Joseph.

Laugh, if you like to! Laugh till you're gray; But I guess you'd laugh another way If you'd hit your toe, and fallen like me, And cut a bloody gash in your knee, And bumped your nose and bruised your shin, Tumbling over the rolling-pin That rolled to the floor in the awful din That followed the fall of the row of tin That stood upon the dresser.

Samuel.

Guess again—dear little guesser! You wouldn't catch this boy lopping his wing, Or whining over anything. So stir your stumps, Forget your bumps, Get out of your dumps, And up and at it again; For the clock is striking ten, And Ruth will come pretty soon and say, "Go to your beds You sleepy heads!" So—quick! What shall we play?

Rebekah.

I wouldn't play any more, For Joseph is tired and sore With his fall upon the floor.

All.

Then he shall tell a story.

Joseph.

About old Mother Morey?

All.

No! Tell us another.

Joseph.

About my brother?

Rebekah.

Now, Joseph, you shall be good, And do as you'd be done by; We didn't mean to be rude When you fell and began to cry: We wanted to make you forget your pain; But it frets you, and we'll not laugh again.

Joseph.

Well, if you'll all sit still, And not be frisking about, Nor utter a whisper till You've heard my story out, I'll tell you a tale as weird As ever you heard in your lives, Of a man with a long blue beard, And the way he treated his wives.

All.

Oh, that will be nice! We'll be still as mice.

Joseph.

[Relates the old story of Blue Beard, and DAVID, and RUTH enter from the cellar unperceived.]

Centuries since there flourished a man, (A cruel old Tartar as rich as the Khan), Whose castle was built on a splendid plan, With gardens and groves and plantations; But his shaggy beard was as blue as the sky, And he lived alone, for his neighbors were shy. And had heard hard stories, by the by, About his domestic relations.

Just on the opposite side of the plain A widow abode, with her daughters twain; And one of them—neither cross nor vain— Was a beautiful little treasure; So he sent them an invitation to tea, And having a natural wish to see His wonderful castle and gardens, all three Said they'd do themselves the pleasure.

As soon as there happened a pleasant day, They dressed themselves in a sumptuous way, And rode to the castle as proud and gay As silks and jewels could make them; And they were received in the finest style, And saw everything that was worth their while, In the halls of Blue Beard's grand old pile, Where he was so kind as to take them.

The ladies were all enchanted quite; For they found old Blue Beard so polite That they did not suffer at all from fright, And frequently called thereafter; Then he offered to marry the younger one, And as she was willing the thing was done, And celebrated by all the ton With feasting and with laughter.

As kind a husband as ever was seen Was Blue Beard then, for a month, I ween; And she was as proud as any queen, And as happy as she could be, too; But her husband called her to him one day, And said, "My dear, I am going away; It will not be long that I shall stay; There is business for me to see to.

"The keys of my castle I leave with you; But if you value my love, be true, And forbear to enter the Chamber of Blue! Farewell, Fatima! Remember!" Fatima promised him; then she ran To visit the rooms with her sister Ann; But when she had finished the tour, she began To think about the Blue Chamber.

Well, the woman was curiously inclined, So she left her sister and prudence behind, (With a little excuse) and started to find The mystery forbidden. She paused at the door;—all was still as night! She opened it: then through the dim, blue light There blistered her vision the horrible sight That was in that chamber hidden.

The room was gloomy and damp and wide, And the floor was red with the bloody tide From headless women, laid side by side, The wives of her lord and master! Frightened and fainting, she dropped the key, But seized it and lifted it quickly; then she Hurried as swiftly as she could flee From the scene of the disaster.

She tried to forget the terrible dead, But shrieked when she saw that the key was red, And sickened and shook with an awful dread When she heard Blue Beard was coming. He did not appear to notice her pain; But he took his keys, and seeing the stain, He stopped in the middle of the refrain That he had been quietly humming.

"Mighty well, madam!" said he, "mighty well! What does this little bloodstain tell? You've broken your promise; prepare to dwell With the wives I've had before you! You've broken your promise, and you shall die." Then Fatima, supposing her death was nigh, Fell on her knees and began to cry, "Have mercy, I implore you!"

