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 honour 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.  Oh, my sweet!
   This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat—
   Dying with very weight of bliss.  Oh, come!
   And take the legacy I leave to you,
   Before these lips for evermore 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 clothèd 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 bygone hour,
   Possessed of all their olden might and power.
   ’Twas 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 smould’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 vapour 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,
   Chiselled 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 slender 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 lustre 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 fulness 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 fervour 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.

ALL ROADS THAT LEAD TO GOD ARE GOOD

   All roads that lead to God are good.
      What matters it, your faith, or mine?
      Both centre at the goal divine
   Of love’s eternal Brotherhood.

   The kindly life in house or street—
      The life of prayer and mystic rite—
      The student’s search for truth and light—
   These paths at one great Junction meet.

   Before the oldest book was writ,
      Full many a prehistoric soul
      Arrived at this unchanging goal,
   Through changeless Love, that leads to it.

   What matters that one found his Christ
      In rising sun, or burning fire?
      If faith within him did not tire,
   His longing for the Truth sufficed.

   Before our modern hell was brought
      To edify the modern world,
      Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled
   In lakes of fire by its own thought.

   A thousand creeds have come and gone,
      But what is that to you or me?
      Creeds are but branches of a tree—
   The root of love lives on and on.

   Though branch by branch proves withered wood,
      The root is warm with precious wine.
      Then keep your faith and leave me mine—
   All roads that lead to God are good.

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 something 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 a common face.”

   I say, “Was ever seen 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 watching the picture, smiling.

   The light burns dim in the hall below,
      Nobody sees her standing,
   Saying good-night again, soft and low,
      Halfway 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.

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 splendour, 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 sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam
   Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
   While over all a fadeless lustre lies,
   And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
   My new robe shall be richer than the old.

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.

APPLAUSE

   I hold it one of the sad certain laws
   Which makes our failures sometime 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.

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.

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.

LIFE

   I feel the great immensity of life.
   All little aims slip from me, and I reach
   My yearning soul toward the Infinite.

   As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves
   Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower
   For lovers’ secrets, or for children’s sports,
   Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds,
   And lets the eye behold it, limitless,
   And full of winding mysteries of ways:
   So now with life that reaches out before,
   And borders on the unexplained Beyond.

   I see the stars above me, world on world:
   I hear the awful language of all Space;
   I feel the distant surging of great seas,
   That hide the secrets of the Universe
   In their eternal bosoms; and I know
   That I am but an atom of the Whole.

THE CHRISTIAN’S NEW YEAR PRAYER

   Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending
      Through these glad New Year days,
   To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending—
      For e’en hard hearts do raise
   Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power,
      Or freedom from all care—
   Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour,
      Hear now a Christian’s prayer.

   Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me,
      Be as a means of grace
   To lead me up, no matter what betide me,
      Nearer the Master’s face.
   If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain
      Where living waters play,
   My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain,
      Then cast them in my way.

   If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses
      To shape it for Thy crown,
   Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses,
      With sorrows bear it down.
   Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure,
      And if I should complain,
   Heap full of anguish yet another measure
      Until I smile at pain.
   Send dangers—deaths! but tell me how to dare them;
      Enfold me in Thy care.
   Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them—
   This is a Christian’s prayer.

IN THE NIGHT

   Sometimes at night, when I sit and write,
      I hear the strangest things,—
   As my brain grows hot with burning thought,
      That struggles for form and wings,
   I can hear the beat of my swift blood’s feet,
      As it speeds with a rush and a whir
   From heart to brain and back again,
      Like a race-horse under the spur.

   With my soul’s fine ear I listen and hear
      The tender Silence speak,
   As it leans on the breast of Night to rest,
      And presses his dusky cheek.
   And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns
      For something that is kin;
   And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss,
      As it folds and fondles Sin.

