Over the desolate sea-side townWith a terrible tumult the night came down,And the fierce wind swept through the empty street,With the drifting snow for a winding-sheet.Elsie, the fisherman’s daughter, in bedLay and listened in awe and dread,But sprang to her feet in sudden fearWhen over the tempest, loud and clear,A voice cried, “Christus!”“Christus! Christus!” and nothing more.Was it a cry at the cottage-door?She left her chamber with flying feet;She loosened the bolts with fingers fleet;She lifted the latch, but only the dinOf the furious storm and the snow swept in.She looked without: not a soul was there,But still rang out on the startled airThe strange cry, “Christus!”“Christus! Christus!” She slept at last,Though the old house rocked in the wintry blast;And when she awoke the world was still,A wide, white silence from sea to hill.No creature stirred in the morning glow;There was not a footprint in the snow;Yet again through the hush, as faint and farAs if it came from another star,A voice sighed “Christus!”“Christus! Christus!” Who can it be,O Christ our Lord, that is calling TheeIn a foreign tongue, with a woe as wildAs that of some lost, forsaken child?She turned from the window with a startled gaze:She clasped her hands in a pale amaze,Hearkening still, till again she heard,As in a waking dream, the word—That strange word, “Christus!”Then over the hill with weary feetShe toiled through the drifts to the village-street.The villagers gathered in eager haste,And all day long in the snowy wasteThey sought in vain for the one who criedTo Him who of old was crucified:Then, turning away with a laugh, they said,“’Twas only the wild wind overhead,Your cry of ‘Christus!’”She watched their going with earnest eyes:Hark! what voice to the taunt replies?The trees were still as if struck with death;The wind was soft as a baby’s breath;The sobbing sea was asleep at last,Scourged no more by the furious blast;Yet, surely as ever from human tongueA cry of grief or despair was wrung,Some voice sighed, “Christus!”Burned on her cheek a sudden flameAs her heart’s strong throbbings went and came,And she stood alone on the lonely shore,Gazing the wide black waters o’er.“Whether it comes from heaven or hell,This voice I have learned to know too well—Whether from lips alive or dead,Or from the hovering air,” she said—“Whether it comes from sea or land,I will not sleep till I understandThis cry of ‘Christus!’”“Christus! Christus!” Faint and slowRose the wail from the drifted snowUnder a low-browed, beetling rock,Strong to withstand the whirlwind’s shock.There, in the heart of the snowy mound,The buried form of a man she found—A Spanish sailor, with beard of brownOver his red scarf flowing down,And jewelled ears that were strange to see.She was bending over it, when—ah me!The shrill cry, “Christus!”Rang out as if from the stony lipsWhence life had parted in drear eclipse,As if the soul of the dead man criedAgain unto Christ the Crucified.The rose had fled from her cheeks so red,But still she knelt by his side and said,Under her breath, “I must understandWhether from heaven or sea or landComes that cry, ‘Christus!’”She laid her hand on the pulseless breast!What fluttered beneath the crimson vest?A bird with plumage of green and gold,Nestling away from the piercing cold,Was folded close to the silent heartFrom which it had felt the life depart;And when she held it against her cheek,As plainly as ever a bird could speakIt sobbed out, ‘Christus!’”And evermore when the winds blew loud,And the trees in the grasp of the storm were bowed,And the lowering wings of the tempest beatThe drifting snow in the village-street,Just as its master in death had criedTo Christ, the Holy, the Crucified,Pouring his soul in one wild word—Pray God that the cry in heaven was heard!—The bird cried, “Christus!”
Over the desolate sea-side townWith a terrible tumult the night came down,And the fierce wind swept through the empty street,With the drifting snow for a winding-sheet.Elsie, the fisherman’s daughter, in bedLay and listened in awe and dread,But sprang to her feet in sudden fearWhen over the tempest, loud and clear,A voice cried, “Christus!”“Christus! Christus!” and nothing more.Was it a cry at the cottage-door?She left her chamber with flying feet;She loosened the bolts with fingers fleet;She lifted the latch, but only the dinOf the furious storm and the snow swept in.She looked without: not a soul was there,But still rang out on the startled airThe strange cry, “Christus!”“Christus! Christus!” She slept at last,Though the old house rocked in the wintry blast;And when she awoke the world was still,A wide, white silence from sea to hill.No creature stirred in the morning glow;There was not a footprint in the snow;Yet again through the hush, as faint and farAs if it came from another star,A voice sighed “Christus!”“Christus! Christus!” Who can it be,O Christ our Lord, that is calling TheeIn a foreign tongue, with a woe as wildAs that of some lost, forsaken child?She turned from the window with a startled gaze:She clasped her hands in a pale amaze,Hearkening still, till again she heard,As in a waking dream, the word—That strange word, “Christus!”Then over the hill with weary feetShe toiled through the drifts to the village-street.The villagers gathered in eager haste,And all day long in the snowy wasteThey sought in vain for the one who criedTo Him who of old was crucified:Then, turning away with a laugh, they said,“’Twas only the wild wind overhead,Your cry of ‘Christus!’”She watched their going with earnest eyes:Hark! what voice to the taunt replies?The trees were still as if struck with death;The wind was soft as a baby’s breath;The sobbing sea was asleep at last,Scourged no more by the furious blast;Yet, surely as ever from human tongueA cry of grief or despair was wrung,Some voice sighed, “Christus!”Burned on her cheek a sudden flameAs her heart’s strong throbbings went and came,And she stood alone on the lonely shore,Gazing the wide black waters o’er.“Whether it comes from heaven or hell,This voice I have learned to know too well—Whether from lips alive or dead,Or from the hovering air,” she said—“Whether it comes from sea or land,I will not sleep till I understandThis cry of ‘Christus!’”“Christus! Christus!” Faint and slowRose the wail from the drifted snowUnder a low-browed, beetling rock,Strong to withstand the whirlwind’s shock.There, in the heart of the snowy mound,The buried form of a man she found—A Spanish sailor, with beard of brownOver his red scarf flowing down,And jewelled ears that were strange to see.She was bending over it, when—ah me!The shrill cry, “Christus!”Rang out as if from the stony lipsWhence life had parted in drear eclipse,As if the soul of the dead man criedAgain unto Christ the Crucified.The rose had fled from her cheeks so red,But still she knelt by his side and said,Under her breath, “I must understandWhether from heaven or sea or landComes that cry, ‘Christus!’”She laid her hand on the pulseless breast!What fluttered beneath the crimson vest?A bird with plumage of green and gold,Nestling away from the piercing cold,Was folded close to the silent heartFrom which it had felt the life depart;And when she held it against her cheek,As plainly as ever a bird could speakIt sobbed out, ‘Christus!’”And evermore when the winds blew loud,And the trees in the grasp of the storm were bowed,And the lowering wings of the tempest beatThe drifting snow in the village-street,Just as its master in death had criedTo Christ, the Holy, the Crucified,Pouring his soul in one wild word—Pray God that the cry in heaven was heard!—The bird cried, “Christus!”
Over the desolate sea-side townWith a terrible tumult the night came down,And the fierce wind swept through the empty street,With the drifting snow for a winding-sheet.Elsie, the fisherman’s daughter, in bedLay and listened in awe and dread,But sprang to her feet in sudden fearWhen over the tempest, loud and clear,A voice cried, “Christus!”
“Christus! Christus!” and nothing more.Was it a cry at the cottage-door?She left her chamber with flying feet;She loosened the bolts with fingers fleet;She lifted the latch, but only the dinOf the furious storm and the snow swept in.She looked without: not a soul was there,But still rang out on the startled airThe strange cry, “Christus!”
“Christus! Christus!” She slept at last,Though the old house rocked in the wintry blast;And when she awoke the world was still,A wide, white silence from sea to hill.No creature stirred in the morning glow;There was not a footprint in the snow;Yet again through the hush, as faint and farAs if it came from another star,A voice sighed “Christus!”
“Christus! Christus!” Who can it be,O Christ our Lord, that is calling TheeIn a foreign tongue, with a woe as wildAs that of some lost, forsaken child?She turned from the window with a startled gaze:She clasped her hands in a pale amaze,Hearkening still, till again she heard,As in a waking dream, the word—That strange word, “Christus!”
Then over the hill with weary feetShe toiled through the drifts to the village-street.The villagers gathered in eager haste,And all day long in the snowy wasteThey sought in vain for the one who criedTo Him who of old was crucified:Then, turning away with a laugh, they said,“’Twas only the wild wind overhead,Your cry of ‘Christus!’”
She watched their going with earnest eyes:Hark! what voice to the taunt replies?The trees were still as if struck with death;The wind was soft as a baby’s breath;The sobbing sea was asleep at last,Scourged no more by the furious blast;Yet, surely as ever from human tongueA cry of grief or despair was wrung,Some voice sighed, “Christus!”
