Jim's suggestion was the true one. Miss Edwards had known Charles Erskine "back in the States," and when they parted last, it had been as engaged lovers. When she left her home in the East to join her brother, a speedy marriage with him had been in contemplation. But how often did it happen, in old "steamer times," that wives left New York to join husbands in San Francisco, only to find, on arrival at the end of a long voyage, the dear ones hidden from sight in the grave, or the false ones gone astray! And so it happened to Mary Edwards, that, when she set foot on California soil, no lover appeared to welcome her, and her trembling and blushing were turned to painful suspense and secret bitter tears.

Her brother had vouchsafed very little explanation; only declaring Charles Erskine a scoundrel, who had nearly ruined him, and swearing he should never set foot on Tesoro Rancho until every dollar of indebtedness was paid. Poor Mary found it hard settling into a place so new, and duties so unaccustomed; but her good sense and good spirits conquered difficulties as they arose, until now she was quite inclined to like the new life for its own sake. Her brother was kind, and gathered about her every comfort and many luxuries; though, owing to embarrassments into which Erskine had drawn him, and to the losses of a year of drought, his purse was not overflowing. Such was the situation of affairs on the December morning when our story opens.

Miss Edwards mentioned to her brother, during the day, that James Harris had spoken of going to the city, and that she had some commissions for him to perform. She had made up her mind to discountenance the heathen habits into which everybody on the ranch had fallen. She had done all she could to keep the men from going to bull-fights on the Sabbath, and had offered to read the morning service, if the men would attend; and now she was going to celebrate Christmas, though she realty did believe that the people who never saw snow forgot that Christ was ever born! Yet was he not born in a country very strongly resembling this very one which ignored him?

John smiled, and offered no opposition; only bidding her remember not to make her commissions to the city very expensive ones, and suggesting, that, since she meant to be gay, she had better send some invitations to certain of their friends.

"By the way John, do you know where Charles Erskine is?" Miss Edwards asked, with much forced composure.

"The last I heard of him he was in San Francisco, lying dangerously ill," answered John coldly.

"Oh, John!"

"Mary, you must hope nothing from that man. Don't waste your sympathies on him, either; he'll never repay you the outgo."

"Tell me just one thing, John: Was Charles ever false to me? Tell me the truth."

"I think he kept good faith with you. It is not that I complain of in his conduct. The quarrel is strictly between us. He can never come here, with my consent."

"But I can go to him," said Miss Edwards, very quietly.

And she did go—with Sandy-haired Jim for an escort, and her brother's frowning face haunted her.

"If all is right," she said to him, at the very last, "I will be back to keep Christmas with you. Think as well as you can of me, John, and—good-by."

It will be seen, that, whatever Miss Edwards' little, womanly plan of reconciliation had been, it was, as to details, all changed by the information John had given her. What next she would do depended on circumstances. It was, perhaps, a question of life and death. The long, wearying, dusty stage-ride to San Francisco, passed like a disagreeable dream; neither incident of heat by day, nor cold by night, or influence of grand or lovely scenes, seemed to touch her consciousness. James Harris, in his best clothes and best manners—the latter having a certain gentle dignity about them that was born of the occasion—sat beside her, and ministered assiduously to those personal wants which she had forgotten in the absorption of her painful thoughts.

What Jim himself thought, if his mental processes could be called thinking, it would be difficult to state. He was dimly conscious that in his companion's mind there was a heavy trouble brooding; and conscious, also, of a desire to alleviate it, as far as possible, though in what way that might be done, he had not the remotest idea. There seemed an immense gulf between her and him, over which he never could reach to proffer consolation; and while he blindly groped in his own mind for some hint of his duty, he was fain to be content with such personal attentions as defending her from heat and cold, dust and fatigue, and reminding her that eating and drinking were among the necessary inconveniences of this life. After a couple of days spent in revolving the case hopelessly in his brain, his thoughts at length shaped themselves thus:

"Waal, neow, 'taint no concern of mine, to be sure; but I'm beound to see this gal threough. She's captain of this train, an' only got ter give her orders. I'll obey 'em, ef they take me to thunder. That's so, I veow!" After which conclusion of the whole matter, Jim appeared more at his ease in all respects. In truth, the most enlightened of us go to school to just such mental struggles, with profit to our minds and manners.

Arrived at San Francisco, Miss Edwards took quarters at a hotel, determined before reporting herself to any of her acquaintance to first find whether Charles Erskine was alive, and, if so, where he could be found. What a wearisome search was that before traces of him were discovered, in a cheap boarding-house, in a narrow, dirty street. And what bitter disappointment it was to learn that he had gone away some weeks before, as soon as he was able to be moved. To renew the search in the city, to send telegrams in every direction, was the next effort, which, like the first, proved fruitless; and, at the end of ten days Miss Edwards made a few formal calls on her friends, concluded some necessary purchases, and set out on her return to Tesoro Rancho, exhausted in mind and body.

If Jim was careful of her comfort before, he was tender toward her now; and the lady accepted the protecting care of the serving-man with a dull sense of gratitude. She even smiled on him faintly, in a languid way, but in a way that seemed to him to lessen the distance between them. Jim's education had been going on rapidly during the last ten days. He seemed to himself to be quite another man than the one who sat on the fence with Missouri Joe, less than two weeks agone.

Perhaps Miss Edwards noticed the change, and innocently encouraged him to aspire. We must not blame her if she did. This is what woman's education makes of her. The most cultured women must be grateful and flattering toward the rudest men, if circumstances throw them together. Born to depend on somebody, they must depend on their inferiors when their superiors are not at hand; must, in fact, assume an inferiority to those inferiors. If they sometimes turn their heads with the dangerous deference, what wonder!

Secure in the distance between them, Miss Edwards assumed that she could safely defer to Sandy-haired Jim, if, as it seemed, he enjoyed the sense of being her protector. Even had he been her equal, she would have said to herself, "He knows my heart is breaking for another, and will respect my grief." In this double security, she paid no heed to the devotion of her companion, only thinking him the kindest and most awkward of good and simple-minded men. That is just what any of us would have thought about Sandy-haired Jim, gentle readers.

John Edwards received his sister with a grave kindliness, which aggravated her grief. He would not ask her a question, nor give her the smallest opportunity of appealing to his sympathies. She had undertaken this business without his sanction, and without his sympathy she must abide the consequences. Toward her, personally, he should ever feel and act brotherly; but toward her foolish weakness for Erskine, he felt no charity. He was surprised and pleased to see that his sister's spirit was nearly equal to his own; for, though visibly "pale and pining," after the absurd fashion of women, she went about her duties and recreations as usual, and prosecuted the threatened preparations for Christmas with enthusiasm.

In some of these, it was necessary to employ the services of one of the men, and Miss Edwards, without much thought of why, except that she was used to him, singled out Jim as her assistant. To her surprise, he excused himself, and begged to substitute Missouri Joe.

"You see, Miss Edwards, I've been a long time meanin' to take a trip into the mount'ins. I allow it'll rain in less nor a week, an' then it'll be too late; so ef you'll excuse me this onct, I'll promise to be on hand next time, sure."

"Oh, certainly, Mr. Harris; Joe will do very well, no doubt; and there is no need for you to make excuses. I thought you would like to assist about these preparations, and I am sure you would, too; but go, by all means, for, as you say, it must rain very soon, when it will be too late."

"Thar's nothing I'd like better nor stayin' to work for you, Miss Edwards," answered Jim, with some appearance of confusion; "but this time I'm obleeged to go—I am, sure."

"Well, good-by, and good luck to you, Mr. Harris," Miss Edwards said, pleasantly.

"Ef she only knowed what I'm a goin' fur!" muttered Jim to himself, as he went to "catch up" his horse, and pack up two or three days' rations of bread and meat. "But I ain't goin' to let on about it to a single soul. It's best to keep this business to myself, I reckon. 'Peared like 'twas a hint of that kind she give me, the other day, when she said, 'The gods help them that help themselves, Mr. Harris.' Such a heap o' sense as that gal's got! She's smarter'n John Edwards and me, and Missouri Joe, to boot: but I'm a-gainin' on it a leetle—I'm a-gainin' on it a leetle," concluded Jim, slowly, puckering his parched and sunburnt lips into a significant expression of mystery.

What it was he was "gainin' on," did not appear, for the weight of his thoughts had brought him to a dead-stand, a few feet from the fence, on the hither side of which was the animal he contemplated riding. At this juncture of entire absence of mind, the voice of John Edwards, hailing him from the road, a little way off, dissolved the spell:

"I say, Jim," hallooed Edwards; "if you discover that mine, I will give you half of it, and an interest in the ranch."

The words seemed to electrify the usually slow mind to which the idea was addressed. Turning short about, Jim, in a score of long strides, reached the fence separating him from Edwards.

