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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c79c92 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63423 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63423) diff --git a/old/63423-8.txt b/old/63423-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5b607bf..0000000 --- a/old/63423-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6401 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Kathrina--A Poem, by Josiah Gilbert Holland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Kathrina--A Poem - -Author: Josiah Gilbert Holland - -Release Date: October 10, 2020 [EBook #63423] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATHRINA--A POEM *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - - - - - KATHRINA - - - - DR. J. G. HOLLAND'S WRITINGS. - - _Complete Works_. 16 Volumes. Small 12mo. - Sold separately. - - Bitter-Sweet - Kathrina - The Mistress of the Manse - Puritan's Guest and other Poems - Titcomb's Letters to Young People - Gold-Foil - Lessons in Life - Plain Talks on Familiar Subjects - Concerning the Jones Family - Every-Day Topics. First Series - Every-Day Topics. Second Series - Sevenoaks - The Bay Path - Arthur Bonnicastle - Miss Gilbert's Career - Nicholas Minturn - - - - - KATHRINA - - - A POEM - - - - BY - - J. G. HOLLAND - - - - NEW YORK - CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS - 1893. - - - - - COPYRIGHT BY - CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO. - 1867 - - COPYRIGHT BY - J. G HOLLAND - 1881 - - - - TROW'S - PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, - NEW YORK. - - - - - I DEDICATE - - "KATHRINA" - - THE WORK OF MY HAND - TO - - ELIZABETH - - THE WIFE OF MY HEART - - - - - CONTENTS - - - A TRIBUTE - - - PART I. - - CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH - COMPLAINT - - - PART II. - - LOVE - A REFLECTION - - - PART III. - - LABOR - DESPAIR - - - PART IV. - - CONSUMMATION - - - - - KATHRINA. - - - A TRIBUTE. - - More human, more divine than we-- - In truth, half human, half divine-- - Is woman, when good stars agree - To temper with their beams benign - The hour of her nativity. - - The fairest flower the green earth bears, - Bright with the dew and light of heaven, - Is, of the double life she wears, - The type, in grace and glory given - By soil and sun in equal shares. - - True sister of the Son of Man: - True sister of the Son of God: - What marvel that she leads the van - Of those who in the path he trod, - Still bear the cross and wear the ban? - - If God be in the sky and sea, - And live in light and ride the storm, - Then God is God, although He be - Enshrined within a woman's form; - And claims glad reverence from me. - - So, as I worship Him in Christ, - And in the Forms of Earth and Air, - I worship Him imparadised, - And throned within her bosom fair - Whom vanity hath not enticed. - - O! woman--mother! Woman--wife!-- - The sweetest names that language knows! - Thy breast, with holy motives rife, - With holiest affection glows, - Thou queen, thou angel of my life! - - Noble and fine in his degree - Is the best man my heart receives; - And this my heart's supremest plea - For him: he feels, acts, lives, believes, - And seems, and is, the likest thee. - - O men! O brothers! Well I know - That with her nature in our souls - Is born the elemental woe-- - The brutal impulse that controls, - And drives, or drags, the godlike low. - - Ambition, appetite and pride-- - These throng and thrall the hearts of men - These plat the thorns, and pierce the side - Of Him, who, in our souls again, - Is spit upon, and crucified. - - The greed for gain, the thirst for power, - The lust that blackens while it burns: - Ah! these the whitest souls deflour! - And one, or all of these by turns, - Rob man of his divinest dower! - - Yet man, who shivers like a straw - Before Temptation's lightest breeze, - Assumes the master--gives the law - To her who, on her bended knees, - Resists the black-winged thunder-flaw! - - To him who deems her weak and vain, - And boasts his own exceeding might, - She clings through darkest fortune fain; - Still loyal though the ruffian smite; - Still true, though crime his hands distain! - - And is this weakness? Is it not - The strength of God, that loves and bears - Though He be slighted or forgot - In damning crimes, or driving cares, - And closest clings in darkest lot? - - Not many friends my life has made; - Few have I loved, and few are they - Who in my hand their hearts have laid; - And these were women. I am gray, - But never have I been betrayed. - - These words--this tribute--for the sake - Of truth to God and womankind! - These--that my heart may cease to ache - With love and gratitude confined, - And burning from my lips to break! - - These--to that sisterhood of grace - That numbers in its sacred list - My mother, risen to her place; - My wife, but yester-morning kissed, - And folded in Love's last embrace! - - This tribute of a love profound - As ever moved the heart of man, - To those to whom my life is bound, - To her in whom my life began, - And her whose love my life hath crowned! - - Immortal Love! Thou still hast wings - To lift me to those radiant fields, - Where Music waits with trembling strings, - And Verse her happy numbers yields, - And all the soul within me sings. - - So from the lovely Pagan dream - I call no more the Tuneful Nine; - For Woman is my Muse Supreme; - And she with fire and flight divine, - Shall light and lead me to my theme. - - - - - PART I. - - CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. - - Thou lovely vale of sweetest stream that flows: - Winding and willow-fringed Connecticut! - Swift to thy fairest scenes my fancy flies, - As I recall the story of a life - Which there began in years of sinless hope, - And merged maturely into hopeless sin. - - O! golden dawning of a day of storms, - That fell ere noontide into rayless night! - O! beautiful initial, vermeil-flowered, - And bright with cherub-eyes and effigies, - To the black-letter volume of my life! - O! faëry gateway, gilt and garlanded, - And shining in the sun, to gloomy groves - Of shadowy cypress, and to sunless streams, - Feeding with bane the deadly nightshade's roots,-- - To vexing labyrinths of doubt and fear, - And deep abysses of despair and death! - Back to thy peaceful villages and fields, - My memory, like a weary pilgrim, comes - With scrip and burdon, to repose awhile,-- - To pluck a daisy from a lonely grave - Where long ago, in common sepulture, - I laid my mother and my faith in God; - To fix the record of a single day - So memorably wonderful and sweet - Its power of inspiration lingers still,-- - So full of her dear presence, so divine - With the melodious breathing of her words, - And the warm radiance of her loving smile, - That tears fall readily as April rain - At its recall; to pass in swift review - The years of adolescence, and the paths - Of glare and gloom through which, by passion led - I reached the fair possession of my power, - And won the dear possession of my love, - And then--farewell! - - Queen-village of the meads - Fronting the sunrise and in beauty throned, - With jewelled homes around her lifted brow, - And coronal of ancient forest trees-- - Northampton sits, and rules her pleasant realm. - There where the saintly Edwards heralded - The terrors of the Lord, and men bowed low - Beneath the menace of his awful words; - And there where Nature, with a thousand tongues - Tender and true, from vale and mountain-top, - And smiling streams, and landscapes piled afar, - Proclaimed a gentler Gospel, I was born. - - In an old home, beneath an older elm-- - A fount of weeping greenery, that dripped - Its spray of rain and dew upon the roof-- - I opened eyes on life; and now return, - Among the visions of my early years, - Two so distinct that all the rest grow dim: - My mother's pale, fond face and tearful eyes, - Bent upon me in Love's absorbing trance, - From the low window where she watched my play; - And, after this, the wondrous elm, that seemed - To my young fancy like an airy bosk, - Poised by a single stem upon the earth, - And thronged by instant marvels. There in Spring - I heard with joy the cheery blue-bird's note; - There sang rejoicing robins after rain; - And there within the emerald twilight, which - Defied the mid-day sun, from bough to bough-- - A torch of downy flame--the oriole - Passed to his nest, to feed the censer-fires - Which Love had lit for Airs of Heaven to swing. - There, too, through all the weird September-eves - I heard the harsh, reiterant katydids - Rasp the mysterious silence. There I watched - The glint of stars, playing at hide-and-seek - Behind the swaying foliage, till drawn - By tender hands to childhood's balmy rest. - My Mother and the elm! Too soon I learned - That o'er me hung, and o'er the widowed one - Who gave me birth, with broader boughs, - Haunted by sabler wings and sadder sounds, - A darker shadow than the mighty elm! - I caught the secret in the street from those - Who pointed at me as I passed, or paused - To gaze in sighing pity on my play; - From playmates who, forbidden to divulge - The knowledge they possessed, with childish tricks - Of indirection strove in vain to hide - Their awful meaning in unmeaning phrase; - From kisses which were pitiful; from words - Gentler than love's because compassionate; - From deep, unconscious sighs out of the heart - Of her who loved me best, and from her tears - That freest flowed when I was happiest. - From frailest filaments of evidence, - From dark allusions faintly overheard, - From hint and look and sudden change of theme - When I approached, from widely scattered words - Remembered well, and gathered all at length - Into consistent terms, I know not how - I wrought the full conclusion, nor how young. - I only know that when a little child - I learned, though no one told, that he who gave - My life to me in madness took his own-- - Took it from fear of want, though he possessed - The finest fortune in the rich old town. - - Thenceforth I had a secret which I kept-- - Kept by my mother with as close a tongue-- - A secret which embittered every cup. - It bred rebellion in me--filled my soul, - Opening to life in innocent delight, - With baleful doubt and harrowing distrust. - Why, if my father was the godly man - His gentle widow vouched with tender tears, - Did He to whom she bowed in daily prayer-- - Who loved us, as she told me, with a love - Ineffable for strength and tenderness-- - Permit such fate to him, such woe to us? - Ah! many a time, repeating on my knees - The simple language of my evening prayer - Which her dear lips had taught me, came the dark - Perplexing question, stirring in my heart - A sense of guilt, or quenching all my faith. - This, too, I kept a secret. I had died - Rather than breathe the question in her ears - Who knelt beside me. I had rather died - Than add a sorrow to the load she bore. - Taught to be true, I played the hypocrite - In truthfulness to her. I had no God, - Nor penitence, nor loyalty nor love; - For any being higher than herself. - Jealous of all to whom she gave her hand, - I clung to her with fond idolatry. - I sat with her; where'er she walked, I walked - I kissed away her tears; I strove to fill, - With strange precocity of manly pride - And more than boyish tenderness, the void - Which death had made. - - I could not fail to see - That ruth for me and sorrow for her loss-- - Twin leeches at her heart--were drinking blood - That, from her pallid features, day by day - Sank slowly down, to feed the cruel draught. - Nay, more than this I saw, and sadly worse. - Oft when I watched her and she knew it not, - I marked a quivering horror sweep her face-- - A strange, quick thrill of pain--that brought her hand - With sudden pressure to her heart, and forced - To her white lips a swiftly whispered prayer. - I fancied that I read the mystery; - But it was deeper and more terrible - Than I conjectured. Not till darker years - Came the solution. - - Still, we had some days - Of pleasure. Sorrow cannot always brood - Over the shivering forms that drink her warmth; - But springs to meet the morning light, and soars - Into the empyrean, to forget - For one sweet hour the ring of greedy mouths - That surely wait, and cry for her return. - My mother's hand in mine, or mine in hers, - We often left the village far behind, - And walked the meadow-paths to gather flowers, - And watch the plowman as he turned the tilth, - Or tossed his burnished share into the sun - At the long furrow's end, the while we marked - The tipsy bobolink, struggling with the chain - Of tinkling music that perplexed his wings, - And listened to the yellow-breasted lark's - Sweet whistle from the grass. - - Glad in my joy, - My mother smiled amid these scenes and sounds, - And wandered on with gentle step and slow, - While I, in boyish frolic, ran before, - Chasing the butterflies, or in her path - Tossing the gaudy gold of buttercups, - Till sometimes, ere we knew, we stood entranced - Upon the river's marge. - - Ever the spell - Of lapsing water tamed my playful mood, - And I reclined in silent happiness - At the tired feet that rested in the shade. - There through the long, bright mornings we remained, - Watching the noisy ferry-boat that plied - Like a slow shuttle through the sunny warp - Of threaded silver from a thousand brooks, - That took new beauty as it wound away; - Or gazing where at Holyoke's verdant base-- - Like a slim hound, stretched at his master's feet-- - Lay the long, lazy hamlet, Hockanum; - Or, upward turning, traced the line that climbed - O'er splintered rock and clustered foliage - To the bare mountain-top; then followed down - The scars of fire and storm, or paths of gloom - That marked the curtained gorges, till, at last, - Caught by a wisp of white, belated mist, - Our vision rose to trace its airy flight - Beyond the height, into the distant blue. - - One morning, while we rested there, she told - Of a dear friend upon the other side-- - A lady who had loved her--whom she loved-- - And then she promised to my eager wish - That soon, across the stream I longed to pass, - I should go with her to the lady's home. - - The wishedfor day came slowly--came at last-- - My birthday morning--rounding to their close - The fourteen summers of my boyhood's life. - The early mists were clinging to the side - Of the dark mountain as we left the town, - Though all the roadside fields were quick with toil - In rhythmic motion through the dewy grass - The mowers swept, and on the fragrant air - Was borne from far the soft, metallic clash - Of stones upon the steel. - - This was the day - "So memorably wonderful and sweet - Its power of inspiration lingers still,-- - So full of her dear presence, so divine - With the melodious breathing of her words, - And the warm radiance of her loving smile, - That tears fall readily as April rain - At its recall." And with this day there came - The revelation and the genesis - Of a new life. In intellect and heart - I ceased to be a child, and grew a man. - By one long leap I passed the hidden bound - That circumscribed my boyhood, and thenceforth - Abjured all childish pleasure, and took on - The purpose and the burden of my life. - - We crossed the river--I, as in a dream; - And when I stood upon the eastern shore, - In the full presence of the mountain pile, - Strange tides of feeling thrilled me, and I wept-- - Wept, though I knew not why. I could have knelt - On the white sand, and prayed. Within my soul - Prophetic whispers breathed of coming power - And new possessions. Aspiration swelled - Like a pent stream within a narrow chasm, - That finds nor vent nor overflow, but swirls - And surges and retreats, until it floods - The springs that feed it. All was chaos wild,-- - A chaos of fresh passion, undefined, - Deep in whose vortices of mist and fire - A new world waited blindly for its birth. - I had no words for revelation;--none - For answer, when my mother pressed my hand, - And questioned why it trembled. I looked up - With tearful eyes, and met her loving smile, - And both of us were silent, and passed on. - - We reached at length the pleasant cottage-home - Where dwelt my mother's friend, and, at the gate, - Found her with warmest welcome waiting us. - She kissed my mother's cheek, and then kissed mine, - Which shrank, and mantled with a new-born shame. - They crossed the threshold: I remained without. - Surprised--half-angry--with the burning blush - That still o'erwhelmed my face. - - I looked around - For something to divert my vexing thoughts, - And saw intently gazing in my eyes, - From his long tether in the grass, a lamb-- - A lusty, downy, handsome, household pet. - There was a scarlet ribbon on his neck - Which held a silver bell, whose note I heard - First when his eye met mine; for then he sprang - To greet me with a joyous bleat, and fell, - Thrown by the cord that held him. Pitying him, - I loosed his cruel leashing, with intent, - After a half-hour's frolic, to return - And fasten as I found him; but my hand, - Too careless of its charge, slipped from its hold - With the first bound he made; and with a leap - He cleared the garden wall, and flew away. - - Affrighted at my deed and its mischance, - I paused a moment--then with ready feet, - And first and final impulse, I pursued. - He held the pathway to the mountain woods, - The tinkle of his bell already faint - In the long distance he had placed between - Himself and his pursuer. On and on, - Climbing the mountain path, he sped away, - I following swiftly, never losing sight - Of the bright scarlet streaming from his neck, - Or hearing of the tinkle of his bell, - Till, wearied both, and panting up the steep, - Our progress slackened to a walk. - - At length - He paused and looked at me, and waited till - My foot had touched the cord he dragged, and then - Bounded away, scaling the shelvy cliffs - That bolder rose along the narrow path. - He had no choice but mount. I pressed him close, - And rocks and chasms were thick on either side; - So, pausing oft, but ever leaping on - Before my hand could reach him, he advanced. - Not once in all the passage had I paused - To look below, nor had I thought of her - Whom I had left. Absorbed in the pursuit - I pressed it recklessly, until I grasped - My fleecy prisoner, wound and tied his cord - Around my wrist, and both of us sank down - Upon the mountain summit. - - In a swoon - Of breathless weariness how long I lay - I could not know; but consciousness at last - Came by my brute companion, who, alert - Among the scanty browse, tugged at my wrist, - And brought me startled to my feet. I saw - In one swift sweep of vision where I stood,-- - In presence of what beauty of the earth, - What glory of the sky, what majesty - Of lofty loneliness. I drew the lamb-- - The dear, dumb creature--gently to my side, - And led him out upon the beetling cliff - That fronts the plaided meadows, and knelt down. - - When once the shrinking, dizzy spell was gone, - I saw below me, like a jewelled cup, - The valley hollowed to its heaven-kissed lip-- - The serrate green against the serrate blue-- - Brimming with beauty's essence; palpitant - With a divine elixir--lucent floods - Poured from the golden chalice of the sun, - At which my spirit drank with conscious growth, - And drank again with still expanding scope - Of comprehension and of faculty. - - I felt the bud of being in me burst - With full, unfolding petals to a rose, - And fragrant breath that flooded all the scene. - By sudden insight of myself I knew - That I was greater than the scene,--that deep - Within my nature was a wondrous world, - Broader than that I gazed on, and informed - With a diviner beauty,--that the things - I saw were but the types of those I held, - And that above them both, High Priest and King, - I stood supreme, to choose and to combine, - And build from that within me and without - New forms of life, with meaning of my own. - And there alone, upon the mountain-top, - Kneeling beside the lamb, I bowed my head - Beneath the chrismal light, and felt my soul - Baptized and set apart to poetry. - - The spell of inspiration lingered not; - But ere it passed, I knew my destiny-- - The passion and the portion of my life: - Though, with the new-born consciousness of power - And organizing and creative skill, - There came a sense of poverty--a sense - Of power untrained, of skill without resource, - Of ignorance of Nature and her laws - And language and the learning of the schools. - I could not rise upon my callow wings, - But felt that I must wait until the years - Should give them plumage, and the skill for flight - Be won by trial. - - Then before me rose - The long, long years of study, interposed - Between me and the goal that shone afar; - But with them rose the courage to surmount, - And I was girt for toil. - - Then, for the first, - My eye and spirit that had drunk the whole - Wide vision, grew discriminate, and traced - The crystal river pouring from the North - Its twinkling tide, and winding down the vale, - Till, doubling in a serpent coil, it paused - Before the chasm that parts the frontal spurs - Of Tom and Holyoke; then in wreathing light - Sped the swart rocks, and sought the misty South. - Across the meadows--carpet for the gods, - Woven of ripening rye and greening maize - And rosy clover-blooms, and spotted o'er - With the black shadows of the feathery elms-- - Northampton rose, half hidden in her trees, - Lifted above the level of the fields, - And noiseless as a picture. - - At my feet - The ferry-boat, diminished to a toy, - With automatic diligence conveyed - Its puppet passengers between the shores - That hemmed its enterprise; and one low barge, - With white, square sail, bore northward languidly - The slow and scanty commerce of the stream. - - Eastward, upon another fertile stretch - Of meadow-sward and tilth, embowered in elms, - Lay the twin streets, and sprang the single spire - Of Hadley, where the hunted regicides - Securely lived of old, and strangely died; - And eastward still, upon the last green step - From which the Angel of the Morning Light - Leaps to the meadow-lands, fair Amherst sat, - Capped by her many-windowed colleges; - While from his outpost in the rising North, - Bald with the storms and ruddy with the suns - Of the long eons, stood old Sugarloaf, - Gazing with changeless brow upon a scene, - Changing to fairer beauty evermore. - - Save of the river and my pleasant home, - I knew not then the names and history - Borne by these visions; but upon my brain - Their forms were graved in lines indelible - As, on the rocks beneath my feet, the prints - Of life in its first motion. Later years - Renewed the picture, and its outlines filled - With fair associations,--wrought the past - And living present into fadeless wreaths - That crowned each mound and mount, and town and tower, - The king of teeming memories. Nor could - I guess with faintest foresight of the life - Which, in the years before me, I should weave - Of mingled threads of pleasure and of pain - Into these scenes, until not one of all - Could meet my eye, or touch my memory, - Without recalling an experience - That drank the sweetest ichor of my veins - Or crowded them with joy. - - At length I turned - From the wide survey, and with pleased surprise - Detected, nestling at the mountain's foot, - The cottage I had left; and, on the lawn, - Two forms of life that flitted to and fro. - I knew that they had missed me; so I sought - The passage I had climbed, and, with the lamb - Still fastened to my wrist, I hasted down. - - Full of the marvels of the hour I sped, - Leaping from rock to rock, or flying swift - The smoother slopes, with arms half wings, and feet - That only guarded the descent, the while - My captive led me captive at his will. - So tense the strain of sinew, so intense - The mood and motion, that before I guessed, - The headlong flight was finished, and I walked, - Jaded and reeking, in the level path - That led the lambkin home. - - My mother saw, - And ran to meet me: then for long, still hours, - Couched in a dim, cool room, I lay and slept. - When I awoke, I found her at my side, - Fanning my face, and ready with her smile - And soothing words to greet me. Then I told, - With youthful volubility and wild - Extravagance of figure and of phrase, - The morning's exploit. - - First she questioned me - But, as I wrought each scene and circumstance - Into consistent form, she drank my words - In eager silence; and within her eyes - I saw the glow of pride which gravity - And show of deep concern could not disguise, - I read her bosom better than she knew. - I saw that she had made discovery - Of something unsuspected in her child, - And that, by one I loved, and she the best, - The fire that burned within me and the power - That morning called to life, were recognized. - - When I had told my story, and had read - With kindling pride my praises in her eyes, - She placed her soft hand on my brow, and said: - "My Paul has climbed the noblest mountain height - In all his little world, and gazed on scenes - As beautiful as rest beneath the sun. - I trust he will remember all his life - That to his best achievement, and the spot - Nearest to heaven his youthful feet have trod, - He has been guided by a guileless lamb. - It is an omen which his mother's heart - Will treasure with her jewels." - - When the sun - Of the long summer day hung but an hour - Above his setting, and the cool West Wind - Bore from the purpling hills his benison, - The farewell courtesies of love were given, - And we set forth for home. - - Not far we fared-- - The river left behind--when, looking back, - I saw the mountain in the searching light - Of the low sun. Surcharged with youthful pride - In my adventure, I can ne'er forget - The disappointment and chagrin which fell - Upon me; for a change had passed. The steep - Which in the morning sprang to kiss the sun, - Had left the scene; and in its place I saw - A shrunken pile, whose paths my steps had climbed. - Whose proudest height my humble feet had trod. - Its grand impossibilities and all - Its store of marvels and of mysteries - Were flown away, and would not be recalled. - The mountain's might had entered into me; - And, from that fruitful hour, whatever scene - Nature revealed to me, she never caught - My spirit humbled by surprise. My thought - Built higher mountains than I ever found; - Poured wilder cataracts than I ever saw; - Drove grander storms than ever swept the sky; - Pushed into loftier heavens and lower hells - Than the abysmal reach of light and dark; - And entertained me with diviner feasts - Than ever met the appetite of sense, - And poured me wine of choicer vintages - Than fire the hearts of kings. - - The frolic-flame - Which in the morning kindled in my veins - Had died away; and at my mother's side - I walked in quiet mood, and gravely spoke - Of the great future. With a tender quest - My mother probed my secret wish, and heard, - With silence new and strange respectfulness, - The revelation of my plans. I felt - In her benign attention to my words; - In her suggestions, clothed with gracious phrase - To win my judgment; and in all those shades - Of mien and manner which a mother's love - Inspires so quickly when the form it nursed - Becomes a staff in its caressing hand, - She had made space for me, and placed her life - In new relations to my own. I knew - That she who through my span of tender years - Had counselled me, had given me privilege - Within her councils; and the moment came - I learned that in the converse of that hour, - The appetency of maternity - For manhood in its offspring, had laid hold - Of the fresh growth in me, and feasted well - Its gentle passion. - - Ere we reached our home, - The plans for study were matured, and I, - Who, with an aptitude beyond my years, - Had gathered learning's humbler rudiments - From her to whom I owed my earliest words, - Was, when another day should rise, to pass - To rougher teaching, and society - Of the rude youth whose wild and boisterous ways - Had scared my childish life. - - I nerved my heart - To meet the change; and all the troubled night - I tossed upon my pillow, filled with fears, - Or fired with hot ambitions; shrinking oft - With girlish sensitiveness from the lot - My manly heart had chosen; rising oft - Above my cowardice, well panoplied - By fancy to achieve great victories - O'er those whose fellows I should be. - - At last, - The dawn looked in upon me, and I rose - To meet its golden coming, and the life - Of golden promise whose wide-open doors - Waited my feet. - - The lingering morning hours - Seemed days of painful waiting, as they fell - In slowly filling numbers from the tower - Of the old village church; but when, at length, - My eager feet had touched the street, and turned - To climb the goodly eminence where he - In whose profound and stately pages live - His country's annals, ruled his youthful realm, - My heart grew stern and strong; and nevermore - Did doubt of excellence and mastery - Drag down my soaring courage, or disturb - My purposes and plans. - - What boots it here - To tell with careful chronicle the life - Of my novitiate? Up the graded months - My feet rose slowly, but with steady step, - To tall and stalwart manliness of frame, - And ever rising and expanding reach - Of intellection and the power to call - Forth from the pregnant nothingness of words - The sphered creations of my chosen art. - What boots it to recount my victories - Over my fellows, or to tell how all, - Contemptuous at first, became at length - Confessed inferiors in every strife - When brain or brawn contended? Victories - Were won too easily to bring me pride, - And only bred contempt of the low pitch - And lower purpose of the power which strove - So feebly and so clumsily. When won, - They fed my mother's passion, and she praised; - And her delight was all the boon they brought. - My fierce ambition, ever reaching up - To higher fields and nobler combatants, - Trampled its triumphs underneath its feet; - And in my heart of hearts I pitied her - To whose deep hunger of maternal pride - They bore ambrosial ministry. - - In all - These years of doing and development, - My heart was haunted by a bitter pain. - In every scene of pleasure, every hour - That lacked employment, every moment's lull - Of toil or study, its familiar hand - Was raised aloft, to smite me with its pang. - From month to month, from year to year, I saw - That she who bore me, and to whom I owed - The meek and loyal reverence of a child, - Was changing places with me, and that she-- - Dependent, trustful and subordinate-- - Deferred to me in all things, and in all - Gave me the parent's place and took the child's. - She waited for my coming like a child; - She ran to meet and greet me like a child; - She leaned on me for guidance and defence, - And lived in me, and by me, like a child. - If I were absent long beyond my wont, - She yielded to distresses and to tears; - And when I came, she flew into my arms - With childish impulse of delight, or chid - With weak complainings my delay. - - By these, - And by a thousand other childish ways, - I knew disease was busy with her life, - Working distempers in her heart and brain, - And driving her for succor to my strength. - The change was great in her, though slowly wrought,-- - Though wrought so slowly that my thought and life - Had been adjusted to it, but for this:-- - One dismal night, a trivial accident - Had kept me from my home beyond the hour - At which my promise stood for my return. - Arriving at the garden gate, I paused - To catch a glimpse of the accustomed light, - Through the cold mist that wrapped me, but in vain. - Only one window glimmered through the gloom, - Through whose uncurtained panes I dimly saw - My mother in her chamber. She was clad - In the white robe of rest; but to and fro - She crossed the light, sometimes with hands pressed close - Upon her brow, sometimes raised up toward heaven, - As if in deprecation or despair; - And through the strident soughing of the elm - I heard her voice, still musical in woe, - Wailing and calling. - - With a noiseless step - I reached the door, and, with a noiseless key, - Turned back the bolt, and stood within. I could - Have called her to my arms, and quelled her fears - By one dear word, and yet, I spoke it not. - I longed to learn her secret, and to know - In what recess of history or heart - It hid, and wrought her awful malady. - - Not long I waited, when I heard her voice - Wail out again in wild, beseeching prayer,-- - Her voice so sweet and soulful, that it seemed - As if a listening fiend could not refuse - Such help as in him lay, although her tongue - Should falter to articulate her pain. - - I heard her voice--O God! I heard her words! - Not bolts of burning from the vengeful sky - Had scathed or stunned me more. I shook like one - Powerless within the toils of some great sin, - Or some o'ermastering passion; or like one - Whose veins turn ice at onset of the plague. - "O God," she said, "my Father and my Friend! - Spare him to me, and save me from myself! - O! if thou help me not--if thou forsake-- - This hand which thou hast made, will take the life - Thou mad'st the hand to feed. I cling to him, - My son,--my boy. If danger come to him, - No one is left to save me from this crime. - Thou knowest, O! my God, how I have striven - To quench the awful impulse; how, in vain, - My prayers have gone before thee, for release - From the foul demon who would drive my soul - To crime that leaves no space for penitence. - O! Father! Father! Hear me when I call! - Hast thou not made me? Am I not thy child? - Why, why this mad, mysterious desire - To follow him I loved, by the dark door - Through which he forced his passage to the realm - That death throws wide to all? O why must I, - A poor, weak woman--" - - I could hear no more, - But dropped my dripping cloak, and, with a voice, - Toned to its tenderest cadence, I pronounced - The sweet word, "mother!" - - Her excess of joy - Burst in a cry, and in a moment's space - I sat within her room, and she, my child, - Was sobbing in my arms. I spoke no word, - But sat distracted with my tenderness - For her who threw herself upon my heart - In perfect trust, and bitter thoughts of Him - Whose succor, though importunately sought - In piteous pleadings by a gentle saint, - Was grudgingly withheld. Her closing words: - "O why must I, a poor, weak woman--" rang - Through every chamber of my tortured soul, - And called to conclave and rebellion all - The black-browed passions thitherto restrained. - - Ay, why should she, who only sought for God, - Be given to a devil? Why should she - Who begged for bread be answered with a stone? - Ay, why should she whose soul recoiled from sin - As from a fiend, find in her heart a fiend - To urge the sin she hated?--questions all - The fiends within me answered as they would. - O God! O Father! How I hated thee! - Nay, how within my angry soul I dared - To curse thy sacred name! - - Then other thoughts-- - Thoughts of myself and of my destiny-- - Succeeded. Who and what was I? A youth, - Doomed by hereditary taint to crime, - A youth whose every artery and vein - Was doubly charged with suicidal blood. - When the full consciousness of what I was - Possessed my thought, and I gazed down the abyss - God had prepared for me, I shrank aghast; - And there in silence, with an awful oath - I dare not write, I swore my will was mine, - And mine my hand; and that, though all the fiends - That cumber hell and overrun the earth - Should spur the deadly impulse of my blood, - And heaven withhold the aid I would not ask; - Though woes unnumbered should beset my life, - And reason fall, and uttermost despair - Hold me a hopeless prisoner in its glooms, - I would resist and conquer, and live out - My complement of years. My bosom burned - With fierce defiance, and the angry blood - Leaped from my heart, and boomed within my brain - With throbs that stunned me, though each fiery thrill - Was charged with tenderness for her whose head - Was pillowed on its riot. - - Long I sat-- - How long, I know not--but at last the sad, - Hysteric sobs and suspirations ceased, - Or only at wide intervals recurred; - And then I rose, and to her waiting bed - Led my doomed mother. With a cheerful voice-- - Cheerful as I could summon--and a kiss, - I bade her a good night and pleasant dreams; - And then, across the hall, I sought my room - Where neither sleep nor dream awaited me, - But only blasphemous, black thoughts, and strife - With God and Destiny. - - I saw it all: - The lamp that from my mother's window beamed, - Illumined other nights and other storms, - And by its lurid light revealed to me - The secrets of a life. Her sudden pangs, - Her brooding woes, her terrors when alone, - The strange surrender of her will to mine, - Her hunger for my presence, and her fear - That by some slip of fortune she should lose - Her hold on me, were followed to their home-- - To her poor heart, that fluttered every hour - With conscious presence of an enemy - That would not be expelled, and strove to spill - The life it spoiled. - - From that eventful night - She was not left alone. I called a friend, - A cheerful lady, whose companionship - Was music, medicine and rest; and she, - Wanting a home, and with a ready wit - Learning my mother's need and my desire, - Assumed the place of matron in the house; - And, in return for what we gave to her, - Gave us herself. - - My mother's confidence, - By her self-confidence, she quickly won; - And thus, though sadly burdened at my heart, - I found one burden lifted from my hands. - More liberty of movement and of toil - I needed; for the time was drawing near - When I should turn my feet toward other halls, - To seek maturer study, and complete - The work of culture faithfully begun. - - Into my mother's ear I breathed my plans - With careful words. The university - Was but a short remove--a morning's walk-- - Away from her; and ever at her wish-- - Nay, always when I could--I would return; - And separation would but sweeten love, - And joy of meeting recompense the pain - Of parting and of absence. - - She was calm - And leaning in her thought upon her friend. - Gave her consent. So, on a summer day, - I kissed her faded cheek, and turned from home - To seek the college halls that I had seen - From boyhood's mount of vision. - - Of the years - Passed there in study--of the rivalries, - The long, stern struggles for pre-eminence, - The triumphs hardly won, but won at last - Beyond all cavil, matters not to tell. - It was my grief that while I gained and grew, - My mother languished momently, and lost,-- - A grief that turned to poison in my blood. - The college prayers were mummeries to me, - And with disdainful passion I repelled - All Christian questionings of heart and life, - By old and young. - - I stood, I moved alone. - I sought no favors, took no courtesies - With grateful grace, and nursed my haughty pride. - The men who kneeled and gloomed, and prayed and sang, - Seemed but a brood of dullards, whom contempt - Would honor overmuch. No tender spot - Was left within my indurated heart, - Save that which moved with ever-melting ruth - For her whose breast had nursed me, and whose love - Had given my life the only happiness - It yet had known. - - With her I kept my pledge - With more than faithful punctuality. - Few weeks passed by in all those busy years - In which I did not walk the way between - The college and my home, and bear to her - Such consolation as my presence gave. - In truth, my form was as familiar grown - To all the rustic dwellers on the road - As I had been a post-boy. - - Little joy - These visits won for me--little beyond - That which I found in bearing joy to her-- - For every year marked on her slender frames - And on her cheeks, and on her failing brain, - Its record of decadence. I could see - That she was sinking into helplessness, - And that too soon her inoffensive soul, - With all its sweet affections, would go down - To hopeless wreck and darkness. - - From her friend - I learned that still the burden of her prayer - Was, that she might be saved from one great sin-- - The sin of self-destruction. Every hour - This one petition struggled from her heart, - To reach the ear of heaven; yet never help - Came down in answer to her cry. - - The Spring - That ushered in my closing college-year - Came up the valley on her balmy wings, - And Winter fled away, and left no trace, - Save, here and there a snowy drift, to show - Where his cold feet had rested in their flight. - But one still night, within the span of sleep, - A shivering winter cloud that wandered late - Shook to the frosty ground its inch of rime. - So, when the morning rose, the earth was white; - And shrubs and trees, and roofs and rocks and walls, - Fulgent with downy crystals, made a world - To which a breath were ruin; and a breath - Wrecked it for me, and, by a few sad words, - Blotted the sunlit splendor from my sight. - - As I looked out upon the scene, and mused - Of her to whom I hoped it might impart - Some healthy touch of joy, I heard the beat - Of hoofs upon the trackless blank, and saw - A horseman speeding up the avenue. - - I raised my sash (I knew he came for me), - And faltered forth my question. From his breast - He drew a folded slip: dismounting then, - He stooped and pressed the missive in a mass - Of clinging snow, and tossed it to my hand. - I closed the window, burst the frosty seal, - And read: "Your mother cannot long survive: - Come home to her to-day." I did not pause - To break the fast of night, but rushing forth, - I followed close the messenger's return. - - It was a morning, such as comes but once - In all the Spring,--so still and beautiful, - So full of promise, so exhilarant - With frost and fire, in earth and air, that life - Had been a brimming joy but for the scene - That waited for my eyes--the scene of death-- - From which imagination staggered back, - And every sensibility recoiled. - - The smoke from distant sugar-camps rolled up - Through the still ether in columnar coils-- - Blue pillars of a bluer dome--and all - The resonant air was full of sounds of Spring. - The sheep were bleating round their empty ricks; - Horses let loose were calling from afar, - And winning fierce replies; the axeman's blows - Fell nimbly at the piles which wintry woods - Had lent to summer stores; while far and faint, - The rhythmic ululations of the hound - On a fresh trail, upon the mountain's side, - Added their strange wild music to the morn. - - The beauty and the music caught my sense, - But woke within my sick and sinking heart - No motion of response. I walked as one - Condemned to dungeon-glooms might walk - Through shouts of mirth and festal pageantry, - Hearing and seeing all, yet over all - Hearing the clank of chains and clash of bars, - And seeing but the reptiles of his cell. - - How I arrived at home, without fatigue, - Without a thought of effort--onward borne - By one absorbing and impelling thought-- - As one within a minute's mete may slide, - O'er leagues of sunny dreamland in a dream, - By magic or by miracle--I found - No time to question. - - At my mother's door - I stood and listened: soon I heard my name - Pronounced within in spiteful whisperings. - I raised the latch, and met her burning eyes. - She stared a wild, mad stare, then raised herself, - And in weak fury poured upon my head - The vials of her wrath. I stood like stone, - Without the power to speak, the while she rained - Her maledictions on me, and in words - Fit only for the damned, accused my life - Of crimes my language could not name, and deeds - Which only outcast wretches know. - - At length, - I gained my tongue, and tried to take her hand; - But with a shriek which cut me like a knife - She shrank from me, and hid her quivering face - Within her pillow. - - Then I turned away, - And sought the room where oft in better days - We both had knelt together at my bed, - And, making fast my door, I threw myself - Prone on the precious couch, and gave to grief - My strong and stormy nature. All the day - With bursts of passion I bewailed my loss, - Or lay benumbed in feeling and in thought, - Tasting no food, and shutting out my soul - From all approach of human sympathy, - Till the light waned, and through the leafless boughs - Of the old elm I caught the sheen of stars. - Then sleep descended--such a sleep as comes - To uttermost exhaustion,--sleep with dreams - Wild as the waking fantasies of her - Whose screams and incoherent words gave voice - To all their phantom brood. - - At length I woke. - The house was still as death; and yet I heard, - Or thought I heard, the touch of crafty feet - Upon the carpet, creeping by my door. - It passed away, away; and then a pause, - Still and presageful as the breathless calm - On which the storm-cloud mounts the pallid West, - Succeeded. I could hear the parlor-clock - Counting the beaded silence, and my bed, - Rustling beneath my breathing and my pulse, - Was sharply crepitant, and gave me pain. - - An hour passed by (it loitered like an age), - And then came hurried words and hasty fall - Of footsteps in the passage. I could hear - Screams, sobs, and whispered calls and closing doors - And heavy feet that jarred my bed, and shook - The windows of my room. I did not stir: - I dared not stir, but lay in deathly dread, - Waiting the sad denouement. Soon it came. - A man approached my door, and tried the latch; - Then knocked, and called. I knew the kindly voice - Of the physician, and threw back the bolt. - Then by the light he held before his face - I read the fact of death. - - I took his arm, - And, as I feebly staggered down the stairs, - He broke to me with lack of useless words - The awful truth.... The old familiar tale: - She counterfeited sleep: the nurses both, - Weary with over-watching in their chairs, - Under the cumbrous stillness, slept indeed; - And when she knew it, she escaped; and then - She did the deed to which for many years - She had been predisposed. Perhaps I knew - The nature of the case: perhaps I knew - My father went that way. I clutched his arm: - There was no need of words. - - The parlor door - Stood open, and a throng of silent friends, - Choking with tears, gazed on a silent form - Shrouded in snowy linen. They made way - For me and my companion. On my knees - I clasped the precious clay, and pouring forth - My pitying love and tenderness for her, - I gave indignant voice to my complaint - Against the Being who, to all her prayers - For succor and security, had turned - A deaf, dead ear and a repelling hand. - - To what blaspheming utterance I gave - My raving passion, may the God I cursed - Forbid my shrinking memory to recall! - I now remember only that when drawn - By strong, determined hands away from her, - The room was vacant. Every pitying friend - Had flown my presence and the room, to find - Release of sensibility from words - That roused their superstitious souls to fear - That God would smite me through the blinding smoke - Of my great torment. - - Silence, for the rest! - It was a dream; and only as a dream - Do I remember it: the coffined form, - The funeral--a concourse of the town-- - The trembling prayer for me, the choking sobs, - The long procession, the descending clods, - The slow return, articulated all - With wild, mad words of mine, and gentle speech - Of those who sought to curb or comfort me-- - All was a dream, from which I woke at length - With heart as dead as hers who slept. The heavens - Were brass above me, and the breathing world - Was void and meaningless. When told to pray, - This was the logic of my heart's reply: - If God be Love, not such is He to me - Nor such to mine. If He heard not the voice - Of such a lovely saint as she I mourned, - Mine would but rouse His vengeance. - - So I closed - With Reason's hand the adamantine doors - Which only Faith unlocks, and shut my soul - Away from God, the warder of a gang - Of passions that in darkness stormed or gloomed - And with each other fought, or on themselves - Gnawed for the nourishment which I denied. - - - - - COMPLAINT. - - River, sparkling river, I have fault to find with thee - River, thou dost never give a word of peace to me! - Dimpling to each touch of sunshine, wimpling to each air that blows, - Thou dost make no sweet replying to my sighing for repose. - - Flowers of mount and meadow, I have fault to find with you; - So the breezes cross and toss you, so your cups are filled with dew, - Matters not though sighs give motion to the ocean of your breath; - Matters not though you are filling with the chilling drops of death! - - Birds of song and beauty, lo! I charge you all with blame:-- - Though all hapless passions thrill and fill me, you are still the same. - I can borrow for my sorrow nothing that avails - From your lonely note, that only speaks of joy that never fails. - - O! indifference of Nature to the fact of human pain! - Every grief that seeks relief entreats it at her hand in vain; - Not a bird speaks forth its passion, not a river seeks the sea, - Nor a flower from wreaths of Summer breathes in sympathy with me. - - O! the rigid rock is frigid, though its bed be summer mould, - And the diamond glitters ever in the grasp of changeless gold; - And the laws that bring the seasons swing their cycles as they must, - Though the ample road they trample blind the eyes with human dust. - - Moons will wax in argent glory, though man wane to hopeless gloom; - Stars will sparkle in their splendor, though he darkle to his doom; - Winds of heaven he calls to fan him ban him with an icy chill, - And the shifting crowds of clouds go drifting o'er him as they will. - - Yet within my inmost spirit I can hear an undertone, - That by law of prime relation holds these voices as its own,-- - The full tonic whose harmonic grandeurs rise through Nature's words, - From the ocean's thundrous rolling to the trolling of the birds. - - Spirit, O! my spirit! Is it thou art out of tune? - Art thou clinging to December while the earth is in its June? - Hast thou dropped thy part in nature? Hast thou touched another key? - Art thou angry that the anthem will not, cannot, wait for thee? - - Spirit, thou art left alone--alone on waters wild; - For God is gone, and Love is dead, and Nature spurns her child. - Thou art drifting in a deluge, waves below and clouds above, - And with weary wings come back to thee, thy raven and thy dove. - - - - - PART II. - - LOVE. - - As from a deep, dead sea, by drastic lift - Of pent volcanic fires, the dripping form - Of a new island swells to meet the air, - And, after months of idle basking, feels - The prickly feet of life from countless germs - Creeping along its sides, and reaching up - In fern and flower to the life-giving sun, - So from my grief I rose, and so at length - I felt new life returning: so I felt - The life already wakened stretching forth - To stronger light and purer atmosphere. - But most I longed for human love--the source - (So sadly closed), from which my life had drawn - Its sweetest inspiration and reward. - I could not pray, nor could my spirit win - From sights and sounds of nature the response - It vaguely yearned for. They assailed my sense - With senseless seeming of the hum and whirl - Of vast machinery, whose motive power - Sought its own ends, or wrought for ministry - To other life than mine. - - I could stand still, - And see the trains sweep by; could hear the roar - Of thundering wheels; could watch the pearly plumes - That floated where they flew; could catch a glimpse - Of thousand happy faces at the glass; - But felt that all their freighted life and wealth - Were nought to me, and moved toward other souls - In other latitudes. - - A year had flown, - And more, when, on a Sunday morn in June, - I wandered out, to wear away the hours - Of growing restlessness. The worshippers - Were thronging to the service of the day, - And gave me sidelong stare, or shunned me quite; - As if they knew me for a reprobate, - And feared a taint of death. - - I took the road - That eastward cleft the town, and sought the bridge - That spanned the river, reaching which I crossed. - Then deep within the stripes of springing corn - I found the shadow of an elm, and lay - Stretched on the downy grass for listless hours, - Dreaming of days gone by, or turning o'er - With careless hand the pages of a book - I had brought with me. - - Tired at length I rose, - And, touched by some light impulse, moved along - The old, familiar road. I loitered on - In a blind reverie, nor marked the while - The furlongs or the time, until the spell - In a full burst of music was dissolved. - I startled as one startles from a dream, - And saw the church of Hadley, from whose doors, - Open to summer air, the choral hymn - Poured out its measured tides, and rose and fell - Upon the silence in broad cadences, - As from a far, careering sea, the waves - Lift into silver swells the sleeping breasts - Of land-locked bays. - - I heard the sound of flutes - And hoarse, sonorous viols, in accord - With happy human voices,--and one voice-- - A woman's or an angel's--that compelled - My feet to swift approach. A thread of gold, - Through all the web of sound, I followed it - Till, by the stress of some strange sympathy, - And by no act of will, I joined my voice - To that one voice of melody, and sang. - - The heart is wiser than the intellect, - And works with swifter hands and surer feet - Toward wise conclusions. So, without resort - To reason, in my heart I knew that she - Who sang had suffered--knew that she had grieved, - Had hungered, struggled, kissed the cheek of death, - And ranged the scale of passions till her soul - Was deep, and wide, and soft with sympathy;-- - Nay, more than this: that she had found at last - Peace like a river, on whose waveless tide - She floated while she sang. This was the key - That loosed my prisoned voice, and filled my eyes - With tender tears, and touched to life again - My better nature. - - When the choral closed, - And the last chord in silence lapsed away, - I raised my eyes, and, nodding to the beck - Of the old, slippered sexton, I went in,-- - Not (shall it be confessed?) to find the God - At whose plain altar bowed the rural throng; - But, through a voice, to follow to its source - The influence that moved me. - - I was late; - And many eyes looked up as I advanced - Through the broad aisle, and took a seat that turned - My face to all the faces in the house. - I scanned the simpering girls within the choir, - But found not what I sought; and then my eyes - With rambling inquisition swept the pews, - Pausing at every maiden face in vain. - One head, that crowned a tall and slender form, - Was bowed with reverent grace upon the rail - Before her; and, although I caught no glimpse - Of her sweet face, I knew such face was there, - And there the voice. - - It was Communion Day. - The simple table underneath the desk - Was draped with linen, on whose snow was spread - The feast of love--the vases filled with wine, - The separated bread and circling cups. - The venerable pastor had come down - From his high pulpit, and assumed the seat - Of presidence, and, with benignant eyes, - Sat smiling on his flock. The deacons all - Rose from their pews--four old, brown-handed men - With frosty hair--and took the ancient chairs - That flanked the table. All the house was still - Save here and there the rustle of a silk - Or folding of a fan; and over all - Brooded the dove of peace. I had no part - In the fair spectacle, but I could feel - That it was beautiful and sweet as heaven. - When the old pastor rose, with solemn mien, - I looked to see the lady lift her head; - But still she bowed; and then I heard these words; - "The person who unites with us to-day - Will take her place before me in the aisle, - To give her answer to our creed, and speak - The pledges of our covenant." - - Then first - I saw her face. With modest grace she rose, - Lifted her hat, and gave it to the hand - Of a companion, and within the aisle - Stood out alone. My heart beat thick and fast - With vision of her perfect loveliness, - And apprehension of the heroism - That shone within her eyes, and made her act - A Christ-like sacrifice. - - O! eyes of blue! - O! lily throat and cheeks of faintest rose! - O! brow serene, enthroned in holy thought! - O! soft, brown sweeps of hair! O! shapely grace - Of maidenhood, enrobed in virgin white! - Why, in your rapt unconsciousness of me - And all around you--in the presence-hall - Of God and angels--at the marriage-feast - Of Jesus and his chosen--did my eyes - Profane the hour with other feast than yours? - - I heard the "You Believe" of the old creed - Of puritan New England; and I heard - The old "You Promise" of its covenant. - Her bow of reverent assent to all - The knotty dogmas, and her silent pledge - Of faithfulness and fellowship, I saw. - These formularies were the frame of oak-- - Gnarled, strongly carved, and swart with age and use-- - Which held the lovely picture of my saint, - And showed her saintliness and beauty well. - - At close of the recital and response, - The pastor raised the plain, baptismal bowl, - And she, the maiden devotee, advanced - And knelt before him. Lifting then her eyes - To him and heaven, with look of earnest faith - And perfect consecration, she received - Upon her brow the water from his hand. - The trickling chrism shone on her cheeks like tears, - The while he joined her lovely name with God's: - "KATHRINA, I BAPTIZE THEE IN THE NAME - OF FATHER, SON, AND HOLY GHOST, AMEN!" - - Still kneeling like a saint before a shrine, - She closed her eyes. Then lifting up toward heaven - His hands, the pastor prayed,--prayed that her soul - Might be forever kept from stain and sin; - That Christ might live in her, and through her life - Shine into other souls; might give her strength - To master all temptation, and to keep - The vows that day assumed; might comfort her - In every sorrow, and, in death's dread hour, - Bear her in hopeful triumph to the rest - Prepared for those who love him. - - All this scene - I saw through blinding tears. The poetry - That like a soft aureola embraced - Within its cope those two contrasted forms; - The eager observation and the hush - That reigned through all the house; the breathless spell - Of sweet solemnity and tender awe - Which held all hearts, when she, The Beautiful, - Received the sign of marriage to The Good, - O'erwhelmed me, and I wept. Shall I confess - That in the struggle to repress my tears - And hold my swelling heart, I grudged her gift, - And felt that, by the measure she had risen, - She had put space between herself and me, - And quenched my hope? - - She stood while courtesy - Of formal Christian welcome was bestowed; - Then straightway sought her seat, as though no eyes - But those of One unseen observed her steps. - I saw her taste the sacramental bread, - And touch the silver chalice to her lips; - And while she thought of Him, The Spotless One - Whose flesh and blood were symboled to her heart, - And worshipped in her thought, I ate and drank - Her virgin beauty--with what guilty sense - Of profanation! - - Last, the closing hymn - Gave me her voice again; and this I drank; - Nay, this invaded and pervaded me. - Its subtile search found out the sleeping chords - Of sympathy; and on the bridge of sound - It built between our souls, I crossed, and saw - Into the depths of purity and love-- - The full, pathetic power of womanhood-- - From which the structure sprang. Just once - I caught her eyes. She blushed with consciousness - Of my strong gaze; but paused not in her hymn - Till she had given to every word the wings - That bore it, like a singing bird, toward heaven. - - The benediction fell; and then the throng - Passed slowly out. I was the last to go. - I saw a man whom I had known, and shrank - Both from his greetings and his questionings. - One thing I learned: that she who thus had joined - This cluster of disciples was not born - And reared among their number: that was plain. - I saw it in her bearing and her dress; - In that unconsciousness of self that comes - Of gentle breeding, and society - Of gentle men and women; in the ease - With which she bore the awkward deference - Of those who spoke with her adown the aisle; - In distant and admiring gaze of men, - And the cold scrutiny of village girls - Who passed for belles. - - I stood upon the steps-- - The last who left the door--and there I found - The lady and her friend. The elder turned, - And with a cordial greeting took my hand, - And rallied me on my forgetfulness. - Her eyes, her smile, her manner and her voice - Touched the quick springs of memory, and I spoke - Her name. - - She was my mother's early friend, - Whose face I had not seen in all the years - That had flown over us, since, from her door, - I chased her lamb to where I found--myself. - She spoke with tender words and swimming eyes - Of her I mourned, and questioned me like one - Who felt a mother's anxious interest - In all my cares and plans. Why did I not - In all my maunderings and wanderings - Remember I had friends, and visit them-- - Not missing her? Her niece was with her now; - Would live with her, perhaps--("a lovely girl!"