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That squirms a limbless carcass o’er the ground. And where that inborn loathing is not found You’ll find the serpent qualities instead. Who fears it not, himself is next of kin, And in his bosom holds some treacherous art Whereby to counteract its venomed sting. And all are sired by Satan–Chief of Sin.

Who loathes not that foul creature of the dust, However fair in seeming, I distrust.

I woke from my unconsciousness, to know I leaned upon a broad and manly breast,
And Vivian’s voice was speaking, soft and low, Sweet whispered words of passion, o’er and o’er. I dared not breathe. Had I found Eden’s shore? Was this a foretaste of eternal bliss?
“My love,” he sighed, his voice like winds that moan Before a rain in Summer-time, “my own,
For one sweet stolen moment, lie and rest Upon this heart that loves and hates you both! O fair false face! Why were you made so fair! O mouth of Southern sweetness! that ripe kiss That hangs upon you, I do take an oath
HIS lips shall never gather. There!–and there! I steal it from him. Are you his–all his? Nay, you are mine, this moment, as I dreamed – Blind fool–believing you were what you seemed – You would be mine in all the years to come. Fair fiend! I love and hate you in a breath. O God! if this white pallor were but DEATH, And I were stretched beside you, cold and dumb, My arms about you, so–in fond embrace!
My lips pressed, so–upon your dying face!”

“Woman, how dare you bring me to such shame! How dare you drive me to an act like this, To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss You lured me on to think my rightful claim! O frail and puny woman! could you know
The devil that you waken in the hearts You snare and bind in your enticing arts, The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow Would freeze in terror.

Strange you have such power
To please or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things – Devoid of passion as a senseless flower! Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings. There, now I scorn you–scorn you from this hour, And hate myself for having talked of love!”

He pushed me from him. And I felt as those Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above Are closed against them.

With a feigned surprise
I started up and opened wide my eyes, And looked about. Then in confusion rose And stood before him.

“Pardon me, I pray!”
He said quite coldly. “Half an hour ago I left you with the company below,
And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried, It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm.
I came in time to see you swoon away. You’ll need assistance down the rugged side Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm.”

So, formal and constrained, we passed along, Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng To have no further speech again that day.

Next morn there came a bulky document, The legal firm of Blank and Blank had sent, Containing news unlooked for. An estate
Which proved a cosy fortune–nowise great Or princely–had in France been left to me, My grandsire’s last descendant. And it brought A sense of joy and freedom in the thought Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be A panacea for my troubled mind,
That longed to leave the olden scenes behind With all their recollections, and to flee To some strange country.

I was in such haste
To put between me and my native land The briny ocean’s desolating waste,
I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned To sail that week, two months: though she was fain To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine Would be our guide and escort.

No one dreamed
The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed To think good fortune had quite turned my brain. One bright October morning, when the woods Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods In honour of the Frost King, Vivian came, Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame, – First trophies of the Autumn time.

And Roy
Made a proposal that we all should go And ramble in the forest for a while.
But Helen said she was not well–and so Must stay at home. Then Vivian, with a smile, Responded, “I will stay and talk to you, And they may go;” at which her two cheeks grew Like twin blush roses–dyed with love’s red wave, Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy.

And Vivian saw–and suddenly was grave. Roy took my arm in that protecting way
Peculiar to some men, which seems to say, “I shield my own,” a manner pleasing, e’en When we are conscious that it does not mean More than a simple courtesy. A woman
Whose heart is wholly feminine and human, And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be
The object of that tender chivalry, That guardianship which man bestows on her, Yet mixed with deference; as if she were Half child, half angel.

Though she may be strong,
Noble and self-reliant, not afraid
To raise her hand and voice against all wrong And all oppression, yet if she be made,
With all the independence of her thought, A woman womanly, as God designed,
Albeit she may have as great a mind As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm, His muscle and his boldness she has not, And cannot have without she loses what
Is far more precious, modesty and grace. So, walking on in her appointed place,
She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend But that she needs him for a guide and friend, To shield her with his greater strength from harm. We reached the forest; wandered to and fro Through many a winding path and dim retreat, Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat
Upon an oak-tree, which had been laid low By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke. And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge Of sunny meadows lying at my feet.
One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb That cast its checkered shadows over him; And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised And fixed upon me, silently he gazed
Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke: “Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise, And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes.”

The smooth and even darkness of his cheek Was stained one moment by a flush of red. He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood Still clinging to the branch above his head. His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said, With sudden passion, “Do you bid me speak? I cannot, then, keep silence if I would. That hateful fortune, coming as it did,
Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew A harsh-tongued world would quickly misconstrue My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet,
So big my heart has grown with love for you I cannot shelter it or keep it hid.
And so I cast it throbbing at your feet, For you to guard and cherish, or to break. Maurine, I love you better than my life. My friend–my cousin–be still more, my wife! Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?”

I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and numb With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes That looked no feeling but complete surprise. He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek. “Maurine, Maurine,” he whispered, “will you speak?”

Then suddenly, as o’er some magic glass One picture in a score of shapes will pass, I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze. First, as the playmate of my earlier days – Next, as my kin–and then my valued friend, And last, my lover. As when colours blend In some unlooked-for group before our eyes, We hold the glass, and look them o’er and o’er, So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise,
In which he ne’er appeared to me before.

His form was like a panther’s in its grace, So lithe and supple, and of medium height, And garbed in all the elegance of fashion. His large black eyes were full of fire and passion, And in expression fearless, firm, and bright. His hair was like the very deeps of night, And hung in raven clusters ’round a face Of dark and flashing beauty.

He was more
Like some romantic maiden’s grand ideal Than like a common being. As I gazed
Upon the handsome face to mine upraised, I saw before me, living, breathing, real, The hero of my early day-dreams: though
So full my heart was with that clear-cut face, Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero’s place, I had not recognised him so before,
Or thought of him, save as a valued friend. So now I called him, adding,

“Foolish boy!
Each word of love you utter aims a blow At that sweet trust I had reposed in you. I was so certain I had found a true,
Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend, And go on wholly trusting to the end.
Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy, By turning to a lover?”

