Harry

To one whose footsteps fall

Upon a mountain's height,

Earth must seem very small,

And heaven infinite.

Then why do misty tears

Conceal each lofty crest,

If earth so far appears,

So near the land of rest?

Hush! for the mists withdraw

The Hidden shines in bliss;

Who in a valley saw

A heaven-light like this?

I think when earth can speak

(She will one of these days),

That every mountain-peak

Will give a shout of praise.

I did not care for the song that I sang;

I was not thinking of mountains at all;

Tiresome and strange in mine ears the words rang—

'Heaven is infinite, earth is so small'—

Rang in that eerie monotonous way

Words sometimes will, when we don't will one bit.

Which proves they're alive—It is hard in the day,

But in the night who can battle with it?

And a little sob rose up in my throat—

'Harry, Harry, Harry,' thrill'd through the sob;

I touch'd the guitar, and its answering note

Came unexpected, and made my heart throb.

It was once upon a time,

Ere the roses bud and blow,

Underneath the scented lime,

Long ago, ah, long ago!

Is it I that was so fair,

When the sun is slanting low,

With a lily in my hair,

Ah, so very long ago?

Was my heart as light as this

Was the lily white as snow?

What a happy hour it is,

Long ago, ah, long ago?

Then the lily bloom'd to save,

Ere a tear had learn'd to flow

Now it lies upon a grave,

Ah, so very long ago!

While I sat singing, steps came on the path,

Outside the window—what marvel is this?

Steady and solemn, they make my heart wrath,

Steps come towards me, and they are not his!

Steps in the night time pass up to my door;

Then comes a knocking might waken the dead:

Instead of one Harry there must be four,

Only not one has his light springy tread.

My old nurse's son to sea ran away—

At a 'Norwester,' or gale from the South,

I've heard the poor woman tremblingly say

The sound 'brought her heart up into her mouth!'

I, little prattler, crouched down at her feet,

Would stop aghast in my innocent play,

Wondering, will she be able to eat,

Supposing her heart in her mouth shall stay?

Strange are our minds and their workings, I'm sure

Studying them might drive Solomon wild:

At the loud knocking, I ran to the door

With a sudden thought of that nurse and child.

I saw her rocking herself in her chair,

While the mad wind blew 'neath the stormy sky;

I saw the little child watching her there,

And knew, with a pang, that the child was I.

(Strange are the pangs, that, when life is most fair,

With not a regret to shadow the scene,

Seize on the heart with a sudden despair,

From a passing mem'ry of what has been.)

And while to the door I ran with a start,

Frighten'd to death at the knocking without,

I was thinking of my old nurse's heart,

And not of what all the noise was about!

Four men without peering sharply within;

One girl within looking out at the men;

Silence at first—you might have heard a pin

Drop on the doorsteps—silence—and then,

'What do you want?' cried the girl. She spoke loud,

In a voice that sounded unlike her own.

'We want Mr. Vane,' said a man, who bowed,

And uttered the words in a gentle tone.

They were very well dressed—they were not poor—

They had shining hats and cloaks wrapp'd about,

These men who stood at the happy hall-door,

Where Harry and I run in and run out.

(You want him? I want him, I might have said;

But only to say so seem'd like a sin):

'He is not within'; and I shook my head,

And while I yet spoke the men were within.

They did not appear to wish to intrude;

They did not attempt to frighten me now;

They did not push by me; they were not rude;—

But somehow they enter'd—I know not how.

'It's no use trying to 'ide 'im, my dear,'

Said one, in a really fatherly way;

'In course we knows that the gen'leman's 'ere;

And till he turns up we shall 'ave to stay.'

'The gentleman's here? but no one has come;

And no one can come—it is much too late.

Mr. Vane is out—he will soon be home;

But I really must ask you not to wait.'

The man laid a finger against his nose;

With a horrible slyness look'd at me:

'We understands all that 'ere, I suppose;

But you'd better come to terms,' said he.

I stared at the man with my vacant eyes,

That dreamily question'd him how he dared?

And suddenly saw, with extreme surprise,

It was a policeman at whom I stared.

The five of us stood in the pleasant hall;

And four were policemen, and one was I;

And Harry had never come home at all;

And the clock struck one with a gasping sigh.

My heart grew cold, and my courage ran down;

I pinch'd my finger—I tried not to scream—

I felt like a creature about to drown,

And I cried aloud 'It must be a dream!'

I angrily spoke,—and I spoke out loud;

I knew 'twas a dream and nothing in it;

I spurn'd the dream with a gesture proud,

And ordered myself to wake that minute.

Of course, I just fell asleep where I sat,

And this is a dream—yes I know it is—

But O it is stranger than dreaming, that

Harry has not waken'd me with a kiss!

I looked at the men, who are searching round,

And taking a note of all they can find;

Examining ceiling and walls and ground,—

—I am surely going out of my mind!

I said to myself in a coaxing way—

'I am wide awake, and he has come back;

Harry is acting a sort of a play:

He has dress'd himself up, and so has Jack.'

