Forget me, dear; forget and cease to love me,I am not worth one memory, kind or true,Let silent, pale Oblivion spread above meHer winding sheet, for I am dead to you.Forget, forget.
Sin has resumed its interrupted story;I am enslaved, who dreamed of being free.Say for my soul, in life's dark purgatory,One little prayer, then cease to think of me.Forget, forget.
I ask you not to pity or to pardon;I ask you to forget me. Tear my nameFrom out your heart; the wound will heal and harden.Death does not dig so deep a grave as shame.Forget, forget.
Roger's Letter to Mabel.
Farewell! I shall never again seek your side;I will stay with my sins and leave you with your pride.Let the swift flame of scorn dry the tears of regret,Shut me out of your life, lock the door and forget.I shall pass from your skies as a vagabond starPasses out of the great solar system afarInto blackness and gloom; while the heavens smile on,Scarce knowing the poor erring creature is gone.Say a prayer for the soul sunk in sinning; I dieTo you, and to all who have known me. Good-bye.
Mabel's Letter to Maurice.
I break through the silence of years, my old friend,To beg for a favor; oh, grant it! I sendRoger's letter in confidence to you, and ask,In the name of our sweet early friendship, a task,Which, however painful, I pray you perform.Poor Roger! his bark is adrift in the storm.He has veered from the course; with no compass of faithTo point to the harbor, he goes to his death.You are giving your talents and time, I am told,To aiding the poor; let this victim of goldBe included. His life has not learned self-control,And luxury stunted the growth of his soul.In blindness of spirit he took the wrong track,But he sees his great error and longs to come back.Oh, help me to reach him and save him, Maurice.My heart yearns to show him the infinite peaceFound but in God's love. Let us pity, forgiveAnd help him, dear friend, to seek Christ and to liveIn the light of His mercy. I know you will doWhat I ask, you were ever so loyal and true.
Maurice to Mabel.
Though bitter the task (why, your heart must well know),Your wish shall be ever my pleasure. I goOn the search for the prodigal. Not for his sake,But because you have asked me, I willingly makeThis effort to find him. Sometimes, I contend,It is kinder to let a soul speed to the endOf its swift downward course than to check it to-day,But to see it to-morrow pursue the same way.The man who could wantonly stray from your sideInto folly and sin has abandoned all pride.There is little to hope from him. Yet, since his nameIs the name you now bear, I will save him from shame,God permitting. To serve and obey you is stillHeld an honor, Madame, by Maurice Somerville.
Maurice to Mabel Ten Days Later.
The search for your husband is finished. Oh, prayTear all love and all hope from your heart ere I sayWhat I must say. The man has insulted your trust;He has dragged the most sacred of ties in the dust,And ruined the fame of a woman who wore,Until now, a good name. He has gone. Close the doorOf your heart in his face if he seeks to come back.The sleuth hounds of justice were put on his track,And his life since he left you lies bare to my gaze.He sailed yesterday on the "Paris." For daysPreceding the journey he lived as the guestOf one Mrs. Zoe Travers, who comes from the West!A widow, young, fair, well-connected. I hearHe followed her back to New York from the Pier,And now he has taken the woman abroad.My letter sounds brutal and harsh. Would to GodI might soften the facts in some measure; but no,In matters like this the one thing is to knowThe whole truth, and at once. Though the pain be intenseIt pulls less on the soul than the pangs of suspense.Like a surgeon of fate, with my pen for a knife,I cut out false hopes which endanger your life.Let the law, like a nurse, cleanse the wound—there is shameAnd disgrace for you now in the man's very name.Though justice is blindfolded, yet she can hearWhen the chink of gold dollars sounds close in her ear.
One needs but to give her this musical hintTo save you the sight of your sorrows in print.Closed doors, private hearing; a sentence or twoIn the journals; then dignified freedom for you.When love, truth and loyalty vanish, the tieWhich binds man to woman is only a lie.Undo it! remember at all times I standAs a friend to rely on—a serf to command.
Some women there are who would willingly barterA queen's diadem for the crown of a martyr.They want to be pitied, not envied. To knowThat the world feels compassion makes joy of their woe;And the keenest delight in their misery lies,If only their friends will look on with wet eyes.
In fact, 'tis the prevalent weakness, I find,Of the sex. As a mass, women seem disinclinedTo be thought of as happy; they like you to feelThat their bright smiling faces are masks which concealA dead hope in their hearts. The strange fancy clingsTo the mind of the world that the rarest of things—Contentment—is commonplace; and, that to shineAs something superior, one must repine,Or seem to be hiding an ache in the breast.Yet the commonest thing in the world is unrest,If you want to be really unique, go alongAnd act as if Fate had not done you a wrong,And declare you have had your deserts in this life.
