Virginia, A Tragedy Part 14

Is he not, mine? Although he drift from me Into the Ocean of the Far Away, Across the tideless and the awful sea Of Time, while I alone must mutely stay Within the doorway of a darkened Day; Although he shake the dust from his light feet, Dust of my warm Heart's Garden, yet I hold, My Love forever, radiant, complete.

He breathes upon me when spring buds unfold, He smiles upon me from the roses' gold; I hear him in the tender melody Of mating bird; his laugh rings, glad and free, In every breeze; like stars his dear eyes shine; His spirit is a presence, half-divine, Which clasps, enfolds my being like a sea!

Is he not mine?

TWO GIFTS.

She laughingly gave me a rose, one day, And the thorns were sharp,--but the rose was red, And fragrant and warm from the sun's bright ray, So I clasped the rose, though my fingers bled,-- And it fluttered in petals away.

She mockingly offered her heart, one day, And I clasped what she gave, though my own heart bled, I gazed in her eyes, and her soft hair lay On my lips, and I laughed,--though the heart was dead, And crumbled to dust away!

THE MOONFLOWER.

Earth star of the evening, full moon of the twilight, Pale soul of the dusk, like a virgin in white, With slow graceful motion, so stealthy, so silent, She opens her heart to the kisses of night.

Chaste blossom, ah! thus, when my own Love approaches, And bends o'er my spirit with fervor divine, Thus would I lay bare, in unbounded devotion, A heart pure and tender and fragrant as thine!

THREE KISSES.

A rampant wind, on a golden day, Sported and played with a wild, wild rose, He woke her soul from its mute repose, He kissed the heart of the wild, wild rose, And, kissing,--kissed her leaves away,-- And now the wind goes sighing.

Love won me, on a golden day, He woke my soul, with a kiss sublime, And the whole world vanished, and Death and Time Seemed nought at the touch of that kiss sublime!

Love, kissing,--kissed my heart away, And now Love goes rejoicing.

An Angel came, on pinions gray, In his cold, white arms he clasped my Love!

Earth reeled, the sun went out above.

Oh! G.o.d! I saw Death kiss my Love, And, kissing,--kiss his soul away-- And now my soul goes wailing!

A SONG OF THE WEST.

Into the glowing West!

And lo! the vast and sunburnt plains unfold, An endless, rippling, tideless sea of gold, Our own dear Mother's breast; The gaunt, the silent earth, The bare, brown land without a single tree Or blossom as a home for bird or bee, It lies, endures the dearth, And smiles in spite of thirst And parched and craving lips. This is the best, The better land, my own, my n.o.ble West.

Into the West!

Green, verdant with the strength of endless light, Immortal sunlight, radiant and bright!

Where man may work, may rest: This is my paradise, A land of flowers and of singing seas, Of h.o.a.ry mountain tops and giant trees, Beneath vast arching skies, Skies that are eloquent With sympathy and soft, and deep and true, Gray only when we weary of the blue, Cloudless and all content.

Into the West!

That mother of great men who sing her praise, Who marvel o'er her miracles and ways, As free and unsuppressed As ocean's roll.

Say, O, ye creatures of the further sea, What know ye of her grace and melody, The grandeur of her soul?

TO ESTHER.

As Night, before the dawn, In starry splendor, seems to brood Above the world, which waits the morn, Yet worships Night in melancholy mood, As Night, in whom a solemn pa.s.sion lies, So brood and beam my Esther's midnight eyes.

As sunlight on a rose In flashing radiance seems to glow, Warming the tender heart within, To life and love; as early beams bestow Upon that rose a soul which can beguile A hundred hearts, so beams my Esther's smile.

As love-birds, in the Spring, Sing on the sylvan boughs at noon, And mating-calls in echoes ring, Or oft at night they whisper to the moon; As stream responds to stream with tender art, So, to mine own, replieth Esther's heart.

As sea to distant sea, In grand response to Pa.s.sion's cry, Declares its own vast mystery, And answers wild entreaties with a sigh; As waves to waves melodiously roll, So sings to me forever--Esther's soul.

THE THRUSH.

It was the Thrush,--it was the joyous Thrush, Who, with his beauteous voice, the woods addressed!

He sank from heavens unseen, and in the hush Of floating fragrance and soft-slumbering flowers, Dozing beneath the spell of sun-bright hours, His summer shower of song the glade's deep heart caressed.

Bright, speckle-breasted, angel-throated bird!

He tilted on the hedge, and piped and wooed; Now here a note, now there, so low 'twas heard, Ofttimes, by one deep listening ear, one only, The ear of Silence; he, her minstrel lonely.

Was it for her divine mute blessing that he sued?

How often I have watched him in the gra.s.s, Familiar, small, erect, and bravely dressed In spotted golden-brown; have seen him pa.s.s Alertly to and fro, all blithely springing, With elfin bounds; no longer wildly winging; Content with Mother Earth, as though he loved her breast.

Earth born, sky destined, living harp of song, Beloved Thrush, pour forth your notes divine!

Whether to earth or heaven you most belong, What the vast purpose of your melody, Your mystic glory, your bright ecstasy, I know not,--only this, your soul is sweet to mine.

THE LIGHT OF THE STAR.

Dank were the grewsome alleys of the town, Dingy the houses of the dreary street; The very dogs reflected degradation, Gaunt, wolfish; while G.o.d's flowers of creation, Young children, lacking all that makes life sweet, Through the foul-smelling night ran up and down.

Under a dull street light I watched them play, Shrilling in high-pitched and unchildlike tones, Daring the perils of the tainted city.

Then, in my heart, the horror and the pity For human kind that in such blackness groans Rose, and I could not drive the pall away.

Amid such concrete evils, inbred sin, I, groping, questioned, could Christ's kingdom come, By any means? How could he ever enter At wealthy portals strong, where self is center, Or at the darkened doors of spirits dumb, Dulled by the ancient slums' unceasing din?