EARTH TO EARTH.

I prayForgiveness thus to leave you here so long;I did not mean it, but I swooned awayBefore I knew it.

The Lady.

Thanks. There was no wrong;I liked the vigil.

The Maiden(going to the bedside).

Sweet those eyes—the browHow calm! I would not bring life to him nowE’en if I could; gone to his God—at restFrom all earth’s toil.Dear love, upon thy breastI lay my hand; I yield thee back to HimWho gave thee to me; and, if thou hast wroughtWrong to our troth in deed, or word, or thought,I now forgive thee. Sleep in peace; the dim,Dark grave has its awaking.As the hartLonged for the water-brooks, so have I yearnedFor token, Willie, that thy love returnedTo me at last. Lo! now I can departIn peace.—My picture, letters! Thou wast true,Wast true to me, thank God!—(Turning.) Madam, to youI owe apology.

The Lady.

Never! But throwYour gentle arms around me—thus. And soGive me a blessing.

The Maiden.

But I’ve robbed you—youWho loved him also; though to me was dueThis love of his; at least—

The Lady.

Sweet doubter, yes;I grant thee all. But, as I kneel, O blessThis heart that bows before thee; all its sin—If it be sin—forgive; and take, withinThy pure love, me, thy sister, who must liveLong years—long years! O child, who dost forgiveMore than thou knowest, lay thy sister-handIn blessing!

The Maiden.

Though I do not understand,Yet will I thus content thee: Now the LordBless thee, and keep thee by his holy word;Be gracious to thee, that thy faith increase;Lift up his countenance, and give thee peace,Now and forever!

The Lady.

Amen. May it prove—This peace—what thou dost think it.

The Maiden.

I must go;The horses wait for me. Now that I knowHe’s safe with God, the living claim my care.—My mother—ah, full selfish was the loveThat made me leave her so; I could despairOf mine own self, if God were not so good,Long-suffering, and kind.O could I stay!But I must reach the train at break of day.I take my letters and the picture.—ShouldYour duties call you not so soon, oh wait,See his dear head laid low by careful hand,And say a prayer above the grave.

The Lady(aside).

O Fate,How doth she innocently torture—rackMy soul with hard realities! I standAnd hear her talk of graves!—O God, the black,Damp earth over my darling!

The Maiden(turning to the bedside).

Love, farewell!I kiss thee once.—Lady, you do not mind?It was but once. I would not seem unkind;I would not wound you needlessly.

The Lady(aside).

O swell,Proud heart, to bursting, but gainsay her not!

The Maiden.

I know full well that yours the harder lot,Dear lady; but, forgive me, he was mineLong, long before. It were too much to askThat I should not be glad his heart returnedTo me, his bride betrothed—to know he yearnedFor me before he died. I cannot maskMy joy because you loved him too.

The Lady.

Nay, thineAll joy that thou canst take; I would not robThee of one little hair’s-breadth.

The Maiden(laying her head on the pillow).

Oh, farewell,My love! my love! my love! [Weeps.

The Lady.

Child, do not sob.Come to me—let me hold you; who can tell,Perhaps he hears you, though so still. We’ll standTogether by his side—thus, hand-in-hand—And gaze on his calm face.

Woman of the House(below).

The wagon’s here.

The Maiden.

Alas! and I must hasten. Kiss me, dear;Indeed, I love you now.

The Lady.

And I have triedTo make you. [They embrace.—ExitMaiden.

The Lady(throwing herself down beside the body).

Meredith, art satisfied?

