O! O! the world is wide, you lily flowers, It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, Where every night bathe crowds of stars; and bowers Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie: Why are not ye content to reign there? Why?

That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell How it is linked with all my early joy. There was a little foot that I loved well, It danced across them when I was a boy; There was a careless voice that used to sing; There was a child, a sweet and happy thing.

Oft through that matted wood of oak and birch She came from yonder house upon the hill; She crossed the wooden bridges to the church, And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill: But loved to watch the floating lilies best, Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest;

Linger and linger, with her wistful eyes Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white And soft on crimson water; for the skies Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down, To flush the spaces of their clustering crown.

Till the green rushes—O, so glossy green— The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake; And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queen So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, And hover on the flowers—aerial things, With little rainbows flickering on their wings.

Ah! my heart dear! the polished pools lie still, Like lanes of water reddened by the west, Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill, The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast; We scared her oft in childhood from her prey, And the old eager thoughts rise fresh as yesterday.

To yonder copse by moonlight I did go, In luxury of mischief, half afraid, To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snow, Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare.

Panting I lay till her great fanning wings Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering nigh, And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, Skimmed the dusk fields; then rising, with a cry Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey. And tore it from the nest and fled away.

But afterward, belated in the wood, I saw her moping on the rifled tree, And my heart smote me for her, while I stood Awakened from my careless reverie; So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed. So motherlike she drooped and hung her head.

O that mine eyes would cheat me! I behold The godwits running by the water edge, Tim mossy bridges mirrored as of old; The little curlews creeping from the sedge, But not the little foot so gayly light O that mine eyes would cheat me, that I might!—

Would cheat me! I behold the gable ends— Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote; The lane with maples overhung, that bends Toward her dwelling; the dry grassy moat, Thick mullions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray, And walls bunked up with laurel and with bay.

And up behind them yellow fields of corn, And still ascending countless firry spires, Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn, And green in rocky clefts with whins and briers; Then rich cloud masses dyed the violet's hue, With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through.

Ay, I behold all this full easily; My soul is jealous of my happier eyes. And manhood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, By looking merely, orange-flooded skies; Nay, any dew-drop that may near me shine: But never more the face of Eglantine!

She was my one companion, being herself The jewel and adornment of my days, My life's completeness. O, a smiling elf, That I do but disparage with my praise— My playmate; and I loved her dearly and long, And she loved me, as the tender love the strong.

Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came A sudden restless yearning to my heart; And as we went a-nesting, all for shame And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start; Content departed, comfort shut me out, And there was nothing left to talk about.

She had but sixteen years, and as for me, Four added made my life. This pretty bird, This fairy bird that I had cherished—she, Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. The song had ceased; the bird, with nature's art, Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart.

The restless birth of love my soul opprest, I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, And warred with that disquiet in my breast As one who knows there is a better way; But, turned against myself, I still in vain Looked for the ancient calm to come again.

My tired soul could to itself confess That she deserved a wiser love than mine; To love more truly were to love her less, And for this truth I still awoke to pine; I had a dim belief that it would be A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me.

Good hast Thou made them—comforters right sweet; Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent; Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat; Good are Thy stars above the firmament. Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown; The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown.

For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, Thy bountiful creation is so fair. That, drawn before us like the temple veil, It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of gold.

Purple and blue and scarlet—shimmering bells And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, Glorious with chain and fretwork that the swell Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, Till on a day comes loss, that God makes gain, And death and darkness rend the veil in twain.

* * * * *

Ah, sweetest! my beloved! each outward thing Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee; Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree, And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain A flashing thought of thee with their remembered strain.

I will not pine—it is the careless brook. These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale; It is the long tree-shadows, with their look Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail: The peace of nature—No, I will not pine— But O the contrast 'twixt her face and mine!

And still I changed—I was a boy no more; My heart was large enough to hold my kind, And all the world. As hath been oft before With youth, I sought, but I could never find Work hard enough to quiet my self-strife, And use the strength of action-craving life.

She, too, was changed: her bountiful sweet eyes Looked out full lovingly on all the world. O tender as the deeps in yonder skies Their beaming! but her rosebud lips were curled With the soft dimple of a musing smile, Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the while.

A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain, The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of grain, Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well; Or cooing of the early coted dove;— She sauntering mused of these; I, following, mused of love.

With her two lips, that one the other pressed So poutingly with such a tranquil air, With her two eyes, that on my own would rest So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer, Fronted unuttered words and said them nay, And smiled down love till it had nought to say.

The words that through mine eyes would clearly shine Hovered and hovered on my lips in vain; If after pause I said but "Eglantine," She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain, And looked me this reply—look calm, yet bland— "I shall not know, I will not understand."

Yet she did know my story—knew my life Was wrought to hers with bindings many and strong That I, like Israel, served for a wife, And for the love I bare her thought not long, But only a few days, full quickly told, My seven years' service strict as his of old.

I must be brief: the twilight shadows grow, And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, And scented wafts of wind that come and go Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads; The seven stars shine out above the mill, The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still.

Hush! hush! the nightingale begins to sing, And stops, as ill-contented with her note; Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing. Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen.

The seven stars upon the nearest pool Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves, And move like glowworms; wafting breezes cool Come down along the water, and it heaves And bubbles in the sedge; while deep and wide The dim night settles on the country side.

I know this scene by heart. O! once before I saw the seven stars float to and fro, And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore To mark the starry picture spread below: Its silence made the tumult in my breast More audible; its peace revealed my own unrest.

I paused, then hurried on; my heart beat quick; I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent, And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick; Then darkling through the close green maples went And saw—there felt love's keenest pangs begin— An oriel window lighted from within—

I saw—and felt that they were scarcely cares Which I had known before; I drew more near, And O! methought how sore it frets and wears The soul to part with that it holds so dear; Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, And I was come to part with Eglantine.

For life was bitter through those words repressed, And youth was burdened with unspoken vows; Love unrequited brooded in my breast, And shrank, at glance, from the beloved brows: And three long months, heart-sick, my foot withdrawn, I had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn—

Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less Still followed in her wake, though far behind; And I, being parted from her loveliness, Looked at the picture of her in my mind: I lived alone, I walked with soul oppressed, And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest.

Then I had risen to struggle with my heart. And said—"O heart! the world is fresh and fair, And I am young; but this thy restless smart Changes to bitterness the morning air: I will, I must, these weary fetters break— I will be free, if only for her sake.

"O let me trouble her no more with sighs! Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time: Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes With the green forests of a softer clime, Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave And long monotonous rockings of the wave.

"Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, Where, wading on breast-high in yellow bloom, Untamed of man, the shy white lama feeds— There would I journey and forget my doom; Or far, O far as sunrise I would see The level prairie stretch away from me!

"Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, Where fathom long the blood-red dulses grow, Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze, Lashing the tide to foam; while calm below The muddy mandrakes throng those waters warm, And purple, gold, and green, the living blossoms swarm."

So of my father I did win consent, With importunities repeated long, To make that duty which had been my bent, To dig with strangers alien tombs among, And bound to them through desert leagues to pace. Or track up rivers to their starting-place.

For this I had done battle and had won, But not alone to tread Arabian sands, Measure the shadows of a southern sun, Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands; But for the dream wherewith I thought to cope— The grief of love unmated with love's hope.

And now I would set reason in array, Methought, and fight for freedom manfully, Till by long absence there would come a day When this my love would not be pain to me; But if I knew my rosebud fair and blest I should not pine to wear it on my breast.

