His love for you comessecond?
His love for you comessecond?
His love for you comessecond?
The Maiden.
Would you haveA mortal love come first?
Would you haveA mortal love come first?
Would you haveA mortal love come first?
The Lady.
Sweet heart, I craveYour pardon. For your gentle Christian zealI thank you. Wear this gem—’twill make me feelThat I am something to you when we part.But what the “silence?”
Sweet heart, I craveYour pardon. For your gentle Christian zealI thank you. Wear this gem—’twill make me feelThat I am something to you when we part.But what the “silence?”
Sweet heart, I craveYour pardon. For your gentle Christian zealI thank you. Wear this gem—’twill make me feelThat I am something to you when we part.But what the “silence?”
The Maiden.
Ten months (they seem years!)Since Willie joined the army; and my heartBore it until his letters ceased; then tearsWould come—would come!
Ten months (they seem years!)Since Willie joined the army; and my heartBore it until his letters ceased; then tearsWould come—would come!
Ten months (they seem years!)Since Willie joined the army; and my heartBore it until his letters ceased; then tearsWould come—would come!
The Lady.
Why should the letters cease?
Why should the letters cease?
Why should the letters cease?
The Maiden.
I know not; I could only pray for peace,And his return. No doubt he could not write,Perplexed with many duties; his the careOf a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight,The new recruits are drilled.
I know not; I could only pray for peace,And his return. No doubt he could not write,Perplexed with many duties; his the careOf a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight,The new recruits are drilled.
I know not; I could only pray for peace,And his return. No doubt he could not write,Perplexed with many duties; his the careOf a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight,The new recruits are drilled.
The Lady(thinking).
Oh, faith most rare! (Speaks.) Had you no doubts?
The Maiden.
Why should I doubt? We areBetrothed—the same forever, near or far!—He knew my trustWas boundless as his own.
Why should I doubt? We areBetrothed—the same forever, near or far!—He knew my trustWas boundless as his own.
Why should I doubt? We areBetrothed—the same forever, near or far!—He knew my trustWas boundless as his own.
The Lady.
But still you mustIn reason have known something—must have heardOr else imagined—
But still you mustIn reason have known something—must have heardOr else imagined—
But still you mustIn reason have known something—must have heardOr else imagined—
The Maiden.
For three months no wordUntil this letter; from its page I learnedThat my poor Willie had but just returnedTo the brigade, when struck down unaware.It seems he had been three months absent.
For three months no wordUntil this letter; from its page I learnedThat my poor Willie had but just returnedTo the brigade, when struck down unaware.It seems he had been three months absent.
For three months no wordUntil this letter; from its page I learnedThat my poor Willie had but just returnedTo the brigade, when struck down unaware.It seems he had been three months absent.
The Lady.
—Where?
—Where?
—Where?
The Maiden.
They did not say. I hope to bear him homeTo-morrow; for in truth I scarce could come,So ill my mother, and so full my handsOf household cares; but, Willie understands.
They did not say. I hope to bear him homeTo-morrow; for in truth I scarce could come,So ill my mother, and so full my handsOf household cares; but, Willie understands.
They did not say. I hope to bear him homeTo-morrow; for in truth I scarce could come,So ill my mother, and so full my handsOf household cares; but, Willie understands.
The Lady(thinking).
Ciel!faith like this is senseless—or sublime!Which is it?(Speaks). But three months—so long a time—
Ciel!faith like this is senseless—or sublime!Which is it?(Speaks). But three months—so long a time—
Ciel!faith like this is senseless—or sublime!Which is it?(Speaks). But three months—so long a time—
The Maiden.
Were it three years, ’twould be the same. The trothWe plighted, freely, lovingly, from bothOur true hearts came.
Were it three years, ’twould be the same. The trothWe plighted, freely, lovingly, from bothOur true hearts came.
Were it three years, ’twould be the same. The trothWe plighted, freely, lovingly, from bothOur true hearts came.
The Lady(thinking).
And may as freely go—Such things have happened! But I will not showOne glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trustShe cherishes; as soon my hand could thrustA knife in the dove’s breast.(Speaks.) You’ll find him, dear;All will go well; take courage. Not severeHis wound?
And may as freely go—Such things have happened! But I will not showOne glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trustShe cherishes; as soon my hand could thrustA knife in the dove’s breast.(Speaks.) You’ll find him, dear;All will go well; take courage. Not severeHis wound?
And may as freely go—Such things have happened! But I will not showOne glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trustShe cherishes; as soon my hand could thrustA knife in the dove’s breast.(Speaks.) You’ll find him, dear;All will go well; take courage. Not severeHis wound?
The Maiden.
Not unto death; but fever boundHis senses. When the troops moved on, they foundA kindly woman near by Benton’s Mill;And there he lies, poor Willie, up aboveIn her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill:“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”—Here is his picture.
Not unto death; but fever boundHis senses. When the troops moved on, they foundA kindly woman near by Benton’s Mill;And there he lies, poor Willie, up aboveIn her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill:“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”—Here is his picture.
Not unto death; but fever boundHis senses. When the troops moved on, they foundA kindly woman near by Benton’s Mill;And there he lies, poor Willie, up aboveIn her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill:“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”—Here is his picture.
The Lady.
What! ’tis Meredith!The girl is mad!—Give it me forthwith!How came you by it?
What! ’tis Meredith!The girl is mad!—Give it me forthwith!How came you by it?
What! ’tis Meredith!The girl is mad!—Give it me forthwith!How came you by it?
The Maiden.
Madam, you will breakThe chain. I beg—
Madam, you will breakThe chain. I beg—
Madam, you will breakThe chain. I beg—
The Lady.
Here is some strange mistake.This picture shows me Meredith Reid.
Here is some strange mistake.This picture shows me Meredith Reid.
Here is some strange mistake.This picture shows me Meredith Reid.
The Maiden.
Yes, ReidIs Willie’s name; and Meredith, indeed,Is his name also—Meredith Wilmer. ILike not long names, so gave him, lovingly,The pet name Willie.
Yes, ReidIs Willie’s name; and Meredith, indeed,Is his name also—Meredith Wilmer. ILike not long names, so gave him, lovingly,The pet name Willie.
Yes, ReidIs Willie’s name; and Meredith, indeed,Is his name also—Meredith Wilmer. ILike not long names, so gave him, lovingly,The pet name Willie.
The Lady.
O ye Powers above!The “pet name Willie!” Would you try to chainPhœbus Apollo with your baby-loveAnd baby-titles? Scarce can I refrainMy hands from crushing you!—You are that girl,Then, the boy’s fancy. Yes, I heard the taleHe tried to tell me; but it was so old,So very old! I stopped him with a curlLaid playfully across his lips. “Nay, hold!Enough, enough,” I said; “of what availThe rest? I know it all; ’tis e’er the sameOld story of the country lad’s first flameThat burns the stubble out. Now by this spellForget it all.” He did; and it was wellHe did.