"No!" shouted Blue Beard, drawing his sword; "You shall die this very minute," he roared. "Grant me time to prepare to meet my Lord," The terrified woman entreated. "Only ten minutes," he roared again; And holding his watch by its great gold chain, He marked on the dial the fatal ten, And retired till they were completed.

"Sister, oh, sister, fly up to the tower! Look for release from this murderer's power! Our brothers should be here this very hour;— Speak! Does there come assistance?" "No. I see nothing but sheep on the hill." "Look again, sister!" "I'm looking still, But naught can I see, whether good or ill, Save a flurry of dust in the distance."

"Time's up!" shouted Blue Beard, out from his room; "This moment shall witness your terrible doom, And give you a dwelling within the room Whose secrets you have invaded." "Comes there no help for my terrible need?" "There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed." "Oh! tell them to ride very fast indeed, Or I must meet death unaided."

"Time's fully up! Now have done with your prayer," Shouted Blue Beard, swinging his sword on the stair; Then he entered, and grasping her beautiful hair, Swung his glittering weapon around him; But a loud knock rang at the castle gate, And Fatima was saved from her horrible fate, For, shocked with surprise, he paused too late; And then the two soldiers found him.

They were her brothers, and quick as they knew What the fiend was doing, their swords they drew, And attacked him fiercely, and ran him through, So that soon he was mortally wounded. With a wild remorse was his conscience filled When he thought of the hapless wives he had killed; But quickly the last of his blood was spilled, And his dying groan was sounded.

As soon as Fatima recovered from fright, She embraced her brothers with great delight; And they were as glad and as grateful quite As she was glad and grateful. Then they all went out from that scene of pain, And sought in quietude to regain Their minds, which had come to be quite insane, In a place so horrid and hateful.

'Twas a private funeral Blue Beard had; For the people knew he was very bad, And, though they said nothing, they all were glad For the fall of the evil-doer; But Fatima first ordered some graves to be made, And there the unfortunate ladies were laid, And after some painful months, with the aid Of her friends, her spirits came to her.

Then she cheered the hearts of the suffering poor, And an acre of land around each door And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more, To her tenantry she granted. So all of them had enough to eat, And their love for her was so complete They would kiss the dust from her little feet, Or do anything she wanted.

Samuel.

Capital! Capital! Wasn't it good! I should like to have been her brother; If I had been one, you may guess there would Have been little work for the other. I'd have run him right through the heart, just so; And cut off his head at a single blow, And killed him so quickly he'd never know What it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe?

Joseph.

You are very brave with your bragging tongue; But if you had been there, you'd have sung A very different tune Poor Blue Beard! He would have been afraid Of a little boy with a penknife blade, Or a tiny pewter spoon!

Samuel.

It makes no difference what you say (Pretty little boy, afraid to play!) But it served him rightly any way, And gave him just his due. And wasn't it good that his little wife Should live in his castle the rest of her life, And have all his money, too?

Rebekah.

I'm thinking of the ladies who Were lying in the Chamber Blue, With all their small necks cut in two.

I see them lying, half a score, In a long row upon the floor, Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore. I know the sweet Fatima would Have put their heads on if she could; And made them live—she was so good;

And washed their faces at the sink; But Blue Beard was not sane, I think: I wonder if he did not drink!

For no man in his proper mind Would be so cruelly inclined As to kill ladies who were kind.

Ruth.

[Stepping forward with DAVID.]

Story and comment alike are bad; These little fellows are raving mad With thinking what they should do, Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had Given her heart—and her head—to a lad Like the man with the Beard of Blue. Each little jacket Is now a packet Of murderous thoughts and fancies; Oh, the gentle trade By which fiends are made With the ready aid Of these bloody old romances! And the little girl takes the woman's turn, And thinks that the old curmudgeon Who owned the castle, and rolled in gold Over fields and gardens manifold, And kept in his house a family tomb, With his bowling course and his billiard-room, Where he could preserve his precious dead, Who took the kiss of the bridal bed From one who straightway took their head, And threw it away with the pair of gloves In which he wedded his hapless loves, Had some excuse for his dudgeon.

