We reached the forest; wandered to and fro Through many a winding path and dim retreat. Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat Upon an oak tree, which had been laid low By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke. And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge Of sunny meadows lying at my feet. One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb That cast its checkered shadows over him; And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised And fixed upon me, silently he gazed Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke: "Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise, And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes."

The smooth and even darkness of his cheek Was stained one moment by a flush of red. He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood Still clinging to the branch above his head. His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said, With sudden passion, "Do you bid me speak? I can not, then, keep silence if I would. That hateful fortune, coming as it did, Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew A harsh tongued world would quickly misconstrue My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet, So big my heart has grown with love for you I can not shelter it, or keep it hid. And so I cast it throbbing at your feet, For you to guard and cherish, or to break. Maurine, I love you better than my life. My friend—my cousin—be still more, my wife! Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?"

I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and numb With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes That looked no feeling but complete surprise. He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek. "Maurine, Maurine," he whispered, "will you speak?"

Then suddenly, as o'er some magic glass One picture in a score of shapes will pass, I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze. First, as the playmate of my earlier days— Next, as my kin—and then my valued friend, And last, my lover. As when colors blend In some unlooked-for group before our eyes, We hold the glass, and look them o'er and o'er So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise, In which he ne'er appeared to me before.

His form was like a panther's in its grace, So lithe and supple, and of medium height, And garbed in all the elegance of fashion. His large black eyes were full of fire and passion, And in expression fearless, firm, and bright. His hair was like the very deeps of night, And hung in raven clusters 'round a face Of dark and flashing beauty. He was more Like some romantic maiden's grand ideal Than like a common being. As I gazed Upon the handsome face to mine upraised, I saw before me, living, breathing, real, The hero of my early day-dreams: though So full my heart was with that clear-cut face, Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero's place, I had not recognized him so before, Or thought of him, save as a valued friend. So now I called him, adding, "Foolish boy! Each word of love you utter aims a blow At that sweet trust I had reposed in you. I was so certain I had found a true, Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend, And go on wholly trusting, to the end. Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy, By turning to a lover?" "Why, indeed! Because I loved you more than any brother, Or any friend could love." Then he began To argue like a lawyer, and to plead With all his eloquence. And, listening, I strove to think it was a goodly thing To be so fondly loved by such a man, And it were best to give his wooing heed, And not deny him. Then before my eyes In all its clear-cut majesty, that other Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise And rob my purpose of all life and strength.

Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could, With that impetuous, boyish eloquence. He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should Give some least hope; till, in my own defense, I turned upon him, and replied at length: "I thank you for the noble heart you offer: But it deserves a true one in exchange. I could love you if I loved not another Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer."

Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I said, "Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange; But I love one I cannot hope to wed. A river rolls between us, dark and deep. To cross it—were to stain with blood my hand. You force my speech on what I fain would keep In my own bosom, but you understand? My heart is given to love that's sanctified, And now can feel no other.

Be you kind Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more, Lest pleading and denying should divide The hearts so long united. Let me find In you my cousin and my friend of yore And now come home. The morning, all too soon And unperceived, has melted into noon. Helen will miss us, and we must return."

He took my hand, and helped me to arise, Smiling upon me with his sad dark eyes. Where passion's fires had, sudden, ceased to burn.

"And so," he said, "too soon and unforeseen My friendship melted into love, Maurine. But, sweet! I am not wholly in the blame, For what you term my folly. You forgot, So long we'd known each other, I had not In truth a brother's or a cousin's claim. But I remembered, when through every nerve Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began To love you with that human love of man For comely woman. By your coaxing arts, You won your way into my heart of hearts, And all Platonic feelings put to rout. A maid should never lay aside reserve With one who's not her kinsman, out and out. But as we now, with measured steps, retrace The path we came, e'en so my heart I'll send, At your command, back to the olden place, And strive to love you only as a friend." I felt the justice of his mild reproof, But answered laughing, "'Tis the same old cry: 'The woman tempted me, and I did eat.' Since Adam's time we've heard it. But I'll try And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof The fruit I never once had thought so sweet 'Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner, Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner. And guard each act, that no least look betray What's passed between us." Then I turned away And sought my room, low humming some old air That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes Fell on a face so glorified and fair All other senses, merged in that of sight, Were lost in contemplation of the bright And wond'rous picture, which had otherwise Made dim my vision. Waiting in my room, Her whole face lit as by an inward flame That shed its halo 'round her, Helen stood; Her fair hands folded like a lily's leaves Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves. Upon her cheek the color went and came As sunlight flickers o'er a bed of bloom; And, like some slim young sapling of the wood, Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair Fell 'round her loosely, in long curling strands All unconfined, and as by loving hands Tossed into bright confusion. Standing there, Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem Like some unearthly creature of a dream; Until she started forward, gliding slowly, And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly, As one grown meek, and humble in an hour, Bowing before some new and mighty power.

"Maurine, Maurine!" she murmured, and again, "Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!" And then, Laying her love light hands upon my head, She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said With voice that bore her joy in ev'ry tone, As winds that blow across a garden bed Are weighed with fragrance, "He is mine alone, And I am his—all his—his very own. So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie Save one beneath God's over-arching sky. I could not wait to tell you of my bliss: I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss." So hiding my heart's trouble with a smile, I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin, When my lips fell where his so late had been. And all day long I bore about with me A sense of shame—yet mixed with satisfaction, As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be Sad with the guilt resulting from her action, While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet. That ev'ning when the house had settled down To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown: With steps like fall of thistle-down she came, Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name, Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet.

"Sweetheart," she murmured softly, "ere I sleep, I needs must tell you all my tale of joy. Beginning where you left us—you and Roy. You saw the color flame upon my cheek When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he;— And, when we were alone, he gazed at me With such a strange look in his wond'rous eyes. The silence deepened; and I tried to speak Upon some common topic, but could not, My heart was in such tumult. In this wise Five happy moments glided by us, fraught With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then, And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair. And, in his low voice, o'er and o'er again, Said, 'Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.' Then took my face, and turned it to the light, And looking in my eyes, and seeing what Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low, 'Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight. You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?' And I made answer straightway, 'With my life And soul and strength I love you, O my love!' He leaned and took me gently to his breast, And said, 'Here then this dainty head shall rest Henceforth forever: O my little dove! My lily-bud—my fragile blossom-wife!'

"And then I told him all my thoughts; and he Listened, with kisses for his comments, till My tale was finished. Then he said, 'I will Be frank with you, my darling, from the start, And hide no secret from you in my heart. I love you, Helen, but you are not first To rouse that love to being. Ere we met I loved a woman madly—never dreaming She was not all in truth she was in seeming. Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed Of God and man—a wily vain coquette. I hate myself for having loved her. Yet So much my heart spent on her, it must give A love less ardent, and less prodigal, Albeit just as tender and as true— A milder, yet a faithful love to you. Just as some evil fortune might befall A man's great riches, causing him to live In some low cot, all unpretending, still As much his home—as much his loved retreat, As was the princely palace on the hill, E'en so I give you all that's left, my sweet! Of my heart-fortune.' 'That were more to me,' I made swift smiling answer, 'than to be The worshiped consort of a king.' And so Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go Until I vowed to wed him New Year day. And I am sad because you go away Before that time. I shall not feel half wed Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay, And be my bridesmaid." "Nay, I cannot, dear! 'Twould disarrange our plans for half a year. I'll be in Europe New Year day," I said, "And send congratulations by the cable." And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing The festal garments of a wedding scene, While all my heart was hung with sorrow's sable. Forgetting for a season, that between The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss, I lived in my near future, confident All would be as I planned it; and, across The briny waste of waters, I should find Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind. The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed, Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom.