The part of the patient, neglected young wifeContained its attractions for Mabel Montrose.She was one of the women who live but to poseIn the eyes of their friends; and she so loved her artThat she really believed she was living the part.The suffering martyr who makes no complaintWas a role more important, by far, than the saintOr reformer. As first leading lady in grief,Her pride in herself found a certain relief.
The ardent and love-selfish husband had notBeen so dear to her heart, or so close to her thought,As this weak, reckless sinner, who woke in her soulIts dominant wish—to reform and control.
(How often, alas, the reformers of earth,If they studied their purpose, would find it had birthIn this thirst to control; in the poor human passionThe minds and the manners of others to fashion!
We sigh o'er the heathen, we weep o'er his woes,While forcing him into our creeds and our clothes.If he adds our diseases and vices as well,Still, at least we have guided him intoourhellAnd away from his own heathen hades. The pleasureDerived from that thought but reformers can measure.)
The thing Mabel Montrose loved best on this earthWas a sinner, and Roger but doubled his worthIn her eyes when he wrote her that letter. And stillWhen the last message came from Maurice SomervilleAnd the bald, ugly facts, unsuspected, unguessed,Lay before her, thewomanawoke in her breast,And the patient reformer gave way to the wife,Who was torn with resentment and jealousy's strife.Ah, jealousy! vain is the effort to proveYour right in the world as the offspring of love;For oftener far, you are spawned by a heartWhere Cupid has never implanted a dart.Love knows you, indeed, for you serve in his train,But crowned like a monarch you royally reignOver souls wherein love is a stranger.
No thoughtCame to Mabel Montrose that her own life was notFree from blame. (How few women, indeed, think of thisWhen they grieve o'er the ruin of marital bliss!)She was shocked and indignant. Pain gave her a newRole to play without study; she missed in her cueAnd played badly at first, was resentful and criedAgainst Fate for the blow it had dealt to her pride(Though she called it her love), and declared her life blighted.It is one thing, of course, for a wife to be slightedFor the average folly the world calls a sin,Such as races, clubs, games; when a woman steps inThe matter assumes a new color, and Mabel,Who dearly loved sinners, at first seemed unableTo pardon, or ask God to pardon, the crimeOf her husband; an angry disgust for a timeDrove all charity out of her heart. For a thief,For a forger, a murderer, even, her griefHad been mingled with pity and pardon; the oneThing she could not forgive was the thing he had done.It was wicked, indecent, and so unrefined.To the lure of the senses her nature was blind,And her mantle of charity never had beenWide enough to quite cover that one vulgar sin.
In the letter she sent to Maurice, though she saidLittle more than her thanks for his kindness, he readAll her tense nervous feelings between its few lines.Though we study our words, the keen reader divinesWhat wethoughtwhile we penned them; thought odors revealWhat words not infrequently seek to conceal.
Maurice read the grief, the resentment, the shameWhich Mabel's heart held; to his own bosom cameStealing back, masked demurely as friendly regard,The hope of a lover—that hope long debarred.His letters grew frequent; their tone, dignified,Unselfish, and manly, appealed to her pride.Sweet sympathy mingled with praise in each line(As a gentle narcotic is stirred into wine),Soothed pain, stimulated self love, and restored herThe pleasure of knowing the man still adored her.
Understand, Mabel Montrose was not a coquette,She lacked all the arts of the temptress; and yetShe was young, she was feminine; love to her mindWas extreme admiration; it pleased her to findShe was still, to Maurice, an ideal. A womanMust be quite unselfish, almost superhuman,And full of strong sympathy, who, in her soul,Feels no wrench when she knows she has lost all controlO'er the heart of a man who once loved her.
Months passed,And Mabel accepted her burden at lastAnd went back to her world and its duties. Her eyes,Seemed to say when she looked at you, "please sympathize,On the slight graceful form or the beautiful face.Twas a sorrow of mind, not a sorrow of heart,And the two play a wholly dissimilar partIn the life of a woman.
Maurice SomervilleKept his place as good friend through sheer force of his willBut his heart was in tumult; he longed for the timeWhen, free once again from the legalized crimeOf her ties, she might listen to all he would say.There was anguish, and doubt, and suspense in delay,Yet Mabel spoke never of freedom. At lengthHe wrote her, "My will has exhausted its strength.Read the song I enclose; though my lips must be mute,The muse may at least improvise to her lute."
Song.
There was a bird as blithe as free,(Summer and sun and song)She sang by the shores of a laughing sea,And oh, but the world seemed fair to me,And the days were sweet and long.
There was a hunter, a hunter bold,(Autumn and storm and sea)And he prisoned the bird in a cage of gold,And oh, but the world grew dark and cold,And the days were sad to me.
The hunter has gone; ah, what cares he?(Winter and wind and rain)And the caged bird pines for the air and the sea,And I long for the right to set her freeTo sing in the sun again.
