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So they went into the misty moonlight. 
 
THE IDYLL OF 
 LUCINDA PEARL 
 
 A POEM ^ BY ROBERT BOGGS 
 
 ILLUSTRATED IN COLOR 
 BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 835 Broadway 
 
 NEW YORK 
 

 Copyright, 19 12, 
 
 By 
 
 Robert Boggs 
 
 gC!.A314976 
 
 7M> / 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 In memory of her zvho left us to dwell where none may 
 enter save the pure and holy. 
 
 For her a better life than this, 
 A life of everlasting bliss, 
 Where joys celestial never cease; 
 Where God the noble landscape paints, 
 And angels walk and blessed saints. 
 In love and peace. 
 
 Oh, wretched world! Oh, broken hearts! 
 That still must live and play their parts. 
 Though sorrozvs weigh them down, 
 Must bear their cross zvithout complaint^ 
 And falter not, nor doubting faint. 
 If they would wear the crown. 
 
 We live to die — we die to live. 
 Ah! zvhy do zve with mourning grieve 
 For them who early reach the goal. 
 Who pass us on the heavenward road. 
 And And, with joy, that blest abode. 
 Home of the deathless soulf 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Idyll of Lucinda Pearl. .,..., 7 
 
 The Penance of Silas Ramsay 38 
 
 The City of Death , 53 
 
 Arachne ..,......:..... ,......; 56 
 
THE IDYLL OF LUCINDA PEARL. 
 
 The spacious building square and ugly stood; 
 Within its walls no living creature stirred: 
 Where late a busy throng had plied their craft, 
 Content with toil to win their daily bread, 
 Unwonted silence reigned. All work had ceased, 
 And they, the workers, must in patience wait 
 The master's will: in patience wait, dear Lord. 
 No work, no bread, — thus man hath fixed the law. 
 Though bread enough there is for all and more. 
 
 A slender girl was gazing wistfully, 
 
 With dark, sad eyes upon the silent place, 
 
 Clutching a scant, thin shawl with nervous hand. 
 
 And drawing it about her narrow chest ; 
 
 For 'twas a bleak and drear November day, 
 
 And gusty winds came swooping from the North, 
 
 Making her shrink and shiver. Ah, 'twas cold. 
 
 There was rare beauty in the pensive face. 
 
 Albeit pinched and wan; the great brown eyes 
 
 Were full of light that shining on a man 
 
 Would touch his soul, were it not steeped in vice. 
 
 And stir his pity. 
 
 Half a mile away 
 From that brick pile arose a mansion fair. 
 On every side begirt with well-kept grounds, 
 Where trees and shrubs now blazed with all the tints 
 That gorgeous autumn lays with lavish hand. 
 It was a place of wonder to the miild 
 
 7 
 
Ctie HDgll of LucmPa peatl 
 
 Of this sad child of poverty, — a home 
 
 Where gods might dwell. 'Twas here the master 
 
 lived. 
 Forth from this mansion fared a handsome youth, 
 Perfumed, and clothed in fashion's newest garb: 
 One moment gazed he at the cold, gray sky. 
 And sauntered down the winding avenue 
 To the great gate that opened on the road : 
 There he walked on, and turned his listless steps 
 Toward the factory grim ; and here arrived 
 He saw the girl and looked into her face — • 
 As one will look at one he meets by chance — 
 And was surprised to see the lovely eyes. 
 The soft brown eyes, the finely chiselled nose 
 And mouth and chin, the forehead smooth and fair, 
 The hair abundant, caught in silken folds 
 Behind the head. This dainty dawdling youth 
 Was struck wath wonder that in humble guise 
 Such beauty he beheld. He stopped and stood. 
 Looking upon her with admiring gaze, 
 Then nearer drew. ''You are distressed," he said; 
 *'What is't that troubles you? Can I advise. 
 Or help?" 
 
 "Ah, sir," she answered — startled, she 
 Had not perceived him till his voice had drawn 
 Her eyes to his — "you are the master's son, 
 And you should know how long these days must 
 
 last, — 
 These idle days, I mean. To us, the poor, 
 Long idleness is death." 
 
 "Oh, no, not that; 
 Not quite so bad, methinks," he smiling said. 
 "Alas ! good sir, you scarce can know how hard 
 It is for us to live, e'en when we toil." 
 "I fancy, pretty one, there's little need 
 That you, at least, should labor like a slave, 
 
 8 
 
Cfte H&gll of Lucintra pearl 
 
 Though there are those who must. You were not 
 
 made 
 Of such coarse stuff as they with whom you dwell. 
 Your life should be a life of pleasant ease, 
 Without a care to fill those eyes with tears, — 
 Such lovely eyes on no unlovely thing 
 Should ever look." 
 
 "Ah me !" she sighed, while he 
 Thus tempted her to sin — not knowing she 
 Was being tempted — "not for such as I 
 Is this sweet life of ease of which you tell. 
 We poor ones all must work — or beg or steal; 
 And work is best when work there is to do. 
 
 But when there is no work " 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "We live 
 As best we can upon the dole we get 
 From those who know our needs ; it is not much. 
 But all they can afford." 
 
 "Your lot is Hard" 
 (With sympathetic tone). "To me it seems 
 'Twere better far to die at once and thus 
 Have done with life like this. But why live on 
 In such a whirl of turmoil, dust, and grime? 
 E'en though with toil you earn enough to keep 
 The hunger-wolf at bay?" 
 
 "And How, good sir, 
 Can I, a simple girl and poor, do else? 
 For this, the only work that I have learned. 
 Is all that I can do to earn my bread." 
 "Have you no ties — I mean of kindred?" 
 
 "None; 
 
 I am alone — perhaps 'tis better so " 
 
 "Aye, better so." 
 
 "Though often I have wished 
 There was a mother or a sister dear 
 
Cfte aogll of LutinOa peatl 
 
 For me as for the rest, — someone to love. 
 
 There is a craving at the heart betimes, 
 
 A kind of hunger, as of something starved, 
 
 A strange, dark void that makes me sad and sick. 
 
 You understand, sir, I am sure you do." 
 
 *'I understand," he answered with a smile. 
 
 ''Your solitary state oft weighs you down; 
 
 For they with whom you dwell can ne'er be aught 
 
 Than what they are, a coarse and common herd. 
 
 Your sympathies turn not to them, and they 
 
 Are dead to all those softer sentiments 
 
 With which your heart, o'erburdened, longs to find 
 
 Another heart as full to rest upon." 
 
 He spoke with grace, and she gave willing ear 
 
 To all he said. His words flowed softly smooth 
 
 As meadow brook ; and he seemed well to know 
 
 "What she, in inmost self, had often felt. 
 
 ''There is a way," he said, ''by which you may 
 
 Behind you leave this sordid, toilsome life." 
 
 Then looked she with a hopeful gaze, while he 
 
 With chosen words a tempting picture drew. 
 
 "On a fair river's sloping bank," he said, 
 
 "There stands a cot half hidden by the vines 
 
 And trees that spread their branches o'er its roof| 
 
 And there's a garden, where in season bloom 
 
 Fair roses, asters, sweet clove-pinks, and all 
 
 The fragrant children of the effulgent sun; 
 
 Where Amaryllis lifts her gorgeous crown. 
 
 And gracious Lily bends her spotless brow 
 
 O'er beds of violets that seek to hide 
 
 Their dainty heads. It is a quiet spot 
 
 Where love may dally, feeding on itself. 
 
 As long as life shall last. Here, if you choose, 
 
 Shall be your home, and here you may find rest 
 
 In happy idleness, secure from care." 
 
 "My home, sir?" 
 
 10 
 
C6e aogll of HucinOa Peatl 
 
 "Aye, your home so long as you 
 Shall please to call it so." Her gentle heart 
 Had warmed with strange delight, while yet he drew 
 The picture to her fancy. But when now 
 He bade her choose this place for her abode. 
 As if he were a fairy prince to give, 
 Her eyelids drooped — a sigh escaped her lips; 
 For the first time she thought his words untrue. 
 "You mock me, sir," she said, and turned away. 
 "Nay, nay," he cried, and seized her thin, white 
 
 hand; 
 I mock you not, you simple, foolish child. 
 The cot is mine to give to whom I will. 
 Come there with me — 'tis scarce an hour's walk — 
 And be its mistress — fairer could not be — 
 No more to know what 'tis to want, but feast 
 On dainties rare, and go attired in silks. 
 With gems and laces such as ladies wear." 
 She looked upon the ground and slowly drew 
 Her hand from his. She saw not that his eyes 
 Were all aflame with passionate desire. 
 But something seemed to teach her innocence 
 That this which he would have could not be right. 
 "You answer not," he said, "shall it be so? 
 Or do you still prefer the wretched lot 
 That Fate to you unfairly hath assigned?" 
 "I scarcely understand, sir," she repHed, 
 "How I, a foolish, untaught girl, can go 
 To such a place as this of which you tell, 
 And be its mistress. Surely 'twould be strange 
 For me, who always have been poor, to be 
 So sudden rich." 
 
 "But that you'll understand 
 When you are there. Ah ! say it shall be so !" 
 "I'll think upon it, sir, and answer you 
 Another time." 
 
 II 
 
Cfte applt of lucinaa Pearl 
 
 ''But why not answer now ? 
 'Twere surely little difficult to choose 
 Between the two, — a life of toil and care 
 And one of plenteous ease." 
 
 "But I must think. 
 I may seem thankless — but you must excuse 
 The seeming, sir, — I am not so indeed." 
 "Ah, well, as you desire, so let it be. 
 To-morrow I will seek you here again — 
 Suffice a day to set your mind at rest — 
 And you can give me then your yea or nay." 
 And so he left her, humming as he went 
 A little air that she had often heard. 
 The words to fit it told of maiden fair 
 Who died for love of one who false had proved. 
 "Oh, yea, or nay," she murmured, "they would seem 
 Two easy words to choose between — and yet 
 They are not so at all times." 
 
 While she mused 
 Thus to herself, an aged man drew near. 
 And stood before her, leaning on his cane — > 
 An oaken staff of goodly size and rough. 
 He shook his head and looked upon her face — 
 Her sad, sweet face — with gentle, pitying eye. 
 "Poor child," he said, "you find it hard to choose 
 Betwixt the yea and nay. Perchance it is. 
 For one so young, who knoweth not the ways 
 Of this unrighteous world; but let me say — 
 And heed well what I say — when there's a doubt, 
 Then nay's the word, and let the word be nay, 
 And never falter. 'Tis a pleasant thing 
 To answer yea, but duty has its claims. 
 And nay's the word of duty; mind you that." 
 The girl gazed at him wondering while he talked, 
 Shaking his grizzly head, and with his staff 
 Striking the ground to emphasize his words. 
 
 12 
 
Cfie aopll of Uminm pearl 
 
 She was perplexed. And he, continuing, said: 
 "Like a weak child set in a field of flax, 
 You dare not stir for fear that you may trip. 
 But come, I'll set you right, if in the right 
 You have a mind to go." 
 
 ''Ah, sir," she said, 
 " 'Tis what I most desire, and you should know 
 The path that leads aright." 
 
