mi M'A'.' m^<):- m '&' myimi ^mm m » 5S»#IS^ H^ IlIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I ty%^-^y^ — I I ^/UI ."^XL. I f UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.! MIDLAND POEMS BY ORSAMUS CHARLES DARE. .^ /i/Z?3.S^> LINCOLN: -^ ?TATE JOCRKAL COMPAXT. 1873. ^>^'^^ ^>^ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871. by ORSAMUS CHARLES DAKE. In the Office of the Librarian of*Congre88 in Watshini^ton. TO MY WIFE. mi^a^ht October days but lin^-ei — Linger and lengthen without surcease, The fading- g-lory fade ever, and fling her Mystic mantle in charmed peace On woodland, and prairie, and sunlight splendor- HoAV sweet were dreaming 'mid scenes so tender The low winds murmuring and moving, Like spirits aimless in Edens vast. Should weave fair legends of -happy loving— The long, dim story of all the past: And, sweetest by far to thee and me, The lyrical voices, of chivalry. But autumn days of peace are waning: The far horizon grows sharp and cold: The keen winds utter but shrill complaining- Harsh tune for themes of the days of old. So I must sing, if I sing at all. Of things unwelcome that now befall. 1 bring you songs to lit the weather- Tales, whose sad burden is grief to me: Perchance, ere long, we may roam together, 'Mid knights and ladies of high degree. Where lordly castles tower o'er the hills. And olden beauty the dream-land fills. State University of Nebraska, November 6, 1873. CONTENTS. NINETEENTH CENTURY PICTURES— 1. A Tale of The New Religion, . . -1 II. The Spiritualist, . 29 HI. Two Lives, . 59 A Library Ramble, 99 A Tale of the Jesuit Missions, . 121 Sunset and Night, 125 Dead Leaves, . 128 Invitation— IN Morte, 129 Past Sin, .... . 130 Summer Flowers, . 131 With April Winds, . . . . 132 An Autumn Thought, 134 Ad Thomam Carlyle, . . 137 Let the Storm Rage, 142 A Prelude, . 144 Desillusione, , 147 Mud Pies, . • • ■ . 150 Influence of Animate Things, 152 The Coming Man, . 154 The CEMETEm-, 156 Funeral Pageants, . 160 The Sea, 161 Fragments, . 169 AURELIA, . . 173 Contents POEMS OF 1871— Graping, . . .185 The Death of the STA(i. 190 Longing, . . . 192 The Fokgotten Poet, . HM The Unknown Sail, . lOH Indian Lover's Lament, . I'.tli To Zephyr, ....... 208 MiSTHER O'Flanagan's A nvoi.sE ti I. a Cofntiirym ax, 205 To THE Soi'TTi Wind, . .' - 20^ Magdalen, ....... 214 Aspiration, ...... 225 Sad Heart, Sow in Tears, . > . . 227 It Matters Not, ... 22'. » Christmas Eve— 1869, ..... 2:!1 Religiotts Divisions, ..... 234 Nebraska— 1866, ...... 24:! A Farewell, ..... 245 The Weeping Water, ... . . 247 1^ R R A T A raU'c (iS, loth line, (Uli Avord — lor ''word'' read "world." Pai^e 102, 12th line, 4th word — for '\fmitemUe'''' read '■'■fauteu/'L' Paij-e 248, Uth line, last word — for "hills" read "rills." NINETEENTH CENTURY PICTURES. T. A TALE OF THE NEW RELIGION. II. THE SPIRITUALIST. III. TWO LIVES. A TALE OF THE NEW RELIGION. A COLD imperious land whose l)arren slopes, Fog- veiled and dark, lean to the rainy seas Like bride unwilling to a gray-beard groom; Whose shallow streams, from stony fountains fed Under black groves of pine, through mossy vales With many a granite cape or boulder vast Wage ceaseless controversy ; and whose breath .(Tempt not that breath for 'tis consumption's own) From endless wastes of marshland wanders up To poison the gray airs — a sombre land Of shadow, and the eclipse of the warm light. And things unnatural to the needs of men — New England, self-complacent, fronts the world- Yet though a land of barrenness and blight, "Where toilsome patience from the scanty mould 2 2 A Tale of flic A^C7u Religion. Wrings but a niggard substance, mite by mite, Now hath the endless effort of her sons Crowned her a queen among earth's provinces, By wealth, and worth, and intellectual homes,. And memories that grow old. A ^yonder-land It seems; a tidal line to mark the height Of man's achievement in material things, AVhere fate is adverse. Many a city lies Along its sallow shores, or by the dams That check its petulant rivers ; and the gales, That vex the hollow ocean to rough tones, Waft thither argosies of unsummed wealth From every quarter. But New England's eye, Through which appears life's outward circumstance And inner speculation — her prime gauge Of witchcraft, jubilees, religion, life, Is Boston. Thence goes forth a daily law To all the shoal of cities round about. To ancient villages curled up in sleep. To multitudinous homesteads in the hills, And to wayfarers born within her line, Wide-wandering in all lands. Opinion, fashion. Wear the clear Boston cut on countless backs: And so for good — alas I how oft for evil. A Tale of the Neia Religion. 3 Her emissaries line earth's thoroughfares, Sowing in unfledged minds some pestilent thought Subversive of good order, and with peace Mouthed for a bait, strike at the holy creeds And customs that enshrine what peace earth knows. But Boston has no creed; or if she have, 'Tis simply "Agitate!" Her ruling caste. Trained to disorganize, toil hard to shake The rock-ribbed temple of things most divine, And leave the living homeless, and the dead — Nowhere. There is a matron of this caste — • Janet Monell — wealthy, and somewhat known For a light trick of verse,- and for the rant Of many a fierce unfeminine utterance, When all forgetful of the privacy That most becomes a woman, and the shame Of down-cast eyes, and clear-browed modesty, She mounts the platform, and with piercing voice Inveighs against the staidness of the past. Arraigns St. Paul for that he bade her be No brawler, but a keeper at home, and grave And quiet, and invites her motherly sex To turn crusaders of the god Reform, 4 A Talc of the New Religion. (The god whose other names are Restlessness, Irreverence, Self-Will, Experhiient), In schemes humanitarian. Peace she loves — She says so — and pathetically mourns That earth knows little of it. But she finds A sovereign panacea for all ills. In woman's finer impulse, sympathy, And adaptation to the use of suffrage; "Suffrage will close the day of lust and war. Repress ambition, change the moral tone Of the whole world. No living thing is safe. Except it vote; but voting cures all evils." Thus does she prate. But while, self-satisfied. And conscious of pure wisdom, she harangues A thronging rabble of her native town. Perchance a woman of the ^gean isles. Pale-faced and violet-eyed, sits on the rim Of outmost benches, musing on the show, And wondering if the creatures who applaud Are as the speaker: but at times her eyes Flash lightning fire. Ah, should their glances meet! Who is this woman? She is young and fair. A Tale of the New Religion. 