PS 35IS \ i I A, 1 :^CDV \ /! LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. %P ixip^ngl^t f tt ^ Shelf :WC,13II^ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. THE DREAM OF ART AND OTHER POEMS BY ESPY WILLIAMS G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK LONDON 27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND tbc liitidurbockfi- ^rcss 21 1892 ? 2,7^7 A Copyright, 1892, BV ESPY WILLIAMS. \All 7-ights reser7'ed?\ Printed and Bound by ■Cbe IRnicfterbocfter press, IRew iJorft (G. P. PutK'am's Sons) A TOKEN OF REGARD TO PAGE M. BAKER AND MARION A. BAKER CRITICS AND FRIENDS Jew Orleans, 1892. CONTENTS. PAGE The Dream of Art i " Where is the Christ?" 5 PfeRE Antoine's Palm ... 7 The Poet 8 Love's Eternity 10 Queen Maude 12 Rex 13 " Yovin' an' a Kiss " 15 Licet 17 An Epitaph 18 Past and Present 19 Davis 20 Grant 21 Lawrence Barrett 22 Bras-Coupe 23 DoM Pedro 24 At Cambridge, Mass 25 Upon an Epitaph 26 CONTENTS. PAGE Count Camora 29 Ahasuerus 51 Somewhere 66 A Wedding Gift in Rhyme 68 Niagara 70 " What IS Love?" 71 A Love Song 73 Romance 74 Loving is Life's Measure 76 M' Aimee 78 A Portrait 80 Inspiration 81 The Atheist ^ 85 Critics — A Libel q8 THE DREAM OF ART. Within the Sculptor's heart and brain A secret, sleeping, it had lain Through all the weary years of life. Whose wreck was strewn with fruitless strife. But now upon his manhood's prime It should awaken for all time, And with his Art's immortal fame Forever crown his mortal name. — Thus, as he deftly worked his clay. The Sculptor dreamed toil's hour away. 'T was done ! and prone before his eyes In dull, moist clay, wrought artistwise, His secret thought in beauty lies. Moulded for its immortal guise. I THE DREAM OF ART. No more within his heart's deep core Shall it be hidden as of yore, But soon in rustless bronze its grace Shall bring glad wonder to each face, Until in every grateful heart 'T will grow in time a joyous part. — Thus, as he gazed upon his clay, The Sculptor dreamed rest's hour away. Then, with a weary hand and head, The Sculptor followed as Sleep led Through mystic, labyrinthine ways, To where her sweet oblivion lays The benediction of deep rest On every yielding mortal's breast ; When, lo ! with sudden start, a fear Banished his vision's glowing cheer ! He saw his threshold softly crossed By the dumb, hoary Ghost of Frost ; THE DREAM OF ART. He saw it steal unto his clay, And, with a breath of frozen spray, Encompass it as with a spell ; Then saw the shapeless dust that fell, All that survived of ruined Art, From the wrecked treasure of his heart. — Thus, as he slept beside his clay. The Sculptor dreamed sleep's hour away. The morning came, and there was found A sleeping Sculptor whom no sound Of mortal prayer or mortal mirth, Would e'er again awake on earth ; For the hoar Ghost, with icy breath, Had breathed o'er him the spell of death. While, near its dead creator, lay Shrouded, to keep the frost away, With his scant pallet's meagre spread. And the thin cloak that eked his bed. THE DREAM OF ART. The treasured clay, — but fruitless care ! The frost had written ruin there ; And the dead Sculptor's wealth of toil Was frozen, fissured, crumbling soil ! — Thus, dead beside his ruined clay. The Sculptor dreamed life's dream away. "WHERE IS THE CHRIST?" He walked the street, in darkness clad, One stormy Christmas night, While darkness closed about his heart And cowed his spirit's might. "Where is the Christ ? "— his rent soul cried, " Whose deathless birth, this day, The centuried past has glorified, While He has passed away?" " Where is the Christ ? " — a voice replied, Faint, tremulous with woe. Forth from the darkness at his side, — " Follow, and I will show." Low on a pallet, hard and bare. She fell, with pent grief wild, 5 " WHERE IS THE CHRIST?" And kissed the starved, dead infant there, And cried — " Behold, — my child. " Lo, Christ is here ! in this dear form That breathed to scarce know breath, — Whose life has fled earth's wintry harm, — Lo, Christ is still in death ! " PERE ANTOINE'S PALM. Dead, in its grave a hundred years, His earthly body lies ; Alive, his soul's pure love still rears Its symbol to our eyes. No crown of burnished earthly deed With us his memory wears, — Only the love whose mystic seed With him death's life now shares. O stranger Palm, whose strange life blends Four lives and loves in one, — Each, back through thee, death's message sends " On earth His will be done." THE POET. " Idle thoughts are poets' fancies — Phantom hope, and erring fear ; Joy — that for the hour entrances, Grief — that passes with a tear ! Why then waste among the Muses Time best put to better uses ? " — Thus the World-Man, tinsel-hearted, Chid the Poet deep in thought ; But the Poet, golden-hearted, Loved his work, and loving wrought. Then the World-Man smiled his pity. And returned to cheat the City. Years, — and lo ! the Poet's treasure, — Pearls of thought, and diamond song, In a tome of perfect measure. Stole into the world's great throng ; 8 THE POET. Filled it with surprise and pleasure, Till it sought and prized the treasure. " Priceless thoughts are poets' fancies, Bringing hope, dispelling fear, — Joy — that every hour enhances, Griefs — that ease us with a tear ! For their gift of heavenly thought Poets should be loved and sought." — Thus the World-Man, fashion-hearted. Praised the Poet, bought his song, While the minstrel, constant-hearted, For his love, forgot past wrong, — Smiled in modest silence, weaving Golden thoughts for future sheaving. Years, — and all unknown, forgotten, Sleeps the World-Man lost in death. But the Poet hath begotten. Lasting life in every breath. And his grave is but a token Of a life by death unbroken. LOVE'S ETERNITY. Little angel, from above, — Living pledge of living love, — In thy spirit life we see Love's divine eternity. Heaven still lingers in thine eyes ; And the pure of paradise Still their loving vigils keep O'er thy slumber sweet and deep. Little angel, here on earth May thy life be full of worth ; P'ull of giving, winful love. Like life's perfect life above. Still may heaven bless thy sight, Still may angels guide thee right. LOVE'S ETERNITY. II Still thy life be pure from sin, Blessings still to give and win. Little angel, — then above, — Still love's pledge of living love, — Thy made-perfect life shall be Love's fulfilled eternity. QUEEN MAUDE. The blue of heaven in her eyes, The sheen of sunshine on her hair, A joyous heart, so winning-wise She reigns despotic everywhere. Oh, happy queen, whose reign is love, Whose realm is in each heart we know, Whom only the Great King above Can summon from thy reign below, — Whate'er thy wayward mandate be, One heart beats true in time to thine. One mute, unquestioning devotee Bows low before thy spirit's shrine. REX. My darling boy, my darling boy ! God gave thee unto me To teach me life's divinest joy, Love's purest ecstasy. While through the windows of thine eyes I catch a glimpse of Paradise. Ah, happy, prattling, laughing sprite ! My King by right divine ! Thou rulest with a love-born might. To bend all hearts to thine ; Till conquered upon every hand We live alone for thy command. My darling boy, my darling boy ! God gave thee unto me To keep thee free from earth's alloy, 13 14 REX. Life's every misery ; To lead thee till thy manhood's gaze Shall pierce beyond earth's mortal days. Ah, then, thou prattling, laughing sprite ! True King, of right divine ! Thou still shalt rule with love-born might To bind all hearts to thine, Till last the incense of just praise Embalm the memory of thy days. "YOVIN' AN' A KISS." When the faint forelight of morning Steals upon our slumber's hush, And half timid and half boldly Through the casement throws its blush, I am wakened from my dreaming By a voice I ne'er would miss. Nestling close and softly whispering, " Yet 's p'ay yovin' an' a kiss." When the golden flakes