PS 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 2552.A2 1890 
 
 After the ball and Her lover's friend 
 
 3 1924 022 145 712 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022145712 
 
AFTER THE BALL, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
AFTER THE BALL 
 
 HER LOVER'S FRIEND 
 
 ETC. 
 
 NORA PERRY 
 
 ^P^^^S 
 
 
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 ^^^iT^i^^^p^ 
 
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 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 iSgo 
 
3/05/-; e 
 
 X 
 
 Copyright, 187$, 
 6v James R. Osgood and C<i,\ 
 
 AND 1879, 
 
 By Nora Fbrsy. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass,, U. S. A, 
 Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 Page 
 
 After the Ball 9 
 
 The Last Ride 15 
 
 The Romance of a Rose 21 
 
 Coincidence 28 
 
 Armida ... . ■ 38 
 
 North and South 44 
 
 Magdalena 52 
 
 An Autumn Bouquet 59 
 
 The Black Shawl 62 
 
 Jane 68 
 
 Pepita 74 
 
 The Garden of the Lilies 78 
 
 In an Hour 85 
 
 Upharsin 88 
 
 Yesternight . 92 
 
 An Acquaintance 96 
 
 Her Secret 98 
 
 Jenny loi 
 
 Two Views 103 
 
 Haunted 106 
 
 Hester Browne 108 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Destiny no 
 
 Loss AND Gain 113 
 
 Homeless iiS 
 
 La SiRfiNE 117 
 
 Tying her Bonnet under her Chin . . . 119 
 
 That Waltz of Von Weber's 122 
 
 Half an Hour 127 
 
 Polly . 133 
 
 Bess and Ben 138 
 
 Blanche's Chateaux 143 
 
 Apple-Blossoms 148 
 
 In June 152 
 
 Another Year 155 
 
 Some Day of Days 158 
 
 Cecily 160 
 
 Riding Down 165 
 
 Somebody's Humming-Bird 169 
 
 Sylvia's Song 176 
 
 Thorns 178 
 
 "And a little Child shall lead them" . . .180 
 
 What may be 182 
 
 ClKCE ... . 184 
 
 My Lady 186 
 
 And now I sit down daily with a face . . .188 
 
 Misunderstood 189 
 
 Out of the Window 191 
 
AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 They sat and combed their beautiful hair, 
 
 Their long bright tresses, one by one. 
 As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, 
 After the revel was done. 
 
 Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille ; 
 
 Idly they laughed, like other girls, 
 Who over the fire, when all is still. 
 
 Comb out their braids and curls. 
 
 Robes of satin and Brussels lace, 
 Knots of flowers and ribbons too, 
 
lO AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 Scattered about in every place. 
 
 For the revel is through. 
 
 And Maud and Madge in robes of white. 
 The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
 Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night. 
 For the revel is done. 
 
 Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 
 
 Those wonderful waves of brown and gold. 
 Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 
 
 And the little bare feet are cold. 
 
 Then out of the gathering winter chill. 
 All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather. 
 
AFTER THE BALL. II 
 
 While the fire is out and the house is still, 
 Maud and Madge together, — 
 
 Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
 
 The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
 Curtained away from the chilly night, 
 After the revel is done, — 
 
 Float along in a splendid dream, 
 
 To a golden gittern's tinkling tune. 
 While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, 
 In a palace's grand saloon. 
 
 Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 
 Tropical odors sweeter than musk, 
 
12 AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 Men and women with beautiful faces 
 
 And eyes of tropical dusk, — 
 
 And one face shining out like a star, 
 
 One face haunting the dreams of each. 
 And one voice sweeter than others are, 
 
 Breaking into silvery speech, — 
 
 Telling, through lips of bearded bloom, 
 
 An old, old story over again. 
 As down the royal bannered room, 
 
 To the golden gittem's strain, 
 
 Two and two, they dreamily walk. 
 While an unseen spirit walks beside. 
 
AFTER THE BALL. 1 3 
 
 And, all unheard in the lovers' talk, 
 
 He claimeth one for a- bride. 
 
 O Maud and Madge, dream on together. 
 
 With never a pang of jealous fear ! 
 For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
 Shall whiten another year, 
 
 Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 
 
 Braided brown hair and golden tress, 
 There '11 be only one of you left for the bloom 
 Of the bearded lips to press, — 
 
 Only one for the bridal pearls. 
 The robe of satin and Brussels lace. 
 
14 AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 Only one to blush through her curls 
 
 At the sight of a lover's face. 
 
 O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white. 
 
 For you the revel has just begun ; 
 But for her who sleeps in your arms t0:^ight 
 The revel of life is done ! 
 
 But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss. 
 
 Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
 O beautiful Maud, you '11 never miss 
 
 The kisses another hath won ! 
 
THE LAST RIDE. 
 
 There was red wine flowing from the flagons, 
 The jewel-crusted flagons slim and tall, 
 And a hundred voices, laughing, jesting, 
 And a hundred toasts ringing down the hall ; 
 For the baron held a feast at the castle. 
 The gay young baron, lithe and tall. 
 
 From the daTs-steps the red drums beating, 
 And the horns and the silver trumpets blowing, 
 And the quick sweet rasping of the fiddles. 
 Set the dancers in the dance-room a-going ; 
 
1 6 THE LAST RIDE. 
 
 And all through the palace ran the music. 
 And all night the red wine was flowing. 
 
 And the baron led the wassail and the dance, 
 
 The gay young baron, lithe and tall, 
 
 With gallant smiles and jests for the lovely 
 
 women guests. 
 Till the cock crew athwart the castle wall ; 
 But amid the lovely faces rising out of ruffs and 
 
 laces. 
 One face for the baron shone fairer than them all. 
 
 He had stolen from the drinking and the dancing, 
 He was standing in the doorway at her side ; 
 He was praying, he was pleading and entreat- 
 ing, 
 
THE LAST RIDE. 1/ 
 
 A suit she coquetted and denied 
 
 He was praying, he was pleading and entreating, 
 
 When the blast of a bugle far and wide 
 
 Rang its clear silver treble in the court-yard. 
 Three times three, for a sharp battle-call ; 
 And the voice of a trooper hoarsely shouted, 
 " Ho, barons, for the king, one and all ! " 
 Round and round, over hill and over valley, 
 Far and wide rang the sharp battle-call. 
 
 Round and round rang the news of the rising. 
 The rising of old Coventry that night ; 
 And the barons, one and all, at the bugle's bat- 
 tle-call, 
 Mustered forth, fifty strong, for the fight. 
 
1 8 THE LAST RIDE. 
 
 Corslets ringing, feathers flinging, pennons swing- 
 ing, — 
 O, it must have been a spirit-stirring sight ! 
 
 Women's faces grew as white as the rose, — 
 The white rose of York upon each breast ; 
 Red lips in that moment lost their blooming. 
 Gay hearts in that moment lost their jest. 
 But out of fifty faces, sorrow-saddened. 
 There was one face sadder than the rest. 
 
 Eyes that a moment since disdained him. 
 Lips that were laughing and denying, 
 Heart that coquetted with its wooing. 
 Now on the wooer's breast is lying ; 
 
THE LAST RIDE. 1 9 
 
 While the bugle rings its blast, and the troop- 
 ers rattle past, 
 Over hill and over valley flying, flying. 
 
 And the baron rides last, but the baron rides fast. 
 
 Over hill and over valley, rides away ; 
 
 With a smile upon his face, and with a gallant 
 
 grace. 
 As if .he rode to tournament, or a hunting holiday. 
 But in the early dawning, in the gray of the 
 
 morning. 
 In the front of the fight, his white plumes play. 
 
 And in the early dawning, in the gray of the 
 
 morning. 
 The red field is won ere the day 's half begun ; 
 
20 THE LAST RIDE. 
 
 And the cavaliers are shouting, at the round- 
 heads routing, 
 
 Till over hill and valley comes creeping up the sun ; 
 
 Then the shouts and the cheers turn suddenly 
 to tears, 
 
 For there on the field, his brief race run, 
 
 White and still in the dawning of the wild 
 
 autumn morning. 
 White and still, in the chill of the new-risen day, 
 While the roundheads are flying, the hero hes 
 
 dying. 
 Who so late rode straight in the front of the fray ; 
 With a smile upon his face, and with a gallant 
 
 grace. 
 As if he rode to tournament or a hunting holiday. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 
 
 It is nearly a hundred years ago 
 Since the day the Count de Rochambeau — 
 Our ally against the British crown — 
 Met Washington in Newport town. 
 
 'T was the month of March, and the air was chill, 
 But, bareheaded, over Aquidneck hill, 
 Guest and host they took their way, 
 While on either side in grand display 
 
 A gallant army, French and fine, 
 
 Was ranged three deep in a glittering line; 
 
22 THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 
 
 And the French fleet sent a welcome roar 
 Of a hundred guns from Conanicut shore ; 
 
 And the bells rang out from every steeple, 
 And from street to street the Newport people 
 Followed and cheered, with a hearty zest, 
 De Rochambeau and his honored guest 
 
 And women out of the windows leant. 
 And out of the windows smiled and sent 
 Many a coy admiring glance 
 To the fine young officers of France. 
 
 And the story goes that the belle of the town 
 Kissed a rose and flung it down 
 
THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 23 
 
 Straight at the feet of De Rochambeau ; 
 And the gallant Marshal, bending low, 
 
 Lifted it up with a Frenchman's grace, 
 And kissed it back with a glance at the face 
 Of the daring maiden where she stood, 
 Blushing out of her silken hood. 
 
 That night at the ball, still the story goes. 
 The Marshal of France wore a faded rose 
 In his gold-laced coat, but he looked in vain 
 For the giver's beautiful face again. 
 
 Night after night, and day after day, 
 The Frenchman eagerly sought, they say, 
 
24 THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 
 
 At feast or at church or along the street, 
 For the girl who flung her rose at his feet. 
 
 And she, night after night, day after day, 
 Was speeding farther and farther away 
 From the fatal window, the fatal street. 
 Where her passionate heart had suddenly beat 
 
 A throb too much, for the cool control 
 
 A Puritan teaches to heart and soul ; 
 
 A throb too much for the wrathful eyes 
 
 Of one who had watched in dismayed surprise 
 
 From the street below : and taking the gauge 
 Of a woman's heart in that moment's rage, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 25 
 
 He swore, this old colonial squire, 
 That before the daylight should expire, 
 
 This daughter of his, with her wit and grace. 
 Her dangerous heart, and her beautiful face, 
 Should be on her way to a sure retreat. 
 Where no rose of hers could fall at the feet 
 
 Of a cursed Frenchman, high or low: 
 And so while the Count De Rochambeau, 
 In his gold-laced coat, wore a faded flower, 
 And awaited the giver hour by hour. 
 
 She was sailing away in the wild March night 
 On the little deck of the sloop " Delight " ; 
 
26 THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 
 
 Guarded even in the darkness there 
 By the wrathful eyes of a jealous care. 
 
 Three weeks after, a brig bore down 
 
 Into the harbor of Newport town, 
 
 Towing a wreck, — 't was the sloop " Delight " : 
 
 Off Hampton rocks, in the very sight 
 
 Of the land she sought, she and her crew, 
 And all on board of her, full in view 
 Of the storm-bound fishermen over the bay, 
 Went to their doom on that April day. 
 
 When Rochambeau heard the terrible tale. 
 
 He muttered a prayer, for a moment grew pale, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 2/ 
 
 Then, " Mon Dim!" he exclaimed, "so my fine 
 
 romance, 
 From beginning to end, is a rose and a glance ! " 
 
 A rose and a glance, with a kiss thrown in ; 
 That was all, — but enough for a promise of sin, 
 Thought the stern old squire, when he took the 
 
 gauge 
 Of a woman's heart in that moment's rage. 
 
 So the sad old story comes to a close : 
 'T is a century since, but the world still goes 
 On the same base round, still takes the gauge 
 Of its highest hearts in a moment's rage. 
 
COINCIDENCE. 
 
 A PRETTY place it is to see, 
 Rose-hedged, and fairly held in fee 
 By larches and the linden-tree. 
 
 The roses fall, the daisies droop, 
 And all about the ancient stoop 
 The eager sparrows soar and swoop. 
 
 We hear the robins chirp and call. 
 We see the almond-blossoms fall. 
 The peaches 'neath the garden wall. 
 
COINCIDENCE. 29 
 
 But not a human voice is heard 
 To break the voice of bee or bird. 
 And not a human hand has stirred 
 
 The almond-blossoms, as they fall. 
 The peaches 'neath the garden wall. 
 For years around this ancient " Hall." 
 
 The hand that latest plucked the rose, 
 Or broke the blushing almond-blows, 
 Or stirred the fruit from its repose. 
 
 The feet that latest pressed the ground, 
 The voice that latest echoed round. 
 Is in what sleep enchanted bound ? 
 
30 COINXIDENCE. 
 
 Upon a far-off foreign street, 
 Where only foreign voices greet. 
 Are wandering the alien feet. 
 
 And foreign fruits and foreign flowers 
 Are plucked within their Southern bowers 
 By English hands in summer hours. 
 
 The voice that once sang prayer and praise 
 In English chapels, now doth raise, 
 In Tuscan gardens, Tuscan lays. 
 
 But wearily the footsteps fall, 
 And palace pleasures sadly pall 
 Upon the alien from the "Hall." 
 
COINCIDENCE. 3 1 
 
 In Tuscan gardens far away 
 
 She hears the lark's delightful lay, 
 
 She sees the sparrows dart and play. 
 
 In Tuscan palaces she hears 
 
 A voice from out the distant years, 
 
 That floods her heart in sudden tears. 
 
 In Tuscan twilights she doth miss. 
 
 Amid her royalty, the kiss 
 
 That once thrilled all her soul with bliss. 
 
 She 'II never lose that fond caress, 
 
 Although another's lip may press 
 
 The cheek, the mouth, the golden tress. 
 
32 COINCIDENCE. 
 
 O Love that was so sorely tried, 
 
 Yet parted in an hour of pride, — 
 
 Where shall the bridegroom find his bride ? 
 
 Ah ! ne'er on any lover's breast 
 Will that proud head find utter rest. 
 Or go she east or go she west. 
 
 None knoweth this so well as she 
 Who wanders there beyond the sea, 
 Searching in vain the golden key 
 
 Which openeth the golden gate. 
 The portal of a visioned Fate 
 Where Consolation sits in state. 
 
COINCIDENCE. 33 
 
 What consolation doth she seek, 
 
 With such a burning, fevered cheek, 
 
 And haughty brows that shame the meek ? 
 
 Within ambition's lofty gains 
 
 She strives to dull Love's tender pains ; 
 
 All other comfort she disdains. 
 
 The laurel crown is forming fast, 
 She feels its royal weight at last, 
 And thinks the triumph slays the past. 
 
 O woman heart, ye '11 find again 
 The burning fire, the tender pain, 
 For Love will never thus be slain ! 
 
34 COINCIDENCE. 
 
 The hour approached, — the moment came! 
 An idle guest pronounced a name, — 
 And flashed anew the sentient flame \ 
 
 Flashed through and through her haughty calm, 
 And scorched the laurel's potent charm, 
 Dispelled for aye its transient balm. 
 
 " O Love ! " she cries, " return to me ! 
 I 'd barter all the world for thee! 
 O, once again to hear, to see, 
 
 " To feel that tenderest embrace, 
 His breath across my happy face. 
 My head to find the resting-place 
 
COINCIDENCE. 35 
 
 "It found in those delightful hours 
 
 When Love was crowned with fairer flowers 
 
 Than ever bloomed in Tuscan bowers ! " 
 
 Was Love so mighty ? Could it be 
 Through miles of space across the sea, 
 This tender cry, this passion-plea. 
 
 Was heard by him on English ground, 
 As one may hear a sudden sound. 
 And stand in wondering silence bound ? 
 
 For thus above the rise and fall 
 
 Of music in a festive hall, 
 
 He heard a wild, impassioned call. 
 
36 COINCIDENCE. 
 
 And in a strange bewildering trance 
 He lost the gay saloon, the dance. 
 He lost the countess' tender glance. 
 
 And stood within a garden shade. 
 Where larches and the linden made 
 A well-remembered garden glade. 
 
 It was the hour, the very same, 
 When in her Tuscan home there came 
 A sudden presence fine as flame. 
 
 " My Love," she cries, " he comes for me ! 
 My Love, my Love, he waits for me ! " 
 Then turned her face towards the sea, — 
 
COINCIDENCE. 37 
 
 Her face with awe and rapture blent, 
 And slowly, slowly, downward bent 
 Her weary head, as if she leant 
 
 Against some tender sheltering breast 
 So ended all her weary quest, 
 So entered she upon her rest. 
 
 And while from Tuscany there sped 
 To England's shores the tidings dread. 
 That she, the laurel-crowned, was dead. 
 
 Friends, clustering round an English tomb. 
 Spoke softly, awe-struck in the gloom. 
 Of this coincidence of doom. 
 
ARMIDA. 
 
 / TO be brought at her feet 
 As a falcon brings a bird ; 
 I to be troubled or stirred. 
 
 Whenever I chance to meet 
 
 A face that happens to grow 
 The lily and rose, on a skin 
 Satin-textured and thin, — 
 
 / to be brought so low ! 
 
 / to care whether her eyes 
 Seek another, or shine 
 
ARMIDA. 39 
 
 As I look, back to mine, 
 Telling their laughing love-lies ! 
 
 Or if her hand touches my hand, 
 Ringless, and gloveless, and fair, 
 As smiling she passes me there. 
 
 Where grimly unsmiling I stand ! 
 
 Last night, in dancing, she grazed 
 My foot with the hem of her gown, 
 And there I stood looking down 
 
 At the silk as if I were dazed. 
 
 And when, with that hand's white wonder. 
 She lifted the shawl 
 
40 ARMIDA. 
 
 Which had hindered my fall, 
 How I inwardly cursed my blunder ! 
 
 And I cursed her under my breath. 
 As she smiled on me there. 
 For I knew, false and fair. 
 
 She would lead men on to the death 
 
 That lurks in a woman's art ; 
 Worst of all a woman like this, 
 With her smile like another's kiss. 
 
 And her cold unoccupied heart. 
 
 All the time I was cursing her there 
 Her hand was over my arm, 
 
ARMIDA. 41 
 
 And her face shining calm 
 Out of its brown chestnut hair ; 
 
 Shining serenely and still, 
 
 As we paced down the room, 
 
 And entered the gloom 
 Of the garden, led by her will. 
 
 Poor fool ! I remember e'en yet 
 
 How the hehotrope scent 
 
 Wafted up as we went, 
 And the smell of the crushed mignonette. 
 
 As through the dim alleys we strolled 
 In the night soft and still. 
 
42 ARMIDA. 
 
 Until suddenly over the hill 
 Lightning flashed and low thunder rolled. 
 
 What madness then clouded my brain ? 
 
 For I kissed her fears into rest, 
 
 As she clung to my breast 
 In the tumult of wind and of rain. 
 
 'T was the madness of folly and wine ; 
 For what did I care, 
 Though I knew she was fair, 
 
 When I knew she could never be mine ? 
 
 Mine ! though she knelt to me here 
 With that face for a gift, 
 
ARMIDA. 43 
 
 Not a hand would I lift 
 To gather it ever so near. 
 
 I shall never be fooled like the rest, 
 So do not class me with those 
 Who would kneel for the rose 
 
 She wears on her beautiful breast; 
 
 Nor speak to me now of her power: 
 
 I tell you 't was wine, 
 
 Youth's folly and wine, 
 That made me her slave in that hour! 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 FORT ADAMS. 
 I. — i860. 
 
 She leaped up, laughing, all alone 
 Upon the rampart's sodden stone, 
 
 And, laughing, hid behind the mouth 
 Of the great cannon, facing south. 
 
 " Ah ! will he find me here ? " she said, 
 Then hushed her laugh and shook her head. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 45 
 
 " Nay, will he miss me from the rest, 
 And, missing, care to come in quest ? " 
 
 But dancing eyes deride the doubt, 
 The deprecating lips breathe out. 
 
 And waiting, waiting all alone. 
 Upon the rampart's sodden stone. 
 
 She looks across the cannon's mouth. 
 The silent cannon facing south ; 
 
 Across the great ships riding down 
 In stately silence to the town ; 
 
 Across the sea just where the mist 
 Melts all the blue to amethyst. 
 
46 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 From whence the wind o'er all the sails 
 Blew soft that day its southern gales. 
 
 But white-sailed ships that rode the sea, 
 Nor dusky cannon's mouth saw she, 
 
 With those young eyes whose wistful gaze 
 Went dreaming thwart the purple haze ; 
 
 Instead, beyond the white-sailed ships, 
 Beyond the cannon's dusky lips. 
 
 Beyond the sea just where the mist 
 Melts all the blue to amethyst, 
 
 The tall palmettoes darkly rise 
 Before her dream-enchanted eyes, 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 47 
 
 And waiting, waiting all alone 
 Upon the rampart's sodden stone, 
 
 In dreams she stands beneath the shade 
 Of Southern palms, — this little maid, 
 
 Whose morning face and tender eyes 
 Took all their hue from Northern skies. 
 
 And standing thus enchanted there, 
 Within her castle of the air, 
 
 The rippling tide, that sinks and swells. 
 Comes to her ear like wedding bells ; 
 
 And through her castle's airy halls. 
 From room to room a low voice calls, 
 
48 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 And calling, calling, near, so near, 
 That half in dream and half in fear 
 
 She turns, and swift her vision flies 
 Before the vision of her eyes ; 
 
 For some one scales the rampart mound, 
 And some one laughs: "Ah, truant, found!" 
 
 And face to face she meets him there. 
 Her fairy castle's lordly heir ! 
 
 So, North and South, the pine and palm. 
 United, in that summer calm 
 
 Of idle summer days they stand. 
 
 By prosperous gales and breezes fanned. 
 
NOliTH AND SOUTH. 4.9 
 
 II.— 1862. 
 
 No summer guests with curious gaze 
 Stroll now beneath the "covered ways,'' 
 
 And gayly laugh and speculate 
 Upon the old Fort's useless state. 
 
 Where last year's lonely arches rang 
 With idle voices, girls who sang 
 
 Their airy songs, or sent their call 
 From sodden stone or rampart wall, 
 
 3 D 
 
50 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 There echoes now the martial tread 
 Of soldier sentinels instead. 
 
 And they who, sailing through the mist, 
 Came hither for a lover's tryst, 
 
 And vowed next year again to stand 
 Thus face to face, thus hand to hand. 
 