O ye Powers above!The “pet name Willie!” Would you try to chainPhœbus Apollo with your baby-loveAnd baby-titles? Scarce can I refrainMy hands from crushing you!—You are that girl,Then, the boy’s fancy. Yes, I heard the taleHe tried to tell me; but it was so old,So very old! I stopped him with a curlLaid playfully across his lips. “Nay, hold!Enough, enough,” I said; “of what availThe rest? I know it all; ’tis e’er the sameOld story of the country lad’s first flameThat burns the stubble out. Now by this spellForget it all.” He did; and it was wellHe did.
O ye Powers above!The “pet name Willie!” Would you try to chainPhœbus Apollo with your baby-loveAnd baby-titles? Scarce can I refrainMy hands from crushing you!—You are that girl,Then, the boy’s fancy. Yes, I heard the taleHe tried to tell me; but it was so old,So very old! I stopped him with a curlLaid playfully across his lips. “Nay, hold!Enough, enough,” I said; “of what availThe rest? I know it all; ’tis e’er the sameOld story of the country lad’s first flameThat burns the stubble out. Now by this spellForget it all.” He did; and it was wellHe did.
The Maiden.
Never! oh, never! Though you proveThe whole as clear as light, I’d ne’er receiveOne word. As in my life, so I believeIn Willie!
Never! oh, never! Though you proveThe whole as clear as light, I’d ne’er receiveOne word. As in my life, so I believeIn Willie!
Never! oh, never! Though you proveThe whole as clear as light, I’d ne’er receiveOne word. As in my life, so I believeIn Willie!
The Lady.
Fool and blind! your God aboveKnows that I lie not when I say that heYou dwarf with your weak names is mine, mine, mine!He worships me—dost hear? He worshipsme,Me only! What art thou, a feeble child,Thatthoushouldst speak of loving? Haste, aside,Lest we should drown you in the torrent wildOf our strong meeting loves, that may not bideNor know your dying, even; feeble weedTossed on the shore—[The maiden faints.Why could I not divineThe truth at first? [Fans her.Fierce love, why shouldst thou killThis little one? The child hath done no ill,Poor wounded, broken blossom. I should pourMy gentlest pity—
Fool and blind! your God aboveKnows that I lie not when I say that heYou dwarf with your weak names is mine, mine, mine!He worships me—dost hear? He worshipsme,Me only! What art thou, a feeble child,Thatthoushouldst speak of loving? Haste, aside,Lest we should drown you in the torrent wildOf our strong meeting loves, that may not bideNor know your dying, even; feeble weedTossed on the shore—[The maiden faints.Why could I not divineThe truth at first? [Fans her.Fierce love, why shouldst thou killThis little one? The child hath done no ill,Poor wounded, broken blossom. I should pourMy gentlest pity—
Fool and blind! your God aboveKnows that I lie not when I say that heYou dwarf with your weak names is mine, mine, mine!He worships me—dost hear? He worshipsme,Me only! What art thou, a feeble child,Thatthoushouldst speak of loving? Haste, aside,Lest we should drown you in the torrent wildOf our strong meeting loves, that may not bideNor know your dying, even; feeble weedTossed on the shore—[The maiden faints.Why could I not divineThe truth at first? [Fans her.Fierce love, why shouldst thou killThis little one? The child hath done no ill,Poor wounded, broken blossom. I should pourMy gentlest pity—
The Maiden(recovering).
Madam, thanks; no moreDo I require your aid.
Madam, thanks; no moreDo I require your aid.
Madam, thanks; no moreDo I require your aid.
The Lady(aside).
How calm she seems,How cold her far-off eyes! Poor little heart.The pity of it! all its happy dreams,With a whole life’s idolatry to partIn one short moment.(Speaks.) Child, let us be friends;Not ours the fault, it is the work of Fate.And now, before your hapless journey ends,Say, in sweet charity, you do not hateMe for my love. Trust me, I’ll tend him well;As mine own heart’s blood, will I care for himTill strong again. Then shall he come and tellThe whole to you—the cup from dregs to brim—How, with undoubting faithIn the young fancy that he thought was loveFor you, he came a-down the glittering pathOf Washington society; aboveThe throng I saw his noble Saxon head,Sunny with curls, towering among the restIn calm security—scorn that is bredOf virtue, and that largeness which your WestWith its wide sweep of fields gives to her sons—A certain careless largeness in the look,As though a thousand prairie-miles it tookWithin its easy range.Ah! blindly runsOur fate. We met, we two so far apartIn every thought, in life, in soul, in heart—Our very beings clashed. He, fair, severe;I, dark and free; his days a routine clear,Lighted by conscience; I, in waking dreamOf colors, music, warmth, the scents of flowers,The sweep of velvet, and the diamond’s gleam,A cloud of romance heavy on the air,The boudoir curtained from the light of day,Where all the highest came to call me fair,And whispered vows I laughed in scorn away.Was it my fault that Nature chose to giveThe splendid beauty of this hair, these eyes,This creamy skin? And if the golden prizeOf fortune came to me, should I not liveIn the rich luxury my being craved?I give my word, I no more thought of time—Whether ’twas squandered, trifled with, or saved,Than the red rose in all her damask prime.Each day I filled with joys full to the brim—The rarest fruits and wines, the costliest lace,The ecstasy of music, every whimFor some new folly gratified, the graceOf statues idealized in niches, touchOf softest fabrics. Ah! the world holds muchFor those who love her; and I never heardIn all my happy glowing life one wordAgainst her, till—he came!We met, we loved,Like flash of lightning from a cloudless sky,So sudden, strange, the white intensity—Intensity resistless! Swift there movedWithin his heart a force unknown before,That swept his being from that early faithAcross a sea, and cast it on the shoreProne at my feet.He minded not if deathCame, so he could but gaze upon my face.—But, bending where he lay (the youthful graceOf his strong manhood, in humilityProne, by love’s lightnings), so I bended meDown to his lips, and gave him—all!Sweet girl,Forgive me for the guiltless robbery,Forgive him, swept by fateful Destiny!He spoke of one, the child-love of his youth;I told of my child-marriage. But, in truth,No barrier, had it been a thousand-foldStronger than boyish promise, e’er could holdNatures like ours!You see it, do you not?You understand it all.—I had forgot,But this the half-way town; the train runs slow,No better place than this. But, ere you go,Give me one silent hand-clasp, little pearl.I ask you not to speak, for words would seemToo hard, too hard. Yet, some time, when the dreamOf girlhood has dissolved before the heatOf real love, you will forgive me, sweet.
