PS 2669 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Shelf i' 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
MARGARET AND THE 
 SINGER'S STORY. 
 
\ 
 
MARGARET 
 
 THE SINGER'S STORY 
 
 EFFIE DOUGLASS PUTNAM 
 
 It 
 
 BOSTON 
 CUPPLES AND HURD 
 
 1888 
 
^5 % 1 1 1 
 
 Copyright, i888, 
 By CUPPLES AND HURD. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
MADEMOISELLE RHEA, 
 OTitfj 3Lobe anti *anitttrat{on, 
 
 THE NATURAL OUTGROWTH OF A LONG-TRIED 
 AND SYMPATHETIC FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 ARE MOST AFFECTIONATELY 
 
 IBetitcateti. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Margaret , . ii 
 
 Noonday 30 
 
 My Ships ..,,,. 32 
 
 Autumn 34 
 
 In Vain 36 
 
 To Merret 38 
 
 To Loretto 39 
 
 Sonnets 40 
 
 Easter Morning ...... 44 
 
 Poems . 47 
 
 Farewell to Rhea 50 
 
 Master and Poet 52 
 
 To HoRTENSE 54 
 
 Post Nubila Jubila 56 
 
 At Midnight 58 
 
 To M. S. 60 
 
 7 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Singer's Story 5j 
 
 Transplanted g^ 
 
 The Chancel Window gj 
 
 The Talisman oa 
 
 Acknowledgment 
 Hereafter . . 
 Only Glad . . 
 Bequests . . . . 
 Groping . . . 
 
 My Harp . . . . 
 
 90 
 93 
 94 
 96 
 98 
 102 
 
MARGARET AND THE 
 SINGER'S STORY. 
 
MARGARET. 
 
 Hard by a Berkshire village in the East, 
 Closed in by hills, and watered by clear 
 
 springs 
 And little streams that bubble to a froth 
 Within the busy mill-wheel's ceaseless 
 
 turn, 
 The workers in the quarry all day long 
 Are blasting marble from the mountain- 
 sides ; 
 And, through the dusky range of towering 
 
 hills, 
 The sharp sound of the hammer, and the 
 
 thud 
 Of falhng stone, are echoing. The men 
 Are blanched wath flying dust, and in the 
 
 sun 
 Their powdered garments glisten like 
 
 the dew 
 That shines upon the long grass in the 
 
 dyke. 
 
12 MARGARET, 
 
 Here lived and labored, with an honest 
 
 heart, 
 One Adrian Rood, of comely mien, and 
 
 strong ; 
 Proud in his bearing, he was ever kind. 
 And ever brave and daring to defend. 
 And all the village knew, respected him ; 
 Bespoke the maiden lucky who should 
 
 win 
 His manly heart, his snug possessions 
 
 too. 
 The home his father builded at the foot 
 Of a green hill. Here, when the day's 
 
 turmoil 
 Was ended, and the bells pealed forth, 
 
 and quick 
 The workmen flung their sledges down, 
 
 and took 
 Their weary way across the quiet street; 
 When the rich glory of the sunset flashed 
 Against the darkness of the mountain- 
 tops. 
 And mixed in mellow tints, in purple, 
 
 gold. 
 And crimson lights, — unto his sheltered 
 
 home, 
 Hid from the sun, and white amidst tall 
 
 trees, 
 
MARGARET. 1 3 
 
 Thick covered with crisp vines o'er porch 
 
 and door, 
 To where his frugal supper lay outspread, 
 Came Adrian Rood. 
 
 Then welcome was the cry 
 Of the good dame who poured the tea, 
 
 set out 
 The steaming dishes savory with plain 
 
 food, 
 And gossiped cheerily, — of his day's 
 
 work ; 
 And was he tired? Did he feel the heat, 
 She asked, of noonday? Would the 
 
 nightfall bring 
 The needed shower? — till the lad had 
 
 done, 
 And, dressed in tidy raiment, sauntered 
 
 out ; 
 While she, her housework over, sat her 
 
 down 
 And hummed some simple tune, the loud 
 
 click-clack 
 Of needles keeping time ; or hung upon 
 The gate, some neighbor telling, that 
 
 nowhere 
 In all the world a better son there was 
 Than Adrian Rood. 
 
 Close to their cottage lived 
 
14 MARGARET, 
 
 Laurence the miller, with his wife, their 
 
 child, 
 Fair Madge, and her own cousin Margaret, 
 Their sweet charge. Orphaned now for 
 
 many a year, 
 Alone, forsaken, on life's sea adrift, 
 They took her in ; and while she still was 
 
 one 
 In kindred with them, yet she thought 
 
 she was 
 A burden, made herself a veriest drudge 
 In compensation for the few bare wants 
 Which they supplied her. So, when 
 
 Adrian came 
 To chat with Laurence in the cool of 
 
 day, 
 She, the poor timid maiden, held aloof, 
 And in all things she gave the preference 
 To Madge. For she had heard the town- 
 folks say 
 That he came wooing: 'twas the father's 
 
 wish. 
 The mother's too, nor Adrian seemed 
 
 averse. 
 For, gayly clothed in holiday attire. 
 There lived no fairer maiden in the 
 
 town ; 
 And if she bore herself defiantly, 
 
MARGARET, 1 5 
 
 And tossed her head in consciousness of 
 
 charm, 
 In no way was it strange that Adrian 
 
 Rood 
 Should wish to woo the girl; for well to do 
 Was Laurence, and his child in time sole 
 
 heir 
 Would prove to comfortable estate. Yet 
 
 she, 
 Poor Margaret, grew to love unwittingly. 
 They did not know ; for in her heart she 
 
 locked 
 Her secret up, and held it there so safe 
 That e'en her cousin asked if she disliked 
 Their friend. At which she faltered an 
 
 excuse, — 
 A household duty had called her away, 
 Or she was ill or tired, any thing 
 Which likelier should make amends for 
 
 her 
 Withdrawing. But she often fancied still 
 That Adrian loved her too ; she felt his 
 
 voice 
 Was softer when he spoke to her, his 
 
 hand 
 At parting even had a warmer clasp 
 Than when he bade the other folk good- 
 night. 
 
l6 MARGARET, 
 
 And sometimes, as she sat and worked, 
 
 she knew 
 His eyes were on her; but she would not 
 
 look, 
 Or trust herself to meet inquiring gaze. 
 For had he not come hither but to see 
 Her cousin Madge ? and he was merely 
 
 kind 
 To her, she thought, — ah, humble Mar- 
 garet ! — 
 Because he pitied her : he'd do as much 
 For any homeless thing, — a poor lost bird 
 With broken wing, down fallen from its 
 
 nest. 
 He'd stop to soothe. And then she beat 
 
 her hands. 
 And quivering in her pain, she cried, " For 
 
 shame ! 
 For if he loves me, he loves Madge the 
 
 most.^' 
 Some children of the village came one 
 
 day 
 And hung about her, praying that she 
 
 would 
 Go with them into the neighboring wood 
 To gather flowers all the afternoon. 
 And sit beneath the trees and tell them 
 
 tales, 
 
MARGARET. 1/ 
 
 And eat the luncheon which they had 
 
 prepared. 
 And naught would do but she must go 
 
 with them, 
 Up the steep hills, and through the count- 
 less paths, 
 Knee-deep in grass, and fragrant to a 
 
 sense 
 Of sickness with the mandrake bloom ; 
 
 and oh 
 The cries that echoed through the wood ! 
 
 the gay 
 Loud laughter of the children at their 
 
 play. 
 The day was fully spent, and joyously, 
 When sweet a thousand blossoms, far 
 
 and near. 
 Had felt the thrill of Margaret's touch, 
 
 and lay 
 Piled up before her; and the twilight fell, 
 And birds on shady boughs had ceased 
 
 to sing, 
 Ere they had left the wood, each one to 
 
 take 
 The gladsome way that led unto her 
 
 home. 
 Then merrily came Margaret with her 
 
 flowers, 
 
1 8 MARGARET. 
 
 Great heaps of bluebells, and of violet 
 
 plants 
 And columbine, and tufts of maiden-hair; 
 But at the turning of the miller's lane 
 She started, for there stood Adrian 
 
 Rood. 
 And Margaret blushed that he should 
 
 find her thus 
 Bedecked, like a May Queen at festival: 
 For on her head the girls had weaved a 
 
 crown, 
 And there were strings of daisies round 
 
 her waist. 
 But there he waited, smiling as he 
 
 reached 
 To take the basket from her; and he 
 
 cried, 
 " Nay, Margaret, 'tis too heavy, and your 
 
 cheeks 
 Are flushed with walking. Give it me, 
 
 dear Meg, 
 And I will go with you unto the end 
 Of this long lane." And Margaret's 
 
 foolish heart 
 Beat violently when at the gate he paused 
 And hindered her from entering, as he 
 
 asked 
 A flower to keep in memory of this 
 
MARGARET, 1 9 
 
 Their pleasant walk. She trembling 
 
 plucked a rose, 
 And shyly gave it him. Without a word 
 She hurried up the little garden-path ; 
 And half the night she could not sleep, 
 
 but knelt 
 Beside her window wondering, and 
 
 breathed 
 The heavy fragrance from the lilac-tree, 
 In momentary joy of that great love 
 Which Adrian requited as she knew 
 By every look and word. Next day 
 
 about 
 Her uncle's house she moved distract- 
 edly, 
 Scarce saw the frown upon her cousin's 
 
 brow ; 
 For Madge waxed cold, and never spoke 
 
 to her, 
 Or helped her with the work as was her 
 
 wont. 
 Till Margaret questioned, fearing she 
 
 was ill, 
 And twined her arms around her cousin's 
 
 neck ; 
 At which Madge shook her off, and 
 
 stared at her 
 Indignant, saying, *' 'Tis a pretty way 
 
20 MARGARET. 
 
 You have, oh yes, a very pretty way ! 
 