"Will you put that in writin'?"

"To be sure, I will," answered John, nodding his head, with a puzzled and ironical smile.

"I'll go to the house with ye, an' hev it done to onct," said Jim, sententiously. "I hev about an hour to spar, I reckon."

John Edwards was struck by the unusual manner of the proverbially deliberate man, who had served him with the same unvarying "slow and sure" faithfulness for years; but he refrained from comments. Jim, in his awkward way, proved to be more of a man of business than could have been expected.

"I want a bond fur a deed, Mr. Edwards. That's the best way to settle it, I reckon."

"That is as good a way as any; the discovery to be made within a certain time."

"An' what interest in the ranch, Mr. Edwards?"

"Well, about the ranch," said John, thoughtfully, "I don't want to run any risk of trading it off for nothing, and there will have to be conditions attached to the transfer of any portion of that more than the one of discovery of the mine. Let it be this way: that on the mine proving by actual results to be worth a certain sum—say $50,000—the deed shall be given to half the mine and one-third interest in the ranch; the supposition being, that, if it is proved to be worth $50,000, it is probably worth four times or ten times that amount."

"That's about it, I should say," returned Jim. "It's lib'ral in you, any way, Mr. Edwards."

"The truth is, Harris," said Edwards, looking him steadily in the eye, "I am in a devil of a pinch, that's the truth of it; and I am taking gambling chances on this thing. I only hope you may earn your third of the ranch. I'll not grudge it to you, if you do."

"Thank ye, sir. An' when them papers is made eout, I'll be off."

John handed him his papers half an hour afterward, which Jim prudently took care to have witnessed. Miss Edwards being called in, signed her name.

"So, this is what takes you to the mountains, Mr. Harris? I'm sure I wish you good luck."

"You did that afore, miss; an' it came, right on the spot."

"I must be your 'wishing fairy,'" said she, laughing.

"I'll bring you a Christmas present, Miss Edwards, like as not," Jim answered, coloring with delight at the thought.

"I hope you may. Thank you for the intention, any way."

"Are you going all alone, Harris?" asked Edwards, as he accompanied him a short distance from the house. "It is not quite safe going alone, is it? Have you any heirs, supposing you lose yourself or break your neck?"

Once more Jim was electrified with an idea. His light, gray eyes turned on his questioner with a sudden flash of intelligence:

"I mought choose my heir, I reckon."

"Certainly."

"Mought we go back to the house, an' make a will?"

"Aren't you afraid turning back so often may spoil your luck?" asked Edwards, laughing.

"Ef you think so, I'll never do it," answered Jim, soberly. "But I'll tell you, onct fur all, who it is shall be my heir if any thing chance me, an' I'll expect you'll act on the squar: that person is Miss Mary Edwards, your own sister, an' you'll not go fur to dispute my will?"

"I've no right to dispute your will, whether I approve of it or not. There will be no proof of it, however, and I could not make over your property to my sister, should there be other heirs with a natural and rightful claim to it. But you are not going to make your will just yet, Harris; so, good-by. You'll be home on Christmas?"

"I reckon I will."

John Edwards turned back to the house, and to banter his sister on Jim Harris's will, while that individual went about the business of his journey. His spirits were in a strange state of half-elation, half-depression. The depression was a natural consequence of the talk about a will, and the elation was the result of a strong and sudden faith which had sprung up in him in the success of his undertaking, and of the achievements of every kind it would render possible.

"She's my 'wishin' fairy,' she said, an' she wished me luck twice. I got the first stroke of it when John Edwards called to me across the field. I've got him strong on that; an' I war a leetle surprised, too. He wanted to make me look sharp, that's clar as mud. I'll look sharp, you bet, John Edwards! Didn't her hand look purty when she wrote her name? I've got her name to look at, any way." And at this stage of his reverie, Jim drew from an inner breast-pocket the bond which Miss Edwards had witnessed, and, after gazing at the signature for a moment with moveless features, gave a shy, hasty glance all round him, and pressed his parched and puckered lips on the paper.

The sentiment which caused this ebullition of emotion in Sandy-haired Jim was one so dimly defined, so little understood, and so absolutely pure in its nature, that had Miss Edwards been made aware of it, she could only have seen in it the touching tribute which it was to abstract womanliness—to the "wimmen nater," of which Jim was so frank an admirer. The gulf which was between them had never yet been crossed, even in imagination, though it is presumable; that, unknown to himself, Jim was trembling on the verge of it at this moment, dragged thither by the excitement of prospective wealth and the possibilities involved in it, and by the recollection of the pleasant words and smiles of this, to him, queen of women.

After this gush of romance—the first and only one Jim had ever been guilty of—he returned the document to his pocket, and, with his customary deliberation, proceeded to catch and mount his horse, and before noon was on his way across the valley, toward that particular gorge in the mountain where el tesoro was supposed to be located. John Edwards stood in the house door watching him ambling over the waste, yellow plain, until Jim and his horse together appeared a mere speck in the distance, when he went to talk over with his sister the late transaction, and make some jesting remarks on the probability of the desired discovery.

The days sped by, and there remained but two before Christmas. John and his sister were consulting together over the arrangement of some evergreen arches and wreaths of bay-leaves. Miss Edwards was explaining where the floral ornaments should come in, where she would have this picture, and where that, and how it would be best to light the rooms.

"I confess, John," she said, sitting down to braid the scarlet berries of the native arbutus into a wreath with the leaves of the California nutmeg, "that I can not make it seem like winter or like Christmas, with these open doors, these flowers, and this warm sunlight streaming in at the windows. I do wish we could have a flurry of snow, to make it seem like the holidays."

"Snow is out of the question; but I should be thankful for a good rain-storm. If it does not rain soon, there will be another failure of crops next year in all this part of the country."

"And then we should have to 'go down into Egypt for corn,' as the Israelites used to. Do you feel very apprehensive, John?"

Before John could reply, his attention was diverted by a strange arrival. Dismounting from Jim's horse was a man whom he did not at once recognize, so shabby were his clothes, so worn and haggard his appearance. With a feeling of vague uneasiness and curiosity, he sauntered toward the gate, to give such greeting as seemed fit to the stranger who came in this guise, yet riding a well-conditioned horse belonging to one of his own men.

Miss Edwards, who had also recognized the animal, ran, impulsively, to the door. She saw her brother advance to within a few feet of the stranger, then turn abruptly on his heel and return toward the house. The man thus contemptuously received, reeled, as if he would have fallen, but caught at the gate-post, where he remained, leaning, as if unable to walk.

"Who is it, John?" asked Miss Edwards, anxiously regarding her brother's stern countenance; but he passed her, without a word.

A sudden pallor swept over her face, and she looked, for one moment, as if she might have fainted; then, with a cry of, "Oh, John, John, be merciful!" she ran after him, and threw her arms about him.

"Let me go, Mary," said he, hoarsely. "If you wish to see Charles Erskine, you can do as you please. I wash my hands of him."

"But, John, he is ill; he is suffering; he may die—and at your gate!"

"Let him die!"

It was then that the soul of Miss Edwards "stood up in her eyes, and looked at" her brother. She withdrew her arms and turned mutely toward the door, out of which she passed, with a proud, resolute, and rapid tread. Without hesitation she did that which is so hard for a woman to do—make advances toward the man with whom she had once been in tender relations, but whose position has, for any reason, been made to appear doubtful. She went to him, took him by the hand, and inquired, more tremulously than she meant, what she could do for him.

"Mary!" answered the sick man, and then fainted quite away.

Miss Edwards had him conveyed to her own room, by the hands of Missouri Joe and the Chinese cook, where she dispensed such restoratives as finally brought back consciousness; and some slight nourishment being administered, revealed the fact that exhaustion and famine, more than disease, had reduced the invalid to his present condition; on becoming aware of which fact, Miss Edwards grew suddenly embarrassed, and, arranging everything for his comfort, was about to withdraw from the apartment, when Erskine beckoned to her, and, fumbling in his pockets, brought out several pieces of white quartz, thickly studded with yellow metal, but of the value of which she had little conception.

"Take these to John," he said, "and tell him they are a peace-offering. They came from el tesoro."

"You have seen James Harris; and he has discovered the mine!"

"I have seen no one. I discovered the mine myself."

"But the horse? It was Harris' horse you were riding."

"I did not know it; I found him, fortunately, when I could no longer walk."

"Poor Charlie," whispered Miss Edwards, moved by that womanly weakness which is always betraying the sex. She never knew how it was, but her head sank on the pillow; and, when she remembered it afterward, she was certain that, in the confusion of her ideas, he kissed her. Then she fled from the room, and sought her brother everywhere, saying, over and over, to herself, "Poor Jim! I wonder what has happened to him;" with tears streaming from her eyes, which she piously attributed to apprehensions for James Harris.

