Part 8

And then, somehow the love I had thought to guard untold Broke loose from the fetters of silence, and gathered strength, and rolled Forth in a torrent of words; and I knelt at the maiden's feet, Crying, "Grant me a token, as yea or nay, my sweet."

And then, with a shy, sweet smile, she gave me her finger-tips, And, bolder grown, I said, as I raised them to my lips, "'Twere a lesser love than mine, that were wholly satisfied, With a touch of your fingertips, and farther than that denied."

The curtains of her eyes dropped low, and I drew her close, And over and over again kissed the sweet face like a rose. I said, "I have pleaded a case, and won it; do you see? And now I take my pay! for a lawyer must have his fee."

Ah! summer over and gone, into the echoless past! Oh! August afternoons, that drifted by too fast! Oh! rows on the quiet lake, in the blissful moonlit eves, When the harvesters sang their song, carrying home the sheaves.

I can hear it even now, the voices, strong and sweet, Over the noise, and rattle, and roar of the busy street, I can see the face of Mable, full lipped, ripe, and fair, With the amber tints in her eyes, and the dusky shades on her hair.

Into my life's September, came the beauty I missed in June, The glory lost in the morning, came in the afternoon. The dream that belongs to youth, golden--complete--sublime, I dreamed not, in the spring, but in the autumn time.

Ah! and the young heart wakes from the dream of love, and then, Suffers a little while, and dreams it over again. But never a second draught of the wine of love for me, I drank it all at the first, and shattered the cup, you see.

I woke from the golden dream when I saw _her_ on the breast Of a fair-faced, beardless youth--when I saw his red lips pressed Over and over again to the mouth, like a rose half blown, And I heard her whispered words--"My only love, my own."

Hush! censure them not! His heart she toyed with even as mine. He suffered keenly, I think, then knelt at another's shrine. And she--speak softly of her--she died: she is only dust; Died repentant--forgiven--and entered Heaven--I trust.

And I--well my years drift on, as my two-score drifted away, Only at times, this memory comes, as it came to-day, Thrilling me through and through--and I live it all once more, Though I shut the past away, and have striven to lock the door.

Have I lost all faith in woman? Nay, surely not: should we Say that every heart is false because _one_ proves to be! Because I find a worm in the petals of a rose, Shall I say that worms are coiled in every flower that blows?

Nay, there are constant woman, and women as sweet and fair As she with the amber eyes, and the shadows on her hair. But I found the wine of love so late, that when I quaffed I held none in reserve, but drank it all at a draught.

The future? I do not dread: it is neither dark nor bright. I have had my day of joy--I have had my sorrow's night. God helped me through the last--I do not know just how, But He answered when I called Him, and why should I doubt him now?

Nor mortal eye can see, nor mortal heart conceive, What He holdeth in His kingdom for the faithful that believe. But I sometimes think the dream that was broken here for me, I shall finish and complete by the shining Jasper sea.

1870

_A SUMMER DAY_

There's a gaping rent in the curtain That longs for a needle and thread, There's a garment that ought to be finished, And a book that wants to be read. There's a letter that needs to be answered, There are clothes to fold away, And I know these tasks are waiting, And ought to be done to-day.

But how can I mend the curtain, While watching this silvery cloud, And how can I finish th' garment. When the robin calls so loud. And the whispering trees are telling Such stories above my head, That I can but lie and listen, And the book is all unread.

If I try to write the letter, I am sure one half the words Will be in the curious language Of my chattering friends, the birds. The lilacs bloom in the sunshine, The roses nod and smile, And the clothes that ought to be folded And ironed, must wait awhile.

I lie in the locust shadows, And gaze at the summer sky, Bidding the cares and troubles And trials of life pass by. The beautiful locust blossoms Are falling about my feet, And the dreamy air is laden With their odors rare and sweet.

The honey-bees hum in the clover, The grasses rise and fall, The robin stops and listens, As he hears the brown thrush call. The humming-bird sings to me softly, The butterfly flits away-- Oh, what could be sweeter than living, This beautiful summer day!

1869

_SONG AND MAID_

A poet toiled over a song, for the maid Who had plighted her troth to him. And he leaned, and wrote, in the gathering shade, Till his eyes were dim.

But the maiden strolled on the distant beach, And listed another's tender speech.

The poet sang of her love-lit eye, So softly, and deeply blue; How its soulful glance--half arch, half shy, He only knew.

But the maid's blue eyes were shedding their light On the face of a tall, dark man, that night.

He sang of her hand, so white, and fair, And soft as a hand could be. "And the ring," he sang, "that is gleaming there Binds her to me."

But the maid to her tall companion said, "This ring? 'tis the gift of a friend, now dead."

He sang of her ripe and dewy lips-- "They are roses before they blow, And the taste of the nectar that from them drips I only know."