5 AVith c:oiIs of golden ringlet, and a brow Chaste as Diana's. But her face reveals Sorrow and care; and anger may have drawn A thread of loveliness from happy thoughts, Leaving a raveled edge against the world. What does she there in Boston % She was formed For lavish sunlight, and the tender spell Of mellow moons that wander in the blue, High over orange groves. Winds perfumed sweet With mingled odors of the sea and land. Where sea and land are glorious, should lisp low To fill her sense with sweetness, and assuage Life's restlessness. Love should attend her — Love in constant forms — mild eyes, delightful tones, And ministering cares that make a spirit sweet. Thus it once was. Li all the Rhodian land, Near Lindos, where the olive-wooded hills Slope down to purple valleys, and begirt A district studded thick with villages. No face was sunnier with the lavish light Of ripened maidenhood; no thrush more free, Than Helena Pittakys. Her good sire, A country gentleman of modest means. Who loved his children, and well-knew the world 6 A Tale of the New Religion. For a great battle-field, against whose toils None can equip too well, in his own house Had had them taught the old philology^ The many tongues now used in the Levant, Music, and all the little common -place Of Greek domestic life. So she was learned Above most women; nay, above most men: And when, among the citron glades, at eve The village youth like nymphs and demigods Went flitting through the Romaika, she, Of all the comely, graceful sisterhood, Most looked the revel-queen. Was it then strange If Jules Monell, a shapely Boston youth And Harvard Bachelor, wandering at will, And sailing once to Lindos, sometime thought — Spell-bound amid the dances — that he saw No daughter of Pittakys, not a nymph. But faultless Dian stepping once again With slender gleaming foot the soundless turf Moon-silvered in fair Rhodes 1 ■ And was it strange If in long rambles through that ancient land, Hallowed by immemorial remains Of mournful Hellas, or in pleasant rides Across the hills to many a mouldering church A Tale of the New Religion. J That fell to ruin in the knightly wars, And from whose windy towers the nightingale, Hid in dark hoods of ivy, pours the strain Of her most subtle rapture — was it strange His shadow flying on the bridle paths, Or sitting motionless within an apse, Seemed often knitted with a slighter shade ? You will not deem it strange : for youth when left To natural impulse, sensitively thrills To beauty ; bows to worth ; and most delights In counterpart of color, nerve, and tone, Least like its own. And she ? vShe could not say But that she liked the Yankee; — liked him most. Because he was unlike the Rhodian youth; Less supple, whiter-skinned, and cooler in poise. She prized the manly temper that is bred Where men need not be servile — cringe and fawn To barbarous foreign despots; and she thought Jules had ripe worldly wisdom, and was ruled By amiable impulse. So she grew. Through sudden forward movements of the heart, Even with his desire; and made her plight To follow him across the western seas, To Boston. 8 A Tale of the A^ew Religion. And anon they wed. Then, when. For the last time Pittakys' tearful eyes Looked on his daughter parting, brokenly He spoke: "The way is long to that great land Past the engulfing flood of angry seas, Long, and with perilous chances wildly crossed. I, in my life-time have not traveled far. Though I have been in Athens once, and twice Have voyaged to Smyrna. But, then I was young. And youth will venture. Now being old, I shall not try to reach you where you go — To that far city, Boston. It is hard To lose my children: I had hoped to see Them near me, living: but God's ways are best. Better that some of those who share my blood Be manly freeman in a free bold land. Than wear the Turk's accursed yoke in Rhodes! So I dismiss you with the better heart. Though I live lonelier to the end. In heaven Are mansions : we may meet again : this is My hope, my comfort. O my children. Be true man and true woman : firmly hold The faith delivered: be as I — christian And orthodox: for this, will help you prove A Tale of the ]\e7v Religion. C P^orgiving to each other : help you shun The Evil Eye. Now God go with you both ! " And as they went, the old man humbly bowed His righteous hoary head, as he had wont Through all life's tangled maze of sun and sin — Since paths are many and but one is straight, — Turning aside upon the shining sand To pray for them ; for he was not ashamed To be devout; nor thought it christian-like To hide away, as 'twere a guilty thing, Dependence deeply felt on Providence. Then the loud-roaring funnels smote the heaven, And the great populous steamer turned her prow Out to the Avaste: Rhodes faded: Malta came; Then Naples, Rome, Paris, and many a month Of glorious England; 'till the honeymoon Waning, a little satellite was seen — The sweetest thing in that domestic sky. Then they came home to Boston. How the heart Of Helena had flown across the sea, By love-lore piloted, to meet and love Her husband's mother! She had taught herself, In long anticipation, not to dread I O A Tale of tJie Neiv Religion. The strange far land where no tongue syllabled The stately sweetness of her native speech, Where every face and every custom wore An unfamiliar guise that seemed a mask, And where the skies, yea, even the doors of heaven Were hung with cold gray palls of mouldy cloud, From out whose covert sobbing wraiths of rain Stalked down the shadowy hills; for she had found, Ideally, a gentle motherly heart With knowledge, apprehension, timely hints. To guide her inexperience and make Her moods discreet. Yet with concern that stirred Emotion indefinable, she saw That from the windy and perplexing west. Where lay the root of all the days to come, Some night-mare, poisonous-beaked, had fallen on Jules, And stolen away the gladness of his smile. And when she sought its name, speaking of home, Or friends expectant, whom each measured throb Of the strong engines carried them more near, (As in life's sea each heart-beat crowds the swimmer Nearer an unknown company and shore, -Uncertain whether dark or bright,) she felt A Tale of the New Religion. 1 1 His brief replies were empty of all joy. Then, for she could but probe him, he confessed His managing mother had her scheme for him. That he had disappointed : but he mocked, . Making wry faces at the thing foregone, And even at old Janet. So Helena Thought lightly of the matter, and loved Jules Still better, that he chose her as he did, Despite some ground of other preference. Yet wisely studious to please each friend Of him she followed far across the world. She decked herself with all the little art — The feminine aptitude for sure effect — That at the moment she could master. None Knew better, how a first impression holds On long appreciation. But when clothed In simple modesty of fitting robes — Her silken ringlets swaying from their looj) As amorous of the beauty of her cheek — With what chagrin she felt Janet's keen eyes Play like a fiery battery on her face. Or storm from head to foot — a scrutiny That ended with a look as plain as words ^'I wish my son had never married you;" I 2 A Talc of the New KcUgiou. And how within her chamber Helena Wept bitter tears as week by week sped on, And the breach widened, for opinions clashed^ And baleful words leaped up between the two, Why need we tell at length? It is enough, That one was old and cold, and proud and vain. And discontent with God and man and woman, Seeking herself to be an oracle Named on all lips; the other, modest, meek. And full of faith divine and human trust. As every proper woman. How could these, Thus diverse in their spiritual mould and aim, Go hand in hand together"? So at last. Dislike was common law: whereat Janet, Knowing Jules' heart by knowledge of her own For an unstable thing, that any wind Might lift, and toss, and drift to dreamy coasts If there were promise of a dainty