Poems and Translations :: :: University of Virginia Library

One by one the summer flowers
Now are dying;
She, the fairest of them all, is
With them lying.
The fresh roses from her cheeks
Now are fled;
That young soul is early numbered
With the dead.
Of the dying summer-flowers
She was fairest,
For in her were sweetly gathered
All the rarest.
Like a lily fair, her soul was,—
Pure and white;
Roses, on her cheeks so dimpled,
Blushed all bright.
And her eyes forget-me-nots were,
Full of feeling,—

Woman's strength and childish freshness,
Both revealing.
All her hopes here, now are scattered
To the earth;
Noiseless are the halls where sounded
Her gay mirth.
And in our hearts, so empty,
Nought is there
Save the shadow of her sweetness,—
Memory fair.
Such was she, our lovely flower,
Faded now;
For her were joy, and summer sunshine.
Wintry snow,
And stern misfortune's nipping blast,
At its first breath,
Struck down the blossom and consigned it
To drear Death.
And the flowers that are now all
Quickly dying,
At the blast of Autumn's keen breath,
Lowly lying,
They will bloom in future spring-times,
Bright as ever,
Budding sweet in field and meadow,
And by river.
So the soul of that fair maid, of
Early doom,

In the Spring of heaven above will
Once more bloom;
Shining brighter than in days here
To her given,—
Beautifying with its fairness
God's own heaven.

September 3d, 1863.

FADED FLOWERS.

'T is but two faded flowers, that have lost both hue and scent,—
A red geranium-blossom, with its loveliness all spent,
And a purple modest violet, that bloomed beneath the sky,
But to show forth all its beauty, to wither and to die.

More dear to me than life itself are these poor faded flowers,
And oft have they consoled me in my sad and gloomy hours;
Like them, I, too, have faded, since her spirit passed away,
And my weary heart, though broken, must linger day by day.

You ask me when she gave them? The geranium when, above,

The moon shone bright with glory, and I whispered her my love;
And the violet so faded, that my tears so often lave,
After one short year of absence, I plucked from off her grave.

September, 1863.

THE ECHO.

When the shadows of evening fell low on the earth,
As I wearied of sadness, yet wished not for mirth,
Then I climbed the steep side of the mount old and bare,
Whose dark, slender top seemed to cleave the blue air,
And all sadly I mused on the death of my love,
Looking down upon forest, and meadow, and grove,
And I cried with a passionate burst of despair,
“Where again can I see her? Oh, tell me but where!
But the merciless heaven my cry will not hear!”
Then the lone mountain-echo gave answer,—“Not here.”

And again I cried forth, all my soul in the cry,
To the mounts, and the woods, and the gold-tinted sky,
“I am sad, I am weary of all this world's strife,
And I yearn to meet her in a happier life.

Shall I e'er see again my youth's hope, my one love?
Oh, now answer, ye heavens, that smile so above!”
And the lone mountain-echo gave answer,—“Above!”

October 12th, 1863.

ON A LOCK OF MY MOTHER'S HAIR.

In looking o'er the souvenirs
Of days when I was young,
I found a lock of silver hair
The tokens dear among.

And, like a bright connecting link,
That lock recalled the Past,
And brought me saddening memories,
And sweet thoughts crowding fast.

For well did I remember me,—
When that dear lock was bright
With mellow gold, of sunny tint,
That changed in every light.

And, then, the shade of earthly cares
Touched, e'er with saddening hand,
The little tress, until it soon
Became this silver band.

And pray I now that Sorrow may,
Whene'er she comes to me,

But change my heart's now golden joy
To silver's purity.

And pray I, that though to my heart
Earth's saddest woes are given,
They may but tint with purer ray,
And make it worthy heaven.

December, 1863.

THE EAST INDIAN GIRL.

(ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.)

Adown the dark'ning forest glades
There fell the sun with slanting beam,
Right through the leafy, long arcades,
All gladdening with dazzling gleam.

And swift athwart the deepest shade
There came one golden ray of sun,
But just to kiss a lovely maid
Who sat upon a mossy stone.

Adown it came, that golden thread,
And sported in her jetty hair;
Then deeped her mantle's glowing red,
Then touched her cheek, and lingered there.

All low the pensive eye was cast,
Half-hidden by the silken fringe;
And where that dark'ning shadow past
There was a softer, lovelier tinge.

The ruby lip appeared as though
'T were jealous of the cheek's rich hue,

But gave it yet a fresher glow,
And burned with added beauty too.

Around the snowy neck was strung
A dazzling row of fairest pearls,
That sought in vain, from where they hung,
To ripple in among the curls.

Of purest white a garment thin
But half-concealed the form so light,
And girdled was by zone of green,
With flashing jewels studded bright.

Her head was resting on the tree,
That bent o'er her its grateful shade,
Reclining 'gainst it listlessly,
There sat and dreamed the pensive maid.

Long, long she 'd waited—all in vain,
Upon that green and mossy stone,
Through sunny calm and beating rain,
Each morning and each eve alone,

Till when the heat of day was strong,
Or night's black shadows rose and fell—
For one who swore to love her long,
And guard her tenderly and well.

And morn and even to that stone
Thus faithfully she went for years,
Till every bright-winged hope had flown,
And frozen were the welling tears.

But he she waited ne'er was known,
And ne'er her fervent love repaid;
So, underneath the mossy stone
They laid the broken-hearted maid.

January 3d, 1864.

THE CASKET AND THE FLOWER.

(THIRD ACT OF “FAUST.”)

The leaves with the night-dew are drooping and wet,
The moon has arisen on high;
But there in her garden sits Marguerite yet,
Nor heeds how the hours flit by.

In one hand a violet fair does she hold,
As blue as her own truthful eyes,
And a burnished and dazzling casket of gold
In the other, glittering, lies.

The moonlight a tear in her earnest eye shows
As she looks on the drooping stem;
And a smile o'er a blush, like the sun on a rose,
When she dwells on the sparkling gem.

She puts in the waves of her long, golden hair,
The violet, saying, “Thou art
The pledge of a friend who is loving and fair;”
But the jewel she lays on her heart.

No sound is breathed forth from the depths of the night,
No zephyr is borne from afar;
But a black cloud comes over the sky so bright,
And darkens the light of a star.

January 27th, 1864.

THE SEA-QUEEN'S TOILET.

Under the sea, far under the sea,
In the emerald depths of the glorious sea,
Sits the Queen of the Mermaids, laughing and singing,
The pearly drops out of her golden hair wringing,
Weaving them all
In a coronal,
For the King of the Ocean, her husband to be.
Singing she weaves,
And her fair bosom heaves
With laughter and song, and music and mirth,
Happier far than being on earth.
There does she sit on her emerald throne,
Alone, all alone,
Weaving her lord a coronal bright
Of the drops from her hair, so pearly and white.
She wearies of solitude, laying aside
The wreath to be offered to husband from bride.
And now does she call,
From her inner hall,
Her mermaids and men,

From chambers and halls beyond human ken;
And this joyous band,
Maids and youths hand in hand,
At the feet of their queen throw them down, one by one;
Sure never was seen such a sight 'neath the sun.
The maidens all wear,
In their long waving hair,
Fairest drops of pure amber and opals and pearls,
That peep forth in beauty from out their long curls.
And some have blue eyes,
As pure as the skies;
And some have deep black, or voluptuous brown,
That low on the gem-scattered ground are cast down.
And their delicate lips are so fair and so red,
They seem as if stolen from some coral bed.
And the lovely Undines,
And the sweet river queens,
Are so dazzlingly fair,
As they bow themselves there,
That even they seem
Too bright for a dream.
But the Queen of the Mermaids is handsomer far
Than the Undines
Or Queens,
All bright as they are.

And now they all deck
With jewels her neck;
Here a drop of pure amber
From some inner chamber;
There a diamond rare
On her shoulder so fair;
And her arms and her dresses,
And her long golden tresses,
All glitter and shine
With the spoils of the mine.
But the topaz, so fair,
That they place in her hair,
Is not half as bright
As her curls, in the light
Of the golden-green sea.
And the coral they haste
To put in her waist,
Is not as red or as small
As her lips, when they call
To her maids in the hall;
And the pearls that they wreathe
Round her fair little head,
Are eclipsed by her teeth,
With their frame of red.

April 20th, 1864,

“ICH HABE GELEBT UND GELIEBT.”

Yes, I have lived through many weary years
Of suffering, and grief, and endless pain,
And little joy, and bitter, bitter tears;
And all my darkened life has been in vain.
For what is left me in my old age now?
These locks of snow.

Yes, I have loved, and madly loved, and long,
With all the passion of a woman's loving,
Through joy and sorrow, through distrust and wrong;
And through behoving, and through unbehoving.
And now, in my old age, what is my part?
A broken heart.

July 18th, 1864.

SOMETHING TO WEEP OVER.

'T is but a lock of golden hair,
Kept from the years of long ago,
Just to recall a face loved well,
Now 'neath the flowers sleeping low.
To press it once more to my heart of hearts;
To kiss it for her in her long, long sleep;
To curl it once more in its form of old;
To gaze at it fondly, to smile and weep.

Little have I, in these sad years,
E'en to recall those golden days:
Sometimes a strain of music sweet,
Sometimes a look like the old fond gaze.
So ask me not now why I kiss the lock,
Why hold the tress in my day-dreams and sleep;
'T is all I have left o'er which I can smile,
'T is all I have left o'er which I can weep.

New Brighton, August 20th, 1864.

THE HOLY OF HOLIES.

Once I knew a little chapel,
And it held a sacred altar,
And before it e'er I trembled,
While my footsteps e'er did falter.
Still before that shrine I worshiped
In the dark night and the day,
Little thinking that my idol
Was but wrought of fragile clay.
O'er the shrine there burned a taper
Of a small, but dazzling light,
And I called the slender taper
Hope, because it burned so bright.
And that altar I had builded
To a maiden young and fair,
To a form of wondrous beauty,
With a halo of gold hair;
Like a pure Madonna, smiling
Down upon me from above,
While I ever offered incense
At the altar of my love.
And I deemed that form of beauty
From my soul would ne'er depart,

For the maiden was my idol,
And the altar was my heart.

Now I know a little chapel,
And it holds a shattered altar,
And before it e'er I tremble,
While my weary footsteps falter.
O'er the shrine there burns a taper
Of a dim and fading light,
And I call the taper Mem'ry,
For it gleams athwart the night
With a pallid, faint reflection
Of the ray that once was there,
O'er the altar, rudely shattered,
By the one I thought so fair.
And I weep before my altar
Now, with prayerless lips apart,
For my idol now is broken,
Like my mocked and ruined heart.

New Brighton, August, 1864.

LUCIA TO EDGARDO.

Yes, I have loved thee, O thou First and Only!
Who ever from my heart these humbled words hast drawn.
And what has been my life? A desert lonely,—
A black and starless night, that knew no other dawn
Than death,—a hopeless, agonizing lot:
For what meant joy and life where thou wert not?
Edgardo!

How oft, in dreams, my last heart-rending scene with thee
I view again. The waxen tapers' mellow light,
Brightening all that hall of fatal revelry;
The bridal maidens round me in their robes of white;
And my stern father sacrificing me
To long-forgotten feuds of family.

And I, so pale and trembling all, a death-like bride,
Amidst the scene of such fell mockery to me;

When lo! the crimson curtain slowly waved aside,
And cold, reproachful, O Edgardo, I saw thee;
Thy love to hate distorted on thy face,
Where scorn of tenderness had ta'en the place.

Nor would'st thou e'en regard the passionate despair
Felt in my heart of hearts, and written on my face;
But with thy storm of hate lashed her, once thought so fair;
And pitilessly saw the form, once deemed all grace,
Quiver and fall, all death-like, at thy feet;
My bridal-robe, my rent heart's winding-sheet.

And then I knew no more; and when I woke again,
O thou, my love, hadst gone forever, evermore,
And I awoke to agony and tears and pain;
And dark Despair her mantle spread my whole life o'er;
And all my days had changed, and hope was dead;
And all the joy of years to come had fled.

And now, again, I feel a sudden thrill of joy;
For I am dying, love, and I shall meet thee soon.
I would that I could see once more on earth thy form,

But no! the sun dies, too; and with the rising moon
I shall have passed to other, brighter spheres,
And other lips will tell thee of my tears.

They tell me, O my love, I oft have raved of thee,
And wandered, all regardless of their tears and pain,
With mad appeals to thee, and looks of vacancy,
And senseless words of love, and crazed and wildered brain;
And, in my frenzy, I would cry to thee,
And beg thee to return, on bended knee.

I might have better borne through life thy awful hate,
Edgardo, than I bore thy silence and thy scorn.
Oh, scorn me not, but love me, love me, though so late;
I, dying, rise, and wild, beseech thee to return,
And I shall, with my woe, thy stern heart move.
Return, and love me with the old fond love!

Once more I rave!—Now all delirium is past,
And I, Edgardo, will not ask again thy love;
And though I would caress and love thee to the last,
I would not with my grief thy heart, my loved one, move.

I would not now reproach thee with my fate,
Though I have been so sad and desolate.

And now, I will not send thee e'en a lock of hair
To cluster round thy heart-strings and recall my woe;
For thou, too, wilt forgive, when all my dread despair,
And tears and grief and love, Edgardo, thou dost know.
I will not leave to thee such mem'ries vain,—
Bequeath thy heart such fearful, needless pain.

No, I will send to thee no more, save one last friend,
Beside me now, to tell thee all my misery,
And let thee know my faith, e'en to the dark, sad end,
And how I still could love through all mine agony.
So, with the sunlight on me, as I lie,
I can forgive thee, love, forgive and die,
Edgardo.

July 15th, 1864.

A CRADLE AND A GRAVE.

See this little empty cradle
Hung with silk all draped around,
And with snowy curtains drooping
Idly over to the ground.
'T is so lately since the linen
Bore the impress of the form
That each night in slumber lay there,
And the pillow yet was warm
With the soft and gentle pressure
Of the rosy velvet cheek,
With the coral lips' light breathing,—
Lips not formed enough to speak.
Not to earth's sad cares and trials
Was this little soul here doomed,
For the fragile bud, unopened,
Faded e'en before it bloomed.

See this gentle mound here rising,—
Sigh upheaved by earth's sad breast;
Here the cypress droops, a mourner
O'er a baby form at rest.

The violets have not blossomed,
Nor the grass begun to wave,
Nor the summer sunshine brightened,
O'er this little new-made grave.
And the snow falls fast and heavy,
But the mound is not yet white,
For the little knoll was shapen
In this bitter winter night.
Earth is dreary, man is feeble,
And, perchance, 't is better so
That the cradle should be empty,
And a full grave in the snow.

September 2d, 1864.

ONLY A DREAM.

A dream of glory and youth and faith,
And a love that should last through life and death.
A dream of a face with violet eyes,
And a smile of a tender, sweet surprise.
With a golden frame of wavy, soft hair,
Of a maiden at once both pure and fair.
A glorious dream, while erst it did last,
That illumined so brightly all my past,—
A dream that was lighted by Hope's bright gleam,
Through golden days,—but only a Dream.

September 13th, 1864.

BEGINNING AND END.

Just enough light from the stars and the moon
To see my belovèd's face,
Out in the blooming garden late,
In the darkest, fairest place.
Silver and beaming the full round moon
On that little golden head,
Like a halo of glory on sainted maid
Softly and tenderly played.

Just enough light from the stars and the moon
To see a low-shapen mound
Rising up soft from the grassy earth,
With blooming flowerets crowned.
Silver and beaming the full round moon
Makes the long shadows wave;
Bitterly weeping alone I sit
By my belovèd's grave.

February 22d, 1865.

THE BROKEN TOY.

'T is very long ago now,
I was a little boy,—
I had, and guarded carefully,
A pretty little toy;
A golden heart, all sparkling
And set with jewels bright,
With opals and with rubies,
And with pearls so pure and white.
I saw a lovely maiden
With smiling lips apart,
And rashly did I give her
My pretty golden heart.
She toyed with it an hour,
So gay and merrily;
Up in the dazzling sunbeams
She tossed it playfully.
And with her tiny foot, then,
She crushed and broke it quite,—
My golden heart, all sparkling
With jewels clear and bright.
Then back she, careless, gave me

My little broken toy,
With pretty scornful laughter,
And a merry childish joy.
Poor heart, all crushed and broken,—
I'm weeping o'er it yet;
Alas! the lovely maiden
I never can forget.
'T is very long ago, now,
I was a little boy,—
But still I'm weeping sadly
Over my broken toy.

March 1st, 1865.

THE LAMP OF THE GANGES.

[_]

[When their lovers leave them, the maids of the Ganges send out lamps on the river, and believe the former faithless if the flame is extinguished before passing out of sight.]

Fragrant and moonless, starry and bright,
Lovely and cool, is the summer night;
There 's nothing to stir the silence round
Save the river's low and rippling sound;
Each little wave is crowned with a star,
Brought down from the deep blue vault afar.
Through the black, shadowy waving trees,
Soft and low whispers the evening breeze.
A rustling sound is borne on the air,
Quickly darts forward a maiden fair.
Swaying and graceful her figure light,
Jeweled and scented her garments white.
Long silken lashes her black eyes shade;
Swiftly she breaks through the tangled glade.
With the midnight dew-drops, cold and damp,
Her fingers arch o'er a burning lamp.
Gentle and noiseless she nears the stream,
And sends o'er the waves the lamp's bright gleam.

Rising and falling, it floats afar;
Twinkling, it shines like a golden star.
Fearful and trembling, still in the shade
Watching the flame, stands the fair young maid.
It flickers, quivers, then burns once more;
Still waits the maid on the distant shore.
Sudden it pales and it dies away,
And vanished now is the last bright ray.
Naught on the stream save the star's pale light,
And the rising moon on the summer night.
No sound on the bank save a gentle sigh,
That dies on the zephyr floating by.
A plunge is heard from the river's shore,—
A stir in the waves, and all is o'er.
Fragrant and moonlit, starry and bright,
Lovely and cool is the summer night.
There 's nothing to stir the silence round
Save the river's low and rippling sound.

March 4th, 1865.

BREVET BRIGADIER-GENERAL FRED. WINTHROP.

KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF FIVE FORKS, APRIL 1, 1865.

More hearts will break than gladden when
The bitter struggle 's past;
The giant form of Victory must
A giant's shadow cast.

The shadow only can we see,
Through blinding mists of tears;
God sees the dazzling light that will
Illumine future years.

Bloom, flowers, with early blossoms fair,
Above his narrow bier!
Weep, dawn, your saddest tears of dew
For him who slumbers here!

Shine out, ye little silver stars,
Like tearful, weeping eyes!
Sing, birdlings fair, his praises now,
And bear them to the skies!

Weep, maidens, o'er him resting here
In his long, dreamless sleep!
Alas! the saddest of ye all
Is she who cannot weep.

April 12th, 1865.

APRIL 27TH, 1865.

“Oh, where can I lay now my aching head?”
The weary-worn fugitive sadly said.
“I have wandered in pain all the sleepless night,
And I saw my pursuers' distant light
As it glared o'er the river's waves of blue,
And flashed forth again in each drop of dew.
I've wandered all night in this deadly air,
Till, sick'ning, I drop with pain and despair.”

Go forth! Thou shalt have here no rest again,
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.

“I am weary and faint and ill,” said he,
“And the stars look down so mercilessly!
Do ye mock me with your glittering ray,
And seek, like the garish sun, to betray?
Oh, forbear, cruel stars, so bright and high;
Ye are happy and pure in God's own sky.
Oh, where can I lay me down to sleep,
To rest and to slumber, to pray and weep?”

Go forth! Thou shalt have here no rest again,
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.

“To sleep! What is sleep now but haunting dreams?
Chased off, every time, by the flashing gleams
Of the light o'er the stream in yonder town,
Where all are searching and hunting me down!
Oh, the wearisome pain, the dread suspense,
And the horror each instant more intense!
I yearn for rest from my pain and for sleep,—
Bright stars, do ye mock, or, quivering, weep?”

Go forth! Thou shalt have here no rest again,
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.

On the marsh's grass, without pillow or bed,
Fell the rain and dew on his fated head;
While the will-o'-the-wisp, with its changeful light,
Led him on o'er the swamp in the darksome night;
And all Nature's voices cried out again,
To the weary fugitive in his pain,—

Go forth! Thou shalt have here no rest again,
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.

The pursuers are near! Oh, bitter strife!
Youth, more strong than despair, still clings to life.
More near and more near! They find him at last;

One desperate struggle, and all is past,—
One desperate struggle, 'mid smoke and flame,
For life without joy, and darkness and shame.
A prayer ascends to high Heaven's gate
For his soul,—O God, be it not too late!
A ball cleaves the air. ... He is lying there,
Pale, stiff, and cold in the fresh morning air;
And the flames' hot breath is all stifled now,
And the breezes caress his marble brow.

All sorrow has gone with life's fitful breath.
Rest at last! For thy brow bears the seal of Death.

April 29th, 1865.

THE MOTHER'S PRAYER.

Oh, let me go weep on his flowerless grave!
I will go in the night, the rain, or the storm;
The perils of gloom and of darkness I'll brave,
To watch and to weep o'er that well-beloved form.
Ay, more than the night, I will go in the sun,
When my anguish and grief are seen by each one!
Oh, break not thus rudely life's holiest ties,
Let the mother now know where the fated son lies.