David.

We learn by contrast to admire The beauty that enchains us; And know the object of desire By that which pains us.

The roses blushing at the door, The lapse of leafy June, The singing birds, the sunny shore, The summer moon;—

All these entrance the eye or ear By innate grace and charm; But o'er them, reaching through the year, Hangs Winter's arm.

To give to memory the sign, The index of our bliss, And show by contrast how divine The Summer is.

From chilling blasts and stormy skies, Bare hills and icy streams, Touched into fairest life arise Our summer dreams.

And virtue never seems so fair As when we lift our gaze From the red eyes and bloody hair That vice displays.

We are too low,—our eyes too dark Love's height to estimate, Save as we note the sunken mark Of brutal Hate.

So this ensanguined tale shall move Aright each little dreamer, And Blue Beard teach them how to love The sweet Fatima.

They hate his crimes, and it is well; They pity those who died; Their sense of justice when he fell Was satisfied.

No fierce revenges are the fruit Of their just indignation; They sit in judgment on the brute, And condemnation;

And turn to her, his rescued wife, Her deeds so kind and human, And love the beauty of her life, And bless the woman.

Ruth.

That is the way I supposed you would twist it; And now that the boys are disposed of, And the moral so handsomely closed off, What do you say of the girl? That she missed

When she thought of old Blue Beard as some do of Judas, Who with this notion essay to delude us: That when he relented, And fiercely repented, He was hardly so bad As he commonly had The fortune to be represented?

David.

The noblest pity in the earth Is that bestowed on sin. The Great Salvation had its birth That ruth within.

The girl is nearest God, in fact; The boy gives crime its due; She blames the author of the act, And pities too.

Thus, from this strange excess of wrong Her tender heart has caught The noblest truth, the sweetest song, The Saviour taught.

So, more than measured homily, Of sage, or priest, or preacher, Is this wild tale of cruelty Love's gentle teacher.

It tells of sin, its deep remorse, Its fitting recompense, And vindicates the tardy course Of Providence.

These boyish bosoms are on fire With chivalric possession, And burn with just and manly ire Against oppression.

The glory and the grace of life, And Love's surpassing sweetness, Rise from the monster to the wife In high completeness;

And thence look down with mercy's eye On sin's accurst abuses, And seek to wrest from charity Some fair excuses.

Ruth.

These greedy mouths are watering For the fruit within the basket; And, although they will not ask it, Their jack-knives all are burning And their eager hands are yearning For the peeling and the quartering. So let us have done with our talk; For they are too tired to say their prayers, And the time is come they should walk From the story below to the story upstairs.



THE THIRD MOVEMENT.

LOCALITY.—The Kitchen.

PRESENT.-DAVID, RUTH, JOHN, PETER, PRUDENCE, and PATIENCE,

THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY THE DENOUEMENT.

John.

Since the old gentleman retired to bed, Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Ruth, Have wasted thirty minutes underground In explorations. One would think the house Covered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave, And they had lost themselves. Mary and Grace Still hold their chamber and their conference, And pour into each other's greedy ears Their stream of talk, whose low monotonous hum, Would lull to slumber any storm but this. The children are play-tired and gone to bed; And one may know by looking round the room Their place of sport was here. And we, plain folk, Who have no gift of speech, especially On themes which we and none may understand, Have yawned and nodded in the great square room, And wondered if the parted family Would ever meet again.

Ruth.

John, do you see The apples and the cider on the hearth? If I remember rightly, you discuss Such themes as these with noticeable zest And pleasant tokens of intelligence; Rather preferring scanty company To the full circle. So, sir, take the lead, And help yourself.

John.

Aye! That I will, and give Your welcome invitation currency, In the old-fashioned way. Come! Help yourselves!

David.

[Looking out from the window.]

