The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Ring of Amethyst, by Alice Wellington Rollins

THE RING OF AMETHYST.

BY
ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS

NEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
182 FIFTH AVENUE
1878

Copyright by
ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS
1878

THE RING.——TO GEORGE ELIOT.

vi

THE BOOK.——To D. M. R.

vii

Ἀμέθυστος
TO THE CRITIC.

viii

NARCISSUS.
TO THE READER.

ix

PROEM.

My heart was like a flower once,

That from its jewel-tinted cup

The generous fragrance of its joy

To all the world sent floating up.

But now ’tis like a humming-bird,

That in the cup his bright wing dips,

And with most dainty selfishness

Himself the choicest honey sips,

With eager, thirsty, longing lips!

And once my heart was like a gem,

Set in a fair betrothal ring;

Content to light the happy darks

That shield love’s shy self-wondering.

But now I think my heart is like

The lady fair who wears the ring;

Pressed closely to her lips at night

2

With love’s mysterious wondering

That hers should be the precious thing!

And once my heart was like a nest,

Where singing-birds have made their home;

Set where the apple-boughs in bloom

Fleck the blue air with flower-foam.

But now it is itself a bird;

And if it does not always sing,

The Heavenly Father knows what thoughts,—

Too strangely sweet for uttering,—

Stir faintly underneath its wing!

My heart was once a folded flower,

Within whose jewel-tinted cup,—

Still hidden even from itself,—

A wealth of joy is treasured up.

But now my heart is like a flower

From which a dainty humming-bird

Has rifled all the choicest sweets,

And left without one last fond word

The flower-soul so deeply stirred.

And once my heart was like a gem,

Set in a rich betrothal ring;

Unconscious in its darkened case

How fair it lies there glittering.

But now I think my heart is like

The lady who has worn the ring,

And draws it from her finger slight

4

With love’s bewildered wondering

That love should be a poor bruised thing.

And once my heart was like a nest,

High in the apple branches hung;

Where in the early April dew

No happy birds have ever sung.

Now ’tis itself a wounded bird;

And though sometimes you hear it sing,

The Heavenly Father knows what pain

It tries to hide by uttering

The same sweet notes it used to sing.

I think, indeed, ’twas only this that made

Her seem peculiar: namely, she had no

Peculiarity. The world to-day

Is disappointed if we are not odd,

And hold decided views on some one point,

Or else unsettled views on all. But she

Was living simply what she wished to live:

A lovely life of rounded womanhood;

With no sharp, salient points for eye or ear

To seize and pass quick judgment on. Not quite

Content was she to let the golden days

Slip from her fingers like the well-worn beads

Of some long rosary, told o’er and o’er

Each night with dull, mechanical routine;

But yet she had no central purpose; no

Absorbing aim to which all else must yield;

And so the very sweetness of her life,

6

Its exquisite simplicity and calm,

Musical in its silence, smote the ear

More sharply than the discords of the rest.

So do we grow accustomed far at sea

To jar and clang of harsh machinery,

And sleep profoundly in our narrow berths

Amid the turmoil; but if suddenly

The noisy whirr is silent, and the deep

Low murmur of the moonlit sea is all

That stirs the air, we waken with a start,

And ask in terror what has happened! Then

Sink back again upon the pillows; strange,

That silence should have wakened us!

Alas!

The world has grown so feverishly hot

With restless aims and poor ambitious dreams,

That lives which have the cool and temperate flow

Of healthful purpose in their veins, will seem

Peculiar!

Many things thou hast given me, dear heart;

But one thing thou hast taken: that high dream

Of heaven as of a country that should seem

Beyond all glory that divinest art

Has pictured:—with this I have had to part

Since knowing thee;—how long, love, will the gleam

Of each day’s sunlight on my pathway stream,

Richer than what seemed richest at the start?

Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat

Make not each happier than the last for me;

Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, complete

In joy, not the surprise I dreamed ’twould be,

But simply as the natural and sweet

Continuance of days spent here with thee.

Rome, for whose haughtier sake proud Cæsar made

His legions hers, to win her victories,

Denied him when her gods let Casca’s blade

Pierce him who learned to make her legions his.

Still he is mighty; with unchanging dread

Her people murmur for great Cæsar slain;

Nor value, at the price of Cæsar dead,

Their greater cause lost on Philippi’s plain.

If haply there are fields, as some pretend,

Beyond the silent Styx, where vaguely grim

Souls of dead heroes, shadowy and dim,

Awake,—I may find entrance at life’s end,

Not as a hero who freed Rome from him,

But as a man who once was Cæsar’s friend!

I taste the cup of sacred wine,

Nor count with you the cost too great

For those who steadfastly can wait;

Though grapes of fragrance so divine

Should ripen to their vintage late.

Gathered when only richest suns

Pour down a wealth of golden fire;

Pressed while the holy heart’s desire

Breathes grateful for these perfect ones,

And solemn prayer floats high and higher;—

Type of a love that lets no stain

Of doubt or dullness mar its creed;

But patient through its own great need

Of loving, wins its sure domain,—

Such love, such wine, is pure indeed.

10

Yet as I turn to pour for you,—

Vivid and sparkling at your gaze,—

My own heart’s vintage,—let me praise

This glowing wine as holy, too;

Since love may come in many ways.

