Chapter I: Preface (1)

All through my busy years of prose writing I have occasionally jotted down idle thoughts in rhyme. Imagining ideal scenes, ideal characters, and then, as is the way, I suppose, with more ambitious poets, trying to put myself inside the personalities I have invoked, trying to feel as they would be likely to, speak the words I fancied they would say.

The many faults of my verses I can see only too well; their merits, if they have any, I leave with the public--which has always been so kind to me--to discover.

And half-hopefully, half-fearfully, I send out the little craft on the wide sea strewn with so many wrecks. But thinking it must be safer from adverse winds because it carries so low a sail, and will cruise along so close to the shore and not try to sail out in the deep waters.

And so I bid the dear little wanderer (dear to me), God-speed, and bon voyage.

Marietta Holley.

New York, June, 1887.

WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?

It is not the lark's clear tone Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry, Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night-- Not these alone Make the sweet sounds of summer; But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight-- These help to make the summer.

Not roses redly blown, Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads, Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare-- Not these alone Make the sweet sights of summer But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds And slender grasses, springing up everywhere-- These help to make the summer.

One heaven bends above; The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest; O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low, Is the same love, it is all God's summer; Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best, So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow, You help to make the summer.

THE BROTHERS.

High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand, From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their vassals--ruled the land. For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell, Last of their ancient line, two brothers here alone did dwell.

The eldest was stern-visaged, but the youngest smooth and fair Of countenance; both zealous, men who bent the knee in prayer To God alone; loved much, read much His holy word, And prayed above all gifts desired, that they might see their Lord.

For this the elder brother carved a silent cell of stone, And in its deep and dreary depths he entered, dwelt alone, And strove with scourgings, vigils, fasts, to purify his gaze, And sought amidst these shadows to behold the Master's face.

And from the love of God that smiles on us from bright lipped flowers, And from the smile of God that falls in sunlight's golden showers, That thrills earth's slumbering heart so, where its warm rays fall That it laughs out in beauty, turned he as from tempters all.

From bird-song running morn's sweet-scented chalice o'er with cheer, The child's light laughter, lifting lowliest souls heaven near, From tears and glad smiles, linked light and gloom of the golden day, He counting these temptations all, austerely turned away.

And thus he lived alone, unblest, and died unblest, alone, Save for a brother monk, who held the carved cross of stone In his cold, rigid clasp, the while his dying eyes did wear A look of mortal striving, mortal agony, and prayer.

Though at the very last, as his stiff fingers dropped the cross, A gleam as from some distant city swept his face across, The clay lips settled into calm--thus did the monk attest, A look of one who through much peril enters into rest.

Not thus did he, the younger brother, seek the Master's face; But in earth's lowly places did he strive his steps to trace, Wherever want and grief besought with clamorous complaint, There he beheld his Lord--naked, athirst, and faint.

And when his hand was wet with tears, wrung with a grateful grasp, He lightly felt upon his palm the Elder Brother's clasp; And when above the loathsome couch of woe and want bent he, A low voice thrilled his soul, "So have ye done it unto Me."

Despised he not the mystic ties of blood, yet did he claim The broader, wider brotherhood, with every race and name; To his own kin he kind and loyal was in truth, yet still, His mother and his brethren were all who did God's will

All little ones were dear to him, for light from Paradise Seemed falling on him through their pure and innocent eyes; The very flowers that fringed cool streams, and gemmed the dewy sod, To his rapt vision seemed like the visible smiles of God.

The deep's full heart that throbs unceasing against the silent ships, The waves together murmuring with weird, mysterious lips To hear their untranslated psalm, drew down his anointed ear, And listening, lo! he heard God's voice, to Him was he so near.

The happy hum of bees to him made summer silence sweet, Not lightly did he view the very grass beneath his feet, It paved His presence-chamber, where he walked a happy guest, Ah! slight the veil between, in very truth his life was blest.

And when on a still twilight passed he to the summer land, Those whom he had befriended, weeping, clinging to his hand, The west gleamed with a sudden glory, and from out the glow Trembled the semblance of a crown, and rested on his brow.

And with wide, eager eyes he smiled, and stretched his hands abroad, As if his dearest friend were welcoming him to his abode; Eternal silence sealed that wondrous smile as he cried-- "Thy face! Thy face, dear Lord!" and, saying this, he died.

But legends tell that on his grave fell such a strange, pure light, That wine-red roses planted thereupon would spring up white, Holding such mystic healing in their cool snow bloom, that lain On aching brows or sorrowful hearts, they would ease their pain.

A RICH MAN'S REVERIE.

The years go by, but they little seem Like those within our dream; The years that stood in such luring guise, Beckoning us into Paradise, To jailers turn as time goes by Guarding that fair land, By-and-By, Where we thought to blissfully rest, The sound of whose forests' balmy leaves Swaying to dream winds strangely sweet, We heard in our bed 'neath the cottage eaves, Whose towers we saw in the western skies When with eager eyes and tremulous lip, We watched the silent, silver ship Of the crescent moon, sailing out and away O'er the land we would reach some day, some day.

