Chapter 18

Oft while I this would moot, she changed, and seem’dA fount of laughter now that sprang within,O’er-rill’d her lips and rippled round her guise,The very train’s hem shaken by the flow.“Nay, nay, but I shall trust you yet,” I thought;“And still believe you good, and hold it trueThat maids, like minnows, rarely show themselvesTill, caught and drawn from out the open sea,They frisk in safety in some household pond!”Like this, my moods moved on,—life’s usual way,The mainspring sped by balanced contraries,And every pulse, whose beating proves we live,Anon with deathlike voids alternating.One hour, my faith in her was like the sun,The next, my doubt was lightless as the night.All prefaced fitly that which you shall hear.

Oft while I this would moot, she changed, and seem’d

A fount of laughter now that sprang within,

O’er-rill’d her lips and rippled round her guise,

The very train’s hem shaken by the flow.

“Nay, nay, but I shall trust you yet,” I thought;

“And still believe you good, and hold it true

That maids, like minnows, rarely show themselves

Till, caught and drawn from out the open sea,

They frisk in safety in some household pond!”

Like this, my moods moved on,—life’s usual way,The mainspring sped by balanced contraries,And every pulse, whose beating proves we live,Anon with deathlike voids alternating.One hour, my faith in her was like the sun,The next, my doubt was lightless as the night.All prefaced fitly that which you shall hear.

Like this, my moods moved on,—life’s usual way,

The mainspring sped by balanced contraries,

And every pulse, whose beating proves we live,

Anon with deathlike voids alternating.

One hour, my faith in her was like the sun,

The next, my doubt was lightless as the night.

All prefaced fitly that which you shall hear.

I, once, recurring to my youth, had saidOf Elbert, that he soon, fulfilling plansLong form’d, would join me here in Germany.“Why,” Alice cried, “to think you know so wellOur Elbert!”“Yours?” I ask’d.“Ours,” Edith said,“Ay, ay; our families have been friends for years.”But spite her careless tone, her eyes appear’d,Slipping through lashes long, to shun my own.And why was this?—And why, too, had she flush’d?—What subtle weapon had been used to cutBeneath the surface of her mien, and bringThe heart-blood from its core?Then I recall’dHow Elbert’s moods, of late, had hid themselvesIn strange far mists of fancy.—Could it beThat Edith, she was his?—And he, my friend,Was he the one then that had caged her love,And placed it where my soul in reaching forthCould sense but bars of chill indifference?—I could not ask her nor her sister this;Nor even Elbert’s now, for in the weekWhen first I met her, she had sail’d for home.But soon, like worms that would not wait for death,Fear-fretted jealousies clung round the formOf dying hope that now prized Edith more,To feel that Elbert too had prized her so.

I, once, recurring to my youth, had saidOf Elbert, that he soon, fulfilling plansLong form’d, would join me here in Germany.

I, once, recurring to my youth, had said

Of Elbert, that he soon, fulfilling plans

Long form’d, would join me here in Germany.

“Why,” Alice cried, “to think you know so wellOur Elbert!”“Yours?” I ask’d.“Ours,” Edith said,“Ay, ay; our families have been friends for years.”But spite her careless tone, her eyes appear’d,Slipping through lashes long, to shun my own.

“Why,” Alice cried, “to think you know so well

Our Elbert!”

“Yours?” I ask’d.

“Ours,” Edith said,

“Ay, ay; our families have been friends for years.”

But spite her careless tone, her eyes appear’d,

Slipping through lashes long, to shun my own.

And why was this?—And why, too, had she flush’d?—What subtle weapon had been used to cutBeneath the surface of her mien, and bringThe heart-blood from its core?Then I recall’dHow Elbert’s moods, of late, had hid themselvesIn strange far mists of fancy.—Could it beThat Edith, she was his?—And he, my friend,Was he the one then that had caged her love,And placed it where my soul in reaching forthCould sense but bars of chill indifference?—I could not ask her nor her sister this;Nor even Elbert’s now, for in the weekWhen first I met her, she had sail’d for home.But soon, like worms that would not wait for death,Fear-fretted jealousies clung round the formOf dying hope that now prized Edith more,To feel that Elbert too had prized her so.

And why was this?—And why, too, had she flush’d?—

What subtle weapon had been used to cut

Beneath the surface of her mien, and bring

The heart-blood from its core?

Then I recall’d

How Elbert’s moods, of late, had hid themselves

In strange far mists of fancy.—Could it be

That Edith, she was his?—And he, my friend,

Was he the one then that had caged her love,

And placed it where my soul in reaching forth

Could sense but bars of chill indifference?—

I could not ask her nor her sister this;

Nor even Elbert’s now, for in the week

When first I met her, she had sail’d for home.

But soon, like worms that would not wait for death,

Fear-fretted jealousies clung round the form

Of dying hope that now prized Edith more,

To feel that Elbert too had prized her so.

A few days later, as we sat and talk’d,He on us burst, and brought a sudden lightIlluminating her, and paling me,Blanch’d, ash-like, in the flame of that hot flushThat warm’d her welcome. All my heart and breathSeem’d sunk in silence like the buzzing beesWhen autumn steals the sunlight from the flowers,And frost seals down their sweets. I heard them talkLike one who just has walk’d a glacier pathWith boist’rous friends; then, stumbling, slips away,Far suck’d through freezing fathoms down to death,Yet hears the cruel laughter crackling still.

A few days later, as we sat and talk’d,

He on us burst, and brought a sudden light

Illuminating her, and paling me,

Blanch’d, ash-like, in the flame of that hot flush

That warm’d her welcome. All my heart and breath

Seem’d sunk in silence like the buzzing bees

When autumn steals the sunlight from the flowers,

And frost seals down their sweets. I heard them talk

Like one who just has walk’d a glacier path

With boist’rous friends; then, stumbling, slips away,

Far suck’d through freezing fathoms down to death,

Yet hears the cruel laughter crackling still.

This hardly tuned my mood for Elbert’s glee,When then we left the sisters. “Ah, good friend,So glad to see you! Such a desert, life!And friendship, such an oasis!—Your health!Our dusty throats need clearing first, and thenShall drafts drawn deeper clear our dusty souls.”Thus led he, hurrying on from thought to thought,Yet not one breath for Edith could he spare.—Why not? Could he not trust my friendship yet?Half anxious then, half curious to detect,Though wary still of love so subtly hid,My lips, bold-braced yet trembling at the deed,Essay’d a note to touch him,—Edith’s praise.

This hardly tuned my mood for Elbert’s glee,

When then we left the sisters. “Ah, good friend,

So glad to see you! Such a desert, life!

And friendship, such an oasis!—Your health!

Our dusty throats need clearing first, and then

Shall drafts drawn deeper clear our dusty souls.”

Thus led he, hurrying on from thought to thought,Yet not one breath for Edith could he spare.—Why not? Could he not trust my friendship yet?Half anxious then, half curious to detect,Though wary still of love so subtly hid,My lips, bold-braced yet trembling at the deed,Essay’d a note to touch him,—Edith’s praise.

Thus led he, hurrying on from thought to thought,

Yet not one breath for Edith could he spare.—

Why not? Could he not trust my friendship yet?

