The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 18

So the little blind elf with his feathered shaft Did more than the sword could do, For he conquered and took with his magical craft Her heart and her castle, too.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WESSELENYI]

ISABEL

Fare-thee-well: On my soul the toll of bell Trembles. Thou art calmly sleeping While my weary heart is weeping: I cannot listen to thy knell: Fare-thee-well.

Sleep and rest: Sorrow shall not pain thy breast, Pangs and pains that pierce the mortal Cannot enter at the portal Of the Mansion of the Blest: Sleep and rest.

Slumber sweet, Heart that nevermore will beat At the footsteps of thy lover; All thy cares and fears are over.

In thy silent winding-sheet Slumber sweet.

Fare-thee-well: In the garden and the dell Where thou lov'dst to stroll and meet me, Nevermore thy kiss shall greet me, Nevermore, O Isabel!

Fare-thee-well.

We shall meet-- Where the wings of angels beat: When my toils and cares are over, Thou shalt greet again thy lover-- Robed and crowned at Jesus' feet We shall meet.

Watch and wait At the narrow, golden gate; Watch my coming,--wait my greeting, For my years are few and fleeting And my love shall not abate: Watch and wait.

So farewell, O my darling Isabel; Till we meet in the supernal Mansion and with love eternal In the golden city dwell, Fare-thee-well.

BYRON AND THE ANGEL

_Poet:_

"Why this fever--why this sighing?-- Why this restless longing--dying For--a something--dreamy something, Undefined, and yet defying All the pride and power of manhood?

"O these years of sin and sorrow!

Smiling while the iron harrow Of a keen and biting longing Tears and quivers in the marrow Of my being every moment-- Of my very inmost being.

"What to me the mad ambition For men's praise and proud position-- Struggling, fighting to the summit Of its vain and earthly mission, To lie down on bed of ashes-- Bed of barren, bitter ashes?

"Cure this fever? I have tried it; Smothered, drenched it and defied it With a will of bra.s.s and iron; Every smile and look denied it; Yet it heeded not denying, And it mocks at my defying While my very soul is dying.

"Is there balm in Gilead?--tell me!

Nay--no balm to soothe and quell me?

Must I tremble in this fever?

Death, O lift thy hand and fell me; Let me sink to rest forever Where this burning cometh never.

"Sometimes when this restless madness Softens down to mellow sadness, I look back on sun-lit valleys Where my boyish heart of gladness Nestled without pain or longing-- Nestled softly in a vision Full of love and hope's fruition, Lulled by morning songs of spring-time.

"Then I ponder, and I wonder Was some heart-chord snapped asunder When the threads were soft and silken?

Did some fatal boyish blunder Plant a canker in my bosom That hath ever burned and rankled?

"O this thirsting, thirsting hanker!

O this burning, burning canker'

Driving Peace and Hope to s.h.i.+pwreck-- Without rudder, without anchor, On the reef-rocks of d.a.m.nation!"

_Invisible Angel:_

"Jesus--Son of Virgin Mary; Lift the burden from the weary: Pity, Jesus, and anoint him With the holy balm of Gilead."

_Poet:_

"Yea, Christ Jesus, pour thy blessings On these terrible heart-pressings: O I bless thee, unseen Angel; Lead me--teach me, holy Spirit."

_Angel:_

"There is balm in Gilead!

There is balm in Gilead!

Peace awaits thee with caressings-- Sitting at the feet of Jesus-- At the right-hand of Jehovah-- At the blessed feet of Jesus;--Alleluia!"

CHRISTMAS EVE

I

From church and chapel and dome and tower, Near--far and everywhere, The merry bells chime loud and clear Upon the frosty air.

All down the marble avenues The lamp-lit cas.e.m.e.nts glow, And from an hundred palaces Glad carols float and flow.

A thousand lamps from street to street Blaze on the dusky air, And light the way for happy feet To carol, praise and prayer.

'Tis Christmas eve. In church and hall The laden fir-trees bend; Glad children throng the festival And grandsires too attend.

Fur-wrapped and gemmed with pearls and gold, Proud ladies rich and fair As Egypt's splendid queen of old In all her pomp are there.

And many a costly, golden gift Hangs on each Christmas-tree, While round and round the carols drift In waves of melody.

II

In a dim and dingy attic, Away from the pomp and glare, A widow sits by a flickering lamp, Bowed down by toil and care.

On her toil-worn hand her weary head, At her feet a shoe half-bound, On the bare, brown table a loaf of bread, And hunger and want around.

By her side at the broken window, With her rosy feet all bare, Her little one carols a Christmas tune To the chimes on the frosty air.