But years have flown, and our weary feet Have never reached that Isle of the Blest; But care we have felt, and an aching breast, A lifelong struggle, grief, unrest, That had no part in our boyish plans; And yet I have gold, and houses, and lands, And ladened vessels a white-winged fleet, That fly at my bidding across the sea; And hats are doffed by willing hands As I tread the village street; But wealth and fame are not to me What I thought that they would be.

I turn from it all to wander back With Memory down the dusty track Of the years that lie between, To the farm-house old and brown, Shaded with poplars dusky green, I pause at its gate, not a bearded man, But a boy with earnest eyes.

I stand at the gate and look around At the fresh, fair world that before me lies. The misty mountain-top aglow With love of the sun, and the pleasant ground Asleep at its feet, with sunny dreams Of milk-white flowers in its heart, and clear The tall church-spire in the distance gleams Pointing up to the tranquil sky's Blue roof that seems so near.

And up from the woods the morning breeze Comes freighted with all the rich perfume That from myriad spicy cups distils, Loitering along o'er the locust-trees. Scattering down the plum-trees' bloom In flakes of crimson snow-- Down on the gold of the daffodils That border the path below.

And the silver thread of the rivulet Tangled and knotted with fern and sedge. And the mill-pond like a diamond set In the streamlet's emerald edge; And over the stream on the gradual hill, Its headstones glimmering palely white, Is the graveyard quiet and still. I wade through its grasses rank and deep, Past slanting marbles mossy and dim, Carven with lines from some old hymn, To one where my mother used to lean On Sunday noons and weep. That tall white shape I looked upon With a mysterious dread, Linking unto the senseless stone The image of the dead-- The father I never had seen; I remember on dark nights of storm, When our parlor was bright and warm, I would turn away from its glowing light, And look far out in the churchyard dim, And with infinite pity think of him Shut out alone in the dismal night.

And the ruined mill by the waterfall, I see again its crumbling wall, And I hear the water's song. It all comes back to me-- Its song comes back to me, Floating out like a spirit's call The drowsy air along; Blending forever with my name Wonderful prophecies, dreamy talk, Of future paths when I should walk Crowned with manhood, and honor, and fame.

I shut my eyes and the rich perfume Of the tropical lily fills the room From its censer of frosted snow; But it seems to float to me through the night From those apple-blossoms red and white That starred the orchard's fragrant gloom; Those old boughs hanging low, Where my sister's swing swayed to and fro Through the scented aisles of the air; While her merry voice and her laugh rung out Like a bird's, to answer my brother's shout, As he shook the boughs o'er her curly head, Till the blossoms fell in a rosy rain On her neck and her shining hair. Oh, little Belle! Oh, little sister, I loved so well; It seems to me almost as if she died In that lost time so gay and fair, And was buried in childhood's sunny plain; And she who walks the street to-day, Or in gilded carriage sweeps through the town Staring her humbler sisters down, With her jewels gleaming like lucent flame, Proud of her grandeur and fine array, Is only a stranger, who bears her name.

And the little boy who played with me, Hunting birds'-nests in sheltered nooks, Trudging at nightfall after the cows, Exploring the barn-loft, fording the brooks, Ending, in school-time, puzzled brows Over the same small lesson books; Who knelt by my side in the twilight dim, Praying "the Lord our souls to keep," Then on the same pillow fell asleep, Hushed by our mother's evening hymn; Whose heart and mine kept such perfect time, Such loving cadence, such tender rhyme, Blent in child grief, and perfected in glee-- We meet on the street and we clasp the hand, And our names on charitable papers stand Side by side, and we go and bow Our two gray heads with prayer and vow, In the same grand church, and hasty word Of anger, has never our bosoms stirred. Yet a whole wide world is between us now; How broad and deep does the gulf appear Between the hearts that were so near!

I have pleasure grounds and mansions grand, Low-voiced servants come at my call, From Senate my name sounds over the land In "ayes" and "nays" so solemnly read; They call me "Honorable," "General," and all, But to-night I am only Charley again, I am Charley, and want to lay my head On my mother's heart and rest, With her soft hand pressed upon my brow Curing its weary pain. But never, nevermore will it be, For mould and marble rises now Between my head and that loving breast; And death has a cruel power to part-- Forever gone and lost to me That true and tender heart.

Oh, mother, I've never found love like thine, Never have eyes looked into mine With such proud love, such perfect trust. Never have hands been so true and kind, To lead me into the path of right-- Hands so gentle, and soft, and white, That on my head like a blessing lay, And led me a child and guided my youth; To-night 'tis a dreary thought, in truth, That those gentle hands are dust. That I may be blamed, and you not be sad, That I may be praised, and you not be glad; 'Tis a dreary thought to your boy to-night, That over your sweet smile, over your brow, The clay-cold turf is pressing now, That never again as the twilight falls You will welcome your boy to the old brown walls Of the homestead far away.

The homestead is ruined--gone to decay, But we read of a house not made with hands, Whose firm foundation forever stands; And there is a twilight soft and sweet. Will she not stand with outstretched hands My homesick eyes to meet-- To welcome her boy as in days before, To home, and to rest, forevermore?