Half anxious then, half curious to detect,

Though wary still of love so subtly hid,

My lips, bold-braced yet trembling at the deed,

Essay’d a note to touch him,—Edith’s praise.

“She looks well,” said he, somewhat absently.“She looks well!” cried I, half-way nettled now;Should Edith be abused, forsooth, to showWhat brutes men are who lose their trust! “She looks—For what then do you take her? for a frame,An empty effigy of human shape,Like what a shopman hangs his gowns upon?—Her soul is what I spoke of,—of her soul.”“Her soul?” he said; “may be; but I, may be,Have never seen it.”“How?—this too!” I thought,“A slight is it?—or triumph that he vaunts?”He caught my feeling from my fever’d mien,And words confused and few; and, warming then,Made answer: “Norman, if I loved you less,I more might love, and more might spare myself.The thing my sister wrote, I deemed her whim;Could not conceive it true, yet can it be?—I swear, it staggers half one’s faith to findA man, devoted to the aims you claim,So little circumspect.”What meant he now?Could he believe that I had form’d a planTo woo his Edith, knowing she was his?—And could my sleepless nights, my troubled heart,My prayerful deeds, my nature that he knew,Be so misjudged, without some fault in him?—“So little circumspect in what?” I ask’d.And then with words that could but anger me,“In what but choice of company?” he said;“No more you think of study, duty, church,But waste the whole day long with one like this!—Nay, check me not. I understand my words.—This actress, though right artless in her way,This actress here, would play”—“With me!” I cried;“This ‘actress!’” and I know not what I said;But yet recall what kept him forcing in,“You err!”—“You do me wrong!”—“You know her not!”—Wild words, the which he ended, saying then:“Not such am I as you profess to be;But had you common-sense, no piety,You might perceive a farce, if not a fault:A broad church yours will be then, when your mate,Attracting toward the stage by charms you lack,Will draw the sinner, while you draw the saint.”

“She looks well,” said he, somewhat absently.

“She looks well!” cried I, half-way nettled now;

Should Edith be abused, forsooth, to show

What brutes men are who lose their trust! “She looks—

For what then do you take her? for a frame,

An empty effigy of human shape,

Like what a shopman hangs his gowns upon?—

Her soul is what I spoke of,—of her soul.”

“Her soul?” he said; “may be; but I, may be,Have never seen it.”“How?—this too!” I thought,“A slight is it?—or triumph that he vaunts?”

“Her soul?” he said; “may be; but I, may be,

Have never seen it.”

“How?—this too!” I thought,

“A slight is it?—or triumph that he vaunts?”

He caught my feeling from my fever’d mien,And words confused and few; and, warming then,Made answer: “Norman, if I loved you less,I more might love, and more might spare myself.The thing my sister wrote, I deemed her whim;Could not conceive it true, yet can it be?—I swear, it staggers half one’s faith to findA man, devoted to the aims you claim,So little circumspect.”What meant he now?Could he believe that I had form’d a planTo woo his Edith, knowing she was his?—And could my sleepless nights, my troubled heart,My prayerful deeds, my nature that he knew,Be so misjudged, without some fault in him?—“So little circumspect in what?” I ask’d.

He caught my feeling from my fever’d mien,

And words confused and few; and, warming then,

Made answer: “Norman, if I loved you less,

I more might love, and more might spare myself.

The thing my sister wrote, I deemed her whim;

Could not conceive it true, yet can it be?—

I swear, it staggers half one’s faith to find

A man, devoted to the aims you claim,

So little circumspect.”

What meant he now?

Could he believe that I had form’d a plan

To woo his Edith, knowing she was his?—

And could my sleepless nights, my troubled heart,

My prayerful deeds, my nature that he knew,

Be so misjudged, without some fault in him?—

“So little circumspect in what?” I ask’d.

And then with words that could but anger me,“In what but choice of company?” he said;“No more you think of study, duty, church,But waste the whole day long with one like this!—Nay, check me not. I understand my words.—This actress, though right artless in her way,This actress here, would play”—“With me!” I cried;“This ‘actress!’” and I know not what I said;But yet recall what kept him forcing in,“You err!”—“You do me wrong!”—“You know her not!”—Wild words, the which he ended, saying then:“Not such am I as you profess to be;But had you common-sense, no piety,You might perceive a farce, if not a fault:A broad church yours will be then, when your mate,Attracting toward the stage by charms you lack,Will draw the sinner, while you draw the saint.”

And then with words that could but anger me,

“In what but choice of company?” he said;

“No more you think of study, duty, church,

But waste the whole day long with one like this!—

Nay, check me not. I understand my words.—

This actress, though right artless in her way,

This actress here, would play”—

“With me!” I cried;

“This ‘actress!’” and I know not what I said;

But yet recall what kept him forcing in,

“You err!”—“You do me wrong!”—“You know her not!”—

Wild words, the which he ended, saying then:

“Not such am I as you profess to be;

But had you common-sense, no piety,

You might perceive a farce, if not a fault:

A broad church yours will be then, when your mate,

Attracting toward the stage by charms you lack,

Will draw the sinner, while you draw the saint.”

Struck blind, I scarcely could have felt more stunn’d.Was this the truth? An actress would she be?Why had that sister of his not told me this?—“Not told you this?” cried Elbert; “What? not told?Ay, ay, I see.—She hoped that love, perchance—It is a woman’s balm for every ill—Might woo this Edith from her present life.She knows her not.—And you—have you told her?—Does Edith know your plans?”“She must have known”—I answer’d back; and then I check’d myself.Did not she blush to hear that Elbert came?—For fear was it, lest he should tell the truth?—To me, her friend? to me, deceived, her dupe?To me, whose love she might have known, yet knewThat all that she had seem’d was not her all?—If she had meant deception, could my loveSurvive the test?Those watching death-beds, markThat souls, when dying, ere above they spring,Breathe deep, then pass away. And so with minds,When come the deadliest woes. Down deep in thought,I scarce had deem’d that aught from hell could roilSuch dregs of bitterness long undisturb’d.

Struck blind, I scarcely could have felt more stunn’d.Was this the truth? An actress would she be?Why had that sister of his not told me this?—

Struck blind, I scarcely could have felt more stunn’d.

Was this the truth? An actress would she be?

Why had that sister of his not told me this?—

“Not told you this?” cried Elbert; “What? not told?Ay, ay, I see.—She hoped that love, perchance—It is a woman’s balm for every ill—Might woo this Edith from her present life.She knows her not.—And you—have you told her?—Does Edith know your plans?”“She must have known”—I answer’d back; and then I check’d myself.Did not she blush to hear that Elbert came?—For fear was it, lest he should tell the truth?—To me, her friend? to me, deceived, her dupe?To me, whose love she might have known, yet knewThat all that she had seem’d was not her all?—If she had meant deception, could my loveSurvive the test?Those watching death-beds, markThat souls, when dying, ere above they spring,Breathe deep, then pass away. And so with minds,When come the deadliest woes. Down deep in thought,I scarce had deem’d that aught from hell could roilSuch dregs of bitterness long undisturb’d.

“Not told you this?” cried Elbert; “What? not told?

Ay, ay, I see.—She hoped that love, perchance—

It is a woman’s balm for every ill—

Might woo this Edith from her present life.

