 | Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems |  |
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IV.
Life Pictures.
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The Mightier Realm.
“A SAILORS YARN,” AS REPEATED BY THE CAPTAIN.
I.
There was once a Queen named Dido,In a realm of the ancient time,
Who sail'd the sea, right royally,
With a purpose deem'd sublime:
But she sank to the deep sea's bottom
The wealth of that ancient realm;
For her woman-sway was supreme that day,
And her hand was on the helm.
II.
By the coast of a foreign people,In that reckless time of old,
Her anchors she cast—and to land she past,
With a spirit free and bold:
But the royal city she founded,
And builded, and peopled there,
Soon became the scene of a spirit the Queen
Could neither control nor bear.
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III.
So she parley'd for time to ponder;And the people soon saw arise
By the sounding sea, what proved to be
An altar of Sacrifice:
And on this the hand that had striven
To hold and control the helm,
With desperate art thrust a blade to her heart;
And thus perisht the Queen of that realm.
IV.
There is now a Queen named Dido,In a realm of the modern time—
A realm that lies 'neath serener skies,
And with purpose more sublime:
And this Queen has a pet named Fido—
A marvelous, mischievous thing,
Who proposed once to sail,—though he 'd only a tail—
And to take the Queen “under his wing.”
V.
But she knew that she couldn't trust him—For he 'd neither a wing nor a sail
To respond to the helm; and her beautiful realm
Might perish thus in the gale:
Yet she allowed him still to advise her—
And he workt on her fancy oft,
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And see the white sails spread aloft.
VI.
The dog and the Queen one day were seenLooking very much discontented;
And it seem'd that they had quarrel'd that day,
But the good Queen had relented.
Fido complain'd that Dido reign'd
Too much in her own dominions:
She should look all about, and spread herself out,
And then try abroad her pinions.
VII.
He could hardly be blinded:She was surely “Strong Minded,”
And ready for self-abnegation.
The world, quite benighted,
Could hardly get righted,
Without her active co-operation;
But if she were once there,
—It didn't much matter where,
Nor much matter what the distance—
All things would go right,
Both by day and by night,
For no one would think of resistance.
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VIII.
So the Queen took a notion, she 'd cross the broad ocean,—This marvelous Queen named Dido—
And with her she 'd take, just for company's sake,
Her marvelous pet, named Fido.
And they two went to sea, right ambitiously,
And big with their mighty Endeavor,
And raised the shout, as their sails swelled out,
“Oh, Woman is Queen forever!”
IX.
She stood at the helm of her new-found realm,—This wonderful woman, Dido—
And steer'd the ship with a firm-set lip;
While high on the poop stood Fido,
Watching the seas as the rising breeze
Drave the vessel on before it,
But fearing a wreck when he saw on the deck
How the wild waves tumbled o'er it.
X.
The Queen was brave; and, as on they drave,She grew stouter and stouter hearted:
“Blow high! blow low!” she sang out, “I'll go
On the venture for which I started.”
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And trembling with great emotion;
For he felt the ship give a duck-like dip,
As they entered the open ocean.
XI.
The Queen now felt in her broad bright belt,And her fingers made quite a rumpus:
“I have brought the chart, which I knew by heart,
But I left behind the compass!”
“Then helm a-port!—or our time is short
On this marvelous, mighty ocean!”
Shouted Fido out, as he glared about
And saw nothing but huge commotion.
XII.
“Blow low! blow high!—through sea or skyI'll sail, and sail forever,
Till face to face I stand, in the place
I sail'd for, with my Endeavor!”
Sang out the Queen, in a pause between,
The wind's rage and the water's:
(So like the way, when from Home they stray
And its realm, of Earth's fair daughters.)
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XIII.
Just then the ship gave a terrible dip;Yet, when it came up, still righted;
But its sails were split, and in ribands slit,
And Fido yelled out affrighted;
And the Queen, though bold, was wet and cold,
For some icebergs drifted near her,
And she saw the mane of the Hurricane,
As he shook it, clear and clearer,
Then felt its dash in her face, and the crash
Of the masts, as they fell about her:
But her woman-form still braved the storm,
And her woman-heart grew stouter.
XIV.
Then struck the ship on the ice! .... The dipOf an oar was all, thereafter,
She knew till her form lay quiet and warm
In a fisherman's hut; and a rafter
That met her dull eye, held her clothing to dry;
And the fisherman's wife and his daughter
Like angels sat by her, and kept up the fire,
And ministered to her, and taught her
The virtues and beauties of Home, and its duties,
And the kindness that took in a stranger,
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She required, and saved her from danger,
And death. And she swore, as she thought it all o'er,
That never again would great Dido,
—The wonderful Queen of this wonderful scene—
Be led into folly by Fido!