of sunshine Crown with noon the regal day, And around the board are gathered Hearts that tend us on life's way ; Ere our daily bread is broken, Comes the sound I would not miss. While two little arms twine round me, "Yet 's p'ay yovin' an' a kiss." 15 1 6 " YOVIN' AN' A /r/SS." When o'er evening's living shadows Silent falls the dead of night, And with feet and head play-weary Sleep begins to cloud her sight ; When her " Lay me " prayer is ended, Comes the prayer I ne'er would miss, From those lips whose kisses bless me, " Yet 's p'ay yovin' an' a kiss." And when last my eyelids heavy Close to all save happy dreams, Through each vision that may haunt me One bright child-face ever beams ; And I hear in dreamy whispers Those loved accents full of bliss, While dream-kisses thrill my slumber — " Yet 's p'ay yovin' an' a kiss." LICET. I WONDER if any know, — Who dance in this room to-night, That a corpse, whose life had crowned love's glow, Lay coffined here in death's sad plight ? I wonder, would any pause In their laughter, jest or song, If they knew the living, callous cause That drove that heart from earth's glad throng ? I wonder — that life is life ? And knows death only by touch ? — Who cares for death's sorrow, sin or strife. While our own are free from their clutch ? 17 AN EPITAPH. He lived ; — and in his short life's meed With humble, unassuming heart, Unfalteringly he filled his part To th^ full mete of his own creed. He died ; — and memory shall raise. Higher than any mortal fame. This epitaph to his good name : — His life was full of perfect days. i8 PAST AND PRESENT. I. What is the Past ? — A checkered dream Of dying joy and deathless woe ; The memory of the thing we seem, The mockery of the thing we know. What is the Present ? — Tempting Naught ! A changeful dream, still incomplete ; A web by lying Fancy wrought Where baffled fools in wonder meet. 19 DAVIS. He hath won victory at last in death ! And loving faith, and faithful love, Have led him, hand in hand, above The praises or the blame of mortal breath. Oh ye whose wanton, fruitless hatred still Sought to destroy his peace of life, — Let death's long silence hush your strife, And leave his fate to Time's impartial will. And ye within whose palms he ever lay A comrade's ever loving hand, Now, past defeat, behold him stand Your comrade still in death's eternal day. GRANT. He is not greatest who by bloody deeds Mounts to the pinnacle of war's renown ; Who bears upon his brow the victor's crown, And tramples under foot the foe who bleeds ; But he, who rises to his country's needs, And wears but for occasion battle's frown ; — Who, when his duty 's done, his foeman down, Foremost for fallen, misspent valor pleads. He is the greatest : and his crown of fame, — A monument to peace though wrought by war, — Endures, his country's glory, pride, and gain ! Even as thine, whose honored war-won name. Upon the lips of nations near and far. Rose in a requiem o'er thy life's refrain. LAWRENCE BARRETT. His was the Poet's mind, whose subtle ken With loving purpose searched the realm of Art, To win the golden secrets of her heart And lay them tribute on the souls of men. His was the Soldier's heart, whose ready hand Grasped with an earnest will the needed steel. Yet ne'er forgot 't was human still to feel. And tempered with love's pity war's command. His was the Brother's hand, whose open palm, In silence sought, with loving, fruitful deed, The drooping heart and weary hand of need, And poured upon affliction heaven's balm. And his the Christian's soul, whose spirit-sight Pierced the dark confines of its prisoned life, And through earth's lowering clouds of worldly strife Still caught a glimpse of life's celestial Light. March 21, 1891. BRAS-COUPE. THE GRANDISSIMES, CHAPTER XXIX. Thou King — yet captive ! human — yet a slave ! — Yet He whose word those iron sinews wrought, Fashioned that brow — a crucible for thought, To thee that majesty of manhood gave With will endowed to do, and strength to brave, — Wrought He the woe with which thy life is fraught, That thou shouldst live to have been sold and bought. And find thine only rest in murder's grave ? — Yes ! — like some martyred saint of old, whose death Gave to his holy work immortal breath, And power divine the future world to save. So wert thou doomed to drink deep life's disgrace. And aid the great redemption of thy race, — Thou King — though captive ! human — though a slave ! 23 DOM PEDRO. Highest on earth's best pinnacle of fame ! Imperial not in rank alone but deed, — His heart the subject of his subject's need ; And yet they branded his unsullied name As with a merited, ignoble shame ; Crushed with the heel of empire's wanton greed The soul that ne'er caused worthiness to bleed !- — O slaves, whose freedom was his crowning aim, Have ye forgotten from whence freedom came ? O fi^eemen, in whose lap he laid with pride The sumptuous harvest of his peaceful reign ; Beware, lest ruthless history proclaim Your deed a scorn for time to still deride, — And his rent crown the blazon of your stain ! 24 AT CAMBRIDGE, MASS. Briskly across the close cropt college green, And thence along the well worn gravel way, With mien and gait impatient of delay ; A slouch felt hat beneath whose rim is seen A mass of uncropt hair, whose silver sheen Gives to the eyes that burn beneath its white A darker lustre and a deeper sight ; And, for the day was chill and east wind keen, An overcoat, a threadbare, dingy gray, And round his neck a faded worsted tie. — I paused in wonder as he hurried by : For this was he whose song is like to Day, Coursing the world to hold unrivalled sway, To crown him with Fame's immortality ! 25 UPON AN EPITAPH. " Gone to his rest." — And is it rest, This cold decay beneath the sod ? This mystery deemed sin's bequest, Yet deemed the pathway unto God ? Gone to his rest ? Vain, shallow thought ! There is no rest where there is life ! Death's rest is superstition wrought From life's immortal wearing strife. He wins no rest whose mortal part Lies in the change of life's decay, Whose spirit essences depart Into death's darkness or death's day ; His gain if aught is new, enduring life, More, keener senses, and successful strife ! COUNT CAMORA A TALK OF MEXICO COUNT CAMORA A TALE OF MEXICO. One day in Mexico, — no need to name The place, — with her, the angel of my life, Entering an old and cheerless convent cell We found a monk, — old and as gray with time As the bare stones that shut him from the world, — Sitting upon a couch of stone hewn from The farther wall. He saw us, and he smiled A strange and troubled smile, and bade us welcome. He was the oldest of the holy band Whose home had been this convent many years, — Longer than he remembered, and his years Were reckoned near unto a century. Somewhile he gazed at us in silence, till At length, for lack of else I chanced to ask 29 30 Count c a mora. Who and what was Don Alva, Count Camora, Whose grave we had just seen before the altar. The sound of that name startled him ; and o'er His face, and from his eyes there beamed a light As of young days returning ; but his brow Grew suddenly into a stern, hard frown, And his thin bloodless lips grew more comprest, And his eye glazed with something like still scorn, As thus he spoke : " Don Alva, — Count Camora? Who and what was he ? — ha ! ha ! — why, seilor, He was a man, — a mighty man ! nay, more, — He was a " Then with sudden laugh he stopped. And she who at my side stood like a rose In perfect bloom, — a queen of loveliness Among all lovely things ! begged that we leave. Nor further rouse the old man's memories, So full of pain, — for so indeed they seemed. But ere we might depart, again he spake : COUNT CAM OR A. 3 I " Seiior, — seiiora, — would you hear a tale Of life and love and death, such as they were In this demented land of flowers, full now Threescore of years gone by, listen ; 't is of This