mighty well below, And soon Would chant a different tune. PERDITA THAT WAG OF A BROTHER.* TWO friars on their elbows leaned, illy at ease, With a tankard of ale and some porridge of peas Stood midway between them. The question was this, Which friar of the two should indulge in the dish And drink of the ale, for, whate'er was the matter, Scarce enough for but one was in tankard or platter. To decide the thing wisely might have puzzled, in- deed, The Abbot himself So urgent the need Across the deal table each face cast a scowl At the opposite face, yet under its cowl. One eye glittered suddenly, and under his breath. The merry man chuckled within, to himself *' Come comrade;" he said, stroking down his smooth chin' " I verily think it is time to begin. And, as it is plain only one can be fed Let us settle the question and hasten to bed." *Some of our readers may have heard of the famous traveling stones of Australia. Similar stones have recently been found in Nevada: they are usually about the size of a walnut and of an ivory nature ; when placed within two or three feet of each other they at once start to travel toward a common center. PERDITA 13 Now he rolled up his eyes, and Sincerity's self Seemed to speak from his lips; " For porridge, or pelf, Or tankard of ale, no soul would be willing To barter itself — come, here is a shilling, As I toss it up — no, stay; just suppose In this matter we all our reliance repose On the will of the saints ? " Meekly, over his breast, He crossed himself twice. " It must be confessed Such choice would determine the matter entire; See; here are some stones from the funeral pyre Oi St. Crystom, the Martyr; for many a year I have carried them so. I will lay them just here; If they stay where I put them the supper is thine: If they roll toward each other the supper is mine. " Content, the friar opposite crossed himself too; Chuckled softly, as ever another might do; Leaned back on his chair, his great worsted gown Flowing loosely at ease, neither quite black nor brown. And tied in the middle with girdle of hemp, With a breviary stuck in, and a rosary, sent From the Pope direct, with a relic of bone Any Saint in the kingdom might relish to own — His hands, on his sides so jolly and round, Spread out and pressed in, twitching up, as they found A twinkle of hope, despite that wag of a brother, To clutch at the tankard. Two feet from each other 14 PERDITA The little round stones were put on the table; Six all in a circle: what could be more stable? But the hands on the sides slowly loosened their hold: Down the spine of the friar shot spasms of cold. Straight up in the chair, as a corpse in its sheet, Sat the man of the cowl, frozen stiff as the sleet, With the breath of his fear: every little round stone, As though it objected to being alone, Rolled over and over, and nestled together, As birds' eggs might nestle close up in the heather. While, crossing devoutly the rope on his breast, And rolling his eyes to saints whom he blessed. That wag of a brother, who carried the stones. From the pyre of St. Crystom, or some zone beyond zones. Without speaking a word the saints to affray, Lest perchance he might need them at some early day, Drew slowly, and surely, as though scarcely able, The platter, and tankard across the deal table. PERDITA 15 ROBINA'S MESHES. IF I had known Robina had been there — That charming, wicked fair, With high and mighty air — If I had guessed She would be so possessed To have me dance And prance In such fantastic styles, I had instead walked forty miles! If I had known Robina had glanced round Intent until she found, And had me surely bound To twirl about, To whirl around, in doubt At every jirk And quirk They pulled me dumbly through, I had in running worn away each shoe! If I had guessed Robina could have slid Me, as she truly did, To meshes neatly hid; To twist me so From dizzy heel to toe, l6 PERDITA And look askance, And dance Like shuttlecock blown round, I would have flown above the ground! If I had dreamed Robina could have twirled Me helplessly, and curled Her pretty lip to see me whirled. As any leaf Blown round, beyond belief Through such a maze, Ablaze As any wick of flame, She had not played her pretty game! But, if Robina whirled me to her will, And saw me twirled, until They all had had their fill Of sport so fine, To-day the laugh is mine, For I can dance. Yes, prance In such fantastic style They stand aghast the while. If then Robina laughed behind her fan, To-day she sighs ; ' * That man Can dance as any can: Ten days ago He played us false: ah, woe! PERDiTA 17 Surely he knew Our cue And seemed a very clown. My heart, it aches beneath my gown ! " I was quite sure Robina would be there Last 7iight, and did prepare To stab her to despair — The wicked dear — Determined to appear Skilled in the art, Apart Whirled round, with will and might By Chickabini taught through day and night! I was quite sure Robina would be there, And every jilty fair: I do, indeed, declare I was elate To choose a maid in state, And lead her by, To fly In such enchanting style. Forgetful of all else the while! I knew Robina would, behind her fan Sigh then; but heart of man Must have, when yet it can, Such sweet revenge: I did myself avenge, 1 8 PERDITA And strut and dance, Nor glance To let her know at all I loved her spite of all ! And now I must Robina find, you see; Love of such quality Defies authority And stirs the mind. I must Robina find And make amends, Be friends; For I would surely die If she, in turn should pass me by! PERDITA 19 THE INQUISITIVE PRIOR. IT was the eve of St. Michaelmas, then it is said Mortal man may well shrink from the graves ot the dead Or door of the minster, where wraiths will appear Of those who must die ere the end of the year. It was dead of the night when the Prior, safe and sound, With a rope round his middle, touched feet to the ground, Where he let himself down by the monastery wall With a titter of mirth, and a shudder withal, And a hitch at his sides — if the truth must be told — Which resented exploit so heartless and bold. Now he tugged at the rope with its knots in the end, And bent himself double its length to extend, And chuckled half out to the blackness of night As he slid himself free, and peered up in delight Toward the loop in the wall where he slid himself through — A shrewd, crafty trick for a good Prior to do. But the truth of it is, as every monk knew. The Prior was but waiting to fill a cold shoe 20 PERDITA When the Abbot should die, but, bless me, you see He never would die, I assure you, not he! Although now of late he had taken to stoop And croaked like a throat in the spasms of croup, And so, it might be, after all the delay. His demise might occur at no far distant day. Be that as it would, without waiting for chance It was pleasant to strike at the facts in advance. And the Prior, conning over the sides of the case, Struck a thought, worthy quite of a notable race: ' ' Should his wraith but appear at the minster- door, The