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diff --git a/27336.txt b/27336.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed24fdb --- /dev/null +++ b/27336.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4049 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Women, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Three Women + +Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox + +Release Date: November 27, 2008 [EBook #27336] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE WOMEN *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: Ella Wheeler Wilcox] + + + + + + +THREE WOMEN + + +BY + +ELLA WHEELER WILCOX + + + + Author of "Poems of Passion," "Maurine," "Poems of + Pleasure," "How Salvator Won," "Custer and Other + Poems," "Men, Women and Emotions," + "The Beautiful Land of Nod," Etc. + + + + +CHICAGO--NEW YORK + +W. B. CONKEY COMPANY + +PUBLISHERS + + + + +Entered according to act of Congress, In the year 1897, by + +ELLA WHEELER WILCOX, + +In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. + +Entered at Stationers' Hall, London. + + +All Rights Reserved. + +Made in the United States. + + + + + THREE WOMEN + + + + _My love is young, so young; + Young is her cheek, and her throat, + And life is a song to be sung + With love the word for each note._ + + _Young is her cheek and her throat; + Her eyes have the smile o' May. + And love is the word for each note + In the song of my life to-day._ + + _Her eyes have the smile o' May; + Her heart is the heart of a dove, + And the song of my life to-day + Is love, beautiful love._ + + _Her heart is the heart of a dove, + Ah, would it but fly to my breast + Where lone, beautiful love, + Has made it a downy nest._ + + _Ah, would she but fly to my breast, + My love who is young, so young; + I have made her a downy nest + And life is a song to be sung._ + + + + + THREE WOMEN. + + + I. + + A dull little station, a man with the eye + Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by; + A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun, + The curtain goes up, and our play is begun. + The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife, + Which always is billed for the theatre Life. + It runs on forever, from year unto year, + With scarcely a change when new actors appear. + It is old as the world is--far older in truth, + For the world is a crude little planet of youth. + And back in the eras before it was formed, + The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed. + + Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls + Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls + In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain + Was wholly intent on the incoming train. + That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath, + Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death, + Paused scarcely a moment, and then sped away, + And two actors more now enliven our play. + + A graceful young woman with eyes like the morn, + With hair like the tassels which hang from the corn, + And a face that might serve as a model for Peace, + Moved lightly along, smiled and bowed to Maurice, + Then was lost in the circle of friends waiting near. + A discord of shrill nasal tones smote the ear, + As they greeted their comrade and bore her from sight. + (The ear oft is pained while the eye feels delight + In the presence of women throughout our fair land: + God gave them the graces which win and command, + But the devil, who always in mischief rejoices, + Slipped into their teachers and ruined their voices.) + + There had stepped from the train just behind Mabel Lee + A man whose deportment bespoke him to be + A child of good fortune. His mien and his air + Were those of one all unaccustomed to care. + His brow was not vexed with the gold seeker's worry, + His manner was free from the national hurry. + Repose marked his movements. Yet gaze in his eye, + And you saw that this calm outer man was a lie; + And you knew that deep down in the depths of his breast + There dwelt the unmerciful imp of unrest. + + He held out his hand; it was clasped with a will + In both the firm palms of Maurice Somerville. + "Well, Reese, my old Comrade;" "Ha, Roger, my boy," + They cried in a breath, and their eyes gemmed with joy + (Which but for their sex had been set in a tear), + As they walked arm in arm to the trap waiting near, + And drove down the shining shell roadway which wound + Through forest and meadow, in search of the Sound. + + _Roger:_ + + I smell the salt water--that perfume which starts + The blood from hot brains back to world withered hearts; + You may talk of the fragrance of flower filled fields, + You may sing of the odors the Orient yields, + You may tell of the health laden scent of the pine, + But give me the subtle salt breath of the brine. + Already I feel lost emotions of youth + Steal back to my soul in their sweetness and truth; + Small wonder the years leave no marks on your face, + Time's scythe gathers rust in this idyllic place. + You must feel like a child on the Great Mother's breast, + With the Sound like a nurse watching over your rest? + + _Maurice:_ + + There is beauty and truth in your quaint simile, + I love the Sound more than the broad open sea. + The ocean seems always stern, masculine, bold, + The Sound is a woman, now warm, and now cold. + It rises in fury and threatens to smite, + Then falls at your feet with a coo of delight; + Capricious, seductive, first frowning, then smiling, + And always, whatever its mood is, beguiling. + Look, now you can see it, bright beautiful blue, + And far in the distance there loom into view + The banks of Long Island, full thirty miles off; + A sign of wet weather to-morrow. Don't scoff! + We people who chum with the waves and the wind + Know more than all wise signal bureaus combined. + + But come, let us talk of yourself--for of me + There is little to tell which your eyes may not see. + Since we finished at College (eight years, is it not?) + I simply have dreamed away life in this spot. + With my dogs and my horses, a book and a pen, + And a week spent in town as a change now and then. + Fatigue for the body, disease for the mind, + Are all that the city can give me, I find. + Yet once in a while there is wisdom I hold + In leaving the things that are dearer than gold,-- + Loved people and places--if only to learn + The exquisite rapture it is to return. + But you, I remember, craved motion and change; + You hated the usual, worshiped the strange. + Adventure and travel I know were your theme: + Well, how did the real compare with the dream? + You have compassed the earth since we parted at Yale, + Has life grown the richer, or only grown stale? + + _Roger:_ + + Stale, stale, my dear boy! that's the story in short, + I am weary of travel, adventure and sport; + At home and abroad, in all climates and lands, + I have had what life gives when a full purse commands, + I have chased after Pleasure, that phantom faced elf, + And lost the best part of my youth and myself. + And now, barely thirty, I'm heart sick and blue; + Life seems like a farce scarcely worth sitting through. + I dread its long stretch of dissatisfied years; + Ah! wealth is not always the boon it appears. + And poverty lights not such ruinous fires + As gratified appetites, tastes and desires. + Fate curses, when letting us do as we please-- + It stunts a man's soul to be cradled in ease. + + _Maurice:_ + + You are right in a measure; the devil I hold + Is oftener found in full coffers of gold + Than in bare, empty larders. The soul, it is plain, + Needs the conflicts of earth, needs the stress and the strain + Of misfortune, to bring out its strength in this life-- + The Soul's calisthenics are sorrow and strife. + But, Roger, what folly to stand in youth's prime + And talk like a man who could father old Time. + You have life all before you; the past,--let it sleep; + Its lessons alone are the things you should keep. + There is virtue sometimes in our follies and sinnings; + Right lives very often have faulty beginnings. + Results, and not causes, are what we should measure. + You have learned precious truths in your search after pleasure. + + You have learned that a glow worm is never a star, + You have learned that Peace builds not her temples afar. + And now, dispossessed of the spirit to roam, + You are finely equipped to establish a home. + That's the one thing you need to lend savor to life, + A home, and the love of a sweet hearted wife, + And children to gladden the path to old age. + + _Roger:_ + + Alas! from life's book I have torn out that page; + I have loved many times and in many a fashion, + Which means I know nothing at all of the passion. + I have scattered my heart, here and there, bit by bit, + 'Til now there is nothing worth while left of it; + And, worse than all else, I have ceased to believe + In the virtue and truth of the daughters of Eve. + There's tragedy for you--when man's early trust + In woman, experience hurls to the dust! + + _Maurice:_ + + Then you doubt your own mother? + + _Roger:_ + + She passed heavenward + Before I remember; a saint, I have heard, + While she lived; there are scores of good women to-day, + _Temptation has chanced not to wander their way._ + The devil has more than his lordship can do, + He can't make the rounds, so some women keep true. + + _Maurice:_ + + You think then each woman, if tempted, must fall? + + _Roger:_ + + Yes, if tempted her way--not one way suits them all-- + They have tastes in their sins as they have in their clothes, + The tempter, of course, has to first study those. + One needs to be flattered, another is bought; + One yields to caresses, by frowns one is caught. + One wants a bold master, another a slave, + With one you must jest, with another be grave. + But swear you're a sinner whom she has reformed + And the average feminine fortress is stormed. + In rescuing men from abysses of sin + She loses her head--and herself tumbles in. + The mind of a woman was shaped for a saint, + But deep in her heart lies the devil's own taint. + With plans for salvation her busy brain teems, + While her heart longs in secret to know how sin seems. + And if with this question unanswered she dies, + Temptation came not in the right sort of guise. + There's my estimate, Reese, of the beautiful sex; + I see by your face that my words wound and vex, + But remember, my boy, I'm a man of the world. + + _Maurice:_ + + Thank God, in the vortex I have not been hurled. + If experience breeds such a mental disease, + I am glad I have lived with the birds and the bees, + And the winds and the waves, and let people alone + So far in my life but good women I've known. + My mother, my sister, a few valued friends-- + A teacher, a schoolmate, and there the list ends. + But to know one true woman in sunshine and gloom, + From the zenith of life to the door of the tomb, + To know her, as I knew that mother of mine, + Is to know the whole sex and to kneel at the shrine. + + _Roger:_ + + Then you think saint and woman synonymous terms? + + _Maurice:_ + + Oh, no! we are all, men and women, poor worms + Crawling up from the dampness and darkness of clay + To bask in the sunlight and warmth of the day. + Some climb to a leaf and reflect its bright sheen, + Some toil through the grass, and are crushed there unseen. + Some sting if you touch them, and some evolve wings; + Yet God dwells in each of the poor, groping things. + They came from the Source--to the Source they go back; + The sinners are those who have missed the true track. + We can not judge women or men as a class, + Each soul has its own distinct place in the mass. + + There is no sex in sin; it were folly to swear + All women are angels, but worse to declare + All are devils as you do. You're morbid, my boy, + In what you thought gold you have found much alloy + And now you are doubting there is the true ore. + But wait till you study my sweet simple store + Of pure sterling treasures; just wait till you've been + A few restful weeks, or a season, within + The charmed circle of home life; then, Roger, you'll find + These malarial mists clearing out of your mind. + As a ship cuts the fog and is caught by the breeze, + And swept through the sunlight to fair, open seas, + So your heart will be caught and swept out to the ocean + Of youth and youth's birthright of happy emotion. + I'll wager my hat (it was new yesterday) + That you'll fall in love, too, in a serious way. + Our girls at Bay Bend are bewitching and fair, + And Cupid lurks ever in salt Summer air. + + _Roger:_ + + I question your gifts as a prophet, and yet, + I confess in my travels I never have met + A woman whose face so impressed me at sight, + As one seen to-day; a mere girl, sweet and bright, + Who entered the train quite alone and sat down + Surrounded by parcels she'd purchased in town. + A trim country lass, but endowed with the beauty + Which makes a man think of his conscience and duty. + Some women, you know, move us that way--God bless them, + While others rouse only a thirst to possess them + The face of the girl made me wish to be good, + I went out and smoked to escape from the mood. + When conscience through half a man's life has been sleeping + What folly to wake it to worry and weeping! + + _Maurice:_ + + The pessimist role is a modern day fad, + But, Roger, you make a poor cynic, my lad. + Your heart at the core is as sound as a nut, + Though the wheels of your mind have dropped into the rut + Of wrong thinking. You need a strong hand on the lever + Of good common sense, and an earnest endeavor + To pull yourself out of the slough of despond + Back into the highway of peace just beyond. + And now, here we are at Peace Castle in truth, + And there stands its Chatelaine, sweet Sister Ruth, + To welcome you, Roger; you'll find a new type + In this old-fashioned girl, who in years scarcely ripe, + And as childish in heart as she is in her looks, + And without worldly learning or knowledge of books, + Yet in housewifely wisdom is wise as a sage. + She is quite out of step with the girls of her age, + For she has no ambition beyond the home sphere. + Ruth, here's Roger Montrose, my comrade of dear + College days. + + The gray eyes of the girl of nineteen + Looked into the face oft in fancy she'd seen + When her brother had talked of his comrade at Yale. + His stature was lower, his cheek was more pale + Than her thought had portrayed him; a look in his eye + Made her sorry, she knew not for what nor knew why, + But she longed to befriend him, as one needing aid + While he, gazing down on the face of the maid, + Spoke some light words of greeting, the while his mind ran + On her "points" good and bad; for the average man + When he looks at a woman proceeds first to scan her + As if she were horse flesh, and in the same manner + Notes all that is pleasing, or otherwise. So + Roger gazed at Ruth Somerville. + + "Mouth like a bow + And eyes full of motherhood; color too warm, + And too round in the cheek and too full in the form + For the highest ideal of beauty and art. + Domestic--that word is the cue to her part + She would warm a man's slippers, but never his veins; + She would feed well his stomach, but never his brains. + And after she looks on her first baby's face, + Her husband will hold but a second-class place + In her thoughts or emotions, unless he falls ill, + When a dozen trained nurses her place can not fill. + She is sweet of her kind; and her kind since the birth + Of this sin ridden, Circe-cursed planet, the Earth, + Has kept it, I own, with its medleys of evil + From going straight into the hands of the devil. + It is not through its heroes the world lives and thrives, + But through its sweet commonplace mothers and wives. + We love them, and leave them; deceive, and respect them, + We laud loud their virtues and straightway neglect them. + They are daisy and buttercup women of earth + Who grace common ways with their sweetness and worth. + We praise, but we pass them, to reach for some flower + That stings when we pluck it, or wilts in an hour. + + "You are thornless, fair Ruth! you are useful and sweet! + But lovers shall pass you to sigh at the feet + Of the selfish and idle, for such is man's way; + Your lot is to work, and to weep, and to pray. + To give much and get little; to toil and to wait + For the meager rewards of indifferent fate. + Yet so wholesome your heart, you will never complain; + You will feast on life's sorrow and drink of its pain, + And thank God for the banquet; 'tis women like you + Who make the romancing of preachers seem true. + The earth is your debtor to such large amounts + There must be a heaven to square up accounts, + Or else the whole scheme of existence at best + Is a demon's poor effort at making a jest." + + That night as Ruth brushed out her bright hazel hair + Her thoughts were of Roger, "His bold laughing air + Is a cloak to some sorrow concealed in his breast, + His mind is the home of some secret unrest." + + She sighed; and there woke in her bosom once more + The impulse to comfort and help him; to pour + Soothing oil from the urn of her heart on his wounds. + Where motherhood nature in woman abounds + It is thus Cupid comes; unannounced and unbidden, + In sweet pity's guise, with his arrows well hidden. + But once given welcome and housed as a guest, + He hurls the whole quiver full into her breast, + While he pulls off his mask and laughs up in her eyes + With an impish delight at her start of surprise. + So intent is this archer on bagging his game + He scruples at nothing which gives him good aim. + + Ruth's heart was a virgin's, in love menaced danger + While she sat by her mirror and pitied the stranger. + But just as she blew out her candle and stood + Robed for sleep in the moonlight, a change in her mood + Quickly banished the dreamer, and brought in its stead + The practical housekeeper. Sentiment fled; + And she puzzled her brain to decide which were best, + Corn muffins or hot graham gems, for the guest! + + + II. + + The short-sighted minister preached at Bay Bend + His long-winded sermon quite through to the end, + Unmindful there sat in the Somerville pew + A stranger whose pale handsome countenance drew + All eyes from his own reverend self; nor suspected + What Ruth and her brother too plainly detected + That the stranger was bored. + + "Though his gaze never stirred + From the face of the preacher, his heart has not heard," + Ruth said to herself; and her soft mother-eye + Was fixed on his face with a look like a sigh + In its tremulous depths, as they