MAUD AND MADGE

Over the waters clear and darkFlew, like a startled bird, our bark.All the day long with steady sweepSeagulls followed us over the deep.Weird and strange were the silent shores,Rich with their wealth of buried ores;Mighty the forests, old and gray,With the secrets locked in their hearts away.Semblance of castle and arch and shrineTowered aloft in the clear sunshine;And we watched for the warder, stern and grim,And the priest with his chanted prayer and hymn.Over that wonderful northern sea,As one who sails in a dream, sailed we,Till, when the young moon soared on high,Nothing was round us but wave and sky.Up in the tremulous space it swung,—A crescent dim in the azure hung;While the sun lay low in the glowing west,With bars of purple across his breast.The skies were aflame with the sunset glow,The billows were all aflame below;The far horizon seemed the gateTo some mystic world’s enchanted state;And all the air was a luminous mist,Crimson and amber and amethyst.Then silently into that fiery sea—Into the heart of the mystery—Three ships went sailing, one by one,The fairest visions under the sun.Like the flame in the heart of a ruby setWere the sails that flew from each mast of jet;While darkly against the burning skyStreamer and pennant floated high.Steadily, silently, on they pressedInto the glowing, reddening west;Until, on the far horizon’s fold,They slowly passed through its gate of gold.You think, perhaps, they were nothing moreThan schooners laden with common ore?Where Care clasped hands with grimy Toil,And the decks were stained with earthly moil?Oh, beautiful ships, that sailed that nightInto the west from our yearning sight,Full well I know that the freight ye boreWas laden not for an earthly shore!To some far realm ye were sailing on,Where all we have lost shall yet be won;Ye were bearing thither a world of dreams,Bright as that sunset’s golden gleams;And hopes whose tremulous, rosy flush,Grew fairer still in the twilight hush.Ye were bearing hence to that mystic sphereThoughts no mortal may utter here,—Songs that on earth may not be sung,—Words too holy for human tongue,—The golden deeds that we would have done,—The fadeless wreaths that we would have won!And hence it was that our souls with youTraversed the measureless waste of blue,Till you passed under the sunset gate,And to us a voice said, softly, “Wait!”

Over the waters clear and darkFlew, like a startled bird, our bark.

All the day long with steady sweepSeagulls followed us over the deep.

Weird and strange were the silent shores,Rich with their wealth of buried ores;

Mighty the forests, old and gray,With the secrets locked in their hearts away.

Semblance of castle and arch and shrineTowered aloft in the clear sunshine;

And we watched for the warder, stern and grim,And the priest with his chanted prayer and hymn.

Over that wonderful northern sea,As one who sails in a dream, sailed we,

Till, when the young moon soared on high,Nothing was round us but wave and sky.

Up in the tremulous space it swung,—A crescent dim in the azure hung;

While the sun lay low in the glowing west,With bars of purple across his breast.

The skies were aflame with the sunset glow,The billows were all aflame below;

The far horizon seemed the gateTo some mystic world’s enchanted state;

And all the air was a luminous mist,Crimson and amber and amethyst.

Then silently into that fiery sea—Into the heart of the mystery—

Three ships went sailing, one by one,The fairest visions under the sun.

Like the flame in the heart of a ruby setWere the sails that flew from each mast of jet;

While darkly against the burning skyStreamer and pennant floated high.

Steadily, silently, on they pressedInto the glowing, reddening west;

Until, on the far horizon’s fold,They slowly passed through its gate of gold.

You think, perhaps, they were nothing moreThan schooners laden with common ore?

Where Care clasped hands with grimy Toil,And the decks were stained with earthly moil?

Oh, beautiful ships, that sailed that nightInto the west from our yearning sight,

Full well I know that the freight ye boreWas laden not for an earthly shore!

To some far realm ye were sailing on,Where all we have lost shall yet be won;

Ye were bearing thither a world of dreams,Bright as that sunset’s golden gleams;

And hopes whose tremulous, rosy flush,Grew fairer still in the twilight hush.

Ye were bearing hence to that mystic sphereThoughts no mortal may utter here,—

Songs that on earth may not be sung,—Words too holy for human tongue,—

The golden deeds that we would have done,—The fadeless wreaths that we would have won!

And hence it was that our souls with youTraversed the measureless waste of blue,

Till you passed under the sunset gate,And to us a voice said, softly, “Wait!”

Maud in a crimson velvet chairStrings her pearls on a silken thread,While, lovingly lifting her golden hair,Soft airs wander about her head.She has silken robes of the softest flow,She has jewels rare and a chain of gold,And her two white hands flit to and fro,Fair as the dainty toys they hold.She has tropical birds and rare perfumes;Pictures that speak to the heart and eye;For her each flower of the Orient blooms,—For her the song and the lute swell high;But daintily stringing her gleaming pearlsShe dreams to-day in her velvet chair,While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls,Lightly stirred by the odorous air.Down on the beach, when the tide goes out,Madge is gathering shining shells;The sea-breeze blows her locks about;O’er bare, brown feet the white sand swells.Coarsest serge is her gown of gray,Faded and torn her apron blue,And there in the beautiful, dying dayThe girl still thinks of the work to do.Stains of labor are on her hands,Lost is the young form’s airy grace;And standing there on the shining sandsYou read her fate in her weary face.Up with the dawn to toil all dayFor meagre fare and a place to sleep;Seldom a moment to dream or play,Little leisure to laugh or weep.Beautiful Maud, you think, maybe,Lying back in your velvet chair,There is naught in common with her and thee,—You scarce could breathe in the self-same air.But the warm blood in her girlish heartLeaps quick as yours at her nature’s call,And ye, though moving so far apart,Must share one destiny after all.Love shall come to you both one day,For still must be what aye hath been;And under satin or russet grayHearts will open to let him in.Motherhood with its joy and woeEach must compass through burning pain,—You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow,Madge with her brown hands labor-stained.Each shall sorrow and each shall weep,Though one is in hovel, one in hall;Over your gold the frost shall creep,As over her jet the snows will fall.Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyesAt Madge out yonder under the sun;Yet know ye both by the countless tiesOf a common womanhood ye are one!

She has tropical birds and rare perfumes;Pictures that speak to the heart and eye;For her each flower of the Orient blooms,—For her the song and the lute swell high;But daintily stringing her gleaming pearlsShe dreams to-day in her velvet chair,While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls,Lightly stirred by the odorous air.

Down on the beach, when the tide goes out,Madge is gathering shining shells;The sea-breeze blows her locks about;O’er bare, brown feet the white sand swells.Coarsest serge is her gown of gray,Faded and torn her apron blue,And there in the beautiful, dying dayThe girl still thinks of the work to do.

