HE AND SHE OR A FOET'S fOkTJ?OLfo W W STORY EOSTON AND NEW YORK lIOUGHTON, MI FFLIN AND COMPANY ~~~ ~i~trzi~t ~r~~z, ~ambri~~t 894 Copyright, 1883, Br WILLIAM W. STORY All rights reserved. EiGHTEE~TR EDITION. ~ke Thverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U S. t Printed by II. 0. lloughton & ~ompany. HE AND Slli); OR, A POET'S PORTFOLIO. HE was in the habit of wandering alone during the summer mornings, through the forest and along the mountain side, and one 0~ his favorite haunts was a pietur esque glen, where he often sat for hours alone with nature, lost in vague contemplation: now watching the busy insect life in the grass or in the air; now listening to the chirining of birds in the woods, ~ the murmuring of bees hovering about the flowers, or the wellii~g of the clear mouutaiii torrent, that told forever its endless tale as it wandered by mossy boulders and rounded stones down to the valley below; now gazing idly into the sky, against which the overhanging beeches printed their leaves iii tessellated 4 HE AND HE; OR, light and clark, or vaguely watching t1i~ lazy cloud that trailed across the tender now noting iii icis portfolio some pa~siug thougllt, or fancy, or feeling, that threw its gleam of light or shadow across his drca~~~i~~g mind. Ilere, leani1~g against one of the ~nossy boulders, in the shadow of the beeches, he was writb~g iii his portfolio one summer morlm1g, when she accidentally found him, and the followii~g conversation took place: Site. Ah, here you are, sitting under thi~ old beech and scribbling verses, as usual, are you not? ~Vhy don't you rest and lie Th~llow? You are always working your brains. All work aiid 110 play - ajid you know the rest. Come, confess! He. I confess, I can't help it. Site. You can if you choose. He. But suppose I don't choose pose it is iny delight to do this. Nature is always teasing n~e to do something for I~er, - to dress her in verse, or iii some shape or other of art and she has suci s1lbtle powers of persuasion that I camiot res~st her. You know that in some A PO~T'8 PORTFOLIO. 5 you are her child, asid I doubt if I could ref~se you anything. She. ~~ell, I take you at your word. Read me what you have wiitten. He. It is only rubbish it is scarce worth your hearing. She. Let me be the judge. You have, I see, a book full of what you call rub bish. You have promised me so often to read me some of your poems, and the time has now come to fullill your promise. Don't be shy. You kiiow you want to read them to me. There never was a poet who did not like to read his verses. He. Not to everybody. She. Ah, then, you don't thiiik me worthy to hear them. He. No; I don't think them worthy to be heard by you. She. Nonsense! You like to read them; I like to hear them. Here we are iii this delightful glen; there is no one ~C~ 0 iuterrupt us; we have the whole day before us; I have a piece of embroidei~ to occupy my hands; and I will promise to praise every poem you read. He. Tlieii I won't read you a word of a~vthiug I have here. 6 flE AND SHE; OR, Ske. Oh, yes, you will. Yoi1 kliow you wish me to praise them. What poet was ever willing to read his verses unless he expected or at least hoped to be praised? You cannot pretend you wish me to criticise thei~ and find fault with them. lie. But I do; that is just what I should like. I should like to have an honest opiiiion, if I ever could get it; but that is of all things the most difficult tc obtain from any one. We always have either a friend who overpraises, or a critic who ~mdervalues, or a brother-poet whose personality interferes with his judgment, or an indifferent person who does not take interest enough to have an opinion, or some oiie who is kueaded up 0~ prose, and sees no reason for singing clothes, or -a fool. Ske. And in the last class are all, I suppose, who think yoitr verses are poor stuff? He. I dare say there is something in that, and they may be right in their opinion, but of course we don't like it. Ske. Well, I don't come under any class you have mentioned, and I insist ou kicaring some of these verses. A POET'S PORTFOLJO. 7 He. And you will be honest with me? Ske. As honest as I dare to be with a poet who reads me his poems. Now begin. He. But really, I assiire you, I have nothing here worth your listening to. This is only a book where I carelessly jot down whatever comes into my head just as it comes. It is full of first sketches, half-finished things, glimpses of thoughts or feelings or persous. They are not really poems. That is too high and honorable a name to give them. She. Ah, but that is just what I like to hear. It will be like lookiiig over an artist's sketch-book, wh~re things are half done, just begiin, altered, erased, outlined, unframed, and these always have a peciiliar charm that flinshed work never has; a freshness and careless grace that elaboration tames and spoils. Ah read me these. They let one into the secret laboratory of the poet's mind. He. Or behind the scenes, where the machinery is visible, and everythii~ is rude and rough and out of place. She. Well, there is a fascination in that, too. There is where the friends of 8 JIE AND SHE; OR, the actors and authors are pcrmitted to go. But begin: time is flying, the day is passing. lie. Ah, yes, if we only could stop Time when all is happy and bright! But then it swiftest fices away. Here, listen, since you will hear something. This is apropos. o beloved day, Stay with us, oh stay! llurrynot with cruel haste thus so swift away. All is now so fair; Love is in the air; ~Iore than this of happiness scarce the heart could bear. Nothing short of heaven, Tiat perhaps not even Sweeter, dearer, n~ore divine, wlll to us be given. Dearest, on my breast Lean thy head and rest: Nothing that this world can give is better; this is best. A rOET'S PORTFOLiO. ~ Life is ill its pnu~~, And the glad spriugtiui& Ereathes its subtle odors tluo~igi~ ii~ turiiing thought to rkyme. To its very rim Joy life's cup doth brim Nature, smiling all around us, sings its happy hymu. Love its perfect tune On the harp of June Fl~vs the while the whole world listens, `neath the pulsing noon. Almost`t is a pain Ii~ the heait aud brain All the nerves of life are thrilling ~vith its rapturous strain. Stay with us, oh, stay, Dear, beloved day! Flower and bloom of full creation, never pass away. There, I read it to you just as I wrote it, without a correction, since you will have sketches. 10 HE AND SHE; OR, She. It is what I call a rapturous sigh for the impossible. And the beloved one? - but I must not ask who she was. He. Oh, yes; you may. She was a most exquisite creature. You never knew her; nor I either. She. Well, that is some satisfaction. She was not real. He. Oh yes, perfectly real; more real than any actual person I know. But with the day and the houi she vanished, like the weird sisters of ~1aebeth, into air. She. It must have been a charming day to have inspircd such verses. That, at all events, must have been a fact. He. Certainly. Tlic day was a fact. llere is the date, November 21, and a note in my diary, "Rains cats and (logs and pitchforks, and I think the wind is mad; it blows so that il~e whole ho~tse shudders." You see, I made the day a~ well as the person and the poem. She. There is no believing anything that poets say. I suppose had it bee ii a faultless day in June, you would have been mooning and moaning over somebody and something. He. Ah, but all days do not turn out A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 11 (ust as this did. Our beautiful days are J~ose we don't expect, which fall to us out of heaven, perfect and with a sweet l~rpflse. Others to which we have looked forward, and from which we have cxpected so much - too much - are so often only disappointments. We profess to enjoy them, but we do not they are failire 5. We caimot hunt joy into its fastnesses it flies before the hunter, and comes suddenly forward to meet us face to face when we least look for it. Some of our beautiful days turn out, for in~tance, like this: - Yes,`t was a beautiful day, The guests were all lunglilug and gay All said they enjoyed and admired. But oh, I`m so tired, - so tired! ~`m glad that the night`5 coming on, am glad to get home and be quiet; am glad that the long day is done, With its noise and its laughter and riot. Eor somehow, it seemed like a fate, I was always a moment too late: The music just stopped when I came, I saw but the fireworks' last flame 12 HE AND SHE; OR, The dauch~g was over, the dancers Were laughing and going away The curtain had dropped, and the fo'~~ lights Were all that I saw of the play. It was only my luck, I suppose And the day was deliglftful to those Who were right in their time and thei~ place. But for mc, I did nothing but race And struggle and all was in vain. We cannot have all of us prizes, And a pleasure that`5 missed is a pain, And one balance goes down as one rises. And I`m tired, - so tired at last That I`m glad that the great day is past. The pleasure I sought for I missed, And I ask, Did it really exist? N\~re they bappy who smiled so, and sai~ was delightful, exciting, enchanting? I doubt it; but they perhaps had Just the something I always was wanting. In the triumph, I ask, does the crown Never crease il~ smooth brow to a frown ~ Does the wine that our spirits makes gay A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 13 Leavethe head free fron~ aches the next day? Is the joy, when`t is caught, worth the while Of thc s.~ruggle and labor to win it? Ifas love a perpetual sn~lle, And life's best no bitterness in it? It n~ay be, and yet at its best, N\~hen the wave of life towers to its crest, Ere its riin for a n~on~ent can flash In its joy4ight, it breaks with a crash, And shattered sinks down on the shore For the strength of desire has departed, The glory and gladness are o'er, And it dies in despair, broken4iearted. Sbe Life is just such a day. He. Ah yes, but too often. She. If we could only be content with wbat ~ve have, how n~uch happier we should be. But the hope that beckons us into the future con~n~only spoils the present. The i~usic is always on the next field the pron~ise is always sweeter H~an the performance we are always either iooking back and regretting, or lookiiig for~vard and hoping, and the actual pres 14 BE AND SHE; OR, ent, which stands offering us flowers, we treat with scorn, or at least with indifference. The gods have eternally the present; for them is no future, no past; and so they are divine. It is only Satan who tempts us with the future, or taunts us with the past, because we are mortals; and thus he jeers at us, and spoils all we really own. Joy is only a dream. He. But a dream is not always a joy. Here, for instance, is one if you would like to hear it; whether from the ivory gate or not, you shall say. But before I read this dream, since I have given you two Days, let me now give you one Night, the end of all the banquet, and the dancing, and the laughter: - Through the casement the wind is moan ing, On the pane the ivy crawls; The fire is faded to ashes, And the black brand broken falls. The voices are gone, but I linger, And silence is over all; Where once there was music and laughter Stands Death in the empty hall. A POET'S PORTFOLfO. 