 But you may keep it to yourself, your 
 words 
 
 And fawning sweetness for Adrian 
 Rood. 
 
 I'll none of them. A very traitor's kiss 
 
 Is this which you have given." And 
 Margaret 
 
 Stood, not knowing what she heard, till 
 the voice 
 
 Of Mistress Laurence shrill and loud 
 broke forth 
 
 In angered tone. '' And so, niece Mar- 
 garet, 
 
 What game is this you play ? The beg- 
 gared child 
 
 That I took in and cared for as my own, 
 
 You fix a try sting-place to meet the man 
 
 Your cousin was to wed, and then come 
 back 
 
 And sleep in peace beneath our honest 
 roof. 
 
 What recompense is this, deceiving 
 minx ? " 
 
 Then the pale girl, deep injured, like a 
 queen 
 
 Rose up, and looking in their faces, cried 
 
 " Nay, aunt, nay, cousin, but you do amiss 
 
MARGARET. 21 
 
 To censure like to this without a cause ; 
 For, as I live, I knew not Adrian Rood 
 Would meet me from the woodland com- 
 ing home. 
 In sooth, you know I would not be untrue 
 To you, to Madge, or still to him who 
 
 loves 
 Your daughter." She turned as if to 
 
 leave them, 
 But close upon the threshold stood the 
 
 form 
 Of Adrian Rood ; and Margaret, seeing 
 
 him, 
 Crept back, and hid her tearful face within 
 Her hands. Lo ! a deep silence fell, nor 
 
 broke 
 Till the brave lad stepped forward ; and 
 
 he spake, 
 *^ Forgive me that I heard, unseen, my 
 
 name, 
 And heard it wrongfully accused, Hke that 
 Poor child, whose honest word you hear 
 
 shall be 
 Confirmed by mine. I own that I did 
 
 meet 
 The maiden in the lane, vet she nor I 
 Had fixed the hour or named a trysting- 
 
 place ; 
 
22 MARGARET, 
 
 And if we had, what then ? I say, what 
 
 then ? 
 Since not to any one am I beholden. 
 But His meet I know the accusation ; 
 For I have come this very night to ask 
 The girl in marriage, not Madge, but 
 
 Margaret." 
 And not a word said they ; nay, not a 
 
 sound. 
 Except the flutter of a night bat's wings 
 As it flew past the window, could be 
 
 heard. 
 They were perplexed, dumb - stricken 
 
 every one. 
 As Adrian's voice resounded in the room. 
 " Come, Margaret, your answer : speak it 
 
 out! 
 I cannot dally with fine words, or frame 
 In pretty speech the love I bear for you; 
 But I'll be true and tender to the last, 
 If you will only wed me, Margaret.'' 
 " If I could die, if I could only die ! " 
 The poor girl thought, as looking up she 
 
 saw 
 Her cousin weeping ; for she knew that 
 
 Madge, 
 In spite of all, had loved the young man 
 
 well. 
 
MARGARET, 23 
 
 But straightway she went near to where 
 
 he stood, 
 And took his hand, and kissed it as she 
 
 said, 
 " I always knew you had a noble heart. 
 And much I thank you for the part you 
 
 take 
 In my behalf; but while I honor you 
 Past all compare, respect, ay, love you 
 
 too. 
 Yet not enough to wed you, Adrian Rood." 
 Then she dropped down before him in a 
 
 swoon. 
 He raised her up, and tenderly he brushed 
 The waving hair back from her face, and 
 
 sighed 
 To see her there so still, and white, and 
 
 cold ; 
 And turning to the others, in hoarse voice 
 He bade them look to her, and staggered 
 
 out 
 Into the night, a sad and hopeless man. 
 Madge clung to Margaret, and she sobbed 
 
 aloud, . 
 " Oh, sweet my cousin, I have done you 
 
 ill; 
 But speak to me and say that you for- 
 give ! " 
 
24 MARGARET. 
 
 And Margaret faintly answered, " I for 
 
 give." 
 Then ever as before they labored on 
 About the miller's household as of yore. 
 Yet never shone the face of Adrian 
 
 Rood 
 Upon his neighbor's porch as in old 
 
 time, 
 And never in their midst his name was 
 
 spoke, 
 For something in the look of Margaret's 
 
 eye 
 Forbade it. Yet she smiled again, and 
 
 went 
 About her duty uncomplainingly. 
 But once alone, shut in her silent room. 
 The burden of her seeming she cast off, 
 And wept that Adrian should live to 
 
 think 
 Himself unloved. She could not see a 
 
 hope 
 To cheer her on ; and thus a year went 
 
 by, 
 
 And in the heated term the village was 
 O'ertaken by a plague, a dread disease, 
 A fever, that so swiftly spread, it swept 
 Away whole families. And Margaret 
 went 
 
MARGARET. 2$ 
 
 And watched beside the sick, and cared 
 for them. 
 
 And when they chid her for her reckless- 
 ness 
 
 In braving the contagion at its height, 
 
 And strove to hold her from the frightful 
 
 ill, 
 
 She prayed they would but leave her to 
 
 her peace ; 
 For if she died there surely was no 
 
 loss. 
 And then no selfish thought could hold 
 
 her from 
 The right of doing good. So through 
 
 the rank, 
 Polluted air of that grim pestilence 
 She ventured, till herself was stricken 
 
 low. 
 It was at harvest-time ; yet the ripe grain 
 In its full beauty lay untouched. The 
 
 sky 
 In dreamy blue looked down on stinted 
 
 growth 
 Of corn that shimmered in the breath of 
 
 hot 
 Noonday; and ruthlessly the lilies were 
 Destroyed, dried up amongst the seedy 
 
 grass 
 
26 MARGARET. 
 
 And weeds in quantity. No reaper's 
 voice 
 
 Came joyous from the field, for every- 
 where 
 
 Within the little town there was a sad 
 
 Home-comingo Then upon her humble 
 couch 
 
 They laid poor Margaret down, and 
 tenderly 
 
 Through many weary nights were vigi- 
 lant. 
 
 But ever and anon, without a pause. 
 
 Deliriously she called for Adrian Rood ; 
 
 And they, not willing to refuse her aught, 
 
 Were loath to let her die unsatisfied. 
 
 So Madge made sacrifice of foolish 
 pride, 
 
 And set in search, and found him as he 
 came 
 
 At evening from working in the quarry. 
 
 He paled a little when he saw the girl 
 
 Her doleful message speaking, and he 
 heard 
 
 As in a dream that Margaret wished for 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, come ! " cried Madge ; " our cousin 
 lies beyond 
 
 All hope of cure. Be noble now as you 
 
MARGARET. 2/ 
 
 Have been. In Heaven's name, for- 
 give ! " Said he, 
 " There's nothing to forgive, but I will 
 
 go." 
 Then silently together through the street. 
 Unto the house, and up the narrow 
 
 stair, 
 They entered in the chamber where she 
 
 tossed. 
 So thin and worn that Adrian knew her 
 
 not. 
 She was so changed. But softly he drew 
 
 near 
 And took her hand, a frail and shrunken 
 
 one, 
 And pressed his lips upon it. She 
 
 looked up. 
 And seeing him she whispered, "You 
 
 have come, 
 And it is well ; for here upon my heart 
 Is something which burns me for the 
 
 keeping." 
 And when he gently told her not to 
 
 talk, 
 She seemed so weak, she smiling an- 
 swered him, 
 " Oh, let me speak ! " And while the 
 
 sun's last rays 
 
28 MARGARET. 
 
 A halo formed to luminate her face, 
 She said that she had loved him from the 
 
 first; 
 That even when she let him go away 
 Refused, when he had wished to marry 
 
 her, 
 She loved him most. She felt it was her 
 
 right, 
 Since now she lay a-dying (so she 
 
 thought), 
 To tell him all, since Madge was pledged 
 
 to wed 
 A young man of the town at Easter- 
 time. 
 Then she sank back exhausted ; but her 
 
 eyes 
 Were fixed on him until the darkness 
 
 came, 
 And when the morning broke in rosy 
 
 light 
 Above the vine-clad hills, and she awoke, 
 He still was lingering there with anxious 
 
 heart. 
 
 Though weary weeks went by without a 
 
 change, 
 The maiden did not die. She lived to 
 
 pluck 
 
MARGARET, 29 
 
 May blossoms with the children, now her 
 
 own, 
 For many happy years ; and Adrian's 
 
 pride 
 Is his sweet wife, whose name is 
 
 Margaret. 
 
NOONDAY. 
 
