Maurine and Other Poems Part 9

The sleepless nights of watching and of care, Followed by that one week of keenest pain, Taxing my weakened system, and my brain, Brought on a ling'ring illness.

Day by day, In that strange, apathetic state I lay, Of mental and of physical despair.

I had no pain, no fever, and no chill, But lay without ambition, strength, or will, Knowing no wish for anything but rest, Which seemed, of all G.o.d's store of gifts, the best.

Physicians came and shook their heads and sighed; And to their score of questions I replied, With but one languid answer, o'er and o'er.

"I am so weary--weary--nothing more."

I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered thing, Flying through s.p.a.ce with ever-aching wing, Seeking a s.h.i.+p called Rest all snowy white, That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight, But always one unchanging distance kept, And woke more weary than before I slept.

I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize.

A hand from heaven held down before my eyes.

All eagerness I sought it--it was gone, But shone in all its beauty farther on.

I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest Of that great prize, whereon was written "rest,"

Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam, And wakened doubly weary with my dream.

I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain, That saw a snow-white lily on the plain, And left the cloud to nestle in her breast.

I fell and fell, but nevermore found rest-- I fell and fell, but found no stopping place, Through leagues and leagues of never-ending s.p.a.ce, While s.p.a.ce illimitable stretched before.

And all these dreams but wearied me the more.

Familiar voices sounded in my room-- Aunt Ruth's and Roy's, and Helen's: but they seemed A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed, And now remembered dimly.

Wrapped in gloom, My mind, o'er taxed, lost hold of time at last, Ignored its future, and forgot its past, And groped along the present, as a light, Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night, Will flicker faintly.

But I felt, at length, When March winds brought vague rumors of the spring, A certain sense of "restlessness with rest."

My aching frame was weary of repose, And wanted action.

Then slow-creeping strength Came back with Mem'ry, hand in hand, to bring And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast, Grim-visaged Recollection's th.o.r.n.y rose.

I gained, and failed. One day could ride and walk, The next would find me prostrate: while a flock Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit About the chambers of my heart, or sit, Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings, Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings, That once resounded to Hope's happy lays.

So pa.s.sed the ever-changing April days.

When May came, lightsome footed, o'er the lea, Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy, I bade farewell to home with secret joy, And turned my wan face eastward to the sea.

Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands Were one to him. Or Egypt's burning sands, Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome, All were familiar as the fields of home.

There was a year of wand'ring to and fro, Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights; Dwelling among the countless, rare delights Of lands historic; turning dusty pages, Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages; Gazing upon the scenes of b.l.o.o.d.y acts, Of kings long buried--bare, unvarnished facts, Surpa.s.sing wildest fictions of the brain; Rubbing against all people, high and low, And by this contact feeling Self to grow Smaller and less important, and the vein Of human kindness deeper, seeing G.o.d, Unto the humble delver of the sod, And to the ruling monarch on the throne, Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain, And that all hearts have feelings like our own.

There is no school that disciplines the mind, And broadens thought, like contact with mankind.

The college-prisoned greybeard, who has burned The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned, Till sciences or cla.s.sics hold no lore He has not conned and studied, o'er and o'er, Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared With some unlettered wand'rer, who has shared The hospitalities of every land; Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand; Made man his study, and the world his college, And gained this grand epitome of knowledge: Each human being has a heart and soul, And self is but an atom of the whole.

I hold he is best learned and most wise, Who best and most can love and sympathize.

Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained; Our banded minds go round in little grooves; But constant friction with the world removes These iron foes to freedom, and we rise To grander heights, and, all untrammeled, find A better atmosphere and clearer skies; And through its broadened realm, no longer chained, Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind.

Where'er we chanced to wander or to roam, Glad letters came from Helen; happy things, Like little birds that followed on swift wings, Bringing their tender messages from home.

Her days were poems, beautiful, complete.

The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet.

She was so happy--happy, and so blest.

My heart had found contentment in that year.

With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer The heart of youth turns ever to the light; Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night, But, in its very anguish and unrest, It beats and tears the pall-like folds away, And finds again the sunlight of the day.

And yet, despite the changes without measure, Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure; Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart Was conscious of a something lacking, where Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair.

Now love was buried; and despair had flown Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown From heights serene and lofty; and the place Where both had dwelt, was empty, voiceless s.p.a.ce And so I took my long-loved study, art, The dreary vacuum in my life to fill, And worked, and labored, with a right good will.

Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy.