rose to depart. + Then suddenly Roger, alert, seemed to start + And his dull, listless glance changed to one of surprise + And of pleasure. Ruth saw that the goal of his eyes + Was her friend Mabel Lee in the vestibule; fair + As a saint that is pictured with sun tangled hair + And orbs like the skies in October. She smiled, + And the saint disappeared in the innocent child + With an unconscious dower of beauty and youth + She paused in the vestibule waiting for Ruth + And seemed not to notice the warm eager gaze + Of two men fixed upon her in different ways. + One, the look which souls lift to a being above, + The other a look of unreasoning love + Born of fancy and destined to grow in an hour + To a full fledged emotion of mastering power. + + She spoke, and her voice disappointed the ear; + It lacked some deep chords that the heart hoped to hear. + It was sweet, but not vibrant; it came from the throat, + And one listened in vain for a full chested note. + While something at times like a petulant sound + Seemed in strange disaccord with the peace so profound + Of the eyes and the brow. + + Though our sight is deceived + The ear is an organ that may be believed. + The faces of people are trained to conceal, + But their unruly voices are prone to reveal + What lies deep in their natures; a voice rarely lies, + But Mabel Lee's voice told one tale, while her eyes + Told another. Large, liquid, and peaceful as lakes + Where the azure dawn rests, ere the loud world awakes, + Were the beautiful eyes of the maiden. "A saint, + Without mortal blemish or weak human taint," + Said Maurice to himself. To himself Roger said: + "The touch of her soft little hands on my head + Would convert me. What peace for a world weary breast + To just sit by her side and be soothed into rest." + + Daring thoughts for a stranger. Maurice, who had known + Mabel Lee as a child, to himself would not own + Such bold longings as those were. He held her to be + Too sacred for even a thought that made free. + And the voice in his bosom was silenced and hushed + Lest the bloom from her soul by his words should be brushed. + + There are men to whom love is religion; but woman + Is far better pleased with a homage more human. + Though she may not be able to love in like fashion, + She wants to be wooed with both ardor and passion. + Had Mabel Lee read Roger's thoughts of her, bold + Though they were, they had flattered and pleased her, I hold. + + The stranger was duly presented. + + _Roger:_ + + Miss Lee, + I am sure, has no least recollection of me, + But the pleasure is mine to have looked on her face + Once before this. + + _Mabel:_ + + Indeed? May I ask where? + + _Roger:_ + + The place + Was the train, and the time yesterday. + + _Mabel:_ + + "Then I came + From my shopping excursion in town by the same + Fast express which brought you? Had I known that the friend + Of my friends, was so near me en route for Bay Bend, + I had waived all conventions and asked him to take + One-half of my parcels for sweet pity's sake. + + _Roger:_ + + You sadden me sorely. As long as I live + I shall mourn the great pleasure chance chose not to give. + + _Maurice:_ + + Take courage, mon ami. Our fair friend, Miss Lee, + Fills her time quite as full of sweet works as the bee; + Like the bee, too, she drives out the drones from her hive. + You must toil in her cause, in her favor to thrive. + + _Roger:_ + + She need but command me. To wait upon beauty + And goodness combined makes a pleasure of duty. + + _Maurice:_ + + Who serves Mabel Lee serves all Righteousness too. + Pray, then, that she gives you some labor to do. + The cure for the pessimist lies in good deeds. + Who toils for another forgets his own needs, + And mischief and misery never attend + On the man who is occupied fully. + + _Ruth:_ + + Our friend + Has the town on her shoulders. Whatever may be + The cause that is needy, we look to Miss Lee. + Have you gold? She will make you disgorge it ere long; + Are you poor? Well, perchance you can dance--sing a song-- + Make a speech--tell a story, or plan a charade. + Whatever you have, gold or wits, sir, must aid + In her numerous charities. + + _Mabel:_ + + Riches and brain + Are but loans from the Master. He meant them, 'tis plain, + To be used in His service; and people are kind, + When once you can set them to thinking. I find + It is lack of perception, not lack of good heart + Which makes the world selfish in seeming. My part + Is to call the attention of Plenty to need, + And to bid Pleasure pause for a moment and heed + The woes and the burdens of Labor. + + _Roger:_ + + One plea + From the rosy and eloquent lips of Miss Lee + Would make Avarice pour out his coffers of gold + At her feet, I should fancy; would soften the cold, + Selfish heart of the world to compassionate sighs, + And bring tears of pity to vain Pleasure's eyes. + + As the sunset a color on lily leaves throws, + The words and the glances of Roger Montrose + O'er the listener's cheeks sent a pink tinted wave; + While Maurice seemed disturbed, and his sister grew grave. + The false chink of flattery's coin smites the ear + With an unpleasant ring when the heart is sincere. + Yet the man whose mind pockets are filled with this ore, + Though empty his brain cells, is never a bore + To the opposite sex. + + While Maurice knew of old + Roger's wealth in that coin that does duty for gold + In Society dealings, it hurt him to see + The cheap metal offered to sweet Mabel Lee. + + (Yet, perchance, the hurt came, not so much that 'twas offered, + As in seeing her take, with a smile, what was proffered.) + They had walked, two by two, down the elm shaded street, + Which led to a cottage, vine hidden, and sweet + With the breath of the roses that covered it, where + Mabel paused in the gateway; a picture most fair. + "I would ask you to enter," she said, "ere you pass, + But in just twenty minutes my Sunday-school class + Claims my time and attention; and later I meet + A Committee on Plans for the boys of the street. + We seek to devise for these pupils in crime + Right methods of thought and wise uses of time. + + _Roger:_ + + I am but a vagrant, untutored and wild, + May I join your street class, and be taught like a child? + + _Mabel:_ + + If you come I will carefully study your case. + + _Maurice:_ + + I must go along, too, just to keep him in place. + + _Mabel:_ + + Then you think him unruly? + + _Maurice:_ + + Decidedly so. + + _Roger:_ + + I was, but am changed since one-half hour ago. + + Mabel:__ + + The change is too sudden to be of much worth; + The deepest convictions are slowest of birth. + Conversion, I hold, to be earnest and lasting, + Begins with repentance and praying and fasting, + And (begging your pardon for such a bold speech), + You seem, sir, a stranger to all and to each + Of these ways of salvation. + + _Roger:_ + + Since yesterday, miss, + When, unseen, I first saw you (believe me in this), + I have deeply repented my sins of the past. + To-night I will pray, and to-morrow will fast-- + Or, make it next week, when my shore appetite + May be somewhat subdued in its ravenous might. + + _Maurice:_ + + That's the way of the orthodox sinner! He waits + Until time or indulgence or misery sates + All his appetites, then his repentance begins, + When his sins cease to please, then he gives up his sins + And grows pious. Now prove you are morally brave + By actually giving up something you crave! + We have fricasseed chicken and strawberry cake + For our dinner to-day. + + _Roger:_ + + For dear principle's sake + I could easily do what you ask, were it not + Most unkind to Miss Ruth, who gave labor and thought + To that menu, preparing it quite to my taste. + + _Ruth:_ + + But the thought and the dinner will both go to waste, + If we linger here longer; and Mabel, I see, + Is impatient to go to her duties. + + _Roger:_ + + The bee + Is reluctant to turn from the lily although + The lily may obviously wish he would go + And leave her to muse in the sunlight alone. + Yet when the rose calls him, his sorrow, I own, + Has its recompense. So from delight to delight + I fly with my wings honeyladen. + Good night. + + + + + _Oh, love is like the dawnlight + That turns the dark to day, + And love is like the deep night + With secrets hid away._ + + _And love is like the moonlight + Where tropic Summers glow, + And love is like the twilight + When dreams begin to grow._ + + _Oh, love is like the sunlight + That sets the world ablaze. + And love is like the moonlight + With soft illusive rays._ + + _And love is like the starlight + That glimmers o'er the skies. + And love is like the far light + That shines from God's great eyes._ + + + + + III. + + Maurice Somerville from his turreted den + Looked out of the window and laid down his pen. + A soft salty wind from the water was blowing, + Below in the garden sat Ruth with her sewing. + And stretched on the grass at her feet Roger lay + With a book in his hand. + + Through the ripe August day, + Piped the Katydids' voices, Jack Frost's tally-ho + Commanding Queen Summer to pack up and go. + Maurice leaned his head on the casement and sighed, + Strong and full in his heart surged love's turbulent tide. + And thoughts of the woman he worshiped with longing + Took shape and like angels about him came thronging. + The world was all Mabel! her exquisite face + Seemed etched on the sunlight and gave it its grace; + Her eyes made the blue of the heavens, the sun + Was her wonderful hair caught and coiled into one + Shining mass. With a reverent, worshipful awe, + It was Mabel, fair Mabel, dear Mabel he saw, + When he looked up to God. + + They had been much together + Through all the bright stretches of midsummer weather, + Ruth, Roger, and Mabel and he. Scarce a day + But the four were united in work or in play. + And much of the play to a man or a maid + Not in love had seemed labor. Recital, charade, + Garden party, church festival, musical, hop, + Were all planned by Miss Lee without respite or stop. + The poor were the richer; school, hospital, church, + The heathen, the laborer left in the lurch + By misfortune, the orphan, the indigent old, + Our kind Lady Bountiful aided with gold + Which she filched from the pockets of pleasure--God's spoil, + And God's blessing will follow such lives when they toil + Through an infinite sympathy. + + Fair Mabel Lee + Loved to rule and to lead. She was eager to be + In the eyes of the public. That modern day craze + Possessed her in secret, and this was its phase. + An innocent, even commendable, fad + Which filled empty larders and cheered up the sad. + She loved to do good. But, alas! in her heart, + She loved better still the authoritative part + Which she played in her town. + + 'Neath the saint's aureole + Lurked the feminine tyrant who longed to control, + And who never would serve; but her sway was so sweet, + That her world was contented to bow at her feet. + + Who toils in the great public vineyard must needs + Let other hands keep his own garden from weeds. + So busy was Mabel with charity fairs + She gave little thought to her home or its cares. + Mrs. Lee, like the typical modern day mother, + Was maid to her daughter; the father and brother + Were slaves at her bidding; an excellent plan + To make a tyrannical wife for some man. + + Yet where was the man who, beholding the grace + Of that slight girlish creature, and watching her face + With its infantile beauty and sweetness, would dare + Think aught but the rarest of virtues dwelt there? + Rare virtues she had, but in commonplace ones + Which make happy husbands and home loving sons + She was utterly lacking. Ruth Somerville saw + In sorrow and silence this blemishing flaw + In the friend whom she loved with devotion! Maurice + Saw only the angel with eyes full of peace. + The faults of plain women are easily seen. + But who cares to peer back of beauty's fair screen + For things which are ugly to look on? + + The lover + Is not quite in love when his sharp eyes discover + The flaws in his jewel. + + Maurice from his room + Looked dreamily down on the garden of bloom, + Where Ruth sat with Roger; he smiled as he thought + How quickly the world sated cynic was brought + Into harness by Cupid. The man mad with drink, + And the man mad with love, is quite certain to think + All other men drunkards or lovers. In truth + Maurice had expected his friend to love Ruth. + "She was young, she was fair; with her bright sunny art + She could scatter the mists from his world befogged heart. + She could give him the one heaven under God's dome, + A peaceful, well ordered, and love-guarded home. + And he? why of course he would worship her! When + Cupid finds the soft spot in the hearts of such men + They are ideal husbands." Maurice Somerville + Felt the whole world was shaping itself to his will. + And his heart stirred with joy as, by thought necromancy, + He made the near future unfold to his fancy, + And saw Ruth the bride of his friend, and the place + She left vacant supplied with the beauty and grace + Of this woman he longed for, the love of his life, + Fair Mabel, his angel, his sweet spirit wife. + + Maurice to his desk turned again and once more + Began to unburden his bosom and pour + His heart out on paper--the poet's relief, + When drunk with life's rapture or sick with its grief. + + + _Song._ + + When shall I tell my lady that I love her? + Will it be while the sunshine woos the world, + Or when the mystic twilight bends above her, + Or when the day's bright banners all are furled? + Will wild winds shriek, or will the calm stars glow, + When I shall tell her that I love her so, + I love her so? + + I think the sun should shine in all his glory; + Again, the twilight seems the fitting time. + Yet sweet dark night would understand the story, + So old, so new, so tender, so sublime. + Wild storms should rage to chord with my desire, + Yet faithful stars should shine and never tire, + And never tire. + + Ah, if my lady will consent to listen, + All hours, all times, shall hear my story told. + In amorous dawns, on nights when pale stars glisten + In dim hushed gloamings and in noon hours bold, + While thunders crash, and while the winds breathe low, + Will I re-tell her that I love her so. + I love her so. + + + + + IV. + + The October day had been luscious and fair + Like a woman of thirty. A chill in the air + As the sun faced the west spoke of frost lurking near. + All day the Sound lay without motion, and clear + As a mirror, and blue as a blond baby's eyes. + A change in the tide brought a change to the skies. + The bay stirred and murmured and parted its lips + And breathed a long sigh for the lost lovely ships, + That had gone with the Summer. + + Its calm placid breast + Was stirred into passionate pain and unrest. + Not a sail, not a sail anywhere to be seen! + The soft azure eyes of the sea turned to green. + A sudden wind rose; like a runaway horse + Unchecked and unguided it sped on its course. + The waves bared their teeth, and spat spray in the face + Of the furious gale as they fled in the chase. + The sun hurried into a cloud; and the trees + Bowed low and yet lower, as if to appease + The wrath of the storm king that threatened them. Close + To the waves at their wildest stood Roger Montrose. + The day had oppressed him; and now the unrest + Of the wind beaten sea brought relief to his breast, + Or at least brought the sense of companionship. Lashed + By his higher emotions, the man's passions dashed + On the shore of his mind in a frenzy of pain, + Like the waves on the rocks, and a frenzy as vain. + + Since the day he first looked on her face, Mabel Lee + Had seemed to his self sated nature to be, + On life's troubled ocean, a beacon of light, + To guide him safe out from the rocks and the night. + Her calm soothed his passion; her peace gave him poise; + She seemed like a silence in life's vulgar noise. + He bathed in the light which her purity cast, + And felt half absolved from the sins of the past. + He longed in her mantle of goodness to hide + And forget the whole world. By the incoming tide + He talked with his heart as one talks with a friend + Who is dying. "The summer has come to an end + And I wake from my dreaming," he mused. "Wake to know + That my place is not here--I must go--I must go. + Who dares laugh at Love shall hear Love laughing last, + As forth from his bowstring barbed arrows are cast. + I scoffed at the god with a sneer on my lip, + And he forces me now from his chalice to sip + A bitter sweet potion. Ah, lightly the part + Of a lover I've played many times, but my heart + Has been proud in its record of friendship. And now + The mad, eager lover born in me must bow + To the strong claims of friendship. I love Mabel Lee; + Dared I woo as I would, I could make her love me. + The soul of a maid who knows not passion's fire + Is moth to the flame of a man's strong desire. + With one kiss on her lips I could banish the nun + And wake in her virginal bosom the one + Mighty love of her life. If I leave her, I know + She will be my friend's wife in a season or so. + He loves her, he always has loved her; 'tis he + Who ever will do all the loving; and she + Will accept it, and still be the saint to the end, + And she never will know what she missed; but my friend + Has the right to speak first. God! how can he delay? + I marvel at men who are fashioned that way. + He has worshiped her since first she put up her tresses, + And let down the hem of her school-girlish dresses + And now she is full twenty-two; were I he + A brood of her children should climb on my knee + By this time! What a sin against love to postpone + The day that might make her forever his own. + The man who can wait has no blood in his veins. + Maurice is a dreamer, he loves with his brains + Not with soul and with senses. And yet his whole life + Will be blank if he makes not this woman his wife. + She is woof of his dreams, she is warp of his mind; + Who tears her away shall leave nothing behind. + No, no, I am going: farewell to Bay Bend + I am no woman's lover--I _am_ one man's friend. + Still-born in the arms of the matron eyed year + Lies the beautiful dream that my life buries here. + Its tomb was its cradle; it came but to taunt me, + It died, but its phantom shall ever more haunt me." + + He turned from the waves that leaped at him in wrath + To find Mabel Lee, like a wraith, in his path. + The rose from her cheek had departed in fear; + The tip of her eyelash was gemmed with a tear. + The rude winds had disarranged mantle and dress, + And she clung with both hands to her hat in distress. + "I am frightened," she cried, in a tremulous tone; + "I dare not proceed any farther alone. + As I came by the church yard the wind felled a tree, + And invisible hands seemed to hurl it at me; + I hurried on, shrieking; the wind, in disgust, + Tore the hat from my head, filled my eyes full of dust, + And otherwise made me the butt of its sport. + Just then I spied you, like a light in the port, + And I steered for you. Please do not laugh at my fright! + I am really quite bold in the calm and the light, + But when a storm gathers, or darkness prevails, + My courage deserts me, my bravery fails, + And I want to hide somewhere and cover my ears, + And give myself up to weak womanish tears." + + Her ripple of talk allowed Roger Montrose + A few needed moments to calm and compose + His excited emotions; to curb and control + The turbulent feelings that surged through his soul + At the sudden encounter. + + "I quite understand," + He said in a voice that was under command + Of his will, "All your fears in a storm of this kind. + There is something uncanny and weird in the wind; + Intangible, viewless, it speeds on its course, + And forests and oceans must yield to its force. + What art has constructed with patience and toil, + The wind in one second of time can despoil. + It carries destruction and death and despair, + Yet no man can follow it into its lair + And bind it or stay it--this thing without form. + Ah! there comes the rain! we are caught in the storm. + Put my coat on your shoulders and come with me where + Yon rock makes a shelter--I often sit there + To watch the great conflicts 'twixt tempest and sea. + Let me lie at your feet! 