Idyllic Monologues.

by Madison J. Cawein.

FOREWORD.

_And one, perchance, will read and sigh: "What aimless songs! Why will he sing Of nature that drags out her woe Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow, From miserable spring to spring?"

Then put me by._

_And one, perhaps, will read and say: "Why write of things across the sea; Of men and women, far and near, When we of things at home would hear-- Well, who would call this poetry?"

Then toss away._

_A hopeless task have we, meseems, At this late day; whom fate hath made Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled With kindred yearnings, try to build A tower like theirs, that will not fade, Out of our dreams._

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IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES

The Brothers

Not far from here, it lies beyond That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take This unused lane where brambles make A wall of twilight, and the blond Brier-roses pelt the path and flake The margin waters of a pond.

This is its fence--or that which was Its fence once--now, rock rolled from rock, One tangle of the vine and dock, Where bloom the wild petunias; And this its gate, the iron-weeds block, Hot with the insects' dusty buzz.

Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled The weather-crumbled paint, still rise; Gaunt things--that groan when someone tries The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed, Snarl open:--on each post still lies Its carven lion with a shield.

We enter; and between great rows Of locusts winds a gra.s.s-grown road; And at its glimmering end,--o'erflowed With quiet light,--the white front shows Of an old mansion, grand and broad, With grave Colonial porticoes.

Grown thick around it, dark and deep, The locust trees make one vast hush; Their brawny branches crowd and crush Its very cas.e.m.e.nts, and o'ersweep Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush Haunts all its s.p.a.cious rooms with sleep.

Still is it called The Locusts; though None lives here now. A tale's to tell Of some dark thing that here befell; A crime that happened years ago, When by its walls, with shot and sh.e.l.l, The war swept on and left it so.

For one black night, within it, shame Made revel, while, all here about, With prayer or curse or battle-shout, Men died and homesteads leapt in flame: Then pa.s.sed the conquering Northern rout, And left it silent and the same.

Why should I speak of what has been?

Or what dark part I played in all?

Why ruin sits in porch and hall Where pride and gladness once were seen; And why beneath this lichened wall The grave of Margaret is green.

Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate Was sadder yet than his who won Her hand--my brother Hamilton-- Or mine, who learned to know too late; Who learned to know, when all was done, And nothing could exonerate.

To expiate is still my lot,-- And, like the Ancient Mariner, To show to others how things are And what I am, still helps me blot A little from that crime's red scar, That on my soul is branded hot.

He was my only brother. She A sister of my brother's friend.

They met, and married in the end.

And I remember well when he Brought her rejoicing home, the trend Of war moved towards us sullenly.

And scarce a year of wedlock when Its red arms took him from his bride.

With lips by hers thrice sanctified He left to ride with Morgan's men.

And I--I never could decide-- Remained at home. It happened then.

For days went by. And, oft delayed, A letter came of loving word Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred, Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid, When in the saddle, armed and spurred And booted for some hurried raid.

Then weeks went by. I do not know How long it was before there came, Blown from the North, the clarion fame Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow, Had drawn a line of blood and flame From Tennessee to Ohio.

Then letters ceased; and days went on.

No word from him. The war rolled back, And in its turgid crimson track A rumor grew, like some wild dawn, All ominous and red and black, With news of our lost Hamilton,

That hinted death or capture. Yet No thing was sure; till one day,--fed By us,--some men rode up who said They'd been with Morgan and had met Disaster, and that he was dead, My brother.--I and Margaret

Believed them. Grief was ours too: But mine was more for her than him; Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim; Grief, that became the avenue For love, who crowned the sombre brim Of death's dark cup with rose-red hue.

In sympathy,--unconsciously Though it be given--I hold, doth dwell The germ of love that time shall swell To blossom. Sooner then in me-- When close relations so befell-- That love should spring from sympathy.

Our similar tastes and mutual bents Combined to make us intimates From our first meeting. Different states Of interest then our temperaments Begot. Then friendship, that abates No love, whose self it represents.

These led to talks and dreams: how oft We sat at some wide window while The sun sank o'er the hills' far file, Serene; and of the cloud aloft Made one vast rose; and mile on mile Of firmament grew sad and soft.

And all in harmony with these Dim clemencies of dusk, afar Our talks and dreams went; while the star Of evening brightened o'er the trees: We spoke of home; the end of war: We dreamed of life and love and peace.

How on our walks in listening lanes Or confidences of the wood, We paused to hear the dove that cooed; Or gathered wild-flowers, taking pains To find the fairest; or her hood Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains.

No echo of the drum or fife, No hint of conflict entered in Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin-- Indifference to a nation's strife?

What side might lose, what side might win, Both immaterial to our life.

Into the past we did not look; Beyond what was we did not dream; While onward rushed the thunderous stream Of war, that, in its torrent, took One of our own. No crimson gleam Of its wild course around us shook.

At last we knew. And when we learned How he had fallen, Margaret Wept; and, albeit my eyes were wet, Within my soul I half discerned A joy that mingled with regret, A grief that to relief was turned.

As time went on and confidence Drew us more strongly each to each, Why did no intimation reach Its warning hand into the dense Soul-silence, and confuse the speech Of love's unbroken eloquence!

But, no! no hint to turn the poise, Or check the impulse of our youth; To chill it with the living truth As with the awe of G.o.d's own voice; No hint, to make our hope uncouth; No word, to warn us from our choice.

To me a wall seemed overthrown That social law had raised between; And o'er its ruin, broad and green A path went, I possessed alone; The sky above seemed all serene; The land around seemed all my own.

What shall I say of Margaret To justify her part in this?

That her young heart was never his?