How calm she seems,How cold her far-off eyes! Poor little heart.The pity of it! all its happy dreams,With a whole life’s idolatry to partIn one short moment.(Speaks.) Child, let us be friends;Not ours the fault, it is the work of Fate.And now, before your hapless journey ends,Say, in sweet charity, you do not hateMe for my love. Trust me, I’ll tend him well;As mine own heart’s blood, will I care for himTill strong again. Then shall he come and tellThe whole to you—the cup from dregs to brim—How, with undoubting faithIn the young fancy that he thought was loveFor you, he came a-down the glittering pathOf Washington society; aboveThe throng I saw his noble Saxon head,Sunny with curls, towering among the restIn calm security—scorn that is bredOf virtue, and that largeness which your WestWith its wide sweep of fields gives to her sons—A certain careless largeness in the look,As though a thousand prairie-miles it tookWithin its easy range.Ah! blindly runsOur fate. We met, we two so far apartIn every thought, in life, in soul, in heart—Our very beings clashed. He, fair, severe;I, dark and free; his days a routine clear,Lighted by conscience; I, in waking dreamOf colors, music, warmth, the scents of flowers,The sweep of velvet, and the diamond’s gleam,A cloud of romance heavy on the air,The boudoir curtained from the light of day,Where all the highest came to call me fair,And whispered vows I laughed in scorn away.Was it my fault that Nature chose to giveThe splendid beauty of this hair, these eyes,This creamy skin? And if the golden prizeOf fortune came to me, should I not liveIn the rich luxury my being craved?I give my word, I no more thought of time—Whether ’twas squandered, trifled with, or saved,Than the red rose in all her damask prime.Each day I filled with joys full to the brim—The rarest fruits and wines, the costliest lace,The ecstasy of music, every whimFor some new folly gratified, the graceOf statues idealized in niches, touchOf softest fabrics. Ah! the world holds muchFor those who love her; and I never heardIn all my happy glowing life one wordAgainst her, till—he came!We met, we loved,Like flash of lightning from a cloudless sky,So sudden, strange, the white intensity—Intensity resistless! Swift there movedWithin his heart a force unknown before,That swept his being from that early faithAcross a sea, and cast it on the shoreProne at my feet.He minded not if deathCame, so he could but gaze upon my face.—But, bending where he lay (the youthful graceOf his strong manhood, in humilityProne, by love’s lightnings), so I bended meDown to his lips, and gave him—all!Sweet girl,Forgive me for the guiltless robbery,Forgive him, swept by fateful Destiny!He spoke of one, the child-love of his youth;I told of my child-marriage. But, in truth,No barrier, had it been a thousand-foldStronger than boyish promise, e’er could holdNatures like ours!You see it, do you not?You understand it all.—I had forgot,But this the half-way town; the train runs slow,No better place than this. But, ere you go,Give me one silent hand-clasp, little pearl.I ask you not to speak, for words would seemToo hard, too hard. Yet, some time, when the dreamOf girlhood has dissolved before the heatOf real love, you will forgive me, sweet.
How calm she seems,How cold her far-off eyes! Poor little heart.The pity of it! all its happy dreams,With a whole life’s idolatry to partIn one short moment.(Speaks.) Child, let us be friends;Not ours the fault, it is the work of Fate.And now, before your hapless journey ends,Say, in sweet charity, you do not hateMe for my love. Trust me, I’ll tend him well;As mine own heart’s blood, will I care for himTill strong again. Then shall he come and tellThe whole to you—the cup from dregs to brim—How, with undoubting faithIn the young fancy that he thought was loveFor you, he came a-down the glittering pathOf Washington society; aboveThe throng I saw his noble Saxon head,Sunny with curls, towering among the restIn calm security—scorn that is bredOf virtue, and that largeness which your WestWith its wide sweep of fields gives to her sons—A certain careless largeness in the look,As though a thousand prairie-miles it tookWithin its easy range.Ah! blindly runsOur fate. We met, we two so far apartIn every thought, in life, in soul, in heart—Our very beings clashed. He, fair, severe;I, dark and free; his days a routine clear,Lighted by conscience; I, in waking dreamOf colors, music, warmth, the scents of flowers,The sweep of velvet, and the diamond’s gleam,A cloud of romance heavy on the air,The boudoir curtained from the light of day,Where all the highest came to call me fair,And whispered vows I laughed in scorn away.Was it my fault that Nature chose to giveThe splendid beauty of this hair, these eyes,This creamy skin? And if the golden prizeOf fortune came to me, should I not liveIn the rich luxury my being craved?I give my word, I no more thought of time—Whether ’twas squandered, trifled with, or saved,Than the red rose in all her damask prime.Each day I filled with joys full to the brim—The rarest fruits and wines, the costliest lace,The ecstasy of music, every whimFor some new folly gratified, the graceOf statues idealized in niches, touchOf softest fabrics. Ah! the world holds muchFor those who love her; and I never heardIn all my happy glowing life one wordAgainst her, till—he came!We met, we loved,Like flash of lightning from a cloudless sky,So sudden, strange, the white intensity—Intensity resistless! Swift there movedWithin his heart a force unknown before,That swept his being from that early faithAcross a sea, and cast it on the shoreProne at my feet.He minded not if deathCame, so he could but gaze upon my face.
—But, bending where he lay (the youthful graceOf his strong manhood, in humilityProne, by love’s lightnings), so I bended meDown to his lips, and gave him—all!Sweet girl,Forgive me for the guiltless robbery,Forgive him, swept by fateful Destiny!He spoke of one, the child-love of his youth;I told of my child-marriage. But, in truth,No barrier, had it been a thousand-foldStronger than boyish promise, e’er could holdNatures like ours!You see it, do you not?You understand it all.—I had forgot,But this the half-way town; the train runs slow,No better place than this. But, ere you go,Give me one silent hand-clasp, little pearl.I ask you not to speak, for words would seemToo hard, too hard. Yet, some time, when the dreamOf girlhood has dissolved before the heatOf real love, you will forgive me, sweet.
The Maiden.
I fail to comprehend you. Go? Go where?
I fail to comprehend you. Go? Go where?
I fail to comprehend you. Go? Go where?
The Lady.
Back to your home; here waits the north-bound train;’Twill bear you safely. To go on were painMost needless—cruel.
Back to your home; here waits the north-bound train;’Twill bear you safely. To go on were painMost needless—cruel.
Back to your home; here waits the north-bound train;’Twill bear you safely. To go on were painMost needless—cruel.
The Maiden.
I am not awareThat I have said aught of returning. VainYour false and evil story. I have heardOf such as you; but never, on my wordAs lady and as Christian, did I thinkTo find myself thus side by side with oneWho flaunts her ignominy on the brinkOf dark perdition!Ah! my Willie wonThe strong heart’s victory when he turned awayFrom your devices, as Iknowhe turned.Although you follow him in this arrayOf sin, Iknowyour evil smiles he spurnedWith virtuous contempt—the son of prayers,The young knight of the church! My bosom sharesHis scorn; take back your ring, false woman. Go!Move from my side.
I am not awareThat I have said aught of returning. VainYour false and evil story. I have heardOf such as you; but never, on my wordAs lady and as Christian, did I thinkTo find myself thus side by side with oneWho flaunts her ignominy on the brinkOf dark perdition!Ah! my Willie wonThe strong heart’s victory when he turned awayFrom your devices, as Iknowhe turned.Although you follow him in this arrayOf sin, Iknowyour evil smiles he spurnedWith virtuous contempt—the son of prayers,The young knight of the church! My bosom sharesHis scorn; take back your ring, false woman. Go!Move from my side.
