The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

So he is gone, and I am left
Alone, and very lone it is,
To keep the dear old home, bereft
Of all that made it home and bliss,
Of all on earth that I should miss.
I almost fear my heart will break;
And yet it must not, for his sake;
But it is hard to suffer this,
For there's nothing I look on but makes my heart ache.

It is like living with the dead,
These pictures, and the old arm-chair,
And all I meet when I turn my head
In every room, on every stair;
Their eyes gaze on me everywhere,
And all so silent; yet I seem
At times to hear, as in a dream,
Dear voices calling here and there,
And mocking my heart as I stitch and seam.

I must not turn a silly maid,
A feather-pated girl, the prey
Of weak nerves and an empty head,
That sighs through all the vacant-day,
And trembles, in the evening grey,
Over a dull dog-eared romance,
To see the stealthy moonbeams glance,
Or hear the wind in crannies play,
Or the mice in the wainscot squeak and dance.

Why might I not have gone with him?
We ne'er were parted heretofore;
I am as strong of heart and limb:
At worst, I could not suffer more
Than fretting here. Oh, it was sore
To stand upon the windy pier,
And try to wave my hand, and cheer,
With something in my heart's wild core
That surged with rebellion and trouble and fear.

I deem it barbarous, this way
Of making woman a helpful wife
By keeping us poor girls away
From all the enterprise of life,
Its hardship, and its generous strife.—
All men are Turks at heart, and hold
That sugar plums, and rings of gold,
And pretty silks, and jewels rife
Are all that we need till we're fat and old.

And yet they want us, ne'ertheless,
To think their thoughts, and sympathise
With all the struggle and distress
Of souls that would be true and wise,
To laud them when they win the prize,
To cheer them if they strive and fail,
And gird anew their glorious mail,
And then sink back to house-wiferies,
To shirts and flannels, and beef and ale.

What, if I were to follow him
To that great London? I have tried
To think and write, and I might swim,
With other minnows, by the side
Of the great fish that keep the tide.—
A tale, a woman's touch of art,
And insight into woman's heart,
Not deeply thought, but keenly spied,
That were not, surely, too lofty a part.

But it would vex him: and his love
Is more to me than all the world:
There's nothing he dislikes above
A short-haired woman, frizzly, curled,
Her flag for woman's rights unfurled,
Her middle finger black with ink,
Her staring eyes that will not wink,
Like spectacles—a double-barrelled
Terror, he says, to mén that think.

So that would never do: beside,
There's plenty of other reasons. He
Would keep the old household by my side,
And all things as they used to be;
The plants, and stones, and library,
The fossils rare, and etchings nice,
And other things beyond all price:
And there's another might long for me,
And his evening chess-board, once or twice.

I'm cold, and yet the night is warm;
And restless, yet the hour is still;
And haunted by a vague alarm,
Yet all is hopeful, and he will
Surely a glorious fate fulfil.
I dare not doubt it. He is true
To the high aim he has in view,
Intolerant of hoary ill,
But open to all that is good and new.

The doubts of venturous thoughts have cast
Uncertain shadows o'er his mind;
His soaring spirit has not passed
Above the realm of clouds, to find
The light serene that lies behind:
But he is pure and undefiled,
Unworldly as a little child,
And still amid the darkness blind,
Clings to the Lowly One, meek and mild.

He has a scholar's culture, hence
A Greek-like taste, calm, purified;
He has the poet's delicate sense
Of beauty, ever with good allied;
A nature large and free and wide
And plastic and impressible—
Too much perhaps: a stronger will,
A little more of self and pride,
And he would be safer from earthly ill.

And then he has more sympathy,
Perchance, with truth and beauty than
The power creative: he would be
A stronger, if a narrower man,
Less balanced; for his equal plan,
Diffused on all sides from his youth,
Unto all wisdom, grace, and truth,
Into most just proportions ran,
With risk of being but graceful and smooth.

A perfect critic of all good,
But longing ever to be more:
Well understanding every mood
Of genius, finding every door
Of knowledge open, and the lore
Of ages to his insight free,
For he has still the master-key;
Yet would he launch out from the shore,
And plough for himself an untravelled sea.

And there is risk that such a mind
Shall be too nice and delicate,
And in its equipoise may find
A very impotence, and wait,
And never dare a glorious fate,
The sense of fine perfection still
Embarrassing the purposed will,
Until the shadows gather late,
And the mist is folded about the hill.