same Don Alva, Count Camora, whose Tombstone you may have seen within our chapel. True ! but whose body " Here again he stopped, With the same sudden laugh we heard before. And bade us then be seated. Then a pause, And with new life and earnest he began And told his story, — told the blood-true tale Of Alva, Count Camora, thus ; — speaking, (And this was strange, although I liked it so,) Always unto the fair one at my side. " Don Alva de Camora ! years now gone I knew him well, yes ! knew him all his life, Even from childhood's sunny days ; and now 32 COUNT C A MORA. As he was in his manhood's stately prime I picture him ! and yet, seiiora, he Was nothing handsome as the fair ones deem. His frame was then a counterpart to mine, — At least so many said, — a strong iron frame, A frame for mighty deads of force and strength — Such as of old a warrior knight had held A gift from heaven betokening success. "And he was wealthy; thrice ten hundred slaves Wore out the burden of their lives beneath His stern command, while day by day they wrought Steady increasing wealth from out his lands, — His lands, whose acres numbered many thousands. " Of all his lands two choice estates he had, Apart some twenty miles ; the one near to The strand to where the salt winds of the gulf Wafted the ships to bear his harvests hence ; The other inland, and hedged round about With wood and table land ; — this was his best COUNT C A MORA. 33 Loved place, for here his wife and children dwelt, — Here in a home of more than luxury, — A very paradise for earthly bliss ! " And she, for whom this was, — Lola, his wife ? Not all the fabled beauties of all time, Though all their excellences were in one Conjoined, and that one blest with grace Of heaven's most perfect loveliness, could equal, In his enraptured sight, her queenly worth. In wealth of beauty, mind, and soul. — Senora, Love is a thing perchance the same throughout All time ; — as deep, life-giving, full as strong For good and ill, for misery and joy, For benediction and for curse, as when The seed of Eden's exiles felt its power. Yes, love is love ! Yet sometimes I have thought, When noting how Don Alva loved his wife, — Yes ! and how she did glory in his love, — 3 34 COUNT C A MORA. That theirs was something more than earthly love, A passion more intense, more purely pure. More like the love with which the saints love God. " As they did love each other, so they loved Their children, — three. The first, a winsome lad, Upon whose face and head six summer suns Had left their glow and gold ; the next, a girl. Just three, — her mother's little counterpart, — A bit of lovely night moulded in form And made more lovely by the breath of life ; And last, love's latest gift, a babe, whose breath Had yet not tasted of one season's change. " Next unto these, his wife and children, Alva Cherished a friend — Don Romero ; a man Ten years his younger, born of noble blood, But brought by poverty unto that pass Where life must labor if 't would still be life. So Alva knew him first, first honored him For that he dared spurn pride and be a free man ; COUNT C A MORA. 35 And then as his great worth and value grew, He raised him step by step until at length He made him his vice-regent o'er his lands ; And last of all, he raised him to his love, And made him sharer with his wife of all His life's most secret hopes and aims. — Senora, Methinks I read my story's end forecast From your blanched cheek and overstartled eye. Perhaps ; — 't is old as passion, — old as crime ! " Don Romero was handsome ; such a man As in the ancient days men deified, And dreamt of as the sovereign powers of heaven ; Such as in these days women deify And make the powers of earth ! — Alva knew not How great a power poor earthly beauty was Until he felt the curse of being homely. " Let me be brief. 36 COUNT CAMORA. — " Time passed, and Romero Blossomed to fulness in his bright career, Warmed by Don Alva's love, and — it was whispered, - By Lola's ! — Lola's ? Alva dreamt not that ! And he 't would seem who had most cause to know, Most chance to spy suspicion, would not be The last to catch the scandal, whispered low, As if in very fear that he should hear it ! But last he did hear, and — why then, Seilora, Then Alva proved — a man— only a man. " Pass o'er the agony of doubt ; the woe Of seeking still what most he would not find, — Proof of his wife's wrong doing ; such things live Alone in those minds who have tasted them, — And the soul's nightmares cannot be described ! Suffice he found no proof ; yet all the stronger Therefor grew his suspicions, — for 't is strange, Yet true, that foul suspicions when pursued Gather a thousand viler to their van. Until their legion never can be conquered." COUNT CAMORA. 37 "At length there came a day when Alva, crazed Past further 'durance, swore to end his doubts. His wife, his children, and himself were then At the estate inland ; Don Romero At that upon the coast. Bright with the dawn That day Alva sent post to Romero Bidding him come to him. Then to his wife, — Lola the beautiful, whose heart and soul That morning seemed o'erfilled with love, — He bade farewell ; telling her (naught but truth) That he went hence to feast a company Of merchants — (buyers of his land's rich fruits And so part builders of his fortunes), — at his place Upon the gulf coast ; — more ; he bade her say To Romero when he should come, that he Should not leave thence till his return, but keep His eye, so vigilant unto success. Upon his slaves and crops. He would be gone Six days at least, — perhaps as many more. 38 COUNT C A MORA. " Then left he, with the dew of his wife's lips On his — the fevered breath of his on hers. " Something there was in his strange mien, his voice, That brought the tears to Lola's anxious eyes As from her casement she beheld him leave, — Watching him till the distance closed him in And wrapt him in impenetrable space, — Something that o'er her spirit wrought a gloom And filled her day with fears, — of what she knew not. " At length night came, and with it came the feast, — A prince's banquet ! all that wealth could give To fill the most capricious guest with joy And send him home full sated with content. And every guest seemed full of warmth and life. And lost whole-souled in the night's gaiety ; And more than any guest within his halls Seemed Alva lost in joy. Yet it was marked By those who long had known him, that at whiles A sudden pallor would o'erspread his face COUNT C A MORA. 39 To give a kind of mockery to his laugh, And rob his jest of mirth. Then would he say (To those who noted and inquired the cause Of his death-paleness) that he felt a strange And sudden sickness at such times come o'er him, And with the sickness an intense strange fear Of ill o'erbrooding those he left at home. But hardly would he speak these words, when life And mirth, with ruddy cheeks and laugh, once more Would claim him as their own, and bear him on In their bright tireless whirl of gaiety. " At length the hour of midnight struck, and then The wine and play usurped the banquet board. The tables were set round about, and in Self-chosen groups of four and six the guests Seated themselves to flirt awhile with Fortune. " Somewhile Don Alva played among the rest. But then his sickness taking him once more He 'rose, bidding the players still to deal, Nor mind his absence for a while ; that he 40 COUNT CAM OR A. Would seat him by a window, where the air Fresh from the gulf would bring him to himself, And after there awhile he would rejoin them. " Seated beside the window, partly screened By the rich damask curtain, he gazed round And marked how every table in the hall Was held by earnest players, each man's soul Intent alone upon the game at hand. Nor noting those about him, nor the slaves Who noiselessly, unbid, kept filled the goblets At each one's hand ; — and as he noted this The pallor of his cheek became more pale. And his eye trembled as with fading sight. Quickly he left the hall, — first bidding them Whose partner he had been, to play their game Nor heed his absence ; — he would seek his room And would return ere long — much rested. — " Yes, 'T was rest he needed ; he had travelled hard. And labored hard — (they answered) — for their pleasure, COUNT CAMORA. 