 "Aye, well I know 
 That there are pits in which a heedless girl 
 May fall, and having fallen ne'er come out 
 The same pure creature that she was before. 
 And there are those would lead her all astray; 
 Like yonder youth, with his soft, winning ways, 
 Who promised you so fair. Did never hear 
 Of crafty spider and a silly fly?" 
 'I've heard the tale." 
 
 "Well, he the spider is. 
 The place he told you of his den ; and you 
 The fly he would entrap. You understand?" 
 'T am not sure, sir, that I do," she said; 
 'T am most ignorant, and cannot guess 
 The meaning of it all. He seemed sincere. 
 And offered me so much — who nothing have." 
 The old man stared at her, and shook his head. 
 "Oh, child," he said, "how have you lived so long 
 In place like this, and kept so free from guile?" 
 She understood him not; and more perplexed, 
 Looked questioning into his age-dimmed eyes 
 With glance so clear and frank that none might doubt 
 The faith and purity of that fair mind. 
 Where never thought unclean had entered yet. 
 "Ah, 'twere a pity," said this honest man, 
 "That such a snow-white lamb should long abide 
 Where wanton wolves go prowling, seeking prey ; 
 Her very innocence will prove her rue. 
 
 13 
 
mt KDgll of Hucintia Pearl 
 
 She knows not how to guard it, knowing not . 
 It is endangered. Poor, weak child," — to her — 
 ''You are beset with many perils here 
 You know not of." 
 
 "What may they be?" she asked; 
 ''Here have I always Hved, and found no harm. 
 I've earned my bread, save when there was no work; 
 And then kind people have supplied my need, — 
 At least they've done the best they could for me. 
 As for the rest." 
 
 The old man seemed in doubt, 
 Then said, "You are too simple, little one, 
 But I will not unfold a shameful truth, 
 Which, for a time at least, may hidden lie 
 From one so pure, without the fear of ill ; 
 And gladly I will shield you, if I may, 
 Protect your maiden innocence from loss 
 By wicked wiles of them who hold it cheap. 
 I am a farmer, as you may perceive — 
 My garb is not the garb of city men — 
 A man who wrestles with his mother earth. 
 To win from her an honest livelihood. 
 My home is plain, but there is comfort there, 
 And peace and plenty. Nancy, my good wife, 
 And daughter Cinthy, nigh about your age, 
 And Silas, too, our son — a stalwart lad 
 As ever handled tool or backed a horse. 
 We are but four — so room to spare, you see. 
 Now, will you come to us? You are alone. 
 No kith nor kin to hinder — yes, I heard 
 All that you said to yonder pretty boy — 
 We'll give you hearty welcome, never doubt, 
 And you can serve to pay for what you have. 
 I know my Nancy will be well content. 
 And Cinthy just delighted; for the girl 
 Is sometimes lonely: I have heard her wish 
 
 14 
 
C6e aogll of Lucintia Peatl 
 
 She had a sister, — one with whom to share 
 Her homely joys — her griefs. Tut, tut ! they are 
 Too few to count. Now you can be to her 
 The same as sister — she the same to you — 
 And we will treat you just as though you were." 
 The girl looked in his face with hopeful eyes. 
 Through all the furrows that the plow of time 
 Had turned up on its surface, she could see 
 There was a deep, rich loam of honesty, 
 And thorough, heart-meant kindliness beneath. 
 "I'll go," she said, and put her slim, pale hand 
 In his rough palm where, like a fragile shell 
 Lodged on a brown and rugged rock, it lay. 
 
 11. 
 
 ''An honest man's the noblest work of God." 
 
 A faithful woman is his fitting mate; 
 
 And such a woman Nancy Ramsay was, — 
 
 An earnest partner and a loving wife. 
 
 The household that she ruled was ordered well; 
 
 Whate'er she did was best done, all agreed, 
 
 And rugged John called her the hearthstone's queen 
 
 For him the field — the land was his domain, — 
 
 With nursing it he learned to know its moods, — 
 
 But with the housewifery he meddled not. 
 
 The little ins and outs, — the mysteries 
 
 Of home economy and household thrift 
 
 The good wife knew, for she had studied that. 
 
 A faithful Christian as a faithful wife, 
 
 Her heart was warm with humble charity. 
 
 No poor wayfarer passed her lintel by 
 
 Ahungered and athirst; and when she gave 
 
 She gave with kindly words which ever made 
 
 The poorest feel that what he there received 
 
 15 
 
Clie 3DpIl of lu cinOa PeatI , 
 
 ■ j 
 
 Was as a fellow-pilgrim in the way. ^ • | 
 
 To this good woman Ramsay took his waif. ] 
 
 "Mother," he said, "here's one I found astray, 
 
 Walking alone when most she needs a guide, — j 
 
 And none more fit to guide than you I know. i 
 
 Lucinda Pearl, she tells me, is her name, — 
 
 Perchance she'll prove a pearl of goodly price. j 
 
 I found her pure amid impurity, ^ ) 
 
 Clean where uncleanness doth too much prevail." \ 
 
 Then Nancy Ramsay pulled her round-eyed specs ) 
 
 Down from her high, sleek forehead to her nose, 5 
 
 And took a look at sweet Lucinda Pearl. 
 
 After a short survey she seemed content. 
 
 And laid her hand upon the soft, brown hair, ^ j 
 
 Smoothing it back : "You're welcome child," she said ; | 
 
 While John stood by, and smiled approvingly j 
 
 To see her kiss the nervous, trembling lips. ! 
 
 It was the first kiss that the friendless girl j 
 
 Had e'er received, and through her throbbing heart 
 
 It sent a thrill; while to the drooping eyes 
 
 It brought a gush of tears, which breaking bounds, 
 
 Rolled softly down the thin, wan cheeks, and fell 
 
 Upon her hands. "Come, come, my little Pearl," 
 
 The old man said, and gently stroked her head; 
 
 "You must not cry, there's naught to make you 
 
 grieve." 
 "Oh, sir," Lucinda answered, " 'tis not grief 
 That makes me cry, — I know not what it is, 
 But something here" (her hand upon her breast) 
 "Seemed all at once to fill and overflow." 
 "Poor little heart," then Nancy said, and kissed ; 
 
 The grateful lips once more ; " 'tis starved for love ! 
 Poor little heart, to live so long alone. 
 Without a soul to love in all this world." 
 And then she took the slender hand in hers, 
 And led the girl out on the grassy lawn — 
 
 i6 
 
Cfte 3Dpn of LucinPa pearl 
 
 Where noisy fowl, with cluck and cackle loud, 
 
 Ran hither, thither, hunting insect prey — ■ 
 Across the lawn to where the dairy stood, 
 With a rosy blue-eyed maid among the pans 
 Of pure white milk and bowls of yellow cream. 
 "Look, Cinthy," said the mother, ''here is one 
 That father brought to keep you company." 
 Then Cinthy kissed Lucinda on the cheek, 
 And told her she was glad that she had come, 
 And asked her name, and chattered as a girl 
 Can always chatter to another girl. 
 "Can you churn?" she asked. 
 
 'T'll try," Lucinda said; 
 But made such bungling work when she did try 
 That Cinthy laughed, and then Lucinda laughed 
 For company; and so the two were friends. 
 Soon Silas came to crave a cooling draught 
 Of buttermilk, for he had been at work 
 And was athirst; but seeing this slim girl, 
 He stood in awkward silence. Silas was 
 But country bred, and any stranger lass 
 Could scare him more than could a catamount. 
 "Well, Silas," said the mistress of the churn, 
 "What aileth you? You'll surely have a fit. 
 Here, sit down, foolish boy. Lucinda Pearl — 
 That's she — and I will bathe your silly head. 
 And give you buttermilk to make you well." 
 Then Silas made a clumsy sort of bow 
 To the big, brown butter-jar, it seemed, but which 
 Lucinda took unto herself, and dropped 
 A courte'sy quaint, that made the poor lad turn 
 A brickdust kind of red; and Cinthy laughed: 
 "Oh, fie," she said, "don't be so stupid. Si; 
 Lucinda will not bite you — will you, dear?" 
 "Oh, no," Lucinda said, and laughing blushed; 
 When, plucking courage. Si laughed most of all. 
 
 17 
 
Cfte HDpII of LucmHa PeatI 
 
 III. 
 
 As time flew by, Lucinda rosy grew; 
 
 The country air was healthful, and her soul 
 
 Was full of peace. She oft would sit and think 
 
 Of those long, dreary days of factory work. 
 
 Of pale-faced girls who once beside her toiled, — 
 
 And who must still toil on without a hope, 
 
 Save just to earn their daily meed of food, — 
 
 And then her heart grew sad for them, poor souls. 
 
 Away from life so dull and colorless 
 
 She longed to lead them to the blooming fields, 
 
 And 'neath the trees, whose ever-stirring leaves 
 
 Let glancing sun-rays fall like golden rain 
 
 Upon the new-sprung grass, — for Spring had burst 
 
 The frosty fetters of the ice-crowned king, 
 
 And brooks and rivulets from thraldom freed — 
 
 Resumed their pilgrimage to Neptune's realm. 
 
 Making the dead earth live and laugh again. 
 
 Clothing her naked limbs in robes of green, 
 
 With broid'ry bedight by Flora's cunning hand. 
 
 Now, all were busy on John Ramsay's farm, 
 And little time had any there to dream; 
 Yet Silas, as he walked behind his plow, 
 Thought of Lucinda and her sweet, brown eyes ; 
 And when his task was done, 'twas plain to see 
 How oft his wayward fancy thus had strayed, — 
 A crooked furrow was the certain sign. 
 And times he grew quite angry with himself, 
 For almost every furrow seemed to bend 
 This way or that, and looking at his work 
 
 i8 
 
Cfte atipn of jLucmOa Pearl 
 
 He'd shake his head and say: "It is a shame! 
 
 If I can't drive a plow, what can I do? 
 
 'Tis not the horse's fault — oh, no; not his; 
 
 He better understands his work than I, 
 
 His guide and master." Silas never dreamed 
 
 Lucinda Pearl had those wild furrows run, 
 
 But blamed himself, and wondered how it was 
 
 His head and hand less steady had become. 
 
 Ah, me the girl had run a furrow deep — 
 
 A straight one, too — right through his rustic heart, 
 
 Upturning to the light of love's warm sun 
 
 The virgin soil. But he, in truth, as yet 
 
 Was but half-conscious of the mystery 
 
 Within him wrought. He only felt that she 
 
 Was something beautiful to look upon, • 
 
 A fair, pure girl — a gentle, tender soul, 
 Whose presence ever gave him fresh delight. 
 
 And what thought she of this tall, stalwart youth? 
 Can human wisdom analyze the change 
 Unfolded in a modest maiden's breast 
 When love in all its wondrous beauty blooms, 
 Filling the world with fragrance and with light 
 For the sweet soul that wakes to brighter dawn? 
 Lucinda knew not how or when this change 
 Had come to her, — she only felt that life 
 Held something sweeter than it held before. 
 The sky, the trees, the river running near, 
 Possessed new charms : the hills, the dales, the flow- 
 ers, 
 The grass, the shrubs, and e'en the common weeds. 
 Seemed clothed in some fresh beauty, which she felt, 
 As 'twere, a riddle that she could not read. 
 The evening hum of myriad insects fell 
 Upon her ear and gave her strange delight; 
 And in the early morn the songs of birds 
 
 19 
 
C6e SOpIl of HucinOa pearl 
 
 ■ ■ ' 
 
 Filled her with rapture. All day long she walked 
 As in a dream — a still, sweet dream that seemed 
 A silent undercurrent gliding through 
 Her common life. 
 
