Love or Fame; and Other Poems Part 3

Ah! these the words that stir her heart and soul, And write new truths on life's unwritten scroll.

"Arline, from all the world thou fame hast won.

A crown thou wear'st that fades not with the sun; Yet chide me not, if now unto thy ear I speak such words as thou may'st grieve to hear, For I shall give thee tidings from the sh.o.r.e Which knows thy face and welcome step no more.

"The two beloved ones left alone, each day, Grieved more and more until in peace at last The bounding line of life was safely past, And all their sorrow then was put away.

They pined in vain for that dear birdling flown, Who, with swift wings had left them there alone.

Yet oft in gentle tones they spoke of thee And longed they fair, young face once more to see.

Unto our far-off sh.o.r.e there sometimes came Faint rumors of thy longed-for, new-found fame.

This gave them joy indeed, yet more of pain.

For thus they knew their hopes were all in vain.

Allured unto the world was thy young heart;--- The gay, bright world in which they had no part.

"But, ere thy mother's eyes were closed in sleep, She gave to me a secret strange to keep; 'Twas this, that though they called thee daughter, child, No blood of theirs flowed in thy veins, thy race Was of a n.o.ble kind, to splendor born; An ancestry who wore a kingly grace, The traces of a lineage undefiled.

Upon thy brow their dauntless pride is worn--- But stay, thy mother, child, though strangely fair, Was but a singer whose voice of wondrous power Thine own is like, a voice that filled the air With strange, sweet sounds, and oft, in many an hour, Enchantment threw o'er all the eager throng Who came to hear. Enthralled by her glad song One young heart pined; low at her feet he laid The glory of his life that she might wear His crown of love. His wife she soon was made; They lived awhile a happy, loving pair, Until thou show'dst thy tiny, smiling face, And then thy mother died that thou might'st live.

He grieved as only strong, brave men can grieve For what is lost. Then wandered off a pace To seek new life in lands across the sea; He left thee here, thy life was wild and free.

Long years ago came tidings of his death, Born sadly on the wind's taint whispering breath.

He was a peer, the last of all his race, His Saxon strength was written on thy face.

Yet in thy veins thy mother's Southern blood Is bounding with its warm, impetuous flood.

Enough; my words are wandering; a will He left that may thy heart with gladness fill, Thy girlish right be recognized at last And left for thee his rich and vast estate.

Into the world's deep tide thy life is cast, Yet thou art still the mistress of thy fate.

If thou would'st wear thy birthright's name and power Speak but the word and claim thy rightful dower."

And this is all, her head is bending low, From shaded eyes the tears unbidden flow.

Across her face the darkening shadows fly That tell too well the thoughts that hidden lie.

"Oh, G.o.d! where is the joy that honor brings, Where is the spell a golden glory flings, When one short hour, like this, of pa.s.sing pain, Can prove the brightest hopes of life are vain?

I fondly dreamed that fame's short, fleeting power, Could satisfy my heart in every hour.

Then wherefore is this pain, these sudden tears, That fell like rain upon the last few years, And wash their glory out? What joy is mine, When two dear hearts that loved me as their own, Have gone and left me, saddened and alone!

Sweet mother, had I heard that voice of thine My life had not been thus. Can fame, though dear, Replace that loss or save me from one tear?

And can it fill my heart through all the years--- Oh, G.o.d! be kind, my heart is full of fears."

A pa.s.sionate misery o'er her fair face swept, It awakened all the fires that long had slept.

She threw the missive down, and paced the floor With restless steps, then suddenly stood still.

Unto her heart there came a dreadful thrill Of grief as she had never felt before; Her face grew pale as death, her lips were white, And then she cried, "Oh! Father, pity me, For I am grieved and full of doubt to-night.

I sink as one into a dark and lonely sea Where s.h.i.+ps are not, so desolate it seems.

Oh! can it be my aim in life is wrong, Are hearts no better when they hear my song!

My visions fair,--Oh! are they then but dreams, That do no good, but only lure my heart From woman's truer paths in life apart?

"Oh! Adrian, had'st thou then the better thought, And have I but a web of sorrow wrought?

Do all our hopes but lead to care and pain, Has life no suns.h.i.+ne, only clouds and rain?

Has woman no power to rouse to n.o.bler deeds The heart of man, and fill his higher needs!

Oh, G.o.d! in heaven, guide thy child to-night, Upon my longings shed thy holiest light.

Oh! mother, with thy tender, loving eyes, Look down upon me from the starlit skies."

Upon her knees she sinks upon the floor As one upon a wild and stormy sh.o.r.e; Her face against the velvet cus.h.i.+on pressed With hands clasped tightly to her throbbing breast.

Her robes of satin sweep the floor; her hair Unloosened, falls low down, a golden snare Of wondrous lights and shades; and pale and cold Her face gleams 'neath that veil of brown and gold.