joy, Determined in her fierce and crooked will To drive the spectre from her daily path. The scheme devised before the Rhodian sun Had warmed the boy to silly sentiment. And made him marplot, yet should do its work. A Tale of tJie New Religion. I 3 The world was free and wide; why should their house Be cumbered by a thing of lampless soul? She pitied Helena; but, then, the world Was not more wide than full of pithless mates For pithless women. For herself she looked Solely- to public progress, family gain : Jules, being her son, should stand front rank with her In liberal schemes to renovate the world. So she would bait her cautious trap to take The quarry, she had purposed in the past — A pard-like belle of her own neighborhood — Progressive, wealthy — being the orphan ward Of kindred spirits. She must win, she thought, Because her notice would be felt to do Much honor; and the notions of the girl. Formed in the ultraest school of modern thought, Were finely radical. The game began. By many a wily ruse, whose hidden point Caught, but not pricked, she made her devious way. The days, in beauteous order wonder-full. 14 A Talc of the Neiv Religion. Brought Jules and the charmed girl to interviews, That lengthened, growing fond. The bland Janet Talked much to them of true affinities In heart and mind and station; and she hinted, That she could wish they two were fairly wed, And bound afar to some delightful land Beyond the impertinence of scandalous talk. They were so fitted for a common fate. Jules was not mated equally, she said: His wife was foreign-mannered; and, yet worse, Was superstitious as a bony Celt — Pinning her faith to dogmas and sour priests, And heedless of Free Thought, and lacking taste For liberal progression. So 'twere well, Could she be packed for Rhodes. And when the snares, Woven with spider cunning, took the feet That wandered willingly as they were led, Janet grew bolder ;^told the greedy pair They were affinities, and she would help Their hungering hearts to every natural bliss. Breaking the bar between by speedy forms Of legal process; and her theories Feeding their amorous wishes, she prevailed. A Talc of the Neiu Religion. I 5 But what, meanwhile, of Helena? Humbly, As one who, tented while the rainy air Blazes with ceaseless lightning, hides and strives In studious common-place to calm the mind, She held her ways apart, involved in cares Of motherly duty; found it nobler far To practice peace than loudly to profess it. Yet would she seek by all her painful tact, By all her feminine instinct, to appease The keeper of the cage that was her world — Janet Monell. Failing, she strove, but failed. And when some tearful months had gone their way Into the sorry heap of human loss. She knew Janet might play a treacherous part. And more she knew : she knew that Jules was like His mother: that her hold upon his love Had loosened; and the thought of it, sometimes. Wrought at her neck as though a coiling snake Made her breath faint. But roused at length to see The greatness of her danger, piteously, With sobs that shook the milky founts of life. She fell upon her knees and begged of him To take her from that prison : to provide A safer shelter for her and her babe. I 6 J Tale of the New Religion. But Jules heard coldly; higgled when he spoke, Or shamed her with "Pooh!" "Pooh!" I'ill as she urged, Growling intemperate, he shari)ly said ^'This is my home and here I mean to stay. If you would have a safer place, go seek it, Nor stay for my sake." Then he strode away; With hideous rush, with clang of door he strode, And Helena left lone in bitter tears, And blighting bitterness of heart, knew not How^ deep a gulf was cloven. Straight he went. With joy diffusing from his subtle heart Triumphant attitude and tone and smile, Like his who w^ins a battle in good cause, And closeting with Janet, it w^as contrived He should at once go westward, where remote From old observance and the stable forms Inherited from men of reverent mould, Frontier communities, cursed by the rule Of half-made-up projectors, planned their courts To be the tools of vile caprice and lust; Dispensing swift divorces for light fees. And scarce a formal inquiry as to cause. -So night and day he whirled along the track A Tale of the New Religion. I / The round sun follows in the afternoons, Past many a city, many a rural town And farm-land home, that came, and fled, and came, Till gleaming round a village in the woods He saw the Wabash flowing to the south. And there he paused and registered his name, And so became a citizen, whose weal The laws at every hazard must maintain. No hour was lost: he pushed his right to crave The arm of justice to stretch forth in power Against the unwarned woman he would crush. And scarcely had the paths where he was wont To move in Boston missed his passing feet, Ere Indiana courts had made decree, Because the tempers of his wife and him Were incompatible; and furthermore. Because his wife had an abusive tongue. Was a bad wife, bad mother to her babe. Incompetent, and various lying counts Of a Hke tenor, the aggrieved Monell Should have relief of that most wicked wife, And be divorced forever. And the court, Not to leave any righteousness undone, Further decreed, that since the foolish wife 3 1 8 A Tale of the New Religion. Was most incompetent to train her child, And was a vicious woman, Jules Monell Should have sole custody thereof. Wherefore, With a light heart — its only burden gone — Jules hurried back to Boston; and Janet With gay congratulation fluttered out To meet him; and the girl of liberal mind Came too; with red ripe lip to press she came. Her dewy darkling eyes with tender thought And praise and promise swimming. So all round. They were a trio full of happiness. Then ere the midnight shuddered in the streets. With customary forms, but privately, Jules took the woman for his other self. To lock her fate in his. And the next day, Leaving unheard the comments of the town — The mirth or rage of various-minded men, The pair embarked, and like two happy doves That nestward fly, they sailed upon the seas To bower in England. There they have a home Of luxury and content. But they went not. Sailing the seas to that fair English isle, Alone : with them a nurse went too, who bore, From the fond breast where it had smiled and slept A Talc of the New Religion. I 9 Since its first hour, the child of Helena Pittakys. Then the lingering death in life. The slow disease of spirit that suspense But aggravates, came to its tedious end In Helena. To her, Avhen Jules had flown Rattling to westward for the knife of law That cut their lives in twain, had come a note Asserting business — western courts and costs — An urgent case. But not a garrulous word Of sympathy, such -as from mated hearts Stream up like bubbles from the depths of springs In endless flock, lay on the pencilled page. 