XV.
“I saw the white speck, as she stood on the deck!”Said the sailor, with honest emotion;
“And I wisht myself there, near the Hurricane's lair,
For I know all his haunts on the ocean.
Had she known but enough to have given a ‘luff!’
And close to the wind held the vessel,
Her bold woman form might have weather'd the storm,
For her soul was full-up to the wrestle!
As she lookt at the foam, on each billow's dark comb,
Her own hands by the helm-wheel bound her;
And she mockt at the gale till it split every sail,
And the spars lay in ruins around her.
But what right had SHE on the deck, and at sea,
With that beautiful form by the helm?
The hand fell in vain on the Hurricane's mane
Which at Home ruled a mightier realm!”
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XVI.
The captain lookt mad at the first, and then glad,At the sailor's outspoken emotion;
And after a while he sang out, with a smile:
“Now hear me, my brave Son of the Ocean!”
And he lookt like a man whose thoughts inwardly ran,
Ere he gave them the force of expression;
For he shielded his bright, beaming eyes from the light,
With their lashes, and made no digression:—
XVII.
“I find in Dido, and her pet Fido,The Woman and her Ambition:
The one that's two—the False and True!
The outward, seen condition,
Of inward fires, and wild desires,
That burn and tempt while hidden:
The mastering greed that yearns to feed
On fruit to her forbidden:
The reckless haste to cross the waste
Which man finds dark and dreary.
The stubborn will, that struggles still,
Though foil'd, and faint, and weary:
The quenchless thirst that bids her burst
Through all restraints e'er taught her,
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And drink untasted water:
The wish to go out to and fro,
Beyond the usual ranges,
And there to see what can not be
Till natural usance changes.
XVIII.
“My mind fills with regret, whenever it's setOn Woman and these conditions;
For could she but adhere, in her beautiful sphere,
To its holy and beautiful missions,
As I know in the main she does, and refrain
From the world's outer toil and strife,
Oh, how much more bright with affection's light
And love, would be her Life!
XIX.
“But the wild emotion that yearns for the ocean,Where Man contends with Might,
And the false ambition that seeks attrition
With him, in fields where the fight
Goes on of parties, whose frequent art is
Deception, and theft, and fraud,
Bring roughly down the beautiful Crown
Of Peace she wears from God!
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XX.
“With all this not so, she can sweetly goOn her missions of Home Endeavor,
And Man's heart sing out, as she moves about,
‘Oh, Woman is Queen forever!’”
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Woman.
IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF A COPY OF “LUCILE,” PRESENTED BY A FRIEND.
I.
In the highways of Life, here and there, now and then,Amid muslin call'd ladies, and buckram call'd men,
One meets, though the race is now hardly styled human,
A man that 's a man, and a woman that 's woman.
Such scorn not to drink of the waters of truth,
That flow, pure and cool, from the fountains of youth;
Nor reject, for roast beef and plum-pudding, the meal
Fitly season'd and served by the hand of Lucile.
II.
Lucile! oh thou sweetest of self-immolatorsThat e'er walk'd the walks of the world in French gaiters;
Thou purest of Sisters, and bravest of Nuns,
Thou should'st have borne daughters—thou should'st have left sons:
But failing of these—perhaps Life's lesser part—
Thou still hast left offspring that sprang from thy heart,
Having just enough falsehood truth's force to reveal,
And just enough art art's device to conceal.
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III.
It is true—is it not?—that the beings we knowAs the beings of mind, are the beings that flow
From nearer the sources of trial and truth,
From nearer the fountains of freshness and youth,
Than the beings of muslin and buckram we meet
In the gilded saloon, or the church, or the street.
The alembic of Genius from which they proceed,—
From the sickness and sin of humanity freed,
From the gloss of its crime, and the grime of its error,
From its frenzy, it fume, its despair, and its terror,—
Gives existence to purer and loftier lives
Than are borne to most husbands by most of their wives.
IV.