 Upon the old Fort's mouldering mound, — 
 Where find they now a trysting ground ? 
 
 Upon Manassas' bloody plain 
 
 One keeps a tryst with death and pain ; 
 
 And one, grown old before her years 
 Of youth have fled, with anguished tears 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 5 1 
 
 Wrung from despair, far out of reach 
 Of love's last touch, of love's last speech, 
 
 By Narragansett's rushing tide 
 Walks desolate, — a widowed bride. 
 
MAGDALENA. 
 
 I WOULD have killed you if I could, 
 I would have killed you where you stood, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 I would have killed you if a breath 
 Freighted with some insensate death, 
 
 Magdalena, 
 
 Had power to breathe your life away, 
 To so exhale that rose-hued clay, 
 
 Magdalena, 
 
MAGDALENA. 53 
 
 That it had faded from my sight 
 Like roses in a single night, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 I would have killed you thus, and felt 
 My will a blessed doom had dealt, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 But who could smite that golden head. 
 Or mar that young cheek's perfect red, 
 
 Magdalena ? 
 
 Or pierce that bosom's tender white, 
 And watch those dark eyes lose their light, 
 
 Magdalena ? 
 
54 MAGDALEN A. 
 
 Yet would to God that you were lying 
 Where last year's autumn leaves are dying, 
 
 Magdalena ! 
 
 Ah, would to God ! then I had been 
 Unconscious of your scarlet sin, 
 
 Magdalena ! 
 
 Then I had never known the stain 
 Which purples all my life with pain, 
 
 Magdalena ; 
 
 Which robs me of my beauteous bride, 
 And leaves me with my stricken pride, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
MAGDALENA. 55 
 
 Ah, when I thought your soul as white 
 As the white rose you wore that night, 
 
 Magdalena ! 
 
 I wondered how your mother came 
 To give you that sin-sulHed name, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 Did some remorseless, vengeful Fate, 
 In mockery of your lofty state, 
 
 Magdalena, 
 
 Because you wore the branded name. 
 Fling over you its scarlet shame, 
 
 Magdalena ? 
 
56 MAGDALEN A. 
 
 There is no peace for you below 
 That horrid heritage of woe, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 There is no room for you on earth. 
 Accursed from your very birth, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 But where the angels chant and sing, 
 And where the amaranth-blossoms spring, 
 
 Magdalena, 
 
 There 's room for you who have no room 
 Where lower angels chant your doom, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
MAGDALENA. 5/ 
 
 There 's room for you, the gate 's ajar, 
 The white hands beckon from afar, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 And nearer yet they stoop, they wait, 
 They open wide the jasper gate, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 And nearer yet, — the hands stretch out, 
 A thousand silver trumpets shout, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
 They lift you up through floods of light, 
 I see your garments growing white, 
 
 Magdalena 
 
 3* 
 
5 8 MAGDALEN A. 
 
 And whiter still, too white to touch 
 The robes of us who blamed you much, 
 
 Magdalena. 
 
AN AUTUMN BOUQUET. 
 
 Brilliant asters purple and gold, 
 Milk-white lilies parded and pale, 
 
 With their great white petals rolled 
 Fold on fold like a nun's white veil. 
 
 Sprays of geranium, leaf and flower, 
 Rose-geranium in its bloom : 
 
 No strong white lily can overpower 
 The rose-geranium's faint perfume. 
 
 In the centre a flash of flame. 
 Slender blood-red starry slips. 
 
6o AN AUTUMN BOUQUET. 
 
 With their tender tropical name, 
 Only made for tropical lips. 
 
 Then a girdle of brown and gold, 
 Maple-leaves in their splendid death. 
 
 Starred and spotted with golden mould, 
 And odorous of their dying breath. 
 
 This was the gift that into my hand 
 Dropped at parting yesterday; 
 
 And the giver said, "Will you understand 
 What I have said in my bouquet.?" 
 
 O, your asters purple and gold, 
 
 I read their mystical meaning well : 
 
AN AUTUMN BOUQUET. 6 1 
 
 They symbol the world with their purple and gold, 
 The gay, gay world with its glittering spell ! 
 
 And the lilies of peace are set beside 
 The royal purples of pomp and power; 
 
 The lilies of peace and the purple of pride; 
 Geranium-blooms for love in its flower. 
 
 But the fiery human heart burns on. 
 
 Like the starry slips with their tropical name ; 
 
 The fiery heart burns on and on, 
 A feverish, flickering flame. 
 
 And, girdling all these pleasures and pains. 
 These pleasures and passions, hopes and fears. 
 
 The solemn splendor of Death remains. 
 To quench Life's laughter and tears. 
 
THE BLACK SHAWL. 
 
 Seven years ago it was red 
 As the cactus that shed 
 On your bosom, last night, 
 Its warm crimson light. 
 
 The prettiest shawl in the world 
 I thought it was then, with its curled 
 Silken fringe, and the order 
 Of its prim narrow border. 
 
 Seven years it did duty ; 
 But its bellehood and beauty 
 
THE BLACK SHAWL. 63 
 
 Long since passed away, 
 As old and pass^. 
 
 What hopes and what fears, 
 What laughter and tears, 
 It has long ago seen 
 From its rich scarlet sheen ! 
 
 Seven years its hue could compare 
 With the flower that you wear ; 
 Seven years it bloomed, and then dyed 
 Its soft scarlet pride. 
 
 No more like the cactus you wear. 
 But black as the waves of your hair ; 
 
64 THE BLACK SHAWL. 
 
 In place of the colors so fine, 
 Death's sad, solemn sign. 
 
 Every thread of its rose-colored youth 
 Steeped in the black, bitter truth 
 Which comes to us all 
 From the grave and the pall. 
 
 But stay, — the colors of Death 
 
 Are not only for dying breath : 
 
 Let them float over life and its pride. 
 
 Over hopes that have sickened and died, 
 
 Over temples that bleed under flowers 
 In terrible moments and hours, 
 
THE BLACK SHAWL. 6f 
 
 When the thorn presses down 
 Through the fresh laurel crown, 
 
 Pressing out, drop by drop, 
 Without measure or stop, 
 The red costly wine 
 From the heart's bleeding vine. 
 
 Over homes let them wave, 
 Where a cold living grave 
 Buries peace day by day 
 In its dank poison clay ; 
 
 Over doors where the want 
 Of gold brings a taunt, 
 
66 THE BLACK SHAWL. 
 
 And small secret stings ^ 
 From a barbed arrow flings; 
 
 Over life's simplest state 
 Such a grim, gloomy fate, 
 That the heart, dumb with pain, 
 And too proud to complain, 
 
 Is bitterly hurled 
 Out, out on the world, 
 With faith lying dead 
 As a corpse in its bed ; 
 
 Lying shrouded from sight, 
 Not in pure vestal white, 
 
THE BLACK SHAWL. 6/ 
 
 But in weeds of despair, 
 Black, black as your hair. 
 
 Yet memory sits 
 
 Where the black shadow flits, 
 
 And paints o'er anew 
 
 The red cactus hue, 
 
 Till in bright, bold relief 
 It stands out from its grief, 
 From its shroud and its pall. 
 Like the soft scarlet shawl. 
 
JANE. 
 
 She came along the little lane, 
 
 Where all the bushes dripped with rain, 
 
 And robins sung and sung again. 
 
 As if with sudden, sheer delight. 
 For such a world so fresh and bright. 
 To swing and sing in day and night. 
 
 But, coming down the little lane. 
 She did not heed the robin's strain, 
 Nor feel the sunshine after rain. 
 
JANE. 69 
 
 A little face with two brown eyes, 
 A little form of slender size, 
 A little head not very wise; 
 
 A little heart to match the head, 
 A foolish little heart, that bled 
 At every foolish word was said. 
 
 So, coming down the little lane, — 
 I see her now, my little Jane, — 
 Her foolish heart with foolish pain 
 
 Was aching, aching in her breast. 
 And all her pretty golden crest 
 Was drooping as if sore opprest. 
 
JO JANE. 
 
 And something, too, of anger's trace 
 Was on the flushed and frowning face, 
 And in the footsteps' quickened pace. 
 
 So swift she stept, so low she leant. 
 Her pretty head on thought intent. 
 She scarcely saw the way she went. 
 
 Nor saw the long, slim shadow fall 
 
 Across the little, low stone-wall, 
 
 As some one rose up slim and tall, — 
 
 Rose up, and came to meet her there ; 
 A youth, with something in his air 
 That, at a glance, revealed his share 
 
JANE. 71 
 
 In all this foolish girlish pain, 
 This grief and anger and disdain, 
 That rent the heart of little Jane. 
 
 With hastier steps than hers he came, 
 And in a moment called her name ; 
 And in a moment, red as flame 
 
 She blushed, and blushed, and in her eyes 
 A sudden, soft, and shy surprise 
 Did suddenly and softly rise. 
 
 " What, you .? " she cried ; " I thought — they said — " 
 Then stopped, and blushed a deeper red. 
 And lifted up her drooping head. 
 
72 JANE. 
 
 Shook back her lovely falling hair, 
 
 And arched her neck, and strove to wear 
 
 A nonchalant and scornful air. 
 
 A moment thus they held apart. 
 With lovers' love and lovers' art ; 
 Then swift he caught her to his heart. 
 
 What pleasure then was born of pain, 
 What sunshine after cloud and rain, 
 As they forgave and kissed again! 
 
 'T was April then ; he talked of May, 
 And planned therein a wedding-day: 
 She blushed, but scarcely said him nay. 
 
JANE. 73 
 
 What pleasure now is mixed with pain, 
 As, looking down the little lane, 
 A graybeard grown, I see again, 
 
 Through twenty Aprils' rain and mist, 
 The little sweetheart that I kissed, 
 The little bride my folly missed ! 
 
PEPITA. 
 
 Tender eyes and a thrilling voice, — 
 These were the lures that led me on, 
 
 Led me on to love and to trust. 
 Till all my heart was fairly gone. 
 
 Tender eyes and a thriUing voice ! 
 
 Ah, how tender, ah, how sweet, 
 Eyes and voice became to me, 
 
 In the summer hours we used to meet ! — 
 
 In the summer hours, in that summer land. 
 When I tended the vineyards day by day. 
 
PEPITA. 75 
 
 " So let me attend you from morn till night, 
 Pepita, Pepita," he used to say. 
 
 Over the far blue hills he came, 
 
 From some northern clime across the sea, 
 An idle stranger to spy the land. 
 
 So I looked at him, — but he looked at me 
 
 With a lover's eyes from the very first: 
 When he spoke to, me his words were few, 
 
 But his voice swept through my heart like wind, 
 And the vineyard seemed to blossom anew. 
 
 Tender eyes and a thrilling voice : 
 Day by day and hour by hour 
 
76 PEPITA. 
 
 You held me fast in your subtle thrall, 
 You held me fast in your subtle power! 
 
 Tender eyes and a thrilling voice, 
 The gentlest manner ever was worn. 
 
 And under it all a passionate will, 
 A brooding nature set with scorn. 
 
 Tender eyes and a thrilling voice, 
 Hand of steel in a velvet glove, 
 
 Together ye 've wounded me full sore, 
 Under the name and guise of love. 
 
 Tender eyes and a thrilling voice: 
 I think of ye as I knew ye first ; 
 
PEPITA. "JJ 
 
 Kind ye meant to be then, I know, — 
 To give me your best and not your worst. 
 
 Kind ye meant to be, kind ye were, 
 
 Until God knows what rose in your mind, 
 
 What ghost of ill from your shrouded past 
 Made you cruel, who once were kind. 
 
 Tender eyes and a thrilling voice, 
 I shall never see nor hear ye more ; 
 
 And never forget, though I 've long forgiven, 
 The hurt that left, me wounded and sore. 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE LILIES. 
 
 It is the time of the lilies ; 
 
 Look down in the garden there, 
 At the white bride-blossoms swinging 
 
 Bloom-censers into the air ; 
 At the white bride-blossoms flinging 
 
 Their odors into the air. 
 
 The sky is a sea of sapphire, 
 Dappled with purple and gold ; 
 
 White heats from the heart of August 
 Over the land are rolled, — 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE LILIES. 79 
 
 White heats from the heart of August 
 Into the lilies fold. 
 
 Into the death-white lilies, 
 
 Down in the garden there, 
 The hundred lilies ringing 
 
 Bloom-bells in the ardent air, — - 
 The hundred lilies ringing 
 
 A requiem of despair. 
 
 The days are a swoon of silence, 
 
 A drowsy dream of death ; 
 But at eve a wind comes blowing 
 
 A sweet southwestern breath ; 
 At eve a wind comes blowing 
 
 Up from a river of Death. 
 
80 THE GARDEN OF THE LILIES, 
 
 At the foot of the garden there 
 It sleeps all day in the sun ; 
 
 A river of amethyst veiled with mist, 
 Till the swoon of the day is done ; 
 
 A river of amethyst veiled with mist, 
 Which the white bride-lilies shun. 
 
 From what far mystical islands, 
 Over what strange sea-floors, 
 
 Does the southwest-wind come blowing 
 Into these lonely shores ? 
 
 Does the southwest-wind come blowing 
 An echo of ghostly oars ? 
 
 There 's something astir on the grass, 
 Just under the lilies there, 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE LILIES. 
 
 A glitter of white in the dim midnight, 
 And a sudden chill in the air ; 
 
 A glitter of white in the August night, 
 And a throbbing thrill in the air. 
 
 The lilies shiver and sigh. 
 The hlies murmur and moan. 
 
 With a tender, tremulous thrill, 
 In their wild vEolian tone ; 
 
 A tender, tremulous thrill, 
 As she stands there all alone. 
 
 Did she step from the liHes down, 
 
 A splendid spirit of bloom. 
 With a shimmer of amber tresses flung 
 
 Like a meteor into the gloom? 
 
 A* F 
 
82 THE GARDEN OF THE LILIES. 
 
 A shimmer of amber tresses flung 
 Into the midnight gloom ? 
 
 Did she step from the lilies down, 
 
 This shape of a womanly grace, 
 With an awful beauty shining clear 
 
 Out of her phantom face ? 
 An awful beauty shining clear 
 
 From the light of her phantom face? 
 
 The murk of the midnight gloom 
 
 With a pallid radiance glows, 
 As she glides like a meteor down to the strand 
 
 At the foot of the garden close ; 
 As she ghdes like a meteor down to the strand. 
 
 Where the river of amethyst flows. 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE LILIES. 8 
 
 A mystical murmur breaks 
 
 From the waves that break on the shore, 
 And a phantom boat drops dreamily down 
 
 To the dip of a ghostly oar ; 
 A phantom boat drops dreamily down, 
 
 And never comes back to shore. 
 
 She sits at the slender stern. 
 
 The queen of a ghostly realm, 
 While a pennon of amber flutters and floats 
 
 Away from the shadowy helm ; 
 A pennon of amber tresses floats 
 
 Away from the dusky helm. 
 
 What is it she seeks in the night .' 
 What ghostly tryst doth she keep 
 
84 THE GARDEN OF THE LILIES. 
 
 At the foot of the garden there. 
 
 While the earth hes shrouded in sleep,- 
 
 At the foot of. the garden there 
 What terrible tryst doth she keep? 
 
 O, ask of the pale sighing lilies, 
 What secret of solemn despair 
 
 Lies hid in their white bridal bosoms. 
 And lurks in the chill haunted air, — 
 
 Lying hid in their beautiful bosoms. 
 What secret of solemn despair ! 
 
IN AN HOUR. 
 
 I. 
 
 Anticipation. 
 
 " I 'll take the orchard path," she said, 
 
 Speaking lowly, smiling slowly : 
 The brook was dried within its bed, 
 The hot sun flung a flame of red 
 Low in the west as forth she sped. 
 
 Across the dried brook-course she went, 
 
 Singing lowly, smiling slowly ; 
 She scarcely felt the sun that spent 
 
86 IN AN HOUR. 
 
 Its fiery force in swift descent. 
 She never saw the wheat was bent. 
 
 The grasses parched, the blossoms dried ; 
 
 Singing lowly, smiling slowly, 
 Her eyes amidst the drouth espied 
 A summer pleasance far and wide, 
 With roses and sweet violets pied. 
 
 II. 
 
 Disappointment. • 
 But homeward coming all the way, 
 
 Sighing lowly, pacing slowly, 
 She knew the bent wheat withering lay, 
 She saw the blossoms' dry decay. 
 She missed the little brooklet's play. 
 
IN AN HOUR. 87 
 
 A breeze had sprung from out the south, 
 
 But, sighing lowly, pacing slowly, 
 She only felt the burning drouth ; 
 Her eyes were hot and parched her mouth, 
 Yet sweet the wind blew from the south. 
 
 And when the wind brought welcome rain, 
 
 Still sighing lowly, pacing slowly. 
 She never saw the lifting grain. 
 But only — a lone orchard lane. 
 Where she had waited all in vain. 
 
UPHARSIN. 
 
 ScENA. — In a Vienna palace when the news is brought of the 
 fall of Sebastopol. 
 
 Over the city a shadowy cloud 
 Floated and floated ; a gloomy gray shroud, 
 Floating from cannon-shot, gun-shot, and shell, 
 Thicker and thicker the dense shadow fell. 
 
 Into the palace it stealthily comes, 
 
 With the sound of the trumpet, the rolling of 
 
 drums. 
 And the glittering guests in the glittering dance 
 Hear with it the sound of the shivering lance ; 
 
, UPHARSIN. 89 
 
 But never the cries of the wounded and dying, 
 Who drop in the trenches, or fall in their flying ; 
 For the Redan, the Redan, is taken at last. 
 And Sebastopol falters before the death-blast. 
 
 Yet gay in the palace their glasses are clinking, 
 
 And merry lips laugh o'er the wine they are 
 drinking. 
 
 But there 's blood, crimson blood, in the rose- 
 rippled tide, 
 
 And the lips that are laughing are laughing to 
 hide 
 
 The quiver and shiver of hearts that await 
 But the sound of their trumpet to challenge the 
 fate 
 
90 UPHARSIN. 
 
 Which lies in the splendor of Austria's palace, 
 Like death in the depths of a rose-crested chalice. 
 
 O Tyranny, pause in your soft, silken bower, 
 And list to the wild, throbbing hearts in this hour! 
 They're athirst, all athirst, and 'tis blood that 
 
 they quaff, 
 Your blood which they drink with that merry, 
 
 low laugh ! 
 
 And it drips from their lips to the white marble 
 
 floor, 
 And the rich silver service seems dabbled 'with 
 
 gore; 
 But you hear not, you see not : the laugh and the 
 
 jest 
 Drown the curse of the gallant Hungarian guest. 
 
UPHARSIN. 91 
 
 But the sound of the trumpet, the rolling of drums, 
 Through the laugh and the jest to Hungary comes ; 
 While " The Kaiser, the Kaiser is taken at last. 
 And Austria yields before the death-blast!" 
 
 Is the cry that they hear coming nearer and 
 
 nearer. 
 As the sound of the trumpet comes clearer and 
 
 clearer. 
 With the ringing of Victory's sweet marriage-bell, 
 Through the booming of cannon-shot, gun-shot, 
 
 and shell. 
 
YESTERNIGHT. 
 
 The memories of yesternight, 
 
 When in that swift, bewildering dance. 
 The pressure of your hand, your glance, 
 
 All thrill me with a new delight. 
 
 The music wrapped us round and round, 
 While thus within the waltz we whirled. 
 Regardless of the crowd, the world ; 
 
 The music wrapped us round and round. 
 
 And, listening to the quickened beat 
 Of hearts that beat a wilder tune 
 
YESTERNIGHT. 93 
 
 Than horn and harp and gay bassoon, 
 We floated on with tireless feet. 
 
 A thousand odors filled the air, — 
 Swept o'er us as we swept along, 
 Through all the mazy moving throng; 
 
 A thousand odors, wondrous rare. 
 
 Swept o'er us from a thousand flowers. 
 At every breathing of the breeze. 
 From lime and pomegranate trees. 
 
 And orange in the orange bowers. 
 
 From lilies with their creamy flush. 
 All splendors of the splendid rose. 
 
94 YESTERNIGHT. 
 
 Musk, moss, and cinnamon, in blows 
 And buds of crimson, white, and blush. 
 
 But more delicious than the scent 
 Of Orient shrub or orange-bloom. 
 The warm and subtly sweet perfume 
 
 Which in your breathing came and went ; 
 
 Your breath, so soft and balmy sweet. 
 
 That touched my cheek, that stirred my hair, 
 That wandered o'er and o'er me there. 
 
 As faster fell our flying feet. 
 
 As faster, faster on, until 
 
 Beyond the long and gay saloon 
 
YESTERNIGHT. 95 
 
 We stood alone, beneath the moon, 
 In garden alleys, dusk and still. 
 
 The lights are out, and coldly through 
 The deepening dawn the day begins ; 
 But still I hear the violins, 
 
 And still in dreams I waltz with you. 
 
AN ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 I REMEMBER when first we met ; 
 
 I think I shall never forget 
 
 The drawing-room in its curtained gloom, 
 
 The amber-curtained drawing-room, 
 
 Which set you round like a frame of gold, 
 As out of the December cold 
 You hurried in, with your bright blond skin, 
 A splendid color from cheek to chin. 
 
 And, sitting down by my cousin Jane, 
 
 You sipped the foam from the pink champagne, 
 
AN ACQUAINTANCE. 97 
 
 While over the wine the shimmer and shine 
 Of your strange eyes kept haunting mine. 
 
 You talked to her, but you looked at me ; 
 Such a curious gaze, — what did you see, 
 What did you trace within my face. 
 As you drank and talked with that smiling grace ? 
 
 Always that nonchalant smiling grace. 
 Always a mask drawn over the face, 
 Always a look as if within 
 You guarded a secret sorrow or sin. 
 
HER SECRET. 
 
 What if I think of you once in a while, 
 With a little blush and a little smile; 
 With a little blush that comes and goes 
 As the sweet, sweet wind of memory blows ? 
 
 What if I picture now ■with care 
 A tete-^-tete and an easy-chair ? 
 What if I make the picture clear. 
 By lighting it up with a chandelier? 
 
 Can you see by the softly shimmering flame, ■ 
 Can you see to read the musical name 
 
HER SECRET. 99 
 
 Of him who sits in graceful state 
 On the little damask tete-a-t^te ? 
 
 Can you see me sitting before him there, 
 Sitting within the easy-chair ? 
 Can you hear the laugh, can you hear the jest. 
 The musical laugh of my handsome guest ? 
 
