Chapter VI: Part V: Love (1)

And what is life?--a pleasure and a pain, A vision of the sun--a day of rain. And what is love?--a dream, a chain of gold That turns to iron bands when love is cold. What matters they?--the visions of our youth, Through years of sorrow we must pass to truth. A woman's life is full of longing days, Her heart is not content to live on praise; She must have more; a woman measures life By length of love, a man by deeds and strife.

Arline! once more we greet thy sunny face. Once more behold thy noble, earnest grace; But ah, how changed! the hopes of youth are dead; Life's dark unrest has bowed thy proud young head, And fame the mocking vision of thy youth, Has led thee from the paths of peace and truth.

With longing eyes Arline is standing now, Her arms are folded with a weary air; The same deep pride is written on her brow, As once was there of old; her gold-brown hair Is gathered back in careless waves of light That hide a scar--the memory of one night. Her eyes look down, her dark robes sweep the floor-- She starts, for some one passes through the door; She glances up--recoils with haughty pride, Which all her self-possession cannot hide; Then with a look of pity on her face She meets Lorraine with kind, forgiving grace.

"Arline, I would that I had died indeed Before I gave thee pain, my heart has need Of thy forgiveness, else I cannot live, I crave the boon that only thou canst give."

"Lorraine, the highest graces of a woman's heart Are purity and truth, no cunning art Can e'er replace these gifts; 'gainst sin and wrong They are her surest safe-guards, and her guide In life. With these she conquers man's dark pride And wins the tributes that to Heaven belong. To womanhood belongs forgiveness too, And therefore is my pardon given you."

With humbled pride he bowed his proud young head, Then looking in her face he gently said: "'Tis nobly given; if women were all like thee, Arline, how many truer men would be Within this world; for man will ever go Where woman leads. And on this earth below The grandest masterpiece of Nature's art Must ever be a woman's sinless heart. For thee, Arline, the passion of my life is dead; The feverish dream is o'er, and in its stead, There comes a reverence for all thy kind, And thou, the noblest ideal of my mind. And now I could not offer thee my love, For like some pure and upward-soaring dove, I see thee fly beyond my own weak soul, To reach a nobler and far higher goal. Yet, fair Arline, oh, with thy lovely grace, Uplift my soul unto the realm of thine; And with thy tender eyes and pitying face, Oh lead to worthier deeds this heart of mine!"

"Lorraine, each one must know the price of sin, Each erring heart must know what lies within; If we would live aright we must be true Unto ourselves; I cannot govern you; For ah! we may not read another's mind, God puts there thoughts that we may never find.

"We should not judge, for hearts indeed are weak, And vain and selfish, are the ends we seek; But each temptation, if we do not fall, Will tend to make us stronger, all in all. Think not thy way is right nor full of power, For every heart must have its wayward hour; And though men grieve thee with their outward sin, Remember nobler thoughts may dwell within.

"And now I thank you for your refeverent love, And yet I feel you place me far above My own right sphere. I am a woman weak, As all proud women are, and soon, too soon, I feel the world another queen will seek To wear its crown of fame, and then my noon Of life will pass as others pass away, Unto the shadows of the dying day, And like the foam upon the waves' bright crest, My life will glide unheeded to its rest; Like other hearts forgotten and unknown, My own will wear itself away alone. And yet"--and here the dark eyes flashed again-- "The world shall never know its hidden pain, For late, too late, I feel the world is cold, It wounds the brow that wears its crown of gold. Ah! many in the gay and passing crowd Have thought me cold and even deemed me proud, When, had they known the truth of that cold pride, They'd known 'twas but my better thoughts to hide, When 'mid the bitterness of worldly strife, I felt for what I'd given my longing life-- To wear upon my head a senseless crown, On which in scorn my own true self looked down. Oh, Fame! I chose thee with a girl's weak hand, And now on life's dark shores alone I stand; Too late I see the sad mistake I made When at a worldly shrine my life I laid. I thought to purify the world by song, But ah! the world's too full of heedless wrong For one weak hand to lead it back to truth; It mocked to scorn my innocence and youth; To nobler work had I my life but lent, My restless heart e'en now might be content, Oh, woman's life was never made for fame, Her soul is burnt to ashes in its flame." "You wrong yourself!" he cries at last, "untrue Your words, for worldly hearts look up to you And bless your song,--I know, for I am one Of these, and know the good that you have done. 'Tis true, Arline, an earnest womanhood Can always do unto the world some good. One heart in truth has felt your better power, And that is mine, in this last happy hour; and have you nobler made even one weak heart, You've done within this world a worthy part. And many hearts, Arline, have heard your song And turned away ashamed from sin and wrong. No man, however dark his heart, could gaze Upon a face like yours, where all is pure, And not regret, oh! bitterly, his days Of sin. If every woman would allure By graces true as thine, there would be less Of sorrow and of pain, and man would bless The day that God gave woman to him."

Her eyes Are turned to him with eager, glad surprise; "I thank you for these words," she says, "for true I feel they are, and in my heart anew I welcome hope. And we are friends again, The past indeed is dead."

A look of pain Came in his eyes, yet with a new-born pride He turned away, that look from her to hide. "To-night I go, Arline, we meet no more, Yet in my heart thy image will be there, To soothe each wayward hour, to lighten care; Thy simple teachings have unlocked the door Of life's best thoughts to me, and if I grow to better manhood, you have made me so."