Then hail to Lucile! contemplate her! look at her!And hail to the power that conceived her—begat her—
Took her out from fair Paris—from Baden—anon
Built her chalet far up the slopes of Serchon—
Fill'd her sweet eyes with flow'rs and her pure heart with chimes
From the bird and the brook, and the bee and the limes—
Bade the thunders to speak, and the cataracts roll
Their grand diapason through the depths of her soul—
Gave a voice to the pinnacled solitudes there,
That was just less than worship, and just more than prayer—
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Clothed the passion of Love with the fashion of Truth—
In the man of the world found and unmask'd the true man,
Through the mind and the might of the self-sustain'd woman—
Set a spirit afloat on the wave, on the breeze,
And a living soul gave to the lone Pyrenees.
V.
Ah, Lucile—Alfred Vargrave—Eugene de Luvois—If well “put on the stage,” what “large houses” you'd draw!
But as given to the page of Life's prophet, the Poet,
You draw better still, and the “trade sales” all show it.
From which I conclude,—as I'm certain I may,—
That the world has still some men and women who pay
Willing tribute to all that ennobles the race,
And due homage to woman whene'er she displays
The uplifting emotions, the purposes high,
The unchanging resolve or to do or to die
For the truth of the tongue, and the faith of the heart,
Which we feel were Lucile's—which Lucile could impart.
VI.
“Woman's strength is her weakness,” men often declare:Just as much—and no more—Samson's strength was his hair.
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For man as her Lord. Not as something that's higher,
But stronger; as something to which she was sent,
To be bone of his bone, and, in full complement,
To be flesh of his flesh. The old Edenal story,
In making which true is her pride—is her glory;
For making which true she has longings. Her life,
Left at least incomplete without being a wife,
And a mother, looks lovingly forward to these
High and holy accomplishments, just as the trees
And the vines that bear fruit, forward look for the wall
Which the latter must lean on and cling to, and all
The soft rains and warm winds and bright sunshines that bring
In their train the full beauty that 's born of the spring;
With the bud and the bloom of the former, that shoot,
And fructify soon, and accomplish the fruit.
VII.
Woman's strength is, her virtue—her will—her desire:Man's weakness is, not to be influenced by her
High hopes, patient waitings, long labors for good
For herself and for all, half as much as he should.
Look at Alfred Vargrave—at Eugene de Luvois!
How keenly she felt, and how clearly she saw,
—She, the woman Lucile—while perhaps all were sinning,
All three, against fortune or fate, the beginning
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Of love and of hope—irremovable checks
To all present designs, or desires—every-where,
In its course, folly, frenzy, defeat and despair.
She, the woman Lucile, saw it soon—saw it all—
Knew the lightning would flash, and the thunder-bolt fall—
Felt the shallows—the reef—heard the roar—saw the rock—
Gave warning again and again: but the shock
Came the same; and the dark and the desolate shore,
And the paths that led to it, and the water that bore
For a time the frail barges of love and of hope,
That so recklessly sail'd up the hyaline cope,
Were strewn with the wrecks she had dreaded, foreknown,
And foreseen, and foretold of. All light was her own,
All prudence, all warning, all wisdom, all kindness:
But against her were passion—fatuity—blindness—
That knew not, that saw not, that heard not, that reck'd not!
And who, like to them, just such fate may expect not?
VIII.
Woman's strength is her virtue—her will—her desire—That exalt her, sustain her, forbid her to tire.
The priestess of Nature, interpreting God,
She is like much that Nature spreads grandly abroad.
Yet she 's not the strong river that flows to the sea;
Nor the wild waste of waves that engulph it, is she;
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Having faith it will not be permitted to fall—
Neither it nor its fruit. She's the angel that brings
Down the jewels of heav'n to the crowns of earth's Kings.
Though unheeded so oft, she 's the voice that to man
Speaks as not e'en the voice of an archangel can.
IX.
Woman's strength is her virtue—her will—her desireFor a love that is purer—a life that is higher—
A truth that is surer—a faith that is stronger—
A hope that is brighter—a charity longer,
And broader, and deeper, and oh! much benigner:
With an impulse that ever incites her to twine her
White arms and sweet purposes round what is pure,
And serene, and unselfish, and sinless and sure.
What the rose to the garden, the leaf to the tree,
And the grass to the plains, to man's mansion is she.
Like the sun to the earth—like the stars to the skies—
She 's the warmth of his love, and the light of his eyes.
But she 's more than all this: she 's companion, friend, wife—
Without whom man might live,
But—would living be Life?
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The Maniac.
I.
“Who walks by yon thicket of hazel and thorn,Her hair all disheveled, her looks all forlorn?”
“'Tis Mary, the Maniac—harmless, though wild—
Her constant companion yon flow'r-seeking child.”
“And what is her story? I pray you relate.”