The days fled on; another week should fling A foreign shadow on my lengthening way; Another week, yet nearness did not bring A braver heart that hard farewell to say. I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, Ere I had sought that window lighted from within.

Sinking and sinking, O my heart! my heart! Will absence heal thee whom its shade doth rend? I reached the little gate, and soft within The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend Her loveliness to me, and let me share The listless sweetness of those features fair.

Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom, Heavy for this our parting, I did stand; Beside her mother in the lighted room, She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand And as she read, her sweet voice floating through The open casement seemed to mourn me an adieu.

Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, And they sprung up like plants and spread them wide; Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday.

Ah, sweetest voice! how pensive were its tones, And how regretful its unconscious pause! "Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, And is our parting of to-night the cause? Ah, would it might be so!" I thought, and stood Listening entranced among the underwood.

I thought it would be something worth the pain Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, And take from them an answering look again: "When eastern palms," I thought, "about me rise, If I might carve our names upon the rind, Betrothed, I would not mourn, though leaving thee behind."

I can be patient, faithful, and most fond To unacknowledged love; I can be true To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, This yoke of mine that reaches not to you: O, how much more could costly parting buy— If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh!

I listened, and she ceased to read; she turned Her face towards the laurels where I stood: Her mother spoke—O wonder! hardly learned; She said, "There is a rustling in the wood; Ah, child! if one draw near to bid farewell, Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell.

"My daughter, there is nothing held so dear As love, if only it be hard to win. The roses that in yonder hedge appear Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within; But since the hand may pluck them every day, Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away.

"My daughter, my beloved, be not you Like those same roses." O bewildering word! My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view: It cleared; still silence. No denial stirred The lips beloved; but straight, as one opprest, She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's breast.

This said, "My daughter, sorrow comes to all; Our life is checked with shadows manifold: But woman has this more—she may not call Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, And only born of absence and by thought, With thought and absence may return to nought."

And my beloved lifted up her face, And moved her lips as if about to speak; She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, And the rich damask mantled in her cheek: I stood awaiting till she should deny Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by.

But, closer nestling to her mother's heart, She, blushing, said no word to break my trance, For I was breathless; and, with lips apart, Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance, And strove to move, but could not for the weight Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great,

Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh Breaking away, I left her on her knees, And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky, The sultry night of August. Through the trees, Giddy with gladness, to the porch I went, And hardly found the way for joyful wonderment.

Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit With both hands cherishing the graceful head, Smoothing the clustered hair, and parting it From the fair brow; she, rising, only said, In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, The careless greeting that I always heard;

And she resumed her merry, mocking smile, Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. O woman! thou wert fashioned to beguile: So have all sages said, all poets sung. She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, With smiles of gratulation on her lips!

And then she looked and faltered: I had grown So suddenly in life and soul a man: She moved her lips, but could not find a tone To set her mocking music to; began One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, And straight withdrew them, bashful through surprise

The color over cheek and bosom flushed; I might have heard the beating of her heart, But that mine own beat louder; when she blushed, The hand within mine own I felt to start, But would not change my pitiless decree To strive with her for might and mastery.

She looked again, as one that, half afraid, Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing; Or one beseeching "Do not me upbraid!" And then she trembled like the fluttering Of timid little birds, and silent stood, No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood.

She turned, and to an open casement moved With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze. And I on downcast lashes unreproved Could look as long as pleased me; while, the rays Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent, In modest silence to my words attent.

How fast the giddy whirling moments flew! The moon had set; I heard the midnight chime, Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. And I could wait unmoved the parting time. It came; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn.

A little waxen taper in her hand, Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, She looked like one of the celestial band, Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass Most human blushes; while, the soft light thrown On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grown.

Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed, Then gave her hand in token of farewell. And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell The story of my life, whose every line No other burden bore than—Eglantine.

Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind, The waxen taper burned full steadily; It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind To hear what lovers say, and her decree Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound.

O happiness! thou dost not leave a trace So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, Shed like a glory on her angel face, I can remember fully, and the sight Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise.

I can remember how the taper played Over her small hands and her vesture white; How it struck up into the trees, and laid Upon their under leaves unwonted light; And when she held it low, how far it spread O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed.

I can remember that we spoke full low, That neither doubted of the other's truth; And that with footsteps slower and more slow, Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth: Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame, We wandered till the gate of parting came.

But I forget the parting words she said, So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul; For one short moment human heart and head May bear such bliss—its present is the whole: I had that present, till in whispers fell With parting gesture her subdued farewell.

Farewell! she said, in act to turn away, But stood a moment yet to dry her tears, And suffered my enfolding arm to stay The time of her departure. O ye years That intervene betwixt that day and this! You all received your hue from that keen pain and bliss.

O mingled pain and bliss! O pain to break At once from happiness so lately found, And four long years to feel for her sweet sake The incompleteness of all sight and sound! But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine— O bliss to come again and make her mine!

I cannot—O, I cannot more recall! But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest With musing over journeyings wide, and all Observance of this active-humored west, And swarming cities steeped in eastern day, With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array.

I turn away from these, and straight there will succeed (Shifting and changing at the restless will), Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead, White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, And scarcely show their heads above the grass.

—The red Sahara in an angry glow, With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, And women on their necks, from gazers veiled, And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand To groves of date-trees on the watered land.

Again—the brown sails of an Arab boat, Flapping by night upon a glassy sea, Whereon the moon and planets seem to float, More bright of hue than they were wont to be, While shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound, And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground.

Or far into the heat among the sands The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind, Drawn by the scent of water—and the bands Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest!

What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed, Setting his feet among oil-olive trees, Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud; And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas, Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks.

Enough: how vain this thinking to beguile, With recollected scenes, an aching breast! Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while? Ah, yes! for every landscape comes impressed— Ay, written on, as by an iron pen— With the same thought I nursed about her then.

Therefore let memory turn again to home; Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near; Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam, And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear; Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound Than ever thrilled but over English ground;

And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, Not doubting this to be the first of lands; And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet Some little village school-girls (with their hands Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, I count their English talk delightsome melody;

And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, That I may feast myself with hearing it, Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit— Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show Where wild wood-strawberries in the copses grow.

So passed the day in this delightful land: My heart was thankful for the English tongue— For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned— For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung. I journeyed, and at glowing eventide Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside.

That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad To miss the flapping of the shrouds; but lo! A quiet dream of beings twain I had, Behind the curtain talking soft and low: Methought I did not heed their utterance fine, Till one of them said, softly, "Eglantine."

I started up awake, 'twas silence all: My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear: And "Ah!" methought, "how sweetly did it fall, Though but in dream, upon the listening ear! How sweet from other lips the name well known— That name, so many a year heard only from mine own!"

I thought awhile, then slumber came to me, And tangled all my fancy in her maze, And I was drifting on a raft at sea. The near all ocean, and the far all haze; Through the while polished water sharks did glide, And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide.

"Have mercy, God!" but lo! my raft uprose; Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it; My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes, It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spring, She flew straight upward like a living thing.

But strange!—I went not also in that flight, For I was entering at a cavern's mouth; Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark.

The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night, And suddenly, as I went farther in, They opened, and they shot out lambent light; Then all at once arose a railing din That frighted me: "It is the ghosts," I said, And they are railing for their darkness fled.

"I hope they will not look me in the face; It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud;" I saw them troop before with jaunty pace, And one would shake off dust that soiled her shroud: But now, O joy unhoped! to calm my dread, Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead.

I climbed the lofty trees—the blanched trees— The cleft was wide enough to let me through; I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. O happy chance! O fortune to admire! I stood beside my own loved village spire.