He needs so much prayer in his untimely sleep,—
None will pray! He needs tears,—there 's no one will weep!
Oh, tell me, where rises that misshapen mound?
I will pray and will weep on the cold, clayey ground.
I would give all the joy of my happiest years
To go there and shed these my bitterest tears.

I would go to his victim's revered, honored tomb,
And beg, of that merciful heart in the gloom,

His pardon and pity,—he would not refuse!
And then would I haste, in the night's deadly dews,
And whisper it soft to my doomed son, all low.
By my tears, ever watered, bright blossoms might grow,—
Sweet flowers that over his grave would arise,
To show that God knows where the fated one lies.

May 11th, 1865.

UN RECUERDO.

I saw, long ago, in the fleeting dance,
That beautiful maid,
With her flashing eyes, and their poisoned glance
'Neath the lashes' shade.

Ah, lovely she was then, and fair to see,
With her tiny feet,
That moved to the cadence, gracefully,
Of the music sweet.

She smiled as she swayed in the giddy dance,—
Ah, those golden hours!—
And she threw me, in merry, girlish joy,
Some pale purple flowers.

Ay, gentle Pepita was fair to see,
In the mystic dance,—
With her sable hair, with its rippling waves,
And her piercing glance.

But I weep when I think of Pepita now,
As she stood that day,

And my sad thoughts back to that happy time
Now evermore stray.

Where the frowning and dark Sierra high
Shades the lowly vale,
There 's a snowy stone that covereth now
The fair and the frail;

And a marble cross, that shadows her form
In sun and in showers;
And over the cross there are ever wreathed
Some pale, purple flowers.

May 14th, 1865.

REST AT LAST.

“Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hand to sleep.”—

Proverbs xxiv. 33.

When all joy is cold and dead,
And our youth and smiles are fled;
When our dreams all fade in air,
And hope changeth to despair;
When our heart grows worn and cold,
Ere our weary years be told;
When we, yearning, long for sleep,
And our eyes can only weep;
When we traverse, all in tears,
The drear desert of our years,
Seeking ever some sweet spot
To repose, and find it not;
When we 're weary, faint, and worn,
And our heart is sorely torn;
When the sun's hues linger yet,
And we muse but on suns set;
When we dream, in Spring's glad hours,
But of those beneath her flowers;
When a faded bud is worth
More than fairest one on earth;

When but sad strains can beguile,
And awake a flitting smile;
When all forms that meet our gaze
Only bring us back past days;
When with fate in vain we cope,
And have naught in life to hope;
When we 'd rest our weary head,
And have naught in death to dread;—
Then, to bury the dead Past,
The sweet slumber comes at last.
No closed eyes can ever weep,
And we bless the little sleep,
And the gentle slumber soft
That we've yearned for, long and oft,
Through the hours' lingering sands.
All earth's sighs are now repressed,
In our worn and weary breast,
By the folding of the hands,
By the folding o'er the breast.
And to peace and calm and rest,
Freed from woes and want and breath,
Float we down the stream of Death.

June 16th, 1865.

NIAGARA.

Thou art a giant altar, where the Earth
Must needs send up her thanks to Him above
Who did create her. Nature cometh here
To lay its offerings upon thy shrine.
The morning and the evening shower down
Bright jewels,—changeful opals, em'ralds fair.
The burning noon sends floods of molten gold,
The calm night crowns thee with its host of stars.
The moon enfolds thee with her silver veil,
And o'er thee e'er is arched the rainbow's span,—
The gorgeous marriage-ring of Earth and Heaven.
While ever from the holy altar grand
Ascends the incense of the mist and spray,
That mounts to God with thy wild roar of praise.

Clifton House, Niagara Falls, Canada, August 24th, 1865.

NIAGARA RIVER BELOW THE FALLS.

Flow on forever, in thy tranquil sleep,
Thou stream, all wearied by thy giant leap;
Flow on in quiet and in peace fore'er,
No rocky steep, no precipice is there.

The rush, the roar, the agony are past;
The leap, the mighty fall, are o'er at last;
And now with drowsy ripplings dost thou flow,
All murmuring in whispers soft and low.

Oh tell us, slumb'ring, em'rald river, now,
With that torn veil of foam upon thy brow;
Now, while thou sleepest quietly below,—
What are thy dreams? Spent river, let us know.

Again, in thought, dost dash o'er that dread steep,
By frenzy maddened to the fearful leap?
By passion's mists all blinded, cold and white,
Dost plunge once more, now, from the dizzy height?

Or else, forgetful of the dangers past,
Art dreaming calm and peacefully, at last,

Of that fair nymph who pressed thy livid brow,
And gave thy past a glory vanished now?

The Rainbow, whom the royal Sun e'er wooes,
For whom, in tears, the mighty Storm-king sues:
Who left her cloud-built palace-home above,
To crown thy awful brow with light and love.

Yes, in thy tranquil sleep, O wearied stream,
Still of the lovely Iris is thy dream;
The agony, the perils ne'er could last;
But with all these the rainbow, too, has past.

No life so wild and hopeless but some gleam
Doth lighten it, to make a future dream.
Thy course, O Stream, has been mid fears and woe,
But thou hast met the Rainbow in thy flow.

New York, November 3d, 1865.

A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER.

Oh, we mourn thee, lovely Summer,
As thou liest on thy bier,—
As we see thy blossoms faded,
And thy leaflets pale and sear.
All thy long warm days so peaceful,
With their golden sunsets crowned,
When thy roses blushed in blooming,
Spreading perfume wide around.
All thy tranquil, happy evenings,
When thy moon rose proud and cold,
Like a queen, in robes of silver,
Midst the twinkling stars of gold.
When she rose and flung a garment
O'er the earth, of ermine fair,
Whitest lights and blackest shadows,
In the Summer night's blue air.
When the little, gleaming starlets
In the fields of heaven God sets,
Were like dew-drops, brightly sparkling
On a bed of violets.
Now, O fair and lovely Summer,
Thou art lying in thy tomb;

Nought can come save gaudy Autumn,
That must die in Winter's gloom.
Thou art gone with all thy flowers,
Thou hast faded in the Past;
Far too lovely here to linger,
Far too beautiful to last.
Yet thou, too, had'st days of sadness,
Sighing winds and dropping rain;
Why did'st mourn, gay-seeming Summer?
What could give thee cause for pain?
None on earth can ever know it,
And thy secret none can tell,—
Save, perhaps, the sobbing ocean,
And the birds that sing farewell.

September 2d, 1865.

REMEMBER.

“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth; while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.”—

Ecclesiastes xii. 1.

Remember Him, the Only One,
Now, ere the years flow by,—
Now, while the smile is on thy lip,
The light within thine eye.
Now, ere for thee the sun have lost
Its glory and its light,
And Earth rejoice thee not with flowers,
Nor with its stars the Night.
Now, while thou lovest Earth, because
She is so wondrous fair
With daisies and with primroses,
And sunlit, waving air;
And not because her bosom holds
Thy dearest and thy best,
And some day will thyself enfold
In calm and peaceful rest.
Now, while thou lovest violets,
Because mid grass they wave,
And not because they bloom upon
Some early shapen grave.

Now, while thou lovest trembling stars,
But just because they shine,
And not because they 're nearer one
Who never can be thine.
Now, while thou lovest music's strains,
Because they cheer thy heart,
And not because from aching eyes
They make the tear-drops start.
Now, while thou lovest all on earth,
And deemest all will last,
Before thy hope has vanished quite,
And every joy has past.
Remember Him, the Only One
Before the days draw nigh
When thou shalt have no joy in them,
And praying, yearn to die.

January 20th, 1866.

SPRING.

The cold white snow has faded fast,
And stilled now is the wintry blast.
Where erst it lay, that cold, dull snow,
The pale-pink primrose now doth blow,
With meekness blushing, in the wood,
The first of her fair sisterhood.

The runlet's icy chains are burst;
He flows in joy and peace at first,
Then, babbling, sports in merry glee,
And sings aloud at being free,
And whispers to the sprouting grass,
“Come, weave a carpet where I pass.”

The violets, tinted like the sky,
Seem freshly fallen from on high,
And bloom in every shady nook.
Fair Spring, through those blue eyes, doth look
Upon the gladsome, happy earth,
To which she bringeth joy and mirth.

Midst purple clover graze the herds,
Midst fresh green branches sing the birds.
And now the heart, too, groweth gay,
Throws off old sorrows day by day,
And praiseth God with gladness rife
For Spring, and flowers, and earth, and life.

January 23d, 1866.

DAPHNE.

Daphne, the fair one, with the sea-blue eyes,
And rich gold locks upon her shoulders pure,
Ambrosial, bright, and long as Herè's own,
And cheeks in color like the Spring's first rose,
All shaded into soft and melting pink,
As velvety and smooth as is the peach,
And dimpling like the Ocean's sun-kissed waves;
With perfect-moulded limbs and slender form,—
The lovely daughter of the river-god,—
Was pierced by Cupid, that young archer bold,
Pierced through the heart with arrow thick and blunt,
And tipped with dark and heavy leaden point,
That deadened her to love's most fond caress.
Apollo, with the dazzling, sunny locks,
Waving in glorious curls above his brow,
Divinely-lit with genius of a god,
Benevolent, serene, and beautiful,—
Apollo, bender of the silver bow,
Apollo, player of the golden harp,
God of the Sun, and fairest of the gods,
Was pierced by Cupid, that young archer bold,

Pierced through the heart with arrow fine and sharp,
And tipped with bright and lightsome golden point,
That wakened him to love's sweet influence.
So thus it chanced, the Sun-god loved the maid,
Apollo loved fair Daphne, chaste and pure,
And sought her with the longings of desire;
But she repelled him with cold haughtiness,
And fled him, with the blush upon her cheek,
In emulation of proud Cynthia.
He saw her, in her beauteous maidenhood,
Standing beside the blue and limpid stream
Where dwelt the river-god, old Peneus,
And burned at once with an imperious love,
That bore him onward irresistibly,
And with one spring he darted toward the maid,
To seize her in his eager, trembling arms.
But Daphne, quivering with maiden fear,
And kindling to her locks with maiden shame,
Sprang forward, too, adown the flowering glen,—
A sun-ray o'er the mountain shadowed vale.
Swift as the wind, she darted from his grasp,
And fled from him, while he pursued her form,
And followed her adown the shadowed vale,
All through the flowering glen, as swift as light.
Forward impelled, her quick feet winged by fear,
Her tresses blown around her blushing face,

Her rosy feet scarce brushing from the grass
The filmy dew-drop that there lightly hung;
Her sea-blue eyes wet with a mist of tears,
Her mouth half-oped, like a pomegranate cleft,
Panting, with heaving breast and wearying feet,
She sprang and fled through shadow and through shine.
And quickly after her the glorious god,
His large eyes lustrous, longing-full of love,
Upon his back the glittering silver bow,
Within his hand the magic golden harp,
And round his brow the halo of sun-rays,—
Swift darted through the shadow and the shine.
So these two flee. She cries, “Oh, help me Jove!
Help me, O chaste Diana, whom I love;
Save me and help me!” While he loudly cries.
“Oh, why dost flee so swiftly, Daphne fair?
Jove is my father, and the sovereign lord
Am I of Delphos and of Tenedos,
The god of the bright sun, the god of song.
Hold! I will glorify thy days with light,
And I will woo thee with my sweetest song.”
But still she flees, nor listens to his plaint.
He nears her now, he gains upon her steps,
Love, ardent, hopeful, doth outrun Despair.
More near, more near, he touches her at last,
His breath is on her cheek and on her hair;

Her trembling limbs scarce hold her on the earth,
But that his arm supports her drooping form.
“Oh, help me, Peneus, Dian!” loud she cries.
And suddenly all rigid doth she grow;
A tender bark surrounds her heaving breast,
Her flowing hair becomes fair laurel leaves,
Her arms are branches, and her face hath gone,
And beauty, now, is all of her that 's left.
Apollo kisses oft the shrinking bark,
Caressing the fair, tender trembling leaves,
And cries, “Thou shalt be evermore my crown,
And thy green leaf shall never know decay.”
So saying, on the yielding branches fair,
He hangs his silver bow and golden harp,
And each leaf flutters as it murmurs thanks.

February 12th, 1866.

MET AGAIN.

We parted, blinded with our tears,
And choking with our sighs,
The moon above my pallid brow,
The sunset in her eyes.
We parted as the daisies paled
Before the coming night,
Beside the brook with curve and flow,
A silver train of light.
But in our hearts there still lived Hope,
That beamed with golden ray,
And though the long night fast approached,
And short had been the day,
Yet still a smile broke through our tears,
And lightened half the pain;
And with regret, and yet with hope,
We said, “We meet again.”

That prophesying of our hearts
Had not been false or vain;
'T was after years of absence sad
That we two met again.
We met—but years had changed our fates;

We both had older grown,
“You came,” said she, “to seek my heart—
I give you back your own.”
Alas! I gave it to her pure,
And free from wrong or stain;
'T was dimmed and dulled and broken when
She gave it back again.
We parted with cold, heartless smiles,
And words of trifling vain.
I did not curse, nor weep, but sighed
That we had met again.

March 18th, 1866.

DRIFTED.

I sat by the stream, and waited and watched,
In the years of long ago,
And I saw the great waters rise and fall,
With their wonderful ebb and flow.
I saw them rise and I saw them fall,
And marveled what they would bring,
And prayed as I sat by the waving stream,
For some lovely wondrous thing.
Then saw I at last on the glistening waves
A golden and mystic ring.
“It is Love, oh welcome! 't is Love, 't is Love!”
E'en thus did I gladly sing.
But it floated near, and I saw 't was but
A yellow weed of the sea;
And it slipped from my eager trembling hands,
And drifted away from me.
And I saw afar on the swelling waves
A wreath floating down to me,
And I cried aloud, “It is Fame! 't is Fame!”
But this, too, drifted to sea.
Then saw I a bark on the waters wide
That rocked on the snowy foam,

And I cried, “At last I've a shelter found.
I've found a friend and a home!”
But the bark drew nigh, and I found a wreck,
An old hull useless for sea,
And I followed it long with yearning gaze,
As it drifted far from me.
And I sit e'en yet on the lonely shore,
Beside the great river free,
And pray for the time when I too shall drift
Downward away to the sea.

April 11th, 1866.

PENELOPE'S CHOICE.

By her unwilling father stands the bride,—
Penelope,—while near Ulysses waits.
Her eyes, more blue than darkest violets,
Downward she casts; her trembling rosy mouth
Half-oped, remains in vague uncertainty,
Whether to speak the word that parts her from
Her home or from her love. Her eyebrows archt
Are raised as though she questioned erst her hear
And waited its response. One little hand,
More white e'en than the spotless bridal robe,
Is half reached forth to meet Ulysses' own,
While one extends its fingers rosy-tipped,
Unto the gray-haired, sad Icarius,
Who prays her with his broken, trembling voice,
To leave him not thus childless and alone.
But proud Ulysses stands erect and says,
“Fair maiden, take thy choice to rest with him,
While all thy life glides by in peaceful calm,
Or follow me now in my journeyings,
Through sorrow and through peril unto Death.”
Penelope uplifts her drooping lids,
Looks but a moment at the warrior's form,

His noble limbs, his stalwart breast, his face,
So proud, so godlike, yet so full of love,
With all his heart within his yearning eyes;
And while a rising blush o'er cheek and brow,
Slow dyes her face, she murmurs soft and low,
“Pardon, my father,” and she drops her veil.

May 2d, 1866.

CLYTIE.

For nine full weary days I have not moved,
But taken on the cold gray ground my seat.
Apollo, oh look down upon my love,
Look down and bless me with the dazzling light
Of thy bright face so marvelously fair.
Take pity on me, O thou glorious god!
Thou lookest down with those great lustrous eyes
Upon the meanest of the things of earth.
Thou kissest tenderly the quivering leaves,
That gleam and glow atremble neath thy touch.
Thou crownest with thy beams each azure wave,
And brightenest e'en the spearlets of the grass:
My love alone thou ever dost disdain.
I sit and pine here, lonely on the ground,
My drink the globèd dew-drops, or my tears,
My bitter, bitter, ever-flowing tears.
Pensive I follow all the day thy course,
And watch and wait and weep and yearn and pray.
And when I see thee sink unto thy rest,
With all the amber-hued and rosy-tinged,
And royal-purple clouds around thy couch,
And every hill-top with thy light afire,

And every streamlet like a trail of flame,
And every daisy with the rose's blush,
Beneath the ardor of thy glowing glance,
Then know I that e'en this, my single joy—
The sight of thee—is gone for weary hours.
All night I wait, and heed not on my head
The chill damp dews, or e'en the falling rains,
That drop upon my streaming yellow hair.
Alone beneath the stars I dream of thee—
The thousand, thousand stars so bright and fair,
That gleam so purely on the field of night.
They shine upon me with a softer ray,
They look upon me far more tenderly,
And sometimes e'en I think they weep for me;
And yet, Apollo, all their million worlds
I would not give for thee and for thy love.
Alone beneath the stars I dream of thee,
Until upon the farthest eastern sky
I see gray lines, and then a pale white streak,
And then a milky opening of light,
And then a rosy flush upon the brow
Of fair Aurora, whom I envy so;
And then each dull gray cloud is edged with gold,
A border rich that feathers toward the sky
Of paly blue, and then with such a burst
Of dazzling radiance, such a wondrous gleam
Of blinding light, that all my pulses thrill,
That my heart throbs, my tearful eyes grow bright,

And my sad mouth half breaks into a smile,
Then doth thy form arise above the hills,
The mist-bathed hills erst cut so cold and clear.
Apollo, oh take pity on my love;
I pine, I faint, I die with love of thee!
Thou makest e'en the humblest flower glad
With thy great light, then change me, O my king.
Into the meanest one of these, or love me too!

Thus Clytie to Apollo, and at last
His heart she touches, for he now is seized
With tender pity for the pining nymph,
Transforming her in answer to her prayer.
A verdant tissue clothes her listless limbs,
And weaves itself about her graceful frame,
And spreadeth into leaves upon her breast,
And bursteth into little swelling buds,
Encasing all her pliant form. Her face
Becomes a flower golden as the sun,
Which moves upon its stalk and ever turns,
And follows even yet Apollo's course,
Up in the trackless heaven's azure waste.

May 1st, 1866.

A SPRING MORNING.

The Spring awakes with buds and birds and flowers,
Spring with her dewy eyes and sunny hair,
With violets to sweeten all the hours,
And perfume all the air.

The daisy rears its modest little head,
Pale with the hidden tale within its leaves,
And gently noddeth on its grassy bed,
'Mongst tiny emerald sheaves.

The roses blush beside the bubbling beck,
At their own beauty mirrored in the stream;
And milk-white clouds the blue of heaven fleck,
And all day idly dream.

Dark purple butterflies flit through the air,
With violet down upon their pansy wings,
On every thrilling leafy branch so fair,
Some happy birdling sings.

And oh the loving trembling of the trees!
This leaf an emerald, this a golden one,

As they all hear the rustling harmonies,
And quiver to the sun.

And the soft sighing wavelets of the grass,
Sunned with the dandelion's yellow sheen,
All gently rise and fall, a moving mass,
A wondrous sea of green.

Pale hyacinths now bloom, all flecked with white,
And honeysuckles, delicate as fair;
Those rosy wine-cups for the elfins bright,
With perfumed nectar rare.

O wondrous Earth! thou blossomest with joys,
With starry flowers, and with downy sod;
In thy grand forest-temple what can man,
Save fall and worship God!

May 20th, 1866.

APHRODITE.

One vast expanse of liquid-sapphire sea
Stretches around on every side—the Sun
Drowns all his glare within the plashing waves,
Cool, fresh, and quivering 'neath each ardent ray.
And the soft foam, the opal-changing foam,
Now creamy white, now flushing rosy pink,
Now delicate emerald, new in every light,
Oh, how it brightens all the lonely waste,
Curling and bubbling o'er the darksome waves.
But lo! it bubbles even more than wont,
It writhes and seethes as though in sudden wrath,
It gleams, it froths, it parts—oh dazzling sight!
A form ariseth from its milky depths,
Divinely molded into perfect grace,
A woman too ethereal for Earth,
And lovelier than Heaven's haughty queen
The lucent shoulders downward slope unto
The pure white breast, while a most radiant light,
An amber-tinted mist, plays round her form.
She seems a being of the foam itself,

As delicate and exquisite in hue,
Save where on either cheek a shell-like pink
Glows faintly as the sunrise on the snow.
The eyes seem colored by the sea itself,
Where its blue faints to melted amethyst,
And shadowed are by golden lashèd lids,
While sunny, sunny hair, with thousand rings,
Streams down upon her fair and blue-veined limbs,
A golden mantle—draping her around
In glory, from the haloed head divine,
Down to the archèd pearly little foot.
And now her whole form stands above the waves,
But lightlier than a feather presseth them;
Then looking down she sees her radiant self
Glassed in the cool transparent depths of sea,
And blusheth at her beauty, while a smile,
A heavenly smile of wonder and surprise,
Parts to a double cherry her fair mouth,
And gleameth forth from out her lustrous eyes,
And lighteth all her face. But all at once,
Ere she can fully see her mirrored form,
She feels herself upraised and borne along
Swift as the wind, by kindly Zephyrus,
Who rests not once until he placeth her
Upon a blooming island of the sea.
Then come the Seasons forth to welcome her,
And clothe her in apparel bright as theirs.

