PS 3537 .C58 S6 1900 V, "ONO' ^^ 0* '*-^ '.^ o ; .^"^^ A^ t».^ 'V, 0^ ^"-^^^ • .♦^•v *>i- 4*^ SOCIAL TRAGEDIES AND OTHER POEMS BY J. W. SCHOLL AUTHOR OF "THE LIGHT-BEARER OF LIBERTY." « BOSTON : EASTERN PUBLISHING COMPANY, 6 1 Court Streit M 62640 JLitawnry of Coag^rees ^\io CofiES Received OCT 18 1900 Copyright entry I SICOND COPY. I Otliv&red to I O^Ott^ DlViSlON, [OCT 2 X 1 75 3 rs'/ Cf! ; 64 t l^tfd Copyrighted 1 900, by J. W. SCHOLL. CONTENTS. PAGE Preface. Dedication. SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Maud's Wedding Day i The Invalid 6 Agnes Lilienkron, the forsaken . . 13 Hermann Samssel 19 The Bastard of Old Sir Hughs ... 25 ViRGINIUS 33 The Wedding Anniversary 38 ISf ¥ W The Tunker Maiden. A Memorial Day Piece 43 The Poet's Prothalamion 54 I Love Thee 100 My Own Wee Winsome Dearie . . . 103 Message of Pressed Flowers .... 106 Whither.'' iii Thy Heaven 112 I Would that my Lips could Utter . . 114 Thy Breasts are Twin White Lilies . 115 Rest, Rest Thee, Sad Heart . . . . 116 To a Rising Star 118 CONTENTS. PAGB Estrangement 120 Oe'r uy Heart in its Dreaming . . . 123 Love and Wine 126 My Muse 127 Light of My Life 128 A HANDFUL OF SONNETS. All in All 131 Greeting 132 Betrothal 133 Lincoln Park, Storm 134 Separation 137 In the Shadows . . . , 138 Beyond the Shadows 139 A Golden Day ......... 140 Time Marks her Flight 141 My Bard 142 PREFACE. EVERY life has multiform activities, and when the artistic sense is present, em- bodies itself in different ways. A careless judge will be carried away by one single embodiment, and consider the whole, a monotonous enlargement of that single part. The larger-minded reader will see that there is unity which binds all the embodiments together, and that that unity is not an abstraction, but a concrete human life, which, in its constant interplay with environment, expresses itself, always partially, it is true, but always genuinely. No writer ever gives a complete rendition of his soul. Not even when his work is done and all the broken lights of his life are gathered into one full beam. There is always an inex- pressible residue of the personality which per- ishes from the world. Emotional life as well as intellectual life has its tropics. There may be wide latitudes be- tween the extreme positions of thought and feeling in a single life at different times. The greater the life, the wider the range. A narrow consistency is possible only in a barren life. The contents of this little volume grew up side by side with the "Light-Bearer of Liberty" and covers the same period of activity. It claims attention only so far as it finds echoes in the hearts of fellow men, who are yearning for an ideal life, which shall make possible the embodiment of the ideal. The Author. TO MY WIFE, THE SHARER AND INSPIRER OF MY LITERARY LABORS, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED. SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. .msb MAUD'S WEDDING DAY. ¥ COME hither a little, Maud, while the shad- ows creep this way, Come sit by my side and talk, for the morrow's your wedding day, And a younger hand than mine. Dear, will lead you from my side. And younger lips than mine, Dear, will claim you a willing bride. And you'll leave your dear old home, and my old loving heart, — I've lived for you forty years, and loved you from the start ! — What ! You're not so old ! But it's true, though you, Maud, can't understand How your mother and I were young once, and thought and yearned and planned. SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. And loved you all together, before our mar- riage morn, Full twenty years and more before you, Maud, were born. For you were the last, the pet and pride of mother and me, And we kept you the baby still, as long as that could be. But you wouldn't stay little at all, in spite of our love and care, And your dresses were laid aside, Maud, too small for you to wear. And I'd have been jealous of all the thieving years could do. But they left you your mother's eyes of tender- est sunniest blue. There were other children, Maud, and we loved them dearly, too. But still, as each babe could talk, another be- gan to coo. And life grew stronger and prouder, my Dar- ling, for mother and me. And we shared in their work and study, and toiled for them cheerily. MAUD'S WEDDING DAY. But I was vexed, sometimes, when the world wouldn't seem to go right, And I said some things, my child, I'd be glad to recall tonight. For my thoughts go out to two little mounds in Sunnyside, Where the first of our darling children are sleeping side by side, And I wonder, if they had lived, if they'd try to break my heart As the boy that was spared to me ! — The fool- ish tears will start When I talk of our only son, that married out of my life, And deserted mother and me, ior a cold and heartless wife, That spoiled in a year or two, with her prim society ways. The generous heart of my boy, — 'twas the nur- ture of all our days, — For mother was patient, Maud, and loved him and taught him, too, To be kindly and patient and loving, and al- ways loyal and true. SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. But she was a fortune-hunter, with a pair of warm brown eyes, And he was young and loved her, — I thought it scarcely wise ! — But it wasn't for mother and me to know what was the best, — And marrying other people is wisdom's grand- est test ! — So we wept a little together, and let them go their way, And Maud, my Darling, you know the rest. There came a day When we quarreled — we couldn't help it — I'm sorry for all tonight ! I tried to do my best, but the world wouldn't seem to go right. And you're the last of all, Maud, for mother is sleeping, too, And I am all alone, Maud, in the shadows, alone with you. You will stay with me. Darling, you say ? No, that can never be. For you have a life to live, too, apart from mother and me. maud's wedding day. She sleeps in the silent ferns, Maud, that you planted on the hill, And I'll soon be lying beside her, if gracious Heaven will. And I'm not such a brute of a father, to spoil my Maud's birthright For the few short years of evening, before I bid her good night ; For William's a fine-built fellow with a strong and manly face. And he'll be good to you, Maud, and he comes of a goodly race. You love him, you say, and he's noble and loyal and tender and true. And I love him, too, my child, almost as dear- ly as you ; So blessings on both forever, for tomorrow's the wedding day. And it matters little how soon now the shad- ows creep this way. But when the first babe comes, Maud, remem- ber us cheerily. And nestle it soft in the ferns. Dear, for the sake of mother and me. THE INVALID. THE days grow dark and lone, Alice, dark and dreary for me, And the years float on like sea-weed adrift on a stagnant sea. But there must be currents below, for I know I am far away From the purple isles of light where my ill- starred infancy lay. I try to be patient and bear the tedium of the hours. And take no thought of the morrow, though Night above me lowers ; But I can not bear it forever, my soul is rebel- lious flame ; Why was an eagle's spirit chained down to this shattered frame } THE INVALID. Every muscle should have been strong as the lion's lusty thews, Whose chase-worn strength the day for each midnight chase renews ! The blood should have surged in my veins with a full impetuous tide, That could nourish power and passion and fling Life's portals wide To storm and sun alike, and conquer and use them both For the ripening of the brain and the spirit's dauntless growth ! But a baby's hand is as strong as this withered hand of mine. And health and hope are gone, and marred is the fair design, The Angel of Life had sketched with his pencil of seven-hued light. When my soul burst forth like a star from Being's primal night. Three score ? Is it blessed to live w^hen all that is worth the living Is ruined ? So long^ and remember a deed that is past forgiving ? SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. His blows ? His curses ? That look ? The tyranny worse than all ? The cloister prison that kept the heart and brain in thrall To creeds effete and dead, and systems rotten and old ? I'd rather be dead as they, and turned into dust and mould. For I stood on the threshold of life, in the face of the universe, A mendicant begging with hands outstretched for an alms, — or worse, A mind misformed and warped, a hand un- skilled in aught, The Gordian knot of the world drawn harder by all I wrought. And mine the fault ? If I lounge in the Inn of the World, and eat. And pay no reckonings back, is it counted wrong to cheat The World of my feed and keep, that robbed my whole birthright, And left me naked and bare, unpitied in wretched plight ? THE INVALID. Give me my strength, O World ! I'll struggle along with the rest, And pay the uttermost farthing, and count all things as best ! But the days are dark and lone, Alice, so lone and dreary for me, As the years float on like sea-weed adrift on a stagnant sea. I have friends ? That are kind ? I am grate- ful to them, to all, to you. But the bliss is in the helping, and I am all helpless, too. If only the struggle were done ! A man with the passions of man, I love — Let it pass ! — I have loved, — as only the passionate can, With the blindness of devotion, with soul and mind and heart, — My sister ? I love her as warm, but she has a life apart ! Her child ? She's the sunshine of life, and fair as a flower of May , But the years will make her a woman, and steal her heart away ! SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Hush, Alice ! Sweet Alice, forbid — let it die, the unuttered word ! No random yearning of mine from its fixed re- solve has erred, Never to let a woman turn sympathy into love And mingle her fate with mine ! — let the inno- cent snowy dove Consort with the kite ! — Yet I yearn with the strength of my passionate soul, To stretch out my arms to something, ere I touch Time's latest goal. And clasp it, and call it mine^ all mine^ and for- ever mine! To love and cherish forever, mine^ mine, warm- ly faithfully mine / 'Twas a dream ! — 'Tis a dream — that must die with the dreamer, unfulfilled. In a heart full of dust and ashes, where the buds of joy were killed ! The fittest survive, I can see, but little comfort it gives To the weakest in the fight, to be conscious of death while he lives. lo THE INVALID. There a father with light in his face and the pride of his life on his knee, Looks Fate in the face serenely. His race continues to be. His name will be heard for ages, in honor and blessing and praise. And his deeds will be cherished and told through all the coming days. And a part of his soul will live, in an everlast- ing life. Victorious over death in the never-ending strife, But my race must perish, at last, and none will weep for me, If I overlive the few who have loved me faith- fully. Turn mad ? And berate the world .? And curse the living and dead ? Because they gave me a stone, when I wanted only bread ? O not while the world has love and peace for the many, shall I Despair of the far event, though I may be doomed to die ! II SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. And perchance I am part of a plan, a part of this old world's life Not utterly lost and forgotten, though con- quered in the strife, And who can know, but someday, when this broken body is gone, I may stand an equal chance with the rest, in the coming Dawn ? And thus there is peace, sweet Alice, peace sometimes even for me. Though the years float on like sea-weed adrift on a stagnant sea ! 12 AGNES LILIENKRON, THE FORSAKEN. TO the sea-shore ? Down by the bay ? To- morrow ? Going so soon ? Oh to watch the silent ships asleep in the mid- night moon ! Oh to hear the dip of an oar and the grating of a keel And the sound of a step on the shore that my waiting heart could feel ! Have I ever been there ? Yes, once, — years ago ! — I learned by heart Every turn and wind of the shore ! — your par- don, sir ! — tears will start, But you seemed so kindly, sir, — to have a heart somewhere — That I trusted you, — couldn't help it — 'twas your face, sir, and manly air, — 13 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. And I could have loved you — madly — but I have no heart, sir, here ! — It's down there, down by the sea-shore, dead, dead this many a year ! Dead ? As good as dead, though it throbs and throbs in its endless pain ! He*s there ! — the lord of my life ! — was there — whom I'll never see again ! Perchance he is gone — gone again — and an- other widowed heart Is broken and crazed like mine ! — Tomorrow, you say, you start ? Perhaps you will meet him ! And then, will you bear him a message from me. And tell him I love him still, and pine for the moonlit sea. And the boat that used to glide like a dream on the rising tide Far out on the evening bay — and he was by my side ! — You will think me frail, I know, but I'd sell my hopes of heaven To lie in his arms tonight — nor ask to be for- given 14 AGNES LILIENKRON, THE FORSAKEN. If only the day never dawned to tear me away from him ! — I'd rather be tortured, or burned, or severed limb from limb ! — Oh the exquisite bliss of yielding to his impas- sioned will ! Oh the clasp of his mighty arms — I can feel them holding me still ! Oh the kiss that sent the blood flood-tiding up to the lips And coursing and thrilling and tingling from the heart to the finger-tips ! You're startled ? We were wedded, sir, wed- ded, and never a chaster bride Graced a marriage feast, or sat by her honored husband's side. But scarcely a year and a day, — and down by the moonlit sea A serpent our Paradise entered, to ruin my love and me ! An ugly rumor was whispered, that said I wasn't his wife. But only a mistress, at best, — and the helpless innocent life 15 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. That was nestling under my heart, could never wear his name, Nor look the world in the face ! — And then a woman came, A beautiful haggard face, that had suffered deeper than I, And told a pitiful story — of love in the days gone by — Of a broken heart — of love by an artful mis- tress stolen, Till I cursed the robber, and wept, — her eyes with tears were swollen ! I asked her the villain's name. With a sob she turned aside. Uncovered the face of her babe, and said with a broken pride : "There, madam, read in its face the name it ought to bear ! I've come to ferret him out — the beast in his seaside lair ! He is here, somewhere, I know. They said he was seen on the bay — Came nightly ashore, or rowed for hours where the shadows lay AGNES LILIENKRON, THE FORSAKEN. With his leman in the bow — Have you seen him, lady ? — ^those eyes, That face?" I started— 'twas he I—l ques- tioned in quick surprise, His name ? Great God ! It was his ! — " Low slanderer, be gone ! " I cried ; — " My husband ? " Belike ! And mine, and others enough beside ! Has he limed you, too ? Ah, well ! Be happy and love him still. I leave him to you and yours and the curse of a wandering will. I would his hand had slain me ! — It strangled two others before — But my babe and I are doomed to bear one trial the more. Farewell ! " She said, and was gone. And he was gone ! That day A vessel lifted anchor and sailed and sailed away, And never since then have I heard the dipping of an oar. And never a grating keel, or the sound of a step on the shore. 17 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. They brought me home again — a falcon with pinions clipped — I heard from him once — he was back where the splashing oars had dipped. I tried to run away, but they caught and brought me here, A prisoner — held by an oath and a dying mother's tear ! — My babe ? I killed it, sir, killed it, blighted its budding life Before it could dream or know men's jealousy and strife. And since then I haven't a heart, but only a stone somewhere In my bosom, that weighs me down like a ton of dead despair ! But a woman is foolish and frail, and cannot master her will ! I loved him — I worshipped him then — I love and worship him still. And I'd creep in the dust to his feet, and plead to be loved again, Though he spurned me and gave me instead a death of infinite pain ! j8 HERMANN SAMSSEL. T OUGHT to be grateful? Ah, well! Is 1 gratitude only a duty To be felt by an effort of will ? toward a fiend ? or a brute ? where no beauty Of heart or soul impels it ? I ought to love her, I'm told By a threadbare text of the law, but feelings are bought and sold By an equal exchange of love, or an equal bar- ter of hate. And the scales are just and true, that mete out weight for weight. And they dip with the heft of a hair, while a god looks on to repay. Each moment its own perfect guerdon, each moment its judgment day. 19 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. I ought to honor her ? That my days may be long in the land ? 'Twere better I ween, for me, had she stayed her murderous hand, — Or better, perchance, had not failed to throttle my dawning life, — I never had hated her then nor known this mad- dening strife, — ■ Oh that I never had been, that the day of my birth were dead, That an infinite night had swallowed forever this infinite dread Of being and doing and thinking in endless mad career, The sport of an inborn hate, of frenzy and gloom and fear ! You are happy ? and others, too ? and a mother's love has blessed ? And home is as snug and warm as the callow birdling's nest ? Well, be happy and grateful and good, for such is your glad birthright, For the stars that shone on your birth made a glad and tranquil night 20 HERMANN SAMSSELS. For the mother who felt on her breast the touch of your innocent lips And followed, forgetting her pain, the wander- ing finger-tips As they started and grasped at naught. She loved your faintest breath. But if she had loathed you, instead, and cursed you and plotted your death ? My mother ? Bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh, too true ! And her blood is pent in my veins with a venom- ous flood-tide, too. Does that make a mother, forsooth } that like an outcast bud She surrendered the protoplasm, and nourished it with her blood ? It is love, not blood, that makes the soul of kin- ship, for me, And loving care makes the mother, as long as Time shall be ! But why do I rage ? I ought to be mute nor her slumbers molest When the grass has been green for years that covers her harmless breast ? 21 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Harmless ? 