For as against a snarling sea one steers, Ever he battled with the beetling years; And ever Jessamine must watch and pine, Her vision bounded by the bleak sea-line.

_And the moon hangs low in the elm_.

At last she heard no more. The neighbors said That Walt had married, faithless, or was dead.

Yet naught her trust could move; the tryst she kept Each night still, 'neath this tree, before she slept.

_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

So, circling years went by; and in her face Slow melancholy wrought a tempered grace Of early joy with sorrow's rich alloy-- Refined, rare, no doom should e'er destroy.

_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine, Slow-footed, weary-eyed, pa.s.sed by to win The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused On love that so could live with love refused.

_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Nor none could hope for her. But she had grown Too high in love for hope, and bloomed alone, Aloft in pure sincerity secure; For fortune's failures, in her faith too sure.

_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Oh, well for Walt, if he had known her soul!

Discouraged on disaster's changeful shoal Wrecking, he rested; starved on selfish pride Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide.

_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

But, bitterly repenting of his sin, Oh, bitterly he learned to look within Sweet Jessamine's clear depth--when the past, dead, Mocked him, and wild, waste years forever fled!

_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Late, late, oh, late beneath the tree stood two!

In awe and anguish wondering: "Is it true?"

Two that were each most like to some wan wraith: Yet each on each looked with a living faith.

_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell; Even to the tree-top tolled the pa.s.sing knell.

Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed; Beneath it many a year she lieth dead!

_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Here stands the great tree still. But age has crept Through every coil, while Walt each night has kept The tryst alone. Hark! with what windy might The boughs chant o'er her grave their burial-rite!

_And the moon hangs low in the elm. _

GRIEF'S HERO.

A youth unto herself Grief took, Whom everything of joy forsook, And men pa.s.sed with denying head, Saying: "'T were better he were dead."

Grief took him, and with master-touch Molded his being. I marveled much To see her magic with the clay, So much she gave--and took away.

Daily she wrought, and her design Grew daily clearer and more fine, To make the beauty of his shape Serve for the spirit's free escape.

With liquid fire she filled his eyes.

She graced his lips with swift surmise Of sympathy for others' woe, And made his every fibre flow In fairer curves. On brow and chin And tinted cheek, drawn clean and thin, She sculptured records rich, great Grief!

She made him loving, made him lief.

I marveled; for, where others saw A failing frame with many a flaw, Meseemed a figure I beheld Fairer than anything of eld Fashioned from sunny marble. Here Nature was artist with no peer.

No chisel's purpose could have caught These lines, nor brush their secret wrought.

Not so the world weighed, busily Pursuing drossy industry; But, saturated with success, Well-guarded by a soft excess Of bodily ease, gave little heed To him that held not by their creed, Save o'er the beauteous youth to moan: "A pity that he is not grown To our good stature and heavier weight, To bear his share of our full freight."

Meanwhile, thus to himself he spoke: "Oh, n.o.ble is the knotted oak, And sweet the gush of sylvan streams, And good the great sun's gladding beams, The blush of life upon the field, The silent might that mountains wield.

Still more I love to mix with men, Meeting the kindly human ken; To feel the force of faithful friends-- The thirst for smiles that never ends.

"Yet precious more than all of these I hold great Sorrow's mysteries, Whereby Gehenna's sultry gale Is made to lift the golden veil 'Twixt heaven's starry-sphered light Of truth and our dim, sun-blent sight.

Joy comes to ripen; but 'tis Grief That garners in the grainy sheaf.

Time was I feared to know or feel The spur of aught but gilded weal; To bear aloft the victor, Fame, Would ev'n have champed a stately shame Of bit and bridle. But my fears Fell off in the pure bath of tears.

And now with sinews fresh and strong I stride, to summon with a song The deep, invigorating truth That makes me younger than my youth.

"O Sorrow, deathless thy delight!

Deathless it were but for our slight Endurance! Truth like thine, too rare, We dare but take in scantiest share."

He died: the creatures of his kind Fared on. Not one had known his mind.

But the unnamed yearnings of the air, The eternal sky's wide-searching stare, The undertone of brawling floods, And the old moaning of the woods Grew full of memory.

The sun Many a brave heart has shone upon Since then, of men who walked abroad For joy and gladness praising G.o.d.

But widowed Grief lives on alone: She hath not chosen, of them, one.

A FACE IN THE STREET.

Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of l.u.s.t-- Thy star-like beauty, dimm'd with earthly dust, Yet breathing of a purer native air;-- They who whilom, cursed vultures, sought a share Of thy dead womanhood, their greed unjust Have satisfied, have stripped and left thee bare.

Still, like a leaf warped by the autumn gust, And driving to the end, thou wrapp'st in flame And perfume all thy hollow-eyed decay, Feigning on those gray cheeks the blush that Shame Took with her when she fled long since away.

Ah G.o.d! rain fire upon this foul-souled city That gives such death, and spares its men,--for pity!

THE BATHER.

Standing here alone, Let me pause awhile, Drinking in the light Ere, with plunge of white limbs p.r.o.ne, I raise the sparkling flight Of foam-flakes volatile.

Now, in natural guise, I woo the deathless breeze, Through me rushing fleet The joy of life, in swift surprise: I grow with growing wheat, And burgeon with the trees.

Lo! I fetter Time, So he cannot run; And in Eden again-- Flash of memory sublime!-- Dwell naked, without stain, Beneath the dazed sun.

All yields brotherhood; Each least thing that lives, Wrought of primal spores, Deepens this wild sense of good That, on these s.h.a.ggy sh.o.r.es, Return to nature gives.

Oh, that some solitude Were ours, in woodlands deep, Where, with lucent eyes, Living lithe and limber-thewed, Our life's shape might arise Like mountains fresh from sleep!

To sounds of water falling, Hosts of delicate dreams Should lull us and allure With a dim, enchanted calling, Blameless to live and pure Like these sweet springs and streams.

But in a wilderness Alone may such life be?

Why of all things framed, In my human form confessed Should I be ashamed, And blush for honesty?

Rounded, strengthy limbs That knit me to my kind-- Your glory turns to grief!

Shall I for my soul sing hymns, Yet for my body find No clear, divine belief?

Let me rather die, Than by faith uphold Dogmas weak that dare The form that once Christ wore deny Afraid with him to share A purity twofold;