 At last there came a time 
 When Silas knew that life to him would be 
 A dreary blank without Lucinda Pearl. 
 And then he never rested till he told 
 To her the secret that he thought none knew. 
 'Twas on a summer's eve: the two had strayed 
 Along the winding path to see the moon 
 Lift her white face above the dusky hills, 
 And cast her glance along the river's run, — 
 A slender mist hung brooding o'er the stream. 
 And spread itself abroad, with hovering wings 
 Shielding the drowsing landscape from the glare 
 Of Dian's full-orbed gaze; and tree and rock 
 And all the rolling hills afar and near, 
 Looked like a spectral world. 
 
 The maid stood still 
 While Silas told, in plain and earnest words. 
 How dear she had become to him, and how 
 Life's burden would be overmuch to bear 
 Unless with him she would its blessings share; 
 His was an humble life, but love uplifts 
 The poorest creature from its low estate, — 
 And he would love her always — always hold 
 Her dearest of all treasures God could give. 
 "Oh, Silas," said the girl; and then she paused. 
 And trembling like a flower in the wind. 
 Before him stood. 
 
 "Lucinda," cried the youth, 
 "Speak not the word that parts us, — no, not that; 
 My heart so full of love would surely break, 
 If you should say to me you love me not." 
 "Ah, no," she said, and laid her hand in his; 
 
 20 
 
Cfte 3DpH of UttcmPa Pearl 
 
 *lt is not that, — I could not say you nay; 
 
 But there is something I to you must tell 
 
 Before you give your love to one who may 
 
 Perchance unworthy be. I never knew 
 
 What 'twas they meant, except to mock at me, 
 
 But yonder where I worked, they called me oft 
 
 A stray — a child of love, — what that may mean 
 
 I do not comprehend, yet this I think — 
 
 'Tis something to my shame, and if it be — ' — " 
 
 But ere another word could 'scape her lips. 
 
 He seized her in his arms and held her close, 
 
 Until her heart-throbs mingled with his own; 
 
 And kissed her, pouring out a flood of love 
 
 In incoherent speech — a torrent wild 
 
 Almost to madness, which to her did seem 
 
 To catch her spirit up and bear it on 
 
 With mighty force that she could not withstand. 
 
 "What's that to you or me?' he cried at last, 
 
 Panting with passion; "can another's sin 
 
 Taint the pure soul of one who knows not sin? 
 
 If that be all — nay, not a word, my love" — 
 
 He pressed his lips to hers when she would speak — 
 
 "There is no reason why you should withhold 
 
 From me the love I claim — 'tis all I ask — 
 
 Your love, Lucinda, dear, your love, your love ; 
 
 Give me but that, and I will laugh at aught 
 
 The envious world may say: deny it me, 
 
 And you shall see a man's strong manhood die." 
 
 "What can I do?" the trembHng maiden said; 
 
 "I love you, yes, my very heart and soul 
 
 Are full of love for you — nor do I blush 
 
 To tell you so — why should I? Is it wrong? 
 
 I only fear — I know not what I fear! 
 
 Oh, Silas, tell me, that which I was called, — 
 
 Is it a thing to shame me, and through me 
 
 Shame him I love?" 
 
 2X 
 
Cfte SPglt of LucmPa pearl 
 
 "No, No; dear, one, 'tis not. 
 Tis only shame to them who cast it up 
 'Gainst one so pure in heart and innocent." 
 "Ah, then, I am content; but were it so. 
 Sooner my heart should wither in its youth 
 Than you through love of me should suffer shame." 
 "Fear not," he said, "with you I'd face the world. 
 And scorn for scorn Fd give, though you to me 
 Had come from deepest depths of infamy. 
 But this is foolish talk: you are too pure 
 To guess its meaning. See, the misty moon 
 Makes fairy-land for us to wander in. 
 Come, love, you are my own, and I am yours, 
 No earthly power shall part us." 
 
 So they went 
 Into the misty moonlight, — two dim forms 
 So closely knit that they did seem as one. 
 
 IV. 
 
 About three miles away as ran the stream, 
 
 A little church stood on a tree-topped hill — > 
 
 A modest building with a small pretence 
 
 Of steeple to 't — a tower big enough 
 
 To hold the bell, whose voice of music sent 
 
 Its sacred message through the valleys still 
 
 For miles around, and told the dwellers there 
 
 The Lord was waiting for their prayers and praise. 
 
 To this small temple, raised by humble hands 
 
 To Him who rules the destinies of worlds, 
 
 The Ramsays went each pleasant Sabbath morn. 
 
 To join the faithful flock that gathered there 
 
 To worship Him, the loving one, who made 
 
 The greatest and the least, all things to serve 
 
 His own mysterious ends, not asking what 
 
 22 
 
Cfte aogll of Hucinaa peatl 
 
 Those ends might be, but fully trusting Him, 
 
 Believing that He who could so wisely make 
 
 Can rightly rule; and there they'd sit and hear 
 
 The good old parson say his little say 
 
 About those things that are beyond our ken, 
 
 Concerning which the wisest knoweth naught: 
 
 He did his best, and that is all that needs. 
 
 Then would they sing; and Cinthy's beau would hold 
 
 Her book for her — for Cinthy had a "beau," 
 
 Who always sang in so profound a bass 
 
 It made the windows shake. And when they prayed, 
 
 'Twas earnest prayer from simple, contrite hearts, 
 
 That went up from that temple on the hill 
 
 To Him who sitteth on the throne of grace. 
 
 The service over, all would gather out 
 
 Beneath the rustling trees and softly talk, — 
 
 The elders, of the weather and the crops ; 
 
 The younger folk, of just such pleasant things 
 
 As younger folk, wherever shines the sun, 
 
 Are wont to make the subjects of discourse. 
 
 The patient horses nodded sleepily 
 
 Until the stream of talk ran thin, then dry; 
 
 When buggy and barouche, chaise, gig and cart. 
 
 Received their loads and went their separate ways, 
 
 Leaving the place to holy solitude. 
 
 John Ramsay and his wife to meeting went 
 In sober fashion in an ancient chaise, 
 Driving an ancient, sober-sided horse 
 That napping oft and on upon the road. 
 Jogged steadily along and never changed 
 His gait accustomed, sleeping or awake; 
 But Cinthy and Lucinda Silas drove 
 In a painted cart behind a slashing bay, — 
 A colt he'd reared and broken to the trace. 
 When they returned from meeting Cinthy's beau, 
 
 23 
 
Cfte aogll of HucrnPa Pearl 
 
 Who rode a fine young gelding, went along 
 
 To dine with them, which, having done, he'd say: 
 
 "I must be going," though he never went; 
 
 But talking still of going, lingered on 
 
 Until the supper on the board was spread. 
 
 His Christian name was James — his other name? 
 
 Ah, well, it matters not, — they called him Jim. 
 
 It was a quiet and a peaceful life 
 Of honest labor and of honest love, — 
 The labor lightened by the day of rest, 
 When love was lifted to a higher plane. 
 Lucinda loved this life, it suited well 
 Her gentle soul; the regular routine 
 Of daily duties never irksome proved: 
 And then, when work was done and evening fell, 
 The welcome to her lover when he came 
 Home from the field, and whistling all the way 
 For very joy of heart. How sweet it was — 
 And always sweet, though every day the same — 
 To greet him on the threshold with a smile, 
 To which his lips responded with a kiss ! 
 When Silas labored far afield, she went 
 To meet him in the gloaming, for she knew 
 He would be late ; and then to walk with him. 
 And feel his arm about her slender waist. 
 His warm hand-clasp, to her was bliss indeed. 
 'Twas thus one evening that she went abroad 
 To meet her lover by the river-way. 
 Twilight still lingered and a crescent moon 
 Hung in the darkling sky, where brilliant stars 
 Glittered like jewels on the purple robe 
 Which Nature dons ere seeking her* repose. 
 As she walked slowly, musing happily, 
 She heard the tramp of hoofs upon the road. 
 And when she turned to look behind, a horse 
 
 24 
 
C6e SnplI of ILucittCa Pearl 
 
 Was reined up close beside her. He who rode 
 Leaned from his saddle, peering in her face. 
 *Tray, tell me," he began; then looked again, 
 And quickly springing from his steed he laid 
 His hand upon her shoulder: "Ah," he said, 
 "I've found you, then, at last, my lovely Pearl. 
 You see I know your name. Why did you leave 
 Without a word with me? You promised, too. 
 Your yea or nay to something I proposed: 
 Why did you fool me so, my pretty one?" 
 The girl was startled, but was not afraid— 
 Not knowing yet that he had meant her harm— 
 And spoke him frankly in her simple way: 
 "I left a message for you, sir," she said, 
 "With one who promised she would_ not forget, — 
 
 It was to say that I had found a friend " 
 
 "A friend?" he interrupted, scornfully; 
 
 "What kind of friend is he who brought you here, 
 
 To be his servant— his poor, toiling drudge? 
 
 The woman told me you had gone away 
 
 With an old farmer fellow, and I knew 
 
 That you in ignorance had been beguiled 
 
 By some rude" boor who wanted but a slave. 
 
 But come, 'tis not too late ! I offered you 
 
 A pleasant home, where you should Uve at ease, 
 
 And servants have to do the drudgery 
 
 Which here you do for others. Come with me. 
 
 And life to you shall be a blissful dream." 
 
 "I'm happy here," was all Lucinda said. 
 
 "Happy?" he cried, and grasped her by the hand; 
 
 What happiness can be in such estate? 
 
 You are a toiling slave, and yet you talk 
 
 Of happiness. I love you, little Pearl, 
 
 And will not leave you so." And then, ere she 
 
 Could draw her hand from his, he caught and held 
 
 Her in his arms, her sweet mouth kissing till 
 
 25 
 
mt 3Dgtl of LtictnDa pearl 
 
 The tears of shame flowed down her burning cheeks. 
 She struggled wildly, and with force she freed 
 Herself, all quivering, from his foul caress. 
 Then, while she panting stood, there came a rush 
 Of hurrying feet, and then a blow which sent 
 Her rude assailant down the river's bank. 
 And Silas, heeding not the splash and whirl 
 Of rushing water when he headlong fell. 
 Turned with a wrathful eye upon his love. 
 "Oh, Silas," murmured she, and moved to cast 
 Herself in his embrace ; but he drew back 
 And held her off. "Away! begone!" he cried; 
 "Think not that I am one to lightly take 
 A woman still panting from another's arms." 
 "What mean you, Silas?" she, afifrighted, asked; 
 "I've done no wrong that you should scorn me so." 
 "Had I not seen it with my own hot eves — 
 Hot with the tears that made me less a man — 
 Not mine own father, though I know his lips 
 Were never yet polluted by a lie, 
 Had made me doubt you ; but what I have seen 
 I must believe, though I would gladly think 
 It was some hideous dream — Nay, not a word !" 
 (When she essayed to speak) "I know the truth, 
 And lies will not avail." 
 