Roy left us for a time, and Helen went To make the nuptial preparations. Then, Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill: Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill Of two physicians could not stem the tide. The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest, Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds; and when The Autumn day, that I had thought to be Bounding upon the billows of the sea, Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn, Striving to keep away that unloved guest Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn. Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside The suff'rer's couch, Roy was my help and stay; Others were kind, but he alone each day Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face, And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place Like rays of light upon a darkened way. November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill, In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill. Returning light and life dispelled the gloom That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb. Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better— Was dressed each day, and walked about the room. Then came one morning in the Eastern mail, A little white-winged birdling of a letter. I broke the seal and read, "Maurine, my own! I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad. I felt so sorry for you; and so sad To think I left you when I did—alone To bear your pain and worry, and those nights Of weary, anxious watching. Vivian writes Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail Before the Springtime. So you'll come and be My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay. But three weeks more of girlhood left to me. Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day, And make your preparations here. My sweet! Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill— I'm sorry she has suffered so; and still I'm thankful something happened, so you stayed. I'm sure my wedding would be incomplete Without your presence. Selfish, I'm afraid You'll think your Helen. But I love you so, How can I be quite willing you should go? Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know And I will meet you, dearie! at the train. Your happy, loving Helen." Then the pain That, hidden under later pain and care, Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep, Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep My tortured heart in anguish and despair.

I had relied too fully on my skill In bending circumstances to my will: And now I was rebuked and made to see That God alone knoweth what is to be. Then came a messenger from Vivian, who Came not himself, as he was wont to do, But sent his servant each new day to bring A kindly message, or an offering Of juicy fruits to cool the lips of fever, Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom To brighten up the convalescent's room. But now the servant only brought a line From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine, "Dear Sir, and Friend"—in letters bold and plain, Written on cream-white paper, so it ran: "It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor, And therefore doubly so a wish of mine, That you shall honor me next New Year Eve, My wedding hour, by standing as best man. Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe. Being myself a novice in the art— If I should fail in acting well my part, I'll need protection 'gainst the regiment Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent To stand by me in time of need, and shield Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield."

The last least hope had vanished; I must drain, E'en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.

PART VI.

There was a week of bustle and of hurry; A stately home echoed to voices sweet, Calling, replying; and to tripping feet Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro, With all that girlish fluttering and flurry Preceding such occasions. Helen's room Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom, Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau. My robe was fashioned by swift, skillful hands— A thing of beauty, elegant and rich, A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands; And as I watched it growing, stitch by stitch, I felt as one might feel who should behold With vision trance-like, where his body lay In deathly slumber, simulating clay, His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold.

I lived with ev'ry nerve upon the strain, As men go into battle; and the pain, That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed, Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed From mortal eyes by superhuman power, That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour.

What night the Old Year gave unto the New The key of human happiness and woe, The pointed stars, upon their field of blue, Shone, white and perfect, o'er a world below, Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed In gleaming garments, decked with diadems, Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest, Coming o'er-laden with a gift of gems.

The bustle of the dressing room; the sound Of eager voices in discourse; the clang Of "sweet bells jangled"; thud of steel-clad feet That beat swift music on the frozen ground— All blent together in my brain, and rang A medley of strange noises, incomplete, And full of discords. Then out on the night Streamed from this open vestibule, a light That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod, With all the hues of those that deck the sod. The grand cathedral windows were ablaze With gorgeous colors; through a sea of bloom, Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom, The bridal cortege passed. As some lost soul Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze Upon its coffined body, so I went With that glad festal throng. The organ sent Great waves of melody along the air, That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray, On happy hearts that listened. But to me It sounded faintly, as if miles away, A troubled spirit, sitting in despair Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea, Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole. We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers, The white-robed man of God stood forth. I heard The solemn service open; through long hours I seemed to stand and listen, while each word Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay Upon the coffin of the worshiped dead. The stately father gave the bride away: The bridegroom circled with a golden band The taper finger of her dainty hand. The last imposing, binding words were said— "What God has joined let no man put asunder"— And all my strife with self was at an end; My lover was the husband of my friend.

How strangely, in some awful hour of pain, External trifles with our sorrows blend! I never hear the mighty organ's thunder, I never catch the scent of heliotrope, Nor see stained windows all ablaze with light, Without that dizzy whirling of the brain, And all the ghastly feeling of that night, When my sick heart relinquished love and hope.

The pain we feel so keenly may depart, And e'en its memory cease to haunt the heart; But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound Will probe the closed recesses of the wound, And for a moment bring the old-time smart.

Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles, Good-byes and farewells given; then across The snowy waste of weary wintry miles, Back to my girlhood's home, where, through each room, For evermore pale phantoms of delight Should aimless wander, always in my sight, Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb Wet with the tears of living pain and loss.

The sleepless nights of watching and of care, Followed by that one week of keenest pain, Taxing my weakened system, and my brain, Brought on a ling'ring illness. Day by day, In that strange, apathetic state I lay, Of mental and of physical despair. I had no pain, no fever, and no chill, But lay without ambition, strength, or will, Knowing no wish for anything but rest, Which seemed, of all God's store of gifts, the best.

Physicians came and shook their heads and sighed; And to their score of questions I replied, With but one languid answer, o'er and o'er. "I am so weary—weary—nothing more."

I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered thing, Flying through space with ever-aching wing, Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white, That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight, But always one unchanging distance kept, And woke more weary than before I slept.

I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize. A hand from heaven held down before my eyes. All eagerness I sought it—it was gone, But shone in all its beauty farther on. I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest Of that great prize, whereon was written "rest," Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam, And wakened doubly weary with my dream.

I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain, That saw a snow-white lily on the plain, And left the cloud to nestle in her breast. I fell and fell, but nevermore found rest— I fell and fell, but found no stopping place, Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space, While space illimitable stretched before.

And all these dreams but wearied me the more.

Familiar voices sounded in my room— Aunt Ruth's and Roy's, and Helen's: but they seemed A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed, And now remembered dimly. Wrapped in gloom, My mind, o'er taxed, lost hold of time at last, Ignored its future, and forgot its past, And groped along the present, as a light, Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night, Will flicker faintly. But I felt, at length, When March winds brought vague rumors of the spring, A certain sense of "restlessness with rest." My aching frame was weary of repose, And wanted action.

Then slow-creeping strength Came back with Mem'ry, hand in hand, to bring And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast, Grim-visaged Recollection's thorny rose. I gained, and failed. One day could ride and walk, The next would find me prostrate: while a flock Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit About the chambers of my heart, or sit, Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings, Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings, That once resounded to Hope's happy lays.

So passed the ever-changing April days. When May came, lightsome footed, o'er the lea, Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy, I bade farewell to home with secret joy, And turned my wan face eastward to the sea. Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands Were one to him. Or Egypt's burning sands, Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome, All were familiar as the fields of home.

There was a year of wand'ring to and fro, Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights; Dwelling among the countless, rare delights Of lands historic; turning dusty pages, Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages; Gazing upon the scenes of bloody acts, Of kings long buried—bare, unvarnished facts, Surpassing wildest fictions of the brain; Rubbing against all people, high and low, And by this contact feeling Self to grow Smaller and less important, and the vein Of human kindness deeper, seeing God, Unto the humble delver of the sod, And to the ruling monarch on the throne, Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain, And that all hearts have feelings like our own.

There is no school that disciplines the mind, And broadens thought, like contact with mankind. The college-prisoned greybeard, who has burned The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned, Till sciences or classics hold no lore He has not conned and studied, o'er and o'er, Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared With some unlettered wand'rer, who has shared The hospitalities of every land; Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand; Made man his study, and the world his college, And gained this grand epitome of knowledge: Each human being has a heart and soul, And self is but an atom of the whole. I hold he is best learned and most wise, Who best and most can love and sympathize. Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained; Our banded minds go round in little grooves; But constant friction with the world removes These iron foes to freedom, and we rise To grander heights, and, all untrammeled, find A better atmosphere and clearer skies; And through its broadened realm, no longer chained, Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind. Where'er we chanced to wander or to roam, Glad letters came from Helen; happy things, Like little birds that followed on swift wings, Bringing their tender messages from home. Her days were poems, beautiful, complete. The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet. She was so happy—happy, and so blest.

