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ILIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I 
 
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 HAYDN 
 
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 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
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 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "LIFE BELOW." 
 
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 NEW YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 
 
 ©amliriOae: Kfbersitie ^jress 
 
 1870. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
 
 HuRD AND Houghton, 
 
 in the Clerk's OfRce of the District Court for the Southern District ot 
 New York. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Dedication and Introduction . - . . i 
 
 Haydn 23 
 
 The Idealist 113 
 
 The Destiny-maker 116 
 
 Caged 118 
 
 The Highest Claim 120 
 
 The Wedding Day ....... 124 
 
 My Ideal .126 
 
 The Music of Life . 128 
 
 Notes from the Victory 130 
 
 Our Day at Pisa 135 
 
 The Origin of Dress 136 
 
 The Burning of the Church at Santiago . . 137 
 
 St. Peter , . . .141 
 
 Amid the Mountains 143 
 
 With the Young 145 
 
 Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven . . . 149 
 
 Nothing to keep under i!;2 
 
 To an Artist 154 
 
 On Raphael's Angels 157 
 
 The Country Cousin's Question .... 159 
 Whatever the Mission of Life may be . . .160 
 
A 
 
 DEDICATION TO A FRIEND, 
 
 AND AN 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 WHILE writing "Life Below," I was accus- 
 tomed to place in your hands copies of the 
 several books after their completion, in part for safe 
 keeping, in part for the purpose of soliciting your 
 friendly criticism. When I took them from you, in 
 order to have them published, nothing could have 
 been more appropriate for me than to return them to 
 you in a public dedication. But older and weightier 
 obligations claimed my first regard. 
 
 Now that the time has come when I can acknowl- 
 edge the firm and disinterested friendship which en- 
 couraged me through struggles of apprenticeship, in 
 connection with the acknowledgment I desire to ex- 
 press, in public, those conceptions of poetic thought 
 and form upon which I have often dwelt in private. 
 Not that I esteem them needed in order to interpret. 
 
2 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION, 
 
 to appreciative minds, my poetry. I feel indebted 
 much — and doubly so, because all happen to be 
 strangers to myself — to writers who have ventured 
 to express, in public periodicals, opinions of my 
 works, as favorable, certainly, as could be reason- 
 ably expected. It is true that much injustice, also, 
 has been done me, as I think, in many cases. What, 
 for instance, is more aggravating and absurd than 
 that a man, simply because he has exhibited the 
 fidelity of the artist while delineating an experience 
 imagined, should be taken to task not only for com- 
 mending, but even for possessing, characteristics of 
 which he fancies that he has expressed disapproba- 
 tion rather, inasmuch as he has represented them in 
 a fictitious character not only, but even thus under a 
 process of chastisement and correction ? However, if 
 I be inclined to find fault with the critics, on the score 
 of superficiality, I am deterred by the consideration 
 that my own examination of each latest publication 
 of a similar character is equally defective. If poetry 
 be never fitly finished, as is true, until the author 
 have submitted it to microscopic tests in order to 
 detect and to obliterate the least suggestion of a 
 flaw, it is not fitly criticized before the reader have 
 applied his mind to it with tests of equal thorough- 
 ness. But such tests will not be applied to any book 
 until, in some way, it can indicate that it is worthy 
 of them. Such an indication, as it seems to me, is 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION, 3 
 
 best presented in the fact, that those who chance 
 to read it once, re-read it. Wherefore is a book re- 
 read ? I think, since it expresses truth.^ In popular 
 phrase, men term the truth eternal. In it they find 
 the sources of perennial freshness. And the degree 
 in which a work of art embodies it, appears to me to 
 measure the degree in which it can awaken a peren- 
 nial interest. 
 
 And in the sphere of language, poetry, much more 
 than prose, seems fitted to awaken such an interest ; 
 a fact which furnishes the key to all my theories pre- 
 sented at this time. The one who spake the truth 
 in forms which have been held most sacred, and 
 received most universally, spake never, we are told, 
 without a parable. But parables are in poetic form. 
 They illustrate a principle of real life through pictur- 
 ing how it operates in fancied circumstances. They 
 indicate the workings of a law in one department or 
 development of nature, through instancing its oper- 
 ations in analogous departments or developments. 
 And parables are not exceptional examples confirm- 
 ing the esteem to which the truth, presented after 
 such a method, is entitled. While new discoveries 
 of successive epochs render obsolete the theories of 
 
 ^ Poetry, the flowering of literature, has a form, and, so to speak, an aroma 
 peculiar to itself which cause it to appeal especially to the aesthetic faculty. 
 Nevertheless truth will be found to constitute the root even of these qualities^ 
 See pages 6, 7, 
 
4 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION. 
 
 philosophers, they have, if any influence, an opposite 
 effect upon the entire range of fables, myths, and le- 
 gends which furnish subjects to the poets. Analogies 
 implied in such, with morals pointed out for men who 
 lived two thousand years ago, may be applied with 
 equal truth to men and manners of to-day. 
 
 And if we turn from whole productions to short 
 statements, we discover here, too, that the world re- 
 members best those in the forms of poetry, — the 
 proverbs, precepts, and quotations indicating illustra- 
 tions from analogy. In these sometimes both objects, 
 in which there are similar operations, are expressed ; 
 as, for example, "Anger, like rain, breaks itself on 
 what it falls upon.^' Sometimes one object only is 
 expressed with clearness, " Gratitude is the memory 
 of the heart/' And sometimes neither is expressed ; 
 a law alone is stated, which suggests, at once, a vast 
 variety of objects to which it may be applied, and in 
 which operations are analogous, "With what measure 
 ye mete, it shall be measured to you again." 
 
 Such facts as these suggest the question whether 
 analogy and truth are necessarily connected. He 
 who thinks upon the subject will discover that they 
 are. The truth which is the object of investigation 
 in philosophy and science is the truth of analogy. 
 The philosopher desires \o know no isolated facts as 
 ends, but that he may determine through their agency 
 the laws and methods operating underneath them ; 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 5 
 
 and may show in what respects these methods are 
 identical beneath diverse phenomena. The truth 
 upon which any scientific system can be founded, is 
 a law, an operation, with analogies in all the different 
 departments and developments of nature. 
 
 And these analogies, in so far as they really exist, 
 present the mind with truth, as I believe, as nearly 
 absolute as anything with which a human being 
 can become acquainted. If similar methods oper- 
 ate through all the universe ; and if these methods 
 be indicative at all of thought, they indicate the 
 thought of the Intelligence creating and controlling 
 all the universe. When similar methods are made 
 manifest in different deeds of a human being, they 
 are recognized as characteristic, as Miltonic or Napo- 
 leonic. Why may not the methods manifest amid the 
 different phenomena of nature be considered charac- 
 teristic not only of the universe, but of the One who 
 formed it .'* To the man who gazes with discrimina- 
 tion on them, why may not the laws which operate in 
 matter, although underneath forms limited and tran- 
 sient, represent, symbolically and yet accurately, the 
 absolute traits of character and the eternal laws of 
 life which are the objects of perpetual adoration to 
 those high intelligences nearest to the Deity 1 I have, 
 at present, in my desk a pile of manuscripts, in which 
 I have endeavored to develop this idea with special 
 applications to the different arts. If life and health 
 
6 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 
 
 be spared, at some time I may finish them. At 
 present, I can but suggest the very wide domain of 
 thought to which the subject introduces one. 
 
 Not only do these indications of analogy embody 
 truth ; they constitute the essential element of beauty 
 also. As expressed through a medium of speech, the 
 simplest ballad is possessed of beauty chiefly in so far 
 as it portrays the experience of some members of the 
 human family after a method so accordant with the 
 course of nature that the reader feels that it w^ould 
 be the experience of all its members, under circum- 
 stances similar in temperament and time. Descrip- 
 tive poetry has beauty chiefly in so far as it suggests 
 the operations of the general laws of nature through 
 the outlines of the special forms which it delineates. 
 It rises to a high degree of beauty, it becomes 
 sublime alone when, like the poetry of Wordsworth, 
 for example, it suggests resemblances between the 
 methods of the material universe and operations of 
 the mind. Upon the contrary, no mere collection, 
 no mere crowding of comparisons, can add real 
 beauty to a composition if these do not indicate 
 analogies existing in the nature of things. When 
 similar operations are exhibited in objects one of 
 which does not exist in nature, as, for instance, 
 when the mind is likened to a machine, or sun- 
 beams to the spokes of a wheel, such indications of 
 resemblance, though they may be forcible, are not 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 7 
 
 apt to suggest ideas of beauty, nor do they any oft- 
 ener suggest ideas of truth. For highest realization, 
 these both demand expressions of analogies made 
 evident through forms of nature. Beauty must have 
 the dignity attracting to divine proportions ; truth 
 the sanction of the laws of the Creator. 
 
 With aid of this thought, I detect the difference 
 between an effort of imagination and of fancy. It 
 is the difference between an utterance of principle 
 and of conceit, of wisdom grounded on a wide expe- 
 rience, and of a whim with no foundation whatsoever. 
 The illustrations of the former, spring from natural 
 and actual resemblances ; those of the latter, from 
 fictitious, artificial ones ; and in so far as they do 
 this, can be expressive neither of the true nor of the 
 beautiful. 
 
 This fact, moreover, that both truth and beauty in 
 their highest forms are traceable to a similar source, 
 enables one to harmonize an effort to express the true 
 in poetry with an effort to portray the beautiful ; for 
 no one must forget that beauty only is the ultimate end 
 of poetry, as of each other art. And yet, may it not 
 be the ultimate end of art, precisely in the way that 
 blessedness may be the ultimate end of virtue ? The 
 spiritual aim is reached through truth to orderings of 
 the Creator; may not the material aim be reached 
 through truth to operations of creation ? 
 
 And from this point of view, as it appears to me. 
 
8 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 
 
 one can appreciate, too, the true position of the artist. 
 Nature furnishes results in forms. The artist sepa- 
 rates and recombines these forms in order to produce 
 entirely new results. These are artistic, in entire con- 
 ception or in portions, in the degree in which they are 
 analogous to nature (di/a \o^o% ; i. e. thereon a word ; 
 a word in addition, a different expression of the same 
 thing otherwise expressed in nature). Their work it 
 is, to bear the same reports of beauty and of power 
 which are transmitted through the sunshine and the 
 storm ; to tell, ideally, the same old tales of love and 
 hate, of joy and suffering, which make susceptive human 
 nature laugh and sigh along the pathway of its actual 
 experience. And often, too, true art can yield results 
 which furnish man more clear conceptions of the true 
 and beautiful than are presented by results in nature. 
 Sometimes upon the faces or the lips of human 
 friends, there dawn more radiant glances, or there 
 waken sweeter accents. At such times, from the in- 
 tenser concentration of the love in them, we seem to 
 gain a nearer and a clearer apprehension of what con- 
 stitutes divine love, than a vague unincarnated agency 
 could furnish us. So sometimes through the linea- 
 ments or tones of art which man produces, from 
 the greater prevalence therein of human elements, 
 thought is conveyed with power and plainness which 
 could not be possible to the mysterious moods and 
 mingled voices of the forests and the seas. 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 9 
 
 If this be true of art, what shall one say of him to 
 whom we are indebted for portrayals of such a char- 
 acter ? The artist is the priest of nature, in his rank 
 inferior only to the priest of revelation. It is he 
 who lifts the veils which hang about God's earthly 
 tabernacle. It is he who steps within the holy place, 
 who bows before the light which shines from the 
 Shekinah, and who comes back to the masses bear- 
 ing them a message from the Truth which dwells be- 
 hind the symbol. If a man be disciplined through 
 learning of God's truth, and if the methods operating 
 under forms of nature indicate the truth, then art, in 
 so far as it can reveal these methods more distinctly, 
 does it not reveal the laws of God, too, and thus dis- 
 cipline mankind } Consider only the effects of novel 
 literature, a single, and, perhaps, not the chief branch 
 of literary art. There was a time when virtuous peo- 
 ple feared its influence. And, certainly, poor nov- 
 els are the poorest trash that ever thwarted time of 
 thought. Yet really artistic novels, not distorting life 
 for morals right or wrong, have they not an effect 
 upon the reader like to that, and salutary, too, as 
 that, which is produced through wide experience of 
 the world? 
 
 As differing from the other arts, poetry has for 
 its object to express analogies through a medium 
 of words, and these analogies can be expressed not 
 only in the thoughts communicated, but also in the 
 
lO DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 
 
 medium of communication. To this do I attribute 
 the significance of style in poetry. For contrary to 
 theories of some poets, all the world of readers have 
 attributed to it a very high significance. It is true 
 that here, as elsewhere, it requires a master's hand to 
 rescue art from artificiality. But it is true, as well, 
 that here, as elsewhere, if one lower his aim through 
 fear of failure, the success which he proposes will 
 be failure far more fearful. Words have truth and 
 beauty and a history embodied in them. In its first 
 conception, every utterance was given both a sound 
 and sense, and, if compound, a structure fitted to 
 resemble, in the sphere of form, experiences of con- 
 sciousness, or of relations between different expe- 
 riences of consciousness, existing in the sphere of 
 thought. And these analogies expressed in epithets, 
 are still perceptible in every language, and are recog- 
 nized as an essential element in causing style to be 
 poetic. Notice the analogies in the following pas- 
 sages, sometimes in single epithets, sometimes in 
 combinations of them : — 
 
 That all \\it jarring notes of life 
 
 Seem blending in a psalm, 
 And all the angles of its strife 
 
 Slow rounding into calm. — Whittier, 
 
 Raging appetites that are 
 Most disobedient and refractory^ 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION. II 
 
 Your life, good Master, 
 Must shuffle for itself. 
 
 If I have a conscience, let it smk me. 
 This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, 
 Sits not so easy on me. 
 
 Nothing could have subdued nature 
 
 To such lowness but his unkind daughters. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 Not, therefore, am I short 
 Of knowing what I ought. 
 
 One sip of this 
 Would bathe the drooping spirits in delight. 
 His easy steps girded with snaky wiles, — Milton. 
 
 To teach tkv^ young idea how to shoot, — Thomson. 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain. — Goldsmith, 
 The spumy waves proclaim the watery war. 
 Love stood the siege, and would not yield his breast. 
 
 Dryden, 
 
 It is needless to multiply examples. The fact that 
 these analogies in single words are found in purest 
 forms in languages while in their infancy, before 
 long use or misuse have made trite or obsolete their 
 first significance, is one cause why its earlier produc- 
 tions, as a rule, rank highest in the history of a na- 
 tion's poetry ; a rule, however, which applies much 
 less to English than to other languages. For in our 
 compound tongue well-nigh all technical and hack- 
 neyed terms, as well as words employed by unpre- 
 
12 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 
 
 cise, illiterate writers, are of Latin origin. The 
 simpler Anglo-Saxon synonyms are left by them 
 almost intact, to be employed, with their full force 
 and freshness, by the writers of a higher order. What 
 a difference in power and picturesqueness, for exam- 
 ple, between Saxon words like draw back, strip off, 
 and up-right-ness, and their synonyms of Latin origin, 
 retire, devest, integrity. 
 
 If language in its earlier stages be poetic, we must 
 draw the inference that poetry itself is something 
 which must be ascribed to nature rather than to cul- 
 ture. This view is confirmed by noticing not only 
 how all people in uncultivated nations, but how chil- 
 dren of our own race live, as men say, in imagination ; 
 with what aptitude they recognize resemblances be- 
 tween things new to them and others more familiar. 
 Their seniors, too, when under strong excitement, as 
 of love or piety, and apparently when most oblivi- 
 ous of results of culture, grow unexpectedly poetic. 
 Judging from instances like these, some have affirmed 
 that poetry is different from prose, in that the former 
 is the language of the feelings, while the latter is the 
 language of the intellect. This certainly is not an 
 accurate distinction. The tendency to poetry may be 
 occasioned by the state of feeling, but is really caused 
 by intellect itself endeavoring to give form to thought 
 for which it has no form at its command. It is not at 
 command of savage or of child, simply because no 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION, 13 
 
 form appropriate has come, as yet, within their very 
 limited range of information. It is not at command 
 of the cultivated man, because, to his excited mood, 
 all forms, though multitudinous, with which he is ac- 
 quainted, seem inadequate. Accordingly the uncul- 
 tured and the cultured are impelled alike to originate 
 expressions for themselves. And these expressions, 
 inasmuch as they present intangible sensations ac- 
 cording to the analogy of tangible perceptions, are, 
 like all terms in their incipiency, poetic. But they 
 are really the results of intellect. Thought, in its 
 very essence, is comparison. The poetic state, in 
 which the tendency to use comparisons is in the 
 intensest exercise, may be the state of mind in which 
 there is the intensest exercise of thought. What 
 though this thought may be occasioned more by an 
 excited state of feeling than by calm deliberation ? 
 Is it therefore to be disesteemed ? Are not the vast 
 majority of words of sympathy and love occasioned 
 thus ? And have they, therefore, less of eloquence, 
 of truth and beauty in them, than the more deliber- 
 ate utterances of policy and sycophancy ? Or, as a 
 fact, have poets less of truth in what they furnish 
 us than writers of mere prose ? Are not the spirits 
 of great poets, notwithstanding all their quickness 
 of perception and expression, subject unto them? 
 Milton and Dante, were their works inspired by 
 frenzy ? Shakespeare and Goethe, were they not well- 
 
14 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 
 
 nigh as great philosophers as poets ? In these latter 
 days, when all the world reflects, can any poet reach 
 high rank who is not philosophical ? I know that 
 just now there is a reaction. We have had too much 
 prolixity, and now, forsooth, we must have too much 
 prattle ! Do men think the baby cannot prove as 
 stupid as the dotard? Would it not be better to 
 maintain a medium ground ? Between extremes, the 
 one too plain for wit, the other too obscure for wis- 
 dom, is a sphere of thought in which philosophy and 
 poetry may be united. 
 
 Two processes exist which men term philosophical. 
 The one proves through analogy, the other through 
 induction. The former is addressed to judgment 
 mainly, and is recognized immediately. The latter 
 is addressed to reasoning mainly, and is mediately 
 recognized through steps of logic. Upon all occa- 
 sions when its circumstances so affect the mind that 
 its perceptive overbalance its reflective powers, — as 
 is the case with all the members of a savage and un- 
 cultivated race, with children, and with older persons 
 in the presence of exciting causes, — then the mind ex- 
 presses thought according to the dictates of the judg- 
 ment rather than of reasoning ; of intuition, I might 
 almost state it, rather than of understanding. Pre- 
 cisely these conditions are those which, as has been 
 shown, give birth to poetry. 
 
 It follows, therefore, that philosophy, so far as it 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 15 
 
 can argue from analogy, may overlap the sphere of 
 poetry. If, in addition, it express its proof in lan- 
 guage of analogy, may it not be poetical in form as 
 well as substance ? There is one book, the Bible, 
 which combines more poetry with more philosophy 
 than any other composition in the world. And I am 
 well-nigh certain that the poets of our own day, if 
 they would produce results which after-years shall 
 value for intrinsic truth and beauty, should recur, 
 more frequently, like the great poets of antiquity, not 
 only to religious themes, but also to the methods of 
 expression in the books of revelation. Aside from 
 sacredness which has preserved them for the pious, 
 the influence which these books exert to-day, and have 
 exerted through so many generations, over irreligious 
 minds, is proof that there is something in the forms 
 embodying thought which they present, to make them 
 models worthy of attention from all literary artists of 
 all time. 
 
 To resume my line of thought, prose is not different 
 from poetry as thought from frenzy, or philosophy 
 from fantasy; but rather in the circumstance that, 
 while the former is the language natural when re- 
 flection is predominant, the latter is the language 
 natural when perception is predominant. The writ- 
 ings of the lesser or occasional poets are produced 
 amid excitement which, at intervals, avails to paralyze 
 reflection, and to stimulate perception. Those of the 
 
1 6 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 
 
 greater, or artistic poets, are results in part of tem- 
 perament, which causes sensibility to operate as much 
 from inherent energy as from accidental suscitation ; 
 and in part of culture which has power to train the 
 judgment as it can the conscience, by enlarging, with 
 the range of observation, the appearance of relations 
 which exist between the things observed. 
 
 For, as elsewhere, it is necessary to remember here 
 that there is nothing rendered perfect without prac- 
 tice. The vivid and precise imagination of the artist, 
 differs from the fancy of the amateur, as the execu- 
 tions of the music-master from the exercises of his 
 pupil. By nature, woman's judgments are more accu- 
 rate than her reasonings, and man's reasonings more 
 accurate than his judgments. Through cultivation, 
 the judgments of the one become more reasonable, 
 and the syllogisms of the other more judicious. 
 Through neglect of culture and inert reliance on 
 the gifts of nature, the woman's composition runs 
 to froth, the man's to sedjrnent. But truth is never 
 sentimental, beauty never commonplace. The finest 
 mental products have been wrought by those in whom 
 were blended best the powers of both sexes, — a truth 
 which, by the way, like every truth, admits of comic 
 treatment, and is caricatured in our own day by 
 certain men with long hair and loose gowns, and 
 women vice versa. 
 