When John was found, and the "specimens" placed in his hands, he was first incredulous, and then indignant; for it hurts a proud man to be forced to change an opinion, or forgive an injury. The pressure of circumstances being too strong for him, he relented so far as to see Erskine, and talk over the discovery with him. What more the two men talked of, never transpired; but Miss Edwards concluded that everything was settled, as her brother gave orders concerning the entertainment of his former partner, and looked and spoke with unusual vivacity for the remainder of the day.

Many conjectures were formed concerning the fate of Sandy-haired Jim, by the men on the ranch, who generally agreed that his horse would not leave him, and that, if he were alive, he would be found not far from the spot where Charles Erskine picked up the animal. From Erskine's account, it appeared that he had been several weeks in the mountains, prospecting, before he discovered the mine; by which time he was so reduced in strength, through hardship and insufficient food, that it was with difficulty he made his way down to the valley. Just at a time when to proceed further seemed impossible, and when he had been absent two days from the mine, he fell in with a riding-horse, quietly grazing, at the foot of the mountain. Catching and mounting him, he rode, first along the edge of the valley for some distance, to find, if possibly a party were encamped there; but finding no one, started for his old home, riding as long as his strength allowed, and dismounting quite often to rest. In this way, three days and a half had passed, since the discovery of the mine. Judging from where the horse was found, Harris must have gone up on the other side of the ridge or spur, in which el tesoro was located. At all events, it was decided to send a party to look for him, as, whether or not any accident had befallen him, he was now without the means of reaching home; and, to provide for any emergencies, John ordered the light wagon to be taken along, with certain other articles, so suggestive of possible pain and calamity, that Miss Edwards felt her blood chilled by the sight of them.

"He will be so disappointed," she said, "not to have been the discoverer of the mine. John, you must make him a handsome present, and I will see what I can do, to show my gratitude for his many kindnesses."

And then, happy in the presence of her lover, and the returning cheerfulness of her brother, Miss Edwards forgot to give more than a passing thought to James Harris, while she busied herself in the preparations for a holiday, which, to her, would be doubly an anniversary, ever afterward.

The clouds, which had been gathering for a storm, during the past week, sent down a deluge of rain, on Christmas Eve, making it necessary to light fires in the long-empty fire-places, and giving a truly festive glow to the holiday adornments of the Edwards Rancho. The ranch hands were dancing to the music of the "Arkansas Traveler," in their separate quarters. John Edwards's half-dozen friends from the city, with two or three of his sister's, and the now convalescent Charles Erskine, clothed in a suit of borrowed broadcloth, were making mirth and music, after their more refined fashion, in Miss Edwards's parlor.

At the hour when, according to tradition, the Bethlehem Babe was born, Missouri Joe appeared at the door, and made a sign to the master of the house.

"It's a pity, like," said Joe, softly, "to leave him out thar in the storm."

"'Him!' Do you mean Harris? How is he?"

"The storm can't hurt him none," continued Joe; "an' it do not look right to fetch him in yer, nor to 'tother house, no more."

"What is it, John?" Miss Edwards asked anxiously, looking over his shoulder into the darkness. "Has Harris returned?"

"They have brought him," answered John; "and we must have him in here."

She shrank away, frightened and distressed, while the men brought what remained of Sandy-haired Jim, and deposited it carefully on a wooden bench in the hall. There was little to be told. The men had found him at the foot of a precipice where he had fallen. Beside him was a heavy nugget of pure gold, which he was evidently carrying when he fell. He had not died immediately, for in his breast-pocket was found the bond, with this indorsement, in pencil:

"I hev lit onto the mine foller mi trail up the kenyon miss Mary edwards is mi air so help me God goodby.

"JAMES HARRIS."

They buried him on Christmas Day; and Miss Edwards, smiling through her quiet-flowing tears, adorned his coffin with evergreen-wreaths and flowers. "I am glad to do this for him," she whispered to her lover, "for if ever there was a heart into which Christ was born at its birth, it was poor Jim's."



POEMS.



A PAGAN REVERIE.

Tell me, mother Nature! tender yet stern mother! In what nomenclature (fitlier than another) Can I laud and praise thee, entreat and implore thee; Ask thee what thy ways be, question yet adore thee.

Over me thy heaven bends its royal arches; Through its vault the seven planets keep their marches: Rising, shining, setting, with no change or turning; Never once forgetting—wasted not with burning.

On and on, unceasing, move the constellations, Lessening nor increasing since the birth of nations: Sun and moon unfailing keep their times and seasons,— But man, unavailing, pleads to thee for reasons.

Why the great dumb mountains, why the ocean hoary— Even the babbling fountains, older are than story, And his life's duration's but a few short marches Of the constellations through the heavenly arches!

Even the oaks of Mamre, and the palms of Kedar, (Praising thee with psalmry) and the stately cedar, Through the cycling ages, stinted not are growing,— While the holiest sages have not time for knowing.

Mother whom we cherish, savage while so tender, Do the lilies perish mourning their lost splendor? Does the diamond shimmer brightlier that eternal Time makes nothing dimmer of its light supernal?

Do the treasures hidden in earth's rocky bosom, Cry to men unbidden that they come and loose them? Is the dew of dawntide sad because the Summer Kissed to death the fawn-eyed Spring, the earlier comer?

Would the golden vapors trooping over heaven, Quench the starry tapers of the sunless even? When the arrowy lightnings smite the rocks asunder, Do they shrink with frightenings from the bellowing thunder?

Inconceivable Nature! these, thy inert creatures, With their sphinx-like stature, are of man the teachers; Silent, secret, passive, endless as the ages, 'Gainst their forces massive fruitlessly he rages.

Winds and waves misuse him, buffet and destroy him; Thorns and pebbles bruise him, heat and cold annoy him; Sting of insect maddens, snarl of beast affrights him; Shade of forest saddens, breath of flowers delights him.

O thou great, mysterious mother of all mystery! At thy lips imperious man entreats his history.— Whence he came—and whither is his spirit fleeing: Ere it wandered hither had it other being:

Will its subtile essence, passing through death's portal, Put on nobler presence in a life immortal? Or is man but matter, that a touch ungentle, Back again may shatter to forms elemental?

Can mere atoms question how they feel sensation? Or dust make suggestion of its own creation? Yet if man were better than his base conditions, Could things baser fetter his sublime ambitions?

What unknown conjunction of the pure etherial, With the form and function of the gross material, Gives the product mortal? whose immortal yearning Brings him to the portal of celestial learning.

To the portal gleaming, where the waiting sphinxes, Humoring his dreaming, give him what he thinks is Key to the arcana—plausible equation Of the problems many in his incarnation.

Pitiful delusion!—in no nomenclature— Maugre its profusion—O ambiguous nature! Can man find expression of his own relation To the great procession of facts in creation?

Fruitless speculating! none may lift the curtain From the antedating ages and uncertain When what is was not, and tides of pristine being Beat on shores forgot, and all, as now, unseeing.

Whence impelled or whither, or by what volition; Borne now here, now thither, in blind inanition. Out of this abysmal, nebulous dim distance, Haunted by a dismal, phantomic existence,

Issued man?—a creature without inspiration, Gross of form and feature, dull of inclination? Or was his primordial self a something higher? Fresh from test and ordeal of elemental fire.

Were these ages golden while the world was younger, When the giants olden knew not toil nor hunger? When no pain nor malice marred joy's full completeness, And life's honeyed chalice rapt the soul with sweetness?

When the restless river of time loved to linger; Ere flesh felt the quiver of death's dissolving finger; When man's intuition led without deflection, To a sure fruition, and a full perfection.

Individual man is ever new created: What his being's plan is, loosely predicated On the circumstances of his sole condition, Colored by the fancies borrowed from tradition.

His creation gives him clue to nothing older: Naked, life receives him—wondering beholder Of the world about him—and ere aught is certain, Time and mystery flout him; and death drops the curtain.

Man, the dreamer, groping after what he should be, Cheers himself with hoping to be what he would be: When he hopes no longer, with self-adulation, Fancies he was stronger at his first creation:

Else—in him inhering powers of intellection— Death, by interfering with his mind's perfection, Itself gives security to restore life's treasure, Freed from all impurity and in endless measure.

Thou, O Nature, knowest, yet no word is spoken. Time, that ever flowest, presses on unbroken: All in vain the sages toil with proof and question— The immemorial ages give no least suggestion.

PASSING BY HELICON.

My steps are turned away; Yet my eyes linger still, On their beloved hill, In one long, last survey: Gazing through tears that multiply the view, Their passionate adieu!

O, joy-empurpled height, Down whose enchanted sides The rosy mist now glides, How can I loose thy sight? How can my eyes turn where my feet must go, Trailing their way in woe?

