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PAUL AVENEL.
  
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64

PAUL AVENEL.

(Coast of New England.)

Homeward from tropic seas he came, a sailor bold and brown,
And saw the scarlet moonrise flame above the distant town.
The locust gave him dreamy song, the breeze blew fresh and free.
“O love,” he thought, “it is not long ere I clasp hands with thee!”
A touch on his firm shoulder fell, a voice fell on his ear:
“Whence have you come, Paul Avenel, and wherefore come you here?”
He knows the face, though gloomed it be, the voice, though sad, he knows.
“Luke Amyot, friend, if you are he, speak blither words than those.

65

“Speak welcome warm and welcome gay. Do I not, need glad cheer?”
Luke Amyot sighs and turns away. .. “You shall not find it here!”
Pale in the eerie light is Paul. “O say the truth,” he cries,
And louder than his language call the yearnings of his eyes.
An answer sounds in broken voice: “The love you held so true
Is worth no honest lover's choice, but treacherous unto you!
“Look yonder where the lights illume that mansion towering proud...
The bride was young and fair, the groom with weight of age was bowed.
“He promised grandeurs manifold—the ancient heartless tale;
He bought her with a flash of gold, a costly wedding-veil!”

66

Paul Avenel in silence hears, in silence dark and stern;
His deep eyes wear no trace of tears, but keenly, strangely burn.
“Luke Amyot, if I did not know,” at last he gives reply,
“Your truth were stainless as the snow, these words would seem a lie!
“O trusted with a trust supreme! O worse lost, in thy shame,
Than though I saw thy grave-slab gleam and read thy carven name,
“What curse from lips of mine can vie with anguish that shall make
My future one dead blank for thy poor despicable sake!”
He lifts a white face to the skies, he lifts a wrathful arm.
“Hold! curse her not!” Luke Amyot cries; “may God forbid such harm!

67

“For never lie more foul was told, I swear, than this of mine!
Not all a kingdom's proffered gold could tempt her love divine!
“And even in death her parting thought was your sweet loyal slave!..
For now two April-tides have wrought fresh grasses round her grave!”..
Paul Avenel in silence hears, and slowly understands.
The low moon sparkles on his tears and gilds his heavenward hands.
“Thanks, friend,” he murmurs, “for the rude cold lie that smote to save!
In grief and yet in gratitude I go to seek her grave!”