Poems of Passion | Page 9

backward, seeing
The vanished self that
evermore must be,
This side of what we call eternity,
Not quite the same.
FROM THE GRAVE.
When the first sere leaves of the year were falling,
I heard, with a
heart that was strangely thrilled,
Out of the grave of a dead Past
calling,
A voice I fancied forever stilled.
All through winter and spring and summer,
Silence hung over that grave like a pall,
But, borne on the breath of
the last sad comer,
I listen again to the old-time call.

It is only a love of a by-gone season,
A senseless folly that mocked at
me
A reckless passion that lacked all reason,
So I killed it, and hid
it where none could see.
I smothered it first to stop its crying,
Then stabbed it through with a
good sharp blade,
And cold and pallid I saw it lying,
And deep--ah'
deep was the grave I made.
But now I know that there is no killing
A thing like Love, for it
laughs at Death.
There is no hushing, there is no stilling
That which
is part of your life and breath.
You may bury it deep, and leave behind you
The land, the people,
that knew your slain;
It will push the sods from its grave, and find
you
On wastes of water or desert plain.
You may hear but tongues of a foreign people,
You may list to
sounds that are strange and new;
But, clear as a silver bell in a steeple,

That voice from the grave shall call to you.
You may rouse your pride, you may use your reason.
And seem for a
space to slay Love so;
But, all in its own good time and season,
It
will rise and follow wherever you go.
You shall sit sometimes, when the leaves are falling,
Alone with your
heart, as I sit to-day,
And hear that voice from your dead Past calling

Out of the graves that you hid away.
[Illustration:]
A WALTZ-QUADRILLE.
The band was playing a waltz-quadrille,
I felt as light as a
wind-blown feather,
As we floated away, at the caller's will,

Through the intricate, mazy dance together.
Like mimic armies our
lines were meeting,
Slowly advancing, and then retreating,
All

decked in their bright array;
And back and forth to the music's rhyme

We moved together, and all the time
I knew you were going away.
The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill
From heart to brain as we
gently glided
Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-quadrille;

Parted, met, and again divided--
You drifting one way, and I another,

Then suddenly turning and facing each other,
Then off in the blithe
chasse,
Then airily back to our places swaying,
While every beat of
the music seemed saying
That you were going away.
I said to my heart, "Let us take our fill
Of mirth and music and love
and laughter;
For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille,
And life
will be never the same life after.
Oh, that the caller might go on
calling,
Oh, that the music might go on falling
Like a shower of
silver spray,
While we whirled on to the vast Forever,
Where no
hearts break, and no ties sever,
And no one goes away."
A clamor, a crash, and the band was still;
'Twas the end of the dream,
and the end of the measure: The last low notes of that waltz-quadrille

Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of Pleasure.
You said good-night,
and the spell was over--
Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a
lover--
There was nothing else to say;
But the lights looked dim,
and the dancers weary,
And the music was sad, and the hall was
dreary,
After you went away.
BEPPO.
Why art thou sad, my Beppo? But last eve,
Here at my feet, thy dear
head on my breast,
I heard thee say thy heart would no more grieve

Or feel the olden ennui and unrest.
What troubles thee? Am I not all thine own?--
I, so long sought, so
sighed for and so dear?
And do I not live but for thee alone?
"Thou
hast seen Lippo, whom I loved last year!"

Well, what of that? Last year is naught to me--
'Tis swallowed in the
ocean of the past.
Art thou not glad 'twas Lippo, and not thee,

Whose brief bright day in that great gulf was cast.
Thy day is all
before thee. Let no cloud,
Here in the very morn of our delight,

Drift up from distant foreign skies, to shroud
Our sun of love whose
radiance is so bright.
"Thou art not first?" Nay, and he who would be
Defeats his own
heart's dearest purpose then.
No truer truth was ever told to thee--

Who has loved most, he best can love again.
If Lippo (and not he
alone) has taught
The arts that please thee, wherefore art thou sad?

Since all my vast love-lore to thee is brought,
Look up and smile, my
Beppo, and be glad.
TIRED.
I am tired to-night, and something,
The wind maybe, or the rain,
Or
the cry of a bird in the copse outside,
Has brought back the past and
its pain.
And I feel, as I sit here thinking,
That the