CROSS-CURRENTS

They parted--a pallid, trembling I pair, And rushing down the lane He left her lonely near me there; --I asked her of their pain.

"It is for ever," at length she said, "His friends have schemed it so, That the long-purposed day to wed Never shall we two know."

"In such a cruel case," said I, "Love will contrive a course?"

"--Well, no . . . A thing may underlie, Which robs that of its force;

"A thing I could not tell him of, Though all the year I have tried; This: never could I have given him love, Even had I been his bride.

"So, when his kinsfolk stop the way Point-blank, there could not be A happening in the world to-day More opportune for me!

"Yet hear--no doubt to your surprise - I am sorry, for his sake, That I have escaped the sacrifice I was prepared to make!"

THE OLD NEIGHBOUR AND THE NEW

'Twas to greet the new rector I called I here, But in the arm-chair I see My old friend, for long years installed here, Who palely nods to me.

The new man explains what he's planning In a smart and cheerful tone, And I listen, the while that I'm scanning The figure behind his own.

The newcomer urges things on me; I return a vague smile thereto, The olden face gazing upon me Just as it used to do!

And on leaving I scarcely remember Which neighbour to-day I have seen, The one carried out in September, Or him who but entered yestreen.

THE CHOSEN

"[Greek text which cannot be reproduced]"

"A woman for whom great G.o.ds might strive!"

I said, and kissed her there: And then I thought of the other five, And of how charms outwear.

I thought of the first with her eating eyes, And I thought of the second with hers, green-gray, And I thought of the third, experienced, wise, And I thought of the fourth who sang all day.

And I thought of the fifth, whom I'd called a jade, And I thought of them all, tear-fraught; And that each had shown her a pa.s.sable maid, Yet not of the favour sought.

So I traced these words on the bark of a beech, Just at the falling of the mast: "After scanning five; yes, each and each, I've found the woman desired--at last!"

"--I feel a strange benumbing spell, As one ill-wished!" said she.

And soon it seemed that something fell Was starving her love for me.

"I feel some curse. O, FIVE were there?"

And wanly she swerved, and went away.

I followed sick: night numbed the air, And dark the mournful moorland lay.

I cried: "O darling, turn your head!"

But never her face I viewed; "O turn, O turn!" again I said, And miserably pursued.

At length I came to a Christ-cross stone Which she had pa.s.sed without discern; And I knelt upon the leaves there strown, And prayed aloud that she might turn.

I rose, and looked; and turn she did; I cried, "My heart revives!"

"Look more," she said. I looked as bid; Her face was all the five's.

All the five women, clear come back, I saw in her--with her made one, The while she drooped upon the track, And her frail term seemed well-nigh run.

She'd half forgot me in her change; "Who are you? Won't you say Who you may be, you man so strange, Following since yesterday?"

I took the composite form she was, And carried her to an arbour small, Not pa.s.sion-moved, but even because In one I could atone to all.

And there she lies, and there I tend, Till my life's threads unwind, A various womanhood in blend - Not one, but all combined.

THE INSCRIPTION (A TALE)

Sir John was entombed, and the crypt was closed, and she, Like a soul that could meet no more the sight of the sun, Inclined her in weepings and prayings continually, As his widowed one.

And to pleasure her in her sorrow, and fix his name As a memory Time's fierce frost should never kill, She caused to be richly chased a bra.s.s to his fame, Which should link them still;

For she bonded her name with his own on the brazen page, As if dead and interred there with him, and cold, and numb, (Omitting the day of her dying and year of her age Till her end should come;)

And implored good people to pray "Of their Charytie For these twaine Soules,"--yea, she who did last remain Forgoing Heaven's bliss if ever with spouse should she Again have lain.

Even there, as it first was set, you may see it now, Writ in quaint Church text, with the date of her death left bare, In the aged Estminster aisle, where the folk yet bow Themselves in prayer.

Thereafter some years slid, till there came a day When it slowly began to be marked of the standers-by That she would regard the bra.s.s, and would bend away With a drooping sigh.

Now the lady was fair as any the eye might scan Through a summer day of roving--a type at whose lip Despite her maturing seasons, no meet man Would be loth to sip.

And her heart was stirred with a lightning love to its pith For a newcomer who, while less in years, was one Full eager and able to make her his own forthwith, Restrained of none.

But she answered Nay, death-white; and still as he urged She adversely spake, overmuch as she loved the while, Till he pressed for why, and she led with the face of one scourged To the neighbouring aisle,

And showed him the words, ever gleaming upon her pew, Memorizing her there as the knight's eternal wife, Or falsing such, debarred inheritance due Of celestial life.

He blenched, and reproached her that one yet undeceased Should bury her future--that future which none can spell; And she wept, and purposed anon to inquire of the priest If the price were h.e.l.l