LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 Shelf GUT7 
 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
 „- „ — ,. 
 
 
THREE VOWS 
 
 BY 
 
 
 WILLIAM BATCHELDEK GREENE 
 
 
 "Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 27 & 29 WEST 23D STREET 
 
 London: SAMPSON LOW & CO., ,88 Fleet Stree-. 
 tQQ t 
 

 Copyright by 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 l88l 
 
 Press 0/ 
 
 G, P. Putnam's Sons 
 New York 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In " Three Vows " I have endeavored to sustain 
 throughout an unbroken thread of narrative, feel- 
 ing convinced that any break, or deviation from the 
 straight road leading to the climax of the plot, runs 
 :he risk of wearying the reader, or in some way 
 deteriorating from what general interest may be felt 
 in a work of this kind. 
 
 In following the example of certain Scandinavian 
 writers, I have ventured in " Satan of the Sea " 
 more than once to change the metre to suit the 
 mood of some passages. And I would beg indul- 
 gence for what might seem at first an unduly rough 
 and almost uncouth manner of treatment through- 
 out the whole piece. But, I trust, after due perusal, 
 some of my readers may agree with me in believing 
 that it is the only true and adequate mode of deal- 
 ing with the subject and circumstances of the plot. 
 
 I do not feel called upon here to say much as 
 regards the very limited collection of shorter poems 
 at the end of the book, as they have all appeared in 
 print before, either on this or the other side of the 
 Atlantic. My only reason for reproducing them in 
 this form is to place them collectively. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Three Vows, Part I . . . i 
 
 Part II . . . 36 
 
 Satan of the Sea . . . -67 
 
 MINOR POEMS 
 
 true poetry .... 99 
 
 " at the tomb of genevieve " . . ioi 
 
 ARTEMIS ..... 104 
 FIRST LOVE ..... 106 
 
 MY MOUNTAIN MAID 
 WHERE KATE WAS LOST 
 
 TAKE A HANSOM 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 107 
 113 
 
 LINES ON LEAVING AMERICA . . 116 
 
 II 9 
 
 NOT YET SIXTEEN . . . 122 
 
 124 
 
THREE VOWS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Twelve months — 'twas long, and yet to each 
 It scarcely seemed more than a joyous day 
 Spent in the sunshine of each other's love. 
 And as this love was all their inmost life, 
 It was a treasure far too sacred 
 To be ever loudly on the air ; 'twas seldom 
 Uttered forth in open words. The touch, the long 
 And earnest gaze, the whisper intimate, 
 With, now and then, a half-conceded sigh, 
 Told all the oft-repeated tale. There was 
 A lute that hung upon the pictured wall, and 
 Every day they sought with eager hand 
 To strike some chord in unison 
 With their glad hearts. And oft when Martin's 
 song 
 
2 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Had ceased, quick Isabel would snatch 
 The lute, as if she thought to catch 
 Some lingering remnant of his rhapsody 
 Still clinging to the trembling strings, 
 Which she might draw with nimble touch 
 From out the ringing instrument, 
 Unto her soul's delight. 
 
 Old Allenday, 
 Her father and a white-haired widower, 
 Scarce fairly knew his daughter's mind. 
 'Tvvas said that Martin once her life had saved, 
 In the back vista of past years ; 
 'Twas meet they should be friends — he owed him 
 
 much — 
 And Martin ever was a welcome guest. 
 There were two suitors for the hand 
 Of Isabel, abiding each his time : 
 Carnac, and the good Doctor Honore. 
 The first, an Indian officer, rich, handsome 
 And a lord, seemed somewhat worldly 
 In the old man's eyes ; too minikin 
 
THREE VOWS. 5 
 
 Of heart, and prone to flatteries ; 
 
 Too scornful of the earth on which he trod, 
 
 To make his child a gladsome bride. 
 
 But Doctor Honore was true, well proven 
 
 In all solid worth and staid sagacity, 
 
 A man of fame and passing wealth ; yet now 
 
 Perchance a trifle over-wrought in years 
 
 To mate with child so young as Isabel, 
 
 To match his locks of gray against her raven curls. 
 
 " Oh yes — I love the doctor well," 
 
 The old man dreamily would sigh, 
 
 Amid a circle of enduring friends, 
 
 At night, when all the doors were closed, 
 
 As he watched dance the flame upon the hearth, 
 
 That came and went, and rose and fell 
 
 Like his own changeful thoughts, until 
 
 His drowsy guests would softly rise and go. 
 
 Oft he had seen the face of Martin 
 
 In the fire-light — but quick dismissed the thought ; 
 
 He'd ne'er consent to such a hazard match ! 
 
 A young lieutenant lately ordered 
 
4 THREE VOWS. 
 
 With his ship to cruise in dang'rous seas ; to be 
 
 Pent up from Isabel within a roving 
 
 Prison-house, while she was left to pine, 
 
 And count the heavy days by her soft 
 
 Beauty's waste, as roses mew their tinted leaves. 
 
 It were a sorry lot for any wife, 
 
 Let 'lone a child so young and delicate. 
 
 But Martin, like a bark that finds but toil 
 
 And tossing on the outer reefs, and sees 
 
 The fair arms open of a halcyon port 
 
 Inviting him to come and nestle there, 
 
 For the first time laid his flushed cheek 
 
 On Isabel's white neck. Once there, he breathed 
 
 But two or three quick, broken words ; 
 
 While a soft light filled her bright eyes, 
 
 As she bent low, and answered : " Yes." 
 
 So, all was changed ; the veil was torn aside ; 
 
 And it seemed now as if they could not 
 
 Speak enough of love. With words they sought 
 
 To picture out what all their love-lorne sighs 
 
 And tell-tale eyes had so well marked 
 
THREE VOWS. 5 
 
 Before ; forgetful of all else, in love's 
 Sweet selfishness. 
 
 One twilight eve they sat 
 Amid the flowers on the garden's bank, 
 And Isabel's light fingers played 
 With the gay purfle of her silk embroidery ; 
 And Martin fixed his earnest eyes 
 On Isabel — a look which sudden brake 
 Into a beam of joy, when marking there 
 A glow of happiness pervading all 
 Her countenance. " So tell me now, sweet Isabel, 
 Hast thou e'er loved before ? " She glanced at him 
 In great surprise. "I love?" she said, 
 With gentle gravity ; " My father and my 
 Mother I have loved, not any else. But thou, 
 Now tell me true, hast thou not loved before ? " 
 "Yes, once I thought I loved ; 'tis now long past ; 
 She was most wondrous beautiful— and yet, 
 'Twas like an early morning dream 
 That is dispelled by light of healthful day. 
 She loved not me alone, I found, and so 
 
6 THREE VOWS. 
 
 I left her free to be another's choice." 
 
 " But, dearest Martin, could'st thou fly 
 
 Her memory as readily as thou could'st 
 
 Leave her side?" "When I knew all, unto my 
 
 mind 
 Her vision seemed bereft of soul, and then 
 Reality despoiled the bright illusion 
 Of its former charm. Now, I repeat, 
 I love thee, Isabel ; and all 
 Those nodding flowers round us here 
 Do bear me witness in the same. 
 Hut thou, my Isabel, must let 
 Lord Carnac see that he no more must hope." 
 " 'Twas, Martin, his own heart that gave him hope, 
 If hope it was that made his manner bold ; 
 I cannot bear his platitudes, 
 His airy talk of India and the spangled 
 Regiment his showy swagger so adorns." 
 " And, bonny Isabel, there's Honore — 
 'Twill be a cruel blow for him ! " " Oh, Martin, 
 Laugh not so. We both have loved to listen 
 To his sage discourse ; he seems so good, 
 
THREE VOWS. 7 
 
 So learned and so wise. And often 
 
 He's been kind to me." " Then thou dost pity 
 
 him ? " 
 " Not so much pity— as love thee ! 
 But respite this, and let us walk." 
 And Martin pressed her lips, and both arose 
 And passed on, hand in hand, along the path. 
 
 They had not heard a quick receding step, 
 Whose haste seemed almost tremulous, 
 As some one gently shut the garden gate. 
 Tvvas Doctor Honore— and now he stopped 
 And slowly wiped the cold drops from his brow ; 
 Then striding on, he reached his cottage door, 
 Where clustered thick the emerald vines. 
 He entered in, his hat still on his head, 
 Then turned, and closed the study door. 
 
 He had heard nothing, but seen all ! 
 And leaning on a table that was near, 
 He buried deep his face in both his hands, 
 And there remained subdued in grief. 
 
3 THREE VOWS. 
 
 " The look she gave, but one sure meaning had — 
 
 And oh, the kiss — the kiss — that drove me mad ! 
 
 Unhappy man that now I am, I loved her, 
 
 Angel that she is — oh, Isabel ! 
 
 I who, absorbed in study, work and books, had 
 
 Said : ' I have no time for love ; love's not for me ; 
 
 'Tis but a waste illusion, fit for youth, 
 
 For idleness.' How bitter comes this taunt ! 
 
 I, at my age — and Isabel, a girl 
 
 Of twenty odd, yet scarcely fairly weaned from 
 
 School, — a child, that almost might my daughter be. 
 
 'Twould be the rosy future coupled with the halting 
 
 Past. Still not so strange to worldly eyes, 
 
 The lapse of time hath so oft been adjusted 
 
 On the altar step, by shameless parents, 
 
 For the price of gold ; but I have not the gold, 
 
 Nor hath friend Allenday the shame ! 
 
 That I have vaguely dreamt of paradise 
 
 Like this, doth make me laugh when I do ponder 
 
 On 't. What with my hermit character, 
 
 My youthless, book-worm life, that hath explored 
 
 The sunless realms of half-imprisoned lore, 
 
THREE VOWS. 9 
 
 I knew not that my heart must beat 
 
 To call existence to its full account. 
 
 And all these pondered tomes of cold 
 
 Philosophy, whose master I had vainly 
 
 Deemed myself, cry out, like starving beggars, 
 
 On God's wondrous gift of woman's love ! 
 
 Yes, blessed angel Isabel, I knew not 
 
 Till this day I loved thee thus, thou beauteous one. 
 
 My heart has played the truant with my head ; 
 
 My love but wakes to find itself bereft." 
 
 He rose, and paced the room, repeating all 
 
 The while : " And at my age — yes, at my age — 
 
 How strange I ne'er had loved before." 
 
 But now he stops, his breath comes fast, 
 
 As if for some unuttered cause he struggled 
 
 With himself. " My star, my cherished Isabel — 
 
 Not mine, alas ! I had forgot to-day — 
 
 And oh, my aching heart, her star must 
 
 Vanish now, that long hath graced with such 
 
 Sweet promises love's hopeful firmament ! 
 
 Gone like a meteor's flash, too bright to last ? 
 
 Whose very lustre doth foretell its doom. 
 
lO THREE VOWS. 
 
 When hope expires in the human breast, 
 
 How darker than all other pomps 
 
 Of death comes the o'ervvhelming night ! 
 
 When peasants see a shooting-star, some whisper 
 
 ' Tis a soul set free ; God guide that soul aright.' 
 
 And all devoutly cross themselves. 
 
 And I say : ' God bless thee, bright Isabel ! ' " 
 
 The little village rang with the 
 
 Eventful news. The gossips met along 
 
 The quaint and narrow street, but could 
 
 Not all agree. Some shook their heads : — 
 
 " She wed a sailor — ah, poor thing ! 
 
 I'd prayed for her a better fate. 
 
 A man that goes with ev'ry wind, 
 
 And comes not home with the tide ; 
 
 In troth, it is a sorry lot 
 
 To be the widow of a living thing." 
 
 But now, all blithesome were the happy pair ; 
 Days passed in the enchanted walks of love ; 
 The sun-tipped flowers nodded as they came, 
 
THREE VOWS. II 
 
 Kissed by the soft exultant breeze, on whose 
 Uplifted wings the transient birds seemed full 
 Of carolled promises for the fast ripening time 
 That pointed to the nuptial day. 
 
 At last, the marriage eve had come ; 
 
 The pair, impatient of the hours 
 
 That yet loitered ere the night, stole out 
 
 Into the broadcast wood ; they walked on 
 
 Starry-rooted moss, beneath the tow'ring trees, 
 
 That from their green-lit upper boughs seemed 
 
 gazing 
 Solemnly below — their tall trunks, painted 
 With a fallow shade, outstanding from 
 The inner gloom of sylvan night. 
 And soft the sacred-seeming stillness stole 
 Down in the open soul of the young bride. 
 " And is not this," said Isabel, 
 " Like some cathedral nave, some holy place 
 Wherein to worship God ? " And both passed on 
 In reverie, yet ever and anon 
 Exchanging a soft glance of undiminished 
 
12 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Love, until the prone-edge of the wood was 
 
 reached, 
 Where rose a narrow path ascending to 
 A hillet's crest, where stood a shrine, 
 A little temple of white stone, 
 Far-back embedded in the heath against 
 The fair blue sky, like some snow cloud that, fal- 
 len, 
 Sleeps beneath the watchful firmament. 
 It had but three blank outer walls, crowned by 
 The lichened roof ; the fourth partition 
 Was an iron gate, that barred the altar steps. 
 Above the altar, stretched along, was 
 Rudely limned the image of our Lord, crowned 
 
 o'er 
 With thorns, and bearing on His neck His peo- 
 ple's 
 Cross, while at His bleeding feet was writ : 
 " He, who would come and be with Me, 
 Must take his cross and follow Me." 
 "This is a sweet appeal to those who 
 Crosses have," said Isabel, half childishly. 
 
THREE VOWS. 1 3 
 
 "We all should follow Jesus," Martin said. 
 " Yes, dearest Martin, true, but those 
 Who crosses have, are nearer far to Christ." 
 " We all have crosses, Isabel." 
 " Ah, call net crosses those that are not such ; 
 Those are not crosses which we make and fash- 
 ion 
 Ourselves. True crosses must be sent of God." 
 Here Martin answered not ; he marked 
 That Isabel, now full of earnest thought, 
 Was wrapped in gazing on the rough 
 And time-stained effigy, that to his 
 Fancy seemed to pause, like him, to hear 
 Her speak again. At last she turned and said : 
 " Now, Martin, that we have no cross, 
 Let us pray God that should it ever be 
 His holy will to send us one, 
 We may with resignation carry it, 
 Because 'tis He that sends it us — 
 Thus bowing to our Master's will." 
 Both knelt upon the steps, and Martin 
 Bent his head against tne iron gate 
 
1 4 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Before the altar piece, and Isabel clasped 
 
 Her white hands, and fixed her gaze upon 
 
 The image of the Lord, that seemed to glow 
 
 From out the faded colors of the wall, 
 
 Responding to her fervent upturned eyes, while 
 
 All around seemed burning with a subtle light. 
 