Yet if he were not what he is,
I could not love him then as now:
It were another mind than his,
Other, not better then, I trow:
He hath such courage to avow
His faiths, such knowledge to impart,
Such boundless sympathy with Art,
Such fancies, like the blossomed bough
That clasps the fruit in its fragrant heart.

Then he is brave and beautiful
In manhood, radiant with the might
Of that rich life and grace which rule
The admiration and delight
Of Fashion—witty, airy, bright:
I dread for him a woman's wiles,
And cunning arts, and winsome smiles,
And trifling with the heart and right,
Tangling his love in her loveless toils.

I would not have him not to love
Another, dearer life than mine:
Let but a maiden worthy prove,
And with his love my love shall twine
To clothe her with a joy divine.
But he esteems all women pure,
Can spy no craft in looks demure,
Holds them all angels good that pine
For heaven in a world they strive to cure,

And so I fear for him; I dread
That he may set his love on one
With little either of heart or head
Save what he dowers her with, and run
After a shadow in the sun,
Only to learn his weary fate
When the great heart is desolate,
And the fire burns, and there is none
Cometh to cheer him early or late.

And once I feared that he had placed
His all on such a chance. And she—
The grand, fine lady, scarcely graced
With outsides of hypocrisy—
True to the flesh she seemed to be:
And yet he made a god of her,
And girt her with an atmosphere
Of incense, light, and poesie—
But the glory was all in the worshipper.

'Tis strange, the finest insight still
Seems blindest to a woman's art.
The base get love unto their fill;
The noble thirst for that true heart
Whereto they may their life impart,
And find in it their solace meet:
But clothing with their fancies sweet
A wanton or a fool, they start
To know in their love but their sorrow complete.

Out of the world he lives afar
In chivalrous ideal trust,
Enshrining woman like a star
For worship of the good and just,
Where no unworthy thought or lust
May enter with unhallowed tread;
And though he has a sister made,
Like other girls, of sorry dust,
He never would see that our gold was but lead.

Oh if men knew us only—knew
The cowardice and common-place,
The petty circle of our view,
The meanness and the littleness
That lie behind a pretty face!
Thank heaven, I was not bred with girls,
A thing of ribbons, scents and curls,
And quaint in fancies of a dress,
And gold and jewels and strings of pearls.

Our mother trained me up with him
To love the right, the truth to speak,
The scholar's thoughtful lamp to trim,
And trace the rhythm of numbered Greek,
And in the world of God to seek
Wisdom in knowledge of His ways,
And gladness in the song of praise
Which rises from the strong and weak
To the Father that keepeth us all our days.

And this, at least, I've learnt, that man
Can be more godlike far than we,
And never is more glorious than
When bending low a suppliant knee
In his pure-hearted chivalry,
Entranced with his own spell of might,
Blind with his own exuberant light,
Lost in love's rapture and ecstasy,
Which girls only trifle with, day and night.

Therefore I fear his life may be
A disenchantment day by day,
A glory that he seems to see,
Only to see it fade away:
And then perchance he may not play
The great part that he would in life,
But waste him in a petty strife
With little cares, and be the prey
Of fretful thoughts, and a foolish wife.

Then will he die, and leave no trace
Of all the great work he has schemed;
And men will say for such a race
He had not trained, but only dreamed;
And that pure light of heaven which streamed
Along his morning pilgrimage,
Broadening and brightening every stage,
No forecast true shall be esteemed
Of the battle which genius has to wage.

Hence, idle fear! He's brave and true,
With patient toil as well as fire;
What fruitful effort can, he'll do
To crown with triumph high desire,
And make the wondering world admire,
And win himself a lofty name.—
Yet what were all the pride of Fame
If he were linked in bondage dire
To a heartless flirt, or a haughty dame!

The Herr Professor says I'm not
Just to the croqueting, crocheting kind
Of girls; for they fulfil their lot
Like flowers which want no subtle mind,
But waft their sweetness on the wind,
And flash their beauty on the eye,
And bloom, and ripen, and then die;
And they are lovely, and we are blind
If we think that the world is not better thereby.

Maybe I am not just to them;
Maybe I ask more mind and heart;
Maybe a woman, like a gem,
Is but a bauble of precious art,
And as a toy should play her part.
God meant her for an help-meet true,
But men have quite another view:
Let her bright eyes like diamonds dart,
And she may be hard as the diamond too.

Yet one may harden, he avers,
By thought as well as thoughtlessness;
And women's minds may equal theirs,
Have wit as keen, nor reason less;
Only they will not bear the stress
Of manly toil, and keep the good
Pure quality of womanhood:
And logic is not more than dress
For the sweetening of life in its weary mood.

