Dukalon
Part I.
Guy Dukalon of worth possessed his share;
With more than manly height endowed was he;
And long and silken was his golden hair.
He was a dreamer, careless, happy, free;
A creature to the human slavery bound —
A creature of the earth, the air, the sea;
But he was not a dreamer, ever found
In melancholy's train. Forsooth, some said
He was a poet, gifted in the sound
Of all the tuneful chords in heart and head;
The language knew of every blooming flower;
And, it was said, he could the fury dread
Of savage beasts, prone to their kind devour,
Disarm with his strange gifts. And his sweet song,
With trembling variations, filled the hour
With melody divine, when, clear and strong,
He used his art to banish haunting care.
But not to those did Dukalon belong
Who sing for empty praise. His songs did bear
A charmed message to the gracious throne
Of endless Mercy, and the Lord did hear,
And angels blest. He sang to those alone,
The chosen dwellers of the earth and sky,
Whose deathless souls were kindred to his own —
Pitching his notes to auditors so high
That mortal man, as angels fair, unbent
To hear; and, when he ceased, a joyous sigh
Bore testimony that his raptures spent
Their force and sweetness where they'd live forever,
Reverberations into th' ages sent!
He looked into life as into a river,
And saw reflected not what others saw,
Or, with their finite vision, could see ever;
For, as the mocking bird in song can draw
More diverse, sweeter notes, the soul to move
Than all the feathered hosts, by that same law
Of matchless wisdom and exhaustless love,
Some visions see where others stare in space!
'Twas so with Dukalon. And high above,
And far beneath, he saw, and so could trace
A truer tale of human joy and pain,
Of love and hate, which actuate all the race!
He did not need to use his powers for gain;
He little cared for earth's delusive fame;
He knew inconstant man had always slain
The gods he honored most, covered the name
With execrations his false reverence
Had glorified! The rabble's praise may tame,
Intoxicate, the soul of Innocence;
Not so with him who knows its vulgar breath
To be a fetid exhalation, whence
Are generated seeds of woe and death!
And he deludes himself who plans to live
Beyond the years of th' inspired prophet's faith.
Thus mused young Dukalon. The world could give
Him much, and much had given, for he was blest
With robust youth and wealth, for which men strive,
And oft in vain; a rich-stored mind possessed,
And fancy that could soar to worlds unknown
And people them with more that e'er caressed
With trusting love or cursed with hate our own,
Since clothed in more ethereal form the while,
For life is life, lived in whatever zone.
His name was ancient — and you need not smile —
As antiquity in our country goes;
He ample acres owned, long mile on mile,
But turned from them. As birds of song repose,
Not long in field or tree, but flit and sing,
Or as the bee that hums from rose to rose,
Restless in the fresh gladness of the Spring,
Not pausing long, seeking new fields of sweets,
Sipping awhile, awhile upon the wing,
So Dukalon. Now gazes he on sheets
Of glassy water of a lake, or stream
Wildly leaping through a glade; now he repeats,
In woodland solitude, some thrilling theme
His wayward fancy caught; care-free in all,
A genius born. Such Dukalon did seem,
And such he was. Nor had the schools withal,
Nor residence afar, changed him a whit.
Still through the fields his jocund voice would call
The yelping hounds the hare to chase; still wit
And roguish pranks were his; still was a boy
In heart and soul. And the long years did sit
But lightly on him. Age did not destroy
His childhood dreams. But now misfortune's gloom
Came o'er his careless life and killed his joy!
It seemed to Dukalon a silent tomb
Had swallowed up the day in rayless night!
And all feel thus who face in youth the doom
Of their first love, sweet love! — sweet e'en in flight,
When it is fresh, and fair to see, and young,
Snatched from the feeling and the raptured sight
In its virginal morn, by the serpent stung!
And it seemed death to Dukalon, a sting
More awful than to die, since he among
His fellows hence must be a nameless thing,
Bereft of any save the voice of woe,
A harp unstrung, except the mournful string!
What had he lost? Ay, what? When fell the blow,
Though strong he was and brave, he reeled like one
By strong drink crazed; his cheeks' vermilion glow
Vanished to paleness; and his eyes scarce shone —
Dull, lustreless, and dead — bright orbs of light
Eclipsed that lit for him fair worlds alone!
They thought that he would die, crushed by the blight
Of youth's first faith, he was so motionless
Who long had shown so much of manly might
In the fierce glare of social nothingness!
Crushed was young Dukalon! The world could give
Like that it took away, his grief the less
To make — why, nothing! What is life to live
When love is dead, or turned to hate, in man?
In vain against obdurate Fate we strive.
Let him assume indifference who can,
And play the Stoic's part, and such are few,
When Cupid's dart the trusting heart doth span,
And lingers there, and no fond hand and true,
Responsive to the bleeding victim's plea,
Is raised to pull it out and heal with dew,
Distilled from eyes of gentlest sympathy,
The cruel laceration! His loyal heart,
Faithful in all, so fickle could not be;
He mourned for what was lost. He could no part
Assume — so generous his nature was —
So free from all Deception's subtle art.
Sophine had come, a shadow from a glass,
Light as the breeze that fans the gorgeous rose,
And tore his tender heart to shreds, alas!
For he had worshipped when he saw repose
Stamped on her brow, and majesty withal,
And chafed his burning passion to disclose;
For youth is vain, and little recks 'twill fall
When lovely woman's smile allures it on
To the blind transports of her fatal thrall.
Freely the galling chain young Dukalon
Had gladly fettered on his life, and youth
With Orient pearls the untried way had strewn;
It was not love's unfailing charm, in truth,
But passion, fancy, equal wealth and birth,
That caused the twain to plight undying troth.
The veil withdrawn, of love a woeful dearth
Apparent was! Their thoughts and tastes unlike,
They neither could perceive the other's worth;
And discontent, like waters o'er a dike
Madly leaping, entered their loveless home,
And there abided! Law and custom strike
Dismay and fear to hearts of those who roam,
In thoughtlessness or pique, from changeless rules
Of nature, fixed. They rail in vain and foam
Who turn, in strength or weakness, the sharp tools
Of vengeance on themselves. And men will err;
For some are wise, some simple, some are fools;
Some err from over-confidence, some fear
And some because a passion to go wrong
Is bone of their bone. Wherever they steer
Their craft they find the rocks and shoals among
The breakers hid, or rashly seek them out.
Then, others, too, there are, by nature strong,
Who err from ignorance. These tossed about
Forever are, because they fell before
They learned to stand; and the cruel, heartless shout —
The fear of Scandal's tongue — forevermore
Makes cowards of them! Parents who should guide
And shape th' impulsiveness of youth do o'er
And o'er let it run wild, till, far and wide,
The seed that blossoms to a life of woe
Is sown. The poet's hopes had died
Because, before the struggling down did grow
Upon his classic lip, no parent's law,
Restraining power, was interposed to show
The man his duty. And great was the flaw
Infatuated youth had failed to see
In the picture his vanity did draw!
Young Dukalon had wed right thoughtlessly,
And dreamed a treacherous hour he loved, and well,
His blushing bride, as thoughtless as was he.
And all who loved the twain made haste to tell
How brilliant was the match, how sweet the bride,
How glowed her cheeks, how high their hopes must swell!
And thus the idle chatter ran. But wide
And turbulent the outstretched Future lay,
On whose storm-bosom they as one must ride
Forever on, through all the night and day,
Till death the farce — if farce it proved to be,
In which no love would smooth the tedious way —
Should end! Short was the dream! Then, misery
Of years was lived in hours, till bondage made
Each of them feverish — anxious to be free!
Be free! What human bondage can degrade
A man or woman as the law that binds
Unloving souls in wedlock! Nor can fade,
While life remains, remembrance from the minds
Of those so joined the everlasting shame
Of such disastrous folly; for it grinds,
Corrodes, eating the vitals as a flame
That never quenched is! It is a stain,
Indelible, upon fair hope and name.
He whose smile was magic against all pain,
Whose life was free as zephyrs of a morn
In Summer lands that blow o'er hill and plain,
Freighted with health, was now with doubts forlorn
And discontent made miserable, his voice
Of music and of careless gladness shorn.
The things that made him once in life rejoice
No longer could his fancy catch and hold;
Indifferent he was, bereft of choice.
The dross remained; evanished had the gold.