 Is it unwise to paint the view 
 In colors so warm, — and light it too ? 
 Will somebody claim the graceful state 
 On the little damask tete-a-t6te ? 
 
 How many may lose by claiming that ! 
 For many a handsome guest has sat 
 
lOO HER SECRET. 
 
 Beneath the shimmering chandelier. 
 While the easy-chair was standing near. 
 
 How many may lose, how many may win ! 
 Ah, vanity is a costly sin ! 
 For the one I mean will never suppose 
 That for him the wind of memory blows. 
 
 Then what if I think of you once in a while, 
 With a little blush and a little smile ; 
 With a little blush that comes and goes 
 As the sweet, sweet wind of memory blows ! 
 
JENNY. 
 
 Little Jenny, pretty Jenny, 
 Jenny with the perfect eyes, 
 
 Jenny with the soft silk hair, 
 
 And the red mouth puckered wise. 
 
 Little Jenny, pretty Jenny, 
 
 Jenny with her charming ways, 
 
 Jenny with her wooing smiles. 
 And her broken R's and A's. 
 
 Little Jenny, pretty Jenny, 
 Jenny with that perfect form, 
 
102 JENNY. 
 
 Jenny with that mingled temper, 
 Half of sunshine, half of storm. 
 
 Little Jenny, pretty Jenny, 
 
 Laughing as you strive to catch her. 
 When you chase her round the room, — 
 
 Ah! what baby e'er can match her.? 
 
 Little Jenny, Carrie's Jenny; 
 
 There was never such another 
 As this baby, save, it may be. 
 
 Listen, Carrie, — Jenny's mother. 
 
 Little Jenny, matchless Jenny, 
 
 Sunshine kiss her, winds caress her, 
 
 Dark-browed sorrow, do not touch her. 
 Or, if touching, touch to bless her. 
 
TWO VIEWS. 
 
 "The world is old, the world is cold," 
 
 She very coldly said, 
 "And all we prize beyond us lies 
 
 Till we lie with the dead. 
 
 " The world is old, the world is cold ; 
 
 A thousand lives can prove 
 How failures cast us all at last 
 
 Into the worldly groove." 
 
 A thousand lives are not my life. 
 Nor are they types of mine ; 
 
I04 TWO VIEWS. 
 
 Instead of cold, the world is gold. 
 And dazzles with its shine. 
 
 She shook her head, she broke her thread, 
 And paused to count the stitches ; 
 
 And still she told, the world was cold. 
 And colder all its riches. 
 
 And still I hold the world is gold. 
 
 And golden all its glory ; 
 And still she sings of " fleeting things," 
 
 That dismal, dreary story. 
 
 The daisies blow, the roses grow, 
 In garden, field, and wood. 
 
TWO VIEWS. 105 
 
 And care is fleet, where youth is sweet, 
 And God is very good. 
 
 I still must weave, and still believe 
 My dreams will all come true; 
 
 For hope is bright, and sorrow light. 
 Where life is fresh and new. 
 
HAUNTED. 
 
 You ask me why my thoughts assume 
 Such dark significance of gloom, 
 When, sitting in the chapel there, 
 I list the sermon and the prayer. 
 
 If you could summon up such hosts 
 Of phantom figures, dreary ghosts. 
 That come and take their seat beside 
 My seat, or in the stillness glide 
 
 Along the purple-tinted aisle, 
 
 And whisper of the past, the while 
 
HAUNTED. 107 
 
 The preacher prays his solemn prayer, 
 You would not wonder at me there. 
 
 If you could hear the tones, my friend, 
 That with the singers' voices blend. 
 Or when the organ thunders roll, — 
 You would not question thus my soul. 
 
 You would not wonder that I turn 
 From church and chapel with so stern 
 A sadness on my outward face, 
 And thus refuse your gentle grace. 
 
HESTER BROWNE. 
 
 O, YOU are charming, Hester Browne, 
 So do not, every time you pass 
 The httle Psyche looking-glass, 
 
 Find some disorder in your gown ! 
 
 In every ringlet of your hair, 
 In every dimple of your cheek, 
 Whene'er you smile or smiling speak. 
 
 There lurks a cruel, charming snare. 
 
 There's not a motion of the hand 
 That shows a grace to lure and win. 
 
HESTER BROWNE. IO9 
 
 There's not a coy, coquettish sin, 
 That Hester does not understand. 
 
 What use to preach of "better things," 
 And tell her she is false as gay? 
 Be still, and let her have her day, 
 
 And count her lovers on her rings. 
 
 And let her break a hundred hearts. 
 And mend them with a glance again ; 
 Be sure the pleasure heals the pain 
 
 Of little Hester's cruel arts. 
 
DESTINY. 
 
 Just a door between us, — no more, 
 
 And your hand on the bell. 
 When a voice inside of the door 
 
 Broke the spell. 
 
 And you turned, perhaps with a sigh. 
 
 From the small garden gate, 
 And I never knew you were by 
 
 Till too late. 
 
 So near, so near, yet so far ! 
 Just a thin narrow door 
 Shut between us, — just a bar 
 
 Evermore ! 
 
DESTINY. 1 1 1 
 
 And now, perhaps with a sigh, 
 
 Or a smile, — who can tell ? — 
 I think what we missed, you and I, 
 
 For that bell. 
 
 God knew best, though when your last letter 
 
 Told the story to me, 
 For a time, I thought I knew better. 
 
 For you see 
 
 I wanted what there was denied. 
 Were it a weed or a flower ; 
 I wanted what budded and died 
 
 In that hour. 
 
 And though I look back on that season 
 
 Of friendship platonic. 
 And laugh at the rhyme without reason. 
 
 Half ironic ; 
 
112 DESTINY. 
 
 And though time has brought me far more 
 
 Than I care now to tell, 
 I sometimes think of that door 
 
 And that bell! 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 When the baby died, we said, 
 With a sudden, secret dread, 
 " Death, be merciful, and pass ; 
 Leave the other." But, alas, 
 
 While we watched he waited there. 
 One foot on the golden stair, 
 One hand beckoning at the gate. 
 Till the home was desolate. 
 
 Friends say, it is better so, 
 Clothed in innocence to go ; 
 
 H 
 
114 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Say, to ease your parting pain, 
 That your loss is but their gain. 
 
 Ah, the parents think of this. 
 But remember more the kiss 
 From the little rose-red lips ! 
 And the print of finger-tips 
 
 Left upon a broken toy 
 Will remind them how the boy 
 And his sister charmed the days 
 With their pretty winsome ways. 
 
 Only time can give relief 
 To the weary, lonesome grief; 
 God's sweet minister of pain 
 Then shall sing of loss and gain. 
 
HOMELESS. 
 
 O, THE wild, wild trouble in your eye, 
 
 Marghrita ! 
 The sad, sad trouble that doth lie 
 
 Beyond the reaching 
 Of all preaching, 
 Marghrita. 
 Of the dark, dark days you spend, 
 Marghrita, — 
 The dreary, lonesome days that rend 
 You with their woe. 
 What do they know, 
 Marghrita, 
 
Il6 HOMELESS. 
 
 Who Stand amid the flowers of life, 
 
 Marghrita, 
 And have no knowledge of the strife 
 
 Which leaves its trace 
 Upon your face, 
 Marghrita ? 
 No matter if the winds blow east or west, 
 
 Marghrita ; 
 They have pleasant homes wherein to rest, 
 While you have none 
 Under the sun, 
 Marghrita. 
 
LA SI RENE. 
 
 Over the flagon filled to the brim 
 She sends a bewildering glance to him. 
 
 Over the sea of pink foaming wine 
 
 He reels in the light of her beauty divine. 
 
 Deeper and deeper she dreamily dips, 
 
 In the rose-tinted wine, her rose-tinted lips. 
 
 While over the glass she airily laughs 
 
 A pledge which he eagerly catches and quaffs. 
 
Il8 LA SIRENE. 
 
 And he drinks in a madness wilder than wine. 
 Through her smile and her eyes' bewildering shine. 
 
 He drinks in delirium, danger, and death, 
 
 As over the crystal comes floating her breath ; 
 
 As over the flagon of rose-colored bliss 
 She wickedly, witchingly wafts him a kiss ; 
 
 Then, laughing a laugh derisive and sweet, 
 She is gone while he kneels in despair at her feet. 
 
TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER 
 CHIN. 
 
 Tying her bonnet under her chin, 
 She tied her raven ringlets in ; 
 But not alone in the silken snare 
 Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 
 For, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
 She tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 They were strolling together up the hill, 
 Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill ; 
 And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race, 
 All over the happy peach-colored face, 
 
I30 TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER CHIN. 
 
 Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in. 
 Under her beautiful dimpled chin. 
 
 And it blew a color, bright as the bloom 
 Of the pinkest fuschia's tossing plume. 
 All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
 That ever imprisoned a romping curl. 
 Or, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
 Tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 Steeper and steeper grew the hill ; 
 Madder, merrier, chillier still 
 The western wind blew down, and played 
 The wildest tricks with the little maid, 
 As, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
 She tied a young man's heart within. 
 
TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER CHIN. 121 
 
 O western wind, do you think it was fair, 
 
 To play such tricks with her floating hair ? 
 
 To gladly, gleefully do your best 
 
 To blow her against the young man's breast, 
 
 Where he as gladly folded her in. 
 
 And kissed her mouth and her dimpled chin? 
 
 Ah ! Ellery Vane, you little thought, 
 An hour ago, when you besought 
 This country lass to walk with you, 
 After the sun had dried the dew. 
 What perilous danger you'd be in. 
 As she tied her bonnet under her chin ! 
 
THAT WALTZ OF VON WEBER'S. 
 
 Gayly and gayly rang the gay music, 
 The blithe, merry music of harp and of horn, 
 The mad, merry music, that set us a-dancing 
 Till over the midnight came stealing the morn. 
 
 Down the great hall went waving the banners, 
 Waving and waving their red, white, and blue, 
 As the sweet summer wind came blowing and 
 
 blowing 
 From the city's great gardens asleep in the 
 
 dew. 
 
THAT WALTZ OF VON WEBER S. 1 23 
 
 Under the flags, as they floated and floated, 
 Under the arches and arches of flowers, 
 We two and we two floated and floated 
 Into the mystical midnight hours. 
 
 And just as the dawn came stealing and stealing. 
 The last of those wild Weber waltzes began ; 
 I can hear the soft notes now appealing and 
 
 pleading, 
 And I catch the faint scent of the sandal-wood 
 
 fan 
 
 That lay in your hand, your hand on my shoulder. 
 As down the great hall, away and away. 
 All under the flags and under the arches. 
 We danced and we danced till the dawn of the 
 day. 
 
124 THAT WALTZ OF VON WEBER S. 
 
 But why should I dream o'er this dreary old 
 
 ledger, 
 In this counting-room down in this dingy old street, 
 Of that night or that morning, just there at the 
 
 dawning, 
 When our hearts beat in time to our fast-flying 
 
 feet ? 
 
 What is it that brings me that scene of enchant- 
 ment. 
 So fragrant and fresh from out the dead years, 
 That just for a moment I 'd swear that the music 
 Of Weber's wild waltzes was still in my ears? 
 
 What is it, indeed, in this dusty old alley, 
 That brings me that night or that morning in June ? 
 
THAT WALTZ OF VON WEBER'S. 1 25 
 
 What is it, indeed ? — I laugh to confess it, — 
 A hand-organ grinding a creaking old tune ! 
 
 But somewhere or other I caught in the measure 
 That waltz of Von Weber's, and back it all came, 
 That night or that morning, just there at the 
 
 dawning, 
 When I danced the last dance with my first and 
 
 last flame. 
 
 My first and my last ! but who would believe me 
 
 If, down in this dusty old alley to-day, 
 
 'Twixt the talk about cotton, the markets, and 
 
 money, 
 I should suddenly turn in some moment and say 
 
126 THAT WALTZ OF VON WEBER's. 
 
 That one memory only had left me a lonely 
 And gray-bearded bachelor, dreaming of Junes, 
 Where the nights and the mornings, from the 
 
 dusk to the dawnings, 
 Seemed set to the music of Weber's wild tunes ? 
 
HALF AN HOUR. 
 
 I MET her last year, in the studio 
 
 Of Weymer, in the Rue de Charente ; 
 
 She came in with cheeks all aglow 
 
 From the wild autumn winds, and bent 
 
 To my greetings with a flow 
 
 Of light murmured words, silver sweet, 
 
 Delicate, flattering phrases. 
 Which my own words sprang forth to meet. 
 
 As if I believed in her praises. 
 Dropped with a smile at my feet. 
 
128 HALF AN HOUR. 
 
 Courtesy, high-handed, and bred 
 
 In the translucent blood of her veins : 
 
 Such a lady ! who can flatter, instead 
 Of your flattering her for your pains, 
 
 Without a change of her cool white and red. 
 
 Saying, " I 've heard of you much " — 
 Smiling — " and glad thus to meet " ; 
 
 While her hand's tender touch 
 Brushed my own, to complete 
 
 The chaste charm : call it such. 
 
 For I knew that it meant nothing more 
 Than the gracious refinement of art ; 
 
 The exquisite odorous core 
 Of a flower, not its heart. 
 
 What wanted I more .' 
 
HALF AN HOUR. I 2g 
 
 The flower itself for my share ? 
 
 Well, I have it here in my palm, — 
 A rose that fell from her hair 
 
 Into my hand, like a charm, 
 Just as we parted there. 
 
 And half smiling I took it away, — 
 Half smiling, but was I in jest? 
 
 Well, what next ? shall I say 
 
 I have worn it here on my breast 
 
 Since that red autumn day .■• 
 
 Only the swift short half 
 
 Of a long-drawn hour. 
 An arch phrase or two, and a laugh : 
 
 What is the power 1 — 
 
 Did she give me wine to quaff.' 
 
 6* I 
 
I30 HALF AN HOUR. 
 
 For, ever I 'm seeing a face, 
 Like a face in a delicate dream. 
 
 Larkspur eyes and rose lips through the lace 
 Of a veil glide and gleam. 
 
 Till I half lose the trace. 
 
 Then a turn of the head shows such hair ! 
 
 Black hair like wet silk, 
 Breaking loose from a silken snare, 
 
 And a hand white as milk 
 Thrusting it back without care. 
 
 More than a year, you know, 
 And much has happened since then ; 
 
 The world's ebb-tide and flow, 
 And a man's life with men ; 
 
 But I 'd let it all go 
 
HALF AN HOUR. I3I 
 
 For the swift short half 
 
 Of a long-drawn hour. 
 An arch phrase or two, and a laugh. 
 
 And the possible power 
 To sit there and quaff 
 
 That fine fairy wine, 
 
 Which has kept its sweet spell, 
 Kept its sparkle and shine, 
 
 Down a year's surge and swell, 
 From that half-hour of mine. 
 
 Of mine ! yes, of mine, sweet ! 
 
 You 've met millions of men. 
 And dropped a smile at their feet ; 
 
 But that half-hour was mine then. 
 And in it I claim you, sweet. 
 
132 HALF AN HOUR. 
 
 And in it I have you and hold you. 
 Larkspur eyes and blush roses ! 
 
 And in it I clasp you and fold you. 
 Where this rose reposes. 
 
 There, my passion I 've told you ! 
 
POLLY. 
 
 Who 's this coming down the stairs, 
 
 Putting on such lofty airs ; 
 
 With that hump upon her back, 
 
 And her httle heels click, clack ? 
 
 Such a funny little girl, 
 
 With a funny great long curl 
 
 Hanging from a mound of hair ; 
 
 And a hat way back in the air, 
 
 Just to show a little border 
 
 Of yellow curls, all out of order. 
 
 She 's a silly girl, I guess, 
 
 I 'm glad it is n't — Why, bless 
 
1 34 POLLY. 
 
 My soul ! it 's our little Polly 
 
 Tricked out in all that folly ! 
 
 Well, I declare, I never 
 
 Was so beat ; for if ever 
 
 There was a sensible girl, 
 
 I thought 't was little Polly Earl. 
 
 And here — Well, it 's very queer 
 
 To come back, after a year, 
 
 And find my Polly changed like this, — 
 
 A hunched-up, bunched-up, furbelowed miss. 
 
 With a steeple of a hat, 
 
 And her hair like a mat. 
 
 It 's so frightfully frowzled 
 
 And roughed up and tousled ! 
 
 O Polly, Polly ! — Well, my dear. 
 
 So you 're glad grandfather 's here ? 
 
POLLY. 13s 
 
 And I confess that kiss 
 Does smack of the Polly I miss, — 
 The girl with the soft, smooth hair, 
 Instead of this kinked-up snare. 
 What ! you 're just the same Polly, 
 In spite of all this folly .■' 
 And what is that you say 
 About your grandmother's day, 
 That you guess the folly 
 Has n't just begun 1 — O Polly, 
 If you could only have seen 
 Your grandmother at eighteen ! 
 What 's that about the puffs 
 And the stiffened-up ruffs 
 That they wore in the time 
 Of your grandmother's prime ? 
 
136 POLLY. 
 
 And the big buckram sleeves 
 
 That stood out like the leaves 
 
 Of the old-fashioned tables ; 
 
 And the bonnets big as gables, 
 
 And the laced-up waists — Why, sho, 
 
 Polly, how your tongue does go ! 
 
 Little girls should be seen, not heard 
 
 Quite so much, Polly, on my word. 
 
 O, I 'm trying to get away. 
 
 Eh, from your grandmother's day. 
 
 But I 'm not to escape 
 
 Quite so easy from a scrape ? 
 
 What, you expect me to say 
 
 That your grandmother's day 
 
 Was as foolish as this ? — 
 
 Polly, give me a kiss ; 
 
POLLY. 137 
 
 I 'm beaten, I see — 
 
 And I '11 agree, I '11 agree 
 
 That young folks find 
 
 All things to their mind ; 
 
 And in your grandmother's time. 
 
 When I too was in my prime, 
 
 I 've no doubt, Polly, 
 
 I looked at all the folly 
 
 Connected with the lasses 
 
 Through rose-colored glasses. 
 
 As the youths of to-day 
 
 Look at you, Polly, eh ? 
 
 But I 've given you fair warning 
 
 How older folk see ; so, Polly, good morning ! 
 
BESS AND BEN. 
 
 Sunny days, and sunny days, 
 
 And all day long, 
 Here they go, and there they go, 
 
 In and out the throng. 
 
 Here they go, and there they go. 
 Up and down the street ; 
 
 Benjie grinding out the tune, 
 Bessie singing sweet. 
 
 Singing loud, and singing low, 
 Trilling out the tune. 
 
BESS AND BEN. 1 39 
 
 Not as Benjie grinds it out, 
 But as birds in June 
 
 Lift and lift their voices up 
 
 Out of pure delight ; 
 Singing loud, and singing low, 
 
 Morning, noon, and night. 
 
 What ! you never heard our Bess ? 
 
 Never heard her sing 
 "John Brown's soul is marching on," 
 
 And "The Lord is King"? 
 
 Why, where 've you lived, I wonder. 
 Never to have heard 
 
140 BESS AND BEN. 
 
 Bessie, with her tambourine, 
 Singing like a bird? 
 
 Singing up and down the street, 
 Singing high and low, 
 
 Since a little child of three. 
 Twice three years ago. 
 
 It is twice three years, and more. 
 Since that summer day 
 
 When the news from Gettysburg 
 Told how Sergeant May, 
 
 Through the thickest of the fight. 
 Through the rush and roar 
 
BESS AND BEN. I4I 
 
 Of the shout and shot and shell, 
 Held the flag he bore 
 
 Firmly, till the very last, 
 
 When they found him lying 
 By the famous old stone-wa:ll, 
 
 In the twilight, — dying. 
 
 Dying, faltering at the last, 
 
 "Little Bess and Ben! 
 They'll miss their father sorely: 
 
 Who'll look out for them when — " 
 
 And that was all, — the words broke off 
 In this world, for the other. 
 
142 BESS AND BEN. 
 
 And little Bess and Ben were left 
 With neither father, mother. 
 
 And this is why that through the street, 
 
 In and out the throng, 
 Sunny days and sunny days, 
 
 And all day long. 
 
 Here they go, and there they go, 
 
 Up and down the street ; 
 Benjie grinding out the tune, 
 
 Bessie singing sweet. 
 
BLANCHE'S CHATEAUX. 
 
 Building castles in the air, 
 Spanish castles, fine and fair, 
 Blanche is dreaming in her chair ; 
 Keep on dreaming, Blanche. 
 
 Poverty is on the wall. 
 
 And its shadows downward fall 
 
 Drearily upon them all, 
 
 But the dreaming Blanche. 
 
 While they mourn their scanty fare. 
 And their daily toil and care, 
 
144 Blanche's chateaux. 
 
 She is ever dreaming there ; 
 
 Keep on dreaming, Blanche. 
 
 While they chide thee in disdain, 
 For thy heedlessness of pain. 
 Thou art having all the gain. 
 In thy dreaming, Blanche. 
 
 While they only see their cot. 
 Bounded by its narrow lot. 
 Scant domains are heeded not 
 By the dreaming Blanche. 
 
 She is wandering far away, — 
 Building castles grand and gay, — 
 
BLANCHES CHATEAUX. I4S 
 
 Growing grander every day ; 
 
 Keep on dreaming, Blanche. 
 
 Stately mansions, — there they stand, 
 In Atlantis fairy-land, 
 By delicious breezes fanned ; 
 Keep on dreaming, Blanche. 
 
 Ocean surges rise and fall 
 'Neath the turrets slim and tall, 
 'Gainst a battlemented wall. 
 In thy dreaming, Blanche. 
 
 Where the summer shadows hide. 
 
 On the sunny southern side, 
 
 7 J 
 
146 Blanche's chateaux. 
 
 There a garden stretches wide, — 
 There is dreaming Blanche. 
 
 Friends of rare and costly mien, 
 Such as we have never seen, 
 In that Paradise serene, 
 
 Walk with dreaming Blanche, 
 
 Blanche is queen in these domains ; 
 Blanche o'er all this beauty reigns, 
 And a queenly state sustains ; 
 Keep thy dreaming, Blanche. 
 
 Though they tell thee how unreal 
 Are these visions, and ideal, 
 
BLANCHES CHATEAUX. I 47 
 
 I will tell thee they are real, 
 And to keep on dreaming. 
 
 I will tell thee, for I know 
 How their splendors come and go, 
 That the truest life we know 
 Is in dreaming, Blanche. 
 