'Tis hard to say, if the harm is over so soon, And the harvest, sown in the years, all gar- nered with the moon That wanes o'er the fresh-dug grave ! I feel it within me still, That her every loathing thought and murderous purpose of will Are built into flesh and bone and burned into nerve and brain Till I hate the whole world, and myself, and gloat o'er its burden of pain. With a demonish joy that the rest are shut from their Paradise too, And the Earth is a crowded bedlam, all mad- ness through and through. The years never hear a prayer, and thoughts are as deathless as deeds. And never a love or a hate, but bears the hid- den seeds Of endless loving and hating. The world is a growth and a law. And the dead mold the living, for aye, with fated perfection or flaw. 22 HERMANN SAMSSELS. Harmless? When I am dead, and my madness and crimes are dead, But a poisoned well until — Beware ! Hath not God said : "Judge not" and "Vengeance is mine" ? Yea, he judged, and I am the curse He denounced at his judgment day. From a salt and bitter source The waters of Marah have flowed. My mother attempted to slay — A silk and damask sin, but common enough to- day — Her babe, — and wrought for herself a slow and lingering death, And Azrael came with the Angel of Life, when it wailed for breath. She is under the sod — frail flesh — I'd pity her if I could — Perchance she was wronged — and by hhn — who never understood How a woman's soul can loathe, what a woman's hand can do. When the choosing or refusing is a right too strange and new 23 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. For the mother to claim, — my father^ a sleek conventional soul Who never was vexed with a doubt that his morals were sound and whole, Who knew what virtue meant, and prized it in his home, And while his passions were stilled, was never known to roam, Who was reckoned chaste enough, by the letter of the law, — But a woman's heart was breaking — rebellious demons saw The empty room in her heart, and filled it with murderous hate. And I am her victim, and his, A strange un- common fate ? Thank God if it were ! 'Tis enough if one should drain such a cup ! But a million more, — God forbid, that more be offered up, While Belial's altar smokes with the blood of babes unborn, And mothers with empty arms look cold and refuse to mourn ! 24 THE BASTARD OF OLD SIR HUGHS. CAN it be? How could ho, do it? How could he be so cruel To rob me and basely defraud me of man's most precious jewel ? Can it be ? Is he father, or uncle ? Am I bastard, or son ? Why did they set me thinking of where my life begun ? Is it not gall enough to be orphaned twenty years, That they give me a father and mother, and a shame too burning for tears ? Give me my orphanage back ! Take away the brand of shame ! Give me my dead to love, and not the living to blame I 25 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Who called me a bastard ? A Voice ! A mere intangible thing That whispered an ugly guess at the mystery whence I spring ! Let it pass ! None knows ! Who can read in the blank of a passionless face That deep in the heart are lurking suspicions of disgrace ? I'll crush it ! I'll live it down ! I'll bury it all so deep, That none but me can know of its awful hidden sleep ! I bury it ? Crush it ? Kill it ? A thing that can never die While a hundred feel it and know it, other than he and I ? She knows it — his victim — my mother, and others all around. For twenty years is too short for all to be under the ground, Who knew of the scandal then, and his lasci- vious stealth. But winked and condoned it all, because of his title and wealth. 26 THE BASTARD OF OLD SIR HUGHS. And they'll pass me every day, and smile and shake their head: ''He's the Bastard of old Sir Hughs, who wan- dered before he was wed." But I rave ! It is all a lie, a cruel, hateful lie Born of a morbid fancy ! I'll conquer it bye and bye ! For I had a mother once. I remember a warm sweet face That bent above me and smiled, with a dear unspeakable grace. I remember a clear low voice, that crooned sweet lullabies. And I loved to lie and listen, with half-shut dreaming eyes, Till I fell asleep in her arms. Was it she that bent above me, — My mother, — or only a nurse just hired with gold to love me ? I remember a time when they came, — they tried to take me away, And I struggled and clung to her still, and fought and kept them at bay 27 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. With endless kicking and screaming, till I heard a gruff voice say: ''Come, woman, it's time to go !" Then she wept and fainted away And fell on the floor before him. The rest is all a blur — I was hurried away — to the North — to the cold — away from her. How could they be hard to a mother ? Or if it was only a nurse, A pest fall on his body, and on his soul my curse ! And, my name is not Sir Hughs'. If he is my uncle in sooth. She must have been his sister, for if he told me the truth, He himself is an only son of an old and blooded race. Then why have not I, like his son, a fuli-blown lusty face. With eyes like the English skies, and cheeks like the English rose. And whiskers of amber ale that froths and foams as it flows ? 28 THE BASTARD OF OLD SIR HUGHS. For mine is an ample brow, and features ner- vous and thin — Not a trace of English blood, by my glass, from forehead to chin 1 He loves me, he said to me once, because I've my mother's face. Why should he love an olive skin and eyes of a duskier race ? Great God ! Can it be ? Have I guessed it ? the horrible branding truth ? He told me of summers in Italy, of wild oats sown in his youth. Had he loved an Italian maid, or Alpine herds- man's girl. And fooled her with vows and pledges unmeet for the son of an earl ? Had he left her at length to bear alone their mutual blame. And give me birth and suckle me into a life of shame ? O mother ! My blameless mother ! Whom too much trust betrayed To the amorous touch of a brute, who would not be gainsaid ! 29 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. I loathe him, I hate him forever, with a bound- less burning hate. That never on earth or in hell shall be glutted or satiate ! Hate him ? Hate a father to whom with all his faults I owe My life and all I have been in the happy long ago? For I have been happy, at least, and could be happy still If a devilish voice could be muffled by strength of human will. For mayhap he is what he says — an uncle, and nothing to me But the kindest soul among men ! — But why this secrecy ? Why not tell me about my mother ? I am mad with longing to love her ! If dead, let me go and weep with my lips in the dust above her ! If living, — just God forgive if I wrongly curse the hand That tore me away from her, perchance in a foreign land ! 30 THE BASTARD OF OLD SIR HUGHS. clasp me again to thy heart, sweet mother, and sing me to sleep ! 1 am tired of this hideous dream ! — But it's long since I saw her weep, And who knows where she is to-day ? De- spised ? Adrift on the street ? And touched with a loathsome pest, and foul from her head to her feet ? And driven to shame by him ? I'd kill him if I knew Such blood were coursing and tingling my arter- ies through and through ! Why am I not all to-day that the devils in hell could wish. If a double stream of lust had built this quiver- ing flesh ? Nay she was pure, at least ! Was pure ! God rest her soul, If one false step in her youth left her body stained and unwhole ! Go and ask him ? Ask all ? I dare not. He'd shrug his shoulders and smile, He dare not own me the truth, though I guessed it all the while. 31 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. And I'd choose for one, to suffer the horror of doubtful blame Rather than face the blighting knowledge of certain shame ! And whatever else may come, and whatever else may be, All the light and the joy of living is gone for- ever from me ! ''MP 32 VIRGINIUS. TJ AVE I ever hated a man? Yes, once, in the ^ ^ days gone by, I hated him — hate him still, — and shall until I die. His crime ? Not a crime at all ! There are things far worse than crimes That are done, untouched by the law, condoned by the fledgling times ! Is a murder, that ends a life, half as bad as the dastardly deed That makes the soul writhe forever, the heart incessantly bleed ? Is assault with bludgeon or fist and the purple aching flesh. That will heal in a week or two, and be sound and whole afresh, 33 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Half as hard to bear, as the thrust that wounds a sensitive soul And leaves its poison to spread till its virus in- flames the whole ? Is theft of a purse half as bad as the theft of a hope or a love That budded and bloomed as fair as the aspho- dels fabled above ? He came with an oily tongue, and a manner so winning kind, And an eye that worshipped me, and made me too too blind, Till the devilish deed was done. Could I for a moment dream That a thing so foul as he so gentle and fair might seem ? But his whitewashed face concealed the black- ness of his heart Till the plague-spot rotted through, — and be- trayed his hellish art, — But the bloom was gone — and her life was blighted, — a pure sweet child. My child, my only child, by an oily-tongued villain defiled, — 34 VIRGINIUS. Too young to guard herself, too old for the law's defense, A fresh young partridge to him, just fatted to please his sense. Why didn't he kill her, and end forever her blighted life ? Or why did not I, — a belated Virginius, — give her to wife In the land of shadows and ghosts to the skele- ton arms of Death ? A kindlier fate than to live, with the withering poisoned breath Of social scandal upon her, a mark for lascivi- ous eyes, The talk of the town, till the next that falls an unguarded prize In the confidence game of life, where honor is all in all In a woman's lily soul, — its loss the bitterest gall,- But man, the superior brute, counts honor ser- vility. The badge of a slavish soul ashamed or afraid to be free. 35 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Down with distinctions of sex ! Long live the Woman, I say ! And a knotted cord for the back of the brute who dares to lay Unequal burdens on her ? One code, one brand for them both ! Let him be shunned like the pest, his fellows all be loth To graze the sleeve of his coat ! Let the con- demnation fall Upon the source of the woe, — or, lovingly lift the pall That hangs o'er his helpless victim ! Hold her as white as him ! Hobnob with her, too, and forget, and fill Life's cup to the brim, And quaff it down ! Vivat ! Fill up her bar- ren years With a home, and love, and children, and wipe away her tears With Society's silken kerchief. Alas, the brute is alive Beneath the washing of culture ! Let her go to the dive ! 