 "O, God," she cried, 
 "May I not speak to justify myself?" 
 But hardly could she utter these few words — 
 The heart that leaped toward him with a gush 
 Of love most holy, choked by the turning flood 
 That he drove back. 
 
 "Fool, fool that I have been, 
 To trust the daughter of a woman frail, — ■ 
 I might have known, had I been less a fool. 
 That like the parent, so the child would prove." 
 Thus Silas, as he turned and caught the horse, 
 
 26 
 
C{)e aogU of LutinPa Pearl 
 
 That missing not its master, quietly 
 Cropped the young grass that grew beside the road, 
 And leaped upon its back. Lucinda, roused, 
 Clasped her weak arms about the creature's neck, 
 And seized the bridle-rein with desperate grasp. 
 "Stay, stay!" she shrieked; ''you have forgot the 
 
 man; 
 Silas, he'll drown." 
 
 "Ah, let him drown!" he said, 
 And struck the frightened beast a savage blow 
 With clenched fist, which made it rear and plunge — ■ 
 Throwing the weeping girl upon the ground — 
 Then madly galloped off. Lucinda, stunned, 
 Lay where she fell upon the dusty road; 
 And there they found her lying late that night. 
 
 "Go, seek thy home, my gentle dove, 
 To cage thee were a cruel deed; 
 Dear emblem of the Father's love, 
 'Twould make thy tender bosom bleed 
 To keep thee from thy sorrowing mate, 
 Who long for thee would mourning wait 
 Among the sighing pines. 
 
 "Woo, woo," thou criest, with none to woo; 
 
 Thy lover lorn is far away; 
 
 'Neath southern skies, with plaintive coo 
 
 He calleth thee the livelong day. 
 
 "Ah, whither, whither art thou fled?" 
 
 He sighs and mourns for thee as dead 
 
 Poor little dove, 
 
 Why didst thou rove. 
 
 To fall a prey to man's designs? 
 
 27 
 
Cfte HDgll of HucinOa Pearl 
 
 Go, thou art freed from all control, — • 
 
 Go to thy mate, for who can tell 
 
 But that some pure, sweet maiden's soul 
 
 Within thy slender form may dwell, 
 
 And then thy trembling wings to bind 
 
 Would be indeed an act unkind : 
 
 To pity my heart inclines. 
 
 Ah, how can I to thee deny 
 
 That freedom which thou lovest so well? 
 
 Away ! away ! sad captive fly 
 
 To where thy feathered kindred swell 
 
 The glorious song of liberty: 
 
 This beauteous world was made for thee 
 
 As well as me. 
 
 Thou meek-eyed dweller 'mong the pines. 
 
 Plying her needle, at the window sat 
 
 Lucinda, singing softly to herself. 
 
 It was the summer-time, — the still, warm air 
 
 Was full of sweetness, but she heeded not: — 
 
 There was no sweetness left in life for her. 
 
 Three long, sad years her heavy heart had borne 
 
 A fearful secret that she dared not share 
 
 With any living soul. She took the blame 
 
 Of Silas' going all upon herself. 
 
 Content to bear it patiently; she knew 
 
 That she was blameless ; so it mattered not 
 
 What others thought, — in her all joy was dead, 
 
 And naught could crush her lower. So she felt, 
 
 And let them think that she had been the cause 
 
 Of this, their first great grief. She would have 
 
 gone 
 Back to the old life, with its sordid cares; 
 But Silas sent some lines, in which he begged 
 The mother that he loved to keep her safe 
 
 28 
 
Cfte SPpll of LucinPa Pearl 
 
 From every harm. He seemed to have a fear 
 
 That they might send her off, or let her go 
 
 Away from them, as she might hke to do. 
 
 He wrote no word complainingly of her, — 
 
 Let them beheve it was a simple case 
 
 Of unrequitted love; perhaps in time 
 
 The wound might heal, and then he would return. 
 
 And so she stayed, although 'twas hard to bear 
 
 The mother's eye, which seemed always to say 
 
 ''Through you I've lost my son." And Cinthy, too,- 
 
 Who looked with scorn on poor Lucinda Pearl — 
 
 She could not understand it. Silas seemed 
 
 To her most worthy of a maiden's love. 
 
 And that this girl — this kinless, friendless waif — 
 
 Should hers from him withhold was truly strange. 
 
 But Cinthy was wedded ere a year rolled round, 
 
 And she and Jim set up their separate home, — 
 
 A happy pair as e'er together walked 
 
 The rugged ways of life. Indeed her Jim 
 
 Was a true-hearted fellow; never word 
 
 Except in kindest sympathy he spoke 
 
 To that unhappy maid : she could have kissed 
 
 The hand that took her own when none were by,- 
 
 The lips that spoke to her in gentle tones, 
 
 While bidding her take comfort. "See," he said; 
 
 "The boy was mad, but back he's sure to come; 
 
 And then betwixt ye, ye can make it straight — ■ 
 
 The ugly turn that did upset the shay." 
 
 Thus he consoled her in his homely way, — 
 
 For he would not believe she had denied 
 
 The suit of love, — and she, though silent still. 
 
 Was grateful for the words in kindness meant. 
 
 To her now fell a double share of toil, 
 But she was thankful for it. It was rest 
 To the weary spirit. "Work, O blessed work!" 
 
 29 
 
Cfte aogU of JHucint»a Pearl 
 
 She oft would say : ''without this work I think . 
 
 That I should surely die." She even went 
 
 Out to the field to help the good old man, 
 
 Who never yet had said an unkind word, 
 
 Or cast reproachful look. "Through me," she said, 
 
 "He lost his son, and I must fill his place 
 
 As best I may." She had grown thin and pale, 
 
 As she had been in those hard days of old : 
 
 She drooped and pined, although she was not ill. 
 
 A burden of secret tragedy that seemed 
 
 To crush her down had fallen on her soul. 
 
 When twilight shadows flittered through the land, 
 
 She'd go to that dread spot, and there she'd crouch 
 
 And hug that secret to her quaking heart. 
 
 The place a ghastly fascination had 
 
 That seemed to draw her there. She'd think of him, 
 
 Her lover lost and wandering in the world. 
 
 With bitter tears; and then of him who died, — 
 
 For he was drowned: his body had been found 
 
 Far down the stream — his horse, twenty miles away; 
 
 And none had guessed the truth, but all believed 
 
 The horse had thrown the rider in the flood. 
 
 She took the house-dog with her when she went, 
 And he would lie and moan until she thought 
 She should go raving mad, when, hastening home, 
 Through fear and darkness, she would seek her 
 
 room, 
 And pray and weep, and weep and pray until 
 Her heart's wnld throbbing ceased ; and then she'd lie 
 Upon her bed quite still, the brown, sad eyes 
 Wide open, staring, like the staring eyes 
 Of one who dies without a friendly hand 
 To close the sightless orbs when all is done. 
 
 30 
 
Then leaning on the window sill she looked with eyes for seeing 
 
Cfte 3Dpll of HucinOa pearl 
 
 Lucinda was singing: it was something strange, — 
 
 She wondered at herself. For many days 
 
 Her voice had scarce been heard; but now she sang, 
 
 Though mournful as the turtle's note was hers. 
 
 The sun was drifting low, his slanting beams 
 
 Flecked the green leaves of columbine that hung 
 
 About the window-frame with gorgeous tints 
 
 Of red and gold, and glancing in the room. 
 
 Touching her finger-tips, her soft, brown hair, 
 
 Her pallid cheeks and chin, transfigured her. 
 
 Then leaning on the window-sill she looked 
 
 With eyes far-seeing through the distant maze, 
 
 Until the sun went down beyond the hills. 
 
 And shadows, stealing out from bosk and brake. 
 
 Crept o'er the land ; and then that longing came 
 
 Into her heart. With trembling hand she drew 
 
 Her shawl about her, and with trembling steps 
 
 She moved. Dismayed, reluctant, still she lacked 
 
 Strength to resist the spell. Ah ! go she must — 
 
 Though her soul quaked within her, go she must — 
 
 The living and the dead both bade her come. 
 
 She called the dog, and he, though seeming loath, 
 
 Followed with slouching footsteps. As she walked 
 
 Beside the stream she heard its murmuring flow. 
 
 And fancied it the voice of him who died. 
 
 Accusing her. She hurried on and on, 
 
 And shut her ears to keep that sad sound out ; 
 
 But still she heard it making its complaint. 
 
 At last she reached the place, and feebly fell 
 
 Upon the spot where he, the living man. 
 
 Had left her lying — oh, so long ago ! 
 
 And over her the dog stood still and whined. 
 
 Until the moon arose, when he began 
 
 A howl most piteous, which a solemn owl 
 
 With mournful hootings answered from afar. 
 
 At last the beast its howling ceased, and growled, 
 
 31 
 
Cfie SDgll of Hucfntra pearl 
 
 Then gave a smothered bark. Lucinda raised 
 
 Herself upon her hands, looked down the road 
 
 And listened nervously : the watchful dog 
 
 Sat on his haunches silent, but his ears 
 
 Were pricked as though to catch some faint, far 
 
 sound ; 
 His eyes, as on some object that he knew, 
 Had life and motion, fixed with steadfast gaze. 
 The moon just risen shed a dim, dull light, 
 Through which a shadow, slowly gliding, moved, 
 Then nearer came : a man with pack and staff. 
 Walking with halting steps, and stopping oft. 
 The dog gave one sharp yelp and bounded off; 
 The girl, half-rising, seemed transfixed with fear; 
 She saw the creature gambol with delight. 
 She heard it bark a quick and joyous bark; 
 And then she, kneeling, waited till her eyes 
 Uplifted saw the face which she so long 
 Had prayed to see again. With pleading hands 
 Outstretched to him, she called upon his name. 
 When, leaning on his staff, he blankly stared, 
 But spoke no word. The dog crept close to her, 
 And licked the hands so pleadingly upheld; 
 Then to his new-found lord returning, looked 
 Up in his face and whined ; and he at last 
 His silence broke, — his tone was hard and cold: 
 ''You here?" he said. ''And so through all these 
 
 years 
 You have come nightly to bewail your dead, 
 The lover that I killed. Nay, do not speak! 
 Yes, with this guilty hand I struck him down, — 
 The blow would not have killed him, that I know; 
 But you know how it happened : had I not 
 Been maddened by my grief at finding you — 
 The only woman that I ever loved — 
 Wrapped in his arms and giving kiss for kiss, 
 
 32 
 
"Silas! O, Silas! you have done me wrong. 
 
C&e UPpU of JLucmOa pearl 
 
 I might have saved him from his dreadful doom. 
 
 Hush, hush! you shall not speak. When I am done 
 
 Then you may tell your tale, whate'er it is." 
 
 (And so she, w^eeping, waited patiently.) 
 