Upon her bending head and gentle face A sunbeam fell and lit with mystic grace Her dark, uplifted eyes, then quickly fled To mingle with the sunset's dying red.

A sunny face--a noble womanhood, A heart's wild passion dead, a new-born pride; One moment looking on her face he stood, Then turned and went forever from her side.

The twilight comes, the first-born child of night, A warning monitor of time's quick flight; A dear, enchanted hour, when all are near We love on earth, and yet an hour of fear When shadows of the past around us fall And joy and hope have fled beyond recall.

Within the twilight of the present day, And shadows of the years now past away, Arline is standing with a sad, sad air, Her heart cries out with longing pride and pain, "Oh, God! what mystery is this of care And endless doubts; will faith ne'er come again?" Oh, striving heart, no mind the problem yet Has solved of life--'tis happier to forget; When once the mind is roused to questioning thought With endless misery it may be wrought; The happiest minds are those that question not-- To live in faith is mankind's fairest lot.

And darker grow the shadows of the night, She looks upon the sea, the distant height; Upon the waves the ships go gliding by, The lonesome clouds throughout the sky Are wandering with brooding wings, and grim And shadowy the far-off mountains seem; Oh! Fame, where is thy joy? oh! love's bright dream, Where is thy spell? life, like the night, is dim And sorrowful.

Low droops her young head fair, Her whispered words steal on the silent air: "Oh, what is life, my soul, when love has fled?-- And every one that I have loved is dead, Save one, and he--oh, must I say it now,-- He loves me not, I dare not claim his vow. Adrian, too late I prize thee--what is fame When 'tis not shared with thee! No other name Can touch me like thine own; but now, indeed, Where is the love that answers to my need? I had a dream amid the storm that night, A vision strange--'mid flashes of the light Methought I saw your face, your well-known form; You held me close and safe from rain and storm, Within the shelter of your arms I lay And breathed no, lest the dream should pass away; Oh, Adrian, it seemed as though a tear Fell from your eyes upon my face, and dear That mark of pitying love was unto me. My hair seemed wet with blood--with dreadful pain My temples throbbed, yet there with love and thee I felt it not, nor heeded I the rain. Too soon, howe'er, the vision passed away, And I was left alone.

"Oh! waves at play, Mock not my hollow heart with songs of eve, For olden days I evermore must grieve, My own sad song forever must be still, Of empty fame my life has had its fill. Oh! heart be still, keep back your hungry cry, Our griefs we all can conquer if we try; Oh! soul shrink back into thy smallest space, For thee the heedless world will give no place. Oh! what is life when only shadows fall! Oh! what is love, when love is past recall! My laurel wreath unto the winds I fling, For worldly praise I never more will sing. Oh! tears, what do you here--keep back, I say, Each human life must know a sunless day."

Unto her breast her hands are tightly pressed, She bravely struggles with the old unrest; Yet lower droops her form, the lashes sweep Across her cheeks. Dark memories seem to creep Upon her heavy heart and weigh it down. As shadows fall at night o'er vale and town; And still and white as some pale form of death She stands, with folded hands and faint drawn breath.

But suddenly through the silence of the room The one word "Hilda" pierces through the gloom; A whispered word, yet see! it makes her start, And sends the life-blood throbbing to her heart. she turns--her face is stained with crimson o'er, It dies and leaves her paler than before. Oh, life is dark, and hearts are weak and wild! With one faint cry she sees his longing eyes, His outstretched arms, and as a tired child, Unto that last, safe refuge quickly flies.

Then presently her head droops low again, She draws away--there comes a bitter pain. "Oh, Adrian, my life has all been wrong; I am not worthy now your love to claim, My erring heart is selfish, and to blame, To sorrow and to grief it should belong. I left thee with a willful, proud design, And cared not that a hopeless life was thine. To give unto thy care, what have I now? A worn and wasted life--a broken vow."

"No, no! look up, Arline, bend not your head; You wrong yourself--your life is good and true, And pure the motive that your actions fed; Life's highest meed of praise belongs to you; Few hearts possess your true and earnest thought, Else would the world with nobler deeds be fraught. No man could look into your earnest eyes, And claim that truth in woman never lies, Nor could he gaze upon that lovely face, And scorn again a woman's pleading grace. I wonder not the world has worshipped thee, For well thy beauty's spell is known to me. A strain of music can awake the soul, A kindly grace may touch the hardest heart. Then weep no more, Arline--you've reached the goal-- The world is better for your sweet-voiced art. And, Hilda, had thy power not been good, My love these years could never have withstood."

Her face is turned to his with eager gaze She drinks in all his words with ecstasy. "Oh, Adrian, far dearer than the praise Of all the world those words come now to me; Yet tell me, Adrian, is woman's life Naught but a shadowy dream--a pain--a strife?"

