In the dawn of the day when the sea and the earth
Reflected the sunrise above,
I set forth with a heart full of courage and mirth
To seek for the Kingdom of Love.
I asked of a Poet I met on the way
Which cross-road would lead me aright;
And he said “Follow me, and ere long you shall see
Its glittering turrets of light.”
And soon in the distance a city shone fair.
“Look yonder,” he said; “How it gleams!”
But alas! for the hopes that were doomed to despair,
It was only the “Kingdom of Dreams.”
Then the next man I asked was a gay Cavalier,
And he said: “Follow me, follow me”;
And with laughter and song we went speeding along
By the shores of Life’s beautiful sea.
Then we came to a valley more tropical far
Than the wonderful vale of Cashmere,
And I saw from a bower a face like a flower
Smile out on the gay Cavalier;
And he said: “We have come to humanity’s goal:
Here love and delight are intense.”
But alas and alas! for the hopes of my soul—
It was only the “Kingdom of Sense.”
As I journeyed more slowly I met on the road
A coach with retainers behind;
And they said: “Follow me, for our Lady’s abode
Belongs in that realm, you will find.”
’Twas a grand dame of fashion, a newly-made bride,
I followed, encouraged and bold;
But my hopes died away like the last gleams of day,
For we came to the “Kingdom of Gold.”
At the door of a cottage I asked a fair maid.
“I have heard of that realm,” she replied;
“But my feet never roam from the ‘Kingdom of Home,’
So I know not the way,” and she sighed.
I looked on the cottage; how restful it seemed!
And the maid was as fair as a dove.
Great light glorified my soul as I cried:
“Why, Home is the ‘Kingdom of Love’!”
The sun rode high in a cloudless sky
Of a perfect summer morn.
She stood and gazed out into the street,
And wondered why she was born.
On the topmost branch of a maple-tree
That close by the window grew,
A robin called to his mate enthralled:
“I love but you, but you, but you.”
A soft look came in her hardened face—
She had not wept for years;
But the robin’s trill, as some sounds will,
Jarred open the door of tears.
She thought of the old home far away;
She heard the whr-r-r of the mill;
She heard the turtle’s wild, sweet call,
And the wail of the whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will.
She saw again that dusty road
Whence he came riding down;
She smelled once more the flower she wore
In the breast of her simple gown.
Out on the new-mown meadow she heard
Two blue-jays quarrel and fret,
And the warning cry of a Phoebe bird
“More wet, more wet, more wet.”
With a blithe “Hello” to the men below
Who were spreading the new-mown hay,
The rider drew rein at her window-pane—
How it all came back to-day!
How young she was, and how fair she was;
What innocence crowned her brow!
The future seemed fair, for Love was there—
And now—and now—and now.
In a dingy glass on the wall near by
She gazed on her faded face.
“Well, Meg, I declare, what a beauty you are!
She sneered, “What an angel of grace!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
What a thing of beauty and grace!”
She reached out her arms with a moaning sob:
“Oh, if I could go back!”
Then, swift and strange, came a sudden change;
Her brow grew hard and black.
“A curse on the day and a curse on that man,
And on all who are his,” she cried;
“May he starve and be cold, may he live to be old
When all who loved him have died.”
Her wild voice frightened the robin away
From the branch by the window-sill;
And little he knew as away he flew,
Of the memories stirred by his trill.
He called to his mate on the grass below,
“Follow me,” as he soared on high;
And as mates have done since the world begun
She followed, and asked not why.
The dingy room seemed curtained with gloom;
Meg shivered with nameless dread.
The ghost of her youth and her murdered truth
Seemed risen up from the dead.
She hurried out into the noisy street,
For the silence made her afraid;
To flee from thought was all she sought,
She cared not whither she strayed.
Still on she pressed in her wild unrest
Up avenues skirting the park,
Where fashion’s throng moved gayly along
In Vanity Fair—when hark!
A clatter of hoofs down the stony street,
The snort of a frightened horse
That was running wild, and a laughing child
At play in its very course.
With one swift glance Meg saw it all.
“His child—my God! his child!”
She cried aloud, as she rushed through the crowd
Like one grown suddenly wild.
There, almost under the iron feet,
Hemmed in by a passing cart,
Stood the baby boy—the pride and joy
Of the man who had broken her heart.
Past swooning women and shouting men
She fled like a flash of light;
With her slender arm she gathered from harm
The form of the laughing sprite.
The death-shod feet of the mad horse beat
Her down on the pavings grey;
But the baby laughed out with a merry shout,
And thought it splendid play.
He pulled her gown and called to her: “Say,
Dit up and do dat some more,
Das jus’ ze way my papa play
Wiz me on ze nursery floor.”
When the frightened father reached the scene,
His boy looked up and smiled
From the stiffening fold of the arm, death-cold,
Of Meg, who had died for his child.
Oh! idle words are a woman’s curse
Who loves as woman can;
For put to the test, she will bare her breast
And die for the sake of the man.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you:
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth
Must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound
To a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure
Of all your pleasure,
But they do not want your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline
Your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
Succeed and give,
And it helps you live,
But it cannot help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train;
But one by one
We must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest,
Was hanging her head through the long golden hours;
And early one morning I saw her tears falling,
And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers.
The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded,
Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose:
“That wild roving Bee who was hanging about her,
Has jilted her squarely, as every one knows.
“I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing,
His airs and his speeches so fine and so sweet,
Just how it would end; but no one would believe me,
For all were quite ready to fall at his feet.”
“Indeed, you are wrong,” said the Lily-belle proudly,
“I cared nothing for him; he called on me once,
And would have come often, no doubt, if I’d asked him,
But though he was handsome, I thought him a dunce.”
“Now, now, that’s not true,” cried the tall Oleander.
“He has travelled and seen every flower that grows;
And one who has supped in the garden of princes,
We all might have known would not we with the Rose.”
“But wasn’t she proud when he showed her attention?
And she let him caress her,” said sly Mignonette;
“And I used to see it and blush for her folly.
The silly thing thinks he will come to her yet.”
“I thought he was splendid,” said pretty pert Larkspur,
“So dark, and so grand with that gay cloak of gold;
But he tried once to kiss me, the impudent fellow!
And I got offended; I thought him too bold.”
“Oh, fie!” laughed the Almond, “that does for a story.
Though I hang down my head, yet I see all that goes;
And I saw you reach out trying hard to detain him,
But he just tapped your cheek and flew by to the Rose.
“He cared nothing for her; he only was flirting
To while away time, as I very well knew;
So I turned a cold shoulder on all his advances,
Because I was certain his heart was untrue.”
“The Rose is served right for her folly in trusting
An oily-tongued stranger,” quoth proud Columbine.
“I knew what he was, and thought once I would warn her,
But of course the affair was no business of mine.”
“Oh, well,” cried the Peony, shrugging her shoulders,
“I saw all along that the Bee was a flirt;
But the Rose has been always so praised and so petted,