Poems

CAPRICE

IShe hung the cage at the window:“If he goes by,” she said,“He will hear my robin singing,And when he lifts his head,I shall be sitting here to sew,And he will bow to me, I know.”The robin sang a love-sweet song,The young man raised his head;The maiden turned away and blushed:“I am a fool!” she said,And went on broidering in silkA pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk.IIThe young man loitered slowlyBy the house three times that day;She took her bird from the window:“He need not look this way.”She sat at her piano long,And sighed, and played a death-sad song.But when the day was done, she said,“I wish that he would come!Remember, Mary, if he callsTo-night–I’m not at home.”So when he rang, she went–the elf!–She went and let him in herself.IIIThey sang full long togetherTheir songs love-sweet, death-sad;The robin woke from his slumber,And rang out, clear and glad.“Now go!” she coldly said; “’tis late;”And followed him–to latch the gate.He took the rosebud from her hair,While, “You shall not!” she said;He closed her hand within his own,And, while her tongue forbade,Her will was darkened in the eclipseOf blinding love upon his lips.

SWEET CLOVER

“… My letters back to me.”

II know they won the faint perfume,That to their faded pages clings,From gloves, and handkerchiefs, and thingsKept in the soft and scented gloomOf some mysterious box–poor leavesOf summer, now as sere and deadAs any leaves of summer shedFrom crimson boughs when autumn grieves!The ghost of fragrance! Yet I thrillAll through with such delicious painOf soul and sense, to breathe againThe sweet that haunted memory still.And under these December skies,As bland as May’s in other climes,I move, and muse my idle rhymesAnd subtly sentimentalize.I hear the music that was played,–The songs that silence knows by heart!–I see sweet burlesque feigning art,The careless grace that curved and swayedThrough dances and through breezy walks;I feel once more the eyes that smiled,And that dear presence that beguiledThe pauses of the foolish talks,When this poor phantom of perfumeWas the Sweet Clover’s living soul,And breathed from her as if it stole,Ah, heaven! from her heart in bloom!IIWe have not many ways with pain:We weep weak tears, or else we laugh;I doubt, not less the cup we quaff,And tears and scorn alike are vain.But let me live my quiet life;I will not vex my calm with grief,I only know the pang was brief,And there an end of hope and strife.And thou? I put the letters by:In years the sweetness shall not pass;More than the perfect blossom wasI count its lingering memory.Alas! with Time dear Love is dead,And not with Fate. And who can guessHow weary of our happinessWe might have been if we were wed?Venice.

THE ROYAL PORTRAITS.

(AT LUDWIGSHOF.)

