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Title: Two Women, 1862; a Poem
Author: Constance Fenimore Woolson
Release date: January 23, 2017 [eBook #54017]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WOMEN, 1862; A POEM ***
T W O W O M E N.
TWO WOMEN:
1862.
A POEM.
BY
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
(Reprinted from Appletons’ Journal.)
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
549 AND 551 BROADWAY.
1877.
COPYRIGHT BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1877.
TWO WOMEN.
1862.
ONE.
Through miles of green cornfields that lusty
And strong face the sun and rejoice
In his heat, where the brown bees go dusty
With pollen from flowers of their choice,
’Mong myriads down by the river
Who offer their honey, the train
Flies south with a whir and a shiver,
Flies south through the lowlands that quiver
With ripening grain—
And strong face the sun and rejoice
In his heat, where the brown bees go dusty
With pollen from flowers of their choice,
’Mong myriads down by the river
Who offer their honey, the train
Flies south with a whir and a shiver,
Flies south through the lowlands that quiver
With ripening grain—
Fair wheat, like a lady for fancies,
Who bends to the breeze, while the corn
Held stiff all his stubborn green lances
The moment his curled leaf was born;
And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping
The shores of the river whose tide—
Slow moving, brown tide—holds the keeping
Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping,
Couched lions, each side.
Who bends to the breeze, while the corn
Held stiff all his stubborn green lances
The moment his curled leaf was born;
And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping
The shores of the river whose tide—
Slow moving, brown tide—holds the keeping
Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping,
Couched lions, each side.
Hair curlless, and hid, and smooth-banded,
Blue innocent maidenly eyes,
That gaze at the lawless rough-handed
Young soldiers with grieving surprise
At oaths on their lips, the deriding
And jestings that load every breath,
While on with dread swiftness are gliding
Their moments, and o’er them is biding
The shadow of death!
Blue innocent maidenly eyes,
That gaze at the lawless rough-handed
Young soldiers with grieving surprise
At oaths on their lips, the deriding
And jestings that load every breath,
While on with dread swiftness are gliding
Their moments, and o’er them is biding
The shadow of death!
Face clear-cut and pearly, a slender
Small maiden with calm, home-bred air;
No deep-tinted hues you might lend her
Could touch the faint gold of her hair,
The blue of her eyes, or the neatness
Of quaint little gown, smoothly spun
From threads of soft gray, whose completeness
Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness—
A lily turned nun.
Small maiden with calm, home-bred air;
No deep-tinted hues you might lend her
Could touch the faint gold of her hair,
The blue of her eyes, or the neatness
Of quaint little gown, smoothly spun
From threads of soft gray, whose completeness
Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness—
A lily turned nun.
THE OTHER.
West from the Capital’s crowded throng
The fiery engine rushed along,
Over the road where danger lay
On each bridge and curve of the midnight way,
Shooting across the rivers’ laps,
Up the mountains, into the gaps,
Through West Virginia like the wind,
Fire and sword coming on behind,
Whistling defiance that echoed back
To mountain guerrillas burning the track,
“Do the worst, ye rebels, that ye can do
To the train that follows, but I go through!”
The fiery engine rushed along,
Over the road where danger lay
On each bridge and curve of the midnight way,
Shooting across the rivers’ laps,
Up the mountains, into the gaps,
Through West Virginia like the wind,
Fire and sword coming on behind,
Whistling defiance that echoed back
To mountain guerrillas burning the track,
“Do the worst, ye rebels, that ye can do
To the train that follows, but I go through!”
A motley crowd—the city thief;
The man of God; the polished chief
Of a band of gamblers; the traitor spy;
The correspondent with quick, sharp eye;
The speculator who boldly made
His fifty per cent. in a driving trade
At the edge of the war; the clean lank clerk
Sent West for sanitary work;
The bounty-jumper; the lordling born
Viewing the country with wondering scorn—
A strange assemblage filled the car
That dared the midnight border-band,
Where life and death went hand-in-hand
Those strange and breathless days of war.
The man of God; the polished chief
Of a band of gamblers; the traitor spy;
The correspondent with quick, sharp eye;
The speculator who boldly made
His fifty per cent. in a driving trade
At the edge of the war; the clean lank clerk
Sent West for sanitary work;
The bounty-jumper; the lordling born
Viewing the country with wondering scorn—
A strange assemblage filled the car
That dared the midnight border-band,
Where life and death went hand-in-hand
Those strange and breathless days of war.