The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls! The atmosphere is plunging like the sea Against the woods, and pouring on the night The roar of breakers, while the blinding spray O'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting on In lines as level as the window-bars. What curious visions, in a night like this, Will the eye conjure from the rocks and trees And zigzag fences! I was almost sure I saw a man staggering along the road A moment since; but instantly the shape Dropped from my sight. Hark! Was not that a call— A human voice? There's a conspiracy Between my eyes and ears to play me tricks, Else wanders there abroad some hapless soul Who needs assistance. There he stands again, And with unsteady essay strives to breast The tempest. Hush! Did you not hear that cry? Quick, brothers! We must out, and give our aid. None but a dying and despairing man Ever gave utterance to a cry like that. Nay, wait for nothing. Follow me!

Ruth.

Alas! Who can he be, who on a night like this, And on this night, of all nights in the year, Holds to the highway, homeless?

Prudence.

Probably Some neighbor, started from his home in quest Of a physician; or, more likely still, Some poor inebriate, sadly overcome By his sad keeping of the holiday. I hope they'll give him quarters in the barn; If he sleep here, there'll be no sleep for me.

Patience.

I'll not believe it was a man at all; David and Ruth are always seeing things That no one else sees.

Ruth.

I see plainly now What we shall all see plainly, soon enough. The man is dead, and they are bearing him As if he were a log. Quick! Stir the fire, And clear the settle! We must lay him there. I will bring cordials, and flannel stuffs With which to chafe him; open wide the door.

[_The men enter bearing a body apparently lifeless, which they lay upon the settle.]

David.

Now do my bidding, orderly and swift; And we may save from death a fellow-man. Peter, relieve him of those frozen shoes, And wrap his feet in flannel. This way, Ruth! Administer that cordial yourself. John, you are strong, and that rough hand of yours Will chafe him well. Work with a will, I say!

* * * * *

My hand is on his heart, and I can feel Both warmth and motion. If we persevere, He will be saved. Work with a will, I say!

* * * * *

A groan? Ha! That is good. Another groan? Better and better!

Ruth.

It is down at last!— A spoonful of the cordial. His breath Comes feebly, but is warm upon my hand.

David.

Give him brisk treatment, and persistent, too; And we shall be rewarded presently, For there is life in him.

* * * * * He moves his lips And tries to speak.

* * * * *

And now he opes his eyes. What eyes! How wandering and wild they are!

[To the stranger.]

We are your friends. We found you overcome By the cold storm without, and brought you in. We are your friends, I say; so be at ease, And let us do according to your need. What is your wish?

Stranger.

My friends? O God in Heaven! They've cheated me! I'm in the hospital. Oh, it was cruel to deceive me thus! No, you are not my friends. What bitter pain Racks my poor body!

David.

Poor man, how he raves! Let us be silent while the warmth and wine Provoke his sluggish blood to steady flow, And each dead sense comes back to life again, O'er the same path of torture which it trod When it went out from him. He'll slumber soon, And, when he wakens, we may talk with him.

Prudence.

[Sotto voce_.]

Shall I not call the family? I think Mary and Grace must both be very cold; And they know nothing of this strange affair. I'll wait them at the landing, and secure Their silent entrance.

David.

If it please you—well.

[PRUDENCE retires, and returns with GRACE and MARY.]

Mary.

Why! We heard nothing of it—Grace and I:— What a cadaverous hand! How blue and thin!

David.

At his first wild awaking he bemoaned His fancied durance in a hospital; And since he spoke so strangely, I have thought He may have fled a mad-house. Matters not! We've done our duty, and preserved his life.

Mary.

Shall I disturb him if I look at him? I'm strangely curious to see his face.

David.

Go. Move you carefully, and bring us word Whether he sleeps.

[MARY rises, goes to the settle, and sinks back fainting ]

Why! What ails the girl? I thought her nerves were iron. Dash her brow, And bathe her temples!

Mary.

There—there,—that will do. 'Tis over now.

David.

The man is speaking. Hush!

Stranger.

Oh, what a heavenly dream! But it is past, Like all my heavenly dreams, for never more Shall dream entrance me. Death has never dreams, But everlasting wakefulness. The eye Of the quick spirit that has dropped the flesh May close no more in slumber.