Gone is my strength of heart; The roses that I brought From thy dear bowers, and thought To keep, since we must part— Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now, Than round Hymettus' brow.

The golden-vested bees Find sweetest sweetness in— Such odors dwelt within The moist red hearts of these— Alas, no longer give out blissful breath, But odors rank with death.

Their dewiness is dank; It chills my pallid arms, Once blushing 'neath their charms; And their green stems hang lank, Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more, But withered to the core.

Vain thought! to bear along, Into this torrid track, Whence no one turneth back With his first wanderer's song Yet on his lips, thy odors and thy dews, To deck these dwarfed yews.

No more within thy vales, Beside thy plashing wells, Where sweet Euterpe dwells With songs of nightingales, And sounds of flutes that make pale Silence glow, Shall I their rapture know.

Farewell, ye stately palms! Clashing your cymbal tones, In thro' the mystic moans Of pines at solemn psalms: Ye myrtles, singing Love's inspired song, We part, and part for long!

Farewell, majestic peaks! Whereon my listening soul Hath trembled to the roll Of thunders that Jove wreaks— And calm Minerva's oracles hath heard All more than now unstirred!

Adieu, ye beds of bloom! No more shall zephyr bring To me, upon his wing, Your loveliest perfume; No more upon your pure, immortal dyes, Shall rest my happy eyes.

I pass by; at thy foot, O, mount of my delight! Ere yet from out thy sight, I drop my voiceless lute: It is in vain to strive to carry hence Its olden eloquence.

Your sacred groves no more My singing shall prolong, With echoes of my song, Doubling it o'er and o'er. Haunt of the muses, lost to wistful eyes, What dreams of thee shall rise!

Rise but to be dispelled— For here where I am cast, Such visions may not last, By sterner fancies quelled: Relentless Nemesis my doom hath sent— This cruel banishment!

LOST AT SEA.

A fleet set sail upon a summer sea: 'Tis now so long ago, I look no more to see my ships come home; But in that fleet sailed all 'twas dear to me.

Ships never bore such precious freight as these, Please God, to any woe. His world is wide, and they may ride the foam, Secure from danger, in some unknown seas.

But they have left me bankrupt on life's 'change; And daily I bestow Regretful tears upon the blank account, And with myself my losses rearrange.

Oh, mystic wind of fate, dost hold my dower Where I may never know? Of all my treasure ventured what amount Will the sea send me in my parting hour!

'TWAS JUNE, NOT I.

"Come out into the garden, Maud;" In whispered tones young Percy said: He but repeated what he'd read That afternoon, with soft applaud: A snatch, which for my same name's sake, He caught, out of the sweet, soft song, A lover for his love did make, In half despite of some fond wrong:— And more he quoted, just to show How still the rhymes ran in his head, With visions of the roses red That on the poet's pen did grow.

The poet's spell was on our blood; The spell of June was in the air; We felt, more than we understood, The charm of being young and fair. Where everything is fair and young— As on June eves doth fitly seem: The Earth herself lies in among The misty, azure fields of space, A bride, whose startled blushes glow Less flame-like through the shrouds of lace That sweeter all her beauties show.

We walked and talked beneath the trees— Bird-haunted, flowering trees of June— The roses purpled in the moon: We breathed their fragrance on the breeze— Young Percy's voice is tuned to clear Deep tones, as if his heart were deep: This night it fluttered on my ear As young birds flutter in their sleep. My own voice faltered when I said How very sweet such hours must be With one we love. At that word he Shook like the aspen overhead: "Must be!" he drew me from the shade, To read my face to show his own: "Say are, dear Maud!"—my tongue was stayed; My pliant limbs seemed turned to stone.

He held my hands I could not move— The nerveless palms together prest— And clasped them tightly to his breast; While in my heart the question strove. The fire-flies flashed like wandering stars— I thought some sprang from out his eyes: Surely some spirit makes or mars At will our earthly destinies! "Speak, Maud!"—at length I turned away: He must have thought it woman's fear; For, whispering softly in my ear Such gentle thanks as might allay Love's tender shame; left on my brow, And on each hand, a warm light kiss— I feel them burn there even now— But all my fetters fell at this.

I spoke like an injured queen: It's our own defence when we're surprised— The way our weakness is disguised; I said things that I could not mean, Or ought not—since it was a lie That love had not been in my mind: 'Twas in the air I breathed; the sky Shone love, and murmured it the wind. It had absorbed my soul with bliss; My blood ran love in every vein, And to have been beloved again Were heavenly!—so I thought till this Unlooked for answer to the prayer My heart was making with its might, Thus challenged, caught in sudden snare, Like two clouds meeting on a height, And, pausing first in short strange lull, Then bursting into awful storm, Opposing feelings multiform, Struggled in silence: and then full Of our blind woman-wrath, broke forth In stinging hail of sharp-edged ice, As freezing as the polar north, Yet maddening. O, the poor mean vice We women have been taught to call By virtue's name! the holy scorn We feel for lovers left love-lorn By our own coldness, or by the wall Of other love 'twixt them and us!

The tempest past, I paused. He stood Silent,—and yet "Ungenerous!" Was hurled back, plainer than ere could His lips have said it, by his eyes Fire-flashing, and his pale, set face, Beautiful, and unmarred by trace Of aught save pain and pained surprise. —I quailed at last before that gaze, And even faintly owned my wrong: I said I "spoke in such amaze I could not choose words that belong To such occasions." Here he smiled, To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh: "June eves disturb us differently," He said, at length; "and I, beguiled By something in the air, did do My Lady Maud unmeant offence; And, what is stranger far, she too, Under the baleful influence of this fair heaven"—he raised his eyes, And gestured proudly toward the stars— "Has done me wrong. Wrong, lady, mars God's purpose, written on these skies, Painted and uttered in this scene: Acknowledged in each secret heart; We both are wrong, you say; 'twould mean That we too should be wide apart— And so, adieu!"—with this he went.

I sat down whitening in the moon, With heat as of a desert noon, Sending its fever vehement Across my brow, and through my frame— The fever of a wild regret— A vain regret without a name, In which both love and loathing met.

Was this the same enchanted air I breathed one little hour ago? Did all these purple roses blow But yestermorn, so sweet, so fair? Was it this eve that some one said "Come out into the garden, Maud?" And while the sleepy birds o'erhead Chirped out to know who walked abroad, Did we admire the plumey flowers On the wide-branched catalpa trees, And locusts, scenting all the breeze; And call the balm-trees our bird-towers? Did we recall the "black bat Night," That flew before young Maud walked forth— And say this Night's wings were too bright For bats'—being feathered, from its birth, Like butterflies' with powdered gold: Still talking on, from gay to grave, And trembling lest some sudden wave Of the soul's deep, grown over-bold, Should sweep the barriers of reserve, And whelm us in tumultuous floods Of unknown power? What did unnerve Our frames, as if we walked with gods? Unless they, meaning to destroy, Had made us mad with a false heaven, Or drunk with wine and honey given Only for immortals to enjoy.

Alas, I only knew that late I'd seemed in an enchanted sphere; That now I felt the web of fate Close round me, with a mortal fear. If only once the gods invite To banquets that are crowned with roses; After which the celestial closes Are barred to us; if in despite Of such high favor, arrogant We blindly choose to bide our time, Rejecting Heaven's—and ignorant What we have spurned, attempt to climb To heavenly places at our will— Finding no path thereto but one, Nemesis-guarded, where atone To heaven, all such as hopeful still, Press toward the mount,—yet find it strewn With corses, perished by the way, Of those who Fate did importune Too rashly, or her will gainsay. If I have been thrust out from heaven, This night, for insolent disdain, Of putting a young god in pain, How shall I hope to be forgiven? Yet let me not be judged as one Who mocks at any high behest; My fault being that I kept the throne Of a JOVE vacant in my breast, And when APOLLO claimed the place I was too loyal to my Jove; Unmindful how the masks of love Transfigure all things to our face.

Ah, well! if I have lost to fate The greatest boon that heaven disposes; And closed upon myself the gate To fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses, On this intoxicating air, The witching influence of the moon, The poet's rhymes that went in tune To the night's voices low and rare; To all, that goes to make such hours Like hasheesh-dreams. These did defy, With contrary fate-compelling power, The intended bliss;—'twas June, not I.

LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD.

Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless— With less of radiance than the burnished tress, Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold, Kneaded together with the common mold! Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges; Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast From man's desire and quest— Would thou could'st speak and tell the mystery That shrines thy history!

Yet 'tis of little consequence, To-day, to know how thou wert made, or whence Earthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here, At once the master that men love and fear— Whom they have sought by many strange devices, In ancient river-beds; in interstices Of hardest quartz; upon the wave-wet strand, Where curls the tawny sand By mountain torrents hurried to the main, And thence hurled back again:—

Yes, suffered, dared, and patiently Offered up everything, O gold, to thee!— Home, wife and children, native soil, and all That once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call; Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted; Wearied for months at sea—yet ever painted Thee as the shining Mecca, that to gain Invalidated pain, Cured the sick soul—made nugatory evil Of man or devil.

