University of Virginia Library

THE MEETING.

The Western city with the Roman name,
The vine-decked river winding round the hills,
Are left behind; the pearly maid who came
Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills
The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea,
Is riding southward on the cautious train,
That feels its way along, and nervously
Hurries around the curve and o'er the bridge,
Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge—
The wild adventurous cavalry campaign
That Morgan and his men, bold riders all,
Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years,
So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears,
That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall,
When men in city offices feel yet
The old wild thrill of “Boots and saddles all!”
The dashing raid they cannot quite forget
Despite the hasty graves that silent lie
Along its route; at home the women sigh,
Gazing across the still untrodden ways,
Across the fields, across the lonely moor,
“O for the breathless ardor of those days
When we were all so happy, though so poor!”
The maiden sits alone;
The raw recruits are scattered through the car,
Talking of all the splendors of the war,
With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone.
In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view,
Like opening wood-flower pearled with morning dew,
She shines among them in her radiance pure,
Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure
They're very wicked—hoping that the day
Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away,
And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies,
To the far farm-house where her lover lies,
Wounded—alone.
The rattling speed turns slow,
Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go,
The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down;
The young conductor comes—(there was a face
He noted in the night)—“Madam, your place
Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town
We take on other soldiers. If you change
Your seat and join that little lady, then
It will not seem so lonely or so strange
For you, as here among so many men.”
Lifting her fair face from the battered seat,
Where she had slumbered like a weary child,
The lady, with obedience full sweet
To his young manhood's eager craving, smiled
And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way;
She followed in her lovely disarray.
The clinging silk disclosed the archèd foot,
Hidden within the dainty satin boot,
Dead-black against the dead-white even hue
Of silken stocking, gleaming into view
One moment; then the lady sleepily
Adjusted with a touch her drapery,
And tried to loop in place a falling braid,
And smooth the rippling waves the night had made;
While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane
Set her bright gems to flashing back again;
And all men's eyes in that Kentucky car
Grew on her face, as all men's eyes had done
On the night-train that brought her from afar,
Over the mountains west from Washington.
The Lady
(thinking).
Haply met,
This country maiden, sweet as mignonette,
No doubt the pride of some small Western town:—
Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown,
So prim—so dull—a fashion five years old!

The Maiden
(thinking).
How odd, how bold,
That silken robe—those waves of costly lace,
That falling hair, the shadows 'neath the eyes,
Surely those diamonds are out of place—
Strange, that a lady should in such a guise
Be here alone!

The Lady.
Allow me, mademoiselle,
Our good conductor thinks it would be well
That we should keep together, since the car
Will soon be overcrowded, and we are
The only women.—May I have a seat
In this safe little corner by your side?
Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet
So sweet a friend to share the long day's ride!—
That is, if yours be long?

The Maiden.
To Benton's Mill.

The Lady.
I go beyond, not far—I think we pass
Your station just before Waunona Hill;
But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass.
Do you not love that land?

The Maiden.
I do not know
Aught of it.

The Lady.
Yes; but surely you have heard
Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow,
Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd
Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred
For victory—the rare Kentucky speed
That wins the races?

The Maiden.
Yes; I've heard it said
They were good worthy horses.—But indeed
I know not much of horses.

The Lady.
Then the land—
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass,
The wild free park spread out by Nature's hand
That scarce an English dukedom may surpass
In velvet beauty—while its royal sweep
Over the country miles and miles away,
Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep
Their distance from each other, proud array
Of single elms that stand apart to show
How gracefully their swaying branches grow,
While little swells of turf roll up and fall
Like waves of summer sea, and over all
You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass
Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.—
But you will see it.

The Maiden.
No; I cannot stay
But a few hours—at most, a single day.

The Lady
(unheeding).
I think I like the best,
Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed,
The Arab courser of our own new West,
The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed
Outstrips e'en time itself. Oh! when he wins
The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand
In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins,
And those slow, cautious judges on the stand,
Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill
That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still?

The Maiden.
I ne'er have seen race-horses, or a race.

The Lady.
I crave your pardon; in your gentle face
I read reproof.

The Maiden.
I judge not any man.

The Lady.
Nor woman?

The Maiden.
If you force reply, I can
Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race,
For gamblers' prizes, seems not worthy place
For women—nor for men, indeed, if they
Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play,
The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance,
The deadly poison of all games of chance—
All these are sinful.