* * * * *

I must die! This painless spell which binds my weary limbs— This peace ineffable of soul and sense— Is dissolution's herald, and gives note That life is conquered and the struggle o'er. But I had hoped to see her ere I died; To kneel for pardon, and implore one kiss, Pledge to my soul that in the coming heaven We should not meet as strangers, but rejoin Our hearts and lives so madly sundered here, Through fault and freak of mine. But it is well! God's will be done!

* * * * *

I dreamed that I had reached The old red farmhouse,—that I saw the light Flaming as brightly as in other times It flushed the kitchen windows; and that forms Were sliding to and fro in joyous life, Restless to give me welcome. Then I dreamed Of the dear woman who went out with me One sweet spring morning, in her own sweet spring, To—wretchedness and ruin. Oh, forgive— Dear, pitying Christ, forgive this cruel wrong, And let me die! Oh let me—let me die! Mary! my Mary! Could you only know How I have suffered since I fled from you.— How I have sorrowed through long months of pain, And prayed for pardon,—you would pardon me.

David.

[Sotto voce]

Mary, what means this? Does he dream alone, Or are we dreaming?

Mary.

Edward, I am here! I am your Mary! Know you not my face? My husband, speak to me! Oh, speak once more! This is no dream, but kind reality.

Edward.

[Raising himself, and looking wildly around.]

You, Mary? Is this heaven, and am I dead? I did not know you died: when did you die? And John and Peter, Grace and little Ruth Grown to a woman; are they all with you? 'Tis very strange! O pity me, my friends! For God has pitied me, and pardoned, too; Else I should not be here. Nay, you seem cold, And look on me with sad severity. Have you no pardoning word—no smile for me?

Mary.

This is not Heaven's, but Earth's reality; This is the farm-house—these your wife and friends. I hold your hand, and I forgive you all. Pray you recline! You are not strong enough To bear this yet.

Edward.

[Sinking back.]

O toiling heart! O sick and sinking heart! Give me one hour of service, ere I die! This is no dream. This hand is precious flesh, And I am here where I have prayed to be. My God, I thank thee! Thou hast heard my prayer, And, in its answer, given me a pledge Of the acceptance of my penitence. How have I yearned for this one priceless hour! Cling to me, dearest, while my feet go down Into the silent stream; nor loose your hold, Till angels grasp me on the other side.

Mary.

Edward, you are not dying—must not die; For only now are we prepared to live. You must have quiet, and a night of rest. Be silent, if you love me!

Edward.

If I love? Ah, Mary! never till this blessed hour, When power and passion, lust and pride are gone, Have I perceived what wedded love may be;— Unutterable fondness, soul for soul; Profoundest tenderness between two hearts Allied by nature, interlocked by life. I know that I shall die; but the low clouds That closed my mental vision have retired, And left a sky as clear and calm as Heaven. I must talk now, or never more on earth; So do not hinder me.

Mary.

[Weeping.]

Have you a wish That I can gratify? Have you any words To send to other friends?

Edward.

I have no friends But you and these, and only wish to leave My worthless name and memory redeemed Within your hearts to pitying respect. I have no strength, and it becomes me not, To tell the story of my life of sin. I was a drunkard, thief, adulterer; And fled from shame, with shame, to find remorse. I had but few months of debauchery, Pursued with mad intent to damp or drown The flames of a consuming conscience, when My body, poisoned, crippled with disease, Refused the guilty service of my soul, And at midday fell prone upon the street. Thence I was carried to a hospital, And there I woke to that delirium Which none but drunkards this side of the pit May even dream of.

But at last there came, With abstinence and kindly medicines, Release from pain and peaceful sanity; And then Christ found me, ready for His hand. I was not ready for Him when He came And asked me for my youth; and when He knocked At my heart's door in manhood's early prime With tenderest monitions, I debarred His waiting feet with promise and excuse; And when, in after years, absorbed in sin, The gentle summons swelled to thunderings That echoed through the chambers of my soul With threats of vengeance, I shut up my ears; And then He went away, and let me rush Without arrest, or protest, toward the pit. I made swift passage downward, till, at length, I had become a miserable wreck— Pleasure behind me; only pain before; My life lived out; the fires of passion dead, Without a friend; no pride, no power, no hope; No motive in me e'en to wish for life. Then, as I said, Christ came, with stern and sad Reminders of His mercy and my guilt, And the door fell before Him.