“Why, indeed!
Because I loved you more than any brother, Or any friend could love.” Then he began To argue like a lawyer, and to plead
With all his eloquence. And, listening, I strove to think it was a goodly thing
To be so fondly loved by such a man, And it were best to give his wooing heed, And not deny him. Then before my eyes,
In all its clear-cut majesty, that other Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise And rob my purpose of all life and strength.

Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could, With that impetuous, boyish eloquence.
He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should Give some least hope; till, in my own defence, I turned upon him, and replied at length: “I thank you for the noble heart you offer: But it deserves a true one in exchange.
I could love you if I loved not another Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer.”

Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I said: “Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange; But I love one I cannot hope to wed.
A river rolls between us, dark and deep. To cross it–were to stain with blood my hand. You force my speech on what I fain would keep In my own bosom, but you understand?
My heart is given to love that’s sanctified, And now can feel no other.

Be you kind,
Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more, Lest pleading and denying should divide
The hearts so long united. Let me find In you my cousin and my friend of yore.
And now come home. The morning, all too soon And unperceived, has melted into noon.
Helen will miss us, and we must return.”

He took my hand, and helped me to arise, Smiling upon me with his sad, dark eyes, Where passion’s fires had, sudden, ceased to burn.

“And so,” he said, “too soon and unforeseen My friendship melted into love, Maurine. But, sweet! I am not wholly in the blame For what you term my folly. You forgot,
So long we’d known each other, I had not In truth a brother’s or a cousin’s claim. But I remembered, when through every nerve Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began To love you with that human love of man
For comely woman. By your coaxing arts, You won your way into my heart of hearts, And all Platonic feelings put to rout.
A maid should never lay aside reserve With one who’s not her kinsman, out and out. But as we now, with measured steps, retrace The path we came, e’en so my heart I’ll send, At your command, back to the olden place, And strive to love you only as a friend.” I felt the justice of his mild reproof,
But answered, laughing, “‘Tis the same old cry: ‘The woman tempted me, and I did eat.’
Since Adam’s time we’ve heard it. But I’ll try And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof The fruit I never once had thought so sweet ‘Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner, Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner. And guard each act, that no least look betray What’s passed between us.”

Then I turned away
And sought my room, low humming some old air That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes Fell on a face so glorified and fair
All other senses, merged in that of sight, Were lost in contemplation of the bright And wond’rous picture, which had otherwise Made dim my vision.

Waiting in my room,
Her whole face lit as by an inward flame That shed its halo ’round her, Helen stood; Her fair hands folded like a lily’s leaves Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves. Upon her cheek the colour went and came
As sunlight flickers o’er a bed of bloom; And, like some slim young sapling of the wood, Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair Fell ’round her loosely, in long curling strands All unconfined, and as by loving hands
Tossed into bright confusion.

Standing there,
Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem Like some unearthly creature of a dream; Until she started forward, gliding slowly, And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly, As one grown meek, and humble in an hour, Bowing before some new and mighty power.

“Maurine, Maurine!” she murmured, and again, “Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!”

And then,
Laying her love-light hands upon my head, She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said With voice that bore her joy in ev’ry tone, As winds that blow across a garden bed
Are weighed with fragrance, “He is mine alone, And I am his–all his–his very own.
So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie Save one beneath God’s over-arching sky. I could not wait to tell you of my bliss: I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss.” So hiding my heart’s trouble with a smile, I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin, When my lips fell where his so late had been. And all day long I bore about with me
A sense of shame–yet mixed with satisfaction, As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be Sad with the guilt resulting from her action, While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet. That ev’ning when the house had settled down To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown: With steps like fall of thistle-down she came, Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name, Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet.

“Sweetheart,” she murmured softly, “ere I sleep, I needs must tell you all my tale of joy. Beginning where you left us–you and Roy. You saw the colour flame upon my cheek
When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he; – And, when we were alone, he gazed at me
With such a strange look in his wond’rous eyes. The silence deepened; and I tried to speak Upon some common topic, but could not,
My heart was in such tumult.

In this wise
Five happy moments glided by us, fraught With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then, And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair. And, in his low voice, o’er and o’er again, Said, ‘Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.’ Then took my face, and turned it to the light, And looking in my eyes, and seeing what
Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low, ‘Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight. You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?’
And I made answer straightway, ‘With my life And soul and strength I love you, O my love!’ He leaned and took me gently to his breast, And said, ‘Here then this dainty head shall rest Henceforth for ever: O my little dove!
My lily-bud–my fragile blossom-wife!’

And then I told him all my thoughts; and he Listened, with kisses for his comments, till My tale was finished. Then he said, ‘I will Be frank with you, my darling, from the start, And hide no secret from you in my heart. I love you, Helen, but you are not first To rouse that love to being. Ere we met
I loved a woman madly–never dreaming She was not all in truth she was in seeming. Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed Of God and man–a wily vain coquette.
I hate myself for having loved her. Yet So much my heart spent on her, it must give A love less ardent, and less prodigal,
Albeit just as tender and as true – A milder, yet a faithful love to you.
Just as some evil fortune might befall A man’s great riches, causing him to live In some low cot, all unpretending, still As much his home–as much his loved retreat, As was the princely palace on the hill,
E’en so I give you all that’s left, my sweet! Of my heart-fortune.’

‘That were more to me,’
I made swift smiling answer, ‘than to be The worshipped consort of a king.’ And so Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go Until I vowed to wed him New Year day.
And I am sad because you go away
Before that time. I shall not feel half wed Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay, And be my bridesmaid.”

“Nay, I cannot, dear!
‘Twould disarrange our plans for half a year. I’ll be in Europe New Year day,” I said, “And send congratulations by the cable.” And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing, The festal garments of a wedding scene,
While all my heart was hung with sorrow’s sable. Forgetting for a season, that between
The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss, I lived in my near future, confident
All would be as I planned it; and, across The briny waste of waters, I should find Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind. The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed, Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom.