The world looked on, but little could it see.
To others' woes mankind are chill and cold.
He who would live in men's esteem must be
Encased in steel, harder than flinty rock,
Beyond their treacherous smile and sympathy,
Or be of every dunce the laughing stock!
And if, perforce, his grief should come to view,
He may not find his strength survive the shock!
The friends Misfortune has are always few,
And they are oft abashed by sneers and scorn,
And skulk away, too craven to be true!
Young Dukalon was proud. He would have drawn
His life-blood from his heart ere men should make
A by-word of his woe! He had been born
To scoff at jeers and scorn. Nothing could shake,
Therefore, his purpose to his pain conceal
From friends and foes, e'en though his heart should break.
He bore the torture of domestic steel,
Pierced deep into his lacerated heart,
And oft it made him faint and blindly reel,
So merciless it was! But, to his part
Assigned, he strove to be both brave and strong,
Wincing in silence from the pricking dart.
He was a child of passion and of song.
To love and to be loved, his faith repose
In womankind, to feel his friends among
No shadows dark his buoyant soul enclose,
Were parts of his young life, as much as scorn
And lofty condescension of his foes.
The poet's soul was his, a poet born;
And he was moved and felt as other men,
But in a stronger sense, as men are shorn
Of giant strength, I ween, who have not been
Endowed with giant form; and strength of mind
Was his, and weakness too; and these were seen
In two extremes, and stronger of their kind;
For all great virtues in the race are found,
Too oft, with vices just as great combined;
So Bacon great to Bacon base was bound;
So other men as great a double life
Have lived whose names through all the world resound!
Young Dukalon had lived beyond the strife
Of those who struggle from their youth for bread;
He had not felt the keenness of the knife
As some who Wisdom's thorny path do tread.
Seductive Knowledge in her richest guise
Before his eyes had her rare treasures spread;
And he had lingered 'neath the friendly skies
When the moon, and the stars, and solitude
And he were all alone, when spirit life flies
To spirit life, compelled by a kindred mood,
A sympathy, unearthly of its kind!
Then would he cease upon his woes to brood,
Lulled by the mystery sublime that twined
Itself about his life, like harmony
That soothes to rest the weary, troubled mind.
How strong and sweet the charm and force that lie
In meditation when so surrounded!
Then all things vain and crude within us die,
And all that 's God-like, pure and good, doth shed
A calm and holy halo 'bout our dream;
'Tis then the human part of us is dead.
Unseen, unheard, Life's boisterous, treacherous stream,
As it rushes onward, in mad commotion,
More cruel and destructive than it can seem,
To where the dark unknown, the boundless ocean
Of destiny lies hid from human ken!
The poet felt, somehow, he was a portion
Of this vastness and this mystery when,
In the sweet silence of the voiceless night,
He tore himself apart from selfish men
And revelled in a feeling and a sight
Denied his fellows! And it was so sweet
To feel the presence of Eternal light!
But man is human. His lead-weighted feet
Will tread the earth, howe'er his soul may soar
Where angel choirs their psalms of joy repeat
Till the heav'ns' diamond-studded halls do o'er
And o'er with rhapsodies resound! And so
Young Dukalon, although he would no more
Have come to earth, oft found his classic brow
Damp with the dews of night, the stars all dead,
The moon grown pale, and feel his body grow
Alive to pain, and th' angel choirs hushed and fled —
The trance-hour vanished to its unknown goal!
Once he had cried aloud, with bended head:
" Great Ruler of the troubled human soul,
" If in Thy mandate thunders, as they sweep
" From burning tropic to the icy pole,
" A grain of hope remains for those who weep,
" Dragging a chain that causes endless pain,
" Oh, let me in its power my senses steep!
" Let me not hopeless hope, nor plead in vain!
" Oh, banish Thou the all-pervading gloom
" That erst so many trembling souls has slain!
" This earth for man is but a haunted tomb —
" Dread, fathomless — when spectre Doubt enthrones
" Itself within the mind and knells Hope's doom!
" How the vast ocean water heaves and groans,
" Lashed by the angry winds in tempest hour!
" So man, frail man, oppressed, wails long, and moans,
" Disconsolate, when Thy controlling power
" Tosts his frail life upon the storm's wild breast
" And makes him to its fury bend and cower!
" O Thou Spirit of the boundless air, if rest
" There be under the high o'er-arching sky,
" Let me the potence of its magic test!
" Let me unto its hidden treasures fly,
" That I may steep my senses in its calm,
" Dissolve my restless nature in a sigh,
" Live but one moment in its soothing balm,
" Measure one second what it is to be
" Supreme within myself, possess the charm
" Philosophers have sought in vain — be free!
" Then, when the precious moment's grace had fled,
" When nothing more in earth or heaven for me
" Remained, all spent, if Thou shouldst me then wed
" To sudden nothingness, quench the light
" Forever of my soul — where'er it led,
" I'd follow, satisfied, into the night! "
One moment man soars where th' angels abide;
The next he falls to earth, a wingless sprite!
" Oh, what is life to me? " the poet cried.
Part II.
Sophine unsuited was to Dukalon
In all that makes community of aim
And purpose — that blest singleness alone
Which melts two lives in one, with common name
And aspiration, having only eyes
That see each other's beauties. They must tame,
Who wed, their soul's desire for change; be wise
And satisfied to live apart in that
They have absorbed; seeing no other skies
Than those that canopy their home. To rate
No other love as that which is their own
Resolves the dual into th' unit state.
The man and woman must become as one
When they assume the marriage obligation;
And if, in all and all, this be not done,
A deep unrest, and even desperation,
Will make their loveless lives an earthly hell.
Young Dukalon, in vain exasperation,
Lived this, and more, which, as the Voudoo's spell,
Was as a haunting madness in the brain,
Making his heart like ocean billows swell
With vainest of resolves; each one a chain
That bound him to the life he loathed, because
He could not 'scape it, but must bear the pain
Of constant friction with it, since the laws,
And his high sense of duty, held him fast
In hated bonds! The wind takes up the straws
The sturdy mowers on the wayside cast,
And then the light twigs where it listeth blows;
How oft th' unguarded actions of the past
The present with dread terrors fill — with woes,
With burnings of the heart, with wailing hate
That dies on th' air, with curses for our foes —
Until all th' earth to us seems desolate,
In which is heard no more a friendly voice
To cheer us in the fight with adverse Fate!
Actions are mysteries we cannot poise
Upon the vain philosophies we deem
Dissolvents of our doubts. The poet's choice
Had been to bear his yoke, howe'er his dream
Had bodied forth for him companion sweet,
Whose life should melt into his own and seem
A portion of his life. His untried feet
Had stumbled in the path! His mind, oppressed,
Trembled, as one who suffers dire defeat.
His manly resolution but distressed
Him all the more as fickle Time disclosed
How much of Discontent he was possessed —
How weak the vessel was in which reposed
The first rich fruit of his impulsive youth!
A towering Trojan wall had now enclosed
His life. How could he scale its heights, forsooth,
How 'scape the tyranny himself had made?
Alas! the dangers in a hasty troth!
Him should he let this tyranny degrade
When love, content, domestic harmony,
Had all dissolved, as does a twilight shade,
Leaving him nothing but regrets? Should he
The agony prolong, all hope forswear,
Endure a bondage whose slow misery
Tortures and destroys? Must he then bear
The strain until his strength could bear no more,
And wasted nature yield to phantom care?
As a vessel in the tempest's shock and roar,
Did Dukalon's emotions move and sway
His every purpose, and would evermore,
Shutting from him contentment's genial ray,
With all its inspiration, and making
Tartarean gloom! The future — had it a day
He saw not, wherein flowers of laughing Spring
Would gladden hedge, and garden, and the field,
And birds their joyous melodies would sing?
Or would the night forever throw its shield
Of cureless woe about his life, enchain
Him to a loveless mate, his lips be sealed,
Speechless, save in regret, remorse and pain?
The sun shone forth in royal majesty;
The flowers blossomed in field and dell and plain;
But Dukalon their beauties could not see.
The groves were vocal, but escaped his ears.
Stone-blind and deaf and speechless is mis'ry
In noble men. It finds in voiceless tears
Expression, all unseen, unheard; if, too,
That source be not dried up, as oft appears.
