University of Virginia Library

THE SKETCH.

The sketch was done. I laid it down
Athwart a rock with mosses brown;
Then backed a pace, and saw with shame
How dead the work. The granite frame,
Grim record of earth's youth of power,
Mocked my slight venture of an hour.
How could I set that thing for praise
'Gainst its immeasurable days!
Lo, here and there, dull mica eyes
Stared from their cleavage mild surprise,
'Neath grim gray sockets lichen-browed.
Too well I knew, and laughed aloud,
For surely comes to us an hour
When sky or rock, or tree or flower,
Finds in our souls that certain tie
That binds God's whole in sympathy,
And bids us wonder, as we go
From large to less, from high to low,
If, past life's line of doubtful fence,
Is lost in rock or tree the sense
That stirs us, or if may remain
Some dulled diffusion of a brain.
At least for me this critic stone
Has thoughts which seem not all my own.
Then piece by piece the sketch I tear,
And cast it on the careless air,
In wonder at the mood could dare
To sit by that mysterious sea,
Nor tremble at its tragedy.
Around me stir the grasses green,
And thick the granite clefts between,
Like little maids that notice crave;
Lated daisies a welcome wave,
And cotton-weed, and golden-rod,
Shyly beckon, or gayly nod.
Here to left are timbers black
That knew the slave a century back;
As children steal through a place of graves,
Soft through its dark hold crawl the waves,
Part the seaweed, and sally out
In white-lipped hurry of tumbled rout.
The darkening sky is green o'erhead,
The solemn surge rolls ghastly red;
The leaping crimson of the sea
Dreams of the slave-ships' agony,
And slowly, on its westering course,
Crawls the dark nightfall of remorse.
My vision of that ancient sin
Is gone.
Halloa! the tide is in.
Four hours to wait the outward flow:
Time to philosophize, I know.
What space that mocking moon decides
That I shall watch these moving tides
May serve some settlements to hatch
Of points—
There goes my final match!
What test of philosophic might
Is like a pipe without a light?
Let 's see what kind of Eden isle
The tide will leave me in a while.
Black lace, athwart a scarlet sleeve!
Can fate have here vouchsafed an Eve?
Half sad, I pause and think, oppressed,
How years have dulled adventure's zest.
A stern, set face; eyes cloudy blue,
That turn to meet my curious view.
A tree-like dignity of form
Might sway with breeze or mock at storm,
Full cloaked with snow-white hair to knee,—
Thanks, kindly wind, that set it free;
Thin hands that struggle with its grace,
Red sunlight through it, and a face
Ash pale against the fading gold;
The mouth so stern, the brow so old,
As if those servants of the heart
Had lost the sweetness of their art.
Her face disturbed me; but I set
The mood aside, and, smiling, met
The answering smile she turned on me.
“Well caged we are,” she said. “I see,
Yon jailer waves relentless be.”
Then with strange echo of my thought,
“Time to philosophize of aught
That elsewhere mocks the puzzled will;”
And lightly laughing, “Shall it still?
If lonely darkness look to me
So fertile of philosophy,
How philosophic death must be!”
“Just so,” I said, in such surprise
As men will have when 'neath such eyes
Are asked impossible replies,
And, musing, guessed no rib of me
Had ever given this Eve to be.
Then on the granite ledge we sat,
Talked carelessly of this or that:
The wreck, the sky, the tide, the isle,
Of Browning, Lowell, Clough, the while
Her busy hands, with practiced toil,
That strange white hair caught up in coil,
Till silence with the darkness fell;
And save for one drear wave-rocked bell,
And the lone nighthawk overhead,
All earth was still as are the dead.
At last she said, “What trick of fate
Kept you and me just here, so late;
Your sketch, my thoughts?
I have not asked
Your name, nor shall.” And I, thus tasked,
Cried, laughing, “Not more curious I!”
“Let pass,” she urged, “that question by;
Rest we unnamed as spirits are
That come and go from star to star.”
“So be it,” I said. “What message bright
Wouldst have me fetch from yonder height?”
“A question more,” she added, “then
Leave we the world of things and men;
And if irrelevant, again
You pardon me. You leave, you say,
At nine, and to be long away?”
“For years!”
