Chapter V: Part 5

I hold the perfect mating of two souls,
Through wedded love, to be the sum of bliss.
When Earth, this fruit that ripens as it rolls
In sunlight, grows more prime, lives will not miss
Their counterparts, and each shall find its own;
But now with what blind chance the lots are thrown!

And because Love sets with a rising tide
Along the drift where much has gone before
One holds of worth,—we lavish first, beside,
Heart, honors, regal gifts, and love the more
When yielding most,—for this the Queen’s love knew
No slack, but still its current deeper grew.

And because Love is free, and follows not
On gratitude, nor comes from what is given
So much as on the giving; and, I wot,
Partly because it irks one to have thriven
At hands which seem the weaker, and should thrive
While those of him they cling to lift and strive;

And partly that his marriage seemed a height
Which raised him from the passions of our kind,
Nor with his own intent; and that, despite
Its clear repose, he somehow longed to find
The lower world, starve, hunger, and be fed
With joy and sorrow, sweet and bitter bread,—

For all these things the Prince loved not the Queen
With that sufficience which alone can take
A rapture in itself and rest serene;
Yet knew not what his life lacked that should make
It worth to live,—our custom has such art
To dull the craving of the famished heart,—

Perchance had never known it, but a light
Flashed in his path and lit a fiery train
About him; else, day following day, and night
By night, through years his soul had felt no pain,
No triumph, but had shared the common lull,
Been all it seemed, as blameless, true, and dull.

And yet in one fair woman beauty, youth,
And passion were united, and her love
Was framed about his likeness. Some, forsooth,
May shift their changeful worship as they rove,
Or clowns or princes; but her fancy slept,
Dreaming upon that picture which she kept,

A secret pain and pleasance. With what strife
Men sought her love she wist not, for the prize
Was not for them. She lived a duteous life.
’Twas something thus to let her constant eyes
Feed on his face, to hear his name,—to know
He lived, had walked those paths, had loved her so.

There is a painting of a youthful monk
Who sits within a walled and cloistered nook,
His breviary closed, and listens, sunk
In day-dreams, to a viol,—with a look
Of strange regret fixed on two pairing doves,
Who find their fate and simple natural loves.

Yet bonds of gold, linked hands, and chancel vows,
Even spousal beds, do not a marriage make.
When such things chain the soul that never knows
Love’s mating, little vantage shall it take,
Wandering with alien feet throughout the wide,
Hushed temple, over those who pine outside!

So this young wife forecast her horoscope
And found its wedded lines of little worth,
Yet owned not to herself what hopeless hope
Or dumb intent made green her spot of earth.
So passed three changeless years, as such years be;
At last the old lord died, and left her free,

The mistress of his rank and broad estate,
In honor of her constancy. Then life
Rushed back; she saw her beauty grown more great,
Ripened as if a summer field were rife
With grain, the harvester neglectful, since
Hers was no mean desire that sought a prince,

Eager to make his birth and bloom her own,
Or reign a wanton favorite. But she thought,
“I might have loved and clung to him alone,
Am fairer than he knew me; yet, if aught
Of rarity make sweet my hair and lips,
What sweetness hath the honey that none sips?”

After her time of mourning she grew bold,
And said, “Once let me look upon his face!
The Queen will take no harm if I behold
What all the world can see.” She left her place,
And with a kinsman, at a palace rout,
Followed the long line passing in and out

Before the dais. The Prince’s eyes and hers
Met like the clouds that lighten. In a breath
Swift memory flamed between them, as, when stirs
No wind, and the dark sky is still as death,
One lance of living fire is hurled across;
Then comes the whirlwind, and the forests toss!

Yet as she bent her beauteous shoulders down,
And heard the kindly greeting of the Queen,
He spoke such words as one who wears a crown
Speaks, and no more; and with a low, proud mien
She murmured answer, from the presence past
Lightly, nor any look behind her cast.

In that first glimpse each read the other’s heart;
But not without a summoning of himself
To judgment did the Prince forever part
From truth and fealty. As he pondered, still
With stronger voice Love claimed a debt unpaid,
And youth’s hot pulses would not be gainsaid.

She with a fierce, full gladness saw again
Their broken threads of love begin to spin
In one red strand, and let it guide her then,
Whether it led to danger or to sin;
And shortly, on the morrow, took the road,
And gained her country-seat, and there abode.

The Prince, a bright near morning, mounted horse,
Garbed for the hunt, and left the town, and through
The deep-pathed wood rode on a wayward course,
With a set purpose in him,—though he knew
It not, and let his steed go where it might;
For this sole thought pursued him since that night:—

“What recompense for me who have not sown
The seed and reaped the harvest of my days?
Youth passes like a bird; but love alone
Makes wealth of riches, power of rank, men’s praise
A goodly sound. Of such things have I aught?
There is a foil to make their substance naught.

“What were his gifts who made each lovely thing,
Yet lacked the gift of love? or what the fame
Of some dwarfed poet, whose numbers still we sing,
If no fair woman trembled where he came?
The beggar dying in ditch is not accurst
If love once crowned him! Fate may do her worst.

“For Age that erst has drawn the wine of love
And filled its birth-cup to the jewelled brim,
And, while it sparkled, held it high above,
And drained it slowly, swiftly,—then, though dim
Grow the blurred eyes, and comfort and desire
Are but the ashes of their ancient fire,

“Yet will it bide its exit in content,
Remembering the past, nor grudge, with hoar
And ravenous look, the youth we have not spent.
No earthly sting has power to harm it more;
It lived and loved, was young, and now is old,
And life is rounded like a ring of gold.”