There are, indeed, degrees of human woe,
Not visible, that eat the vital parts
As fires within the earth that burn and glow
Forever, till a spiral column darts
Into the skies, and granite mountains heave
And mankind quake in homes and crowded marts.
So Nature works. All who rejoice or grieve,
In silence or loud lamentation, feel
The pain no earthly physic can relieve.
Accursed is Adam's seed! Does Death's sharp steel,
Cutting the thread of life, destroy the pains
To which the flesh is heir, for woe or weal?
Why fill the future state with woes, with chains,
Undreamed of in the justice of the Lord,
When present time more than its share contains?
Go! " Let the dead past bury its dead " horde!
Go! Let the future its dread secrets keep!
Go! Live the present! Why dread th' unseen sword
Suspended o'er our heads? What if it leap
From its hair chain this instant that we pause
And plunge us into gloom as Styx is deep!
Our destiny is shaped by binding laws,
Irrevocable! And none can estimate
One inch of space to right the seeming flaws
That lure us to our doom. The poet's fate
Had been a pleasing thing. His days had sped
Away like dreams. The future seemed to wait,
Expectant of his coming, but to lead
Him up the sacred mount of Fame and Power,
And crown him with ambition's glorious meed.
And he had built upon the happy hour
Thus pictured to his view, as dreamers will;
Nor recked he of the furious storms that lower
Forever o'er the Future's path. And still,
When darkness came, he hoped and trusted Time
Would yet the promise of the past fulfill;
But all in vain! He upward ceased to climb —
Stood still. The burden was too great to bear —
Despair replaced his hopes and thoughts sublime.
His nature was to furious gales of care,
In all, untempered, and Misfortune's frown
Withered his hopes, as poison in the air,
And made him purposeless. As he had sown,
So must he reap. But all unused was he
To pluck the thistle where the rose had grown;
To find the bitters where the sweets should be;
To weep where he had smiled; to hate the thing
He had adored; to sigh and long to free
Himself from loveless chains! The bird may sing,
A prisoner in a cage; but will his song
With Freedom's rapturous joy and gladness ring?
No! No! His notes, however clear and strong,
Will ring with desolation of his state,
Will plead again his mates to be among.
You have upon sweet Freedom but the gate
To shut, and bolt the prisoner within,
T' arouse grim vengeance and relentless hate.
Nor can escape this hate the man of sin,
The man of blameless life, or brave, or meek;
Desperate resolves, where Freedom ends, begin.
Young Dukalon a prison strong and bleak,
In innocence and confidence, had made;
Nor through its walls could he a passage break,
Securely caged within its cheerless shade.
And never victim of Illusion yet
Felt loveless chains his manhood so degrade!
In home, in solitude, did sigh and fret
The hapless youth, unmindful of the things
That gave him pleasure once; could not forget
The irritations of the hour. The strings
Of hope were snapped asunder. All undone
Ambition was; dried up life's cooling springs!
And Dukalon a student was, and won
The honest praise of men, and women, too,
By loftiness of purpose. His life had run
In currents smooth till now. And, as is true
Of all who matchless genius do possess,
Much in himself he lived, and lessons drew
From Nature in her fadeless loveliness;
Scorning the social smallness of the day —
Its endless gossip and the emptiness
That passed for wit amongst the thoughtless gay,
And e'en the learned few, who can unbend,
And list to those who nothing have to say.
Not so with Dukalon. To condescend,
To waste the precious hours in idle prating,
With noodles for a woman's smiles contend,
In Fashion's vacuous haunts to seek his rating —
These Dukalon a passing notice gave;
All satisfied to see them through a grating,
Standing afar off — solemn, dreamful, grave.
When there came feelings of a sober kind,
'Twas not in crowded halls, where sane men rave
And women shriek, thinking they pleasure find
In sensual waltz and babalistic noise;
But, rather, in the fields and woods his mind
Congenial freedom found. There could rejoice
In nature's grand, surpassing loveliness,
Young Dukalon, his fancy give a voice;
And he would people the vast wilderness
With pulsing form and life; and human pain
And aspiration lost their bitterness,
Under the soothing spell that oft hath slain
The genius that had trusted in its power.
But now it seemed to him that not again
Would come the rapture of such halcyon hour.
The genii of the place, his dreams, had fled,
As flies the sun before a thunder shower.
" The concord of sweet sounds " that so had fed
His thirsting soul were heard no more, and he
Had lost the mastery of song; was dead
To every feeling, save the misery
Of domestic inharmony and woe.
Of this no word was said, and ne'er could be,
Of harshness or reproach. He could not show,
Save in silence studied, the discontent
That drove the animation from his brow,
The roses from his cheeks — which may have spent
Their bloom in his dead eyes, so dull they were
And lustreless. And so, where'er he went,
Whate'er he did, a haunting shadow near
Pursued and harassed him. The young Sophine,
Unlike her lord, gave not her life to care,
But sought and found, a reigning social queen,
Oblivion of the love her home denied;
Nor was she troubled. Love had never been,
E'en when she stood by young Dukalon's side,
Before the man of God, more than a thought,
Vague and unformed, in which to be a bride,
The bride of Dukalon, her fancy caught,
E'en as the spider's web ensnares the fly;
Thoughtless that precious jewels oft are sought
A fatal vanity to satisfy,
Since death or endless trouble follows fast
Possession. But stone-blind is vanity;
It recks not of the future, and the past —
Is past. The newest toy controls its whim;
And while the fancy, satisfied, doth last,
The pleasing thing before the eyes doth swim,
Seducing to sweet but treacherous repose
The thoughtless, yet all delighted victim.
Thus with Sophine. She was a gorgeous rose,
Charming to see, but odorless and cold,
That flourished in Dukalon's wintry snows.
Shallow in all her nature, she could hold
No serious thought; yet deemed that she had made
A splendid choice. She could not find the gold
Beneath the poet's brow of gloom and shade,
Nor cared a doit, so vain she was and blind.
In priceless fabrics when she was arrayed,
With social pleasures hedged about, her mind
And soul steeped in the splendors of the hour,
The poet's moods could not her fancy bind.
She loved him not a whit, nor thought him sour,
But shunned him, since she could not comprehend
The vastness of his mental depth and power;
She left him to himself. They could not blend
Their natures, so unlike were they. Thus wide
And wider grew the path they did descend!
And she was cheerful, full of empty pride,
Finding relief in ample wealth's display;
While gloomy he, brooding o'er joys denied,
Lost in the tortuous windings of life's way.
Part III
The noble Saint John's river murmured north,
Into the great Atlantic's heaving breast,
A giant careless of its strength and worth,
Disdaining haste and never needing rest;
A glorious stream. Upon its bank there stood
The home of Dukalon, and there caressed
His laureate brow the breath of solitude,
The fragrance of the orange blossoms, and
The tropic plants of garden, field and wood.
It was a Paradise, enchanted land,
Where the rapt mocking bird forever sings
The gladness of his soul; the curlew grand,
Spotless in the whiteness of his plumage, springs
Into the air, voiceless, but matchless in
His perfect grace, propelled on noiseless wings.
There Dukalon had lived and dreamed and seen
The sunshine and the shadow of the years;
There he had learned to love the forest green,
And diamond dews, that looked like virgin tears,
Shy nestling on the modest violet,
And wildwood rose and jasmine. And his cares,
How oft would he by that grand stream forget,
Watching its noiseless and majestic flow
Upward to th' ocean! Such a scene! And, yet —
The odorous air, vocal with song, soft, low,
Now swelling to a chorus wild and sweet,
Making the listener's cheeks with pleasure glow
And all his soul with intense rapture beat —
And, yet, young Dukalon but grieved and sighed —
For what! Some " daughter of the gods " to meet
Who would his boundless thoughts and love divide,
His aspirations stimulate; to be
In all his fit companion and his pride;
To share his gladness and his misery;
Be of himself a sympathizing part,
Unfettered by the world's dear vanity,
Content to be a portion of his heart
And hopes and home — for this he sighed and wailed,
Living within himself, from men apart,
Wasting his days, deploring he had failed
In all, since one discord had marred the whole!