15 There is only a dead rose lying Faded and crushed 011 the floor, And a harp whose strings are broke a, That Love will play no more. Ske. Oh, too, too sad; I am sorry you read it. He. Well, life is so. Ske. I don't care if it is, one should not dwell on it. Now for the dream. Was it a real one? He. Yes, a real one; and you will see what a pleasant one it was. L~t night I had a tiger to play with, Ab yes, as you say,`t was only a dream, But even in a dream to play with a tiger Is not so pleasant as it may seem. She was smooth and supple, and lithe and graceful, But she watched me with ever flashing eye. And I felt forever a horrible feeling While that tiger was with me, that death was nigh; 16 HE AND SHE; OR, That at any moment her claws might rend me, And an instant's passion might cost me my life. So I gave her whatever she wanted to soothe her, And promised to make this tiger my wife. But what was canons - though in dream ing, There is nothing that really does sur pn.seWas that it seemed to be you, dear Annie, And had your graces, and had your eyes. S~e. Oh, that is really unpardonable. Who was it that refused you a turn in the waltz, or would not pin a cotillion fa vor oil your coat, that you thus revenged yourself upon her? Annie - Annie - Who was Annie? He. You always want to know the unknowable. You always suppose that such verses apply to an individual. S~e. Yes, they always have a root in some fact or person. They are not all A P()~TS LUITFOLlO. 17 made out of your brain they are not wholly fictions. Yon iieed not pretend that they are. He. I do itot. But one imagines all sorts of tliings that are false, and I confess that I amuse myself often in society, by looking into the windows of persons I do not know to see what they are about witliin. S/~e. Locking in at windows! I am ashamed of you. He. The windows I mean are the eyes. ~trangc crc attires look through them - tigers, lambs, devils, atigels. She. ()h! well. I am glad to hear that there are angels sometimes. Thank yo U. I was afraid you only saw wild bC(%5t5 in our eyes. He. Sometin~es tenderness infinite, of teller devils of jealousy and hatred, and very frequently empty rooins, with not eve ii a little devil in them, much less an aiigel. ~Ve get strange peeps at times into the world witlihi, when we least cx~)CCt it. She. So it was not because Annie would iI)t give you a waltz? lie. No. I told you`t was a real 18 HE AND SHE; OR, dream. This is my idea of a waltz, when Annie gives me one: - My arm is around your waist, love, Your hand is clasping mine, Your head leans over my shoulder, As around in the waltz we twine. I feel your quick heart throbbing, Your panting breath I breathe, And the odor rare of your hyacinth ha~ Comes faintly up from beneath. To the rhythmic beat of the music, In the floating ebb and flow Of the tense violin, and the lisping flute, And the bi~rring bass we go. Whirling, whirling, whirling, In a rapture swift and sweet, To the pleading violoncello's tones, And the pulsing piano's beat. The world is alive with motion, The lights are whirling all, And the feet and brain are stirred by the strain Of the music's incessant call. Dance! dance! dance! it calls to us; And borne on the waves of sound, A POE~S roRTFoLIo. 19 We circling swing, in a dizzy ring, With the whole world wheeling round. The jewels dance on your bosom, On your an~s the bracelets dance, The swift blood speaks in your mantling cheeks, Th your eyes is a dewy trance Your white robes flutter around you, Nothing is calm or still, And the senses stir in the music's whirr With a swift electric thrill. We pause; and your waist releasing, We stand and breathe for a while And, your face afire with a sweet desire, You look in my eyes and smile. We scarcely can speak for panting, But I lean to you, and say, Ah! who, my love, can resist you, You have waltzed my heaft away. S~e. It gets into my feet as well as my head, this waltz of yours. He. The lines have perhaps a certain kind of movement in them, defective as they are; but they were scribbled in a corner of a ball-room while waltzers were 20 H~ AND SHE; OR, whirling dizzily round, and the light~ were shaking and tlie inusie was going so you cannot expect they should have any thing more thaii niere go. Sbe. ~Iere go! You speak of that a~ if it ~vere notliing; but after all, is not that the secret of a good deal of our poe try, and especially that of Byron? You cannot look into it ~~4th a critical eye. It is full of bad English, and false metaphor, and strained sentiment but there is "go" in it, and it intoxicate~ the thoughts and senses, so that one ceases to be critical. Clissez, gltssez n~orlet's, n'ap])oyez pes, should be your rule iii reading iiiin. It won't do to linger. Yoi must gulp, not sip. He. At all events, he did not overrcfine as some of our modern poets do. For instance, there is, I suppose lie means something, but his meamug is so involved in a complicat~d web of vague and far-fetched words and phrases, that sometimes it is not a little difficult to get at it; and I am iiot sure that after yoii have got at it, it is worth thc trouble. ~/~e. No, we are now getting so euplin A POFT'S POll TF~OL JO. 21 istic, that I doii't pretend to understand half I read, though I am a woman, asid much of it, apparently, is written specially for us women or at least so it would seem, there is so little that is maiily in it. He. ~on~e of them talk like Hamlet's friend, Osric - "after what flourish their `iatures will." Here is a profil-' sketch of -. Do you recognize it? She. Oh, very like; and what ~e the lines you have written u~der it? He. Mere nonsense. She. Read them. He. ~ Brabmin he sits apart, Our modern poet, mid gazes Attentively ii~o his heart, And its faint and vaporous phases, lSxaiiiines with iiifiiiite care. All his feelings are thin as air, All liis passions are mild as milk. lie loves but the quaint and the ol~ He dares not be si'~iple aiid bold, But refines and refines aiid refiiies, Aiid ti-cads on a thread as spare As the spider's gauzy silk, That trenibles iii all its lilies 22 HE AND SHE; OR, With the breeze, and can scarcely hold The dewdrop the morning has strung; And so`twixt the earth and the sky, And to neither wed, he is hung; And he ponders his words and his rhymes, And his delicate tinMe 0~ chimes, And strives to be deep and intense N\~lle the world 0~ beauty and sease, ~ie strong and palpitant world, T lie powers and passions 0~ man, By which it is whipped and whirled, Are only to him an offense. `T is the chaff blown away by the fan, That he gathers his garners to fill, Not the grain that the world's great miU Takes out of life as its toll. \?or he scorus the common and rude, 4nd only examines his soul, - His particular soul, - and wears A vestment of whims, and of airs, And of fancies so frail and so thin That they scarcely can cover the nude. Liftle thought he is nursing within, So sitting alone and apart, He broods and he broods and he broods, Alid plays on his little lute, And sings of his little moods, With a sweet ~sthetic art, And his son is - A POET'S PORTFOLW. 23 There, you see, I have left off. What is his song? Site. I suppose it is a ballade, with skim-milk love and fine-drawn sentiment, belonging to some other century, and sung perhaps by a medi~val knight to the accompanin~ent of some queer instrument, now unknown except in museums, while around him are lying long, lean, languid ladies on a lawn. He. Charming a~literation, worthy of the theme, but the ballade must have a refrain. Site. Of course, what is a ballade without a refrain? He. And the refrain must have 110 COnnection, as far as meanii~g goes, with the ballade. Site. Of course not! For whom do you take me, to imagine that I suppose it necessary for a refrain to have any sense? A refrain is always the burden of a poem, and is fitly named a burden. He. The burden, or bourdon, as Spenser more properly spells it, is ~ftelligible enough in the old ballades, which were at first improvised, or supposed to be impro~ised, and always were sung or chanted; 24 HE AND SHE; OR, and then it represented the pause or rest which the accompauyiug instrument filled up with its little ritomello, and bourdoimed sometimes alone without words, and sometin~cs with catch - words constautly repeated, so as to give time to the improvisator to think out the following liiies, or to the singer to rest his voice or rev~ve his memory. In Italy, as you know, the improvisator is always accompanied by a guitar and maudoli"c, which bo~ rdoun en their little phrase bet~vecn the lines or the stanzas, and fill up the gaps. But in serious poems of H~e presciit day, wntteu to be read and not sung, this repetition of the bourdon without the is a stumbling block and an offense, aiid often a mere affectafion. Site. None the less Shakespeare uses it. He. I know he does, here and there in his sonnets, but they were to be sung, not read; for instaiice, - "Sing hey, ho, the wind and the rain, For the rain it raineth every day." There is a certain grace about that, I adnAt. But he knew how and when to A POET'S PO~TFOLJO. 2~ :ise it. Nowadays these bourdons bore me, in our modern poems. Suppose, for `ustance, 1 ~hou~d insist in some passion ate and pathetic poem in tripping up the reader constantly by interpolating such a refrain as this, - The woild is wide, the wind is cold, Ah me, the new, ah me, the old. She. There is too much meaning in it. It is not a success as a refrain. It is not so good as your description of the Brah min poet, whe~ein, indeed, "his definement suffers no perdition in you." He. Ah, I see you "know this waterfly," our friend Osric, as llamlet jeeringly calls him. Let me see - how does he go on, "In the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article and his infusion of such dearth and rareness, as, to make trae diction of him, his semblable is his mirror." She. "Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him." Oh, what fun Shake~peare is! He. Ah, is n't he? I know not which most surprises me in him, his humor or 1'ower of passion. 26 RE AND SHE; OR, She. Oh, don't let us talk of Shak~ speare. If you do I shall hear 110 more of your verses. He. N\~hat a loss! She. When we don't get what we want, it is always a loss, whether it is a kingdom or an onion. You need not fish for compliments from me. I promised you to be honest. He. When one promises to be honest, one means to be severe. She. Oh, that is your notion of it, is it? and perhaps there is some truth in it. But you have promised to amuse me, so now read me something more, something silly, if you can deign to be silly. He. Ah, that is cruel. I pride myself on n%v silliness. Shakespeare, I am sure, was silly; iii fact, Ben Jonson, or was it Fuller, as much as tells us so, aliquid s~/flimanandus erat. lle had to be suppressed. She. There you are back on Shakespeare again. Read your verses and don't talk about him now. He. In a minute; but first let me read these two sonnets about our great poets. A POETS PORTFOLIO. 