 "I knov^ I should have gone away and left 
 
 You two in peace. What right had I to slay, 
 
 Or even strike the man, because to me 
 
 You had proved false? It was no fault of his, 
 
 It was a cruel deed, but I was mad. 
 
 I heard that he was drowned, and I rejoiced, — 
 
 Rejoiced that you would never see him more; 
 
 But when in time my heated brain grew cool 
 
 I understood the thing that I had done. 
 
 Since then my eyes have seen the crimson stain 
 
 Of blood upon this hand, and I have known 
 
 No day of rest; and so I have come back 
 
 To own my guilt, and suffer as the law 
 
 For such a deed provides. Now speak, I'll hear 
 
 What you have got to say — I've sometimes wished 
 
 That I had been less rash that rueful night ; 
 
 That I had listened to you then, though I 
 
 Had not believed your words." 
 
 Lucinda's heart 
 Was beating with a wild, tumultuous woe. 
 Her sunken eyes were weeping grievous tears; 
 She stood upon her feet, but swayed and shook 
 Like a sHm sapling by a whirlwind tossed ; 
 She scarce had strength to speak, yet speak she must. 
 "Silas! O Silas! you have done me wrong — 
 Through all these years you've done me grievous 
 
 wrong. 
 I ne'er loved man but you. How dearly loved 
 You were and are, in spite of all that's gone, 
 God and my heart can tell. I never kissed 
 The lips of man, save yours — shake not your head! 
 It is the truth I speak, though you may doubt, 
 
 33 
 
Cfte aogll of Hucinoa peatl 
 
 As God, I hope, loves me, so I love you." 
 
 "How was it then I found you in his arms, 
 
 His kisses falling hot upon your lips ! 
 
 Can you deny I saw it with these eyes? 
 
 For, if you can, what then must I believe? — ■ 
 
 That all the past is but a woeful dream. 
 
 And we are dreaming still? Ah, would we were!" 
 
 "Silas," she said, do you remember once 
 
 You came upon me in the dark, and caught 
 
 Me in your arms and kissed me till I cried. 
 
 Thinking some stranger rude thus me assailed?" 
 
 "Remember? Yes, do I remember well; 
 
 And how I laughed ! ah me ! I could laugh then. 
 
 But what has that to do with him ?" — he paused : 
 
 Through the black cloud that had obscured his mind 
 
 There broke a gleam of light. "O God!" he cried; 
 
 "O God ! if this be true ! If this be true !" 
 
 "It is most true," she said, "as I have faith 
 
 That I shall see the Lord when life is done, — 
 
 It is most true. That poor dead man did take 
 
 Me unawares, ere I had thought that he 
 
 Had such intent; and kissed me, as you saw. 
 
 I kissed not him ; my heart was sick with shame — 
 
 I loathed myself and him; I could have died 
 
 To cleanse me from the stain!" 
 
 With one great groan 
 The wretched man fell on his knees and wept. 
 "O madman, reckless madman that I've been !" 
 He cried, his voice all broken up with sobs; 
 "Leave me, Lucinda Pearl — it were a shame 
 That with a felon you should commerce hold : 
 I am a guilty wretch, and needs must go 
 To them whose duty 'tis to punish guilt." 
 But she knelt down beside him in the dust. 
 And clasped him fondly in her loving arms, 
 Kissing his tears away while shedding tears. 
 
 34 
 
Cfte SDgll of ilucintia pearl 
 
 "No, Silas, no, I will not go," she said; 
 
 "You are my own — the all I have on earth, 
 
 For whom I've wept and prayed these three sad years. 
 
 Why should you tell the thing that you have done ? 
 
 Why should you suffer for a deed not meant — 
 
 A mishap that befell ? — for such it was. 
 
 love, dear love ! what guilt with you can lie ? 
 You struck a blow — it was a righteous blow. 
 Which he deserved — you did not mean to kill 
 
 The man who wronged you — he did wrong you, dear, 
 And you were justly wroth." Thus did she plead 
 With subtle sophistry as love alone 
 Dare plead to win his cause; and he with whom 
 She pleaded listened, half-inclined to doubt 
 That still, small voice within him which accused 
 And would not be appeased. He answered not. 
 But hand in hand they from their knees arose. 
 Turning their faces homeward through the gloom. 
 
 The trial was over; Silas Ramsay stood, 
 
 A man condemned; but uttered no complaint — 
 
 Three years' imprisonment the law's award 
 
 For one short moment of unruly wrath. 
 
 "A sentence light," thought he, and was content. 
 
 The fond, old mother, weeping bitterly. 
 
 Clung to her boy. His grey head humbly bowed, 
 
 The father stood; Lucinda close at hand. 
 
 Downcast and dumb, with burning, tearless eyes; 
 
 And honest Jim, whose wife was kept at home 
 
 By a sick babe. 
 
 "O Mother! Mother dear!" 
 The young man cried, his voice half-choked with 
 
 tears ; 
 "Let not my sin your heart consume with grief: 
 
 1 am no coward, and I'd meet my fate 
 
 As should a man, though harder yet it w.ere. 
 
 35 
 
Cfte SDgll of LucinOa pearl > 
 
 When one hath done a wrong, it is but right 
 
 That he should suffer — 'tis a debt he owes. 
 
 When Fve paid mine, to you I will return 
 
 A better son, and freed from this great guilt. 
 
 For which I now must render my account 
 
 To God and man. I know I could have 'scaped 
 
 Man's vengeance, had I chosen so to do; 
 
 But my unhappy soul gave me no rest — 
 
 And life were ceaseless torment with the weight 
 
 Of secret guilt to carry to the end. 
 
 Come, my Lucinda. Mother, here is one 
 
 Will be your comforter when I am gone: 
 
 Three grievous years this brave and noble soul 
 
 Hath borne another's burden as her own; 
 
 And e'en were I content to carry still 
 
 A stricken conscience through a shameful life, 
 
 I could not longer suffer her to share 
 
 The dreadful load that would o'erwhelm us both. 
 
 Take her to heart, dear Mother; she hath proved 
 
 A daughter worthy of your trust and love. 
 
 From her, alas! how long I've wandered far, 
 
 With wilful madness to her virtues blind ; 
 
 Now vengeful fate compels me hence again 
 
 When I would gladly stay. Forgive me, love, 
 
 If my chastisement fall with equal force 
 
 Upon your sinless soul. 'Tis only right 
 
 That I should reap wrath's harvest, but that you. 
 
 Dear innocent, must feel the weighty hand 
 
 Of outraged law doth seem indeed, most hard: 
 
 Yet thus it is that we who sin will drag 
 
 Our dearest down to our own depths of woe. 
 
 Farewell, good Father. Pardon me, the son 
 
 Who sorrow brings to your declining days : 
 
 Mother, farewell; and you, Lucinda Pearl; 
 
 And honest Jim — kiss Cinthy and the babes 
 
 For me, old friend ; and keep in good heart all — < 
 
 36 
 
Cfte SDgIt of Lucinoa peatl 
 
 Think I am gone a journey, whence in time 
 I shall return a better, happier man — 
 O Christ ! my Saviour God ! what great amends 
 Must I now make to Thee and these beloved?" 
 * * * * 
 
 And so he left them with a word of cheer. 
 
 Lest they should know the truth : his manly heart 
 
 Was well-nigh breaking for the wreck he'd wrought. 
 
 37 
 
C6e SDgll of LucinDa pearl 
 
 THE PENANCE OF SILAS RAMSAY. 
 
 Strangfe faces, hard faces, scarred with vicious Hnes, 
 
 With here and there a face that hath the look 
 
 Of innocence — a smiHng, pleasant face; 
 
 But man may smile and be a very rogue, 
 
 The Avon bard hath said, and so it is. 
 
 And there were faces dark, with shaggy brows, 
 
 That hung o'er cunning eyes whose furtive looks, 
 
 Like creatures of the night, did steal abroad. 
 
 Retreating quickly at the least alarm 
 
 Under the shadows of the hanging brows. 
 
 Half shaven heads that looked as they had been 
 
 Hard mauled and battered out of human form; 
 
 Curious low foreheads, flat and meaningless. 
 
 With big, unshapely ears, and wide, deep mouths, 
 
 Armed with sharp fangs. A fearful company 
 
 Of silent men, who delved from morn till night. 
 
 Under their keeper's ever-watchful eyes. 
 
 About these men a something fiendish was. 
 
 Something of Hell about their dwelling place. 
 
 Sombre, tho' full of clashing, clanging noise. 
 
 The noise of industry that never ceased, 
 
 Until the sun went down, and darkness clasped 
 
 The gloomy walls within it's wide embrace. 
 
 Here, to this hell — it was a hell to him — 
 
 Silas was brought. Scarce conscious was he when 
 
 The iron portals closed and shut him in. 
 
 His name was written in the prison books. 
 
 As we might write the name of one who dies; 
 
 And thenceforth was he but a nameless thing, 
 
 38 
 
He prayed as he had never prayed before. 
 
C5e aagll of Lucinaa pearl 
 
 Like a beast branded — by a number known. 
 
 Like one who walketh in his sleep, he moved 
 
 Betwixt two keepers, gloomy-eyed and grim, 
 
 Who led him here and there without a word, 
 
 As tho' he were some creature reasonless. 
 
 But when they clothed him in the prison garb. 
 
 And dipt away his yellow curling hair, 
 
 His poor, bewildered spirit was aroused: 
 
 He uttered one long, wailing cry, and wept 
 
 As weeps the man who feels his heart will break — 
 
 His very soul will die. They left him there 
 
 Locked in a cell alone. Nay, not alone; 
 
 For fancy peopled all the stifling air 
 
 With horrid, mocking fiends, who, grinning, claimed 
 
 His brotherhood. O, infamy ! O, shame ! 
 
 Dog-like he groveled on the floor and groaned, 
 
 And tears of fire shed : they seemed to burn 
 
 The flesh they touched. This degredation deep 
 
 Was like a frightful pit, as black as night. 
 
 In which he had fallen, and from whence appeared 
 
 No way of exit. Long he lay, and moaned. 
 
 And wept and sighed, and then he humbly crawled 
 
 Upon his knees, and called, beseeching God, 
 
 Not to deliver him from present thrall — 
 
 He knew 'twas needful for his spirit's rest. 
 
 That he should penance do — ^but that he might 
 
 Have strength to bear the burden manfully. 
 
 He prayed as he had never prayed before 
 
 To that dear Lord who seemed so far away; 
 
 Beseeching, pleading, till He nearer drew, 
 
 And lifted from his soul that great despair. 
 
 Which had o'ermastered him; and then he slept, 
 
 And God's peace rested on him while he slept. 
 
 At dawn of day — tho' in his narrow cell 
 
 The night still lingered — they came and led him forth 
 
 Unto a life that seemed a living death, 
 
 39 
 
Cfte aogll of JLunnPa pearl 
 
 And like Lucinda, when despair had crushed 
 
 Her gentle soul and blighted all her life, 
 
 He was most thankful for the boon of work. 
 
 As she had thought, thought he, ''Without the work 
 
 I feel that I should die." And so he worked 
 
 As tho his life depended on the task. 
 