“'Tis simple—and many are doomed to her fate,
Or worse, for from self shrinks the bosom that errs,
But oblivion of thought is eternally hers.
II.
“Few words will suffice to rehearse you her tale.—Once Mary was fairest of all in our vale;
And the bloom on her cheek, and the glance of her eye,
Shamed the flow'rs of the earth, and the stars of the sky.
But there came to our vale, from the sunny South-West,
A youth who beheld her, and fondly address'd.
He wooed her, he said, as a fair forest flower,
Which he long'd to transplant to his far-away bower.
III.
“He wooed her with looks and with promises dear;He wooed her with words the most honeyed to hear;
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And employ'd each expedient to quiet her fears.
He call'd her the star of his being, whose ray
Could alone gild the gloom of life's perilous way;
He call'd her the sun of his spirit, whose light
Could alone win him back from doubt's wildering night.
IV.
“He call'd her his idol, his glory—the shrineWhere he knelt with a worship was all but divine;
He call'd her,—for words to his false lips came free,—
All man could e'er covet, or woman e'er be.
Touch'd, conquer'd, she rais'd up the low-kneeling youth,
For she knew not that falsehood is smoother than truth;
And his words on her ear like a melody fell,
Till her spirit was bound in a wildering spell.
V.
“She listen'd—and gone were her coyness and pride;She loved—and with his flow'd her heart's gushing tide;
And at once seem'd her whole glad existence to be
Lost in his, as a river is lost in the sea.
From that moment her life was a trance or a dream,
And as tranquilly flow'd as some meadow-marged stream
Which is lull'd with the breath of sweet flow'rs, and the song
Of bee or of bird, all the summer day long.
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VI.
“But 't was like that same stream, had one wave of its breastBeen defiled at the fountain to poison the rest;
And 't was like that same stream, were its course in the path
Which a hurricane soon was to sweep in its wrath.
She awoke from that dream, to the light of the truth;
But in ecstasy still clung her heart to that youth;
For to him all her love, worship, rapture, was giv'n—
Her world now, her idol, her glory, her Heav'n!
VII.
“Oft they stray'd by yon thicket: a bird carol'd thereA song that sooth'd Mary, and wiled her of care;
And still, though six summers have journey'd along,
She roves to that thicket, to listen its song.
But I wander:—Weeks pass'd; and the Frost Sprite came by,
With iris like colors, all fresh from the sky;
And the leaves,—in one clear, starry night, all was done,—
Gleam'd scarlet and gold in the sheen of the sun.
VIII.
“Autumn vanish'd; chill Winter's approaches were heard;And gone was the song of that caroling bird,
Which so long had enchanted the forest and glade;
And gone was the Wooer of Mary the Maid.
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To seek his rich home in the sunny South-West,—
Where, he told her, he'd meet with their wood-chorister,
Whose song should aye 'mind him of first love and her.
IX.
“He'd a mother to win to his purpose, he said,And a father to soften before he could wed;
But he'd leave ere their bird from the South should be flown,
And return with its spring-song to make her his own.
The winter months pass'd, in their darkness and gloom;
But the forest tho' bare, and the flow'rs in their tomb,
Were less desolate far than was Mary's torn breast,
For she heard not one word from the sunny South-West.
X.
At length, where the Winter King rush'd in his wrath,Came spring, and sweet blossoms sprang up in her path;
And the leaf started out from each bud-burden'd spray
She breath'd on, while holding her life-giving way.
Then back to the thicket return'd that fair bird,
And again, morn and eve, its sweet carol was heard;
But the wooer of Mary, who with it had gone,
Came not with its spring-song to make her his own.
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XI.
“Day pass'd after day—week on week journey'd by—And a dark shade was gathering on Mary's blue eye:
Still Hope, sweet deceiver! supported her frame,
And flatter'd her heart, though he hid not its shame.
But the Spring pass'd away: and the Summer's breath blew
On a cheek which was sunken, and pallid of hue;
And a desolate bosom in loneliness beat,
Of tempests of grief and self-torture the seat.
XII.
“Mary's tongue was now fill'd with her false Wooer's name,But the poison-lipp'd spoiler anear her ne'er came;
And she sank, for her grief knew nor changing nor check,
In body and reason a ruin and wreck.
She rose from her couch with an eye fierce and wild,
But gentle whenever it turn'd on her child;
And that child is the only companion she hath,
To lighten the gloom of her desolate path.
XIII.
“All else, though six summers have journey'd awaySave it, and the warbler of life's fairer day,
She shuns; but to listen that thicket-bird's song,
She wanders there often, and loiters there long.