And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, Lo, far-off music—music in the night! So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk; It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, And in my dream, methought as it drew near The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear.

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain; The restless music fluttering like a bird Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid That I should die of grief when it did fade.

And it DID fade; but while with eager ear I drank its last long echo dying away, I was aware of footsteps that drew near, And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray: O soft above the hallowed place they trod— Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod!

I turned—'twas even so—yes, Eglantine! For at the first I had divined the same; I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine, And said, "She is asleep:" still on she came; Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, And thought—"I know that this is but a dream."

My darling! O my darling! not the less My dream went on because I knew it such; She came towards me in her loveliness— A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch; The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, The long white robe descended to her feet.

The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed; Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, And her two hands were folded to her breast, With somewhat held between them heedfully. O fast asleep! and yet methought she knew And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through.

She sighed: my tears ran down for tenderness— And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep? Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? "O if this be!" I said—"yet speak to me; I blame my very dream for cruelty."

Then from her stainless bosom she did take Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein, And with slow-moving lips a gesture make, As one that some forgotten words doth win: "They floated on the pool," methought she said, And water trickled from each lily's head.

It dropped upon her feet—I saw it gleam Along the ripples of her yellow hair. And stood apart, for only in a dream She would have come, methought, to meet me there. She spoke again—"Ah fair! ah fresh they shine! And there are many left, and these are mine."

I answered her with flattering accents meet— "Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." "And sayest thou so?" she sighed in murmurs sweet; "I have nought else to give thee now, mine own! For it is night. Then take them, love!" said she: "They have been costly flowers to thee—and me."

While thus she said I took them from her hand, And, overcome with love and nearness, woke; And overcome with ruth that she should stand Barefooted in the grass; that, when she spoke, Her mystic words should take so sweet a tone, And of all names her lips should choose "My own"

I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, and soon Beheld the spire peer out above the hill. It was a sunny harvest afternoon. When by the churchyard wicket, standing still, I cast my eager eyes abroad to know If change had touched the scenes of long ago.

I looked across the hollow; sunbeams shone Upon the old house with the gable ends: "Save that the laurel trees are taller grown, No change," methought, "to its gray wall extends What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine! There did I sometime talk with Eglantine."

There standing with my very goal in sight, Over my haste did sudden quiet steal; I thought to dally with my own delight, Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, But taste the sweetness of a short delay, And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay.

The church was open; it perchance might be That there to offer thanks I might essay, Or rather, as I think, that I might see The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. But so it was; I crossed that portal wide, And felt my riot joy to calm subside.

The low depending curtains, gently swayed, Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow; But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade It seemed, save only for the rippling flow Of their long foldings, when the sunset air Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer.

I found her place, the ancient oaken stall, Where in her childhood I had seen her sit, Most saint-like and most tranquil there of all, Folding her hands, as if a dreaming fit— A heavenly vision had before her strayed Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid.

I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat, And took it in my hand, and felt more near in fancy to her, finding it most sweet To think how very oft, low kneeling there, In her devout thoughts she had let me share, And set my graceless name in her pure prayer.

My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears— In sooth they were the last I ever shed; For with them fell the cherished dreams of years. I looked, and on the wall above my head, Over her seat, there was a tablet placed, With one word only on the marble traced.—

Ah well! I would not overstate that woe, For I have had some blessings, little care; But since the falling of that heavy blow, God's earth has never seemed to me so fair; Nor any of his creatures so divine, Nor sleep so sweet;—the word was—EGLANTINE.



A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD.

(F.M.L.)

Living child or pictured cherub, Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace; And the mother, moving nearer, Looked it calmly in the face; Then with slight and quiet gesture, And with lips that scarcely smiled, Said—"A Portrait of my daughter When she was a child."

Easy thought was hers to fathom, Nothing hard her glance to read, For it seemed to say, "No praises For this little child I need: If you see, I see far better, And I will not feign to care For a stranger's prompt assurance That the face is fair."

Softly clasped and half extended, She her dimpled hands doth lay: So they doubtless placed them, saying— "Little one, you must not play." And while yet his work was growing, This the painter's hand hath shown, That the little heart was making Pictures of its own.

Is it warm in that green valley, Vale of childhood, where you dwell? Is it calm in that green valley, Round whose bournes such great hills swell? Are there giants in the valley— Giants leaving footprints yet? Are there angels in the valley? Tell me—I forget.

Answer, answer, for the lilies, Little one, o'ertop you much, And the mealy gold within them You can scarcely reach to touch; O how far their aspect differs, Looking up and looking down! You look up in that green valley— Valley of renown.

Are there voices in the valley, Lying near the heavenly gate? When it opens, do the harp-strings, Touched within, reverberate? When, like shooting-stars, the angels To your couch at nightfall go, Are their swift wings heard to rustle? Tell me! for you know.

Yes, you know; and you are silent, Not a word shall asking win; Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, Fast it locks the secret in. Not a glimpse upon your present You unfold to glad my view; Ah, what secrets of your future I could tell to you!

Sunny present! thus I read it, By remembrance of my past:— Its to-day and its to-morrow Are as lifetimes vague and vast; And each face in that green valley Takes for you an aspect mild, And each voice grows soft in saying— "Kiss me, little child!"

As a boon the kiss is granted: Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, Takes the love without the trouble From those lips that with it meet; Gives the love, O pure! O tender! Of the valley where it grows, But the baby heart receiveth MORE THAN IT BESTOWS.

Comes the future to the present— "Ah!" she saith, "too blithe of mood; Why that smile which seems to whisper— 'I am happy, God is good?' God is good: that truth eternal Sown for you in happier years, I must tend it in my shadow, Water it with tears.

"Ah, sweet present! I must lead thee By a daylight more subdued; There must teach thee low to whisper— 'I am mournful, God is good!'" Peace, thou future! clouds are coming, Stooping from the mountain crest, But that sunshine floods the valley: Let her—let her rest.

Comes the future to the present— "Child," she saith, "and wilt thou rest? How long, child, before thy footsteps Fret to reach yon cloudy crest? Ah, the valley!—angels guard it, But the heights are brave to see; Looking down were long contentment: Come up, child, to me."

So she speaks, but do not heed her, Little maid with wondrous eyes, Not afraid, but clear and tender, Blue, and filled with prophecies; Thou for whom life's veil unlifted Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth— Climb, but heights are cold.

There are buds that fold within them, Closed and covered from our sight, Many a richly tinted petal, Never looked on by the light: Fain to see their shrouded faces, Sun and dew are long at strife, Till at length the sweet buds open— Such a bud is life.

When the rose of thine own being Shall reveal its central fold, Thou shalt look within and marvel, Fearing what thine eyes behold; What it shows and what it teaches Are not things wherewith to part; Thorny rose! that always costeth Beatings at the heart.

Look in fear, for there is dimness; Ills unshapen float anigh. Look in awe, for this same nature Once the Godhead deigned to die. Look in love, for He doth love it, And its tale is best of lore: Still humanity grows dearer, Being learned the more.

Learn, but not the less bethink thee How that all can mingle tears; But his joy can none discover, Save to them that are his peers; And that they whose lips do utter Language such as bards have sung— Lo! their speech shall be to many As an unknown tongue.

Learn, that if to thee the meaning Of all other eyes be shown, Fewer eyes can ever front thee, That are skilled to read thine own; And that if thy love's deep current Many another's far outflows, Then thy heart must take forever, LESS THAN IT BESTOWS.