 However, it is needless here to instance any 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 1 7 
 
 further thoughts suggested by my ramblings in the 
 field of poetry. I add alone, what all who have 
 read thus far will surmise, that theories like these 
 have influenced my WTitings. Many of my poems, 
 in their first conception, sprang from hints suggested 
 by analogies. And thus whatever value they may 
 have, has been enhanced in that, like everything in 
 nature which expresses truth, they convey a general 
 significance as well as a specific one \ express, in 
 short, a law of life. The ^' Destiny-Maker,'' for ex- 
 ample, has a moral which may be applied to love, and 
 yet with equal aptitude to other different experiences. 
 The same is true of "Choosing.'* "Loving" has a 
 plan revealing in a sphere of mind those principles of 
 action and reaction everywhere apparent in the sphere 
 of matter. Once again, since in the province of both 
 science and religion there exists a tendency to classify 
 all time and space and life, in races and in individ- 
 uals, by separations into periods or parts of sevens, a 
 classification analogous was attempted in the seven 
 books of " Life Below." In order to complete the 
 idea of life, the effect which each successive stage in 
 the development of character produces on the world 
 without, was indicated in short passages between the 
 several books. These, outward sounds of the ascend- 
 ing stages of the inner life, were named according 
 to the notes ascending in the musical scale. Some 
 critics have detected in this plan a source of mar- 
 
 2 
 
l8 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION. 
 
 velous merriment. It is not sure, however, that the 
 poem ought to bear the blame of this. Are there not 
 some to whom all scientific classifications whatsoever 
 seem ridiculous ? 
 
 That in developing these theories, which, in my 
 own experience, have been the offshoots of my prac- 
 tice rather than the germs of it, I have done aught 
 more than to express with greater plainness truth dis- 
 covered long ago, I do not claim. The writings of 
 all greatest poets show that they have felt the force 
 of these same principles. If, in what has been here 
 unfolded, I have added any thought to their conclu- 
 sions, it is merely fruit of that which had its flower in 
 Goethe and in Wordsworth. 
 
 And yet it must be that all literary principles, as 
 well as principles in science and religion, grow. 
 Each age discovers new facts, and investigating 
 these brings to the surface laws which modify or 
 change all views of nature and the supernatural. To 
 ithese views must the poetry of each succeeding age 
 accommodate itself. The Germans of the generation 
 just gone by, stand foremost in the ranks of modern 
 literary art, because the foremost to accommodate 
 their modes of thought and methods of expression to 
 those modern views of mind and matter which philos- 
 ophy and science in their country have developed, not 
 alone for Germany but for the world. And thought 
 advances still ; and poetry, if it would satisfy the 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 wants of our own age, must modify its bearing to the 
 requisition. Just as Ciirist assumed the form of our 
 humanity, in order that He might become the Saviour 
 of the race, so he who would become an agent, in his 
 smaller sphere and for a shorter time, to lead the 
 thoughts of men toward any higher region, be he 
 prophet, priest, or poet, must assume the phase of 
 life for which he labors. 
 
 While this is true, however, it must not be thought 
 that, for the current, one can sacrifice the classical. 
 The genuine artist is distinguished just as much by 
 comprehensiveness as by susceptibility. He can as 
 little disregard fixed standards of all ages as the 
 fickle theories of his own. And therefore is it that 
 his works acquire their permanence. While many 
 things controlling taste in one's own period shall pass 
 away, the pupil of what has remained from former 
 times may grow the master of what shall remain in 
 times to come. 
 
 It has been shown that poetry can lift a man as 
 near to regions of pure truth as can be possible for 
 any merely intellectual agency. And while one 
 yields allegiance to the Bible and to Christ, he must 
 believe that intellectual agency can have an influ- 
 ence thereto by no means slight. There is a slavery 
 to materialistic interests of earth which, though it be 
 not all that is included in the sphere of sin, is, cer- 
 tainly, a large proportion of it ; there is bondage to 
 
20 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the spirit of this world, from which the simple truth 
 has power to set men free. 
 
 In our own age, especially in our own country, not- 
 withstanding many works of purest purpose and most 
 certain merit, there exists, as many think, an open- 
 ing, and, therefore, a necessity for art, not better, it 
 may be, but different ; for art which can do some- 
 thing more than has been yet accomplished toward 
 infusing ideality and spirituality into the present. 
 Where all the masses read, and where, by conse- 
 quence, all are subjected to their influence, our liter- 
 ary men should feel the grave responsibility which 
 rests upon them to improve the tastes and judgments 
 of the people, as well as to be popular. And, there- 
 fore, though I do not wish to seem obtuse or bigoted, 
 I must confess a craving for a literature of higher 
 tone than that which is most prevalent at present; 
 for literature which can afford some elements of wit 
 more manly than orthography which echoes of the 
 nursery ; and principles of wisdom more profound 
 than whimsical sophomoric skepticism, caught, almost 
 by rote, from schools of Germany. Our writers 
 must attune their themes to deeper and to higher 
 notes, — notes in accordance with the spirit of the age, 
 and, at the same time, with the truth both of philos- 
 ophy and of Christianity. 
 
 Demand is everywhere the lever of supply. The 
 nature, no less than the soul that asks, receives. If I 
 
DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 be right in thinking that there is a vacancy, I cer- 
 tainly am right in prophesying that it will be filled. 
 And toward effecting such an end, if my productions 
 have no other influence than that of stimulating to 
 achievement of enduring merit, writers who are my 
 contemporaries, I shall feel that I have neither studied 
 art nor written poetry in vain. 
 
 At the same time, I am thoroughly aware that 
 those who undertake that which I here suggest, will 
 venture on a field where must await them, at the 
 first, much more of opposition than applause. To 
 speak to one of benefiting him is to suggest of his 
 deficiency. The chief reward of such, yet a suffi- 
 cient one, as I conceive, must be derived from 
 those experiences of thought and love which every 
 effort in the realm of thought and love is fitted to 
 develop in the agent of it. Like other laborers in 
 this world, our writers, too, must learn that the 
 achievements of this life are measurable, less by 
 power exerted on the world without, than by capac- 
 ity unfolded in the consciousness within ; that to the 
 mind of faith, the life, the most successful, may be that 
 which to the eye of sense is failure most complete ; 
 that to the earnest worker still remains the vigor and 
 the strength acquired by practice, even though, in the 
 opinion of the world, all energy have been expended 
 in vain blowing at the wind or talking with the echo. 
 This I say, because I think that such convictions 
 
22 DEDICATION AND INTRODUCTION 
 
 only have the power to lift one really above servility 
 to current thought although he serve it ; that with 
 such convictions only will a soul look high enough — 
 I would not say for its reward, but high enough for 
 its authority to be a fitting delegate of Him who only 
 is the Sovereign of all Truth, and whose eternal verity 
 alone, when uttered through the lips of mortals, has 
 a sanction valid to command an acquiescence either 
 general or continued. 
 
 I 
 
HAYDN. 
 
This poem was suggested by the tale entitled *' A First Love,'' 
 in the " Musical Sketches " of Elize Polko. Her authority for 
 it is based upon the historical fact that Doretta (Anne is the 
 name which I find in the biographies) Keller had a sister be- 
 loved by Haydn, and who entered a convent My own author- 
 ity for the additional connection indicated in the poem be- 
 tween the marriage of Haydn and the influence of the father 
 and the priest, is derived from such passages as these, which 
 may be found in every biography of the musician : " Forced to 
 seek a lodging" (t. e, when a boy, in Vienna), "by chance he 
 met with a wig-maker, named Keller, who had often noticed and 
 been delighted with the beauty of his voice at the Cathedral, and 
 now offered him an asylum. This Haydn most gladly accepted : 
 
 and Keller received him as a son His residence here had, 
 
 however, a fatal influence on his after life Keller had two 
 
 daughters ; his wife and himself soon began to think of uniting 
 the young musician to one of them ; and even ventured to name 
 
 the subject to Haydn He did not forget his promise to his 
 
 old friend Keller, of marrying^is daughter Anne. But he soon 
 found that she was a prude, who had, in addition, .... a mania 
 
 for priests and nuns He was himself incessantly annoyed 
 
 and interrupted in his studies by their clamorous conversation, 
 .... At length he separated from his wife, whom, however, he 
 always, in pecuniary concerns, treated with perfect honor." — 
 Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, 2 vols. London : 1827. 
 
 Such facts as these, taken in connection with the well-known 
 piety of Haydn, are a suflicient warrant, as I think, for my imag- 
 ined inference concerning the cause of his hatred of this "mania" 
 in his wife. In the poem I have endeavored to bring the per- 
 sonality of the musician more vividly before the mind of the 
 reader by use of the name Haydn, than would be done if I had 
 caused the characters to employ his baptismal name, Joseph. 
 
HAYDN. 
 
 HARK, sister ! hear I not the vesper song ? 
 And is it not my Haydn's melody? 
 Can we not lift the window ? Is God robb'd, 
 Think you, if, while these forms of praise do pass, 
 Some breath of their sweet panting pause with us ? 
 
 There — they have died away. — Why say men 
 
 died ? 
 Live they not still ? — Sister, my body here, 
 Because it pulses, moves, and speaks out thought 
 And wakens thought in others, thus you know 
 That it has life. And music, while it sounds, 
 Does it not pulse and move and speak out thought 
 And waken thought in others ? Yes, what though 
 It leave earth quickly? To those patient eyes 
 Which scan eternity, Time cannot be 
 The measure of true vital force. No, no, 
 Then heavenly lightning were a weaker thing 
 Than earthly smoke. The music fades away; 
 And do not bodies ? Are their lives not like ? 
 Only the music, it hath never sinned : 
 
28 HA YDN, 
 
 It hath not known a wish save that of God : 
 It need not linger long here. Dear, I dream, 
 In those grand halls of heaven, if there shall rise 
 Sweet echoes of our earthly lives, re-lived 
 Yet not as on the earth, that there shall rise 
 Echoes of earthly music just as real ; — 
 At least of Haydn's. It has life breathed in ; 
 Invests his soul. His phantom shapes of sound 
 Do make me thrill, as though a power did come 
 And clasp, with hands below these fleshy robes. 
 And touch, for once, as spirits do, the heart. 
 They woo me as a god might, who own'd heaven. 
 
 Why must I not talk thus .^ Better bid flowers 
 Keep back their perfume, dear, than bid our souls 
 Sweet with the bloom of love keep back sweet 
 
 words. 
 I love him. — Shrink not, sister. You must hear. — 
 And say not I am weak. Should I not grow 
 Far weaker did I hold in such strong love ? 
 
 We two lived long together, in one home ; 
 
 He, both my brother and my lover too. 
 
 My helper, and my hero. All my youth, 
 
 It glowed like sunrise round that warm, bright face. 
 
 My senior by four years was he ; and yet 
 
HAYDN. 29 
 
 So delicate in his blunt, boyish way, 
 So young in all things save in being kind. 
 He did seem near to me. Before I knew. 
 E'en in the bud of girlhood, he had pluck'd 
 My blushing love. He wore it on his heart 
 Yes, all my life did take root in his soul. 
 
 Now I remember once when we did stroll 
 
 Down through that vale whose furrow unannounced 
 
 Renders a mountain of the flat church-yard. 
 
 It was that time of year when nature seems 
 
 In mood most motherly, her very breath 
 
 Held in a mild suspense above a world 
 
 Of just born babyhood, when tiny leaves, 
 
 Like infant hands, do stretch to drain lush dews 
 
 From palpitating winds, and when small brooks 
 
 Do babble much, birds chirp, lambs bleat, and then 
 
 When, while all round is one sweet nursery. 
 
 It is not strange if men ape childhood too, 
 
 And lisp. — Ah me, minutest syllables 
 
 Are too coarse, still, for love's ethereal sense ! 
 
 As was her wont, at that time walk'd with us 
 My elfish younger sister, Doretta, 
 My pride and Haydn's pet, her merry tones 
 Ringing, when we did wax too pensive there, 
 
30 HA YDN. 
 
 Like bells that lure too wind-wild bees toward 
 
 home, 
 And bringing flighty fancies back to earth. 
 
 But Haydn liked this not, would ward it off. 
 Turning her chafing overcharge of nerve 
 From tongue to foot, with " Here, Doretta, imp ! 
 You cannot climb this ledge,'' or "leap that brook,'' 
 Or " find those flowers " ; — then bending down to- 
 ward me, 
 "I do abhor our German prudery. 
 We two should walk alone, or else have four, 
 Or six. When two agree they make a match. 
 A third is but a wedge with which to split 
 The two apart." 
 
 And once he paused with me, 
 And while Doretta linger'd, hid from view. 
 We two sat languidly upon the turf. 
 " Spring ! " he began, " I feel slight wish to spring ! 
 Yet, maybe, our whole lives are like our limbs \ 
 They must draw back, recoil, before they spring. 
 Our frames relax'd, they may make ready thus 
 To vault the new tests of the fresher year. — 
 What think you ? — aye ? — and is this not a law 1 
 Must we not always crouch before we rise ? 
 
HAYDN, 31 
 
 Must we not kneel before we know of heaven ? 
 And, tell me, if one had some aim in view, 
 Some aim sublime, to make him proud, so proud, 
 Say, would he not do thus ? " — 
 
 "Ha!" cried a voice, 
 And quick, Doretta's curls shook like a shade 
 Between his face and mine. She smoothed his 
 
 brow ; 
 And with a wreath of heart's-ease crown'd it then. 
 "There, there, my sweet heart, be at ease," she said. 
 
 " Do you take my head for my heart ? " he ask'd. 
 
 ^' Nay," she replied, " I would crown both conjoined, 
 Your music and your muse ; your head the means, 
 The motive power, your heart." 
 
 "What would love gain," 
 Quizzed he, "with all one's heart devoted to 
 One's head?" 
 
 " Would it not gain immortal fame 1 " 
 She said. 
 
32 HAYDN, 
 
 "And do you think," ask'd he, "that this 
 Could set the heart at ease ? " Then, musingly, — 
 "I sometimes think that no hearts, if at ease, 
 Have earnest in them of immortal fame. 
 High worth is earn'd through effort. Much ease 
 
 here 
 May weaken life, like sweetmeats served ere meats. 
 Surfeiting appetite before it act.'' 
 
 "But come," he added, starting suddenly, 
 
 " The sun has touch'd the earth. Look ! even now 
 
 Its hot, red disk makes the chill river steam. 
 
 We must away." And with this all walk'd home : 
 
 Nor did he find chance after that to end 
 
 That which he would have said to me alone. 
 
 Yet sister, of late, ofttimes I have thought 
 That those dear lips were making ready then, 
 When came Doretta, to breathe that to me 
 Which might have roused a resurrection here, 
 As righteously as blasts from Gabriel's trump, 
 Have open'd for me here a life of love. 
 
 Nay, do not bid me cease. I must talk thus. 
 It is not discontentment with my lot. 
 
HA YDN. 33 
 
 My heart, it suffocates. This feeling here, 
 It stifles me. I think that one might die. 
 Forbidden speech. Sister, had you a babe, 
 A little puny thing that needed air, 
 And nursing too ; and now and then a kiss, 
 A mother's kiss to quiet it; and arms^ 
 Warm arms to wrap, and rock it into sleep ; 
 Would you deny it these ? Ah, dear, there is 
 A far more tender babe that God calls love ; 
 And when He sends it, why, we mortals here, — 
 I will not say we grudge the kiss, the clasp, — 
 We grudge the little heaven-ling even air. 
 These tears, they will not stay: I weep to think 
 Of this poor gentle babe, this heir of heaven, 
 Smothered because men are ashamed of it. 
 It is not strange that earth knows little joy 
 While men so little dare to speak of love. 
 For once (I ask no more) you will permit 
 That I should nurse this stranger, give it air, 
 Aye, aye, and food, if need be ; let it grow. 
 It is God's child. I have no fear of it. 
 
 Haydn, he did not find chance after that 
 To speak with me; and this, I know not why. 
 My sire (e'en thinking this I know not why 
 My sire should aught surmise : we were alone, 
 Doretta, Haydn, and myself), my sire 
 3 
 
34 HAYDN, 
 
 From this time seemed distrustful ; not that he 
 Loved less his favorite, Haydn; but we both 
 Were still so young. And he, poor man, who earn'd 
 With all his toil but little, had a plan — 
 A dream, big bright beads strung on a flimsy 
 
 thread, 
 Mere lint brush'd from a worldling's flattery, — 
 That I should wed for wealth. So, like a gem, 
 I was locked up, for future use, in school. 
 
 There the strange faces drave my lonely thoughts 
 Back into memory for companionship : 
 And the dull books — and each one like a hearse 
 Wherein twice buried facts had been laid out — 
 Forced me to brood with self. I found my heart, 
 Bereaved of earth, lodged in an earth bewitch'd. 
 
 If Haydn present had calPd forth my love. 
 Absent, and thence conjured (how could I help?) 
 He caird forth worship. You remember, dear, 
 That those grand heroes of old Egypt seem'd 
 Not gods till taken from the eyes of men. 
 And so my Haydn, that bright world of his, 
 These never had appear'd so glorious 
 As then, when shut from me. Each slightest hint 
 Of his home made it seem a very heaven. 
 
HA YDN. 35 
 
 Sister, I often think that the real heaven 
 Must be so very bright: because, you know, 
 That even here the past is bright; and there, 
 Up there, we shall have faith, such perfect faith 
 That we shall not fear for the future. No : 
 It shall seem just as joyous as the past: 
 And with all bright, behind us and before, 
 Where shall be place for gloom ? Ah, even here 
 Could there be gloom if only man had faith ? 
 
 Three years passed over me. Can I forget 
 That beauteous summer's day which set me free ? 
 At first, as though I had no soul at all, 
 I seemed a part alone of the wide air : 
 And then all things had souls. The very earth, 
 My fellow, it did breathe ! I felt its heart 
 Throb in the trembling breeze. I saw, far off. 
 The grand hills heave and fall, like pulsing breasts ; 
 Then, this great life broke up in many lives, 
 All one through sympathy. In lieu of clouds 
 The gusty breeze caught up the twittering lark 
 And shook the laughter from his nervous sides 
 Till all that heard did shake, the littlest leaves 
 Buzzing on trees about, like bees that swarm. 
 Then reverence hush'd all sounds^ while, greeting 
 
 me. 
 Our dear old spire did mount a sinking hill, 
 
3^ HA YDN. 
 
 And our home reach around a slow-turn'd rock. — 
 Then all stood still with Haydn ! My hot cheek 
 Felt soon Doretta kiss me ; and my sire ; 
 When with bewilderment, as from a dream, 
 At last I awoke. 
 
 And what a dawn was that ! 
 As if the sun had drawn earth to itself, 
 I dwelt in central light: and heaven, high heaven.^ 
 It felt some rays, perhaps, just touched by them. 
 There, at the star-points, but no more, no more. 
 
 Doretta had developt much : so fair. 
 
 In the first flush of ripen'd maidenhood, 
 
 I did not wonder while I watch'd his eyes, 
 
 My Haydn's eyes, that he did crave the fruit. 
 
 And they were intimate. Right merrily 
 
 From morn to night I heard their voices chime. 
 
 But Haydn did not seem to know me now: 
 
 He was so quiet and reserved with me. 
 
 Alas, but my heart fluttered like a bird's 
 
 At his approach: my strange will, it flew off; 
 
 And, as if poised in air and not in me. 
 
 Left my weak words and ways without control ; 
 
 And I remained as though I prized him not. 
 
HAYDN. 37 
 
 At last his illness came. How pale he lay ! 
 We fear'd for him, lest life might slip its net : 
 The fleshy cords seemed worn to such thin gauze ! 
 But how his soul did shine through them ! Its 
 
 light, 
 I will not say that it did gladden me. 
 Yet (is it strange ?) while sitting by his side, 
 Fanning toward him fresh air which his faint lungs 
 Were all too weak to draw there for themselves, 
 For that so gentle, babelike sufferer, 
 I lost all fear. True to my womanhood, 
 I loved him more for his low, helpless sighs 
 Than ever I had loved him for his strength. 
 
 Often I thank'd my God that I had power 
 
 To think, speak, do for him what he could not. 
 
 I knelt : I gave my body to his soul : 
 
 I would yield brain, lips, hands, all things to him. 
 
 And was I not paid back? Ah, his sweet heart! 
 
 Each slightest beat of it, I felt it thrill 
 
 Through my twice dear, since doubly-serving veins. 
 
 And this was love ! You know what Christ hath 
 
 said : — 
 That they alone who lose it find their life. 
 'Tis true. No : none can feel this consciousness 
 Of real existence till he really love. 
 And yield his life to serve some other's life. 
 
38 HAYDN, 
 
 "To serve Christ's," you say? Nay; one part of 
 
 love, 
 By Christ's humanity, is serving man. 
 I speak a law of life, a truth of God : 
 I dare as little limit it to heaven 
 As to the earth : whatever be his sphere, 
 One knows not life therein until he love. 
 
 True love has life eternal, infinite. 
 Complete in its own nature, craving naught, 
 It needs no future and no boundary 
 Outside itself Its own reward, I deem 
 It waits not on return. For 'tis more bless'd 
 To love than to be loved, to be a God 
 Than be a man. 
 