The hunter has gone with a sneer at fate,(Spring and the sea and the sun)Let the bird fly free to find her mate,Ere the year of love grow sere and late.Sweet ladye, my song is done.
Mabel's Letter to Maurice.
To the song of your muse I have listened. Oh, ceaseTo think of me but as a friend, dear Maurice.Once a wife, a wife alway. I vowed from my heart,"For better, for worse, until death do us part."No mention was made in the service that dayOf breaking my fetters if joy flew away."For better, for worse," a vow lightly spoken,When Fate brings the "worse," how lightly 'tis broken!
The "worse," in my case, is the worst fate can give.Tho' I shrank from the blow, I must bear it and live,Not for self, but for duty; nor strive to evadeFulfilling the promise I willingly made.While Roger has sinned, and his sinning would be,In the eyes of the law, proof to render me free,It was God heard my vows and the Church sealed the bond.Until one of us passes to death's dim beyond,Though seas and though sins may divide us for life,We are bound to each other as husband and wife.In God's Court of Justice divorce is a wordWhich falls without import or meaning when heard;And the women who cast off old fetters that way,To give place to the new, on the great Judgment DayMust find, in the last summing up, that they standSide by side, in God's eyes, with the Magdalene band.Dear Maurice, be my brother, my counselor, friend.We are lonely without you and Ruth, at Bay Bend.Come sometimes and brighten our lives; put awayThe thoughts which are making you restless to-dayAnd give me your strong noble friendship; indeed'Tis a friend that I crave, not a lover I need.
Maurice to Mabel.
You write like a woman, and one, it is plain,Whose sentiment hangs like a cloud o'er her brain.You gaze through a sort of traditional mist,And behold a mirage of God's laws which existBut in fancy. God made but one law—it is love.A law for the earth, and the kingdoms above,A law for the woman, a law for the man,The base and the spire of His intricate planOf existence. All evils the world ever sawHad birth in man's breaking away from this law.God cancels a marriage when love flies away."Till death do us part" should be altered to say,"Till disgust or indifference part us." I knowYou never loved Roger, my heart tells me so.
He won you, I claim, through a mesmeric spell;You dreamed of an Eden, and wakened in hell.You pitied his weakness, you struggled to save him,He paid with a crime the devotion you gave him.And the blackest of insults relentlessly hurledAt your poor patient heart in the gaze of the world.In God's mighty ledger the stroke of a penHas been drawn through your record of marriage. Though menCall you wedded I hold you are widowed. Why clingTo the poor, empty, meaningless form of a thing—To the letter, devoid of all spirit? God neverIntended a woman to hopelessly severHerself from all possible joy, or to makeTrue faithfulness suffer for faithlessness' sake.When I think of your wrongs, when I think of my woes,That black word divorce like a bright planet glowsIn the skies of the future. Oh, Mabel, be fairTo yourself and to me. For the years of despairI have suffered you owe me some recompense, surely.The heart that has worshipped so long and so purelyOught not to be slighted for mere sentiment.We must live as our century bids us. Its bentIs away from the worn ruts of thought. Where of oldThe life of a woman was run in the moldOf man's wishes and passions, to-day she is free;Free to think and to act; free to do and to beWhat she pleases. The poor, pining victim of fateAnd man's cruelty, long ago went out of date.In the mansion of Life there were some things askew,Which the strong hand of Progress has righted. The new,Better plan puts old notions of sex on the shelf.Who is true to a knave, is untrue to herself.Oh, be true to yourself, and have pity on oneWho has long dwelt in shadow and pines for the sun.Love, starving on memories, begs for one tasteOf sweet hope, ere the remnant of youth goes to waste.
Mabel to Maurice.
You write like a man who sees self as his goal.You speak of your woes—yet my travail of soulSeems mere sentiment to you. Maurice, pause and thinkOf the black, bitter potion life gave me to drinkWhen I dreamed of love's nectar. Too fresh is the tasteOf its gall on my lip for my heart in such hasteTo reach out for the cup that is proffered anew.A certain respect to my sorrows is due.I am weary of love as men know it. The calmOf a sweet, tranquil friendship would act like a balmOn the wounds of my heart; that platonic regard,Which we read of in books, or hear sung by the bard,But so seldom can find when we want it. I thought,For a time, you had conquered mere self, and had broughtSuch a friendship to comfort and rest me. But no,That dream, like full many another, must go.The love that is based on attraction of sexIs a love that has brought me but sorrow. Why vexMy poor soul with the same thing again? If you loveWith a higher emotion, you know how to proveAnd sustain the assertion by conduct. Maurice,Love must rise above passion, to infinite peaceAnd serenity, ere it is love, to my mind.For the women of earth, in the ranks of mankindThere are too many lovers and not enough friends.'Tis the friend who protects, 'tis the lover who rends.He whocanbe a friend while hewouldbe a loverIs the rarest and greatest of souls to discover.Have I found, dear Maurice, such a treasure in you?If not, I must say with this letter—adieu.