STRIFE AND PEACE.

(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, October 1861.)

The yellow poplar-leaves came down And like a carpet lay, No waftings were in the sunny air To flutter them away; And he stepped on blithe and debonair That warm October day.

"The boy," saith he, "hath got his own, But sore has been the fight, For ere his life began the strife That ceased but yesternight; For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read, And read it not aright.

"His cause was argued in the court Before his christening day, And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.

"Against each one did each contend, And all against the heir. I would not bend, for I knew the end— I have it for my share, And nought repent, though my first friend From henceforth I must spare.

"Manor and moor and farm and wold Their greed begrudged him sore, And parchments old with passionate hold They guarded heretofore; And they carped at signature and seal, But they may carp no more.

"An old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain, And I feel the fret that urged me yet That warfare to maintain; For an enemy's loss may well be set Above an infant's gain.

"An enemy's loss I go to prove, Laugh out, thou little heir! Laugh in his face who vowed to chase Thee from thy birthright fair; For I come to set thee in thy place: Laugh out, and do not spare."

A man of strife, in wrathful mood He neared the nurse's door; With poplar-leaves the roof and eaves Were thickly scattered o'er, And yellow as they a sunbeam lay Along the cottage floor.

"Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," He hears the fond nurse say; "And if angels stand at thy right hand, As now belike they may, And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, I fear them not this day.

"Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, It was all one to me, For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung Than coined gold and fee; And ever the while thy waking smile It was right fair to see.

"Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know Who grudged and who transgressed: Thee to retain I was full fain, But God, He knoweth best! And His peace upon thy brow lies plain As the sunshine on thy breast!"

The man of strife, he enters in, Looks, and his pride doth cease; Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow Trouble, and no release; But the babe whose life awoke the strife Hath entered into peace.



THE

DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE.

I saw in a vision once, our mother-sphere The world, her fixed foredoomed oval tracing, Rolling and rolling on and resting never, While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear Fled as she fled and hung to her forever.

Great Heaven! methought, how strange a doom to share. Would I may never bear Inevitable darkness after me (Darkness endowed with drawings strong, And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, As she feels night pursuing through the long Illimitable reaches of "the vasty deep."

* * * * *

God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, On crimson curtains that encompassed him.

Right stately was his chamber, soft and white The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. What mattered it to him though all that night The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase, That drave and drave and found no settling-place?

What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane? He bare a charmed life against their shock, Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain; Fixed in his right, and born to good estate, From common ills set by and separate.

From work and want and fear of want apart, This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore),— This man had comforted his cheerful heart With all that it desired from every shore. He had a right,—the right of gold is strong,— He stood upon his right his whole life long.

Custom makes all things easy, and content Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, A range of sordid hovels stretched away.

What cause had he to think on them, forsooth? What cause that night beyond another night? He was familiar even from his youth With their long ruin and their evil plight. The wintry wind would search them like a scout, The water froze within as freely as without.

He think upon them? No! They were forlorn, So were the cowering inmates whom they held; A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, Ever complaining: infancy or eld Alike. But there was rent, or long ago Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow.

For this they stood; and what his thoughts might be That winter night, I know not; but I know That, while the creeping flame fed silently And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep.

He dreamed that over him a shadow came; And when he looked to find the cause, behold Some person knelt between him and the flame:— A cowering figure of one frail and old,— A woman; and she prayed as he descried, And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed.

"Good Heaven!" the Justice cried, and being distraught He called not to her, but he looked again: She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught Upon her head; and she did quake amain, And spread her wasted hands and poor attire To gather in the brightness of his fire.

"I know you, woman!" then the Justice cried; "I know that woman well," he cried aloud; "The shepherd Aveland's widow: God me guide! A pauper kneeling on my hearth": and bowed The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share! "How dares she to intrude? What does she there?

"Ho, woman, ho!"—but yet she did not stir, Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke; "I'll ring my people up to deal with her; I'll rouse the house," he cried; but while he spoke He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, Another form,—a Darkness with a head.

Then in a rage, he shouted, "Who are you?" For little in the gloom he might discern. "Speak out; speak now; or I will make you rue The hour!" but there was silence, and a stern, Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, And then again drew back, and was not seen.

"God!" cried the dreaming man, right impiously, "What have I done, that these my sleep affray?" "God!" said the Phantom, "I appeal to Thee, Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." "God!" sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, "I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold."

Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, "Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here!" And lo! it pointed in the failing light Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, "Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer; But first to tell her tale that kneeleth there."

"Her tale!" the Justice cried. "A pauper's tale!" And he took heart at this so low behest, And let the stoutness of his will prevail, Demanding, "Is't for her you break my rest? She went to jail of late for stealing wood, She will again for this night's hardihood.

"I sent her; and to-morrow, as I live, I will commit her for this trespass here." "Thou wilt not!" quoth the Shadow, "thou wilt give Her story words"; and then it stalked anear And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, A countenance of angered majesty.

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, With that material Darkness chiding him, "If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, And bid her move, for all the room is dim By reason of the place she holds to-night: She kneels between me and the warmth and light."

"With adjurations deep and drawings strong, And with the power," it said, "unto me given, I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. Speak! though she kneel throughout the livelong night, And yet shall kneel between thee and the light."

This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands, And held them as the dead in effigy Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. The bands Of fate had bound him fast: no remedy Was left: his voice unto himself was strange, And that unearthly vision did not change.

He said, "That woman dwells anear my door, Her life and mine began the selfsame day, And I am hale and hearty: from my store I never spared her aught: she takes her way Of me unheeded; pining, pinching care Is all the portion that she has to share.

"She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight, Through labor and through sorrow early old; And I have known of this her evil plight, Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold; A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found: She labored on my land the long year round.

"What wouldst thou have me say, thou fiend abhorred? Show me no more thine awful visage grim. If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord That I have paid her wages. Cry to him! He has not much against me. None can say I have not paid her wages day by day.

"The spell! It draws me. I must speak again; And speak against myself; and speak aloud. The woman once approached me to complain,— 'My wages are so low.' I may be proud; It is a fault." "Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, "Sinner! it is a fault: thou sayest well."

"She made her moan, 'My wages are so low.'" "Tell on!" "She said," he answered, "'My best days Are ended, and the summer is but slow To come; and my good strength for work decays By reason that I live so hard, and lie On winter nights so bare for poverty.'"

"And you replied,"—began the lowering shade, "And I replied," the Justice followed on, "That wages like to mine my neighbor paid; And if I raised the wages of the one Straight should the others murmur; furthermore, The winter was as winters gone before.

"No colder and not longer." "Afterward?"— The Phantom questioned. "Afterward," he groaned, "She said my neighbor was a right good lord, Never a roof was broken that he owned; He gave much coal and clothing. 'Doth he so? Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. 'Go!

"'You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out She hoped I was not angry; hoped, forsooth, I would forgive her: and I turned about, And said I should be angry in good truth If this should be again, or ever more She dared to stop me thus at the church door."

"Then?" quoth the Shade; and he, constrained, said on, "Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." "Hast met her since?" it made demand anon; And after pause the Justice answered, "Ay; Some wood was stolen; my people made a stir: She was accused, and I did sentence her."

But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions came: "And didst thou weigh the matter,—taking thought Upon her sober life and honest fame?" "I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught; "I gave it, Fiend, the usual care; I took The usual pains; I could not nearer look,

"Because,—because their pilfering had got head. What wouldst thou more? The neighbors pleaded hard, 'Tis true, and many tears the creature shed; But I had vowed their prayers to disregard, Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, And put down thieving with a steady hand.