But the maid, as she walked in the moonlight mist, Lifted her face, and was lovingly kissed.

He sang of her voice, "It is soft and clear As the voice of a gentle dove. So tender, that I alone can hear Her words of love."

But the maiden whispered to one by the sea, "I love thee, darling, and only thee."

Ah, poet! finish your last light strain: Ah, maid! shall we give you praise, or blame? You are wringing a heart, with bitter pain, Yet helping to laurel a brow with fame.

For out of the depths of a master woe, And through the valley of dark despair, The soul of a singer must grope, and go, Ere he wear the purple true poets wear.

_ASLEEP_

"Come closer," she said, "my sister, For I can not see your face. The day grows dim, and the shadows grim, Are gathering on apace. I am glad that the night is coming: I am weary, and want to rest. What! do you weep, that I fall asleep Leaning upon your breast?

"Oh, Sister, I am _so_ tired: How tired you can not know. And a jarring pain, in my weary brain, Beats like a cruel blow. I think it will all have vanished, After I sleep awhile. How sweetly I rest, lying here on your breast. In the warmth of your loving smile.

"Such a beautiful dream, my sister, I dreamed while I slept last night. I thought he was true: and he came with you, And kissed me in love's delight. And he said--. But I am so weary, I will sleep ere I tell the rest." But the sister wept, for the maiden slept In the sleep of death, on her breast.

1869

_TWO COUNTS_

If I count my life by the ticking of clocks, In the old methodical way, If I count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks, If I figure it out by the ceaseless flocks Of hours that make a day, If I count from the annual calendar, And trust to the measured years in there, Well, then I have turned, we'll say, But a notch, or two, on the wheel of time; I am still in the flush of my youths' glad prime; My life is new, As the count will say. I am scarcely through With the opening play. I am, in truth. In the flush of youth, If I trust to ticking and striking of clocks, And count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks.

If I count my life by the beat, throb, beat, Of the weary heart in my breast, If I count by the aims that have met defeat, And the vain, vain search for rest, If I count by tears, And by haunting fears, By hopes that were all in vain, By dear trusts shattered, And good ships battered, And lost on the treacherous main, By faith unfounded, And love death-wounded, If I reckon it thus, why then Counting this way, I have lived, we'll say, Full three-score years, and ten.

1870

_THE WATCHER_

"I think I hear the sound of horses' feet. Beating upon the gravelled avenue. Go to the window that looks on the street! He would not let me die, alone, I knew!" Back to the couch the patient watcher passed. And said, "It is the wailing of the blast."

She turned upon her couch, and seeming, slept, The long, dark lashes, shadowing her cheek. And on, and on, the weary moments crept, When suddenly the watcher heard her speak, "I think I hear the sound of horses' hoofs!" And answered, "'Tis the rain, upon the roofs."

Unbroken silence: quiet, deep, profound. The restless sleeper turns. "How dark! how late! What is it that I hear--that trampling sound? I think there is a horseman at the gate!" The watcher turns away her eyes, tear-blind. "It is the shutter, beating in the wind."

The dread night passed. The patient clock ticked on. The weary watcher moved not from her place. The gray, dun shadows of the early dawn, Caught sudden glory, from the sleeper's face. "He comes! my love! I knew he would!" she cried, And, smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died.

1870

_LIFE AND DEATH_

Three days agone, and she was here: Her light step on the stair was springing. Her sweet voice fell upon my ear; (She mocked the thrushes in her singing.) The billows of her long, bright hair Fell round her, in a golden splendor. Her face was young and fresh and fair; Her eyes were innocent and tender.

Her presence filled the house: each room Breathed of her pure and sweet existence. She was like some rare plant in bloom, Its fragrance reaching through the distance. Here was her ribbon--there her book, Beyond, her wreath, or faded flower. A step, a voice, a laugh, a look, Told of her presence, hour by hour.

"How strange is life!" I said, "From naught God fashioned out this glowing creature. Endowed with motion, feeling thought-- Perfect in symmetry, and feature. Sweeter than any opening rose, All grace and beauty hangs about her. Though every flower were left that blows, Earth would be bare and bleak, without her."

Three days agone! ay! life is strange, But death is stranger, vaster, deeper. It brings us tears, and gloom, and change. _She_ was God's sheaf, and Death His reaper. Three days! and now no voice is heard-- No light step on the stair is bounding. In vain the tuneful-throated bird Listens to hear her answer sounding.

I cannot find her, anywhere! How vast and strange the mystic power, That leaves but one soft strand of hair, Of all that golden, shining shower. In door, and out, in every place, I search and seek; oh, vain endeavor! The voice, the laugh, the form, the face, Have vanished from the earth forever.