Winter bestows a mantle pure and white,
Of snowy ermine, like unto his own.
Autumn gives all his thousand-tinted gems,
Summer brings roses, and the gentle Spring
Wreathes fragrant violets around her brow.

May 18th, 1866.

RECOLLECTIONS OF SHAKSPEARE.

The star-gemmed summer night had risen long,
When o'er my tired eyes mine eyelids fell,
And wondrous spirits bore my soul along,
To where all visions dwell.

And suddenly before my trancèd sight
A moonlit, mystic garden did arise,
With purple shadow, and with silver light,
That soothed my sleepy eyes.

Proud flowers, richly tinted, blossomed there,
All pale and ghostly in the moony light;
Dark southern violets, white-bloomed myrtles fair,
With dewy splendor bright.

And music-rife with myriad nightingales,
The happy air throbbed with a thrilling lay,
And hushed Night paused, to hear those wondrous tales,
That never greet the day.

And from this blooming garden did arise
A marble mansion, pinnacled and towered;
Its airy outline blending with the skies,
With fretted carvings flowered.

So vague, so shadowy, so high aloft,
The light aerial palace proud and fair,
Seemed made of moonlight—and of music soft
Did seem the perfumed air.

Silence and sleep reigned sovereign 'neath the roof,
And closed in dreams were all the eyes within,
Save in one chamber from the rest aloof,
Where the bright moon streamed in.

Streamed in, in wondrous waves of silver light,
Over the frost-worked marble balcony,
And poured upon an angel-visage bright
A noiseless, tideless sea.

The large eyes starlit, liquid, veilèd were
By lashes black as shadows of the night,
They rested on a form that gazed on her,
Down in the garden's light.

Rich, gorgeous beauty, lit by burning love,
Glowed on her face, pale in the moonlight's gleam,

While between him below and her above,
There flowed this argent stream.

One pallid cheek she rested on a hand
That would have made the white and winnowed snow
Seem dark and dull—round her where she did stand,
Sweet perfumed gales did blow.

But ere one word passed from her perfect lips,
I saw the fleeting image vanish fast,
And the gold sunlight did the moon eclipse,
And my fair vision passed.

Then stood I on an island of the sea,
Where daisied meadows spread on either side,
And the waves kissed the sands all lovingly,
And birds sang far and wide.

And yet though sunny soft the waters seemed,
Signs of some mighty wreck were strewed around;
And broken masts and tattered sails I dreamed
I saw upon the ground.

And near me in a cool, retired spot,
All emerald-shaded by high arching boughs,

A maid and youth within a sea-formed grot,
Stood interchanging vows.

The maiden's locks threw off the gleaming sun,
They had a brighter radiance of their own,
And fluttering tresses formed then one by one,
A halo and a crown.

One golden tress did kiss her pale-pink cheek,
And lay there like the sunlight on the foam,
While some her breast's pure white did falling streak,
Nor cared from thence to roam.

Then happy tears her eyes filled one by one,
With rosy joy her perfect face did flush,
They seemed the first tears that she e'er had known,
And the first maiden blush.

Then with the music of her voice she broke
The silence round her beauty,—“There 's my hand,
With my heart in it”—and I sudden woke,
And all alone did stand

Within a gloomy wood of Northern trees,
Cold pines, and hardy firs with dewdrops wet,

And blooming sweetly at the feet of these,
The pale north violet.

Far overhead the sky could scarce be seen,
'Twixt the high branches interlacing fast,
An arching temple of dark vaulted green,
That lingering shadows cast.

And at my feet a gentle streamlet flowed,
Calm, placid, with soft, silver-crested waves,
Whereon the mellowing twilight purely glowed,
By little coves and caves.

Alas! the river a sad burden bore,
That floated down upon its swelling breast,
A maiden beautiful as Love, who wore
A look of perfect rest.

Bright yellow locks with gleams of sunny gold
Upon her quiet bosom floated down,
And the meek hands she listlessly did fold,
As she now glided on.

Over her form, ascant green willows drooped,
And for her death I almost deemed they wept,
As o'er her pliant limbs they sadly stooped,
And kissed her as she slept.

Around her pallid brow was wound a wreath,
Fantastic, strange, of straw, and violets blue,
And rosemary and pansies, and beneath
Sweet flowers of the rue.

So fair, so happy, and so pure she seemed,
I could not deem her dead and of the earth,
But some sweet creature of the waves I dreamed,
Some lily of the North.

And then I stooped and on my knees I sank,
To reach her gentle form that floated fast,
But as I fell upon the grassy bank,
My sad, sweet vision passed.

It passed but to another and I stood
Within a court midst pomp and luxury,
And noble youths and dames of princely blood
Greeted my wondering eye.

And all was light and splendor and display,
Precious and costly here was every thing,
And on a jeweled throne as bright as day,
Did sit and rule the king.

But all the eyes were fastened on a maid,
Simple and modest, yet most dazzling fair,

With eyes cast down beneath dark lashes' shade
And flowing chestnut hair.

None were like her, though many there were fair
None had her lustrous, soulful, azure eye,
Her thoughtful brow, her sunny, gleaming hair,
Her inborn dignity.

Now blushed she deep, now pale and white she sighed
Irresolute her lips did move apart,
Some cruel conflict 'twixt her love and pride
Was waged within her heart.

And there the noblest youths of all the land
Before her stood, expectant of her choice,
Craving the precious jewel of her hand,
And hanging on her voice.

All eager saving one who stood apart,
With scornful lip, and haughty, flashing eye,
Who seemed to know the workings of her heart,
And flushed all angrily.

But this the maid marked not, and all her face
Was sunnied with a smile that softly played
O'er a light blush, then with a noble grace,
“This is the man,” she said.

And suddenly the court, the youth, the maid,
All passed and in a prison did I stand,
Where no kind beam of outer daylight strayed,
And no soft breezes fanned.

There hopeless, haggard, wild, a youth did lie,
Tearless and worn, while near him knelt a maid,
A white-robed nun, with saddened, upturned eye,
Who bent o'er him and prayed.

Two whitest hands in suppliance did she join,
The symbol of her silent, constant prayer;
Her holy presence made the cell a shrine,
And God seemed entered there.

Cold, passionless as marble her fair face,
An image of the purest chastity,
Lit by a most divine, angelic grace,
And fashioned perfectly.

From out her cowl demure one yellow curl
Escaping passed like sunlight on the snow,
To gleam upon a brow as white as pearl,
And warm it with its glow.

So still, so purely cut, so chastely wrought,
A sculptured praying saint she might appear,

Save that within her soft gray eye gleamed out
A woman's dewy tear.

No love seemed ever to have warmed her breast,
More earthly than a sister's or a saint's,
And seemed this haloed maiden pure and chaste,
Free of all worldly taints.

So spirit-like and fair she was I dreamed,
In feature and in face as thus she prayed,
A maiden in an angel-form she seemed,
An angel in a maid.

But while I gazed upon her form divine,
All vanished, and the full clear light of day
Aroused my sleep-locked senses with its shine,
And all dreams fled away,—

Ere I could see the jealous Moor's pure wife,
Noble Cordelia, or the Statue-Queen,
Or hear fair Beatrice's wordy strife,
Or see true Imogene,

Alas! my bright, kaleidoscopic dreams,
Were formed but for an instant, and no more
Would they return the same with their strange gleams
For me to view them o'er.

But that one night with fancied creatures passed,
Have I deemed brighter than my brightest day,
And in the golden cell of memory fast
I treasure it for aye.

June 4th, 1866.

SONG.

It is late, love, late, but I rock thee on my heart,
Through long years of bitter sorrow we have toiled and striven apart.
It is late, love, late, and thy heart hath need of rest
From the anguish of its waiting—let it sleep upon my breast.

It is late, love, late, but we two have met at last
And I hold thee all mine own now, and clasp thee close and fast;
It is late, love, late, but thine eyes are calm in rest,
While I rock thee on my breast, love, rock thee on my breast.

It is late, love, late, and thy brow is deathly pale
And before thine eyes there cometh a strange and filmy veil;
And I rock thee, but thou leanest with a dull and heavy weight,
And thy hand is very cold—O my God! it is too late!

June 20th, 1866.

THE PRUSSIAN'S STORY.

“In the fierce fight of Trautenau the advancing Prussians came upon a ditch half filled with dead and wounded Austrians. Among the latter was a young officer, evidently hard hit; he was lying on his back in the wet ditch. Moved with manly compassion, the Prussians were about to remove the wounded man that his case might be attended to by the surgeons, when he entreated them to let him lie there, as he felt quite cool and comfortable. He expired shortly after. When the dead body was removed it was found that even with the life ebbing from it fast, it had served to protect the ‘bit of rag’ which in the morning of that bloody day had been the standard of the regiment. He had carefully folded it up and then lain down upon it to die. His noble foes forbore to touch the trophy; they wrapped it round him and let him take his rest in it. The Prussian General who told me this story, told it bareheaded.”

N. Y. Tribune, July, 1866.

The burning summer sun was sinking fast;
And o'er the bloody field wept twilight pale,
As the old hero, taking rest at last,
Sat down and told his tale.

Many a fearful sight his eyes had seen,
And yet at his own tale they filled with tears,
As, with uncovered head and solemn mien,
Broken with grief and years,

He spoke:—“Poor lads, they bravely fought and well,
I marked them lying after all the fray,
Without a sob or groan there where they fell,
Lost by this fatal day.

But one poor youth 'mongst all I noted there,
A mother's darling, quivering on the ground;
Gloom stole the gloss from off his golden hair,
As twilight fell around.

Gallant and young and brave and fair was he,
With hope's bright light still burning in his eye,
Alas! the gleaming light did swiftly flee,
As he lay there to die.

From off the clayey ground we tried to raise
His wounded form, that he might softer lie,
But he besought with earnest, prayerful gaze
To linger there and die.

We touched him not, we stood beside the youth,
Until the soul had fled, and then we bent
To raise the prostrate form, and lo! in truth,
Till the last breath was spent,

He 'd guarded the loved colors he had borne
Into the fray, and died upon them now,

The Golden and the Black, all soiled and torn
In fatal Trautenau.

Folded beneath his form, their glory dim,
With his own life-blood now all dulled and stained,
As he had clung to them, they clung to him,
When Prussian balls had rained.

No longer Austrian he, and Prussian we:
We were all men in honor and in troth,
And so we laid him with his cherished flag,
Where God can watch them both.

Saratoga, July 28th, 1866.

BERTHA.

“On a toujours souffert, ou bien on souffrira.”—
Victor Hugo.

[PART FIRST]

Sweet BERTHA, daughter of mild Conradin,
The heiress of the merry Burgundy,—
The noblest of the daughters of proud France,
The fairest of the daughters of the earth,
The purest of the children of the Lord,—
And Robert, king, and suzerain of all
The rich, broad acres of the fruitful France,—
King Robert, whose right noble blood made king,
Saint Robert, whose right noble heart made saint,
Thus crowned twice king before his God and man,—
Sweet Bertha and King Robert slowly rode
Unto the royal chapel, to be wed.
A lovely, sunny summer-day it was;
The azure sky was flecked with snow-white clouds,
The em'rald carpet of the meadows fair
Was sprinkled o'er with dandelions bright,
Like coins of gold upon a velvet robe.
Beside each winding stream that purled along,
The violets low drooped, all wet with dew,

Like sparkling amethysts set round with pearls.
The trees bent o'er the monarch and his bride,
And shed their gifts of jewels,—drops of dew,
That in the leaves and on the grass were em'ralds;
And in the blue forget-me-nots were sapphires;
And in the lily, pearls and opals pure;
And in the crimson rose-bud, rubies bright;
And in the constant sunflower, beads of gold;
And each one, in the air, a diamond.
And evermore, as forward the gay train
Wound through the curving pathways of the wood,
Above their heads the tender leaflets played,
And made them ride in sun and shadow on,
And then, again, in shadow and in sun,
So that the lovely Bertha now seemed crowned
With brightest circlet of the sun's own rays;
And now, again, she seemed all dark and sad.
Yet dark and sad she was not, for her heart
Was full of gladness and of joy and love,
And beat in answer to that royal one
That throbbed beside her, each heart-throb for her.
Oh, fair she was, as thus she rode along
Upon her snowy palfrey, by the steed
Of deepest black, of him her monarch-love.
Her long fair hair fell o'er her shoulders pure
In golden waves, e'en as the yellow grain,

When whispered to, and wooed by summer airs,
Doth thrill and tremble over all the field,
And bend and droop in luxury of joy.
Her blue eyes, darkly shadowed o'er and fringed
By lashes long, were soft and brightly gay,
And all her smiles seemed centred in their depths.
But when she looked upon her noble lord
They melted into tenderness and love,
And all their brightness sparkled fairer still
Behind a misty veil of happy tears,
Like dew upon the sunlit violet.
And fit for royal bride her garments were:
A spotless mantle of white samite fell
In folds adown from the still whiter neck,
That seemed enfettered by a chain of pearls.
And all her robe was broidered o'er with pearls;
And on her head, from out the tresses fair,
They here and there peered forth half modestly,
As though they dared not and they could not shine
Beside that wealth of waving, molten gold.
And noble and right royal seemed the king,
With darkest chestnut locks and flashing eye,
And with his stately form, all robed around
In richest purple, broidered o'er with gold;
And with the circle winding round his head,
That crowned him king of all the people's lands:
And with the halo, seen by God alone,
That crowned him king of all the people's hearts.

So thus they rode on, through the forest's paths,
The monarch and his bride, and that long train
That followed to the music of gay bells
And merry flutes and clashing cymbals loud,
That hushed the voices of the startled birds;
The winding train of nobles and of lords,
The proudest and the bravest youths of France,
All clothed in scarlet, and in blue and white,
And richest hues, in sportive dalliance with
The queenly dames of good King Robert's court.
There rode the brave Gerbert, but wedded late
To lovely Ermengarde, beside him now.
There, too, the princely Otho, proud and cold;
And there his sister, gentle Adela;
And gay Guyenne, and Poictou, and Provence;
And all the far-famed knights of noble blood,
Each with his bride or sister by his side.
And so they rode with pomp and rich display
On through the quiet greenwood to the church,
And woke the echoes with their merry sounds.
At length they reach the chapel, where they pause;
And now they enter through the sacred door
The holy temple, where the dazzling sun
Striketh the stainèd windows into flame,
And lighteth all the crimson tapestry,
And maketh all the incense, rising up
From silver vessels, like a mist of gold.
There stood the Bishops in their robes of state,

And there the great Archbishop with the cross
Before him, carried by a youthful page,
And bearing on his breast the snowy band,
The scapulary long, his order's sign.
Then, as the royal couple drew anear,
He rose and blessed them, giving to the bride
The circling crown that made them King and Queen;
While Robert gave to her the circling ring
Of ruddy gold, that made them man and wife.
And then the nobles fell upon their knee,
And swore, by all most sacred and most dear,
Life-long allegiance of their hearts and hands
To Bertha, cousin of their own good King,
To Bertha, heiress of rich Burgundy;
To Bertha, now anointed Queen of France.
And then, arising from the bended knee,
They shouted “Noël!” till the vaulted roof
Reëchoed with their cries of happiness.

And now they turned to leave the sacred walls,—
Fair Bertha leaning on the King's strong arm,
With all the stream of light full on her brow,
And with the golden crown upon her head.
Queen Bertha, now, the chosen wife of him
Her royal sovereign, and her heart's dear lord.
But ere they reached the door a dark gray cloud

Passed o'er the sun, and all the church grew dim.
And when again the sun's bright rays shone forth,
They pierced the painted window up above
The great tall altar, with its waxen lights,
And hangings, and Madonnas, and they threw
Upon the floor the altar's shadow there,
Right at Queen Bertha's feet, who, walking on
All modestly, her lovely eyes downcast,
Started and paled, and trembling felt her heart
With one great throb upheave within her breast,
While from her lips escaped a choking sob,
Like the lost murmur of the swollen wave,
When, after sudden storm, with one low moan,
It lessens, breaks, and dies upon the beach.
And Robert questioned her, his trembling queen,
And asked her what she feared when by his side.
But as he bent, his eyes fell on the ground,
And at their feet he saw the shadow dark
Of the high altar's top, all draped around
In cloth, and wreathèd for their wedding-day,
And lo! the shade was as a coffin formed.
He started and recoiled, and all the blood
Forsook his cheek and trembling lip; but then,
Recalling her his Queen, who now did lean
On him alone for comfort and support,—
As she would lean through life,—he boldly passed,
And murmured, “Bertha, O my queenly bride,
'T is nought, and we will cast such omens by,

Nor heed them, for our happy days are near.
The coffin doth but bury all the fears
And trials of our love; it is a sign
That all our sorrow's dead, and a new life
This day begins. And even though it seem
The shadow of a coffin, what of that?
We know it is the shadow of a shrine.”
Thus tenderly and loving spoke the King,
And brought the color back to Bertha's cheek;
But he, too, trembled at the omen dread.
Then each one of the train the shadow crossed,
And murmurings and whispers passed around.
“Unlucky augury,”—“our poor young Queen
Must step on this upon her wedding-day.”
And all the gentle dames sweet pity felt,
And all the youths swore to themselves again,
To stand by her, their Queen, now come what might.
Right glad was Bertha when they stood once more
Out in the cool, fresh summer-morning's air,
And when, remounting all their waiting steeds,
They rode again unto the palace gates.

Full merry, on that lovely summer-day,
Was the proud palace of the King of France.
Through spacious halls gay music sounded loud,
And flowers, wreathed and braided, spread perfume
In each wide chamber. Stately youths at once,

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With graceful dames, began the waving dance.
In sooth it was a rich and gorgeous scene.
The noble courtiers, in their costly robes.
Their brilliant precious jewels flashing forth;
The dames in robes of satin and of silk,
Of samite and of velvet, broidered o'er
With traceries of flowers and of leaves,
In golden thread, or in bright sparkling gems,
That writhed and wandered o'er the floating robes.
And wove themselves in wondrous forms and shapes.
And all the walls were draped with tapestry;
And woven in were pictures of the deeds
Of Hugh Capet, the father of the King.
And there, upon the great high royal throne,
Was gentle Bertha, in her queenly robes,
With him, her noble Robert by her side.
And while they thus sat there Queen Bertha thought
No more of that strange omen in the church;
And Robert now, with her, forgot it too,
When looking in the depths of those blue eyes,
Or at the golden waves of that fair hair.
For ten long days the feasting lasted thus
Beneath the palace roof, until the Queen
Looked hopefully for ever happy days,
And saw the distant Future's heavy mist
Become a golden haze, and all its light

101

Streamed backward on the joyful Present, too,
Illuming it with tender radiance.
For ten long days, the land rejoicing, seemed
As though the horn of plenty had let fall
Its contents on the happy fields below.
And ruby, amethyst, and amber wines,
Were drained from foaming flagons to the King
And to his lovely Queen; and boards were spread
With juicy meats, and blushing peaches ripe,
And golden-purple grapes in clusters fair,
And all the fruits that bless the fruitful France,
All at the generous bidding of the King.
At length the feasting and the joys were o'er,
And quiet reigned throughout the land again.
And Robert ruled with gentleness and love,
And Bertha moved him unto deeds of peace,
And doubly blest was France now in her King
And in her Queen, for all was happiness.
No foreign wars, no harvests poor and scant;
No wars intestine, and no armed revolt;
No robberies, no murders fierce and wild;
But peace and plenty all throughout the land,
And gentle laws obeyed; until, at last,
The royal sceptre seemed the magic wand
Of some kind fairy working for the good
Of each and all.

Ay, those were happy days,

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Those first, sweet, golden summer-days of love,
When both could pluck its full, fair-blooming flower,
Before Life's darksome blight had fallen there.
And Bertha moved about the palace, then,
All proud and joyful; proud that she should be
The kinswoman of one so good and great;
The Queen of such a happy, fertile land;
The Queen of such a great and noble heart.
And Robert was the soul of all her joy;—
Her love and hopes and dreams were twined about
His noble heart, and there would cling through sun
Or storm, e'en as the ivy round the oak
Doth cling through summer heats and wintry blasts,
And parts not till the oak itself doth fall.
He was the sun that lighted all her life,
And any cloud of fear that flitted past
Upon her azure sky, he gilded fair,
And even could transform it to a hope,
And all her tears became as rainbows bright,
When she was smiled upon by him. And she,
For Robert, was the moon, that softens all
With its pure, mystic rays; and in his life
The rugged, hard, and rocky pathways made
All soft and beautiful and silvery
With her sweet tender light. She led him on

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With words of love, e'en as the queenly moon
Binds with her silver chains, so marvelous,
Old foaming Ocean, while she sheds her light
Upon his swelling and upheaving breast,
And soothes him thus to peace and quietness.
For Robert did Queen Bertha love each scene
Of Nature that with him she gazed upon.
She loved the gentle-drooping flowers fair,
Because they spread for him their perfumes sweet;
She loved the singing-birds, because she dreamed
For him alone they poured so wildly forth
The madness of their tender melody;
For him, she loved the night-skies with their gems,
The sapphire Jupiter, and ruby Mars,
And opal Venus, and the diamond Moon,
And all the pearly planets' softened gleam.
And she would say that Heaven's coronet
Of stars was fair and varied, too, as Earth's
Bright, girdling zone of flowers. So she loved
All these for him, and him above them all.
And then, from out the ladies of her train,
Did Bertha choose the gentlest for a friend.
The sweet Gisèle, a maiden pure and chaste,
With cheek as fair as is the blushing snow
Upon the mountain-top when kissed by Dawn,
And eyes as blue as the forget-me-not.
E'er faithful was Gisèle unto the Queen,
Though she was wooed by brave young Adalbert,

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The noblest of the King's own gentlemen.
She would not wed him, so she loved the Queen,
Whose followers must all be maidens pure.
So, day by day, she put off Adalbert,
Who waited all impatiently, until
She promised him that after two short months,—
Upon the feast of good Saint Valery,
Then would she wed with him, her chosen love.