Roy left us for a time, and Helen went To make the nuptial preparations. Then,
Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill: Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill Of two physicians could not stem the tide. The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest, Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds: and when The Autumn day, that I had thought to be Bounding upon the billows of the sea,
Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn, Striving to keep away that unloved guest Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn. Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside The suff’rer’s couch, Roy was my help and stay; Others were kind, but he alone each day
Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face, And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place Like rays of light upon a darkened way.
November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill, In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill. Returning light and life dispelled the gloom That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb. Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better – Was dressed each day, and walked about the room. Then came one morning in the Eastern mail, A little white-winged birdling of a letter. I broke the seal and read,

“Maurine, my own!
I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad. I felt so sorry for you; and so sad
To think I left you when I did–alone To bear your pain and worry, and those nights Of weary, anxious watching.

Vivian writes
Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail Before the Springtime. So you’ll come and be My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay. But three weeks more of girlhood left to me. Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day, And make your preparations here. My sweet! Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill – I’m sorry she has suffered so; and still I’m thankful something happened, so you stayed. I’m sure my wedding would be incomplete
Without your presence. Selfish, I’m afraid You’ll think your Helen. But I love you so, How can I be quite willing you should go? Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know, And I will meet you, dearie! at the train. Your happy, loving Helen.”

Then the pain
That, hidden under later pain and care, Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep, Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep My tortured heart in anguish and despair.

I had relied too fully on my skill
In bending circumstances to my will: And now I was rebuked and made to see
That God alone knoweth what is to be. Then came a messenger from Vivian, who
Came not himself, as he was wont to do, But sent his servant each new day to bring A kindly message, or an offering
Of juicy fruits to cool the lips of fever, Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom To brighten up the convalescent’s room.
But now the servant only brought a line From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine, “Dear Sir, and Friend”–in letters bold and plain, Written on cream-white paper, so it ran: “It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor, And therefore doubly so a wish of mine,
That you shall honour me next New Year Eve, My wedding hour, by standing as best man. Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe. Being myself a novice in the art –
If I should fail in acting well my part, I’ll need protection ‘gainst the regiment Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent
To stand by me in time of need, and shield Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield.”

The last least hope had vanished; I must drain, E’en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.


There was a week of bustle and of hurry; A stately home echoed to voices sweet,
Calling, replying; and to tripping feet Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro, With all that girlish fluttering and flurry Preceding such occasions.

Helen’s room
Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom, Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau. My robe was fashioned by swift, skilful hands – A thing of beauty, elegant and rich,
A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands; And as I watched it growing, stitch by stitch, I felt as one might feel who should behold With vision trance-like, where his body lay In deathly slumber, simulating clay,
His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold.

I lived with ev’ry nerve upon the strain, As men go into battle; and the pain,
That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed From mortal eyes by superhuman power,
That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour. What night the Old Year gave unto the New The key of human happiness and woe,
The pointed stars, upon their field of blue, Shone, white and perfect, o’er a world below, Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed In gleaming garments, decked with diadems, Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest, Coming o’erladen with a gift of gems.
The bustle of the dressing-room; the sound Of eager voices in discourse; the clang
Of “sweet bells jangled”; thud of steel-clad feet That beat swift music on the frozen ground – All blent together in my brain, and rang A medley of strange noises, incomplete,
And full of discords.

Then out on the night
Streamed from the open vestibule, a light That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod, With all the hues of those that deck the sod. The grand cathedral windows were ablaze
With gorgeous colours; through a sea of bloom, Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom, The bridal cortege passed.

As some lost soul
Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze Upon its coffined body, so I went
With that glad festal throng. The organ sent Great waves of melody along the air,
That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray, On happy hearts that listened. But to me It sounded faintly, as if miles away,
A troubled spirit, sitting in despair Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea,
Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole. We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers, The white-robed man of God stood forth.

I heard
The solemn service open; through long hours I seemed to stand and listen, while each word Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay Upon the coffin of the worshipped dead.
The stately father gave the bride away: The bridegroom circled with a golden band The taper finger of her dainty hand.
The last imposing, binding words were said – “What God has joined let no man put asunder” – And all my strife with self was at an end; My lover was the husband of my friend.

How strangely, in some awful hour of pain, External trifles with our sorrows blend! I never hear the mighty organ’s thunder, I never catch the scent of heliotrope,
Nor see stained windows all ablaze with light, Without that dizzy whirling of the brain, And all the ghastly feeling of that night, When my sick heart relinquished love and hope.

The pain we feel so keenly may depart, And e’en its memory cease to haunt the heart: But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound Will probe the closed recesses of the wound, And for a moment bring the old-time smart.

Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles, Good-byes and farewells given; then across The snowy waste of weary wintry miles,
Back to my girlhoods’ home, where, through each room, For evermore pale phantoms of delight
Should aimless wander, always in my sight, Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb Wet with the tears of living pain and loss.

The sleepless nights of watching and of care, Followed by that one week of keenest pain, Taxing my weakened system, and my brain, Brought on a ling’ring illness.

Day by day,
In that strange, apathetic state I lay, Of mental and of physical despair.
I had no pain, no fever, and no chill, But lay without ambition, strength, or will. Knowing no wish for anything but rest,
Which seemed, of all God’s store of gifts, the best.

Physicians came and shook their heads and sighed; And to their score of questions I replied, With but one languid answer, o’er and o’er, “I am so weary–weary–nothing more.”

I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered thing, Flying through space with ever-aching wing, Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white, That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight, But always one unchanging distance kept, And woke more weary than before I slept.

I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize, A hand from heaven held down before my eyes. All eagerness I sought it–it was gone,
But shone in all its beauty farther on. I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest
Of that great prize, whereon was written “Rest,” Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam, And wakened doubly weary with my dream.

I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain, That saw a snow-white lily on the plain, And left the cloud to nestle in her breast. I fell and fell, but nevermore found rest – I fell and fell, but found no stopping place, Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space, While space illimitable stretched before.

And all these dreams but wearied me the more.

Familiar voices sounded in my room –
Aunt Ruth’s, and Roy’s, and Helen’s: but they seemed A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed, And now remembered dimly.

Wrapped in gloom,
My mind, o’ertaxed, lost hold of time at last, Ignored its future, and forgot its past, And groped along the present, as a light, Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night, Will flicker faintly.

