colors, so the pallid hue
Of Helen's cheek, like tinted sea‑shells grew.
Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such
Was the all‑mast'ring magic of his touch.

Then we sat down, and talked about the weather,
The neighborhood—some author's last new book.
But, when I could, I left the two together
To make acquaintance, saying I must look
After the chickens—my especial care;
And ran away, and left them, laughing, there.

Knee‑deep, through clover, to the poplar grove,
I waded, where my pets were wont to rove:
And there I found the foolish mother hen
Brooding her chickens underneath a tree,
An easy prey for foxes. "Chick‑a‑dee,"
Quoth I, while reaching for the downy things
That, chirping, peeped from out the mother‑wings,
"How very human is your folly! When
There waits a haven, pleasant, bright, and warm,
And one to lead you thither from the storm
And lurking dangers, yet you turn away.
And, thinking to be your own protector, stray
Into the open jaws of death: for, see!
An owl is sitting in this very tree
You thought safe shelter. Go now to your pen."
And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen,
So like the human mother here again,
Moaning because a strong, protecting arm
Would shield her little ones from cold and harm,
I carried back my garden hat brimful
Of chirping chickens, like white balls of wool,
And snugly housed them.
                                          And just then I heard
A sound like gentle winds among the trees,
Or pleasant waters in the Summer, stirred
And set in motion by a passing breeze.
'T was Helen singing: and, as I drew near,
Another voice, a tenor full and clear,
Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite,
And flow on stronger in their wedded might.
It was a way of Helen's, not to sing
The songs that other people sang. She took
Sometimes an extract from an ancient book;
Again some floating, fragmentary thing
And such she fitted to old melodies,
Or else composed the music. One of these
She sang that night; and Vivian caught the strain,
And joined her in the chorus, or refrain,

                       SONG.
O thou, mine other, stronger part!
    Whom yet I cannot hear, or see,
Come thou, and take this loving heart,
    That longs to yield its all to thee,
    I call mine own—Oh, come to me!
    Love, answer back, I come to thee,
                                       I come to thee.
This hungry heart, so warm, so large,
    Is far too great a care for me.
I have grown weary of the charge
    I keep so sacredly for thee.
    Come thou, and take my heart from me.
    Love, answer back, I come to thee,
                                       I come to thee.
I am aweary, waiting here
    For one who tarries long from me.
O! art thou far, or art thou near?
    And must I still be sad for thee?
    Or wilt thou straightway come to me?
    Love, answer, I am near to thee,
                                       I come to thee.

The melody, so full of plaintive chords,
Sobbed into silence—echoing down the strings
Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings.
Vivian had leaned upon the instrument
The while they sang. But, as he spoke those words,
"Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee,"
He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent
His lustrous, soulful, speaking gaze on me.
And my young heart, eager to own its king,
Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light
Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek
Hope's rose‑hued flag. There was no need to speak.
I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen. "Sing
That song you sang a fragment of one night,
Out on the porch, beginning, 'Praise me not,'"
I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone
Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught
From some sad passing breeze, and made her own,
The echo of the wind‑harp's sighing strain,
Or the soft music of the falling rain.

                       SONG.
O praise me not with your lips, dear one!
    Though your tender words I prize.
But dearer by far is the soulful gaze
    Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes,
                 Your tender, loving eyes.

O chide me not with your lips, dear one!
    Though I cause your bosom sighs.
You can make repentance deeper far
    By your sad, reproving eyes,
                 Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.

Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;
    Above, in the beaming skies,
The constant stars say never a word,
    But only smile with their eyes—
                 Smile on with their lustrous eyes.

Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one;
    On the winged wind speech flies.
But I read the truth of your noble heart
    In your soulful, speaking eyes—
                 In your deep and beautiful eyes.

The twilight darkened 'round us, in the room,
While Helen sang; and, in the gathering gloom,
Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his,
And held it so; while Helen made the air
Languid with music. Then a step drew near,
And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell:
                                                        "Dear! dear!
Why Maurie, Helen, children! how is this?
I hear you, but you have no light in there.
Your room is dark as Egypt. What a way
For folks to visit!—Maurie, go, I pray,
And order lamps."
                             And so there came a light,
And all the sweet dreams hovering around
The twilight shadows flitted in affright:
And e'en the music had a harsher sound.

In pleasant converse passed an hour away:
And Vivian planned a picnic for next day—
A drive the next, and rambles without end,
That he might help me entertain my friend.
And then he rose, bowed low, and passed from sight,
Like some great star that drops out from the night;
And Helen watched him through the shadows go,
And turned and said, her voice subdued and low,
"How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine,
A grander man I never yet have seen."

PART III.

One golden twelfth‑part of a checkered year;
One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirth
With not a hint of shadows lurking near,
Or storm‑clouds brewing.

                                          'T was a royal day:
Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth,
With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast,
And twined herself about him, as he lay
Smiling and panting in his dream‑stirred rest.
She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace,
And hid him with her trailing robe of green,
And wound him in her long hair's shimmering sheen,
And rained her ardent kisses on his face.

