I can but say
How I do love.
How I do love.
The Lady.
And how?
The Maiden.
With faith and prayer.
The Lady.
I, too; my faith is absolute. We share
That good in common. I believe his love
Is great as mine, and mine—oh, could I prove
My love by dying for him, far too small
The test; I’d give my love, my soul, my all,
In life, in death, in immortality,
Content in hell itself (if there be hells—
Which much I doubt)—content, so I could be
With him!
That good in common. I believe his love
Is great as mine, and mine—oh, could I prove
My love by dying for him, far too small
The test; I’d give my love, my soul, my all,
In life, in death, in immortality,
Content in hell itself (if there be hells—
Which much I doubt)—content, so I could be
With him!
The Maiden.
Is it a woman’s tongue that tells
This blasphemy? When I said faith, I meant
A faith in God.
This blasphemy? When I said faith, I meant
A faith in God.
The Lady.
And God is love! He sent
This love that fills my heart. Oh, most divine—
Oh, nearest to him of all earthly things,
A love that passeth self—a love like mine
That passeth understanding. The bird sings
Because it is the only way he knows
To praise his Maker; and a love that flows
Like mine is worship, too—a hymn that rolls
Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls
To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice;
It formed a part of worship once, and I
Do hold it now the part that deepest lies
In woman’s love, the dim sanctuary
Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept
E’en from the one she loves: all told, except
This mystic feeling which she may not know
How to express in words—the martyr’s glow
Idealized—the wish to give him joy
Through her own suffering, and so destroy
All part that self might play—to offer pure
Her love to her heart’s idol. Strange, obscure,
Sacred, but mighty, is this longing; I
Can feel though not define it. I would die
To make him happy!
This love that fills my heart. Oh, most divine—
Oh, nearest to him of all earthly things,
A love that passeth self—a love like mine
That passeth understanding. The bird sings
Because it is the only way he knows
To praise his Maker; and a love that flows
Like mine is worship, too—a hymn that rolls
Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls
To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice;
It formed a part of worship once, and I
Do hold it now the part that deepest lies
In woman’s love, the dim sanctuary
Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept
E’en from the one she loves: all told, except
This mystic feeling which she may not know
How to express in words—the martyr’s glow
Idealized—the wish to give him joy
Through her own suffering, and so destroy
All part that self might play—to offer pure
Her love to her heart’s idol. Strange, obscure,
Sacred, but mighty, is this longing; I
Can feel though not define it. I would die
To make him happy!
The Maiden.
As his happiness
Depends on me, then can you do no less
Than yield him to me—if you love him thus.
Depends on me, then can you do no less
Than yield him to me—if you love him thus.
The Lady (thinking).
“As,” said she? Heart, but this is fabulous,
This calm security of hers!
(Speaks.) Why, child,
Hast never heard of passion, and its wild,
Impetuous, unreasoning assault
On souls that know not their own depths? The fault
Not his: he was but young, he did not know
Himself. Might he not love me even though
Thou wert the best? Have pity! I appeal
To all the woman in thee. Dost thou feel
That one touch of his hand would call the blood
Out from thy heart in an o’erwhelming flood
To meet it?
This calm security of hers!
(Speaks.) Why, child,
Hast never heard of passion, and its wild,
Impetuous, unreasoning assault
On souls that know not their own depths? The fault
Not his: he was but young, he did not know
Himself. Might he not love me even though
Thou wert the best? Have pity! I appeal
To all the woman in thee. Dost thou feel
That one touch of his hand would call the blood
Out from thy heart in an o’erwhelming flood
To meet it?
The Maiden.
Nay, I know not what you speak.
The Lady.
Thou dost not, that I see. Thy pearly cheek
Keeps its fair white.
Sweet child, he’s that and more
To me. Ah, let me kneel; thus I implore
That thou wouldst yield him to me—all the right
His boyhood promise gave thee.
Keeps its fair white.
Sweet child, he’s that and more
To me. Ah, let me kneel; thus I implore
That thou wouldst yield him to me—all the right
His boyhood promise gave thee.
The Maiden.
In the sight
Of Heaven we are betrothed; I cannot break
My word.
Of Heaven we are betrothed; I cannot break
My word.