 At least, my love bless'd me 
 More than it could bless Haydn. I could try. 
 Yet, after all, Doretta was the one 
 Who only could succeed in aiding him. 
 She had dwelt long at home, learn'd household 
 
 arts, 
 While I had but a bungling hand for them. 
 And so it happen'd that my task became 
 To fan him while he slept. When he awoke. 
 Though his meek lips would move with no com- 
 plaint, 
 
HA YDN, 39 
 
 Nor fixt eyes glance for other than myself, 
 
 I could not do for him as sister could. 
 
 She would adjust his pillow, tell him tales. 
 
 Bring flowers, books, pictures, just what pleas'd 
 
 him most. 
 But to my heart that patient face, those eyes 
 Seem'd like such holy things! My deeds were 
 
 hush'd : 
 I did not dare disturb the silence there. 
 I do not think that it was selfishness ; 
 Yet I was all content to look at him. 
 
 And my inaptitude my sister knew. 
 
 And partly since she knew what I did not, 
 
 And partly since she loved as well as I, 
 
 Soon as she heard his wakened voice, she came 
 
 And sat by him until he fell asleep. 
 
 And then, when there was little to be done, 
 
 Then only was I left alone with him. 
 
 Sometimes I lean'd above his couch, and grieved 
 To think that I could do no more than this ; 
 Sometimes I sighed, in thankfulness, that God 
 Would let me do so much. Once, praying thus, 
 Mayhap, He granted answer; for I thought 
 That, even though I might not have her art. 
 
40 HA YDN. 
 
 Doretta's art, at least that I might have 
 
 As much, perhaps, as guardian angels have ; 
 
 For, without hands or voices, they keep watch 
 
 In spirit only. Still, when sister came, 
 
 I thought once more, that, if those souls unseen 
 
 Can envy, sometimes they may envy men. 
 
 Hard did I strive against this jealousy : 
 I plead with Mary, and I knelt to Christ: 
 I sought the priestly father and confessed 
 My sinfulness to him. He chid me not 
 One half so much as I did chide myself. 
 How he did shame me that I dared to love 
 '* A man who had not ask'd me for my love ! 
 A man who loved my sister and not me ! " — 
 He bade me count my beads from night to morn; 
 And one whole week I slept not, counting them ; 
 But while I kept thought fixt thus on my sin 
 It seem'd that my sin grew. 
 
 Dear, I have learn'd 
 That all existence looms to greet the soul 
 Much like a mirror, wherein unto him 
 That hath is given more of what he hath : 
 Smile at the world, and it gives back a smile ; 
 Frown, and it gives back frowns ; look lovingly, 
 
HAYDN. 41 
 
 And all looks loving ; think sin, all seems sin. — 
 My soul ! dream not that thy most secret fault 
 Can hide itself. Thy sin shall find thee out. 
 Before, behind, on each side of thee flash 
 Thy moods reflected. Do but tell the tale, 
 Nay, do but whisper, glance, or breathe one hint 
 Of what thou findest in the world, and lo ! 
 In this, thy tale of it, earth reads thine own. 
 
 I wander much. There came a change at last. 
 
 Haydn was better; and one afternoon. 
 
 Suddenly, ere I knew that he awoke, 
 
 Upon my cheeks arose a burning heat, 
 
 While, past my mist of tears exhaled, there dawned 
 
 The empyrean of his open eyes. 
 
 "Johanna," murmured he, "Johanna, dear. 
 
 What? — Do you weep for me .^ I shall not die. — 
 
 Nay, do not rise, nor call Doretta yet. 
 
 Hist ; — do not let her hear us. Why, my friend, 
 
 Can you not stay with me when I awake ? 
 
 What has Doretta told you ? 
 
 "^Cannot do'? — 
 You think you * cannot do for me ' ? — do what ? 
 Have I ask'd you, dear, to do anything ? 
 
42 HA YDN. 
 
 I pray you, stay here ; do not anything. — 
 What pretty cuffs ! — There, there : let it lie still, 
 That little hand : I like to look at it. — 
 Who said that I wished flowers, books, prints, and 
 
 tales, 
 And bustlings all about ? — Who told you this ? — 
 Your sister 1 — She has been a good, kind nurse : 
 And have you, too, not been a good, kind nurse ? 
 Think you that I have never lain awake 
 In the long nights while you have watch'd with 
 
 me? — 
 
 "You have 'done but your duty'? — Say not so. 
 
 My friend most pleases when, forgetting due. 
 
 She seems to do her pleasure : and my foe, — 
 
 Who does not shrink to feel one near enough 
 
 To freeze him with a chill though duteous touch? 
 
 Duty is but the body part of love : 
 
 Let love be present, and this body seems 
 
 The fitting vestment of a finer life : 
 
 Let love be absent, 'tis a hideous corpse ! 
 
 Ah, dear, I crave the soul, I crave the life : 
 
 Then rattle not a skeleton at me. 
 
 "I 'mean your sister'? Why? — Did I name her? 
 Did I quote her as being duteous ? — 
 
HA YDN, 43 
 
 ' Who do I mean, then ' ? — Little fluttering bird ! 
 Suppose you were some real little bird, 
 How could you tell whence came or whither went 
 The wind that ruffed your feathers ? — Do you 
 
 know, 
 You women always will match thoughts to things ? 
 You chat as birds chirp, when their mates grow 
 
 bright ; 
 You love when comes a look that smiles on you. 
 We men are more creative. We love love. 
 Our own ideal long before aught real : 
 Our halo of young fancy circles naught 
 Save empty sky far off. — And yet those rays 
 Fit like a crown, at last, about the face 
 Which fortune drives between our goal and us ! 
 
 " Still, all miss truth at times ; none more than 
 
 those 
 Most prone to deem themselves infallible ; 
 None more than men, who, fallible in proof, 
 Yet flout the failings of a woman's guess. — 
 And your guess? — it went right. I thought of her, 
 Your sister. We both honor her, and much. 
 And yet I fear for you, lest her strong will 
 Should overweigh by aught your strength of will. 
 For God has given you your own moods, dear ; 
 And are you not responsible for them t 
 
44 HA YDN, 
 
 And if you yield them up too readily, 
 Not meaningly, yet may you not mistake ? 
 Our lives, remember, are not sounding-boards, 
 Not stationed, senseless all, behind vain tongues 
 That prate, made wise in naught by our resound. 
 If you but echo back some other's wish 
 Think you God's mission for yourself fulfil I'd ? 
 Yet, dear, I would not chide ; I caution you. 
 Wit heeds a hint ; 'tis folly questions it. 
 
 "And so you thought, did you, that I wish'd flow- 
 ers. 
 
 Books, prints, and tales, and bustlings all about ? 
 
 Does not this earth, then, weary one enough 
 
 That he should need that others weary him ? 
 
 You must have thought that I lack'd exercise ! 
 
 I have seen nervous mothers shake their babes. 
 
 I never deem'd it wise. I am quite sure 
 
 That friction frets the temper of the child. 
 
 It is not natural. God does not shake 
 
 The ground with earthquakes when He wishes 
 spring. 
 
 Life is not driven but drawn from its germs 
 
 By still, bright heat. Johanna, look at me. 
 
 I am too weak now to be driven toward life. 
 
 Nay, nay, I must be drawn ! Dear, look at me. 
 
 Ah, I could tell of orbs bright as two suns. — 
 
HAYDN, 45 
 
 Nay, do not blush, and turn that face away. 
 Do you dream, then, that I wish sunset, eh ? 
 The colors are right pretty, but — there, there — 
 
 " What ? — I ? I dare not face you now ! Those 
 
 eyes, 
 Are they too bright ? or loving ? Love, like God, 
 Is it so brightly dear, that our poor lives. 
 Our vapory lives, like dews before the dawn. 
 Dare not to face it lest we melt away? — 
 Then be it so. Johanna, look ! I dare ! 
 Am I not yours ? Can you not use your own ? 
 Ah, dearest, I wish no life, naught, save you ! " 
 
 Then, while he spake with his hands clasping mine. 
 And his eyes tiring mine with so much sight 
 That the weak lids were vext to feeble tears, 
 Doretta came. 
 
 But at our startled looks 
 She only smiled ; said, " Haydn, what ! awake ? — 
 And you, Johanna? — You have been too good 
 Not to call me before. How kind in you ! 
 Why, after all, a little training thus 
 Might make you like, perhaps, to be a nurse, — 
 
46 HA YDN. 
 
 Or housekeeper. — Your room was dreadfully 
 Disorder 'd, dear. Our sire just came from it. 
 He was so cross ! " 
 
 And I remember'd then 
 How unexpectedly I had been calFd, 
 This morn, to watch with Haydn. And I thought 
 That she had not been kind to speak of it. 
 I could have told her so ; but checked the words 
 And went my way, sadly and silently. 
 In hope to satisfy, at least, my sire. 
 
 This done, I sought my room, and wept and pray'd. 
 Thinking if I should tell my sire of it. 
 Of Haydn's love ; or if I should tell Haydn ; 
 And if he loved me still, since sister's words. 
 If only he could know my soul in truth, 
 I felt that I could suffer anything; 
 Could die, if so the veils about my heart 
 Could be withdrawn and show him how I loved. 
 Alas, I did not know then, had not learned. 
 That love may bear tests worse than even death. 
 
 The sunset brought Doretta to my room ; 
 And she began, and chided me, and said. 
 
HA YDN. 47 
 
 " How dared you talk with Haydn ? What said 
 
 you ? — 
 He lies so ill, the fever high, so high. 
 He did but rave. How could you lead him on ? 
 He may grow worse. O, sister, he may die ! 
 And all come of your nursing. Sister mine, 
 When will you learn to learn what you know not ? " 
 
 With this she sigh'd again, " If he should die ? '* 
 And then she told me such a long, sad tale, 
 Of how much store she placed upon his life ; 
 How they had sung, read, thought the self-same 
 
 things : 
 She knew the closest chamber in his soul. 
 And what key could unlock it. Then she named 
 This, that, another man among our friends. 
 Surely she could not love them so; — no, no. 
 
 Then cried she, "O, my sister, had you searched 
 Through all the world, its lonely, barren wastes. 
 And found one little nook ; and had you work'd 
 And tiird it well, and form'd a garden there ; 
 And had you watch'd the plantlets grow until 
 All dainty bowers bent over you with shade, 
 All sweet with bright buds and with singing birds, 
 What would you think of one who came and stript 
 
48 HA YDN. 
 
 Your life of this last thing which you lov'd so ? — 
 Dear, I say not if God, if any power, 
 Should wrest from me my Haydn, this sweet soil 
 Whence spring all hopes which shelter my lone 
 
 hours, 
 And make it a dear thing to see and hear, 
 What would yoii think of it ? Yet, sister mine, 
 You have not known and tired of many men. 
 You have not searched, as I have, through the 
 
 world '' — 
 
 "Nay, sister," said I, "I have not." 
 
 Then she, — 
 " Right : and you cannot yet know love, true love. 
 You were kept close at school : and it was hard 
 And it is harder still that you must wait, 
 As I have done, at your age too. But yet 
 Right love is ripe love. Life must be exposed 
 To sun and storm, pressing and bruising too. 
 Its fruit grows mellow by-and-by alone.'' 
 
 " Why, dear," said I, " I think that I can love ! 
 You know what Haydn sings : — ' Maidens, like 
 
 flowers. 
 Are sweetest when pluck'd in the bud'?" 
 
HAYDN-, 49 
 
 "There now, 
 You always will be quoting him ! " she cried. 
 " He is a man, ah yes, your first man-friend ! 
 And yet, unmatched by you with other men. 
 How know you him, what sort of man he is ? — 
 Girls unsophisticated are like bees : 
 They buzz for all, and yet sip all their sweets 
 From the first flowery lips that open to them." 
 
 "Nay," answered I, "I like him not for that. 
 Because he is a man ! " 
 
 '' Ah, ha ! " said she, 
 " So you have shrewder plans ? — I know, I know 
 It would be well if you, or I, could feel 
 That it were fixt, about our wedded life ; 
 So many ifs and ifs, it vexes one ; 
 It would be well now were the business done. — 
 We have such trusting natures, we poor girls ; 
 Weak parasites we are: each tall, stout man 
 Seems just the thing that we should cling about. 
 But, dear, I think that half these trunks may rot: — 
 The wonder is that we dare cling at all ! " 
 
 "But, Haydn," ask'd I, "Haydn.?" — 
 4. 
 
so HA YDN. 
 
 "As for him," 
 She sighed, "well^ he may not be trustless all; 
 Yet if he be or be not, how know you 
 Who know not human nature, nor have learn'd 
 To analyze it and detect the truth. 
 Nature grows grain and chaff. Sift out the first 
 And cultivate it: it may yield you fruit. 
 That is the way with friendship." 
 
 "But," said I, 
 "If you should change yourself who change your 
 
 friend. 
 Or but change his relations to yourself. 
 Or mistake ill for good, and till his ill, 
 Or, some way, make a new, strange man of him?" — 
 
 "I should till," answered she, "what pleases me; 
 And with what pleases me preserve my love." 
 
 "Sister," rejoin'd I, "not for future gain, 
 
 Not for what he may be, for what he is 
 
 I love my friend. I would not wish him changed. 
 
 I would not dare to risk, for my weak whim. 
 
 The perfect poising of relations which 
 
 God gave for me to find so lovable. 
 
HAYDN, SI 
 
 Ah, did I chiefly prize the possible, 
 
 Or profitable, where were present joy ! 
 
 Nay, nay, I love that which I find possessed." 
 
 " How much, pray, can you find possessed ? '^ ask'd 
 she. 
 
 "Enough to love," said I. 
 
 "What is enough 
 For that?" she ask'd again. 
 
 I answered her, - 
 " Enough to make his presence seem a boon ; 
 Enough to make his wish seem a behest; 
 Enough to feel an impulse seeking him. 
 And, finding him, a consciousness of all." 
 
 "'A consciousness of all,' is vague," she said. 
 " I ask for reasons and you rave at me. 
 This very vagueness while you answer me, 
 It proves how immature in love you are." 
 
52 HAYDN. 
 
 " Sister," replied I, " there is higher love, — 
 A love of God, a love all worshipful ; 
 And, should you ask me to define that love, 
 I might give back an answer still more vague. 
 The finite only can be well defined." 
 
 " The finite ! " mutter'd she ; and then exclaimed : 
 
 " O, you wish worship ! Well, then, we will find 
 
 A shrine, an idol, aye, a golden one. 
 
 — Forgive the simile. — You know our choice. 
 
 Our father's heart is set on it; and then 
 
 The baron could fall down and worship you; 
 
 So father says. Two idols you could have, — 
 
 Your home a very temple ; only, dear. 
 
 You should not be so backward. With your 
 
 choice — 
 These men, they all present their best to you. 
 You get the diamonds as if you were noon : 
 And I, I get the coals. — Humph, if I touch. 
 They either burn or else they blacken me." 
 
 This said, she left me quickly. It was strange. 
 What strange abhorrence shrank my soul from her 
 While speaking thus ; less from her selfishness 
 Than her insensibility. Our tastes — 
 Those dainty despots of desire, our tastes. 
 
HAYDN. 53 
 
 Are our worst tyrants : they brook no offense. 
 
 I well-nigh hated her. Yet feeling thus, 
 
 While picturing her character as coarse — 
 
 Have you not noticed at the arsenal, 
 
 At times, while gazing on grim helmets there. 
 
 All suddenly, upon the polish'd iron 
 
 A wondrous brightness ? then, in its pure depth, 
 
 Your own face hideous render'd ? So with me : 
 
 Amid harsh outlines of her character 
 
 Shone soon its brighter metal: and from thence 
 
 Leered back upon my gaze my hideous self! — 
 
 For was not I the mean, the selfish one? 
 
 Had I regarded her, my father's wish, 
 
 Or the great baron's ? — My soul answer'd, — no : 
 
 None except Haydn's. 
 
 Then I ask'd myself. 
 Could it be true, that which my sister said, — 
 That those sweet words of Haydn did exude 
 From some growth mushroom'd by disease ? 
 
 thought 
 How marvelously crowded with strange shapes 
 Loom the deep halls of fancy lighted up 
 By fires of fever ; and how trustingly 
 All weakness leans on all beside itself. 
 And soon I blamed myself that I did dare 
 To lure his poor, weak, crazed confession on ; 
 
54 HAYDN, 
 
 And soon flushed, too ; and broke in passionate sobs, 
 To think that sister dared to hint such things. 
 So three days did my woes alternate ; then 
 I went to my confessor with my cares* 
 
 '^Well, well, my child," he said, "what! love, again? 
 The rest of us poor mortals here, we fret 
 Because we have too little of it, you * 
 Because you have too much. I know, one hears 
 Of love, full oft, as of some great, grand thing, 
 But you have found yours, child, an elephant. 
 Taxing your whole weak powers to furnish food. 
 Yet of no use except to tramp on you. — 
 Tell me, think you that it is God, or man 
 Who makes much love so troublesome to one ? " 
 
 " Why man/' I said, " of course." 
 
 "My child," ask'd he, 
 "Do you not think it might be wise to get 
 Some less of man in you, and more of God ? — 
 How fares it with your prayers ? " 
 
 "But," I rejoin'd, 
 'It does not seem my fault, this woe of mine." 
 
HAYDN. 55 
 
 "Well, let us know," he answered, "weigh the 
 
 sides : 
 Three wills against one will ; now, which should 
 
 yield?" 
 
 "Nay," I exclaimed, "against two — me and Haydn; 
 And then, the other three have not such love." 
 
 "There, there," he said, "is that a Christian mood, 
 
 A modest, humble mood? — 'Have not such love!' 
 
 How do we test love, child? It seems to me 
 
 That love, like light, is tested by its rays. 
 
 The halo is Christ's crown of royalty. 
 
 Self-sacrifice marks heaven's heraldry. 
 
 In all true life the strong must serve the weak ; 
 
 The mother yields her pleasure to the babe ; 
 
 The man to her; and Christ, God, to us all. 
 
 Ah, child, if you were strong ! had but such love ! " 
 
 I sobb'd, " I am not sure whom I should serve ! " 
 
 "Well, put it thus: — your own wish or your sire's? 
 How reads the decalogue?" 
 
56 HAYDN. 
 
 "But," answered I, 
 " It seems as though there were some higher power 
 That one ought to obey, some power like God." 
 
 "Yes, child," he said, "the Church, surely, the 
 
 Church : 
 Of course, of course." 
 
 "Who is the Church?" I ask'd. 
 And then he laughed: "Who? — What a question, 
 
 child ! — 
 Why, read your prayer-book. Why, the Church, of 
 
 course. 
 Speaks through its ministers." 
 
 " And if you speak," 
 Inquired I, trembling, "if you give advice. 
 Is that the last word then ? must I obey ? " 
 
 "Something, perhaps, like that. But, dear me, 
 child, 
 
 You must not think us bears ! We growl some- 
 times 
 
 In sermons, eh? — But then, dear me, dear me, 
 
HAYDN. 57 
 
 We would not eat our flock up, little lamb ! — 
 Come," added he, " come, now ; enough of earth ; 
 We must look to your prayers." 
 
 Soon after this, 
 One day, while troubled much, I stumbled on 
 My Haydn, half restored, outside his room. 
 By chance he sat alone ; and, seeing me, — 
 " Why, dear, what accident is this ? " he said : 
 " And tears, too, tears ? — Tell me, what sullen 
 
 storm 
 Has left such heavy drops ? Did it not know 
 That these, so tender eaves, might droop .^ if droop. 
 What rare views they might shut out from the 
 
 world ? — 
 What can have happened ? 
 
 " Why not speak with me ? — 
 You seem the very winter of yourself. — 
 Say, what has chilPd you so ? — Surely not I ? — 
 Johanna, I do know, whatever my mood. 
 Did you but open those dear, rosy lips, 
 That summer air would be exhaled around 
 Sweet to dispel, calm my most stormy wish. 
 Despite myself ! — Why will you trust me not ? " 
 
58 HAYDN. 
 
 And then I spake to him. I hinted first 
 
 That I was odd: he should not mind my moods. 
 
 "Odd," answered he, "I knew a family 
 
 Where all the children were so very odd. 
 
 Like fruit, harsh to the touch and sour to taste, 
 
 Not ripe nor mellow. They had too much spring 
 
 And not enough of summer in their home. — 
 
 I know that you are not so very odd 
 
 As not to love to be with whom you love. 
 
 And can I not hope, dear, that you love me ? " 
 
 And at these words (how could I help myself?) 
 My heart-gates sprang wide open. He learn'd all. 
 All that the priest had told me of myself; 
 And how we should not speak together more. 
 
 How wild it made him ! Never had I seen 
 One shaken so. His anger frightened me. 
 "This wretched priest," said he, "you ask^d of God : 
 He answered you about the Church, *of course,' 
 And of the Church about the priests, *of course,' 
 And of the priests about himself, 'of course.* 
 I tell you this is cursed selfishness ; 
 I tell you it is downright sacrilege; 
 
HAYDN. 59 
 
 Straining the thunders of the Infinite 
 
 Down through that sieve, his windpipe, dribbling out, 
 
 * I deal the voice of God, I, I, the priest ! ' " 
 
 " O, Haydn," cried I, " Haydn, how dare you ! " 
 
 " Dare ? " said he, " dare ? You must think me a 
 
 dog, 
 A dog or woman cringing to a man, — 
 The more he kicks, the more to lick his heels." 
 