Thereat with sudden rein the Prince wheeled horse,
And sought a pathway that he long had known
Yet shunned till now. Beside a water-course
It led him for a winding league and lone;
Then made a rugged circuit,—where the brook
Down a steep ledge of rock its plunges took,—

And ended at an open sward, the same
Against whose edge the leaping cataract fell
From those high cliffs. Five years ago he came
To bury youth and love within that dell,
And, as again he reached the spot he sought,
Truth, fame, his child, the Queen, were all as naught.

Dismounting then, he pushed afoot, between
The alder saplings, to the outer wood,
The grounds, the garden-walks, and found, unseen,
A private door, nor tarried till he stood
Within the threshold of my Lady’s room,—
A shadowed nook, all stillness and perfume.

Jasmine and briony the lattice climbed,
The rose and honeysuckle trailed above;
’Twas such an hour as poets oft have rhymed,
And such a chamber as all lovers love.
He found her there, and at her footstool knelt.
Each in the other’s fancies had so dwelt,

That, as one sees for days a sweet strange face,
Until at night in dreams he does caress
Its owner, and next morning in some place
Meets her, and wonders if she too can guess
How near and known he thinks her,—in this wise
They read one story in each other’s eyes.

Her thick hair falling from its lilies hid
Their first long kiss of passion and content.
He heard her soft, glad murmur, as she slid
Within his hold, and ’gainst his bosom leant,
Whispering: “At last! at last! the years were sore.”
“Their spite,” he said, “shall do us wrong no more!”

What else, when mingled longings swell full-tide,
And the heart’s surges leap their bounds for aye,
And fell the landmarks? What but fate defied,
Time clutched, and any future held at bay?
They recked not of the thorn, but seized the flower;
For all the sin, their joy was great that hour.

And since, for all the joy, theirs was a sin
That baned them with one bane; since many men
Had sought her love, but one alone could win
That largess, with his blameless life till then
Inviolate,—they bargained for love’s sake
No severance of their covert league to make.

Yet, since nobility compelled them still,
They pledged themselves for honor’s sake to hold
This hidden unto death; at either’s will
To meet and part in secret; to infold
In their own hearts their trespass and delight,
Nor look their love, but guard it day or night.

* * * * *

So fell the blameless Prince. That day more late
Than wont he reached the presence of the Queen,
Deep in a palace chamber, where she sate
Fondling his child. The sunset lit her mien,
And made a saintly glory in her hair;
An awe came on him as he saw her there.

And, because perfect love suspecteth not,
She found no blot upon his brow. ’Twas good
To take a pleasure in her wedded lot,
And watch the infant creeping where he stood;
And, as he bent his head, she little wist
What kisses burned upon the lips she kissed.

And he, still kind and wise in his decline,
Seeing her trustful calm, had little heart
To shake it. So his conduct gave no sign
Of broken faith; no slurring of his part
Betrayed him to the courtiers or the wife.
Perhaps a second spring-time in his life

Waxed green, and fresh-bloomed love renewed again
The joys that light our youth and leave our prime,
And women found him tenderer, and men
A blither, heartier comrade; but, meantime,
What hidden gladness made his visage bright
They could not guess; nor with what craft and sleight

The paramours, in fealty to that Love
Who laughs at locks and walks in hooded guise,
Met here and there, yet made no careless move
Nor bared their strategy to cunning eyes.
And though, a portion of the winter year,
The Queen’s own summons brought her rival near

The Prince, among the ladies of her train,
Then, meeting face to face at morn and night,
They were as strangers. If it was a pain
To pass so coldly on, in love’s despite,
It was a joy to hear each other’s tone,
And keep the life-long secret still their own.

Once having dipped their palms they drank full draught,
And, like the desert-parched, alone at first
Felt the delight of drinking, while they quaffed
As if the waters could not slake their thirst;
That nicer sense unreached, when down we fling,
And view the oasis around the spring.

And, in that first bewilderment, perchance
The Prince’s lapse had caught some peering eye,
But that his long repute, and maintenance
Against each test, had put suspicion by.
Now no one watched or doubted him. So long
His inner strength had made his outwork strong,

So long had smoothed his face, ’twas light to take,
From what had been his blamelessness, a mask.
And still, for honor’s and the country’s sake,
He set his hands to every noble task;
Held firmly yet his place among the great,
Won by the sword and saviour of the state;

And as in war, so now in civic peace,
He led the people on to higher things,
And fostered Art and Song, and brought increase
Of Knowledge, gave to Commerce broader wings,
And with his action strengthened fourfold more
The weight his precept in their councils bore.

Then as the mellow years their fruitage brought,
And fair strong children made secure the throne,
He reared them wisely, heedfully; and sought
Their good, the Queen’s desire, and these alone.
Himself so pure, that fathers bade their sons,
“Observe the Prince, who every license shuns;

“Who, being most brave, is purest!” Wedded wives,
Happy themselves, the Queen still happiest found,
And plighted maids still wished their lovers’ lives
Conformed to his. Such manhood wrapt him round,
So winsome were his grace and knightly look,
The dames at court their lesser spoil forsook,

And wove a net to snare him, and their mood
Grew warmer for his coldness; and the hearts
Of those most heartless beat with quicker blood,
Foiled of his love; yet, heedless of their arts,
Courteous to all, he went his way content,
Nor ever from his princely station bent.