eve of St. Michaelmas, what could I ask more ? I will go; I will see; I will know in advance: " He crept through the darkness to learn of his chance. The lines of the abbey ran zig-zag and grey Along the cold sky for a distance away ; Its tangles of ivy asleep in the dark; Its mossy, stained battlements silent and stark, And over beyond rose the old minster spire With its cross on the top like a finger of fire. And its outlines of beauty defined on the sky As wraith of the spirit which never could die, But left to the world the thought it conceived In mysteries of stone, carved, circled and wreathed. PERDITA 2 1 And flung in bold lines to the distant air With enchantment unbridled. Slipping round with a care, By the line of the trees where the shadows were deep, Came the Prior, all aglow, a secret to reap From the deadness of night, when all lowlier heads Were pillowed at ease in the midst of their beds. The pines in the close threw their long shadows down. And sighed as pines sigh, over pauper or crown. The breath of the aspens seemed human and near — How he shuddered in stopping his breathing to hear — How he shuddered at stir of the fagots he trod. At the stir of the shadows flecked over the sod: How he cowered in ambush, then smiled back at fear — Surely wraiths leave no footfalls for any to hear — How he walked on erect, his full girth spread elate With the puffings of pride at his wisdom's estate; Then, all in a trice, how he shrunk, limb and bone, With the creepings of horror, but mortal, alone, To see down the way where the road winds round, Toward the place where he stood, without rustle or sound, A procession appear, solemn, stately and white. The spectral array of St. Michaelmas night;— 22 PERDITA A maiden he knew, aye, many another; Fair babes with sweet faces; the cowl of a brother; Men sturdy at arms; woman fairest to see; The aged with staff; whom more could there be ? He looked. He must know every face to be seen; Shrunk gasping and frozen to terror extreme He bent toward the line as it slowly swept nigh, Drew closer, drew closer — the wraiths breathed a sigh;— He felt himself moving; he shrunk back amain. But nothing so mortal such wraiths could detain: He felt himself moving at head of the line With pace ordered solely to wraith's pace and time. Each hair on his head stood up in affright; His eyes, burned to coals, turned to left nor to right. The procession moved on toward the old minster door, The Abbot behind, but the Prior on before. PERDITA 23 AH ME! MEANDREA'S bonnet on a peg! — it wakes My heart to beat till it nigh breaks — With bows pinned on; ah me! What woman ever pinned them on as she ? — And hollyhocks like any garden: I dare to gaze and ask no pardon: I vow, oh yes, I vow it — My love, I will avow it. She may toss back her sweet head, having on it A pile of feathers or its bonnet, And strike quite through poor me With her rash eyes; — could she so cruel be? And yet, when I turn crimson trying With Lord Mariff to be a-vieing, Close to his ear she twitters Behind her fan, and titters. I will Meandrea marry, that I will; And strut about in fluted frill, And cut a dash, and see Her titter back behind her fan with me: And I bow off Mariff so finely — She can but own I bow divinely — I vow, I vow I will it: I vow and will fulfil it. 24 PERDITA Meandrea's face I see within the bonnet As if the thing were on it; I practice, so you see; I bow; I bow before it gracefully; Surely when I am dressed in filigree She will smile now on me, Now I have caught the knack — Who peeps at yonder crack ? Meandrea entering at the door, ah sakes! And now she upon me breaks With Lord Mariff, ah me! Strutting in all his high flown majesty In froth and fluff of senseless jargon — It was a pretty, pretty bargain I drove with Fate for now Too late I learn to bow. Meandrea giggles outright; bother on it ! Had I practiced toward some other bonnet Elsewhere, she had never Dreamed, although so mighty deft and clever, How I became so very polished. Nor had my heart been so demolished : It is demolished, oh I vow it — My love ? dare I avow it ? PERDITA 25 THE PENITENT MONK. WHEN the hands of the clock, in the old vil- lage tower, Were pointing to twelve, that mysterious hour, In a dim, grisly nook of a musty old cell Where imps by the myriad had chanted their spell — At least so the story was told and retold — Not counting out beads, as good monks of old, But grinning and chuckling, and in a good humor, A monk, sacked and shaven, was eyeing his supper. Now out of the rock, with all safety repletest, This cell had been hewn, the darkest, the deepest; Indeed, once a cavern of no small dimensions — Being hewn out and battered by man's good inven- tions — It had taken the shape of quite a long oval, With nooks and with crannies suspiciously novel, Being far enough under the earth's vegetation. With little or none of the prized ventilation, It may be supposed from varied effluvia The air was quite far from being salubrious. Far away, through a crevice, with unending struggle. An ill-fated water-stream oozed with a gurgle. 26 PERDITA And for slime and for mould no match habitation Had been sought for and found since the tenth gen- eration. The Artist who chiseled in holy devotion, The bust of St. Catherine would have felt a com- motion Among his dry bones could he have thrown but a shimmer Of light on that brow, near which many a sinner Had hardened his knees into knobs with long kneeling, With his beads in his hands and his eyes on the ceiling, And who knows but the bones which stand out gaunt and wiry — Skull, framework, long fingers, looking down from its eyrie — May be of that gentleman all that sustains A likeness on earth of his mortal remains. Be that as it may, we have no means to discover What flesh once hung on those bones as a cover. Suffice it to know that an unworthy sinner, Who cared for his soul far less than his dinner. Had lived in transgression till caged in this dungeon, And hearing of soul's food far more than of luncheon, Had been found at last with but skin on his bones At the foot of St. Catherine as stiff as the stones. But, while we are making this seeming digression And looking aside both at bones and transgression, PERDITA 27 Our Friend-of-the-cowl of his coveted morsel Hath lost not a fragment; by platter and wassail, With pleasure entire sniffing odors most savory — Not a whit disconcerted by missal and breviary, With many a chuckle and many a gurgle, And many a hitch at his time-beaten girdle, Poking at embers with odd gestulations. Blinking aside at the cell's elongations; Winking and blinking at passage and archway — Hands on his ears, and body bent half-way, Laughing and twitching to sallowest crinkles All of the sets of his sinewy wrinkles — What cares he now that the great combination Doomed him to days of profound tribulation ? — Wassail and bacon, fagots and tapers Swallow most suddenly murkiest vapors: Tapers and fagots, bacon and wassail — Knew he not well how to stock up his castle ? Knew he not well how, in case of transgression. How little St. Catherine had in possession, How little hospitable odor ascended The nostrils of sinners whose knees should be bended In holy contrition to meet the exactions Of heaven and earth, spite of spasms, contractions — Should be bended for weeks in most holy oblivion Of Nature's requirements of wassail and bacon? How he tittered and shook as he lightly exalted In thoughts of his shrewdness and how it resulted; 28 PREDITA How, praying to kneel at the shrine of St. Catherine — With looks which declared him a penitent's pattern — Had smuggled successfully amidst robes sacerdotal A reserve most surprising when taken in total. If he threw himself backward, then bent himself double, Stood on right foot, on left foot without any trouble, And giggled right out in the keenest derision Remembering the Majesty of the decision Dooming him days in the earth's dreary bowels, With naught but a crust for his sin-tainted jowels — Who wonders ? I take it few in his position Would have glowed a whit less at his lucky con- dition. Now, steamy and savory, he places his platter. Afresh from the embers, without any clatter. Far back in the deepest of hidden recesses, Bends low over one of the daintiest messes. Lifts up to his lips the bumper of wassail — Bat a stir on the air! a clink and a rusde, A rattle of wires, a chinking of bones — He starts as a hare at the omnions tones; He starts and, forgetting the wassail and bacon, Forgetting the bumper his lips have not taken; Forgetting the tassel- topped heads on their pillows — Sleeping waters of power easily lashed into billows — He sets up a howl, a yell so enthralling, A hoarse hooting howl so truly appalling, PERDITA 29 That all, from the Abbot to every small brother Come bumping and jostling, upsetting each other; There, front of the statue of many crustations, Devout as devoutest, with deep protestations. Deep crushed in despair as the down-hunted brocket. Kneels the man sacerdotal; each eye from its socket Out starting and staring, the wildest of Gorgons, Writhing and turning in endless contortions, While off in the nook where the embers are glow- ing— Which some imps must be keeping alive with their blowing — Stands the bumper of wassail his lips had not taken, The platter that smokes with the far-smelling bacon. If man, or if woman hath had the great pleasure Of passing the night with a skeleton treasure. And suddenly seen, amid clinking of wire, The creature step down and draw up the fire — Draw up with a caution, a slowness of pace That many might take for a species of grace — Pray need it be told to that woman or man Why the pewter mug dropped from that merry monk's hand, When they hear that the bones at the end of the cell Walked leisurely down, and pray who may tell But the bones were the bones of the good man-of-art Who sculptured St. Catherine, the Holy-in-heart PERDITA Who, catching- afar, by the tapers low gUmmer A ghmpse of the face of that most sainted sinner, Was stirred, — all his bones — and came forth apace To make it quite sure that it was the same face ? 11. MY WORLD. MY wine-cup is a chalice Which is not wholly mine; Unbrewed by mortal fingers The fire-breath of my wine; My cavaliers who drink my health Are butterflies and bees, And dragon- flies of rainbow hues — Aye more than these. My caravels are regal; My canopy the sun : My pageants flash in gems of dew And tissues light hath spun; My sweets are webs of honey Traced through the hearts of flowers; My music fantasies of wings, Heart-throbs of showers. My guests are loyal to the friends They left an hour ago; They take no insect name in vain On all the horns they blow; 34 PERDITA They revel on the wine of joy, Ambrosia from the sun, Ecstatic wing through blossom mists Where lost brooks run. My hours are shod with sandals Whose dew-enamelled wings Know well the haunts of columbine, The wood-heart's sacred things: They steal the pollen from the flowers. Their honey and the dew, They chase the mists of sunset's hours And mists of sunrise too. PERDITA 35 THE UNBIDDEN GUEST. A PRESENCE hitherto unseeen, And past the guarded wall ! Forbidden guest, Not by request Within the guarded hall ! A presence radiance hath touched, Time's ferv^ent lips have met, Life's subtlest dream — The watch between Hath slept on guard, and yet — The soul had built a wall and moat; A keep which might defy Just such sweet guest Or power possessed To pause in going by. The soul within a haunted shrine Has sacrificed at will; In silence drained Each chalice, stained To crimson, Fate would fill. It raised its hand to ward away Love's presence at its shrine. ^6 PERDITA For well it knew Joy's rapture slew The lips that touched its wine. And now the soul her shivering hand Would raise to put away The strange, sweet guest, By chance possessed Within its shrine to-day; But, when it turns one draught to drink Of joy's pervading breath, It knows alone Joy may atone For all in life, in death. PERDITA 37 IF YOU HAVE LOVED. IF you have loved you know You would take off your diadem, it it were so That you could place it where you would that it might glow Above another life, nor care to wear A single joy that other life might bear — If you have loved. If you have loved you know You would to take another's cross, bend low And count it gain to bear it with you so, However deep the shadow it may cast, However strong the girths that bind it fast — If you have loved. If you have loved you know You would yourself forget in joy, or woe Which thrills another life, and so Forget yourself to please, that you may be Perfected unto ministry — If you have loved. 38 PERDITA THE JOURNEY. A QUIET walk through changing days Though breath be hot with haste; A placid voice, an even gait, And eyes that simply look and wait Though all the heart be bound and laced To keep hot blood in place. An echo heard at intervals — Some all-pervading strain, Some harmony that sweepeth by, Some broken chords that fail to die; Some cadence of a lost refrain That sends its echoes back again. Thoughts drenched all through with human joy, Thoughts drenched in human tears. These, ever these along time's shore — The past, the future evermore. The love, the anguish and the fears — Through time's impassioned span of years. PERDITA 39 NATURE'S INTERLUDES. T 'O rythmic beat All nature breaths — to sweet, True measures subtilely replete In harmonies untold, Though time be old. We know The rythmic flow Of life spreads purple on the hills, or red, And then the brown-white stems instead Of blooms; stains deep Forests that wake and fall asleep, And skies Aflame at noon and eve for sacrifice; Counts for each insect wing, Each vocal string Of life its rhythmic beat. That harmonies born of infinitude be true and sweet. All nature breaths to rhythms whether it be The pulse of life in stream, or sea, Or human breath — nature beats time To song and chime Of wind and wave; Marks off to bar and stave The symphonies of space, the roll of seas; Light's