If you still doubt me, listen while I prove My statement by the letter that he wrote.

'Dying to meet--my friend!' (she could not see The dash between that meant so much to me.) 'Will come this eve, at eight, and hopes we may Be in to greet him.' Now I think you'll say 'Tis not much like a lover's tender note."

We laugh, we jest, not meaning what we say; We hide our thoughts, by light words lightly spoken, And pa.s.s on heedless, till we find one day They've bruised our hearts, or left some other broken.

I sought my room, and trilling some blithe air, Opened my wardrobe, wondering what to wear.

Momentous question! femininely human!

More than all others, vexing mind of woman, Since that sad day, when in her discontent, To search for leaves, our fair first mother went.

All undecided what I should put on, At length I made selection of a lawn-- White, with a tiny pink vine overrun:-- My simplest robe, but Vivian's favorite one.

And placing a single flowret in my hair, I crossed the hall to Helen's chamber, where I found her with her fair locks all let down, Brushing the kinks out, with a pretty frown.

'T was like a picture, or a pleasing play, To watch her make her toilet. She would stand, And turn her head first this and then that way, Trying effect of ribbon, bow or band.

Then she would pick up something else, and curve Her lovely neck, with cunning, bird-like grace, And watch the mirror while she put it on, With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face; And then to view it all would sway, and swerve Her lithe young body, like a graceful swan.

Helen was over medium height, and slender Even to frailty. Her great, wistful eyes Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies; And through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender.

Her long, light hair was l.u.s.terless, except Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams slept, And on the earlocks; and she looped the curls Back with a sh.e.l.l comb, studded thick with pearls, Costly yet simple. Her pale loveliness, That night, was heightened by her rich, black dress, That trailed behind her, leaving half in sight Her taper arms, and shoulders marble white.

I was not tall as Helen, and my face Was shaped and colored like my grandsire's race; For through his veins my own received the warm, Red blood of southern France, which curved my form, And glowed upon my cheek in crimson dyes, And bronzed my hair, and darkled in my eyes.

And as the morning trails the skirts of night, And dusky night puts on the garb of morn, And walk together when the day is born, So we two glided down the hall and stair, Arm clasping arm, into the parlor, where Sat Vivian, bathed in sunset's gorgeous light.

He rose to greet us. Oh! his form was grand; And he possessed that power, strange, occult, Called magnetism, lacking better word, Which moves the world, achieving great result Where genius fails completely. Touch his hand, It thrilled through all your being--meet his eye, And you were moved, yet knew not how, or why.

Let him but rise, you felt the air was stirred By an electric current.

This strange force Is mightier than genius. Rightly used, It leads to grand achievements; all things yield Before its mystic presence, and its field Is broad as earth and heaven. But abused, It sweeps like a poison simoon on its course Bearing miasma in its scorching breath, And leaving all it touches struck with death.

Far-reaching science shall yet tear away The mystic garb that hides it from the day, And drag it forth and bind it with its laws, And make it serve the purposes of men, Guided by common sense and reason. Then We'll hear no more of seance, table-rapping, And all that trash, o'er which the world is gaping, Lost in effect, while science seeks the cause.

Vivian was not conscious of his power: Or, if he was, knew not its full extent.

He knew his glance would make a wild beast cower, And yet he knew not that his large eyes sent Into the heart of woman the same thrill That made the lion servant of his will.

And even strong men felt it.

He arose, Reached forth his hand, and in it clasped my own, While I held Helen's; and he spoke some word Of pleasant greeting in his low, round tone, Unlike all other voices I have heard.

Just as the white cloud, at the sunrise, glows With roseate colors, so the pallid hue Of Helen's cheek, like tinted sea-sh.e.l.ls grew.

Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such Was the all-mast'ring magic of his touch.

Then we sat down, and talked about the weather, The neighborhood--some author's last new book.

But, when I could, I left the two together To make acquaintance, saying I must look After the chickens--my especial care; And ran away, and left them, laughing, there.