The Lady.
Ah! poor sins, how stern
The judge! I knew ye not for sins—I learn
For the first time that ye are evil. Go,
Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe—
Alas! And David Garrick!—Where's the harm
In David?

The Maiden.
I know not the gentleman.

The Lady.
Nay, he's a play; a comedy so warm,
So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can,
I weep. And must I yield my crystal glass,
Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine,
That makes a dreary dinner-party pass
In rosy light, where after-fancies shine—
Things that one might have said?—And then the dance,
The valse à deux temps, if your partner chance
To be a lover—

The Maiden.
Madam, pray excuse
My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse
To dwell on themes like these.

The Lady.
Did I begin
The themes, or you?

The Maiden.
But I dwelt on the sin,
And you—

The Lady.
Upon the good. Did I not well?
I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle.

The Maiden.
Forgive me, lady, but I cannot jest,
I bear too anxious heart within my breast;
One dear to me lies wounded, and I go
To find him, help him home with tender care—
To home and health, God willing.

The Lady.
Is it so?
Strange—but ah! no. The wounded are not rare,
Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war.—
But he will yet recover; I feel sure
That one beloved by heart so good, so pure
As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star
Is fortunate.

The Maiden.
Not in the stars, I trust.
We are but wretched creatures of the dust,
Sinful, and desperately wicked; still,
It is in mercy our Creator's will
To hear our prayers.

The Lady.
And do you then believe
He grants all heart-felt prayers? One might conceive
A case: Suppose a loving mother prays
For her son's life; he, worn with life's hard ways,
Entreats his God for death with equal power
And fervor.

The Maiden.
It is wrong to pray for death.

The Lady.
I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour
A farmer prays for rain; with 'bated breath
A mother, hastening to a dying child,
Prays for fair weather?—But you do not deign
To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled
That little, silver smile! I might explain
My meaning further; but why should I shake
Your happy faith?

The Maiden.
You could not.

The Lady.
Nay, that's true;
You are the kind that walks up to the stake
Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue
For pardon, and I pray you tell me all
This tale of yours. When did your lover fall—
What battle-field?

The Maiden.
Not any well-known name;
It was not Heaven's pleasure that the fame
Of well-known battle should be his. A band
Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land,
Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way.

The Lady.
Guerrillas?

The Maiden.
Yes; John Morgan's.

The Lady.
Maybe so,
And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name
That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow,
Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame
Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may—
Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan's men
Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen
Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map
Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks
Where they have been; now near, now miles away,
From river lowland to the mountain-gap,
Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks
When they ride by, no well-versed tongues betray
Their resting-place; Kentucky knows her own,
Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass
Across her borders north from Tennessee,
Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass,
The land of home, the land they long to see,
The lovely rolling land. We might have known
That come they would!

The Maiden.
You are Kentucky-bred?

The Lady.
I come from Washington. Nay—but I read
The doubt you try to hide. Be frank—confess—
I am that mythical adventuress
That thrives in Washington these troublous days—
The country correspondent's tale?

The Maiden.
Your dress—
And—something in your air—

The Lady.
I give you praise
For rare sincerity. Go on.

The Maiden.
Your tone,
Your words, seem strange.—But then, I've never known
A woman like you.

The Lady
(aside).
Yet we are not few,
Thank Heaven, for the world's sake! It would starve
If gray was all its color, and the dew
Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste
It seeks the royal purples, and draws down
The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste,
And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown
Upon its brow; and then, its hands do carve
The vine-leaves into marble.
But the hue
Of thoughts like these she knows not—and in vain
To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain
Hear her small story.
(Speaks.)
Did he fall alone,
Your gallant soldier-boy? And how to you
Came the sad news?

The Maiden.
A farmer heard him moan
While passing—bore him to the camp, and there
A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word
Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard,
I left my mother, ill, for in despair
He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know
That they had written, for hot fever drove
His thoughts with whips of flame.—O cruel woe,
—O my poor love—
My Willie!