The conductor’s lantern moves along,
Slowly lighting the motley throng
Face by face; what sudden gleam
Flashes back in the lantern’s beam
Through shadows down at the rearward door?
The conductor pauses; all eyes explore
The darkened corner: a woman’s face
Thrown back asleep—the shimmer of lace,
The sheen of silk, the yellow of gold,
The flash of jewels, the careless fold
Of an India shawl that half concealed
The curves superb which the light revealed;
A sweep of shoulder, a rounded arm,
A perfect hand that lay soft and warm
On the dingy seat; all the outlines rare
Of a Milo Venus slumbered there
’Neath the costly silk whose heaviest fold
Subordinate seemed—unnoticed mould
For the form beneath.
Slowly lighting the motley throng
Face by face; what sudden gleam
Flashes back in the lantern’s beam
Through shadows down at the rearward door?
The conductor pauses; all eyes explore
The darkened corner: a woman’s face
Thrown back asleep—the shimmer of lace,
The sheen of silk, the yellow of gold,
The flash of jewels, the careless fold
Of an India shawl that half concealed
The curves superb which the light revealed;
A sweep of shoulder, a rounded arm,
A perfect hand that lay soft and warm
On the dingy seat; all the outlines rare
Of a Milo Venus slumbered there
’Neath the costly silk whose heaviest fold
Subordinate seemed—unnoticed mould
For the form beneath.
The sumptuous grace
Of the careless pose, the sleeping face,
Transfixed all eyes, and together drew
One and all for a nearer view:
The lank clerk hasted, the gambler trod
On the heels of the gazing man of God;
The correspondent took out his book,
Sharpened his pencil with eager look;
The soldiers fought as to who should pass
The first; the lord peered through his glass,
But no sooner saw the sleeping face
Than he too hasted and left his place
To join the crowd.
Then, ere any spoke,
But all eager gazed, the lady woke.
Of the careless pose, the sleeping face,
Transfixed all eyes, and together drew
One and all for a nearer view:
The lank clerk hasted, the gambler trod
On the heels of the gazing man of God;
The correspondent took out his book,
Sharpened his pencil with eager look;
The soldiers fought as to who should pass
The first; the lord peered through his glass,
But no sooner saw the sleeping face
Than he too hasted and left his place
To join the crowd.
Then, ere any spoke,
But all eager gazed, the lady woke.
Dark-brown, sleepy, velvet eyes,
Lifted up in soft surprise,
A wealth of hair of auburn red,
Falling in braids from the regal head
Whose little hat with waving plume
Lay on the floor—while a faint perfume,
The roses, crushed in sleep, betrayed,
Tangled within the loosened braid;
Bold features, Nubian lips, a skin
Creamy pallid, the red within
Mixed with brown where the shadow lies
Dark beneath the lustrous eyes.
She smiles; all hearts are at her feet.
She turns; each hastens to his seat.
The car is changed to a sacred place
Lighted by one fair woman’s face;
In sudden silence on they ride,
The lord and the gambler, side by side,
The traitor spy, the priest as well,
Bound for the time by a common spell,
And each might be in thought and mien
A loyal knight escorting his queen,
So instant and so measureless
Is the power of a perfect loveliness.
Lifted up in soft surprise,
A wealth of hair of auburn red,
Falling in braids from the regal head
Whose little hat with waving plume
Lay on the floor—while a faint perfume,
The roses, crushed in sleep, betrayed,
Tangled within the loosened braid;
Bold features, Nubian lips, a skin
Creamy pallid, the red within
Mixed with brown where the shadow lies
Dark beneath the lustrous eyes.
She smiles; all hearts are at her feet.
She turns; each hastens to his seat.
The car is changed to a sacred place
Lighted by one fair woman’s face;
In sudden silence on they ride,
The lord and the gambler, side by side,
The traitor spy, the priest as well,
Bound for the time by a common spell,
And each might be in thought and mien
A loyal knight escorting his queen,
So instant and so measureless
Is the power of a perfect loveliness.
THE MEETING.
The Western city with the Roman name,
The vine-decked river winding round the hills,
Are left behind; the pearly maid who came
Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills
The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea,
Is riding southward on the cautious train,
That feels its way along, and nervously
Hurries around the curve and o’er the bridge,
Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge—
The wild adventurous cavalry campaign
That Morgan and his men, bold riders all,
Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years,
So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears,
That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall,
When men in city offices feel yet
The old wild thrill of “Boots and saddles all!”