I am not awareThat I have said aught of returning. VainYour false and evil story. I have heardOf such as you; but never, on my wordAs lady and as Christian, did I thinkTo find myself thus side by side with oneWho flaunts her ignominy on the brinkOf dark perdition!Ah! my Willie wonThe strong heart’s victory when he turned awayFrom your devices, as Iknowhe turned.Although you follow him in this arrayOf sin, Iknowyour evil smiles he spurnedWith virtuous contempt—the son of prayers,The young knight of the church! My bosom sharesHis scorn; take back your ring, false woman. Go!Move from my side.
The Lady.
Dear Heaven, now I knowHow pitiless these Christians!Unfledged girl,Your little, narrow, pharisaic prideDeserves no pity; jealousy’s wild whirlExcuse might be, since that is born of love;Butthisis scorn, and, by the God above,I’ll set you in your place!DoyoudecideThe right and wrong for this broad world of ours,Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyesVeiled o’er with prejudice are yet so wiseThat they must judge the earth, and call it goodOr evil as it follows their small rules,The petty, narrow dogmas of the schoolsThat hang on Calvin!Doubtless prairie-flowersEsteem the hot-house roses evil all;But yet I think not that the roses shouldGo into mourning therefor!Oh, the small,Most small foundation for a vast conceit!Is it a merit that you never learnedBut one side of this life? Because you dweltDown in a dell, there were no uplands sweet,No breezy mountain-tops?Younever yearnedFor freedom, born a slave! You never feltThe thrill of rapture, the wild ecstasyOf mere existence that strong natures know,The deep and long-drawn breaths, the burning glowOf blood that sunward leaps; but, in your dell,You said: “This is the world. If all, like me,Walked on this one straight line, all would go well!”O fool! O blind!O little ant toiling along the ground!You cannot see the eagle on the windSoaring aloft; and so you go your roundAnd measure out the earth with your small line,An inch for all infinity! “Thus mineDoth make the measure; thus it is.”Proud girl!You call me evil. There is not a curlIn all this loosened hair which is not freeFrom sin as your smooth locks. Turn; look at me!I flout you with my beauty! From my youthBeside my mother’s chair, by God’s own truth,I’ve led a life as sinless as your own.Your innocence is ignorance; but IHave seen the Tempter on his shining throne,And said him nay. You craven weaklings dieFrom fear of dangers I have faced! I holdThose lives far nobler that contend and winThe close, hard fight with beautiful, fierce Sin,Than those that go untempted to their graves,Deeming the ignorance that haply savesTheir souls, some splendid wisdom of their own!You foldYourself in scornful silence? I could smile,O childish heart, so free from worldly guile,Were I not angered by your littleness.You judge my dressThe garb of sin? Listen. I sat and heardThe opera; by chance there fell a wordBehind me from a group of men who fillNight after night my box. My heart stood still.I asked—they told the name. “Wounded,” they said,“A letter in the journal here.” I read,Faced them with level eyes; they did not know,But wondered, caught the truth, to see me goStraight to my carriage. “Drive! The midnight train.”We reached it, breathless.Had I worn fair white,A ballroom-robe, I’d do the same to gainOne moment more of time.
Dear Heaven, now I knowHow pitiless these Christians!Unfledged girl,Your little, narrow, pharisaic prideDeserves no pity; jealousy’s wild whirlExcuse might be, since that is born of love;Butthisis scorn, and, by the God above,I’ll set you in your place!DoyoudecideThe right and wrong for this broad world of ours,Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyesVeiled o’er with prejudice are yet so wiseThat they must judge the earth, and call it goodOr evil as it follows their small rules,The petty, narrow dogmas of the schoolsThat hang on Calvin!Doubtless prairie-flowersEsteem the hot-house roses evil all;But yet I think not that the roses shouldGo into mourning therefor!Oh, the small,Most small foundation for a vast conceit!Is it a merit that you never learnedBut one side of this life? Because you dweltDown in a dell, there were no uplands sweet,No breezy mountain-tops?Younever yearnedFor freedom, born a slave! You never feltThe thrill of rapture, the wild ecstasyOf mere existence that strong natures know,The deep and long-drawn breaths, the burning glowOf blood that sunward leaps; but, in your dell,You said: “This is the world. If all, like me,Walked on this one straight line, all would go well!”O fool! O blind!O little ant toiling along the ground!You cannot see the eagle on the windSoaring aloft; and so you go your roundAnd measure out the earth with your small line,An inch for all infinity! “Thus mineDoth make the measure; thus it is.”Proud girl!You call me evil. There is not a curlIn all this loosened hair which is not freeFrom sin as your smooth locks. Turn; look at me!I flout you with my beauty! From my youthBeside my mother’s chair, by God’s own truth,I’ve led a life as sinless as your own.Your innocence is ignorance; but IHave seen the Tempter on his shining throne,And said him nay. You craven weaklings dieFrom fear of dangers I have faced! I holdThose lives far nobler that contend and winThe close, hard fight with beautiful, fierce Sin,Than those that go untempted to their graves,Deeming the ignorance that haply savesTheir souls, some splendid wisdom of their own!You foldYourself in scornful silence? I could smile,O childish heart, so free from worldly guile,Were I not angered by your littleness.You judge my dressThe garb of sin? Listen. I sat and heardThe opera; by chance there fell a wordBehind me from a group of men who fillNight after night my box. My heart stood still.I asked—they told the name. “Wounded,” they said,“A letter in the journal here.” I read,Faced them with level eyes; they did not know,But wondered, caught the truth, to see me goStraight to my carriage. “Drive! The midnight train.”We reached it, breathless.Had I worn fair white,A ballroom-robe, I’d do the same to gainOne moment more of time.
Dear Heaven, now I knowHow pitiless these Christians!Unfledged girl,Your little, narrow, pharisaic prideDeserves no pity; jealousy’s wild whirlExcuse might be, since that is born of love;Butthisis scorn, and, by the God above,I’ll set you in your place!DoyoudecideThe right and wrong for this broad world of ours,Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyesVeiled o’er with prejudice are yet so wiseThat they must judge the earth, and call it goodOr evil as it follows their small rules,The petty, narrow dogmas of the schoolsThat hang on Calvin!Doubtless prairie-flowersEsteem the hot-house roses evil all;But yet I think not that the roses shouldGo into mourning therefor!Oh, the small,Most small foundation for a vast conceit!Is it a merit that you never learnedBut one side of this life? Because you dweltDown in a dell, there were no uplands sweet,No breezy mountain-tops?Younever yearnedFor freedom, born a slave! You never feltThe thrill of rapture, the wild ecstasyOf mere existence that strong natures know,The deep and long-drawn breaths, the burning glowOf blood that sunward leaps; but, in your dell,You said: “This is the world. If all, like me,Walked on this one straight line, all would go well!”O fool! O blind!O little ant toiling along the ground!You cannot see the eagle on the windSoaring aloft; and so you go your roundAnd measure out the earth with your small line,An inch for all infinity! “Thus mineDoth make the measure; thus it is.”Proud girl!You call me evil. There is not a curlIn all this loosened hair which is not freeFrom sin as your smooth locks. Turn; look at me!I flout you with my beauty! From my youthBeside my mother’s chair, by God’s own truth,I’ve led a life as sinless as your own.Your innocence is ignorance; but IHave seen the Tempter on his shining throne,And said him nay. You craven weaklings dieFrom fear of dangers I have faced! I holdThose lives far nobler that contend and winThe close, hard fight with beautiful, fierce Sin,Than those that go untempted to their graves,Deeming the ignorance that haply savesTheir souls, some splendid wisdom of their own!You foldYourself in scornful silence? I could smile,O childish heart, so free from worldly guile,Were I not angered by your littleness.You judge my dressThe garb of sin? Listen. I sat and heardThe opera; by chance there fell a wordBehind me from a group of men who fillNight after night my box. My heart stood still.I asked—they told the name. “Wounded,” they said,“A letter in the journal here.” I read,Faced them with level eyes; they did not know,But wondered, caught the truth, to see me goStraight to my carriage. “Drive! The midnight train.”We reached it, breathless.Had I worn fair white,A ballroom-robe, I’d do the same to gainOne moment more of time.