27 Whose are those forms august that, in the press And busy blames and praises of to-day, Stand so serene above life's fierce affray With ever youthful strength and loveli ness? Those are the mighty makers, whom no stress Of time can shame, nor fashion sweep away, ~~hom art begot on nature in the play Of healthy passion, scorning base excess. Risu~g perchance in mists, and half ob scure When up the horizon of their age they came, Brighter with years they shine in steadier light, ~reat constellations that wjll aye en dure, Though myAad meteors of ephemeral fame Across them flash, to vanish into night. Such was our Chaucer in the early prime Of English verse, who held to Nature's hand And walked serenely through its morning laIld 28 HE AND SHE; OR, Gladsome aud hale, brushing its dewy rin~c. And such was Shakespeare, whose strong soul could climb Steeps of sheer terror, sound the ocean grand Of passion's deeps, or over Fancy's strand Trip with his fairies, keeping step and time. His, too, the power to laugh out ~1111 and clear, With unembittered joyance, and to move Along the silent, shadowy paths of love As tenderly as Dante, whose austere, Stern spirit through the worlds below, above, Unsmiling strode, to tell their tidings here. She. Very good. Yes, I am glad I did not drive you away from Shake. speare; though when you get on this theme you never come to an end, and I was afraid - He. He never came to an end. She. You have said quite enough about him in your two sonnets. And you must A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 29 ~ive me a copy of them to think over at my leisure. Will you? He. I am only too happy that you should think them worth having. She. Well, I do. Now for some silly verses. He. Here are some silly lines I once wrote at the request of a friend, as an autograph (they even ask autographs from me now, - don't laugh) for a young girl whose very name was unknown to me. "Pray give me your autograph for a dear little friend of mine," she wrote, and I sent her this: Oh lovely Annie or, Jenny, or Fanny, or Lily, or Bessie, for whom youths are rav ing, Love while your youth you own, For let the truth be known, Nothing in old age is half worth the having. She. How do you know? lie. I guess; one is never so old as when one is young. She. Nor so young as when one is old~ perhaps, sometimes. But go 0tL ~O HE AND SHE; OR, Then all regretting But never forgetting, Longing for that which has vanished away, Life creeps on weanly, Ah! we cry drearily, N\~ould I were young again, careless and gay! S~e. As if one ever were really - but as if one ever really - but no matter but no matter; go on. But when the hair is gray, ~Vhen the teeth fall away, Loving and kissing we lay on life's shelves; ()ld age in others is Charming, in mothers is Lovely, but somehow`t is not in ourselves. Talk not to me of fame, `T is but to be a name, `T is an old story, that tires when`t is told. Careless and happy, Not haiiless and cappy, Love me, my darling, before you grow old. A POET'S PORTFOLJO. 31 She. You call that silly? In my opin ion it`5 the wisest thing you have yet read. N\Tas not your young friend pleased? He. I don't know. She never told me. She "let concealment like a worm i' the bud feed on her damask cheek." N\~ether "she sat like patience on a monument smiling at grief" after receiving it, I cannot say. I like to be accurate in these matters, and as far as concealment goes I am sure, but about the monument I am doubtful. She. I should have been more grateful, but it is so difficult to give expression to one's feelings. I suppose she was afraid to write to you. He. No doubt I am a terrible person, And I don't wonder she feared me; it gratified my pride. I extend my hand and bless her like a - what shall we say, father, or uncle? She. Uncle, I thiiik, is best; unless that mvolves leaving her a fortune. The relation is perilous, one expects a great deal from one 5 micle. On the whole, peA~ps you had better stick to "friend." That means so much, and then again so little. 32 HE AND SHE; OR, He. There is something so patromzing in calling any one your young friend. It assumes such a superiority that my modesty shrinks from it. She. Ay, but call yourself her old friend; and what a difference! Now, I %m your old friend. He. Yes, so you are, considering - She. Considering what? He. Considering that you are still so young. She. I suppose it never occurred to you to write anything for me. He. ~Vill you take this? Little we ki~ow what secret influence A word, a glance, a casual tone may bring, That, like the wind's breath on a chorded string, May thrill the memory, touch the inner sense, And waken dreams that come we know not whence; Or like the light touch of a bird's swift wing, The lake's still face a moment visiting, Leave pulsing rings, when he has van ished thence. 1 POET'S roliTFoLlo. 33 You looked ii~to my eyes an instant's space, And all the boundaries of time and place Broko down, and far into a world beyond Of buried hopes and dreams my soul had sight, ~Vhere din~ desires long lost, and memo ries fond, Rose in a soft ~~~~~g0 of tender light. She. Ali, you never wrote that to me. He. I might have written it to you, and it is all the same as if I did. It is yours now. She. I accept it, and thank you. Oh, how true it is that a glance, a word, an hiflection of voice, will sometimes carry the spii'it 50 far, far away, and break down all the barriers of the present, and evoke din~ memories of the past long buried out of sight! How little we know what secret unconscious hlfluences we exert! We are for the most part islands spiritual islands, to which no other soul can really reach save by a tone or a glance. He. And never do we feel this more than ii~ our deep sorrows. Then how terribly far we are from every one; how 34 HE AND SHE; OR, isolated; how alone. No one can help us then. And equally in our love. Intiniate aud intense as it iuay be, the lover and the loved are always two. Theji two spirits can no niore iIitern~ngle than the ii' bo~lies call. Stop I have sonic verses hei~e, sonic where, apropos to this. Ah, here they are. Thy lips tonehed uiine, there flashed a sudden fire Fron~ brain to brain; Oh, was it joy, or did that wild desire Turn it to pain? The thirst of soul Love's rapture could not slake ~~~liile we were twain; ()f our two beings, one we could not make, And that was paiii. She. You have not quite succeeded ii' that poell~. lie. No, I kiiow it. It is not what it ought to be, a~id nothing on earth;s; but you know 1 ani not professing to read yo~ poeiii~, but olily sCraps and sketches, A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 35 and not because I thiiik them worth ~uch, but because you asked me to read them. S~e. You see, I am honest with you. Your idea is good, but you might express it better. It is worth trying for again. He. Perhaps; but ideas come and go, and if one does not seize them at once they are gone, and they never come back with the same freshness and accidentality. They come and sing a little song to us, and sometimes we hear it right and sometimes wrong; and there is no more virtue in us, if we do not catch it right at first; or, to use nuother metnphor, if we break a flower when we phick it, we cannot mend it again. Accident, Fate, Fortune, anything you please, throws us at times her ball, and we either catch it, or we do not. If we do not - Site. N\~e make a mis-take. He. Is that a pun? Site. I did not mean it for one, but simply for an analysis of the word, as holding a philosophical truth. He. As far as life is concenied, everytl~iiig seems iii that sense to be a mistake. lInt here is aiiother kind of a mistake, which inay amuse you. 36 HE AND SHE: OR, How your sweet face revives agaiii The dear old ti~ne, iny Pearl, - If I may use the pretty name, I called you`vheu a girl. You are so young; while Time of m~ Has made a cruel prey, It has forgotten you, nor swept One grace of youth away. The same sweet face, the same sweet smile, The same lithe figure, too - ~Vhat did you say? "It was perchance Your mofher that I knew?" Ah, yes, of course, it nuist have bee ii, And yet the same you seem, And for a moment, all these years Fled from me like a dream. Then what your mother would not give, Permit me, dear, to take, The old man's privilege - a kiss - Just for your mother's sake. ~he. Ha, ha! Tiiat was a pretty illi~~take; but yoi, got out of it fairly well. A PO~T'~ PORTFOLIO. 37 He. Yes; I got the old man's privilege, biit I don't kiiow that that is a gre it cousolation. A i~an begius to feel old, really, when the young girls are not shy of hin~, and let hin~ kiss then~ ~`eithout ~nakh~g any fuss about it, but aln~ost as a n~atter of course. As long as they blush and draw back, he flatters hin~self that lie is not really so old after all. The last, worst phase is when they don't wait for hin~, but con~e an(I kiss hin~ of their own accord. Oh, that is too n~uch. Gout is nothing to that, nor white hairs. Ske. Yes, I see; this last kiss is differei~t fro~~ the one in the forn~er poen~. He. Rather! There are as n~any kinds of kisses as of characters. Tl~ ~nost foolish of all kisses is that forn~ality between won~en, who go through the cereinony of rubbing il~eir noses against enel other's cheeks and calling it a kiss. She. Persons who are constantly kissing and calling everybody dear are my aversion. A kiss should really mean something, and when everybody is dear, nobody is. For iustance, there is ouifriend -, who is so full of tender deinonstrations, and never speaks of anybody 35 HE AND SHE; OR, ~Vithout an endearing epithet, and ~vho really is a totally iietitral being, without color or real feeling or possibility 0~ passion, and ~vIio squanders her epithets and kisses for just what they are worth, - iiotliing.`~nd yet she is perfeetky goodnatured. He. Ah, yes, good-natured. Universally good-natured persons are generally shallow and heartless. ~~e. ~h! 110, nO. That is going too far. He. Perhaps; there are exceptions, I dare say. But those gay, bright, suiiny little bodies that sparkle along ill life, niid are always laughing and always gay, are, for the illost part, like ruinling strean~s, - the shallower they are, the greater noise and babble they n~ake. P~ivers sweep on calmly and deeply. ~/~e. Don't be led astray by a n~etaphor. They are dangerous things. They often coilfuse the judgment by keeping it fixed on two things at once. The illusLration blinds the eye to the thing ill ustrated. He. But all speech is metaphor. Site. And all speech is dangerous. Si~ence is golden, speech is silvern. A POET' PORTFOLIO. 39 He. I wish we could keep that word silvern. ~Ve say brazen, golden, cedarn, and o~ight to say silverii. It is the true old Laglish`vord. And so is eyen for eyes, as we say oxen not oxes. ~Ve have already too n~any final S's in onr Lnglisb pinrals. Bat to go back to what we were sayilig, I don't seriously care for n~erel~ good-natur~d people. I prefer those who ~~re varicd in feeling and stiller of nature ~nd stronger of chryacter. I could not love the gay4~earted creature who would bury you ~vithout a tear. S,,e. But why, ~41y should there J)C any necessary inconsistency between good nature and deep feeling? He. I don't know why, I n~erely state the fact. As far as n~y experience goes, I have so fonud it. Slie. All things are good in their place. The gay, good-natured people lend life to society, and sunshine to hon~e. It wo~Lld be disi~al to have society con~posed only of people with deep feelings, and perhaps even you will adn~it that at home there is nothing n~ore delightful than a bright sunny nature, which sees good in all. He. I give it up. I won't argue with 40 HE AND SHE; OR, you, but you know what I mean; and I repeat, those that love everybody love nobody. Ske. There are all sorts 0~ tastes; and all sorts of persons are required to make up a woild. He. There are prickly thistles, and bright-eyed daisies, and stately scentless camellias; and there is the rose, - I prefer the rose. And here is a "copy of verses, as our fathers called them, on this subject. ~Vhen Nature had shaped her instic beau ties, - The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet, The blushing poppy that nods and trem bles In its scarlet hood among the wheat, - She paused and pondered;- and then she fashioned The scentless camellia proud and cold, The spicy carnation freaked with passion, The lily pale for an angel to hold. ~ll were fair, yet something was want mg, Of freer perfection, of larger repose; A POFT'S POllTFOLfO. 