undulations from far worlds, nor these 40 PERDITA Alone, for spheres to rhythmic beat Swing on their way. through centuries repeat Their symphonies and go On measured course through space, and so Creati\'e thought distributes power by interval and lays In rhythm the key-note of eternal praise. PERDITA JUST ONE. THE soul, behind a bolted door, Holds carnival in state. Selects its favored courtiers To pass its bolted gate. The soul no reason stoops to give, Explains no which or why; A tyrant in a mimic world; The all-potential *' I." It feasts at will midst pageantry; With regal guests perchance. Or dines where moths by mystic brooks Whirl by in mystic dance. It gathers in for company, Wits, wags, just whom it will; Disports itself in gallantry. Or stands morose and still. The soul holds many a carnival And yet, when days are done, The guests steal out by door and gate, Save one — just one! A 42 PERDITA RED ASHES. ND this is death! Hear you the breath Among the battered carcasses just there — Souls sobbing in despair ? — Old backs and ribs unstrung That once sung Well beneath the bow and strings, And now by hundreds lie — prone, shuddering things Piled up ? They murmur as I speak ; Their mellow timbers reek With melodies, and cry — I know they agonize that I might bid them die Before I go, That I might cast them to the flame; go blow The embers redder on the hearth; be fleet I thought to patch and fit to future sweet Unnumbered frames; to wed Them yet to bridge and bow — hush! overhead The rafters hear the throb of souls, they have an ear, Such black old beams that year by year Have drunken grown with sound — Lift me; I fain would look around And see Where last I sat — across my knee PERDITA 43 My dear old Strad. Paganini loved so well: I knew some hidden, darkened spell Fell on it as it wept 'And swept To rapture all the quivering place — The lights grow dim apace, I scarce can see Yon armor and the swords and spears ot chivalry, Or, on the floor The fiddles I shall touch no more. You say The embers redden on the hearth ? away! Dash into flames the souls of music lost — Poor fiddles, tossed Aside yet saturate with music's breath — Together they and I shall meet with Death! J 44 PERDITA JOY'S HOUR. OY will not come when bid; She waits amid Sweet silences and comes unsought As breath of some far flower brought By surprise. Joy will not stay; startled at sighs Born of a sudden rapture, joy lifts wing and goes One sees not where, nor knows How long it may yet be Before she wall return in ministry. Joy's breath is sweet; Her lips repeat New harmonies subtile as chords of seas, As vesper melodies The winds intone. Joy stoops to breathe upon one ear alone And, from repose To rapture startle it, as some still string that knows A sudden touch, and into music wakes. Joy takes Sweet liberties and holds Our hands within her own, and folds Her fingers on our eyes that we may see No light but joy's infinity. PERDITA 45 Joy tints the air; If dark despair Creeps close and startles her away Joy's transient hour is worth the price we pay. 46 PERDITA TIME'S ARROWS. ABIT of foliage all a-flame; The drowsy hum of bees; A dewy cobweb on the grass Some bird-wing midst the trees: The pressure of some passing hand; Some fragment of a song — The wide world knows Such bended bows Send arrows fleet and strong. A doorway where some foot hath passed Some shadow-haunted wall; Some little latch a hand hath touched; Some leaf a hand let fall: Some strain left throbbing on the air Unlost though days go by — You know, you know From many a bow Times quivering arrows fly. PERDITA 47 T FOR PEACE. 'O bear and not resent; To hear yet not reply; To feel the barb and agonize Yet hide the wound from other eyes, Resentment crucify: To feel each caustic word, Each little thoughtless thrust, Yet simply tear the barb away, In silent wrestle day by bay. To cast them to the dust: To keep the reign of peace; To suffer and forget ; To seem a soul too dull to feel, Yet plant pride's fire beneath the hee And trample it; to let All else within the home, All else within the heart, Give place to peace at any cost — Whatever may be gained or lost — Is but the Christ-taught part. 48 P£RDITA JOY. WHAT is the beauty of a flower ? Result of causes hour by hour At work beneath some fragile stem, Some diadem Of green, some rood of earth; Causes that have their mystic birth, In mist and sky, In beating storm, in tempest-cry Of earth's deep anguish; so true joy Is not a fleeing thing, coy And unfair, material and possessed By those who breathlessly pursue; it hath con- fessed No haunt but where it grew Resultant, in its radiant hue, From causes leading back Along a wavering, hidden track. To love's abandonment of self to broken will, To sacrifice for right and truth, that still. Unchanging, standing-place where souls decree To lose themselves in immortality Of love for man, for Christ — to be Their own no more. The joy pursued from shore to shore PERDITA 49 Is but a fruit, a flower, A growth resultant from the power Stored by omnipotence in hidden place; A natural consequence of certain grace In life's pursuit; in standing still; in flight; In combat; slaughter's fight; Of awe and blood; of keen desire; In flash and flame of inner fire; In calm; in trust; In trampling idols to the dust; In grappling anguish and despair — Joy springs to flower all unaware, Its shaft so frail, its cup so fair, The world believes it born of air! 50 PERDITA MEMORY-LAND. WE live in a world of shadows, We live in a world of dreams Where pageants are passing day by day, Of light and darkness that will not stay — Of love-lights, transient beams. We grasp for the passing shadows, We drink of the transport of joy; We hold warm hands Of the shifting sands As a child clasps its toy. We lose in the glare of the sunshine, We lose in the mists of the night, The soul we found but a while ago, The touch of Hfe that thrilled us so. The glow of the mystic light. We call to the vanished pageants, To the day, with its vanishing beams. But we hold no hand but a memory-hand. On the wierd, sweet shore of memory-land, In the changeable light of dreams. PERDITA 51 TIDE OF THE WORLD. OH sands bright as true gold, or white; Oh river, breaking into light From shore to shore; if we bend downward from the rocks, Reach till our frail hand interlocks With some enticing hand held up to bid us come, Then would the music of the rocks be dumb. Oh river, dyed In azures; tide Of the lost world, intensified In beauty through false mists, go by! Beneath your sheen bereft soul's cry; The wail of death Mingles with all your rhythmic breath. Oh tide of life so freighted down With crafts emblazoned — royal as the crown Of regal ones — drown All your music in the sighs Of men your waters sweep to sacrifice And Heaven give That we but stand upon the rock, and live Content and peaceful while the tide sweeps by, Touched with the splendor of each transient dye, And never go A step toward the tide below. 