The Maiden.
And by what right—Are you his wife?
And by what right—Are you his wife?
And by what right—Are you his wife?
The Lady.
I am not; but to-nightI shall be, if I live. Your scorn, poor child,Is thrown away. Bound by his soldier’s oath,I would not keep him. No Omphale I,Though he be Hercules. We plighted troth,And then, when called, he went from me—to dieIf need be. I remember that I smiledWhen they marched by!Love for my country burnsWithin my heart; but this was love for him.I could not brook him, one who backward turnsFor loving wife; his passion must not dimThe soldier’s courage stern. Then I had wealth,The golden wealth left me by that old manWho called me wife for four short months; by stealthHe won me, but a child; the quiet planWas deftly laid. I do not blame him now.My mother dead—one kind thought was to saveMy budding youth from harm. The thoughtless vowI made was soon dissevered by the grave,And I was left alone. Since then I’ve breathedAll pleasures as the flowers breathe in the sun,At heart as innocent as they; red-wreathedMy careless life with roses, till the oneCame! Then the red turned purple deep, the hopeFound itself love; the rose was heliotrope.There needed muchTo do with lawyers’ pens ere I could giveMy hand again; so that dear, longed-for touchWas set by me for the full-blooming dayWhen Peace shall drive the demon War awayForever. I was wrong. Oh, let him live,Kind God! Love shall be wronged no more—no more.All my own heart’s life will I gladly pourFor one small hour of his.—Wait—wait—I flyTo thee, my love, on swiftest wings! Thy cryThe depths of grief too hot for tears doth move:“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”
I am not; but to-nightI shall be, if I live. Your scorn, poor child,Is thrown away. Bound by his soldier’s oath,I would not keep him. No Omphale I,Though he be Hercules. We plighted troth,And then, when called, he went from me—to dieIf need be. I remember that I smiledWhen they marched by!Love for my country burnsWithin my heart; but this was love for him.I could not brook him, one who backward turnsFor loving wife; his passion must not dimThe soldier’s courage stern. Then I had wealth,The golden wealth left me by that old manWho called me wife for four short months; by stealthHe won me, but a child; the quiet planWas deftly laid. I do not blame him now.My mother dead—one kind thought was to saveMy budding youth from harm. The thoughtless vowI made was soon dissevered by the grave,And I was left alone. Since then I’ve breathedAll pleasures as the flowers breathe in the sun,At heart as innocent as they; red-wreathedMy careless life with roses, till the oneCame! Then the red turned purple deep, the hopeFound itself love; the rose was heliotrope.There needed muchTo do with lawyers’ pens ere I could giveMy hand again; so that dear, longed-for touchWas set by me for the full-blooming dayWhen Peace shall drive the demon War awayForever. I was wrong. Oh, let him live,Kind God! Love shall be wronged no more—no more.All my own heart’s life will I gladly pourFor one small hour of his.—Wait—wait—I flyTo thee, my love, on swiftest wings! Thy cryThe depths of grief too hot for tears doth move:“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”
I am not; but to-nightI shall be, if I live. Your scorn, poor child,Is thrown away. Bound by his soldier’s oath,I would not keep him. No Omphale I,Though he be Hercules. We plighted troth,And then, when called, he went from me—to dieIf need be. I remember that I smiledWhen they marched by!Love for my country burnsWithin my heart; but this was love for him.I could not brook him, one who backward turnsFor loving wife; his passion must not dimThe soldier’s courage stern. Then I had wealth,The golden wealth left me by that old manWho called me wife for four short months; by stealthHe won me, but a child; the quiet planWas deftly laid. I do not blame him now.My mother dead—one kind thought was to saveMy budding youth from harm. The thoughtless vowI made was soon dissevered by the grave,And I was left alone. Since then I’ve breathedAll pleasures as the flowers breathe in the sun,At heart as innocent as they; red-wreathedMy careless life with roses, till the oneCame! Then the red turned purple deep, the hopeFound itself love; the rose was heliotrope.There needed muchTo do with lawyers’ pens ere I could giveMy hand again; so that dear, longed-for touchWas set by me for the full-blooming dayWhen Peace shall drive the demon War awayForever. I was wrong. Oh, let him live,Kind God! Love shall be wronged no more—no more.All my own heart’s life will I gladly pourFor one small hour of his.—Wait—wait—I flyTo thee, my love, on swiftest wings! Thy cryThe depths of grief too hot for tears doth move:“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”
The Maiden.
It was not you he called!
It was not you he called!
It was not you he called!
The Lady.
Ah! yes.
Ah! yes.
Ah! yes.
The Maiden.
He isNotfalse; I’ll ne’er believe it, woman.
He isNotfalse; I’ll ne’er believe it, woman.
He isNotfalse; I’ll ne’er believe it, woman.
The Lady.
HisThe falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptornBy the great flood, and onward madly borneWith the wild, foaming torrent miles away.—No doubt he loved the violet that grewIn the still woods ere the floods came; he knewNot then of roses!
HisThe falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptornBy the great flood, and onward madly borneWith the wild, foaming torrent miles away.—No doubt he loved the violet that grewIn the still woods ere the floods came; he knewNot then of roses!
HisThe falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptornBy the great flood, and onward madly borneWith the wild, foaming torrent miles away.—No doubt he loved the violet that grewIn the still woods ere the floods came; he knewNot then of roses!
The Maiden.
Cruel eyes, I sayBut this to all your flashings—you have liedTo me in all!
Cruel eyes, I sayBut this to all your flashings—you have liedTo me in all!
Cruel eyes, I sayBut this to all your flashings—you have liedTo me in all!
The Lady.
Look, then, here at my sideHis letters—read them. Did he love me? Read!Aha! you flush, you tremble, there’s no needTo show you more; the strong words blanch your cheek.See, here his picture; could I make it speak,How it would kill you! Yes, I wear it thereClose to my heart. Know you this golden hairThat lies beside it?
Look, then, here at my sideHis letters—read them. Did he love me? Read!Aha! you flush, you tremble, there’s no needTo show you more; the strong words blanch your cheek.See, here his picture; could I make it speak,How it would kill you! Yes, I wear it thereClose to my heart. Know you this golden hairThat lies beside it?
Look, then, here at my sideHis letters—read them. Did he love me? Read!Aha! you flush, you tremble, there’s no needTo show you more; the strong words blanch your cheek.See, here his picture; could I make it speak,How it would kill you! Yes, I wear it thereClose to my heart. Know you this golden hairThat lies beside it?
The Maiden.
Should he now confessThe whole—yes, tell me all your tale was true,I would not leave him to you, sorceress!I’d snatch him from the burning—I would sueHis pardon down from heaven. I shall winHim yet, false woman, and his grievous sinShall be forgiven.(Bows her head upon her hands.) O God let him dieRather than live for one who doth belieAll I have learned of Thee!
Should he now confessThe whole—yes, tell me all your tale was true,I would not leave him to you, sorceress!I’d snatch him from the burning—I would sueHis pardon down from heaven. I shall winHim yet, false woman, and his grievous sinShall be forgiven.(Bows her head upon her hands.) O God let him dieRather than live for one who doth belieAll I have learned of Thee!
Should he now confessThe whole—yes, tell me all your tale was true,I would not leave him to you, sorceress!I’d snatch him from the burning—I would sueHis pardon down from heaven. I shall winHim yet, false woman, and his grievous sinShall be forgiven.(Bows her head upon her hands.) O God let him dieRather than live for one who doth belieAll I have learned of Thee!
Train stops suddenly.—EnterConductor.
Conductor.
The bridge is down,The train can go no farther. Morgan’s bandWere here last night! There is a little townOff on the right, and there, I understand,You ladies can find horses. Benton’s MillIs but a short drive from Waunona Hill.—Can I assist you?
The bridge is down,The train can go no farther. Morgan’s bandWere here last night! There is a little townOff on the right, and there, I understand,You ladies can find horses. Benton’s MillIs but a short drive from Waunona Hill.—Can I assist you?
The bridge is down,The train can go no farther. Morgan’s bandWere here last night! There is a little townOff on the right, and there, I understand,You ladies can find horses. Benton’s MillIs but a short drive from Waunona Hill.—Can I assist you?
The Maiden.
Thanks; I must not wait. [Exit.
Thanks; I must not wait. [Exit.
Thanks; I must not wait. [Exit.
The Lady.
Yes; that my basket—that my shawl. O Fate!How burdened are we women! Sir, you areMost kind; and may I trouble you thus far?Find me the fleetest horses; I must reachWaunona Hill this night. I do beseechAll haste; a thousand dollars will I giveFor this one ride. [Exeunt.
Yes; that my basket—that my shawl. O Fate!How burdened are we women! Sir, you areMost kind; and may I trouble you thus far?Find me the fleetest horses; I must reachWaunona Hill this night. I do beseechAll haste; a thousand dollars will I giveFor this one ride. [Exeunt.
Yes; that my basket—that my shawl. O Fate!How burdened are we women! Sir, you areMost kind; and may I trouble you thus far?Find me the fleetest horses; I must reachWaunona Hill this night. I do beseechAll haste; a thousand dollars will I giveFor this one ride. [Exeunt.
A Soldier.
Say, boys, I’d like to liveWhere I could see that woman! I could fightA regiment of rebels in her sight—Couldn’t you?
Say, boys, I’d like to liveWhere I could see that woman! I could fightA regiment of rebels in her sight—Couldn’t you?
Say, boys, I’d like to liveWhere I could see that woman! I could fightA regiment of rebels in her sight—Couldn’t you?
The Others.
Yes—yes! [Exeunt omnes.
Yes—yes! [Exeunt omnes.
Yes—yes! [Exeunt omnes.
The Lady(thinking).
O fair Kentucky! border-land of war,Thou rovest like a gypsy at thy willBetween the angry South and stubborn North.Across thy boundaries many times from farSweep Morgan’s men, the troopers bold who fillOhio with alarm; then, marching forthIn well-drilled ranks with flag, and fife, and drum,From camp and town the steady blue-coats come,March east, march west, march north, march south, and findNo enemy except the lawless wind.No sooner gone—Lo! presto through the glenIs heard the midnight ride of Morgan’s men:They ford the rivers by the light of stars,The ringing hoofs sound through the mountain-pass;They draw not rein until their glad huzzasAre echoing through the land of the Blue Grass.—O lovely land,O swell of grassy billows far and near,O wild, free elms, whose swaying arms expandAs if to clasp me, hold my love as dearAs thine own son! I hasten to his side—Ye roads, lie smooth; ye streams, make safe the ford;O chivalrous Kentucky, help the brideThough thou hast wounded with thy rebel swordThe foeman bridegroom!. . . . . . . . . ..... Can it be that girlWho rides in front? I thought her left behindIn that small town.Ciel!would I could hurlThe slim thing down this bank! Would I could bindThose prim, long-fingered, proper hands of hersBehind her drooping, narrow-shouldered back,And send her home! A heart like that transfersIts measured, pale affections readily,If the small rules it calleth pietyStep in between them. Otherwise, the crackOf doom would not avail to break the cordWhich is not love so much as given wordAnd fealty, that conscientiousnessWhich weigheth all things be they more or less,From fold of ribbon to a marriage-vow,With self-same scales of duty. Shall I nowRide on and pass her—for her horse will failBefore the hour is out? Of what availHer journey?(Speaks.) Driver, press forward.—Nay, stop—(Aside.) O what a child am I to waver thus!I know not how to be ungenerous,Though I may try—God knows I truly tried.What’s this upon my hand? Did a tear drop?(Speaks.) By your sideBehold me, maiden; will you ride with me?My horses fleet and strong.
O fair Kentucky! border-land of war,Thou rovest like a gypsy at thy willBetween the angry South and stubborn North.Across thy boundaries many times from farSweep Morgan’s men, the troopers bold who fillOhio with alarm; then, marching forthIn well-drilled ranks with flag, and fife, and drum,From camp and town the steady blue-coats come,March east, march west, march north, march south, and findNo enemy except the lawless wind.No sooner gone—Lo! presto through the glenIs heard the midnight ride of Morgan’s men:They ford the rivers by the light of stars,The ringing hoofs sound through the mountain-pass;They draw not rein until their glad huzzasAre echoing through the land of the Blue Grass.—O lovely land,O swell of grassy billows far and near,O wild, free elms, whose swaying arms expandAs if to clasp me, hold my love as dearAs thine own son! I hasten to his side—Ye roads, lie smooth; ye streams, make safe the ford;O chivalrous Kentucky, help the brideThough thou hast wounded with thy rebel swordThe foeman bridegroom!. . . . . . . . . ..... Can it be that girlWho rides in front? I thought her left behindIn that small town.Ciel!would I could hurlThe slim thing down this bank! Would I could bindThose prim, long-fingered, proper hands of hersBehind her drooping, narrow-shouldered back,And send her home! A heart like that transfersIts measured, pale affections readily,If the small rules it calleth pietyStep in between them. Otherwise, the crackOf doom would not avail to break the cordWhich is not love so much as given wordAnd fealty, that conscientiousnessWhich weigheth all things be they more or less,From fold of ribbon to a marriage-vow,With self-same scales of duty. Shall I nowRide on and pass her—for her horse will failBefore the hour is out? Of what availHer journey?(Speaks.) Driver, press forward.—Nay, stop—(Aside.) O what a child am I to waver thus!I know not how to be ungenerous,Though I may try—God knows I truly tried.What’s this upon my hand? Did a tear drop?(Speaks.) By your sideBehold me, maiden; will you ride with me?My horses fleet and strong.