'Tis the last time, Miss Lee, + I shall see you, perchance, in this life, who can say? + I leave on the morrow at break o' the day." + + _Mabel:_ + + Indeed? Why, how sudden! and may I inquire + The reason you leave us without one desire + To return? for your words seem a final adieu. + + _Roger:_ + + I never expect to return, that is true, + Yet my wish is to stay. + + _Mabel:_ + + Are you not your own master? + + _Roger:_ + + Alas, yes! and therein lies the cause of disaster. + Myself bids me go, my calm, reasoning part, + The will is the man, not the poor, foolish heart, + Which is ever at war with the intellect. So + I silence its clamoring voices and go. + Were I less my own master, I then might remain. + + _Mabel:_ + + Your words are but riddles, I beg you explain. + + _Roger:_ + + No, no, rather bid me keep silent! To say + Why I go were as weak on my part as to stay. + + _Mabel:_ + + I think you most cruel! You know, sir, my sex + Loves dearly a secret. Then why should you vex + And torment me in this way by hinting at one? + + _Roger:_ + + Let us talk of the weather, I think the storm done. + + _Mabel:_ + + Very well! I will go! No, you need not come too, + And I will not shake hands, I am angry with you. + + _Roger:_ + + And you will not shake hands when we part for all time? + + _Mabel:_ + + Then read me your riddle! + + _Roger:_ + + No, that were a crime + Against honor and friendship; girl, girl, have a care-- + You are goading my poor, tortured heart to despair. + + His last words were lost in the loud thunder's crash; + The sea seemed ablaze with a sulphurous flash. + From the rocks just above them an evergreen tree + Was torn up by the roots and flung into the sea. + The waves with rude arms hurled it back on the shore; + The wind gained in fury. The glare and the roar + Of the lightning and tempest paled Mabel Lee's cheek, + Her pupils dilated; she sprang with a shriek + Of a terrified child lost to all save alarm, + And clasped Roger Montrose with both hands by the arm, + While her cheek pressed his shoulder. An agony, sweet + And unbearable, thrilled from his head to his feet, + His veins were like rivers, with billows of fire: + His will lost control; and long fettered desire + Slipped its leash. He caught Mabel Lee to his breast, + Drew her face up to his, on her frightened lips pressed + Wild caresses of passion that startled and shocked. + Like a madman he looked, like a madman he talked, + Waiting not for reply, with no pause but a kiss, + While his iron arms welded her bosom to his. + "Girl, girl, you demanded my secret," he cried; + "Well, that bruise on your lips tells the story! I tried, + Good God, how I tried! to be silent and go + Without speaking one word, without letting you know + That I loved you; yet how could you look in my eyes + And not see love was there like the sun in the skies? + Ah, those hands on my arm--that dear head lightly pressed + On my shoulder! God, woman, the heart in my breast + Was dry powder, your touch was the spark; and the blame + Must be yours if both lives are scorched black with the flame. + Do you hate me, despise me, for being so weak? + No, no! let me kiss you again ere you speak! + You are mine for the moment; and mine--mine alone + Is the first taste of passion your soft mouth has known. + Whoever forestalls me in winning your hand, + Between you and him shall this mad moment stand-- + You shall think of me, though you think only to hate. + There--speak to me--speak to me--tell me my fate; + On your words, Mabel Lee, hangs my whole future life. + I covet you, covet you, sweet, for my wife; + I want to stay here at your side. Since I first + Saw your face I have felt an unquenchable thirst + To be good--to look deep in your eyes and find God, + And to leave in the past the dark paths I have trod + In my search after pleasure. Ah, must I go back + Into folly again, to retread the old track + Which leads out into nothingness? Girl, answer me, + As souls answer at Judgment." + + The face of the sea + Shone with sudden pink splendor. The riotous wind + Swooned away with exhaustion. Each dark cloud seemed lined + With vermilion. The tempest was over. A word + Floated up like a feather; the silence was stirred + By the soul of a sigh. The last remnant of gray + In the skies turned to gold, as a voice whispered, "Stay." + + + + + _God grinds His poor people to powder + All day and all night I can hear, + Their cries growing louder and louder. + Oh, God, have You deadened Your ear?_ + + _The chimes in old Trinity steeple + Ring in the sweet season of prayer, + And still God is grinding His people, + He is grinding them down to despair._ + + _Mind, body and muscle and marrow, + He grinds them again and again. + Can He who takes heed of the sparrow + Be blind to the tortures of men?_ + + + + + V. + + In a bare little room of a tenement row + Of the city, Maurice sat alone. It was so + (In this nearness to life's darkest phases of grief + And despair) that his own bitter woe found relief. + Joy needs no companion; but sorrow and pain + Long to comrade with sorrow. The flowery chain + Flung by Pleasure about her gay votaries breaks + With the least strain upon it. The chain sorrow makes + Links heart unto heart. As a bullock will fly + To far fields when an arrow has pierced him, to die, + So Maurice had flown over far oceans to find + No balm for his wounds, and no peace for his mind. + Cosmopolitan, always, is sorrow; at home + In all countries and lands, thriving well while we roam + In vain efforts to slay it. Toil only, brings peace + To the tempest tossed heart. What in travel Maurice + Failed to find--self-forgetfulness--came with his work + For the suffering poor in the slums of New York. + + He had wandered in strange heathen countries--had been + Among barbarous hordes; but the greed and the sin + Of his own native land seemed the shame of the hour. + In his gold there was balm, in his pen there was power + To comfort the needy, to aid and defend + The unfortunate. Close in their midst, as a friend + And companion, for more than twelve months he had dwelt. + Like a ray of pure light in a cellar was felt + This strong, wholesome presence. His little room bare + Of all luxuries, taught the poor souls who flocked there + For his counsel and aid, how by mere cleanliness + The grim features of want lose some lines of distress. + The slips from the plants on his window ledge, given + To beauty starved souls, spoke more clearly of heaven + And God than did sermons or dry creedy tracts. + Maurice was no preacher; and yet his kind acts + Of mercy and self-immolation sufficed + To wake in dark minds a bright image of Christ-- + The Christ often heard of, but doubted before. + Maurice spoke no word of religion. Of yore + His heart had accepted the creeds of his youth + Without pausing to cavil, or question their truth. + Faith seemed his inheritance. But, with the blow + Which slew love and killed friendship, faith, too, seemed to go. + + It is easy to be optimistic in pleasure, + But when Pain stands us up by her portal to measure + The actual height of our trust and belief, + Ah! then is the time when our faith comes to grief. + The woes of our fellows, God sends them, 'tis plain; + But the devil himself is the cause of _our_ pain. + We question the wisdom that rules o'er the world, + And our minds into chaos and darkness are hurled. + + The average scoffer at faith goes about + Pouring into the ears of his fellows each doubt + Which assails him. One truth he fails wholly to heed; + That a doubt oft repeated may bore like a creed. + + Maurice kept his thoughts to himself, but his pen + Was dipped in the gall of his heart now and then, + And his muse was the mouthpiece. The sin unforgiven + I hold by the Cherubim chanting in heaven + Is the sin of the poet who dares sing a strain + Which adds to the world's awful chorus of pain + And repinings. The souls whom the gods bless at birth + With the great gift of song, have been sent to the earth + To better and brighten it. Woe to the heart + Which lets its own sorrow embitter its art. + Unto him shall more sorrow be given; and life + After life filled with sorrow, till, spent with the strife, + He shall cease from rebellion, and bow to the rod + In submission, and own and acknowledge his God. + + Maurice, with his unwilling muse in the gloom + Of a mood pessimistic, was shut in his room. + A whistle, a step on the stairway, a knock, + Then over the transom there fluttered a flock + Of white letters. The Muse, with a sigh of content, + Left the poet to read them, and hurriedly went + Back to pleasanter regions. Maurice glanced them through: + There were brief business epistles from two + Daily papers, soliciting work from his pen; + A woman begged money for Christ's sake; three men + Asked employment; a mother wrote only to say + How she blessed him and prayed God to bless him each day + For his kindness to her and to hers; and the last + Was a letter from Ruth. The pale ghost of the past + Rose out of its poor shallow grave, with the scent + And the mold of the clay clinging to it, and leant + O'er Maurice as he read, while its breath fanned his cheek. + + "Forgive me," wrote Ruth; "for at last I must speak + Of the two whom you wish to forget. Well I know + How you suffered, still suffer, from fate's sudden blow, + Though I am a woman, and women must stay + And fight out pain's battles where men run away. + But my strength has its limit, my courage its end, + The time has now come when I, too, leave Bay Bend. + Maurice, let the bitterness housed in your heart + For the man you long loved as a comrade, depart, + And let pity replace it. Oh, weep for his sorrow-- + From your fountain of grief, held in check, let me borrow; + I have so overdrawn on the bank of my tears + That my anguish is now refused payment. For years + You loved Mabel Lee. Well, to some hearts love speaks + His whole tale of passion in brief little weeks. + As Minerva, full grown, from the great brow of Jove + Sprang to life, so full blown from our breasts may spring Love. + Love hid like a bee in my heart's lily cup; + I knew not he was there till his sting woke me up. + + Maurice, oh Maurice! Can you fancy the woe + Of seeing the prize which you coveted so + Misused, or abused, by another? The wife + Of the man whom I worshiped is spoiling the life + That was wax in her hands, wax to shape as she chose. + You were blind to her faults, so was Roger Montrose. + Both saw but the saint; well, let saints keep their places, + And not crowd the women in life's hurried races. + As saint, Mabel Lee might succeed; but, oh brother, + She never was meant for a wife or a mother. + Her beautiful home has the desolate air + Of a house that is ruled by its servants. The care-- + The thought of the _woman_ (that sweet, subtle power + Pervading some rooms like the scent of a flower), + Which turns house into home--_that_ is lacking. She goes + On her merciful rounds, does our Lady Montrose, + Looking after the souls of the heathen, and leaving + The poor hungry soul of her lord to its grieving. + + He craves her companionship; wants her to be + At his side, more his own, than the public's. But she + Holds such love is but selfish; and thinks he should make + Some sacrifice gladly for charity's sake. + Her schools, and her clubs, and her fairs fill her time; + He wants her to travel; no, that were a crime + To go seeking for pleasure, and leave duty here. + God had given her work and her labor lay near. + A month of the theater season in town? + No, the stage is an evil that needs putting down + By good people. So, scheme as he will, the poor man + Has to finally yield every project and plan + To this sweet stubborn saint; for the husband, you see, + Stands last in Her thoughts. He has come, after three + Patient years, to that knowledge; his wishes, his needs + Must always give way to her whims, or her creeds. + + She knows not the primer of loving; her soul + Is engrossed with the poor petty wish to _control_. + And she chafes at restriction. Love loves to be bound, + And its sweetest of freedom in bondage is found. + She pulls at her fetters. One worshiping heart + And its faithful devotion play but a small part + In her life. She would rather be lauded and praised + By a crowd of inferior followers, raised + To the pitiful height of their leader, than be + One man's goddess. There, now, is the true Mabel Lee! + Grieve not that you lost her, but grieve for the one + Who with me stood last night by the corpse of his son, + And with me stood alone. Ah! how wisely and well + Could Mabel descant on Maternity! tell + Other women the way to train children to be + An honor and pride to their parents! Yet she, + From the first, left her child to the nurses. She found + 'Twas a tax on her nerves to have baby around + When it worried and cried. The nurse knew what to do, + And a block down the street lived Mama! 'twixt the two + Little Roger would surely be cared for. She must + Keep her strength and be worthy the love and the trust + Of the poor, who were yearly increasing, and not + Bestow on her own all the care and the thought-- + That were selfishness, surely. + + Well, the babe grew apace, + But yesterday morning a flush on its face + And a look in its eye worried Roger. The mother + Was due at some sort of convention or other + In Boston--I think 'twas a grand federation + Of clubs formed by women to rescue the Nation + From man's awful clutches; and Mabel was made + The head delegate of the Bay Bend Brigade. + Once drop in a small, selfish nature the seed + Of ambition for place, and it grows like a weed. + The fair village angel we called Mabel Lee, + As Mrs. Montrose, has developed, you see, + To a full fledged Reformer. It quite turned her head + To be sent to the city of beans and brown bread + As a delegate! (Delegate! magical word! + The heart of the queer modern woman is stirred + Far more by its sound than by aught she may hear + In the phrases poor Cupid pours into her ear.) + Mabel chirped to the baby a dozen good-byes, + And laughed at the trouble in Roger's grave eyes, + As she leaned o'er the lace ruffled crib of her son + And talked baby-talk: "Now be good, 'ittle one, + While Mama is away, and don't draw a long breath, + Unless 'oo would worry Papa half to death. + And don't cough, and, of all things, don't _sneeze_, 'ittle dear, + Or Papa will be thrown into spasms of fear. + Now, good-bye, once again, 'ittle man; mother knows + There is no other baby like Roger Montrose + In the whole world to-day." + + So she left him. That night + The nurse sent a messenger speeding in fright + For the Doctor; a second for Grandmama Lee + And Roger despatched still another for me. + All in vain! through the gray chilly paths of the dawn + The soul of the beautiful baby passed on + Into Mother-filled lands. + + Ah! my God, the despair + Of seeing that agonized sufferer there; + To stand by his side, yet denied the relief + Of sharing, as wife, and as mother, his grief. + Enough! I have borne all I can bear. The role + Of friend to a lover pulls hard on the soul + Of a sensitive woman. The three words in life + Which have meaning to me are home, mother and wife-- + Or, rather, wife, mother and home. Once I thought + Men cared for the women who found home the spot + Next to heaven for happiness; women who knew + No ambition beyond being loyal and true, + And who loved all the tasks of the housewife. I learn, + Instead, that from women of that kind men turn, + With a yawn, unto those who are useless; who live + For the poor hollow world and for what it can give, + And who make home the spot where, when other joys cease, + One sleeps late when one wishes. + + You left me Maurice + Left the home I have kept since our dear Mother died, + With such sisterly love and such housewifely pride, + And you wandered afar, and for what cause, forsooth? + Oh! because a vain, self-loving woman, in truth, + Had been faithless. The man whom I worshiped, ignored + The love and the _comfort_ my woman's heart stored + In its depths for his taking, and sought Mabel Lee. + Well, I'm done with the role of the housewife. I see + There is nothing in being domestic. The part + Is unpicturesque, and at war with all art. + The senile old Century leers with dim eyes + At our sex and demands that we shock or surprise + His thin blood into motion. The home's not the place + To bring a pleased smile to his wicked old face. + To the mandate I bow; since all strive for that end, + I must join the great throng! I am leaving Bay Bend + This day week. I will see you in town as I pass + To the college at C----, where I enter the class + Of medical students--I fancy you will + Like to see my name thus--Dr. Ruth Somerville." + + Maurice dropped the long, closely written epistle, + Stared hard at the wall, and gave vent to a whistle. + A Doctor! his sweet, little home-loving sister. + A Doctor! one might as well prefix a Mister + To Ruth Somerville, that most feminine name. + And then in the wake of astonishment came + Keen pity for all she had suffered. "Poor Ruth, + She writes like an agonized woman, in truth, + And like one torn with jealousy. Ah, I can see," + He mused, "how the pure soul of sweet Mabel Lee + Revolts at the bondage and shrinks from the ban + That lies in the love of that sensual man. + He is of the earth, earthy. He loves but her beauty, + He cares not for conscience, or honor or duty. + Like a moth she was dazzled and lured by the flame + Of a light she thought love, till she learned its true name; + When she found it mere passion, it lost all its charms. + No wonder she flies from his fettering arms! + God pity you, Mabel! poor ill mated wife; + But my love, like a planet, shall watch o'er your life, + Though all other light from your skies disappear, + Like a sun in the darkness my love shall appear. + Unselfish and silent, it asks no return, + But while the great firmament lasts it shall burn." + + Muse, muse, awake, and sing thy loneliest strain, + Song, song, be sad with sorrow's deepest pain, + Heart, heart, bow down and never bound again, + My Lady grieves, she grieves. + + Night, night, draw close thy filmy mourning veil, + Moon, moon, conceal thy beauty sweet and pale, + Wind, wind, sigh out thy most pathetic wail, + My Lady grieves, she grieves. + + Time, time, speed by, thou art too slow, too slow, + Grief, grief, pass on, and take thy cup of woe, + Life, life, be kind, ah! do not wound her so, + My Lady grieves, she grieves. + + Sleep, sleep, dare not to touch mine aching eyes, + Love, love, watch on, though fate thy wish denies, + Heart, heart, sigh on, since she, my Lady, sighs, + My Lady grieves, she grieves. + + + + + _The flower breathes low to the bee, + "Behold, I am ripe with bloom. + Let Love have his way with me, + Ere I fall unwed in my tomb."