A spot of ground, a fresh-turned sod, Hides what was beautiful and mortal. Her spirit (fairer still) to God, And life eternal, crossed the portal. Frailer than any opening rose, The winds of earth blew cold about her. Fairer than any flower that grows, Heaven was not complete without her.

1872

_AN AUTUMN REVERIE_

Through all the weary, hot midsummer time, My heart has struggled with its awful grief. And I have waited for these autumn days, Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief. For I remembered how I loved them once, When all my life was full of melody. And I have looked and longed for their return, Nor thought but they would seem the same, to me.

The fiery summer burned itself away, And from the hills, the golden autumn time Looks down and smiles. The fields are tinged with brown-- The birds are talking of another clime. The forest trees are dyed in gorgeous hues, And weary ones have sought an earthy tomb. But still the pain tugs fiercely at my heart-- And still my life is wrapped in awful gloom.

The winds I thought would cool my fevered brow, Are bleak, and dreary; and they bear no balm. The sounds I thought would soothe my throbbing brain, Are grating discords; and they cannot calm This inward tempest. Still, it rages on. My soul is tossed upon a troubled sea, I find no pleasure in the olden joys-- The autumn is not as it used to be.

I hear the children shouting at their play! Their hearts are happy, and they know not pain. To them the day brings sunlight, and no shade. And yet I would not be a child again. For surely as the night succeeds the day. So surely will their mirth turn into tears. And I would not return to happy hours, If I must live again these weary years.

I would walk on, and leave it all behind: will walk on; and when my feet grow sore, The boatman waits--his sails are all unfurled-- He waits to row me to a fairer shore. My tired limbs shall rest on beds of down, My tears shall all be wiped by Jesus' hand; My soul shall know the peace it long hath sought-- A peace too wonderful to understand.

1868

_TWO LIVES_

An infant lies in her cradle bed: The hands of sleep, on her eyelids fall. The moments pass, with a noiseless tread, And the clock on the mantle counts them all. The infant wakes, with a wailing cry, But she does not heed, how her life slips by.

A child is sporting, in careless play: She rivals the birds with her mellow song: The clock, unheeded, ticks away, And counts the moments that drift along. But the child is chasing the butterfly, And she does not heed how her life drifts by.

A maiden stands at her lover's side, In the tender light of the setting sun. Onward and onward the moments glide, And the old clock counts them, one by one. But the maiden's bridal is drawing nigh, And she does not heed how her life drifts by.

A song of her youth the matron sings, And she dreameth a dream, and her eye is wet. And backward and forward the pendulum swings, In the clock that never has rested yet. And the matron smothers a half-drawn sigh, As she thinks how her life is drifting by.

An old crone sits in her easy chair; Her head is dropped on her aged breast. The clock on the mantle ticketh there-- The clock that is longing now for rest. And the old crone smiles, as the moments fly, And thinks how her life is drifting by.

A shrouded form, in a coffin bed-- A waiting grave, in the fallow ground: The moments pass with a noiseless tread, But the clock on the mantle makes no sound. The lives of the two have gone for ay, And they do not heed, how the time drifts by.

1869

_IN MEMORIUM_

(Miss Jennie Blanchard, aged 21 )

Across the sodden field we gaze, To woodlands, painted gold and brown; To hills that hide in purple haze, And proudly wear the autumn's crown. Oh, lavish autumn! fair, we know, And yet we cannot deem her so.

The blossoms had their little day; The grasses, and the green-hung trees. They lived, grew old, and passed away. And yet, not satisfied with these, The cruel autumn could not pass Without this last fell stroke: alas!

"Alas," we cry, because God's ways Seem so at variance with our own, And grieving through the nights and days, We see not that His love was shown In gathering to the "Harvest Home," Our lost one, from the grief to come.

Oh, Tears! she will not have to weep! Oh, Woes! she will not have to bear! For her, who fell so soon asleep, No furrowed face, no whitened hair. And yet _we_ would have given her _these_, In lieu of heavenly victories.

How weak the strongest mortal love! How selfish in its tenderness! How God's angelic host above Must wonder at our blind distress! _We_ see her still grave, dark and dim, And _they_ see only Heaven and _Him_.

Perpetual youth! oh, priceless boon! Forever youthful: never old! How can we think she died too soon? What though life's story _was_ half told? Wiser than all earth's seers, to-day, Is this fair soul, that passed away.

Magician, sage, philosopher, With all their vast brain-wealth combined, Are only babes, compared with her: This soul, that left the "things behind," And, "reaching to the things before," Gained God, through Christ, forevermore.

October, 1870

_MY LOVE_

My love is fair as the morn; Yes, fair as the summer morning, When with fold on fold of red, and gold, The sun in the east gives warning, And a soft, rare light, not dim nor bright, O'er hill and mountain lingers; And flower, and vine with jewels shine-- Bedecked by the fairie's fingers.