 In our fair Atlantis land 
 We have riches at command. 
 Which they cannot understand : 
 Let us dream forever. 
 
APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Hither and thither they swung, Madeline Hays, — 
 The bloom-loaded apple-tree boughs, 
 The rose-scented apple-tree boughs, 
 The pink-tinted apple-tree boughs, — 
 
 In the merry May days. 
 
 Hither and thither they swung, Madeline Hays ; 
 The blossoms and you together, 
 Rose-tinted, and light as a feather, 
 All in the merry May weather, 
 
 My rose-tinted Madeline Hays. 
 
APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 1 49 
 
 Down in the wet, green grass, Madeline Hays, 
 Where the brown bees cluster and hover ; 
 Down in the cowslips and clover, 
 With the apple-tree blooms sprinkled over, 
 
 I awaited you, Madeline Hays. 
 
 Down in the wet, green grass, Madeline Hays, 
 Ankle-deep, I pleaded and flattered. 
 While the blackbird whistled and chattered. 
 And the pink blossoms pelted and pattered. 
 
 All in the merry May days. 
 
 " Come down, come down to me, Madeline Hays ! " 
 
 I pleaded, and pleaded in vain ; 
 
 While the pink, pelting rain 
 
 And your laugh of disdain 
 Only answered me, Madeline Hays. 
 
150 APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 "Come down, come down to me, Madeline Hays!" 
 I pleaded, and flattered once more ; 
 And you laughed in my face as before. 
 Till the wind blew down with a roar ! — 
 
 What happened then, Madeline Hays ? 
 
 The wind blew down with a roar, Madeline Hays, 
 Breaking branches and boughs in the race. 
 Blowing blossoms and buds in my face ; 
 What else did I catch and embrace 
 
 As the bough broke, Madeline Hays ? 
 
 Soft, yellow silk hair, Madeline Hays, 
 Unrolling its lovely Greek twist. 
 Blowing out its goldening mist, — 
 It was this that I caught first and kissed, 
 
 My bloom-blushing Madehne Hays ! 
 
APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 15 1 
 
 Then through hair all a-dazzle, Madeline Hays, 
 Eyes and mouth, cheek and chin too. 
 Out of the dazzle came glimmering through ; 
 All the love colors, — red, white, aijd blue, — 
 
 What could a man do, Madeline Hays ? 
 
IN JUNE. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, 
 So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; 
 
 So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going 
 From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes, 
 The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; 
 
 So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes, 
 The plover's piping note, now here, now there. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover, 
 The west-wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; 
 
IN JUNE. 153 
 
 So sweet, so sweet with news of some one's lover. 
 Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. 
 
 So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes ; 
 
 Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear ; 
 And, water, hush your song through reeds and 
 rushes, 
 
 That I may know whose lover cometh near. 
 
 So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling, 
 Plover or blackbird never heeding me ; 
 
 So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, falling. 
 O'er bar and bank, in brawling, boisterous glee. 
 
 So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover, 
 Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and fall, 
 
 7 ^ 
 
154 'N JUNE. 
 
 Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover, 
 My lover calling through the thrushes' call. 
 
 " Come down, come down ! " he called, and straight 
 the thrushes 
 From mate to mate sang all at once, " Come 
 down ! " 
 And while the water laughed through reeds and 
 rushes, 
 The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, " Come 
 down ! " 
 
 Then down and off, and through the fields of clover, 
 I followed, followed, at my lover's call ; 
 
 Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover, 
 The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall. 
 
ANOTHER YEAR. 
 
 " Another year," she said, " another year 
 These roses I have watched with so much care. 
 
 Have watched and tended without pain or fear, 
 Shall bud and bloom for me exceeding fair, — 
 
 Another year," she said, "another year." 
 
 " Another year," she said, " another year. 
 My life, perhaps, may bud and bloom again. 
 
 May bud and bloom like these red roses here, 
 Unlike them, tended with regret and pain, — 
 
 Another year, perhaps, another year. 
 
156 ANOTHER YEAR. 
 
 "Another year, ah yes, another year, 
 
 When bloom my roses, all my life shall bloom ; 
 
 When summer comes, my summer too '11 be here, 
 And I shall cease to wander in this gloom, — 
 
 Another year, ah yes, another year. 
 
 < 
 
 " For ah, another year, another year, 
 I '11 set my life in richer, stronger soil. 
 
 And prune the weeds away that creeip too near, 
 And watch and tend with never-ceasing toil, — 
 
 Another year, ah yes, another year." 
 
 Another year, alas ! another year. 
 
 The roses all lay withering ere their prime, 
 Poor blighted buds, with scanty leaves and sere, 
 
 Drooping and dying long before their time, — 
 Another year, alas ! another year. 
 
ANOTHER YEAR. 157 
 
 And ah, another year, another year. 
 
 Low, like the blighted dying buds, she lay, 
 
 Whose voice had prophesied without a fear, 
 Whose hand had trimmed the rose-tree day by 
 day, 
 
 To bloom another year, another year. 
 
SOME DAY OF DAYS. 
 
 Some day, some day of days, threading the street 
 
 With idle, heedless pace, 
 
 Unlooking for such grace, 
 
 I shall behold your face ! 
 Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet. 
 
 Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May, 
 
 Or winter's icy chill 
 
 Touch whitely vale and hill. 
 
 What matter.? I shall thrill 
 Through every vein with summer on that day. 
 
SOME DAY OF DAYS. I5g 
 
 Once more life's perfect youth will all come back, 
 
 And for a moment there 
 
 I shall stand fresh and fair, 
 
 And drop the garment care ; 
 Once more my perfect youth will nothing lack. 
 
 I shut my eyes now, thinking how 'twill be, — 
 
 How face to face each soul 
 
 Will slip its long control. 
 
 Forget the dismal dole 
 Of dreary Fate's dark separating sea ; 
 
 And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting. 
 
 The past with all its fears. 
 
 Its silences and tears, 
 
 Its lonely, yearning years. 
 Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting. 
 
CECILY. 
 
 " O, IF my love would come to me, 
 Would come to me and speak to me 
 Out of these shadows dark and dree, 
 My heart would so much lighter be, 
 My heart would so much lighter be ! " 
 Sang Cecily, sad Cecily. 
 
 " O, if my love would come to me. 
 And say the words he said to me 
 Another day, for love of me. 
 The world would so much brighter be. 
 
CECILY. 16 1 
 
 The world so much brighter be ! " 
 Sang fair, deserted Cecily. 
 
 " O, if my love would come to me, 
 And hold my hands and look at me. 
 The while he softly spoke to me, 
 My life would so much brighter be. 
 My life would so much brighter be ! " 
 Despairingly sang Cecily. 
 
 " But silent and away from me. 
 He has no word of cheer for me, 
 For one dark day he doubted me. 
 And doubting me, grew hard to me. 
 And doubting me grew hard to me," 
 Half bitterly sang Cecily. 
 
 K 
 
1 62 CECILY. 
 
 " But O, if he would come to me. 
 Just for a little while to me, 
 Before he left me, he should see 
 That I was true as truth could be, 
 That I was true as truth could be ! " 
 Sang tenderly sweet Cecily. 
 
 " O, if he would but come to me 
 For long enough to" learn of me 
 This precious truth, and say to me 
 The words he said before to me, 
 For love of me, for love of me," 
 Sang Cecily, fair Cecily, 
 
 "My way would so much brighter be, 
 My cross would so much lighter be ; 
 
CECILY. 163 
 
 And patiently I'd wait and see 
 Whatever was in store for me, 
 Whatever was in store for me," 
 
 Sang wistfully poor Cecily. 
 
 "But now through shadows dark and dree 
 He will not help me, who might be 
 A rock amidst this surging sea, 
 A shield between the world and me, 
 A shield between the world and me," 
 Sang tearfully sad Cecily. 
 
 "And all I ask to comfort me. 
 Is that he'll come once more to me, 
 And say the words he said to me 
 Another day, for love of me, 
 
164 CECILY. 
 
 Another day, for love of me," 
 
 Sang pleadingly sweet Cecily. 
 
 " Yet though these shadows dark and dree 
 Grow dark and darker yet to see, 
 I will not doubt, as he doubts me. 
 But still believe he '11 come to me. 
 But still believe he '11 come to me ! " 
 
 With sudden cheer 
 
 Sang high and clear 
 
 This fond and faithful Cecily. 
 
RIDING DOWN. 
 
 O, DID you see him riding down. 
 And riding down, while all the town 
 Came out to see, came out to see. 
 And all the bells rang mad with glee ? 
 
 O, did you hear those bells ring out, 
 The bells ring out, the people shout. 
 And did you hear that cheer on cheer 
 That over all the bells rang clear? 
 
 And did you see the waving flags. 
 The fluttering flags, the tattered flags, 
 
l66 RIDING DOWN. 
 
 Red, white, and blue, shot through and through. 
 Baptized with battle's deadly dew ? 
 
 And did you hear the drums' gay beat. 
 The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet, 
 The cymbals' clash, the cannons' crash, 
 That rent the sky with sound and flash ? 
 
 And did you see me waiting there. 
 Just waiting there and watching there. 
 One little lass, ^mid the mass 
 That pressed to see the hero pass ? 
 
 And did you see him smiling down. 
 And smiHng down, as riding down 
 
RIDING DOWN. 1 6/ 
 
 With slowest pace, with stately grace, 
 He caught the vision of a face, — 
 
 My face uplifted red and white, 
 Turned red and white with sheer delight, 
 To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, 
 Outflashing in their swift surprise ? 
 
 O, did you see how swift it came, 
 How swift it came, like sudden flame, 
 That smile to me, to only me. 
 The little lass who blushed to see ? 
 
 And at the windows all along, 
 O all along, a lovely throng 
 
l68 RIDING DOWN. 
 
 Of faces fair, beyond compare. 
 Beamed out upon him riding there ! 
 
 Each face was like a radiant gem, 
 A sparkling gem, and yet for them 
 No swift smile came, like sudden flame. 
 No arrowy glance took certain aim. 
 
 He turned away from all their grace. 
 From all that grace of perfect face. 
 He turned to me, to only me. 
 The httle lass who blushed to see ! 
 
SOMEBODY'S HUMMING-BIRD. 
 
 In gay groves once you sped 
 
 On glancing wing, 
 Or dipped your gleaming head 
 In many a spring, 
 Dew-welling 
 And up-swelling 
 From roses red. 
 
 Or in some garden fair, 
 
 Or glen remote. 
 While flitting here and there. 
 
 You hummed your note 
 
170 SOMEBODY S HUMMING-BIRD. 
 
 Of pleasure, 
 For the measure 
 Of days so rare. 
 
 But on no bending bough 
 
 In gay green grove, 
 Or flowery garden now, 
 You flit and rove. 
 Sweet comer 
 Of the summer. 
 Shall I tell how 
 
 Your little feet find rest, 
 Your wings repose, 
 
 Within a golden nest. 
 Where neither rose 
 
somebody's humming-bird. 171 
 
 Nor lily, 
 
 White and chilly, 
 Hideth your breast ? 
 
 A nest, that's like a throne 
 
 Upon a bower. 
 Where, reigning all alone. 
 Without a flower 
 To kiss there. 
 You never miss there 
 The brightest rose that 's blown. 
 
 Where fixt and fast yon swing. 
 
 Half poised for flight. 
 On stirless, heedless wing. 
 
 Night after night. 
 
1/2 somebody's humming-bird. 
 
 While harpers play, 
 And dancers gay 
 Through merry measures swing. 
 
 Through merry measures, where 
 
 A girl's face glances 
 Beneath its golden hair. 
 As down the dances 
 Her twinkling feet 
 To swift tunes beat, 
 While you above there, 
 
 O ruby-throated Hummer, 
 
 In your bower. 
 Forgetful of the summer 
 
 In its flower, 
 
somebody's humming-bird. 173 
 
 Caught in a snare 
 Of golden hair, 
 Watch each new-comer, 
 
 With eyes wide and unwinking 
 
 In their brightness, 
 And little head unthinking 
 Of the slightness 
 Of its hold 
 Upon the gold 
 Gay tresses, overlinking 
 
 Curl on curl, round a face, 
 
 Rising fair. 
 Like a lily in its grace. 
 
 Or a rare 
 
174 SOMEBODY S HUMMING-BIRD. 
 
 Blush rose, 
 When it blows 
 From the green bud's embrace. 
 
 But rose or lily rare, 
 
 She has caught you 
 In a gay golden snare, 
 And has taught you, 
 Little Hummer, 
 That the summer. 
 Though so fair. 
 
 May spread many a net 
 
 For unheeding 
 Little rovers, who forget 
 
 Where they 're speeding, 
 
SOMEBODY S HUMMING-BIRD. 1/5 
 
 Until, lo ! 
 Ere they know, 
 They are set 
 
 Fast forever in a snare, — 
 
 Be its name 
 Lily, rose, or golden hair, 
 All 's the same. 
 
 So, gay Hummers 
 Of the summers 
 Yet to come, — beware ! 
 
SYLVIA'S SONG. 
 
 The days are sweet and long, — oh ! sweet and 
 
 long; 
 All day I sit and dream, or sing the song 
 That some one sang for me one summer day. 
 For me, to me, before he went his way. 
 
 The days are sweet and long, — oh ! sweet and 
 
 long; 
 And in the sun I sit, and sing my song : 
 Some day he will come back who went away. 
 And sing the song I sing from day to day. 
 
SYLVIAS SONG. \^J^ 
 
 The days are long, but sweet, — oh ! long, but 
 
 sweet ; 
 Some day I '11 hear the music of his feet 
 Who sang for me, and sang my heart away. 
 My happy heart, — before he went his way. 
 
 Some day, — to-day, perhaps, — he '11 come to me; 
 And then the days, so long, but sweet to me, 
 Will lose the burden of " So long, so long ! " 
 And only keep the sweet of all the song. 
 
 8* 
 
THORNS. 
 
 Who sees the thorns beneath the crown, 
 
 Upon a poet's head? 
 Who knows they sometimes sing to drown 
 
 Some horrid, haunting dread? 
 
 Who knows what fears beset their way? 
 
 Who knows, who cares indeed, 
 So sweetness charms within the lay, 
 
 That aching temples bleed ? 
 
 Who knows how much they long to shrink 
 Misfortune's cruel cup ? 
 
THORNS. 1 79 
 
 Who knows what bitter wine they drink, 
 Who drain that poison up ? 
 
 Ah, never say the poet writes 
 
 The sweeter for his pain ; 
 'T is false ! the dying soldier fights, 
 A bloody field to gain. 
 
"AND A LITTLE CHILD SHALL 
 LEAD THEM." 
 
 Where ? into the trifles of life ? 
 
 Into its folly and sin ? 
 Into its madness and strife, 
 
 Shall the little child lead you in ? 
 
 Into jealousy, envy, and hate, 
 And the soul's surest wrong, 
 
 Which lies in that bitter estate, 
 
 Shall the Uttle child lead you along? 
 
 Think of the birthright that 's yours ! 
 Yours, whom Christ died to save ! 
 
"and a little child shall lead them." i8i 
 
 Think of the world that endures, 
 Beyond the dead and the grave ! 
 
 In view of that wonderful land 
 Where your inheritance lies, 
 
 In view of a little child's hand 
 To lead you on to the prize. 
 
 Think, think if you can of the world's purple glory ! 
 
 Of its jealousy, envy, and hate. 
 And add if you can to the old, wicked story, 
 
 In view of that splendid estate ! 
 
 In view of the child, that is waiting to lead 
 From the misery, madness, and scorn, 
 
 O, add if you can, to temples that bleed. 
 Another sharp, cruel thorn ! 
 
WHAT MAY BE. 
 
 When the days are longer, longer. 
 And the sun shines stronger, stronger. 
 And the winds cease blowing, blowing, 
 And the winter's chance of snowing 
 Is lost in springtime weiather ; 
 
 And the brooks start running, running. 
 And the bee sits sunning, sunning. 
 And the birds come, bringing, bringing. 
 Such good news in their singing 
 Of love and springtime weather ; 
 
WHAT MAY BE. 183 
 
 It may be — there's no knowing — 
 That then, when buds are blowing, 
 When birds are greeting, greeting, 
 And all things mating, meeting. 
 We *^o may come together, 
 Aod find our springtime weather. 
 
CIRCE. 
 
 You hold my heart in your slender hands, 
 In your cold, your cruel, careless hands. 
 In your beautiful hands, fanned by a breath 
 Like the breath of the rose, it is dying its death ; 
 
 In your beautiful hands with their glitter of rings. 
 Each ring a trophy that scornfully sings 
 Of other hearts that have lain like mine 
 On your cruelly beautiful, pitiless shrine ; 
 
 Of other hearts that have gone to their death. 
 Swooned to sleep by that sweet, sweet breath. 
 
CIRCE. 185 
 
 That breath of the rose that comes and goes 
 As the smiling, beautiful lips unclose. 
 
 When night after night down dizzying dances 
 They follow and follow your dazzling glances, 
 While round and round by the music whirled. 
 As I 'd follow and follow you over the world ! 
 
 Then hold me fast in your slender hands. 
 In your cruelly beautiful, pitiless hands ; 
 Let me forever be dying my death, 
 Swooned to sleep by that sweet, sweet breath. 
 
 Let me forever be whirling there, 
 Lost in a trance divinely fair ; 
 Let me forever be stricken and slain. 
 And dying with this dehcious pain ! 
 
MY LADY. 
 
 Here she comes, — my lady, — so fair and so fine 
 From the gold of her hair to the glitter and shine 
 Of her Pompadour silk with its ruffles of lace, — 
 A wonderful vision of fashion and grace. 
 
 Here she comes, — my lady, — drawing on the 
 
 pink gloves 
 Which I know, even here, have the scent that 
 
 she loves ; 
 And soft, as she moves her fingers of snow, 
 I catch in the movement the sparkle and glow 
 
MY LADY. 187 
 
 Of the ring that I gave her, — the diamond 
 
 soUtaire 
 That marks her "my lady," in Vanity Fair; 
 My lady, — my jewel, — to have and to hold 
 As her diamond is held, — in a setting of gold. 
 
 My lady, — my jewel, — would she sparkle and 
 glow 
 
 If into the Hght I should suddenly go. 
 
 And stand where her beautiful eyes would dis- 
 cover, 
 
 In the flash of a moment, the eyes of her lover ? 
 
 Would she turn to my glance as the dianr 
 
 turns 
 To the light all its rays, till it blushes and bur 
 
I 88 MY LADY. 
 
 Should I, standing thus, in that moment, — her 
 
 lover, — 
 Be the light, all the hght of her soul to discover ? 
 
 Ah, my lady, — my jewel, — so fair and so fine, 
 Of your soul I have had little token or sign ; 
 When I put on your finger that diamond solitaire, 
 T knew I was buying in Vanity Fair ! 
 
 And now I sit down daily with a face 
 As still as Death's, and keep an outward grace 
 Of silence, while the heart within, at Fate, 
 Clamors and frets behind its iron gate. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 They chide you for being so gay ; 
 You have reckless spirits, they say, 
 And moods Uke an April day, 
 Madeline. 
 
 Reckless and flippant and light, 
 I heard them call you last night. 
 When your mirth rose to its height, 
 Madeline. 
 
190 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 Reckless and flippant and light, — 
 I, who knew you aright, 
 Knew 'twas a pitiful slight, 
 Madeline. 
 
 For I knew what none of them guessed, 
 That, if your heart were at rest, 
 Your lips would be slower to jest, 
 Madeline. 
 
 Then let them reprove as they may : 
 If it eases your heart to be gay. 
 To laugh ever so light, laugh away, 
 Madeline, Madeline. 
 
OUT OF THE WINDOW. 
 
 Out of the window she leaned, and laughed, 
 A girl's laugh, idle and foolish and sweet, — 
 
 Foolish and idle, it dropped like a call, 
 Into the crowded, noisy street. 
 
 Up he glanced at the glancing face. 
 Who had caught the laugh as it fluttered and 
 fell. 
 
 And eye to eye for a moment there 
 They held each other as if by a spell. 
 
192 OUT OF THE WINDOW. 
 
 All in a moment passing there, — 
 
 And into her idle, empty day. 
 All in that moment something new 
 
 Suddenly seemed to find its way. 
 
 And through and through the clamorous hours 
 That made his clamorous busy day, 
 
 A girl's laugh, idle and foolish and sweet. 
 Into every bargain found its way. 
 
 And through and through the crowd of the streets, 
 
 At every window in passing by, 
 He looked a moment, and seemed to see 
 
 A pair of eyes like the morning sky. 
 
HER LOVER'S FRIEND, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 P/GE 
 
 Her Lover's Friend 9 
 
 For the King . . ' 22 
 
 The Famous Free-Lance 30 
 
 From a Convent 35 
 
 Lady Wentwortk 46 
 
 The King's Kiss 65 
 
 Barbara . . 69 
 
 A Tramp ... 82 
 
 Svi^EET Sixteen 9S 
 
 He and She 99 
 
 Repentant loi 
 
 The Wreck of the Gloucester Fishing Fleet . 103 
 
 The Rebel Flower 107 
 
 The Wager 112 
 
 If I were You, Sir 115 
 
 Three Destinies 118 
 
 A Deux Temps izo 
 
VIU CONTENTS. 
 
 In the Dark 12 
 
 In Extremis 
 Prophecy . 
 Transformation 
 
 129 
 132 
 135 
 
 April Weather 139 
 
 At Ivry .... 142 
 
 Only a Week Ago 145 
 
 Yesterday 147 
 
 The Maid of Honor . . . * . . . .149 
 
 Kiss and Cure 158 
 
 Baby May i6i 
 
 Bunker Hill in 1875 164 
 
 The Wren and the Bobolink 168 
 
 Boston Boys 176 
 
 A Little Girl's Wonder 182 
 
HER LOVER'S FRIEND. 
 
 Last night I made a solemn vow 
 Heaven knows 'I meant to keep ; and now. 
 With all my purpose gone astray, 
 I have no will to say her nay. 
 What could I say to her in truth ? 
 What choice have I just now, forsooth. 
 But straight to serve her at her need ; 
 For, am I not her friend indeed — 
 Her friend and his ? Can I forget 
 Three months ago, when first I met 
 Her sweet fair face, and heard her say, 
 " What, Lawrence's friend ! " then, half in play. 
 
lO HER lover's friend. 
 