Stains of labor are on her hands,Lost is the young form’s airy grace;And standing there on the shining sandsYou read her fate in her weary face.Up with the dawn to toil all dayFor meagre fare and a place to sleep;Seldom a moment to dream or play,Little leisure to laugh or weep.

Beautiful Maud, you think, maybe,Lying back in your velvet chair,There is naught in common with her and thee,—You scarce could breathe in the self-same air.But the warm blood in her girlish heartLeaps quick as yours at her nature’s call,And ye, though moving so far apart,Must share one destiny after all.

Love shall come to you both one day,For still must be what aye hath been;And under satin or russet grayHearts will open to let him in.Motherhood with its joy and woeEach must compass through burning pain,—You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow,Madge with her brown hands labor-stained.

Each shall sorrow and each shall weep,Though one is in hovel, one in hall;Over your gold the frost shall creep,As over her jet the snows will fall.Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyesAt Madge out yonder under the sun;Yet know ye both by the countless tiesOf a common womanhood ye are one!

What mother-angel tended thee last night,Sweet baby mine?Cradled upon what breast all soft and whiteDidst thou recline?Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art,Within her arms?And shielded thee, close claspéd to her heart,From all alarms?Surely that God who lured thee from the breastThat hoped to beThe softest pillow and the sweetest restThenceforth to thee,Sent thee not forth into the dread unknownWithout a guide,To grope in darkness, treading all aloneThe path untried.Compassionate is He who called thee, child;And well I knowHe sent some Blessed One of aspect mildWith thee to goThrough the dark valley, where the shadows dimForever brood,That the low music of an angel’s hymnMight cheer the solitude!

What mother-angel tended thee last night,Sweet baby mine?Cradled upon what breast all soft and whiteDidst thou recline?

Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art,Within her arms?And shielded thee, close claspéd to her heart,From all alarms?

Surely that God who lured thee from the breastThat hoped to beThe softest pillow and the sweetest restThenceforth to thee,

Sent thee not forth into the dread unknownWithout a guide,To grope in darkness, treading all aloneThe path untried.

Compassionate is He who called thee, child;And well I knowHe sent some Blessed One of aspect mildWith thee to go

Through the dark valley, where the shadows dimForever brood,That the low music of an angel’s hymnMight cheer the solitude!

I know a spot where the wild vines creep,And the coral moss-cups grow,And where, at the foot of the rocky steep,The sweet blue violets blow.There all day long, in the summer-time,You may hear the river’s dreamy rhyme;There all day long does the honey-beeMurmur and hum in the hollow tree.And there the feathery hemlock makesA shadow cool and sweet,While from its emerald wing it shakesRare incense at your feet.There do the silvery lichens cling,There does the tremulous harebell swing;And many a scarlet berry shinesDeep in the green of the tangled vines.Over the wall at dawn of day,Over the wall at noon,Over the wall when the shadows sayThat night is coming soon,A little maiden with laughing eyesClimbs in her eager haste, and hiesDown to the spot where the wild vines creep,And violets bloom by the rocky steep.All wild things love her. The murmuring beeScarce stirs when she draws near,And sings the bird in the hemlock-treeIts sweetest for her ear.The harebells nod as she passes by,The violet lifts its tender eye,The low ferns bend her steps to greet,And the mosses creep to her dancing feet.Up in her pathway seems to springAll that is sweet or rare,—Chrysalis quaint, or the moth’s bright wing,Or flower-buds strangely fair.She watches the tiniest bird’s-nest hidThe thickly clustering leaves amid;And the small brown tree-toad on her armQuietly hops, and fears no harm.Ah, child of the laughing eyes, and heartAttuned to Nature’s voice!Thou hast found a bliss that will ne’er departWhile earth can say, “Rejoice!”The years must come, and the years must go;But the flowers will bloom, and the breezes blow,And bird and butterfly, moth and bee,Bring on their swift wings joy to thee!

And there the feathery hemlock makesA shadow cool and sweet,While from its emerald wing it shakesRare incense at your feet.There do the silvery lichens cling,There does the tremulous harebell swing;And many a scarlet berry shinesDeep in the green of the tangled vines.

Over the wall at dawn of day,Over the wall at noon,Over the wall when the shadows sayThat night is coming soon,A little maiden with laughing eyesClimbs in her eager haste, and hiesDown to the spot where the wild vines creep,And violets bloom by the rocky steep.

All wild things love her. The murmuring beeScarce stirs when she draws near,And sings the bird in the hemlock-treeIts sweetest for her ear.The harebells nod as she passes by,The violet lifts its tender eye,The low ferns bend her steps to greet,And the mosses creep to her dancing feet.

Up in her pathway seems to springAll that is sweet or rare,—Chrysalis quaint, or the moth’s bright wing,Or flower-buds strangely fair.She watches the tiniest bird’s-nest hidThe thickly clustering leaves amid;And the small brown tree-toad on her armQuietly hops, and fears no harm.

Ah, child of the laughing eyes, and heartAttuned to Nature’s voice!Thou hast found a bliss that will ne’er departWhile earth can say, “Rejoice!”The years must come, and the years must go;But the flowers will bloom, and the breezes blow,And bird and butterfly, moth and bee,Bring on their swift wings joy to thee!

Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she’s not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown;One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one’s own.Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say,And you know we were children together, have quarreled and “made up” in play.And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the self-same plane,Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again.She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life’s early May,And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.Nature never stands still, nor souls either. They ever go up or go down;And hers has been steadily soaring,—but how has it been with your own?She has struggled, and yearned, and aspired,—grown stronger and wiser each year;The stars are not farther above you, in yon luminous atmosphere!For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago,Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer, but their vision is clearer as well;Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but it rings like a silver bell.Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked;The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked.And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed?Have you looked upon evil unsullied? have you conquered it undismayed?Have you, too, grown stronger and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on?Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence you stood,Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back on the years that have fled;Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead!She cannot look down to her lover; her love, like her soul, aspires;He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.Now, farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she’s not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown;One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one’s own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say,And you know we were children together, have quarreled and “made up” in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the self-same plane,Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life’s early May,And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either. They ever go up or go down;And hers has been steadily soaring,—but how has it been with your own?

She has struggled, and yearned, and aspired,—grown stronger and wiser each year;The stars are not farther above you, in yon luminous atmosphere!

For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago,Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer, but their vision is clearer as well;Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but it rings like a silver bell.

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked;The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked.

And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed?Have you looked upon evil unsullied? have you conquered it undismayed?

Have you, too, grown stronger and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on?Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence you stood,Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?

Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back on the years that have fled;Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead!

She cannot look down to her lover; her love, like her soul, aspires;He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now, farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

Not for its sunsets burning clear and low,Its purple splendors on the eastern hills,Bless I the Year that now makes haste to goWhile sad Earth listens for its dying thrills.Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers;Its summer nights all luminous with stars:Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers;Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars;Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees,Some mists of error it hath blown away;Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these—Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day.But for one gift that it has brought to meMy grateful heart would crown the dying Year:Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee,I drop this garland on the passing bier!

Not for its sunsets burning clear and low,Its purple splendors on the eastern hills,Bless I the Year that now makes haste to goWhile sad Earth listens for its dying thrills.

Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers;Its summer nights all luminous with stars:Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers;Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars;

Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees,Some mists of error it hath blown away;Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these—Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day.

But for one gift that it has brought to meMy grateful heart would crown the dying Year:Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee,I drop this garland on the passing bier!

A lovely bit of dappled greenShut in the circling hills between,While farther off blue mountains standLike giant guards on either hand.The quiet road in still reposeFollows where’er the river flows;And in and out it glides along,Enchanted by the rippling song.Afar, I see the steepled townFrom yonder hillside looking down;And sometimes, when the south wind swells,Hear the faint chiming of its bells.But under these embowering trees,Lulled by the hum of droning bees,The old brown farmhouse seems to sleep,So calm its rest is and so deep.Yonder, beside the rustic bridge,From which the path climbs yonder ridge,The lazy cattle seek the shadeBy the umbrageous willows made.The sky is like a hollow pearl,Save where warm sunset clouds unfurlTheir flaming colors. Lo! a star,Even as I gaze, gleams forth afar!

A lovely bit of dappled greenShut in the circling hills between,While farther off blue mountains standLike giant guards on either hand.

The quiet road in still reposeFollows where’er the river flows;And in and out it glides along,Enchanted by the rippling song.

Afar, I see the steepled townFrom yonder hillside looking down;And sometimes, when the south wind swells,Hear the faint chiming of its bells.

But under these embowering trees,Lulled by the hum of droning bees,The old brown farmhouse seems to sleep,So calm its rest is and so deep.

Yonder, beside the rustic bridge,From which the path climbs yonder ridge,The lazy cattle seek the shadeBy the umbrageous willows made.

The sky is like a hollow pearl,Save where warm sunset clouds unfurlTheir flaming colors. Lo! a star,Even as I gaze, gleams forth afar!

Ah, Life, dear Life, how beautiful art thou!All day sweet, chiming voices in my heartHave hymned thy praises joyfully as now,Telling how fair thou art!This morn, while yet the dew was on the flowers,They sang like skylarks, soaring while they sing;This noon, like birds within their leafy bowers,Warbled with folded wing.Slow fades the twilight from the glowing west,And one pale star hangs o’er yon mountain’s brow;With deeper joy, that may not be repressed,O Life, they hail thee now!And not alone from this poor heart of mineDo these glad notes of grateful love ascend;Voices from mount and vale and woodland shrineIn the full chorus blend.The young leaves feel thy presence and rejoiceThe while they frolic with the happy breeze;And pæans sweeter than a seraph’s voiceRise from the swaying trees.Each flower that hides within the forest dim,Where mortal eye may ne’er its beauty see,Waves its light censer, while it breathes a hymnIn humble praise of thee.Through quivering pines the gentle south winds stray,Singing low songs that bid the tear-drops start;And thoughts of thee are in each trembling lay,Thrilling the listener’s heart.Old Ocean lifts his solemn voice on high,Thy name, O Life, repeating evermore,While sweeping gales and rushing storms replyFrom many a far-off shore.The stars are gathering in the darkening skies,But our dull ears their music may not hear,Though, while we list, their swelling anthems riseExultingly and clear!O Earth is beautiful! She weareth stillThe golden radiance of life’s early day;Still Love and Hope for me their chalice fill,—Life, turn not thou away!

Ah, Life, dear Life, how beautiful art thou!All day sweet, chiming voices in my heartHave hymned thy praises joyfully as now,Telling how fair thou art!

This morn, while yet the dew was on the flowers,They sang like skylarks, soaring while they sing;This noon, like birds within their leafy bowers,Warbled with folded wing.

Slow fades the twilight from the glowing west,And one pale star hangs o’er yon mountain’s brow;With deeper joy, that may not be repressed,O Life, they hail thee now!

And not alone from this poor heart of mineDo these glad notes of grateful love ascend;Voices from mount and vale and woodland shrineIn the full chorus blend.

The young leaves feel thy presence and rejoiceThe while they frolic with the happy breeze;And pæans sweeter than a seraph’s voiceRise from the swaying trees.

Each flower that hides within the forest dim,Where mortal eye may ne’er its beauty see,Waves its light censer, while it breathes a hymnIn humble praise of thee.

Through quivering pines the gentle south winds stray,Singing low songs that bid the tear-drops start;And thoughts of thee are in each trembling lay,Thrilling the listener’s heart.

Old Ocean lifts his solemn voice on high,Thy name, O Life, repeating evermore,While sweeping gales and rushing storms replyFrom many a far-off shore.

The stars are gathering in the darkening skies,But our dull ears their music may not hear,Though, while we list, their swelling anthems riseExultingly and clear!

O Earth is beautiful! She weareth stillThe golden radiance of life’s early day;Still Love and Hope for me their chalice fill,—Life, turn not thou away!

One night as I sat by my table,Tired of books and pen,With wandering thoughts far strayingOut into the world of men;—That world where the busy workersSuch magical deeds are doing,Each one with a steady purposeHis own pet plans pursuing;When the house was wrapt in silence,And the children were all asleep,And even the mouse in the wainscotHad ceased to run and leap,All at once from the open chimneyCame a hum and a rustle and whirring,That startled me out of my dreaming,And set my pulses stirring.What was it? I paused and listened;The roses were all in bloom,And in from the garden floatedThe violet’s rich perfume.So it could not be Kriss Kringle,For he only comes, you know,When the Christmas bells are chiming,And the hills are white with snow.Hark! a sound as of rushing waters,Or the rustle of falling leaves,Or the patter of eager raindropsYonder among the eaves!Then out from the dark, old chimney,Blackened with soot and smoke,With a whir of fluttering pinionsA startled birdling broke.Dashing against the window;Lighting a moment whereMy sculptured angel foldedIts soft white wings in prayer;Swinging upon the curtains;Perched on the ivy-vine;At last it rested tremblingIn tender hands of mine.No stain upon its plumage;No dust upon its wings;No hint of its companionshipWith darkly soiling things!O, happy bird, thou spirit!Stretch thy glad plumes and soarWhere breath of soil or sorrowShall reach thee nevermore!