Listless his footsteps grew; and his cheeks paled,
As if the fire had left for ay his soul —
So miserable he was! 'Twas in this state
Of frigid cold, numbing as th' Arctic pole,
Of gloom and discontent, that some great Fate,
Unknown, unseen of men, gave Dukalon
A taste of what he wished, to make him hate,
Perchance, himself the more. He was alone,
Surrounded by the forest wild; the stream
Before him lay. He sat upon a stone,
Wrapt in the reveries of a charming dream,
And, for the moment, lost to everything
Of earthly kind, when, suddenly, a scream
Rang out upon the air and made him spring
Erect, frightened; and, then, again! again!
Until the woodland with the cries did ring.
The dreamer to the spot did haste, and strain
His eyes to see the author of the cries;
Nor had he far to search the cause t' explain:
A small sailboat before his anxious eyes
Lay upturned near the shore, and to it clung
A maiden fair. When past his first surprise,
Forthwith into the royal stream he sprung,
For he could breast the waves with grace and ease,
And soon rescued the maiden, fair and young —
Minnette! She was a picture 'neath the trees —
The silent monarchs of the forest wild,
As gently fanned her brow the friendly breeze —
As on the gallant Dukalon she smiled,
Murmuring her gratitude in words so sweet,
So low, his wildly throbbing pulse was thrilled
Beyond control. All drenched from head to feet,
The snow-white drapery clinging to her form,
She stood erect, pale as a driven sheet,
Straight as a willow, with eyes that could disarm —
Such sympathy, such passion, they proclaimed —
The prince of skeptics by their witching charm.
She was not beautiful, as some are famed;
But there was majesty in form and face
And eyes and accents of the voice that tamed
Rebellion into loyalty. A space
Silent they stood, mute, in the scrutiny
Of kindred beings seeking to replace
Some long-lost vision they had prayed to see
In flesh, as they had seen in dreams before,
In hours that never could forgotten be:
For there are in the world, on some fair shore,
Always " two souls with but a single thought, "
And if they meet not, sigh forevermore,
Disconsolate! So Fate has for us wrought.
These two had never met, but each one knew
The other well, and more than this was naught.
" I live near by. I often sail, as you,
" Perhaps, have seen, my little craft. To-day,
" Howe'er, the wind too fiercely for me blew;
" Hence my mishap. I never can repay
" The debt of gratitude to you I owe.
" I thank you, Sir; " and then she went away,
Protesting that her savior should not go
With her, as she knew well the path that led
To her own home the river bend below.
But still he followed from afar, in dread
Some other mishap might befall the maid;
Then, from a knoll, he watched her as she fled
Till she was lost behind the ample shade
Of the tall oaks and orange trees that stood
About her home, near where the river strayed.
Then Dukalon turned back into the wood,
And stretched himself upon the moss and grass,
And closed his eyes, and dreamed his solitude
Was Paradise, in which for him, alas!
Only one face — one form — one smile — was seen
As swift the host of queenly maids did pass
Through his mad brain. She was, indeed, a queen —
Minnette! A queen of beauty and of grace,
With royal height and majesty of mien.
How long among the shadows of the place
He was — how long the dream controlled his sense —
How long he lived his life in her sweet face —
He could not say. The sun had vanished hence
When he awoke; the night had come; the moon
Rode high; the stars shone forth; vapors immense
Had settled o'er the river. 'Twas a boon
To linger yet awhile, in the still night,
Where she had been, to vanish all too soon.
And thus, alone, dreaming, the lovelorn wight
Lingered, where nature reigned in absolute
Supremacy, and where his fancy's flight
Could penetrate infinity, and, mute,
The aspirations of his soul reach where
The twinkling stars athwart the skies did shoot,
Idly disporting in the waste of air.
Guy Dukalon dreamed out his poet soul,
Enchained by the smile of a maiden fair —
A maiden fair who would in all control
His life forevermore! As strong as Fate,
Her siren power o'er all his nature stole,
And held him where he was, bidding him wait
To hear her footsteps on the sward, again
To see her face. She seemed his long-lost mate.
Then came a doubt that gave him sharpest pain: —
Was not Minnette a myth? Had he not been
The victim of a caprice of his brain?
Had it all been a dream? What had he seen?
Was it all real? It was so very queer —
The vanished hours, and all that came between!
He shuddered at his doubt. A sudden fear
Came over him. He from the stone arose
And sought the spot, the glassy river near,
Where all had passed so late that made repose
A stranger to him ever more. There lay
The tiny craft, that had o'erturned, and, close,
A dainty handkerchief, damp with the spray,
The modest moon revealed. This was a prize,
An argument to drive all doubt away.
Guy Dukalon stood there, with downcast eyes,
Deeply musing, his soul all stirred with fire;
While hope, sweet hope! ascended to the skies.
In his delirious bliss he did aspire
To — he knew not what! Her name unknown, wed
Or unwed, asked not, cared not. One desire,
A rash, o'ermastering wish, possessed his head.
His troubled life no longer seemed a waste,
Hopeless. He wished no more that he were dead!
Why? He the fruit forbidden to his taste
Had craved, the fruit in which lurked pain and woe
And lingering death! Again, he felt abased,
Revulsion came, that he could sink so low
As prove a traitor, e'en in thought, to one
He had forsworn himself all love to show!
In the dead stillness of the night a groan
Escaped the hapless Dukalon. Where turn
He would his path with shattered hopes was strown!
Into his soul despondency did burn,
Forever forcing on him gaunt despair,
From which no wholesome lesson could he learn.
He hovered near the spot until the air
Of dewy morning fanned his fevered brow,
On which gloom sat enthroned anew, and care;
Then wandered from the scene, with head bowed low,
And listless step, and trembling hand, and heart
From which the blood in sluggish streams did flow.
Henceforth his days were spent from men apart,
In solitude, and many hours of night,
Haunting the scenes that could alone impart
Some solace to his soul, some softening light
Diffuse, praying that she would come again —
And, then! He shut the selfish world from sight,
And mused and mused; and all to him was plain,
Though mad confusion reigned supreme in all
The treasured hopes that struggled in his brain.
Thus sat he, dreaming, as the leaves did fall
About him from the monarchs of the place,
When that longed presence — gracious, queenly, tall —
Before him stood, confusion in her face —
Since unsuspecting was she there to find
A living soul. But Dukalon, with grace
And easy courtesy, relieved her mind,
Calming her fears; and then, by slow degrees,
Minnette to his address herself resigned.
No one in converse could more aptly please
Than Dukalon, or hold attention more
Subservient to his will — master of ease.
The young Minnette, protesting o'er and o'er
That she must go, remained, and gladly, too,
Restrained as she had never been before
By man's persuasive voice; for it is true
That Dukalon possessed in large degree
A wondrous fascinating power, and drew
His kind, as magnet needles draw; and he
A royal host could be, or he could freeze
The social atmosphere till misery,
Without apparent cause, would replace ease
And merriment. Young Minnette felt his power
To charm, to fascinate, instruct, to please,
And yielded, e'en in that most parlous hour
When he rescued her from a watery grave.
And some had told her he was vain and sour —
Reserved and cold — took nothing — nothing gave —
Haunted the solitudes, seeking some nook
Umbrageous where to dream, or watch the wave
Not far removed, or read some favorite book —
Unsocial, morose, inaccessible;
But none of these was in his pleased look,
His brilliant eyes, his heart's impulsive swell.
As Minnette sat beside him near the stream,
Reading his soul and comprehending well
Its richness and its depth. And he did seem
In nothing strange to her, or cold, or vain,
But eloquent in all — such as her dream
Had bodied him who should not plead in vain
To share her life. And long beneath the trees
They sat, unheeding that the sun again
Had run his course, and that the gathering breeze
Was harsh and damp, until an owl's shrill hoot —
A bird of evil omen, if you please —
Warned them hence, ere the darkness should dispute
Their free egress. And many hours they spent
In this retreat, reaping the precious fruit
Of classic masters or discourse; content,
Withal, in Friendship's deferential ties,
Nor thought of else, nor more was ever meant.
All cloudless were th' ambrosial Southern skies;
All odorous was the perfume-ladened air;
Young Dukalon had what he most could prize;
Young Minnette lived, heart-free of any care.
Young Dukalon forgot the chains he wore —
Borne on the swirling tide, he cared not where.
The Winter fled away, and Spring once more
In gladness came; and Minnette woke one morn
To find her tropic dreams forever o'er.
