THE LETTER L.

We sat on grassy slopes that meet

With sudden dip the level strand;

The trees hung overhead — our feet

Were on the sand.

Two silent girls, a thoughtful man,

We sunned ourselves in open light,

And felt such April airs as fan

The Isle of Wight;

And smelt the wall-flower in the crag

Whereon that dainty waft had fed,

Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag

Her delicate head;

And let alighting jackdaws fleet

Adown it open-winged, and pass

Till they could touch with outstretched feet

The warmèd grass.

The happy wave ran up and rang

Like service bells a long way off,

And down a little freshet sprang

From mossy trough,

And splashed into a rain of spray,

And fretted on with daylight's loss,

Because so many bluebells lay

Leaning across.

Blue martins gossiped in the sun,

And pairs of chattering daws flew by,

And sailing brigs rocked softly on

In company.

Wild cherry-boughs above us spread,

The whitest shade was ever seen,

And flicker, flicker, came and fled

Sun spots between.

Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom,

As babes will sigh for deep content

When their sweet hearts for peace make room,

As given, not lent.

And we saw on: we said no word,

And one was lost in musings rare,

One buoyant as the waft that stirred

Her shining hair.

His eyes were bent upon the sand,

Unfathomed deeps within them lay.

A slender rod was in his hand —

A hazel spray.

Her eyes were resting on his face,

As shyly glad, by stealth to glean

Impressions of his manly grace

And guarded mien;

The mouth with steady sweetness set,

And eyes conveying unaware

The distant hint of some regret

That harbored there.

She gazed, and in the tender flush

That made her face like roses blown,

And in the radiance and the hush,

Her thought was shown.

It was a happy thing to sit

So near, nor mar his reverie;

She looked not for a part in it,

So meek was she.

But it was solace for her eyes,

And for her heart, that yearned to him,

To watch apart in loving wise

Those musings dim.

Lost — lost, and gone! The Pelham woods

Were full of doves that cooed at ease;

The orchis filled her purple hoods

For dainty bees.

He heard not; all the delicate air

Was fresh with falling water-spray:

It mattered not — he was not there,

But far away.

Till with the hazel in his hand,

Still drowned in thought it thus befell;

He drew a letter on the sand —

The letter L.

And looking on it, straight there wrought

A ruddy flush about his brow;

His letter woke him: absent thought

Rushed homeward now.

And half-abashed, his hasty touch

Effaced it with a tell-tale care,

As if his action had been much,

And not his air.

And she? she watched his open palm

Smooth out the letter from the sand,

And rose, with aspect almost calm,

And filled her hand

With cherry-bloom, and moved away

To gather wild forget-me-not,

And let her errant footsteps stray

To one sweet spot,

As if she coveted the fair

White lining of the silver-weed,

And cuckoo-pint that shaded there

Empurpled seed.

She had not feared, as I divine,

Because she had not hoped. Alas!

The sorrow of it! for that sign

Came but to pass;

And yet it robbed her of the right

To give, who looked not to receive,

And made her blush in love's despite

That she should grieve.

A shape in white, she turned to gaze;

Her eyes were shaded with her hand,

And half-way up the winding ways

We saw her stand.

Green hollows of the fringèd cliff,

Red rocks that under waters show,

Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff,

Were spread below.

She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh,

Perhaps to think; but who can tell

How heavy on her heart must lie

The letter L!

She came anon with quiet grace;

And “What,” she murmured, “silent yet!”

He answered, “‘ Tis a haunted place,

And spell-beset.

“O speak to us, and break the spell!”

“The spell is broken,” she replied.

“I crossed the running brook, it fell,

It could not bide.

“And I have brought a budding world,

Of orchis spires and daisies rank,

And ferny plumes but half uncurled,

From yonder bank;

“And I shall weave of them a crown,

And at the well-head launch it free,

That so the brook may float it down,

And out to sea.

“There may it to some English hands

From fairy meadow seem to come;

The fairyest of fairy lands —

The land of home.”

“Weave on,” he said, and as she wove

We told how currents in the deep,

With branches from a lemon grove,

Blue bergs will sweep.

And messages from shipwrecked folk

Will navigate the moon-led main,

And painted boards of splintered oak

Their port regain.

Then floated out by vagrant thought,

My soul beheld on torrid sand

The wasteful water set at nought

Man's skilful hand,

And suck out gold-dust from the box,

And wash it down in weedy whirls,

And split the wine-keg on the rocks,

And lose the pearls.

“Ah! why to that which needs it not,”

Methought, “should costly things be given?

How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot,

On this side heaven!”

So musing, did mine ears awake

To maiden tones of sweet reserve,

And manly speech that seemed to make

The steady curve

Of lips that uttered it defer

Their guard, and soften for the thought:

She listened, and his talk with her

Was fancy fraught.

“There is not much in liberty” —

With doubtful pauses he began;

And said to her and said to me,

“There was a man —

“There was a man who dreamed one night

That his dead father came to him;

And said, when fire was low, and light

Was burning dim —

“‘ Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride,

Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam?

Sure home is best!’ The son replied,

‘ I have no home.’

“‘ Shall not I speak?’ his father said,

‘ Who early chose a youthful wife,

And worked for her, and with her led

My happy life.

“‘ Ay, I will speak, for I was young

As thou art now, when I did hold

The prattling sweetness of thy tongue

Dearer than gold;

“‘ And rosy from thy noonday sleep

Would bear thee to admiring kin,

And all thy pretty looks would keep

My heart within.

“‘ Then after, mid thy young allies —

For thee ambition flushed my brow —

I coveted the school-boy prize

Far more than thou.

“‘ I thought for thee, I thought for all

My gamesome imps that round me grew;

The dews of blessing heaviest fall

Where care falls too.

“‘ And I that sent my boys away,

In youthful strength to earn their bread,

And died before the hair was gray

Upon my head —

“‘ I say to thee, though free from care,

A lonely lot, an aimless life,

The crowning comfort is not there —

Son, take a wife.’

“‘ Father beloved,’ the son replied,

And failed to gather to his breast,

With arms in darkness searching wide,

The formless guest.

“‘ I am but free, as sorrow is,

To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk;

And free, as sick men are, I wis

To rise and walk.

“‘ And free, as poor men are, to buy

If they have nought wherewith to pay;

Nor hope, the debt before they die,

To wipe away.

“‘ What‘ vails it there are wives to win,

And faithful hearts for those to yearn,

Who find not aught thereto akin

To make return?

“‘ Shall he take much who little gives,

And dwells in spirit far away,

When she that in his presence lives

Doth never stray,

“But waking, guideth as beseems

The happy house in order trim,

And tends her babes; and sleeping, dreams

Of them and him?

“‘ O base, O cold,’” — while thus he spake

The dream broke off, the vision fled;

He carried on his speech awake

And sighing said —

“‘ I had — ah happy man!— I had

A precious jewel in my breast,

And while I kept it I was glad

At work, at rest!

“‘ Call it a heart, and call it strong

As upward stroke of eagle's wing;

Then call it weak, you shall not wrong

The beating thing.

“‘ In tangles of the jungle reed,

Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes,

In shipwreck drifting with the weed

‘ Neath rainy skies,

“‘ Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen,

At danger gazed with awed delight

As if sea would not drown, I ween,

Nor serpent bite.

“‘ I had — ah happy! but‘ tis gone,

The priceless jewel; one came by,

And saw and stood awhile to con

With curious eye,

“‘ And wished for it, and faintly smiled

From under lashes black as doom,

With subtle sweetness, tender, mild,

That did illume

“‘ The perfect face, and shed on it

A charm, half feeling, half surprise,

And brim with dreams the exquisite

Brown blessèd eyes.

“‘ Was it for this, no more but this,

I took and laid it in her hand,

By dimples ruled, to hint submiss,

By frown unmanned?

“‘ It was for this — and O farewell

The fearless foot, the present mind,

And steady will to breast the swell

And face the wind!

“‘ I gave the jewel from my breast,

She played with it a little while

As I sailed down into the west,

Fed by her smile;

“‘ Then weary of it — far from land,

With sigh as deep as destiny,

She let it drop from her fair hand

Into the sea,

“‘ And watched it sink; and I — and I,—

What shall I do, for all is vain?

No wave will bring, no gold will buy,

No toil attain;

“‘ Nor any diver reach to raise

My jewel from the blue abyss;

Or could they, still I should but praise

Their work amiss.

“‘ Thrown, thrown away! But I love yet

The fair, fair hand which did the deed:

That wayward sweetness to forget

Were bitter meed.

“‘ No, let it lie, and let the wave

Roll over it for evermore;

Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave —

The sea her store.

“‘ My heart, my sometime happy heart!

And O for once let me complain,

I must forego life's better part —

Man's dearer gain.

“‘ I worked afar that I might rear

A peaceful home on English soil;

I labored for the gold and gear —

I loved my toil.

“‘ Forever in my spirit spake

The natural whisper, “Well‘ twill be

When loving wife and children break

Their bread with thee!”

“‘ The gathered gold is turned to dross,

The wife hath faded into air,

My heart is thrown away, my loss

I cannot spare.

“‘ Not spare unsated thought her food —

No, not one rustle of the fold,

Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood,

Nor gleam of gold;

“‘ Nor quaint devices of the shawl,

Far less the drooping lashes meek;

The gracious figure, lithe and tall,

The dimpled cheek;

“‘ And all the wonders of her eyes,

And sweet caprices of her air,

Albeit, indignant reason cries,

Fool! have a care.

“‘ Fool! join not madness to mistake;

Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit;

Only that she thy heart might break —

She wanted it,

“‘ Only the conquered thing to chain

So fast that none might set it free,

Nor other woman there might reign

And comfort thee.

“‘ Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet;

Love dead outside her closèd door,

And passion fainting at her feet

To wake no more;

“‘ What canst thou give that unknown bride

Whom thou didst work for in the waste,

Ere fated love was born, and cried —

Was dead, ungraced?

“‘ No more but this, the partial care,

The natural kindness for its own,

The trust that waxeth unaware,

As worth is known:

“‘ Observance, and complacent thought

Indulgent, and the honor due

That many another man has brought

Who brought love too.

“‘ Nay, then, forbid it Heaven!’ he said,

‘ The saintly vision fades from me;

O bands and chains! I cannot wed —

I am not free.’”

With that he raised his face to view;

“What think you,” asking, “of my tale?

And was he right to let the dew

Of morn exhale,

“And burdened in the noontide sun,

The grateful shade of home forego —

Could he be right — I ask as one

Who fain would know?”

He spoke to her and spoke to me;

The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek;

The woven crown lay on her knee;

She would not speak.

And I with doubtful pause — averse

To let occasion drift away —

I answered — “If his case were worse

Than word can say,

“Time is a healer of sick hearts,

And women have been known to choose,

With purpose to allay their smarts,

And tend their bruise,

“These for themselves. Content to give,

In their own lavish love complete,

Taking for sole prerogative

Their tendance sweet.

“Such meeting in their diadem

Of crowning love's ethereal fire,

Himself he robs who robbeth them

Of their desire.

“Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried

Against his lot that even-song,

I judge him honest, and decide

That he was wrong.”

“When I am judged, ah may my fate,”

He whispered, “in thy code be read!

Be thou both judge and advocate.”

Then turned, he said —

“Fair weaver!” touching, while he spoke,

The woven crown, the weaving hand,

“And do you this decree revoke,

Or may it stand?

“This friend, you ever think her right —

She is not wrong, then?” Soft and low

The little trembling word took flight:

She answered, “No.”