But the years come and the years go, And they lay on her grave as they silently pass, Red summer buds and wreaths of snow, And springing and fading grass. And far away in an English town, In the secluded, tranquil shade Of an old Cathedral quaint and brown, Another grave is made-- A small grave, yet so high It shadowed all the world to me, And darkened earth and sky. But only for a time; it passed, The unreasoning agony, Like a cloud that drops its rain; And light shone into our hearts at last. And patience born of pain. And now like a breath of healing balm The sweet thought comes to me, That my child has reached the Isle of Calm, Over the silent sea-- That my pure little Blanche is safe in truth, Safe in immortal beauty and youth.

When she left us in the twilight gloom, When she left her empty nest, And the aching hearts below; Full well, full well I know, What tender-eyed angel bent Down for my brown-eyed little bird, From the shining battlement. I know with what fond caressing, And loving smile and word, And look of tender blessing, She took her to her breast, And led her into some quiet room, In the mansions of the blest. Oh, mother, beloved, oh, child so dear, Not by a wish, would I lure you here.

My son is a bright, brave boy, with a grace Of beauty caught from his mother's face, And his mother and he in truth are dear, Full tenderly, and fond, and near My heart is bound to my wife and child; But the summer of life is not its May, And dreams and hopes that our youth beguiled, Are but pallid forms of clay.

There's the boy's first love and passionate dream, A face like a morning star, a gleam Of hair the hue of a robin's wing-- Brown hair aglow with a golden sheen, And eyes the sweetest that ever were seen.

Mary, we have been parted long, You were proud, and we both were wrong, But 'tis over and past, no living gleam Can come again to the dear, dead dream. It is dead, so let it lie, But nothing, nothing can ever be Like that old dream to you or to me.

I think we shall know, shall know at last, All that was strange in all the past, Shall one day know, and shall haply see That the sorrows and ills, that with tears and sighs, We vainly endeavored to flee, Were angels who, veiled in sorrow's guise Came to us only to bless. Maybe we shall kneel and kiss their feet, With grateful tears, when we shall meet Their unveiled faces, pure and sweet, Their eyes' deep tenderness. We shall know, perchance, had these angels come Like mendicants unto a kingly gate When we sat in joy's royal state, We had barred them from our home. But when in our doorway one appears Clothed in the purple of sorrow's power, He will enter in, no prayers or tears Avail us in that hour. So what we call our pains and losses We may not always count aright, The rough bars of our heavy crosses May change to living light.

GLORIA THE TRUE.

Gayly a knight set forth against the foe, For a fair face had shone on him in dreams; A voice had stirred the silence of his sleep, "Go win the battle, and I will be thine."

So, for the love of those appealing eyes, Led by low accents of fair Gloria's voice, He wound the bugle down his castle's steep, And gayly rode to battle in the morn.

And none were braver in the tented field, Like lightning heralding the doomful bolt; The enemy beheld his snowy plume, And death-lights flashed along his glancing spear.

But in the lonesome watches of the night, An angel came and warned him with clear voice, Against high God his rash right arm was raised, Was rashly raised against the true, the right.

He strove to drown the angel voice with song And merry laughter with his princely peers; But still the angel bade him with clear voice, "Go join the ranks you rashly have opposed."

"Oh, Angel!" cried he, "they are few and weak, They may not stand before the press of knights;" But still the angel bade him with clear voice, "Go help the weak against the mighty wrong."

At last the words sunk deep within his heart, With god-like courage cried he out at last, "Oh, Gloria, beautiful, I can lose thee, Lose life and thee, to battle for the right."

And when he joined the brave and stalwart ranks, Like Saul amid his brethren he stood, Braver and seemlier than all his peers, And nobly did he battle for the right.

Gentlest unto the weak, and in the fray, So dauntless, none--no fear of man had he; He wrought dismay in Error's blackened ranks So nobly did he battle for the right.

But at the last he lay on a lost field; Couched on a broken spear, he pallid lay; With dying lips he murmured Gloria's name, "The field is lost, and thou art lost to me."

When lo! she stood beside him, pure and fair, With tender eyes that blessed him as he lay; And lo! she knelt and clasped his dying hands, And murmured, "I am thine, am thine at last."

With wondering eyes, he moaned, "All--all is lost, And I am dying." "Ah, not so," she cried, "Nothing is lost to him who dare be true; Who gives his life shall find it evermore."

"Methought I saw the spears beat down like grain, And the ranks reel before the press of knights; The level ground ran gory with our wounds; Methought the field was lost, and then I fell."

"Be calm," she cried, "the right is never lost, Though spear, and shield, and cross may shattered be, Out of their dust shall spring avenging blades That yet shall rid us of some giant wrong.

"And all the blood that falls in righteous cause, Each crimson drop shall nourish snowy flowers And quicken golden grain, bright sheaves of good, That under happier skies shall yet be reaped.

"When right opposes wrong, shall evil win? Nay, never--but the year of God is long, And you are weary, rest ye now in peace, For so He giveth His beloved sleep."

He smiled, and murmured low, "I am content," With blissful tears that hid the battle's loss; So, held to her true heart he closed his eyes, In quietest rest that ever he had known.

THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER.

The spare-room windows wide were raised,
And you could look that summer day
On pastures green, and sunny hills,
And low rills wandering away.
Near by, the square front yard was sweet
With rose and caraway.