My heart had found contentment in that year. With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer The heart of youth turns ever to the light; Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night, But, in its very anguish and unrest, It beats and tears the pall-like folds away, And finds again the sunlight of the day.

And yet, despite the changes without measure, Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure; Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart Was conscious of a something lacking, where Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair. Now love was buried; and despair had flown Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown From heights serene and lofty; and the place Where both had dwelt, was empty, voiceless space And so I took my long-loved study, art, The dreary vacuum in my life to fill, And worked, and labored, with a right good will. Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy. A dainty little lassie, Grace Kildare, Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair, And made him captive. We were thrown, by chance, In contact with her people while in France The previous season: she was wholly sweet And fair and gentle; so naeive, and yet So womanly, she was at once the pet Of all our party; and, ere many days, Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways, Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet. Her home was in the Highlands; and she came Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame.

Through all these months Roy had been true as steel; And by his every action made me feel He was my friend and brother, and no more. The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore. Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew Whether the love he felt one time was dead, Or only hidden, for my sake, from view. So when he came to me one day, and said, The velvet blackness of his eyes ashine With light of love and triumph: "Cousin, mine, Congratulate me! She whom I adore Has pledged to me the promise of her hand; Her heart I have already," I was glad With double gladness, for it freed my mind Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad.

From March till June had left her moons behind, And merged her rose-red beauty in July, There was no message from my native land. Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned: Death had been near to Helen, but passed by; The danger was now over. God was kind; The mother and the child were both alive; No other child was ever known to thrive As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say. The infant was a wonder, every way. And, at command of Helen he would send A lock of baby's golden hair to me. And did I, on my honor, ever see Such hair before? Helen would write, ere long: She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong— Stronger than ever, so the doctors said. I took the tiny ringlet, golden—fair, Mayhap his hand had severed from the head Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek And to my lips, and kissed it o'er and o'er. All my maternal instincts seemed to rise, And clamor for their rights, while my wet eyes, Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair. The woman struggled with her heart before! It was the mother in me now did speak, Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not, And crying out against her barren lot.

Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years That stretched before me, dark with love's eclipse; And thought how my unmated heart would miss The shelter of a broad and manly breast— The strong, bold arm—the tender clinging kiss— And all pure love's possessions, manifold; But now I wept a flood of bitter tears, Thinking of little heads of shining gold, That would not on my bosom sink to rest; Of little hands that would not touch my cheek; Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips, That never in my list'ning ear would speak The blessed name of mother. Oh, in woman How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere Unto her wond'ring, untaught mind unfolds The myst'ry that is half divine, half human, Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps, And grows and strengthens with each riper year.

As storms may gather in a placid sky, And spend their fury, and then pass away, Leaving again the blue of cloudless day, E'en so the tempest of my grief passed by. 'T was weak to mourn for what I had resigned, With the deliberate purpose of my mind, To my sweet friend. Relinquishing my love, I gave my dearest hope of joy to her. If God, from out his boundless store above, Had chosen added blessings to confer, I would rejoice, for her sake—not repine That th' immortal treasures were not mine.

Better my lonely sorrow, than to know My selfish joy had been another's woe; Better my grief and my strength to control, Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul; Better to go on, loveless, to the end, Than wear love's rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.

Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart. With will most resolute I set my aim To enter on the weary race for Fame, And if I failed to climb the dizzy height, To reach some point of excellence in art.

E'en as the Maker held earth incomplete, Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod, The perfect, living image of his God, All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight, Wherein the human figure had no part. In that, all lines of symmetry did meet— All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought Enthusiasm in abundance, thought, Much study, and some talent, day by day, To help me in my efforts to portray The wond'rous power, majesty and grace Stamped on some form, or looking from some face. This was to be my specialty: To take Human emotion for my theme, and make The unassisted form divine express Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress; And thus to build Fame's monument above The grave of my departed hope and love.

This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings And soars beyond itself, or selfish things. Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross, Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss, Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition, Before it labors onward to fruition.

But, as the lark from beds of bloom will rise And sail and sing among the very skies, Still mounting near and nearer to the light, Impelled alone by love of upward flight, So Genius soars—it does not need to climb— Upon God-given wings, to heights sublime. Some sportman's shot, grazing the singer's throat, Some venomous assault of birds of prey, May speed its flight toward the realm of day, And tinge with triumph every liquid note. So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet, When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret.

There is no balking Genius. Only death Can silence it, or hinder. While there's breath Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod, And lift itself to glory, and to God. The acorn sprouted—weeds nor flowers can choke The certain growth of th' upreaching oak.

Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind Its selfish love and sorrow. Did I strive To picture some emotion, lo! his eyes, Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes, Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive. Whate'er my subject, in some hue or line, The glorious beauty of his face would shine.

So for a time my labor seemed in vain, Since it but freshened, and made keener yet, The grief my heart was striving to forget.

While in his form all strength and magnitude With grace and supple sinews were entwined, While in his face all beauties were combined Of perfect features, intellect and truth, With all that fine rich coloring of youth, How could my brush portray aught good or fair Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude Of him my soul had worshiped? But, at last, Setting a watch upon my unwise heart That thus would mix its sorrow with my art, I resolutely shut away the past, And made the toilsome present passing bright With dreams of what was hidden from my sight In the far distant future, when the soil Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.

PART VII.

With much hard labor and some pleasure fraught, The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught My hand to grow more skillful in its art, Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.

Brief letters came from Helen, now and then: She was quite well—oh, yes! quite well, indeed! But still so weak and nervous. By and by, When baby, being older, should not need Such constant care, she would grow strong again. She was as happy as a soul could be; No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; She had not thought life held such depths of bliss. Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss, And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, Not to come home and see ma's little pearl.

No gift of costly jewels, or of gold, Had been so precious or so dear to me, As each brief line wherein her joy was told. It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.

Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where He built a pretty villa-like retreat. And when the Roman Summer's languid heat Made work a punishment, I turned my face Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.

I was a willing worker. Not an hour Passed idly by me: each, I would employ To some good purpose, ere it glided on To swell the tide of hours forever gone. My first completed picture, known as "Joy," Won pleasant words of praise. "Possesses power," "Displays much talent," "Very fairly done." So fell the comments on my grateful ear.

Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near, Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush Began depicting sorrow, heavy-eyed, With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried. The careful study of long months, it won Golden opinions; even bringing forth That certain sign of merit—a critique Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak As empty heads that sang their praises—so Proving conclusively the pictures' worth. These critics and reviewers do not use Their precious ammunition to abuse A worthless work. That, left alone, they know Will find its proper level; and they aim Their batteries at rising works which claim Too much of public notice. But this shot Resulted only in some noise, which brought A dozen people, where one came before To view my pictures; and I had my hour Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow'r. An English Baron who had lived two score Of his allotted three score years and ten, Bought both the pieces. He was very kind, And so attentive, I, not being blind, Must understand his meaning. Therefore, when He said, "Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife, The 'Joy' and 'Sorrow' this dear hand portrayed I have in my possession: now resign Into my careful keeping, and make mine, The joy and sorrow of your future life,"— I was prepared to answer, but delayed, Grown undecided suddenly. My mind Argued the matter coolly pro and con, And made resolve to speed his wooing on And grant him favor. He was good and kind; Not young, no doubt he would be quite content With my respect, nor miss an ardent love; Could give me ties of family and home; And then, perhaps, my mind was not above Setting some value on a titled name— Ambitious woman's weakness! Then my art Would be encouraged and pursued the same, And I could spend my winters all in Rome. Love never more could touch my wasteful heart That all its wealth upon one object spent. Existence would be very bleak and cold, After long years, when I was gray and old, With neither home nor children. Once a wife, I would forget the sorrow of my life, And pile new sods upon the grave of pain. My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard, But made no comment. Then the Baron spoke, And waited for my answer. All in vain I strove for strength to utter that one word My mind dictated. Moments rolled away— Until at last my torpid heart awoke, And forced my trembling lips to say him nay. And then my eyes with sudden tears o'erran, In pity for myself and for this man Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise. "Dear friend," I cried, "Dear generous friend forgive A troubled woman's weakness! As I live, In truth I meant to answer otherwise. From out its store, my heart can give you naught But honor and respect; and yet methought I would give willing answer, did you sue. But now I know 'twere cruel wrong I planned; Taking a heart that beat with love most true, And giving in exchange an empty hand. Who weds for love alone, may not be wise: Who weds without it, angels must despise. Love and respect together must combine To render marriage holy and divine; And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys Continuation of the nuptial joys, And brings regret, and gloomy discontent, To put to rout each tender sentiment. Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life By that possession—an unloving wife; Nor will I take the sin upon my soul Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole. However bleak may be my single lot, I will not stain my life with such a blot. Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide; It holds some fairer woman for your bride; I would I had a heart to give to you, But, lacking it, can only say—adieu!"

He whom temptation never has assailed, Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength; When sorely tried, we waver, but at length, Rise up and turn away, not having failed.

* * * * *

The Autumn of the third year came and went; The mild Italian winter was half spent, When this brief message came across the sea: "My darling! I am dying. Come to me. Love, which so long the growing truth concealed, Stands pale within its shadow. O, my sweet! This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat— Dying with very weight of bliss. O, come! And take the legacy I leave to you, Before these lips forevermore are dumb. In life or death, Yours, Helen Dangerfield."

This plaintive letter bore a month old date; And, wild with fears lest I had come too late, I bade the old world and new friends adieu. And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home, I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.

All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled, Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear, Was passing from me; that she might be dead; And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me, Because I made no answer to her plea.

"O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on, Make haste before a wasting life is gone! Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath! And true in life, be true e'en unto death.

"O, ship, sail on! and bear me o'er the tide To her for whom my woman's heart once died. Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me, And I would know what her last wish may be! I have been true, so true, through all the past, Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last."

So prayed my heart still o'er, and ever o'er, Until the weary lagging ship reached shore. All sad with fears that I had come too late, By that strange source whence men communicate, Though miles on miles of space between them lie, I spoke with Vivian: "Does she live? Reply." The answer came. "She lives, but hasten, friend! Her journey draweth swiftly to its end."

Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot, My own dear home, the lane that led to his— The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight, Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might; Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot, But those sweet early years of lost delight, Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.

I have a theory, vague, undefined, That each emotion of the human mind, Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair, Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air, Until it takes possession of some breast; And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, And bid it leave us wholly, and depart, It does not die, it cannot die; but goes And mingles with some restless wind that blows About the region where it had its birth. And though we wander over all the earth, That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, Invisible, and clothed like the air, Hoping that we may yet again draw near, And it may haply take us unaware, And once more find safe shelter in the breast It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.

Told by my heart, and wholly positive, Some old emotion long had ceased to live; That, were it called, it could not hear or come, Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, Yet, passing where it first sprang into life, My very soul has suddenly been rife With all the old intensity of feeling. It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing Into my heart from that departed day; Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.

So now into my troubled heart, above The present's pain and sorrow, crept the love And strife and passion of a by-gone hour, Possessed of all their olden might and power. 'T was but a moment, and the spell was broken By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken, And Vivian stood before us. But I saw In him the husband of my friend alone. The old emotions might at times return, And smold'ring fires leap up an hour and burn; But never yet had I transgressed God's law, By looking on the man I had resigned, With any hidden feeling in my mind, Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known. He was but little altered. From his face The nonchalant and almost haughty grace, The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes, The years had stolen, leaving in their place A settled sadness, which was not despair, Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care, But something like the vapor o'er the skies Of Indian summer, beautiful to see, But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be. There was that in his face which cometh not, Save when the soul has many a battle fought, And conquered self by constant sacrifice.

There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine, Render the plainest features half divine. All other artists strive and strive in vain, To picture beauty perfect and complete. Their statues only crumble at their feet, Without the master touch of Faith and Pain. And now his face, that perfect seemed before, Chiseled by these two careful artists, wore A look exalted, which the spirit gives When soul has conquered, and the body lives Subservient to its bidding.

In a room Which curtained out the February gloom, And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers, Rested the eye like one of Summer's bowers, I found my Helen, who was less mine now Than Death's; for on the marble of her brow, His seal was stamped indelibly. Her form Was like the slendor willow, when some storm Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face, Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue: And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place, Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue. Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein, And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light Shone through and made her wasted features bright With an unearthly beauty; and an awe Crept o'er me, gazing on her, for I saw She was so near to Heaven that I seemed To look upon the face of one redeemed. She turned the brilliant luster of her eyes Upon me. She had passed beyond surprise, Or any strong emotion linked with clay. But as I glided to her where she lay, A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed Her pallid features. "Welcome home!" she breathed, "Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and rejoice." And like the dying echo of a voice Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.

I fell upon my knees beside her bed; All agonies within my heart were wed, While to the aching numbness of my grief, Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear,— The tortured soul's most merciful relief. Her wasted hand caressed my bended head For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said, In that low tone so like the wind's refrain, "Maurine, my own! give not away to pain; The time is precious. Ere another dawn My soul may hear the summons and pass on. Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while, And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak With every hour that passes. I must speak And make my dying wishes known to-night. Go now." And in the halo of her smile, Which seemed to fill the room with golden light, I turned and left her. Later in the gloom, Of coming night, I entered that dim room, And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand: And on the pillow at her side, there smiled The beauteous count'nance of a sleeping child.

"Maurine," spoke Helen, "for three blissful years, My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land; And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy, Without one drop of anguish or alloy. And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall, Or sad-eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears, And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of all Who linger long upon this troubled way, God takes me to the realm of Endless Day, To mingle with his angels, who alone Can understand such bliss as I have known. I do not murmur. God has heaped my measure, In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure; And, from the fullness of an earthly love, I pass to th' Immortal arms above, Before I even brush the skirts of Woe.

"I leave my aged parents here below, With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend! Be kind to them, and love them to the end, Which may not be far distant. And I leave A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine. From this most holy, sad and sacred eve, Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep, To love and shelter, to protect and guide." She touched the slumb'ring cherub at her side, And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep, And laid the precious burden on my breast.

A solemn silence fell upon the scene. And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressed My yielding bosom with her waxen cheek, I felt it would be sacrilege to speak, Such wordless joy possessed me. Oh! at last This infant, who, in that tear-blotted past, Had caused my soul such travail, was my own: Through all the lonely coming years to be Mine own to cherish—wholly mine alone. And what I mourned, so hopelessly as lost Was now restored, and given back to me.

The dying voice continued: "In this child You yet have me, whose mortal life she cost. But all that was most pure and undefiled, And good within me, lives in her again. Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know, Moving about the wide world, to and fro, And through, and in the busy haunts of men, Not always will his heart be dumb with woe, But sometime waken to a later love. Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed above All selfish feelings! I would have it so. While I am with the angels, blest and glad, I would not have you sorrowing and sad, In loneliness go mourning to the end. But, love! I could not trust to any other The sacred office of a foster-mother To this sweet cherub, save my own heart-friend.