Wrappedin his cloak, they bore him forth at dawn,The soldier dead, dead in his gallant strength,Young manhood’s prime. The heavy fold withdrawnShowed his calm face; while all his rigid lengthLay stiff beneath the covering, the feetTurned up to heaven like marble. Breezes playedSoft in his curling hair, the fragrance sweetOf the wild-brier roses incense made,And one bird sang a chant.Yet recks it not,This quiet body going to its grave,Feet foremost, folded hands, if the storm raveOr the sun shine. Henceforth nor part nor lotHath it with men—the tale is told, all’s o’er;Its place shall know its step, its voice, no more;Its memory shall pass away; its name,For all its evil or for all its worth,Whether bedecked with reverence or blame,Shall soon be clean forgotten.—Earth to earth!The lady walked alone. Her glorious hairStill held its roses crushed; the chill despairThat numbed her being could not dim the lightOf all her flashing jewels, nor the brightSheen of her draperies.The summer sunRose in the east and showed the open graveClose at her feet; but, ere the work begun—Lowering the clay (O proud humanity!Is this thy end?)—she gentle signal gaveTo lay the body down, and, by its sideKneeling, kissed brow and lips, fondly as brideMight kiss; and, as she clung there, secretlyA shining ring left on the cold dead hand,And covered it from view; then slowly roseAnd gave them place.But ere the tightening ropeHad done its duty, o’er the eastern slopeRode horsemen, and the little group of thoseWho gazed, drew back, and eyed askance the band.They turned, they drew their reins—a sight to seeIndeed, this lady clad so royally,Alone, beside a grave.She raised her eyes,And the bold leader bared his lofty headBefore her to his saddle-bow; the guiseOf bold, rough-riding trooper could not hideThe gallant grace that thus its homage paidTo so much beauty. At his signal mute,The little band, Kentucky’s secret pride,His daring followers in many a raidAnd many a hair-breadth ’scape, made swift salute,And, all dismounting, honor to the deadPaid silently, not knowing ’twas their ownBullet by night that laid him there:—so strangeThe riddle of men’s life, its little rangeThick with crossed fates, though each one stands aloneTo mortal eyes.The rope slackened, the clayHad reached its final resting-place. Then sheWho loved him best, in all her rich arrayStepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands castThe first clod on his heart. “I yield to thee,Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fastAs sacred trust!‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!’”Then, rising, with her lovely face upturnedTo the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned,“I know that my Redeemer lives,” she said;“He that believes on him, though he were dead,Yet shall he live!”And so passed from their sight.The troopers ride away,On to the south; the men who fill the graveWith hurried shovelfuls in whispers say,“That’s part of Morgan’s band.” And one, a slave,Looks down the road, and mutters: “That was him—Young Cap’en Morgan’s self! These eyes is dim,But they knows Morgan! Morgan!—what! why, blessYour hearts,Iknow him, and I know Black Bess—’Twas Bess he rode.”And now the work is done;On from their northern raid the troopers passFleet to the south; the grave is filled, and goneEven the slave.Forever still, alone,Her letters and bright picture on his breast,Her sparkling spousal-ring on his dead hand,The golden-haired young soldier lies at restWhere o’er his head the steely shadows pass,Far in the fair Kentucky border-land,The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass.

The lady walked alone. Her glorious hairStill held its roses crushed; the chill despairThat numbed her being could not dim the lightOf all her flashing jewels, nor the brightSheen of her draperies.The summer sunRose in the east and showed the open graveClose at her feet; but, ere the work begun—Lowering the clay (O proud humanity!Is this thy end?)—she gentle signal gaveTo lay the body down, and, by its sideKneeling, kissed brow and lips, fondly as brideMight kiss; and, as she clung there, secretlyA shining ring left on the cold dead hand,And covered it from view; then slowly roseAnd gave them place.But ere the tightening ropeHad done its duty, o’er the eastern slopeRode horsemen, and the little group of thoseWho gazed, drew back, and eyed askance the band.They turned, they drew their reins—a sight to seeIndeed, this lady clad so royally,Alone, beside a grave.She raised her eyes,And the bold leader bared his lofty headBefore her to his saddle-bow; the guiseOf bold, rough-riding trooper could not hideThe gallant grace that thus its homage paidTo so much beauty. At his signal mute,The little band, Kentucky’s secret pride,His daring followers in many a raidAnd many a hair-breadth ’scape, made swift salute,And, all dismounting, honor to the deadPaid silently, not knowing ’twas their ownBullet by night that laid him there:—so strangeThe riddle of men’s life, its little rangeThick with crossed fates, though each one stands aloneTo mortal eyes.The rope slackened, the clayHad reached its final resting-place. Then sheWho loved him best, in all her rich arrayStepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands castThe first clod on his heart. “I yield to thee,Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fastAs sacred trust!‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!’”Then, rising, with her lovely face upturnedTo the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned,“I know that my Redeemer lives,” she said;“He that believes on him, though he were dead,Yet shall he live!”And so passed from their sight.