A glance or a signal dispers'd the men:

Two went upstairs, and another below;

The leader sat down in the hall; and then—

What am I to do? Where am I to go?

I rush'd to the door, and I flung it wide—

A frighten'd creature can anything dare—

And I saw the darkness that lay outside,

And I heard the silence—and nothing was there.

'Harry! Harry! Harry!' was all my cry,

As I stood alone at the open door;

And the night heard me—and so did the sky,

And the wind and the earth—and nothing more.

I turn'd from the door with a sad surprise:

I could call for my love and call in vain;

And I met that horrid policeman's eyes,

Keenly and quietly watching my pain.

He suddenly called for his men to come;

So they made their appearance one by one,

And he said, 'The gen'leman's not been 'ome,

And she 'asn't a notion what he's done.

And he won't come now, you may swear to that;

I rayther think he'll look arter a ship:

I rayther suspect we've been rayther flat,

And the gen'leman's given us the slip!'

With a regular march they trod the ground,

Suddenly left me alone in the hall;

In the dreadful silence that settled round,

Again I knew I was dreaming it all?

A voice that can banish my sleep I know;

I know a voice that could wake me if dead;

A loud cheery voice, but it might speak low,

And 'May, little May,' it whispering said.

I stand like a statue of silence. Hush!

I listen not with my ears, but my soul;

And I feel the sudden accustom'd blush,

As again the whisper reaches its goal.

I open the window. 'Mid blossom and bough

Of clustering laurel and Daphne white,

I am showering kisses on Harry's brow,

And dropping the first tears I've shed to-night.

His face is as white as the Daphne-bud;

He is hiding down on the hidden sward;

He is wan and haggard, and splashed with mud;

He is crouching frighten'd—my king and lord!

He whisper'd, and fill'd my heart with dismay,—

Scared by the sounds that used once to rejoice!—

O Harry, my Harry, speak loudly, I pray,

And not in that shocking whispering voice.

He whisper'd, 'I've got in a horrid scrape;

Fetch me some money, and bid me good-bye;

I must run away, and make my escape,'—

'I shall run with you, my darling,' said I.

'You cannot,' he murmur'd;—a speechless love

Shone out of his eyes; he return'd my kiss—

'I never intended—Great Father above,

You know that I never intended this.

Fetch me some money—the desk and the key—

You know them—be quick! or dearly you'll rue—

My life's in your hands!—have mercy on me—

Fetch me some money—It's all you can do.'

A horrible haste in manner and voice,

A desperate hungry imploring haste;

I rush'd up the stairs—I had not a choice,

And I snatch'd the notes from where they were plac'd

All that I had—to the window I rush'd—

With kisses and tears in his hands I laid;

He return'd the kisses, with lips that crush'd

Their vehement kisses on lips dismay'd.

He was almost gone; but I held him tight,

And cried in my anguish, 'You have forgot—

When shall I follow you, darling? to-night?'

He shook his head, and he answer'd me not!

He threw off my hands in a savage way;

He cried, 'I adore you,' in fondest tone;

'You shall follow me, sweet—I dare not stay—

I'll write to you, darling;' and he is gone!

O the weary, dark, impossible days,

That have dragg'd their lingering length since then!

O the cruel sunshine's merciless blaze!

O the unnatural faces of men!

I was told it all—it was all explain'd;

And they all declar'd that I understood;

But only one knowledge on earth remain'd,

I knew that Harry was noble and good.

They had dined together—together play'd,

Together quarrell'd—who cares about what?

And somebody, speaking about them, said,

'They were out and out a thorough bad lot!'

'They left the village, they rush'd to the cliff,

A dissolute crew that good Christians condemn'—

This is the way they keep talking, as if

I did not know Harry was one of them!

'Shouting and swearing, and heated and flush'd,

All talking together, and running pell mell,

Out to the cliff from the village they rush'd,

And two men were fighting, and one man fell.'

And the man who fell over the dreadful edge,

For ever lost, and for ever must be;

There was never a sandbank, rock, or ledge,

There was nothing but the pitiless sea!

I hear it said, without doubt or surmise,

Over and over and over again,

The man who was murder'd was Jack Devize,

And the man who murder'd him, Harry Vane!

I dream I am standing on purple heights,

Alone and alone for ever and aye;

The sun is shining with pitiless lights;

I pray that darkness may cover the sky.

I dream I am lying buried in sand,

Alone and alone for ever and aye;

Parch'd and dry is the terrible land;

I pray but for water before I die.

I dream I am tossing on ocean waves,

Alone and alone for ever and aye;

I shudder to think of the open graves;

Under daisy blossoms I pray to lie.

O daisy buds I am dreaming of you,

Alone and alone for ever and aye;

From a dream of daisies scatter'd with dew

I wake with a start, and a piercing cry.

Let me but dream of affliction and shame,

Of saints that punish and sinners that cower,

Of troubles by sickness and sword and flame,

And not of an innocent daisy flower!