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With fix'd eyes, and check'd breathing, and thin lips apart,
And looks all bewildered,—as if she had heard
A tone of the Past in the song of that bird.
XIV.
“But the spell passes off with a word from her child,And she looks on it kindly, a moment though wild:
Then it leads the poor Maniac home o'er the vale,—
As now.—And such, stranger, is Mary's sad tale.”
“A curse on the Spoiler!” I muttered. “Oh, heaven!
Can he go unscourg'd while his victims 's thus riven?
No! Passion's fierce tempests must rage in his breast,
And his heart find a hell in its sunny South-West!”
XV.
Oh Woman—dear Woman! how often betray'dBy the blandishments sweet that won Mary the Maid!
How often, too yielding! led on to prepare,
By one moment of rapture, an age of despair!
Beware! for the tones the most fervid and sweet,
Are oft but the mask of the deepest deceit,—
As oft the wild flowers that lure with their breath,
Conceal the coil'd serpent, whose venom is death!
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Mabelle Golding.
Maple Golden,” the servants called her:
She was the wildest, merriest thing,
That ever rambled the woodlands over
To search for flowers in the early Spring.
The March-rime, even, did not escape her;
And when the April violets came,
Her eyes were filled with the hues of heaven,
And her cheeks with roses were aflame.
She was the wildest, merriest thing,
That ever rambled the woodlands over
To search for flowers in the early Spring.
The March-rime, even, did not escape her;
And when the April violets came,
Her eyes were filled with the hues of heaven,
And her cheeks with roses were aflame.
Maple Golden 's come back, Missus!
It 's just three years since she went away.
No longer a girl, she is now a woman,
And her beautiful hair is streak'd with gray.
But she 's changed so, Missus! You'd hardly know her,
She looks so weary, and seems so sad—
She that was never down in spirits,
She that was always fresh and glad.
It 's just three years since she went away.
No longer a girl, she is now a woman,
And her beautiful hair is streak'd with gray.
But she 's changed so, Missus! You'd hardly know her,
She looks so weary, and seems so sad—
She that was never down in spirits,
She that was always fresh and glad.
The matter? I did n't hear 'bout the matter;
I saw her only a little while,
Just as she left the car at the Station;
And I should n't have known her but for her smile;
That is, at first I should n't have known her,
And did n't—but when I looked agen,
And saw her fondle and kiss the children,
I 'd a-known her among a thousand then!
I saw her only a little while,
Just as she left the car at the Station;
And I should n't have known her but for her smile;
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And did n't—but when I looked agen,
And saw her fondle and kiss the children,
I 'd a-known her among a thousand then!
“At first she stood like the marble statue
I saw at Muldoon's the other day;
Then the smile that all of us used to love so,
Across her features began to play;
And then, for just a moment, she buried
Her face in her hands, and press'd her eyes,—
(They are not the same, but the stars are in them,
As they used to be, and the blue of the skies,)—
I saw at Muldoon's the other day;
Then the smile that all of us used to love so,
Across her features began to play;
And then, for just a moment, she buried
Her face in her hands, and press'd her eyes,—
(They are not the same, but the stars are in them,
As they used to be, and the blue of the skies,)—
“And half-look'd into the group of children
That stood but a little way from her,
All of them wanting to rush up to her,
But each afraid to be first to stir;
And then she look'd them full in their faces,
And caught them up to her, one by one,
And kiss'd them and press'd them up to her bosom,
And named them—all but little Nun:
That stood but a little way from her,
All of them wanting to rush up to her,
But each afraid to be first to stir;
And then she look'd them full in their faces,
And caught them up to her, one by one,
And kiss'd them and press'd them up to her bosom,
And named them—all but little Nun:
“Nun, you know, has come among us
Since that terrible, awful day,
When, in the storm we all remember,
Maple Golden wandered away—
Wandered away, no one knew whither,
And only a few have ever guess'd why;
And none have become a whit the wiser,
In all the time that has since gone by.
Since that terrible, awful day,
When, in the storm we all remember,
Maple Golden wandered away—
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And only a few have ever guess'd why;
And none have become a whit the wiser,
In all the time that has since gone by.
“I know, Missus! and al'ys did know,
For I was where I could hear and see;
But I 've been good to Maple Golden,”
She sigh'd, “for Maple was good to me.
And I have kept my own good counsel,
And mean to keep it as long as I live:
Many have ask'd me to give them a hint just,
But I 've no hint that I'll ever give.”