41 And again she paused, then in one glad moment She breathed her whole soul into the rose. With you, dear Violet, Daisy, and Poppy, Pleasant it was in the fields to play, In the careless and heartless joy of child hood, When an hour was as long as man hood's day. And with you, 0 passionate, bright Car nation, A boy's brief love for a time I knew, And you I admired proud Lady Camellia, And, Lily, I sang in the church with you. But 0 my Rose, my frank, free-hearted, My perfect above all conscious arts, What were they beside thee, 0 Rose, my darling, To you I have given my heart of hearts. Ske. That is pretty; I like that. Yoii niight illustrate it with so many pretty drawings. 42 HE AND SJlE; OR, He. ~Vill you do it? S~e. I am afraid I should not be able. ~ut I can see so many pictures one might make, that if nobody else will do it, I will try my hand. And first I will make the children, Poppy, Daisy, and Violet, playing in the garden together, and theii the romantic flirtation of Carnation and her young lover in the ~vood. And the ii the dance ~vith Lady Camellia, her o~vn ~vhite flo~ver in her hair, and he talking to her half-hidden bebbid a curtain; and then the hymn in the church witli Lily And then, oh then, Rose; and ~vhere shall we place her? On a bcautiful, smoothshave ii ~nglish lawn, sitting or strolling beneath the shadow of the perfun~ed limes in early summer morning, when the nightingalc sings in the trees, and the little birds are hopping along the greensward, and the breeze is rustling in the dev~ leaves? Or shall it be at twilight in some shadowy lane, when the cgk~ntine wavers out, spotthig with its delicate blossoms the ha~tl~orn hedges, and the rose-clouds are hanging over the suiikeii sun, and the daffodil sky ill the west is paliiig into soft grays,`vliilc iii the east the low full A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 43 moon is softly burning through the dis tant woods? Or shall they both be sit ting by a window, looking out over a sweet, far landscape, with snowy curtains waving in the breath of the June air, ai~d a vase of roses near by scenting the at niosphere? Say, which shall it be? He. Any, or all. That would be like making music for my words, embalming them, enchanting the in, giving them the life and beauty they want, clothing their tiakedness with singitig robes, till all the world should listen and give the words the charm that the singiilg only owns. ~Vill you do this? Site. I will try. He. I shall hold you to your promise, but I ki~ow you never will perform it. Site. I only said I would try. He. And now I will give you another pichire to paint for me. It is towards t~vilight, and two lovers are in a boat; silent, alone, clreaming, their oars s~~s l~nded; and he leans forward and gaz~s at her, and she is looking over the side of the boat into the waters, in which the ~hadows of the trees on the banks aiid the golden clouds in the sky are softly refleeted. 44 HE AND SHE OP~, Afloat on the brim of a placid stream, Pleasant it is to lie and dream, With heaven above, ai~d far below The deej~s of death - sad deeps that know The still reflections of earth and sky In their silent, serene obsenAty. And hanging thus upon Life's thin rim, Death seems so sweet ii~ that silvery, dim, i)eep world below, that it seems half-best To sink into it and there find rest, Both, both together, ere age can c on~e, And loviiig has lost its perfect bloom. One tift, dear love, and we both might be Beyond earth's sorrows eternally. She. There is son~ething in that; ueveu is love so secure but that there is the menace of change, the shadow of doiLht, the fear of something, however vague it be. There is no pern~anent rising above life's levels. When the wave is at its utmost height, it falls shivered. And then, again, you have expressed that strange, haunting desire, that is almost irrepressible at ti'nes, to fling one's self do~vn a preCipice on whose edge we stand, or to sink into the depths of some silent, glassy stream over which we are gliding. A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 45 ~es, at the height of pleasure comes the longing to stop life there. He. It is strange how at the very culinination of exalted feeling, when the sensibilities are all alive, fate seems to take a speciJ pleasure in doing them some pro snic violence. How the commonplace and even contemptible facts of life will rush in athwart us in our most poetic moods, and compel us to laugh, despite our annoyance. The lover is just declaring liis passion to some trembling girl, for instance, when Bridget opens the door to say, "Please ~Iiss, the butcher says shall he leave a leg of mutton, or will you have a pair of chickens; "- or just as the poet is in the height, let us call it, of his inspiration, some "person from Porlock" will come in on business matters, to try oil one's new shoes, perhaps, and the visioii of Kubla Khan disappears beyond the horizon of recovery. She. It is lucky that the "person from Porlock" was anonymous, or hundreds of us would have taken his life. lie. I wonder if he ever existed. It would be just like Coleridge to have invented him as aii excuse for his own lazi~iess. 46 HE AND SHE; OR, Sbe. Whether he existed or not, he exists no longer, so let us thiiik no more 0~ hi1~, since both he and Coleridge have gone beyond recall, and no one cau ever finish that exquisite fragment which he interrupted. lie. Ah! who knows? Martin Farquhar Tupper finished his "Christabel." S~e. So he did, in more senses than one, but there are few men so brave as he. What is that you have in your hand 110w? Read it. He. Perhaps you won't tiiiiik it apr~ pos; but here it is: - Do you remen~ber tiiat most perfect night, In the full flush 0~ June, When the wide heavens were tranced in silver light Of the sad patient moon? Silent we sat, awed by a strange unrest; The fathomless, far sky Our very life absorbed, our thoughts op pressed, By its irniflensity. Lost in that infinite vast, how idle seemed The best of human speech, A POET'S PORT1#~OLIO. 47 Earth scarcely breathed, so silently s~ (lreau~ed, Save when from some far reach The fan~t ~~md sighed, ai~l stirred the slnn~bering trees, Aad shadowy stretch and plain Seemed haunted by uniittered mysterie~ Night oil its life had lain. ~Vc knew not what we were, or where we went, Borne by some unseen power, Nor iii what dream-shaped realms onr spirits spent That long, yet brief half hour; Ionly know that, as a star froi~ high ~lides down the ether thin, ~Ve shot to earth, ronsed by a startling cry, You`re getting cold - con~e iji. ~/~e. Yes, it always happens so. But why (lid you say these lines were not apropos to what ~~e ~-ere sayin 9 He. So as not to let you into the secret, and carefully extract the sting of reality fron~ n~y verses. Confess that voii v~~ere iiot at nil prepared for its coilciusion. 48 HE AND SHE; OR, S~e. I was not, and I can't help thinking it was a little shabby in you so to end it. He. The world now demands realism, and here you have it. She. But I don't want it; I have enough 0~ it in life; I don't want it ii poetry. I like to have my romantic and ideal world, and to keep it separated from my real and prosaic one. He. Will tliis please you better? I have already given you, a little wliile ago, the lougiug from below to sink into the deep; here is the longing from above, which may serve as a pendant. The winds are forever blowing, blowing, The streams are forever flowing, flowing, And all things forever going, going, Nothing on earth is at rest, - Lver departing, never abiding, Slidu~g away, and onward gliding, Alike the worst, the best. The sky is a glacier paved with snow, And heaped with many a crowded floe, And here and there a rift breaks through, Showing behind an abyss of blue, A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 49 A tender silence beyond, afar, Out of the tumult and rush, and far Of the winds that drive and rage below, And beat on the mountain's crest, And for all we hope, and more than we k1~ow, There, perchance, is rest. She. I am not sure that it is rest we want, but rather security against chance, against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, against the irritations of daily life, and the petty needs which crowd about us, men 1icants for our time and thoughts. There is nothing we really own. Joy is oniy lent to us for a momeat and then take ii away, and over everything broods fear. He. Since we are in this vein, here is ~ soirnet to the purpose, and specially for to-day. (Alad is the sunshine, perfect is the day, A pearl of days, a flawless chrysolite The sky above us lifts its dome of light, And loitering clouds along its blue fields stray, Ifushepherded by winds that far away HE AND SHE: 01, Are sleeping in tlieir caves. This pure delight, This silent, peaceful gladness infinite, Is troubled by no sorrow, no dismay. Yes, for o'er all the shadow of a fear Is brooding, that the restless spirit knows, Tlte doubting human spirit that forecasts, Fven in the brightest that surrounds us here, The ine~4table change, - for nought life know~ Is fixed and permanent, nought lives that lasts. Site. ~~ery sad, but unfortunately very true. But what is the use of weighing it and pondering it? Let us enjoy Life's beauty as it comes, and not mar it by our melancholy previsions. Take the bitter out of my spirit that you have now 1nfused there, by something a little brighter. fIe. I am afraid I have nothing my portfolio seems suddenly to have gone into mourning. But stop: here is a little trifle, apropos to what you were saying a few moments ago about kissing, which may amuse you. You remember the old Italian proverb, "Un bacio dato non A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 51 mai perduto." This is an illustration of it: I3ecause we once di~ve together In the moonlight over the snow, ~Vith the sharp bells ringing their tink ling chime, So many a year ago, So, now, as I hear them jingle, The ~vinter comes back again, Thougb the summer stirs in the heavy trees, And the wild rose scents the lane. We gather our furs around us, O~ir faces the keen air stings, And noiseless we fly o'er the snow-hushed world Almost as if we had ~villgs. Enough is the joy of mere living, Enough is the blood's quick thrill; We are simply happy, I care not wi~y, We arc happy beyond our ~vill. The trees are with icicles jeweled, The walls are o'er-surfed with snow; 52 HE AND SHE; OR, The houses with marble whiteness are roofed, In their windows the home-lights glow. Through the tense, clear sky above us The keen stars flash and gleam, And ~~trapped in their silent shroud of snow The broad fields lie and dream. And jingling with low, sweet clasldrig Ring the bells as our good horse goes, And tossing his head, from his nostrils red His frosty breath he Hows. And closely you nestle against me, While around your waist my arm I have slipped -`t is so bitter, bitter cold It is only to keep us warm. We talk, and then we are silent; And suddenly - you know why - I stooped - could I help it? You lifted your face - We kissed - there was nobody nigh. A POET'S POllTFOLW. 53 And no one was ever the wiser, And no one was ever the worse The skies did not fall, - as perhaps they ought, - And we heard no paternal curse. I never told it - did you, dear? - Frou~ that day auto this But my memory keeps iii its inmost re cess, Like a perfiime, that ini~ocent kiss. I dare say you have forgotten, was so many a year ago; Or you may not choose to remember it, Time may have changed you so. The world so chills us aud kills us, Perhaps you may scori' to recall That night, ~~4th its innocent impulse, - Perhaps you`11 deny it all. But if of that fresh, sweet nature The veriest vestige survive, ~ou reniemher that moment's madness, You remeinher that mooiilight drive. SJte. I like that. 54 HE ANI) SHE; OR, He. So did I. You see, I always remembered it. Site. Nonsense! You never got it, really. He. No matter. I remember it. Don't you? Site. I decline to answer. Read me something else - immediately. He. Here is a little omelette souffl~, not worth serving up. But - Site. Don't make apologies, but read it, - please? lie. Here it is. I once laughed as loud as the best of them all, Jenny, my Jenny, I could foot it as lightly as they at the ball, Jenny, proud Jenny. But my foot now is heavy, I wander apart, And the tears in my eyelids will gather and start; For, while sweetly you`re smiling And others beguiling, Don't you see, my dear Jenny, you`re breaking niy heart? A POET'S PORTFOLiO. 