XXIV.

Long and still was her gaze while they chafed him there And breathed in the mouth whose last life had kissed her, But when they stood up--only _they_! with a start The shriek from her soul struck her pale lips apart: She has lived, and forgone him!

XXV.

And low on his body she droppeth adown-- "Didst call me thine own wife, beloved--thine own?

Then take thine own with thee! thy coldness is warm To the world's cold without thee! Come, keep me from harm In a calm of thy teaching!"

XXVI.

She looked in his face earnest-long, as in sooth There were hope of an answer, and then kissed his mouth, And with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly,-- "Now, O G.o.d, take pity--take pity on me!

G.o.d, hear my beseeching!"

XXVII.

She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay, She was 'ware of a presence that withered the day: Wild she sprang to her feet,--"I surrender to _thee_ The broken vow's pledge, the accursed rosary,-- I am ready for dying!"

XXVIII.

She dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved ground Where it fell mute as snow, and a weird music-sound Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long and dim,-- As the fiends tried to mock at the choristers' hymn And moaned in the trying.

FOURTH PART.

Onora looketh listlessly adown the garden walk: "I am weary, O my mother, of thy tender talk.

I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro, Of the steadfast skies above, the running brooks below.

All things are the same, but I,--only I am dreary, And, mother, of my dreariness behold me very weary.

"Mother, brother, pull the flowers I planted in the spring And smiled to think I should smile more upon their gathering: The bees will find out other flowers--oh, pull them, dearest mine, And carry them and carry me before Saint Agnes' shrine."

--Whereat they pulled the summer flowers she planted in the spring, And her and them all mournfully to Agnes' shrine did bring.

She looked up to the pictured saint and gently shook her head-- "The picture is too calm for _me_--too calm for _me_," she said: "The little flowers we brought with us, before it we may lay, For those are used to look at heaven,--but _I_ must turn away, Because no sinner under sun can dare or bear to gaze On G.o.d's or angel's holiness, except in Jesu's face."

She spoke with pa.s.sion after pause--"And were it wisely done If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?

If we whose virtue is so weak should have a will so strong, And stand blind on the rocks to choose the right path from the wrong?

To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and heaven,-- A single rose, for a rose-tree which beareth seven times seven?

A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast,-- Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!"

Then breaking into tears,--"Dear G.o.d," she cried, "and must we see All blissful things depart from us or ere we go to THEE?

We cannot guess Thee in the wood or hear Thee in the wind?

Our cedars must fall round us ere we see the light behind?

Ay sooth, we feel too strong, in weal, to need thee on that road, But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on 'G.o.d.'"

Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever mused thus, "_The bees will find out other flowers_,--but what is left for _us_?"

But her young brother stayed his sobs and knelt beside her knee, --"Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?"

She pa.s.sed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek, So tenderly, so tenderly--she needed not to speak.

The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no more.

The woman fair who placed it there had died an hour before.

Both perished mute for lack of root, earth's nourishment to reach.

O reader, breathe (the ballad saith) some sweetness out of each!

_A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES._

I.

Seven maidens 'neath the midnight Stand near the river-sea Whose water sweepeth white around The shadow of the tree; The moon and earth are face to face, And earth is slumbering deep; The wave-voice seems the voice of dreams That wander through her sleep: The river floweth on.

II.

What bring they 'neath the midnight, Beside the river-sea?

They bring the human heart wherein No nightly calm can be,-- That droppeth never with the wind, Nor drieth with the dew: Oh, calm in G.o.d! thy calm is broad To cover spirits too.

The river floweth on.

III.

The maidens lean them over The waters, side by side, And shun each other's deepening eyes, And gaze adown the tide; For each within a little boat A little lamp hath put, And heaped for freight some lily's weight Or scarlet rose half shut.

The river floweth on.

IV.

Of sh.e.l.l of cocoa carven Each little boat is made; Each carries a lamp, and carries a flower, And carries a hope unsaid; And when the boat hath carried the lamp Unquenched till out of sight, The maiden is sure that love will endure; But love will fail with light.

The river floweth on.

V.

Why, all the stars are ready To symbolize the soul, The stars untroubled by the wind, Unwearied as they roll; And yet the soul by instinct sad Reverts to symbols low-- To that small flame, whose very name Breathed o'er it, shakes it so!

The river floweth on.

VI.

Six boats are on the river, Seven maidens on the sh.o.r.e, While still above them steadfastly The stars shine evermore.

Go, little boats, go soft and safe, And guard the symbol spark!

The boats aright go safe and bright Across the waters dark.

The river floweth on.

VII.

The maiden Luti watcheth Where onwardly they float: That look in her dilating eyes Might seem to drive her boat: Her eyes still mark the constant fire, And kindling unawares That hopeful while, she lets a smile Creep silent through her prayers.

The river floweth on.

VIII.

The smile--where hath it wandered?