I am haunted by words—by seven words—

Seven words echoing everywhere;

They are borne on breezes, and sung by birds,

They are written on earth and sea and air.

I think there is nothing else is my own;

I think there is nothing else is alive;

Seven words and I are always alone;

The world about me may hunger and strive.

I have heard that mystic meaning is hid,

I have heard that wonderful things are made,

Of the number seven—may God forbid—

For I cannot tell, and I feel afraid.

The sweetest poem that ever was writ—

Do you not know it?—is 'We are seven;'

For the dear little girl who talks in it,

Will not give up her brothers in Heaven.

What the stupid sense of the grown-up man

Urges, she cannot perceive; but prefers

The simple faith of her own sweet plan,

And the brothers in Heaven still are hers.

The very last day that Harry was here

I read him those verses, and Harry smil'd;

And we held some converse, divinely dear,

Which was all about that dear little child.

Is it for this that I think of it now?

Is it for this he let seven words fall?

O pulses are beating behind my brow,

And I think my heart is not beating at all!

And my brain, it keeps whirling round and round,

Like a sing-song wheel through a ship at night;

And the seven words that constantly sound

Are 'you shall follow me, sweet,' and 'I'll write.'

I wonder if I have been going mad,

In the strange wild world I am living in?

I think that I have—I hop'd that I had—

For I weary with wondering, what is sin?

There's blood on your hand—there's blood on your soul—

O lily-white hand—soul noble and true!

You murder'd him where the blue waters roll,

And he set the seal of his death on you.

I have sat so happily by your side,

I have lain so tranquilly on your breast;

But I think that you died, and I think that I died—

And death is the end of all, and the best.

It was God who created men and time;

And a better than you He could not need;

So if you did it, it was not a crime,

And if 'twas a crime, you did not the deed.

I am fighting with life, with death I strive;

Ready for neither; both crush with their might;

Only those seven words keep me alive—

You said 'you shall follow me,' and 'I'll write.'

They stealthily talk; I hear what they say—

Sharply she hears who each syllable dreads—

Glancing at me in significant way,

Touching their foreheads and shaking their heads.

'Mad?'—'not exactly—bewilder'd—confus'd;

Thoughts turn'd astray by grief's terrible force;

Not even by love is murder excus'd;

She cannot believe that he did it, of course.

She thinks him a hero, and so loves on;

Reason enthron'd would annihilate this;

Love would have nothing to nestle upon,

Did she perceive him the sinner he is.'

Words striking my brain like sunshine on ice,

Bursting the bulwarks that kept the flood in;

Is love only madness? Will reason suffice

To crucify love at the presence of sin?

Reason comes back with all honours she had,

Calmly accepting my life as it is;

I will not go mad—I dare not go mad—

I must prove love is not treason like this!

Is he not all that I thought him? Be still

O treacherous heart—then you were to blame:

I married my Harry for good or ill,

And through good and ill I love him the same.

If God died for us, and lay in a grave,

Leaving His mansions of glory for this;

It must have been from a longing to save

Such a noble sinner as Harry is.

In His own image created He him,

And He called man 'good' on the virgin sod;

And when He beheld His image grow dim,

He died to redeem it—the gracious God!

Rebuking myself with an angry pain—

What was I wishing for? What would I have?

A paragon fram'd by my shallow brain,

And not the sinner God died to save?

I have driven madness out of my brain,

Studying life with intolerant eyes;

Praying and weeping and praying again—

Earth is good for nothing but prayers and sighs.

We all are made up of follies and faults,

That, if time but serv'd, would lead us to crime;

And for every time my darling halts,

I am sure I have halted fifty times!

I am not blinded or prejudiced here;

I have sought the truth and found what I sought;

I know you were wrong, my Harry, my dear;

You should not have play'd and quarrell'd and fought.

Had you been here on that evening—a cry

Comes out of my heart as one grace I implore:

Let me not think of our evenings, or I

Shall suddenly die, and see him no more.

I know you were wrong, my darling; I know

That we all do wrong, and must all repent;

But this horrible depth of nameless woe

Was nothing on earth but an accident.

With your tender heart and your gracious way,

And your temper as gay as cloudless skies,

You would sooner have died that fatal day

Than taken the life of Jack Devize.

O tender heart, art thou lonely and cold,

With no one to comfort or take thy part?

O sweet gay words in the days that are old!

And oh, to be clasp'd to that tender heart!

I am so afraid that you feel remorse

For an end that indeed you could not prevent;

And I am not there to put gentle force

On what you should and should not repent.

I am so afraid that you grieve too much,

With a sorrow that nothing will stop or stay:

O Harry, don't let your sorrow be such;

O darling, you shall be happy some day!

They want to have you; they hunt you to death:

They cannot believe that you meant the deed!

Have they no sense? no perception? no faith?

Are they helmless boats, without God or Creed?

Waiting, waiting, waiting, Harry, for you,

While the dreadful days drag wearily by;

I cannot wait longer—what shall I do?