O fair Kentucky! border-land of war,Thou rovest like a gypsy at thy willBetween the angry South and stubborn North.Across thy boundaries many times from farSweep Morgan’s men, the troopers bold who fillOhio with alarm; then, marching forthIn well-drilled ranks with flag, and fife, and drum,From camp and town the steady blue-coats come,March east, march west, march north, march south, and findNo enemy except the lawless wind.No sooner gone—Lo! presto through the glenIs heard the midnight ride of Morgan’s men:They ford the rivers by the light of stars,The ringing hoofs sound through the mountain-pass;They draw not rein until their glad huzzasAre echoing through the land of the Blue Grass.—O lovely land,O swell of grassy billows far and near,O wild, free elms, whose swaying arms expandAs if to clasp me, hold my love as dearAs thine own son! I hasten to his side—Ye roads, lie smooth; ye streams, make safe the ford;O chivalrous Kentucky, help the brideThough thou hast wounded with thy rebel swordThe foeman bridegroom!. . . . . . . . . ..... Can it be that girlWho rides in front? I thought her left behindIn that small town.Ciel!would I could hurlThe slim thing down this bank! Would I could bindThose prim, long-fingered, proper hands of hersBehind her drooping, narrow-shouldered back,And send her home! A heart like that transfersIts measured, pale affections readily,If the small rules it calleth pietyStep in between them. Otherwise, the crackOf doom would not avail to break the cordWhich is not love so much as given wordAnd fealty, that conscientiousnessWhich weigheth all things be they more or less,From fold of ribbon to a marriage-vow,With self-same scales of duty. Shall I nowRide on and pass her—for her horse will failBefore the hour is out? Of what availHer journey?(Speaks.) Driver, press forward.—Nay, stop—(Aside.) O what a child am I to waver thus!I know not how to be ungenerous,Though I may try—God knows I truly tried.What’s this upon my hand? Did a tear drop?(Speaks.) By your sideBehold me, maiden; will you ride with me?My horses fleet and strong.
The Maiden.
I thank you—no.
I thank you—no.
I thank you—no.
The Lady(aside).
She said me nay; then why am I not freeTo leave her here, and let my swift steeds goOn like the wind?(Speaks.) Ho! driver—(Aside.) But, alas!I cannot.(Speaks.) Child, my horses soon will passIn spite of me; they are so fleet they needThe curb to check them in their flying speed.Ours the same journey: why should we not rideTogether?
She said me nay; then why am I not freeTo leave her here, and let my swift steeds goOn like the wind?(Speaks.) Ho! driver—(Aside.) But, alas!I cannot.(Speaks.) Child, my horses soon will passIn spite of me; they are so fleet they needThe curb to check them in their flying speed.Ours the same journey: why should we not rideTogether?
She said me nay; then why am I not freeTo leave her here, and let my swift steeds goOn like the wind?(Speaks.) Ho! driver—(Aside.) But, alas!I cannot.(Speaks.) Child, my horses soon will passIn spite of me; they are so fleet they needThe curb to check them in their flying speed.Ours the same journey: why should we not rideTogether?
The Maiden.
Never!
Never!
Never!
The Lady.
Then I must abideBy your decision.—Driver, pass.(Thinking.) I takeHer at her word. In truth, for her own sake’Twere charity to leave her, hasten on,Find my own love, and with him swift be goneEre she can reach him; for his ardor strong(Curbed, loyal heart, so long!),Heightened by fever, will o’ersweep all bounds,And fall around me in a fiery showerOf passion’s words.— And yet—this inner power—This strange, unloving justice that surroundsMy careless conscience,willnot let me go!(Speaks.) Ho!Driver, turn back.—Maiden, I ask again—I cannot take advantage. Come with me;That horse will fail you soon—ask; both these menWill tell you so.—Come, child—we will agreeThe ride shall count as naught; nay, when we reachThe farm-house, all shall be as though no speechHad ever passed between us—we will meetBeside his couch as strangers.(Speaks.) There’s defeatFor thee, O whispering tempter!
Then I must abideBy your decision.—Driver, pass.(Thinking.) I takeHer at her word. In truth, for her own sake’Twere charity to leave her, hasten on,Find my own love, and with him swift be goneEre she can reach him; for his ardor strong(Curbed, loyal heart, so long!),Heightened by fever, will o’ersweep all bounds,And fall around me in a fiery showerOf passion’s words.— And yet—this inner power—This strange, unloving justice that surroundsMy careless conscience,willnot let me go!(Speaks.) Ho!Driver, turn back.—Maiden, I ask again—I cannot take advantage. Come with me;That horse will fail you soon—ask; both these menWill tell you so.—Come, child—we will agreeThe ride shall count as naught; nay, when we reachThe farm-house, all shall be as though no speechHad ever passed between us—we will meetBeside his couch as strangers.(Speaks.) There’s defeatFor thee, O whispering tempter!
Then I must abideBy your decision.—Driver, pass.(Thinking.) I takeHer at her word. In truth, for her own sake’Twere charity to leave her, hasten on,Find my own love, and with him swift be goneEre she can reach him; for his ardor strong(Curbed, loyal heart, so long!),Heightened by fever, will o’ersweep all bounds,And fall around me in a fiery showerOf passion’s words.— And yet—this inner power—This strange, unloving justice that surroundsMy careless conscience,willnot let me go!(Speaks.) Ho!Driver, turn back.—Maiden, I ask again—I cannot take advantage. Come with me;That horse will fail you soon—ask; both these menWill tell you so.—Come, child—we will agreeThe ride shall count as naught; nay, when we reachThe farm-house, all shall be as though no speechHad ever passed between us—we will meetBeside his couch as strangers.(Speaks.) There’s defeatFor thee, O whispering tempter!
The Maiden(to the men).
Is it true?Will the horse fail?
Is it true?Will the horse fail?
Is it true?Will the horse fail?
One of the Men.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
The Maiden.
Madam, then with youI needs must ride.—I pray you take my shareOf payment; it were more than I could bearTo be indebted to you.
Madam, then with youI needs must ride.—I pray you take my shareOf payment; it were more than I could bearTo be indebted to you.
Madam, then with youI needs must ride.—I pray you take my shareOf payment; it were more than I could bearTo be indebted to you.
The Lady.