When the house was wrapt in silence,And the children were all asleep,And even the mouse in the wainscotHad ceased to run and leap,All at once from the open chimneyCame a hum and a rustle and whirring,That startled me out of my dreaming,And set my pulses stirring.

What was it? I paused and listened;The roses were all in bloom,And in from the garden floatedThe violet’s rich perfume.So it could not be Kriss Kringle,For he only comes, you know,When the Christmas bells are chiming,And the hills are white with snow.

Hark! a sound as of rushing waters,Or the rustle of falling leaves,Or the patter of eager raindropsYonder among the eaves!Then out from the dark, old chimney,Blackened with soot and smoke,With a whir of fluttering pinionsA startled birdling broke.

Dashing against the window;Lighting a moment whereMy sculptured angel foldedIts soft white wings in prayer;Swinging upon the curtains;Perched on the ivy-vine;At last it rested tremblingIn tender hands of mine.

No stain upon its plumage;No dust upon its wings;No hint of its companionshipWith darkly soiling things!O, happy bird, thou spirit!Stretch thy glad plumes and soarWhere breath of soil or sorrowShall reach thee nevermore!

Little store of wealth have I;Not a rood of land I own;Nor a mansion fair and highBuilt with towers of fretted stone.Stocks, nor bonds, nor title-deeds,Flocks nor herds have I to show;When I ride, no Arab steedsToss for me their manes of snow.I have neither pearls nor gold,Massive plate, nor jewels rare;Broidered silks of worth untold,Nor rich robes a queen might wear.In my garden’s narrow boundFlaunt no costly tropic blooms,Ladening all the air aroundWith a weight of rare perfumes.Yet to an immense estateAm I heir, by grace of God,—Richer, grander than doth waitAny earthly monarch’s nod.Heir of all the Ages, I—Heir of all that they have wrought,All their store of emprise high,All their wealth of precious thought.Every golden deed of theirsSheds its lustre on my way;All their labors, all their prayers,Sanctify this present day!Heir of all that they have earnedBy their passion and their tears,—Heir of all that they have learnedThrough the weary, toiling years!Heir of all the faith sublimeOn whose wings they soared to heaven;Heir of every hope that TimeTo Earth’s fainting sons hath given!Aspirations pure and high—Strength to dare and to endure—Heir of all the Ages, I—Lo! I am no longer poor!

I have neither pearls nor gold,Massive plate, nor jewels rare;Broidered silks of worth untold,Nor rich robes a queen might wear.In my garden’s narrow boundFlaunt no costly tropic blooms,Ladening all the air aroundWith a weight of rare perfumes.

Yet to an immense estateAm I heir, by grace of God,—Richer, grander than doth waitAny earthly monarch’s nod.Heir of all the Ages, I—Heir of all that they have wrought,All their store of emprise high,All their wealth of precious thought.

Every golden deed of theirsSheds its lustre on my way;All their labors, all their prayers,Sanctify this present day!Heir of all that they have earnedBy their passion and their tears,—Heir of all that they have learnedThrough the weary, toiling years!

Heir of all the faith sublimeOn whose wings they soared to heaven;Heir of every hope that TimeTo Earth’s fainting sons hath given!Aspirations pure and high—Strength to dare and to endure—Heir of all the Ages, I—Lo! I am no longer poor!

Spinning, spinning, by the sea,All the night!On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore,Where the north winds downward pour,And the tempests fiercely sweepFrom the mountains to the deep,Hilda spins beside the sea,All the night!Spinning, at her lonely window,By the sea!With her candle burning clear,Every night of all the year,And her sweet voice crooning low,Quaint old songs of love and woe,Spins she at her lonely window,By the sea.On a bitter night in March,Long ago,Hilda, very young and fair,With a crown of golden hair,Watched the tempest raging wild,Watched the roaring sea—and smiledThrough that woeful night in March,Long ago!What though all the winds were outIn their might?Richard’s boat was tried and true;Stanch and brave his hardy crew;Strongest he to do or dare.Said she, breathing forth a prayer,“He is safe, though winds are outIn their might!”But at length the morning dawned,Still and clear!Calm, in azure splendor, layAll the waters of the bay;And the ocean’s angry moansSank to solemn undertones,As at last the morning dawned,Still and clear!With her waves of golden hairFloating free,Hilda ran along the shore,Gazing off the waters o’er;And the fishermen replied,“He will come in with the tide,”As they saw her golden hairFloating free!Ah! he came in with the tide—Came alone!Tossed upon the shining sands—Ghastly face and clutching hands—Seaweed tangled in his hair—Bruised and torn his forehead fair—Thus he came in with the tide,All alone!Hilda watched beside her dead,Day and night.Of those hours of mortal woeHuman ken may never know;She was silent, and his earKept the secret, close and dear,Of her watch beside her dead,Day and night!What she promised in the darkness,Who can tell?But upon that rock-ribbed shoreBurns a beacon evermore!And beside it, all the night,Hilda guards the lonely light,Though what vowed she in the darkness,None may tell!Spinning, spinning by the sea,All the night!While her candle, gleaming wideO’er the restless, rolling tide,Guides with steady, changeless rayThe lone fisher up the bay,Hilda spins beside the sea,Through the night!Fifty years of patient spinningBy the sea!Old and worn, she sleeps to-day,While the sunshine gilds the bay;But her candle, shining clear,Every night of all the year,Still is telling of her spinningBy the sea!

Spinning, at her lonely window,By the sea!With her candle burning clear,Every night of all the year,And her sweet voice crooning low,Quaint old songs of love and woe,Spins she at her lonely window,By the sea.

On a bitter night in March,Long ago,Hilda, very young and fair,With a crown of golden hair,Watched the tempest raging wild,Watched the roaring sea—and smiledThrough that woeful night in March,Long ago!

What though all the winds were outIn their might?Richard’s boat was tried and true;Stanch and brave his hardy crew;Strongest he to do or dare.Said she, breathing forth a prayer,“He is safe, though winds are outIn their might!”

But at length the morning dawned,Still and clear!Calm, in azure splendor, layAll the waters of the bay;And the ocean’s angry moansSank to solemn undertones,As at last the morning dawned,Still and clear!

With her waves of golden hairFloating free,Hilda ran along the shore,Gazing off the waters o’er;And the fishermen replied,“He will come in with the tide,”As they saw her golden hairFloating free!

Ah! he came in with the tide—Came alone!Tossed upon the shining sands—Ghastly face and clutching hands—Seaweed tangled in his hair—Bruised and torn his forehead fair—Thus he came in with the tide,All alone!

