The Mistress of the Manse Part 4

And poured their roaring burden out.

They swept along the sounding street, Then paused, and then with shriek and shout Hurtled as if a myriad feet Had joined the dread and deafening rout.

But ere the welcome morning broke, The loud wind fell, though gray and chill The drizzling rain and drifting smoke Drove slowly toward the westward hill, Half hidden in its phantom cloak.

And through the mist a clumsy smack, Deep loaded with her clumsy freight, With shifting boom and frequent tack, Like a huge ghost that wandered late, Reeled by upon her devious track.

XIX.

So Mildred, with prophetic ken, Saw in the long and rainy day The dreaded host of friendly men And friendly women, kept away, And time for love, and book, and pen.

But while she looked, with dreaming eyes And heart content, upon the scene, She saw a stalwart man arise Where the wild water lashed the green, And pause a breath, to signalize

Some one beyond her stinted view; Then turn with hurried feet, and straight The deep, rain-burdened gra.s.ses through, And through the manse's open gate, Pa.s.s to her door. At once she knew

That some faint soul, in sad extreme, Had sent for succor to the manse, And knew its master would redeem To sacred use the circ.u.mstance That made such havoc of her dream.

XX.

She saw the quiet men depart, She saw them leave the river-side, She saw them brave with st.u.r.dy art The surges of the angry tide, And disappear; the while her heart

Sank down in dismal loneliness.

Then came her vexing thoughts again; And quick, as if she broke duress Of heavy weariness or pain, She sought the study's dim recess,

Where rank on rank, against the wall, The mighty men of every land Stood mutely waiting for the call Of him who, with his single hand, Had bravely met and mastered all.

The gray old monarchs of the pen Looked down with calm, benignant gaze, And Augustine and Origen And Ansel justified the ways-- The wondrous ways--of G.o.d with men.

Among the tall hierophants Angelical Aquinas stood; While Witsius held the "Covenants,"

And Irenaeus, wise and good, Couched low his silver-bearded lance

For strife with heresy and schism, And Turretin with lordly nod Gave system to the dogmatism That a.n.a.lyzed the thought of G.o.d As light is painted by a prism.

Great Luther, with his great disputes, And Calvin, with his finished scheme, And Charnock, with his "Attributes,"

And Taylor with his poet's dream Of theologic flowers and flutes,

And Thomas Fuller, old and quaint, And Cudworth, dry with dust of gold, And South, the sharp and witty saint, With Howe and Owen--broad and bold-- And Leighton still without the taint

Of earth upon his robe of white, Stood side by side with Hobbes and Locke, And, braced by many an acolyte, With Edwards standing on his rock, And all New England's men of might,

Whose gifts and offices divine Had crowned her with a kingly crown, And solemn doctors from the Rhine, With Fichte, Kant, and Hegel, down Through all the long and stately line!

As Mildred saw the awful host, She felt within no motive stir To realize her girlish boast, And knew they held no more for her Than if each volume were a ghost.

XXI.

She sat in Philip's vacant chair, And pondered long her doubtful way; And, in her impotent despair, Lifted her longing eyes to pray, When on a shelf, far up, and bare,

She saw an ancient volume lie; And straight her rising thought was checked.

What were its dubious treasures? Why Had it been banished from respect, And from its owner's hand and eye?

The more she gazed, the stronger grew The wish to hold it in her hand.

Strange fancies round the volume flew, And changed the dust their pinions fanned To atmospheres of red and blue,

That blent in purple aureole,-- As if a lymph of sweetest life Stood warm within a golden bowl, Crowned with its odor-cloud, and rife With strength and solace for her soul!

And there it lay beyond her arm, And wrought its fine and wondrous spell, With all its h.o.a.rd of good or harm, Till curious Mildred, struggling well, Surrendered to the mighty charm.

The steps were scaled for boon or bale, The book was lifted from its place, And, bowing to the fragrant grail, She drank with pleased and eager face This draught from off an Eastern tale:

Selim, the haughty Jehangir, the Conqueror of the Earth, With royal pomps and pageantries and rites of festal mirth Was set to celebrate the day--the white day--of his birth.

His red pavilions, stretching wide, crowned all with globes of gold, And tipped with pinnacles of fire and streamers manifold, Flamed with such splendor that the sun at noon looked pale and cold!

And right and left, along, the plain, far as the eye could gaze, His n.o.bles and retainers who were tented in the blaze, Kept revel high in honor of that day of all the days.

The earth was spread, the walls were hung, with silken fabrics fine, And arabesque and lotus-flower bore each the broidered sign Of jewels plucked from land and sea, and red gold from the mine.

Upon his throne he sat alone, half buried in the gems That strewed his tapestries like stars, and tipped their tawny hems, And glittered with the glory of a hundred diadems.

He saw from his pavilion door the nodding heron plumes His n.o.bles wore upon their brows, while, from the rosy glooms Which hid his harem, came low songs, on wings of rare perfumes!

The elephants, a thousand strong, had pa.s.sed his dreaming eye, Caparisoned with golden plates on head and breast and thigh, And a hundred flashing troops of horse unmarked had thundered by.

He sat upon old Akbar's throne, the heir of power and fame, But all his glory was as dust, and dust his wondrous name-- Swept into air, and scattered far, by one consuming flame!

For on that day of all the days, and in that festal hour, He sickened with his glory and grew weary of his power, And pined to bind upon his breast his harem's choicest flower,

"Oh Nourmahal! oh Nourmahal! why sit I here," he cried,-- "The victim of these gaudy shows, and of my haughty pride, When thou art dearer to my soul than all the world beside!

"Thy eyes are brighter than the gems piled round gilded seat; Thy cheeks are softer than the silks that shimmer at my feet, And purer heart than thine in woman's breast hath never beat!

"My first love--and my only love--Oh babe of Candahar!

Torn from my boyish arms at first, and, like a silver star Shining within another heaven, and worshipped from afar,

"Thou art my own at last, my own! I pine to see thy face; Come to me, Nourmahal! Oh come, and hallow with thy grace The glories that without thy love are meaningless and base!"

He spoke a word, and, quick as light, before him lying p.r.o.ne A dark-eyed page, with gilded vest and crimson-belted zone, Looked up with waiting ear to mark the message from the throne.

"Go summon Nourmahal, my queen; and when her radiance comes, Bear my command of silence to the vinas and the drums, And for your guerdon take your choice of all these gilded crumbs."

He tossed a handful of the gems down where his minion lay, Who s.n.a.t.c.hed a jewel from the drift, and swiftly sped away With his command to Nourmahal, who waited to obey.