But I felt, at length,
When March winds brought vague rumours of the spring, A certain sense of “restlessness with rest.” My aching frame was weary of repose,
And wanted action.

Then slow-creeping strength
Came back with Mem’ry, hand in hand, to bring And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast, Grim-visaged Recollection’s thorny rose. I gained, and failed. One day could ride and walk, The next would find me prostrate: while a flock Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit About the chambers of my heart, or sit,
Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings, Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings, That once resounded to Hope’s happy lays.

So passed the ever-changing April days. When May came, lightsome footed, o’er the lea, Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy,
I bade farewell to home with secret joy, And turned my wan face eastward to the sea. Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands Were one to him. Or Egypt’s burning sands, Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome, All were familiar as the fields of home.

There was a year of wand’ring to and fro, Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights; Dwelling among the countless, rare delights Of lands historic; turning dusty pages,
Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages Gazing upon the scenes of bloody acts,
Of kings long buried–bare, unvarnished facts, Surpassing wildest fictions of the brain; Rubbing against all people, high and low, And by this contact feeling Self to grow Smaller and less important, and the vein Of human kindness deeper, seeing God,
Unto the humble delver of the sod,
And to the ruling monarch on the throne, Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain, And that all hearts have feelings like our own.

There is no school that disciplines the mind, And broadens thought, like contact with mankind. The college-prisoned graybeard, who has burned The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned, Till sciences or classics hold no lore
He has not conned and studied, o’er and o’er, Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared
With some unlettered wand’rer, who has shared The hospitalities of every land;
Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand; Made man his study, and the world his college, And gained this grand epitome of knowledge: Each human being has a heart and soul,
And self is but an atom of the whole. I hold he is best learned and most wise
Who best and most can love and sympathize. Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained; Our banded minds go round in little grooves; But constant friction with the world removes These iron foes to freedom, and we rise
To grander heights, and, all untrammelled, find A better atmosphere and clearer skies;
And through its broadened realm, no longer chained, Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind. Where’er we chanced to wander or to roam, Glad letters came from Helen; happy things, Like little birds that followed on swift wings, Bringing their tender messages from home. Her days were poems, beautiful, complete. The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet. She was so happy–happy, and so blest.

My heart had found contentment in that year. With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer The heart of youth turns ever to the light; Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night, But, in its very anguish and unrest,
It beats and tears the pall-like folds away, And finds again the sunlight of the day.

And yet, despite the changes without measure, Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure; Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart Was conscious of a something lacking, where Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair. Now love was buried; and despair had flown Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown From heights serene and lofty; and the place Where both had dwelt was empty, voiceless space. And so I took my long-loved study, art,
The dreary vacuum in my life to fill, And worked, and laboured, with a right good will. Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy. A dainty little lassie, Grace Kildare,
Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair, And made him captive.

We were thrown, by chance,
In contact with her people while in France The previous season: she was wholly sweet And fair and gentle; so naive, and yet
So womanly, she was at once the pet Of all our party; and, ere many days,
Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways, Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet. Her home was in the Highlands; and she came Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame.

Through all these months Roy had been true as steel; And by his every action made me feel
He was my friend and brother, and no more, The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore. Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew Whether the love he felt one time was dead, Or only hidden, for my sake, from view.
So when he came to me one day, and said, The velvet blackness of his eyes ashine
With light of love and triumph: “Cousin, mine, Congratulate me! She whom I adore
Has pledged to me the promise of her hand; Her heart I have already,” I was glad
With double gladness, for it freed my mind Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad.

From March till June had left her moons behind, And merged her rose-red beauty in July,
There was no message from my native land. Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned: Death had been near to Helen, but passed by; The danger was now over. God was kind;
The mother and the child were both alive; No other child was ever known to thrive
As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say. The infant was a wonder, every way.
And, at command of Helen, he would send A lock of baby’s golden hair to me.
And did I, on my honour, ever see
Such hair before? Helen would write, ere long: She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong – Stronger than ever, so the doctors said. I took the tiny ringlet, golden–fair,
Mayhap his hand had severed from the head Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek And to my lips, and kissed it o’er and o’er. All my maternal instincts seemed to rise, And clamour for their rights, while my wet eyes Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair. The woman struggled with her heart before! It was the mother in me now did speak,
Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not, And crying out against her barren lot.

Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years That stretched before me, dark with love’s eclipse; And thought how my unmated heart would miss The shelter of a broad and manly breast – The strong, bold arm–the tender clinging kiss – And all pure love’s possessions, manifold; But now I wept a flood of bitter tears,
Thinking of little heads of shining gold, That would not on my bosom sink to rest; Of little hands that would not touch my cheek; Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips, That never in my list’ning ear would speak The blessed name of mother.

Oh, in woman
How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere Unto her wond’ring, untaught mind unfolds The myst’ry that is half divine, half human, Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps, And grows and strengthens with each riper year.

As storms may gather in a placid sky, And spend their fury, and then pass away, Leaving again the blue of cloudless day, E’en so the tempest of my grief passed by. ‘Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned, With the deliberate purpose of my mind,
To my sweet friend.

Relinquishing my love,
I gave my dearest hope of joy to her. If God, from out His boundless store above, Had chosen added blessings to confer,
I would rejoice, for her sake–not repine That th’ immortal treasures were not mine.

Better my lonely sorrow, than to know My selfish joy had been another’s woe;
Better my grief and my strength to control, Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul; Better to go on, loveless, to the end,
Than wear love’s rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.

Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart. With will most resolute I set my aim
To enter on the weary race for Fame, And if I failed to climb the dizzy height, To reach some point of excellence in art.

E’en as the Maker held earth incomplete, Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod, The perfect, living image of his God,
All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight, Wherein the human figure had no part.
In that, all lines of symmetry did meet – All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought
Enthusiasm in abundance, thought,
Much study, and some talent, day by day, To help me in my efforts to portray
The wond’rous power, majesty and grace Stamped on some form, or looking from some face. This was to be my specialty: To take
Human emotion for my theme, and make The unassisted form divine express
Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress; And thus to build Fame’s monument above
The grave of my departed hope and love. This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings And soars beyond itself, or selfish things. Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross, Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss, Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition, Before it labours onward to fruition.