My love has eyes like the clouds, That are dyed with the autumn's splendor, So darkly blue, where her soul looks through-- So truthful and so tender. When their light is hid by the snowy lid, My heart seems lost in shadow. And her glance will chase the gloom from my face, Like sunlight on a meadow.

My love has cheeks like a rose-- Yes, like a rose in blossom, And a flake of snow is her polished brow, And a drift of snow is her bosom; And her hair sweeps down, half gold, half brown, Like a silken veil, to cover The matchless grace of her form and face, From the burning eyes of her lover.

My love has a voice like a thrush-- Yes, like a thrush when singing. And the wondering lark cries, "Listen! hark!" When he hears her glad tone ringing. Oh, she is fair, beyond compare; And how her sweet face flushes, When I whisper low a tale we know-- And the rose is shamed by her blushes.

1871

_THE FROST FAIRY_

All day the trees were moaning, For the leaves that they had lost. All day they creaked and trembled, And the naked branches tossed, And shivered in the north wind, As he hurried up and down, Over hill-tops, bleak and cheerless, Over meadows, bare, and brown.

"Oh, my green and tender leaflets. Oh, my fair buds, lost, and gone!" So they moaned through all the daytime, So, they groaned, till night came on. And the hoar-frost lurked, and listened, To the wailing, sad refrain. And he whispered, "Wait--be patient-- I will cover you again.

"I will clothe you in new garments: I will deck you, ere the light, In a sheen of spotless glory, In a robe of purest white. You shall wear the matchless mantle, That the good frost-fairy weaves." And the bare trees listened, wondered-- And forgot their fallen leaves.

And the quaint and silent fairy, Backward, forward, through the gloom, Wove the matchless, glittering mantle; Spun the frost-thread, on her loom. And the bare trees talked together-- Talked in whispers, soft, and low, As the good and patient fairy Moved her shuttle to and fro.

And lo! when the sudden glory Of the morning crept abroad, All the trees were clothed in grandeur; All the twiglets robed and shod In the glittering, spotless garments, That the sunshine decked with gems; And the trees forgot their sorrow, 'Neath their robes and diadems.

1870.

_THE SUMMONS_

I think the leaf would sooner Be the first to break away, Than to hang alone in the orchard In the bleak November day. And I think the fate of the flower That falls in the midst of bloom Is sweeter than if it lingered To die in the autumn's gloom.

Some glowing, golden morning In the heart of the summer time, As I stand in the perfect vigor And strength of my youth's glad prime; When my heart is light and happy, And the world seems bright to me, I would like to drop from this earth-life, As a green leaf drops from the tree.

Someday, when the golden glory Of June is over the earth, And the birds are singing together In a wild, mad strain of mirth, When the skies are as clear and cloudless As the skies of June can be, I would like to have the summons Sent down from God to me.

I would not wait for the furrows-- For the faded eyes and hair; But pass out swift and sudden, Ere I grow heart-sick with care; I would break some morn in my singing-- Or fall in my springing walk, As a full-blown flower will sometimes Drop, all a-bloom, from the stalk.

And so, in my youth's glad morning, I would like to hear the summons, That must come, sometime, from God. I would pass from the earth's perfection To the endless June above; From the fullness of living and loving, To the noon of Immortal Love.

1873

_THREE YEARS OLD_

Written upon Eva Orton's third birthday.

A robin up in the linden-tree Merrily sings this lay: "Somebody sweet is three years old-- Three years old to-day." Somebody's bright blue eyes look up Through tangled curls of gold, And two red lips unclose to say-- "To-day I am free years old."

Clouds were over the sky this morn, But now they are sailing away; Clouds could never obscure the sun On somebody sweet's birthday. Bluest of skies and greenest of trees, Sunlight and birds and flowers, These are Nature's birthday gifts To this sweet pet of ours.

The pantry is brimming with cakes and creams For somebody's birthday ball. Papa and mamma bring their gifts, But their _love_ is better than all. Ribbons and sashes, and dainty robes, Gifts of silver and gold, Will fade and rust as the days go by, But their _hearts_ will not grow cold.

Then laugh in the sunlight, somebody sweet-- Little flower of June! You have nothing to do with care, For life is in perfect tune. Loving hearts and sheltering arms Shall keep old care away For many a year, from somebody sweet, Who is three years old to-day.

Milwaukee, June 26, 1873

_THE DIFFERENCE_

Up in the cozy chamber, Where, on the snowy bed The dress, and the pearls, and the new false curls, For the morrow's use were spread, The bride-elect and her mother Were sitting before the grate, Talking over the days gone by, And planning the future state.

"I really am quite well suited," Said Minnie, "with my outfit-- Jane says Kit Somers trousseau, Is nothing compared with it. That her laces are imitation, And her bonnet a perfect fright, And she says I'll wholly eclipse her In everybody's sight.