" I go back to my Northern home, " forlorn,
But resolute, to Dukalon she said,
" And we may meet no more; but whither borne,
" By wind or tide, the friendship that has shed
" So much of gladness 'round this spot I leave
" With me will live. " The poet bowed his head;
He could not speak — could only inly grieve.
" Friends part to meet, " she said, " and meet to part;
" But there is nothing, nothing! to relieve
" Our parting hour! " And, then, with troubled heart,
She told him, ere the Winter came again,
She would have wed. And Dukalon did start,
As if compelled by some internal pain,
And then was calm, but deathly cold and pale,
From desperate struggling to himself restrain.
It was a time for fortitude to fail,
For passion stronger is than fortitude,
However masterful, before the gale
Of vanished hopes! Young Dukalon now stood
Before the only woman he could love
Chained like a felon, in his hopeless mood,
Powerless to speak the words he'd die to prove —
If he were free! " O to be free! " he sighed
Upon the voiceless zephyrs of the grove,
In his despair. Minnette another's bride!
But he — what claim upon her love had he!
His own rash act that boon to him denied.
Nothing had he to offer her! And she —
What could she offer him! Silent they sat,
Undone! Could he, dare he, make her to see
The step that she would take was desperate,
Was fraught with desolation and with woe
And burnings of the heart, that end in hate!
For he could tell what he did feel and know,
Experience taught, of loveless wedded life;
But he could not this queenly woman show
How cuts the heart such two-edged knife,
Unasked. And Minnette had not even shown
She dreaded aught of such unnatural strife!
So he was dumb; escaped not e'en a groan
The agony he felt to indicate;
But he was sad beyond his wish to own —
Rebellious 'gainst the secret-working Fate
That snatched the woman he adored away
And left the one he could not love, or hate!
She placed her hand in his. " I cannot stay, "
She said. " I must be gone. But you, my friend,
" Think of Minnette, in secret, when you pray. "
Then, o'er the hand he held, he low did bend,
And to it pressed his lips of ashen hue,
And thus resigned his more than earthly friend!
In silence thus to honor was he true,
And to Minnette! But O how much it cost!
A moment more, and she had gone! He knew,
He felt, that young Minnette to him was lost;
And earth to him became a barren waste —
In which forevermore he would be tossed,
A homeless, restless mortal, with no place
To rest his aching head — a dread expanse
Of desolation eye could never trace,
Or fancy body forth! Fixed was the glance,
And vacant, on the verdant sward he cast,
Insensible to all the " circumstance
And pomp " of earth! The hours unnoticed passed —
For what to him were hours or days or years,
When that sweet dream so short a time could last!
And long he sat; and down his cheeks the tears
Ran fast, but all unknown to him they fell,
The sacred emblems of Devotion's cares!
While there he sat a tropic storm did swell
To sudden fury; night in blackness came;
The earth and sky seemed all a seething hell
Of wild confusion, which the lightning's flame
Pierced thro' and thro'; thunders entoned afar,
Like furious cannonade, shaking the frame
Of earth with horrors on a field of war;
And torrent rains in massive sheets came down.
Unmoved was Dukalon! So deep the scar
Made by her words, no life in him was shown,
Save in the fitful breath that moved his breast.
Although to fiercer rage the storm had grown,
No terrors it for Dukalon possessed!
Prone on the earth, senseless, the young man lay,
Like one who finds in death long-sought-for rest.
The storm its fierceness spent; the genial day
Came forth again; the birds sang o'er his head;
Near by him paused a timid squirrel grey,
That seemed to wish to ask if he were dead,
But scampered off, not waiting a reply.
Young Dukalon upon his grassy bed,
Outstretched, from earthly joy and woe was free,
And love and hate; in all was crushed, undone,
A shattered reed! High in the radiant sky,
In matchless splendor, rode th' imperial sun,
Before his people sought him far and wide,
Nor sought in vain — the prostrate Dukalon!
They bore him to his home — 'twas once his pride —
And faithful friends would have relieved his woe,
Had not that solace been to them denied.
Not one of all of them could hope to know
The tragic cause that in a single night
Had bleached his raven locks as white as snow,
And palsied every limb, and dimmed his sight,
And warped his mind; so that " My own Minnette! "
Was all he cried in calm or sudden fright;
For none was there who ever knew the fair Minnette,
Who ever heard before her name,
Save Dukalon, and he could not forget!
And she had gone, as sudden as she came —
As phantoms come and vanish as they pause —
Leaving behind, alas! a quenchless flame
To plead forevermore her wondrous cause.
Guy Dukalon of worth possessed his share;
With more than manly height endowed was he;
And long and silken was his golden hair.
He was a dreamer, careless, happy, free;
A creature to the human slavery bound —
A creature of the earth, the air, the sea;
But he was not a dreamer, ever found
In melancholy's train. Forsooth, some said
He was a poet, gifted in the sound
Of all the tuneful chords in heart and head;
The language knew of every blooming flower;
And, it was said, he could the fury dread
Of savage beasts, prone to their kind devour,
Disarm with his strange gifts. And his sweet song,
With trembling variations, filled the hour
With melody divine, when, clear and strong,
He used his art to banish haunting care.
But not to those did Dukalon belong
Who sing for empty praise. His songs did bear
A charmed message to the gracious throne
Of endless Mercy, and the Lord did hear,
And angels blest. He sang to those alone,
The chosen dwellers of the earth and sky,
Whose deathless souls were kindred to his own —
Pitching his notes to auditors so high
That mortal man, as angels fair, unbent
To hear; and, when he ceased, a joyous sigh
Bore testimony that his raptures spent
Their force and sweetness where they'd live forever,
Reverberations into th' ages sent!
He looked into life as into a river,
And saw reflected not what others saw,
Or, with their finite vision, could see ever;
For, as the mocking bird in song can draw
More diverse, sweeter notes, the soul to move
Than all the feathered hosts, by that same law
Of matchless wisdom and exhaustless love,
Some visions see where others stare in space!
'Twas so with Dukalon. And high above,
And far beneath, he saw, and so could trace
A truer tale of human joy and pain,
Of love and hate, which actuate all the race!
He did not need to use his powers for gain;
He little cared for earth's delusive fame;
He knew inconstant man had always slain
The gods he honored most, covered the name
With execrations his false reverence
Had glorified! The rabble's praise may tame,
Intoxicate, the soul of Innocence;
Not so with him who knows its vulgar breath
To be a fetid exhalation, whence
Are generated seeds of woe and death!
And he deludes himself who plans to live
Beyond the years of th' inspired prophet's faith.
Thus mused young Dukalon. The world could give
Him much, and much had given, for he was blest
With robust youth and wealth, for which men strive,
And oft in vain; a rich-stored mind possessed,
And fancy that could soar to worlds unknown
And people them with more that e'er caressed
With trusting love or cursed with hate our own,
Since clothed in more ethereal form the while,
For life is life, lived in whatever zone.
His name was ancient — and you need not smile —
As antiquity in our country goes;
He ample acres owned, long mile on mile,
But turned from them. As birds of song repose,
Not long in field or tree, but flit and sing,
Or as the bee that hums from rose to rose,
Restless in the fresh gladness of the Spring,
Not pausing long, seeking new fields of sweets,
Sipping awhile, awhile upon the wing,
So Dukalon. Now gazes he on sheets
Of glassy water of a lake, or stream
Wildly leaping through a glade; now he repeats,
In woodland solitude, some thrilling theme
His wayward fancy caught; care-free in all,
A genius born. Such Dukalon did seem,
And such he was. Nor had the schools withal,
Nor residence afar, changed him a whit.
Still through the fields his jocund voice would call
The yelping hounds the hare to chase; still wit
And roguish pranks were his; still was a boy
In heart and soul. And the long years did sit
But lightly on him. Age did not destroy
His childhood dreams. But now misfortune's gloom
Came o'er his careless life and killed his joy!
It seemed to Dukalon a silent tomb
Had swallowed up the day in rayless night!
And all feel thus who face in youth the doom
Of their first love, sweet love! — sweet e'en in flight,
When it is fresh, and fair to see, and young,
Snatched from the feeling and the raptured sight
In its virginal morn, by the serpent stung!
And it seemed death to Dukalon, a sting
More awful than to die, since he among
His fellows hence must be a nameless thing,
Bereft of any save the voice of woe,
A harp unstrung, except the mournful string!