55 A rosebud she wore in her bonny brown hair, Jenny, my Jenny, ~~Then she looked at me first with her sweet saucy air, Jenny, dear Jenny, So red were her lips, aiid so lithe was her waist, That they seemed only made to be kissed and embraced, And a sudden, wild madness, Of longing aiid gladness, Thrilled through all my veins with a rap turous haste. There`5 Rob, and there`5 Bob at her side that I see, Jenny, my Jenny, And she sn~les just as sweetly on them as on me, Jenny, gay Jenny. But why should I care? There are others as fair Who will give me their smiles, aiid their favors to wear, And where`5 the use sighing Just like a child crying, Yor the jilt of the moon, far away in the air. 56 HE AND SHE; OR, Ske. The grapes were green. He. Precisely. She. But I don't care for that. There`~ iiothing in it. He. I did not say there was. I said it might ~erve as a trifle to take the bit ter taste out of your mouth - a punch A la Romaine, ~vith just a little, a very little spirit in it. She. And why should Jenny have turned her face or her heart to your young man? I have no doubt lie was a horrible bore. ~Vhy should n't she dance ~vith those pretty fellows Rob and Bob, who were so full of fun and animal spirits, while your young man was mooning about and calling her a jilt, and looking unutterable things into her eyes whcn he did come near her and trying to press her hand? I have no pity for such fellows. If I had been Jemiy I should have turned round on him and said: If you`ve got anytliing to say, for heaven's sake, say it, aiid have it over. Do you want me - yes? Well, I don't want you. Good-by. I`m engaged for the next waltz to Bob. I think that would have settled matters. He. Yes, I should have thought it would. But it did n't. A PO~T~S PORTFOLIO. 57 Ske. Ah, so she did say so. I like her for it. That is what I call being frank and outspoken. But such fellows will never take no for an answer. He. No, indeed. She marned him at last. Ske. ~Vhat a fool! And I hope was unhappy all her life. lie. I came away at about that time, and cannot tell. - here is the kind of woman you would like. Ske. Now, you are going to read something disagreeable. He. No. Tliis was a pretty, nice, little iceberg I ln~ew when she was about forty. Yes! she has lived, lived what she called her life, Feebly enjoyed and suffered trivial pain; Years have slipped by and left no scars of strife Upon her little heart and little brain. No strain or strife of passion has she known Like a pale flower to which no scent is given, 58 HE AND SHE; OR, No vivid hues, she in the shade ha~ growil, Knowiiig no hell, and worlds away from heaven. She might have fallen with a richer sen~c, But what temptation is she never felt Cold, pure as snow, was her blank inn~ cence, So cold, so pure, it knew not how to n~elt. SAe. I beg to ask why you said that was a woman after my mhid. Did you mean to insult me H~. Not at all. I thhik she is a specimen woman, without a fault. ~Vhat can you ask more? She never did anything ~~rong. She was so smooth and cold that vice caroine(i off from her as one billiard ball from another. N\~hat do you accuse her of? S~e. I think you once ~vrote some verses like these: As for a heart and soul, my dear, You have not enough to sin, A POET'S FOR TFOL Jo. 59 Outside so fair, like a peach you arc, With a stone for a heart within. That`s your idea 0~ a woman. Is it? He. I have known such women, who were much admired by your sex, and c~lled noble and pure. Ske. And all you men admire the demimonde. He. And all you women imitate them in the ii manners, and particularly in their dress. Ske. All us women? He. All us men? Ske. There are exceptions. He. Well, we ~vill be among the exceptions. Ske. Have you any other portraits? They amuse me. He. Yes, here is one from life: - Ah, yes, you love me, so you say, But yet a different tale I read, In those still eyes so cold and gray, In that ruled brow where lightuings breed, In those carved lips so set and thin, That keep their secrets finn within, 60 HE AND SHE; OR, O'er which the dazzlhig smile that gleams, Keeps flashing like the auroral gleams Across the still, cold northern sky, As silently and fitfillly. You say you love mc, but I kiiow `Tis only words you say; no snow N\ras ever colder. Just to win You want, nor would you count it siri, A heart to break, to gratify A whim of pride and vanity, So you might, like an Indian, add One other scalp to those you had; Nay! worse, I fear, just for one hour Of wild caprice, to prove your power, You would with those cold, quiet eyes, Ordain my sudden sacrifice. Smile as you saw me writhe with pain, And say: Just torture him again, `T is comical to see him make Such dreadful faces for my sake. All this I see and know, and still My love is all beyond my will. Take me and torture me, but first One real, wild, impassioned burst Of feeling give me. Lift your face, And let me for a moment's space A POET'S POftTFOLJO. 61 Look through those eyes, so calm and still, Into your spirit's inmost deeps, And see, if there within them sleeps A hidden well of love, a Hll Of living feeling, or - and this Is what I fear - a dark abyss Of cold and silent vanity, Of selfish thought and cruel will, - That I may love, or turn and flee, And save n~~self from all the ill, ~ie pain, the bliss of loving thee. She. That is what you might call a charn~ing woman. He. It is not so very uncommon a woman. She. N\~man? It is a devil, rather. He. Some women are possessed by tiie devil of vanity, and have 110 feelings that are not subordinated to it. When a woman is cruel, she is more cruel than any man. We men can forgive everyfl~ing to passion; women don't and can't, but men do; but what we cannot pardoii Is that cold, cruel vanity which is as iiis~tiable as it is heartless. But here, just f'~r a contrast, is another kind of woman, 62 HE AND SHE; OR, a nice, cheery little person, whom everybody likes, a brook-like little creature. S~e. A fool, I suppose, from your preface. You men always like fools. He. Thaiiks. From early light to late at night, I chatter, chatter, chatter, If things are sad or things are bad, Dear me! what does it matter? The livelong day to me is gay, And I keep always laughing; The world at best is such a jest, `T is only fit for chafting. Along the brim of life to skim, Not in its depths be sinking, ~Vith jest and smile time to beguile, Not bore one's-self with thinking. To touch and go, and to and fro, To gossip, talk, and tattle, To hear the news, and to amuse One's world with endless prattle, This is my life: I hate all strife, With none I am a snarler; I like to joke with pleasant folk In any pleasant parlor. A POET'S POll TFOL JO. 63 And when the day has slipped away, Ere I blow out my candle, I sit awhile, and muse and smile, O'er that last bit of scandal. Site. Yes, I am afraid, I am afraid there is a little bit of truth iii that. He. A little bit? No more Site. No, these prattlers have reactions of sadness. N\Te only see the outside, the woAd-side of the in. Be sure that sometimes, out of mere nervousness and over-excitement, they cry as bitteily as at other times they laugh loudly. And besides, this humor is oftentimes put on, just like one's dress, to wear into society. These creatures have the reputation of being gay, and they feel called upon to act up to their reputation; but oft~u when they arc alone and the excitement is over, come 5 a corresponding depre ssioii. There is always sadiiess underlyiiig all humor. There is the old story, you know, of the clown - I forget his name - who nightly provoked the world's laughter in tlie rilig, and who was so depressed and melancholy in his real life aiid thought, that he consalted a physician to obtaiii some remedy 64 HE AND SHE; OR, for his hypochondria. And the physician recommended him to go to hear Grimaldi (that is his name, I remember it now). "Ah," answered he, "I am myself that wretched man." He. It is possible; but such stories are generally mere inventions. I dare say it bored him to go over the same old jokes iiight'~, but that is natural. As to his I~ ing a' extreme hypochondriac, I do not ~elieve it. Besides, his case is differu~ f~~om that of these water-flies that skim and skate over the sunny surface of life. One might as well try to make a coric sink as to depress them. There are characters and temperaments incapable of profound feeling, which cannot be deeply atfected by anything, and are as shallow as Ehey are bright. If +I'~e~e persons evcr cry it is sympathetically wit'~ another f{~i a moment, but befcre their tears are di~y they are laughing again; and as for this world, they think with llamlet, though iu a different sense, that "there`5 nothiiig serious in it." This is not a vice iii them, it proceeds from their own nature. They eannot help it. Ske. Yes, I dare say you are right to a A POET'S POETFOLlO. 6~ certain extent. Bllt flow, read me somethii~g else of a differe~t kii~d. He. I have two ol three love poems. ~Vould you like to hear the~u? S~e. Yes - perhaps. I ani a little tired of love poen~s He. Thou we will pass them by. ~ke. No; oi~ tiic whole, I will hear theiu, thoug~i there c~tii be little new to on that subject. He. Love is always new. It iicver grows old. It dies when it is young. Sbe. Not real love. ~Vliat you men call love, which for tiie most part is a matter of the seiises, illay; hut ~A~at we`vOiliOli iaeau by love, which is a matter of seiitimont and feeling, is very long-lived. He. Ah? I did not know that sentinieiit and feeling belonged only to yon~ sex. I Lhii~ you also, sonietimes, love for a moment. Listen to what a iiiaii s;tys on this subject; iiot I, of course, - I know your love lasts forever, - biit that fellow X., who is a disbeliever - or wlio was, for a moment - mid I call the poem, therefore, "A ~Ioment." 66 HE AND SH~; OR, How long would you love me? A lif~ time? Ah, that is too long; let us say A moment. Life's best`5 but a moment, and life itself scarcely a day. Perhaps you might love me that moment; perhaps, while you quaffed Froin life's brimming cup, with your sweet face turned up, love's exqui site draught; All the spirit insatiate thirsting its sweet ness to drain, And a hurry of rapture swift rushing through heart and through brain; All being condensed to a drop, all the soul, all the sense, Thterfused as by fire, intenningled and throbbing with passion intense; Just one moment of Life's culmination, its waves' utmost height, While it lifts its green cavern of opal all sm~fringed, in quivering light; - Its foam-rose that topples and spreads at the crest of the Fountain's full stress, A POFT'S POP TFOL 10. 