The troopers ride away,On to the south; the men who fill the graveWith hurried shovelfuls in whispers say,“That’s part of Morgan’s band.” And one, a slave,Looks down the road, and mutters: “That was him—Young Cap’en Morgan’s self! These eyes is dim,But they knows Morgan! Morgan!—what! why, blessYour hearts,Iknow him, and I know Black Bess—’Twas Bess he rode.”

And now the work is done;On from their northern raid the troopers passFleet to the south; the grave is filled, and goneEven the slave.Forever still, alone,Her letters and bright picture on his breast,Her sparkling spousal-ring on his dead hand,The golden-haired young soldier lies at restWhere o’er his head the steely shadows pass,Far in the fair Kentucky border-land,The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass.

The Lady(with an open letter).

Married! Nay, now the little vexing fearThat troubled the calm hollow of my griefWith its small aching is withdrawn, and clearThe certainty—she never loved him. BriefHer forgetting—brief!—But I will not chide;All happiness go with thee, gentle bride,And of my gold a sister’s share!To wedAnother, and once his! O golden headUnder the grass, how jealous is my heartOf thy remembrance! Yet I should be gladShe loved thee not, for then no evil partI played, e’en though unconsciously.Oh, mad,Mad, mad my love for thee! the same to-day—The same, the same. I could not be a wife—I could not stop the sun! No love but thee,My own, my own! no kiss but thine—no voiceTo call me those sweet names that memoryBrings back with tears. Ah! had I any choice,I still must love thee down beneath the sodMore than all else—though grandest soul that GodHad ever made did woo me. Love, my heartIs thine, and ever must be thine; thy nameIs branded there!Yet must I live my life.

Servant(announcing).

The Count.

The Lady.

Another? Ah! poor fools. The gameDoth while away my time. Yes, I do playMy part with smiles that are not wholly feigned,For life is strong, and I am young.—There reignedA queen once, who, though dead, could not lay downHer long-used sceptre; with her jeweled crownUpon her head, she sat and meted outReward and justice; nor did any doubtHer life was gone. Were not her robes the same—Her jewels bright? And had she not a nameBorne wide upon the winds for loveliness?She could not stop—she needs must reign—noblesseOblige! So I.But she—married! a wife!Who once was his! Oh, horrible! a lifeOf treason to his memory, a longLie! But, ah! no, she never loved him.IDo hold myself as his, and loyally,Royally, keep my vow.

Servant.

What shall I say,Madam?

The Lady(speaks).

Show in the Count.(Aside.) Ah! well-a-day!One must do something.

The Count(entering).

Madame, je viens—

The Maiden(rising from her knees).

Mymarriage-morning! Lord, give me thy graceFor the new duties of a wedded life.The letters have I burned;And now—the picture. Oh, dear boyish face,One look—the last! Yet had I been thy wife,Willie, I had been true to thee—returnedAll thy affection to the full.She saidLove was “a sacrifice.” It is; as—thus:Get thee behind me, Past! [Burns the picture.—Which one of usWas truest? But why ask? She wronged the deadWith many lovers—nay, her very dressShowed not one trace of sorrow.—I confessI never thought her fair, although the throngDo call her so, they tell me.—Long, how longI wore the heavy crape that checked my breath,And went about as one who sorroweth;And I did sorrow! Slow months passed, and IGave every thought to tearful memory;My grief grew selfish.Then—he brought his suit—My mother wept and prayed. What right had ITo crush two lives? If by the sacrificeI make them happy, is it not large priceFor my poor, broken years? How earnestlyI strove to do the right!The patient fruitOf years of prayer came to my aid, and nowI stand in bridal white. Lord, hear my vow:Oh, may I make him happy! Not a thoughtOf any other love shall mar the trothI give forthislife. Evils, troubles, naughtBut death, shall part us. Thus the marriage-oath.But after—then—O Willie!

The Mother(entering).

Art thou dressed?That’s well, dear one. Never has mother blessedA child more dutiful, more good.Come, love,The bridegroom waits.