52 PREDITA WHAT OF OUR GOLD? WHAT is our gold to us — Is it wings ? is it lead ? Is it red blood shed By some tool we employ For diversion or joy ? Is it lips to repeat Chicanery, deceit? What is our gold to men ? Is it blessing or curse; Is it cord to coerce By a jerk of the hand — Some tool we command — Is it sweetness or gall In the drops it lets fall ? What is our gold to life — Is it weakness or strength: Is it spread its length On humanity's trail To uphold the frail Through time's vale of revolt To change to exalt ? PERDITA 53 THE SOUL'S DAY AND NIGHT. MORNING'S hills dream in mist, Light and violet have kissed, Yet men shudder seeing day. Joy's breath pervadeth time, Sweepeth winds of every clime, Yet in anguish drift away Souls that would not, would not stay Night wrenches days apart, Freezes warmest breath at heart, Yet hands reach to beckon night. Souls in this alien clime From within them reckon time, See day's azures dim or bright From internal source of light. 54 PERDITA WORDS ARE IMMORTAL. T 'HEY say Words mean but little any way, And yet we know Words spoken some long years ago Come back to give us joy or pain; They do not die. Words take new form and live again In lives made sweet, or turned to gall By little words that seem so small We would not dream they ever grew To heights so great, or forms so new. A little praise, a little blame May change a heart to ice or flame. May change the color of a day. Re- wing ambition's flight or slay Its languid wing: if we would give, To those who nothing ask, who live Quite close, more flattering breath, More tender words, would life, would death Be changed for us at all ? We know, By words we heard long, long ago. By memories that smile or sigh, That words rule lives, they do not die. PERDITA 55 OUR HIDDEN WORLD. THERE are portraits we look on at any time By sunshine or lamps of the night; There are those that we draw from a sacred shield And hold by a sacred light: There are faces that live in a world of dreams In the mystic sheen of the air — We bow to their royal diadems And they go, we know not where. We live in a world of fantasy No eye but our own hath seen; We drink of wine no hand hath brewed And riot in golden sheen; We drink of wine no soul hath touched But this soul in its hidden shrine; We know no joy in the outer world Like the froth of this mystic wine. We love, but the lips have no words to paint To another the vistas of light, The peace, or pageant that live for us In the world of the inner light; 56 PERDITA Alone we drink ol the froth of its wine, We stand in the sheen of its day, For souls in this sweet, fair world of ours Speak but through a shield of clay. We live in a world where a passing throng Press close for a touch of the hand, Yet alone we drift through our golden world In the maze of the hidden land. We breathe for joy of the fantasies We catch from the dreamy air; We know no joy like the worldless joy Though we build and know not where. PERDITA 57 THE SUPREME VOICE. WHY is one voice the sweetest, In all harmony repletest, With us still awake or sleeping; With us laughing or in weeping; Mingled with the thread of labor, Mingled with the crash of sabre, Mingled with the breath of sighing, With the whispers of the dying, Mingled with the marshal drumming, With the dream of foot-fall coming; With the foot- fall going, going; With the wind-songs, and the flowing Of the waters ever moaning; With the songs of day intoning Psalms of life — oh we can hear it, Reaching ever to be near it. Midst life's thunder, or her sighing. Through her music — time defying — Some one voice is ever drifting. One fond melody uplifting Thought to some one human face Time's scathing hand may not efface, PERDITA PROMISE OF THE UNSEEN. BLUE-BELLS and hyacinths- Then a drift of rain, Broken stems and battered bells That may not rise again. Amathysts and emeralds- Rainbows on the grass — Then the torrid breath of day, Parched herbage on the pass. Joy's wings across the air, Rapture of the song, — Then a bird with broken wing Swept by the winds along. Glimpse within a human soul; Touch of human hand, Then a sudden silence reigns Along life's arid sand. Vision of the vistas near; Ecstasy's extremes; Then, grasping hands outspread Toward fleeing, fading dreams. Life's rapture and life's cries — These saturate all time. But ecstasy of life unstained Pervades our spirit clime. PERDITA 59 JOY'S PRICE. TO measure joy by anguish — -this in time, What for the measurement of joy beyond the chime Of earth's sweet voices ? A dream, A flash of thought, a gleam Of some infinity, and then we know There is a price that we shall pay in woe For such keen joy. What then ? Would we be mute and blind Not dare to find The rapture of to-day Because it will not stay: Would we grope by Nor feel time's pulsing light though it may die; Would we not hold Some human hand because such hands grow cold, Or lips forget ? — Would we stand back nor let Time's promise break upon the sight All subtlest hues of light ?— To live, to love, to die is anguish but we know Joy's rapture floods with light each cloud of woe. 6o PERDITA D THE ONE SYMPHONY. ID you ever note on the shore of love How the footsteps come and go ? They are here, they are there, But the sea comes up Past the foot-prints of long ago. Did you ever note on the shore of love How the foot-prints over the sand Go closer and closer toward the tide, Till lost in the kiss of the mystified — The foam of the shining sand. Did you ever note on the shore of love The song of the mystic sea ? — ' Vho hears, hears naught but its rhythmic beat The breath of its symphony. PERDTTA 6t UNSATISFIED. HERE, near the hands, some ruby lies, Some amethyst of subtle dyes, Yet, past them, rapt and mystified The hands reach out unsatisfied. Day's humid gold is on the air; Day's prismic splendor maketh fair All nature, yet we scarcely know Day's radiant face; we bend too low. Here bloom fair flowers beneath the feet Which, dying, crushed, give out their sweet; Yet, yet the feet press on to find Some flower beyond — the undefined. Here breathes the music of a stream— We hear not; further on the gleam Of lifted waves, the song of seas Call and we go — aye, more than these! Here voices speak and we reply, Yet subtilely there drifted by Some words from lips we can not see — We reach to them for ministry. 