Legends and Lyrics Volume Ii Part 14

XI.

And yet, within her spirit A far-off land was seen, A home, which might have held her, A love, which might have been.

And Life--not the mere being Of daily ebb and flow, But Life itself had claimed her, And she had let it go!

XII.

Within her heart there echoed Again the well-known tone That promised this bright future, And asked her for her own: Then words of sorrow, broken By half-reproachful pain; And then a farewell spoken In words of cold disdain.

XIII.

Where now was the stern purpose That nerved her soul so long?

Whence came the words she uttered, So hard, so cold, so strong?

What right had she to banish A hope that G.o.d had given?

Why must she choose earth's portion, And turn aside from Heaven?

XIV.

To-day! Was it this morning?

If this long, fearful strife Was but the work of hours, What would be years of life?

Why did a cruel Heaven For such great suffering call?

And why--Oh, still more cruel!-- Must her own words do all?

XV.

Did she repent? Oh Sorrow!

Why do we linger still To take thy loving message, And do thy gentle will?

See, her tears fall more slowly, The pa.s.sionate murmurs cease, And back upon her spirit Flow strength, and love, and peace.

XVI.

The fire burns more brightly, The rain has pa.s.sed away, Herbert will see no shadow Upon his home to-day; Only that Alice greets him With doubly tender care, Kissing a fonder blessing Down on his golden hair.

II.

I.

The studio is deserted, Palette and brush laid by, The sketch rests on the easel, The paint is scarcely dry; And Silence--who seems always Within her depths to bear The next sound that will utter-- Now holds a dumb despair.

II.

So Alice feels it: listening With breathless, stony fear, Waiting the dreadful summons Each minute brings more near: When the young life, now ebbing, Shall fail, and pa.s.s away Into that mighty shadow Who shrouds the house to-day.

III.

But why--when the sick chamber Is on the upper floor-- Why dares not Alice enter Within the close--shut door?

If he--her all--her Brother, Lies dying in that gloom, What strange mysterious power Has sent her from the room?

IV.

It is not one week's anguish That can have changed her so; Joy has not died here lately, Struck down by one quick blow; But cruel months have needed Their long relentless chain, To teach that shrinking manner Of helpless, hopeless pain.

V.

The struggle was scarce over Last Christmas Eve had brought: The fibres still were quivering Of the one wounded thought, When Herbert--who, unconscious, Had guessed no inward strife-- Bade her, in pride and pleasure, Welcome his fair young wife.

VI.

Bade her rejoice, and smiling, Although his eyes were dim, Thanked G.o.d he thus could pay her The care she gave to him.

This fresh bright life would bring her A new and joyous fate-- Oh, Alice, check the murmur That cries, "Too late! too late!"

VII.

Too late! Could she have known it A few short weeks before, That his life was completed, And needing hers no more, She might--Oh sad repining!

What "might have been," forget; "It was not," should suffice us To stifle vain regret.

VIII.

He needed her no longer, Each day it grew more plain; First with a startled wonder, Then with a wondering pain.

Love: why, his wife best gave it; Comfort: durst Alice speak, Or counsel, when resentment Flushed on the young wife's cheek?

IX.

No more long talks by firelight Of childish times long past, And dreams of future greatness Which he must reach at last; Dreams, where her purer instinct With truth unerring told, Where was the worthless gilding, And where refined gold.

X.

Slowly, but surely ever, Dora's poor jealous pride, Which she called love for Herbert, Drove Alice from his side; And, spite of nervous effort To share their altered life, She felt a check to Herbert, A burden to his wife.

XI.

This was the least; for Alice Feared, dreaded, knew at length How much his nature owed her Of truth, and power, and strength; And watched the daily failing Of all his n.o.bler part: Low aims, weak purpose, telling In lower, weaker art.

XII.

And now, when he is dying, The last words she could hear Must not be hers, but given The bride of one short year.

The last care is another's; The last prayer must not be The one they learnt together Beside their mother's knee.

XIII.

Summoned at last: she kisses The clay-cold stiffening hand; And, reading pleading efforts To make her understand, Answers, with solemn promise, In clear but trembling tone, To Dora's life henceforward She will devote her own.

XIV.

Now all is over. Alice Dares not remain to weep, But soothes the frightened Dora Into a sobbing sleep.

The poor weak child will need her: . . .

Oh, who can dare complain, When G.o.d sends a new Duty To comfort each new Pain!

III.