Love or Fame; and Other Poems

by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

He turns away—a silence falls—the night
Is coming on, the sun has taken flight,
Upon the skies a veiling shadow lies.
She moves not—from her face the color dies
And leaves it pale and calm.

Unto her side
He comes again: "Forgive my hasty pride,
Arline, for me thou are too purely good,
And far above me is thy womanhood."

For answer she extends her jeweled hand,
He takes it with a loving awe, as though
It were a sacred thing, and thus they stand.
At last he speaks: "Arline, before I go
The secrets of thy life I'll tell to thee,
That you may see 'tis not unknown to me.
You say you ne'er have loved—'tis false, before
You sought for fame, upon a wild, dark shore,
You lived and loved"—to Arline's questioning eyes
There came a startled look—a vague surprise—
"The one you loved, Arline, no more loves you,
Although, perchance, you dream that he is true."

Why grow so pale, Arline, why stand so still?
Have you no woman's pride? no woman's will?
Why should you care? the world is yours and fame,
And worldly hearts will love you all the same.
It matters not, you parted long ago,
To meet no more. Why bend your head so low!
Lorraine is watching you with searching eyes,
Before his gaze your poor heart quivering lies;
He still speaks on, his words are sure, though slow,
They find the truth he long has sought to know.

Back from her face she sweeps the heavy hair,
And looks up with a proud, unconquered air;
Ah! few have wills like hers to do or die,
To hide each wound, to still each longing cry.
"Lorraine, the secrets of my life are mine,
You have no right to solve its mystery;
Why seek to penetrate my heat's design?
How sensitive a human heart can be,
You do not seem to know nor even care;
You tell me that you love, yet love is rare
And generous, its truth you ne'er can know,
If thus within the dust you trail it low."

The night has come, the clouds are hanging low,
Their splendor gone, the wind begins to blow,
It shifts the clouds across the gloomy sky,
Now lashed to foam the troubled waters lie.
The sails are hurrying home, the sea bird flies
Around and round with frightened, screaming cries.
From rock to rock across the frowning hill,
And deep within the vale, a muttering sound
Of far-off thunder rolls along the ground,
A herald of the storm, then all is still.

And yet they heed it not, "Arline! Arline!"
He cries with flashing eyes, "my peerless queen,
I cannot give you up, you must be mine;
You thrill my heart, your beauty divine.
What matters it though you have loved before,
You cannot love him now, that dream is o'er.
Look up, Arline, within your starry eyes
There lies for me the only paradise;
I care not for the heaven or earth below—
If you are mine, what care I more to know?
A woman's love can make man what it will,
For love and thee my heart is throbbing still.
Oh! quick, Arline, for see on yonder height
The lightning circles round with flashing light,
It grows so dark—I scarce can see your face,
Give me your hand, I'll lead you to the place
Where waits my boat; before the storm comes on
We'll reach the farther coast, for I am strong
And young."

His face is close to hers—she starts
And with a shudder shuts her frightened eyes;
A silence as of death—the storm-cloud parts;
A sheet of lightning flashes o'er the skies,
It blinds his eyes, then all is dark again.
Where is Arline? She is not there, in vain
His search—how fierce the storm, how black the night!
Another lurid flash—what fearful sight
Is this? Arline upon the ground, her head
Against the rocks, as pallid as the dead.
And look! on one fair temple lies a stain
Of blood, and on her dusky veil of hair,
The crimson moisture too—what cruel pain
The rocks have caused; and yet how pale and fair
She lies, unconscious of the rain and storm.
"Oh, God! what fearful sight is this to see!"
Half frantic he attempts to lift her form
Into his arms—but no, it shall not be,
For suddenly a hand is laid on his
With iron grasp; upon the stormy air
A voice rings out, "To touch her do not dare,
Or you shall pay the penalty of this;
If she is dead 'tis by your hand alone—
One pitying thought your dark soul does not own.
Begone, or here beneath this angry sky,
Upon these rocks one of us two must die.
Ah! think you not, you fair-faced, proud Lorraine,
I know you not; and well I know the pain
You gave Arline; her lovely grace is far
Above you as the highest, holiest star
That decks God's throne; then go and leave her here,
For sacred as the dead she is to me."
'Tis Adrian—he drops upon one knee
And looks upon her face with dread and fear,
Then tenderly he wipes away the red,
Dark stains, and with a strong, yet tender grace,
Uplifts her to his arms.

Her marble face
Lies close unto his own—he bends his head
And is he any less the man because one tear
Falls on that wayward face so proud and dear?
What thoughts are his! they parted long ago
To meet again, but how? Ah! who can know
What bitterness he feels—that slender form
Within his arms. Beneath the fierce wild storm
He hurries to her stately home, and there
Her followers wait with hushed and frightened air.

Oh! can it be that she is dead, Arline—
The idol of his heart, the world's proud queen?
No, no; it must not be, her white lids move,
She wakes once more to life and song and love.
The pale lips quiver with a sudden pain,
The lashes half unveil the eyes again.