And mine came to me as a star

Shines suddenly from worlds apart;

And suddenly my lifted heart

Caught the rare brightness from afar

And mirrored its swift counterpart.

Love born of instant trust and need,

Each heart of each; a love that knew

No test of time to prove it true,

No fostering care; without a seed

It seemed as if the flower grew!

And you whose tender love was nursed

In strong sweet patience, till the wine

Of joy became for you divine,

11

Ripened in sunlight from the first,—

Will not refuse to this of mine

A sacredness; remembering,—

By miracle changed instantly,—

The holy wine of Galilee;—

Even so the wine of joy I bring

For you to taste, was changed for me!

One day in June a crimson-breasted bird

Flitted from Heaven through the golden air,

And lit upon an apple-bough, that stirred

With rapture of delight to hold her there;

And finding at the same time on its breast

A wealth of flowers, rose-red lined with snow,

Believed in joy its graceful little guest

Had brought them with her, and so murmured low

In greeting,—“Little bird, a poor old tree

Scarce can breathe worthily its thanks to thee,

For these sweet flowers thou hast brought to me!”

And then the pretty bird whose restless feet

Danced in and out among the blossoms there,

For very joyousness sent rippling sweet

A carol of bright laughter through the air.

13

Flushing with joy, the blooming sprays swung high,

Responsive to the quiver of her wings;

As light of heart beneath the summer sky

Her voice ceased suddenly its twitterings,

To murmur back, “Thou foolish, dear old tree,

It is not I who bring the flowers to thee,

But thy most tempting flowers that bring me!”

That Love should find a way through iron bars

And close-drawn bolts—this does not seem so strange;—

More strange I count it that with wider range,

With naught to mark its course beneath the stars,

Love finds its sure, swift way. That day when we

First parted, Love, how dangerously near

The chance we never met again! though clear

In the broad daylight, unrestrained and free

As breeze from heaven, naught between us lay

But the wide, shining, trackless fields of air

That gave no sign; the lonely vastness, where

Love saw no clue to guide it, or to stay

Its course;—well might the lover in despair

Yield up his search;—and yet Love found a way!

I.

Dead!

But not where the flashing guns

Bring in a moment’s glittering space

Death,—and heaven—and deathless fame—

To Victory’s sons.

Dead!

But not where the crimson flame,

Leaping fierce in a cruel grace,

From the earthly clod

Burns away all pitiful dross

Till a martyr’s soul on fiery cross

Ascends to God.

Whose life was martyrdom

Shall be spared a martyr’s death

In winning a martyr’s crown.

No struggle for restless breath;—

19

A life laid calmly down;—

Eloquent lips grown dumb;—

Only for us the pain,

And the agony of loss;

Only for us the test;

For him, the wonderful gain,

For him, a longed-for rest.

II.

Dead!

And the mother state,

Mother of noble sons,

Reaches her yearning arms.

Give him back to her now!

Cold is the kingly brow,

Noblest of noble ones!

He cannot serve you now;

Unheeding earthly things,

The royal soul, so great

To shield from threatening harms,

Has passed through a silent gate

20

That never outward swings.

Living, the world had need

Of him and his deathless name;—

Living, the world had need

Of him and his stainless fame;—

Living, we knew her need

Of him, and confessed her claim;—

Dead, he is only ours!

Cover his bier with flowers;

Give him back to us now!

III.

Nay!

Let Massachusetts wait!

In the capitol of the great

Let the statesman lie in state.

Let the house be draped in woe;

Let the sentinel below

Pace solemnly to and fro.

All night let the tireless street

Echo the sad, slow feet

21

Of those who come and go.

All day let the voiceless street

In silence then repeat

The name we honor so.

Let the Senate chamber ring

Once more with his eloquence,

The eloquence of his death!

Let choicest flowers bring,

Delicate and intense,

Tribute of fragrant breath.

For ever the gentlest thing

With strongest love will cling

To one so grandly great.

Let Massachusetts wait!

Honored by every land,

Around him there shall stand

The noblest of each state!

And a nation’s tears be shed

For our Massachusetts’ dead!

IV.

22

Living, there was none so poor

That he need to hesitate

Loftiest aid from him to claim;—

Dead, there is not one so great,

Standing now at his right hand,

But may tremble so to stand;

Lest the touchstone of that pure

Stainless soul and deathless fame

Prove all poor who seem so great!

V.

Now,

To his mother where she stands,

Envied by the childless lands,

Bring him back with reverent hands.

Lonely mother, it is well

That your sorrowing lips should tell

Once again repentant woe

For the wound of long ago,

For rebuke that hurt him so!

23

No reproof could alienate

Patriot soul from patriot state;—

Grandly patient, he could wait,

Cancelling reproachful past,

Words that almost came too late!

“You were right and we were wrong!”

Strong and clear they came at last;

And his sovereign spirit, great

In forgiveness for the long

Silent strain so gently borne,

Hearing Massachusetts mourn

For the wrong that she had done

Turned to her, her reverent son.

Ere her last word met his ear,

He had answered—he is here!

VI.

Here!

At the city gates!

And the long procession waits

To bear him to his bier.