The Lady.
Oh, not for mine, but for his sake!
He loves me!
He loves me!
The Maiden.
Only madness, that will burn
And die to ashes; but, the fever past,
The old, pure love will steadfastly return
And take its rightful place.
And die to ashes; but, the fever past,
The old, pure love will steadfastly return
And take its rightful place.
The Lady.
But should it last,
This fever-madness? should he ask your grace,
And say he loved me best?
This fever-madness? should he ask your grace,
And say he loved me best?
The Maiden.
Then, to his face
I’d answer, Never! What! leave him to sin?
I’d answer, Never! What! leave him to sin?
The Lady.
And what the sin?
The Maiden.
The Lady (aside).
Why did I begin
Such hopeless contest?
(Speaks.) Child, if he should lie
Before us now, and one said he must die
Or love me, wouldst thou yield?
Such hopeless contest?
(Speaks.) Child, if he should lie
Before us now, and one said he must die
Or love me, wouldst thou yield?
The Maiden.
Never; as dead
He would be in God’s hands; living—
He would be in God’s hands; living—
The Lady.
In mine.
The Maiden.
That is, in atheism.
The Lady.
Have I said
Aught atheistical? Because my faith
Is broader than its own, this conscience saith
I am an atheist! Ah, child, is thine
A better faith? Yet, be it what it may,
Should he now lie before us here, and say
He loved thee best, I’d yield him though my heart
Should stop—though I should die. Yea, for his sake,
To make him happy, I would even take
Annihilation!—let the vital spark
Called soul be turned to nothing.
Aught atheistical? Because my faith
Is broader than its own, this conscience saith
I am an atheist! Ah, child, is thine
A better faith? Yet, be it what it may,
Should he now lie before us here, and say
He loved thee best, I’d yield him though my heart
Should stop—though I should die. Yea, for his sake,
To make him happy, I would even take
Annihilation!—let the vital spark
Called soul be turned to nothing.
The Maiden.
Far apart
Our motives; mine is clear with duty—
Our motives; mine is clear with duty—
The Lady.
Dark
And heavy mine with love.
And heavy mine with love.
The Maiden.
You talk of death
With frequent phrase, as though a little thing,
A matter merely of the will and breath,
It were to face the judgment, and the King
Who has not summoned you. Your flippant tongue
Rolls out its offers as a song is sung,
And, both mean nothing; for the chance to die
For one we love, that glorious gift, comes now
But rarely in this life that you and I
Must bear our part in. Thus, no empty vow
Do I repeat; and yet, I surely know,
At duty’s call right calmly could I go
Up the red scaffold’s stairs.
With frequent phrase, as though a little thing,
A matter merely of the will and breath,
It were to face the judgment, and the King
Who has not summoned you. Your flippant tongue
Rolls out its offers as a song is sung,
And, both mean nothing; for the chance to die
For one we love, that glorious gift, comes now
But rarely in this life that you and I
Must bear our part in. Thus, no empty vow
Do I repeat; and yet, I surely know,
At duty’s call right calmly could I go
Up the red scaffold’s stairs.
The Lady.
I well believe
Thee, steadfast maiden-voice. Nay, I conceive
My love, thy duty, are alike—the same
Self-sacrifice under a various name
According to our natures. I would yield,
And thou refuse to yield, from the same love;
I’d have him happy here, and thou—above.
For thus we look at life.
The book is sealed
That holds our fate—we may not look within;
But this I know, that, be it deadly sin
Or highest good, he loves me!
Thee, steadfast maiden-voice. Nay, I conceive
My love, thy duty, are alike—the same
Self-sacrifice under a various name
According to our natures. I would yield,
And thou refuse to yield, from the same love;
I’d have him happy here, and thou—above.
For thus we look at life.
The book is sealed
That holds our fate—we may not look within;
But this I know, that, be it deadly sin
Or highest good, he loves me!
The Maiden.
There are loves—
And loves!
And loves!
The Lady.
So be it. All this word-work proves
Nothing. Then let it end. Though there’s a charm
In speech—but you are tired. ’Twill be no harm
To rest you on my shoulder, though its creed
(Poor shoulder!) is not orthodox.
