I was at college when death's summons came, And all the grief fell on me, crushing me; And all my heart cried out in bitterness, Moaning to cease with its wet language,--tears.

Then with my prospects of professional life Thwarted and void, I came back to the farm-- I came back to the love of Grace Bernard.

She was the dove that on the flood of grief Brought to my window there love's olive spray.

From college to the farm-house where I dwelt I took my books, friends who are never cold, With fragile instruments of chemistry, And cabinets of mineral and rock With limestone encrinites; asterias Old as the mountains, or the sea's white lash Wherewith he smites the shoulders of the sh.o.r.e; Tarentula and scarabee I brought, And, too, I brought my diamond microscope Which magnifies a pin's head to a man's, And gives me sights in water and in air The naturalists have not yet touched upon.

Over my fields I wander frequently, Breaking the past's upturned face of shelving rocks For special specimens to fill my home; But find my footsteps always thither tend, Toward the farm-house of the other farm, Where Grace Bernard is noontime and delight.

When first I took the hand of her I love, And held it only as a stranger might, Some unseen mentor whispered in my ear, _You twain are strands which Destiny shall braid_, And then a numb misgiving, not explained, Settled with chilly dampness on my heart.

My Grace Bernard in Grace was not misnamed, There was a soft Madonna look about her eyes; The long thick lash, the drooping-petal lid, Wrought on her face all love and tenderness.

Her lips were of that deep intensest red The cherry, red rose, and columbine wear.

Her golden hair was sunshine changed to silk, Which fell below her waist, and was a thing Perhaps some lover, braver far than I, Might dare to mesh his hands in, or to kiss.

II.

The Spring has come and brought her affluent days, But in the air a rumor runs of death-- A pestilence is half across the sea.

The presses blare its probable approach, And poverty and wealth alike forebode.

The cholera it is whispered, Asia-born, May leave more vacant chairs about our hearths Than the red havoc of internal war.

There is no foot it may not overtake; There is no cheek which may not blanch for it.

It is Filth's daughter, and where the low Huddle in impure air in narrow rooms, There it must come. As all forms of life, Animate and inanimate, originate In seeds and eggs, so all infection does.

The floating gases in the atmosphere Acting on particles which from filth arise, Mingle with foul wedlock--germinate, And bear their seed like grain, or breed like flies.

This product, scattered on the spotless air, And hurried on the currents of the wind, Is breathed by human beings, near and far; And planted in the system, the disease Ripens and grows, until the sufferer dies.

Yellow fever is vegetable disease Because the sharp frost kills it. Cholera Is animal in origin, and survives The utmost cold of long, dark winter days.

I pray that if the cholera must come, It will not touch my Grace who is so dear; But that we twain may at the altar stand, And outlive many a trouble in the air, And gather many a day of happiness and peace.

III.

Down by the brook which separates the farms, Is a great rock that leans above the stream, And seems some monster of the Saurian day, That coming to the water's edge to drink, Was petrified, and so is leaning still.

Upon its back a week ago I sat, And dreamed of Grace Bernard, and watched the brook; And while I dreamed there came within the dream A premonition of what yet would be.

The future's face, forever turned away, Now seemed reverted, and its backward look Was bent on me.

They took a faulty cast Of Shakespeare's features after he was dead.

I, seeing the future's face, make here my cast.

And this the premonition that was mine-- A perfect premonition full and clear-- And as I know the persons it concerns, I cannot think it all improbable, So write it down, that when the time has pa.s.sed, I may compare the facts with what is here.

And yet I scarcely should have written this, Had I not seen his haunting face to-day-- That face which I had never seen before, Except in my one dream upon the rock That leans, athirst, above the br.i.m.m.i.n.g stream.

The soldier, when he goes to meet the foe, May darkly understand that death is near, Yet bravely marches on to destiny.

I too behold a shadow in my path; I too go on, nor waver in my way.

THE PREMONITION.

I.

Far off, across the turbulence of waves, I seem to see a wife upon her knees, Her supplicating hands outstretched to one Who strikes her with coa.r.s.e blows on cheek and breast.

He is her husband, and he leaves her there, And takes her jewels and her only purse, And in a ship embarks for other sh.o.r.es.