_ + + _The rooted plant sighs in distress + To the winds by the garden walk + "Oh, waft me my lover's caress, + Or I shrivel and die on my stalk."_ + + _The whippoorwill utters her love + In a passionate "Come, oh come," + To the male in the depths of the grove, + But the heart of a woman is dumb._ + + _The lioness seeks her mate, + The she-tiger calls her own-- + Who made it a woman's fate + To sit in the silence alone?_ + + + + + VI. + + Wooed, wedded and widowed ere twenty. The life + Of Zoe Travers is told in that sentence. A wife + For one year, loved and loving; so full of life's joy + That death, growing jealous, resolved to destroy + The Eden she dwelt in. Five desolate years + She walked robed in weeds, and bathed ever in tears, + Through the valley of memory. Locked in love's tomb + Lay youth in its glory and hope in its bloom. + At times she was filled with religious devotion, + Again crushed to earth with rebellious emotion + And unresigned sorrow. + + Ah, wild was her grief! + And the years seemed to bring her no balm of relief. + When a heart from its sorrow time cannot estrange, + God sends it another to alter and change + The current of feeling. Zoe's mother, her one + Tie to earth, became ill. When the doctors had done + All the harm which they dared do with powder and pill, + They ordered a trial of Dame Nature's skill. + Dear Nature! what grief in her bosom must stir + When she sees us turn everywhere save unto her + For the health she holds always in keeping; and sees + Us at last, when too late, creeping back to her knees, + Begging that she at first could have given! + + 'Twas so + Mother Nature's heart grieved o'er the mother of Zoe, + Who came but to die on her bosom. She died + Where the mocking bird poured out its passionate tide + Of lush music; and all through the dark days of pain + That succeeded, and over and through the refrain + Of her sorrow, Zoe heard that wild song evermore. + It seemed like a blow which pushed open a door + In her heart. Something strange, sweet and terrible stirred + In her nature, aroused by the song of that bird. + It rang like a voice from the future; a call + That came not from the past; yet the past held her all. + To the past she had plighted her vows; in the past + Lay her one dream of happiness, first, only, last. + + Alone in the world now, she felt the unrest + Of an unanchored boat on the wild billow's breast. + Two homes had been shattered; the West held but tombs. + She drifted again where the magnolia blooms + And the mocking bird sings. Oh! that song, that wild strain, + Whose echoes still haunted her heart and her brain! + How she listened to hear it repeated! It came + Through the dawn to her heart, and the sound was like flame. + It chased all the shadows of night from her room, + And burst the closed bud of the day into bloom. + It leaped to the heavens, it sank to the earth + It gave life new rapture and love a new birth. + It ran through her veins like a fiery stream, + And the past and its sorrow--was only a dream. + + The call of a bird in the spring for its lover + Is the voice of all Nature when winter is over. + The heart of the woman re-echoed the strain, + And its meaning, at last, to her senses was plain. + + Grief's winter was over, the snows from her heart + Were melted; hope's blossoms were ready to start. + The spring had returned with its siren delights, + And her youth and emotions asserted their rights. + Then memory struggled with passion. The dead + Seemed to rise from the grave and accuse her. She fled + From her thoughts as from lepers; returned to old ways, + And strove to keep occupied, filling her days + With devotional duties. But when the night came + She heard through her slumber that song like a flame, + And her dreams were sweet torture. She sought all too soon + To chill the warm sun of her youth's ardent noon + With the shadows of premature evening. Her mind + Lacked direction and purpose. She tried in a blind, + Groping fashion to follow an early ideal + Of love and of constancy, starving the real + Affectional nature God gave her. She prayed + For God's help in unmaking the woman He made, + As if He repented the thing He had done. + With the soul of a Sappho, she lived like a nun, + Hid her thoughts from all women, from men kept apart, + And carefully guarded the book of her heart + From the world's prying eyes. Yet men read through the cover, + And knew that the story was food for a lover. + (The dullest of men seemed possessed of the art + To read what the passions inscribe on the heart. + Though written in cipher and sealed from the sight, + Yet masculine eyes will interpret aright.) + Worn out with the unceasing conflict at last, + Zoe fled from herself and her sorrowful past, + And turned to new scenes for diversion from thought. + + New York! oh, what magic encircles that spot + In the feminine mind of the West! There, it seems, + Waits the realization of beautiful dreams. + There the waters of Lethe unceasingly roll, + With blessed forgetfulness free to each soul, + While the doorways that lead to success open wide, + With Fame in the distance to beckon and guide. + Mirth lurks in each byway, and Folly herself + Wears the look of a semi-respectable elf, + And is to be courted and trusted when met, + For she teaches one how to be gay and forget, + And to start new account books with life. + + It was so, + Since she first heard the name of the city, that Zoe + Dreamed of life in New York. It was thither she turned + To smother the heart that with restlessness burned, + And to quiet and calm an unsatisfied mind. + Her plans were but outlines, crude, vague, undefined, + Of distraction and pleasure. A snug little home, + With seclusion and comfort; full freedom to roam + Where her fancy and income permitted; new faces, + New scenes, new environments, far from the places + Where brief joy and long sorrow had dwelt with her; free + From the curious eyes that seemed ever to be + Bent upon her. She passed like a ship from the port, + Without chart or compass; the plaything and sport + Of the billows of Fate. + + The parks were all gay + And busy with costuming duties of May + When Zoe reached New York. The rain and the breeze + Had freshened the gowns of the Northern pine trees + Till they looked bright as new; all the willows were seen + In soft dainty garments of exquisite green. + Young buds swelled with life, and reached out to invite + And to hold the warm gaze of the wandering light. + The turf exhaled fragrance; among the green boughs + The unabashed city birds plighted their vows, + Or happy young house hunters chirped of the best + And most suitable nook to establish a nest. + + There was love in the sunshine, and love in the air; + Youth, hope, home, companionship, spring, everywhere. + There was youth, there was spring in her blood; yet she only, + In all the great city, seemed loveless and lonely. + + The trim little flat, facing north on the park, + Was not homelike; the rooms seemed too sombre and dark + To her eyes, sun-accustomed; the neighbors too near + And too noisy. The medley of sounds hurt her ear. + Sudden laughter; the cry of an infant; the splash + Of a tenant below in his bath-tub; the crash + Of strong hands on a keyboard above, and the light, + Merry voice of the lady who lived opposite, + The air intertwined in a tangled sound ball, + And flung straight at her ear through the court and the hall. + + Ah, what loneliness dwelt in the rush and the stir + Of the great pushing throngs that were nothing to her, + And to whom she was nothing! Her heart, on its quest + For distraction, seemed eating itself in her breast. + She longed for a comrade, a friend. In the church + Which she frequented no one abetted her search, + For the faces of people she met in its aisle + Gazed calmly beyond her, without glance or smile. + The look in their eyes, when translated, read thus, + "We worship God here, what are people to us?" + In some masculine eyes she read more, it is true. + What she read made her gaze at the floor of her pew. + + The blithe little blonde who lived over the hall, + In the opposite rooms, was the first one to call + Or to show friendly feeling. She seemed sweet and kind, + But her infantile face hid a mercantile mind. + Her voice had the timbre of metal. Each word + Clinked each word like small change in a purse; and you heard, + In the rustling silk of her skirts, just a hint + Of new bills freshly printed and right from the mint. + + There was that in her airs and her chatter which made + Zoe question and ponder, and turn half afraid + From her proffers of friendship. When one July day + The fair neighbor called for a moment to say, + "I am off to Long Branch for the summer, good-bye," + Zoe seemed to breathe freer--she scarcely knew why, + But she reasoned it out as alone in the gloom + Of the soft summer evening she sat in her room. + "The woman is happy," she said; "at the least, + Her heart is not starving in life's ample feast. + She lives while she lives, but I only exist, + And Fate laughs in my face for the things I resist." + + New York in the midsummer seems like the gay + Upper servant who rules with the mistress away. + She entertains friends from all parts of the earth; + Her streets are alive with a fictitious mirth. + She flaunts her best clothes with a devil-may-care + Sort of look, and her parks wear a riotous air. + There is something unwholesome about her at dusk; + Her trees, and her gardens, seem scented with musk; + And you feel she has locked up the door of the house + And, half drunk with the heat, wanders forth to carouse, + With virtue, ambition and industry all + Packed off (moth-protected) with garments for Fall. + + Zoe felt out of step with the town. In the song + Which it sang, where each note was a soul of the throng, + She seemed the one discord. Books gave no distraction. + She cared not for study, her heart longed for action, + For pleasure, excitement. Wild impulses, new + To her mind, came like demons and urged her to do + All sorts of mad things. Mischief breathed through the air. + One could do as one liked in New York--who would care-- + Who would know save the God who had left her alone + In his world, unprotected, unloved? From her own + Restless mind and sick heart she attempted once more + To escape. One reads much of gay life at the shore-- + Narragansett, she fancied, would suit her. The sea + Would at least prove a friend; and, perchance, there might be + Some heart, like her own, seeking comradeship there. + The days brought no friend. But the moist, salty air + Was a stimulant, giving existence new charms. + The sea was a lover who opened his arms + Every day to embrace her. And life in this place + Held something of pleasure, and sweetness and grace, + Though the eyes of the men were too ardent and bold, + And the eyes of the women suspicious and cold, + She yet had the sea--the sea, strong and mighty, + Both father and mother of fair Aphrodite. + + + + + VII. + + Mabel grieved for her child with a sorrow sincere, + But she bowed to the will of her Maker. No tear + Came to soften the hard, stony look in the eye + Of her husband; she heard no complaint and no sigh + From his lips, but he turned with impatience whenever + She spoke of religion, or made one endeavor + To lead his thoughts up from the newly turned sod + Where the little form slept, to its spirit with God. + + Long hours by that grave, Roger passed, and alone. + The woes of her neighbors his wife made her own, + But her husband she pointed to Christ; and in grief + Prayed for light to be cast on his dark unbelief. + + She flung herself into good works more and more, + And saw not that the look which her husband's face wore + Was the look of a man starved for love. In the mold + Of a nun she was fashioned, chaste, passionless, cold. + (Such women sin more when they take marriage ties + Than the love-maddened creature who lawlessly lies + In the arms of the man whom she worships. The child + Not conceived in true love leaves the mother defiled. + Though an army of clergymen sanction her vows, + God sees "illegitimate" stamped on the brows + Of her offspring. Love only can legalize birth + In His eyes--all the rest is but spawn of the earth.) + + Mabel Lee, as the maid, had been flattered and pleased + By the passion of Roger; his wild wooing teased + That inquisitive sense, half a fault, half a merit, + Which the daughters of Eve, to a woman, inherit. + His love fanned her love for herself to a glow; + She was stirred by the thought she could stir a man so. + That was all. She had nothing to give in return. + One can't light a fire with no fuel to burn; + And the love Roger dreamed he could rouse in her soul + Was not there to be wakened. He stood at his goal + As the Arctic explorer may finally stand, + To see all about him an ice prisoned land, + White, beautiful, useless. + + Some women are chaste, + Like the snows which envelop the bleak arid waste + Of the desert; once melted, alas! what remains + But the poor, unproductive, dry soil of the plains? + The flora of Cupid will never be found, + However he toil there, to thrive in such ground. + + Mabel Montrose was held in the highest esteem + By her neighbors; I think neighbors everywhere deem + Such women to be all that's noble. They sighed + When they spoke of her husband; they told how she tried + To convert him, and how they had thought for a season + His mind was bent Christ-ward; and then, with no reason, + He seemed to drift back to the world, and grew jealous + Of Mabel, and thought her too faithful and zealous + In duty to others. + + The death of his child + Only hardened his heart against God. He grew wild, + Took to drink; spent a week at a time in the city, + Neglecting his saint of a wife--such a pity. + It was true. Our friends keep a sharp eye on our deeds + But the fine interlining of causes--who heeds? + The long list of heartaches which lead to rash acts + Would bring pity, not blame, if the world knew the facts. + + There are women so terribly free from all evil, + They discourage a man, and he goes to the devil. + There are people whose virtues result in appalling, + And they prove a great aid to his majesty's calling. + + Roger's wife rendered goodness so dreary and cold, + His tendril-like will lost its poor little hold + On the new better life he was longing to reach, + And slipped back to the dust. Oh! to love, not to preach. + Is a woman's true method of helping mankind. + The sinner is won through his heart, not his mind. + As the sun loves the seed up to life through the sod, + So the patience of love brings a soul to its God. + But when love is lacking, the devil is sure + To stand in the pathway with some sort of lure. + Roger turned to the world for distraction. The world + Smiled a welcome, and then like an octopus curled + All its tentacles 'round him, and dragged him away + Into deep, troubled waters. + + One late summer day + He awoke with a headache, which will not surprise, + When you know that his bedtime had been at sunrise, + And that gay Narraganset, the world renowned "Pier," + Was the scene. Through the lace curtained window the clear + Yellow rays of the hot August sun touched his bed + And proclaimed it was mid-day. He rose, and his head + Seemed as large and as light as an air filled balloon + While his limbs were like lead. + + In the glare of the noon, + The follies of night show their makeup, and seem + Like hideous monsters evoked by some dream. + + The sea called to Roger: "Come, lie on my breast + And forget the dull world. My unrest shall give rest + To your turbulent feelings; the dregs of the wine + On your lips shall be lost in the salt touch of mine. + Come away, come away. Ah! the jubilant mirth + Of the sea is not known by the stupid old earth." + + The beach swarmed with bathers--to be more exact, + Swarmed with people in costumes of bathers. In fact, + Many beautiful women bathed but in the light + Of men's eyes; and their costumes were made for the sight, + Not the sea. From the sea's lusty outreaching arms + They escaped with shrill shrieks, while the men viewed their charms + And made mental notes of them. Yet, at this hour, + The waves, too, were swelling sea meadows, a-flower + With faces of swimmers. All dressed for his bath, + Roger paused in confusion, because in his path + Surged a crowd of the curious; all eyes were bent + On the form of a woman who leisurely went + From her bathing house down to the beach. "There she goes," + Roger heard a dame cry, as she stepped on his toes + With her whole ample weight. "What, the one with red hair? + Why, she isn't as pretty as Maude, I