24

No sound of muffled drums

Tells that a hero comes;

No volleying cannon roll

The loss of a leader’s soul;

Not with the aid of these

Had he won his victories;

He never loved such voice;—

Let not these be our choice

To give this pain relief;

For the people’s hearts are mute

With the passion of their grief.

Break not upon his peace

With Massachusetts guns!

Only a tolling bell

To the sorrowing state shall tell

That the noblest of her sons,—

Highest in the world’s repute,

Lowliest in the toil he gave,—

Given of God this swift release,

Comes at last from her to crave

For the service that he gave

The guerdon of a grave!

VII.

25

Dark

Over all,

Falls the twilight like a pall.

Kindle not the restless flare

Of the midnight torches’ glare;

Let the restful stars look down,

Silent through the clear, cold air,

High and pure as his renown!

Pale against the evening sky

Burns the banner that ye drape

With the heavy folds of crape;

And ye have no need to tie

All its fluttering crimson back

With those heavy folds of black;—

For the very winds to-day

Droop with sadness, nor would care

With their crimson toy to play!

VIII.

He is here!

Massachusetts called him back,

26

And he answered—he is here!

Let the walls be hung with black,

Yet let roses richly red

On the casket of the dead

Be in bright profusion spread;

And all night with solemn tread

Let the dusky sentinel,

Guarding what he loved so well,

Guarding what he held so dear,

Pace beside the quiet bier!

IX.

O beautiful sad day!

All of earthly must we lay

In the silent grave away.

And the very Winter, pale

At the sight of so much grief,

From her harshness will relent;

Stoop to brush away the snow

From the frozen earth below

Where the noble dead shall lie.

27

Let no glorious dome less high

Than the over-arching sky

Bend above that royal grave;

And for living monument,

Over it shall rise and wave

Living flower and living leaf.

Lay your costly roses down,

Civic wreath and cross and crown;

These are frail!

Spring shall be your sentinel;

Guarding now untiring here

All of what we held so dear,

All of what we loved so well!

Lay your costly roses down,

Civic wreath and crown and cross;

Turn away with hearts made great

By the greatness of your loss!

Spring shall wait;—

To her sacred care entrust

All of what is left us here:—

Dust to dust!

28

Lay your costly roses down,

Civic wreath and cross and crown;

These are frail!

In the dim, unwonted shade,

These will fade!

But when next ye come this way,

Ye shall find the Spring still here;

And a grave with violets set;

Purple, living violet,

With the tears of heaven wet.

I try to make the baby on my knee

Look at the sunset; pointing where it glows

Beyond the window-pane in tints of rose

And violet and gold; when suddenly

He dimples with responsive baby-glee,

I think how wonderfully well he knows

Its beauty; till the changing child-face shows

He had not seen the sky, but laughed to see

The sparkle of my rings;—O baby dear,

This world of lovely gems and sunsets, bright

With children’s faces,—is perhaps the near

Though lesser glory, dazzling our poor sight,

Until we cannot see, for very light,

The heaven that shines for us, revealed and clear.

Last night a little rose of love was laid

Softly in this poor hand, by one who knew

Not what most gracious breeze from heaven blew

The blossom in his path; but since, he said,

All loveliest things he summoned to his aid

To win me,—let the fragrant flower that grew

Surely in Paradise to help him woo

And gain his wish,—be mine; then half afraid,

Here on my breast I laid it, where it glows

With such rich sudden beauty, that my eyes,

Quickened by some new instinct, recognize

What is indeed my own; for the fair rose,—

The rose of love bewilderingly sweet—

From my own heart had fallen at his feet!

Many a lovely dream a poet might

Weave into fancies round thy lovely name,

Sweetheart; yet I, who surely have no claim

To be a poet,—(save the holy right

Love gives me to write poems at the sight

Of a young face whose eager brightness came

As part of life’s best gift to me,—) can frame

No fitter reason why in such delight

I hold the one sweet syllable, than this:

Not for its visions of the field or wood,

But for its wealth of possibilities;

Its hint of undefined, ideal good,

Suggesting all thy soul can scarcely miss,

That May one day crown thy rich womanhood.

Sing cheerily, O bluebird from on high!

Earth will be blue with violets by-and-by,

More blue than those you came from in the sky.

Haste, butterflies! for radiant Summer brings

A crimson rose to match your sunlit wings,

Brighter than violets the blue-bird sings.

Croon, happy insects; violet and rose

Have faded; yet the autumn corn-field glows

Where in the golden grain the poppy grows.

Hush, eager voices! for in dreamless sleep,

Wrapped in cool snow, the restless earth would keep

Forevermore serenity so deep.

Forevermore? nay, tired earth, not so;

Sweet as the violets of long ago

The pink arbutus rises from the snow.

36

Gathered too eagerly, it fades too soon;

Then large white lilies open wide in June

Their golden hearts up to the golden noon.

And when the perfect lily in the gleam

Of too much sunlight, fades like a fair dream,

The crimson cardinals fringe the brightening stream.

Then once again the softly falling snow;

While bright above the ivy green below

The scarlet berries of the holly glow.