She knows her not.—And you—have you told her?—

Does Edith know your plans?”

“She must have known”—

I answer’d back; and then I check’d myself.

Did not she blush to hear that Elbert came?—

For fear was it, lest he should tell the truth?—

To me, her friend? to me, deceived, her dupe?

To me, whose love she might have known, yet knew

That all that she had seem’d was not her all?—

If she had meant deception, could my love

Survive the test?

Those watching death-beds, mark

That souls, when dying, ere above they spring,

Breathe deep, then pass away. And so with minds,

When come the deadliest woes. Down deep in thought,

I scarce had deem’d that aught from hell could roil

Such dregs of bitterness long undisturb’d.

The fault, sigh’d conscience, had been all my own:How safely might one sail the sea of lifeIf all his reckonings were but true to heaven!Ah, siren-like, a rivalling earthly loveMay lure to realms whose mountain heights are clouds,Clouds warmly hued above a cold gray shoal,Whose only outlines are the breakers’ caps,Whose only stir, the fury of the storm.And I, who now had learn’d the truth, what now?—Should I turn back to aims I knew were safe?—I swore to do it; yet I thought—and thrill’d—Could I but hold her soul, but own herself,Though all things else were lost, this gain were sweet!—Were sweet, though all were lost? Why need this be?All might be saved. Did I believe in God?—That he could change a life through human means?Might not her life be chang’d then?—What were IBut faithless wholly, did I try this not?

The fault, sigh’d conscience, had been all my own:

How safely might one sail the sea of life

If all his reckonings were but true to heaven!

Ah, siren-like, a rivalling earthly love

May lure to realms whose mountain heights are clouds,

Clouds warmly hued above a cold gray shoal,

Whose only outlines are the breakers’ caps,

Whose only stir, the fury of the storm.

And I, who now had learn’d the truth, what now?—Should I turn back to aims I knew were safe?—I swore to do it; yet I thought—and thrill’d—Could I but hold her soul, but own herself,Though all things else were lost, this gain were sweet!—Were sweet, though all were lost? Why need this be?All might be saved. Did I believe in God?—That he could change a life through human means?Might not her life be chang’d then?—What were IBut faithless wholly, did I try this not?

And I, who now had learn’d the truth, what now?—

Should I turn back to aims I knew were safe?—

I swore to do it; yet I thought—and thrill’d—

Could I but hold her soul, but own herself,

Though all things else were lost, this gain were sweet!—

Were sweet, though all were lost? Why need this be?

All might be saved. Did I believe in God?—

That he could change a life through human means?

Might not her life be chang’d then?—What were I

But faithless wholly, did I try this not?

So, soon, to draw her thoughts out, baiting mine,Some slur I dropt, suggested by a church:It touch’d a theatre. “Extremes,” I said,“Have met.”“Extremes have met,” she said, “before!I take your meaning. Elbert has disclosed—Not what I am, but what I seem to beTo those who will not view me as I am.You join their lists?—I hoped for better things.”“But was it right to keep me ignorant?”“I hoped it right,” she said, “to keep you wise.What Elbert thought, I knew. With you, had hopes,That she who might not seem so wholly wrongMight better represent a class unknown,—”“Without design, might represent amiss,”I answer’d. “As for you, however class’d,I fear no class could claim you, all in all.For all rules have exceptions.”“Take but rulesFor this time,” said she. “Did you ever findThat ever, when the seers look forth through heaven,They view there pews and pulpits?—Nay, not so:Yet oft they note a stage and galleries,All throng’d with white-robed hosts attendant there.So these, you see, at times may hint of good.”“They may,” I said, “but do they, as a rule?”“Ah, as a rule,” she said, “they hint of life—”“But mainly life to laugh at or to fear,”I answer’d.“When emotion swells and shrinks,The spirit’s wings are moving,” she replied.“And that art moves them most, which mirrors mostThe life that is, and therefore is the truth.So often have I heard my father say:‘We read of truth who spell from nature’s page;And art can best make out the meanings there;For ’tis the artist’s thought that finds each formA form of thought,—imagination’s glassThat views the infinite in the finite fact.Here moves a man, you say. What see you?—man?—Nay, nay; that guise material fashions thereThe image only of his manliness.And you can only know his life within,As from the image you imagine it.Yon little girl that skips beside the porch,—I know her, love her, not, save as I passBehind that face to reach a region rareWhere dolls are sentient babes, and brothers kings.And yonder maidens, musing in delight,I know not, love not, till, in sacrifice,My spirit seems to yield to their desires,To wait a watchful servant unto them,To move with motives that inspire their deeds,To look through their own eyes and see their views,And thrill with rhythm when their ear-drums throb;Then, joining all with all, imagine thusThe movements of their hidden inner moods.Thus too, through all of life, how know we more?All things are fitful images alone,Reflecting glory from the Absolute;And he who can imagine from the partWhat marks the whole, walks in the light of heaven.Find then a life where every child becomesEarth’s animated toy of manliness,Each man the mass from which to mould a god,And earth the pit whence all heaven’s wealth is mined,You find for thought a life worth living for,A life the artist gives us: it is heDiscerns a spirit always veil’d in shape,A soul in man, and reason everywhere.’”

So, soon, to draw her thoughts out, baiting mine,

Some slur I dropt, suggested by a church:

It touch’d a theatre. “Extremes,” I said,

“Have met.”

“Extremes have met,” she said, “before!

I take your meaning. Elbert has disclosed—

Not what I am, but what I seem to be

To those who will not view me as I am.

You join their lists?—I hoped for better things.”

“But was it right to keep me ignorant?”

“I hoped it right,” she said, “to keep you wise.What Elbert thought, I knew. With you, had hopes,That she who might not seem so wholly wrongMight better represent a class unknown,—”

“I hoped it right,” she said, “to keep you wise.

What Elbert thought, I knew. With you, had hopes,

That she who might not seem so wholly wrong

Might better represent a class unknown,—”

“Without design, might represent amiss,”I answer’d. “As for you, however class’d,I fear no class could claim you, all in all.For all rules have exceptions.”“Take but rulesFor this time,” said she. “Did you ever findThat ever, when the seers look forth through heaven,They view there pews and pulpits?—Nay, not so:Yet oft they note a stage and galleries,All throng’d with white-robed hosts attendant there.So these, you see, at times may hint of good.”

“Without design, might represent amiss,”

I answer’d. “As for you, however class’d,

I fear no class could claim you, all in all.

For all rules have exceptions.”

“Take but rules

For this time,” said she. “Did you ever find

That ever, when the seers look forth through heaven,

They view there pews and pulpits?—Nay, not so:

Yet oft they note a stage and galleries,

All throng’d with white-robed hosts attendant there.

So these, you see, at times may hint of good.”

“They may,” I said, “but do they, as a rule?”