A grave, sweet smile stole o'er his face, his eyes Met hers with earnest look, yet half surprise: "God knows the longings of each human heart, And each assigns some noble, worthy part, And they who seek will find; the battle's won When thought is true, and duty is well done. From world to world the deeds of man may fly, Yet in each heart a woman's grace may lie. Few men may comprehend her longing need-- She lives in thought, he lives in strife and deed. His boasted deeds may live but for a day Her purity and truth will live for aye. The man who claims a woman's hand and heart, Knows not what boon he craves, what precious thing; She gives her all--he only gives a part-- She gives her freedom up and crowns him king. 'Tis true she murmurs not,--when love is there No duty is too great, she feels no care; 'Tis only when that love is cold and dead She feels the galling chains--the hand of lead. And therefore do I say to you, Arline, Of love, and not of fame, she should be queen. 'Tis love that wakes a man to woman's grace; He first finds heaven when looking in her face, He sees the trusting soul, the wealth untold Of noble thoughts that God has written there. Love binds his heart to hers with chains of gold, And makes him comprehend the beauty rare Of womanhood; 'tis this unlocks the door And shows him truths he ne'er has known before. Grieve not, Arline; your song has done some good, An emblem of the true your life has stood. Your aims were high; your art was truly grand, Hearts nobler grew, Arline, at your command. Then do not weep,--Oh, save those precious tears! The light of heaven shines on the past few years. And see! the shadows all have fled--the night Is clear, the stars shine out, the moon's pale light Is falling on your face; look up and know The fading of the shadows 'neath the glow Of night, is but the emblem of the rays Of happiness that now shall gild your days."

He takes her hand in his--and love's sweet thrill Runs through her veins, vague dreams her sense fill. Her face grows childlike in its faith again, He heart yields up its wealth of doubt and pain, Her soft, dark eyes reveal their depths of fire. "For fame my heart has never more desire, Were all our planets moons, night could not know The glory of the day, nor evening show The splendor of the sun--his light is best. So, were each heart to worship at my shrine, All filled with love, it could not equal thine, For thine is more to me than all the rest. Then, like the purple pansies, bending low, That yield unto the sun their royal glow, Unto the sun-god of my life and years I'll yield my love, and know no idle fears. The meteor has flashed across the skies, Yet in its place a star of beauty lies; Adrift into the azure seas above That star shall sail on wings of hope and love, While fame, the meteor that mocks the sight, Shall die upon the earth--a faded light. And now, for thee alone, my heart shall sing, Far from my sight my crown of fame I'll fling, And in its stead, the diadem I'll wear Of love and womanhood--earth's crown most fair."

Out on the terrace, where the moonlight falls In silver radiance o'er the time-stained walls, A man and woman stand--he, strong and fair, She, lovelier than the flowers that scent the air. Her eyes are velvety and soft and brown, Her hair--a shimmering splendor falls low down, Her dark robes sweep the marble floor; one hand Is clasped in his; in silence now they stand, No need of words when silence speaketh more Than all the wealth of speech, or written lore.

Her eyes are turned to his; no more they grieve; Oh, who can tell the spell that love doth weave? The music of the stars, a faint, sweet strain, Floats down--an echo of their heart's refrain. Two lives that glow as bright as heaven's own-- Two stars, that in the night have closer grown, God sets the music in each soul; no hand But that of LOVE the music can command.

The song of life is done--the tale is told, God grant the chain may count some links of gold. A woman's life--a man's true love--a song-- What dreams of life may not to these belong! The weaving of a story, old yet new, Life's strange, sad mingling of the false and true. A woman's heart is like a harp of gold, It yields no music to the touch most bold, But to the hand that o'er the chords may sweep And gently wake the music from its sleep. An idle dream a woman's life may be, Yet do not dreams belong to thee and me? To every life some visions must belong; Are we to blame that they are sometimes wrong? True women make true men,--'tis always so; Yet careless touch may soil the purest snow, The shadows of the night may hide the sky, Yet still beyond them all the stars still lie.

Miscellaneous Poems.

To Longfellow.

The crown of stars is broken in parts, Its jewels brighter than the day, Have one by one been stolen away To shine in other homes and hearts. --[Hanging of the Crane.]

Each poem is a star that shines
Within your crown of light;
Each jeweled thought--a fadeless gem
That dims the stars of night.

A flower here and there, so sweet,
Its fragrance fills the earth,
Is woven in among the gems
Of proud, immortal birth.

Each wee Forget-me-not hath eyes
As blue as yonder skies,
To tell the world each song of thine
Is one that never dies.

The purple pansies stained with gold,
The roses royal red,
In softened splendor shadow forth
The truths thy life hath said.

Oh would the earth were filled with flowers
To crown thee poet-king!
And all the world unto thy feet
Its wealth of love could fling.

And would I were one lowly flower That fell beneath thy feet; That even in dying I might win One verse of music sweet.

The poet-heart doth hold the power
To thrill the hearts of men;
And though the chain is broken quite
It joins the links again.

No hand like thine can sweep the chords,
No heart like thine can sing;
The poet-world is full of song
And thou alone art king!

Oh would my eyes could see thy face
On which the glory shines!
And would my soul could trace the thought
That lies between the lines!

But though my eyes may never see,
My heart will worship still;
And at the fountain of thy song
My soul will drink its fill.

Thy crown of stars will never break,
Its circle is complete;
And yet each heart some gem will keep
To make its life more sweet.

The following autograph letter was received from the poet:

Dear Miss Sherrick:--I am much pleased and touched by the graceful and beautiful tribute you have paid me in your poem. I beg you to accept my best thanks for these kind words, and for the friendly expressions of your letter, which I have left too long unanswered. Pardon the delay and believe me with great regard,

Yours sincerely,

Henry W. Longfellow.

Tower Grove.