-- - In whisper); and they both would so much like - To see me at their house! (whisper again: - "Poor child! I fear it is but dull for her, - Here in the country.") Then with sudden thought-- - "Kathrina!" - - With a blushing smile she turned - (She had heard every word), and then her aunt-- - Her voluble, dear aunt--presented me - As an old friend--the son of an old friend-- - Whose eyes had promised he would visit them, - Although, in her monopoly of speech, - She had quite shut him from the chance to say - So much as that. - - I caught the period - Quick as it dropped, and spoke the happiness - I had in meeting them, and gave the pledge-- - No costly thing to give--to end my walks - On pleasant nightfalls at the little house - Under the mountain. - - I had spoken more, - But then the carriage, with its single horse, - For which they waited, rattled to the steps, - And we descended. To their lofty seats - I helped the pair, and in my own I held - For one sweet moment, hand of all the hands - In the wide world I longed to clasp the most. - A courteous "Good Evening, Sir," was all I won - From its possessor; but her lively aunt - With playful menace shook her fan at me, - And said: "Remember, Paul!" and rode away. - - "A worldly woman, Sir!" growled a grum throat, - I turned, and saw the sexton. Query: "which?" - "I mean the aunt." ... "And what about the niece?" - "Too fine for common people!" (with a shrug). - "I think she is," I said, with quiet voice, - And turned my feet toward home. - - A pious girl! - And what could I be to a pious girl? - What could she be to me? Weak questions, these: - And vain perhaps; but such as young men ask - On slighter spur than mine. - - She had bestowed - Her love, her life, her goodly self on heaven, - And had been nobly earnest in her gift. - Before all lovers she had chosen Christ; - Before all idols, God; before all wish - And will of loving man, her heart and hand - Were pledged to duty. Could she be a wife? - Could she be mine, with such unstinted wealth - Of love, and love's devotion, as I craved? - Would she not leave me for a Sunday School - Before the first moon's wane? Would she not seek - The cant and snuffle of conventicles - "At early candle-light," and sing her hymns - To drivelling boors, and cheat me of her songs? - Would she exhaust herself in "doing good" - After the modern styles--in patching quilts, - And knitting socks, and bearing feeble tracts - To dirty little children--not to speak - Of larger work for missionary folk? - Would there not come a time (O! fateful time!) - When Dorcas and her host would fill my house, - And I by courtesy be held at home - To entertain their twaddle, and to smile, - While in God's name and lovely Charity's - They would consume my substance? Would she not - Become the stern and stately president - Of some society, or figure in the list - Of slim directresses in spectacles? - - So much for questions: then reflections came. - These pious women make more careful wives - Than giddy ones. They do not run away, - Though, doubtless, husbands live whose hearts would heal, - Broken by such a blow! The time they give - To worship and to pious offices - Defrauds the mirror mainly; and the gold - That goes for charity goes not for gems. - - Besides, these pious and believing wives - Make gentle mothers, who, with self-control - And patient firmness, train their children well-- - A fact to be remembered. But, alas! - They train their husbands too, and undertake - A mission to their souls, so gently pushed, - So tenderly, they may not take offence, - Or punish with rebuff; and yet, dear hearts! - With such persistence, that they reach the raw - Before they know it: so it comes to tears - At last, with comfort in an upper room. - But then--a seal is sacred to them, and a purse - Or pocket-book, though in a dressing-room - With shutters and a key! - - Thus wrapped in thought - And selfish calculation of the claims - Of one my peer, or my superior, - In every personal and moral grace, - I walked along, till, on my consciousness, - Flashed the absurdity of my conceits - And my assumptions, and I laughed outright-- - Laughed at myself, so loudly and so long - That I was startled. Not for many months - Had sound of mirth escaped me; and my voice - Rang strangely in my ears, as if the lips - Of one long dead had spoken. - - I received - The token of returning healthfulness - With warm self-gratulation. I had touched - The magic hand that held new life for me: - The cloud was lifted, and the burden gone. - The leaf within my book of fate, that gloomed - With awful records, washed and blotched by tears-- - Blown by a woman's breath from finger-tip's - They knew not what they did--was folded back; - And all the next white page held but one word, - One word of gold and flame--its title-crown-- - That wrought a rosy nimbus for itself; - And that one word was LOVE. - - The laggard days - My pride or my propriety imposed - Upon desire, before my eyes could see - The object of my new-born passion, passed; - And in the low hours of an afternoon. - Bright with the largess of kingly shower - Whose chariot-wheels still thundered in the East, - Leaving the West aflame, I sought the meads, - And once again, thrilled by foretasted joy, - Walked toward the mountain. - - While I walked, the rain - Fell like a veil of gauze between my eyes - And the blue wall; and from the precious spot - That held the object of my thought, there sprang - An iridal effulgence, faint at first, - But brightening fast, and leaping to an arch - That spanned the heavens--a miracle of light! - "There's treasure where the rainbow rests," I said. - Would it evade me, as, for years untold, - It had evaded every childish dupe - Whose feet had chased the bright, elusive cheat? - Would it evade me? Question that arose, - And loomed with darker front and huger form - Than the dark mountain, and more darkly loomed - And higher rose as the long path grew short! - Would it evade me? Like a passing smile - The rainbow faded from the mountain's face; - And Hope's resplendent iris, which illumed - My question, grew phantasmal, and at length - Evanished, leaving but a doubtful blur. - Would it evade me? Gods! what wealth or waste - Of precious life awaited the reply! - Was it a coward's shudder that o'erswept - My frame at thought of possible repulse - And possible relapse? - - "Oh! there he comes!" - I heard the mistress of the cottage say - Behind a honeysuckle. Did I smile? - It was because the fancy crossed me then - That the announcement was like one which rings - Over the polar seas, when, from his perch, - The lookout bruits a long-expected whale! - Then sweeping the piazza from the spot - Where with her niece she sat, she hailed me with: - "So, you are come at last! How very sad - These men have so much business! Tell me how - You got away; how soon you must return; - Who suffers by your absence; what the news, - And whether you are well." - - Brisk medicine - These words to me, and timely given. They broke - The spell of fear, and banished my restraint. - She took my arm, and led me to her niece, - Who greeted me as if some special grace - Of courtesy were due, to make amends - For the familiar badinage her aunt - Had poured upon me. - - They had come without-- - One with her work, the other with her book-- - To taste the freshness of the evening air, - Washed of the hot day's dust by rain; to hear - The robin's hymn of joy; and watch the clouds - That canopied with gold the sinking sun. - The maiden in a pale-blue, muslin robe-- - Dyed with forget-me-nots, I fancied then, - And sweet with life in every fold, I knew-- - A blush-rose at her throat, and in her hair - A sprig of green and white, was lovelier - Than sky or landscape; and her low words fell - More musically than the robin's hymn. - So, with my back to other scene and sound, - I faced the faces, took the proffered chair - And looked and listened. - - "Tell us of yourself," - Spoke the blunt aunt, with license of her years. - "What are you doing now?" - - "Nothing," I said. - - "And were you not the boy who was to grow - Into a great, good man, and write fine books, - And have no end of fame?" - - The question cut - Deeper than she intended. The hot blush - And stammering answer told her of the hurt, - And tenderly she tried to heal the wound: - "I know that you have suffered; but your hours - Must not be told by tears. The life that goes - In unavailing sorrow goes to waste." - - "True," I replied, "but work may not be done - Without a motive. Never worthy man - Worked worthily who was not moved by love. - When she I loved, and she who loved me died, - My motive died; and it can never rise - Till trump of love shall call it from the dust - To resurrection." - - I spoke earnestly, - Without a thought that other ears than hers - Were listening to my words; but when I looked, - I saw the maiden's eyes were dim with tears. - I knew her own experience was touched, - And that her heart made answer to my own - In perfect sympathy. - - To change the drift, - I took her book, and read the title-page: - "So you like poetry," I said. - - "So well my aunt - Finds fault with me." - - "You write, perhaps?" - - "Not I." - - "A happy woman!" I exclaimed; "in truth, - The first I ever found affecting art - Who shunned expression by it. If a girl - Like painting, she must paint; if poetry, - She must write verses. Can you tell me why - (For sex marks no distinction in this thing). - Men with a taste for art in finest forms - Cherish the fancy that they may become, - Or are, Art's masters? You shall see a man - Who never drew a line or struck an arc - Direct an architect, and spoil his work, - Because, forsooth! he likes a tasteful house! - He likes a muffin, but he does not go - Into his kitchen to instruct his cook,-- - Nay, that were insult. He admires fine clothes, - But trusts his tailor. Only in those arts - Which issue from creative potencies - Does his conceit engage him. He could learn - The baker's trade, and learn to cut a coat, - But never learn to do that one great deed - Which he essays." - - "'Tis not a strange mistake-- - These people make"--she answered, thoughtfully. - "Art gives them pleasure; and they honor those - Whose heads and hands produce it. If they see - The length and breadth and beauty of a thought - Embodied by another,--if they hold - The taste, the culture, the capacity, - To measure values in the things of art, - Why cannot they create? Why cannot they - Win to themselves the honor they bestow - On those who feed them? Is it very strange - That those who know how sweet the gratitude - Which the true artist stirs, should burn to taste - That gratitude themselves?" - - "Not strange, perhaps," - I said, "and yet, it is a sad mistake; - For countless noble lives have gone to waste - In work which it inspired." - - Here spoke the aunt: - "You are a precious pair; and if you know - What you are talking of, you know a deal - More than your elders. By your royal leave, - I will retire; for I can lay the cloth - For kings and queens though I may fail to know - Their lore and language. You can eat, I think; - And hear a tea-bell, though you hear not me." - Thus speaking, in her crisp, good-natured way, - The lady left us. - - When she passed the door, - And laughter at her jest had had its way, - I said: "It takes all sorts to make a world." - - "How many, think you? Only one, two, three," - The maiden said. "Here we have all the world - In this one cottage--artist, teacher, taught, - In--not to mar the order of the scale - For courtesy--yourself, myself, my aunt. - You are an artist, so my aunt reports; - But, as an artist, you are nought to her. - And now, to broach a petted theory, - Let me presume too boldly, while I say - She cannot understand you, though I can; - You cannot measure her, though she is wise. - You have not much for her, and that you have - You cannot teach her; but I, knowing her, - Can pick from your creations crumbs of thought - She will find manna. In the hands of Christ - The five loaves grew, the fishes multiplied; - And he to his disciples gave the feast-- - They to the multitude. Artists are few, - Teachers are thousands, and the world is large. - Artists are nearest God. Into their souls - He breathes his life, and from their hands it comes - In fair, articulate forms to bless the world; - And yet, these forms may never bless the world - Except its teachers take them in their hands, - And give each man his portion." - - As she spoke - In earnest eloquence, I could have knelt, - And worshipped her. Her delicate cheek was flushed, - Her eyes were filled with light, and her closed book - Was pressed against her heart, whose throbbing tide - Thridded her temples. I was half amused, - Half rapt in admiration; and she saw - That in my eyes at which she blushed and paused. - "Your pardon, Sir," she said. "It ill becomes - A teacher to instruct an artist." - - "Nay, - It does become you wondrously," I said - With light but earnest words. "Pray you go on; - And pardon all that my unconscious eyes - Have done to stop you." - - "I have little more - That I would care to say: you have my thought," - She answered; "yet there's very much to say, - And you should say it." - - "Not I, lady, no: - A poet is not practical like you, - Nor sensible like you. You can teach him - As well as tamer folk. In truth, I think - He needs instruction quite as much as they - For whom he writes." - - "That's possible," she said - With an arch smile. - - "Will you explain yourself?" - - "Well--if you wish it--yes:" she made reply. - "And first, my auditor must know that I - Relieve in inspiration, though he knows - So much as that already, from my words,-- - Believe that God inspires the poet's soul,-- - That he gives eyes to see, and ears to hear - What in his realm holds finest ministry - For highest aptitudes and needs of men, - And skill to mould it into forms of art - Which shall present it to the world he serves. - Sometimes the poet writes with fire; with blood - Sometimes; sometimes with blackest ink: - It matters not. God finds his mighty way - Into his verse. The dimmest window-panes - Let in the morning light, and in that light - Our faces shine with kindled sense of God - And his unwearied goodness; but the glass - Gets little good of it; nay, it retains - Its chill and grime beyond the power of light - To warm or whiten. E'en the prophet's ass - Had better eyes than he who strode his back, - And, though the prophet bore the word of God, - Did finer reverence. The Psalmist's soul - Was not a fitting place for psalms like his - To dwell in over-long, while waiting words, - If I read rightly. As for the old seers, - Whose eyes God touched with vision of the life - Of the unfolding ages, I must doubt - Whether they comprehended what they saw, - Or knew what they recorded. It remains - For the world's teachers to expound their words; - To probe their mysteries; and relegate - The truth they hold in blind significance - Into the fair domains of history - And human knowledge. Am I understood?" - - "You are," I answered; "and I cannot say - You flatter me. God takes within his hand - A thing of his contrivance which we call - A poet: then he puts it to his lips, - And speaks his word, and puts it down again-- - The instrument not better and not worse - For being handled;--not improved a whit - In quality, by quality of that - Which it conveys. Do I report aright? - Or do you prompt me?" - - "You are very apt," - She said, "at learning, but a little bald - In statement. Nathless, be it as you say; - And we shall see how it is possible - That poets need instruction quite as much - As those for whom they write. What sad, bad men - The brightest geniuses have been! How weak, - How mean in character! how foul in life! - How feebly have the best of them retained - The wealth of good and beauty which has flowed - In crystal streams from God, the fountain head, - Through them to fertilize the world! Nay, worse, - How many of them have infused the tide - With tincture of their own impurity, - To poison sweetest, unsuspecting lips, - And breed diseases in the finest blood! - And poets not alone, and not the worst; - But painters, sculptors--those whose kingly power - And aptitude for utterance divine - Have made them artists:--how have these contemned - In countless instances the God of Heaven - Who filled them with his fire! Think you that these - Could compass their achievements of themselves? - Can streams surpass their fountains?" - - "Nay," I said, - In quick response, "Your argument is good; - But is the artist nothing? Is he nought - But an apt tool--a mouth-piece for a voice? - You make him but the spigot of a cask - Round which you, teachers, wait with silver cups - To bear away the wine that leaves it dry. - You magnify your office." - - "We do all - Wait upon God for every grace and good," - She then rejoined. "You take it at first hand, - And we from yours: the multitude from ours. - It may leach through our souls, if our poor wills - Retain it not, and drench the fragrant sand. - And if I magnify my office--well! - 'Tis a great office. What would come of all - The music of the masters, did not we - Wait at their doors, to publish to the world - What God has told them? They would be as mute - As the dumb Sphynx. They write a symphony, - An opera, an oratorio, - In language that the teacher understands, - And straight the whole world echoes to its strains - It shrills and thunders through cathedral glooms - From golden organ-tubes and voiceful choirs; - The halls of art of both the hemispheres - Resound with its divinest melodies; - The street stirs with the impulse, and we hear - The blare of martial trumpets, and the tramp - Of bannered armies swaying to its rhythm; - The hurdy-gurdies and the whistling boys - Adopt the lighter strains; and round and round - A million souls its hovering fancies float, - Like butterflies above a fair parterre, - Till, settling one by one, they sleep at last; - And lo! two petals more on every flower! - And this not all; for though the master die, - The teacher lives forever. On and on, - Through all the generations, he shall preach - The beautiful evangel;--on and on, - Till our poor race has passed the tortuous years - That lie prevening the millennium, - And slid into that broad and open sea, - He shall sail singing still the songs he learned - In the world's youth, and sing them o'er and o'er - To lapping waters, till the thousand leagues - Are overpast, and argosy and crew - Ride at their port." - - "True as to facts," I said - "And as to prophecies, most credible; - But, as an illustration, false, I think. - That which the voice and instrument may do - For the composer, types may do for those - Who mint their thoughts in verse. Music is writ - In language that the people do not read-- - Is lame in that--and needs interpreters; - While poetry, e'en in its noblest forms - And boldest flights, speaks their vernacular. - Your aunt can read the book within your hand - As well as you, if she desire, yet finds - Your score all Greek, until you vocalize - Its wealth of hidden meaning. As for arts - Which meet the eye in picture and in form, - They ask no mediator but the light-- - No grace but privilege to shine with naught - Between them and the light. They are themselves - Expositors of that which they expose, - Or they are nothing. All the middle-men-- - The fools profound--who take it on their tongues - To play the showmen, strutting up and down, - And mouthing of the beauty that they hide, - Are an impertinence." - - "You leave no room - For critics," she suggested, with a smile. - "We must not spoil a trade, or starve the wives - And innocent babes it feeds." - - "No care for them!" - I made reply. "They do not need much room-- - Men of their build--and what they need they take. - The feeble conies burrow in the rocks; - But the trees grow, and we are not aware - Of space encumbered by them." - - "Yet the fact - Still stands untouched," she added, thoughtfully, - "That greatest artists speak to fewest souls, - Or speak to them directly. They have need - Of no such ministry as waits the beck - Of the composer; but they need the life, - If not the learning, of the cultured few - Who understand them. If from out my book - I gather that which feeds me, and inspires - A nobler, sweeter beauty in my life, - And give my life to those who cannot win - From the dim text such boon, then have I borne - A blessing from the book, and been its best - Interpreter. The bread that comes from heaven - Needs finest breaking. Some there doubtless are-- - Some ready souls--that take the morsel pure - Divided to their need; but multitudes - Must have it in admixtures, menstruums, - And forms that human hands or human life - Have moulded. Though the multitudes may find - Something to stir and lift their sluggish souls - In sight of great cathedrals, or in view - Of noble pictures, yet they see not all, - And not the best. That which they do not see - Must enter higher souls, and there, by art - Or life, be fashioned to their want." - - "Your thought - Grows subtle," I responded, "and I grant - Its force and beauty. If the round truth lie - Somewhere between us, and I see the face - It turns to me in stronger light than you - Reveal its opposite, why, let the fault be mine; - It is not yours. You have instructed me, - And won my thanks." - - "Instructed you?" she said, - With a fine blush: "you mock, you humble me. - And have I talked so much, with such an air, - That, either earnestly or in a jest, - You can say this to me?" - - "'Tis not a sin, - In latitude of ours," I made reply, - "To talk philosophy; 'tis only rare - For beardless lips to do so. I have caught - From yours a finer, more suggestive scheme - Than all the wise have taught me by their books, - Or by their voices. I will think of it." - - "Now may you be forgiven!" the aunt exclaimed, - Approaching unobserved. "There never lived - A quieter, more plainly speaking girl, - Than my Kathrina. All these weeks and months, - I have heard nought from her but common sense; - But when you came, why, off she went; though where - It's more than I know. You, sir, have the blame; - And you must lift your spell, and give her back - Just as you found her." - - "She has practised well - Her scheme on us. She breaks to you the bread - That meets your want; to me, that meets my own," - I said, in answering. - - "Well," spoke the aunt, - "I think I'll try my hand at breaking bread: - So, follow me." - - We followed to her board, - And there, in converse suited to the hour - And presence of our hostess, proved ourselves-- - Quite to that lady's liking--of the earth. - We ate her jumbles for her, sipped her tea, - And revelled in the spicy succulence - Of her preserves. - - While still I sat at ease, - The maiden's eye, with quick, uneasy glance, - Sought the clock's dial. Then she turned to me. - And said with sweet, respectful courtesy: - "Pray you excuse my presence for an hour. - A duty calls me out; and that performed, - I will return." - - I saw she marked my look - Of disappointment--that it staggered her-- - The while with words of stiffest commonplace - I gave assent. But she was on her feet; - And soon I heard her light step on the stair, - Seeking her chamber. - - "Whither will she go - At such an hour as this, from you and me?" - I coldly questioned of the keen-eyed aunt. - - "You men are very curious," she said. - "I knew you'd ask me. Can't a lady stir, - But you must call her to account? Who knows - She may not have some rustic lover here - With whom she keeps her tryst? 'Tis an old trick, - Not wholly out of fashion in these parts. - What matters it? She orders her own ways, - And has discretion." - - With lugubrious voice - I said: "You trifle, madam, with my wish. - I know the lady has no lover here, - And so do you." - - "I'm not so sure of that!" - My hostess made response; and then she laughed - A rippling, rollicking roulade, and shook - Her finger at me, till my temples burned - With the hot shame she summoned. - - "There!" I said; - "You've done your worst, and learned so much, at least-- - That I admire your niece. _I_ curious! - Well, you are curious and cunning too. - Now, in the moment of your victory, - Be generous; and tell me what may call - The lady from us." - - "It is Thursday night," - She answered soberly,--"the weekly hour - At which our quiet neighborhood convenes - For social worship. You may guess the rest - Without my telling; but you cannot know - With what anticipated joy she leaves - Our company, or with what shining face - She will return." - - At that, I heard her dress - Sliding the flight, and rising, made my way - To meet her at its foot. A happy smile - Illumed her features, as she gave her hand - With thought of parting. I had rallied all - My self-control and gallantry meanwhile, - And said: "Not here. I'll with you, by your leave, - So far as you may walk." - - There was a flash - Of gladness in her eyes, and in her thanks - A subtler charm than gratitude. - - I bade - My hostess a "good-night," and left her door. - Declining her entreaty to return. - We walked in silence, side by side, a space, - And then, with feigned indifference, I spoke: - "Your aunt has told me of your errand; else, - It had been modest in me to withhold - This tendance on your steps. She tells me you - Are quite a devotee. Whom do you meet, - In neighborhood like this, to give a zest - To hour like this?" - - "Brothers and sisters all," - She said in low reply; "and as for zest, - There's never lack of it where there is love. - When families convene, they have no need - Of more than love to give them festal joy; - Nor do they with discrimination judge - Between the high and humble. These are one; - Love makes them one." - - "And you are one with these?" - - "Though most unworthy of such fellowship, - I trust that I am one with these;--that they - Are one with me, and reckon me among - Their number." - - "Can they do you any good?" - - "They can," she said, "but were it otherwise, - I can serve them; and so should seek them still. - I help them in their songs." - - We reached too soon - The open doorway of the humble hut - Which, far long years, had held the village school, - And, at a little distance, paused. The room, - Battered and black by wantonest abuse - Of the rude youth, was lit by feeble lamps, - Brought by the villagers; and scattered round - Upon the high, hacked benches, hardly less - Rude and rough-worn than they, the worshippers - In silence sat. It was no place for words. - I took the lady's hand, and said "good-night!" - In whisper. Then she turned, and disappeared - Within the sheltered gloom; but I could see - The care-worn cheeks light up with pleasant fire - As she passed in; and e'en the fainting lamps - Flared with new life, the while they caught the breath - Of her sweet robe. Then with an angry heart - I turned away, and, wrapped in selfish thought, - Took up the walk toward home. - - This homely group - Of Yankee lollards she preferred to me! - These poor, pinched boobies, with their silly wives-- - Ah! these were they who gave her overmuch - In the bestowal of their fellowship! - These crowned her with a peerless privilege, - Permitting her to sit with them an hour - As a dear sister! How my sore self-love - Burned with the hot affront! - - With lips compressed, - Or blurting forth their anger and disgust, - I strode the meadows, stalked the silent town, - And growled and groaned in sullen helplessness - About the streets, until the midnight bell - Tolled from the old church tower;--in helplessness, - For, mattered nothing what or who she was - (I had not dared or cared to question that), - Or how offensive in her piety - And her devotion to the tasteless cult - Of the weak throng, I was her slave; and she-- - Her own and God's. The miserable strife - Between my love of self and love of her - I knew was bootless; and the trenchant truth - Cut to the quick. She held within her hand - My heart, my life, my doom, yet knew it not; - And had she known, her soul was under vows - Which would forever make subordinate - Their recognized possession. - - But the morn - Brought with it better mood and calmer thought: - I had the grace to gauge the heartlessness - Of my exactions, and the power to crush - The tyrant wish to tear her from the throne - To which she clung. I said: "So she love me - As a true woman loves, and give herself-- - Her sweet, pure self--to me, and fill my home - With her dear presence, loyal still to me - In wifely love and wifely offices, - Though she abide in Christian loyalty - By Christian vows, she shall have liberty, - And hold it as her right." - - She was my peer; - No weakling girl, who would surrender will - And life and reason, with her loving heart, - To her possessor;--no soft, clinging thing - Who would find breath alone within the arms - Of a strong master, and obediently - Wait on his whims in slavish carefulness;-- - No fawning, cringing spaniel, to attend - His royal pleasure, and account herself - Rewarded by his pats and pretty words, - But a round woman, who, with insight keen, - Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well - Her womanhood; had spread before her feet - A fine philosophy to guide her steps; - Had won a faith to which her life was brought - In strict adjustment--brain and heart meanwhile - Working in conscious harmony and rhythm - With the great scheme of God's great universe, - On toward her being's end. - - I could but know - Her motives were superior to mine. - I could but feel that in her loyalty - To God and duty, she condemned my life. - Into her woman's heart, thrown open wide - In holy charity, she had drawn all - Of human kind, and found no humblest soul - Too humble for her entertainment,--none - So weak it could return no grateful boon - For what she gave; and standing modestly - Within her scheme, with meekest reverence - She bowed to those above her, yet with strong - And hearty confidence assumed a place - In service of the world, as minister - Ordained of heaven to break to it the bread - She took from other hands. And she was one - Who could see all there was of good in me,-- - Could measure well the product of my power, - And give it impulse and direction: nay, - Could supplement my power; and help my heart - Against its foes. - - The moment that I thrust - The selfish thirsting for monopoly - Of her affections from my godless heart, - She entered in, and reigned a goddess there. - If she had fascinated me before, - And fired my heart with passion, now she bent - My spirit to profound respect. I bowed - To the fair graces of her character, - Her queenly gifts, and the beneficence - Of her devoted life, with humbled heart - And self-depreciation. All of God - That the world held for me, I found in her; - And in her, all the God I sought. She was - My saviour from myself and from my sins; - For, with my worship of the excellence - Which she embodied, came the purity - And peace to which, through all my troubled life, - I had been stranger. Thoughts and feelings all - Were sublimated by the subtle flame - Which warmed and wrapped me; and I walked as one - Might walk on air, with things of earth beneath, - Breathing a rare, supernal atmosphere - Which every sense and faculty informed - With light and life divine. - - What need to tell - Of the succeeding summer days, and all - Their deeds and incidents? They floated by - Like silent sails upon a summer sea, - That, sweeping in from farthest heaven at morn, - Traverse the vision, and at evening slide - Out into heaven again, their pennant-flames - The rosy dawns and day-falls. O'er and o'er, - I walked the path, and crossed the stream, that lay - Between me and the idol of my heart; - And every day, in every circumstance, - I found her still the same, yet not the same; - For, every day, some unsuspected grace, - Or some fresh revelation of her wealth - Of character and culture, touched my heart - To new surprise, and overflowed the cup - Whose wine was life to me. - - Though I could see - That I was not unwelcome; though I knew - I gave a zest to her sequestered life, - I had built up so high my only hope - On her affection--I had given myself - So wholly to the venture for her hand, - I did not dare to speak of love, or ask - The question which, unasked, held hopefully - My destiny: which answered, might bring doom - Of madness or of death. - - Meanwhile, I learned - The lady's history from other lips - Than hers--her aunt's. Alas! the old, old tale! - She had been bred to luxury; and all - That wealth could purchase for her, or the friends - Swarmed by its golden glamour could bestow, - She had possessed. But he who won the wealth, - Reaching for more, slipped from his height and fell - Dragging his house to ruin. Then he died-- - Died in disgrace; and all his thousand friends - Fell off, and left his pampered family, - The while the noisy auctioneer knocked down - His house and household gods, and set adrift - The helpless life thus cruelly bereft. - The mother lived a month: the rest went forth, - Not knowing whither; but they found among - The poor a shelter for their poverty,-- - Kathrina with her aunt. Thus, in few words, - A tragedy of heart-breaks and of death, - Such as the world abounds with. - - But this girl, - With her quick instincts and her brave, good heart. - Determined she would live awhile, and learn - What lesson God would teach her. This she sought, - And, seeking, found, or thought she found. How well - She learned the lesson--what the lesson was-- - Her life, thus far revealed, and waiting still - My feeble record, shall disclose. Enough, - Just now and here, that out of it she bore - A noble womanhood, accepting all - Her great misfortunes as the discipline - Of a paternal hand, in love prescribed - To lead her to her place, and whiten her - For Christian service. - - All the summer fled; - And still my heart delayed. One pleasant eve, - When first the creaking of the crickets told - Of Autumn's opening door, I went with her - To ramble in the fields. We touched the hem - Of the dark mountain's robe, that falls in folds - Of emerald sward around his feet, and there - Upon its tufted velvet we sat down. - It was my time to speak, but I was dumb; - And silence, painful and portentous, hung - Upon us both. At length, she turned and said: - "Some days have passed since you were latest here. - Have you been ill?" - - "No, I have been at work," - I answered,--"at my own delightful work; - The first since first we met. The record lies - Where I may reach it at a word from you. - Command, and I will read it." - - "I command," - She said, responding with a laugh. "Nay, I - Entreat. I used your word, but this is mine, - And has a better sound from lips of mine. - I am your waiting auditor." - - I read: - - "Was it the tale of a talking bird? - Was it a dream of the night? - When have I seen it? Where have I heard - Of the haps of a dainty craft, that stirred - My spirit with affright? - - "The shallop stands out from the sheltered bay - With a burden of spirits twain,-- - A woman who lifts her eyes to pray, - A tall youth, trolling a roundelay, - And before them night, and the main! - - "O! Star of The Sea! They will come to harm: - Nor master nor sailor is there! - The youth clasps the mast with his sinewy arm, - And laughs! Does he hold in his bosom a charm - That will baffle the sprites of the air? - - O! woe to the delicate ship! O! woe! - For the sun is sunk, and behold! - The trooping phantoms that come and go - In the sky above and the waves below! - Ho! The wind blows wild and cold. - - "The woman is weeping in weak despair; - The youth still clings to the mast, - With cheeks aflame, and with eyes that stare - At the phantoms hovering everywhere; - And the storm-rack rises fast! - - "The phantoms close on the flying bark; - They flutter about her peak; - They sweep in swarms from the outer dark; - But the youth at the mast stands still and stark, - While they flap his stinging cheek. - - "O! fierce was the shout of the goblins then! - How the gibber and laugh went round! - The shout and the laugh of a thousand men, - Echoed and answered, and echoed again, - Would have been a feebler sound. - - "They shiver the bolts that the lightning flings; - They bellow and roar and hiss; - They splash the deck with their slimy wings-- - Monstrous, horrible, ghastly things-- - That climb from the foul abyss. - - "Straight toward the blackness drove the ship; - But the youth still clung to the mast: - 'I have read,' quoth he, with a proud, cold lip, - 'That the devil gets never a man on the hip - Whom he scares not, first or last.' - - "No star shines out at the woman's prayer; - O! madly distraught is she! - And the bark drives on with her wild despair - With shrieking fiends in the crowded air, - And fiends on the swarming sea. - - "Nearer the blackness loomed; and the bark - Scudded before the breeze; - Nearer the blackness loomed, and hark! - The crash of breakers out of the dark, - And the shock of plunging seas! - - "Then out of the water before their sight - A shape loomed bare and black! - So black that the darkness bloomed with white; - So black that the lightning grew strangely bright - And it lay in the shallop's track! - - "O! woe! for the woman's wits ran daft - With the fearful bruit and burst; - She sprang to her feet, and flitting aft, - She plunged in the sea, and the black waves quaffed - The sweet life they had cursed. - - "Light leaped the bark on the mountain-breast - Of a tenth-wave out to land; - While the sprites of the sea fell off to rest, - And the youth, unharmed, became the guest - Of the elves of the silent land. - - "With banter and buffet they pressed around; - They tied his strong hands fast; - But he laughed, and said, 'I have read and found - That the devil throws never a man to the ground - Whom he scares not, first or last.' - - "Under the charred and ghastly gloom, - Over the flinty stones, - They led him forth to his terrible doom, - And, plunged in a deep and noisome tomb, - They sat him among the bones. - - "They left him there in the crawling mire: - They could neither maim nor kill: - For fiends of water, and earth, and fire, - Are baffled and beaten by the ire - Of a dauntless human will. - - "Days flushed and faded, months passed away, - He knew by the golden light - That shot, through a loop in the wall, the ray - Which parted the short and slender day - From the long and doleful night. - - "Was it a vision that cheated his eyes? - Was he awake, or no? - He stared through the loop with keen surprise. - For he saw a sweet angel from the skies, - With white wings, folded low. - - "Could she not loose him from his thrall, - And lead him into the light? - 'Ah me!' he murmured, 'I dare not call, - Lest she may doubt it a goblin's waul, - And leave me in swift affright!' - - "She plumed her wings with a noiseless haste; - He could neither call nor cry: - She vanished into the sunny waste, - Into far blue air that he longed to taste; - And he cursed that he could not die. - - "But she came again, and every day - He worshipped her where she shone; - And again she left him and floated away, - But his faithless tongue refused to pray - For the boon she could give alone. - - "And there he sits in his dumb despair, - And his watching eyes grow dim: - Would God that his coward lips might dare - To utter the word to the angel fair, - That is life or death to him!" - - I marked her as I read, a furtive glance - Filling each pause. The passion of the piece, - Flaming and fading, ever and anon, - Mirrored itself within her tender eyes, - Themselves the mirror of her tender soul, - And fixed attent upon my face the while. - - She had not caught my meaning, but had heard - Only a weird, wild story. When I paused, - Folding the manuscript, I saw a shade - Of disappointment sweep her face, and marked - A question rising in her eyes. She knew - That I was waiting for her words, and turned - Her look away, and for long moments gazed - Into the brooding dusk. - - "Speak it!" I said. - - "'Twas very strange and sad," she answered me. - "Why do you write such things?--or, writing such, - Leave them so incomplete? The prisoned youth, - Thus unreleased, will haunt me while I live. - I shudder while I think of him." - - Then I: - "The poem will be finished, by-and-by, - For this is history, and antedates - No fact that it records. Whether this youth - Shall live entombed, or reach the blessed air, - Depends upon his angel; for he calls-- - I hear him call, and call again her name - Kathrina! O! Kathrina!" - - Like the flash - Of the hot lightning, the significance - Of the strange vision gleamed upon her face - In a bright, throbbing flame, that fell full soon - To ashen paleness. By unconscious will - We both arose. She vainly tried to speak, - And gazed into my eyes with such a look - Of tender questioning, of half-reproach, - Of struggling, doubting, hesitating joy, - As few men ever see, and none but once. - - Are there not lofty moments, when the soul - Leaps to the front of being, casting off - The robes and clumsy instruments of sense, - And, postured in its immortality, - Reveals its independence of the clod - In which it dwells?--moments in which the earth - And all material things, all sights and sounds, - All signals, ministries, interpreters, - Relapse to nothing, and the interflow - Of thought and feeling, love and life go on - Between two spirits, raised to sympathy - By an inspiring passion, as, in heaven, - The body dust, within an orb outlived, - It shall go on forever? - - Moments like these-- - Nay, these in very truth--were given us then. - Who shall expound--ah! who but God alone, - The everlasting mystery of love? - She spoke not, but I knew that she was mine. - I breathed no word, but she was well assured - That I was wholly hers. - - In what disguise - Our love had hid, and wrought its miracle; - Behind what semblance of indifference, - Or play of courtesy, it spun the cords - That bound our hearts in one, was mystery - Like love itself. The swift intelligence - Of interchange of perfect faith and troth, - Of gift of life and person, of the thrill - Of triumph in my soul and gratitude - In hers, without a gesture, or a word, - Was like the converse of the continents - Tracking with voiceless flight the slender wire - That underlay the throbbing mystery - Between our souls, and made our heart-beats one. - I opened wide my arms, and she, my own, - Sobbed on my breast with such excess of joy, - In such embrace of passionate tenderness, - As heaven may yield again, but never earth. - - Slow in the golden twilight, toward her home, - Her hand upon my arm, we loitered on, - Silent at first, and then with quiet speech - Broaching our plans, or tracing in review - The history of our springing love, when she, - Lifting her soft blue eyes to mine: - - "Dear Paul! - There are some things, and some I will not name, - That make me sad, e'en in this height of joy. - In the wild lay that you have read to-night, - You make too much of me. No heart of man, - Though loving well and loving worthily, - Can be content with any human love. - No woman, though the pride and paragon - Of all her sex, can take the place of God. - No angel she: nor is she quite a man - In power and courage,--gifts which charm her most - And which, possessing most, disrobe her charms, - And make her less a woman. If she stand - In fair equality with man--his mate-- - Each unto each the rounded complement - Of their humanity, it is enough; - And such equality must ever lie - In their unequal gifts. This thing, at least, - Is true as God: she is not more than he, - And sits upon no throne. To be adored - By man, she must be placed upon a throne - Built by his hands, and sit an idol there, - Degraded by the measure of the flight - Between God's thought and man's." - - Responding, I - "Fix your own place, my love; it is your right, - 'Tis well to have a theory, and sit - In the centre of it, mistress of its law, - And subject also;--to set men up here - And women there, in a fine equipoise - Of gift and grace and import. It conveys - To nicely-working minds a pleasant sense - Of order, like a well-appointed room, - Where one may see, in various stuffs and wares, - Forethoughts of color brought to harmony; - Strict balancings of quantity and form; - Flowers in the centre, and, beside the grate, - A rack for shovel and tongs. But minds like these - (Your pardon, love!) are likely to arrange - The window-lights to save the furniture, - And spoil the pictures on the wall. And you, - In the adjustment of your theory, - Would shut the light from her whose mind informs - Its harmonies. All worship, in my thought, - Goes hand in hand with love. We cannot love, - And fail to worship what we love. While you - Worship the strength and courage which you find - In him who has your heart, he bows to all - Of faith and sweetness which he finds in you. - If, in our worship, we have need to build - Noblest ideals, taking much from God - With which to make them perfect in our eyes, - Shall God mark blame? We worship him the while, - In attributes his own, or attributes - With which our thought invests him. As for me-- - It is no secret--I am what you call - A godless man; yet what is worshipful, - Or seems to be so, that with all my heart - I worship; and I worship while I love. - You deem yourself the dwelling-place of God, - And keep your spirit cleanly for his feet. - All merit you abjure, ascribing all - To him who dwells within you. How can you - Forbid that I fall down and worship you, - When what I find to worship is not yours, - But God's alone? I know the ecstasy - Enlarges, strengthens, purifies my soul, - And blesses me with peace. My love, my life, - You are my all. I have no other good, - And, in this moment of my happiness, - I ask no other." - - Tears were in her eyes, - Her clasped hands clinging fondly to my arm, - While under droop of lashes she replied: - "I feel, dear Paul, that this is sophistry. - It does not touch my judgment or my heart - With motive of conviction. In what way - God may be working to reclaim your will - And worship to himself, I cannot know. - If through your love for me, or mine for you, - Then, as his grateful, willing instrument, - I yield myself to him. But this is true: - God is not worshipped in his attributes. - I do not love your attributes, but you. - Your attributes all meet me otherwhere, - Blended in other personalities, - Nor do I love, nor do I worship them, - Or those who bear them. E'en the spotted pard - Will dare a danger which will make you pale, - But shall his courage steal my heart from you? - You cheat your conscience, for you know that I - May like your attributes, yet love not you; - Nay, worship them indeed, despising you. - I do not argue this to damp your joy, - But make it rational. If you presume - Perfection in me,--if you lavish all - The largess of your worship and your love - On me, imposing on my head a crown - Stolen from God's, there surely waits your heart - The pang of disappointment. There will come - A sad, sad time, when, in your famished soul, - The cry for something more, and more divine, - Will rise, nor be repressed." - - There is a charm - In earnestness, when it inspires the lips - Of one we love, that spoils their argument, - And yields so much of pleasure and of pride, - That the conviction which they seek evades - Their eager fingers, and with throbbing wings - Crows from its covert. - - She was casuist, - Cunning and clear; and I was proud of her; - And though I knew that she had swept away - My refuges of lies like chaff, and proved - My fair words fustian, I was moved to mirth - Over the solemn ruin. Had it been - A decent thing to do, I should have laughed - Full in her face; but knowing that her words - Were offspring of her conscience and her love, - I could no less than hold respectfully - Her earnest warning. - - "Well, I'll take the risk," - I said. "While you shall have the argument, - I will have you, who, on the whole, I like - Better than that. And you shall have your way, - And I my own, in common liberty, - With things like these. You, doubtless, are to me - What I am not to you. We are unlike - In life and circumstance--alike alone - In this: that better than all else on earth - We love each other. This is basis broad - For happiness, or broad enough for me. - If you build better, you are fortunate, - Ay, fortunate indeed; and some fine day - We'll talk about it. Let us have to-night - Joy in our new possessions, and defer - This little joust of wits and consciences - To more convenient season." - - We had reached - The cottage door at this; and there her aunt - Awaited our return. So, hand in hand, - Assuming show of rustic bashfulness, - We paused before her, and with bows profound - Made our obeisance. - - "Well?" she said at length; - "Well?--and what of it?" - - "Are you not surprised?" - I asked. - - "Surprised, indeed! Surprised at what?" - - "At what you see: and this! and this!" I said, - Planting a kiss upon each lovely cheek - Of my betrothed, that straightway bloomed with rose. - "What! are you blind, my aunt?" - - "You silly fools! - I've seen it from the first," she answered me. - "No doubt you thought that you were very deep, - Very mysterious--all that sort of thing. - I've watched you, and if you, young man, had been - Aught but a coward, it had come before, - And saved some sleep o' nights to both of you. - But down upon your knees, for benison - Of one who loves you both." - - We knelt, and then - She kissed us, leaving on our cheeks the tear - That sprang to brim the moment. Her shrewd eyes - That melted in the sympathy of love, - Would not meet ours again, but turned away, - And sought in solitude to drain themselves - Of their strange passion. - - God forbid that I, - With weak and sacrilegious lips, betray - The confidence of love; or tear aside - The secrecy behind whose snowy folds - Honor and virgin modesty retire - For holiest communion! For the fire - Which burns upon that altar is of God. - Its tongues of flame, throughout all time and space, - Speak but one language, understood by all, - But sacred ever to the wedded hearts - That listen to their breathings. - - In the deep hours of night - I left the cottage, brain and heart o'erfilled - With the ethereal vintage I had quaffed. - Disturbing not the drowsy ferryman, - I slipped his little wherry from the sand, - And in the star-sprent river lipped the oars - That pulled me homeward. The enchanting tide - Was smooth continuation of the dream - On which my spirit, holily afloat, - Had glided through long hours of happiness. - Earth, by the strange, delicious ecstasy, - Was changed to paradise; and something kin - To gratitude arose within my soul-- - A fleeting passion, dying all too soon, - Lacking the root which faith alone can feed. - - I touched the shore; but when my hasting feet - Started the homeward walk, there came a change. - Down from the quiet stars there fell a voice, - Heard in the innermost, that troubled me: - "She is not more than you: why worship her? - And she will die: what will remain for you? - You may die first, indeed: then what resource? - You have no sympathy with her in things - Ordained within, her conscience and her life - The things supreme: can there be marriage thus? - Is e'en such bliss as may be possible - Sure to be yours? Fate has a thousand hands - To dash your lifted cup." - - With thoughts like these, - A vague uneasiness invaded me, - And toned the triumph of my passion, till, - Almost in anger, I exclaimed at last: - "This is reaction. I have flown too high - Above the healthy level, and I feel - The press of denser air. The equipoise - Of circumstance and feeling will be reached - All in good time. Rest and to-morrow's sun - Will bring the remedy, and, with the mists, - This cloud will pass away." - - Then with clenched hands - I swore I would be happy,--that my soul - Should find its satisfaction in her love; - And that, if there should ever come a time - Of cold satiety, or I should find - Weakness or fault where I had thought was strength - And full perfection, I would e'en endow - Her poverty with all the hoarded wealth - Of my imagination, making her - The woman of my want, in plenitude - Of strength and loveliness. - - The breezy days - Over whose waves my buoyant life careered, - Rolled to October, falling on its beach - With bursts of mellow music; and I leaped - Upon the longed-for shore; for, in that month, - My dear betrothed, deferring to the stress - Of my impatient wish, had promised me - Her hand in wedlock. - - Ere the happy day - Dawned on the world, the world was draped in robes - Meet for the nuptials. Baths of sunny haze, - Steeping the ripened leaves from day to day, - And dainty kisses of the frost at night, - Joined in the subtile alchemy that wrought - Such miracles of change, that myriad trees - Which pranked the meads and clothed the forest glooms - Bloomed with the tints of Eden. Had the earth - Been splashed with blood of grapes from every clime, - Tinted from topaz to dim carbuncle, - Or orient ruby, it would not have been - Drenched with such waste of color. All the hues - The rainbow knows, and all that meet the eye - In flowers of field and garden, joined to tell - Each tree's close-folded secret. Side by side - Rose sister maples, some in amber gold, - Others incarnadine or tipped with flame; - And oaks that for a hundred years had stood, - And flouted one another through the storms-- - Boasting their might--proclaimed their pique or pride - In dun, or dyes of Tyre. The sumac-leaves - Blazed with such scarlet that the crimson fruit - Which hung among their flames was touched to guise - Of dim and dying embers; while the hills - That met the sky at the horizon's rim-- - Dabbled with rose among the evergreens, - Or stretching off in sweeps of clouted crimson--glowed - As if the archery of sunset clouds, - By squads and fierce battalions, had rained down - Its barbed and feathered fire, and left it fast - To advertise th' exploit. - - In such pomp - Of autumn glory, by the simplest rites, - Kathrina gave her hand to me, and I - Pledged truth and life to her. I bore her home - Through shocks of maize, revealing half their gold; - Past gazing harvesters with creaking wains - That brimmed with fruitage--my adored, my wife, - Fruition of my hope--the proudest freight - That ever passed that way! - - My troops of friends, - Grown strangely warm and strangely numerous - With scent of novelty and pleasant cheer, - Assisted me to place upon her throne - My household queen. Right royally she sat - The new-born dignity. Most graciously - She spoke and smiled among the silken clouds - That, fold on perfumed fold, like frankincense - Enveloped her, through half the festal night, - With welcome and good wishes. I was proud: - For was not I a king where she was queen? - And queen she was--though consort in my home, - Queen regnant in the realm of womanhood, - By right of every charm. - - Into her place, - As mistress of all home economies, - She slid without a jar, as if the Fates, - By concert of foreordinate design, - Had fitted her for it, and it for her, - And, having joined them well, were satisfied. - Obedient to the orbit of our love, - We came and went, revolving round our home - In spheral harmony--twin stars made one, - And loyal to one law. - - When at our board, - All viands lifted by her hand became - Ambrosial; and her light, elastic step - From room to room, in busy household cares, - Timed with my heart, and filled me with a sense - Of harmony and peace. Days, weeks, and months - Lapsed like soft measures, rhyming each with each. - All charged with thoughtful ministries to me, - And not to me alone; for I was proud - To know that she was counted by the good - As a good power among them,--by the poor, - As angel sent of God, on whom they called - His blessing down. - - She held her separate life - Of prayer and Christian service, without show - Of sanctity, without obtrusiveness; - And, though I could but know she never sought - A blessing for herself, forgetting me - In her petition, not in all those months - Did word of difference betray the gulf - Between our souls and lives. She had her plan: - I guessed it, and respected it. She felt - That if her life were not an argument - To move me, nothing that her lips might say - Could win me to her wish. Pride would repel - What it could not refute, and pleasantry - Parry the thrusts that love could not resent. - - A whole year sped, yet not a line of verse - Had grown beneath my pen. When I essayed - To brace my powers to effort, and to call - Forth from their camp and covert the bright ranks - Of tuneful numbers, no responsive shout - Answered the bugle-blast, and from my hand-- - Irresolute and nerveless as a babe's-- - My falchion fell. - - She rallied me on this; - But I had nought to say, save this, perhaps: - That she, being all my world, had left no room - For other occupation than my love. - She did not smile at this: it was no jest, - But saddest truth. I had grown enervate - In the warm atmosphere which I had breathed; - And this, with consciousness that in her soul-- - As warm with love as mine--each gentle power - Was kindling with new life from day to day, - Growing with my decline. - - Well, in good time, - There came to us a child, the miniature - Of her on whose dear breast my babyhood - Was nursed and cradled; and my happy heart. - Charged with a double tenderness, received - And blessed the precious gift. Another fount - Of human love gurgled to meet my lips. - Another store of good, as rich and pure, - In its own kind, as that from which I drank, - Was thus discovered to my taste, and I - Feasted upon its fulness. - - With the gift - That brimmed my cup of joy, there came a grace - To her who bore it of fresh loveliness. - If I had loved the maiden and the bride, - The mother, through whose pain my heart had won - Its new possession, fastened to my heart - With a new sympathy. Whatever dross - Our months of intimacy had betrayed - Within her character, was purged away, - And she was left pure gold. Nay, I should say, - Whatever goodness had not been revealed - Through the relations of her heart to mine - As loving maid and mistress, found the light - Through her maternity. A heavenly change - Passed o'er her soul and o'er her pallid face, - As if the unconscious yearning of a life - Had found full satisfaction in the birth - Of the new being. Her long weariness - Was but a trance of peace and gratitude; - And as she lay--her babe upon her breast, - Her eyelids closed--I could but feel that heaven, - Should it hold all the good of which she dreamed - Had little more for her. - - And when again - She moved about the house, in ministry - To me and to her helpless child, I knew - That I had tasted every precious good - That woman bears to man. Ay, more than this: - That not one man in thousands had received - Such largess of affection, and such prize - Of womanhood, as I had found in her, - And made my own. The whole enchanting round - Of pure, domestic commerce had been mine. - A lover blest, a husband satisfied, - A father crowned! Love had no other boon - To offer me, and held within its gift - No other title. - - Thus, within the space - Of two swift years, I traversed the domain - Of novelty, and learned that I must glean - The garnered fields of my experience - To gratify the greed that still possessed - My sateless heart. The time had come to me-- - Which I had half foreseen--when, by my will, - My interest in those I loved should live - Predominant in all my life. I nursed - With jealous care my passion for my wife. - I raised her to an apotheosis - In my imagination, where I bowed - And paid my constant homage. I was still - Her fond and loyal lover; but my heart, - That had so freely drunk, with full content, - Had seen the bottom of the cup she held; - And what remained but tricks to eke it out, - And artifice to give it piquancy, - And sips to cool my tongue, the while my heart - Was hollow with its thirst? My little child - Was precious to my soul beyond all price; - Mother and babe were all that they could be - To any heart of man; and yet--and yet! - - Of all the dull, dead weights man ever bore, - Sure, none can wear the soul with discontent - Like consciousness of power unused. To feel - That one has gift to move the multitude,-- - To act upon the life of humankind - By force of will, or fire of eloquence, - Or voice of lofty art, and yet, to feel - No stir of mighty motive in the soul - To action or endeavor; to behold - The fairest prizes of this fleeting life - Borne off by patient men who, day by day, - By bravest toil and struggle, reach the heights - Of great achievement, toiling, struggling thus - With a strong joy, and with a fine contempt - For soft and selfish passion; to see this, - Yet cling to such a passion, like a slave - Who hugs his chains in sluggish impotence, - Refusing freedom lest he lose the crust - The chain of bondage warrants him--ah! this - Is misery indeed! - - Such misery - Was mine. I held the consciousness of power - To labor even-headed with the best - Who wrought for fame, or strove to make themselves - Felt in the world's great life; and yet, I felt - No lift to enterprise, from heaven above - Or earth beneath; for neither God nor man - Lived in my love. My home held all my world; - Yet it was evident--I felt, I knew-- - That nought could fill my opening want but toil; - And there were times when I had hailed with joy - The curse of poverty, compelling me - To labor for my bread, and for the bread - Of those I loved. - - My neighbors all around - Were happy in their work. The plodding hind - Who served my hand, or groomed my petted horse. - Whistled about his work with merry heart, - And filled his measure of content with toil. - In all the streets and all the busy fields, - Men were astir, and doing with their might - What their hands found to do. They drove the plough, - They trafficked, builded, delved, they spun and wove, - They taught and preached, they hasted up and down - Each on his little errand, and their eyes - Were full of eager fire, as if the earth - And all its vast concerns were on their hands. - Their homes were fresh with guerdon every night, - And ripe with impulse to new industry - At each new dawn. - - I saw all this, but knew - That they were not like me--were most unlike - In constitution and condition. Thus, - My power to do, and do the single thing - My power was shaped to do, became, instead - Of wings to bear me, weights to burden me. - The moiling multitude for little tasks - Found little motives plenty; but for me, - Who in my indolence they all despised-- - Not understanding me--no motive rose - To lash or lead. Even the Jove I dreamed - Would give me impulse had defrauded me. - Feeble and proud; strong, yet emasculate; - Centred in self, and still despising self; - Goaded, yet held; convinced, but never moved? - Such conflict ofttimes held and harried me - That death had met with welcome. If I read, - I read to kill my time. No interest - In the great thoughts of others moved my soul, - Because I had no object; useless quite - The knowledge and the culture I possessed; - And if I rode, the stale monotony - Of the familiar landscapes sickened me. - - In these dull years, my toddling little wean - Grew into prattling childhood, and I gained - Such fresh delight from her as kept my heart - From fatal gloom; but more and more I shunned - The world around me, more and more drew in - The circle of my life, until, at last, - My home became my hermitage. I knew - The dissolution of the spell would come, - And, though I dreaded it, I longed to greet - The crash and transformation. If my pride - Forbade the full confession to my wife - That time had verified her prophecy, - It failed to hold the truth from her. She read, - With a true woman's insight, all my heart; - But with a woman's sensitiveness shrank - From questions which might seem to carry blame; - And so, for years, there lay between our souls - The bar of silence. - - One sweet summer eve, - After my lamb was folded and before - The lamps were lighted, as I sat alone - Within my room, I heard reluctant feet - Seeking my door. They paused, and then I heard: - - "May I come in?" - - "Ay, you may always come; - And you are welcome always," I replied. - - The room was dim, but I could see her face - Was pale, and her long lashes wet. "Your seat"-- - I said, with open arms. Upon my knee, - One hand upon my shoulder, she sank down - As if the heart within her breast were lead, - And she were weary with its weight. - - "My wife, - What burden now?" I asked her tenderly. - - She fixed her swimming eyes on mine, and said: - "My dear, you are not happy. Years have gone - Since you have been content. I bring no words - Of blame against you: you have been to me - A comfort and a joy. Your constancy - Has honored me as few of all my sex - Are honored by your own; but while you pine - With secret pain, I am so wholly yours - That I must pine with you. I've waited long - For you to speak; and now I come to you - To ask you this one question: Is there aught - Of toil or sacrifice within my power - To ease your heart, or give you liberty - Beyond the round to which you hold your feet? - Speak freely, frankly, as to one who loves - Her husband better than her only child, - And better than herself." - - I drew her head - Down to my cheek, and said: "My angel wife! - Whatever torment or disquietude - I may have suffered, you have never been - Its cause, or its occasion. You are all-- - You have been all--that womanhood can be - To manhood's want; and in your woman's love - And woman's pain, I have found every good - My life has known since first our lives were joined. - You knew me better than I knew myself; - And your prophetic words have haunted me - Like thoughts of retribution: '_There will come - 'A sad, sad time, when in your famished soul - 'The cry for something more, and more divine - 'Will rise, nor be repressed._' For something more - My spirit clamors: nothing more divine - I ask for." - - "What shall be this 'something more'? - - "Work," I replied; "ay, work, but never here; - Work among men, where I may feel the touch - Of kindred life; work where the multitudes - Are surging; work where brains and hands - Are struggling for the prizes of the world; - Work where my spirit, driven to its bent - By competitions and grand rivalries, - Shall vindicate its own pre-eminence, - And wring from a reluctant world the meed - Of approbation and respect for which - It yearns with awful hunger; work, indeed, - Which shall compel the homage of the souls - That creep around me here, and pity you - Because, forsooth, the Fates have hobbled you - With a dull drone. I know how sweet the love - Of two fond souls; and I will have the hearts - Of millions. These shall satisfy my greed, - And round the measure of my life; and these - My work shall win me." - - At these childish words - She raised her head, and with a sweet, sad smile - Of love and pity blent, made her response: - "Not yet, my husband--if your wife may speak - A thought that crosses yours--not yet have you - Found the great secret of content. But work - May help you toward it, and in any case - Is better far than idleness. For this, - You ask of me to sacrifice this home - And all the truest friends my life has gained. - I do it from this moment; glad to prove, - At any tender cost, my love for you, - And faith in your endeavor. I will go - To any spot of earth where you may lead, - And go rejoicing. Let us go at once!" - - "I burn my ships behind me," I replied. - "Measure the cost: be sure no secret hope - Of late return be found among the flames; - For, if I go, I leave no single thread, - Save that which binds me to my mother's grave. - To draw me back." - - "My love shall be the torch - To light the fire," she answered. - - Then we rose, - And, with a kiss, marked a full period - To love's excess, and with a sweet embrace - Wrote the initial of a stronger life. - - - - - A REFLECTION. - - Oh! not by bread alone is manhood nourished - To its supreme estate! - By every word of God have lived and flourished - The good men and the great. - Ay, not by bread alone! - - "Oh! not by bread alone!" the sweet rose, breathing - In throbs of perfume, speaks; - "But myriad hands, in earth and air, are wreathing - The blushes for my cheeks. - Ay, not by bread alone!" - - "Oh! not by bread alone!" proclaims in thunder - The old oak from his crest; - "But suns and storms upon me, and deep under, - The rocks in which I rest. - Ay, not by bread alone!" - - "Oh! not by bread alone!" The truth flies singing - In voices of the birds; - And from a thousand pastured hills is ringing - The answer of the herds: - "Ay, not by bread alone!" - - Oh! not by bread alone! for life and being - Are finely complex all, - And increment, with element agreeing, - Must feed them, or they fall. - Ay, not by bread alone! - - Oh! not by love alone, though strongest, purest - That ever swayed the heart; - For strongest passion evermore the surest - Defrauds each manly part. - Ay, not by love alone! - - Oh! not by love alone is power engendered. - Until within the soul - The gift of every motive has been rendered, - It is not strong and whole. - Ay, not by love alone! - - Oh! not by love alone is manhood nourished - To its supreme estate: - By every word of God have lived and flourished - The good men and the great. - Ay, not by love alone! - - - - - - PART III. - - LABOR. - - Ten years of love!