I went out, And trod the wildernesses of remorse For many days. Then from their outer verge, Tortured and blinded, I plunged madly down Into the sullen bosom of despair; But strength from Heaven was given me, and preserved Breath in my bosom, till a light streamed up Upon the other shore, and I struck out On the cold waters, struggling for my life. Fainting I reached the beach, and on my knees Climbed up the thorny hill of penitence, Till I could see, upon its distant brow, The Saviour beck'ning. Then I ran—I flew— And grasped His outstretched hand. It lifted me High on the everlasting rock, and then It folded me, with all my griefs and tears, My sin-sick body and my guilt-stained soul, To the great heart that throbs for all the world.

Mary.

Dear Lord, I bless Thee! Thou hast heard my prayer, And saved the wanderer! Hear it once again, And lengthen out the life Thou hast redeemed!

Edward.

Mary, my wife, forbear! I may not give Response to such petition. I have prayed That I may die. When first the love Divine Received me on its bosom, and in mine I felt the springing of another life, I begged the Lord to grant me two requests: The first that I might die, and in that world Where passion sleeps, and only influence From Him and those who cluster at His throne Breathes on the soul, the germ of His great life, Bursting within me, might be perfected. The second, that your life, my love, and mine Might be once more united on the earth In holy marriage, and that mine might be Breathed out at last within your loving arms. One prayer is granted, and the other waits But a brief space for its accomplishment.

Mary.

But why this prayer to die? Still loving me,— With the great motive for desiring life And the deep secret of enjoyment won,— Why pray for death?

Edward.

Do you not know me, Mary? I am afraid to live, for I am weak. I've found a treasure only life can steal; I've won a jewel only death will keep. In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearl Would not be safe. That which I would not take When health was with me,—which I spurned away So long as I had power to sin, I fear Would be surrendered with that power's return And the temptation to its exercise. For soul like mine, diseased in every part, There is but one condition in which grace May give it service. For my malady The Great Physician draws the blood away That only flows to feed its baleful fires; For only thus the balsam and the balm May touch the springs of healing.

So I pray To be delivered from myself,—to be Delivered from necessity of ill,— To be secured from bringing harm to you. Oh, what a boon is death to the sick soul! I greet it with a joy that passes speech. Were the whole world to come before me now,— Wealth with its treasures; Pleasure with its cup; Power robed in purple; Beauty in its pride, And with Love's sweetest blossoms garlanded; Fame with its bays, and Glory with its crown,— To tempt me lifeward, I would turn away, And stretch my hands with utter eagerness Toward the pale angel waiting for me now, And give my hand to him, to be led out, Serenely singing, to the land of shade.

Mary.

Edward, I yield you. I would not retain One who has strayed so long from God and heaven, When his weak feet have found the only path Open for such as he.

Edward.

My strength recedes; But ere it fail, tell me how fares your life. You have seen sorrow; but it comforts me To hear the language of a chastened soul From one perverted by my guilty hand. You speak the dialect of the redeemed— The Heaven-accepted. Tell me it is so, And you are happy.

Mary.

With sweet hope and trust I may reply, 'tis as you think and wish. I have seen sorrow, surely, and the more That I have seen what was far worse; but God Sent His own servant to me to restore My sadly straying feet to the sure path; And in my soul I have the pledge of grace Which shall suffice to keep them there.

Edward.

Ah, joy! You found a friend; and my o'erflowing heart, Welling with gratitude, pours out to him For his kind ministry its fitting meed. Oh, breathe his name to me, that my poor lips May bind it to a benison, and that, While dying, I may whisper it with those— Jesus and Mary—which I love the best. Name him, I pray you.

Mary.

You would ask of me To bear your thanks to him, and to rehearse Your dying words?

Grace.

He asks your good friend's name; You do not understand him.

Mary.

It is hard To give denial to a dying wish; But, Edward, I've no right to speak his name. He was a Christian man, and you may give Of the full largess of your gratitude All, without robbing God, you have to give, And fail, e'en then, of worthy recompense.