'Twas a mere note of information ; curt, As it were drafted by an agency; And gazing tearfully along its lines, She whispered "Jules went from me in his wrath; With unkind words: he now is never kind.'' But suddenly Janet to help the plot To an unquestioned issue, and lay bare Suspicions that might take obstructive form, (jrew blander ; talked of Rhodes ; and sometimes asked, ]f Helena would like again to see 20 A Tale of the New Religion. The Rhodian mountains and the olive woods, The pomegranate hedges, violet citron blooms, Slopes of green orange orchard, and the sea That moans bereft of its imperial past, And her light-hearted friends of other days? Then the young wife, with startled side-long glance, AV^ould seek the guile she felt but could not find In her tormenter; and she wished herself In Rhodes, or any other region that the sun, Rising or setting, tempers to man's need, So she might have her husband and her babe, And never see that serpent face again. She felt the plots about her ; felt her feet Snared in a mesh whose breadth she could not find. Yet what could she? Where was her strength to strive ? What use to cry ? One day she missed her babe; And all the house in all its hollows rang With long and shrilly clamors of the search. Janet was out, nor came for many an hour: And Helena moved too and fro in tears. Low-whispering in her bruised and fearful heart A Tale of the Ne7v Religion. 2 1 "What should I do without my babe? Who else In this land loves me? What could comfort me Should I lose him?" And then an intense prayer, Against such loss, stole to the Silent Ear That hears the inarticulate wail of thought And treasures up the grief of humbled hearts. But as the hours trailed on Janet came back : And eagerly to her then, Helena : ''Where is the babe?" Whereat, the bland Janet Told how her son had found another mate. Of more compatible moods; more suitable, In the affinities of flesh and spirit; one Of his first playmates, whom, a child, he loved, And who loved him despite the escapade Of youthful folly in Rhodes : that they were wed — Irrevocably wed; and now were far — Swift-steaming o'er the barren wastes of sea To dwell amid the glory of old lands. And might perhaps come back to this no more. And Helena blanched white and glanced aside. And with low voice, and humbly, asked again "W^here is my babe?" and then Janet went on With all the story of the western courts. And said, "The child sails too — he sails — is safe; 2 2 A Talc of the New Religion. And you, be sure, will soon be glad of that, For you are unencufnbered in the world, And where your inclination leads can go." There are some bitter hours in every life : But in some lives the hours of bitterness Seem drugged with venom that no heart can bear When death or madness is the obvious goal To which the helpless spirit rushes down, Unless withheld by potent faith or rage. And sudden rage rose up in Helena To save her from despair; and with high look And tearless, she cried out " I am the sport Of monsters: this is devil-work 1 Monell — Woman — if such a fleshly thing you are — If not a wandering fiend unchained from hell. Who prate of peace and the humanities, And seek to l)e a pilot of 'Reform," But put the dagger to an innocent heart. If feeble, God shall judge between us two. I curse you I Take my curse I — the curse of one Perhaps of no importance in the world. But yet the meanest, humblest thing that lives Has rights, (rod-given feeling, hopes and fears, A Talc of the Nciv Religion. 23 And no one may elude heaven's wratli who dares To outrage them/' "Dote not on heaven's wrath!" Janet said softly: "Hell is out of date, My child : we live in better times. But look you 1 Our ways diverge, at once : the door stands wide — Your path lies through it.'" And then Helena; "I know my path, and I will take it too. But, woman, I shall not make glad your heart By fleeing to some filthy den of shame For refuge. You shall not hereafter say 'She was a vile unworthy thing, and we, To save from taint the fair name of our house, Were forced to cast her off.' You shall not speak Such words of me. Beware of lying words ! " Thereat she turned and sought her chamber; caught With hurrying hand her modest small effects, Threw out the gifts her faithless husband gave, Retained mementos of the child whose life Had grown from hers ; and fell upon her bed In one faint agony of tears and prayer. But she meant not to linger; so uprose, And tottering through the room made haste to clear 2 4 A Tale of the New Religion. Her painful eyes of their hot brimming floods^ And while composure struggled with her grief. Drew down her veil and softly stole away. But as she went, rounding a mighty church, That stood like a great fort of faith against The liberal hordes of Boston, in the snow — For it Avas winter — The Nativity — She paused a moment while, 'mid organ peals And thunderous sound of voices, broke and rolled The Angel's song athwart the chilly street — "Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men." Up to heaven She looked — the clouded Boston heaven : but there, Ev'n as she gazed the black clouds drew apart, And from the soft and holy blue beyond A gleam of happy sunshine touched her face. Heaven did not mock her sorrow ; heaven she knew Had no part in a useless misery. And she remembered what her father taught In other days, when speaking of the crown They win to wear in light who suffer most. And through much suffering are purified, That earth, despite its bustling hollow schemes A Tale of the New Religion. 2 5 And sham pretension, gives no real peace, And has no peace to give : that promised peace — The ''Peace on Earth," — is of the ransomed soul ; An inward peace, though strife howl like a storm Over the hills and valleys of the world. She listened : and the song fell soothingly — Fell like a message sent direct to her — Bidding her trust; bidding her faith be strong; Bidding her find her comfort in the power Of Him who took upon Himself the load Of all whose weakness drives them to the cross. She went her way supported; tearfully, Confessing to herself that God is good; And feeling a low whisper in her hope. That He in time will make the crooked straight, AVorking from grievous discipline, a frame To make the endless rest more sweet. She told Her tale; found friends; and earns her daily bread, Teaching the tongue of Italy, music, And feminine sleights. And she preserves intact Her father's simple faith. But when Janet Is clamoring to a crowd about Reform, Peace, Suffrage, Temperance, and novelties 26 A Talc of the Neiv Religion. Unnamed, seeking to drag moralities Into the foul political pool, perchance Sad Helena may sometime pause to hear; May wonder in her soul if all the crowd Applausive of the liberal schemes and modes Are at the core diseased as she who rants; And turn away with sick and wounded spirit, That in a world where good might well be done, The holiest words fly through uncleanest lips ; That creatures like Janet, devoid of faith, Humility, and justice, strive to be The inspiration of Reform. Think you! What sort of thing is that Reform whose root Is struck in Boston; and whose advocates Are like Janet Monell? Ask Helena, Widowed and childless, what she thinks of it ? And if she yet has joined the liberal cause? Note. — During tJie last days of /lis life, Mr. John Sticai't Mill had a consultation with Air. John Morley, relative to the establishment of the New Religion. The New Religion has for its nominal author M. Auguste Cofnte, who styled himself ' ' Fondateur de la Religion de r Human ite'.'" It is, however., probable that Comte owed much of his system to a study of the 7C>orhs of Mill. It is almost superfluous to say, that a group of nwn in and around