4 1 And he had earned the right to take some rest, Even though so he robbed them of his presence ! " — Here the monk paused ; and suddenly I saw For the first time that we two were alone. My bride had silently withdrawn, and I — (Even as Alva de Camora's guests At play saw not or noted not his absence) — Had not remarked her going. — *' Ah, Seiiora, [The monk once more, and still addressing her Who was not by, yet whom he seemed to see,] There wjs a kind of rest that Alva sought Beyond his guests' ken, — rest of soul from doubt. Or an eternal rest ! — a rest of love — or death ! " He reached his room ; and entering, locked the door. Then with a quickness that methinks hell sped, He changed his princely dress for one old worn, A very coat of rags ; then o'er his head And face he drew a bearded wig ; and, standing 42 COUNT CAMORA. Before the mirror, did not know himself. Then from his window stepping out- upon The broad piazza roof, he reached a place Where an old muscadine had interlocked Its wiry sinews till it might have borne Thrice Alva's weight in traverse up or down. Down on this natural ladder Alva goes, And thence unto the stable, where his steed, True to his master's touch, knows him despite The darkness and disguise ; and soon — too soon ! — Alva is speeding hence — Whither, Seiiora ? To his place inland, twenty odd miles hence ! And he must reach there and be back again Ere the cocks crow for morn. " That morn as he had ridden to the coast. His gold had bought him secret, fast relays Which were to wait for him such time that night, Not on the highway, but a road disused. That lay through field and'wood, whereon the chance Was little for his meeting with a soul. COUNT C A MORA. 43 Thus on with speed of thought he sped, — and yet His patience failed him still, and each relay, Though passed seemed but to make the next more dis- tant. At last breaking from out the woodland's screen, He saw his inland home, — a shadow black Against the star-bestudded night as that Which shut out heaven's brightness from his soul. Then slower he approached, till from the black And growing shadow of the house there beamed One little gleam of light, — like the one hope That glimmered through the shadow o'er his soul. That light beaconed him to his Lola's chamber. Dismounting he made fast his steed, and with A quick yet cautious tread entered the yard. Fierce bloodhounds held the watch, but they were mute. For they knew well their master's scent, and now Licked his extended hands as he passed by. Short distance from the house a palm-tree stood. And now against the palm he spied a ladder ; — (With what nice art the devil helps on crime. 44 COUNT C A MORA. As 't were by nature's accident !) — quick work For him to fix the ladder and to gain The roof of the piazza, right before His wife's bed-chamber window. " He paused before the open window, and Then o'er him crept a chilhng sense of dread Of what he yet must do, — what yet must come. But time sped fast and he must speed as fast I The dim rays of the lamp within showed him That room he knew so well ; that he had learned To cherish as the inmost, secret chamber Of this, the temple-palace of his love ! Showed him each piece of furniture, — each piece, It seemed to him, blessed and endeared by some Sweet legend of love's by-gone days ; and last, Showed him his nuptial couch — " He starts ! his very heart pauses to hear ! It is his wife's voice, — soft and sweet and low, And breathing words of luscious love ; such words COUNT CAMORA. 45 As, he remembered, had a thousand times Made him a god in ecstasies of bliss ! — She might be dreaming, — talking in her sleep, -- Dreaming of him, and talking in her dream. But now he seems to hear another sound, As of some strange voice muffled in reply ; A voice that seems afraid of its own sound, And in a whisper seeks to hide itself. In his black mind Alva did name that voice ! And yet he paused, — even against his will. When once again his wife's voice smote the night Melodious as before, and sweet with love ; And then with little intermission urging — ' Haste, Romero — haste ! haste I ' — and dying down Into a whisper, mingled with those sounds Alva had heard before, — like some strange voice Whispering low replies ; — the voice of — " Quick as the prompting impulse, Alva glided In through the window, — to the bedside, — and Thrusting his arm beneath the fast-drawn curtains. 46 COUNT C A MORA. (Which he would not withdraw to gaze on guilt,) He plunged his steel deep — twice ! " This was not all ! What were his children now To him ? Perhaps — perhaps — No ! they must die, And with them every doubt ! Swift to their room He ran, and with his stiletto still red. There mingled with their mother's blood their own " He was avenged. His task was done ; and now unto his friends, For now he had found rest — much, lasting rest ! " Senora, he returned as he rode thither, — Save that each slave who tended his relay Had for his recompense a stab and death, And the discarded steed unbridled freedom." IV. ' Still in his hall his guests sat deep in play As when he left them, but three short hours past ; And as he neared the table where he played, COUNT C A MORA. 47 His partners, while the deal went round, remarked His quick return, — he had been absent scarce An half hour at the most ; he answered, — True, But he had found even in that short time Much rest, and longer he could not forbear Their company. Then sat he at the game Once more and played. " Scarce had the deal gone round, When entering at the door, and habited As one but just dismounted and arrived From some long, hasty journey, right before Don Alva stood Don Romero. As though A thunderbolt had shocked him Alva sprang, Smitten dead-white with terror from his seat. Don Romero ? — or was it not his ghost ? — His friends, startled, arose ; their rising saved him. Quickly he curbed too truthful nature that Had nigh broke loose its bonds unto betrayal, And calling Romero by name, (for 't was No ghost, but flesh and blood before him), -asked 48 COUNT C A MORA. His errand, — if all things were well ? ' All well,' Was Romero's reply ; and for his errand Gave into Alva's hand a letter. Then With that bright, happy, careless mien which still Was his, he mingled with the guests. "But Alva?— Bidding his friends apart, he broke the seal And found the scroll his wife's, — penned in her fair And flowing character, — in her sweet, full And loving phrase. 'T was dated the first hour Of night, and penned, (she wrote) beside the window From whence she watched his leaving in the morn. (The same through which he entered in that night !) It told how she had felt the livelong day A strange foreboding of some coming ill, And how she feared it tokened harm to him ; How she remembered that his parting kiss Seemed like a parch upon her lips for hours, And that she feared he must be ill, for so His kisses never burnt before ; how she CO UN 7^ C AMOK A. 49 In fine, wrought past all patience by her fears, Made bold to send this token of her fears, (Which yet were sweet for being love-born, and For him), — that he perchance would pity her Weak heart, and, pitying, greet her with the dawn. 'T was at her strict command Don Romero Was bearer of her token, since Alva Must needs leave some one trusty in his stead The while he rode to her. Lastly, (she wrote) Their little babe, love's nursling in her arms, With his pure speechless lips had kissed the page, So praying him to come. 