 "Haydn," I answered, — and I sobb'd aloud, 
 "I kneel down to his office, not to him." 
 
 *' Poor girl," said he, " forgive me — stop — I 
 
 beg — 
 What ? — do you . think that I would make you 
 
 weep ? 
 It was not of you, darling, not of you, 
 But of the system that I meant to speak." 
 
 " The system," I repeated ; " Haydn, dear, — 
 Dear Haydn, you are not a Christian, then." 
 
6o HA YDN. 
 
 "And wherefore not?" ask'd he. 
 
 "Because," said I, 
 "You reverence not the Church." 
 
 "It was not that," 
 He answered, "but the priests; of them I spake." 
 
 "Yet," I rejoin'd, "the priests have been ordained. 
 Have you no reverence for God^s ministers ? " 
 
 " God's ministers ! " he muttered. " Yes ; if God's ! 
 I reverence the princeship, not the prince 
 When he forsakes his throne, and strips himself, 
 And puddles in the gutter with his slaves." 
 
 ^What do you mean?" I asked. 
 
 "I mean that priests 
 Are not ordain'd to meddle with all tools. 
 Princes dispense ; they do not mine their gold. 
 And priests administer the truth reveal'd. 
 
HAYDN. 6l 
 
 Think you that they can mine unfathom'd depths 
 
 Of God's infinity ; and bring to light 
 
 Laws not reveaFdj and govern men through them? 
 
 This, your priest, tampering with our social life, 
 
 Speaks with no warrant human or divine : 
 
 Whatever his object, since he serves your sire, 
 
 Or since he fancies that my life, my gifts. 
 
 Might worthier prove devoted to the Church, 
 
 Is he in this our final arbiter ? — 
 
 Have I no judgment? — Are you not of age? 
 
 Johanna, heed me ; let no power, I beg, 
 
 Avail to sunder us. God hears my words. 
 
 I fear some scheme which may make your crushed 
 
 heart 
 (It will ache if you yield) a stirrup trod 
 To speed some mounting meanness on toward ill." 
 
 "'Twas I," I said, "who craved the priest's advice." 
 
 "He handled the occasion," answered he. 
 "I would not dare to mould another thus. 
 Nay, though I knew that I could model thence 
 The best shaped manhood of my mind's ideal. 
 Who knows ? — My own ideal, my wisest aim, 
 May tempt astray: they may lead him astray. 
 If I, made but to answer for one soul, 
 
62 HAYDN. 
 
 Take on myself the governance of two, 
 
 I may be doubly damn'd. 'Tis sacrilege, 
 
 This self-will which would manage other wills, 
 
 As though men were the puppets of a show, 
 
 And not souls, restless and irresolute, 
 
 In that mysterious poise 'twixt right and wrong 
 
 From which a sigh may launch toward heaven or 
 
 hell. — 
 Dare you submit to this impiety?" 
 
 "But," ask'd I, "ought not one to heed advice?" 
 
 " Advice ? " he answer'd. " Is this, then, the ground 
 On which these base authority? — Nay, nay. 
 Base where they may, their ground is wilfullness 
 Invested years ago; stript not for age 
 Which awes revolt ! Shall your will yield to 
 
 theirs ? — 
 God has not given to over-strength of will 
 The right to rule right. Wilfullness is sin. 
 If you obey its mandate, how know you 
 That you obey not sin ? " 
 
 "They may have will," 
 I said, "but you forget; they are wise, too." 
 
HAYDN. 63 
 
 "About what?" he rejoin^. "In other men 
 
 Experience is the warrant of advice. 
 
 But in the priest — what knows he of real life? — 
 
 Nothing : and if he give you his advice 
 
 He gives you nothing or he gives you whims; — 
 
 A bachelor teaching mothers how to breed ! 
 
 Or fathers how to guide their grown-up girls ! 
 
 Trust me, their counsels unversed, fancied, false, 
 
 Repel toward infidelity the wise, 
 
 And of the fools tempted to follow them 
 
 Make hypocrites or hypochondriacs." 
 
 "Nay," I said firmly, "I must hear no more." 
 
 "Have they then really separated us?" 
 He ask^d. 
 
 "How?" questioned I. "What mean you now?" 
 "Are you," continued he, "my friend, or not?" 
 "What is a friend?" I askU 
 
04 HA YDM 
 
 "What else/' said he, 
 "But, in this world, where all misjudge one so, 
 A soul to whom one dares to speak the truth ? " 
 
 "Ah, Haydn," ask'd I, "must one speak all 
 truth ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " said he ; " is sin less sin when 
 
 seal'd ? — 
 Is not the penitent a sinner frank, 
 The hypocrite a sinner not so frank ? " — 
 
 " But," I protested, " may not truth do harm ? " 
 
 " How so ? " ask'd he. " If one show naked sin, — 
 Who knows ? — then it may shame men from the 
 
 sin. 
 And could the naked good accomplish more ? 
 Are Christians not told to confess their faults ? 
 Why should they not? Has real wrong such sweet 
 
 smiles. 
 Such siren tones, that men should lust for it.^ 
 The harm comes from the lie, the mask of sin." 
 
HA YDN, 65 
 
 'But," I rejoin'd, "the young? the prejudiced?" 
 
 "For their sake," he said, "wisdom may be wise 
 In what it screens from folly. — Yet you know 
 The crime of Socrates, — * corrupting youth * ? 
 The tale is old : this lying world hates truth. 
 Heed not the world. Rather speak out and die. 
 Our God is great. I deem Him great enough 
 To save His truth without subverting ours. 
 The Truth is sovereign. It is not a sham, 
 Holding high rank because men, courteous men, 
 Considerate men, allow it seeming rank ! — 
 Who lies to save the truth distrusts the truth. 
 And disobeys God, and dishonors self. 
 Who strives to save a soul thus, loses it. 
 Trusting in evil and the evil one, — 
 Salvation through the devil, not through Christ ! " 
 
 Then while he lay there with his flushing cheeks 
 Himself defending thus, I, charmed the while. 
 The door flew open, and behind it stood — 
 My father and the priest. 
 
 If they had said 
 But one harsh word, it had not been so sad. 
 5 
 
66 HAYDN. 
 
 But they were kind, too kind. Ah, sister dear, 
 Have you not felt it, how much pain it gives, 
 This pain from kindness ? Love is like the sun : 
 It brightens life, but may blast at times. 
 And when winds blow though man may screen him- 
 self, 
 And when rains beat though he may shelter find, 
 And when frosts chill though he may clothing wear, 
 What medium can ward off sun-stroke ? — Love, 
 Its first degree may bring fertility; 
 Its second barrenness. It lights ; it blights. 
 The flames of heaven, flash'd far and spent, turn 
 
 smoke 
 To glut the gloom of hell ! 
 
 And their kind words 
 (We could have braced ourselves against harsh 
 
 means) 
 Wrought like a sesame on each defense 
 That caution should have held. " We did not know 
 Our own minds, poor young pair,'' they said. "At 
 
 least, 
 True love could wait : and meantime, who could aid 
 Better than those whose treasure lay in us .'^ " 
 
 And then to me alone they spake of Haydn : — 
 "He had been passionate: — how knew I that 
 
HAYDN, 67 
 
 His passion might not turn against myself ? 
 And he had sinn'd, so sorely, sorely sinn'd : — 
 How could one talk thus of the Church and priest ? 
 And did my love to him suggest such words, 
 Or should my love hereafter sanction them, 
 Might not his sin prove mine? — If I should yield. 
 Let his unbridled tongue win me, might not 
 My act confirm his trust in will unchecked ? 
 And will unchecked, why, like an unchecked steed, 
 Once yield it rein — allow it once free way. 
 One false association of ideas. 
 Ideas still associate with the false : 
 There is no bridling after that : no, no." 
 
 % 
 I said, " He loves much.'* 
 
 They, "Had I not learn'd 
 That loss of friends is gain for fortitude. 
 But loss of fortitude gain for a fall. 
 Better lose love than life. Our characters 
 Expand through lifetime as the trees expand. 
 Each passing season that encircles them 
 Leaves from its clasp a ring: the ring remains. 
 So our past deeds remain about ourselves : 
 And men can trace them less from stories told. 
 Than from the range which circumiscribes our mood. 
 Excluding or including right or wrong." 
 
6S HAYDN. 
 
 And then they added : '' Might it not be found 
 That loss of my love was the very means 
 Designed by Providence to chasten him ? '' 
 
 To this I answer'd, that "This love, his love 
 Itself seemed Providence, a holy thing." 
 
 They only frowned, and said, "The prince of ill 
 Came oft robed like an angel of the light ; — 
 Why not like love ? — The only holy thing, 
 Proved to be such, was Christ. What had He 
 
 done. 
 When moved by love ? What of His sacrifice ? — 
 And if I really loved this Haydn so. 
 What might love prompt in me t " 
 
 And thus they talk'd, 
 Till my faith welcoming doubt succumbed to it; 
 And all that love which had made me so proud. 
 Which I had deemed of growth so sweet, so fair, 
 Stung like a very thistle to my soul. 
 Each breath of theirs blew at its ragged shreds, 
 And sow^d its pestering seedlets far and wide 
 O^er every pleasant prospect of my life. 
 
HA YDN. 69 
 
 Thence I cried out in prayer. How I did plead ! 
 
 How long, how toilfully, how fruitlessly ! 
 
 At last, wild with despair, I left my beads, 
 
 And, as if it could cool a feverish faith, 
 
 Pass'd out and sought the night air. There I saw 
 
 The moon. It always soothed me with strange 
 
 spells. 
 The moon. But now, as though all things had 
 
 joined 
 To thwart my peace, at once I saw this moon 
 Caught up behind an angry horde of clouds, 
 Chased with the hot breath of a coming storm 
 That clang'd his thunder-bugle through the west. 
 After the rude gust struck the moon, she tipt, 
 Spilling a single flash. Where it did light. 
 Just in the path before me, gleam'd a knife ! — 
 Held up above a white dress ! At the sight 
 I screamed aloud. It seem'd a ghost ! 
 
 My scream 
 Awoke no echo save Doretta's voice : — 
 " Well, sister, were you frightened t " 
 
 And to this, 
 Partly because the shock had stunned me much. 
 Partly because I felt me much provoked. 
 
70 HA YDN, 
 
 But mainly since my mood was deaf to sport, 
 I answer'd nothing. Whereat, as I think, 
 Though then in its unnatural, nervous state, 
 My mind surmised more horrid inference, 
 She, stirred to still more mischievous caprice, 
 Went on to vex me more. 
 
 " What ? — You fear me ! 
 Have you done aught, have you, against me, then ? 
 And if you have, why should you fear a knife ? — 
 Think, now, this blade might draw a little blood ; — 
 What would that signify ? — the body pained. 
 Suppose that one should wield some subtler blade 
 And draw a few tears, watery tears, weak things ; — 
 What would they signify ? — a soul in pain. 
 And did you never do that, now ? — draw tears ? — 
 And is the soul not something worse to harm 
 Than is the body ? — Fy ! why fear a knife ? 
 If I supposed that through a life-time long 
 My soul must bleed its dear strength out in tears, 
 Say, would it not be mercy to that soul 
 If I should check the longer, stronger woe 
 By shedding a few drops of weaker blood, 
 Now, once for all ? " 
 
 "Oh, sister sister mine,*' 
 I cried out, still more frighten'd, "what mean you?'' 
 
HAYDN. 71 
 
 ■* 
 
 "This," answered she, "I mean that I would cut 
 My body's life in two parts sooner than 
 My souPs life." 
 
 "Sister," I could only gasp, 
 " Cease — do ; — put up that knife " — 
 
 "AVhy?" she replied; — 
 "For what? — Your wish? Do you so often yield 
 When I wish aught ? — Tell me, what would you 
 give ? " 
 
 " Give ? — Anything ! " I answered. 
 
 "Be not rash," 
 She said. " It is not your way : and, besides, 
 The light is dim. — How know you ? may not ears 
 Be near us that may overhear ? Beware ! — 
 But pshaw ! " she added, " I will go my way. 
 And you go yours. — Who cares what either d8 ? " 
 
 " Sister," I cried again, " you must not go ! 
 Put up that knife ! — and if you will, then I — 
 T will not marrv Havdn 1 " 
 
 rut up that knite I — ana 1 
 I will not marry Haydn ! " 
 
72 HAYDN, 
 
 "You?" she laughed; 
 "And who thought, then, that you would marry him ? 
 Ha ! and if I had wish'd to spring your thoughts, 
 Could I have chosen, eh ? a shrewder thrust ? — 
 Ha I ha ! — to murder me, or you, or him ! 
 It floods all madness just to tap your moods ! 
 But go in, simpleton. You may get wet, — 
 And trust me with the knife. It meant no harm 
 Except to this beheaded cabbage here." 
 
 And, shaking this at me, she flitted off". 
 While I walked vaguely back, to find my room 
 Still sadder than before. I could not think 
 That my surmise was just ; yet could not think 
 That all her strange demean was meaningless ; 
 And to this day thoughts pause and puzzle oft 
 Pondering that scene: then, in my mood confused, 
 It seemed the last blow which unsettled all. 
 
 What is more direful than the direful night 
 Spent by a man in trouble ? — filPd with fears 
 That sleep may bring distressful nightmares now ; 
 And now, that morn may come before he sleep ; 
 Until, betwixt the two, distracted quite. 
 Awake he dreams, and dreaming seems awake. 
 And evermore does weep at what he dreams. 
 
HA YDN. 73 
 
 And then does weep that he should dream no 
 
 more. — 
 
 In my dark fancies all that night I lay, 
 
 A murderess, guilty of Doretta's death. 
 
 Alas ! and after those most woeful hours. 
 
 Awaited still more woe when morning came. — 
 
 Haydn, his shattered frame so frail before. 
 
 Rent by that throe of passion yesterday. 
 
 Lay, once more, prostrate in the arms of death : 
 
 So thought we all; I, ere I heard the fact. 
 
 Felt its cold shadow creeping over me. 
 
 The shutters closed, the silence everywhere, 
 
 The very coffin of our lively home, — 
 
 I did not need to ask the cause of gloom. 
 
 I mark'd my sire's sad look, and voice suppressed ; 
 
 I mark'd the kind physician, and no smile ; 
 
 I sought and saw my Haydn. His pale face 
 
 Stared like a ghost's upon my fear of guilt : 
 
 For I, perhaps, had made his last works sin : 
 
 And I, perhaps, had helped to doom his soul. 
 
 I thought then of my father, of the priest, 
 What they had said of love, and of true love, 
 Such love as Christ had had. I ask'd myself 
 If there was aught which I could sacrifice.? 
 
74 HA YDN. 
 
 Sister, do you recall that afternoon 
 
 When first we met ? How long, how sad it seem'd ! 
 
 So many kindly sisters spake with me. 
 
 And pray'd for me; and then, at twilight dim, 
 
 When scarcely any eye but God's could see, 
 
 We knelt before the altar : and I rose. 
 
 Thankful if like that candle on the shrine 
 
 Within my heart one light alone did burn ; 
 
 Yes, though all earth beside might be as dark 
 
 As those chill, shadowy chapels of the aisle. 
 
 I felt another life while I walked home. 
 Such conflicts come but seldom, like spring storms ; 
 And though they may uproot and wrack the soil, 
 They find it frost-bound, and they leave it green. — 
 Alas ! if grain or chaif be grown, depends 
 Upon the germs which they have wrought upon. 
 And yet, whate'er may come, it seems to me 
 Earth's happiness is hope ; and every change 
 Caters to hope ; and thus, before it break, 
 Each newest bubble charms us. 
 
 And it may bring 
 To every soul some real blessedness. 
 This sunrise of a new experience ; 
 For with it dawns afresh the consciousness 
 
HAYDN, 75 
 
 Of how far past these present steps of Time 
 
 Wait for us those eternal eyes of God ; 
 
 And all true thoughts of God are means of grace. 
 
 When he grew better (for our prayers were heard, 
 All of them answered : Haydn did not die) 
 The kind physician urged that I should not 
 Be wholly kept from him. But this, my sire 
 At first opposed : and then I went to him. 
 
 "Father," I said, "you need not fear for me. 
 If He will give poor Haydn health once more. 
 Then, I have vow^d to God that I will take 
 No veil save that which weds me to the Church." 
 
 "My daughter," he exclaimed, "my daughter take — 
 What is this that you say? — you take the veil! 
 In God^s name, girl, explain yourself." 
 
 "I made 
 This vow," I said, "before the virgin's shrine." 
 
 " What strange, what thoughtless deed is this ? " 
 he cried. 
 
76 HAYDN, 
 
 " You take an oath ? — oath not to be recalPd ! — 
 That you will shut away from me this face ? 
 This form so nurtured, these long waiting years ? 
 This harvest of tired hope ? — Nay, but I err ; -— 
 Correct me ; — rather say my senses lie. 
 My brain has softened ; — call me second child ; 
 Bid to a nursery ; — anything but this ! 
 
 " True ? — Is it true ? — I would not frighten you : 
 
 Poor girl, God knows that you will have enough 
 
 To shudder for. — Yet, it bewilders me : 
 
 How did you, you who have been wont to be 
 
 Confiding and considerate and calm, 
 
 How could you do a thing so wild, so rash, — 
 
 Nay, I will not say disobedient, — 
 
 Nor once consult me ? — Tell me this, my girl : — 
 
 What false seduction could have tempted you ? " 
 
 " Father," I sobbed, " I marvel'd when you said 
 That I could do so, then when I told you 
 That I would rather be a nun than be 
 The baron's wife." 
 
 '^Why, my poor girl," he sigh'd, 
 ' Those words were but in jest, whift off like breath 
 
HAYDN. 77 
 
 Blown at a fly that comes to trouble one. 
 And can it be that they? — I do believe 
 (My words have cropped in cursedness before) 
 The very atoms of the air, like dust, 
 Are spawned with vermin-eggs ! If one but speak. 
 But break the silence; if his breath but bear 
 One faintest puff from passionate heat within, 
 Lo, it breaks open some accursed shell ! — 
 It hatches forth foul broods of venomous life 
 That are blown back with the first changing wind, 
 To haunt him who provoked their devilish birth ! 
 By day they pierce us here, in our soft eyes ; 
 By night steal through unguarded gates of sense 
 And harm our souls in dreams ! — My heart ! and 
 
 you ? — 
 How could you deem those jesting words of mine 
 The voice of such deform'd desire as this ? " 
 
 "But father," I replied, "the priest, your friend, — 
 At least, I think — so thought." 
 
 "The priest!" he cried, 
 " Has he been meddling with your malady ? — 
 My friend t — He is my friend no more." 
 
78 HA YDN, 
 
 "Nay, I," 
 I said, " I urged his counsel ; even then 
 He said but little/' 
 
 " Little ! " he rejoin'd ; 
 " That little was too much ! Nay, never more — 
 Yet hold " — And here he paused. — " He is 
 
 priest. — 
 Daughter, now that I think, it need not all 
 Be darkness ; no. — The priest — I have a clew 
 To clear this labyrinth — The priest, he may, 
 Aye, he shall get an absolution. Aye, 
 An absolution ; we shall get that, dear." 
 
 And then my father, in his sanguine way, 
 Recovered somewhat. And he fondled me. 
 " I see now : you love Haydn, my poor girl. 
 AVhy, here you are a woman when I thought 
 That you were but my pet, my little child. — 
 But do not weep : no ; for I honor you. 
 My little woman ! — There, forgive me now ; 
 Forgive my quick words. When it comes, my girl, 
 The absolution, then, then we shall see 
 AVhether the father can be kind or not." 
 With this he kiss'd me. And what could I do ? — 
 How could I tell him that his hopes were vain ? 
 How could I think myself that they were vain ? 
 
HAYDN. 79 
 
 From this time onward came no further check 
 Attending Haydn. To the world he said, 
 My father, that " his daughter had his sense ; " 
 That he ''could trust his girl to be discreet;'' 
 And to Doretta in some way he spake, 
 So e'en her caution was, in part, appeased. 
 
 Then days and weeks and months pass'd quickly by 
 In which, when Haydn's prison'd love would start, 
 E'en while I heard the trembling of its bars, 
 I learn'd to check him, saying, gently, then, 
 " But not now, Haydn ; nay, but we will wait." 
 
 And thus a habit grew that our two lives 
 Dwelt like two friends, made separate by war, 
 Who, from the hostile camps, wave now a hand, 
 And now a kerchief, but who never speak. 
 And yet I cannot say love never spake. — 
 We did not mean it ; but I think that love. 
 Like life, speaks truest when unconsciously. 
 What man is conscious where he touches God ! — 
 There were but little deeds ; yet Infinite Power 
 Is great beyond all measurements of space ; 
 Love knows no measurements. There were but 
 
 hints ; 
 And yet what words of love yield more than these ? 
 
8o HA YDN, 
 
 They hit the sense of love, but hit no sense 
 Where there is no love to receive the hint. 
 
 Our souls learn'd this at last ; I wis not how. 
 And like two kittens playing on the hearth 
 We told our secrets, and none knew of it ; 
 Nay, not ourselves : and still — nay, not ourselves. 
 
