Take all of me—I am thine own, heart, soul,
Brain, body, all; all that I am or dream
Is thine forever; yea, though space should teem
With thy conditions, I'd fulfil the whole,
Were to fulfil them to be loved by thee.
IN MEMORIAM.
The light streams through the windows arched high,
And o'er the stern, stone carvings breaks
In warm rich gold and crimson waves,
Then steals away in corners dark to die.
And all the grand cathedral silence falls
Into the hearts of those that worship low,
Like tender waves of hushed nothingness,
Confined nor kept by human earthly walls.
Deep music in its thundering organ sounds,
Grows diffuse through the echoing space,
Till hearts grow still in sadness' mighty joy,
Or leap aloft in swift ecstatic bounds.
Mayhap 'twas but a dream that came to me,
Or but a vision of the soul's desire,
To see the nation in one mighty whole,
Do homage on its bended, worshipping knee.
Through time's heroic actions, the soul of man,
Alone proves what that soul without earth's dross
Could be, and this, through time's far-searching fire,
Hath proved thine white beneath the deepest scan.
A woman's tribute, 'tis a tiny dot,
A merest flower from a frail, small hand,
To lay among the many petaled wreaths
About thy form,—a tribute soon forgot.
But if in all the incense to arise
In fragrance to the blue empyrean
The blended sweetness of the womens' love
Goes pouring too, in all their heartfelt sighs.
And if one woman's sorrow be among them too,
One woman's joy for labor past
Be reckoned in the mighty teeming whole,
It is enough, there is not more to do.
Within the hearts of heroes small and great
There 'bides a tenderness for weakling things
Within thy heart, the sorrowing country knows
These passions, bravest and the tenderest mate.
When man is dust, before the gazing eyes
Of all the gaping throng, his life lies wide
For all to see and whisper low about
Or let their thoughts in discord's clatter rise.
But thine was pure and undefiled,
A record of long brilliant, teeming days,
Each thought did tend to further things,
But pure as the proverbial child.
Oh, people, that thy grief might find express
To gather in some vast cathedral's hall,
That then in unity we might kneel and hear
Sublimity in sounds, voice our distress.
Peace, peace, the men of God cry, ye be bold,
The world hath known, 'tis Heaven who claims him now,
And in our railings we but cast aside
The noble traits he bid us hold.
So though divided through the land, in dreams
We see a people kneeling low,
Bowed down in heart and soul to see
This fearful sorrow, crushing as it seems.
And all the grand cathedral silence falls
Into the hearts of these that worship low,
Like tender waves of hushed nothingness,
Confined, nor kept by human earthly walls.
A STORY OF VENGEANCE.
Yes, Eleanor, I have grown grayer. I am younger than you, you know, but then, what have you to age you? A kind husband, lovely children, while I—I am nothing but a lonely woman. Time goes slowly, slowly for me now.
Why did I never marry? Move that screen a little to one side, please; my eyes can scarcely bear a strong light. Bernard? Oh, that's a long story. I'll tell you if you wish; it might pass an hour.
Do you ever think to go over the old school-days? We thought such foolish things then, didn't we? There wasn't one of us but imagined we would have only to knock ever so faintly on the portals of fame and they would fly wide for our entrance into the magic realms. On Commencement night we whispered merrily among ourselves on the stage to see our favorite planet, Venus, of course, smiling at us through a high, open window, "bidding adieu to her astronomy class," we said.
Then you went away to plunge into the most brilliant whirl of society, and I stayed in the beautiful old city to work.