 " His friends are mine, you know ; " and so 
 
 We laughed, shook hands, and turned to go 
 
 Together down the Roman Hill. 
 
 Even as she spoke I felt a thrill 
 
 Of newer life, a fresh surprise, 
 
 I did not care to analyze. 
 
 And she } I was her lover's friend ; 
 
 That thought was quite enough to send 
 
 A deepening dimple round her rnouth. 
 
 Since then, now east, now west, now south, 
 
 From Venice to the Apennine, 
 . And up the Rhone, and down the Rhine, 
 
 I 've wandered, always at her side, 
 
 A sort of walking-stick and guide. 
 
 What else was there for me to do 
 
 When in this land to her so new, 
 
HER LOVER S FRIEND. I I 
 
 To me so long familiar grown, 
 
 I found her with a chaperone 
 
 As inexperienced as herself, 
 
 And half the time laid on the shelf 
 
 With some neuralgic nerve of pain. 
 
 Or mild, mysterious migraine ; 
 
 A brother, too, of scarce more use, — 
 
 A boy half wild to make excuse 
 
 For some rash venture rashly planned, 
 
 To take his pleasure in the land 
 
 He knew not of, — what could I do ? 
 
 Not surely turn and say adieu. 
 
 And leave them in this sorry plight. 
 
 Besides, I had no need of flight. 
 
 It seemed to me, in those first days. 
 
 When all her ways I made my ways. 
 
12 HER LOVERS FRIEND. 
 
 I was her friend, and Lawrence's friend, 
 To serve her was the natural end 
 Of such a friendliness as ours : 
 But when I came to count the hours 
 That held me from the daily sight 
 Of her sweet face, I knew, despite 
 The plausible fine lies I told 
 Even to myself, that 't was the old. 
 Old story that had come to me 
 Three thousand miles across the sea. 
 Then was the time, I knew, for flight ; 
 But then I had not measured quite 
 The weakness of my vaunted strength. 
 I fancied that within the length 
 And narrow limit of this chain 
 Of friendship, I could fast maintain 
 
HER lover's friend. I3 
 
 The outward semblance of that state 
 Of pulseless calm which mocking Fate 
 Had thrust upon me from the start ; 
 But when I thought I had my part 
 Complete and sure, my marble mask 
 Adjusted close, sudden the task 
 That I had set myself became 
 A maddening torture, and the flame, 
 Now held in check, I knew, one day 
 Would break its bonds and have its way 
 In wild, swift speech, or wild caress. 
 This was the end, I felt, unless 
 I turned and fled ; to-morrow night 
 I had resolved upon my flight. 
 When comes this message to defeat 
 My specious purpose, and complete 
 
14 HER lover's friend. 
 
 The irony of mocking Fate, 
 Which hunts me down like hungry hate. 
 " Poor Frank," the message runs, " has met 
 With serious mischance, upset 
 At Fiesole, just at the height 
 Of Badia, — will you come to-night.'" 
 So, pouf ! my fine intentions fly. 
 To the four winds of heaven; while I, 
 Football of Fate again, return 
 To the sweet Hades where I burn 
 With untold passion and despair, 
 Beneath the marble mask I wear ; 
 Until, until some fatal day. 
 Some fatal hour, I fling away 
 In one wild moment all disguise, 
 And stand before her startled eyes 
 
HER LOVERS FRIEND. 1 5 
 
 Myself, — a man whose pulses beat 
 To madder measures than are meet 
 For any friendship under heaven 
 That man hath known or woman given, 
 Throughout the world, since life began ; 
 For man is, after all, but man, — 
 A half-wild creature, held and swayed 
 By impulses that have betrayed 
 His vaunted wisdom and his dower 
 Of manly reason since the hour 
 He walked in Paradise, and found 
 The limit of his earthly bound. 
 And I, like all the race, I stand 
 Within temptation's border-land, 
 And cheat myself from day to day 
 With wild imaginings, that stray 
 
1 6 HER lover's friend. 
 
 Far into that proscribed domain 
 Wiiich is not mine or mine to gain ; 
 But barred from me by that grim Fate 
 That I 've no power or will — yet wait ! 
 Why cheat myself again? I know 
 Too well, too well, that I would throw 
 This thing that we call honor here — 
 That all men, nay, that f've held dear — 
 To the wild winds of heaven, or hell. 
 If I but thought that she — Ah, well ! 
 What mad and futile dream is this. 
 When with the wicked will I miss 
 The power to win, — the power to win ! 
 There lies my safety, then, within 
 That bitter fact. What need have I 
 To fret and fume, then, if the die 
 
HER lover's friend. I7 
 
 Is thus irrevocably cast, 
 And all her heart is fixed and fast, 
 Beyond my reach, beyond my grasp ? 
 Beyond my reach ! If I should clasp 
 Her in my arms, and let her know 
 How all my pulses come and go 
 For love of her ; — if I should strain 
 Her once against my breast, I'd gain 
 My heaven with her, against all ties. 
 All bonds and bars : — no, no more lies ! 
 No fool's pretense to cheat the spell ; 
 To-night, at least, 'fore God I'll tell 
 The truth, — yes, once for all, — now while 
 I gird myself to meet her smile, 
 When I shall look upon her face. 
 And hear her tender voice, and trace 
 
1 8 HER lover's friend. 
 
 The blind emotion struggling there 
 
 Unconsciously and unaware. 
 
 And know that at a touch or word 
 
 The sleeping princess would be stirred 
 
 Within her heart, and all her soul. 
 
 Obedient to my control. 
 
 Would turn to mine, as turns the flower 
 
 Responsive to the mastering power 
 
 Of the one sun within the heaven. 
 
 And in that moment would be given 
 
 Enough of earthly bliss to me 
 
 To pay for all the misery 
 
 That I have known or yet may know. 
 
 Since Fate, then, has forbade me go, 
 
 Perhaps the rest is also planned. 
 
 Perhaps ordained, that from her hand 
 
HER LOVERS FRIEND. IQ 
 
 I shall grasp boldly all this bliss, 
 And lose the world within a kiss. 
 What is it, then, that holds me back ? 
 What courage is it that I lack ? 
 Since all the truth I have confest. 
 What holds me from her tender breast.' 
 Not honor, my confession shows, 
 Nor the world's virtue as it goes. 
 What, then ; what, then .' this only, love ! 
 Sometimes it happens that above 
 The strongest passion man may know, 
 A stronger power will gain and grow, 
 And hold him from himself, until 
 Broken upon its wheel, his will 
 And greed of sense will lie supine. 
 Conquered, if not destroyed ; so mine 
 
20 HER LOVERS FRIEND. 
 
 May broken be, for her sweet sake; 
 So love may conquer love, and break 
 Its pride of passion and of power. 
 Crush all its hopes to save its flower 
 Of love from any soil or stain, 
 Or shadow of remorseful pain. 
 For what new bliss I might inspire 
 Could shield her from the scorching fire 
 Of fierce remorse, whose withering flame 
 Would cast a blight of ban and blame 
 Upon her tender woman's heart, 
 That no new passion and no art 
 That I possessed, could ever quite 
 Remove and leave her life as white 
 And clean as in the days before 
 We met With God's help, then, one more 
 
HER LOVERS FRIEND. ^ 21 
 
 Sharp struggle with the demon here 
 Within my breast, and she, "my dear 
 And only love," unharmed shall go 
 Of any word of mine, nor know 
 What traitor passion has possess't 
 In friendly guise, her own sweet breast 
 
FOR THE KING. 
 
 This is the way my hair was fixt 
 
 The night, that night I danced with the king, — 
 Curl over curl, and in betwixt 
 
 The piled up mass, a slender string 
 
 Of ruby beads running like fire 
 Against my night-black clouds of hair. 
 
 And my dress, — oh, I danced in silk attire, 
 And the king looked down, and called me fair ! 
 
 Full twenty years ago since then, — 
 And such a life-time in between 
 
FOR THE KING. 23 
 
 Of loves and hopes and hates ; yet when, 
 Just now, " He is dead," they said, that scene 
 
 Sprang all at once from under the dust 
 Of the crowded years, and plain as day, 
 
 I saw the king — my king there, just 
 As he stood on that night, away 
 
 In that far back, beautiful time. 
 
 When the world was young, and happy, and 
 fair ; 
 And I saw myself all in my prime. 
 
 With the ruby beads in my night-black hair, 
 
 A. big brave king was this king of ours 
 From first to last. Oh, my father knew, 
 
24 FOR THE KING. 
 
 He knew how he fought the Austrian powers 
 At Novara there, when the bullets flew 
 
 Like fiery hail, to Italy's cost. 
 
 And how at the close of the day he swore, 
 On the battle-field so hardly lost, 
 
 Shaking his sword wet red with gore, 
 
 To make Italy free from end to end. 
 
 Oh, my father knew, and we all know now, 
 That he meant what he said, to be Italy's 
 friend. 
 
 And to keep to the last his kingly vow. 
 
 And how he has kept it, well we know — 
 The people of Italy who were ground 
 
FOR THE KING. 2$ 
 
 Under the tyrant foot of the foe, 
 Or fast in priestly tyranny bound. 
 
 One by one he has shaken free 
 
 The shackles that fettered us, till we stand, 
 From shore to shore of lake and sea, 
 
 A peaceful and united land. 
 
 A big brave king from first to last, 
 But never a courtier ; that was a part 
 
 For which our soldier was not cast 
 By nature's mould or worldly art. 
 
 But an honest man, that was the name 
 ■ From first to last he had rightly earned ; 
 And men less honest to their shame. 
 Courtiers living the life he spurned, 
 
26 FOK THE KING. 
 
 Of smooth deceit, that never spared 
 Maid or wife in their mad pursuit. 
 
 Whispered what they had never dared 
 Boldly speak for the king's dispute, — 
 
 That, coarse of fibre, and coarse of grain, 
 His pleasures were those of a roystering 
 groom. 
 This was the measure, and this the strain. 
 Of the gossip that found the breadth and 
 room 
 
 Of palace and court to fester in. 
 
 But we, the people with whom they said 
 He spent his moments of roystering sin, 
 
 We knew him sound of heart and of head, 
 
FOR THE KING. 2^ 
 
 And that where he went no withering flame 
 Followed his feet and marked the way ; 
 
 No innocent creature owed her shame 
 To a king who stooped to kiss and betray. 
 
 I was the beauty of the town, 
 
 When he danced with me at Piedmont 
 there, 
 And much too vain, alas, to frown 
 At the flattering tongue that called me 
 ' fair. 
 
 And I cannot tell what might have been. 
 Or where my feet had gone astray. 
 
 If this hero king had stooped to win 
 My foolish heart ere he went his way. 
 
28 FOR THE KING. 
 
 But not a word he said to me 
 
 Could have made my mother's heart afraid, 
 Though his soldier's speech was blunt, and 
 free 
 
 Of flattering praise for the little maid 
 
 Who looked at him with worshiping eyes 
 Beneath her night-black clouds of hair. 
 
 Oh, mother of God, to think of the lies 
 They have told of him who could shelter and 
 spare 
 
 A foolish, innocent heart like this. 
 Ready to follow wherever he led, 
 
 And barter the world for a royal kiss ! 
 Oh, when Italy judges her royal dead, 
 
FOR THE KING. 29 
 
 Let her think of this record a woman can bring 
 To add to his score ; then crown him once 
 more 
 
 As Italy's hero and Italy's king, 
 From the heights of Savoy to Sicily's shore. 
 
THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 
 
 (reign of CHARLES THE FIFTH.) 
 
 Five centuries and more ago, 
 When English Edward at Bordeaux 
 Flung back upon the proud French king 
 His bold reply of threatening 
 To the imperious French demand, 
 He little recked that all the land 
 At sound of the usurper's threat 
 Would then and there forswear, forget, 
 Their wild contentions, and unite 
 For France alone in his despite. 
 But from his vantage-ground the king 
 Said to his heralds, "Go and bring 
 
THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 3 I 
 
 My Breton soldier to me here, 
 Bertrand Du Guesclin, who is dear 
 To every loyal heart in France; 
 Go bring him here, my bold free-lance." 
 And when he came, this Breton chief, 
 Whose sword had won broad lands in fief 
 Throughout the valley of the Seine, — 
 Restored to France her own again, — 
 The king, amidst his nobles there. 
 Turned with a smiling, gracious air 
 Of gracious greeting to Bertrand, 
 And said, "Du Guesclin, from my hand 
 I pray you take my royal sword. 
 And 'gainst the usurper's ruffian horde 
 Fight for your king, my brave free-lance, 
 Henceforth as Constable of France." 
 
32 THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 
 
 Red rose the blood of swift surprise 
 To Bertrand's cheek. " Ah, sire ! " he cries, 
 " I am not fit, a rough free-lance, 
 Above these gentlemen of France 
 To take my rank." But, as he spoke, 
 From all the assembled throng there broke 
 A hearty cheer for Lord Bertrand, 
 The chosen soldier of the land ! 
 So, sped alike by prince and king. 
 He put aside his faltering, 
 This modest Breton chief, whose name 
 Already rang with warlike fame ; 
 And buckling on his sovereign's sword. 
 Rode forth against the invading horde. 
 With fifty thousand men-at-lance. 
 The flower and chivalry of France. 
 
THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 33 
 
 All Europe rang with his renown 
 When, conquering hero, he rode down 
 To storm and take the rebel band 
 That held Auvergne's fair border-land. 
 High beat the French king's heart with pride. 
 
 "What may not France become," he cried, 
 
 " With brave Du Guesclin for my sword 
 Against the whole usurping horde ! " 
 Ev'n as he spoke, with eyes that glowed, 
 Into the palace court-yard rode 
 A breathless herald for the king. 
 
 " What news," the king cried, " do you bring 
 Of fair Auvergne ? " " 'Tis ours, my liege." 
 
 '' Ha, ha ! " the king laughed ; " and the siege. 
 How sped the siege .'' " " The siege sped well." 
 
 " And Lord Bertrand .? " " O sire, h* fell 
 3 
 
34 THE FAMOUS FREE-LANCE. 
 
 When all was won, and at the gate 
 Is lying now in mournful state. 
 His last words, sire, to those who bent 
 Above his couch, before he went, 
 
 ' Remember, comrades, when you stand 
 A hostile force in any land, 
 The women, children, and the poor 
 Are not your foes.' " Low to the floor 
 The herald bowed before the king, 
 His message ended. " Go and bring 
 My hero here," the sovereign said, 
 In faltering tones, — " my hero dead ; 
 And write above his silent breast, 
 
 ' Here lies the bravest and the best. 
 The truest gentleman of France, — 
 BertraiTd Du Guesclin, the free-lance.' " 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 How the sun shines to-day down the long, 
 
 busy street, 
 That I cannot see, where I cannot meet 
 Beneath its glad glow the faces I know — 
 God ! to think it is only a swift year ago 
 
 I looked on those faces that smiled back at 
 
 me. 
 As I walked there or rode there as idle and 
 
 free 
 As they are to-day — to-day, while I pine, 
 Shut out from their life in this prison of mine. 
 
36 FKOM A CONVENT. 
 
 " Shut out from their life of the world and its 
 
 evil. 
 From temptation and sin, the flesh and the 
 
 devil," 
 Drones the priest at confession, the abbess at 
 
 prayer, 
 While I listen uncotnforted, dumb with despair. 
 
 Then back to my duties, the weary routine 
 Of petty dull cares, which they think is to 
 
 wean 
 My passionate heart from its folly and sin, 
 Purge my soul of the lusts of the flesh, win 
 
 My slumbering soul to repentance and shame 
 Of this stubborn wild will, till spent like a 
 flame, 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 37 
 
 I lie at their feet, who once looked above 
 Their sordid dull earth, when I looked at my 
 love ! 
 
 My love ! when he held me that night on his 
 
 breast, . 
 When he lifted my face there and prest 
 His warm kisses to lips that returned 
 Every kiss with a heart throb, I learned 
 
 More of heaven than the priest can reveal 
 
 In a million confessions, or the abbess can 
 
 feel. 
 Though she weary the saints with her prayers ! 
 And that night — that night down the parapet 
 
 stairs, 
 
38 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 When Pietro the spy led them on to discover 
 
 Our trysting-place there, was I shamed for my 
 lover 
 
 Or the love that I felt ? Oh ! Leonardo, Leo- 
 nardo, 
 
 When you leapt to your feet and facing the 
 foe 
 
 Held me closer and closer, while you flung in 
 their teeth 
 
 The base words that they spoke, my fond heart 
 beneath 
 
 Its swift shock of terror gave one throb of de- 
 light ! 
 
 And Leonardo, Leonardo, my love, on that 
 night 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 39 
 
 Mounted higher and higher, rose to heaven 
 
 like a flame, 
 This love which they dare call my sin and my 
 
 shame. 
 Shame ! if twelve months before they had met 
 
 us, we two 
 By the parapet stairs, and all of them knew 
 
 We were lovers as now, do you think they 'd 
 
 have spurned 
 Us like that ? No, my uncle, the abbd, had 
 
 turned 
 On his heel with a smile, and a word it may 
 
 be 
 Of reproof for the hour, nothing more, and 
 
 we. 
 
40 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 Half abashed, half elate, had loitered behind, 
 Well aware by that smile that you 'd find 
 More smiles than reproof on your suit. 
 Ah, why was the future so mute .' 
 
 Why, when the gods beckoned on, did we lin- 
 ger and wait, 
 Playing lightly with love, while our fate 
 Lurked grimly and dark overhead ? 
 Why at that hour had no warning voice sped 
 
 Straight to our blind, sleeping souls, waked us 
 there 
 
 From this trance that has wrought our de- 
 spair .'' 
 
 But no ; while coy and coquettish I turned 
 
 All your earnest to jest, though I yearned 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 4I 
 
 Out of sight for the day or the night 
 That would bring me again the delight 
 Of your glance or the touch of your hand, 
 The Duke, riding by, saw me stand 
 
 Looking down from the balcony there 
 
 That fronts to the street — and he saw I was 
 
 fair! 
 Then he came with his suit, and we woke from 
 
 our trance, 
 Dropped our masks of gay jest, and you spoke ; 
 
 but what chance 
 
 Had your name, Leonardo, against a Duke's 
 
 name, 
 Your love suit against a Duke's noble claim ? 
 
42 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 What chance had my prayers or my tears when 
 
 a crown 
 'Twixt these prayers and these tears glittered 
 
 down 
 
 On their sight ? When Church and the State 
 
 Could be served, what mattered my love or my 
 hate ? 
 
 My hate ! when it dawned on me then all they 
 meant 
 
 By their smooth lying words, I seemed to re- 
 lent 
 
 From that day, merged my passion in duty. 
 Donned the Duke's ring, and smiled when he 
 flattered my beauty — 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 43 
 
 Tricked them all, Leonardo ! matched their cun- 
 ning and guile 
 By my wit, my craft over theirs — the wile 
 
 Of a woman 'gainst the fine priestly art 
 
 Of the abba's — 'gainst his cool, clever head, 
 
 my heart. 
 Which won and still won, gained time for us 
 
 there 
 To count up our chances of hope or despair, 
 
 To plan 'twixt our kisses a sudden bold flight 
 To Palermo; then over the sea, where no right 
 Of abb6 or priest could divide us, made one 
 'Neath the eagles of France. But Pietro, base 
 son 
 
44 FROM A CONVENT. 
 
 Of the basest of traitors — Pietro the spy 
 Proved his false, evil blood. God ! with heaven 
 
 so nigh 
 That a devil like that had the power 
 To change our heaven to his hell in an hour ! 
 
 Our heaven ! Oh, Leonardo, Leonardo, 
 
 Do they think in this prison I'll learn to 
 
 forego 
 This heaven ? In these walls to lose and forget 
 The warmth of your love ? Fools, I will baf- 
 fle them yet, 
 
 Find my way to your arms ere another year 
 goes. 
 
 Ah, Leonardo, it must be; God would not im- 
 pose 
 
FROM A CONVENT. 45 
 
 This long death in life in this prison for me ! 
 Only twenty last year, youth's blood strong 
 and free 
 
 In my veins, youth's fire at my heart ! 
 
 Oh, Leonardo, Leonardo, we to part, 
 
 We to wait for that world we know not, when 
 
 this 
 Lifts up to our lips the full measure of bliss ! 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 "She shall marry me yet," he smiling said — 
 
 Smiling, and under his breath — but red 
 
 As flame his dark cheek glowed, and bale-fire 
 
 burned 
 In his passionate eyes, as he swiftly turned 
 
 Out of the sunshine into the shade — 
 Out of the sunshine she had made 
 But a moment before — this girl with a face 
 Whose very frown had a winsome grace. 
 
 They used to swear, in that old, old time. 
 When her beauty was in its wonderful prime, 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 47 
 
 When her laughing eyes, of golden brown, 
 Were the toast and rage of Portsmouth town, 
 
 Of Hampshire's Portsmouth, there by the sea, 
 Where the Wentworths ruled and held in fee 
 Half the country side of rock and shore. 
 For a hundred and fifty years or more. 
 
 " She shall marry me yet ! " 'T was the Went- 
 
 worth blood 
 That rose up then in that turbulent flood, — 
 The Wentworth purpose that under his breath 
 Would hold to its passionate will till death. 
 
 " She shall marry me yet ! " And down he 
 
 strode 
 Across the pathway, across the road. 
 
48 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 With A firm, quick step, and a firm, quick heart, 
 To work his will and to play his part. 
 
 And a difficult, part it was to play. 
 For the Wentworth blood ran either way, — 
 His mother's blood that held him tied 
 By kinsman bonds on either side. 
 
 But as mother's blood leaves stronger trace 
 Than father's blood in a turbulent race, 
 It may have been that his willful way 
 Had the stronger current to move and sway. 
 
 At all events, as the months wore on. 
 And no tidings came from her Cousin John, 
 To the beautiful toast of Portsmouth town, 
 The Wentworth temper rose up to drown 
 
LADY WENTWORTH, 49 
 
 The passionate Wentworth love in her breast, 
 And the Wentworth pride helped on the 
 
 rest : 
 And six months after her laughing scorn 
 Of her dark-eyed suitor, suing forlorn, 
 
 She stood by his side one autumn day, 
 A beautiful bride : he had won his way ; 
 But the gossips said that a bride never wore 
 In Portsmouth town such a look before. 
 
 Seven years after John Wentworth came 
 Back to his home with a foreign fame : 
 Back he came to rule and to reign. 
 As the Wentworths had ruled and ruled 
 again, 
 
 4 
 
50 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 From father to son, in Hampshire State. 
 Seven years after : why he tarried so late — 
 So late and so long in a foreign land — 
 Was a riddle not easy to understand. 
 