 How swiftly sped the hours through those dear 
 
 nights 
 When, after his long labors, he came home ! 
 He had such winning ways of meeting me ; 
 Caird me such pretty names to make me feel 
 Like a small thing, that he might seem my Lord ; 
 Teased me to tears that he might comfort me ; 
 Or roused my temper that he might seem mild ; 
 Or told such tales that in my dreams I laugh'd 
 At wit reflecting, though distorting his ; 
 Or better still, played for me, ah, such strains ! 
 The very thought of them refreshed like dawn 
 While through the long night I remained awake 
 Half-conscious of the call of early birds 
 And sparkling spray of light dash'd o'er the dews. 
 At last, one such night, while we sat alone. 
 Some new impatience seized him ; and he spake. 
 
HAYDN, 81 
 
 " Johanna, dear, allow me but this once ; — 
 And say not, nay, say not that we will wait: 
 Have I not waited long? Johanna, mine. 
 What is the substance of this mystery 
 Whose shadow rests between us? Tell it me. 
 I know your slightest whisper would have power 
 To bid the intrusion off 
 
 "Not,^' answered I 
 (I felt that now, at last, I must explain), — 
 " Not if the shadow, separating, fell 
 From some cause which no mortal could remove.' 
 
 " How can that be ? " he cried. " It cannot be : 
 Of old your father did oppose our love : 
 Of late he has grown so to favor it." 
 
 'And do you know," I ask'd, "what wrought his 
 change ? " 
 
 " What, save his wiser judgment ? " he rejoin'd. 
 
 "Are there not," ask'd I, "courses in this life 
 Where conscientiousness and love may cross ? " 
 
82 HAYDN, 
 
 " There I '' he exclaim'd, " the old, old plea again ! — 
 Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, dear. 
 Does not all conscience spring from consciousness? 
 And when is one most conscious ? When unwell : 
 Slow-crawling blood frets limbs which are inflamed : 
 A sound man is not conscious of its flow. 
 And thus its morbid train of foul ideas 
 Vexes the soul diseased. But when in health, 
 When true to God and self, why need it feel 
 This conscience which is but the check whereby 
 God curbs the thought which has no love in it? — 
 If I be right, conscience cannot cross love. 
 Love may have freedom. 
 
 "Howsoever that be, 
 Conscience, at best, is but one element 
 Of character. The right mete leavens it : 
 The wrong may disproportion all its parts, 
 Sent like poor beer to froth and sediment ; 
 The froth flown in the faces of one's friends, 
 The rest sunk down in self, embittering 
 One's own experience." 
 
 "But," I rejoin'd. 
 And interrupted him, — " this conscience in 
 Religion " — 
 
HA YDN. 83 
 
 " In religion ; there," said he, 
 " This too much conscience, overbalancing 
 All wiser judgment, has made havoc worse ; 
 Made men crave heaven and fear hell, so much 
 That in the gap, betwixt the two, was left 
 No charity with which to do good here 
 While on the earth." 
 
 "I hope that mine," I said, 
 " My conscience prompts my soul to do good 
 
 here. — 
 What would you say were I, some day, a nun ? " 
 
 He laugh*d so harsh, I shuddered at his voice — 
 " ' Were you a nun ? ' Dear, if those blooming looks 
 Bear wormy fruit like that, I ne'er will trust 
 Sound health again ! 
 
 "Johanna, I could vow 
 That a nun's conscience is a consciousness 
 Of some vague pain which, in a nature form'd 
 Of body and of soul, may be a pain 
 Of which no mortal eye can trace the source ; 
 From indigestion, muscles, nerves diseased ; 
 From thought that puzzles and hence troubles one 
 
84 HA YDN. 
 
 As likely as from sin ; — moods cured as well 
 
 By sunshine, clean clothes, larders full, good cheer, 
 
 As by gloom, filth, and fasting and long prayers." 
 
 Thus he continued till I would not hear. 
 I told him how ''irreverent, unjust" — 
 
 " I might be both of these," he said, " if I 
 Urged that these poor souls were themselves to 
 
 blame. 
 Did I say this ? No : for in these, our lives 
 Betwixt our immaturity and full 
 Maturity; betwixt credulity, 
 
 Nursed by fond trust in what some guardian knows. 
 And faith, nursed by that which one knows himself, 
 There is a realm where will is train'd to act 
 Through doubt and danger ; where the character. 
 First wean'd from oversight, is taught to choose. 
 Then, like a tottling child, it yearns to cling 
 To some power greater which can act for it. 
 Its mood determines that to which it clings. 
 Some girls are giddy : — they are swift seduced. 
 And some are gloomy : — their beau is a priest. 
 Each plies the same work, — an accursed work. 
 That takes advantage of this weaker state, 
 And captures them for vice or veils, or both." 
 
HAYDN, 85 
 
 "But marriage is a capture, too," I said. 
 
 " Marriage," he answered, " is a natural state, 
 
 Made statelier through authority of law. 
 
 Which otherwise, might authorize mere lust. 
 
 A state to which, as not to convent life. 
 
 All social instincts prompt; may prompt still more 
 
 The more one's years. Who can forswear it 
 
 then ? — 
 How can a maid, with half her moods unform'd. 
 At twenty, know the much changed temper which 
 May turn or torture her at thirty-five? — 
 
 " But — What, Johanna ? — what now ? You turn 
 
 pale ! — 
 Were you in earnest? — Have you really thought? — 
 In God's name, darling, this can never be! — 
 Think only — Why should you ? " 
 
 "Because," I said, 
 "I should hope to do good." 
 
 "And do you deem," 
 He ask'd, "that the dear Virgin did no good, 
 
S6 HA YDN. 
 
 While nursing her sweet babe? Was she no saint? 
 And what of Christ, who ate and drank with all, 
 Caird glutton and a wine-bibber for it. 
 Was He no saint? Think, dear, what do men 
 
 need ? — 
 To learn of life which never can be theirs ? — 
 Nay, but to learn of life, of thought and love, 
 Which can make better all, of every class. 
 If you would be a saint then, O seek not 
 The way so different from the common path, 
 The truth so sunder'd from the common thought, 
 The love which knows no common sympathies." 
 
 "Are not some calPd," I urged, "especially 
 To take charge of the aged, sick, and poor ? " 
 
 "Are not some calFd," he ask'd, "especially 
 
 To take charge of the men, too, whom they love ? 
 
 Deem you it healthful for a soul still young 
 
 To yield up all affinity to age ? 
 
 Is that truth, truth to nature, or to God ? — 
 
 And may not vows, too hastily assumed. 
 
 Mask the true mission meant by Providence ? — 
 
 Only when those of wide experience 
 
 Turn calmly from the world to convent life 
 
 Would I restrain them not. Let such find homes. 
 
 Large, sunny, healthful halls ; and dwell therein. 
 
HA YDN. 87 
 
 Let them deal thence those gentle charities 
 So potent when dealt from a woman's hand. 
 It were not strange if sickness tended thus, 
 Lured by their gentle, loving smiles, should blush 
 Into all perfect health ! if wickedness, 
 Beneath incrusted woes of worldly years. 
 Feeling the earlier faith of childhood waked 
 By woman's voice, should thus be born again ! — 
 Renewed for pure life in the soul as well 
 As in the body ! All good has its place : 
 And I would not restrict this sphere for woman. 
 But rid it of its circumscribing vows." 
 
 « Of all vows ? " ask'd L 
 
 "Why not?" he rejoin'd. 
 "Do they not augment wrong, and, with it, woe? — 
 Once, I remember, that I spied a tree. 
 And vow'd that, through one hour, my eyes should 
 
 not 
 Light on that tree again. What came of it? — 
 That vow kept me in misery through that hour. 
 And had it been a man and not a tree, 
 My vow had caused more misery, had it not ? 
 And yet God has not made it wrong to view 
 A tree or man : — the vow, it makes the wrong. 
 
88 HAYDN, 
 
 "And, I remember, once I aided one, 
 A foe, that I might thus fulfill a task 
 Forced on me by my tutor. Prompted by 
 Free choice, my deed had been benevolence ; 
 But the enforcement made it slavish toil. 
 And had a convent this same task enjoin'd, 
 Might its enjoinment not have displaced love ? 
 Pure virtue is the child of liberty. 
 Better maintain this liberty of Christ.'* 
 
 "But Haydn," said I, "this strange convent, fiird 
 With age and vowless maids — you banish thence 
 Christ-like self-sacrifice." 
 
 "Christ," he rejoined, 
 "Would not have died except to glorify 
 Himself as much as man, both equally. 
 The nun, does she thus glorify her race ? 
 Or, feigning burial to human cares. 
 Humiliate rather her humanity ? — 
 I must believe that souls not sever'd from 
 The world, but in the world yet not of it. 
 And in the body acting bodily. 
 The lives transfiguring our common lives 
 And common cares, these most resemble Christ. — 
 
HA YDN, 89 
 
 Poor prudes, to hint that truest womanhood 
 Is maidenhood ! By Eve and Mary, no ! 
 The mother is the model of her sex 
 And not the maid. False virtue and false vice, 
 To lift their own and lower the matron's rank, 
 Such ends they gain : — and is this sacrifice ? ^* 
 
 "But they serve God/' I said, "and others men." 
 
 "They do not serve God," answer'd he, with force. 
 
 "Talk not about that term, self-sacrifice. 
 
 Their deed is more akin to suicide. 
 
 God made our nature : he who yields it up 
 
 Yields up his manhood : this is suicide. 
 
 God made the world ruled by His providence, 
 
 Potent to train life : who leaves it leaves God : 
 
 This adds damnation unto suicide." 
 
 "But if he leave the world," I said, "that he 
 May enter thus the Church, he leaves not God. 
 Is not God in the Church?" 
 
 "What is the Church?' 
 Ask'd he. 
 
90 HA YDN, 
 
 "The kingdom of the Lord/' I said. 
 
 "There/' he exclaim'd, "look you, this Testament! 
 In it I read from Him, head of the Church, 
 That this same kingdom of God is within. 
 If so, have I no right to heed myself ? — 
 My innate instincts, should I yield them up, 
 A passive slave to laws outside of me ? '' 
 
 "O Haydn," begg'd I, "say not this. It is 
 The same rebellion that I used to feel. 
 We should not judge for self, but reverence 
 The words of men who are ordain'd to teach. 
 The words of men who are so learned, too. 
 The words of councils fiU'd with just such men. 
 Have you no reverence for authority ? " 
 
 " Quite common charity would teach me that,'' 
 He said. "And how could common piety. 
 If awed before the great eternal God, 
 Fail of a kindred reverence for all power ? 
 The Church has power \ yes, and I reverence it, — 
 Truth's storehouse, and historic guardian. 
 But are there no truths which have not been 
 stored t 
 
HAYDN. 91 
 
 Infinity is broad. I would believe 
 The God within me and the God without; 
 In self, as well as in the Church and world. 
 And I believe that all that He has done 
 Has been done with a marvelous harmony. 
 And, when I love a soul as I love you, 
 Did all the priests on earth assemble here, 
 In front of them the pope, in front of him 
 A shining form put forth by them as Christ, 
 And tell me that this pure love lied to me, 
 I would not '' — 
 
 "Haydn," I exclaimed, "stop! stop! 
 You use such dreadful language. How dare you t — 
 And I have pray'd to God so much, so much. 
 That you might be submissive.*' 
 
 " I submit 
 To God,'' he said ; " but with my love to God, 
 I cannot yield the godliest thing in me." 
 
 And there he sat, so firm and yet so mild, 
 I could not help myself, but I cried out, — 
 " Haydn, do not talk thus. You make me doubt." 
 
92 HAYDN. 
 
 "Would God," he said, ''that I could make you 
 
 doubt : 
 Then might you learn true faith. Is there of will 
 One wise effect which does not follow doubt ? 
 Is there one choice save from alternatives ? 
 Doubt comes with wavering of the balances 
 Before the weightier motive settles down. 
 Let those who are so sure in church, in heart, 
 Solve me my doubt : — I dare to doubt of them 
 Whether they walk by knowledge or by faith. 
 I read that Jesus answers him who prays, 
 ' Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief ; ' 
 That one hour ere His last success, He cried, 
 * My God, O why hast thou forsaken me ? ' 
 And so I deem that our doubts may not doom : 
 Rather they may be minor preludes here, 
 Ere our triumphant cadence, 'It is finish'd.' 
 
 "But, dear Johanna," added he, with warmth, 
 " Say to me, say, that you will yield them up. 
 These dreadful thoughts. Why, it would make of me 
 A very infidel ! The Church destroy 
 Our love ! Ah, then, what could it not destroy ? " 
 
 Is it a wonder, that to such a mood 
 I could not say that which I would ? 
 
HA YDN. 93 
 
 Months sped. 
 My time drew nigh. My vows must be fulfill'd. 
 I told my father of it, and he wept. 
 Poor man, he spent his hours alternately. 
 Sometimes he urged ; sometimes he chided me ; 
 Sometimes he kiss'd my cheek and look'd at me; 
 Sometimes he took me by the hand, and said, 
 " My daughter, dear, we must defer this thing ; " 
 Sometimes he moan'd, " My daughter must do 
 right." 
 
 Quite slowly dawn'd on Haydn's mind the truth, 
 Though not, as yet, the reason of my vow. 
 And all the household grew so mild with me ; 
 And all the neighbors gazed so piteously : 
 Had my pale body lain within a shroud, 
 And had I loiter'd over it, a ghost, 
 Life had not seem'd so lonely and so chill. 
 
 One night I found my father still more sad 
 Than was his wont. I knelt before him then, 
 And " O, my father, why is this ? " I ask'd. 
 But he said nothing. Then I question'd him : 
 I found the cause out. Haydn was the cause. 
 My father loved him so, more than a son ; 
 And had hoped that he might be one indeed. 
 
94 HA YDN, 
 
 But they had talk'd together, and had talk'd 
 About Doretta. (Dear, forgive these tears) 
 My father sighed, and said, "All, all my plans 
 For all of you are vain ! 
 
 " And why is this ? " 
 Continued he, — " why this, that in my age, 
 When too old to renew aught, all are lost, — 
 My aims, my home, my hope, my happiness ? 
 This is too hard for me, this punishment. 
 And for whom is it? Who has done such wrong 
 As to deserve it ? — Here am I, myself 
 I loved you, loved you both, look'd for your good : 
 The priest loved (so he says) the Church and you : 
 Doretta loved, sought only love's full fruit : 
 And Haydn loved, was but importunate : 
 And you loved, dear, was but obedient: 
 We all of us were loving, were we not ? 
 Yet working outward, wisely, as we deem'd. 
 We all have done that which we would undo. — 
 Tell me now, who has tampered with these deeds ? 
 I do believe, though I have doubted it. 
 There is a devil ! Hell-scorch'd hands alone 
 Could weave such blacken'd shrouds from these 
 
 bright threads 
 Drawn from sleek skeins of love. That spider foul, 
 Feeding on our sweet plans, emits this web. 
 
HA YDN. 9S 
 
 To trip and trap us in like flies ! — Ah me, 
 It may be well that one should suffer here 
 Until his wish bereaved shriek prayers for death; 
 But through what fearful pangs earth saps, earth 
 
 peels 
 This withering flesh off from the worthier soul. 
 The scales about my life grow thin, how thin ! . 
 Johanna, Haydn gone, home gone, hope gone, 
 What further, shred invests this spirit stript ! — 
 My soul, thou art enthralled from earth. Look, 
 
 look! 
 Yet where is heaven? — My God, I see it not." 
 
 "O father, rave not thus," I cried. "O, if — 
 If Haydn, — if I had some power with him." - 
 
 "Nay, daughter," said he, "nay." Yet o'er his face 
 Flushed hope like sunrise ; and I kiss'd his brow : 
 "Yes, father, I will try," and went my way. 
 
 When I found Haydn then, he w^as so sad. 
 "Ah," sighed he, "we two souls seem'd fitted so 
 To match each other. In this jarring world, 
 Where all goes contrary, where every sun 
 Which ripes this withers that; and every storm 
 
96 HAYDN. 
 
 Which brings refreshment here, sends deluge there, 
 
 We two, exceptions to the general rule. 
 
 Like living miracles (is love fulfill'd 
 
 A miracle indeed ?) seem'd form'd to draw 
 
 The self-same tale of weal or woe 'from each. 
 
 Dear, in my dreams, but last night I beheld 
 
 Our spirits journeying through this under gloom ; 
 
 And they walk'd hand in hand ; and over them, 
 
 As over limner'd seraphs, there did hang 
 
 A halo, love reflected. By its glow 
 
 The gloom about wax'd brightness ; and, far off, 
 
 In clearest lines, the path pass'd up and on. — 
 
 Johanna, heed me, once again, I pray, 
 
 [If ever I did pray to God above] 
 
 Blot not all light from my eternity ! " 
 
 "Haydn," I answer'd, "would you have me change.^ 
 What one shall dwell upon God's holy hill 
 But ^he that sweareth to his own hurt,' yes, 
 'And changeth not?"' 
 
 "But," he replied, "but yet 
 If you were wrong to swear ? How can it be 
 That any course unnatural, like this. 
 Is right? Each instinct of my soul revolts." 
 
HAYDN. 97 
 
 "Yet nature," said I, "it may be corrupt. 
 What is this instinct, that it should not lie? 
 If one should feel the instinct of the lamb 
 While skipping to welcome the butcher's knife 
 That waits to slaughter it, would he be wise 
 To follow such?'' 
 
 " And why not ? " answer'd he ; 
 " The lamb was made that it might die for man : 
 It follows instinct and dies easily. 
 The soul was made that it might live for God : 
 It follows instinct and lives happily. 
 The cases differ thus. May there not be 
 Some sphere, beyond the watch of mortal eye, 
 Within whose subtle grooves our spirits glide 
 Unconscious of the balancings of will ? 
 God's Spirit is too holy to be seen. 
 May it not stir, beneath all conscious powers, 
 A spontaneity which moves the soul 
 As instinct moves the body ? — Ah, to me. 
 Love seems an instinct which impels them both." 
 
 " How so ? " I ask'd, hoping to guide his thought 
 Toward sacrifice. 
 
98 HAYDN. 
 
 " Do you wish me/' he said, 
 " To turn philosopher for you ? — Well, then, 
 This love, in morals sprung from faith in man, 
 And in religion sprung from faith in God, 
 Is, in its essence, an experience 
 Not wholly feeling yet not wholly thought. 
 Not all of body yet not all of soul, 
 Of what we are or of what we shall be. 
 But more akin to marriage, within self, 
 Of our constituent natures, sense and soul. 
 God meant them to be join'd : when wedded thus, 
 This rests contented, and that waits in hope." 
 
 " To rest, to wait," I said to this ; " and if 
 
 Such ends were displaced would there not remain 
 
 Work t Is not work our earthly heritage ? '^ 
 
 "And may not God," rejoin'd he, "grant us more 
 Than that which we inherit ? " 
 
 I replied, — 
 " He may grant rest. Yet rest, the Paradise 
 Of work, is still the Purgatory, too, 
 Of indolence." 
 
HA YDN, 99 
 
 "The souPs true Paradise 
 Is nothing earn'd," he said. " It is a gift. 
 With Eden lost, insolvent for his sin, 
 Work, as I view it, is a loan from Hope 
 With which man pays the debt of Memory. 
 But if I reckon right, he scarce can earn 
 Enough to pay both Memory and Hope. 
 So true love, as I view it, is a gift 
 Crowning our action, yet not won by it; 
 Which, as we are not conscious how 'tis earn'd, 
 We are not conscious how it may be lost. 
 Things out of consciousness are out of care. 
 We rest not as in death, which doeth naught : 
 We rest as in our dreams, in sleep, — a Hfe 
 In which God watches while the soul regales. 
 W^e rest not from the healthful stir of work, 
 But from the slavery proportioning 
 Our pleasure to our pain, — a law for serfs. 
 But not for sons. Such rest is peaceful, hush'd. 
 The very church of choice, as different 
 From other joy as prayer is from sport.'' 
 
 "And choice, feels it no sacred claim,'' I ask'd, 
 " To spurn a lesser for a higher good ? 
 Or, for such good, may not wise Providence 
 Displace some idol of our ignorance 1 " — 
 
100 HAYDN. 
 
 With this, I pictured for him brightest life ; 
 And, like a blot upon each scene, myself; 
 Urged that my character was not the one 
 Form'd most to succor his ; show'd how my sire. 
 The priest, Doretta, all agreed in this. 
 And then, in contrast with myself, I sketched 
 One whom they all deem'd fitted for his moods. 
 I may have sinn'd in it; but, like grim fate, 
 My father's features seem'd to impel me on : 
 I noted all Doretta's noblest traits ; 
 Then, when I thought that he must this surmise, 
 And while he held his gaze upon the floor. 
 As though he gave assent, at last I spake 
 Doretta's name. 
 
 And if the solid earth 
 Had quak'd, he had not started more. O God, 
 Why did I not accept his instinct then ! 
 
 He look'd at me, first pale, then flushed, then 
 
 griev'd ; 
 Then with strange^ tremulous^ painful breathy he 
 
 said, — 
 ^^ And this device from you ? You were so pure^ 
 So free from guile. You should have spared me 
 
 this. 
 