 I HEAR a bird, sweet singing near its nest, 
 And see the sunshine on the water's 
 breast, 
 
 And sit among the grasses tall and high, 
 That hold their clustered heads up to the 
 sky. 
 
 I see a butterfly on a pale flower, 
 That droops its head in this bright noon- 
 day hour. 
 
 Not far beyond this meadow-land of green, 
 'Neath shady trees that sometimes inter- 
 vene, 
 
 A cattle herd stands grazing in content. 
 In clover pastures, rich with blossoms 
 spent ; 
 
 30 
 
NOONDAY, 31 
 
 And to the east the beach's whitening 
 
 sands, 
 With quiet sea that leads to distant lands. 
 
 Cool, in defiance of the glittering sun, 
 The little craft sail outward, one by one. 
 
 Ah, noon of life ! meridian of day ! 
 Would thou were sweet and bright as this 
 alway ! 
 
MY SHIPS. 
 
 How many ships have I sailed out to sea, 
 Bound with fond hopes for undiscovered 
 
 lands, 
 Tossing on waves no seaman understands ! 
 Who stops to listen to philosophy? 
 Who thinks of storm winds, or the power 
 
 that strands 
 Our freighted ships on lonely foreign 
 
 lands, 
 Or wrecks them — sinks them deep and 
 
 hopelessly? 
 
 heartless gales ! by what foul strategy 
 Burst thou the grappling of the iron 
 
 bands 
 That girt the proud ship that belonged to 
 me ? 
 
 1 stood upon the shore but yesterday, 
 And waved God-speed to that fair-laden 
 
 bark; 
 32 
 
MY SHIPS. 33 
 
 But all last night, though I did weep and 
 
 pray, 
 The sea grew furious, and the sky grew 
 
 dark. 
 Rudderless and anchorless, she sank 
 
 away — 
 No lighthouse gleaming with a warning 
 
 spark — 
 And all my coined merchandise to pay 
 My heart's creditor, was lost in the dark. 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 Leaves tremble overhead, then under- 
 neath, 
 
 With silken sound and aromatic breath. 
 
 Fall to earth, making bright contrast with 
 all 
 
 The slender reeds, the purple thistle- 
 blow, 
 
 And darkly tinted grasses in the dike. 
 
 Then grow the evenings longer, and the 
 days 
 
 Wax short; and, from the burning brush, 
 the smoke 
 
 Curls gracefully, like incense in a church. 
 
 The best, most glorious temple, gilded 
 far 
 
 With a supreme adornment everywhere, 
 
 The world, disrobed of her charms, goes 
 back 
 
 To gardens bare, and naked trees, to sleep 
 34 
 
AUTUMN. 35 
 
 'Neath frosty sheen, with just enough of 
 
 life 
 To show she does but sleep, and soon 
 
 will wake 
 And smile again, so sure the promise 
 
 given, 
 Into a sunny springtime ladened fair. 
 
IN VAIN. 
 
 I HEARD a bird, with golden wing, 
 
 Sing in the poplar-tree. 
 I longed to catch the quivering thing, 
 
 And all its melody. 
 
 But soon the feathery songster fled, 
 And skimmed the meadowy lea ; 
 
 And all the singing birds he led 
 Away, away from me. 
 
 The sun shone down in golden streams 
 
 Upon my cottage floor. 
 I tried to stay the shining beams. 
 
 To keep them evermore. 
 
 Straightway the sun sank out of sight, 
 The shadows gathered thick, 
 
 And left me in the dreary night 
 Alone, sore-hearted, sick. 
 36 
 
IN VAIN. 37 
 
 And once beside the sea I stood, 
 The moonlight shining down 
 
 On white waves in the murmVing flood, 
 And seaweeds salt and brown. 
 
 And, oh ! I cried for joy to see, 
 
 Upon the sandy beach, 
 A pearl of priceless rarity 
 
 Within my easy reach. 
 
 In hideous mockery, the tide 
 
 Came in with ravenous roar ; 
 And now will restless waters hide 
 
 The pearl forevermore. 
 
TO MERRET. 
 
 Little friend, there is a flower, 
 
 Unsullied by a darksome spot, 
 Purest that grows in earthly bower. 
 
 Sweetest emblem of holy thought. 
 Ever looking up towards Heaven, 
 
 Youthful hearts it seems to tell, 
 Let thy life to truth be given, 
 
 All thou dost shall be done well. 
 In thy soul, then, dearest Merret, 
 
 Thou must keep it, boldly wear it, 
 Shining forth in all its brightness. 
 
 Living fresh in snowy whiteness. 
 Tell me, shall thine emblem be 
 
 A lily pure and fair to see ? 
 38 
 
TO LORETTO. 
 
 What though the critics hesitate thy 
 
 praise, 
 And on the faces of thy canvas throw 
 But careless glance ; or if in passing 
 
 raise 
 Broad hint, dislike to shape or size, or 
 
 glow 
 Of color in thy work which speaks the 
 
 soul, 
 Lo ! 'gainst God's handiwork some 
 
 mortal cries, 
 And none alike sees beauty as a whole ; 
 Though be it mote or tear in other eyes, 
 We know not, but the difference is. O 
 
 thou 
 With consecrated life, free given to Art, 
 Live full thy promise ! Let the years 
 
 endow, 
 Nor from thy task let faithful soul depart. 
 
 39 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 The buds were bursting from the linden- 
 trees, 
 
 And over all the land the sun shone 
 down, 
 
 And, flitting through the brushwood 
 thick and brown, 
 
 The robins built and sung. The April 
 breeze 
 
 The violets moved on their low bended 
 knees. 
 
 Hearts thrilled with joy and peace, and 
 love new grown ; 
 
 And the prolific seed of life was sown 
 
 In every nook, in wild, sweet melo- 
 dies 
 
 Along the stream, or 'cross the meadow 
 blown. 
 40 
 
SONNETS. 41 
 
 '-'- Good-by," he said, and smiled e'en as 
 
 he spake ; 
 And I, so sure of all things best for 
 
 him, 
 Smiled back, and said, " Good-by ; " for 
 
 his dear sake 
 I smiled, nor would not let my eyes grow 
 
 dim. 
 Although my soul's best portion was at 
 
 stake. 
 
 *^ God loves the good." He proves by 
 
 death and pain 
 The measure of that love, while life is 
 
 young, 
 And all its sweetest music is unsung. 
 He robs the fields of ripening golden 
 
 grain, 
 And leaves the thistle growing in the 
 
 lane. 
 O gentle Christ, forgive ! My soul has 
 
 clung 
 To his soul's garments the long years 
 
 among. 
 Now 'gainst my pahng cheeks the tear- 
 drops rain, 
 And o'er the midnight not a star is hung 
 
42 SONNETS, 
 
 To lead me through the darksome paths 
 
 alone. 
 In vain I strive the misty veil to move, 
 Which Death between our visages has 
 
 thrown ; 
 But even as I pray my strength to prove, 
 I prostrate fall, face downward — with a 
 
 moan. 
 
 III. 
 
 Life hurries on to May, and silently 
 The gentle spring grows old, and as I 
 
 plod 
 The wood-paths all alone, the heavy sod 
 Lies deep above those self-same hands 
 
 that I 
 Did kiss and cling to in that last " good- 
 
 by." 
 Up the steep hill I climb, with feet 
 
 unshod, 
 While he rests happy in the fold of 
 
 God. 
 Surely, dear heart, 'tis not so hard to 
 
 die, 
 As to live on beneath the chastening rod. 
 O my beloved ! turn to me once more 
 With that calm light upon thy tender 
 
 face, 
 
SONNETS. 43 
 
 And with thy love the dull, dark days 
 
 bridge o'er, 
 Which e'en the tomb breaks through in 
 
 its embrace. 
 And rolls the great stone backward from 
 
 the door. 
 
EASTER MORNING. 
 
 I HAD not marked the season, but to 
 
 count 
 Time backward, for my weary heart was 
 
 sad, 
 And measured hours by records of deep 
 
 loss. 
 So when the chapel chimes rang joyfully. 
 And made the south wind tremble in a 
 
 voice 
 Of common gladsome praise, that seemed 
 
 to thrill 
 All living things alike, I asked, '' Where- 
 fore 
 This loud acclaim of bells ? " They 
 
 answered me, 
 " The Lord is risen ! " 
 
 As I looked abroad, 
 The new-ploughed ground smelt freshly 
 from the fields, 
 44 
 
EASTER MORNING. 45 
 
 And flowers pale, upheaved amidst young 
 
 grass. 
 Earth seemed to catch the meaning of 
 
 the day 
 In resurrected Hfe. Leaves struggled 
 
 forth ; 
 And tender buds upon the cherry-tree, 
 Decked in white robes and fair, braved 
 
 early death 
 By a too sudden joy. The eastern light 
 Fell golden o'er the sea, and kissed the 
 
 brook 
 In its long woodland run. The cottage 
 
 door 
 Swung open, and I wandered out, and 
 
 felt 
 My tired feet sink down in the cool 
 
 sod. 
 
 " Behold ! " I thought, '' am I alone so 
 
 sad 
 I cannot join in this loud hymn of praise 
 To the new-risen Christ whose empty 
 
 grave 
 Is the sweet promise of eternity ? 
 Shall I indeed surrender up to grief. 
 And think of dear ones in their winding- 
 sheets. 
 