'T was thus, she said, She sealed with the pure stamp of love's last seal Her love-born, love-wrought page. " Again, and still Again Don Alva read the letter o'er. At length calling Don Romero, he asked What hour it was his wife had sent him forth. He answered : The first hour of night he started. And that he had sped hither with best speed, — 50 COUNT CAMORA. With the last words the watching Countess spake — ' Haste, Romero, haste, haste ! ' still urging him. Then Alva, taking Romero apart, Told him that Lola, his true wife, had sent. For him, and that he must set forth at once, And that without attendants, — yes, alone. Then bade he all farewell, giving his guests Into the charge of Romero, and left. Senora, he went not unto his wife ; — He went — no one knows whither ! yet, Seiiora, His grave is in the chapel, but — his body — Is not yet there — " The monk's voice faltered ; then was lost in silence. I thought I heard a footfall on the stones, And lo ! beside me stood my bride once more. AHASUERUS. A LEGEND OF THE WANDERING JEW, 'T WAS Christmas Eve, — and night and stillness reigned. Alone we sat, my cherished wife and I, With lights turned low, — in memory of the time When dim lights made our young love burn more bright, — Before the study's cheerful glowing hearth. And, making pictures in the firelight there. Living again the happy years gone by, And building castles in the air for years To come, we marked not that the door, noiseless, Was opened, and a stranger entered, till His voice, with half a fright, had roused us ; then We saw him, standing midway in the room. His presence was commanding, — one to mark, — Full of majestic intellect and power ; His bearing full of a persuasive quiet, 51 52 AHASUERUS. That stamped him no intruder bent on ill, And banished fear from out our startled minds. Silent he stood a moment, while we wondered, And then he spake. — " I am Ahasuerus ! Behold me as I am, accurst with life ! Not as the aged and infirm with years. Whose life has lost the power of nourishment, Whose life is but a feeding upon self ! — Nor the bereft of health, whose mortal part Is but a failing pasture for disease, — A feast for slow corruption and decay ! Nor like the weary, whose o'erburdened soul Is crushed beneath life's every woe and care, Till each sore labored, yet life-giving breath Becomes an unavailing prayer for death ! No, not like these, — and yet accurst with life ! " Behold me as I am ! — this form erect. This master strength of sinew and of flesh. These youthful features, and this brow, 4 AHASUERUS. 53 Behind whose front there lies a mind WTio'se deathless memory can unfold the things Of centuries past as thine can tell to-day's ; — While here, here in my breast there throbs a heart Whose steady pulses never cease to sound, The mockery eternal to my soul, Of life, — life, — life, — forever life, — forever ! " You smile ? — well, smile ! for ye are blest with death ! And ye should smile, and give forever thanks, Whose sight shall yet behold God's messenger, Who bids ye — Come ! whose thankful fate Still holds the mansion of the grave in store, — The only palace house God made for man. Nay ! pale not so to hear me speak, nor gaze With such mute, searching wonder in my face ; — And yet, it is not strange ; for once, I too Had paled and gazed, even as ye, to see What ye do see, — to hear what now ye hear." — He stopped ; and she who nestled at my side, Quick grasped my hand, and looked into my face, 54 AHASUERttS. As though she wished he had not come, to break Our evening with his mystic strangeness, — Or wished him hence. But ere that I had found Speech for her wish, and mine, again he spake : — " Back, back through the dark vista dead years, Near twice ten centuries, and I was young ! Young, just man grown, in years, in thought, in deed. Then earth was beautiful, and life a blessing Whose end sometime — too soon if late, — was death. Then held I commune not with man alone. But, through the spirit instincts of my life, With God himself ; and lived my father's faith, Within the Law and Prophets, none more true. But dearer, far more beautiful than life, Was one whose being held my life in bond. Transforming it into a sacrament, — A thing however earthly, pure from stain ! " Even before me now I see her form Arise, robed in the fresh yet mellow beauty Of womanhood just known ! — shy womanhood, AHASUERUS. 55 That half betrays the secret it would hide, In the quick, riper blush upon its cheek, — The brighter, trembling depth of its dark eye. But fairer than her form, however fair. And brighter than her eyes, whose glances teemed With the mute language of her soul, too pure For grosser sound, was her pure heart and mind. They breathed of life celestial upon earth. And spread a spirit halo ever round her, Within whose sphere all things were heavenly. " I loved my Reka, with a love whose strength Outbore my reason, and had made me beast, — Devil, — but that she curbed it with her love, And wrought my heart's wild chaos of mad passion Into a nature full of use and beauty, — Full of a loveliness formed after hers. " We were not wed ; time was for that when my New, love-born energy and thrift had reaped The wherewithal for love to thrive and prosper. 56 AHASUERUS. And as the days passed on, bringing their fruit Of travail and success, each care was lightened, And the earned joy of gain made doubly sweet By her still patient hope's encouragement. 'T was then strange rumors fell around, — at first From fearful lips, — anon from bolder ones, — Of how the prophecy had been fulfilled, And He, — Jehovah, King of Jews, — had come. Content, and faithful to my father's creed, I heeded not, and cared not if 't was true ; — For my Redeemer had already come. And tarried still in Reka's spotless soul ! " At length He came, this Christ the Nazarene, Unto our village home, and I beheld Him ; — And I beheld a man, — to me but — man ! He was no king, neither by right nor might. Who trod the lowly dust with unshod feet, And, crownless and enrobed in coarsest cloth, Made the low Gentiles his companions ! — preached Heaven to the poor and to the rich damnation ! AHASUERUS. 57 King of the Jews ? — in scorn I scorned to laugh. What though His manliness was not like man's ? His majesty of mien unlike to man's ? His countenance full of compassion's love ? And His eye charged with light, whose piercing ray Seemed to espy the secrets of your soul, Until you trembled for their safety, — for Your own ? — Why this, uncommon though it was, Was but a trick that man might play, — had played Unnumbered times ere He had seen the light ! The son of David would be David's son, — And clothed in majesty superb, — complete ! The more I thought, my scorn was turned to laughter ! Till laugh, indeed, I did, when I beheld, As one among his band, Judas, the wise Iscariot, — whom I did know a man Without a soul for anything but gain, — For thrift ! and he was there, — yes, there for thrift ! " Full of the mockery that held the crowd With witless wonder, I sought Reka out. To share with her the jest, and laugh together. 58 AHASUERUS. I found her — where, where think you ? — at His side ! Seated beside His footstool, with her face Upbent, and listening to the words which fell Charged with some purpose deep into her ear. My heart stood still ! — I called her ; she was mute. And then my heart leapt back to life again, To pulse no longer blood, but liquid fire, Till all my brain was seethed with jealousy ! Yes, jealousy ! — my eyes could not deceive me ; For in that look of hers, upturned to His, There shone a deeper and more earnest love Than e'er beamed from her eyes to welcome mine ! And yet, the torment of a clinging hope Flattered awhile my heart's poor vanity. And cooled my anger to a present peace. What I had seen might be perchance not love. But its void semblance, wizard-like compelled By this bold Nazarene himself ! " — Again He paused, and wiped the beads from off his brow. And we in silence waited. Soon he spake : — AHASUERUS. 