Another thing to give him, And be therewith content.
To-day, what words had stirr'd her, Her soul could not forget?
What dream had fill'd her spirit With strange and wild regret?
X.
To leave him for another: Could it indeed be so?
Could it have cost such anguish To bid this vision go?
Was this her faith? Was Herbert The second in her heart?
Did it need all this struggle To bid a dream depart?
XI.
And yet, within her spirit A far-off land was seen; A home, which might have held her; A love, which might have been; And Life: not the mere being Of daily ebb and flow, But Life itself had claim'd her, And she had let it go!
XII.
Within her heart there echo'd Again the well-known tune That promised this bright future, And ask'd her for its own: Then words of sorrow, broken By half-reproachful pain; And then a farewell, spoken In words of cold disdain.
XIII.
Where now was the stern purpose That nerved her soul so long?
Whence came the words she utter'd, So hard, so cold, so strong?
What right had she to banish A hope that God had given?
Why must she choose earth's portion, And turn aside from Heaven?
XIV.
To-day! Was it this morning?
If this long, fearful strife Was but the work of hours, What would be years of life?
Why did a cruel Heaven For such great suffering call?
And why—O, still more cruel!— Must her own words do all?
XV.
Did she repent? O Sorrow!
Why do we linger still To take thy loving message, And do thy gentle will?
See, her tears fall more slowly; The passionate murmurs cease, And back upon her spirit Flow strength, and love, and peace.
XVI.
The fire burns more brightly, The rain has passed away, Herbert will see no shadow Upon his home to-day; Only that Bertha greets him With doubly tender care, Kissing a fonder blessing Down on his golden hair.
NUMBER TWO.
I.
The studio is deserted, Palette and brush laid by, The sketch rests on the easel, The paint is scarcely dry; And Silence—who seems always Within her depths to bear The next sound that will utter— Now holds a dumb despair.
II.
So Bertha feels it: listening With breathless, stony fear, Waiting the dreadful summons Each minute brings more near: When the young life, now ebbing, Shall fail, and pass away Into that mighty shadow Who shrouds the house to-day.
III.
But why—when the sick chamber Is on the upper floor— Why dares not Bertha enter Within the close-shut door?
If he—her all—her Brother, Lies dying in that gloom, What strange mysterious power Has sent her from the room?
IV.
It is not one week's anguish That can have changed her so; Joy has not died here lately, Struck down by one quick blow; But cruel months have needed Their long relentless chain, To teach that shrinking manner Of helpless, hopeless pain.
V.
The struggle was scarce over Last Christmas Eve had brought: The fibres still were quivering Of the one wounded thought, When Herbert—who, unconscious, Had guessed no inward strife— Bade her, in pride and pleasure, Welcome his fair young wife.
VI.
Bade her rejoice, and smiling, Although his eyes were dim, Thank'd God he thus could pay her The care she gave to him.
This fresh bright life would bring her A new and joyous fate— O Bertha, check the murmur That cries, Too late! too late!
VII.
Too late! Could she have known it A few short weeks before, That his life was completed, And needing hers no more, She might—O sad repining!
What "might have been," forget; "It was not," should suffice us To stifle vain regret.
VIII.
He needed her no longer, Each day it grew more plain; First with a startled wonder, Then with a wondering pain.
Love: why, his wife best gave it; Comfort: durst Bertha speak?
Counsel: when quick resentment Flush'd on the young wife's cheek.
IX.
No more long talks by firelight Of childish times long past, And dreams of future greatness Which he must reach at last; Dreams, where her purer instinct With truth unerring told Where was the worthless gilding, And where refined gold.
X.
Slowly, but surely ever, Dora's poor jealous pride, Which she call'd love for Herbert, Drove Bertha from his side; And, spite of nervous effort To share their alter'd life, She felt a check to Herbert, A burden to his wife.
XI.
This was the least; for Bertha Fear'd, dreaded, KNEW at length, How much his nature owed her Of truth, and power, and strength; And watch'd the daily failing Of all his nobler part: Low aims, weak purpose, telling In lower, weaker art.
XII.
And now, when he is dying, The last words she could hear Must not be hers, but given The bride of one short year.
The last care is another's; The last prayer must not be The one they learnt together Beside their mother's knee.
XIII.
Summon'd at last: she kisses The clay-cold stiffening hand; And, reading pleading efforts To make her understand, Answers, with solemn promise, In clear but trembling tone, To Dora's life henceforward She will devote her own.
XIV.
Now all is over. Bertha Dares not remain to weep, But soothes the frightened Dora Into a sobbing sleep.
The poor weak child will need her: O, who can dare complain, When God sends a new Duty To comfort each new Pain!
NUMBER THREE.
I.
The