Upon a couch drawn near the light, The Deacon's only daughter lay, Bending upon the distant hills Her eyes of dark and thoughtful gray; The blue veins on her forehead shone 'Twas wasted so away.

She moved, and from her slender hand
Fell off her mother's wedding-ring;
She smiled into her father's face--
"So drops from me each earthly thing;
My hands are free to hold the flowers
Of the eternal spring."

She had ever walked in quiet ways,
Not over beds of flowery ease,
But Sundays in the village choir
She sweetly sang of "ways of peace,"
Of "ways of peace and pleasantness,"
She trod such paths as these.

No sweeter voice in all the choir
Praised God in innocence and truth,
The Deacon in his straight-backed pew
Had dreams of her he lost in youth,
And thought of fair-faced Hebrew maids--
Of Rachel, and of Ruth.

But she had faded, day by day,
Growing more mild, and pure, and sweet,
As nearer to her ear there came
A distant sea's mysterious beat,
Till now this summer afternoon,
Its waters touched her feet.

Upon the painted porch without
Two women stood, and whispered low,
They thought "she'd go out with the day,"
They said, "the Deacon's wife went so."
And then they gently pitied him--
"It was a dreadful blow."

"But she was good, she was prepared,
She would be better off than here,"
And then they thought "'twas strange that he,
Her father, had not shed a tear,"
And then they talked of news, and all
The promise of the year.

Her father sat beside the bed,
Holding her cold hands tenderly,
And to the everlasting hills
He mutely turned his eyes away:
"My God, my Shelter, and my Rock,
Oh shadow me to-day!"

He knew not when she crossed the stream,
And passed into the land unseen,
So gently did she go from him
Into its pastures still and green;
Into the land of pure delight,
And Jordan rolled between.

Then knelt he down beside his dead,
His white locks lit with sunset's flame:
"My God! oh leave me not alone--
But blessed be Thy holy name."
The golden gates were lifted up
The King of Glory came.

SONGS OF THE SWALLOW.

SPRING.

The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
And this was the song--the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown
winged band,
Clear it arose, "Oh, follow me--come and follow--and follow."

A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden-gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
Were whispering to him, "Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
Before the bloom of the rose is the tender green of the leaf;
Not rash is he who wisely followeth patient Nature's ways,
The lily-bud of love should be swathed in a silken sheaf,
Unfolding at will to summer bloom in the warm and perfect days."

So silently sailed the early sun, through clouds of fleecy white;
So stood we in dreamy silence, enwrapped in a tender spell;
But the pulses of soft Spring air were quickened to fresh delight,
For I read in his eye the story sweet, he longed, yet feared
to tell;
It spoke from his heart to mine, and needed no word from his mouth,
And high o'er our heads rang out the happy song of the swallow;
It cried to the sunshine and beauty and bloom of the South,
Exultingly carolling clear, "Oh, follow me--oh, follow."

SPRING SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

Oh, the days are growing longer;
So rang the jubilant song of the swallow;
I come a-bringing beauty into the land,
The sky of the West grows warm and yellow,
Oh, gladness comes with my light-winged band,
And the days are growing longer.

Oh, the days are growing longer,
The wavy gleam of fluttering wings,
Touching the silent earth so lightly,
Will wake all the sleeping, beautiful things,
The world will glow so brightly--brightly;
And the days are growing longer.

Oh, the days are growing longer,
All the rivulets dumb will laugh, and run
Over the meadows with dancing feet;
Following the silvery plough of the sun,
Will be furrows filled with wild flowers sweet:
And the days are growing longer.

Oh, the days are growing longer;
Over whispering streams will rushes lean,
To answer the waves' soft murmurous call;
The lily will bend from its watch-tower green,
To list to the lark's low madrigal,
And the days are growing longer.

Oh, the days are growing longer;
When they lengthen to ripe and perfect prime,
Then, oh, then, I will build my happy nest;
And all in that pleasant and balmy time,
There never will be a bird so blest;
And the days are growing longer.

* * * * *

SUMMER.

Now sinks the Summer sun into the sea;
Sure never such a sunset shone as this,
That on its golden wing has borne such bliss;
Dear Love to thee and me.

Ah, life was drear and lonely, missing thee,
Though what my loss I did not then divine;
But all is past--the sweet words, thou art mine,
Make bliss for thee and me.

How swells the light breeze o'er the blossoming lea,
Sure never winds swept past so sweet and low,
No lonely, unblest future waiteth now;
Dear Love for thee and me.

Look upward o'er the glowing West, and see,
Surely the star of evening never shone
With such a holy radiance--oh, my own,
Heaven smiles on thee and me.

SUMMER SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

You will journey many a weary day and long, Ere you will see so restful and sweet a place, As this, my home, my nest so downy and warm, The labor of many happy and hopeful days; But its low brown walls are laid and softly lined, And oh, full happily now my rest I take, And care not I when it lightly rocks in the wind, For the branch above though it bends will never break; And close by my side rings out the voice of my mate--my lover; Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright--and Summer will last forever.

Now the stream that divides us from perfect bliss Seems floating past so narrow--so narrow, You could span its wave such a morn as this, With a moment winged like a golden arrow, And the sweet wind waves all the tasselled broom, And over the hill does it loitering come, Oh, the perfect light--oh, the perfect bloom, And the silence is thrilled with the murmurous hum Of the bees a-kissing the red-lipped clover; Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright--and Summer will last forever.

