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!”

’Twas 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 harbour could not hold
So many sails as there would be
If all my ships came in from sea.

“If half my ships came home from sea,
And brought their precious freight to me,
Ah, well!  I should have wealth as great
As any king who sits in state—
So rich the treasures that would be
In half my ships now out at sea.

“If just one ship I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown:
For if the others all went down
Still rich and proud and glad I’d be,
If that one ship came back to me.

“If that one ship went down at sea,
And all the others came to me,
Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
With glory, honour, riches, gold,
The poorest soul on earth I’d be
If that one ship came not to me.

“O skies be calm!  O winds blow free—
Blow all my ships safe home to me.
But if thou sendest some a-wrack
To never more come sailing back,
Send any—all that skim the sea,
But bring my love-ship home to me.”

Helen was leaning by me, and her head
Rested against my shoulder: as he read,
I stroked her hair, and watched the fleecy skies,
And when he finished, did not turn my eyes.
I felt too happy and too shy to meet
His gaze just then.  I said, “’Tis very sweet,
And suits the day; does it not, Helen, dear?”
But Helen, voiceless, did not seem to hear.
“’Tis strange,” I added, “how you poets sing
So feelingly about the very thing
You care not for! and dress up an ideal
So well, it looks a living, breathing real!
Now, to a listener, your love song seemed
A heart’s out-pouring; yet I’ve heard you say
Almost the opposite; or that you deemed
Position, honour, glory, power, fame,
Gained without loss of conscience or good name,
The things to live for.”
         “Have you?  Well, you may,”
Laughed Vivian, “but ’twas years—or months’ ago!
And Solomon says wise men change, you know!
I now speak truth! if she I hold most dear
Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left,
My heart would find the years more lonely here
Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,
And sent, an exile, to a foreign land.”
His voice was low, and measured: as he spoke,
New, unknown chords of melody awoke
Within my soul.  I felt my heart expand
With that sweet fulness born of love.  I turned
To hide the blushes on my cheek that burned,
And leaning over Helen, breathed her name.
She lay so motionless I thought she slept:
But, as I spoke, I saw her eyes unclose,
And o’er her face a sudden glory swept,
And a slight tremor thrilled all through her frame.
“Sweet friend,” I said, “your face is full of light:
What were the dreams that made your eyes so bright?”
She only smiled for answer, and arose
From her reclining posture at my side,
Threw back the clust’ring ringlets from her face
With a quick gesture, full of easy grace,
And, turning, spoke to Vivian.  “Will you guide
The boat up near that little clump of green
Off to the right?  There’s where the lilies grow.
We quite forgot our errand here, Maurine,
And our few moments have grown into hours.
What will Aunt Ruth think of our ling’ring so?
There—that will