Chapter II

Then, suddenly, through the mist that wrapped our sight,
An utterance fell, as of great waters flowing--
Slow, but with mightier accent ever growing
Around a blazing shaft of central light:
"Fallen! There is no downward plunge. The estate
Is high. Go!--roll thy plumb-line up, and ask
Thy Master for His measures, as the task
Is one that would the heavens triangulate,"

And so were compassed life's fine agonies;
By ranging hopes, and longings cut adrift
From earth's unstable shores; by faiths that spanned
Illimitable wastes and wrecking seas;
By noble strands of nature, scattered swift
From the white fingers of God's spacious hand.

The Hidden Scar

No blow, no threat, no movement of the hand.
No word burst from the leash of calm control,
Betraying passions slumbering in the soul;
But friendship's added years could not withstand
A curve that rose unbidden and unplanned
From the flexed silence of the lips--a dart
That struck, rending the texture of the heart,
And, entering deeper, seared like a brand.

Some years have passed. To-day, no lure of mine
Restores the confidence he gave of old;
The outer court of strangers with its forms
Of soulless exchange--there we meet. The shrine
Within where sacred fires once burned is cold,
And love no more the ashen altar warms.

Evening

So calm the air; the sunset's dying beat
Wafts slowly to me from the distant brim
Of silent waters; evening shadows dim
Press close the day's spent hours, loath to greet
The veiled advance of night; slumbering sweet
The stillness as the purple threads the rim
Of yonder crimson, preluding a hymn
Of choral wavelets silvering at my feet.

O restful solitude! Here life's frail trust
Grows, nurtured near the heart of mystery,
Expands into fruition, from the clod
Of cynic trappings, orbs to symmetry--
The place where light strikes through Time's circling dust,
And reverent hush attends the tread of God.

In a Beloved Home

(_To W. H. G._)

Without, the heavy vapors in an endless train
Along the river's gorge drag wearily.
Autumn has fled, and winter's mastery
Takes votive tribute from his white domain;
The Northern winds unleashed bring in the rain
Which, blending at the night's austerity,
Turns into hail and white-flaked fantasy
That weirdly haunt the streaming window-pane.

Within, a peace that only heaven sends
To men who, pilgrims though they be, yet know
Life's simple gifts--a home, the heart of friends,
The company of the past; a fragrant briar;
All these were ours, for in the hearth's rich glow
Even Hamlet came and brooded on the fire.

The Conclusion of "Rachel"

(_A story of the sea_)

IN MEMORY OF R. S. LE D.