HA YDN, lOI 
 
 That Jesuit has train'd you well ! Ah^ now^ 
 
 I know how Adam felt when Eve did fall ; 
 
 How Eve herself^ when round her soul first crept 
 
 The serpent's cautious coils of smooth deceit^ 
 
 Smothering by inches. I can read it now^ 
 
 That tale : it is an allegory^ aye ; — 
 
 That serpent is the world. The world steals 
 
 rounds 
 Encircling childhood, trammeling it from heaven. 
 Not long are we allow'd ideal life^ 
 Not long unfettered sense or unbound heart : 
 Our smiles grow stiffer^ till^ some fatal day^ 
 The last one clutch'd_, is held^ a horrid grin. 
 Then^ when the body stirs not with the soul^ 
 The last nerve severed from the spirit's touchy 
 Naught in us left to love^ the world unwinds : 
 Our capturer^ it dissolves in mist or dust : — 
 For its embraces we have lost our God ! " 
 
 His mood alarm'd me^ yet I could protest^ — 
 ^^ Haydn^ you know I do not love this world : — 
 I long to leave it^ yes^ all thought of it." 
 
 "How much less worldliness/' ask'd he, "deem you 
 Found in the Church than in what it terms world ? 
 The prince of this world is not nice in choice 
 
102 HAYDN. 
 
 Of equipages ; where he cannot check 
 He mounts the car of truth and grasps the rein ; 
 And if the devil drive, he drives toward home. 
 ^The world/ what means it but the mere world, 
 Matter devoid of mind and things of truth ? — 
 What means, what has your Church ? — A court of 
 
 priests 
 Powerful through personal friendship with each 
 '' knave. 
 
 Heart-husbands of all disaffected wives, 
 Preachers, the very prostitutes of truth. 
 Aye pregnant by each latest prejudice. — 
 'The world' means human action without God. 
 What has your Church.^ — Worship where He is hid 
 Behind strange saints enthroned ! adored through 
 
 rites 
 Of wolves robed in the pure white of the lamb. 
 Devils disguised, 'mid ceremonious cant 
 Tempting into hypocrisy an age 
 Which knows too much of Christianity 
 To be tempted into heathenism. Nay, 
 I will not stop. — ' The world ' means human life 
 Without the Christ-like manhood meant for man. 
 What has your Church? — These nurseries of death ! 
 Gpd's beauteous bodies rotted in damp cells, 
 Where His sun steals not save to stir vile stench ! 
 Life, cursed with this damnation from a vow 
 Which He hath not enjoin'd ; — to make a hell 
 
HAYDN. 103 
 
 Of what He meant for heaven ; to feel no love 
 Except with some foul consciousness of sin ! 
 Life, where imprisoned nature, gone insane, 
 Rapes in its morbid mood all virtuous rest; 
 And stains with dregs of stagnant viciousness 
 The open'd cells of pure, pure hearts like yours ! " 
 
 *' You terrify me^ Haydn ! " I exclaim'd. 
 
 "And you have terrified me," he rejoin'd. 
 
 " You were — Ah me, what were you not ? — so 
 
 pure. 
 Transparent as this mid-day atmosphere. 
 Should some red thunderbolt burst from yon sun 
 And burn all torturing blindness through both eyes, 
 Night came less unexpected ! I, who dream'd 
 That I did worship truth, that these proud knees 
 Knelt on the very battlements of heaven, 
 I, to be tript thus from dear confidence, 
 Sent reeling down amid this foul deceit, 
 Is it a wonder if scared sense be jarr'd 
 Out of all order, if I rave, if curse ! — 
 You, who had known my heart; and, after that. 
 And after I had warned against the thing. 
 And simulating all the while such love^ 
 Of free will, calmly, meanly, cunningly, 
 
104 HAYDN, 
 
 Vowing thus to abjure me : more than this, 
 
 To-day, with cat-like, treacherous approach, 
 
 Sneaking through secret doorways left ajar 
 
 By too frank intimacy, entering 
 
 The inmost chambers of my love, to snare 
 
 Your victim for a shrew ! — It is success ! 
 
 You gain your end ! My wish is yours, at last ! 
 
 I love you not! — God help! — You may go free!" 
 
 Then Haydn would have left our home in haste ; 
 From which my sire restrained him. Long they 
 
 spake : 
 And loud and stormy were the words he used. 
 But then, at last, my father told him all, — 
 Why I had vow^d, that I might save his life. 
 And he broke down before it. 
 
 Never more 
 May God permit me to behold again 
 A broken man ! How he did plead with me ! 
 He begg'd, he pray'd forgiveness o'er and o'er, 
 Till I well-nigh believ'd he heard me not; 
 And in the end sigh'd that "It might be so,'' 
 My plan be wisest; — nay, he did not yield 
 His stronger judgment, to fulfill my wish 
 Or make me happy, or my sire or me : — 
 
HAYDN, 105 
 
 Truly Doretta was a housewife wise : 
 It was the older custom, thus to wed : 
 He had been young, had whims : — God bless us 
 all." 
 
 Oft after that I urged him not to wed 
 Except one whom he loved. And he would say, 
 " I cannot love her, dear, as I love you : — 
 Yet what if not ? My soul was immature, 
 Wean'd romance late. It must be manly now. 
 Manhood has breadth. I take it, manly love 
 Is that which yields most blessings to the most. 
 My love shall bless you, and the sire, and her." — 
 And thus he calm'd my doubts, and cheer'd me 
 much. 
 
 And oft I spake with him about the Church. 
 
 "I love the truth," he said; "as for the Church, — 
 
 How can my heart forget that it holds you 1 " 
 
 "Haydn," rejoined I, "I remember once 
 When you were small, when first sweet music lured 
 Your soul, so thriird I to test its energies : 
 Gluck was your master, and you worshipt him, 
 So far beyond yourself, as you then deem'd. 
 
io6 HAYDN, 
 
 Sounded the full perfection of his strains. 
 
 Now Gluck is not your master ; yet, far off, 
 
 Still sound those perfect strains for which you 
 
 strive. — 
 Haydn, you only saw Gluck in the path, 
 Happening to be in front. But ah, those strains ? — 
 You will not reach them, dearest, till you reach 
 The choirs of God ! 
 
 "And thus, sometimes, I think 
 That I, too, may have happen'd in your path. 
 This love of yours, now resting on myself. 
 May gaze for holier things, ideal all, 
 When I am gone.'' 
 
 " When you are gone ! " he sigh'd, 
 "When you are gone, then shall my life become — 
 I fear it much — one lonely wail for you." 
 
 "And yet a lonely wail, utter'd,'' I said, 
 
 " From some sweet, chasten'd spirit, may seem sweet 
 
 To earth that hears it." 
 
 "Ah, I understand. 
 You mean my music," answered he. " O God, 
 
HAYDN. 107 
 
 Must love be sacrific'd that art be saved ? — 
 Redeem'd at such a price, it were too dear ! " 
 
 One thing he promis'd me. I urged it much. 
 
 "In secret convent-prayers," I said to him, 
 
 *^My soul must know if it should praise or plead. 
 
 A year from this day will we meet once more. 
 
 It were not wise to speak. We shall commune 
 
 While I gaze, silent, through my cloister-bars. 
 
 Then, if your wedded life afford you joy — 
 
 As -I doubt not — bring me fresh buds, fresh flowers ; 
 
 If otherwise, bring me the wilted leaves 
 
 Of these I give you now." 
 
 Soon they had passed, 
 The last vague hours which saw me part from all. 
 I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet : — 
 The organ wildly moaning far away: 
 The people sighing deeply through the aisles : 
 My heart so loud in that hush'd sermon-time : 
 The multitude with eyes so fix'd on me ; 
 My sire's sad face ; Doretta by his side ; 
 And Haydn's face upon his pale, pale hands. 
 
 And two months after that I saw them wed. 
 And, sister, I have pray'd for him long days, 
 
lo8 HAYDN. 
 
 And longer nights ; and I have had large hopes 
 
 That my faint spirit had gain'd strength from God. 
 
 But my poor body here, so white, so thin, 
 
 With scarce substantiality of guise 
 
 Fit for a ghost ; — ah, what if, like a ghost. 
 
 It should soon vanish ? 
 
 So I thought, to-night. 
 If I could tell you all ; confess this fault ; 
 Unload my heart of its sin — its sweet sin. 
 That God might give it ease. I did not, nay, 
 I did not mean it, to excite myself 
 They told me that it might bring death ; but O, 
 Have I not done enough to merit peace ? 
 How I had counted time, these weeks and days, 
 Up to the hour when we should meet again. 
 And I should find out that my prayers were heard. 
 And that God had been kindl 
 
 And Haydn came. 
 Last week : and, sister, what, what does God 
 
 mean ? — 
 He brought the wilted leaves. 
 
 I do not know. 
 I only know that I cannot earn peace : 
 
HAYDN. 109 
 
 All our whole household have earn'd so much else ! 
 And now, how can — I can try nothing more : 
 But all my path has been block'd up, blocked up. 
 They tell me this is infidelity, — 
 O Christ! — yet I can do no more. 
 
 Hark! hark! — 
 Is not that Haydn's melody again? — 
 How faint it sounds ! I think I must be faint. — 
 The window — move me. There — look out — those 
 
 clouds — 
 Sunset? — There are no things on earth so bright 
 So beautiful as clouds ; and yet no clouds 
 Where one could see, and always see, the heaven. 
 
 The music, hear it ! Ah, how sweet ! — Tell me. 
 Did I sing then ? — " No '' .^ — Did I only dream 1 — 
 I thought that music mine, mine and myself; 
 And Haydn's heart, it beat here, beat in me. — 
 I am so tired. — Yes : let me rest on you. 
 
 God^ for but one hour of life ! — For what ? 
 Have I not loved then ? — Sister, tell him so. 
 Tell Haydn; thank him. — God, praise Him for it. 
 
 1 did not know — yet life, it has been sweet. — 
 Hark ! music ! — Does it not come from above ? 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
THE IDEALIST. 
 
 TJ^ANCY is term'd a fickle guide 
 
 Of rarest birth and beauty, 
 But all too heavenly to abide 
 In earth bereft of duty. 
 When up the sky 
 Her bright wings hie 
 So far above all worldly fears, 
 When o'er her airy course appears 
 About the welkin wended 
 Full many a spirit splendid, 
 Beware ! amid all sunny air 
 The storm may burst, the lightning tear. 
 Beware and fear ! 
 With earth so near 
 None can be free from care. 
 
 Fancy is term'd a fooling guide, 
 
 All smiles when one is youthful, 
 But wont in sudden shades to hide. 
 And prove at last untruthful. 
 Man is but man : 
 He cannot scan 
 8 
 
114 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 Too high dehghts ; or he may hate 
 The pleasures of his low estate. 
 When down to earth far falling, 
 Amid dismay, recalling 
 Her realm, her idle realm of dreams. 
 See, how with reckless rival gleams 
 The daze unreal. 
 The void ideal 
 Pales hfe's substantial themes. 
 
 Fancy is term'd a fulsome guide 
 
 Who renders life distressful. 
 Far too ethereal in her pride 
 To make a man successful. 
 Along her way 
 Let poets stray : 
 Earth only shoos or shoots a bird ; 
 To draw its wealth, it yokes the herd. 
 Few are our race respecting 
 The minds for aye projecting. 
 The reigning heroes of the day 
 Among the plodding people stay ; 
 Note well the tide 
 On either side, 
 But keep the common way. 
 
THE IDEALIST. II5 
 
 Yet fickle, fooling, fiilsome guide, 
 
 I prize thy peerless beauty. 
 I chose thee long ago, my bride 
 For love and not for booty- 
 What have they wrought 
 Who hazard naught ? 
 What care I though the best of bliss 
 May border on the worst abyss ? 
 What, though this world may never 
 Believe me good or clever ? — 
 Enough it is, for me to know 
 That truth right righteously may flow 
 From thee and me 
 Till braver be 
 The faith of friend and foe. 
 
THE DESTINY-MAKER. 
 
 OHE pass'd; and I who lingered there, 
 ^^ I saw that she was very fair ; 
 And, with my sighs that pride suppressed, 
 Fluttered a weary wish for rest. 
 
 But I who had resolv'd to be 
 
 The maker of my destiny, 
 
 I turned me to my task and wrought. 
 
 And so forgot the passing thought. 
 
 She paused ; and I who questioned there, 
 I heard she was as good as fair ; 
 And in my soul a still, small voice 
 Did chide because I checked my choice. 
 But I, who had resolv'd to be 
 The maker of my destiny, 
 I bade the gentle guardian down, 
 And tried to think about renown. 
 
 She left ; and I who wander, fear 
 There's nothing more to see or hear; 
 
THE DESTINY-MAKER. II7 
 
 Those walls that ward my Paradise 
 
 Are very high, nor open twice. 
 
 And I, who had resolv'd to be 
 
 The maker of my destiny^ 
 
 Can only wait without the gate 
 
 And sit and sigh — Too late! too late! 
 
CAGED. 
 
 THHE jest and gossip ceas'd at last : 
 ^ It seemed as though my lips were fast. 
 Ah me, such holy hopes loom'd then 
 My mind could only think amen. 
 But soon she cried out, " How absurd ! " 
 And laugh'd, whereat her little bird 
 Took up the music of the word. 
 And triird an echo, loud and long, 
 Till, deafen'd quite, we still'd the song. 
 
 "That bird," said she, "hush! hush!'^ and sighed, 
 
 "Flew in the door one Whitsun-tide. 
 
 I caught and caged, and soon he grew 
 
 The sweetest pet you ever knew : 
 
 Lights on my finger, in my hair. 
 
 And pecks my lips : 'twould make you stare 
 
 To see with what a jaunty air 
 
 He drags a tiny cart I made, 
 
 And plays parade and cannonade. 
 
CAGED, 119 
 
 "One day, last spring, he flew away. 
 Alas ! you should have seen the way 
 We wept for him, and searched the town ; 
 And how it made the neighbors frown 
 The twentieth time we ask'd for him. 
 But last we spied him on that limb 
 Close by the house. 'Twas dusk, quite dim. 
 But I call'd out, and back he flew : 
 Did n't you birdie ? naughty you ! " 
 
 With this, once more she laugh'd at him. 
 And I, — I thought the. room grew dim, 
 And then, I whisper'd, " Dear, a word, — 
 I know one other little bird 
 That longs so much to fly to you ; 
 And, dearest, you may cage it too : 
 Twill sing and serve and be so true ! " 
 And then she blush'd, and then she wept, 
 And then this bird of love she kept. 
 
THE HIGHEST CLAIM. 
 
 T WOKE and said : The night has gone ; 
 
 And gone each eager guest 
 Whose urgency, from dark to dawn, 
 
 Distracted dreams of rest. 
 One styled me prince ; one warrior grand ] 
 
 One tempted me with gold ; 
 One held a scroll, and bade my hand 
 
 A pen immortal hold. 
 But each spake naught of Him who wrought, 
 
 My soul, the most for me : 
 
 And He hath higher claim on thee. 
 
 To hold the sceptre of the State, 
 
 Like Moses, o'er that sea 
 Where rival forces strive with fate 
 
 And fail of victory ? — 
 Ah no, high up, above the rod 
 
 Man's feeble arm sustains, 
 The never tiring hand of God 
 
 All earthly power ordains. 
 He on the throne who reigns alone. 
 
 My soul, thy Lord must be ; 
 
 For He hath higher claim on thee. 
 
THE HIGHEST CLAIM. 1 2 I 
 
 To wield a sword in warful times 
 
 Till foes yield up each aim, 
 While Hope with eager footstep climbs 
 
 The trembling heights of fame ? — 
 Ah no, though all earth far and wide 
 
 Should echo loud my name. 
 The fame thus won might not out-bide 
 
 The brief success of shame. 
 A name sublime that bides all time, 
 
 My soul, thou canst foresee ; 
 
 And it hath higher claim on thee. 
 
 To join the throngs whose toils have told 
 
 Of wealth so dear to sight. 
 And dearer than the gleaming gold 
 
 Of earth by it made bright ? — 
 Ah no, these treasures mined from earth 
 
 Lure down toward deeper gloom : 
 There is a gleam from higher worth 
 
 Hangs, star-like, o'er the tomb : 
 A peerless goal, a sinless soul, 
 
 My soul, thou mayest be ; 
 
 And that hath higher claim on thee. 
 
 With my own lips to rouse the life 
 Of laggard victory. 
 
122 THE HIGHEST CLAIM, 
 
 Or with my pen to sketch the strife 
 
 Of ages yet to be ? — . 
 'Twill not suffice while there may sound 
 
 A voice more dear from man 
 Than music marshaling in its round 
 
 This world far down the van : 
 A strain so dear God rests to hear, 
 
 My soul, with love the key, 
 
 This, — this hath higher claim on thee. 
 
 Ah, why through all life's little day 
 
 Should cannon roar and trumpet call. 
 And cluster'd smoke from many a fray 
 
 Hang o'er one like a pall ? — 
 Small is the space above the fight 
 
 This rolling thunder jars; 
 The echoes sleep in paths of light 
 
 Where move eternal stars. 
 To lead toward love, aye calm above, 
 
 My soul, thy work may be ; 
 
 Let this have highest claim on thee. 
 
 I spake : and while full light of dawn 
 Bedimm'd my eyes, each guest 
 
 That I had thought for aye had gone 
 Return'd and hail'd me blest. 
 
THE HIGHEST CLAIM. 123 
 
 One styled me prince ; one, warrior grand ; 
 
 One open'd stores of gold; 
 One held a scroll, and bade my hand 
 
 A pen immortal hold : 
 And, with one voice, all cried, "Thy choice, 
 
 O soul, its wisdom see ! — 
 
 It, too, hath highest claim on me." 
 
THE WEDDING DAY. 
 
 npHOU rarest flower that life hath grown, 
 •^ Day bursting now from bulb of night, 
 To more ambrosial blushing blown 
 Shed not for aye thy leaves of light 
 Still fresh perennially. 
 
 Attendant winds, ye drowsy airs. 
 
 Breathe hence, intoxicate with sweets ; 
 
 Exhale delight to gathering cares 
 Till aged love with ardor greets 
 Dawn from eternity. 
 
 Clouds, if ye must come, lightly rest 
 As birds that float a shadeless sky, 
 
 That crowd mild winds in wild contest, 
 Then under arbors dive and lie 
 Deep-laved in minstrelsy. 
 
THE WEDDING DAY. 125 
 
 Sun, bid these rays shine on, through life, 
 
 Aurora o^er the blackest night, 
 A bow above the clouds of strife, 
 
 A glory gilding robes of flight 
 O'er Love's last victory. 
 
MY IDEAL. 
 
 OHE came: she went: 'twas but a dream, 
 ^^ A groundless hope, a fruitless scheme ; 
 And yet the dearest dream did seem 
 
 That ere to mortal gaze was given. 
 She tuned sweet music through my breast 
 Till every sad or joyous guest 
 That long had sway'd, with wondering rest. 
 
 Grew silent as grow sins in heaven. 
 
 She came : she went : a beam sublime 
 Which, straying toward a sunless clime, 
 Trembled along the edge of Time 
 
 And then in fright sped back again. 
 Ah, wherefore came if came to go ! 
 I had not known the half of woe 
 Had I not felt that heavenly glow. 
 
 And, match'd with it, found earth so vain. 
 
 She came : she went : I know I dream'd. 
 Nor dared to test fond hopes that gleam'd ; 
 
MV IDEAL, 127 
 
 But yet how dear the future seem'd, 
 
 And, though it was the world, how real 1 
 Ah, wherefore did she leave so soon, 
 And change to night what might be noon : 
 Did Heaven sufficient deem the boon 
 To grant to me a form ideal ? 
 
THE MUSIC OF LIFE. 
 
 TV/TUSIC round the world is sounding, 
 
 Sweeter than e'er heard by man, 
 Music angel hosts surrounding 
 
 Ere the morning stars began ; 
 Sweeter than dear dreams of music, 
 
 Falling softer on the ear 
 Than the footfalls of far echoes 
 
 Treading o'er the midnight- meer, 
 Thrilling more than martial anthems, 
 
 Or the gleams of long lost hope, 
 More enticing than the sunbeams 
 
 Wooing dew from plain and slope, 
 Sacred strains, and rival'd only 
 
 Where those trembling tones control 
 When the touch of ardor holy 
 
 Stirs sweet sighing from the soul. 
 
 Music round the world beginning, 
 Low-attuning night and day, 
 
 Wheresoe'er the worlds are spinning 
 Sweeter swells in many a lay. 
 
THE MUSIC OF LIFE. 129 
 
 In each heart, howe'er forsaken, 
 
 When these cheering notes resound, 
 Slumbering joy again must waken, 
 
 Thrilling up from depths profound ; 
 And once more make light its beating. 
 
 Till, like hosts at morning drum, 
 Life, from each roused artery meeting. 
 
 Bounding through the pulses, come. 
 Heard by inward senses only. 
 
 Blessed boon from realms above, 
 Life of life and order holy. 
 
 Breathes the still small voice of love. 
 
NOTES FROM THE VICTORY. 
 