His is the face that I have seen to-day-- A handsome face whatever be its sins: A firm mouth, with large wandering black eyes, A bearded under-lip, and snowy teeth; Long, fine black hair, which idly falls about Shoulders that stoop from labor over books; Withal a high and intellectual brow, Not broad enough to hold a generous soul.

II.

I see the farm-house where my Grace abides; The afternoon is clear, the gra.s.s is green; And Grace comes forth and walks toward the brook.

Beside its bank, which is a slope of moss, I see the face intent upon the scene.

Now Grace draws near, and starting back to find A stranger in the dell she loves the most, Is half attracted by his cultured mien, And half repelled by inconsistent fears.

He rises, bowing low, and begs to speak: He has not seen such beauty in his life; He craves to touch a finger of her hand, To judge if she be of the earth, or one Upon some holy mission from that land Whereto, with fastings and with many prayers, Through G.o.d's good grace he hopes yet to attain.

Then John Bernard, who has been working near, Seeding the furrows for his empty barns, This stranger and my Grace puts hand in hand.

I see her smile in answer to his smiles.

She makes her ears his cells for honeyed speech; And yet she seems to fear him for some cause.

Now, as the slow sun tarries on the hills, I see them parting at the farm-house door-- The wide half-door which now is opened half-- And as he pa.s.ses down the bordered path, His kiss still lingering upon her hand, She leans out from the door, and watches him Until he vanishes between the trees.

I seem to see her face, a trouble sweet Dwelling upon it, even though the light Sets it in glory, with a slender ring Above the white brow and the golden hair.

III.

I see them riding down the village street: He on a horse as black and strong as iron, She on her snowy palfrey, robed in green, Slack reins in hand; the horses side by side.

Even as I see and write, my heart grows cold-- Cold as a bird that on a winter's day b.r.e.a.s.t.s the bleak wind, high in the biting air.

IV.

I see a city with a concourse vast Of gas-lit streets and buildings, and above, Its dear face buried in its cloudy hands, The Night bends over, weeping. In the street I see the face again I saw to-day.

I see him writing in a narrow room.

I read the words: _To-night I end my life.

The river says "Embrace, I offer rest."

The world and I have grappled in fair fight, And I am beaten. Having found defeat, I long to go down to its lowest depths.

I only ask, that those who find these words, Will send them to my people past the sea; To-night I cross a wider: so, adieu._ MICHAEL GIANNI.

This is his true name, And afterward he writes his wife's address.

He leaves the paper foldless on a stand, And then goes forth; but not to end his life.

He dreams that now his life is but begun.

He sees my Grace in all his coming days; He sees the large old farm-house where she dwells, And therein hopes to happily pa.s.s the years, Living in peace and plenty till he dies.

Most human calculations end in loss, And every one who has a plan devised, Is like a foolish walker on a rope, First balancing on this side, then on that, Hazarding much to gain a paltry end; And if the rope of calculation breaks, Or if the foot slip, added to mishap Come the world's jeers and gibes; and so 'tis best.

Should half men's schemings find success at last, I fear G.o.d's plans would have but narrow room.

(Michael Gianni, now I know your name, This premonition gives the hint to me To trip you in your studied subtleties.

You will not win my Grace, who loves me still; You will not dare to kiss her hand again.)

V.

Beneath a rustic arbor, near her house, Linked with sweet converse, sit two shadowed forms.

The new sword moon against the violet sky Is held aloft, by one white arm of cloud Raised from the sombre shoulder of a hill.

My Grace and I are sitting in the bower, And down upon my breast and girdling arm Is strewn pure gold--no alloy mixes it-- The pure ore of her lovable gold hair.

The cunning weavers of Arabia, Who seek to shuttle sunshine in their silk, Would give its weight in diamonds for this hair, Whereof to make a fabric for their king.

I see the trees that skirt the yonder vale, And where the road dents down between their arms, I see a figure pa.s.sing to and fro.

Now he comes near, and striding up the path Enters the arbor, and discovers us.

It is Gianni; to his flashing eyes A fierce deep hatred leaps up from his heart, As lightning, which forebodes the nearing storm, Leaps luridly above the midnight hills.

With some excuse Gianni pa.s.ses on, While Grace, with sweetly growing confidence, Whispers with lips which slightly touch my ear, "I never loved him, I was always yours."

VI.