THE END.

T W O W O M E N :

A POEM.

ByCONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

[REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.]

From the Springfield Republican.“Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson’s poem, ‘Two Women,’ begun in the January and finished in the February number ofAppletons’ Journal, is of such remarkable quality as to deserve a wider reading than it is likely to have. To read it in completeness gives one, beyond its faults—which are principally those of imperfect versification and a certain formality of phraseology—a sense of power in character-drawing (coloring enough, too, for that matter), in dramatic situation and in expression of deep emotions, which is rarely met with. The contrast between the magnificent woman of the world and the Puritan country-girl is done in true masterly way, and that the one should continue faithful to love through her life, though still reigning in social royalty, while the other marries as piously as she mourned, and puts away the dead youth’s memory forever—is perfectly true to their natures. To present such marked types in rivalry, and show the self-abnegation in the rich nature and the innocent self-absorption of the narrow nature, was well worth while. The poem would make quite a little book, and better merits such treatment than most verses that receive it.”From the New York Evening Post.“In the poem ‘Two Women,’ the first half of which appeared in the January number ofAppletons’ Journal, and the last half of which has just now come to us in the February number of that magazine, there is something, we think, which takes the piece out of the category of ordinary magazine-work, and entitles it to special attention. The poem is long enough, for one thing, to fill a little volume, if it were printed as it is the custom to print books of poetry, and while it is rugged, faulty, and in many respects defective, it is nevertheless strong, dramatic, and full of the flavor of the soil. The two women who gave it its name are types of two well-defined classes of American women, but they are sharply drawn as individuals also, and their characters are presented with a boldness and a degree of distinctness which is possible only at the hands of a writer of very considerable dramatic power.”From the Providence Journal.“A story in verse, which enchains the attention with fascinating power, ... produces an intensely emotional effect upon the reader, and at the same time an involuntary tribute to the originality and noteworthy ability of the writer.”From the Detroit Post.“One of the most powerful pieces of magazine-writing we have seen in a long time.... Shows a far-reaching knowledge of human nature, a dramatic grasp and force, and a power of description and expression seldom seen.”

From the Springfield Republican.

“Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson’s poem, ‘Two Women,’ begun in the January and finished in the February number ofAppletons’ Journal, is of such remarkable quality as to deserve a wider reading than it is likely to have. To read it in completeness gives one, beyond its faults—which are principally those of imperfect versification and a certain formality of phraseology—a sense of power in character-drawing (coloring enough, too, for that matter), in dramatic situation and in expression of deep emotions, which is rarely met with. The contrast between the magnificent woman of the world and the Puritan country-girl is done in true masterly way, and that the one should continue faithful to love through her life, though still reigning in social royalty, while the other marries as piously as she mourned, and puts away the dead youth’s memory forever—is perfectly true to their natures. To present such marked types in rivalry, and show the self-abnegation in the rich nature and the innocent self-absorption of the narrow nature, was well worth while. The poem would make quite a little book, and better merits such treatment than most verses that receive it.”

From the New York Evening Post.

“In the poem ‘Two Women,’ the first half of which appeared in the January number ofAppletons’ Journal, and the last half of which has just now come to us in the February number of that magazine, there is something, we think, which takes the piece out of the category of ordinary magazine-work, and entitles it to special attention. The poem is long enough, for one thing, to fill a little volume, if it were printed as it is the custom to print books of poetry, and while it is rugged, faulty, and in many respects defective, it is nevertheless strong, dramatic, and full of the flavor of the soil. The two women who gave it its name are types of two well-defined classes of American women, but they are sharply drawn as individuals also, and their characters are presented with a boldness and a degree of distinctness which is possible only at the hands of a writer of very considerable dramatic power.”

From the Providence Journal.

“A story in verse, which enchains the attention with fascinating power, ... produces an intensely emotional effect upon the reader, and at the same time an involuntary tribute to the originality and noteworthy ability of the writer.”

From the Detroit Post.

“One of the most powerful pieces of magazine-writing we have seen in a long time.... Shows a far-reaching knowledge of human nature, a dramatic grasp and force, and a power of description and expression seldom seen.”

One Volume. Cloth. 12mo.

D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers.

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