"Teach her to love her father's name, Maurine, Where'er he wanders. Keep my memory green In her young heart, and lead her in her youth, To drink from th' eternal fount of Truth; Vex her not with sectarian discourse, Nor strive to teach her piety by force; Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds, Nor frighten her with an avenging God, Who rules his subjects with a burning rod; But teach her that each mortal simply needs To grow in hate of hate and love of love, To gain a kingdom in the courts above.

"Let her be free and natural as the flowers, That smile and nod throughout the summer hours. Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth, But first impress upon her mind this truth: No lasting happiness is e'er attained Save when the heart some other seeks to please. The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained, And full of gall and bitterness the lees. Next to her God, teach her to love her land; In her young bosom light the patriot's flame Until the heart within her shall expand With love and fervor at her country's name. "No coward-mother bears a valiant son. And this, my last wish, is an earnest one.

"Maurine, my o'er-taxed strength is waning; you Have heard my wishes, and you will be true In death as you have been in life, my own! Now leave me for a little while alone With him—my husband. Dear love! I shall rest So sweetly with no care upon my breast. Good night, Maurine, come to me in the morning."

But lo! the bridegroom with no further warning Came for her at the dawning of the day. She heard his voice, and smiled, and passed away Without a struggle. Leaning o'er her bed To give her greeting, I found but her clay, And Vivian bowed beside it.

And I said, "Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request, And when the night of fever and unrest Melts in the morning of Eternity, Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee.

"I will come to thee in the morning, sweet! I have been true; and soul with soul shall meet Before God's throne, and shall not be afraid. Thou gav'st me trust, and it was not betrayed.

"I will come to thee in the morning, dear! The night is dark. I do not know how near The morn may be of that Eternal Day; I can but keep my faithful watch and pray.

"I will come to thee in the morning, love! Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above. The way is troubled where my feet must climb, Ere I shall tread the mountain-top sublime.

"I will come in the morning, O, mine own! But for a time must grope my way alone, Through tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn, And I shall hear the summons, and pass on.

"I will come in the morning. Rest secure! My hope is certain and my faith is sure. After the gloom and darkness of the night I will come to thee with the morning light."

* * * * *

Three peaceful years slipped silently away.

We dwelt together in my childhood's home, Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny-hearted May. She was a fair and most exquisite child; Her pensive face was delicate and mild Like her dead mother's; but through her dear eyes Her father smiled upon me, day by day. Afar in foreign countries did he roam, Now resting under Italy's blue skies, And now with Roy in Scotland. And he sent Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went And what he saw, addressed to May or me. And I would write and tell him how she grew— And how she talked about him o'er the sea In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew His picture in the album; how each day She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring Her own papa back to his little May.

It was a warm bright morning in the Spring. I sat in that same sunny portico, Where I was sitting seven years ago When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears, As I looked back across the checkered years. How many were the changes they had brought! Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught To my young heart had been of untold worth. I had learned how to "suffer and grow strong"— That knowledge which best serves us here on earth, And brings reward in Heaven.

Oh! how long The years had been since that June morning when I heard his step upon the walk, and yet I seemed to hear its echo still. Just then Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet, And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land Stood there before me!—holding out his hand And smiling with those wond'rous eyes of old.

To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child; But she was shy, and clung to me, when told This was papa, for whom her prayers were said. She dropped her eyes and shook her little head, And would not by his coaxing be beguiled, Or go to him. Aunt Ruth was not at home, And we two sat and talked, as strangers might, Of distant countries which we both had seen. But once I thought I saw his large eyes light With sudden passion, when there came a pause In our chit-chat, and then he spoke: "Maurine, I saw a number of your friends in Rome. We talked of you. They seemed surprised, because You were not 'mong the seekers for a name. They thought your whole ambition was for fame."

"It might have been," I answered, "when my heart Had nothing else to fill it. Now my art Is but a recreation. I have this To love and live for, which I had not then." And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kiss Upon my child's fair brow.

"And yet," he said, The old light leaping to his eyes again, "And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wed A noble Baron! one of many men Who laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet. Why won the bravest of them no return?"

I bowed my head, nor dared his gaze to meet. On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn, And strong emotion strangled speech. He rose And came and knelt beside me. "Sweet, my sweet!" He murmured softly, "God in Heaven knows How well I loved you seven years ago. He only knows my anguish, and my grief, When your own acts forced on me the belief That I had been your plaything and your toy. Yet from his lips I since have learned that Roy Held no place nearer than a friend and brother. And then a faint suspicion, undefined, Of what had been—was—might be, stirred my mind, And that great love, I thought died at a blow, Rose up within me, strong with hope and life.

"Before all heaven and the angel mother Of this sweet child that slumbers on your heart, Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife— Mine own, forever, until death shall part!"

Through happy mists of upward welling tears, I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes. "Dear heart," I said, "if she who dwells above Looks down upon us, from yon azure skies, She can but bless us, knowing all these years My soul had yearned in silence for the love That crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak. I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake. For her sweet child's, and for my own, I take You back to be all mine, for evermore."

Just then the child upon my breast awoke From her light sleep, and laid her downy cheek Against her father as he knelt by me. And this unconscious action seemed to be A silent blessing, which the mother spoke Gazing upon us from the mystic shore.



TWO SUNSETS.

In the fair morning of his life, When his pure heart lay in his breast, Panting, with all that wild unrest To plunge into the great world's strife

That fills young hearts with mad desire, He saw a sunset. Red and gold The burning billows surged and rolled, And upward tossed their caps of fire.

He looked. And as he looked, the sight Sent from his soul through breast and brain Such intense joy, it hurt like pain. His heart seemed bursting with delight.

So near the Unknown seemed, so close He might have grasped it with his hand. He felt his inmost soul expand, As sunlight will expand a rose.

One day he heard a singing strain— A human voice, in bird-like trills. He paused, and little rapture-rills Went trickling downward through each vein.

And in his heart the whole day long, As in a temple veiled and dim, He kept and bore about with him The beauty of that singer's song.

And then? But why relate what then? His smouldering heart flamed into fire— He had his one supreme desire. And plunged into the world of men.

For years queen Folly held her sway. With pleasures of the grosser kind She fed his flesh and drugged his mind, Till, shamed, he sated turned away.

He sought his boyhood's home. That hour Triumphant should have been, in sooth, Since he went forth an unknown youth, And came back crowned with wealth and power.

The clouds made day a gorgeous bed; He saw the splendor of the sky With unmoved heart and stolid eye; He only knew the West was red.

Then suddenly a fresh young voice Rose, bird-like, from some hidden place, He did not even turn his face; It struck him simply as a noise.

He trod the old paths up and down. Their rich-hued leaves by Fall winds whirled— How dull they were—how dull the world— Dull even in the pulsing town.

O! worst of punishments, that brings A blunting of all finer sense, A loss of feelings keen, intense, And dulls us to the higher things.

O! penalty most dire, most sure, Swift following after gross delights, That we no more see beauteous sights, Or hear as hear the good and pure.

O! shape more hideous and more dread Than Vengeance takes in creed-taught minds, This certain doom that blunts and blinds, And strikes the holiest feelings dead.



UNREST.

In the youth of the year, when the birds were building, When the green was showing on tree and hedge, And the tenderest light of all lights was gilding The world from zenith to outermost edge, My soul grew sad and longingly lonely! I sighed for the season of sun and rose, And I said, "In the Summer and that time only Lies sweet contentment and blest repose."

With bee and bird for her maids of honor Came Princess Summer in robes of green. And the King of day smiled down upon her And wooed her, and won her, and made her queen. Fruit of their union and true love's pledges, Beautiful roses bloomed day by day, And rambled in gardens and hid in hedges Like royal children in sportive play.

