ilifiillrll 
 
LIBRARY > CONGRESS. 
 
 i^ap'^^iliilrinljtlja 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
WILLOUGHBY 
 
 Edward F. Hayward. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 W. B. Clarke, 340 Washington Street. 
 1879. 
 

 Copyrigbted, 1879. 
 Edwabd F. Hayward. 
 
 MAXL'FACTLiP.Kn BY 
 
 The Case, Lockwood & Brainard Co.. 
 IIAKTFOKD, Conn. 
 
One name is Muse, and not tJie fabled Nine, 
 These modern days, that neither trips to rhym£, 
 Nor moves to stately Prose, — a harsh-voiced thing, 
 Called Hurry. He it is, the gender changed, 
 Alas! who hustles o'er the ruined haunts 
 The Nine kept fragrant in the olden days ; 
 Forbidding hope to steer pale Poesy 
 'Twixt Scylla of a public surfeited. 
 And stern Charybdis of the Critic's eye. 
 Can Pleasure please, with Pleasure growing old? 
 A stately white-haired dame, with tired step. 
 And talk of Jier young days ? Can one amuse 
 O'er anxious men, or age that, too clear-eyed 
 For trick of troubadour, is sated noio 
 With that long tale that Time has handed down? 
 Men read, as once they icorked, 'nmth the stern la 
 That leads and masters taste, to shambles driven 
 Like herded cattle, pi^aidng all one thing ; 
 Or, caught in treason to the general taste. 
 Cried down the streets. 
 
 wondrous modern days! 
 So large in those enjoyments which fm'bid 
 Our joy ! So many-sided, that in all 
 
We find no part we haply can call ours. 
 So kiwicing, that the dictum's jjlainly false, 
 And knowledge is no longer power. To act, 
 Ham faith, to live is poioer. And men too icise 
 Grow weary ; seeing how the ages move. 
 Too faithless of result, and rather prone 
 To wait than tcork. 
 
 wondrous modern da,ys! 
 Yet somewJiere in tJie simpler hearts of men. 
 Not wholly changed to art, there lives a chord, 
 That, as it erst vibrated, vibrates noio 
 To wJmt is tender in fair woman's life, 
 Or brave in manly deeds. The age moves on. 
 But not from this ! Our science supersedes 
 No virtus; knowledge fails to stop our tears. 
 Neath processes and rules the heart beats on 
 To bane or bliss, repeating that one tale 
 That's writ in blood. 
 
 Thus in man's memory 
 Or hope of love, and faith that haply life 
 Beats 'neath the wizzened aspect of our age. 
 The tale survives, its inspiration there. 
 
A STILL New England village by the beach, 
 In sound of storm-waves and the roar of surf, 
 Low 'neath the elms that hush its summer streets 
 To lullaby of birds and western winds ; 
 Startled at eve by' late returning teams, 
 On trade intent or neighborly discourse, 
 Or goaded oxen as 'neath sultry noon 
 The swain sways dreamful by on dipping beam. 
 
 Still deeps of life : that mirror men, as trees 
 Reflect themselves in shady pools ; where maids 
 Trip dainty 'mong the flowers, and open doors 
 (5) 
 
6 
 
 WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 Have hint of rare, sweet hospitality. 
 Where men, white-haired and native to the hush 
 In homes and streets, repeat the yearly round 
 Of retrospection ; prophets of quick gro^vth 
 In village-boys, to fix the fate of each : 
 And most suspicious of a stranger face. 
 Where lovers mate in lives as murmurless 
 As noon in slumberous elms, holding the care 
 Of home and children, and the hope to die, 
 Remembered 'mong the mossy names that haunt 
 The pine-hid church-yard ; happy in the toil 
 That seeks night's peaceful couch with lamps unlit. 
 
 A village life whose passing sweet Leigh Lane, 
 As girl and maiden, had held dear ; — so oft 
 She watched the game of young men on the green. 
 Danced May-pole dances, picnicked in the wood. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 7 
 
 Or o'er the liills, an icy Argonaut, 
 
 Bruslied evening sleds, or skated on the pond 
 
 That turned to glass beside the silent mill. 
 
 The dreamful summer days taught more than he, 
 Less apt than willing with the teacher's art, 
 Both sire and Master, — such rare maidenhood 
 As, tuned to frankest thoughts, forbids the blush, 
 And ways that turned his weariness at eve 
 To recollections of a younger time. 
 Her books were few, rare records of the days 
 When men did noble deeds for State and love ; 
 When women had some hint of queenly caste 
 By reason of the reverence they received. 
 And men seemed stronger for their tenderness ; 
 In scorn of gain responsive but to wrong, 
 And risking life for holy, happy ends; 
 
8 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 To whicli in rare companionsliip slie turned 
 The more, making this world her own. 
 
 But joy 
 
 Above all joy ! to leave the old home round 
 Of paid-up duties, and upon the beach 
 Roam careless of the hours, where waves repeat 
 The call of Continent to Continent; 
 Or rest, sand- weary, on the rocks that, lit 
 With lavishment of spray, threw back the sun ; 
 Where curling white-caps, bilging, broke and lay, 
 A long, low line of silver on the beach. 
 Rejected of the sands that, cruel, laughed. 
 And hurled them back into the sea. 
 
 Beyond, 
 Slow ships sailed on like Argosies of dream, 
 
WILLOUOUBT. 9 
 
 Bearing her spirit near with winds of hope, 
 Or dim with distant undefined desire. 
 Till, pensive with the play of thought, she walked 
 The winding way that led unto her home. 
 
 Thus ripening with a score of years, she grew 
 
 From girl to maiden, tall and light of step. 
 
 Yet stately with a dignity her own. 
 
 'Neath lashes of her lustrous eyes slept light 
 
 Of tensest passion, toned to sweet content 
 
 Of maiden joys; and when she moved, she flung 
 
 Soft graces of her step upon the air, 
 
 Like benisons of wind-waved trees in June. 
 
 Till at her birthday, seeing how she paled, 
 
 Her father, anxious for an only care, 
 
 Gave holiday. 
 
10 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Happy with him she went 
 Thro' pastured plains, mde opening to the sea 
 In swift-caught glimpses, till, whirled by, she saw 
 Earth blent in sea, and azure over all. 
 The mellow mazes of the sun-ti2:)ped air. 
 Then city- ward they caught the sunset spires 
 As day Avent do^vn, resting ei'e while with friends. 
 AVhere in new life she lost her pictured home, 
 Save, sleeping, she could hear the waves, or feel 
 Her troubled feet slow sinking down the sand. 
 
 'Twas happy hands fanned health to fainting cheek ; 
 Two rosy girls instinctive with their fun. 
 Grown I'oiuid hei* with the chains of cousin love, 
 Chatting of things she loved; — so sudden Avise. 
 Now Annie, light and pi(_[uant as the air 
 On May day mornings; now the weightier Prue, 
 
WILLOUGHBY. H. 
 
 With dark hair glossier than the wing of doves 
 On queenly head, and stately ease and mien ; 
 The cynosure that thrilled the conscious crowd 
 To tributary eyes. 
 
 So day and night 
 They shot the arrow of their girlish' mirth ; 
 Slashed social customs, ridiculed the ape 
 In man, seen in his manners, and the stars 
 Set superstitious in old women's sky. 
 Then plied the needle, stitched the airy gauze 
 Of idle summer talk, till in a lull 
 They caught a song, and joined the light and 
 
 shade 
 Of alto and soprano in the strain. 
 At evening in the park they watched the stream 
 Of down-town labor hasting: home, or babes, 
 
12 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Slow wheeled beneath umbrageous elms that crown 
 Old Boston Common, or the boys that there 
 Keep up rebellious instincts on the green. 
 Leigh walked with them and let the new time 
 
 come 
 To fullness in her rounded face, and joy 
 Of that light-hearted intercourse; herself 
 Grown strangely happy in this glad new life. 
 
 Among them all one just returned from sea, 
 Named Kobert Dale, had countless tales to tell, 
 And honors modest worn as bravely won. 
 And oft they walking climbed together up 
 Some point high fronting on the sea, where h'e ' 
 With sparkling eye, spoke tirade to the waves; 
 While she grew praiseful of his life, and thought 
 How bravest of all men, such sailors are. 
 
WILLOUQHBT. 13 
 
 Or, restful, talked at eve the thousand themes 
 That thrill us at life's threshold, sweet with hope, 
 And sad in shapes that haunt the happiest mood, 
 And dog endeavor with continual doom. 
 
 Men most mistake, singing the Joy of youth, 
 Nor yet its grief; forgetful it can reach 
 Pain's last abyss, as Pleasure's loftiest height; 
 One, since the other. Rapture schooled to woe, 
 Youth wears the joy and sorrow of the world; 
 Seeing far fruits for which its weak hands fail, 
 And thro' all want still fevered to desire; 
 Ere dullness comes of use to deaden pain. 
 Or Life's experience teaches that it fades. 
 
 Age haply has its own philosophies: 
 
 Nor mourns the loss of joy in losing pain, 
 
14 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 But sinks in clignified indifference 
 
 Deep doA\Ti in cushions of acquired sense. 
 
 So speaking, breathed the life that swifter comes 
 Than swiftest years; or yet on tell-tale lips 
 Sweet music unto sweeter meanings grew, 
 As song became soul speaking unto soul. 
 So fled the hours that, nameless, memoiy keeps. 
 As winter keeps the melody of birds, 
 Reiiiembered in the hush of after time, 
 Wherein they dual kept one common thought, 
 And loved ; he less jDerhaps, and conscious less 
 Of love than her; starved in men's comradeship 
 Of this fine something feeding him in her. 
 
 The days grew finer, ri^^ening to the close 
 Of summer's promise, when fulfillment comes 
 
WILLOUOHBY. I5 
 
 And all things ricli and full. Days of God, 
 When most He, smiling, seems to say, " My ways 
 Are ways of pleasantness, and all my paths 
 Are peace." 
 
 They caught the garment of this joy, 
 And wrapped them, fold on fold, in its embrace; 
 Clasped hands in careless hours, and on the brink 
 Of fateful moments faltered ere they spoke 
 Of love ; looked heavenward and in mutual glance 
 Beheld a common splendor in the sky, 
 Toying with trifles with a lover's scorn 
 Of weightier meaning in their talk. 
 
 And when 
 On the low, arid footland of the town. 
 Where spent seas frolicked, and the slumbering 
 eale 
 
16 WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 In far-off ridges threatened and grew still, 
 
 They lingered full of such sweet afternoons, 
 
 He spoke of other climes and people strange. 
 
 Barbaric men, and women fine with arts 
 
 Of devilish savagery : slaves that crawl . 
 
 Chain-weighted to such marts as leave the soul 
 
 This side of barter. Where the coral reefs 
 
 Break shimmering thro' the sheen of southei'n seas, 
 
 And sunsets deepen down the fiery west 
 
 To Tyrian dyes and purple of the plum. 
 
 Till he gi'ew silent, pressed between the years 
 
 Of wondi'ous recollection, and bent low 
 
 Before the sea-beat carillon, as one 
 
 In far-off Flemish meadows hears the bells. 
 
 So swiftly sped the days, that like a hush 
 Drew near departure. One late eve he spoke, 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 17 
 
 Keeping it from her these three days, farewell; 
 His ship was manned to sail another day, 
 And he must keep allegiance. 
 