Alas, and well-a-day! we know What idle dreams were these that fooled men so. On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves, To which they went untended, the poor slaves Of fruitless toil; the victims of a fever Called home-sickness—no remedy found ever; Or slain by vices that grow rankly where Men madly do and dare, In alternations of high hope and deep abysses Of recklessnesses.

Painfully, and by violence: Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whence Nature had hidden thee—whose face is worn With anxious furrows, and her bosom torn In the hard strife—and ever yet there lingers Upon these hills work for the "effacing fingers" Of time, the healer, who makes all things seem A half forgotten dream; Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together, By touch of wind and weather.

Thou heavy, lustreless, dull clod! Digged from the earth like a base common sod; I wonder at thee, and thy power to hold The world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold! Yet do I sadly own thy fascination, And would I gladly show my estimation By giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt come And cumber up my home;— I'd even promise not to call attention To these things that I mention!

"The King can do no wrong," and thou Art King indeed to most of us, I trow. Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovereign will All that there is of progress, learning, skill, Of beauty, culture, grace—and I might even Include religion, though that flouts at heaven— Comes at thy bidding, flies before thy loss;— And yet men call thee dross! If thou art dross then I mistaken be Of thy identity.

Ah, solid, weighty, beautiful! How could I first have said that thou wert dull? How could have wondered that men willingly Gave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee? Theirs was the martyrdom in which was planted A glorious State, by precious memories haunted: Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, the fame Of an exalted name: Theirs was the struggle of a proud ambition— Ours is the full fruition.

Thou, yellow nugget, wert the star That drew these willing votaries from afar, 'Twere wrong to call thee lustreless or base That lightest onward all the human race, Emblem art thou, in every song or story, Of highest excellence and brightest glory: Thou crown'st the angels, and enthronest Him Who made the cherubim: My reverend thought indeed is not withholden, O nugget golden!

MAGDALENA.

You say there's a Being all-loving, Whose nature is justice and pity; Could you say where you think he is roving? We have sought him from city to city, But he never is where we can find him, When outrage and sorrow beset us; It is strange we are always behind him, Or that He should forever forget us.

But being a god, he is thinking Of the masculine side of the Human; And though just, it would surely be sinking The God to be thoughtful for woman. For him and by him was man made: Sole heir of the earth and its treasures; An after-thought, woman—the handmaid, Not of God, but of man and his pleasures.

Should you say that man's God would reprove us, If we found him and showed him our bruises? It is dreary with no one to love us, Or to hold back the hand that abuses: Man's hand, that first led and caressed us, Man's lips, that first kissed and betrayed;— If his God could know how he's oppressed us, Do you think that we need be afraid?

For we loved him—and he who stood nearest To God, who could doubt or disdain? When he swore by that God, and the dearest Of boons that he hoped to obtain Of that God, that he truly would keep us In his heart of hearts precious and only: Say, how could we think he would steep us In sorrow, and leave us thus lonely?

But you see how it is: he has left us, This demi-god, heir of creation; Of our only good gifts has bereft us, And mocked at our mad desolation: Says that we knew that such oaths would be broken— Says we lured him to lie and betray; Quotes the word of his God as a token Of the law that makes woman his prey.

And now what shall we do? We have given To this master our handmaiden's dower: Our beauty and youth, aye, and even Our souls have we left in his power. Though we thought when we loved him, that loving Made of woman an angel, not demon; We have found, to our fond faith's disproving, That love makes of woman a leman!

Yes, we gave, and he took: took not merely What we gave, for his lying pretences: But our whole woman world, that so dearly We held by till then: our defences Of home, of fair fame; the affection Of parents and kindred; the human Delight of child-love; the protection That is everywhere owed to a woman.

You say there's a Being all-loving, Whose nature is justice and pity: Could you say where you think he is roving? We have sought him from city to city. We have called unto him, our eyes streaming With the tears of our pain and despair: We have shouted unto him blaspheming, And whispered unto him in prayer.

But he sleeps, or is absent, or lending His ear to man's prouder petition: And the black silence over us bending Scorches hot with the breath of perdition. For this fair world of man's, in which woman Pays for all that she gets with her beauty, Is a desert that starves out the human, When her charms charm not squarely with duty.

For man were we made, says the preacher, To love him and serve him in meekness, Of man's God is man solely the teacher Interpreting unto our weakness: He the teacher, the master, dispenser Not only of law, but of living, Breaks his own law with us, then turns censor, Accusing, but never forgiving.

Do you think that we have not been nursing Resentment for wrong and betrayal? From our hearts, filled with gall, rises cursing, To our own and our masters' dismayal. 'Tis for this that we seek the all-loving, Whose nature is justice and pity; And we'll find Him, wherever he's roving, In country, in town, or in city.

He must show us his justice, who made us; He must place sin where sin was conceived; We must know if man's God will upbraid us Because we both loved and believed. We must know if man's riches and power, His titles, crowns, sceptres and ermine, Weigh with God against womanhood's dower, Or whether man's guilt they determine.

It would seem that man's God should restrain him, Or else should avenge our dishonor: Shall the cries of the hopeless not pain him, Or shall woman take all guilt upon her? Let us challenge the maker that made us; Let us cry to Christ, son of a woman; We shall learn if, when man has betrayed us, Heaven's justice accords with the human.

We must know if because we were lowly, And kept in the place man assigned us, He could seek us with passions unholy And be free, while his penalties bind us. We would ask if his gold buys exemption, Or whether his manhood acquits him; How it is that we scarce find redemption For sins less than his self-law permits him.

Do we dare the Almighty to question? Shall the clay to the potter appeal? To whom else shall we go with suggestion? Shall the vase not complain to the wheel? God answered Job out of the groaning Of thunder and whirlwind and hailing; Will he turn a deaf ear to our moaning, Or reply to our prayers with railing?

Did you speak of a Christ who is tender— A deity born of a woman? Of the sorrowful, God and defender, And brother and friend of the human? Long ago He ascended to heaven, Long ago was His teaching forgotten; The lump has no longer the leaven, But is heavy, unwholesome and rotten.

The gods are all man's, whom he praises For laws that make woman his creature; For the rest, theological mazes Furnish work for the salaried preacher. In the youth of the world it was better, We had deities then of our choosing; We could pray, though we wore then a fetter, To a GODDESS of binding and loosing.

We could kneel in a grove or a temple, No man's heavy hand on our shoulder: Had in Pallas Athene example To make womanhood stronger and bolder. But the temples are broken and plundered, Sacred altars profanely o'erthrown; Where the oracle trembled and thundered, Are a cavern, a fount, and a stone.

Yet we would of the Christ hear the story, 'Twas familiar in days that are ended; His humility, purity, glory, Are they not into heaven ascended? We see naught but scorning and hating; We hear naught but threats and contemning: For your Christian is good and berating, And your sinner is first in condemning.

Should you say that the Christ would reprove us, If we found him and told him our trouble? It is fearful with no one to love us, And our pain and despair growing double. It is mad'ning to feel we're excluded From the homes of the mothers that bore us; And that man, by no false arts deluded, May enter unchallenged before us.

It is hard to be humble when trodden; We cannot be meek when oppressed; Nor pure while our souls are made sodden With loathing that can't be confessed; Or true, while our bread and our shelter By a lying pretence is obtained— Deceived, in deception we welter; By a touch are we evermore stained.

O hard lot of woman! the creature Of a creature whose God is asleep, Or gone on a journey. You teach her She was made to sin, suffer, and weep; We wait for a new revelation, We cry for a God of our own; O God unrevealed, bring salvation, From our necks lift the collar of stone!

REPOSE.

I lay me down straight, with closed eyes, And pale hands folded across my breast, Thinking, unpained, of the sad surprise Of those who shall find me thus fall'n to rest; And the grief in their looks when they learn no endeavor, Can disturb my repose—for my sleep is forever. I know that a smile will lie hid in my eyes, Even a soft throb of joy stir the pulse in my breast, When they sit down to mourning, with tears and with sighs, And shudder at death, which to me is but rest.

So sweet to be parted at once from our pain; To put off our care as a robe that is worn; To drop like a link broken out of a chain, And be lost in the sands by Time's tide overborne: And to know at my loss all the wildest regretting, Will be as a foot-print, washed out in forgetting. To be certain of this—that my faults perish first; That when they behold me so calmly asleep, They can but forgive me my errors at worst, And speak of my praises alone as they weep.