Oh tell me not of the lands so old Where the Orient treasures its hills of gold, And the rivers lie in the sun's bright rays Forever singing the old world's praise. Nor proudly boast of the gardens grand That spring to earth at a king's command; There are treasures here in the far great West That rival the hills on the Orient's crest.

Far from the sight of the dusty town Like a perfect gem in a golden crown, Lies a beautiful garden vast and fair, Where the wild birds sing in the evening air, And the dews fall down in a silent shower On the fragrant head of each beaming flower; While far and near o'er the land sun-kissed, Hangs the roseate veil of the sunset mist.

Under the shade of the western wall There's a glimmer of roses fair and tall, And the crimson heart of each royal flower Gleams purely forth from its leafy bower. There are things in this world too sweet to last, But we catch their grace ere the bloom is past, And the roses that die in the early morn In the garden of memory anew are born.

The dear little pansies, quaint and fair, Uplift their heads in the silent air; And the gleam of the purple tinged with gold Is as fair as the roses' velvety fold. There are tropical plants from the Southern seas Where the flowers sleep in the perfumed breeze; And the scent of the orange groves fill the air With a mystical incense rich and rare.

Like waxen buds in a leafy screen Magnolia blooms float in a sea of green; And their fragrance falls on the dewy air Like the breath of the tropics richly rare. And up from the South in the voiceless night Steals the scent of the blossoms pure and white, And one by one as the winds sweep by They shrink away, from that touch, to die.

There are trees and flowers from every clime Defying the scope of the poet's rhyme; There are beautiful lawns where the feet could rest, Unwilling to wander, forever blest; There are peaceful nooks where the soul might dwell Forever lost in a fadeless spell; But the tomb of the man who is great and wise Is the loveliest spot in this paradise.

And just to the south is a park so fair That the children of God love to wander there; And the emerald green of its winding ways Is flecked with the gold of the sun's last rays. There are statues, too, of the good and great, Who point on forever to Truth's wide gate, And the bronze and the green and the sun's red gold Are mingled at eve in a glory untold.

Immortal the name of the man shall be Who hath given these treasures so fair to see, And the grace of the flowers he loves so well The truth of his goodness forever shall tell. But fairer than all are the deeds of love That shine in God's temple of grace above; And Fame on her beautiful shadowless height Has woven his name in a glory of light.

A Shell.

Oh, take this shell, this pretty thing
With tinted waves of pearly red;
Hold close your ear and hear it sing,
Then tell me what its voice hath said.
A song of surges deep and strong,
A song of summer sweet and long,
A sound of storm and wind and rain,
A sound of joy--a glad refrain.

O plaything of the idle sea,
Whence come these changing tints of thine?
Have sunset clouds looked down on thee
And stained thee with their hues divine?
Oh, tell the secrets thou must know
Of clouds above and waves below;
Oh, whisper of the bending sky
And ocean caves where jewels lie.

O beauteous sea-shell, tinged with red,
What dost thou know; what canst thou tell?
Unto what mysteries are thou wed,
Thou fragile thing, thou pearly shell?
A whisper of the sounding sea;
A sweep of surges strong and free;
A tale of life--a tale of death;
A warm, bright sin--an icy breath.

Ah, more than this, thou lovely shell,
Thy years have gathered from the deep!
And, more than this, thy voice can tell
Of things learned in that ocean sleep.
A grave within the lonely sea;
A spot where love can never be;
A place where tears may never fall;
A lonely grave--and that is all.

Two Pictures.

A beautiful form and a beautiful face, A winsome bride and a woman's grace, So fair and sweet it were heaven indeed For man to follow where she would lead.

A web of lace and a jeweled hand, And life is changed by a golden band; A dream of love and a wealth of gold-- The old new story once more is told.

A wealth of flowers and a robe of snow, A beauteous woman with cheeks aglow; A train of satin that sweeps the floor-- And life is altered forevermore.

A beautiful scene on this Christmas eve, Where all could linger and none could grieve, A dazzling vision of wealth and pride, A royal feast and a happy bride.

But turn your steps to the lonely street, Where fierce winds mutter and wild storms beat; And come with me to the haunts of woe Where life is a burden and hopes are low.

Look on this woman, so thin and white; You close your eyes--'tis a dreadful sight; But shudder not--she is cold and dead-- And died, oh men! for a CRUST OF BREAD.

So young and hopeless, oh! God above, With none to comfort and none to love; A tortured soul and a hungry cry That rang unheard through the stormy sky.

While, oh! so near in the gloomy night Lay rescue and love and warmth and light; And oh! so near to the longing eyes, There gleamed the bright depths of a paradise.

Oh! look on this picture, thou fair young bride, For one poor morsel of bread she died; One glittering gem from your breast or hair, Could have saved this woman who lieth there.

One costly spray of your flowers bright Could have bought the food that she craved this night; One drop of love from your boundless store Her soul could have saved forevermore.

Oh, sadd'ning picture, this Christmas eve,-- For thy sad story the angels grieve; To think in this city of wealth and might A woman perished for BREAD, this night.

The Queen-Rose--A Summer Idyl.

The sunlight fell with a golden gleam On the waves of the rippling rill; The pansies nodded their purple heads; But the proud queen-rose stood still. She loved the light and she loved the sun, And the peaceful night when the day was done, But the faithless sun in his careless way Had broken her heart on that summer's day.

