The heart that has worshipped so long and so purely Ought not to be slighted for mere sentiment.

We must live as our century bids us. Its bent Is away from the worn ruts of thought. Where of old The life of a woman was run in the mold Of man's wishes and pa.s.sions, to-day she is free; Free to think and to act; free to do and to be What she pleases. The poor, pining victim of fate And man's cruelty, long ago went out of date.

In the mansion of Life there were some things askew, Which the strong hand of Progress has righted. The new, Better plan puts old notions of s.e.x on the shelf.

Who is true to a knave, is untrue to herself.

Oh, be true to yourself, and have pity on one Who has long dwelt in shadow and pines for the sun.

Love, starving on memories, begs for one taste Of sweet hope, ere the remnant of youth goes to waste.

_Mabel to Maurice._

You write like a man who sees self as his goal.

You speak of your woes--yet my travail of soul Seems mere sentiment to you. Maurice, pause and think Of the black, bitter potion life gave me to drink When I dreamed of love's nectar. Too fresh is the taste Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste To reach out for the cup that is proffered anew.

A certain respect to my sorrows is due.

I am weary of love as men know it. The calm Of a sweet, tranquil friendship would act like a balm On the wounds of my heart; that platonic regard, Which we read of in books, or hear sung by the bard, But so seldom can find when we want it. I thought, For a time, you had conquered mere self, and had brought Such a friendship to comfort and rest me. But no, That dream, like full many another, must go.

The love that is based on attraction of s.e.x Is a love that has brought me but sorrow. Why vex My poor soul with the same thing again? If you love With a higher emotion, you know how to prove And sustain the a.s.sertion by conduct. Maurice, Love must rise above pa.s.sion, to infinite peace And serenity, ere it is love, to my mind.

For the women of earth, in the ranks of mankind There are too many lovers and not enough friends.

'Tis the friend who protects, 'tis the lover who rends.

He who _can_ be a friend while he _would_ be a lover Is the rarest and greatest of souls to discover.

Have I found, dear Maurice, such a treasure in you?

If not, I must say with this letter--adieu.

As he finished the letter there seemed but one phrase To the heart of the reader. It shone on his gaze Bright with promise and hope. "_Too fresh is the taste Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste To reach out for the cup that is offered anew._"

"_In such haste._" Ah, how hope into certainty grew As he read and re-read that one sentence. "Let fate Take the whole thing in charge, I can wait--I can wait.

I have lived through the night; though the dawn may be gray And belated, it heralds the coming of day."

So he talked with himself, and grew happy at last.

The five hopeless years of his sorrow were cast Like a nightmare behind him. He walked once again With a joy in his personal life, among men.

There seemed to be always a smile on his lip, For he felt like a man on the deck of a ship Who has sailed through strange seas with a mutinous crew, And now in the distance sights land just in view.

The house at Bay Bend was re-opened. Once more, Where the waves of the Sound wash the New England sh.o.r.e, Walked Maurice; and beside him, young hope, with the tip Of his fair rosy fingers pressed hard on his lip, Urging silence. If Mabel Montrose saw the boy With the pursed prudent mouth and the eyes full of joy She said nothing. Grave, dignified (Ah, but so fair!), There was naught in her modest and womanly air To feed or encourage such hope. Yet love grew Like an air plant, with only the night and the dew To sustain it; while Mabel rejoiced in the friend, Who, in spite of himself, had come back to Bay Bend, Yielding all to her wishes. Such people, alone, Who gracefully gave up their plans for her own, Were congenial to Mabel. Though looking the sweet, Fragile creature, with feminine virtues replete, Her nature was stubborn. Beneath that fair brow Lurked an obstinate purpose to make others bow To herself in small matters. She fully believed She was right, always right; and her friends were deceived, As a rule, into thinking the same; for her eyes Held a look of such innocent grief and surprise When her will was opposed, that one felt her misused, And retired from the field of dispute, self-accused.

The days, like glad children, went hurrying out From the schoolhouse of time; months pursued the same route More sedately; a year, then two years, pa.s.sed away, Yet hope, unimpaired, in the lover's heart lay, As a gem in the bed of a river might lie, Unharmed and unmoved while its waters ran by.

His toil for the poor still continued, but not With that fervor of zeal which a dominant thought Lends to labor. Fair love gilded dreams filled his mind, While the corners were left for his suffering kind.

He was sorry for sorrow; but love made him glad, And nothing in life now seemed hopeless or sad.

His tete-a-tete visits with Mabel were rare; She ordered her life with such prudence and care Lest her white name be soiled by the gossips. And yet, Though his heart, like a steed checked too closely, would fret Sometimes at these creed-imposed fetters, he felt Keen delight in her nearness; in knowing she dwelt Within view of his high turret window. Each day Which gave him a glimpse of her, love laid away As a poem in life's precious folio. Night Held her face like a picture, dream-framed for his sight.

So he fed on the crumbs from love's table, the while Fate sat looking on with a cynical smile.

IX.

SONGS FROM THE TURRET.

I.

In the day my thoughts are tender When I muse on my ladye fair.

There is never one to offend her, For each is pure as a prayer.

They float like spirits above her, About her and always near; And they scarce dare sigh that they love her, Because she would blush to hear.

But in dreams my thoughts grow bolder; And close to my lips of fire, I reach out my arms and enfold her, My ladye, my heart's desire.

And she who, in earthly places, Seems cold as the stars above, Unmasks in those fair dream s.p.a.ces And gives me love for love.

Oh day, with your thoughts of duty Cross over the sunset streams, And give me the night of beauty And love in the Land of Dreams.

For there in the mystic, shady, Fair isle of the Slumber Sea, I read the heart of my ladye That here she hides from me.

II.

Some day, some beauteous day, Joy will come back again.

Sorrow must fly away.

Hope, on her harp will play The old inspiring strain Some day, some beauteous day.

Through the long hours I say, "The night must fade and wane, Sorrow must fly away."

The morn's bewildering ray Shall pierce the night of rain, Some day, some beauteous day.

Autumn shall bloom like May, Delight shall spring from pain; Sorrow must fly away.

Though on my life, grief's gray Bleak shadow long hath lain, Some day, some beauteous day, Sorrow must fly away.

III.

When love is lost, the day sets toward the night.

Albeit the morning sun may still be bright, And not one cloud ship sails across the sky.

Yet from the places where it used to lie, Gone is the l.u.s.trous glory of the light.

No splendor rests on any mountain height, No scene spreads fair, and beauteous, to the sight.

All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye, When love is lost.

Love lends to life its grandeur and its might, Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight.

Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by, And grief's one happy thought is that we die.

Ah! what can recompense us for its flight, When love is lost.

IV.

Life is a ponderous lesson book, and Fate The teacher. When I came to love's fair leaf My teacher turned the page and bade me wait.

"Learn first," she said, "love's grief"; And o'er and o'er through many a long to-morrow She kept me conning that sad page of sorrow.

Cruel the task; and yet it was not vain.

Now the great book of life I know by heart.

In that one lesson of love's loss and pain Fate doth the whole impart.

For, by the depths of woe, the mind can measure The beauteous unsealed summits of love's pleasure.

Now, with the book of life upon her knee, Fate sits! the unread page of love's delight By her firm hand is half concealed from me, And half revealed to sight.

Ah Fate! be kind! so well I learned love's sorrow, Give me its full delight to learn to-morrow.