For till I have kiss'd you I cannot die.

Frighten'd at every movement or sound—

Every thing except one thing forgot—

Always in terror that you have been found—

Would the first moment be rapture or not?

Wandering aimlessly everywhere,

Upstairs and downstairs, from room into room,

Searching for nothing—for nothing is there,

Only the changeless impregnable gloom.

Stifled within, the cool gardens I seek;—

Like poor human souls the flowers all die;

Even the birds are refusing to speak,

Crush'd by the weight of a leaden-gray sky.

Is this the whole of it? is this the end?

Life finish'd off by a heartless Amen?

When will you write to me? when will you send?

When shall I follow you, Harry?—Ah when?

I wander'd far from my hateful abode;

The hour was becoming a little late;

Just there a gate open'd into a road,

And a boy was leaning upon the gate.

Faithful old Rover, who follow'd me out,

Went perfectly frantic beholding this boy,

Sniff'd at his coat, leaping wildly about,

And danced like a dog that dances for joy.

He was a stripling both slender and tall

(My idle eyes vacantly take the view),

His coat was too large, or he was too small,

His nose was a snub, and his eyes were blue.

Angry I felt to see Rover rejoice,

But he suddenly stopp'd, began to quake,

And howl'd in a most deplorable voice,

As if his dog-heart was ready to break.

Then the boy, stooping down, something slipp'd in

(The something was little and square and white)

Between the steel collar and hairy skin,

Saw that I saw it, and so took to flight.

Wagging his tail, a hurrah in each beat,

Expanding his chest with a gesture grand,

Rover ran back to crouch down at my feet,

Licking my eager incredulous hand.

It was in my hands—I tore it apart,

This letter that Harry had writ to me;

My head turn'd giddy, and so did my heart,

And turn'd my eyes blind that I could not see.

O wicked blind eyes, will you not be clear?

Have I not told you 'tis written by him?

'Tis a piece of Heaven I am holding here,

And my horrible earthly eyes are dim!

The cruel letters run out and run in,

Fluttering, tottering, stammering by,

Mixing together like threads that you spin,

Flying apart, as birds recklessly fly.

Is it for years that I helplessly stand,

While tremulous lights into shadows flit,

With a piece of Heaven held in my hand,

Which is mine—and I cannot enter it!

At last—O my wonderful dear at last!

Thou always comest, howe'er it is—

The senseless signs into symmetry pass'd,

For a few short seconds it must be bliss!

And so standing there in the twilight's fall

(What happen'd is nothing but what must be)

I read the first words that ever at all

My Harry (God bless him!) has written me.

'O Child, when my words your sweet youth beguil'd

I meant to make you the happiest child!

I meant that no earthly life should be known

As bless'd as the life I had made my own;

My weakness and follies I had forgot—

But you were happy with me, were you not?

I am not worthy my Love should come,

Forsaking for my sake her English home;

Exiled from all that is happy and good,

Caress'd by a hand that is stain'd with blood.

Your innocent face shall never be kiss'd

By him who his Heaven and Hope has miss'd!

I suffer for sin, as I ought to do;

But, my darling, it shall not fall on you.

'I am safely hous'd by a faithful friend,

And the letter I write his hands will send;

I'm at Clarendon Crescent, Liverpool

(I've told you, Love, of the dear old school);

Clarence will help me all ways that he can

(Though a good tutor, he is a good man).

I shall sail for another hemisphere,

Leaving behind me my anguish and fear;

Leaving behind me my joy and my grace,

I shall soon pass over limitless space.

'Could I but have seen you but once again!

It is hard to suffer and not complain!

'Tis my sin against you I most repent

(I did make you happy? you were content?)

'O fool, who possessing all man may win,

Could not keep his fool-nature free from sin!

Love must have changed to a useless regret;

You cannot forgive me—can you forget?'

Without an hour's or a minute's delay

All is arranged, I decide what to do;

My brain is at work, my heart is at play,

I am running, flying, Harry, to you.

O stricken woman, whose life is all black,

Wearily walking in sorrow and shame!

O gay little girl who comes running back,

You are not, I'm certain, one and the same!

The sky is hid in its lead-coloured pall,

Not a bird utters the least little tone;

The blossoms about me wither and fall;

The change must be in me—and me alone!

I tell them I cannot endure it more;

That the empty house is killing my heart;

They have done their best to assist before,

And they eagerly help me to depart.

The world is very good-natured, I find

(Why do worldlings often their home condemn?)

And servants are always extremely kind,

If mistresses only are kind to them.

'I go to London to meet a friend'—

They are all agreed I want change and rest—

I give a direction where they may send,

I take my own maid, and I leave the rest.

I know that detectives are on my track,

Watching the house—watching all that I do—

I have to pretend I am coming back,

And enact this drama, Harry, for you.

I am sorry to say goodbye to all—

For all had been kind in days that are dead;

But the only tear that my eyes let fall

Was dropp'd upon Rover's shaggy old head.