Ah, why are, evermore, the heavy folds
Of the dark Future's veil so dense that Man,
All blinded, tries in vain to pierce through them,
But must go groping on in darkness e'er,
And see the veil recede before his steps,
Still hiding all the morrow, till, at last,
Upon Death's dawn, it riseth up for aye,
Revealing to his dazzled sight that world
Where there are no more morrows, with their cares,
But all is one eternal, happy Now!

All joyfully and merry passed the time,
Until, one day, a Legate from the Pope—
The stern Fifth Gregory—arrived in France,
And none could guess his mission to the King,
For suddenly, and with no state he came;
And craving audience of Robert, then
He gave to him the orders of the Pope,—

105

To meet with all the clergy and the peers,
And high-born dames, and nobles of the realm,
In the great Hall of State, the morrow morn,
To listen there unto the Pope's commands,
That he, his Legate, would disclose to all.
This summons was proclaimed abroad to each
In Robert's noble court, and he, the King,
And Bertha, too, prepared themselves at once
The council to attend, yet not without
Some fear and trembling in his pious heart,
The King thought o'er the summons all the day,
Repeating, “I have done naught to offend
The Holy Father of the Church, and should
He wish now to enrich the Holy See,
A castle or a province e'en of mine,
In due obedience I shall comply.”
And then he searched the records of his deeds,
And all of them in memory reviewed,
And read again the tablet of each day;
And though he naught could find of sinful there
Yet did this strange and sudden order now,
Disturb him all that anxious day and night.
And Bertha trembled at this message strange
From Gregory, the all-puissant Pope,
And dreaded that some great mishap would chance.
So all day long she pondered it, but spoke
No word unto King Robert of her fears.
And in the gloomy darkness of the night

106

Strange troublous dreams did flit about her couch,
And wake her often with a sudden start;
Till late, near dawn, she fell asleep once more
In an unquiet slumber, and she dreamed
That she and Robert stood again, as on
Their marriage-day, within the royal church,
As though they were to wed. But in the place
Of bishops, and of knights, and peers, and dames,
Were strange-robed creatures seated all around,
Of which she naught could see save mantles black
About their shapes. The crown was on her head,
And in her hand the ring King Robert gave;
But stern, cold Leon, the Pope's Legate, stood
In the Archbishop's place, and tried to tear
The ring and crown away; and suddenly
The mantles fell from off the creatures' forms,
Revealing each a skeleton, while she
Stood there alone with them upon that ground,
That seemed all covered o'er with coffins now.
Then looking down the church-aisle, which appeared
So long she scarce could follow it, she saw,
Far, far away, the King, who fled from her.
And then she cried aloud, and, waking, found
The golden light of day full on her face,
And Robert bending over her with love.
“My Queen, awake!” cried he; “thou hast been vexed

107

With dreary visions, such as haunted me.
For, in the night, I thought I saw the Pope,
Who tried to part us. Thrice I dreamt that dream,
And then I woke, and would not sleep again.
But come, arise. To-day we must go forth
Into the Chamber, there to hearken to
The Pope's commands. What care I should he take
My castles or my provinces away?
Thou art the brightest and most precious gem
I own, my Queen, and thee he cannot take,
My noble and my lawful-wedded wife.”
Queen Bertha trembled, but she did not tell
Her dream, and soothed the King with loving words;
And he calmed her with tenderness, until
They parted to prepare them for the day.

All now was ready in the Hall of State.
The King and Queen, in royal purple, sat
Upon the throne within the Hall. The King
Seemed cold, but gentle as he ever was,
And calm and full of dignity he sat.
But Bertha looked all weak and drooping yet,
As though she suffered from her weary night.
Her blue eyes shone more darkly, and her cheek
Had even lost the delicate, pale rose,

108

That there was wont to blush. The mantle long,
Of gorgeous purple, with its heavy folds,
And with its ermine edge, but made more fair
The spotless whiteness of her swanlike neck,
Where from her snowy shoulders low it drooped,
Disclosing the pure robe of white beneath.
With all its winding traceries of pearls.
Around the Hall were grouped King Robert's court,
And all the Bishops with their sable robes.
And at the end of that long Chamber, there,
Upon his seat upraised, the Legate sat,
Robed in his long and flowing purple stole,
While on his bosom shone the silver cross,
The token of his rank and mission there;
And in his hand he held the long white scroll,
Wherefrom to read the orders of the Pope.
Then all was hushed in the assembly vast,
And Robert waved his royal sceptre twice,
As sign to Leon that he should begin;
And Leon read the Bull of Gregory,
And each word, calm and clear, fell on the air,
In the forced silence of a multitude,
With solemn, dread significance to all,
And sank within the hearts of those who heard,
Like a sharp stone that ruffles all a pool,
And sinks forever low within its bed.

109

“I, Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome,
Invested, by a Providence divine,
With this most holy and most sacred charge,
Proclaim through Leon, Legate unto France,
My orders, in the interests of the Church,
The blessed mother of mankind on earth.
Unholy is it for all those to wed
Who are already in the blood allied,
And those who at the font of baptism have
E'er stood as sponsors for the self-same child;
And, as King Robert, sovereign of all France,
Is thus allied with Bertha, now his Queen,
I here proclaim the marriage of these two
Unlawful and unholy, and command
Them now to separate before all men,
As they are separate in the sight of God.”

He ceased, and o'er the whole assembly ran
A shudder, e'en as when the wintry wind
Doth touch one little swelling ocean-wave,
Which flows and passes it along the breast
Of the whole sea, and all is wild unrest.
Queen Bertha, though the mantling blood first rushed
In dark'ning current to her cheeks, then fled
Back to her heart, and left her paler still,
Yet looked she stately, proud, and resolute,
Nor spoke, but moved more near unto the King.

110

And when he saw that form beside his own,
And that warm, golden hair so near his cheek,
And that small lily hand upon his robe,
He felt her weakness give him strength anew,
And list'ning to the dictates of his heart,
He answered thus the Pope's ambassador:—
“To Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome,
Bear thou this answer back, from me, the King,
The second Robert, suzerain of France.
Upon me hath no earthly power bestowed
The treasure that he asks me. God alone
Gave me my Queen; from Him I hold her now,
In His name will I keep her evermore,
In His name will I guard her from all ill,
In His name is she mine, and mine alone,
And I will yield her only unto Death,
The messenger divine from Him to me,
When she will go where I can follow her.”
Thus spake the King, and Leon stood aghast,
That he, the Monarch-Saint, should dare the Pope,
And thus defy his solemn, stern commands.
But not a word he uttered. Then arose
Queen Bertha, who addressed him from the throne:—
“Go, tell thy Holy Master Gregory,
That in submission I acknowledge him
Our sacred Father, wedded to the Church;
But with his mighty power bid him, first,

111

Unbind the surging Ocean's silver chains,
That coil around him from the moon on high.
Or bid him part the rainbow from the air,
Or from the mighty thunder-cloud in heaven
Tear the gold bolt that dwells within its folds,
Ere he essays to part two tender hearts,
When once they 're bound with subtle chains of love,
When once they 're joined by Joy's bright rainbow arch,
When once the golden shaft of Love lies deep
In the dark chambers, making all their light.
O nobles, and ye gentle knights of France,
Ye who have sworn to aid us with the strength
Of your strong hands, and your still stronger hearts,
Desert us not, in this our darkest hour,
But make around your sovereign and his queen
A bulwark for their love, with all your might.
And, Leon, may the sad tears of a wife
Now move and touch your heart despite yourself,
And bring sweet flowers of tender pity forth,
As falling rain-drops soften the hard earth.
Oh, go fall down low at your master's feet,
And pray to him for us as you would pray
For your own heart's dear mistress. Then, if you
Have ever felt the gentle thrall of love
Binding your life, oh, bid him part us not!

112

If you have whispered, in the summer night,
Sweet loving words unto a loving heart,
Recall such words, and let them prompt you, then,
To soften him, and bid him part us not!
But no! I need not to a mortal pray,
For we are joined forever by our God;
Let no man sunder what is joined by Him.”
She stood upon the throne all pale and proud,
A Queen indeed before her subjects there;
But looking round upon the multitude,
A crimson blush suffused her pallid cheek,
And low she sank again beside the King,
A Woman all unqueened. And then arose
The cry of many voices in the hall,—
“Long live King Robert and his noble Queen!
All hail to royal Bertha, Queen of France!”
The cry arose, and swelled anon, until
A mighty shout, but died away again
As sudden as it rose, and all was still
As the wild blasts of moaning winds die out,
And all is silent in the wintry air.
Then, when the hush had fallen on the Hall,
Again the Legate, Leon, calm and cold,
Drew forth a scroll, and, rising, spoke once more,
And slow and solemn were the chilling words:

“I, Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome

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Invested by a Providence divine
With this most holy and most sacred charge,
Proclaim, through Leon, Legate unto France,
My orders, in the interest of the Church,
The blessed Mother of mankind on earth.
From intercourse with all good Christian souls,
Who worship faithfully their God above,
And here on earth the holy Church of Rome,
I excommunicate the King of France,
This Robert and his most unlawful Queen;
And blessed are all those who disobey
His orders from this day, for I absolve
His subjects from allegiance unto him,
And under interdict his kingdom lies,
A forfeit to the holy See of Rome.
No bells shall sound, no burial take place,
No rites now of religion be performed,
But mourning will be over all the land,
And it shall lie beneath the curse of God.”

Then all was hushed again at these dread words,
And then the King: “We will not part in life,
And after death a Mightier will judge.”
Then Bertha, too, essayed to answer him;—
But suddenly her falt'ring voice did break,
And die away in one long anguished sob,
Though not a tear fell from the proud blue eyes.
Then Leon, once again: “All in this hall

114

Who honor and obey the Holy Pope,
Will leave at once, before their souls be lost,
The presence of these two who brave him thus.”

Then, at the words, the bishops first arose,
And then the dames, and then the noble knights,
Who would have given up their lives for her,
Their royal Queen, but dared not give their souls.
Then Leon followed them with solemn pace,
And left King Robert and his Queen alone.
All mournfully did Bertha watch each form
That passed from out the hall, as though she hoped
That some at least would stay beside the throne;
And thus she saw evanish from her sight
Her joy, her hope, her glory, and her pride,
And naught was left with her but grief and love.
Then turning toward the King, all pale and sad,
She burst forth in a flow of bitter tears,
That all the morn had welled up in her eyes,
And choked her throat, and that she had till then,
With queenly dignity repressed. But now,
When looking round on the deserted hall,
She saw not one leal follower remain,
She let them start forth from her aching eyes,
And, passionately weeping, mourned aloud.
“What! are none left to comfort their sad King?
O Robert, Robert, curse me where I stand,
Thou, who erewhile, wast lord of blooming France,

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And who hast lost a kingdom now for me!
Thou who to me, thy happy bride, gave all,—
A seat upon thy throne, thy palace proud,
For my own home, and, more than all, thy heart.
How have I now repaid thee, O my King!
I've torn the golden crown from off thy head,
Where it was wont to rest so royally;
I've seized the sceptre from thy kingly hands,
That swayed it to the noble impulses
Of thy great heart! And now thou standest there
Unkinged, with but the shadow of a crown;
Unkinged, with but the ghost of thy dead power,
And I have done it all! Ay, more than this,
For me thou forfeitest thy place in heaven.
I've brought thee fitting dowry for a bride!
All misery and sorrow on the earth,
And after death perdition! Curse me now!
What words are these? Nay, nay, oh, curse me not,
For, Robert. I have loved thee all my days,
And even now I love thee more than life,
And I will love thee, O my King, till death.
My past and present, ay, and future too,
Are glorified and bright with love of thee.
So curse and hate me not, but pardon me;
And thou who know'st so well sweet Mercy's art,
Forgive her now who ruined thee with love!”
And saying this, she knelt at Robert's feet,
And all her golden wealth of flowing hair

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Swept o'er his kingly robe and brightened it,
Like sunshine on a bed of purple flowers.
And then the King raised up, all tenderly,
Her prostrate form, and soothingly caressed,
And spake unto her words of love and hope.
“Weep not for me,” said he, “my noble Queen,
For I am happy in thy love, and hold
'T is more to be the monarch of thy heart
Than sovereign of the lands of all the world.
What matters it that all my courtiers now
Should thus desert me, and should leave me here?
I care not so they leave me but with thee.
And weep not, Bertha, for my soul, for heaven,
Without thee, were a hell, and hell itself,
With thee, were heaven,—no, we ne'er shall part:
But I shall bless thee for thy constant love.
And thank all those who leave me thus with thee,
To prove thy heart as faithful and as true
As theirs are fickle, worldly, false, and vain.”
Then Bertha rose and blessed her noble King,
But, sighing, looked around the hall once more,
And said, “Oh, is there not one faithful soul
Who loves us and would ne'er abandon us,
Recalling all thy generous deeds, my King,
And all our happy days of peace and love?”
“Ay, there are two such souls,” a voice then cried
And from behind the waving tapestry
There stepped a goodly knight and gentle maid,

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And Bertha knew Gisèle and Adalbert.
“Pardon!” cried they, and fell upon the ground
Before the King and Queen. Then Adalbert:
“We offer at your feet two constant hearts,
That love and reverence, through gloom and night,
As they have loved through sunlight and through joy.”
“Arise,” cried Robert; “'t is a happy night
That bringeth stars of such pure brightness forth.”
And Bertha fell upon her fond Gisèle
And wept, and thanked her for her noble love,
And called her gentle sister and sweet friend.
“Now am I rich indeed!” then cried the King,
The sovereign proud of two such generous hearts,
Who thus will serve me in my darkest hour,
And blest and glorified with such a love
As queenly Bertha, my true wife, bestows.”
Then Bertha rose, and walking with Gisèle,
And followed by the King and Adalbert,
She traversed all the lone deserted hall,
And went into her vacant palace home.

O Constancy, thou precious jewel fair!
Thou art a pearl, born low beneath the waves,
That shrinketh modestly from human eyes,
As doth the violet on earth. Unknown
Thou bloomest there till chance revealeth thee.
And when all other gems corrupt and fade,

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Thou only changest to become more bright,
Transformed into the brilliant opal fair,
That gleams more beautiful in each new light.

A deathlike silence reigned within the halls
Of Robert, King of France. No busy feet
Crossed the long corridors' deserted floors;
Within the chambers was no sound e'er heard,
And none were ever seen beneath the roof,
Save Robert and Queen Bertha, and those two
Who still were faithful to their King and Queen.
Then all the land was hushed and deathlike, too,
And none approached the monarch and his Queen;
And if, perchance, in their full lonely walks,
They met some passenger belated there,
He quickly crossed himself and turned away,
And fled, as though there were pollution in
The very sight of such accursed souls.
No bells tolled forth the requiem for the dead,
No bells pealed forth the merry marriage sound,
And no religious rites were e'er performed,
Save christening of little new-born babes,
All innocent of Robert's crime, and prayers
For dying ones at death-beds offered up;
While every church and every crucifix
Were draped around in deepest folds of black.
And Bertha and King Robert found no face
Of friendly man or woman round them now,

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But naught could see save their own shadows dark,
That now did follow, now precede their steps;
And naught could hear, save that full mournful sound,
The echo of their voices in the halls.
Then truly and with all their hearts they loved,—
A love made chaste and pure afar from men,
A love all sanctified by Sorrow's breath,
A love that filled up all their hearts and souls,
And took the place of every earthly joy.
And Robert, thus, did e'en more royal seem,
For now he wore an air of dignity,
All proud and natural, with no outward sign
Of sceptre or of golden coronet,
But born of native dignity of heart,
That proved him kingly in his soul. But she,
His Queen, grew day by day more pale and weak,
And on her pallid cheek the blood, at times,
Would flush and burn, then quickly fade away,
Like to the dying flashes of a lamp,
And leave her as though each gleam were the last.
And then, despite of Robert's tender love,
Despite of all his anxious cares for her,
She drooped and paled, and grew each day more weak;
And in her eyes appeared a strange new light,
As though the soul gleamed through before it fled.
One day, while Robert gently spoke with her,

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She sighed and suddenly she swooned away,
All white and deathlike, in King Robert's arms.
And he bent over her, and wooed her, then,
With sweet caresses and with gentle love,
And chafed the little lily hand again,
And burned with ardent kisses cheek and mouth,
And rained his tears upon the golden hair,
As though he would impart his own young life
Unto that frail and drooping, soulless frame.
But naught availed, and loud he cried for aid,
And then Gisèle came in, with Adalbert,
And to her chamber did they bear the Queen,
Who lay there in a long and quiet trance,
Nor once raised up the fringèd curtains white
Of those blue eyes, nor once essayed to ope
The two pale lips, so fast enlocked in sleep;
But all the while she lay there, cold and still,
Forgetful of the Present's misery,
Forgetful of the Past's glad happy hours,
Forgetful of the Future's joyous hopes,
Now dead to grief and joy alike. It seemed
As though, within the volume of her life,
The hand that wrote the passions and the woes
For each day, had forgotten all these hours,
And left them blank. Then, in those days, the King
Did wander sadly through his palace-halls,
Now doubly desolate, for sweet Gisèle,

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Through Adalbert, had warned him not to come
Anear the Queen as in her trance she lay,
For fear lest he might wake her suddenly,
And make her pass into the deeper sleep
Of death. So all the time he wept alone;
And then he mourned, and then fell down and prayed,
In agony of grief and penitence.
He saw the shadow of her death arise
And darken all his days, and in the gloom
He felt the hand of God upon his head,
That did not bless him with a soothing love,
Nor press his brow in sorrow for his sin,
But bore him down, then, with the dire weight
Of chastisement and anger. Then he moaned,
And with a bitter, vain regret, too late
He wept that he had brought such blooming youth.
And such a wealth of love, such rich young life,
And such bright, dazzling beauty, ere their time,
Unto the dark and gloomy night of death.
It was as if a softly flowing stream,
That purled along its course of happiness,
And wound its way through groves and flowery meads,
Toward that great Ocean where all streams are lost,
Should suddenly, in happy, peaceful flow,
Be stopped forever by a frowning rock;

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And, further on, the field should nevermore
By rippling stream be freshened, and no more
The air be gladdened with its joyful song,
But over all the rock its shadow cast.
Then Robert felt that all his heaven had erst
Smiled forth from out the depths of those blue eyes,
And when their light was clouded all was blank.
And only once he caught a passing glimpse,
Through the oped curtains of the chamber-door,
Of the pale, sleeping face of her he loved.
With all its golden frame of sunny hair,
That made it seem the portrait of some saint,
And not the once-glad Bertha lying thus;—
A saint, indeed, all heavenly and cold,
But wanting that rich earthly tint, that proved
Her all his own, and not a spirit pure,
Too chaste and too serene for mortal love.
All motionless and cold she slumbered now,
Like the Greek artist's statue, that he loved
For its proud beauty, ere the gods endued
Its form, in answer to his prayers, with life.
And when the King beheld his lovely bride,
So pale and still and deathlike lying there,
Half maddened with its cold and sweet repose,
He rushed back to his chamber once again,
And cursed himself, and wept and prayed for her.
Then, while Queen Bertha all unconscious lay,

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She bore the King a child, a little Prince;
And when she woke again she found it there,
Beside her on her couch, and then she asked
Gisèle what this fair child did there, and whose
It was; for she remembered naught of all
The pangs that wracked, erewhile, her tortured frame.
And when Gisèle replied, “It is your own,”
Then suddenly she felt the mother-love
Arise and swell within her gentle heart,
E'en as the precious water swelled and burst
From Meribah, when Moses smote the rock;
And with a tender, happy smile, that gleamed
Through a glad flow of sudden, grateful tears,—
A sun-bow through the rain,—she seized the child,
And pressed it close unto her bosom fair,
And fondled it, and bent above its form,
And kissed it with such passionate delight,
That sweet Gisèle did tremble lest this joy
Should prove too much for her faint, drooping frame,
And half essayed to take from her the child;
But Bertha pressed it closer to her breast,
Nor would entrust it unto other hands.
“Oh, now,” cried she, “I can repay my lord,
My noble King, for all his love to me;
And now these little hands will smooth for him
The paths of life. This rose will make amends

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For all the thorns, and this sweet angel-face
Will brighten up once more the dreary road
That I have made so dark. Oh, when the tones,
All full of music, of this feeble voice,
Can speak to France with simple, touching words,
They'll plead for us, and win the people's love.
And now, come robe me in my richest robe,
For I will go unto my lord the King,
To bear myself this little infant prince
Unto his arms, and bid him love my child
For my sake and its own.” “Nay,” cried Gisèle;
“You yet are far too weak and faint to rise;
Myself will bear your child unto the King.”
And then the Queen essayed to rise, and prove
That she was strong and well, but, fainting, fell
Upon her couch once more. “I cannot go,”
She sighed, all sadly smiling through her tears;
“But since I cannot, go thou, bid a priest
Come bless my child, and he can bear for me,
Unto its royal father, my sweet babe.”