36 VIRGINIUS. Nay, tny flesh ! Sweet and clean her soul and body shall be, But the world is not large enough to shelter both him and me ! If his shadow darkens my home, or his foot shall seek my door, I'll strike him down where he stands and pay my hatred's score. ^ 37 THE WEDDINQ ANNIVERSARY. V 'T^hey stood together in curtained gloom, -^ Husband and wife by the laws decree, Alone in the face of a crushing doom, Alone in the bitter agony Of keeping the law, without a flaw, Though the spirit of love go unfulfilled. Guarding the vessel vv^ith pious awe When the choicest wine of life is spilled. Dumb with an anguish they could not speak. Mute with a truth they dared not face, Heart to heart, and cheek to cheek. They convulsively clung in a long embrace. As if the years could melt to tears, And gush away to oblivion. Leaving but love that doubts nor fears And the troth they had plighted years agone. 38 THE WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. "Uphold me, I faint !" The fated word Burst from her lips. The woe suppressed Of her choking voice, his bosom stirred : "Clasp me close, ay close to thy throbbing breast ! My heart is bleeding, my soul is pleading. For words that were spoken so often of yore. My life in its passionate interceding Unheard is witherins: evermore !" •t3 "They said, thou art false, thou art hollow and cold. Thou lovest me not, thou art weary of me. I heard when their slanderous tongues grew bold. They were false and cruel. I trusted thee. But I never knew, for thy words were few And thy brow grew dark when I came to thee, If deep in its cold thy heart beat true And cherished its old sweet dreams of me." 39 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. "And I wept in silence and all alone, Alone and unmarked for thy sweet sake, For thou wert mute and sadder grown, — I wept at their lies till my heart would break. Oh Love, give me my love ! I ask but for love ! I am dying of doubt, — dying, dying each day, For a word, for a look, that like rain from above Could make my poor withered heart blossom for aye !" "Thou wert gone from our home so oft, so long, Thou wert colder and sadder at each return Till I yearned, — God forgive, if the wish was wrong ! — As only a mother's heart can yearn. For our one dead child with its eyes that smiled, To come from its lily-nestled rest And soothe my heart with its presence mild And cool with its lips my burning breast !" 40 THE WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. "Then I thought in my soul — for dull pain warps The soul's clear sight with its cheating glass — 'Twere better to be a cold cold corpse And slumber beneath the quiet grass, In my darling's bed, with a stone at my head To guard forever our dreamless sleep, And I almost envied the peaceful dead, At rest, and never again to weep !" "My heart, though crushed, at first was loth To dream of a life apart from thee; But hath God sworn with a mighty oath. That Law is stronger than Destiny ? Must our marriage vow be held sacred now When it curses two lives and blesses none ? Must we bear on pinched cheek and brow The blight of the ten dead years that are gone ? " 41 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. "Look on yon half-veiled portrait ! See ! The tender eyes are so full of bliss. She is dreaming still — ay dreaming of thee, Of a murmured pledge, and one lingering kiss ! Then look on my tear-sunken eye ! Oh God, had we never loved and wed 1 Let us crush forever this formal lie. And part ! I would that I were dead !" Her weak arms slipped from his close embrace — He pillowed her head on his trembling knee — His tears fell hot on her upturned face — And his white lips quivered in agony : "They slandered thee, as they slandered me 1 They were hellish lies but they burned in my brain ! O God, forgive ! I have murdered thee !" And he kissed her pale cold lips again ! 42 THE TUNKER MAIDEN. A MEMORIAL PIECE. TJ ANG on the wreath ! ^ ■'■ Wind the old battle-flag round his tomb, Its torn folds sweeping his grave, For underneath Sleeps one of the brave ! White roses droop o'er his hallowed dust, From their dev;y lips exhaling perfume, While the late May vvdnds in frolic blow. And scatter their petals like flakes of snow At every fitful gust. 43 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. II O sacred Memorial Day When the Nation remembers her dead ! O holy tribute the loyal pay Of love and tears for the blood they shed ! Let the cannon boom ! While the gray old heroes come Mustering to the rolling drum ! Make room ! Make room ! For the gallant column marching down Out of the town To salute the dead ! Let the prayer be said, And the farewell gun Be shot o'er each comrade's grave ! The crowd is gone. The rites are done. All honor to the brave I 44 THE TUNKER MAIDEN. Ill Hang on the wreath ! Wind the torn battle-flag round his tomb ! For underneath Sleeps the dust of the brave ! Lost in earth's sepulchral gloom, He rests alone, Unmarked and unknown, And no martial pageant shall honor his grave, For the gay young world remembers not, And his grizzled comrades forget the spot. But the sun shall fail. And the moon wax pale, And the stars of night in darkness set, Ere the Tunker maiden's heart forget. 45 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. IV Hang on the wreath ! Wind the stained battle-flag round his tomb, Its torn folds sweeping his grave ! For its stains are red With the blood of the dead That sleep the sleep of the brave ! Through thee alone and thy sweet faith, Fair maid of the loyal heart, Hath he his part In the drum's glad beat and the cannon's boom Ay ! Bury thy head in the long grave grass, While the dead dead years in memory pass ! 46 THE TUNKER MAIDEN. Brave hearts and true, all hail ! Blood and treasure Without measure Flow around their country's altar, They, the true hearts, never falter. Hail, all hail ! Columbia's matchless womanhood ! Never enemy withstood Such a banded sisterhood ! For their cheers and tears, through the bitter years, While the flag was rent in twain. Love-lighted the gory path of glory, Till the flag was one again ! 47 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. VI And thou, sweet maiden, royal hearted, When thy gallant love departed. All thy hopes save one were blighted. 'Twas the day your hearts were plighted That the shot from Sumter frighted All the slumbering North awake. All thy peaceful Elders spake Words of patience and endurance, With a calm and high assurance That Almighty God doth rule. That his ways are dark and hidden, And to question is forbidden To the children of Christ's school. Plain gray-bearded nonconformers Counseled peace, and counseled quiet Abstinence from war's loud riot. Stern descendents of reformers Prayed for mercy, prayed for peace. When Satan raged in war's increase, They thought upon their herds and flocks, 48 THE TUNKER MAIDEN. Shook their Nazaritic locks, And remained at home, secure, And kept their robes unworldly pure. But one sweet maiden, loyal-hearted, When the shot from Sumter boomed, Heard the voice of God, and started, For she felt her country doomed. And a pleading bondman's moan Grew a deathless undertone To the cannon's bursting thunder That rent the Union flag asunder. ** Pray for peace, O reverend Fathers ! Weep and wonder, pitying Mothers ! While the Nation swiftly gathers Precious gifts of blood from others ! But if we pray for peace, we'll fight for't. And strive with sturdy right arm's might for't, And spill our heart's blood with delight for't, And God will stand upon our right for't, And bless our loyal brothers ! " 49 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. VII Hang on the wreath ! Wind the old battle-flag round his tomb ! For underneath, Wrapped in hallowed earth's embraces, He sleeps till the day of doom ! He alone of that godly few The voice of his clear-souled sibyl knew, Doffed his coat of somber hue, And donned the Union's patriot blue. And, taking thy " god speed " full of kisses, Went to pray with his armed right hand For the righteous cause of his bleeding land. Thee for thy daring words they thrust Out of the church, like a worm of the dust, Of worldly pride and striving full, Rebellious 'gainst Christ's gentle rule, Misled, misleading God's own elect. Anathema, maranatha ! ! 5^ THE TUNKER MAIDEN. VIII Hang on the wreath ! Wind the torn battle-flag round his tomb ! For underneath Sleep the hopes of thirty years. Others have garnered the harvest of tears That were sown by thee so long ago In the days of the Nation's doom ! Ay ! Bury thy head in the long grave grass, While the dead dead years in memory pass, And a flurry of scented snow Falls on thy silvered locks below ! Clasp him again in thy arms as of yore, When, wounded and dying, he came from the war. Nurse him patiently now as then. Kiss him tenderly. Tell him again How nobly he fought and how brave. And bless the blood that he gladly gave, That the flag might be one that was rent in twain. Ay ! Weep as his tired eye-lids close ! But the God of nations knows Thine was the greater sacrifice. Thou hast paid the richer price For the victory over his foes ! 