As he finished the letter there seemed but one phraseTo the heart of the reader. It shone on his gazeBright with promise and hope. "Too fresh is the tasteOf its gall on my lip for my heart in such hasteTo reach out for the cup that is offered anew.""In such haste." Ah, how hope into certainty grewAs he read and re-read that one sentence. "Let fateTake the whole thing in charge, I can wait—I can wait.I have lived through the night; though the dawn may be grayAnd belated, it heralds the coming of day."So he talked with himself, and grew happy at last.The five hopeless years of his sorrow were castLike a nightmare behind him. He walked once againWith a joy in his personal life, among men.There seemed to be always a smile on his lip,For he felt like a man on the deck of a shipWho has sailed through strange seas with a mutinous crew,And now in the distance sights land just in view.
The house at Bay Bend was re-opened. Once more,Where the waves of the Sound wash the New England shore,Walked Maurice; and beside him, young hope, with the tipOf his fair rosy fingers pressed hard on his lip,Urging silence. If Mabel Montrose saw the boyWith the pursed prudent mouth and the eyes full of joyShe said nothing. Grave, dignified (Ah, but so fair!),There was naught in her modest and womanly airTo feed or encourage such hope. Yet love grewLike an air plant, with only the night and the dewTo sustain it; while Mabel rejoiced in the friend,Who, in spite of himself, had come back to Bay Bend,Yielding all to her wishes. Such people, alone,Who gracefully gave up their plans for her own,Were congenial to Mabel. Though looking the sweet,Fragile creature, with feminine virtues replete,Her nature was stubborn. Beneath that fair browLurked an obstinate purpose to make others bowTo herself in small matters. She fully believedShe was right, always right; and her friends were deceived,As a rule, into thinking the same; for her eyesHeld a look of such innocent grief and surpriseWhen her will was opposed, that one felt her misused,And retired from the field of dispute, self-accused.
The days, like glad children, went hurrying outFrom the schoolhouse of time; months pursued the same routeMore sedately; a year, then two years, passed away,Yet hope, unimpaired, in the lover's heart lay,As a gem in the bed of a river might lie,Unharmed and unmoved while its waters ran by.His toil for the poor still continued, but notWith that fervor of zeal which a dominant thoughtLends to labor. Fair love gilded dreams filled his mind,While the corners were left for his suffering kind.He was sorry for sorrow; but love made him glad,And nothing in life now seemed hopeless or sad.His tete-a-tete visits with Mabel were rare;She ordered her life with such prudence and careLest her white name be soiled by the gossips. And yet,Though his heart, like a steed checked too closely, would fretSometimes at these creed-imposed fetters, he feltKeen delight in her nearness; in knowing she dweltWithin view of his high turret window. Each dayWhich gave him a glimpse of her, love laid awayAs a poem in life's precious folio. NightHeld her face like a picture, dream-framed for his sight.So he fed on the crumbs from love's table, the whileFate sat looking on with a cynical smile.
In the day my thoughts are tenderWhen I muse on my ladye fair.There is never one to offend her,For each is pure as a prayer.They float like spirits above her,About her and always near;And they scarce dare sigh that they love her,Because she would blush to hear.
But in dreams my thoughts grow bolder;And close to my lips of fire,I reach out my arms and enfold her,My ladye, my heart's desire.And she who, in earthly places,Seems cold as the stars above,Unmasks in those fair dream spacesAnd gives me love for love.
Oh day, with your thoughts of dutyCross over the sunset streams,And give me the night of beautyAnd love in the Land of Dreams.For there in the mystic, shady,Fair isle of the Slumber Sea,I read the heart of my ladyeThat here she hides from me.
Some day, some beauteous day,Joy will come back again.Sorrow must fly away.
Hope, on her harp will playThe old inspiring strainSome day, some beauteous day.
Through the long hours I say,"The night must fade and wane,Sorrow must fly away."
The morn's bewildering rayShall pierce the night of rain,Some day, some beauteous day.
Autumn shall bloom like May,Delight shall spring from pain;Sorrow must fly away.
Though on my life, grief's grayBleak shadow long hath lain,Some day, some beauteous day,Sorrow must fly away.
When love is lost, the day sets toward the night.Albeit the morning sun may still be bright,And not one cloud ship sails across the sky.Yet from the places where it used to lie,Gone is the lustrous glory of the light.
No splendor rests on any mountain height,No scene spreads fair, and beauteous, to the sight.All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye,When love is lost.
Love lends to life its grandeur and its might,Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight.Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by,And grief's one happy thought is that we die.Ah! what can recompense us for its flight,When love is lost.
