Part 13

TWO

One leaned on velvet cushions like a queen— To see him pass, the hero of an hour, Whom men called great. She bowed with languid mien, And smiled, and blushed, and knew her beauty’s power.

One trailed her tinselled garments through the street, And thrust aside the crowd, and found a place So near, the blooded courser’s prancing feet Cast sparks of fire upon her painted face.

One took the hot-house blossoms from her breast, And tossed them down, as he went riding by, And blushed rose-red to see them fondly pressed To bearded lips, while eye spoke unto eye.

One, bold and hardened with her sinful life, Yet shrank and shivered painfully, because His cruel glance cut keener than a knife, The glance of him who made her what she was.

One was observed, and lifted up to fame, Because the hero smiled upon her! while One who was shunned and hated, found her shame In basking in the death-light of his smile.

SLIPPING AWAY

Slipping away—slipping away! Out of our brief year slips the May; And Winter lingers, and Summer flies; And Sorrow abideth, and Pleasure dies; And the days are short, and the nights are long; And little is right, and much is wrong.

Slipping away is the Summer time; It has lost its rhythm and lilting rhyme— For the grace goes out of the day so soon, And the tired head aches in the glare of noon, And the way seems long to the hills that lie Under the calm of the western sky.

Slipping away are the friends whose worth Lent a glow to the sad old earth: One by one they slip from our sight; One by one their graves gleam white; Or we count them lost by the crueller death Of a trust betrayed, or a murdered faith.

Slipping away are the hopes that made Bliss out of sorrow, and sun out of shade, Slipping away is our hold on life; And out of the struggle and wearing strife, From joys that diminish, and woes that increase, We are slipping away to the shores of Peace.

IS IT DONE?

It is done! in the fire’s fitful flashes, The last line has withered and curled. In a tiny white heap of dead ashes Lie buried the hopes of your world. There were mad foolish vows in each letter, It is well they have shrivelled and burned, And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter, It was better removed and returned.

But ah, is it done? In the embers Where letters and tokens were cast, Have you burned up the heart that remembers, And treasures its beautiful past? Do you think in this swift reckless fashion To ruthlessly burn and destroy The months that were freighted with passion, The dreams that were drunken with joy?

Can you burn up the rapture of kisses That flashed from the lips to the soul, Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses In spite of its strength of control? Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers That thrilled through each pulse and each vein, Or the sound of a voice that still lingers And hurts with a haunting refrain?

Is it done? is the life drama ended? You have put all the lights out, and yet, Though the curtain, rung down, has descended, Can the actors go home and forget? Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping With a strange restless pain in their hearts, And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping, Will dream they are playing their parts.

A LEAF

Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve, That you were married, or soon to be. I have not thought of you, I believe, Since last we parted. Let me see: Five long Summers have passed since then— Each has been pleasant in its own way— And you are but one of a dozen men Who have played the suitor a Summer day.

But, nevertheless, when I heard your name, Coupled with some one’s, not my own, There burned in my bosom a sudden flame, That carried me back to the day that is flown. I was sitting again by the laughing brook, With you at my feet, and the sky above, And my heart was fluttering under your look— The unmistakable look of Love.

Again your breath, like a South wind, fanned My cheek, where the blushes came and went; And the tender clasp of your strong, warm hand Sudden thrills through my pulses sent. Again you were mine by Love’s own right— Mine for ever by Love’s decree: So for a moment it seemed last night, When somebody mentioned your name to me.

Just for the moment I thought you mine— Loving me, wooing me, as of old. The tale remembered seemed half divine— Though I held it lightly enough when told. The past seemed fairer than when it was near, As “blessings brighten when taking flight;” And just for the moment I held you dear— When somebody mentioned your name last night.

ÆSTHETIC

In a garb that was guiltless of colours She stood, with a dull, listless air— A creature of dumps and of dolours, But most undeniably fair.

The folds of her garment fell round her, Revealing the curve of each limb; Well proportioned and graceful I found her, Although quite alarmingly slim.

From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal— “High art” was she down to her feet; And though I could not understand all She said, I could see she was sweet.

Impressed by her limpness and languor, I proffered a chair near at hand; She looked back a mild sort of anger— Posed anew, and continued to stand.

Some praises I next tried to mutter Of the fan that she held to her face; She said it was “utterly utter,” And waved it with languishing grace.

I then, in a strain quite poetic, Begged her gaze on the bow in the sky, She looked—said its curve was “æsthetic.” But the “tone was too dreadfully high.”