51 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. IX O sacred Memorial Day When the Nation remembers her dead ! O holy tribute the loyal pay Of love and tears for the blood they shed ! Let the cannon boom ! While the gray old heroes come Mustering to the rolling drum ! Make room ! Make room ! For the gallant column marching down Out of the town To salute the dead ! Let the prayer be said, And the farewell gun Be shot o'er each comrade's grave ! Farewell ! Farewell ! The rites are done ! Sleep on, Immortal Band, sleep on, Into the morrow's golden dawn ! Shout for the joy of it, shout, Ye for whom the battle was won ! Ring, glad bells, ring merrily out, Ye that knoUed when the red blood run ! 52 THE TUNKER MAIDEN, Huzza ! Huzza ! Huzza ! All honor to the brave ! But hail, all hail, to the Womanhood That back of our gallant army stood ! Whose cheers and tears, through the bitter years. While the flag was rent in twain, Love-lighted the gory path of glory, Till the flag was one again ! 3®" 53 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. THE POET'S PROTHALAMION SWEET Love, my bride and v/ife to be, come thou And nestle on my heart, for I would give One half this world, were all its treasures mine, To hold thee in my empty arms once more. And I would give it all, though richer far Than a world of worlds, to kiss thee on the lips With burning, lingering kisses, till my soul Grew satisfied, and I would pawn my heart Still throbbing with its young delirious life, 54 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. Nor hold my very soul too dear a price For one embrace or one touch of these lips On thy white unveiled bosom ! Come, my Love, My Paragon of women, my heart's Queen, And Queen of home to be, life's dial points To where the dewy morning greets the noon ! Too soon our morn will be the afternoon ! Stay not too long, but come ere the dew is gone ! We'll wander hand in hand adown this world And find somewhere among the haunts of men A cosy bit of Eden, blooming still For thee and me ! Come with thy household ways And dear domestic skill, and at thy touch 55 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Some ivy-clambered lodge among the trees, Or narrow cottage on a nameless street Were home ! Stay not within thy father's house To close his eyes into their latest sleep, Though he hath loved thee dearer than his life ! Stay not to cheer thy mother's faltering age, Though her heart break to let thee go, but come ! New duty calls thee into larger life ! Dear lips that cannot speak are pleading,come I Fulfill my manhood ! Slip the leash of fate. And rise to the full glory of womanhood ! Dost linger still ? My soul is crushed with pain. I need thee. O sustain me languishing In this unquenched thirst for life and love! S6 THE POET S PROTHALAMION. Wake not despair ! Fulfill thy plighted troth ! Couldst thou forget ? Or dreamest thou that love Is dearer in the bloom than in the gold Of harvest ? Come into the twilight, down Among the thick-set pines and cedar-clumps, And I will pluck a twig, and whisper low Its deathless message sweet : " I live for thee ! " And thou wilt lay its fadeless leaves among The folds of drapery soft, nearest thy heart, And thank me with a look that would repay The toil of an archangel. Here, alone, Imparadised, and lip to lip, none near Save God to hear me at confessional, I'll tell thee all my love, and thy chaste ear Will love the tale, and hold it fair and pure As that white lily that once lay, at eve, Like baby lips about the areole Of each white breast, when thou didst dream of lips That yet should be, and thou didst breathe a prayer 57 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. That brake in twain the alabaster-box Of womanhood, that all the night grew sweet With scent of spikenard and rich attar of rose. Perchance in Passion's aura subtly held, As in sweet incense, thou wilt feel once more Love's warm compulsion unto higher things And come ! I know not when our love begun. I only know we met beside the sea, In that vast wilderness of stone, whose piles Behold the lordly Hudson, where his waves Make young the hoar Atlantic and upbear In conscious pride the navies of the world, — Not pleasure-seekers bent on killing time, Breasting the surf, or idling on the beach. Nor bent on conquest, thou, nor vain display, Nor I on shekels most ignobly got By wedging ten gaunt fingers in between The toiler and the eater for the tithes 58 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. Unearned, that honest toil is doomed to pay The priests of Pluto for their idle keep. Four study walls immured us from the world, Three tiresome flights of steps above the din And ceaseless thunder of the granite streets, To learned seclusion, where old Nestor spake, — Our Nestor, — quiet else save that anon The chime of Grace church, standing near, stole through The open casement. Equal thirst for truth Led us to one clear fount. We sought a world Within the phantom chambers of the brain, A language sculptured on the plastic face. We spake ; then, first, I felt that I had swung Across the orbit of some fair new star That drew me with compulsion after her To girdle her afar with awed delight. We spake again ; of Avon's deathless bard, Of Schiller, the beloved Idealist, Of Milton's mighty music, and the steep Wild journey of the exiled Florentine, 59 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Of him who sung of Arthur and his court, Of him who told Acadia's exodus In sweetest verse, of Weimar's eldest bard, Immortal Goethe-Faust, and many more Of humbler strain, but fresh from the World- heart, And Art drew all my orbit unto thee. Again we spake ; and chance — or, haply, Fate, — Drave me to tear aside from the dead years Their veil, and thou didst see my panting soul Beating its wings against the mortal bars Of narrow circumstance, with generous aims. But bruised and beaten back at every flight. And thou wart gentle as one knowing pain — The pain of endless climbing, endless fall. — At length the low sweet music of thy voice Brake through the discord, and my wounds were healed. 60 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. Thou gavest a talisman — a card and verse — A trifle, but the world's a trifle too ! — " A flag and chart to guide thy daring craft Across Life's stormy sea." And then I knew — Not pity, pity is for the weak and blind, — But sympathy, magnanimous and kind. Thou wert mine angel in a time of need. Thus, day by day, in sweet communion, fled The dancing Hours adown their endless cycles. From dawn to dusk, from dusk to radiant dawn, From silent greetings unto low adieus. From sad adieus to early greetings glad. And yet we dreamed not that our lives were paired. Like double stars, for an eternal flight. 6i SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. But once, by haunting memories impelled Of one false maid — or fickle lass, perchance, Youth makes a mighty grief of slender stuff, — I said so bitterly : " I lost all faith—" I know not whither tended all my thought. I saw thy look of infinite pain, and read Thy questioning eyes, but answered not. Next morn, Thy pain found speech, and plead with earnest lips And face aglow, for faith in woman's love And trust in woman's truth, though one were false. And, looking on thy tender pleading lips. And searching all thy soul in thy clear eyes, — How bright, how near they beam, dear Heart, for mine Do mirror all their tears and smiles in thine. And see the laughing cherubim, who stand, 62 THE POET S PROTHALAMION. As in two gates of Eden to defend Our love from rude intrusion ! — I had sworn Thou wert the noblest of all womankind, — The gentlest truest woman of the world. I cast mine eyes down, smitten with quick shame. And uttered broken words of faith new-born, Of trust rewakened from deep lethargy, And all thy pain grew into radiance. I felt like some despairing soul that clutched The stole of its good angel, and so climbed To Heaven's portals. On that day of days. No mild-eyed saint at her Marienbild, No votary of the blessed burning heart, Learned sweeter reverence than I who stood O'erwhelmed by the eternal womanhood That trembled on thy speaking lips, and glowed In thy lithe form — embodied eloquence. 63 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. From that hour unto this thou wert to me A world — a hope ! Thou art my world. With thee Is life and love, though all were dead beside. Without thee, all were dead and cold and drear. Lay thy right hand upon my brow ! What warmth Electric ! Heaven grant it ne'er grow cold — So cold — and lie across thy cold white breast. Clasping a lily v/hite, to mock my soul With resurrection hopes, for hope is none With my White Lily withered ! One warm kiss, One touch of thy soft hand on cheek and brow Is more than all my dreamland interests ! One look of thy confiding eyes in mine Is dearer than a thousand memories That linger in the chambers of the dead ! 