67 That the impulse that lifts cannot hold, that dies 0~ its very excess Just one rapturous moment, wliiie love you inhaled like the soul 0~ a flower, For a breath space, an indra~ving breath space, that words have 110 power At their best to express, so divine, so en chanting, its soLil~piercing scent, Thrilling tlirough all the nerves, but at last ill a sigh to be breathed out and spent; Just one moment, no longer; and then, all the strength and desire Faded out, all the passion exhausted, naught left of the fire But the sullen, gray, desolate ashes, - oh, then, would you cling to me? Say, Would you love me, or hate me, or sconi me, and ruthlessly fflng me away? Who knows? Love and hate are so near joy and pain, ice and fire, hope and fear, That I doubt, the next moment, this iu~ ment so tender, so perfect, so dear. 68 HE AND SHE; OR, This maddeniog inon~e'it I kno~v, let the next what it chooses reveal; `T is enoogli that yon love inn this nio~ ment, let Fate, as she will, spiii her wheel, ~Veave her web, east her net, nnto grief or despair n~ake lis prey; Tliis is iiiine, tbis is iiiirs, and, once given, can ilevel. l)C takeii away. ~Vhat though, froiii onr drean~ when we wake, oiir love a mere folly illay seem? ~Vhat is life at tbe best biit a sleep? what is love bot a dream? Ske. I should like to hear lier answer to all this rigmarole. lie. ~~oii are complimentary. She. I have no donbt it ended by his love being for a moment aiid hers for a llfetime, - bug after lie had forgotten her. He. No: they were married and settled (l()~vi~, and lived together like very peaceable, good people; and when lie was sixty years old he ~vrote her another poem, of A POET'S POllTFOLJO. 69 a vei~ (liftereat kind. You see, love looks (lifferently froi~ the point of view of sixty years, after forty years of n~ai~1~1age, fron~ ~vhat it did at twenty, before inarria e ~.be. You don't happen to have tiat !((~t poem, d~) yolt? I suppose it ~~as a cold-heasied kind of thiiig. lie. Yes, it ~vas not ii~ the same key. It ~vas a little toned down. There was not so n~neh clashing of cyn~bals and blare of brass trn~npets ill the orchcstra. Tiie noisy instrninciits had all gone away, the gas and footlights ~vere all extiiiguished, and the piece ~vas played on a sn~niner afternoon by a violin and a violoiicello accon~panicd by an old Si)illct, ~vliilc a childish flute lisped oj~ iiov. aiid then, as if fron~ ~rcadiau ~voods. Site. I like that better. Let n~e hear what they played. lie. It ~vas not a s~~n~phony; only a little old song; and here it is: - Yes. lear, I ren~en~ber those old days, And oh, how charn~ii~g they were I doubt - 1~o, I know that no others to con~e Will ever such feelings stir. 70 HE AND SH~; OR, We had only been married a few month~ And love, like a delicate haze, Veiled in beauty the trivial doings, The commonest facts of those days. Life was all smiling before us, And nature was smiling around; Spring hovering near us caressed us, And joy with its aureole crowned `Mid the flowers and the trees i~i blossom, Afar from the world we dwelt, And the air was sweet with a thousand odors, And the woild like a full rose smelt. In the mornh~ I used to leave you, And that was the only pain; Through the grass with its dewdrops dia monded We walked down tb~ hadowy lane, And as far as the gate y9u went with me, And there, with a kiss we said Good-by; and you lingering watched me, And smiled and nodded your head, And waved your handkerchief to me, And I constantly turned to see If you still were there, and my daily work .::. Seemed a eniel necessity; A POET'S POBTFOLlu. i~I The last turn took you away from me, As on to n~ task I went, But your face all day looked up from the page, As over my book I beut. And when day was over, how gladly I rushed from ~he dusty town! As I opened the gate, I whistled, And there was your fluttering gown As you ran with a smile to meet me, ~Vith your brown curls tossing free, And your arms were thrown about my neck As I clasped you elose to me. And the birds broke into a chorus Of twittc~ng joy and love, And the golden sunset flamed in the trees, And gladdened tlie sky above, As "p the lane together ~Ve slowly loitered along, ~Yhile love in our hearts was singing Its young and exquisite song. The blood through oiir veins ran swiftly, Like a stream of lambeut fire; 72 JIl AND SilE; OP, Our thoughts ~vere all ~viuged, and our spirits Uplifted ~~~tli sweet de~ire. ~Iy joy, fl~ love, n~y dailiiig, You made the ~vhole ~`orld sweet, ~round ~nd the very seei~~ed beautiful That you pressed beneath your feet. N\~liat was there more to ask for, ~s I held you eloscly there, ~nd you smiled ~vith those gentle, tender eyes, And I breathed the scent of your hair? .~top Time, and speed no further Nothing, as long as ~ve live, nil give sue ii a radiance of delight, As one hour of love can give. The lilacs were filling with fragrance The air along the lane, Aiid I never smell the lilacs But those hours revive again; Aiid oft, though long years have vanished, ()ne whiff of their sceiit will bring Those old dear days, with their thrill of life, ~~en love was iii hlossoniing. A POET'S POftTFOLJO. 73 Time has gone on despite us, N\% both have growii old and gray, And love itself has gro'vii old and staid, But it never I~as flown a~vay; The fragile and scented bli~ssom Of springtime and youth is shed, But its sound, sweet fruit of a large eon tent Hath ripened for us instead. Site. Ah, well! There was life in the old man still. I think that is more to my taste than the other. There is something more real about it. The other has too ninny banners flying and gonfalons flouting the air, and there is too much glimmer and glamour about it. This is more like a true experience. Only, 0101 iocvcr can tell whether a poet's poetic existciocc tiod feeling has any true relation to his own real life. He. That depends on what you call his real life. Site. For the most part, they give ill their sentiment and feeling to theii iilcal ereations, mod have very little to spare ~r their wives. I don't believe much in literary husbands. 74 HE AND SHE; OR, He. Nor I. Do you in literary wives? She. Not I. I suppose, to you, dramatically speaking, one of these poems is just as true to life as the other. He. Yes, of cotirse, one may be better than the other; but while I ~~~~s writilig them, both seemed equally true. It is all a matter of seeming. A poet, if he is really a poet in the lugh sense, is transported into situations and personages utterly independent of himself, and, for the time, is more affected by their imagi nary experiences and conditions and feelings than by any real experiences of his own. She. Some poets; not all. He. I mean, of course, dramatic poets, not didactic. I should be very sorry to be taken literally in many things I write; but it pleases me to imagine myself to be (`if ferent persons, and to express in my poor way what comes to me as belonging to that person in the supposed situation. In fact, while I write I am that person; as Salvini tonight is Othello, and to-morrow Saul, or llamlet, or anybody else, all of whom are quite apart from ilim. But ~ am getting egotistic. A POEPS PORTFOLIO. 75 S~e. No matter. I excuse you. Men Jike to be egotistic, and women like them to be so, sometimes, and in some ways. Fhere is a sort of implied coinplhnent in `ich conversation, when it does not go too far. He. Then don't let me go too far. ~~e. Never fear! I will stop you in tii~ic. You say that these poems seem equally good to you while you are ~vriting thcin. He. I did not say they seemed equally good, but equally true to the person whose character I was assunling. Of course every one, while lie is writing, has a certain consciousness that he is doing better or worse, and that the expression he is giving to his thought or feeling is more or lcss ba~ipy and fresh, or tlic reverse. In sonic moods we are, so to speak, bettcr conductors of the influence which inspires our work, but that iniluence itself is beyond our control, and ~~ll not respond to ~ur beck and call. Any one who has acqiiired facility in writing can always, to a certain extent, command his powers, aiid wnte, as it were, to order. But we are not absolute masters of oi~r moods, and 76 HE AND ~iiE; OR, our faculties at times, despite the spur and whip, work nn~villingly and like drudges; while at other times they carry us along freely and gladly, and we feel that we are at the height of our speed. True poems are not written willfuiiy. ()ur thoughts and even our expressinils come to us we know not how or ~~~ience. The mind conceives as the body does, without our conscious will. But all its ci'ildren are not equally fair and well-proportinned. ~on~etin~es the birth is a monster, very rarely an angel, and generally a very human kind of a thing, with many defects and imperfections; though, whatever it be, it always has a special charm and attra~tion for the parent. S,,e. Yes, and the uglier it is the more the parent dotes on it. If I were to attack what you know to be your worst poem, you would be sure at the least t() apologize for it and plead for it, or else insist that it was perhaps (you might go so far as to say perhaps) your best. lie. I might, for I do not thiiik any author is the best judge of tiie relative value of his works. Ske. ~Vho ~5 then? A POET'~ roll TFOL 10. 77 lie. Posterity, - after the fashion ()f the time is passed. There are many shapely arrangements of rags and tags ~vhieh, ~vheii ne~v, seem t() contain beneath tIleill living ereatiii~es, bnt nfter they are ~lctaeed or sl~redde~~ nnd rotted a~vay l)y tii~ie are fonad to cover nothing b'~t ~vooden and lifeless fmnies. ~/~e. Time makes sad havoc even ~vith the best of ns, and strips from many a poet iiineh of his fine draperies of verse and singing clothes that so delighted the ~vorld in his generation. I snppose we onght only to admire what has stood the test of Time; bnt ~vhat matters it what we like, provided ~ve really like sonicthing? Tl~e great thiiig is to enjoy ~~i;tt we have, ~vitlI~int ~vaitiiig for 1~iiste~~ity. Besides, lioweyer v~e ~v'~it, ~~e never shall overtake posterity, and n~e n nt ime we may go hnngering and thirsting.`~nd empty because of onr ~~stidionsnes~. ~Ve can love persons who are not perfect why not things? Oh, I do so hate i~rities v.~~o are always finding fanlts and expectil~g perfection. To hear them talk one would think tJiem superior to all the world and yet I don't know that their poems aiid 78 HE AND SHE; OR, writings are any better than the works they attack so bitterly. He. I like them better when they are criticising the works 0~ other men than when they fall foul 0~ mine. Ske. Well, I will be a gentle critic, if you will read me something more. He. But I wish you to be honest. She. I will be as honest as I can be eonsistently with being friendly; but friendship interferes terribly with honesty. He. I wonder whether you would like this, which I call "Nina and her Treasores. Nina is a little peasant girl in Tuscany, whom I doii't know, whose lover has been faithless, and she is looking over the little trinkets he gave her. Life, since you left me, love, has been b~it a trouble and pain, am always longing and praying to see your dear face agaill. Fate has been cruel and hard, and so many tears I have shed; The heart is an empty nest for the rain, when love has fled. A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 7~ I am weary, so weary, of life, and the bitterest pang of all Is to lie and think of the past, that noth ing can ever recall; To lie in tile dark, and think and sob to n~~self alone, Q~iietly, lest I should waken and grieve mamma with my moan. Sometimes I stretch myself oat, and think, as I lie on my bed, Thus it will be with me, when I`m laid out stiff and dead. Stay not away, 0 Death! Come soon and give me my rest, With the calm lids over my eyes and my arms crossed over my breast. Then perhaps he will come, and, gazing upon me, say, Nina was good, and our love was an hour of a summer's day. Ah, yes, a day that the clouds overcast, ere the morning was