 Yet late as he came, a welcome burned 
 In a hundred hearth-fires. Wherever he turned 
 A hand stretched out and a smile awaited 
 This kinsman of theirs so long belated. 
 
 But amid this lavish neighborly cheer 
 He missed a face he had once held dear. 
 " My Cousin Frances : where doth she hide .■• " 
 He questioned at last. "She watches beside 
 
 A sick man's bed : a good nurse, I should say, 
 To keep the blue-devil bailiffs away." 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 51 
 
 That night John Wentworth knocked at the door 
 Of his cousin's house. A foot on the floor, 
 
 A whisper of silk, and there she stood. 
 
 In that moment John Wentworth's cousinly mood 
 
 Melted away like frost at the fire. 
 
 He thought he had killed the old desire ; 
 
 He thought that love and hate both lay 
 Slain by the past at that long late day ; 
 He thought — but what matters it now 
 The thought that had been, when on cheek and 
 brow 
 
 Flames the signal torch from his wakened heart .? 
 What matters it now the cousinly part 
 
52 LADY WENT WORTH. 
 
 He had fancied was his, when his pulses beat 
 With that swift, wild throb, as their glances 
 meet ? 
 
 But he curbed the Wentworth temper awhile, 
 As he bent in greeting, and hoped, with a smile, 
 That he found her well. Hearing the state 
 Of her goodman's health, he could not wait 
 
 His cousinly sympathy to convey. 
 A tedious illness he had heard them say ; 
 But the town was eloquent of her care, 
 Which had certainly left her no less fair 
 
 Than he remembered her seven years since — 
 He turned a moment as he saw her wince — 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 53 
 
 Turned, and with a purpose fell, 
 
 In a sneering, passionate tone, " Ah, well ! 
 
 "Women, we know, have a potent charm 
 To ward themselves from trouble and harm." 
 She caught the sneer, and stayed him there, 
 With a passionate cry : how did he dare, 
 
 Who had played so falsely these seven long 
 
 years, 
 To fling at her feet his idle sneers ? 
 " T false ! " He laughed. " Madam, where went 
 Those fine love-letters I foolishly sent 
 
 "Across the seas in those old, old days? 
 I waited long — 'tis a pretty amaze 
 
54 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 You feign, my cousin — I waited long 
 
 For a word or a sign, for my faitli was strong 
 
 " In that old, sweet time ; but the months went 
 
 by. 
 
 And never a line came back, and I 
 
 Still clung to my faith, till a morning in May 
 
 There came to me news of a wedding-day 
 
 " Here in Portsmouth town, and the bride 
 Was the girl who had stood at my side 
 And sworn to be mine six months before — 
 You shiver, my cousin : the wind from the shore 
 
 "Blows harshly to-night." A gesture here 
 Checked his bitter reproach his menacing sneer, 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 55 
 
 And a hoarse voice cried, "John Wentworth, 
 
 wait 
 Ere you dower me with the dower of hate. 
 
 " No letter of yours from over the sea 
 In that old, old time came ever to me ; 
 Day after day the months went by — 
 Day after day, and what was I 
 
 " But a maiden scorned ? Day after day 
 
 The months went by ; when I heard them say 
 
 That John Wentworth stayed 
 
 To woo and win an English maid, 
 
 " My spirit rose like our swift shore tide — 
 'Twas the Wentworth temper, the Wentworth 
 pride — 
 
56 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 And — your cousin and mine had wooed me 
 
 long: 
 His love was sure and my hate was strong — 
 
 " Quick, passionate hate for the suitor fine, 
 The false, false gallant who over his wine 
 Could pledge new loves while the old love 
 
 waited, 
 Faithful and fond, this lover belated." 
 
 " Sweetheart ! " Back she started in swift af- 
 fright 
 
 At this fond, bold cry, and the red turned 
 white 
 
 In her oval cheek. A moment more, 
 
 And swiftly striding across the floor, 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 57 
 
 This lover belated, who missed his bride 
 Seven years ago, is at her side ; 
 And the fond, bold voice on her listening ear 
 On her listening heart, over every fear, 
 
 Like a rising river, gains and gains. 
 
 While unreckoned, unheeded, the swift night 
 
 wanes, 
 Till the clock strikes twelve on the landing 
 
 stair ; 
 Then John Wentworth turns with a gallant air, 
 
 And embraces his cousin as a kinsman may. 
 Though all the gossips be looking that way. 
 Yet his parting words, whispered low in her ear. 
 Were never meant for a gossip to hear. 
 
58 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 But long before the spring had come 
 To Portsmouth shores, in many a home 
 The gossips' tongues were making bold 
 With the Wentworth name ; and the story told, 
 
 Which ran through the town like a breath of 
 
 flame, 
 Was this : that John Wentworth never came 
 To his cousin's house but by signal or sign, 
 A silken scarf or a kerchief fine 
 
 Flung out of the casement, or at night 
 In the western window a candle's light. 
 And the gossips, observant, would smile, and say, 
 " So ! the sick man sleeps at this hour of the 
 day ! " 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 59 
 
 Or at evening, when the candle flares 
 
 In the western window, "Dame Frances' cares 
 
 Are over early, it seems, to-night." 
 
 If Dame Frances caught this bale and blight 
 
 Of the gossips' tongues, little she recked : 
 
 No Wentworth yet was ever checked 
 
 By a gossip's tongue, however bold. 
 
 But there comes a day when the kerchief's fold 
 
 Is missed at the casement, and that night 
 No candle flares its signal light. 
 When another morning dawns again 
 The tolling Portsmouth bells explain 
 
 The missing candle, the kerchief fine. 
 Dame Frances now of signal or sign 
 
60 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 Has little need ; in the chamber there. 
 Where a sick man yesterday claimed her care, 
 
 A dead man lies in solemn state ; 
 
 And peering at the linen and plate 
 
 Down stairs, the neighbors, under their breath, 
 
 Talk of the sick man, and his death ; 
 
 Of the widow's prospects ; and one more bold 
 Hints that ere the year's grown old 
 The Wentworth mansion across the way 
 Will have a mistress fine and gay. 
 
 But ere a month had passed of the year. 
 All the seamstresses far and near. 
 In and out of Portsmouth town, 
 Were sewing fast at a wedding-gown 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 6l 
 
 Of brocaded satin, foreign and rare, 
 For dame Frances Atkinson to wear. 
 " Shame ! " cried the gossips, far and wide, 
 And " Shame ! " cried the Wentworths in their 
 pride — 
 
 All the Wentworth kin in Hampshire State. 
 This haste was unseemly ; she 'd only to wait 
 In her widow's weeds a year and a day, 
 And not a gossip could say her nay. 
 
 Then up she spoke, this willful dame — 
 
 Scornfully spoke, with a tongue of flame : 
 
 " Seven years I have served the Wentworth 
 
 pride ; 
 Seven years with a Wentworth courage lied 
 
62 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 "To the world with my smiling face, 
 To find at the end — no sovereign grace 
 To save my soul, but a curse alone. 
 The curse of a lie that shamed my own ! 
 
 " Cheated and tricked seven weary years, 
 
 Won by a lie — no lying tears 
 
 Have I to waste, no time to wait 
 
 On the man who dies seven years too late ! " 
 
 Scared and shocked the Wentworths stared 
 At this reckless dame, whose passion dared 
 To cast at the dead man, scarcely cold 
 In his fresh-turned grave, these accusals bold 
 
 Scared and shocked, but never a word 
 Of ban or blame was ever heard 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 6} 
 
 From their lips again, and come the day 
 When my Lady Wentworth, fine and gay, 
 
 Reigned in the Wentworth mansion there, 
 Not a gossip in Portsmouth but spoke her fair. 
 But under their breaths, when twiHght fell. 
 Under their breaths, they would sometimes tell 
 
 The old, old story of signal and sign. 
 The candle flame, and the kerchief fine ; 
 And under their breaths would croak a fear 
 That my lady had lent but too willing an ear 
 
 To the evil whispered against the dead. 
 The doubtful tale so suddenly sped 
 From mouth to mouth, while for yea or nay, 
 Helpless and dumb the dead man lay. 
 
64 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 But never upon my lady's face, 
 Never a doubt showed sign or trace, 
 As she looked the curious gossips down 
 In the little world of Portsmouth town — 
 
 Never a doubt from year to year, 
 
 Never a doubt, and never a fear ; 
 
 For whatever the truth of the troubled past, 
 
 My lady had come to her own at last ! 
 
THE KING'S KISS. 
 
 " How long," he asked, " will you remember 
 this — 
 How long ? " Then downward bent 
 His kingly head, and on her lips a kiss 
 Fell like a flame — a flame that sent 
 Through every vein 
 Love's joy and pain ; 
 " How long," he asked, " will you remember 
 this ? " 
 
 " How long ? " She lifted from his breast a 
 cheek 
 Red with her sacred love, 
 S 
 
66 THE king's kiss. 
 
 Yet when her redder lips essayed to speak, 
 And when her heart did move 
 
 To answer grave and sweet, 
 Somehow a smile unmeet 
 
 Broke waywardly across red lips and cheek. 
 
 " How long, how long, will I remember this ? 
 
 Say j/oti," she murmured low — 
 " Say you " — and while she trembled with her 
 bliss, 
 That smile went to and fro 
 
 Across her flushing face. 
 And hid a graver grace — 
 " Say you, how long will you remember this ? " 
 
 He bent above her in that moment's bliss, 
 He held her close and fast; 
 
THE king's kiss. 6"] 
 
 " How long, how long, will I remember this ? 
 Until I cross at last, 
 
 With failing, dying breath, 
 That river men call Death — 
 
 So long, so long, will I remember this ! " 
 
 But, when apart they stood, did he remember 
 
 His words that summer day ? 
 Did he remember through the long December 
 The warmth and love of May, 
 
 The warmth, and love, and bliss, 
 The meaning of that kiss, 
 When kingdoms stood between — did he re- 
 member ? 
 
 Ah ! who can say for him ? For her we know 
 The king's kiss was her crown ; 
 
68 THE king's kiss. 
 
 For her we know no agony of woe, 
 No other smile or frown, 
 
 Could make her heart forswear 
 That summer morning there, 
 
 Beneath the forest trees of Fontainebleau. 
 
BARBARA. 
 
 There's her picture, hanging on the wall, — 
 
 Copley's work, a century ago ; 
 See the grace with which that silken shawl 
 
 Droops from off the shoulders' rosy snow! 
 
 See the carriage of that haughty head ; 
 
 See the latent scorn in those dark eyes ; 
 Only the mournful mouth of blossom red 
 
 All the haughty splendor, soft belies. 
 
 " My Lady Barbara " they called her then ; 
 'Twas in the old gay days of George's reign, 
 
70 BARBARA. 
 
 My Lady Barbara ! In the eyes of men 
 No fairer beauty ever breathed disdain 
 
 From lovely lips or scornful, radiant eyes ; 
 
 Yet all her beauty brought no dower but pain. 
 For all her beauty could not win the prize 
 
 That she had staked her hope of heaven to 
 gain. 
 
 She laughed at love and lovers till he came. 
 And laughed the more, and flung her idle threat 
 
 Of idle scorn, when others spoke his name. 
 And said, " My haughty lady '11 get 
 
 " Her match if not her master here." 
 
 Her scornful, laughing threat rang up and 
 down, 
 
BARBARA. 7 ^ 
 
 And where he rode or feasted met his ear ; 
 And where he rode or feasted though the 
 town 
 
 She held aloof awhile with cunning guile. 
 
 He gave no sign ; a stranger in the place, 
 He rode and feasted, gave back smile for 
 smile. 
 
 One night he smiled upon her waiting face, 
 
 Then bent a moment, looked and smiled again. 
 
 Low laughed she under breath : " So this 
 
 is he 
 
 Who conquers women's hearts, this startled 
 
 swain, 
 
 Whose heart is in his eyes, 't is clear to see." 
 
72 BARBARA. 
 
 " Whose heart is in his eyes " — and thinking 
 this, 
 She gave him smile for smile, and glance for 
 glance. 
 He came at her command ; she did not miss 
 His presence day or night, at feast or dance. 
 
 What was it that she missed as time went by ! 
 
 What was it that she sought and sought in 
 
 vain. 
 
 In soft and courtly phrase, and glance of eye ? 
 
 What was it that she missed and could not 
 
 gain .' 
 
 " His heart is in his eyes," she 'd lightly said, 
 And left unsaid the vow to win and wear ; 
 
BARBARA. 73 
 
 And looking in those eyes, her own heart bled, 
 And broke at last with love's despair. 
 
 Her master, not her match, she 'd found indeed ; 
 
 And, like the fair, fond women Shakespeare 
 
 drew, 
 
 She flushed and paled with love, and gave no 
 
 heed 
 
 That all the jeering town her passion knew. 
 
 No vision of the truth pierced through her 
 pride. 
 Till winter came and went, and spring was 
 nigh; 
 He but delayed, she thought, to seek a bride. 
 His reverent love ranked over-high. 
 
74 BARBARA. 
 
 And, dreaming thus, poor sweetheart, fell the 
 blow, 
 
 And half the town stood staring at the sight : 
 'T was at the Province House, beneath the glow 
 
 Of festal lamps one festal night. 
 
 High beat her heart beneath her bodice-belt ; 
 
 Her cheek was like the rose, her eyes 
 Like stars, triumphant, fond, as if she felt, 
 
 " To-night, to-night, my beauty wins the 
 prize ! " 
 
 A moment thus she stood superbly fair. 
 An image of exultant youth and grace. 
 
 That seemed to say, " With time and care 
 I have no part nor place." 
 
BARBARA. 7S 
 
 Then all at once a whisper met her ear : 
 " Look ! there he comes, his sweetheart on 
 his arm. 
 The girl from over seas." She turned, without 
 a fear, 
 Without a thought of coming ill or harm, 
 
 This proud, unconscious Barbara, to see 
 Whose sweetheart was so trumpeted by 
 fame, 
 And she not know ; she turned to see 
 His face — his cruel, splendid face — that 
 came 
 
 Between her soul and heaven : his face 
 Bent smiling down, smiling and fond 
 
^6 BARBARA. 
 
 To seek another face, not hers ; another face — 
 Good God ! was this the sweetheart from be- 
 yond 
 
 The seas they 'd whispered of ? No, no, 't was 
 chance — 
 Some fool had blundered ; this was she 
 Of whom the provost's wife had spoke, her 
 guest from France, 
 Late come, to find herself unknown, and 
 he 
 
 In kindness, like a gallant knight, 
 
 Paid his devoirs in courteous word and deed, 
 His gentle service, as a gallant might 
 
 To serve a stranger's need. 
 
BARBARA. TJ 
 
 And with the thought a smile across her face 
 Flashed lightning-like ; for there he came, 
 
 This gallant knight, with sudden, hastening 
 pace. 
 And smiles to meet her own. Like flame. 
 
 Her cheek, that had been pale with pain, now 
 burned ; 
 Like flame, her fierce heart leaped with love 
 and pride : 
 " Mine ! mine ! " her eyes declared. He touched 
 her hand, then turned 
 To her who hung upon his arm. " My bride, 
 
 " Come Easter-morn," he said ; " a stranger here, 
 Brought by her kinsman to my waiting love ; 
 
78 BARBARA. 
 
 If Lady Barbara, whose welcome cheer 
 I know so well, would welcome her, above 
 
 " All favors would a bridegroom prize " — 
 Here all at once a smothered sound 
 
 Broke off his silken speech of lies.; 
 
 And cries of " Coward ! caitiff ! hound ! " 
 
 Rang down the room ; and Barbara stood 
 Incarnate Hate, who but a little space 
 
 Ago was Love's ideal womanhood. 
 Thus for a moment gloomed her face, 
 
 And, like the caitiff she had named him there, 
 He shrank beneath her withering word and 
 look. 
 
BARBARA. 79 
 
 Not this the triumph he had planned with care, 
 Not this the end, this mighty wrath that 
 shook 
 
 And swayed the throng, till men — ay, those 
 whose suit 
 She 'd laughed to scorn in other days — 
 Turned judge of him, as there he cowered, 
 mute, 
 Before the lightning of her speech and gaze ! 
 
 The very air seemed full of menace then, 
 Of muttering thunder, soon to break and 
 fall 
 
 In storm upon his recreant head ; when. 
 Almost as she spoke, they saw her tall. 
 
80 BARBARA. 
 
 Straight figure sway and bend, her eyes grow 
 dim ; 
 And, ere a hand could reach to save, she fell, 
 A senseless heap, prone at the feet of him 
 Whose mocking love had turned her heaven 
 to hell. 
 
 Then for a moment all the throng lost sight 
 Of aught but that still semblance lying there, 
 
 And only when they saw returning light 
 
 Of life upon her face they whispered, " Where 
 
 " Is he, this coward, who has fled before 
 His dastard's work } " Ay, where was he ? 
 
 Not then, not there, nor ever any more 
 They saw his cruel face : across the sea 
 
BARBARA. 8 1 
 
 That very night, with her whom he that night 
 Proclaimed his bride, come Easter-morn, 
 
 He fled away. That very night, 
 Indifferent of all her scorn, 
 
 Dead to revenge, forgetting hate, 
 
 In blessed trance poor Barbara lay, — 
 
 In blessM trance that seemed to wait 
 From hour to hour, from day to day, 
 
 Until a day rose dim with rain, 
 
 An April day, chill and forlorn ; 
 Then broke the trance, and out of pain 
 
 She slipped from earth — on Easter-morn ! 
 6 
 
A TRAMP. 
 
 HIS STORY. 
 
 Tramp .' Yes, I 'm a tramp, and one of the 
 
 worst of the kind, 
 Thinks my lady who peers at me there through 
 
 the bars of her blind. 
 As I lounge in the shade of the tree here, and 
 
 greedily munch 
 The broken bread-crusts which she 'd airily call 
 
 my lunch. 
 My lunch ! That sounds well to a man who 
 
 for forty-eight hours 
 Has n't broken his fast until now — now, while 
 
 he devours 
 
A TRAMP. 83 
 
 The broken bread scraps that stick in his starv- 
 ing throat, 
 
 Which he cools now and then, as my lady 
 takes pains to note, 
 
 From a rummy old flask, which she thinks she 
 can smell 
 
 From behind her blind-bars, as the vintage of 
 hell. 
 
 She 'd never believe, though I poured it out at 
 her feet. 
 
 That it was only a draught of the ale that 
 Adam found sweet. 
 
 How her impulse of charity chills at this vil- 
 lanous sign. 
 
 While, through the window below, on the side- 
 board carven and fine, 
 
84 A TRAMP. 
 
 I can see the decanters filled with old Madeira 
 
 and sherry, 
 For respectable lips to drain, till the wits grow 
 
 mellow and merry ! 
 Well, my lady, I wonder what you would 
 
 say, 
 If I should rise in my rags, and tell you that 
 
 in my day 
 I had toasted as fair as you in wine of the 
 
 choicest and best, 
 And been of the rich and the gay a courted 
 
 and flattered guest ? 
 Believe me ? No, you 'd turn with scorn from 
 
 my tale, 
 And send for the nearest police to lodge me 
 
 in jail 
 
A TRAMP. 
 
 85 
 
 For a lying vagrant and nuisance, plying the 
 
 trade 
 Of a swindler for the chance of a theft to be 
 
 made. 
 And the police : I can see my gentleman's 
 
 face 
 As the story is told — a tramp is a tramp, all 
 
 base 
 Through and through, a bundle of rags and of 
 
 lies, 
 One begetting another, both stripped clean of 
 
 disguise 
 In that sharp professional sight on the watch 
 
 for a thief. 
 And I can hear my gentleman's voice, curt with 
 
 unbelief, 
 
86 A TRAMP. 
 
 As he stabs me here and there with a question 
 
 or two : 
 Yes, a curious story, indeed, if it chance to be 
 
 true I 
 But men so high in the world would tit let an 
 
 old comrade dine 
 On beggarly crusts ; they 'd feast him on wood- 
 cock and wine ! 
 Would they ? Ah, my professional friend ! 
 Your wisdom is not of this world of " the 
 
 upper West End." 
 Of crime and of vice you 've a knowledge far 
 
 beyond mine ; 
 But of the friendship that lavishes woodcock 
 
 and wine 
 
A TRAMP. 87 
 
 On the man who's at odds with Fortune and 
 
 Fate, 
 A poor, shabby devil without worldly estate, 
 Who has once been as high as now he is 
 
 low, 
 I think I may venture to swear that I know 
 All the ins and the outs ; and the outs, let me 
 
 say, 
 By a heavy majority carry the day ! 
 But 't was never the way of the world to look 
 
 back 
 For the unfortunate rider who slipped in the 
 
 track ; 
 Once down, he may scramble to foot as he can ; 
 But the chance is, once down, that a luckier 
 
 man 
 
88 A TRAMP. 
 
 Closes in to the line and fills up his place. 
 
 And he finds ere he knows that he's out of 
 the race. 
 
 So I slipped from the track, and the world 
 doubtless thinks 
 
 Lost the race like a coward who shivers and 
 shrinks 
 
 From the brunt of the battle, sneaking out of 
 the strife, 
 
 For the shameless, sweet sloth of the vaga- 
 bond's life. 
 