46 EASTER MORNING, 
 
 When glory-garmented the Lord comes 
 
 forth 
 And rolls the great stone backward from 
 
 the tomb ? " 
 
 I turned my face toward the distant hills, 
 Where our beloved, in his new-made 
 
 grave, 
 Lies 'neath the shadow of their verdant 
 
 tops, 
 And with fresh hope of re-awakened life, 
 I straightway wept, resigned, and cried, 
 
 '' Amen ! '' 
 
They ask me, dearest, why I love thee, 
 
 thou 
 Whose fortune is so meagre, and whose 
 
 name 
 Is ranked among the losers of life's 
 
 game. 
 Fond heart, I would that I might tell 
 
 them how 
 I read my fate, writ plain upon thy brow. 
 And felt at thy hand's touch a thrilling 
 
 flame 
 Shoot through my being, and the world 
 
 became 
 Transfigured all — but this I do avow, 
 The love that measures out its wealth is 
 
 tame. 
 The world is naught, love, w^ere I lost to 
 
 thee ; 
 The plaudits of the crowd, the laurels 
 
 WTOUght 
 
 A feverish brilliance that could never 
 free 
 
 47 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 The weary dimness of my soul, — ah! 
 
 naught 
 But desolation would it bring to me. 
 
 II. 
 
 When I was kneeling heath cathedral 
 
 dome, 
 And the lights glimmered from the altar's 
 
 height, 
 The acolyte and priest in garments white 
 Chanted the anthems of the Church of 
 
 Rome, 
 And prayed aloud amidst the evening 
 
 gloam. 
 The lofty organ swelled with glorious 
 
 sound, 
 Vibrating sweet with voices from the 
 
 choir. 
 I hfted up my eyes and peered around, 
 And through the smoke of holy incense 
 
 fire. 
 They chanced upon thy face with haio 
 
 crowned. 
 What if our hands did steal across and 
 
 meet 
 In quick, convulsive grasp ? God knows, 
 
 I say, 
 
POEMS, 49 
 
 It is the best way, dear, to thus repeat 
 Our souls' passionate love-vows when we 
 pray. 
 
 III. 
 
 Why should my spirit lose its sacred fire 
 By absence, O my dearest one ! from 
 
 thee ? 
 What though thy face serene I cannot see, 
 My soul's true faith in thee shall never 
 
 tire. 
 That will which ministers to all shall be 
 To lift us gently from this lowly mire 
 Of discontent, O love ! and bring us 
 
 higher 
 Unto each other, life-star, thou and me. 
 And loose our wild hearts from their 
 
 cage of wire ! 
 Be young, thou saidst; oh ! let our love be 
 
 young, 
 Let summer die, and let the autumn come. 
 Let winter, with his icy mantle flung 
 On every tender bush and tree, hush 
 
 dumb 
 The merry song-birds that so joyous 
 
 swung 
 Upon their boughs ! O love, my love, be 
 
 young ! 
 
FAREWELL TO RHEA. 
 
 Will you pause in your fame's fullest 
 
 glory, 
 Unrivalled, unexcelled Alcyone ? 
 And hide with swifter movement than we 
 
 dreamed 
 The sweet translucent beauties that have 
 
 gleamed 
 Full on our souls, and w^on them each 
 
 and all, 
 And let the curtain veil you as a pall. 
 Too soon dropped down before the vision 
 
 fair 
 Of Art's own majesty enthroned there. 
 In sooth, the mellowed accents of your 
 
 voice 
 Shall ring through darkness, making hearts 
 
 rejoice, 
 And eyes that you have gladdened can- 
 not stay 
 
 50 
 
FAREWELL TO RHEA. 5 1 
 
 Unmindful of the light they do obey ; 
 For, lady, there shall sparkle near and 
 
 far 
 The reflex brilliance of our favorite star. 
 
MASTER AND POET. 
 
 A MASTER stood beside a youth one day, 
 And bade him write ; and marking out 
 
 the length 
 And rhythm of his verse, and theme and 
 
 rhyme, 
 Drew limits, and made margin to his 
 
 page. 
 And spake, "Note, thou : A-weary is the 
 
 world 
 Of these sad songs : dejected hopes and 
 
 fears 
 Make doleful sound ; and if a poet thou 
 Indeed must be, let beauty's quiet charm 
 And the sweet scent of flowers breathe 
 
 thro' thy verse." 
 Forthwith the youth sang out in praise 
 
 of birds 
 And blossoms and of gay young things : 
 
 he laughed, 
 52 
 
MASTER AND POET. 53 
 
 He danced, he flung him on the green, 
 
 he spent 
 His force in cheering; but the world 
 
 went by. 
 One morn, when moved by some strong 
 
 power in him, 
 He wrote of love and lovers, and he 
 
 sighed ; 
 And, plucking from its stem a crimson 
 
 rose, 
 He vowed it was a hateful thing, whose 
 
 thorns 
 Stung deep ; he railed at Fortune, and he 
 
 moaned 
 His fate, and cried, '^Ah, woe is me!" 
 
 and wept. 
 Then was the master's margin overleaped. 
 And all the page discolored by his tears. 
 Perplexed meanings hurried thro' one line 
 Of that forbidden usage of his gift. 
 But even as the master frowned on him, 
 A shout went up, and from its length and 
 
 breadth 
 The w^orld acknowledged and proclaimed 
 
 him sreat. 
 
TO HORTENSE. 
 
 God gives no sweeter gift than which 
 
 thou hast, — 
 The power to move the soul and moist 
 
 the eye, 
 To gladden and make joyous with thy 
 
 smile, 
 More grateful than a glimpse of summer 
 
 sky. 
 'Tis not thy name alone is great: thy 
 
 worth 
 Looms greater far; and while the laurel 
 
 wreathes 
 Thy brow, it does not check the hand 
 
 that seeks 
 To render love the only crown life needs. 
 Queen, artist, friend, and woman above all, 
 With face Madonna-like, and soul of fire, 
 Whereat we gather, and are warmed and 
 
 cheered, 
 54 
 
TO HO R TENSE. 55 
 
 And lifted up to spheres, transfigured 
 
 higher. 
 Let others call thee great, I'll say thou'rt 
 
 good, 
 With prodigal acceptance of the claim 
 To genius, merit, art, and all things best, 
 Which God hath granted with thy spot- 
 less fame. 
 
POST NUBILA JUBILA. 
 
 The silly bird upon the tree-top there 
 Would loudly sing, altho' his mate were 
 
 dead ; 
 Would chirp upon the bush whence she 
 
 had fled, 
 And hop about, content, nor seem to care, 
 And pick the brightest berries everywhere. 
 I've seen a child at play by a death-bed, 
 Cooing and laughing while the prayers 
 
 were said. 
 "Hush it!" they whispered; but I did 
 
 not dare 
 To lay my hand across the golden hair, 
 And crown the first woe on that baby 
 
 head. 
 I could not say, " Child, laugh no more, 
 
 but weep. 
 And learn what death is ere thou knowest 
 
 life." 
 Nay, little one, play on, for grief will creep 
 56 
 
POST NUBILA JUBILA, 57 
 
 Upon thee later in this field of strife, 
 Thy curls the sunshine will not always 
 keep. 
 
 Man is inconstant to his griefs amassed ; 
 Sorrows grown old and fading with the 
 
 past, 
 The darkness he hath known, the rain, 
 
 the wind, 
 The faith which he hath lost in human 
 
 kind, 
 The salt of bitter tears, the tempest blast, 
 The ships of freighted hopes at random 
 
 cast, 
 The tender clasp of hands with his in- 
 twined, 
 Multitudinous aches of heart and mind. 
 And wreck of happy hours too fair to last 
 Wax dim within the years he leaves 
 
 behind. 
 O bird ! O child ! O man ! weak-hearted, 
 
 vain, 
 Behold ! ye are alike proportionate 
 In warmth of constant love and lasting 
 
 pain ; 
 And even death doth prove subordinate 
 To that new love which blossoms out 
 
AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 While on the hearth the embers die 
 away, 
 And the light flickers from the ill-fed 
 lamp, 
 And shadows sad among the ashes gray 
 Move to and fro with noiseless, weary 
 tramp ; 
 
 While through the broken pane the tem- 
 pest sighs, 
 And my steps falter on unsteady floor, — 
 Shades of departed joys around me rise, 
 With one dear face that smiles on me 
 no more ; 
 
 With one sweet voice that thrills of trans- 
 port gave. 
 Now silent as the grass beneath the 
 snow, — 
 58 
 
A T MIDNIGHT, 5 9 
 
 As heedless to my heart-cries as the grave 
 Are all these shadows moving to and 
 fro. 
 
 Oh ! if 'twere mine, beloved one, but mine 
 To feel thy hand within mine own hand 
 steal 
 Across the waste of youth, that border- 
 line 
 That marks the awful darkness where 
 I kneel, 
 
 I'd die content, with one warm look from 
 thee. 
 
 And feel it good to be recalled above. 
 And soar from earth into eternity, 
 
 A victim, dearest, to exceeding love. 
 
TO M. S. 
 
 (Written on the fly-leaf of George Eliot's " Spanish 
 Gypsy.") 
 