My London friend I can trust; she is one

That I knew at school, and have lov'd for years—

O happy school-days that are past and done!

O beautiful friendship, unsoiled by tears!

Restlessly, wearily eager am I—

(Do girls feel thus when about to elope?)—

I leave Harry's home 'neath a star-lit sky,

And my heart beats high with a single hope.

And my heart beats high with a single hope,

Which has come on a sudden when unsought;

In all the wide world there is only scope

For a single hope and a single thought.

O why should a wide world have more than this?

When after all has been done and been said,

'Tis a single grief or a single bliss

That rekindles a life or strikes it dead.

Clasp'd in her arms, with her tears on my cheek,

Her kind husband warmly grasping my hand,

In statue-like calm, I move not nor speak—

A silent machine for one purpose plann'd.

'O white little face,' she tremblingly cries,

'It cannot be yours, that white little face;

O when did you get those far-seeking eyes?

And the stillness in lieu of girlish grace?'

And looking at me she drew back alarm'd,

She felt that something divided us;

She, who lived the life of the happy charm'd,

And I, who am battling with fortune thus.

Out spake her husband—'I know what to do;

Put her to bed—she will wake by-and-by—

Then let her have, in the boudoir with you,

A hot cup of tea and thorough good cry.'

As a judge in court he summ'd up the whole;

I laugh'd my first laugh since the grief began;

For I thought, this is how a woman's soul

Is held at the hands of a worthy man!

I answer'd him with a sort of a scorn—

The least little bend from a haughty height—

'I left home last evening, was here at morn,

And shall be in Liverpool long ere night.'

They were startled, eager, anxious and kind

(They had read the papers and learn'd the fact),

But they question'd not, from the touch refin'd

Of a sweet good-nature that men call tact.

I told where he was—I trusted them both,

Sounding the depths of their souls in their eyes;

The man was too honest to need an oath,

And the woman too tender not to be wise.

They were ready to help with hand and heart

(And a kindness no balancing prudence bounds),

Fed me and petted me, let me depart,

And lent me at parting five hundred pounds.

We started as if for an airing gay,

No coachman or footman, not even Jane;

The husband drove us the whole of the way,

And saw me safe in the Liverpool train.

The tears of my friend lie wet on my cheek,

I pointed onward, and wistfully smil'd;

Her husband smil'd too, though he did not speak

And kiss'd me as if I had been his child.

Never a slumber the whole of the night,

Never a slumber with day in the skies;

Nature assumes preternatural light,

Set in sharp outlines that dazzle my eyes.

Blackness and whiteness—no colour there is—

Terrible contrast of lustre and shade—

Yet no surprise thrills my spirit at this

Wonderful world into silhouettes made.

Countries and cities rush hastily by,

Hedgerows and forests excitedly fly;

Rapidly earth pirouettes through the sky;

All things are madly in motion, but I—

If they would stop for one minute, but one,

Thought might return from spheres distant and dim;

Thought has forsaken me; I am alone,

With but one consciousness—nothing but him.

We have reach'd the station—the train is left:

What I am doing I know must be done;

I am a creature whose body's bereft

Of all sensations and feelings save one.

I don't think I see the streets and the lights,

Or hear the answers my questions brought;

Yet something guides me, and guides me aright—

Is mesmerism the nonsense I thought?

If the brain, engross'd by a single fact,

Fails the whole army of nerves to sustain,

The outposts perhaps, refusing to act,

Transmit neither sight nor sound to the brain.

But are souls dependent on eye and ear?

Does nothing come straight to them from above?

Are there no spirit-instincts, to see and hear,

And no miraculous power of Love?

I have found the Crescent, and number Two—

I have rung the bell—the servant has come—

I have opened my lips, and words run through,

And they ask 'Is Mr. Clarence at home?'

A man has appear'd from some inner place

(I heard him describ'd 'ere this trance began)—

Is he moving away into empty space?

I must come to life and must stop this man.

A terrible nightmare on throat and brain—

A body and soul in bewilder'd strife—

Shall I never be quite alive again?—

I'll make a desperate struggle for life!

I catch at his arm as he passes by,

As a drowning creature clutches at life;

And I whisper low as a lullaby—

'Give him me instantly—I am his wife!'

He stares in my face with nothing to say—

A tremor comes over his brow and lip—

He flings up his arms in a helpless way,

And stammers—'Alas! he's on board the ship!'

I am not fainting—I am not appall'd—

I am not beat down—I feel no despair:

It seems all expected and all forestall'd,

As I utter my three words, 'When and where?'

'Two hours ago at the Northern quay'—

He offers me food, and to rest and sit—

I have left the house—I am on my way—

I have hail'd a cab and jump'd into it.

O faster! O faster! O yet more fast!

There's nothing on earth but driving like this:

I know it will all come right at the last,

But I am not certain what the right is.

There is a river and there is a boat

(I read it all in a far-away tale)—

O faster! O faster! you do but float;

Pull away with your oars, shake out your sail!