Burned on her cheek a sudden flameAs her heart’s strong throbbings went and came,And she stood alone on the lonely shore,Gazing the wide black waters o’er.“Whether it comes from heaven or hell,This voice I have learned to know too well—Whether from lips alive or dead,Or from the hovering air,” she said—“Whether it comes from sea or land,I will not sleep till I understandThis cry of ‘Christus!’”
“Christus! Christus!” Faint and slowRose the wail from the drifted snowUnder a low-browed, beetling rock,Strong to withstand the whirlwind’s shock.There, in the heart of the snowy mound,The buried form of a man she found—A Spanish sailor, with beard of brownOver his red scarf flowing down,And jewelled ears that were strange to see.She was bending over it, when—ah me!The shrill cry, “Christus!”
Rang out as if from the stony lipsWhence life had parted in drear eclipse,As if the soul of the dead man criedAgain unto Christ the Crucified.The rose had fled from her cheeks so red,But still she knelt by his side and said,Under her breath, “I must understandWhether from heaven or sea or landComes that cry, ‘Christus!’”
She laid her hand on the pulseless breast!What fluttered beneath the crimson vest?A bird with plumage of green and gold,Nestling away from the piercing cold,Was folded close to the silent heartFrom which it had felt the life depart;And when she held it against her cheek,As plainly as ever a bird could speakIt sobbed out, ‘Christus!’”
And evermore when the winds blew loud,And the trees in the grasp of the storm were bowed,And the lowering wings of the tempest beatThe drifting snow in the village-street,Just as its master in death had criedTo Christ, the Holy, the Crucified,Pouring his soul in one wild word—Pray God that the cry in heaven was heard!—The bird cried, “Christus!”
When you lay before me dead,In your pallid rest,On those passive lips of thineNot one kiss I pressed!Did you wonder—looking downFrom some higher sphere—Knowing how we two had lovedMany and many a year?Did you think me strange and coldWhen I did not touch,Even with reverent finger-tips,What I had loved so much?Ah! when last you kissed me, dear,Know you what you said?“Take this last kiss, my beloved,Soon shall I be dead!Keep it for a solemn sign,Through our love’s long night,Till you give it back againOn some morning bright.”So I gave you no caress;But, remembering this,Warm upon my lips I keepYour last living kiss!
When you lay before me dead,In your pallid rest,On those passive lips of thineNot one kiss I pressed!Did you wonder—looking downFrom some higher sphere—Knowing how we two had lovedMany and many a year?Did you think me strange and coldWhen I did not touch,Even with reverent finger-tips,What I had loved so much?Ah! when last you kissed me, dear,Know you what you said?“Take this last kiss, my beloved,Soon shall I be dead!Keep it for a solemn sign,Through our love’s long night,Till you give it back againOn some morning bright.”So I gave you no caress;But, remembering this,Warm upon my lips I keepYour last living kiss!
When you lay before me dead,In your pallid rest,On those passive lips of thineNot one kiss I pressed!
Did you wonder—looking downFrom some higher sphere—Knowing how we two had lovedMany and many a year?
Did you think me strange and coldWhen I did not touch,Even with reverent finger-tips,What I had loved so much?
Ah! when last you kissed me, dear,Know you what you said?“Take this last kiss, my beloved,Soon shall I be dead!
Keep it for a solemn sign,Through our love’s long night,Till you give it back againOn some morning bright.”
So I gave you no caress;But, remembering this,Warm upon my lips I keepYour last living kiss!
Marion showed me her wedding-gownAnd her veil of gossamer lace to-night,And the orange-blooms that to-morrow mornShall fade in her soft hair’s golden light.But Philip came to the open door:Like the heart of a wild-rose glowed her cheek,And they wandered off through the garden-pathsSo blest that they did not care to speak.I wonder how it seems to be loved;To know you are fair in someone’s eyes;That upon someone your beauty dawnsEvery day as a new surprise;To know that, whether you weep or smile,Whether your mood be grave or gay,Somebody thinks you, all the while,Sweeter than any flower of May.I wonder what it would be to love:That, I think, would be sweeter far,—To know that one out of all the worldWas lord of your life, your king, your star!They talk of love’s sweet tumult and pain:I am not sure that I understand,Though—a thrill ran down to my finger-tipsOnce when—somebody—touched my hand!I wonder what it would be to dreamOf a child that might one day be your own;Of the hidden springs of your life a part,Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone.Marion stooped one day to kissA beggar’s babe with a tender grace;While some sweet thought, like a prophecy,Looked from her pure Madonna face.I wonder what it must be to thinkTo-morrow will be your wedding-day,And you, in the radiant sunset glowDown fragrant flowery paths will stray,As Marion does this blessed night,With Philip, lost in a blissful dream.Can she feel his heart through the silence beat?Does he see her eyes in the starlight gleam?Questioning thus, my days go on;But never an answer comes to me:All love’s mysteries, sweet as strange,Sealed away from my life must be.Yet still I dream, O heart of mine!Of a beautiful city that lies afar;And there, some time, I shall drop the mask,And be shapely and fair as others are.
Marion showed me her wedding-gownAnd her veil of gossamer lace to-night,And the orange-blooms that to-morrow mornShall fade in her soft hair’s golden light.But Philip came to the open door:Like the heart of a wild-rose glowed her cheek,And they wandered off through the garden-pathsSo blest that they did not care to speak.I wonder how it seems to be loved;To know you are fair in someone’s eyes;That upon someone your beauty dawnsEvery day as a new surprise;To know that, whether you weep or smile,Whether your mood be grave or gay,Somebody thinks you, all the while,Sweeter than any flower of May.I wonder what it would be to love:That, I think, would be sweeter far,—To know that one out of all the worldWas lord of your life, your king, your star!They talk of love’s sweet tumult and pain:I am not sure that I understand,Though—a thrill ran down to my finger-tipsOnce when—somebody—touched my hand!I wonder what it would be to dreamOf a child that might one day be your own;Of the hidden springs of your life a part,Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone.Marion stooped one day to kissA beggar’s babe with a tender grace;While some sweet thought, like a prophecy,Looked from her pure Madonna face.I wonder what it must be to thinkTo-morrow will be your wedding-day,And you, in the radiant sunset glowDown fragrant flowery paths will stray,As Marion does this blessed night,With Philip, lost in a blissful dream.Can she feel his heart through the silence beat?Does he see her eyes in the starlight gleam?Questioning thus, my days go on;But never an answer comes to me:All love’s mysteries, sweet as strange,Sealed away from my life must be.Yet still I dream, O heart of mine!Of a beautiful city that lies afar;And there, some time, I shall drop the mask,And be shapely and fair as others are.
Marion showed me her wedding-gownAnd her veil of gossamer lace to-night,And the orange-blooms that to-morrow mornShall fade in her soft hair’s golden light.But Philip came to the open door:Like the heart of a wild-rose glowed her cheek,And they wandered off through the garden-pathsSo blest that they did not care to speak.
I wonder how it seems to be loved;To know you are fair in someone’s eyes;That upon someone your beauty dawnsEvery day as a new surprise;To know that, whether you weep or smile,Whether your mood be grave or gay,Somebody thinks you, all the while,Sweeter than any flower of May.
I wonder what it would be to love:That, I think, would be sweeter far,—To know that one out of all the worldWas lord of your life, your king, your star!They talk of love’s sweet tumult and pain:I am not sure that I understand,Though—a thrill ran down to my finger-tipsOnce when—somebody—touched my hand!
I wonder what it would be to dreamOf a child that might one day be your own;Of the hidden springs of your life a part,Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone.Marion stooped one day to kissA beggar’s babe with a tender grace;While some sweet thought, like a prophecy,Looked from her pure Madonna face.
I wonder what it must be to thinkTo-morrow will be your wedding-day,And you, in the radiant sunset glowDown fragrant flowery paths will stray,As Marion does this blessed night,With Philip, lost in a blissful dream.Can she feel his heart through the silence beat?Does he see her eyes in the starlight gleam?
Questioning thus, my days go on;But never an answer comes to me:All love’s mysteries, sweet as strange,Sealed away from my life must be.Yet still I dream, O heart of mine!Of a beautiful city that lies afar;And there, some time, I shall drop the mask,And be shapely and fair as others are.
“What need has the singer to sing?And why should your poet to-dayHis pale little garland of poesy bring,On the altar to lay?High-priests of song the harp-strings sweptAges before he smiled or wept!”What need have the roses to bloom?And why do the tall lilies grow?And why do the violets shed their perfumeWhen night-winds breathe low?They are no whit more bright and fairThan flowers that breathed in Eden’s air!What need have the stars to shine on?Or the clouds to grow red in the west,When the sun, like a king, from the fields he has won,Goes grandly to rest?No brighter they than stars and skiesThat greeted Eve’s sweet, wondering eyes!What need has the eagle to soarSo proudly straight up to the sun?Or the robin such jubilant music to pourWhen day is begun?The eagles soared, the robins sung,As high, as sweet, when earth was young!What need, do you ask me? Each dayHath a song and a prayer of its own,As each June hath its crown of fresh roses, each MayIts bright emerald throne!Its own high thought each age shall stir,Each needs its own interpreter!And thou, O, my poet, sing on!Sing on until love shall grow old;Till patience and faith their last triumphs have won,And truth is a tale that is told!Doubt not, thy song shall still be newWhile life endures and God is true!
“What need has the singer to sing?And why should your poet to-dayHis pale little garland of poesy bring,On the altar to lay?High-priests of song the harp-strings sweptAges before he smiled or wept!”What need have the roses to bloom?And why do the tall lilies grow?And why do the violets shed their perfumeWhen night-winds breathe low?They are no whit more bright and fairThan flowers that breathed in Eden’s air!What need have the stars to shine on?Or the clouds to grow red in the west,When the sun, like a king, from the fields he has won,Goes grandly to rest?No brighter they than stars and skiesThat greeted Eve’s sweet, wondering eyes!What need has the eagle to soarSo proudly straight up to the sun?Or the robin such jubilant music to pourWhen day is begun?The eagles soared, the robins sung,As high, as sweet, when earth was young!What need, do you ask me? Each dayHath a song and a prayer of its own,As each June hath its crown of fresh roses, each MayIts bright emerald throne!Its own high thought each age shall stir,Each needs its own interpreter!And thou, O, my poet, sing on!Sing on until love shall grow old;Till patience and faith their last triumphs have won,And truth is a tale that is told!Doubt not, thy song shall still be newWhile life endures and God is true!
“What need has the singer to sing?And why should your poet to-dayHis pale little garland of poesy bring,On the altar to lay?High-priests of song the harp-strings sweptAges before he smiled or wept!”
What need have the roses to bloom?And why do the tall lilies grow?And why do the violets shed their perfumeWhen night-winds breathe low?They are no whit more bright and fairThan flowers that breathed in Eden’s air!
What need have the stars to shine on?Or the clouds to grow red in the west,When the sun, like a king, from the fields he has won,Goes grandly to rest?No brighter they than stars and skiesThat greeted Eve’s sweet, wondering eyes!
What need has the eagle to soarSo proudly straight up to the sun?Or the robin such jubilant music to pourWhen day is begun?The eagles soared, the robins sung,As high, as sweet, when earth was young!
What need, do you ask me? Each dayHath a song and a prayer of its own,As each June hath its crown of fresh roses, each MayIts bright emerald throne!Its own high thought each age shall stir,Each needs its own interpreter!
And thou, O, my poet, sing on!Sing on until love shall grow old;Till patience and faith their last triumphs have won,And truth is a tale that is told!Doubt not, thy song shall still be newWhile life endures and God is true!
We two will stand in the shadow here,To see the bride as she passes by;Ring soft and low, ring loud and clear,Ye chiming bells that swing on high!Look! look! she comes! The air grows sweetWith the fragrant breath of the orange blooms,And the flowers she treads beneath her feetDie in a flood of rare perfumes!She comes! she comes! The happy bellsWith joyous clamor fill the air,While the great organ dies and swells,Soaring to trembling heights of prayer!Oh! rare are her robes of silken sheen,And the pearls that gleam on her bosom’s snow;But rarer the grace of her royal mien,Her hair’s fine gold, and her cheek’s young glow.Dainty and fair as a folded rose,Fresh as a violet dewy sweet,Chaste as a lily, she hardly knowsThat there are rough paths for other feet.For Love hath shielded her; Honor keptWatch beside her by night and day;And Evil out from her sight hath crept,Trailing its slow length far away.Now in her perfect womanhood,In all the wealth of her matchless charms,Lovely and beautiful, pure and good,She yields herself to her lover’s arms.Hark! how the jubilant voices ring!Lo! as we stand in the shadow here,While far above us the gay bells swing,I catch the gleam of a happy tear!The pageant is over. Come with meTo the other side of the town, I pray,Ere the sun goes down in the darkening sea,And night falls around us, chill and gray.In the dim church porch an hour ago,We waited the bride’s fair face to see;Now Life has a sadder sight to show,A darker picture for you and me.No need to seek for the shadow here;There are shadows lurking everywhere;These streets in the brightest day are drear,And black as the blackness of despair.But this is the house. Take heed, my friend,The stairs are rotten, the way is dim;And up the flights, as we still ascend,Creep stealthy phantoms dark and grim.Enter this chamber. Day by day,Alone in this chill and ghostly room,A child—a woman—which is it, pray?—Despairingly waits for the hour of doom!Ah! as she wrings her hands so pale,No gleam of a wedding ring you see;There is nothing to tell. You know the tale—God help her now in her misery!I dare not judge her. I only knowThat love was to her a sin and a snare,While to the bride of an hour agoIt brought all blessings its hands could bear!I only know that to one it cameLaden with honor, and joy, and peace;Its gifts to the other were woe and shame,And a burning pain that shall never cease!I only know that the soul of oneHas been a pearl in a golden case;That of the other a pebble thrownIdly down in a way-side place,Where all day long strange footsteps trod,And the bold, bright sun drank up the dew!Yet both were women. O righteous God,Thou only canst judge between the two!
We two will stand in the shadow here,To see the bride as she passes by;Ring soft and low, ring loud and clear,Ye chiming bells that swing on high!Look! look! she comes! The air grows sweetWith the fragrant breath of the orange blooms,And the flowers she treads beneath her feetDie in a flood of rare perfumes!She comes! she comes! The happy bellsWith joyous clamor fill the air,While the great organ dies and swells,Soaring to trembling heights of prayer!Oh! rare are her robes of silken sheen,And the pearls that gleam on her bosom’s snow;But rarer the grace of her royal mien,Her hair’s fine gold, and her cheek’s young glow.Dainty and fair as a folded rose,Fresh as a violet dewy sweet,Chaste as a lily, she hardly knowsThat there are rough paths for other feet.For Love hath shielded her; Honor keptWatch beside her by night and day;And Evil out from her sight hath crept,Trailing its slow length far away.Now in her perfect womanhood,In all the wealth of her matchless charms,Lovely and beautiful, pure and good,She yields herself to her lover’s arms.Hark! how the jubilant voices ring!Lo! as we stand in the shadow here,While far above us the gay bells swing,I catch the gleam of a happy tear!The pageant is over. Come with meTo the other side of the town, I pray,Ere the sun goes down in the darkening sea,And night falls around us, chill and gray.In the dim church porch an hour ago,We waited the bride’s fair face to see;Now Life has a sadder sight to show,A darker picture for you and me.No need to seek for the shadow here;There are shadows lurking everywhere;These streets in the brightest day are drear,And black as the blackness of despair.But this is the house. Take heed, my friend,The stairs are rotten, the way is dim;And up the flights, as we still ascend,Creep stealthy phantoms dark and grim.Enter this chamber. Day by day,Alone in this chill and ghostly room,A child—a woman—which is it, pray?—Despairingly waits for the hour of doom!Ah! as she wrings her hands so pale,No gleam of a wedding ring you see;There is nothing to tell. You know the tale—God help her now in her misery!I dare not judge her. I only knowThat love was to her a sin and a snare,While to the bride of an hour agoIt brought all blessings its hands could bear!I only know that to one it cameLaden with honor, and joy, and peace;Its gifts to the other were woe and shame,And a burning pain that shall never cease!I only know that the soul of oneHas been a pearl in a golden case;That of the other a pebble thrownIdly down in a way-side place,Where all day long strange footsteps trod,And the bold, bright sun drank up the dew!Yet both were women. O righteous God,Thou only canst judge between the two!
We two will stand in the shadow here,To see the bride as she passes by;Ring soft and low, ring loud and clear,Ye chiming bells that swing on high!Look! look! she comes! The air grows sweetWith the fragrant breath of the orange blooms,And the flowers she treads beneath her feetDie in a flood of rare perfumes!
She comes! she comes! The happy bellsWith joyous clamor fill the air,While the great organ dies and swells,Soaring to trembling heights of prayer!Oh! rare are her robes of silken sheen,And the pearls that gleam on her bosom’s snow;But rarer the grace of her royal mien,Her hair’s fine gold, and her cheek’s young glow.
Dainty and fair as a folded rose,Fresh as a violet dewy sweet,Chaste as a lily, she hardly knowsThat there are rough paths for other feet.For Love hath shielded her; Honor keptWatch beside her by night and day;And Evil out from her sight hath crept,Trailing its slow length far away.
Now in her perfect womanhood,In all the wealth of her matchless charms,Lovely and beautiful, pure and good,She yields herself to her lover’s arms.Hark! how the jubilant voices ring!Lo! as we stand in the shadow here,While far above us the gay bells swing,I catch the gleam of a happy tear!
The pageant is over. Come with meTo the other side of the town, I pray,Ere the sun goes down in the darkening sea,And night falls around us, chill and gray.In the dim church porch an hour ago,We waited the bride’s fair face to see;Now Life has a sadder sight to show,A darker picture for you and me.
No need to seek for the shadow here;There are shadows lurking everywhere;These streets in the brightest day are drear,And black as the blackness of despair.But this is the house. Take heed, my friend,The stairs are rotten, the way is dim;And up the flights, as we still ascend,Creep stealthy phantoms dark and grim.
Enter this chamber. Day by day,Alone in this chill and ghostly room,A child—a woman—which is it, pray?—Despairingly waits for the hour of doom!Ah! as she wrings her hands so pale,No gleam of a wedding ring you see;There is nothing to tell. You know the tale—God help her now in her misery!
I dare not judge her. I only knowThat love was to her a sin and a snare,While to the bride of an hour agoIt brought all blessings its hands could bear!I only know that to one it cameLaden with honor, and joy, and peace;Its gifts to the other were woe and shame,And a burning pain that shall never cease!
I only know that the soul of oneHas been a pearl in a golden case;That of the other a pebble thrownIdly down in a way-side place,Where all day long strange footsteps trod,And the bold, bright sun drank up the dew!Yet both were women. O righteous God,Thou only canst judge between the two!
Where mountain-peaks rose far and highInto the blue, unclouded sky,And waves of green, like billowy seas,Tossed proudly in the freshening breeze,I rode one morning, late in June.The glad winds sang a pleasant tune;The air, like draughts of rarest wine,Made every breath a joy divine.With roses all the way was bright;Yet there upon that upland heightThe darlings of the early spring—Blue violets—were blossoming.And all the meadows, wide unrolled,Were green and silver, green and gold,Where buttercups and daisies spunTheir shining tissues in the sun.Over its shallow, pebbly bed,A sparkling river gayly sped,Nor cared that deeper waters boreA grander freight from shore to shore.It sung, it danced, it laughed, it played,In sunshine now, and now in shade;While every gnarled tree joyed to makeA greener garland for its sake.Deep peace was in the summer air,A peace all nature seemed to share;Yet even there I could not fleeThe shadow of life’s mystery!A farmhouse stood beside the way,Low-roofed and rambling, quaint and gray;And where the friendly door swung wideRed roses climbed on either side.And thither, down the winding roadNear which the sparkling river flowed,In groups, in pairs, the neighbors pressed,Each in his Sunday raiment dressed.A sober calm was on each face;Sweet stillness brooded o’er the place;Yet something of a festal airThe youths and maidens seemed to wear.But, as I passed, an idle breezeSwept through the quivering maple-trees;Chased by the winds in merry rout,A fair, light curtain floated out.And this I saw: a quiet roomAdorned with flowers of richest bloom—A lily here, a garland there—Fragrance and silence everywhere.Then on I rode. But if a brideShould there her happy blushes hide,Or if beyond my vision laySome pale face shrouded from the day,I could not tell. O joy and Pain,Your voices join in one refrain!So like ye are, we may not knowIf this be gladness, this be woe!
Where mountain-peaks rose far and highInto the blue, unclouded sky,And waves of green, like billowy seas,Tossed proudly in the freshening breeze,I rode one morning, late in June.The glad winds sang a pleasant tune;The air, like draughts of rarest wine,Made every breath a joy divine.With roses all the way was bright;Yet there upon that upland heightThe darlings of the early spring—Blue violets—were blossoming.And all the meadows, wide unrolled,Were green and silver, green and gold,Where buttercups and daisies spunTheir shining tissues in the sun.Over its shallow, pebbly bed,A sparkling river gayly sped,Nor cared that deeper waters boreA grander freight from shore to shore.It sung, it danced, it laughed, it played,In sunshine now, and now in shade;While every gnarled tree joyed to makeA greener garland for its sake.Deep peace was in the summer air,A peace all nature seemed to share;Yet even there I could not fleeThe shadow of life’s mystery!A farmhouse stood beside the way,Low-roofed and rambling, quaint and gray;And where the friendly door swung wideRed roses climbed on either side.And thither, down the winding roadNear which the sparkling river flowed,In groups, in pairs, the neighbors pressed,Each in his Sunday raiment dressed.A sober calm was on each face;Sweet stillness brooded o’er the place;Yet something of a festal airThe youths and maidens seemed to wear.But, as I passed, an idle breezeSwept through the quivering maple-trees;Chased by the winds in merry rout,A fair, light curtain floated out.And this I saw: a quiet roomAdorned with flowers of richest bloom—A lily here, a garland there—Fragrance and silence everywhere.Then on I rode. But if a brideShould there her happy blushes hide,Or if beyond my vision laySome pale face shrouded from the day,I could not tell. O joy and Pain,Your voices join in one refrain!So like ye are, we may not knowIf this be gladness, this be woe!
Where mountain-peaks rose far and highInto the blue, unclouded sky,And waves of green, like billowy seas,Tossed proudly in the freshening breeze,
I rode one morning, late in June.The glad winds sang a pleasant tune;The air, like draughts of rarest wine,Made every breath a joy divine.
With roses all the way was bright;Yet there upon that upland heightThe darlings of the early spring—Blue violets—were blossoming.
And all the meadows, wide unrolled,Were green and silver, green and gold,Where buttercups and daisies spunTheir shining tissues in the sun.
Over its shallow, pebbly bed,A sparkling river gayly sped,Nor cared that deeper waters boreA grander freight from shore to shore.
It sung, it danced, it laughed, it played,In sunshine now, and now in shade;While every gnarled tree joyed to makeA greener garland for its sake.
Deep peace was in the summer air,A peace all nature seemed to share;Yet even there I could not fleeThe shadow of life’s mystery!
A farmhouse stood beside the way,Low-roofed and rambling, quaint and gray;And where the friendly door swung wideRed roses climbed on either side.
And thither, down the winding roadNear which the sparkling river flowed,In groups, in pairs, the neighbors pressed,Each in his Sunday raiment dressed.
A sober calm was on each face;Sweet stillness brooded o’er the place;Yet something of a festal airThe youths and maidens seemed to wear.
But, as I passed, an idle breezeSwept through the quivering maple-trees;Chased by the winds in merry rout,A fair, light curtain floated out.
And this I saw: a quiet roomAdorned with flowers of richest bloom—A lily here, a garland there—Fragrance and silence everywhere.
Then on I rode. But if a brideShould there her happy blushes hide,Or if beyond my vision laySome pale face shrouded from the day,
I could not tell. O joy and Pain,Your voices join in one refrain!So like ye are, we may not knowIf this be gladness, this be woe!
O beautiful, royal Rose,O Rose, so fair and sweet!Queen of the garden art thou,And I—the Clay at thy feet!The butterfly hovers about thee;The brown bee kisses thy lips;And the humming-bird, reckless rover,Their marvellous sweetness sips.The sunshine hastes to caress theeFlying on pinions fleet;The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom,But I—I lie at thy feet!The radiant morning crowns thee;And the noon’s hot heart is thine;And the starry night enfolds theeIn the might of its love divine;I hear the warm rain whisperIts message soft and sweet;And the south-wind’s passionate murmur,While I lie low at thy feet!It is not mine to approach thee;I never may kiss thy lips,Or touch the hem of thy garmentWith tremulous finger-tips.Yet, O thou beautiful Rose!Queen rose, so fair and sweet,What were lover or crown to theeWithout the Clay at thy feet?
O beautiful, royal Rose,O Rose, so fair and sweet!Queen of the garden art thou,And I—the Clay at thy feet!The butterfly hovers about thee;The brown bee kisses thy lips;And the humming-bird, reckless rover,Their marvellous sweetness sips.The sunshine hastes to caress theeFlying on pinions fleet;The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom,But I—I lie at thy feet!The radiant morning crowns thee;And the noon’s hot heart is thine;And the starry night enfolds theeIn the might of its love divine;I hear the warm rain whisperIts message soft and sweet;And the south-wind’s passionate murmur,While I lie low at thy feet!It is not mine to approach thee;I never may kiss thy lips,Or touch the hem of thy garmentWith tremulous finger-tips.Yet, O thou beautiful Rose!Queen rose, so fair and sweet,What were lover or crown to theeWithout the Clay at thy feet?
O beautiful, royal Rose,O Rose, so fair and sweet!Queen of the garden art thou,And I—the Clay at thy feet!
The butterfly hovers about thee;The brown bee kisses thy lips;And the humming-bird, reckless rover,Their marvellous sweetness sips.
The sunshine hastes to caress theeFlying on pinions fleet;The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom,But I—I lie at thy feet!
The radiant morning crowns thee;And the noon’s hot heart is thine;And the starry night enfolds theeIn the might of its love divine;
I hear the warm rain whisperIts message soft and sweet;And the south-wind’s passionate murmur,While I lie low at thy feet!
It is not mine to approach thee;I never may kiss thy lips,Or touch the hem of thy garmentWith tremulous finger-tips.
Yet, O thou beautiful Rose!Queen rose, so fair and sweet,What were lover or crown to theeWithout the Clay at thy feet?
Will the day ever come, I wonder,When I shall be glad to knowThat my hands will be folded underThe next white fall of the snow?To know that when next the cloverWooeth the wandering bee,Its crimson tide will drift overAll that is left of me?Will I ever be tired of living,And be glad to go to my rest,With a cool and fragrant lilyAsleep on my silent breast?Will my eyes grow weary of seeing,As the hours pass, one by one,Till I long for the hush and the darknessAs I never longed for the sun?God knoweth! Sometime, it may be,I shall smile to hear you say:“Dear heart! she will not wakenAt the dawn of another day!”And sometime, love, it may be,I shall whisper under my breath:“The happiest hour of my life, dear,Is this—the hour of my death!”
Will the day ever come, I wonder,When I shall be glad to knowThat my hands will be folded underThe next white fall of the snow?To know that when next the cloverWooeth the wandering bee,Its crimson tide will drift overAll that is left of me?Will I ever be tired of living,And be glad to go to my rest,With a cool and fragrant lilyAsleep on my silent breast?Will my eyes grow weary of seeing,As the hours pass, one by one,Till I long for the hush and the darknessAs I never longed for the sun?God knoweth! Sometime, it may be,I shall smile to hear you say:“Dear heart! she will not wakenAt the dawn of another day!”And sometime, love, it may be,I shall whisper under my breath:“The happiest hour of my life, dear,Is this—the hour of my death!”
Will the day ever come, I wonder,When I shall be glad to knowThat my hands will be folded underThe next white fall of the snow?To know that when next the cloverWooeth the wandering bee,Its crimson tide will drift overAll that is left of me?
Will I ever be tired of living,And be glad to go to my rest,With a cool and fragrant lilyAsleep on my silent breast?Will my eyes grow weary of seeing,As the hours pass, one by one,Till I long for the hush and the darknessAs I never longed for the sun?
God knoweth! Sometime, it may be,I shall smile to hear you say:“Dear heart! she will not wakenAt the dawn of another day!”And sometime, love, it may be,I shall whisper under my breath:“The happiest hour of my life, dear,Is this—the hour of my death!”
O Rosebud garland of girls!Who ask for a song from me,To what sweet air shall I set my lay?What shall its key-note be?The flowers have gone from wood and hill;The rippling river lies white and still;And the birds that sang on the maple bough,Afar in the South are singing now!O Rosebud garland of girls!If the whole glad year were May;If winds sang low in the clustering leaves,And roses bloomed alway;If youth were all that there is of life;If the years brought nothing of care or strife,Nor ever a cloud to the ether blue,It were easy to sing a song for you!Yet, O my garland of girls!Is there nothing better than May?The golden glow of the harvest time!The rest of the Autumn day!This thought I give to you all to keep:Who soweth good seed shall surely reap;The year grows rich as it groweth old,And life’s latest sands are its sands of gold!
O Rosebud garland of girls!Who ask for a song from me,To what sweet air shall I set my lay?What shall its key-note be?The flowers have gone from wood and hill;The rippling river lies white and still;And the birds that sang on the maple bough,Afar in the South are singing now!O Rosebud garland of girls!If the whole glad year were May;If winds sang low in the clustering leaves,And roses bloomed alway;If youth were all that there is of life;If the years brought nothing of care or strife,Nor ever a cloud to the ether blue,It were easy to sing a song for you!Yet, O my garland of girls!Is there nothing better than May?The golden glow of the harvest time!The rest of the Autumn day!This thought I give to you all to keep:Who soweth good seed shall surely reap;The year grows rich as it groweth old,And life’s latest sands are its sands of gold!
O Rosebud garland of girls!Who ask for a song from me,To what sweet air shall I set my lay?What shall its key-note be?The flowers have gone from wood and hill;The rippling river lies white and still;And the birds that sang on the maple bough,Afar in the South are singing now!
O Rosebud garland of girls!If the whole glad year were May;If winds sang low in the clustering leaves,And roses bloomed alway;If youth were all that there is of life;If the years brought nothing of care or strife,Nor ever a cloud to the ether blue,It were easy to sing a song for you!
Yet, O my garland of girls!Is there nothing better than May?The golden glow of the harvest time!The rest of the Autumn day!This thought I give to you all to keep:Who soweth good seed shall surely reap;The year grows rich as it groweth old,And life’s latest sands are its sands of gold!
Whenever, with reverent footsteps,I pass through the open doorOf Memory’s stately palace,Where dwell the days of yore,One scene, like a lovely vision,Comes to me o’er and o’er.’Tis a dim, fire-lighted chamber;There are pictures on the wall;And around them dance the shadowsGrotesque and weird and tall,As the flames on the storied hearth-stoneWavering rise and fall.An ancient cabinet stands there,That came from beyond the seas,With a breath of spicy odorsCaught from the Indian breeze;And its fluted doors and moldingsAre dark with mysteries.There’s an old arm-chair in the corner,Straight-backed and tall and quaint;Ah! many a generation—Sinner and sage and saint—It hath held in its ample bosomWith murmur nor complaint!In the glow of the fire-light playing,A tiny, blithesome pair,With the music of their laughterFill all the tranquil air—A rosy, brown-eyed lassie,A boy serenely fair.A woman sits in the shadowWatching the children twain,With a joy so deep and tenderIt is near akin to pain,And a smile and tear blend softly—Sunshine and April rain!Her heart keeps time to the rhythmOf love’s unuttered prayer,As, with still hands lightly folded,She listens, unaware,Through all the children’s laughter,For a footfall on the stair.I know the woman who sits there;Time hath been kind to her,And the years have brought her treasuresOf frankincense and myrrhRicher, perhaps, and rarer,Than Life’s young roses were.But I doubt if ever her spiritHath known, or yet shall know,The bliss of a happier hour,As the swift years come and go,Than this in the shadowy chamberLit by the hearth-fire’s glow!
Whenever, with reverent footsteps,I pass through the open doorOf Memory’s stately palace,Where dwell the days of yore,One scene, like a lovely vision,Comes to me o’er and o’er.’Tis a dim, fire-lighted chamber;There are pictures on the wall;And around them dance the shadowsGrotesque and weird and tall,As the flames on the storied hearth-stoneWavering rise and fall.An ancient cabinet stands there,That came from beyond the seas,With a breath of spicy odorsCaught from the Indian breeze;And its fluted doors and moldingsAre dark with mysteries.There’s an old arm-chair in the corner,Straight-backed and tall and quaint;Ah! many a generation—Sinner and sage and saint—It hath held in its ample bosomWith murmur nor complaint!In the glow of the fire-light playing,A tiny, blithesome pair,With the music of their laughterFill all the tranquil air—A rosy, brown-eyed lassie,A boy serenely fair.A woman sits in the shadowWatching the children twain,With a joy so deep and tenderIt is near akin to pain,And a smile and tear blend softly—Sunshine and April rain!Her heart keeps time to the rhythmOf love’s unuttered prayer,As, with still hands lightly folded,She listens, unaware,Through all the children’s laughter,For a footfall on the stair.I know the woman who sits there;Time hath been kind to her,And the years have brought her treasuresOf frankincense and myrrhRicher, perhaps, and rarer,Than Life’s young roses were.But I doubt if ever her spiritHath known, or yet shall know,The bliss of a happier hour,As the swift years come and go,Than this in the shadowy chamberLit by the hearth-fire’s glow!
Whenever, with reverent footsteps,I pass through the open doorOf Memory’s stately palace,Where dwell the days of yore,One scene, like a lovely vision,Comes to me o’er and o’er.
’Tis a dim, fire-lighted chamber;There are pictures on the wall;And around them dance the shadowsGrotesque and weird and tall,As the flames on the storied hearth-stoneWavering rise and fall.
An ancient cabinet stands there,That came from beyond the seas,With a breath of spicy odorsCaught from the Indian breeze;And its fluted doors and moldingsAre dark with mysteries.
There’s an old arm-chair in the corner,Straight-backed and tall and quaint;Ah! many a generation—Sinner and sage and saint—It hath held in its ample bosomWith murmur nor complaint!
In the glow of the fire-light playing,A tiny, blithesome pair,With the music of their laughterFill all the tranquil air—A rosy, brown-eyed lassie,A boy serenely fair.
A woman sits in the shadowWatching the children twain,With a joy so deep and tenderIt is near akin to pain,And a smile and tear blend softly—Sunshine and April rain!
Her heart keeps time to the rhythmOf love’s unuttered prayer,As, with still hands lightly folded,She listens, unaware,Through all the children’s laughter,For a footfall on the stair.
I know the woman who sits there;Time hath been kind to her,And the years have brought her treasuresOf frankincense and myrrhRicher, perhaps, and rarer,Than Life’s young roses were.
But I doubt if ever her spiritHath known, or yet shall know,The bliss of a happier hour,As the swift years come and go,Than this in the shadowy chamberLit by the hearth-fire’s glow!
I have four noble lovers,Young and gallant, blithe and gay,And in all the land no maidenHath a goodlier troupe than they!And never princess, guardedBy knights of high degree,Knew sweeter, purer homageThan my lovers pay to me!One of my noble loversIs a self-poised, thoughtful man,Gravely gay, serenely earnest,Strong to do, and bold to plan.And one is sweet and sunny,Pure as crystal, true as steel,With a soul responding everWhen the truth makes high appeal.And another of my lovers,Bright anddebonairis he,Brave and ardent, strong and tender,And the flower of courtesie.Last of all, an eager student,Upon lofty aims intent:Manly force and gentle sweetnessIn his nature rarely blent.But when of noble loversAll alike are dear and true,And her heart to choose refuses,Pray, what can a woman do?Ah, my sons! For this I bless ye,Even as I myself am blest,That I know not which is dearest,That I care not which is best!
I have four noble lovers,Young and gallant, blithe and gay,And in all the land no maidenHath a goodlier troupe than they!And never princess, guardedBy knights of high degree,Knew sweeter, purer homageThan my lovers pay to me!One of my noble loversIs a self-poised, thoughtful man,Gravely gay, serenely earnest,Strong to do, and bold to plan.And one is sweet and sunny,Pure as crystal, true as steel,With a soul responding everWhen the truth makes high appeal.And another of my lovers,Bright anddebonairis he,Brave and ardent, strong and tender,And the flower of courtesie.Last of all, an eager student,Upon lofty aims intent:Manly force and gentle sweetnessIn his nature rarely blent.But when of noble loversAll alike are dear and true,And her heart to choose refuses,Pray, what can a woman do?Ah, my sons! For this I bless ye,Even as I myself am blest,That I know not which is dearest,That I care not which is best!
I have four noble lovers,Young and gallant, blithe and gay,And in all the land no maidenHath a goodlier troupe than they!And never princess, guardedBy knights of high degree,Knew sweeter, purer homageThan my lovers pay to me!
One of my noble loversIs a self-poised, thoughtful man,Gravely gay, serenely earnest,Strong to do, and bold to plan.And one is sweet and sunny,Pure as crystal, true as steel,With a soul responding everWhen the truth makes high appeal.
And another of my lovers,Bright anddebonairis he,Brave and ardent, strong and tender,And the flower of courtesie.Last of all, an eager student,Upon lofty aims intent:Manly force and gentle sweetnessIn his nature rarely blent.
But when of noble loversAll alike are dear and true,And her heart to choose refuses,Pray, what can a woman do?Ah, my sons! For this I bless ye,Even as I myself am blest,That I know not which is dearest,That I care not which is best!
Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought;Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice so grandEver yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand.Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or brideWho in God’s sight were well pleasing in the church stood side by side,Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o’er all the land his fameRan with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set:Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet!But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride—Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.“Ah!” thought he, “how great a master am I! When the organ plays,How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!”Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer,For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone,And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted stone.Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with himWho had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim?Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side!Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name.For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and dayOf the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray—Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood;Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete,And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.“Now, why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day?Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?Has some saint gone up to Heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore:“For the Organ-Builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor,From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.”No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.“’Tis someone whom she has comforted who mourns with us,” they said,As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head.Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle,Set it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while:When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to playStrains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear;All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin’s head,With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead.They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;Down the aisle and o’er the threshold they were carried side by side;While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore.
Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought;Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice so grandEver yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand.Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or brideWho in God’s sight were well pleasing in the church stood side by side,Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o’er all the land his fameRan with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set:Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet!But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride—Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.“Ah!” thought he, “how great a master am I! When the organ plays,How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!”Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer,For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone,And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted stone.Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with himWho had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim?Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side!Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name.For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and dayOf the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray—Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood;Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete,And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.“Now, why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day?Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?Has some saint gone up to Heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore:“For the Organ-Builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor,From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.”No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.“’Tis someone whom she has comforted who mourns with us,” they said,As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head.Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle,Set it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while:When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to playStrains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear;All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin’s head,With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead.They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;Down the aisle and o’er the threshold they were carried side by side;While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore.
Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought;Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;
Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice so grandEver yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand.
Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or brideWho in God’s sight were well pleasing in the church stood side by side,
Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.
He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o’er all the land his fameRan with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.
All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.
So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set:Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet!
But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride—Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.
“Ah!” thought he, “how great a master am I! When the organ plays,How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!”
Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.
But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer,For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.
All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone,And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted stone.
Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with himWho had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim?
Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side!Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.
Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.
Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name.For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.
Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and dayOf the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray—
Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood;
Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete,And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.
Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!
Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.
“Now, why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day?Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?
Has some saint gone up to Heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore:“For the Organ-Builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;
And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor,From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.”
No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.
“’Tis someone whom she has comforted who mourns with us,” they said,As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head.
Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle,Set it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while:
When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to playStrains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!
All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear;All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;
And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin’s head,With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead.
They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;Down the aisle and o’er the threshold they were carried side by side;
While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore.
Butterfly and Baby Blue,Did you come togetherFloating down the summer skies,In the summer weather?Seems to me you’re much alike,Airy, fairy creatures,Though I small resemblance findIn your tiny features!Butterfly has gauzy wings,Bright with jewelled splendor;Baby Blue has pink-white arms,Rosy, warm, and tender.Butterfly has golden rings,Charming each beholder;Baby wears a knot of blueOn each dimpled shoulder.Butterfly is never still,Always in a flutter;And of dainty Baby BlueThe same truth I utter!Butterfly on happy wingIn the sunshine dances;Baby Blue for sunshine hasMother’s smiles and glances!Butterfly seeks honey-dewIn a lily palace;Baby Blue finds nectar sweetIn a snow-white chalice.Butterfly will furl its wingsWhen the air grows colder;While dear Baby Blue will beJust a trifle older!Ah! the days are growing short,Soon the birds will leave us,And of all the garden flowersCruel frost bereave us.Butterfly and Baby Blue,Do not go together,Sailing through the autumn skiesIn the autumn weather!
Butterfly and Baby Blue,Did you come togetherFloating down the summer skies,In the summer weather?Seems to me you’re much alike,Airy, fairy creatures,Though I small resemblance findIn your tiny features!Butterfly has gauzy wings,Bright with jewelled splendor;Baby Blue has pink-white arms,Rosy, warm, and tender.Butterfly has golden rings,Charming each beholder;Baby wears a knot of blueOn each dimpled shoulder.Butterfly is never still,Always in a flutter;And of dainty Baby BlueThe same truth I utter!Butterfly on happy wingIn the sunshine dances;Baby Blue for sunshine hasMother’s smiles and glances!Butterfly seeks honey-dewIn a lily palace;Baby Blue finds nectar sweetIn a snow-white chalice.Butterfly will furl its wingsWhen the air grows colder;While dear Baby Blue will beJust a trifle older!Ah! the days are growing short,Soon the birds will leave us,And of all the garden flowersCruel frost bereave us.Butterfly and Baby Blue,Do not go together,Sailing through the autumn skiesIn the autumn weather!
Butterfly and Baby Blue,Did you come togetherFloating down the summer skies,In the summer weather?Seems to me you’re much alike,Airy, fairy creatures,Though I small resemblance findIn your tiny features!
Butterfly has gauzy wings,Bright with jewelled splendor;Baby Blue has pink-white arms,Rosy, warm, and tender.Butterfly has golden rings,Charming each beholder;Baby wears a knot of blueOn each dimpled shoulder.
Butterfly is never still,Always in a flutter;And of dainty Baby BlueThe same truth I utter!Butterfly on happy wingIn the sunshine dances;Baby Blue for sunshine hasMother’s smiles and glances!
Butterfly seeks honey-dewIn a lily palace;Baby Blue finds nectar sweetIn a snow-white chalice.Butterfly will furl its wingsWhen the air grows colder;While dear Baby Blue will beJust a trifle older!
Ah! the days are growing short,Soon the birds will leave us,And of all the garden flowersCruel frost bereave us.Butterfly and Baby Blue,Do not go together,Sailing through the autumn skiesIn the autumn weather!
King Ivan ruled a mighty landGirt by the sea on either hand;A goodly land as e’er the sunIn its long journey looked upon!His knights were loyal, brave, and true,Eager their lord’s behests to do;His counsellors were wise and just,Nor ever failed his kingly trust;The nations praised him, and the stateGrew powerful, and rich, and great;While still with long and loud acclaim,His people hailed their monarch’s name!Fronting the east, a stately pile,The palace caught the sun’s first smile;Lightly its domes and arches sprung,As earth’s glad hills when earth was young;And miracles of airy grace,Each tower and turret soared in space.Within——But here no rhythmic flowOf words with light and warmth aglowCan tell the story. Not more fairAre your own castles hung in air!Painter and sculptor there had wroughtThe utmost beauty of their thought;There the rich fruit of Persian loomsGlowed darkly bright as tropic blooms;There fell the light like golden mist,Filtered through clouds of amethyst;There bright-winged birds and odorous flowersWith song and fragrance filled the hours;There Pleasure flung the portals wide,And soul and sense were satisfied!The queen? No fairer face than hersE’er smiled upon its worshippers;And she was good as fair, ’twas said,And loved the king ere they were wed.And he? No doubt he loved her, too,After a kingly fashion—knewShe had a right his throne to share,And would be mother of his heir.But yet, to do him justice, heSometimes forgot his royalty—Forgot his kingly crown, and thenLoved, and made love, like other men!There seemed no shadow near the throne;Yet oft the great king walked alone,Hands clasped behind him, head bowed down,And on his royal face a frown.Sat Mordecai within his gate?What scoffing spectre mocked his state?What demon held him in a spell?Alas! the sweet queen knew too well!Apples of Sodom ate he, sinceShe had not borne to him a prince,Though thrice his hope had budded fair,And he had counted on an heir.Three little daughters, dainty girlsWith sunshine tangled in their curls,Bloomed in the palace; but no son—The long-expected, waited one,Flower of the state, and pride of all—Grew at the king’s side, straight and tall!The king was angered. It may beNo worse than other men was he;But—a high tower upon a hill—His light shone far for good or ill!In from the chase one day he rode;To the queen’s chamber fierce he strode;Where bending o’er her ’broidery frame,Her pale cheeks burned with sudden flameAt his quick coming. Up she rose,Stirred from her wonted calm repose,A lily flushing when the sunIts stately beauty looked upon!Alas! alas! so blind was he—Or else he did not care to see—He had no pity, though she stoodIn perfect flower of womanhood!“You bear to me no son,” he said;Then flinging back his haughty head:“Each base-born peasant has an heir,His name to keep, his crust to share,While I—the king of this broad land—Have no son near my throne to stand!Who, then, shall reign when I am dead?Who wield the sceptre in my stead?Inherit all my pride and power,And wear my glory as his dower?Give me a man-child, who shall beLord of the realm, himself, and me!”Then pallid lips made slow reply—“God ordereth. Not you nor I!”His brow flushed hot; a sudden clangAs of arms throughout the chamber rang,And turning on his heel, he threwBack wrathful answer: “That may doFor puling women—not for me!Now, by my good sword, we shall see!So help me Heaven, I will not brookOn a girl’s face again to look!And when you next shall bear a child,Though fair a babe as ever smiled,If it be not a princely heir,By all the immortal gods, I swearI ne’er will speak to it, nor breakMy soul’s stern silence for Love’s sake!”Then forth he fared and rode away,Nor saw the queen again that day—The hapless queen, who to the floorSank prone and breathless, as the doorSwung to behind him, and his treadDown the long arches echoèd.In truth she was in sorry plightWhen her maids found her late that night,The king learned that which spoiled his rest,But kept the secret in his breast!At length, when months had duly sped,High streamed the banners overhead,And all the bells rang out at mornIn jubilant peals—a Prince was born!Now let the joyous music ring!Now let the merry minstrels sing!Now pour the wine and crown the feastWith fruits and flowers of all the East!Now let the votive candles shineAnd garlands bloom on every shrine!Now let the young, with flying feetTime to bewildering music beat,And let the old their joys rehearseIn stirring tale, or flowing verse!Now fill with shouts the waiting air,And scatter largess everywhere!Ah! who so happy as the king?Swift flew the hours on eager wing;And the boy grew apace, untilThe second summer, sweet and still,Dropped roses round him as he playedWhere arched the leafy colonnade.How fair he was tongue cannot say,But he was fairer than the day;And never princely coronetOn brow of nobler mould was set;Nor ever did its jewels gleamAbove an eye of brighter beam;And never yet where sunshine falls,Flooding with light the cottage walls,’Mid hum of bee, or song of birds,Or tenderest breath of loving words,Blossomed a sweeter child than he!How the king joyed his strength to see,Counting the weeks that flew so fast—Each fuller, happier than the last!Six months had passed since he could walk;Was it not time the prince should talk?Ah! baby words with tripping feet!Ah! baby laughter, silver sweet!At length within the palace roseRumor so strange that friends and foesForgot their love, forgot their hate,Pausing to croon and speculate.Vague whispers floated in the air;A hint of mystery here and there;A sudden hush, a startled glance,Quick silences and looks askance.Thus day by day the wonder grew,Till o’er the kingdom wide it flew.The prince—his father—what was thisStrange tale so surely told amiss?The young prince dumb? Who dared to sayThat nature such a prank could play?Dumb to the king?In silence bound,With voiceless lips that gave no soundWhen the king questioned?—Yet, no lute,Nor chiming bell, nor silver flute,Nor lark’s song, high in ether hung,Rang clearer than the prince’s tongue!The court physicians came and went;Learned men from all the continentGave wise opinions, talked of laws,Stroked their gray beards, nor found the cause.Then bribes were tried, and threats. The child,As one bewildered, sighed and smiled,In a wild storm of weeping broke,Moved its red lips, but never spoke.The changeful years rolled on apace;The young prince wore a bearded face;The good queen died; the king grew gray;A generation passed away.Courtiers forgot to tell the tale;Gossip itself grew old and stale.But never once, in all the yearsThat bore such freight of joys and tears,Was the spell broken: not one wordFrom son to sire was ever heard.Mutely his father’s face he scanned—Mutely he clasped his agèd hand—Mutely he kissed him when at lastTo death’s long slumber forth he passed!Come weal or woe, he could not breakThe mystic silence for Love’s sake!
King Ivan ruled a mighty landGirt by the sea on either hand;A goodly land as e’er the sunIn its long journey looked upon!His knights were loyal, brave, and true,Eager their lord’s behests to do;His counsellors were wise and just,Nor ever failed his kingly trust;The nations praised him, and the stateGrew powerful, and rich, and great;While still with long and loud acclaim,His people hailed their monarch’s name!Fronting the east, a stately pile,The palace caught the sun’s first smile;Lightly its domes and arches sprung,As earth’s glad hills when earth was young;And miracles of airy grace,Each tower and turret soared in space.Within——But here no rhythmic flowOf words with light and warmth aglowCan tell the story. Not more fairAre your own castles hung in air!Painter and sculptor there had wroughtThe utmost beauty of their thought;There the rich fruit of Persian loomsGlowed darkly bright as tropic blooms;There fell the light like golden mist,Filtered through clouds of amethyst;There bright-winged birds and odorous flowersWith song and fragrance filled the hours;There Pleasure flung the portals wide,And soul and sense were satisfied!The queen? No fairer face than hersE’er smiled upon its worshippers;And she was good as fair, ’twas said,And loved the king ere they were wed.And he? No doubt he loved her, too,After a kingly fashion—knewShe had a right his throne to share,And would be mother of his heir.But yet, to do him justice, heSometimes forgot his royalty—Forgot his kingly crown, and thenLoved, and made love, like other men!There seemed no shadow near the throne;Yet oft the great king walked alone,Hands clasped behind him, head bowed down,And on his royal face a frown.Sat Mordecai within his gate?What scoffing spectre mocked his state?What demon held him in a spell?Alas! the sweet queen knew too well!Apples of Sodom ate he, sinceShe had not borne to him a prince,Though thrice his hope had budded fair,And he had counted on an heir.Three little daughters, dainty girlsWith sunshine tangled in their curls,Bloomed in the palace; but no son—The long-expected, waited one,Flower of the state, and pride of all—Grew at the king’s side, straight and tall!The king was angered. It may beNo worse than other men was he;But—a high tower upon a hill—His light shone far for good or ill!In from the chase one day he rode;To the queen’s chamber fierce he strode;Where bending o’er her ’broidery frame,Her pale cheeks burned with sudden flameAt his quick coming. Up she rose,Stirred from her wonted calm repose,A lily flushing when the sunIts stately beauty looked upon!Alas! alas! so blind was he—Or else he did not care to see—He had no pity, though she stoodIn perfect flower of womanhood!“You bear to me no son,” he said;Then flinging back his haughty head:“Each base-born peasant has an heir,His name to keep, his crust to share,While I—the king of this broad land—Have no son near my throne to stand!Who, then, shall reign when I am dead?Who wield the sceptre in my stead?Inherit all my pride and power,And wear my glory as his dower?Give me a man-child, who shall beLord of the realm, himself, and me!”Then pallid lips made slow reply—“God ordereth. Not you nor I!”His brow flushed hot; a sudden clangAs of arms throughout the chamber rang,And turning on his heel, he threwBack wrathful answer: “That may doFor puling women—not for me!Now, by my good sword, we shall see!So help me Heaven, I will not brookOn a girl’s face again to look!And when you next shall bear a child,Though fair a babe as ever smiled,If it be not a princely heir,By all the immortal gods, I swearI ne’er will speak to it, nor breakMy soul’s stern silence for Love’s sake!”Then forth he fared and rode away,Nor saw the queen again that day—The hapless queen, who to the floorSank prone and breathless, as the doorSwung to behind him, and his treadDown the long arches echoèd.In truth she was in sorry plightWhen her maids found her late that night,The king learned that which spoiled his rest,But kept the secret in his breast!At length, when months had duly sped,High streamed the banners overhead,And all the bells rang out at mornIn jubilant peals—a Prince was born!Now let the joyous music ring!Now let the merry minstrels sing!Now pour the wine and crown the feastWith fruits and flowers of all the East!Now let the votive candles shineAnd garlands bloom on every shrine!Now let the young, with flying feetTime to bewildering music beat,And let the old their joys rehearseIn stirring tale, or flowing verse!Now fill with shouts the waiting air,And scatter largess everywhere!Ah! who so happy as the king?Swift flew the hours on eager wing;And the boy grew apace, untilThe second summer, sweet and still,Dropped roses round him as he playedWhere arched the leafy colonnade.How fair he was tongue cannot say,But he was fairer than the day;And never princely coronetOn brow of nobler mould was set;Nor ever did its jewels gleamAbove an eye of brighter beam;And never yet where sunshine falls,Flooding with light the cottage walls,’Mid hum of bee, or song of birds,Or tenderest breath of loving words,Blossomed a sweeter child than he!How the king joyed his strength to see,Counting the weeks that flew so fast—Each fuller, happier than the last!Six months had passed since he could walk;Was it not time the prince should talk?Ah! baby words with tripping feet!Ah! baby laughter, silver sweet!At length within the palace roseRumor so strange that friends and foesForgot their love, forgot their hate,Pausing to croon and speculate.Vague whispers floated in the air;A hint of mystery here and there;A sudden hush, a startled glance,Quick silences and looks askance.Thus day by day the wonder grew,Till o’er the kingdom wide it flew.The prince—his father—what was thisStrange tale so surely told amiss?The young prince dumb? Who dared to sayThat nature such a prank could play?Dumb to the king?In silence bound,With voiceless lips that gave no soundWhen the king questioned?—Yet, no lute,Nor chiming bell, nor silver flute,Nor lark’s song, high in ether hung,Rang clearer than the prince’s tongue!The court physicians came and went;Learned men from all the continentGave wise opinions, talked of laws,Stroked their gray beards, nor found the cause.Then bribes were tried, and threats. The child,As one bewildered, sighed and smiled,In a wild storm of weeping broke,Moved its red lips, but never spoke.The changeful years rolled on apace;The young prince wore a bearded face;The good queen died; the king grew gray;A generation passed away.Courtiers forgot to tell the tale;Gossip itself grew old and stale.But never once, in all the yearsThat bore such freight of joys and tears,Was the spell broken: not one wordFrom son to sire was ever heard.Mutely his father’s face he scanned—Mutely he clasped his agèd hand—Mutely he kissed him when at lastTo death’s long slumber forth he passed!Come weal or woe, he could not breakThe mystic silence for Love’s sake!
King Ivan ruled a mighty landGirt by the sea on either hand;A goodly land as e’er the sunIn its long journey looked upon!His knights were loyal, brave, and true,Eager their lord’s behests to do;His counsellors were wise and just,Nor ever failed his kingly trust;The nations praised him, and the stateGrew powerful, and rich, and great;While still with long and loud acclaim,His people hailed their monarch’s name!
Fronting the east, a stately pile,The palace caught the sun’s first smile;Lightly its domes and arches sprung,As earth’s glad hills when earth was young;And miracles of airy grace,Each tower and turret soared in space.Within——But here no rhythmic flowOf words with light and warmth aglowCan tell the story. Not more fairAre your own castles hung in air!Painter and sculptor there had wroughtThe utmost beauty of their thought;There the rich fruit of Persian loomsGlowed darkly bright as tropic blooms;There fell the light like golden mist,Filtered through clouds of amethyst;There bright-winged birds and odorous flowersWith song and fragrance filled the hours;There Pleasure flung the portals wide,And soul and sense were satisfied!
The queen? No fairer face than hersE’er smiled upon its worshippers;And she was good as fair, ’twas said,And loved the king ere they were wed.And he? No doubt he loved her, too,After a kingly fashion—knewShe had a right his throne to share,And would be mother of his heir.But yet, to do him justice, heSometimes forgot his royalty—Forgot his kingly crown, and thenLoved, and made love, like other men!
There seemed no shadow near the throne;Yet oft the great king walked alone,Hands clasped behind him, head bowed down,And on his royal face a frown.Sat Mordecai within his gate?What scoffing spectre mocked his state?What demon held him in a spell?Alas! the sweet queen knew too well!Apples of Sodom ate he, sinceShe had not borne to him a prince,Though thrice his hope had budded fair,And he had counted on an heir.Three little daughters, dainty girlsWith sunshine tangled in their curls,Bloomed in the palace; but no son—The long-expected, waited one,Flower of the state, and pride of all—Grew at the king’s side, straight and tall!
The king was angered. It may beNo worse than other men was he;But—a high tower upon a hill—His light shone far for good or ill!In from the chase one day he rode;To the queen’s chamber fierce he strode;Where bending o’er her ’broidery frame,Her pale cheeks burned with sudden flameAt his quick coming. Up she rose,Stirred from her wonted calm repose,A lily flushing when the sunIts stately beauty looked upon!Alas! alas! so blind was he—Or else he did not care to see—He had no pity, though she stoodIn perfect flower of womanhood!“You bear to me no son,” he said;Then flinging back his haughty head:“Each base-born peasant has an heir,His name to keep, his crust to share,While I—the king of this broad land—Have no son near my throne to stand!Who, then, shall reign when I am dead?Who wield the sceptre in my stead?Inherit all my pride and power,And wear my glory as his dower?Give me a man-child, who shall beLord of the realm, himself, and me!”
Then pallid lips made slow reply—“God ordereth. Not you nor I!”His brow flushed hot; a sudden clangAs of arms throughout the chamber rang,And turning on his heel, he threwBack wrathful answer: “That may doFor puling women—not for me!Now, by my good sword, we shall see!So help me Heaven, I will not brookOn a girl’s face again to look!And when you next shall bear a child,Though fair a babe as ever smiled,If it be not a princely heir,By all the immortal gods, I swearI ne’er will speak to it, nor breakMy soul’s stern silence for Love’s sake!”
Then forth he fared and rode away,Nor saw the queen again that day—The hapless queen, who to the floorSank prone and breathless, as the doorSwung to behind him, and his treadDown the long arches echoèd.In truth she was in sorry plightWhen her maids found her late that night,The king learned that which spoiled his rest,But kept the secret in his breast!
At length, when months had duly sped,High streamed the banners overhead,And all the bells rang out at mornIn jubilant peals—a Prince was born!Now let the joyous music ring!Now let the merry minstrels sing!Now pour the wine and crown the feastWith fruits and flowers of all the East!Now let the votive candles shineAnd garlands bloom on every shrine!Now let the young, with flying feetTime to bewildering music beat,And let the old their joys rehearseIn stirring tale, or flowing verse!Now fill with shouts the waiting air,And scatter largess everywhere!
Ah! who so happy as the king?Swift flew the hours on eager wing;And the boy grew apace, untilThe second summer, sweet and still,Dropped roses round him as he playedWhere arched the leafy colonnade.How fair he was tongue cannot say,But he was fairer than the day;And never princely coronetOn brow of nobler mould was set;Nor ever did its jewels gleamAbove an eye of brighter beam;And never yet where sunshine falls,Flooding with light the cottage walls,’Mid hum of bee, or song of birds,Or tenderest breath of loving words,Blossomed a sweeter child than he!How the king joyed his strength to see,Counting the weeks that flew so fast—Each fuller, happier than the last!Six months had passed since he could walk;Was it not time the prince should talk?Ah! baby words with tripping feet!Ah! baby laughter, silver sweet!
At length within the palace roseRumor so strange that friends and foesForgot their love, forgot their hate,Pausing to croon and speculate.Vague whispers floated in the air;A hint of mystery here and there;A sudden hush, a startled glance,Quick silences and looks askance.Thus day by day the wonder grew,Till o’er the kingdom wide it flew.The prince—his father—what was thisStrange tale so surely told amiss?The young prince dumb? Who dared to sayThat nature such a prank could play?Dumb to the king?In silence bound,With voiceless lips that gave no soundWhen the king questioned?—Yet, no lute,Nor chiming bell, nor silver flute,Nor lark’s song, high in ether hung,Rang clearer than the prince’s tongue!
The court physicians came and went;Learned men from all the continentGave wise opinions, talked of laws,Stroked their gray beards, nor found the cause.Then bribes were tried, and threats. The child,As one bewildered, sighed and smiled,In a wild storm of weeping broke,Moved its red lips, but never spoke.
The changeful years rolled on apace;The young prince wore a bearded face;The good queen died; the king grew gray;A generation passed away.Courtiers forgot to tell the tale;Gossip itself grew old and stale.But never once, in all the yearsThat bore such freight of joys and tears,Was the spell broken: not one wordFrom son to sire was ever heard.Mutely his father’s face he scanned—Mutely he clasped his agèd hand—Mutely he kissed him when at lastTo death’s long slumber forth he passed!Come weal or woe, he could not breakThe mystic silence for Love’s sake!