 I WOULD that you might read the Spanish 
 
 tale 
 Writ here of poor Fedalma, and drink free 
 Its vintage sparkling up like fire, nor fail 
 Again to fill the goblet bounteously. 
 For there are books (and this is one) we 
 
 read 
 And read again, gaining anew each time 
 Appliances of good whose beauteous seed 
 Prolific blossoms in supernal rhyme. 
 Life owns no loftier aim than authorship, 
 Nor any one a worthier book than this. 
 Herewith I sign my name, and only dip 
 Into the ink to add, your friend it is 
 The giver of the book, — your friend and 
 
 his, 
 
 Don Silva's. 
 60 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. 
 
 Oh come with me to Devon by the sea ! 
 Where England's beauty holds a power 
 
 complete, 
 Where waters ripple thro' the woods and 
 
 lea, 
 Where leafy tongues of bush and tree 
 
 repeat 
 The sweetest poem written 'neath the sky. 
 Of peaceful nature smiling up to God, 
 Of elm and oak tree growing thick and 
 
 high, 
 And tufts of emerald-green that grace the 
 
 sod. 
 And thou wilt see the well-kept English 
 
 lawns, 
 The sloping hills, and even, smooth-beat 
 
 roads ; 
 
 The wide-spread parks, where gentle, 
 
 meek-eyed fawns 
 
 6i 
 
62 THE SINGER'S STORY. 
 
 Skip gleefully; the barns, where heavy 
 
 loads 
 Of ripened grain the busy harvesters 
 
 bring 
 Are stored away ; the beds where migno- 
 nette 
 And marigolds and crimson poppies swing 
 Their drowsy heads ; the quiet lanes beset 
 With star-like blossoms blinking at the 
 
 sun, 
 And full of fragrance sweet beyond com- 
 pare. 
 We'll go to England, dear, beloved one, 
 And rest among the clustered hillocks 
 
 there. 
 'Twas there my father closed his weary 
 
 eyes 
 In silent sleep of death (my mother said), 
 For, dear, it happened all before the skies 
 So dull and gray looked down on me. I 
 
 dread 
 To contemplate my mother's bitter pang 
 In giving life to me, while far away 
 My father lay, whose funeral bell rang 
 Mournfully, two months before the day 
 That I was born. I had two sisters, — 
 
 Kate 
 Was the younger, a comely little maid, 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. 63 
 
 Who romped with me, and was my sole 
 
 playmate 
 On village green or 'neath the orchard 
 
 shade ; 
 Then Alice, elder by five years, whose face 
 Grew pale with longing, as I heard them 
 
 say, 
 For one who held within her heart a place 
 Too high for idols that are made of clay. 
 And she lies dead in England, loving heart. 
 Too tender for the biting, wintry frosts 
 Of this hard work-day world. Her life's 
 
 best part 
 Was brief, like love itself. (We know 
 
 the costs 
 Of life, we souls that love.) God gave 
 
 her rest ; 
 
 Death folded up the slender hands that lie 
 
 Serenely crossed upon her maiden breast, 
 
 Deep hidden from the reach of mortal eye. 
 
 One bright June morn we left the 
 
 English coast, — 
 My mother, Kate, and I, — away to sail 
 From old familiar haunts that proudly 
 
 boast 
 The wealth of centuries. 
 
 " My Kate is pale : 
 A change of air may bring the roses back. 
 
64 THE SINGER'S STORY, 
 
 My boy is ill," my patient mother said. 
 '* We'll cross the ocean, tho' our heart- 
 strings crack 
 To leave behind us England and our 
 
 dead." 
 I well remember when we landed here. 
 The bustle of the people hastening by 
 Filled me with terror, and full many a 
 
 tear 
 Coursed down my cheeks. *' Ah, well-a- 
 
 day ! " thought I, 
 " 'Tis not so fair as Devon ; I love it 
 
 not ! " 
 And, clinging wildly to my mother's knee, 
 I sighed for home, and vainly, vainly 
 
 sought 
 To scan the sea that lay 'twixt it and me. 
 Here on these shores began the gloomy 
 
 days 
 And nights, with storm-winds whistling 
 
 shrill and loud ; 
 Our mother toiHng, but in fruitless ways, 
 To drive away the hungry wolves that 
 
 crowd 
 Against the door of that poor, helpless 
 
 soul. 
 Who, coming friendless unto foreign 
 
 lands, 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. 65 
 
 Looks upon death, and hears the burial 
 
 toll 
 Of all her happiness, and hopeless stands 
 Despairing. So went by the summer 
 
 days. 
 Till regal Autumn and her courtiers came 
 To steep the land with crimson dyes 
 
 ablaze, 
 Alike on bush and tree and ground the 
 
 same. 
 I cannot tell thee when I learned to 
 
 sing. 
 'Twas ere I knew the meaning of the 
 
 words 
 I scarce could speak, sweet tones re- 
 echoing 
 Untutored, like the golden-winged birds. 
 " Marvellous ! " they cried, who listened 
 
 unto me. 
 'Twas strange, they said, so young, so 
 
 frail a form, 
 So small a throat, could hold such melody. 
 These were our neighbors, who, thro' 
 
 evenings warm. 
 Would sit outside to listen to my song, 
 And with their plaudits generous and 
 
 loud 
 Would startle me, while, clambering along 
 
66 THE SINGER'S STORY. 
 
 The window-sill, the little ones would 
 
 crowd. 
 When times grew worse with us, in hope- 
 fulness 
 I struggled as I could in humble ways 
 To help my mother out of her distress 
 By little songs and merry roundelays, 
 That I would softly steal away to sing 
 In crowded street or busy market-place ; 
 Glad to the very soul of me to bring 
 An end to hunger and its chill embrace. 
 One morn, beside the open window 
 singing, 
 Half to myself, a quaint old English 
 
 song, 
 I watched the sunshine in the East up- 
 springing. 
 And flocks of birds that southward flew 
 
 along ; 
 And as I sat there, with my sad eyes 
 
 straining 
 Out to the sky beyond the yellow trees, 
 My voice commingled with the low com- 
 plaining 
 Of dying summer borne upon the breeze. 
 No ears for muflled footsteps on the 
 
 walk 
 Beneath my open window near the street, 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY, 6/ 
 
 Nor eyes for finger silencing the talk 
 
 Of passers-by. 
 
 How many paths are beat 
 
 To narrow ways that lead to daily work ! 
 
 I lay my hand upon my heart and think, 
 
 O God, my God ! of all the ills that lurk 
 
 To drag souls downward to a sinful brink. 
 Just then upon the window-sill a hand 
 
 Touched mine, and rays of sunshine lu- 
 mined bright 
 
 On kind Roberto's face. (I understand 
 
 The meaning of a messenger of light.) 
 
 " Have the birds, my little one, been 
 teaching thee," 
 
 He said, *' some fragment of their tender- 
 est song? 
 
 Where hast thou learned to quote so 
 perfectly 
 
 The language of that gayly-feathered 
 throng ? 
 
 Thou hast been stealing from the night- 
 ingale. 
 
 That sings the night thro' on the rose- 
 bush tree, 
 
 Some tender ditty or some lovelorn tale. 
 
 Sweet bird, svvcet bird, I prithee answer 
 me." 
 " I never had a teacher, sir," said I, 
 
68 THE SINGER'S STORY. 
 
 " Not even 'mongst the birds, nor ever 
 
 heard 
 The nightingales in melody soar high, 
 Nor pilfered from the rights of man or 
 
 bird, — 
 Not I ; tho' I have watched birds on the 
 
 wing, 
 And sighed for just their power to fly 
 
 some day 
 So very far from every living thing. 
 My hfe is dreary, and heaven's so far 
 
 away ! " 
 Then moved by something in his face 
 
 and way. 
 And kindly speech : " Roberto is a 
 
 friend," 
 Thought I, ''to trust, and unto him I'll 
 
 pray 
 To bring this weary conflict to an end : 
 The angels hear no longer what I say." 
 
 I joined Roberto on the street outside ; 
 
 He led me thro' the crowded thorough- 
 fare, 
 
 And paused before a house whose portal 
 wide 
 
 Flew open as he knocked and entered 
 there. 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. 69 
 
 There sat a man, a book upon his knee, 
 With face refined and full of sympathy, 
 Turning the printed pages leisurely. 
 Roberto entered hand in hand with me. 
 Then from the crimson cushions of his 
 
 chair 
 The stranger rose and spake, " Whom 
 
 have we here ? " 
 And stroked his hand across my sunny 
 
 hair, 
 And smiled on him with warmth who 
 
 brought me there. 
 ''Good Florio," Roberto answered, "he. 
 This skylark, 'cross my path this morning 
 
 fell, 
 And I have brought him as a gift to 
 
 thee, 
 A youthful Jenni for thy ' Guillaume 
 
 Teli; " 
 I think that God must love me truly, dear, 
 To send into my life his angels blest. 
 Who unconditionally have clasped me 
 
 near, 
 And held me. What surer, holier test 
 Of godly love than this ? The warm 
 
 sunshine 
 And the pale moonlight come to each 
 
 and all: 
 
70 THE SINGER'S STORY, 
 
 Crush but the purple grape, thou'lt have 
 
 the wine ; 
 And, if thou'lt shake the tree, ripe fruit 
 
 will fall. 
 But friendship that is perfect and serene 
 Thro' heat, thro' cold, that ever constant 
 
 flows 
 Thro' every avenue of life between 
 Some heart and thine ; that feels and sees 
 
 and knows 
 The border-line of all thy joy, thy grief, — 
 Comes that to all? Nay, nay, I say to 
 
 thee, 
 Unless 'tis nurtured on a firm belief 
 Of mutual merit and sincerity, 
 As well take chaff and call it golden 
 
 wheat, 
 Or sit beneath a lamp and call it sun, 
 Or drink a cup of gall and say 'tis sweet, 
 As think that friendship otherwise is won. 
 