She had bathed her soul in his warm sweet, rays, She had given her life to him; And her crimson heart--it was his alone-- Of love it was full to the brim. But a fairer bud in the garden of love Had conquered the heart of the king above; And the proud queen-rose on that summer's day Had given a love that was thrown away.

The pansies laughed in the summer breeze, For they were so happy and free; And the lilies swayed in the waving grass, Like sails on an emerald sea. But the sun glanced down with a mocking light, And the heart of the rose stood still at the sight, For never again with its love for him Would her crimson heart be filled to the brim.

"Ah me!" she sighed, as she drooped her head, "How vain is my haughty will; I sought to mate with the sun above, But lo! I am mortal still. I envy the pansy that nods at my feet, For though she is lowly, her life is sweet; And I envy the lily, for she is glad, And knows not the longings that make me sad."

A maiden sat where the pansies grew, In a golden shower of light; And she heard the words of the sighing rose, Borne near in the wind's swift flight. "Ah, rose!" she cried, "I am like to you; There's never a heart in this world that's true; I yielded a love that's thrown away, And I'm weary of life on this summer's day.

"But listen, my rose, and I'll tell you, sweet, The lesson I learned to-day; There's never a heart in this wide, wide world That was born to be thrown away. The sun may smile as he sails away In the depths of his azure seas for aye; But the rose that blooms in the garden of love, Is as fair as the sun to our God above.

"The smallest flower that slakes her thirst In the dews of the early morn, Is as great as the stars in heaven above, The greatest that ever was born. The love we give on this earth of ours Is treasured in heaven through all the hours, And the crimson heart of the proud queen-rose Is as fair a gem as the earth-land knows."

The queen-rose listened and held her breath As the maiden passed her by, And then, with a grace that was fearless and grand She lifted her face to the sky. And never again, when the day was done, Did she long for the love of the golden sun; For the lesson she learned on that summer's day Lay deep in her heart forever and aye.

Twin Lilies.

Twin lilies in the river floating,
Two lilies pure and white;
And one is pale and faintly drooping,
The other glad and bright.

Twin lilies in the silvery waters,
Two lilies white and frail;
And one is ever laughing gladly,
The other, still and pale.

Upon the peaceful gleaming waters,
They linger side by side;
And one, her head is drooping sadly;
The other glows with pride.

Twin stars are o'er the river beaming,
Two stars with silvery light;
And now they look with glances loving
Upon the lilies white.

Two lilies now are drooping lowly
Unto the river tide;
While in the wave the stars reflected
Are floating side by side.

And now the stars are bending slowly
To kiss the lilies white;
Who e'en their fragrant heads are lifting
In wonder at the sight.

And one twin lily now is longing
For light and heaven above;
And yields unto her star-king's keeping
Her wealth of life and love.

And as the star-god bends in rapture
To kiss her pale, white face,
Her soul is wafted into heaven
Beneath his love and grace.

Twin lilies in the tide were floating,
With quickly coming breath,
But one is left, with sad tears falling,
To mourn her sister's death.

Twin stars upon the waves were gleaming;
Two star-gods pure and bright;
But one is left--that one is fading
And dying with the night.

Memory

A treasured link of shining pearls,
A by-gone melody,
A shower of tears with smiles between--
And this is memory.
A thing so light a breath of air
May waft its life away;
A thing so dark that moments of pain
Seem like some endless day.

A careless word may wound the heart,
And quickly it may die;
Yet in the seas of memory
Forever it will lie.
And sometimes when the tide rolls back
Its waves of joy and pain,
That careless word, though long forgot,
Will wound the heart again.

The restless seas of memory
Are vast and deep and wide;
And every deed that we can know
Sleeps in that tireless tide.
Upon the thoughtless lives of men
Its waves in mockery roll;
And sweep a might of bitter pain
Across each human soul.

And few can stand upon the sands
Beside this boundless sea,
And say with calm unfaltering voice
"It has no grief for me."
The passing wave may bear away
Our deeds and words untrue;
Yet surely as the tide comes in
The wrecks will follow too.

Moonlight.

Oh, what so subtle as the spell
The silvery moonlight weaves?
Oh, what so sad and what so glad,
And what so soon deceives.

A vision of the long ago--
Long years of pain between;
A mocking dream of happier days--
A veil of silver sheen.

A passing gleam of falling stars--
An idle summer's dream;
The sudden waking of a heart--
Things are not as they seem.

Oh, silver moon, indeed you hold
The secrets of the heart;
And none can know and none can guess
The mystery of thy art.

A silver length of rippling waves,
A glance from happy eyes;
A strain of music low and sweet--
The heart in rapture lies.

Yet, ah, how faithless are the vows
Made 'neath the summer moon;
As changing as the falling rays
That fade away as soon.

For love is like the subtle spell The sliver moonlight weaves; And what so sad and what so glad And what so soon deceives?

The Star of Youth.

The sun sinks down in the crimson west,
Oh, a beautiful sun is he;
With his purple robes and his crown of gold
And his feet dipped in the sea.

Along the shore where the sea-weeds lie
Like threads of her tangled hair,
Naomi stands in the amber glow
Of the mystical sunset air.

Her hair is brown, with a yellow tinge
That rivals the gold of the west;
Her eyes are dark with the velvety glow
That darkens the pansy's breast.