done, And whose noon was a dreary rain, with never a glimpse of sun. 80 HE AND SHE; OR, If he should stoop and kiss my lips, Oh; if I were dead, I think I should start to life, and rise up in my bed. But what is the use of thinking, with all this work to do? Oh, yes, mamma, I hear you; I`11 come in a moment to you. ~Vhat am I doing? Nothing. I`m put ting some things away; No, - not the trinkets of (&igi. (~Iadonna, forgive lue, I pray!) Oh, no; you never will throw them into the river, I know. Just wait till I find my needle, and then I`11 come in and sew. Oh, this is the hardest of all, - to smile and to chatter lies, While my heart is breaking a'id tears blind everything to my eyes. When will there come an end, Madomia mia, - I say, When will there come an end, and tho whole wodd pass away? A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 81 S~e. Poor little Nina I feel quite sad about her. Did he ever come back? He. No Nina married anoth~r fellow, who owned a cow and had a thousand francs for a fortune, and - but I`11 tell you her story another time. She. So Nina was a real person? He. Not in the least; but she might have been. She. I think for the present we have bad enough of love; now read me something of a different kind. He. No, I must read you one more poem about love, as expressing the way a man takes his disappointment, just in contrast to Nina. You have set inc going on tliis track, and I must take oiie step more, mid then we ~yill close the book. I call it A BLACK DAY. I thought it was dead; `fliat tlie years had crushed it down and trodden it out ~Vith their cruel tramp and tread; `i?liat notliii~g was left but tbe ashes, cold and gray, ()f a love that had wholly passed away, 82 HE AND SHE; OR, ~~th its hope, and fear, and joy, and doubt. But nothing utterly dies; And again, as I tread tlie paths of these silent woods, Where we walked and loved a few long years ago, And list to the wind's soft sighs Rustlii~g the solitudes, And the low, perpetual hum and welling flow Of the torrent that finds its way And talks to itself among the mossy, gray And unchanged boulders and stones Again, with a sudden, sharp surprise, The old life leaps anew with a rush be fore me: The cloud of these dreary years that have darkened o'er me Lifts and passes, and you are again beside mc: The tones of your voice I hear; I look iii your tender eyes, And I fiercely and vainly long for what is denied inc, And I curse my cruel fate, as I cursed it the ii. A rOET'S ro~TFoLJo. 83 41'! what has brought me here to this fatal glen? r would that the sky was a globe of frag ile glass, That I to atoms might dash it; And the flowers, and the trees, and the whole wide world around Were all at my very feet lying here on the ground, That I into flinders might pash it. With a terrible impotent rage my close clenched hand I shake at these pitiless skies that glare above, And the smothered flame of a wild, de spairing love, One breath of the breeze with a sudden strength has fani~ed To a world-wide conflagration; And I cry in a torture of pain, With a cry that is all in vain, Come back, come back again, And deny me not ii' my desperation The love that I crave, - the love you de nied of yore Come back and behold me, and iuto my spirit pour Some balm of consolation; 84 HE AND SHE; OR, Or strike me dead to the earth, that I no more May grovel,tortured iii spirit and wild with grief, Looking out all over the world in vain for relief. Come back, I implore Curses upon the place, the time, the hour, When first I met you; Curses upon myself, that am all without the power, Despite my will, to forgct you Ah, would to Go~ that you for an hour's brief space - Only an hour - might suffer as I do! Ah, would to God that you were here in n~ place, ~Vith the barb in your heart, like a dee~ at the end of the race, ~Vith naught but despah beside you, Nothing biit death and the heartless skies above, Th;~t la~igh alike at our joy and our grief and oiir love. But 110! al~ 110! you tre happy and gay, and glad. A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 85 And what care you for the memories dark and sad That have ruined my hereafter. Brook-like, above my broken hopes that lie llidde n perchance beneath your memory, Your light thoughts run with laughter. I see you smiling, - I IUio w you are smil ing still; At the fountain of joy you stoop and drink your fill, Careless whose heart yoii are breaking. But the terrible thirst with which I am curst, Ah me! is beyond all slaking; For the stream of which I am drinking Is a torrent of fire and fierce desire. For n~e there is no more thiiiking, No more hoph~g, or dreaming, or yearn ii~g, No more living, and no more laughing, Nothing for me but that fountain burning, ~Vherc my spirit is ever quaffing. Curses upon the hour and the place, I say! N\~hy did my footsteps lead me here? Will these wild memories never pass away? 86 HE AND SHE; OR, Can I never forget you? Ah, too dear, too dear! Never while life shall last, Never, ah never, till all the world has passed! She. That is not what I should call a nice young man. I do not at all approve of him. He. Poor fellow! fle blew his brains out, a week after, on that same spot. It is a curious fact that women never do this, - and yet they are always talking of dying for love. She. They have too much sense to do such stupid things. They embroider their disappointments into tidies and chair backs and table covers, which is far more sensible, or net it away into purses and shawls and bedquilts. He. It is time for us to be going. Shall we stroll along? She. No! One more poem. He. No, no! I have already read you too many of these scraps, which after all are not worth reading; and besides, the (lay is going. Let us pass the rest of it without reading. Let us wander along together through this glen. A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 8~ She. No. I must finish embroidering this flower first. It will scarcely take me a quarter 0~ an hour, and you must now read me one more poem; and let it he a serious one, - one 0~ your best. He. I don't lu~ow what is best, and what is worst. But if you want a senoiis one, I wlll read you this. It is a lost ode 0~ llora~e addressed to Victor. You will not find it in his printed works. I discovered it in an old Palimpsest MS., and translated it word for word. TO VICTOR. NOR I, nor thou, with all our seeking, know Whither, when life is over, we shall go, Nor what awaits us on that farther shore, llid from our eyes by Acheron's dark flow. We only know - and this we must en dure - That Death waits for us, whom no prayer or lure Can move or change; towards whose outstretched arms Each moment onward drives us, silent, sure. 88 HE ANB SHE; OR, What he co'iceals behind that veil he draws We know not, Victor; but his shadow awes This life of ours, and in the very height Of joy aud love he bids us shuddering pause. Virtue avails us not, nor wealth, nor power, To stay oiie moment the appointed hour. ~Iareellus, C~sar, Virgil, all have "one, - The fatal sickle reaps grain, bud, and flower. Where are they now? Upon some Un known strand Shall we again behold them, clasp their hand, ~iid, untormented by the ills of life, Renew our friendship, and together stand? Or, when the end is reached, - and come it must, - ~hall we, despite the hope in which we trust, A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 89 Feel nothing more, nor love, nor joy, nor pain, But be at last mere mute, insensate dust? If so, then virtue is a lying snare. Let us fill high the bow], drown sullen care, Reap the earth's joys and all the j()~5 of sense, And of Life's bounty seize our fullest share. The Gods f~~rbid the curions human eye Into the Future's mystery to spy. They give us ho~ir by hour, and scarcely that; For, ere the hour is measured, we may die. I~ut if thou goest before inc where no specch, No word of friendship, no warm grasp, can reach, Let inc not linger. ~Iay the pitying Gods Send the same final suu~mons unto each Whether stern Death reach out his hand to bless Or sweep us down to blank, dire nothing. ness - eo HE AND SHE; OR, Whate'er may come, together let us go Where, at the worst, we shall escape life's stress. She. Ah, yes; that is serious enough, and sad enough. What have we learned since Horace? How much nearer are we to the solving of the eternal riddle that ever is taunting us? What do we know of anything? He. Que s~isje? You know Montaigne's motto. That is the question one always asks. She. And the aiiswer is? He. Riei~. It is perfectly simple. She. Then what is the use of it all? To what purpose are all our struggles, all our yearnings, all our failures, all our defeats, since life always at the last ends ii~ defeat? He. That depends on what you mean by defeat. It is not always the conquer ors who triumph. To act well one's part is the triumph. That is the old stoic doctrine so fully illustrated in the life mid meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Act according to your nature, he says. That is what life requires of you. Develop vour noble and aspiring l)riaQiples as tho A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 91 tree does, which grows up to the sun and the sky, and bears its fruit without triumph, and drops it without regret, and gathers its joy out of heaven, seeking not to bear the fruit which does not belong to it. Even the imperfect has its exquisite charm, as the sweetest figs have their imds torn and scratched. It is not il~e smooth which is the best. The trials of life have an infinite value. And now to hear the end of the whole matter, let me read for you my very last, - a p~an for the conquered, an To Victis: - 10 VICTIS! I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life, - ~he hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife; Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame, But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart, ~7ho strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part; 92 HE AND SHE; OR, N\Those youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned ii' ashes away, From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day ~Viththe wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, ~VithDeath swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown. Whilethe voice of the world shouts its chorus, its p~an for those who have wou; Whilethe trumpet is sounding triumph ant, and high to the breeze and the sun Glad banners are waving, hands elapping, and hurrying feet `Thronging after the laurel-crowned vic tors, I stand on the field of de feat, In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there Chanta requiem low, plaee my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer. A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 95 Hold the hand that is helpless, aiid whis per, "They only the victory win, ~Vho have fought the good fight, and have vanqitisliod the deu~on that tell~pts us within; Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the woAd holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suf fer, i~sist, fight, - if need be, to die." Speak, llistory! wiio are Life~s victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say, Are they t~iose whon~ the world called the victors - who won the success of a day? The n~artyrs, or Nero? The Spartaiis, who fell at Thcrinopyl~'s tryst, Or the Pcrsians and Xerxes? llis judges or ~ocrates? Pilate or Christ? She. Thank you. That is a consolation to us ~vlio do not win the laurel. The poe in lie was then scribbling whei~ 94 fiB AND SHE; OR, she interrupted him, he did not read. But he afterwards sent it to her, and as it describes the glen where the conve satioii took place, it may as well be added to those he really read. IN THE GLEN. HERE in this cool, secluded glen Alone with Nature let mc lie, Where no rude voice or peering eyes of men Disturbs its perfect peace and privacy; Where through the swaying firs the res~ less breeze Sighs softly and the murmuring tor rent flows, Singing the same low song as on it goes, That it bath sung for countless centuries; Now welling through the mossy rocks, now spilled In little sparkling falls, now lingering, stilled, Th brown, deep pools to hold the mirrored skies, As brown, as clear, as some fair maiden's eyes, And filled like them with silent mystene~ A POET'S PORTFOLIO. 