A dainty little la.s.sie, Grace Kildare, Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair, And made him captive.

We were thrown, by chance, In contact with her people while in France The previous season: she was wholly sweet And fair and gentle; so naive, and yet So womanly, she was at once the pet Of all our party; and, ere many days, Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways, Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet.

Her home was in the Highlands; and she came Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame.

Through all these months Roy had been true as steel; And by his every action made me feel He was my friend and brother, and no more.

The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore.

Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew Whether the love he felt one time was dead, Or only hidden, for my sake, from view.

So when he came to me one day, and said, The velvet blackness of his eyes as.h.i.+ne With light of love and triumph: "Cousin, mine, Congratulate me! She whom I adore Has pledged to me the promise of her hand; Her heart I have already," I was glad With double gladness, for it freed my mind Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad.

From March till June had left her moons behind, And merged her rose-red beauty in July, There was no message from my native land.

Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned: Death had been near to Helen, but pa.s.sed by; The danger was now over. G.o.d was kind; The mother and the child were both alive; No other child was ever known to thrive As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say.

The infant was a wonder, every way.

And, at command of Helen he would send A lock of baby's golden hair to me.

And did I, on my honor, ever see Such hair before? Helen would write, ere long: She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong-- Stronger than ever, so the doctors said.

I took the tiny ringlet, golden--fair, Mayhap his hand had severed from the head Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek And to my lips, and kissed it o'er and o'er.

All my maternal instincts seemed to rise, And clamor for their rights, while my wet eyes, Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair.

The woman struggled with her heart before!

It was the mother in me now did speak, Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not, And crying out against her barren lot.

Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years That stretched before me, dark with love's eclipse; And thought how my unmated heart would miss The shelter of a broad and manly breast-- The strong, bold arm--the tender clinging kiss-- And all pure love's possessions, manifold; But now I wept a flood of bitter tears, Thinking of little heads of s.h.i.+ning gold, That would not on my bosom sink to rest; Of little hands that would not touch my cheek; Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips, That never in my list'ning ear would speak The blessed name of mother.

Oh, in woman How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere Unto her wond'ring, untaught mind unfolds The myst'ry that is half divine, half human, Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps, And grows and strengthens with each riper year.

As storms may gather in a placid sky, And spend their fury, and then pa.s.s away, Leaving again the blue of cloudless day, E'en so the tempest of my grief pa.s.sed by.

'T was weak to mourn for what I had resigned, With the deliberate purpose of my mind, To my sweet friend.

Relinquis.h.i.+ng my love, I gave my dearest hope of joy to her.

If G.o.d, from out his boundless store above, Had chosen added blessings to confer, I would rejoice, for her sake--not repine That th' immortal treasures were not mine.

Better my lonely sorrow, than to know My selfish joy had been another's woe; Better my grief and my strength to control, Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul; Better to go on, loveless, to the end, Than wear love's rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.

Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart.

With will most resolute I set my aim To enter on the weary race for Fame, And if I failed to climb the dizzy height, To reach some point of excellence in art.

E'en as the Maker held earth incomplete, Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod, The perfect, living image of his G.o.d, All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight, Wherein the human figure had no part.

In that, all lines of symmetry did meet-- All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought Enthusiasm in abundance, thought, Much study, and some talent, day by day, To help me in my efforts to portray The wond'rous power, majesty and grace Stamped on some form, or looking from some face.

This was to be my specialty: To take Human emotion for my theme, and make The una.s.sisted form divine express Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress; And thus to build Fame's monument above The grave of my departed hope and love.

This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings And soars beyond itself, or selfish things.

Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross, Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss, Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition, Before it labors onward to fruition.

But, as the lark from beds of bloom will rise And sail and sing among the very skies, Still mounting near and nearer to the light, Impelled alone by love of upward flight, So Genius soars--it does not need to climb-- Upon G.o.d-given wings, to heights sublime.

Some sportman's shot, grazing the singer's throat, Some venomous a.s.sault of birds of prey, May speed its flight toward the realm of day, And tinge with triumph every liquid note.

So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet, When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret.

There is no balking Genius. Only death Can silence it, or hinder. While there's breath Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod, And lift itself to glory, and to G.o.d.

The acorn sprouted--weeds nor flowers can choke The certain growth of th' upreaching oak.

Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind Its selfish love and sorrow.

Did I strive To picture some emotion, lo! _his_ eyes, Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes, Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive.

Whate'er my subject, in some hue or line, The glorious beauty of his face would s.h.i.+ne.