A star shines out in the purple east,
Oh, a beautiful star is he!
With his home in the wonderful azure skies,
And his throne in the deep blue sea.

There are bars of gold in the crimson west
And jewels on every bar;
Yet Naomi's soul is beyond the sea,
And her eyes are fixed on the star.

O star that shines in the dusky east,
Be thou the star of my youth,
And guide my soul through the shadows of earth
To the shining gates of truth.

There are years that melt in the seas of life
Like drops in the ocean of time;
And the joys they bring are as soon forgot
As the words of a careless rhyme.

Be thou the light that shall guide me far
From the years that vanish as rain,
And lead my soul to the feet of God,
Even through years of pain.

The Day is Dead.

The day is dead,
And evening trails her purple robes
In fading fires of red.

The day is dead.
And yonder lily welcomes sleep
And nods her weary head.

The day is dead,
And night droops low her sable plumes
To mourn the glory fled.

My Queen.

A fair sweet blossom is born for you, A beautiful rose, my queen! And never was flower so fair as this, Oh, never so fair, I ween! A banner is hung in the western sky Of colors that flash ere they fade and die; And the rippling waves where the waters run Are stained with the gold of the summer sun; The world is so fair for you, my queen, The world is so fair and true; And the rose that blossoms to-day, my own, Is the love that I have for you.

The grasses that spring at your feet, my queen, Could whisper all day in your ear; But I stand dumb at your side, my own, Stilled by my love's own fear. Oh, what would you know of my love's sweet will The heart speaks most when the lips are still; And the love that is filling my soul to-day Is the beautiful blossom you throw away. But I worship you still, my queen, my queen, I worship you still, I ween; For the loveliest blossom on earth I know Is my beautiful love, my queen!

The Song of the Brook.

Oh, what would you have, you splendid sun,
With your restless eyes of fire?
And why do you lean o'er the lilies pale?
What more can your heart desire?

You've crimsoned the rays in the heart of the rose,
You've drunk up the dewdrops all;
And down in the meadows your golden light
Has gilded the daisies tall.

The thirsty flowers that grow on the hill
Have given their lives to you;
And what do you care, you restless sun,
As you sail through your seas of blue?

Your rays are so warm, like the glances of love,
The lily is mad with delight;
And whispers her secret with silent joy,
As she kisses my face in the night.

What more can you want, O eager sun?
I've given my all to you;
I've counted my treasures and claimed them not,
What more can I ever do?

But, eager sun, with your restless rays,
Know this, that I love not you;
For the sun that knoweth a world of loves
To one can never be true.

Night.

'Tis eventide; the noisy brook is hushed Or murmurs only as a tired child, Worn out with play; the tangled weeds lie still Within the marshy hollow. Quaint and dark The willows bend above the brooklet's tide, Reflecting shadowy images therein. The dark-browed trees, with faces to the sky, Shut out the light that fades in crimson lines Along the western sky. And yonder shade Of purple marks the cloud, the storm-god rides In moods of angry fire.

The woods are filled With wild-wood blossoms drinking in the dew. Their scented breath is sweeter than the maid's Who stands at eve and drinks in love and hope From every budding flower.

All day the sun With fiery breath has held his hot, long reign; The leaves have quivered 'neath his burning gaze, And all the flowers have drooped; yet now the moon, His pale young bride, awaking from her spell Of sweet day dreams, arises in the dusky East, And sweeping back the clouds that dim her crown Of stars, floods all the world with holy light.

Oh, welcome night! the flowers love their queen! Yea, better than their king, for he is fierce And warm, and drinks the jeweled dew-drops all. Her hand is cool and soothing! 'neath its spell They sink to restful slumber.

Bless'd night! When all he world's asleep, and thought can fly On tireless wings from sky to sky, when, free From earthly chains, the soul immortal feels Its throbbing freedom.

Bless'd night! When God looks down from every shining star, And breathes in every dew-gemmed flower, when faith From her rock-bound temple on the hills His everlasting glory sings! Oh, welcome night! Thy beauty holds the spell that wakes to life All things immortal. Crowned be thou with light Eternal as the sun whose radiance wakes the day.

Sounds from the Convent.

"Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast and demure."

-- [Milton]

White-robed nun, I pray thee tell me
Whatsoe'er my life shall be;
Thou of God art purely chosen,
Ne'er can I be like to thee.

There is sunlight in the shadow
Of the lives we live below;
There is starlight in the darkness
Of the night of human woe.

Yet I pray thee, sweet-voiced woman,
Tell me of thy life and thee;
Can the soul to heaven given
Yield its secrets unto me?

Nevermore the earth shall claim thee,
Only lilies bloom for thee;
All the world is full of beauty
That thy eyes may never see.

On the hill the daisies springing,
Lift their heads to greet the morn;
Yet thou mayest not pluck the smallest
Of these blossoms lately born.

Violets may bring no memories
Unto thee of days gone by;
Summer eves and joyous mornings--
In the grave these, too, must die.

Long ago, the roses drooping,
Crimson blushed and died for thee;
Yet to-day no more thou know'st them,
They are lost in Life's dead sea.

Oh, the world is full of beauty!
Oh, the world is full of love!
Yet the chains that bind thee earthward,
Link thy soul with Heaven above.

Through the windows creeps the sunlight,
Rays of gold and restless red;
Covering all the world with glory,
Sweetly resting on thy head.