The dashing raid they cannot quite forget
Despite the hasty graves that silent lie
Along its route; at home the women sigh,
Gazing across the still untrodden ways,
Across the fields, across the lonely moor,
“O for the breathless ardor of those days
When we were all so happy, though so poor!”
The vine-decked river winding round the hills,
Are left behind; the pearly maid who came
Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills
The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea,
Is riding southward on the cautious train,
That feels its way along, and nervously
Hurries around the curve and o’er the bridge,
Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge—
The wild adventurous cavalry campaign
That Morgan and his men, bold riders all,
Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years,
So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears,
That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall,
When men in city offices feel yet
The old wild thrill of “Boots and saddles all!”
The dashing raid they cannot quite forget
Despite the hasty graves that silent lie
Along its route; at home the women sigh,
Gazing across the still untrodden ways,
Across the fields, across the lonely moor,
“O for the breathless ardor of those days
When we were all so happy, though so poor!”
The maiden sits alone;
The raw recruits are scattered through the car,
Talking of all the splendors of the war,
With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone.
In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view,
Like opening wood-flower pearled with morning dew,
She shines among them in her radiance pure,
Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure
They’re very wicked—hoping that the day
Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away,
And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies,
To the far farm-house where her lover lies,
Wounded—alone.
The rattling speed turns slow,
Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go,
The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down;
The young conductor comes—(there was a face
He noted in the night)—“Madam, your place
Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town
We take on other soldiers. If you change
Your seat and join that little lady, then
It will not seem so lonely or so strange
For you, as here among so many men.”
Lifting her fair face from the battered seat,
Where she had slumbered like a weary child,
The lady, with obedience full sweet
To his young manhood’s eager craving, smiled
And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way;
She followed in her lovely disarray.
The clinging silk disclosed the archèd foot,
Hidden within the dainty satin boot,
Dead-black against the dead-white even hue
Of silken stocking, gleaming into view
One moment; then the lady sleepily
Adjusted with a touch her drapery,
And tried to loop in place a falling braid,
And smooth the rippling waves the night had made;
While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane
Set her bright gems to flashing back again;
And all men’s eyes in that Kentucky car
Grew on her face, as all men’s eyes had done
On the night-train that brought her from afar,
Over the mountains west from Washington.
The raw recruits are scattered through the car,
Talking of all the splendors of the war,
With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone.
In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view,
Like opening wood-flower pearled with morning dew,
She shines among them in her radiance pure,
Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure
They’re very wicked—hoping that the day
Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away,
And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies,
To the far farm-house where her lover lies,
Wounded—alone.
The rattling speed turns slow,
Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go,
The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down;
The young conductor comes—(there was a face
He noted in the night)—“Madam, your place
Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town
We take on other soldiers. If you change
Your seat and join that little lady, then
It will not seem so lonely or so strange
For you, as here among so many men.”
Lifting her fair face from the battered seat,
Where she had slumbered like a weary child,
The lady, with obedience full sweet
To his young manhood’s eager craving, smiled
And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way;
She followed in her lovely disarray.
The clinging silk disclosed the archèd foot,
Hidden within the dainty satin boot,
Dead-black against the dead-white even hue
Of silken stocking, gleaming into view
One moment; then the lady sleepily
Adjusted with a touch her drapery,
And tried to loop in place a falling braid,
And smooth the rippling waves the night had made;
While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane
Set her bright gems to flashing back again;
And all men’s eyes in that Kentucky car
Grew on her face, as all men’s eyes had done
On the night-train that brought her from afar,
Over the mountains west from Washington.
The Lady (thinking).
Haply met,
This country maiden, sweet as mignonette,
No doubt the pride of some small Western town:—
Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown,
So prim—so dull—a fashion five years old!
This country maiden, sweet as mignonette,
No doubt the pride of some small Western town:—
Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown,
So prim—so dull—a fashion five years old!
The Maiden (thinking).
How odd, how bold,
That silken robe—those waves of costly lace,
That falling hair, the shadows ’neath the eyes,
Surely those diamonds are out of place—
Strange, that a lady should in such a guise
Be here alone!
That silken robe—those waves of costly lace,
That falling hair, the shadows ’neath the eyes,
Surely those diamonds are out of place—
Strange, that a lady should in such a guise
Be here alone!