The Lady.
Do not grieve, fair child. This day
Will see you by his side—nay, if you will,
Then lay your head here—weep your grief away.
Tears are a luxury—yes, take your fill;
For stranger as I am, my heart is warm
To woman's sorrow, and this woman's arm
That holds you is a loyal one and kind.
(Thinking.)
O gentle maiden-mind,
How lovely art thou—like the limpid brook
In whose small depths my child-eyes loved to look
In the spring days! Thy little simple fears
Are wept away. Ah! could I call the tears
At will to soothe the parched heat of my heart!
—O beautiful lost Faith,
I knew you once—but now, like shadowy wraith,
You meet me in this little maiden's eyes,
And gaze from out their blue in sad surprise
At the great gulf between us. Far apart,
In truth, we've drifted—drifted. Gentle ghost
Of past outgrown, thy land the hazy coast
Of dreamless ignorance; I must put out
My eyes to live with you again. The doubt,
The honest, earnest doubt, is upward growth
Of the strong mind—the struggle of the seed
Up to the broad, free air. Contented sloth
Of the blind clods around it sees no need
For change—nay, deems, indeed, all change a crime;
“All things remain as in our fathers' time—
What gain ye then by growing?”
“Air—free air!
E'en though I die of hunger and despair,
I go,” the mind replies.

The Maiden
(thinking).
How kind, how warm
Her sympathy! I could no more resist
Her questions, than the large clasp of her arm
That drew me down. How tenderly she kissed
My forehead! strange that so much good should dwell
With so much ill. This shining, costly dress,
A garb that shows a sinful worldliness,
Troubles my heart.
Ah, I remember well
How hard I worked after that letter came
Telling of Willie—and my sisters all,
How swift we sewed! For I had suffered shame
At traveling in house-garb.
—I feel a call
To bring this wanderer back into the fold,
This poor lost sinner straying in the cold
Outside the church's pale. Should I not try
To show her all the sad deficiency,
The desperate poverty of life like hers,
The utter falseness of its every breath,
The pity that within my bosom stirs
For thinking of the horrors after death
Awaiting her?

The Lady.
Quite calm, again? That's well.
Wilt taste a peach? My basket holds a store
Of luscious peaches. Ah! she weaves a spell,
This lovely sorceress of fruit; what more
Can man ask from the earth? There is no cost
Too great for peaches. I have felt surprise
Through all my life that fair Eve should have lost
That mythic Asian land of Paradise
For a poor plebeian apple! Now a peach,
Pulpy, pink-veined, hanging within her reach,
Might well have tempted her.
Oh, these long hours!—
Whence comes this faint perfume of hot-house flowers—
Tea-roses?

The Maiden.
Tangled in your loosened hair
Are roses.

The Lady
(thinking).
Nita must have twined them there—
The opera—I know now; I have sped
So swift across the country, my poor head
Is turned.—The opera? Yes; then—O heart,
How hast thou bled!
[Dashes away tears.]
(Speaks.)
Sweet child, I pray you tell
Again your budding romance, all the part
Where he first spoke. You'd known him long and well,
Your Willie?

The Maiden.
Yes; in childhood we had been
Two little lovers o'er the alphabet;
Then one day—I had grown to just sixteen—
Down in the apple-orchard—there—we met,
By chance—and—

The Lady
(thinking).
Blush, thou fine-grained little cheek,
It comforts me to see that e'en thy meek
Child-beauty knows enough of love to blush.
(Speaks.)
Nay, you flush
So prettily! Well, must I tell the rest?
You knew, then, all at once, you loved him best,
This gallant Willie?

The Maiden
(thinking).
What has come to me
That I do answer, from reserve so free,
This stranger's questions? Yet may it not chance
My confidence shall win hers in return?
I must press on, nor give one backward glance—
Must follow up my gain by words that burn
With charity and Christian zeal.
(Speaks.)
Yes; then
We were betrothed. I wore his mother's ring,—
And Willie joined the church; before all men
He made the promises and vows which bring
A blessing down from God. Dear lady, strength
From Heaven came to us. Could I endure
This absence, silence, all the weary length
Of hours and days and months, were I not sure
That God was with my Willie? If on you
Sorrow has fallen, lady (and those tears
Showed me its presence), seek the good, the true,
In this sad life; a prayer can calm all fears;
Yield all your troubles to your God's control,
And He will bless you. Ah! where should I be
Did I not know that in my Willie's soul
Came first the love of God, then love for me?

The Lady.
His love for you comes second?

The Maiden.
Would you have
A mortal love come first!

The Lady.
Sweet heart, I crave
Your pardon. For your gentle Christian zeal
I thank you. Wear this gem—'twill make me feel
That I am something to you when we part.
But what the “silence?”