My restless soul for a little season Reveled in rapture of glow and bloom, And then, like a subject who harbors treason, Grew full of rebellion and gray with gloom. And I said, "I am sick of the Summer's blisses, Of warmth and beauty, and nothing more. The full fruition my sad soul misses That beauteous Fall time holds in store!"

But now when the colors are almost blinding, Burning and blending on bush and tree, And the rarest fruits are mine for the finding, And the year is ripe as a year can be, My soul complains in the same old fashion; Crying aloud in my troubled breast Is the same old longing, the same old passion. O where is the treasure which men call rest?



"ARTIST'S LIFE."

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote, Mad with melody, rhythm—rife From the very first to the final note, Give me his "Artist's Life!"

It stirs my blood to my finger ends, Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest, And all that is sweetest and saddest blends Together within my breast.

It brings back that night in the dim arcade, In love's sweet morning and life's best prime. When the great brass orchestra played and played. And set our thoughts to rhyme.

It brings back that Winter of mad delights, Of leaping pulses and tripping feet, And those languid moon-washed Summer nights When we heard the band in the street.

It brings back rapture and glee and glow, It brings back passion and pain and strife, And so of all the waltzes I know, Give me the "Artist's Life."

For it is so full of the dear old time— So full of the dear old friends I knew. And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme, I am always finding—you.



NOTHING BUT STONES.

I think I never passed so sad an hour, Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night. The edifice from basement to the tower Was one resplendent blaze of colored light. Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was thronging, Each richly robed like some king's bidden guest. "Here will I bring my sorrow and my longing," I said, "and here find rest."

I heard the heavenly organ's voice of thunder, It seemed to give me infinite relief. I wept. Strange eyes looked on in well-bred wonder. I dried my tears: their gaze profaned my grief. Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks and laces Beat alien hearts, that had no part with me. I could not read, in all those proud cold faces, One thought of sympathy.

I watched them bowing and devoutly kneeling, Heard their responses like sweet waters roll. But only the glorious organ's sacred pealing Seemed gushing from a full and fervent soul. I listened to the man of holy calling, He spoke of creeds, and hailed his own as best; Of man's corruption and of Adam's falling, But naught that gave me rest.

Nothing that helped me bear the daily grinding Of soul with body, heart with heated brain. Nothing to show the purpose of this blinding And sometimes overwhelming sense of pain. And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so lowly, So unassuming, and so gently kind, And lo! a peace, a calm serene and holy, Settled upon my mind.

Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender, That understands our troubles and our needs, Brings us more near to God than all the splendor And pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds. One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling, Doth bring me closer to the Infinite, Than all that throng of worldly people kneeling In blaze of gorgeous light.



THE COQUETTE.

Alone she sat with her accusing heart, That, like a restless comrade frightened sleep, And every thought that found her, left a dart That hurt her so, she could not even weep.

Her heart that once had been a cup well filled With love's red wine, save for some drops of gall She knew was empty; though it had not spilled Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.

She stood upon the grave of her dead truth, And saw her soul's bright armor red with rust, And knew that all the riches of her youth Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.

Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn, Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate, Made her cry out that she was ever born, To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.



INEVITABLE.

To-day I was so weary and I lay In that delicious state of semi-waking, When baby, sitting with his nurse at play, Cried loud for "mamma," all his toys forsaking.

I was so weary and I needed rest, And signed to nurse to bear him from the room. Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast, And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.

For swift as lightning came the thought to me, With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears, Of days inevitable, that are to be, If my fair darling grows to manhood's years;

Days when he will not call for "mamma," when The world with many a pleasure and bright joy, Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of men And I shall lose the first place with my boy;

When other homes and loves shall give delight, When younger smiles and voices will seem best. And so I held him to my heart to-night, Forgetting all my need of peace and rest.



THE OCEAN OF SONG

In a land beyond sight or conceiving, In a land where no blight is, no wrong, No darkness, no graves, and no grieving, There lies the great ocean of song. And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden By any save gods, and their kind, Are not blue, are not green, but are golden, Like moonlight and sunlight combined.

It was whispered to me that their waters Were made from the gathered-up tears, That were wept by the sons and the daughters Of long-vanished eras and spheres. Like white sands of heaven the spray is That falls all the happy day long, And whoever it touches straightway is Made glad with the spirit of song.

Up, up to the clouds where their hoary Crowned heads melt away in the skies, The beautiful mountains of glory Each side of the song ocean rise. Here day is one splendor of sky light Of God's light with beauty replete. Here night is not night, but is twilight, Pervading, enfolding and sweet.

Bright birds from all climes and all regions That sing the whole glad summer long, Are dumb, till they flock here in legions And lave in the ocean of song. It is here that the four winds of heaven, The winds that do sing and rejoice, It is here they first came and were given The secret of sound and a voice.

Far down along beautiful beeches, By night and by glorious day, The throng of the gifted ones reaches, Their foreheads made white with the spray. And a few of the sons and the daughters Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight, Go down in the wonderful waters, And bathe in those billows of light

And their souls ever more are like fountains, And liquid and lucent and strong, High over the tops of the mountains Gush up the sweet billows of song. No drouth-time of waters can dry them. Whoever has bathed in that sea, All dangers, all deaths, they defy them, And are gladder than gods are, with glee.



"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN."

We will be what we could be. Do not say, "It might have been, had not or that, or this." No fate can keep us from the chosen way; He only might, who is.

We will do what we could do. Do not dream Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve. I hold, all men are greatly what they seem; He does, who could achieve.

We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height. What eagle ever missed the peak he sought? He always climbs who might.

I do not like the phrase, "It might have been!" It lacks all force, and life's best truths perverts: For I believe we have, and reach, and win, Whatever our deserts.



IF.

Dear love, if you and I could sail away, With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, Across the waters of some unknown bay, And find some island far from all the world;

If we could dwell there, ever more alone, While unrecorded years slip by apace, Forgetting and forgotten and unknown By aught save native song-birds of the place;

If Winter never visited that land, And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers, And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, And twined boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;

If from the fashions of the world set free, And hid away from all its jealous strife, I lived alone for you, and you for me— Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.

But since we dwell here in the crowded way, Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, And all is common-place and work-a-day, As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old;

Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, 'Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart And go our ways alone, love, and forget.



GETHSEMANE.

In golden youth when seems the earth A Summer-land of singing mirth, When souls are glad and hearts are light, And not a shadow lurks in sight, We do not know it, but there lies Somewhere veiled under evening skies A garden which we all must see— The garden of Gethsemane.

With joyous steps we go our ways, Love lends a halo to our days; Light sorrows sail like clouds afar, We laugh, and say how strong we are. We hurry on; and hurrying, go Close to the border-land of woe, That waits for you, and waits for me— Forever waits Gethsemane.

Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams Bridged over by our broken dreams; Behind the misty caps of years, Beyond the great salt fount of tears, The garden lies. Strive as you may, You cannot miss it in your way. All paths that have been, or shall be, Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.

All those who journey, soon or late, Must pass within the garden's gate; Must kneel alone in darkness there, And battle with some fierce despair. God pity those who can not say, "Not mine but thine," who only pray, "Let this cup pass," and cannot see The purpose in Gethsemane.



DUST-SEALED.

I know not wherefore, but mine eyes See bloom, where other eyes see blight. They find a rainbow, a sunrise, Where others but discern deep night.

Men call me an enthusiast, And say I look through gilded haze: Because where'er my gaze is cast, I see some thing that calls for praise.

I say, "Behold those lovely eyes— That tinted cheek of flower-like grace." They answer in amused surprise: "We thought it such a common face."

I say, "Was ever scene more fair? I seem to walk in Eden's bowers." They answer with a pitying air, "The weeds are choking out the flowers."

I know not wherefore, but God lent A deeper vision to my sight. On whatsoe'er my gaze is bent I catch the beauty Infinite;

That underlying, hidden half That all things hold of Deity. So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh— Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.