What had he lost? Ay, what? When fell the blow,
Though strong he was and brave, he reeled like one
By strong drink crazed; his cheeks' vermilion glow
Vanished to paleness; and his eyes scarce shone —
Dull, lustreless, and dead — bright orbs of light
Eclipsed that lit for him fair worlds alone!
They thought that he would die, crushed by the blight
Of youth's first faith, he was so motionless
Who long had shown so much of manly might
In the fierce glare of social nothingness!
Crushed was young Dukalon! The world could give
Like that it took away, his grief the less
To make — why, nothing! What is life to live
When love is dead, or turned to hate, in man?
In vain against obdurate Fate we strive.
Let him assume indifference who can,
And play the Stoic's part, and such are few,
When Cupid's dart the trusting heart doth span,
And lingers there, and no fond hand and true,
Responsive to the bleeding victim's plea,
Is raised to pull it out and heal with dew,
Distilled from eyes of gentlest sympathy,
The cruel laceration! His loyal heart,
Faithful in all, so fickle could not be;
He mourned for what was lost. He could no part
Assume — so generous his nature was —
So free from all Deception's subtle art.
Sophine had come, a shadow from a glass,
Light as the breeze that fans the gorgeous rose,
And tore his tender heart to shreds, alas!
For he had worshipped when he saw repose
Stamped on her brow, and majesty withal,
And chafed his burning passion to disclose;
For youth is vain, and little recks 'twill fall
When lovely woman's smile allures it on
To the blind transports of her fatal thrall.
Freely the galling chain young Dukalon
Had gladly fettered on his life, and youth
With Orient pearls the untried way had strewn;
It was not love's unfailing charm, in truth,
But passion, fancy, equal wealth and birth,
That caused the twain to plight undying troth.
The veil withdrawn, of love a woeful dearth
Apparent was! Their thoughts and tastes unlike,
They neither could perceive the other's worth;
And discontent, like waters o'er a dike
Madly leaping, entered their loveless home,
And there abided! Law and custom strike
Dismay and fear to hearts of those who roam,
In thoughtlessness or pique, from changeless rules
Of nature, fixed. They rail in vain and foam
Who turn, in strength or weakness, the sharp tools
Of vengeance on themselves. And men will err;
For some are wise, some simple, some are fools;
Some err from over-confidence, some fear
And some because a passion to go wrong
Is bone of their bone. Wherever they steer
Their craft they find the rocks and shoals among
The breakers hid, or rashly seek them out.
Then, others, too, there are, by nature strong,
Who err from ignorance. These tossed about
Forever are, because they fell before
They learned to stand; and the cruel, heartless shout —
The fear of Scandal's tongue — forevermore
Makes cowards of them! Parents who should guide
And shape th' impulsiveness of youth do o'er
And o'er let it run wild, till, far and wide,
The seed that blossoms to a life of woe
Is sown. The poet's hopes had died
Because, before the struggling down did grow
Upon his classic lip, no parent's law,
Restraining power, was interposed to show
The man his duty. And great was the flaw
Infatuated youth had failed to see
In the picture his vanity did draw!
Young Dukalon had wed right thoughtlessly,
And dreamed a treacherous hour he loved, and well,
His blushing bride, as thoughtless as was he.
And all who loved the twain made haste to tell
How brilliant was the match, how sweet the bride,
How glowed her cheeks, how high their hopes must swell!
And thus the idle chatter ran. But wide
And turbulent the outstretched Future lay,
On whose storm-bosom they as one must ride
Forever on, through all the night and day,
Till death the farce — if farce it proved to be,
In which no love would smooth the tedious way —
Should end! Short was the dream! Then, misery
Of years was lived in hours, till bondage made
Each of them feverish — anxious to be free!
Be free! What human bondage can degrade
A man or woman as the law that binds
Unloving souls in wedlock! Nor can fade,
While life remains, remembrance from the minds
Of those so joined the everlasting shame
Of such disastrous folly; for it grinds,
Corrodes, eating the vitals as a flame
That never quenched is! It is a stain,
Indelible, upon fair hope and name.
He whose smile was magic against all pain,
Whose life was free as zephyrs of a morn
In Summer lands that blow o'er hill and plain,
Freighted with health, was now with doubts forlorn
And discontent made miserable, his voice
Of music and of careless gladness shorn.
The things that made him once in life rejoice
No longer could his fancy catch and hold;
Indifferent he was, bereft of choice.
The dross remained; evanished had the gold.
The world looked on, but little could it see.
To others' woes mankind are chill and cold.
He who would live in men's esteem must be
Encased in steel, harder than flinty rock,
Beyond their treacherous smile and sympathy,
Or be of every dunce the laughing stock!
And if, perforce, his grief should come to view,
He may not find his strength survive the shock!
The friends Misfortune has are always few,
And they are oft abashed by sneers and scorn,
And skulk away, too craven to be true!
Young Dukalon was proud. He would have drawn
His life-blood from his heart ere men should make
A by-word of his woe! He had been born
To scoff at jeers and scorn. Nothing could shake,
Therefore, his purpose to his pain conceal
From friends and foes, e'en though his heart should break.
He bore the torture of domestic steel,
Pierced deep into his lacerated heart,
And oft it made him faint and blindly reel,
So merciless it was! But, to his part
Assigned, he strove to be both brave and strong,
Wincing in silence from the pricking dart.
He was a child of passion and of song.
To love and to be loved, his faith repose
In womankind, to feel his friends among
No shadows dark his buoyant soul enclose,
Were parts of his young life, as much as scorn
And lofty condescension of his foes.
The poet's soul was his, a poet born;
And he was moved and felt as other men,
But in a stronger sense, as men are shorn
Of giant strength, I ween, who have not been
Endowed with giant form; and strength of mind
Was his, and weakness too; and these were seen
In two extremes, and stronger of their kind;
For all great virtues in the race are found,
Too oft, with vices just as great combined;
So Bacon great to Bacon base was bound;
So other men as great a double life
Have lived whose names through all the world resound!
Young Dukalon had lived beyond the strife
Of those who struggle from their youth for bread;
He had not felt the keenness of the knife
As some who Wisdom's thorny path do tread.
Seductive Knowledge in her richest guise
Before his eyes had her rare treasures spread;
And he had lingered 'neath the friendly skies
When the moon, and the stars, and solitude
And he were all alone, when spirit life flies
To spirit life, compelled by a kindred mood,
A sympathy, unearthly of its kind!
Then would he cease upon his woes to brood,
Lulled by the mystery sublime that twined
Itself about his life, like harmony
That soothes to rest the weary, troubled mind.
How strong and sweet the charm and force that lie
In meditation when so surrounded!
Then all things vain and crude within us die,
And all that 's God-like, pure and good, doth shed
A calm and holy halo 'bout our dream;
'Tis then the human part of us is dead.
Unseen, unheard, Life's boisterous, treacherous stream,
As it rushes onward, in mad commotion,
More cruel and destructive than it can seem,
To where the dark unknown, the boundless ocean
Of destiny lies hid from human ken!
The poet felt, somehow, he was a portion
Of this vastness and this mystery when,
In the sweet silence of the voiceless night,
He tore himself apart from selfish men
And revelled in a feeling and a sight
Denied his fellows! And it was so sweet
To feel the presence of Eternal light!
But man is human. His lead-weighted feet
Will tread the earth, howe'er his soul may soar
Where angel choirs their psalms of joy repeat
Till the heav'ns' diamond-studded halls do o'er
And o'er with rhapsodies resound! And so
Young Dukalon, although he would no more
Have come to earth, oft found his classic brow
Damp with the dews of night, the stars all dead,
The moon grown pale, and feel his body grow
Alive to pain, and th' angel choirs hushed and fled —
The trance-hour vanished to its unknown goal!
Once he had cried aloud, with bended head:
" Great Ruler of the troubled human soul,
" If in Thy mandate thunders, as they sweep
" From burning tropic to the icy pole,
" A grain of hope remains for those who weep,
" Dragging a chain that causes endless pain,
" Oh, let me in its power my senses steep!
" Let me not hopeless hope, nor plead in vain!
" Oh, banish Thou the all-pervading gloom
" That erst so many trembling souls has slain!
" This earth for man is but a haunted tomb —
" Dread, fathomless — when spectre Doubt enthrones
" Itself within the mind and knells Hope's doom!