A child laid in the grave ere it had known

Earth held delight beyond its mother’s kiss;—

A fair girl passing from a world like this

Into God’s vast eternity, alone;—

A brave man’s soul in one brief instant thrown

To deepest agony from highest bliss;—

A woman steeling her young heart to miss

All joys in life, one dear one having flown;—

These have I seen; yet happier these, I said,

Than one who by experience made strong,

Learning to live without the precious dead,

Survive despair, outlive remorse and wrong,

Can say when new grief comes, with unbowed head,

“Let me not mourn! I shall forget ere long!”

Unbar, O heavy clouds, the gated West!

That this most weary day, beholding so

Her goal, may hasten her sad steps; I know

She comes without fair gifts; upon her breast

Close-clasped, the pale cold hands together pressed

Hold nothing;—then let some red sunset glow

Tempt her to seek the unknown world below

The far horizon where she hopes for rest!

At last the day, like some poor toil-worn slave,

Passes, and leaves in sooth no gift for me;—

Yet I, who thought my heart could be so brave

To bear what I had wisdom to foresee,

Sob in despair, as this poor day that gave

Me nothing, sinks behind the western sea!

The stately trees that in the forest grow

Are not all destined for the same high thing;

Some burn to useless cinders in the glow

Of the hearth-fire; while some are meant to sing

For centuries the never-dying song

Once caught from wandering breeze or lingering bird

So clearly and so surely, that the strong

Firm wood was quickly seized by one who heard,

To fashion his dear violin;—even so

Our human souls are fashioned; some will fade

Away to useless ashes, others grow

Immortal through the sweetness they have made.

The eager sun comes gladly from the sea;

Remembering that one short year ago

He rose from unknown worlds of light below

Those same far waves, to shine on you and me

Standing together on the shore;—but we

Are strangely far apart to-day; and so

The saddened sun with lingering step and slow

Climbs the horizon, wondering not to see

Your face beside mine; nor can understand

As we do, dear, that you and I to-day,—

Though million miles of ocean or of land

And centuries of time between us lay,—

Are nearer to each other than when hand

Touched hand, before we gave our hearts away!

Laden with gifts of your giving,

O summer of June!

With the rapturous idyl of living

In perfect attune;

With the sweetness of eve when it closes

A day of delight;

With the tremulous breath of the roses

Entrancing the night;

With the glow of your cardinal flowers

On lips that had paled;

And the coolness of silvery showers

For hands that had failed;

With geraniums vivid with fire

To wear on my breast,

Where the lilies had paled with desire

To bring to me rest;

With the joy that was born of your brightness

Still thrilling my soul,

48

And a heart whose bewildering lightness

I cannot control;

Ah! now that your idyl of living

Is over too soon,

What gifts can compare with your giving,

O summer of June?

Then a wraith of the winter said gently,

“I will not deceive;

Of the brightness you prize so intently

No trace shall I leave.

The glow of the cardinal flowers

Shall pass from the field,

And the softness of silvery showers

To ice be congealed;

The geraniums vivid with fire

Shall curl at the heart;

And the lily forget the desire

Its peace to impart;

Pale as the rose that is dying,

Your whitening cheek;

49

Faint as its tremulous sighing,

Words you would speak;

For a joy that was born of their brightness

I tremble with you,

When the gleam and the glory and lightness

Shall pass with the dew.

Ah! now that your idyl of living

Is over so soon,

What gifts will be left of your giving,

O summer of June?”

A palace richly furnished is the mind,

In whose fair chambers we may walk at will;

And in its cloistered calm, serene and still,

Continual delight and comfort find.

Not only fretful cares we leave behind,

But restless happiness, and hopes that fill

The eager soul with too much light, until

Eyes dazzled see less wisely than the blind.

So perfect is the joy we find therein,

No pleasures of the outer world compare

With the divine repose so gladly sought;

When from the wearying world we turn to win

High mental solitude, and cherish there

Silent companionship with lofty thought.

I thought to hold thy memory as the sea

Holds in its heart a pale reflected moon,

Lost when the sunny radiance of noon

Dissolves the moonlight’s tender mystery.

Lo! thou art not her semblance in the seas,

But the fair moon herself, that near or far,

Orbed high in heaven as a shining star

Or hid from sight at love’s antipodes;—

Still sways the waters with love’s restless tides;

Not by her own will; no coquette is she,—

The lovely moon to whom I liken thee;—

For high above our earthly air she glides,

Unconscious as the waves that rise to greet

Her coming, of the mystery of God’s law

Compelling her those far-off waves to draw

Forever towards her whom they never meet.

Kind words, that greater kindness still implied

From one unused to praise, for one unknown

To him and to the world where he had grown

Less wont to cheer the artist than to chide;

And always in my heart I thought with pride

Some day to know him, and for him alone

Bring the fair finished work, that he might own—

“O friend, behold my full faith justified!”

Now he is dead! a man severe, they said

Who knew the critic; but around the spot

We call his grave, by some sweet memory led

Of kindred sweetness, violets have not

Refused to bloom; and one he had forgot

Wept suddenly to hear that he was dead.

Wake, happy heart, O awake!

For the mists are flitting away;

And the hawthorn boughs for thy sake

Are eager and longing to break

Into garlands of blossoming spray.

Sing, sing it, O gay little linnet!