The Lady.
Allow me, mademoiselle,
Our good conductor thinks it would be well
That we should keep together, since the car
Will soon be overcrowded, and we are
The only women.—May I have a seat
In this safe little corner by your side?
Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet
So sweet a friend to share the long day’s ride!—
That is, if yours be long?
Our good conductor thinks it would be well
That we should keep together, since the car
Will soon be overcrowded, and we are
The only women.—May I have a seat
In this safe little corner by your side?
Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet
So sweet a friend to share the long day’s ride!—
That is, if yours be long?
The Maiden.
To Benton’s Mill.
The Lady.
I go beyond, not far—I think we pass
Your station just before Waunona Hill;
But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass.
Do you not love that land?
Your station just before Waunona Hill;
But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass.
Do you not love that land?
The Maiden.
I do not know
Aught of it.
Aught of it.
The Lady.
Yes; but surely you have heard
Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow,
Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd
Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred
For victory—the rare Kentucky speed
That wins the races?
Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow,
Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd
Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred
For victory—the rare Kentucky speed
That wins the races?
The Maiden.
Yes; I’ve heard it said
They were good worthy horses.—But indeed
I know not much of horses.
They were good worthy horses.—But indeed
I know not much of horses.
The Lady.
Then the land—
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass,
The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand
That scarce an English dukedom may surpass
In velvet beauty—while its royal sweep
Over the country miles and miles away,
Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep
Their distance from each other, proud array
Of single elms that stand apart to show
How gracefully their swaying branches grow,
While little swells of turf roll up and fall
Like waves of summer sea, and over all
You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass
Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.—
But you will see it.
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass,
The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand
That scarce an English dukedom may surpass
In velvet beauty—while its royal sweep
Over the country miles and miles away,
Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep
Their distance from each other, proud array
Of single elms that stand apart to show
How gracefully their swaying branches grow,
While little swells of turf roll up and fall
Like waves of summer sea, and over all
You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass
Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.—
But you will see it.
The Maiden.
No; I cannot stay
But a few hours—at most, a single day.
But a few hours—at most, a single day.
The Lady (unheeding).
I think I like the best,
Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed,
The Arab courser of our own new West,
The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed
Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins
The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand
In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins,
And those slow, cautious judges on the stand,
Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill
That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still?
Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed,
The Arab courser of our own new West,
The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed
Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins
The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand
In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins,
And those slow, cautious judges on the stand,
Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill
That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still?
The Maiden.
I ne’er have seen race-horses, or a race.
The Lady.
I crave your pardon; in your gentle face
I read reproof.
I read reproof.
The Maiden.
I judge not any man.
The Lady.
Nor woman?
The Maiden.
If you force reply, I can
Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race,
For gamblers’ prizes, seems not worthy place
For women—nor for men, indeed, if they
Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play,
The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance,
The deadly poison of all games of chance—
All these are sinful.
Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race,
For gamblers’ prizes, seems not worthy place
For women—nor for men, indeed, if they
Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play,
The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance,
The deadly poison of all games of chance—
All these are sinful.
The Lady.
Ah! poor sins, how stern
The judge! I knew ye not for sins—I learn
For the first time that ye are evil. Go,
Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe—
Alas! And David Garrick!—Where’s the harm
In David?
The judge! I knew ye not for sins—I learn
For the first time that ye are evil. Go,
Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe—
Alas! And David Garrick!—Where’s the harm
In David?
The Maiden.
I know not the gentleman.
The Lady.
Nay, he’s a play; a comedy so warm,
So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can,
I weep. And must I yield my crystal glass,
Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine,
That makes a dreary dinner-party pass
In rosy light, where after-fancies shine—
Things that one might have said?—And then the dance,
The valse à deux temps, if your partner chance
To be a lover—
So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can,
I weep. And must I yield my crystal glass,
Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine,
That makes a dreary dinner-party pass
In rosy light, where after-fancies shine—
Things that one might have said?—And then the dance,
The valse à deux temps, if your partner chance
To be a lover—
The Maiden.
Madam, pray excuse
My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse
To dwell on themes like these.
My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse
To dwell on themes like these.
The Lady.
Did I begin
The themes, or you?
The themes, or you?
The Maiden.
But I dwelt on the sin,
And you—
And you—
The Lady.
Upon the good. Did I not well?
I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle.
I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle.
The Maiden.