Boston, and other groups, or isolated instances, in various parts of America, have adopted, and assiduously sought to extend, the New Religion, in all its features. The foregoing tale, which is but a child of the brain, is, I think, very properly located in that one city of the world wJiere the New Religion is most potential. I proffer it as my protest against a mutinous individualism, and the exceeding and scan- dalous facility of divorce. THE SPIRITUALIST. I. /^NCE, in a laughing afternoon, Down-looking from the heaven of June, A pale lost-angel, deathly fair, With tarnished wing slow-beat the air Above a valley in this land. Far off, she saw a village stand, And heard a silvery clang of bells Sweet as the music of sea-shells That breathe forever of the sea: And wondering what thereat might be, She poised her wing that way to sail. But then it was, that in the vale Just underneath her, she espied. Where woodland alleys, dim but wide, D The Spiritualist, Were cool with overspreading shade, A youthful couple — man and maid — 'I'ogether sweetly wandering. Wherefore the angel furled her wing, And breaking from the mystic spells Of the bewildered happy bells, She stepped adown the shadowy air, And stood beside that fondling pair. Thenceforth she shared their loitering walk. And weighed the motives of their talk : Thenceforth admired the modest mien, The spodess thought, and hope serene, Of a sweet saint that seemed imbued With every grace of maidenhood. And much she envied in her soul One so complete, so soundly whole, And capable for love or bliss. *'I, too, was once as fair as this; But shall not be again,." she sighed. And for a moment, dreamy-eyed She stood absorbed, while far away In heavenly heights she seemed to stray. Of crime, and want, and canker free. And happy as we mortals be, The SpiritiiaUst. 3 1 When, his long winter journey done, Back- to the north returns the sun. And Hfts the curtain of the snows, And brings the violet and the rose. And lets the mirth of summer in. But straightway she recalled her sin ; And fierce with gathering wrath she grew, As, o'er her robes her glances flew And marked each darker growing stain : "Would that all things might share this pain," She said, "nor any fairer be, To contrast with my misery. If heaven to me denies its rest, I would that nothing might be blest.'' Thereat upon the pair she turned For mischief; and her hot eyes burned AVith baleful and envenomed light, Like some dread meteor that at night (rlares in the welkin; and she grasped An arm round each unfelt, and clasped Her thought to theirs, that all might run Like many colors blent in one. And that one hers. Yet ere she wrought l^efilement of their blameless thought, 2 The Spiritualist. A flashing wing beside her stirred, A once famiHar voice she heard, And to her shoulder came a hand. '' Stand forth!" the voice said; with command That on her guihy spirit fell Resistless, as the ocean swell. That drifts a shattered, helmless bark On some far path, whose end is dark, And she recoiled and faced her foe. Whiter his robes than new-laid snow By full-moons silvered; and his wings Were jeweled with strange opal things. Eye-like ; and on his kingly head A golden wreath was garlanded. Whose knots, amid the beamy curls, Were studded with resplendent pearls. Stern was he : in his flashing eye Rebuke and threatening seemed to lie. The prophecy of warlike deeds. Yet, as from night to night succeeds The crescent's growth, till heaven is clear Of darkness, and the hills appear Composed and solemn, vast and still. Some milder impulse orbed his will The Spiritualist. 3^ As crowding moments flitted by, Till pity filled his glittering eye, And gentleness his face o'erspread. ^'And thus, we meet again," he said. With sweet low voice: ''O, sad to see Thee garmented in misery. And outcast in this deadly earth: Thee, who, a brief while ere the birth Of mortals into fateful time, Wert lovely as that heavenly clime Where we were heirs of noble things." But with a scowl of scorn, her wino-.s The fiend uplift, and fled away. Flecking the golden flame of day, As she would leave that vale remote. And long as he could see her float In the rich vapors of the sky, The Seraph, with observant eye, Pursued her lessening shape. At last, The cloak of hills was round her cast, And with his charge he walked the wood. Or like a champion warrior stood. When doleful creatures glimmered nigh. 4 The Spiritualist. But \Vhen, no longer she need ply Her laboring van to stay the look Of gentle ruth she could not brook, The fierce lost-angel, backward turning. With jealous, keen impatience burning, By zigzag path, and stealthy flit. And brief concealment, soon alit Within the Avood, where lingered long The youth and maid and guardian strong. There, hiding like a scaly thing. That noiseless slides where shadows fling Their blackest mask, she viewed unseen Him she had loved, ere yet unclean^ Ere tempted yet she fell from heaven Infuriate and unforgiven. For in that elemental time Of trial, ere souls reach full prime, When life and death hang in the scale. And whether this, or that, prevail. Is ever fixed by loyalty To rule, and spiritual purity, Her fate with his had intertwined Like happy fancies in the mind. The Spiritualist. 35 No fairer land the wide heaven knew Than that where their contentment grew : A cool bright land of sun and dews, And gentle homes and loves. To use That high estate with zealous care — Through brief probation to beware, Was all God ever asked of her. But once through heaven bold Lucifer Defective, stumbling for a flaw In the just measure of God's law, Spread fierce rebellion through all si)heres, And wrought a work of hate and tears No potent future can undo. And she, corrupted through and through By one low-fallen, who claimed to be Her spiritual affinity. Met him in lust, and fled afar, And fought, and lost, in that high war. When heaven was cleansed of guilty souls. And hiding here, in dens and holes That reek with odors damp and chill, Or in the fouler tomb's they fill Whose lives were given to evil deeds, She found her place. At times her needs ;^6 The Spiritualist. Imperious, drove her forth to men — To harass, tempt, destroy; and then Rejoice that heaven was yet defied. But since the hour, when from his side, A suUied thing she fled away Into the loathsome Hfe, that lay Before her to the end of days, Then first her painful, eager gaze Reviewed the consort of her youth. It was an humbling sight, in sooth, For he, Uke her, had changed. But, oh! His was no change of overthrow. Of ruin, such as dwelt in her. But lovely had grown lovelier. And strong more strong. And well she knew. By the fair jewel gleaming through His bright brown curls, he had been crowned The ruler of some realm renowned : Yet left its state, like God's true knight, Crusading in the earth, to fight • Man's battle with a ghostly foe. With them he kept, she' saw him go, Shepherding them ; and through her breast Stole admiration ; then unrest The Spiritualist. That flamed to hate; for memory came To tell her she had chosen shame, And was an outcast unforgiven, While he had place and peace in heaven. Soon set the sun ; and evening's sigh, Unutterably lone went by : To mortals, it was but a breath; To her, it rudely whispered "Death;" Shuddering, she rose, she glanced around, There came no other sigh or sound. The dark leaves lay as still as stone. She stood beneath them all alone. Her will o'ermastered by dismay : She moaned, and, moaning, fled away. II. AVhen Autumn comes, and fair and still. The mild day lies on vale and hill. And sounds are soft and far away — A subtle influence of decay — A sympathy with nature steals Into the heart that finely feels. 