“What is this charm,” they asked, “that makes him chaste
Beyond all men?” and wist not what they said.
The common folk,—because the Prince had cased
His limbs in silver mail, and on his head
Worn snowy plumes, and, covered thus in white,
Shone in the fiercest turmoil of the fight;

And mostly for the whiteness of his soul,
Which seemed so virginal and all unblurred,—
They called him the White Prince, and through the whole
True land the name became a household word.
“God save the Queen!” the loyal people sung,
“And the White Prince!” came back from every tongue.

So passed the stages of a glorious reign.
The Queen in tranquil goodness reached her noon;
The Prince wore year by year his double chain;
His mistress kept her secret like the moon,
That hides one half its splendor and its shade;
And newer times and men their entrance made.

But did these two, who took their secret fill
Of stolen waters, find the greater bliss
They sought? At first, to meet and part at will
Was, for the peril’s sake, a happiness;
Ay, even the sense of guilt made such delights
More worth, as one we call the wisest writes.

But with the later years Time brought about
His famed revenges. Not that love grew cold,
The lady never found a cause to doubt
That with the Prince his passion kept its hold;
And while their loved are loyal to them yet,
’Tis not the wont of women to regret.

Yet ’twas her lot to live as one whose wealth
Is in another’s name; to sigh at fate
That hedged her from possession, save by stealth
And trespass on the guileless Queen’s estate;
To see her lover farthest when most near,
Nor dare before the world to make him dear.

To see her perfect beauty but a lure,
That made men list to follow where she went,
And kneel to woo the hand they deemed so pure,
And hunger for her pitying mouth’s consent;
Calling her hard, who was so gently made,
Nor found delight in all their homage paid.

Nor ever yet was woman’s life complete
Till at her breast the child of him she loved
Made life and love one name. Though love be sweet,
And passing sweet, till then its growth has proved
In woman’s paradise a sterile tree,
Fruitless, though fair its leaves and blossoms be.

Meanwhile the Prince put on his own disguise,
Holding it naught for what it kept secure,
Nor wore it only in his comrades’ eyes;
Beneath this cloak and seeming to be pure
He felt the thing he seemed. For some brief space
His conscience took the reflex of his face.

But lastly through his heart there crept a sense
Of falseness, like a worm about the core,
Until he grew to loathe the long pretence
Of blamelessness, and would the mask he wore
By some swift judgment from his face were torn,
So might the outer quell the inner scorn.

Such self-contempt befell him, when the feast
Rang with his praise, he blushed from nape to crown,
And ground his teeth in silence, yet had ceased
To bear it, crying, “Crush me not quite down,
Who ask your scorn, as viler than you deem
Your vilest, and am nothing that I seem!”

With such a cry his conscience riotous
Had thrown, perchance, the burden on it laid,
But love and pity held his voice; and thus
The paramours their constant penance made;
False to themselves, before the world a lie,
Yet each for each had cast the whole world by.

In those transcendent moments, when the fire
Leapt up between them rapturous and bright,
One incompleteness bred a wild desire
To let the rest have token of its light;
So natural seemed their love,—so hapless, too,
They might not make it glorious to view,

And speak their joy. ’Twas all as they had come,
They two, in some far wildwood wandering mazed,
Upon a mighty cataract, whose foam
And splendor ere that time had never dazed
Men’s eyes, nor any hearing save their own
Could listen to its immemorial moan,

And felt amid their triumph bitter pain
That only for themselves was spread that sight.
Oft, when his comrades sang a tender strain,
And music, talk, and wine, outlasted night,
Rose in the Prince’s throat this sudden tide,
“And I,—I also know where Love doth hide!”

Yet still the seals were ever on his mouth;
No heart, save one, his joy and dole might share.
Passed on the winter’s rain and summer’s drouth;
Friends more and more, and lovers true, the pair,
Though life its passion and its youth had spent,
Still kept their faith as seasons came and went.

* * * * *

One final hour, with stammering voice and halt,
The Prince said: “Dear, for you,—whose only gain
Was in your love that made such long default
To self,—Heaven deems you sinless! but a pain
Is on my soul, and shadow of guilt threefold:
First, in your fair life, fettered by my hold;

“Then in the ceaseless wrong I do the Queen,
Who worships me, unknowing; worse than all,
To wear before the world this painted mien!
See to it: on my head some bolt will fall!
We have sweet memories of the good years past,
Now let this secret league no longer last.”

So of her love and pure unselfishness
She yielded at his word, yet fain would pray
For one more tryst, one day of tenderness,
Where first their lives were mated. Such a day
Found them entwined together, met to part,
Lips pressed to lips, and voiceless grief at heart.

And last the Prince drew off his signet-stone,
And gave it to his mistress,—as he rose
To shut the book of happy moments gone,
For so all earthly pleasures find a close,—
Yet promised, at her time of utmost need
And summons by that token, to take heed

And do her will. “And from this hour,” he said,
“No woman’s kiss save one my lips shall know.”
So left her pale and trembling there, and fled,
Nor looked again, resolved it must be so;
But somewhere gained his horse, and through the wood
Moved homeward with his thoughts, a phantom brood

That turned the long past over in his mind,
Poising its good and evil, while a haze
Gathered around him, of that sombre kind
Which follows from a place where many days
Have seen us go and come; and even if sore
Has been our sojourn there, we feel the more

That parting is a sorrow,—though we part
With those who loved us not, or go forlorn
From pain that ate its canker in the heart;
But when we leave the paths where Love has borne
His garlands to us, Pleasure poured her wine,
Where life was wholly precious and divine,

Then go we forth as exiles. In such wise
The loath, wan Prince his homeward journey made,
Brooding, and marked not with his downcast eyes
The shadow that within the coppice shade
Sank darker still; but at the horse’s gait
Kept slowly on, and rode to meet his fate.