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2. PART SECOND.

Anear the palace of the King of France
Arose the monastery's gloomy walls,
That grimly frowned upon the passers-by.
Without could naught be seen save windows barred,
And drawbridge and deep mote, like castle strong
Of some great baron; but within the walls
Was the fair chapel with its altar tall,
All covered with Madonnas, strangely carved
In precious wood or cut in marble white,
And hung with costly jewels and bright gold,
The gifts of pious nobles to the Church.
Unto the preacher's desk was firm attached,
By a short silver chain, the Book of God,
With velvet cover, broidered o'er in gold,
And written on rich vellum of all tints;
While on the margin wide of every page
Were pictures of the saints and holy men.
The chapel walls around were tapestried
With heavy hangings, all embroidered rich
With deeds of saints, of martyrs, and of Popes,
And costly ornaments were strewed around.
Here lay a silver vase with incense filled,

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And there a golden, holding precious drops
Of brackish water from the Holy Land,
By some good pious pilgrim brought to France.
Beside the chapel was the Council Room,
Where met the Brothers, to decide upon
Some weighty question on occasions grave.
Of flowered damask was the Abbot's chair,
All framed in ebony, carved curious,
And raised upon broad steps of marble pure.
Here, too, appeared the gifts of pious men,
And sacred relics from far distant shrines;
For at his death, to expiate his sins,
Each noble deemed he should endow the Church,
And of all orders there was none so dear
As this, “The Monks of good Saint Augustine.”
Helgaut, the Abbot, was a frowning man,
With fierce, cold, gleaming eyes, e'er glitt'ring forth
From out the shadow of his darksome cowl.
Stern, grasping, and severe, 't was said of him,
He had himself outlived his icy heart,
And all the monks did tremble 'neath his rule.
Yet some of these were jolly-humored souls,
Who, faring well from out the vessels rich
Of the old monastery, bore its ills
Right patiently, and all the laws obeyed.
While others, still, in all, their abbot grave
Did imitate, and worship as a saint.

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Such was the monastery near the King,
When, in the black and stormy night in which
Queen Bertha to her infant Prince gave birth,
Above the thunder's roar and beating rain
Was heard a knock upon the outer gate,
Prolonged and loud; and when the doors were oped
And drawbridge raised, within the gloomy night
No sign of man or woman could be seen:
But, looking down, the monks espied a child
Upon the threshold of the portal tall.
Then hastily they bore the infant in
Unto the light, and found it all deformed,
A monster hateful to the eye of man,
That stared around unmeaningly and strange.
The priests recoiled before the horrid sight,
And, with one voice, proposed to throw the child
Into the mote around the outer wall.
But here a tender-hearted monk advanced,
And said, “Alas! the child's deserted now
By all of human kind. 'T is sadly cursed,
And monstrously malformed, but what of that?
O brethren, in the bitter hour of death
Our sinning souls may seem deformed and dark
And hateful to the eye of God, as now
This child doth seem to us. Forget ye not
The Leper, touched by a far greater hand,
But prove that this poor child, although by man
Abandoned, shall be saved in God's own house.

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Then let us bear it to the Abbot good,
And pray that he will keep it in these walls,
And try to guard it from all further ill.”
Thus spoke the good old Brother Innocent,
With such a tender pleading in his tones,
And such kind pity for the loathsome thing,
That all the monks were touched and bowed their heads.
So Innocent then raised the hateful babe
And bore it to the Abbot, stern Helgaut,
Who, when he saw the infant horror there,
And heard the good monk, Brother Innocent,
Thus beg him for its life with tender words,
Cried forth, as though his heart were softened too.
“Although I cannot bear to have this child
Within these sacred walls, yet still, for thee
I'll shelter it this night, and in the morn
We all will meet within the Council Room,
And there decide upon its future fate.”
The good old Innocent, with grateful heart,
Low to the Abbot bowed, and bore the child
Again within his arms unto his cell,
His own small chamber, and he left it there.
And though his sight with loathing turned from it.
Yet, as a sacred duty, did he guard
The malformed infant, close anear his couch,
And with his prayers he blended prayers for it.

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Gay morn arose, all fair and smiling bright,
As though unconscious of the night's wild storm.
She came, and breathed forth light and hope anew,
And with her glowing touch the curtains black
Of the dark night did part, and wove for them
A rich, bright-orange fringe. Then, while the wheels
Of her gold chariot rolled o'er the sky,
All changed to glory and to light, and soon
A cloudless azure heaven smiled on France.
Then, too, the little droplets of the rain
Had in their heart a tiny golden sun,—
Reflection of the mighty one on high,—
And so they twinkled like a thousand eyes,
And peered from every bush and leafy shrub
And tree and flower, smiling merrily
To the great eye of day, the sun on high.

From early dawn, within the holy walls
Of the old monastery all was life;
And after the long worship of the morn
And early meal were o'er, the monks repaired
Unto the Council with the babe deformed.
The walls were now hung round in deepest black,
That hid the gorgeous arras underneath;
The crucifix in mourning, too, was veiled
At every hour, to remind the monks
Of Robert's sin, and Gregory's dread curse

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Upon fair France, their wicked King's estate.
Then, when Helgaut God's blessing had invoked
Upon th' assembled monks, and prayed for light
Within their souls, to see the better path,
And do His will upon the cursèd child,
The horrid thing deformed was brought before
The Council of the Priests, and all around
In silence waited for the Abbot's words.
But ere he spoke the hangings of the door
Were waved aside, and there appeared without
A menial, a lay-brother, who then craved
Admission of the Abbot for a maid
Coming with some grave message from the Queen.
Helgaut, with haste, a mantle black threw o'er
The child beside him, and then bade the monk
Bring forth the maiden to his presence there.
The monk obeyed, and entered with Gisèle,
Still pale from nights of anxious watching late,
With delicate slight form, and white arms crossed
Upon her bosom, o'er her robe of black,
With step all firm, but eyes upon the ground,
A pale-pink blush suffusing the pure cheek.
Up the long aisle, between the gazing priests,
Gisèle advanced; then, meekly bowing low,
She stood before the Abbot, nor dared speak
Until he bade her tell her mission there;
And then, with womanly, low, thrilling voice:
“I come,” she said, “to ask you, in the name

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Of Bertha, Queen of France, some holy priest
To bless her little new-born infant prince,
A lovely babe all innocent of sin.”
“A lovely babe,” the cruel Abbot thought;
And then compared it with the child deformed
That lay concealed beside his chair of state.
And, suddenly, a thought flashed through his brain,—
A fiendish thought,—and then he said aloud,
“'T is well, fair maid! Myself will follow you
Unto the Queen, her little prince to bless,
And try to turn her from her sinful ways.”
Then did he bid Gesèle await without,
And called a few most trusty priests to him,
And, whispering with them, he left the hall;
Then, with Gisèle, he went unto the Queen.

Right glad was Bertha when she saw again
Another human face beneath her roof.
“Welcome!” she cried, “O reverend father here;
I pray thee bless this little new-born babe,
And bear it to King Robert in thy arms,
And bid him bless it with a father's love.”
But to her words the Abbot answered not,
And only murmured “Benedicite”
Over the innocent doomed babe, and took
Its passive form within his arms; and then
Did Bertha bid farewell unto her child,

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With one long kiss upon its angel brow,
The seal of all her new-born mother-love.

All solemnly Helgaut withdrew, and left
The chamber of the Queen, and then the hall,
And then essayed he not to find the King,
But stealthily he issued from the door,
And, bearing in his arms the infant prince,
Unseen he passed into the open air,
And wound his way unto the forest paths.

Right by the entrance of the wood there flowed
A little streamlet, narrow, and yet deep,
And over it the drooping grasses long
Made a green fringe, that hid it from the eye
Of the indifferent passer-by. But those
Who lived anear well knew the stream, and so
Helgaut crept slowly on until he reached
The deep blue waters of the little brook,
That looked as though a sapphire from heaven
Had fallen 'mid the emeralds of earth.
And there, all suddenly, the priest sank down
On one knee in the smooth, green, velvet turf
That carpeted the borders of the stream,
And, looking in the babe's soft, azure eyes,
He smiled a cruel smile and dropped the child,
Like a pale rose-leaf, on the flowing waves.
But God's great gift of life already had

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Grown dear, and so one feeble cry awoke
The sleeping echoes, but they died away,
And all was still. And then the babe arose
And floated dead upon the river's breast,
Like a white lily calmly on a lake.
Then hastily the Abbot seized again
The little body floating out of reach,
And, binding round its form a heavy stone,
He let it drop once more, and down it sank,
Stirring the ripples for its requiem.
The happy birds sang on their loving songs,
The azure sky smiled down upon the land,
The green leaves of the trees, far overhead,
Still seemed to weave a delicate, fine lace,
With mingling of their trembling branches fair
Against the blue of heaven, and still the stream
Flowed on all gurgling low beneath the rocks,
And soft between the grass-enlinèd banks,
In ripple, wave, and eddy flowed along,
And told not of that fragile burden small
That lay so far below, or, if it did,
It sang in such a tender, gentle tone,
That none could understand the words it spoke.

When all was quiet once again Helgaut
Arose and turned unto the old retreat,
The frowning monastery. Then, when he
Had passed the portal, with a mocking grace,

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A “blessing on the inmates and the roof,”
He entered the great Council Hall again,
Where all the monks were still awaiting him,
And took his seat upon the chair of state.
“Most worthy, reverend brethren,” said he then,
“Ye know that by the sinful Queen, erewhile,
I was besought to bless her new-born babe,
And that, in answer to her call, I went.
I went, my brothers, and she gave to me
Her child to bear unto the wicked King;
Then knowing our Father Gregory,
The holy Pope's commands, and holding more
The welfare of the soul than life, I bore
The babe from out that atmosphere of sin,
And then I drowned it in the passing stream
And prayed to God it might not be too late
To save its soul. And now we all can take
This monster to the King, and say it is
The fruit of sinning Bertha; then will he
Believe this is a judgment on his head,
And part from her at last; and Gregory,
The Father of us all, will then, perchance,
Reward our little service, and enrich
Our Order with some monastery new.
Then, too, we each will feel within our souls
That we have done what 's pleasing unto God,
And cleared from all pollution our vile King.
What say ye, O my brethren, unto this?”

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He ceased, and suddenly the cry burst forth,
“God bless our holy Abbot, good Helgaut,
And give him after death rich recompense
For all his pious deeds!” But Innocent
Alone, of all the monks, sighed low, and groaned
And cursed himself that he had saved the child,
While down his cheeks there coursed two silent tears.
Alas, poor little prince of one short night,
Whose death has caused such bitter tears to flow,
Thy life has been more blessed than some more long!

Then rose Helgaut and took the child deformed
Within his arms, and, with four other priests,
He bore it to the palace of the King,
And through the halls unto his chamber-door.
And then they entered all King Robert's room,
And found him praying, low upon his knees,
With fervor of devotion; but he rose
With mingled looks of gladness and surprise,
At seeing once again, within his court,
New faces strange, and bid them welcome there,
And asked them what their mission was with him.
Then first advanced the stern Helgaut, and held
Within his arms the loathsome child deformed,
And said, “O King, we come to clear you now
Of all pollution, for we bring to you

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A sign and proof that you offend your God
By living with your most unlawful Queen.
For while she lay unconscious in her trance
She bore a babe, and this child is her fruit!
Oh, pause awhile, and think upon your fate!
The awful Thousandth Year doth now approach
When all the world shall die, and Earth resolve
Once more into that chaos whence she sprang.
The Lord will now judge every secret thing,
And every secret work, howe'er concealed,
If good or evil. Oh, beware, beware!
Soon shall the silver cord, O King, be loosed,
The golden bowl be broken at the fount,
Man's flesh return to dust that erst it was,
Man's spirit to the God who gave it life.
For now the dreaded Thousandth Year is nigh,
And woe, O King, if thou dost disregard
This proof of God's just anger at thy deeds.”
And, saying this, he offered to the King
The hateful infant; but the King drew back
And groaned, and hid his face to see it not.
“Away!” cried he; “oh, torture me not thus!
I see, I see my own sin and my Queen's,
But still I cannot think this thing is hers.
Oh, see ye not the agony of mind
That I have suffered, and that wracks me now?
Oh, tell me, tell me that this is not hers!”
“Nay, nay,” replied Helgaut, “it is, in sooth,

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The offspring of your Queen, and we will swear,
By all most sacred in this life or heaven,
That it is hers.” “Then swear,” replied the King,
“For my crazed mind refuseth to believe.”
Then first Helgaut, the Abbot, bowed, and made
The sign upon his bosom of the cross,
And murmured, “By the blessed blood of Christ
I swear this child is Bertha's and your own.”
And then another came and swore by Heaven;
And, lastly, did they all appeal to God,
And swear 't was Bertha's and King Robert's child,
Then Robert groaned and wept and tore his hair,
And cried, “Alas! God's anger smiteth me,
And I will part from her.” Then said Helgaut,
“Swear by the Church!” And then the King, “I swear.”
And then another cried, “Oh, swear by Christ.”
And, in a low and broken voice, the King,
“I swear.” And then the others said, “Oh, swear
By God.” And, broken by an anguished sob,
“I swear by God in heaven to part with her,
And never to behold her face again!”
Then did the Brothers go from out the hall,
And leave King Robert with his mighty grief.
And when he found himself alone once more
He burst forth with a passionate despair,—
“Oh, must I part with thee, at last, my Queen,
And never see thy lovely face again,

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And never hear thy low and thrilling voice,
Nor even bid thee now a last farewell?
Oh, must the tender light of those blue eyes
Forever vanish from my yearning sight,
And leave me dark and lonely? Must that form
Which was to me the precious casket fair
That held all gems that made life bright for me,
Forever disappear, now, like a dream
Of beauty and of joy? Despite the sin,
Despite God's judgment on us both, my Queen,
My noble Bertha, oh, I love thee still.
I love thee with a love more passionate,
More deep, more rich than e'er I loved before;
It swells up in my heart as though 't would burst
That feeble prison, small to hold so much.
O Bertha, Bertha, yes, I love thee still,
Despite that hideous deformity,—
Thy fruit, thy gift to me. And even thou
Wilt deem my heart is faithless unto thee,
And thou wilt curse and hate me, O my Queen.
Ay, sooner that, still sooner would I have
My harshness turn the love that burns within
Thy noble heart for me, to deepest hate,
Than have thee feel such pangs of fruitless love
As I feel now.” He ceased, and, rising slow,
He opened wide his arms, and then he gave
A long, despairing, piercing cry that held
His soul, his passion, and his love, and cried,

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“Farewell, farewell forever!” Then he fell
Exhausted, fainting, and unconscious, low
Upon his face, as though all life had fled.

Into the chamber of King Robert's queen
There entered, all alone, the Abbot grave,
Helgaut, who, walking on with solemn pace,
Stopped at her bedside, bending low to her.
Queen Bertha looked an instant at the priest,
Then cried, “Where is my child? What harm has come?”
“What child?” exclaimed the monk with feigned surprise;
“That hateful monster that you gave to me,
To show unto the King? Oh, call you that
Your child and do not blush?” “No, no,” cried she,
“My little cherub, my sweet, rosy child,
That you erewhile did take from out my arms.
Come, come, oh, mock me not with these vain fears,
But give to me once more my lovely babe.”
Then solemnly and slowly spoke the monk,—
“I know not of a lovely little babe;
I know no more than that you gave to me
A child malformed and hateful. Unto you,
I well can fancy, it seemed beautiful,
But to all others 't was a monster dread,
And e'en the King did find it horrible.”
“Nay, nay,” then cried the terror-stricken Queen,

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“It was no monster, cruel-hearted monk;
And if it were, I'll love it still the same,
And cherish it, and think it beautiful,
If you will but restore it unto me.”
Then went the monk from out the chamber-door,
And, entering again, he brought with him
The child deformed, and gave it to the Queen.
She looked at it a moment, then recoiled,
All wildly shrieking, “Give me back my babe,
For this is none of mine! Where is my boy?”
“Well knew I,” said the monk, “that none could be
E'er blinded unto such deformities.
This is the awful judgment of the Lord;
For this, Queen Bertha, this child is your own.”
And then Queen Bertha rose upon her couch,
As though she had not heard his words, and cried,—
“Where have you left my babe, oh, cruel monk?
If in your hard and rocky heart there be
One tender spot, oh, give me back my child!
I see, I see, you would but raise my fears,
And make me doubly happy when you bring,
Once more, my little blooming child to me.
But mock no more, for see, I will go mad!
Oh, say no longer that this thing is mine!
Then will I pardon you the agony
You cause me now. Fear not, I'll pardon all.”

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“Alas!” replied Helgaut, with artful sigh,
“All gladly would I bring some little child,
With merry, laughing, pretty infant face,
And swear it was your own, if Truth were not
Above all else with me. But this child is
The same one that you gave me as your own.
And, as a proof that this is so, the King
Saw only God's just chastisement and wrath
And bade me tell you, you must part from him,
And leave at once his palace and his home,
And nevermore behold his face again.”
A moment since, all flushed and warm, she stood
Beside her couch, while weeping bitter tears,
And with both arms outstretched, as though in prayer;
But now each tear rushed backward to its source,
And froze upon her brain; her arms dropped down
Beside her form, the rosy color fled
From cheek and lip, and left no sign of life,
Save the quick gasp, the choking, painful breath,
And one long shudder that ran o'er her frame.
Helgaut had looked for violence and tears,
And cursings and loud cries, but none such came,
While one great tear coursed down her pallid cheek.
With dry, wide-opened eyes she looked at him,
Nor spoke nor moved. Then a long sigh upheaved
Her snowy breast, and thus she spoke to him,

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Not madly, but with low and saddened tone,
And slow as though all life and strength had gone.
“Since Robert, since my noble lord, believes
That this thing is the child I bore to him,
I, also, now believe that it is mine,
For in all things I ever think with him.”
And meekly did she bow her queenly head,
And all again was silent. Then the monk:
“What parting message shall I give the King?”
Again, in low, soft tones, she answered him.—
“Tell Robert that his loyal Queen obeys
His least commands, and leaves his home to-day.”
She spoke so low and painfully, Helgaut
Feared each word was her last, but still essayed
One question more. “This child, your child?” said he.
Again, in soft and choking tones she spoke:
“Go, take it with you, tend and try to love,
And God will bless you; but, oh, show it not
Unto my tearless eyes again. Now go,
Put all your heart and passion and past youth
Into one word, and say it to the King,
And be that word ‘Farewell.’” The monk withdrew,
And slowly went from out the royal halls.
Then, sinking down upon her couch again,
The Queen lay there all calm and pale and still,

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And wept not, nor could pray, but only said,
“‘To leave at once his palace and his home,
And nevermore behold his face again.’”
And o'er and o'er repeated this, until
The words had lost all meaning in her ears.

Low in the Western sky the full round sun
Was piercing with his darts of fire the clouds,
Of purple and of gold around his throne,
And sinking all in glory to his rest;
While in the East there hung the pale-faced moon,
Like a round silver mirror, burnished bright,
For the great sun, who saw his image there
Reflected palely in its polished disk.
Then twilight fell upon the busy earth,
And clothed with mystery each tree and bush;
And, sparkling in the darkness, twinkled forth,
From out the azure mantle of the skies,
The diamond stars, erst hid within its folds.
All sounds died out upon the plain and hill,
Save the low cricket chirp, or the soft burr
Of grasshopper concealed beneath the leaves.
No more was heard upon the twilight air,
While France lay 'neath the Pope's dread interdict,
The pealing of the mellow vesper-bell,
But all around was hushed in still repose.

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Then, when the quiet of that peaceful hour,
On each and all had fallen, slowly forth,
From out the palace of the King of France,
There came a stately woman robed in black,
With such a pallid, calm, and saddened face,
With such great, yearning, tearless azure eyes,
With such a fixed and vacant gaze, she seemed
The Angel of Despair upon this earth.
Her steps were slow, and often did she pause
For strength and breath before she could pursue
Her short, but wearisome and painful path,
That led unto the convent's gloomy walls,
Arising near the palace of the King.
And now she seemed so sad and faint and ill,
That scarcely could she reach the gate alone.
At length she came before the portal tall,
And, knocking there, a white-robed nun appeared,
And asked her what she would in those old walls.
Then answered she, “I crave admission here
To wipe away my sin with prayers and tears,
For I am Bertha, once the Queen of France.”
And when the gentle-hearted sisters heard
That she had been their good and noble Queen,
And found her thus in grief and misery,
They welcomed her within the convent walls,
And prayed for her, and spoke not of her sin,
But promised, on the morrow, she could take
The black veil of the nun, nor wait the time
That should expire in novitiate.