64 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. The Hours danced on, and, arm in arm, the Graces, The sacred Nine, and latest born of Zeus, All-searching Science hundred-eyed, and Mirth, And all the nymphs of sunlight, wave and storm And autumn hills, and the stern Sisters Three, Wove magic circles narrowing round our steps. And when of all the Hours the saddest came, She found us — lovers — Then, Aufwiedersehen ! We could not wholly part. With kindred aims. Art-conquered to one love of beauty, bound By sympathy that touched life's deepest chords, Each trusting each and reverencing each, o'er such One Hour alone hath power, — life's Tyrant grim. Dost thou remember the wee note that beg- ged,— If naught with thee or thine should tell me nay, — To know thee longer though so far away ? — 65 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. The pen dared name thee gentlest, truest, best, Ere yet my lips dared tell thee face to face ! Hard on an hour of banqueting and mirth Our parting came. Down by the sounding sea, We watched the silent ships that o'er the wave Must bear thee soon to old New England's snows, And thought how many leagues of land and sea Must drift between us ere the morrow eve. We talked of home, and long-gone happenings. And sunny Southland travels, spake aught else Save what the heart was full of. Idle v/ords ! For Fate is Fate ! Saidst thou indeed farewell ? Or was it silence trembling ? Ah, farewell ! A lingering hand-clasp — and, in truth, farewell ! Then homeward bound beneath the evening star That westward, ever westward fled ! Ah, me ! I had no home ! The mighty instinct woke 66 THE POET S PROTHALAMION. That drives the full-fledged nestling from his down, And fills his throbbing throat with love-calls loud. A stranger, I returned to that loved spot That once was home. Yet, though I sat at ease In shady haunts well-loved of earlier years, My heart was restless still, and yearned for home, — A vision of quiet Paradise with thee, That dimmed all nearer joys with roseate hues. Love grows by silence swifter than by speech, And oft at dead of night, I whispered soft, — • So soft that only mine own soul could hear ; — "I love thee." Once, a vision white, thou earnest, A Dream-Hypatia with hair unbound And white arms bare, that drew me gently down And set dream kisses on my sleeping lips 67 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. That thence grew strong to tell thee my young love. "I'll win thee, love thee, live for thee," I said ; And thy heart answered sweetly ; " Wait and hope ! " A fountain in the desert, fed afar In sun-kisst ice or storm-drenched highland plains. Once burst from subterranean caverns deep, Wells forth perennial in the waste of sand, And builds from dearth an oasis of palm, — A smile of God, — a kiss of Heaven, set On fevered lips that thirsted unto death. And such is love, fed from the heights of Being, The hidden currents flowing leagues beneath A waste of life, when lo ! it gushes forth. And all the waste blooms into garden ! Thus At the sweet words that half confessed thy love, My soul became a Garden of the Gods, Where no base thing could enter in, or dwell. 68 THE POET S PROTHALAMION. But life is earnest ! And far be it from us To build on sentiment alone the hope Of happy golden weddings and the shout Of children's children in our ample halls ! A dearer thing than passion and more strong Is love, — not that blind groping thing that grasps The wheel of Fate, content with idle chance, But Love, the Argos-eyed, that sees and knows Life's Inwardness, nor cheats itself with dreams Of swan-white necks, and languishing sweet eyes And fadeless cheeks, and sculptured brows of snow, And faultless breasts that quiver at each step In the gay dance, and finger-tips that run, Bejeweled, lightly o'er the sounding keys. 69 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Feeling is life, and love is life intense, But feeling is sharp pain, and love a burning, That wastes and withers life itself to ash. When blindly kindled and all uncontrolled. Therefore we tore the bandage from Love's eyes. And gave him Reason for a faithful guide. And laid our hearts bare to his searching orbs, — Yea, tore aside the veil from inmost soul, — That no dark fold might prison secret night. Let others build on ever-shifting sands ! V/e chose to build Life's during pyramid Deep-based in rock ! Let others hotly chase Love's phantom in the dusk of young romance, But live to find the real cold and dead, — A long repenting in the halting years, A bitter weeping in night-silences, Or slow decay of noble humanhood That half besots the soul to low content With passion's burning but ephemeral joys. — 70 THE POET S PROTHALAMION. We chose to make Life's bridals chaste and calm, Where each might look in other's eyes and say ; " I know thee wholly and without reserve." Romance is gone at sixty, but staid love Is not unmeet for younger blood. The dross Burns out in Life's hot crucible, and leaves The fieckless gold. Why not the gold at first ? Twelve happy moons bore love's swift messages, " Exchanging thoughts," we called it laughingly, Or, "bartering weeds from country hillsides steep For flowers of city growth." And thus we ranged O'er every field, rejoiced at every step, To find our thoughts and lives at one, attuned In fixed habit to sweet harmony. 71 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. No heavenward-pointing spires, nor Sabbath- chimes Need crush to silence or awaken strife. No priest to shrive, no pastor nice to teach The way to heaven needed we who heard The voice of the Indweller, and had stood Beneath the stars together. Nor could aught Of state or statesmanship with party gall Embitter Life's full cup, nor shame our pride In the Republic's azure-fielded flag Whose bars of morning herald the new day Of Liberty, even then when woman's hand Grasps to the wheel, as sure it must and will. When earth rolls onward into perfect day. Nor could the tinsel and regalia Of secret orders shut within our hearts One thought, one deed, one joy, we dared not share. Nor could ambition tear our lives asunder. Nor knowledge, nor blue blood, nor lands, nor gold, 72 THE poet's PRQTHALAMION. Nor honors won, nor aught that blights the most, And makes the marriage-vow a mockery. So like, we marveled how two souls could be So like, and ever growing liker, yet unlike. Each complementing each, and both, full- summed, — The perfect being ! When, at length, we met, And autumn leaves were falling, and the hearth Roared cheery to the sighing winds outside. And the long evenings lulled the earth to rest, And hours ran swift away in golden sands, Fate turned her glass. We sat together glad. " Thou badst me wait and hope. Canst tell me more ? I hoped and waited. Is it long enough ? " 73 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. I said. I looked, and thy lips trembled sweet ; " Yea, long enough ! " Thy right hand stretched to me. I clasped it. Our lips met. I held thee close To my wild throbbing heart ; " Till Death us part ! " This was the soul's true nuptials, all alone With God for witness. Since when we have known No law but Love's, and thy soul's purity, That lifts mine own to ever newer heights, Interprets it ; " Whate'er is pure and good, That makes love richer nor abates nor mars Our chaste Ideal, shall be free as air For thee and me.'^ Yet happy he for whom The tarrying Hours withold the marriage morn A while, — not all too long till the tired heart Grow sick with waiting, — for Love's law is chaste, — 74 THE POETS PROTHALAMION. Not the sweet anarchy of passion freed, Nor license bitter-sweet, — and self-avenging. And stronger than our helmed Themis dreamed When founding states. Ay, happy he for whom Love's daily discipline of self-denial Grows sweet, ere Themis leads the blushing bride Into the nuptial chamber, and stands guard With her drawn sword o'er wedded privacy ! Thrice happy he who bides his season well, Nor hopes for violets in December's flaw. And apples in the snow of orchard-blooms ! Love hastes not, but unfolds her loveliness, A modest rose that hides her virgin heart In tangled frets of emerald moss, till wooed By the dewy breath and kiss of morning. Thus, Ere we had learned her thousand dear delights, Fate tore us far asunder. Then fair dreams, Hope-winged and gracious, hovered nightly o'er Our distant couches, or, delighted, trooped From room to room, with dreamland effluence 75 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Flooding the day. When snow lay on the roof, And in the Dovecote's haunted chamber roared The hearth-stone wide, and ample comfort gleamed On wall and ceiling, earnest thou to me Familiar sweet. And once the vision plead. All clinging lip to lip, with tender sighs. To prove me woman's love, and ease the pain Of pent-up passion, yet did quickly turn All sad away and weeping make complaint ; *' Ah, me ! This heart is sealed ! Break thou the seals, And bid its living waters flow to thee ! I cannot love thee. Love, till thou love me ! Fell Eden's fruitage down before thy feet, 'Twere little prized ! The winning makes it sweet! " And, when I clasped thee in my passionate arms 76 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. As sweet Francesca with immortal love Clung to her lover in the dusks of Hell When storm-swift shrieking blasts tormenting drave The guilty shades athwart the dark abyss, They fell deceived and empty on my breast And I awoke. And thus from dream to dream With endless yearning fled the desolate hours, Till thou and I were dreams, I thine, thou mine, — Thou wert the block of Parian marble white, My love, the sculptor. I did dream thee fair, And thou art fair, not like a sculptor's dream With fixed eyes and bosom motionless, — A faultless frozen grace, — but Love's rich dream Where every look and every pose is fair, And all is life and soul and eloquence. 