"Whom the gods love die young," they will say; Though they should think it, they will not say so: "Whom the world pierces with thorns pass away, Grieving, yet asking and longing to go!" No, when they see how divine my repose is, They'll forget that my-life-path is not over roses; And they'll whisper together, with hands full of flowers, How always I loved them to wear on my breast; And strewing them over my bosom in showers, With hands shaken by sobs, leave me softly to rest.

There is one who will come when the rest are away; One bud of a rose will he bring for my hair; He knows how I liked it, worn always that way, And his fingers will tremble while placing it there. Yes, he'll remember those soft June-day closes, When the sky was as flushed as our own crimson roses; He'll remember the flush on the sky and the flowers, And the red on my cheek where his lips had been prest; But the throes of his heart in the long, silent hours, Will disturb not my dreams, so profoundly I'll rest.

So, all will forget, what to think of mere pain, That the heart now asleep in this solemn repose, Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain, And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes: They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done, Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone; They'll remember I loved them, was faithful and true; They'll not say what a wild will abode in my breast; But repeat to each other, as if they were new, Old stories of what did the loved one at rest.

Ah! while I lie soothing my soul with this dream, The terror of waking comes back to my heart; Why is it not as I thus make it seem? Must I come back to the world, ere we part? Deep was the swoon of my spirit—why break it? Why bring me back to the struggles that shake it? Alas, there is room on my feet for fresh bruises— The flowers are not dead on my brow or my breast— When shall I learn "sweet adversity's uses," And my tantalized spirit be truly at rest!

ASPASIA.

O, ye Athenians, drunken with self-praise, What dreams I had of you, beside the sea, In far Miletus! while the golden days Slid into silver nights, so sweet to me; For then I dreamed my day-dreams sweetly o'er, Fancying the touch of Pallas on my brow— Libations of both heart and wine did pour, And offered up my being with my vow.

'Twas thus to Athens my heart drew at last My life, my soul, myself. Ah, well, I learn To love and loathe the bonds that hold me fast, Your captive and your conquerer in turn; Am I not shamed to match my charms with those Of fair boy-beauties? gentled for your love To match the freshness of the morning rose, And lisp in murmurs like the cooing dove.

O, men of Athens! by the purple sea In far Miletus, when I dreamed of you, Watching the winged ships that invited me To follow their white track upon the blue; 'Twas the desire to mate my lofty soul That drew me ever like a viewless chain Toward Homer's land of heroes, 'til I stole Away from home and dreams, to you and pain.

I brought you beauty—but your boys invade My woman's realm of love with girlish airs. I brought high gifts, and powers to persuade, To charm, to teach, with your philosophers. But knowledge is man's realm alone, you hold; And I who am your equal am cast down Level with those who sell themselves for gold— A crownless queen—a woman of the town!

Ye vain Athenians, know this, that I By your hard laws am only made more free; Your unloved dames may sit at home and cry, But, being unwed, I meet you openly, A foreigner, you cannot wed with me; But I can win your hearts and sway your will, And make your free wives envious to see What power Aspasia wields, Milesian still.

Who would not be beloved of Pericles? I could have had all Athens at my feet; And have them for my flatterers, when I please; Yet, one great man's great love is far more sweet! He is my proper mate as I am his— You see my young dreams were not all in vain— And I have tasted of ineffable bliss, If I am stung at times with fiery pain.

It is not that I long to be a wife By your Athenian laws, and sit at home Behind a lattice, prisoner for life, With my lord left at liberty to roam; Nor is it that I crave the right to be At the symposium or the Agora known; My grievance is, that your proud dames to me Came to be taught, in secret and alone.

They fear; what do they fear? is't me or you? Am I not pure as any of them all? But your laws are against me; and 'tis true, If fame is lowering, I have had a fall! O, selfish men of Athens, shall the world Remember you, and pass my glory by? Nay, 'til from their proud heights your names are hurled, Mine shall blaze with them on your Grecian sky.

Am I then boastful? It is half in scorn Of caring for your love, or for your praise, As women do, and must. Had I been born In this proud Athens, I had spent my days In jealousy of boys, and stolen hours With some Milesian, of a questioned place, Learning of her the use of woman's powers Usurped by men of this patrician race.

Alas! I would I were a child again, Steeped in dream langours by the purple sea; And Athens but the vision it was then, Its great men good, its noble women free: That I in some winged ship should strive to fly To reach this goal, and founder and go down! O impious thought, how could I wish to die, With all that I have felt and learned unknown?

Nay, I am glad to be to future times As much Athenian as is Pericles; Proud to be named by men of other climes The friend and pupil of great Socrates. What is the gossip of the city dames Behind their lattices to one like me? More glorious than their high patrician names I hold my privilege of being free!

And yet I would that they were free as I; It angers me that women are so weak, Looking askance when ere they pass me by Lest on a chance their lords should see us speak; And coming next day to an audience In hope of learning to resemble me: They wish, they tell me, to learn eloquence— The lesson they should learn is liberty.

O Athens, city of the beautiful, Home of all art, all elegance, all grace; Whose orators and poets sway the soul As the winds move the sea's unstable face; O wonderous city, nurse and home of mind, This is my oracle to you this day— No generous growth from starved roots will you find, But fruitless blossoms weakening to decay.

You take my meaning? Sappho is no more, And no more Sapphos will be, in your time; The tree is dead on one side that before Ran with such burning sap of love and rhyme. Your glorious city is the utmost flower Of a one-sided culture, that will spend Itself upon itself, 'till, hour by hour, It runs its sources dry, and so must end.

That race is doomed, behind whose lattices Its once free women are constrained to peer Upon the world of men with vacant eyes; It was not so in Homer's time, I hear. But Eastern slaves have eaten of your store, Till in your homes all eating bread are slaves; They're built into your walls, beside your door, And bend beneath your lofty architraves.

A woman of the race that looks upon The sculptured emblems of captivity, Shall bear a slave or tyrant for a son; And none shall know the worth of liberty. Am I seditious?—Nay, then, I will keep My lesson for your dames when next they steal On tip-toe to an audience. Pray sleep Securely, and dream well: we wish your weal!

Why, what vain prattle: but my heart is sore With thinking on the emptiness of things, And these Athenians, treacherous to the core, Who hung on Pericles with flatterings. I would indeed I were a little child, Resting my tired limbs on the sunny sands In far Miletus, where the airs blow mild, And countless looms throb under busy hands.

The busy hand must calm the busy thought, And labor cool the passions of the hour; To the tired weaver, when his web is wrought, What signifies the party last in power? But here in Athens, 'twixt philosophers Who reason on the nature of the soul; And all the vain array of orators, Who strove to hold the people in control.

Between the poets, artists, critics, all, Who form a faction or who found a school, We weave Penelope's web with hearts of gall, And my poor brain is oft the weary tool. Yet do I choose this life. What is to me Peace or good fame, away from all of these, But living death? I do choose liberty, And leave to Athens' dames their soulless ease.

The time shall come, when Athens is no more, And you and all your gods have passed away; That other men, upon another shore, Shall from your errors learn a better way. To them eternal justice will reveal Eternal truth, and in its better light All that your legal falsehoods now conceal, Will stand forth clearly in the whole world's sight.

A REPRIMAND.

Behold my soul? She sits so far above you Your wildest dream has never glanced so high; Yet in the old-time when you said, "I love you," How fairly we were mated, eye to eye How long we dallied on in flowery meadows, By languid lakes of purely sensuous dreams, Steeped in enchanted mists, beguiled by shadows, Casting sweet flowers upon loitering streams, My memory owns, and yours; mine with deep shame, Yours with a sigh that life is not the same.

What parted us, to leave you in the valley And send me struggling to the mountain-top? Too weak for duty, even love failed to rally The manhood that should float your pinions up. On my spent feet are many half-healed bruises, My limbs are wasted with their heavy toil, But I have learned adversity's "sweet uses," And brought my soul up pure through every soil; Have I no right to scorn the man's dead power That leaves you far below me at this hour?

Scorn you I do, while pitying even more The ignoble weakness of a strength debased. Do I yet mourn the faith that died of yore— The trust by timorous treachery effaced? Through all, and over all, my soul mounts free To heights of peace you cannot hope to gain, Sings to the stars its mountain minstrelsy, And smiles down proudly on your murky plain; 'Tis vain to invite you—yet come up, come up, Conquer your way toward the mountain-top!

TO MRS. ——.

I cannot find the meaning out That lies in wrong and pain and strife; I know not why we grope through grief, Tear-blind, to touch the higher life.

I see the world so subtly fair, My heart with beauty often aches; But ere I quiet this sweet pain, Some cross so presses, the heart breaks.

To-day, this lovely golden day, When heaven and earth are steeped in calm; When every lightest air that blows, Sheds its delicious freight of balm.

If I but ope my lips, I sob; If but an eyelid lift, I weep; I deprecate all good or ill, And only wish for endless sleep.