Edward.

Your will is mine.

Grace.

Nay, Mary, tell it him! Where is he going he should bruit the name? Remember where he lies, and that no ears Save those of angels—

Mary.

There are others here Who may not hear it.

Ruth.

We will all retire. It is not proper we should linger here, Barring the sacred confidence of hearts Parting so sadly.

David.

Mary, you must yield, Nor keep the secret longer from your friends,

Mary.

David, you know not what you say.

David.

I know; So give the dying man no more delay.

Mary.

I will declare it under your command. This stranger friend—stranger for many months— This man, selectest instrument of Heaven, Who gave me succor in my hour of need, Snatched me from ruin, rescued me from want, Counseled and cheered me, prayed with me, and then Led me with careful hand into the light, Was he now bending over you in tears— David, my brother!

Edward.

Blessed be his name! Brother by every law, above—below!

Grace.

[Pale and trembling,]

David? My husband? Did I hear aright? You are not jesting! Sure you would not jest At such a juncture! Speak, my husband, speak! Is this a plot to cheat a dying man, Or cheat a wife who, if it be no plot, Is worthy death? What can you mean by this?

Mary.

Not more nor less than my true words convey.

Grace.

Nay, David, tell me!

David.

Mary's words are truth. Grace.

O mean and jealous heart, what hast thou done! What wrong to honor, spite to Christian love, And shame to self beyond self-pardoning! How can I ever lift my faithless eyes To those true eyes that I have counted false; Or meet those lips that I have charged with lies; Or win the dear embraces I have spurned? O most unhappy, most unworthy wife! No one but he who still has clung to thee,— Proud, and imperious, and impenitent,— No one but he who has in silence borne Thy peevish criminations and complaints Can now forgive thee, when in deepest shame Thou bowest with confession of thy faults. Dear husband! David! Look upon your wife! Behold one kneeling never knelt to you! I have abused you and your faithful love, And, in my great humiliation, pray You will not trample me beneath your feet. Pity my weakness, and remember, too, That Love was jealous of thee, and not Hate— That it was Love's own pride tormented me. My husband, take me once more to your arms, And kiss me in forgiveness; say that you Will be my counselor, my friend, my love; And I will give myself to you again, To be all yours—my reason, confidence, My faith and trust all yours, my heart's best love, My service and my prayers, all yours—all yours!

David.

Rise, dearest, rise! It gives me only pain That such as you should kneel to such as I. Your words inform me that you know how weak I am whom you have only fancied weak. Forgive you? I forgive you everything; And take the pardon which your prayer insures. Let this embrace, this kiss, be evidence Our jarring hearts catch common rhythm again, And we are lovers.

Ruth.

Hush! You trouble him. He understands this scene no more than we. Mary, he speaks to you.

Edward.

Dear wife, farewell! The room grows dim, and silently and soft The veil is dropping 'twixt my eyes and yours, Which soon will hide me from you—you from me. Only one hand is warm; it rests in yours, Whose full, sweet pulses throb along my arm, So that I live upon them. Cling to me! And thus your life, after my life is past, Shall lay me gently in the arms of Death. Thus shall you link your being with a soul Gazing unveiled upon the Great White Throne.

Dear hearts of love surrounding me, farewell! I cannot see you now; or, if I do, You are transfigured. There are floating forms That whisper over me like summer leaves; And now there comes, and spreads through all my soul. Delicious influx of another life, From out whose essence spring, like living flowers, Angelic senses with quick ultimates, That catch the rustle of ethereal robes, And the thin chime of melting minstrelsy— Rising and falling—answered far away— As Echo, dreaming in the twilight woods, Repeats the warble of her twilight birds. And flowers that mock the Iris toss their cups In the impulsive ether, and spill out Sweet tides of perfume, fragrant deluges, Flooding my spirit like an angel's breath.