Life is a ponderous lesson book, and FateThe teacher. When I came to love's fair leafMy teacher turned the page and bade me wait."Learn first," she said, "love's grief";And o'er and o'er through many a long to-morrowShe kept me conning that sad page of sorrow.
Cruel the task; and yet it was not vain.Now the great book of life I know by heart.In that one lesson of love's loss and painFate doth the whole impart.For, by the depths of woe, the mind can measureThe beauteous unsealed summits of love's pleasure.
Now, with the book of life upon her knee,Fate sits! the unread page of love's delightBy her firm hand is half concealed from me,And half revealed to sight.Ah Fate! be kind! so well I learned love's sorrow,Give me its full delight to learn to-morrow.
If I were a rain drop, and you were a leaf,I would burst from the cloud above youAnd lie on your breast in a rapture of rest,And love you, love you, love you.
If I were a brown bee, and you were a rose,I would fly to you, love, nor miss you;I would sip and sip from your nectared lip,And kiss you, kiss you, kiss you.
If I were a doe, dear, and you were a brook,Ah, what would I do then, think you?I would kneel by your bank, in the grasses dank,And drink you, drink you, drink you.
Time owes me such a heavy debt,How can he ever make things right?For suns that with no promise setTo help me greet the morning light,
For dreams that no fruition met,For joys that passed from bud to blight,Time owes me such a heavy debt;How can he ever make things right?
For passions balked, with strain and fretOf hopes delayed, or perished quite,For kisses that I did not getOn many a love impelling night,Time owes me such a heavy debt;How can he ever make things right?
As the king bird feeds on the heart of the bee,So would I feed on the sweets of thee.
As the south wind kisses the leaf at will,From the leaf of thy lips I would drink my fill.
As the sun pries into the heart of a rose,I would pry in thy heart, and its thoughts disclose.
As a dewdrop mirrors the loving sky,I would see myself in thy tear wet eye.
As the deep night shelters the day in its arms,I would hide thee, dear, from the world's alarms.
Now do I know how Paradise doth seem,Now do I know the deep red depths of hell.Swift from those fair supernal heights I fellTo burning flames of hades, in a dream.Methought my ladye rested by a streamWhich rippled through the verdure of a dell.She lay like Eve; dear God, I dare not tellOf her perfections; of the glow and gleamOf tinted flesh, and undulating hair,Of sudden thigh, and sweetly rounded breast.Then, like a cloud, he came, from God knows where,And on her eyes and mouth mad kisses pressed.I fell, and fell, through leagues of scorching space,And always saw his lips upon her face.
Love is the source of all supreme delight,Love is the bitter fountain of despair;Who follows Love shall stand upon the height,Yet through the darkest depths, Love, too, leads there.
Courage needs he who would with bold Love fare,Let him set forth with all his strength bedight;Yet in his heart this song to banish care—"Love is the source of all supreme delight."
And he must sing this song both day and night,Though he be led down shadowy pathways whereBlack waters moan, through valleys struck with blight,"Love is the bitter fountain of despair."
Let him be brave, and bravely let him dareWhate'er betide, and feel no coward fright.Who shares the worst, the best deserves to share;Who follows Love shall stand upon the height.
Ah! sweet is peace to those who faced the fight,And bright the crown those faithful ones shall wear,Who whispered, when the shadows veiled their sight,"Yet through the darkest depths, Love, too, leads there."
To hearts that best know Love, his dark is fair,His sorrow gladness, and his wrong is right.All joys lie waiting on his winding stair;All ways, ail paths of Love lead to the light.Love is the source.
My ladye's eyes are wishing wells,Wherein I gaze with silent yearning;Deep in their depths my future dwells.My ladye's eyes are wishing wells,But not one sign my fate foretells,While my poor heart with love is burning.My ladye's eyes are wishing wells,Wherein I gaze with silent yearning.
Three things my ladye seemeth like to me—She seems like moonlight on a waveless sea.
And like the delicate fragrance, which exhales,When Day's warm garments brush the dewy vales.
And when my heart grows weary of earth's sound,She seems like silence—restful and profound.
The moon flower, grown from a slip so slender,Has burst in a star bloom, full and white.The air is filled with a perfume tender,The breath that blows from that garden height.Yet moments lag that should take their flightOn wings, like the wings of a homing dove,And the world goes wrong where it should go right,For this is a night that is lost to love.
Again, like a queen, who would rashly spend herDower of wealth in a single night,The proud moon seems, on her track of splendor,Enriching the world with her silver light.She flings on the crest of each billow a brightPure gem, from the casket of jewels above.But I sigh as I gaze on the glorious sight,"This is a night that is lost to love."