For from the west a silent gathering drew,
And hid the summer sky, and brought swift night
Across that shire, and went devouring through
The strong old forest, stronger in its might.
With the first sudden crash the Prince’s steed
Took the long stride, and galloped at good need.

The wild pace tallied with the rider’s mood,
And on he spurred, and even now had reached
The storm that charged the borders of the wood,
When one great whirlwind seized an oak which bleached
Across his path, and felled it; and its fall
Bore down the Prince beneath it, horse and all.

There lay he as he fell; but the mad horse
Plunged out in fright, and reared upon his feet,
And for the city struck a headlong course,
With clatter of hoof along the central street,
Nor halted till, thus masterless and late,
Bleeding and torn, he reached the palace-gate.

Then rose a clamor and the tidings spread,
And servitors and burghers thronged about,
Crying, “The Prince’s horse! the Prince is dead!”
Till on the courser’s track they sallied out,
And came upon the fallen oak, and found
The Prince sore maimed and senseless on the ground.

Then wattling boughs, they raised him in their hold,
And after that rough litter, and before,
The people went in silence; but there rolled
A fiery vapor from the lights they bore,
Like some red serpent huge along the road.
Even thus they brought him back to his abode.

There the pale Queen fell on him at the porch,
Dabbling her robes in blood, and made ado,
And over all his henchman held a torch,
Until with reverent steps they took him through;
And the doors closed, and midnight from the domes
Was sounded, and the people sought their homes.

But on the morrow, like a dreadful bird,
Flew swift the tidings of this sudden woe,
And reached the Prince’s paramour, who heard
Aghast, as one who crieth loud, “The blow
Is fallen! I am the cause!”—as one who saith,
“Now let me die, whose hands have given death!”

So gat her to the town remorsefully,
White with a mortal tremor and the sin
Which sealed her mouth, and waited what might be,
And watched the doors she dared not pass within.
Alas, poor lady! that lone week of fears
Outlived the length of all her former years.

Some days the Prince, upon the skirts of death,
Spake not a word nor heard the Queen’s one prayer,
Nor turned his face, nor felt her loving breath,
Nor saw his children when they gathered there,
But rested dumb and motionless; and so
The Queen grew weak with watching and her woe,

Till from his bed they bore her to her own
A little. In the middle-tide of night,
Thereafter, he awoke with moan on moan,
And saw his death anigh, and said outright,
“I had all things, but love was worth them all!”
Then sped they for the Queen, yet ere the call

Reached her, he cried once more, “Too late! too late!”
And at those words, before they led her in,
Come the sure dart of him that lay in wait.
The Prince was dead: what goodness and what sin
Died with him were untold. At sunrise fell
Across the capital his solemn knell.

All respite it forbade, and joyance thence,
To one for whom his passion till the last
Wrought in the dying Prince. Her wan suspense
Thus ended, a great fear upon her passed.
“I was the cause!” she moaned from day to day,
“Now let me bear the penance as I may!”

So with her whole estate she sought and gained
A refuge in a nunnery close at view,
And there for months withdrew her, and remained
In tears and prayers. Anon a sickness grew
Upon her, and her face the ghost became
Of what it was, the same and not the same.

So died the blameless Prince. The spacious land
Was smitten in his death, and such a wail
Arose, as when the midnight angel’s hand
Was laid on Egypt. Gossips ceased their tale,
Or whispered of his goodness, and were mute;
No sound was heard of viol or of lute;

The streets were hung with black; the artisan
Forsook his forge; the artist dropped his brush;
The tradesmen closed their windows. Man with man
Struck hands together in the first deep hush
Of grief; or, where the dead Prince lay in state,
Spoke of his life, so blameless, pure, and great.

But when, within the dark cathedral vault,
They joined his ashes to the dust of kings,
No royal pomp was shown; for Death made halt
Above the palace yet, on dusky wings,
Waiting to gain the Queen, who still was prone
Along the couch where haply she had thrown,

At knowledge of the end, her stricken frame.
With visage pale as in a mortal swound
She stayed, nor slept, nor wept, till, weeping, came
The crown-prince and besought her to look round
And speak unto her children. Then she said:
“Hereto no grief has fallen on our head;

“Now all our earthly portion in one mass
Is loosed against us with this single stroke!
Yet we are Queen, and still must live,—alas!—
As he would have us.” Even as she spoke
She wept, and mended thence, yet bore the face
Of one whose fate delays but for a space.

Thenceforth she worked and waited till the call
Of Heaven should close the labor and the pause.
Months, seasons passed, yet evermore a pall
Hung round the court. The sorrow and the cause
Were always with her; after things were tame
Beside the shadow of his deeds and fame.

Her palaces and parks seemed desolate;
No joy was left in sky or street or field;
No age, she thought, would see the Prince’s mate:
What matchless hand his knightly sword could wield?
The world had lost, this royal widow said,
Its one bright jewel when the Prince was dead.

So that his fame might be enduring there
For many a reign, and sacred through the land,
She gathered bronze and lazuli, and rare
Swart marbles, while her cunning artists planned
A stately cenotaph,—and bade them place
Above its front the Prince’s form and face,

Sculptured, as if in life. But the pale Queen,
Watching the work herself, would somewhat lure
Her heart from plaining; till, behind a screen,
The tomb was finished, glorious and pure,
Even like the Prince: and they proclaimed a day
When the Queen’s hand should draw its veil away.