8 The Spiritualist. Heaven to our earth then seems so nigh, We scarce can deem it hard to die; To go from the temptations strong, That follow fast and follow long; To find from evil men release; To settle to high ways of peace. In the due place that waits our need. Thus many deem; thus, she, indeed. The villager, whom we have seen Love-wandering when the woods were green. She had been wed ; had vowed her life To woman's noblest office — wife ; Had thrilled with hopes maternal : found Her home a not too narrow bound, To gain the reverence all men give True wives, who for their wifehood live. Weeks were as years; and autumn came, Painting the woodlands as with flame, And mellowing all the prairie splendor; And while the world sat still and tender. Like friends at parting, who conceal Half the deep sorrow that they feel. Hidden from all but spiritual sense. One came for her — she knew from whence ; The SpiritiialisL She felt his presence from the first. God made her so for heaven athirst. She met his coming without fear. But when the parting hour drew near, As, through her window, with cahii eye, She searched the long, low arch o£ sky, The faded forests and the hills, Loving the ripeness that so fills With spiritual inspiration sober. The lingering pathos of October, Her mournful, heart-worn husband sought To know, if humanly she thought Of death, and where and what its sting. Then she: ^' Death is no fearful thing — Not that : its sting is weak ; and yet, I feel a conscious, clear regret, Perhaps; because, when I am dead. And on my grave some months have shed Sun-gleam and shadow, leaf and snow, Less and less moved you'll feel to go And linger near my ashes cold. That heavy, mouldering trances hold. Though still life's principle they keep. To be forgotten! I might weep 40 TJie Spiritualist. For that; but, wherefore? There will come- White angels to my speechless tomb, Guarding its sweet, unmeasured rest, Like sunbeams that for aye invest The sod where hide the frost-bound flowers. Dear to tl>e pure, invisible powers, Who stream, like motes the light gives birth. Down through .the darkness of the earth. Are all the graves that hold the seed Unfountained Love Avith life shall feed. God gives our sleep, and /;/ our sleep." She spoke in faith; her faith was deep And calm, as lakes that conscious lie Under heaven's blue, unclouded eye. Far-sheltered by bright mountains round. Then soon again there was the sound Of a bell moving in its height, AVhose strokes made tremulous the lights That like a waning glory, lay Over the vale. From far away. That angel fated unto death. Sinful, and trembling at a breath The SpiritiiaUst. 4 1 Prophetic, who had whilom fled, To hide her misery with the dead Untended by good angels' care, Returning, paused awhile in air, And listened to the solemn toll That knells the passing of a soul. Then she came near and saw the clay. Lovely and holy in decay : A prostrate temple, dark and cold, And yet a thing of perfect mould. Upon whose brow was fixed the seal No desolation can conceal — The cross baptismal faintly glowing. And, all that ruin overflowing. To her clear eye, love lay like light, And death was but a sleep of night. So deep that dreams had gone away. But when the body mouldering lay Entombed, and in the first distress, The faintness and the loneliness Of blasted hope, the husband came, Feeding by one low mound the flame 42 The Spiritualist. Of his soul's yearning, and would call On her who heard him not at all, And strain his sight to reach the zone Where the stars sit, each on its throne, Lighting the paths of heaven, if there, Haply, some gleam to his despair Might bring relief up-beckoning him, The fiend, left tempter, shook a dim But glancing starlight ray, whose motion, Like tides moon-swayed in the mid-ocean. Told of an impulse from above. Seeing, he trembled; but of love Came strength; for he at once grew clear- Blindest when danger was most near — That his wife-angel had been sent From Paradise for his content. And then he felt a soft revealing — A subtle influence, that concealing Motion, and form, and that fond measure Of long caress that is love's pleasure. Seemed faint, as if in journeying far. Like the weak' beams of some pale star That die where first they chance to rest, She must expire upon his breast. Tlie Spiritualist. 43 He wept for very thankfulness, And gently moved as to caress The invisible spirit folded there. But more elusive than the air, Or than dream-people of the night, That flit around us till daylight Dissolves our sleep, she seemed to be. Her form he could not find, nor see Her raiment: but his flesh grew cold, And faint his breath, as if the fold Of a fierce serpent strangled him. Then full of misery, his dim, Blood-shotten eyes he raised, and called On Christ; and as she were appalled. The spirit on his bosom lying Stirred, left him, and he heard a sighing As of far cedars, or the shore. Sand-paved, a river washes o'er. He begged of Christ to give her back; His prayers were useless to his lack; He only heard the wind's low tune; He only saw the pale, still moon ; He only felt a new despair, Deep as the grave beneath him there. 44 The Spiritualist. -And other nights thus came and went, Like clouds where wind and fire are blent, Till, weakened in his natural force, The weary man forsook the source Whence love and light and strength descend In their own channels without end, As down the clefts of mountains flow To irrigate the lands below The streams of ever-living springs. And he went probing those wild things The Medium proffers; and he found Strange fascination in the sound Of table-raps, and in the gleam Of spectral arms, or in a stream Of haloed tresses, faintly showing, Or wafts of music — coming, going. Like thoughts of souls that know unrest. And while these matters in his breast From day to day the man revolved. And like a riddle unresolved, It baffled him to find a clue. The demon closer to him drew, The Spiritualist. 45 And fed his brain with fantasies Of all impure and hollow bliss, And notions that at law rebelled. But not by these could he be quelled : His soul was yet too strong for vice, Voluptuous dreams and artifice. And a frail woman's sad undoing. His will set not to amorous wooing — To touches that bring only tears, To eye-light bold and sharp as spears — The guileful craft of hypocrites. 