Well, is my heart so narrow--I, who spare Love for all these? Do I not even hold My favourite books in special tender care, And prize them as a miser does his gold?

The Poets that you used to read to me While summer twilights faded in the sky; But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, Because--because--do you remember why?

Will you be jealous? Did you guess before I loved so many things?--Still you the best:- Dearest, remember that I love you more, Oh, more a thousand times than all the rest!

VERSE: THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL

FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH LEGEND

The fettered Spirits linger In purgatorial pain, With penal fires effacing Their last faint earthly stain, Which Life's imperfect sorrow Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet on each feast of Mary Their sorrow finds release, For the Great Archangel Michael Comes down and bids it cease; And the name of these brief respites Is called "Our Lady's Peace."

Yet once--so runs the Legend-- When the Archangel came And all these holy spirits Rejoiced at Mary's name; One voice alone was wailing, Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te Deum The happy echoes woke, This one discordant wailing Through the sweet voices broke; So when St. Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke:-

"I am not cold or thankless, Although I still complain; I prize our Lady's blessing Although it comes in vain To still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain.

"On earth a heart that loved me, Still lives and mourns me there, And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear; All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair.

"The evening of my bridal Death took my Life away; Not all Love's pa.s.sionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay.

And he I left has suffered A whole year since that day.

"If I could only see him,-- If I could only go And speak one word of comfort And solace,--then, I know He would endure with patience, And strive against his woe."

Thus the Archangel answered:- "Your time of pain is brief, And soon the peace of Heaven Will give you full relief; Yet if his earthly comfort So much outweighs your grief,

"Then, through a special mercy I offer you this grace,-- You may seek him who mourns you And look upon his face, And speak to him of comfort For one short minute's s.p.a.ce.

"But when that time is ended, Return here, and remain A thousand years in torment, A thousand years in pain: Thus dearly must you purchase The comfort he will gain."

The Lime-trees' shade at evening Is spreading broad and wide; Beneath their fragrant arches, Pace slowly, side by side, In low and tender converse, A Bridegroom and his Bride.

The night is calm and stilly, No other sound is there Except their happy voices: What is that cold bleak air That pa.s.ses through the Lime-trees And stirs the Bridegroom's hair?

While one low cry of anguish, Like the last dying wail Of some dumb, hunted creature, Is borne upon the gale:- Why does the Bridegroom shudder And turn so deathly pale?

Near Purgatory's entrance The radiant Angels wait; It was the great St. Michael Who closed that gloomy gate, When the poor wandering spirit Came back to meet her fate.

"Pa.s.s on," thus spoke the Angel: "Heaven's joy is deep and vast; Pa.s.s on, pa.s.s on, poor Spirit, For Heaven is yours at last; In that one minute's anguish Your thousand years have pa.s.sed."

VERSE: A CONTRAST

Can you open that ebony Casket?

Look, this is the key: but stay, Those are only a few old letters Which I keep,--to burn some day.

Yes, that Locket is quaint and ancient; But leave it, dear, with the ring, And give me the little Portrait Which hangs by a crimson string.

I have never opened that Casket Since, many long years ago, It was sent me back in anger By one whom I used to know.

But I want you to see the Portrait: I wonder if you can trace A look of that smiling creature Left now in my faded face.

It was like me once; but remember The weary relentless years, And Life, with its fierce, brief Tempests, And its long, long rain of tears.

Is it strange to call it my Portrait?

Nay, smile, dear, for well you may, To think of that radiant Vision And of what I am to-day.

With restless, yet confident longing How those blue eyes seem to gaze Into deep and exhaustless Treasures, All hid in the coming days.

With that trust which leans on the Future, And counts on her promised store, Until she has taught us to tremble And hope,--but to trust no more.

How that young, light heart would have pitied Me now--if her dreams had shown A quiet and weary woman With all her illusions flown.

Yet I--who shall soon be resting, And have pa.s.sed the hardest part, Can look back with a deeper pity On that young unconscious heart.

It is strange; but Life's currents drift us So surely and swiftly on, That we scarcely notice the changes, And how many things are gone:

And forget, while to-day absorbs us, How old mysteries are unsealed; How the old, old ties are loosened, And the old, old wounds are healed.

And we say that our Life is fleeting Like a story that Time has told; But we fancy that we--we only Are just what we were of old.

So now and then it is wisdom To gaze, as I do to-day, At a half-forgotten relic Of a Time that is pa.s.sed away.

The very look of that Portrait, The Perfume that seems to cling To those fragile and faded letters, And the Locket, and the Ring,

If they only stirred in my spirit Forgotten pleasure and pain,-- Why, memory is often bitter, And almost always in vain;

But the contrast of bygone hours Comes to rend a veil away,-- And I marvel to see the stranger Who is living in me to-day.

VERSE: THE BRIDE'S DREAM