The New Penelope and Other Stories and Poems Part 38

MOONLIGHT MEMORIES.

Do thy chamber windows open east, Beloved, as did ours of old?

And do you stand when day has ceased, Withdrawn thro' evening's porch of gold, And watch the pink flush fade above The hills on which the wan moon leans, Remembering the sweet girlish love That blest this hour in other scenes!

I see your hand upon your heart-- I see you dash away the tears-- It is the same undying smart, That touched us in the long-gone years; And cannot pa.s.s away. You stand Your forehead to the window crest, And stifle sobs that no command Can keep from rising in your breast.

Dear, balm is not for griefs like ours, Nor resurrection for dead hope: In vain we cover wounds with flowers, That grow upon life's western slope.

Their leaves tho' bright, are hard, and dry, They have no soft and healing dew; The pansies of past spring-times lie Dead in the shadow of the yew.

You feel this in your heart, and turn To pace the dimness of your room; But lo, like fire within an urn, The moonlight glows through all the gloom.

It sooths you like a living touch, And spite of the slow-falling tears, Sweet memories crowd with oh, so much, Of all that girlhood's time endears.

On nights like this, with such a moon, Full shining in a wintry sky; Or on the softer nights of June, When fleecy clouds fled thought-like by, Within our chamber opening east, With curtains from the window parted, With hands and cheeks together prest, We dreamed youth's glowing dreams, light-hearted.

Or talked of that mysterious love That comes like fate to every soul: And vowed to hold our lives above, Perchance its sorrowful control.

Alas, the very vow we made, To keep our lives from pa.s.sion free, To wiser hearts well had betrayed Some future love's intensity.

How well that youthful vow was kept, Is written on a deathless page-- Vain all regrets, vain tears we've wept, The record lives from age to age.

But one who "doeth all things well,"

Who made us differ from the throng, Has it within his heart to quell This torturing pain of thirst, ere long.

And you, whose soul is all aglow With fire Prometheus brought from heaven, Shall in some future surely know Joys for which high desires are given.

Not always in a restless pain Shall beat your heart, or throb your brow; Not always shall you sigh in vain For hope's fruition, hidden now.

Beloved, are your tear-drops dried?

The moon is riding high above:-- Though each from other's parted wide, We have not parted early love.

And tho' you never are forgot, The moonrise in the east shall be The token that my evening thought Returns to home, and love and thee!

VERSES FOR M----.

The river on the east Ripples its azure flood within my sight; And, darting from the west, Are "sunset arrows," feathered with red light.

The northern breeze has hung His wintry harp upon some giant pine; And the pale stars among, I see the star I love to name as mine: But toward the south I turn my eager eyes-- Beyond its flushed horizon my heart lies.

The snow-clad isles of ice, Launched by wild Boreas from a northern sh.o.r.e, Journey the way my eyes Turn with an envious longing evermore-- Smiling back to the sky Its own pink blush, and, floating out of sight, Bear south the softest dye Of northern heavens, to fade in southern night:-- My eyes but look the way my joys are gone, And the ice-islands travel not alone.

The untrod fields of snow, Glow with the rosy blush of parting day; And fancy asks if so The snow is stained with sunset far away; And if some face, like mine, Its forehead pressed against the window-pane, Peers northward, with the shine Of the pole-star reflected in eyes' rain: "Ah yes," my heart says, "it is surely so;"

And, like a bound bird, flutters hard to go.

Sad eyes, that, blurred with tears, Gaze into darkness, gaze no more in vain Whence no loved face appears, And no voice comes to lull the heart's fond pain!

Sad heart! restrain thy throbs, For beauty, like a presence out of heaven, Rests over all, and robs Sorrow of pain, and makes earth seem forgiven:-- Twilight the fair eve ushers in with grace, And rose clouds melt for stars to take their place.

AUTUMNALIA.

The crimson color lays As bright as beauty's blush along the West; And a warm golden haze, Promising sheafs of ripe Autumnal days To crown the old year's crest.

Hangs in mid air, a half-pellucid maze, Through which the sun at set, Grown round and rosy, looks with Bacchian blush, For an old wine-G.o.d meet-- Whose brows are dripping with the grape-blood sweet, As if his southern flush Rejoiced him, in his northern-zone retreat.

The amber-colored air Musical is with hum of tiny things Held idly, struggling there, As if the golden mist entangled were About the viewless wings, That beat out music on their gilded snare.

If but a leaf, all gay With Autumn's gorgeous coloring, doth fall, Along its fluttering way A shrill alarum wakes a sharp dismay, And, answering to the call, The insect chorus swells and dies away With a fine piping noise.