 " O Lord, here prostrate at Thy sacred feet, 
 
 We offer up ourselves. And should it come 
 
 To pass, that Destiny, of which 
 
 Thou only art the King, should load 
 
 Us with an earthly cross, may we 
 
 Submissive be to Thy most holy will, in 
 
 Resignation and all meet humility." 
 
 " I, too, unite myself unto that prayer," 
 
 Said a grave voice behind the prostrate 
 
 Boy and girl. Half startled and amazed, they 
 
 turned ; 
 And lo ! they saw the doctor standing there. 
 
 At early dusk the three returned through 
 The green-golden gloom of the grave wood. 
 A solemn sense had crept between 
 
THREE VOWS. 
 
 Each soul ; all three were mute, and walked 
 In self-solicitude. For each, thus having 
 Stopped in the full current of quick life, 
 Looked down the past and up the airy future, 
 Felt a mysterious crisis in self-being 
 Wound about the spirit of this compact 
 Sealed to mighty God — this triune orison ! 
 
 In summer ease they found the good old 
 
 Allenday there seated at his porch, 
 
 With all the garden flowers circling 'round 
 
 That Isabel had loved so well ; 
 
 And there were other friends, that stood beside 
 
 His chair ; but these were only human 
 
 After all, and had their failings at the best. 
 
 The old man had not been at peace 
 
 Since Isabel had thrown her frail arms 
 
 'Bout his wrinkled neck, to win her suit, 
 
 Bedewing with such touching tears her prayers, 
 
 That all aversion to her earnest wish 
 
 Had slowly sunk into the sad reserve that 
 
 Now sat still in silence on his brow. 
 
1 6 THREE VOWS. 
 
 A shimmer had come o'er the waters 
 
 Of the night ; the moon was drowned in morning 
 
 mists, 
 The white stars blotted out by day ; while like 
 A young awakening sprite the upstart winds 
 Unloosed the dying night, and fanned the drowsy 
 Sexton's cheek, that clambered up the belfry stairs 
 To wake the village with a marriage peal : 
 
 Ding a-ling, along, ding-ding-dell ! 
 For the village all must know, 
 They must know. — bells all go : 
 Ding a-ling, along, ding-ding-do ! 
 Now the cocks have ceased to crow, 
 All below, all below, 
 And the farmer rubs his eyes, 
 And the maiden, dreaming, sighs, 
 All below, — now they go : 
 Ding a-ling, along, ding-ding-do ! 
 And the sun from out the east, 
 Shooting past the gothic arch, 
 Casts the shadow of the sexton 
 
THREE VOWS. I J 
 
 On the wall, gaunt and tall, 
 
 Bending low, to and fro, 
 
 Pulling long, hard and strong, 
 
 And they go : ding-ding-dong ! 
 
 'Tis young Martin's happy day, 
 
 Tis a daughter's wedding morn, 
 
 'Tis a father's bitter-sweet, — 
 
 Are these bells, so loud and strong, 
 
 Are these bells, that ring so long. 
 
 And to one they sound in sorrow, — 
 
 One who long hath feared the morrow ; 
 
 To one heart it is a knell ; 
 
 Full of sadness is this bell, 
 
 That goes lightly to and fro : 
 
 Ding a-ling, along, ding-ding-do ! 
 
 But the merry peasant maids. 
 
 With their blue eyes and their braids, 
 
 Know not what this music tells — 
 
 Gay, yet sad, mysterious bells ! 
 
 The time, the day, the hour had now come, 
 And Isabel's black eyes shone 'neath a radiant 
 
Io THREE VOWS. 
 
 Wreath of orange-white. The doctor was not there ; 
 He'd made some blunt excuse to leave the place ; 
 Some patient in a neighb'ring town, 
 'Twas thought, had sudden claimed his services. 
 But Carnac came, like some black raven, 
 To the marriage feast, to smile with covered hate 
 Upon th' unconscious pair. Old Allenday 
 Saw but his child, in all the swaying throng 
 That pressed for nearer view ; saw all possession, 
 In his lonely future, slowly slip from out 
 His aged, hungry arms. " She will be happy," 
 Pondered he, "she will be blest— e'en happy still 
 Away from me." And then to check or to dis- 
 guise 
 A truant tear, he turned and asked : " Where is 
 Friend Honore . . . Gone to a consultation, 
 So you say ? . . .1 think I know," he'd mut- 
 ter low ; 
 But his poor heart forsook him when they sang 
 The nuptial hymn, — 'twas then he fairly wept. 
 At eventide, when they and all the guests had 
 Gone, the old man walked beside the garden bank, 
 
THREE VOWS. 1 9 
 
 And thought of both locked in each other's arms. 
 
 And then he stood 'mid all the flowers 
 
 Isabel had loved, and tended day by 
 
 Day, now left like orphans of her patient care 
 
 Bereft of her kind hand and gentle smile, 
 
 That with the rain and sunshine made them thrive. 
 
 'Twas scarce a day, and yet to him it was 
 
 An age, that she was gone, and all things 
 
 Seemed bereft. At last, the calm, still moon looked 
 
 down 
 Through all the layers of the silent air, 
 Above the glist'ning foliage of the trees, 
 And seemed to say to father Allenday : 
 " Old man, thou art alone, thou art alone." 
 
 Joy is fleeting, so is pain. Six months 
 
 Had past in bliss for the fond wedded pair, 
 
 When, at the early morning meal, was served 
 
 A letter with a broad red seal, and as 
 
 Poor Martin read, his brow grew dark ; 
 
 He passed the missive unto Isabel, and 
 
 Turned away his face. She read the words, but 
 
20 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Hardly caught the sense of all at first, till 
 
 The warm tears came leaping to her eyes. And she 
 
 Let fall the rustling paper to the ground, while 
 
 Martin knelt beside her, at her feet, and gazed, 
 
 With sad and stricken love, into her 
 
 Half-drowned eyes, while her quick sobs caught up 
 
 The choking tale ; for the dread summons now 
 
 Had come at last, and he must go. His days were 
 
 Numbered on the shores of love ; for if the sea 
 
 Give up her dead, she doth reclaim 
 
 The living to her fitful element. 
 
 The blow was struck to sever these twin hearts ; 
 
 Now putting fate, and time, and dread surmise, 
 
 Between them and reunion in this state. 
 
 Tvvas sad to watch poor Isabel, with 
 
 Falt'ring fingers, store the seaman's chest 
 
 With all most needful for so long a cruise — 
 
 So long she scarce could picture his return ; 
 
 Yet hope gave life, and she strove on. Oft their 
 
 eyes 
 Met, but turned aside again, for when they gazed 
 
THREE VOWS. 21 
 
 Too long, the cadent tears would start afresh, 
 
 And their hearts'-wound would bleed anew. 
 
 And now, alas ! the day had come when 
 
 He must go. Down to the landing both passed, 
 
 Arm in arm, they'd had their own long bitter 
 
 Parting in the house before, that none 
 
 Might comment on their grief ; and now 
 
 To see them, 'twould be scarcely dreamt they were 
 
 Half-dead with heart-sick grief within. And as the 
 
 Boat pushed off, there was no cry of agony. 
 
 And Isabel turned back to watch the ship ; 
 
 But did not see that Carnac too, was come 
 
 Among the crowd, to watch, with prurient eye, 
 
 Her face obliquely-turned, that peradventure 
 
 He might trace some token of her self-hid suffering. 
 
 Returning to the tedious round 
 Of life, poor Isabel found little time to 
 Nurse the sorrows and the longings of a heart 
 Bereaved. Her father, Allenday, was 
 Sadly fallen off from health, and claiming all 
 Her duty and her utmost fortitude, she 
 
22 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Scarcely had a waking thought that she might 
 Call her own. Yet oft, in dreams, she heard 
 The splash of the white waves, and saw three 
 Swaying masts on a vext wilderness of sea, 
 And cloud, on cloud, pursuing cloud. But only 
 'Woke to gaze upon her father's face, all still 
 And sunken 'gainst the snowy sheet. Her time 
 Was short, and Doctor Honore had said 
 She should not watch again. At last, 
 It was pronounced that Allenday had passed 
 A better night — so she was taken to her bed, 
 And 'rose not thence, until her hour'd come. 
 And she brought forth a little girl, for all the 
 World like to herself, but very delicate. 
 Old Allenday had died — she knew it not — 
 But as the new life came, the old one went. 
 
 Now twice the skipping earth had rolled about 
 The ancient sun, and winter stood at hand 
 Once more, and the sad winds flew round the 
 House and shook the outer fastenings. 
 And ever and anon, the pelting rain 
 
THREE VOWS. 23 
 
 Fell drumming on the roof, while rushed 
 The noisy concourse of the water-spouts 
 Upon the tired hearing of her lonely heart. 
 But Isabel most dreaded the long troubled 
 Nights, when the foul Tempest rose amain 
 And madly seized all nature roused without, 
 And from the darkness shook his wild, wet locks 
 Upon her, from the window-pane. 'Twas then 
 She turned, and clasped her trembling, bloodless 
 
 hands 
 In prayer for Martin on the open seas. 
 One howling night, all torn with wind and rain, 
 'Twas in the dreaded season on that coast, 
 While watching by her babe, she heard a blind, 
 That long had swung upon its creaking hinge, 
 Slam with an angry thump against the window- 
 Sash. She started, and looked up, and thought 
 
 she saw 
 Her husband's face ! And then another face — Lord 
 
 Carnac's 
 Eyes peered in upon her from without, then passed 
 Like lightning, and she heard a sharp, quick ring, 
 
24 THREE VOWS. 
 
 And all seemed dead within her, save her heart, 
 That beat as if it must rush forth 
 And leave her terror-rooted where she stood. 
 Then came a servant with a startled mien ; 
 But ere she'd spoken, Isabel, regaining 
 Sudden nerve to move, with some wild horror 
 In presentment, had headlong rushed without, 
 And there before the open door, where streamed 
 Through the black night the wind and rain, 
 A dripping, muffled figure stood : — 
 
 "From Madras, hot haste, I have flashed my way, 
 
 Nor paused till now, with my dark news. 
 
 Thy husband's ship lies at the bottom 
 
 Of the sea ! And now my duty is performed." 
 
 And Carnac wrung his wet hat o'er the floor, 
 
 But looked not up lest he should meet the stricken 
 
 Woman's eyes. " Yes — yes ! But Martin lives ? ' 
 
 cried she ; 
 Yet Carnac said not. " Read ! " quoth he. The 
 
 hand 
 Was lifted for the paper he held forth, 
 
THREE VOWS. 2$ 
 
 But dropped again like a lopped bough, as if 'twas 
 Sudden paralyzed. And Isabel was carried 
 Silently and laid within her chamber, near 
 Her babe. And Carnac turned upon his heel, 
 And stalked out to the night, from whence he 
 
 came, 
 As if conspiring with the less dread 
 Elements of darkness and the storm, to strike, 
 With murd'rous haste, a last, black blow. 
 
 For months 
 She lay, with vague uncertain hold on life ; 
 It seemed as if the germ of her existence 
 Had been struck, the life-thread torn, and that she 
 Only struggled upward to renewing health 
 To show the depth and anguish of the wound. 
 She heard smooth words of comfort, but with pain, 
 And only wept, and turned her ever 
 To the wall again. All had despaired, 
 Save the good Doctor Honore. 
 Both night and day, in darkness and in light, 
 With muffled tread and anxious, thoughtful care, 
 
20 THREE VOWS. 
 
 He was the ever patient watcher at her side. 
 And time passed on — and yet he wearied not, 
 Like those great hearts that serve a life's 
 Devotion out, without encouragement or praise. 
 At last, one day, at th' earliest peeping of the 
 Dawn, when the barred-light glowed through the 
 
 slanting blind, 
 And a quick sense crept through the soul of life, 
 In silent awe, awakening to the will of 
 God, she turned, and eyed the doctor sitting 
 
 there, 
 Who neither spoke, nor changed his pensive gaze. 
 " Why have you let me live," asked Isabel, 
 " When I so wished to die — and be with him ? " 
 " Because," said Doctor Honore, " I have been 
 Prayed by some one here to save your life." 
 And rising up and going to the cradle 
 Of the child, he took the helpless little one 
 And laid it by the 'stonished mother's side. 
 Then, with a sudden cry, she caught it up 
 And drew it to her breast. It nestled there, arul 
 The warm mother's tears sushed forth from 
 
THREE VOWS. 2~] 
 
 The deep well of her worn eyes, and brake 
 The long dull bond of pain that so had wrung 
 Her love-lorn heart. " She's saved ! " the doctor 
 
 whispered, 
 And rushed out to tell to all the joyful tale. 
 
 Thus was a mourning-season turned to weal ; 
 
 The mother's soul responded to the call ; 
 
 Yet still, to closer minds, less sanguine than was 
 
 Honore's, she seemed too frail of life, 
 
 Too much distracted 'tween high Heaven 
 
 And this earth, as if, forever, she had lost 
 
 The first quick spark of hope and buo>ant youth. 
 
 The village went en fete at the good news, 
 
 For Honore had rapped at every neighbor's 
 
 House, and told all of the wondrous cure. And 
 
 Rosy maidens brought bright flowers to the door, 
 
 For Isabel had been warm friends with all, 
 
 In bygone days, through kindly words and timely 
 
 Charities that had not been forgot. 
 
 The doctor, too, his manner grew more brisk 
 
28 THREE VOWS. 
 
 And gay ; he often came to try to tempt 
 Faint Isabel to drive. " Not yet," she'd say ; 
 "I'll wait till spring. I cannot bear that wind 
 
 that 
 Shakes the trees and drives the ships upon the 
 
 rocks. 
 Good doctor, wait ; I am far better so." 
 
 The doctor waited ; yet she moped and failed ; 
 She gave her babe her every thought and word ; 
 Her lips seemed sealed to all the world beside. 
 At last, she moved more like a shadow than her 
 Former self, and all the fibres of her strength 
 Seemed sapped from dearth of self-willed 
 Energy. 
 