The Maiden.
Ten months (they seem years!)
Since Willie joined the army; and my heart
Bore it until his letters ceased; then tears
Would come—would come!

The Lady.
Why should the letters cease?

The Maiden.
I know not; I could only pray for peace,
And his return. No doubt he could not write,
Perplexed with many duties; his the care
Of a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight,
The new recruits are drilled.

The Lady
(thinking).
Oh, faith most rare!
(Speaks.)
Had you no doubts?

The Maiden.
Why should I doubt? We are
Betrothed—the same forever, near or far!
—He knew my trust
Was boundless as his own.

The Lady.
But still you must
In reason have known something—must have heard
Or else imagined—

The Maiden.
For three months no word
Until this letter; from its page I learned
That my poor Willie had but just returned
To the brigade, when struck down unaware.
It seems he had been three months absent.

The Lady.
—Where?

The Maiden.
They did not say. I hope to bear him home
To-morrow; for in truth I scarce could come,
So ill my mother, and so full my hands
Of household cares; but, Willie understands.

The Lady
(thinking).
Ciel! faith like this is senseless—or sublime!
Which is it?
(Speaks).
But three months—so long a time—

The Maiden.
Were it three years, 'twould be the same. The troth
We plighted, freely, lovingly, from both
Our true hearts came.

The Lady
(thinking).
And may as freely go—
Such things have happened! But I will not show
One glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trust
She cherishes; as soon my hand could thrust
A knife in the dove's breast.
(Speaks.)
You'll find him, dear;
All will go well; take courage. Not severe
His wound?

The Maiden.
Not unto death; but fever bound
His senses. When the troops moved on, they found
A kindly woman near by Benton's Mill;
And there he lies, poor Willie, up above
In her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill:
“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”—
Here is his picture.

The Lady.
What! 'tis Meredith!
The girl is mad!—Give it me forthwith!
How came you by it?

The Maiden.
Madam, you will break
The chain. I beg—

The Lady.
Here is some strange mistake.
This picture shows me Meredith Reid.

The Maiden.
Yes, Reid
Is Willie's name; and Meredith, indeed,
Is his name also—Meredith Wilmer. I
Like not long names, so gave him, lovingly,
The pet name Willie.

The Lady.
O ye Powers above!
The “pet name Willie!” Would you try to chain
Phœbus Apollo with your baby-love
And baby-titles? Scarce can I refrain
My hands from crushing you!—
You are that girl,
Then, the boy's fancy. Yes, I heard the tale
He tried to tell me; but it was so old,
So very old! I stopped him with a curl
Laid playfully across his lips. “Nay, hold!
Enough, enough,” I said; “of what avail
The rest? I know it all; 'tis e'er the same
Old story of the country lad's first flame
That burns the stubble out. Now by this spell
Forget it all.” He did; and it was well
He did.

The Maiden.
Never! oh, never! Though you prove
The whole as clear as light, I'd ne'er receive
One word. As in my life, so I believe
In Willie!

The Lady.
Fool and blind! your God above
Knows that I lie not when I say that he
You dwarf with your weak names is mine, mine, mine!
He worships me—dost hear? He worships me,
Me only! What art thou, a feeble child,
That thou shouldst speak of loving? Haste, aside,
Lest we should drown you in the torrent wild
Of our strong meeting loves, that may not bide
Nor know your dying, even; feeble weed
Tossed on the shore—
[The maiden faints.
Why could I not divine
The truth at first?
[Fans her.
Fierce love, why shouldst thou kill
This little one? The child hath done no ill,
Poor wounded, broken blossom. I should pour
My gentlest pity—

The Maiden
(recovering).
Madam, thanks; no more
Do I require your aid.