 His fellow prisoners wondered why he toiled 
 
 So willingly at that which they would shirk. 
 
 Not knowing that for him salvation lay 
 
 In common labor that would numb the brain. 
 
 He was unskilled, but soon with practice came 
 
 Craft-cunning, and the hand that erstwhile drove 
 
 The plow unerringly in furrows straight, 
 
 Upturning to the sun the fruitful glebe ; 
 
 Tamed the wild colt, or laid the sturdy oak 
 
 On mother earth, and split it into rails : 
 
 Became expert with needles, thread and awls ; 
 
 With pincers, punches, scissors, and the like. 
 
 All the long day he wrought unceasingly ; 
 
 For then he kept aloof the maddening thoughts 
 
 Of joys that he had lost, and vain regrets. 
 
 And when black night came down, and labor ceased, 
 
 Rejoicing he heard the door that, clanging, shut 
 
 Him in his cell, and out that company 
 
 Of crime — cursed men with whom his lot was cast. 
 
 He knelt and prayed to Him who giveth sleep 
 
 To his beloved, and his spirit passed 
 
 Beyond those walls accursed, where slumber-wrapped 
 
 His body lay, and lived with them he loved. 
 
 Near his allotted place a convict worked 
 Who seemed to take his lot contentedly; 
 A smiling face he had, as merry thoughts 
 His fancy tickled and awoke his mirth. 
 He would have sung, but that the prison rules 
 Bade him be dumb ; so he could only look 
 
 40 
 
C&e Stigll of lucinoa peatl 
 
 The music that was in him, while he tapped 
 A rhythmic cadence with the tools he used. 
 He seemed misplaced among that hardened crew, 
 Whose wicked faces stamped were with a scowl, 
 The brooding shadow of their evil lives, 
 The outward impress of the soul withm 
 This man a swift glance oft at him would cast, 
 And if no warden s eye were on him, tip 
 A little nod, as tho' to say "Cheer up. 
 Cheer up, and laugh at Fate, despite her frowns, ^^ 
 And with you she will laugh and change her mood. 
 And sooth 'tis so. When Fate doth throw a man 
 If he rise not, and show a valiant front, 
 Then is he lost; for Fate no mercy hath-- 
 Naught but contempt for coward heart that lies 
 Licking the dust with sighs and whining plaints ; 
 But for the man who fights in spite of all 
 The ills she heeps upon him, she hath oft ^ 
 A prize worth winning, tho' she grudging gives. 
 Strict silence was the rule, but signs there were 
 With which these social pariahs filled the void 
 Of speech forbidden. Silas these soon learned. 
 How^ Scarce could he tell; and little need had he 
 For such poor knowledge, being mostly wrapped 
 In melancholy thought. But times with him— 
 That friendly neighbor— he'd exchange a sign 
 Of recognition— nothing more ; he feared 
 To rouse the warden's ire, for he had seen 
 Men cruelly used for very petty faults. 
 Subjected to debasing punishments, . . . ^. 
 Which would have broken heart and spirit both 
 Of him, had he the wretched victim been. 
 He'd ne'er provoke the wrath of savage men. 
 Who had the power to use him shamefully. 
 For spite or malice, as the devils do. 
 One day his friend— he had begun to feel 
 
 41 
 
Cle gagll of LucmPa peatl ' 
 
 This merry comrade in some sort a friend — 
 
 With such signs asked what his offense had been. 
 
 He answered not at once. Alas ! he felt 
 
 That with a sign he could not fully tell 
 
 The story of his guilt, the cause and all 
 
 That might be said to palliate the act. 
 
 To smooth the brutal fact, and make it seem 
 
 Less brutal than it was. At last he made 
 
 A quick response which told the plain, bare truth. 
 
 "Murder," the other said, and looked aghast. 
 
 The word was uttered in a hushed, scared tone, 
 
 The speaker seeming in the shocked surprise 
 
 At this confession to forget the rules 
 
 That bade his tongue be dumb. 'Twas plain that he 
 
 Had looked not for an answer such as this, 
 
 From one whose gentle melancholy mien 
 
 Had touched his sympathy. Some petty crime, 
 
 The issue of circumstance, he thought, perchance, 
 
 Had snared him in the meshes of the law. 
 
 The blood of man he ne'er himself had shed, 
 
 Tho' his had been a wild and reckless life 
 
 Of sin and crime; and now it startled him 
 
 That one so young should do so foul a deed. 
 
 Silas saw how it stood, how he had shocked 
 
 This man who was a criminal himself. 
 
 And half regretted having told the truth : 
 
 But speak the truth he must, whatever came. 
 
 Tho' in his passion he had done the deed, 
 
 The most abhorred of all that man can do. 
 
 His manly, honest nature turned with scorn 
 
 From falsehood's cowardice; tho' he had killed 
 
 The man, he would not lie ; that "vice of slaves," 
 
 Lying, he loathed. 'Twas that had brought him back 
 
 To face his doom; for he had lived a life 
 
 He knew was false until he loathed himself. 
 
 And so, self-loathing to himself became 
 
 42 
 
Cfte 3DgU of JLucinPa pearl 
 
 A thing most hateful. Better far to die 
 
 Than still to live and be a living lie. 
 
 The word his comrade spake was harsh and hard; 
 
 Cruelly cold, but coldly truthful too. 
 
 It told the tale with sudden emphasis, 
 
 That could not be gainsaid ; tho' legal phrase 
 
 Might twist its meaning, making it appear 
 
 As something else, it stood out clear and sharp, 
 
 In letter red that technicality 
 
 Could never hide beneath its threadbare garb 
 
 Of forms contorted and contorted speech. 
 
 In mood more sombre now the poor youth moved. 
 
 He thought the knowledge of his monstrous crime 
 
 Had quenched the friendly spirit of the man, 
 
 Who shrank from him as from some creature loathed. 
 
 'Twas but a fancy, yet the fancy oft 
 
 Beguiles us to believe the very worst; 
 
 And while he thought his pleasant neighbor had 
 
 To him unfriendly grown, the neighbor made 
 
 Excuse for him, believing in his soul 
 
 Some provocation great had urged and forced 
 
 Him to the desperate act. Such things have been. 
 
 Men of the mildest natures have been known 
 
 To take a sudden vengeance on the foes 
 
 Who sought to tramp them down into the dust. 
 
 And love, the gentlest sense that moves the heart, 
 
 Will sometimes rave, by jealous fancies turned 
 
 Into a madness that will drive the man 
 
 To do mad deeds. And Silas worked and thought, 
 
 "Once more am I alone; all men who know 
 
 What I have done turn from me with a dread: 
 
 A man proscribed I'll be unto the end." 
 
 43 
 
Cfte 3ftpU of Lucmna Pearl 
 
 II 
 
 The cold, white snow was falling thick and fast; 
 Whirled by the whirling winds, the flying flakes 
 On hill and valley settled silently. 
 Covering the land as with the vail of death, 
 Hiding from living eyes the stark, still dead ; 
 High loading cottage roof and leafless tree. 
 Bending the cracking limbs beneath the weight; 
 Piling in drifts where hidden fences stood; 
 Levelling the hillocks, hiding road and path. 
 All day they floated on thin, noiseless wings. 
 But when the night drew near they slacked, then 
 
 ceased. 
 A great white peace reigned o'er a buried world. 
 Lucinda near the casement stood and looked 
 Abroad upon the scene and thought of him. 
 Shut in his prison cell. A little while — 
 Ah, yet a little while and he'd be free — 
 His penance made. Once more the world must rise 
 From this cold death, in beauty bloom again. 
 Breathing life's fragant breath, and joyous sing 
 Triumphant nature's resurrection hymn; 
 Then the long winter of her soul would end. 
 Love's summer warm to life her grief crushed heart. 
 With cheering glow the crackling fire burned, 
 Filling the room with warmth and ruddy light. 
 And by the hearthstone mother Ramsay sat. 
 Knitting wool stockings for her goodman, John; 
 Her needles flashing like electric sparks. 
 The firelight glowing on the snow-white head. 
 And on the patient face, where sorrow's hand 
 Had writ it's grievious tale. The while she worked 
 A smile of joy broke through the cloud of woe, 
 
 44 
 
Cfte SOgll of Lucinna Pearl 
 
 As from a dismal sky will sometimes burst 
 
 A sumiy gleam to cheer desponding man: 
 
 And then the hands grew still and idle lay 
 
 Upon her lap, while she gazed musingly 
 
 Into the red fire's heart. Lucinda came 
 
 And knelt beside her. Mother dear," she said, 
 
 And took the withered hand within her own, 
 
 ''What see you there to set your face alight 
 
 With such great joy?" , 
 
 "Ah, love, I see my^ boy. 
 The mother said, with hushed and quavering voice, 
 *'I see his handsome face, his honest eye, 
 That never shrank before another's gaze- 
 Not even when he stood before the judge, 
 By his own words condemned. Ah, me ! Ah, me ! 
 How long I've waited, Lord ; but now the end 
 Is drawing nigh and he to me will come. 
 When the birds sing again I'll see his face. 
 And hold him in these arms, as when a babe. 
 He lay upon my breast. Ah, me! Ah, me! 
 And then my heart will sing as sing the birds, 
 And the old blood in me will dance with joy— 
 With such great joy as I have never^known. 
 Not even on the day when I was wed." 
 The mother stroked with loving touch the hand 
 That clasped her own, and stroked the soft brown 
 
 hair. 
 "Poor, little heart," she said, as she had said 
 So many years agone, "Poor, little heart. 
 It, too, has suffered, waiting patiently. 
 Thro' the long night that was so dreary dark. 
 For the bright morn that seemed so far away. 
 Complaining not. Dear heart, so brave and true, 
 It shall with love be made content at last. ^ 
 It seemeth strange to us, poor mortals blind, 
 That tho' we strive the blessed Lord to please, 
 
 45 
 
Cfte SDgll of JLucinPa pearl 
 
 Our souls with dreadful agony are torn 
 Just when we think our happiness complete. 
 Ah, hap it may be tliat our hearts are proud. 
 And through the darkness of self-righteousness 
 We cannot see how weak and vain we are. 
 Yes, I was proud of him, my noble boy, 
 In whom I saw no fault, my judgment warpt 
 By mother love. But I am humbled now, 
 And Lord, dear Lord, bring comfort ere I die. 
 Thou gavest me my son and warmed my heart 
 With that great love which has my weakness proved 
 And Thou wilt not withhold Thy peace at last." 
 Then faintly rose from those old lips a hymn. 
 With trembling notes, uncertain of the way ; 
 Now running over with the soul's excess. 
 Then going back, repeating word or line. 
 When failing memory faltered o'er the tune. 
 
 I 
 
 O Lord, Thy will be done, 
 
 Whate'er that will may be; 
 For Thou and Thy dear Son 
 
 Know what is best for me. 
 My heart with pride is full. 
 
 And I thy pardon crave; 
 For Thou dost crush out pride. 
 
 Our wretched souls to save. 
 
 II 
 Dear Lord ! 'twere vain for me 
 
 To Thee my grief to tell; 
 For Thou dost all things see. 
 