declare." + A man passing by with his comrade, cried: "Ned, + Look! there is La Travers, the one with the red + Braid of hair to her knees. She's a mystery here, + And at present the topic of talk at the Pier." + Roger followed their glances in time to behold + For a second a head crowned with braids of bright gold, + And a form like a Venus, all costumed in white. + Then she plunged through a billow and vanished from sight. + + It was half an hour afterward, possibly more, + As Roger swam farther and farther from shore, + With new life in his limbs and new force in his brain, + That he heard, just behind him, a sharp cry of pain. + Ten strokes in the rear on the crest of a wave + Shone a woman's white face. "Keep your courage; be brave; + I am coming," he shouted. "Turn over and float." + His strong shoulder plunged like the prow of a boat + Through the billows. Six overhand strokes brought him close + To the woman, who lay like a wilted white rose + On the waves. "Now, be careful," he cried; "lay your hand + Well up on my shoulder; my arms, understand, + Must be free; do not touch them---please follow my wishes, + Unless you are anxious to fatten the fishes." + The woman obeyed him. "You need not fear me," + She replied, "I am wholly at home in the sea. + I knew all the arts of the swimmer, I thought, + But confess I was frightened when suddenly caught + With a cramp in my knee at this distance from shore." + With slow even breast strokes the strong swimmer bore + His fair burden landward. She lay on the billows + As lightly as if she were resting on pillows + Of down. She relinquished herself to the sea + And the man, and was saved; though God knows both can be + False and fickle enough; yet resistance or strife, + On occasions like this, means the forfeit of life. + The throng of the bathers had scattered before + Roger carried his burden safe into the shore + And saw her emerge from the water, a place + Where most women lose every vestige of grace + Or of charm. But this mermaid seemed fairer than when + She had challenged the glances of women and men + As she went to her bath. Now her clinging silk suit + Revealed every line, from the throat to the foot, + Of her beautiful form. Her arms, in their splendor, + Gleamed white like wet marble. The round waist was slender, + And yet not too small. From the twin perfect crests + And the virginlike grace of her beautiful breasts + To the exquisite limbs and the curve of her thigh, + And the arch of her proud little instep, the eye + Drank in beauty. Her face was not beautiful; yet + The gaze lingered on it, for Eros had set + His seal on her features. The mouth full and weak, + The blue shadow drooping from eyelid to cheek + Like a stain of crushed grapes, and the pale, ardent skin, + All spoke of volcanic emotions within. + + By her tip tilted nose and low brow, it was plain + To read how her impulses ruled o'er her brain. + She had given the chief role of life to her heart, + And her intellect played but a small minor part. + Her eyes were the color the sunlight reveals + When it pierces the soft, furry coat of young seals. + The thickly fringed lids seemed unwilling to rise, + But drooped, half concealing them; wonderful eyes, + Full of secrets and bodings of sorrow. As coarse + And as thick as the mane of a finely groomed horse + Was her bright mass of hair. The sea, with rough hands, + Had made free with the braids, and unloosened the strands + Till they hung in great clusters of curls to her knees. + Her voice, when she spoke, held the breadth and the breeze + Of the West in its tones; and the use of the _R_ + Made the listener certain her home had been far + From New England. Long after she vanished from view + The eye and the ear seemed to sense her anew. + There was that in her voice and her presence which hung + In the air like a strain of a song which is sung + By a singer, and then sings itself the whole day, + And will hot be silenced. + + As birds flock away + From meadow to tree branch, now there and now here, + So, from beach to Casino, each day at the Pier + Flock the gay pleasure seekers. The balconies glow + With beauty and color. The belle and the beau + Promenade in the sunlight, or sit tete-a-tete, + While the chaperons gossip together. Bands play, + Glasses clink; and 'neath sheltering lace parasols + There are plans made for meeting at drives or at balls. + + Roger gat at a table alone, with his glass + Of mint julep before him, and watched the crowd pass. + There were all sorts of people from all sorts of places. + He thought he liked best the fair Baltimore faces. + The South was the land of fair women, he mused, + Because they were indolent. Women who used + Mind or body too freely. Changed curves into angles, + For beauty forever with intellect wrangles. + The trend of the fair sex to-day must alarm + Every lover of feminine beauty and charm. + + As he mused Roger watched with a keen interest + For a sight of his Undine. "All coiffured and drest, + With her wonderful body concealed, and her hair + Knotted up, well, I doubt if she seem even fair," + He soliloquized. "Ah!" the word burst from his lips, + For he saw her approaching. She walked from the hips + With an undulous motion. As graceful and free + From all effort as waves swinging in from the sea + Were her movements. Her full molded figure seemed slight + In its close fitting gown of black cloth; and the white + Of her cheek seemed still whiter by contrast. Her clothes + Were tasteful and quiet; yet Roger Montrose + Knew in some subtle manner he could not express + ('Tis an instinct men have in the matters of dress) + That they never were made in New York. By her hat + One can oft read a woman's whole character. That + Which our fair Undine wore was a thing of rich lace, + Flowers and ribbons like others one saw in the place. + Yet the width of the brim, or the twist of its bows, + Or the way it was worn made it different from those. + As it drooped o'er the eyes full of mystery there, + It seemed, all at once, both a menace and dare; + A menace to women, a dare to the men. + She bowed as she passed Roger's table; and then + Took a chair opposite, spread her shade of red silk, + Called a waiter and ordered a cup of hot milk, + Which she leisurely sipped. She seemed unaware + Of the curious eyes she attracted. Her air + Was of one quite at home, and entirely at ease + With herself, the sole person she studied to please. + She had been for three weeks at the Pier, and alone, + Without maid or escort, and nothing was known + Of her there, save the name which the register bore, + "Mrs. Travers, New York." Men were mad to learn more + But the women were distant. One can't, at such places, + Accept as credentials good figures or faces. + There was an unnameable _something_ about + Mrs. Travers which filled other women with doubt + And all men with interest. Roger, blase, + Disillusioned with life as he was, felt the sway + Of her strong personality, there as she sat + Looking out 'neath the rim of her coquettish hat + With dark eyes on the sea. Few people had power + To draw his gray thoughts from himself for an hour + As this woman had done; she was food for his mind, + And he sought by his inner perceptions to find + in what class she belonged. "An adventuress? No, + Though I fancy three-fourths of the women think so + And one-half of the men; but that role leaves a trace, + An expression, I fail to detect in her face. + Her past is not shadowed; my judgment would say + That her sins lie before her, and not far away. + She's a puzzle, I think, to herself; and grim Fate + Will aid her in solving the riddle too late. + Her soul dreams of happiness; but in her eyes + The sensuous foe to all happiness lies. + As the rain is drawn up by some moods of the sun, + Some natures draw trouble from life; her's is one." + + She rose and passed by him again, and her gown + Brushed his knee. A light tremor went shivering down + His whole body. She left on the air as she went + A subtle suggestion of perfume; the scent + Which steals out of some fans, or old laces, and seems + Full of soft fragrant fancies and languorous dreams. + She haunted the mind, though she passed from the sight. + When Roger Montrose sought his pillow that night, + 'Twas to dream of La Travers. He thought she became + A burning red rose, with each leaf like a flame. + He stooped down and plucked it, and woke with a start, + As it turned to an adder and struck at his heart. + + The dream left its impress, as certain dreams should, + For, as warnings of evil, precursors of good, + They are sent to our souls o'er a mystical line, + Night messages, couched in a cipher divine. + + Roger knew much of life, much of women, and knew + Even more of himself and his weaknesses. Few + Of us mortals look inward; our gaze is turned out + To watch what the rest of the world is about, + While the rest of the world watches us. + + Roger's reason + And logic were clear. But his will played him treason. + If you looked at his hand, you would see it. Hands speak + More than faces. His thumb (the first phalanx) was weak, + Undeveloped; the second, firm jointed and long, + Which showed that the reasoning powers were strong, + But the will, from disuse, had grown feeble. + + That morning + He looked on his dream in the light of a warning + And made sudden plans for departure. "To go + Is to fly from some folly," he said, "for I know + What salt air and dry wine, and the soft siren eyes + Of a woman, can do under midsummer skies + With a man who is wretched as I am. Unrest + Is a tramp, who goes picking the locks on one's breast + That a whole gang of vices may enter. A thirst + For strong drink and chance games, those twin comrades accursed, + Are already admitted. Oh Mabel, my wife, + Reach, reach out your arms, draw me into the life + That alone is worth living. I need you to-day, + Have pity, and love me, oh love me, I pray. + I will turn once again from the bad world to you. + Though false to myself, to my vows I am true." + + When a soul strives to pull itself up out of sin + The devil tries harder to push it back in. + And the man who attempts to retrace the wrong track + Needs his God and his will to stand close at his back. + + Through what are called accidents, Roger was late + At the train. Are not accidents servants of Fate? + The first coach was filled; he passed on to the second. + That, too, seemed complete, but a gentleman beckoned + And said, "There's a seat, sir; the third from the last + On your left." Roger thanked him and leisurely passed + Down the aisle, with his coat on his arm, to the place + Indicated. The seat held a lady, whose face + Was turned to the window. "Pray pardon me, miss" + (For he judged by her back she was youthful), "is this + Seat engaged?" As he spoke, the face turned in surprise, + And Roger looked into the long, languid eyes + Of La Travers. She smiled, moved her wraps from the seat, + And he sat down beside her. The same subtle, sweet + Breath of perfume exhaled from her presence, and made + The place seem a boudoir. The deep winey shade + 'Neath her eyes had grown larger, as if she had wept + Or a late, lonely vigil with memory kept. + + A man who has rescued a woman from danger + Or death, does not seem to her wholly a stranger + When next she encounters him; yet both essayed + To be formal and proper; and each of them made + The effort a failure. The jar of a train + At times holds a mesmeric spell for the brain + And a tense excitation for nerves; and the shriek + Of the engine compels one to lean near to speak + Or to list to his neighbor. Formality flies + With the smoke of the train and floats off to the skies. + Roger led his companion to talk; and the theme + Which he chose, was herself, her life story. The dream + Of the previous night was forgotten. The charm + Of the woman outweighed superstitious alarm. + + When the sunlight began to play peek-a-boo + Through the tunnels, which told them the journey was through, + Roger looked at his time-piece; the train for Bay Bend + Left in just twenty minutes; but what a rude end + To the day's pleasant comradeship--rushing away + With a hurried good-bye! He decided to stay + Over night in the city. He was not expected + At home. Mrs. Travers was quite unprotected, + And almost a stranger in Gotham. He ought + To see her safe into her doorway, he thought. + At the doorway she gave him her hand, with a smile; + "I have known you," she said, "such a brief little while, + Yet you seem like a friend of long standing; I say + Good-bye with reluctance." + + "Perhaps, then, I may + Call and see you to-morrow?" the words seemed to fall + Of themselves from his lips; words he longed to recall + When once uttered, for deep in his conscience he knew + That the one word for him to speak now, was adieu. + The lady's soft, cushion-like hand rested still + In his own, and the contact was pleasant. A thrill + From the finger tips quickened his pulses. + + "You may + Call to-morrow at four." The soft hand slipped away + And left his palm lonely. + + "The call must be brief," + He said to himself, with a sense of relief, + As he ran down the steps, "for at five my train goes." + Yet the five o'clock train bore no Roger Montrose + From New York. Mrs. Travers had asked him to dine. + A tete-a-tete dinner with beauty and wine, + To stir the man's senses and deaden his brain. + (The devil keeps always good chefs in his train.) + It was ten when he rose for departure. The room + Seemed a garden of midsummer fragrance and bloom. + The lights with their soft rosy coverings made + A glow like late sunsets, in some tropic glade. + The world seemed afar, with its dullness and duty, + And life was a rapture of love and of beauty. + + God knows how it happened; they never knew how. + He turned with a formal conventional bow, + And some well chosen words of politeness, to go. + Her mouth was a rose Love had dropped in the snow + Of her face. It smiled up to him, luscious and sweet. + In the tip of each finger he felt his heart beat, + Like five hearts all in one, as her hand touched his own. + She murmured "good-night," in a tremulous tone. + White, intense, through the soft golden mist which the wine + Had cast over his vision, he saw her face shine. + Her low lidded eyes held a lion-like glow. + You have seen sudden storms lash the ocean? You know + How the cyclone, unheralded, rises in wrath, + And leaves devastation and death in its path? + So swift, sudden passion may rise in its power, + And ruin and blight a whole life in an hour. + Two unanchored souls in its maelstrom were whirled, + Drawn down by love's undertow, lost to the world. + The dark, solemn billows of night shut them in. + Like corpses afloat on the ocean of sin + They must seem to their true, better selves, when again + The tide drifts them back to the notice of men. + + + + + _Forget me, dear; forget and cease to love me, + I am not worth one memory, kind or true, + Let silent, pale Oblivion spread above me + Her winding sheet, for I am dead to you. + Forget, forget._ + + _Sin has resumed its interrupted story; + I am enslaved, who dreamed of being free. + Say for my soul, in life's dark purgatory, + One little prayer, then cease to think of me. + Forget, forget._ + + _I ask you not to pity or to pardon; + I ask you to forget me. Tear my name + From out your heart; the wound will heal and harden. + Death does not dig so deep a grave as shame. + Forget, forget._ + + + + + VIII. + + _Roger's Letter to Mabel._ + + Farewell! I shall never again seek your side; + I will stay with my sins and leave you with your pride. + Let the swift flame of scorn dry the tears of regret, + Shut me out of your life, lock the door and forget. + I shall pass from your skies as a vagabond star + Passes out of the great solar system afar + Into blackness and gloom; while the heavens smile on, + Scarce knowing the poor erring creature is gone. + Say a prayer for the soul sunk in sinning; I die + To you, and to all who have known me. Good-bye. + + _Mabel's Letter to Maurice._ + + I break through the silence of years, my old friend, + To beg for a favor; oh, grant it! I send + Roger's letter in confidence to you, and ask, + In the name of our sweet early friendship, a task, + Which, however painful, I pray you perform. + Poor Roger! his bark is adrift in the storm. + He has veered from the course; with no compass of faith + To point to the harbor, he goes to his death. + You are giving your talents and time, I am told, + To aiding the poor; let this victim of gold + Be included. His life has not learned self-control, + And luxury stunted the growth of his soul. + In blindness of spirit he took the wrong track, + But he sees his great error and longs to come back. + Oh, help me to reach him and save him, Maurice. + My heart yearns to show him the infinite peace + Found but in God's love. Let us pity, forgive + And help him, dear friend, to seek Christ and to live + In the light of His mercy. I know you will do + What I ask, you were ever so loyal and true. + + _Maurice to Mabel._ + + Though bitter the task (why, your heart must well know), + Your wish shall be ever my pleasure. I go + On the search for the prodigal. Not for his sake, + But because you have asked me, I willingly make + This effort to find him. Sometimes, I contend, + It is kinder to let a soul speed to the end + Of its swift downward course than to check it to-day, + But to see it to-morrow pursue the same way. + The man who could wantonly stray from your side + Into folly and sin has abandoned all pride. + There is little to hope from him. Yet, since his name + Is the name you now bear, I will save him from shame, + God permitting. To serve and obey you is still + Held an honor, Madame, by Maurice Somerville. + + _Maurice to Mabel Ten Days Later._ + + The search for your husband is finished. Oh, pray + Tear all love and all hope from your heart ere I say + What I must say. The man has insulted your trust; + He has dragged the most sacred of ties in the dust, + And ruined the fame of a woman who wore, + Until now, a good name. He has gone. Close the door + Of your heart in his face if he seeks to come back. + The sleuth hounds of justice were put on his track, + And his life since he left you lies bare to my gaze. + He sailed yesterday on the "Paris." For days + Preceding the journey he lived as the guest + Of one Mrs. Zoe Travers, who comes from the West! + A widow, young, fair, well-connected. I hear + He followed her back to New York from the Pier, + And now he has taken the woman abroad. + My letter sounds brutal and