’Twere over-much to pause and tell How slid the weeks, and all befell Ere we could to the heavens say, “The terror of your rage is past, The gnawing frost, the biting blast, And life is in the matin ray.”— The swallow came, the heron’s scream Athwart the marsh-lands, through the woods, Sped resonant; I ceased to dream Of demons, and my waking moods The radiance of the morning took. Upon the bare brown leaves I stood, And saw and heard with raptured look The gleam and murmur of the brook, Which we in summer’s plenitude Had traced to many an arbored nook.
’Twas midmost in the budding May, Whilst on my couch of cedar boughs, Perturbed with nameless fears I lay, And breathed to Heaven my silent vows,— A cloud-like cope of purple hue Descended o’er me, hid me quite, And seemed a soft wind round it blew, And from the mystic wind a voice Spoke low: “Poor child of darkened light! The pure of heart are Heaven’s choice; The Virgin who hath seen thy tears, In pity for thy tender years, Will aid thee in thine utmost plight.” A hallowed tremor o’er me crept, And in that purple cloud I slept Enshrined, how long I never knew;— And through my dreams the soft wind blew Like music heard at dusk or dawn, And when I woke and found it gone, In fullness of great joy I wept.
’Twas thus a new revealment came, A something out of nothingness, To which we gave the simple name Of Lua. O, the first caress A mother to her first-born gives!— Methinks the angels must confess, Through all the after ages’ lives, An influence so pure and holy, That human hearts, the proud and lowly, Are touched thereby. I kissed, and kissed My pretty babe, and through the mist Of happy tears upon it gazed In silent thankfulness, and praised The Empress of the skies, whose grace Had glorified that humble place.
The sandy marge again we trod Round the green Isle, and felt that God Was very near,—in ocean’s roar, And in the zephyr’s scented breath, In summer green, in winter hoar, In joy, in grief, in life, in death, Our Friend and Father evermore.
Again across the naked sea,— In tumult or in blank repose, At morn and noon, and evening close,— Sick yearnings from our souls were sent. But bootless still the hungry sigh, A southward sail still southward went, If any such we might descry,— As twice or thrice it chanced to be, We saw or fancied shimmering, Like a white eagle’s outstretched wing, Hiding the strait and dubious space That separates the lifted face Of ocean from the stooping sky. The sail would melt, the hollow dome Above us and our prison home, And girdling waves, and sobbing rain, And winds full-fledged,—all things that were Of earth and sky, of sea and air, Strangled sweet Hope, and in the pit Of outer darkness buried it. Yet seemed it sinful to complain, When to our feast of love was given The fairest fruit that gracious Heaven Had e’er for human joyance shed. Sweet Innocence! the small hands spread, Dimpled and white, catching at things Viewless to us, but clearly seen By those wide-open eyes; the wings Of heavenly guests it must have been Fluttering near the sinless child, Azure and golden, till she smiled And shrank from their excessive sheen.
Again the forest’s green arcades Gladly we paced; their sun-lit shades Investured us; the laughing brook That solaced us the year before, Mirrored again my lingering look; In that clear glass I could not fail To see my face grown somewhat pale, But not less fair; we trod once more The lofty cliff whereon Eugene Had crowned me his bride and queen. Pleasant those summer days to walk Where no intrusive step could baulk Our happiness; no tongue to dare Whisper disparagement, and bare The mysteries of Love’s free-will, Approved of Heaven to strive for still, The liberty that angels share.— Another summer’s beauty dead, Another winter’s cerements wound On tree and shrub; the sheeted ground, The cruel storm-land overhead, The scream of frightened birds, the wind That in its teeth the tree-tops took And worried all day long and shook, These and the monstrous ocean blind With foamy wrath, were ours once more;— Once more within our cabin mewed Under the pine-tops, crisp and hoar, My fears their old alarms pursued.
Four times the moon had waxed and waned Since summer blooms, so bright and brief, Were mourned for by the falling leaf, And winter winds were all unchained, When came the direful, fatal day. The Spectre of the wide world came In league with winter’s fierce array, In league with fiends that hissed the name Of Death around the ruined Isle.
Deep lay the snow, pile heaped on pile, When food fell scant, and on a morn, Ere yet the infant light was born, Eager-thus always to provide, Eugene forsook my drowsy side, And lavished on my happy lips His silent love; then gently slips, Upon the little callow heap That lay embalmed in downy sleep His softest kisses: happy child! She made a little stir and smiled, As if in soothest dreams she knew Whence came that quiet fond adieu. Then pausing at the windy door, His arquebuse on shoulder laid, And in his belt a shining blade, His brow a troubled shadow wore;— Or was it but my own blurred thought A semblance of foreboding wrought? Backward he moved, a tardy pace, And toward me turned his comely face And said: “Dear love, I thought to go Ere thou shouldst wake, for well I know These frequent partings, though but brief, Aye touch thy tender heart with grief.” “Loud blows the nor-wind,” I replied. “Surely thou needst not haste away Before the leaden eyes of Day On our small world are opened wide; For all these partings, my Eugene, Are bitter drops that fall between Our honied draughts of happiness; Ah! well I know what dangerous toil, What weary hours companionless, Are thine in quest of needful spoil, Be-wrenched, from stubborn wood and wave, Wherein—Oh God!—an early grave May compass thee; and I remain A wretched mourner, doomed to bear The burning curse and bitter bane Bequeathed me by Sir Roberval;— O stay, Eugene, stay yet awhile! Just now I dreamt I saw thee borne By Shapes unshapely, stark and shorn, Three times around the darkened Isle; Then did the heavens o’er thee bend, And in a cloud thou didst ascend, Lost to the world and me forever.” “Twas but a dream,” he said, “no more,” But saying which, a painful quiver His lips betrayed, then cheerily bore His manly head, and thus made end.
“No evil can such dreams portend:— Nor need I, dearest, say farewell; For love and faith cannot deceive, And hence I cannot but believe, What holy whispers round me tell, That though thou tarriest here behind, Thy spirit journeyeth with me, Clasping me round whereso I be, A shelter from the bruising wind, A covert from the drenching sea. Then rest, my own brave Marguerite, Rest thee in trust; ’tis meet that I The savage elements defy For thy loved sake, and for the sweet, Sweet sake of her who slumbers there, Pillowed upon her golden hair, Her beauty, love, so like thine own;— Sweet babe! dear wife!” Ere I could speak He kissed the tear-drop from my cheek, And ere I wist I was alone, The door stood wide, and he had passed Into the dusky void, and vast Uncertainties concealed by Fate. Ah, me! I could but watch and wait
For his return. For his return? I felt my heart within me burn, Then sicken to an icy dread, For seemed a sad voice near me said, “Thou ne’er shall see his face again!” The paragon of noblest men! It could not be; I would not own A prophecy that turned to stone All joys that I had ever known.