 And all things know as well. 
 Tho' o'er this poor, weak head 
 
 The bitter waters roll, 
 And tho' Thou griev'st me sore, 
 
 I know Thou lov'st my soul. 
 
 46 
 
'O, Lord, Thy will be done." 
 
Cfte aogll of jLurinna peatl 
 
 III 
 
 Yes, tho' by sorrows torn, 
 
 My faith will still prevail, 
 And when the end shall come 
 
 Thy love will not me fail. 
 I'll trust to that great love, 
 
 Tho' racked with agony, 
 For from Thy throne above 
 
 Thou know'st what's best for me. 
 
 Lucinda said no word, but bowed her head 
 Upon the trembling knee, and from her eyes 
 Tears flowed unseen by her for whom she wept. 
 Such faith to her was yet a mystery. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The land is drenched and drowned, the rains have beat 
 
 The tender new sprung leaves and catkins down, 
 
 And strewn them on the soft and soppy mold, 
 
 Mingled with sear, brown leaves that autumn winds 
 
 Stript from the trees and scattered everywhere. 
 
 The river's brim is torn by angry waves. 
 
 That leap and roar like savage beasts : the stream 
 
 That erstwhile peaceful, flowed thro' valleys green, 
 
 A raging yellow torrent has become. 
 
 Within whose bosom nature looks askant. 
 
 With sallow face, her beauty all despoiled : 
 
 And rivulets to rivers grown, spread out 
 
 O'er meadow land and field, and bring to naught 
 
 The labor of the husbandman, who drives 
 
 His hungry cattle high up on the hills. 
 
 Where scanty herbage tempts their appetites. 
 
 The first spring flowers droop their heavy heads. 
 
 Pallid and limp, sick unto death. Too soon 
 
 They ventured forth, their silken petals oped, 
 
 47 
 
Cfie aogll of HucmPa peart . 
 
 Like infants' wondering eyes ; their golden hearts, 
 That held enticement for the buzzing host, 
 Were rudely shattered, wasted all their wealth. 
 Whose odors linger yet in humid air, 
 As spirits loath to leave their ruined homes. 
 And birds which filled the vale with joyous song, 
 To hail Earth's Easter morn, now sad and mute, 
 Sit in the melancholy groves, with eyes 
 Upgazing at the clouds, whose bellies black. 
 And big to bursting, threaten with fresh floods 
 The ruin to complete that they began. 
 
 "The downpour slackens, comrade, let's begone. 
 The bridge is washed away, but chance we'll find 
 Some little craft, and if the skill were mine 
 In other years, e'er yet my days were curst, 
 Hold good, 'twill bear us safely o'er the flood." 
 'Twas Silas spoke, his comrade was the man, 
 His fellow prisoner with the friendly smile. 
 
 "On yonder side, not far from here, the farm 
 Lies in a quiet nook. There we may rest. 
 And seek forgetfulness of evil times : 
 There the dear mother waits for us, and she 
 Will teach you what it is to have a home — 
 A thing, you say, you never yet have known." 
 
 *'Ay true it is. Since when I was a child 
 I've been adrift and knocking 'bout the world. 
 An empty ship that sailed the sea of life. 
 Without a pilot and without a port." 
 
 "Well, you must know, such ships are doomed to 
 wreck ; 
 Destruction's rocks lie ever in their way. 
 And soon or late they strike ; then comes the end. 
 Now here's a port for you, good friend, at last. 
 If you will anchor." 
 
 48 
 
Cfte snpll of iLucinna peatl 
 
 "Yes, ah yes, perhaps. 
 But I'm so little used to decent folk, 
 I know not how they 11 take me ; I have swum 
 So long in vice's current that I fear 
 The prison's in my very blood; my soul — 
 I know not if I have one, but if so 
 'Tis smothered deep beneath its load of sin; 
 So foul it is with evil tendencies, 
 I fear not long in virtue's way I'll bide. 
 Ah me, my friend, vou did one ugly thing"— 
 ''Nay, say not so. Use not such gentle phrase, 
 To name my fault. It was a horrid deed— 
 A damned and dreadful crime." 
 
 "Well, be It so. 
 But still, 'twas done in passion, while with me 
 'Tis otherwise. I've always evil done 
 For evil's sake. My crimes, you say, are small ; 
 But then the sum is great, o'ertopping far ^^ 
 The one mad act that stands to your account. 
 ''Not so, not so. But since you will insist. 
 Then let the matter rest. We'll say no more. 
 And why should you not break the bonds that hold 
 
 You in this evil way ?" 
 
 "That's said with ease, 
 
 But let me tell you this which I have learned : 
 When once the devil takes a man in tow, 
 A man that's willing, loving devil's work. 
 He finds it hard to break the grappling hooks, 
 Altho' he knows they drag him down to hell." 
 They found a boat— a little crazy craft. 
 That had been hauled above the waters' reach, 
 Which easily they launched, and leaped within. 
 Silas stood in the stern with paddle poised. 
 Midships his comrade squatted, holding fast 
 With nervous hands, and looking straight ahead. 
 The fragile bark shot out upon the stream, 
 
 49 
 
Cfte Utrgll of ilucinaa pearl. 
 
 Impelled by youthful vigor practice taught 
 
 To steer with skill, to check, to swerve aside 
 
 When perils unlooked for threatened sudden wreck. 
 
 The waters swirled and strove with wild turmoil 
 
 To drive it onward on its own mad rush; 
 
 But Silas knew to make the current swift 
 
 His slave instead of master, and they passed 
 
 With safety almost to the further shore, 
 
 Tho' drifting somewhat. Silas looking up, 
 
 Beheld Lucinda running down the road. 
 
 Her hair, all loosened, flying in the wind. 
 
 Her hand uplifted, waving something white, 
 
 A welcome signal. "See, she comes," he cried. 
 
 E'en while he spoke there was a dreadful shock — 
 
 A whirl — a plunge, and then the waters rolled 
 
 Above his head. When he arose he sought 
 
 With anxious eye his friend, who, struggling, burst 
 
 Gasping and strangling from the tawny depths; 
 
 Clutching the air, as drowning men are wont. 
 
 A swimmer bold was Silas ; striking out. 
 
 He caught the man and held him while he strove 
 
 To gain the land ; but, O, the river strong 
 
 Was as some greedy monster, full of wrath, 
 
 That held them fast, and dragged them down to death. 
 
 The loving girl, whose heart had leaped with joy. 
 
 Was seized with sudden fright. She nought could do : 
 
 Not even could she cry, tho' rage to scream, 
 
 To shout aloud, was tearing at her breast. 
 
 As one who sleeps and dreams some awful dream 
 
 Would cry for help, but utters not a sound. 
 
 An inward battle raging, while the limbs 
 
 And tongue, rebellious 'gainst the will's commands, 
 
 Refuse to stir, she helpless stood and gazed. 
 
 Tho' we be brave we fight with all our might 
 To fend off death, for life to us is sweet. 
 
 50 
 
Cfte atrgll of UttcfttOa pearl 
 
 To life we cling- when oft 'twere best to die, 
 
 And 'scape the load of ills that weighs us down. 
 
 E'en tottering age, which plainly can discern 
 
 The point of vanishing, so close at hand, 
 
 As lusty youth that hope doth beckon on, 
 
 Is loath to reach the goal where all must be 
 
 Restored at last to vast infinity. 
 
 A tree upturned, still rooted to the soil, 
 
 From which it sprung, swung swaying o'er the 
 
 stream, 
 That fiercely strove to tear it from its hold : 
 A desperate chance, but Silas struggling drew 
 His helpless burden to it. Clinging fast 
 To the strong boughs, he slippery footing won, 
 And then Lucinda came, with feeble aid. 
 And they the stranger laid upon the bank, 
 Half in this rugged world and half beyond. 
 
 The home is joyful now with that sweet joy 
 
 Which from the eye shines out on them we love : 
 
 The ardent look with which the spirit speaks 
 
 From the pure depths where burns love's sacred flame. 
 
 Lucinda and Silas scarcely ever spoke. 
 
 Of that which moved their hearts with happy thrills. 
 
 But hand in hand sat silent side by side ; 
 
 Or walked enlocked, as they had walked of old, 
 
 Thro' woods and meadows, never by the stream. 
 
 Once only did they speak of him, the youth 
 
 Who perished for his folly. Silas called 
 
 His image up. "Oh, God," he, groaning, said, 
 
 "That I could but forget the one great wrong ! 
 
 It is a heavy burden on my soul. 
 
 And I must bear it always while I live, 
 
 Tho' with a contrite heart I've penance done." 
 
 "Let not such thoughts embitter life," she said: 
 
 51 
 
C{)e aagll of JLucmtJOi pearl , 
 
 'Thro' Christ, our Lord, forgiven is your sin ; 
 And for him lost another has been found." 
 "No, no, not so ; he'll ne'er again be well ; 
 We see him growing weaker day by day: 
 The water's chill embrace still holds him fast: 
 He 'scaped the sudden death to slowly die/' 
 "His body, yes; but we his soul will save, 
 Which is more worth our care." 
 
 Poor wreck of man — 
 Yes, wrecked at last, but on a friendly shore. 
 With loving hearts to feed the hungry soul. 
 They talked to him of things beyond this life, 
 "Christ died to save all sinners. Thus it is ; 
 If we believe, howe'er defiled by sin. 
 We grow in grace until our souls are fit 
 To live with Him, our Lord, who on the Cross 
 For us was sacrificed." They told him this. 
 "But is that all?" he asked. " 'Tis all: God's word. 
 If 'twere not so, what hope had any man ?" 
 And he believed, and felt that blessed peace 
 Which comes to all who give themselves to Christ ; 
 So laid him down to rest in sweet content. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 S3 
 
C&e 3DpII of ILucitttia PeatI 
 
 THE CITY OF DEATH. 
 
 I travelled in an eastern land, 
 
 Of forests drear and lone; 
 Thro' reeking swamp, o'er burning sand. 
 
 Where sad winds wail and moan. 
 
 No mortal spake a word to me, 
 
 But creatures wild I saw; 
 The tiger roaming fierce and free. 
 
 With bloody lip and claw. 
 
 The savage bear, the jackal foul, 
 
 And crafty wolf crept near; 
 The things that all night shriek and howl, 
 
 And fill the soul with fear. 
 
 And wriggling serpents there I met. 
 With poisonous fang and breath; 
 
 Things that my faltering steps beset. 
 Whose lightest touch means death. 
 
 I found a city lying fair 
 
 Upon a sunny slope; 
 And from my soul went out despair, 
 
 And in its stead came hope. 
 
 I entered in, but what a sight 
 
 Met my abhorrent eyes ; 
 Great flocks of filthy birds took flight. 
 
 With hoarse and sullen cries. 
 
 53 
 
Cfte USgll of JLucinlia pearl 
 
 And lying here and lying there, 
 
 Were ghastly heaps of dead ; 
 Men, women, children everywhere: 
 
 Life from that town had fled. 
 
 No living man or woman bade 
 
 Me welcome to the place; 
 No little child obeisance made. 
 
 And wished to me God's grace. 
 
 I made my way with shrinking feet, 
 
 The dead lay still and stark; 
 And off the narrow crooked street 
 
 I heard the wild dogs bark. 
 