Forgive me, lady, but I cannot jest,
I bear too anxious heart within my breast;
One dear to me lies wounded, and I go
To find him, help him home with tender care—
To home and health, God willing.
I bear too anxious heart within my breast;
One dear to me lies wounded, and I go
To find him, help him home with tender care—
To home and health, God willing.
The Lady.
Is it so?
Strange—but ah! no. The wounded are not rare,
Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war.—
But he will yet recover; I feel sure
That one beloved by heart so good, so pure
As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star
Is fortunate.
Strange—but ah! no. The wounded are not rare,
Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war.—
But he will yet recover; I feel sure
That one beloved by heart so good, so pure
As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star
Is fortunate.
The Maiden.
Not in the stars, I trust.
We are but wretched creatures of the dust,
Sinful, and desperately wicked; still,
It is in mercy our Creator’s will
To hear our prayers.
We are but wretched creatures of the dust,
Sinful, and desperately wicked; still,
It is in mercy our Creator’s will
To hear our prayers.
The Lady.
The Maiden.
It is wrong to pray for death.
The Lady.
I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour
A farmer prays for rain; with ’bated breath
A mother, hastening to a dying child,
Prays for fair weather?—But you do not deign
To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled
That little, silver smile! I might explain
My meaning further; but why should I shake
Your happy faith?
A farmer prays for rain; with ’bated breath
A mother, hastening to a dying child,
Prays for fair weather?—But you do not deign
To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled
That little, silver smile! I might explain
My meaning further; but why should I shake
Your happy faith?
The Maiden.
You could not.
The Lady.
Nay, that’s true;
You are the kind that walks up to the stake
Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue
For pardon, and I pray you tell me all
This tale of yours. When did your lover fall—
What battle-field?
You are the kind that walks up to the stake
Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue
For pardon, and I pray you tell me all
This tale of yours. When did your lover fall—
What battle-field?
The Maiden.
Not any well-known name;
It was not Heaven’s pleasure that the fame
Of well-known battle should be his. A band
Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land,
Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way.
It was not Heaven’s pleasure that the fame
Of well-known battle should be his. A band
Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land,
Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way.
The Lady.
Guerrillas?
The Maiden.
Yes; John Morgan’s.
The Lady.
Maybe so,
And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name
That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow,
Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame
Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may—
Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan’s men
Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen
Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map
Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks
Where they have been; now near, now miles away,
From river lowland to the mountain-gap,
Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks
When they ride by, no well-versed tongues betray
Their resting-place; Kentucky knows her own,
Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass
Across her borders north from Tennessee,
Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass,
The land of home, the land they long to see,
The lovely rolling land. We might have known
That come they would!
And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name
That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow,
Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame
Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may—
Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan’s men
Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen
Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map
Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks
Where they have been; now near, now miles away,
From river lowland to the mountain-gap,
Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks
When they ride by, no well-versed tongues betray
Their resting-place; Kentucky knows her own,
Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass
Across her borders north from Tennessee,
Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass,
The land of home, the land they long to see,
The lovely rolling land. We might have known
That come they would!
The Maiden.
You are Kentucky-bred?
The Lady.
I come from Washington. Nay—but I read
The doubt you try to hide. Be frank—confess—
I am that mythical adventuress
That thrives in Washington these troublous days—
The country correspondent’s tale?
The doubt you try to hide. Be frank—confess—
I am that mythical adventuress
That thrives in Washington these troublous days—
The country correspondent’s tale?
The Maiden.
Your dress—
And—something in your air—
And—something in your air—
The Lady.
I give you praise
For rare sincerity. Go on.
For rare sincerity. Go on.
The Maiden.
Your tone,
Your words, seem strange.—But then, I’ve never known
A woman like you.
Your words, seem strange.—But then, I’ve never known
A woman like you.
The Lady (aside).
Yet we are not few,
Thank Heaven, for the world’s sake! It would starve
If gray was all its color, and the dew
Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste
It seeks the royal purples, and draws down
The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste,
And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown
Upon its brow; and then, its hands do carve
The vine-leaves into marble.
But the hue
Of thoughts like these she knows not—and in vain
To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain
Hear her small story.
(Speaks.) Did he fall alone,
Your gallant soldier-boy? And how to you
Came the sad news?
Thank Heaven, for the world’s sake! It would starve
If gray was all its color, and the dew
Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste
It seeks the royal purples, and draws down
The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste,
And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown
Upon its brow; and then, its hands do carve
The vine-leaves into marble.