--a sleep, a pleasant dream - That passed its culmen in the early half, - Concluding in confusion--a wild scene - Of bargains, auctions, partings, and what not?-- - And an awaking! - - I was in Broadway, - A unit in a million. Like a bath - In ocean surf, blown in from farthest seas - Under the August ardors, the grand rush - Of crested life assailed me with its waves, - And cooled me while it fired. With sturdy joy - I sought its broadest billows, and resigned - My spirit to their surge and sway; or stood - In sheltered coves, reached only by the spume - And crepitant bubbles of the yesty floods, - Drinking the roar, the sheen, the restlessness, - As inspiration, both of sense and soul. - - I saw the waves of life roll up the steps - Of great cathedrals and retire; and break - In charioted grandeur at the feet - Of marble palaces, and toss their spray - Of feathered beauty through the open doors, - To pile the restless foam within; and burst - On crowded caravansaries, to fall - In quick return; and in dark currents glide - Through sinuous alleys and the grimy loops - Of reeking cellars; and with softest plash - Assail the gilded shrines of opulence, - And slide in musical relapse away. - - With senses dazed and stunned, and soul o'erfilled - With chaos of new thoughts, I turned away, - And sought my city home. There all was calm, - With wife and daughter waiting my return, - And eager with their welcome. That was life!-- - An interest in the great world of life, - A place for toil within a world of toil, - And love for its reward. "Amen!" I said, - "And twice amen! I've found my life at last, - And we will all be happy." - - Day by day-- - The while I sought adjustment to the life - Which I had chosen, and with careful thought - Gathered to hand the fair material - Elect by Fancy for the organism - Over whose germ she brooded--I went out, - To bathe again upon the shore of life - My long-enfeebled nature. - - Every day - I met some face I knew. My college friends - Came up in strange disguises. Here was one, - With a white neck-cloth and a saintly face, - Who had been rusticated and disgraced - For lawlessness. Now he administered - A charge which proved that he had been at work, - And made himself a man. And there was one-- - A lumpy sort of boy, as memory - Recalled him to me--grown to portliness - And splendid spectacles. He drove a chaise, - And practised surgery,--was on his way - To meet a class of youth, who sought to be - Great surgeons like himself, and took full notes - Of all his stolen wisdom. By his watch-- - A gold repeater, with a mighty chain-- - He gave me just five minutes; then rolled off--- - Pretension upon wheels. Another grasped - My hand as if I were his bosom friend, - Just in from a long voyage. He was one - Who stole my wood in college, and received - With grace the kick I gave him. He had grown - To be the tail of a portentous firm - Of city lawyers: managed, as he said, - The matter of collections; and had made - In his small way--to use his modest phrase, - Truthful as modest--quite a pretty plum. - He was o'erjoyed to see me in the town: - Hoped I would call upon him at his den: - If I had any business in his line, - Would do it for me promptly; as for price, - No need to talk of that between two friends! - - But these, and all--the meanest and the best-- - Were hard at work. They always questioned me - Before we parted, touching my pursuits; - And though they questioned kindly, I grew sore - Under the repetition, and ashamed - To iterate my answer, till I burned - To do some work, so lifted into fame, - That shame should be to him whose ignorance - Compelled a question. - - Simplest foresters - Have learned the trick of woodland broods, that fly - In radiant divergence from the flash - Of death and danger, and, when all is still, - Steal back to where their fellows bit the dust - For rendezvous. And thus society - Follows the brutal instinct. When the friends, - Who from her father's ruin fled amain, - Found out my wife, and learned that it was safe - To gather back to the old feeding-ground, - They came. Her old home had become my own - And they were all delighted. It was sweet - To have her back again; and it was sad - To know that those who once were happy there, - Dispensing happiness, could come no more. - - It had its modicum of earnestness,-- - This talk of theirs--and she received it all - With hearty courtesy, and yielded it - The unction of her charity, so far - That it was smooth and redolent to her. - The difference--the world-wide difference-- - Between my wife and them was obvious; - But she was generous through nature's gift - I fancied--could not well be otherwise; - Although their fawning filled me with disgust. - Oh! fool and blind! not to perceive the Christ - That shone and spoke in her! - - The hour approached-- - The predetermined time--when I should close - My study door, and wrap my kindling brain - In the poetic dream which, day by day, - Was gathering consistence in my brain. - The quick, creative instinct in me plumed - Its pinions for the flight, and I could feel - The influx of fresh power; but whence it - I did not question; though it fired my heart - With the assurance of success. - - I told - My dear companion of my hopeful plans - For winning fame, and making for myself - A lofty place; but I could not inspire - Her heart with my ambition, or win o'er - Her judgment to my motive. She adhered - To her old theory, and gave no room - To any motive it did not embrace. - We argued much, but always argued wide, - And ended where we started. Postulates - On which we stood in perfect harmony, - Were points of separation, out from which - We struck divergently, till sympathy, - That only lives by rhythm of thoughts and hearts, - Lay dead between us. - - "Man loves praise," I said. - "It is an appetence which He who made - The human soul, made to be satisfied. - It is a tree He planted. If it grow - On that which feeds it, and become at last - Thrifty and fruitful, it is still His own, - With usury. And if, in His intent, - This passion have no place among the powers - Of active life, why is it mighty there - From youngest childhood? Pray you what is fame - But concrete praise?--the universal voice - Which bears, from every quarter of the earth. - Its homage to a name, that grows thereby - To be its own immortal monument - Outlasting all the marble and the bronze - Which cunning fingers, since the world began, - Have shaped or stamped with story? What is fame - But aggregate of praise? And if it be - Legitimate to win, for sake of praise, - The praise of one, why not of multitudes?" - - "Ay," she replied; "'tis true that men love praise - And it is true that He who made the soul - Planted therein the love of praise, to be - A motive in its life--all true so far? - And so far we agree. But motives all - Have their appropriate sphere and sway, like men - Who bear them in their breasts. The love of praise - Fills life with fine amenities. Not all - Who live have pleasant tempers, and not all - The gift of gracious manners, or the love - Of nobler motive, higher meed than praise. - The world is full of bears, who smooth their hair, - And glove their paws, and put on manly airs, - And hold our honey sacred, and our lives - Our own, because they hunger for our praise. - 'Tis a fine thing for bears--this love of praise-- - And those who deal with them; and a good thing - For children, and for parents, teachers--all - Who have them in their keeping. It may hold - A little mind to rectitude, until - It grow, and grow ashamed to yield itself - To such a petty motive. Children all - Like sugar, and it may admit of doubt - Whether our praise or sugar sweetens more - Their petulant sub-acids; but a man - Would choke in swallowing the compliment - Which we should pay him, were we but to say - 'Go to! Do some great deed, and you shall have - Your pay in sugar:--maple, mind you, now, - So you shall do it featly.'" - - "Very good!" - I answered, "very good, indeed! if we - Engage in talk for sport; but argument - On themes like these must have the element - Of candor. Highest truth, in certain lights, - May be ridiculous, and yet be truth. - Women are angels: just a little weak - And just a little wicked, it may be, - Yet still the sweetest beings in the world; - But when one stands with apprehensive gasp - At verge of sternutation, or leaps off, - Projecting all her being in a sneeze, - Or snores with lips wide-parted, or essays - The 'double-quick,' we turn our eyes away - In sadness, that a creature so divine - Can be so shockingly ridiculous; - Yet who shall say she's not an angel still? - Now you present to me the meanest face - Of a most noble truth. I laugh with you - Over its sorry semblance; but the truth - Is still divine, and claims our reverence. - The great King Solomon--and you believe - In Solomon--has said that a good name - Is more to be desired than much fine gold. - If a good name be matter of desire - Beyond all wealth--and you will pardon me - For holding to the record--it may stand - As a grand motive in the life of man, - To grand endeavor. I have yet to learn - That Solomon addressed his words to bears, - Or little children. I am forced to think - That you and I, and all who read his words, - Are those for whom he wrote." - - Rejoining she: - "A good may be the subject of desire, - And not be motive to achievement. Life, - If I may speak the riddle, is a scheme - Of indirections. My own happiness - Is something to desire; and yet, I know - That I must win it by forgetting it - In ministry to others. If I make - My happiness the motive of my work, - I spoil it by the taint of selfishness. - But are you sure that you do not presume - Somewhat too much, in claiming the desire - For a good name as motive of your life? - Greatness, not goodness, is the end you seek, - If I mistake you not; and these are held, - In the world's thought, as two, and most distinct. - King Solomon was wise, but wiser He - Who said to those who loved and followed him, - 'Who would be great among you, let him serve.' - The greatest men and artists should be such, - For they are God's nobility and man's - Should work from greatest motives. Selfishness - Is never great, and moves to no great deeds. - To honor God, to benefit mankind, - To serve with lofty gifts the lowly needs - Of the poor race for which the God-man died, - And do it all for love--oh! this is great! - And he who does this will achieve a name - Not only great but good." - - "Not in this world," - I answered her. "I know too much of it. - The world is selfish; and it never gives - Due credit to a motive which assumes - To be above its own. If a man write, - It takes for granted that he writes for fame, - And judges him accordingly. It holds - Of no account all other aims and ends; - And visits with contempt the man who bears - A mission to his kind. The critic pens - That twiddle with his work, or play with it - As cats with mice, are not remarkable - For gentle instincts; and my name must live - By pens like these. I choose to take the world - Just as I find it, and I pitch my tune - To the world's key, that it may sing my tune. - And sing for me. Ay, and I take myself - Just as I find myself. I do not love - The human race enough to work for it. - Having no motive of philanthropy, - I'll make pretence to none. The love of praise - I count legitimate and laudable. - 'Tis not the noblest motive in the world, - But it is good; and it has won more fames - Than any other. Surely, my good wife, - You would not shut me from it, and deprive - My power of its sole impulse." - - "No; oh! no," - She answered quickly. "I am only sad - That it should be the captain of your host. - All creatures of the brain are the result - Of many motives and of many powers. - All life is such, indeed. The power that leads-- - The motive dominant--this stamps the work - With its own likeness. Throughout all the world - Are careful souls, with careful consciences, - That pierce themselves with questionings and fears - Because that, with the motives which are good, - And which alone they seek, a hundred come - They do not seek, and aye sophisticate - Their finest action. They are wrong in this: - All motives bowing to one leadership, - And aiding its emprise, are one with it-- - The same in trend, the same in terminus. - All the low motives that obey the law, - And aid the work, of one above them all, - Do holy service, and fulfil the end - For which they were designed. The love of praise - Is not the lowest motive which can move - The human soul. Nay, it may do good work - As a subordinate, and leave no soil - On whitest fabric, at whose selvage shines - The Master's broidered signature. Although - You write for fame, think not you will escape - The press of other motives. You love me; - You love your child; you love your pleasant home; - You love the memory of one long dead. - These, joined with all those qualities of heart - Which make you dear to me, will throng around - The leader you appoint, and come and go - Under his banner; and the work of God - Will thrive through these, the while your own goes on - God will not be defrauded, nor yet man; - And you, who like the Pharisees make prayer - At corners of the streets, for praise of men, - Will have reward you seek." - - "Ay, verily!" - Responded I with laughter. "Verily! - Though not a saint, I'll do a saintly work - For my own profit, and in spite of all - The selfishness that moves me. Better, this, - Than I suspected. My sweet casuist-- - My gentle, learned, lovely casuist-- - I thank you; and I'll pay you more than thanks. - I'll promise that when these fine motives come, - And volunteer their service, they shall find - Welcome and entertainment, and a place - Within the rank and file, with privilege - Of quick promotion, so they show themselves - Motives of mettle." - - This the type of talk - That passed between us. I was not a fool - To count her wisdom worthless; nor a God, - To work regeneration in myself. - That something which I longed for, to fill up - The measure of my good, was human praise; - Yet I could see that she was wholly right, - And that she held within herself resource - Of satisfaction better than my own. - But I was quite content--content to know - I trod the average altitude of those - Within the paths of art, and had no aims - To be misconstrued or misunderstood - By Pride and Selfishness--that these, in truth, - Expected of me what I had to give. - - Strange, how a man may carry in his heart, - From year to year--through all his life, indeed-- - A truth, or a conviction, which shall be - No more a part of it, and no more worth - Than to his flask the cork that slips within! - Of this he learns by sourness of his wine, - Of muddle of its color; by the bits - That vex his lips while drinking; but he feels - No impulse in his hand to draw it forth, - And bid it crown and keep the draught it spoils. - - I write this, here, not for its relevance - To this one passage of my story, but - Because there slipped into my consciousness - Just at this juncture, and would not depart, - A truth I carried there for many years, - Each minute seeing, feeling, tasting it, - Yet never touching it with an attempt - To draw it forth, and put it to its place. - - One evening, when our usual theme was up, - I asked my wife in playful earnestness - How she became so wise. "You talk," I said, - "Like one who has survived a thousand years, - And drunk the wisdom of a thousand lives." - - "Who lacketh wisdom, let him ask of God, - Who giveth freely and upbraideth not," - Was her reply. - - "I never ask of God," - I said. "So, while you take at second hand - His breathings to the artist, I will take - At second hand the wisdom that he gives - To you his teacher." - - "Do you never pray?" - - "Never," I answered her. "I cannot pray: - You know the reason. Never since the day - God shut his heart against my mother's prayer - Have I raised one petition, or been moved - To reverence." - - Her long, dark lashes fell, - And from her eyes there dropped two precious tears - That bathed her folded hands. She pitied me, - With tenderness beyond the reach of words. - I did not seek her pity. I was proud, - And asked her if she blamed me. - - "No," she said; - "I have no right to blame you, and no wish. - I marvel only that a man like you - Can hold so long the errors of a boy. - I've looked--with how much longing, words of mine - Can never tell--for reason to restore - That priceless thing which passion stole from you, - And looked in vain." - - Though piqued by the reproach - Her words conveyed (unwittingly I knew), - I wished to learn where, in her theory - Of human life, my case had found a place; - So, bidding pride aback, I questioned her. - "You are so wise in other things," I said, - "And read so well God's dealings with his own, - Perhaps you can explain this mystery - That clouds my life." - - "I know that God is good," - She answered, "and, although my reason fail - To explicate the mystery that wraps - His providence, it does not shake my faith. - But this sad case of yours has seemed so plain, - That Reason well may spare the staff of Faith - To climb to its conclusions. You are loved, - My husband: can you tell your wife for what?" - - "Oh! modesty! my dear; hem! modesty! - Spare me these blushes! I have not at hand - The printed catalogue of qualities - Which give you inspiration, and decline - The personal rehearsal." - - "You mistake," - She answered, smiling. "Not for modesty; - And as for blushes, they're not patent yet. - But frankly, soberly, I ask you this: - Have you a quality of heart or brain - Which makes you lovable, and in my eyes - A man to be admired, that was not born - Quick in your blood? Pray, have you anything - Which you did not inherit? Who to me - Furnished my husband? By what happy law - Was all that was the finest, noblest, best - In those who gave you life, bestowed on you? - You have your father's form, your father's brain: - You have your mother's eyes, your mother's heart. - Those twain produced a man for me to love, - Out of themselves. I am obliged to them - For the most precious good the round earth holds, - Transmitted by a law that slew them both. - It was not sin, or shame, for them to die - Just as they died. They passed with whiter hands - Up to The Throne than he who wantonly - Murders a sparrow. When your mother prayed - She prayed for the suspension of the law - By which from Eve, the mother of the race, - She had received the grace and loveliness - Which made her precious to your heart--the law - By which alone she could convey these gifts - To others of her blood. Your daughter's face - Is beautiful, her soul is pure and sweet, - By largess of this law. Could God subvert, - To meet her wish, though shaped in agony, - The law which, since the life of man began - In life of God, has kept the channel clear - For His own blood, that it might bless the last - Of all the generations as the first? - What could He more than give her liberty-- - When reason lay in torture or in wreck, - And life was death--to part with stainless hand - The tie that held her from his loving breast?" - - If God himself had dropped her words from heaven. - They had not reached with surer plummet-plunge - The depths of my conviction. I was dumb; - I opened not my mouth; but left her side, - And sought the crowded street. I felt that all - Delusions, subterfuges, self-deceits, - By which my soul had shut itself from God, - Were stripped away, and that no barrier - Was interposed between us which was not - My own hand's building. Never, nevermore, - Could I hold God in blame, or deem myself - A guiltless, injured creature. I could see - That I was hard, implacable, unjust; - And that by force of wilful choice I held - Myself from God; for no impulsion came - To seek his face and favor. Nay, I feared - And fought such incidence, as enemy - Of all my plans. - - So it became thenceforth - A problem with me how to separate - My new conviction from my life--to hold - A revolutionizing truth within, - And hold it yet so loosely, it should be - Like a dumb alien in a mural town-- - No guest, but an intruder, who might bide, - By law or grace, but win no domicile, - And hold no power. - - When I returned, that night - My course was chosen, with such sense of guilt - I blushed before the calm, inquiring eyes - That met me at my threshhold; but the theme - Was dropped just there. My gentle mentor read - The secret of the struggle and the sin, - And left me to myself. - - At the set time, - I entered on my task. The discipline - Of early years told feebly on my work, - For dissipation and disuse of power - Had brought me back to infancy again. - My will was weak, my patience was at fault, - And in my fretful helplessness, I stormed - And sighed by turns; yet still I held in force - Determination, as reserve of will; - And when I flinched or faltered, always fell - Back upon that, and saved my powers from rout. - Casting, recasting, till I found the germ - Of my conception putting forth its whorls - In orderly succession round the stem - Of my design, that straight and strong shot up - Toward inflorescence, my long work went on, - Till I was filled with satisfying joy. - This lasted for a little time, and then - There came reaction. I grew tired of it. - My verses were as meaningless and stale - As doggrel of the stalls. I marvelled much - That they could ever have beguiled my pride - Into self-gratulation, or done aught - But overwhelm me with contempt for them, - And the dull pen that wrote them. - - I had hoped - To form and finish my projected work - Within, and by, myself,--to tease no ear - With fragmentary snatches of my song, - And call for no support from friendly praise - To reinforce my courage; but the stress - Of my disgust and my despair--the need, - Imperative and absolute, to brace myself - By some opinion borrowed for the nonce, - And bathe my spirit in the sympathy - Of some strong nature--mastered my intent, - And sent me for resource to her whose heart - Was ever open to my call. - - She sat - Through the long hour in which I read to her, - Absorbed, entranced, as one who sits alone - Within a dim cathedral, and resigns - His spirit to the organ-theme, that mounts, - Or sinks in tremulous pauses, or sweeps out - On mighty pinions and with trumpet voice - Through labyrinthine harmonies, at last - Emerging, and through silver clouds of sound - Receding and receding, till it melts - In the abysses of the upper sky. - It was not needful she should say a word; - For in her glowing eyes and kindling face, - I caught the full assurance that my heart - Had yearned for; but she spoke her hearty praise - And when I asked her for her criticism, - Bestowed it with such modest deference - To my opinion, as to spare my pride; - Yet, with such subtle sense of harmony, - And insight of proportion, that I saw - That I should find no critic in the world - More competent or more severe. I said, - Gulping my pride: "Better this ordeal - In friendly hands, before the time of types, - Than afterward, in hands of enemies!" - - So, from that reading, it was understood - Between us that, whenever I essayed - Revising and retouching, I should know - Her intimate impressions, and receive - Her frank suggestions. In this oversight - And constant interest of one whose mind - Was excellent and pure, and raised above - All motive to beguile me, I secured - New inspiration. - - Weeks and months passed by - With gradient hopefulness, and strength renewed - At each renewal of the confidence - I had reposed in her; till I perceived - That I was living on her praise--that she - Held God's place in me and the multitude's. - And now, as I look back upon those days - Of difficult endeavor, I confess - That had she not been with me, I had failed-- - Ay, foundered in mid-sea--my hope, my life, - The spoil of deep oblivion. - - At last - The work was done--the labored volume closed. - "I cannot make it better," I exclaimed. - "I can write better, but, before I write, - I must have recognition in the voice - Of public praise. A good paymaster pays - When work is finished. Let him pay for this, - And I will work again; but, till he pay, - My leisure is my own, and I will wait." - - "And if he grudge your wage?" suggested she - To whom I spoke. - - "I shall be finished too." - - Came then the proofs and latest polishing - Of words and phrases--work I shared with her - To whom I owed so much; and then the fear, - The deathly heart-fall, and the haunting dread - That go before exposure to the world - Of inmost life, and utmost reach of power - Toward revelation;--then the shrinking spell, - When morbid love of self awaits in pain - The verdict it has courted. - - But at last - The book was out. My daughter's hand in mine-- - Her careless feet, that thrilled with springing life, - Skipping the pavement--I walked down Broadway, - To ease the restlessness and cool the heat - That vexed my idle waiting. As we passed - A showy window, filled with costly books, - My little girl exclaimed: "Oh, father! See! - There is your name!" - - Straight all the bravery - Within my veins, at one wild heart-thump, dropped, - And I was limp as water; but I paused, - And read the placard. It announced my book - In characters of flame, with adjectives - My daring publisher had filched, I think - From an old circus broadside. - - "Well!" thought I-- - Biting my lip--"I'm in the market now! - How much--O! rattling, roaring multitude! - O! selfish, cheating, lying multitude! - O! hawking, trading, delving multitude!-- - How much for one man's hope, for one man's life? - What for his toil and pain?--his heart's red blood? - What for his brains and breeding? Oh, how much - For one who craves your praises with your pence, - And dies with your denial?" - - I went in, - And bought my book--not doubting I was first - To give response to my apostrophe. - The smug old clerk, who found his length of ear - Convenient as a pencil-rack, and thus - Made nature's wrath proclaim the praise of trade, - Wrapped my dear bantling well; and, as he dropped - My dollar in his till, smiled languidly - Upon my little girl, and said to me-- - To cheer me in my purchase--that the book - Was thought to be a deuced clever thing. - He never read such books; he had no time; - Indeed, he had no interest in them. - Still, other people had, and it was well, - For it helped trade along. - - It was for him-- - A vulgar fraction of the integral - We speak of as "the people," and "the world"-- - I had been writing! Had he read my book, - And given it his praise, I should have been - Delighted, though I knew that his applause - Was worthless as his brooch. I was a fool - Undoubtedly; yet I could understand, - Better than e'er before, how separate - The artist is from such a soul as his-- - What need of teachers and interpreters - To crumble in his pewter porringer - The rounded loaf, whose crust was adamant - To his weak fingers. - - The next morning's press - Was purchased early, though I read in vain - To find my reputation. But at night, - My door-bell rang; and I received a note - From one who edited an evening print, - (I had dined with him at my publisher's), - Inclosing a review, and venturing - The hope that I should like it. - - Cunning man! - He knew the tricks of trade, and was adroit. - My poem was "a revelation." I had "burst - Like thunder from a calm and cloudless sky." - Well, not to quote his language, this the drift: - A man of fortune, living at his ease, - But fond of manly effort, had sat down, - And turned his culture to supreme account; - And he--the editor--took on himself - To thank him on the world's behalf. Withal, - The poet had betrayed the continence - Of genius. He had held, undoubtedly, - The consciousness of power from early youth; - But, yielding never to the itch for print, - Had nursed and chastened and developed it, - Until his hand was strong, and swept his lyre - With magic of a master. - - Followed here - Sage comments on the rathe and puny brood - Of poet-sucklings, who had rushed to type - Before their time--pale stems that spun their flowers - In the first sunshine, but, when Autumn came, - Were fruitless. It was pleasant, too, to see, - In such an age of sentimental cant, - One man who dared to hold up to the world - A creature of his brain, and say: "Look you! - This is my thought; and it shall stand alone. - It has no moral, bears no ministry - Of pious teaching, and makes no appeal - To sufferance or suffrage of the muffs - Who, in the pulpit or the press, prepare - The nation's pap. The fiery-footed barb - That pounds the pampas, and the lily-bells - That hang above the brooks, present the world - With no apology for being there, - And no attempt to justify themselves - In uselessness. It is enough for God - That they are beautiful, and hold his thought - In fine embodiment; and it shall be - Enough for me that, in this book of mine, - I have created somewhat that is strong - And beautiful, which, if it profit,--well: - If not, 'tis no less strong and beautiful, - And holds its being by no feebler right." - - Ay, it was glorious to find one man - Who piled no packs upon his Pegasus, - Nor chained him to a rag-cart, loaded down - With moral frippery, and strings of bells - To call the people to their windows. - - Then - There followed extracts, with a change of type - To mark the places where the editor - Had caught a fancy hiding, which he feared - Might slip detection under slower eyes - Than those he carried; or to emphasize - Felicities of diction that were stiff - In Roman verticals, but grew divine - At the Italic angle; then apology, - Profoundly humble, to his patrons all - For quoting at such length, and one to me - For quoting anything, and deep regrets, - In quite a general way, that lack of space - Forbade a reproduction of the book - From title-page to tail-piece, winding up - With counsel to all lovers of pure art, - Patrons of genius, all Americans, - All friends of cis-Atlantic literature, - To buy the book, and read it for themselves. - - I drank the whole, at one long, luscious draught; - Tipping the tankard high, that I might see - My features at the bottom, and regale - My pride, after my palate. Then I tossed - The paper to my wife, and bade her read. - I watched her while she read, but failed to find - The sympathy of pleasure in her face - I had expected. Finishing at last, - She raised her eyes, and, fixing them on me, - Said thoughtfully: "You like this, I suspect." - - "Well, truly!" I responded, "since it seems - To be the first instalment of the wage - Which you suggested might come grudgingly. - Ay, it is sweet to me. I know it fails - In nice discrimination,--that it slurs - Defects which I perceive as well as you; - But it is kind, and places in best light - Such excellences as we both may find-- - May claim, indeed." - - "And yet, it is a lie, - Or what the editor would call 'a puff,' - From first to last. The 'continence,' my dear, - 'Of genius!' What of that? And what about - The 'manly effort,' for whose exercise - He thanked you on the world's behalf? And so - Your nursing, chastening and developing - Of power!--Pray what of these?" - - "Oh! wife!" I said, - "Don't spoil it all! Be pitiful, my love! - I am a baby--granted: so I need - The touch of tender hands, and something sweet - To keep me happy." - - "Babies take a bath, - Sometimes, from which the hand of warmest love - Filches the chill, and you must have one dash," - She answered me, "to close your complement. - The weakest spot in all your book, he found - With a quick instinct; and on that he spent - His sharpest force and finest rhetoric, - Shoring and bracing it on every side - With bold assumptions and affirmatives, - To blind the eyes of novices, and scare - With fierce forestalment all the critic-quills - Now bristling for their chance. He saw at once - Your poem had no mission, save, perhaps, - The tickle of the taste, and that it bore - Upon its glowing gold small food for life. - He saw just there the point to be attacked; - And there threw up his earth-works, and spread out - His thorned abattis. He was very kind - Undoubtedly, and very cunning, too; - For well he knew that there are earnest souls - In the broad world, who claim that highest art - Is highest ministry to human need; - And that the artist has no Christian right - To prostitute his art to selfish ends, - Or make it vehicle alone of plums - For the world's pudding." - - "These will speak in time," - Responded I; "but they have not the ear - Of the broad world, I think. The Christian right - Of which you speak is hardly recognized - Among the multitude, or by the guild - In which I claim a place. The sectaries - Who furnish folios, quartos, magazines, - To the religious few, are limited - In influence; and these, my wife, are all - I have to fear;--nay, could I but arouse - Their bitter enmity, I might receive - Such superflux of praise and patronage - As would o'erwhelm my sweetly Christian wife - With shame and misery. But we shall see; - And, in the meantime, let us be content - That, if one man shall praise me overmuch, - Ten, at the least, will fail to render me - Befitting justice." - - As the days went on, - Reviews and notices came pouring in. - I was notorious, at least; and fame, - I whispered comfortably to myself, - Is only notoriety turned gray, - With less of fire, if more of steadiness. - The adverse verdicts were not numerous; - And these were rendered, as I fancied then, - By sanctimonious fools who deemed profane - All verse outside their thumb-worn hymnodies. - My book received the rattling fusilade - Of all the dailies: then the artillery - Of the hebdomadals, whose noisy shells, - Though timed by fuse to burst on Saturday, - Exploded at the middle of the week; - At last, a hundred-pounder quarterly - Gave it a single missive from its mask - Of far and dark impersonality. - The smoke cleared up, and still my colors - And still my book stood proudly in the sun, - Nor breached nor battered. - - I had won a place - That I was sure of. All had said of me - That I was "brilliant:" was not that enough? - The petty pesterers, with card and stamp, - Who hunt for autographs, were after me, - In packages by post; and idle men - Held me at corners by the button-hole, - And introduced me to their friends. I dined - With meek-eyed men, whose literary wives - Were dying all to know me, as they said; - And the lyceums, quick at scent and sight-- - Watching the jungles for a lion--all - Courted the delectation of my roar - Upon their platforms, pledging to my hand - (With city reference to stanchest names), - Such honoraria as would have been - The lion's share of profits. These were straws; - But they had surer fingers for the wind - Than withes or weathercocks. - - The book sold well - My publisher (who published at my risk, - And first put on the airs of one who stooped - To grant a favor), brimmed and overflowed - With courtesy; and ere a year was gone, - Became importunate for something more. - This was his plea: I owed it to myself - To write again. The time to make one's hay - Is when the sun shines: time to write one's books - Is when the public humor turns to them. - The public would forget me in a year, - And seek another idol; or, meanwhile, - Another writer might usurp my throne, - And I be hooted from my own domain - As a pretender. Then the market's maw - Was greedy for my poems. Just how long - The appetite would last, he could not tell, - For appetite is subject of caprice, - And never lasts too long. - - The man was wise, - I plainly saw, and gave me the results - Of observation and experience. - I took his hint, accepting with a pang - The truths that came with it: for instance, these:-- - That he who speaks for praise of those who live, - Must keep himself before his audience, - Nor look for "bravas," cheers, and cries of "hear! - And clap of hands and stamp of feet, except - With fresh occasion; that applause of crowds, - Though fierce, runs never to the chronic stage; - That good paymasters, having paid for work - The doer's price, expect receipt in full - At even date; and that if I would keep - My place, as grand purveyor to the greed - For novelties of literary art, - My viands must be sapid, and abound - With change, to wake or whet the appetite - I sought to feed. - - I say I took his hint. - Bestowed in selfishness, without a doubt, - Though in my interest. For ten long years - It was the basis of my policy. - I poured my poems with redundancy - Upon the world, and won redundant meed. - If I gave much, the world was generous, - Repaying more than justice: but, at last, - Tired and disgusted, I laid down my pen. - I knew my work would not outlast my life, - That the enchantments which had wreathed themselves - Around my name were withering away, - With every breath of fragrance they exhaled; - And that, too soon, the active brain and hand - Whose skill had conjured them, would faint and fail - Under the press of weariness and years. - My reputation piqued me. None believed - That it was in me to write otherwise - Than I had written. All the world had laughed, - Or shaken its wise head, had I essayed - A work beyond the round of brilliancies - In which my pen had revelled, and for which - It gave such princely guerdon. If I looked, - Or came to look, with measureless contempt - On those who gave with such munificence - The boon I sought, I had provoking cause. - I fooled them all with patent worthlessness, - And they insisted I should fool them still. - The wisdom of a whole decade had failed - To teach them that the thing my hand had done - Was not worth doing. - - More and worse than this; - I found my character and self-respect - Eroded by the canker of conceit, - Poisoned by jealousy, and made the prey - Of meanest passions. Harlequins in mask, - Who live upon the laughter of the throng - That crowds their reeking amphitheatres; - Light-footed dancing-girls, who sell their grace - To gaping lechers of the pit, to win - That which shall feed their shameless vanity; - The mimics of the buskin--baser still, - The mimics of the negro--minstrel-bands. - With capital of corks and castanets - And threadbare jests--Ah! who and what was I - But brother of all these--in higher walk, - But brother in the motive of my life, - In jealousy, in recompense for toil, - And, last, in destiny? - - My wife had caught - Stray silver in her hair in these long years; - And the sweet maiden springing from our lives - Had grown to womanhood. In my pursuits, - Which drank my time and my vitality, - I had neglected them. I worked at home, - But lived in other scenes, for other lives, - Or, rather, for my own; and though my pride - Shrank from the deed, I had the tardy grace - To call them to me, and confess my shame, - And beg for their forgiveness. - - Once again-- - All explanations passed--I sat beside - My faithful wife, and canvassed as of old - New plans of life. I found her still the same - In purpose and in magnanimity; - For she dealt no upbraidings and no blame; - Cast in my teeth no old-time prophecies - Of failure; felt no triumph which rejoiced - To mock me with the words, "I told you so," - Calmly she sat, and tried, with gentlest speech, - To heal the bruises of my fall; to wake - A better feeling in me toward the world, - And soothe my morbid self-contempt. - - The world, - She said, is apt to take a public man - At his own estimate, and yield him place - According to his choice. I had essayed - To please the world, and gather in its praise; - And, certainly, the world was pleased with me, - And had not stinted me in its return - Of plauditory payment. As the world - Had taken me according to my rate, - And filled my wish, it had a valid claim - On my good nature. - - Then, beyond all this, - The world was not a fool. Those books of mine, - That I had come to look upon as trash, - Were not all trash. My motive had been poor, - And that had vitiated them for me; - But there was much in them that yielded strength - To struggling souls, and, to the wounded, balm. - Indeed, she had been helped by them, herself. - They were all pure; they made no foul appeal - To baseness and brutality; they had - An element of gentle chivalry, - Such as must have a place in any man - Shrinking with sensitiveness, like myself, - From a fine reputation, scorning it - For motive which had won it. - - Words like these, - From lips like hers, were needed medicine. - They clarified my weak and jaundiced sight, - And helped to juster vision of the world, - And of myself. But there was no return - Of the old greed; and fame, which I had learned - To be an entity quite different - From my conceit of it in other days, - Was something much too far and nebulous - To be my star of life. - - "You have some plan?"-- - Statement and query in same words, which fell - From lips that sought to rehabilitate - My will and self-respect. - - "I have," I said. - - "Else you were dead," responded she. "To live, - Men must have plans. When these die out of men - They crumble into chaos, or relapse - Into inanity. Will you reveal - These plans of yours to me?" - - "Ay, if I can," - I answered her; "but first I must reveal - The base on which I build them. I have tried - To find the occasion of my discontent, - And find it, as I think, just here; in quest - Of popularity, I have become - Untrue both to myself and to my art. - I have not dared to speak the royal truth - For fear of censure; I have been a slave - To men's opinions. What is best in me - Has been debauched by the pursuit of praise - As life's best prize. Conviction, sentiment, - All love and hate, all sense of right and wrong, - I have held in abeyance, or compelled - To work in menial subservience - To my grand purpose. If my sentiment - Or my conviction were but popular, - It flowed in hearty numbers: otherwise, - It slept in silence. - - "Now as to my art; - I find that it has suffered like myself, - And suffered from same cause. My verse has been - Shaped evermore to meet the people's thought. - That which was highest, grandest in my art - I have not reached, and have not tried to reach - I have but touched the surfaces of things - That meet the common vision; and my art - Has only aimed to clothe them gracefully - With fancy's gaudy fabrics, or portray - Their patent beauties and deformities. - Above the people in my gift and art, - Both gift and art have had a downward trend - And both are prostitute. - - "Discarding praise - As motive of my labor, I confess - My sins against my art, and so, henceforth, - As to my goddess, give myself to her. - The chivalry which you are pleased to note - In me and works of mine, turns loyally - To her and to her service. Nevermore - Shall pen of mine demean itself by work - That serves not first, and with supreme intent, - The art whose slave it is." - - "I understand, - I think, the basis of your plan," she said; - "And e'en the plan itself. You now propose - To write without remotest reference - To the world's wishes, prejudices, needs, - Or e'en the world's opinions,--quite content - If the world find aught in you to applaud; - Quite as content if it condemn. With full - Expression of yourself in finest terms - And noblest forms of art, so far as God - Has made you masterful, you give yourself - Up to yourself and to your art. Is this - Fair statement of your purpose?" - - "Not unfair," - I answered. "Tell me what you think of it." - - "Suppose," she said, "that all the artist-souls - That God has made since time and art began - Had acted on your theory: suppose - In architecture, picture, poetry, - Naught had found utterance but works that sprang - To satisfy the worker, and reveal - That bundle of ideas which, to him, - Is constituted art; but which, in truth, - Is figment of his fancy, or his thought,-- - His creature, made his God--say where were all - The temples, palaces and homes of men; - The galleries that blaze with history, - Or bloom with landscape, or look down - With smile of changeless love or loveliness - Into the hearts of men? And where were all - The poems that give measure to their praise, - Voice to their aspirations, forms of light - To homely facts and features of their life, - Enveloping this plain, prosaic world - In an ideal atmosphere, in which - Fair angels come and go? All gifts of men - Were made for use, and made for highest use, - If highest use be service of one's self, - And highest standard, one's embodiment - Of dogmas, theories and thoughts of art, - As art's identity, then are you right; - But if a higher use of gift and art - Be service of mankind, and higher rule - God's regal truth, revealed in words or worlds, - And verified by life, then are you wrong." - - "But art?"--responded I--"you do not mean - That art is nothing but a thing of thought, - Or, less than that, of fancy? Nay, I claim - That it is somewhat--a grand entity-- - An organism of lofty principles, - Informed with subtlest life, and clothed upon - With usage and tradition of the men - Who, working in those sunny provinces - Where it holds eminent domain, have brought - To build its temple and adorn its walls - The usufruct of countless lives. So far - Is art from being creature of man's thought - That it is subject of his knowledge--stands - In mighty mystery, and challenges - The study of the world; rules noblest minds - Like law or like religion; is a power - To which the proudest artist-spirits bow - With humblest homage. Is astronomy - The creature of man's thought? Is chemistry? - Yet these hold not, in this our universe, - A form more definite, nor yet a place - In human knowledge more beyond dispute, - Than art itself. To this embodiment - Of theory--of dogmas, if you will-- - This body aggregate of truth revealed - In growing light of ages to the eyes - Touched to perception, I devote my life." - - "Nay, you're too fast," she said: "let alchemy - And old astrology present your thought. - These were somewhat; these were grand entities; - But they went out like candles in thin air - When knowledge came. The sciences are things - Of law, of force, relations, measurements, - Affinities and combinations, all - The definite, demonstrable effects - Of first and second causes. Between these - And men's opinions, braced by usages, - The space is wide. The thing which you call art - Is anything but definite in form, - Or fixed in law. It has as many shapes - As worshippers. The world has many books, - Written by earnest men, about this art; - But having read them, we are no more wise - Than he whose observation of the sun - Is taken by kaleidoscope. The more - He sees in it, the more he is confused. - The sun works, doubtless, many fine effects - With what he sees, but he sees not the sun." - - "But art is art," I said. "You'd cheat my sense. - And mock my reason too. Ay, art is art. - Things must have being that have history." - - Then she: "Yes, politics has history, - And therefore has a being,--has, in truth, - Just such a being as I grant to art-- - A being of opinions. Every state - Has origin and ends of government - Peculiarly its own, and so, from these, - Constructs its theory of politics, - And holds this theory against the world; - And holds it well. There is no fixedness - Or form of politics for all mankind; - And there is none of art. Each artist-soul - Is its own law; and he who dares to bring - From work of other man, to lay on yours, - His square and compass--thus declaring him - The pattern man--and tells, by him, you lack - Just so much here, or wander so much there, - Thereby confesses just how much he lacks - Of wisdom and plain sense. For every man - Has special gift of power and end of life. - No man is great who lives by other law - Than that which wrapped his genius at his birth. - The Lind is great because she is the Lind, - And not the Malibran. Recorded art - Is yours to study--e'en to imitate, - In education--imitate or shun, - As the case warrants; but it has destroyed, - Or toned to commonplace, more gifts of God - Than it has ever fanned to life or fed. - Who never walks save where he sees men's tracks - Makes no discoveries. Show me the man - Who, leaving God and nature and himself, - Sits at the feet of masters, stuffs his brain - With maxims, notions, usages and rules, - And yields his fancy up to leading-strings, - And I shall see a man who never did - A deed worth doing. So, in the name of art-- - Nay, in the name of God--do no such thing - As smutch your knees by bowing at a shrine, - Whose doubtful deity, in midst of dust, - Sits in the cast-off robes of devotees, - And lives on broken victuals!" - - "Drive, my dear! - Drive on, and over me! You're on the old - High-stepping horse to-night; so give him rein, - For exercise is good," I said, in mirth. - "You sit your courser finely. I confess - I'm very proud of you, and too much pleased - With your accomplishments to check your speed. - Drive on, my love! drive on!" - - "I thank you, sir - No one so gracious as your grudging man - Under compulsion! With your kind consent - I'll ride a little further," she replied,-- - "For I enjoy it quite as much as you-- - The more because you've given me little chance - In these last years.... Now, soberly, this art - Of which we talk so much, without the power - To tell exactly what we understand - By the hack term--suppose we take the word, - And try to find its meaning. You recall - Old John who dressed the borders in our court: - You called him, hired him, told him what to do. - He and his rake stood interposed between - You and your work. You chose his skilful hands, - Endowing them with pay, or pledge of pay, - And set him at his labor. Now suppose - Old John had had a philosophic turn - After you left him, and had thought like this: - 'I am called here to do a certain work-- - My rake tells what; and he who called me here - Has given me the motive for the job. - The work is plain. These borders are to be - Levelled and cleaned of weeds: my hand and rake - Are fitted for the service;--this my art; - And it is first of all the arts. There's none - More ancient, useful, worshipful, indeed, - Than agriculture. Adam practised it; - Poets have sung its praises; and the great - Of every age have loved and honored it. - This art is greater than the man I serve, - And greater than his borders. Therefore I - Will serve my art, and let the borders lie, - And my employer whistle. True to that, - And to myself, it matters not to me - What weeds may grow, or what the master think - Of my proceeding!' - - "So, intent on this, - He hangs his rake upon your garden wall, - And steals your clematis, with which to wind - The handle upward; then o'erfills his hands - With roses and geraniums, and weaves - Their beauty into laurel, for a crown - For his slim god, completing his devoir - By buttering the teeth, and kneeling down - In abject homage. Pray, what would you say, - At close of day, when you should go to see - Your untouched borders, and your gardener - At genuflexion, with your mignonette - In every button-hole? Remember, now, - He has been true to art and to himself, - According to his notion; nor forget - To take along a dollar for his hire, - Which he expects, of course! What would you say?" - - "Oh, don't mind that: you've reached your 'fifthly' now, - And here the 'application' comes," I said. - - "I think," responded she, with an arch smile, - "The application's needless: but you men - Are so obtuse, when will is in the way, - That I will do your bidding. Every gift - That God bestows on men holds in itself - The secret of its office, like the rake - The gardener wields. The rake was made to till-- - Was fashioned, head and handle, for just that; - And if, by grace of God, you hold a gift - So fashioned and adapted, that it stands - In like relation of supremest use - To life of men, the office of your gift - Has perfect definition. Gift like this - Is yours, my husband. In your facile hands - God placed it for the service of himself, - In service of your kind. Taking this gift, - And using it for God and for the world, - In your own way, and in your own best way; - Seeking for light and knowledge everywhere - To guide your careful hand; and opening wide - To spiritual influx all your soul, - That so your master may breathe into you, - And breathe his great life through you, in such forms - Of pure presentment as he gives you skill - To build withal--that's all of art--for you. - Art is an instrument, and not an end-- - A servant, not a master, nor a God - To be bowed down to. Shall we worship rakes? - Honor of art, by him whose work is art, - Is a fine passion; but he honors most - Whose use and end are best." - - "Use! Use! Use!" - I cried impatiently;--"nothing but use! - As if God never made a violet, - Or hung a harebell, or in kindling gold - Garnished a sunset, or upreared the arch - Of a bright rainbow, or endowed a world-- - A universe, indeed--stars, firmament, - The vastitudes of forest and of sea, - Swift brooks and sweeping rivers, virid meads - And fluff of breezy hills--with tints that range - The scale of spectral beauty, till they leave - No glint or glory of the changeful light - Without a revelation! Is this use-- - I beg your pardon, love: you say 'this art'-- - The sum and end of art? If it be so, - Then God's no artist. Are the crystal brooks - Sweeter for singing to the thirsty brutes - That dip their beaded muzzles in the foam? - Burns the tree better that its leaves are green? - Sleeps the sun sounder under canopy - Of gold or rose?" - - "Yet beauty has its use," - Responded she. "Whatever elevates - Inspires, refreshes, any human soul, - Is useful to that soul. Beauty has use - For you and me. The dainty violet - Blooms in our thought, and sheds its fragrance there - And we are gainers through its ministry. - All God's great values wear the drapery - That most becomes them. Beauty may, in truth, - Be incident of art and not be end-- - Its form, condition, features, dress, and still - The humblest value of the things of art. - This truth obtains in all God's artistry. - Does God make beauty for himself, alone? - He is, and holds, all beauty. Has he need - To kindle rushes that he may behold - The glory of his thoughts? or need to use - His thoughts as plasms for the amorphous clay - That he may study models? For an end - Outside himself, he ever speaks himself; - And end, with him, is use." - - "Well, I confess - There's truth in what you utter," I replied;-- - "A modicum of truth, at least; and still - There's something more which this our subtle talk - Has failed to give us. I will not affirm - That art, recorded in its thousand forms, - And clothed with usages, traditions, rules,-- - The thing of history--the mighty pile - Of drift that sweep of ages has brought down - To heap the puzzled present--is the sum - And substance of all art. I will not claim-- - Nay, mark me now--I will not even claim - That beauty is art's end, or has its end - Within itself. Our tedious colloquy - Has cleared away the rubbish from my thought, - And given me cleaner vision. I can see - Before, around me, underneath, above, - The great unrealized; and while I bow - To the traditions and the things of art, - And hold my theories, I find myself - Inspired supremely by the Possible - That calls for revelation--by the forms - That sleep imprisoned in the snowy arms - Of still unquarried truth, or stretch their hands - At sound of sledge and drill and booming fire, - Imploring for release. I turn from men, - And stretch my hands toward these. I feel--I know-- - That there are mighty myriads waiting there, - And listening for my steps. Suppose my age - Should fail to give them welcome: ay, suppose - They may not help a man to coin a dime - Or cook a dinner: they will fare as well - As much of God's truth fares, though clothed in forms - Divinely chosen. Does God ever stint - His utterance because no creature hears? - Is it a grand and goodly thing, to spend - Brave life and precious treasure in a search - For palpitating water at the pole, - That so the sum of knowledge may be swelled, - Though pearls are not increased; and something less - To probe the Possible in art, or sit - Through months of dreary dark to catch a glimpse - Of the live truth that quivers with the jar - Of movement at its axle? Is it good - To garner gain beyond the present need, - Won by excursive commerce in all seas; - And something less to pile redundantly - The spoil of thought?" - - "These latest words of yours," - She answered musingly, "impress me much; - And yet, I think I see where they will lead, - Or, rather, fail to lead. Your fantasy - Is beautiful but vague. The Possible - Is a vast ocean, from which one poor soul, - With its slight oars, can float but flimsy freight; - Yet I would help your courage, for I see - Where your sole motive lies. Go on, and prove - Whether your scheme or mine holds more of good; - And take my blessing with you." - - Then she rose, - And kissed my forehead. Looking in her face, - By the sharp light that touched her, I was thrilled - By her flushed cheeks and strangely lustrous eyes. - She spoke not; but I heard the sigh she breathed-- - The long-drawn, weary sigh--as she retired; - And then the Possible, which had inspired - So wondrously my hope, drooped low around, - And filled me with foreboding. - - Had her life - Been chilled by my neglect? Was it on wane? - Could she be lost to me? Oh! then I felt, - As I had never felt before, how mean - Beside one true affection is the best - Of all earth's prizes, and how little worth - The world would be without her love--herself! - - But sleep refreshed her, and next morn she sat - At our bright board, in her accustomed place; - And sunlight was not sweeter than her smile, - Or cheerfuller. My quick fears died away; - And though I saw that she had lost the fire - Of her young life, I comforted myself - With thinking that it was the same with me-- - The sure result of years. - - My time I gave - To my new passion, rioting at large - In the fresh realm of fancy and of thought - To which the passion bore me, and from which - I strove to gather for embodiment - Material of art. - - The more I dreamed, - The broader grew my dream. The further on - My footsteps pushed, the brighter grew the light; - Till, half in terror, half in reverence, - I learned that I had broached the Infinite! - I had not thought my Possible could bear - Such name as this, or wear such attribute; - And shrank befitting distance from the front - Of awful secrets, hid in awful flame, - That scorched and scared me. - - So, more humble grown, - And less adventurous, I chose, at last, - My theme and vehicle of song, and wrote. - My faculties, grown strong and keen by use, - Bent to their task with earnest faithfulness, - And glowed with high endeavor. All of power - I had within me flowed into my