59 " Enough ! Reka was lost ! deep in her soul His seed had fallen and had swelled to life Even upon the instant of its fall. My words availed not ; she was deaf to all Save that new thing, the spirit of His creed, — Which bade men trample selfhood under foot ; Debased all worldly goods, and set on high The rank annihilation of this life To gain as price an unknown life hereafter ! True, she did love me still, she said ; with love So strong it bade her turn my wayward heart To Him, her Christ, whom we should then both follow, And so be reunited in our love. " Poor fool of woman ! but for them, His creed Had fallen to the dust, to find its grave ! " All nature, which but one short month before. Grew with the promise of love's bursting flower, Now shrank before my eyes a withered waste ; While my heart's sap grew thin with poisonous hate, 6o AHASUERUS. And every breath I drew scented revenge. Judas Iscariot and I were friends ; — I sought him, and it took not long to sound The hollow of his empty heart. He too Had marked how woman was the Nazarene's Best prey ; — and more, an untouched, worthless prey ! That maddened him ; and added unto that, The glory of His Master shadowed his. He never was the Nazarene's disciple Saving in show, — he was too true to self. All this I learned, and daily, hourly fed My slow revenge with his slovy discontent, Until they grew companions and were one ! " At last, the judgment came, — and I was there ! I saw Him scourged, and salted every blow With my heart's curses ere and as it fell ! 'T was I who plucked the briar and twined the crown Whose thorns pierced not His brow with half the prick His thorn of love had stabbed my riven heart I AHASUERUS. 6 1 'T was I who mocked Him ! I who spat on Him ! Who first called out to set Barabbas free ! And I who, when the sentence had been passed, And from the Judgment He was led to death. And He did stagger — not like to a God, But like a tortured, broken-hearted man, — Struck Him once more, and roughly bade Him — On ! And then — Oh, ye eternal Heavens ! — then There seemed to flash before me in the air A trembling multitude of flaming swords, Clutched by invisible hands, each aimed to smite me ! When, lo ! a voice which came as 't were from Him, The Nazarene before me, and yet came As well from forth the peopled space above, Bore to my ears, with fatal sound, the words : — — / go — to Rest, — but ye go ofi fo?'ever ! " — Once more the speaker paused ; and o'er his face There spread a look such as I ne'er had seen, And ne'er would see again. 'T was pain and grief. And trembling, speechless terror all in one. 62 AHASUERUS. And when again he found his voice, 't was hushed In semi-tones, scarce pitched above a whisper. " — 'I go — to Rest, — but ye go on forever.' — Those words, those words, — they seemed to course my veins With my heart's blood, to fill me with a strange Impulsive energy to travel on, — On with the crowd, unto the place of skulls ; — Though to mine inmost soul a dread had come Which would have bade me flee the place, — but could not ! No, no ! 't was doomed that I should see it all ; From the first nail, until that final cry, That rang throughout the darkened air, like the Clear echo of a silvery clarion. Proclaiming victory to all the world,— Proclaiming warning unto all the world, — Proclaiming unto me, my seal of doom, — The earthquake, — utter darkness and despair — I fled in terror from the place, with still AHASUERUS. 63 Those fatal, fateful words within my ear, — ' I go — to Rest, — but ye go on forever.' " — With a wild, weary, hollow laugh he stopped. But only for an instant, then again With stronger and yet failing voice began. *' Go on forever ? — God's will must be done ! 'T was God, — I knew it then, I know it now, Whose mortal lips pronounced my fearful doom ; — And still my body and my soul are one ! And the dead years and future centuries, With all their garnered harvests of sweet death, Have passed, and still must pass me by unharmed. Earth ne'er beheld a carnival of death Where I was not with eager heart striving To win the dreadful angel to my side. And cast earth's living bondage from my soul. In vain ! he gathered all from either hand And passed me by, with a strange smile of pain, That planted in my heart new sense of misery. 64 AHASUERUS. " Once, — once, long centuries ago, there came A moment's respite to the wasting pain Whose agony seemed but to feed my life, Not to destroy ! 'T was when I dreamed, or else Dreamt that I dreamed, — that Reka came to me ; — Clothed in her youth and beauty as of old. And all her countenance awake with love Like to the old, — and yet not like the old, In lacking passion's soft insinuating fire. And as she gazed upon me, full of pity That ruffled not but soothed my troubled soul, Methought I heard her call me by my name, And say — 'Patient, — be patient to the end. Who bears God's will, with Christ climbs up to God. When all is done, Reka shall come for thee ? ' " — With a faint moan he sank unto the floor. And hid his face within his hands and wept, While only his low sobs disturbed the silence. Then through the midnight air without, the bells Pealed forth their summons unto midnight prayer. AHASUERUS. 65 On their first stroke, a tremor seized his frame ; His palm sought palm in tense, convulsive clutch ; And partly rising to his knee, with face Upturned, and tearless, earnest gaze he stared Into the dim-lit vacancy before him. A moment thus, and then he bounded up, With lifted gaze and outstretched, pleading arms, As though he 'd mount the immaterial air And upward climb into the space above him, — And shrieked — " 'T is Reka — Reka ! she has come, — It is the end — the end ! " — then backward fell. Dead at our feet. — It was indeed the end. Even as we bent o'er him, with vain hands Striving to fan the vital spark, whose warmth Still lingered, back into a living flame. The door was opened and before us stood His Keeper, full of anxious fear. One look. And all was told without the need of words. — God grant his madness ended with his breath. SOMEWHERE. Somewhere there blows Myrtle and Rose And Cedar for me ; But where, no one knows, Or may not disclose The secret to me. Somewhere a heart Is blooming apart For love and for me ; But where, none will tell. Dear Heart, is it well For thee, or for me ? 66 SOME WHERE. 6"/ Somewhere a grief — A skeleton thief — Is lurking for me ; Where ? only One knows Who hides future woes Somewhere from me. A WEDDING GIFT IN RHYME. Since Adam's bride in paradise Arose before his wondering eyes, And with her beauty wrought the spell Within whose charm man still must dwell ; Since Sheba's queen in gorgeous guise Conquered the wisest of the wise ; Since Cleopatra's serpent ways ; Since Helen's love-won blood-stained bays ; Since Heloise with subtle brain Won more than simple heart could gain ; Each son of Adam, daughter of Eve, Hath had from love but short reprieve, And sometime, somewhere, in some life Must mate as husband or as wife. And lo. Eve's spell, — that in each breast Rouses for peace its sweet unrest, — s 68 A WEDDING GIFT IN RHYME. 69 Hath bound in one our Groom and Bride, Who greet us, in their new wed pride, With buoyant words and happy smiles, — Bright omens of bright afterwhiles. Of future hours to years full-grown Ripe with the blessings all love's own. Oh thou whose lordly right is still To mete out joy, to shield from ill, To fill the measure of her hope with wine Rich with the blood of life's strong vine, — Her heart a lavish tribute pays Crowning thee king of all her days ! And thou, whose spirit's guiding beam Must beacon his through life's veiled stream, Beneath whose true eye's constant ray His life shall reach love's higher day, Upon thy brow he placed a crown Greater than any of renown. Crowning thee thus with his own life And Heaven's mystic name of Wife. NIAGARA. Before — the bright green waters In listless madness fly, Leap shouting smoothly downward, Mount mistful, white to sky. Above — the bright sun shining. Kisses the dancing spray, Till smiling it blushes all colors And in gladness melts away. O heart ! with your tireless torrent Of doubt, and cataract fears. Love's sunshine still kisses to blushes. And scatters your mist and tears. 