 One day the doctor said 
 To her, with mien more grave than was his wont 
 " List, Isabel, thou lovest to recall each 
 Memory of him thou worshipped when on earth ; 
 
 Yet there is one most sacred thou'st forgot." 
 " Impossible ! But tell me what it is, 
 
THREE VOWS. 29 
 
 Since you remember it ! " said Isabel. 
 
 " Most clearly I remember it. It was 
 
 A vow — a solemn prayer — that you both made ; 
 
 I made it too. The promises we seal in 
 
 Our brighter days, to be redeemed through all 
 
 Mischance and dread adversity, should 
 
 Not be thus forgotten or denied. 
 
 Now is the night of the fulfilment come." 
 
 Overwhelmed by the upstarting thought that pricked 
 
 her 
 Conscience like her memory, she looked abashed. 
 Then, falt'ring, spake : " Yes, but this cross — " 
 " Is very heavy, Isabel," said Doctor 
 Honore, full solemnly, "And so I 
 Doubt not that the Lord hath sent it thee." 
 Now she was mute, and a slow tear stood 
 Trembling o'er her cheek. Still he went on , 
 Yet twice he faltered in the lesson that 
 lie gave, as if his own soft heart was bleeding 
 At the cold sharp words that must cut first, ere 
 They could save. " Think if a promise made to 
 
 man, 
 
30 THREE VOWS. 
 
 And broken then, dishonor man ; how then shall 
 
 Stand the vows to God ? Perhaps you never 
 dreamt 
 
 The day would dawn so dark that this light- 
 winged 
 
 Child's vow should rise from out the pent-up 
 
 Past to cry, like life, to be fulfilled. 
 
 Twere better were it never breathed in prayer. 
 than 
 
 Glare uncancelled in the face of God." 
 
 This broke the barrier of her woe ; it worked 
 
 On Isabel like some quick baptism ; 
 
 As inert waters spring to living streams, 
 
 It crucified the past, and she obtained 
 
 New lease of life and blessed promises, 
 
 In the fair calendar of well-spent days. 
 
 Now dedicated to her child, she walked, 
 
 And found renewing strength in cheering those 
 
 Yet more afflicted than herself. Once more 
 
 The daily freshness to her cheeks returns, 
 
 As if in league with all the gladsome tints 
 
THREE VOWS. 3 I 
 
 Of dawn. The doctor, too, seemed younger, 
 Full ten years. 'Twas more a mastery of words 
 Than Esculapian skill ; the proof was 
 Isabel saved from the wreck she'd been. 
 
 Soon 
 Little Isabel — as she in play was called — 
 Begins to walk, and takes the doctor's hand 
 Across the fields, or pulls him by the coat, 
 And climbs his knee, and calls him Uncle 
 Honore, as children like to liuk those whom 
 They love unto themselves by some familiar 
 Name, held precious in their little world. 
 The three were happy as the day is long, 
 Till, in the fading autumn of the year, a maiden 
 Aunt of Isabel's, who lived alone, 
 Some distance from the town, and scarce had 
 
 ever 
 Called to see her orphaned niece, save when 
 Upon her the stiff cords of etiquette 
 Were strained, before her neighbors' eyes, 
 Came tapping gently at the door. She'd called — 
 
32 THREE VOWS. 
 
 As duty bound — to render service to her niece, 
 
 Who had no nearer kith or kin to counsel 
 
 Her. The doctor's frequent visits had been 
 
 marked, 
 And it was time — as she and all her friends 
 Had said — that something should be done, before 
 The town, the world ! was wholly scandalized. 
 
 Then followed notes anonymous, each with its 
 
 Vein of wanton thoughtlessness between the lines ; 
 
 All from " Dear Friends " of him that was now 
 dead. 
 
 The doctor found a change had come on 
 
 Isabel ; she seemed not cold, but more reserved 
 
 Toward him whose every thought, scarce conscious- 
 ly, was 
 
 Hers. His sudden warmer words found no re- 
 sponse. 
 
 And fell between them, as she stood abashed. 
 
 At night he walked the streets perplexed ; 
 
 He'd thought to ask her, but his heart so beat, 
 
 He could not frame the words. 
 
THREE VOWS. 33 
 
 At last, he sought 
 A comrade old — a well-tried college friend — 
 With much ado, and after oft repeated calls, 
 He loosed the whole — as far as he, poor man, 
 Knew his own heart ; his friend divined the rest. 
 " Go, marry her," he said ; " the case is plain." 
 The doctor's eyes grew bright and filled with 
 
 tears : 
 " Can I thus plead my suit when I have 'tended 
 Her? All my poor services — that some might 
 Overrate — would stand before her and cry out ! 
 She hath refused me once, before poor Martin 
 Came to woo. 'Twould seem as if I'd waited 
 To indebt her to myself, to broadside 
 Force the startling question on. She is alone 
 And all bereft, save of the child, which 
 I do love as if it were mine own ! " 
 
 His friend saw well how Honore was moved, 
 And pitied him, and prayed that he might help to 
 Comfort him, and hold him to the better course. 
 At last, he took him by the hand, and strove 
 
34 THREE VOWS. 
 
 To touch his child-like nature and his noble 
 Heart with words of fresh persuasion, such as 
 
 these : 
 " You say she's unprotected and alone, 
 And that you love the child as if it were your 
 Own ; be her protector and a father to the 
 Child — you must choose this, o* leave her to her 
 
 lot. 
 From broken words and hints, falls woman's fame ; 
 Then visit her no more, or sue her hand." 
 " True, true." the doctor sighed ; " I must not see 
 
 her 
 More, though e'en I die." 
 
 With this he rose and left, 
 And walked straight to the beach. And there 
 He saw the ships move with their shadows 
 Keel to keel — it was an Indian-summer's day. 
 Then he stood long, and watched the cloud-lands 
 Float full many airy fathoms high along 
 The azure sea o'erhead. Then passed these words 
 All through his day-dream, as he stood, 
 Repeated oft upon his inner ear : 
 
THREE VOWS. 35 
 
 " She is the sweet disorder of thy mind." 
 
 Quick turning, as if to escape the thought, 
 
 He started back ; for lo ! as if by some 
 
 Mad chance, that only Fate foresees, 
 
 Came Isabel, there walking on the beach ; 
 
 She neared, and, as it were unconsciously, 
 
 She took the hand that he held out, and both 
 
 Of one accord sat down upon a rock. And 
 
 Not a word was spoken, save that their eyes met, 
 
 And each, 'twould seem, divined the other's thought, 
 
 As if they had been one. 
 
36 THREE VOWS, 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Methinks 
 
 I hear the gentle reader ask : 
 
 " Is this another ' Enoch Arden ' tale ? 
 
 Or is this Martin truly dead ? " 
 
 What passed 
 'Twixt Honore and Isabel, I cannot 
 Well here tell. One saw them part, that day, 
 Upon the sands, and said : " The doctor 
 Lifted up his hands, as if in blessing 
 Isabel, and went his way, while she 
 Sat long and wept." 
 
 "Was Martin dead ? 
 
 The " Hector " sailed with orders sealed, 
 And none on board for nine days knew 
 Her destined course, till, on the quarter deck, 
 The captain broke the seal : 
 
THREE VOWS. 3/ 
 
 " First to Ceylon, 
 And then to cruise in China seas. 
 
 Up rose 
 A goodly cheer. The ship was brought about 
 With all points to the south ; the west wind put 
 His shoulder to the sail, and she sped on 
 Her sparkling wake, amid the massive 
 Waves of blue that rose and fell, swayed by 
 The breeze, and capped with crystal foam. 
 Down through the south she sped, till the good 
 
 south 
 Seemed almost northerly for cold. And they had 
 Planted canvas on the deck to break the wind 
 As they moved round the Cape. And soon they 
 Touched at Madagascar, where they found 
 The British squadron in still waters moored. 
 Then northward to Ceylon they crept, through 
 
 throbs 
 Of languid air, like the hot breath of noon. 
 Here Martin wrote to Isabel, and learned, 
 Before the Hector sailed again, the death 
 Of Allenday, and that he was the happy 
 
38 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Father of a little girl, but nothing of 
 The sickness of poor Isabel. He was 
 O'erjoyed, and wrote again : " Call this, our child, 
 Wee Isabel." On board, he told this glad news 
 To the mess, and little Isabel was toasted 
 Loud and long ; for all the aftership approved 
 Young Martin well, and wished him all good things, 
 In their stout open hearts. 
 
 And now, 
 All northward, day and night, they toiled 
 Through a long chain of even months, 
 To Okhotsk's desert sea, where three mock suns 
 Were seen, by all the wond'ring crew, glide 
 From on high, and pass beneath the shore. 
 An evil omen thought, by Russian fishers 
 Come to barter at the Hector's side. 
 Then straightway south once more, by counter- 
 Order's countermand, they sped, confused, 
 To trap the slaver, smite the pirate craft 
 That lurked beneath proud Borneo's reefs, 
 Whose bloody nest was hid in Ladrone's Isle. 
 
THREE VOWS. 39 
 
 And now the Hector mounted guard, and moved 
 Athwart the prostrate circle of the sea, — 
 Now like the burnished disk of the broad moon, 
 And then, anon, barred parallel with foam, — 
 Where danced the twinkling wavelets, sky to sky, 
 Blown by the steady trade-winds of the year. 
 
 All seemed rejoiced as the long deck was heeled, 
 
 Toward the rays of the down-pouring sun. 
 
 Some, whose first cruise it was, were on the tiptoe 
 
 For adventure ; others burned for plunder, 
 
 For promotion, or prize monies, in their young 
 
 Expectant hearts. But each slow junk, 
 
 As it would seem, turned out some honest 
 
 Merchantman. Yet all abroad was noised 
 
 Strange ringing tales of landward piracies, 
 
 That stung the blood of all on board that heard. 
 
 At last, one covered night, while lying off 
 
 A bamboo-furnished creek, was heard the turn 
 
 And stealthy dip of paddles, to and fro, 
 
 That came and went, till the first flush of dawn 
 
 Crept with a slow uncertain stillness 
 
4-0 THREE VOWS. 
 
 'Tween the Hector and the land. Next night, 
 
 The launch was lowered deftly from the side, 
 
 With Martin in command ; and they moved 
 
 Up the sable waters of the creek, until 
 
 The vague and thread-like outline of three mastj 
 
 Broke dimly through the barrier of the night. 
 
 They hailed the strange bark where she seemed to 
 
 lie, 
 For she put forth no light. She answered not, 
 Save, on a sudden came a shot. And he 
 That spoke fell backward, wounded, in the launch. 
 And all at once, as if it were the signal 
 For the fray, there seemed to flash a thousand 
 Lanterns, right and left, between the upright reeds. 
 Then prompt was primed the gatling gun, 
 And high above the sharp uncertain crackle of 
 The landward fusilade, when'er it was discharged. 
 Were heard the tortured heathen's hideous howls. 
 But some lay silent in the boat, and others, 
 Who perchance were scarcely more than fairly 
 
 scratched, 
 Fell headlong in the waters and were lost. 
 
THREE VOWS. 4 1 
 
 Still undismayed, and with unerring aim, 
 
 Each man that yet could stand, exchanged his shot 
 
 For full a pound of Chinese iron ball. 
 
 As God o'ershadows all, deliverance 
 
 Came at last, but not a whit too speedily. 
 
 Quick, at the first report that echoed to the ship 
 
 From the black mouth of the mysterious creek, 
 
 As from the heart of night, the men were 
 
 In their boats, and pulled like madmen for their 
 
 mates. 
 So was the heat of struggle turned to ease, 
 The lanterns scattered from the bloody banks ; 
 The skirted heathen fled, till only seen 
 Like some bright swarm of fire-flies 
 That jewel-decked the up-turned margin 
 Of a distant hill. 
 
 And Martin straightway 
 Boarded the strange craft. And she was booty 
 
 crammed 
 From deck to keel, the hatches pressed to bursting 
 With good things, — the precious storehouse of 
 
42 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Some yellow chief, whose hated hand had palsied 
 Half the trade along that stricken coast. 
 'Twas then the falling of the tide, and they 
 Cut loose her bonds that she might glide, in all 
 The laden glory of her size, down the still 
 Creek into the quiet basin at the mouth. 
 And ere the sun had risen from the early 
 Wind-curled sea, she lay beside the stately 
 Hector, moored in all security. 
 A glorious prize was she, and all rejoiced — 
 Save they had not the heinous pirate's head 
 Withal, to cap the taper mast. 
 Then was the Hector ordered on again, 
 And Martin put on board the prize, with 
 A sufficient crew to bring her to Ceylon, 
 Where she might be sold, Martin, as the captor, 
 Taking the best share. 
 
 They watched the Hector's white 
 Heels in the humming breeze, her bright-winged 
 
 pennant 
 Coupling sea and sky. And with her went their 
 
 hearts, 
 
THREE VOWS. 43 
 
 That long had beat between those narrow sides, — 
 Their manhood's foster mother, and their 
 Deep-sea home. 
 
 The passage to Ceylon 
 Was troublesome and long. The " prize " proved 
 
 crank, 
 Was lumberly to man, and prone to be 
 The creature of the winds, that blew at first 
 Adversely to her course. But Martin 
 Comforted himself with thoughts of Isabel, 
 Of settling down awhile, to revel 
 In the smiles and happy sunshine of the love 
 Of his sweet wife and child, upon the little 
 Fortune he had won. How proud his Isabel 
 Would be of these exploits. At Ceylon 
 He would write and tell her the glad news, — 
 At Ceylon, where his letters waited him. 
 And then poor Martin muttered imprecations 
 'Gainst the craft that seemed to creep along as if 
 Eternity were hers. Anon, his eyes were 
 Fixed upon some stedfast point, beyond 
 
44 THREE VOWS. 
 
 The creaking bulwarks of the ship, 
 That ever rose and fell ; and thought 
 Of little Isabel, and what a big child 
 She must now be grown. 
 
 Months passed 
 In little but the tacking up and down, 
 With scarce a Ug-book vantage on 
 The destined course. * Yet patiently, like all 
 Fair mariners, they toiled, until by lapse 
 Of time and dint of desp'rate will, all 
 Wearied out and laden with the dizzy blast, 
 They reached the ever-prayed-for, blessed Ceylon, 
 And hailed with mad and open-throated cheers 
 The brine-bit beacon of the Point de Galle. 
 
 Hope, to the old man, is his crutch ; 
 
 A staff to climb with, for the young ; 
 
 But disappointment, like an earthquake, 
 
 Shakes us all in its self-willed decree. 
 