 Oh, my world ! so you judge from your fine, 
 airy height 
 
 Of respectable sin, the poor luckless wight 
 
 Who has lost in the race and drifted belOw 
 
 Your chariot-wheels. God ! what do you know 
 
A TRAMP. 89 
 
 Of the straits men may come to when flung to 
 
 the wall, 
 Out of pluck, out of pocket, — in short, stripped 
 
 of all 
 That can give a man reason or courage to face 
 His fellows once more in the heat of the 
 
 race ! 
 You to talk in that virtuous, copy-book way 
 Of the certain rewards that are sure to repay 
 Honest worth and endeavor; you to preach 
 
 and to prate 
 As you sit at your ease high in church and in 
 
 state 
 Of adversity's uses and poverty's gains ! 
 Oh, my world ! let me say, as a fool for your 
 
 pains, 
 
90 A TRAMP. 
 
 And a selfish old braggart, you '11 rank with the 
 
 best ; 
 While I — well, I sat with you once as your 
 
 guest. 
 And I know you, my world, for your wisdom 
 
 was mine 
 In those days when we feasted on woodcock 
 
 and wine. 
 But since then I have tasted a vintage that 
 
 brings 
 A wisdom denied to courtiers and kings ! 
 'T is the vintage that 's grown from the vine 
 
 we may call 
 The vine of experience, and bitter as gall 
 It has shown me the folly of faith here below 
 In those fine little saws and proverbs that glow 
 
A TRAMP. 91 
 
 Like a coal from the altar of heaven till the day 
 That we bring them to bank with their prom- 
 ise to pay. 
 There 's that one about honest worth and en- 
 deavor, 
 With its certain rewards. Well, perhaps I 'm 
 
 not clever 
 At counting rewards ; perhaps I should find 
 My reward in my conscience, and thus go it 
 
 blind. 
 But though I have kept this conscience as fair 
 Perhaps as my lady who peers at me there, 
 I am not of that sort of ethereal stuff 
 To sup on a conscience and find it enough. 
 Yet no epicure's feast do I hanker for now. 
 But that promise fulfilled, "By the sweat of 
 thy brow 
 
92 A TRAMP. 
 
 Shalt thou eat." A curse, yet a i^ledge, there 
 
 it stands, 
 To crumble and fall at the touch of my hands, 
 Like the fine little proverbs I mouthed in the 
 
 days 
 When, a fool, I fancied I knew all the ways 
 Of life and the world. Good God ! did I know 
 That one day I should wander like this to and fro 
 Through the breadth of the land, a man with- 
 out stain 
 Of a crime, seeking vainly that toil that shall 
 
 gain 
 The bread and the breath of his life, his place 
 Once more among men, a chance to lift up his 
 
 face 
 Unashamed to the light of the heavens, and the 
 gaze 
 
A TRAMP. 93 
 
 Of the curious world, from whose open highways 
 He has shrunk step by step in his terrible straits, 
 With the demon of Death and Despair that waits 
 For its prey, beckoning on and still on day by 
 
 day; 
 While afar, in the life I had left, in the open 
 
 highway 
 Of the world, men, my fellows, a brief space ago, 
 Sitting snug in high places, well fed, and aglow 
 With that wisdom that carries the fool's cur- 
 rent stamp. 
 Set their dull wits to solve that problem the. 
 
 tramp ! 
 Not a man like themselves, but a " creature," a 
 
 "thing," 
 A nuisance to legislate over, and bring 
 
94 A TRAMP. 
 
 To the test of the law, by which shall abide 
 This "creature" and "nuisance," they calmly 
 
 decide. 
 So you gather us up, so you measure us all, 
 A bundle of tares, nothing else. O Saul 
 Midst the prophets ! O fool deaf and blind ! 
 While you fashion your laws for men, not man- 
 kind, 
 I, out of your world, ask myself if the Man — 
 The Man we call Christ — would have followed 
 your plan 1 
 
SWEET SIXTEEN. 
 
 " You think the world is only made 
 For you and such as you," he said. 
 Laughing aloud in boyish scorn, 
 Of boyish mirth and mischief born. 
 
 She never turned from where she stood 
 Prinking her little silken snood 
 Of silken curls before the glass ; 
 She never turned to see him pass, 
 
 Nor answered him, save with a laugh 
 That half confessed his boyish "chaff." 
 But left alone, confronted there 
 With her own image fresh and fair, 
 
96 SWEET SIXTEEN. 
 
 A sudden blush lit up her face 
 With newer youth and fresher grace, 
 And eyes that were demurely fixed 
 A moment since, with thought unmixed. 
 
 Upon the smoothing of a tress, 
 Now sparkled soft with consciousness ; 
 " Why not, why not ? " she lightly cried. 
 Out of the gay exultant pride, 
 
 The sweet wild insolence of youth ; 
 "Why not for me, for me, forsooth, 
 And such as me the world be made, 
 For me its glories all arrayed ? 
 
 " For since the world and life begun, 
 What poet's measures have not run 
 
SWEET SIXTEEN. 9/ 
 
 Through all the strains of minstrelsy 
 In praise of me, and such as me ? 
 
 " For youth and beauty in their day 
 Have ruled the world and will for aye. 
 One, greatest of them all, has sung 
 In verse that through the world has rung. 
 
 "And here 's my day to live and reign, 
 To take the joy and leave the pain 
 From this old world, that 's made for me, 
 For me, for me and such as me ! " 
 
 Gay laughter rang through every word, 
 And yet beneath the laughter stirred 
 7 
 
98 SWEET SIXTEEN. 
 
 A something more than jesting play, - 
 Just sweet sixteen that very day, 
 
 She half believed in sober truth, 
 In the sweet insolence of youth, 
 That all for her, a foolish maid, 
 The world's gay glories were arrayed. 
 
HE AND SHE. 
 
 I 'll be at the window as he goes by, 
 As he goes by, — 
 
 He '11 lift his head to look at the sky, 
 The western sky. 
 
 To see if the sun has set for fair, — 
 And suddenly there 
 
 Against the sky in the golden air 
 
 He '11 see a pair 
 Of familiar eyes ; and I shall see 
 
 As he looks at me 
 A sudden smile and a nod, maybe ; 
 
 All this in three 
 
100 HE AND SHE. 
 
 Or perhaps in four swift moments — then, 
 
 Ah, then, 
 In another moment the world of men 
 
 For him, or, when 
 The street is turned, a different face 
 
 To take my place, 
 While I by my window here retrace 
 
 Each line of the face 
 Which smiled at me, as it passed me by 
 
 With a glance of the eye 
 That swept me in with the western sky. 
 
 The sunset sky. 
 To-morrow I shall be at the window when 
 
 He passes again ; 
 He will smile and nod — and then, ah then - 
 
 The same old story over again ! 
 
REPENTANT. 
 
 Day after day, I look for and wait for 
 The glimpse of her figure, the sight of her 
 face ; 
 
 Day after day, too soon or too late for 
 Her going or coming, I trace and retrace, 
 
 With hope born anew, the ways that she 
 passes ; 
 With hope born anew, each morning I miss 
 her. 
 A winter of search, and now the young grasses 
 Are breaking the earth : shall I meet, shall I 
 kiss her 
 
102 REPENTANT. 
 
 To-morrow, or next day ? Oh, my little hurt dar- 
 ling, 
 Give me chance for a moment to comfort 
 and heal 
 The hurt that I gave you ; just a moment, my 
 darling, 
 Let me look in your face, in your eyes, to 
 reveal 
 
 All my heart with its passion of love and its 
 sorrow, * 
 
 Its grief and contrition, its pain for your 
 pain : 
 Ah, thus for a moment, to-day, or to-mor- 
 row. 
 To show her my heart — to win her again / 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER 
 FISHING FLEET. 
 
 Hints of the spring were in the air, 
 And March winds had a breath of May 
 
 That whispered hope and not despair. 
 The other day, the other day, 
 
 When came to us that dreadful tale 
 Of how the Gloucester fleet went down 
 
 In that wild February gale, 
 When we were safe within the town : 
 
 When we were safe and did not know, 
 That not for twenty years or more, 
 
104 WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER FLEET. 
 
 Had such a tempest come to blow 
 Across the cruel shoaling shore 
 
 Of George's Bank, as blew that day. 
 When high upon its treacherous tide 
 
 The Gloucester fleet at anchor lay 
 In all its comely strength and pride. 
 
 More than a hundred men went down — 
 The whole stanch fleet, with every sail, ■ 
 
 While we were safe within the town, 
 Sure they would weather every gale. 
 
 Perhaps we danced, perhaps we sung, 
 Without a hint of pain or death, 
 
 While they upon the rocks were flung, 
 Fighting for life with bated breath. 
 
WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER FLEET. IDS 
 
 When, vanquished, they at length went down, 
 They must have thought in that despair 
 
 Of wife and child in Gloucester town. 
 
 And breathed for them one piteous prayer 
 
 Of wild appeal — for times were hard 
 Upon old Gloucester's sandy shore. 
 
 And men were scarce to watch and ward 
 And keep the wolf from out the door ; 
 
 And now, and now ! what would they do, 
 These wives and children in their strait ? 
 
 Oh brave wrung hearts, if you but knew 
 How all New England, at your fate. 
 
 Sprung to its feet, stretched forth its hands, 
 To keep the wolf you dreaded so 
 
I06 WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER FLEET. 
 
 From out your homes on Gloucester sands ! 
 But ah, perhaps, if we could know, 
 
 You stilj keep watch and ward above 
 The cherished homes you left behind, 
 
 And read with eyes of clearer love 
 The meaning that to us is blind, 
 
 Of that dark day when you went down, 
 Off George's Bank, with every sail. 
 
 While we were safe within the town, 
 In that wild February gale. 
 
THE REBEL FLOWER. 
 
 Across the garden paths she led 
 Her Tory guest, with stately tread ; 
 A Boston beauty in her prime, 
 With courage equal to the time 
 That tried men's souls, her loyal heart 
 Cried out against the craven part 
 It was her irksome fate to play 
 As courteous hostess on that day. 
 
 A gracious, gallant air he wore, 
 A gracious, gallant rank he bore, 
 This Tory guest, yet well she knew 
 Beneath the air, the rank, perdue. 
 
I08 THE REBEL FLOWER. 
 
 A crafty treacherous purpose hid, 
 As poisons lurked beneath the lid 
 Of jeweled caskets long ago, 
 When every friend might prove a foe. 
 
 The garden beds were gay with bloom, - 
 Fair treasures which have given room 
 Long since at Fashion's stern decree 
 To splendors from across the sea. 
 For close beside the stately rose, 
 No tyranny can e'er depose. 
 The sturdy camomile did lift 
 Its myriad blossoms' snowy drift. 
 
 " What flower is this ? " The Tory guest 
 Half paused to ask in idle quest. 
 
THE REBEL FLOWER. IO9 
 
 A moment's thought, then sweet and clear, 
 
 "The Rebel flower, we call it here," 
 
 She answered him, this Boston dame 
 
 Of lovely mien and rebel fame. 
 
 " How 's this .■" " he laughed ; and laughing 
 
 sent 
 A keen look at the fair face bent 
 
 In modest musing on the flower 
 
 She'd newly named within that hour. 
 
 " How 's this, sweet dame, and why, pray tell. 
 
 So fair a flower a name so fell 
 
 Should win and wear ? " A swift smile sped 
 
 Across her face, then slow she said, 
 
 "Because, my lord, this flower that's won 
 
 Your meed of praise, when trampled on, 
 
no THE REBEL FLOWER. 
 
 Springs from the dust and thrives anew 
 In fresher vigor than it knew 
 Before such blows of fortune came, — 
 Thus rightly winning name and fame." 
 " Ah, ha ! " laughed out the Tory guest 
 At this bold speech, "a pretty jest 
 I' faith, sweet dame, and bravely said. 
 When next we meet, perhaps a tread 
 
 Of weightier heels may have crushed out 
 These boasted claims, and put to rout 
 Your rebel flowers till name and fame 
 Are lost beneath the dust of shame." 
 She laughed him back, with laughter born 
 Of gay disdain and sparkling scorn. 
 " When next we meet, my lord," she said, 
 "This rebel flower will lift its head 
 
THE REBEL FLOWER. « III 
 
 In lustier vigor than before, 
 And name and fame for evermore 
 Shall flourish bravely in the land 
 Despite th' oppressors' heel or hand ! " 
 
 When next they met, my lord had laid 
 His sword beneath the rebel blade, 
 And she who prophesied the fate 
 Of British valor, stood in state 
 On British soil, an honored guest, 
 Wearing upon her lovely breast. 
 In smiling triumph for that hour, 
 A posy called " The Rebel Flower!" 
 
THE WAGER. 
 
 One by one they sped by us, their sails drip- 
 ping wet, 
 For the heavens had opened their sluices of 
 rain; 
 And I sat in the bows of the little Coquette, 
 Scoring the time with Major Duane. 
 
 The wind was blowing from south and from 
 east, — 
 
 A beautiful breeze just spoiled by the rain ; 
 And there I had bet twelve pairs at the least 
 
 Of " Couvoisier's best" with this Major Duane : 
 
THE WAGER. I 1 3 
 
 Staked them all on that little Alarm, Florry dear, 
 Which had won me ray gloves again and again. 
 
 If the sky had been decently sunny and clear, — 
 But my fate was to lose to this Major Duane ! 
 
 And 'twas Harrison Blake who advised me to 
 stake 
 On the little Alarm, which but for the rain 
 Had won me my gloves ; though I never told 
 Blake 
 I was going to bet there with Major Duane. 
 
 Poor Harry! he has always been jealous, you 
 knoW; 
 The whole summer through, of this Major 
 Duane ; 
 
 8 
 
114 THE WAGER. 
 
 And now — well, it 's queer how oddly things 
 
 go. 
 For the Major has won by this chance of the 
 rain 
 
 Something more than the gloves : for I staked 
 in a freak 
 
 My hand with the gloves, hardly thinking again 
 Of the matter, my dear, so swift went the week. 
 
 And so sure did I feel that this Major Duane 
 
 Would lose while I won. And now 'tis quite 
 clear 
 
 To my mind, at least, — that just for that rain 
 I could n't with honor refuse, Florry dear, 
 
 To pay up my debts to Major Duane, 
 
IF I WERE YOU, SIR. 
 
 If I were you, sir, 
 
 I would not sue, sir. 
 For any woman's love day after day : 
 
 I'd never stand, sir, 
 
 At her command, sir. 
 Year in and out in this fond, foolish way. 
 
 Across my face, sir, 
 I'd have the grace, sir. 
 
 Or mother-wit, to pull a gayer mask. 
 And wait to find, sir. 
 What was her mind, sir, 
 
 Before I 'd grovel at her feet to ask. 
 
Il6 IF I WERE YOU, SIR. 
 
 All very well,- sir, 
 
 For you to tell, sir, 
 Of that grand poet in the olden time. 
 
 Whose fine advice, sir, 
 
 Was so concise, sir. 
 In that immortal strain of gallant rhyme. 
 
 It does not fit, sir. 
 
 Your case a bit, sir; 
 He never meant a man should pray and pray 
 
 With such an air, sir, 
 
 Of poor despair, sir. 
 For any woman's love day after day. 
 
 If you will read, sir, 
 The verse with heed, sir. 
 
IF I WERE YOU, SIR. II7 
 
 You'll see it runs as clearly as it may, 
 That every man, sir. 
 Should take his answer. 
 
 With manly courage, be it yea or nay. 
 
 Then cease your sighs, sir : 
 
 No man's a prize, sir, 
 In any woman's sight, just let me say, 
 
 Who 's not too high, sir, 
 
 To sigh and die, sir. 
 For any woman's love, day after day. 
 
THREE DESTINIES. 
 
 Three roses nod and talk 
 Across a garden walk ; 
 One, lifting up her head, 
 Clad all in damask red, 
 Cries gayly in her pride, 
 "To-night, full far and wide. 
 My beauty shall be seen, 
 Adorning Beauty's queen." 
 
 " And I," the blush-rose cries, 
 " Shall be the envied prize 
 A lover shall convey. 
 Before the end of day. 
 
THREE DESTINIES. 1 19 
 
 Unto a maiden fair, 
 And she will kiss and wear 
 My blushes in her breast : 
 There I shall sleep and rest." 
 
 "And I," the white rose sighs, — 
 
 " Before the sunshine dies, 
 I shall lie hid from sight 
 Within a grave's dark night ; 
 But not in vain my bloom. 
 If I have cheered the gloom, 
 Or helped to soothe and bless 
 A mourner's loneliness." 
 
A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 Yes, this is our dance, this waltz from the 
 Duchess ; 
 What is that you are saying ? — 
 You thought I was playing 
 You false, with this waltz, this dance from the 
 Duchess ? 
 
 You thought I had rather be sitting and talk- 
 ing 
 With that little M'Manners 
 There, under the banners, 
 Or it may be, perhaps, in the corridors, walk- 
 ing, 
 
A DEUX TEMPS. 121 
 
 Instead of remembering this dance here with 
 you, sir; 
 This dance from the Duchess, 
 The lovely Grand Duchess, 
 The sweetest deux temps f Ah, if you but knew, 
 sir, 
 
 How I dote on the Duchess, with its gliding 
 and sliding 
 Soft measure for measure. 
 You 'd know from such pleasure 
 
 My feet would never go straying or hiding. 
 
 What is that ? You might have known it was 
 merely, 
 This special sweet measure, 
 
122 A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 The dance, not the pleasure 
 Of dancing with you here ? Well, really, you 've 
 nearly 
 
 Persuaded me, sir, that such was the reason ; 
 And I 'm sure I would fain, sir, 
 If you go on in this strain, sir. 
 
 Walk and talk with M'Manners to the end of 
 the season. 
 
 And to the end of my life, too, perhaps is my 
 meaning .' 
 Well, no; for M'Manners 
 There under the banners, 
 Just when we encountered you waiting and lean- 
 ing 
 
A DEUX TEMPS. 123 
 
 Against the bay-window, had confessed a rela- 
 tion 
 I guessed days ago — 
 His engagement, you know, 
 To that little — Now, Harry, dorit kiss me 
 before all creation 1 
 
IN THE DARK. 
 
 This is my little sweetheart dead. 
 Blue were her eyes, and her cheek was red 
 And warm at my touch when I saw her last, 
 When she smiled on me and held me fast. 
 
 With the light, soft clasp of her slender hand ; 
 And now beside her I may stand and stand 
 Hour after hour, and no blush would rise 
 On her dead white cheek, and her shut blue 
 eyes 
 
 Will never unclose at my kiss or call. 
 If this is the end ; if this be all 
 
IN THE DARK. 125 
 
 That I am to know of this woman dear ; 
 If the beautiful spirit I knew, lies here, 
 
 With the beautiful body cold and still ; 
 If while I stand here now and thrill 
 With my yearning memories sore at heart 
 For a token or sign to rend apart 
 
 The pitiless veil, there is nothing beyond ; 
 If this woman, so fair, so fine, so fond 
 A week ago — fond, fine and fair 
 With the life, the soul that shone out there. 
 
 In her eyes, her voice, which made her in truth 
 The woman I loved ; if this woman forsooth 
 Is dead as this dead clay that lies 
 Under my gaze with close-shut eyes. 
 
126 IN THE DARK. 
 
 Then what is the meaning of life, when death 
 Can break it all, as breaks at a breath 
 The child's blown bubble afloat in the sun ? 
 What is the meaning, if all is done 
 
 When this breath goes out into empty air, 
 Like this childish plaything, flimsy and fair ? 
 What is the meaning of love's long pain, 
 The yearning memories that rend and strain 
 
 The living heart or the living soul. 
 If this is the end, if this is the whole 
 Of life and death, — this little span 
 That drops in the dark before the plan 
 
 Which the brain conceives is half complete, 
 Making life but the bubble's empty cheat ? 
 
IN THE DARK. 127 
 
 When, a year ago, through all the maze 
 Of speculation's far-hung haze, 
 
 I followed on with careless tread, 
 / had not looked then on my dead — 
 My dead so infinitely dear. 
 My dead that coldly lying here 
 
 Mocks my fond heart with semblance fair, 
 Chills me with measureless despair. 
 Then I could calmly measure fate 
 With Nature's laws, and speculate 
 
 On all the doubts that science brings ; 
 Now, standing here, what is it springs 
 Within my soul, that makes despair 
 Not quite despair ? O fond, O fair, 
 
128 IN THE DARK. 
 
 Oh, little sweetheart, dead to me, 
 Somewhere or other thou must wait for me, 
 Somewhere, somewhere, I shall not look in vain 
 To find thy living face, thy living love again. 
 
IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 Oh, my leveling, to shield you and cover you 
 From all the bleak winds that riot and rave, 
 
 To have and to hold you, to love and watch 
 over you, — 
 This is the boon of all others I crave. 
 
 Ah! is it God or blind Fate that denies me 
 
 This boon that alone can give value to life .'' 
 Ah ! is it God or blind Fate that defies 
 me 
 To turn all your innocent days into strife.-' 
 9 
 
130 IN EXTREMIS. 
 
 Oh, innocent days, with never a blight there, 
 
 Oh, innocent heart of my innocent dove, 
 God give me the grace, if He gives me no right 
 there. 
 To show her the best, not the worst, of my 
 love! 
 
 God give me the grace to give her, if need be. 
 Only passionless peace, only tenderest care. 
 
 Through year after year, though agonies lead 
 me 
 Still year after year to the gates of despair. 
 
 Let me suffer alone the pangs of repression ; 
 Let me conquer and die, if need for my 
 love. 
 
IN EXTREMIS. I3I 
 
 Or conquer and live through the " clefts of 
 confession," 
 While unconquered, unharmed, rests my in- 
 nocent dove. 
 
PROPHECY. 
 
 I THOUGHT our oldcii friendship dead, 
 Or with the long years long since fled; 
 Yet a sweet, faint ghost came back 
 Down the winding dizzy track, 
 
 As we met upon the street. 
 And a moment stopped to greet, — 
 Making some cool, common speech. 
 Just a moment, each to each ; 
 
 Knowing each how wide our ways 
 Led apart from those far days ; 
 
PROPHECY. 133 
 
 How other hopes and plans came in, 
 With their promises, to win 
 
 Thought and soul and heart away 
 From the memories of that day. 
 Yet as there we met and talked. 
 As you turned, and, turning, walked 
 
 Down the street a pace or two, 
 Something cordial, old yet new. 
 Stirred within me sweet and faint. 
 Like a ghostly, sweet complaint ; 
 
 Something whispered me, and said : 
 ' All those years, so still and dead, 
 With a blessing shall come back 
 Down their winding dizzy track — 
 
134 PROPHECY. 
 
 " Like a friend, shall some time say : 
 ' I am with you, though away, 
 And the love you thought so slight 
 And so poor a thing, shall light 
 
 *' ' All your life unto the end.' " 
 Thus my long-forgotten friend, 
 Or his soul, spoke unto me 
 In these words of prophecy. 
 
TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Clouds hung above the dusty street ; 
 The sunless air was faint with heat ; 
 The heavy odors were not sweet. 
 
 And heavy, heavy hung the day, 
 And life drooped dull with dull decay, 
 Beneath the clouds of sodden gray. 
 
 There was no beauty anywhere. 
 
 One could not pierce the dusty air. 
 
 The world seemed dim with drudging care ; 
 
136 TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Its wheels of traffic, greed, and gain. 
 
 Relentless over joy or pain, 
 
 Crushed dose and fast, a strident strain 
 
 Of blatant noise, that filled the air, 
 
 The sunless, dreary, dusty air. 
 