Would my life were crowned with sunlight,
Would my soul was pure as thine!
Then the world no more would know me,
Earth were Heaven, and Heaven were mine.

The Lake.

A limpid lake, a diamond gem,
The moonbeams kissed with light;
And all the stars that heaven knew
Were mirrored in the night.

How fair the world, how fair the night,
When lake and river run
Like jeweled streams of fairy land
Beneath a silver sun.

The lake grew proud and claimed each star
That lay upon her breast;
"Ah! they are mine," she said; "these gems
That in my bosom rest.

"And yonder moon, that sails on high,
Doth shine for me alone;
Beneath the foam that crests my waves
Is built her silver throne."

A star-king knelt and kissed the waves
That swept the shadowed shore;
"Our moon is queen of heaven," he said,
"Is queen forevermore.

A thousand lakes are hers by night,
A thousand lakes of light;
A thousand rivers kiss her feet,
A thousand rivers bright.

"Then be not vain, thou lakelet small,
The moon is not for thee;
Her home is in the river wide,
Her throne is in the sea."

The bright waves swept the silent shore,
The star-king crept away;
Yet calm and fair, still unconvinced,
The lake in silence lay.

The moon, that swept her silvery light
Far o'er the waters wide,
Belonged to her, and all the stars
That floated side by side.

Ah! silver lake, too well we know
How like we are to thee;
A thousand truths are in the world
That we may never see!

Life.

A dewy flower, bathed in crimson light, May touch the soul--a pure and beauteous sight; A golden river flashing 'neath the sun, May reach the spot where life's dark waters run; Yet, when the sun is gone, the splendor dies, With drooping head the tender flower lies. And such is life; a golden mist of light, A tangled web that glitters in the sun; When shadows come, the glory takes its flight, The treads are dark and worn, and life is done. Oh! tears, that chill us like the dews of eve, Why come unbid--why should we ever grieve? Why is it, though life hath its leaves of gold, The book each day some sorrow must unfold! What human heart with truth can dare to say No grief is mine--this is a perfect day? Oh! poet, take your harp of gold and sing, And all the earth with heavenly music fill! You may do this, yet song can never bring One sunbeam back, let song be what it will. Oh! painter, you can catch the glowing light That tints the skies before the coming night; With throbbing heart and upward lifted eyes, You paint the splendor of the purple skies; Yet tell me, does your genius hold the key To life's strange secrets and its mystery? Oh! life is sad, yet sunshine, too, is there; We cannot tell what spell the years may weave-- Perchance a song that dies upon the air-- Perhaps a shadow that the sun doth leave.

A Memory.

Amid my treasures once I found
A simple faded flower;
A flower with all its beauty fled,
The darling of an hour.

With bitterness I gazed awhile,
Then flung it from my sight;
For with it all came back to me
the pain and heedless blight.

But, moved with pity and regret
I took it up again;
For oh, so long and wearily
In darkness it had lain.

Ah, purple pansy, once I kissed
Your dewy petals fair;
For then, indeed, I had no thought
Of earthly pain or care.

Your faded petals now I touch
With sacred love and awe;
For never will my heart kneel down
To earthly will or law.

Your velvet beauty still is dear,
Though faded now you seem;
You drooped and died, yet still you are
The symbol of my dream.

Sweet, modest flower, tinged with gold,
A lesson you have said;
Your purple glory, like my love,
Is faded now, and dead.

The Baby's Tear.

A tiny drop of crystal dew That fell from baby eyes of blue; A shining treasure, there it lay For grandma's love to wipe away.

A tear of sorrow, pure and meek It graced our darling's dimpled cheek; A gem so fair, that angels smiled And claimed the treasure undefiled.

A sunbeam came with winsome grace And chased the shadow from her face; A smile fell from its wings of light And baby eyes laughed at the sight.

The wee bright tear was kissed away, Yet in our hearts its sorrow lay; For like a shadow came the thought, With pain and sorrow life is wrought.

Oh, baby heart, what will you do When life's unrest is given you; And mother-love no more like this Each tear can banish with a kiss?

The love you brought, oh, baby dear, Is like the sunbeam passing near; A ray of light--a touch of gold To keep our hearts from growing old.

Then may thy life grow strong and sweet With mother-love to guide thy feet; And may the sunbeams ever chase Each shadow, darling from thy face.

Irene.

The years are slowly creeping on Beneath the summer sun; Yet, still in silent love and peace Our lives serenely run. Beyond the mist that veils the coming years I see no gathering clouds, nor falling tears.

Beside life's river we have stood And lingered side by side; Where royal roses bloomed and blushed And gleamed the lily's pride, And happily there we've plucked the sweet wild flowers while heedless passed away the sunny hours.

Irene, thy sunny face is lit With all the hope of youth; God grant thy heart may never know Aught but the purest truth. Keep in thy soul its faith and trusting love Until they e'en must bloom in heaven above.

Beside the river still we stay And swift the hours fly by; While low upon the fragrant banks The flowers silent lie. Yet, far beyond the mist, our longing eyes Still seek the gleaming walls of paradise.

Unrecorded.

The splendors of a southern sun
Caress the glowing sky;
O'er crested waves, the colors glance
And gleaming, softly die.
A gentle calm from heaven falls
And weaves a mystic spell;
A glowing grace that charms the soul--
Whose glory none can tell.

