No; my heart is bendin’ over a little cold form. Between the sun-bright glory of that new and free land stands a little tender form with a bleedin’ stain on its bosom.
Or is it beckonin’? Was it the glow from them shinin’ curls that lightened the eastern sky? Duz she speak in the pathos and beauty of our hearts’ desire for a race’s freedom? Dear little soul, so pitiful of all sufferin’, duz she help them who loved her to be patient with ignorance, and intolerance, squalor, and power? Patient with all and every form of error and woe?
She lays under a flowery mound in the summer grounds of Belle Fanchon, close to the grave of the other little sleeper that slept so long there alone. The rivulet wraps its warm, lovin’ arms close about both little graves.
Near by, just across the valley, reposes the form of Victor the king. Victor over ignorance, over wickedness, victor over his enemies, for he died blessin’ them. How else could he get the victory over his murderers?
Ah! the flowers from these graves risin’ up together, will they not sweeten and purify the soil that nourishes them—subtle perfume risin’ out of the black soil and darkness, sweet and priceless aroma risin’ to the heavens?
Upon the ancient altars the ripe fruit wuz laid, and the flowers.
God knows best! Oh, achin’ heart, where the silken head rested, and which will be empty and achin’ forevermore; oh, streamin’ eyes, tear-blinded and anguished, that will never again see the sweetest form, the loveliest face that earth ever held, what can they say but this—God knows best!
And they can think through the long days and nights of hopelessness and emptiness, that her sweet, prophetic eyes have found the Realities made visible to her onknown to the coarser minds about her.
The Form that bent over her cradle and whispered to her has taken her now to a close and guardin’ embrace.
Wuz it some fair, sweet messenger, some gentle angel guide, or wuz there in the hands held out to her the mark of the nails?