"She said she was not guilty. Ay, 'tis true She said so, but the poor are liars all. O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou? Must I view Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall Upon me miserable? I have done No worse, no more than many a scathless one."

"Yet," quoth the Shade, "if ever to thine ears The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, Or others have confessed with dying tears The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought All reparation in thy power, and told Into her empty hand thy brightest gold:—

"If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed Her innocence and thy deplored wrong, Still thou art nought; for thou shalt yet be blamed In that she, feeble, came before thee strong, And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, Because thou hadst been angered, worked her woe.

"But didst thou right her? Speak!" The Justice sighed, And beaded drops stood out upon his brow; "How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, "To a base beggar? Nay, I will avow That I did ill. I will reveal the whole; I kept that knowledge in my secret soul."

"Hear him!" the Phantom muttered; "hear this man, O changeless God upon the judgment throne." With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, And lamentably he did make his moan; While, with its arms upraised above his head, The dim dread visitor approached his bed.

"Into these doors," it said, "which thou hast closed, Daily this woman shall from henceforth come; Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum; Shall yet be interposed by day, by night, Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light.

"Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. But what! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, There shall be no deliverance, saith my God."

"Tell me thy name," the dreaming Justice cried; "By what appointment dost thou doom me thus?" "'Tis well that thou shouldst know me," it replied, "For mine thou art, and nought shall sever us; From thine own lips and life I draw my force: The name thy nation give me is REMORSE."

This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, And woke affrighted; and a crimson glow The dying ember shed. Within, without, In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow; The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone The last low gleam; he was indeed alone.

"O, I have had a fearful dream," said he; "I will take warning and for mercy trust; The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me: I will repair that wrong, I will be just, I will be kind, I will my ways amend." Now the first dream is told unto its end.

Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, The shrunken door, and easy way made good, And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moon Was shining in, and night was at the noon.

Before her dying embers, bent and pale, A woman sat because her bed was cold; She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, And she was hunger-bitten, weak and old; Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook, Upon her trembling knees she held a book,—

A comfortable book for them that mourn, And good to raise the courage of the poor; It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, That for them desolate He died to win, Repeating, "Come, ye blessed, enter in."

What thought she on, this woman? on her days Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn? I think not so; the heart but seldom weighs With conscious care a burden always borne; And she was used to these things, had grown old In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold.

Then did she think how sad it was to live Of all the good this world can yield bereft? No, her untutored thoughts she did not give To such a theme; but in their warp and weft She wove a prayer: then in the midnight deep Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep.

A strange, a marvellous sleep, which brought a dream. And it was this: that all at once she heard The pleasant babbling of a little stream That ran beside her door, and then a bird Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo! the rime And snow had melted; it was summer time!

And all the cold was over, and the mere Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green; The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear Into her casement, and thereby were seen Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees.

She said, "I will betake me to my door, And will look out and see this wondrous sight, How summer is come back, and frost is o'er, And all the air warm waxen in a night." With that she opened, but for fear she cried, For lo! two Angels,—one on either side.

And while she looked, with marvelling measureless, The Angels stood conversing face to face, But neither spoke to her. "The wilderness," One Angel said, "the solitary place, Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain The other Angel answered, "He shall reign."

And when the woman heard, in wondering wise, She whispered, "They are speaking of my Lord." And straightway swept across the open skies Multitudes like to these. They took the word, That flock of Angels, "He shall come again, My Lord, my Lord!" they sang, "and He shall reign!"

Then they, drawn up into the blue o'er-head, Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee; And those before her one to other said, "Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed.

After she looked, for this her dream was deep; She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree; Yet did her love and longing overleap The fear of Angels, awful though they be, And she passed out between the blessed things, And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings.

O, all the happy world was in its best, The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, And these were dropping honey; for the rest, Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers; Across the grass did groups of Angels go, And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro.

Then did she pass toward the almond-tree, And none she saw beneath it: yet each Saint Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, And folded his fair wings before his face.

She also knelt, and spread her aged hands As feeling for the sacred human feet; She said, "Mine eyes are held, but if He stands Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat Except He bless me." Then, O sweet! O fair! Some words were spoken, but she knew not where.

She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, Or dropt upon her from the realms above; "What wilt thou, woman?" in the dream He spoke, "Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love; Long have I counted up thy mournful years, Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears."

She said: "My one Redeemer, only blest, I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart Draw out my deep desire, my great request, My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. Call me, O call from this world troublesome, And let me see Thy face." He answered, "Come."

Here is the ending of the second dream. It is a frosty morning, keen and cold, Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream, And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold; With savory morning meats they spread the board, But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad.

"Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. "Before you breakfast, sir?" his man replies. "Ay," quoth he quickly, and he will not taste Of aught before him, but in urgent wise As he would fain some carking care allay, Across the frozen field he takes his way.

"A dream! how strange that it should move me so, 'Twas but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore: "And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore; Silver and gear the crone shall have of me, And dwell for life in yonder cottage free.

"For visions of the night are fearful things, Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream; I will not subject me to visitings Of such a sort again. I will esteem My peace above my pride. From natures rude A little gold will buy me gratitude.

"The woman shall have leave to gather wood, As much as she may need, the long year round; She shall, I say,—moreover, it were good Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore, And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore.

With that he nears the door: a frosty rime Is branching over it, and drifts are deep Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time,— (For none doth open),—time to list the sweep And whistle of the wind along the mere Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sere.

"If she be out, I have my pains for nought," He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought; And after pause, he doth unlatch the door And enter. No: she is not out, for see She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly.

Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. "What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her straight, "Asleep so early!" But whate'er befall, She sleepeth; then he nears her, and behold He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold.

Then doth the Justice to his home return; From that day forth he wears a sadder brow; His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn The patience of the poor. He made a vow And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared His gifts, their sordid homes he hath repaired.

And some he hath made happy, but for him Is happiness no more. He doth repent, And now the light of joy is waxen dim, Are all his steps toward the Highest sent; He looks for mercy, and he waits release Above, for this world doth not yield him peace.

Night after night, night after desolate night, Day after day, day after tedious day, Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, Paceth behind or meets him in the way; Or shares the path by hedgerow, mere, or stream, The visitor that doomed him in his dream.

Thy kingdom come. I heard a Seer cry,—"The wilderness, The solitary place, Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless (Thy kingdom come) with his revealed face The forests; they shall drop their precious gum, And shed for Him their balm: and He shall yield The grandeur of His speech to charm the field.

"Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, (Thy kingdom come,) Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten With bashful tremblement beneath His smile: And Echo ever the while Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat, The laughter of His lips—(thy kingdom come): And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb; No, they shall shout and shout, Raining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain: And valleys round about,

"And all the well-contented land, made sweet With flowers she opened at His feet, Shall answer; shout and make the welkin ring And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing; Her cup being full to the brim, Her poverty made rich with Him, Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sum,— Lift up thy voice, O earth, prepare thy song, It shall not yet be long, Lift up, O earth, for He shall come again, Thy Lord; and He shall reign, and He SHALL reign,— Thy kingdom come."



SONGS

ON

THE VOICES OF BIRDS.



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS.

INTRODUCTION.

CHILD AND BOATMAN.

"Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs." "You do, sir?" "Yes, I wonder how they come." "Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next!" "But somebody must make them?" "Sure enough." "Does your wife know?" "She never said she did." "You told me that she knew so many things." "I said she was a London woman, sir, And a fine scholar, but I never said She knew about the songs." "I wish she did." "And I wish no such thing; she knows enough, She knows too much already. Look you now, This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft." "A schooner, Martin?" "No, boy, no; a brig, Only she's schooner rigged,—a lovely craft." "Is she for me? O, thank you, Martin, dear. What shall I call her?" "Well, sir, what you please." "Then write on her 'The Eagle.'" "Bless the child! Eagle! why, you know naught of eagles, you. When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, That was the place for eagles; bald they were, With eyes as yellow as gold." "O, Martin, dear, Tell me about them." "Tell! there's nought to tell, Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." "Snored?" "Ay, I tell you, snored; they slept upright In the great oaks by scores; as true as time, If I'd had aught upon my mind just then, I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown gold; It was most awful. When the moon was full, I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch, When she got low. I've seen them plunge like stones, And come up fighting with a fish as long, Ay, longer than my arm; and they would sail,— When they had struck its life out,—they would sail Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed Grand as a frigate on a wind." "My ship, She must be called 'The Eagle' after these. And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs When you go in at dinner-time." "Not I."

THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSATISFIED HEART.

When in a May-day hush Chanteth the Missel-thrush The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs; When Robin-redbreast sings, We think on budding springs, And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers.

But thou in the trance of light Stayest the feeding night, And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise, And casts at our glad feet, In a wisp of fancies fleet, Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies.

Her central thought full well Thou hast the wit to tell, To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so; The moral of moonlight To set in a cadence bright, And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did know.

I have no nest as thou, Bird on the blossoming bough, Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, Chanting, "forego thy strife, The spirit out-acts the life, But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive THE WHOLE.

"Thou drawest a perfect lot All thine, but holden not, Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide; There might be sorer smart Than thine, far-seeing heart, Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied."

SAND MARTINS.

I passed an inland-cliff precipitate; From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll; In each a mother-martin sat elate, And of the news delivered her small soul.

Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay, Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell: "Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?" "Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well."

And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns, For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed;—

And visions of the sky as of a cup Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand, And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, And blank stone faces marvellously bland.

"When should the young be fledged and with them hie Where costly day drops down in crimson light? (Fortunate countries of the firefly Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night,

"And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) When should they pass again by that red land, Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand?

"When should they dip their breasts again and play In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air, Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day, Stalking amid the lotus blossom fair?

"Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, And so betake them to a south sea-bight, To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms

"Whose roots are in the spray. O, haply there Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find A frigate standing in to make more fair The loneliness unaltered of mankind.

"A frigate come to water: nuts would fall, And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed strand, While northern talk would ring, and there withal The martins would desire the cool north land.

"And all would be as it had been before; Again at eve there would be news to tell; Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, Gossip, how wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, well.'"

A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE CUCKOO-BIRD.

Once upon a time, I lay Fast asleep at dawn of day; Windows open to the south, Fancy pouting her sweet mouth To my ear. She turned a globe In her slender hand, her robe Was all spangled; and she said, As she sat at my bed's head, "Poet, poet, what, asleep! Look! the ray runs up the steep To your roof." Then in the golden Essence of romances olden, Bathed she my entranced heart. And she gave a hand to me, Drew me onward, "Come!" said she; And she moved with me apart, Down the lovely vale of Leisure.

Such its name was, I heard say, For some Fairies trooped that way; Common people of the place, Taking their accustomed pleasure, (All the clocks being stopped) to race Down the slope on palfreys fleet. Bridle bells made tinkling sweet; And they said, "What signified Faring home till eventide: There were pies on every shelf, And the bread would bake itself." But for that I cared not, fed, As it were, with angels' bread, Sweet as honey; yet next day All foredoomed to melt away; Gone before the sun waxed hot, Melted manna that was not.

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, Or the starling's courtship quaint, Heart made much of; 'twas a boon Won from silence, and too soon Wasted in the ample air: Building rooks far distant were. Scarce at all would speak the rills, And I saw the idle hills, In their amber hazes deep, Fold themselves and go to sleep, Though it was not yet high noon.

Silence? Rather music brought From the spheres! As if a thought, Having taken wings, did fly Through the reaches of the sky. Silence? No, a sumptuous sigh That had found embodiment, That had come across the deep After months of wintry sleep, And with tender heavings went Floating up the firmament.

"O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, "'Tis the voice of my regret,— Mine!" and I awoke. Full sweet Saffron sunbeams did me greet; And the voice it spake again, Dropped from yon blue cup of light Or some cloudlet swan's-down white On my soul, that drank full fain The sharp joy—the sweet pain— Of its clear, right innocent, Unreproved discontent.

How it came—where it went— Who can tell? The open blue Quivered with it, and I, too, Trembled. I remembered me Of the springs that used to be, When a dimpled white-haired child, Shy and tender and half wild, In the meadows I had heard Some way off the talking bird, And had felt it marvellous sweet, For it laughed: it did me greet, Calling me: yet, hid away In the woods, it would not play. No.

And all the world about, While a man will work or sing, Or a child pluck flowers of spring, Thou wilt scatter music out, Rouse him with thy wandering note, Changeful fancies set afloat, Almost tell with thy clear throat, But not quite,—the wonder-rife, Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, That he searcheth all his life, Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth; And so winnowing of thy wings, Touch and trouble his heart's strings. That a certain music soundeth In that wondrous instrument, With a trembling upward sent, That is reckoned sweet above By the Greatness surnamed Love.

"O, I hear thee in the blue; Would that I might wing it too! O to have what hope hath seen! O to be what might have been!

"O to set my life, sweet bird, To a tune that oft I heard When I used to stand alone Listening to the lovely moan Of the swaying pines o'erhead, While, a-gathering of bee-bread For their living, murmured round, As the pollen dropped to ground, All the nations from the hives; And the little brooding wives On each nest, brown dusky things, Sat with gold-dust on their wings. Then beyond (more sweet than all) Talked the tumbling waterfall; And there were, and there were not (As might fall, and form anew Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) Echoes of—I know not what; As if some right-joyous elf, While about his own affairs, Whistled softly otherwheres. Nay, as if our mother dear, Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere, Laughed a little to herself, Laughed a little as she rolled, Thinking on the days of old.

"Ah! there be some hearts, I wis, To which nothing comes amiss. Mine was one. Much secret wealth I was heir to: and by stealth, When the moon was fully grown, And she thought herself alone, I have heard her, ay, right well, Shoot a silver message down To the unseen sentinel Of a still, snow-thatched town.

"Once, awhile ago, I peered In the nest where Spring was reared. There, she quivering her fair wings, Flattered March with chirrupings; And they fed her; nights and days, Fed her mouth with much sweet food, And her heart with love and praise, Till the wild thing rose and flew Over woods and water-springs, Shaking off the morning dew In a rainbow from her wings.

"Once (I will to you confide More), O once in forest wide, I, benighted, overheard Marvellous mild echoes stirred, And a calling half defined, And an answering from afar; Somewhat talked with a star, And the talk was of mankind.

"'Cuckoo, cuckoo!' Float anear in upper blue: Art thou yet a prophet true? Wilt thou say, 'And having seen Things that be, and have not been, Thou art free o' the world, for naught Can despoil thee of thy thought'? Nay, but make me music yet, Bird, as deep as my regret, For a certain hope hath set, Like a star; and left me heir To a crying for its light, An aspiring infinite, And a beautiful despair!