IConfronting each other the pictures stareInto each other’s sleepless eyes;And the daylight into the darkness dies,From year to year in the palace there:But they watch and guard that no deviceTake either one of them unaware.Their majesties the king and the queen,The parents of the reigning prince:Both put off royalty many years since,With life and the gifts that have always beenGiven to kings from God, to evinceHis sense of the mighty over the mean.I cannot say that I like the faceOf the king; it is something fat and red;And the neck that lifts the royal headIs thick and coarse; and a scanty graceDwells in the dull blue eyes that are laidSullenly on the queen in her place.He must have been a king in his day’Twere well to pleasure in work and sport:One of the heaven-anointed sortWho ruled his people with iron sway,And knew that, through good and evil report,God meant him to rule and them to obey.There are many other likenessesOf the king in his royal palace there;You find him depicted everywhere,–In his robes of state, in his hunting-dress,In his flowing wig, in his powdered hair,–A king in all of them, none the less;But most himself in this on the wallOver against his consort, whoseLaces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoesMake her the finest lady of allThe queens or courtly dames you choose,In the ancestral portrait hall.A glorious blonde: a luxuryOf luring blue and wanton gold,Of blanchéd rose and crimson bold,Of lines that flow voluptuouslyIn tender, languorous curves to foldHer form in perfect symmetry.She might have been false. Of her withered dustThere scarcely would be enough to writeHer guilt in now; and the dead have a rightTo our lenient doubt if not to our trust:So if the truth cannot make her white,Let us be as merciful as we–must.IIThe queen died first, the queen died young,But the king was very old when he died,Rotten with license, and lust, and pride;And the usual Virtues came and hungTheir cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wideThroughout his kingdom his praise was sung.How the queen died is not certainly known,And faithful subjects are all forbidTo speak of the murder which some one didOne night while she slept in the dark alone:History keeps the story hid,And Fear only tells it in undertone.Up from your startled feet aloof,In the famous Echo-Room, with a boundLeaps the echo, and round and roundBeating itself against the roof,–A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound,–Dies ere its terror can utter proofOf that it knows. A door is fast,And none is suffered to enter there.His sacred majesty could not bearTo look at it toward the last,As he grew very old. It opened whereThe queen died young so many years past.IIIHow the queen died is not certainly known;But in the palace’s solitudeA harking dread and horror brood,And a silence, as if a mortal groanHad been hushed the moment before, and wouldBreak forth again when you were gone.The present king has never dweltIn the desolate palace. From year to yearIn the wide and stately garden drearThe snows and the snowy blossoms meltUnheeded, and a ghastly fearThrough all the shivering leaves is felt.By night the gathering shadows creepAlong the dusk and hollow halls,And the slumber-broken palace callsWith stifled moans from its nightmare sleep;And then the ghostly moonlight fallsAthwart the darkness brown and deep.At early dawn the light wind sighs,And through the desert garden blowsThe wasted sweetness of the rose;At noon the feverish sunshine liesSick in the walks. But at evening’s close,When the last, long rays to the windows rise,And with many a blood-red, wrathful streakPierce through the twilight glooms that blurHis cruel vigilance and herRegard, they light fierce looks that wreakA hopeless hate that cannot stir,A voiceless hate that cannot speakIn the awful calm of the sleepless eyes;And as if she saw her murderer glareOn her face, and he the white despairOf his victim kindle in wild surmise,Confronted the conscious pictures stare,–And their secret back into darkness dies.