 Now Florio was master of the art 
 That nature wed him to ; musician, too, 
 At princely courts he had been from the 
 
 start ; 
 Was versed in lyrics, and could thrill thee 
 
 thro'. 
 Kindle thy heart by his empyrean fire. 
 By magic fingering of the ivory keys, 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. J I 
 
 Make bold within thee every pure desire. 
 And set thee bended on devoutest knees 
 Among fair angels chanting, rising higher. 
 
 And Florio loved me, and I grew beneath 
 The tenderest of care ; the world was 
 
 bright 
 Within the radius of his smile. A wreath 
 I formed of all his gifts, whose infinite. 
 Sweet charm I wore within my soul. Ah 
 
 me ! 
 He loved me for love's sake, as pure 
 
 hearts do. 
 Nor strove to look beneath the mask to 
 
 see 
 My worthiness : he felt my life was true. 
 He bade my young, aspiring soul to fix 
 Its shadowy throne upon a hill of song 
 So high, to go in search for it should 
 
 mix 
 In its wild flight with all the birds in 
 
 throng 
 That build their nests upon the rocky 
 
 edge. 
 Defy the avalanche, the wind, the storms, 
 Mock at the robins on the garden hedge. 
 That live on berries and dig down for 
 
 worms. 
 
72 THE SINGER'S STORY. 
 
 Then from the world my countenance I 
 
 turned, 
 And every day and night my efforts bent 
 To those Olympian heights where life was 
 
 burned 
 In sacrificial offering innocent, 
 Slave to that grim, exacting usurer, Fame, 
 Whose coin, tho' heaped up to the over- 
 flow 
 Of all the world, were recompense too 
 
 tame 
 For losing all the sweets that lie below. 
 What followed next the chroniclers 
 
 have told : 
 The youthful songster, marvel of the age, 
 Turned all his silvery warbling into gold. 
 And won a place upon the lyric stage. 
 Vain pomp and mimicry of life, set out 
 Before the people to applaud, with things 
 And baubles to attract the eye, and flout 
 Upon the boards in garb of Eastern 
 
 kings. 
 Thus did I live, and was contented well, 
 Since Florio willed it so ; gained triumphs 
 
 rare. 
 And adulations, that as bubbles fell 
 And bounded from my heart into the air. 
 Roberto died. Good Florio, grown old, 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. 73 
 
 Unto a quiet home 'midst books and 
 
 songs 
 Repaired with honor; but ne'er lost his 
 
 hold 
 Upon my heart, that even 'midst the 
 
 wrongs 
 Of all the busy life which broadened out 
 For me, grew stronger, helping me to find 
 A place high up in art, and hear the shout, 
 " Bravissimo ! " proclaimed. Ah ! Fate 
 
 was kind 
 To mother and to Kate, and still to me, 
 To lead them back again to home and 
 
 friends, 
 And graves where sleep their kindred 
 
 o'er the sea, 
 Where peace abides and happiness at- 
 tends. 
 Thus I lived on contented till thine 
 
 eyes 
 Met mine, gleamed full on me, and lifted 
 
 up 
 My soul to heaven with all its mysteries 
 Quaffed thro' the bounty of love's chalice 
 
 cup. 
 The first time that I saw thee, dearest 
 
 love, 
 It was in May. I even note the hour, 
 
74 THE SINGER'S STORY, 
 
 When thou did'st pass my vision like the 
 
 dove 
 White-winged, that bore the ohve-branch 
 
 of power, 
 Of promissory haven, green fields of 
 
 thyme, 
 Fresh with the fairest flowers that e'er 
 
 grew 
 Untrammelled by the foot of man. The 
 
 clime 
 Was sweeter for thy smile, my own, my 
 
 true. 
 
 Then the next time, beneath cathedral 
 
 dome 
 I knelt with thee, thy saintly head bent 
 
 low, 
 In prayerful attitude thy hands ; the gloam 
 Of summer evening faUing as to show 
 Thy form against the sombre stone-church 
 
 wall. 
 The painted angels on the ceiling high 
 Seemed trembling, breathing with the rise 
 
 and fall 
 Of the great organ's richest harmony. 
 Silent w^as I to catch the holy prayer 
 Passing the threshold of thy sweet young 
 
 lips, 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. 75 
 
 And every sigh that left thee kneeling 
 
 there 
 Was sunk into my heart like weary ships 
 O'er-freighted, that find rest on land at 
 
 last. 
 Mid coral forests tinged with rosy glow, 
 So deeply sunk, so moored, so anchored 
 
 fast. 
 They cannot rise again, they're laid so low. 
 
 It all comes back, — the peaceful atmos 
 
 phere, 
 And all the feverish heat of after-days •, 
 The whirlpool's fury wrecking hope and 
 
 cheer 
 And hfe's supremest joy, half lost in haze. 
 '' I am a poor Bohemian at the best," 
 Said I, "tossed here to-day, to-morrow 
 
 there ; 
 My life is one of turmoil, care, unrest, 
 Keen disappointment grapphng every- 
 
 w^here. 
 But wilt thou think of me, and let thy voice 
 Reach o'er the darkness of the troubled 
 
 sea 
 Of doubt, despair, and let thy soul rejoice 
 With mine, which wholly shall belong to 
 
 thee ? " 
 
^6 THE SINGER'S STORY. 
 
 One glorious moment heart to heart we 
 
 stood, 
 And then we parted. 'Twas a piteous 
 
 fate 
 To say adieu to heaven, whose portals 
 
 should 
 Shut me from joy and leave me desolate. 
 Is love, fond heart, then, a forbidden fruit, 
 That, tasting of its sweetness, one must 
 
 be 
 Forth driven from the light, like hunted 
 
 brute. 
 And made to eat the dust ? O misery ! 
 Accused, condemned : it was a sin, indeed, 
 To dare to love their child, thy people 
 
 said. 
 They drew thee from my side as if a weed 
 Of poisonous growth had started up in- 
 stead 
 Of flowers. " She must have roses for 
 
 her path," 
 They said. " Those tender feet have 
 
 never trod 
 The lowly sands of earth." They in their 
 
 wrath 
 Forgot the sharp thorn-daggers, and that 
 
 sod 
 Is coolino: to the feet. 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. 7/ 
 
 " Accuse me not," 
 Thy letter spake, " for I do love thee, 
 
 dear. 
 As fond as heart can love ; but I am 
 
 caught 
 And held upon this rack. Nay, do not 
 
 fear 
 To trust me thro' the long and weary years 
 That needs must pass ere we again shall 
 
 meet. 
 Farewell ! God wills it so. No woman's 
 
 tears 
 Fall bitterer down than these upon this 
 
 sheet. 
 One burning drop the very paper sears.'* 
 
 I kissed the tear-stains on thy letter's 
 
 page, 
 And cried, " Now help me, Heaven ! tho' 
 
 I do stand 
 Forbidden, I'll burst the wires of the cage 
 That holds my love : that right is my 
 
 command. 
 Come, lion strength, and fill my earnest 
 
 soul 
 To bear the burden of her people's curse; 
 Let lightnings flash, and let the thunders 
 
 roll; 
 
78 THE SINGER'S STORY, 
 
 To live apart from my true love 'twere 
 worse. 
 
 Thou knowest always there's a waking, 
 dear, 
 
 From every dream ; and, if the dream be 
 sad, 
 
 We laugh, and say, *' Oh, foolish, mis- 
 spent tear ! '' 
 
 And clap our hands, and cry, '' How glad, 
 how glad 
 
 I am 'tis but a dream ! " But if ihe dream 
 
 Be sweet, and we awaken in the night 
 
 From visions that are brighter than the 
 gleam 
 
 Of seraph wings bleached white within 
 the sight 
 
 Of God, we wring our hands and moan, 
 " Ah me ! 
 
 That I might sleep again, and die while 
 dreaming." 
 
 Then gaze without the window-pane to see 
 
 If morning on the hill-top may be gleam- 
 ing. 
 
 So I have wakened from a gloomy night 
 
 To find a glorious day, and even thee 
 
 Beside my very hearth, where sparkle 
 bright 
 
 The fires of peace and joy and liberty. 
 