'Mid lures of lust he kept his wits; And patient as the astronomer Who notes the influence of a star Unknown, in some dim tract of sky, And seeks it with unwearying eye, Till it is found, where faint it lies, He toiled amid the mysteries Upon the border-land of Time, And strove to know the life sublime Of spiritual being : thinking thus To make his wan days glorious — Soul-mated to the fellow soul Of his beloved. Nor far the goal 46 The Spiritualist. Seemed to his wish. For he had heard In darkness, a low voice that stirred His pulses to a swifter sweep, As, when winds murmur, the blue deep Throbs into waves. Once there had risen At midnight, as from some, deep prison, A pale, sad face, with downcast eyes And luminous hair: her mouth to sighs Seemed fitted; and he wept to see That such endurance e'er must be. But not in that pain-haunted face, Nor in that lonely voice, was trace* Of the blest spirit that he sought. Hers was a face whose happy thought Is of the essence of the being : Whose voice is music well-agreeing With the sweet airs that fill the dome Of the blithe star that is her home — Where pain is not, nor thought of pain. Yet ever as he strove to gain Some sound or sight to cheer his sense With her celestial innocence, And felt as if she lingered near — Lingered — ah, why ? but must appear The Spiritualist. 47 A moment later; if he called On Christ for filmless eyes, appalled The hidden presence seemed to be, And left him full of misery, In darkness : and the Mediums said, ''Christ was a man; and Christ is dead. In His own circle He inherits Some place peculiar to his merits. But wherefore more? All heaven is great, And none upon another wait; For all in glory are the same." He paused: but with the frenzied flame Of expectation unfulfilled, He burned; and he was yet self-willed — Untamed to the firm reign of law, And heedless how old doctrines draw The trustful like flower-woven chains. So once at midnight, when the strains Of a faint music filled his room, And there came forth amid the gloom A white small hand, and then its arm. Rounded, and beautiful, and warm. 48 The Spiritualist. But nothing more; and even this, Shining a moment, the abyss Of darkness swallowed, and the flow Of low, lone music sunk more low And died in silence, the swift chill Of a great hope made bold his will. And he cried out " If thou be she, O spirit, whom I seek, to me Why cruel in such strange revealing- Seen in some part, but more concealing \ Thy presence is but meaningless." Thereat he felt a faint caress, And a voice whispered in his ear. Low as the distant sounds we hear When slowly dies the golden day : "Drive me no more, O love, away; But fit thy spirit unto mine. And let me lead thee : I am thine. But thou must trust me only : follow, As to the sun goes e'er the swallow, Nor linger when I bid thee speed." And he, '^Beloved, thou art my need— My utmost need. Be thou to me Pilot of hope, and love, and will. The Spiritualist 49 I will not stir except thou fill. My spirit with thy heavenly light : Only stand forth; shake off the night That veils thy presence : let me see Just what thou art, that I may be 'Relieved of human doubt and dread." And then the angel softly said : ^'Come forth, O love, the night is warm, And since 'tis very dark, my arm Shall clasp and guide thee while we stray. I have a house not far away — A palace fair, majestical, Where many fountains, musical, Play in their own unwasting light. Not here may I reward thy sight: But by those fountains you shall see More than your subtlest dream in me : And you shall lead me at your leisure, And in my palace find such pleasure As not a mortal yet has found." Thereat her arm begirt him round. Soft but yet mighty; and they went Forth, underneath the heaven-broad tent 50 The Spiritualist. The winds had built of gloomy cloud- No star could pierce that awful shroud,. To throw its glimmer on their way, That down nor jjath nor alley lay, But through the open prairie wound. The world in slumber made no sound. The winds were low, and almost still : And then the man . grew weak of will, And all his courage seemed to fail. Whereat, the spirit: "Love, you quail Just at the moment of delight. Will you go back with bliss in sight? A little further is my door — Open to-night, or nevermore. O trust me, wholly : be more strong : Our love can never lead us wrong. Never was time so apt as this." And then he felt what seemed a kiss, *Or rose-leaf fluttering on his cheek. And he went onward faint and weak, Yet with a purpose to attain All that an utter trust could gain. Ere long his ear caught, from below As in a vale, the plash and flow The Spiritualist. Of waters as from fountains welling ; And there was low, weird music swelling Upon the stilly perfumed air. Far-off lights glimmered here and there, Rayless, yet beautiful and clear. And then his guide breathed at his ear, "Haste: for we near the happy bound Where more than life or death are found ; Where love that even the numb, cold grave May not destroy, and not enslave; Where bliss no man that lives on earth Has ever compassed — lacking worth — Bliss only known in Paradise, And hidden by divine device From things impure, shall soon be ours." They quickened pace: hope lent new powers To strength. And, lo! a dome more fair Than opiate vision soared in air, Wide-flanked by fountained lawns and woods, Where small birds gleamed in multitudes — Embodiments of all delight. Around them was no longer night; 52 The Sph'itualist. But a soft radiance such as lies, Just after sunset, in the skies Over the sunken sun. It came Not from an elemental flame, That burns and darkens with the hours. Its fountain was the spiritual powers Of being, and was cloudless ever, As looks of tenderness, that never Perish from memory. A vision Utterly trancpiil and Elysian It stood, mocking all earth-born art. I'he man felt gleeful in his heart, As, after thunder storms are spent And fear is gone, comes merriment — The swift recoil from thought o'er-strained. And onward moving, he had gained The landing to an easy stair, And raised his eager foot in air To enter and make sure of bliss, When, lo ! with shuddering surge and hiss, An inky chasm yawned, like hell. The palace vanished, and he fell Down a sheer height to where below Tall cedars fringe a river's flow, The Spiritualist. 53 And many a boulder flecks die sand. Falling, he felt the powerful hand Down-dragging, that had been his guide; And there was laughter at his side. Derisive of his pangs. He threw A passionate thought to Christ, that flew As it was sent: then bruised and torn, And senseless as the dead we mourn. He lay beneath a cedarn pall. And night, and silence, covered all. HI. O holy bells, of Sabbath time ! O, voices of that golden clime. Where childhood is forever playing. And youth, forever, is a-Maying, And age is never weak and cold. For all are young, though all grow old; Sweetest are ye of all the sounds That float or flow in mortal bounds; That float, or flow, or chime, or roar; Or sink, or sw^ell, or run before. 54 The Spiritualist. Or follow after human fate, To gladden, warn, and consecrate. But sweetest far, when sins are past, And pale repentance finds, at last, God's help to claim His covenant grace. Transmitted in the holy place Where prayer is said, and blessing given- Free pardon in the name of heaven. O, well I know, one holy day, When hill and valley far away, Despite earth's livery of crime. Were lovely in the AjDril time. How sweetly on a sick ear fell The measures of the Sabbath bell. Listening, he wept : for death and life Had waged for him an equal strife. Ere life had conquered. He had lain Easy and patient after pain. While Strength and Health, twin-angels, came To knit their virtues in his frame. And give him back his natural ways. Thus lying, grief, for faithless days. The Spiritualist. 