62 PERDITA Love whispers low at every breath, Love vowed to us in life or death, Yet, heedless, toward some distant shore We reach to listen evermore. PERDITA 6;^ TO-MORROW. TO-MORROW a ship will come in From some shore of pearls, From the deep sea's swirls From the land of the is-to-be. To-morrow the tide will bring in From its foamy ways, With its sails ablaze, A boat from the dream -wrapped sea. To-morrow ? — it whispers and says, " I come: on my trail Wings a blazoned sail From the land of the is-to-be." To-morrow a wish will come true: Life's wine will burn red; To-morrow hath said Hope's ship cometh in from the sea. III. HER HAUNTED WALL. JUST there liis shadow fell; I see the lines quite well As if to-night, he stood So tall and proud. He drew away my hood, And chose to read Quite all my thoughts, and more indeed Then I had dared to own Just to myself alone — That dear, sad night. The light Fell on him, yet I dared but see The shadow off beyond; enough, it seemed to me, To stand just so And see the lines upon the wall. I know His words were true. He did not mean To let the long years come between His love and mine. He never meant To break my heart the night he went. So still! There is no foot, no breath, no heart-beat, but I fill This little lamp, and stand it here To cast about a scrap of cheer. And look across upon the wall And see a shadow — gilded hall 68 PERDITA Could never tempt me from the place Where last I looked upon his face; Oh, is it true my face is sad; Oh, is it true my heart is glad ? PERDITA 69 DREAMING DREAMS. UNDER the sunset — shadows creeping- Under the twilight, silence keeping, Under the vines of the cottage trellis, Under the purpled grapes on the lattice — Dreaming dreams in the violet twilight; Dreaming dreams in the shadowy twilight; Sighing now as the weary-hearted — Smiling now with the lips half parted — Close beside the chiding flagstaff, Dreaming dreams beside the distaff — Oh, the dreams— the wonderful dreams Chasing each other as sunset's beams. Under the sunset, still and fair. Varying hues on her crisping hair — Varying hues where the dimples chase Shadows and sunshine over her face; Weaving the threads of mystic scenes — Under the sunset, dreaming dreams. 70 PERDITA FAIR LOVE. LOVE'S face was stormy looking through The violet mists above the dew; He shook aside the locks of light Bent forward in pursuit. The night Was past, and quivering day Above the moors all purple lay — He saw the shaft of morning gold Float onward through the dreamy wold, And, angered that it passed him by Swift clasped his sandals, on to fly. His brows were knit and then unbent With such a fond bewilderment Of tender woe it might have seemed No shaft of light that ever gleamed Had passed him by — so fair his face With eyes of fire and curves of grace All light might revel in and stay Content, complete the livelong day. So wan and fair that face could be, So shy in ks intensity Of anxious fear; now shook with dread Bleached white as snow, then blossom red PERDITA 71 As skies flushed roseate where they dream Of sun's luxurient golden sheen Just out of sight. Love's face is fair, Illumined; neath his shining hair The azure darkens in his eyes. Love's form is lithe. If it defies Space, obstacle, or height or depth, Or winds that beat, or even self It sways with storms; breathes hard and deep: Vibrates at touch; knows breadth and sweep Of anguish as it cuts and scathes Through nature's heart; bathes In its vision but to rise And shivering slay in sacrifice; Yet love is strength; if it pursue Past violet mists and sheen of dew And purple moors — the morning's ray Saw Love at last and could but stay. PERDITA BREBANTIO'S LEGACY. BREBANTIO gave me a signet ring; Something he said of his Hege, his King — Something I know, of signet and crest — I scarcely mind what, remembering best — Well, well it is over; some things that are past Cling close in the memory up to the last: Take back the ring — more breath! more air! Lift me up higher! — and bid him wear, Forever and ever, that signet ring. Just for the sake of his liege, the King. The lights burn low; is it thus you keep Vigil, watch when the night is deep ? Come closer; the darkness grows on apace; Let me touch some hand. When you see his face Tell him — nay tell him not, I say He remembers the priest, and the bridal day, And the trampling feet of the festal train. And the misty lights of the holy fane, And courtiers lordly, proud and tall, And the bride he wed, and mid them all The heart that was crushed — oh give me air!-— Take him the ring of the King to wear But speak not a word of the heart in its shroud. That stood in the midst of the festive crowd, But see, ere thou leave him the signet ring- Flash on the hand of the liege of the King! PERDITA 73 CASA DEL ECO. w HEN the bowed rocks listen, Phantoms in confession Whispered through the canon, Over Aztec ruin, Over fallen pinion Of some dying eagle — As becomes the regal — Wresthng with Death's mission, perchance above some altar. Bleached from bloody slaughter In the suns of centuries, what are lips repressing ?- Phantom shades confessing? When the voices whisper Through some dusky chamber — Over bowl, or hammer. Shivered axe — or clamor Through the vaulted cavern, grimly hanging over, What mean the words they utter ? Where the hearth-stones moulder — Fragments of some boulder — Midst their bones and ashes Where the red fire flashes 74 PERDITA Nevermore; in the land of silence, Where time doeth violence Slowly, with such pity. And the years die fitly Without sign, what say voices sighing, Whispers lost and dying, Of the winged arrows — Scathing bitter arrows — Driving life to exile From the canon's defile ? From the mountain fortress, When the cliff-men's palace Hangs toward the sun ? If, when light caresses, Or, from far recesses Shrinking back in darkness, Murmur many voices Where the flitting shadows of the dead swept over, Will the Lost uncover Secrets of their legends ? When the Pueblo hunters Look across the mountains. At new day's creation. In simple adoration With hands uplifted mutely till they see the risen sun; As fire-worshipper rejoices As the echoing phantom voices PERDITA 75 Hail the fair day begun? When, in centuries past they tended The watchfires, love-defended, Till time its course had run And Montazuma conquered — Dying fasting, one by one — Were the voices then entreating ? — Through the canon's heart repeating Its legends of the silent land, oblations to the Sun ? 76 PERDITA LOVE'S MEASURE. IF he should pass And press some other lips to his, should pass And tell to other eyes "I love thee," sacrifice Of worlds could not atone, Or startle her to drink alone Some draught of joy. If he to her should say "I love thee," and all the world were darkened from that day, Saved his charmed being, she would yet content Live only in the light. If day were spent For her forever and she knew Fair sunlight's benediction could never thrill anew Her dark, closed eyes. Yet if, in love's sacrifice, He should but stoop and say, "I love thee;" it were yet, to her, but light and day. PERDITA 77 BLIGHTED. SHE was singing as he passed; Twining willows deft and fast — Twining willows, singing low, Eyes all sunshine, cheeks aglow — Did he thus at last behold Eyes of light and locks of gold Matched to some Madonna old He had seen — an ideal fair Mystic light on lip and hair ? Andalusia's fairest maids He had scanned in woods and glades; Fairest maids from sea to sea, But none he found so fair as she. He wooed and won the little maid, And robed her in the rich brocade, And paid her court in regal hall. But sad her smile amid it all; For, nurtured where the willows grew And where the mountain violets blew, She faded as a flower that dies In sighing for its own blue skies. 