 Within the houses dismal black, 
 
 I saw the slinking beast; 
 And as I passed the birds came back, 
 
 Returning to the feast. 
 
 The dreadful birds, the birds of woe, 
 
 They danced around in rings. 
 Tripping on light fantastic toe, 
 
 With outspread sable wings. 
 
 And creeping, crawling things were there 
 
 To share the horrid food; 
 But from the flesh that they did tear 
 
 Came riot a drop of blood. 
 
 O, dear Lord Christ! those glistening teeth, 
 
 '.^hose staring, sightless eyes; 
 The unclean things that stirred beneath. 
 
 And, O! the swarms of flies. 
 
 54 
 
Cfte aapll of jLurinoa peatl 
 
 The buzzing flies, the droning flies, 
 
 That settled on the dead ; 
 Would with a sudden whir arise, 
 
 At my advancing tread. 
 
 And, O! the putrid, stinking air. 
 
 The rotting flesh, the bones: 
 My soul was faint with new despair, 
 
 My heart was rent with groans. 
 
 It was an awful thing, ah me ; 
 
 A thing the soul to rack ; 
 To pass by Death, with Death to be, 
 
 To follow in his track. 
 
 These were the vassals of a lord, 
 
 Who lived in grand estate ; 
 But they, poor wretches, were abhored. 
 
 By this ruler of their fate. 
 
 He took their dole of hard-earned gold, 
 To swell his wealth's great tide ; 
 
 And to their gods their woes they told. 
 And laid them down and died. 
 
 55 
 
Cfte SDpII of Lucinaa Pearl , 
 
 ARACHNE. 
 
 I 
 
 Ah, she was beautiful standing there, 
 
 Twisting and twining her beautiful hair; 
 
 Twisting and twining it, 
 
 Twining and twisting it, 
 
 Making a web of it, 
 
 A web to ensnare 
 
 The hearts of men, 
 
 To fill with despair 
 
 The souls of men. 
 
 II 
 
 Yes, she was beautiful, with beautiful eyes, 
 
 Eyes like the sapphire, 
 
 Tinged with the blue 
 
 Of darker hue 
 
 That in the lapsis-lazuli lies. 
 
 Ah, such eyes, such wonderful eyes, 
 
 That looking on man would make him unwise. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Twisting and twining her beautiful hair 
 She wove her snare, 
 And out of it shone her glittering eyes 
 Full of great joy; "Ah, men are wise/' 
 
 S6 
 
C&e aogll of JLucintra Pearl 
 
 She said; 
 
 "But beauty is better than wisdom, I trow ; 
 
 'Tis better than wisdom, 'tis better than love. 
 
 And what is love that we hear such plaint 
 
 From sinner and saint? 
 
 Ah, what, forsooth? 
 
 Tis a thing for our laughter, a folly of youth ; 
 
 A puff o' the wind, 
 
 A freak o' the mind 
 
 Beclouded with smoke: 
 
 'Tis a joke, ho, ho, 'tis a joke." 
 
 And so she went forth with her glittering eyes, 
 
 To dazzle the foolish and confound the wise. 
 
 IV 
 
 In the marts of trade where they buy and sell 
 
 She walked with a stately grace and pride, 
 
 And when her glance upon them fell — 
 
 The glowing glance of her sapphire eyes — 
 
 They left the sum of their gains untold, 
 
 Their yellow heaps of gleaming gold ; 
 
 Their souls enthralled, their cunning lies 
 
 Died on their lips. With dumb amaze 
 
 They turned from the shrine of their mammon god. 
 
 And gathered about her where she stood. 
 
 Content to gaze 
 
 On the wondrous beauty that heeded not 
 
 Their worshipful mood. 
 
 God wot 
 
 They were naught to her, this trading crew, 
 
 And one bewildering glance she threw 
 
 Among the lot — 
 
 Pagan, Panim, Gentile and Jew — 
 
 And left them there and went her wa^s. 
 
 57 
 
Cfie 3DglI of JLucinOa peati 
 
 She went to the courts where the judges sate, 
 
 Felons to try, and fix their fate — 
 
 The judges, whose hearts had long been dried, 
 
 Till naught was left but a turbid tide 
 
 Of sluggish blood. 
 
 She looked and their mummied hearts throbbed and 
 
 swelled 
 While the blood that had welled 
 Like a fountain of mud, 
 Gave a sudden gush that filled the brain, 
 And leapt like a fire through every vein ; 
 And the advocate's argument lost its thread, 
 For the advocate's self had lost his head. 
 And all of his talk seemed wild confusion, 
 While the jury was dazed with a strange illusion : 
 And the men who were tried 
 Could have gone their ways ; 
 But they stood and stared as men in a maze. 
 So she left them all. 
 Under the thrall, 
 Under the thrall of her passing gaze. 
 
 VI 
 
 There, where the sacred sounds arise. 
 The solemn chant, the organ's peal. 
 To search the vault of the far off skies. 
 For Him, the universal Lord; 
 Where sinners kneel, 
 To pray and weep, to moan and sigh, 
 
 58 
 
Cfie appll of LucinPa Pearl 
 
 And send to Heaven 
 
 A piteous cry 
 
 To be forgiven — 
 
 Ah, many the evil paths they'd trod, 
 
 For love of self, 
 
 For love of pelf; 
 
 Forgetting that there is a God — ' 
 
 She sat and heard the holy man, 
 
 Who bade them worship Him alone 
 
 Who sitteth upon the great white throne. 
 
 vn 
 
 His thoughts flowed down in a torrent of words, 
 
 Like nuggets of gold and gems that gleam, 
 
 And flash and sparkle through the flood — 
 
 Through the hurrying flood of the mountain stream. 
 
 And he told of the One who suffered and died, 
 
 Whose precious blood 
 
 For them was shed, and loudly cried, 
 
 "Repent, ye sinners, turn, turn away 
 
 From, the road to hell while yet 'tis day ; 
 
 For night it cometh when no man may." 
 
 vni 
 
 She caught the glance of his frenzied eye, 
 And trembling he held his panting breath, 
 Then heaved from his heart's deep depths a sigh. 
 And talked no more of sin and death. 
 While a web of desire around him she wove, 
 And wrapped him about with the meshes of love. 
 And when he went forth from the House of God, 
 Like a man in a dream the streets he trod. 
 
 59 
 
Cfte 3DgU of Lucmaa Pearl . 
 
 IX 
 
 She followed him there and he looked behind, 
 
 Groping his way, as him who is blind ; 
 
 And would have fallen, but she caught his hand, 
 
 And whispered that she would lead him aright; 
 
 For he was like one who is lost in the land 
 
 Of desolate night. 
 
 And she led him away to the halls of pleasure, 
 
 And made him trip with her a measure. 
 
 While clasping her close in a fierce embrace, 
 
 He bent his dark eyes on her face. 
 
 At last they danced out into the gloom — 
 
 The night was black and the moon was blue — 
 
 And the curst came forth with clattering bones, 
 
 With gnashing jaws and dreadful groans. 
 
 To join in the merry-go-round: 
 
 And they whirled and twirled with a fiendish crew. 
 
 To the owl's too-woo, 
 
 And the devil's tattoo. 
 
 They danced away to their doom. 
 
 60 
 
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 A Nest of Vipers— Morgan D. Jones i • 50 
 
 Religious Works 
 
 The Disintegrating Church— Frederick William 
 
 Atkinson • ^ -^^ 
 
 Evolution of Belief— J. W. Gordon. i • 50 
 
 Down Hill and Up Hill— Rev. J. G. Anderson. .2.00 
 
 A Certain Samaritan— Rev. John Richelsen. i .00 
 
 The Reunion of Christendom— Francis Goodman i .50 
 What the Church Is and What It Should Be— 
 
 Lafayette Swindle ." '^- " >^u " ^'^^ 
 
 A Harp of the Heart. (Poems)— Rev. Chas. 
 
 Coke Woods a;:- \." ^'^ 
 
 The Gospel Parables in Verse— Rev. Christopher 
 
 Smith • ■ ^'Wy ''^^ 
 
 Who? Whence? Where? An Essay by Pedro 
 
 Batista ;„•••;••• ;V ' "i: 'ii ^ '°° 
 
 Compendium of Scriptural Truths— Marshall 
 
 Smith •^•■'h'l' ^'^^ 
 
 The Passion Play at Ober Ammergau— Esse Esto 
 
 Maplestone ^ -^^ 
 
 Israel Lo Ammi— Ida M. Nungasser 
 
 ^ 
 
The Eternal Evangel — Solomon S. Hllscher ^ • 50 
 
 A New Philosophy of Life — J. C. Coggins i . 00 
 
 Romance of the Universe — B. T. Stauber i .50 
 
 In the Early Days — Adelaide Hickox i . 50 
 
 The New Theology — By a Methodist Layman — 
 Hamilton White i . 00 
 
 Miscellaneous 
 
 Anvil Sparks — Radical Rhymes and Caustic 
 
 Comments, by Wilby Heard 75 
 
 The Medical Expert and Other Papers — Louis J. 
 
 Rosenberg 50 
 
 The Little Sufferers (dealing with the Abuses of 
 
 the Children's Societies) — G. Martin i . 50 
 
 Eureka, a Prose Poem — S. H. Newberry i .00 
 
 Rust (a play in four acts) — Algernon Tassin (of 
 
 Columbia University) i . 00 
 
 Poems by Charles Guinness i . 00 
 
 Prohibition and Anti-Prohibition — Rommel, 
 
 Ziegler & Herz i . 00 
 
 Gay Gods and Merry Mortals — Verse by Robert J. 
 
 Shores 1 . 00 
 
 The Rubaiyat of the College Student — Ned Nafe .50 
 The Deluge of England, and Other Poems — James 
 
 Francis Thierry i , 00 
 
 The Dragon's Teeth — a Philosophical and Eco- 
 nomic Work — T. M. Sample i . 00 
 
 Achsah, the Sister of Jairus — Mabel Cronise 
 
 Jones I . <X) 
 
 The Marriage Bargain Counter — Daisy Deane . . 1 . 50 
 Building a New Empire — Nathaniel M. Ayers. . 1.50 
 
 Marriage and Divorce — Jeanette Laurance i . 00 
 
 The Clothespin Brigade — Clara L. Smiley 75 
 
 "Forget It" — Ida Von Claussen i .50 
 
 The Last Word: a Philosophical Essay — James 
 
 and Mary Baldwin i . 00 
 
 Travel 
 
 Eight Lands in Eight Weeks (illustrated by 90 
 drawings) — Marcia P. Snyder 1.25 
 
 Eliza and Etheldreda in Mexico — Patty Guthrie 
 (illustrated) .1-25 
 
 The attention of clergymen is directed to our Religrious List, one 
 of the largest of any house in America. 
 
 Write for free copy of our magazine, BOOK CHAT. 
 
 BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO., 835 BROADWAY, N. Y. 
 
 Branch Offices: 
 
 ATLANTA BALTIMORE INDIANAPOLIS NORFOLK 
 
 WASHINGTON DES MOINES, IOWA 
 
JUL 3 1912