Knee-deep, through clover, to the poplar grove, I waded, where my pets were wont to rove: And there I found the foolish mother hen Brooding her chickens underneath a tree, An easy prey for foxes. "Chick-a-dee,"

Quoth I, while reaching for the downy things That, chirping, peeped from out the mother-wings, "How very human is your folly! When There waits a haven, pleasant, bright, and warm, And one to lead you thither from the storm And lurking dangers, yet you turn away.

And, thinking to be your own protector, stray Into the open jaws of death: for, see!

An owl is sitting in this very tree You thought safe shelter. Go now to your pen."

And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen, So like the human mother here again, Moaning because a strong, protecting arm Would shield her little ones from cold and harm, I carried back my garden hat brimful Of chirping chickens, like white b.a.l.l.s of wool, And snugly housed them.

And just then I heard A sound like gentle winds among the trees, Or pleasant waters in the Summer, stirred And set in motion by a pa.s.sing breeze.

'T was Helen singing: and, as I drew near, Another voice, a tenor full and clear, Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite, And flow on stronger in their wedded might.

It was a way of Helen's, not to sing The songs that other people sang. She took Sometimes an extract from an ancient book; Again some floating, fragmentary thing And such she fitted to old melodies, Or else composed the music. One of these She sang that night; and Vivian caught the strain, And joined her in the chorus, or refrain,

SONG.

O thou, mine other, stronger part!

Whom yet I cannot hear, or see, Come thou, and take this loving heart, That longs to yield its all to thee, I call mine own--Oh, come to me!

Love, answer back, I come to thee, I come to thee.

This hungry heart, so warm, so large, Is far too great a care for me.

I have grown weary of the charge I keep so sacredly for thee.

Come thou, and take my heart from me.

Love, answer back, I come to thee, I come to thee.

I am aweary, waiting here For one who tarries long from me.

O! art thou far, or art thou near?

And must I still be sad for thee?

Or wilt thou straightway come to me?

Love, answer, I am near to thee, I come to thee.

The melody, so full of plaintive chords, Sobbed into silence--echoing down the strings Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings.

Vivian had leaned upon the instrument The while they sang. But, as he spoke those words, "Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee,"

He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent His l.u.s.trous, soulful, speaking gaze on me.

And my young heart, eager to own its king, Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek Hope's rose-hued flag. There was no need to speak.

I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen. "Sing That song you sang a fragment of one night, Out on the porch, beginning, 'Praise me not,'"

I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught From some sad pa.s.sing breeze, and made her own, The echo of the wind-harp's sighing strain, Or the soft music of the falling rain.

SONG.

O praise me not with your lips, dear one!

Though your tender words I prize.

But dearer by far is the soulful gaze Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes, Your tender, loving eyes.

O chide me not with your lips, dear one!

Though I cause your bosom sighs.

You can make repentance deeper far By your sad, reproving eyes, Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.

Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds; Above, in the beaming skies, The constant stars say never a word, But only smile with their eyes-- Smile on with their l.u.s.trous eyes.

Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one; On the winged wind speech flies.

But I read the truth of your n.o.ble heart In your soulful, speaking eyes-- In your deep and beautiful eyes.

The twilight darkened 'round us, in the room, While Helen sang; and, in the gathering gloom, Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his, And held it so; while Helen made the air Languid with music. Then a step drew near, And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell: "Dear! dear!

Why Maurie, Helen, children! how is this?

I hear you, but you have no light in there.

Your room is dark as Egypt. What a way For folks to visit!--Maurie, go, I pray, And order lamps."

And so there came a light, And all the sweet dreams hovering around The twilight shadows flitted in affright: And e'en the music had a harsher sound.

In pleasant converse pa.s.sed an hour away: And Vivian planned a picnic for next day-- A drive the next, and rambles without end, That he might help me entertain my friend.

And then he rose, bowed low, and pa.s.sed from sight, Like some great star that drops out from the night; And Helen watched him through the shadows go, And turned and said, her voice subdued and low, "How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine, A grander man I never yet have seen."

_PART III._

One golden twelfth-part of a checkered year; One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirth With not a hint of shadows lurking near, Or storm-clouds brewing.

'T was a royal day: Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth, With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast, And twined herself about him, as he lay Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest.

She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace, And hid him with her trailing robe of green, And wound him in her long hair's shimmering sheen, And rained her ardent kisses on his face.