Oh, I would that the moon might never wend herWay through the skies in royal might,Till the haughty heart of my lady surrenderAnd the faithful love of a life requite.For the moon was made for a lover's delight;And grayer than gloom must its luster proveTo the soul that sighs under sorrow's blight,"This is a night that is lost to love."
L'Envoi.
Fate, have pity upon my plight,And the heart of my lady to mercy move.For the saddest words that youth can writeAre, "This is a night that is lost to love."
As the waves of the outgoing seaLeave the rocks and the drift wood bare,When your thoughts are for others than me,My heart is the strand of despair—Beloved,Where bleak suns glare,And Joy, like a desolate mourner, gropesIn the wrecks of broken hopes.
As the incoming waves of the sea,The rocks and the sandbar hide,When your thoughts flow back to me,My heart leaps up on the tide—Beloved,Where my glad hopes rideWith joy at the wheel, and the sun aboveIn a glorious sky of love.
There was a bard all in the olden time,When bards were men to whom the world gave ear,And song an art the great gods deemed sublime,Who sought to make his willful lady hearBy weaving strange new melodies of rhyme,Which voiced his love, his sorrow, and his fear.
Sweetheart, my soul is heavy now with fear,Lest thou shalt frown upon me for all time.Ah! would that I had skill to weave a rhymeWorthy to win the favor of thine ear.Tho' all the world were deaf, if thou didst hearAnd smile, my song would seem to me sublime.
But ah! too vast, too awful and sublime,Is my great passion, born of grief and fear,To clothe in verse. Why, if the world could hearAnd understand my love, then for all time,So long as there was sound or listening ear,All space would ring and echo with my rhyme.
Such passion seems belittled by a rhyme—It needs the voice of nature. The sublime,Loud thunder crash, that hurts the startled ear,And stirs the heart with awe, akin to fear,The weird, wild winds of equinoctial time;These voices tell my love, wouldst thou but hear.
And listening at the flood tides, thou might'st hearThe love I bear thee surging through the rhymeOf breaking billows, many a moon full time.Why, I have heard thee call the sea sublime,When every wave but voiced the anguished fearOf my man's heart to thy unconscious ear.
Vain, then, the hope that thou wilt lend thine earTo any song of mine, or deign to hearMy lays of longing or my strains of fear.Vain is the hope to weave for thee a rhyme,Or sweet or sad, or subtle or sublime,Which wins thy gracious favor for all time.
Oh, cruel time! my lady will not hear,Though in her ear love sings a song sublime,And my sad rhyme ends, like my love, in fear.
Bright like the comforting blaze on the hearth,Sweet like the blooms on the young apple tree,Fragrant with promise of fruit yet to beAre the home-keeping maidens of earth.
Better and greater than talent is worth,And where is the glory of brush or of penLike the glory of mothers and molders of men—The home-keeping women of earth?
Crowned since the great solar system had birth,They reign unsurpassed in their beautiful sphere.They are queens who can look in God's face without fear—The home-keeping women of earth.
A man whose mere name was submerged in the seaOf letters which followed it, B. A., M. D.,And Minerva knows what else, held forth at BellevueOn what he believed some discovery newIn medical Science (though, mayhap, a truthThat was old in Confucius' earliest youth),And a bevy of bright women students sat near,Absorbing his wisdom with eye and with ear.
Close by, lay the corpse of a man, half in view.Dear shades of our dead and gone grandmamas! youWhose modesty hung out red flags on each cheek,Danger signals—if some luckless boor chanced to speakThe words "leg" or "liver" before you, I thinkYour gray ashes, even, would deepen to pinkShould your ghost happen into a clinic or collegeWhere your granddaughters congregate seeking for knowledge.Forced to listen to what they are eager to hear,No doubt you would fancy the world out of gear,And deem modesty dead, with last century belles.
Honored ghosts, you, would err! for true modesty dwellsIn the same breast with knowledge, and takes no offense.Truth never harmed anything yet but pretense.
There are fashions in modesty; what in your timeHad been deemed little less than an absolute crimeIn matters of dress, or behavior, to-dayIs the custom. And however daring you mayDeem our manners and modes, yet, were facts fully known,Our morals compare very well with your own.
The women composing the class at BellevueWere young—under thirty; some pleasing to view,Some plain. Roman features prevailed, with brown hair,But one was so feminine, soft eyed and fairThat she seemed out of place in a clinic, as thoughA rose in a vegetable garden should grow.While her face was intelligent, none would avowThat cold intellect dwelt on that fair oval brow,Or looked out of the depths of those golden gray eyes,The color of smoke against clear, sunny skies.'Twas a warm woman face, made for fireside nooks,Not a face to be bent over medical books.There was nothing aggressive in features or form;She was meant for still harbors, and not for the stormAnd the strife of rude waters. The swell of her breastSuggested love's sweet downy cushion of restFor the cheeks of fair children. Her plump little hands,Seemed fashioned for sewing small gussets and bandsAnd fussing with laces and ribbons, insteadOf cutting cold flesh and dissecting the dead.And yet, as a student she ranked with the first.But conscience, in labor once chosen, not thirstFor such knowledge, had spurred her to action. This dayShe seemed inattentive, her air was distrait,As if thought had slipped free of the bridle and reinAnd galloped away over memory's plain.