harsh. Would to God + I might soften the facts in some measure; but no, + In matters like this the one thing is to know + The whole truth, and at once. Though the pain be intense + It pulls less on the soul than the pangs of suspense. + Like a surgeon of fate, with my pen for a knife, + I cut out false hopes which endanger your life. + Let the law, like a nurse, cleanse the wound--there is shame + And disgrace for you now in the man's very name. + Though justice is blindfolded, yet she can hear + When the chink of gold dollars sounds close in her ear. + + One needs but to give her this musical hint + To save you the sight of your sorrows in print. + Closed doors, private hearing; a sentence or two + In the journals; then dignified freedom for you. + When love, truth and loyalty vanish, the tie + Which binds man to woman is only a lie. + Undo it! remember at all times I stand + As a friend to rely on--a serf to command. + + * * * * * + + Some women there are who would willingly barter + A queen's diadem for the crown of a martyr. + They want to be pitied, not envied. To know + That the world feels compassion makes joy of their woe; + And the keenest delight in their misery lies, + If only their friends will look on with wet eyes. + + In fact, 'tis the prevalent weakness, I find, + Of the sex. As a mass, women seem disinclined + To be thought of as happy; they like you to feel + That their bright smiling faces are masks which conceal + A dead hope in their hearts. The strange fancy clings + To the mind of the world that the rarest of things-- + Contentment--is commonplace; and, that to shine + As something superior, one must repine, + Or seem to be hiding an ache in the breast. + Yet the commonest thing in the world is unrest, + If you want to be really unique, go along + And act as if Fate had not done you a wrong, + And declare you have had your deserts in this life. + + The part of the patient, neglected young wife + Contained its attractions for Mabel Montrose. + She was one of the women who live but to pose + In the eyes of their friends; and she so loved her art + That she really believed she was living the part. + The suffering martyr who makes no complaint + Was a role more important, by far, than the saint + Or reformer. As first leading lady in grief, + Her pride in herself found a certain relief. + + The ardent and love-selfish husband had not + Been so dear to her heart, or so close to her thought, + As this weak, reckless sinner, who woke in her soul + Its dominant wish--to reform and control. + + (How often, alas, the reformers of earth, + If they studied their purpose, would find it had birth + In this thirst to control; in the poor human passion + The minds and the manners of others to fashion! + + We sigh o'er the heathen, we weep o'er his woes, + While forcing him into our creeds and our clothes. + If he adds our diseases and vices as well, + Still, at least we have guided him into _our_ hell + And away from his own heathen hades. The pleasure + Derived from that thought but reformers can measure.) + + The thing Mabel Montrose loved best on this earth + Was a sinner, and Roger but doubled his worth + In her eyes when he wrote her that letter. And still + When the last message came from Maurice Somerville + And the bald, ugly facts, unsuspected, unguessed, + Lay before her, the _woman_ awoke in her breast, + And the patient reformer gave way to the wife, + Who was torn with resentment and jealousy's strife. + Ah, jealousy! vain is the effort to prove + Your right in the world as the offspring of love; + For oftener far, you are spawned by a heart + Where Cupid has never implanted a dart. + Love knows you, indeed, for you serve in his train, + But crowned like a monarch you royally reign + Over souls wherein love is a stranger. + + No thought + Came to Mabel Montrose that her own life was not + Free from blame. (How few women, indeed, think of this + When they grieve o'er the ruin of marital bliss!) + She was shocked and indignant. Pain gave her a new + Role to play without study; she missed in her cue + And played badly at first, was resentful and cried + Against Fate for the blow it had dealt to her pride + (Though she called it her love), and declared her life blighted. + It is one thing, of course, for a wife to be slighted + For the average folly the world calls a sin, + Such as races, clubs, games; when a woman steps in + The matter assumes a new color, and Mabel, + Who dearly loved sinners, at first seemed unable + To pardon, or ask God to pardon, the crime + Of her husband; an angry disgust for a time + Drove all charity out of her heart. For a thief, + For a forger, a murderer, even, her grief + Had been mingled with pity and pardon; the one + Thing she could not forgive was the thing he had done. + It was wicked, indecent, and so unrefined. + To the lure of the senses her nature was blind, + And her mantle of charity never had been + Wide enough to quite cover that one vulgar sin. + + In the letter she sent to Maurice, though she said + Little more than her thanks for his kindness, he read + All her tense nervous feelings between its few lines. + Though we study our words, the keen reader divines + What we _thought_ while we penned them; thought odors reveal + What words not infrequently seek to conceal. + + Maurice read the grief, the resentment, the shame + Which Mabel's heart held; to his own bosom came + Stealing back, masked demurely as friendly regard, + The hope of a lover--that hope long debarred. + His letters grew frequent; their tone, dignified, + Unselfish, and manly, appealed to her pride. + Sweet sympathy mingled with praise in each line + (As a gentle narcotic is stirred into wine), + Soothed pain, stimulated self love, and restored her + The pleasure of knowing the man still adored her. + + Understand, Mabel Montrose was not a coquette, + She lacked all the arts of the temptress; and yet + She was young, she was feminine; love to her mind + Was extreme admiration; it pleased her to find + She was still, to Maurice, an ideal. A woman + Must be quite unselfish, almost superhuman, + And full of strong sympathy, who, in her soul, + Feels no wrench when she knows she has lost all control + O'er the heart of a man who once loved her. + + Months passed, + And Mabel accepted her burden at last + And went back to her world and its duties. Her eyes, + Seemed to say when she looked at you, "please sympathize, + On the slight graceful form or the beautiful face. + Twas a sorrow of mind, not a sorrow of heart, + And the two play a wholly dissimilar part + In the life of a woman. + + Maurice Somerville + Kept his place as good friend through sheer force of his will + But his heart was in tumult; he longed for the time + When, free once again from the legalized crime + Of her ties, she might listen to all he would say. + There was anguish, and doubt, and suspense in delay, + Yet Mabel spoke never of freedom. At length + He wrote her, "My will has exhausted its strength. + Read the song I enclose; though my lips must be mute, + The muse may at least improvise to her lute." + + _Song._ + + There was a bird as blithe as free, + (Summer and sun and song) + She sang by the shores of a laughing sea, + And oh, but the world seemed fair to me, + And the days were sweet and long. + + There was a hunter, a hunter bold, + (Autumn and storm and sea) + And he prisoned the bird in a cage of gold, + And oh, but the world grew dark and cold, + And the days were sad to me. + + The hunter has gone; ah, what cares he? + (Winter and wind and rain) + And the caged bird pines for the air and the sea, + And I long for the right to set her free + To sing in the sun again. + + The hunter has gone with a sneer at fate, + (Spring and the sea and the sun) + Let the bird fly free to find her mate, + Ere the year of love grow sere and late. + Sweet ladye, my song is done. + + _Mabel's Letter to Maurice._ + + To the song of your muse I have listened. Oh, cease + To think of me but as a friend, dear Maurice. + Once a wife, a wife alway. I vowed from my heart, + "For better, for worse, until death do us part." + No mention was made in the service that day + Of breaking my fetters if joy flew away. + "For better, for worse," a vow lightly spoken, + When Fate brings the "worse," how lightly 'tis broken! + + The "worse," in my case, is the worst fate can give. + Tho' I shrank from the blow, I must bear it and live, + Not for self, but for duty; nor strive to evade + Fulfilling the promise I willingly made. + While Roger has sinned, and his sinning would be, + In the eyes of the law, proof to render me free, + It was God heard my vows and the Church sealed the bond. + Until one of us passes to death's dim beyond, + Though seas and though sins may divide us for life, + We are bound to each other as husband and wife. + In God's Court of Justice divorce is a word + Which falls without import or meaning when heard; + And the women who cast off old fetters that way, + To give place to the new, on the great Judgment Day + Must find, in the last summing up, that they stand + Side by side, in God's eyes, with the Magdalene band. + Dear Maurice, be my brother, my counselor, friend. + We are lonely without you and Ruth, at Bay Bend. + Come sometimes and brighten our lives; put away + The thoughts which are making you restless to-day + And give me your strong noble friendship; indeed + 'Tis a friend that I crave, not a lover I need. + + _Maurice to Mabel._ + + You write like a woman, and one, it is plain, + Whose sentiment hangs like a cloud o'er her brain. + You gaze through a sort of traditional mist, + And behold a mirage of God's laws which exist + But in fancy. God made but one law--it is love. + A law for the earth, and the kingdoms above, + A law for the woman, a law for the man, + The base and the spire of His intricate plan + Of existence. All evils the world ever saw + Had birth in man's breaking away from this law. + God cancels a marriage when love flies away. + "Till death do us part" should be altered to say, + "Till disgust or indifference part us." I know + You never loved Roger, my heart tells me so. + + He won you, I claim, through a mesmeric spell; + You dreamed of an Eden, and wakened in hell. + You pitied his weakness, you struggled to save him, + He paid with a crime the devotion you gave him. + And the blackest of insults relentlessly hurled + At your poor patient heart in the gaze of the world. + In God's mighty ledger the stroke of a pen + Has been drawn through your record of marriage. Though men + Call you wedded I hold you are widowed. Why cling + To the poor, empty, meaningless form of a thing-- + To the letter, devoid of all spirit? God never + Intended a woman to hopelessly sever + Herself from all possible joy, or to make + True faithfulness suffer for faithlessness' sake. + When I think of your wrongs, when I think of my woes, + That black word divorce like a bright planet glows + In the skies of the future. Oh, Mabel, be fair + To yourself and to me. For the years of despair + I have suffered you owe me some recompense, surely. + The heart that has worshipped so long and so purely + Ought not to be slighted for mere sentiment. + We must live as our century bids us. Its bent + Is away from the worn ruts of thought. Where of old + The life of a woman was run in the mold + Of man's wishes and passions, to-day she is free; + Free to think and to act; free to do and to be + What she pleases. The poor, pining victim of fate + And man's cruelty, long ago went out of date. + In the mansion of Life there were some things askew, + Which the strong hand of Progress has righted. The new, + Better plan puts old notions of sex on the shelf. + Who is true to a knave, is untrue to herself. + Oh, be true to yourself, and have pity on one + Who has long dwelt in shadow and pines for the sun. + Love, starving on memories, begs for one taste + Of sweet hope, ere the remnant of youth goes to waste. + + _Mabel to Maurice._ + + You write like a man who sees self as his goal. + You speak of your woes--yet my travail of soul + Seems mere sentiment to you. Maurice, pause and think + Of the black, bitter potion life gave me to drink + When I dreamed of love's nectar. Too fresh is the taste + Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste + To reach out for the cup that is proffered anew. + A certain respect to my sorrows is due. + I am weary of love as men know it. The calm + Of a sweet, tranquil friendship would act like a balm + On the wounds of my heart; that platonic regard, + Which we read of in books, or hear sung by the bard, + But so seldom can find when we want it. I thought, + For a time, you had conquered mere self, and had brought + Such a friendship to comfort and rest me. But no, + That dream, like full many another, must go. + The love that is based on attraction of sex + Is a love that has brought me but sorrow. Why vex + My poor soul with the same thing again? If you love + With a higher emotion, you know how to prove + And sustain the assertion by conduct. Maurice, + Love must rise above passion, to infinite peace + And serenity, ere it is love, to my mind. + For the women of earth, in the ranks of mankind + There are too many lovers and not enough friends. + 'Tis the friend who protects, 'tis the lover who rends. + He who _can_ be a friend while he _would_ be a lover + Is the rarest and greatest of souls to discover. + Have I found, dear Maurice, such a treasure in you? + If not, I must say with this letter--adieu. + + As he finished the letter there seemed but one phrase + To the heart of the reader. It shone on his gaze + Bright with promise and hope. "_Too fresh is the taste + Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste + To reach out for the cup that is offered anew._" + "_In such haste._" Ah, how hope into certainty grew + As he read and re-read that one sentence. "Let fate + Take the whole thing in charge, I can wait--I can wait. + I have lived through the night; though the dawn may be gray + And belated, it heralds the coming of day." + So he talked with himself, and grew happy at last. + The five hopeless years of his sorrow were cast + Like a nightmare behind him. He walked once again + With a joy in his personal life, among men. + There seemed to be always a smile on his lip, + For he felt like a man on the deck of a ship + Who has sailed through strange seas with a mutinous crew, + And now in the distance sights land just in view. + + The house at Bay Bend was re-opened. Once more, + Where the waves of the Sound wash the New England shore, + Walked Maurice; and beside him, young hope, with the tip + Of his fair rosy fingers pressed hard on his lip, + Urging silence. If Mabel Montrose saw the boy + With the pursed prudent mouth and the eyes full of joy + She said nothing. Grave, dignified (Ah, but so fair!), + There was naught in her modest and womanly air + To feed or encourage such hope. Yet love grew + Like an air plant, with only the night and the dew + To sustain it; while Mabel rejoiced in the friend, + Who, in spite of himself, had come back to Bay Bend, + Yielding all to her wishes. Such people, alone, + Who gracefully gave up their plans for her own, + Were congenial to Mabel. Though looking the sweet, + Fragile creature, with feminine virtues replete, + Her nature was stubborn. Beneath that fair brow + Lurked an obstinate purpose to make others bow + To herself in small matters. She fully believed + She was right, always right; and her friends were deceived, + As a rule, into thinking the same; for her eyes + Held a look of such innocent grief and surprise + When her will was opposed, that one felt her misused, + And retired from the field of dispute, self-accused. + + The days, like glad children, went hurrying out + From the schoolhouse of time; months pursued the same route + More sedately; a year, then two years, passed away, + Yet hope, unimpaired, in the lover's heart lay, + As a gem in the bed of a river might lie, + Unharmed and unmoved while its waters ran by. + His toil for the poor still continued, but not + With that fervor of zeal which a dominant thought + Lends to labor. Fair love gilded dreams filled his mind, + While the corners were left for his suffering kind. + He was sorry for sorrow; but love made him glad, + And nothing in life now seemed hopeless or sad. + His tete-a-tete visits with Mabel were rare; + She ordered her life with such prudence and care + Lest her white name be soiled by the gossips. And yet, + Though his heart, like a steed checked too closely, would fret + Sometimes at these creed-imposed fetters, he felt + Keen delight in her nearness; in knowing she dwelt + Within view of his high turret window. Each day + Which gave him a glimpse of her, love laid away + As a poem in life's precious folio. Night + Held her face like a picture, dream-framed for his sight. + So he fed on the crumbs from love's table, the while + Fate sat looking on with a cynical smile. + + + + + IX. + + SONGS FROM THE TURRET. + + I. + + In the day my thoughts are tender + When I muse on my ladye fair. + There is never one to offend her, + For each is pure as a prayer. + They float like spirits above her, + About her and always near; + And they scarce dare sigh that they love her, + Because she would blush to hear. + + But in dreams my thoughts grow bolder; + And close to my lips of fire, + I reach out my arms and enfold her, + My ladye, my heart's desire. + And she who, in earthly places, + Seems cold as the stars above, + Unmasks in those fair dream spaces + And gives me love for love. + + Oh day, with your thoughts of duty + Cross over the sunset streams, + And give me the night of beauty + And love in the Land of Dreams. + For there in the mystic, shady, + Fair isle of the Slumber Sea, + I read the heart of my ladye + That here she hides from me. + + + + II. + + Some day, some beauteous day, + Joy will come back again. + Sorrow must fly away. + + Hope, on her harp will play + The old inspiring strain + Some day, some beauteous day. + + Through the long hours I say, + "The night must fade and wane, + Sorrow must fly away." + + The morn's bewildering ray + Shall pierce the night of rain, + Some day, some beauteous day. + + Autumn shall bloom like May, + Delight shall spring from pain; + Sorrow must fly away. + + Though on my life, grief's gray + Bleak shadow long hath lain, + Some day, some beauteous day, + Sorrow must fly away. + + + + III. + + When love is lost, the day sets toward the night. + Albeit the morning sun may still be bright, + And not one cloud ship sails across the sky. + Yet from the