All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled, Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear, Was passing from me; that she might be dead; And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me, Because I made no answer to her plea.
"O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on, Make haste before a wasting life is gone!
Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath!
And true in life, be true e'en unto death.
"O, ship, sail on! and bear me o'er the tide To her for whom my woman's heart once died.
Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me, And I would know what her last wish may be!
I have been true, so true, through all the past.
Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last."
So prayed my heart still o'er, and ever o'er, Until the weary lagging ship reached shore.
All sad with fears that I had come too late, By that strange source whence men communicate, Though miles on miles of space between them lie, I spoke with Vivian: "Does she live? Reply."
The answer came. "She lives, but hasten, friend!
Her journey draweth swiftly to its end."
Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot, My own dear home, the lane that led to his - The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight, Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might; Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot, But those sweet early years of lost delight, Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.
I have a theory, vague, undefined, That each emotion of the human mind, Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair, Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air, Until it takes possession of some breast;
And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, And bid it leave us wholly, and depart, It does not die, it cannot die; but goes And mingles with some restless wind that blows About the region where it had its birth.
And though we wander over all the earth, That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, Invisible and clothed like the air, Hoping that we may yet again draw near, And it may haply take us unaware, And once more find safe shelter in the breast It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.
Told by my heart, and wholly positive, Some old emotion long had ceased to live; That, were it called, it could not hear or come, Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, Yet, passing where it first sprang into life, My very soul has suddenly been rife With all the old intensity of feeling.
It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing Into my heart from that departed day; Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.
So now into my troubled heart, above The present's pain and sorrow, crept the love And strife and passion of a bygone hour, Possessed of all their olden might and power.
'Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken, And Vivian stood before us.
But I saw In him the husband of my friend alone.
The old emotions might at times return, And smould'ring fires leap up an hour and burn; But never yet had I transgressed God's law, By looking on the man I had resigned, With any hidden feeling in my mind, Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known He was but little altered. From his face The nonchalant and almost haughty grace, The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes, The years had stolen, leaving in their place A settled sadness, which was not despair, Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care, But something like the vapour o'er the skies Of Indian summer, beautiful to see, But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be.
There was that in his face which cometh not, Save when the soul has many a battle fought, And conquered self by constant sacrifice.
There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine, Render the plainest features half divine.
All other artists strive and strive in vain, To picture beauty perfect and complete.
Their statues only crumble at their feet, Without the master touch of Faith and Pain.
And now his face, that perfect seemed before, Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore A look exalted, which the spirit gives When soul has conquered, and the body lives Subservient to its bidding.
In a room Which curtained out the February gloom, And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers, Rested the eye like one of Summer's bowers, I found my Helen, who was less mine now Than Death's; for on the marble of her brow His seal was stamped indelibly.
Her form Was like the slender willow, when some storm Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face, Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue:
And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place, Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue.
Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein, And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light Shone through and made her wasted features bright With an unearthly beauty; and an awe Crept o'er me, gazing on her, for I saw She was so near to Heaven that I seemed To look upon the face of one redeemed.
She turned the brilliant lustre of her eyes Upon me. She had passed beyond surprise, Or any strong emotion linked with clay.
But as I glided to her where she lay, A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathed Her pallid features. "Welcome home!" she breathed "Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and rejoice."
And like the dying echo of a voice Were her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.
I fell upon my knees beside her bed; All agonies within my heart were wed, While to the aching numbness of my grief, Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear, - The tortured soul's most merciful relief.
Her wasted hand caressed my bended head For one sad, sacred moment. Then she said, In that low tone so like the wind's refrain, "Maurine, my own! give not away to pain; The time is precious. Ere another dawn My soul may hear the summons and pass on.
Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while, And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weak With every hour that passes. I must speak And make my dying wishes known to-night.
Go now." And in the halo of her smile, Which seemed to fill the room with golden light, I turned and left her.