But, as the lark from beds of bloom will rise And sail and sing among the very skies,
Still mounting near and nearer to the light, Impelled wings, to heights sublime.
Impelled alone by love of upward flight, So Genius soars–it does not need to climb – Some sportman’s shot, grazing the singer’s throat, Some venomous assault of birds of prey,
May speed its flight toward the realm of day, And tinge with triumph every liquid note. So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet, When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret.

There is no balking Genius. Only death Can silence it, or hinder. While there’s breath Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod, And lift itself to glory, and to God.
The acorn sprouted–weeds nor flowers can choke The certain growth of th’ upreaching oak.

Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind Its selfish love and sorrow.

Did I strive
To picture some emotion, lo! HIS eyes, Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes,
Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive. Whate’er my subject, in some hue or line, The glorious beauty of his face would shine.

So for a time my labour seemed in vain, Since it but freshened, and made keener yet, The grief my heart was striving to forget. While in his form all strength and magnitude With grace and supple sinews were entwined, While in his face all beauties were combined Of perfect features, intellect and truth, With all that fine rich colouring of youth, How could my brush portray aught good or fair Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude Of him my soul had worshipped?

But, at last,
Setting a watch upon my unwise heart, That thus would mix its sorrow with my art, I resolutely shut away the past,
And made the toilsome present passing bright With dreams of what was hidden from my sight In the far distant future, when the soil Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.


With much hard labour and some pleasure fraught, The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught My hand to grow more skilful in its art, Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.

Brief letters came from Helen, now and then: She was quite well–oh yes! quite well, indeed! But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by, When baby, being older, should not need
Such constant care, she would grow strong again. She was as happy as a soul could be;
No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; She had not thought life held such depths of bliss. Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss,
And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, Not to come home and see ma’s little pearl. No gift of costly jewels, or of gold,
Had been so precious or so dear to me, As each brief line wherein her joy was told. It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.

Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where He built a pretty villa-like retreat.
And when the Roman Summer’s languid heat Made work a punishment, I turned my face Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.

I was a willing worker. Not an hour
Passed idly by me: each, I would employ To some good purpose, ere it glided on
To swell the tide of hours forever gone. My first completed picture, known as “Joy,” Won pleasant words of praise. “Possesses power,” “Displays much talent,” “Very fairly done.” So fell the comments on my grateful ear.

Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near, Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed,
With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried.
The careful study of long months, it won Golden opinions; even bringing forth
That certain sign of merit–a critique Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak As empty heads that sang their praises–so Proving conclusively the pictures’ worth. These critics and reviewers do not use
Their precious ammunition to abuse
A worthless work. That, left alone, they know Will find its proper level; and they aim Their batteries at rising works which claim Too much of public notice. But this shot Resulted only in some noise, which brought A dozen people, where one came before,
To view my pictures; and I had my hour Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow’r. An English Baron who had lived two score Of his allotted three score years and ten Bought both the pieces. He was very kind, And so attentive, I, not being blind,
Must understand his meaning.

Therefore, when
He said,
“Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife, The ‘Joy’ and ‘Sorrow’ this dear hand portrayed I have in my possession: now resign
Into my careful keeping, and make mine, The joy and sorrow of your future life,” – I was prepared to answer, but delayed,
Grown undecided suddenly.

My mind
Argued the matter coolly pro and con, And made resolve to speed his wooing on
And grant him favour. He was good and kind; Not young, no doubt he would be quite content With my respect, nor miss an ardent love; Could give me ties of family and home;
And then, perhaps, my mind was not above Setting some value on a titled name –
Ambitious woman’s weakness!

Then my art
Would be encouraged and pursued the same, And I could spend my winters all in Rome. Love never more could touch my wasteful heart That all its wealth upon one object spent. Existence would be very bleak and cold,
After long years, when I was gray and old, With neither home nor children.

Once a wife,
I would forget the sorrow of my life, And pile new sods upon the grave of pain. My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard, But made no comment.

Then the Baron spoke,
And waited for my answer. All in vain I strove for strength to utter that one word My mind dictated. Moments rolled away –
Until at last my torpid heart awoke, And forced my trembling lips to say him nay. And then my eyes with sudden tears o’erran, In pity for myself and for this man
Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise. “Dear friend,” I cried, “dear generous friend, forgive A troubled woman’s weakness! As I live,
In truth I meant to answer otherwise. From out its store, my heart can give you naught But honour and respect; and yet methought I would give willing answer, did you sue. But now I know ’twere cruel wrong I planned – Taking a heart that beat with love most true, And giving in exchange an empty hand.
Who weds for love alone, may not be wise: Who weds without it, angels must despise. Love and respect together must combine
To render marriage holy and divine; And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys Continuation of the nuptial joys,
And brings regret, and gloomy discontent To put to rout each tender sentiment.
Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life By that possession–an unloving wife;
Nor will I take the sin upon my soul Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole. However bleak may be my single lot,
I will not stain my life with such a blot. Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide; It holds some fairer woman for your bride; I would I had a heart to give to you,
But, lacking it, can only say–adieu!”

He whom temptation never has assailed, Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength; When sorely tried, we waver, but at length, Rise up and turn away, not having failed.

* * *

The Autumn of the third year came and went; The mild Italian winter was half spent,
When this brief message came across the sea: “My darling! I am dying. Come to me.
Love, which so long the growing truth concealed, Stands pale within its shadow. Oh, my sweet! This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat – Dying with very weight of bliss. Oh, come! And take the legacy I leave to you,
Before these lips for evermore are dumb. In life or death,–Yours, Helen Dangerfield.” This plaintive letter bore a month old date; And, wild with fears lest I had come too late, I bade the old world and new friends adieu, And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home, I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.

All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled, Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear, Was passing from me; that she might be dead; And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me, Because I made no answer to her plea.

“O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on, Make haste before a wasting life is gone! Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath! And true in life, be true e’en unto death.

“O, ship, sail on! and bear me o’er the tide To her for whom my woman’s heart once died. Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me, And I would know what her last wish may be! I have been true, so true, through all the past. Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last.”