hand; - And learning, language--all my life's resource-- - Lay close around my enterprise, and poured - Their hoarded wealth of imagery and words - Faster than I could use it. For long weeks, - My ardent labor crowded all my days, - Invaded sleep, and haunted e'en my dreams: - And then the work was done. - - I left it there, - And sought for recreative rest in scenes - That once had charmed me--in society - Where I was welcome: but the common talk - Of daily news--of politics and trade-- - Was senseless as the chatter of the jays - In autumn forests. No refreshing balm - Came to me in the sympathy of men. - In my retirement, I had left the world - To go its way; and it had gone its way, - And left me hopelessly. - - I told my wife - Of my dissatisfaction and disgust, - But found small comfort in her words. She said: - "The world is wide, and woman's vision short; - But I have never seen a man who turned - His efforts from his kind, and failed to spoil - All men for him--himself, indeed, for them; - And he who gives nor sympathy nor aid - To the poor race from which he seeks such boon - Must be rejoiced if it be generous; - Content, if it be just. Society - Is a grand scheme of service and return. - We give and take; and he who gives the most, - In ways directest, wins the best reward." - - By purpose, I closed eyes upon my work - For many weeks, resisting every day - The impulse to review the glowing dream - My fancy had engendered: for I wished - To go with faculty and fancy cooled - To its perusal. I had strong desire, - So far as in me lay, to see the work - With the world's eyes, for reasons--ah! I shrink - From writing them! All men are sometimes weak, - And some are inconsistent with their wills. - If I were one of these, think not I failed - To justify my weakness to myself, - In ways that saved my pride. - - Yet this was true; - I had an honest wish to learn how far - My work of heat had power to re-inspire - The soul that wrought it, and how well my verse - Had clothed and kept the creature of my thought; - For memory still retained the loveliness - That filled the fresh conceit. - - When, in good time. - Rest and diversion had performed their work, - And the long fever of my brain was gone, - I broached my feast, first making fast my door. - That so no eye should mark my greedy joy - Or my grimaces,--doubtful of the fate - That waited expectation. - - It were vain - To try, in these tame words, to paint the pang, - The faintness and the chill, which overwhelmed - My disappointed heart. My welded thoughts - Which, in their whitest heat, had bent and bound - My language to themselves, imparting grace - To stiffest words, and meanings fresh and fine - To simplest phrases, interfusing all - With their own ardency, and shining through - With smoothly rounded beauty, lay in heaps - Of cold, unmeaning ugliness. My words - Had shrunk to old proportions, and stood out - In hard, stiff angles, challenging a guess - Of what they covered. - - Meaningless to me, - Who knew the meaning that had once informed - Its faithless numbers, what way could I hope - That, to my own, or any future age, - My work should speak its full significance? - My latest child, begot in manly joy, - Conceived in purity, and born in toil, - Lay dead before me,--dead, and in the shroud - My hopeful hands had woven and bedecked - To be its chrisom. - - Then the first I learned - Where language finds its bound--learned that beyond - The range of human commerce, save by force, - It never moves, nor lingers in the realm - It thus invades, a moment, if the voice - Of human commerce speak not the demand;-- - That language is a thing of use;--that thought - Which seeks a revelation, first must seek - Adjustment in the scale of human need, - Or find no fitting vehicle. - - And more: - That the great Possible which lies outside - The range of commerce is identical - With the stupendous Infinite of God, - Which only comes in glimpses, or in hints - Of vague significance, so dim, so vast, - That subtlest, most prehensile language, shrinks - From plucking of its robes, the while they sweep - The perfumed air! - - I closed my manuscript, - And locked it in my desk. Then stealing forth, - I sought the bustle of the street, to drown - In the great roar of careless toil, the pain - That brings despair. My last resource was gone; - And as I brooded o'er the awful blank - Of hopeless life that waited for my steps, - A fear which I had feared to entertain - Found entrance to my heart, and held it still, - Almost to bursting. - - Not alone my life - Was sliding from me; for my better life, - My pearl of price, the jewel in my crown, - My wife Kathrina, growing lovelier - With every passing day, arose each morn - From wasting dreams to paler loveliness, - And sank in growing weariness each night, - And hotter hectic, to her welcome bed. - Her bed! The sweet, the precious nuptial bed! - Bed sanctified by love! Bed blest of God - With fruit immortal! Bed too soon to be - Crowned with the glory of a Christian death! - Ah God! How it brought back the agony, - And the rebellious hate of other years-- - The hopeless struggle of my will with Him - Whose will is law! - - Thus torn with mingled thought: - Of fear, despair and spite, I wore away - Miles of wild wandering about the streets, - Till weariness at last compelled my feet - To drag me to my home. - - Before my door - Stood the familiar chair of one whose call - Was ominous of ill. My heart grew sick - With flutter of foreboding and foredoom; - But in swift silence I flew up the steps, - And, blind with stifled frenzy, reached the side - Of my poor wife. She smiled at seeing me, - But I could only kneel, and bathe her hands - With tears and kisses. In her gentle breast-- - True home of love, and love and home to me-- - The blood had burst its walls, and flowed in flame - From lips it left in ashes. - - In her smile - Of perfect trustfulness, I caught first glimpse - Of that aureola of fadeless light - Which spans my lonely couch, and kindles hope - That when my time shall come to follow her, - My spirit may go out, enwreathed and wrapped - By the familiar glory, which to-night - Shall brood o'er all my vigils and my dreams! - - - - - DESPAIR. - - Ah! what is so dead as a perished delight! - Or a passion outlived! or a scheme overthrown! - Save the bankrupt heart it has left in its flight, - Still as quick as the eye, but as cold as a stone! - - The honey-bee hoards for its winter-long need, - The treasure it gathers in joy from the flowers; - And drinks in each sip of its silvery mead - The flavor and flush of the sweet summer hours. - - But a pleasure expires at its earliest breath: - No labor can hoard it, no cunning can save; - For the song of its life is the sigh of its death, - And the sense it has thrilled is its shroud and its grave. - - Ah! what is our love, with its tincture of lust, - And its pleasure that pains us and pain that endears, - But joy in an armful of beautiful dust - That crumbles, and flies on the wings of the years? - - And what is ambition for glory and power, - But desire to be reckoned the uppermost fool - Of a million of fools, for a pitiful hour, - And be cursed for a tyrant, or kicked for a tool? - - Nay, what is the noblest that art can achieve, - But to conjure a vision of light to the eyes, - That will pale ere we paint it, and pall ere we leave - On the heart it betrays and the hand it defies? - - We love, and we long with an infinite greed - For a love that will fill our deep longing, in vain; - The cup that we drink of is pleasant, indeed, - Yet it holds but a drop of the heavenly rain. - - We plan for our powers the divinest we can; - We do with our powers the supremest we may; - And, winning or losing, for labor and plan - The best that we garner is--rest and decay! - - Content--satisfaction--who wins them? Look down! - They are held without thought by the dolts and the drones: - 'Tis the slave who in carelessness carries the crown; - And the hovels have kinglier men than the thrones. - - The maid sings of love to the hum of her wheel; - And her lover responds as he follows his team; - They wed, and their children come quickly to seal - In fulfilment the pledge of their loftiest dream. - - With humblest ambitions and homeliest fare, - Contented, though toiling, they travel abreast, - Till the kind hand of death lifts their burden of care, - And they sink, in the faith of their fathers, to rest. - - Did I beg to be born? Did I seek to exist? - Did I bargain for promptings to loftier gains? - Did I ask for a brain, with contempt of the fist - That could win a reward for its labor and pains? - - Was it kind--the strong promise that girded my youth? - Was it good--the endowment of motive and skill? - Was it well to succeed, when success was, in truth, - But the saddest of failure? Make answer, who will! - - Do I rave without reason? Why, look you, I pray! - I have won all I sought of the highest and best; - But it brings me no guerdon; and hopeless, to-day, - I am poorer than when I set out on the quest. - - Oh! emptiness! Life, what art thou but a lie, - Which I greeted and honored with hopefullest trust? - Bah! the beautiful apples that tempted my eye - Break dead on my tongue into ashes and dust! - - "A Father who loves all the children of men"? - "A future to fill all these bottomless gaps"? - But one life has failed: can I fasten again - With my faith and my hope to a specious Perhaps! - - O! man who begot me! O! woman who bore! - Why, why did you call me to being and breath? - With ruin behind me, and darkness before, - I have nothing to long for, or live for, but death! - - - - - PART IV. - - CONSUMMATION. - - A guest was in my house--a guest unbid-- - Who stayed without a welcome from his host,-- - So loathed and hated, on such errand bent, - And armed with such resistless power of ill, - I dared not look him in the face. I heard - His tireless footsteps in the lonely halls, - In the chill hours of night; and, in the day, - They climbed the stairs, or loitered through the rooms - With lawless freedom. Ever when I turned - I caught a glimpse of him. His shadow stalked - Between me and the light, and fled before - My restless feet, or followed close behind. - Whene'er I bent above the couch that held - My fading wife, though looking not, I knew - That he was bending from the other side, - And mocking me. - - Familiar grown, at last, - He came more closely--came and sat with me - Through hours of revery; or, as I paced - My dimly-lighted room, slipped his lank arm - Through mine, and whispered in my shrinking ear - Such fearful words as made me sick and cold. - He took the vacant station at my board, - Sitting where she had sat, and mixed my cup - With poisoned waters, saying in low tones - That none but I could hear: - - "This little room, - Where you have breakfasted and dined and supped, - And laughed and chatted in the days gone by, - Will be a lonely place when we are gone. - Those roses at the window, that were wont - To bloom so freely with the lady's care, - Already miss her touch. That ivy-vine - Has grown a yard since it was tied, and needs - A training hand." - - Rising with bitter tears - To flee his presence, he arose with me, - And wandered through the rooms. - - "This casket here"-- - I heard him say: "Suppose we loose the clasp. - These are her jewels--pretty gifts of yours. - There is a diamond: there a string of pearls. - That paly opal holds a mellowed fire - Which minds me of the mistress, whose bright soul, - Glows through the lucent whiteness of her face - With lambent flicker. These are legacies: - She will not wear them more. Her taste and mine - Are one in this, that both of us love flowers. - Ay, she shall have them, too, some pleasant day, - When she goes forth with me! - - "So? what is this? - Her wardrobe! Let the door be opened wide! - This musk, so blent with scent of violets, - Revives one. You remember when she wore - That lavender?--a very pretty silk! - Here is a _moire antique_. Ah! yes--I see! - You did not like her in it. 'Twas too old, - And too suggestive of the dowager. - There is your favorite--that glossy blue-- - The sweet tint stolen from the skies of June-- - But she is done with it. I wonder who - Will wear it, when your grief shall find a pause! - Your daughter--possibly? ... You shiver, sir! - Is it the velvet? Like a pall, you think! - Well, close the door! - - "Those slippers on the rug: - The time will come when you will kiss their soles - For the dear life that pressed them. Their rosettes - Will be more redolent than roses then. - You did not know how much you loved your wife? - I thought so! - - "This way! Let us take our stand - Beside her bed. Not quite so beautiful - To your fond eyes as when she was a bride, - Though still a lovely woman! Seems it strange - That she is yours no longer?--that her hand - Is given to another--to the one - For whom she has been waiting all her life, - And ready all her life? Your power is gone - To punish rivals. There you stand and weep, - But dare not lift a finger, while with smiles - And kindly welcome she extends her hands - To greet her long-expected friend. She knows - Where I will take her--to what city of God, - What palace there, and what companionship. - She knows what robes will drape her loveliness, - What flowers bedeck her hair, and rise and fall - Upon the pulses of her happy breast. - And you, poor man! with all your jealous pride, - Have learned that she would turn again to you, - And to your food and furniture of life, - With disappointment. - - "Ay, she pities you-- - Loves you, indeed; but there is One she loves - With holier passion, and with more entire - And gladder self-surrender. She will go-- - You know that she will go--and go with joy; - And you begin to see how poor and mean, - When placed beside her joy, are all your gifts, - And all that you have won by them. - - "Poor man! - Weeping again! Well, if it comfort you, - Rain your salt tears upon her waxen hands, - And kiss them dry at leisure! Press her lips, - Hot with the hectic! Lay your cold, wet cheek - Against the burning scarlet of her own: - Only remember that she is not yours, - And that your paroxysms of grief and tears - Are painful to her." - - Ah! to wait for death! - To see one's idol with the signature - Of the Destroyer stamped upon her brow. - And know that she is doomed, beyond all hope; - To watch her while she fades; to see the form - That once was Beauty's own become a corpse - In all but breathing, and to meet her eyes - A hundred times a day--while the heart bleeds-- - With smiles of smooth dissembling, and with words - Cheerful as morning, and to do all this - Through weeks and weary months, till one half longs - To see the spell dissolved, and feel the worst - That death can do: can there be misery - Sadder than this? - - My time I passed alone, - And at the bedside of my dying wife. - She talked of death as children talk of sleep, - When--a forgetful blank--it lies between - Their glad impatience and a holiday. - The morrow--ah! the morrow! That was name - For hope all realized, for work all done, - For pain all passed, for life and strength renewed. - For fruitage of endeavor, for repose, - For heaven! - - What would the morrow bring to me? - The morrow--ah! the morrow! It was blank-- - Nay, blank and black with gloom of clouds and night - Never before had I so realized - My helplessness. I could not find relief - In love or labor. I could only sit, - And gaze against a wall, without the power - To pierce or climb. My pride of life was gone. - My spirit broken, and my strife with God - Was finished. If I could not look before, - I dare not look above; and so, whene'er - I could forget the present, I went back - Upon the past. - - One soft June day, my thoughts, - Touched by some song of bird, or glimpse of green, - Returned to life's bright morning, and the Junes - That flooded with their wealth of life and song - The valley of my birth. Again I walked the meads, - Brilliant with beaded grass, and heard the shrill, - Sweet jargon of the meadow-birds. Again - I trod the forest paths, in shade of trees - With foliage so tender that the sun - Shot through the soft, thin leaves its virid sheen, - As through the emerald waters of the sea. - The scarlet tanager--a flake of fire, - Blown from the tropic heats upon the breath - That brought the summer--caught upon a twig, - Or quenched its glow in some remote recess. - The springing ferns unfolded at my feet - Their tan-brown scrolls, the tiny star-flower shone - Among its leaves; the insects filled the air - With a monotonous, reedy resonance - Of whir and hum, and I sat down again - Upon a bank, to gather violets. - - From dreams of retrospective joy I woke - At last, to the quick tinkle of a bell. - My wife had touched it. She had been asleep, - And, waking, called me to her side. The note, - Familiar as the murmur of her voice, - For the first time was strange. Another bell, - With other music, ran adown the years - That lay between me and the golden day - When, up the mountain-path, I followed far - The lamb that bore it. All the scene came back - In a broad flash; and with it came the same - Strange apprehension of a mighty change-- - A vague prevision of transition, born - Of what, I knew not; on what errand sent, - I could not guess. - - I rose upon my feet, - Responsive to the summons, when I heard, - Repeated in the ear of memory, - The words my mother spoke to me that day: - - "My Paul has climbed the noblest mountain-height - In all his little world, and gazed on scenes - As beautiful as rest beneath the sun. - I trust he will remember all his life - That, to his best achievement, and the spot - Closest to heaven his youthful feet have trod, - He has been guided by a guileless lamb. - It is an omen which his mother's heart - Will treasure with her jewels." - - Had her tongue - Been moved to prophecy? Omen of what?-- - Of a new height of life to be achieved - By my lamb's leading? Ay, it seemed like this! - An answer to a thousand prayers, up-breathed - By her whom I had lost, repeated long - By her whom I was losing? Was it this? - Thus charged with premonition, when I stepped - Into the shaded room, my cheeks were pale, - And every nerve was quivering with the stress - Of uncontrolled emotion. Ah! my lamb! - How white! How innocent! My lamb, my lamb! - Even the scarlet ribbon which adorned - The lambkin of my chase was at her throat, - Repeated in a bright geranium-flower! - - "Loop up the curtains, love! Let in the light!" - The words came strong and sweet, as if the life - From which they breathed were at its tidal flood. - "Oh! blessed light!" she added, as the sun - Flamed on the velvet roses of the floor, - And touched to life the pictures on the wall, - And smote the dusk with bars of amber. - - "Paul!" - - I turned to answer, and beheld a face - That glowed with a celestial fire like his - Who talked with God in Sinai. - - "Paul," she said. - "I have been almost home. I may not tell, - For language cannot paint, what I have seen. - The veil was very thin, and I so near, - I caught the sheen of multitudes, and heard - Voices that called and answered from afar - Through spaces inconceivable, and songs - Whose harmonies responsive surged and sank - On the attenuate air, till all my soul - Was thrilled and filled with music, and I prayed - To be let loose, that I might cast myself - Upon the mighty tides, and give my life - To the supernal raptures. Ay, I prayed - That death might come, and give me my release - From this poor clay, and that I might be born - By its last travail into life." - - "Dear wife," I said, - "You have been wildly dreaming, and your brain, - Quickened to strange vagaries by disease, - Has cheated you. You must not talk like this: - 'Twill harm you. I will hold your hand awhile, - And you shall have repose. - - She smiled and said, - While her eyes shone with an unearthly light: - "You are not wise, my dear, in things like these. - The vision was as real as yourself; - And it will not be long before I go - To mingle in the life that I have seen. - I know it, dearest, for she told me this." - - "She told you this?" I said,--"Who told you this? - Did you hold converse with the multitude?" - - "Not with the multitude," she answered me; - "But while I gazed upon the throng, and prayed - That death might loose me, there appeared a group - Of radiant ones behind the filmy veil - That hung between us, looking helplessly - Upon my struggle, but with eyes that beamed - With love ineffable. I knew them too-- - Knew all of them but one--and she the first - And sweetest of them all. Pure as the light - And beautiful as morning, she advanced; - And, at her touch, the veil was parted wide, - While she passed through, and stood beside my bed. - She took my hand, she kissed my burning cheek, - And then, in words that calmed my spirit, said: - - "'Your prayer will soon be answered; but one prayer, - Breathed many years by you, and many years - By one you know not, must be answered first. - You must go back, though for a little time, - And reap the harvest of a life. To him - Whom you and I have loved, say all your heart - Shall move your lips to speak, and he will hear. - The strength, the boldness, the persuasive power - Which you may need for this, shall all be yours; - For you shall have the ministry of those - Whom you have seen. Speak as a dying wife - Has liberty to speak to him she leaves; - And tell him this--that he may know the voice - That gives you your commission--tell him this: - The lamb has slipped the leash by which his hand - Held her in thrall, and seeks the mountain-height; - And he, if he reclaim her to his grasp, - Must follow where she leads, and kneel at last - Upon the summit by her side. And more: - Give him my promise that if he do this, - He shall receive from that fair altitude - Such vision of the realm that lies around, - Cleft by the river of immortal life, - As shall so lift him from his selfishness, - And so enlarge his soul, that he shall stand - Redeemed from all unworthiness, and saved - To happiness and heaven.'" - - Her words flowed forth - With the strong utterance, in truth, of one - Inspired from other worlds; while pale and faint, - I drank her revelations. Unbelief - Had given the lie to her abounding faith, - And held her vision figment of disease, - Until the message of my mother fell - Upon my ears. Then overcome, I wept - With deep convulsions, rose and walked the room, - Wrung my clasped hands, and cried with choking voice, - "My mother! O! my mother!" - - "Gently, love! - For she is with you," said my dying wife. - "Nay, all of them are with us. This small room - Is now the gate of heaven; and you must do - That which befits the presence and the place. - Come! sit beside me; for my time is short, - And I have much to say. What will you do - When I am gone? Will the old life of art - Content you? Will you fill your waiting time - With the old dreams of fame and excellence?" - - "Alas!" I answered, "I am done with life: - My life is dead; and though my hand has won - All it has striven to win, and all my heart - In its weak pride has prompted it to seek - Of love and honor; though success is mine - In all my eager enterprise, I know - My life has been a failure. I am left - Or shall be left, when you, my love, are gone, - Without resource--a hopeless, worthless man, - Longing to hide his shame and his despair - Within the grave." - - "I thank thee, Lord!" she said: - "So many prayers are answered! ... You knew not - That I had asked for this. You did not know - When you were striving with your feeble might - For the great prizes that beguiled your pride, - That at the hand of God I begged success. - Ay, Paul, I prayed that you might gather all - The good that you have won, and that, at last, - You might be brought to know the worthlessncss - Of every selfish meed, and feel how weak-- - How worse than helpless--is the highest man - Who lives within, and labors to, himself. - Not one of all the prizes you have gained - Contains the good that lies in your despair." - - "Teach me," I said, "for I am ignorant; - Lead me, for I am blind. Explain the past, - With all its errors. Why am I so low, - And you so high?" - - She pressed my hand, and said - "You have been hungry all your life for God, - And known it not. You lavished first on me - Your heart's best love. You poured its treasured wealth - At an unworthy shrine. You made a God - Of poor mortality; and when you learned - Your love was greater than the one you loved-- - The one you worshipped--you invoked the aid - Of your imagination, to enrich - Your pampered idol, till at last you bowed - Before a creature of your thought. You stole - From excellence divine the grace and good - That made me worshipful; and even these - Palled on your heart at last, and ceased to yield - The inspiration that you craved. You pined, - You starved for something infinitely sweet; - And still you sought it blindly, wilfully - In your poor wife,--sought it, and found it not, - Through wasted years of life. - - "And then you craved - An infinite return. You asked for more - Than I could give, although I gave you all - That woman can bestow on man. You knew - You held my constant love, unlimited - Save by the bounds of mortal tenderness; - And still you longed for more. Then sprang your scheme - For finding in the love of multitudes, - And in their praise, that which had failed in me. - You wrote for love and fame, and won them both - By manly striving--won and wore them long. - All good there is in love and praise of men, - You garnered in your life. On this reward - You lived, till you were sated, or until - You learned it bore no satisfying meed-- - Learned that the love of many was not more - Than love of one. With all my love your own, - With love and praise of men, your famished soul - Craved infinite approval--craved a love - Beyond the love of woman and of man. - - "Then with new hope, you apotheosized - Your cherished art, and sought for excellence - And for your own approval; with what end, - Your helplessness informs me. You essayed - The revelation of the mighty forms - That dwell in the unrealized. You sought - To shape your best ideals, and to find - In the grand scheme your motive and reward. - All this blind reaching after excellence, - Was but the reaching of your soul for God. - Imagination could not touch the height; - And you were baffled. So, you failed to find - The God your spirit yearned for in your art, - And failed of self-approval. - - "You have now - But one resource,--you are shut up to this: - You must bow down and worship God; and give - Your heart to him, accept his love for you, - And feast your soul on excellence in him. - So, a new life shall open to your feet, - Strown richly with rewards; and when your steps - Shall reach the river, I will wait for you - Upon the other shore, and we shall be - One in the life immortal as in this. - O! Paul! your time is now. I cannot die - And leave you comfortless. I cannot die - And enter on the pleasures that I know - Await me yonder, with the consciousness - That you are still unhappy." - - All my life - Thus lay revealed in light which she had poured - Upon its track. I learned where she had found - Her peaceful joy, her satisfying good, - And where, in my rebellious pride of heart, - Mine had been lost. She, by an instinct sure, - Or by the grace of Heaven, had in her youth, - Though sorely chastened, given herself to God - And through a life of saintly purity-- - A life of love to me and love to all-- - Had feasted at the fountain of all love. - Had worshipped at the Excellence Divine, - And only waited for my last adieu - To take her crown. - - I sat like one struck dumb. - I knew not how to speak, or what to do. - She looked at me expectant; while a thrill - Of terror shot through all my frame. - - "Alas!" - She said, "I thought you would be ready now." - - At this, the door was opened silently, - And our dear daughter stood within the room. - Alarmed at vision of the sudden change - That death had wrought upon her mother's face, - She hastened to her side, and kneeling there, - Bowed on her breast with tears and choking sobs, - Her heart too full for speech. - - "Be silent, dear!" - The dying mother said, resting her hand - Upon her daughter's head. "Be silent, dear! - Your father kneels to pray. Make room for him, - That he may kneel beside you." - - At her words, - I was endowed with apprehensions new; - And somewhere in my quickened consciousness, - I felt the presence of her heavenly friends, - And knew that there were spirits in the room. - I did not doubt, nor have I doubted since, - That there were loving witnesses of all - The scenes enacted round that hallowed bed. - Ay, and they spoke. Deep in the innermost - I heard the tender words, "O! kneel my son!--" - A sweet monition from my mother's lips. - - "Kneel! kneel!" It was the echo of a throng. - - "Kneel! kneel!" The gentle mandate reached my heart - From depths of lofty space. It was the voice - Of the Good Father. - - From the curtain folds, - That rustled at the window, in the airs - That moved with conscious pulse to passing wings, - Came the same burden "Kneel!" - - "Kneel! kneel! O! kneel!" - In tones of earnest pleading, came from lips - Already pinched by death. - - A hundred worlds. - Imposed upon my shoulders, had not bowed - And crushed me to my knees with surer power. - The hand that lay upon my daughter's head - Then passed to mine; but still my lips were dumb. - - "Pray!" said the spirit of my mother. - - "Pray!" - The word repeated, came from many lips. - - "Pray!" said the voice of God within my soul; - While every whisper of the living air - Echoed the low command. - - "Pray! pray! O! pray!" - My dying wife entreated, while swift tears - Slid to her pillow. - - Then the impulse came, - And I poured out like water all my heart. - "O! God!" I said, "be merciful to me - A reprobate! I have blasphemed thy name. - Abused thy patient love, and held from thee - My heart and life; and now, in my extreme - Of need and of despair, I come to thee. - O! cast me not away, for here, at last, - After a life of selfishness and sin, - I yield my will to thine, and pledge my soul-- - All that I am, all I can ever be-- - Supremely to thy service. I renounce - All worldly aims, all selfish enterprise. - And dedicate the remnant of my power - To thee and those thou lovest. Comfort me! - O! come and comfort me, for I despair! - Give me thy peace, for I am rent and tossed! - Feed me with love, else I shall die of want! - Behold! I empty out my worthlessncss, - And beg thee to come in, and fill my soul - With thy rich presence. I adore thy love; - I seek for thy approval; I bow down, - And worship thee, the Excellence Supreme. - I've tasted of the sweetest that the world - Can give to me; and human love and praise. - And all of excellence within the scope - Of my conception, and my power to reach - And realize in highest forms of art, - Have left me hungry, thirsty lor thyself. - O! feed and fire me! Fill and furnish me! - And if thou hast for me some humble task-- - Some service for thyself, or for thy own-- - Reveal it to thy sad, repentant child, - Or use him as thy willing instrument. - I ask it for the sake of Jesus Christ, - Henceforth my Master!" - - Multitudes, it seemed, - Responded with "Amen!" as if the word - Were caught from mortal lips by swooping choirs - Of spirits ministrant, and borne away - In sweet reverberations into space. - - I raised my head at last, and met the eyes - Bright with the light of death, and with the dawn - Of opening heaven. The smile that overspread - The fading features was the peaceful smile - Of an immortal,--full of faith and love-- - A satisfied, triumphant, shining smile, - Lit by the heavenly glory. - - "Paul," she said, - "My work is done; but you will live and work - These many years. Your life is just begun, - Too late, but well begun; and you are mine, - Now and forevermore.... Dear Lord! my thanks - For this thy crowning blessing!" - - Then she paused, - And raised her eyes in a seraphic trance, - And lifted her thin fingers, that were thrilled - With tremulous motion, like the slender spray - On which a throbbing song-bird clings, and pours - His sweet incontinence of ecstasy, - And then in broken whispers said to me: - "Do you not hear them? They have caught the news, - And all the sky is ringing with their song - Of gladness and of welcome. '_Paul is saved_! - _Paul is redeemed and saved!_' I hear them cry; - And myriad voices catch the new delight, - And carry the acclaim, till heaven itself - Sends back the happy echo: '_Paul is saved._'" - - She stretched her hands, and took me to her breast. - I kissed her, blessed her, spoke my last adieu, - And yielded place to her whom God had given - To be our child. After a long embrace. - She whispered: "I am weary; let me sleep!" - - She passed to peaceful slumber like a child, - The while attendant angels built the dream - On which she rode to heaven. Not once again - She spoke to mortal ears, but slept and smiled, - And slept and smiled again, till daylight passed. - The night came down; the long hours lapsed away; - The city sounds grew fainter, till at last - We sat alone with silence and with death. - At the first blush of morning she looked up, - And spoke, but not to us: "I'm coming now!" - - I sought the window, to relieve the pain - Of long suppressed emotion. In the East, - Tinged with the golden dawn, the morning star - Was blazing in its glory, while beneath, - The slender moon, at its last rising, hung, - Paling and dying in the growing light, - And passing with that leading up to heaven. - My daughter stood beside her mother's bed, - But I had better vision of the scene - In the sweet symbol God had hung for me - Upon the sky. - - Swiftly the dawn advanced, - And higher rose, and still more faintly shone, - The star-led moon. Then, as it faded out, - Quenched by prevailing day, I heard one sigh - A sigh so charged with pathos of deep joy, - And peace ineffable, that memory - Can never lose the sound; and all was past! - The peaceful summer-day that rose upon - This night of trial and this morn of grief, - Rose not with calmer light than that which dawned - Upon my spirit. Chastened, bowed, subdued, - I kissed the rod that smote me, and exclaimed: - "The Lord hath given; the Lord hath taken away - And blessed be his name!" - - Rebellion slept. - I grieved, and still I grieve; but with a heart - At peace with God, and soft with sympathy - Toward all my sorrowing, struggling, sinful race. - My hope, that clung so fondly to the world - And the rewards of time, an anchor sure - Now grasps the Eternal Rock within the veil - Of troubled waters. Storms may wrench and toss, - And tides may swing me, in their ebb and flow, - But I shall not be moved. - - Once more! once more - I shall behold her face, and clasp her hand! - Once more--forevermore! - - So here I give - The gospel of her precious, Christian life. - I owe it to herself, and to the world. - Grateful for all her tender ministry - In life and death, I bring these leaves, entwined - With her own roses, dewy with my tears, - And lay them as the tribute of my love - Upon the grave that holds her sacred dust. - - - - END. - - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Kathrina--A Poem, by Josiah Gilbert Holland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATHRINA--A POEM *** - -***** This file should be named 63423-8.txt or 63423-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/4/2/63423/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. 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G. Holland -</title> - -<style type="text/css"> -body { color: black; - background: white; - margin-right: 10%; - margin-left: 10%; - font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; - text-align: justify } - -p {text-indent: 4% } - -p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } - -p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 200%; - text-align: center } - -p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 150%; - text-align: center } - -p.t2b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 150%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 100%; - text-align: center } - -p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 100%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - text-align: center } - -p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 60%; - text-align: center } - -h1 { text-align: center } -h2 { text-align: center } -h3 { text-align: center } -h4 { text-align: center } -h5 { text-align: center } - -p.poem {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 0%; } - -p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; - letter-spacing: 4em ; - text-align: center } - -p.letter {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -.smcap { font-variant: small-caps } - -p.transnote {text-indent: 0% ; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.intro {font-size: 90% ; - text-indent: -5% ; - margin-left: 5% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; - margin-left: 0% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -p.finis { font-size: larger ; - text-align: center ; - text-indent: 0% ; - margin-left: 0% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -</style> - -</head> - -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Kathrina--A Poem, by Josiah Gilbert Holland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Kathrina--A Poem - -Author: Josiah Gilbert Holland - -Release Date: October 10, 2020 [EBook #63423] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATHRINA--A POEM *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - -</pre> - - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -KATHRINA -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - DR. J. G. HOLLAND'S WRITINGS.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - <i>Complete Works</i>. 16 Volumes. Small 12mo.<br /> - Sold separately.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - Bitter-Sweet<br /> - Kathrina<br /> - The Mistress of the Manse<br /> - Puritan's Guest and other Poems<br /> - Titcomb's Letters to Young People<br /> - Gold-Foil<br /> - Lessons in Life<br /> - Plain Talks on Familiar Subjects<br /> - Concerning the Jones Family<br /> - Every-Day Topics. First Series<br /> - Every-Day Topics. Second Series<br /> - Sevenoaks<br /> - The Bay Path<br /> - Arthur Bonnicastle<br /> - Miss Gilbert's Career<br /> - Nicholas Minturn<br /> -</p> - -<h1> -<br /><br /> - KATHRINA<br /> -</h1> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - A POEM<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - BY<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3b"> - J. G. HOLLAND<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - NEW YORK<br /> - CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS<br /> - 1893.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - COPYRIGHT BY<br /> - CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO.<br /> - 1867<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t4"> - COPYRIGHT BY<br /> - J. G HOLLAND<br /> - 1881<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - TROW'S<br /> - PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,<br /> - NEW YORK.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -I DEDICATE -</p> - -<p class="t3b"> -"KATHRINA" -</p> - -<p class="t3"> -THE WORK OF MY HAND<br /> -TO -</p> - -<p class="t3b"> -ELIZABETH -</p> - -<p class="t3"> -THE WIFE OF MY HEART -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - CONTENTS<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#tribute">A TRIBUTE</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - PART I.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#childhood">CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH</a><br /> - <a href="#complaint">COMPLAINT</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - PART II.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#love">LOVE</a><br /> - <a href="#reflection">A REFLECTION</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - PART III.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#labor">LABOR</a><br /> - <a href="#despair">DESPAIR</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - PART IV.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#consummation">CONSUMMATION</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="tribute"></a></p> - -<p class="t2"> - KATHRINA. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h3> - A TRIBUTE.<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - More human, more divine than we—<br /> - In truth, half human, half divine—<br /> - Is woman, when good stars agree<br /> - To temper with their beams benign<br /> - The hour of her nativity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The fairest flower the green earth bears,<br /> - Bright with the dew and light of heaven,<br /> - Is, of the double life she wears,<br /> - The type, in grace and glory given<br /> - By soil and sun in equal shares.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - True sister of the Son of Man:<br /> - True sister of the Son of God:<br /> - What marvel that she leads the van<br /> - Of those who in the path he trod,<br /> - Still bear the cross and wear the ban?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - If God be in the sky and sea,<br /> - And live in light and ride the storm,<br /> - Then God is God, although He be<br /> - Enshrined within a woman's form;<br /> - And claims glad reverence from me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So, as I worship Him in Christ,<br /> - And in the Forms of Earth and Air,<br /> - I worship Him imparadised,<br /> - And throned within her bosom fair<br /> - Whom vanity hath not enticed.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - O! woman—mother! Woman—wife!—<br /> - The sweetest names that language knows!<br /> - Thy breast, with holy motives rife,<br /> - With holiest affection glows,<br /> - Thou queen, thou angel of my life!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Noble and fine in his degree<br /> - Is the best man my heart receives;<br /> - And this my heart's supremest plea<br /> - For him: he feels, acts, lives, believes,<br /> - And seems, and is, the likest thee.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - O men! O brothers! Well I know<br /> - That with her nature in our souls<br /> - Is born the elemental woe—<br /> - The brutal impulse that controls,<br /> - And drives, or drags, the godlike low.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ambition, appetite and pride—<br /> - These throng and thrall the hearts of men<br /> - These plat the thorns, and pierce the side<br /> - Of Him, who, in our souls again,<br /> - Is spit upon, and crucified.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The greed for gain, the thirst for power,<br /> - The lust that blackens while it burns:<br /> - Ah! these the whitest souls deflour!<br /> - And one, or all of these by turns,<br /> - Rob man of his divinest dower!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet man, who shivers like a straw<br /> - Before Temptation's lightest breeze,<br /> - Assumes the master—gives the law<br /> - To her who, on her bended knees,<br /> - Resists the black-winged thunder-flaw!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To him who deems her weak and vain,<br /> - And boasts his own exceeding might,<br /> - She clings through darkest fortune fain;<br /> - Still loyal though the ruffian smite;<br /> - Still true, though crime his hands distain!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And is this weakness? Is it not<br /> - The strength of God, that loves and bears<br /> - Though He be slighted or forgot<br /> - In damning crimes, or driving cares,<br /> - And closest clings in darkest lot?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Not many friends my life has made;<br /> - Few have I loved, and few are they<br /> - Who in my hand their hearts have laid;<br /> - And these were women. I am gray,<br /> - But never have I been betrayed.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - These words—this tribute—for the sake<br /> - Of truth to God and womankind!<br /> - These—that my heart may cease to ache<br /> - With love and gratitude confined,<br /> - And burning from my lips to break!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - These—to that sisterhood of grace<br /> - That numbers in its sacred list<br /> - My mother, risen to her place;<br /> - My wife, but yester-morning kissed,<br /> - And folded in Love's last embrace!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - This tribute of a love profound<br /> - As ever moved the heart of man,<br /> - To those to whom my life is bound,<br /> - To her in whom my life began,<br /> - And her whose love my life hath crowned!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Immortal Love! Thou still hast wings<br /> - To lift me to those radiant fields,<br /> - Where Music waits with trembling strings,<br /> - And Verse her happy numbers yields,<br /> - And all the soul within me sings.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So from the lovely Pagan dream<br /> - I call no more the Tuneful Nine;<br /> - For Woman is my Muse Supreme;<br /> - And she with fire and flight divine,<br /> - Shall light and lead me to my theme.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="childhood"></a></p> - -<h2> - PART I. -</h2> - -<h3> - CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH.<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Thou lovely vale of sweetest stream that flows:<br /> - Winding and willow-fringed Connecticut!<br /> - Swift to thy fairest scenes my fancy flies,<br /> - As I recall the story of a life<br /> - Which there began in years of sinless hope,<br /> - And merged maturely into hopeless sin.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - O! golden dawning of a day of storms,<br /> - That fell ere noontide into rayless night!<br /> - O! beautiful initial, vermeil-flowered,<br /> - And bright with cherub-eyes and effigies,<br /> - To the black-letter volume of my life!<br /> - O! faëry gateway, gilt and garlanded,<br /> - And shining in the sun, to gloomy groves<br /> - Of shadowy cypress, and to sunless streams,<br /> - Feeding with bane the deadly nightshade's roots,—<br /> - To vexing labyrinths of doubt and fear,<br /> - And deep abysses of despair and death!<br /> - Back to thy peaceful villages and fields,<br /> - My memory, like a weary pilgrim, comes<br /> - With scrip and burdon, to repose awhile,—<br /> - To pluck a daisy from a lonely grave<br /> - Where long ago, in common sepulture,<br /> - I laid my mother and my faith in God;<br /> - To fix the record of a single day<br /> - So memorably wonderful and sweet<br /> - Its power of inspiration lingers still,—<br /> - So full of her dear presence, so divine<br /> - With the melodious breathing of her words,<br /> - And the warm radiance of her loving smile,<br /> - That tears fall readily as April rain<br /> - At its recall; to pass in swift review<br /> - The years of adolescence, and the paths<br /> - Of glare and gloom through which, by passion led<br /> - I reached the fair possession of my power,<br /> - And won the dear possession of my love,<br /> - And then—farewell!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Queen-village of the meads<br /> - Fronting the sunrise and in beauty throned,<br /> - With jewelled homes around her lifted brow,<br /> - And coronal of ancient forest trees—<br /> - Northampton sits, and rules her pleasant realm.<br /> - There where the saintly Edwards heralded<br /> - The terrors of the Lord, and men bowed low<br /> - Beneath the menace of his awful words;<br /> - And there where Nature, with a thousand tongues<br /> - Tender and true, from vale and mountain-top,<br /> - And smiling streams, and landscapes piled afar,<br /> - Proclaimed a gentler Gospel, I was born.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In an old home, beneath an older elm—<br /> - A fount of weeping greenery, that dripped<br /> - Its spray of rain and dew upon the roof—<br /> - I opened eyes on life; and now return,<br /> - Among the visions of my early years,<br /> - Two so distinct that all the rest grow dim:<br /> - My mother's pale, fond face and tearful eyes,<br /> - Bent upon me in Love's absorbing trance,<br /> - From the low window where she watched my play;<br /> - And, after this, the wondrous elm, that seemed<br /> - To my young fancy like an airy bosk,<br /> - Poised by a single stem upon the earth,<br /> - And thronged by instant marvels. There in Spring<br /> - I heard with joy the cheery blue-bird's note;<br /> - There sang rejoicing robins after rain;<br /> - And there within the emerald twilight, which<br /> - Defied the mid-day sun, from bough to bough—<br /> - A torch of downy flame—the oriole<br /> - Passed to his nest, to feed the censer-fires<br /> - Which Love had lit for Airs of Heaven to swing.<br /> - There, too, through all the weird September-eves<br /> - I heard the harsh, reiterant katydids<br /> - Rasp the mysterious silence. There I watched<br /> - The glint of stars, playing at hide-and-seek<br /> - Behind the swaying foliage, till drawn<br /> - By tender hands to childhood's balmy rest.<br /> - My Mother and the elm! Too soon I learned<br /> - That o'er me hung, and o'er the widowed one<br /> - Who gave me birth, with broader boughs,<br /> - Haunted by sabler wings and sadder sounds,<br /> - A darker shadow than the mighty elm!<br /> - I caught the secret in the street from those<br /> - Who pointed at me as I passed, or paused<br /> - To gaze in sighing pity on my play;<br /> - From playmates who, forbidden to divulge<br /> - The knowledge they possessed, with childish tricks<br /> - Of indirection strove in vain to hide<br /> - Their awful meaning in unmeaning phrase;<br /> - From kisses which were pitiful; from words<br /> - Gentler than love's because compassionate;<br /> - From deep, unconscious sighs out of the heart<br /> - Of her who loved me best, and from her tears<br /> - That freest flowed when I was happiest.<br /> - From frailest filaments of evidence,<br /> - From dark allusions faintly overheard,<br /> - From hint and look and sudden change of theme<br /> - When I approached, from widely scattered words<br /> - Remembered well, and gathered all at length<br /> - Into consistent terms, I know not how<br /> - I wrought the full conclusion, nor how young.<br /> - I only know that when a little child<br /> - I learned, though no one told, that he who gave<br /> - My life to me in madness took his own—<br /> - Took it from fear of want, though he possessed<br /> - The finest fortune in the rich old town.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thenceforth I had a secret which I kept—<br /> - Kept by my mother with as close a tongue—<br /> - A secret which embittered every cup.<br /> - It bred rebellion in me—filled my soul,<br /> - Opening to life in innocent delight,<br /> - With baleful doubt and harrowing distrust.<br /> - Why, if my father was the godly man<br /> - His gentle widow vouched with tender tears,<br /> - Did He to whom she bowed in daily prayer—<br /> - Who loved us, as she told me, with a love<br /> - Ineffable for strength and tenderness—<br /> - Permit such fate to him, such woe to us?<br /> - Ah! many a time, repeating on my knees<br /> - The simple language of my evening prayer<br /> - Which her dear lips had taught me, came the dark<br /> - Perplexing question, stirring in my heart<br /> - A sense of guilt, or quenching all my faith.<br /> - This, too, I kept a secret. I had died<br /> - Rather than breathe the question in her ears<br /> - Who knelt beside me. I had rather died<br /> - Than add a sorrow to the load she bore.<br /> - Taught to be true, I played the hypocrite<br /> - In truthfulness to her. I had no God,<br /> - Nor penitence, nor loyalty nor love;<br /> - For any being higher than herself.<br /> - Jealous of all to whom she gave her hand,<br /> - I clung to her with fond idolatry.<br /> - I sat with her; where'er she walked, I walked<br /> - I kissed away her tears; I strove to fill,<br /> - With strange precocity of manly pride<br /> - And more than boyish tenderness, the void<br /> - Which death had made.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I could not fail to see<br /> - That ruth for me and sorrow for her loss—<br /> - Twin leeches at her heart—were drinking blood<br /> - That, from her pallid features, day by day<br /> - Sank slowly down, to feed the cruel draught.<br /> - Nay, more than this I saw, and sadly worse.<br /> - Oft when I watched her and she knew it not,<br /> - I marked a quivering horror sweep her face—<br /> - A strange, quick thrill of pain—that brought her hand<br /> - With sudden pressure to her heart, and forced<br /> - To her white lips a swiftly whispered prayer.<br /> - I fancied that I read the mystery;<br /> - But it was deeper and more terrible<br /> - Than I conjectured. Not till darker years<br /> - Came the solution.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Still, we had some days<br /> - Of pleasure. Sorrow cannot always brood<br /> - Over the shivering forms that drink her warmth;<br /> - But springs to meet the morning light, and soars<br /> - Into the empyrean, to forget<br /> - For one sweet hour the ring of greedy mouths<br /> - That surely wait, and cry for her return.<br /> - My mother's hand in mine, or mine in hers,<br /> - We often left the village far behind,<br /> - And walked the meadow-paths to gather flowers,<br /> - And watch the plowman as he turned the tilth,<br /> - Or tossed his burnished share into the sun<br /> - At the long furrow's end, the while we marked<br /> - The tipsy bobolink, struggling with the chain<br /> - Of tinkling music that perplexed his wings,<br /> - And listened to the yellow-breasted lark's<br /> - Sweet whistle from the grass.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Glad in my joy,<br /> - My mother smiled amid these scenes and sounds,<br /> - And wandered on with gentle step and slow,<br /> - While I, in boyish frolic, ran before,<br /> - Chasing the butterflies, or in her path<br /> - Tossing the gaudy gold of buttercups,<br /> - Till sometimes, ere we knew, we stood entranced<br /> - Upon the river's marge.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ever the spell<br /> - Of lapsing water tamed my playful mood,<br /> - And I reclined in silent happiness<br /> - At the tired feet that rested in the shade.<br /> - There through the long, bright mornings we remained,<br /> - Watching the noisy ferry-boat that plied<br /> - Like a slow shuttle through the sunny warp<br /> - Of threaded silver from a thousand brooks,<br /> - That took new beauty as it wound away;<br /> - Or gazing where at Holyoke's verdant base—<br /> - Like a slim hound, stretched at his master's feet—<br /> - Lay the long, lazy hamlet, Hockanum;<br /> - Or, upward turning, traced the line that climbed<br /> - O'er splintered rock and clustered foliage<br /> - To the bare mountain-top; then followed down<br /> - The scars of fire and storm, or paths of gloom<br /> - That marked the curtained gorges, till, at last,<br /> - Caught by a wisp of white, belated mist,<br /> - Our vision rose to trace its airy flight<br /> - Beyond the height, into the distant blue.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - One morning, while we rested there, she told<br /> - Of a dear friend upon the other side—<br /> - A lady who had loved her—whom she loved—<br /> - And then she promised to my eager wish<br /> - That soon, across the stream I longed to pass,<br /> - I should go with her to the lady's home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The wishedfor day came slowly—came at last—<br /> - My birthday morning—rounding to their close<br /> - The fourteen summers of my boyhood's life.<br /> - The early mists were clinging to the side<br /> - Of the dark mountain as we left the town,<br /> - Though all the roadside fields were quick with toil<br /> - In rhythmic motion through the dewy grass<br /> - The mowers swept, and on the fragrant air<br /> - Was borne from far the soft, metallic clash<br /> - Of stones upon the steel.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - This was the day<br /> - "So memorably wonderful and sweet<br /> - Its power of inspiration lingers still,—<br /> - So full of her dear presence, so divine<br /> - With the melodious breathing of her words,<br /> - And the warm radiance of her loving smile,<br /> - That tears fall readily as April rain<br /> - At its recall." And with this day there came<br /> - The revelation and the genesis<br /> - Of a new life. In intellect and heart<br /> - I ceased to be a child, and grew a man.<br /> - By one long leap I passed the hidden bound<br /> - That circumscribed my boyhood, and thenceforth<br /> - Abjured all childish pleasure, and took on<br /> - The purpose and the burden of my life.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We crossed the river—I, as in a dream;<br /> - And when I stood upon the eastern shore,<br /> - In the full presence of the mountain pile,<br /> - Strange tides of feeling thrilled me, and I wept—<br /> - Wept, though I knew not why. I could have knelt<br /> - On the white sand, and prayed. Within my soul<br /> - Prophetic whispers breathed of coming power<br /> - And new possessions. Aspiration swelled<br /> - Like a pent stream within a narrow chasm,<br /> - That finds nor vent nor overflow, but swirls<br /> - And surges and retreats, until it floods<br /> - The springs that feed it. All was chaos wild,—<br /> - A chaos of fresh passion, undefined,<br /> - Deep in whose vortices of mist and fire<br /> - A new world waited blindly for its birth.<br /> - I had no words for revelation;—none<br /> - For answer, when my mother pressed my hand,<br /> - And questioned why it trembled. I looked up<br /> - With tearful eyes, and met her loving smile,<br /> - And both of us were silent, and passed on.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We reached at length the pleasant cottage-home<br /> - Where dwelt my mother's friend, and, at the gate,<br /> - Found her with warmest welcome waiting us.<br /> - She kissed my mother's cheek, and then kissed mine,<br /> - Which shrank, and mantled with a new-born shame.<br /> - They crossed the threshold: I remained without.<br /> - Surprised—half-angry—with the burning blush<br /> - That still o'erwhelmed my face.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I looked around<br /> - For something to divert my vexing thoughts,<br /> - And saw intently gazing in my eyes,<br /> - From his long tether in the grass, a lamb—<br /> - A lusty, downy, handsome, household pet.<br /> - There was a scarlet ribbon on his neck<br /> - Which held a silver bell, whose note I heard<br /> - First when his eye met mine; for then he sprang<br /> - To greet me with a joyous bleat, and fell,<br /> - Thrown by the cord that held him. Pitying him,<br /> - I loosed his cruel leashing, with intent,<br /> - After a half-hour's frolic, to return<br /> - And fasten as I found him; but my hand,<br /> - Too careless of its charge, slipped from its hold<br /> - With the first bound he made; and with a leap<br /> - He cleared the garden wall, and flew away.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Affrighted at my deed and its mischance,<br /> - I paused a moment—then with ready feet,<br /> - And first and final impulse, I pursued.<br /> - He held the pathway to the mountain woods,<br /> - The tinkle of his bell already faint<br /> - In the long distance he had placed between<br /> - Himself and his pursuer. On and on,<br /> - Climbing the mountain path, he sped away,<br /> - I following swiftly, never losing sight<br /> - Of the bright scarlet streaming from his neck,<br /> - Or hearing of the tinkle of his bell,<br /> - Till, wearied both, and panting up the steep,<br /> - Our progress slackened to a walk.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At length<br /> - He paused and looked at me, and waited till<br /> - My foot had touched the cord he dragged, and then<br /> - Bounded away, scaling the shelvy cliffs<br /> - That bolder rose along the narrow path.<br /> - He had no choice but mount. I pressed him close,<br /> - And rocks and chasms were thick on either side;<br /> - So, pausing oft, but ever leaping on<br /> - Before my hand could reach him, he advanced.<br /> - Not once in all the passage had I paused<br /> - To look below, nor had I thought of her<br /> - Whom I had left. Absorbed in the pursuit<br /> - I pressed it recklessly, until I grasped<br /> - My fleecy prisoner, wound and tied his cord<br /> - Around my wrist, and both of us sank down<br /> - Upon the mountain summit.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In a swoon<br /> - Of breathless weariness how long I lay<br /> - I could not know; but consciousness at last<br /> - Came by my brute companion, who, alert<br /> - Among the scanty browse, tugged at my wrist,<br /> - And brought me startled to my feet. I saw<br /> - In one swift sweep of vision where I stood,—<br /> - In presence of what beauty of the earth,<br /> - What glory of the sky, what majesty<br /> - Of lofty loneliness. I drew the lamb—<br /> - The dear, dumb creature—gently to my side,<br /> - And led him out upon the beetling cliff<br /> - That fronts the plaided meadows, and knelt down.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When once the shrinking, dizzy spell was gone,<br /> - I saw below me, like a jewelled cup,<br /> - The valley hollowed to its heaven-kissed lip—<br /> - The serrate green against the serrate blue—<br /> - Brimming with beauty's essence; palpitant<br /> - With a divine elixir—lucent floods<br /> - Poured from the golden chalice of the sun,<br /> - At which my spirit drank with conscious growth,<br /> - And drank again with still expanding scope<br /> - Of comprehension and of faculty.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I felt the bud of being in me burst<br /> - With full, unfolding petals to a rose,<br /> - And fragrant breath that flooded all the scene.<br /> - By sudden insight of myself I knew<br /> - That I was greater than the scene,—that deep<br /> - Within my nature was a wondrous world,<br /> - Broader than that I gazed on, and informed<br /> - With a diviner beauty,—that the things<br /> - I saw were but the types of those I held,<br /> - And that above them both, High Priest and King,<br /> - I stood supreme, to choose and to combine,<br /> - And build from that within me and without<br /> - New forms of life, with meaning of my own.<br /> - And there alone, upon the mountain-top,<br /> - Kneeling beside the lamb, I bowed my head<br /> - Beneath the chrismal light, and felt my soul<br /> - Baptized and set apart to poetry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The spell of inspiration lingered not;<br /> - But ere it passed, I knew my destiny—<br /> - The passion and the portion of my life:<br /> - Though, with the new-born consciousness of power<br /> - And organizing and creative skill,<br /> - There came a sense of poverty—a sense<br /> - Of power untrained, of skill without resource,<br /> - Of ignorance of Nature and her laws<br /> - And language and the learning of the schools.<br /> - I could not rise upon my callow wings,<br /> - But felt that I must wait until the years<br /> - Should give them plumage, and the skill for flight<br /> - Be won by trial.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then before me rose<br /> - The long, long years of study, interposed<br /> - Between me and the goal that shone afar;<br /> - But with them rose the courage to surmount,<br /> - And I was girt for toil.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then, for the first,<br /> - My eye and spirit that had drunk the whole<br /> - Wide vision, grew discriminate, and traced<br /> - The crystal river pouring from the North<br /> - Its twinkling tide, and winding down the vale,<br /> - Till, doubling in a serpent coil, it paused<br /> - Before the chasm that parts the frontal spurs<br /> - Of Tom and Holyoke; then in wreathing light<br /> - Sped the swart rocks, and sought the misty South.<br /> - Across the meadows—carpet for the gods,<br /> - Woven of ripening rye and greening maize<br /> - And rosy clover-blooms, and spotted o'er<br /> - With the black shadows of the feathery elms—<br /> - Northampton rose, half hidden in her trees,<br /> - Lifted above the level of the fields,<br /> - And noiseless as a picture.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At my feet<br /> - The ferry-boat, diminished to a toy,<br /> - With automatic diligence conveyed<br /> - Its puppet passengers between the shores<br /> - That hemmed its enterprise; and one low barge,<br /> - With white, square sail, bore northward languidly<br /> - The slow and scanty commerce of the stream.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Eastward, upon another fertile stretch<br /> - Of meadow-sward and tilth, embowered in elms,<br /> - Lay the twin streets, and sprang the single spire<br /> - Of Hadley, where the hunted regicides<br /> - Securely lived of old, and strangely died;<br /> - And eastward still, upon the last green step<br /> - From which the Angel of the Morning Light<br /> - Leaps to the meadow-lands, fair Amherst sat,<br /> - Capped by her many-windowed colleges;<br /> - While from his outpost in the rising North,<br /> - Bald with the storms and ruddy with the suns<br /> - Of the long eons, stood old Sugarloaf,<br /> - Gazing with changeless brow upon a scene,<br /> - Changing to fairer beauty evermore.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Save of the river and my pleasant home,<br /> - I knew not then the names and history<br /> - Borne by these visions; but upon my brain<br /> - Their forms were graved in lines indelible<br /> - As, on the rocks beneath my feet, the prints<br /> - Of life in its first motion. Later years<br /> - Renewed the picture, and its outlines filled<br /> - With fair associations,—wrought the past<br /> - And living present into fadeless wreaths<br /> - That crowned each mound and mount, and town and tower,<br /> - The king of teeming memories. Nor could<br /> - I guess with faintest foresight of the life<br /> - Which, in the years before me, I should weave<br /> - Of mingled threads of pleasure and of pain<br /> - Into these scenes, until not one of all<br /> - Could meet my eye, or touch my memory,<br /> - Without recalling an experience<br /> - That drank the sweetest ichor of my veins<br /> - Or crowded them with joy.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At length I turned<br /> - From the wide survey, and with pleased surprise<br /> - Detected, nestling at the mountain's foot,<br /> - The cottage I had left; and, on the lawn,<br /> - Two forms of life that flitted to and fro.<br /> - I knew that they had missed me; so I sought<br /> - The passage I had climbed, and, with the lamb<br /> - Still fastened to my wrist, I hasted down.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Full of the marvels of the hour I sped,<br /> - Leaping from rock to rock, or flying swift<br /> - The smoother slopes, with arms half wings, and feet<br /> - That only guarded the descent, the while<br /> - My captive led me captive at his will.<br /> - So tense the strain of sinew, so intense<br /> - The mood and motion, that before I guessed,<br /> - The headlong flight was finished, and I walked,<br /> - Jaded and reeking, in the level path<br /> - That led the lambkin home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - My mother saw,<br /> - And ran to meet me: then for long, still hours,<br /> - Couched in a dim, cool room, I lay and slept.<br /> - When I awoke, I found her at my side,<br /> - Fanning my face, and ready with her smile<br /> - And soothing words to greet me. Then I told,<br /> - With youthful volubility and wild<br /> - Extravagance of figure and of phrase,<br /> - The morning's exploit.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - First she questioned me<br /> - But, as I wrought each scene and circumstance<br /> - Into consistent form, she drank my words<br /> - In eager silence; and within her eyes<br /> - I saw the glow of pride which gravity<br /> - And show of deep concern could not disguise,<br /> - I read her bosom better than she knew.<br /> - I saw that she had made discovery<br /> - Of something unsuspected in her child,<br /> - And that, by one I loved, and she the best,<br /> - The fire that burned within me and the power<br /> - That morning called to life, were recognized.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When I had told my story, and had read<br /> - With kindling pride my praises in her eyes,<br /> - She placed her soft hand on my brow, and said:<br /> - "My Paul has climbed the noblest mountain height<br /> - In all his little world, and gazed on scenes<br /> - As beautiful as rest beneath the sun.<br /> - I trust he will remember all his life<br /> - That to his best achievement, and the spot<br /> - Nearest to heaven his youthful feet have trod,<br /> - He has been guided by a guileless lamb.<br /> - It is an omen which his mother's heart<br /> - Will treasure with her jewels."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When the sun<br /> - Of the long summer day hung but an hour<br /> - Above his setting, and the cool West Wind<br /> - Bore from the purpling hills his benison,<br /> - The farewell courtesies of love were given,<br /> - And we set forth for home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Not far we fared—<br /> - The river left behind—when, looking back,<br /> - I saw the mountain in the searching light<br /> - Of the low sun. Surcharged with youthful pride<br /> - In my adventure, I can ne'er forget<br /> - The disappointment and chagrin which fell<br /> - Upon me; for a change had passed. The steep<br /> - Which in the morning sprang to kiss the sun,<br /> - Had left the scene; and in its place I saw<br /> - A shrunken pile, whose paths my steps had climbed.<br /> - Whose proudest height my humble feet had trod.<br /> - Its grand impossibilities and all<br /> - Its store of marvels and of mysteries<br /> - Were flown away, and would not be recalled.<br /> - The mountain's might had entered into me;<br /> - And, from that fruitful hour, whatever scene<br /> - Nature revealed to me, she never caught<br /> - My spirit humbled by surprise. My thought<br /> - Built higher mountains than I ever found;<br /> - Poured wilder cataracts than I ever saw;<br /> - Drove grander storms than ever swept the sky;<br /> - Pushed into loftier heavens and lower hells<br /> - Than the abysmal reach of light and dark;<br /> - And entertained me with diviner feasts<br /> - Than ever met the appetite of sense,<br /> - And poured me wine of choicer vintages<br /> - Than fire the hearts of kings.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The frolic-flame<br /> - Which in the morning kindled in my veins<br /> - Had died away; and at my mother's side<br /> - I walked in quiet mood, and gravely spoke<br /> - Of the great future. With a tender quest<br /> - My mother probed my secret wish, and heard,<br /> - With silence new and strange respectfulness,<br /> - The revelation of my plans. I felt<br /> - In her benign attention to my words;<br /> - In her suggestions, clothed with gracious phrase<br /> - To win my judgment; and in all those shades<br /> - Of mien and manner which a mother's love<br /> - Inspires so quickly when the form it nursed<br /> - Becomes a staff in its caressing hand,<br /> - She had made space for me, and placed her life<br /> - In new relations to my own. I knew<br /> - That she who through my span of tender years<br /> - Had counselled me, had given me privilege<br /> - Within her councils; and the moment came<br /> - I learned that in the converse of that hour,<br /> - The appetency of maternity<br /> - For manhood in its offspring, had laid hold<br /> - Of the fresh growth in me, and feasted well<br /> - Its gentle passion.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ere we reached our home,<br /> - The plans for study were matured, and I,<br /> - Who, with an aptitude beyond my years,<br /> - Had gathered learning's humbler rudiments<br /> - From her to whom I owed my earliest words,<br /> - Was, when another day should rise, to pass<br /> - To rougher teaching, and society<br /> - Of the rude youth whose wild and boisterous ways<br /> - Had scared my childish life.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I nerved my heart<br /> - To meet the change; and all the troubled night<br /> - I tossed upon my pillow, filled with fears,<br /> - Or fired with hot ambitions; shrinking oft<br /> - With girlish sensitiveness from the lot<br /> - My manly heart had chosen; rising oft<br /> - Above my cowardice, well panoplied<br /> - By fancy to achieve great victories<br /> - O'er those whose fellows I should be.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At last,<br /> - The dawn looked in upon me, and I rose<br /> - To meet its golden coming, and the life<br /> - Of golden promise whose wide-open doors<br /> - Waited my feet.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The lingering morning hours<br /> - Seemed days of painful waiting, as they fell<br /> - In slowly filling numbers from the tower<br /> - Of the old village church; but when, at length,<br /> - My eager feet had touched the street, and turned<br /> - To climb the goodly eminence where he<br /> - In whose profound and stately pages live<br /> - His country's annals, ruled his youthful realm,<br /> - My heart grew stern and strong; and nevermore<br /> - Did doubt of excellence and mastery<br /> - Drag down my soaring courage, or disturb<br /> - My purposes and plans.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - What boots it here<br /> - To tell with careful chronicle the life<br /> - Of my novitiate? Up the graded months<br /> - My feet rose slowly, but with steady step,<br /> - To tall and stalwart manliness of frame,<br /> - And ever rising and expanding reach<br /> - Of intellection and the power to call<br /> - Forth from the pregnant nothingness of words<br /> - The sphered creations of my chosen art.<br /> - What boots it to recount my victories<br /> - Over my fellows, or to tell how all,<br /> - Contemptuous at first, became at length<br /> - Confessed inferiors in every strife<br /> - When brain or brawn contended? Victories<br /> - Were won too easily to bring me pride,<br /> - And only bred contempt of the low pitch<br /> - And lower purpose of the power which strove<br /> - So feebly and so clumsily. When won,<br /> - They fed my mother's passion, and she praised;<br /> - And her delight was all the boon they brought.<br /> - My fierce ambition, ever reaching up<br /> - To higher fields and nobler combatants,<br /> - Trampled its triumphs underneath its feet;<br /> - And in my heart of hearts I pitied her<br /> - To whose deep hunger of maternal pride<br /> - They bore ambrosial ministry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In all<br /> - These years of doing and development,<br /> - My heart was haunted by a bitter pain.<br /> - In every scene of pleasure, every hour<br /> - That lacked employment, every moment's lull<br /> - Of toil or study, its familiar hand<br /> - Was raised aloft, to smite me with its pang.<br /> - From month to month, from year to year, I saw<br /> - That she who bore me, and to whom I owed<br /> - The meek and loyal reverence of a child,<br /> - Was changing places with me, and that she—<br /> - Dependent, trustful and subordinate—<br /> - Deferred to me in all things, and in all<br /> - Gave me the parent's place and took the child's.<br /> - She waited for my coming like a child;<br /> - She ran to meet and greet me like a child;<br /> - She leaned on me for guidance and defence,<br /> - And lived in me, and by me, like a child.<br /> - If I were absent long beyond my wont,<br /> - She yielded to distresses and to tears;<br /> - And when I came, she flew into my arms<br /> - With childish impulse of delight, or chid<br /> - With weak complainings my delay.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - By these,<br /> - And by a thousand other childish ways,<br /> - I knew disease was busy with her life,<br /> - Working distempers in her heart and brain,<br /> - And driving her for succor to my strength.<br /> - The change was great in her, though slowly wrought,—<br /> - Though wrought so slowly that my thought and life<br /> - Had been adjusted to it, but for this:—<br /> - One dismal night, a trivial accident<br /> - Had kept me from my home beyond the hour<br /> - At which my promise stood for my return.<br /> - Arriving at the garden gate, I paused<br /> - To catch a glimpse of the accustomed light,<br /> - Through the cold mist that wrapped me, but in vain.<br /> - Only one window glimmered through the gloom,<br /> - Through whose uncurtained panes I dimly saw<br /> - My mother in her chamber. She was clad<br /> - In the white robe of rest; but to and fro<br /> - She crossed the light, sometimes with hands pressed close<br /> - Upon her brow, sometimes raised up toward heaven,<br /> - As if in deprecation or despair;<br /> - And through the strident soughing of the elm<br /> - I heard her voice, still musical in woe,<br /> - Wailing and calling.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With a noiseless step<br /> - I reached the door, and, with a noiseless key,<br /> - Turned back the bolt, and stood within. I could<br /> - Have called her to my arms, and quelled her fears<br /> - By one dear word, and yet, I spoke it not.<br /> - I longed to learn her secret, and to know<br /> - In what recess of history or heart<br /> - It hid, and wrought her awful malady.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Not long I waited, when I heard her voice<br /> - Wail out again in wild, beseeching prayer,—<br /> - Her voice so sweet and soulful, that it seemed<br /> - As if a listening fiend could not refuse<br /> - Such help as in him lay, although her tongue<br /> - Should falter to articulate her pain.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I heard her voice—O God! I heard her words!<br /> - Not bolts of burning from the vengeful sky<br /> - Had scathed or stunned me more. I shook like one<br /> - Powerless within the toils of some great sin,<br /> - Or some o'ermastering passion; or like one<br /> - Whose veins turn ice at onset of the plague.<br /> - "O God," she said, "my Father and my Friend!<br /> - Spare him to me, and save me from myself!<br /> - O! if thou help me not—if thou forsake—<br /> - This hand which thou hast made, will take the life<br /> - Thou mad'st the hand to feed. I cling to him,<br /> - My son,—my boy. If danger come to him,<br /> - No one is left to save me from this crime.<br /> - Thou knowest, O! my God, how I have striven<br /> - To quench the awful impulse; how, in vain,<br /> - My prayers have gone before thee, for release<br /> - From the foul demon who would drive my soul<br /> - To crime that leaves no space for penitence.<br /> - O! Father! Father! Hear me when I call!<br /> - Hast thou not made me? Am I not thy child?<br /> - Why, why this mad, mysterious desire<br /> - To follow him I loved, by the dark door<br /> - Through which he forced his passage to the realm<br /> - That death throws wide to all? O why must I,<br /> - A poor, weak woman—"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I could hear no more,<br /> - But dropped my dripping cloak, and, with a voice,<br /> - Toned to its tenderest cadence, I pronounced<br /> - The sweet word, "mother!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Her excess of joy<br /> - Burst in a cry, and in a moment's space<br /> - I sat within her room, and she, my child,<br /> - Was sobbing in my arms. I spoke no word,<br /> - But sat distracted with my tenderness<br /> - For her who threw herself upon my heart<br /> - In perfect trust, and bitter thoughts of Him<br /> - Whose succor, though importunately sought<br /> - In piteous pleadings by a gentle saint,<br /> - Was grudgingly withheld. Her closing words:<br /> - "O why must I, a poor, weak woman—" rang<br /> - Through every chamber of my tortured soul,<br /> - And called to conclave and rebellion all<br /> - The black-browed passions thitherto restrained.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ay, why should she, who only sought for God,<br /> - Be given to a devil? Why should she<br /> - Who begged for bread be answered with a stone?<br /> - Ay, why should she whose soul recoiled from sin<br /> - As from a fiend, find in her heart a fiend<br /> - To urge the sin she hated?—questions all<br /> - The fiends within me answered as they would.<br /> - O God! O Father! How I hated thee!<br /> - Nay, how within my angry soul I dared<br /> - To curse thy sacred name!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then other thoughts—<br /> - Thoughts of myself and of my destiny—<br /> - Succeeded. Who and what was I? A youth,<br /> - Doomed by hereditary taint to crime,<br /> - A youth whose every artery and vein<br /> - Was doubly charged with suicidal blood.<br /> - When the full consciousness of what I was<br /> - Possessed my thought, and I gazed down the abyss<br /> - God had prepared for me, I shrank aghast;<br /> - And there in silence, with an awful oath<br /> - I dare not write, I swore my will was mine,<br /> - And mine my hand; and that, though all the fiends<br /> - That cumber hell and overrun the earth<br /> - Should spur the deadly impulse of my blood,<br /> - And heaven withhold the aid I would not ask;<br /> - Though woes unnumbered should beset my life,<br /> - And reason fall, and uttermost despair<br /> - Hold me a hopeless prisoner in its glooms,<br /> - I would resist and conquer, and live out<br /> - My complement of years. My bosom burned<br /> - With fierce defiance, and the angry blood<br /> - Leaped from my heart, and boomed within my brain<br /> - With throbs that stunned me, though each fiery thrill<br /> - Was charged with tenderness for her whose head<br /> - Was pillowed on its riot.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Long I sat—<br /> - How long, I know not—but at last the sad,<br /> - Hysteric sobs and suspirations ceased,<br /> - Or only at wide intervals recurred;<br /> - And then I rose, and to her waiting bed<br /> - Led my doomed mother. With a cheerful voice—<br /> - Cheerful as I could summon—and a kiss,<br /> - I bade her a good night and pleasant dreams;<br /> - And then, across the hall, I sought my room<br /> - Where neither sleep nor dream awaited me,<br /> - But only blasphemous, black thoughts, and strife<br /> - With God and Destiny.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I saw it all:<br /> - The lamp that from my mother's window beamed,<br /> - Illumined other nights and other storms,<br /> - And by its lurid light revealed to me<br /> - The secrets of a life. Her sudden pangs,<br /> - Her brooding woes, her terrors when alone,<br /> - The strange surrender of her will to mine,<br /> - Her hunger for my presence, and her fear<br /> - That by some slip of fortune she should lose<br /> - Her hold on me, were followed to their home—<br /> - To her poor heart, that fluttered every hour<br /> - With conscious presence of an enemy<br /> - That would not be expelled, and strove to spill<br /> - The life it spoiled.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From that eventful night<br /> - She was not left alone. I called a friend,<br /> - A cheerful lady, whose companionship<br /> - Was music, medicine and rest; and she,<br /> - Wanting a home, and with a ready wit<br /> - Learning my mother's need and my desire,<br /> - Assumed the place of matron in the house;<br /> - And, in return for what we gave to her,<br /> - Gave us herself.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - My mother's confidence,<br /> - By her self-confidence, she quickly won;<br /> - And thus, though sadly burdened at my heart,<br /> - I found one burden lifted from my hands.<br /> - More liberty of movement and of toil<br /> - I needed; for the time was drawing near<br /> - When I should turn my feet toward other halls,<br /> - To seek maturer study, and complete<br /> - The work of culture faithfully begun.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Into my mother's ear I breathed my plans<br /> - With careful words. The university<br /> - Was but a short remove—a morning's walk—<br /> - Away from her; and ever at her wish—<br /> - Nay, always when I could—I would return;<br /> - And separation would but sweeten love,<br /> - And joy of meeting recompense the pain<br /> - Of parting and of absence.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She was calm<br /> - And leaning in her thought upon her friend.<br /> - Gave her consent. So, on a summer day,<br /> - I kissed her faded cheek, and turned from home<br /> - To seek the college halls that I had seen<br /> - From boyhood's mount of vision.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Of the years<br /> - Passed there in study—of the rivalries,<br /> - The long, stern struggles for pre-eminence,<br /> - The triumphs hardly won, but won at last<br /> - Beyond all cavil, matters not to tell.<br /> - It was my grief that while I gained and grew,<br /> - My mother languished momently, and lost,—<br /> - A grief that turned to poison in my blood.<br /> - The college prayers were mummeries to me,<br /> - And with disdainful passion I repelled<br /> - All Christian questionings of heart and life,<br /> - By old and young.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I stood, I moved alone.<br /> - I sought no favors, took no courtesies<br /> - With grateful grace, and nursed my haughty pride.<br /> - The men who kneeled and gloomed, and prayed and sang,<br /> - Seemed but a brood of dullards, whom contempt<br /> - Would honor overmuch. No tender spot<br /> - Was left within my indurated heart,<br /> - Save that which moved with ever-melting ruth<br /> - For her whose breast had nursed me, and whose love<br /> - Had given my life the only happiness<br /> - It yet had known.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With her I kept my pledge<br /> - With more than faithful punctuality.<br /> - Few weeks passed by in all those busy years<br /> - In which I did not walk the way between<br /> - The college and my home, and bear to her<br /> - Such consolation as my presence gave.<br /> - In truth, my form was as familiar grown<br /> - To all the rustic dwellers on the road<br /> - As I had been a post-boy.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Little joy<br /> - These visits won for me—little beyond<br /> - That which I found in bearing joy to her—<br /> - For every year marked on her slender frames<br /> - And on her cheeks, and on her failing brain,<br /> - Its record of decadence. I could see<br /> - That she was sinking into helplessness,<br /> - And that too soon her inoffensive soul,<br /> - With all its sweet affections, would go down<br /> - To hopeless wreck and darkness.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From her friend<br /> - I learned that still the burden of her prayer<br /> - Was, that she might be saved from one great sin—<br /> - The sin of self-destruction. Every hour<br /> - This one petition struggled from her heart,<br /> - To reach the ear of heaven; yet never help<br /> - Came down in answer to her cry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Spring<br /> - That ushered in my closing college-year<br /> - Came up the valley on her balmy wings,<br /> - And Winter fled away, and left no trace,<br /> - Save, here and there a snowy drift, to show<br /> - Where his cold feet had rested in their flight.<br /> - But one still night, within the span of sleep,<br /> - A shivering winter cloud that wandered late<br /> - Shook to the frosty ground its inch of rime.<br /> - So, when the morning rose, the earth was white;<br /> - And shrubs and trees, and roofs and rocks and walls,<br /> - Fulgent with downy crystals, made a world<br /> - To which a breath were ruin; and a breath<br /> - Wrecked it for me, and, by a few sad words,<br /> - Blotted the sunlit splendor from my sight.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As I looked out upon the scene, and mused<br /> - Of her to whom I hoped it might impart<br /> - Some healthy touch of joy, I heard the beat<br /> - Of hoofs upon the trackless blank, and saw<br /> - A horseman speeding up the avenue.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I raised my sash (I knew he came for me),<br /> - And faltered forth my question. From his breast<br /> - He drew a folded slip: dismounting then,<br /> - He stooped and pressed the missive in a mass<br /> - Of clinging snow, and tossed it to my hand.<br /> - I closed the window, burst the frosty seal,<br /> - And read: "Your mother cannot long survive:<br /> - Come home to her to-day." I did not pause<br /> - To break the fast of night, but rushing forth,<br /> - I followed close the messenger's return.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It was a morning, such as comes but once<br /> - In all the Spring,—so still and beautiful,<br /> - So full of promise, so exhilarant<br /> - With frost and fire, in earth and air, that life<br /> - Had been a brimming joy but for the scene<br /> - That waited for my eyes—the scene of death—<br /> - From which imagination staggered back,<br /> - And every sensibility recoiled.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The smoke from distant sugar-camps rolled up<br /> - Through the still ether in columnar coils—<br /> - Blue pillars of a bluer dome—and all<br /> - The resonant air was full of sounds of Spring.<br /> - The sheep were bleating round their empty ricks;<br /> - Horses let loose were calling from afar,<br /> - And winning fierce replies; the axeman's blows<br /> - Fell nimbly at the piles which wintry woods<br /> - Had lent to summer stores; while far and faint,<br /> - The rhythmic ululations of the hound<br /> - On a fresh trail, upon the mountain's side,<br /> - Added their strange wild music to the morn.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The beauty and the music caught my sense,<br /> - But woke within my sick and sinking heart<br /> - No motion of response. I walked as one<br /> - Condemned to dungeon-glooms might walk<br /> - Through shouts of mirth and festal pageantry,<br /> - Hearing and seeing all, yet over all<br /> - Hearing the clank of chains and clash of bars,<br /> - And seeing but the reptiles of his cell.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - How I arrived at home, without fatigue,<br /> - Without a thought of effort—onward borne<br /> - By one absorbing and impelling thought—<br /> - As one within a minute's mete may slide,<br /> - O'er leagues of sunny dreamland in a dream,<br /> - By magic or by miracle—I found<br /> - No time to question.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At my mother's door<br /> - I stood and listened: soon I heard my name<br /> - Pronounced within in spiteful whisperings.<br /> - I raised the latch, and met her burning eyes.<br /> - She stared a wild, mad stare, then raised herself,<br /> - And in weak fury poured upon my head<br /> - The vials of her wrath. I stood like stone,<br /> - Without the power to speak, the while she rained<br /> - Her maledictions on me, and in words<br /> - Fit only for the damned, accused my life<br /> - Of crimes my language could not name, and deeds<br /> - Which only outcast wretches know.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At length,<br /> - I gained my tongue, and tried to take her hand;<br /> - But with a shriek which cut me like a knife<br /> - She shrank from me, and hid her quivering face<br /> - Within her pillow.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then I turned away,<br /> - And sought the room where oft in better days<br /> - We both had knelt together at my bed,<br /> - And, making fast my door, I threw myself<br /> - Prone on the precious couch, and gave to grief<br /> - My strong and stormy nature. All the day<br /> - With bursts of passion I bewailed my loss,<br /> - Or lay benumbed in feeling and in thought,<br /> - Tasting no food, and shutting out my soul<br /> - From all approach of human sympathy,<br /> - Till the light waned, and through the leafless boughs<br /> - Of the old elm I caught the sheen of stars.<br /> - Then sleep descended—such a sleep as comes<br /> - To uttermost exhaustion,—sleep with dreams<br /> - Wild as the waking fantasies of her<br /> - Whose screams and incoherent words gave voice<br /> - To all their phantom brood.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At length I woke.<br /> - The house was still as death; and yet I heard,<br /> - Or thought I heard, the touch of crafty feet<br /> - Upon the carpet, creeping by my door.<br /> - It passed away, away; and then a pause,<br /> - Still and presageful as the breathless calm<br /> - On which the storm-cloud mounts the pallid West,<br /> - Succeeded. I could hear the parlor-clock<br /> - Counting the beaded silence, and my bed,<br /> - Rustling beneath my breathing and my pulse,<br /> - Was sharply crepitant, and gave me pain.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - An hour passed by (it loitered like an age),<br /> - And then came hurried words and hasty fall<br /> - Of footsteps in the passage. I could hear<br /> - Screams, sobs, and whispered calls and closing doors<br /> - And heavy feet that jarred my bed, and shook<br /> - The windows of my room. I did not stir:<br /> - I dared not stir, but lay in deathly dread,<br /> - Waiting the sad denouement. Soon it came.<br /> - A man approached my door, and tried the latch;<br /> - Then knocked, and called. I knew the kindly voice<br /> - Of the physician, and threw back the bolt.<br /> - Then by the light he held before his face<br /> - I read the fact of death.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I took his arm,<br /> - And, as I feebly staggered down the stairs,<br /> - He broke to me with lack of useless words<br /> - The awful truth.... The old familiar tale:<br /> - She counterfeited sleep: the nurses both,<br /> - Weary with over-watching in their chairs,<br /> - Under the cumbrous stillness, slept indeed;<br /> - And when she knew it, she escaped; and then<br /> - She did the deed to which for many years<br /> - She had been predisposed. Perhaps I knew<br /> - The nature of the case: perhaps I knew<br /> - My father went that way. I clutched his arm:<br /> - There was no need of words.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The parlor door<br /> - Stood open, and a throng of silent friends,<br /> - Choking with tears, gazed on a silent form<br /> - Shrouded in snowy linen. They made way<br /> - For me and my companion. On my knees<br /> - I clasped the precious clay, and pouring forth<br /> - My pitying love and tenderness for her,<br /> - I gave indignant voice to my complaint<br /> - Against the Being who, to all her prayers<br /> - For succor and security, had turned<br /> - A deaf, dead ear and a repelling hand.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To what blaspheming utterance I gave<br /> - My raving passion, may the God I cursed<br /> - Forbid my shrinking memory to recall!<br /> - I now remember only that when drawn<br /> - By strong, determined hands away from her,<br /> - The room was vacant. Every pitying friend<br /> - Had flown my presence and the room, to find<br /> - Release of sensibility from words<br /> - That roused their superstitious souls to fear<br /> - That God would smite me through the blinding smoke<br /> - Of my great torment.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Silence, for the rest!<br /> - It was a dream; and only as a dream<br /> - Do I remember it: the coffined form,<br /> - The funeral—a concourse of the town—<br /> - The trembling prayer for me, the choking sobs,<br /> - The long procession, the descending clods,<br /> - The slow return, articulated all<br /> - With wild, mad words of mine, and gentle speech<br /> - Of those who sought to curb or comfort me—<br /> - All was a dream, from which I woke at length<br /> - With heart as dead as hers who slept. The heavens<br /> - Were brass above me, and the breathing world<br /> - Was void and meaningless. When told to pray,<br /> - This was the logic of my heart's reply:<br /> - If God be Love, not such is He to me<br /> - Nor such to mine. If He heard not the voice<br /> - Of such a lovely saint as she I mourned,<br /> - Mine would but rouse His vengeance.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So I closed<br /> - With Reason's hand the adamantine doors<br /> - Which only Faith unlocks, and shut my soul<br /> - Away from God, the warder of a gang<br /> - Of passions that in darkness stormed or gloomed<br /> - And with each other fought, or on themselves<br /> - Gnawed for the nourishment which I denied.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="complaint"></a></p> - -<h3> - COMPLAINT. -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - River, sparkling river, I have fault to find with thee<br /> - River, thou dost never give a word of peace to me!<br /> - Dimpling to each touch of sunshine, wimpling to each air that blows,<br /> - Thou dost make no sweet replying to my sighing for repose.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Flowers of mount and meadow, I have fault to find with you;<br /> - So the breezes cross and toss you, so your cups are filled with dew,<br /> - Matters not though sighs give motion to the ocean of your breath;<br /> - Matters not though you are filling with the chilling drops of death!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Birds of song and beauty, lo! I charge you all with blame:—<br /> - Though all hapless passions thrill and fill me, you are still the same.<br /> - I can borrow for my sorrow nothing that avails<br /> - From your lonely note, that only speaks of joy that never fails.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - O! indifference of Nature to the fact of human pain!<br /> - Every grief that seeks relief entreats it at her hand in vain;<br /> - Not a bird speaks forth its passion, not a river seeks the sea,<br /> - Nor a flower from wreaths of Summer breathes in sympathy with me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - O! the rigid rock is frigid, though its bed be summer mould,<br /> - And the diamond glitters ever in the grasp of changeless gold;<br /> - And the laws that bring the seasons swing their cycles as they must,<br /> - Though the ample road they trample blind the eyes with human dust.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Moons will wax in argent glory, though man wane to hopeless gloom;<br /> - Stars will sparkle in their splendor, though he darkle to his doom;<br /> - Winds of heaven he calls to fan him ban him with an icy chill,<br /> - And the shifting crowds of clouds go drifting o'er him as they will.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet within my inmost spirit I can hear an undertone,<br /> - That by law of prime relation holds these voices as its own,—<br /> - The full tonic whose harmonic grandeurs rise through Nature's words,<br /> - From the ocean's thundrous rolling to the trolling of the birds.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Spirit, O! my spirit! Is it thou art out of tune?<br /> - Art thou clinging to December while the earth is in its June?<br /> - Hast thou dropped thy part in nature? Hast thou touched another key?<br /> - Art thou angry that the anthem will not, cannot, wait for thee?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Spirit, thou art left alone—alone on waters wild;<br /> - For God is gone, and Love is dead, and Nature spurns her child.<br /> - Thou art drifting in a deluge, waves below and clouds above,<br /> - And with weary wings come back to thee, thy raven and thy dove.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="love"></a></p> - -<h2> - PART II. -</h2> - -<h3> - LOVE.<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - As from a deep, dead sea, by drastic lift<br /> - Of pent volcanic fires, the dripping form<br /> - Of a new island swells to meet the air,<br /> - And, after months of idle basking, feels<br /> - The prickly feet of life from countless germs<br /> - Creeping along its sides, and reaching up<br /> - In fern and flower to the life-giving sun,<br /> - So from my grief I rose, and so at length<br /> - I felt new life returning: so I felt<br /> - The life already wakened stretching forth<br /> - To stronger light and purer atmosphere.<br /> - But most I longed for human love—the source<br /> - (So sadly closed), from which my life had drawn<br /> - Its sweetest inspiration and reward.<br /> - I could not pray, nor could my spirit win<br /> - From sights and sounds of nature the response<br /> - It vaguely yearned for. They assailed my sense<br /> - With senseless seeming of the hum and whirl<br /> - Of vast machinery, whose motive power<br /> - Sought its own ends, or wrought for ministry<br /> - To other life than mine.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I could stand still,<br /> - And see the trains sweep by; could hear the roar<br /> - Of thundering wheels; could watch the pearly plumes<br /> - That floated where they flew; could catch a glimpse<br /> - Of thousand happy faces at the glass;<br /> - But felt that all their freighted life and wealth<br /> - Were nought to me, and moved toward other souls<br /> - In other latitudes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A year had flown,<br /> - And more, when, on a Sunday morn in June,<br /> - I wandered out, to wear away the hours<br /> - Of growing restlessness. The worshippers<br /> - Were thronging to the service of the day,<br /> - And gave me sidelong stare, or shunned me quite;<br /> - As if they knew me for a reprobate,<br /> - And feared a taint of death.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I took the road<br /> - That eastward cleft the town, and sought the bridge<br /> - That spanned the river, reaching which I crossed.<br /> - Then deep within the stripes of springing corn<br /> - I found the shadow of an elm, and lay<br /> - Stretched on the downy grass for listless hours,<br /> - Dreaming of days gone by, or turning o'er<br /> - With careless hand the pages of a book<br /> - I had brought with me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Tired at length I rose,<br /> - And, touched by some light impulse, moved along<br /> - The old, familiar road. I loitered on<br /> - In a blind reverie, nor marked the while<br /> - The furlongs or the time, until the spell<br /> - In a full burst of music was dissolved.<br /> - I startled as one startles from a dream,<br /> - And saw the church of Hadley, from whose doors,<br /> - Open to summer air, the choral hymn<br /> - Poured out its measured tides, and rose and fell<br /> - Upon the silence in broad cadences,<br /> - As from a far, careering sea, the waves<br /> - Lift into silver swells the sleeping breasts<br /> - Of land-locked bays.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I heard the sound of flutes<br /> - And hoarse, sonorous viols, in accord<br /> - With happy human voices,—and one voice—<br /> - A woman's or an angel's—that compelled<br /> - My feet to swift approach. A thread of gold,<br /> - Through all the web of sound, I followed it<br /> - Till, by the stress of some strange sympathy,<br /> - And by no act of will, I joined my voice<br /> - To that one voice of melody, and sang.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The heart is wiser than the intellect,<br /> - And works with swifter hands and surer feet<br /> - Toward wise conclusions. So, without resort<br /> - To reason, in my heart I knew that she<br /> - Who sang had suffered—knew that she had grieved,<br /> - Had hungered, struggled, kissed the cheek of death,<br /> - And ranged the scale of passions till her soul<br /> - Was deep, and wide, and soft with sympathy;—<br /> - Nay, more than this: that she had found at last<br /> - Peace like a river, on whose waveless tide<br /> - She floated while she sang. This was the key<br /> - That loosed my prisoned voice, and filled my eyes<br /> - With tender tears, and touched to life again<br /> - My better nature.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When the choral closed,<br /> - And the last chord in silence lapsed away,<br /> - I raised my eyes, and, nodding to the beck<br /> - Of the old, slippered sexton, I went in,—<br /> - Not (shall it be confessed?) to find the God<br /> - At whose plain altar bowed the rural throng;<br /> - But, through a voice, to follow to its source<br /> - The influence that moved me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I was late;<br /> - And many eyes looked up as I advanced<br /> - Through the broad aisle, and took a seat that turned<br /> - My face to all the faces in the house.<br /> - I scanned the simpering girls within the choir,<br /> - But found not what I sought; and then my eyes<br /> - With rambling inquisition swept the pews,<br /> - Pausing at every maiden face in vain.<br /> - One head, that crowned a tall and slender form,<br /> - Was bowed with reverent grace upon the rail<br /> - Before her; and, although I caught no glimpse<br /> - Of her sweet face, I knew such face was there,<br /> - And there the voice.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It was Communion Day.<br /> - The simple table underneath the desk<br /> - Was draped with linen, on whose snow was spread<br /> - The feast of love—the vases filled with wine,<br /> - The separated bread and circling cups.<br /> - The venerable pastor had come down<br /> - From his high pulpit, and assumed the seat<br /> - Of presidence, and, with benignant eyes,<br /> - Sat smiling on his flock. The deacons all<br /> - Rose from their pews—four old, brown-handed men<br /> - With frosty hair—and took the ancient chairs<br /> - That flanked the table. All the house was still<br /> - Save here and there the rustle of a silk<br /> - Or folding of a fan; and over all<br /> - Brooded the dove of peace. I had no part<br /> - In the fair spectacle, but I could feel<br /> - That it was beautiful and sweet as heaven.<br /> - When the old pastor rose, with solemn mien,<br /> - I looked to see the lady lift her head;<br /> - But still she bowed; and then I heard these words;<br /> - "The person who unites with us to-day<br /> - Will take her place before me in the aisle,<br /> - To give her answer to our creed, and speak<br /> - The pledges of our covenant."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then first<br /> - I saw her face. With modest grace she rose,<br /> - Lifted her hat, and gave it to the hand<br /> - Of a companion, and within the aisle<br /> - Stood out alone. My heart beat thick and fast<br /> - With vision of her perfect loveliness,<br /> - And apprehension of the heroism<br /> - That shone within her eyes, and made her act<br /> - A Christ-like sacrifice.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - O! eyes of blue!<br /> - O! lily throat and cheeks of faintest rose!<br /> - O! brow serene, enthroned in holy thought!<br /> - O! soft, brown sweeps of hair! O! shapely grace<br /> - Of maidenhood, enrobed in virgin white!<br /> - Why, in your rapt unconsciousness of me<br /> - And all around you—in the presence-hall<br /> - Of God and angels—at the marriage-feast<br /> - Of Jesus and his chosen—did my eyes<br /> - Profane the hour with other feast than yours?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I heard the "You Believe" of the old creed<br /> - Of puritan New England; and I heard<br /> - The old "You Promise" of its covenant.<br /> - Her bow of reverent assent to all<br /> - The knotty dogmas, and her silent pledge<br /> - Of faithfulness and fellowship, I saw.<br /> - These formularies were the frame of oak—<br /> - Gnarled, strongly carved, and swart with age and use—<br /> - Which held the lovely picture of my saint,<br /> - And showed her saintliness and beauty well.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At close of the recital and response,<br /> - The pastor raised the plain, baptismal bowl,<br /> - And she, the maiden devotee, advanced<br /> - And knelt before him. Lifting then her eyes<br /> - To him and heaven, with look of earnest faith<br /> - And perfect consecration, she received<br /> - Upon her brow the water from his hand.<br /> - The trickling chrism shone on her cheeks like tears,<br /> - The while he joined her lovely name with God's:<br /> - "KATHRINA, I BAPTIZE THEE IN THE NAME<br /> - OF FATHER, SON, AND HOLY GHOST, AMEN!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Still kneeling like a saint before a shrine,<br /> - She closed her eyes. Then lifting up toward heaven<br /> - His hands, the pastor prayed,—prayed that her soul<br /> - Might be forever kept from stain and sin;<br /> - That Christ might live in her, and through her life<br /> - Shine into other souls; might give her strength<br /> - To master all temptation, and to keep<br /> - The vows that day assumed; might comfort her<br /> - In every sorrow, and, in death's dread hour,<br /> - Bear her in hopeful triumph to the rest<br /> - Prepared for those who love him.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - All this scene<br /> - I saw through blinding tears. The poetry<br /> - That like a soft aureola embraced<br /> - Within its cope those two contrasted forms;<br /> - The eager observation and the hush<br /> - That reigned through all the house; the breathless spell<br /> - Of sweet solemnity and tender awe<br /> - Which held all hearts, when she, The Beautiful,<br /> - Received the sign of marriage to The Good,<br /> - O'erwhelmed me, and I wept. Shall I confess<br /> - That in the struggle to repress my tears<br /> - And hold my swelling heart, I grudged her gift,<br /> - And felt that, by the measure she had risen,<br /> - She had put space between herself and me,<br /> - And quenched my hope?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She stood while courtesy<br /> - Of formal Christian welcome was bestowed;<br /> - Then straightway sought her seat, as though no eyes<br /> - But those of One unseen observed her steps.<br /> - I saw her taste the sacramental bread,<br /> - And touch the silver chalice to her lips;<br /> - And while she thought of Him, The Spotless One<br /> - Whose flesh and blood were symboled to her heart,<br /> - And worshipped in her thought, I ate and drank<br /> - Her virgin beauty—with what guilty sense<br /> - Of profanation!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Last, the closing hymn<br /> - Gave me her voice again; and this I drank;<br /> - Nay, this invaded and pervaded me.<br /> - Its subtile search found out the sleeping chords<br /> - Of sympathy; and on the bridge of sound<br /> - It built between our souls, I crossed, and saw<br /> - Into the depths of purity and love—<br /> - The full, pathetic power of womanhood—<br /> - From which the structure sprang. Just once<br /> - I caught her eyes. She blushed with consciousness<br /> - Of my strong gaze; but paused not in her hymn<br /> - Till she had given to every word the wings<br /> - That bore it, like a singing bird, toward heaven.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The benediction fell; and then the throng<br /> - Passed slowly out. I was the last to go.<br /> - I saw a man whom I had known, and shrank<br /> - Both from his greetings and his questionings.<br /> - One thing I learned: that she who thus had joined<br /> - This cluster of disciples was not born<br /> - And reared among their number: that was plain.<br /> - I saw it in her bearing and her dress;<br /> - In that unconsciousness of self that comes<br /> - Of gentle breeding, and society<br /> - Of gentle men and women; in the ease<br /> - With which she bore the awkward deference<br /> - Of those who spoke with her adown the aisle;<br /> - In distant and admiring gaze of men,<br /> - And the cold scrutiny of village girls<br /> - Who passed for belles.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I stood upon the steps—<br /> - The last who left the door—and there I found<br /> - The lady and her friend. The elder turned,<br /> - And with a cordial greeting took my hand,<br /> - And rallied me on my forgetfulness.<br /> - Her eyes, her smile, her manner and her voice<br /> - Touched the quick springs of memory, and I spoke<br /> - Her name.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She was my mother's early friend,<br /> - Whose face I had not seen in all the years<br /> - That had flown over us, since, from her door,<br /> - I chased her lamb to where I found—myself.<br /> - She spoke with tender words and swimming eyes<br /> - Of her I mourned, and questioned me like one<br /> - Who felt a mother's anxious interest<br /> - In all my cares and plans. Why did I not<br /> - In all my maunderings and wanderings<br /> - Remember I had friends, and visit them—<br /> - Not missing her? Her niece was with her now;<br /> - Would live with her, perhaps—("a lovely girl!"—<br /> - In whisper); and they both would so much like<br /> - To see me at their house! (whisper again:<br /> - "Poor child! I fear it is but dull for her,<br /> - Here in the country.") Then with sudden thought—<br /> - "Kathrina!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With a blushing smile she turned<br /> - (She had heard every word), and then her aunt—<br /> - Her voluble, dear aunt—presented me<br /> - As an old friend—the son of an old friend—<br /> - Whose eyes had promised he would visit them,<br /> - Although, in her monopoly of speech,<br /> - She had quite shut him from the chance to say<br /> - So much as that.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I caught the period<br /> - Quick as it dropped, and spoke the happiness<br /> - I had in meeting them, and gave the pledge—<br /> - No costly thing to give—to end my walks<br /> - On pleasant nightfalls at the little house<br /> - Under the mountain.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I had spoken more,<br /> - But then the carriage, with its single horse,<br /> - For which they waited, rattled to the steps,<br /> - And we descended. To their lofty seats<br /> - I helped the pair, and in my own I held<br /> - For one sweet moment, hand of all the hands<br /> - In the wide world I longed to clasp the most.<br /> - A courteous "Good Evening, Sir," was all I won<br /> - From its possessor; but her lively aunt<br /> - With playful menace shook her fan at me,<br /> - And said: "Remember, Paul!" and rode away.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "A worldly woman, Sir!" growled a grum throat,<br /> - I turned, and saw the sexton. Query: "which?"<br /> - "I mean the aunt." ... "And what about the niece?"<br /> - "Too fine for common people!" (with a shrug).<br /> - "I think she is," I said, with quiet voice,<br /> - And turned my feet toward home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A pious girl!<br /> - And what could I be to a pious girl?<br /> - What could she be to me? Weak questions, these:<br /> - And vain perhaps; but such as young men ask<br /> - On slighter spur than mine.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She had bestowed<br /> - Her love, her life, her goodly self on heaven,<br /> - And had been nobly earnest in her gift.<br /> - Before all lovers she had chosen Christ;<br /> - Before all idols, God; before all wish<br /> - And will of loving man, her heart and hand<br /> - Were pledged to duty. Could she be a wife?<br /> - Could she be mine, with such unstinted wealth<br /> - Of love, and love's devotion, as I craved?<br /> - Would she not leave me for a Sunday School<br /> - Before the first moon's wane? Would she not seek<br /> - The cant and snuffle of conventicles<br /> - "At early candle-light," and sing her hymns<br /> - To drivelling boors, and cheat me of her songs?<br /> - Would she exhaust herself in "doing good"<br /> - After the modern styles—in patching quilts,<br /> - And knitting socks, and bearing feeble tracts<br /> - To dirty little children—not to speak<br /> - Of larger work for missionary folk?<br /> - Would there not come a time (O! fateful time!)<br /> - When Dorcas and her host would fill my house,<br /> - And I by courtesy be held at home<br /> - To entertain their twaddle, and to smile,<br /> - While in God's name and lovely Charity's<br /> - They would consume my substance? Would she not<br /> - Become the stern and stately president<br /> - Of some society, or figure in the list<br /> - Of slim directresses in spectacles?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So much for questions: then reflections came.<br /> - These pious women make more careful wives<br /> - Than giddy ones. They do not run away,<br /> - Though, doubtless, husbands live whose hearts would heal,<br /> - Broken by such a blow! The time they give<br /> - To worship and to pious offices<br /> - Defrauds the mirror mainly; and the gold<br /> - That goes for charity goes not for gems.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Besides, these pious and believing wives<br /> - Make gentle mothers, who, with self-control<br /> - And patient firmness, train their children well—<br /> - A fact to be remembered. But, alas!<br /> - They train their husbands too, and undertake<br /> - A mission to their souls, so gently pushed,<br /> - So tenderly, they may not take offence,<br /> - Or punish with rebuff; and yet, dear hearts!<br /> - With such persistence, that they reach the raw<br /> - Before they know it: so it comes to tears<br /> - At last, with comfort in an upper room.<br /> - But then—a seal is sacred to them, and a purse<br /> - Or pocket-book, though in a dressing-room<br /> - With shutters and a key!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus wrapped in thought<br /> - And selfish calculation of the claims<br /> - Of one my peer, or my superior,<br /> - In every personal and moral grace,<br /> - I walked along, till, on my consciousness,<br /> - Flashed the absurdity of my conceits<br /> - And my assumptions, and I laughed outright—<br /> - Laughed at myself, so loudly and so long<br /> - That I was startled. Not for many months<br /> - Had sound of mirth escaped me; and my voice<br /> - Rang strangely in my ears, as if the lips<br /> - Of one long dead had spoken.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I received<br /> - The token of returning healthfulness<br /> - With warm self-gratulation. I had touched<br /> - The magic hand that held new life for me:<br /> - The cloud was lifted, and the burden gone.<br /> - The leaf within my book of fate, that gloomed<br /> - With awful records, washed and blotched by tears—<br /> - Blown by a woman's breath from finger-tip's<br /> - They knew not what they did—was folded back;<br /> - And all the next white page held but one word,<br /> - One word of gold and flame—its title-crown—<br /> - That wrought a rosy nimbus for itself;<br /> - And that one word was LOVE.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The laggard days<br /> - My pride or my propriety imposed<br /> - Upon desire, before my eyes could see<br /> - The object of my new-born passion, passed;<br /> - And in the low hours of an afternoon.<br /> - Bright with the largess of kingly shower<br /> - Whose chariot-wheels still thundered in the East,<br /> - Leaving the West aflame, I sought the meads,<br /> - And once again, thrilled by foretasted joy,<br /> - Walked toward the mountain.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - While I walked, the rain<br /> - Fell like a veil of gauze between my eyes<br /> - And the blue wall; and from the precious spot<br /> - That held the object of my thought, there sprang<br /> - An iridal effulgence, faint at first,<br /> - But brightening fast, and leaping to an arch<br /> - That spanned the heavens—a miracle of light!<br /> - "There's treasure where the rainbow rests," I said.<br /> - Would it evade me, as, for years untold,<br /> - It had evaded every childish dupe<br /> - Whose feet had chased the bright, elusive cheat?<br /> - Would it evade me? Question that arose,<br /> - And loomed with darker front and huger form<br /> - Than the dark mountain, and more darkly loomed<br /> - And higher rose as the long path grew short!<br /> - Would it evade me? Like a passing smile<br /> - The rainbow faded from the mountain's face;<br /> - And Hope's resplendent iris, which illumed<br /> - My question, grew phantasmal, and at length<br /> - Evanished, leaving but a doubtful blur.<br /> - Would it evade me? Gods! what wealth or waste<br /> - Of precious life awaited the reply!<br /> - Was it a coward's shudder that o'erswept<br /> - My frame at thought of possible repulse<br /> - And possible relapse?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Oh! there he comes!"<br /> - I heard the mistress of the cottage say<br /> - Behind a honeysuckle. Did I smile?<br /> - It was because the fancy crossed me then<br /> - That the announcement was like one which rings<br /> - Over the polar seas, when, from his perch,<br /> - The lookout bruits a long-expected whale!<br /> - Then sweeping the piazza from the spot<br /> - Where with her niece she sat, she hailed me with:<br /> - "So, you are come at last! How very sad<br /> - These men have so much business! Tell me how<br /> - You got away; how soon you must return;<br /> - Who suffers by your absence; what the news,<br /> - And whether you are well."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Brisk medicine<br /> - These words to me, and timely given. They broke<br /> - The spell of fear, and banished my restraint.<br /> - She took my arm, and led me to her niece,<br /> - Who greeted me as if some special grace<br /> - Of courtesy were due, to make amends<br /> - For the familiar badinage her aunt<br /> - Had poured upon me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - They had come without—<br /> - One with her work, the other with her book—<br /> - To taste the freshness of the evening air,<br /> - Washed of the hot day's dust by rain; to hear<br /> - The robin's hymn of joy; and watch the clouds<br /> - That canopied with gold the sinking sun.<br /> - The maiden in a pale-blue, muslin robe—<br /> - Dyed with forget-me-nots, I fancied then,<br /> - And sweet with life in every fold, I knew—<br /> - A blush-rose at her throat, and in her hair<br /> - A sprig of green and white, was lovelier<br /> - Than sky or landscape; and her low words fell<br /> - More musically than the robin's hymn.<br /> - So, with my back to other scene and sound,<br /> - I faced the faces, took the proffered chair<br /> - And looked and listened.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Tell us of yourself,"<br /> - Spoke the blunt aunt, with license of her years.<br /> - "What are you doing now?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Nothing," I said.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "And were you not the boy who was to grow<br /> - Into a great, good man, and write fine books,<br /> - And have no end of fame?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The question cut<br /> - Deeper than she intended. The hot blush<br /> - And stammering answer told her of the hurt,<br /> - And tenderly she tried to heal the wound:<br /> - "I know that you have suffered; but your hours<br /> - Must not be told by tears. The life that goes<br /> - In unavailing sorrow goes to waste."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "True," I replied, "but work may not be done<br /> - Without a motive. Never worthy man<br /> - Worked worthily who was not moved by love.<br /> - When she I loved, and she who loved me died,<br /> - My motive died; and it can never rise<br /> - Till trump of love shall call it from the dust<br /> - To resurrection."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I spoke earnestly,<br /> - Without a thought that other ears than hers<br /> - Were listening to my words; but when I looked,<br /> - I saw the maiden's eyes were dim with tears.<br /> - I knew her own experience was touched,<br /> - And that her heart made answer to my own<br /> - In perfect sympathy.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To change the drift,<br /> - I took her book, and read the title-page:<br /> - "So you like poetry," I said.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "So well my aunt<br /> - Finds fault with me."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You write, perhaps?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Not I."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "A happy woman!" I exclaimed; "in truth,<br /> - The first I ever found affecting art<br /> - Who shunned expression by it. If a girl<br /> - Like painting, she must paint; if poetry,<br /> - She must write verses. Can you tell me why<br /> - (For sex marks no distinction in this thing).<br /> - Men with a taste for art in finest forms<br /> - Cherish the fancy that they may become,<br /> - Or are, Art's masters? You shall see a man<br /> - Who never drew a line or struck an arc<br /> - Direct an architect, and spoil his work,<br /> - Because, forsooth! he likes a tasteful house!<br /> - He likes a muffin, but he does not go<br /> - Into his kitchen to instruct his cook,—<br /> - Nay, that were insult. He admires fine clothes,<br /> - But trusts his tailor. Only in those arts<br /> - Which issue from creative potencies<br /> - Does his conceit engage him. He could learn<br /> - The baker's trade, and learn to cut a coat,<br /> - But never learn to do that one great deed<br /> - Which he essays."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Tis not a strange mistake—<br /> - These people make"—she answered, thoughtfully.