“Ah, as a rule,” she said, “they hint of life—”

“But mainly life to laugh at or to fear,”I answer’d.“When emotion swells and shrinks,The spirit’s wings are moving,” she replied.“And that art moves them most, which mirrors mostThe life that is, and therefore is the truth.So often have I heard my father say:‘We read of truth who spell from nature’s page;And art can best make out the meanings there;For ’tis the artist’s thought that finds each formA form of thought,—imagination’s glassThat views the infinite in the finite fact.Here moves a man, you say. What see you?—man?—Nay, nay; that guise material fashions thereThe image only of his manliness.And you can only know his life within,As from the image you imagine it.Yon little girl that skips beside the porch,—I know her, love her, not, save as I passBehind that face to reach a region rareWhere dolls are sentient babes, and brothers kings.And yonder maidens, musing in delight,I know not, love not, till, in sacrifice,My spirit seems to yield to their desires,To wait a watchful servant unto them,To move with motives that inspire their deeds,To look through their own eyes and see their views,And thrill with rhythm when their ear-drums throb;Then, joining all with all, imagine thusThe movements of their hidden inner moods.Thus too, through all of life, how know we more?All things are fitful images alone,Reflecting glory from the Absolute;And he who can imagine from the partWhat marks the whole, walks in the light of heaven.Find then a life where every child becomesEarth’s animated toy of manliness,Each man the mass from which to mould a god,And earth the pit whence all heaven’s wealth is mined,You find for thought a life worth living for,A life the artist gives us: it is heDiscerns a spirit always veil’d in shape,A soul in man, and reason everywhere.’”

“But mainly life to laugh at or to fear,”

I answer’d.

“When emotion swells and shrinks,

The spirit’s wings are moving,” she replied.

“And that art moves them most, which mirrors most

The life that is, and therefore is the truth.

So often have I heard my father say:

‘We read of truth who spell from nature’s page;

And art can best make out the meanings there;

For ’tis the artist’s thought that finds each form

A form of thought,—imagination’s glass

That views the infinite in the finite fact.

Here moves a man, you say. What see you?—man?—

Nay, nay; that guise material fashions there

The image only of his manliness.

And you can only know his life within,

As from the image you imagine it.

Yon little girl that skips beside the porch,—

I know her, love her, not, save as I pass

Behind that face to reach a region rare

Where dolls are sentient babes, and brothers kings.

And yonder maidens, musing in delight,

I know not, love not, till, in sacrifice,

My spirit seems to yield to their desires,

To wait a watchful servant unto them,

To move with motives that inspire their deeds,

To look through their own eyes and see their views,

And thrill with rhythm when their ear-drums throb;

Then, joining all with all, imagine thus

The movements of their hidden inner moods.

Thus too, through all of life, how know we more?

All things are fitful images alone,

Reflecting glory from the Absolute;

And he who can imagine from the part

What marks the whole, walks in the light of heaven.

Find then a life where every child becomes

Earth’s animated toy of manliness,

Each man the mass from which to mould a god,

And earth the pit whence all heaven’s wealth is mined,

You find for thought a life worth living for,

A life the artist gives us: it is he

Discerns a spirit always veil’d in shape,

A soul in man, and reason everywhere.’”

Ah, Edith, so I mused, an artist thou,Thou art indeed! but not an actress, no,Whatever may have train’d thee, save to treadThe stage of truth! and Elbert’s every actAgainst my flinty confidence in herStruck fire and flash’d, each time I met him now;The more so, that each time I met him now,In earnest, or to stir me to distrust,He flutter’d like her fan at Edith’s beck,Her silence fill’d with subtlest flattery,Her vacant hours invaded with himself;Till all my life, at last, appear’d a plotTo steal upon his absence, and then pluckLove’s fruit which once his presence only brought.

Ah, Edith, so I mused, an artist thou,

Thou art indeed! but not an actress, no,

Whatever may have train’d thee, save to tread

The stage of truth! and Elbert’s every act

Against my flinty confidence in her

Struck fire and flash’d, each time I met him now;

The more so, that each time I met him now,

In earnest, or to stir me to distrust,

He flutter’d like her fan at Edith’s beck,

Her silence fill’d with subtlest flattery,

Her vacant hours invaded with himself;

Till all my life, at last, appear’d a plot

To steal upon his absence, and then pluck

Love’s fruit which once his presence only brought.

And so, henceforth, I less could welcome him.How could I do it,—with his views of her,Yet wooing her?—He wellnigh made me doubtIf I might not mistake her,—doubt I check’d,Flush’d fiercely soon that Elbert’s deeds could hintThought so unworthy. When I spoke to him,He laugh’d me off.“Why, man, I like your friend,And she likes me; and with the other sexThe more we like, sometimes, the less we love—Or think we love. Do I deceive her, then,In showing friendliness?—Why think you so?—Forsooth, if beauty pleases me, I smile;If gracefulness beguile me, gaze at it;If wisdom awe me, offer my respect.Good art I laud; with fancy, am a poet;And with emotion, an enthusiast.What then?—Am I a hypocrite?—How so?—Must all our sympathy be personal?Must one appropriate all that he would praise?Is beauty such a flower, or is a manSo much a beast, that, having taste for it,He needs must go and gorge it down?—Go to!—I watch the fair thing; of its fragrance quaff;Then leave for others. Edith knows this well;For that, trust her.”

And so, henceforth, I less could welcome him.

How could I do it,—with his views of her,

Yet wooing her?—He wellnigh made me doubt

If I might not mistake her,—doubt I check’d,

Flush’d fiercely soon that Elbert’s deeds could hint

Thought so unworthy. When I spoke to him,

He laugh’d me off.

“Why, man, I like your friend,

And she likes me; and with the other sex

The more we like, sometimes, the less we love—

Or think we love. Do I deceive her, then,

In showing friendliness?—Why think you so?—

Forsooth, if beauty pleases me, I smile;

If gracefulness beguile me, gaze at it;

If wisdom awe me, offer my respect.

Good art I laud; with fancy, am a poet;

And with emotion, an enthusiast.

What then?—Am I a hypocrite?—How so?—

Must all our sympathy be personal?

Must one appropriate all that he would praise?

Is beauty such a flower, or is a man

So much a beast, that, having taste for it,

He needs must go and gorge it down?—Go to!—

I watch the fair thing; of its fragrance quaff;

Then leave for others. Edith knows this well;

For that, trust her.”

But was it, as he claim’d?Were both of them so wise?—Or would he nowBy sheer sharp practice cut us two apart?This more seem’d like him, and more anger’d me.Was I a boy that he should foil me thus?Yet what to do?—The more I question’d this,The more I saw but only one true course.Our aims—my own and Edith’s—differ’d much.Yet knew I more than this. Our hearts were oneIn all desires that had inspired these aims.And if our lives and hearts could be but join’d,Could not my love and hers, together put,Outweigh such aims as would be hers alone?Why not have faith in love, mine join’d with hers?What power was mightier in the universe?Why not have faith to trust this only soulThat ever I had met, to whom my moodsCould be unroll’d, assured of insight thereTo read them rightly? Why, ’twas all decreed:Her power to read my soul gave her the rightTo know its love, whatever might be hers.And were I but to speak the truth to her,So tell her all, why fear the simple truth?For I would say I loved her, not her aims.If then she should prefer her aims to me,It would be proof that she could love me not.But if she should prefer me to her aims,Then surely she could yield her wish to mine.

But was it, as he claim’d?

Were both of them so wise?—Or would he now

By sheer sharp practice cut us two apart?

This more seem’d like him, and more anger’d me.

Was I a boy that he should foil me thus?