78 PERDITA V ITALY. ICTOR Emmanuel is King of Rome! Italy lives — is free. There shone A quivering light on her breast of snow As she lay in her sleep long ago And she slightly stirred while her breath went forth From Apennine to Alp of the north. But the swathes that bound her were netted strong By the sinewy fingers that bound them on — It was only a breath she had flung afar She was Italy dead — a shrouded star. When on other shores with the centuries trod Franc, Lombard, Goth, from ashes and blood Noble Empire came forth with giant tread Grander, by far, than the step of the dead, But Italy, land of eloquence, art Lay unmoved, cold, dead, with her frozen heart; Her name unforgotten, too great in the past To be lost, yet aside with obloquy cast. While she lay in her sleep Proud Monarchies sweep The hem of their purple over her face, And mar, as they trample, the lines of its grace; PERDITA 79 And a Hierarchy springs from his bosom, whose hands Sprinkle with blood— rivet her bands, Plant on her breast the weighty tiaras- Sprinkle with blood of Dantes, Rienzis. She awoke and from Piedmont, rom valley and hill, Swordsmen sprung into birth; a clarion shrill From glacier to glacier rung forth, and with blood War legions moved on through the purple flood. Neapolitan, Luscan, the downtrodden Lombard With grasp, and with nerve drew the sword from its scabbard. And France, with new banners in glory unfurled, Over Italy's bosom, held her shield to the world! She had stirred, was freed, was aroused — but in part — The shroud yet tightened above her heart; She lived, but the cords that bound her lance Were kept by the sword and shield of France. Victor Emanuel is King of Rome! Italy hath passed to her ancient throne. There is rapture that swells on her haunted shore; There are voices — their burden is evermore — *' Italy lives, she reigns, is free- Viva Roma, Capitale d' Italia! " 8o PERDITA THE GONDOLIER'S LAMENT. I SAW her face, It was not sad; it bore no weary, longing look) that I could trace, No mystic shadow. Night was deep. I saw the radiance of a hundred waxen lights sweep Over lip and hair; I saw his face the radiance share. I knew he spoke. The wind shivered along the night and woke Strange echoes; in the flood beneath My oar blade, in its watery sheath Quivered. I know They told me, in the long ago. That things they call insensate writhe and moan, Making of human woe their own: I know My light craft shivered in the brine below! I saw his face — Proud, toned with the rich blood of his race — But as he spoke, she did not turn aside, Nor glance, in yearning, to the throbbing tide: I swept a hand across my lute's wierd strings — She smiled, unwittingly, nor heard the things The quiverihg strings had told. Oh sea, Venetia's marbles pale and white, heed not thy minstrelsy, PERDITA 8l Yet, day by day, They mirrored on thy bosom lay, And moaning to her frozen breast Thy waves, with moanings unconfessed. Throb on. This be my part. To bear the image of a frozen heart. 82 PERDITA MADALINE. WHAT if he whispered to Madaline, She was only a child of the forests green, Winding willows to the song of the leaves — To the twitter of swallows under the eaves — Her face he would steal with his pencil gray, What if he stole the heart away ? Madalines's face — the very same — Critics, awed, to the easle came. Coy are the wings of light renown But she stooped, unwooed, to the easel brown. She stooped unwooed, and the wide world heard The rustling breath that her wings had stirred. Madaline' s face! — could the whole be told Of the half-veiled eye, of the locks of gold. The tender curve of the lip which stirred With a changing smile at each whispered word ? Madaline' s face with its witchery untold, Immortal on canvas, with locks of pale gold; Renown for the brush which such witchery could trace. But what for the heart that was lost with the face ? PERDITA 83 THE FISHER-GIRL'S DEATH SONG. SEA, dash thy wild spray; Waves, waft my boat away! Amidst the reefs where corals sleep, Amidst white pearl paving the deep, Let me be found — I care no more To turn my shallop to the shore. Sea, thou a face hath swept; A heart, cold but to-day, hath kept! Is there no pity, hath my moan No answer but the ceaseless groan Of seas ? Where hast thou bound him ; Where hath thy Majesty enshrined him; Where are the lips red but to-day. The eyes — my light; my stay ? Dash and scorn on — I care ? No; pray thee bind about my hair With foams as white as mountain snows — Sea-weed and foam is on his brow! Hasten; I shake along the wind The braids he smiled to see me bind There echoed where the rocks lie low Something above the sea — I go To join him where the wild waves beat, To share his foamy winding sheet. 84 PERDITA Plunge deeper shallop than before; Plunge deeper — on the waves no more Proudly we ride, thy breast as light As eiderdown on breaker's height — Proudly we ride the waves no more, Dance gayly to the shell-set shore — Thou tremblest ? — my heart is strong — Thou tremblest? — Heaven forgive my wrong! Plunge deeper! — Bark! — thy timbers part To give the sea my broken heart. T PERDITA 85 THE MODEL. 'HE work is done. He mixed the colors one by one, And touched them in; He marked the Hnes of Hp and chin And bid me wear A ruby jewel, carved and rare, Just where he placed it in my hair. How dead The white, cold ashes on the hearth once red! The wall, how dark Smoke-wreathed, and stained, and bare, and stark; The grim old rafters used to be A deal more light, it seems to me; And on the floor The sunbeam ? — why it gleams no more. He stood — I see him now — just there And shook the wicked waves of hair Back from his face, Stepped off a pace, And knotted up his brows to see The picture, or the paint, or me, Not quite as it were best to be; Or looked such pleasure with his eyes — Such wondrous things of pleased surprise— S6 PERDITA When all was well. I wonder why He stopped that day in passing by, And asked, in such an idle way If he might come from day to day And paint beside the hearth, and trace My bodice, or, perchance, my face — My bodice braided down before — The distaff by the cupboard door ? I can not tell; I only know He often used to come and go; He often stayed the whole day long. I wove my willows to his song And sighed that days would hurry so; Watched through a chink to see him go; I can not wear the bodice now: It hangs quite out of sight, and how Will all the weary days go by ? — They shall not know I weep or sigh, Or listen for the latch, or wait To see him enter at the gate. I weave my willows in and out And have his face to dream about. PERDITA 87 THE OUTCAST'S LAST DREAM. THE storm beats fast, She used to wrap me round — =but all is past If I had but her hand; If I could once, just once, beside her stand — But she is dead. Her face ? I think her face is bending from its far-off place To me. Around the bleak winds beat. I dreamed, at first, my sleety winding sheet Was cold; crept, shivering