<br /> - "Art gives them pleasure; and they honor those<br /> - Whose heads and hands produce it. If they see<br /> - The length and breadth and beauty of a thought<br /> - Embodied by another,—if they hold<br /> - The taste, the culture, the capacity,<br /> - To measure values in the things of art,<br /> - Why cannot they create? Why cannot they<br /> - Win to themselves the honor they bestow<br /> - On those who feed them? Is it very strange<br /> - That those who know how sweet the gratitude<br /> - Which the true artist stirs, should burn to taste<br /> - That gratitude themselves?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Not strange, perhaps,"<br /> - I said, "and yet, it is a sad mistake;<br /> - For countless noble lives have gone to waste<br /> - In work which it inspired."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Here spoke the aunt:<br /> - "You are a precious pair; and if you know<br /> - What you are talking of, you know a deal<br /> - More than your elders. By your royal leave,<br /> - I will retire; for I can lay the cloth<br /> - For kings and queens though I may fail to know<br /> - Their lore and language. You can eat, I think;<br /> - And hear a tea-bell, though you hear not me."<br /> - Thus speaking, in her crisp, good-natured way,<br /> - The lady left us.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When she passed the door,<br /> - And laughter at her jest had had its way,<br /> - I said: "It takes all sorts to make a world."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "How many, think you? Only one, two, three,"<br /> - The maiden said. "Here we have all the world<br /> - In this one cottage—artist, teacher, taught,<br /> - In—not to mar the order of the scale<br /> - For courtesy—yourself, myself, my aunt.<br /> - You are an artist, so my aunt reports;<br /> - But, as an artist, you are nought to her.<br /> - And now, to broach a petted theory,<br /> - Let me presume too boldly, while I say<br /> - She cannot understand you, though I can;<br /> - You cannot measure her, though she is wise.<br /> - You have not much for her, and that you have<br /> - You cannot teach her; but I, knowing her,<br /> - Can pick from your creations crumbs of thought<br /> - She will find manna. In the hands of Christ<br /> - The five loaves grew, the fishes multiplied;<br /> - And he to his disciples gave the feast—<br /> - They to the multitude. Artists are few,<br /> - Teachers are thousands, and the world is large.<br /> - Artists are nearest God. Into their souls<br /> - He breathes his life, and from their hands it comes<br /> - In fair, articulate forms to bless the world;<br /> - And yet, these forms may never bless the world<br /> - Except its teachers take them in their hands,<br /> - And give each man his portion."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As she spoke<br /> - In earnest eloquence, I could have knelt,<br /> - And worshipped her. Her delicate cheek was flushed,<br /> - Her eyes were filled with light, and her closed book<br /> - Was pressed against her heart, whose throbbing tide<br /> - Thridded her temples. I was half amused,<br /> - Half rapt in admiration; and she saw<br /> - That in my eyes at which she blushed and paused.<br /> - "Your pardon, Sir," she said. "It ill becomes<br /> - A teacher to instruct an artist."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Nay,<br /> - It does become you wondrously," I said<br /> - With light but earnest words. "Pray you go on;<br /> - And pardon all that my unconscious eyes<br /> - Have done to stop you."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I have little more<br /> - That I would care to say: you have my thought,"<br /> - She answered; "yet there's very much to say,<br /> - And you should say it."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Not I, lady, no:<br /> - A poet is not practical like you,<br /> - Nor sensible like you. You can teach him<br /> - As well as tamer folk. In truth, I think<br /> - He needs instruction quite as much as they<br /> - For whom he writes."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "That's possible," she said<br /> - With an arch smile.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Will you explain yourself?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Well—if you wish it—yes:" she made reply.<br /> - "And first, my auditor must know that I<br /> - Relieve in inspiration, though he knows<br /> - So much as that already, from my words,—<br /> - Believe that God inspires the poet's soul,—<br /> - That he gives eyes to see, and ears to hear<br /> - What in his realm holds finest ministry<br /> - For highest aptitudes and needs of men,<br /> - And skill to mould it into forms of art<br /> - Which shall present it to the world he serves.<br /> - Sometimes the poet writes with fire; with blood<br /> - Sometimes; sometimes with blackest ink:<br /> - It matters not. God finds his mighty way<br /> - Into his verse. The dimmest window-panes<br /> - Let in the morning light, and in that light<br /> - Our faces shine with kindled sense of God<br /> - And his unwearied goodness; but the glass<br /> - Gets little good of it; nay, it retains<br /> - Its chill and grime beyond the power of light<br /> - To warm or whiten. E'en the prophet's ass<br /> - Had better eyes than he who strode his back,<br /> - And, though the prophet bore the word of God,<br /> - Did finer reverence. The Psalmist's soul<br /> - Was not a fitting place for psalms like his<br /> - To dwell in over-long, while waiting words,<br /> - If I read rightly. As for the old seers,<br /> - Whose eyes God touched with vision of the life<br /> - Of the unfolding ages, I must doubt<br /> - Whether they comprehended what they saw,<br /> - Or knew what they recorded. It remains<br /> - For the world's teachers to expound their words;<br /> - To probe their mysteries; and relegate<br /> - The truth they hold in blind significance<br /> - Into the fair domains of history<br /> - And human knowledge. Am I understood?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You are," I answered; "and I cannot say<br /> - You flatter me. God takes within his hand<br /> - A thing of his contrivance which we call<br /> - A poet: then he puts it to his lips,<br /> - And speaks his word, and puts it down again—<br /> - The instrument not better and not worse<br /> - For being handled;—not improved a whit<br /> - In quality, by quality of that<br /> - Which it conveys. Do I report aright?<br /> - Or do you prompt me?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You are very apt,"<br /> - She said, "at learning, but a little bald<br /> - In statement. Nathless, be it as you say;<br /> - And we shall see how it is possible<br /> - That poets need instruction quite as much<br /> - As those for whom they write. What sad, bad men<br /> - The brightest geniuses have been! How weak,<br /> - How mean in character! how foul in life!<br /> - How feebly have the best of them retained<br /> - The wealth of good and beauty which has flowed<br /> - In crystal streams from God, the fountain head,<br /> - Through them to fertilize the world! Nay, worse,<br /> - How many of them have infused the tide<br /> - With tincture of their own impurity,<br /> - To poison sweetest, unsuspecting lips,<br /> - And breed diseases in the finest blood!<br /> - And poets not alone, and not the worst;<br /> - But painters, sculptors—those whose kingly power<br /> - And aptitude for utterance divine<br /> - Have made them artists:—how have these contemned<br /> - In countless instances the God of Heaven<br /> - Who filled them with his fire! Think you that these<br /> - Could compass their achievements of themselves?<br /> - Can streams surpass their fountains?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Nay," I said,<br /> - In quick response, "Your argument is good;<br /> - But is the artist nothing? Is he nought<br /> - But an apt tool—a mouth-piece for a voice?<br /> - You make him but the spigot of a cask<br /> - Round which you, teachers, wait with silver cups<br /> - To bear away the wine that leaves it dry.<br /> - You magnify your office."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "We do all<br /> - Wait upon God for every grace and good,"<br /> - She then rejoined. "You take it at first hand,<br /> - And we from yours: the multitude from ours.<br /> - It may leach through our souls, if our poor wills<br /> - Retain it not, and drench the fragrant sand.<br /> - And if I magnify my office—well!<br /> - 'Tis a great office. What would come of all<br /> - The music of the masters, did not we<br /> - Wait at their doors, to publish to the world<br /> - What God has told them? They would be as mute<br /> - As the dumb Sphynx. They write a symphony,<br /> - An opera, an oratorio,<br /> - In language that the teacher understands,<br /> - And straight the whole world echoes to its strains<br /> - It shrills and thunders through cathedral glooms<br /> - From golden organ-tubes and voiceful choirs;<br /> - The halls of art of both the hemispheres<br /> - Resound with its divinest melodies;<br /> - The street stirs with the impulse, and we hear<br /> - The blare of martial trumpets, and the tramp<br /> - Of bannered armies swaying to its rhythm;<br /> - The hurdy-gurdies and the whistling boys<br /> - Adopt the lighter strains; and round and round<br /> - A million souls its hovering fancies float,<br /> - Like butterflies above a fair parterre,<br /> - Till, settling one by one, they sleep at last;<br /> - And lo! two petals more on every flower!<br /> - And this not all; for though the master die,<br /> - The teacher lives forever. On and on,<br /> - Through all the generations, he shall preach<br /> - The beautiful evangel;—on and on,<br /> - Till our poor race has passed the tortuous years<br /> - That lie prevening the millennium,<br /> - And slid into that broad and open sea,<br /> - He shall sail singing still the songs he learned<br /> - In the world's youth, and sing them o'er and o'er<br /> - To lapping waters, till the thousand leagues<br /> - Are overpast, and argosy and crew<br /> - Ride at their port."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "True as to facts," I said<br /> - "And as to prophecies, most credible;<br /> - But, as an illustration, false, I think.<br /> - That which the voice and instrument may do<br /> - For the composer, types may do for those<br /> - Who mint their thoughts in verse. Music is writ<br /> - In language that the people do not read—<br /> - Is lame in that—and needs interpreters;<br /> - While poetry, e'en in its noblest forms<br /> - And boldest flights, speaks their vernacular.<br /> - Your aunt can read the book within your hand<br /> - As well as you, if she desire, yet finds<br /> - Your score all Greek, until you vocalize<br /> - Its wealth of hidden meaning. As for arts<br /> - Which meet the eye in picture and in form,<br /> - They ask no mediator but the light—<br /> - No grace but privilege to shine with naught<br /> - Between them and the light. They are themselves<br /> - Expositors of that which they expose,<br /> - Or they are nothing. All the middle-men—<br /> - The fools profound—who take it on their tongues<br /> - To play the showmen, strutting up and down,<br /> - And mouthing of the beauty that they hide,<br /> - Are an impertinence."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You leave no room<br /> - For critics," she suggested, with a smile.<br /> - "We must not spoil a trade, or starve the wives<br /> - And innocent babes it feeds."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "No care for them!"<br /> - I made reply. "They do not need much room—<br /> - Men of their build—and what they need they take.<br /> - The feeble conies burrow in the rocks;<br /> - But the trees grow, and we are not aware<br /> - Of space encumbered by them."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Yet the fact<br /> - Still stands untouched," she added, thoughtfully,<br /> - "That greatest artists speak to fewest souls,<br /> - Or speak to them directly. They have need<br /> - Of no such ministry as waits the beck<br /> - Of the composer; but they need the life,<br /> - If not the learning, of the cultured few<br /> - Who understand them. If from out my book<br /> - I gather that which feeds me, and inspires<br /> - A nobler, sweeter beauty in my life,<br /> - And give my life to those who cannot win<br /> - From the dim text such boon, then have I borne<br /> - A blessing from the book, and been its best<br /> - Interpreter. The bread that comes from heaven<br /> - Needs finest breaking. Some there doubtless are—<br /> - Some ready souls—that take the morsel pure<br /> - Divided to their need; but multitudes<br /> - Must have it in admixtures, menstruums,<br /> - And forms that human hands or human life<br /> - Have moulded. Though the multitudes may find<br /> - Something to stir and lift their sluggish souls<br /> - In sight of great cathedrals, or in view<br /> - Of noble pictures, yet they see not all,<br /> - And not the best. That which they do not see<br /> - Must enter higher souls, and there, by art<br /> - Or life, be fashioned to their want."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Your thought<br /> - Grows subtle," I responded, "and I grant<br /> - Its force and beauty. If the round truth lie<br /> - Somewhere between us, and I see the face<br /> - It turns to me in stronger light than you<br /> - Reveal its opposite, why, let the fault be mine;<br /> - It is not yours. You have instructed me,<br /> - And won my thanks."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Instructed you?" she said,<br /> - With a fine blush: "you mock, you humble me.<br /> - And have I talked so much, with such an air,<br /> - That, either earnestly or in a jest,<br /> - You can say this to me?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Tis not a sin,<br /> - In latitude of ours," I made reply,<br /> - "To talk philosophy; 'tis only rare<br /> - For beardless lips to do so. I have caught<br /> - From yours a finer, more suggestive scheme<br /> - Than all the wise have taught me by their books,<br /> - Or by their voices. I will think of it."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Now may you be forgiven!" the aunt exclaimed,<br /> - Approaching unobserved. "There never lived<br /> - A quieter, more plainly speaking girl,<br /> - Than my Kathrina. All these weeks and months,<br /> - I have heard nought from her but common sense;<br /> - But when you came, why, off she went; though where<br /> - It's more than I know. You, sir, have the blame;<br /> - And you must lift your spell, and give her back<br /> - Just as you found her."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "She has practised well<br /> - Her scheme on us. She breaks to you the bread<br /> - That meets your want; to me, that meets my own,"<br /> - I said, in answering.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Well," spoke the aunt,<br /> - "I think I'll try my hand at breaking bread:<br /> - So, follow me."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We followed to her board,<br /> - And there, in converse suited to the hour<br /> - And presence of our hostess, proved ourselves—<br /> - Quite to that lady's liking—of the earth.<br /> - We ate her jumbles for her, sipped her tea,<br /> - And revelled in the spicy succulence<br /> - Of her preserves.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - While still I sat at ease,<br /> - The maiden's eye, with quick, uneasy glance,<br /> - Sought the clock's dial. Then she turned to me.<br /> - And said with sweet, respectful courtesy:<br /> - "Pray you excuse my presence for an hour.<br /> - A duty calls me out; and that performed,<br /> - I will return."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I saw she marked my look<br /> - Of disappointment—that it staggered her—<br /> - The while with words of stiffest commonplace<br /> - I gave assent. But she was on her feet;<br /> - And soon I heard her light step on the stair,<br /> - Seeking her chamber.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Whither will she go<br /> - At such an hour as this, from you and me?"<br /> - I coldly questioned of the keen-eyed aunt.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You men are very curious," she said.<br /> - "I knew you'd ask me. Can't a lady stir,<br /> - But you must call her to account? Who knows<br /> - She may not have some rustic lover here<br /> - With whom she keeps her tryst? 'Tis an old trick,<br /> - Not wholly out of fashion in these parts.<br /> - What matters it? She orders her own ways,<br /> - And has discretion."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With lugubrious voice<br /> - I said: "You trifle, madam, with my wish.<br /> - I know the lady has no lover here,<br /> - And so do you."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I'm not so sure of that!"<br /> - My hostess made response; and then she laughed<br /> - A rippling, rollicking roulade, and shook<br /> - Her finger at me, till my temples burned<br /> - With the hot shame she summoned.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "There!" I said;<br /> - "You've done your worst, and learned so much, at least—<br /> - That I admire your niece. <i>I</i> curious!<br /> - Well, you are curious and cunning too.<br /> - Now, in the moment of your victory,<br /> - Be generous; and tell me what may call<br /> - The lady from us."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "It is Thursday night,"<br /> - She answered soberly,—"the weekly hour<br /> - At which our quiet neighborhood convenes<br /> - For social worship. You may guess the rest<br /> - Without my telling; but you cannot know<br /> - With what anticipated joy she leaves<br /> - Our company, or with what shining face<br /> - She will return."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At that, I heard her dress<br /> - Sliding the flight, and rising, made my way<br /> - To meet her at its foot. A happy smile<br /> - Illumed her features, as she gave her hand<br /> - With thought of parting. I had rallied all<br /> - My self-control and gallantry meanwhile,<br /> - And said: "Not here. I'll with you, by your leave,<br /> - So far as you may walk."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - There was a flash<br /> - Of gladness in her eyes, and in her thanks<br /> - A subtler charm than gratitude.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I bade<br /> - My hostess a "good-night," and left her door.<br /> - Declining her entreaty to return.<br /> - We walked in silence, side by side, a space,<br /> - And then, with feigned indifference, I spoke:<br /> - "Your aunt has told me of your errand; else,<br /> - It had been modest in me to withhold<br /> - This tendance on your steps. She tells me you<br /> - Are quite a devotee. Whom do you meet,<br /> - In neighborhood like this, to give a zest<br /> - To hour like this?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Brothers and sisters all,"<br /> - She said in low reply; "and as for zest,<br /> - There's never lack of it where there is love.<br /> - When families convene, they have no need<br /> - Of more than love to give them festal joy;<br /> - Nor do they with discrimination judge<br /> - Between the high and humble. These are one;<br /> - Love makes them one."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "And you are one with these?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Though most unworthy of such fellowship,<br /> - I trust that I am one with these;—that they<br /> - Are one with me, and reckon me among<br /> - Their number."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Can they do you any good?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "They can," she said, "but were it otherwise,<br /> - I can serve them; and so should seek them still.<br /> - I help them in their songs."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We reached too soon<br /> - The open doorway of the humble hut<br /> - Which, far long years, had held the village school,<br /> - And, at a little distance, paused. The room,<br /> - Battered and black by wantonest abuse<br /> - Of the rude youth, was lit by feeble lamps,<br /> - Brought by the villagers; and scattered round<br /> - Upon the high, hacked benches, hardly less<br /> - Rude and rough-worn than they, the worshippers<br /> - In silence sat. It was no place for words.<br /> - I took the lady's hand, and said "good-night!"<br /> - In whisper. Then she turned, and disappeared<br /> - Within the sheltered gloom; but I could see<br /> - The care-worn cheeks light up with pleasant fire<br /> - As she passed in; and e'en the fainting lamps<br /> - Flared with new life, the while they caught the breath<br /> - Of her sweet robe. Then with an angry heart<br /> - I turned away, and, wrapped in selfish thought,<br /> - Took up the walk toward home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - This homely group<br /> - Of Yankee lollards she preferred to me!<br /> - These poor, pinched boobies, with their silly wives—<br /> - Ah! these were they who gave her overmuch<br /> - In the bestowal of their fellowship!<br /> - These crowned her with a peerless privilege,<br /> - Permitting her to sit with them an hour<br /> - As a dear sister! How my sore self-love<br /> - Burned with the hot affront!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With lips compressed,<br /> - Or blurting forth their anger and disgust,<br /> - I strode the meadows, stalked the silent town,<br /> - And growled and groaned in sullen helplessness<br /> - About the streets, until the midnight bell<br /> - Tolled from the old church tower;—in helplessness,<br /> - For, mattered nothing what or who she was<br /> - (I had not dared or cared to question that),<br /> - Or how offensive in her piety<br /> - And her devotion to the tasteless cult<br /> - Of the weak throng, I was her slave; and she—<br /> - Her own and God's. The miserable strife<br /> - Between my love of self and love of her<br /> - I knew was bootless; and the trenchant truth<br /> - Cut to the quick. She held within her hand<br /> - My heart, my life, my doom, yet knew it not;<br /> - And had she known, her soul was under vows<br /> - Which would forever make subordinate<br /> - Their recognized possession.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But the morn<br /> - Brought with it better mood and calmer thought:<br /> - I had the grace to gauge the heartlessness<br /> - Of my exactions, and the power to crush<br /> - The tyrant wish to tear her from the throne<br /> - To which she clung. I said: "So she love me<br /> - As a true woman loves, and give herself—<br /> - Her sweet, pure self—to me, and fill my home<br /> - With her dear presence, loyal still to me<br /> - In wifely love and wifely offices,<br /> - Though she abide in Christian loyalty<br /> - By Christian vows, she shall have liberty,<br /> - And hold it as her right."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She was my peer;<br /> - No weakling girl, who would surrender will<br /> - And life and reason, with her loving heart,<br /> - To her possessor;—no soft, clinging thing<br /> - Who would find breath alone within the arms<br /> - Of a strong master, and obediently<br /> - Wait on his whims in slavish carefulness;—<br /> - No fawning, cringing spaniel, to attend<br /> - His royal pleasure, and account herself<br /> - Rewarded by his pats and pretty words,<br /> - But a round woman, who, with insight keen,<br /> - Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well<br /> - Her womanhood; had spread before her feet<br /> - A fine philosophy to guide her steps;<br /> - Had won a faith to which her life was brought<br /> - In strict adjustment—brain and heart meanwhile<br /> - Working in conscious harmony and rhythm<br /> - With the great scheme of God's great universe,<br /> - On toward her being's end.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I could but know<br /> - Her motives were superior to mine.<br /> - I could but feel that in her loyalty<br /> - To God and duty, she condemned my life.<br /> - Into her woman's heart, thrown open wide<br /> - In holy charity, she had drawn all<br /> - Of human kind, and found no humblest soul<br /> - Too humble for her entertainment,—none<br /> - So weak it could return no grateful boon<br /> - For what she gave; and standing modestly<br /> - Within her scheme, with meekest reverence<br /> - She bowed to those above her, yet with strong<br /> - And hearty confidence assumed a place<br /> - In service of the world, as minister<br /> - Ordained of heaven to break to it the bread<br /> - She took from other hands. And she was one<br /> - Who could see all there was of good in me,—<br /> - Could measure well the product of my power,<br /> - And give it impulse and direction: nay,<br /> - Could supplement my power; and help my heart<br /> - Against its foes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The moment that I thrust<br /> - The selfish thirsting for monopoly<br /> - Of her affections from my godless heart,<br /> - She entered in, and reigned a goddess there.<br /> - If she had fascinated me before,<br /> - And fired my heart with passion, now she bent<br /> - My spirit to profound respect. I bowed<br /> - To the fair graces of her character,<br /> - Her queenly gifts, and the beneficence<br /> - Of her devoted life, with humbled heart<br /> - And self-depreciation. All of God<br /> - That the world held for me, I found in her;<br /> - And in her, all the God I sought. She was<br /> - My saviour from myself and from my sins;<br /> - For, with my worship of the excellence<br /> - Which she embodied, came the purity<br /> - And peace to which, through all my troubled life,<br /> - I had been stranger. Thoughts and feelings all<br /> - Were sublimated by the subtle flame<br /> - Which warmed and wrapped me; and I walked as one<br /> - Might walk on air, with things of earth beneath,<br /> - Breathing a rare, supernal atmosphere<br /> - Which every sense and faculty informed<br /> - With light and life divine.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - What need to tell<br /> - Of the succeeding summer days, and all<br /> - Their deeds and incidents? They floated by<br /> - Like silent sails upon a summer sea,<br /> - That, sweeping in from farthest heaven at morn,<br /> - Traverse the vision, and at evening slide<br /> - Out into heaven again, their pennant-flames<br /> - The rosy dawns and day-falls. O'er and o'er,<br /> - I walked the path, and crossed the stream, that lay<br /> - Between me and the idol of my heart;<br /> - And every day, in every circumstance,<br /> - I found her still the same, yet not the same;<br /> - For, every day, some unsuspected grace,<br /> - Or some fresh revelation of her wealth<br /> - Of character and culture, touched my heart<br /> - To new surprise, and overflowed the cup<br /> - Whose wine was life to me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Though I could see<br /> - That I was not unwelcome; though I knew<br /> - I gave a zest to her sequestered life,<br /> - I had built up so high my only hope<br /> - On her affection—I had given myself<br /> - So wholly to the venture for her hand,<br /> - I did not dare to speak of love, or ask<br /> - The question which, unasked, held hopefully<br /> - My destiny: which answered, might bring doom<br /> - Of madness or of death.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Meanwhile, I learned<br /> - The lady's history from other lips<br /> - Than hers—her aunt's. Alas! the old, old tale!<br /> - She had been bred to luxury; and all<br /> - That wealth could purchase for her, or the friends<br /> - Swarmed by its golden glamour could bestow,<br /> - She had possessed. But he who won the wealth,<br /> - Reaching for more, slipped from his height and fell<br /> - Dragging his house to ruin. Then he died—<br /> - Died in disgrace; and all his thousand friends<br /> - Fell off, and left his pampered family,<br /> - The while the noisy auctioneer knocked down<br /> - His house and household gods, and set adrift<br /> - The helpless life thus cruelly bereft.<br /> - The mother lived a month: the rest went forth,<br /> - Not knowing whither; but they found among<br /> - The poor a shelter for their poverty,—<br /> - Kathrina with her aunt. Thus, in few words,<br /> - A tragedy of heart-breaks and of death,<br /> - Such as the world abounds with.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But this girl,<br /> - With her quick instincts and her brave, good heart.<br /> - Determined she would live awhile, and learn<br /> - What lesson God would teach her. This she sought,<br /> - And, seeking, found, or thought she found. How well<br /> - She learned the lesson—what the lesson was—<br /> - Her life, thus far revealed, and waiting still<br /> - My feeble record, shall disclose. Enough,<br /> - Just now and here, that out of it she bore<br /> - A noble womanhood, accepting all<br /> - Her great misfortunes as the discipline<br /> - Of a paternal hand, in love prescribed<br /> - To lead her to her place, and whiten her<br /> - For Christian service.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - All the summer fled;<br /> - And still my heart delayed. One pleasant eve,<br /> - When first the creaking of the crickets told<br /> - Of Autumn's opening door, I went with her<br /> - To ramble in the fields. We touched the hem<br /> - Of the dark mountain's robe, that falls in folds<br /> - Of emerald sward around his feet, and there<br /> - Upon its tufted velvet we sat down.<br /> - It was my time to speak, but I was dumb;<br /> - And silence, painful and portentous, hung<br /> - Upon us both. At length, she turned and said:<br /> - "Some days have passed since you were latest here.<br /> - Have you been ill?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "No, I have been at work,"<br /> - I answered,—"at my own delightful work;<br /> - The first since first we met. The record lies<br /> - Where I may reach it at a word from you.<br /> - Command, and I will read it."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I command,"<br /> - She said, responding with a laugh. "Nay, I<br /> - Entreat. I used your word, but this is mine,<br /> - And has a better sound from lips of mine.<br /> - I am your waiting auditor."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I read:<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Was it the tale of a talking bird?<br /> - Was it a dream of the night?<br /> - When have I seen it? Where have I heard<br /> - Of the haps of a dainty craft, that stirred<br /> - My spirit with affright?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "The shallop stands out from the sheltered bay<br /> - With a burden of spirits twain,—<br /> - A woman who lifts her eyes to pray,<br /> - A tall youth, trolling a roundelay,<br /> - And before them night, and the main!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "O! Star of The Sea! They will come to harm:<br /> - Nor master nor sailor is there!<br /> - The youth clasps the mast with his sinewy arm,<br /> - And laughs! Does he hold in his bosom a charm<br /> - That will baffle the sprites of the air?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - O! woe to the delicate ship! O! woe!<br /> - For the sun is sunk, and behold!<br /> - The trooping phantoms that come and go<br /> - In the sky above and the waves below!<br /> - Ho! The wind blows wild and cold.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "The woman is weeping in weak despair;<br /> - The youth still clings to the mast,<br /> - With cheeks aflame, and with eyes that stare<br /> - At the phantoms hovering everywhere;<br /> - And the storm-rack rises fast!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "The phantoms close on the flying bark;<br /> - They flutter about her peak;<br /> - They sweep in swarms from the outer dark;<br /> - But the youth at the mast stands still and stark,<br /> - While they flap his stinging cheek.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "O! fierce was the shout of the goblins then!<br /> - How the gibber and laugh went round!<br /> - The shout and the laugh of a thousand men,<br /> - Echoed and answered, and echoed again,<br /> - Would have been a feebler sound.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "They shiver the bolts that the lightning flings;<br /> - They bellow and roar and hiss;<br /> - They splash the deck with their slimy wings—<br /> - Monstrous, horrible, ghastly things—<br /> - That climb from the foul abyss.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Straight toward the blackness drove the ship;<br /> - But the youth still clung to the mast:<br /> - 'I have read,' quoth he, with a proud, cold lip,<br /> - 'That the devil gets never a man on the hip<br /> - Whom he scares not, first or last.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "No star shines out at the woman's prayer;<br /> - O! madly distraught is she!<br /> - And the bark drives on with her wild despair<br /> - With shrieking fiends in the crowded air,<br /> - And fiends on the swarming sea.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Nearer the blackness loomed; and the bark<br /> - Scudded before the breeze;<br /> - Nearer the blackness loomed, and hark!<br /> - The crash of breakers out of the dark,<br /> - And the shock of plunging seas!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Then out of the water before their sight<br /> - A shape loomed bare and black!<br /> - So black that the darkness bloomed with white;<br /> - So black that the lightning grew strangely bright<br /> - And it lay in the shallop's track!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "O! woe! for the woman's wits ran daft<br /> - With the fearful bruit and burst;<br /> - She sprang to her feet, and flitting aft,<br /> - She plunged in the sea, and the black waves quaffed<br /> - The sweet life they had cursed.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Light leaped the bark on the mountain-breast<br /> - Of a tenth-wave out to land;<br /> - While the sprites of the sea fell off to rest,<br /> - And the youth, unharmed, became the guest<br /> - Of the elves of the silent land.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "With banter and buffet they pressed around;<br /> - They tied his strong hands fast;<br /> - But he laughed, and said, 'I have read and found<br /> - That the devil throws never a man to the ground<br /> - Whom he scares not, first or last.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Under the charred and ghastly gloom,<br /> - Over the flinty stones,<br /> - They led him forth to his terrible doom,<br /> - And, plunged in a deep and noisome tomb,<br /> - They sat him among the bones.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "They left him there in the crawling mire:<br /> - They could neither maim nor kill:<br /> - For fiends of water, and earth, and fire,<br /> - Are baffled and beaten by the ire<br /> - Of a dauntless human will.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Days flushed and faded, months passed away,<br /> - He knew by the golden light<br /> - That shot, through a loop in the wall, the ray<br /> - Which parted the short and slender day<br /> - From the long and doleful night.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Was it a vision that cheated his eyes?<br /> - Was he awake, or no?<br /> - He stared through the loop with keen surprise.<br /> - For he saw a sweet angel from the skies,<br /> - With white wings, folded low.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Could she not loose him from his thrall,<br /> - And lead him into the light?<br /> - 'Ah me!' he murmured, 'I dare not call,<br /> - Lest she may doubt it a goblin's waul,<br /> - And leave me in swift affright!'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "She plumed her wings with a noiseless haste;<br /> - He could neither call nor cry:<br /> - She vanished into the sunny waste,<br /> - Into far blue air that he longed to taste;<br /> - And he cursed that he could not die.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "But she came again, and every day<br /> - He worshipped her where she shone;<br /> - And again she left him and floated away,<br /> - But his faithless tongue refused to pray<br /> - For the boon she could give alone.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "And there he sits in his dumb despair,<br /> - And his watching eyes grow dim:<br /> - Would God that his coward lips might dare<br /> - To utter the word to the angel fair,<br /> - That is life or death to him!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I marked her as I read, a furtive glance<br /> - Filling each pause. The passion of the piece,<br /> - Flaming and fading, ever and anon,<br /> - Mirrored itself within her tender eyes,<br /> - Themselves the mirror of her tender soul,<br /> - And fixed attent upon my face the while.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She had not caught my meaning, but had heard<br /> - Only a weird, wild story. When I paused,<br /> - Folding the manuscript, I saw a shade<br /> - Of disappointment sweep her face, and marked<br /> - A question rising in her eyes. She knew<br /> - That I was waiting for her words, and turned<br /> - Her look away, and for long moments gazed<br /> - Into the brooding dusk.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Speak it!" I said.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Twas very strange and sad," she answered me.<br /> - "Why do you write such things?—or, writing such,<br /> - Leave them so incomplete? The prisoned youth,<br /> - Thus unreleased, will haunt me while I live.<br /> - I shudder while I think of him."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then I:<br /> - "The poem will be finished, by-and-by,<br /> - For this is history, and antedates<br /> - No fact that it records. Whether this youth<br /> - Shall live entombed, or reach the blessed air,<br /> - Depends upon his angel; for he calls—<br /> - I hear him call, and call again her name<br /> - Kathrina! O! Kathrina!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Like the flash<br /> - Of the hot lightning, the significance<br /> - Of the strange vision gleamed upon her face<br /> - In a bright, throbbing flame, that fell full soon<br /> - To ashen paleness. By unconscious will<br /> - We both arose. She vainly tried to speak,<br /> - And gazed into my eyes with such a look<br /> - Of tender questioning, of half-reproach,<br /> - Of struggling, doubting, hesitating joy,<br /> - As few men ever see, and none but once.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Are there not lofty moments, when the soul<br /> - Leaps to the front of being, casting off<br /> - The robes and clumsy instruments of sense,<br /> - And, postured in its immortality,<br /> - Reveals its independence of the clod<br /> - In which it dwells?—moments in which the earth<br /> - And all material things, all sights and sounds,<br /> - All signals, ministries, interpreters,<br /> - Relapse to nothing, and the interflow<br /> - Of thought and feeling, love and life go on<br /> - Between two spirits, raised to sympathy<br /> - By an inspiring passion, as, in heaven,<br /> - The body dust, within an orb outlived,<br /> - It shall go on forever?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Moments like these—<br /> - Nay, these in very truth—were given us then.<br /> - Who shall expound—ah! who but God alone,<br /> - The everlasting mystery of love?<br /> - She spoke not, but I knew that she was mine.<br /> - I breathed no word, but she was well assured<br /> - That I was wholly hers.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In what disguise<br /> - Our love had hid, and wrought its miracle;<br /> - Behind what semblance of indifference,<br /> - Or play of courtesy, it spun the cords<br /> - That bound our hearts in one, was mystery<br /> - Like love itself. The swift intelligence<br /> - Of interchange of perfect faith and troth,<br /> - Of gift of life and person, of the thrill<br /> - Of triumph in my soul and gratitude<br /> - In hers, without a gesture, or a word,<br /> - Was like the converse of the continents<br /> - Tracking with voiceless flight the slender wire<br /> - That underlay the throbbing mystery<br /> - Between our souls, and made our heart-beats one.<br /> - I opened wide my arms, and she, my own,<br /> - Sobbed on my breast with such excess of joy,<br /> - In such embrace of passionate tenderness,<br /> - As heaven may yield again, but never earth.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Slow in the golden twilight, toward her home,<br /> - Her hand upon my arm, we loitered on,<br /> - Silent at first, and then with quiet speech<br /> - Broaching our plans, or tracing in review<br /> - The history of our springing love, when she,<br /> - Lifting her soft blue eyes to mine:<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Dear Paul!<br /> - There are some things, and some I will not name,<br /> - That make me sad, e'en in this height of joy.<br /> - In the wild lay that you have read to-night,<br /> - You make too much of me. No heart of man,<br /> - Though loving well and loving worthily,<br /> - Can be content with any human love.<br /> - No woman, though the pride and paragon<br /> - Of all her sex, can take the place of God.<br /> - No angel she: nor is she quite a man<br /> - In power and courage,—gifts which charm her most<br /> - And which, possessing most, disrobe her charms,<br /> - And make her less a woman. If she stand<br /> - In fair equality with man—his mate—<br /> - Each unto each the rounded complement<br /> - Of their humanity, it is enough;<br /> - And such equality must ever lie<br /> - In their unequal gifts. This thing, at least,<br /> - Is true as God: she is not more than he,<br /> - And sits upon no throne. To be adored<br /> - By man, she must be placed upon a throne<br /> - Built by his hands, and sit an idol there,<br /> - Degraded by the measure of the flight<br /> - Between God's thought and man's."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Responding, I<br /> - "Fix your own place, my love; it is your right,<br /> - 'Tis well to have a theory, and sit<br /> - In the centre of it, mistress of its law,<br /> - And subject also;—to set men up here<br /> - And women there, in a fine equipoise<br /> - Of gift and grace and import. It conveys<br /> - To nicely-working minds a pleasant sense<br /> - Of order, like a well-appointed room,<br /> - Where one may see, in various stuffs and wares,<br /> - Forethoughts of color brought to harmony;<br /> - Strict balancings of quantity and form;<br /> - Flowers in the centre, and, beside the grate,<br /> - A rack for shovel and tongs. But minds like these<br /> - (Your pardon, love!) are likely to arrange<br /> - The window-lights to save the furniture,<br /> - And spoil the pictures on the wall. And you,<br /> - In the adjustment of your theory,<br /> - Would shut the light from her whose mind informs<br /> - Its harmonies. All worship, in my thought,<br /> - Goes hand in hand with love. We cannot love,<br /> - And fail to worship what we love. While you<br /> - Worship the strength and courage which you find<br /> - In him who has your heart, he bows to all<br /> - Of faith and sweetness which he finds in you.<br /> - If, in our worship, we have need to build<br /> - Noblest ideals, taking much from God<br /> - With which to make them perfect in our eyes,<br /> - Shall God mark blame? We worship him the while,<br /> - In attributes his own, or attributes<br /> - With which our thought invests him. As for me—<br /> - It is no secret—I am what you call<br /> - A godless man; yet what is worshipful,<br /> - Or seems to be so, that with all my heart<br /> - I worship; and I worship while I love.<br /> - You deem yourself the dwelling-place of God,<br /> - And keep your spirit cleanly for his feet.<br /> - All merit you abjure, ascribing all<br /> - To him who dwells within you. How can you<br /> - Forbid that I fall down and worship you,<br /> - When what I find to worship is not yours,<br /> - But God's alone? I know the ecstasy<br /> - Enlarges, strengthens, purifies my soul,<br /> - And blesses me with peace. My love, my life,<br /> - You are my all. I have no other good,<br /> - And, in this moment of my happiness,<br /> - I ask no other."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Tears were in her eyes,<br /> - Her clasped hands clinging fondly to my arm,<br /> - While under droop of lashes she replied:<br /> - "I feel, dear Paul, that this is sophistry.<br /> - It does not touch my judgment or my heart<br /> - With motive of conviction. In what way<br /> - God may be working to reclaim your will<br /> - And worship to himself, I cannot know.<br /> - If through your love for me, or mine for you,<br /> - Then, as his grateful, willing instrument,<br /> - I yield myself to him. But this is true:<br /> - God is not worshipped in his attributes.<br /> - I do not love your attributes, but you.<br /> - Your attributes all meet me otherwhere,<br /> - Blended in other personalities,<br /> - Nor do I love, nor do I worship them,<br /> - Or those who bear them. E'en the spotted pard<br /> - Will dare a danger which will make you pale,<br /> - But shall his courage steal my heart from you?<br /> - You cheat your conscience, for you know that I<br /> - May like your attributes, yet love not you;<br /> - Nay, worship them indeed, despising you.<br /> - I do not argue this to damp your joy,<br /> - But make it rational. If you presume<br /> - Perfection in me,—if you lavish all<br /> - The largess of your worship and your love<br /> - On me, imposing on my head a crown<br /> - Stolen from God's, there surely waits your heart<br /> - The pang of disappointment. There will come<br /> - A sad, sad time, when, in your famished soul,<br /> - The cry for something more, and more divine,<br /> - Will rise, nor be repressed."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - There is a charm<br /> - In earnestness, when it inspires the lips<br /> - Of one we love, that spoils their argument,<br /> - And yields so much of pleasure and of pride,<br /> - That the conviction which they seek evades<br /> - Their eager fingers, and with throbbing wings<br /> - Crows from its covert.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She was casuist,<br /> - Cunning and clear; and I was proud of her;<br /> - And though I knew that she had swept away<br /> - My refuges of lies like chaff, and proved<br /> - My fair words fustian, I was moved to mirth<br /> - Over the solemn ruin. Had it been<br /> - A decent thing to do, I should have laughed<br /> - Full in her face; but knowing that her words<br /> - Were offspring of her conscience and her love,<br /> - I could no less than hold respectfully<br /> - Her earnest warning.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Well, I'll take the risk,"<br /> - I said. "While you shall have the argument,<br /> - I will have you, who, on the whole, I like<br /> - Better than that. And you shall have your way,<br /> - And I my own, in common liberty,<br /> - With things like these. You, doubtless, are to me<br /> - What I am not to you. We are unlike<br /> - In life and circumstance—alike alone<br /> - In this: that better than all else on earth<br /> - We love each other. This is basis broad<br /> - For happiness, or broad enough for me.<br /> - If you build better, you are fortunate,<br /> - Ay, fortunate indeed; and some fine day<br /> - We'll talk about it. Let us have to-night<br /> - Joy in our new possessions, and defer<br /> - This little joust of wits and consciences<br /> - To more convenient season."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We had reached<br /> - The cottage door at this; and there her aunt<br /> - Awaited our return. So, hand in hand,<br /> - Assuming show of rustic bashfulness,<br /> - We paused before her, and with bows profound<br /> - Made our obeisance.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Well?" she said at length;<br /> - "Well?—and what of it?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Are you not surprised?"<br /> - I asked.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Surprised, indeed! Surprised at what?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "At what you see: and this! and this!" I said,<br /> - Planting a kiss upon each lovely cheek<br /> - Of my betrothed, that straightway bloomed with rose.<br /> - "What! are you blind, my aunt?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You silly fools!<br /> - I've seen it from the first," she answered me.<br /> - "No doubt you thought that you were very deep,<br /> - Very mysterious—all that sort of thing.<br /> - I've watched you, and if you, young man, had been<br /> - Aught but a coward, it had come before,<br /> - And saved some sleep o' nights to both of you.<br /> - But down upon your knees, for benison<br /> - Of one who loves you both."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We knelt, and then<br /> - She kissed us, leaving on our cheeks the tear<br /> - That sprang to brim the moment. Her shrewd eyes<br /> - That melted in the sympathy of love,<br /> - Would not meet ours again, but turned away,<br /> - And sought in solitude to drain themselves<br /> - Of their strange passion.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - God forbid that I,<br /> - With weak and sacrilegious lips, betray<br /> - The confidence of love; or tear aside<br /> - The secrecy behind whose snowy folds<br /> - Honor and virgin modesty retire<br /> - For holiest communion! For the fire<br /> - Which burns upon that altar is of God.<br /> - Its tongues of flame, throughout all time and space,<br /> - Speak but one language, understood by all,<br /> - But sacred ever to the wedded hearts<br /> - That listen to their breathings.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In the deep hours of night<br /> - I left the cottage, brain and heart o'erfilled<br /> - With the ethereal vintage I had quaffed.<br /> - Disturbing not the drowsy ferryman,<br /> - I slipped his little wherry from the sand,<br /> - And in the star-sprent river lipped the oars<br /> - That pulled me homeward. The enchanting tide<br /> - Was smooth continuation of the dream<br /> - On which my spirit, holily afloat,<br /> - Had glided through long hours of happiness.<br /> - Earth, by the strange, delicious ecstasy,<br /> - Was changed to paradise; and something kin<br /> - To gratitude arose within my soul—<br /> - A fleeting passion, dying all too soon,<br /> - Lacking the root which faith alone can feed.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I touched the shore; but when my hasting feet<br /> - Started the homeward walk, there came a change.<br /> - Down from the quiet stars there fell a voice,<br /> - Heard in the innermost, that troubled me:<br /> - "She is not more than you: why worship her?<br /> - And she will die: what will remain for you?<br /> - You may die first, indeed: then what resource?<br /> - You have no sympathy with her in things<br /> - Ordained within, her conscience and her life<br /> - The things supreme: can there be marriage thus?<br /> - Is e'en such bliss as may be possible<br /> - Sure to be yours? Fate has a thousand hands<br /> - To dash your lifted cup."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With thoughts like these,<br /> - A vague uneasiness invaded me,<br /> - And toned the triumph of my passion, till,<br /> - Almost in anger, I exclaimed at last:<br /> - "This is reaction. I have flown too high<br /> - Above the healthy level, and I feel<br /> - The press of denser air. The equipoise<br /> - Of circumstance and feeling will be reached<br /> - All in good time. Rest and to-morrow's sun<br /> - Will bring the remedy, and, with the mists,<br /> - This cloud will pass away."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then with clenched hands<br /> - I swore I would be happy,—that my soul<br /> - Should find its satisfaction in her love;<br /> - And that, if there should ever come a time<br /> - Of cold satiety, or I should find<br /> - Weakness or fault where I had thought was strength<br /> - And full perfection, I would e'en endow<br /> - Her poverty with all the hoarded wealth<br /> - Of my imagination, making her<br /> - The woman of my want, in plenitude<br /> - Of strength and loveliness.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The breezy days<br /> - Over whose waves my buoyant life careered,<br /> - Rolled to October, falling on its beach<br /> - With bursts of mellow music; and I leaped<br /> - Upon the longed-for shore; for, in that month,<br /> - My dear betrothed, deferring to the stress<br /> - Of my impatient wish, had promised me<br /> - Her hand in wedlock.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ere the happy day<br /> - Dawned on the world, the world was draped in robes<br /> - Meet for the nuptials. Baths of sunny haze,<br /> - Steeping the ripened leaves from day to day,<br /> - And dainty kisses of the frost at night,<br /> - Joined in the subtile alchemy that wrought<br /> - Such miracles of change, that myriad trees<br /> - Which pranked the meads and clothed the forest glooms<br /> - Bloomed with the tints of Eden. Had the earth<br /> - Been splashed with blood of grapes from every clime,<br /> - Tinted from topaz to dim carbuncle,<br /> - Or orient ruby, it would not have been<br /> - Drenched with such waste of color. All the hues<br /> - The rainbow knows, and all that meet the eye<br /> - In flowers of field and garden, joined to tell<br /> - Each tree's close-folded secret. Side by side<br /> - Rose sister maples, some in amber gold,<br /> - Others incarnadine or tipped with flame;<br /> - And oaks that for a hundred years had stood,<br /> - And flouted one another through the storms—<br /> - Boasting their might—proclaimed their pique or pride<br /> - In dun, or dyes of Tyre. The sumac-leaves<br /> - Blazed with such scarlet that the crimson fruit<br /> - Which hung among their flames was touched to guise<br /> - Of dim and dying embers; while the hills<br /> - That met the sky at the horizon's rim—<br /> - Dabbled with rose among the evergreens,<br /> - Or stretching off in sweeps of clouted crimson—glowed<br /> - As if the archery of sunset clouds,<br /> - By squads and fierce battalions, had rained down<br /> - Its barbed and feathered fire, and left it fast<br /> - To advertise th' exploit.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In such pomp<br /> - Of autumn glory, by the simplest rites,<br /> - Kathrina gave her hand to me, and I<br /> - Pledged truth and life to her. I bore her home<br /> - Through shocks of maize, revealing half their gold;<br /> - Past gazing harvesters with creaking wains<br /> - That brimmed with fruitage—my adored, my wife,<br /> - Fruition of my hope—the proudest freight<br /> - That ever passed that way!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - My troops of friends,<br /> - Grown strangely warm and strangely numerous<br /> - With scent of novelty and pleasant cheer,<br /> - Assisted me to place upon her throne<br /> - My household queen. Right royally she sat<br /> - The new-born dignity. Most graciously<br /> - She spoke and smiled among the silken clouds<br /> - That, fold on perfumed fold, like frankincense<br /> - Enveloped her, through half the festal night,<br /> - With welcome and good wishes. I was proud:<br /> - For was not I a king where she was queen?<br /> - And queen she was—though consort in my home,<br /> - Queen regnant in the realm of womanhood,<br /> - By right of every charm.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Into her place,<br /> - As mistress of all home economies,<br /> - She slid without a jar, as if the Fates,<br /> - By concert of foreordinate design,<br /> - Had fitted her for it, and it for her,<br /> - And, having joined them well, were satisfied.<br /> - Obedient to the orbit of our love,<br /> - We came and went, revolving round our home<br /> - In spheral harmony—twin stars made one,<br /> - And loyal to one law.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When at our board,<br /> - All viands lifted by her hand became<br /> - Ambrosial; and her light, elastic step<br /> - From room to room, in busy household cares,<br /> - Timed with my heart, and filled me with a sense<br /> - Of harmony and peace. Days, weeks, and months<br /> - Lapsed like soft measures, rhyming each with each.<br /> - All charged with thoughtful ministries to me,<br /> - And not to me alone; for I was proud<br /> - To know that she was counted by the good<br /> - As a good power among them,—by the poor,<br /> - As angel sent of God, on whom they called<br /> - His blessing down.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She held her separate life<br /> - Of prayer and Christian service, without show<br /> - Of sanctity, without obtrusiveness;<br /> - And, though I could but know she never sought<br /> - A blessing for herself, forgetting me<br /> - In her petition, not in all those months<br /> - Did word of difference betray the gulf<br /> - Between our souls and lives. She had her plan:<br /> - I guessed it, and respected it. She felt<br /> - That if her life were not an argument<br /> - To move me, nothing that her lips might say<br /> - Could win me to her wish. Pride would repel<br /> - What it could not refute, and pleasantry<br /> - Parry the thrusts that love could not resent.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A whole year sped, yet not a line of verse<br /> - Had grown beneath my pen. When I essayed<br /> - To brace my powers to effort, and to call<br /> - Forth from their camp and covert the bright ranks<br /> - Of tuneful numbers, no responsive shout<br /> - Answered the bugle-blast, and from my hand—<br /> - Irresolute and nerveless as a babe's—<br /> - My falchion fell.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She rallied me on this;<br /> - But I had nought to say, save this, perhaps:<br /> - That she, being all my world, had left no room<br /> - For other occupation than my love.<br /> - She did not smile at this: it was no jest,<br /> - But saddest truth. I had grown enervate<br /> - In the warm atmosphere which I had breathed;<br /> - And this, with consciousness that in her soul—<br /> - As warm with love as mine—each gentle power<br /> - Was kindling with new life from day to day,<br /> - Growing with my decline.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Well, in good time,<br /> - There came to us a child, the miniature<br /> - Of her on whose dear breast my babyhood<br /> - Was nursed and cradled; and my happy heart.<br /> - Charged with a double tenderness, received<br /> - And blessed the precious gift. Another fount<br /> - Of human love gurgled to meet my lips.<br /> - Another store of good, as rich and pure,<br /> - In its own kind, as that from which I drank,<br /> - Was thus discovered to my taste, and I<br /> - Feasted upon its fulness.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With the gift<br /> - That brimmed my cup of joy, there came a grace<br /> - To her who bore it of fresh loveliness.<br /> - If I had loved the maiden and the bride,<br /> - The mother, through whose pain my heart had won<br /> - Its new possession, fastened to my heart<br /> - With a new sympathy. Whatever dross<br /> - Our months of intimacy had betrayed<br /> - Within her character, was purged away,<br /> - And she was left pure gold. Nay, I should say,<br /> - Whatever goodness had not been revealed<br /> - Through the relations of her heart to mine<br /> - As loving maid and mistress, found the light<br /> - Through her maternity. A heavenly change<br /> - Passed o'er her soul and o'er her pallid face,<br /> - As if the unconscious yearning of a life<br /> - Had found full satisfaction in the birth<br /> - Of the new being. Her long weariness<br /> - Was but a trance of peace and gratitude;<br /> - And as she lay—her babe upon her breast,<br /> - Her eyelids closed—I could but feel that heaven,<br /> - Should it hold all the good of which she dreamed<br /> - Had little more for her.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And when again<br /> - She moved about the house, in ministry<br /> - To me and to her helpless child, I knew<br /> - That I had tasted every precious good<br /> - That woman bears to man. Ay, more than this:<br /> - That not one man in thousands had received<br /> - Such largess of affection, and such prize<br /> - Of womanhood, as I had found in her,<br /> - And made my own. The whole enchanting round<br /> - Of pure, domestic commerce had been mine.<br /> - A lover blest, a husband satisfied,<br /> - A father crowned! Love had no other boon<br /> - To offer me, and held within its gift<br /> - No other title.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus, within the space<br /> - Of two swift years, I traversed the domain<br /> - Of novelty, and learned that I must glean<br /> - The garnered fields of my experience<br /> - To gratify the greed that still possessed<br /> - My sateless heart. The time had come to me—<br /> - Which I had half foreseen—when, by my will,<br /> - My interest in those I loved should live<br /> - Predominant in all my life. I nursed<br /> - With jealous care my passion for my wife.<br /> - I raised her to an apotheosis<br /> - In my imagination, where I bowed<br /> - And paid my constant homage. I was still<br /> - Her fond and loyal lover; but my heart,<br /> - That had so freely drunk, with full content,<br /> - Had seen the bottom of the cup she held;<br /> - And what remained but tricks to eke it out,<br /> - And artifice to give it piquancy,<br /> - And sips to cool my tongue, the while my heart<br /> - Was hollow with its thirst? My little child<br /> - Was precious to my soul beyond all price;<br /> - Mother and babe were all that they could be<br /> - To any heart of man; and yet—and yet!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Of all the dull, dead weights man ever bore,<br /> - Sure, none can wear the soul with discontent<br /> - Like consciousness of power unused. To feel<br /> - That one has gift to move the multitude,—<br /> - To act upon the life of humankind<br /> - By force of will, or fire of eloquence,<br /> - Or voice of lofty art, and yet, to feel<br /> - No stir of mighty motive in the soul<br /> - To action or endeavor; to behold<br /> - The fairest prizes of this fleeting life<br /> - Borne off by patient men who, day by day,<br /> - By bravest toil and struggle, reach the heights<br /> - Of great achievement, toiling, struggling thus<br /> - With a strong joy, and with a fine contempt<br /> - For soft and selfish passion; to see this,<br /> - Yet cling to such a passion, like a slave<br /> - Who hugs his chains in sluggish impotence,<br /> - Refusing freedom lest he lose the crust<br /> - The chain of bondage warrants him—ah! this<br /> - Is misery indeed!