Yet what to do?—The more I question’d this,The more I saw but only one true course.Our aims—my own and Edith’s—differ’d much.Yet knew I more than this. Our hearts were oneIn all desires that had inspired these aims.And if our lives and hearts could be but join’d,Could not my love and hers, together put,Outweigh such aims as would be hers alone?Why not have faith in love, mine join’d with hers?What power was mightier in the universe?Why not have faith to trust this only soulThat ever I had met, to whom my moodsCould be unroll’d, assured of insight thereTo read them rightly? Why, ’twas all decreed:Her power to read my soul gave her the rightTo know its love, whatever might be hers.And were I but to speak the truth to her,So tell her all, why fear the simple truth?For I would say I loved her, not her aims.If then she should prefer her aims to me,It would be proof that she could love me not.But if she should prefer me to her aims,Then surely she could yield her wish to mine.

Yet what to do?—The more I question’d this,

The more I saw but only one true course.

Our aims—my own and Edith’s—differ’d much.

Yet knew I more than this. Our hearts were one

In all desires that had inspired these aims.

And if our lives and hearts could be but join’d,

Could not my love and hers, together put,

Outweigh such aims as would be hers alone?

Why not have faith in love, mine join’d with hers?

What power was mightier in the universe?

Why not have faith to trust this only soul

That ever I had met, to whom my moods

Could be unroll’d, assured of insight there

To read them rightly? Why, ’twas all decreed:

Her power to read my soul gave her the right

To know its love, whatever might be hers.

And were I but to speak the truth to her,

So tell her all, why fear the simple truth?

For I would say I loved her, not her aims.

If then she should prefer her aims to me,

It would be proof that she could love me not.

But if she should prefer me to her aims,

Then surely she could yield her wish to mine.

So, near the sunset of a summer’s day,While walking by the lake within the park,“I mean,” I breathed out cautiously, “to writeA tale of love; and I have plann’d the taleTo open here. In after time, perchance,Those minds to whom it proves of interestMay love to linger here, recalling it.Look now—this lake. To gain the full effectOf palace, park, and yonder heaven unveil’d,One, gazing downward in the water’s depthShould note them wash’d of gross reality,And—as in art—reflected. With this viewThis tale of mine shall open. First of all,Here, in the sunshine near us—at our feet—Ay, in the water; ay, friend, here I mean—Just underneath us,—mark you, mark you, there,The hero, and, beside him, his ideal!”

So, near the sunset of a summer’s day,

While walking by the lake within the park,

“I mean,” I breathed out cautiously, “to write

A tale of love; and I have plann’d the tale

To open here. In after time, perchance,

Those minds to whom it proves of interest

May love to linger here, recalling it.

Look now—this lake. To gain the full effect

Of palace, park, and yonder heaven unveil’d,

One, gazing downward in the water’s depth

Should note them wash’d of gross reality,

And—as in art—reflected. With this view

This tale of mine shall open. First of all,

Here, in the sunshine near us—at our feet—

Ay, in the water; ay, friend, here I mean—

Just underneath us,—mark you, mark you, there,

The hero, and, beside him, his ideal!”

And when she saw us two there, “What?” she cried;And then stood speechless; whereat I sped on,Detailing all my plans and all my hopes:How she, with soul so true and aim so high,Might meet in them the mission meant for her,—How all the wrongs of earth might be redeem’dThrough sacrificial deeds of such as we.Still stood she silent. Then I spoke again:“But think not, Edith, for my plans aloneI plead with you. I plead, too, for myself;And tell my plans that you may know myself;Not holding that I stand above you, friend.Nay, nay; I oft feel worthy scarce to touchYour fingers’ tips, or stand erect and taintThe level of the air you breathe in; nay,I would not judge your life; would only crave,When we have so much else in sympathy,That holy state where two souls, else at one,Would both be God’s.—Ah, could you thus be mine?”

And when she saw us two there, “What?” she cried;

And then stood speechless; whereat I sped on,

Detailing all my plans and all my hopes:

How she, with soul so true and aim so high,

Might meet in them the mission meant for her,—

How all the wrongs of earth might be redeem’d

Through sacrificial deeds of such as we.

Still stood she silent. Then I spoke again:“But think not, Edith, for my plans aloneI plead with you. I plead, too, for myself;And tell my plans that you may know myself;Not holding that I stand above you, friend.Nay, nay; I oft feel worthy scarce to touchYour fingers’ tips, or stand erect and taintThe level of the air you breathe in; nay,I would not judge your life; would only crave,When we have so much else in sympathy,That holy state where two souls, else at one,Would both be God’s.—Ah, could you thus be mine?”

Still stood she silent. Then I spoke again:

“But think not, Edith, for my plans alone

I plead with you. I plead, too, for myself;

And tell my plans that you may know myself;

Not holding that I stand above you, friend.

Nay, nay; I oft feel worthy scarce to touch

Your fingers’ tips, or stand erect and taint

The level of the air you breathe in; nay,

I would not judge your life; would only crave,

When we have so much else in sympathy,

That holy state where two souls, else at one,

Would both be God’s.—Ah, could you thus be mine?”

Her silence then was broken. “Well might IBe proud to be thus yours. Who could not findAll meet for manhood, in your manliness?But no, for you forget our different aims.You never told me of these plans before.And, Norman, now—no, no; for, through your church,That fann’d some whim of his, left smouldering,Some spark of doubt to ardent heresy,My father suffer’d, lost his honor’d name,His living, all; nor struggled, scrimpt, and starvedTo leave his daughter ignorant of the cause.And I?—no, no; it courses through my blood;And you would hate my tastes, which cannot beLike yours religious; no, for I was madeTo be the minister of only art.”“But, Edith,” urged I, “truth far more includesThan most men deem who would deem all things theirs.—Your tastes are not religious?—Mine are not,If by religion you mean piety,—Religion’s brew, froth’d bubbling to be seen.But how is it beneath the surface, friend?Down deep within?—is not the substance there?I never seem’d religious half so muchAs when at one with you.”She but repliedTo tell me how “her father’s legacyHad been her sister, whom she must not leave.For her sake, seeking means of livelihood,She first rejected, then accepted whatHer spirit, spurning once, had learn’d to love;As had her sister; and for both of themEach hope, and joy, and all they thought of now,Was bounded by the music of the stage.Nor could my logic change this; nay,” she said,“Not logic leads the artist on, but light.”

Her silence then was broken. “Well might I

Be proud to be thus yours. Who could not find

All meet for manhood, in your manliness?

But no, for you forget our different aims.

You never told me of these plans before.

And, Norman, now—no, no; for, through your church,

That fann’d some whim of his, left smouldering,

Some spark of doubt to ardent heresy,

My father suffer’d, lost his honor’d name,

His living, all; nor struggled, scrimpt, and starved

To leave his daughter ignorant of the cause.

And I?—no, no; it courses through my blood;

And you would hate my tastes, which cannot be

Like yours religious; no, for I was made

To be the minister of only art.”