95 One side the shelving slopes, through which its song The torrent sings, the fii~s' tall columns throng, Spreading their dark green tops against the blue on the brown, fine carpet at their feet Long strips and flecks of sun strike glim. mering through, Where gleaming specks of insects through them fleet. Along the other slope green beeches spread Their spotted canopy of light and shade, And on the brown, transparent stream below Their quivering, tessellated pavement tbrow. Here ferns and bracken spread their plumy spray; Here the w~ld rose gropes out against the gray ?~oss-cushioned rocks, and o'er the torrent swings; Here o'er the bank the sombre ivy strings, And the scorned thistle bears its royal crown; 96 11~ AND SHE; 011, Here wild clematis stretches, waveriug down AJ~d,`m~A a mass of tangled weeds that know Scarcely a name, and all neglected grow, A tribe of gracious flowers pccps snbliug up: The humble dandelion, buttercup, And spindled gorse here show their gleam. ing gold The bright-eyed daisy, innocently bold, ~tars the lush grec n; tlic purple malva lifts It ~)i.cading cnp. From tufted black berries drifts siiow of blossoms, scenting with thcir breath The summer air and, sacred to St. John, The magic flower that maidens cull at d"iwii Aiid bl~ie forgot-me~nots, scarce seen be neath Thc feathery grass and the white he iii lock's face Ai~d all the wild, untrained, and happy racc Of Nature's children, through whose blooms thc bees, Busy for honey hovering, hum and teas~ A POET'~ PORTFOLIO. 97 Softened, by distance, from the woods remote, Rings, now and then, the blackhird's li quid note ()r the jay scolds, or far lip in the sky Trills out the lark's bug, quivering iii~l ody; Or, its melodious passion pouring out, In the green shadow hid, the nightingale Stills all the world to listen to its talc, `file same sweet taJe that centunes past it sung To Grecian ears, when Poesy was young; Or the glad goldfinch tunes his tremulous throat, )r with a sudden chirp some linnet gray `)arts up the gorge, to drink at these cool springs, And at a glimpse of me flits swift away. A faint, fine hum of myriad quivering wings Fills all the air; the idle butterfly Drifts down the glen; and through the grasses low Creep swarms of busy creatures to and fro, And have their loves, and joys, and strife and hate, 98 HE AiYD SHE, OR, Intent upon a life to L'S unknown. On the o'eil~i'giug bowlders glance and gleam Quick, quiveflug lights reflected from the stream, Where water-spiders poise and darting skate, Their shadows on its dappled sand-floor thrown. Across the bowlders bare and pine-slopes brown, Like dials of the day that passes by, The firs' long shadowAndex silently, So silently, is ever stealing on, We scarcely heed the unpausing race of tin~e So swift and noiseless and some subtle spell Seems to have lulled to sleep this shadowy dell, As if it lay in some enchanted clime, llaunted by dreams that never poet's rhyme Nor music's voice to waking ears can tell. All is so peaceful here that weary thought half falls asleep, nor seeks to find the key Of the pervading, unsolved mystery A POLT'S roRTFoLlo 99 Through which we move, by which our life is wrought. Here, magnetized by Nature, if the eye Upgiancing should discern in the soft shade Some Dryad's form, or, where the waters braid Their silvery windings, haply should dcscry Some naked Naiad leaning on the rocks, Her feet dropped in its basin, while her locks She lifts from off her shoulders unafraid, And gazes round, or looks into the cool Tranced mirror of the softly.gleamiiig pool, To see her polished limbs and bosom bar~ And sweet, dim eyes and smile reflected there, `T would scarce seem straiige, but only as it were A natural presence, natural as yon rose That spreads its beauty careless to the air, And knows not whence it came nor why it grows, And just as simply, innocently there The sweet presiding spirit of some tree, `fhe soul indwelling in the murmurin( brook,. 100 11~ ANB SHE; OR, ~~Those voice we hear, whose form we ean not see On whom, at last,`t is given us to look; As if dear Nature fo~ a moment's space Lifted her veil and met us face to face. Such Grecian thought is false to our rude sense, That ii aught believes, or feels, or hears, or sees Of what the world in happier days of Greece Felt with a feeling gentle and intense. ~Ve are divorced from Nature; our dull ears Catch not the music of the finer spheres, See not the spirits that in Nature dwell In leafy groves through which they glane ing look, In the dim music of the singing brook, And lurk half hidden and half audible. To us the world is dead. The soul of things, The life that haunts us with imagillings, That lives, breathes, throbs in all we hear and see, Tl~e charm, the secret hidden everywhere, Evades all reason, spurns philosophy, A POET'S PORTFOLW. 101 And scorns by boasting science to be tracked. Hnnt as we will all matter to the end, Life flits before it last, as first, we find Naught but dead structure and the dust of fact; The infinite gap we cannot apprehend, The somewhat that is life - the inform ing mind. ~ven here in this still glen I cannot flee The secret that torments us everywhere. In cloud, sky, rock, tre~, man, its mystery Ptirsues us ever to the same despair. What says this brook, that ever murmur ingilows? What whisper these tall trees that talk alway? What secret hides the perfume of this rose? What is it that dear Nature strives to say? Our sense is dull, we cannot understand The voice we hear - bnt, oh! so far away As from a worl)i beyond our night and day, A dream-voice from some dim, imagined land. 102 HE AND SHE; OR, Here dreaming on h~ idle, tranquil mood, Lulled by the tune that Nature softly plays, Our wandering thoughts, by some strange spell subdued, Are calmed and stilled, and all seems sweet and good, And she our mother seems, that on her breast, With murmuring voice, and gentle, whis pering ways, flushes her child within her arms to rest And, though the child scarce knoweth what she says, He feels her presence gently o'er lijin brood. And yet, 0 Nat~ire, thou no mother art, But for a moment, like to this, at best A stern step-mother thou, that to thy heart Claspest thy child by some caprice pos sessed, Then, careless of his fate, abandonest, Flinging him off from thee to wail and cry, All heedless if he live or if lie die. Is it for us thou, reckless, squanderest Thy beauty with such wide and lavish waste? A POET'S PORTFOLIO 103 For us? Ah! no were we all swept away, What wouldst thou care? No change upon thy face Would answer to our sorrow or disgrace, Alike to those who love, laugh, weep, or pray. Glares not the sun impertinent upon Our darkest griefs? Do not the glad flowers blow, The unpaush~g hours, days, seasons come and go, Despite our joys and loves? To all our woe Have we a sympathetic answer ever won? Are thy stones softer on the path we tread Because our thoughts are journeying with the dead? is not this world, with all its beauty, rife With endless war, death preying upon life, Perpetual horror, pain, crime, discord, strife, Night chasing day, storms driving sun shine out? And yet through all impassive, stern, and eold, 104 HE AND SlIE; OR, With folded hands, which hide whate'er they hold, Like Nemesis, thou standest, speaking not, Before the gates of Fate and, if tliey ope, To show one glimpse beyond, one gleam of hope, `T is but an instant; then the door is shut; And, poor, blind creatures, here astray we grope, Stretching our hands out where we can not see, Through the dark paths of this world's mystery. And yet, why spoil the day with thoughts like these? Better to lie beneath these whispering trees And take the joy the moment gives, and feel The glad, pure day, the gently lifting breeze That steals their odors from the uncon scions flowers, Nor seek what Nature never will reveal, A FOET'S LO1~TFOLfO. 105 The hidden secret of our destijijes. Let it all go - whate'er it is it is, And, come what will, this day, at least, is ours. ~Iy hour is gone, dear glen, and now farewell. Here you the self-same song, bright brook, will sing; Here you, dark firs, the self-same tale will tell, ~Iysterious, to the low wind whispering, How many a summer day to other ears, When I am gone, beyond all doubts, hopes, fears, Beyond all sights and sounds of this fair world, Into the dim beyond; in time to come Will many a dreamer sit for many an hour, Lulled by your murmur, and the insects' hum, And many a poet praise you. Clasped and curled Besid these rocks, and plucking some chance flower, Will many a pair of lovers linger, dumb With loves too much for utterance, all too weak 10(3 HE AND SHE; OR, The charm they feel, the joy they own, to speak. Here wandering from the noisy city's maze, How many an idle, casual visitor Thy beauty with a careless tone will praise, And turn away without one true heart stir. Here the dull woodman, thinking but of gain, Heedless of any Dryad's shriek of pain, "Till fell with ringing axe this living wood; And bere some gentle child, o'er whom the dream And lingering lights of former being brood, Perchance may meet some Naiad at this stream, By whom her language shall be under stood, And bere together they will talk and play, And many a secret she will strive to tell That here she learns, and all the ~ orid will say, A PO~T'~ roRTFoLlo. 107 Laughing: "Dear chlld, this is not cred ible." Ah Heaven! we know so much who nothing know! Only to children and in poets' ears, At whom the wise world wondering smiles and sneers, Secrets of God are whispered here be low. Only to them, and those whose gentle heart Is opened wide to list for Beauty's call, Will Nature lean to whisper the least part Of that great mystery which circles all. The wise, dull world, with solid facts con tent, Laughs at all dreamers, deeming nothing good Save what is touched, seen, handled, un derstood. Well, let it laugh! To me the firmanient Is more than gleaming lights; more than mere wood `These leafy groves; and more these mur muring streams `mall running watei~s. Tliis wide, vapor ous sky, 108 lIE AND SHE; OR, Painted by morning, fired by sunset gleams, These winds that breathe around this swinging world, This restless ocean, moaning constantly, These storms across the shuddering forests whirled, The season's still processions, day and night, That each the other silently pursues, Sure and unchanging in their even flight, And all these changing shows and forms and hues Not for mere use were given, nor mere delight. Beauty is theirs and power, and, more, a fine Dim mystery shrouds the in man can ne er divine. Harvests that sweeten life and thought they bear In~onderable, exquisite, and rare, That take the spirit with a sweet sur prise. Dreams haunt them, intimations, prophe cies, Glad lessons, adumbrations, spirit gleams, That, when the loving heart evokes them, nse. A POET'S PORTFOLW 109 others may reap their solid facts; for me, I am content to gather inwardly Their silent harvest of poetic (`reams APP 1 9 91\\