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The little chapel of the convent old
Was lighted up with slender tapers bright,
The incense rose from waving censers full,
The great high altar was with flowers decked.
When Bertha entered, robed right regally
In fairest white, with all her golden hair
Upon her snowy shoulders waving down,
And crowned now with a wreath of lilies pure,
That could not pierce her brain and wound her heart,
As the rich crown of gold she erst had worn.
No color lighted up the marble cheek,
No tears had yet relieved the aching eyes,
But beautiful, surpassing earthly grace,
She looked, as slowly up the chapel-aisle,
And followed by the white-robed chanting nuns,
She walked unto the altar. There she fell
Before it prostrate on her face, and then
The sisters o'er her flung the great black veil
That covered all her form; and half the nuns,
In low and tender voices, chanted slow,
With musical soft tones, “Our sister's dead.”
And all the rest, in rich and thrilling voice,
That seemed to pierce the high and vaulted roof,
Then chanted loud, “Alive in Jesus Christ!”
And after this they went to raise the veil,
And lo! the chants were true, for she was dead.

September 12th, 1865. October 8th, 1865.

151

ELFRIDA.

To OLGAR, Earl of Devon, a proud thane,
With endless miles of tributary lands,
And countless hosts of tributary serfs,
Reigning supreme within his castle strong,
Among fair Devon's sunny blooming lands,
Unto Earl Olgar was a daughter born,
A daughter, beauteous as the light of day,
Who budded into childhood's happy age,
And blossomed into maidenhood, and still
Each year grew fairer with new blooming charms,
Though e'en before she seemed a perfect flower;
Until her beauty's praise was noised abroad
Through all the land, from Northern Tweed's far banks
Down to the isle of Guith, and each voice,
Praiseful for her, proclaimed her England's gem.
Unlike to all the blue-eyed Saxon maids,
With yellow-waving hair and rose-leaf cheeks,
Elfrida was. Her eyes were black as night.
Her flushed cheek olive dark, and her long hair
Streamed down in waves a sea of glossy brown,
With here and there a little gleam of gold,

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As though the sun, in playing 'mongst her locks
Had lost itself, and only could escape
At times to shine from out the tresses dark.
Amid the gentle Saxon maids she bloomed,
Like a rich, gorgeous tulip rising proud
Above a field of daisies pallid pink.
Sweet Ethel, Olgar's tender, weakly wife,
Died in the anguish of Elfrida's birth,
So that another star arose in heaven,
As a new flower blossomed forth on earth.
No mother-hand could guide the childish steps,
No mother-tongue could soothe the childish fears,
Nor chide the growing faults with gentle tones.
And by proud Olgar, full of strange caprice,
Now fondled with a father's tender love,
Now spurned in petty tyranny of strength,
The maid, divinely gifted, grew at last
To love alone the beauty that had wrought
Her joy and power, and had spread her fame.
And strange wild dreams arose within her mind,
And strange wild hopes arose within her heart,
Of something greater than she yet had known.
Restless ambition tortured all her soul,
And e'en as though the longed-for height were reached,
She scorned the gentle maidens of her race,
And spurned the noble thanes who came to seek
Her precious hand, from all the shires round.

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But all her pinings left no saddened trace
Upon her glorious face—her bright eyes gleamed
Only the brighter for the secret tears,
And her dark cheek but flushed a richer hue.
Scarce had she counted her first maiden year,
Passing from childhood, when were harshest tales
Heard of her fickle smiles and heartless breast.
A youth of noble race and gentle blood,
Oswald of Mercia, had she once ensnared,
And with her siren smiles she lured him on,
With whispered words, with sweet-sung Saxon songs,
With sunny glances, and low mellow laugh,
Until he thought no beauty so like Heaven
Could e'er belong to aught save Truth alone.
One summer-day, these two were seated in
A bower, where the sun came gently down
To play with shadows, twixt fair trembling leaves.
Elfrida's form was draped in snowy white,
That fell in graceful folds about her shape.
Within the glossy tresses of her hair,
Around her brow, was wound a golden snake,
That gleaming shone from out the rich dark curls.
One cheek she rested languid on a hand
That needed not a gem to make it white,
And dreamily half closed her wondrous eyes,
As though she wearied, hearing her own praise.
And Oswald, as he looked upon her face,

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Thus in the sunlight so divinely fair,
Felt Love's hot poison coursing through his veins.
That burned and throbbed as with a fever glow,
And passion-faint he knelt down at her feet.
“Elfrida, O Elfrida, unto thee
God hath resigned my fate. I ne'er have had
Strength to look up and read it in thine eyes.
Oh, calm my madness with thy soothing tones,
Speak, with thy heart's voice say thou lovest me.”
And then Elfrida, laughing her low laugh,
So soft and sweet, it thrilled through all his blood.
Turned scornfully her wonderful dark eyes
Full on his quivering form, and answered him,—
“Oswald, I have no heart—I only have
To sting, my beauty, and to spurn, my pride.
You men have hearts and passions as you say,—
Two things that long have ruined trusting fools.
Go, with your pretty words and ready love,
Some simple Saxon girl you soon will win,
The daughter of the Thane needs nobler suit.”
All trembling with his wounded love and pride,
And livid with his wrath, did Oswald rise,
And choking with his passion, made reply,—
“With your proud scorn, Elfrida, of all men,
E'en should you reach a royal throne, your name
Will go down black with curses to all years,
Stained with your sins, with murder and with blood,
And men will scorn and hate and curse you then,

155

As I do now.” And then the youth went forth
Into the world, to judge all womankind
By this dark Circe with her fatal wiles,
Upon whose ears the bitter words of scorn
Had fallen lightly as the words of love.

Such were the tales that wide around were spread
Of fair Elfrida, and yet none the less
Came all the noble thanes to seek her hand,
And worship the proud glory of her face.
And none the less her fame and name were noised
Through all the land, until they reached the King,
Edgar the Peaceful, in his royal court,
Who marveled much that 'mongst the Saxon maids
Where were so many fair, this one alone
Should challenge praise, so far above them all.
Young, amorous, and nobly featured was the King,
With lion-like gold mane of yellow hair,
Whereon the crown burned with a dimmer ray,
And fair smooth face formed in a royal mold,
And full blue eye that lightened all his smile.
Peaceful and happy were the merry days
Of his calm reign; no fierce invading Dane
Dared mar its blissful quiet, and within
The realm were stillness and content and joy,
With golden harvests and with teeming lands.
An easy, merry, jovial prince was he,
Sworn worshiper of beauty and of maids,

156

Yet with a haughty royal temper too,
Slow to inflame but passionate in wrath,
Fanatically pious. In the court
The saintly Dunstan ruled supreme, the same
As he had swayed the sceptres and the minds
Of persecuted Edwy and his heir.
But Edgar, though the monkish Dunstan's slave,
Ne'er loved the insolent, encroaching priest,
But poured the fullest stream from out his heart.
With all the rich strong love of man for man,
More pure, more perfect and more unalloyed,
Than ever man's for woman, or maid's for man,
On a young thane who dwelt within his court.
The noble Athelwold of princely blood,
Like Edgar yellow-haired and azure-eyed,
But with a face cut pure and soft and fair
As a young maiden's, and a boyish smile,
Open and bright and beautiful as Truth.
All honors and all riches did the King
Lavish on Athelwold, and at each feast
Placed the young Earl beside his royal seat,
And pledged him with the foaming flagon full,
And in the chase rode ever by his side,
And in their Saxon games but challenged him.
And not unworthy seemed the youthful Earl
Of his proud master's love, but ever strove
To prove his answering loyal fealty,
And was so nobly mannered, and so free

157

Of pride or scorn, so open and so true,
That all the court did love him as the King.
No maiden fair had ever won his heart,
Where loyalty and friendship only shed
Their pure soft moonlight, and the glowing sun
Of burning love had never beamed and shone.
And yet did many a gentle Saxon maid
Favor the merry, youthful, laughing thane,
And dream upon his manly, noble form.
But mostly one, a maiden pure as heaven,
The fairest lady in King Edgar's court,
Had fixed her heart upon the heedless youth,
And made his eyes the home of all her dreams.
Bound unto him by ties of blood was she,
His cousin—and for this one cause mayhap,
As Athelwold had ever known her face,
And seen it day by day, until at last,
The wonder of its beauty grew no more
A wonder for him; mayhap for this alone
He passed her by nor granted her a thought,
Nor noted how she hung upon his face
And treasured up his lightly-flowing words,
And flushed with pleasure when he gazed on her
But others marked it well, unknown to her,
And many an envious maid less fair than she,
Prattled with careless gossip of the love
The Lady Edith bore Earl Athelwold.
And Edgar marked it too, and in his heart,

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All joyous for his favorite, thought to wed
These two so suited and so nobly dowed.
But Editha knew not the royal thought,
And yearning hopelessly with secret love
She pined and drooped, until the roses left
The lilies all alone upon her cheek.
Daily she sanctified his name with prayers,
And set it round with blessings and with dreams,
And wishes e'er more fervent for his weal.

One day—a golden one for Editha—
The King and Athelwold sat in the court
With her, apart from all the courtiers there,
By an embowered oriel where the sun
Came brightly down and glimmered on her face
Dimpling with rosy joy, as beautiful
As fancied angel's or as pictured saint's.
Well pleased did Edgar look upon the twain,—
The merry noble, and the gentle maid.
Flexile and tall the Thane, while on his face
Beamed youth's bright smile that had not yet deceived,
And youth's bright hope that had not yet belied,
With courtly bearing and with faultless grace.
And Edith, pensive, tender gazed on him,
As though she loved the very sunny light
That gleamed upon him, flickering through the leaves.

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Lissome and lithe was she, with slender form,
Girlishly delicate, exquisitely fair,
Mannered with perfect and unconscious grace.
While all the maids had waving yellow hair,
Edith's alone was golden, streaming down
And resting on her swan-like snowy neck,
Like sunlight on a lily. While all eyes
Were brightest azure, were her eyes alone
All violet dark and soft with liquid depths.
And the bright sun did kiss so lovingly
Her beauteous face, and lingered on the waves
Of gold of her long hair so gorgeously,
That it appeared an aureole of grace.
And Athelwold sat by, and lightly spoke
Gay, thoughtless words, yet sweet and dear to her;
And each word fell within her happy heart,
And there was treasured, as the precious pearl
Is treasured 'neath the ocean's pulsing waves.
But as they thus sat here, the courtiers' talk
Within the chamber reached their careless ear,
And amongst their words one name was tost about,
Now glorified with praise now stained with blame,
And the three, seated in the oriel, heard
The name “Elfrida.” And fair Editha
Shuddered, she knew not why, at the strange sound
Suddenly breaking thus their happy talk
Like a harsh discord clashing in a song.

160

But Athelwold and Edgar both did smile,
And Edgar spoke and said, “What of this maid,
Whose name is ever sounded in mine ears?”
Then gazing with a noble pride around
Upon his noble court, “It seems,” he cried,
“Till now my maidens have been fair enough;
My court has been the garden of all flowers.
Is she then fairer than my lily pure,
My Editha, or than my daisy sweet,
Gentle Elgiva, or the pansy-eyed
Fair Ethelburga, or the primrose-cheeked
Bright Adelthrid? What flower equals these?”
“Ah!” whispered Athelwold unto the King,
“The rose is fairer far than all of these.”
“Nay, if she be so fair,” then spoke the King.
“Myself will see her. By my troth not all
Unworthy might she prove to share my throne.”
Thus half in jest, half serious, the King,
And still the thanes her wondrous beauty praised,
Till Edgar, e'en as though he weary grew
Of hearing of Elfrida, lightly said,—
“Nay, nay, I did but jest in naming her
My queen, the maidens here are fair enough.”
And once again he talked with Athelwold
And Editha within the oriel deep.
But Editha had grown all pale and weak,
As though with some presentiment of ill;
And Athelwold said gently, “Why so pale

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My cousin fair? Art envious of this praise?
Envy is but for those with cause to fear
That they can be outshone.” A tender blush,
Fair as the sea-foam's, spread o'er Edith's face.
The sunlight of the merry Thane's bright smile
Chased all the gloomy shadow from her heart,
And the sweet harmony of his soft voice
Seemed all the sweeter for that discord harsh,
That sounded with the strange unwelcome name.

When the young King had parted with his train,
And found himself alone with Athelwold,
Then did he speak again, and said, “Not all
In jest were my few lightly-spoken words.
My heart and head are not yet old enough
To be without their dreams and hopes of love.
Long have I searched my court to find there one
Worthy to wed, but my strange wayward heart
Has never yet discovered her to me.
And if Elfrida be so beautiful,
Well would it please me now to crown her mine,
And own the richest jewel in my realm.”
“Aye,” the Thane answered, “if she be so fair,
Well might the fairest with the noblest wed,
And sweetly would her beauty's moonlight shine,
Beside your glory's sunlight, O my King.”
“Well spoken are thy words, my Athelwold,”
Replied the King, “and now because I trust

162

Thee mostly 'mongst all nobles in my court,
And since I long ago did place my heart
Within thy breast, I deem thou well canst see
With my own eyes, and therefore unto thee
Do I intrust the mission of my love.
Go thou to Devon—Olgar's daughter see,
And if thou find her beauteous as is said,
Then will I crown her beauty with my love,
And with proud England's stainless Saxon crown.”
Then Athelwold, “Heart free am I my liege,
And ne'er am dazzled with this sun of love.
Be she as beauteous as the light of heaven,
Beauty alone can never win my heart,
And I will only pay the wondrous maid
The honor due to noble Edgar's queen.
Sacred and holy will she be to me
As though the consecrating priestly oil
Had been already poured upon her brow.”
“Thee can I trust my Athelwold,” replied
The King, “and now mark well my words—the day
Thou dost return to name her as my queen,
That day unto a maid will I wed thee,
Whose waxing love for thee I long have marked,—
Thy gentle cousin, Lady Editha.”
“My cousin Edith!” cried Earl Athelwold,
“Nay, nay, my liege, you do but jest in sooth.
She loves me not save with a sister's love,

163

And this do I return as brother should.
Is she then fair? I ne'er have marked her face;
Sweet, gently-mannered she is known to be,
But the deep love of man for maid I ne'er
Can feel for her, and know full well, the love
Of maid for man she ne'er can feel for me.”
“And well know I she loves thee with all love,”
Answered then Edgar, “search but thy own heart,
And strive to let her love awaken thine,
As 'mongst the stilly hills, one voice awakes
An answering voice, where was no sound before.
And as a star above a quiet stream
Lighteth another underneath the waves.
True, faithful, and most fair is Editha,
And worthily could bear the title proud,
Nearest my heart, of Lady Athelwold.”
Thus Edgar spake, and waiting not reply,
Left Athelwold to ponder o'er his words.
Strange, mixed, and new were all the thoughts that swelled
Within the mind then of the wondering Thane.
The Lady Edith—did she truly love,
As the King said? he ne'er had looked on her
Save as a sister, but when now he mused
Upon his cousin, and joined one by one,
Her trembling words to him, her answering smiles,
Her downcast eyes, her blush at his approach,
When he joined these within his mind, he knew

164

The little links all formed a golden chain
Of love, that bound her unto him, and now
Already he half deemed that it might bind
Him unto her, so gently was he moved
By this pure love that he had never guessed.
For she had loved him as the flower doth
The sun, and dares not hope to win from him
Aught save the light and smile he grants to all.
And Athelwold then mused upon her form
So wondrous fair, and on her noble grace
That won all hearts, and on her gentle soul
That cared for each and all beneath God's blue,
And then upon the love she had bestowed
On his ungrateful and unseeing heart,
That did not e'en accept the priceless gift.
And full of generous thoughts and pure resolves,
The Thane went to his chamber, and he slept.

But strange dark dreams did haunt his troubled sleep,
With Edith and Elfrida vaguely blent,
He dreamed he saw the beauty of the land—
Elfrida, e'en more fair than she was named.
And with dark eyes fixed ever on his own,
With poisoned glances darting from their depths,
She drew him toward her irresistibly.
Slow, slow, but ever nearer did he move,
And looking backward he saw Editha

165

Weeping and moaning, stretching praying hands,
And waving arms to bring him back to her.
And then he saw that where stood Editha
All was bright light, and where Elfrida was,
Did all seem black as night, but still he moved
Nearer Elfrida, feeling those dark eyes
Burning within his soul, with snake-like power
Drawing him on, until he reached her form.
And then he marked upon her beauteous head,
Circling above her brow, a gleaming crown,
Shadowy, strange, that now appeared a crown,
And now a glittering, gliding snake of gold,
Glowing upon her hair with mystic light.
And suddenly she stretched forth whitest arms
Around him close, and pierced him to the heart
With a sharp dagger of bright flashing steel.
Then starting from his vision he awoke
With a vague horror chilling all his blood,
And vainly tried to keep his wearied lids
From shadowing his eyes in dreamful sleep.

Bright was the morn that rose upon that night.
The sun upon the roses never burned
More gorgeous, gleaming to their crimson hearts,
And the blue sky ne'er smiled a softer blue
Upon the harebells and the violets,
Colored like it with sweetest azure tinct,
And all impearled with glistening drops of dew,

166

While the clear sun-bathed fields of morning air
Were vocal with a thousand happy birds.
Then Athelwold arose, and when the hours
Had burned themselves to noon, he bade farewell
To royal Edgar and to Editha.
But as he passed into the outer court,
He heard a lightsome step behind his own,
And turning, saw that Edith followed him.
And when he looked upon her, standing there
All purely fresh, in the bright, dazzling light,
With her long hair that streamed in yellow waves,
Mantling her form in sunlight all around,
And casting golden shadows on the robe
Of purest white that draped her graceful frame,
With her blue eyes all veiled with tearful mist,
And her fair face as pale and colorless
As the white snowdrop, when he saw her thus,
Then the Thane knew that she was beautiful,
And felt he loved her more than he had known.
Then he bent down and took her yielding hand
Within his own, and pressed it with his lips,
And murmured soft and low, “Fair Editha,
The word Farewell is hard to speak, and still
E'er must I bless it, for it teacheth me
What I most loved, yet seeing day by day,
Knew not was dear. Farewell—the hours for me
Will seem all slow and sad until again
I kiss for greeting this dear lily hand.”

167

Then once more gazed he on her beauteous face,
That burned now with a rosy joy, for he
Had lit the lamp of hope within her heart,
And the bright flame now kindled all her cheek.
Then did he mount his steed and leave the maid
With a new, wondrous bliss, nor could she know
Whether to weep that he had left her now,
Or smile with joy at those few, thrilling words.
And chastely happy, innocently glad
In thinking she had bided well her time,
Nor once betrayed her love, like April day,
She wept through smiles, and smiled through happy tears.

O'er grassy meadows Athelwold rode on,
Checkered by sun and shade, with boundary hills
Of melting purple setting them around,
By soft bright streams, by peaceful villages,
By busy towns bustling with noisy trade,
By wastes and wolds, and woods and treeless downs,
With purple furze, and soft and plumy fern,
By waveless lakes with flowers round the edge,
Like silver mirrors chased in wondrous gems.
Now drawing in his steed to give it rest,
Now pausing long to gaze upon some scene
Of brighter beauty than had charmed him yet,
And musing now on Edith whom he left,

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Now on Elfrida whom he rode to greet,
He journeyed till the West arrayed itself
In gold and purple for the setting sun,
And pallid Twilight with her shadowy eyes,
And her fair brow crowned with the evening star,
Reigned o'er the plain. Then paused the Thane at night
To sleep the dreamless sleep of tired youth.
Thus day by day did Athelwold ride on,
Until he reached fair Devon's blooming lands,
And saw the great hereditary seat
Of noble Olgar, rising with its towers,
Massive and bold, and green with ivy leaves,
Against the misty blue of English sky.
Then rode he on through avenues of elms,
Whose leaves close intertissued far above,
All formed mosaics bright of blue and green,
As azure heaven glimmered down through them.
Then reaching the great drawbridge, Athelwold
Knocking, gained entrance unto Olgar's home.
Noble the Castle, with the greater hall
Tapestried, curtained with proud luxury,
Adorned with trophies of the chase—with horns
Silvered and polished, and with shaggy skins
Of hapless victims, hanging on the walls.
Unto the guest-room, furnished with the pomp
Of Saxon wealth, was Athelwold then led.
There came Earl Olgar with his snow-fringed chin,

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But with his eye still bright, and form unbent,
Venerable, haughty, with a stately pride,
And, with a courtly, hospitable grace
Welcomed the stranger and his mission asked.
And Athelwold,—“I come from Edgar's court,
Earl Athelwold, the son of Hereward,
To see the beauteous wonder of the land,
And offer her such homage as a heart,
Loyal and ever true, may prompt to one
With little save his heart to speak for him.”
“Earl Athelwold the son of Hereward!”
Cried Olgar, “Nay, an thou be truly he,
Welcome! thou art the son of Olgar too.
Thy father was the friend most near my heart,
Brothers-in-arms were we, and many a time
Fought we together the marauding Dane.
At the dread fray of Bunsbury, my life
He saved at the near peril of his own.
Nay hold, and I will call my daughter here,
To give thee worthy welcome to my home.”
And ere the Thane could crave a moment's rest,
To summon fair Elfrida Olgar went.
Then when the young Earl raised his downcast eyes
She stood before him, so divinely formed,
So radiantly beautiful, so proud,
And yet with such a perfect queenly grace,
That Athelwold half thought it was a dream,
And that no child of earth could be so fair.