Hilda watched beside her dead,Day and night.Of those hours of mortal woeHuman ken may never know;She was silent, and his earKept the secret, close and dear,Of her watch beside her dead,Day and night!

What she promised in the darkness,Who can tell?But upon that rock-ribbed shoreBurns a beacon evermore!And beside it, all the night,Hilda guards the lonely light,Though what vowed she in the darkness,None may tell!

Spinning, spinning by the sea,All the night!While her candle, gleaming wideO’er the restless, rolling tide,Guides with steady, changeless rayThe lone fisher up the bay,Hilda spins beside the sea,Through the night!

Fifty years of patient spinningBy the sea!Old and worn, she sleeps to-day,While the sunshine gilds the bay;But her candle, shining clear,Every night of all the year,Still is telling of her spinningBy the sea!

O land beyond the setting sun!O realm more fair than poet’s dream!How clear thy silver rivers run,How bright thy golden glories gleam!Earth holds no counterpart of thine;The dark-browed Orient, jewel-crowned,Pales as she bows before thy shrine,Shrouded in mystery profound.The dazzling North, the stately West,Whose waters flow from mount to sea;The South, flower-wreathed in languid rest—What are they all, compared with thee?All lands, all realms beneath yon dome,Where God’s own hand hath hung the stars,To thee with humblest homage come,O world beyond the crystal bars!Thou blest Hereafter! Mortal tongueHath striven in vain thy speech to learn,And Fancy wanders, lost amongThe flowery paths for which we yearn.But well we know that fair and bright,Far beyond human ken or dream,Too glorious for our feeble sight,Thy skies of cloudless azure beam.We know thy happy valleys lieIn green repose, supremely blest;We know against thy sapphire skyThy mountain-peaks sublimely rest.For sometimes even now we catchFaint gleamings from thy far-off shore,While still with eager eyes we watchFor one sweet sign or token more.The loved, the deeply loved, are there!The brave, the fair, the good, the wise,Who pined for thy serener air,Nor shunned thy solemn mysteries.There are the hopes that, one by one,Died even as we gave them birth;The dreams that passed ere well begun,Too dear, too beautiful for earth.The aspirations, strong of wing,Aiming at heights we could not reach;The songs we tried in vain to sing;The thoughts too vast for human speech;Thou hast them all, Hereafter! ThouShalt keep them safely till that hourWhen, with God’s seal on heart and brow,We claim them in immortal power!

O land beyond the setting sun!O realm more fair than poet’s dream!How clear thy silver rivers run,How bright thy golden glories gleam!

Earth holds no counterpart of thine;The dark-browed Orient, jewel-crowned,Pales as she bows before thy shrine,Shrouded in mystery profound.

The dazzling North, the stately West,Whose waters flow from mount to sea;The South, flower-wreathed in languid rest—What are they all, compared with thee?

All lands, all realms beneath yon dome,Where God’s own hand hath hung the stars,To thee with humblest homage come,O world beyond the crystal bars!

Thou blest Hereafter! Mortal tongueHath striven in vain thy speech to learn,And Fancy wanders, lost amongThe flowery paths for which we yearn.

But well we know that fair and bright,Far beyond human ken or dream,Too glorious for our feeble sight,Thy skies of cloudless azure beam.

We know thy happy valleys lieIn green repose, supremely blest;We know against thy sapphire skyThy mountain-peaks sublimely rest.

For sometimes even now we catchFaint gleamings from thy far-off shore,While still with eager eyes we watchFor one sweet sign or token more.

The loved, the deeply loved, are there!The brave, the fair, the good, the wise,Who pined for thy serener air,Nor shunned thy solemn mysteries.

There are the hopes that, one by one,Died even as we gave them birth;The dreams that passed ere well begun,Too dear, too beautiful for earth.

The aspirations, strong of wing,Aiming at heights we could not reach;The songs we tried in vain to sing;The thoughts too vast for human speech;

Thou hast them all, Hereafter! ThouShalt keep them safely till that hourWhen, with God’s seal on heart and brow,We claim them in immortal power!

Softly the gold has faded from the sky,Slowly the stars have gathered one by one,Calmly the crescent moon mounts up on high,And the long day is done.With quiet heart my garden-walks I tread,Feeling the beauty that I cannot see;Beauty and fragrance all around me shedBy flower, and shrub, and tree.Often I linger where the roses pourExquisite odors from each glowing cup;Or where the violet, brimmed with sweetness o’er,Lifts its small chalice up.With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now,And softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette,While heliotropes, with meekly lifted brow,Say to me, “Go not yet.”So for awhile I linger, but not long.High in the heavens rideth fiery Mars,Careering proudly ’mid the glorious throng,Brightest of all the stars.But softly gleaming through the curtain’s fold,The home-star beams with more alluring ray,And, as a star led sage and seer of old,So it directs my way;And leads me in where my young children lie,Rosy and beautiful in tranquil rest;The seal of sleep is on each fast-shut eye,Heaven’s peace within each breast.I bring them gifts. Not frankincense nor myrrh—Gifts the adoring Magi humbly broughtThe young child, cradled in the arms of herBlest beyond mortal thought;But love—the love that fills my mother-heartWith a sweet rapture oft akin to pain;Such yearning love as bids the tear-drops startAnd fall like summer rain.And faith—that dares, for their dear sakes, to climbBoldly, where once it would have feared to go,And calmly standing upon heights sublime,Fears not the storm below.And prayer! O God! unto thy throne I come,Bringing my darlings—but I cannot speak.With love and awe oppressed, my lips are dumb:Grant what my heart would seek!

Softly the gold has faded from the sky,Slowly the stars have gathered one by one,Calmly the crescent moon mounts up on high,And the long day is done.

With quiet heart my garden-walks I tread,Feeling the beauty that I cannot see;Beauty and fragrance all around me shedBy flower, and shrub, and tree.

Often I linger where the roses pourExquisite odors from each glowing cup;Or where the violet, brimmed with sweetness o’er,Lifts its small chalice up.

With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now,And softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette,While heliotropes, with meekly lifted brow,Say to me, “Go not yet.”

So for awhile I linger, but not long.High in the heavens rideth fiery Mars,Careering proudly ’mid the glorious throng,Brightest of all the stars.

But softly gleaming through the curtain’s fold,The home-star beams with more alluring ray,And, as a star led sage and seer of old,So it directs my way;

And leads me in where my young children lie,Rosy and beautiful in tranquil rest;The seal of sleep is on each fast-shut eye,Heaven’s peace within each breast.