 Here at the Adm'ral's House young Martin found 
 
 No letters waiting him. Have you e'er 
 
THREE VOWS. 45 
 
 Waited years, or even months, in distant parts, 
 And feasted on the thought of having news from 
 Home ? And had it miss ? Good Reader, let me 
 
 trust 
 'T has never been your lot. 
 
 At first poor Martin 
 Scarcely seized the words — he asked again ; 
 And still he thought the clerk, perfunctory 
 Withal, had surely erred. He questioned 
 Him once more, and stated that the letters 
 Would be *' Hector " marked. " The ' Hector'?" 
 Cried the man. "There is no 'Hector,' sir ; 
 She foundered some twelve months ago, with all 
 Her complement. Oh, I remember well 
 The ship; she had been fitted here ; 'T is now 
 Four years last Spring." And marking that 
 The light had fled from Martin's face 
 He changed his tone, and, turning round, 
 He took the " Records " down, and rustling o'er 
 The leaves, he said : " Here, sir, here is the 
 date : — 
 
46 THREE VOWS. 
 
 First-class corvette of twenty guns." And Martin 
 
 Looked upon the page, but could not read. 
 
 Mechanically he moved toward the door ; 
 
 And there the busy people in the street 
 
 Half wakened him. Yet o'er the shoulders 
 
 Of the moving crowd, he faintly, in 
 
 His fancy, saw the Hector sailing, 
 
 Sailing ever-on. And then the faces 
 
 Of his mates rose up before him, as they 
 
 Were wont to sit at mess ; they talked and laughed; 
 
 But he could hear no sound, save the 
 
 Dull hum and bustle of the street, 
 
 That intervened and sought to rouse him 
 
 To himself. 
 
 Two days he lingered near 
 The " Offices," to learn what things he could 
 Of the ill-fated Hector's loss. And then 
 He took his pen to write to Isabel, 
 To ask why letters had not come ; but 
 On the instant when the pen was to the 
 Paper met, it fell from out his hand. 
 
THREE VOWS. 47 
 
 A crushing thought had struck him like 
 A knell. What if she thought him dead ! 
 She might well deem him lost with all the 
 Hector's host, not knowing that he had 
 Unshipped, returning with the " prize." 
 He stood confounded, seized with awe, at this 
 Strange issue to his dreams. If this were true 
 That she now deemed him lost — Oh, freezing 
 
 thought ! 
 He dare not write, informing her that 
 He was yet alive, in dread the sudden news, 
 Such wanton bursting into being, without care, 
 Might shake her mind, or subtly injure her. 
 And sadly Martin pondered long. He felt 
 His seeming solitude come hard upon him, 
 Like the folds of a cloud-covered night, 
 Full of a vext suspense, that brooded o'er 
 The unsolved present and the future, like 
 An evil spell. What was the news 
 That had reached home ? This, was the doubt, 
 The taunting mystery he burnt to know. 
 What tidings had met Isabel ? This, 
 
4-8 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Martin asked himself, till e'en his own 
 Swift shadow seemed to echo : " What ?" 
 Pursuing him, and ever crying : " What ?" 
 
 At last, in few, 
 He settled on a plan. He 'd read along 
 The columns of " The Gazette of the Point 
 De Galle" the names of many officers 
 Recalled unto their Indian posts by 
 The uneasy aspect of the times, and 
 Was about to 'mark he knew not one, 
 When, as by chance, the name of Carnac 
 Stood from out the rest. This was his plan : 
 To meet Lord Carnac, who was then expected 
 Shortly at Madras to join his regiment, 
 And learn from him, who, doubtless, all would know. 
 He left Ceylon, and hopefully he journeyed 
 On to Fort St. George, to sandy, hot Madras, 
 And there awaited him. And Martin strove 
 To read, for outward things absorbed him not, 
 To drive at bay the irking time that hung 
 Rebellious on the hour hand, and mocked 
 
THREE VOWS. 49 
 
 His patient nights, and pictured to his weary 
 Wakefulness dark empty days to come. 
 
 At last Lord Carnac came ; but dazed-like, stared 
 
 Long after Martin had cried out : " 'T is I ! " 
 
 And said his name, and held to him his hand ; 
 
 And then when Carnac took the hand, it seemed 
 
 As if 't were more to reassure himself 
 
 Of Martin's being flesh and blood, 
 
 Than to renew th' acquaintance of the past. 
 
 " I thought the greedy fishes of the sea 
 
 Had eaten thee — thy ship was lost, 
 
 'T was said, with all her complement." 
 
 Then Carnac turned, and looked away, 
 
 And filliped with his sword, as if 
 
 Unconscious Martin still was there. 
 
 But Martin, boyishly, let loose the theme 
 
 That long had gnawed his heart and struggled 
 
 On his lips : " Does my wife know the Hector's 
 
 lost?" 
 " She thinks thee dead with all the rest." 
 " Great mercy! I had thought — I'd feared all this, — 
 
50 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Go on — say more — how is she now ? " 
 "Well— well. Thy child is also well." 
 " My little one ! " cried Martin, and he watched 
 The officer like one who thirsts and hungers 
 Yet for more, and covets what he almost dreads. 
 
 Now Carnac slowly paced the ground, his eyes 
 
 Cast down, with cautious steps, as if he feared 
 
 The bridge of his disclosures would not 
 
 Bear him o'er. At last, from out the corners 
 
 Of his eyes he glanced at Martin's face, 
 
 Then spoke, as if determined for the blow : — 
 
 " 'T is long the Hector hath been lost." 
 
 From head to foot a chill through Martin ran ; 
 
 There was a seeming sense of hidden meaning 
 
 In the words, that had struck back his blood. 
 
 " Speak, Carnac, is there something strange in this? 
 
 Nay, say the worst, if there be aught to tell ! 
 
 She — she — she cannot be betrothed ? " 
 
 " Thy wife and Doctor Honore are one ! " 
 
 So saving, Carnac having done his worst, 
 
 As best to keep himself in countenance, 
 
THREE VOWS. J! 
 
 Turned full, and stared at Martin where he stood ; 
 Who clung now to the parapet to keep 
 From falling ; for his bent knees shook 
 Like one that 's palsy-stricken in the legs. 
 "O, Isabel ! O, Isabel ! " he cried, 
 
 And breathed as if it were his last. 
 
 Then came a mutt 'ring 'tween his teeth : 
 ' Had I not visioned-up some dread mishap 
 
 Of shadows come 'tween me and thee— and Carnac's 
 
 Here to put the black cap on it all — 
 
 I'd not believe thy heart could change in haste. 
 
 But I can reason now— I am not blind, 
 
 Or deaf, or anything but what I am — 
 
 A wretched man. Could'st thou not wait ?— 
 
 'Twere better had'st thou seen me dead. 
 
 The Doctor hath undone me in her sight, 
 
 Base man— black heart— unhallowed friend !— 
 
 Yet— no, 't is false— I'll not believe— 
 
 Sdeath, 't is a lie— an awful lie ! " 
 
 On this, a something of exultant hate, 
 Repressed by caution, if not fear, passed like 
 
52 THREE VOWS. 
 
 A flash, imperfectly, o'er Carnac's eyes, 
 
 Yet brisk his all-dissembled part 
 
 Recovering, he featly made reply : 
 
 " I saw them wedded, walking arm in arm, 
 
 All through the village, in the noonday sun." 
 
 And Martin shook again. " No more ! " he cried, 
 
 " No more ! my ears are rent with this accursed 
 
 Harbinging. Speak not, good Carnac ; say no 
 
 more. 
 For when I feel his heart so in the sun, 
 Thus clothed withal by seeming lawful ties, 
 Perchance, fanned softly with sweet love — con- 
 soled, 
 Forgetful that it loved before, — 
 With given right to claim my child as his, 
 That she may call him ' Father ' evermore. 
 My very soul, revolting, sees a thousand 
 Devils round me play ! And I know not the thing 
 I say, or do. Some Godless treachery 
 While I was out on those cursed seas hath 
 Sucked her into this — my Isabel — my wife ! " 
 " Come, then," said Carnac, now unburdened 
 
THREE VOWS. 53 
 
 To perceive that Martin questioned on no more, 
 But had drunk in the poison to his heart ; 
 " My men may watch us here. Come to my quar- 
 ters, 
 And rest there at ease. T is better, come." 
 And once within, poor Martin cast him down 
 And prayed. While Carnac's countenance 
 Set free a strange triumphant shade, that deep- 
 ened 
 As the silent, stricken mariner still 
 Unremitting knelt ; his honest shoulders bent 
 In immolation of his grief to God, 
 A last bright ray of succor in despair. 
 
 When Martin rose, upon his brow cold drops 
 Stood like the scars of hard-won victory 
 O'er the deep passions that upheaved his 
 Inmost and all-centred self ; the struggle 
 To uproot the past and bury it for aye, 
 To find new strength, to seize the broken future 
 With both hands, still to push on a blasted life. 
 " I am resolved ! " at last he murmured out, 
 
54 THREE VOWS. 
 
 Like one who hath pronounced his own death sen- 
 tence 
 On himself, and waits 'tween earth and heaven 
 For the blow. "Those fiercer comforts that as- 
 suage 
 A soul that hath not higher attributes, 
 Become me not in this ; I am resolved." 
 " Resolved to what ? " broke Carnac forth. 
 " Do nothing, — dead men nothing do. 
 But I will seek Venezia's port, 
 Where sleeps a cloistered islet on the wave, 
 And there, with altered spirit, will I dwell, 
 And end my now dismembered days ; 
 That Isabel may never know the Hector 
 Could give up her dead, to walk like some 
 Dread surplus on the face of the green earth, 
 As swollen flotsam slowly finds the shore." 
 
 " Well mastered ! " cried the lord. ' k Thou speak- 
 
 est well, 
 Right manfully. It is the very step 
 I would commend, a wonhy plan 
 
THREE VOWS. 55 
 
 To dote upon. Thou shalt accoy thy mood 
 To circumstance, that thou may'st find fresh life 
 To wear away the tatters of the old. 
 My heart sore bled at first, in breaking 
 Thus to thee what fate alone was master of. 
 But now, I see thee as a prayerful man ; 
 Besides most resolute in heart, defiant 
 Of those dread alternatives I could have 
 Feared for thee. Thou couldst have gone stark 
 Rabid in a craze to kill thyself, and seen 
 To hook thine own self-murder round my neck, 
 Because I deemed it fair to tell thee all. 
 Then I am glad — this for thy sake — 
 Thou dost not crave inabstinence ; 
 To over-board thyself into some nobbier 
 Of niminity ; to drown thyself, 
 Yet let thy sorrow swim. This could not fool or 
 Fuddle thy good head into oblivion ; 
 The past would e'en dispute the bottle 
 In thy hand, and make thee look with even more 
 Dyspeptic eyes on thy abnormal lot. 
 Still one word more ; Though young in years, I'm 
 tutored 
 
$6 THREE VOWS. 
 
 And grown old in gray experience 
 
 By dint of many slips, that I seem full 
 
 At times of importune advice ; yet mark, 
 
 If this be thy determined will, most manly, 
 
 Noble as it is, that Isabel, thy wife, 
 
 Should still account thee dead, be prescient 
 
 To depart, and screen thyself. Be off at once, 
 
 Lest some in my old regiment should dream 
 
 They 'd seen thy face before, and aught be hawked 
 
 And fly abroad on our village air. 
 
 Go, mask thy life, or be it on thy head ; 
 
 Resile not from thy fixed intent. Adieu ! " 
 
 "Farewell ! Grief wants no comment ere it err," 
 
 Cried Martin, as he passed with his life burden 
 
 Down the hill. While Carnac watched him moving 
 
 O'er the drooping shoulders of the slope, until 
 
 He'd vanished down a grassy fold. 
 
 Then round 
 About the fort there crept the double shade 
 Of the soft breathing night, while northward 
 O'er Madras shone a dull baleful light, like an 
 
THREE VOWS. 5.7 
 
 O'erhanging evil star, whose blunted rayons, 
 
 Fanned by some unnatural breath, flashed darkly, 
 
 Like Lord Carnac's raven eyes, as in wrapped 
 
 Reverie he paced the sidelong parapet. 
 
 On went Martin, ever on, with shadows 
 
 Round him like the night, yet his eyes fixed 
 
 Upon a steadfast point, — -a certain light, a pure 
 
 White, sacred flame, that burnt upon him 
 
 In the gloom, like a bright rift ascending 
 
 Unto God. The pledge he 'd plighted 
 
 In the dead years past came throbbing into life, 
 
 Like some new goal that beaconed his approach 
 
 To realms of peace. And e'er he 'd journeyed far 
 
 He kissed the cross, and bore it with him, 
 
 And eftsoons it chastened him. Though shadows 
 
 played 
 About him, ever played, as oft would glide 
 The vision of the wedded pair, close bound, 
 And seemingly rejoicing in their state. 
 
 In few, at last, through many way-worn days, 
 He reached San Lazzaro, the little " islet " 
 
53 THREE VOWS. 
 
 In Venezia's port. And there, to one old 
 
 Startled monk, confided all his tale ; 
 
 And how he would shut out dead years, 
 
 And live anew a life without a past. 
 
 " Thou shalt be novice here," said the good man, 
 
 "Three years before thou take the final vows." 
 
 And Martin thanked the old monk from his heart, 
 
 And there abode between the shelt'ring walls 
 
 Of the round isle, and changed his name, 
 
 And donned the novice's long garb. 
 
 And as time passed, he took a comfort 
 
 In the services, and in the worship 
 
 Of the holy Rood, which they all kissed 
 
 And held close to each breast, and in the tending 
 
 Of sweet flowers fed by a bright living font 
 
 Between the cloisters 'neath a cloudless sky. 
 
 And thus, in few, three years had almost noiseless 
 Slipped from out the even walks of his new life, 
 And the fore -reaching hand of time had swung 
 About, and pointed to the day when 
 Martin was to kneel and make his last 
 
THREE VOWS. 59 
 
 Cenobic vows before the open shrine. 
 