And hasten, O glad lark, to bring it,

The beautiful Day!

O Dawn, I am hungry with yearning

For gifts thou canst give;—

The proud soul within me is burning

With new life to live.

I am strong with the strength of long sleeping;

Fill full now each vein

With rich crimson wine thou art keeping

For glad hearts to drain!

O hush! for the clouds break asunder;

Her delicate feet

Touch the hills with a reverent wonder

54

If earth will be sweet.

And the heart that within me was breaking

With longing for her,

Breaks utterly, now that awaking

I hear her low stir.

So frail and so dainty and tender;

What heart could foresee

That the goddess it longed for, a slender

Young fairy would be?

Empty-handed, she dreads my displeasure,

And turns half away;

’Tis for me then to give of my treasure,

O beautiful Day!

Appealing, she waits till I greet her,

With no gifts for me;

Dear Day, after all it is sweeter

For me to crown thee!

If I am not a happier maiden

Because of thy stay,

Thou shalt be with bright gifts from me laden,

A happier Day!

The old, old story men would call our love;

One cannot think of any time so old

That some “I love you” was not gladly told

To some one listening gladly; each remove

Of the long lingering centuries does but prove

Its deathlessness;—and we to-day who hold

Each other dear as if young Love had sold

To us alone his birthright from above,—

Love’s secret ours alone,—turn back to seek

In the rich types of Roman art or Greek

Some fitting gift wherewith to fitly speak

A love that each heart to the other drew;—

An old, old story it may seem to you;

To us, each year more beautiful, more new.

I know myself the best-beloved of all

The many dear to him; yet not indeed

Because of his swift thought for every need

Of my love’s craving; I could scarcely call

My very own the power to enthrall

Such chivalry as his, that turns to heed

Each slightest claim, nor thinks to ask the meed

Of love returned where love’s sweet offerings fall.

Not then because of all he is to me;

But by this surer token; when he earns

The right to his own happiness, or yearns

For some sweet, sudden, answering sympathy,

Ah me! with what quick-beating heart I see

For his own joy it is to me he turns!

Her days are as a silver-flowing stream;—

Above, the rippling sunbeams flash and gleam;

Beneath, strong currents noiseless as a dream.

Her heart is like the lilies that bloom wide

In restful beauty on the restless tide,

Asking not where the eager waters glide.

Her thoughts are white-winged birds, that from below

To the high heavens soar and vanish so—

Alas! mine cannot follow where they go.

Her joys are bright-winged birds that from on high

Come singing down, and tempt the stream to try

And sing with them as they flit singing by.

Her sorrows—she has none her heart will own;

The air is silent when the birds have flown;

But the poor stream still sings the song, alone.

A year ago to-day, love, for the space

Of a brief sudden moment, richly fraught

With deeper meaning than our light hearts thought,

You held my hand and looked into the face

Which, poor in gifts, has since by God’s good grace

Grown dear to you;—and the full year has brought

Friendship—and love—and marriage; yet has taught

My heart to call you in its sacred place

Still by the earliest name; for you who are

My lover and my husband, and who bring

Heaven close around me, will not let me cling

To that near heaven; but tempt my soul afar

By your ideals for me; till life end,

My calm, dispassionate, sincerest friend.

Keep watch and ward,

In stately guard,

Around my Una’s wayward feet;

Not lest she tread

False ways instead

Of higher paths, serenely sweet;—

But lest in care

For all who share

Her tender ministry, too late

Her frail strength yield;—

Be thou her shield;

They also serve who sometimes wait!

Of crystal, clear

As in its sphere

Her lofty spirit moves alway;—

65

Of massive strength

As all at length

Will find who make her soul their stay;—

With flowers and buds

Whose sweetness floods

The air even when we cannot see;—

This gift I send

My earliest friend;—

Dear type of all she is to me!

You chide me that with self-absorbed, rapt eyes

I seem to walk apart, nor care to clasp

Familiar hands once dear; like one whose house

Filled with the guests of her own choosing, rings

With sounds of gladness, yet who steals away

Up to some silent chamber of her own,

Forgetful of the duties of a host.

But is not she

The truest and most hospitable friend

Who, noting suddenly among her guests

An unexpected comer, one to whom

She fain would show high honor and respect,

Hastens away with busy feet awhile

To throw wide open to the sun and air

Some long-untenanted fair chamber, rich

With storied heirlooms of her ancestors,

Bright with long windows looking towards the sun,

Waiting but for an occupant?

67

Even so

Have I but stolen quietly away,

Within the happy silence of my heart

A lovely, sunny chamber to prepare

For a new-comer.

Father, whose tenderness has wrapped me round

In a great need,—to what shall I compare

Strength thou hast sent in answer to my prayer?

Not to the help some falling vine has found,

That trailing listless on the frozen ground

Clings suddenly to some high trellis there,

Lifting itself once more into the air

With timid tendrils on the lattice wound.

Rather to help the drooping plant has won,

That weary with the beating of the rains

Feels quickening in its own responsive veins

The sudden shining of a distant sun.

When from within the strength and gladness are,

My soul knows that its help comes from afar.

Burn bright, O sunset sky, with tints like wine!

From all the west let the glad tidings shine,

So beautiful a joy is to be mine.