So prayed my heart still o’er, and ever o’er, Until the weary lagging ship reached shore. All sad with fears that I had come too late, By that strange source whence men communicate, Though miles on miles of space between them lie, I spoke with Vivian: “Does she live? Reply.” The answer came. “She lives, but hasten, friend! Her journey draweth swiftly to its end.”

Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot, My own dear home, the lane that led to his – The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight, Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might; Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot, But those sweet early years of lost delight, Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.

I have a theory, vague, undefined,
That each emotion of the human mind, Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair, Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air,
Until it takes possession of some breast; And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, And bid it leave us wholly, and depart,
It does not die, it cannot die; but goes And mingles with some restless wind that blows About the region where it had its birth. And though we wander over all the earth, That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, Invisible and clothed like the air,
Hoping that we may yet again draw near, And it may haply take us unaware,
And once more find safe shelter in the breast It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.

Told by my heart, and wholly positive, Some old emotion long had ceased to live; That, were it called, it could not hear or come, Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, Yet, passing where it first sprang into life, My very soul has suddenly been rife
With all the old intensity of feeling. It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing Into my heart from that departed day;
Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.

So now into my troubled heart, above
The present’s pain and sorrow, crept the love And strife and passion of a bygone hour, Possessed of all their olden might and power. ‘Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken, And Vivian stood before us.

But I saw
In him the husband of my friend alone. The old emotions might at times return,
And smould’ring fires leap up an hour and burn; But never yet had I transgressed God’s law, By looking on the man I had resigned,
With any hidden feeling in my mind, Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known He was but little altered. From his face The nonchalant and almost haughty grace, The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes, The years had stolen, leaving in their place A settled sadness, which was not despair, Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care, But something like the vapour o’er the skies Of Indian summer, beautiful to see,
But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be. There was that in his face which cometh not, Save when the soul has many a battle fought, And conquered self by constant sacrifice.

There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine, Render the plainest features half divine. All other artists strive and strive in vain, To picture beauty perfect and complete.
Their statues only crumble at their feet, Without the master touch of Faith and Pain. And now his face, that perfect seemed before, Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore A look exalted, which the spirit gives
When soul has conquered, and the body lives Subservient to its bidding.

In a room
Which curtained out the February gloom, And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers, Rested the eye like one of Summer’s bowers, I found my Helen, who was less mine now
Than Death’s; for on the marble of her brow His seal was stamped indelibly.

Her form
Was like the slender willow, when some storm Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face, Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue: And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place, Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue. Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein, And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light Shone through and made her wasted features bright With an unearthly beauty; and an awe
Crept o’er me, gazing on her, for I saw She was so near to Heaven that I seemed
To look upon the face of one redeemed. She turned the brilliant lustre of her eyes Upon me. She had passed beyond surprise, Or any strong emotion linked with clay.
But as I glided to her where she lay, A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed Her pallid features. “Welcome home!” she breathed “Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and rejoice.” And like the dying echo of a voice
Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.

I fell upon my knees beside her bed;
All agonies within my heart were wed, While to the aching numbness of my grief, Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear, – The tortured soul’s most merciful relief. Her wasted hand caressed my bended head
For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said, In that low tone so like the wind’s refrain, “Maurine, my own! give not away to pain; The time is precious. Ere another dawn
My soul may hear the summons and pass on. Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while, And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak With every hour that passes. I must speak And make my dying wishes known to-night. Go now.” And in the halo of her smile,
Which seemed to fill the room with golden light, I turned and left her.

Later, in the gloom
Of coming night, I entered that dim room, And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand: And on the pillow at her side there smiled The beauteous count’nance of a sleeping child.

“Maurine,” spoke Helen, “for three blissful years, My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land; And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy, Without one drop of anguish or alloy.
And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall, Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears, And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all Who linger long upon this troubled way,
God takes me to the realm of Endless Day, To mingle with His angels, who alone
Can understand such bliss as I have known. I do not murmur. God has heaped my measure, In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure; And, from the fulness of an earthly love, I pass to th’ Immortal Arms above,
Before I even brush the skirts of Woe.

“I leave my aged parents here below,
With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend! Be kind to them, and love them to the end, Which may not be far distant.

And I leave
A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine. From this most holy, sad and sacred eve, Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep, To love and shelter, to protect and guide.” She touched the slumb’ring cherub at her side, And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep, And laid the precious burden on my breast.

A solemn silence fell upon the scene. And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek,
I felt it would be sacrilege to speak, Such wordless joy possessed me.

Oh! at last
This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past, Had caused my soul such travail, was my own: Through all the lonely coming years to be Mine own to cherish–wholly mine alone.
And what I mourned so hopelessly as lost Was now restored, and given back to me.

The dying voice continued:
“In this child
You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost. But all that was most pure and undefiled, And good within me, lives in her again.
Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know, Moving about the wide world, to and fro, And through, and in the busy haunts of men, Not always will his heart be dumb with woe, But sometime waken to a later love.
Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed above All selfish feelings! I would have it so. While I am with the angels, blest and glad, I would not have you sorrowing and sad,
In loneliness go mourning to the end. But, love! I could not trust to any other The sacred office of a foster-mother
To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend.

“Teach her to love her father’s name, Maurine, Where’er he wanders. Keep my memory green In her young heart, and lead her in her youth, To drink from th’ eternal fount of Truth; Vex her not with sectarian discourse,
Nor strive to teach her piety by force; Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds, Nor frighten her with an avenging God,
Who rules His subjects with a burning rod; But teach her that each mortal simply needs To grow in hate of hate and love of love, To gain a kingdom in the courts above.
“Let her be free and natural as the flowers, That smile and nod throughout the summer hours. Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth, But first impress upon her mind this truth: No lasting happiness is e’er attained
Save when the heart some OTHER seeks to please. The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained, And full of gall and bitterness the lees. Next to her God, teach her to love her land; In her young bosom light the patriot’s flame Until the heart within her shall expand
With love and fervour at her country’s name.

“No coward-mother bears a valiant son. And this, my last wish, is an earnest one.