 And he was being wrought with all meet 
 
 Questionings, close closeted with a priest, 
 
 When all along the gallery there stole 
 
 The hiss subdued of whispers passed from 
 
 Mouth to mouth. And Martin then was called, 
 
 And stood before a man of sturdy mould, 
 
 With face full open to the sun ; a stranger 
 
 Who had prayed so long to see the "brother " 
 
 He described, that knowing well 'twas Martin 
 
 whom 
 He sought, the elders let him in, for Martin 
 Had not vowed his life-long vows. Thus spake 
 
 the man : 
 " I was Lord Carnac's steward, and with his 
 Last faint breath he charged me seek you out, 
 To bear this letter unto you." 
 And Martin broke the seal and read : 
 " Of all the men I have most wronged, thou, 
 
 Martin, 
 Art the one I've spared least in revenge. 
 But curse me not, for I do bleed to death, 
 
60 THREE VOWS. 
 
 And cannot live to see the sun go down 
 
 This day. I cannot fly the voices that 
 
 Arise as if to cry me into hell ! 
 
 And I would make my soul more meet for God. 
 
 I lied to thee, but curse me not ! 
 
 The thought came swiftly on me to despoil 
 
 Thy life of Isabel, whom I once loved, 
 
 As thou knowest well, in rested years. One day, 
 
 't was 
 After all had mourned thy certain-seeming loss, 
 I saw the doctor take her hand ; 
 I, having marked him come upon the sands 
 With wild, dejected look, had hid myself 
 Behind an upright stone. Thy wife spoke not 
 Till he 'd poured forth his tale, and then, astonished, 
 As 't would seem, thus plainly answered him : 
 " Though Martin now be passed from earth, 
 I am no less his wife ; for his soul lives 
 And waits for mine to be set free, and join 
 Him there, when I have carried to the end 
 This earthly cross that I have sworn to bear." 
 Then Honore rose up as if his spirit 
 
THREE VOWS. 6 1 
 
 Had been crushed ; but blessed thy wife and went 
 
 His way — while she remained and wept. 
 
 And this is holy truth, as I am now 
 
 A dying man. Oh, Martin, curse me not ! " 
 
 But Martin read no more, all things before 
 
 His eyes began to reel and sway, 
 
 And seeing the good steward, who 'd brought the 
 
 note, 
 Close at his side, he said : " Come in my cell 
 And read these lines to me ; my mind has turned ; 
 T cannot understand to read myself." 
 And both went in, and Martin lay as 
 In a maze. While the kind steward read the short 
 Paper o'er and o'er, till Martin's spirit 
 Opened to the words, and full-awakened 
 Joy crept in his soul. And he cried out 
 Exultingly, and praised Almighty God. 
 And the steward said his Master 'd fallen 
 At Cabul, from wounds of the dread Sepoy's lance, 
 In an upstart revolt. And died confessing 
 All that e'er he did — so penitent 
 
62 THREE VOWS. 
 
 E'en to the dust — that holy men despaired not 
 That he would be saved. Then came the good 
 Old monk, to whom he had confided first 
 His sad and wond'rous tale, and he, kind soul, 
 Rejoiced at Martin's strange deliverance, 
 But argued such blest news should not 
 Be too abruptly broke to Isabel. 
 Discretion should be duly marked, he claimed, 
 Let, first of all, some trusty messenger 
 Be found to go, before he, Martin came. 
 And take a trinket, why, a buckle or 
 A ring, and say : " This I have charged myself 
 To bring. And if she question, ' Hath his body, 
 Then, been found and taken from the sea ? ' 
 To answer fair : ' No man hath seen him dead.' 
 So play upon her till the light break in, 
 As day doth gently overslip the night, 
 "Without awaking suddenly. And Martin 
 Well approved the plan ; but who should be 
 The trusty messenger ? " Then," said the good monk, 
 " I would venture thence, were I not racked with 
 years." 
 
THREE VOWS. 63 
 
 But spake the steward : " Give me the trinket — 
 
 I have sworn unto my dying lord, 
 
 Who was by conscience sore accouped, 
 
 To see this great thing done, these twain hearts: 
 
 met." 
 And Martin cried : " Yea, go ! " " Then I depar 
 And go in haste, but thou, young master 
 Voyage leisurely upon my cautious track, 
 Curb thy hot spirit as I quicken mine. 
 And when thou 'st journeyed joyous to the end, 
 Then 'bide without the village, at some inn 
 Where I shall come." 
 
 At Villa Allenday, 
 With the sweet smell of new-mown hay, 
 Amid the piping of the merry birds, 
 Sweet-throated throstles, fond of mistletoe, 
 And all the feathered host of summer noon, 
 Before an open lattice that o'er-hung 
 A sweep of em'rald lawn, sat Isabel. 
 And, like a sunbeam, little Isabel came 
 To and fro, and brought fresh flowers for 
 
64 THREE VOWS. 
 
 A wreath her mother twined. But there was still 
 
 Another in the room, abiding cautiously 
 
 His time — the kindly steward. ' How can I thank 
 
 You, sir, enough," said Isabel, " or half 
 
 Repay you for these cherished gifts which you 
 
 Have brought to me, his widowed wife — 
 
 A thoughtful care ? " " By trusting that a greater 
 
 Joy is yet in store for you, the sweetest I 
 
 Could name," broached the good steward, so dry 
 
 and hungry 
 Was he to be on. " I comprehend you not," 
 Quoth Isabel, " and I pray you, fair sir, 
 To speak no more like this." " But I have come 
 To you, kind madam, on this very point." 
 "Then," quickly answered Isabel, with her 
 Full gaze on him that spoke, " beware, lest I 
 Misunderstand you not, or that you raise 
 Strange hopes, and play on one who is already 
 Crushed to earth." " All that I ask is that 
 You be prepared," returned the steward. 
 And seeing little Isabel, who had stood 
 By to hear, her mother caught at her, 
 
THREE VOWS. 6$ 
 
 And holding her close to her breast, she said, 
 With trembling voice : " I know not what this 
 Stranger would — I understand him not." 
 But the child understood the man, and saw 
 That he spoke true, and cried : "Why ! Papa 
 That was dead has come to life again — 
 Hurrah ! " And the glad child rushed out with 
 A long ribbon tied unto a stick and cried : 
 11 My father that was dead is now alive ! 
 My father 's come home ! " 
 
 And seeing that the time 
 Was come, the steward left Isabel. And Martin, 
 Who had stood without, came in, and clasped 
 In his strong arms his fainting wife, and kissed 
 Her parted lips, till he could hear her whisper 
 " Martin — Martin — " in his ear, as she lay 
 Motionless, half stunned with sudden ectasy — 
 And there they both remained, till little 
 Isabel came up, and stood before 
 Her father's wond'ring eyes — a bonny child — 
 And Martin kissed, and questioned her, and seeing 
 
66 THREE VOWS. 
 
 In her hand a wreath : " And what is this 
 
 Fair wreath, my child ? " he asked. And sorrow 
 
 fully 
 She made reply : " This is for the great cross 
 Of Uncle Honore," as she was wont 
 To call him, out of childish love, " who saved 
 Dear mother's life, when, father, you were dead/' 
 " 'T is for the cross of the new tomb, she means," 
 Said Isabel, and wound her arms about 
 Her husband's neck, and wept. 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Oft, from the past, there comes the music 
 Of a northern tale, all rude and bold. 
 That when i?iy sister led me by the hand, 
 Through childhood's sunny fields, she told ; 
 Nor sung to any but to me. 
 
 'Twas rude withal by blighted Norland's reefs, 
 
 Where, from the salted platform of blue-flint acute, 
 
 The hard, round turrets lift their unbent necks, 
 
 Dark cankered with the stain of iron bolts 
 
 And tires, eaten out by the uplifted brine, 
 
 Dashed to the clouds by the shrill winds of time. 
 
 As yet the rock, defiant, lifts its head, 
 
 And shakes the tempest from its dripping mane, 
 
 Still laves and thumps the sidelong sea 
 
 The water gate, and souses o'er the walls ; 
 
 But all within is dashed abroad by the avenging 
 
 hand 
 
 67 
 
68 SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Of Providence' fair rule, that sudden strikes 
 The staggering tyrant in his rouse all cold 
 And blackened to his rugged bed, like some 
 Scourged hound night-strangled by an avalanche. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 A-past long centuries dwelt Kane, dread viking, 
 
 By the polac main, of beetling brow, 
 
 Black-eyed, black-bearded, quick-handed with the 
 
 mace, 
 Of sinewy nerve, with neck and arms of steel, 
 And thick with quivering brawn. A mighty foe- 
 man 
 Whose lawless zeal, to booty, fearless might 
 Enhunger in the dreaded night ; 
 When, from his stormy, wind-wrapped keep, 
 He flings his flaming cressets to the moon, 
 False signals, to beguile the southern bark, 
 Till his grim visage glares upon the storm-worn 
 
 crew, 
 Condemned to die, or be the dungeon's spoil ; 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 69 
 
 While dredges out and drags, the vassal pack, 
 
 The heavy curling wave, for pelf, 
 
 Along the torn and broken wreck ; 
 
 And from the four blind walls, all dark within, 
 
 Anon, doth rise the maiden's long shrill scream, 
 
 Too oft extinguished ere the dawn, caught by 
 
 The winds, and carried to the stars on high. 
 
 But this was his night sport ; by day he held 
 
 His court and sat, in all baronial pomp, 
 
 Within his broad-arch'd hall ; where he might greet 
 
 The embassies of potent lords, 
 
 Dispense rude justice 'twixt vassal and to serf, 
 
 And bind all to his stern decree. And on 
 
 His right, sits Julian, slight, with golden hair, 
 
 Not like his sire he, but, like his mother, fair. 
 
 And on his left sate Helge, baron's younger son, 
 
 But, like his father : see the cruel mouth, 
 
 The untamed eye, the frowning brow withal. 
 
 Now Kane loved Helge well, as the rude bear 
 
 May love the whelp, that never crossed his path 
 
 That bated down .to every wish, and was 
 
/O SATAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 His awful counterpart ; that in the fight 
 A comrade stood, a partner in the spoil. 
 
 But Julian he loved not — his mother's dream, 
 On whose blue eyes she fed her fondest hopes. 
 Though now 't was long she 'd sought repose from 
 
 all 
 Despair and tears, fair lady Iugebarg, 
 Once loved, revered by all but her harsh lord, 
 The castle's angel light, the captive's hope, 
 The tyrant's dread, but she, alas ! was dead. 
 
 Sir Julian scarce remembered her, nor all 
 
 Her goodly fruits, but, from mere fealty 
 
 Of blood, within his father's walls, 
 
 He bore his mother's cross ; oh, weary, weary 
 
 Is the day, and hopeless is the night ; 
 
 He 'd never heard the Saviour's name, nor seen 
 
 The Spirit's light that shone upon the way. 
 
 He sought the priest of Odin's star-built fane ; 
 The tempest screamed along the sea, now cracked 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA, 7 1 
 
 The frozen hills above ; still to the priest 
 
 With silver beard, with cowl and flint-hewn knife, 
 
 In full heart's-hope he rides. 
 
 Night after night 
 By Balder's altar, burning red, he cries 
 And conjures up the dull awakening past, 
 The sleepless voices of his mournful thought : 
 " Had but my brother lived ! " 
 
 The old man's eye, 
 So bright and cold, on runic cyphers dwells, 
 Anon, on Julian's face it gleams, and now 
 Stands fixed in thought. " Oh, would my beardless 
 Brother breathed, who slew, with empty hand, 
 The blue-toothed bear beneath the linden tree." 
 Then sudden rose the hoary priest, his beard 
 All streaming wild, and sought the outward night. 
 Long gazed he on the East, but turning to 
 The West, he marked the Nor god's light between : 
 "Valhalla feasts without her guests, I ween ; 
 Then learn thy brother lives, but banished, like 
 A guilty thing, to India's torrid banks, 
 Whose burning waters beam like burnished brass, 
 
J 2 SATAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 By all a fitful sire's hate outcast, 
 
 And with a scornful name, then branded, 
 
 ' Satan of the Sea.' And there, he bears 
 
 Dark Buddha's cross, all red athwart his brow ; 
 
 And sits with savages at meat, 
 
 No more to quaff the frothing nut-brown mead, 
 
 Nor see the fair-haired Norland-maid's soft cheek 
 
 Reflect the polar flame. As to 
 
 The fatherland he cried ' Farewell,' he wept 
 
 Upon my breast. ' Farewell, farewell for aye ! ' 
 
 He sobbed, and pouring out his agony 
 
 Against my heart, I felt his spirit break. 
 
 1 marked his look was changed, and there remained 
 
 What scarce might seem a semblance 
 
 Of his better mind." 
 
 Then slowly sank 
 Sir Julian on his bended knee, and wept. 
 The old man turned within. 
 
 The light upon 
 The altar flared and died. A-down rushed all 
 The unpent winds from the eternal snows. 
 That smote the groaning shore amain, 
 
SA TAN OF THE SEA, 73 
 
 And slowly broke the roar from crumbling peaks, 
 And hissed the giant ice bolt in the brine, 
 Above the thunders of the rising sea. 
 
 " Away to horse ! my brother shall be free ! 
 Not venger of the blood I '11 be, but of 
 Unnatural hate, a parent's craven love, 
 That like the soulless savage beast 
 Would strip and tear its nursling young." 
 Rode Julian true, until, above the keen 
 And slippery flint, there loomed on high 
 The salt-burned bastions of the dreaded lord 
 Against the outspread panoply of dawn. 
 
 u What ! " cried the rugged Kane, as heaved 
 
 His hirsute breast, " I did not tell thee 
 
 He was dead ; " then knit his angry brow ; 
 
 " Go with thy fancied dreams and shame no more 
 
 My house. Out of my sight with thy 
 
 Dead mother's face." Then, with great strides 
 
 He crossed the hall, and kicked the dog that lay 
 
 Athwart the porch ; then with another oath, 
 
74 SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 He brake his ribs, because the poor brute groaned, 
 And shattered half the door. Now Julian 
 Turned him to the fair-haired serfs, that 
 Nestled to the wall. " And have ye seen 
 My brother of the sea ? " But all were mute 
 With fright, and some e'en sought to fly. 
 
 Then by the light of shimmering night, 
 That dots the snow hills round and white, 
 He sought once more the temple's shrine. 
 The old man, there, was bowed in prayer. 
 Great Balder's fire burnt no more ; 
 The flame had died on the cold runic stone. 
 