"Ah! no more, no more, no more I shall lie at thy shut door, Mine ideal, my desired, Dreaming thou wilt open it, And step out, thou most admired, By my side to fare, or sit, Quenching hunger and all drouth With the wit of thy fair mouth, Showing me the wished prize In the calm of thy dove's eyes, Teaching me the wonder-rife Majesties of human life, All its fairest possible sum, And the grace of its to come.

"What a difference! Why of late All sweet music used to say, 'She will come, and with thee stay To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' Now it murmurs, 'Wait, wait, wait!'"

A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE.

I saw when I looked up, on either hand, A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white; A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land,— Toward the sea, an open yawning bight.

The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, Washed in the bight; above with angry moan A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, Croaking and crying on a ledge alone.

"Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings, With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood, For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things, Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food.

"Cry, thou black prophetess! cry, and despair, None love thee, none! Their father was thy foe, Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, And steal thy little demons long ago.

"Thou madest many childless for their sake, And picked out many eyes that loved the light. Cry, thou black prophetess! sit up, awake, Forebode; and ban them through the desolate night"

Lo! while I spake it, with a crimson hue The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood.

"Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. It is not blood: thy gods are making wine, They spilt the must outside their city gate,

"And stained their azure pavement with the lees: They will not listen though thou cry aloud. Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease, Nor hears; the fair hag, Luck, is in her shroud.

"They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign, Thou hast no charm against the favorite race; Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine: There is no justice in their dwelling-place!

"Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie; Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest: Cry, thou black prophetess! lift up! cry, cry!"

THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS.

When I hear the waters fretting, When I see the chestnut letting All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, "Alas the day!" Once with magical sweet singing, Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves away.

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, Sweet as air, and all beguiling; And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down the dell; And we talked of joy and splendor That the years unborn would render, And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew it well.

Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming, April's here, and summer's coming; Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride and joy; Think on us in alleys shady, When you step a graceful lady; For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and boy.

"Laugh and play, O lisping waters, Lull our downy sons and daughters; Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wanderings coy; When they wake we'll end the measure With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry! little girl and boy!'"

SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME.

I walked beside a dark gray sea. And said, "O world, how cold thou art! Thou poor white world, I pity thee, For joy and warmth from thee depart.

"Yon rising wave licks off the snow, Winds on the crag each other chase, In little powdery whirls they blow The misty fragments down its face.

"The sea is cold, and dark its rim, Winter sits cowering on the wold, And I beside this watery brim, Am also lonely, also cold."

I spoke, and drew toward a rock, Where many mews made twittering sweet; Their wings upreared, the clustering flock Did pat the sea-grass with their feet.

A rock but half submerged, the sea Ran up and washed it while they fed; Their fond and foolish ecstasy A wondering in my fancy bred.

Joy companied with every cry, Joy in their food, in that keen wind, That heaving sea, that shaded sky, And in themselves, and in their kind.

The phantoms of the deep at play! What idless graced the twittering things; Luxurious paddlings in the spray, And delicate lifting up of wings.

Then all at once a flight, and fast The lovely crowd flew out to sea; If mine own life had been recast, Earth had not looked more changed to me.

"Where is the cold? Yon clouded skies Have only dropt their curtains low To shade the old mother where she lies Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow.

"The cold is not in crag, nor scar, Not in the snows that lap the lea, Not in yon wings that beat afar, Delighting, on the crested sea;

"No, nor in yon exultant wind That shakes the oak and bends the pine. Look near, look in, and thou shalt find No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine!"

With that I felt the gloom depart, And thoughts within me did unfold, Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart,— I walked in joy, and was not cold.



LAURANCE.

I.

He knew she did not love him; but so long As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt At ease, and did not find his love a pain.

He had much deference in his nature, need To honor—it became him; he was frank, Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong,— Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came Before him first, he looked at her, and looked No more, but colored to his healthful brow, And wished himself a better man, and thought On certain things, and wished they were undone, Because her girlish innocence, the grace Of her unblemished pureness, wrought in him A longing and aspiring, and a shame To think how wicked was the world,—that world Which he must walk in,—while from her (and such As she was) it was hidden; there was made A clean path, and the girl moved on like one In some enchanted ring.

In his young heart She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, And all the virtues that he rightly took For granted; there he set her with her crown, And at her first enthronement he turned out Much that was best away, for unaware His thoughts grew noble. She was always there And knew it not, and he grew like to her And like to what he thought her. Now he dwelt With kin that loved him well,—two fine old folk, A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame,— Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir.

To these, one daughter had been born, one child, And as she grew to woman, "Look," they said, "She must not leave us; let us build a wing, With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange; There may she dwell, with her good man, and all God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth Married a curate,—handsome, poor in purse, Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived Under her father's roof, as they had planned.

Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled The house with children; four were born to them. Then came a sickly season; fever spread Among the poor. The curate, never slack In duty, praying by the sick, or worse, Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged With poisonous mist, was stricken; long he lay Sick, almost to the death, and when his head He lifted from the pillow, there was left One only of that pretty flock: his girls, His three, were cold beneath the sod; his boy, Their eldest born, remained.

The drooping wife Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise, That first they marvelled at her, then they tried To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, Lamenting, and not sparing; but she sighed, "Let me alone, it will not be for long." Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, "Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. O, when you see this other little face, You will, please God, be comforted."

She said, "I shall not live to see it"; but she did,— little sickly face, a wan, thin face. Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright When she would plead with them: "Take me away, Let me go south; it is the bitter blast That chills my tender babe; she cannot thrive Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." Then all they journeyed south together, mute With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, In gardens edging the blue tideless main, Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts, And all went better for a while; but not For long. They sitting by the orange-trees Once rested, and the wife was very still: One woman with narcissus flowers heaped up Let down her basket from her head, but paused With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, Taking a white wild face upon her breast,— The little babe on its poor mother's knees, None marking it, none knowing else, had died.

The fading mother could not stay behind, Her heart was broken; but it awed them most To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life, Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly.

After, these three, who loved each other well, Brought their one child away, and they were best Together in the wide old grange. Full oft The father with the mother talked of her, Their daughter, but the husband nevermore; He looked for solace in his work, and gave His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, Until the grandsire prayed those other two "Now part with him; it must be; for his good: He rules and knows it; choose for him a school, Let him have all advantages, and all Good training that should make a gentleman."

With that they parted from their boy, and lived Longing between his holidays, and time Sped; he grew on till he had eighteen years. His father loved him, wished to make of him Another parson; but the farmer's wife Murmured at that: "No, no, they learned bad ways, They ran in debt at college; she had heard That many rued the day they sent their boys To college"; and between the two broke in His grandsire: "Find a sober, honest man, A scholar, for our lad should see the world While he is young, that he may marry young. He will not settle and be satisfied Till he has run about the world awhile. Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, And had no chance to do it. Send him off, A sober man being found to trust him with, One with the fear of God before his eyes." And he prevailed; the careful father chose A tutor, young,—the worthy matron thought,— In truth, not ten years older than her boy, And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg.