 Then she stilled 
 Her heart a moment to keep back the tears 
 Of womanish confession ; till next day, 
 At serving of the tide, they hugged the pier. 
 And stepped its farthest limit to wave out 
 The j^arting ship, as swelled the slow-tilled sails, 
 Proud set on distant Bay to bear him by. 
 As it swept on, so sped her loyal heart ; 
 Its pure white faith flung out against the blue 
 Of the uncertain future : to sail and sail 
 Thro' storm and night the changeful sea of love. 
 So as in set of suns we test the day. 
 In dear departure do we date our lives, 
 
18 WILLOUGHBT. 
 
 And bare tlie inmost of our hearts before 
 The Inevitable. Day set in his eclipse: 
 He was the Sun ; and though she weighed her life, 
 'Twas wanting, as a dawn that falls on cloud. 
 
 Then thoughts of home above the city's din 
 Grew loud and eager; dreamful she could hear 
 The fall of brooks thro' pastured j^lains, the plaint 
 Of birds, and cattle lowing on the hills; 
 And village murmur fitful, as night fell. 
 With equal love they rose and sought the town, 
 Where, ere she slept, she sang a simple lay. 
 In gladness of her heart within her home. 
 
 Twine, ivy green and eglantine; 
 Happy leaf of happier vine 
 Bend from off the nested thatch, 
 
WILLOUOHBY. I9 
 
 Lintel downward unto latch, 
 Lips of kisses, reaching low, 
 AVhere our feet shall homeward go. 
 
 Shine, setting Sun. Thy roseate line, 
 Dimpling westward o'er the brine, 
 Lends its light to eager feet, 
 Hasting homeward, far and fleet; — 
 Dipped in molten golden glow; 
 Happy thus to haste and go. 
 
 Rest, spirit, rest from care and quest, 
 Silent, soothed in native nest. 
 Though some woe thy senses steep, 
 Stealthier steals earth's sweetest sleep; 
 Where no more life's fretful flow 
 Homeless to thy heart shall go. 
 
20 
 
 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 How sweet to sleep safe folded in the arms 
 
 Of lioiue ; press pillowed heads where hearts grow 
 
 still, 
 Hushing their care as on some native breast; — 
 And ^vake, bird-roused at break of day, to things 
 Half human in reflection of our joy. 
 So Leigh rose up to mute appealing walls: 
 Fair shelving of familiar books, and work 
 Self-wrought to robe her dainty room, and glass 
 That flung a woman's face where once a child's, 
 Teasing her to a smile 'neath scattered hair, 
 If haply ivomen smile. 
 
 The far-off hills. 
 Sun-crowned above the mists that bathed their feet, 
 Loomed to her casement as she looked and leaned. 
 While happy floating after golden fleece 
 The dawn-lit clouds went downward to the sea. 
 
WILLOUGHBY, 2] 
 
 Again she, smiling, took lier burden up ; 
 So brave the hills knew not the change, nor marked 
 The later womanhood she wore within, 
 And hushed to songs that, girlish, once she gave. 
 Peopling the shore with forms of other days. 
 She heard dear voices as the dimpling waves 
 Broke shoreward into laughter at her feet, 
 Seeing beyond, in that far land of blue, 
 A phantom ship that flung to happy gales 
 Her pennon's plume and whiteness of her sails, 
 With that one form for ever looking back. 
 Soul-tided o'er the wake; till each soft curve 
 Seemed cord to bind her closer unto him. 
 
 Again she wove the broken thread of life 
 To tasks of sex and circumstance, guarding 
 Herself by magic born of love's control ; 
 
22 WILLOUOEBY. 
 
 Not generous of its good or ill ; yet glad, 
 All joy and sorrow being hers tliro' love, 
 To bold the world in her sweet sympathies. 
 Losing in toil the love she might not wear, 
 Not knowing if his kindness meant return. 
 And mindful of a song most often heard 
 On girlish lips thro' all the country side. 
 
 So light is Love ! most eagerly to press 
 
 From pole to pole ! 
 And blessing all men never stay to bless 
 
 A single soul ! 
 
 So light is Love ! it lightly comes and goes ; 
 
 So like the day, 
 With sudden dawn and lingering purple close, 
 
 A brief, bright stay! 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 23 
 
 O fleetest clay in far-off ether flight ! 
 
 O hapless gift ! 
 To bring us dawn on tented fields of night, 
 
 And die so swift ! 
 
 Then, heart denied, she turned to that fair hope, 
 Her girlhood knew and love forgot, to give 
 Her life to music. More than passion now, 
 It grew to art; the river of delight 
 Nan'owed to those far springs whence pleasure 
 
 flows. 
 She sought the source, toiling thro' petty rules, 
 That out of slaves make masters, self forgot 
 In great pui'suit. 
 
 Above her woman's lot 
 Loomed fair proportions of the Artist's life. 
 
24 WILLOUOEBY. 
 
 She saw herself high o'er tlie crowd in thought 
 And work, though not in vulgar praise; as feels 
 A traveler thro' a dusty vale, with eyes 
 Which never fall from that far height that lures 
 Him on. 
 
 O Art, benignant spirit ! Queen 
 Of queenly toil, and savior of our time 
 From petty care ; throned in the heights of heart 
 And brain! Thy servants are Earth's masters, 
 
 Kings, 
 And royal with the right of unstained hands. 
 And upward-looking eyes. Unholy greed 
 Flings challenge at thy feet in vain. One prize 
 Is thine, self-mastery, that flings the light 
 Of finer purpose o'er this grovelling world. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 25 
 
 AVlio sinks himself, seeing some far-off good, 
 Born of tlie beauty of imperishable things. 
 And will not stay, accounting all his steps 
 For fair Perfection, lives for art, and wears 
 The one light yoke that toil can give. O sad, 
 Bright lot ! so strangely close to the fine sense 
 That vibi'ates with Earth's woe and ecstasy ! 
 Thy path death-strewn beneath the illusive stars, 
 That lead men on from Hope's defeat to crowns 
 Self lost ! 
 
 So grew the compensating thought, 
 To mould her life to use of higher things 
 Than daily bread and love's unloved mischance. 
 And live for art. Forgetting not her home, 
 And that long toil her aging sire imposed. 
 She sang the still hours through and studying 
 
26 WILLOUQHBY. 
 
 And hoped to rise. At times lier Avoman's heart, 
 Flung panting back from long pursuit, confessed 
 A pain unstiiied, mastered by the sense 
 Of need, she knew not of herself or him; 
 Wondering 'twixt toil and tears if such frail 
 
 strength 
 Might bear her through. 
 
 Sometimes in evening talk 
 She told her father all ; her hopes, her fears. 
 And tliat great thought that swayed her life; 
 
 and he 
 Brought homely logic to combat her Avill; 
 Prating of As^oman's lot, and duties old 
 As sacred, — holding home the maiden's sphere, 
 And naming, saintly Avord, her mother's name. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 27 
 
 O wise, wise age ! 
 
 What sliore so safe as that 
 Thou standest on ! or sea dark as the deep 
 Thy course escaped ! No second Mayflower sails. 
 The dead tales of the Past fade and grow dim ; 
 And still to Youth hath danger greater lure, 
 Than ao;e and its sad certainties can srive. 
 NeAV^ wisdom greets new futures, and the seed 
 Of saving knowledge is the ache and throb 
 Youth bears to controvert experience. 
 Wiser than all the wisdom is the faith, 
 Unskilled in logic, that looks up and on. 
 Minerva-like, from the Paternal Past 
 Leaps forth the Future, of its wisdom bom. 
 Yet strange new thing. And fate repeats itself 
 For no man. 
 
28 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 That slight faith of hers she threw 
 In challenge to his wiser thought, and wrought 
 Her life, self-centered, out to high resolves. 
 One day her father's friend, hale Roger Grey, 
 Stojjped, passing through the town for yearly visit, 
 A genial man and proud of his four boys, 
 Each father like himself. His threescore years. 
 Kept in abeyance to some fine sense of youth. 
 Bespoke the boy, that once with Matthew Lane 
 Swore lasting friendship, they, whose wintry years 
 Confessed the green of that unsundered tie. 
 Their thousand-memoried youth kept each for each 
 A link unbroken in the chain of life ; 
 But later boys, unwilling to grow old. 
 
 Though walking different ways, one city-wai'd, 
 And one home settler in the old sea town, 
 
WJLLOUGHBY. 29 
 
 They kept with i'li}^hinic movement of their liv^es 
 The flow of friendsliip. Dreamfully the one, 
 Nor thrown from poise in action's steady round, 
 The other whirled through busy cycles, pinned. 
 To such far-flying kites, he sometimes fain 
 Forgot the graded earth, till the frail thing broke, 
 And dashed him speculative to the ground. 
 Yet ever in life's maze he ke})t the thread 
 Of old time recollection, living o'er 
 In evening lull, caught up 'twixt sterner duties. 
 The love of nature, days when Matthew Lane 
 And he swung careless on the swaying boughs 
 Of orchai'd trees, or drew o'er fenceless fields 
 Their sleds in winter. Now the call of mates 
 Came faintly over westering slopes in morn's 
 Cool hush, and low soft tinkling kine. 
 Feeding afar in dusky hollowed plain. 
 
30 WILLOUOHDY. 
 
 Noon's dreamy resonance of locusts' din, 
 And trumpet flowers bent 'neatli the humming- 
 bird, 
 Came perfume like upon this later air. 
 Until a boy, bareheaded on the hills. 
 And lusty with the health of half score years. 
 He walked again the primal atmospheres. 
 
 They met; and Matthew Lane, kindled to 
 thought 
 Of other days, sat talking, till the night, 
 Drowsy as those old times, hushed them to sleep. 
 While Leigh bent low, half shadowed in the glare 
 Of back logs burning on the old time hearth, 
 In dreamful silence listening as they talked. 
 
 Next morn an eastern chill spread through the 
 air, 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 31 
 
 Heavy witli rain distilling into drops, 
 That on the roof, like whispered fall of feet, 
 Kept liquid measures. Dowti the undergrowth 
 Of garden shrubbery, thro' the shivering damp. 
 The pallid flowers, all dowered with the spray 
 Of recreant branches, looked and lifted up 
 Their dew-bent faces ; while the creaking gate 
 Answered each windy gust ^vith rusty hinge. 
 Leigh drew the doors and \Adndows, and the day 
 Of household intercourse set in. 
 
 Her father. 
 Busy with refractory tools, kept close 
 The leaky shelter of the old farm shop; 
 While Leigh sat stitching fancies with her guest 
 To coarser fabrics, wondering as she wrought 
 ff one who lives in Nature may find Art; 
 
32 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Wlien suddenly spoke Roger Grey, liis eyes 
 Breaking tlie topmost rim of spectacles, 
 As breaks a morn o'er cloud licks in the east. 
 His book unread and- 023en in liis lap. 
 
 " A wager on your thoughts ; that I can tell, 
 I who am old enough to speak it, the thing 
 Back of the blue that trembles in your eyes. 
 Our Leigh's in love." 
 
 "So Uncle, (the name stolen 
 By baby lips from real relationship,) 
 There is no thoughtfulness means more than love 
 In woman? thoughtfulness that seldom comes 
 In men to such light estimate. You en*;. 
 I dreamed of that once thought unwomanly; 
 But since in all the struggles Freedom's had, 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 33 
 
 A slice of liberty falls to her lot, 
 Incidental, since not fouglit for, woman 
 Claims a sphere and kinship in all arts." 
 
 "So," 
 Said he, " our maid takes up the challenged point 
 We thought was city limited ! And you 
 Dream of a sphere ? so surely had I thought 
 Of love and only love for one so fair, 
 'Twas farthest I should dream a woman, born 
 To soar, would climb with coarser men, and weai', 
 In lieu of lilies midst her maiden hair. 
 Toil's crown of thorns. Sure this responsive 
 
 world 
 Has other word to one so glad therein." 
 
 Since Leigh was silent, then again he said, 
 
 5 
 
34 WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 More reverent of her mood and that deep look 
 So troubled in her eyes, "I spoke o'er-hasty; 
 Tell me of yonr art, what need life has of it, 
 What hope and meaning?" 
 