Oh, warm sweet treasures of a sun
Of endless fire and love;
Those dying embers are the flames
From heavenly fires above.
Unto the water's edge they creep
And bathe the seas in red;
Then die like shadows on the deep
With glory cold and dead.

A ship--a lone, dark wanderer
Upon the southern seas,
Speeds like a white-faced messenger
Before the dying breeze.
Her masts are tipped with amethyst,
A splendor all untold;
A crimson mantle wraps her round,
Her sails are made of gold.

The light wind dies--she slowly drifts,
Then stops--an idle thing;
While sunset clouds around her prow
A dreamy grandeur fling.
And eyes upon her deck look forth
With looks of longing pain;
A hundred sunsets they would give
Dear home to see again.

But see! a shadow as of night
Spreads o'er the crimson sky;
Like doomed and lifeless forms of earth
The clouds in heaven lie.
A silence falls--the ship stands still,
A fated thing of earth;
Then like a child of sin and wrong
The storm is given birth.

Oh! struggle well ye gallant crew
With storm and wind and wave;
For there are helpless women here
And children, too, to save.
Quick--sailors do your duty well--
And man the life-boats, too;
For soon the rocks will strand the ship,
And pierce her through and through.

See! like a woman turned to stone
A weeping mother stands;
Her heart seems like seems like some frozen thing--
She wrings her trembling hands;
Within her arms she holds a child
With frightened wond'ring eyes;
Below--the waters pitiless--
Above--the angry skies.

Beside her stands a fair young girl
With eyes that flash and quiver;
They are the only ones still left,
These three that moan and shiver.
But soon a voice shouts back the words--
Through all the deaf'ning roar:--
A strong hand grasps the trembling girl,
"There's room for just one more."

"Stay, stay," she cries with whitened face
"Why should I fear to die?
Oh, take this woman by my side,
Nor stay to question why.
She has a dear one 'mongst your crew,
She is a mother, too;
I am alone--I fear not death,
If this you'll only do."

The sailor grasped the mother's hand,
She turned and kissed the maid;
The tears of pity filled her eyes
Yet not one word she said.
The maiden stood with outstretched hands,
All hope indeed was gone;
And yet she stood with fearless heart,
Undaunted and alone.

"Oh, God, the heart that knows your love
Will never need to fear;
A priceless gem lies on my face,
The mother's grateful tear."
The lightnings swept across the ship,
The darkness wrapped her round;
Above the thunder of the storm,
There came no other sound.

The morning broke--the storm had fled,
The wreck was washed away;
And calmly now as yesterday
The sea in splendor lay.
The noble heart that throbbed with life
Lay fathoms deep below:
And what lies buried in that heart
The waves alone can know.

Beatrice Cenci.

O beautiful woman, too well we know The terrible weight of thy woman's woe, So great that the world, in its careless way, Remembered thy beauty for more than a day. In the name of the truth from thy brow is torn The crown of redemption thou long hast worn, And into the valley of sin thou art hurled To be trampled anew by the feet of the world.

The beautiful picture is thine no more That hangs in the palace on Italy's shore; The tear-stained eyes where the shadow lies, Like a darksome cloud in the summer skies, Will tell thy story to men no more, For all untrue is the tale of yore; And the far-famed picture that hangs on the wall Is a painter's fancy--that is all.

Italia's shore is a land of light Where the sunlight of day drowns the shadows of night; And the great warm sun with his golden rays Imprisons the light of eternal days; But the tale of thy woes is a shadow there That fills with its horror the perfumed air.

By day and by night in the palace there, Thy picture has hung with its face so fair; Beguiling the travelers come from afar With its sad, sweet grace, like some voiceless star, Till the hears that shuddered before thy sin Recalled not the shadow that lay within, But remembered only with pitying grace The hopeless grief on the child-like face.

The rosy dawn with its misty light, Shone fair on thy brow in the morning bright; And the glittering noon with its rays of gold Imprisoned thy soul in its jeweled hold.

Oh, fair was the picture at early dawn, With the matchless beauty that Guido had drawn; And fair was the face in the noon of gold, Touched with a glory that never grew old.

But lovelier still in the shadowed eyes Lay the burning sunset of Italy's skies; And the beautiful face with its voiceless woe Grew fair as a saint's in the crimson glow. No wonder the poets grew wild at the sight, And sung of thy beauty with mad delight, Till the fame of the picture spread over the land, Revealing the touch of its master-hand.

The fair Madonna with saint-like face, Creation of Raphael's exquisite grace, Is scarcely more famed than the child-like head Of thou to whom sorrow forever is wed. O beautiful woman, the world with its scorn Will mock at the glory thou long hast worn, And rend aside in the name of the truth The veil of mercy that hides thy youth. But the romance that clings to the wondrous face Will fall on our hearts with a softened grace, And the fair young sinner on Italy's shore Will be loved and pitied forevermore.

Under the Stars.

Under the stars, when the shadows fall, Under the stars of night; What is so fair as the jeweled crown Of the azure skies, when the sun is down, Beautiful stars of light!

Under the stars, where the daisies lie Lifeless beneath the snow; Lovely and pure, they have lived a day, Silently passing forever away, Lying so meek and low.

Under the stars in the long-ago-- Under the stars to-night; Life is the same, with its great unrest Wearily throbbing within each breast, Searching for truth and light.