But the hue
Of thoughts like these she knows not—and in vain
To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain
Hear her small story.
(Speaks.) Did he fall alone,
Your gallant soldier-boy? And how to you
Came the sad news?
The Maiden.
A farmer heard him moan
While passing—bore him to the camp, and there
A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word
Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard,
I left my mother, ill, for in despair
He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know
That they had written, for hot fever drove
His thoughts with whips of flame.—O cruel woe,—O my poor love—
My Willie!
While passing—bore him to the camp, and there
A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word
Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard,
I left my mother, ill, for in despair
He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know
That they had written, for hot fever drove
His thoughts with whips of flame.—O cruel woe,—O my poor love—
My Willie!
The Lady.
Do not grieve, fair child. This day
Will see you by his side—nay, if you will,
Then lay your head here—weep your grief away.
Tears are a luxury—yes, take your fill;
For stranger as I am, my heart is warm
To woman’s sorrow, and this woman’s arm
That holds you is a loyal one and kind.
(Thinking.) O gentle maiden-mind,
How lovely art thou—like the limpid brook
In whose small depths my child-eyes loved to look
In the spring days! Thy little simple fears
Are wept away. Ah! could I call the tears
At will to soothe the parched heat of my heart!
—O beautiful lost Faith,
I knew you once—but now, like shadowy wraith,
You meet me in this little maiden’s eyes,
And gaze from out their blue in sad surprise
At the great gulf between us. Far apart,
In truth, we’ve drifted—drifted. Gentle ghost
Of past outgrown, thy land the hazy coast
Of dreamless ignorance; I must put out
My eyes to live with you again. The doubt,
The honest, earnest doubt, is upward growth
Of the strong mind—the struggle of the seed
Up to the broad, free air. Contented sloth
Of the blind clods around it sees no need
For change—nay, deems, indeed, all change a crime;
“All things remain as in our fathers’ time—
What gain ye then by growing?”
“Air—free air!
E’en though I die of hunger and despair,
I go,” the mind replies.
Will see you by his side—nay, if you will,
Then lay your head here—weep your grief away.
Tears are a luxury—yes, take your fill;
For stranger as I am, my heart is warm
To woman’s sorrow, and this woman’s arm
That holds you is a loyal one and kind.
(Thinking.) O gentle maiden-mind,
How lovely art thou—like the limpid brook
In whose small depths my child-eyes loved to look
In the spring days! Thy little simple fears
Are wept away. Ah! could I call the tears
At will to soothe the parched heat of my heart!
—O beautiful lost Faith,
I knew you once—but now, like shadowy wraith,
You meet me in this little maiden’s eyes,
And gaze from out their blue in sad surprise
At the great gulf between us. Far apart,
In truth, we’ve drifted—drifted. Gentle ghost
Of past outgrown, thy land the hazy coast
Of dreamless ignorance; I must put out
My eyes to live with you again. The doubt,
The honest, earnest doubt, is upward growth
Of the strong mind—the struggle of the seed
Up to the broad, free air. Contented sloth
Of the blind clods around it sees no need
For change—nay, deems, indeed, all change a crime;
“All things remain as in our fathers’ time—
What gain ye then by growing?”
“Air—free air!
E’en though I die of hunger and despair,
I go,” the mind replies.
The Maiden (thinking).
How kind, how warm
Her sympathy! I could no more resist
Her questions, than the large clasp of her arm
That drew me down. How tenderly she kissed
My forehead! strange that so much good should dwell
With so much ill. This shining, costly dress,
A garb that shows a sinful worldliness,
Troubles my heart.
Ah, I remember well
How hard I worked after that letter came
Telling of Willie—and my sisters all,
How swift we sewed! For I had suffered shame
At traveling in house-garb.
—I feel a call
To bring this wanderer back into the fold,
This poor lost sinner straying in the cold
Outside the church’s pale. Should I not try
To show her all the sad deficiency,
The desperate poverty of life like hers,
The utter falseness of its every breath,
The pity that within my bosom stirs
For thinking of the horrors after death
Awaiting her?
Her sympathy! I could no more resist
Her questions, than the large clasp of her arm
That drew me down. How tenderly she kissed
My forehead! strange that so much good should dwell
With so much ill. This shining, costly dress,
A garb that shows a sinful worldliness,
Troubles my heart.