" How the vast ocean water heaves and groans,
" Lashed by the angry winds in tempest hour!
" So man, frail man, oppressed, wails long, and moans,
" Disconsolate, when Thy controlling power
" Tosts his frail life upon the storm's wild breast
" And makes him to its fury bend and cower!
" O Thou Spirit of the boundless air, if rest
" There be under the high o'er-arching sky,
" Let me the potence of its magic test!
" Let me unto its hidden treasures fly,
" That I may steep my senses in its calm,
" Dissolve my restless nature in a sigh,
" Live but one moment in its soothing balm,
" Measure one second what it is to be
" Supreme within myself, possess the charm
" Philosophers have sought in vain — be free!
" Then, when the precious moment's grace had fled,
" When nothing more in earth or heaven for me
" Remained, all spent, if Thou shouldst me then wed
" To sudden nothingness, quench the light
" Forever of my soul — where'er it led,
" I'd follow, satisfied, into the night! "
One moment man soars where th' angels abide;
The next he falls to earth, a wingless sprite!
" Oh, what is life to me? " the poet cried.
Part II.
Sophine unsuited was to Dukalon
In all that makes community of aim
And purpose — that blest singleness alone
Which melts two lives in one, with common name
And aspiration, having only eyes
That see each other's beauties. They must tame,
Who wed, their soul's desire for change; be wise
And satisfied to live apart in that
They have absorbed; seeing no other skies
Than those that canopy their home. To rate
No other love as that which is their own
Resolves the dual into th' unit state.
The man and woman must become as one
When they assume the marriage obligation;
And if, in all and all, this be not done,
A deep unrest, and even desperation,
Will make their loveless lives an earthly hell.
Young Dukalon, in vain exasperation,
Lived this, and more, which, as the Voudoo's spell,
Was as a haunting madness in the brain,
Making his heart like ocean billows swell
With vainest of resolves; each one a chain
That bound him to the life he loathed, because
He could not 'scape it, but must bear the pain
Of constant friction with it, since the laws,
And his high sense of duty, held him fast
In hated bonds! The wind takes up the straws
The sturdy mowers on the wayside cast,
And then the light twigs where it listeth blows;
How oft th' unguarded actions of the past
The present with dread terrors fill — with woes,
With burnings of the heart, with wailing hate
That dies on th' air, with curses for our foes —
Until all th' earth to us seems desolate,
In which is heard no more a friendly voice
To cheer us in the fight with adverse Fate!
Actions are mysteries we cannot poise
Upon the vain philosophies we deem
Dissolvents of our doubts. The poet's choice
Had been to bear his yoke, howe'er his dream
Had bodied forth for him companion sweet,
Whose life should melt into his own and seem
A portion of his life. His untried feet
Had stumbled in the path! His mind, oppressed,
Trembled, as one who suffers dire defeat.
His manly resolution but distressed
Him all the more as fickle Time disclosed
How much of Discontent he was possessed —
How weak the vessel was in which reposed
The first rich fruit of his impulsive youth!
A towering Trojan wall had now enclosed
His life. How could he scale its heights, forsooth,
How 'scape the tyranny himself had made?
Alas! the dangers in a hasty troth!
Him should he let this tyranny degrade
When love, content, domestic harmony,
Had all dissolved, as does a twilight shade,
Leaving him nothing but regrets? Should he
The agony prolong, all hope forswear,
Endure a bondage whose slow misery
Tortures and destroys? Must he then bear
The strain until his strength could bear no more,
And wasted nature yield to phantom care?
As a vessel in the tempest's shock and roar,
Did Dukalon's emotions move and sway
His every purpose, and would evermore,
Shutting from him contentment's genial ray,
With all its inspiration, and making
Tartarean gloom! The future — had it a day
He saw not, wherein flowers of laughing Spring
Would gladden hedge, and garden, and the field,
And birds their joyous melodies would sing?
Or would the night forever throw its shield
Of cureless woe about his life, enchain
Him to a loveless mate, his lips be sealed,
Speechless, save in regret, remorse and pain?
The sun shone forth in royal majesty;
The flowers blossomed in field and dell and plain;
But Dukalon their beauties could not see.
The groves were vocal, but escaped his ears.
Stone-blind and deaf and speechless is mis'ry
In noble men. It finds in voiceless tears
Expression, all unseen, unheard; if, too,
That source be not dried up, as oft appears.
There are, indeed, degrees of human woe,
Not visible, that eat the vital parts
As fires within the earth that burn and glow
Forever, till a spiral column darts
Into the skies, and granite mountains heave
And mankind quake in homes and crowded marts.
So Nature works. All who rejoice or grieve,
In silence or loud lamentation, feel
The pain no earthly physic can relieve.
Accursed is Adam's seed! Does Death's sharp steel,
Cutting the thread of life, destroy the pains
To which the flesh is heir, for woe or weal?
Why fill the future state with woes, with chains,
Undreamed of in the justice of the Lord,
When present time more than its share contains?
Go! " Let the dead past bury its dead " horde!
Go! Let the future its dread secrets keep!
Go! Live the present! Why dread th' unseen sword
Suspended o'er our heads? What if it leap
From its hair chain this instant that we pause
And plunge us into gloom as Styx is deep!
Our destiny is shaped by binding laws,
Irrevocable! And none can estimate
One inch of space to right the seeming flaws
That lure us to our doom. The poet's fate
Had been a pleasing thing. His days had sped
Away like dreams. The future seemed to wait,
Expectant of his coming, but to lead
Him up the sacred mount of Fame and Power,
And crown him with ambition's glorious meed.
And he had built upon the happy hour
Thus pictured to his view, as dreamers will;
Nor recked he of the furious storms that lower
Forever o'er the Future's path. And still,
When darkness came, he hoped and trusted Time
Would yet the promise of the past fulfill;
But all in vain! He upward ceased to climb —
Stood still. The burden was too great to bear —
Despair replaced his hopes and thoughts sublime.
His nature was to furious gales of care,
In all, untempered, and Misfortune's frown
Withered his hopes, as poison in the air,
And made him purposeless. As he had sown,
So must he reap. But all unused was he
To pluck the thistle where the rose had grown;
To find the bitters where the sweets should be;
To weep where he had smiled; to hate the thing
He had adored; to sigh and long to free
Himself from loveless chains! The bird may sing,
A prisoner in a cage; but will his song
With Freedom's rapturous joy and gladness ring?
No! No! His notes, however clear and strong,
Will ring with desolation of his state,
Will plead again his mates to be among.
You have upon sweet Freedom but the gate
To shut, and bolt the prisoner within,
T' arouse grim vengeance and relentless hate.
Nor can escape this hate the man of sin,
The man of blameless life, or brave, or meek;
Desperate resolves, where Freedom ends, begin.
Young Dukalon a prison strong and bleak,
In innocence and confidence, had made;
Nor through its walls could he a passage break,
Securely caged within its cheerless shade.
And never victim of Illusion yet
Felt loveless chains his manhood so degrade!
In home, in solitude, did sigh and fret
The hapless youth, unmindful of the things
That gave him pleasure once; could not forget
The irritations of the hour. The strings
Of hope were snapped asunder. All undone
Ambition was; dried up life's cooling springs!
And Dukalon a student was, and won
The honest praise of men, and women, too,
By loftiness of purpose. His life had run
In currents smooth till now. And, as is true
Of all who matchless genius do possess,
Much in himself he lived, and lessons drew
From Nature in her fadeless loveliness;
Scorning the social smallness of the day —
Its endless gossip and the emptiness
That passed for wit amongst the thoughtless gay,
And e'en the learned few, who can unbend,
And list to those who nothing have to say.
Not so with Dukalon. To condescend,
To waste the precious hours in idle prating,
With noodles for a woman's smiles contend,
In Fashion's vacuous haunts to seek his rating —
These Dukalon a passing notice gave;
All satisfied to see them through a grating,
Standing afar off — solemn, dreamful, grave.
When there came feelings of a sober kind,
'Twas not in crowded halls, where sane men rave
And women shriek, thinking they pleasure find
In sensual waltz and babalistic noise;
But, rather, in the fields and woods his mind
Congenial freedom found. There could rejoice
In nature's grand, surpassing loveliness,
Young Dukalon, his fancy give a voice;
And he would people the vast wilderness
With pulsing form and life; and human pain
And aspiration lost their bitterness,
Under the soothing spell that oft hath slain
The genius that had trusted in its power.