It was true; it was strange, too, but there in the class,While the learned man was talking, her mind seemed to passOut, away from the clinic, away from the town,To a New England midsummer garden close downBy the salt water's edge; and she felt the wind blowingAmong her loose locks as she leaned o'er her sewing,While the voice of a man stirred her heart into song.She was called from her dream by the clang of the gongWhich foretells an arrival at Bellevue. The classWas dismissed for the day. In the hall, forced to passBy the stretcher (low brougham of misery), sheWhom we know was Ruth Somerville, looked down to seeThe white, haggard face of the man whom her mindHad strayed off in a waking day vision to findBut a moment before.
The wild, passionate cryWhich arose in her heart, was held back, nor passed byThe white sentinels set on her lip. The serene,Lofty look which deep feeling controlled gives the mienMarked her air as she turned to the surgeon and said:"This man lying here, either dying or dead,Was a classmate, at Yale, of my brother's; my friendIs his wife. Let me stay by his side to the end,If the end has not come."
It was Roger Montrose,Grown old with his sins and grown gaunt with his woes,Lying low in his manhood before her.
His eyesOpened slowly; a wondering look of surpriseMet the soft orbs above him. "Ruth—Ruth Somerville,"He said feebly. "Tell Mabel"—then sighed, and was still.
But it was not the stillness of death. There was lifeIn that turbulent heart yet; that heart torn with strife,Scarred with passion, and wracked by the pangs of remorse."Death's swift leaden messenger missed in its courseBy the breadth of a hair," said the surgeon. "The ballLies in there by the shoulder. His chances are smallFor a new start on earth. While a sober man mightHope to conquer grim Death in this hand-to-hand fight,Here old Alcohol stands as Death's second, fierce, cruel,And stronger than Life's one aid, skill, in the duel.You tell me the wife of this man is your friend?He was shot by a woman, who then made an endOf her own life. I hope it was not——" "Oh, no—no,Not his wife," Ruth replied, "for he left her to goWith this other, his victim—poor creature—they sayShe was good till she met him. Ah! what a black wayFor love's rose scented path to lead down to, and end.God pity her, pity her." "Her, not your friend?Not his wife?"
There was gentle reproof in the toneOf the staid old physician. Ruth's eyes met his ownIn brave, silent warfare; the blue and the grayAgain faced each other in battle array.
Ruth:
I pity the woman who suffered. His wifeGoes her way well contented. Love was in her lifeBut an incident; while to this other, dear God,It was all; on what sharp, burning ploughshares she trod,Down what chasms she leaped, how she tossed the whole world,Like a dead rose, behind her, to lie and be whirledIn the maelstrom of love for one moment. Ah, briefIs the rapture such souls find, and long is their grief,Black their sin, blurred their record, and scarlet their shame.And yet when I think of them, sorrow, not blame,Stirs my being. Blind passion is only the weedOf fair, beautiful love. Both are sprung from one seed;One grows wild, one is trained and directed. CondemnThe hand that neglected—but ah! pitythem.
Surgeon:
You speak with much feeling. But now, if the friendsOf this man are to see him before his life endsI recommend action on your part. His stayOn this planet, I fear, will be finished to-day.A man who neglects and abuses his wife,Who gives her at best but the dregs of his life,In the hey day of health, when he's drained his last cupHas a fashion of wanting to settle things up.Craves forgiveness, and hopes with a few final tearsTo wash out the sins and the insults of years.Call your friend; bid her hasten, lest lips that are dumb,Having wasted life's feast, shall refuse her death's crumb.
Ruth:
There are souls to whom crumbs are sufficient, at leastThey seem not to value love's opulent feast.They neglect, they ignore, they abuse, or destroyWhat to some poor starved life had been earth's rarest joy.'Tis a curious fact that love's banqueting tableFull often is spread for the guest the least ableTo do the feast justice. The gods take delightIn offering crusts to the starved appetiteAnd rich fruits, to the sated or sickly.
The eyesOf the surgeon were fixed on Ruth's face with a wiseKnowing look in their depths, and he said to himself,"There's a mystery here which young Cupid, sly elf,Could account for. I judge by her voice and her faceThat the wife of this man holds no very warm placeIn Miss Somerville's heart, though she names her as friend.Ah, full many a drama has come to an end'Neath the walls of Bellevue, and the curtain will fallOn one actor to-night; though the audience call,He will make no response, once he passes from view,For Death is the prompter who gives him the cue."