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In purest white her noble form was draped,
All colorless save where upon her breast,
One dewy rosebud fastened in the folds,
Heaved with her breath, in fragrant answering sighs.
From off her temples, her rich glossy hair
Grew waving in a graceful sinuous line,
Now forward to kiss lovingly the brow,
Now farther back to show still more the face.
Upon her head no Saxon coif of silk
Concealed the wonderous locks, but in their waves,
Twisted the golden, emerald-eyed snake.
Only one rich dark curl escaped to fall,
And linger on her neck, while all the rest
Were wound behind in one great massy coil.
From under curling lashes burned her eyes,
Dewy as morning, dazzling as the noon,
Soft as the twilight, starry as the night,
And the fair lids drooped o'er them dreamily,
Languid as though their fringes held them down,
While under them was traced a darker line,
As though their black intense this shadow cast,
That made them burn with a still brighter glow.
Upon her cheek there bloomed a pale pink flush,
In color like the tenderest inmost leaf
From out the heart of a white rose. Her mouth
Crimsoned with richest beauty, formed a smile
Such as in Paradise must Eve have smiled.
Each trait was perfect, to the little ear,

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Shell-like in form and tipped with palest rose,
While the proud head, so beautifully cut,
Was placed in queenly grace upon a form
That needed so much beauty to complete
Its wondrous majesty and noble shape.
Thus did she stand before the dazzled youth,
And with a voice thrilling and mellow rich.
Sweeter than sweetest music, did she say,—
“Welcome to Olgar's daughter is his friend;
And if the noble Earl can feel but half
The pleasure that he grants in tarrying,
I need not bid him stay.” And Athelwold,
All lost in gazing on her form divine,
Made answer—“Thanks, Elfrida only speaks
With my heart's voice when she thus bids me stay.”
Then Olgar led away the youthful Thane,
By sounding corridors and winding stairs,
Unto the richest chamber 'neath the roof,
To be his home while there.
Swift flew the hours
That with Elfrida Athelwold did pass.
And the winged hours lengthened into days,
And the days grew to weeks, and then the weeks
Had almost rounded to a perfect month,
And still he lingered, faithless to his king,
Faithless to friendship, faithless to his word,
Faithless to Edith, faithless to himself,
Forgetful of all else within the world,

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Save that Elfrida looked upon his face
Yearning with passion, with her wondrous eyes
Softer than morning's blue, yet black as night,
And that she whispered to him with her voice
Mellowed to music, and that now he might
Worship and gaze upon, for hours long,
The glory and the wonder of her face.
And proud Elfrida seemed to favor too
The courtly Thane, with his most manly grace,
And noble manner, and soft flowing words;
And while he dwelt with her, in the fleet chase
She brooked no rider by her star-browed steed
Save him, and in the hawking ne'er would trust
Her falcon-gentil unto other hands,
Nor danced with any noble in the hall,
Nor walked with any youth within the woods,
Save the King's thane, the courtly Athelwold.
And Athelwold, with youth's credulity,
Ne'er dreamed those sunny glances could be false,
Nor that rose-mouth say what the heart meant not,
But deemed the inner soul a worthy gem
For such a casket as her beauteous form.
And thus he grew to love her day by day
More wildly and more passionately, till
A short and happy month drew near its close.
And then one twilight as they both did sit
Within the bower where Oswald had been spurned.

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As Athelwold like him looked on her face,
And felt her form so near his own, and grew
Slowly more mad with gazing on her eyes,
He took her melting hand within his own,
And kneeling at her feet he told his love.
“Listen, Elfrida,” did he murmur low,
“Ere I knew thee, I knew not happiness.
I cannot plead with wordy eloquence,
I cannot sue for thee with honeyed tones,
I can but say I love thee with all love.
And if the truest love that ever burned
Is still unworthy to be crowned by thee,
And if I cannot win, and live for thee,
I needs must die for thee.” And then the maid
Looked down upon him kneeling at her feet,
And whispered soft and sweet, “Rise, Athelwold,
Fear neither for thy happiness nor life,
If my love is to guard them.” Trembling all
With new-born joy did Athelwold arise,
And kissed Elfrida on her beauteous brow,
And blessed her as his own. But suddenly
While he was lost thus in his perfect bliss,
A vision passed before him of the King
Waiting and watching, trustful in his heart.
Not yet was Athelwold's young, noble soul
Won over from its honor and its truth,
By the dark fiend who took so fair a shape,
And all his joy did pale as he recalled

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The treachery that brought it; quivering then,
Torn by the bitter conflict in his heart,
A mighty anguish shadowed all his face.
In that dread hour the angels of his life,
The Good and Evil Ones, the Light and Dark,
Fought for the mastery o'er his tortured soul.
And for a moment did the Radiant One
Conquer, and Athelwold spake out and said,
“Elfrida, all my heart doth yearn and cry
For thee—thou art as good and pure and true
As thou art fair—oh show me what is right.
I came to thee not for myself alone,
But for a cherished friend, who bade me sue
For thy most precious hand to grace his own.
All honor must I lose in taking it
For mine. I offered thee erewhile
My life and love and heart—thou hast them all,
And e'er must have them, but I tremble now
In offering my soul.” But the proud maid
Rose scornfully and answered then the Thane:
“If love for me be not more strong within
Thy breast than friendship, and the worthless love
Of Honor, world-begotten and worldly-prized,
Unworthy is it of my answering love,
And well can I unsay my thoughtless words.”
And while she answered thus, her scorn did sit
Upon her face all gorgeous, like a cloud,
Through which the sunset flashes angrily,

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Gleaming more radiant through its kindled veil.
Then the Dark Angel conquered, and the Thane
Fell down, and craved her pardon for his words,
And with his wooings, passionful and mad,
And with his yearning voice, he won her back,
And calm once more she plighted him her troth.

All had gone by—the last long happy day,
The last sweet eve, and now the last fair morn
Arose all dewy fresh on Athelwold
And on Elfrida, as they both stood there,
Gazing with tearful eyes on tearful eyes,
With farewell in their hearts, without the strength
To frame it on their lips. Until at last
The Thane with soothing tones, all sad and slow,
Murmured unto her,—“Grieve thou not, my love,
The parting makes the greeting but more sweet.
Last night the waxing moon did show to us
Her silver crescent gleaming in the sky.
Before she waneth to that form again,
Will I return to greet thee as my wife,
And bless thee as mine own for evermore.”
And passionately did he burn farewells
In kisses on her brow and on her lips,
And mounting his fleet steed he sped away.
Then he rode back by peaceful villages,
And busy towns, and wastes, and wolds, and woods,
But all the beauty blooming round his path

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Was lost unto his absent mind and heart.
Weary and long the journey seemed to him
Who had before gazed charmed upon each scene
With admiration of impulsive youth,
For what doth kindling touch his fancy rich.
But love had now inflamed his inmost heart,
And fancy paled before that dazzling light.
So pining for Elfrida journeyed he,
Wearied at night, finding no rest in sleep,
Drearily onward till he reached at last
The city and the palace of the King.

Slowly and dully had the hours passed on
For Edith, while awaiting Athelwold.
But the sweet thought still lightened all her heart,
That he did love her, and his last soft words
Still rang their gentle music in her ears.
And day by day she rose from dreams of him
Expectant e'er to see his welcome form,
And his bright face smiling upon her own;
But a vague shadow clouded o'er her brow,
And a dull weight oppressed her heavy heart,
As each day rose and deepened into noon,
Faded to twilight, died into the night,
And still he came not, and the maiden paled
With undefined, vague fears for Athelwold.
And Edgar too watched anxious for his friend,
And missed his merry voice, and boyish laugh,

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And saddened for his favorite, and the court
All seemed to be less bright without his smile.
But one alone in all King Edgar's court,
Was freër and more glad when Athelwold
Moved not therein,—the monkish Dunstan stern,
Who looked upon the Thane with jealous eye,
And ever sought to poison Edgar's mind,
With dark tales of the cherished favorite.
But smooth-faced, flattering, and fair in words,
The Earl ne'er knew him other than a friend.
One morn while Edith by the casement sat,
Watching and waiting, daring not to hope,
She caught afar the reflex of the sun,
Glimmering brightly on some glittering thing.
And watching it she saw a rider soon
Upon a steed with flashing ornaments.
Fears changed to hopes within her throbbing heart,
And hopes again to fears, and on her cheek
Were traced by pallid white and rosy red.
And all at once her face broke in a smile
That kindled all her blushes, as the sun
Brings out the roses' colors with its light;
And joining in mute thankfulness to God
Two whitest hands, she murmured low, “'T is he!”
Aweary with his journey, Athelwold
Dismounting entered in the chamber there
Where Edith sat, who trembling with her joy,
Rose smilingly to greet him, and exclaimed,

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“Welcome, my cousin, to thy home again.”
And she stretched forth her little lily hand
To meet his own, but Athelwold saw not
The heart-sprung gesture, and he made reply:
“Thanks for thy welcome, Lady Editha;
Where is the King? Then Editha, all pale,
As though she had received a mortal hurt,
And drawing hurriedly and proudly back
The poor unnoticed little hand, replied,
“I know not, Athelwold,”—and choking with
The tears that rose in thinking this was all
That she had yearned and watched for all these hours,
Turned quickly off, and to her chamber went,
To weep unseen her bitter-flowing tears.
Welcome to royal Edgar was the sight
Of his friend's face, and gladly greeted he
His cherished favorite once more in his court,
Nor noted that a change had come upon
The merry Thane. Less bright and gay his smile,
Less open his blue eyes, less free his brow
Of shadow and of cloud. He left, a youth,
And he returned, a man. Through an ordeal
Bitter and fiery had he passed, nor came
Scathless and spotless from the conflict dread.
The battle of his life had now been fought,
And he had conquered not; he had been tried
By Passion and by Sin, and Passion left

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Its fire, and Sin its stain upon his heart.
But Edgar, happy, seeing once again
His favorite, noted not the darksome change,
And welcomed him more gladly o'er and o'er.
And then he asked him how his mission fared,
And if the world-praised maiden he had seen
Was noble or was beautiful enough
To reign a queen. And Athelwold replied,
Indifferent seeming, though the royal words
Pierced through his heart,—“She was o'erpraised, my liege;
Her beauty is not worthy of her fame;
In your own court is many a fairer maid.
A country maiden she with no proud charms,
And courtly grace that England's queen must own,
And whose slight beauty never would be marked
In one of meaner birth or less degree.”
Thus spoke the Thane, while fair Elfrida's form
Arose before him with its noble grace,
And maddened him to think on. Then the King:
“Nay, if this wondrous beauty be no more,
Soon can I find a worthier to crown
Among my gentle Saxon maidens here.
Fain would I thou hadst found her beautiful,
That Athelwold might sue for Edgar's queen;
But we will think of her no more. Thou hast
Thy mission well performed, and brought me back
The truth I longed for; now will I fulfil

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The promise that I made thee ere thou left,
And wed thee with the Lady Editha.”
But Athelwold, who had forgotten quite
His short-lived fancy for fair Editha,
And yearning for Elfrida, grew all pale
At the mere thought of being bounden thus,
And he made answer,—“O my King, much thought
In my long journey did I give to her.
No sister and no brother have I known,
Then take not this pure holy love away.
Ne'er can she be my wife, then let her be
What she has ever been, and must remain,
Nor more nor less;” and Edgar made reply:
“In this thou grievest me, my Athelwold.
Fain would I see thee wedded unto one
Whom I could trust to love and cherish thee;
But if fair Edith suits thee not, seek through
My court, and choose the one who suits thee best,
And worthily the King will dower her
To have thee wed her.” Then the wily Thane:
“Thanks, O my liege, for this your care of one
So poor as I; but if I am to wed
I can recall no maid who suits me more
Than this Elfrida, albeit she is not fair
Like Lady Edith. I have ever said,
Beauty alone could never win my heart.
And if the King would smile upon my suit,

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Her would I wed.” Then said the noble King,
“My Athelwold, go ever where thy heart
Doth lead thee. 'T is too good and pure and true
Ever to lead thee wrong. If thou art pleased
With this Elfrida, wed, and know, no prayers
Will e'er more fervent for thy weal arise,
Than thy true friend the King's.” And every word
Of undeservèd praise that Edgar spoke,
Cut the Thane's heart, as though of sharpest steel.
And when the King did press his hand and look
Within his eyes, as though to read his heart,
For the first time then Athelwold did shrink
From friendship's gaze, for his tried heart had now
Its secret and its stain, and he cast down
The curtains o'er the windows of his soul,
And felt the red shame burn upon his cheek.

Two leaden-footed days for Athelwold
Passed by, ere he again prepared himself
To journey unto Devon, to be wed.
And all the time the shadow of his sin
Darkened his joy, and lay all heavily
Upon his heart, erst free of every care.
And once in looking on fair Editha,
All sad since his harsh greeting unto her,
Sudden he thought to ease his troubled mind,
Confessing all his treachery and sin,
Unto the maid; and gently he advanced

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With lightly spoken words to where she sat.
But when she looked on him all trustfully,
With eyes that ne'er had known the shadow dark
Of an untruth, open as cloudless heaven,
His courage failed him, and he thought deceit
Had served so well, 't would serve him longer still,
And spurned he his resolve as girlish-weak.
Then greeted he the maid with tender words,
Soft spoken low, that fed her dying hopes;
And in his mind he placed Elfrida dark
By this sweet maid, and to himself he said:
“Pale Editha, thou art no more like her,
Than is the morning-star like to the sun.”
But still he whispered in soft thrilling tones
Unto the maid, nor did he once betray
A word of his new love, and his intent
To wed her ere once more he came to court.
Then the third day from his return, again
He bade farewell unto the noble King
And gentle Edith, even to the last
Fanning her glowing love for him with words
Faithless and false as was his sin-stained heart.

Sad had Elfrida missed the youthful Earl,
Noble and courtly 'mongst the Devon thanes,
And her ambitious soul now yearned and longed
More wildly to make real its restless dreams,
As visions of the pomp and splendor rose

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Before her of the Saxon court, and so
She waited, all impatient, the return
Of the King's thane, who was to bring to her
What she had longed and hoped for all her life.

Madly did Athelwold spur on his steed,
Each day, and endless seemed each night of rest,
Until at last he reached the castle proud
Of Olgar, at the close of a long day,
As the bright, glittering, golden doors of heaven,
Gemmed with all hues, were opened in the west
For the Sun's chariot, and the wearied steeds.
Quick throbbed his heart, and brightly burned his cheek
As he rushed in the castle, and there found
Elfrida anxious waiting his return.
With a glad cry she rose to welcome him,
And madly on her beauteous cheek and brow
Greeting, he kissed her, but the maiden proud
Flushing, drew back, and proffered him her hand.
Then passionate he gazed on her as though
To drink her beauty in his very soul,
And sat beside her, and they talked of love,
Till twilight silvered into moonlight bright,
And, crowned with stars, calm rose the summer night.

Bright shone the sun upon the Devon lands,

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Fresh glowed the dew on all the fragrant blooms,
Clear, sunny-soft was the sweet summer air,
And all the leaves and flowers and trees of earth
Sent up their messenger, the lark, to heaven,
To bear their praises to the bounteous God.
Slowly the morning deepened into noon,
And the gold sun burned brightly in the sky,
When in Earl Olgar's home, all joyful sounds
And lovely sights were blended happily.
Proud thanes and gentle maids appareled rich
With broidered tunics and fair mantles long,
And sparkling gems and fringes of bright gold,
Had met to see the proud Elfrida wed
With the King's thane, the noble Athelwold.
Most dazzling fair the beauteous maiden looked
In her rich robe of spotless samite white,
Heavy with pearls broidered upon its folds.
Before her face down from the bridal wreath
Fell the pure tissue waving to her feet,
That draped her like a veil of moonlight soft,
Which into mellow beauty silvers all.
And noble and most proud by his fair bride
Seemed Atheldwold; all shadow of remorse
Had left his face, lit by a perfect joy.
Well was his manly, noble form displayed
In the fair Saxon tunic fringed with gold
And glittering with gems, and proud he gazed
Upon his bride, the wonder of all eyes.

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Then, in the breathless hush, the priest did join
Elfrida, daughter of the Devon Earl,
To Athelwold, the son of Hereward,
Immutably together bounden fast,
To move through all the shadow and the shine
Of life, unto the darkness of the grave.
Then Athelwold upon her noble brow
Sealed with a kiss his promises to her,
And on her hand he placed the golden ring,
That with its glittering circlet bound them both.
Merrily clashed the music in the hall,
Gracefully danced the maidens and the thanes,
As Athelwold did greet his beauteous bride.
Happy and short was that bright marriage-day,
For all in Olgar's wide estate, and e'en
Unto the lowest ceorle it was a time
Of gladness and of peace and liberty.
Fair blooming flowers were braided then for her
Who could outshine them all, and luscious fruits,
And golden flowing wines, and juicy meats,
And largess rich, were lavished unto all.
And far into the night the feast was held,
With music and with wassail and with song.

Swift flew the golden hours and happy days,
Swift they flew by as though on fleetest wings.
Thus Time, for man created, must partake
His hurrying restlessness, his anxious haste,

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A mockery to God's Eternity,
Calm in its grandeur, as unchangeable,
As He to whom its majesty pertains.

In Devon there was feasting and glad joy,
But in the palace of King Edgar, all
Did miss the bright face of the youthful Thane.
Edith, who ne'er had guessed the Earl's intent,
Still fed her hopes, and thought to win his heart,
And once more waited anxious his return,
Until one day the King announced to all
That his young favorite had betrothed himself
Unto Elfrida, and had gone to wed.
No cry escaped from Lady Edith's lips,
Nor any tear from out her calm blue eye,
Only a faint blush that had tinged her cheek
When she had heard his name, did fade away
And leave her deathly pale, and a bright smile
That lit her face, suddenly died away.
And nevermore upon her beauteous traits
Did that glad, hopeful, thoughtless smile return.
Sometimes its flitting ghost appeared, to make
Only the sadder her sad, pallid face.
No word then did she utter, though she felt
A sharp quick pang within her heavy heart,
That never could be light and gay again.
But burdened with the weight of sighs unsighed
And tears unwept.

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Unto another one
Within the court were Edgar's tidings then
Of import.—to the priestly Dunstan shrewd,
Who in an instant the whole truth divined,
Of Athelwold's betrayal of the King.
No word then did he speak, but softly smiled,
As doth a man who seizeth his revenge.
Then on the morrow did he send a monk
Privily down to Devon, there to see
The bride of Athelwold, and bring to him
The truth about her beauty.
One bright day,
Four quiet weeks since Athelwold was wed,
Did Dunstan lead the youthful King apart,
Down a green alley of high arching trees,
Within the royal garden, craving then
His ear, some weighty secret to impart.
“My liege,” began the monk, “you cherished erst
An aspic in your bosom—it has stung,
Although you feel no pain. Humbly have I
Oft warning spoke to you of Athelwold,
And read deceit in his frank seeming eye.”
“Nay, nay,” exclaimed the King, “if this be all,
If thou but bringest me another tale,
Slanderous and poisoned, of my Athelwold,
I will not grant to thee my listening ear;
I know him frank, and I have proved him true.”
“And I,” replied the monk, “have proved him false.

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No groundless tale, impossible of proof,
Bring I to you, but one which the whole court,
Erelong, must hear, with wonder that their king,
Noble and royal, is so easily duped.”
Then as the King flushed with an angry pride
At the bold words, the wily monk went on:
“My King, the bride of Athelwold is fair
As she was named—most radiantly fair.
None can withstand the beauty of her face,
Her royal dignity, her perfect form,
Her noble manner, all her queenly charms.
And Athelwold, insnared in toils of love,
Bought with his honor this most precious gem,
Betraying his king's trust and faith and love.”
A royal anger rose in Edgar's heart,
And flushed his cheek, and darted from his eye;
But nobly open as the truth itself
For but an instant did he grant belief
Unto the tale of treachery and sin,
And quickly answered, “Nay, the Thane e'er said
Beauty alone could never win his heart.”
“And not alone did beauty win his heart,”
Replied the monk; “the maid hath other charms
Beside her face; so wondrous in their spell
That all men fall and worship.” And the King
As though he spoke and reasoned with himself
To check the dark suspicious thoughts that rose:
“Heart-free was he, my noble Athelwold.”