When the West is a golden glow, and lower The sun is sinking large and round, Like a golden goblet spilling o'er, Glittering drops that drip to the ground-- Then I spread my lustrous wings and cleave the air Sailing high with a motion calm and slow, Far down the green earth lies like a picture fair, Then with rapid wing I sink in the shining glow; A-chasing the glinting, gleaming drops; oh, a diver Am I in a clear and golden sea, and Summer will last forever.

The leaves with a pleasant rustling sound are stirred Of a night, and the stars are calm and bright; And I know, although I am only a little bird, One large serious star is watching me all the night, For when the dewy leaves are waved by the breeze, I see it forever smiling down on me. So I cover my head with my wing, and sleep in peace, As blessed as ever a little bird can be; And the silver moonlight falls over land and sea and river, And the nights are cool, and the nights are still, and Summer will last forever.

I think you would journey many and many a day, Ere you so contented and blest a bird would see; Not all the wealth of the world could lure my love away, For my brown little nest is all the world to me; And care not I if brighter bowers there are Lying close to the sun--where tall palms pierce the sky; Oh, you would journey a weary way and a far, Ere you would behold a bird so blest as I; And singing close to my side is my mate--my kin--my lover; Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright--and Summer will last forever.

* * * * *

AUTUMN.

Yes! yes! I dare say it is so, And you should be pitied, but how could I know, Watching alone by the moon-lit bay; But that is past for many a day, For the woman that loved, died years ago, Years ago.

She had loving eyes, with a wistful look In their depths that day, and I know you took Her face in your hands and read it o'er, As if you should never see it more; You were right, for she died long years ago, Years ago.

Had I trusted you--for trust, you know Will keep love's fire forever aglow; Then what would have mattered storm or sun, But the watching--the waiting, all is done; For the woman that loved, died years ago, Years ago.

Yes; I think you are constant, true and good, I am tired, and would love you if I could; I am tired, oh, friend, tired out; and yet, Can we make sweet morn of the dim sunset? The woman that loved, died years ago, Years ago.

Not a pulse of my heart is stirred by you, No; even your tears cannot move me now; So leave me alone, what is said is said, What boots your prayers, she is dead! is dead! The woman you loved, long years ago, Years ago.

AUTUMN SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

The sky is dark and the air is full of snow,
I go to a warmer clime afar and away;
Though my heart is so tired I do not care for it now,
But here in my empty nest I cannot stay;
Thus cried the swallow,
I go from the falling snow, oh, follow me--oh, follow.

One night my mate came home with a broken wing,
So he died; and my brood went long ago;
And I am alone, and I have no heart to sing,
With no one to hear my song, and I must go;
Thus cried the swallow,
Away from dust and decay, oh, follow me--oh, follow.

But I think I will never find so warm and safe a nest,
As my home, in the pleasant days gone by, gone by,
I think I shall never fold my wings in such happy rest,
Never again--oh, never again till I die;
Thus cried the swallow,
But I go from the falling snow, oh, follow me--oh, follow.

THE COQUETTE.

How can I be to blame?
Is it my fault I am fair?
I did not fashion my features,
Or brush the gold in my hair;
Because my eyes are so blue and bright,
Must I never look up from the ground,
But put out with my eyelids' snow their light,
Lest some foolish heart they should wound?

How can I be in fault?
I am sure where hearts are so few,
It is difficult to discern
The diamonds of paste from the true;
I thought him like all the rest,
Skilful in playing his part;
As careful at cards or at chess,
As winning a woman's heart.

I am sure it is nothing wrong,
Nothing to think of--and yet
I know I lured him with glance and song,
Into my shining net;
Provokingly cold at first he seemed,
Like crystal to smiles and sighs,
But at last he felt the magic that gleamed
In my dreamy violet eyes.

And I led him on and on,
Farther, in truth, than I strove,
For he frightened me with the earnestness
And violence of his love;
These calm-eyed men deceive--
Had I known the man had a heart,
I would have paused, I would, I believe,
Have acted a different part.

In his royal indignation
He uttered some wholesome truth--
He almost roused the emotion
That died in my innocent youth;
Emotion that lived when life was new,
Ere that man my pathway crossed,
Who played me a game untrue,
When I staked all my love, and lost.

Oh for a saintly beauty,
What efforts my soul did make;
I thought all goodness and purity
Were possible for his sake;
The world seemed born anew, my life
Such holy meaning wore,
I fancy so fair and fond a dream
Never fell into ruins before.

He toyed with my fresh affection
As he breathed the country air,
To refresh him after a season
Of fashion, and falsehood, and glare;
Had he not slain my tenderness,
Had my life been more sweet,
I might have known nobler happiness
Than to humble men to my feet.

But now I love to lure them on,
To make them slaves to my gaze,
Like serfs to a conqueror's chariot,
Like moths to a candle-blaze.
I melt most royally time, the pearl,
And quaff the cup like a queen,
And forget in the dizzy tumult and whirl,
The woman I might have been.

LITTLE NELL.