THE SINGER'S STORY. 79 
 
 For thou art free, yea, free as air to love 
 
 me : 
 I read the truth writ plain upon men's 
 
 faces 
 As I go on ; I hear it whisperingly 
 Repeated by the summer breeze. It places 
 On the pinnacle of life (the singer's life), 
 A crown so fair that kings might cry aloud 
 For envy of the gift. O faithful wife ! 
 I am so proud of thee, dear heart, so 
 
 proud ! 
 Is this the end? say'st thou, is this the 
 
 end? 
 As if a glimpse of heaven could satisfy 
 My soul. Nay, nay, my best, my truest 
 
 friend. 
 Unless thy blue eyes falsely testify, 
 There is no end ; unless our solemn oath 
 Turn recreant, the book begun shall be 
 Continued ever. May God bless us both ! 
 Thee first and always, and forever me. 
 I sing my songs for thee henceforth, till 
 
 death. 
 My heart is thine, command it at thy will. 
 And like a harp in soft ^olian breath 
 'Twill tremble, vibrate, echo — or grow 
 
 still. 
 
TRANSPLANTED. 
 
 Of all time in the year to die, the hardest 
 
 is in June, 
 When earth and air and babbling brook 
 
 are full of gladsome tune ; 
 When Nature knows no discontent, and 
 
 grass grows thick and high, 
 And lilies look like chalice-cups uplifted 
 
 to the sky. 
 
 " I would not die in June," so ran the 
 
 poet's tuneful words, 
 That fluttered in my heart of hearts like 
 
 wings of prisoned birds. 
 Yet when she died, she that we loved, 
 
 whose life was crossing noon, 
 'Twas only by the roses that we knew the 
 
 month was June. 
 
 A heaped-up mass of living flowers be- 
 spoke it with their breath, 
 80 
 
TRANSPLANTED. 8 1 
 
 For in our hearts 'twas winter with the 
 anguish of this death. 
 
 I said, '^ She is asleep," as she wearily- 
 turned her head ; 
 
 But soon they drew me from the room, 
 and whispered, '^ She is dead ! " 
 
 And though the sun shines out to-day, 
 
 and flowers bloom just the same, 
 It seems as if a fierce north wind, with 
 
 selfish, separate claim, 
 Had stol'n the sweetness from the flower, 
 
 the warmth from out the sun, 
 Had turned the day into the night, with 
 
 sorrow overrun. 
 
 With tapers burning in the dark to point 
 
 me to the pall 
 That covers every earthly joy, and every 
 
 hope, and ail. — 
 If I could follow close behind in that dear 
 
 mother's flight, 
 'Twould lead me into Paradise, thro' 
 
 darkness into light. 
 Sometimes I think God showed his love 
 
 to call her just at noon, 
 Transplanted from a month of flowers to 
 
 everlasting June. 
 
THE CHANCEL WINDOW. 
 
 TO E. G. W. 
 
 Peace reigned supreme upon the quiet 
 
 shore ; 
 The setting sun burst thro' the widening 
 
 rifts 
 Of cloud, and, with great streams like 
 
 melting ore, 
 Dropped down into a crimson sea; the 
 
 cliffs, 
 The rocks, the hanging crags, gleamed in 
 
 its light, 
 And, sinking low, its last reflected ray 
 Caught at the world and gilded it as 
 
 bright, 
 As jewelled pavements shining on the 
 
 way 
 To heaven. Lo ! Nature seemed to pause 
 
 between 
 
 82 
 
THE CHANCEL WINDOW. 83 
 
 Sunshine and shadow with a beauteous 
 
 smile; 
 And I, but loath to miss the lovely scene, 
 Walked forth alone, my idle time to while. 
 Where did I go ? Alas ! I could not say. 
 But seeing far upon a grassy slope 
 A house of God, I cried, "- O happy day, 
 Farewell ! I'll hie me there, but not a 
 
 hope 
 Have I thou wilt await me. Fare thee 
 
 well ! " 
 Thence, hastened by my anxious heart's 
 
 desire, 
 I reached the summit ere the twilight 
 
 fell 
 On that green hillside, where the chapel 
 
 spire 
 Rose up majestical. A little shrine 
 Built up by loving hands, it did appear 
 Amid the gloom of trees a holy sign, 
 Memorial to friend, a lost one dear. 
 I entered softly, but the oaken door 
 On noisy hinges swung, and, closing, sent 
 Loud hollow sound that echoed o'er and 
 
 o'er, 
 As straightway up the middle aisle I went. 
 With aweful feeling and with reverent 
 
 pace, 
 
84 THE CHANCEL WINDOW, 
 
 I soon drew near the chancel window, 
 
 where 
 A painted picture of rare Christian grace 
 Looked down in beauty and in silent 
 
 prayer. 
 Faintly the light stole thro' the colored 
 
 glass 
 To tell the story. It was made to show 
 A glimpse of sky and stretch of meadow- 
 grass, 
 Whereon a mendicant was bending low, 
 And Christ the gentle, with a finger placed 
 On his closed eyelids, bade him rise and 
 
 see. 
 And as I looked on those bold figures 
 
 traced. 
 Behold ! they seemed to breathe and 
 
 living be, 
 My friend and Master. 
 
 Lord, we all are blind ! 
 Our poverty is blindness, and we grope 
 Our dreary lives out in the dark to find 
 The great blind Healer. We do pray, 
 
 we hope, 
 We are so poor in sight, our human woe 
 Calls out to him in passing, " Let us see ! 
 Our way from day to day we do not 
 
 know, 
 
THE CHANCEL WINDOW, 85 
 
 How can we climb the path which leads 
 
 to thee ? " 
 And as I spake, the evening drawing near, 
 The window but a dull mosaic grew ; 
 No form, no shade, no light, no atmos- 
 phere, 
 No fair Christ standuig 'gainst a sky of 
 
 blue. 
 '^How blind we are!" I cried again, — 
 
 " how blind ! " 
 We stumble in the blackness of the night, 
 Our feeble hands reach forth, we strive 
 
 to find 
 Thee, Lord, oh, thee ! Give back our 
 
 failing sight." 
 Then thro' the hallowed place there came 
 
 a sound, — 
 The sexton's heavy footfall on the floor. 
 As he with aged form made nightly round 
 To shut the casement, bar the creaking 
 
 door. 
 
THE TALISMAN. 
 
 " Go, find a four-leaved clover, dear," 
 
 Said Martha unto me : 
 *' It is a sort of talisman ; 
 
 'Twill bring good luck to thee." 
 
 I had been weary all the day; 
 
 Old Martha saw it, too. 
 And led me to the meadow-land, — 
 
 Old Martha kind and true. 
 
 Among the grassy festoons there, 
 
 Soft swaying in the wind, 
 Long we sought the four-leaved clover, 
 
 The tahsman to find. 
 
 The lady-bug swings lazily 
 
 Upon its tender leaves, 
 The clover tufts are rich and full, 
 
 The air with perfume breathes. 
 86 
 
THE TALISMAN, Zj 
 
 The larks bring hither broods of young 
 From the sun's rays to screen : 
 
 'Tis cool beneath the clover-leaves, 
 Moist, velvety, and green. 
 
 We crossed the meadow back and forth, 
 
 Our search had been in vain. 
 When (thanks unto our patron saint) 
 
 We wandered back again, 
 
 I found one branch of clover bloom 
 With four leaves spreading wide ; 
 
 I clapped my hands, and Martha said 
 I laughed until I cried. 
 
 *' O Martha ! will it make me rich ? 
 
 And will it make life flow 
 With Fortune's dearest favors all 
 
 That never change nor go ? " 
 
 Old Martha pressed me to her heart. 
 Some tears were in her eyes. 
 
 (In youth I think her eyes were blue, — 
 The color of the skies.) 
 
 " I know one only talisman 
 
 To help us on our way : 
 'Tis purity of soul," said she, 
 
 " God give thee that, I pray. 
 
88 THE TALISMAN. 
 
 " Do thy duty, and never fear, 
 Good Juck will on thee beam ; 
 
 Life's not a fragrant clover mead, 
 Nor still a fair young dream. 
 
 " Ofttimes it is a desert waste, 
 
 This dreary life of ours ; 
 But seed is sown in every heart, 
 
 Choice fruit and scented flowers. 
 
 " And yet we let them wither up, 
 Our paths grow thick with weeds. 
 
 The chilly winds break down their stems, 
 The insect on them feeds. 
 
 '' Then to our neighbor's fields we go, 
 
 As you and I this day, 
 To search for sweeter blossoms there, 
 
 Our own we fling away. 
 
 " My little love," old Martha spake, 
 
 ^^ Thy talisman should be 
 An unremitting, cheerful toil, 
 
 A conscience chaste and free." 
 
 'Tis many years since Martha went 
 
 Over the fields with me 
 To gather the four-leaved clovers 
 
 That we might chance to see. 
 
THE TALISMAN, 89 
 
 And I have found it true indeed, 
 
 The lesson that she told ; 
 And, as the summer days go by, 
 
 I hear it as of old : — 
 
 " If thou wilt have a talisman, 
 
 Lift up thine eyes to God, 
 And let the four-leaved clover lie 
 
 To blossom on the sod.'' 
 
ACltNOWLEDGMENT. 
 
 Say, was it thou, or was it wholly I, 
 Sent the first arrow with a poisoned sting? 
 Shall we not prove it till the day we die 
 Who robbed the nest, or wounded in the 
 
 wing, — 
 Wounded the white dove with its olive 
 
 gift, 
 Sweet promise of fair lands of sun and 
 
 flower. 
 Who cut the rope and sent the boat adrift 
 To fight the hard sea-waves at midnight 
 
 hour ? 
 