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Such misery<br /> - Was mine. I held the consciousness of power<br /> - To labor even-headed with the best<br /> - Who wrought for fame, or strove to make themselves<br /> - Felt in the world's great life; and yet, I felt<br /> - No lift to enterprise, from heaven above<br /> - Or earth beneath; for neither God nor man<br /> - Lived in my love. My home held all my world;<br /> - Yet it was evident—I felt, I knew—<br /> - That nought could fill my opening want but toil;<br /> - And there were times when I had hailed with joy<br /> - The curse of poverty, compelling me<br /> - To labor for my bread, and for the bread<br /> - Of those I loved.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - My neighbors all around<br /> - Were happy in their work. The plodding hind<br /> - Who served my hand, or groomed my petted horse.<br /> - Whistled about his work with merry heart,<br /> - And filled his measure of content with toil.<br /> - In all the streets and all the busy fields,<br /> - Men were astir, and doing with their might<br /> - What their hands found to do. They drove the plough,<br /> - They trafficked, builded, delved, they spun and wove,<br /> - They taught and preached, they hasted up and down<br /> - Each on his little errand, and their eyes<br /> - Were full of eager fire, as if the earth<br /> - And all its vast concerns were on their hands.<br /> - Their homes were fresh with guerdon every night,<br /> - And ripe with impulse to new industry<br /> - At each new dawn.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I saw all this, but knew<br /> - That they were not like me—were most unlike<br /> - In constitution and condition. Thus,<br /> - My power to do, and do the single thing<br /> - My power was shaped to do, became, instead<br /> - Of wings to bear me, weights to burden me.<br /> - The moiling multitude for little tasks<br /> - Found little motives plenty; but for me,<br /> - Who in my indolence they all despised—<br /> - Not understanding me—no motive rose<br /> - To lash or lead. Even the Jove I dreamed<br /> - Would give me impulse had defrauded me.<br /> - Feeble and proud; strong, yet emasculate;<br /> - Centred in self, and still despising self;<br /> - Goaded, yet held; convinced, but never moved?<br /> - Such conflict ofttimes held and harried me<br /> - That death had met with welcome. If I read,<br /> - I read to kill my time. No interest<br /> - In the great thoughts of others moved my soul,<br /> - Because I had no object; useless quite<br /> - The knowledge and the culture I possessed;<br /> - And if I rode, the stale monotony<br /> - Of the familiar landscapes sickened me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In these dull years, my toddling little wean<br /> - Grew into prattling childhood, and I gained<br /> - Such fresh delight from her as kept my heart<br /> - From fatal gloom; but more and more I shunned<br /> - The world around me, more and more drew in<br /> - The circle of my life, until, at last,<br /> - My home became my hermitage. I knew<br /> - The dissolution of the spell would come,<br /> - And, though I dreaded it, I longed to greet<br /> - The crash and transformation. If my pride<br /> - Forbade the full confession to my wife<br /> - That time had verified her prophecy,<br /> - It failed to hold the truth from her. She read,<br /> - With a true woman's insight, all my heart;<br /> - But with a woman's sensitiveness shrank<br /> - From questions which might seem to carry blame;<br /> - And so, for years, there lay between our souls<br /> - The bar of silence.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - One sweet summer eve,<br /> - After my lamb was folded and before<br /> - The lamps were lighted, as I sat alone<br /> - Within my room, I heard reluctant feet<br /> - Seeking my door. They paused, and then I heard:<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "May I come in?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Ay, you may always come;<br /> - And you are welcome always," I replied.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The room was dim, but I could see her face<br /> - Was pale, and her long lashes wet. "Your seat"—<br /> - I said, with open arms. Upon my knee,<br /> - One hand upon my shoulder, she sank down<br /> - As if the heart within her breast were lead,<br /> - And she were weary with its weight.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "My wife,<br /> - What burden now?" I asked her tenderly.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She fixed her swimming eyes on mine, and said:<br /> - "My dear, you are not happy. Years have gone<br /> - Since you have been content. I bring no words<br /> - Of blame against you: you have been to me<br /> - A comfort and a joy. Your constancy<br /> - Has honored me as few of all my sex<br /> - Are honored by your own; but while you pine<br /> - With secret pain, I am so wholly yours<br /> - That I must pine with you. I've waited long<br /> - For you to speak; and now I come to you<br /> - To ask you this one question: Is there aught<br /> - Of toil or sacrifice within my power<br /> - To ease your heart, or give you liberty<br /> - Beyond the round to which you hold your feet?<br /> - Speak freely, frankly, as to one who loves<br /> - Her husband better than her only child,<br /> - And better than herself."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I drew her head<br /> - Down to my cheek, and said: "My angel wife!<br /> - Whatever torment or disquietude<br /> - I may have suffered, you have never been<br /> - Its cause, or its occasion. You are all—<br /> - You have been all—that womanhood can be<br /> - To manhood's want; and in your woman's love<br /> - And woman's pain, I have found every good<br /> - My life has known since first our lives were joined.<br /> - You knew me better than I knew myself;<br /> - And your prophetic words have haunted me<br /> - Like thoughts of retribution: '<i>There will come<br /> - 'A sad, sad time, when in your famished soul<br /> - 'The cry for something more, and more divine<br /> - 'Will rise, nor be repressed.</i>' For something more<br /> - My spirit clamors: nothing more divine<br /> - I ask for."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "What shall be this 'something more'?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Work," I replied; "ay, work, but never here;<br /> - Work among men, where I may feel the touch<br /> - Of kindred life; work where the multitudes<br /> - Are surging; work where brains and hands<br /> - Are struggling for the prizes of the world;<br /> - Work where my spirit, driven to its bent<br /> - By competitions and grand rivalries,<br /> - Shall vindicate its own pre-eminence,<br /> - And wring from a reluctant world the meed<br /> - Of approbation and respect for which<br /> - It yearns with awful hunger; work, indeed,<br /> - Which shall compel the homage of the souls<br /> - That creep around me here, and pity you<br /> - Because, forsooth, the Fates have hobbled you<br /> - With a dull drone. I know how sweet the love<br /> - Of two fond souls; and I will have the hearts<br /> - Of millions. These shall satisfy my greed,<br /> - And round the measure of my life; and these<br /> - My work shall win me."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At these childish words<br /> - She raised her head, and with a sweet, sad smile<br /> - Of love and pity blent, made her response:<br /> - "Not yet, my husband—if your wife may speak<br /> - A thought that crosses yours—not yet have you<br /> - Found the great secret of content. But work<br /> - May help you toward it, and in any case<br /> - Is better far than idleness. For this,<br /> - You ask of me to sacrifice this home<br /> - And all the truest friends my life has gained.<br /> - I do it from this moment; glad to prove,<br /> - At any tender cost, my love for you,<br /> - And faith in your endeavor. I will go<br /> - To any spot of earth where you may lead,<br /> - And go rejoicing. Let us go at once!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I burn my ships behind me," I replied.<br /> - "Measure the cost: be sure no secret hope<br /> - Of late return be found among the flames;<br /> - For, if I go, I leave no single thread,<br /> - Save that which binds me to my mother's grave.<br /> - To draw me back."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "My love shall be the torch<br /> - To light the fire," she answered.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then we rose,<br /> - And, with a kiss, marked a full period<br /> - To love's excess, and with a sweet embrace<br /> - Wrote the initial of a stronger life.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="reflection"></a></p> - -<h3> - A REFLECTION. -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Oh! not by bread alone is manhood nourished<br /> - To its supreme estate!<br /> - By every word of God have lived and flourished<br /> - The good men and the great.<br /> - Ay, not by bread alone!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Oh! not by bread alone!" the sweet rose, breathing<br /> - In throbs of perfume, speaks;<br /> - "But myriad hands, in earth and air, are wreathing<br /> - The blushes for my cheeks.<br /> - Ay, not by bread alone!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Oh! not by bread alone!" proclaims in thunder<br /> - The old oak from his crest;<br /> - "But suns and storms upon me, and deep under,<br /> - The rocks in which I rest.<br /> - Ay, not by bread alone!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Oh! not by bread alone!" The truth flies singing<br /> - In voices of the birds;<br /> - And from a thousand pastured hills is ringing<br /> - The answer of the herds:<br /> - "Ay, not by bread alone!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Oh! not by bread alone! for life and being<br /> - Are finely complex all,<br /> - And increment, with element agreeing,<br /> - Must feed them, or they fall.<br /> - Ay, not by bread alone!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Oh! not by love alone, though strongest, purest<br /> - That ever swayed the heart;<br /> - For strongest passion evermore the surest<br /> - Defrauds each manly part.<br /> - Ay, not by love alone!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Oh! not by love alone is power engendered.<br /> - Until within the soul<br /> - The gift of every motive has been rendered,<br /> - It is not strong and whole.<br /> - Ay, not by love alone!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Oh! not by love alone is manhood nourished<br /> - To its supreme estate:<br /> - By every word of God have lived and flourished<br /> - The good men and the great.<br /> - Ay, not by love alone!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="labor"></a></p> - -<h2> - PART III. -</h2> - -<h3> - LABOR.<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Ten years of love!—a sleep, a pleasant dream<br /> - That passed its culmen in the early half,<br /> - Concluding in confusion—a wild scene<br /> - Of bargains, auctions, partings, and what not?—<br /> - And an awaking!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I was in Broadway,<br /> - A unit in a million. Like a bath<br /> - In ocean surf, blown in from farthest seas<br /> - Under the August ardors, the grand rush<br /> - Of crested life assailed me with its waves,<br /> - And cooled me while it fired. With sturdy joy<br /> - I sought its broadest billows, and resigned<br /> - My spirit to their surge and sway; or stood<br /> - In sheltered coves, reached only by the spume<br /> - And crepitant bubbles of the yesty floods,<br /> - Drinking the roar, the sheen, the restlessness,<br /> - As inspiration, both of sense and soul.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I saw the waves of life roll up the steps<br /> - Of great cathedrals and retire; and break<br /> - In charioted grandeur at the feet<br /> - Of marble palaces, and toss their spray<br /> - Of feathered beauty through the open doors,<br /> - To pile the restless foam within; and burst<br /> - On crowded caravansaries, to fall<br /> - In quick return; and in dark currents glide<br /> - Through sinuous alleys and the grimy loops<br /> - Of reeking cellars; and with softest plash<br /> - Assail the gilded shrines of opulence,<br /> - And slide in musical relapse away.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With senses dazed and stunned, and soul o'erfilled<br /> - With chaos of new thoughts, I turned away,<br /> - And sought my city home. There all was calm,<br /> - With wife and daughter waiting my return,<br /> - And eager with their welcome. That was life!—<br /> - An interest in the great world of life,<br /> - A place for toil within a world of toil,<br /> - And love for its reward. "Amen!" I said,<br /> - "And twice amen! I've found my life at last,<br /> - And we will all be happy."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Day by day—<br /> - The while I sought adjustment to the life<br /> - Which I had chosen, and with careful thought<br /> - Gathered to hand the fair material<br /> - Elect by Fancy for the organism<br /> - Over whose germ she brooded—I went out,<br /> - To bathe again upon the shore of life<br /> - My long-enfeebled nature.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Every day<br /> - I met some face I knew. My college friends<br /> - Came up in strange disguises. Here was one,<br /> - With a white neck-cloth and a saintly face,<br /> - Who had been rusticated and disgraced<br /> - For lawlessness. Now he administered<br /> - A charge which proved that he had been at work,<br /> - And made himself a man. And there was one—<br /> - A lumpy sort of boy, as memory<br /> - Recalled him to me—grown to portliness<br /> - And splendid spectacles. He drove a chaise,<br /> - And practised surgery,—was on his way<br /> - To meet a class of youth, who sought to be<br /> - Great surgeons like himself, and took full notes<br /> - Of all his stolen wisdom. By his watch—<br /> - A gold repeater, with a mighty chain—<br /> - He gave me just five minutes; then rolled off—-<br /> - Pretension upon wheels. Another grasped<br /> - My hand as if I were his bosom friend,<br /> - Just in from a long voyage. He was one<br /> - Who stole my wood in college, and received<br /> - With grace the kick I gave him. He had grown<br /> - To be the tail of a portentous firm<br /> - Of city lawyers: managed, as he said,<br /> - The matter of collections; and had made<br /> - In his small way—to use his modest phrase,<br /> - Truthful as modest—quite a pretty plum.<br /> - He was o'erjoyed to see me in the town:<br /> - Hoped I would call upon him at his den:<br /> - If I had any business in his line,<br /> - Would do it for me promptly; as for price,<br /> - No need to talk of that between two friends!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But these, and all—the meanest and the best—<br /> - Were hard at work. They always questioned me<br /> - Before we parted, touching my pursuits;<br /> - And though they questioned kindly, I grew sore<br /> - Under the repetition, and ashamed<br /> - To iterate my answer, till I burned<br /> - To do some work, so lifted into fame,<br /> - That shame should be to him whose ignorance<br /> - Compelled a question.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Simplest foresters<br /> - Have learned the trick of woodland broods, that fly<br /> - In radiant divergence from the flash<br /> - Of death and danger, and, when all is still,<br /> - Steal back to where their fellows bit the dust<br /> - For rendezvous. And thus society<br /> - Follows the brutal instinct. When the friends,<br /> - Who from her father's ruin fled amain,<br /> - Found out my wife, and learned that it was safe<br /> - To gather back to the old feeding-ground,<br /> - They came. Her old home had become my own<br /> - And they were all delighted. It was sweet<br /> - To have her back again; and it was sad<br /> - To know that those who once were happy there,<br /> - Dispensing happiness, could come no more.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It had its modicum of earnestness,—<br /> - This talk of theirs—and she received it all<br /> - With hearty courtesy, and yielded it<br /> - The unction of her charity, so far<br /> - That it was smooth and redolent to her.<br /> - The difference—the world-wide difference—<br /> - Between my wife and them was obvious;<br /> - But she was generous through nature's gift<br /> - I fancied—could not well be otherwise;<br /> - Although their fawning filled me with disgust.<br /> - Oh! fool and blind! not to perceive the Christ<br /> - That shone and spoke in her!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The hour approached—<br /> - The predetermined time—when I should close<br /> - My study door, and wrap my kindling brain<br /> - In the poetic dream which, day by day,<br /> - Was gathering consistence in my brain.<br /> - The quick, creative instinct in me plumed<br /> - Its pinions for the flight, and I could feel<br /> - The influx of fresh power; but whence it<br /> - I did not question; though it fired my heart<br /> - With the assurance of success.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I told<br /> - My dear companion of my hopeful plans<br /> - For winning fame, and making for myself<br /> - A lofty place; but I could not inspire<br /> - Her heart with my ambition, or win o'er<br /> - Her judgment to my motive. She adhered<br /> - To her old theory, and gave no room<br /> - To any motive it did not embrace.<br /> - We argued much, but always argued wide,<br /> - And ended where we started. Postulates<br /> - On which we stood in perfect harmony,<br /> - Were points of separation, out from which<br /> - We struck divergently, till sympathy,<br /> - That only lives by rhythm of thoughts and hearts,<br /> - Lay dead between us.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Man loves praise," I said.<br /> - "It is an appetence which He who made<br /> - The human soul, made to be satisfied.<br /> - It is a tree He planted. If it grow<br /> - On that which feeds it, and become at last<br /> - Thrifty and fruitful, it is still His own,<br /> - With usury. And if, in His intent,<br /> - This passion have no place among the powers<br /> - Of active life, why is it mighty there<br /> - From youngest childhood? Pray you what is fame<br /> - But concrete praise?—the universal voice<br /> - Which bears, from every quarter of the earth.<br /> - Its homage to a name, that grows thereby<br /> - To be its own immortal monument<br /> - Outlasting all the marble and the bronze<br /> - Which cunning fingers, since the world began,<br /> - Have shaped or stamped with story? What is fame<br /> - But aggregate of praise? And if it be<br /> - Legitimate to win, for sake of praise,<br /> - The praise of one, why not of multitudes?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Ay," she replied; "'tis true that men love praise<br /> - And it is true that He who made the soul<br /> - Planted therein the love of praise, to be<br /> - A motive in its life—all true so far?<br /> - And so far we agree. But motives all<br /> - Have their appropriate sphere and sway, like men<br /> - Who bear them in their breasts. The love of praise<br /> - Fills life with fine amenities. Not all<br /> - Who live have pleasant tempers, and not all<br /> - The gift of gracious manners, or the love<br /> - Of nobler motive, higher meed than praise.<br /> - The world is full of bears, who smooth their hair,<br /> - And glove their paws, and put on manly airs,<br /> - And hold our honey sacred, and our lives<br /> - Our own, because they hunger for our praise.<br /> - 'Tis a fine thing for bears—this love of praise—<br /> - And those who deal with them; and a good thing<br /> - For children, and for parents, teachers—all<br /> - Who have them in their keeping. It may hold<br /> - A little mind to rectitude, until<br /> - It grow, and grow ashamed to yield itself<br /> - To such a petty motive. Children all<br /> - Like sugar, and it may admit of doubt<br /> - Whether our praise or sugar sweetens more<br /> - Their petulant sub-acids; but a man<br /> - Would choke in swallowing the compliment<br /> - Which we should pay him, were we but to say<br /> - 'Go to! Do some great deed, and you shall have<br /> - Your pay in sugar:—maple, mind you, now,<br /> - So you shall do it featly.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Very good!"<br /> - I answered, "very good, indeed! if we<br /> - Engage in talk for sport; but argument<br /> - On themes like these must have the element<br /> - Of candor. Highest truth, in certain lights,<br /> - May be ridiculous, and yet be truth.<br /> - Women are angels: just a little weak<br /> - And just a little wicked, it may be,<br /> - Yet still the sweetest beings in the world;<br /> - But when one stands with apprehensive gasp<br /> - At verge of sternutation, or leaps off,<br /> - Projecting all her being in a sneeze,<br /> - Or snores with lips wide-parted, or essays<br /> - The 'double-quick,' we turn our eyes away<br /> - In sadness, that a creature so divine<br /> - Can be so shockingly ridiculous;<br /> - Yet who shall say she's not an angel still?<br /> - Now you present to me the meanest face<br /> - Of a most noble truth. I laugh with you<br /> - Over its sorry semblance; but the truth<br /> - Is still divine, and claims our reverence.<br /> - The great King Solomon—and you believe<br /> - In Solomon—has said that a good name<br /> - Is more to be desired than much fine gold.<br /> - If a good name be matter of desire<br /> - Beyond all wealth—and you will pardon me<br /> - For holding to the record—it may stand<br /> - As a grand motive in the life of man,<br /> - To grand endeavor. I have yet to learn<br /> - That Solomon addressed his words to bears,<br /> - Or little children. I am forced to think<br /> - That you and I, and all who read his words,<br /> - Are those for whom he wrote."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Rejoining she:<br /> - "A good may be the subject of desire,<br /> - And not be motive to achievement. Life,<br /> - If I may speak the riddle, is a scheme<br /> - Of indirections. My own happiness<br /> - Is something to desire; and yet, I know<br /> - That I must win it by forgetting it<br /> - In ministry to others. If I make<br /> - My happiness the motive of my work,<br /> - I spoil it by the taint of selfishness.<br /> - But are you sure that you do not presume<br /> - Somewhat too much, in claiming the desire<br /> - For a good name as motive of your life?<br /> - Greatness, not goodness, is the end you seek,<br /> - If I mistake you not; and these are held,<br /> - In the world's thought, as two, and most distinct.<br /> - King Solomon was wise, but wiser He<br /> - Who said to those who loved and followed him,<br /> - 'Who would be great among you, let him serve.'<br /> - The greatest men and artists should be such,<br /> - For they are God's nobility and man's<br /> - Should work from greatest motives. Selfishness<br /> - Is never great, and moves to no great deeds.<br /> - To honor God, to benefit mankind,<br /> - To serve with lofty gifts the lowly needs<br /> - Of the poor race for which the God-man died,<br /> - And do it all for love—oh! this is great!<br /> - And he who does this will achieve a name<br /> - Not only great but good."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Not in this world,"<br /> - I answered her. "I know too much of it.<br /> - The world is selfish; and it never gives<br /> - Due credit to a motive which assumes<br /> - To be above its own. If a man write,<br /> - It takes for granted that he writes for fame,<br /> - And judges him accordingly. It holds<br /> - Of no account all other aims and ends;<br /> - And visits with contempt the man who bears<br /> - A mission to his kind. The critic pens<br /> - That twiddle with his work, or play with it<br /> - As cats with mice, are not remarkable<br /> - For gentle instincts; and my name must live<br /> - By pens like these. I choose to take the world<br /> - Just as I find it, and I pitch my tune<br /> - To the world's key, that it may sing my tune.<br /> - And sing for me. Ay, and I take myself<br /> - Just as I find myself. I do not love<br /> - The human race enough to work for it.<br /> - Having no motive of philanthropy,<br /> - I'll make pretence to none. The love of praise<br /> - I count legitimate and laudable.<br /> - 'Tis not the noblest motive in the world,<br /> - But it is good; and it has won more fames<br /> - Than any other. Surely, my good wife,<br /> - You would not shut me from it, and deprive<br /> - My power of its sole impulse."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "No; oh! no,"<br /> - She answered quickly. "I am only sad<br /> - That it should be the captain of your host.<br /> - All creatures of the brain are the result<br /> - Of many motives and of many powers.<br /> - All life is such, indeed. The power that leads—<br /> - The motive dominant—this stamps the work<br /> - With its own likeness. Throughout all the world<br /> - Are careful souls, with careful consciences,<br /> - That pierce themselves with questionings and fears<br /> - Because that, with the motives which are good,<br /> - And which alone they seek, a hundred come<br /> - They do not seek, and aye sophisticate<br /> - Their finest action. They are wrong in this:<br /> - All motives bowing to one leadership,<br /> - And aiding its emprise, are one with it—<br /> - The same in trend, the same in terminus.<br /> - All the low motives that obey the law,<br /> - And aid the work, of one above them all,<br /> - Do holy service, and fulfil the end<br /> - For which they were designed. The love of praise<br /> - Is not the lowest motive which can move<br /> - The human soul. Nay, it may do good work<br /> - As a subordinate, and leave no soil<br /> - On whitest fabric, at whose selvage shines<br /> - The Master's broidered signature. Although<br /> - You write for fame, think not you will escape<br /> - The press of other motives. You love me;<br /> - You love your child; you love your pleasant home;<br /> - You love the memory of one long dead.<br /> - These, joined with all those qualities of heart<br /> - Which make you dear to me, will throng around<br /> - The leader you appoint, and come and go<br /> - Under his banner; and the work of God<br /> - Will thrive through these, the while your own goes on<br /> - God will not be defrauded, nor yet man;<br /> - And you, who like the Pharisees make prayer<br /> - At corners of the streets, for praise of men,<br /> - Will have reward you seek."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Ay, verily!"<br /> - Responded I with laughter. "Verily!<br /> - Though not a saint, I'll do a saintly work<br /> - For my own profit, and in spite of all<br /> - The selfishness that moves me. Better, this,<br /> - Than I suspected. My sweet casuist—<br /> - My gentle, learned, lovely casuist—<br /> - I thank you; and I'll pay you more than thanks.<br /> - I'll promise that when these fine motives come,<br /> - And volunteer their service, they shall find<br /> - Welcome and entertainment, and a place<br /> - Within the rank and file, with privilege<br /> - Of quick promotion, so they show themselves<br /> - Motives of mettle."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - This the type of talk<br /> - That passed between us. I was not a fool<br /> - To count her wisdom worthless; nor a God,<br /> - To work regeneration in myself.<br /> - That something which I longed for, to fill up<br /> - The measure of my good, was human praise;<br /> - Yet I could see that she was wholly right,<br /> - And that she held within herself resource<br /> - Of satisfaction better than my own.<br /> - But I was quite content—content to know<br /> - I trod the average altitude of those<br /> - Within the paths of art, and had no aims<br /> - To be misconstrued or misunderstood<br /> - By Pride and Selfishness—that these, in truth,<br /> - Expected of me what I had to give.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Strange, how a man may carry in his heart,<br /> - From year to year—through all his life, indeed—<br /> - A truth, or a conviction, which shall be<br /> - No more a part of it, and no more worth<br /> - Than to his flask the cork that slips within!<br /> - Of this he learns by sourness of his wine,<br /> - Of muddle of its color; by the bits<br /> - That vex his lips while drinking; but he feels<br /> - No impulse in his hand to draw it forth,<br /> - And bid it crown and keep the draught it spoils.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I write this, here, not for its relevance<br /> - To this one passage of my story, but<br /> - Because there slipped into my consciousness<br /> - Just at this juncture, and would not depart,<br /> - A truth I carried there for many years,<br /> - Each minute seeing, feeling, tasting it,<br /> - Yet never touching it with an attempt<br /> - To draw it forth, and put it to its place.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - One evening, when our usual theme was up,<br /> - I asked my wife in playful earnestness<br /> - How she became so wise. "You talk," I said,<br /> - "Like one who has survived a thousand years,<br /> - And drunk the wisdom of a thousand lives."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Who lacketh wisdom, let him ask of God,<br /> - Who giveth freely and upbraideth not,"<br /> - Was her reply.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I never ask of God,"<br /> - I said. "So, while you take at second hand<br /> - His breathings to the artist, I will take<br /> - At second hand the wisdom that he gives<br /> - To you his teacher."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Do you never pray?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Never," I answered her. "I cannot pray:<br /> - You know the reason. Never since the day<br /> - God shut his heart against my mother's prayer<br /> - Have I raised one petition, or been moved<br /> - To reverence."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Her long, dark lashes fell,<br /> - And from her eyes there dropped two precious tears<br /> - That bathed her folded hands. She pitied me,<br /> - With tenderness beyond the reach of words.<br /> - I did not seek her pity. I was proud,<br /> - And asked her if she blamed me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "No," she said;<br /> - "I have no right to blame you, and no wish.<br /> - I marvel only that a man like you<br /> - Can hold so long the errors of a boy.<br /> - I've looked—with how much longing, words of mine<br /> - Can never tell—for reason to restore<br /> - That priceless thing which passion stole from you,<br /> - And looked in vain."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Though piqued by the reproach<br /> - Her words conveyed (unwittingly I knew),<br /> - I wished to learn where, in her theory<br /> - Of human life, my case had found a place;<br /> - So, bidding pride aback, I questioned her.<br /> - "You are so wise in other things," I said,<br /> - "And read so well God's dealings with his own,<br /> - Perhaps you can explain this mystery<br /> - That clouds my life."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I know that God is good,"<br /> - She answered, "and, although my reason fail<br /> - To explicate the mystery that wraps<br /> - His providence, it does not shake my faith.<br /> - But this sad case of yours has seemed so plain,<br /> - That Reason well may spare the staff of Faith<br /> - To climb to its conclusions. You are loved,<br /> - My husband: can you tell your wife for what?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Oh! modesty! my dear; hem! modesty!<br /> - Spare me these blushes! I have not at hand<br /> - The printed catalogue of qualities<br /> - Which give you inspiration, and decline<br /> - The personal rehearsal."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You mistake,"<br /> - She answered, smiling. "Not for modesty;<br /> - And as for blushes, they're not patent yet.<br /> - But frankly, soberly, I ask you this:<br /> - Have you a quality of heart or brain<br /> - Which makes you lovable, and in my eyes<br /> - A man to be admired, that was not born<br /> - Quick in your blood? Pray, have you anything<br /> - Which you did not inherit? Who to me<br /> - Furnished my husband? By what happy law<br /> - Was all that was the finest, noblest, best<br /> - In those who gave you life, bestowed on you?<br /> - You have your father's form, your father's brain:<br /> - You have your mother's eyes, your mother's heart.<br /> - Those twain produced a man for me to love,<br /> - Out of themselves. I am obliged to them<br /> - For the most precious good the round earth holds,<br /> - Transmitted by a law that slew them both.<br /> - It was not sin, or shame, for them to die<br /> - Just as they died. They passed with whiter hands<br /> - Up to The Throne than he who wantonly<br /> - Murders a sparrow. When your mother prayed<br /> - She prayed for the suspension of the law<br /> - By which from Eve, the mother of the race,<br /> - She had received the grace and loveliness<br /> - Which made her precious to your heart—the law<br /> - By which alone she could convey these gifts<br /> - To others of her blood. Your daughter's face<br /> - Is beautiful, her soul is pure and sweet,<br /> - By largess of this law. Could God subvert,<br /> - To meet her wish, though shaped in agony,<br /> - The law which, since the life of man began<br /> - In life of God, has kept the channel clear<br /> - For His own blood, that it might bless the last<br /> - Of all the generations as the first?<br /> - What could He more than give her liberty—<br /> - When reason lay in torture or in wreck,<br /> - And life was death—to part with stainless hand<br /> - The tie that held her from his loving breast?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - If God himself had dropped her words from heaven.<br /> - They had not reached with surer plummet-plunge<br /> - The depths of my conviction. I was dumb;<br /> - I opened not my mouth; but left her side,<br /> - And sought the crowded street. I felt that all<br /> - Delusions, subterfuges, self-deceits,<br /> - By which my soul had shut itself from God,<br /> - Were stripped away, and that no barrier<br /> - Was interposed between us which was not<br /> - My own hand's building. Never, nevermore,<br /> - Could I hold God in blame, or deem myself<br /> - A guiltless, injured creature. I could see<br /> - That I was hard, implacable, unjust;<br /> - And that by force of wilful choice I held<br /> - Myself from God; for no impulsion came<br /> - To seek his face and favor. Nay, I feared<br /> - And fought such incidence, as enemy<br /> - Of all my plans.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So it became thenceforth<br /> - A problem with me how to separate<br /> - My new conviction from my life—to hold<br /> - A revolutionizing truth within,<br /> - And hold it yet so loosely, it should be<br /> - Like a dumb alien in a mural town—<br /> - No guest, but an intruder, who might bide,<br /> - By law or grace, but win no domicile,<br /> - And hold no power.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When I returned, that night<br /> - My course was chosen, with such sense of guilt<br /> - I blushed before the calm, inquiring eyes<br /> - That met me at my threshhold; but the theme<br /> - Was dropped just there. My gentle mentor read<br /> - The secret of the struggle and the sin,<br /> - And left me to myself.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At the set time,<br /> - I entered on my task. The discipline<br /> - Of early years told feebly on my work,<br /> - For dissipation and disuse of power<br /> - Had brought me back to infancy again.<br /> - My will was weak, my patience was at fault,<br /> - And in my fretful helplessness, I stormed<br /> - And sighed by turns; yet still I held in force<br /> - Determination, as reserve of will;<br /> - And when I flinched or faltered, always fell<br /> - Back upon that, and saved my powers from rout.<br /> - Casting, recasting, till I found the germ<br /> - Of my conception putting forth its whorls<br /> - In orderly succession round the stem<br /> - Of my design, that straight and strong shot up<br /> - Toward inflorescence, my long work went on,<br /> - Till I was filled with satisfying joy.<br /> - This lasted for a little time, and then<br /> - There came reaction. I grew tired of it.<br /> - My verses were as meaningless and stale<br /> - As doggrel of the stalls. I marvelled much<br /> - That they could ever have beguiled my pride<br /> - Into self-gratulation, or done aught<br /> - But overwhelm me with contempt for them,<br /> - And the dull pen that wrote them.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I had hoped<br /> - To form and finish my projected work<br /> - Within, and by, myself,—to tease no ear<br /> - With fragmentary snatches of my song,<br /> - And call for no support from friendly praise<br /> - To reinforce my courage; but the stress<br /> - Of my disgust and my despair—the need,<br /> - Imperative and absolute, to brace myself<br /> - By some opinion borrowed for the nonce,<br /> - And bathe my spirit in the sympathy<br /> - Of some strong nature—mastered my intent,<br /> - And sent me for resource to her whose heart<br /> - Was ever open to my call.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She sat<br /> - Through the long hour in which I read to her,<br /> - Absorbed, entranced, as one who sits alone<br /> - Within a dim cathedral, and resigns<br /> - His spirit to the organ-theme, that mounts,<br /> - Or sinks in tremulous pauses, or sweeps out<br /> - On mighty pinions and with trumpet voice<br /> - Through labyrinthine harmonies, at last<br /> - Emerging, and through silver clouds of sound<br /> - Receding and receding, till it melts<br /> - In the abysses of the upper sky.<br /> - It was not needful she should say a word;<br /> - For in her glowing eyes and kindling face,<br /> - I caught the full assurance that my heart<br /> - Had yearned for; but she spoke her hearty praise<br /> - And when I asked her for her criticism,<br /> - Bestowed it with such modest deference<br /> - To my opinion, as to spare my pride;<br /> - Yet, with such subtle sense of harmony,<br /> - And insight of proportion, that I saw<br /> - That I should find no critic in the world<br /> - More competent or more severe. I said,<br /> - Gulping my pride: "Better this ordeal<br /> - In friendly hands, before the time of types,<br /> - Than afterward, in hands of enemies!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So, from that reading, it was understood<br /> - Between us that, whenever I essayed<br /> - Revising and retouching, I should know<br /> - Her intimate impressions, and receive<br /> - Her frank suggestions. In this oversight<br /> - And constant interest of one whose mind<br /> - Was excellent and pure, and raised above<br /> - All motive to beguile me, I secured<br /> - New inspiration.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Weeks and months passed by<br /> - With gradient hopefulness, and strength renewed<br /> - At each renewal of the confidence<br /> - I had reposed in her; till I perceived<br /> - That I was living on her praise—that she<br /> - Held God's place in me and the multitude's.<br /> - And now, as I look back upon those days<br /> - Of difficult endeavor, I confess<br /> - That had she not been with me, I had failed—<br /> - Ay, foundered in mid-sea—my hope, my life,<br /> - The spoil of deep oblivion.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At last<br /> - The work was done—the labored volume closed.<br /> - "I cannot make it better," I exclaimed.<br /> - "I can write better, but, before I write,<br /> - I must have recognition in the voice<br /> - Of public praise. A good paymaster pays<br /> - When work is finished. Let him pay for this,<br /> - And I will work again; but, till he pay,<br /> - My leisure is my own, and I will wait."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "And if he grudge your wage?" suggested she<br /> - To whom I spoke.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I shall be finished too."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Came then the proofs and latest polishing<br /> - Of words and phrases—work I shared with her<br /> - To whom I owed so much; and then the fear,<br /> - The deathly heart-fall, and the haunting dread<br /> - That go before exposure to the world<br /> - Of inmost life, and utmost reach of power<br /> - Toward revelation;—then the shrinking spell,<br /> - When morbid love of self awaits in pain<br /> - The verdict it has courted.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But at last<br /> - The book was out. My daughter's hand in mine—<br /> - Her careless feet, that thrilled with springing life,<br /> - Skipping the pavement—I walked down Broadway,<br /> - To ease the restlessness and cool the heat<br /> - That vexed my idle waiting. As we passed<br /> - A showy window, filled with costly books,<br /> - My little girl exclaimed: "Oh, father! See!<br /> - There is your name!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Straight all the bravery<br /> - Within my veins, at one wild heart-thump, dropped,<br /> - And I was limp as water; but I paused,<br /> - And read the placard. It announced my book<br /> - In characters of flame, with adjectives<br /> - My daring publisher had filched, I think<br /> - From an old circus broadside.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Well!" thought I—<br /> - Biting my lip—"I'm in the market now!<br /> - How much—O! rattling, roaring multitude!<br /> - O! selfish, cheating, lying multitude!<br /> - O! hawking, trading, delving multitude!—<br /> - How much for one man's hope, for one man's life?<br /> - What for his toil and pain?—his heart's red blood?<br /> - What for his brains and breeding? Oh, how much<br /> - For one who craves your praises with your pence,<br /> - And dies with your denial?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I went in,<br /> - And bought my book—not doubting I was first<br /> - To give response to my apostrophe.<br /> - The smug old clerk, who found his length of ear<br /> - Convenient as a pencil-rack, and thus<br /> - Made nature's wrath proclaim the praise of trade,<br /> - Wrapped my dear bantling well; and, as he dropped<br /> - My dollar in his till, smiled languidly<br /> - Upon my little girl, and said to me—<br /> - To cheer me in my purchase—that the book<br /> - Was thought to be a deuced clever thing.<br /> - He never read such books; he had no time;<br /> - Indeed, he had no interest in them.<br /> - Still, other people had, and it was well,<br /> - For it helped trade along.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It was for him—<br /> - A vulgar fraction of the integral<br /> - We speak of as "the people," and "the world"—<br /> - I had been writing! Had he read my book,<br /> - And given it his praise, I should have been<br /> - Delighted, though I knew that his applause<br /> - Was worthless as his brooch. I was a fool<br /> - Undoubtedly; yet I could understand,<br /> - Better than e'er before, how separate<br /> - The artist is from such a soul as his—<br /> - What need of teachers and interpreters<br /> - To crumble in his pewter porringer<br /> - The rounded loaf, whose crust was adamant<br /> - To his weak fingers.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The next morning's press<br /> - Was purchased early, though I read in vain<br /> - To find my reputation. But at night,<br /> - My door-bell rang; and I received a note<br /> - From one who edited an evening print,<br /> - (I had dined with him at my publisher's),<br /> - Inclosing a review, and venturing<br /> - The hope that I should like it.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Cunning man!<br /> - He knew the tricks of trade, and was adroit.<br /> - My poem was "a revelation." I had "burst<br /> - Like thunder from a calm and cloudless sky."<br /> - Well, not to quote his language, this the drift:<br /> - A man of fortune, living at his ease,<br /> - But fond of manly effort, had sat down,<br /> - And turned his culture to supreme account;<br /> - And he—the editor—took on himself<br /> - To thank him on the world's behalf. Withal,<br /> - The poet had betrayed the continence<br /> - Of genius. He had held, undoubtedly,<br /> - The consciousness of power from early youth;<br /> - But, yielding never to the itch for print,<br /> - Had nursed and chastened and developed it,<br /> - Until his hand was strong, and swept his lyre<br /> - With magic of a master.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Followed here<br /> - Sage comments on the rathe and puny brood<br /> - Of poet-sucklings, who had rushed to type<br /> - Before their time—pale stems that spun their flowers<br /> - In the first sunshine, but, when Autumn came,<br /> - Were fruitless. It was pleasant, too, to see,<br /> - In such an age of sentimental cant,<br /> - One man who dared to hold up to the world<br /> - A creature of his brain, and say: "Look you!<br /> - This is my thought; and it shall stand alone.<br /> - It has no moral, bears no ministry<br /> - Of pious teaching, and makes no appeal<br /> - To sufferance or suffrage of the muffs<br /> - Who, in the pulpit or the press, prepare<br /> - The nation's pap. The fiery-footed barb<br /> - That pounds the pampas, and the lily-bells<br /> - That hang above the brooks, present the world<br /> - With no apology for being there,<br /> - And no attempt to justify themselves<br /> - In uselessness. It is enough for God<br /> - That they are beautiful, and hold his thought<br /> - In fine embodiment; and it shall be<br /> - Enough for me that, in this book of mine,<br /> - I have created somewhat that is strong<br /> - And beautiful, which, if it profit,—well:<br /> - If not, 'tis no less strong and beautiful,<br /> - And holds its being by no feebler right."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ay, it was glorious to find one man<br /> - Who piled no packs upon his Pegasus,<br /> - Nor chained him to a rag-cart, loaded down<br /> - With moral frippery, and strings of bells<br /> - To call the people to their windows.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then<br /> - There followed extracts, with a change of type<br /> - To mark the places where the editor<br /> - Had caught a fancy hiding, which he feared<br /> - Might slip detection under slower eyes<br /> - Than those he carried; or to emphasize<br /> - Felicities of diction that were stiff<br /> - In Roman verticals, but grew divine<br /> - At the Italic angle; then apology,<br /> - Profoundly humble, to his patrons all<br /> - For quoting at such length, and one to me<br /> - For quoting anything, and deep regrets,<br /> - In quite a general way, that lack of space<br /> - Forbade a reproduction of the book<br /> - From title-page to tail-piece, winding up<br /> - With counsel to all lovers of pure art,<br /> - Patrons of genius, all Americans,<br /> - All friends of cis-Atlantic literature,<br /> - To buy the book, and read it for themselves.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I drank the whole, at one long, luscious draught;<br /> - Tipping the tankard high, that I might see<br /> - My features at the bottom, and regale<br /> - My pride, after my palate. Then I tossed<br /> - The paper to my wife, and bade her read.<br /> - I watched her while she read, but failed to find<br /> - The sympathy of pleasure in her face<br /> - I had expected. Finishing at last,<br /> - She raised her eyes, and, fixing them on me,<br /> - Said thoughtfully: "You like this, I suspect."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Well, truly!" I responded, "since it seems<br /> - To be the first instalment of the wage<br /> - Which you suggested might come grudgingly.<br /> - Ay, it is sweet to me. I know it fails<br /> - In nice discrimination,—that it slurs<br /> - Defects which I perceive as well as you;<br /> - But it is kind, and places in best light<br /> - Such excellences as we both may find—<br /> - May claim, indeed."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "And yet, it is a lie,<br /> - Or what the editor would call 'a puff,'<br /> - From first to last. The 'continence,' my dear,<br /> - 'Of genius!' What of that? And what about<br /> - The 'manly effort,' for whose exercise<br /> - He thanked you on the world's behalf? And so<br /> - Your nursing, chastening and developing<br /> - Of power!—Pray what of these?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Oh! wife!" I said,<br /> - "Don't spoil it all! Be pitiful, my love!<br /> - I am a baby—granted: so I need<br /> - The touch of tender hands, and something sweet<br /> - To keep me happy."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Babies take a bath,<br /> - Sometimes, from which the hand of warmest love<br /> - Filches the chill, and you must have one dash,"<br /> - She answered me, "to close your complement.<br /> - The weakest spot in all your book, he found<br /> - With a quick instinct; and on that he spent<br /> - His sharpest force and finest rhetoric,<br /> - Shoring and bracing it on every side<br /> - With bold assumptions and affirmatives,<br /> - To blind the eyes of novices, and scare<br /> - With fierce forestalment all the critic-quills<br /> - Now bristling for their chance. He saw at once<br /> - Your poem had no mission, save, perhaps,<br /> - The tickle of the taste, and that it bore<br /> - Upon its glowing gold small food for life.<br /> - He saw just there the point to be attacked;<br /> - And there threw up his earth-works, and spread out<br /> - His thorned abattis. He was very kind<br /> - Undoubtedly, and very cunning, too;<br /> - For well he knew that there are earnest souls<br /> - In the broad world, who claim that highest art<br /> - Is highest ministry to human need;<br /> - And that the artist has no Christian right<br /> - To prostitute his art to selfish ends,<br /> - Or make it vehicle alone of plums<br /> - For the world's pudding."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "These will speak in time,"<br /> - Responded I; "but they have not the ear<br /> - Of the broad world, I think. The Christian right<br /> - Of which you speak is hardly recognized<br /> - Among the multitude, or by the guild<br /> - In which I claim a place. The sectaries<br /> - Who furnish folios, quartos, magazines,<br /> - To the religious few, are limited<br /> - In influence; and these, my wife, are all<br /> - I have to fear;—nay, could I but arouse<br /> - Their bitter enmity, I might receive<br /> - Such superflux of praise and patronage<br /> - As would o'erwhelm my sweetly Christian wife<br /> - With shame and misery. But we shall see;<br /> - And, in the meantime, let us be content<br /> - That, if one man shall praise me overmuch,<br /> - Ten, at the least, will fail to render me<br /> - Befitting justice."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As the days went on,<br /> - Reviews and notices came pouring in.<br /> - I was notorious, at least; and fame,<br /> - I whispered comfortably to myself,<br /> - Is only notoriety turned gray,<br /> - With less of fire, if more of steadiness.<br /> - The adverse verdicts were not numerous;<br /> - And these were rendered, as I fancied then,<br /> - By sanctimonious fools who deemed profane<br /> - All verse outside their thumb-worn hymnodies.<br /> - My book received the rattling fusilade<br /> - Of all the dailies: then the artillery<br /> - Of the hebdomadals, whose noisy shells,<br /> - Though timed by fuse to burst on Saturday,<br /> - Exploded at the middle of the week;<br /> - At last, a hundred-pounder quarterly<br /> - Gave it a single missive from its mask<br /> - Of far and dark impersonality.<br /> - The smoke cleared up, and still my colors<br /> - And still my book stood proudly in the sun,<br /> - Nor breached nor battered.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I had won a place<br /> - That I was sure of. All had said of me<br /> - That I was "brilliant:" was not that enough?<br /> - The petty pesterers, with card and stamp,<br /> - Who hunt for autographs, were after me,<br /> - In packages by post; and idle men<br /> - Held me at corners by the button-hole,<br /> - And introduced me to their friends. I dined<br /> - With meek-eyed men, whose literary wives<br /> - Were dying all to know me, as they said;<br /> - And the lyceums, quick at scent and sight—<br /> - Watching the jungles for a lion—all<br /> - Courted the delectation of my roar<br /> - Upon their platforms, pledging to my hand<br /> - (With city reference to stanchest names),<br /> - Such honoraria as would have been<br /> - The lion's share of profits. These were straws;<br /> - But they had surer fingers for the wind<br /> - Than withes or weathercocks.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The book sold well<br /> - My publisher (who published at my risk,<br /> - And first put on the airs of one who stooped<br /> - To grant a favor), brimmed and overflowed<br /> - With courtesy; and ere a year was gone,<br /> - Became importunate for something more.<br /> - This was his plea: I owed it to myself<br /> - To write again. The time to make one's hay<br /> - Is when the sun shines: time to write one's books<br /> - Is when the public humor turns to them.<br /> - The public would forget me in a year,<br /> - And seek another idol; or, meanwhile,<br /> - Another writer might usurp my throne,<br /> - And I be hooted from my own domain<br /> - As a pretender. Then the market's maw<br /> - Was greedy for my poems. Just how long<br /> - The appetite would last, he could not tell,<br /> - For appetite is subject of caprice,<br /> - And never lasts too long.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The man was wise,<br /> - I plainly saw, and gave me the results<br /> - Of observation and experience.<br /> - I took his hint, accepting with a pang<br /> - The truths that came with it: for instance, these:—<br /> - That he who speaks for praise of those who live,<br /> - Must keep himself before his audience,<br /> - Nor look for "bravas," cheers, and cries of "hear!<br /> - And clap of hands and stamp of feet, except<br /> - With fresh occasion; that applause of crowds,<br /> - Though fierce, runs never to the chronic stage;<br /> - That good paymasters, having paid for work<br /> - The doer's price, expect receipt in full<br /> - At even date; and that if I would keep<br /> - My place, as grand purveyor to the greed<br /> - For novelties of literary art,<br /> - My viands must be sapid, and abound<br /> - With change, to wake or whet the appetite<br /> - I sought to feed.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I say I took his hint.<br /> - Bestowed in selfishness, without a doubt,<br /> - Though in my interest. For ten long years<br /> - It was the basis of my policy.<br /> - I poured my poems with redundancy<br /> - Upon the world, and won redundant meed.<br /> - If I gave much, the world was generous,<br /> - Repaying more than justice: but, at last,<br /> - Tired and disgusted, I laid down my pen.<br /> - I knew my work would not outlast my life,<br /> - That the enchantments which had wreathed themselves<br /> - Around my name were withering away,<br /> - With every breath of fragrance they exhaled;<br /> - And that, too soon, the active brain and hand<br /> - Whose skill had conjured them, would faint and fail<br /> - Under the press of weariness and years.<br /> - My reputation piqued me. None believed<br /> - That it was in me to write otherwise<br /> - Than I had written. All the world had laughed,<br /> - Or shaken its wise head, had I essayed<br /> - A work beyond the round of brilliancies<br /> - In which my pen had revelled, and for which<br /> - It gave such princely guerdon. If I looked,<br /> - Or came to look, with measureless contempt<br /> - On those who gave with such munificence<br /> - The boon I sought, I had provoking cause.<br /> - I fooled them all with patent worthlessness,<br /> - And they insisted I should fool them still.<br /> - The wisdom of a whole decade had failed<br /> - To teach them that the thing my hand had done<br /> - Was not worth doing.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - More and worse than this;<br /> - I found my character and self-respect<br /> - Eroded by the canker of conceit,<br /> - Poisoned by jealousy, and made the prey<br /> - Of meanest passions. Harlequins in mask,<br /> - Who live upon the laughter of the throng<br /> - That crowds their reeking amphitheatres;<br /> - Light-footed dancing-girls, who sell their grace<br /> - To gaping lechers of the pit, to win<br /> - That which shall feed their shameless vanity;<br /> - The mimics of the buskin—baser still,<br /> - The mimics of the negro—minstrel-bands.<br /> - With capital of corks and castanets<br /> - And threadbare jests—Ah! who and what was I<br /> - But brother of all these—in higher walk,<br /> - But brother in the motive of my life,<br /> - In jealousy, in recompense for toil,<br /> - And, last, in destiny?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - My wife had caught<br /> - Stray silver in her hair in these long years;<br /> - And the sweet maiden springing from our lives<br /> - Had grown to womanhood. In my pursuits,<br /> - Which drank my time and my vitality,<br /> - I had neglected them. I worked at home,<br /> - But lived in other scenes, for other lives,<br /> - Or, rather, for my own; and though my pride<br /> - Shrank from the deed, I had the tardy grace<br /> - To call them to me, and confess my shame,<br /> - And beg for their forgiveness.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Once again—<br /> - All explanations passed—I sat beside<br /> - My faithful wife, and canvassed as of old<br /> - New plans of life. I found her still the same<br /> - In purpose and in magnanimity;<br /> - For she dealt no upbraidings and no blame;<br /> - Cast in my teeth no old-time prophecies<br /> - Of failure; felt no triumph which rejoiced<br /> - To mock me with the words, "I told you so,"<br /> - Calmly she sat, and tried, with gentlest speech,<br /> - To heal the bruises of my fall; to wake<br /> - A better feeling in me toward the world,<br /> - And soothe my morbid self-contempt.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The world,<br /> - She said, is apt to take a public man<br /> - At his own estimate, and yield him place<br /> - According to his choice. I had essayed<br /> - To please the world, and gather in its praise;<br /> - And, certainly, the world was pleased with me,<br /> - And had not stinted me in its return<br /> - Of plauditory payment. As the world<br /> - Had taken me according to my rate,<br /> - And filled my wish, it had a valid claim<br /> - On my good nature.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then, beyond all this,<br /> - The world was not a fool. Those books of mine,<br /> - That I had come to look upon as trash,<br /> - Were not all trash. My motive had been poor,<br /> - And that had vitiated them for me;<br /> - But there was much in them that yielded strength<br /> - To struggling souls, and, to the wounded, balm.<br /> - Indeed, she had been helped by them, herself.<br /> - They were all pure; they made no foul appeal<br /> - To baseness and brutality; they had<br /> - An element of gentle chivalry,<br /> - Such as must have a place in any man<br /> - Shrinking with sensitiveness, like myself,<br /> - From a fine reputation, scorning it<br /> - For motive which had won it.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Words like these,<br /> - From lips like hers, were needed medicine.<br /> - They clarified my weak and jaundiced sight,<br /> - And helped to juster vision of the world,<br /> - And of myself. But there was no return<br /> - Of the old greed; and fame, which I had learned<br /> - To be an entity quite different<br /> - From my conceit of it in other days,<br /> - Was something much too far and nebulous<br /> - To be my star of life.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You have some plan?"—<br /> - Statement and query in same words, which fell<br /> - From lips that sought to rehabilitate<br /> - My will and self-respect.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I have," I said.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Else you were dead," responded she. "To live,<br /> - Men must have plans. When these die out of men<br /> - They crumble into chaos, or relapse<br /> - Into inanity. Will you reveal<br /> - These plans of yours to me?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Ay, if I can,"<br /> - I answered her; "but first I must reveal<br /> - The base on which I build them. I have tried<br /> - To find the occasion of my discontent,<br /> - And find it, as I think, just here; in quest<br /> - Of popularity, I have become<br /> - Untrue both to myself and to my art.<br /> - I have not dared to speak the royal truth<br /> - For fear of censure; I have been a slave<br /> - To men's opinions. What is best in me<br /> - Has been debauched by the pursuit of praise<br /> - As life's best prize. Conviction, sentiment,<br /> - All love and hate, all sense of right and wrong,<br /> - I have held in abeyance, or compelled<br /> - To work in menial subservience<br /> - To my grand purpose. If my sentiment<br /> - Or my conviction were but popular,<br /> - It flowed in hearty numbers: otherwise,<br /> - It slept in silence.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Now as to my art;<br /> - I find that it has suffered like myself,<br /> - And suffered from same cause. My verse has been<br /> - Shaped evermore to meet the people's thought.<br /> - That which was highest, grandest in my art<br /> - I have not reached, and have not tried to reach<br /> - I have but touched the surfaces of things<br /> - That meet the common vision; and my art<br /> - Has only aimed to clothe them gracefully<br /> - With fancy's gaudy fabrics, or portray<br /> - Their patent beauties and deformities.<br /> - Above the people in my gift and art,<br /> - Both gift and art have had a downward trend<br /> - And both are prostitute.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Discarding praise<br /> - As motive of my labor, I confess<br /> - My sins against my art, and so, henceforth,<br /> - As to my goddess, give myself to her.<br /> - The chivalry which you are pleased to note<br /> - In me and works of mine, turns loyally<br /> - To her and to her service. Nevermore<br /> - Shall pen of mine demean itself by work<br /> - That serves not first, and with supreme intent,<br /> - The art whose slave it is."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I understand,<br /> - I think, the basis of your plan," she said;<br /> - "And e'en the plan itself. You now propose<br /> - To write without remotest reference<br /> - To the world's wishes, prejudices, needs,<br /> - Or e'en the world's opinions,—quite content<br /> - If the world find aught in you to applaud;<br /> - Quite as content if it condemn. With full<br /> - Expression of yourself in finest terms<br /> - And noblest forms of art, so far as God<br /> - Has made you masterful, you give yourself<br /> - Up to yourself and to your art. Is this<br /> - Fair statement of your purpose?