I bring them gifts. Not frankincense nor myrrh—Gifts the adoring Magi humbly broughtThe young child, cradled in the arms of herBlest beyond mortal thought;

But love—the love that fills my mother-heartWith a sweet rapture oft akin to pain;Such yearning love as bids the tear-drops startAnd fall like summer rain.

And faith—that dares, for their dear sakes, to climbBoldly, where once it would have feared to go,And calmly standing upon heights sublime,Fears not the storm below.

And prayer! O God! unto thy throne I come,Bringing my darlings—but I cannot speak.With love and awe oppressed, my lips are dumb:Grant what my heart would seek!

Dethroned and crownless, I so late a queen!Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who woreThe crown of Persia with such stately grace!But yesterday a royal wife; but nowFrom my estate cast down, and fallen so lowThat beggars scoff at me! Men toss my nameBackward and forward on their mocking tongues.In all the king’s broad realm there is not oneTo do poor Vashti homage. Even the dogMy hand had fondled, in the palace wallsFawns on my rival. When I left the court,Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me,Licking my fingers, leaping in my face,And frisking round me till I reached the gates.Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed,And frequent lookings backward, and low whinesOf puzzled wonder—that had made me smileIf I had been less lorn—with drooping ears,Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back,Leaving me desolate. So went they allWho, when Ahasuerus on my browSet his own royal crown and called me queen,Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried,“Long live Queen Vashti, Persia’s fairest Rose,Mother of Princes, and the nation’s Hope!”The rose is withered now; the queen’s no more.To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall clingOr now, or ever. Yet on this poor scrollI will rehearse the story of my woes,And bid them lay it in the grave with meWhen I depart to join the unnumbered dead.Oh, thou unknown, unborn, who through the gloomAnd mists of ages in my vaulted tombShalt find this parchment, and with reverent careShalt bear it outward to the sun and air:Oh, thou whose patient fingers shall unrollWith slow, persuasive touch this little scroll:Oh, loving, tender eyes that, like twin stars,I seem to see through yonder cloudy bars:Read Vashti’s story, and I pray ye tellThe whole wide world if she did ill or well!Ahasuerus reigned. On Persia’s throne,Lord of a mighty realm, he sat alone,And stretched his sceptre from the farthest slopeOf India’s hills, to where the EthiopDwelt in barbaric splendor. Kinglier kingNever did poet praise or minstrel sing!He had no peers. Among his lords he shoneAs shines a planet, single and alone;And I, alas! I loved him, and we twoSuch bliss as peasant lovers joy in, knew!No lowly home in all our wide domainHeld more of peace than ours, or less of pain.But one dark day—O, woeful day of days,Whose hours I number now in sad amaze,Thou hadst no prophet of the ills to be,Nor sign nor omen came to succor me!—That day Ahasuerus smiled and said,“Since first I wore this crown upon my headThrice have the emerald clusters of the vineChanged to translucent globes of ruby wine;And thrice the peaches on the loaded wallsHave slowly rounded into wondrous ballsOf gold and crimson. I will make a feast.Princes and lords, the greatest and the least,All Persia and all Media, shall seeThe pomp and splendor that encompass me.The riches of my kingdom shall be shown,And all my glorious majesty made knownWhere’er the shadow of my sceptred handSways a great people with its mute command!”Then came from far and near a hurrying throngOf skilled and cunning workmen. All day longAnd far into the startled night, they wroughtMost quaint and beautiful devices—stillResponsive to their master’s eager will,And giving form to his creative thought—Till Shushan grew a marvel!Never yetYon rolling sun on fairer scene has set:The palace windows were ablaze with light;And Persia’s lords were there, most richly dightIn broidered silks, or costliest cloth of gold,That kept the sunshine in each lustrous fold,Or softly flowing tissues, pure and whiteAs fleecy clouds at noonday. Clear and brightShone the pure gold of Ophir, and the gleamOf burning gems, that mocked the pallid beamOf the dim, wondering stars, made radiance there,Splendor undreamed of, and beyond compare!Up from the gardens floated the perfumeOf rose and myrtle, in their perfect bloom;The red pomegranate cleft its heart in twain,Pouring its life blood in a crimson rain;The slight acacia waved its yellow plumes,And afar off amid the starlit gloomsWere sweet recesses, where the orange bowersDropt their pure blossoms down in snowy showers,And night reigned undisturbed.From cups of goldDiverse one from another, meet to holdThe king’s most costly wines, or to be raisedTo princely lips, the gay guests drank, and praisedTheir rich abundance. Rapturous music sweptThrough the vast arches and the secret keptOf its own joy; while in slow, rhythmic timeTo clash of cymbal and the lute’s clear chime,The dancing-girls stole through the fragrant nightWith wreathéd arms, flushed cheeks and eyes alight,And softly rounded forms that rose and fellTo the voluptuous music’s dreamy swell,As if the air were pulsing waves that boreThem up and onward to some longed-for shore!Wild waxed the revel. On an ivory throneInlaid with ebony and gems that shoneWith a surpassing lustre, sat my lord,The King Ahasuerus. His great sword,Blazing with diamonds on hilt and blade,—The mighty sword that made his foes afraid,—And the proud sceptre he was wont to grasp,With all the monarch in his kingly clasp,Against the crouching lions (guard that keptOn either side the throne and never slept),Leaned carelessly. And flowing downward o’erThe ivory steps even to the marble floor,Swept the rich royal robes in many a foldOf Tyrian purple flecked with yellow gold.The jewelled crown his young head scorned to wear,More fitly crowned by its own clustering hair,Lay on a pearl-wrought cushion by his side,Mute symbol of great Persia’s power and pride;While on his brow some courtier’s hand had placedThe fairest chaplet monarch ever graced,A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet,Just brought from out the garden’s cool retreat.Louder and louder grew the sounds of mirth;Faster and faster flowed the red wine forth;In high, exulting strains the minstrels sangThe monarch’s glory, till the great roof rang;And flushed at length with pride and song and wine,The king rose up and said, “O nobles mine!Princes of Persia, Media’s hope and pride,Stars of my kingdom, will ye aught beside?Speak! and I swear your sovereign’s will shall beOn this fair night to please and honor ye!”Then rose a shout from out the glittering throngDrowning the voice of merriment and song,Humming and murmuring like a hive of bees—What would they more each charmèd sense to please?Out spoke at last a tongue that should have beenPalsied in foul dishonor there and then.“O great Ahasuerus! ne’er beforeReigned such a king so blest a people o’er!What shall we ask? What great and wondrous boonTo crown the hours that fly away too soon?There is but one. ’Tis said that mortal eyesNever yet gazed, in rapturous surprise,Upon a face like that of her who wearsThy signet-ring, and all thy glory shares,—Thy fair Queen Vashti, she who yet shall beMother of him who reigneth after thee!Show us that face, O king! For nought besideCan make our cup of joy o’erflow with pride.”A murmur ran throughout the startled crowd,Swelling at last to plaudits long and loud.Maddened with wine, they knew not what they said.Ahasuerus bent his haughty head,And for an instant o’er his face there sweptA look his courtiers in their memory keptFor many a day—a look of doubt and pain,They scarcely caught ere it had passed again.“My word is pledged,” he said. Then to the sevenLord chamberlains to whom the keys were given:“Haste ye, and to this noble presence bringVashti, the Queen, with royal crown and ring;That all my lords may see the matchless charmsKind Heaven has sent to bless my kingly arms.”They did their errand, those old, gray-haired men,Who should have braved the lion in his den,Or ere they bore such message to their queen,Or took such words their aged lips between.What! I, the daughter of a royal race,Step down, unblushing, from my lofty place,And, like a common dancing-girl, who wearsHer beauty unconcealed, and, shameless, baresHer brow to every gazer, boldly goTo those wild revellers my face to show?I—who had kept my beauty pure and brightOnly because ’twas precious in his sight,Guarding it ever as a holy thing,Sacred to him, my lover, lord, and king,—Could I unveil it to the curious eyesOf the mad rabble that with drunken criesWere shouting “Vashti! Vashti?”—Sooner far,Beyond the rays of sun, or moon, or star,I would have buried it in endless night!Pale and dismayed, in wonder and affright,My maidens hung around me as I toldThose seven lord chamberlains, so gray and old,To bear this answer back: “It may not be.My lord, my king, I cannot come to thee.It is not meet that Persia’s queen, like oneWho treads the market-place from sun to sun,Should bare her beauty to the hungry crowd,Who name her name in accents hoarse and loud.”With stern, cold looks they left me. Ah! I knewIf my dear lord to his best self were true,That he would hold me guiltless, and would say,“I thank thee, love, that thou didst not obey!”But the red wine was ruling o’er his brain;The cruel wine that recked not of my pain.Up from the angry throng a clamor rose;The flattering sycophants were now my foes;And evil counsellors about the throne,Hiding the jealous joy they dared not own,With slow, wise words, and many a virtuous frown,Said, “Be the queen from her estate cast down!Let her not see the king’s face evermore,Nor come within his presence as of yore;So disobedient wives through all the landShall read the lesson, heed and understand.”Up spoke another, eager to be heard,In royal councils fain to have a word,—“Let this commandment of the king be writ,In the law of the Medes and Persians, as is fit,—The perfect law that man may alter notNor of its bitter end abate one jot.”Alas! the king was wroth. Before his faceI could not go to plead my piteous case;But, pitiless, with scarce dissembled sneers,And poisoned words that rankled in his ears,My wily foes, afraid to let him pause,Brought the great book that held the Persian laws,And ere the rising of the morrow’s sun,My bitter doom was sealed, the deed was done!Scarce had two moons passed when one dreary nightI sat within my bower in woeful plight,When suddenly upon my presence stoleA muffled form, whose shadow stirred my soulI knew not wherefore. Ere my tongue could speak,Or with a breath the brooding silence break,A low voice murmured “Vashti!”Pale and still,Hushing my heart’s cry with an iron will,“What would the king?” I asked. No answer came,But to his sad eyes leaped a sudden flame;With clasping arms he raised me to his breastAnd on my brow and lips such kisses pressedAs one might give the dead. I may not tellAll the wild words that I remember well.Oh! was it joy or was it pain to knowThat not alone I wept my weary woe?Alas! I know not. But I know to-day—If this be sin, forgive me, Heaven, I pray!—That though his eyes have never looked on mineSince that dark night when stars refused to shine,And fair Queen Esther sits, a beauteous bride,In stately Shushan at the monarch’s side,The king remembers Vashti, even yetBreathing her name sometimes with vain regret,Or murmuring, haply, in a whisper low,—“O pure, proud heart that loved me long ago!”

