Maurine and Other Poems | Page 8

up something else, and curve
Her lovely neck, with
cunning, bird-like grace,
And watch the mirror while she put it on,

With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face;
And then to view it
all would sway and swerve
Her lithe young body, like a graceful
swan.
Helen was over medium height, and slender
Even to frailty. Her great,
wistful eyes
Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies;
And
through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender.
Her long, light
hair was lustreless, except
Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams
slept,
And on the earlocks; and she looped the curls

Back with a
shell comb, studded thick 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