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Not unfair,"<br /> - I answered. "Tell me what you think of it."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Suppose," she said, "that all the artist-souls<br /> - That God has made since time and art began<br /> - Had acted on your theory: suppose<br /> - In architecture, picture, poetry,<br /> - Naught had found utterance but works that sprang<br /> - To satisfy the worker, and reveal<br /> - That bundle of ideas which, to him,<br /> - Is constituted art; but which, in truth,<br /> - Is figment of his fancy, or his thought,—<br /> - His creature, made his God—say where were all<br /> - The temples, palaces and homes of men;<br /> - The galleries that blaze with history,<br /> - Or bloom with landscape, or look down<br /> - With smile of changeless love or loveliness<br /> - Into the hearts of men? And where were all<br /> - The poems that give measure to their praise,<br /> - Voice to their aspirations, forms of light<br /> - To homely facts and features of their life,<br /> - Enveloping this plain, prosaic world<br /> - In an ideal atmosphere, in which<br /> - Fair angels come and go? All gifts of men<br /> - Were made for use, and made for highest use,<br /> - If highest use be service of one's self,<br /> - And highest standard, one's embodiment<br /> - Of dogmas, theories and thoughts of art,<br /> - As art's identity, then are you right;<br /> - But if a higher use of gift and art<br /> - Be service of mankind, and higher rule<br /> - God's regal truth, revealed in words or worlds,<br /> - And verified by life, then are you wrong."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "But art?"—responded I—"you do not mean<br /> - That art is nothing but a thing of thought,<br /> - Or, less than that, of fancy? Nay, I claim<br /> - That it is somewhat—a grand entity—<br /> - An organism of lofty principles,<br /> - Informed with subtlest life, and clothed upon<br /> - With usage and tradition of the men<br /> - Who, working in those sunny provinces<br /> - Where it holds eminent domain, have brought<br /> - To build its temple and adorn its walls<br /> - The usufruct of countless lives. So far<br /> - Is art from being creature of man's thought<br /> - That it is subject of his knowledge—stands<br /> - In mighty mystery, and challenges<br /> - The study of the world; rules noblest minds<br /> - Like law or like religion; is a power<br /> - To which the proudest artist-spirits bow<br /> - With humblest homage. Is astronomy<br /> - The creature of man's thought? Is chemistry?<br /> - Yet these hold not, in this our universe,<br /> - A form more definite, nor yet a place<br /> - In human knowledge more beyond dispute,<br /> - Than art itself. To this embodiment<br /> - Of theory—of dogmas, if you will—<br /> - This body aggregate of truth revealed<br /> - In growing light of ages to the eyes<br /> - Touched to perception, I devote my life."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Nay, you're too fast," she said: "let alchemy<br /> - And old astrology present your thought.<br /> - These were somewhat; these were grand entities;<br /> - But they went out like candles in thin air<br /> - When knowledge came. The sciences are things<br /> - Of law, of force, relations, measurements,<br /> - Affinities and combinations, all<br /> - The definite, demonstrable effects<br /> - Of first and second causes. Between these<br /> - And men's opinions, braced by usages,<br /> - The space is wide. The thing which you call art<br /> - Is anything but definite in form,<br /> - Or fixed in law. It has as many shapes<br /> - As worshippers. The world has many books,<br /> - Written by earnest men, about this art;<br /> - But having read them, we are no more wise<br /> - Than he whose observation of the sun<br /> - Is taken by kaleidoscope. The more<br /> - He sees in it, the more he is confused.<br /> - The sun works, doubtless, many fine effects<br /> - With what he sees, but he sees not the sun."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "But art is art," I said. "You'd cheat my sense.<br /> - And mock my reason too. Ay, art is art.<br /> - Things must have being that have history."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then she: "Yes, politics has history,<br /> - And therefore has a being,—has, in truth,<br /> - Just such a being as I grant to art—<br /> - A being of opinions. Every state<br /> - Has origin and ends of government<br /> - Peculiarly its own, and so, from these,<br /> - Constructs its theory of politics,<br /> - And holds this theory against the world;<br /> - And holds it well. There is no fixedness<br /> - Or form of politics for all mankind;<br /> - And there is none of art. Each artist-soul<br /> - Is its own law; and he who dares to bring<br /> - From work of other man, to lay on yours,<br /> - His square and compass—thus declaring him<br /> - The pattern man—and tells, by him, you lack<br /> - Just so much here, or wander so much there,<br /> - Thereby confesses just how much he lacks<br /> - Of wisdom and plain sense. For every man<br /> - Has special gift of power and end of life.<br /> - No man is great who lives by other law<br /> - Than that which wrapped his genius at his birth.<br /> - The Lind is great because she is the Lind,<br /> - And not the Malibran. Recorded art<br /> - Is yours to study—e'en to imitate,<br /> - In education—imitate or shun,<br /> - As the case warrants; but it has destroyed,<br /> - Or toned to commonplace, more gifts of God<br /> - Than it has ever fanned to life or fed.<br /> - Who never walks save where he sees men's tracks<br /> - Makes no discoveries. Show me the man<br /> - Who, leaving God and nature and himself,<br /> - Sits at the feet of masters, stuffs his brain<br /> - With maxims, notions, usages and rules,<br /> - And yields his fancy up to leading-strings,<br /> - And I shall see a man who never did<br /> - A deed worth doing. So, in the name of art—<br /> - Nay, in the name of God—do no such thing<br /> - As smutch your knees by bowing at a shrine,<br /> - Whose doubtful deity, in midst of dust,<br /> - Sits in the cast-off robes of devotees,<br /> - And lives on broken victuals!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Drive, my dear!<br /> - Drive on, and over me! You're on the old<br /> - High-stepping horse to-night; so give him rein,<br /> - For exercise is good," I said, in mirth.<br /> - "You sit your courser finely. I confess<br /> - I'm very proud of you, and too much pleased<br /> - With your accomplishments to check your speed.<br /> - Drive on, my love! drive on!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I thank you, sir<br /> - No one so gracious as your grudging man<br /> - Under compulsion! With your kind consent<br /> - I'll ride a little further," she replied,—<br /> - "For I enjoy it quite as much as you—<br /> - The more because you've given me little chance<br /> - In these last years.... Now, soberly, this art<br /> - Of which we talk so much, without the power<br /> - To tell exactly what we understand<br /> - By the hack term—suppose we take the word,<br /> - And try to find its meaning. You recall<br /> - Old John who dressed the borders in our court:<br /> - You called him, hired him, told him what to do.<br /> - He and his rake stood interposed between<br /> - You and your work. You chose his skilful hands,<br /> - Endowing them with pay, or pledge of pay,<br /> - And set him at his labor. Now suppose<br /> - Old John had had a philosophic turn<br /> - After you left him, and had thought like this:<br /> - 'I am called here to do a certain work—<br /> - My rake tells what; and he who called me here<br /> - Has given me the motive for the job.<br /> - The work is plain. These borders are to be<br /> - Levelled and cleaned of weeds: my hand and rake<br /> - Are fitted for the service;—this my art;<br /> - And it is first of all the arts. There's none<br /> - More ancient, useful, worshipful, indeed,<br /> - Than agriculture. Adam practised it;<br /> - Poets have sung its praises; and the great<br /> - Of every age have loved and honored it.<br /> - This art is greater than the man I serve,<br /> - And greater than his borders. Therefore I<br /> - Will serve my art, and let the borders lie,<br /> - And my employer whistle. True to that,<br /> - And to myself, it matters not to me<br /> - What weeds may grow, or what the master think<br /> - Of my proceeding!'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "So, intent on this,<br /> - He hangs his rake upon your garden wall,<br /> - And steals your clematis, with which to wind<br /> - The handle upward; then o'erfills his hands<br /> - With roses and geraniums, and weaves<br /> - Their beauty into laurel, for a crown<br /> - For his slim god, completing his devoir<br /> - By buttering the teeth, and kneeling down<br /> - In abject homage. Pray, what would you say,<br /> - At close of day, when you should go to see<br /> - Your untouched borders, and your gardener<br /> - At genuflexion, with your mignonette<br /> - In every button-hole? Remember, now,<br /> - He has been true to art and to himself,<br /> - According to his notion; nor forget<br /> - To take along a dollar for his hire,<br /> - Which he expects, of course! What would you say?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Oh, don't mind that: you've reached your 'fifthly' now,<br /> - And here the 'application' comes," I said.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I think," responded she, with an arch smile,<br /> - "The application's needless: but you men<br /> - Are so obtuse, when will is in the way,<br /> - That I will do your bidding. Every gift<br /> - That God bestows on men holds in itself<br /> - The secret of its office, like the rake<br /> - The gardener wields. The rake was made to till—<br /> - Was fashioned, head and handle, for just that;<br /> - And if, by grace of God, you hold a gift<br /> - So fashioned and adapted, that it stands<br /> - In like relation of supremest use<br /> - To life of men, the office of your gift<br /> - Has perfect definition. Gift like this<br /> - Is yours, my husband. In your facile hands<br /> - God placed it for the service of himself,<br /> - In service of your kind. Taking this gift,<br /> - And using it for God and for the world,<br /> - In your own way, and in your own best way;<br /> - Seeking for light and knowledge everywhere<br /> - To guide your careful hand; and opening wide<br /> - To spiritual influx all your soul,<br /> - That so your master may breathe into you,<br /> - And breathe his great life through you, in such forms<br /> - Of pure presentment as he gives you skill<br /> - To build withal—that's all of art—for you.<br /> - Art is an instrument, and not an end—<br /> - A servant, not a master, nor a God<br /> - To be bowed down to. Shall we worship rakes?<br /> - Honor of art, by him whose work is art,<br /> - Is a fine passion; but he honors most<br /> - Whose use and end are best."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Use! Use! Use!"<br /> - I cried impatiently;—"nothing but use!<br /> - As if God never made a violet,<br /> - Or hung a harebell, or in kindling gold<br /> - Garnished a sunset, or upreared the arch<br /> - Of a bright rainbow, or endowed a world—<br /> - A universe, indeed—stars, firmament,<br /> - The vastitudes of forest and of sea,<br /> - Swift brooks and sweeping rivers, virid meads<br /> - And fluff of breezy hills—with tints that range<br /> - The scale of spectral beauty, till they leave<br /> - No glint or glory of the changeful light<br /> - Without a revelation! Is this use—<br /> - I beg your pardon, love: you say 'this art'—<br /> - The sum and end of art? If it be so,<br /> - Then God's no artist. Are the crystal brooks<br /> - Sweeter for singing to the thirsty brutes<br /> - That dip their beaded muzzles in the foam?<br /> - Burns the tree better that its leaves are green?<br /> - Sleeps the sun sounder under canopy<br /> - Of gold or rose?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Yet beauty has its use,"<br /> - Responded she. "Whatever elevates<br /> - Inspires, refreshes, any human soul,<br /> - Is useful to that soul. Beauty has use<br /> - For you and me. The dainty violet<br /> - Blooms in our thought, and sheds its fragrance there<br /> - And we are gainers through its ministry.<br /> - All God's great values wear the drapery<br /> - That most becomes them. Beauty may, in truth,<br /> - Be incident of art and not be end—<br /> - Its form, condition, features, dress, and still<br /> - The humblest value of the things of art.<br /> - This truth obtains in all God's artistry.<br /> - Does God make beauty for himself, alone?<br /> - He is, and holds, all beauty. Has he need<br /> - To kindle rushes that he may behold<br /> - The glory of his thoughts? or need to use<br /> - His thoughts as plasms for the amorphous clay<br /> - That he may study models? For an end<br /> - Outside himself, he ever speaks himself;<br /> - And end, with him, is use."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Well, I confess<br /> - There's truth in what you utter," I replied;—<br /> - "A modicum of truth, at least; and still<br /> - There's something more which this our subtle talk<br /> - Has failed to give us. I will not affirm<br /> - That art, recorded in its thousand forms,<br /> - And clothed with usages, traditions, rules,—<br /> - The thing of history—the mighty pile<br /> - Of drift that sweep of ages has brought down<br /> - To heap the puzzled present—is the sum<br /> - And substance of all art. I will not claim—<br /> - Nay, mark me now—I will not even claim<br /> - That beauty is art's end, or has its end<br /> - Within itself. Our tedious colloquy<br /> - Has cleared away the rubbish from my thought,<br /> - And given me cleaner vision. I can see<br /> - Before, around me, underneath, above,<br /> - The great unrealized; and while I bow<br /> - To the traditions and the things of art,<br /> - And hold my theories, I find myself<br /> - Inspired supremely by the Possible<br /> - That calls for revelation—by the forms<br /> - That sleep imprisoned in the snowy arms<br /> - Of still unquarried truth, or stretch their hands<br /> - At sound of sledge and drill and booming fire,<br /> - Imploring for release. I turn from men,<br /> - And stretch my hands toward these. I feel—I know—<br /> - That there are mighty myriads waiting there,<br /> - And listening for my steps. Suppose my age<br /> - Should fail to give them welcome: ay, suppose<br /> - They may not help a man to coin a dime<br /> - Or cook a dinner: they will fare as well<br /> - As much of God's truth fares, though clothed in forms<br /> - Divinely chosen. Does God ever stint<br /> - His utterance because no creature hears?<br /> - Is it a grand and goodly thing, to spend<br /> - Brave life and precious treasure in a search<br /> - For palpitating water at the pole,<br /> - That so the sum of knowledge may be swelled,<br /> - Though pearls are not increased; and something less<br /> - To probe the Possible in art, or sit<br /> - Through months of dreary dark to catch a glimpse<br /> - Of the live truth that quivers with the jar<br /> - Of movement at its axle? Is it good<br /> - To garner gain beyond the present need,<br /> - Won by excursive commerce in all seas;<br /> - And something less to pile redundantly<br /> - The spoil of thought?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "These latest words of yours,"<br /> - She answered musingly, "impress me much;<br /> - And yet, I think I see where they will lead,<br /> - Or, rather, fail to lead. Your fantasy<br /> - Is beautiful but vague. The Possible<br /> - Is a vast ocean, from which one poor soul,<br /> - With its slight oars, can float but flimsy freight;<br /> - Yet I would help your courage, for I see<br /> - Where your sole motive lies. Go on, and prove<br /> - Whether your scheme or mine holds more of good;<br /> - And take my blessing with you."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then she rose,<br /> - And kissed my forehead. Looking in her face,<br /> - By the sharp light that touched her, I was thrilled<br /> - By her flushed cheeks and strangely lustrous eyes.<br /> - She spoke not; but I heard the sigh she breathed—<br /> - The long-drawn, weary sigh—as she retired;<br /> - And then the Possible, which had inspired<br /> - So wondrously my hope, drooped low around,<br /> - And filled me with foreboding.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Had her life<br /> - Been chilled by my neglect? Was it on wane?<br /> - Could she be lost to me? Oh! then I felt,<br /> - As I had never felt before, how mean<br /> - Beside one true affection is the best<br /> - Of all earth's prizes, and how little worth<br /> - The world would be without her love—herself!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But sleep refreshed her, and next morn she sat<br /> - At our bright board, in her accustomed place;<br /> - And sunlight was not sweeter than her smile,<br /> - Or cheerfuller. My quick fears died away;<br /> - And though I saw that she had lost the fire<br /> - Of her young life, I comforted myself<br /> - With thinking that it was the same with me—<br /> - The sure result of years.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - My time I gave<br /> - To my new passion, rioting at large<br /> - In the fresh realm of fancy and of thought<br /> - To which the passion bore me, and from which<br /> - I strove to gather for embodiment<br /> - Material of art.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The more I dreamed,<br /> - The broader grew my dream. The further on<br /> - My footsteps pushed, the brighter grew the light;<br /> - Till, half in terror, half in reverence,<br /> - I learned that I had broached the Infinite!<br /> - I had not thought my Possible could bear<br /> - Such name as this, or wear such attribute;<br /> - And shrank befitting distance from the front<br /> - Of awful secrets, hid in awful flame,<br /> - That scorched and scared me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So, more humble grown,<br /> - And less adventurous, I chose, at last,<br /> - My theme and vehicle of song, and wrote.<br /> - My faculties, grown strong and keen by use,<br /> - Bent to their task with earnest faithfulness,<br /> - And glowed with high endeavor. All of power<br /> - I had within me flowed into my hand;<br /> - And learning, language—all my life's resource—<br /> - Lay close around my enterprise, and poured<br /> - Their hoarded wealth of imagery and words<br /> - Faster than I could use it. For long weeks,<br /> - My ardent labor crowded all my days,<br /> - Invaded sleep, and haunted e'en my dreams:<br /> - And then the work was done.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I left it there,<br /> - And sought for recreative rest in scenes<br /> - That once had charmed me—in society<br /> - Where I was welcome: but the common talk<br /> - Of daily news—of politics and trade—<br /> - Was senseless as the chatter of the jays<br /> - In autumn forests. No refreshing balm<br /> - Came to me in the sympathy of men.<br /> - In my retirement, I had left the world<br /> - To go its way; and it had gone its way,<br /> - And left me hopelessly.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I told my wife<br /> - Of my dissatisfaction and disgust,<br /> - But found small comfort in her words. She said:<br /> - "The world is wide, and woman's vision short;<br /> - But I have never seen a man who turned<br /> - His efforts from his kind, and failed to spoil<br /> - All men for him—himself, indeed, for them;<br /> - And he who gives nor sympathy nor aid<br /> - To the poor race from which he seeks such boon<br /> - Must be rejoiced if it be generous;<br /> - Content, if it be just. Society<br /> - Is a grand scheme of service and return.<br /> - We give and take; and he who gives the most,<br /> - In ways directest, wins the best reward."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - By purpose, I closed eyes upon my work<br /> - For many weeks, resisting every day<br /> - The impulse to review the glowing dream<br /> - My fancy had engendered: for I wished<br /> - To go with faculty and fancy cooled<br /> - To its perusal. I had strong desire,<br /> - So far as in me lay, to see the work<br /> - With the world's eyes, for reasons—ah! I shrink<br /> - From writing them! All men are sometimes weak,<br /> - And some are inconsistent with their wills.<br /> - If I were one of these, think not I failed<br /> - To justify my weakness to myself,<br /> - In ways that saved my pride.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet this was true;<br /> - I had an honest wish to learn how far<br /> - My work of heat had power to re-inspire<br /> - The soul that wrought it, and how well my verse<br /> - Had clothed and kept the creature of my thought;<br /> - For memory still retained the loveliness<br /> - That filled the fresh conceit.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When, in good time.<br /> - Rest and diversion had performed their work,<br /> - And the long fever of my brain was gone,<br /> - I broached my feast, first making fast my door.<br /> - That so no eye should mark my greedy joy<br /> - Or my grimaces,—doubtful of the fate<br /> - That waited expectation.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It were vain<br /> - To try, in these tame words, to paint the pang,<br /> - The faintness and the chill, which overwhelmed<br /> - My disappointed heart. My welded thoughts<br /> - Which, in their whitest heat, had bent and bound<br /> - My language to themselves, imparting grace<br /> - To stiffest words, and meanings fresh and fine<br /> - To simplest phrases, interfusing all<br /> - With their own ardency, and shining through<br /> - With smoothly rounded beauty, lay in heaps<br /> - Of cold, unmeaning ugliness. My words<br /> - Had shrunk to old proportions, and stood out<br /> - In hard, stiff angles, challenging a guess<br /> - Of what they covered.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Meaningless to me,<br /> - Who knew the meaning that had once informed<br /> - Its faithless numbers, what way could I hope<br /> - That, to my own, or any future age,<br /> - My work should speak its full significance?<br /> - My latest child, begot in manly joy,<br /> - Conceived in purity, and born in toil,<br /> - Lay dead before me,—dead, and in the shroud<br /> - My hopeful hands had woven and bedecked<br /> - To be its chrisom.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then the first I learned<br /> - Where language finds its bound—learned that beyond<br /> - The range of human commerce, save by force,<br /> - It never moves, nor lingers in the realm<br /> - It thus invades, a moment, if the voice<br /> - Of human commerce speak not the demand;—<br /> - That language is a thing of use;—that thought<br /> - Which seeks a revelation, first must seek<br /> - Adjustment in the scale of human need,<br /> - Or find no fitting vehicle.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And more:<br /> - That the great Possible which lies outside<br /> - The range of commerce is identical<br /> - With the stupendous Infinite of God,<br /> - Which only comes in glimpses, or in hints<br /> - Of vague significance, so dim, so vast,<br /> - That subtlest, most prehensile language, shrinks<br /> - From plucking of its robes, the while they sweep<br /> - The perfumed air!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I closed my manuscript,<br /> - And locked it in my desk. Then stealing forth,<br /> - I sought the bustle of the street, to drown<br /> - In the great roar of careless toil, the pain<br /> - That brings despair. My last resource was gone;<br /> - And as I brooded o'er the awful blank<br /> - Of hopeless life that waited for my steps,<br /> - A fear which I had feared to entertain<br /> - Found entrance to my heart, and held it still,<br /> - Almost to bursting.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Not alone my life<br /> - Was sliding from me; for my better life,<br /> - My pearl of price, the jewel in my crown,<br /> - My wife Kathrina, growing lovelier<br /> - With every passing day, arose each morn<br /> - From wasting dreams to paler loveliness,<br /> - And sank in growing weariness each night,<br /> - And hotter hectic, to her welcome bed.<br /> - Her bed! The sweet, the precious nuptial bed!<br /> - Bed sanctified by love! Bed blest of God<br /> - With fruit immortal! Bed too soon to be<br /> - Crowned with the glory of a Christian death!<br /> - Ah God! How it brought back the agony,<br /> - And the rebellious hate of other years—<br /> - The hopeless struggle of my will with Him<br /> - Whose will is law!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus torn with mingled thought:<br /> - Of fear, despair and spite, I wore away<br /> - Miles of wild wandering about the streets,<br /> - Till weariness at last compelled my feet<br /> - To drag me to my home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Before my door<br /> - Stood the familiar chair of one whose call<br /> - Was ominous of ill. My heart grew sick<br /> - With flutter of foreboding and foredoom;<br /> - But in swift silence I flew up the steps,<br /> - And, blind with stifled frenzy, reached the side<br /> - Of my poor wife. She smiled at seeing me,<br /> - But I could only kneel, and bathe her hands<br /> - With tears and kisses. In her gentle breast—<br /> - True home of love, and love and home to me—<br /> - The blood had burst its walls, and flowed in flame<br /> - From lips it left in ashes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In her smile<br /> - Of perfect trustfulness, I caught first glimpse<br /> - Of that aureola of fadeless light<br /> - Which spans my lonely couch, and kindles hope<br /> - That when my time shall come to follow her,<br /> - My spirit may go out, enwreathed and wrapped<br /> - By the familiar glory, which to-night<br /> - Shall brood o'er all my vigils and my dreams!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="despair"></a></p> - -<h3> - DESPAIR. -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Ah! what is so dead as a perished delight!<br /> - Or a passion outlived! or a scheme overthrown!<br /> - Save the bankrupt heart it has left in its flight,<br /> - Still as quick as the eye, but as cold as a stone!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The honey-bee hoards for its winter-long need,<br /> - The treasure it gathers in joy from the flowers;<br /> - And drinks in each sip of its silvery mead<br /> - The flavor and flush of the sweet summer hours.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But a pleasure expires at its earliest breath:<br /> - No labor can hoard it, no cunning can save;<br /> - For the song of its life is the sigh of its death,<br /> - And the sense it has thrilled is its shroud and its grave.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ah! what is our love, with its tincture of lust,<br /> - And its pleasure that pains us and pain that endears,<br /> - But joy in an armful of beautiful dust<br /> - That crumbles, and flies on the wings of the years?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And what is ambition for glory and power,<br /> - But desire to be reckoned the uppermost fool<br /> - Of a million of fools, for a pitiful hour,<br /> - And be cursed for a tyrant, or kicked for a tool?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Nay, what is the noblest that art can achieve,<br /> - But to conjure a vision of light to the eyes,<br /> - That will pale ere we paint it, and pall ere we leave<br /> - On the heart it betrays and the hand it defies?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We love, and we long with an infinite greed<br /> - For a love that will fill our deep longing, in vain;<br /> - The cup that we drink of is pleasant, indeed,<br /> - Yet it holds but a drop of the heavenly rain.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We plan for our powers the divinest we can;<br /> - We do with our powers the supremest we may;<br /> - And, winning or losing, for labor and plan<br /> - The best that we garner is—rest and decay!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Content—satisfaction—who wins them? Look down!<br /> - They are held without thought by the dolts and the drones:<br /> - 'Tis the slave who in carelessness carries the crown;<br /> - And the hovels have kinglier men than the thrones.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The maid sings of love to the hum of her wheel;<br /> - And her lover responds as he follows his team;<br /> - They wed, and their children come quickly to seal<br /> - In fulfilment the pledge of their loftiest dream.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With humblest ambitions and homeliest fare,<br /> - Contented, though toiling, they travel abreast,<br /> - Till the kind hand of death lifts their burden of care,<br /> - And they sink, in the faith of their fathers, to rest.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Did I beg to be born? Did I seek to exist?<br /> - Did I bargain for promptings to loftier gains?<br /> - Did I ask for a brain, with contempt of the fist<br /> - That could win a reward for its labor and pains?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Was it kind—the strong promise that girded my youth?<br /> - Was it good—the endowment of motive and skill?<br /> - Was it well to succeed, when success was, in truth,<br /> - But the saddest of failure? Make answer, who will!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Do I rave without reason? Why, look you, I pray!<br /> - I have won all I sought of the highest and best;<br /> - But it brings me no guerdon; and hopeless, to-day,<br /> - I am poorer than when I set out on the quest.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Oh! emptiness! Life, what art thou but a lie,<br /> - Which I greeted and honored with hopefullest trust?<br /> - Bah! the beautiful apples that tempted my eye<br /> - Break dead on my tongue into ashes and dust!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "A Father who loves all the children of men"?<br /> - "A future to fill all these bottomless gaps"?<br /> - But one life has failed: can I fasten again<br /> - With my faith and my hope to a specious Perhaps!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - O! man who begot me! O! woman who bore!<br /> - Why, why did you call me to being and breath?<br /> - With ruin behind me, and darkness before,<br /> - I have nothing to long for, or live for, but death!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="consummation"></a></p> - -<h2> - PART IV. -</h2> - -<h3> - CONSUMMATION.<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - A guest was in my house—a guest unbid—<br /> - Who stayed without a welcome from his host,—<br /> - So loathed and hated, on such errand bent,<br /> - And armed with such resistless power of ill,<br /> - I dared not look him in the face. I heard<br /> - His tireless footsteps in the lonely halls,<br /> - In the chill hours of night; and, in the day,<br /> - They climbed the stairs, or loitered through the rooms<br /> - With lawless freedom. Ever when I turned<br /> - I caught a glimpse of him. His shadow stalked<br /> - Between me and the light, and fled before<br /> - My restless feet, or followed close behind.<br /> - Whene'er I bent above the couch that held<br /> - My fading wife, though looking not, I knew<br /> - That he was bending from the other side,<br /> - And mocking me.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Familiar grown, at last,<br /> - He came more closely—came and sat with me<br /> - Through hours of revery; or, as I paced<br /> - My dimly-lighted room, slipped his lank arm<br /> - Through mine, and whispered in my shrinking ear<br /> - Such fearful words as made me sick and cold.<br /> - He took the vacant station at my board,<br /> - Sitting where she had sat, and mixed my cup<br /> - With poisoned waters, saying in low tones<br /> - That none but I could hear:<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "This little room,<br /> - Where you have breakfasted and dined and supped,<br /> - And laughed and chatted in the days gone by,<br /> - Will be a lonely place when we are gone.<br /> - Those roses at the window, that were wont<br /> - To bloom so freely with the lady's care,<br /> - Already miss her touch. That ivy-vine<br /> - Has grown a yard since it was tied, and needs<br /> - A training hand."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Rising with bitter tears<br /> - To flee his presence, he arose with me,<br /> - And wandered through the rooms.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "This casket here"—<br /> - I heard him say: "Suppose we loose the clasp.<br /> - These are her jewels—pretty gifts of yours.<br /> - There is a diamond: there a string of pearls.<br /> - That paly opal holds a mellowed fire<br /> - Which minds me of the mistress, whose bright soul,<br /> - Glows through the lucent whiteness of her face<br /> - With lambent flicker. These are legacies:<br /> - She will not wear them more. Her taste and mine<br /> - Are one in this, that both of us love flowers.<br /> - Ay, she shall have them, too, some pleasant day,<br /> - When she goes forth with me!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "So? what is this?<br /> - Her wardrobe! Let the door be opened wide!<br /> - This musk, so blent with scent of violets,<br /> - Revives one. You remember when she wore<br /> - That lavender?—a very pretty silk!<br /> - Here is a <i>moire antique</i>. Ah! yes—I see!<br /> - You did not like her in it. 'Twas too old,<br /> - And too suggestive of the dowager.<br /> - There is your favorite—that glossy blue—<br /> - The sweet tint stolen from the skies of June—<br /> - But she is done with it. I wonder who<br /> - Will wear it, when your grief shall find a pause!<br /> - Your daughter—possibly? ... You shiver, sir!<br /> - Is it the velvet? Like a pall, you think!<br /> - Well, close the door!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Those slippers on the rug:<br /> - The time will come when you will kiss their soles<br /> - For the dear life that pressed them. Their rosettes<br /> - Will be more redolent than roses then.<br /> - You did not know how much you loved your wife?<br /> - I thought so!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "This way! Let us take our stand<br /> - Beside her bed. Not quite so beautiful<br /> - To your fond eyes as when she was a bride,<br /> - Though still a lovely woman! Seems it strange<br /> - That she is yours no longer?—that her hand<br /> - Is given to another—to the one<br /> - For whom she has been waiting all her life,<br /> - And ready all her life? Your power is gone<br /> - To punish rivals. There you stand and weep,<br /> - But dare not lift a finger, while with smiles<br /> - And kindly welcome she extends her hands<br /> - To greet her long-expected friend. She knows<br /> - Where I will take her—to what city of God,<br /> - What palace there, and what companionship.<br /> - She knows what robes will drape her loveliness,<br /> - What flowers bedeck her hair, and rise and fall<br /> - Upon the pulses of her happy breast.<br /> - And you, poor man! with all your jealous pride,<br /> - Have learned that she would turn again to you,<br /> - And to your food and furniture of life,<br /> - With disappointment.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Ay, she pities you—<br /> - Loves you, indeed; but there is One she loves<br /> - With holier passion, and with more entire<br /> - And gladder self-surrender. She will go—<br /> - You know that she will go—and go with joy;<br /> - And you begin to see how poor and mean,<br /> - When placed beside her joy, are all your gifts,<br /> - And all that you have won by them.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Poor man!<br /> - Weeping again! Well, if it comfort you,<br /> - Rain your salt tears upon her waxen hands,<br /> - And kiss them dry at leisure! Press her lips,<br /> - Hot with the hectic! Lay your cold, wet cheek<br /> - Against the burning scarlet of her own:<br /> - Only remember that she is not yours,<br /> - And that your paroxysms of grief and tears<br /> - Are painful to her."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ah! to wait for death!<br /> - To see one's idol with the signature<br /> - Of the Destroyer stamped upon her brow.<br /> - And know that she is doomed, beyond all hope;<br /> - To watch her while she fades; to see the form<br /> - That once was Beauty's own become a corpse<br /> - In all but breathing, and to meet her eyes<br /> - A hundred times a day—while the heart bleeds—<br /> - With smiles of smooth dissembling, and with words<br /> - Cheerful as morning, and to do all this<br /> - Through weeks and weary months, till one half longs<br /> - To see the spell dissolved, and feel the worst<br /> - That death can do: can there be misery<br /> - Sadder than this?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - My time I passed alone,<br /> - And at the bedside of my dying wife.<br /> - She talked of death as children talk of sleep,<br /> - When—a forgetful blank—it lies between<br /> - Their glad impatience and a holiday.<br /> - The morrow—ah! the morrow! That was name<br /> - For hope all realized, for work all done,<br /> - For pain all passed, for life and strength renewed.<br /> - For fruitage of endeavor, for repose,<br /> - For heaven!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - What would the morrow bring to me?<br /> - The morrow—ah! the morrow! It was blank—<br /> - Nay, blank and black with gloom of clouds and night<br /> - Never before had I so realized<br /> - My helplessness. I could not find relief<br /> - In love or labor. I could only sit,<br /> - And gaze against a wall, without the power<br /> - To pierce or climb. My pride of life was gone.<br /> - My spirit broken, and my strife with God<br /> - Was finished. If I could not look before,<br /> - I dare not look above; and so, whene'er<br /> - I could forget the present, I went back<br /> - Upon the past.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - One soft June day, my thoughts,<br /> - Touched by some song of bird, or glimpse of green,<br /> - Returned to life's bright morning, and the Junes<br /> - That flooded with their wealth of life and song<br /> - The valley of my birth. Again I walked the meads,<br /> - Brilliant with beaded grass, and heard the shrill,<br /> - Sweet jargon of the meadow-birds. Again<br /> - I trod the forest paths, in shade of trees<br /> - With foliage so tender that the sun<br /> - Shot through the soft, thin leaves its virid sheen,<br /> - As through the emerald waters of the sea.<br /> - The scarlet tanager—a flake of fire,<br /> - Blown from the tropic heats upon the breath<br /> - That brought the summer—caught upon a twig,<br /> - Or quenched its glow in some remote recess.<br /> - The springing ferns unfolded at my feet<br /> - Their tan-brown scrolls, the tiny star-flower shone<br /> - Among its leaves; the insects filled the air<br /> - With a monotonous, reedy resonance<br /> - Of whir and hum, and I sat down again<br /> - Upon a bank, to gather violets.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From dreams of retrospective joy I woke<br /> - At last, to the quick tinkle of a bell.<br /> - My wife had touched it. She had been asleep,<br /> - And, waking, called me to her side. The note,<br /> - Familiar as the murmur of her voice,<br /> - For the first time was strange. Another bell,<br /> - With other music, ran adown the years<br /> - That lay between me and the golden day<br /> - When, up the mountain-path, I followed far<br /> - The lamb that bore it. All the scene came back<br /> - In a broad flash; and with it came the same<br /> - Strange apprehension of a mighty change—<br /> - A vague prevision of transition, born<br /> - Of what, I knew not; on what errand sent,<br /> - I could not guess.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I rose upon my feet,<br /> - Responsive to the summons, when I heard,<br /> - Repeated in the ear of memory,<br /> - The words my mother spoke to me that day:<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "My Paul has climbed the noblest mountain-height<br /> - In all his little world, and gazed on scenes<br /> - As beautiful as rest beneath the sun.<br /> - I trust he will remember all his life<br /> - That, to his best achievement, and the spot<br /> - Closest to heaven his youthful feet have trod,<br /> - He has been guided by a guileless lamb.<br /> - It is an omen which his mother's heart<br /> - Will treasure with her jewels."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Had her tongue<br /> - Been moved to prophecy? Omen of what?—<br /> - Of a new height of life to be achieved<br /> - By my lamb's leading? Ay, it seemed like this!<br /> - An answer to a thousand prayers, up-breathed<br /> - By her whom I had lost, repeated long<br /> - By her whom I was losing? Was it this?<br /> - Thus charged with premonition, when I stepped<br /> - Into the shaded room, my cheeks were pale,<br /> - And every nerve was quivering with the stress<br /> - Of uncontrolled emotion. Ah! my lamb!<br /> - How white! How innocent! My lamb, my lamb!<br /> - Even the scarlet ribbon which adorned<br /> - The lambkin of my chase was at her throat,<br /> - Repeated in a bright geranium-flower!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Loop up the curtains, love! Let in the light!"<br /> - The words came strong and sweet, as if the life<br /> - From which they breathed were at its tidal flood.<br /> - "Oh! blessed light!" she added, as the sun<br /> - Flamed on the velvet roses of the floor,<br /> - And touched to life the pictures on the wall,<br /> - And smote the dusk with bars of amber.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Paul!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I turned to answer, and beheld a face<br /> - That glowed with a celestial fire like his<br /> - Who talked with God in Sinai.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Paul," she said.<br /> - "I have been almost home. I may not tell,<br /> - For language cannot paint, what I have seen.<br /> - The veil was very thin, and I so near,<br /> - I caught the sheen of multitudes, and heard<br /> - Voices that called and answered from afar<br /> - Through spaces inconceivable, and songs<br /> - Whose harmonies responsive surged and sank<br /> - On the attenuate air, till all my soul<br /> - Was thrilled and filled with music, and I prayed<br /> - To be let loose, that I might cast myself<br /> - Upon the mighty tides, and give my life<br /> - To the supernal raptures. Ay, I prayed<br /> - That death might come, and give me my release<br /> - From this poor clay, and that I might be born<br /> - By its last travail into life."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Dear wife," I said,<br /> - "You have been wildly dreaming, and your brain,<br /> - Quickened to strange vagaries by disease,<br /> - Has cheated you. You must not talk like this:<br /> - 'Twill harm you. I will hold your hand awhile,<br /> - And you shall have repose.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She smiled and said,<br /> - While her eyes shone with an unearthly light:<br /> - "You are not wise, my dear, in things like these.<br /> - The vision was as real as yourself;<br /> - And it will not be long before I go<br /> - To mingle in the life that I have seen.<br /> - I know it, dearest, for she told me this."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "She told you this?" I said,—"Who told you this?<br /> - Did you hold converse with the multitude?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Not with the multitude," she answered me;<br /> - "But while I gazed upon the throng, and prayed<br /> - That death might loose me, there appeared a group<br /> - Of radiant ones behind the filmy veil<br /> - That hung between us, looking helplessly<br /> - Upon my struggle, but with eyes that beamed<br /> - With love ineffable. I knew them too—<br /> - Knew all of them but one—and she the first<br /> - And sweetest of them all. Pure as the light<br /> - And beautiful as morning, she advanced;<br /> - And, at her touch, the veil was parted wide,<br /> - While she passed through, and stood beside my bed.<br /> - She took my hand, she kissed my burning cheek,<br /> - And then, in words that calmed my spirit, said:<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Your prayer will soon be answered; but one prayer,<br /> - Breathed many years by you, and many years<br /> - By one you know not, must be answered first.<br /> - You must go back, though for a little time,<br /> - And reap the harvest of a life. To him<br /> - Whom you and I have loved, say all your heart<br /> - Shall move your lips to speak, and he will hear.<br /> - The strength, the boldness, the persuasive power<br /> - Which you may need for this, shall all be yours;<br /> - For you shall have the ministry of those<br /> - Whom you have seen. Speak as a dying wife<br /> - Has liberty to speak to him she leaves;<br /> - And tell him this—that he may know the voice<br /> - That gives you your commission—tell him this:<br /> - The lamb has slipped the leash by which his hand<br /> - Held her in thrall, and seeks the mountain-height;<br /> - And he, if he reclaim her to his grasp,<br /> - Must follow where she leads, and kneel at last<br /> - Upon the summit by her side. And more:<br /> - Give him my promise that if he do this,<br /> - He shall receive from that fair altitude<br /> - Such vision of the realm that lies around,<br /> - Cleft by the river of immortal life,<br /> - As shall so lift him from his selfishness,<br /> - And so enlarge his soul, that he shall stand<br /> - Redeemed from all unworthiness, and saved<br /> - To happiness and heaven.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Her words flowed forth<br /> - With the strong utterance, in truth, of one<br /> - Inspired from other worlds; while pale and faint,<br /> - I drank her revelations. Unbelief<br /> - Had given the lie to her abounding faith,<br /> - And held her vision figment of disease,<br /> - Until the message of my mother fell<br /> - Upon my ears. Then overcome, I wept<br /> - With deep convulsions, rose and walked the room,<br /> - Wrung my clasped hands, and cried with choking voice,<br /> - "My mother! O! my mother!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Gently, love!<br /> - For she is with you," said my dying wife.<br /> - "Nay, all of them are with us. This small room<br /> - Is now the gate of heaven; and you must do<br /> - That which befits the presence and the place.<br /> - Come! sit beside me; for my time is short,<br /> - And I have much to say. What will you do<br /> - When I am gone? Will the old life of art<br /> - Content you? Will you fill your waiting time<br /> - With the old dreams of fame and excellence?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Alas!" I answered, "I am done with life:<br /> - My life is dead; and though my hand has won<br /> - All it has striven to win, and all my heart<br /> - In its weak pride has prompted it to seek<br /> - Of love and honor; though success is mine<br /> - In all my eager enterprise, I know<br /> - My life has been a failure. I am left<br /> - Or shall be left, when you, my love, are gone,<br /> - Without resource—a hopeless, worthless man,<br /> - Longing to hide his shame and his despair<br /> - Within the grave."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I thank thee, Lord!" she said:<br /> - "So many prayers are answered! ... You knew not<br /> - That I had asked for this. You did not know<br /> - When you were striving with your feeble might<br /> - For the great prizes that beguiled your pride,<br /> - That at the hand of God I begged success.<br /> - Ay, Paul, I prayed that you might gather all<br /> - The good that you have won, and that, at last,<br /> - You might be brought to know the worthlessncss<br /> - Of every selfish meed, and feel how weak—<br /> - How worse than helpless—is the highest man<br /> - Who lives within, and labors to, himself.<br /> - Not one of all the prizes you have gained<br /> - Contains the good that lies in your despair."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Teach me," I said, "for I am ignorant;<br /> - Lead me, for I am blind. Explain the past,<br /> - With all its errors. Why am I so low,<br /> - And you so high?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She pressed my hand, and said<br /> - "You have been hungry all your life for God,<br /> - And known it not. You lavished first on me<br /> - Your heart's best love. You poured its treasured wealth<br /> - At an unworthy shrine. You made a God<br /> - Of poor mortality; and when you learned<br /> - Your love was greater than the one you loved—<br /> - The one you worshipped—you invoked the aid<br /> - Of your imagination, to enrich<br /> - Your pampered idol, till at last you bowed<br /> - Before a creature of your thought. You stole<br /> - From excellence divine the grace and good<br /> - That made me worshipful; and even these<br /> - Palled on your heart at last, and ceased to yield<br /> - The inspiration that you craved. You pined,<br /> - You starved for something infinitely sweet;<br /> - And still you sought it blindly, wilfully<br /> - In your poor wife,—sought it, and found it not,<br /> - Through wasted years of life.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "And then you craved<br /> - An infinite return. You asked for more<br /> - Than I could give, although I gave you all<br /> - That woman can bestow on man. You knew<br /> - You held my constant love, unlimited<br /> - Save by the bounds of mortal tenderness;<br /> - And still you longed for more. Then sprang your scheme<br /> - For finding in the love of multitudes,<br /> - And in their praise, that which had failed in me.<br /> - You wrote for love and fame, and won them both<br /> - By manly striving—won and wore them long.<br /> - All good there is in love and praise of men,<br /> - You garnered in your life. On this reward<br /> - You lived, till you were sated, or until<br /> - You learned it bore no satisfying meed—<br /> - Learned that the love of many was not more<br /> - Than love of one. With all my love your own,<br /> - With love and praise of men, your famished soul<br /> - Craved infinite approval—craved a love<br /> - Beyond the love of woman and of man.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Then with new hope, you apotheosized<br /> - Your cherished art, and sought for excellence<br /> - And for your own approval; with what end,<br /> - Your helplessness informs me. You essayed<br /> - The revelation of the mighty forms<br /> - That dwell in the unrealized. You sought<br /> - To shape your best ideals, and to find<br /> - In the grand scheme your motive and reward.<br /> - All this blind reaching after excellence,<br /> - Was but the reaching of your soul for God.<br /> - Imagination could not touch the height;<br /> - And you were baffled. So, you failed to find<br /> - The God your spirit yearned for in your art,<br /> - And failed of self-approval.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "You have now<br /> - But one resource,—you are shut up to this:<br /> - You must bow down and worship God; and give<br /> - Your heart to him, accept his love for you,<br /> - And feast your soul on excellence in him.<br /> - So, a new life shall open to your feet,<br /> - Strown richly with rewards; and when your steps<br /> - Shall reach the river, I will wait for you<br /> - Upon the other shore, and we shall be<br /> - One in the life immortal as in this.<br /> - O! Paul! your time is now. I cannot die<br /> - And leave you comfortless. I cannot die<br /> - And enter on the pleasures that I know<br /> - Await me yonder, with the consciousness<br /> - That you are still unhappy."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - All my life<br /> - Thus lay revealed in light which she had poured<br /> - Upon its track. I learned where she had found<br /> - Her peaceful joy, her satisfying good,<br /> - And where, in my rebellious pride of heart,<br /> - Mine had been lost. She, by an instinct sure,<br /> - Or by the grace of Heaven, had in her youth,<br /> - Though sorely chastened, given herself to God<br /> - And through a life of saintly purity—<br /> - A life of love to me and love to all—<br /> - Had feasted at the fountain of all love.<br /> - Had worshipped at the Excellence Divine,<br /> - And only waited for my last adieu<br /> - To take her crown.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I sat like one struck dumb.<br /> - I knew not how to speak, or what to do.<br /> - She looked at me expectant; while a thrill<br /> - Of terror shot through all my frame.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Alas!"<br /> - She said, "I thought you would be ready now."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At this, the door was opened silently,<br /> - And our dear daughter stood within the room.<br /> - Alarmed at vision of the sudden change<br /> - That death had wrought upon her mother's face,<br /> - She hastened to her side, and kneeling there,<br /> - Bowed on her breast with tears and choking sobs,<br /> - Her heart too full for speech.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Be silent, dear!"<br /> - The dying mother said, resting her hand<br /> - Upon her daughter's head. "Be silent, dear!<br /> - Your father kneels to pray. Make room for him,<br /> - That he may kneel beside you."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At her words,<br /> - I was endowed with apprehensions new;<br /> - And somewhere in my quickened consciousness,<br /> - I felt the presence of her heavenly friends,<br /> - And knew that there were spirits in the room.<br /> - I did not doubt, nor have I doubted since,<br /> - That there were loving witnesses of all<br /> - The scenes enacted round that hallowed bed.<br /> - Ay, and they spoke. Deep in the innermost<br /> - I heard the tender words, "O! kneel my son!—"<br /> - A sweet monition from my mother's lips.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Kneel! kneel!" It was the echo of a throng.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Kneel! kneel!" The gentle mandate reached my heart<br /> - From depths of lofty space. It was the voice<br /> - Of the Good Father.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From the curtain folds,<br /> - That rustled at the window, in the airs<br /> - That moved with conscious pulse to passing wings,<br /> - Came the same burden "Kneel!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Kneel! kneel! O! kneel!"<br /> - In tones of earnest pleading, came from lips<br /> - Already pinched by death.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A hundred worlds.<br /> - Imposed upon my shoulders, had not bowed<br /> - And crushed me to my knees with surer power.<br /> - The hand that lay upon my daughter's head<br /> - Then passed to mine; but still my lips were dumb.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Pray!" said the spirit of my mother.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Pray!"<br /> - The word repeated, came from many lips.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Pray!" said the voice of God within my soul;<br /> - While every whisper of the living air<br /> - Echoed the low command.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Pray! pray! O! pray!"<br /> - My dying wife entreated, while swift tears<br /> - Slid to her pillow.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then the impulse came,<br /> - And I poured out like water all my heart.<br /> - "O! God!" I said, "be merciful to me<br /> - A reprobate! I have blasphemed thy name.<br /> - Abused thy patient love, and held from thee<br /> - My heart and life; and now, in my extreme<br /> - Of need and of despair, I come to thee.<br /> - O! cast me not away, for here, at last,<br /> - After a life of selfishness and sin,<br /> - I yield my will to thine, and pledge my soul—<br /> - All that I am, all I can ever be—<br /> - Supremely to thy service. I renounce<br /> - All worldly aims, all selfish enterprise.<br /> - And dedicate the remnant of my power<br /> - To thee and those thou lovest. Comfort me!<br /> - O! come and comfort me, for I despair!<br /> - Give me thy peace, for I am rent and tossed!<br /> - Feed me with love, else I shall die of want!<br /> - Behold! I empty out my worthlessncss,<br /> - And beg thee to come in, and fill my soul<br /> - With thy rich presence. I adore thy love;<br /> - I seek for thy approval; I bow down,<br /> - And worship thee, the Excellence Supreme.<br /> - I've tasted of the sweetest that the world<br /> - Can give to me; and human love and praise.<br /> - And all of excellence within the scope<br /> - Of my conception, and my power to reach<br /> - And realize in highest forms of art,<br /> - Have left me hungry, thirsty lor thyself.<br /> - O! feed and fire me! Fill and furnish me!<br /> - And if thou hast for me some humble task—<br /> - Some service for thyself, or for thy own—<br /> - Reveal it to thy sad, repentant child,<br /> - Or use him as thy willing instrument.<br /> - I ask it for the sake of Jesus Christ,<br /> - Henceforth my Master!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Multitudes, it seemed,<br /> - Responded with "Amen!" as if the word<br /> - Were caught from mortal lips by swooping choirs<br /> - Of spirits ministrant, and borne away<br /> - In sweet reverberations into space.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I raised my head at last, and met the eyes<br /> - Bright with the light of death, and with the dawn<br /> - Of opening heaven. The smile that overspread<br /> - The fading features was the peaceful smile<br /> - Of an immortal,—full of faith and love—<br /> - A satisfied, triumphant, shining smile,<br /> - Lit by the heavenly glory.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Paul," she said,<br /> - "My work is done; but you will live and work<br /> - These many years. Your life is just begun,<br /> - Too late, but well begun; and you are mine,<br /> - Now and forevermore.... Dear Lord! my thanks<br /> - For this thy crowning blessing!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then she paused,<br /> - And raised her eyes in a seraphic trance,<br /> - And lifted her thin fingers, that were thrilled<br /> - With tremulous motion, like the slender spray<br /> - On which a throbbing song-bird clings, and pours<br /> - His sweet incontinence of ecstasy,<br /> - And then in broken whispers said to me:<br /> - "Do you not hear them? They have caught the news,<br /> - And all the sky is ringing with their song<br /> - Of gladness and of welcome. '<i>Paul is saved</i>!<br /> - <i>Paul is redeemed and saved!</i>' I hear them cry;<br /> - And myriad voices catch the new delight,<br /> - And carry the acclaim, till heaven itself<br /> - Sends back the happy echo: '<i>Paul is saved.</i>'"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She stretched her hands, and took me to her breast.<br /> - I kissed her, blessed her, spoke my last adieu,<br /> - And yielded place to her whom God had given<br /> - To be our child. After a long embrace.<br /> - She whispered: "I am weary; let me sleep!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She passed to peaceful slumber like a child,<br /> - The while attendant angels built the dream<br /> - On which she rode to heaven. Not once again<br /> - She spoke to mortal ears, but slept and smiled,<br /> - And slept and smiled again, till daylight passed.<br /> - The night came down; the long hours lapsed away;<br /> - The city sounds grew fainter, till at last<br /> - We sat alone with silence and with death.<br /> - At the first blush of morning she looked up,<br /> - And spoke, but not to us: "I'm coming now!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I sought the window, to relieve the pain<br /> - Of long suppressed emotion. In the East,<br /> - Tinged with the golden dawn, the morning star<br /> - Was blazing in its glory, while beneath,<br /> - The slender moon, at its last rising, hung,<br /> - Paling and dying in the growing light,<br /> - And passing with that leading up to heaven.<br /> - My daughter stood beside her mother's bed,<br /> - But I had better vision of the scene<br /> - In the sweet symbol God had hung for me<br /> - Upon the sky.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Swiftly the dawn advanced,<br /> - And higher rose, and still more faintly shone,<br /> - The star-led moon. Then, as it faded out,<br /> - Quenched by prevailing day, I heard one sigh<br /> - A sigh so charged with pathos of deep joy,<br /> - And peace ineffable, that memory<br /> - Can never lose the sound; and all was past!<br /> - The peaceful summer-day that rose upon<br /> - This night of trial and this morn of grief,<br /> - Rose not with calmer light than that which dawned<br /> - Upon my spirit. Chastened, bowed, subdued,<br /> - I kissed the rod that smote me, and exclaimed:<br /> - "The Lord hath given; the Lord hath taken away<br /> - And blessed be his name!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Rebellion slept.<br /> - I grieved, and still I grieve; but with a heart<br /> - At peace with God, and soft with sympathy<br /> - Toward all my sorrowing, struggling, sinful race.<br /> - My hope, that clung so fondly to the world<br /> - And the rewards of time, an anchor sure<br /> - Now grasps the Eternal Rock within the veil<br /> - Of troubled waters. Storms may wrench and toss,<br /> - And tides may swing me, in their ebb and flow,<br /> - But I shall not be moved.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Once more! once more<br /> - I shall behold her face, and clasp her hand!<br /> - Once more—forevermore!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So here I give<br /> - The gospel of her precious, Christian life.<br /> - I owe it to herself, and to the world.<br /> - Grateful for all her tender ministry<br /> - In life and death, I bring these leaves, entwined<br /> - With her own roses, dewy with my tears,<br /> - And lay them as the tribute of my love<br /> - Upon the grave that holds her sacred dust.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - END.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Kathrina--A Poem, by Josiah Gilbert Holland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATHRINA--A POEM *** - -***** This file should be named 63423-h.htm or 63423-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/4/2/63423/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. 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