* * * * *

And still the throng increases; still unfold With broader span and more elusive sweep The radiant vistas of a world divine. But O my soul! what vision rises now! Far, far away, white blazing like the sun, In deepest distance and on highest height, Through walls diaphanous, and atmosphere Flecked with unnumbered forms of missive power, Out-going fleetly and returning slow, A Presence shines I may not penetrate; But on a throne, with smile ineffable, I see a form my conscious spirit knows. Jesus, my Saviour! Jesus, Lamb of God! Jesus who taketh from me all my sins, And from the world! Jesus, I come to thee! Come thou to me! O come, Lord, quickly! Come!

David.

Flown on the wings of rapture! Is this death? His heart is still; his beaded brow is cold; His wasted breast struggles for breath no more; And his pale features, hardened with the stress Of Life's resistance, momently subside Into a smile, calm as a twilight lake, Sprent with the images of rising stars, We have seen Evil in his countless forms In these poor lives; have met his armed hosts In dread encounter and discomfiture; And languished in captivity to them, Until we lost our courage and our faith; And here we see their Chieftain—Terror's King! He cuts the knot that binds a weary soul To faithless passions, sateless appetites, And powers perverted, and it flies away Singing toward heaven. He turns and looks at us, And finds us weeping with our gratitude— Full of sweet sorrow,—sorrow sweeter far Than the supremest ecstasy of joy.

And this is death! Think you that raptured soul Now walking humbly in the golden streets, Bearing the precious burden of a love Too great for utterance, or with hushed heart Drinking the music of the ransomed throng, Counts death an evil?—evil, sickness, pain, Calamity, or aught that God prescribed To cure it of its sin, or bring it where The healing hand of Christ might touch it? No! He is a man to-night—a man in Christ. This was his childhood, here; and as we give A smile of wonder to the little woes That drew the tears from out our own young eyes, The kind corrections and severe constraints Imposed by those who loved us—so he sees A father's chastisement in all the ill That filled his life with darkness; so he sees In every evil a kind instrument To chasten, elevate, correct, subdue, And fit him for that heavenly estate— Saintship in Christ—the Manhood Absolute!



L'ENVOY.

Midnight and silence! In the West, unveiled, The broad, full moon is shining, with the stars. On mount and valley, forest, roof, and rock, On billowy hills smooth-stretching to the sky, On rail and wall, on all things far and near, Cling the bright crystals,—all the earth a floor Of polished silver, pranked with bending forms Uplifting to the light their precious weight Of pearls and diamonds, set in palest gold. The storm is dead; and when it rolled away It took no star from heaven, but left to earth Such legacy of beauty as The Wind— The light-robed shepherdess from Cuban groves— Driving soft showers before her, and warm airs, And her wide-scattered flocks of wet-winged birds, Never bestowed upon the waiting Spring. Pale, silent, smiling, cold, and beautiful! Do storms die thus? And is it this to die?

Midnight and silence! In that hallowed room God's full-orbed peace is shining, with the stars. On head and hand, on brow, and lip, and eye, On folded arms, on broad unmoving breast, On the white-sanded floor, on everything Rest the pale radiance, while bending forms Stand all around, loaded with precious weight Of jewels such as holy angels wear. The man is dead; and when he passed away He blotted out no good, but left behind Such wealth of faith, such store of love and trust, As breath of joy, in-floating from the isles Smiled on by ceaseless summer, and indued With foliage and flowers perennial, Never conveyed to the enchanted soul. Do men die thus? And is it this to die?

Midnight and silence! At each waiting tied, Husband and wife, embracing, kneel in prayer; And lips unused to such a benison Breathe blessings upon evil, and give thanks For knowledge of its sacred ministry. An infant nestles on a mother's breast, Whose head is pillowed where it has not lain For months of wasted life—the tale all told, And confidence and love for aye secure.

The widow and the virgin: where are they? The morn shall find them watching with the dead, Like the two angels at the tomb of Christ,— One at the head, the other at the foot,— Guarding a sepulcher whose occupant Has risen, and rolled the heavy stone away!



THE END.



[Transcriber's Note: In the First Movement, one word was missing from our print copy; the symbol [***] denotes the missing word.

This work contains some rare words and variants, such as blent, indites, mekly, reck, ruth (no capital), sprent, and ween.]