77 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. When next we met, the strawberries kissed our lips With fragrant greeting, and the changeful May Was slipping into June, and our young lives Were slipping into June — the month of roses — What wonder then, if roses burst to bloom Imperishable as memory and fair As a child's soul ! The choicest rose that bloomed, Was love — not love of self nor love of each, But love of one not each^ but all of both — Love's soul embodied into tendrils weak To cling with helpless wants about our lives. And link them with the touch of baby lips — A sweet wild rose that clambered o'er our lives With warm profusion in the dew of June, Her leaves pearl-treasured, and her chalices Pale pink with beaded gossamers festooned, In innocent boldness peeping forth at will, 78 THE POET'S PROTHALAMION. God-honoring and not ashamed of Nature, Nor envying hot-house queens whose double hearts, — A splendid sepulcher, — enfold no fruit. Through long day-dreaming fair familiar grown, The Mother-Heart found voice, and thou didst hold My head upon thy breast all tenderly ; " Some day a child shall nestle where thou liest And feel mine arm's sustaining warm as thou ! " I looked with questioning joy to thee : " Our child ? " "Yea, thine and mine, for I have loved it long ! " May He whose dearest name is Love, fulfill These dreams ! 'Tis long since then, and yet we dream The same dear dreams, and talk of days to come 79 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. When suitors bashful come to woo our girls And our own eldest brings his chosen bride For welcome, or yet later full of pride Brings home a sunny child all coos and smiles, And laugh that lovers whose far marriage morn Still sleeps unmarked in Time's unemptied urn Should talk of children's children and gray hairs. Yet still may He fulfill, who love ordained. These later dreams, for love is infinite And lives in one the future and the past, A triune omnipresent fulness — Life. I laid my hand upon its resting-place As now — no purer touch was his that spake " Forbid them not " andblessedeach innocent ! — I breathed a burning prayer — such prayers do make 80 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. Heaven's harmony — where words are none, but soul Is large with thankfulness — that begs no boon, But overflows with a diviner sense Of life's sufficiency — the soul's content. And then I spake ; " God helping thee and me, Thy child shall be as pure as heaven's breath On our chaste brows, not gotten in amorous play Of oft-repeated lust, a child of chance. Chance loved, chance hated, — oft fore-doomed to death, Or hateful vice more terrible than death, The helpless victim of a mighty sin That hides its loathesomeness in robes of law ! Nor shalt thou be a slave to my swift wish ! God maketh thee, not me, thine arbiter. Thou lovest me — 'tis all my soul dare ask — 8i Social tragedies. And thou shalt be a virgin still, though wife, Till thine own heart shall plead for motherhood ! " And thou wert glad. A new strange light beamed forth From thy rich eyes. That ghastly shadow fled That frights a noble woman's soul whene'er She dreams of marriage, lest the altar be Belial's and not Hymen's. " May it be ! God helping us" thou saidst ; " I thank thee much ! " But sweetest thanks were tears wept silently. After long pause : " O thou who lovest much. One boon I ask. This hand whose touch I love, Whose touch is love, O pledge me that it ne'er Shall strike the tender flesh of that sweet child ! " A word — a look — and thou didst lift my hand To thy warm lips and cover it with kisses. 82 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. Then, good night ! A kiss on finger-tips — A white hand wafted in the dark — good night ! How like a drear November day hath been Our life ! A gleam of sun through azure rifts Drunk in by frosted leaves that huddled close To windward of thick hedges, and in beds Of purling brooks, and then dull lead for hours ! When next we bade good-morrow and were glad, Mid-summer's sun was ushering in the day, And dull blue lay the far-off woods scarce seen Athwart the quivering atmosphere that burned The brittle stubble of broad harvest fields And rolled the banners of the tasseled corn And made an oven of the cracking soil. We fled to the cool margin of the Lake And the White City for a sennight's rest In that world's Dream of dreams — the home of Art. 83 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. We stood on the beach at eve and watched the waves Come fawning o'er the sand to lick our feet, But all the while our thoughts went sailing on Across the waters till their dark green verge Bounded the blue of heaven. 'Twas Life's sea We traversed purple-flecked with shadows swift, Pale green with spots of sun, or white with crests, Till her far marge met the eternal blue, And we forgot the creeping waves. At morn Upon the Lake's calm bosom rippleless We rode, and saw afar the wonderland Whose softened splendors rose above the waves And hung beneath the waves — a double East Outrivaling the East — alas that flame Devoured her mighty pillared gate ! — Spread out Before us lay Man's world, behind us Nature, And both our home. We entered the grand Court, 84 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. We saw, we heard, — no words can utter what, — We breathed in life and beauty with each breath. Nor asked of whence nor whither. A whole world Had heaped her choicest treasures richly here Till the stunned senses ached with eager seeing ! But whether resting in rose gardens cool. Or wandering mid palms and orchids rare, Or tasting luscious fruits from the Golden Gate, Or listening music by the broad lagoon Where the bold fountain triton-like arose. Or watching Spanish sailors tanned and brown Reel on the deck of Santa Maria, Or conning La Rabida's wonders old, Or loitering amid the dust and mould Of ancient sepulchers with skulls and bones, Archaic pottery and carved stones, 8s SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. And curious bronzes with the dead entombed And after mouldering centuries exhumed, Or gazing on some giant masterpiece, Bust or sarcophagus, or statue scarred. Cathedral altar, or restored facade, Or bronze Augustus or Minerva helmed, Or wild Bacchante nude with streaming hair, Or lingering with mute wonder nigh to tears Before some canvas where the master's brush Made suffering immortal, or portrayed The universal heart-throbs of the race — All bound us closer, for two souls are knit By thought's community. Daily we learned In thousand linked experiences one truth, To give is blest and to receive is blest. But doubly blest is sharing ! Soul of Love, Thy name is sharing ! One wild strawberry shared Is richer than a lap-full eaten lone. With no loved lips to grace the ruddy feast, 86 THE POET S PROTHALAMION. And water quaffed from hands that dipped it up From gurgling wayside springs for love's sweet sake Is cooler to parched lips than unshared ices Though pure Olympian nectar sparkled there ! Aye when Self waxes Love must slowly wane, And where Love enters Self is quickly slain. Love watcheth ever, and my sentinel eyes Would never lose thee though we wandered wide Adown the sculptured aisles of Italy Or in and out the booths of La belle France. I caught the shimmer of delighted eyes Across Carrara marbles that did seem Transparent breathing warm. I caught the gleam Of dark hair floating by green Latian bronzes. I saw thee pass the Flowery Kingdom's quaint And strange monotony of urn and vase. I watched thee glide among cold Russia's furs Or gaze on costumings of fabric rare From Britain's restless hundred-handed looms. I watched thee winding in and out where'er 87 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Thy eager fancy led in palaces Where art had wedded comfort and displayed Her nuptial gifts and gorgeous dowery, When once, half startled, thinking thyself lost, Thine eyes sought me. Lo ! I was watching near, Not with cold spying eyes, but tender glad. As if their orbs had power to guide and guard. Then wert thou safe indeed ! Though wandering far Thou couldst not drift beyond my faithful eyes ! At length grown weary with the endless maze, When night had lulled the city's mighty heart. We wandered down her quiet avenues, And here and there on porticoes and steps Sat seeming happy families — God knows, Who looks behind the scenes, what tragedies A quiet face can cover and what woes Unspeakable and sobbing threnodies A suffering heart can bury — but not one 88 THE POET S PROTHALAMION. In housed comfort knew so dear a home As we beneath those star-sown distant skies Unsheltered save by love. Thus hand in hand With interchanged confessions murmured low We reached a slender lodge. I kissed thy brow, I would have set a crown there, but gross gold Were far too cheap, and I was poor in gold. And so a long good-night, my crownless queen ! Thrice through the rifted clouds hath burst the sun Since then. Thrice have I crowned thee queen, and set A wreath invisible upon thy brow. Thrice have I greeted thee with silent lips And thrice alas have waited dreary months Heart-hungered for a touch of thy white hand, And saw but letters, or a faded rose. And heard thy voice in nightly dreams alone. 