Nothing. Then let it end. Though there’s a charm
In speech—but you are tired. ’Twill be no harm
To rest you on my shoulder, though its creed
(Poor shoulder!) is not orthodox.
The Maiden.
Indeed,
I need not rest.
I need not rest.
The Lady.
Well, then, I’m half asleep
Myself, and you the silent watch may keep.—
(Thinking.) I’ve whiled the time away; but, thou dear God,
Who made me, how with bleeding feet have trod
The toiling moments through my heart! I pray
(For I believe that prayer may aid the soul,
Though not the body nor the fixed control
Of Nature) that his love may hold its sway
E’en as I saw him last, when, at my feet,
He lavished his young heart in burning tide
Of loving words. Oh, not for mine own joy,
But his, I pray this prayer; do thou destroy
All my own part in it.—Ah, love, full sweet
Shall be our meeting. Lo! the longed-for bride
Comes—of her own accord. There is no bliss,
Even in heaven, greater than the kiss
That I do keep for thee!
Myself, and you the silent watch may keep.—
(Thinking.) I’ve whiled the time away; but, thou dear God,
Who made me, how with bleeding feet have trod
The toiling moments through my heart! I pray
(For I believe that prayer may aid the soul,
Though not the body nor the fixed control
Of Nature) that his love may hold its sway
E’en as I saw him last, when, at my feet,
He lavished his young heart in burning tide
Of loving words. Oh, not for mine own joy,
But his, I pray this prayer; do thou destroy
All my own part in it.—Ah, love, full sweet
Shall be our meeting. Lo! the longed-for bride
Comes—of her own accord. There is no bliss,
Even in heaven, greater than the kiss
That I do keep for thee!
The Maiden (thinking).
O God, thy will
Be done—yes, first of all, be done! (Bide still,
Thou wicked, rebel heart!) Yet, O Lord, grant
This grace to me, a lowly supplicant.
My mind is vexèd, evil thoughts do rage
Within my soul; O Merciful, assuage
The suffering I endure!—If it is true
My poor boy loves this woman—and what is
Is ever for the best—create anew
Her soul that it may surely leaven his
With holiness. Oh, stretch Thy mighty arm
And win her to Thy fold, that she may be
A godly woman, graced with piety,
Turned from the error of her ways, the harm
Of all her worldliness, the sinful charm
Of her fair face (if it be fair, though I
Think her too brown) changed by humility
To decorous sweetness.—
Lord, look in my heart;
I may not know myself; search every part,
And give me grace to say that I will yield
My love to hers if Thy will stands revealed
In his swift preference.
Yet, in pity, hear—
Change her, Lord—make her good! [Weeps.
Be done—yes, first of all, be done! (Bide still,
Thou wicked, rebel heart!) Yet, O Lord, grant
This grace to me, a lowly supplicant.
My mind is vexèd, evil thoughts do rage
Within my soul; O Merciful, assuage
The suffering I endure!—If it is true
My poor boy loves this woman—and what is
Is ever for the best—create anew
Her soul that it may surely leaven his
With holiness. Oh, stretch Thy mighty arm
And win her to Thy fold, that she may be
A godly woman, graced with piety,
Turned from the error of her ways, the harm
Of all her worldliness, the sinful charm
Of her fair face (if it be fair, though I
Think her too brown) changed by humility
To decorous sweetness.—
Lord, look in my heart;
I may not know myself; search every part,
And give me grace to say that I will yield
My love to hers if Thy will stands revealed
In his swift preference.
Yet, in pity, hear—
Change her, Lord—make her good! [Weeps.
The Lady (thinking).
Is that a tear
On her soft cheek? She has her little griefs,
Then, as the children have; their small beliefs
Are sometimes brought to naught—no fairies live,
And dolls are sawdust!—
Love, I do forgive
Your boyish fancy, for she’s lily fair;
But no more could content you now than dew
Could hope to fill Niagara with its rare,
Fine drops that string the grass-blade’s shining hue,
Upon the brink.—Dearest, I call! Oh, see
How all my being rushes toward thee! Wait,
E’en though before thine eyes bright heaven’s gate
Let out its light: angels might envy thee
Such love as I shall give thee—wait! oh, wait!