THE FAITHFUL OF THE GONZAGA.2

IFederigo, the son of the Marquis,Downcast, through the garden goes:He is hurt with the grace of the lily,And the beauty of the rose.For what is the grace of the lilyBut her own slender grace?And what is the rose’s beautyBut the beauty of her face?–Who sits beside her windowWaiting to welcome him,That comes so lothly toward herWith his visage sick and dim.“Ah! lily, I come to break thee!Ah! rose, a bitter rainOf tears shall beat thy light outThat thou never burn again!”IIFederigo, the son of the Marquis,Takes the lady by the hand:“Thou must bid me God-speed on a journey,For I leave my native land.“From Mantua to-morrowI go, a banished man;Make me glad for truth and love’s sakeOf my father’s curse and ban.“Our quarrel has left my motherLike death upon the floor;And I come from a furious presenceI never shall enter more.“I would not wed the womanHe had chosen for my bride,For my heart had been before him,With his statecraft and his pride.“I swore to him by my princehoodIn my love I would be free;And I swear to thee by my manhood,I love no one but thee.“Let the Duke of Bavaria marryHis daughter to whom he will:There where my love was givenMy word shall be faithful still.“There are six true hearts will followMy truth wherever I go,And thou equal truth wilt keep meIn welfare and in woe.”The maiden answered him nothingOf herself, but his words againCame back through her lips like an echoFrom an abyss of pain;And vacantly repeating“In welfare and in woe,”Like a dream from the heart of feverFrom her arms she felt him go.IIIOut of Mantua’s gate at daybreakSeven comrades wander forthOn a path that leads at their humor,East, west, or south, or north.The prince’s laugh rings lightly,“What road shall we take from home?”And they answer, “We never shall lose itIf we take the road to Rome.”And with many a jest and banterThe comrades keep their way,Journeying out of the twilightForward into the day,When they are aware beside themGoes a pretty minstrel lad,With a shy and downward aspect,That is neither sad nor glad.Over his slender shoulder,His mandolin was slung,And around its chords the treasureOf his golden tresses hung.Spoke one of the seven companions,“Little minstrel, whither away?”–“With seven true-hearted comradesOn their journey, if I may.”Spoke one of the seven companions,“If our way be hard and long?”–“I will lighten it with my musicAnd shorten it with my song.”Spoke one of the seven companions,“But what are the songs thou know’st?”–“O, I know many a ditty,But this I sing the most:“How once was an humble maidenBeloved of a great lord’s son,That for her sake and his troth’s sakeWas banished and undone.“And forth of his father’s cityHe went at break of day,And the maiden softly followedBehind him on the way“In the figure of a minstrel,And prayed him of his love,‘Let me go with thee and serve theeWherever thou may’st rove.“‘For if thou goest in exileI rest banished at home,And where thou wanderest with theeMy fears in anguish roam,“‘Besetting thy path with perils,Making thee hungry and cold,Filling thy heart with troubleAnd heaviness untold.“‘But let me go beside thee,And banishment shall beHonor, and riches, and country,And home to thee and me!’”Down falls the minstrel-maidenBefore the Marquis’ son,And the six true-hearted comradesBow round them every one.Federigo, the son of the Marquis,From its scabbard draws his sword:“Now swear by the honor and fealtyYe bear your friend and lord,“That whenever, and wherever,As long as ye have life,Ye will honor and serve this ladyAs ye would your prince’s wife!”IVOver the broad expansesOf garlanded Lombardy,Where the gentle vines are swingingIn the orchards from tree to tree;Through Padua from Verona,From the sculptured gothic town,Carved from ruin upon ruin,And ancienter than renown;Through Padua from VeronaTo fair Venice, where she standsWith her feet on subject waters,Lady of many lands;From Venice by sea to Ancona;From Ancona to the west;Climbing many a gardened hillsideAnd many a castled crest;Through valleys dim with the twilightOf their gray olive trees;Over plains that swim with harvestsLike golden noonday seas;Whence the lofty campaniliLike the masts of ships arise,And like a fleet at anchorUnder them, the village lies;To Florence beside her Arno,In her many-marbled pride,Crowned with infamy and gloryBy the sons she has denied;To pitiless Pisa, where neverSince the anguish of UgolinThe moon in the Tower of Famine3Fate so dread as his hath seen;Out through the gates of PisaTo Livorno on her bay,To Genoa and to NaplesThe comrades hold their way,Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered,Past the fortressed Ghibelline,Through lands that reek with slaughter,Treason, and shame, and sin;By desert, by sea, by city,High hill-cope and temple-dome,Through pestilence, hunger, and horror,Upon the road to Rome;While every land behind themForgets them as they go,And in Mantua they are rememberedAs is the last year’s snow;But the Marchioness goes to her chamberDay after day to weep,–For the changeless heart of a motherThe love of a son must keep.The Marchioness weeps in her chamberOver tidings that come to herOf the exiles she seeks, by letterAnd by lips of messenger,Broken hints of their sojourn and absence,Comfortless, vague, and slight,–Like feathers wafted backwardsFrom passage birds in flight.4The tale of a drunken sailor,In whose ship they went to sea;A traveller’s evening storyAt a village hostelry,Of certain comrades sent himBy our Lady, of her grace,To save his life from robbersIn a lonely desert place;Word from the monks of a conventOf gentle comrades that layOne stormy night at their convent,And passed with the storm at day;The long parley of a peasantThat sold them wine and food,The gossip of a shepherdThat guided them through a wood;A boatman’s talk at the ferryOf a river where they crossed,And as if they had sunk in the currentAll trace of them was lost;And so is an end of tidingsBut never an end of tears,Of secret and friendless sorrowThrough blank and silent years.VTo the Marchioness in her chamberSends word a messenger,Newly come from the land of Naples,Praying for speech with her.The messenger stands before her,A minstrel slender and wan:“In a village of my countryLies a Mantuan gentleman,“Sick of a smouldering fever,Of sorrow and poverty;And no one in all that countryKnows his title or degree.“But six true Mantuan peasants,Or nobles, as some men say,Watch by the sick man’s bedside,And toil for him, night and day,“Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing,Bearing burdens, and far and nighBegging for him on the highwayOf the strangers that pass by;“And they look whenever you meet themLike broken-hearted men,And I heard that the sick man would notIf he could, be well again;“For they say that he for love’s sakeWas gladly banishèd,But she for whom he was banishedIs worse to him, now, than dead,–“A recreant to his sorrow,A traitress to his woe.”From her place the Marchioness rises,The minstrel turns to go.But fast by the hand she takes him,–His hand in her clasp is cold,–“If gold may be thy guerdonThou shalt not lack for gold;“And if the love of a motherCan bless thee for that thou hast done,Thou shalt stay and be his brother,Thou shalt stay and be my son.”“Nay, my lady,” answered the minstrel,And his face is deadly pale,“Nay, this must not be, sweet lady,But let my words prevail.“Let me go now from your presence,And I will come again,When you stand with your son beside you,And be your servant then.”VIAt the feet of the Marquis GonzagaKneels his lady on the floor;“Lord, grant me before I ask itThe thing that I implore.”“So it be not of that ingrate.”–“Nay, lord, it is of him.”’Neath the stormy brows of the MarquisHis eyes are tender and dim.“He lies sick of a fever in Naples,Near unto death, as they tell,In his need and pain forsakenBy the wanton he loved so well.“Now send for him and forgive him,If ever thou loved’st me,Now send for him and forgive himAs God shall be good to thee.”“Well so,–if he turn in repentanceAnd bow himself to my will;That the high-born lady I chose himMay be my daughter still.”VIIIn Mantua there is feastingFor the Marquis’ grace to his son;In Mantua there is rejoicingFor the prince come back to his own.The pomp of a wedding processionPauses under the pillared porch,With silken rustle and whisper,Before the door of the church.In the midst, Federigo the bridegroomStands with his high-born bride;The six true-hearted comradesAre three on either side.The bridegroom is gray as his father,Where they stand face to face,And the six true-hearted comradesAre like old men in their place.The Marquis takes the comradesAnd kisses them one by one:“That ye were fast and faithfulAnd better than I to my son,“Ye shall be called forever,In the sign that ye were so true,The Faithful of the Gonzaga,And your sons after you.”VIIITo the Marchioness comes a courtier:“I am prayed to bring you wordThat the minstrel keeps his promiseWho brought you news of my lord;“And he waits without the circleTo kiss your highness’ hand;And he asks no gold for guerdon,But before he leaves the land“He craves of your love once profferedThat you suffer him for reward,In this crowning hour of his glory,To look on your son, my lord.”Through the silken press of the courtiersThe minstrel faltered in.His claspèd hands were bloodless,His face was white and thin;And he bent his knee to the lady,But of her love and graceTo her heart she raised him and kissed himUpon his gentle face.Turned to her son the bridegroom,Turned to his high-born wife,“I give you here for your brotherWho gave back my son to life.“For this youth brought me news from NaplesHow thou layest sick and poor,By true comrades kept, and forsakenBy a false paramour.“Wherefore I charge you love himFor a brother that is my son.”The comrades turned to the bridegroomIn silence every one.But the bridegroom looked on the minstrelWith a visage blank and changed,As his whom the sight of a spectreFrom his reason hath estranged;And the smiling courtiers near themOn a sudden were still as death;And, subtly-stricken, the peopleHearkened and held their breathWith an awe uncomprehendedFor an unseen agony:–Who is this that lies a-dying,With her head on the prince’s knee?A light of anguish and wonderIs in the prince’s eye,“O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me,Or I cannot let thee die!“For now I see thy hardnessWas softer than mortal ruth,And thy heavenly guile was whiter,My saint, than martyr’s truth.”She speaks not and she moves not,But a blessed brightness liesOn her lips in their silent raptureAnd her tender closèd eyes.Federigo, the son of the Marquis,He rises from his knee:“Aye, you have been good, my father,To them that were good to me.“You have given them honors and titles,But here lies one unknown–Ah, God reward her in heavenWith the peace he gives his own!”