 Rarest of all men, 
 God grants the world a master now and then, 
 To live, and keep his years so close to life. 
 Men feel him, sunning all their troubled self 
 In vast companionship. And Roger Grey, 
 'Though old, was younger for each year that bound 
 Him closer in the sympathies of men; 
 So quick he saw the trouble in her eyes, 
 And knew her talk of Art, artless, revealed 
 A hidden sorrow. 
 
 And then as in a drouth 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 35 
 
 Of sun-crisped atmospheres, when nightly sinks 
 The swollen and blood-red eyeballs of the sun, 
 The rain at length tumultuous floods the plain, 
 She 230ured her story out ; her arid life 
 Broken at fall of friendly intercourse. 
 
 A silence fell on her last words, and hush 
 Of his great thoughtfulness. 
 
 "So, friend," at length 
 Leigh said, "You think nie vain, unwomanly. 
 Or " 
 
 " No ! no ! " he broke breathless in, to stay 
 The thought. "A nobler purpose never held 
 Than this of long allegiance to high aims. 
 Yet I mistake if Masters hei'e, as elsewhere. 
 
36 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Are not one in thousand to the slaves. Art 
 Takes no part, no human morsel, but demands, 
 Koyal as any Queen, the whole of life; 
 Each straining moment, when high travail comes, 
 To keep the birth perennial unto higher things. 
 You live a life of nature : well and good ; 
 But as man feeds, yet is more than animal. 
 Art is not nature, though from nature fed. 
 The hills and waves and pulsing life of air, 
 That make the woman, thrill you to the quick 
 Of personal absorption and delight, 
 Are not Art's teachers. They but make the man 
 That life makes artist ; him who, human, ser\'es 
 His human need in various humanity; 
 And sinks this centered consciousness, — not one. 
 But many unto uses manifold. 
 
WILLOUOHBT. 37 
 
 " Fair nature, niotlier of all common men, 
 
 Conceives no artist ; who, not only glad, 
 
 Dies for the joy, to draw its cadence out. 
 
 He is of men, and more, the microcosm 
 
 In which all, nature, art, the Principle 
 
 That runs harmonious thro' this breathing Avorld, 
 
 All thought, expression, and the laws thereof, 
 
 Min-or themselves. 
 
 "Get close to men; go lose 
 Yourself so utterly, that not a shi'ed 
 Of tattered personality be left; 
 New-born to that divine forgetfulness, 
 Wherein ensphered, you find the Higher self. 
 For Art serves no man; cruel till she find 
 A slave abject in his surrendered self. 
 Then turns benignant, smiles, and calls him hers 
 So royally, he's dowered in the dying." 
 
38 WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 Then Leigli most thouglitfuUy, 
 
 "You mean the city?" 
 "This I mean, — forgive the friendly plainness, — 
 That you in thought of art live art itself, 
 Suggestions, hints of that which moves your soul, 
 As melody of birds is called melody 
 By grace of speech, fi^om its suggestiveness 
 Of Music it is not. So here you dream ; 
 And since your work is dreamy, think to find 
 Fullfilment of yourself therein. But Art's 
 No dreamer; toiling on a long, long sea, ' 
 With 2)atience limitless as that far port 
 So clear outlined in blue of its desire. 
 Yet never reached. I say not that your aim 
 Lacks virtue ; but to play with ends so high, 
 Eeacts and makes you higher. But not thus 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 39 
 
 Men rise from ruins unto structured selves, 
 
 That are so mighty to self sacrifice 
 
 The world forgets them thinking of their work." 
 
 Yet Leigh replied, 
 
 "Is not the best in us 
 The man or woman, not impersonal, 
 The self that stamps work more than work, and 
 
 feeds 
 The world so starved with mechanism of men, 
 And that sad sameness which denies its need? 
 New men come from the hills, whereat the earth 
 Lifts welcome, crying, 'They that make alive!' 
 If haply men in Artists be not lost. 
 Men move the world ; and then the reverent world, 
 Too glad of movement, turns and adds a name, 
 That is not more but only less than man," 
 
40 WILLOUGHBT. 
 
 Then Roger Grey, 
 
 "Since you're so lithe in argument, 
 Being the younger of the two, I'll rest the case, 
 Not in my halting proof, but in yourself; 
 You shall decide. And that the better so, 
 Come Chi'istmas, I'll i^lay liost, and you shall hear 
 The best the town affords : gaze at the breast 
 Deep heaved to "wrestle with high song, or hands 
 That flash their finger jewels thro' the air, 
 Forgetful in the search for harmony. 
 My house is open; you and he shall come, 
 And if a two weeks does not prove me true, 
 I'll turn the guest, the house be yourn, and you 
 The entertainer. Come, your Father find, 
 Exj)lain the plan, — ^rejectant of his nay. 
 Since he hates city ways, — before he S23eaks it." 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 41 
 
 So came about witli whirling of tlie snow 
 Tlie wintry ride, when, wrapped with loving hands, 
 Beyond the ilashing landscape Matthew Lane 
 Looked wondeiing out and spoke of change. 
 
 Most men 
 
 Of three-score carry their exj)erience 
 
 In the outlook of their lives; see all things old, 
 
 Being old themselves, and are not aged of years, 
 
 So much as some limp structure in themselves, 
 
 That bends the back at forty to a weight 
 
 Of over wisdom. Spite of all our talk. 
 
 Time changes little on this changing globe. 
 
 'Tis we, chameleon like, that turn our hue, 
 
 Forgetting to keep young in growing old. 
 
 Then blame the years that have but spread the 
 
 feast 
 6 
 
42 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 At whicli we eat to live, or live to eat, 
 And die 'twixt gorging years. 
 
 'Tliougli one be old, 
 Know this, time never made liim so. His youth 
 Was old; he croaked at twenty; shriveled up 
 At sportive hopefulness at one score ten; 
 Was wrinkled with a spirit worse than care, 
 That loved the sham of things, and nought so 
 
 well 
 As laying clammy hands on a fresh }'oung soul, 
 And flattening life to its dead level. 
 
 Aye! 
 I've known men younger 'neath the snows of age, 
 That whitened them to purer faith, and heart 
 
WILLOUGEBY. 43 
 
 Of surer sympathy with liuman-kincl, 
 Than men befopped and curled above a soul 
 As dry and juiceless as last summer's pod. 
 Time change them ! Nay, they sink 'neath coils 
 
 of self, 
 Pressed down the dread abysses of a death 
 That's self-imposed; older than all the years. 
 And hopeless to the last of saving youth. 
 
 Some age with too much living, drinking up 
 The cup at one fell swallow, — all the years 
 Left to the dregs. Others with too little; 
 Dying of that slow rust that eats for want 
 Of friction. 
 
 Matthew Lane, partly with rust 
 Of his slow moving days, with sickness part, 
 
44 WILLOUGEBY. 
 
 Had lived liis life at sixty. Now tlie years 
 Seemed hardly more than shadows of the past, 
 A lengthened strain of some remembered joy, 
 That growing fainter down the years, drowned out 
 The chord of hope, and left life incomplete. 
 He loved the fixity of still home ways, 
 Ne'er slept save heading north, and laid a brain. 
 All troubled with the change, on pillows ne^v. 
 Yet, loving Leigh and that old friend, he sa^v 
 The headlands of his home grow dim, and dared 
 The deep of stranger intercom'se. 
 
 They reached 
 The city, lost amid its roar, until 
 The reassuring hand of Roger Grey 
 Dissolved their doubt and led them gently home. 
 Where thro' the mei-riment of holidays 
 
WILLOUGRBT. 45 
 
 Tliey lingered, sliielded and sheltered by a care 
 Tliat kne^\^ tlieir ways, and only dealed tlieni out 
 Sucli slow excitement that, before she knew, 
 Leigh loved the life, thrilled to the consciousness 
 Of this great pulsing heart so near her own; 
 And Avould have stayed for ever. 
 
 One gi'eat night 
 She and her host, (her father lingering o'er 
 A book before the fire, indifferent 
 To Prima donna's praise,) sat at Opera, 
 Lost in the jeweled blaze that round the house 
 Flashed back the toilets of a thousand dames* 
 He nodding here and there, and smiling oft 
 To countenance far answering from the crowd; 
 She wi-apt in mute observance of the stage, 
 Himg like the curtain from the centered hope 
 To see Charisa, see and hear her sing, 
 
46 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 The great Cliarisa, fair as any flower, 
 And q.neen of song, tlie name on every lip. 
 She waited not the singer only, but 
 Herself brought face to face witli that great art 
 Before but dreamed of. Should she, hearing, hold 
 Less worthily the head of her high hope. 
 And doubt herself in knowing one assured? 
 Or was it true her native thought were right, 
 And Art in Nature greater to high ends 
 Than Ai*t in Art? 
 
 She waited so, oblivious 
 To faces fair as ever banquet showed 
 About the glittering nuptials of a King; 
 Deaf to the flattering lie that floated up 
 From that bright seething social sea, to die 
 On answering lips still hardly less sincere. 
 
WILLOUOUBY. 47 
 
 Then as in nature, when the flaming sun, 
 Radiant, breaks up the morning hills, a hush 
 Comes, dealing silence to the noisy birds, 
 So that great crowd grew still as any death 
 To see her come, speed queenly down to front 
 Them with great eyes and heavy heaving bi'east 
 That panted for the song. 
 
 She caught the note 
 High flimg from Orchestra, and, breathing deep, 
 Went pulsing thro' the air to such far flight. 
 It seemed the soid miixht nevermore come back 
 Till passion ceased. Then, falling to the heart 
 Of some low cadenced strain, she held them 
 
 chained, 
 Till down the cheek of care-encompassed men 
 A tear stole softly, and the strange unrest 
 
48 WILLOUGUBT. 
 
 Of all their 2'>etty aims grew to a peace, 
 
 That wi'apped them round and would not let 
 
 them go. 
 Then back again, as flies a bird, now high 
 Now low, she swept the register till, capped 
 In climax, she flung the song panting and throb- 
 bing 
 At their feet ; and 'midst a storm of noisy praise, 
 Passed, flushed and queenly, out of sight. 
 
 Then fell 
 The curtain; then the muttered hum of words, 
 So large that they perforce were meaningless; 
 While Leigh's great echoing soul, too big for 
 
 speech, 
 Adored in silence. Wonder wonder-capped! 
 As thunder hurtles peal on peal above 
 Earth's startled ears ; and then the wonder ceased. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 49 
 
 O liappy Youth ! and blissful innocence 
 Of Earth's delights ; for which the sated world, 
 Amid its nerveless pageants, sighs in vain ; 
 Crying its gold and lands and rich experience 
 In glad exchange for joyance such as this; 
 Nor paid in all the pauper marts of life "" 
 The thing it seeks. 
 
 And she think of lierselff 
 Nay, not that pious sacrilege, by which 
 The age reduces Heaven to iit itself, 
 And hopes by thinking God to scale the heights 
 Of his immensity. She, a woman. 
 Inapt for this fine jeweled blade that shreds 
 Our thought, and cuts us coldly critical, 
 Could only- feel, and reverent hush the wish 
 To praise or blame a thing so heavenly sweet. 
 
50 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 She sat so long, all Avrapped in lier far tlionglit, 
 That Roger Grey, though patient of the wonder, 
 Broke it thus: 
 
 "And what says Leigh, since the world 
 AVill speak, and there's no silence for a thought 
 Deeper than words?" 
 
 "Give me a moment, please, 
 To seal the fluent joy of this great hour, 
 I pray your patience, and for silence pray." 
 
 Then he looked round and smiled as others smiled ; 
 Noting the far-off happy look that swam 
 In her deep eyes. Till rose the curtain, came 
 Charisa, stood and, hardly heard at first, 
 Floated in whispered cadences of sound*. 
 
WILLOUOIIBY. 51 
 
 So low, SO sweet, so strangely low and sweet, 
 
 It seemed I'efrain of far-off heavenly clioirs, 
 
 Into the centered soul of every ear 
 
 That listened. Then merciful as music is, 
 
 Stopped, broke the strain and, lower down, 
 
 Dashed quickly into roundelade whose trills 
 
 Made mimicry of birds, and filled the air 
 
 With wantonness of unresistant joy. 
 
 Then laughed to think the thought, made others 
 
 laugh. 
 And with a pretty coquetry of sound 
 KijDpled the laughter in, like bob-o'link 
 In July meadows. Till the Joy more deep 
 Took stately measure, moving to a strain 
 That, like the march of ai'mies, echoed on 
 The dull hard pavement of more common things, 
 A God grown vocal. Till the fluttering soul, 
 
52 WILLOUGIIBY. 
 
 Tremulous witli reach of that fine ecstacy, 
 Sobbed itself to rest, and died amid the roar 
 Tumultuous of that wrapt crowd below. 
 
 No word of his, irreverent, broke the spell ; 
 As silent grown as she, and satisfied 
 To hear the exclamations, low and rare, 
 Of that deep something roused in her. Enough 
 She praised, if such faint words be praise ; enough 
 Drew deeper breath, and in joy's impotence 
 Sighed for relief. And so he led her home, 
 And at the door of her deep-curtained chamber 
 Left blessing on her as he passed to sleep. 
 
 Leio-h fiuno- her ^vindow wide to the keen air. 
 That, fluttering thro' the lace of southern looms. 
 Gave freer breath. Then o'er a breast that tossed 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 58 
 
 And trembled like a slilp at sea, ttat feels 
 The beating ocean thougli the storm be spent, 
 She loosed the long coils of her hair, and sank, 
 AVhite-robed as lily in a mossy dell, 
 Deep in the hollow of a cushioned chair. 
 One fair hand tapering touched the floor, 
 Vieing the velvet of its orient warmth. 
 And one twined bare and arched among the 
 
 sprays 
 Of fluttering hair about her snowy neck. 
 So sat and questioned of her inmost self; 
 Saw in the flame that fed her soul's delight. 
 One after one, her pet schemes, shriveling, turn 
 To ashes at her feet. 
 
 As one who stands 
 Before the steep he boastfully would tread. 
 
54 WILLOUGHBT. 
 
 And stops, since it's beyond liis fai-thest limit, 
 
 Balancing liis pride with manfuller doubt, 
 
 So Leigh stood fronting that long way of Art, 
 
 The toiling abnegation of all things 
 
 That, higher in themselves, to Ai*t are mean. 
 
 Which in that hour rose up befoi*e her. Now 
 
 8he saw Ai't mistress, and her minions slaves 
 
 To single service; not the nymph that she 
 
 Painted so sportive in the fields of time. 
 
 The ox, slow-bending to a load that lifts 
 
 But for a moment, not the blithesome bird, 
 
 As careless as the tops of wanton trees, 
 
 Stood ty]^)e and sampler of the artist's lot. 
 
 The question came; loved she Art more than life. 
 
 And glory more than duty's loving sphere. 
 
 Or woman's ministry to a world so sick. 
 
 It tosses on innumerable beds. 
 
WILLOUGUBY. 55 
 
 Moans hollow cries, and in delmum shrieks 
 Its curse on tender hands ! 
 
 Not selfish Ai't, 
 Nor meager; but high-poised and self-contained; 
 Held up to beauty, since the beautiful 
 Reigns in its sphere supreme. 
 
 And she, though glad 
 To wreak her life, love hungered, on an aim 
 So high, loved more the tender nothingness 
 Of human toil and service of her kind. 
 Art seemed not Art, the dreamy star that shone 
 Upon her life's empurpled sea, before 
 She knew Art for the thing it is ; 'twas now 
 A flaming sun, a noon-day glare that shone. 
 Shriveling a daughter's duty. He rose up. 
 
56 WILLOUGIIBY. 
 
 Wan with the years that, wasting, left him her 
 
 And memory, and dashed the thought to earth. 
 
 She give that face denial? Close with these 
 
 High usiu'ers for mortgage of her soul? 
 
 She leave a father foi* Milan or Rome? 
 
 A living duty for allegiance to 
 
 —What? 
 
 Men there are and rarer womankind, 
 Who look ideal duty in the face 
 And make it seem so large, a common one, 
 That's done by common men, grows pitiable. 
 Can see such grandeur in far English shores, 
 America's a sandhill ; or such a glow 
 In other women they are goddesses. 
 While that one, good and true, is only wife. 
 Who pick, with taper fingers, from the tui-f 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 57 
 
 Sweet-scented flowers, and pass a thousand forms 
 
 Of human loveliness, because so gi-eat 
 
 Does beauty overtop philanthropy. 
 
 They handle common coinage, pence and pound 
 
 Of churchly commerce ! hold a puny hand, 
 
 Smell sickly atmospheres, and rub against 
 
 The parish poverty ! 
 
 And yet, ye gods ! 
 What windy talk of the immensities; 
 Of soul and s[)irit, high affinities, 
 Of stars, and imions of commensurate souls, 
 The Infinite, and beauty over all, 
 The last and greatest ! 
 
 What beauty in a hand. 
 Hard-pressed and horny, stooping 'twixt its toil 
 
58 
 
 WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 To pluck a wild flower from the common sod ! 
 What soul in women weeping o'er dead cribs, 
 Or stitching garments worn by gentlemen ! 
 Tears are not beautiful ! They stain the face 
 That in their poet-scheme God ordered fair. 
 Nor is aught classic in the curvature 
 Of bended backs, however sad, — a nymph. 
 Forsooth, or fair Apollo had stood straight ! 
 The earth is earthy, and the stars are — what? 
 Ask poet, sentimentalist, who say 
 Life's but a clod ; albeit only they 
 Live, who do not dig, but wave unspotted hands 
 Above tlie vulgar drudgery of men. 
 
 The art Leigh dreamed of, artless as herself, 
 Was that God used in painting meadow flowers. 
 Not this of abneojation of herself 
 
WILLOUOIIBY. 59 
 
 And plainer duties. So she saw his face, 
 And -wept and sobbed at thought of leaving him. 
 Till hovering sleep in the long intervals 
 Swept closer down; and as the mom grew red 
 Thro' heavy windows, she lay still and slept. 
 
 O conflict of this warring head and heart ! 
 O man in man, involved and duplicate, 
 And rent, circumference and core of being, 
 To far-sundered selves ! Who is, yet is not ; 
 Swims the while he sinks, and, dying atop. 
 Yet lives below. So great and good, till pines 
 The primal child for selfish blandishment. 
 Or roars the unburied brute still left in him 
 Amidst the eternal silences. Confused 
 A¥ith things that, seeming fair, the inmost soul 
 Foi'bids, and beggars this great wealth of brain 
 
60 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Witli simple heart words, coined so long ago, 
 Their reason's lost in their fatuity. 
 O roses red that our ambition pits 
 'Gainst whiter roses of our faith, that will 
 One day drop from us, and with head to heart. 
 Unquestioning and unquestioned we shall walk 
 At peace ! 
 
 O Kingly Head and masterful ! 
 Thro' widening circles roimded out to poAver; 
 O happy Brain ! Avith tributary years, 
 Great Science and fair Art and matchless Wit, 
 That spread the span of thy felicities; 
 To live thy recompense, thy royal right 
 To rise o'er death and sorrow, and to see 
 Earth's saddened lot with philosophic eyes; 
 To tread high paths and, ever hasting on, 
 Rest not from glad pursuit in all the years. 
 
WILLOUOUBY. 61 
 
 But tliou, O Queenly Heart, O woman Heart, 
 Like tliy fair Prototype so near eartli's pain 
 And sorroAN^ ! Art tliou quickened of tlie years 
 To freslier patlis and larger fruitfulness ? 
 Do so men call thee happy, or yet pray 
 Immortal measure of the cup thou drain'st 
 To bitter dregs? Has Art lent thee her charm, 
 Or science unto saving knowledge wrought 
 Thine ancient woe, renewed in brighter hues; 
 Has wit availed to keep thy passion pure; 
 Or thee, as old as all the centuries, young; 
 Or any wider faith in all the world? 
 Though men have tamed the lightning's fire, and on 
 The deep walked masters of the elements. 
 Struck the rocks that gush with hoary secrets. 
 Made earth's facilities yield up their use; 
 Art thou one pulse the freer, more attuned 
 
62 WILLOUOIIBY. 
 
 To destiny? Can'st lead the electric flash, 
 Passion-born, to harmless currents of the soul? 
 Or tame the deeps in which men lose their all 
 In loveless shipwreck; or from stony hate 
 Draw living waters of some glad consent? 
 Is there one less the ache that's in the world, 
 Has been, and will be to time's troubled end? 
 
 The days are sad ; yet never sunnier days 
 Broke up the wintry earth ! 'Tis we are sad : 
 We, who but feel along the unreasoned years. 
 Groping for good, forgetful that the best 
 Of hope is hunger and of work to wait. 
 The days are sad ! we will not supplement 
 A throb of heart-blood vAi\i a godlike thought 
 Nor thrill a pale conception, giant tho' it be, 
 With faith. We are but shadows of the man : 
 
WILLOUGnUY. 63 
 
 And in this Luman figlit as Amazons, 
 
 One breasted, with our half plucked out, not men 
 
 Of full orbed prowess, nor yet finer sex. 
 
 The age is sick till men of might will rest 
 
 In might, as suns rest, 'lighting up great space. 
 
 As in a land of tropic bloom and birds 
 Full-throated to some lai'ger melody. 
 Where stretches earth to soft luxuriousness, 
 A stranger comes forlorn 'midst this great air. 
 And sick with one soft Avord that will not let 
 Him sleep, and that woi'd Home. 
 
 So with no ^vant 
 Confessed to minister to sense or soul. 
 These ample days all Avant confess, in that 
 We have no rest, no pt^ace ; and, knowing how. 
 Yet have no heart to live. 
 
Q4, WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 Not through the gates, 
 Wide-SAVung to wise men ever pressing on 
 To birth-scenes of the power in human brain, 
 Comes Heart emancij^ation ; — ^first Avelcomer 
 Of death, thou'i-t left, what erst thou Av^crt, a 
 
 sport, 
 A child, a fickle, foolish thing! 
 
 Next morn 
 She sought her host, and owned him right and 
 
 said, 
 "I thank you for a lesson haply learned, 
 Who am no artist, but a ^voman, born 
 To woman's lot and duties; which, please God, 
 Nothing shall hinder." 
 
 "Art does not hold you. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 65 
 
 Then," he said, "and yoii yield up the question, 
 Mooted among the unsexed of your sex, 
 Of higher sphere ? " 
 
 " Nay, nay, I judge for none, 
 Sa^^e for myself and these appointed cares. 
 Fate is not one but manifold, and law 
 Is but high lawlessness for many men; 
 And we go back to-morrow." 
 
 " So soon ! nor hear 
 The season's crowning concert, when we'll weigh 
 The noblest Art the cultured centuries send 
 Across from Europe to our younger ears? 
 You'll wait to hear it?" 
 
 But she said him nay; 
 
66 WILLOUGHBY, 
 
 And witli next day left pressure on Ins hand, 
 And tears of thankfulness in lier good-bye. 
 Glad if lier lot be that forgetful life 
 Of home and country and her filial love, 
 To take it up the sooner. Not too much, 
 As friendship will, said Roger Gri'C}'', to turn 
 The new-found currents of her soul; but stood 
 And, smiling, said Godspeed, and saA\^ them go. 
 