It chanced, the noon before, she bade them fetch
Her equipage, and with her children rode
Beyond the city walls, across a stretch
Of the green open country, where abode
Her subjects, happy in the field and grange,
And with their griefs, that took a meaner range,

Content. But as her joyless vision dwelt
On beauty that so failed her wound to heal,
She marked the Abbey’s ancient pile, and felt
A longing at its chapel-shrine to kneel,
To pray, and think awhile on Heaven,—her one
Sole passion, now the Prince had thither gone.

She reached the gate, and through the vestibule
The nuns, with reverence for the royal sorrow,
Led to the shrine, and left her there to school
Her heart for that sad pageant of the morrow.
O, what deep sighs, what piteous tearful prayers,
What golden grief-blanched hair strewn unawares!

Anon her coming through the place was sped,
And when from that lone ecstasy she rose
The saintly Abbess held her steps, and said:
“God rests those, daughter, who in others’ woes
Forget their own! In yonder corridor
A sister-sufferer lies, and will no more

“Pass through her door to catch the morning’s breath,—
A worldling once, the chamberlain’s young wife,
But now a pious novice, meet for death;
She prays to see your face once more in life.”
“She, too, is widowed,” thought the Queen. Aloud
She answered, “I will visit her,” and bowed

Her head, and, following, reached the room where lay
One that had wronged her so; and shrank to see
That beauteous pallid face, so pined away,
And the starved lips that murmured painfully,
“I have a secret none but she may hear.”
At the Queen’s sign, they two were left anear.

With that the dying rushed upon her speech,
As one condemned, who gulps the poisoned wine
Nor pauses, lest to see it stand at reach
Were crueller still. “Madam, I sought a sign,”
She cried, “to know if God would have me make
Confession, and to you! now let me take

“This meeting as the sign, and speak, and die!”
“Child,” said the Queen, “your years are yet too few.
See how I live,—and yet what sorrows lie
About my heart.”—“I know,—the world spake true!
You too have loved him; ay, he seems to stand
Between us! Queen, you had the Prince’s hand,

“But not his love!” Across the good Queen’s brow
A flame of anger reddened, as when one
Meets unprepared a swift and ruthless blow,
But instant paled to pity, as she thought,
“She wanders: ’tis the fever at her brain!”
And looked her thought. The other cried again:

“Yes! I am ill of body and soul indeed,
Yet this was as I say. O, not for me
Pity, from you who wear the widow’s weed,
Unknowing!”—“Woman, whose could that love be,
If not all mine?” The other, with a moan,
Rose in her bed; the pillow, backward thrown,

Was darkened with the torrent of her hair.
“’Twas hers,” she wailed,—“’twas hers who loved him best.”
Then tore apart her night-robe, and laid bare
Her flesh, and lo! against her poor white breast
Close round her gloomed a shift of blackest serge,
Fearful, concealed!—“I might not sing his dirge,”

She said, “nor moan aloud and bring him shame,
Nor haunt his tomb and cling about the grate,
But this I fashioned when the tidings came
That he was dead and I must expiate,
Being left, our double sin!”—In the Queen’s heart,
The tiger—that is prisoned at life’s start

In mortals, though perchance it never wakes
From its mute sleep—began to rouse and crawl.
Her lips grew white, and on her nostrils flakes
Of wrath and loathing stood. “What, now, is all
This wicked drivel?” she cried; “how dare they bring
The Queen to listen to so foul a thing?”

“Queen! I speak truth,—the truth, I say! He fed
Upon these lips,—this hair he loved to praise!
I held within these arms his bright fair head
Pressed close, ah, close!—Our lifetimes were the days
We met,—the rest a void!”—“Thou spectral Sin,
Be silent! or, if such a thing hath been,—

“If this be not thy frenzy,—quick, the proof,
Before I score the lie thy lips amid!”
She spoke so dread the other crouched aloof,
Panting, but with gaunt hands somewhere undid
A knot within her hair, and thence she took
The signet-ring and passed it. The Queen’s look

Fell on it, and that moment the strong stay,
Which held her from the instinct of her wrong,
Broke, and therewith the whole device gave way,
The grand ideal she had watched so long:
As if a tower should fall, and on the plain
Only a scathed and broken pile remain.

But in its stead she would not measure yet
The counter-chance, nor deem this sole attaint
Made the Prince less than one in whom ’twas set
To prove him man. “I held him as a saint,”
She thought, “no other:—of all men alone
My blameless one! Too high my faith had flown:

“So be it!” With a sudden bitter scorn
She said: “You were his plaything, then! the food
Wherewith he dulled what appetite is born,
Of the gross kind, in men. His nobler mood
You knew not! How, shall I,—the fountain life
Of yonder children,—his embosomed wife

“Through all these years,—shall I, his Queen, for this
Sin-smitten harlot’s gage of an hour’s shame,
Misdoubt him?”—“Yes, I was his harlot,—yes,
God help me! and had worn the loathly name
Before the world, to have him in that guise!”
“Thou strumpet! wilt thou have me of his prize

“Rob Satan?” cried the Queen, and one step moved.
“Queen, if you loved him, save me from your bane,
As something that was dear to him you loved!”
Then from beneath her serge she took the chain
Which, long ago in that lone wood, the Prince
Hung round her,—she had never loosed it since,—

And gave therewith the face which, in its years
Of youthful, sunniest grace, a limner drew;
And unsigned letters, darkened with her tears,
Writ in the hand that hapless sovereign knew
Too well;—then told the whole, strange, secret tale,
As if with Heaven that penance could avail,

Or with the Queen, who heard as idols list
The mad priest’s cry, nor changed her place nor moaned,
But, clutching those mute tokens of each tryst,
Hid them about her. But the other groaned:
“The picture,—let me see it ere I die,—
Then take them all! once, only!”—At that cry

The Queen strode forward with an awful stride,
And seized the dying one, and bore her down,
And rose her height, and said, “Thou shouldst have died
Ere telling this, nor I have worn a crown
To hear it told. I am of God accurst!
Of all his hated, may he smite thee first!”