As if some younger singing notes cried out, As do mischievous boys-- Startling their playmates with a pained voice, Or sudden thrilling shout, Followed by laughters, full of little joys.

Perchance a lurking breeze Springs, just awakened to its wayward play, Tossing the sober trees Into a frolic maze of ecstasies, And s.n.a.t.c.hing at the gay Banners of Autumn, strews them where it please.

The sunset colors glow A second time in flame from out the wood, As bright and warm as though The vanished clouds had fallen, and lodged below Among the tree-tops, hued With all the colors of heaven's signal-bow.

The fitful breezes die Into a gentle whisper, and then sleep; And sweetly, mournfully, Starting to sight, in the transparent sky, Lone in the upper deep, Sad Hesper pours its beams upon the eye; And for one little hour, Holds audience with the lesser lights of heaven; Then to its western bower Descends in sudden darkness, as the flower That at the fall of Even Shuts its bright eye, and yields to slumber's power.

Soon, with a dusky face, Pensive and proud as an East Indian queen, And with a solemn grace, The moon ascends, and takes her royal place In the fair evening scene; While all the reverential stars, apace, Take up their march through the cool fields of s.p.a.ce, And dead is the sweet Autumn day whose close we've seen.

PALO SANTO.

In the deep woods of Mexico, Where screams the "painted paraquet,"

And mocking-birds flit to and fro, With borrowed notes they half forget; Where brilliant flowers and poisonous vines Are mingled in a firm embrace, And the same gaudy plant entwines Some reptile of a poisonous race; Where spreads the _Itos'_ icy shade, Benumbing, even in summer's heat, The thoughtless traveler who hath laid Himself to noonday slumbers sweet;-- Where skulks unseen the beast of prey-- The native robber glares and hides,-- And treacherous death keeps watch alway On him who flies, or he who bides.

In these deep tropic woods there grows A tree, whose tall and silvery bole Above the dusky forest shows, As shining as a saintly soul Among the souls of sinful men;-- Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven, And breathing incense out, as when The pa.s.sing saints of earth are shriven.

The skulking robber drops his eyes, And signs himself with holy cross, If, far between him and the skies, He sees its pearly blossoms toss.

The wanderer halts to gaze upon The lovely vision, far or near, And smiles and sighs to think of one He wishes for the moment here.

The Mexic native fears not fang Of poisonous serpent, vine, nor bee, If he may soothe the baleful pang With juices of this "holy tree."

How do we all, in life's wild ways, Which oft we traverse lost and lone, Need that which heavenward draws the gaze, Some _Palo Santo_ of our own!

A SUMMER DAY.

Fade not, sweet day!

Another hour like this-- So full of tranquil bliss-- May never come my way, I walk in paths so shadowed and so cold: But stay thou, darling hour, Nor stint thy gracious power To smile away the clouds that me enfold: Oh stay! when thou art gone, I shall be lost and lone.

Lost, lone, and sad; And troubled more and more, By the dark ways, and sore, In which my feet are led;-- Alas, my heart, it was not always so!

Therefore, O happy day, Haste not to fade away, Nor let pale night chill all thy tender glow-- Thy rosy mists, that steep The violet hills in sleep--

Thy airs of gold, That over all the plain, And fields of ripened grain, A shimmering glory hold,-- The soft fatigue-dress of the drowsy sun; Dreaming, as one who goes To peace, and sweet repose, After a battle hardly fought, and won: Even so, my heart, to-day, Dream all thy fears away.

O happy tears, That everywhere I gaze, Jewel the golden maze, Flow on, till earth appears Worthy the soft perfection of this scene: Beat, heart, more soft and low, Creep, hurrying blood, more slow: Waste not one throb, to lose me the serene, Deep, satisfying bliss Of such an hour as this!

How like our dream, Of that delightful rest G.o.d keepeth for the blest, This lovely peace doth seem;-- Perchance, my heart, He sent this gracious day, That when the dark and cold, Thy doubtful steps enfold, Thou, may'st remember, and press on thy way, Nor faint midway the gloom That lies this side the tomb.

All, all in vain, Sweet day, do I entreat To stay thy winged feet; The gloom, the cold, the pain, Gather me back as thou dost pale and fade; Yet in my heart I make A chamber for thy sake, And keep thy picture in warm color laid:-- Thy memory, happy day, Thou can'st not take away.

HE AND SHE.

Under the pines sat a young man and maiden, "Love," said he; "life is sweet, think'st thou not so?"

Sweet were her eyes, full of pictures of Aidenn,-- "Life?" said she; "love is sweet; no more I know."