 " Oh, Odin, Frey, and mighty Thor ! " 
 The old man cried, "have mercy on us now ; 
 The light hath flown from out the fane, 
 Portending danger to the North, 
 Foreboding griefs as yet unknown, 
 'T would seem the Gods the thane rebuke ; 
 That dread displeasure broods upon his walls, 
 As ravens croak distress, and points adown 
 To India in the sultry seas." 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 75 
 
 Perfidious night, propitiously had smiled ; 
 Both live and dead, the booty strew 
 The castle's deep-resounding court. 
 
 And now there rose a great, coarse laugh 
 
 As from some dread abyss, as if 
 
 To mock the chaste and red'ning dawn, 
 
 That coyly peeped above the airy keep. 
 
 The thane, with Helge, cast the golden die 
 
 For vantage in the gain ; a Dutch galleon 
 
 T had been, deep freighted to her curving keel, 
 
 With Eastern hordes, between her polished sides 
 
 Thick packed, that had been raped and racked 
 
 When the pale, watchful moon had sudden slipt 
 
 Behind a dark, conspiring cloud. 
 
 " Come, come, a truce to niggard luck " 
 Quoth Kane, and quaffed his mead-horn dry, 
 " Thou, Helg£, hast the pearls, and those 
 Three half-crazed girls far better bare-foot bait 
 For hounds along the Yule-tide snow, 
 Than meet for else, I trow ; And I 
 
7 6 SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Will store these glossy staves of silk 
 
 With that dun Cyprus wine, with foam of rose, 
 
 With this score bars of gold, and what 
 
 May now befall the wreckers on the wall 
 
 Of what remains unshipped. What say'st thou, son ? 
 
 Art thou content ? If so, 't is well." 
 
 But now 
 The bugle brays along the inner hall, 
 The baron dons his cap of state, and all 
 Are ranged within, and Julian sits 
 Upon the right, and Helge on the left. 
 
 Then, from the midst, an old man stands, 
 
 Half-bent upon his staff ; his loins are girt ; 
 
 His beard is swathed, like snow, upon his breast ; 
 
 His cold, bright eye, now marks the thane ; 
 
 And soft with accents calm, and cowl thrown back, 
 
 Before the throng he holds his sage discourse : 
 
 " Long live the thane ! Peace to thee, Kane ! — 
 
 Amen. 
 The priest am I of Odin's fane and 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 77 
 
 Balder's sacred grove, now from whose altarpiece 
 
 The ghostly fire's fled — caught up to 
 
 The eternal skies, from whence it dropped 
 
 To thankless earth, ere the first Norland Jarl 
 
 Had stripped and slain his earliest foe. 
 
 Thou had'st a son, once cherished by the gods." 
 
 Then through the knights a murmur spread, 
 
 In tree-top fancy, like Boreas 
 
 In the beeches, when the heavy season comes. 
 
 And the thane, he held him quiet, 
 As, in troubled thought, he pondered, 
 And prepared to make reply. 
 But the old man still was glaring, 
 With his eyes so deadly cold. 
 Now the hall is hushed to silence, 
 For the thane would make reply : 
 " Now, old man, take caution, 
 As the best that I can give." 
 
 Then sounds the trumpet's shrill alarm ; 
 All eyes were on the door ; 
 
7% SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 A messenger, steel-clad, then clattered in, 
 And glittered in the foremost rank. 
 
 " Who comes with such unequal strides 
 To face the dread viking ? " 
 
 " Four hundred Northmen lance 
 Would parley with the thane." 
 
 " What, ho ! Stand close with partisan and mace. 
 Who are ye then that dare 
 To break upon me thus ? " 
 
 " The vassels of the great, high Jarl, 
 
 Who knows the Norland's woe ; 
 
 The fire 's out within the sacred grove." 
 
 Then bowed the thrane full low : " Be honored to 
 My court, I knew not who ye were ; 
 Pray, enter ye, the foremost of the file, 
 And quaff with me the goodly mead ; 
 Then sit awhile at meat with all 
 
SATAM OF THE SEA. J 9 
 
 My knights so bold, and with them in the cup 
 
 A second Jule-rouse hold." 
 
 Then turning to a secret scribe : 
 
 " Write letters to the south — Now claim the gods 
 
 My son, that 's cast abroad by India's reefs." 
 
 Then 'tween his teeth he murmured low : 
 
 " All in the dark, send thence a bark, 
 
 With such a trusty crew, that he shall find 
 
 Some passing wave his head-stone and his grave, 
 
 This Satan of the Sea ! " 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The halberdiers, wrapped in their shaggy bea 
 
 skins, 
 Kept watch o'er the towers of Kane, 
 As the flag on the keep unbent its dark fold ; 
 While the sun on the wave-top all glittered with 
 
 gold ; 
 And the guests of the thane sat merry within. 
 Beside each knight's chair, a maiden, full fair, 
 Stood smiling, to wait his beckon and will ; 
 
8o SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Like soft-moving stars, half hid by the cloud 
 
 Of mirror-like breastplates and pluming-bright 
 
 helms. 
 The wild boar was hung with garlands all gay, 
 And smelt the fresh dye of sweet rosemary 
 From a platter of silver, that shone like the moon 
 O'er the fields of white snow, and the 
 Mead-horns now flowed with red Rhenish wine ; 
 They drank to Lord Kane, he drank to the Jarl ; 
 When the skalds had each sung a ballad 
 Both bloody and long, and applause had been 
 Given with the sword on the shield, 
 Then rose the dark thane, with a look in his eye 
 That, to those who knew best, portended no weal : 
 
 " Some jousts, or sword-play we haply might see, 
 
 Child-sport, to span the season ere night ; 
 
 There sits my son o' the flaxen hair, 
 
 At two-handed sword there is none so fair, 
 
 I swear, and pledge him in this cup." 
 
 The high Jarl's ancient knights, with faces scarred 
 Like runic stones, and brows deep furrowed in 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 8 I 
 
 Long wars, all slowly turned their necks of steel, 
 And marked the youth, of whom the thane thus 
 
 boasts. 
 There sat fair Julian, and his curls 
 Around his shoulders mantled like a girl's ; 
 And on his arm his falcon perched, 
 Shared half his loving master's plate ; 
 Then glancing up to meet so many eyes, 
 The crimson rose and fell, like fire on the snow. 
 One ruddy knight then curled the lip in scorn, 
 And others, worn with riper years, half turned 
 And laughed, or caught a neighbor's eye 
 With furtive look, half clothed in mockery. 
 But some there were, who know his strong arm 
 
 well, 
 Who nod their plumes, and murmur him applause. 
 Quick flies the flame to Julian's brow, 
 Nor fades it now again ; up leaps he, like 
 A blood-roused bear pricked to the quick by 
 
 thorns, 
 And shakes the angry falcon from his arm, 
 That, screeching, rushes 'midst the taunting throng ; 
 
82 SATAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Then quick unsheathed, he slashes down 
 
 His willing sword upon the loaded board 
 
 With such a might and furious din, 
 
 That all the pent-up echoes ring 
 
 From the high eaves and arches of the place. 
 
 " How now ! How now ! " quoth one young 
 
 knight, 
 "I'll mate thee, with the two-edged sword ; 
 Come, then, let 's to the sally-port without, 
 And there, on solid ground, we'll have a bout, 
 There measure prowess, man to man, 
 And split a bonnet, he who can." 
 
 The battlements were thronged, the dungeon tower, 
 
 And all the airy keep. The spearmen on 
 
 The sidelong hill, opposed, leaned on their shields 
 
 Of shaggy hides, and silent gazed below, 
 
 As on the plain between, the dauntless two 
 
 Stood forth alone, and clutched their eager swords, 
 
 Like two young eaglets, newly matched. 
 
 Both fiercely glared, and slowly crept around, 
 
 Uncertain where at first to plant a blow. 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 83 
 
 " Strike now, thou laggard, strike," quoth Julian 
 To the knight, " I 've else to do than wait on thee ; 
 Thou it was that challenged me." 
 
 Then lunged the knight 
 And followed up amain a double slash, 
 That Julian flung aside, retorting with 
 A sweeping cut, but missed ; then both drew off 
 And stooped aside, while with quick panting breath 
 They watched, and played, like lovers, with their 
 
 eyes. 
 Till now the knight comes on again, 
 But Julian smites him 'twixt the necklace and 
 The shoulder-piece, then turns him on his face. 
 A-down the headlong slope, with brandishments 
 And yells, came all the host, each like 
 Th' avenger of a brother's blood let loose. 
 
 Sir Julian, with a glance of scorn, 
 Caught up the strange knight's fallen sword, 
 Walked slowly to the barbican, and clapped 
 His harnessed shoulders to the wall, and waite 1 
 
84 SATAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Patiently, with, in each hand, a steel-blue sword, 
 Till all the swarm had gathered howling round. 
 
 " Get ye to bed, ye low-bred churls," he cried ; 
 " Was not the sword-play fair and meet to see ? " 
 Then, with a proud intrepid look, 
 He sought each cow'ring eye, that leered away 
 And dare'st not meet his gaze. Then some 
 
 behind 
 Cried : " On, and pin him to the wall ! " 
 But those before said " Hold ! " But suddenly 
 The sally-port flew open wide, like some 
 Huge monster's jaw, and Julian darted through. 
 As, when a mighty hunter turns aside, 
 The savage wolf quick leaps upon his back, 
 So, with a greedy cry, all rushed to follow 
 On his track, pressed by the mass without. 
 Down dropped the cullis with its crunching teeth 
 Resounding with a hollow, death-like ring, 
 With tons of scalding brine ; and for a space, 
 Like worms, the burnt ones turn and squeak, 
 All interlaced in knotted agony, — 
 And no more sought to enter in. 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 85 
 
 Then vowed the northern knights, returning o'er 
 The snows, to be revenged, ere thaw should touch 
 Their hearts, ice-burnt, at such dishonoring deeds. 
 Against the thane they 'd wield a force amain ; 
 Bring all their yelping vassals at their heels ; 
 Exterminate the race ■ and hoist 
 The hateful towers at one crack ; scoop out 
 The four dark walls ; and leave the empty shell 
 To be the shrill derision of the winds. 
 
 Now on the last Jarl's lance declining o'er 
 The wrinkled necks, that joined the rigid 
 Ghostly hills — all gaunt and desolate- — 
 Toward the abyss of the upstarting night, 
 Is seen the last chill quiver, red and white, 
 In the cold ripples of the polar light. 
 
 And from the keep the baron laughed a long 
 Intemp'rate laugh, and turned below. 
 Sir Julian laughed — not he ; but sought t' escape 
 The servile courtesy and praise with which 
 His eager vassals heralded his deeds, 
 
86 SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 And made the goblets in the guard-room ring. 
 
 He hung the dead knight's sword upon 
 
 A linden tree, and left it there, to nod 
 
 And curtsey to the breeze, to be forgot. 
 
 And now, Sir Julian walked apart ; 
 
 He seemed his own strict confidant in all ; 
 
 Nor paired with any that approached ; 
 
 Like the lone eagle, his sad soul 
 
 Deserted all for boundless solitude ; 
 
 By rock and crumbling cliff he wandered o'er 
 
 The creaking sands, along the frozen shore ; 
 
 And oft would stop some startled mariner 
 
 To ask : " If t' were a southern wind that blew ? ' 
 
 Old Time rolled on, borne on the season's wheel, 
 
 But marked his furrows on Sir Julian's brow. 
 
 The red sun, bent beneath the wintry sky, 
 Pauses, and leaps from crag to peak, 
 Along the phantom margin of the earth ; 
 T' is neither night nor day, but some 
 Half compromise doth pair and join the two. 
 At last, 't was noised the rumor ; that 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. &7 
 
 An Indiaman's white sail was seen afar, 
 Like some suspended flake of snow, upon 
 The southern limits of the open sea, 
 Whose broad unnatural calm portended ill. 
 
 Then rode the messengers abroad to every 
 Neighboring thane and noble by the shore ; 
 Lord Kane would hold a full levee, 
 A banquet in his spacious halls, 
 To welcome his returning son ; 
 And prayed all hasten to his walls, 
 Before the brewing storm break forth, 
 And make inclement the highways. 
 
 The red sun passed beneath the snow ; 
 
 Soft darkness fell upon the keep ; 
 
 Sir Julian marked the sail no more, 
 
 And through him ran a thrill, which was 
 
 Not that of glad, expectant joy, 
 
 But like a quiver, cold and chill, 
 
 That uninterpreted stole to his heart. 
 
 And filled his breast with sadness and with awe. 
 
88 SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Anon, the warm south breeze in tiny whirlwinds 
 Played below, but soon the billows whitened 
 In the night, and cast their heads 
 Against the stones, yet timidly at first. 
 The lights were set upon the parapet, 
 That hung embattled o'er the wave. 
 
 ' T will be a troubled night," quoth one rough 
 
 guard ; 
 ''No living soul may land upon the rocks." 
 " Are all the guests within ? " then asked his mate. 
 " Ay ! marry ; all that enter by 
 The water gate, the great state entrance to 
 The banquet hall ; for them that come by land, 
 Ask him upon the barbican ; — 
 Look down, dost thou not mark the sea is 
 
 changed ? " 
 
 Within, there burnt a hundred lamps, 
 Like stars, upon the tall refulgent walls ; 
 And on the marble space beneath 
 Was dressed the long baronial board ; 
 
SA TAN OF THE SEA. 89 
 
 While in an arbor knit of boughs 
 Prepared by serfs, musicians sat 
 And waited, with their instruments in hand. 
 The guests were scattered o'er the hall, 
 And walked in pairs, the soft white hand 
 Upon the iron sleeve, the jeweled breast 
 Reflected in the harnessed steel, 
 Like glowing snow in northern twilight bathed. 
 It was a beauteous sight ; the noble lords, 
 Like waving oaks, their proud crests bent 
 Among the clinging, rustling vines, to catch 
 The rapturous murmur of the upturned leaves. 
 
 Against a polished column Julian stood apart, 
 And though his eyes were set upon the throng, 
 He marked them not in his abstracted gaze ; 
 He only heard the moaning wind without, 
 Complaining to the wave that beat and wrenched 
 The creaking hinges of th' assaulted gates. 
 
 The night crept on with soft, mysterious steps. 
 
 And now at banquet sat the guests, 
 
 Beneath the broad and blazing hoops of light. 
 
90 SATAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 " My son shall come anon," quoth Kane ; 
 
 " And be persuaded, he doth only bide 
 
 The temper of this fitful wind, ere he, 
 
 By this protraction, make us doubly glad." 
 
 Then came a pause, and from without 
 
 A brine-bolt struck the seaward doors amain, 
 
 And sank receding with a moan. 
 