 A H me, who is ringing those bells ? 
 '^^^ Right merry for funeral knells ! 
 If wild winds fell ring them through hell, 
 
 What woe can the demons lack ? 
 My light blew out, in the gust of the rout : 
 
 My boy will never come back. 
 
 Drums, too, — who bade the drums roll ? 
 
 Coarse drums, call ye the soul ? 
 Folks out of breath, shout ye at death ? 
 
 Rend ye the tomb ? — Alack, 
 Vain echoes around, still, under the ground, 
 
 My boy can never come back. 
 
 And guns! — What makes the guns roar! 
 
 Alas, I thought it was o'er ! 
 Though why fear I, though millions die. 
 
 Though all of us wear but black ? 
 I, too, with the proud have my blood-stain'd shroud 
 My boy will never come back. 
 
NOTES FROM THE VICTORY. 131 
 
 Our land ! — who wants its long years ? 
 
 They are dimm'd by these drainless tears : 
 All gloom is the way of this mourner gray 
 
 Who groans in their lonely track. 
 Chill, shivering breast, freeze, freeze into rest. 
 
 My boy can never come back. 
 
OCCASIONAL AND DESCRIP- 
 TIVE POEMS. 
 
OUR DAY AT PISA. 
 
 T 7^ /"E took the train at Florence, we : 
 The (fty was mild and pleasant. 
 The town of Pisa we would see, 
 
 And buy a " Parian '' present. 
 We coursed the streets, and climb'd the tower ; 
 Dropt something down, and sat an hour; 
 And then the grand baptistry door 
 Swung wide for us and half a score. 
 But soon we tired ; heard o'er and o'er, 
 
 Its echo grew provoking. 
 
 We made our pockets jingle, we, 
 
 To tempt the cicerone ; 
 Saw the cathedral, paid the fee. 
 
 And ate some macaroni. 
 Then feasted on an outside view 
 Of those three buildings, still so new : 
 Then sought the Campo Santo, more 
 Because we must ; and, last, a store, 
 Where, treating each gift like a bore, 
 
 We screw'd it in our cloaking. 
 
136 THE ORIGIN OF DRESS, 
 
 We took the train at sunset, we, 
 
 And, as we left the station^ 
 Talked of the land, " How much to see ! 
 
 How grand the Roman nation ! 
 Our own, how mean ! — no works of art." 
 Both sigh'd at this. Then, with a start. 
 Cried, " How familiar ! '' o'er and o'er. 
 In joy recalling themes of yore — 
 No hint from art : we heard once more 
 
 A frog near by us croaking. 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF DRESS. 
 
 /^NCE came the devil in a serpent's mien 
 ^■^^ To fold in his embrace earth's eldest queen ; 
 And she was snared soon, being still quite young, 
 By such a pliant air and ready tongue. 
 Then Adam came, whereat the serpent fled. 
 But all too quickly save his skin to shed. 
 Eve could but blush, yet, taught deceit the while. 
 The coils call'd hoops — which thence became the 
 
 style — 
 And swore, she blush'd to see her Adam nude. 
 Since which hath dress been deem'd, wherever 
 
 view'd. 
 Enough redress for all like turpitude. 
 
THE BURNING OF THE CHURCH AT 
 SANTIAGO. 
 
 In 1864 the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin was cele- 
 brated with unusual splendor in the Church de la Companie of 
 Santiago, Chili. During the ceremonies the draped image of the 
 Virgin caught fire. Almost instantly, the flames were commu- 
 nicated to ropes suspending along the ceiling upward of twenty 
 thousand colored lamps. TJiese fell in a rain of fire upon the 
 audience below, and a scene of horror followed which beggars 
 description. As many as two thousand persons, chiefly young 
 ladies from the higher grades of society, perished beneath the 
 
 /^'ER Santiago's joyous home 
 ^"^^ The setting sun delay'd, 
 And high on one uphfted dome 
 
 A second sunset made. 
 And thitherward the old and young 
 
 Came thronging through each street ; 
 And many a thought tript o'er the tongue 
 
 To match their merry feet. 
 "This night," they cried^ ^* God's blessed bride, 
 
 Is praised in earth and heaven. 
 All we shall bow before her now, 
 
 With all our sins forgiven. 
 
13S BURNING OF THE CHURCH AT SANTIAGO 
 
 " Blaze forth those twenty thousand lights 1 
 
 Blaze shields and standards bright ! 
 Blaze saints and seraphs thron'd in heights 
 
 That dim the dazzled sight ! 
 Wild wake the surging minstrelsy ! 
 
 Wave incense richly rare ! 
 Our hearts shall trill the harmony 
 
 And float in spirit-air ! 
 Full well we know, while brightly glow 
 
 These splendid honors given, 
 How pleased are they to whom we pray 
 
 To see such sights from heaven. 
 
 ^' Hush ! down to Mary mother bow — 
 
 Why not to Mary's mother ? 
 That frowning Christ shall heed one now — 
 
 Strange how he own'd a brother ! 
 What's that ? — lit up ? — how queer a flame ! 
 
 Our Matron saint on fire ? 
 O holy Mother, look ! " — " For shame ! — 
 
 It does not fright the friar. — 
 Keep still, keep still : I count but ill ; — 
 
 God knows how^ I have striven : — 
 Down on your knftes ; — such prayers as these ! - 
 
 You'll never be forgiven." 
 
BURNING OF THE CHURCH AT SANTIAGO. 139 
 
 Blazed all those twenty thousand lamps ; 
 
 Blazed saints and seraphs bright. 
 O God ! the close cathedral cramps : — 
 
 Dear penance paid to-night! 
 Death^s fiery hand shrimpt badge and band, 
 
 And wrapt the dimming dome. 
 Down hot as hell the red lamps fell 
 
 To fright their victims home. 
 Wild woke a wail : " The door ! To fail ? — 
 
 O Mary, hear from heaven ! " — 
 No more, no more shall swing that door: — 
 
 All lost or all forgiven. 
 
 That demon, Death, came sweeping down 
 
 And touch'd each maiden's cheek ; 
 They blushed ; but, O, with blush too brown ! 
 
 They kneeFd ; but, O, too meek ! 
 He wrapt them round with robes of flame : 
 
 He crimpt their waving hair ; 
 And, when their souls were won, he came 
 
 And scoopt them through the air. 
 Anon the fire is tossing higher : 
 
 The church is calm as heaven ; 
 Save bells that tell a last farewell, 
 
 Far down the steeple driven. 
 
I40 BURNING OF THE CHURCH AT SANTIAGO. 
 
 O'er Santiago's mourning home 
 
 The morning sunbeams stray'd, 
 And found — ah, not that gleaming dome, 
 
 Nor many a bright-eyed maid ; — 
 Four hundred carts of corpses charr'd, 
 
 Two thousand nameless dead, 
 And scores of thousands weeping hard 
 
 For souls and splendor fled. 
 But these alive, these who survive, 
 
 May they not draw near heaven ? 
 With humbled calls from brown burnt walls, 
 
 May they not be forgiven ? 
 
 Yes, ye who gaze aloft with fear 
 
 And conscience-crushing pain, 
 It is not God will sooner hear 
 
 The saint with splendid train. 
 Each gilded arch and architrave, 
 
 All earth must burn some day : 
 The guide to save beyond the grave 
 
 Is Christ, who proved the way. 
 The simplest prayer is welcome where 
 
 Our sovereign Lord of heaven 
 Is one who cried, when crucified, — 
 
 All finished, all forgiven. 
 
SAINT PETER. 
 
 ALTERED FROM AN ANCIENT LEGEND. 
 
 nPHE night before his crucifixion, Peter stole 
 
 Out from the prison-walls which long had barr'd 
 his soul 
 From Christian fellowship and labor. Fast he 
 
 sped 
 Through dusky lawns and lanes whither a forest 
 
 spread 
 Its trembling shades to screen him. Thence there 
 
 gleam'd a light, 
 A welcoming window from the home of friends. 
 
 Not quite 
 Had he reach'd this when, open'd by the rounded 
 
 moon, 
 Deep vales reveaPd the city towers, grand as at 
 
 noon. 
 Then first awoke full consciousness that he. was 
 
 free ; 
 And falling on his knees, he cried in tears, "To 
 
 Thee, 
 To Thee, O Christ, be all the praise ! '' He paused. 
 
 He thought 
 
142 SAINT PETER, 
 
 He heard soft footfalls nearing him. In fear he 
 
 sought 
 Their source ; when, lo ! far off, on rocks too rough 
 
 for moss, 
 And tottering beneath his brown and blood stain'd 
 
 cross, 
 The well-knov/n form of his Redeemer. Seeing 
 
 Him, 
 No longer Peter fear'd ; but leap'd with eager 
 
 limb 
 Across sharp crags, as once ere this across the 
 
 sea. 
 Galling in joyous tones: " O, Lord, I come to 
 
 Thee ! " 
 He moved in vain. The vision drew back in thin 
 
 air. 
 Then Peter sat him down and wept. But, through 
 
 despair, 
 A small voice whisper'd, " Peter, wouldst thou 
 
 come to me, 
 Go hence: do for the world as I have done for 
 
 thee.'' 
 One moment Peter lingered; then resought the 
 
 plain. 
 And ere the morrow's noon his soul had met his 
 
 Lord again. 
 
AMID THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 TV yTY mountains, how I love you as ye stand, 
 ^^^ So beautiful, so bleak, so grim, so grand ! 
 Yon gleaming crags above my boyhood's play 
 Undimm'd as hope hung o'er each dawning day. 
 Now, when light-burden'd hope gives place to care. 
 O'er steadfast toil I see you steadfast there. 
 And when old age would scan its heavenly way, 
 Its glance shall rest refresh'd upon those summits 
 gray. 
 
 Ah, beautiful, too beautiful for truth, 
 Yotir landscapes lured my wistful eyes in youth. 
 Now, when rude hands those earlier views assail. 
 When towns and cities change the lower vale ; 
 When other friends seem lost or sadly strange. 
 Ye stand familiar still ; ye do not change. 
 And ye alone, where this my life is o'er, 
 Rise past all views of Time, the self-same ever- 
 more. 
 
 Mounts, ye deserve it, flushing first when dawn 
 Reveals new gleams of truth o'er night withdrawn, 
 
144 AMID THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Still rear your regal rustics^ first who vow 
 To serve the serf and brand the despot's brow. 
 In marsh, in mead, if tyrants make men mild, 
 The slaves who scale your sides learn winds are 
 
 wild ; 
 That beasts break loose from bonds, that fowls are 
 
 free : 
 And tired fear rests to wake 'mid dreams of liberty. 
 
 High homes of freedom, earth no voice can raise 
 So strong, so full, to echo half your praise. 
 By Waldus' church, and Ziska's liberty. 
 By Swiss and Scot who named their nations free, 
 By my New England, when she calFd him knave, — 
 The lowland foe who chased his flying slave, 
 Stand as their memory, forever grand ! 
 They lordliest of the race, ye heavenliest of the 
 land. 
 
 Would ye might stand, eternal monuments 
 Of those who proved Truth's noblest precedents. 
 But no : they need you not ! As bright as right, 
 Their spirits were belied ! O, snowy white. 
 Their stations lower'd ! O, summits less sublime. 
 They aim'd at stars to feed the hopes of Time ; 
 And, when worlds waste and mountains cease to be, 
 'Mid holier heights than ye, shall thrive eternally. 
 
WITH THE YOUNG. 
 
 TTARSH contact with the world, I know, 
 
 ^ -*■ Is a blessing when withstood : 
 
 Its victor's sword has the brightest glow, 
 
 And its conqueror conquers good. 
 Yet not for age, when naught confines. 
 
 Do my first feelings well ; 
 To younger life my love inclines, 
 
 And with the young I dwell. 
 
 AVhy ask a feeling the reason why ? — 
 
 My lot may have been too hard ; 
 Some woe from whispered fears on high 
 
 May weigh the hope of reward : 
 Life knows that many, too many fall 
 
 Whose steps all deem'd secure : 
 It fears that none can trip at all 
 
 And ever again be pure. 
 
 Perchance, through each sweet childish face 
 Speaks some one loved of yore, 
 
146 WITH THE YOUNG, 
 
 Some distant life whose deeds I trace 
 
 Beside me here no more, 
 Some soul now in eternity, 
 
 Where still, as thought maintains. 
 What is, what has been, what shall be, 
 
 In changeless state remains. 
 
 Perchance I share in heaven's delight 
 
 O'er memories of the past, 
 Or in the saints who guide, at night, 
 
 Earth's children through the blast : — 
 But leave the cause still undivin'd. 
 
 When thoughts the freest well, 
 The young have claims none others find, 
 
 And with the young I dwell. 
 
DIDACTIC POEMS. 
 
OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN. 
 
 l^rHAT has a child that a man has not 
 
 When of such is the kingdom of heaven ? 
 Behold him, in harness of home and of school, 
 Not a whit does he care for the right of a rule 
 
 When enough of recess is given. 
 He frolics in freedom of wild desires. 
 Of fancy that rushes and reels and tires. 
 His limbs, they leap and fidget and throw. 
 Nor ever think that is the way to grow. 
 His words are fickle, like waves of a brook, 
 A-spatter or smooth to answer the crook. 
 All things on earth that are fair to see, 
 Are sweet to attract as flowers to a bee. 
 What virtue is his ? — While man, he could read 
 Of God every day and question His deed. 
 The child bears still the stamp of the skies, 
 A faith that he has not learn'd to despise. 
 Expression that knows no other control 
 Than that of the Maker who moves the soul, 
 A beauty of wisdom that works to obey 
 A holy, because a natural way : 
 
 And that has a child that a man may have not. 
 
ISO OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HE A VEN, 
 
 What has a man that a child has not 
 When traces of heaven are rare ? 
 O, he has been taught by parents and schools 
 To curb his character in by rules 
 
 Till nothing but rules are there. 
 The childless man, he would spurn to find 
 What God designs the quest of his mind. 
 He crams and drams for an appetite 
 That pales the simple and shocks the right. 
 His words are dry, as the words of a book, 
 You turn your sentence wherever you look. 
 His thoughts — he never saw anything strange : 
 If he did some fellow might doubt his range. 
 And all of the truth he tests by pelf, 
 And all of manhood measures by self, 
 Forgets that God made the life he is at 
 And stars himself as its autocrat. 
 Alas for reason with such a judge ! 
 If ever you whisper or wheeze or budge, 
 You may study and ponder and prove and pray, 
 But he has a disagreeable way : 
 
 And that may he have that a child has not. 
 
 What has a man that a child has too 
 When of such is the kingdom of heaven ? 
 He knows that character mends through rules, 
 But knows of the split 'twixt the wise and the fools, 
 
OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HE A VEN, 1 5 1 
 
 The choice of the ruling given. 
 He feels that the worth of a life proceeds 
 From Him who prompted the bent of deeds. 
 He lets the reins of his being go 
 Wherever the soul moves wisely so. 
 He trusts in God through self and his Book, 
 Or pointing the way through a bishop^s crook, 
 But he welcomes the merit of that which is new. 
 Nor dreams all Christendom Timbuctoo ; 
 For modest he is, and loves to find 
 Earth bless'd by moods of a differing kind. 
 In short, to the simple, the frail, and the true. 
 He is just a republican, through and through ; 
 And, waving your reason its right of control. 
 Trusts God for enough truth left in your soul ; 
 And though he may differ, and doubt your way, 
 He has something to love in spite of his nay : 
 And that may a man and a child have too. 
 
NOTHING TO KEEP UNDER. 
 
 XT'OU envy, friend, what love will greet 
 
 With never failing favors, 
 The work, the word, the wish discreet 
 
 That ne'er of passion savors, 
 The mien no blow of insult swerves 
 
 From aptitude to blunder, 
 A stouter something o'er the nerves 
 
 Or less nerves to keep under. 
 
 You envy, friend, compliant thought 
 
 With passing currents shifting. 
 Quick turn'd by windy words that wrought 
 
 Its light attention lifting, 
 Whose welcome hints no half-check'd heed 
 
 Of woe or wrath or wonder 
 To feel how hard is life indeed 
 
 With so much to keep under. 
 
 You envy, friend, contented moods 
 That crave no explorations. 
 
NOTHING TO KEEP UNDER. 153 
 
 Steer clear, no matter what intrudes, 
 
 And risk no observations ; 
 That cause no self-occasion'd. strife 
 
 Where breakers wildly thunder. 
 But hold a cautious helm to life 
 
 And keep temptation under. 
 
 You envy, friend, — but O, maybe. 
 
 True power is bred from meekness, 
 And strength that grows through mastery 
 
 May be the ward of weakness ; 
 Who learns to rule your headstrong soul 
 
 May earn a sway fecunder 
 Than struggling less, with more control, — 
 
 But nothing to keep under. 
 
TO AN ARTIST. 
 
 TN candor, my friend, you seem too much at 
 -*• home 
 
 With gods of Olympus and maids of old Rome. 
 The world has advanced ; and the artist, if sage, 
 Will seek to embody the thoughts of his age. 
 The curve of a limb and the poise of a head 
 May be all the same in the living as dead ; 
 But the fashion of form is the fit of a frame : 
 In art, as in action, seek merit in aim. 
 
 Truth only is lasting : where fame has long youth 
 Those nearest immortal are nearest to truth : 
 They sketch from the present, its deeds and its 
 
 dreams, 
 As Raphael wrought, but not Raphael's themes. 
 You are no Venetian to temper like Titian 
 A woman to worship or goddess to kiss : 
 You are a new-world's man ; model from this. 
 
 So long I have hoped that the sons of the band 
 Who have limner'd the loveliest views of our land 
 
TO AN ARTIST, 155 
 
 Would let the dead bury their dead, and pursue 
 The life of the future, the love of the new : 
 The proudest ambition, the readiest hand, 
 Might wisely court ideals less grand ; 
 No sweeter Murillo*s divinest designs, 
 Where purity rivals the thought it refines, 
 And the dreamy intent of a life-brooding haze 
 Throngs thick with the beauty of immature praise ; 
 No nobler the types that the Spaniard could scan. 
 Inspired to incarnate a soul in each plan. 
 The life of a picture as well as of man. 
 
 Instead, I find customs stript to assuage 
 The heathenish tastes of a heathenish age ; 
 The dead unearth'd, the more filth to find vent, 
 The more dear to each dog-of-an-amateur's scent; 
 Thin, shoddy-spun sentiment, sleek to the crude, 
 About art, as all pure, in spite of " the prude : " 
 Yet if influence be a test of a deed. 
 And ill be handled that ill succeed. 
 The naked device of an impure art 
 Is the foulest of all things having no heart : 
 Mount vice on a monument, viler below 
 The vicious will gloat, and the virtuous go. 
 
 In truth, my friend, I think to the wise 
 
 That beauty seems best which is best for all eyes ; 
 
IS6 TO AN ARTIST. 
 
 And in faces and forms which all classes befriend 
 The true and the good, with the beautiful, blend. 
 
 Besides, in all action is one test of worth — 
 The soul that wins homage must benefit earth. 
 But I fear, with an eye fixt alone on the old, 
 With the world that has been alone for a mold, 
 While the world that shall be can alone elevate. 
 That the vice of all vice is to imitate. 
 Ah, rather find form for Faith's purest ideal, 
 The world shall be blest while it fancies it real. 
 Small virtue has he with no hope in his heart ; 
 Small merit has he with no hope in his art ; 
 Far nobler a hoosier-man modestly wary. 
 Content with his photograph-glimpse of a prairie. 
 
ON RAPHAEL'S ANGELS. 
 
 T WONDER not that artists' hands, 
 ^ Inspired by themes of joy, 
 Presuming forms of angel-bands. 
 Are moved to paint the boy. 
 
 I know if task to me were given 
 
 To woo desires of men 
 By that in earth the nearest heaven, 
 
 Most dear to mortal ken, 
 
 I would not take thee, O my bride ! 
 
 For some brides are no gain ; 
 Nor him with influence his pride. 
 
 For more than right can reign : 
 
 No matron with her life confined 
 To partial thoughts of youth : 
 
 No sire with all his warp of mind 
 Closed tight to outer truth : 
 
IS8 ON RAPHAEVS ANGELS. 
 
 But I would blend the purity 
 Of her whom I adore, 
 
 With manly power for mastery 
 And promise still in store. 
 
 So I would take the boy who roams 
 Toward life half understood 
 
 From thresholds of those holy homes 
 AVhich face alone the good : 
 
 His station, ere he reached that brink 
 Where vice must cross his track, 
 
 While wish that loathes the wish to drink 
 Still keeps the tempter back : 
 
 His spirit, innocent of ill, 
 
 Or sense to apprehend, 
 With cheeks that blush, with eyes that fill, 
 
 And faith that fears no end. 
 
 And O, I know that those who love 
 
 The purest part of joys. 
 Would choose but one from all above. 
 
 And that, — my heaven of boys. 
 
THE COUNTRY-COUSIN'S QUESTION. 
 
 TF one would have his friendship sought, 
 
 Would please the world appealing, 
 Should he have head with less of thought, 
 Or heart with less of feeling ? 
 
 Can it be that suspicions wait 
 On words that are sincerest. 
 
 Can open frankness be a gate 
 To close, and then seem dearest? 
 
 Or does such sin pervade our youth 
 
 And so much flippant folly. 
 That all the wise should smother truth, 
 
 Joyous or melancholy. 
 