"ADVICE."

I must do as you do? Your way I own Is a very good way. And still, There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, That the prudent choose each time; And you think me reckless and rash to-day, Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine. We are not like peas in a pod, Compelled to lie in a certain line, Or else be scattered abroad.

'Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend, If we all went just one way; Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end, Though they lead apart to-day.

You like the shade, and I like the sun; You like an even pace, I like to mix with the crowd and run, And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm and strife, You like a peaceful time; I like the passion and surge of life, You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet, And crocuses, framed in snow; I like roses, born of the heat, And the red carnation's glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend, For so it was written down; We must follow our given paths to the end, But I trust we shall meet—in town.



OVER THE BANISTERS.

Over the banisters bends a face, Daringly sweet and beguiling. Somebody stands in careless grace, And watches the picture, smiling.

The light burns dim in the hall below, Nobody sees her standing, Saying good-night again, soft and slow, Half way up to the landing.

Nobody only the eyes of brown, Tender and full of meaning, That smile on the fairest face in town, Over the banisters leaning.

Tired and sleepy, with drooping head, I wonder why she lingers; Now, when the good-nights all are said, Why somebody holds her fingers.

He holds her fingers and draws her down, Suddenly growing bolder, Till the loose hair drops its masses brown Like a mantle over his shoulder.

Over the banisters soft hands, fair, Brush his cheeks like a feather, And bright brown tresses and dusky hair, Meet and mingle together.

There's a question asked, there's a swift caress, She has flown like a bird from the hallway, But over the banisters drops a "yes," That shall brighten the world for him alway.



MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER.

Though with gods the world is cumbered, Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered, Never god was known to be Who had not his devotee. So I dedicate to mine, Here in verse, my temple-shrine.

'Tis not Ares,—mighty Mars, Who can give success in wars. 'Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep Guard above us while we sleep, 'Tis not Venus, she whose duty 'Tis to give us love and beauty; Hail to these, and others, after Momus, gleesome god of laughter.

Quirinus would guard my health! Plutus would insure me wealth Mercury looks after trade, Hera smiles on youth and maid. All are kind, I own their worth, After Momus, god of mirth.

Though Apollo, out of spite, Hides away his face of light. Though Minerva looks askance, Deigning me no smiling glance, Kings and queens may envy me While I claim the god of glee.

Wisdom wearies, Love has wings— Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings, Glory proves a thorny crown— So all gifts the gods throw down Bring their pains and troubles after; All save Momus, god of laughter. He alone gives constant joy, Hail to Momus, happy boy.



I DREAM.

Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of Life In the full meaning of that splendid word. Its subtle music which few men have heard, Though all may hear it, sounding through earth's strife. Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed, Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust; Its treasures which no touch of time can rust, Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst, Its certain purpose, its serene repose, Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes, This is my dream of Life.

Yes, I have dreams. I ofttimes dream of Love As radiant and brilliant as a star. As changeless, too, as that fixed light afar Which glorifies vast worlds of space above. Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath, Before it bursts in fury; and as deep As the unfathomed seas, where lost worlds sleep And sad as birth, and beautiful as death. As fervent as the fondest soul could crave, Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave. This is my dream of Love.

Yes, yes, I dream. One oft-recurring dream, Is beautiful and comforting and blest. Complete with certain promises of rest. Divine content, and ecstasy supreme. When that strange essence, author of all faith, That subtle something, which cries for the light, Like a lost child who wanders in the night, Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death, Shall find eternal progress, or sublime And satisfying slumber for all time. This is my dream of Death.



THE PAST.

I fling my past behind me, like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendor, or complain That I must needs discard it? I can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years A fabric far more durable. Subdued, It may be, in the blending of its hues, Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleam Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, While over all a fadeless luster lies, And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, My new robe shall be richer than the old.



THE SONNET.

Alone it stands in Poesy's fair land, A temple by the muses set apart; A perfect structure of consummate art, By artists builded and by genius planned. Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand, Beyond the ken of the untutored heart, Like a fine carving in a common mart, Only the favored few will understand. A chef-d'oeuvre toiled over with great care, Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by, A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire, An ancient bit of pottery, too rare To please or hold aught save the special eye, These only with the sonnet can compare.



SECRETS.

Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone; Why, even God's stupendous secret, Death, We one by one, with our expiring breath, Do pale with wonder seize and make our own; The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown, Despite her careful hiding; and the air Yields its mysterious marvels in despair To swell the mighty store-house of things known. In vain the sea expostulates and raves; It cannot cover from the keen world's sight The curious wonders of its coral caves. And so, despite thy caution or thy tears, The prying fingers of detective years Shall drag thy secret out into the light.



A DREAM.

That was a curious dream; I thought the three Great planets that are drawing near the sun With such unerring certainty, begun To talk together in a mighty glee. They spoke of vast convulsions which would be Throughout the solar system—the rare fun Of watching haughty stars drop, one by one, And vanish in a seething vapor sea.

I thought I heard them comment on the earth— That small dark object—doomed beyond a doubt. They wondered if live creatures moved about Its tiny surface, deeming it of worth. And then they laughed—'twas such a ringing shout That I awoke and joined too in their mirth.



USELESSNESS.

Let mine not be that saddest fate of all To live beyond my greater self; to see My faculties decaying, as the tree Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall. Let me hear rather the imperious call, Which all men dread, in my glad morning time, And follow death ere I have reached my prime, Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life's gall. The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest blast Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day Is kinder than the calm that lets it last, Unhappy witness of its own decay. May no man ever look on me and say, "She lives, but all her usefulness is past."



WILL.

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, Can circumvent or hinder or control The firm resolve of a determined soul. Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great; All things give way before it, soon or late. What obstacle can stay the mighty force Of the sea-seeking river in its course, Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

Each well-born soul must win what it deserves. Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves, Whose slightest action or inaction serves The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still, And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.



WINTER RAIN.

Falling upon the frozen world last night, I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain— Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain; The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might, Far better had the fixedness of white And uncomplaining snows—which make no sign, But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine— Concealed its sorrow from all human sight. Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years, I learned the uselessness of uttered woe. Though sinewy Fate deals her most skillful blow, I do not waste the gall now of my tears, But feed my pride upon its bitter, while I look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.



APPLAUSE.

I hold it one of the sad certain laws Which makes our failures sometimes seem more kind Than that success which brings sure loss behind— True greatness dies, when sounds the world's applause Fame blights the object it would bless, because Weighed down with men's expectancy, the mind Can no more soar to those far heights, and find That freedom which its inspiration was. When once we listen to its noisy cheers Or hear the populace' approval, then We catch no more the music of the spheres, Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men. Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears, The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.



LIFE.

Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee, Doth bear us on his shoulders for a time. There is no path too steep for him to climb, With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free, As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea, By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime, And all the world seems motion set to rhyme, Till, tired out, he cries, "Now carry me!" In vain we murmur, "Come," Life says, "fair play!" And seizes on us. God! he goads us so! He does not let us sit down all the day. At each new step we feel the burden grow, Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go, Watching for Death to meet us on the way.



BURDENED.

"Genius, a man's weapon, a woman's burden."—Lamartine.

Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life, Than to be burdened so that you can not Sit down contented with the common lot Of happy mother and devoted wife.

To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife With all the sea's commotion; to be fraught With fires and frenzies which you have not sought, And weighed down with the wide world's weary strife.

To feel a fever alway in your breast, To lean and hear half in affright, half shame. A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name, To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest, And know, however great your meed of fame, You are but a weak woman at the best.



THE STORY.

They met each other in the glade— She lifted up her eyes; Alack the day! Alack the maid! She blushed in swift surprise. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.

The pail was full, the path was steep— He reached to her his hand; She felt her warm young pulses leap, But did not understand. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.