With that wild speech she fled, nor looked behind,
Hasting to get her from that fearful room,
Past the meek nuns in wait. These did not find
The sick one’s eyes—yet staring through the gloom,
While her hands fumbled at her heart, and Death
Made her limbs quake, and combated her breath—

More dreadful than the Queen’s look, as she thence
Made through the court, and reached her own array
She knew not how, and clamored, “Bear me hence!”
And, even as her chariot moved away,
High o’er the Abbey heard the minster toll
Its doleful bell, as for a passing soul.

Though midst her guardsmen, as they speeded back,
The wont of royalty maintained her still,
Where grief had been were ruin now and rack!
The firm earth reeled about, nor could her will
Make it seem stable, while her soul went through
Her wedded years in desperate review.

The air seemed full of lies; the realm, unsound;
Her courtiers, knaves; her maidens, good and fair,
Most shameless bawds; her children clung around
Like asps, to sting her; from the kingdom’s heir,
Shuddering, she turned her face,—his features took
A shining horror from his father’s look.

Along her city streets the thrifty crowd,
As the Queen passed, their loving reverence made.
“’Tis false! they love me not!” she cried aloud;
So flung her from her chariot, and forbade
All words, but waved her ladies back, and gained
Her inmost room, and by herself remained.

“We have been alone these years, and knew it not,”
She said; “now let us on the knowledge thrive!”
So closed the doors, and all things else forgot
Than her own misery. “I cannot live
And bear this death,” she said, “nor die, the more
To meet him,—and that woman gone before!”

Thus with herself she writhed, while midnight gloomed,
As lone as any outcast of us all;
And once, without a purpose, as the doomed
Stare round and count the shadows on the wall,
Unclasped a poet’s book which near her lay,
And turned its pages in that witless way,

And read the song, some wise, sad man had made,
With bitter frost about his doubting heart.
“What is this life,” it plained, “what masquerade
Of which ye all are witnesses and part?
’Tis but a foolish, smiling face to wear
Above your mortal sorrow, chill despair;

“To mock your comrades and yourselves with mirth
That feeds the care ye cannot drive away;
To vaunt of health, yet hide beneath the girth
Impuissance, fell sickness, slow decay;
To cloak defeat, and with the rich, the great,
Applaud their fairer fortunes as their mate;

“To brave the sudden woe, the secret loss,
Though but to-morrow brings the open shame;
To pay the tribute of your caste, and toss
Your last to him that’s richer save in name;
To judge your peers, and give the doleful meed
To crime that’s white beside your hidden deed;

“To whisper love, where of true love is none,—
Desire, where lust is dead; to live unchaste,
And wear the priestly cincture;—last, to own,
When the morn’s dream is gone and noontide waste,
Some fate still kept ye from your purpose sweet,
Down strange, circuitous paths it drew your feet!”

Thus far she read, and, “Let me read no more,”
She clamored, “since the scales have left mine eyes
And freed the dreadful gift I lacked before!
We are but puppets, in whatever guise
They clothe us, to whatever tune we move;
Albeit we prate of duty, dream of love.

“Let me, too, play the common part, and wean
My life from hope, and look beneath the mask
To read the masker! I, who was a Queen,
And like a hireling thought to ’scape my task!
For some few seasons left this heart is schooled:
Yet,—had it been a little longer fooled,—

“O God!” And from her seat she bowed her down.
The gentle sovereign of that spacious land
Lay prone beneath the bauble of her crown,
Nor heard all night her whispering ladies stand
Outside the portal. Greatly, in the morn,
They marvelled at her visage wan and worn.

* * * * *

But when the sun was high, the populace
By every gateway filled the roads, and sought
The martial plain, within whose central space
That wonder of the Prince’s tomb was wrought.
Thereto from out the nearer land there passed
The mingled folk, an eager throng and vast;

Knights, commons, men and women, young and old,
The present and the promise of the realm.
Anon the coming of the Queen was told,
And mounted guards, with sable plumes at helm,
Made through the middle, like a reaper’s swath,
A straight, wide roadway for the sovereign’s path.

Then rose the murmurous sound of her advance,
And, with the crown-prince, and her other brood
Led close behind, she came. Her countenance
Moved not to right nor left, until she stood
Before the tomb; yet those, who took the breath
That clothed her progress, felt a waft of death.

O noble martyr! queenliest intent!
Strong human soul, that holds to pride through all!
Ah me! with what fierce heavings in them pent
The brave complete their work, whate’er befall!
Upon her front the people only read
Pale grief that clung forever to the dead.

How should they know she trod the royal stand,
And took within her hold the silken line,
As, while the headsman waits, one lays her hand
Upon the scarf that slays her by a sign?
With one great pang she drew the veil, and lo!
The work was dazzling in the noonday glow.

There shone the Prince’s image, golden, high,
Installed forever in the people’s sight.
“Alas!” they cried, “too good, too fair to die!”
But at the foot the Queen had bid them write
Her consort’s goodness, and his glory-roll,
Yet knew not they had carved upon the scroll

That last assurance of his stainless heart,—
For such they deemed his words who heard them fall,—
“_Of all great things this Prince achieved his part,_
_Yet wedded Love to him was worth them all._”
Thus read the Queen: till now, her injured soul
Of its forlornness had not felt the whole.