“But, Edith,” urged I, “truth far more includesThan most men deem who would deem all things theirs.—Your tastes are not religious?—Mine are not,If by religion you mean piety,—Religion’s brew, froth’d bubbling to be seen.But how is it beneath the surface, friend?Down deep within?—is not the substance there?I never seem’d religious half so muchAs when at one with you.”She but repliedTo tell me how “her father’s legacyHad been her sister, whom she must not leave.For her sake, seeking means of livelihood,She first rejected, then accepted whatHer spirit, spurning once, had learn’d to love;As had her sister; and for both of themEach hope, and joy, and all they thought of now,Was bounded by the music of the stage.Nor could my logic change this; nay,” she said,“Not logic leads the artist on, but light.”

“But, Edith,” urged I, “truth far more includes

Than most men deem who would deem all things theirs.—

Your tastes are not religious?—Mine are not,

If by religion you mean piety,—

Religion’s brew, froth’d bubbling to be seen.

But how is it beneath the surface, friend?

Down deep within?—is not the substance there?

I never seem’d religious half so much

As when at one with you.”

She but replied

To tell me how “her father’s legacy

Had been her sister, whom she must not leave.

For her sake, seeking means of livelihood,

She first rejected, then accepted what

Her spirit, spurning once, had learn’d to love;

As had her sister; and for both of them

Each hope, and joy, and all they thought of now,

Was bounded by the music of the stage.

Nor could my logic change this; nay,” she said,

“Not logic leads the artist on, but light.”

I heard in vain—I could not give her up.I urged her still, still hoping her to swerve.My slight of music, rousing her defence,But proved my love too weak to rival it.“My father oft,” she said, “would quote your Book;Say ‘music marshall’d all the better life.What else could sway the soul, yet leave love freeTo think and choose and do?’—What different moods,”She added, while before us play’d the band,“These chords, we hear, arouse in different minds!That maid may smile amid sweet dreams of love;Her dark attendant dream of but her wealth;That matron plan some fresh self-sacrifice;And that spare fellow, twirling near her sideThe soft mustache that downs his pursing lips,Plan only how to hide their stingy look.And thus all listen, musing different things;And all, with conscious freedom, muse of them;And yet one harmony controls them all,Aroused or calm to match its changing flow.What else but music frees the mind it rules?‘Good-will to man,’ was first proclaim’d in song.”“Good-will,” I said, “but follows will for good.”“And will for good will come,” she answer’d back.“As in the older advent, so to-day,Would I believe in power behind sweet songTo hold the universe in harmony,Expelling evil and impelling goodThrough all the limits of created life,—A spirit’s power!—What though we mortals hereWith eyes material cannot see the hostsThat issue forth in forms that while they moveAwake around us echoes everywhere!We spring to spy them, but we only hearTheir rustle in the trees by which they pass;Or where, with dash of water o’er the rocks,They leave the sea or linger in the rill.At times they rest a moment on the earth,When twilight hides them, sighing gently then,And lull to dreams, with tones in sympathy,The lowly insect and the lowing herd.At times, amid the winds that rise at morn,They sweep across the land and startle sleepFrom nervous birds that twitter in their track;And, now and then, in clouds that close the sky,They bound adown the rift the lightning cleavesTill sunlight overhead pours through again.A spirit’s power has music; and must ruleUnrivall’d still as far as ear can heed,Or reason hark behind it. All the chordsOf all things true are tuned by hands divine,And thrill to feel the touch!—But sounds may riseIn souls untuned, like harp-strings when they snap,Or, though more soft than dreamland breezes are,May fright like forests when the dark leaves blowAbout the solitary murderer—And sweetest airs to sweetest moods may bringBut foretastes vague of harmonies on high.The school-girl hears her comrade’s ringing laugh,—’Tis but the key-note trill’d before the tune.The maiden heeds her lover’s mellow plea,—’Tis but the gamut rill’d ere surge the chords.The dame is moved by tones that cheer her home,—And they perchance prelude the theme of heaven.For even blows of toil and battle-gunsMay be the drum-rolls of the martial strainsThat rise to greet the glory yet to come.Ay, wait we long enough, we all may hearIn all things music; far above, at last,May hear the treble thrilling down from heaven,And e’en from hell no discord in the jarThat only thunders back a trembling bass.”Thus Edith spake; while I, left lonely all,Beheld her, ardent for her art, a cloud,Aglow by dawn, then drawn away, away.

I heard in vain—I could not give her up.I urged her still, still hoping her to swerve.My slight of music, rousing her defence,But proved my love too weak to rival it.

I heard in vain—I could not give her up.

I urged her still, still hoping her to swerve.

My slight of music, rousing her defence,

But proved my love too weak to rival it.

“My father oft,” she said, “would quote your Book;Say ‘music marshall’d all the better life.What else could sway the soul, yet leave love freeTo think and choose and do?’—What different moods,”She added, while before us play’d the band,“These chords, we hear, arouse in different minds!That maid may smile amid sweet dreams of love;Her dark attendant dream of but her wealth;That matron plan some fresh self-sacrifice;And that spare fellow, twirling near her sideThe soft mustache that downs his pursing lips,Plan only how to hide their stingy look.And thus all listen, musing different things;And all, with conscious freedom, muse of them;And yet one harmony controls them all,Aroused or calm to match its changing flow.What else but music frees the mind it rules?‘Good-will to man,’ was first proclaim’d in song.”

“My father oft,” she said, “would quote your Book;

Say ‘music marshall’d all the better life.

What else could sway the soul, yet leave love free

To think and choose and do?’—What different moods,”

She added, while before us play’d the band,

“These chords, we hear, arouse in different minds!

That maid may smile amid sweet dreams of love;

Her dark attendant dream of but her wealth;

That matron plan some fresh self-sacrifice;

And that spare fellow, twirling near her side

The soft mustache that downs his pursing lips,

Plan only how to hide their stingy look.

And thus all listen, musing different things;

And all, with conscious freedom, muse of them;

And yet one harmony controls them all,

Aroused or calm to match its changing flow.

What else but music frees the mind it rules?

‘Good-will to man,’ was first proclaim’d in song.”

“Good-will,” I said, “but follows will for good.”

“And will for good will come,” she answer’d back.“As in the older advent, so to-day,Would I believe in power behind sweet songTo hold the universe in harmony,Expelling evil and impelling goodThrough all the limits of created life,—A spirit’s power!—What though we mortals hereWith eyes material cannot see the hostsThat issue forth in forms that while they moveAwake around us echoes everywhere!We spring to spy them, but we only hearTheir rustle in the trees by which they pass;Or where, with dash of water o’er the rocks,They leave the sea or linger in the rill.At times they rest a moment on the earth,When twilight hides them, sighing gently then,And lull to dreams, with tones in sympathy,The lowly insect and the lowing herd.At times, amid the winds that rise at morn,They sweep across the land and startle sleepFrom nervous birds that twitter in their track;And, now and then, in clouds that close the sky,They bound adown the rift the lightning cleavesTill sunlight overhead pours through again.A spirit’s power has music; and must ruleUnrivall’d still as far as ear can heed,Or reason hark behind it. All the chordsOf all things true are tuned by hands divine,And thrill to feel the touch!—But sounds may riseIn souls untuned, like harp-strings when they snap,Or, though more soft than dreamland breezes are,May fright like forests when the dark leaves blowAbout the solitary murderer—And sweetest airs to sweetest moods may bringBut foretastes vague of harmonies on high.The school-girl hears her comrade’s ringing laugh,—’Tis but the key-note trill’d before the tune.The maiden heeds her lover’s mellow plea,—’Tis but the gamut rill’d ere surge the chords.The dame is moved by tones that cheer her home,—And they perchance prelude the theme of heaven.For even blows of toil and battle-gunsMay be the drum-rolls of the martial strainsThat rise to greet the glory yet to come.Ay, wait we long enough, we all may hearIn all things music; far above, at last,May hear the treble thrilling down from heaven,And e’en from hell no discord in the jarThat only thunders back a trembling bass.”