For I was where I could hear and see;
But I 've been good to Maple Golden,”
She sigh'd, “for Maple was good to me.
And I have kept my own good counsel,
And mean to keep it as long as I live:
Many have ask'd me to give them a hint just,
But I 've no hint that I'll ever give.”
“Wont you tell me now, Phillis? me just?
Soon your secret'll all be out.
When and where and how did it happen?
What and with whom was it all about?”
“No—I'll never tell on Maple—
Maple'll never tell on me:
To such as I am it 's little difference—
It 's all, though,” she sighed, “to such as she!”
Soon your secret'll all be out.
When and where and how did it happen?
What and with whom was it all about?”
“No—I'll never tell on Maple—
Maple'll never tell on me:
To such as I am it 's little difference—
It 's all, though,” she sighed, “to such as she!”
“Please do n't ask me again, dear Missus.
Maple's wells of sorrow are dry;
I judge by her looks, and by her movements,
But more than all by her burning eye.
Yet were this not so, Maple should never
Have cause from me one word to fear.
I wish she could weep, but she shall not ever
For fault of mine shed a single tear.”
Maple's wells of sorrow are dry;
I judge by her looks, and by her movements,
But more than all by her burning eye.
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Have cause from me one word to fear.
I wish she could weep, but she shall not ever
For fault of mine shed a single tear.”
“Well, Phillis—when you left the Station,
What”—“Missus, here comes Massa John.
When I turn'd away from Maple Golden,
He stood near, looking sadly on.
May-be he can tell you something, Missus—
Something I miss'd cause I did n't stay.
Mass John! you saw poor Maple Golden,
And was looking on when I came away.”
What”—“Missus, here comes Massa John.
When I turn'd away from Maple Golden,
He stood near, looking sadly on.
May-be he can tell you something, Missus—
Something I miss'd cause I did n't stay.
Mass John! you saw poor Maple Golden,
And was looking on when I came away.”
“Well, John—I can't get much out of Phillis—
Has Maple, sure enough, come back?”
“Yes—the poor thing wandered hither, somehow,
But has gone again, on a darker track.
Things do happen so strangely, sometimes!
Her father had been for a week in town,
And return'd on the up-train half an hour
After she on the other train came down.
Has Maple, sure enough, come back?”
“Yes—the poor thing wandered hither, somehow,
But has gone again, on a darker track.
Things do happen so strangely, sometimes!
Her father had been for a week in town,
And return'd on the up-train half an hour
After she on the other train came down.
“I saw her standing and gazing wildly
At little Nun, till she spied a charm,
Which seem'd almost to electrify her,
By Nature fix'd on Nun's right arm.
At this she caught the child to her bosom,
And gave it many a sweet embrace,
Smoothing its hair with her trembling fingers,
And planting kisses all over its face.
At little Nun, till she spied a charm,
Which seem'd almost to electrify her,
By Nature fix'd on Nun's right arm.
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And gave it many a sweet embrace,
Smoothing its hair with her trembling fingers,
And planting kisses all over its face.
“The upward train then stopp'd at the Station,
Near where Mabelle stood with the child;
And her father stepp'd from the car to the platform,
And bow'd to a friend or two, and smiled;
When, all of a sudden, Mabelle toward him
With open arms and a wild look sprang,
And for an instant a shriek came from her,
With which the air all about us rang.
Near where Mabelle stood with the child;
And her father stepp'd from the car to the platform,
And bow'd to a friend or two, and smiled;
When, all of a sudden, Mabelle toward him
With open arms and a wild look sprang,
And for an instant a shriek came from her,
With which the air all about us rang.
“He caught her tenderly, and drew her
Beautiful form up to his own,
And kindly and lovingly address'd her,
But she answer'd with only a dying moan.
She was borne then gently into the Station,
And laid for a little while on a bed;
But ere I left”—“Oh God!” cried Phyllis,
“And is poor Maple Golden dead?”
Beautiful form up to his own,
And kindly and lovingly address'd her,
But she answer'd with only a dying moan.
She was borne then gently into the Station,
And laid for a little while on a bed;
But ere I left”—“Oh God!” cried Phyllis,
“And is poor Maple Golden dead?”
“Dead ere I left.” “Poor Maple Golden!”
Sobb'd Phillis; “I know her story well;
'T is a tale of guilt, and a tale of sorrow,
But a tale that Phillis can never tell.
Mass John”—“Ah, Phillis! I know that story,
And I know of one whose robes are white
As he moves on earth, but whose soul is blacker
Than the blackest shades of the darkest night.