 Back to the town and its familiar streets, 
 Its winter silences across the snoA\^, 
 And benediction of o'er-arching elms; 
 Back to her home ! 
 
 She donned a fresher smile 
 For every duty, and with homely toil 
 Wore thro' the winter, quickened ^vith the spring 
 
WILLOUGIIBY. g7 
 
 To native hopefulness. Again the hills, 
 The faint-heard bells among the pasture flocks, 
 And Leigh amid it all, too fresh and s\veet 
 To die of disappointment, which is but 
 To die of too much self. Had she not life, 
 A Avorld of beauty, home, and hungry cares. 
 To keep the woman in her bright and strong? 
 So day by day she wrought life's lesson out. 
 Contending with sad moods, when derelict, 
 She seemed to fall from duty; pressing on. 
 And resolute to tread the path marked out. 
 So glad of coming summer, and renewed 
 In freshness of the world to freshened self. 
 
 AVe trust most in an air of trustfulness; 
 And joy is but contagion of the smiles 
 In men and nature. Full many a doubt 
 
gg WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 That curdles tlie Wcirm blood in winter, melts 
 Witli the snow, and many a frozen grave, 
 That cuts the soul to griefs abandonment, 
 Blooms in the summer to a living faith. 
 'Tis nature deals us hurt, 'tis nature heals; 
 Relenting we should suffer over-much. 
 
 So with the summer came a glad new trust 
 That that which was, was good, and naught 
 
 could be 
 So bad God could not make it better. Nor 
 Seemed it possible the universe so fair. 
 Thro' want of will or power had made mistake. 
 So thinking, Avhat was fair, was fair to her, 
 And all her life went on to worthy ends 
 The circling round of yet another year; 
 From summer unto summer kept alive, 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 59 
 
 Still calm in purpose, and still one witli all 
 That unto girlish nature brings delight. 
 
 One day, sand weary, climbing up the rocks, 
 Leigh came on stranger eyes wide looking down, 
 And faltered, till the young . man rose and 
 
 spoke 
 Of trespass, then replied, "Hers was no right 
 To air and landscape, save one all might share 
 Who loved them," half retreating as she s^Doke; 
 Till, seeing the fair honesty he wore, 
 As some men vdll, she waived him and sat down. 
 While he, unwilling, moved away. 
 
 Again 
 They met, and seeing on sealed lips his wish. 
 She let him speak and knew him as she walked ; 
 
70 WILLOUQHBY. 
 
 Noting tlie manliness that 'neatli liis speecli 
 Leaped up to noble needs and made liim strong 
 To wear tlie world in some sweet charity; 
 Learning to trust and lean on him as friend. 
 
 His mien was gentle, bearing him as one 
 Who loved book lore, and lore of j^ictured things ; 
 More reverential than men's wont, as nursed 
 'Neath shadows in his youth's fair prime ; not sad. 
 But softened to the fuller sense of life, 
 And bowed conviction of its mystery. 
 A man to live, nor lightly hang 'tween threads 
 Of circumstance; to fill the fluent days 
 AVith meanings of a vast suggestiveness ; 
 To count each golden sand of good or ill. 
 Therefrom to build the fabric of his faith, 
 And stand thereby. 
 
WILLOUOHBT. 7l 
 
 His life had taught him much : 
 Beside the world of books, man's greater world; 
 The key to human temperament called tact, 
 Revealing all things, naught amiss; and most 
 He knew the mahy-sided thing called life; 
 Had sported with the waves on careless shores, 
 And dived a sufferer unto pearly depths. 
 Whence if he rose enriched men never knew; 
 Still carrying eyes to haply see the stars 
 If darkness fell, believing most in light. 
 
 He loved the world, its changing forms and hues, 
 
 The meanings that it mirrored everywhere; 
 
 The faint suggestion, whispered thro' all change, 
 
 Of that which, animating, never dies. 
 
 No brook sang echoless in him, nor flame 
 
 Of sunset found him unsubdued, who saw 
 
72 WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 Some grander beauty hinted at in them. 
 He was no poet, lacking words, yet walked 
 By every law that sways poetic souls, 
 Living the poetry that, niore than Art, 
 Is artless as the songs of birds, like them 
 Divine. 
 
 And loving song, he dared not sing; 
 Too reverent of its height. So lived for art, 
 Lea^^ng in touch where'er his brush had been 
 Some subtle power of personality. 
 More than body. Being was his theme ; 
 From features reaching to the soul's impress. 
 In all he did was life, the power in him 
 Wrought deep in things, that, large as nature is, 
 Made man and method seem one common soul. 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 73 
 
 He knew naiiglit grander' in creative toiieli, 
 Than self-forgetfulness, that stamps as sons, 
 Not slaves of toil; in deaclness of the times 
 Saw this the cause, that men o'erlay themselves 
 With cultured cunning in a thousand arts, 
 And, Argus-eyed, see all things, seeing naught, 
 And, hundred handed, pound some petty gate. 
 The great Highway unoped. 
 
 With rage to know. 
 Men handle gods once worshiped, infant-like 
 Made happy with the things of sense and sight; 
 — An Age of dotage, weakening to the cry 
 For facts, forgetful 'tis not facts men want. 
 But faith, and life fused into faithful deeds. 
 
 Beneath the teacher's art that planes our lives. 
 
74 WILLOUGHBT. 
 
 Till, polished, all reflect one truth, he heard 
 
 The cry for bread, not ^philosophic stones; 
 
 For individuality everywhere. 
 
 'Neath pulseless perfumes of rare rhetoric, 
 
 For one to break the chains of prettiest art, 
 
 And stand a lion, tamer of himself 
 
 And others. 
 
 Poets who, not over nice 
 In faultless forms, s^veet shells of nothingness, 
 Nor dainty Avith a thousand Avell-bred doubts. 
 Are men; of rugged faiths to build anew 
 The age in halting men, to stir the times 
 To scorn of fruitless longing, and this wail. 
 Less sad than scientific of our w^oe; 
 With touch that flame-like runs the flattened strings 
 Of x^oesy, a challenge 'gainst all fate 
 
WILLOUGIIBT. 75 
 
 Rung dauntless out ; themselves tlie song, and large 
 As this vast thing we call Humanity. 
 Nor least in Art where, seeing men, for man 
 We long in vain, and willing would forego 
 This child's delight in pictured prettiness, 
 This school-boy imitation, for one touch 
 Of insight to all truer souls, to write 
 Anew the truth of outgrown Genesis. 
 
 The world was word not uttered once, then dumb; 
 
 But oracle of one who chose no part 
 
 Save bended knee at humblest shrine, as erst 
 
 Came revelation from the riven I'ock. 
 
 Since nature too has meanings back of sense, 
 
 Prefigurements of soul, — not rock, nor tree, 
 
 But that to which each is but witnessing. 
 
 The great Becoming — Nature — such earth seemed. 
 
76 WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 Wliose Ai't and message ever unfulfilled, 
 Stii'red hope in him to make more manifest; 
 Sent forth a servant vs^ith this high behest. 
 AYherever beauty beckoned, there he went 
 Obedient, like a lover, to a face 
 Oft fickle. Falling on the town, he stayed 
 His steps, where beauty blent in human eyes 
 Fast bound him. He loved its shade and stillness. 
 The "wind touched harps so plaintive in the elms. 
 The peaceful night in valleys of their rest 
 Who slept the sleep of death down by the hill. 
 The faint refrain of music on the beach, 
 And Avalks oft ti'od with her. 
 
 'Twas Leigh's delight, 
 Talking with him, to note life's dreamful depths 
 Stirred pebble-like mth thought to farthest shores, 
 
WILLOUOIIBY. 77 
 
 Or pluck liigli up, like coy, sweet Edelweiss, 
 Some native joy less happy hands had missed. 
 Or, led through sympathy of common things, 
 She spoke of one who sailed, l^ut lately seen, 
 A cousin, — speaking low, — and always dear; 
 Till, sharing confidence, he told his life; 
 Youth's bitterness, and that long toil thro' which 
 At last he stood Art's favored son and fi'ee. 
 She joyed in good, and gave her woman's talk, 
 Till bitter recollection died in her. 
 
 The woi'ld once thought to find brave men in 
 
 battle 
 Facing death. -We now know better, and account 
 Him brave with courage for this li\ang death, — 
 This death in life, whereto God sets our steps. 
 
78 WILLOUGIIBY. 
 
 No soTind of trumpets and quick roll of dinims 
 
 Drowns out the daily fear that, with dull tread, 
 
 Tramples him down; no pitying smoke rolls round 
 
 The scene of his dread warfare, to blot out 
 
 By one brief breath the horrors of the slain; 
 
 No thi'illing cry and awful ecstasy 
 
 Of men commingled in a single thought, 
 
 And vieing each to keep the glory his, 
 
 Colors with I'ose the blood-red hue of strife 
 
 For him. He fights himself, the world, alone; 
 
 With none to know or pity. Bravery's 
 
 A thins; of soul, not bi'aAvn and muscle ; else 
 
 Were tigers, daring in their jungle hate 
 
 To rend each other, bi*aver than all men. 
 
 This courage, strong for his self-centered ends, 
 AVas equal to the needs of friendshii) ; and 
 
WILLOUGIIBT. ' 79 
 
 Hart Willoughby, by that wliicli makes it sure, 
 
 Frankness to be himself and confidence 
 
 To trust another, showed himself a friend. 
 
 Early a nicer instinct made him know 
 
 Her rare 'mong women, one whom he could trust 
 
 With manly secrets, fearless of the laugh 
 
 With which light women stab too serious men. 
 
 The life in him leaned to the life in her ; 
 
 Experience to experience, hope to hope, 
 
 And fear to fear. Something in them of kin, 
 
 Either by nature, or that grafted on 
 
 By sufferance of the common ills of life, 
 
 Gave him the password to her thoughts, and oft 
 
 Startled her with this clairvoyance of his love. 
 
 Thus once as she, 'neath folds of rippling hair 
 Bent low her face, "Does not the pity seem 
 
80 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 That summer is but summer of our dreams; 
 
 Anticipated, found, and quickly lost, 
 
 Like toy of manhood to ambitious boys? 
 
 That scarcely have we breathed a wanner breath, 
 
 Ere, in the shifting of a vane, we feel 
 
 Some chill of winter, warning us of death?" 
 
 The day was in midsummer, mild and still 
 
 Among the rocks that overlooked the sea. 
 
 Yet in the languid pulse along the shore. 
 
 And far-off clouds threatening the mountain tops. 
 
 And in the veiy air a presage fell. 
 
 As fear had sudden stopped the heai-t of nature, 
 
 Oppressing both. 
 
 Uplooking, Leigh replied, 
 "How strange: my thought and feeling, if indeed 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 81 
 
 Your tlionglit be not my feeling ! Doubly sad 
 The day's pei-fection, that oppressively 
 Preludes its death. Oh, why is nature so 
 The sport of pitiless conditions ? " 
 
 "But," 
 
 He said, "has not the winter something due 
 To self -same influence, smiling thro' its death 
 And desolation? Have you never prayed 
 A better prayer, because in some rare day. 
 When February forgot to frown, there stole 
 A warm ray to your window, melting down 
 The frost-belt, while the I'ash voice of a bird 
 Pierced thro' the air to thrill your heart and die? 
 The Universe is larger than our thought. 
 And rich with compensations," 
 
82 WILLOUGIIBY. 
 
 "Yes, 'tis rich, 
 As life is rich," she said, more bitterly 
 Than was her wont. " For youth it gives you age ; 
 For age a certain wordy trick of tales, 
 Diluted with the doting memory 
 Of youth, and yet so old the children run 
 And will not listen. It gives you love, then 
 Steals the costly gem to trick another with ; 
 Putting in place the bauble of a use. 
 As loveless as dead labors of the ox. 
 A breath in summer to steal out the heart 
 Of joy and beauty, and a sickly smile 
 That makes the drear of winter doubly drear." 
 