THE FIRST CRICKET

Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning,And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,–Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer midnight complaining,All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay?Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber,Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan,Yet with th’ unconscious earth’s boded evil my soul thou dost cumber,And in the year’s lost youth makest me still lose my own.Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and bleakest,And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room,And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,–Thou wilt again give me all,–dew and fragrance and bloom?Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing,If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf,Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling,Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and–himself:Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singersLures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree.Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers,Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be?

THE MULBERRIES

IOn the Rialto Bridge we stand;The street ebbs under and makes no sound;But, with bargains shrieked on every hand,The noisy market rings around.“Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!”A tuneful voice,–and light, light measure;Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear,If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood,The basket wreathed with mulberry leavesHiding the berries beneath them;–good!Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.For you know, old friend, I haven’t eatenA mulberry since the ignorant joyOf anything sweet in the mouth could sweetenAll this bitter world for a boy.IIO, I mind the tree in the meadow stoodBy the road near the hill: when I clomb aloofOn its branches, this side of the girdled wood,I could see the top of our cabin roof.And, looking westward, could sweep the shoresOf the river where we used to swimUnder the ghostly sycamores,Haunting the waters smooth and dim;And eastward athwart the pasture-lotAnd over the milk-white buckwheat fieldI could see the stately elm, where I shotThe first black squirrel I ever killed.And southward over the bottom-landI could see the mellow breadths of farmFrom the river-shores to the hills expand,Clasped in the curving river’s arm.In the fields we set our guileless snaresFor rabbits and pigeons and wary quails,Content with the vaguest feathers and hairsFrom doubtful wings and vanished tails.And in the blue summer afternoonWe used to sit in the mulberry-tree:The breaths of wind that remembered JuneShook the leaves and glittering berries free;And while we watched the wagons goAcross the river, along the road,To the mill above, or the mill below,With horses that stooped to the heavy load,We told old stories and made new plans,And felt our hearts gladden within us again,For we did not dream that this life of a man’sCould ever be what we know as men.We sat so still that the woodpeckers cameAnd pillaged the berries overhead;From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame,Peered, and listened to what we said.IIIOne of us long ago was carriedTo his grave on the hill above the tree;One is a farmer there, and married;One has wandered over the sea.And, if you ask me, I hardly knowWhether I’d be the dead or the clown,–The clod above or the clay below,–Or this listless dust by fortune blownTo alien lands. For, however it is,So little we keep with us in life:At best we win only victories,Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife.But if I could turn from the long defeatOf the little successes once more, and beA boy, with the whole wide world at my feet,Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,–From the shame of the squandered chances, the sleepOf the will that cannot itself awaken,From the promise the future can never keep,From the fitful purposes vague and shaken,–Then, while the grasshopper sang out shrillIn the grass beneath the blanching thistle,And the afternoon air, with a tender thrill,Harked to the quail’s complaining whistle,–Ah me! should I paint the morrows againIn quite the colors so faint to-day,And with the imperial mulberry’s stainRe-purple life’s doublet of hodden-gray?Know again the losses of disillusion?For the sake of the hope, have the old deceit?–In spite of the question’s bitter infusion,Don’t you find these mulberries over-sweet?All our atoms are changed, they say;And the taste is so different since then;We live, but a world has passed awayWith the years that perished to make us men.