 Some knights grew grave amd slow to speak, 
 
 And fair dames smiled with cheek all pale, 
 
 But, doubtless, 'twas the lamps, that sank 
 
 And seemed to whiten with the gale. 
 
 Now all was cleared for less substantial fare ; 
 
 The wine was hurried in, and goblets filled, 
 
 And some o'erflowed, and dripped upon the stones ; 
 
 While many drank before a toast was passed. 
 
 " Not such a night before hath racked this shore," 
 
 Quoth one scarred ancient knight, as from 
 
 The casement sprung the spray, and dashed them 
 
 o'er ; 
 And all above, the thunder pealed amain ; 
 The great gate shook and bent its massive bolts ; 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 9 1 
 
 While unbeknown, from off the giddy keep, 
 The sentry had been blown, but none had heard 
 The hollow thump that jarred the court below. 
 
 " Bring forth the Spanish dancers, ho ! 
 Strike up the maddest, loudest strain ! 
 We '11 be as merry as the gale," quoth Kane. 
 
 Out nimbly stepped three black-eyed girls across 
 
 The marble flags, before the dreaded arch ; 
 
 And poised, with timbrels raised above their heads. 
 
 A silence fell within, without ; 
 
 A rushing sound, and then a double crash, 
 
 And fell the timbrels with a hollow ring, 
 
 As, noiselessly, the great doors swung within, 
 
 Like two black magic wings, all loose and free, 
 
 That noiseless bend at some dread spirit's call ; 
 
 The guests had started to their feet, 
 
 And scattered far and near. 
 
 'Twas now observed, 
 Before the two great doors that dripped with brine, 
 
g2 SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 A muffled stranger bare-head stood ; 
 He seemed to gaze around, and, as he turned, 
 The wind caught up his sable locks, that hung 
 Upon his swarthy brow, displaying there, 
 Like sword-cuts met athwart, a faint red cross ; 
 And, as he stood, the clamoring gale died down, 
 The waves grew more appeased, till all 
 Was hushed, by silence, to repose. 
 
 " My son ! " quoth Kane, 
 
 " My brother ! " Julian cried. 
 
 None marked the faint, unhallowed haze 
 That hung about his half uncertain form ; 
 Yet stared the dark thane, with a thumping heart 
 Against his ribs : 
 
 " From whence dost thou appear ?" 
 
 The figure moved, and pointed to the sea ; 
 And seeing how astonished gazed the guests, 
 The baron strode across the hall, and with 
 A show of ostentatious love, 
 
SA TAN OF THE SEA. 93 
 
 Embraced his stranger son returned, 
 
 Yet marvelled not his garments were not wet ; 
 
 And, bowing to the ladies, and the lords 
 
 Who now applauded loud and long, he led 
 
 His new guest to the banquet spread, and sat 
 
 Him at his right, beneath a candelabrum, 
 
 Whose silver brnnches rose, and spread above 
 
 The sparkling wine, like fire in the air, 
 
 That gilds the cup and lights the maiden's breast. 
 
 '* Now welcome thrice, my son, I drink to thee, 
 
 Be not abashed, gaze on thy father's face, 
 
 Or is it all these searching damsels' eyes, 
 
 Clear as the deep-blue ice, soft as the snow, 
 
 Whose novel northern beauty dazzles thee, 
 
 And strains thine unaccustomed southern sight ? 
 
 Or art thou wearied out by battling with 
 
 The rude storm-ridden wave ? Behold, 
 
 If thou wilt be refreshed, there's not a lord 
 
 Or knight that would not drink with thee." 
 
 Now, speechless, slowly turned the stranger's head, 
 
 Erect — full-faced on him that spoke — 
 
94 SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 " It has no eyes ! Stand by !— It is a corpse ! " 
 
 And with fixed, glassy glare and upright hair, 
 
 The thane arose, but staggered blindly back 
 
 Against the massive candelabrum 
 
 That stood behind and 'lumined all ; 
 
 It reeled a moment, and then fell 
 
 All burning, like a crashing meteor ; 
 
 Then darkness breathed around ; 
 
 The oil ran, and dripped o'er in bright flame ; 
 
 The very wine within the beakers blazed ; 
 
 The baron stood and moaned, the silver shaft 
 
 Had snapped his thigh ; the wild dames rushed 
 
 and ran 
 Half frantic through an open arch, that led 
 But few cared where, if 't were but from the flame ; 
 While stood the knights aghast. 
 
 The fire 
 ' Bout their iron shoes they heeded not ; 
 It was the sudden tocsin of the keep 
 That trembled through the burning air 
 Half smothered, yet distinctly there. Each looked 
 
SATAN OF THE SEA. 95 
 
 Upon the other's face, then cried : " To arms ! " 
 And rushed to gain his post without ; all heard 
 The clash of steel, the cry of " Jarl, Jarl ! " 
 The coming on of men, the crash, 
 The brief repulse, the cursing of the maimed. 
 
 The cullis had been blocked, 't was wedged 
 
 Immovable between the outer walls ; 
 
 The enemy stole up the low and creeping 
 
 Passages, surprising each, o'erwhelming all ; 
 
 Though some withstood, with an astonished look, 
 
 Yet were cut down at last ; the rest, 
 
 All hacked and worn, were driven 
 
 To the wall, where bleeding Kane still fought 
 
 Upon one knee, while Julian stood aside 
 
 To ward the blows dealt at his sire's head. 
 
 But Helge 'd been despatched in some 
 
 Dark gallery, that he had headlong sought 
 
 To save himself when seeing all was lost. 
 
 And still down closer to the wall 
 
 They forced the desperate pair, who now 
 
 Were left the last, yet stoutest of 
 
96 SA TAN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Their ancient race. 
 
 At last Sir Julian reeled, 
 Felled by a cruel mortal blow ; 
 Then some rushed on, and, fiercely jesting, pricked 
 Mad Kane with halberds, till he died ; 
 While Julian, turning to his victors, cried : 
 
 " If ye would grant a dying man his boon, 
 Then lay me in the sand before the sea, 
 That moans complaining to the shore, 
 Where sleeps my brother evermore." 
 
MINOR POEMS 
 
TRUE POETRY. 
 
 True poetry is not of earth, 
 
 ' T is more of Heaven by its birth : 
 
 A mingled feeling keeps us tied 
 
 Fast down to earth where we abide ; 
 
 Close to the precipice of time 
 
 We eager creep with ventured rhyme, 
 
 There stunned and staggered to behold 
 
 The wonders of great truths untold, 
 
 And fearful lest we lose our hold, 
 
 Or mute — dumb-founded at the sight — 
 
 The Muse recedes, or checks her flight. 
 
 Truth— truth ! 't is all a poet's cry ; 
 But earth comes in to give the lie ; 
 E'en man's best nature is impure, 
 And cannot too much light endure ; 
 We 're happy still, content at least 
 99 
 
I CO TR UE FOE TR Y. 
 
 With what crumbs fall from nature's feast ; 
 'T is like a glass, — truth but reflects, 
 Though darkly, through our intellects 
 Clouded by care, or scarce aware 
 What great things God would picture there. 
 
"AT THE TOMB OF GENEVIEVE." 
 
 The midnight air creeps through the streets, 
 There 's not a step, there 's not a sound, 
 
 For Solitude staid Silence greets ; 
 Still noiseless spirits move unbound, 
 
 And walk as they had done of yore ; 
 
 As vapors gathered on the shore, 
 
 The passing winds their bosoms heave, 
 
 Then kiss the tomb of Genevieve, 
 
 Saint Genevieve. 
 
 Now kneel I by the altar stone, 
 'And breathe a prayer, yet not alone, 
 For one beloved, now thither flown, 
 Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone ; 
 Yes — but a saint — could this atone 
 For me, for one perchance so prone ? 
 
1 02 A T THE TOMB OF GENE VIE VE. 
 
 The evil time that lacks reprieve — 
 And she so like to Genevieve, 
 
 Saint Genevieve. 
 
 Are not all men beloved the same, 
 
 When, at the end, there comes the call, 
 And all are purged from sin and shame, 
 
 Before the Lord, the God of all ? 
 Then answer, phantoms, bending low, 
 For ye have learned ; tell what ye know 
 Before the dawn, when ye must leave 
 These cold gray stones of Genevieve, 
 
 Saint Genevieve. 
 
 I tremble now, I know not why ; 
 
 A still white hand is on me laid, 
 The arches reel, the shadows fly, 
 
 " Boy, it is I, be not afraid." 
 And it was she in brightness clad ; 
 I looked again, and 1 was glad 
 I was at peace, I ceased to grieve, 
 And blessed this tomb of Genevieve, 
 
 Saint Genevieve. 
 
AT THE TOMB OF GENEVIEVE. 103 
 
 Then mourn not o'er a fleeting breath, 
 
 The last long gasp, the silent bed, 
 Or all the ministers of death — 
 
 The ever-living are the dead ! 
 For lo ! she spoke to me a while, 
 And kissed me soft, and seemed to smile, 
 And bade me never more to grieve, 
 For she now walked with Genevieve, 
 
 Saint Genevieve. 
 
 No longer mine, yet e'en more dear, 
 
 More near, forever me to bless, 
 No more imprisoned in her bier, 
 
 Her winter and her summer dress. 
 The flowers nestling on her tomb 
 Must fade some day, and lose their bloom ; 
 But she, ah, no ! I do believe, 
 Can never fade, this Genevieve, 
 
 Saint Genevieve, 
 
ARTEMIS. 
 
 The goddess lights my sail ; 
 
 And all the crested billows, spreading wide, 
 Her face reflect, as pale 
 
 As sunken Death's upon the swollen tide 
 
 That lifts above the mast. 
 
 While the huge black eddies of the frenzied sea. 
 Enraged, rush roaring past 
 
 The side, as the dripping cup is thrust to me : — 
 
 " Here's to Diana, one and all, 
 
 Whose unslaked thirst now rocks the deepest 
 flood ; 
 Whose eyes, when cites fall 
 
 And rapine is abroad, are shot with blood ! " 
 
 Ah ! in the storm thou'rt feared ; 
 
 The shattered ships proclaim thy awful spell : 
 104 
 
ARTEMIS. 105 
 
 Though thy disk is wan and weird, 
 
 Thou hast the power to make the sea a hell ! 
 
 But from the strand thou 'rt chill, 
 
 Forbidding, as a virgin's eye unwooed 
 
 By mortal touch : yet still 
 
 Thou 'rt fair, though passion in thee finds no food, 
 
 Save when thy silver beams 
 
 In sleeping arbors play the lovers' amulet, 
 And time those wakeful dreams 
 
 That, having tasted once, we ne'er forget. 
 
 A favor, then, pale moon ! 
 
 As now thou seek'st to shun the morning light, 
 Grant me this parting boon, — 
 
 To drink thy health before we say " Good- 
 night ! " 
 
 Then in the silent air, 
 
 Shining o'er me alike as o'er my grave, 
 " Here 's to thy silver hair ! " 
 
 I drink, and cast the goblet in the wave. 
 
FIRST LOVE. 
 
 Oh ! I love thee for thy beauty ; 
 Oh ! I love thee for thy duty, 
 Paid to him who comes to claim thee ; 
 For this heart can never blame thee, 
 Though it loves, it loves, it loves thee ; 
 Though it loves, it loves, it loves thee. 
 
 Though I woo in awkward fashion, 
 Though thou canst not feel my passion, 
 Though thou sadly dost neglect me, 
 Though full soon thou wilt forget me, 
 Still I love, I love, I love thee ; 
 Still I love, I love, I love thee. 
 
 Still the wild bees, still, are humming ; 
 But the winter's frost is coming, 
 And the hope that lies within me 
 Faints and fades and dies within me ; 
 For I love, I love, I love thee ; 
 Oh ! I love, I love, I love thee ! 
 106 
 
MY MOUNTAIN MAID. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 The god-like mountains press the vale, and curve 
 
 'Twixt man and all the welkin's fainter blue ; 
 
 Here tender streamlets part the beetling rocks, 
 
 Like angel spirits from the upper snows. 
 
 And here below, where plays a tiny mill, 
 
 Across the vale, half swallowed up in green, 
 
 Here dwelt my mountain maid — 
 
 Sweet child of nature, like the lilies pale 
 
 That swing and bow their heads, when 
 
 The wet paddles chop the stream, and shake 
 
 The upper mill-boards with a measured tread. 
 
 Toil, toil, the sluggish wheel goes round 
 To the bright-eyed maiden's song, 
 And the birds in the trees sit hid in the leaves 
 To list to her roundelay. 
 
 107 
 
108 MY MOUNTAIN MAID. 
 
 Why call her mountain maid, 
 
 Since she dwells in the vale, 
 
 In far less purer air than breathes 
 
 The silent uplands now bereft 
 
 Of her sweet face and holy songs, 
 
 Wherewith from God she blest 
 
 The dark entangled passes, far and wide, 
 
 Cheering the startled stranger and his guide ? 
 
 But now no more is she the pupil 
 Of the giant spirit crowning the chaste snows , 
 No more the playmate of the edelweiss and rose 
 That hang upon the fringes of the depths ; 
 But wooed to earth, from the e'erlasting peaks, 
 To drink her earnest nature's fondest hopes 
 Out of a cup of mortal love. 
 
 'Tis strange — aye passing strange — yet true, 
 She loved the miller who wooed her 
 To be the sunshine of his tedious toil ; 
 He, of a coarser nature than was hers, 
 Seemed worked upon by her diviner self ; 
 
MY MO UN TA IX MAID. IO9 
 
 She was the soul and he the body 
 
 Of this most unequalled yoke ; 
 
 Oft bowing to the vision, yet standing 
 
 Half rebelled from what seemed hid from him, 
 
 Because such power was not his 
 
 Of soul, and shamed him to himself. 
 
 He longed at last to be set free, 
 
 For this had poisoned all, and love, 
 
 As in more treach'rous beasts, the chance 
 
 Of time had well-nigh turned to hate. 
 
 Toil, toil, the sluggish wheel goes round 
 To the bright-eyed maiden's song, 
 And the birds in the trees sit hid in the leaves 
 To list to her roundelay. 
 
 PART 11. 
 
 But the mountains threatened soon ; 
 
 And the eagle swept down from his nest on high, 
 
 Flew wild from the alpine wall, 
 
 And compassed the valley, and screamed 
 
IIO MY MO UNTAIN MAID. 
 