O little lily, lean into the gloom!

Pour from thy deep cup all its rare perfume,

Sweeter will be my joy when it shall bloom.

Sing gayly, that the richer world with me

May so rejoice in joy that is to be,

O little birds upon the Maple tree!

O happy heart, send up to eyes and cheek

The gladness that I have no words to speak;

The fairest ones too powerless and weak.

Nay, burning sky, hide thy too brilliant glow!

I would not that the curious world should know

The sacred joy that now has blessed me so.

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O little lily, leaning from the gloom,

Hold thy too fragrant breath, that there be room

In the deep stillness for my heart to bloom.

Hush, little birds upon the Maple tree!

I cannot hear, ye sing so noisily,

The sweeter song my soul would sing to me.

O happy lids, droop over happy eyes,

Lest all the marvel of their dear surprise

Escape once more to the far Paradise,

From which joy came so gently to my breast,

Forevermore to be its cherished guest;

Not seeking there, but bringing, heavenly rest.

There will be silence here, love, in the slow

Long summer months when there are none to break

The stillness with the laugh of those who wake

New-born each day to joy; and yet I know

The stillness cannot be so still, or grow

So deeply soundless, but that for my sake

The memory-haunted, lonely rooms will take

Some echo of my vanished voice;—even so,

Amid the scenes to which I have no choice

But go without thee, dearest, there will be

No gayety so gay, no glad light glee

Wherein with others I, too, must rejoice,

But through it all my heart will make for me

Silence, wherein I shall but hear thy voice.

My faith begins where your religion ends:

In service to mankind. This single thread

Is given to guide us through the maze of life.

You start at one end, I the other;—you,

With eyes fixed only upon God, begin

With lofty faith, and seeking but to know

And do His will who guides the universe,

You find the slender and mysterious thread

Leads down to earth, with God’s divine command

To help your fellow-men; but this to me

Is something strangely vague; I see alone

The fellow-men, the suffering fellow-men.

Yet with a cup of water in my hand

For all who thirst, who knows but I one day,

Following faithfully the slender thread,

May reach its other end, and kneel at last

With you in heaven at the feet of God?

With careless step I wander through the hall

Scarce heeding many a work of lovely art;

Till with a sudden thrill my listless heart

Leaps up to greet upon a stranger’s wall

Those dear remembered eyes;—her face, with all

The dreamy charm that made so sweet a part

Of my life once;—and tender memories start

To meet her at her unexpected call.

True portrait of the unforgotten face,

How do I thank thee, that dost give me here

Tidings from her, so distant yet still dear

To me;—for as I bid the painting tell

If all be well with her, its pictured grace

Answers beyond all doubting, “It is well!”

Not high above us with the pitiless stars,

Nor deep below us in the soundless sea,

Nor far away to east or westward, lie

The little things we long for.

Here they are;

Close to our hands, the eager, restless hands

That fain would grasp them; and no fetters bind

The wistful fingers; no relentless fate

Tells us we must not; we are wholly free

To take them if we choose.

And yet—and yet—

We dare not! lest the soul should wake some day,

Years hence, perhaps, to sense of other needs.

God save us ever from those sudden moods

When all life narrows to a single point,

And when the poor heart seizes its desire.

Only to wake to deeper restlessness.

But after all, what matter? would it be

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Harder to wake years hence to sense of thirst

Than to stand thirsty now? for sunny wine

Sparkles before us, and a precious pearl,

Eager to lose its life upon our lips,

Waits but our instant grasping to dissolve

Its costly beauty in the nectar.

Nay!

We have no right to the white lovely pearl.

God give us strength not to stretch out our hands!

See! they are slipping slowly from our reach—

Fading into the darkness—

They are gone—

The little things we longed for!

Supreme through all the hours of the day

I hold one sweetest: not the day or hour,

Dear, when you came to me; nor yet the flower

Of perfect days, though that is sweet alway,

When your love came to me; I cannot say

Why these are not divinest in their power;

Yet as each new day comes, it brings for dower

One moment whose rich gladness will outweigh

All others: that first moment when the night

Yields to the daylight’s clear and vivid blue;

And waking to things real from things that seem,

My eager eyes unclose to the fair light,

Still undeceived; to find their visions true,

And that your love for me was not my dream.

Among those joys for which we utter praise

That were not in our lives, one year ago;—

(No need to name them, dearest; for you know

Each one that came, our ignorant hearts to raise

To love’s high level;) let us count the days

Before we knew each other; days when no

Sweet premonition of love’s full rich glow

Gleamed on the darkness of our separate ways.

All preludes should be simple; that no dream

Or hint of this new beauty came to fill

The unconscious hours with meaning, does but seem

Fit introduction to the joys that thrill

Our glad souls now, from love that knew no still

Awaking,—but dawned instantly supreme.

Not because you are gentle of speech,

O brave knight of mine!