“And will for good will come,” she answer’d back.

“As in the older advent, so to-day,

Would I believe in power behind sweet song

To hold the universe in harmony,

Expelling evil and impelling good

Through all the limits of created life,—

A spirit’s power!—What though we mortals here

With eyes material cannot see the hosts

That issue forth in forms that while they move

Awake around us echoes everywhere!

We spring to spy them, but we only hear

Their rustle in the trees by which they pass;

Or where, with dash of water o’er the rocks,

They leave the sea or linger in the rill.

At times they rest a moment on the earth,

When twilight hides them, sighing gently then,

And lull to dreams, with tones in sympathy,

The lowly insect and the lowing herd.

At times, amid the winds that rise at morn,

They sweep across the land and startle sleep

From nervous birds that twitter in their track;

And, now and then, in clouds that close the sky,

They bound adown the rift the lightning cleaves

Till sunlight overhead pours through again.

A spirit’s power has music; and must rule

Unrivall’d still as far as ear can heed,

Or reason hark behind it. All the chords

Of all things true are tuned by hands divine,

And thrill to feel the touch!—

But sounds may rise

In souls untuned, like harp-strings when they snap,

Or, though more soft than dreamland breezes are,

May fright like forests when the dark leaves blow

About the solitary murderer—

And sweetest airs to sweetest moods may bring

But foretastes vague of harmonies on high.

The school-girl hears her comrade’s ringing laugh,—

’Tis but the key-note trill’d before the tune.

The maiden heeds her lover’s mellow plea,—

’Tis but the gamut rill’d ere surge the chords.

The dame is moved by tones that cheer her home,—

And they perchance prelude the theme of heaven.

For even blows of toil and battle-guns

May be the drum-rolls of the martial strains

That rise to greet the glory yet to come.

Ay, wait we long enough, we all may hear

In all things music; far above, at last,

May hear the treble thrilling down from heaven,

And e’en from hell no discord in the jar

That only thunders back a trembling bass.”

Thus Edith spake; while I, left lonely all,Beheld her, ardent for her art, a cloud,Aglow by dawn, then drawn away, away.

Thus Edith spake; while I, left lonely all,

Beheld her, ardent for her art, a cloud,

Aglow by dawn, then drawn away, away.

I said, I know not what; but far too proud,Intoxicated though I was by love,To let her view the folly of my fall,I said not all I felt; but what I felt,Beneath the first fierce humbling of the storm,Floods o’er my memory yet with half the woeThat overwhelm’d me then. Am I, I thought,So strong in love, and waiting long for it,And always true to it, to be outweigh’dBy mere brute chaff of manhood, on the stageOr in the pit? I swore ’twas ever soWith all her sex. Worth never weigh’d a straw.A very satyr could outwoo a sage.—Weak woman!—yet she must be weak—in brainOr body. Better to be weak in brain!She then, perchance, might serve a husband’s thought,And wisdom’s voice might rule the family!But were her moods too strong to serve his thought,She might serve that in him which could not think.—To wed she-brains, a man should seek to beCommended as a fool!

I said, I know not what; but far too proud,

Intoxicated though I was by love,

To let her view the folly of my fall,

I said not all I felt; but what I felt,

Beneath the first fierce humbling of the storm,

Floods o’er my memory yet with half the woe

That overwhelm’d me then. Am I, I thought,

So strong in love, and waiting long for it,

And always true to it, to be outweigh’d

By mere brute chaff of manhood, on the stage

Or in the pit? I swore ’twas ever so

With all her sex. Worth never weigh’d a straw.

A very satyr could outwoo a sage.—

Weak woman!—yet she must be weak—in brain

Or body. Better to be weak in brain!

She then, perchance, might serve a husband’s thought,

And wisdom’s voice might rule the family!

But were her moods too strong to serve his thought,

She might serve that in him which could not think.—

To wed she-brains, a man should seek to be

Commended as a fool!

And then I stopp’d:—Here raved I, jealous of this fool alone,This coming clown.—To think of him I blush’d—But what of her?—of Edith?—She would live,With faintest smile, to fascinate—ah—crowds!The rabble would be ravish’d but, forsooth,To clap with crazy hands the rarer airWherein she moved. For them, her voice would sound,With every trill so swaying all who heardThat thronging cheers would thunder in response!—Her form, so sweet, would plead till foulest livesWould feel how pure were joys beyond their reach,And long for things their touch could never taint!My sweet, sweet love!—But, moving at her side,Should I be aught?—Alas, I could but seem—Beside the gilded glory of the stage,Beside the loud-mouthed suitors of the show,An unwhipt cur, to wait at some backdoor,And jar with signalling bark the echo sweetOf all-the-town’s applause. She mine would beBut as the sun, whose flaming brow has touch’dThe morning sea that flushes far and near,Is thine, O trembling globulet of spray,Because, forsooth, his image, glass’d in allThe sea and world, is glass’d, as well, in thee!—Fool, fool! yet dear, dear folly!These my thoughts;My words—all I recall now—came at lastWhen slowly sauntering back we reach’d her home.“Would God,” I sigh’d, “the time might come for us,When, looking toward the future now so lone,We two should need no more to say good-night.”“Good-bye,” she said, and left me in the gloom.

And then I stopp’d:—

Here raved I, jealous of this fool alone,

This coming clown.—To think of him I blush’d—

But what of her?—of Edith?—She would live,

With faintest smile, to fascinate—ah—crowds!

The rabble would be ravish’d but, forsooth,

To clap with crazy hands the rarer air

Wherein she moved. For them, her voice would sound,

With every trill so swaying all who heard

That thronging cheers would thunder in response!—

Her form, so sweet, would plead till foulest lives

Would feel how pure were joys beyond their reach,

And long for things their touch could never taint!

My sweet, sweet love!—

But, moving at her side,

Should I be aught?—Alas, I could but seem—

Beside the gilded glory of the stage,

Beside the loud-mouthed suitors of the show,

An unwhipt cur, to wait at some backdoor,

And jar with signalling bark the echo sweet

Of all-the-town’s applause. She mine would be

But as the sun, whose flaming brow has touch’d

The morning sea that flushes far and near,

Is thine, O trembling globulet of spray,

Because, forsooth, his image, glass’d in all

The sea and world, is glass’d, as well, in thee!—

Fool, fool! yet dear, dear folly!

These my thoughts;

My words—all I recall now—came at last

When slowly sauntering back we reach’d her home.

“Would God,” I sigh’d, “the time might come for us,

When, looking toward the future now so lone,

We two should need no more to say good-night.”

“Good-bye,” she said, and left me in the gloom.