Then did the trappers have them; and they heard Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men That mocked the forest wonners; and they saw Over the open, raging up like doom, The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes,— The bisons. So were three years gone like one; And the old cities drew them for a while, Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine; They have hid many sons hard by their seats, But all the air is stirring with them still, The waters murmur of them, skies at eve Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound Means men. At last, the fourth year running out, The youth came home. And all the cheerful house Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame Was full of joy. But in the father's heart Abode a painful doubt. "It is not well; He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. I do not care that my one son should sleep Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake Only to ride to cover." Not the less The grandsire pondered. "Ay, the boy must WORK Or SPEND; and I must let him spend; just stay Awhile with us, and then from time to time Have leave to be away with those fine folk With whom, these many years, at school, and now, During his sojourn in the foreign towns, He has been made familiar." Thus a month Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, Ever expectant of it knew not what, But something higher than has e'er been born Of easy slumber and sweet competence. And as for him,—the while they thought and thought A comfortable instinct let him know How they had waited for him, to complete And give a meaning to their lives; and still At home, but with a sense of newness there, And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, He oft—invading of his father's haunts, The study where he passed the silent morn— Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy The piled-up books, uncut as yet; or wake To guide with him by night the tube, and search, Ay, think to find new stars; then risen betimes, Would ride about the farm, and list the talk Of his hale grandsire. But a day came round, When, after peering in his mother's room, Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped A door, and found the rosy grandmother Ensconced and happy in her special pride, Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. Here after choice of certain cates well known, He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly, As if a new thought came, "Goody," quoth he, "What, think you, do they want to do with me? What have they planned for me that I should do?"

"Do, laddie!" quoth she faltering, half in tears; "Are you not happy with us, not content? Why would ye go away? There is no need That ye should DO at all. O, bide at home. Have we not plenty?" "Even so," he said; "I did not wish to go." "Nay, then," quoth she, "Be idle; let me see your blessed face. What, is the horse your father chose for you Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, remain; Do as you will, so you but do it here. You shall not want for money." But, his arms Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth With comical discomfiture. "What, then," She sighed, "what is it, child, that you would like?" "Why," said he, "farming." And she looked at him, Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find Some fitness in the worker for the work, And she found none. A certain grace there was Of movement, and a beauty in the face, Sun-browned and healthful beauty that had come From his grave father; and she thought, "Good lack, A farmer! he is fitter for a duke. He walks; why, how he walks! if I should meet One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, 'And who may that be?'" So the foolish thought Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed, "We planned to make of you—a gentleman." And with engaging sweet audacity She thought it nothing less,—he, looking up, With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, "And hav'n't you done it?" Quoth she, lovingly, "I think we have, laddie; I think we have."

"Then," quoth he, "I may do what best I like; It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise To help me in it, and to let me farm; I think of getting into mischief else!" "No! do ye, laddie?" quoth the dame, and laughed. "But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, "To let me have the farm he bought last year, The little one, to manage. I like land; I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way Convinced; and promised, and made good her word, And that same night upon the matter spoke, In presence of the father and the son.

"Roger," quoth she, "our Laurance wants to farm; I think he might do worse." The father sat Mute but right glad. The grandson breaking in Set all his wish and his ambition forth; But cunningly the old man hid his joy, And made conditions with a faint demur. Then pausing, "Let your father speak," quoth he; "I am content if he is": at his word The parson took him, ay, and, parson like, Put a religious meaning in the work, Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed.

II.

Thus all were satisfied, and day by day, For two sweet years a happy course was theirs; Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife,— A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen Of sight and hearing to the delicate Beauty and music of an altered world; Began to walk in that mysterious light Which doth reveal and yet transform; which gives Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, Intenser meaning; in disquieting Lifts up; a shining light: men call it Love.

Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved; A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. She never turned from him with sweet caprice, Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, But excellent in youthful grace came up; And ere his words were ready, passing on, Had left him all a-tremble; yet made sure That by her own true will, and fixed intent, She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit He knew she did not love him, yet so long As of a rival unaware, he dwelt All in the present, without fear, or hope, Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, And could not get his head above its wave To reach the far horizon, or to mark Whereto it drifted him. So long, so long; Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale All in the tolling out of noon. 'Twas thus: Snow-time was come; it had been snowing hard; Across the churchyard path he walked; the clock Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, Half turning, through a sense that came to him As of some presence in it, he beheld His love, and she had come for shelter there; And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, The blush of happiness; and one held up Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped Toward it, sitting by her. O her eyes Were full of peace and tender light: they looked One moment in the ungraced lover's face While he was passing in the snow; and he Received the story, while he raised his hat Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on; And in a certain way he marked the snow, And walked, and came upon the open heath; And in a certain way he marked the cold, And walked as one that had no starting-place Might walk, but not to any certain goal.

And he strode on toward a hollow part, Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, And he was conscious of a cry, and went Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not; Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay Against the bushes, crying, "God! O God, O my good God, He sends us help at last."

Then looking hard upon her, came to him The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes.

"I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears; "Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, As praying him to take it; and he did; And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge In the foldings of his plaid; and when it thrust Its small round face against his breast, and felt With small red hands for warmth,—unbearable Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, For the poor upland dwellers had been out Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through The great white storm coming, and coming yet. And coming till the world confounded sat With all her fair familiar features gone, The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, He led or bore them, and the little one Peered from her shelter, pleased; but oft would mourn The elder, "They will beat me: O my can, I left my can of milk upon the moor." And he compared her trouble with his own, And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen; It filled her to the putting down of pain And hunger,—what could his do more? He brought The children to their home, and suddenly Regained himself, and wondering at himself, That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, The weary wailing of the girl: he paid Money to buy her pardon; heard them say, "Peace, we have feared for you; forget the milk, It is no matter!" and went forth again And waded in the snow, and quietly Considered in his patience what to do With all the dull remainder of his days.

With dusk he was at home, and felt it good To hear his kindred talking, for it broke A mocking, endless echo in his soul, "It is no matter!" and he could not choose But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame His spirit, "Peace, it is no matter; peace, It is no matter!" For he felt that all Was as it had been, and his father's heart Was easy, knowing not how that same day Hope with her tender colors and delight (He should not care to have him know) were dead; Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, It was no matter. And he heard them talk Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, And profitable markets. All for him Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam About his head, whenever there was pause; "It is no matter!" And his greater self Arose in him and fought. "It matters much, It matters all to these, that not to-day Nor ever they should know it. I will hide The wound; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. What! shall I make these three to drink of rue, Because my cup is bitter?" And he thrust Himself in thought away, and made his ears Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem Another, to make answer, when they spoke, As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, And no despair. So this went on awhile Until the snow had melted from the wold, And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. Then, even to trembling he was moved: his speech Faltered; but when the common kindly words Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, He could not bear her sweetness and his pain, "Muriel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, She turned. "You know I love you," he broke out: She answered "Yes," and sighed. "O pardon me. Pardon me," quoth the lover; "let me rest In certainty, and hear it from your mouth: Is he with whom I saw you once of late To call you wife?" "I hope so," she replied; And over all her face the rose-bloom came, As thinking on that other, unaware Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, A quickened sense of his great impotence To drive away the doom got hold on him; He set his teeth to force the unbearable Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes Flashed as with flame. And she, all overawed And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, And trembled at the deep she could not sound; A passionate nature in a storm; a heart Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp Of an immortal love. "Farewell," he said, Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, "My thanks for your good candor; for I feel That it has cost you something." Then, the blush Yet on her face, she said: "It was your due: But keep this matter from your friends and kin, We would not have it known." Then cold and proud, Because there leaped from under his straight lids, And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise,— "He wills it, and I therefore think it well." Thereon they parted; but from that time forth, Whether they met on festal eve, in field, Or at the church, she ever bore herself Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, The disapproval hastily betrayed And quickly hidden hurt her. "'T was a grace," She thought, "to tell this man the thing he asked, And he rewards me with surprise. I like No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed Where he bestowed it." But the spring came on: Looking to wed in April all her thoughts Grew loving; she would fain the world had waxed More happy with her happiness, and oft Walking among the flowery woods she felt Their loveliness reach down into her heart, And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, The rapture that was satisfied with light, The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring.