  The Lady (thinking). O fair Kentucky! border-land of war, Thou rovest like a gypsy at thy will Between the angry South and stubborn North. Sweep Morgan’s men, the troopers bold who fill Ohio with alarm; then, marching forth In well-drilled ranks with flag, and fife, and drum, From camp and town the steady blue-coats come, March east, march west, march north, march south, and find No enemy except the lawless wind. No sooner gone—Lo! presto through the glen Is heard the midnight ride of Morgan’s men: They ford the rivers by the light of stars, The ringing hoofs sound through the mountain-pass; They draw not rein until their glad huzzas Are echoing through the land of the Blue Grass. —O lovely land, O swell of grassy billows far and near, O wild, free elms, whose swaying arms expand As if to clasp me, hold my love as dear As thine own son! I hasten to his side— Ye roads, lie smooth; ye streams, make safe the ford; O chivalrous Kentucky, help the bride Though thou hast wounded with thy rebel sword The foeman bridegroom! . . . . . . . . . . .... Can it be that girl Who rides in front? I thought her left behind The slim thing down this bank! Would I could bind Those prim, long-fingered, proper hands of hers Behind her drooping, narrow-shouldered back, And send her home! A heart like that transfers Its measured, pale affections readily, If the small rules it calleth piety Step in between them. Otherwise, the crack Of doom would not avail to break the cord Which is not love so much as given word And fealty, that conscientiousness Which weigheth all things be they more or less, From fold of ribbon to a marriage-vow, With self-same scales of duty. Shall I now Ride on and pass her—for her horse will fail Before the hour is out? Of what avail Her journey? (Speaks.) Driver, press forward.—Nay, stop— (Aside.) O what a child am I to waver thus! I know not how to be ungenerous, Though I may try—God knows I truly tried. What’s this upon my hand? Did a tear drop? (Speaks.) By your side Behold me, maiden; will you ride with me? My horses fleet and strong. The Maiden. I thank you—no. The Lady (aside). She said me nay; then why am I not free To leave her here, and let my swift steeds go On like the wind? (Speaks.) Ho! driver— (Aside.) But, alas! I cannot. (Speaks.) Child, my horses soon will pass In spite of me; they are so fleet they need The curb to check them in their flying speed. Ours the same journey: why should we not ride Together? The Maiden. Never! The Lady. Then I must abide By your decision.—Driver, pass. (Thinking.) I take Her at her word. In truth, for her own sake ’Twere charity to leave her, hasten on, Find my own love, and with him swift be gone Ere she can reach him; for his ardor strong Heightened by fever, will o’ersweep all bounds, And fall around me in a fiery shower Of passion’s words.— And yet—this inner power— This strange, unloving justice that surrounds My careless conscience, will not let me go! (Speaks.) Ho! Driver, turn back. —Maiden, I ask again— I cannot take advantage. Come with me; That horse will fail you soon—ask; both these men Will tell you so.—Come, child—we will agree The ride shall count as naught; nay, when we reach The farm-house, all shall be as though no speech Had ever passed between us—we will meet Beside his couch as strangers. (Speaks.) There’s defeat For thee, O whispering tempter! The Maiden (to the men). Is it true? Will the horse fail? One of the Men. Yes. The Maiden. Madam, then with you I needs must ride.—I pray you take my share Of payment; it were more than I could bear To be indebted to you. The Lady. Nay—the sum Was but a trifle. (Aside.) Now forgive me, truth. But was it not a trifle to such wealth— Such wealth as mine? (Speaks.) Heard you that distant drum Borne on the wind a moment? Ah! our youth Is thrilled with the great pulses of this war. How fast we live—how full each crowded hour Of hot excitements! Naught is done by stealth, The little secrecies of other days Thrown to the winds; the clang and charge afar On the red battle-field, the news that sways Now to, now fro, ’twixt victory and defeat; The distant cry of “Extra!” down the street In the gray dawnings, and our breathless haste To read the tidings—all this mighty power Hath burned in flame the day of little things, The terrible, the glorious gods of war. —The maid forgets her shyness; wherefore waste One moment when the next may call him forth Ne’er to return to her? The dear old North May take her lover—but he shall not go With lips unkissed to meet his Southern foe; Her last embrace will cheer him on his round Now back, now forth, over the frozen ground Through the long night. —And when the hasty word “Only one day; be ready, love,” is heard, The soft consent is instant, and there swells Amid the cannonade faint wedding-bells From distant village; then, as swift away The soldier bridegroom rides—he may not stay. And she?—She would not keep him, though the tears Blind her sweet eyes that follow him, and fears Crowd her faint heart and take away her breath, As on her white robe falls the shade of Death That waits for him at Shiloh! O these days! When we have all gone back to peaceful ways, Shall we not find sweet Peace a little dull? —You do not speak. The Maiden. Madam, my heart is full Of other thoughts. The Lady. Of love?—Pray—what is love? How should a woman love?—Although we hate Each other well, we need not try to prove Our hate by silence—for there is a fate Against it in us women; speak we must, And ever shall until we’re turned to dust, Nay—I’m not sure but even then we talk From grave to grave under the churchyard-walk— Whose bones last longest—whose the finest shroud— And—is there not a most unseemly crowd In pauper’s corner yonder? —You are shocked? You do not see, then, that I only mocked At my own fears—as those poor French lads sang Their gayest songs at the red barricade, Clear on the air their boyish voices rang In chorus, even while the bayonet made An end of them.—He may be suffering now— He may be calling— There! I’ve made a vow To keep on talking. So, then—tell me, pray, How should a woman love? The Maiden. I can but say How I do love. The Lady. The Maiden. With faith and prayer. The Lady. I, too; my faith is absolute. We share That good in common. I believe his love Is great as mine, and mine—oh, could I prove My love by dying for him, far too small The test; I’d give my love, my soul, my all, In life, in death, in immortality, Content in hell itself (if there be hells— Which much I doubt)—content, so I could be With him! The Maiden. Is it a woman’s tongue that tells This blasphemy? When I said faith, I meant A faith in God. The Lady. And God is love! He sent This love that fills my heart. Oh, most divine— Oh, nearest to him of all earthly things, That passeth understanding. The bird sings Because it is the only way he knows To praise his Maker; and a love that flows Like mine is worship, too—a hymn that rolls Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice; It formed a part of worship once, and I Do hold it now the part that deepest lies In woman’s love, the dim sanctuary Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept E’en from the one she loves: all told, except This mystic feeling which she may not know How to express in words—the martyr’s glow Idealized—the wish to give him joy Through her own suffering, and so destroy All part that self might play—to offer pure Her love to her heart’s idol. Strange, obscure, Sacred, but mighty, is this longing; I Can feel though not define it. I would die To make him happy! The Maiden. As his happiness Depends on me, then can you do no less Than yield him to me—if you love him thus. The Lady (thinking). “As,” said she? Heart, but this is fabulous, This calm security of hers! (Speaks.) Why, child, Hast never heard of passion, and its wild, Impetuous, unreasoning assault On souls that know not their own depths? The fault Not his: he was but young, he did not know Himself. Might he not love me even though Thou wert the best? Have pity! I appeal To all the woman in thee. Dost thou feel That one touch of his hand would call the blood Out from thy heart in an o’erwhelming flood To meet it? The Maiden. Nay, I know not what you speak. The Lady. Thou dost not, that I see. Thy pearly cheek Keeps its fair white. Sweet child, he’s that and more To me. Ah, let me kneel; thus I implore That thou wouldst yield him to me—all the right His boyhood promise gave thee. The Maiden. In the sight Of Heaven we are betrothed; I cannot break My word. The Lady. Oh, not for mine, but for his sake! He loves me! The Maiden. Only madness, that will burn And die to ashes; but, the fever past, The old, pure love will steadfastly return And take its rightful place. The Lady. But should it last, This fever-madness? should he ask your grace, And say he loved me best? The