   In its hurrying race through leagues of space,
      I can hear the Earth catch breath,
   As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans,
      And longs for the rest of Death.
   And high and far, from a distant star,
      Whose name is unknown to me,
   I hear a voice that says, “Rejoice,
      For I keep ward o’er thee!”

   Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range
      Through the chambers of the night;
   And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates
      May hear, if he lists aright.

GOD’S MEASURE

   God measures souls by their capacity
   For entertaining his best Angel, Love.
   Who loveth most is nearest kin to God,
   Who is all Love, or Nothing.

            He who sits
   And looks out on the palpitating world,
   And feels his heart swell within him large enough
   To hold all men within it, he is near
   His great Creator’s standard, though he dwells
   Outside the pale of churches, and knows not
   A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line
   Of Scripture even.  What God wants of us
   Is that outreaching bigness that ignores
   All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds,
   And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.

A MARCH SNOW

   Let the old snow be covered with the new:
   The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.
   Let it be hidden wholly from our view
      By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden.
   When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring’s feet,
   Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.
   Let the old life be covered by the new:
      The old past life so full of sad mistakes,
   Let it be wholly hidden from the view
      By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.
   Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring
   Let the white mantle of repentance fling
   Soft drapery about it, fold on fold,
   Even as the new snow covers up the old.

PHILOSOPHY

   At morn the wise man walked abroad,
      Proud with the learning of great fools.
   He laughed and said, “There is no God—
      ’Tis force creates, ’tis reason rules.”

   Meek with the wisdom of great faith,
      At night he knelt while angels smiled,
   And wept and cried with anguished breath,
      “Jehovah, _God_, save Thou my child.”

“CARLOS”

   Last night I knelt low at my lady’s feet.
   One soft, caressing hand played with my hair,
   And one I kissed and fondled.  Kneeling there,
   I deemed my meed of happiness complete.

   She was so fair, so full of witching wiles—
   Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye;
   So womanly withal, but not too shy—
   And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles.

   Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead sent,
   Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness
   Through all my frame.  I trembled with excess
   Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content.

   When any mortal dares to so rejoice,
   I think a jealous Heaven, bending low,
   Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow.
   Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady’s voice.

   “My love!” she sighed, “my Carlos!” even now
   I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath
   Bearing to me those words of living death,
   And starting out the cold drops on my brow.

   For I am _Paul_—not Carlos!  Who is he
   That, in the supreme hour of love’s delight,
   Veiled by the shadows of the falling night,
   She should breathe low his name, forgetting me?

   I will not ask her! ’twere a fruitless task,
   For, woman-like, she would make me believe
   Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve,
   And call me cruel.  Nay, I will not ask.

   But this man Carlos, whosoe’er he be,
   Has turned my cup of nectar into gall,
   Since I know he has claimed some one or all
   Of these delights my lady grants to me.

   He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad
   And tender twilight, when the day grew dim.
   How else could I remind her so of him?
   Why, reveries like these have made men mad!

   He must have felt her soft hand on his brow.
   If Heaven were shocked at such presumptuous wrongs,
   And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs,
   _Still she remembers_, though she loves me now.

   And if he lives, and meets me to his cost,
   Why, what avails it?  I must hear and see
   That curst name “Carlos” always haunting me—
   So has another Paradise been lost.

THE TWO GLASSES

   There sat two glasses filled to the brim,
      On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.
      One was ruddy and red as blood,
   And one was clear as the crystal flood.

   Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
   “Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
   I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth,
   Where I was king, for I ruled in might;
   For the proudest and grandest souls on earth
   Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
   From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
   From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
   I have blasted many an honoured name;
   I have taken virtue and given shame;
   I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
   That has made his future a barren waste.
   Far greater than any king am I,
   Or than any army beneath the sky.
   I have made the arm of the driver fail,
   And sent the train from the iron rail.
   I have made good ships go down at sea,
   And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
   Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;
   And my might and power are over all!
   Ho, ho! pale brother,” said the wine,
   “Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”
   Said the water-glass: “I cannot boast
   Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,
   But I can tell of hearts that were sad
   By my crystal drops made bright and glad;
   Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;
   Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
   I have leapt through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
   Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
   I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,
   And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;
   I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;
   I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
   I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
   That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.
   I can tell of manhood debased by you,
   That I have uplifted and crowned anew.
   I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
   I gladden the heart of man and maid;
   I set the wine-chained captive free,
   And all are better for knowing me.”

   These are the tales they told each other,
   The glass of wine and its paler brother,
   As they sat together, filled to the brim,
   On a rich man’s table, rim to rim.

LA MORT D’AMOUR

   When was it that love died?  We were so fond,
      So very fond a little while ago.
      With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow,
   We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,

   When we should dwell together as one heart,
      And scarce could wait that happy time to come.
      Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb,
   And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.

   How was it that love died?  I do not know.
      I only know that all its grace untold
      Has faded into gray!  I miss the gold
   From our dull skies; but did not see it go.

   Why should love die?  We prized it, I am sure;
      We thought of nothing else when it was ours;
      We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers:
   It was our all; why could it not endure?

   Alas, we know not how, or when, or why
      This dear thing died.  We only know it went,
      And left us dull, cold, and indifferent;
   We who found heaven once in each other’s sigh.

   How pitiful it is, and yet how true
      That half the lovers in the world, one day,
      Look questioning in each other’s eyes this way
   And know love’s gone forever, as we do.

   Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart,
      As I look out o’er all the wide, sad earth
      And see love’s flame gone out on many a hearth,
   That those who would keep love must dwell apart.

LOVE’S SLEEP
(Vers de Société)

   We’ll cover Love with roses,
      And sweet sleep he shall take
   None but a fool supposes
      Love always keeps awake.
   I’ve known loves without number—
      True loves were they, and tried;
   And just for want of slumber
      They pined away and died.

   Our love was bright and cheerful
      A little while agone;
   Now he is pale and tearful,
      And—yes, I’ve seen him yawn.
   So tired is he of kisses
      That he can only weep;
   The one dear thing he misses
      And longs for now is sleep.

   We could not let him leave us
      One time, he was so dear,
   But now it would not grieve us
      If he slept half a year.
   For he has had his season,
      Like the lily and the rose,
   And it but stands to reason
      That he should want repose.

   We prized the smiling Cupid
      Who made our days so bright;
   But he has grown so stupid
      We gladly say good-night.
   And if he wakens tender
      And fond, and fair as when
   He filled our lives with splendour,
      We’ll take him back again.

   And should he never waken,
      As that perchance may be,
   We will not weep forsaken,
      But sing, “Love, tra-la-lee!”

TRUE CULTURE

   The highest culture is to speak no ill,
   The best reformer is the man whose eyes
   Are quick to see all beauty and all worth;
   And by his own discreet, well-ordered life,
   Alone reproves the erring.

         When thy gaze
   Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe.
   But when it falls upon a fellow-man
   Let kindliness control it; and refrain
   From that belittling censure that springs forth
   From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.

THE VOLUPTUARY

   Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated,
      Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified.
   Life holds no thing to be anticipated,
      And I am sad from being satisfied.

   The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain
      Has left me now the highest point is gained.
   The crystal spray that fell from Fame’s fair fountain
      Was sweeter than the waters were when drained.

   The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure,
      And which I purchased with my youth and strength,
   Pleased me a moment.  But the empty treasure
      Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length.

   And love, all glowing with a golden glory,
      Delighted me a season with its tale.
   It pleased the longest, but at last the story,
      So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.

   I lived for self, and all I asked was given,
      I have had all, and now am sick of bliss,
   No other punishment designed by Heaven
      Could strike me half so forcibly as this.

   I feel no sense of aught but enervation
      In all the joys my selfish aims have brought,
   And know no wish but for annihilation,
      Since that would give me freedom from the thought

   Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated;
      Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.
   For him there is a hope not yet completed;
      For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.