Then was it, as I turn’d about, by chance,I came on Elbert; and my whole soul roseTo dash at him its briny bitterness.Is he here, thought I,—he to whom, alas,The very potion, poisoning all my hopes,Will prove the sparkling nectar of success,And bring good cheer, though bringing death to me?—Then let him share it!—Still, my wiser prideThe purpose check’d, and balancing rash hateWith hateful prudence, closed his opening smileBut with a frown that would not welcome him.With any truth to self, so argued I,I could do nothing else; nor could abideA town that held him. So I left the town;And so these friends of mine, so prized of old,And I had parted,—not as friends would part,With love’s high zenith fever’d like the skiesWhere eve has rent from them a fervid sun,Then cool’d and calm’d in starlight sprinkled thickUntil the sun come back. We crack’d apart,Like icebergs drifting southward, join’d no more,And sunn’d alone the while they melt away.

Then was it, as I turn’d about, by chance,

I came on Elbert; and my whole soul rose

To dash at him its briny bitterness.

Is he here, thought I,—he to whom, alas,

The very potion, poisoning all my hopes,

Will prove the sparkling nectar of success,

And bring good cheer, though bringing death to me?—

Then let him share it!—Still, my wiser pride

The purpose check’d, and balancing rash hate

With hateful prudence, closed his opening smile

But with a frown that would not welcome him.

With any truth to self, so argued I,I could do nothing else; nor could abideA town that held him. So I left the town;And so these friends of mine, so prized of old,And I had parted,—not as friends would part,With love’s high zenith fever’d like the skiesWhere eve has rent from them a fervid sun,Then cool’d and calm’d in starlight sprinkled thickUntil the sun come back. We crack’d apart,Like icebergs drifting southward, join’d no more,And sunn’d alone the while they melt away.

With any truth to self, so argued I,

I could do nothing else; nor could abide

A town that held him. So I left the town;

And so these friends of mine, so prized of old,

And I had parted,—not as friends would part,

With love’s high zenith fever’d like the skies

Where eve has rent from them a fervid sun,

Then cool’d and calm’d in starlight sprinkled thick

Until the sun come back. We crack’d apart,

Like icebergs drifting southward, join’d no more,

And sunn’d alone the while they melt away.

No need is there that here I should recall—I would not if I could—my suffering.From Elbert, best of friends, my nobler self,My soul of virtue and my heart of love,What cause could rightly tear me?—Asking this,My heart rose up from reason to rebel;Indignant to have found a theoryThat dared to hold an innate impulse down;While will, caught there, betwixt the heart and head,Each charge would bear, and yet forbear to act.And Edith, peerless Edith! how my soulWould struggle to forget her! Struggling thus,How fair her form, conjured by raving thought,Would rise, a Venus o’er my sea of sighs,Till I would bend, and seem to plead anonTo be forgiven for forgetting her!And then, how would I tear her traits apart;And pluck the petals from each budding graceAnd hope its naked stem some trace would show,Too void of beauty, to suggest againThe bloom and sweetness of the life I loved.Alas, but while I wrought for this alone,How would her virtues but the more unfold!—Like God’s own glory flowering in the skies,That those detect who would not find it there,But, when they test the stars, have dealt with light.

No need is there that here I should recall—

I would not if I could—my suffering.

From Elbert, best of friends, my nobler self,

My soul of virtue and my heart of love,

What cause could rightly tear me?—Asking this,

My heart rose up from reason to rebel;

Indignant to have found a theory

That dared to hold an innate impulse down;

While will, caught there, betwixt the heart and head,

Each charge would bear, and yet forbear to act.

And Edith, peerless Edith! how my soul

Would struggle to forget her! Struggling thus,

How fair her form, conjured by raving thought,

Would rise, a Venus o’er my sea of sighs,

Till I would bend, and seem to plead anon

To be forgiven for forgetting her!

And then, how would I tear her traits apart;

And pluck the petals from each budding grace

And hope its naked stem some trace would show,

Too void of beauty, to suggest again

The bloom and sweetness of the life I loved.

Alas, but while I wrought for this alone,

How would her virtues but the more unfold!—

Like God’s own glory flowering in the skies,

That those detect who would not find it there,

But, when they test the stars, have dealt with light.

I wrought and rested; it was all in vain.My highest consolation was the hopeThat hard-earn’d sleep might hold me long in dreamsWhere evermore my soul might with her dwell,Though every morn I seem’d yet more alone.Awake, asleep, throned constant o’er my heart,I served this image all intangible,This photographic fantasy of truth,This fairy nothingness of vanish’d fact,A shape to love, minute yet mighty still,To senses nothing, but to spirit all.

I wrought and rested; it was all in vain.

My highest consolation was the hope

That hard-earn’d sleep might hold me long in dreams

Where evermore my soul might with her dwell,

Though every morn I seem’d yet more alone.

Awake, asleep, throned constant o’er my heart,

I served this image all intangible,

This photographic fantasy of truth,

This fairy nothingness of vanish’d fact,

A shape to love, minute yet mighty still,

To senses nothing, but to spirit all.

Thus lived I, triumph’d over; as are cloudsWhereon the sun sits throned; all bright are they,And bright beneath them is the sunset sea.In splendid serfdom to its love, my soul,That shone with kindling glory, thence beheldA kindling glory shine from all about.No whim of mine was this; it fills my creed;The graft of all true love regenerates.Those in whom love is born are born anew,And all their family of fancies thenBear family traits; those loving, and those not,Being wide apart as rainbows and the rain.I might be superstitious, but to meThe temple of my life’s experienceHad been less sacred, had it held no shrineWhereon to heap sweet tokens of my love.And all that loom’d around seem’d holier now,Illumed by holy lights of memory.Nor long was it ere I had grown to shareIn all the love of all with whom I met;And oft, too, thus invoking sympathy,My wishes wrought like witches, and conjuredThe thing they wish’d for: sympathy would come.

Thus lived I, triumph’d over; as are clouds

Whereon the sun sits throned; all bright are they,

And bright beneath them is the sunset sea.

In splendid serfdom to its love, my soul,

That shone with kindling glory, thence beheld

A kindling glory shine from all about.

No whim of mine was this; it fills my creed;The graft of all true love regenerates.Those in whom love is born are born anew,And all their family of fancies thenBear family traits; those loving, and those not,Being wide apart as rainbows and the rain.I might be superstitious, but to meThe temple of my life’s experienceHad been less sacred, had it held no shrineWhereon to heap sweet tokens of my love.And all that loom’d around seem’d holier now,Illumed by holy lights of memory.

No whim of mine was this; it fills my creed;

The graft of all true love regenerates.

Those in whom love is born are born anew,

And all their family of fancies then

Bear family traits; those loving, and those not,

Being wide apart as rainbows and the rain.

I might be superstitious, but to me

The temple of my life’s experience

Had been less sacred, had it held no shrine

Whereon to heap sweet tokens of my love.

And all that loom’d around seem’d holier now,

Illumed by holy lights of memory.

Nor long was it ere I had grown to shareIn all the love of all with whom I met;And oft, too, thus invoking sympathy,My wishes wrought like witches, and conjuredThe thing they wish’d for: sympathy would come.

Nor long was it ere I had grown to share

In all the love of all with whom I met;

And oft, too, thus invoking sympathy,

My wishes wrought like witches, and conjured

The thing they wish’d for: sympathy would come.

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