Through the glad glory of the summer land
Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand.
In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat‑field,
White with the promise of a bounteous yield,
Across the late shorn meadow—down the hill,
Red with the tiger‑lily blossoms, till
We stood upon the borders of the lake,
That like a pretty, placid infant, slept
Low at its base: and little ripples crept
Along its surface, just as dimples chase
Each other o'er an infant's sleeping face

Helen in idle hours had learned to make
A thousand pretty, feminine knick‑knacks:
For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands—
Labor just suited to her dainty hands.
That morning she had been at work in wax,
Molding a wreath of flowers for my room,—
Taking her patterns from the living blows,
In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom,
Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose,
And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch,
Resembling the living plants as much
As life is copied in the form of death:
These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath.

And now the wreath was all completed, save
The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom,
A water‑lily, dripping from the wave.
And 'twas in search of it that we had come
Down to the lake, and wandered on the beach,
To see if any lilies grew in reach.
Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been;
Some buds, with all their beauties folded in,
We found, but not the treasure that we sought
And then we turned our footsteps to the spot
Where, all impatient of its chain, my boat,
"The Swan," rocked, asking to be set afloat
It was a dainty row‑boat—strong, yet light;
Each side a swan was painted snowy white:
A present from my uncle, just before
He sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand,
Where freighted ships go sailing evermore,
But none return to tell us of the land.

I freed the "Swan," and slowly rowed about,
Wherever sea‑weeds, grass, or green leaves lifted
Their tips above the water. So we drifted,
While Helen, opposite, leaned idly out
And watched for lilies in the waves below,
And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air,
That soothed me like a mother's lullabies.
I dropped the oars, and closed my sun‑kissed eyes,
And let the boat go drifting here and there.
Oh, happy day! the last of that brief time
Of thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright,
Ere that disguisèd angel men call Woe
Leads the sad heart through valleys dark as night,
Up to the heights exalted and sublime.
On each blest, happy moment, I am fain
To linger long, ere I pass on to pain
And sorrow that succeeded.

                                             From day‑dreams,
As golden as the summer noontide's beams,
I was awakened by a voice that cried:
"Strange ship, ahoy! Fair frigate, whither bound?"
And, starting up, I cast my gaze around,
And saw a sail‑boat o'er the water glide
Close to the "Swan," like some live thing of grace;
And from it looked the glowing, handsome face
Of Vivian.

                    "Beauteous sirens of the sea,
Come sail across the raging main with me!"
He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boat
Beside his own. "There, now! step in!" he said,
"I'll land you anywhere you want to go—
My boat is safer far than yours, I know:
And much more pleasant with its sails all spread.
The Swan? We'll take the oars, and let it float
Ashore at leisure. You, Maurine, sit there—
Miss Helen here. Ye gods and little fishes!
I've reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes.
Adieu despondency! farewell to care!"

'T was done so quickly: that was Vivian's way.
He did not wait for either yea or nay.
He gave commands, and left you with no choice
But just to do the bidding of his voice.
His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly face
Lent to his quick imperiousness a grace
And winning charm, completely stripping it
Of what might otherwise have seemed unfit.
Leaving no trace of tyranny, but just
That nameless force that seemed to say, "You must."
Suiting its pretty title of "The Dawn,"
(So named, he said, that it might rhyme with "Swan,")
Vivian's sail‑boat, was carpeted with blue,
While all its sails were of a pale rose hue.
The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze;
A poet's fancy in an hour of ease.

Whatever Vivian had was of the best.
His room was like some Sultan's in the East.
His board was always spread as for a feast.
Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest.
He would go hungry sooner than he'd dine
At his own table if 'twere illy set.
He so loved things artistic in design—
Order and beauty, all about him. Yet
So kind he was, if it befell his lot
To dine within the humble peasant's cot,
He made it seem his native soil to be,
And thus displayed the true gentility.

Under the rosy banners of the "Dawn,"
Around the lake we drifted on, and on.
It was a time for dreams, and not for speech.
And so we floated on in silence, each
Weaving the fancies suiting such a day.
Helen leaned idly o'er the sail‑boat's side,
And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide;
And I among the cushions half reclined,
Half sat, and watched the fleecy clouds at play
While Vivian with his blank‑book, opposite,
In which he seemed to either sketch or write
Was lost in inspiration of some kind.

No time, no change, no scene, can e'er efface
My mind's impression of that hour and place;
It stands out like a picture. O'er the years,
Black with their robes of sorrow—veiled with tears,
Lying with all their lengthened shapes between,
Untouched, undimmed, I still behold that scene.
Just as the last of Indian‑summer days,
Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze,
Followed by dark and desolate December,
Through all the months of winter we remember.

The sun slipped westward. That peculiar change
Which creeps into the air, and speaks of night
While yet the day is full of golden light,
We felt steal o'er us.
                                   Vivian broke the spell
Of dream‑fraught silence, throwing down his book:
"Young ladies, please allow me to arrange
These wraps about your shoulders. I know well
The fickle nature of our atmosphere,—
Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear,—
And go prepared for changes. Now you look,
Like—like—oh, where's a pretty simile?
Had you a pocket mirror here you'd see
How well my native talent is displayed
In shawling you. Red on the brunette maid;
Blue on the blonde—and quite without design
(Oh, where is that comparison of mine?)
Well—like a June rose and a violet blue
In one bouquet! I fancy that will do.
And now I crave your patience and a boon,
Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme,
A floating fancy of the summer time.
'Tis neither witty, wonderful, nor wise,
So listen kindly—but don't criticise
My maiden effort of the afternoon:

"If all the ships I have at sea
 Should come a‑sailing home to me,
 Ah, well! the harbor could