A sadness in her tone
Sobbed through my brain. I turned. “Alone
Am I, and old; what love gave life
Death hath to-day,—child, brothers, wife.”
Was it a tear fell on my hand?
“Thank you,” she said,—“I understand.”
“The hurt are sorrow's priests. I know,
Alas, no years will overgrow
With weeds of rank forgetfulness
The buried flowers of love's distress.
A stranger, on this silent rock,
What can I give you will not shock
Far more than help?” Then suddenly
Rising, she faced the darkened sea.
“Help me a little. It may be
The counsel of a man's strong will
Some ghosts of grief for him shall still;
And yet a word. If, on a day
We meet, years hence, you will not say,
I knew that woman in a way:
Nay, not when death has made me glad.
Absurd you think me,—haply, mad:
Think as you will, or seek in vain
To know what ease the troubled brain
Gets when the anguished voice of sin
Prates to the grated priest within.”
I touched her hand. 'T was chill and wet.
I said, “If I should cry forget,
Forgive, no soul on earth has power
To drug the memories of an hour.
The phrase were idle: God is near,
Closer than any human ear.
How could I help you?—wherefore speak?
Why should the burdened language seek?
What gain is won? The words we share,
The sin or grief stays surely there
Where God or chance, or some sad fate,
Has set it. Will mere speech abate
Or jot or tittle aught of woe,
Or cool the hot lids' overflow?”
“You think me answered. Still so much
You know of grief; have felt its clutch,
Yet surely not that mastering clasp
Which crushes like the serpent's grasp.
There is a grief you cannot feel,
The grief of sin that cannot kneel.
You say, to speak, confess, let loose
To man our hurt, lacks reason's use.
God hears; why speak? A straw you toss
To one who drowns; yet from the cross
Fell on the reeling world below
Some words of overmastering woe.
Have you no pity? See! my cheek
Burns through the dark that lets me speak.
Think! think! A woman, hurt, at bay,
To you, God-sent, yearns here to say
Her soul's hell out. All earthly shams
That burns away, all wordy alms
That shrivels when such speech must come;
And yet, I would that I were dumb.
Or you, or death, the stillest priest,
Must hear me. Ah, I pray at least
You merely hear me. If at ease,
In days to come, you coldly please
To reason why a woman's soul,
Scourged past all modesty's control,
Sought speech or death, I shall not care.”
“Nay, pause,” I urged. “Think well, beware.”
“And I have thought!” she cried. “If cheap
You held this instinct, could I leap
From silent guard to open wide
The secrets of a life? I bide
Your answer. Is it life or death?”
“Go on,” I said, with bated breath.
“We cast our pearls to swine. They know them not;
The pearl as ignorant: that my woman's lot.
I loved him. Ah! but not as women love,
With reason, caution, something woven of
What 's left of old love-garments, odds and ends
From lavish likings, lovings,—sisters, friends.
I took one lonely life, and gave him all
My hoarded heart-wealth. Like his billiard-ball
He used a soul: to win with, pass away
An idle hour,—base use and baser play.
'T is said that when to larger life we grow
The loved of earth we easily shall know.
Think you, if death consign to darker fate,
We shall as surely know the souls we hate?
One night, at last, we stood a grave above,
And cast therein a tortured corpse of love.
Smiling and cold, he took a yellow skull,—
My own it seemed,—and mocked its sockets dull,
And bade it chatter of dead hopes. Ah, well.
Twice, thrice I struck him; at my feet he fell
Dead. Oh, the utter joy of that! I laughed,
As one long prisoned, who at last has quaffed
The cup of sudden freedom,—heard a scream,
Sharp words I knew—‘You struck me. Did you dream?’
Alas! I dreamed. Thence on the days went by.
Ever red mists, that floated past my eye,
Blurred sight of him, and ever still in thought
I lived my dream. You shudder. Think you aught
Is sin for one who, slowly murdered, writhes,
Bound on the rack with custom's gnawing withes?
Was that a cry? a boat? My husband! Yes!
Well, you know surely life's too bitter stress
Brings strange confessions. Should you chance to hear”—
“A pretty chase you 've led me! Ah! my dear!
I trust she has not troubled you at all.
At times she wanders.”
“Richard. Thanks. My shawl.”