Ah, I remember well
How hard I worked after that letter came
Telling of Willie—and my sisters all,
How swift we sewed! For I had suffered shame
At traveling in house-garb.
—I feel a call
To bring this wanderer back into the fold,
This poor lost sinner straying in the cold
Outside the church’s pale. Should I not try
To show her all the sad deficiency,
The desperate poverty of life like hers,
The utter falseness of its every breath,
The pity that within my bosom stirs
For thinking of the horrors after death
Awaiting her?
The Lady.
Quite calm, again? That’s well.
Wilt taste a peach? My basket holds a store
Of luscious peaches. Ah! she weaves a spell,
This lovely sorceress of fruit; what more
Can man ask from the earth? There is no cost
Too great for peaches. I have felt surprise
Through all my life that fair Eve should have lost
That mythic Asian land of Paradise
For a poor plebeian apple! Now a peach,
Pulpy, pink-veined, hanging within her reach,
Might well have tempted her.
Wilt taste a peach? My basket holds a store
Of luscious peaches. Ah! she weaves a spell,
This lovely sorceress of fruit; what more
Can man ask from the earth? There is no cost
Too great for peaches. I have felt surprise
Through all my life that fair Eve should have lost
That mythic Asian land of Paradise
For a poor plebeian apple! Now a peach,
Pulpy, pink-veined, hanging within her reach,
Might well have tempted her.
Oh, these long hours!—
Whence comes this faint perfume of hot-house flowers—
Tea-roses?
Whence comes this faint perfume of hot-house flowers—
Tea-roses?
The Maiden.
Tangled in your loosened hair
Are roses.
Are roses.
The Lady (thinking).
Nita must have twined them there—
The opera—I know now; I have sped
So swift across the country, my poor head
Is turned.—The opera? Yes; then—O heart,
How hast thou bled! [Dashes away tears.]
(Speaks.) Sweet child, I pray you tell
Again your budding romance, all the part
Where he first spoke. You’d known him long and well,
Your Willie?
The opera—I know now; I have sped
So swift across the country, my poor head
Is turned.—The opera? Yes; then—O heart,
How hast thou bled! [Dashes away tears.]
(Speaks.) Sweet child, I pray you tell
Again your budding romance, all the part
Where he first spoke. You’d known him long and well,
Your Willie?
The Maiden.
Yes; in childhood we had been
Two little lovers o’er the alphabet;
Then one day—I had grown to just sixteen—
Down in the apple-orchard—there—we met,
By chance—and—
Two little lovers o’er the alphabet;
Then one day—I had grown to just sixteen—
Down in the apple-orchard—there—we met,
By chance—and—
The Lady (thinking).
The Maiden (thinking).
What has come to me
That I do answer, from reserve so free,
This stranger’s questions? Yet may it not chance
My confidence shall win hers in return?
I must press on, nor give one backward glance—
Must follow up my gain by words that burn
With charity and Christian zeal.
(Speaks.) Yes; then
We were betrothed. I wore his mother’s ring,—
And Willie joined the church; before all men
He made the promises and vows which bring
A blessing down from God. Dear lady, strength
From Heaven came to us. Could I endure
This absence, silence, all the weary length
Of hours and days and months, were I not sure
That God was with my Willie? If on you
Sorrow has fallen, lady (and those tears
Showed me its presence), seek the good, the true,
In this sad life; a prayer can calm all fears;
Yield all your troubles to your God’s control,
And He will bless you. Ah! where should I be
Did I not know that in my Willie’s soul
Came first the love of God, then love for me?
That I do answer, from reserve so free,
This stranger’s questions? Yet may it not chance
My confidence shall win hers in return?
I must press on, nor give one backward glance—
Must follow up my gain by words that burn
With charity and Christian zeal.
(Speaks.) Yes; then
We were betrothed. I wore his mother’s ring,—
And Willie joined the church; before all men
He made the promises and vows which bring
A blessing down from God. Dear lady, strength
From Heaven came to us. Could I endure
This absence, silence, all the weary length
Of hours and days and months, were I not sure
That God was with my Willie? If on you
Sorrow has fallen, lady (and those tears
Showed me its presence), seek the good, the true,
In this sad life; a prayer can calm all fears;
Yield all your troubles to your God’s control,
And He will bless you. Ah! where should I be
Did I not know that in my Willie’s soul
Came first the love of God, then love for me?
The Lady.