On her soft cheek? She has her little griefs,
Then, as the children have; their small beliefs
Are sometimes brought to naught—no fairies live,
And dolls are sawdust!—
Love, I do forgive
Your boyish fancy, for she’s lily fair;
But no more could content you now than dew
Could hope to fill Niagara with its rare,
Fine drops that string the grass-blade’s shining hue,
Upon the brink.—Dearest, I call! Oh, see
How all my being rushes toward thee! Wait,
E’en though before thine eyes bright heaven’s gate
Let out its light: angels might envy thee
Such love as I shall give thee—wait! oh, wait!
THE FARM-HOUSE.
The Lady.
The sun is setting, we have passed the mill
Some time; the house is near Waunona Hill,
But the road smooth this way—which doth account
For the discrepancy of names. The gleam
Of the low sun shines out beneath that mass
Of purple thunder-cloud; when we surmount
This little swell of land, its slanting beam
Will light up all the lances of the grass,
The steely hue, the blue of the Blue Grass.
. . . . . . . . . .
That is the house off on the right; I know
By intuition.
Some time; the house is near Waunona Hill,
But the road smooth this way—which doth account
For the discrepancy of names. The gleam
Of the low sun shines out beneath that mass
Of purple thunder-cloud; when we surmount
This little swell of land, its slanting beam
Will light up all the lances of the grass,
The steely hue, the blue of the Blue Grass.
. . . . . . . . . .
That is the house off on the right; I know
By intuition.
The Maiden.
It may hold—the worst!
The Lady.
Art faint?
The Maiden.
’Twill pass. Lady, I enter first—
First and alone!
First and alone!
The Lady.
Child, if I thought his heart
Longed for the sight of you, I’d let you go;
Nay, I would make you! As it is—
But no,
It cannot be.
Longed for the sight of you, I’d let you go;
Nay, I would make you! As it is—
But no,
It cannot be.
The Maiden (clasping her hands).
Lord, give me strength! I yield;
Go you the first. Ah! [Sobs.
Go you the first. Ah! [Sobs.
The Lady.
Yours the nobler part;
I cannot yield. (And yet it is for him
I hold this “cannot” firm.) What might you wield
With that unflinching conscience-power! See, dim
Mine eyes—
There; we will go together—thus!
God help us both! [They enter the house.
Yes, we have come, we two,
His nearest, dearest. Is it perilous,
The fever? Where—above? That stair? We go—
Come, child—come, child.
I cannot yield. (And yet it is for him
I hold this “cannot” firm.) What might you wield
With that unflinching conscience-power! See, dim
Mine eyes—
There; we will go together—thus!
God help us both! [They enter the house.
Yes, we have come, we two,
His nearest, dearest. Is it perilous,
The fever? Where—above? That stair? We go—
Come, child—come, child.
Woman of the House.
Dear ladies, you should know
Before—
Before—
The Lady.
Come!
Woman of the House.
He—
The Lady.
Child, must I wait for you
Here at his door!
Here at his door!
The Maiden.
I come; but something cold
Has touched my heart.
Has touched my heart.
The Lady.
Then stay, coward!
The Maiden.
Nay, hold;
I come. [They mount the stairs together.
(Crying out above.) But he is dead—my Willie!
I come. [They mount the stairs together.
(Crying out above.) But he is dead—my Willie!
The Lady (above).
Fate,
You’ve gained the day at last! Yes, he is dead!
You’ve gained the day at last! Yes, he is dead!
BY THE DEAD.
Woman of the House.
He died last night at three—quite easily.
The Lady.
Alone?
Woman of the House.
A surgeon from the camp was here.
The Lady.
Where is the man?
Woman of the House.
Gone back.
The Lady.
Send for him.
See,
Here is a trifle; though it cannot clear
Our debt to you, yet take it.
See,
Here is a trifle; though it cannot clear
Our debt to you, yet take it.
Woman of the House.
But you give
Too much.
Too much.
The Lady.
Keep it.
The Maiden (kneeling by the bedside).