from the street Beneath this ledge of stone; Crept shivering and alone Beneath this place — Her arms are bending with the face! I do not feel the torrent beat; I feel no sleety winding sheet; I hear the songs she sung of old; The bleating of the mountain fold; The sheep-bells up the mountain side — I see, I see — oh, glorified Her face, her hands ! She bendeth low, Oh touch me, lift me, let me go! 88 PERDITA THE UNFORGOTTEN. THE dream is past. I stood where music swept Lordly and grand, where throbbing music wept Through deepened halls, And dreamy faces, from the distant walls Looked down. Where costly marbles, coldly grand Stood motionless at art's command. Where loitering footsteps drifted past, And proud forms swayed, where flowers their fra- grance cast. And she, the loved, the unforgotten fair, With all the glory of her sunny hair, Fairer than marble coldly grand. Fairer than flowers, than all the loitering band, Passed slowly on, with just the same true grace, The pure, bright, unforgotten face I see alone in dreams. How the far sunset, on the humid air, Swept through the halls to flood the golden hair, The form, the earnest face; one beam Supremely beautiful, a gleam Of heaven. The dream is past. No sunset's drifting gold. No music's roll, no statue grand and cold; No earnest face, but on the unbroken night, Just silence and the pale stars' light. PERDITA 89 RODRIGO'S INVOCATION. T 'URN oft' thine eyes! I will not bear them. Sacrifice This much, if it be sacrifice, for my sake: I for thee would take A bitter draught and call it sweet, but this ? — I can not bear it! — this ?^ — • Turn off thy eyes ! be strong, Be strength to me. I do no wrong In simply loving thee, but must I bear The look turned toward me that thy eyes can wear ? Radiant; supreme amid the glittering throng, Let me but see thee laugh and frown; belong But to the pageant, not to me; Forget the hopes now gone; look on me coldly: be Quite glad in all thy beauty, tempting me to scorn The passion of my soul. Torn Into fragments be the past, but know I can not bear thy speechless woe. Turn off thy eyes! Laugh with the festive throng; surprise Thy regal courtiers; quite forgot To turn and look, to tell me yet With eyes so maddening, what of old Made dreams light- winged by being told. 9© PERDITA Let me with austere presence stand Mutely apart. Command Me in cold service with a joyous air; I am content, but wear The anguish of my heart within thine eyes; Show me a double sacrifice; From place to place Turn to me with impassive face — It is too much! — an anguish thou must share I am not strong to bear; Turn off thy eyes that mine have met — Thou loveliest yet. PERDITA 91 THE HARPER'S LAMENT. IMAY not touch thy strings to-night Egori is gone, is dead. The Hght Of stars touches his face, And all the frozen place Is sad. Egori dead, cold, still — is lost, His slender, frozen fingers crossed Upon his breast; he can not see Thy dear old strings again, or me. Frozen last night. Oh what a night! I wrapped him round, but then, the light Was so long coming, and he died. I have not told them yet, I tried To-day, but then I could not bear, For he is dead and they would take him where I could not see his face, Or wind his crispy hair. I can not touch thy strings, I am too sad, around them clings So much, and I have lost The last — Egori lost! 92 PREDITA I see him now, he of the dreamy eye, Smiling above thy strings, ItaUa's sky Sweeping beyond. I hear thy deep, low spell he bade thee bear Through citron grove, and balmy air, But as I dream of friends and home I wake to fear no throbbing tone; I own thy silent heart alone. PKRDITA g-^ THE VOICE SHE HEARD. THE candle flashed along the wall; Along the andirons grave and tall The fire-forks flickered in and out — He whispered low: The winds without Beat at the sash, the oaken door, And sighed as winds sigh evermore; The pines beat, moaning, toward the thatch- She stayed her breath his words to catch. The crane hung high above the fire Where it had hung for many a sire; The chimney tiles some story told, She used to listen to of old; Beneath, the foot- worn oaken floor Sighed low of love-words heard before, And overhead, the rafters too Bowed down to speak — she only knew The words he breathed upon her ear; She stayed her heart the words to hear. The clock tolled slowly from the wall Love's shivering legends to recall; The trinkets shining on her breast Some fragment of the past confessed; 94 PERDITA A wraith of Love bent low to see How like Love's eyes of light might be To those which once burned still and deep The vigil of their past to keep, And would have told her to beware — She only knew his heart was there; This, only this, she truly knew. His heart was love, and love was true. PERDITA 95 BETTINE. HER bodice was of scarlet and her petticoat of gray, Her wooden shoes — Oh, who could choose Shoes daintier than they ? The crimson of the sunset was flooding all the air; He saw its trace Along her face And mid her braided hair. The glad brook flung its music and the robins, fluttering near, Were twittering low And loath to go Seemed loitering to hear. He told her that he loved her; he told her nothing more Than woods had heard. In whispered word, For centuries before. But the crimson ' neath her lashes, and the bodice fluttering told How new each word The robins heard, Unknown to her of old. 96 PERDITA Oh, many a bodice scarlet; oh, many a skirt of gray And shoes of wood By brooks have stood But none as glad as the)^ PERDITA 97 THEIR TRIBUTE. THE world has scorned him; to the wall Had turned his canvas; bent not to the call Of Genius speaking clear And asking to be heard. Near Was a canvas on the easle-stand, A palette in the frozen hand, One night when someone came, Swept by a sudden fear, to speak his name. The broken chair was in the old, old place But on the silent, peaceful face Was no desire. The world ? — it bore him forth in state; Carved letters on the royal gate To speak his name, And wrote it on the scroll of fame In burning gold, But then the broken heart was cold. 98 PKRDITA NOT BLIND. BLIND ? — rather say I see Past distances of time, far toward infinity Not blind. I know The tide of Hfe beats low, That Darkness folds Her hands before my face, and holds Me though the sun Touches each marble form, each chiseled, sacred one Which I can see as though I had no need to go Groping with hands outspread, and yet — not blind! Love bade me, long ago, to find In touch, that lost, sweet sight, And now ? — I know a subtler light Which glorifies the day. Touch thou this curve and say If it be true or false to beauty's test; If chisel yet, possessed To find in stone some prisoned from and set it free, Wrought unto mastery Such curv^e being blind. Know thou I see. By subtlest light defined, I look within the shrine Where Beauty's form divine PERDITA 99 Waits, midst unshapen stone, In silence and alone For me to come. Yes, I can see And thou who most art blind, wouldst pity me. :^siii» ■lliiliiii 016 112 811 9