55 Fiend-haunted to that headlong leap, Wrought like a torrent swollen and deep, That, after rains and yielding snows, Resistless through the country goes, Refining, in its mighty flood. The filth of city, glebe, and wood. Loathed was his sin : his sense of shame. Of utter vileness, burned like flame: And when repentance had subdued, He wept for honest gratitude. Then, hearing the benignant bells. Whose harmony of heaven foretells. He rose, and through the sunshine fair Was helped to gain the house of prayer. He found the altar draped in white, Paten and chalice gleaming bright, And heard the priest when prayers were said. Speak of the honored, holy dead. Saying: "Our loved ones are not lost; But yet they are no longer tost By earthly motives. They are clear Of all the influences felt here. They are not troubled by our sin — Know not what is, or might have been. 5 6 The Spiritualist. They are at peace and wait for us. Their Hfe is wholly glorious. But we come near them when we take The covenant symbols: for we make Ourselves, repentant, one with Him Who, throned upon the Cherubim, Is one with all the holy dead. This bread and wine, of Christ, our Head,. Is representative. Draw near With humble confidence and fear. And have forgiveness of your sin. And let the life of heaven begin." Thankful, the weary penitent Moved to the chancel rail, and bent In earnest prayer. The bread and wine — Heaven's visible covenant seal and sign^ Sign of forgiveness of the past. Seal of adoption, first and last. Were taken while he pledged good faith And honest service ev'n to death. Then he arose and went his way, And lives the pilgrim life each day — Slow moving to the golden shore. So, through mild airs, or storms that roar,. The Spiritualist. cyr A noble steamer onward rides Across a waste of trackless tides, Seeking the land where she would be- Past all the peril of the sea. TWO LIVES. /^NE who was born into this restless time With sympathy for movement, yet with thought That gladUest anchored nearer to the dawn, In the vast stilhiess of antique repose, McPherson, poet, weary of the crowd. And weary, too, of wandering through the world. On a far sloping hillside, whose cool feet Bright lake-nymphs laved with peaceful ministries. Had built his home. It was a full-eyed spot — Rich in aesthetic stimulation — fraught With every possible freak of sun and shade ; And there he gathered costly books and pictures. Formed high ideals, studied much, dreamed more. And grew within himself an isolation Forever further from the common life. Yet was the manhood of his nature kingly; 6o Two Lives. And oft he felt the hfe should not be lone. That aims at perfect methods. So his eye Went wandering through the immediate neighbor- hood, In lengthened quest among its many maids, Measuring each charm of each, and each defect, Or actual, or supposed. But none he found Sweet as his phantom fancies: none he asked To share his thought, his lucre, and his life. But deeper sinking in himself, he grew Closer to books and art, and longer lingered To watch the tipsy shadows reel and dip Across the hilly amphitheatre. Or sail the happy lake. And thus, perchance, His days had passed unploughed by incident Of tripping-smooth or rudely-rough romance, And he had withered at the roots of soul. And died unwept of any clinging thing That rose on him up higher into light. But for a concert. Wandering through the land, By advertisement heralded, from town To town came the Dulce Family — a troupe Of ''celebrated artistes;" everyone A "famous" singer; and a night they gave Two Lives. 6 1 The quiet villagers, in whose fair vale McPherson dwelt. Then he, because his soul Was set to music, as the key that waits The skillful finger, and more passion found In modulated harmonies than one With nature less ideal, when the hour Summoned attendance, in a crowded hall. Where dashing forward like the flow of tides. Impatience clamored madly 'gainst the stage, Found himself waiting the "stupendous scheme" Of the Dulce Company. Anon, was seen A side door opening inward. Then outswung, With ponderous waddle, a three-hundred-pounder — ■ Music in avoirdupois : and this was Dulce. In all professional travel, his the name Borne by the troupe; a troupe, of men a pair And women twain ; who, gliding near their chief, Stood up in file, and sung their overture. But when the overture had had applause. And other songs had come and gone like lives Too lovely to last long in this wild world, She, of the women-singers that was younger. 62 Two Lives. Stepped forth alone, and. gave to melody Impersonation perfect. For her mien, Unmarred of weakness, showed so virginal pure Through lithe and gracious action, and her art So matched her theme, that down the roaring hall Applause flew under every hand and foot. Then died antiphonally. Not a nerve But thrilled to that brief song: but most of all McPherson felt its influence, as a cloud Wind-rocks through heaven : his was a ]3oet-souL And when the concert ended, and the crowd Dispersed adown the labyrinth of the streets, He saw the moon low-lying on her back. And wan and watery on the western heights. Then a damp sigh crept to him out of space — Half felt to be prophetic. Home at last, He dreamed all night of songs he could not learn ; Of smiles that faded as they turned on him; Of waning moons dissolving into tears; Of a girl babe its dying mother left, With pleading look to him. Two Lives. 6 Musing, next morn, Of portents and of dreams, awhile he paused, Irresolute in projects many hued. And fearful he might play the feverish fool Should he go chasing in the sight of men A strolling singer with a pretty face ; Yet bent to see if fate might hold in store Some better thing than emptiness of heart, He shuffled townwards, doubtfully and slow, And found the fair Christine. And, if, at night He felt the ineffable spell of a pure art And imflecked maiden modesty, by day He knew a woman formed for just esteem, Ripe for unselfisTi ministries, well-taught, And thoughtful in experience of a life That taxed the nerve, resistance, energy. Of her whole nature. So he lingered long.; And well the maid discerned his secret thought, And knew she had impressed him. But that Duke, Who did the heavy bass, and felt his heart Go quicker in the presence of Christine, Went shambling in and out through all the morn, 64 Two Lives. Disordered. Love, he saw, might prove to be An easy thing for two, but rude for three; And thenceforth he felt hateful to the poet, And never would endure to read his rhymes. But perfumed hours exhaled, and with them passed The music-making Dulces, everyone — Lost in the abysmal maelstrom of the world. And now McPherson, with fresh food for dreams — Unfolding from Christine as flower from seed — Made from thick fancies an ideal shape Of perfect and enamoring womanhood, Such as with fleshly foot ne'er lit on earth. And through the calm, swift autumn days, he ranged The hilly country, carving out thought's idol — To daintier symmetry still pruning it. As one might touch a statue here and there, Guided by taste grown nicer in the study — Till leaves had fallen, and November gales. Whistling their dreary dirges in his ear. Drove him for shelter to his lonely house. There, idling once among the daily news, His eye caught fast upon a meagre line, That barely told the Dulces' whereabouts T'a