 We should have waited till a fuller growth 
 Of time, of wisdom, and a gentler sight 
 And feeling for each other, had made both 
 Worthy to love and to be loved. We 
 
 might 
 Have moored together in a quiet sea, 
 90 
 
A CKXO WLED GMENT. 9 1 
 
 Or roamed the whole world thro' at even 
 
 pace, 
 But that a moment's anger grew to be 
 The ruthless, stern usurper of Love's 
 
 place. 
 
 I cannot blame thee now in looking back, 
 For youth is hot, and bandies with the 
 
 cares 
 It doth not know; aims high, and doth 
 
 not lack 
 For weapons to strike deep, nor nets, nor 
 
 snares 
 To catch wild birds afloat on quivering 
 
 wing. 
 Or tame them in a cage, or wound, or kill, 
 It doth not matter, so the helpless thing 
 Serves a mad purpose or a tyrant will. 
 
 If I could wander back into the fields, 
 And meet thee in the old place once 
 
 again. 
 And cull fresh flowers that the green- 
 
 w^ood yields 
 Amidst tall grass bent down by summer 
 
 rain ; 
 If I could see thee here, or there, or 
 
 where 
 
92 A CKNO WLED GHENT. 
 
 Thou art, bound with light step, or smil- 
 ing stand 
 Just as we parted, with an equal share 
 Of love made manifest in heart and hand, 
 
 We might retrace the vision of our youth, 
 And note the hour its beacon-light went 
 
 out. 
 Or, re-awakening to the voice of truth. 
 Tear from its root all soul-devouring 
 
 doubt. 
 We sinned, were sinned against. Confess 
 
 the wrong, 
 'Tis half forgiven. There would be less 
 
 despair 
 To meet halfway, or, fighting brave and 
 
 strong, 
 End pride's most dreary conflict then and 
 
 there. 
 
HEREAFTER. 
 
 I ASK myself, shall Death not compensate 
 For all the scars of sorrow and the weight 
 Of all the heaped-up bitterness of fate, 
 And lift us into heaven inviolate ? 
 
 We cannot carry thro' this world of dust 
 A robe immaculate, as an angel must 
 Who stands before the throne of heaven- 
 ly trust, 
 Is purified and safe from moth and rust. 
 
 It cannot be that thorns will upward 
 
 spring 
 In after-life, with poison-darts to sting 
 Young souls, from whose wild anguish 
 
 there shall ring 
 A cry that echoes back no answering. 
 
 93 
 
ONLY GLAD. 
 
 Why should these tear-drops to my eye- 
 lids start 
 If thou art happy, as they say thou art ? 
 For all the rapture of the love I miss, 
 I would not have it otherwise than this. 
 
 The ring of promise that to me was sent 
 I send thee back again, bedimmed and 
 
 bent. 
 I told thee to forget : thou hast obeyed. 
 How could I hope the past might never 
 
 fade? 
 
 Pm not the only one in pain and grief: 
 
 There's many a heart, like an autumn 
 leaf. 
 
 Has dropped in silence by the lone road- 
 side, 
 
 And starved there in the bitter night, and 
 died. 
 
ONL V GLAD. 95 
 
 Then go thy way ! I'll never speak thy 
 
 name, 
 Nor question thee, nor hate, nor even 
 
 blame. 
 What am I saying ? Nay, I am not sad : 
 I'm glad thou art happy — only glad. 
 
BEQUESTS. 
 
 I LOOK on books piled up with goodly- 
 store 
 Of manuscript, and treasured thoughts 
 that rage 
 With memories of one who never more 
 Shall guide a pen across the virgin page, 
 
 Or leave again the print of burning soul, 
 Made manifest in poem, song, and wail ; 
 
 For in his nature's music mixed the whole 
 Of perfect melody, — the calm and gale. 
 
 I look on pictures ranging on the wall 
 Of this the empty temple of his love, — 
 
 Mother and Child, Franciscan in his stall, 
 And a repenting Magdalene above. 
 
 I count the friends he won for me afar. 
 In living clasp of whose fair, tender 
 hands 
 96 
 
BEQUESTS. 97 
 
 He speaks again, and, like a guiding star, 
 Lights my faint heart beyond the 
 desert's sands. 
 
 I look with eyes turned inward on the 
 gift, 
 Which e'en his gracious bounty left to 
 me, 
 Of a firm trust that from the dust shall 
 lift 
 Two souls into an endless unity ; 
 
 Of strength to crush the pain of lesser 
 woes, 
 And kneel resigned beside his early 
 tomb; 
 For consummation of his life bestows 
 On him a place where angels have made 
 room. 
 
 And this best legacy of all doth tend. 
 Like odorous air diffused with the glow 
 
 Of that pure faith I daily apprehend, 
 To sweeten all this human life below. 
 
GROPING. 
 
 (Affectionately to my father.) 
 
 When the first warmth of spring-time 
 
 came and drove 
 The frost away, and in its place sprang 
 
 buds 
 Of crocus-plant, bright-hued and hardy 
 
 grown, 
 'Neath heaps of withered leaves ; when 
 
 on the slope 
 Of mountain the wild arbutus spread wide 
 Its waxen petals, and then trailed to 
 
 points 
 Of dizzy height and giant crests of rock ; 
 And creeping things of insect-life came 
 
 out 
 Of hiding, and the children in the copse 
 Plucked May-bloom, and the world grew 
 
 beautiful ; 
 98 
 
GROPING, 99 
 
 And when I first beheld re-animate 
 
 The face of Nature smilingj — my dull 
 
 sense 
 Quickened, and I said, " Now I shall reap 
 
 rich, 
 Plenteous store of goodly things, ripe 
 
 thoughts 
 For books, and, by the waters lingering, 
 Learn from their own low murmuring new 
 
 songs. 
 I shall go forth and cull the fairest flower 
 To live in picture, and at earliest dawn 
 Gather fresh leaves of bay-tree wet with 
 
 dew, 
 Wherewith to shade my forehead from the 
 
 sun." 
 Now the sweet breath of rosy morns was 
 
 spent, 
 And the mild heat of glorious afternoons, 
 And quick the berries ripened in the 
 
 wood, 
 And ruddy apples with their heaviest 
 
 weight 
 Bent their full branches low ; but still I 
 
 stood 
 Just where the spring-time found me, 
 
 listlessly. 
 I had not writ the poem, nor had I giv'n 
 
lOO GROPING, 
 
 Unto the world deep thoughts by nature 
 
 stirred. 
 The song and picture, visionary still, 
 Groped for expression ; and I dreamed 
 
 in vain. 
 But ever and unceasingly built hopes 
 Upon the morrow, till the summer died. 
 Then with a tear born of regret and sighs 
 And lamentations for the bright hours 
 
 spent, 
 I smote the strings which long had silent 
 
 lain, 
 And heard them vibrate with significance. 
 Thus spake my soul out fully into 
 
 rhyme. 
 Sad like the moaning of autumnal breeze. 
 Perplexed strains and minor cadence 
 
 mixed 
 With bird-notes dying in the changing 
 
 wood. 
 What wouldst thou then, O vain, O foolish 
 
 heart ? 
 Spin out the summer sunshine into thread 
 Of gold to wrap thy poet fancies all 
 To live fore'er untarnished? 'Tis not 
 
 just 
 The laurel should be plucked for him 
 
 who sits 
 
GROPING, lOI 
 
 Within a garden fair and sings all day, 
 Who basks beneath the favor of his kind, 
 Who scarcely looks aside his flowered 
 
 path, 
 And strikes the lute-strings with a lazy 
 
 hand. 
 For Poetry is born of sacred light 
 Straightway from heaven, thro' the inner- 
 most soul 
 Of love, loss, suffering, with power to 
 
 feelj 
 And better for its growth the humblest 
 
 life, 
 With love alone, than tropic sweetness, 
 
 palms, 
 And languorous air ; for poets need full 
 
 time 
 For resting in the shadow, like the plants. 
 Of seasons dull. 
 
 Behold ! upon the ground 
 A chrysalid from which a butterfly 
 On golden wing bursts forth to woo the 
 
 flower : 
 So shall he soar whose soul's sufficiencies 
 Shall sparkle thro' their covering of clay. 
 
MY HARP. 
 
 On polished floor it stands, a harp of 
 
 gold, 
 Of dainty carving, and of graceful mould, 
 Strung with its chords of silver, red, and 
 
 blue, 
 Tuned to high key, melodious and true. 
 
 I speak to it, and, as a faithful friend 
 Which hath no interest, nor selfish end, 
 It answereth. Ah me, the lovely tone ! 
 It is the sweetest voice that I have known. 
 
 I pass my hands along the silent strings. 
 And soft the sad, the melancholy things 
 Wake at the touch ; with very life they 
 
 sigh. 
 Like forest leaflets when the wind is high. 
 
MV HARP. 103 
 
 But hark ! there was a sharp, discordant 
 
 sound ; 
 And look thou ! on the floor, curled round 
 
 and round, 
 A broken string doth lie. O mortal bliss ! 
 In thee perfection lives no more than 
 
 this. 
 
v^ 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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