BEFORE THE GATE

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter,To fitful song and jest,To moods of soberness as idle, after,And silences, as idle too as the rest.But when at last upon their way returning,Taciturn, late, and loath,Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguishSuch as but women knowThat wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,And what they would, would rather they would not so;Till he said,–man-like nothing comprehendingOf all the wondrous guileThat women won win themselves with, and bendingEyes of relentless asking on her the while,–“Ah, if beyond this gate the path unitedOur steps as far as death,And I might open it!–” His voice, affrightedAt its own daring, faltered under his breath.Then she–whom both his faith and fear enchantedFar beyond words to tell,Feeling her woman’s finest wit had wantedThe art he had that knew to blunder so well–Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,“Shall we not be too lateFor tea?” she said. “I’m quite worn out with walking:Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you–open the gate?”

CLEMENT

IThat time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden,Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September,Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, cryingAll the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens;Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest autumn,But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall,Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor;And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels,And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the tree-top;When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the thistles,Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the loppings,When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield,And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes;When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision,And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot remember,–Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing!That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow,Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendorCrimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset,Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel,Smote through the painéd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the sense, there.Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with foldedHands, that held a few sad asters: “I sigh for this idylLived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life,”With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner,“Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happenedSince I came here in June: the walks we have taken togetherThrough these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands;All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlitVillage,–so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal,Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night, in its silence.Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil to him for his kindness,Letting me come here without him… But open the gate, Cousin Clement;Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors.– No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is coming:Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future?Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,–just as you like it;–Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you.Then I’ll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young personFull of divine regrets at not having smothered a geniusUnder the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman.O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish?Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband.”Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him,Dark’ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken,Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,–All her mocking face transfigured,–with mournful effusion:“Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,–Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition,Fame, and your art,–you have all these things to console you.I–what have I in this world? Since my child is dead–a bereavement.”Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within himBroken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he answered(Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover),“Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me beforetime,With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness!Yes, you might play it, I think,–that rôle of remorseful young person,That, or the old man’s darling, or anything else you attempted.Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal,Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant you–Not, indeed, for your word–that is light–but I wish to believe you.Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever!I–I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married.Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,–Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I cherished!”There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle,Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance,Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision:“You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,–Sensible, almost. So! I’ll try to forget and remember.”Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house,Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.IIHigh on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled;Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limbs of the beech-treeBurned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flourished.Wild were the children with mirth, and grouping and clinging together,Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed with its humor;Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness,Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children.(Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our first-loves!)Sometimes they tossed on the floor, and sometimes they hid in the corners,Shouting and laughing aloud, and never resting a moment,In the rude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,–Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick.Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub,Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gambols,By his tawny beard the children caught him, and clamberedOver his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them,Made him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him.Airily to and fro, and out of one room to anotherPassed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the household,Nonchalant, debonair, blithe, with bewitching housewifely importance,Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the kitchen;Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him,Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers togetherOver his eyes in a girlish caprice, and crying, “Who is it?”Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of children,Calling his sister’s children around her, and stilling their clamor,Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent,Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother bent on his visageWith the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotionOf the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble,Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him.Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children;Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling,Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her keepsake,Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before them.But, when the night was grown old and the two by the hearthstone togetherSat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricketCarked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the penduleSighed the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were perished,–It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were reading.“Read it to-night,” she said, “that I may not seem to be going.”Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain she had wrought him.From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,–All his voice molten in secret tears, and ebbing and flowing,Now with a faltering breath, and now with impassioned abandon,–Read from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered,Fatally met too late, and their love was their guilt and their anguish,But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness,Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love’s sake.Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling and fading to silence,Thrilled in the silence they sat, and durst not behold one another,Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning,Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passionWith their fate they strove; but out of the pang of the conflict,Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine,Victors they came, and Love retrieved the error of loving.So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future,Guessing the riddle of life, and accepting the cruel solution,–Side by side they sat, as far as the stars are asunder.Carked the cricket no more, but while the audible silenceShrilled in their ears, she, suddenly rising and dragging the thistleOut of her clinging hair, laughed mockingly, casting it from her:“Perish the thorns and splendor,–the bloom and the sweetness are perished.Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one’s Duty,–These and the world, for dead Love!–The end of these modern romances!Better than yonder rhyme?.. Pleasant dreams and good night, Cousin Clement.”