A woman, I know, must sail in a skiff,

And reach a ship ere it reaches the sea;

But it is a wonderful matter if

The woman who sits here is really me!

O faster! O faster! you scarcely stir—

The ship has grown large that was but a speck!

We have reached the ship—we have boarded her—

And I see who is standing on her deck!

I see who stands there, I hear and see

His incredulous joy and startled cry,

His beautiful wonder at sight of me;

I feel his embraces, and then—I die!

I know not how long I was lying dead;

I know not what happen'd day after day:

But I know whose breast supported my head;

I know in whose arms I passively lay.

I know whose voice I was hearing again;

With no vivid emotion through me sent,

But only with that sweet absence of pain

The young call repose, and the old, content.

I know of the presence that o'er me shed

Through all that I suffer'd a perfect ease;

I know all this because I am dead—

I suppose the dead can know what they please!

Can I be dead? It is foolish to die,

Earth shining brighter than any bright star.

Death, do you know it is Harry and I?

Heaven is here—must I seek it afar?

Death, seize thy prey from the world-weary track;

Let not the happy by thee be remov'd;

Slowly and softly and sweetly come back,

Life that she loves to a girl that is lov'd!

Cut through the waves, happy ship 'neath my feet;

Scatter thy prow with beneficent spray!

Never an admiral leading a fleet

Felt as triumphant as I do to-day!

Ocean around us, and Heaven above;

Hands clasp'd together in innocent bliss;

Heart meeting heart with the fulness of love—

Can there be anything sweeter than this?

Seeking a home on a far-distant shore,

Mid gigantic forests and splendid flow'rs,

Where sorrow cannot bewilder us more,

Or fear reach a solitude perfect as ours.

Crossing blue oceans 'neath heavens as blue,

Seeking new worlds with new winters and springs;

Even the old stars are changing to new,

Lovely confusion of wonderful things!

Almost forgetting to feel a regret—

Almost forgotten the world whence we came—

Only our hearts, Harry, cannot forget;

Only our love will be ever the same!

Talking together through nights and through days;

Talking together through days and through nights;

Facing futurity's fathomless haze;

Piercing its shadows with delicate lights.

Forward our glances immutably cast

(Pillars of salt will not garnish our way!)

Just for the present forgetting the past,

Planning the future in all that we say.

Where neither sorrow nor sin has beguil'd,

Deep in a forest, a home will be made;

Nature contrasting with hand undefil'd

Novel creations of sunlight and shade.

Softness and grandeur enchantingly blent,

Deep in a forest two lives pass away;

Wrapp'd in each other, supremely content,

Lighted by love's irrefrangible ray.

So the ship flew on that contain'd us two,

With ocean around and heaven above;

It seem'd there was nothing for us to do

But to love and live, and to live and love.

So the ship flew on to the sinless shore,

Where a younger world from the deep sea starts;

Where sorrow cannot bewilder us more,

Or fear lay her cold hand over our hearts.

It is just as lovely as what we plann'd,

With its exquisite air of bright repose;

And 'tis Harry himself must till the land,

And 'tis I must sweep and cook, I suppose!

Is it playing at life, this life of ours?

Has childhood come back with its pleasant plays?

Mid gigantic trees and delicious flow'rs

We are passing our happy nights and days.

But the little cloud—O the little cloud—

So little at first it might almost please—

That covers us up like a dead man's shroud,

Growing bigger and bigger by degrees.

Alas! is it only in some bright past

That love can be perfect and bliss secure?

O days of delight that flew by too fast,

Leaving the present too empty and poor!

I had sometimes fancied a pang like this,

From a passing tone, or a look in his face;

But the meeting was such unclouded bliss,

And the days that follow'd it full of grace.

In the sweet content of finding a home,

There was not leisure for joy to grow dim;

But the cloud was there, and ready to come,

And the cloud was the fear of change in him!

Harry is changed—he is graver,—I think

Never I'll see the old Harry again:

There's a look in his face that makes my heart sink,

For it is a look of a hopeless pain.

Sometimes I hardly can keep down my cries—

I could wring my hands—I could tear my hair—

When an expression comes into his eyes,

Which is the expression of a despair.

He never alludes to the dreadful past;

But when his lips tremble and brow is knit,

I cannot bear it, and cry out at last,

'O talk of it, Harry—O talk of it!'

His eyes are full of a helpless regret

(And I almost wish I was lying dead);

Will he not talk of it? not even yet?—

He speaks in a whisper, and shakes his head.

'I cannot—I dare not.' 'You can—you dare—

You must do it, Harry—just for my sake;

For this burthen, which it is not to bear,

Is crushing my heart, and my heart will break.'

He kisses my lips—he presses my hand—

Looking straight in my face without surprise;

But it seems that he cannot understand,

And very wide of the mark he replies—

'I will not shadow that innocent heart

With the lightest cloud that may dim its light.'

'But my life in your life must take its part,

Or I am lost in the darkness of night.