Maiden. Then, to his face I’d answer, Never! What! leave him to sin? The Lady. And what the sin? The Maiden. You! you! You have no faith, All such are evil. The Lady (aside). Why did I begin Such hopeless contest? (Speaks.) Child, if he should lie Before us now, and one said he must die Or love me, wouldst thou yield? The Maiden. Never; as dead He would be in God’s hands; living— The Lady. In mine. The Maiden. That is, in atheism. The Lady. Have I said Aught atheistical? Because my faith Is broader than its own, this conscience saith I am an atheist! Ah, child, is thine A better faith? Yet, be it what it may, Should he now lie before us here, and say He loved thee best, I’d yield him though my heart To make him happy, I would even take Annihilation!—let the vital spark Called soul be turned to nothing. The Maiden. Far apart Our motives; mine is clear with duty— The Lady. Dark And heavy mine with love. The Maiden. You talk of death With frequent phrase, as though a little thing, A matter merely of the will and breath, It were to face the judgment, and the King Who has not summoned you. Your flippant tongue Rolls out its offers as a song is sung, And, both mean nothing; for the chance to die For one we love, that glorious gift, comes now But rarely in this life that you and I Must bear our part in. Thus, no empty vow Do I repeat; and yet, I surely know, At duty’s call right calmly could I go Up the red scaffold’s stairs. The Lady. I well believe Thee, steadfast maiden-voice. Nay, I conceive My love, thy duty, are alike—the same Self-sacrifice under a various name According to our natures. I would yield, And thou refuse to yield, from the same love; I’d have him happy here, and thou—above. For thus we look at life. The book is sealed That holds our fate—we may not look within; But this I know, that, be it deadly sin Or highest good, he loves me! The Maiden. There are loves— And loves! The Lady. So be it. All this word-work proves Nothing. Then let it end. Though there’s a charm In speech—but you are tired. ’Twill be no harm To rest you on my shoulder, though its creed (Poor shoulder!) is not orthodox. The Maiden. Indeed, I need not rest. The Lady. Well, then, I’m half asleep Myself, and you the silent watch may keep.— (Thinking.) I’ve whiled the time away; but, thou dear God, Who made me, how with bleeding feet have trod The toiling moments through my heart! I pray (For I believe that prayer may aid the soul, Though not the body nor the fixed control Of Nature) that his love may hold its sway E’en as I saw him last, when, at my feet, He lavished his young heart in burning tide Of loving words. Oh, not for mine own joy, But his, I pray this prayer; do thou destroy All my own part in it.—Ah, love, full sweet Shall be our meeting. Lo! the longed-for bride Comes—of her own accord. There is no bliss, Even in heaven, greater than the kiss That I do keep for thee! The Maiden (thinking). O God, thy will Be done—yes, first of all, be done! (Bide still, Thou wicked, rebel heart!) Yet, O Lord, grant This grace to me, a lowly supplicant. My mind is vexÈd, evil thoughts do rage The suffering I endure!—If it is true My poor boy loves this woman—and what is Is ever for the best—create anew Her soul that it may surely leaven his With holiness. Oh, stretch Thy mighty arm And win her to Thy fold, that she may be A godly woman, graced with piety, Turned from the error of her ways, the harm Of all her worldliness, the sinful charm Of her fair face (if it be fair, though I Think her too brown) changed by humility To decorous sweetness.— Lord, look in my heart; I may not know myself; search every part, And give me grace to say that I will yield My love to hers if Thy will stands revealed In his swift preference. Yet, in pity, hear— Change her, Lord—make her good! [Weeps. The Lady (thinking). Is that a tear On her soft cheek? She has her little griefs, Then, as the children have; their small beliefs And dolls are sawdust!— Love, I do forgive Your boyish fancy, for she’s lily fair; But no more could content you now than dew Could hope to fill Niagara with its rare, Fine drops that string the grass-blade’s shining hue, Upon the brink.—Dearest, I call! Oh, see How all my being rushes toward thee! Wait, E’en though before thine eyes bright heaven’s gate Let out its light: angels might envy thee Such love as I shall give thee—wait! oh, wait! |
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