Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale, If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath, Too kind for bitter words to grieve, Ah, then beware of mortal pride! MAY not rightly call thy name, Daughter of want and wrong and woe, "Avis!" With Saxon eye and cheek, At once a woman and a child, The saint uncrowned I came to seek Drew near to greet us, — spoke, and smiled. God gave that sweet sad smile she wore Her footsteps through a world of sin. "And who is Avis?"-Hear the tale The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell, The story known through all the vale Where Avis and her sisters dwell. With the lost children running wild, They find one little refuse child Left helpless in its poisoned lair. The primal mark is on her face, The chattel-stamp, the pariah-stain That follows still her hunted race, The curse without the crime of Cain. How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale. Ah, veil the living death from sight Take her, dread Angel! Break in love No voice descended from above, But Avis answered, "She is mine." The task that dainty menials spurn The fair young girl has made her own; Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn The toils, the duties yet unknown. So Love and Death in lingering strife While the slow seasons creep away. Love conquers Death; the prize is won; The dusky daughter of the sun, The bronze against the marble breast! Her task is done; no voice divine Has crowned her deeds with saintly fame. No eye can see the aureole shine That rings her brow with heavenly flame. Yet what has holy page more sweet, Or what had woman's love more fair, When Mary clasped her Saviour's feet With flowing eyes and streaming hair? Meek child of sorrow, walk unknown, And let thine image live alone To hallow this unstudied song! IRIS, HER BOOK. PRAY thee by the soul of her that bore thee, By thine own sister's spirit I implore thee, Deal gently with the leaves that lie before thee! For Iris had no mother to infold her, She had not learned the mystery of awaking Yet lived, wrought, suffered. Lo, the pictured token! 'Why should her fleeting day-dreams fade unspoken, Like daffodils that die with sheaths unbroken? She knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies, — Walked simply clad, a queen of high romances, And talked strange tongues with angels in her trances. Twin-souled she seemed, a twofold nature wearing,— Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her? What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her? Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor. And then all tears and anguish: Queen of Heaven, Sweet Saints, and Thou by mortal sorrows riven, Save me! O, save me! Shall I die forgiven? And then ters: Ah, God! But nay, it little mat Look at the wasted seeds that autumn scatters, If she had - Well! She longed, and knew not wherefore. Had the world nothing she might live to care for? No second self to say her evening prayer for? She knew the marble shapes that set men dreaming, Yet with her shoulders bare and tresses streaming Showed not unlovely to her simple seeming. Vain? Let it be so! Nature was her teacher. Saying, unsaddened, · This shall soon be faded, And double-hued the shining tresses braided, And all the sunlight of the morning shaded? This her poor book is full of saddest follies, Of tearful smiles and laughing melancholies, With summer roses twined and wintry hollies. In the strange crossing of uncertain chances, Somewhere, beneath some maiden's tear-dimmed glances May fall her little book of dreams and fancies. |