I married you, Harry, for good or ill,

For better or worse, for sickness or health.

O let me the beautiful vow fulfil,

Joyously, utterly—never by stealth!

I am not your wife while you treat me thus,

And life is becoming too hard to bear;

Is there that in the heart of one of us,

That the heart of the other must not share?

'I almost died when you left me, my dear;

Yet you did it quite for my good, you know;

O where should I be if I was not here?

'Neath a little grass hillock lying low!

You would be living, to labour and strive,

And I should be lying quite dead—quite dead!

You would be thinking of me as alive,

While daisies were growing over my head.

And now—for my good—will you crush my life

With a burthen it cannot bear, I know?

O Harry, my darling, I am your wife—

O what have I done that you treat me so?'

He stared in my eyes with a sort of frown,

That more than a smile gave promise of grace;

The mask that he wore fell suddenly down,

A wonderful change came over his face.

He sat at my feet, and his head he laid

Low down on my lap, and he did not move,

But he murmur'd softly, 'I am afraid

I shall make a fool of myself, my love.'

And then he suddenly burst into tears

(I had never seen tears in Harry's eyes),

And he cried, 'If I live a hundred years,

I shall see the wild face of Jack Devize!'

Then I felt the doom that was o'er us laid,

And our lives stood before me pale and gray;

My heart turn'd sick—I was feeling afraid—

As I kept kissing Harry's tears away.

And must his life be so faint and so dim?

And his heart be rack'd by a useless pain?

While I'm always trying to comfort him,

And always trying to comfort in vain?

Ah no, my beloved, it shall not be so,

I will try so hard—I will pray so much;

Comfort will come to you, Harry, I know,

And grief die out 'neath her delicate touch.

We must both be brave and must play our parts;

We must fight the battle with weapons fit;

Time will take sorrow out of our hearts,

But oh, the pity—the pity of it!

There are no more secrets 'twixt you and me;

Our hearts may reveal their thoughts as they pass;

There is a ripple the less on the sea,

And a purer light flits over the grass.

If shadows are dark, and lights are not clear,

It is only the common lot of man;

We must live our actual lives, my dear,

And make the best of those lives that we can.

I used to be certain of perfect bliss,

And find it in every breath I drew;

And now the height of my happiness is

To lessen the sorrow that burthens you!

Thank God that we met when our lives were bright,

And earth was as fair as heaven above,

And stood in the lovely religious light,

And vowed the sweet vows to cherish and love.

O Harry, my dear! if we had not met,

What would you do with your desolate life?

O merciful God, can I ever forget

Your goodness in letting me be his wife?

We walk 'neath the weight that we have to bear

(I suppose all people walk under weights);

They say that a road of trouble and care

Is the straightest road to the Heaven-gates.

I hope we shall find the gates open far,

So that close together we both come in;

I shrink from the thoughts of the gates ajar,

When only the one might an entrance win.

I wonder if Heaven is brighter yet,

Than the home that lies o'er a distant main;

I wonder if there we shall quite forget

That we never saw that dear home again!

I must not be tired, or think of my load;

I must try to walk with a step more free;

I have to help Harry along the road,

That is so much harder for him than me.

Living alone in the depths of a wood,

Life catches meanings, and things become clear;

But Harry is growing so very good,

That it almost gives me a sort of fear.

'O little May-blossom!' he softly cries,

As together we tread the well-worn way,

'There is nothing sweeter beneath the skies,

Than a little shining blossom of May!

O lie on my heart, as you ever do,

Till my heart grows lighter under your touch;

O little May-blossom! while I have you

No shaft of misfortune can hurt me much!'

He has work'd all day on the virgin sod;

We have eaten the meal that my hands prepare;

We have said our prayers to the Father-God,

And Harry is placidly sleeping there.

He is sleeping there, while I work away—

My busy needle has plenty to do;

And my thoughts turn idly to yesterday,

And a world where troubles were very few;

To a world that shines in a distance fair,

Like a fairy dream, impossibly sweet,—

Was life what it seem'd when we liv'd out there?

Or was it only a lovely deceit?

Slumber approach'd not my eyes—open'd wide—

My wide-open eyes that so seldom weep!

Harry turn'd in his sleep, and turning sigh'd—

It breaks my heart when he sighs in his sleep.

And while I sat there in the twilight-gloom,

Looking at life with my wide-open eyes,

A ghost slipp'd suddenly into the room,

And that ghost was the ghost of Jack Devize!

A shiver ran o'er me from head to foot—

The crisis had come, and fate wrought her worst—

I tried to speak, but my tongue was quite mute,

And I knew that a ghost could not speak first.

O ought I to wake my Harry, or no?

To question the Thing, and let it depart?

The good God would never frighten me so,

If it was not to ease my Harry's heart.

But while I was doubting in fear and pain,

And praying for light to see my way clear,

The ghost said—'My goodness! it's Mrs. Vane!

How in the world did the woman come here?'