Oh, thou unknown, unborn, who through the gloomAnd mists of ages in my vaulted tombShalt find this parchment, and with reverent careShalt bear it outward to the sun and air:Oh, thou whose patient fingers shall unrollWith slow, persuasive touch this little scroll:Oh, loving, tender eyes that, like twin stars,I seem to see through yonder cloudy bars:Read Vashti’s story, and I pray ye tellThe whole wide world if she did ill or well!

Ahasuerus reigned. On Persia’s throne,Lord of a mighty realm, he sat alone,And stretched his sceptre from the farthest slopeOf India’s hills, to where the EthiopDwelt in barbaric splendor. Kinglier kingNever did poet praise or minstrel sing!He had no peers. Among his lords he shoneAs shines a planet, single and alone;And I, alas! I loved him, and we twoSuch bliss as peasant lovers joy in, knew!No lowly home in all our wide domainHeld more of peace than ours, or less of pain.But one dark day—O, woeful day of days,Whose hours I number now in sad amaze,Thou hadst no prophet of the ills to be,Nor sign nor omen came to succor me!—That day Ahasuerus smiled and said,“Since first I wore this crown upon my headThrice have the emerald clusters of the vineChanged to translucent globes of ruby wine;And thrice the peaches on the loaded wallsHave slowly rounded into wondrous ballsOf gold and crimson. I will make a feast.Princes and lords, the greatest and the least,All Persia and all Media, shall seeThe pomp and splendor that encompass me.The riches of my kingdom shall be shown,And all my glorious majesty made knownWhere’er the shadow of my sceptred handSways a great people with its mute command!”Then came from far and near a hurrying throngOf skilled and cunning workmen. All day longAnd far into the startled night, they wroughtMost quaint and beautiful devices—stillResponsive to their master’s eager will,And giving form to his creative thought—Till Shushan grew a marvel!Never yetYon rolling sun on fairer scene has set:The palace windows were ablaze with light;And Persia’s lords were there, most richly dightIn broidered silks, or costliest cloth of gold,That kept the sunshine in each lustrous fold,Or softly flowing tissues, pure and whiteAs fleecy clouds at noonday. Clear and brightShone the pure gold of Ophir, and the gleamOf burning gems, that mocked the pallid beamOf the dim, wondering stars, made radiance there,Splendor undreamed of, and beyond compare!Up from the gardens floated the perfumeOf rose and myrtle, in their perfect bloom;The red pomegranate cleft its heart in twain,Pouring its life blood in a crimson rain;The slight acacia waved its yellow plumes,And afar off amid the starlit gloomsWere sweet recesses, where the orange bowersDropt their pure blossoms down in snowy showers,And night reigned undisturbed.From cups of goldDiverse one from another, meet to holdThe king’s most costly wines, or to be raisedTo princely lips, the gay guests drank, and praisedTheir rich abundance. Rapturous music sweptThrough the vast arches and the secret keptOf its own joy; while in slow, rhythmic timeTo clash of cymbal and the lute’s clear chime,The dancing-girls stole through the fragrant nightWith wreathéd arms, flushed cheeks and eyes alight,And softly rounded forms that rose and fellTo the voluptuous music’s dreamy swell,As if the air were pulsing waves that boreThem up and onward to some longed-for shore!