She sat beside him in the wood— He wooed with words and sighs; Ah! love in spring seems sweet and good, And maidens are not wise. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers' sighs.

The summer sun shone fairly down, The wind blew from the south; As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown, His kiss fell on her mouth. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.

And now the autumn time is near, The lover roves away, With breaking heart and falling tear, She sits the livelong day. Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.



LET THEM GO.

Let the dream go. Are there not other dreams In vastness of clouds hid from thy sight That yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams, And shoot the shadows through and through with light? What matters one lost vision of the night? Let the dream go!

Let the hope set. Are there not other hopes That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky? Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes Before some light is lent it from on high; What folly to think happiness gone by! Let the hope set!

Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys, Like frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom? Severe must be the winter that destroys The hardy roots locked in their silent tomb. What cares the earth for her brief time of gloom? Let the joy fade!

Let the love die. Are there not other loves As beautiful and full of sweet unrest, Flying through space like snowy-pinioned doves? They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast, And thou shalt say of each, "Lo, this is best!" Let the love die!



THE ENGINE.

Into the gloom of the deep, dark night, With panting breath and a startled scream; Swift as a bird in sudden flight Darts this creature of steel and steam.

Awful dangers are lurking nigh, Rocks and chasms are near the track, But straight by the light of its great white eye It speeds through the shadows, dense and black.

Terrible thoughts and fierce desires Trouble its mad heart many an hour, Where burn and smoulder the hidden fires, Coupled ever with might and power.

It hates, as a wild horse hates the rein, The narrow track by vale and hill; And shrieks with a cry of startled pain, And longs to follow its own wild will.

Oh, what am I but an engine, shod With muscle and flesh, by the hand of God, Speeding on through the dense, dark night, Guided alone by the soul's white light.

Often and often my mad heart tires, And hates its way with a bitter hate, And longs to follow its own desires, And leave the end in the hand of fate.

O mighty engine of steel and steam; O human engine of blood and bone, Follow the white light's certain beam— There lies safety and there alone.

The narrow track of fearless truth, Lit by the soul's great eye of light, O passionate heart of restless youth, Alone will carry you through the night.



NOTHING NEW.

From the dawn of spring till the year grows hoary, Nothing is new that is done or said, The leaves are telling the same old story— "Budding, bursting, dying, dead." And ever and always the wild bird's chorus Is "coming, building, flying, fled."

Never the round earth roams or ranges Out of her circuit, so old, so old, And the smile o' the sun knows but these changes— Beaming, burning, tender, cold, As Spring time softens or Winter estranges The mighty heart of this orb of gold.

From our great sire's birth to the last morn's breaking There were tempest, sunshine, fruit and frost, And the sea was calm or the sea was shaking His mighty main like a lion crossed, And ever this cry the heart was making— Longing, loving, losing, lost.

Forever the wild wind wanders, crying, Southerly, easterly, north and west, And one worn song the fields are sighing, "Sowing, growing, harvest, rest," And the tired thought of the world, replying Like an echo to what is last and best, Murmurs—"Rest."



DREAMS.

Thank God for dreams! I, desolate and lone, In the dark curtained night, did seem to be The centre where all golden sun-rays shone, And, sitting there, held converse sweet with thee. No shadow lurked between us; all was bright And beautiful as in the hours gone by, I smiled, and was rewarded by the light Of olden days soft beaming from thine eye. Thank God, thank God for dreams!

I thought the birds all listened; for thy voice Pulsed through the air, like beat of silver wings. It made each chamber of my soul rejoice And thrilled along my heart's tear-rusted strings. As some devout and ever-prayerful nun Tells her bright beads, and counts them o'er and o'er, Thy golden words I gathered, one by one, And slipped them into memory's precious store. Thank God, thank God for dreams!

My lips met thine in one ecstatic kiss. Hand pressed in hand, and heart to heart we sat. Why even now I am surcharged with bliss— With joy supreme, if I but think of that. No fear of separation or of change Crept in to mar our sweet serene content. In that blest vision, nothing could estrange Our wedded souls, in perfect union blent. Thank God, thank God for dreams!

Thank God for dreams! when nothing else is left. When the sick soul, all tortured with its pain, Knowing itself forever more bereft, Finds waiting hopeless and all watching vain, When empty arms grow rigid with their ache, When eyes are blinded with sad tides of tears, When stricken hearts do suffer, yet not break, For loss of those who come not with the years— Thank God, thank God for dreams!



HELENA.

Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise Of late all men have sounded. She for whom Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb Rather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long, She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile I find no fascination in her smile, Although I make her theme of this poor song.

"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair, And yet to me each shining silken tress Seems robbed of beauty and all lusterless— Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.

(I know a little maiden so demure She will not let her one true lover's hands In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands, So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)

"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night? Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?" that may be, And yet they are not beautiful to me. Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid So underneath white curtains, and so veiled That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)

"Her perfect mouth so like a carved kiss?" "Her honeyed mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?" I would not taste its sweetness for a crown; Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried, Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet, And though I plead in passion at her feet, She would not let me brush it if I died.)

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie For thy rare smile or die from loss of it, Armored by my sweet lady's trust, I sit, And know thou art not worth her faintest sigh.



NOTHING REMAINS.

Nothing remains of unrecorded ages That lie in the silent cemetery of time; Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages, Their glory may have been indeed sublime. How weak do seem our strivings after power, How poor the grandest efforts of our brains, If out of all we are, in one short hour Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Spaces, Time and decay uproot the forest trees. Even the mighty mountains leave their places, And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seas; The great earth writhes in some convulsive spasm And turns the proudest cities into plains. The level sea becomes a yawning chasm— Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces, The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry; Rivers are drained and altered in their courses, Great stars pass out and vanish from the sky. Ideas die and old religions perish, Our rarest pleasures and our keenest pains Are swept away with all we hate or cherish— Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Nameless And all-creative spirit of the Law, Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless, Invincible, resistless, with no flaw; So full of love it must create forever, Destroying that it may create again Persistent and perfecting in endeavor, It yet must bring forth angels, after men— This, this remains.



LEAN DOWN.

Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine! From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings, I cannot grasp at once those better things To which I in my inmost soul aspire. Lean down and lift me higher.

I grope along—not desolate or sad, For youth and hope and health all keep me glad; But too bright sunlight, sometimes, makes us blind, And I do grope for heights I cannot find. Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire— Lean down and lift me higher.

Not long ago we trod the self-same way. Thou knowest how, from day to fleeting day Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet, Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet, But only served to hinder and to tire; Lean down and lift me higher.

Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene, And left me here, my loved one, Josephine; I am content to stay until the end, For life is full of promise; but, my friend, Canst thou not help me in my best desire And lean, and lift me higher?

Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise, And quick to understand and sympathize With all a full soul's needs. It must be so, Thy year with God hath made thee great I know. Thou must see how I struggle and aspire— Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire, And lean, and lift me higher.



COMRADES.

I and my Soul are alone to-day, All in the shining weather; We were sick of the world, and we put it away, So we could rejoice together.

Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky Is mixing a rare, sweet wine, In the burnished gold of his cup on high, For me, and this Soul of mine.

We find it a safe and royal drink, And a cure for every pain; It helps us to love, and helps us to think, And strengthens body and brain.

And sitting here, with my Soul alone, Where the yellow sun-rays fall, Of all the friends I have ever known I find it the best of all.

We rarely meet when the World is near, For the World hath a pleasing art And brings me so much that is bright and dear That my Soul it keepeth apart.

But when I grow weary of mirth and glee, Of glitter, and glow, and splendor, Like a tried old friend it comes to me, With a smile that is sad and tender.

And we walk together as two friends may, And laugh, and drink God's wine. Oh, a royal comrade any day I find this Soul of mine.