The Herr Professor speaks indeed
Many odd quips and crusty jokes.
He vows that I have too much creed
To have much faith; and daily shocks
My thought with some mad paradox:
And in the ancient truth he sees
But an old bunch of rusty keys,
Hung at the belt of the Orthodox,
To open a dungeon which they call Peace.

And yet I know he loveth much,
And walks with God in truth and right;
And if the world had many such,
It were indeed a world of light,
All radiant with a glory bright:
And sometimes, in his quaintest words,
He seems to touch the deepest chords,
And with a master's skill and might
Holds high discourse of the Lord of Lords.

But, psha! what matters what he thinks?
And yet why do my thoughts still veer,
As drawn to him by subtle links
Of yearning hope, and trembling fear
How in his sight I shall appear?
And wherefore do I watch for him
In the elm-tree walk at evening dim,
As he comes singing loud and clear
A Burschen song, or a Luther hymn?

Can this be love? and could I charge
Thorold that he would by-and-by
Love with a love more deep and large
Than sister's love could satisfy?
And all the while, alas! was I
But taxing him to hide my own
Lapse into passionate depths unknown?
Nay, but this foolish thought would die
If I were not left here brooding alone.

And yet I know not. Heretofore
I used to bring my thoughts to book,
And opened every chamber door,
And searched my soul through every nook;
But into this I shrank to look:
It came with silent, owly flight
In the still quiet of the night;
I heard the wind, I heard the brook,
But the love slid into my soul like light.

And when I found it nestling there,
Like swallow twittering in the eaves,
It felt like summer warm and fair,
And blossomy spray, and fragrant leaves.
A cosy nest my bright bird weaves—
My bird which is but a German swallow,
Guttural-speaking, big and sallow:
Only his heart with great thought heaves,
And there's nought in him little or poor or shallow.

Am I ashamed to say I love,
Yet proud of him I love so well?
O strange proud shame? yet hand and glove
Could fit no better, truth to tell.
I used to laugh at girls who fell
Blushing and lying time about,
And sware I would love out and out,
Or not at all; yet now the spell
Holds me in transport and terror and doubt.

What can it mean, this love and fear,
This open shame and secret pride,
The yearning gladness, and the tear
That comes so often by its side;
This thought we fondle while we hide,
This trembling dread when he is late,
And pouting joy that makes him wait,
And passion passionately denied,
And the feeling of overmastering Fate?

I will to Thorold's room. Nay, that
I may not. Last night I went there,
And the pale moon in silence sat
So ghostly on the great arm-chair,
And the mice pattered here and there,
And the wind in the chimney moaned,
And the old pine at the window groaned,
And something stepped the creaking stair.—
I dare not sit in the room he owned.

Come back, come back, my brother dear:
The storm is gathering on thy way,
And mine is no more calm and clear;
The mist is creeping dull and gray
O'er surfy beach, and troubled bay,
And I am friendless and alone,
And doubtful of myself, with none
To counsel me; and day by day
Fear is chilling my heart like stone.

Am I grown fanciful, to muse
On school-girl whimseys foolishly?
What should I fear, except to lose
The great true heart that loveth me
Better than I deserve to be,
With tender strength, and manly care,
And modest hope his lot to share,
And share his thoughts, too, high and free,
And bear all the burden which he must bear?

To mine own soul let me be true;
I love my love by night and day,
I love my love—the sound is new,
But oh how sweet it is to say!
I love my love—it is like play,
But yet I love with heart and mind,
And passion trembling, fond and blind;
I love my love in Love's old way,
And ever in loving new life I find.

I cannot rest; he cometh not;
And yet, a little while ago,
What wildest fancy could have thought
A day of tumult and of woe
Among the peoples, stricken low,
Who rose up in a wrath divine,
On Seine, the Danube, and the Rhine,
Would shoot, in that volcanic glow,
A flame from their heart to kindle mine?

I should as soon have looked to see
Some bright star from the stormy heaven,
Glide down to earth, and rest on me,
From all its glorious comrades riven.
So strangely fates are interwoven!—
And how he loves his Deutsch-land dear,
Its patient thought, that knows no fear,
Its Luther, Goethe, Heine, given
For lights to the ages far and near.

I will go forth. The moonlight dim,
Dusks with broad shade the silent hill;
I will go up, and think of him,
Where the old brook is tinkling still,
With memories of our water mill;—
I think he sometimes strolls that way,
With pipe and book at evening gray;
But memories of childhood will
Pleasantly wind up a weary day.