Wild waxed the revel. On an ivory throneInlaid with ebony and gems that shoneWith a surpassing lustre, sat my lord,The King Ahasuerus. His great sword,Blazing with diamonds on hilt and blade,—The mighty sword that made his foes afraid,—And the proud sceptre he was wont to grasp,With all the monarch in his kingly clasp,Against the crouching lions (guard that keptOn either side the throne and never slept),Leaned carelessly. And flowing downward o’erThe ivory steps even to the marble floor,Swept the rich royal robes in many a foldOf Tyrian purple flecked with yellow gold.The jewelled crown his young head scorned to wear,More fitly crowned by its own clustering hair,Lay on a pearl-wrought cushion by his side,Mute symbol of great Persia’s power and pride;While on his brow some courtier’s hand had placedThe fairest chaplet monarch ever graced,A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet,Just brought from out the garden’s cool retreat.

Louder and louder grew the sounds of mirth;Faster and faster flowed the red wine forth;In high, exulting strains the minstrels sangThe monarch’s glory, till the great roof rang;And flushed at length with pride and song and wine,The king rose up and said, “O nobles mine!Princes of Persia, Media’s hope and pride,Stars of my kingdom, will ye aught beside?Speak! and I swear your sovereign’s will shall beOn this fair night to please and honor ye!”Then rose a shout from out the glittering throngDrowning the voice of merriment and song,Humming and murmuring like a hive of bees—What would they more each charmèd sense to please?

Out spoke at last a tongue that should have beenPalsied in foul dishonor there and then.“O great Ahasuerus! ne’er beforeReigned such a king so blest a people o’er!What shall we ask? What great and wondrous boonTo crown the hours that fly away too soon?There is but one. ’Tis said that mortal eyesNever yet gazed, in rapturous surprise,Upon a face like that of her who wearsThy signet-ring, and all thy glory shares,—Thy fair Queen Vashti, she who yet shall beMother of him who reigneth after thee!Show us that face, O king! For nought besideCan make our cup of joy o’erflow with pride.”

A murmur ran throughout the startled crowd,Swelling at last to plaudits long and loud.Maddened with wine, they knew not what they said.Ahasuerus bent his haughty head,And for an instant o’er his face there sweptA look his courtiers in their memory keptFor many a day—a look of doubt and pain,They scarcely caught ere it had passed again.“My word is pledged,” he said. Then to the sevenLord chamberlains to whom the keys were given:“Haste ye, and to this noble presence bringVashti, the Queen, with royal crown and ring;That all my lords may see the matchless charmsKind Heaven has sent to bless my kingly arms.”

They did their errand, those old, gray-haired men,Who should have braved the lion in his den,Or ere they bore such message to their queen,Or took such words their aged lips between.What! I, the daughter of a royal race,Step down, unblushing, from my lofty place,And, like a common dancing-girl, who wearsHer beauty unconcealed, and, shameless, baresHer brow to every gazer, boldly goTo those wild revellers my face to show?I—who had kept my beauty pure and brightOnly because ’twas precious in his sight,Guarding it ever as a holy thing,Sacred to him, my lover, lord, and king,—Could I unveil it to the curious eyesOf the mad rabble that with drunken criesWere shouting “Vashti! Vashti?”—Sooner far,Beyond the rays of sun, or moon, or star,I would have buried it in endless night!Pale and dismayed, in wonder and affright,My maidens hung around me as I toldThose seven lord chamberlains, so gray and old,To bear this answer back: “It may not be.My lord, my king, I cannot come to thee.It is not meet that Persia’s queen, like oneWho treads the market-place from sun to sun,Should bare her beauty to the hungry crowd,Who name her name in accents hoarse and loud.”With stern, cold looks they left me. Ah! I knewIf my dear lord to his best self were true,That he would hold me guiltless, and would say,“I thank thee, love, that thou didst not obey!”But the red wine was ruling o’er his brain;The cruel wine that recked not of my pain.Up from the angry throng a clamor rose;The flattering sycophants were now my foes;And evil counsellors about the throne,Hiding the jealous joy they dared not own,With slow, wise words, and many a virtuous frown,Said, “Be the queen from her estate cast down!Let her not see the king’s face evermore,Nor come within his presence as of yore;So disobedient wives through all the landShall read the lesson, heed and understand.”Up spoke another, eager to be heard,In royal councils fain to have a word,—“Let this commandment of the king be writ,In the law of the Medes and Persians, as is fit,—The perfect law that man may alter notNor of its bitter end abate one jot.”Alas! the king was wroth. Before his faceI could not go to plead my piteous case;But, pitiless, with scarce dissembled sneers,And poisoned words that rankled in his ears,My wily foes, afraid to let him pause,Brought the great book that held the Persian laws,And ere the rising of the morrow’s sun,My bitter doom was sealed, the deed was done!

Scarce had two moons passed when one dreary nightI sat within my bower in woeful plight,When suddenly upon my presence stoleA muffled form, whose shadow stirred my soulI knew not wherefore. Ere my tongue could speak,Or with a breath the brooding silence break,A low voice murmured “Vashti!”Pale and still,Hushing my heart’s cry with an iron will,“What would the king?” I asked. No answer came,But to his sad eyes leaped a sudden flame;With clasping arms he raised me to his breastAnd on my brow and lips such kisses pressedAs one might give the dead. I may not tellAll the wild words that I remember well.Oh! was it joy or was it pain to knowThat not alone I wept my weary woe?Alas! I know not. But I know to-day—If this be sin, forgive me, Heaven, I pray!—That though his eyes have never looked on mineSince that dark night when stars refused to shine,And fair Queen Esther sits, a beauteous bride,In stately Shushan at the monarch’s side,The king remembers Vashti, even yetBreathing her name sometimes with vain regret,Or murmuring, haply, in a whisper low,—“O pure, proud heart that loved me long ago!”

Back to Index Next