Puslapio vaizdai
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The cool, moon-whitened calm
Unto the sheltered coves
O'erhung by blossoming groves
Of the shell-girt isles of balm:
Not evermore again

Will she visit the world of men;
Nor is there any stave

Can call her back from the grave,
Nor ever a madrigal

Can pass her beneath the pall

Unto the pain and strife
Which living men call Life!

Yet, in his dreams and songs,
She is not dead to him:
Not all in vain he longs

For her presence in the dim
Green glooms of the ancient wood;
For Heaven has found it good
To turn forever the sting

Of sorrow from hearts that sing.
And all day long he treads
The forest's whispering aisles;
And the checkered sunlight sheds
Its glow o'er a face that smiles-
Smiles as he softly strays
Under the leafy haze-
Whispering, "She is here.

Death could not wound my dear.

Listen! you say a thrush

With wild song breaks the hush;
I say it is she-my love-

Singing in yonder grove.

'Tis she! I say; for she said,

One night when her fair, bright head

Lay on my breast, My own,

If ever thou'rt left alone,

Think not that thy love is dead,
But look till thou find'st the red

Wild rose, and say

66

'Tis her cheek."

Then kiss it close, and seek

Where the clear dew never dries-
Blue violets for mine eyes;
Then, would'st thou kiss my lips,
The bee will lead where he sips;
Sapphires will clasp my throat
Where water-lilies float;
My hands will be the air
Caressing thy forehead fair,

And oft, when the rain-drops beat
The leaves, thou wilt hear my feet
Leading the murmuring shower
Away from thy sylvan bower.'
Thus did she speak, and then
Faded from earthly ken
Out of the arms that clasped

Her form, and my hands but grasped

This robe upon either side.
My arms were locked on the breast
That her golden hair had prest,
And thus did I lose my bride!"

Still through the haunted aisles
Of the wood, and at its edge
Where the ripples stir the sedge,
This dreamer walks, and smiles
On the violet and the rose,
And the lily's calm repose:
And you who have heard his song,
And the fantasies which throng
Its burden, may know with me
That the maiden was Purity,
And the lover a sullied soul
That saw, in the scented flowers,
Emblems of hallowed hours,—
Of the Innocence that stole
Unto its God when Sin-
The Dark Guest-entered in!

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"A braggart's threat, for a brave man's scorning!"
And Hugo laughed at his rival's ire,
But couriers twain, on the bridal morning,
To his castle gate came with tidings dire.

The first a-faint and with armor riven:
"In peril sore have I left thy bride,-
False Rolf waylaid us. For love and Heaven!
Sir Hugo, quick to the rescue ride!"

Stout Hugo muttered a word unholy;

He sprang to horse and he flashed his brand,
But a hand was laid on his bridle slowly,
And a herald spoke: "By the king's command

"This to Picardy's trusty warder :

France calls first for his loyal sword, The Flemish spears are across the border, And all is lost if they win the ford."

Sir Hugo paused, and his face was ashen,
His white lips trembled in silent prayer-
God's pity soften the spirit's passion

When the crucifixion of Love is there!

What need to tell of the message spoken?

Of the hand that shook as he poised his lance? And the look that told of his brave heart broken, As he bade them follow, "For God and France!"

On Cambray's field next morn they found him,
'Mid a mighty swath of foemen dead;
Her snow-white scarf he had bound around him
With his loyal blood was baptizéd red.

It is all writ down in the book of Glory,
On crimson pages of blood and strife,
With scanty thought for the simple story
Of duty dearer than love or life.

Only a note obscure, appended

By warrior scribe or monk perchance,

Saith: "The good knight's ladye was sore offended That he would not die for her but France."

Did the ladye live to lament her lover?

Or did roystering Rolf prove a better mate?
I have searched the records over and over,
But nought discover to tell her fate.

And I read the moral.-A brave endeavor
To do thy duty, whate'er its worth,
Is better than life with love forever-
And love is the sweetest thing on earth.

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Y the time this paper appears, I shall have been talking for twelve months; and it is thought I should take my leave in a formal and seasonable manner. Valedictory eloquence is rare. Even deathbed sayings have not often hit the mark of the occasion; and perhaps there are but three that may be profitably cited. Charles Second, wit and sceptic, a man whose life had been one long lesson in human incredulity, an easy-going comrade, a manoeuvring king-remembered and embodied all his wit and scepticism along with more than his usual good humor in the famous "I am afraid, gentlemen, I am an unconscionable time a-dying." Marcus Aurelius in that last passage did not forget that he was Cæsar: "Vale vobis dico, vos precedens." And there is yet another passing-word: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

I.

THE attitude and the words of Charles Second are what best become humanity. An unconscionable time a-dying-there is the picture ("I am afraid, gentlemen") of your life and of mine. The sands run

out, and the hours are "numbered and imputed," and the days go by; and when the last of these finds us, we have been a long time dying, and what else? The very length is something, if we reach that hour of separation undishonored; and to have lived at all is doubtless (in the soldierly expression) to have served. There is a tale in Tacitus of how the veterans mutinied in the German wilderness; of how they mobbed Germanicus, clamoring to go home; and of how, seizing their general's hand, these old, warworn exiles passed his finger along their toothless gums. Sunt lacrymæ rerum: this was the most eloquent of the songs of Simeon. And when a man has lived to a fair age, he bears his marks of service. He may have never been remarked upon the breach at the head of the army; at least he shall have lost his teeth on the camp bread.

The idealism of serious people in this age of ours is of a noble character. It never seems to them that they have served enough; they have a fine impatience of their virtues. It were perhaps more modest to be singly thankful that we are no worse. It is not only our enemies, those desperate characters-it is we ourselves who know not what we do;-thence springs the glimmering hope that perhaps we do better than we

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