For who, I ask, has set my feet In all these dark and troubled ways? And who denies my soul's desire, When with its might it cries and prays?

In my unconscious veins there runs Perchance, some old ancestral taint; In Eve I sinned: poor Eve and I! We each may utter one complaint:—

One and the same—for knowledge came Too late to save her paradise; And I my paradise have lost; Forsooth because I am not wise.

O vain traditions! small the aid We women gather from your lore: Why, when the world was lost, did death Not come our children's birth before?

It had been better to have died, Sole prey of death, and ended so; Than to have dragged through endless time, One long, unbroken trail of woe.

To suffer, yet not expiate; To die at last, yet not atone; To mourn our heirship to a guilt, Erased by innocent blood alone!

You lift your hands in shocked surprise; You say enough I have not prayed: Can prayer go back through centuries, And change the web of fate one braid?

Nay, own the truth, and say that we Are but the bonded slaves of doom; Unconscious to the cradle came, Unwilling must go to the tomb.

Your woman's hands are void of help, Though my soul should be stung to death; Could I avert one pang from you, Imploring with my latest breath?

And men!—we suffer any wrong That men, or mad, or blind, may do;— Let me alone in my despair! There is no help for me or you.

I wait to find the meaning out That lies beyond the bitter end; Comfort yourself with 'wearying heaven, I ask no comfort, oh my friend!

MOONLIGHT MEMORIES.

Do thy chamber windows open east, Beloved, as did ours of old? And do you stand when day has ceased, Withdrawn thro' evening's porch of gold, And watch the pink flush fade above The hills on which the wan moon leans, Remembering the sweet girlish love That blest this hour in other scenes!

I see your hand upon your heart— I see you dash away the tears— It is the same undying smart, That touched us in the long-gone years; And cannot pass away. You stand Your forehead to the window crest, And stifle sobs that no command Can keep from rising in your breast.

Dear, balm is not for griefs like ours, Nor resurrection for dead hope: In vain we cover wounds with flowers, That grow upon life's western slope. Their leaves tho' bright, are hard, and dry, They have no soft and healing dew; The pansies of past spring-times lie Dead in the shadow of the yew.

You feel this in your heart, and turn To pace the dimness of your room; But lo, like fire within an urn, The moonlight glows through all the gloom. It sooths you like a living touch, And spite of the slow-falling tears, Sweet memories crowd with oh, so much, Of all that girlhood's time endears.

On nights like this, with such a moon, Full shining in a wintry sky; Or on the softer nights of June, When fleecy clouds fled thought-like by, Within our chamber opening east, With curtains from the window parted, With hands and cheeks together prest, We dreamed youth's glowing dreams, light-hearted.

Or talked of that mysterious love That comes like fate to every soul: And vowed to hold our lives above, Perchance its sorrowful control. Alas, the very vow we made, To keep our lives from passion free, To wiser hearts well had betrayed Some future love's intensity.

How well that youthful vow was kept, Is written on a deathless page— Vain all regrets, vain tears we've wept, The record lives from age to age. But one who "doeth all things well," Who made us differ from the throng, Has it within his heart to quell This torturing pain of thirst, ere long.

And you, whose soul is all aglow With fire Prometheus brought from heaven, Shall in some future surely know Joys for which high desires are given. Not always in a restless pain Shall beat your heart, or throb your brow; Not always shall you sigh in vain For hope's fruition, hidden now.

Beloved, are your tear-drops dried? The moon is riding high above:— Though each from other's parted wide, We have not parted early love. And tho' you never are forgot, The moonrise in the east shall be The token that my evening thought Returns to home, and love and thee!

VERSES FOR M——.

The river on the east Ripples its azure flood within my sight; And, darting from the west, Are "sunset arrows," feathered with red light. The northern breeze has hung His wintry harp upon some giant pine; And the pale stars among, I see the star I love to name as mine: But toward the south I turn my eager eyes— Beyond its flushed horizon my heart lies.

The snow-clad isles of ice, Launched by wild Boreas from a northern shore, Journey the way my eyes Turn with an envious longing evermore— Smiling back to the sky Its own pink blush, and, floating out of sight, Bear south the softest dye Of northern heavens, to fade in southern night:— My eyes but look the way my joys are gone, And the ice-islands travel not alone.

The untrod fields of snow, Glow with the rosy blush of parting day; And fancy asks if so The snow is stained with sunset far away; And if some face, like mine, Its forehead pressed against the window-pane, Peers northward, with the shine Of the pole-star reflected in eyes' rain: "Ah yes," my heart says, "it is surely so;" And, like a bound bird, flutters hard to go.

Sad eyes, that, blurred with tears, Gaze into darkness, gaze no more in vain Whence no loved face appears, And no voice comes to lull the heart's fond pain! Sad heart! restrain thy throbs, For beauty, like a presence out of heaven, Rests over all, and robs Sorrow of pain, and makes earth seem forgiven:— Twilight the fair eve ushers in with grace, And rose clouds melt for stars to take their place.

AUTUMNALIA.

The crimson color lays As bright as beauty's blush along the West; And a warm golden haze, Promising sheafs of ripe Autumnal days To crown the old year's crest. Hangs in mid air, a half-pellucid maze, Through which the sun at set, Grown round and rosy, looks with Bacchian blush, For an old wine-god meet— Whose brows are dripping with the grape-blood sweet, As if his southern flush Rejoiced him, in his northern-zone retreat.

The amber-colored air Musical is with hum of tiny things Held idly, struggling there, As if the golden mist entangled were About the viewless wings, That beat out music on their gilded snare.

If but a leaf, all gay With Autumn's gorgeous coloring, doth fall, Along its fluttering way A shrill alarum wakes a sharp dismay, And, answering to the call, The insect chorus swells and dies away With a fine piping noise. As if some younger singing notes cried out, As do mischievous boys— Startling their playmates with a pained voice, Or sudden thrilling shout, Followed by laughters, full of little joys.

Perchance a lurking breeze Springs, just awakened to its wayward play, Tossing the sober trees Into a frolic maze of ecstasies, And snatching at the gay Banners of Autumn, strews them where it please.

The sunset colors glow A second time in flame from out the wood, As bright and warm as though The vanished clouds had fallen, and lodged below Among the tree-tops, hued With all the colors of heaven's signal-bow.

The fitful breezes die Into a gentle whisper, and then sleep; And sweetly, mournfully, Starting to sight, in the transparent sky, Lone in the upper deep, Sad Hesper pours its beams upon the eye; And for one little hour, Holds audience with the lesser lights of heaven; Then to its western bower Descends in sudden darkness, as the flower That at the fall of Even Shuts its bright eye, and yields to slumber's power.

Soon, with a dusky face, Pensive and proud as an East Indian queen, And with a solemn grace, The moon ascends, and takes her royal place In the fair evening scene; While all the reverential stars, apace, Take up their march through the cool fields of space, And dead is the sweet Autumn day whose close we've seen.

PALO SANTO.

In the deep woods of Mexico, Where screams the "painted paraquet," And mocking-birds flit to and fro, With borrowed notes they half forget; Where brilliant flowers and poisonous vines Are mingled in a firm embrace, And the same gaudy plant entwines Some reptile of a poisonous race; Where spreads the Itos' icy shade, Benumbing, even in summer's heat, The thoughtless traveler who hath laid Himself to noonday slumbers sweet;— Where skulks unseen the beast of prey— The native robber glares and hides,— And treacherous death keeps watch alway On him who flies, or he who bides.

In these deep tropic woods there grows A tree, whose tall and silvery bole Above the dusky forest shows, As shining as a saintly soul Among the souls of sinful men;— Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven, And breathing incense out, as when The passing saints of earth are shriven.

The skulking robber drops his eyes, And signs himself with holy cross, If, far between him and the skies, He sees its pearly blossoms toss. The wanderer halts to gaze upon The lovely vision, far or near, And smiles and sighs to think of one He wishes for the moment here.

The Mexic native fears not fang Of poisonous serpent, vine, nor bee, If he may soothe the baleful pang With juices of this "holy tree."

How do we all, in life's wild ways, Which oft we traverse lost and lone, Need that which heavenward draws the gaze, Some Palo Santo of our own!

A SUMMER DAY.

Fade not, sweet day! Another hour like this— So full of tranquil bliss— May never come my way, I walk in paths so shadowed and so cold: But stay thou, darling hour, Nor stint thy gracious power To smile away the clouds that me enfold: Oh stay! when thou art gone, I shall be lost and lone.

Lost, lone, and sad; And troubled more and more, By the dark ways, and sore, In which my feet are led;— Alas, my heart, it was not always so! Therefore, O happy day, Haste not to fade away, Nor let pale night chill all thy tender glow— Thy rosy mists, that steep The violet hills in sleep—

Thy airs of gold, That over all the plain, And fields of ripened grain, A shimmering glory hold,— The soft fatigue-dress of the drowsy sun; Dreaming, as one who goes To peace, and sweet repose, After a battle hardly fought, and won: Even so, my heart, to-day, Dream all thy fears away.