Sobb'd Phillis; “I know her story well;
'T is a tale of guilt, and a tale of sorrow,
But a tale that Phillis can never tell.
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And I know of one whose robes are white
As he moves on earth, but whose soul is blacker
Than the blackest shades of the darkest night.
“'T is the old, old story, of woman's weakness,
And of the perfidy of man!—
Go, Phyllis, at once, to Mabelle's parents,
And offer to do whatever you can.
Say nothing of what you do or don't know;
Help lay that blighted flow'r in the earth;
And all who know of Mabelle's Temptation,
Will pray for her second and better birth.”
And of the perfidy of man!—
Go, Phyllis, at once, to Mabelle's parents,
And offer to do whatever you can.
Say nothing of what you do or don't know;
Help lay that blighted flow'r in the earth;
And all who know of Mabelle's Temptation,
Will pray for her second and better birth.”
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Over “The Bridge of Sighs.”
“Over ‘the Bridge of Sighs,’
Into the land that lies
Under the brightening skies
That glow with the coming day—
That is where I would go,
Out of this land of woe,
Whose evil I see and know.
It is far, ah! far away,
That land of beauty and light;
But I feel in my spirit the might
That, cheered by its gladdening smiles,
Can compass the weary miles:
So, over the Bridge I go,
Bring it weal now, or bring it woe!”
She said. And her voice grew loud,
And her step grew firm, and proud
Her bearing, and keen her look,
As her self-will'd way she took;
And, giving but one glance back
On the long and weary track,
She pass'd the Bridge, and in pride
Stood erect on the chosen side.
Into the land that lies
Under the brightening skies
That glow with the coming day—
That is where I would go,
Out of this land of woe,
Whose evil I see and know.
It is far, ah! far away,
That land of beauty and light;
But I feel in my spirit the might
That, cheered by its gladdening smiles,
Can compass the weary miles:
So, over the Bridge I go,
Bring it weal now, or bring it woe!”
She said. And her voice grew loud,
And her step grew firm, and proud
Her bearing, and keen her look,
As her self-will'd way she took;
And, giving but one glance back
On the long and weary track,
She pass'd the Bridge, and in pride
Stood erect on the chosen side.
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“Now out from the Bridge of Sighs
Into the land of Hope,
With brightening heart and eyes,
And a clearer horoscope!”
She said. And into the land
Of Hope, with a quickening pace,
She went—and she took her stand
In a sunny and flowery place:
A place that forever was bright,
In the morn or the noon or the night,
With the golden and silvery light
That streams from the stars and the sun:
A place that forever was sweet
With the breath of the flow'rs at her feet
That bloom'd, and adown by the run:
And she walk'd through the days and the hours
Of months, by the light and the flowers;
But Hope she then found was a cheat—
Bewildering her mind, and her feet
Misleading, till day after day
She threaded the same weary way,
Coming back with the shadows of night
To the place she had left with the light.
Into the land of Hope,
With brightening heart and eyes,
And a clearer horoscope!”
She said. And into the land
Of Hope, with a quickening pace,
She went—and she took her stand
In a sunny and flowery place:
A place that forever was bright,
In the morn or the noon or the night,
With the golden and silvery light
That streams from the stars and the sun:
A place that forever was sweet
With the breath of the flow'rs at her feet
That bloom'd, and adown by the run:
And she walk'd through the days and the hours
Of months, by the light and the flowers;
But Hope she then found was a cheat—
Bewildering her mind, and her feet
Misleading, till day after day
She threaded the same weary way,
Coming back with the shadows of night
To the place she had left with the light.
“And now, from the land of Hope,
I go to the land of Deeds:
Whoe'er with the world would cope,
Must lean not on broken reeds!”
She said. And she fix'd her eye
On a beautiful cloud in the sky;
But that cloud soon moved away,
And was lost ere the close of the day.
Then from the horizon afar
Rose a bright and a beautiful star:
“By that I can travel right on!”
She said—and she started. Anon
It had changed so its place in the sky,
That she murmur'd, with tears and a sigh,
“If I follow much farther its track,
Whence I started I soon shall be back.”
In the morning she fix'd her bright eyes
On the sun as it rose, and the skies
That were gleaming with purple and gold
As the cloudlets away from it roll'd.
And with confidence now she began
Every object around her to scan.
But the sun, like the star and the cloud,
Proved a foil to her hope—and she bowed
Her head for a moment, then gazed
At a tall cliff before her that blazed
In the light of the moon, and blazed on
Till the beams it reflected were gone.