Clasp your arms round her neck to-night, Little Nell, Arms so delicate, soft and white, And yet so strong in love's strange might; Clasp them around the kneeling form, Fold them tenderly close and warm, And who can tell But such slight links may draw her back, Away from the fatal, fatal track; Who can tell, Little Nell?

Press your lips to the lips of snow, Little Nell; Oh baby heart, may you never know The anguish that makes them quiver so; But now in her weakness and mortal pain, Let your kisses fall like a dewy rain, And who can tell But your innocent love, your childish kiss May lure her back from the dread abyss; Who can tell, Little Nell.

Lay your cheek on her aching breast, Little Nell; To you 'tis a refuge of holy rest, But a dying bird never drooped its crest With a deadlier pain in its wounded heart; Ah! love's sweet links may be torn apart, Little Nell; The altar may flame with gems and gold, And splendor be bought, and peace be sold, But is it well, Little Nell?

Veil her face with your tresses bright, Little Nell; Hide that vision out of her sight-- Those dark dark eyes with their tender light-- Uplift your pure face, can it be She will bid farewell to heaven and thee, Little Nell? No; your mute lips plead with eloquent power, Her tears fall like a tropic shower; All is well, Little Nell.

Close your blue eyes now in sleep, Little Nell; Her angel smiles to see her weep; At morn a ship will cleave the deep, And one alone will be borne away, And one will clasp thee close, and pray; Oh Little Nell, Never, never beneath the sun, Will you dream what you this night have done, Done so well, Little Nell.

THE FISHER'S WIFE.

A long, low waste of yellow sand Lay shining northward far as eye could reach, Southward a rocky bluff rose high Broken in wild, fantastic shapes. Near by, one jagged rock towered high, And o'er the waters leaned, like giant grim, Striving to peer into the mysteries The ocean whispers of continually, And covers with her soft, treacherous face. For the rest, the sun was sinking low Like a great golden globe, into the sea; Above the rock a bird was flying In dizzy circles, with shrill cries, And on a plank floated from some wreck, With shreds of musty seaweed Clinging to it yet, a woman sat Holding a child within her arms; A sweet-faced woman--looking out to sea With dark, patient eyes, and singing to the child, And this the song she in the sunset sang:

Thine eyes are brown, my beauty, brown and bright,
Drowned deep in languor now, the angel Sleep
Is clasping thee within her arms so white,
Bearing thee up the dreamland's sunny steep.
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Thy father's boat, I see its swaying shroud
Like a white sea-gull, swinging to and fro
Against the ledges of a crimson cloud,
A tiny bird with flutt'ring wing of snow.
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Thy father toils beyond the harbor bar,
And, singing at his toil, he thinks of thee;
Lit by the red lamp of the evening star
Home will he come, will come to thee and me,
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

His cabin shall be bright with flowers sweet,
The table shall be set, the fire shall glow,
We'll wait within the door, his coming steps to greet,
And if my eye be sad, he will not know--
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

He will not pause to ponder things so slight,
He is not one a smile to prize or miss;
Yet he would shield us with a strong arm's might,
And he will meet us with a loving kiss--
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

But would I could forget those other days
When if with gayer gleam mine eyes had shone,
Or shade of sorrow, gentlest eyes would gaze
With tender questioning into my own.
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Thine eyes are brown--thou hast thy father's eyes,
But those, my darling, those were clear and blue,
Ah, me! how sorrowfully that sea-bird cries,
Cries for its mate, oh, tender bird and true;
My, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Oh, of my truest love well worthy he,
And near was I, ah, nearest to his heart;
But ships are parted on the dreary sea
Swept by the waves, forever swept apart--
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

And sometimes sad-eyed women sighing say,
Sweet love is lost, all that remains is rest,
So in their weakness they are lured to lay
Their head upon some strong and loving breast.
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Our cabin stands upon the dreary sands,
And it is sad to be alone, alone.
But on my bosom thou hast lain thy hands,
Near to me art thou, near, my precious one--
My, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

The red light faded as she sung, A chill breeze rose and swept across the sea, She drew her cloak still closer round the child, And turned toward the cabin; As she went a faint glow glimmered In the east, and slowly rose-- The silver crescent of the moon. Another, paler light, than the warm sunset glow, But clear enough to guide her home.

THE LAND OF LONG AGO.

Now while the crimson light fades in the west,
And twilight drops her purple shadows low--
We stand with Memory on the mountain's crest,
That overlooks the land of Long Ago.

Unmoved and still the form beside us stands,
While mournful tears our heavy eyes o'erflow,
As silently he lifts his shadowy hands,
And points us to the land of Long Ago.

It lies in beauty 'neath our sad eyes' range,
Bathed in a richer light, a warmer glow;
For fairer moons, and sunsets rare and strange,
Illume the landscape of the Long Ago.

We see its vales of peace, its hills of light
Shine in the rosy air, ah! well we know--
That nevermore will bless our yearning sight,
So fair and dear a land as Long Ago.

We see the gleaming spires of those high halls
We garnished with bright gems and precious show;
No foot within the gilded doorway falls,
Empty the rooms within the Long Ago.

Troops of white doves still haunt the shining towers,
And fold in blissful calm, their wings of snow;
We bade them build their nests in brighter bowers,
But still they linger in the Long Ago.