 Till art alone seem natural, 
 This night of Nature haunting 
 
 To make deception general 
 Where charity is wanting ? 
 
WHATEVER THE MISSION OF LIFE 
 MAY BE. 
 
 \yl rHATEVER the mission of life may be, 
 ^ ^ Let love keep true and let thought keep free : 
 And never, whatever the cause of the plan. 
 Enlarge the calling to lessen the man. 
 
 The cut of a coat, 
 
 Cant chatter'd by rote, 
 A priestly or princely state remote. 
 
 Whatever cajole 
 
 Away from The Whole 
 Is a clog and a curse to The Infinite's soul. 
 For God who made us made only a man. 
 No arms of a snob, no shield of a clan. 
 Far better a friend that is friendly to God 
 Than a sycophant kissing a ribbon or rod. 
 
 However the habits of life be vying. 
 Naught bound by a bias is worth the trying; 
 No sport whence the home must weep and wait 
 The step of a wanderer tarrying late ; 
 
 No scheme with a lie 
 
 For a party-cry 
 
THE MISSION OF LIFE, l6l 
 
 # 
 
 To catch the lowly or court the high ; 
 
 No faith of a fold 
 
 Where love is enroird 
 For a test no bigger than badge of gold. 
 Pause ere you try it : wherever is right, 
 The truth is clearer, the longer, the sight. 
 Pause not : you prove the thought I am on ; 
 Your soul is a slave, and your manhood gone. 
 
 11 
 
By the author of ^^ Haydn J^ 
 LIFE BELOW; 
 
 IN SEVEN POEMS. 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 Of parts of the book published separately : " Poems by an 
 anonymous author, who writes vigorously, and proves that he is 
 no novice in poetical composition. His lines are well balanced, 
 and read harmoniously. There are some passages worth re- 
 membering in each poem ; and throughout the whole there is 
 much freedom of expression, and a reflective tone that will favor- 
 ably impress the lover of sensible verses." — London Public 
 Opinion, 
 
 **The singer is a man whose experience indicates a depth of 
 nature, whose political and moral philosophy seem in the main 
 healthy, whose mastery of picturesque speech is something really 
 noticeable, whose verse has both fire and sweetness, and who 
 now and then crams a great thought into a gem of an expres- 
 sion, and thus effects a sacred marriage between strength and 
 beauty. He has the elements of a true poet." — Dover Morning 
 Star, 
 
 " Unless we are mistaken, the book will attract no inconsider- 
 able attention. We are particularly pleased with the first poem, 
 entitled * Choosing,' and regard it as marked by more than ordi- 
 nary merit." — American Literary Gazette and Public Circular, 
 
2 ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW, 
 
 *' These poems have merits such as we believe will not only 
 disarm criticism but secure its favorable judgment." — Christian 
 Intellige7tcer, 
 
 " They contain many glimpses of that subtle experience of the 
 world which it is so difficult to photograph in words, and with 
 some passages hazy and obscure contain many of great beauty. 
 The anonymous author is a master of language and rhythm as 
 well as much of a thinker." — New York Evangelist. 
 
 '* The verse is musical and flowing, with a rich cadence and 
 rhythmic swing. A delicate fancy plays over the plan of the 
 poems, and interweaves itself into the separate yet united 
 parts. The verses have much real merit." — Louisville (Ky.) 
 I>emocrat, 
 
 "The production of a young poet of more than common prom- 
 ise." — Princeton Review. 
 
 ** The poems are very far from being a simple narrative of an 
 eventful life. The life is in fact only the string around which 
 discussions on all points of morals and social life are crystallized. 
 .... There are many good things in the book." — Cincinnati 
 Journal and Messenger. 
 
 ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW. 
 
 The seven poems of this book are supposed to be written in 
 a country village in the northern part of the United States 
 during the time of the recent civil war. An aged author and re- 
 former, who has allowed his amanuensis to enter the army, dic- 
 tates the different poems, which relate his own personal history, 
 to different characters in the village who volunteer to assist him* 
 
ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW, 3 
 
 He chooses his assistants according to their ages, dictating the 
 youngest part of his life to the youngest of them, and so on suc- 
 cessively. Every scribe is supposed to be at the same period of 
 life as was the reformer at the time of the experience which he 
 is recalling. This arrangement affords an opportunity to sketch, 
 in the person of each scribe, the results appearing to the eyes 
 of the world of the traits of character whose hidden experience 
 is related in the successive poems. Thus life is completely 
 represented, both in its subjective and objective developments. 
 The first of these sketches is contained in the passage entitled 
 
 DO. 
 Introduction : and the first and lowest outward report of the as- 
 cending stages of inner experience, the first of which is related in 
 
 POEM FIRST. — CHOOSING. 
 
 I. Circumstances summoning choice to exercise are often trif- 
 ling, 2. beautiful, hence attractive. 3. Introduction to narra- 
 tive of such a circumstance. 4. Sunset described. 5. It as- 
 sumes the appearance of a city. 6-8. Reflection and desire for 
 light suggested thereby. 9. Dream following reflection (which 
 may apply to experience while discovering a special truth, or 
 general truth, or wisdom sought through an entire life of a man 
 or of the race) ; city opens and light approaches. 10. Digres- 
 sion : Power of Expression, 11, 12. Song heard amid the light. 
 13. Its source, a chariot with messenger. 14. Her invitation ; 
 the dreamer's acceptance. 15. Journey past bounds of time. 16. 
 Her description. 17. The dreamer's experience; the realm of 
 whims (the supernatural in detail, to which causes assigned are) 
 18. Fairies. 19. Fairy chariot. 20. Fairy song. 21. Dissipa- 
 tion of whims. 22. Reason assigned them. 23. Existence of 
 the supernatural. 24. The realm of wisdom (the supernatural 
 collectively) ; the temple. 25. Arrival there. 26. Entrance. 27. 
 
4 ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW, 
 
 Invitation of interior. 28. Enthusiasm in anticipation of light : 
 The flight to 29. the dome (comprehensiveness of truth). 30. 
 The altar (absoluteness of truth) ; the seven stages of "Life Be- 
 low" prefigured. 31. The aisles radiating from the altar (com- 
 plexity of truth). 32. The dreamer allowed to find out the truth 
 in the aisles 33. of material aims. 34. Mental aims. 35. Emo- 
 tional aims. 36. His failure to discover truth, and prayer at 
 the altar. 37. The answer to faith. 38. Light imparted from 
 its source, whereby truth is discovered in the aisles 39. and 
 love at the altar. 40. Song of the world's redemption. 41. End 
 of the dream ; effect on the dreamer. 42. His faith stimulated 
 to live true to self, in dreams and desires 43. in order thus to 
 live true to others. 44. That all may do the same, the necessity 
 of charity 45. for each in his own sphere that he may ven- 
 ture, perhaps fail, at least learn faith, 46. the end of Choosing. 
 
 RE. 
 
 Second outward report of inner life. 
 
 POEM SECOND. — DARING. 
 
 I. Night. 2. The hero. 3, 4. Flight from home. 5. Its occa- 
 sion. 6. Slavery. 7. Emancipation. 8-10. The Farewell. 11- 
 13. Digression : Upon growing old. 14. Resumption of narra- 
 tive. 15. The farmer. 16, 17. His welcome. 18. The break- 
 fast. 19, 20. The discussion thereat. 21-23. Th^ farmer's rail- 
 way-speech. 24, 25. His conclusion. 26, 27. The hero dis- 
 heartened. 28. He revives. 29. The gossips. 30. Poetry of 
 railway-riding. 31. The fellow-travellers. 32. The physician. 
 33. The banker's words. 34. The physician's answer. 35. The 
 hero's answer. 36. Their insult. 37. His rejoinder. 38. Its 
 effect. 39. Philosophy of childhood. 40. Despondency. 41- 
 44. Home-sickness. 45. The new friend. 46. His request. 
 47. Is made a confidant. 48. Describes his guardian. 49. Bal- 
 
ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW. 5 
 
 timore. 50. Hope realized. 51. The boarding-school. 52. Its 
 matron. 53. Its tutor. 54. Unartificial piety. 55. Its influence. 
 56-58. Boy-life. 59. Its reading. 60. Its rudeness. 61. Its 
 rashness. 62. Its chastenings. 63. Immutability of love. 64- 
 66. The hero criticised. 67-69. His answer to the critic, 70. to 
 his tutor. 71. Egotism a misrepresentation. 72. The hero 
 misjudged and sentenced. 73. Power of love ( i ) in imparting 
 truth, proved either (a) from premises agreed upon ; 74. hence 
 necessity of sympathy; 75. or (b) from intuitions common to all ; 
 hence the same necessity. 76. (2) In imparting love, commu- 
 nicated either from love to man ; 77, or love to God. 78. Ex- 
 amples. 79. Necessity of faith in love per se, 80. The tutor's 
 application. 81. Effect on the hero. 82. Training of the world. 
 83. The hero's dream. 84. His awaking. 85. His second flight. 
 86. The storm. 87. Midnight in the streets. 88. The criminal. 
 89-91. Sunrise. 92. The slumberer. 93. Conclusion. 
 
 ME. 
 Third outward report of inner life. 
 
 POEM THIRD. — DOUBTING. 
 
 I. Solitary condition of the doubter. 2. Craves appreciation. 
 3. Fretted by disesteem. Anger. 4. Its influence. 5. Faith in 
 self, the source of faith from others ; conquest the road to crown- 
 ing. 6. Home of the hero. 7. Its inmates. 8. Its pastimes. 
 9. Loneliness. 10. Morbidness. 11. Excuse of the recluse. 
 12. Midnight thoughts of suicide. 13. Insanity. 14. Personal 
 responsibility — for exercise of will (in the), 15, use of oppor- 
 tunity (and), 16, use of inherent disposition (while), 17, devel- 
 oping, despite pesterings of prejudice, the mission of the indi- 
 vidual (and doing one's), 18, duty to others. 19. Obstacles, from 
 without, material means : 20. from within, mental weakness. 
 21. Yielding to circumstances. 22. Pleasure unmasked. 23. 
 
6 ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW. 
 
 Solace in society. 24. Faith, an element of friendship. 25. So- 
 • cial curiosity. 26. Hypocrisy. 27. Gossip. 28. Scandal. 29. 
 Refuge in self — The lesson of loneliness. 30. Philosophy, its 
 pleasures. 31. Its perils. 32. Its certainty. 33. Its uncertainty 
 — The vanity of fame. 34. The Church. 35. Hymn. 36. Its 
 effect. 37. The sermon ; the sovereignty of truth, applied to in- 
 dividual desires and deeds, and to the elevation of the commu- 
 nity. 38. Faith, 39. the object of experience. 40. The fruition 
 of individuality. 
 
 FA. 
 Fourth outward report of inner life. 
 
 POEM FOURTH. — LEARNING. 
 
 I. Faith bewildered by teachings of men turns to thoughts of 
 God in nature. 2. A grove by moonlight. 3. Brook in the grove- 
 4. Sounds in the grove. 5. Effect of, upon the spirit ; the stran- 
 ger (symbolical of the genius of nature, who discourses upon the 
 Theology of Nature). 6. The supernatural. 7, 8. Feticism 
 better than no faith. 9. Man dependent on material nature ; 10. 
 yet a personality. 11. His dependence causes sympathy between 
 mind and matter, influencing mind by thoughts of God in matter. 
 12. His personality makes him priest of nature. 13. Thoughts of 
 God in mind as well as matter. 14. Mind, with sin, retains His 
 image and is guided by His Spirit (to be proved by an appeal to 
 Theology, as manifested consecutively in human consciousness 
 and in teachings of divine revelation). 15. The realm of his- 
 tory. 16. (Symbolical) journey to the place of view. 17. Moun- 
 tain musings. 18. (Theology in Consciousness). \st histor- 
 ical view: India, and the cosmology of the Hindoo: 19. of 
 other nations ; conceptions of one Creator ; of the Trinity. 20. 
 2d historical view: Chaldee ; and rise of idolatry; conception 
 of divine providence. 21. '}^d historical view : Persia; and the 
 power of evil. 22, Conception of human sin, and the Tempter* 
 
ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW, ^ 
 
 23. A storm described. 24. ^h historical view: Greece, and 
 holy mounts ; heaven-sent laws ; conception of results of sin ; 
 fear appeased by sacrifices. 25. Question : why reverence hea- 
 thenism ? Answer : Had some truth in spirit, though false in 
 form. 26. (Theology in Revelation). $tk historical view : 
 Egypt, and traditions of Noah ; death of Osiris. 27. His resur- 
 rection ; expectations of a future Saviour ; the atonement. 28. 
 Question : What profit the Jew ? Answer : The chosen priest- 
 nation; yet to minister to humanity; how fitted for this. 29. 
 How unfitted ; through bigotry ; neglect of revelation ; of history ; 
 of consciousness ; of spirituality. 30. A view confirmed by Bib- 
 lical facts ; and statements ; and analogy of degeneration in 
 Christendom. 31. 6th historical view : Scandinavia, and destruc- 
 tion of the world. Under the Yggdrasill. 32. Description of; 
 traditions of other trees. 33. Roots of the tree ; home of the 
 gods. 34. Their gathering for battle. 35. Their contest. 36. 
 Destruction of the Universe. 37. Separation of good and evil. 
 38. Heaven. 39. 'jth historical view : Calvary delivering from 
 sight of doom. 40. 2>th historical view : Christendom from Pen- 
 tecost to present. 41. The Church. 42. The Israel of to-day; 
 without the Temple has the Synagogue and its government. 43. 
 Christian liberty ; indicates Christ's sovereignty ; as could not 
 be done by a sovereignty of forms in deeds, 44. or in creeds ; 
 because true religion is of faith. 45. Christian liberty causes 
 not anarchy ; nor irreverence ; nor indifference ; but charity 
 and spiritual unity. 46. ^th historical view : The Church formal. 
 47. Its finiteness. 48. Result in ritualism, 49. in rationalism. 
 50. The Infinite Unity may cause finite differences ; 51 does 
 overrule them for good ; 52. reveals all truth according to same 
 analogy ; 53. has revealed to all sufficient for salvation ; though 
 not for assurance, in order thus to stimulate search. 54, Duty 
 of search ; its ultimate success. 55. The farewell. 
 
8 ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW. 
 
 SOL. 
 
 Fifth outward report of inner life. 
 
 POEM FIFTH. — LOVING. 
 
 I. The conflict of life. 2. The law of the world ; i. e., sepa- 
 ration. 3, Evinced in material nature ; and in man, 4. in 
 infancy. 5. The desire of the spirit ; /'. ^., 6, union, 7. coun- 
 teracting the law of the world. 8. The infant on its mother's 
 breast. 9. The mother. 10. Their separation. 11. The school. 
 12. Its sports. 13. Its cares. 14. Love looking away from 
 home. 15. Friendships of childhood. 16. Romance. 17. The 
 reverence of love. 18. The friend of youth. 19. Separations 
 of youth. 20. The choice of a life-work. 21. The solitude of 
 duty. 22. Truth to self. 23. The recompense of bigotry. 24. 
 The reward of charity. 25. The recurrence of love. 26. Fall- 
 ing in love. 27. The transfigurations of love. 28. Disappoint- 
 ment in love. 29. The poetical vs, the practical. 30. A crime 
 in common. 31. Jilted. 32. Struggle against love. 33. Death of 
 the ideal. 34. Prostitution of enthusiasm. 35. Slavery to form. 
 36. Will and conversion. 37. Triumph of duty. 38. Reap- 
 pearance of love. 39. Love awakened. 40. Broken friendship 
 renewed. 41. Forgiveness. 42. The wife. 43. Self-depreciation 
 of love. 44. Self-sufficiency of love. 45. Fear of a false ideal. 
 46. Deceitfulness of appearances. 47. Feeling and fidelity. 48. 
 Separation risked through infidelity to social relations. 49. 
 Through analogous infidelity to God ; The Fall of man. 50. 
 Possibility of separation from God through self-confidence, the 
 ground of union to Him through faith : the reason of The Fall. 
 51. Possibility of separation, the ground everywhere of spiritual 
 unity — even in the Godhead. 52. Faith the reconciler of the 
 law of the world, /. e. separation, and of the desire of the Spirit, 
 i. e. union. 53. The Spirit, through faith, triumphant. Con- 
 clusion. 
 
ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW, 
 
 LA. 
 
 Sixth outward report of inner life. 
 
 POEM SIXTH. — SERVING. 
 
 1-4. The joys of home. 5. The immortality of love. 6. The 
 hero of the poem. 7. His character. 8. His bearing. 9. His 
 fidelity. 10. His reputation. 11. The misinterpretations of 
 sincerity. 12. Of breadth. 13. Of intensity. 14. Of imagina- 
 tion. 15. Sensitiveness. 16. Affinity. 17, 18. Marriage. 19. 
 Sickness. 20. Leaving home. 21. At Sea. 22-26. Apostrophe 
 to the ocean. 27-30. Ireland. 31-33. Scotland. 34. The Yar- 
 row. 35. Cumberland. 36. England. 37. The English home. 
 38. The Anglo-Saxon race. 39. Belgium. 40. Holland. 41. 
 Church music. 42. Germany. 43. The Sabbath considered in 
 itself; 44. in its relation to difference in race. 45. America 
 caricatured. 46. Sabbath in relation to difference in government. 
 47. Religious training necessary in a republic. 48. Freedom of 
 the German genius. 49. Its need of faith. 50. The revival in 
 Italy. 51. The right of revolution. 52. The wrong of formal- 
 ism. 53. Russia. 54. France, her moulding power. 55. Her 
 imitators. 56. Her life and its deficiency. 57. The traveller. 
 58, 59. Apostrophe to America. 60. Resumption of the narra- 
 tive. 61. Sad news from home. 62. The return voyage, (^-i^. 
 The arrival. 64. The Hudson. 65. The buried children. 66. 
 Prayer, the outlet of sorrow. 67, 68. Tale of the wife. 69, 70. 
 The hero's search for her. 71. The South. 72. The prairie. 
 73. The mountain home. 74, 75. The salvation of effort. 76. 
 The universality of love. 77. The mistakes of misanthropy. 
 78-81. Sympathy. 82. Simplicity of truth. 83. Heaven an 
 earth perfected. 84. Love the end of wisdom. 85. Infinity the 
 goal of love. 86. Contentment. 87. The wanderer. %%, 89. 
 The lost found. 90,91. The rebuff. 92. The discipline of suf- 
 
10 ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW, 
 
 fering. 93, 94. Perseverance. 95. The meeting. 96. Her ex- 
 cuse. 97. His answer. 98. Love reviving. 99, 102. The mis- 
 sion of love. 103. The reunion. 104. The second loss. 105, 
 106. The Farewell. 107-109. Conclusion. 
 
 SI. 
 
 Seventh outward report of inner life. 
 
 POEM SEVENTH. — WATCHING. 
 
 I. Life a unity through all experiences ; to all persons ; amid 
 all circumstances ; in all phases of existence. 2. Advantage of 
 regarding life in more than one phase. 3. ( i ) Enthralls from 
 confidence in [a] material laws. 4. (b) external appearances. 
 5. {c) human agency. 6. (2) It causes trust [a) in the spirit- 
 ual power of truth ; and [b) overruling of Providence. 7. Ref- 
 erence to a recent triumph of freedom evincing this. 8. Tran- 
 sition to subject of strife for freedom ; (i) argument from Scrip- 
 ture. 9. Scripture principles apply equally to earth and heaven. 
 10. (2) Argument from reason in the form of visions. 11. 
 Liberty as limited [a) by external conditions, found not (i) 
 through separating from wills opposing ; 12. nor (2) through 
 uniting with wills agreeing; 13. nor (3) through submitting 
 collectively to one human will governing; 14. because the 
 source of slavery is internal. 15. Liberty as limited (b) by in- 
 ternal conditions, found (i) through knowledge of God. 16. 
 (2) Through desire to do his will. 17. Effect of law in caus- 
 ing knowledge of God. 18. Effect of love in causing desire 
 to do His will. 19. God the Alpha and Omega ; source of 
 love to inspire and truth to allure, 20. for both the race and the 
 individual. 21. Analogy between a man and mankind. 22. 
 The secret of individual success. 23. National progress. 24. 
 The coming day, its love. 25. Its light. 26. Its liberty. 27. 
 Tyranny of established forms. 28. Freedom from established 
 
ANALYSIS OF LIFE BELOW, II 
 
 forms, where ? 29. Tribute to America. 30. Transition. 31. 
 Apostrophe to youth, as the embodiment of the new ; 32. as 
 the confidence of hope, 33. awaiting success upon earth, 34. 
 awaiting immortality. 35. The belief in immortality of the 
 soul 36. is universal, 37. necessary to interpret life. 38. Doubts 
 concerning it. 39. Confuted by reference to [a) constant 
 growth of the soul. 40. (^) Its essence. 41. (r) Its powers. 42. 
 [d) Its performances. 43. [e). The character of Him who 
 gives it faith. 44. The reward of faith. 45. A prayer for 
 progress. 46. Conclusion. 
 
 DO. 
 
 Eighth outward report of inner life ; the last note in the ascend- 
 ing scale of life below, the first in the scale of life above.