Now all her heart was broken. There she fell,
And to the skies her lofty spirit fled.
The wrong of those mute words had smitten well.
A cry went up: “The Queen! the Queen is dead!
O regal heart that would not reign alone!
O fatal sorrow! O the empty throne!”

Her people made her beauteous relics room
Within the chamber where her consort slept.
There rest they side by side. Around the tomb
A thousand matrons solemn vigil kept.
Long ages told the story of her reign,
And sang the nuptial love that had no stain.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

I.

SONGS AND STUDIES.

SURF.

Splendors of morning the billow-crests brighten,
Lighting and luring them on to the land,—
Far-away waves where the wan vessels whiten,
Blue rollers breaking in surf where we stand.
Curved like the necks of a legion of horses,
Each with his froth-gilded mane flowing free,
Hither they speed in perpetual courses,
Bearing thy riches, O beautiful sea!

Strong with the striving of yesterday’s surges,
Lashed by the wanton winds leagues from the shore,
Each, driven fast by its follower, urges
Fearlessly those that are fleeting before;
How they leap over the ridges we walk on,
Flinging us gifts from the depths of the sea,—
Silvery fish for the foam-haunting falcon,
Palm-weed and pearls for my darling and me!

Light falls her foot where the rift follows after,
Finer her hair than your feathery spray,
Sweeter her voice than your infinite laughter,—
Hist! ye wild couriers, list to my lay!
Deep in the chambers of grottos auroral
Morn laves her jewels and bends her red knee:
Thence to my dear one your amber and coral
Bring for her dowry, O beautiful sea!

TOUJOURS AMOUR.

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,
At what age does Love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;
When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

“Oh!” the rosy lips reply,
“I can’t tell you if I try.
’Tis so long I can’t remember:
Ask some younger lass than I!”

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary Love expire,
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?

Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!

“Ah!” the wise old lips reply,
“Youth may pass and strength may die;
But of Love I can’t foretoken:
Ask some older sage than I!”

LAURA, MY DARLING.

Laura, my darling, the roses have blushed
At the kiss of the dew, and our chamber is hushed;
Our murmuring babe to your bosom has clung,
And hears in his slumber the song that you sung;
I watch you asleep with your arms round him thrown,
Your links of dark tresses wound in with his own,
And the wife is as dear as the gentle young bride
Of the hour when you first, darling, came to my side.

Laura, my darling, our sail down the stream
Of Youth’s summers and winters has been like a dream;
Years have but rounded your womanly grace,
And added their spell to the light of your face;
Your soul is the same as though part were not given
To the two, like yourself, sent to bless me from heaven,—
Dear lives, springing forth from the life of my life,
To make you more near, darling, mother and wife!

Laura, my darling, there’s hazel-eyed Fred,
Asleep in his own tiny cot by the bed,
And little King Arthur, whose curls have the art
Of winding their tendrils so close round my heart;
Yet fairer than either, and dearer than both,
Is the true one who gave me in girlhood her troth:
For we, when we mated for evil and good,—
What were we, darling, but babes in the wood?

Laura, my darling, the years which have flown
Brought few of the prizes I pledged to my own.
I said that no sorrow should roughen her way,—
Her life should be cloudless, a long summer’s day.
Shadow and sunshine, thistles and flowers,
Which of the two, darling, most have been ours?
Yet to-night, by the smile on your lips, I can see
You are dreaming of me, darling, dreaming of me.

Laura, my darling, the stars, that we knew
In our youth, are still shining as tender and true;
The midnight is sounding its slumberous bell,
And I come to the one who has loved me so well.
Wake, darling, wake, for my vigil is done:
What shall dissever our lives which are one?
Say, while the rose listens under her breath,
“Naught until death, darling, naught until death!”

THE TRYST.

Sleeping, I dreamed that thou wast mine,
In some ambrosial lovers’ shrine.
My lips against thy lips were pressed,
And all our passion was confessed;
So near and dear my darling seemed,
I knew not that I only dreamed.
Waking, this mid and moonlit night,
I clasp thee close by lover’s right.
Thou fearest not my warm embrace,
And yet, so like the dream thy face
And kisses, I but half partake
The joy, and know not if I wake.

VIOLET EYES.

One can never quite forget
Eyes like yours, May Margaret,
Eyes of dewy violet!
Nothing like them, Margaret,
Save the blossoms newly born
Of the May and of the Morn.

Oft my memory wanders back
To those burning eyes and black,
Whose heat-lightnings once could move
Me to passion, not to love;
Longer in my heart of hearts
Linger those disguiséd arts,
Which, betimes, a hazel pair
Used upon me unaware;
And the wise and tender gray—
Eyes wherewith a saint might pray—
Speak of pledges that endure
And of faith and vigils pure;
But for him who fain would know
All the fire the first can show,
All the art, or friendship fast,
Of the second and the last,—
And would gain a subtler worth,
Part of Heaven, part of Earth,—
He these mingled rays can find
In but one immortal kind:
In those eyes of violet,
In _your_ eyes, May Margaret!

THE DOORSTEP.

The conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past
Like snow-birds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes litten,
Than I, who stepped before them all
Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no, she blushed and took my arm!
We let the old folks have the highway,
And started toward the Maple Farm
Along a kind of lovers’ by-way.