O Willie! can I live
Without you? Love, my love, why are you dead
And I alive? O noble, golden head,
Whose every curl I know, how still you lie
On this poor pillow, and how dreamlessly
You sleep! But waken now; look on me, dear;
Open those close-shut eyes, for I am here—
Yes, here all this long way from home. Oh, speak—
Speak to me, Willie.—Ah, how cold his cheek—
How icy cold! O God! he’s dead, he’s dead!
Without you? Love, my love, why are you dead
And I alive? O noble, golden head,
Whose every curl I know, how still you lie
On this poor pillow, and how dreamlessly
You sleep! But waken now; look on me, dear;
Open those close-shut eyes, for I am here—
Yes, here all this long way from home. Oh, speak—
Speak to me, Willie.—Ah, how cold his cheek—
How icy cold! O God! he’s dead, he’s dead!
Woman of the House.
Yes, he is dead, dead as King David. Truth
He was right handsome for a Yankee youth—
Rode his horse well.
He was right handsome for a Yankee youth—
Rode his horse well.
The Lady (aside).
I love you, Meredith.
The Maiden.
What’s this upon the table near his hand? [Opens the package.
My picture—yes, my letters—all! Herewith
I know—I know he loved me!
My picture—yes, my letters—all! Herewith
I know—I know he loved me!
The Lady (thinking).
Cover worn,
Creased in its folds, unopened, and forlorn—
Yes, I remember it. I would not look
Within;—unopened since that day.
He took
The poor thing forth with dying loyalty
To send to her.
Creased in its folds, unopened, and forlorn—
Yes, I remember it. I would not look
Within;—unopened since that day.
He took
The poor thing forth with dying loyalty
To send to her.
The Maiden.
O Lord, I understand
Thy purpose; ’twas to try my faith. I kneel
To thank thee that mercy doth reveal
The whole to my poor heart. He loved me—me,
Me only!
Thy purpose; ’twas to try my faith. I kneel
To thank thee that mercy doth reveal
The whole to my poor heart. He loved me—me,
Me only!
Woman of the House.
Would you like to see the wound
Here in his arm?—Why, if she hasn’t swooned!
Here in his arm?—Why, if she hasn’t swooned!
The Lady.
Take her below, and care for her, poor child!
[Exit woman, carrying the maiden in her arms.
Brain, art thou wild,
Distraught, that thou canst all things calmly hear
And answer, when my pulses reel, my heart
Stands still, and cold through every vital part
Death breathes his icy breath?
Oh, my own love!
I clasp thee in my arms, come back to me!
O ice-cold lips I kiss, ye are as dear
As ever! Come! Thy idol waits for thee,
Waits—weeps.
Dost thou not hear me there above
Where thou hast gone? Come back and take the bride
Who nestles weeping, longing, at the side
Of thy deserted body. Oh! most fair
Thy earthly tenement, the golden hair
Curls as when my poor fingers twined it last,
Thy head upon my breast. O brownèd cheek!
Can I not warm thee with mine own? Oh, speak—
Speak to me, Meredith!
Poor wounded arm,
Dear blood; here will I hold thee close and warm
Upon my heart. Dost thou not feel me now?
And now? And now? Do I not hold thee fast?
Hast thou not longed for me?
I gave my vow
To be thine own. See! I am come. My hand
I lay in thine. Oh, speak to me! Command
My every breath; full humbly I obey,
The true wife longs to feel a master’s sway,
Longs to do homage, so her idol prove
Ruler—nay, despot of her willing love.
Didst thou not hear me whisper while she spake.
“I love thee—oh, I love thee, Meredith?”
I would not that her childish grief should break
Thy peace up in thy heaven; even there
Thou longest for my love, and near the stair
Where souls come up from earth thou’rt standing now
Watching for me. O darling, from thy brow
I catch the radiance!
She is not thine,
Thou art not hers. The boyish pledge wherewith
She strives to hold thee was the radiancy
Of early dawn, which now the mighty sun
Hath swept away in fervent heat; nor thee
Nor her it binds. Her pretty youth will run
Its swift course to some other love; Fate
Ne’er lets such sweet maids pine, though they may try;
A few months lent to tearful constancy,
The next to chastened sorrow, slow decline
To resignation; then, the well-masked bait
Of making some one happy, though at cost
Of sweet self-sacrifice, which soon is lost
In that content which, if not real love,
Looks strangely like it! But why should I prove
What thou dost know already, freed from time
And finite bonds, my darling?
