Chapter VIII: How a Poor Girl Was Made Rich

All the day my toil was easy, for I knew that in the evening,
I could go home from my labor, and find Blanche at the door;
How could I dream the sunlight in my sky was so deceiving?
And I ceased in my believing 'twould be cloudy ever more.

When at last the twilight deepened, I entered our low dwelling,
And my darling rose to meet me, with the love-light in her eyes;
On that day her simple story to my aunt she had been telling,
And I saw her words were welling, fraught with ominous surprise.

For it seems my hated uncle, once had given him a daughter,
Who on a saddened morning had been stolen from the door,
And through the panting city the criers cried and sought her,
But in vain; they never brought her to his threshold any more.

Blanche was she, my uncle's daughter; no unwelcome truth was plainer;
For a small peculiar birth-mark was apparent on her arm.
Had I lost her? Was it possible ever more now to regain her?
Would he spurn me, and restrain her with his wily golden charm?

All that night my heart was bitter with unutterable anguish,
And I cried out in my slumber till with my words I woke:
"How long, O Lord, must poverty bow down its head and languish,
While wrong, with wealth to garnish it, makes strong the heavy yoke?"

IX.

THE MISER.

'Tis said, that when he saw his child,
And saw the proof that she was his,
The first in many a year he smiled,
And pressed upon her brow a kiss.

In both his hands her hand he bound,
And led her gayly through his place.
He said the dead years circled round,
Hers was so like her mother's face.

He scarcely moves him from her side--
Her every hour with joy beguiles.
To make the gulf between us wide,
He acts the miser of her smiles.

He brings her presents rich and rare--
Wrought gold by cunning hands impearled,
Round opals that with scarlet glare,
The lightning of each mimic world.

X.

SHE PASSED ME BY.

She bowed, and smiled, and passed me by, She passed me by! O love, O lava breath that burns, 'Tis hard indeed to think she spurns Such worshippers as you and I. She smiled, and bowed, with stately pride; The bow the frosty smile belied. She passed me by.

She bowed, and smiled, and passed me by, She passed me by. What more could any maiden do? It did not prove she was untrue. My heart is tired, I know not why. I only know I weep and pray. Love has its night as well as day. She passed me by.

XI.

MIND WITHOUT SOUL.

Some strange story I have read Of a man without a soul. Mind he had, though soul had fled; Magic gave him gifts instead, And the form of youth he stole.

Grows a rose-azalea white, In my garden, near the way. I who see it with delight, Dream its soul of odor might, In the past, have fled away.

Blanche (O, sweet, you are so fair, So sweet, so fair, whate'er you do), Twine no azalea in your hair, Lest I think in my despair, Heart and soul have left you too.

XII.

A BROKEN SWORD.

Deep in the night I saw the sea, And overhead, the round moon white; Its steel cold gleam lay on the lea, And seemed my sword of life and light, Broke in that war death waged with me.

I heard the dip of golden oars; Twelve angels stranded in a boat; We sailed away for other shores; Though but an hour we were afloat, We harbored under heavenly doors.

O, Blanche, if I had run my race, And if I wore my winding sheet, And mourners went about the place, Would you so much as cross the street, To kiss in death my white, cold face?

XIII.

A CHANCE FOR GAIN.

I met him in the busy mart;
His eyes are large, his lips are firm,
And on his temples, care or sin
Has left its claw prints hardened in;
His step is nervous and infirm;
I wondered if he had a heart.

He blandly smiled and took my hand.
He owed me such a debt, he thought,
He felt he never could repay;
Yet should I call on him that day,
He'd hand me what the papers brought,
For which I once had made demand.

Then added, turning grave from gay;
"But you must promise, if I give,
Your lover's office to resign,
And stand no more 'twixt me and mine."
His words were water in a sieve.
I turned my back and strode away.

XIV.

THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

At twilight, past the fountain,
I wandered in the park,
And saw a closed white lily
Sway on the liquid dark;
And a fire-fly, perched upon it,
Shone out its fitful spark.

I fancied it a light-house
Mooned on a sky-like sea,
To warn the fearless sailors
Of lurking treachery--
Of unseen reefs and shallows
That starved for wrecks to be.

O Blanche, O love that spurns me,
'Tis but a cheat thou art.
I would some friendly light-house
Had warned me to depart
From the secret reefs and shallows
That hide about your heart.

XV.

DARKNESS.

My hopes and my ambition all were down,
Like grass the mower turneth from its place;
The night's thick darkness was an angry frown,
And earth a tear upon the cheek of space.

The mighty fiend of storm in wild unrest,
By lightning stabbed, dragged slowly up the plain;
Great clots of light, like blood, dripped down his breast,
And from his open jaws fell foam in rain.