Nor because in the chivalrous list

With the brightest you shine;

Nor because when you pass on the street

All the world turn to praise

The wonderful charm of your look

And grace of your ways;

Nor because in your presence I know

I have but to command,

And the coveted treasures at once

Will fall from your hand;

Nor because by the glance of your eyes

That so tenderly drew

My whole heart unto yours, I may know

I am perfect to you;

But because in your presence, dear, I

Grow gentle of speech;

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The haughty young maiden who once

Was so wilful to teach;

And because when I pass on the street

All the world turn to praise

A certain new charm in my look

And grace in my ways;

And because in your presence I lose

The proud wish to command;

Contented, nay eager, dear love,

To be led by your hand;

And because your eyes full of reproach

At some things that I do,

Still show the belief I shall grow

To be worthy of you;—

Do I love you? ’twere idle indeed

To refuse now to yield;

Quite useless for lips to deny

What the eyes have revealed;

Yet not, (let me say it, for fear

That too vain you should be—)

Not so much for what you are yourself,

As for what you make me!

Threading its noiseless way among fair things

Love-chosen to make beautiful my room,

The ivy spreads its tender living gloom,

Darkening and brightening the wall; now clings

Closely around some picture, and now swings

Some airy shoot of tremulous young bloom

Into the freer sunlight; till the doom

Of their slow silent fate together brings

At last the branches that for long years went

Their single, separate ways. Did no swift thrill

Of subtle recognition flash, and fill

Their veins? Oh Ivy, still must we lament

Thou canst not with our joy in thee have part,

And thyself know how fair a thing thou art!

If love had found me in cold cheerless ways

And led me forth into the light;—if bloom

Of sweet and sudden flowers, instead of gloom

In the long nights and unillumined days,

Thy love had brought me;—then at love’s high praise

I had not so much wondered;—if the doom

Of pitiless destiny had given room

To thy bright presence,—then in swift amaze

I were less awed than now. No life could be

More sweet than that past life of mine, I thought;

And when the changing years in fulness brought

Another life enriched by love and thee,

That all my beautiful past should seem as naught,—

This is the miracle Love wrought for me!

As a shy bird that startled from her nest

Wings her far way into the highest blue,

Nor dreams that she has left us any clue

To find which elm tree had been loved the best;

Though all the while its light boughs, fluttering

In the deep noonday silence, softly beat

Their soundless echoes to her flying feet

Now swiftly in the blue air vanishing:—

So haply you would keep a secret, dear,

Your unseen presence in my little room,

That glorified into unwonted bloom

Betrays to me what fair guest has been here.

Who else, dear, in my absence would have thought

To close the favorite book, left open here

Where a disputed passage was made clear

By a few words with tedious patience sought;—

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Then with a sudden and repentant grace

That all the mischief of its fault bereft,

Have found the very page again, and left

A rose in the shut book to mark the place.

I.

I saw her, though with earnest eyes bent low,

Unheedful of the violets at her feet,

That clustering in purple fragrance sweet

Touched her white dress; absorbed in revery so,

She knew not that the morning sunshine’s glow

Was for her sake; and robins, fain to greet

So fair a lady with a love-song meet,

No recognition won from her below.

O dreamer of a dream thy heart shall see

Crowned with fulfillment when the dawn of day

Has deepened into noontide’s richer gleam,—

Lest I too rudely should awaken thee,

With hushed and reverent step I steal away,

Praying God bless the dreamer and the dream!

II.

I saw her with her tearful eyes raised high,

Unheedful of the whirling flakes of snow,

That flitting through the sad air to and fro

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Flecked her dark dress; cold from the leaden sky,

The autumn winds came sobbing restless by,

Wailing to find it still so cold below;

While faded violets of a year ago,

Pressed to her lips, hushed her own rising cry.

O lonely dreamer of a dream long flown,

I come to waken thee! for dying day

In purple twilight shrouds the noontide gleam;

And when the lovely visions that have grown

So fair and dear flit vanishing away,

God blesses dreamers who no longer dream.

Loosen my arms! leave me one poor hand free,

That I may shut one moment from my sight

The dreadful heaving of the shuddering sea!

For as it creeps back slowly from my feet,

Rise from its inky depths swift-coming waves

Big with the terrible and nameless thing

That soon along the shrinking sands will crawl

To wrap me in its hideous embrace.

I will not struggle! leave me but one hand

To shield the poor eyes that refuse to close;

For stretched and wide the fascinated lids

Deny their office, and I needs must look!

What have I done, that these fair limbs of mine,

(Nay, nay; I meant not fair; the gods forbid

That I should boast!) but young and piteous

And tender with soft flesh—O mother, take

Your proud words back! O nymphs, be pitiful!

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The green waves part, and poisonous is the air!

Red the fangs glitter! save me, O ye gods!

Nay, what is this that wraps my shuddering limbs

With sudden coolness?—Can it be that now

The merciless tall cliff which all day long

Refused its wonted shadow to protect

My burning body from the dazzling sun,

Relents, and spreads its gentle shade around

To calm my reeling senses? Nay, for more

It seems to me like white o’ershadowing wings,

Circling above my head. Alas! so dim

My poor eyes are with tears, I cannot see

What this may be so near me; yet it seems

Like some young, gallant knight. Alack, good sir,

If thou art come to free my quivering limbs,

Know that against the gods contend in vain

The bravest knights. And yet how like a god

Himself he stands! See how he spurns the ground,

Poised with sustaining wings upon the air,

And deals the monster a sharp, sudden blow

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That sends him reeling from the trembling shore!