70 WHAT IS LOVE ? I ASKED a maiden : — " What is love ? " — As we wandered through the night, Beneath the gaze of the listening moon And the stars' dim, bashful light. The maiden, catching my longing eye, Smiled as she blushed and made reply : " What is love ? — 'T is laughing, crying. Over phantom joys and fears ; A little truth and much of lying, To fill up life's weary years." I asked a matron : — '* What is love ? "- As I sat by her side one night, 71 72 ■ IVBA T IS LOVE? While without the moonbeams struggling fell, And the stars were hid from sight. The matron smiled as she caught my eye, And kissed her babe ere she made reply : "What is love? — 't is God, 't is heaven, 'Tis faith, and trust, and truth ; A gift to man divinely given. To make all life all youth ! " A LOVE SONG. Tell me not where roses blow, — Tell me, where do roses go When their sweet leaves, one by one, Perish 'neath the rain and sun ? As I questioned, came reply, From a voice that nestled by : — Roses when earth's beauty dies Bloom afresh in Paradise. Tell not whence affections flow, — Tell me where our life-loves go. When our senses, breath by breath. Chill into all-senseless death ? While I questioned, came reply. From the love close nestled by : — Earthly loves with souls arise Still to live in Paradise. 73 ROMANCE. Wilt thou love, thou Maiden sweet ? Learn to blush when glances meet ? With a sigh a sigh to greet ? Know life's fullest joy ? Full of smiles, the Maiden shy, Hid the secrets of her eye, While her blushes told me why In their language coy. Wilt thou marry. Maiden fair ? Orange blossoms in thy hair, And adorned with jewels rare. Wilt thou be a bride ? 74 KOAfAJVCE. Born of trembling joy and fear, From her eyelids fell a tear, While her heart in flutterings dear Told it was her pride. III. Bride and groom at altar stand, — Strength and beauty hand in hand ; Blest is now love's holy band — Stand they Man and Wife. Maid that was, in life to come Love's best temple is thy home ; Man, 'tis thine, where'er ye roam. There to shrine her life. LOVING IS LIFE'S MEASURE. I. Be others rich, be others rare, Be smiles of beauty everywhere, Let all the world 'gainst thee declare, Yet constant still I 'd love thee ! Thy heart is wealth enough for me. Thy beauty all I care to see, And life should fail ere I shall flee From thee, or seek above thee ! When from thine eyes thy soul is beaming, And on thy sigh sweet love seems dreaming, And thy soft voice with passion 's teeming, 76 LOVING IS LIFE'S MEASURE. Jf To love thee is life's pleasure ; But when thine eyes fill o'er with tears, And in thy sighs are trembling fears, Then find I — sorrow most endears, And loving is life's measure ! M'AIMEE. As the green maize upward springs From the warmth which summer brings, Springs my love from thee, m'atm^e ! As the swallows southward fly When the winter's chill is nigh. Flies my heart to thee, m'aim/e ! Like an oak with vines carest, With their fragrant blossoms blest, Is my life with thee, niaunie ! And as with strong vines entwined Oaks are safer from the wind, So my soul with thee, m'aim/e ! 78 M'AIMEE. ^g Life would be but one long sorrow, Like a night without a morrow, Parted still from thee, maimee ! And as dies a heart that 's broken. Slowly, with no word or token. Dies my heart from thee, m'aim'ee ! A PORTRAIT. Oh fair, sweet, gentle, speaking face, That from the living canvas gazed on me With eyes of modest, conquering witchery, You haunt me strangely still, all time, all place ! That pensive smile, coy beauty's winning grace. That head bowed down in watchful reverie. That sunny hair cast wild in revelry, That brow where mind and heart we both may trace, They speak such thoughts as the rich evening sky Breathes unto him who tracks its faiHng flame Through twilight's veil to night's unfathomed hue ;- Thoughts which but live their happy lives to die, — Of high ambition, honor, lasting fame ; Of love, the beautiful, the good, the true ! 80 INSPIRATION. A POET engaged to furnish a rhyme, And to have it complete by a certain time, Delayed to the very last minute ; For inspiration was the only thing That truly could make a true poet sing A song that had anything in it. Thus the " devil," alas ! as ever, on time. Found pains for his pains, for he found no rhyme. And swore at the poet right roundly, — Which angered the poet, who roundly then swore Whatever he did he would rhyme no more, And beat the poor " devil " right soundly. But scarce had the poet's wont calmness come o'er him, When an " angel," — the landlady's daughter, before him Stood, with a blush and a smile on her face ; 82 INSPlRA TION. And sheepishly begged him to write her a verse If but only four lines — for better or worse, — To give to her Album a richer grace. He took, and he wrote, — but instead of four He wrote a dozen of stanzas or more, For there Inspiration stood smiling, — With a blush on her cheek, and a longing eye. And a coaxer or two in a smothered sigh, His muse to its fancy beguiling. The moral is true, although it is plain ; The Devil will fail when an Angel will gain. And true inspiration is needed ; And if it appear in a bodice and skirt, The fact is as patent and common as dirt, It never will fail to be heeded. THE ATHEIST A MODERN MASQUE THE ATHEIST. A MODERN MASQUE. Christmas Eve — The Atheist's Chamber, overlooking the City — The Atheist, alone. Chorus of Devils, in Hell. Thou unvanquished, though defeated, Spirit infinite of Light, Still in every bosom seated, Throned in never yielding might ; Fallen, still of Heaven's greatest, — Thou too wear'st a martyr's crown, And Time's earliest and latest Vie to echo thy renown. 85 86 THE ATHEIST. The usurper, the victorious, Self-appointed Lord of all, Boasts no victory so glorious. As the battle of thy fall : For of angels thou wert brightest. For thy works most splendid shone, For thy votaries' hearts were lightest. And thy priests were full thine own. His be then the boasted glory. Thine the glory of the gain, — His, the far reechoed story, Thine, the silent, secret reign ! Though of earth all kind adore Him,— Praise as good the woes He gave, — Every cringing soul before Him Is in secret thy sworn slave. THE ATHEIST {solus). And this is life ! a little while to feel Kind Nature's sweets, then be resolved in nothing ! THE ATHEIST. %•] Lost even in an unseen respiration — Less than the echo of a whispered sigh ; And while we live, live only to acquire A growing sense of our own littleness, Till we become a jest unto ourselves — A wreck, self-ridiculed and self-despised ! {^Laughs^ Our span of being is a little more Than the bright butterfly's — our happiness Much less — and that the only difference. All that has healthful being, and the sense To feel and to enjoy, can boast more bliss Than man, who boasts the power of thought, And calls himself the lord of earthly kind. Why should not man then rather be a beast And grovel in contentment, than be thus Winged with the aspirations of a god To soar, however high, to discontent ! {(Church bells heard ringing through the city.) The bells, for midnight Mass — Alas, poor man ! Whose final, only consolation is a myth 88 THE ATHEIST. Wrought deftly from his own conceit and pride ; A tale of superstition told so oft It hath become the semblance of a truth Inwrought indelibly into himself ! {^As he pours out wine in a glass, there enters, unseen, one shrouded in a priest's gown and cowl, who, as he is about to drink, speaks.) THE PRIEST. Drink not, save from the chalice of His blood ! THE ATHEIST. {Starting, putting down the glass.) How came ye, priest ? and whence ? and wherefore ? speak ! THE PRIEST. By that straight path that leads to those who need, From One who wills ye good, — perchance for good. THE ATHEIST {laughing.) A thousand times I have heard such like words. And still a thousand times been left — unchanged ! THE ATHEIST. 