 He looked at her, twice looked, but held his peace. 
 "Forgive me, friend; the better consciousness 
 Knows this, to know which is enough, that life. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. ^3 
 
 Thougli gnarled and twisted to contrariness, 
 Distorted, dwarfed, and hungered at his core, 
 Has hope and work for all ; not yet bereft, 
 I say it gladly, of great helpfulness. 
 I was but playing with a bitter mood, 
 That made me in the moment speak untrue. 
 I count life good with its fine use, and pulse 
 Keyed to the clock-work of God's mighty law, 
 And Him o'erhead. The bird, one may suppose. 
 Not knowing this, is liappy the day long; 
 So knowing scarcely more, I'm happy too." 
 
 "So friend," he said, "I knew that I but heard 
 Some shadow of yourself, as each one has, 
 To mock the man eternal in him with 
 Occasional biiite. For doubt of God, His lov^e 
 And providence, and plaints at human pain. 
 
84 WILLOUOIIBY. 
 
 (Than whicli naught is more human about us,) 
 Are but brutal. 
 
 "Men make gods of their own, 
 Endow them richly with convenient powers, 
 And say, 'See God thus meanly turns on us; 
 Gives that we did not ask and takes away 
 The thing we prayed for. The universe is ^vrong, 
 Oui' universe; and verily there's no God.''' 
 
 "Yet nothing is so hard as keeping faith 
 In utter loss. Though God be God, yet man. 
 Being but human, may in human dearth 
 Be Godless. Him we see in what we have 
 And are." 
 
 "Nay, nay," he caught the untruth there, 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 85 
 
 And stopped it. "God is God, it matters not 
 
 What yje are. Though the hull be riven planks, 
 
 Or staunchest vessel, yet the sea is sea. 
 
 God is our all in nothingness : we do 
 
 Not have Him, for He is, and Pie has us. 
 
 Suppose one lose a limb, 'twere bad enough ; 
 
 But lose his faith, without a leg to stand on 
 
 In this troubled world, he's doubly crippled, 
 
 Wept of God and man. Suppose one bury 
 
 A friend, and, still insatiate of death, 
 
 Dig a deeper grave for self, friend, faith, and all, — 
 
 Thei'e tvas no death before, and this is death. 
 
 The evil's not in losing, but in us 
 
 Who lose. Man needs must tread the years and 
 
 find 
 At each new step some treasure new or old, 
 
86 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 And ever finding lose not anything, 
 To grow life's master." 
 
 Men there are who hold 
 To light, for want of darkness in their life: 
 Believe things cheery thro' some bodily trick, 
 That sets the pulse to harmony, and sings 
 The internal law that jangles in others. 
 Who rub their rosy hands, and with great lungs 
 Puff out the cheek at ravings of the world. 
 And bid all men be happy : are not they f 
 To eat and drink and see a sunny earth, 
 And talk, as they talk, of more decent things 
 Than death and misery. 
 
 Then there are men 
 Who face, not run away from, God's great facts; 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 87 
 
 Wlio say life's good, since having sifted it 
 To deepest badness tliey can see tlie law, 
 By wliicli bad grows to good, and liold their faith 
 From the bottom upward, and not atop, 
 At ease, and seeing only surfaces. 
 
 To Leigh 'twas beautiful to sun herself 
 
 In the wide radiance of a faith like his; 
 
 To help life's tortured scheme with ravelment 
 
 Of such sure insight to the heart of things. 
 
 'Twas plain that he had suffered; plainer yet 
 
 That he had suffered unto noble ends. 
 
 Another had not stirred her who had said, 
 
 " Cheer up ! cheer up ! The world is good, you'll 
 
 find 
 No better. See that happy child, or this 
 
88 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Fair woman, or great bodied man; the world 
 Is full of gladness." 
 
 Life has no hardier plant 
 Than joy, deep-rooted in experience. 
 Beside pain's prickles still it stands, a flower 
 Unconqiiered of the thorns. 'Tis quieter 
 Than jest, and little likes the masquerade 
 Of common pleasui'e ; has no noisy laugh ; 
 But tender, self-contained, smiles sweetly down 
 On kindred joy, or weeps with misery; 
 And has no arrogance of ha2:)piness. 
 
 And for this joy Leigh thanked him in that hour. 
 She saw another world, one not less given 
 To ]3ain, but more to compensations, more 
 Of God, and less of human misery. 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 89 
 
 She lielcl lier lot up not alone, but mixed 
 Witli myriad fates and parts of a great law, 
 That's made up in its fullness of such threads. 
 She crossed the warp of good with woof of ill. 
 The woven fabric of her life, in looms 
 Of earlier workmanship in the mills of God, 
 Not wholly kept from fitness to His use. 
 
 Then on her mood of thankfulness he broke in, 
 Betrayed by counsel to fresh confidence. 
 With a bit of himself chipped from the block 
 Of past experience, answering the word 
 She thus had spoke. 
 
 " We do not lose our faith ; 
 Life takes it from us, steals like thieves at night, 
 By act of violence, the thing sewed deep 
 
90 WILLOUGUBY. 
 
 In precious belts of inner consciousness, 
 Or hid in shoes wherein we feai'ful tread 
 Life's dark highway. Men there naay be who leave 
 Their faith on careless counters, barter it 
 In brawl or scuffle with the coin of brutes; 
 But most men dowered with faith cling to it. 
 And will not let it go, till, trampled down. 
 They yield it to the hoofs of circumstance." 
 
 Then answered so. 
 
 "I know a case to point, 
 And fi'iend to friend will tell it, so you'll listen. 
 The man was young, scarce of the law made man, 
 When he chanced to fall on love ! 'Tis hard enough 
 When hard men love, to fret themselves a day 
 With trouble of forgetting; but gentle men, 
 God pity gentle men who chance on k)ve ! 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 91 
 
 Aud, lo\dng, have no fine forgetfulness, 
 And no swift i-emedy of another self, 
 To fall back on ! 
 
 "Well, much that was in him 
 He saw, or fancied that he saw, in her, 
 And painted with love's facile brush so fair 
 The image mirrored in his soul, he loved it. 
 And the likeness of it in her. And she, 
 She loved him; so one might suppose, to hear 
 Her windy sighs and wordiness of love. 
 She loved him, hung on his great eyes, and dinned 
 His ears with its sweet whispered nothingness. 
 She held him tight, and with a thousand oaths 
 Vowed him her own, though all the world go 
 
 mad 
 With opposition. 
 
92 
 
 WILLOUOEBY. 
 
 "And lie, he tliouglit lier fair, 
 And good as fair. And tliougli one lie, I'll name 
 Her both : so good, she could not hear a Mother 
 
 say, 
 ' Go hence ! This loving's all a myth, the man's 
 A fool ! ' and not yield her obedience. 
 Though he and love Avent ringing doAvn the al)yss. 
 So good, I pi'ay God shield me from such good ! 
 This golden goodness and these social saints. 
 
 "One day a storm came, thunder roared around 
 The love-hushed atmospheres, the image broke, 
 Shattered to pieces in the lightning blows 
 Of soft dismissal. She loved him, always should. 
 And wished him Avell, and even dared to pray 
 For him in friendship. But a Mother, sure 
 A mother's woi^thier love than any man ! 
 
WILLOUOnBY. 93 
 
 And this one loved lier and liad loosed tlie bond. 
 So, signing tlie sweet name, slie let Mm go. 
 
 " He lived, being but yonng and full of life ; 
 And, better yet, survived the death of soul 
 The first days wrapped him in. The loss of her 
 He kept from loss of all, and bent himself 
 To study of the Ijest in womankind, 
 And final faith in many. So he lived, 
 Ten years full granted to outgrow so frail 
 A thing, wdio had been steadfast to the death 
 In ^v^orthier love." 
 
 "And you," she said, tearful, 
 Trying to read aright, "you are the man?" 
 But he was silent, till at length the night 
 Came creeping seaward, and they sought the town. 
 
94 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 So memoried with her, Hart Willoughby 
 Forgot his Art in beauties of a world 
 Uncaught on canvas. Lifting idle hands, 
 He dreamed of locks and low bent, eager eyes, 
 'Twixt fitful toil, till hateful of his touch. 
 He threw aside the brush, nor dared to paint. 
 So passed the days that, summer-like, swept by; 
 Till hectic leaves flushed thro' the flaming wood, 
 And sea and sky grew distant in their grief. 
 So passed the days when trusting love Avas young ; 
 And fear rose in his heart where faith had been. 
 Knowing she held him dear, he half despaired 
 Lest some aversion had been better sign; 
 Since loving women seldom show their love, 
 Protecting kindness by a cruel word. 
 He dared to hope, as men and lovers will; 
 
WILLOUOHBY. 95 
 
 And then despaired, as men and lovers must; 
 Till mad 'twixt certainty and doubt, lie spoke. 
 
 One late, late day, when doting summer lay 
 Asleep by silent brooks, along the brink 
 Of autumn lakes, and o'er far-stretcliing fields, 
 Tliey met, together walking on the beach, 
 'Neath flight of birds, and that dim Indian sky 
 Hung hazy o'er their steps in hollowing sand. 
 The hush of life, slow-gathering to his lips, 
 Seemed all around him in the silent air. 
 And she, as nature when a storm impends, 
 Was still ; afraid, not knowing why. 
 
 He saw. 
 Low at her feet, the far-off dreamful ships 
 On shoreless seas, heard waves repeat his doubts 
 
96 WILLOUOnBY. 
 
 To mocking waves; while higli on nested rocks 
 Some anxious bird kept calling to his mate. 
 Then love had speech : His being turned to her ; 
 Had loved since that first hour man pictures 
 
 love, 
 And gro^vn to find himself and life in her. 
 Till Leigh, half stunned with terror of his words, 
 Unskilled from very innocence to know 
 How confidence slow ripens into love, 
 Bent startled eyes on him; then broke the blow, 
 With face averted, and a trembling tear, 
 That was not joy's deliverance, looking down. 
 And trying there to sweeten bitter words. 
 As one who drowns a drag in honeyed draught. 
 
 And he ^^-\\o was not slow to comprehend 
 
WILLOUGEBT. 97 
 
 Love's signless speech, hushed all his heart to 
 
 say, 
 "Dear friend, I pain you. Is it bitter pain? 
 Love sometimes weeps, but strangely, I am told. 
 You vs^eep not so. Forgive me, who so low, 
 Needy, and hungered of the world, bring down 
 A proud man's hand to beggary at your doors. 
 See, this my heart I offer up, and ask 
 Not less than all you have to answer it. 
 A heart as humble as the needs of life ; 
 Not one bright day, but all the rounded years, 
 To keep you, give you all a strong man gives. 
 Though penniless to men, still rich to you. 
 Think not the moment speaks in me. The boy 
 Speaks, hungered in his garret-room, and torn 
 From mother's tendance and sweet sisterhood; 
 
98 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Wlio lay the long nights through, and saw the 
 
 stars, 
 And slept not picturing what his life should be. 
 The man, who, young in years, was bent more 
 
 low 
 Than half the happy white-haired men, who died 
 The slow, sweet death of home and tenderness. 
 The man, who has carried this great world so 
 
 long. 
 He's sick with vastness, and would own a heart 
 Not ampler than his gift in needing it." 
 