The wisest minds err. When a clergyman triesTo tell a man where he will go when he dies,Or when a physician makes bold to averJust the length of a life here, both usually err.So it is not surprising that Roger, at dawn,Sat propped up by pillows, still haggard and wan,But seemingly stronger, and eager to tellHis story to Ruth ere the death shadows fell.
"If I go before Mabel can reach me," he sighed,"Tell her this: that my heart was all hers when I died,Was all hers while I lived. Ah! I see how you start,But that other—God pity her—not with my heart,But my sensual senses I loved her. The fireOf her glance blinded men to all things save desire.It called to the beast chained within us. Her lipsHeld the nectar that makes a man mad when he sips.Her touch was delirium. In the fierce joysOf her kisses there lurked the fell curse which destroysAll such rapture—satiety. When passion dies,And the mind finds no pleasure, the spirit no tiesTo replace it, disgust digs its grave. Ay! disgustIs ever the sexton who buries dead lust.
When two people wander from virtue's straight track,One always grows weary and longs to go back.Well, I wearied. God knows how I struggled to hideThe truth from the poor, erring soul at my side.And God knows how I hated my life when I firstFound that passion's mad potion had palled on my thirst.Once false to my virtues, now false to my sin,I seemed less to myself than I ever had been.We parted. This bullet hole here in my breastProceeds with the story and tells you the rest.She smiled, I remember, in saying adieu:Then two swift, sharp reports—and I woke in BellevueWith one ball in my breast.
Ruth:
And the other in hers.No more with wild sorrow that sad bosom stirs.She is dead, sir, the woman you led to her ruin.
Roger:
The woman led me. Ah! not all the undoingIn these matters lies at man's door. In the mindOf full many a so-called chaste woman we findUnchaste longings. The world heaps on man its abuseWhen he woos without wedding; yet women seduceAnd betray us; they lure us and lead us to shame;As they share in the sin, let them share in the blame.
Ruth:
Hush! the woman is dead.
Roger:
And I dying. But truthIs not changed by the death of two people! Oh, Ruth,Be just ere you judge me! the death of my childHalf unbalanced my reason; weak, wretched and wildWith drink and with sorrows, the devil's own chanceFlung me down by the side of a woman whose glanceWas an opiate, lulling the conscience. I fell,With the woman who tempted me, down to dark hell.In the honey of sin hides the sting of the bee.The honey soon sated—the sting stayed with me.Like a damned soul I looked from my Hades, aboveTo the world I had left, and I craved the pure loveThat but late had seemed cold, unresponsive. Her eyes,Mabel's eyes, shone in dreams from the far distant skiesOf the lost world of goodness and virtue. Like oneWho is burning with thirst 'neath a hot desert sun,I longed for her kiss, cool, reluctant, but pure.Ah! man's love for good women alone can endure,For virtue is God, the Eternal. The restIs but chaos. The worst must give way to the best.Tell Mabel—Ruth, Ruth, she is here, oh thank God.
She stood, like a violet sprung from the sod,By his bedside; pale, beautiful, dewy with tears.The spectre of death bridged the chasm of years:He sighed on her bosom. "Forgive, oh forgive!"She kissed his pale forehead and answered him: "Live,Live, my husband! oh plead with the angels to stayUntil God, too, has pardoned your sins. Let us pray."
Ruth slipped from the room all unnoticed. She seemedLike a sleeper who wakens and knows he has dreamedAnd is dazed with reality. On, as if ledBy some presence unseen, to the inn of the deadShe passed swiftly; the pale silent guest whom she soughtLay alone on her narrow and unadorned cot.No hand had placed blossoms about her; no tearOf love or of sorrow had hallowed that bier.The desperate smile life had left on her faceDeath retained; but he touched, too, her brow with a graceAnd a radiance, subtle, mysterious. UnderThe half drooping lids lay a look of strange wonder,As if on the sight of those sorrowing eyesThe unexplored country had dawned with surprise.
The pure, living woman leaned over the dead,Lovely sinner, and kissed her. "God rest you," she said."Poor suffering soul, you were forged in that SourceWhere the lightnings are fashioned. Love guided, your forceWould have been like a current of life giving joys,And not like the death dealing bolt which destroys.Oh, shame to the parents who dared give you birth,To live and to love and to suffer on earth,With the serious lessons of life unexplained,And your passionate nature untaught and untrained.You would not lie here in your youth and your beautyIf your mother had known what was motherhood's duty.The age calls to woman, "Go, broaden your lives,"While for lack of good mothers the Potter's Field thrives.But you, poor unfortunate, you shall not lieIn that dust heap of death; while the summers roll byYou shall sleep where green hillsides are kissed by the wave,And the soft hand of pity shall care for your grave.