Love sublime,
Art thou not God? Then let him down to me
For one short moment. See! in agony
I cling to the cold body; let him touch
Me once with this dear hand; it is not much
I ask—one clasp, one word.
What! nothing? Then
I call down vengeance on this God of men
Who makes us at his will, and gives us hearts
Only to rend them in a hundred parts,
And see them quiver—bleed! I, creature, dare
To call aloud for justice; my despair
Our great far-off Creator doth arraign
Before the bar to answer for the pain
I suffer now. It is too much—too much!
O woe! woe! woe! the human soul can such
Intensity of sorrow not withstand,
But, lifting up on high its fettered hand,
Can only cry aloud in agony,
And blindly, wildly curse its God and die!
How dare you take,
You Death, my love away from me? The old,
The weak, the loveless, the forlorn, were there
In crowds, and none to miss them. But your cold
And heartless eye did mark that he was fair,
And that I loved him? From your dreadful hold
I snatch my darling, and he yet shall wake
From out your sleep by my caresses. See,
See how I love him! Ah, shall I not win
His life back with my lips, that lovingly
Do cling to his? And, though you do begin
Your icy work, these arms shall keep him warm—
Nay, more: my loving verily disarm
E’en you, O King of Terrors! You shall turn
And give him back to me; a heart shall burn
Under your ribs at last from very sight
Of my fierce, tearless grief.
—O sorry plight
Of my poor darling in this barren room,
Where only his gold curls do light the gloom!
But we will change all that. This evening, dear,
Shall be our bridal: wilt thou take me, here,
And thus?—in this array—this falling hair—
Crushed robes? And yet, believe me, I am fair
As ever.
Love, love, love! oh, speak to me!
I will not listen in my misery
If thy heart beat—
God! it is cold!
[Falls to the floor.
Distraught, that thou canst all things calmly hear
And answer, when my pulses reel, my heart
Stands still, and cold through every vital part
Death breathes his icy breath?
Oh, my own love!
I clasp thee in my arms, come back to me!
O ice-cold lips I kiss, ye are as dear
As ever! Come! Thy idol waits for thee,
Waits—weeps.
Dost thou not hear me there above
Where thou hast gone? Come back and take the bride
Who nestles weeping, longing, at the side
Of thy deserted body. Oh! most fair
Thy earthly tenement, the golden hair
Curls as when my poor fingers twined it last,
Thy head upon my breast. O brownèd cheek!
Can I not warm thee with mine own? Oh, speak—
Speak to me, Meredith!
Poor wounded arm,
Dear blood; here will I hold thee close and warm
Upon my heart. Dost thou not feel me now?
And now? And now? Do I not hold thee fast?
Hast thou not longed for me?
I gave my vow
To be thine own. See! I am come. My hand
I lay in thine. Oh, speak to me! Command
My every breath; full humbly I obey,
The true wife longs to feel a master’s sway,
Longs to do homage, so her idol prove
Ruler—nay, despot of her willing love.
Didst thou not hear me whisper while she spake.
“I love thee—oh, I love thee, Meredith?”
I would not that her childish grief should break
Thy peace up in thy heaven; even there
Thou longest for my love, and near the stair
Where souls come up from earth thou’rt standing now
Watching for me. O darling, from thy brow
I catch the radiance!
She is not thine,
Thou art not hers. The boyish pledge wherewith
She strives to hold thee was the radiancy
Of early dawn, which now the mighty sun
Hath swept away in fervent heat; nor thee
Nor her it binds. Her pretty youth will run
Its swift course to some other love; Fate
Ne’er lets such sweet maids pine, though they may try;
A few months lent to tearful constancy,
The next to chastened sorrow, slow decline
To resignation; then, the well-masked bait
Of making some one happy, though at cost
Of sweet self-sacrifice, which soon is lost
In that content which, if not real love,
Looks strangely like it! But why should I prove
What thou dost know already, freed from time
And finite bonds, my darling?
Love sublime,
Art thou not God? Then let him down to me
For one short moment. See! in agony
I cling to the cold body; let him touch
Me once with this dear hand; it is not much
I ask—one clasp, one word.
