The Mistress of the Manse Part 7

He strengthened her with manly thought And learning, gathered from the great; And she, whose quicker eye had caught The treasures of the broad estate Of common life and learning, brought

Her gleanings from the level field, And gave them gladly to his hands, Who had not dreamed that they could yield Such sheaves, or hold within their bands Such wealth of lovely flowers concealed.

His grave discourse, his judgment sure, Gave tone and temper to her soul, While her swift thoughts and vision pure, And mirth that would not brook control, And wit that kept him insecure

Within his dignified repose, Refreshed and quickened him like wine.

No tender word or dainty gloze Could give him pleasure half so fine As that which tingled to her blows.

He gave her food for heart and mind, And raised her toward his higher plane; She showed him that his eyes were blind; She proved his lofty wisdom vain, And held him humbly with his kind.

IV.

Oh blessed sleep! in which exempt From our tired selves long hours we lie, Our vapid worthlessness undreamt, And our poor spirits saved thereby From perishing of self-contempt!

We weary of our petty aims; We sicken with our selfish deeds; We shrink and shrivel, in the flames That low desire ignites and feeds, And grudge the debt that duty claims.

Oh sweet forgetfulness of sleep!

Oh bliss, to drop the pride of dress, And all the shams o'er which we weep, And, toward our native nothingness, To drop ten thousand fathoms deep!

At morning only--strong, erect-- We face our mirrors not ashamed; For then alone we meet unflecked The image we at evening blamed, And find refreshed our self-respect.

Ah! little wonderment that those, Who see us most and love us best, Find that a true affection grows The more when, in its parted nest, It spends long hours in lone repose!

Our fruit grows dead in pulp and rind When seen and handled overmuch; The roses fade, our fingers bind; And with familiar kiss and touch The graces wither from our kind.

Man lives on love, at love's expense, And woman, so her love be sweet; Best honey palls upon the sense When it is tempted to repeat Too oft its fine experience.

And Mildred, with instinctive skill, And loving neither most nor least, Stood out from Philip's grasping will, And gave, where he desired a feast, The taste that left him hungry still.

She hid her heart behind a mask, And held him to his manly course; One hour in love she bade him bask, And then she drove, with playful force, The laggard to his daily task.

They went their way and kept their care, And met again their toil complete, Like angels on a heavenly stair, Or pilgrims in a golden street, Grown stronger one, and one more fair!

V.

As one worn down by petty pains, With fevered head and restless limb, Flies from the toil that stings and stains, And all the cares that wearied him, And same far, silent summit gains;

And in its strong, sweet atmosphere, Or in the blue, or in the green, Finds his discomforts disappear, And loses in the pure serene The garnered humors of a year;

And sees not how and knows not when The old vexations leave their seat, So Philip, happiest of men, Saw all his petty cares retreat, And vanish, not to come again.

Where he had thought to shield and serve, Himself had ministry instead, He heard no vexing call to swerve From larger toil, for labors sped By smaller hand and finer nerve.

In deft and deferential ways She took the house by silent siege; And Dinah, warmest in her praise, Grew, unaware, her loyal liege, And served her truly all her days.

And many a sad and stricken maid, And many a lorn and widowed life That came for counsel or for aid To Philip, met the pastor's wife, And on her heart their burden laid.

VI.

He gave her what she took--her will; And made it s.p.a.ce for life full-orbed.

He learned at last that every rill Loses its freshness, when absorbed By the great stream that turns the mill.

With hand ungrasping for her dower, He found its royal income his; And every swiftly kindling power-- Self-moved in its activities-- Becoming brighter every hour.

The air is sweet which we inspire When it is free to come and go; And sound of brook and scent of briar Rise freshest where the breezes blow, That feed our breath and fan our fire.

That love is weak which is too strong; A man may be a woman's grave; The right of love swells oft to wrong, And silken bonds may bind a slave As truly as a leathern thong.

We may not dine upon the bird That fills our home with minstrelsy; The living vine may never gird Too firm and close the living tree, Without sad sacrifice incurred.

The crystal goblet that we drain Will be forever after dry; But he who sips, and sips again, And leaves it to the open sky, Will find it filled with dew and rain.

The lilies burst, the roses blow Into divinest balm and bloom, When free above and free below; And life and love must have large room, That life and love may largest grow.

So Philip learned (what Mildred saw), That love was like a well profound, From which two souls had right to draw, And in whose waters would be drowned The one who took the other's law.

VII.

Ambition was an alien word, Which Mildred faintly understood; Its poisoned breathing had not blurred The whiteness of her womanhood, Nor had its blatant trumpet stirred

To quicker pulse her heart content.

In social tasks and home employ, She did not question what it meant; But bore her woman's lot with joy And sweetness, wheresoe'er she went.

If ever with unconscious thrill It touched her, in some vagrant dream, She only wished that G.o.d would fill With larger tide the goodly stream That flowed beside her, strong and still.

She knew that love was more than fame, And happy conscience more than love;-- Far off and wild, the wings of flame!

Close by, the pinions of the dove That hovered white above her name!

She honored Philip as a man, And joyed in his supreme estate; But never dreamed that under ban She lives who never can be great, Or chieftain of a crowd or clan.

The public eye was like a knife That pierced and plagued her shrinking heart.

To be a woman, and a wife, With privilege to dwell apart, And hold unseen her modest life--

Alike from praise and blame aloof, And free to live and move in peace Beneath love's consecrated roof-- Was boon so great she could not cease Her thanks for the divine behoof.

Black turns to brown and blue to blight Beneath the blemish of the sun; And e'en the spotless robe of white, Worn overlong, grows dim and dun Through the strange alchemy of light.

Nor wives nor maidens, weak or brave, Can stand and face the public stare, And win the plaudits that they crave, And stem the hisses that they dare, And modest truth and beauty save.

No woman, in her soul, is she Who longs to poise above the roar Of motley mult.i.tudes, and be The idol at whose feet they pour The wine of their idolatry.