O happy tears, That everywhere I gaze, Jewel the golden maze, Flow on, till earth appears Worthy the soft perfection of this scene: Beat, heart, more soft and low, Creep, hurrying blood, more slow: Waste not one throb, to lose me the serene, Deep, satisfying bliss Of such an hour as this!

How like our dream, Of that delightful rest God keepeth for the blest, This lovely peace doth seem;— Perchance, my heart, He sent this gracious day, That when the dark and cold, Thy doubtful steps enfold, Thou, may'st remember, and press on thy way, Nor faint midway the gloom That lies this side the tomb.

All, all in vain, Sweet day, do I entreat To stay thy winged feet; The gloom, the cold, the pain, Gather me back as thou dost pale and fade; Yet in my heart I make A chamber for thy sake, And keep thy picture in warm color laid:— Thy memory, happy day, Thou can'st not take away.

HE AND SHE.

Under the pines sat a young man and maiden, "Love," said he; "life is sweet, think'st thou not so?" Sweet were her eyes, full of pictures of Aidenn,— "Life?" said she; "love is sweet; no more I know."

Into the wide world the maid and her lover Wandered by pathways that sundered them far; From pine-groves to palm-groves, he flitted a rover, She tended his roses, and watched for his star.

Oft he said softly, while melting eyes glistened, "Sweet is my life, love, with you ever near:" Morning and evening she waited and listened For a voice and a foot-step that never came near.

Fainting at last, on her threshold she found him: "Life is but ashes, and bitter," he sighed. She, with her tender arms folded around him, Whispered—"But love is still sweet;" and so died.

O WILD NOVEMBER WIND.

O wild November wind, blow back to me The withered leaves, that drift adown the past; Waft me some murmur of the summer sea, On which youth's fairy fleet of dreams was cast; Return to me the beautiful No More— O wild November wind, restore, restore!

November wind, in what dim, loathsome cave, Languish the tender-plumed gales of spring? No more their dances dimple o'er the wave, Nor freighted pinions song and perfume bring: Those gales are dead—that dimpling sea is dark; And cloudy ghosts clutch at each mist-like bark.

O wild, wild wind, where are the summer airs That kissed the roses of the long-ago? Taking them captive—swooned in blissful snares— To let them perish. Now no roses blow In the waste gardens thou art laying bare: Where are my heart's bright roses, where, oh where?

Thou hast no answer, thou unpitying gale? No gentle whisper from the past to me! No snatches of sweet song—no tender tale— No happy ripple of that summer sea; Are all my dreams wrecked on the nevermore? O wild November wind, restore, restore!

BY THE SEA.

Blue is the mist on the mountains, White is the fog on the sea; Ruby and gold is the sunset,— And Bertha is waiting for me.

Down on the loathsome sand-beach, Her eyes as blue as the mist; Her brows as white as the sea-fog,— Bertha, whose lips I have kissed.

Bertha, whose lips are like rubies, Whose hair is like coiled gold; Whose sweet, rare smile is tenderer Than any legend of old.

One morn, one noon, one sunset, Must pass before we meet; O wind and sail bear steady on, And bring me to her feet.

The morn rose pale and sullen, The noon was still and dun; Across the storm at sunset, Came the boom of a signal-gun.

Who treads the loathsome sand-beach, With wet, disordered hair; With garments tangled with sea-weed, And cheeks more pale than fair?

O blue-eyed, white-browed maiden, He will keep love's tryst no more; His ship sailed safely into port— But on the heavenward shore.

POLK COUNTY HILLS.

November came that day, And all the air was gray With delicate mists, blown down From hill-tops by the south wind's balmy breath; And all the oaks were brown As Egypt's kings in death; The maple's crown of gold Laid tarnished on the wold; The alder and the ash, the aspen and the willow, Wore tattered suits of yellow.

The soft October rains Had left some scarlet stains Of color on the landscape's neutral ground; Those fine ephemeral things, The winged motes of sound, That sing the "Harvest Home" Of ripe Autumn in the gloam Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river, Sang that day their best endeavor.

I said: "In what sweet place Shall we meet face to face, Her loveliest self to see— Meet Nature at her sad autumnal rites, And learn the mystery Of her unnamed delights?" Then you said: "Let us go Where the late violets blow In hollows of the hills, under dead oak leaves hiding;— We'll find she's there abiding."

Do we recall that day? Has its grace passed away? Its tenderest, dream-like tone, Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air— Has its fine perfume flown And left the memory bare? Not so; its charm is still Over wood, vale and hill— The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect chorus, The spirit that before us

Enticed us with delights To the blue, breezy hights. O, beautiful hills that stand Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace Of both to make you grand,— Your loveliness leaves place For nothing fairer; fair And complete beyond compare. O, lovely purple hills, O, first day of November, Be sure that I remember!

WAITING.

I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting, Though the steps watched for never come anear; The wearying want clings to it unabating— The fruitless wish for presences once dear.

No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision; No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow; No scene more truly could be called Elysian, Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.

And yet I pine;—this beautiful completeness Is incomplete, to my desiring heart; 'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness— The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.

There is no longer pleasure in emotion. I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill; Who—"painted ships upon a painted ocean,"— Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.

Where are they fled?—they whose delightful voices, Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall: No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices: Change, death, and distance part me now from all.

And this fair evening, with remembrance teeming, Pierces my soul with every sharp regret; The sweetest beauty saddens to my seeming, Since all that's fair forbids me to forget.

Eyes that have gazed upon yon silver crescent, 'Till filled with light, then turned to gaze in mine, Lips that could clothe a fancy evanescent, In words whose magic thrilled the brain like wine:

Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses, And gathered violets to deck my breast, Where are ye now? I miss your dear caresses— I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest.

Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning Of prairie fires, far off, through gathering gloom; While the young moon, and one bright star returning Down the blue solitude, leave Night their room.

Gone is the glimmer of the silent river; Hushed is the wind that sped the leaves to-day; Alone through silence falls the crystal shiver Of the sweet starlight, on its earthward way.

And yet I wait, how vainly! for a token— A sigh, a touch, a whisper from the past; Alas, I listen for a word unspoken, And wail for arms that have embraced their last.

I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling To grow immortal in my happy breast; Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing— The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.

As the conviction sinks into my spirit That my quick heart is doomed to death in life; Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it, I am abandoned to despairing strife.

To the lost life, alas! no more returning— In this to come no semblance of the past— Only to wait!—hoping this ceaseless yearning May, 'ere long, end—and rest may come at last.

PALMA.

What tellest thou to heaven, Thou royal tropic tree? At morn or noon or even, Proud dweller by the sea, What is thy song to heaven?

The homesick heart that fainted In torrid sun and air, With peace becomes acquainted Beholding thee so fair— With joy becomes acquainted:

And charms itself with fancies About thy kingly race— With gay and wild romances That mimic thee in grace— Of supple, glorious fancies.

I feel thou art not tender, Scion of sun and sea— The wild-bird does not render To thee its minstrelsy— Fearing thou art not tender:

But calm, serene and saintly, As highborn things should be: Who, if they love us faintly, Make us love reverently, Because they are so saintly.

To be loved without loving, O proud and princely palm! Is to fancy our ship moving With the ocean at dead calm— The joy of love is loving.

Because the Sun did sire thee, The Ocean nurse thy youth, Because the Stars desire thee, The warm winds whisper truth, Shall nothing ever fire thee?

What is thy tale to heaven In the sultry tropic noon? What whisperest thou at even To the dusky Indian Moon— Has she sins to be forgiven?

Keep all her secrets; loyal As only great souls are— As only souls most royal, To the flower or to the star Alike are purely loyal.

O Palma, if thou hearest, Thou proud and princely tree! Thou knowest that my Dearest Is emblemed forth in thee— My kingly Palm, my Dearest.

I am his Moon admiring, His wooing Wind, his Star; And I glory in desiring My Palm-tree from afar— Glad as happier lovers are, Am happy in desiring!

MAKING MOAN.

I have learned how vainly given Life's most precious things may be.

—Landon.

O, Christ, to-night I bring A sad, weak heart, to lay before thy feet; Too sad, almost, to cling Even to Thee; too suffering, If Thou shouldst pierce me, to regard the sting; Too stunned to feel the pity I entreat Closing around me its embraces sweet.

Shepherd, who gatherest up The weary ones from all the world's highways; And bringest them to sup Of Thy bread, and Thy blessed cup; If so Thou will, lay me within the scope Only of Thy great tenderness, that rays Too melting may not reach me from Thy face.