Maurine and Other Poems | Page 8

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 coloured 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 parlour, 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 colours, so the pallid hue?Of Helen's cheek, like tinted sea-shells 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 neighbourhood--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 balls 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 passing breeze.?'Twas 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.
Oh 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 a-weary, waiting here
For one who tarries long from me.?Oh! 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