“Maurine, my o’er-taxed strength is waning; you Have heard my wishes, and you will be true In death as you have been in life, my own! Now leave me for a little while alone
With him–my husband. Dear love! I shall rest So sweetly with no care upon my breast.
Good-night, Maurine, come to me in the morning.”

But lo! the Bridegroom with no further warning Came for her at the dawning of the day.
She heard His voice, and smiled, and passed away Without a struggle.

Leaning o’er her bed
To give her greeting, I found but her clay, And Vivian bowed beside it.

And I said,
“Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request, And when the night of fever and unrest
Melts in the morning of Eternity,
Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee.

“I will come to thee in the morning, sweet! I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet Before God’s throne, and shall not be afraid. Thou gav’st me trust, and it was not betrayed.

“I will come to thee in the morning, dear! The night is dark. I do not know how near The morn may be of that Eternal Day;
I can but keep my faithful watch and pray.

“I will come to thee in the morning, love! Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above. The way is troubled where my feet must climb, Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime.

“I will come in the morning, O mine own; But for a time must grope my way alone,
Through tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn, And I shall hear the summons, and pass on.

“I will come in the morning. Rest secure! My hope is certain and my faith is sure. After the gloom and darkness of the night I will come to thee with the morning light.”

* * *

Three peaceful years slipped silently away.

We dwelt together in my childhood’s home, Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May.
She was a fair and most exquisite child; Her pensive face was delicate and mild
Like her dead mother’s; but through her dear eyes Her father smiled upon me, day by day.
Afar in foreign countries did he roam, Now resting under Italy’s blue skies,
And now with Roy in Scotland.

And he sent
Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went And what he saw, addressed to May or me. And I would write and tell him how she grew – And how she talked about him o’er the sea In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew
His picture in the album; how each day She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring Her own papa back to his little May.
It was a warm bright morning in the Spring. I sat in that same sunny portico,
Where I was sitting seven years ago When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears, As I looked back across the checkered years. How many were the changes they had brought! Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught To my young heart had been of untold worth. I had learned how to “suffer and grow strong” – That knowledge which best serves us here on earth, And brings reward in Heaven.

Oh! how long
The years had been since that June morning when I heard his step upon the walk, and yet
I seemed to hear its echo still.

Just then
Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet, And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land Stood there before me!–holding out his hand And smiling with those wond’rous eyes of old.

To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child; But she was shy, and clung to me, when told This was papa, for whom her prayers were said. She dropped her eyes and shook her little head, And would not by his coaxing be beguiled, Or go to him.

Aunt Ruth was not at home,
And we two sat and talked, as strangers might, Of distant countries which we both had seen. But once I thought I saw his large eyes light With sudden passion, when there came a pause In our chit-chat, and then he spoke:

I saw a number of your friends in Rome. We talked of you. They seemed surprised, because You were not ‘mong the seekers for a name. They thought your whole ambition was for fame.”

“It might have been,” I answered, “when my heart Had nothing else to fill it. Now my art
Is but a recreation. I have THIS
To love and live for, which I had not then.” And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss Upon my child’s fair brow.

“And yet,” he said,
The old light leaping to his eyes again, “And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed A noble Baron! one of many men
Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet. Why won the bravest of them no return?”
I bowed my head, nor dared his gaze to meet. On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn, And strong emotion strangled speech.

He rose
And came and knelt beside me.

“Sweet, my sweet!”
He murmured softly, “God in Heaven knows How well I loved you seven years ago.
He only knows my anguish, and my grief, When your own acts forced on me the belief That I had been your plaything and your toy. Yet from his lips I since have learned that Roy Held no place nearer than a friend and brother. And then a faint suspicion, undefined,
Of what had been–was–might be, stirred my mind, And that great love, I thought died at a blow, Rose up within me, strong with hope and life.

“Before all heaven and the angel mother Of this sweet child that slumbers on your heart, Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife – Mine own, forever, until death shall part!”

Through happy mists of upward welling tears, I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes. “Dear heart,” I said, “if she who dwells above Looks down upon us, from yon azure skies, She can but bless us, knowing all these years My soul had yearned in silence for the love That crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak. I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake. For her sweet child’s, and for my own, I take You back to be all mine, for evermore.”

Just then the child upon my breast awoke From her light sleep, and laid her downy cheek Against her father as he knelt by me.
And this unconscious action seemed to be A silent blessing, which the mother spoke Gazing upon us from the mystic shore.


All roads that lead to God are good.
What matters it, your faith, or mine? Both centre at the goal divine
Of love’s eternal Brotherhood.

The kindly life in house or street –
The life of prayer and mystic rite – The student’s search for truth and light – These paths at one great Junction meet.

Before the oldest book was writ,
Full many a prehistoric soul
Arrived at this unchanging goal,
Through changeless Love, that leads to it.

What matters that one found his Christ In rising sun, or burning fire?
If faith within him did not tire, His longing for the Truth sufficed.

Before our modern hell was brought
To edify the modern world,
Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled In lakes of fire by its own thought.

A thousand creeds have come and gone, But what is that to you or me?
Creeds are but branches of a tree – The root of love lives on and on.

Though branch by branch proves withered wood, The root is warm with precious wine.
Then keep your faith and leave me mine – All roads that lead to God are good.


I know not wherefore, but mine eyes
See bloom, where other eyes see blight. They find a rainbow, a sunrise,
Where others but discern deep night.

Men call me an enthusiast,
And say I look through gilded haze: Because where’er my gaze is cast,
I see something that calls for praise.

I say, “Behold those lovely eyes –
That tinted cheek of flower-like grace.” They answer in amused surprise:
“We thought it a common face.”

I say, “Was ever seen more fair?
I seem to walk in Eden’s bowers.” They answer, with a pitying air,
“The weeds are choking out the flowers.”

I know not wherefore, but God lent
A deeper vision to my sight.
On whatsoe’er my gaze is bent
I catch the beauty Infinite;

That underlying, hidden half
That all things hold of Deity.
So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh – Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.


I must do as you do? Your way I own
Is a very good way. And still,
There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, That the prudent choose each time;
And you think me reckless and rash to-day, Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine. We are not like peas in a pod,
Compelled to lie in a certain line, Or else be scattered abroad.