89 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. Four summers thus have bloomed since first we met, And yet our life is love's pure idyl still Whose dear simplicity and calm content Grow strong with years. No restless yearning drives Life's currents from their fixed and easy course Through fruitful valleys and broad meadowlands To mingle in the all engulfing sea ! But once thy soul was burdened with strong grief. Thou couldst do naught but weep. A long despair, Not thine, filled all thy home with the shadow of death. Thou wert so crushed, so like a bruised reed Whose light crest sinks beneath the winds of fate, THE POET S PROTHALAMION. And yet my lips were dumb. What are poor words But rain-drops falling on a broken roof ? They make a dismal music in the soul, But the dull shadow sits and grins and leers. Grief is ne'er healed by words. I only wept. We wept together till the shadow fled. And then, so full of tender thankfulness, So self-reproaching that thy grief should mar Our few swift moments, thou didst kiss away My tears, though thine own lashes hung with pearls. And thine own cheeks were wet that touched my brow. But for the rain bright Iris were not born ; But for wet lashes smiles were meaningless ; And they who never wept have never loved. 91 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. But when I blamed thee not but loved thee more For weeping with thee, smiles brake through the tears Like mellow sunrise on a night of storm, And in hope's radiant dawn we built anew Our world. We talked of home, the dearest word Of all the Saxon tongues, — the word whose charm Has kept inviolate love's precincts fair And builded deathless realms where men are men And nursed the heroes whose strong arms have won And guarded freedom ! — Our own home should be A Saxon home with all its warmth of love. Secluded and sequestered from the world, But broad-hearthed, open-doored to faithful friends. And courteous to the stranger, a calm rest Amid the toil of life, where the tired soul 92 THE poet's PROTHALAMTON. Grows strong for each to-morrow, a retreat For baffled hearts to throb out their despair On love's warm bosom — a contented spot Whose simple furnishings, yet elegant. Wear not the life away with needless toil. Where art adorns but not usurps true use, Nor beauty yields to garish novelty At beldame Fashion's fickle nod and beck. " Our home shall be the setting of the gem," I said ; " nor richer than the stone itself, For diamonds are not set in massive gold." "Nor thou and I the only gems," thou saidst ; " Cornelia's soul is mine ! Give me her jewels ! — One full rich cluster, — Love's own coronet ! — And what if they inherit little gold ? Manhood and womanhood is wealth enough To live in honor. Toil can win the rest. Had our own mothers' hearts closed to so soon, Nor thou nor I had blessed them for our life. Thank God, thou wilt not now deny me this, Nor tyrant-like compel these hands to slay My unborn darlings ! " 93 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. " Mine own dream of home ! May these things be ! Long years ago, when first The great hope dawned in my young manhood's soul, That childish lips should lisp me papa sweet, And creasy arms should clasp about my neck, And cheeks should nestle in my whiskered face For goodnight kisses, a great horror dawned Like freezing sun-dogs with the winter's sun. Lest she, whom I had loved as man loves once And never loves again, might cheat my heart And leave our hearth a desert. When our lips Had trembled into vows, thy heart, I knew, Held in its loves my life's fulfillment. Then, That horror climbed my lips ; but I spake not. How could I speak that dread,and love thee still ? 94 THE POET S PROTHALAMION. How dared I ask without impeaching thee The pledge that thine own hands should never slay Our child ? But others ! Ah, Thou art not such ! I know thy soul ! But yet, one word from thee,— - One little word, — to drive that shadow back. I crave assurance where my soul is sure. Thy pleading tells me all. And, Love, believe, I yearn to see thine eyes and lips and brow Reima^ed in our children manifold. •^tj^ "Andthinkest thou that I love thine eyes less ? But motherhood asks not of eyes and brows, But presses the soft lips to her full breast Rejoiced in giving life. I will not cheat My heart of this one joy, nor question long If the lips be thine or mine, but only ours ! " 95 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. " Sweet lips, and sweeter privilege to touch Its areoled fulness warm ! Would that mine own Were worth to touch them ! Shall our child's indeed ? " " How could I cheat those lips of their true food? Lo, here ! God gave me these two sacred founts. He gave me womanhood. Then shame on her Who leaves to kine the task her God assigned. She is but half a mother and full cheeks And virgin bust bought with an empty heart Are costly beauties. Father of my child To be, my noble Lover, speak to me ! Tell me that motherhood is more to thee Than virgin bloom ! Or, if thy lips are mute. Take what thine eyes are pleading and thy lips But now and oft ere now have chastely begged ! Touch these white yoked lilies that still sleep ! 96 THE poet's PROTHALAMION. Thou wilt find speech ! " Thou saidst,and drewst aside The drapery from thy bosom. My lips touched Its faultless argent. With thrice happy arms Then didst thou clasp me, and I heard thy heart Beat loud and fast. But neither spake nor stirred. At length I slept. When I awoke thy lips But pleaded ; *' Bless me ! " and I answering spake : "Poor words are mine ! " And then with reve- rent lips ; "God keep thee ever pure as thou art now ! God bless thy mind to ever nobler seeing! God bless thy heart to ever nobler feeling ! God bless thy soul to ever nobler choosing ! God lift thee into noblest womanhood ! God crown thee with thrice blessed mother- hood ! " 97 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. What makes thee tremble so ? Is it memory Of that last scene so weary months agone, But dear and vivid as but yesternight ? Why dost thou cling with such unwonted warmth Upon me, dewing neck and face with sighs That shake thy bosom ? Is it ecstasy, Or some new holy wish that struggles up To fill thine eyes with pleading ? Ay, they plead For love's sweet growth to perfect flower and fruit ! Then come, sweet Love, my bride and wife to be, For love halts not in chaste development. But mounts from grace to grace, from boon to boon. Aspiring ever unto newer heights. Come thou, my Queen, fulfill thy plighted troth ! I'll lead thee proudly to the altar, Love, And boldly claim thee mine before the world ! Or, if more quiet nuptials please thee best, 98 '* THE poet's PROTHALAMION. I'll take thee lightly from thy father's hand Beneath the mistletoe where first our lips Consented unto kisses and we loved ! This ring be symbol of the gracious bond That makes us one, not by obedience, But by strong love ! Then may the burthened years Be kind, and when life's winter falls at last, — As fall it must, with snow on our faint brows, — • Like tired children croon us into sleep Together, sparing each one deathless grief ! ^ 99 u^c. I LOVE THEE. T love thee ! But only the drooping lids that fell Over her beautiful eyes could tell The sweet unrest Of her maiden breast While mute on her lips the long farewell Hung tender and tremblingly. I love thee ! But only the seething waters heard In their starlit play the whispered word, For the harbor bar Lay faint and far Like a lessening cloud-bank huge and blurred On the far off edge of the sea. 100 I LOVE THEE. I love thee! The pine-trees sighed in the autumn wind With a yearning sad and undefined, And her rock retreat At their mossy feet Dreamed nightly of one left far behind O'er leagues of twilight sea. I love thee ! Her lips grew warm, and her eyes grew bright, Her soul grew strong in its new delight, For winged words Like messenger birds Came flitting across the trackless night From over the restless sea. lOI SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. I love thee ! She came from over the surging main, A turtle-dove urged by love's sweet pain To her distant mate Left desolate Where the dusky woods at eve complain Afar from the sounding sea. I love thee ! Not only the drooping lids that fell Over her beautiful eyes could tell Love's perfect rest, But lips were pressed That never again should say farewell Till mute by Life's sad sea. ^ 102 " MY OWN WEE WINSOME DEARIE." V /^ Scotland's tongue so winning sweet, So lyric, blithe and cheery, I'd need thy matchless charms to greet My own wee winsome dearie ! My lassie is a winsome thing, A darling bonnie creature. With eyes that smile and lips that sing, Matchless in every feature. My lassie, she is far away. And I with longing weary Still eager wait the distant day That takes me to my dearie 1 103 SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. O winsome, wee, my bonnie lass, Thy ingle blazes cheery ! O call me to thy side, my lass, To be for aye, my dearie ! I've stood with thee in Summer's sun, Neath Winter's skies all dreary. But all the seasons are as one When thou'rt my winsome dearie ! I've stood with thee in hours of mirth. When joy smiled on us fairly, I've wept with thee when " earth to earth " With grief oppressed thee sairly ! And so with earnest lips we twain Have plighted vows together — Ah why should Fate so kind remain. Yet rudely break love's tether 104 MY OWN WEE WINSOME DEARIE. And set two mated souls adrift Upon the world so dreary ! And yet, I thank her for the gift ! — Though parted, let's be cheery ! When I recall the parting smiles, The eyes that brimmed so teary, I'd walk a hundred long Scotch miles To call thee once my dearie ! ^ i°S Tiin MnssAon or PRnssnn I LOWIikS. 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