There in its sunny bay stand stately ships,
We freighted for fair lands where we would go;
Still gleams our gold within their secret crypts,
Becalmed beside the shore of Long Ago.

Between that land and this of dread and doubt,
The silent years have drifted trackless snow;
Hiding the pathway where we wandered out,
Forever from the land of Long Ago.

LEMOINE.

In the unquiet night, With all her beauty bright, She walketh my silent chamber to and fro; Not twice of the same mind, Sometimes unkind--unkind, And again no cooing dove hath a voice so sweet and low.

Such madness of mirth lies In the haunting hazel eyes, When the melody of her laugh charms the listening night; Its glamour as of old My charmed senses hold, Forget I earth and heaven in the pleasures of sense and sight.

With sudden gay caprice Quaint sonnets doth she seize, Wedding them unto sweetness, falling from crimson lips; Holding the broidered flowers Of those enchanted hours, When she wound my will with her silk round her white finger-tips.

Then doth she silent stand, Lifting her slender hand, On which gleams the ring I tore from his hand at Baywood; The tiny opal hearts Are broken in two parts, And where the ruby burned there hangeth a drop of blood.

Then with my burning cheek, Raising my head, I speak, "Lemoine, Lemoine, my lost! Oh, speak to me once, I pray!" But no word will she deign, Adown the shining lane, The long and lustrous lane of the moonlight she glides away.

I fancy oft a stir, Of wings seem following her, Trailing a terrible gloom along the oaken floor, As she walks to and fro; Louder the strange sounds grow To a nameless, dreadful horror, that floods the chamber o'er.

And then I raise my head From terror-haunted bed, And hush my breath, and my very pulses hush and hark; But as I glance around, The stir, the murmuring sound, Dies away in the moonlight, lying there stiff and stark.

* * * * *

And thus you ever flee, Elude and baffle me, My lady you will not always so lightly glide away; Though on the swiftest breeze, You sail o'er farthest seas, Remember, side by side we two will stand one day.

Though my dust feed the wind, Yours be with prayer consigned To the keeping of churchyard seraphs and marble saints; Lemoine, we two shall meet, And not then at my feet Will you fetter a late repentance with wiles and tearful plaints.

Repentance and strong, That would have found a tongue, And shrieked the truth to heaven with madd'ning din; The truth of that dread hour, That black accursed hour, When to free you from hated fetters, I plunged my soul in sin.

Whatever wise man thinks, Sin forges strongest links, You can break them never, although for a time you may hide Buried in flowers and wine; This chain of thine and mine, At the last dread day of doom will draw us side by side.

If one, then both are cursed, And come the best, the worst, Forever and ever your fate and mine are entwined; And though it be mad--mad, Heaven knows the thought is glad, I do not breed my thoughts, how can I help my mind.

* * * * *

So silent doth she come, Standing here pale and dumb, With her finger laid on her lips in a warning way; Her dark eyes looking back, As if upon her track And mine, some phantom shape of impending evil lay.

But when I strive to see, Of what she's warning me, Cruelly calm, no sign will she deign to love or fears; Unheeding vow or prayer, As noiseless as the air, She glideth into the pallid moonlight and disappears.

SLEEP.

Come to me soft-eyed sleep,
With your ermine sandalled feet;
Press the pain from my troubled brow
With your kisses cool and sweet;
Lull me with slumbrous song,
Song of your clime, the blest,
While on my heavy eyelids
Your dewy fingers rest.

Come with your native flowers,
Heartsease and lotus bloom,
Enwrap my weary senses
With the cloud of their perfume;
For the whispers of thought tire me,
Their constant, dull repeat,
Like low waves throbbing, sobbing,
With endless, endless beat.

THE LADY MAUD.

I sit in the cloud and the darkness
Where I lost you, peerless one;
Your bright face shines upon fairer lands,
Like the dawning of the sun,
And what to you is the rustic youth,
You sometimes smiled upon.

You have roamed through mighty cities,
By the Orient's gleaming sea,
Down the glittering streets of Venice,
And soft-skied Araby:
Life to you has been an anthem,
But a solemn dirge to me.

For everywhere, by Rome's bright hills,
Or by the silvery Rhine,
You win all hearts to you, where'er
Your glancing tresses shine;
But, darling, the love of the many,
Is not a love like mine.

Last night I heard your voice in my dreams,
I woke with a joyous thrill
To hear but the half-awakened birds,
For the dark dawn lingered still,
And the lonesome sound of the waters,
At the foot of Carey's hill.

Oh the pines are dark on Carey's hill,
And the waters are black below,
But they shone like waves of jasper
Upon one day I know,
The day I bore you out of the stream,
With your face as white as snow.

You lay like a little lamb in my arms,
So frail a thing, so weak,
And my coward lips said burning words
They never had dared to speak
If they had not felt the chill of your brow,
And the marble of your cheek.

Life had been but a bitter gift,
That I fain would have thrown away,
But I could have thanked my God on my knees,
For giving me life that day,
As I took you, lying so helpless,
From the gates of death away.

How your noble kinsmen laughed and wept
O'er their treasure snatched from the flood,
And your white-faced brother brought me gold--
You loved him, or I could
Have obeyed the fiend that told me
To curse him where he stood.