Her breath comes quick, she battles with the storm That gathers in her breast and trembling form.

She stills her heart--heeds not its painful throb, Drives back her longings, stifles every sob; And bravely through the watches of the night, She turns her soul to G.o.d for help and light.

A prayer breathed low, a struggle long and wild, Then peace comes near, and like a weary child, Worn out with grief, Arline lays low her head.

A silence falls, the night is almost fled, The lamp burns low, the moon with mystic grace Looks down upon her fair, uplifted face.

She moves not, o'er her dusky, shaded eyes The lids lay closed, a moonlit splendor lies Upon her broad, white brow, and cheeks of snow Are pressed against the crimson velvet's glow On which her head is lain.

Oh, ne'er was wrought A fairer form than thine, Arline, nor thought Was ever purer than thine own; though wild And free thy life has ever been, a child Indeed thou art in ways of sin and wrong.

Within thy eyes and silvery sounding song, There ever lives a simple, heaven-born truth.

An earnest motive and a girl's fair youth Are thine, and though thy heart is wrought with fears-- Ah! sacred unto heaven those falling tears-- For these are more to Him than many a prayer Said by unholy lips with humble air.

G.o.d does not care so much for empty deeds, If pure the motive that such action feeds.

Then rest, Arline; upon thy pale, young face There falls the peace of heaven, a lovely grace; Around thy head the moon's bright, silver rays Are not more stainless than thy youthful days.

Part IV.

Broken Links

Low in the West, a banner floating wide Of G.o.d's own colors hangs in dreamy pride; A wealth of purple stains and gleams of gold, A crimson splendor o'er each waving fold; A heap of gold--a rim of amethyst, A hanging cloud by glancing sunbeams kissed.

Afar upon the tinted, azure skies A tiny cloud of rosy color lies; A coral on a velvet robe of blue, A warm, bright wave upon the skies' pale hue.

Oh! such the sunset sky of Italy, The land of dreams, of love and melody; The country of the pa.s.sions and the heart, The mother of th' ideal and of art.

Oh, painter! still your heart's wild throb and cry, You cannot paint this sunset tough you try; The canvas cannot rival Nature's skies, Before her hand each human effort dies.

Oh! you must dip your brush in waves of gold If you would paint for me that amber fold.

Oh! poet, seize your pen--'tis all in vain, You cannot paint in words that crimson stain; Though all your soul in quivering rapture lies, Your pen brings not those clouds to other eyes.

Though Art has power, still Nature is the queen, Her hand alone commands this glorious scene.

Back from the sh.o.r.e there stands a villa old And quaint, upon a sloping flower-wreathed hill, Along the side thee flows a singing rill; Beyond, the frowning rocks rise clear and bold.

More like a palace is this lonely home, With marble terraces and princely lands; Rare paintings fill each high and finished room, And marble statues made by master hands.

Without, a view of waves, and skies, and flowers; Within a dim, luxurious sense of hours, Of ease and wealth; a spot where one could dwell Forever 'neath some strange, enchanted spell.

Upon the steps a woman stands--alone, Her lovely face, a trifle paler grown Since last we looked upon its haunting grace.

Yet still the same child mouth, the radiant eyes, The dauntless pride, that time cannot efface.

Before her gazes the earth in beauty lies; Awhile she stands and gaze on the scene With dreamy, far-off looks and thoughtful mien.

Then wends her way to where the flowers lie, She lingers here, she cannot pa.s.s them by, And as she bends to touch each smiling flower, Her hands seem gifted with a magic power That draws unto herself their clinging love, As human tendrils drawn to G.o.d above.

At last with ling'ring steps she takes her way To where great ma.s.sive rocks like near the bay; Upon a rock which seems a resting place, Just formed by Nature for some tired queen, She half reclines, and upward lifts her face To drink in all the glory of the scene.

Low on her cheeks the veiling lashes sweep That hid the languid fire within her eyes, Like shadows fall'n on flowers that softly sleep Beneath Night's falling dews and bending skies.

Her dark brown hair, with gleams of flitting gold, Her queenly head encircles as a crown; A wealth of hair whose careless waves enfold The quivering sunlight, and its rays chain down.

But soon she starts, for even at her side There stands a youthful from with fearless pride; At first upon her face a deep surprise, And then a haughty look within her eyes, As turning round she views the handsome face So near her own with careless, easy grace.

"Why come you here?" she says, "why follow me?

Oh! from thy presence can I ne'er be free?"

"Arline!" he tosses back his sunny hair, Half kneels before her with a humble air; "Forgive me, for the fault indeed is mine To love too well, and for thy face to ever pine.

But oh! Arline, without thee life is naught, An idle dream, with only longings fraught; And once, Arline, you listened to my prayer, Nor turned away with cold and haughty air."

She looks upon him with a face aglow: "Why bring back memories of the long ago?

The past is dead, wake not its depths again, Lest such remembrance bring thee only pain.