 He spoke no more, but listened as she said, 
 Breathless between such hea\^ moments, and 
 In sternest duty trying to be kind, 
 "It may not be. My life long one in thought. 
 One fain would rest. Repentant of its sin, 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 99 
 
 It bears your kindness and shall ever bear. 
 I've loved and wept, a woman left alone, 
 — You have my secret, — all the gift I have; 
 Save this, my friendship, precious as it is. 
 My woman's faith and hopes and prayers for 
 you." 
 
 How easier he had lost an hour ago 
 What now, in losing, seemed so rare a thing. 
 The soul he could not bend in gaining her. 
 True woman has no arts, but lures men on 
 By kindness, till to weapons kindness turns. 
 Her sister-love outweighs for woe her scorn. 
 Who smiles to slay and hates to heal the hurt. 
 So led to battle on the blood-red fields 
 Where soul and self seek bitter victory, 
 Manful he went. 
 
100 WILLOUGHBT. 
 
 "While woman born, Avith hands 
 Fate-fettered to the passiveness of rest, 
 She lived thrice lonely in the void he left. 
 
 O bitterness of love ! 
 To live and know the steps we seek 
 Seek not our own, the lips that speak 
 Are cold and hollow to our need.- 
 That though our bosoms break and bleed, 
 
 'Tis bitterness of love ! 
 
 O bitterness of love ! 
 To hold the hands we eager press 
 To thrill us with a want's excess : 
 To part, and henceforth walk the way 
 Down to the gi^aves wherein we lay 
 
 Our bitterness of love. 
 
WILLOUOEBY. 101 
 
 O bitterness of love ! 
 To grope for phantoms in the air 
 That mock us with their blind despair; 
 For sight or sound that is not there. 
 To want and tire and hardly care 
 
 For bitterness of love ! 
 
 O bitterness of love! 
 To wait for token never sent, 
 And doubt in all our discontent 
 'Twere better to have loved the less, 
 Or closed our eyes on such distress 
 
 As bitterness of love. 
 
 So two years circled. Sadly looking back, 
 Leigh lived in offices of daily need ; 
 Heedful of home care, her venerate sire 
 
102 WILLOUGllBY. 
 
 Looked kindly down upon her as she toiled, 
 
 Made haj^py in the spell of olden days 
 
 And deeds heroic animate in song, 
 
 Or evening glow of mutual reverie. 
 
 While silently she kept her grief, nor asked 
 
 A lesser joy: so oft there is no good 
 
 Could compensate the woe we teai-ful tend; 
 
 And all our lives, like mothers of frail young, 
 
 We weep and find our bliss in baneful things. 
 
 Nor most we envy joy, nor pity pain. 
 
 Joy neighbors grief: they mingle each to each 
 
 Men know not where;— to hope beside the pall, 
 
 And tears in all our wedding merriment. 
 
 And life is infinitely sweet and sad. 
 
 Who has not nursed a pain lie would not yield-, 
 If painted Pleasure brought relief, to hold 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 103 
 
 Our sorrow careless thing; aggrieved to hear 
 On scented breath so sweet a woe made light, 
 Or touched by any but most loving hands! 
 So grief for him grew into Life's one joy, 
 In idle days, full of her friends' reproof. 
 How should they know? Holding them kindly 
 
 still. 
 She trod the wine-press of her life alone, 
 Her garments dyed in fonts they knew not of. 
 Till one day came letters, cousin sent. 
 Writ full of Robert Dale, his late return. 
 Much spent with fighting on the great high seas, 
 A wounded man in need of home and i^est. 
 Till later, he should come to see her soon, 
 Holding her home in hope of its relief. 
 
 Then she grew still; not speaking of her joy, 
 But only looking forward unto him. 
 
X04 WILLOUGIIBY. 
 
 Far in tlie outskirts of the noisy town, 
 Forgotten and forgetful of his kind, 
 And mindful but of her, lived Willoughby. 
 Beyond, the river, folding helpless hands, 
 Flov^ed out to Ocean, while the distant din 
 On stony streets rose echoless to him, 
 Wrapped in a louder than earth's gi'ief. 
 
 He watched 
 Men come and go, the traffic tending out 
 From center to circumference, and saw 
 As in a dream, ere yet the fuller time 
 Restored the dull round of mechanic sense, 
 The taste and tone and tangibility 
 Of this real thing called life. Eveniiore 
 Toil beckoned him to self-forgetfulness 
 At idle doors, where haunted with the face, 
 
WILLOUGHDY. 105 
 
 Once lie had thought to paint love happy, grew 
 The long regret that cherishes no more. 
 Where he sat thinking to himself and said, 
 
 " There's naught so sad as standing midst a world 
 Of wondrous possibility, and know 
 Ourselves balked of the best. To eat is good, 
 To drink, and weai' a summer's gay apparel. 
 To draw deep draughts of morning atmosphere, 
 To lie, all wearied Avith the day's quick breath, 
 And draw in sleep life's restful measure out; 
 To fight and wrestle with revolting self. 
 Choke down the beggar or the brute within; 
 And know each day a little farther on 
 The long way of our human sufferance; 
 All this is o-ood. But bitter still to lose 
 
 o 
 
 The best; to live and not know ecstasy; 
 
106 WILLOUGHDY. 
 
 To die and not feel dying's sweetest pang. 
 
 To brusli tlie bliss some tliouglitless mortal wears 
 
 As careless as a boy in sumnier fields, 
 
 And will not see, thougli seeing drive you mad, 
 
 And will not know, tliougli knowledge be the 
 
 pang 
 Of jiarting from your soul's prerogative. 
 To live and never bless the arid wastes 
 With whispered benedictions on a liead 
 That's nearer, deai'er than the breath we dra^v ! " 
 
 'Twere better, so he thought, to know no life, 
 Than mock so fair a thing with fruitlessness. 
 Since he wdio dares to separate himself. 
 Stand much aloof the genei'al crowd, and fix 
 A higher limit in the things he thinks. 
 Lives surely on the lieights, but heights so cold 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 107 
 
 No help comes fi'om below, so fax* from men, 
 
 He finds in stars Lis sole companionship. 
 
 Grim Nature knows no pity on a soul 
 
 Too liigh or tender. Every upward step 
 
 But lifts him farther from humanity. 
 
 There's help in Heaven; but every outstretched 
 
 hand 
 Has prickles for the fineness of such flesh. 
 We go aloft to suffer; who shall say 
 We see no farther, brighter, tho' sight be 
 But fuel for the flames of om* desire ! 
 And he who dares the Ideal, putting down 
 The flesh, will of the flesh reap bitter stings. 
 
 With no impunity man touches pearls. 
 They burn and torture, while his neighbor swine 
 Turn grunting on him, and with groveling hate 
 ConsDire to drag him down. 
 
108 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Yet he looks round, 
 And, 'midst tlie mockery of mai'riage boards, 
 Behokls no surer bliss beneath a knot 
 Tied thousand strong. Men snap tlie bond, and 
 
 bi'eak 
 The human law in falling from divine; 
 Forget theii' faith, and wallow in the mud 
 Of self-abasement. It is common quite. 
 Holding the cup, to miss the draught, and sit 
 Self-hungered in a seeming plenteousness. 
 
 TiTie marriage was not made in Heaven ! 'Twas 
 
 made 
 On earth, and, so God help them ! made of men 
 And women. 
 
 Men not of such childish mould. 
 As take their glory fresh from Angel hands, 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 109 
 
 And then despise it, seeing it's so cheap; 
 Nor women, sucli as selfish in this world 
 Think all things made to minister their joy. 
 
 'Tis said there's no true marriage now-a-days. 
 
 Say, rather, men and women, rounded out 
 
 To such high possibility, are but rare. 
 
 The world must mother better progeny. 
 
 Ere marriage makes one joy the more, and men 
 
 Must live the laro-er since their love otows less. 
 
 For out of life, full-orbed and facing facts. 
 
 The love is built that's never plucked from high. 
 
 The happy maid that flaunts her flaxen curls, 
 
 And stamps with fickle foot the impatient sod, 
 
 Is' food for one day's joyance, so the day 
 
 Be one of sunshine. Let her live, and touch 
 
 The damask of her cheek with woman's tears, 
 
110 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Seeing a world so weary at her feet, 
 
 She's woman, worthy love's divinity. 
 
 Tho' man be strong, 'twere better he should say, 
 
 "I'm weak thro' service of this wavering will; 
 
 And yet, God helping, I'll be ^vorthy yon." 
 
 No heaven-made match subdues a world like this. 
 Whose Master reaches unto higher good 
 Thro' human ill. 'Tis not with eyes aloft. 
 Intent on stars and sicklied mth the moon, 
 Man enters happy valleys of such rest; 
 But down-cast, humbly looking unto earth. 
 And conscious of love's long necessity. 
 
 Narrowly at eve day flushed his room and set 
 Thro' broken walls, till, starting at the gun, 
 That told the dying of another day. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. m 
 
 He strode, house-weary, out in scent of seas. 
 The nerveless sails, slow tided down tlie bay, 
 Went by and vanished, as he watched below 
 The play of children, launching mimic boats. 
 Too gleeful as they swept one happy length. 
 Wind-toppled ere the next; then the slow crawl 
 Of one black hungiy rat from wharf to wharf, 
 Poised on the pier, till, startled at a step, 
 'Twas gone. 
 
 So swept the shadow of his grief, 
 As stars athwart the sky, till swung the moon 
 High o'er the sheen that rippled as she rose. 
 Then spoke he, yet unconscious of a prayer. 
 
 "Is Nature soother of our woe, as men 
 
 Will say, or mocker Avith a hundi'ed tongues. 
 
112 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Motlier of moods, indifferent to our own? 
 
 One looks aloft, and in Heaven's starry space, 
 
 Sees promises of joy, hints of the liope 
 
 That undergirds our stumbling race. So looks 
 
 Another, seeing there but canopy 
 
 Of vaster woe than thought can think, the blue 
 
 •Reflection of this jaundiced earth, and stars 
 
 Tears crystallized to soulless, sleepless worlds. 
 
 Sweeter than dreams that slumber haply gives 
 
 To one, to one how sad! Each sees in stars 
 
 Some grief or glory that he wears within. 
 
 " O voice of prayer, that thro' all ages lives ! 
 Loved of the good and great of every time; 
 Child speech, fear-faltering to our tongues, the 
 
 breath 
 Of mightiest men before the Eternal Throne ! 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 113 
 
 So blind in this great doubt if prayer be prayer, 
 
 And not some mockery of foolish men, 
 
 Resistant to the rock whereon, perchance, 
 
 God meant the race to' die,^ — we dare to pray. 
 
 And hope Heaven's hearing: Never to say word 
 
 Wing-tipped v^dth bitterness to make men hate, 
 
 Forgetful of the larger woe that stirs 
 
 The heart-strings of the world in such poor grief ; 
 
 Ne'er to lose sight of thy far-shining sun. 
 
 Though all our life be dark, nor love, nor faith 
 
 In our desjDair of universal gain. 
 
 If blind to greater gift in seeming loss, 
 
 Hush our complaint, and make our doubt a lie. 
 
 We ask no pathway for our feet of flowers, — 
 
 Led gently up thro' dark to light and Thee, 
 
 So prayed and slept; till, careless on a day 
 
114 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Reading a weekly print, he saw his name 
 Who rivaled him, — so thought he, thinking long, 
 Till, — he would seek him, tell him all he knew, 
 And, seeing if he loved her, make him hers. 
 
 The sweet June fragrance filled the air. The 
 
 mom 
 Of all things came, Joy's waking time and 
 
 Beauty's. 
 While everywhere lay blessings of the dew, 
 In jeweled drops, the tender, tiny drops, 
 Like laughter tears on cheek of June. 
 