I go to the land of Deeds:
Whoe'er with the world would cope,
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She said. And she fix'd her eye
On a beautiful cloud in the sky;
But that cloud soon moved away,
And was lost ere the close of the day.
Then from the horizon afar
Rose a bright and a beautiful star:
“By that I can travel right on!”
She said—and she started. Anon
It had changed so its place in the sky,
That she murmur'd, with tears and a sigh,
“If I follow much farther its track,
Whence I started I soon shall be back.”
In the morning she fix'd her bright eyes
On the sun as it rose, and the skies
That were gleaming with purple and gold
As the cloudlets away from it roll'd.
And with confidence now she began
Every object around her to scan.
But the sun, like the star and the cloud,
Proved a foil to her hope—and she bowed
Her head for a moment, then gazed
At a tall cliff before her that blazed
In the light of the moon, and blazed on
Till the beams it reflected were gone.
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That landmark went into her dreams,
Through the long and the wearisome night,
With its height and its strength and its beams,
And the shimmering sheen of its light;
And when the sun rose the next day,
It caught and threw back his first ray.
Then, proudly uplifting her head,
She gazed at it calmly, and said:
“Again I shall fix not my eyes,
For guidance by night or by day,
On what moves in the air and the skies;
But by objects that rise far away
On the earth, and by objects anear,
Will I measure my distance, and steer;
And for that which is righteous and just,
I will place my full faith and my trust
In a region of beauty that lies
Far beyond the thin air and the skies!”
And she did so; and thence moved in pride,
Life's highways and byways along—
Faith and Works being ever her guide,
Trust and Triumph her prayer and her song;
And, o'ercoming earth's trials and strife,
She won in the Battle of Life.
Through the long and the wearisome night,
With its height and its strength and its beams,
And the shimmering sheen of its light;
And when the sun rose the next day,
It caught and threw back his first ray.
Then, proudly uplifting her head,
She gazed at it calmly, and said:
“Again I shall fix not my eyes,
For guidance by night or by day,
On what moves in the air and the skies;
But by objects that rise far away
On the earth, and by objects anear,
Will I measure my distance, and steer;
And for that which is righteous and just,
I will place my full faith and my trust
In a region of beauty that lies
Far beyond the thin air and the skies!”
And she did so; and thence moved in pride,
Life's highways and byways along—
Faith and Works being ever her guide,
Trust and Triumph her prayer and her song;
And, o'ercoming earth's trials and strife,
She won in the Battle of Life.
169
Song of “The Knitting Girl.”
Late in the quiet night,
By the warm coal-fire I sit,
My hand and my heart both light,
And I knit—I knit—I knit.
And sometimes I interweave
A thought over which I grieve;
And then comes a gentle gleam
Of a beautiful light, and I dream—
I dream of a time to come,
But my voice and my lips are dumb—
And I think of a time now gone,
And a walk on the terraced lawn—
But all these soon disappear,
With a smile, or a sigh, or a tear,
And, joyous or sad or oppress'd,
With the midnight I slumber and rest.
By the warm coal-fire I sit,
My hand and my heart both light,
And I knit—I knit—I knit.
And sometimes I interweave
A thought over which I grieve;
And then comes a gentle gleam
Of a beautiful light, and I dream—
I dream of a time to come,
But my voice and my lips are dumb—
And I think of a time now gone,
And a walk on the terraced lawn—
But all these soon disappear,
With a smile, or a sigh, or a tear,
And, joyous or sad or oppress'd,
With the midnight I slumber and rest.
The shadows soon upward roll,
—Both night's and mine,—and the day
Comes down with its open scroll,
Which I read as it glides away:
'T is the same I have read before,
But I ponder it o'er and o'er—
'T is the same I shall read again,
In sorrow, or joy, or pain,
As the labor of life goes on—
But the goal will at last be won;
And I wait, as it comes more near,
With a smile, or a sigh, or a tear,
Now working, and now at play,
Never doubting the Better Day:
So here by the fire I sit,
And I knit—I knit—I knit.
—Both night's and mine,—and the day
Comes down with its open scroll,
Which I read as it glides away:
'T is the same I have read before,
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'T is the same I shall read again,
In sorrow, or joy, or pain,
As the labor of life goes on—
But the goal will at last be won;
And I wait, as it comes more near,
With a smile, or a sigh, or a tear,
Now working, and now at play,
Never doubting the Better Day:
So here by the fire I sit,
And I knit—I knit—I knit.
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