places where it used to lie, + Gone is the lustrous glory of the light. + + No splendor rests on any mountain height, + No scene spreads fair, and beauteous, to the sight. + All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye, + When love is lost. + + Love lends to life its grandeur and its might, + Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight. + Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by, + And grief's one happy thought is that we die. + Ah! what can recompense us for its flight, + When love is lost. + + + + IV. + + Life is a ponderous lesson book, and Fate + The teacher. When I came to love's fair leaf + My teacher turned the page and bade me wait. + "Learn first," she said, "love's grief"; + And o'er and o'er through many a long to-morrow + She kept me conning that sad page of sorrow. + + Cruel the task; and yet it was not vain. + Now the great book of life I know by heart. + In that one lesson of love's loss and pain + Fate doth the whole impart. + For, by the depths of woe, the mind can measure + The beauteous unsealed summits of love's pleasure. + + Now, with the book of life upon her knee, + Fate sits! the unread page of love's delight + By her firm hand is half concealed from me, + And half revealed to sight. + Ah Fate! be kind! so well I learned love's sorrow, + Give me its full delight to learn to-morrow. + + + + V. + + If I were a rain drop, and you were a leaf, + I would burst from the cloud above you + And lie on your breast in a rapture of rest, + And love you, love you, love you. + + If I were a brown bee, and you were a rose, + I would fly to you, love, nor miss you; + I would sip and sip from your nectared lip, + And kiss you, kiss you, kiss you. + + If I were a doe, dear, and you were a brook, + Ah, what would I do then, think you? + I would kneel by your bank, in the grasses dank, + And drink you, drink you, drink you. + + + + VI. + + Time owes me such a heavy debt, + How can he ever make things right? + For suns that with no promise set + To help me greet the morning light, + + For dreams that no fruition met, + For joys that passed from bud to blight, + Time owes me such a heavy debt; + How can he ever make things right? + + For passions balked, with strain and fret + Of hopes delayed, or perished quite, + For kisses that I did not get + On many a love impelling night, + Time owes me such a heavy debt; + How can he ever make things right? + + + + VII. + + As the king bird feeds on the heart of the bee, + So would I feed on the sweets of thee. + + As the south wind kisses the leaf at will, + From the leaf of thy lips I would drink my fill. + + As the sun pries into the heart of a rose, + I would pry in thy heart, and its thoughts disclose. + + As a dewdrop mirrors the loving sky, + I would see myself in thy tear wet eye. + + As the deep night shelters the day in its arms, + I would hide thee, dear, from the world's alarms. + + + + VIII. + + Now do I know how Paradise doth seem, + Now do I know the deep red depths of hell. + Swift from those fair supernal heights I fell + To burning flames of hades, in a dream. + Methought my ladye rested by a stream + Which rippled through the verdure of a dell. + She lay like Eve; dear God, I dare not tell + Of her perfections; of the glow and gleam + Of tinted flesh, and undulating hair, + Of sudden thigh, and sweetly rounded breast. + Then, like a cloud, he came, from God knows where, + And on her eyes and mouth mad kisses pressed. + I fell, and fell, through leagues of scorching space, + And always saw his lips upon her face. + + + IX. + + Love is the source of all supreme delight, + Love is the bitter fountain of despair; + Who follows Love shall stand upon the height, + Yet through the darkest depths, Love, too, leads there. + + Courage needs he who would with bold Love fare, + Let him set forth with all his strength bedight; + Yet in his heart this song to banish care-- + "Love is the source of all supreme delight." + + And he must sing this song both day and night, + Though he be led down shadowy pathways where + Black waters moan, through valleys struck with blight, + "Love is the bitter fountain of despair." + + Let him be brave, and bravely let him dare + Whate'er betide, and feel no coward fright. + Who shares the worst, the best deserves to share; + Who follows Love shall stand upon the height. + + Ah! sweet is peace to those who faced the fight, + And bright the crown those faithful ones shall wear, + Who whispered, when the shadows veiled their sight, + "Yet through the darkest depths, Love, too, leads there." + + To hearts that best know Love, his dark is fair, + His sorrow gladness, and his wrong is right. + All joys lie waiting on his winding stair; + All ways, ail paths of Love lead to the light. + Love is the source. + + + + X. + + My ladye's eyes are wishing wells, + Wherein I gaze with silent yearning; + Deep in their depths my future dwells. + My ladye's eyes are wishing wells, + But not one sign my fate foretells, + While my poor heart with love is burning. + My ladye's eyes are wishing wells, + Wherein I gaze with silent yearning. + + + + XI. + + Three things my ladye seemeth like to me-- + She seems like moonlight on a waveless sea. + + And like the delicate fragrance, which exhales, + When Day's warm garments brush the dewy vales. + + And when my heart grows weary of earth's sound, + She seems like silence--restful and profound. + + + + XII. + + The moon flower, grown from a slip so slender, + Has burst in a star bloom, full and white. + The air is filled with a perfume tender, + The breath that blows from that garden height. + Yet moments lag that should take their flight + On wings, like the wings of a homing dove, + And the world goes wrong where it should go right, + For this is a night that is lost to love. + + Again, like a queen, who would rashly spend her + Dower of wealth in a single night, + The proud moon seems, on her track of splendor, + Enriching the world with her silver light. + She flings on the crest of each billow a bright + Pure gem, from the casket of jewels above. + But I sigh as I gaze on the glorious sight, + "This is a night that is lost to love." + + Oh, I would that the moon might never wend her + Way through the skies in royal might, + Till the haughty heart of my lady surrender + And the faithful love of a life requite. + For the moon was made for a lover's delight; + And grayer than gloom must its luster prove + To the soul that sighs under sorrow's blight, + "This is a night that is lost to love." + + + _L'Envoi._ + + Fate, have pity upon my plight, + And the heart of my lady to mercy move. + For the saddest words that youth can write + Are, "This is a night that is lost to love." + + + + XIII. + + As the waves of the outgoing sea + Leave the rocks and the drift wood bare, + When your thoughts are for others than me, + My heart is the strand of despair-- + Beloved, + Where bleak suns glare, + And Joy, like a desolate mourner, gropes + In the wrecks of broken hopes. + + As the incoming waves of the sea, + The rocks and the sandbar hide, + When your thoughts flow back to me, + My heart leaps up on the tide-- + Beloved, + Where my glad hopes ride + With joy at the wheel, and the sun above + In a glorious sky of love. + + + + XIV. + + There was a bard all in the olden time, + When bards were men to whom the world gave ear, + And song an art the great gods deemed sublime, + Who sought to make his willful lady hear + By weaving strange new melodies of rhyme, + Which voiced his love, his sorrow, and his fear. + + Sweetheart, my soul is heavy now with fear, + Lest thou shalt frown upon me for all time. + Ah! would that I had skill to weave a rhyme + Worthy to win the favor of thine ear. + Tho' all the world were deaf, if thou didst hear + And smile, my song would seem to me sublime. + + But ah! too vast, too awful and sublime, + Is my great passion, born of grief and fear, + To clothe in verse. Why, if the world could hear + And understand my love, then for all time, + So long as there was sound or listening ear, + All space would ring and echo with my rhyme. + + Such passion seems belittled by a rhyme-- + It needs the voice of nature. The sublime, + Loud thunder crash, that hurts the startled ear, + And stirs the heart with awe, akin to fear, + The weird, wild winds of equinoctial time; + These voices tell my love, wouldst thou but hear. + + And listening at the flood tides, thou might'st hear + The love I bear thee surging through the rhyme + Of breaking billows, many a moon full time. + Why, I have heard thee call the sea sublime, + When every wave but voiced the anguished fear + Of my man's heart to thy unconscious ear. + + Vain, then, the hope that thou wilt lend thine ear + To any song of mine, or deign to hear + My lays of longing or my strains of fear. + Vain is the hope to weave for thee a rhyme, + Or sweet or sad, or subtle or sublime, + Which wins thy gracious favor for all time. + + Oh, cruel time! my lady will not hear, + Though in her ear love sings a song sublime, + And my sad rhyme ends, like my love, in fear. + + + + + _Bright like the comforting blaze on the hearth, + Sweet like the blooms on the young apple tree, + Fragrant with promise of fruit yet to be + Are the home-keeping maidens of earth._ + + _Better and greater than talent is worth, + And where is the glory of brush or of pen + Like the glory of mothers and molders of men-- + The home-keeping women of earth?_ + + _Crowned since the great solar system had birth, + They reign unsurpassed in their beautiful sphere. + They are queens who can look in God's face without fear-- + The home-keeping women of earth._ + + + + + X. + + A man whose mere name was submerged in the sea + Of letters which followed it, B. A., M. D., + And Minerva knows what else, held forth at Bellevue + On what he believed some discovery new + In medical Science (though, mayhap, a truth + That was old in Confucius' earliest youth), + And a bevy of bright women students sat near, + Absorbing his wisdom with eye and with ear. + + Close by, lay the corpse of a man, half in view. + Dear shades of our dead and gone grandmamas! you + Whose modesty hung out red flags on each cheek, + Danger signals--if some luckless boor chanced to speak + The words "leg" or "liver" before you, I think + Your gray ashes, even, would deepen to pink + Should your ghost happen into a clinic or college + Where your granddaughters congregate seeking for knowledge. + Forced to listen to what they are eager to hear, + No doubt you would fancy the world out of gear, + And deem modesty dead, with last century belles. + + Honored ghosts, you, would err! for true modesty dwells + In the same breast with knowledge, and takes no offense. + Truth never harmed anything yet but pretense. + + There are fashions in modesty; what in your time + Had been deemed little less than an absolute crime + In matters of dress, or behavior, to-day + Is the custom. And however daring you may + Deem our manners and modes, yet, were facts fully known, + _Our morals compare very well with your own._ + + The women composing the class at Bellevue + Were young--under thirty; some pleasing to view, + Some plain. Roman features prevailed, with brown hair, + But one was so feminine, soft eyed and fair + That she seemed out of place in a clinic, as though + A rose in a vegetable garden should grow. + While her face was intelligent, none would avow + That cold intellect dwelt on that fair oval brow, + Or looked out of the depths of those golden gray eyes, + The color of smoke against clear, sunny skies. + 'Twas a warm woman face, made for fireside nooks, + Not a face to be bent over medical books. + There was nothing aggressive in features or form; + She was meant for still harbors, and not for the storm + And the strife of rude waters. The swell of her breast + Suggested love's sweet downy cushion of rest + For the cheeks of fair children. Her plump little hands, + Seemed fashioned for sewing small gussets and bands + And fussing with laces and ribbons, instead + Of cutting cold flesh and dissecting the dead. + And yet, as a student she ranked with the first. + But conscience, in labor once chosen, not thirst + For such knowledge, had spurred her to action. This day + She seemed inattentive, her air was distrait, + As if thought had slipped free of the bridle and rein + And galloped away over memory's plain. + + It was true; it was strange, too, but there in the class, + While the learned man was talking, her mind seemed to pass + Out, away from the clinic, away from the town, + To a New England midsummer garden close down + By the salt water's edge; and she felt the wind blowing + Among her loose locks as she leaned o'er her sewing, + While the voice of a man stirred her heart into song. + She was called from her dream by the clang of the gong + Which foretells an arrival at Bellevue. The class + Was dismissed for the day. In the hall, forced to pass + By the stretcher (low brougham of misery), she + Whom we know was Ruth Somerville, looked down to see + The white, haggard face of the man whom her mind + Had strayed off in a waking day vision to find + But a moment before. + + The wild, passionate cry + Which arose in her heart, was held back, nor passed by + The white sentinels set on her lip. The serene, + Lofty look which deep feeling controlled gives the mien + Marked her air as she turned to the surgeon and said: + "This man lying here, either dying or dead, + Was a classmate, at Yale, of my brother's; my friend + Is his wife. Let me stay by his side to the end, + If the end has not come." + + It was Roger Montrose, + Grown old with his sins and grown gaunt with his woes, + Lying low in his manhood before her. + + His eyes + Opened slowly; a wondering look of surprise + Met the soft orbs above him. "Ruth--Ruth Somerville," + He said feebly. "Tell Mabel"--then sighed, and was still. + + But it was not the stillness of death. There was life + In that turbulent heart yet; that heart torn with strife, + Scarred with passion, and wracked by the pangs of remorse. + "Death's swift leaden messenger missed in its course + By the breadth of a hair," said the surgeon. "The ball + Lies in there by the shoulder. His chances are small + For a new start on earth. While a sober man might + Hope to conquer grim Death in this hand-to-hand fight, + Here old Alcohol stands as Death's second, fierce, cruel, + And stronger than Life's one aid, skill, in the duel. + You tell me the wife of this man is your friend? + He was shot by a woman, who then made an end + Of her own life. I hope it was not----" "Oh, no--no, + Not his wife," Ruth replied, "for he left her to go + With this other, his victim--poor creature--they say + She was good till she met him. Ah! what a black way + For love's rose scented path to lead down to, and end. + God pity her, pity her." "Her, not your friend? + Not his wife?" + + There was gentle reproof in the tone + Of the staid old physician. Ruth's eyes met his own + In brave, silent warfare; the blue and the gray + Again faced each other in battle array. + + _Ruth:_ + + I pity the woman who suffered. His wife + Goes her way well contented. Love was in her life + But an incident; while to this other, dear God, + It was all; on what sharp, burning ploughshares she trod, + Down what chasms she leaped, how she tossed the whole world, + Like a dead rose, behind her, to lie and be whirled + In the maelstrom of love for one moment. Ah, brief + Is the rapture such souls find, and long is their grief, + Black their sin, blurred their record, and scarlet their shame. + And yet when I think of them, sorrow, not blame, + Stirs my being. Blind passion is only the weed + Of fair, beautiful love. Both are sprung from one seed; + One grows wild, one is trained and directed. Condemn + The hand that neglected--but ah! pity _them_. + + _Surgeon:_ + + You speak with much feeling. But now, if the friends + Of this man are to see him before his life ends + I recommend action on your part. His stay + On this planet, I fear, will be finished to-day. + A man who neglects and abuses his wife, + Who gives her at best but the dregs of his life, + In the hey day of health, when he's drained his last cup + Has a fashion of wanting to settle things up. + Craves forgiveness, and hopes with a few final tears + To wash out the sins and the insults of years. + Call your friend; bid her hasten, lest lips that are dumb, + Having wasted life's feast, shall refuse her death's crumb. + + _Ruth:_ + + There are souls to whom crumbs are sufficient, at least + They seem not to value love's opulent feast. + They neglect, they ignore, they abuse, or destroy + What to some poor starved life had been earth's rarest joy. + 'Tis a curious fact that love's banqueting table + Full often is spread for the guest the least able + To do the feast justice. The gods take delight + In offering crusts to the starved appetite + And rich fruits, to the sated or sickly. + + The eyes + Of the surgeon were fixed on Ruth's face with a wise + Knowing look in their depths, and he said to himself, + "There's a mystery here which young Cupid, sly elf, + Could account for. I judge by her voice and her face + That the wife of this man holds no very warm place + In Miss Somerville's heart, though she names her as friend. + Ah, full many a drama has come to an end + 'Neath the walls of Bellevue, and the curtain will fall + On one actor to-night; though the audience call, + He will make no response, once he passes from view, + For Death is the prompter who gives him the cue." + + The wisest minds err. When a clergyman tries + To tell a man where he will go when he dies, + Or when a physician makes bold to aver + Just the length of a life here, both usually err. + So it is not surprising that Roger, at dawn, + Sat propped up by pillows, still haggard and wan, + But seemingly stronger, and eager to tell + His story to Ruth ere the death shadows fell. + + "If I go before Mabel can reach me," he sighed, + "Tell her this: that my heart was all hers when I died, + Was all hers while I lived. Ah! I see how you start, + But that other--God pity her--not with my heart, + But my sensual senses I loved her. The fire + Of her glance blinded men to all things save desire. + It called to the beast chained within us. Her lips + Held the nectar that makes a man mad when he sips. + Her touch was delirium. In the fierce joys + Of her kisses there lurked the fell curse which destroys + All such rapture--satiety. When passion dies, + And the mind finds no pleasure, the spirit no ties + To replace it, disgust digs its grave. Ay! disgust + Is ever the sexton who buries dead lust. + + When two people wander from virtue's straight track, + One always grows weary and longs to go back. + Well, I wearied. God knows how I struggled to hide + The truth from the poor, erring soul at my side. + And God knows how I hated my life when I first + Found that passion's mad potion had palled on my thirst. + Once false to my virtues, now false to my sin, + I seemed less to myself than I ever had been. + We parted. This bullet hole here in my breast + Proceeds with the story and tells you the rest. + She smiled, I remember, in saying adieu: + Then two swift, sharp reports--and I woke in Bellevue + With one ball in my breast. + + _Ruth:_ + + And the other in hers. + No more with wild sorrow that sad bosom stirs. + She is dead, sir, the woman you led to her ruin. + + _Roger:_ + + The woman led me. Ah! not all the undoing + In these matters lies at man's door. In the mind + Of full many a so-called chaste woman we find + Unchaste longings. The world heaps on man its abuse + When he woos without wedding; yet women seduce + And betray us; they lure us and lead us to shame; + As they share in the sin, let them share in the blame. + + _Ruth:_ + + Hush! the woman is dead. + + _Roger:_ + + And I dying. But truth + Is not changed by the death of two people! Oh, Ruth, + Be just ere you judge me! the death of my child + Half unbalanced my reason; weak, wretched and wild + With drink and with sorrows, the devil's own chance + Flung me down by the side of a woman whose glance + Was an opiate, lulling the conscience. I fell, + With the woman who tempted me, down to dark hell. + In the honey of sin hides the sting of the bee. + The honey soon sated--the sting stayed with me. + Like a damned soul I looked from my Hades, above + To the world I had left, and I craved the pure love + That but late had seemed cold, unresponsive. Her eyes, + Mabel's eyes, shone in dreams from the far distant skies + Of the lost world of goodness and virtue. Like one + Who is burning with thirst 'neath a hot desert sun, + I longed for her kiss, cool, reluctant, but pure. + Ah! man's love for good women alone can endure, + For virtue is God, the Eternal. The rest + Is but chaos. The worst must give way to the best. + Tell Mabel--Ruth, Ruth, she is here, oh thank God. + + She stood, like a violet sprung from the sod, + By his bedside; pale, beautiful, dewy with tears. + The spectre of death bridged the chasm of years: + He sighed on her bosom. "Forgive, oh forgive!" + She kissed his pale forehead and answered him: "Live, + Live, my husband! oh plead with the angels to stay + Until God, too, has pardoned your sins. Let us pray." + + Ruth slipped from the room all unnoticed. She seemed + Like a sleeper who wakens and knows he has dreamed + And is dazed with reality. On, as if led + By some presence unseen, to the inn of the dead + She passed swiftly; the pale silent guest whom she sought + Lay alone on her narrow and unadorned cot. + No hand had placed blossoms about her; no tear + Of love or of sorrow had hallowed that bier. + The desperate smile life had left on her face + Death retained; but he touched, too, her brow with a grace + And a radiance, subtle, mysterious. Under + The half drooping lids lay a look of strange wonder, + As if on the sight of those sorrowing eyes + The unexplored country had dawned with surprise. + + The pure, living woman leaned over the dead, + Lovely sinner, and kissed her. "God rest you," she said. + "Poor suffering soul, you were forged in that Source + Where the lightnings are fashioned. Love guided, your force + Would have been like a current of life giving joys, + And not like the death dealing bolt which destroys. + Oh, shame to the parents who dared give you birth, + To live and to love and to suffer on earth, + With the serious lessons of life unexplained, + And your passionate nature untaught and untrained. + You would not lie here in your youth and your beauty + If your mother had known what was motherhood's duty. + The age calls to woman, "Go, broaden your lives," + While for lack of good mothers the Potter's Field thrives. + But you, poor unfortunate, you shall not lie + In that dust heap of death; while the summers roll by + You shall sleep where green hillsides are kissed by the wave, + And the soft hand of pity shall care for your grave. + + + + + XI. + + _Ruth's Letter to Maurice, Six Months Later._ + + The springtime is here in our old home again, + Which again you have left. Oh, most worthy of men, + Why grieve for unworthiness? Why waste your life + For a woman who never was meant for a wife? + Mabel Lee has no love in her nature. Your heart + Would have starved in her keeping. She plays her new part, + As the faithful, forgiving, sweet spouse, with content. + I think she is secretly glad Roger went + Astray for a season. She stands up still higher + On her pedestal, now, for Bay Bend to admire. + She is pleased with herself. As for Roger, he trots + Like a lamb in her wake, with the blemishing spots + Of his sins washed away by the Church. Oh I seem + To myself, in these days, like one waked from a dream + To blessed reality. Off in the Bay + I saw a fair snowy sailed ship yesterday. + The masts shone like gold, and the furrowed waves laughed, + To be beat into foam by the beautiful craft. + But close in the harbor I saw the ship lying; + What seemed like the wings of a sea gull when flying, + Were weather stained sheets; there were no masts of gold, + And the craft was uncleanly, unseaworthy, old. + Well, the man whom I loved, and loved vainly, and whom + I fancied had shadowed my whole life with gloom, + Has been shown to my sight like that ship in the Bay, + And all my illusions have vanished away. + The man is by nature weak, selfish, unstable. + I think if some woman more loving than Mabel, + More tender, more tactful, less painfully good, + Had directed his home-life, perchance Roger would + Have evolved his best self, that pure atom of God, + Which lies deep in each heart like a seed in the sod. + 'Tis the world's over-virtuous women, ofttimes, + Who drive men of weak will into sexual crimes. + I pity him. (God knows I pity, each, all + Of the poor striving souls who grope blindly and fall + By the wayside of life.) But the love which unbidden + Crept into my heart, and was guarded and hidden + For years, that has vanished. It passed like a breath, + In the gray Autumn morning when Roger faced death, + As he thought, and uncovered his heart to my sight. + Like a corpse, resurrected and brought to the light, + Which crumbles to ashes, the love of my youth + Crumbled off into nothingness. Ah, it is truth; + Love can die! You may hold it is not the true thing, + Not the genuine passion, which dies or takes wing; + But the soil of the heart, like the soil of the earth, + May, at varying times of the seasons, give birth + To bluebells, and roses, and bright goldenrod. + Each one is a gift from the garden of God, + Though it dies when its season is over. Why cling + To the withered dead stalk of the blossoms of spring + Through a lifetime, Maurice? It is stubbornness only, + Not constancy, which makes full many lives lonely. + They want their own way, and, like cross children, fling + Back the gifts which, in place of the lost flowers of spring, + Fate offers them. Life holds in store for you yet + Better things, dear Maurice, than a dead violet, + As it holds better things than dead daisies for me. + To Roger Montrose, let us leave Mabel Lee, + With our blessing. They seem to be happy; or she + Seems content with herself and her province; while he + Has the look of one who, overfed with emotion, + Tries a diet of spiritual health-food, devotion. + He is broken in strength, and his face has the hue + Of a man to whom passion has bidden adieu. + He has time now to worship his God and his wife. + She seems better pleased with the dregs of his life + Than she was with the bead of it. + + Well, let them make + What they will of their future. Maurice, for my sake + And your own, put them out of your thoughts. All too brief + And too broad is this life to be ruined by grief + Over one human atom. Like mellowing rain, + Which enriches the soil of the soul and the brain, + Should the sorrow of youth be; and not like the breath + Of the cyclone, which carries destruction and death. + Come, Maurice, let philosophy lift you above + The gloom and despair of unfortunate love. + Sometimes, if we look a woe straight in the face, + It loses its terrors and seems commonplace; + While sorrow will follow and find if we roam. + Come, help me to turn the old house into home. + We have youth, health, and competence. Why should we go + Out into God's world with long faces of woe? + Let our pleasures have speech, let our sorrows be dumb, + Let us laugh at despair and contentment will come. + Let us teach earth's repiners to look through glad eyes, + For the world needs the happy far more than the wise. + I am one of the women whose talent and taste + Lie in home-making. All else I do seems mere waste + Of time and intention; but no woman can + Make a house seem a home without aid of a man. + He is sinew and bone, she is spirit and life. + Until the veiled future shall bring you a wife, + Me a mate (and both wait for us somewhere, dear brother), + Let us bury old corpses and live for each other. + You will write, and your great heart athrob through your pen + Shall strengthen earth's weak ones with courage again. + Where your epigrams fail, I will offer a pill, + And doctor their bodies with "new woman" skill. + (Once a wife, I will drop from my name the M. D. + I hold it the truth that no woman can be + An excellent wife and an excellent mother, + And leave enough purpose and time for another + Profession outside. And our sex was not made + To jostle with men in the great marts of trade. + The wage-earning women, who talk of their sphere, + Have thrown the domestic machine out of gear. + They point to their fast swelling ranks overjoyed; + Forgetting the army of men unemployed. + + The banner of Feminine "Rights," when unfurled, + Means a flag of distress to the rest of the world. + And poor Cupid, depressed by such follies and crimes, + Sits weeping, alone, in the Land of Hard Times. + The world needs wise mothers, the world needs good wives, + The world needs good homes, and yet woman strives + To be everything else but domestic. God's plan + Was for woman to rule the whole world, _through a man_. + There is nothing a woman of sweetness and tact + Can not do without personal effort or act. + She needs but infuse lover, husband or son + With her own subtle spirit, and lo! it is done. + Though the man is unconscious, full oft, of the cause, + And fancies himself the sole maker of laws. + Well, let him. The cannon, no doubt, is the prouder + For not knowing its noise is produced by the powder. + Yet this is the law: _Who can love, can command_.) + But I wander too far from the subject in hand, + Which is, your home coming. Make haste, dear; I find + More need every day of your counseling mind. + I work well in harness, but poorly alone. + Until that bright day when Fate brings us our own, + Let us labor together. I see many ways, + Many tasks, for the use of our talents and days. + Your wisdom shall better the workingmen's lives, + While I will look after their daughters and wives, + And teach them to cook without waste; for, indeed, + It is knowledge like this which the poor people need, + Not the stuff taught in schools. You shall help them to think, + While I show them what they can eat and can drink + With least cost, and most pleasure and benefit. Please + Write me and say you will come, dear Maurice. + Home, sister, and duty are all waiting here; + Who keeps close to duty finds pleasure dwells near. + + + + + XII. + + _Maurice's Letter to Ruth:_ + + No, no. I have gambled with destiny twice, + And have staked my whole hopes on a home; but the dice + Thrown by Fate made me loser. Henceforward, I know + My lot must be homeless. The gods will it so. + + I fought, I rebelled; I was bitter. I strove + To outwit the great Cosmic Forces, above, + Or beyond, or about us, who guide and control + The course of all things from the moat to the soul. + + The river may envy the peace of the pond, + But law drives it out to the ocean beyond. + If it roars down abysses, or laughs through the land, + It follows the way which the Forces have planned. + + So man is directed. His only the choice + To help or to hinder--to weep or rejoice. + But vain is refusal--and vain discontent, + For at last he must walk in the way that was meant. + + My way leads through shadow, alone to the end + I must work out my karma, and follow its trend. + I must fulfill the purpose, whatever it be, + And look not for peace till I merge in God's sea. + + Though bankrupt in joy, still my life has its gain; + I have climbed the last round in the ladder of pain. + There is nothing to dread. I have drained sorrow's cup + And can laugh as I fling it at Fate bottom up. + + I have missed what I sought; yet I missed not the whole. + The best part of love is in loving. My soul + Is enriched by its prodigal gifts. Still, to give + And to ask no return, is my lot while I live. + + Such love may be blindness, but where are love's eyes? + Such love may be folly, love seldom is wise. + Such love may be madness, was love ever sane? + Such love must be sorrow, for all love is pain. + + Love goes where it must go, and in its own season. + Love cannot be banished by will or by reason. + Love gave back your freedom, it keeps me its slave. + I shall walk in its fetters, unloved, to my grave. + + So be it. What right has the ant, in the dust, + To cry that the world is all wrong, and unjust, + Because the swift foot of a messenger trod + Down the home, and the hopes, that were built in the sod? + + What is man but an ant, in this universe scheme? + Though dear his ambition, and precious his dream, + God's messengers speed all unseen on their way, + And the plans of a lifetime go down in a day. + + No matter. The aim of the Infinite mind, + Which lies back of it all, must be great, must be kind. + Can the ant or the man, though ingenious and wise, + Swing the tides of the sea--set a star in the skies? + + Can man fling a million of worlds into space, + To whirl on their orbits with system and grace? + Can he color a sunset, or create a seed, + Or fashion one leaf of the commonest weed? + + Can man summon daylight, or bid the night fall? + Then how dare he question the Force which does all? + Where so much is flawless, where so much is grand, + All, all must be right, could our souls understand. + + Ah, man, the poor egotist! Think with what pride + He boasts his small knowledge of star and of tide. + But when fortune fails him, or when a hope dies, + The Maker of stars and of seas he denies! + + I questioned, I doubted. But that is all past; + I have learned the true secret of living at last. + It is, to accept what Fate sends, and to know + That the one thing God wishes of man--is to grow. + + Growth, growth out of self, back to him--the First Cause: + Therein lies the purpose, the law of all laws. + Tears, grief, disappointment, well, what are all these + To the Builder of stars and the Maker of seas? + + Does the star long to shine, when He tells it to set, + As the heart would remember when told to forget? + Does the sea moan for flood tide, when bid to be low, + As a soul cries for pleasure when given life's woe? + + In the Antarctic regions a volcano glows, + While low at its base lie the up-reaching snows. + With patient persistence they steadily climb, + And the flame will be quenched in the passage of time. + + My heart is the crater, my will is the snow, + Which yet may extinguish its volcanic glow. + When self is once conquered, the end comes to pain, + And that is the goal which I seek to attain. + + I seek it in work, heaven planned, heaven sent; + In the kingdom of toil waits the crown of content. + Work, work! ah, how high and divine was its birth, + When God, the first laborer, fashioned the earth. + + The world cries for workers; not toilers for pelf, + But souls who have sought to eliminate self. + Can the lame lead the race? Can the blind guide the blind? + We must better ourselves ere we better our kind. + + There are wrongs to be righted; and first of them all, + Is to lift up the leaners from Charity's thrall. + Sweet, wisdomless Charity, sowing the seed + Which it seeks to uproot, of dependence and need. + + For vain is the effort to give man content + By clothing his body, by paying his rent. + The garment re-tatters, the rent day recurs; + Who seeks to serve God by such charity errs. + + Give light to the spirit, give strength to the mind, + And the body soon cares for itself, you will find. + First, faith in God's wisdom, then purpose and will, + And, like mist before sunlight, shall vanish each ill. + + To the far realm of Wisdom there lies a short way. + To find it we need but the password--Obey. + Obey like the acorn that falls to the sod, + To rise, through the heart of the oak tree, to God. + + Though slow be the rising, and distant the goal, + Serenity waits at the end for each soul. + I seek it. Not backward, but onward I go, + And since sorrow means growth, I will welcome my woe. + + In the ladder of lives we are given to climb, + Each life counts for only a second of time. + The one thing to do in the brief little space, + Is to make the world glad that we ran in the race. + + No soul should be sad whom the Maker deemed worth + The great gift of song as its dower at birth. + While I pass on my way, an invisible throng + Breathes low in my ear the new note of a song. + + So I am not alone; for by night and by day + These mystical messengers people my way. + They bid me to hearken, they bid me be dumb + And to wait for the true inspiration to come. + + + + + THE END. + + + + + + +BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX + +Poems of Passion. + +Maurine and Other Poems. + +Poems of Pleasure. + +How Salvator Won and Other Poems. + +Custer and Other Poems. + +Men, Women and Emotions. (Prose.) + +The Beautiful Land of Nod. (Poems, songs and stories.) + + +W. B. CONKEY COMPANY, CHICAGO. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Women, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE WOMEN *** + +***** This file should be named 27336.txt or 27336.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/3/3/27336/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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