 So flows 
 The river as the days, mth dreamful depth 
 And pebbly pensiveness; till far a-field 
 Comes home the brook to laugh in loving arms. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 115 
 
 "What kept you, daughter, from my breast?" 
 The murmuring river saith, "unblest 
 In yonder heights, while turf and stem 
 Wait lowly for your steps to gem; 
 While I, deep-bent on Ocean's blue, 
 Ei'e lost, would lose myself in you. 
 Earth welcomes, whispering as we flow, 
 How happy thus to seaward go. 
 Then nestle closer, joyous thing. 
 And as you flow swift answer fling 
 Of bliss beyond all power to know." 
 
 Among the mazes of the tender grass 
 A bird sang low, then, flutteiing, flew away 
 To distant birch ; while thro' the mead came one, 
 With locks wind-fondled, hat in careless hand. 
 And dawning of rare morning in her eyes; 
 Singing song-challenge on the merry air. 
 
11(3 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 O winds of June ! Blow free and wide 
 
 Across the meadows dimly seen, 
 To lift the morning mists that hide 
 Yonr waves of gi'ass that, like a tide, 
 KoU onwai'd into seas of green ! 
 
 O winds of June ! Blow fresh and sweet 
 
 And bear upon your balmy wings. 
 The morning kiss, Avith which you greet 
 The robin, rising far and fleet. 
 
 The mavis as he soars and sings. 
 
 And bring the redbird's tender tale, 
 The tinkling tune of Bobolink, 
 , The querulous ciy of croaking quail, 
 
 And voice of heron, spent in wail 
 Along the river's sedgy brink. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 117 
 
 Blow, winds of June, across the tide, 
 
 From off the silent moving ships! 
 And what say they who distant ride, 
 And what says she who, eager- eyed, 
 
 Waits on the shore with trembling lips ? 
 
 " He comes, he comes ! " O winds of June, 
 Wake still the waves that softly stir; 
 Till every breath shall whisper, "soon," 
 And every breeze but waft the boon 
 Of blissful meeting-time to her. 
 
 So sang; then, merry, moved away. The last 
 Soft ripple of her hair went down the wind. 
 Song-hushed the meadows stood, till forth came 
 
 one 
 From fateful forest shade; treading the ground 
 
118 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Slie trod as sacred, walking where she walked. 
 Hart Willoughby stood victor in love's fight; 
 Not losing her, but the unworthiness 
 Which seeks what comes unsought. No beggar 
 
 he, 
 But royal in the strength that will not ask 
 That selfish which should be reciprocal; 
 Holding love high, degraded by demands; 
 Since rather seen in others than ourselves. 
 If all unseen, 'tis nursed at nature's cost. 
 
 Her "nay" meant never. Yet his love lived on. 
 Thro' bitterness and hate he lifted prayer 
 To see her happy, thinking how her talk 
 Told cousin love, the sailor often named. 
 Low eyes and tones revealing him she loved. 
 And then, " 'tis he she loves ; he wears her heart." 
 
WILLOUGHBT. 119 
 
 And tliouglit how men, 'though blind, may enter 
 
 heaven, 
 Living within the shadow of a truth 
 That is not truth to them; too sluggish bent 
 To ask if love be love, 'though it is theirs. 
 Then for her sake, he longed to greet him home, 
 And stir him to his thought, — rebellious oft, 
 And evermore renewed to the resolve 
 To serve his bitter end. 
 
 That has one name 
 Which, three-fold in degree, most masters men: 
 First. Passion, stirring to some mad delight 
 To die in its fruition; born of sense. 
 On dizzy heights to rise, then sink as deep. 
 Next, name for all, but only half the chord 
 That sweeps to love, oft dies on unstruck strings ; 
 
120 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Since wrougM too iine, self-blent, it turns to hate^ 
 
 Or dies when bodies die. Last, sympathy; 
 
 Outcome of faith, translated into love, 
 
 By alchemy of Life's experience. 
 
 Whereby we do not fall, but rise in love, 
 
 Not dipped in ether till we dig in soil, 
 
 Nor carrying star-lit eyes, until our feet 
 
 Walk worthily. It is not Destiny, 
 
 But 'Fate of higher reach men make themselves ; 
 
 Not bom in babes, nor told in astrologue. 
 
 But grown and lived and measured out to men. 
 
 As gods deal justice, with the niggard hand 
 
 Of wiser purpose; sealing all our souls; 
 
 Nor meant to die this side of the High Throne; 
 
 Some stamp of abnegation grown divine. 
 
 So had he loved, so little selfishly, 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 121 
 
 The thousand lovers had not known its name; 
 Making her wants his cross, most faithful worn, 
 Who held naught high enough for love to give; 
 The gain of it that he might die for her. 
 So he stood, hat lifted to the air she breathed, 
 Vibrant as with her voice, self-tortured, till 
 'Neath moistened lid lay light of victory; 
 His soul seemed lifted high on fm-nace flames. 
 Wherein Fate tried him, burning in his eyes, 
 'Till shone the conquering gold, and love thro' all. 
 
 And then 'neath pitying pines, his aimless tread 
 Was hushed on silky needles down the wood. 
 
 Wliat light lay low, what winds of welcome played, 
 To greet him home to her, brave Eobert Dale ! 
 Soft sounding thro' the summer afternoon 
 
122 ' WILLOUOHBT. 
 
 Came murmurous echoes from the mazy grass; 
 Where field-ward envious blades crossed velvet 
 
 s^vords, 
 Eimg toul'uey-like upon the laughing wind. 
 Most happy herald, Bob-o-Lincoln came, 
 Fence throned to clear his lusty throat; as glad 
 As ever schoolboy rampant in the fields. 
 Bright chaplets censer-like swung in the wind, 
 Of red and white on scented clover stems, 
 'Mid scarfs of dock and daisy looking down. 
 Where in the fall of that sweet afternoon 
 He stayed his steps, low talking of the years, 
 As 'twere an hour since they had met. 
 
 She heard 
 His story, bending eager eyes on his, 
 To compass times and scenes whereof he told; 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 123 
 
 Lit to liis joy, or growing unto tears. 
 
 And Avlien lie questioned of tlie passing years, 
 
 Noting how pale she grew to womanhood^ 
 
 She blushed nor answered; marking how he, too. 
 
 Seemed liper with a man's reserve of power; 
 
 So strong, or weak, to take life as it came. 
 
 Thus failing it might be, and too content 
 
 To wait the plainer issues of all things. 
 
 More weakness might have made liim strong; 
 
 such need, 
 As pricks the patience of too passive faith, 
 That so unsettles youth, and oft makes men 
 But puppets of uneasy circumstance, 
 He wanted ; — ^liolding kingdom of that calm 
 That Dante sang; self -centered to the peace 
 That neither hopes nor fears ; — in vale of smiles. 
 
124 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 Untortured by the trouble of the brook, 
 Or brow of mountain, angry with the stomi. 
 Few heights or depths; but such still even flow, 
 That made his life free as the ancient Greek's 
 Beneath the sky, bird-like, without a care. 
 Save when, Avrong-roused, the lion in him struck 
 For right; hateful of ease when battle came. 
 Serene he took love's joy, its name unknown, 
 As without thought of such sweet names. 
 
 To some, 
 Love comes like unexpected day from clouds, 
 Or light revealed in flashes of the storm. 
 To others, 'tis the process of the dawn; 
 No certain day, so gradual its approach. 
 Clouds melting into gold, till 'tis as if 
 The world were golden, though we know not why. 
 
WILLOUGHBY. 125 
 
 Sucli slower growth, tlie love of Robert Dale 
 Was rest, with no uncertainty; needing 
 A friend to speak, and set his heart aglow 
 With that one word, ^^Slie loves, and slie loves meP 
 
 Day followed day; dawn heralded in dreams. 
 
 Wherein she moved, and evenings coming on 
 
 In moods of silence, looking in her eyes, 
 
 When some long pathway led them to her home. 
 
 And oft alone while she was busy, round 
 
 The board, preparing evening cheer, he stole, 
 
 A sailor still, out on the noisy beach, 
 
 Whei'e murmurs sank on rocky lips to rest; 
 
 Or fateful o'er slow falling of the waves 
 
 Some night-sent wanderer shrieked and flew away. 
 
 Until from rifted edges of the clouds 
 
 The moon broke, startling that great waste. 
 
126 WILLOUGHBY. 
 
 So once, 
 Thinking himself alone, he walked and paused, 
 And oftenest pausing there, bent thoughtful brow ; 
 Till came another, silent, though self-called, 
 Nursing the hope that gave him Robert Dale, 
 Yet coward of his words. Thus all unseen. 
 Hart Willoughby stood by, and waiting stood, 
 Till thought broke shivering thro' the gates of 
 
 speech, 
 — Met sudden with distrust, just as the moon 
 Went rippling down the sea. 
 
 "Stai*t not, my friend; 
 The light misleads. Fairly I speak, as one 
 Dying 'twixt fateful words. A stranger here, 
 I grew the lover of your cousin Leigh, 
 —Forgive the name, I am her friend and yours, — 
 
WILLOUOHBT. 127 
 
 Till slie denied my hope, revealing you, 
 
 (Not naming names, since knowledge comes by 
 
 grief,) 
 Held dear to memoiy; — in wliom I wait 
 To see her life full rounded, ere 1 go 
 To Artist exile 'neath the roofs of Rome." 
 
 Then Robert Dale looked long, and weighed, as 
 
 men 
 Weigh, sifting sands of life ere they leap out 
 Into the shoals of speech, — then gave his hand. 
 Times come that make our words a mockery; 
 So silent up the sheeny strand they strode. 
 Joy spake in both, but 'twas a different joy; 
 One loud and easrer, like the bridal bells 
 In happy mornings; w^hen new bliss is old 
 As breath. Since, tuned to bliss in some lost 
 
 state, 
 
128 WILLOUOHBY. 
 
 We wear our joy as 'twere our native liue. 
 And one low undertone of duty done, 
 To haply melt in music all the years. 
 Till at her gate dim lighted by the glare 
 Of that one lamp far down the garden walk, 
 They parted. Then spoke Kobert Dale, and said, 
 
 "O friend, whose fi'iendship is so rare a thing, 
 Whose friend I am, though costing you so dear, 
 I have no speech, holding your words as gold, 
 And thanking you as endless debtors may. 
 Retlected in your deeds, all life looks gi*andi 
 To you I bow, abashed by such deep joy 
 As shames our j)oorer selves, and royal Eight 
 That overtops us in another's Avoe. 
 I make no talk. But through the common years 
 The mingled murmur of our thanks shall run." 
 
WILLOUOEBY. -^^^ 
 
 And tlien the other, . 
 
 "Blessing comes in her, 
 And will come while I know she lives. The 
 
 thought 
 That finds her happ}^, and this memory 
 Of days she gave me, makes her joy my own. 
 And then comes toil, foi-getfulness, and sleep. 
 Fare^vell. Such heaven be yours, as God's good 
 
 help 
 Behind your dealing shall have given to her." 
 
 "As Ocean }ields the treasure of her beds, 
 So you," the other said, "have torn the gem 
 Less worthy hands shall wear. And rarest gift 
 The giving of such costly sacrifice." 
 But ere he spoke, night closed 'round him who 
 heard, 
 
130 WILLOUOUBY. 
 
 Shut ill the gloom of some (juick passing cloud; 
 Wliile went the other into that sweet lijjht 
 Love trims on shiniug altars, where all night 
 Grew distant in the joy of lo^^ng eyes. 
 
 Then, too, the Moon hung golden at her full; 
 ^^^here, as she shone, the poorer shivering stars, 
 Thoui^h shinins^ still, behind the veil \vere hid.