‘Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend, If we all went just one way;
Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end, Though they lead apart to-day.

You like the shade, and I like the sun; You like an even pace,
I like to mix with the crowd and run, And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm and strife,
You like a peaceful time;
I like the passion and surge of life, You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet,
And crocuses, framed in snow;
I like roses, born of the heat,
And the red carnation’s glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend, For so it was written down;
We must follow our given paths to the end, But I trust we shall meet–in town.


Over the banisters bends a face,
Daringly sweet and beguiling.
Somebody stands in careless grace
And watching the picture, smiling.

The light burns dim in the hall below, Nobody sees her standing,
Saying good-night again, soft and low, Halfway up to the landing.

Nobody only the eyes of brown,
Tender and full of meaning,
That smile on the fairest face in town, Over the banisters leaning.

Tired and sleepy, with drooping head, I wonder why she lingers;
Now, when the good-nights all are said, Why, somebody holds her fingers.

He holds her fingers and draws her down, Suddenly growing bolder,
Till the loose hair drops its masses brown Like a mantle over his shoulder.

Over the banisters soft hands, fair,
Brush his cheeks like a feather,
And bright brown tresses and dusky hair Meet and mingle together.

There’s a question asked, there’s a swift caress, She has flown like a bird from the hallway, But over the banisters drops a “Yes,”
That shall brighten the world for him alway.


I fling my past behind me like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
Of Oriental splendour, or complain
That I must needs discard it? I can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable. Subdued, It may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, While over all a fadeless lustre lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, My new robe shall be richer than the old.


Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone; Why, even God’s stupendous secret, Death, We one by one, with our expiring breath, Do pale with wonder seize and make our own; The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown, Despite her careful hiding; and the air Yields its mysterious marvels in despair To swell the mighty store-house of things known. In vain the sea expostulates and raves;
It cannot cover from the keen world’s sight The curious wonders of its coral caves. And so, despite thy caution or thy tears, The prying fingers of detective years
Shall drag THY secret out into the light.


I hold it one of the sad certain laws Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind Than that success which brings sure loss behind – True greatness dies, when sounds the world’s applause Fame blights the object it would bless, because Weighed down with men’s expectancy, the mind Can no more soar to those far heights, and find That freedom which its inspiration was.
When once we listen to its noisy cheers Or hear the populace’ approval, then
We catch no more the music of the spheres, Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men. Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears, The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.


They met each other in the glade –
She lifted up her eyes;
Alack the day! Alack the maid!
She blushed in swift surprise.
Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.

The pail was full, the path was steep – He reached to her his hand;
She felt her warm young pulses leap, But did not understand.
Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.

She sat beside him in the wood –
He wooed with words and sighs;
Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good, And maidens are not wise.
Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs.

The summer sun shone fairly down,
The wind blew from the south;
As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown, His kiss fell on her mouth.
Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.

And now the autumn time is near,
The lover roves away,
With breaking heart and falling tear, She sits the livelong day.
Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.


Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine! From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings, I cannot grasp at once those better things To which I in my inmost soul aspire.
Lean down and lift me higher.

I grope along–not desolate or sad,
For youth and hope and health all keep me glad; But too bright sunlight, sometimes, makes us blind, And I do grope for heights I cannot find. Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire – Lean down and lift me higher.

Not long ago we trod the self-same way. Thou knowest how, from day to fleeting day Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet, But only served to hinder and to tire;
Lean down and lift me higher.

Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene, And left me here, my loved one, Josephine; I am content to stay until the end,
For life is full of promise; but, my friend, Canst thou not help me in my best desire And lean, and lift me higher?

Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise, And quick to understand and sympathize
With all a full soul’s needs. It must be so, Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know Thou must see how I struggle and aspire – Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire, And lean, and lift me higher.


I feel the great immensity of life.
All little aims slip from me, and I reach My yearning soul toward the Infinite.

As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower For lovers’ secrets, or for children’s sports, Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds, And lets the eye behold it, limitless,
And full of winding mysteries of ways: So now with life that reaches out before, And borders on the unexplained Beyond.

I see the stars above me, world on world: I hear the awful language of all Space;
I feel the distant surging of great seas, That hide the secrets of the Universe
In their eternal bosoms; and I know That I am but an atom of the Whole.


Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending Through these glad New Year days,
To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending – For e’en hard hearts do raise
Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power, Or freedom from all care –
Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour, Hear now a Christian’s prayer.

Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me, Be as a means of grace
To lead me up, no matter what betide me, Nearer the Master’s face.
If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain Where living waters play,
My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain, Then cast them in my way.

If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses To shape it for Thy crown,
Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses, With sorrows bear it down.
Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure, And if I should complain,
Heap full of anguish yet another measure Until I smile at pain.
Send dangers–deaths! but tell me how to dare them; Enfold me in Thy care.
Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them – This is a Christian’s prayer.


Sometimes at night, when I sit and write, I hear the strangest things, –
As my brain grows hot with burning thought, That struggles for form and wings,
I can hear the beat of my swift blood’s feet, As it speeds with a rush and a whir
From heart to brain and back again, Like a race-horse under the spur.

With my soul’s fine ear I listen and hear The tender Silence speak,
As it leans on the breast of Night to rest, And presses his dusky cheek.
And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns For something that is kin;
And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss, As it folds and fondles Sin.

In its hurrying race through leagues of space, I can hear the Earth catch breath,
As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans, And longs for the rest of Death.
And high and far, from a distant star, Whose name is unknown to me,
I hear a voice that says, “Rejoice, For I keep ward o’er thee!”

Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range Through the chambers of the night;
And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates May hear, if he lists aright.


God measures souls by their capacity
For entertaining his best Angel, Love. Who loveth most is nearest kin to God,
Who is all Love, or Nothing.

He who sits
And looks out on the palpitating world, And feels his heart swell within him large enough To hold all men within it, he is near
His great Creator’s standard, though he dwells Outside the pale of churches, and knows not A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line
Of Scripture even. What God wants of us Is that outreaching bigness that ignores All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.