What! nothing? Then
I call down vengeance on this God of men
Who makes us at his will, and gives us hearts
Only to rend them in a hundred parts,
And see them quiver—bleed! I, creature, dare
To call aloud for justice; my despair
Our great far-off Creator doth arraign
Before the bar to answer for the pain
I suffer now. It is too much—too much!
O woe! woe! woe! the human soul can such
Intensity of sorrow not withstand,
But, lifting up on high its fettered hand,
Can only cry aloud in agony,
And blindly, wildly curse its God and die!
How dare you take,
You Death, my love away from me? The old,
The weak, the loveless, the forlorn, were there
In crowds, and none to miss them. But your cold
And heartless eye did mark that he was fair,
And that I loved him? From your dreadful hold
I snatch my darling, and he yet shall wake
From out your sleep by my caresses. See,
See how I love him! Ah, shall I not win
His life back with my lips, that lovingly
Do cling to his? And, though you do begin
Your icy work, these arms shall keep him warm—
Nay, more: my loving verily disarm
E’en you, O King of Terrors! You shall turn
And give him back to me; a heart shall burn
Under your ribs at last from very sight
Of my fierce, tearless grief.
—O sorry plight
Of my poor darling in this barren room,
Where only his gold curls do light the gloom!
But we will change all that. This evening, dear,
Shall be our bridal: wilt thou take me, here,
And thus?—in this array—this falling hair—
Crushed robes? And yet, believe me, I am fair
As ever.
Love, love, love! oh, speak to me!
I will not listen in my misery
If thy heart beat—
God! it is cold!
[Falls to the floor.
Enter the Surgeon.
Surgeon.
Art ill,
Madam?—
Madam?—
The Lady (rising).
Thanks, sir. But sorrow cannot kill.
Would that it could! Nay, I sit by his side—
Thus. Now tell all—all—all.
Would that it could! Nay, I sit by his side—
Thus. Now tell all—all—all.
Surgeon.
You cannot hide
The deadly faintness that has paled your cheek;
Let me get—
The deadly faintness that has paled your cheek;
Let me get—
The Lady.
Nothing. Nothing can avail,
Good sir; my very heart’s blood has turned pale.
Struck by God’s lightning, do you talk to me
Of faintness? Only tell your tale—speak, speak;
You saw him die?
Good sir; my very heart’s blood has turned pale.
Struck by God’s lightning, do you talk to me
Of faintness? Only tell your tale—speak, speak;
You saw him die?
Surgeon.
I did; right tranquilly
He passed away this morning, with your name
Upon his lips—for you are Helena?
He passed away this morning, with your name
Upon his lips—for you are Helena?
The Lady.
I am.
Surgeon.
I saw your picture.
(Aside.) Yes, the same.
Hair, eyes. What Titian tints!
(Speaks.) He made me lay
Your letters and your picture on his heart
Before he died; he would not from them part
For e’en one moment.
(Aside.) Yes, the same.
Hair, eyes. What Titian tints!
(Speaks.) He made me lay
Your letters and your picture on his heart
Before he died; he would not from them part
For e’en one moment.
The Lady.
Lift them not, they’re mine;
My hand alone must touch the holy shrine
Of love and death where the poor relics lie—
Darling (bends, and kisses the letters), because you loved them!
Let them die,
Go to the grave with him, there on his breast,
Where I would gladly die too—be at rest
Forever.—And he spake of me?
My hand alone must touch the holy shrine
Of love and death where the poor relics lie—
Darling (bends, and kisses the letters), because you loved them!
Let them die,
Go to the grave with him, there on his breast,
Where I would gladly die too—be at rest
Forever.—And he spake of me?
Surgeon.
He said
That you would come, for he had sent you word.
That you would come, for he had sent you word.
The Lady.
I ne’er received it; ’twas by chance I heard,
A passing chance.
A passing chance.
Surgeon.
The lines were down—
The Lady.
And may
They never rise again that failed that day,
And left him dying here! Go on; he said—
They never rise again that failed that day,
And left him dying here! Go on; he said—
Surgeon.
That you would come, and grieved that o’er his head
The turf might close ere you could reach his side
And give him one last kiss.
And then—he died.