The ghost stalk'd towards me with outstretch'd hand:

I put mine behind me, and back'd away;

My terrified brain could not understand,

And my arid lips had nothing to say.

Yet for Harry's sake no time must be lost:

I must ask the dreadful Thing why it came;

Then I remember'd 'twas he kill'd the ghost,

And I hung down my head and blush'd for shame.

Suddenly turning, my Harry it saw;

Suddenly sprang t'wards the couch where he lay;—

A deadlier terror conquering awe,

Brave as a lion, I stood in its way.

I wav'd both my hands to signal it back:

'You shall not come near him!' I wildly said;

'He never intended to kill you, Jack—

O Jack, I hope you don't mind being dead!'

Strive as we will, fate can calmly defeat—

What is to be, happens—and always will;

Harry awoke, and stood up on his feet,

And my heart leapt madly and then stood still.

I trembled for Harry, all unprepar'd!

I stood between the Alive and the Dead!

The man and the ghost at each other star'd—

And the man got white, and the ghost got red.

The man kept on staring with hungry eyes,

Pointing at it, till I trembled to see;

Then said in a whisper, 'It's Jack Devize!'—

Shook himself wildly and turn'd upon me.

His hand sought his brow in a weak sad way,

A pitiful look came into his face:

'It is a brain-phantom,' I heard him say,

'Which my weary brain engenders in space!'

'No, Harry,' I whisper'd, 'it is not so;

I wish that it was—from my heart I do'—

I held him tight, whispering very low,

'Tis a real ghost, for—I see it too!'

I felt his arm quiver under my clasp;

He started backwards with such a great start;

He flung up his arms, and cried with a gasp,

'Oh speak to me, Jack, whatever thou art!'

The ghost caught his hands with a cheer almost,

And shook them right manfully where it stood,

Shouting 'I'm neither a phantom nor ghost;

I am Jack Devize, and am flesh and blood!'

And so the sorrow was only a dream

(As the sun uprises the dream departs);

And the false false sorrow did only seem,

And the true true joy came into our hearts.

I had so determin'd to be resign'd,

And to school myself to a patient mood,

That I felt a little ill-used to find

There was no occasion for being good.

But oh the joy, like the sweetest surprise,

With a light light heart and nothing to bear!

And oh to be looking in Harry's eyes

And never a fear of what I see there!

And when earth is deck'd in eternal spring,

Singing we go on a flowery way;

And happiness is such a happy thing,

And it seems so natural to be gay.

I think that the dullest will understand

Jack was not drown'd when he fell from the height;

A ship passing by, as if it was plann'd,

Carried him off mid the darkness of night.

He was up to the neck in debts and scrapes;

And when the west wind refreshingly blew,

He thought it the pleasantest of escapes

To sail for new worlds with nothing to do.

Strolling and idling by day and by night,

He liv'd by his wits, with a laugh for fate;

And his wits not being extremely bright,

He accomplish'd nothing remarkably great.

Wandering ev'rywhere, ragged and poor,

With nothing to do and plenty to say,

By the merest chance he enter'd our door

To ask for a meal and a bed by the way.

So the three of us met delighted there,

And set sail together that perfect spring,

When the skies were fine and the winds were fair,

And our hearts were lighter than anything.

From the midst of the sea the white cliffs rise—

The snowy white cliffs of the ocean gem!

And they smile their welcome into our eyes

As Harry and I smile it back on them.

Standing together alone on the deck,

With a hope that almost becomes a fear,

We can watch that wonderful little speck

Grow into places unspeakably dear.

Is it years or days since we sail'd away?

And are we returning the self-same track?

Did we cross the ocean but yesterday?

And is it to-day we are coming back?

Back to the home whence he vanish'd that night,

In through the hall where I talk'd with the men,—

Can it be true that our hearts are so light?

When did we dream? Is it now? Was it then?

And oh! to stand on the well-known road

In the bright uncertain English weather;

And oh! the hearts that are free from a load,

And oh! the hands that are knit together!

And oh! to see Rover leap to his side

With a yell as if he doubted his sight!

I thought the old dog would have really died

In his vehement agony of delight.

And I know the present is not a dream,

For I feel a touch and a well-known kiss;

And they are not phantoms that shine and gleam

From days that are past with a solemn bliss.

From days that are lit by a heaven-ray,

To kindle our hearts and strengthen our faith;

For Harry and I are changed in a way,

Like people whose eyes have looked upon death.²

My Harry has won such a patient mood,

And has grown so resolute and so wise;

He is always trying to do some good,

And always succeeding in what he tries.

The trials I trembled that he should bear,

His noble heart has accepted as such;

And I see they were sent with a tender care,

And never intended to be too much.

My heart is too full of its joy, I fear,

When he whispers in fond caressing tone—

'It was not my trials that won me, dear;

It was watching my darling bear her own.

Afar from the hut in the dusky wood,

We sometimes recall with a yearning sigh,

The days of our sorrowful solitude,

When the world was nothing but he and I.