I can’t remember what we said,
’Twas nothing worth a song or story;
Yet that rude path by which we sped
Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,
Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff,—
O sculptor, if you could but mould it!—
So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,
To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone,—
’Twas love and fear and triumph blended.
At last we reached the foot-worn stone
Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home;
Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,
Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood
And with a “Thank you, Ned,” dissembled,
But yet I knew she understood
With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud passed kindly overhead,
The moon was slyly peeping through it,
Yet hid its face, as if it said,
“Come, now or never! do it! _do it!_”

My lips till then had only known
The kiss of mother and of sister,
But somehow, full upon her own
Sweet, rosy, darling mouth,—I kissed her!

Perhaps ’twas boyish love, yet still,
O listless woman, weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill
I’d give—but who can live youth over?

FUIT ILIUM.

One by one they died,—
Last of all their race;
Nothing left but pride,
Lace, and buckled hose.
Their quietus made,
On their dwelling-place
Ruthless hands are laid:
Down the old house goes!

See the ancient manse
Meet its fate at last!
Time, in his advance,
Age nor honor knows;
Axe and broadaxe fall,
Lopping off the Past:
Hit with bar and maul,
Down the old house goes!

Sevenscore years it stood:
Yes, they built it well,
Though they built of wood,
When that house arose.
For its cross-beams square
Oak and walnut fell;
Little worse for wear,
Down the old house goes!

Rending board and plank,
Men with crowbars ply,
Opening fissures dank,
Striking deadly blows.
From the gabled roof
How the shingles fly!
Keep you here aloof,—
Down the old house goes!

Holding still its place,
There the chimney stands,
Stanch from top to base,
Frowning on its foes.
Heave apart the stones,
Burst its iron bands!
How it shakes and groans!
Down the old house goes!

Round the mantel-piece
Glisten Scripture tiles;
Henceforth they shall cease
Painting Egypt’s woes,
Painting David’s fight,
Fair Bathsheba’s smiles,
Blinded Samson’s might,—
Down the old house goes!

On these oaken floors
High-shoed ladies trod;
Through those panelled doors
Trailed their furbelows:
Long their day has ceased;
Now, beneath the sod,
With the worms they feast,—
Down the old house goes!

Many a bride has stood
In yon spacious room;
Here her hand was wooed
Underneath the rose;
O’er that sill the dead
Reached the family tomb:
All, that were, have fled,—
Down the old house goes!

Once, in yonder hall,
Washington, they say,
Led the New-Year’s ball,
Stateliest of beaux.
O that minuet,
Maids and matrons gay!
Are there such sights yet?
Down the old house goes!

British troopers came
Ere another year,
With their coats aflame,
Mincing on their toes;
Daughters of the house
Gave them haughty cheer,
Laughed to scorn their vows,—
Down the old house goes!

Doorway high the box
In the grass-plot spreads;
It has borne its locks
Through a thousand snows;
In an evil day,
From those garden-beds
Now ’tis hacked away,—
Down the old house goes!

Lo! the sycamores,
Scathed and scrawny mates,
At the mansion doors
Shiver, full of woes;
With its life they grew,
Guarded well its gates;
Now their task is through,—
Down the old house goes!

On this honored site
Modern trade will build,—
What unseemly fright
Heaven only knows!
Something peaked and high,
Smacking of the guild:
Let us heave a sigh,—
Down the old house goes!

COUNTRY SLEIGHING.

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.

In January, when down the dairy
The cream and clabber freeze,
When snow-drifts cover the fences over,
We farmers take our ease.
At night we rig the team,
And bring the cutter out;
Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it,
And heap the furs about.

Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens,
And sleighs at least a score;
There John and Molly, behind, are jolly,—
Nell rides with me, before.
All down the village street
We range us in a row:
Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle,
And over the crispy snow!

The windows glisten, the old folks listen
To hear the sleigh-bells pass;
The fields grow whiter, the stars are brighter,
The road is smooth as glass.
Our muffled faces burn,
The clear north-wind blows cold,
The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle,
Each in her lover’s hold.

Through bridge and gateway we’re shooting straightway,
Their tollman was too slow!
He’ll listen after our song and laughter
As over the hill we go.
The girls cry, “Fie! for shame!”
Their cheeks and lips are red,
And so, with kisses, kisses, kisses,
They take the toll instead.

Still follow, follow! across the hollow
The tavern fronts the road.
Whoa, now! all steady! the host is ready,—
He knows the country mode!
The irons are in the fire,
The hissing flip is got;
So pour and sip it, sip it, sip it,
And sip it while ’tis hot.

Push back the tables, and from the stables
Bring Tom, the fiddler, in;
All take your places, and make your graces,
And let the dance begin.
The girls are beating time
To hear the music sound;
Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it,
And swing your partners round.

Last couple toward the left! all forward!
Cotillons through, let’s wheel:
First tune the fiddle, then down the middle
In old Virginia Reel.
Play Money Musk to close,
Then take the “long chassé,”
While in to supper, supper, supper,
The landlord leads the way.

The bells are ringing, the ostlers bringing
The cutters up anew;
The beasts are neighing; too long we’re staying,
The night is half-way through.
Wrap close the buffalo-robes,
We’re all aboard once more;
Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle,
Away from the tavern-door

So follow, follow, by hill and hollow,
And swiftly homeward glide.
What midnight splendor! how warm and tender
The maiden by your side!
The sleighs drop far apart,
Her words are soft and low;
Now, if you love her, love her, love her,
’Tis safe to tell her so.

PAN IN WALL STREET.

A. D. 1867.

Just where the Treasury’s marble front
Looks over Wall Street’s mingled nations;
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
To throng for trade and last quotations;
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
Outrival, in the ears of people,
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled
From Trinity’s undaunted steeple,—