The turf might close ere you could reach his side
And give him one last kiss.
And then—he died.
The Lady.
No more?
Surgeon.
No more. Ah, yes, one other thing:
Short time before, he feebly bade me bring
That package on the table—but ’tis torn—
Some one has opened it! It looked well worn,
In old, unbroken foldings when I brought
It from his satchel. Who could thus have wrought
On other’s property?
Short time before, he feebly bade me bring
That package on the table—but ’tis torn—
Some one has opened it! It looked well worn,
In old, unbroken foldings when I brought
It from his satchel. Who could thus have wrought
On other’s property?
The Lady.
The owner.—Then
He said—
He said—
Surgeon.
To give it you, for you would know
Its history, and where it swift should go;
The name was writ within.
Its history, and where it swift should go;
The name was writ within.
The Lady (aside).
Yes, love; amen!
Be it according to thy wish.
(Speaks.) Pray take
This fee, good sir. I would that for his sake—
Your kindness to him—I could send your name
Ringing through all the West in silver fame.—
At dawn, you said, the burial? Then leave
Me here alone with him. I well believe
You’ll show me further kindness. Speak no word
Beyond your doctor’s art to that poor child
Who weeps below. I would not that she heard
Aught more of grief.
[Exit Surgeon.
Ah! all my passion wild
Has gone; now come the softening woman tears.—
Forgive me, great Creator, that I spake
In my sharp agony. O do thou take
The bitterness from out my soul; I know
Naught, but thou knowest all! Then let my woe,
The poor blind woe we short-lived mortals bear,
Be my sad plea.—
I knew, through my despair,
You loved me to the last. Death had no fears
For you, my love; you met him with my name,
As talisman of the undying flame
That leaps o’er the black chasm of the grave
And mounts to heaven. But I will not rave,
When you died softly.
Be it according to thy wish.
(Speaks.) Pray take
This fee, good sir. I would that for his sake—
Your kindness to him—I could send your name
Ringing through all the West in silver fame.—
At dawn, you said, the burial? Then leave
Me here alone with him. I well believe
You’ll show me further kindness. Speak no word
Beyond your doctor’s art to that poor child
Who weeps below. I would not that she heard
Aught more of grief.
[Exit Surgeon.
Ah! all my passion wild
Has gone; now come the softening woman tears.—
Forgive me, great Creator, that I spake
In my sharp agony. O do thou take
The bitterness from out my soul; I know
Naught, but thou knowest all! Then let my woe,
The poor blind woe we short-lived mortals bear,
Be my sad plea.—
I knew, through my despair,
You loved me to the last. Death had no fears
For you, my love; you met him with my name,
As talisman of the undying flame
That leaps o’er the black chasm of the grave
And mounts to heaven. But I will not rave,
When you died softly.
Ah! you love me there
As well as here. God never made me fair
For nothing; now, I know the gift he gave
That I might take my place with you at last,
Equal in loveliness, though years had passed
Since you first breathed the air above the skies,
The beauty-giving air of paradise.
Fair are you now, my love, but not like me:
Mine is the goddess-bloom, the rarity
Of perfect loveliness; yours, the bright charm
Of strong young manhood, whose encircling arm
Could bend me like a reed. Oh, for one clasp
Of that strong arm!—
Hist! was not that the hasp
Of the old door below? She comes; I hear
Her light step on the stair.
Darling, no fear
Need trouble you upon your couch; to me
A sacred trust this gentle girl shall be
Through life. Did you not love her once?
As well as here. God never made me fair
For nothing; now, I know the gift he gave
That I might take my place with you at last,
Equal in loveliness, though years had passed
Since you first breathed the air above the skies,
The beauty-giving air of paradise.
Fair are you now, my love, but not like me:
Mine is the goddess-bloom, the rarity
Of perfect loveliness; yours, the bright charm
Of strong young manhood, whose encircling arm
Could bend me like a reed. Oh, for one clasp
Of that strong arm!—
Hist! was not that the hasp
Of the old door below? She comes; I hear
Her light step on the stair.
Darling, no fear
Need trouble you upon your couch; to me
A sacred trust this gentle girl shall be
Through life. Did you not love her once?
The Maiden (entering).