The Lady
(aside).
How calm she seems,
How cold her far-off eyes! Poor little heart.
The pity of it! all its happy dreams,
With a whole life's idolatry to part
In one short moment.
(Speaks.)
Child, let us be friends;
Not ours the fault, it is the work of Fate.
And now, before your hapless journey ends,
Say, in sweet charity, you do not hate
Me for my love. Trust me, I'll tend him well;
As mine own heart's blood, will I care for him
Till strong again. Then shall he come and tell
The whole to you—the cup from dregs to brim—
How, with undoubting faith
In the young fancy that he thought was love
For you, he came a-down the glittering path
Of Washington society; above
The throng I saw his noble Saxon head,
Sunny with curls, towering among the rest
In calm security—scorn that is bred
Of virtue, and that largeness which your West
With its wide sweep of fields gives to her sons—
A certain careless largeness in the look,
As though a thousand prairie-miles it took
Within its easy range.
Ah! blindly runs
Our fate. We met, we two so far apart
In every thought, in life, in soul, in heart—
Our very beings clashed. He, fair, severe;
I, dark and free; his days a routine clear,
Lighted by conscience; I, in waking dream
Of colors, music, warmth, the scents of flowers,
The sweep of velvet, and the diamond's gleam,
A cloud of romance heavy on the air,
The boudoir curtained from the light of day,
Where all the highest came to call me fair,
And whispered vows I laughed in scorn away.
Was it my fault that Nature chose to give
The splendid beauty of this hair, these eyes,
This creamy skin? And if the golden prize
Of fortune came to me, should I not live
In the rich luxury my being craved?
I give my word, I no more thought of time—
Whether 'twas squandered, trifled with, or saved,
Than the red rose in all her damask prime.
Each day I filled with joys full to the brim—
The rarest fruits and wines, the costliest lace,
The ecstasy of music, every whim
For some new folly gratified, the grace
Of statues idealized in niches, touch
Of softest fabrics. Ah! the world holds much
For those who love her; and I never heard
In all my happy glowing life one word
Against her, till—he came!
We met, we loved,
Like flash of lightning from a cloudless sky,
So sudden, strange, the white intensity—
Intensity resistless! Swift there moved
Within his heart a force unknown before,
That swept his being from that early faith
Across a sea, and cast it on the shore
Prone at my feet.
He minded not if death
Came, so he could but gaze upon my face.

The Maiden.
I fail to comprehend you. Go? Go where?

The Lady.
Back to your home; here waits the north-bound train;
'Twill bear you safely. To go on were pain
Most needless—cruel.

The Maiden.
I am not aware
That I have said aught of returning. Vain
Your false and evil story. I have heard
Of such as you; but never, on my word
As lady and as Christian, did I think
To find myself thus side by side with one
Who flaunts her ignominy on the brink
Of dark perdition!
Ah! my Willie won
The strong heart's victory when he turned away
From your devices, as I know he turned.
Although you follow him in this array
Of sin, I know your evil smiles he spurned
With virtuous contempt—the son of prayers,
The young knight of the church! My bosom shares
His scorn; take back your ring, false woman. Go!
Move from my side.

The Lady.
Dear Heaven, now I know
How pitiless these Christians!
Unfledged girl,
Your little, narrow, pharisaic pride
Deserves no pity; jealousy's wild whirl
Excuse might be, since that is born of love;
But this is scorn, and, by the God above,
I'll set you in your place!
Do you decide
The right and wrong for this broad world of ours,
Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyes
Veiled o'er with prejudice are yet so wise
That they must judge the earth, and call it good
Or evil as it follows their small rules,
The petty, narrow dogmas of the schools
That hang on Calvin!
Doubtless prairie-flowers
Esteem the hot-house roses evil all;
But yet I think not that the roses should
Go into mourning therefor!
Oh, the small,
Most small foundation for a vast conceit!
Is it a merit that you never learned
But one side of this life? Because you dwelt
Down in a dell, there were no uplands sweet,
No breezy mountain-tops? You never yearned
For freedom, born a slave! You never felt
The thrill of rapture, the wild ecstasy
Of mere existence that strong natures know,
The deep and long-drawn breaths, the burning glow
Of blood that sunward leaps; but, in your dell,
You said: “This is the world. If all, like me,
Walked on this one straight line, all would go well!”
O fool! O blind!
O little ant toiling along the ground!
You cannot see the eagle on the wind
Soaring aloft; and so you go your round
And measure out the earth with your small line,
An inch for all infinity! “Thus mine
Doth make the measure; thus it is.”
Proud girl!
You call me evil. There is not a curl
In all this loosened hair which is not free
From sin as your smooth locks. Turn; look at me!
I flout you with my beauty! From my youth
Beside my mother's chair, by God's own truth,
I've led a life as sinless as your own.
Your innocence is ignorance; but I
Have seen the Tempter on his shining throne,
And said him nay. You craven weaklings die
From fear of dangers I have faced! I hold
Those lives far nobler that contend and win
The close, hard fight with beautiful, fierce Sin,
Than those that go untempted to their graves,
Deeming the ignorance that haply saves
Their souls, some splendid wisdom of their own!
You fold
Yourself in scornful silence? I could smile,
O childish heart, so free from worldly guile,
Were I not angered by your littleness.
You judge my dress
The garb of sin? Listen. I sat and heard
The opera; by chance there fell a word
Behind me from a group of men who fill
Night after night my box. My heart stood still.
I asked—they told the name. “Wounded,” they said,
“A letter in the journal here.” I read,
Faced them with level eyes; they did not know,
But wondered, caught the truth, to see me go
Straight to my carriage. “Drive! The midnight train.”
We reached it, breathless.
Had I worn fair white,
A ballroom-robe, I'd do the same to gain
One moment more of time.