Gold! Oh, darling, they had no need
Such insults to repeat;
I knew the Heaven was above the earth,
I knew, I knew, my sweet,
I was not worthy to touch the shoes
That covered your dainty feet.

I knew as you laid your hand in mine,
So kind as I turned away,
That we were severed as wide apart,
That hour, as we are to-day,
And you in your stately English home,
So far, so far away.

That soft white hand you laid in mine
With a smile as I turned to go,
Oh, Lady Maud, I marvel
If you ever stoop so low,
As to wonder what those tears meant,
That glittered on its snow.

But I know if you had dreamed the truth
Your beautiful dark brown eyes
Would only have grown more gentle,
With a sorrowful surprise;
For a nobler and a kinder heart
Ne'er beat beneath the skies.

You never meant to give me pain,
But oh, 'twas a cruel good,
I so low in the world's esteem,
You of such noble blood,
That you stooped to as gentle words and deeds,
As ever an angel could.

I blessed you for your brightness
When you came unto our shore,
For the dull earth caught a beauty
It never had before;
But you left a lonesome shadow,
That will lie there evermore.

How proud the good ship bore you
Adown the golden bay,
The sun's last light upon its sails--
I stood there mournfully;
For I know it left the darkness--
Took the sunlight all away.

THE HAUNTED CASTLE.

It stands alone on a haunted shore, With curious words of deathless lore On its massive gate impearled; And its carefully guarded mystic key Locks in its silent mystery From the seeking eyes of the world.

Oft do its stately walls repeat Echoes of music wildly sweet Swelling to gladness high-- With mournful ballads of ancient time, And funeral hymns--and a nursery rhyme Dying away in a sigh.

Pictures out of each haunted room, Up through the ghostly shadows loom, And gleam with a spectral light; Pictures lit with a radiant glow, And some that image such desolate woe That, weeping, you turn from the sight.

Shining like stars in the twilight gloom Brows as white as a lily's bloom Gleam from its lattice and door; And voices soft as a seraph's note, Through its mysterious chambers float Back from eternity's shore.

In the mournful silence of midnight air You hear on its stately and winding stair The echoes of fairy feet. Gentle footsteps that lightly fall Through the enchanted castle hall, And up in the golden street.

And still in a dark forsaken tower, Crowned with a withered cypress flower, Is a bowed head turned away; A face like carved marble white, Sweet eyes drooping away from the light, Shunning the eye of day.

And oft when the light burns low and dim A haggard form ungainly and grim Unbidden enters the door; With chiding eyes whose burning light You fain would bury in darkness and night, Never to meet you more.

Mysteries strange its still walls keep, Strange are the forms that through it sweep-- Walking by night and by day. But evermore will the castle hall Echo their footsteps' phantom fall, Till its walls shall crumble away.

THE STORY OF GLADYS.

"I leave my child to Heaven." And with these words Upon her lips, the Lady Mildred passed Unto the rest prepared for her pure soul; Words that meant only this: I cannot trust Unto her earthly parent my young child, So leave her to her heavenly Father's care; And Heaven was gentle to the motherless, And fair and sweet the maiden, Gladys, grew, A pure white rose in the old castle set, The while her father rioted abroad.

But as the day drew near when he should give, By his dead lady's will, his child her own, He having basely squandered all her wealth To him intrusted, to his land returned, And thrilled her trusting heart with terrors vague, Of peril, of some shame to come to him, Did she not yield unto his prayer--command, That she would to Our Lady's convent go, Forget the world and save him from disgrace.

But hidden as she had been all her life From tender human ties, she loved the world With all her loving heart, the fresh, free world That God had made, and this life seemed to her As but a living death. A living tomb The harsh stone walls that from the convent frowned Upon the peaceful valley sweet with flowers. The beautiful green valley, threaded by Bright rivulets that sought the quiet lake, Dear haunts sought daily by her maiden feet. And "wilt thou not, for my sake?" and "thou shalt To save thy sire from shame!" so wore the days, And still she did not promise, though she wept At his wild pleadings, trembled at his rage; Then of her mother's dying words he thought-- Her dying words--"I leave my child to Heaven." And twisting them with his own wishes, wove A chain therewith that bound her wavering will; A chain made mighty by the golden threads Of rev'rence and of holy memories. And so with heavy heart she gave her vow, That in the autumn she would leave the world, But first for one free summer did she pray.

And through those bright spring days she roamed abroad, And poured upon the winds her low complaints; The while her dark soft eyes sought all the earth, The beauteous earth that she too soon must leave; And all her mournful murmurs ended thus With this sad cry of, "Oh, the happy world!" Ended with these low words as a sigh, I will obey, but, "oh, the happy world!"

Oh, wondrous beauty of the morning skies!
Oh, wide green fields with beady dew impearled!
The lark soars upward, singing as she flies,
Oh, wave of free, swift wings, oh, happy world!

Oh, wordless wonder of the evening sky,
Far ivory citadels with flags unfurled;
Deep sapphire seas where rosy fleets float by
The golden shores remote; oh, happy world!

Oh, my blue violets by the laughing brook!
My shy, sweet darlings, in your green leaves curled,
Bright eyes, sometime you will all vainly look
For me, your lover. Oh, the happy world!