Shattered, I hear the chains fall to my feet;

Yet much I fear another gentler fate

Fetters my heart anew. O valiant knight,

If in thy sight this tearful face was fair,—

(Fair dare I call it now; since thou art near

To shield me ever from the envious hate

Of those less fair!) if worth it seemed to thee

The dreadful daring of the doubtful fight,

Surely that best should be thy dear reward

Which prompted thee to struggle; all is thine!

The dim eyes, dull with weeping bitter tears,

Shall brighten at the sound of thy strong voice;

The frail hands, red with struggling to be free,

Once more shall turn to lilies in thy clasp;

Rose-red for thee shall flush with happiness

The poor, pale cheeks, still white with sickening fear;

The tired feet sustained and strong shall grow,

Walking beside thee; nay, dear love, not yet;

For still they tremble, still I seem to need

Thy firm supporting arm around me thrown.

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Fold me then, dearest, in thy close embrace;

Bear me across the treacherous, yielding sands,

To that far country which must needs be fair,

Since thou hast followed from its chivalry,

Where I may now forget all else but thee.

Dreaming of love and fame, sweetheart,

I dreamed that a sunbeam shone

For a wavering instant, and where it played

A hundred flowers had grown.

The sunshine flitting so soon away

Was a smile thou hadst given me;

And the flowers that bloomed in the world for aye,

Were the songs I wrote for thee.

Waking to love and life, sweetheart,

I saw fair flowers fade;

While still from the measureless heavens above

The flickering sunshine played.

The flowers fading from all men’s sight

Were the songs they had heard from me;

And the light that illumined the world to them,

Was a single smile from thee!

Within her soul there is a sacred place,

Forever set apart to holy thought;

There once a miracle divine was wrought,

And common things grew fair with heavenly grace.

Think not to know the secret of that room;—

Closed is the door, even to herself; no more

She lingers there, though well our hearts are sure

It is no spot of shadowy, haunted gloom.

The violets that blossom there unseen

Were never gathered, and so never fade;

Breathing serenely through the gentle shade

Their memories of all that once had been.

When in the thoughtful twilight we, her friends,

Walk with her, and in spirit dimly feel

A strange, rare fragrance o’er the senses steal,

Let us speak softly of a Past that sends

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Through the closed crevice of its silent door,

No bitterness in those remembered hours;

But in the delicate breath of such fair flowers

Only the sweetness of the days of yore.

Dear bird of mine, with strong and untried wing,

Ignorant yet of restless fluttering,

How long will you be so content to sing

For me alone? when will the world be stirred

By notes that even I have scarcely heard,

Since you are still only a mocking-bird?

My little Clytie with the constant eyes

Turned to me ever, though the true sunrise

Burns far above me in God’s holy skies,—

How can you know, my sweet unconscious one,

In the bright days for you but just begun,

That I am worthy to be held your sun?

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My little loyal worshipper, the bloom

Of whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom,

Turned ever steadily to my near room,

Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true,

The one glad door through which I come to you,

Caring for naught but what that hides from view,—

How long, dear one, how many precious years,

Will this fair chamber where I hush your tears

Be the one Mecca for your hopes and fears?

Not long, alas! not long; the mother heart

Knows well how quickly she will have to part

With all this wonder;—she who tries each art

To lure him on; the first to coax and praise

Each added grace; then first in sore amaze

To mourn that he has lost his baby ways!

If I could know, love, that some single prayer

From my full heart’s supreme desires for thee,

With rich fulfillment would be granted me

By Him who gave us to each other,—where

Could I find truer wish than this: “O spare

My life to him!” For surely love should be

Love’s best interpreter; an argosy

Freighted with all earth’s joy, wert thou not there,—

Beside me always—how could I be glad

In aught of this? my own great speechless need,

Not only of the love I once have had,

But of thy presence, teaches me to read

The deep, unspoken prayer thy heart would add

To mine, if highest heaven could lean to heed!

One day I heard a little lady say,

“O morning-glory, would that I were you!

Twining around the porch that lovely way,

Where you will see my dear one coming through.

So fair you are, he’ll surely notice you,

And wait perhaps a moment, just to praise

The clinging prettiness of all your ways,

And tender tint of melting white and blue.

O morning-glory, would that I were you!”

I heard the little lady’s lover say,

“O rose-white daisy, dying in the dew,

Breathing your half-crushed, fainting life away

Under her footstep,—would that I were you!

For when how cruelly she wounded you,

She turns to see in pitying distress,

With murmured words of sorrowing tenderness

Close to her lips your bruised leaves she will press;—

O drooping daisy, would that I were you!”

O thou in whom, not knowing, I believe,

If in these uttered phrases there is naught

Of that supreme, deep language of Thy thought

Men call religion—yet wilt Thou receive

The finished task; though I have dared to leave

Unseen, but not unfelt, though best unsought,

As Thou thyself to my own heart hast taught,

The solemn truths that so will strongest cleave

Unto men’s souls. My hand would fain forget

Its eager cunning, ere the fingers kissed

By one whose love Thou gavest me, should yet

Yield all to joy, uncaring if they list,—

Thy angels—from the heavenly parapet

Of precious stones: “the twelfth, an amethyst!”