The Maiden.
And by what right—
Are you his wife?

The Lady.
I am not; but to-night
I shall be, if I live. Your scorn, poor child,
Is thrown away. Bound by his soldier's oath,
I would not keep him. No Omphale I,
Though he be Hercules. We plighted troth,
And then, when called, he went from me—to die
If need be. I remember that I smiled
When they marched by!
Love for my country burns
Within my heart; but this was love for him.
I could not brook him, one who backward turns
For loving wife; his passion must not dim
The soldier's courage stern. Then I had wealth,
The golden wealth left me by that old man
Who called me wife for four short months; by stealth
He won me, but a child; the quiet plan
Was deftly laid. I do not blame him now.
My mother dead—one kind thought was to save
My budding youth from harm. The thoughtless vow
I made was soon dissevered by the grave,
And I was left alone. Since then I've breathed
All pleasures as the flowers breathe in the sun,
At heart as innocent as they; red-wreathed
My careless life with roses, till the one
Came! Then the red turned purple deep, the hope
Found itself love; the rose was heliotrope.
There needed much
To do with lawyers' pens ere I could give
My hand again; so that dear, longed-for touch
Was set by me for the full-blooming day
When Peace shall drive the demon War away
Forever. I was wrong. Oh, let him live,
Kind God! Love shall be wronged no more—no more.
All my own heart's life will I gladly pour
For one small hour of his.—Wait—wait—I fly
To thee, my love, on swiftest wings! Thy cry
The depths of grief too hot for tears doth move:
“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”

The Maiden.
It was not you he called!

The Lady.
Ah! yes.

The Maiden.
He is
Not false; I'll ne'er believe it, woman.

The Lady.
His
The falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptorn
By the great flood, and onward madly borne
With the wild, foaming torrent miles away.—
No doubt he loved the violet that grew
In the still woods ere the floods came; he knew
Not then of roses!

The Maiden.
Cruel eyes, I say
But this to all your flashings—you have lied
To me in all!

The Lady.
Look, then, here at my side
His letters—read them. Did he love me? Read!
Aha! you flush, you tremble, there's no need
To show you more; the strong words blanch your cheek.
See, here his picture; could I make it speak,
How it would kill you! Yes, I wear it there
Close to my heart. Know you this golden hair
That lies beside it?

The Maiden.
Should he now confess
The whole—yes, tell me all your tale was true,
I would not leave him to you, sorceress!
I'd snatch him from the burning—I would sue
His pardon down from heaven. I shall win
Him yet, false woman, and his grievous sin
Shall be forgiven.
(Bows her head upon her hands.)
O God let him die
Rather than live for one who doth belie
All I have learned of Thee!

Train stops suddenly.—Enter Conductor.
CONDUCTOR.
The bridge is down,
The train can go no farther. Morgan's band
Were here last night! There is a little town
Off on the right, and there, I understand,
You ladies can find horses. Benton's Mill
Is but a short drive from Waunona Hill.—
Can I assist you?

The Maiden.
Thanks; I must not wait.

[Exit.
The Lady.
Yes; that my basket—that my shawl. O Fate!
How burdened are we women! Sir, you are
Most kind; and may I trouble you thus far?
Find me the fleetest horses; I must reach
Waunona Hill this night. I do beseech
All haste; a thousand dollars will I give
For this one ride.

[Exeunt.
A Soldier.
Say, boys, I'd like to live
Where I could see that woman! I could fight
A regiment of rebels in her sight—
Couldn't you?

The Others.
Yes—yes!

[Exeunt omnes.