* * * * *

The breeze, that with the morn had freshened up,
Now with the mid-day died. Far to the east,
The horizon, clear at dawn, slowly withdrew,
Its lines dissolving moodily in mist.
The after hours grew still in sullen peace,
Save where the ground-swell, uttering a weird note,
Broke the dead silence. Soon (a globe of fire
Behind a bank of smoke that thickened fast
Against a dull circumference of grey)
The moon arose, and tongueless vapors stole
Heavily athwart the sea. Within her home
The widow sat alone, peering afar
Through the raised window at the distant point
Round which the vessel in the morning sailed.
She sat, her long, thin fingers intertwined
And resting in her lap, and now and then
With drooping head she prayed, or seemed to pray,
Though neither words nor sound escaped her lips.
There she remained until the smaller hours
Had passed; then took her lamp and went to bed--
And yet more from the habit of the night
Than from the weary willingness of sleep.
Later than usual did the morning break;
The drops were splashing on the window-pane;
A heavy fog came drifting down the shore,
Shrouding both sea and land. The dread North-East
Was hoisting forth the signals of her power
In scurrying fog, and intermittent gusts
Of rain. The shoremen, hurrying to the beach,
Pulled high and dry their boats, and ran their skiffs
To safer moorings, well inside the bar.
Another night, and still the blast increased
Its power, tearing, lifting cottage roofs,
But nowhere did it make completer ruin
Than in the heart of Rachel. By the light
Of a small lamp she watched the weather glass,
And saw how, as she tapped it every hour,
The dark line sank. It was now, she thought, the ship
Had reached the weltering tide-rips off Cape Race.
Would the frail timbers stand the shock of waves?
And how avoid the reefs when neither moon
Nor stars gave to the compass friendly aid?
There seemed no limit to the rising scale
Through which the tempest climbed. At times it paused
To speak with tragic whisperings that clutched
The widow's pulse, and then with fearful shriek
It filed her nerve, while from the distant seas
There came long, whistling interludes of death.
Another morning came. The fog had blown
Away, and through the rift of clouds that massed
The eastern vault, the fitful sunlight gleamed
Upon white billows that a thousand leagues
Had come, and now with jealous leap sought heights
Unscalable, save to the petrel's wings.
A week passed by with heavy-shodden feet;
The hours seemed weighted with unnatural calm,
So different from the lightsome, freshening stir
That follows in the usual wake of gales.
Summer had taken leave, and yet the air
Seemed bashful of the fall, for every day
Mirrored the one before, as if the storm
Had over-wrought its ends, and paralyzed
The will of nature for the season's change.
The village-folk again commenced their work,
Rebuilding stages which the wind had wrecked
And littered round the beach; but work was done
By hands scarce conscious of the task, for thought
Was dazed, and eyes saw nothing but the sea.
So Rachel moved within her home. Some friends
Had come to see her, and had gone away,
Saying among themselves how old she looked.
How wan her face, and how her hair had turned
Within so short a time to ashen grey.
A picture of her son hung on the wall,
A boy of three within his father's arms.
How often had she, in the earlier years
Following her husband's death, gazed on the face,
And mused upon the likeness of the two.
And now each night she got up from her bed,
Lighted the lamp and held it near the frame,
While questionings beat sorely at her heart,
Notes of despair unuttered by the lips:
Was this, then, after all, the goal of years--
The end for which the lad was born, had lived,
Had grown, for which by night and day she strove,
The guerdon of life's vigils, and the crown
Of Love's recordless givings? Nor was left
The mother's ancient right, inalienable,
To challenge death within the last great hour,
And from his hands to wrest the life she loved.
There flashed now through her mind, as every time
She looked upon his face, a night long past,
When croup had racked his frame--when she had fought
Death with a woman's courage as she watched
The cradle's tiny heavings, till the dawn
Revealed the cooling moisture on the brow,
And told her she had won. In that high test
She well remembered how her rising strength
Could pit itself against the Adversary,
Emerge, though weakened with the night's long fight,
Triumphant, glad, rejoicing with the morn.
Absorbed now with the picture and the past,
She gazed so long that now and then the boy
Seemed to her wondering eye to stir, and smile,
And move his lips as if he wished to speak,
And for a passing moment did a hope
Flicker a feeble path across her breast,
That the black menace of the past few days
Might prove the hideous phantom of a dream,
When, sudden, through the night's dull gloom, a moan,
Escaping from the swell, smote on her ear,
And brought her thoughts back to the eastern storm.
At length, one morning, into port there sailed
A vessel from the harbor of St. John's;
Rounding the cape, she picked up here and there,
Tidings of wreckage all along the shore--
Remnants of spars and cordage, casks and planks,
And canvas rent in shreds. She brought a tale
That bore direct upon the village homes.
A naiad's head, carven in wood, was found,
Thrown high upon the reef, the self-same head
That marked the _Swallow's_ prow, and, lying near,
A plank that had the vessel's name inscribed.
Throughout the days and weeks following the storm
She often left her home to wander off,
Searching as if some object of her love
Had strayed upon the moor or on the beach.
At times she stood awhile and looked, with eyes
That somehow had forgotten how to weep,
Far out to sea. At times she made her way
Along the shore to where two beetling crags
Rose from their slippery base, as if they'd break
The waves with a last crash. There in the cleft,
With arms outstretched, she would implore the sea
Give up its dead, while the resurgent tides,
Upbraided, would creep guiltily away.
One evening, when the east winds blew, and rain
Fell chill upon her, there had come a friend
Who led her gently to her cottage home,
And through a long and restless night had stayed
In watchful ministry close by her bed,
Soothing the urge of hectic on her brow,
And answering with a voice instinct with peace,
The breaking, wayward fragments of her lips.
Another morn and sleep. With a white hand
The day was ushered in. The seams of pain
And arid loss which each awakening light
Had freely veined, now reappeared no more.
The fall's loud blast that whirled the senile leaves
Above the trees, she did not hear; nor sound
Of breaking seas, nor swirl of surge or foam.

A Fragment from a Story