 O'er the mill : — " My Masters claim their own !" 
 
 The clouds on the peaks were rent in twain, 
 
 And many a glacier moved and groaned, 
 
 The avalanche fell to the spurs below, 
 
 And the battlements shook with thunder and hail, 
 
 For lightnings had gathered to fall on the vale; 
 
 And the mill it stood still, 
 
 No water would flow. 
 
 Then the woman rushed out, all stricken and pale, 
 
 And cried: " I will come to my post 
 
 On the hills, and dwell on your breasts 
 
 By the life-giving rills, and care 
 
 For the eaglets that cannot yet fly, 
 
 And sleep in the hut the winds 
 
 Have prepared ; but let not — 
 
 O let not my husband then die !" 
 
 The hills were appeased, 
 
 The mountain was still, 
 The streamlet flowed on and startled the mill, 
 The cliff bared his brow and smiled on the plain, 
 
MY MOUNTAIN MAID. I I I 
 
 The chamois returned to his mate on the rock, 
 And the shepherd passed on with his comforted 
 
 flock; 
 For the wife of the miller was singing again. 
 
 She sang to the valley, as she gazed oft below, 
 
 Not marking the jealous eyes out of the snow, 
 
 Nor the monster-mountain murmuring low ; 
 
 She only heard the old kirk bell. 
 
 The dear old bell she loved so well ; 
 
 There was the mill, she saw the light, 
 
 Her children were there, and it was night ! 
 
 Her tears fell fast, she turned again, 
 
 She toiled up the slope, nor paused she more 
 
 Till all of earth seemed lost below, 
 
 And round her lay the chaplet white, 
 
 The zone flung round in heaven's height 
 
 The cloud-like snow the winds do blow ; 
 
 And at the zenith stood a star 
 
 That fuller grew — a wondrous star — 
 
 As if the night was pierced afar, 
 
 And angel light was shining through. 
 
112 MY MO UN TA IN MA ID. 
 
 Then 'mid a stillness as at dawn 
 
 Some voices said : " Two masters none can serve, 
 
 The crown is thine, the diadem." 
 
 She looked to the star, and saw it a gate 
 
 That opened in to wonder and light, 
 
 With angels coming robed in white ; 
 
 And kneeling there, and bending low, 
 
 She fell asleep in the arms of the snow, 
 
 As died the sound of the old kirk bell, 
 
 And vanished the mountain and all below. 
 
WHERE KATE WAS LOST. 
 
 From where you stand, can you not see up there 
 Above the rocks, where the bright snow seems 
 tossed 
 'Neath that white cone, the smaller of the pair, 
 That stands this way, apart ? There Kate was 
 lost. 
 
 The snow 's too deep to search, the guides all 
 say ; 
 
 There was a storm up there a week ago ; 
 We had gone up to try and break a way, 
 
 But had to leave when it began to blow. 
 
 It 's long and dreary waiting on for Spring, 
 The thaw is backward and the season's late, 
 
 To gaze up there and not do any thing, 
 
 For days and days compelled to sit and wait. 
 113 
 
1 14 WHERE KA TE WAS LOST. 
 
 I often take my glass and think I see 
 
 A something cloud-like waving to and fro, 
 
 A something vague, — but it can only be 
 
 The wind that sweeps away the loosened snow. 
 
 When the barometer is high, I climb 
 
 To watch the glacier as it creeps around, 
 
 Draining the upper snows — they say, in time, 
 That in the ice below she will be found. 
 
 If Spring should never come, I like to think 
 That " Kate is coming nearer, day by day ;" 
 
 They said this that my spirits might not sink, 
 Kind people that I 'd met upon the way. 
 
 If Spring comes soon, they say I must not go, 
 It 's only lately that they 've talked like this ; 
 
 Yet from my bedroom I can see the snow, 
 And that's a pleasure that I would not miss. 
 
WHERE KA TE WAS LOST. 1 1 5 
 
 The leaves are out, and yet they make me wait ; 
 
 When the time comes, I know I shall be 
 strong. 
 I asked to-day how soon I should see Kate ; 
 
 The doctor said that now 't would not be long. 
 
LINES ON LEAVING AMERICA. 
 
 With patience I 've waited the day 
 
 For the cloud of my sadness to lift. 
 The sun-god to show me his ray, 
 
 Or the sail of distemper to shift. 
 But the future doth ever belie 
 
 What the present would tempt us pursue, 
 And the hopes that I cherish so high 
 
 To-morrow may vanish like dew. 
 
 Though firm be the rock of the past, 
 
 Still rude are the bulwarks of time, 
 And steep as the canvased mast 
 
 Now seemeth the hill that I climb. 
 The heavens can never decay, 
 
 The shores of the sea cannot rust, 
 But man who aspires in clay 
 
 Must dwindle and crumble to dust. 
 116 
 
LINES ON LEAVING AMERICA. WJ 
 
 The hour hath come to depart, 
 
 And a chill is over the sea, 
 A winter hath stricken my heart, 
 
 And a tear hath froze in mine e'e. 
 The landsman is pricking his light, 
 
 The sailor is furling his sail, 
 As westward advances the night, 
 
 And slowly increases the gale. 
 
 The shadows creep over the sand, 
 
 And dim is the echoed salute ; 
 The ocean now blends with the strand ; 
 
 The breakers are distant and mute. 
 Now darker and deeper the wave, 
 
 And fainter, still fainter the shore — 
 " America ! land of the brave ! 
 
 Farewell ! I can see thee no more. 
 
 " So vanish — save memory dear, 
 
 Ye billows in sorrow may moan ! " 
 For my lesson through many a year 
 Has been that I 'm best when alone ; 
 
1 1 8 LINES ON LEA VING AMERICA. 
 
 And roaming I may be so long, 
 
 That returning at last to this shore, 
 
 No one will remember my song, 
 
 And my country shall know me no more ! 
 
 Pacquebot St. Laurent. 
 February 24, 1872. 
 
"TAKE A HANSOM. 1 
 
 A ROUGH SKETCH. 
 
 London. Where dwell the under clouds, 
 Where the barred sun, spasmodically repress'd, 
 Would break his yellow bonds of smoke and fog. 
 
 Take a hansom, with a flying cob, 
 
 Bob-bob, hob-nob, and bob. 
 
 ''' Four-wheeler " sure to be unsound, 
 
 And slower than "bus " or " underground.'* 
 
 London. Where the green-wood park 
 Shoots up its iron railings and its trees, 
 To laugh at brick and dingy granite. 
 
 Take a hansom, with a flying cob, 
 
 Bob-bob, hob-nob, and bob. 
 
 Tell him to skirt the park around, 
 
 Where quiet blends with restless sound. 
 119 
 
120 TAKE A HANSOM. 
 
 Quiet, as should be the soul, 
 
 While busy, earnest-seeking life 
 
 Fast journeys to the light of lasting day. 
 
 Take a hansom, with a flying cob, 
 
 Bob-bob, hob-nob, and bob. 
 
 Drive to the Abbey, where sleeps the saint, 
 
 The actress here hath doffed her paint. 
 
 London, of restless life incarnate, 
 For multitude compact, but one might seem, 
 One vast arch-monster, murmuring through the 
 night. 
 
 Take a hansom, with a flying cob, 
 
 Bob-bob, hob-nob, and bob. 
 
 A hurried glance, a fleeting face, 
 
 All flashing past in peopled space. 
 
 London, pressing on the mind absorbed, 
 Like some dull sense of worn-out days returned, 
 In day-dream and by night, 't is endless, 't is sub- 
 lime. 
 
TAKE A HANSOM. 121 
 
 Take a hansom, with a flying cob, 
 Bob-bob, hob-nob. and bob. 
 A sixpence extra on the job, 
 Bob-bob, hob-nob, and bob. 
 
" NOT YET SIXTEEN." 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 " Dear Husband Fred : 
 
 Come to your little wife ; 
 I ought to love you, and I do — 
 I did not mean to worry you ; 
 I won't toss ball with Mary any more. 
 I quite agree with all you say : 
 1 A married girl should never play.' 
 
 " And Fred, I won't regret that I 've left school ; 
 
 But only I do feel so old, 
 
 And all the girls say I 'm so cold 
 And stiff, because I wear a cap and train. 
 
 But married ladies must dress so, 
 
 As they 're quite old enough to know. 
 
 " The house seems — oh ! so big and still, dear Fred, 
 When you are gone. And when nurse too 
 
 122 
 
NOT YET SIXTEEN. 1 23 
 
 Is cross, I don't know what to do ! 
 I can't skip rope ; it makes the servants laugh — 
 I heard them whisper on the green : 
 ' Poor Mis'ess ! She 's not yet sixteen.' 
 
 " I'll let them see I know what I 'm about ; 
 
 I 've made a nest up in a tree, 
 
 Where there 's just room for you and me ; 
 And when those children come, I '11 say I 'm out, 
 
 I '11 show them what is married life ! 
 
 Won't that be right ? 
 
 "Your little wife." 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 My fragile bark 
 Was tossing on the waters blue, 
 When on a sudden all the shore 
 Was veiled from view, 
 And heaven's hollow arch 
 Was filled with flying mists, 
 That trailed their smoky wings 
 Upon the cold dark waves ; 
 A dreadful pall swept o'er 
 The heaving bosom of the main ; 
 In huge round drops 
 Great heaven's ointment fell 
 Upon the swaying deck, 
 While black, portentous thunder-clouds 
 Commenced their omnious cannonade. 
 My spirit failed me and I sang : 
 
 Whatever this may be, 
 'T is e'en for the best ; 
 
 124 
 
A FRAGMENT. 125 
 
 Though a shudder comes o'er me, 
 My soul is at rest. 
 
 In the church-yard, alone, 
 
 My child is now sleeping ; 
 While the billows do moan, 
 
 And the heavens are weeping. 
 
 Since men have forbidden — 
 My darling, 't is better for thee, 
 
 That the grave hath all hidden, 
 And thy father should flee ; 
 
 Yet thy spirit is near, 
 
 On the wings of the gale — 
 Yes, darling, thou 'rt here, 
 
 By my storm-beaten sail. 
 
 I hear thy voice calling ; 
 
 'T is sweetly the same, 
 O'er the tempest appalling, 
 
 That's calling my name. 
 
126 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 In fondness I follow, 
 
 Though swift be thy flight, 
 In the silence of sorrow 
 
 And the darkness of night ! 
 
 But with a sudden jar, I 'woke from out my rhap- 
 sody ; 
 A shock, as if a pack of wild dragoons 
 Had all at once assailed 
 Our frail defenceless garrison. 
 Then came a long distressing shriek, 
 That struck a chord of terror in my breast ; 
 And then a deadly calm upon the elements, 
 Wherein I heard a song of prayer 
 That seemed a fervid orison 
 Unto some mighty god ; 
 While by a dazzling flash 
 That blindly crossed the firmament, 
 I saw a struggling man 
 Afar, upon the buoyant crest 
 Of a receding wave. 
 A human groan escaped my lips, 
 
A FRAGMENT. \2J 
 
 And with a wild and troubled eye, 
 
 I gazed about the trembling bark : 
 
 What means this stalwart seaman 
 
 On his bended knees, 
 
 With hands in meek contrition clasped, 
 
 That scarce an hour since 
 
 Had mocked fair fortune to the face, 
 
 And called on niggard luck 
 
 To grant the bark a safe and speedy course. 
 
 How tyrant conscience doth abuse 
 
 The broad advantage of his fears, — 
 
 A few more minutes in the lease of life, 
 
 Ere we are made poor outcasts 
 
 Of this mortal state. 
 
 Death is a hard philosopher, 
 
 That scorns all argument. And 
 
 The hour hath come when penitence, 
 
 With trumpet voice, cries out upon my soul. 
 
 I pray to that Almighty Being, 
 
 The only lasting thing 
 
 On earth, to our seeing 
 
 It is permitted us to know, 
 
128 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 The King of kings anointed : 
 
 Have mercy at this hour, 
 
 When the spirit of my faulty course 
 
 Has fallen from his tower, 
 
 Wherein he held his fort — sophistic force. 
 
 I' ve never seen the monster Death — 
 
 Some say he hath soft azure in his eye, 
 
 And some, sweet perfume in his breath ; 
 
 I know not if this be — then let me die ! 
 
 My mind is clouded and my sight is veiled, 
 
 Yet still, methinks, my prayer was heard ; 
 
 For on the distant crest of an advancing wave, 
 
 Against a curtain of white spray, 
 
 Sits silent Death in all his majesty. 
 
 In his left hand he holds an hour-glass, 
 
 And in his right the fatal scythe, 
 
 Whose polished blade doth gleam 
 
 Like some false beacon at each flash 
 
 Oi the electric train. 
 
 Now, like the victim of a serpent king, 
 
 I stand, as if enchanted — locked by a chain 
 
 That binds me in an awful spell ; 
 
A FRAGMENT. 12Q 
 
 The dreadful wave increases. 
 
 And still I stand with chattering teeth and pulses 
 
 cold, 
 My being centred in mine eyes — 
 He comes ! He comes ! 
 The monster Death, he comes ! 
 And I am swept afar along the whirling eddies 
 
 and 
 The all-conflicting torrent of the boiling flood. 
 How cold, how bitter, bitter cold 
 Those black waves were that gurgled in mine ears 
 And lashed against my face ! 
 
 help ! I sink ! Down— down ! 
 Great Heaven give me air ! 
 
 1 feel a thousand thumbs 
 Upon my windpipe pressed — 
 A desperate struggle and I rise. 
 
 How blessed it is to breathe the air again ! 
 But ah ! I scarce can feel, my limbs 
 Are torpid, and my blood runs cold — 
 Down ! down ! 
 A second and a third time, down ! 
 
13° A FRAGMENT. 
 
 And then a calm delicious dream ■ 
 
 It seemed that once again 
 
 I walked beneath the ancient elms 
 
 That 'domed the college grounds 
 
 Where I had talked : a sickly verse 
 
 Of blank philosophy. 
 
 And then, methought, again 
 
 Close to my breast I held my child, 
 
 While crossing o'er an angry tide ; 
 
 And then I passed to sunny Italy, 
 
 Where all was drunk with joy ; 
 
 My child was safe and I was free ! 
 
 Then came a sweet contented sleep, 
 
 From which my spirit only 'woke, 
 
 To rise from out the ashes of my flesh, 
 
 And seek its final resting-place. 
 
^ : "--^-.-\ ,:"■... •