89 Your texts, your arguments, I have heard all — Yes ! preached them to myself with will attent — Yet ever to their condemnation — all ! There is no God, who, merciful, condemns ; No righteous One, who makes but to destroy ! From nothing, from a never-dying law We come, and thence to nothing we return ; And they go first, who violate that law And suffer its unfailing execution. This much alone man knows — priests know not more. A VOICE. {Passing in the street below, singing.) Once in the life of every heart. Pure, steadfast, strangely bright. The Star of Bethlehem shines out Upon its lonely night ; And startled from its shepherd watch The sleepy soul enthrills With a new life, about to be The new born end of ills. 90 THE ATHEIST. THE PRIEST. " Once in the life of every heart," — and thine ? You pause, — you turn away. THE ATHEIST. Question not, priest ! The deeds entombed within the past are dust, Like ashes of dead men, unlike themselves, — And no one seeks in them their living likeness. A MAIDEN. {^Passing in the street below, si?iging.') Deep in the ocean's deep The purest pearls are found ; Deep in the dark earth's keep The richest gems abound : But deeper hidden than these, And priceless far above, Deep in the heart's sweet mysteries. Lies hid the jewel love ! THE ATHEIST. 91 THE PRIEST. Love only lives within celestial soil ; And he who loves bears heaven within his breast, Although in ignorance. THE ATHEIST. Priest, once I too Thought love an attribute divine, and lent To mortals to make sordid life more sweet, And tempt them heavenward by foretaste of heaven. But I was new to life then, and I loved. 'T was like a dream of childhood's peaceful sleep, Full of bright, stranger beauties. There still lives Within my heart the memory of its sunshine, — And there, too, lives the greater memory still. Of the black thunder-cloud that wrought its ruin ! We had been raised together, — boy and girl, — And all our childhood whims grew counterparts. Until our years were ripe for flower and fruit. Then she — she was shut out from life, from joy, 92 THE ATHEIST. Within a convent's wall ; while I went forth Into the busy, battling world of men, To gain man's heritage of strife and scar. When next we met, I was a bearded man. And she — I had seen many fair, and some Accounted beautiful above the rest — But she excelled them all ! Something there seemed About her that bespoke not earth, but heaven, And won my mad idolatry at sight. 'T was then my dream of love was ; and it lasted Until your God, — yes, your God — stepped between us Weighed me, and found me wanting in the scale Of cant, hypocrisy, pretense to things Which truth and manhood could not dare profess, — Vet which His priesthood held for blind belief, — For faith unquestioned, from a thoughtless crowd. 'T was then my dream fled ; — for she had been won By such as you, whose subtle mastery Poisoned her heart against me, till at last I came to be a thing abhorred — though loved ; An evil spirit doomed to lasting hell, THE ATHEIST. 93 Unless, — good, simple soul, — her prayers could save me, Her life of cloistered penitence wash out My sins ! — So much I trusted, loved her then, That even I was shaken, and in fear Half doubted for myself. But time and facts Dispelled all doubts and fears : — her life was wrecked, Full freighted with youth's bountiful desires. Upon the rocks of blind, fanatic faith ; Her life was lost, — her womanhood discarded, — Her end and place in nature unfulfilled. Her very being a self-created void ! THE PRIEST. No, not so ! for behold — {^Throws off tJie robe and cowl and discovers a beauti- ful woman ^ (the atheist starting up.) Is this enchantment ? Thou, thou of whom I have been speaking, here ? 94 THE ATHEIST. THE LADY. Yes, here in flesh and blood, in womanhood ! Here from the nunnery to be thy bride — Nay, more than that, thy guiding, saving angel ; To lead thee to a knowledge of thyself, And show thee how, despite thy scoffs, Thy vaunted infidelity to faith, Thou art at heart a very child of God. Speak not — hear me. Within the convent walls My life passed idly day by day in prayer For thee, and all was lost in thoughts of thee. Think not that there, though shut up from the world, The world can enter not to those who seek it. So every day, something I heard of thee ; Heard of thy jeers and scoffs at things called holy ; Thy unrepentant sacrilege, and most Thy shameless jests on such as I was there. But, too, I heard, how all thy deeds to man THE ATHEIST. 95 Were fraught with greatest good ; how in your life You preached no standard, save by acts — all good ; How, singled from thy kind, as a lost soul, Doomed by the Church to its eternal hell, Instead of shunnings, curses and damnations. Thy way was everywhere bestrewn with blessings — The fruits of thy own sowing, lavished on thee By those who, all despite thy branded name. Knew thee a messenger of God — of Him, Whose life is love — whose love is still to do ! What was I then compared with thee ? nothing ! In all my days of prayer, not one stood forth Crowned with a living act of good ; not one Smiled at me from the past for joy bestowed, For sorrow eased, for trouble comforted. Then in my heart the Star of Bethlehem Rose steadfast, pure, and strangely bright, and in My soul I felt the quickening of new life ; And led as were the shepherds on that night Of old, I followed till the star stood still Above thy threshold — here above thy head. 96 THE ATHEIST. THE ATHEIST. Have you then broken faith, forsworn your vows, To seek, to follow me, the branded one ? THE LADY. I have forsworn no vows ; the Church that took them, True to its aim, its purpose still for best. Returns me to the world and to myself ; Nor have I broken, have I lost my faith. But have gained greater faith — the faith to do ! ( Voices of children, passing, heard singing ** Christmas Carols " in the street below ^ Chorus of Devils, in Hell. Like a dream forever lost In the caverns of sleep, Like a jewel far tossed In the depths of the deep. Like an arrow's lost flight. Like a meteor's lost light. THE ATHEIST. 97 Each hope that ye cherish — Be it born but to perish. Like a rock rent asunder By an earthquake's thunder ; Like a ship storm-driven, In darkness rock-riven ; Like the cleft semi-note In a murdered bird's throat ; Like music death-hushed, Like a diamond crushed, May your hearts with fine pain Be tortured in twain ! CRITICS— A LIBEL. Once Jove and Vulcan, for a jest, To try whose skill should prove the best, A wager made. Each should create A man, to rank among men great ; Fashion and feature, heart and mind, Fairest and best of all the kind. Imperial Jove, with godlike thought, Of godlike soul the Poet wrought ; Of fashion fair, and spirit face. Beauty and strength in wedded grace ; And in his hand he placed Fame's quill, And bade him write his name at will. The mighty smith, in forge-array, Laughed loud and bold, to fright dismay- Viewing the work his rival wrought. CRITICS^ A LIBEL. C)C) While hints from Jove he slyly caught, Till, wondrous strange, his master-creature Was twin to Jove's in form and feature. In form and feature, — but no more ! For in his mind, alack ! he bore, 'Midst overheat and sickly flame (A Critic's heritage and fame !) The smithy's soot and windy roar. And Vulcan's envy, sadly sore. The days of Jove and Vulcan lie Buried in immortality : Their works survive. — The Poet's fire Still brightly burns and mounts the higher ; And still the Critic's envious roar Is hapless man's untrammeled bore ! LIBRARY OF CONGREbb lilllllllM 016 256 177 7 •