Nay—the sumWas but a trifle.(Aside.) Now forgive me, truth.But was it not a trifle to such wealth—Such wealth as mine?(Speaks.) Heard you that distant drumBorne on the wind a moment? Ah! our youthIs thrilled with the great pulses of this war.How fast we live—how full each crowded hourOf hot excitements! Naught is done by stealth,The little secrecies of other daysThrown to the winds; the clang and charge afarOn the red battle-field, the news that swaysNow to, now fro, ’twixt victory and defeat;The distant cry of “Extra!” down the streetIn the gray dawnings, and our breathless hasteTo read the tidings—all this mighty powerHath burned in flame the day of little things,Curled like a scroll—and now we face the kings,The terrible, the glorious gods of war.—The maid forgets her shyness; wherefore wasteOne moment when the next may call him forthNe’er to return to her? The dear old NorthMay take her lover—but he shall not goWith lips unkissed to meet his Southern foe;Her last embrace will cheer him on his roundNow back, now forth, over the frozen groundThrough the long night.—And when the hasty word“Only one day; be ready, love,” is heard,The soft consent is instant, and there swellsAmid the cannonade faint wedding-bellsFrom distant village; then, as swift awayThe soldier bridegroom rides—he may not stay.And she?—She would not keep him, though the tearsBlind her sweet eyes that follow him, and fearsCrowd her faint heart and take away her breath,As on her white robe falls the shade of DeathThat waits for him at Shiloh!O these days!When we have all gone back to peaceful ways,Shall we not find sweet Peace a little dull?—You do not speak.
Nay—the sumWas but a trifle.(Aside.) Now forgive me, truth.But was it not a trifle to such wealth—Such wealth as mine?(Speaks.) Heard you that distant drumBorne on the wind a moment? Ah! our youthIs thrilled with the great pulses of this war.How fast we live—how full each crowded hourOf hot excitements! Naught is done by stealth,The little secrecies of other daysThrown to the winds; the clang and charge afarOn the red battle-field, the news that swaysNow to, now fro, ’twixt victory and defeat;The distant cry of “Extra!” down the streetIn the gray dawnings, and our breathless hasteTo read the tidings—all this mighty powerHath burned in flame the day of little things,Curled like a scroll—and now we face the kings,The terrible, the glorious gods of war.—The maid forgets her shyness; wherefore wasteOne moment when the next may call him forthNe’er to return to her? The dear old NorthMay take her lover—but he shall not goWith lips unkissed to meet his Southern foe;Her last embrace will cheer him on his roundNow back, now forth, over the frozen groundThrough the long night.—And when the hasty word“Only one day; be ready, love,” is heard,The soft consent is instant, and there swellsAmid the cannonade faint wedding-bellsFrom distant village; then, as swift awayThe soldier bridegroom rides—he may not stay.And she?—She would not keep him, though the tearsBlind her sweet eyes that follow him, and fearsCrowd her faint heart and take away her breath,As on her white robe falls the shade of DeathThat waits for him at Shiloh!O these days!When we have all gone back to peaceful ways,Shall we not find sweet Peace a little dull?—You do not speak.
Nay—the sumWas but a trifle.(Aside.) Now forgive me, truth.But was it not a trifle to such wealth—Such wealth as mine?(Speaks.) Heard you that distant drumBorne on the wind a moment? Ah! our youthIs thrilled with the great pulses of this war.How fast we live—how full each crowded hourOf hot excitements! Naught is done by stealth,The little secrecies of other daysThrown to the winds; the clang and charge afarOn the red battle-field, the news that swaysNow to, now fro, ’twixt victory and defeat;The distant cry of “Extra!” down the streetIn the gray dawnings, and our breathless hasteTo read the tidings—all this mighty powerHath burned in flame the day of little things,Curled like a scroll—and now we face the kings,The terrible, the glorious gods of war.—The maid forgets her shyness; wherefore wasteOne moment when the next may call him forthNe’er to return to her? The dear old NorthMay take her lover—but he shall not goWith lips unkissed to meet his Southern foe;Her last embrace will cheer him on his roundNow back, now forth, over the frozen groundThrough the long night.—And when the hasty word“Only one day; be ready, love,” is heard,The soft consent is instant, and there swellsAmid the cannonade faint wedding-bellsFrom distant village; then, as swift awayThe soldier bridegroom rides—he may not stay.And she?—She would not keep him, though the tearsBlind her sweet eyes that follow him, and fearsCrowd her faint heart and take away her breath,As on her white robe falls the shade of DeathThat waits for him at Shiloh!O these days!When we have all gone back to peaceful ways,Shall we not find sweet Peace a little dull?—You do not speak.
The Maiden.
Madam, my heart is fullOf other thoughts.
Madam, my heart is fullOf other thoughts.
Madam, my heart is fullOf other thoughts.
The Lady.
Of love?—Pray—what is love?How should a woman love?—Although we hateEach other well, we need not try to proveOur hate by silence—for there is a fateAgainst it in us women; speak we must,And ever shall until we’re turned to dust,Nay—I’m not sure but even then we talkFrom grave to grave under the churchyard-walk—Whose bones last longest—whose the finest shroud—And—is there not a most unseemly crowdIn pauper’s corner yonder?—You are shocked?You do not see, then, that I only mockedAt my own fears—as those poor French lads sangTheir gayest songs at the red barricade,Clear on the air their boyish voices rangIn chorus, even while the bayonet madeAn end of them.—He may be suffering now—He may be calling—There! I’ve made a vowTo keep on talking. So, then—tell me, pray,How should a woman love?
Of love?—Pray—what is love?How should a woman love?—Although we hateEach other well, we need not try to proveOur hate by silence—for there is a fateAgainst it in us women; speak we must,And ever shall until we’re turned to dust,Nay—I’m not sure but even then we talkFrom grave to grave under the churchyard-walk—Whose bones last longest—whose the finest shroud—And—is there not a most unseemly crowdIn pauper’s corner yonder?—You are shocked?You do not see, then, that I only mockedAt my own fears—as those poor French lads sangTheir gayest songs at the red barricade,Clear on the air their boyish voices rangIn chorus, even while the bayonet madeAn end of them.—He may be suffering now—He may be calling—There! I’ve made a vowTo keep on talking. So, then—tell me, pray,How should a woman love?
Of love?—Pray—what is love?How should a woman love?—Although we hateEach other well, we need not try to proveOur hate by silence—for there is a fateAgainst it in us women; speak we must,And ever shall until we’re turned to dust,Nay—I’m not sure but even then we talkFrom grave to grave under the churchyard-walk—Whose bones last longest—whose the finest shroud—And—is there not a most unseemly crowdIn pauper’s corner yonder?—You are shocked?You do not see, then, that I only mockedAt my own fears—as those poor French lads sangTheir gayest songs at the red barricade,Clear on the air their boyish voices rangIn chorus, even while the bayonet madeAn end of them.—He may be suffering now—He may be calling—There! I’ve made a vowTo keep on talking. So, then—tell me, pray,How should a woman love?
The Maiden.