   But cursed is he who has no balked ambition,
      No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair,
   But sick and sated with complete fruition,
      Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.

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 armour 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.

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 twinèd 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 commonplace and workaday,
      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.

LOVE’S BURIAL

   Let us clear a little space,
   And make Love a burial-place.

   He is dead, dear, as you see,
   And he wearies you and me.

   Growing heavier, day by day,
   Let us bury him, I say.

   Wings of dead white butterflies,
   These shall shroud him, as he lies

   In his casket rich and rare,
   Made of finest maiden-hair.

   With the pollen of the rose
   Let us his white eyelids close.

   Put the rose thorn in his hand,
   Shorn of leaves—you understand.

   Let some holy water fall
   On his dead face, tears of gall—

   As we kneel by him and say,
   “Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.

   Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust,
   They will lower him to the dust.

   Let us part here with a kiss—
   You go that way, I go this.

   Since we buried Love to-day
   We will walk a separate way.

LIPPO

   Now we must part, my Lippo.  Even so,
   I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise;
   Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes—
   ’Twas thine own hand which dealt dear
   Love’s death-blow.

   I loved thee fondly yesterday.  Till then
   Thy heart was like a covered golden cup
   Always above my eager lip held up.
   I fancied thou wert not as other men.

   I knew that heart was filled with Love’s sweet wine,
   Pressed wholly for my drinking.  And my lip
   Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip
   Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.

   Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled
   Its precious contents.  Even to the lees
   Were offered to me, saying, “Drink of these!”
   And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed.

   No word was left unsaid, no act undone,
   To prove to me thou wert my abject slave.
   Ah!  Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save
   One little drop of that sweet wine—but one—

   I still had loved thee, longing for it then.
   But even the cup is mine.  I look within,
   And find it holds not one last drop to win,
   And cast it down.—Thou art as other men.

“LOVE IS ENOUGH”

   Love is enough.  Let us not ask for gold.
      Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness;
   In those serene, Arcadian days of old
      Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress,
   The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia’s height
   Lived only for dear love and love’s delight.
            Love is enough.

   Love is enough.  Why should we care for fame?
      Ambition is a most unpleasant guest:
   It lures us with the glory of a name
      Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest.
   Let us stay here in this secluded place
   Made beautiful by love’s endearing grace!
            Love is enough.

   Love is enough.  Why should we strive for power?
      It brings men only envy and distrust.
   The poor world’s homage pleases but an hour,
      And earthly honours vanish in the dust.
   The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate;
   Let me be loved, and let who will be great.
            Love is enough.

   Love is enough.  Why should we ask for more?
      What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?
   What better boon of all their precious store
      Than our fond hearts that love and love again?
   Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;
   And life is fair and all the world complete:
            Love is enough!

LIFE IS LOVE

   Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?
      Does anyone weep on a day like this,
   With the sun above and the green earth under?
      Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

   With the sun and the skies and the birds above me,
      Birds that sing as they wheel and fly—
   With the winds to follow and say they loved me—
      Who could be lonely?  O ho, not I!

   Somebody said in the street this morning,
      As I opened my window to let in the light,
   That the darkest day of the world was dawning;
      But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight

   One who claims that he knows about it
      Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin;
   But I and the bees and the birds—we doubt it,
      And think it a world worth living in.

   Someone says that hearts are fickle,
      That love is sorrow, that life is care,
   And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle,
      Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

   I told the thrush, and we laughed together—
      Laughed till the woods were all a-ring;
   And he said to me, as he plumed each feather,
      “Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing!”

   Up he flew, but his song, remaining,
      Rang like a bell in my heart all day,
   And silenced the voices of weak complaining
      That pipe like insects along the way.

   O world of light, and O world of beauty!
      Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?
   Yes, life is love, and love is duty;
      And what heart sorrows?  O no, not mine!

                                 THE END

              BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD