I.

I knowthe drift and purpose of the years;The will, which is the magnet of the soul,Shall yet attain new powers, and manBe something more than man. The husks fall off;Old civilizations pass, the new come on.

There are two farms which, smiling in the sun,Adjoin each other, as I trust, some dayTwo hearts will join, who from their bounty live.One farm is John Bernard's, and one is mine;And she, the one pearl woman in my eyes,Is his sweet daughter, gentle Grace Bernard.Three years ago, my father followed herWho gave me birth home to his narrow house.I was at college when death's summons came,And all the grief fell on me, crushing me;And all my heart cried out in bitterness,Moaning to cease with its wet language,—tears.Then with my prospects of professional lifeThwarted and void, I came back to the farm—I came back to the love of Grace Bernard.She was the dove that on the flood of griefBrought to my window there love's olive spray.From college to the farm-house where I dweltI took my books, friends who are never cold,With fragile instruments of chemistry,And cabinets of mineral and rockWith limestone encrinites; asteriasOld as the mountains, or the sea's white lashWherewith he smites the shoulders of the shore;Tarentula and scarabee I brought,And, too, I brought my diamond microscopeWhich magnifies a pin's head to a man's,And gives me sights in water and in airThe naturalists have not yet touched upon.Over my fields I wander frequently,Breaking the past's upturned face of shelving rocksFor special specimens to fill my home;But find my footsteps always thither tend,Toward the farm-house of the other farm,Where Grace Bernard is noontime and delight.When first I took the hand of her I love,And held it only as a stranger might,Some unseen mentor whispered in my ear,You twain are strands which Destiny shall braid,And then a numb misgiving, not explained,Settled with chilly dampness on my heart.My Grace Bernard in Grace was not misnamed,There was a soft Madonna look about her eyes;The long thick lash, the drooping-petal lid,Wrought on her face all love and tenderness.Her lips were of that deep intensest redThe cherry, red rose, and columbine wear.Her golden hair was sunshine changed to silk,Which fell below her waist, and was a thingPerhaps some lover, braver far than I,Might dare to mesh his hands in, or to kiss.

Three years ago, my father followed herWho gave me birth home to his narrow house.I was at college when death's summons came,And all the grief fell on me, crushing me;And all my heart cried out in bitterness,Moaning to cease with its wet language,—tears.Then with my prospects of professional lifeThwarted and void, I came back to the farm—I came back to the love of Grace Bernard.She was the dove that on the flood of griefBrought to my window there love's olive spray.From college to the farm-house where I dweltI took my books, friends who are never cold,With fragile instruments of chemistry,And cabinets of mineral and rockWith limestone encrinites; asteriasOld as the mountains, or the sea's white lashWherewith he smites the shoulders of the shore;Tarentula and scarabee I brought,And, too, I brought my diamond microscopeWhich magnifies a pin's head to a man's,And gives me sights in water and in airThe naturalists have not yet touched upon.Over my fields I wander frequently,Breaking the past's upturned face of shelving rocksFor special specimens to fill my home;But find my footsteps always thither tend,Toward the farm-house of the other farm,Where Grace Bernard is noontime and delight.

When first I took the hand of her I love,And held it only as a stranger might,Some unseen mentor whispered in my ear,You twain are strands which Destiny shall braid,And then a numb misgiving, not explained,Settled with chilly dampness on my heart.My Grace Bernard in Grace was not misnamed,There was a soft Madonna look about her eyes;The long thick lash, the drooping-petal lid,Wrought on her face all love and tenderness.Her lips were of that deep intensest redThe cherry, red rose, and columbine wear.Her golden hair was sunshine changed to silk,Which fell below her waist, and was a thingPerhaps some lover, braver far than I,Might dare to mesh his hands in, or to kiss.

The Spring has come and brought her affluent days,But in the air a rumor runs of death—A pestilence is half across the sea.The presses blare its probable approach,And poverty and wealth alike forebode.The cholera it is whispered, Asia-born,May leave more vacant chairs about our hearthsThan the red havoc of internal war.There is no foot it may not overtake;There is no cheek which may not blanch for it.It is Filth's daughter, and where the lowHuddle in impure air in narrow rooms,There it must come. As all forms of life,Animate and inanimate, originateIn seeds and eggs, so all infection does.The floating gases in the atmosphereActing on particles which from filth arise,Mingle with foul wedlock—germinate,And bear their seed like grain, or breed like flies.This product, scattered on the spotless air,And hurried on the currents of the wind,Is breathed by human beings, near and far;And planted in the system, the diseaseRipens and grows, until the sufferer dies.Yellow fever is vegetable diseaseBecause the sharp frost kills it. CholeraIs animal in origin, and survivesThe utmost cold of long, dark winter days.I pray that if the cholera must come,It will not touch my Grace who is so dear;But that we twain may at the altar stand,And outlive many a trouble in the air,And gather many a day of happiness and peace.

I pray that if the cholera must come,It will not touch my Grace who is so dear;But that we twain may at the altar stand,And outlive many a trouble in the air,And gather many a day of happiness and peace.

Down by the brook which separates the farms,Is a great rock that leans above the stream,And seems some monster of the Saurian day,That coming to the water's edge to drink,Was petrified, and so is leaning still.Upon its back a week ago I sat,And dreamed of Grace Bernard, and watched the brook;And while I dreamed there came within the dreamA premonition of what yet would be.The future's face, forever turned away,Now seemed reverted, and its backward lookWas bent on me.They took a faulty castOf Shakespeare's features after he was dead.I, seeing the future's face, make here my cast.And this the premonition that was mine—A perfect premonition full and clear—And as I know the persons it concerns,I cannot think it all improbable,So write it down, that when the time has passed,I may compare the facts with what is here.And yet I scarcely should have written this,Had I not seen his haunting face to-day—That face which I had never seen before,Except in my one dream upon the rockThat leans, athirst, above the brimming stream.The soldier, when he goes to meet the foe,May darkly understand that death is near,Yet bravely marches on to destiny.I too behold a shadow in my path;I too go on, nor waver in my way.

They took a faulty castOf Shakespeare's features after he was dead.I, seeing the future's face, make here my cast.

And this the premonition that was mine—A perfect premonition full and clear—And as I know the persons it concerns,I cannot think it all improbable,So write it down, that when the time has passed,I may compare the facts with what is here.And yet I scarcely should have written this,Had I not seen his haunting face to-day—That face which I had never seen before,Except in my one dream upon the rockThat leans, athirst, above the brimming stream.

The soldier, when he goes to meet the foe,May darkly understand that death is near,Yet bravely marches on to destiny.I too behold a shadow in my path;I too go on, nor waver in my way.

Far off, across the turbulence of waves,I seem to see a wife upon her knees,Her supplicating hands outstretched to oneWho strikes her with coarse blows on cheek and breast.He is her husband, and he leaves her there,And takes her jewels and her only purse,And in a ship embarks for other shores.His is the face that I have seen to-day—A handsome face whatever be its sins:A firm mouth, with large wandering black eyes,A bearded under-lip, and snowy teeth;Long, fine black hair, which idly falls aboutShoulders that stoop from labor over books;Withal a high and intellectual brow,Not broad enough to hold a generous soul.

I see the farm-house where my Grace abides;The afternoon is clear, the grass is green;And Grace comes forth and walks toward the brook.Beside its bank, which is a slope of moss,I see the face intent upon the scene.Now Grace draws near, and starting back to findA stranger in the dell she loves the most,Is half attracted by his cultured mien,And half repelled by inconsistent fears.He rises, bowing low, and begs to speak:He has not seen such beauty in his life;He craves to touch a finger of her hand,To judge if she be of the earth, or oneUpon some holy mission from that landWhereto, with fastings and with many prayers,Through God's good grace he hopes yet to attain.Then John Bernard, who has been working near,Seeding the furrows for his empty barns,This stranger and my Grace puts hand in hand.I see her smile in answer to his smiles.She makes her ears his cells for honeyed speech;And yet she seems to fear him for some cause.Now, as the slow sun tarries on the hills,I see them parting at the farm-house door—The wide half-door which now is opened half—And as he passes down the bordered path,His kiss still lingering upon her hand,She leans out from the door, and watches himUntil he vanishes between the trees.I seem to see her face, a trouble sweetDwelling upon it, even though the lightSets it in glory, with a slender ringAbove the white brow and the golden hair.

Then John Bernard, who has been working near,Seeding the furrows for his empty barns,This stranger and my Grace puts hand in hand.I see her smile in answer to his smiles.She makes her ears his cells for honeyed speech;And yet she seems to fear him for some cause.Now, as the slow sun tarries on the hills,I see them parting at the farm-house door—The wide half-door which now is opened half—And as he passes down the bordered path,His kiss still lingering upon her hand,She leans out from the door, and watches himUntil he vanishes between the trees.I seem to see her face, a trouble sweetDwelling upon it, even though the lightSets it in glory, with a slender ringAbove the white brow and the golden hair.

I see them riding down the village street:He on a horse as black and strong as iron,She on her snowy palfrey, robed in green,Slack reins in hand; the horses side by side.Even as I see and write, my heart grows cold—Cold as a bird that on a winter's dayBreasts the bleak wind, high in the biting air.

I see a city with a concourse vastOf gas-lit streets and buildings, and above,Its dear face buried in its cloudy hands,The Night bends over, weeping. In the streetI see the face again I saw to-day.I see him writing in a narrow room.I read the words:To-night I end my life.The river says "Embrace, I offer rest."The world and I have grappled in fair fight,And I am beaten. Having found defeat,I long to go down to its lowest depths.I only ask, that those who find these words,Will send them to my people past the sea;To-night I cross a wider: so, adieu.Michael Gianni.This is his true name,And afterward he writes his wife's address.He leaves the paper foldless on a stand,And then goes forth; but not to end his life.He dreams that now his life is but begun.He sees my Grace in all his coming days;He sees the large old farm-house where she dwells,And therein hopes to happily pass the years,Living in peace and plenty till he dies.Most human calculations end in loss,And every one who has a plan devised,Is like a foolish walker on a rope,First balancing on this side, then on that,Hazarding much to gain a paltry end;And if the rope of calculation breaks,Or if the foot slip, added to mishapCome the world's jeers and gibes; and so 'tis best.Should half men's schemings find success at last,I fear God's plans would have but narrow room.(Michael Gianni, now I know your name,This premonition gives the hint to meTo trip you in your studied subtleties.You will not win my Grace, who loves me still;You will not dare to kiss her hand again.)

I see a city with a concourse vastOf gas-lit streets and buildings, and above,Its dear face buried in its cloudy hands,The Night bends over, weeping. In the streetI see the face again I saw to-day.

I see him writing in a narrow room.I read the words:To-night I end my life.The river says "Embrace, I offer rest."The world and I have grappled in fair fight,And I am beaten. Having found defeat,I long to go down to its lowest depths.I only ask, that those who find these words,Will send them to my people past the sea;To-night I cross a wider: so, adieu.Michael Gianni.

This is his true name,And afterward he writes his wife's address.He leaves the paper foldless on a stand,And then goes forth; but not to end his life.He dreams that now his life is but begun.He sees my Grace in all his coming days;He sees the large old farm-house where she dwells,And therein hopes to happily pass the years,Living in peace and plenty till he dies.

Most human calculations end in loss,And every one who has a plan devised,Is like a foolish walker on a rope,First balancing on this side, then on that,Hazarding much to gain a paltry end;And if the rope of calculation breaks,Or if the foot slip, added to mishapCome the world's jeers and gibes; and so 'tis best.Should half men's schemings find success at last,I fear God's plans would have but narrow room.

(Michael Gianni, now I know your name,This premonition gives the hint to meTo trip you in your studied subtleties.You will not win my Grace, who loves me still;You will not dare to kiss her hand again.)

Beneath a rustic arbor, near her house,Linked with sweet converse, sit two shadowed forms.The new sword moon against the violet skyIs held aloft, by one white arm of cloudRaised from the sombre shoulder of a hill.My Grace and I are sitting in the bower,And down upon my breast and girdling armIs strewn pure gold—no alloy mixes it—The pure ore of her lovable gold hair.The cunning weavers of Arabia,Who seek to shuttle sunshine in their silk,Would give its weight in diamonds for this hair,Whereof to make a fabric for their king.I see the trees that skirt the yonder vale,And where the road dents down between their arms,I see a figure passing to and fro.Now he comes near, and striding up the pathEnters the arbor, and discovers us.It is Gianni; to his flashing eyesA fierce deep hatred leaps up from his heart,As lightning, which forebodes the nearing storm,Leaps luridly above the midnight hills.With some excuse Gianni passes on,While Grace, with sweetly growing confidence,Whispers with lips which slightly touch my ear,"I never loved him, I was always yours."

I see the trees that skirt the yonder vale,And where the road dents down between their arms,I see a figure passing to and fro.Now he comes near, and striding up the pathEnters the arbor, and discovers us.It is Gianni; to his flashing eyesA fierce deep hatred leaps up from his heart,As lightning, which forebodes the nearing storm,Leaps luridly above the midnight hills.With some excuse Gianni passes on,While Grace, with sweetly growing confidence,Whispers with lips which slightly touch my ear,"I never loved him, I was always yours."

I see the parlor that my Grace adornsWith flowers and with her presence, which is farAbove the fragrant presence of all flowers.Grace sits at her piano; on her lipsA song of twilight and the evening star.There as the shadows slowly gather round,Gianni comes, and stops a moody hour;She, ice to his approaches; he, despair;But ere he goes, he places in her handA large ripe orange, fresh from Sicily,And begs her to accept it for his sake.She bows him from the room, and puts the fruitBefore her on her music, once againDreaming of me, and singing some wild songOf Pan, who, by the river straying down,Cut reeds, and blew upon them with such power,He charmed the lilies and the dragon-flies.Now while the song is swaying to its close,I seem to come myself into the room,And clasp true arms about my darling Grace;She lays Gianni's orange in my hand,And says that I must eat it; she would notHave taken it, but that she did not wishTo cross him with refusal. So I say,"Surely this stranger has peculiar tasteTo bring an orange to you—only one.Perhaps there is more in it than we know."

I seem to have this orange in my room,And in the light of morning turn it round.I find no flaw in it on any side.A goodly orange, ripe, with tender coatOf that deep reddish yellow, like fine gold.Perhaps the tree had wrapped its roots aboutA chest of treasure, and had drawn the wealthInto its heart to spend it on its fruit.But while I slowly turn the orange round,And look more closely, lo, the slightest cut!—A deep incision made by some sharp steel.I carefully cut the rind, and without onceBreaking the fine apartments of the fruit,Or spilling thence a drop of golden juice,Find that one room through which the steel has passed.This I dissect, and, testing as I can,Fail to discover aught that's poisonous.

I bring my microscope, and on a seedClinging with abject fear, I see a ShapeWhose wings are reeking with foul slime, whose eyesGlare with a demon lustre born of Pain.Its face has somewhat of the human shape,The under-jaw too large, and bearded long;The forehead full of putrefying sores.Such front the Genius, Danhasch, may have worn.It may be that the hideous face is likeThe idol Krishna's, from whose feasts depart,Smitten with cholera, the Hindoo devotees.The body oozes with a loathsome dew.Its head is red as if sucked full of blood;But all the rest, its hundred legs, and tail,The mailed back, and the wide-webbed prickly wings,Are green, like those base eyes of jealousyWhich hope to see a covert murder done.I find the finest needle in the house,And press the point down on the slimy hide.The blunt edge crushes, does not pierce the shape,And brings the straggle that I gloat to see.The legs stretch out, and work to get away;A barbed tongue and twin fangs drool from the mouth.The eyes protrude, and glare with deadly hate,Until they fix at last in stony calm.I ponder long on what this shape can be.There is no doubt Gianni placed it here;If so, where has he caught and caged a thingThe naked eye has not the power to see?Its uses must be deadly. In revenge,He hopes to take the life of her I love.While poisons of another characterMight be detected, this remains unknown.The Thing I have discovered—this vile Shape,Must be an atom of some foul disease!And now I have the secret. For some daysGianni waits upon a stricken man,Who dies, a victim of the cholera.In some strange manner he has found this germ,And placed it in the orange, hoping thusTo bring the dread disease to Grace Bernard.

I ponder long on what this shape can be.There is no doubt Gianni placed it here;If so, where has he caught and caged a thingThe naked eye has not the power to see?Its uses must be deadly. In revenge,He hopes to take the life of her I love.While poisons of another characterMight be detected, this remains unknown.The Thing I have discovered—this vile Shape,Must be an atom of some foul disease!And now I have the secret. For some daysGianni waits upon a stricken man,Who dies, a victim of the cholera.In some strange manner he has found this germ,And placed it in the orange, hoping thusTo bring the dread disease to Grace Bernard.

I seem to be with him I hate, once more,And now accuse him of the fiendish deedThat I through chance averted. Now I tooCommand him to return to his true wife,And no more cross my path; should he remain,He shall but wait to meet her, for my wordsAlready have been sent that he is here.

I know that I shall fall sick dangerously,And in some way by dark Gianni's hand.I seem to lie asleep upon my bed,And Grace is near, and watching my calm face.The village doctor makes his morning call,And takes my listless hand to feel the pulse.There is no pulse! His hand goes to the heart.My heart has ceased to beat, and all is still.The hand the doctor held drops down like lead.A looking-glass receives no fading mist,Laid on the icy and immovable lips.My eyes are fixed; I glare upon them all.Grace twines her widowed arms about my neck,Kissing my sallow cheeks, with hopeless tears,Calling my name, and begging me come back;So, thinking me dead, they close my staring eyes,And put the face-cloth over my white face,And go with silent tread about the room.They do not know that I am in a trance.I hear each whisper uttered, and the sighsThat heave the desolate bosom of my Grace.

All is so dark since they have shut my eyes;I think it cruel in them to do that—Shut out the light of day and every chanceThat I could ever have of seeing Grace.I cannot move a muscle, and I try,And strive to part my lips to say some word;But all in vain; the mind has lost controlOver the body's null machinery.I wonder if they yet will bury me,Thinking me dead? To wake up in the grave,And hear a wagon rumbling overhead,Or a chance footstep passing near the spot,And then cry out and never get reply;But hear the footstep vanish far away,And know the cold mould smothers up all cries,And is above, beneath, and round me,Is bitter thought. To lie back then and die,Suffocating slowly while I tear my hair,Makes me most wild to think of.

I wonder if they yet will bury me,Thinking me dead? To wake up in the grave,And hear a wagon rumbling overhead,Or a chance footstep passing near the spot,And then cry out and never get reply;But hear the footstep vanish far away,And know the cold mould smothers up all cries,And is above, beneath, and round me,Is bitter thought. To lie back then and die,Suffocating slowly while I tear my hair,Makes me most wild to think of.

Hark! 'tis night.The hour is borne distinctly by the wind.My Grace sits near me; now comes to my side,And unto Him, whose ear is everywhere,She, kneeling down, puts up her hands, and prays."O Father of all mercies, still be merciful,And raise me from the gulf of this despair.I cannot think nor feel my love is dead.If he yet lives, and lingers in a trance,Give me some sign that I may know the truth."I slowly raise my hand, and let it fall.Grace springs up all delight, and draws the cloth,Kissing my lips, and begging me to wake.I try, but fail to raise my hand again.The trance still lasts. My eyes will not unclose;My lips refuse the functions of their place.

Hark! 'tis night.The hour is borne distinctly by the wind.My Grace sits near me; now comes to my side,And unto Him, whose ear is everywhere,She, kneeling down, puts up her hands, and prays.

"O Father of all mercies, still be merciful,And raise me from the gulf of this despair.I cannot think nor feel my love is dead.If he yet lives, and lingers in a trance,Give me some sign that I may know the truth."

I slowly raise my hand, and let it fall.

Grace springs up all delight, and draws the cloth,Kissing my lips, and begging me to wake.I try, but fail to raise my hand again.The trance still lasts. My eyes will not unclose;My lips refuse the functions of their place.

On the next day will be the funeral;But Grace has this delayed for one week more;Yet all in vain, I neither wake nor move.I hear the people coming in the house,And straight within my coffin long to rise.I hear the pastor's prayer, and then his words,Simple and good, and full of tender praise.They come at last to take a parting look,A file of faces that pass out the door.I hear them quickly screwing down the lid;And now the bearers take me from the house,And push me, feet first, in the black plumed hearse.Gianni is a bearer of my pall,And Grace is choked with sobs, and follows on.We reach the grave. They slowly lower me down.Some gravel on the side is loose, and fallsBattling upon the narrow coffin lid.Horror on horror! Let me see no more!

On the next day will be the funeral;But Grace has this delayed for one week more;Yet all in vain, I neither wake nor move.

I hear the people coming in the house,And straight within my coffin long to rise.I hear the pastor's prayer, and then his words,Simple and good, and full of tender praise.They come at last to take a parting look,A file of faces that pass out the door.I hear them quickly screwing down the lid;And now the bearers take me from the house,And push me, feet first, in the black plumed hearse.Gianni is a bearer of my pall,And Grace is choked with sobs, and follows on.We reach the grave. They slowly lower me down.Some gravel on the side is loose, and fallsBattling upon the narrow coffin lid.

Horror on horror! Let me see no more!

So stands the premonition; and to-dayI look back on the words here written down,Comparing them with what has happened since,And find there is no flaw in any scene.Always intending to tell Grace my fearThat some day I might be entombed alive,I always failed, until it was too late.But as the sod fell on the coffin-lid,My trance was broken, and I called and screamed,Until they drew me up from out the grave,And breaking in my prison, set me free.Gianni fled, fearing my face at last.To-day I have his letter from his home,Beneath the far-off skies of Italy,Craving forgiveness for his wrongs to me;Saying that he repents for all his past,And with Christ's help, will lead a better life.He found his wife and children overjoyedTo have him back again to their embrace.To-morrow Grace Bernard and I shall wed.The bell that tolled my bitter funeral knell,Will ring, glad of my wedding and my bride—Ring merrily round and round a jubilant peal.There comes no premonition now to show to meWhat the long future has in store for us;But from my door I watch the sunset skies,And see blue mountains tower o'er golden plains,Clothed with pure beauty stretching far away.So seems the future. I await the morn.

So stands the premonition; and to-dayI look back on the words here written down,Comparing them with what has happened since,And find there is no flaw in any scene.

Always intending to tell Grace my fearThat some day I might be entombed alive,I always failed, until it was too late.But as the sod fell on the coffin-lid,My trance was broken, and I called and screamed,Until they drew me up from out the grave,And breaking in my prison, set me free.

Gianni fled, fearing my face at last.To-day I have his letter from his home,Beneath the far-off skies of Italy,Craving forgiveness for his wrongs to me;Saying that he repents for all his past,And with Christ's help, will lead a better life.He found his wife and children overjoyedTo have him back again to their embrace.

To-morrow Grace Bernard and I shall wed.The bell that tolled my bitter funeral knell,Will ring, glad of my wedding and my bride—Ring merrily round and round a jubilant peal.

There comes no premonition now to show to meWhat the long future has in store for us;But from my door I watch the sunset skies,And see blue mountains tower o'er golden plains,Clothed with pure beauty stretching far away.So seems the future. I await the morn.

Whileyet upon his couch our father lay,Sick unto death, my brothers, with one mind,Plotted abrupt destruction to my life.I did not tell the king, because I fearedTo lessen by one heat the throbbing of his heart.Beside his couch I knelt, and bowed my head—I, his first-born, whom all the people loved.His hot, weak hand he laid upon my hair,And blessed me with his blessing, then said on:"Thou hast beheld in Spring the dark green bladeThat stabs up through the unresisting earth;At last the Summer crowns it with a flower.So thou, when I am passed away, and gone to dust,Shalt wear a crown, but grander than the shrubs—The symbol of a kingdom, on thy brow.But take thee now this lesson to thy heart,And from the grass learn wisdom; wear thy crownAs meekly, and as void of all display,As doth the shrub half hidden under leaves."So he bent down with pain, and kissed my cheek,As though, having issued a great law, heHad set his seal upon it—the king's seal.I cared not for the crown, save as a meansTo give my soul a higher and a nobler life.This my old tutor taught me—a strange man he,With careless garb, and heavy hairy browsBridged over eyes that shone like furnace fire.My will was lost in his. I grew like him.I only cared to study and to dream.And he it was who, standing in the nightBetween two pillars on the palace porch,Saw my two brothers pass, and overheardThe hateful whisper of their black design.

I cared not for the crown, save as a meansTo give my soul a higher and a nobler life.This my old tutor taught me—a strange man he,With careless garb, and heavy hairy browsBridged over eyes that shone like furnace fire.My will was lost in his. I grew like him.I only cared to study and to dream.And he it was who, standing in the nightBetween two pillars on the palace porch,Saw my two brothers pass, and overheardThe hateful whisper of their black design.

The night before the murder was to be,I drew my long, keen dagger from its sheath,And stole on down the marble stair-way, pastThe throne-room, to the curtained arch whereinMy brothers lay asleep. No dream besetThe guilty Dead-Sea of their rest. They layEngulfed in pillows, like two ships mid waves.I saw their faces, and the one was fair.Long dark brown hair fell from his noble brow,And on the silken billow of the couch lay curledLike spray. The other face was cold and darkI felt no pity in my angry breastFor this, the older brother of the twain.Yet he it was who always praised me most.Praise is a dust of diamond that, if thrownWell in the eyes of even noble men,Will blind them to a host of flagrant faults.The moon was full, and 'twixt two silvered cloudsLooked forth, like any princess from betweenThe tasseled curtains of her downy bed.The vagrant wind came through the opened blind,And whispered of the desert; with its handFanning the flame that in the silver urnMimicked a star. Beneath the rays I wrote:I should have slain you both for your intentOf murder; but I spare, you, and I go.So, take the kingdom, and ride long and well.Between them there I laid the paper down,Then thrust my dagger, to the golden hilt,Through it, deep in the couch. So passing on,I came to that high room wherein my sire,The king, lay sick, and drifting near to death.My tutor at his feet, and on the floor,Embraced by needed sleep, lay like a dog.I came to see the king's face once again,Ere, like a maid who in her lover trusts,I gave myself up, body and soul,To the great desert and the world beyond.How sweetly slept the king! His long white beard,And venerable face, were undisturbedBy even the breezy motion of his breath.Surely, I thought, the fever must have passed.I bent down tenderly to kiss the cheek.How cold! God help me, can the king be dead?My heart gave one wild bound, driving a waveOf grief, vast as a mountain, up the sandsOf my bleak desolation. The wave brokeInto a blinding mist of tears at last.I longed to moan out my despair, but paused,Checking my sobs to kiss the face once more;Then moved from the strange room, parting with careThe massive silken curtains, fearful thenTheir rustle might attract some wakeful ear.I found the jewels of the crown, and theseWith all my own I in a bag secured,And hung about my neck, beneath my robe.Noiseless as a ghost I passed the hall,And down the stair-way wrought of sandal-woodMade lightest footsteps. As I stoleAlong the alcoves where the maidens slept,A lady stood before me. She outstretchedHer white and naked arms, and round my neckEntwined them. She was the captive, Veera,Once held for ransom from some Bedouin tribe;But when the coin was brought she would not go;At this the king was pleased, for thus she madePerpetual peace between him and her kin.No maid in Mesched up and down, was foundTo rival her for beauty. All her wordsWere apt and good, and all her ways were sweet.I, in her happy prison, ivory-barredBy her white arms, was restless for release.She would not set me free until I toldThe purport of my vigil, and revealedThe place whereat my journey would be done.I did not wait to pay her back her kiss.I hurried to the stables, where I foundMy coal-black steed. He neighed and pawed the floor.I bound the saddle firmly, grasped the reins,And in a moment passed the city's gate,And shot out on the desert, where the windMade race with us, but lagged behind at last.

Vienna gained, I gave myself to books.Here I had promised Veera I should be.New paths were opened to me, and my daysWere lost in study. All my tutor knewSeemed cramped and meagre in these wider waysOf thought and science. Better far, I said,To know, than be a king. There is no crownThat so becomes the brow as knowledge does.To solve two problems, now engrossed my life.My Bedouin tutor had spent all his daysUpon them, but without success. On meHe grafted all the purpose of his soul,Determined, though he failed, that I might yetToil on when he was compassed round by death.These sister problems were,How make pure gold?And,How endure forever on the earth?

To solve two problems, now engrossed my life.My Bedouin tutor had spent all his daysUpon them, but without success. On meHe grafted all the purpose of his soul,Determined, though he failed, that I might yetToil on when he was compassed round by death.These sister problems were,How make pure gold?And,How endure forever on the earth?

Among the books that I had bought myself,I found the Bible. This to peruseI soon essayed; but ere I had read far,Behold! I found the door behind which layThe answers to my problems. Locked and barredThe door was, yet I knew it was the door.For here I read of Eden, and that in the midstThe Tree of Life stood, while through the landA river ran which parted in four heads;And one was Gihon, the Ethiop stream;And one was Pison, the great crystal tideWhich floods Havilah, where fine gold is found,And rare bdellium and the onyx stone.So, as my tutor said, my problems wereA dual secret, and the one containedThe other. All the long night through I poredAbove the words, and kissed the unconscious pageWith reverent lips. My heart was like a spongeSoaked in the water of the mystic words.

As one who in the night, passing a streetDeserted, finds a lost key rusted and old,Yet knows that it will fit some great iron doorBehind which countless treasures are concealed,So I, when first I came to Mesmer's works,Knew I had found the key to move the doorOf my twin problems. Then, day after day,I made them all my study. Much I mournedThe sad disheartened life that Mesmer led.He never knew that one good thing, success;But yet his strong, persistent genius, to the endEndured. Yet such the rule in every age.The one true man appears, and gives his thought,At which the whole world rail or basely sneer.The next man comes and makes a thankless useOf what the other knew, and wins the praiseThe first man lost by being ripe too soon.

Down the long street, upon my iron-black steed,I rode and pondered. Where shall I seek to findA sweet soul pure as dawn, who to my will shall beBoth malleable and ductile; who can soarOver the whole earth, or go back in the past?While yet I mused, lo, up a garden walk,A lady chased a bird. An empty cageStood in the vine-clad cottage-window near.The bird was like some sweet elusive thought;The maid, a Sappho, weary with pursuit.She only glanced my way to see me pass,Then turned and ran towards me, her large eyesWith gladness scintillant. It was the maid,Veera. Her hand upon my shoulder, up the walkWe went, my steed following, while her bird,Tired of his liberty, had found his cage.Strange news had Veera. Here she lived in peace;But through the city she had sought me long.When I was gone from Mesched, and my brothers readThe paper I had written, their wrath roseAgainst my tutor whom they deemed the spy.He, being found asleep beside the kingWho lay dead, to his door they broughtThe baseless charge of murder. Through the streetsThey sent their criers to proclaim the deed.So, clamorous for his life, the people cameAnd dragged him forth, and led him to the blockAnd slew him. On a spear they set his head,And placed it high upon the tower aboveThe eastern gate. The birds pecked at the eyes,And of the hair made comfortable nests.The rain beat on it, and the active windCrowned it with desert dust. Always the sunMade salutation to it, flushing itUntil it seemed more ghastly than before.But after this mad crime the older brother grewJealous of him, the younger. One dark mornThey found the last-born lifeless in the street,Stabbed by a long, sharp poniard in the back.Misrule followed misrule, and justice fled.Laws were abolished, and pleasure's lewdest voiceHawked in the market-place, and through the streets.Her story done, Veera entreated meTo set my face for Mesched with the dawn."Not yet," I said, "not yet." And then I madeStrange passes with my hands, and braced my will,To sway her will; then with a questioning glanceShe passed out to a calm Mesmeric sleep.So, well I knew that I had found the soulMy purpose needed, and I bade her wake.

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