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“My liege, 't were better he had been heart-bound,”
Answered the monk. Then said the King, “Myself
Will go to Devon, and this goddess see,
Who is so wondrous fair. More readily
Can I believe that she is over-praised,
Than that my Athelwold is over-loved.
Oh the dark curse of kings! Is then the crown
So dear a treasure that it can be bought
But at the price of all men's love, and he
Who wears it ne'er can know or trust or faith,
Naught but the flattery, meaningless and vile.
That man doth yield to those he crouches 'neath!
O Dunstan, sooner would I thou hadst come
With tidings that my whole glad, happy land,
Rebellious turned from me, than this one youth
To whom I gave my trust and faith and heart.
Nay, nay, it cannot be! Those frank blue eyes,
Open as heaven, could ne'er be false as hell.
They gazed on me with such free loyalty
When last I saw them.” Then all suddenly,
As though a bitter thought had struck him, low
He whispered, “Nay, when last I looked on them,
It seemed as though they shrank then from my gaze.
They could not meet me, as they had been wont.
What thoughts are these! If he be true, my doubts
Were blackest stain upon me evermore.
O Dunstan, I will see this beauty famed,
And if she be not fair, and if my Thane

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Be pure and spotless as I doubt him not,
Out from my court then will I banish thee,
For all that thou hast made me suffer now,
And for thy slanderous, wicked, poisoned tongue.”
Thus boldly spoke the King unto the monk
Whom he had feared and dreaded all his life,
And Dunstan left him with a fawning smile,
But with revenge and hatred in his heart.
Then the poor King, tortured by thousand doubts,
Paced up and down with hurried step, the lane,
Repeating o'er and o'er, “It cannot be!”
And every time, it seemed as though a voice
Did whisper unto him all low, “It is!”
And thus he walked until the sun went down,
And left the earth to twilight and the stars.

Once more did Athelwold return to court,
But brought Elfrida not to greet the King.
Alone he came, and was so glad and free,
So frank and open, that he seemed again
The same bright, merry youth that erst in court
Made all the sunshine with his happy smile.
And Edgar, when he saw his favorite thus,
As blithe and boyish as he e'er had been,
Put by all dark suspicion, nor did grant,
E'en for an instant, Dunstan's tale belief.
But he had sworn to see his favorite's bride,
And prove him faithful unto all the world.

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Then said he unto Athelwold, “My friend,
It grieveth me that thou shouldst not have led
Thy much-praised bride to greet thy loving King;
But since thou hast not, Edgar will himself
Go unto Devon, and behold her there.”
Once more the shadow came upon the face
Of Athelwold, who, turning deathly pale,
Quickly replied, “Nay, nay, my King, it were
By far too great an honor unto me.
Simple and plain is she, unused to courts,
Not fair enough to please your royal eyes,
And ne'er could give her King the welcome due,
To one so high, so far above herself.”
Then said the King, who felt his trust grow weak
As he did note the pallor of his friend,
And gazing earnestly within his eyes,
“Nay, if she be so simple, so unused
To courts and kings, 't will be relief to me,
Who am all weary of the friendships false,
And flattery and lies that greet me here.
Fain would I know the welcome once sincere,
Honest and true, of those who ne'er deceive.”
Then Athelwold felt all his heart within
Sink 'neath the burden of his sin, and longed
To pour out his pent soul unto the King,
Craving his pardon or his punishment.
But sudden on Elfrida did he think
With her proud face so radiantly fair,

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And quickly checking all good impulses,
He said, “Since you so honor us, my liege,
I can but crave your royal sanction now,
To go before you, and prepare my bride,
To give you fitting welcome.” And the King
Granting him this, the Thane did haste away.

Swiftly did Athelwold ride back again
To Devon, tortured by a thousand fears.
Madly he hastened till he reached his home,
And breathless rushed into Elfrida's arms,
Then unto her did he confess at last
The darksome tale of treachery and sin.
“Elfrida, dost thou not recall,” cried he,
“When in the bower first I told my love,
Sudden I grew all faint and ill, and said
That traitorously I sinned in loving thee?
That I came not to woo thee for myself
But for a friend—that friend was England's king!
Elfrida, O Elfrida, I have loved,
As no poor human heart e'er loved before.
I worshiped thee, I gave to thee my life,
I gave to thee my honor and my soul.
And now the King hath guessed my treachery,
And cometh here to greet thee. O my wife,
As thou art pure and true, and lovest me,
Save me and save my honor and thine own.
Oh, lay aside thy irresistless charms,

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Make thyself plain and rough,—unlike thyself.
Thou who hast ruined e'er so many, with
Thy maddening beauty, lay it once aside,
To save the one who loves thee more than all.”
Thus wildly spoke the Thane upon his knees,
Passionate suing his proud, heartless bride;
And when he said his friend was England's king,
A fierce, wild look of hate did dart from out
Her flashing eyes, but they grew sudden soft,
Voluptuous and tender, and her face
Mellowed to loving beauty as she gazed
Upon the Thane thus kneeling at her feet.
Then low and sweet she spoke to him and said,
“My Athelwold, thou canst not doubt my heart.
I care not for the pomp of kings and courts,
I care but for that precious gem, thy love,
And will devise but how to guard it best.”
Then Athelwold arose, and kissed his bride,
And thanked and blessed her, and she soothed his fears,
And calmed him once again to quiet peace.
Then while they talked the wily beauty said,
“My Athelwold, but tell me how I can
Appear before the King.—my simplest gown
Is that in which thou didst behold me first.”
Then as the Thane recalled her wondrous form
As he first saw it, so divinely fair,
Clad in its simple robe of purest white,

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Once more he maddened, knowing that the King
Could not but love her as himself had done
In that pure garb, and he made answer then:
“Nay, nay, Elfrida, when before the King,
Appear, for me, in any gown but that.”
And once more did Elfrida calm the Earl
With soft sweet words, and mellow ringing laugh,
And beauteous smiles, until he left her there,
To robe herself to meet the coming King.

Then when the Thane had left his bride alone,
Sudden the look of hate came back again
Into her wondrous eyes, and darted forth
And darkened all her face, and she began
Low, but her voice swelled louder as she spoke,
And grew to wildest passion breaking forth:
“I hate thee, Athelwold, and with that arm—
My beauty—wherewith thou besought me erst
To save thee, will I crush and ruin thee.
False, faithless to thy friendship and thy king,
I will be false to thee. O Athelwold,
I scorn and spurn thee and thy worthless love.
I will be fairer now than e'er before,
And madden thee with love, and win the King.
And lay aside mine honor but to bring
Dishonor upon thee and thy proud name.
This petty ring thou gavest should have been
A royal crown around my stately brow.”

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Then in her mirror did she view herself,
All gorgeous in her beauty, with her eyes
Flashing through tears of passion and of wrath,
Like lightning through the rain, and cried aloud,
“Poor crownless head, art thou not fair enough,
And proud enough to wear that circlet rich?
O Athelwold, that thou shouldst make me miss
The fate thus written on my face! What I
Have yearned so long to own, that thou shouldst now
Wrench it, when nearest, from my grasp! Nay then,
I will be false and faithless as thyself,
And thou wilt learn what means Elfrida's hate.”

Within the castle of the Devon Earl
All were prepared to greet the royal guest,
And Athelwold, still trustful in his bride,
Rode forth to meet and welcome Edgar there.
Awaiting them the proud Elfrida sat,
More gorgeously attired, more radiant fair,
Than e'er before. Her noble form was clad
In a pure robe of richest samite white,
With the long Saxon tunic fringed with gold,
And glittering with gems, and over this,
Draping her round, there fell a mantle long
Of violet velvet, on the shoulder fair
Drawn up and fastened with an armlet bright
Of amethysts and diamonds. On her head
A Saxon coif of violet velvet lay,

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Relieved against the darkness of her hair,
By the pure lining of white samite shown.
Around her neck there gleamed a dazzling row
Of diamonds, that brightened as she breathed,
As though her breath did give them added life,
And on her snowy arms there glittered forth
Bracelets and armlets of rich massy gold.
Beneath her robe peered out one dainty foot,
Slippered in violet velvet with a clasp
Of a dark amethyst in diamonds set.
The look of hate had vanished from her eyes,
And only softened glances darted forth,
Mellowed voluptuous by long lashèd lids.
Her passion had but left a rosy glow
Delicate-faint upon her pallid cheek,
As a wild storm oft leaves no other trace,
Than a bright roseate flush of sunset clouds.

All suddenly a noise of clattering hoofs,
And shouts of welcoming announced the King.
Then courtly Olgar went without to greet
His sovereign, and, to thrilling music loud,
Followed by all the train of noblemen,
The three did enter where Elfrida sat.
Upon the noble Olgar's happy face
Beamed forth a father's smile of love and pride,
As he beheld his daughter there so fair.
Alas! he could not know that beauty rich

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Was doing deadliest work in this calm hour.
A smile too gleamed on Athelwold's bright face
As he did enter, thinking he would find
Elfrida simply robed, unlike herself.
But when he saw the gorgeous beauty there
So regally attired and so proud,
So dazzling in her radiance, a look
Of the most wild despair came o'er his face,
Distorting all its manly symmetry.
Then madly thinking she was still his own,
He dropped his eyes to see upon her hand
The pure gold ring that bound her unto him;
But she had placed a glittering amethyst
Set in rich diamonds, o'er the circlet small,
And he could see it not beneath those gems.
Then he cast down his eyes and bent his head,
As doth a man crushed 'neath the hand of fate.
And noble Edgar when he entered there,
Trustful in Athelwold, deeming he would find
A simple, rustic beauty, trembling 'neath
His royal gaze, and found instead this queen,
More radiant than aught his wildest dreams
Had ever pictured unto him before;
When he thus saw Elfrida, rising up
To welcome him, a look of sharpest pain
Flashed o'er his face, and quick he dropped the arm
Of Athelwold, which careless he had linked
Within his own. Then did Elfrida speak,

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Saluting him with a most queenly grace:
“King Edgar never will regret his stay
At Devon Castle here, if one so poor
In grace as I, can aught to pleasure him.”
And then the King, courtly yet bitterly:
“Nay, one so rich in grace to win the heart
Of faithful Athelwold, must pleasure all,
And kings should but be proud to feel her sway.”
And saying this he looked at Athelwold;
But the Thane stood there with his gaze all fixed
Upon his bride, and heard not her soft words,
Nor the King's answer, nor the music loud,
Clashing its merry notes within the hall,
But only knew that she whom he did love
Each moment with more mad intensity,
Was slipping like the air from out his grasp,
And even now she was no longer his.

All hope and joy had fled from Edith's heart.
Sadly she pined away for Athelwold,
And grew so pale and faint and weak and ill,
That she did think her grief was bearing her
Downward unto her grave. Then when she heard
That Edgar unto Devon was to go
To greet Elfrida, suddenly she thought
She, too, would see before she died the one
Who passing through her life had blighted all.
Each day she pondered o'er this, and at last

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The thought grew rooted in her inmost mind,
Until it blossomed to a fixed resolve.
Then when King Edgar with his train had left
The court, the maiden followed them alone,
Clad in a simple rustic peasant's gown,
And toilsome journeyed through weary days;
And a faint joy again woke in her heart,
As she now thought she would see Athelwold
Once more, and then would die. She knew not then
That death comes not so swiftly when 't is called,
And that there is a sadder thing than death
Unto the weary and heart-broken one.
For journeying down the mountain oft we reach
The shadow while the valley still is far,
And Editha, not knowing, prayed for death,
Nor guessed this last sad hope could fail her too.

When Olgar and the King and Athelwold,
With differing emotions all, had gazed
Upon Elfrida's dazzling form divine,
One other still was there to whom her face,
Beauteous as heaven, seemed as dark as doom—
Edith—who, footsore, weary, had crept up
Outside the castle, and through casements oped
For the fresh summer air, beheld the one
Who had so darkened all her sunny life.
But ere she noted proud Elfrida's form,

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A sad sweet smile illumed her pallid face,
As her eyes rested with a yearning love
On Athelwold. That scene of rich display,
By beauty and by kingly presence graced,
When gazed on from without seemed naught but joy,
And Edith could not know the suffering,
The sorrows and the sins, the guilty love,
The falsehood and the passions and the woe,
That worked within those hearts beneath the light.
Who knows, in gazing on the placid sea,
What powers may be working far below,
And torturing the ocean's giant heart,
Far down below the heavens and the sun?
“Thou 'rt happy, Athelwold,” cried Editha;
“I only would 't was I who caused thy joy.
Alas! my dream of love was too like heaven
For God to grant it me upon this earth.
Elfrida, O Elfrida, thou art she
Whose name has been to me a sound of woe,
To shudder at, to weep o'er, and to hate.
Since I first knew that life was nothingness,
That name has burned within my heart and brain;
And now thou art no more a name for me,
Thou art a form I never may forget.
I see my fears, my pains, my sufferings
All rise before me, and they take thy shape.
Ah when I dreamt and conjured up thy face,

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And formed it of the fairest and most bright,
I only thought how nearly it might come
Unto an angel's. Then I could not know
A demon's might be fairer. Now I come
To hate and curse thee. O Elfrida dark.
I curse thee for thy beauty and thy pride,
For every joy thou gavest Athelwold
That turned his heart from me, and pray to God
My curse and hate may bring thee every ill;
For He will grant the last and only prayer
Of a poor, broken heart—nay, pardon me!
O Heaven, what am I that I should curse,
When even Thou in mercy e'er dost send
Thy rain upon the evil and the good,
Thy sunlight on the wicked and the just!
Nay, nay, I cannot curse; she brought me woe,
But she brought joy to Athelwold. O God,
Bless her with happiness and length of days,
Bless her for every joy she giveth him,
Bless her for every beauty that she owns,
Which ever for an instant pleasured him.”
Then with a last long look on Athelwold,
And on Elfrida, Edith slowly turned,
And wound her way unto an ancient wood,
Anear the castle, but as still and calm
In the drear grandeur of its giant trees
As if there was no noise of revelry
Of heedless man, so nigh its quiet depths.

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After the feast was o'er in Olgar's home,
As the low sun cast shafts of slanting light
Upon the earth, through rainbow-colored clouds,
King Edgar, calm and mild but very pale,
Once more the Thane's arm linked within his own,
And walked with him unto the lonely wood.
The maddening beauty of Elfrida now
Had worked its spells upon King Edgar's heart,
And, as when one has gazed upon the sun,
And sees in all around its glittering form,
So Edgar, dazzled by her beauty now,
Saw naught but her fair face in every thing.
Into the wood he walked with Athelwold,
And spoke as soft and calm as e'er before:
“My friend, thy bride is fairer than I thought;
Right glad am I thou cam'st before me here,
To teach this simple country dame, unused
To courts, how to receive her king. She hath
Full quickly by thy lessons profited.
Ne'er saw I, by my troth, a queen before
Receive more gracefully, more royally.”
And Athelwold with passion mad, yet forced
To check and master it, but made reply,
More truly than the King could e'er divine:
“My liege, I judged her falsely.” Then the King:
“Full glad am I that thou hast such a bride,
And sweetly does her beauty's moonlight shine
Beside your honor's sunlight, O my friend.”

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But, lost in thought, the Thane no answer gave,
And farther still they walked into the wood.
And then the King went on less calm, but still
Passionless seeming: “Not so fair is she
As Lady Edith with her yellow hair
And Saxon eyes, but she is very fair.
Beauty alone could never win thy heart.
Right glad am I to see thee with a bride
Of whom none e'er can say her beauty won
Thy love. Simple and plain is she, with charms
Fit for a modest thane, not for a king.”
But tortured Athelwold made no reply,
And farther still they walked into the wood.
Then once again the King, less calm this time,
And with a sudden break in his soft voice,
Hoarsely and strangely sounding, “Athelwold,
Have I not loved thee? have I not given thee
All that a king can give his subject e'er,
All that a man can give unto a man?
I will not speak to thee of honors now,
Of favors and of titles and of names,
Of wealth and jewels; but my trusting heart,
My more than friendship, all my wealth of love.”
Then with his voice swelling with wrathful power,
“Have I not lived in thee, and thought of thee
As a dear brother, as a favored child?
Have I not worked e'er for thy happiness
More than mine own? Did I not trust thee erst

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With the dear mission of my love and heart,
And didst thou not return, and smile thy smiles
Of blackest treachery in my loving face,
And buy thy gem with falseness and deceit,
And spot thy heart with darkest, foulest sins?”
Then the Thane, vanquished, humbly bowed his head,
And hid his face within his hands, and cried:
“Spare me, my King,” and fell at Edgar's feet.
But the King laughed a fiendish, sounding laugh,
And cried aloud, “Spare thee, thou traitorous heart!
Nay, I will smite thee, coward that thou art,
And curse thee now more fervently than e'er
I prayed for thee before.” And as he spoke,
He raised his sword and smote the prostrate Thane.
There in the anguish of his penitence,
And left him bleeding in a deathly trance,
And turned not once until the wood was passed.

The sun had gone behind the curtain blue
Of the fair sky, and only left a fringe
Of radiant gold upon the border there.
Faintly the twilight glimmered through the tree,
And shone upon the Thane's sad upturned face,
The crimson life-blood ebbed from out his heart.
And pale his face, and yet though pale not calm,
Distorted by the agony of life,
Far worse than all the agony of death.

205

The torture of that darksome, fatal hour,
When Edgar took the voice of conscience there,
Portraying all his sin, had past not yet.
Gently the green leaves of the mighty trees
Trembled and shook on him their twilight dew,
And the blue heaven pitiful bent down
Upon him, lying with his eyes thus closed,
As though he dared not look upon God's home.
Then through the mazy labyrinth of the wood
Slowly a maiden's form did pass along,
Clad in a peasant's gown. With toilsome pace
Slowly and thoughtfully she walked until
She dropped her eyes upon the bleeding form
Of Athelwold, thus lying on the earth.
And then with such a wild, despairing cry
Of quivering anguish, that it rang again
Unto the very heaven, did she fall
Beside the prostrate body of the Thane,
And chafed his listless hands within her own,
And womanly caressed the pallid brow,
And tried to stanch the gushing flow of blood
With the long tresses of her yellow hair,
And wept and sobbed and moaned and prayed by him.
“Awake, awake, my Athelwold!” she cried;
“Why liest thou so still and pale and cold?
What means this crimson stream of rushing blood?
Awake, awake! alas for me, I grieved

206

That thou didst love another; only wake,
And thou mayst love the meanest creature here,
And I will but rejoice! Woe, woe for me!
My voice had never power over him.
Nay, Athelwold, it is not Editha,
It is Elfrida who doth bid thee wake;
Arise for her whom thou hast loved so well.
Oh that I could from out my weary breast
Pluck the warm heart, and yield it unto thee,
To give thee youth and strength and life anew.
Oh this dark stream of blood! must it thus flow
Forever on in this swift-rushing stream!
It covereth the ground with ruddy stain,
It spreads and widens—all the earth is red—
All one red glow unto mine aching eyes,
All one red glare upon the summer sky.
My God! my God! 't is more than I can bear.”
And she fell down beside the prostrate Thane,
Quivering with agony, prone upon her face.
But the soft passing summer twilight breeze,
And the warm life of Edith's chafing hands,
Had roused the Thane from out his death-like trance,
And sighing a deep heavy sigh of pain,
He oped his eyes, and seeing Editha
Shuddered, and in a strange and husky voice,
Unlike the old clear, mellow-ringing tones,
Slowly and painful murmured, “O my God!

207

Have pity on my o'erstrained, wandering mind.
Is not my dream of passion and of sin
Yet over? must I now be mocked with forms
Unreal, vain phantoms of the brain distraught?”
But Editha arose then at his voice,
And cried, “Nay, nay, it is no fleeting dream,
'T is Editha who comes to heal thy hurt
And bring thee back again to life and joy.”
“Nay,” murmured Athelwold, “no more for me
Can be the beauties of the bounteous earth.
I proved myself unworthy of them all;
There is enough of sin in this dark world,
More than my share I brought. What had been life
Had I but seen and known what now I know!
Had I but loved what God had given to love,
Nor swerving from all honor, chosen her
Who brought my sin, and brings my punishment.
Edith, the King, who gave me all my joy,
Has given me this last best joy of death.
I am not pure enough to bless or curse,
Else would I bless both thee and him, and curse
That other one who darkened so my life.
Bid thou the King beware her basilisk eyes,
That turn all hearts they gaze on into stone.
Thee have I mostly wronged, but when I die
Place thou a kiss of pardon on my brow,
To purify it, so that God may see.”

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“Naught have I to forgive,” sobbed Editha.
“My heart was ever thine and thine alone,
I cannot blame thee that thou didst not see;
I loved thee ever, and I love thee still,
And all my joy has been in loving thee;
What have I to forgive?” And Athelwold:
“Thanks, Editha, thou art most kind to me.
Now as I lie here, I could almost dream
A future bright and calm, unstained by sin,
As full of joy as might have been the past,
Happy with thee, repentant and forgiven;
But now that future ne'er can be for me.
Weep not, nor mourn me not, but pray for me.”
Then into silence faded his low voice,
And suddenly the wood became a shrine,
For Death was in it.
Calmly rose the stars,
And beamed with silvered glory on the wood
As Editha bent down and on the brow
Of Athelwold imprinted a soft kiss,—
The first sweet maiden kiss of her true love,
Thus sanctified and purified by Death.

All was bright light and feasting and display
Within the palace of the Saxon King,
Where all the noble maids and thanes were met,
To see King Edgar with Elfrida wed.
Gay music sounded through the royal halls,

209

And sparkling gems and richest robes were there.
Most fair the bride in dazzling white attired,
With flashing eye beneath the golden crown;
Noble the King in regal purple garbed,
With no dark shadow clouding o'er his brow.
But his white hand that offered the pure ring
Bore in God's sight a foul and darksome stain,
And the bride's heart, that swelled with pride and joy,
Bore a still darker one forevermore.
But merry clashed the music, swiftly whirled
The joyous dance, and a great people's shout
Did welcome Queen Elfrida to the throne.

June 9th, 1866. June 24th, 1866.