 Till noise, and noise seemed everywhere; 
 
 And only noise, with nothing sweet 
 Through all the sunless heavy heat, 
 From end to end of all the street. 
 
 " Oh, dismal day, when will you go ? 
 Oh, dreary day ! " she cried ; when lo. 
 The dreary day was all aglow ! 
 
TRANSFORMATION. 1 37 
 
 Though clouds still hung in sunless air, 
 There was new beauty everywhere, 
 And slipped the world its cloak of care. 
 
 And wheels of traffic, greed, and gain 
 Rolled as before with strident strain, 
 Relentless over joy or pain. 
 
 But all at once, to music set, 
 
 She heard far off the clang and fret, 
 
 Or heard with ears that soon forget. 
 
 What was it, was it changed the day 
 From drooping life and dull decay .' 
 What light across the dusty way 
 
138 TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Shone suddenly so fair and free, 
 Made all the dismal shadows flee ? 
 Oh, never yet on land or sea, 
 
 From any sky of any clime, 
 
 Rose that fair light, which old as Time, 
 
 Yet fresh as Nature in its prime. 
 
 Transfigures by its tender grace. 
 All in a moment's flying space. 
 Some sudden smile upon the face 
 
 We know and know not, till the day. 
 Transfigured, too, from dull decay. 
 Springs suddenly to blooming May. 
 
APRIL WEATHER. 
 
 Oh, this April weather — 
 Breath of balm and snow, 
 
 June and March together 
 In an hour or so ! 
 
 Something altogether 
 
 Charming in it, too ; 
 Not the worst of weather 
 
 When the sun shines through ; 
 
 Not the worst of weather. 
 Though a moment more. 
 
I40 APRIL WEATHER. 
 
 Finds one's patience, rather 
 Like to run ashore. 
 
 Take it altogether, 
 
 Would I change it, though. 
 Miss this April weather, 
 
 Breath of balm and snow ? 
 
 Taken altogether. 
 
 It is dear to me. 
 This queer April weather. 
 
 For I seem to see, 
 
 Taken altogether. 
 It 's the counterpart, 
 
 This queer April weather, 
 Of — yourself, Sweetheart. 
 
APRIL WEATHER. I4I 
 
 And taken altogether, 
 
 Would I change you, though. 
 Miss your April weather ? 
 
 Ah, no ! no ! 
 
AT IVRY. 
 
 At Ivry, on that day, 
 
 On that day 
 When the king kept at bay. 
 By the magic of his sword 
 
 Never lowered, 
 All the rabble rebel horde, — 
 In the thickest of the fight. 
 
 Out of sight 
 All at once dropped the white 
 Flying plume that he wore. 
 
 Such a roar 
 Then arose, as they bore 
 
AT IVRY. 143 
 
 Down the battle sodden plain, 
 
 Mid the slain, 
 Where the arrows fell like rain. 
 But suddenly just here, 
 
 Loud and clear, 
 At the very height of fear. 
 
 Cheer on cheer 
 Rose and rose, till the cry. 
 
 High and high. 
 Seemed to rend the very sky. 
 Then out streaming debonair 
 
 To the air 
 Flew the white plume of Navarre. 
 When the tide of battle turned. 
 
 And they learned 
 Whose valiant sword had spurned 
 
144 ^"^ IVRY. 
 
 The enemy's sharp blade 
 
 Ere it laid 
 In death's melancholy shade 
 The knight of Navarre, — 
 
 All the air 
 Once again resounded there 
 With their cheers' hearty ring. 
 
 But the king, 
 Through his tears, said faltering, — 
 " He gave his life for mine. 
 
 Poured the wine 
 Of that gallant blood, in fine, 
 At my feet, to repay, — 
 
 To repay. 
 As he swore, the debt of yesterday ! " 
 
ONLY A WEEK AGO. 
 
 Only a week ago the warmth and glow 
 
 Of sweetest summer time ; 
 Only a week ago the bud and blow 
 
 Of some fair tropic clime. 
 
 Only a week ago, and now the glow 
 
 Of fervid heat has turned 
 To wintry snow, and sharp winds blow 
 
 Where tropic splendors burned. 
 
 Only a week ago — ah, very low 
 My cherished buds are lying ; 
 
146 ONLY A WEEK AGO. 
 
 So low, SO low, I do not know 
 If they are dead or dying. 
 
 So low, so low, drenched all with mire and 
 snow. 
 
 Their beauty smirched with earth ; 
 So low, so low — only God's breath can blow 
 
 Them back to fresher birth. 
 
YESTERDAY. 
 
 What if but yesterday 
 I laughed and said him nay, 
 When here's to-day, to-day 
 To change my mind and say 
 A sweeter word than nay. 
 
 What if but yesterday 
 I told him that my nay 
 Could never turn to yea, 
 Though he should pray and pray 
 Forever and a day. 
 
148 YESTERDAY. 
 
 What if but yesterday 
 He swore he would obey 
 My cruel will, nor stay 
 To further sue or pray, — 
 Then strode in wrath away. 
 
 What if but yesterday 
 Like this he strode away, 
 When here's to-day, to-day 
 For him to hear me say, — 
 " I love you, Love, to-day ! " 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 Across the room where'er I turned, 
 Her mournful glances followed me 
 
 From day to day, with eyes that burned 
 In sad and splendid mystery ; 
 
 From day to day since first she came 
 A fugitive from that fair land 
 
 Of sunny France, when all its fame 
 Was shadowed by the mighty hand 
 
 Of the resistless German foe, — 
 A fugitive, yet sacred charge 
 
t50 THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 From one who gave back blow for blow 
 Of German steel and charge for charge 
 
 Of German guns, until before 
 The fiery hail his gracious life 
 
 Went out for France, and with it bore, 
 Vain sacrifice of vainer strife. 
 
 His stainless name. The last of all 
 His noble race, did he divine 
 
 That from a stranger's alien wall 
 
 His fair ancestress' face would shine ? 
 
 That glance for glance, she would return 
 
 My fascinated gaze, until 
 Behind the semblance seemed to burn 
 
 A spirit that might wake at will 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. I5I 
 
 Some moment into sudden speech ; 
 
 Some moment when the world at rest 
 In shrouding slumbers, she might reach 
 
 My waking ear — this silent guest, 
 
 Break from the bondage of her trance. 
 Slip softly from her painted screen 
 
 And speak to me of that fair France 
 When Marie Antoinette was Queen. 
 
 Day after day this fancy grew 
 
 Beneath the melancholy light 
 Of those dark eyes of Norman blue ; 
 
 Day after day, until a night 
 
 Of brooding storm, I woke and slept, 
 And woke again, to find the room 
 
152 THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 A blaze of light, wherein there stept 
 My Maid of Honor in her bloom 
 
 Of splendid youth, just as she stood 
 When Marie Antoinette was Queen, — 
 
 A living rose whose noble blood 
 Paid forfeit on the guillotine. 
 
 I held my breath, but not with fear — 
 My heart was beating with desire, — 
 
 When soft upon my listening ear 
 Her voice rose like a silver lyre : 
 
 " He was the last of all our race. 
 
 The last and best, who loved his kind 
 And gave his lifetime to efface 
 The trail of sin we 'd left behind. 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 153 
 
 " Favored of Heaven, we thought our class, 
 Set high above the common herd 
 Our ancient race — alas, alas, 
 When through our idle pleasures stirred 
 
 "The boding breeze of discontent, 
 
 And men cried out against the laws, 
 We did not know then all it meant; 
 We did not know that in the jaws 
 
 "Of blackest Hell we should be hurled 
 Just at our revel's royal height ; 
 As through the streets our chariots whirled 
 We did not heed the threatening night. 
 
 "But when beside the Queen I stood 
 
 That dreadful day and heard those cries 
 
154 THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 Of rage for blood, our hated blood, 
 Ring from the throng we dared despise, 
 
 "I saw the centuries roll back 
 
 Red with the wrongs that we had done. 
 And all along the lurid track, 
 As in a vision, one by one, 
 
 " The tyrant kings who had forsworn 
 Their oaths of fealty, broken faith 
 With France, and Frenchmen yet unborn. 
 Each branded with their country's scathe, 
 
 ' Rose up before me till appalled, 
 
 I shrank with horror and despair; 
 Then through the din a low voice called 
 Upon my name, — I turned and there 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 155 
 
 " I saw the face of him, our knight, 
 Who made the glory of our name. 
 
 ' Be patient, brave,' he cried, ' the blight 
 Of centuries of sin and shame 
 
 "'In this dread hour begins to lift 
 
 Its sullen shade ; when time shall bring 
 Another cycle through the drift 
 Of burdened years, prelate and king 
 
 "'In this fair France shall have stept down 
 From off their thrones, have laid aside 
 Once and for all sceptre and crown. 
 While we who thought we vainly died 
 
 " ' Shall watch the bravest and the best 
 The last of lordly lines expire, 
 
156 THE MAID OF HONOR. 
 
 And know at length God gives his rest 
 To souls long tried by flame and fire, 
 
 " ' That with the debt of blood and race. 
 By blood and race at last repaid. 
 We expiate, by Heaven's dear grace, 
 The sins by which we were betrayed.' " 
 
 Here suddenly, like music spent. 
 The sweet voice ceased, and all that bloom 
 
 Of youth and beauty that had lent 
 Such grace and glory to my room, 
 
 Faded and vanished from my gaze. 
 
 A moment more, and there, ah there. 
 Behind the portrait's painted glaze 
 
 That face so radiantly fair 
 
THE MAID OF HONOR. 1 57 
 
 Looked down upon me as before. — 
 Was it a dream that she had stept 
 
 Just now across my chamber floor, 
 Was it a dream while I had slept ? 
 
KISS AND CURE. 
 She swung her gilded scissors to and fro. 
 And round and round her hand of rosy snow, 
 Or held them glittering like a lance at rest, 
 The time she spent in converse with her guest : 
 She swung them round and round and to and 
 
 fro, 
 Until they pierced the hand of rosy snow. 
 Until they dipped their cruel tips within 
 The warm red blood beneath the tender skin. 
 She swung them down at that with half a cry, 
 And half a laugh that ended in a sigh. 
 And with an answering laugh in gayest jest. 
 He bent above the little hand and prest 
 
KISS AND CURE. 1 59 
 
 A pitying kiss of playful tenderness 
 
 Upon the wound that flawed that loveliness 
 
 Of rosy snowy flesh with tiny brand, 
 
 "Thus let me kiss and cure the little hand," 
 
 He gayly lightly cried ; but as he prest 
 
 Warm lips to warm sweet flesh, the idle jest 
 
 Suddenly to ardent earnest thrilled and beat 
 
 And brought an eager wooer to her feet. 
 
 The tiny wound he 'd gallantly essayed 
 
 To kiss and cure, had in that moment made 
 
 A wider wound within the healer's heart. 
 
 That must in turn be healed with cunning art. 
 
 And kneeUng at her feet he urged his plea, — 
 
 " Be my physician, love, and heal for me 
 
 The greater wound this little wound has made. 
 
 Within my heart of hearts," he fondly prayed. 
 
l6b KISS AND CURE. 
 
 A moment halting 'twixt a smile and frown 
 She left him in despair, then bending down, 
 Paid back the debt of healing with a sure 
 Swift touch — at which he cried : " to make the 
 
 cure 
 Entirely certain, love, I clearly see 
 There is no way now left for you and me 
 But to agree that while our lives endure 
 Each other's wounds like this, we'll kiss and 
 
 cure ! " 
 
BABY-MAY. 
 
 Only just the other day, 
 On the very first o£ May, 
 Nature had an opening 
 Of the treasures of the spring. 
 
 Apple-blossoms made a show 
 Like a shower of summer snow ; 
 Dandelions lifted up 
 Here and there a yellow cup. 
 
 Crocuses pushed through the mold 
 Little disks of burnished gold ; 
 
l62 BABY-MAV. 
 
 And the violets, trimmed with dew. 
 Shivered in their cloaks of blue. 
 
 All the flowrers had to tell 
 The adventures that befell, 
 In their journey back again 
 To the summer sun and rain. 
 
 At the last a gentle tone 
 Murmured softly, " I alone 
 Have had heavenly wrork to do ; 
 For, when through the April dew 
 
 " I was hastening along, 
 Singing very low my song, 
 To my baby-buds of May, 
 Soft I heard an angel say : 
 
BABY MAY. 163 
 
 " ' Dear Arbutus, wait and take 
 Another baby in your wake, — 
 And deliver her with care 
 At a certain house and square, 
 
 "'I will whisper in your ear, 
 
 If you'll bend a moment here; — 
 Then perhaps for thanks and pay 
 They will name her, — Baby May.' " 
 
BUNKER HILL IN 1875. 
 
 Beat, beat, went the drums, and the fifers 
 played sweet, 
 
 To the tramp, tramp, tramp, of the forty thou- 
 sand feet 
 
 Of the twenty thousand soldiers, as they 
 marched all together, 
 
 North and south, south and north, in the sweet 
 summer weather. 
 
 Plumes playing in the air, and banners over- 
 head, 
 
 Blowing out to the breeze, blue and white, 
 white and red, 
 
BUNKER HILL IN 1 875. 16$ 
 
 And every now and then, oh, the iheer and 
 
 the shout 
 That from the waiting throng over all the 
 
 drums rang out ! 
 
 And southern soldiers' eyes how they brightened 
 
 with surprise, 
 As the shouting and the cheering rose up to 
 
 the skies ! 
 "But how very queer to cheer," says curious 
 
 little Joe, 
 " And to celebrate a day when the British beat, 
 
 you know ! " 
 
 Yes, the British beat at Bunker Hill, 't is very 
 ^^ true ; but why ? 
 
l66 BUNK.ER HILL IN 1 875. 
 
 Because the Yankee powder-horns, my little 
 
 Joe, went dry ; 
 While Yankee courage on that day filled all 
 
 the land with wonder, 
 And lifted up the hearts of men to break their 
 
 bonds asunder. 
 
 So 't is Yankee pluck, my little Joe, we cele- 
 brate to-day, 
 
 With beating drums, and bugle notes, and ban- 
 ners floating gay. 
 
 Yet something more than Yankee pluck inspired 
 our wild huzzas, 
 
 As looking down the glittering line we saw the 
 Strines and Stars 
 
BUNKER HILL IN 1 875. I67 
 
 Wave gayly over North and South, as in the 
 
 summer weather 
 Like brothers on to Bunker Hill they took 
 
 their march together — 
 Like brothers, they who face to face so little 
 
 while ago 
 Met savagely on southern soil, as bitter foe to 
 
 foe. 
 
 Ah, child, if Bunker Hill before filled every 
 
 heart with wonder. 
 To-day, be sure, 't is doubly dear, when, all the 
 
 bonds asunder, 
 We clasp the hands that once were foes, and 
 
 in the summer weather 
 Bless God anew for Bunker Hill, that 's brought 
 
 us all together. 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 " Cherink ! cherink ! " 
 
 Sang the Bobolink. 
 "What do you think, 
 
 To my surprise, 
 With my two eyes 
 I saw last night ? " 
 
 " Ho, ho, ho, ho ! " 
 
 Sang the Wren below, 
 "How should I know 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 169 
 
 What can surprise 
 Such wonderful eyes 
 So keen and bright ? " 
 
 " Cherink ! cherink ! " 
 
 Snapped the Bobolink. 
 "I know what you think. 
 
 That my wonderful eyes 
 Are far too wise 
 For a youth like me ! " . 
 
 " Ho, ho, ho, ho ! " 
 
 Laughed the Wren below. 
 " If you 're sure you know, 
 Mr. Bobolink, 
 Just what I think, 
 Why can't you see ? " — 
 
I/O THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 " Cherink ! cherink ! " 
 Quick as a wink 
 Mr. Bobolink 
 
 Interrupted here, 
 As if he 'd a fear 
 That cunning Miss Wren, 
 
 With her little " Ho, ho ! " 
 Saw too much, you- know, 
 From her branch below, 
 Of his frisky ways, 
 Through the summer days. 
 In his bachelor's den. 
 
 So soft and low 
 
 Rang the little " Ho, ho ! " 
 
 In the branch below. 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. I7I 
 
 At Bobolink's huff ; 
 It was fun enough 
 For little Miss Wren 
 
 To catch Bobolink, 
 All in a wink, 
 Before he could think, 
 
 In a box like this, — 
 
 Ah, a sly little miss 
 Was this Miss Wren. 
 
 For soft and low 
 Her little " Ho, ho I " 
 Rang there below, 
 
 As if she could. 
 
 If she only would. 
 Tell, oh, siich things 
 
1/2 THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 Of her neighbor's slips, 
 
 And frisky skips, 
 
 And sly little sips. 
 
 Not once in a way. 
 But every day, 
 At forbidden springs. 
 
 Precious few 
 
 Were the things she knew, 
 
 And all this ado 
 
 Was just to get 
 Bobolink in a pet 
 With her quizzical way, 
 
 Then fizz and flash, 
 For Robin was rash. 
 Out she knew would dash 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 1 73 
 
 As quick as a wink — 
 Ah, poor Bobolink, 
 All his secrets gay. 
 
 So sweet and low 
 
 Rings the little " Ho, ho ! " 
 
 In the branch below. 
 
 At Bobolink's huff; 
 
 It is fun enough 
 For little Miss Wren 
 
 To catch Bobolink, 
 All in a wink. 
 Before he can th;nk. 
 
 In a box like this, — 
 Ah, a sly little miss 
 Is this Miss Wren, 
 
[74 THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 Wherever you find 
 
 Her crafty kind : 
 
 For it is n't confined 
 
 To the feathered side, 
 But far and wide 
 In the world of men 
 
 This little " Ho, ho ! " 
 Rings soft and low, 
 And before you know 
 
 Just what you're about. 
 You are all found out 
 By some little Miss Wren, 
 
 Who, with cunning wit, 
 Has turned and hit 
 Your temper a bit, 
 
THE WREN AND THE BOBOLINK. 1 75 
 
 And like poor Bobolink, 
 When you 've time to think, 
 You find to your cost, 
 
 A little too late, 
 
 As you contemplate 
 
 Your foolish state 
 
 From day to day. 
 That nothing can pay 
 For a temper lost. 
 
BOSTON BOYS. 
 
 GRANDFATHER S STORY. 
 
 What ! you want to hear a story all about 
 that old-time glory, 
 When your grandsires fought for freedom 
 against the British crown ; 
 When King George's red-coats mustered all 
 their forces, to be flustered 
 By our Yankee raw recruits, from each vil- 
 lage and each town ; 
 
 And the very boys protested, when they thought 
 their rights molested. 
 
BOSTON BOYS. 1 7/ 
 
 My father used to tell us how the British 
 
 General stared 
 With a curious,' dazed expression when the 
 
 youngsters in procession 
 Filed before him in a column, not a whit 
 
 put out or scared. 
 
 Then the leader told his story, — told the 
 haughty, handsome Tory 
 How his troops there, on the mall there 
 (what you call " the Common," dears), 
 AH the winter through had vexed them, med- 
 dled with them, and perplexed them. 
 Flinging back to their remonstrance, only 
 laughter, threats, and sneers. 
 
178 BOSTON BOYS. 
 
 " What ! " the General cried in wonder, — and 
 his tones were tones of thunder, — 
 "Are these the rebel lessons that your fa- 
 thers taught you, pray ? 
 Did they send such lads as you here, to make 
 such bold ado here, 
 And flout King George's officers upon the 
 King's highway ? " 
 
 Up the little leader started, while heat light- 
 ning flashed and darted 
 From his blue eyes, as he answered, stout 
 of voice, with all his might : 
 " No one taught us, let me say, sir, — no one 
 sent us here to-day, sir ; 
 But we 're Yankees, Yankees, Yankees, and 
 we know that we are right ! 
 
BOSTON BOYS. I7g 
 
 "And your soldiers at the first, sir, on the 
 mall there, did their worst, sir ; 
 Pulled our snow hills down we 'd built there, 
 broke the ice upon our pond. 
 ' Help it, help it if you can, then ! ' back they 
 answered every man then, 
 When we asked them, sir, to quit it ; and 
 we said, ' This goes beyond 
 
 " ' Soldiers' rights or soldiers' orders, for we 've 
 kept within our borders 
 To the south'ard of the mall there, where 
 we 've always had our play ! '" — 
 " Where you always shall hereafter, undisturbed 
 by threats or laughter 
 From my officers or soldiers. Go, my brave 
 boys, from this day 
 
l80 BOSTON BOYS. 
 
 " Troops of mine shall never harm you, never 
 trouble or alarm you," 
 Suddenly the British Gen'ral, moved with 
 admiration, cried. 
 In a minute caps were swinging, five and 
 twenty voices ringing 
 In a shout and cheer that summoned every 
 neighbor far and wide. 
 
 And these neighbors told the story how the 
 haughty, handsome Tory, 
 Bowing, smiling, hat in hand there, faced 
 the little rebel band ; 
 How he said, just then and after, half in ear- 
 nest, half in laughter : 
 " So it seems the very children strike for 
 freedom in this land ! " 
 
BOSTON BOYS. l8l 
 
 So I tell you now the story all about that old- 
 time glory, 
 As my father's father told it long and long 
 ago to me ; 
 How they met and had it out there, what he 
 called their bloodless bout thei;e ; 
 
 How he felt " What ! was he there, 
 
 then ? " Why, the leader, that was he ! 
 
A LITTLE GIRL'S WONDER. 
 
 What do the birds say, I wonder, I wonder. 
 With tl;eir chitter and chatter ? It is n't all 
 play. 
 Do they scold, do they fret at some boggle or 
 blunder, 
 As we fret, as we scold, day after day ? 
 
 Do their hearts ever ache, I wonder, I wonder, 
 
 At anything else than the danger that comes 
 
 When some enemy threatens them over or 
 
 under 
 
 The great, leafy boughs of their great, leafy 
 
 homes ? 
 
A LITTLE girl's WONDER. 1 83 
 
 Do they vow to be friends, I wonder, I wonder, 
 With promises fair and promises sweet, 
 
 Then, quick as a wink, at a word fall asunder, 
 As human friends do, in a moment of heat ? 
 
 But day after day I may wonder and wonder. 
 And ask them no end of such questions as 
 these, — 
 
 With chitter, and chatter, now over, now under. 
 The big, leafy boughs of the big, leafy trees. 
 
 They dart and they skim, with their bills full 
 of plunder. 
 
 But never a word of an answer they give. 
 And never a word shall I get, though I wonder 
 
 From morning till night, as long as I live.