But now it seemed to him that not again
Would come the rapture of such halcyon hour.
The genii of the place, his dreams, had fled,
As flies the sun before a thunder shower.
" The concord of sweet sounds " that so had fed
His thirsting soul were heard no more, and he
Had lost the mastery of song; was dead
To every feeling, save the misery
Of domestic inharmony and woe.
Of this no word was said, and ne'er could be,
Of harshness or reproach. He could not show,
Save in silence studied, the discontent
That drove the animation from his brow,
The roses from his cheeks — which may have spent
Their bloom in his dead eyes, so dull they were
And lustreless. And so, where'er he went,
Whate'er he did, a haunting shadow near
Pursued and harassed him. The young Sophine,
Unlike her lord, gave not her life to care,
But sought and found, a reigning social queen,
Oblivion of the love her home denied;
Nor was she troubled. Love had never been,
E'en when she stood by young Dukalon's side,
Before the man of God, more than a thought,
Vague and unformed, in which to be a bride,
The bride of Dukalon, her fancy caught,
E'en as the spider's web ensnares the fly;
Thoughtless that precious jewels oft are sought
A fatal vanity to satisfy,
Since death or endless trouble follows fast
Possession. But stone-blind is vanity;
It recks not of the future, and the past —
Is past. The newest toy controls its whim;
And while the fancy, satisfied, doth last,
The pleasing thing before the eyes doth swim,
Seducing to sweet but treacherous repose
The thoughtless, yet all delighted victim.
Thus with Sophine. She was a gorgeous rose,
Charming to see, but odorless and cold,
That flourished in Dukalon's wintry snows.
Shallow in all her nature, she could hold
No serious thought; yet deemed that she had made
A splendid choice. She could not find the gold
Beneath the poet's brow of gloom and shade,
Nor cared a doit, so vain she was and blind.
In priceless fabrics when she was arrayed,
With social pleasures hedged about, her mind
And soul steeped in the splendors of the hour,
The poet's moods could not her fancy bind.
She loved him not a whit, nor thought him sour,
But shunned him, since she could not comprehend
The vastness of his mental depth and power;
She left him to himself. They could not blend
Their natures, so unlike were they. Thus wide
And wider grew the path they did descend!
And she was cheerful, full of empty pride,
Finding relief in ample wealth's display;
While gloomy he, brooding o'er joys denied,
Lost in the tortuous windings of life's way.
Part III
The noble Saint John's river murmured north,
Into the great Atlantic's heaving breast,
A giant careless of its strength and worth,
Disdaining haste and never needing rest;
A glorious stream. Upon its bank there stood
The home of Dukalon, and there caressed
His laureate brow the breath of solitude,
The fragrance of the orange blossoms, and
The tropic plants of garden, field and wood.
It was a Paradise, enchanted land,
Where the rapt mocking bird forever sings
The gladness of his soul; the curlew grand,
Spotless in the whiteness of his plumage, springs
Into the air, voiceless, but matchless in
His perfect grace, propelled on noiseless wings.
There Dukalon had lived and dreamed and seen
The sunshine and the shadow of the years;
There he had learned to love the forest green,
And diamond dews, that looked like virgin tears,
Shy nestling on the modest violet,
And wildwood rose and jasmine. And his cares,
How oft would he by that grand stream forget,
Watching its noiseless and majestic flow
Upward to th' ocean! Such a scene! And, yet —
The odorous air, vocal with song, soft, low,
Now swelling to a chorus wild and sweet,
Making the listener's cheeks with pleasure glow
And all his soul with intense rapture beat —
And, yet, young Dukalon but grieved and sighed —
For what! Some " daughter of the gods " to meet
Who would his boundless thoughts and love divide,
His aspirations stimulate; to be
In all his fit companion and his pride;
To share his gladness and his misery;
Be of himself a sympathizing part,
Unfettered by the world's dear vanity,
Content to be a portion of his heart
And hopes and home — for this he sighed and wailed,
Living within himself, from men apart,
Wasting his days, deploring he had failed
In all, since one discord had marred the whole!
Listless his footsteps grew; and his cheeks paled,
As if the fire had left for ay his soul —
So miserable he was! 'Twas in this state
Of frigid cold, numbing as th' Arctic pole,
Of gloom and discontent, that some great Fate,
Unknown, unseen of men, gave Dukalon
A taste of what he wished, to make him hate,
Perchance, himself the more. He was alone,
Surrounded by the forest wild; the stream
Before him lay. He sat upon a stone,
Wrapt in the reveries of a charming dream,
And, for the moment, lost to everything
Of earthly kind, when, suddenly, a scream
Rang out upon the air and made him spring
Erect, frightened; and, then, again! again!
Until the woodland with the cries did ring.
The dreamer to the spot did haste, and strain
His eyes to see the author of the cries;
Nor had he far to search the cause t' explain:
A small sailboat before his anxious eyes
Lay upturned near the shore, and to it clung
A maiden fair. When past his first surprise,
Forthwith into the royal stream he sprung,
For he could breast the waves with grace and ease,
And soon rescued the maiden, fair and young —
Minnette! She was a picture 'neath the trees —
The silent monarchs of the forest wild,
As gently fanned her brow the friendly breeze —
As on the gallant Dukalon she smiled,
Murmuring her gratitude in words so sweet,
So low, his wildly throbbing pulse was thrilled
Beyond control. All drenched from head to feet,
The snow-white drapery clinging to her form,
She stood erect, pale as a driven sheet,
Straight as a willow, with eyes that could disarm —
Such sympathy, such passion, they proclaimed —
The prince of skeptics by their witching charm.
She was not beautiful, as some are famed;
But there was majesty in form and face
And eyes and accents of the voice that tamed
Rebellion into loyalty. A space
Silent they stood, mute, in the scrutiny
Of kindred beings seeking to replace
Some long-lost vision they had prayed to see
In flesh, as they had seen in dreams before,
In hours that never could forgotten be:
For there are in the world, on some fair shore,
Always " two souls with but a single thought, "
And if they meet not, sigh forevermore,
Disconsolate! So Fate has for us wrought.
These two had never met, but each one knew
The other well, and more than this was naught.
" I live near by. I often sail, as you,
" Perhaps, have seen, my little craft. To-day,
" Howe'er, the wind too fiercely for me blew;
" Hence my mishap. I never can repay
" The debt of gratitude to you I owe.
" I thank you, Sir; " and then she went away,
Protesting that her savior should not go
With her, as she knew well the path that led
To her own home the river bend below.
But still he followed from afar, in dread
Some other mishap might befall the maid;
Then, from a knoll, he watched her as she fled
Till she was lost behind the ample shade
Of the tall oaks and orange trees that stood
About her home, near where the river strayed.
Then Dukalon turned back into the wood,
And stretched himself upon the moss and grass,
And closed his eyes, and dreamed his solitude
Was Paradise, in which for him, alas!
Only one face — one form — one smile — was seen
As swift the host of queenly maids did pass
Through his mad brain. She was, indeed, a queen —
Minnette! A queen of beauty and of grace,
With royal height and majesty of mien.
How long among the shadows of the place
He was — how long the dream controlled his sense —
How long he lived his life in her sweet face —
He could not say. The sun had vanished hence
When he awoke; the night had come; the moon
Rode high; the stars shone forth; vapors immense
Had settled o'er the river. 'Twas a boon
To linger yet awhile, in the still night,
Where she had been, to vanish all too soon.
And thus, alone, dreaming, the lovelorn wight
Lingered, where nature reigned in absolute
Supremacy, and where his fancy's flight
Could penetrate infinity, and, mute,
The aspirations of his soul reach where
The twinkling stars athwart the skies did shoot,
Idly disporting in the waste of air.
Guy Dukalon dreamed out his poet soul,
Enchained by the smile of a maiden fair —
A maiden fair who would in all control
His life forevermore! As strong as Fate,
Her siren power o'er all his nature stole,
And held him where he was, bidding him wait
To hear her footsteps on the sward, again
To see her face. She seemed his long-lost mate.
Then came a doubt that gave him sharpest pain: —
Was not Minnette a myth? Had he not been
The victim of a caprice of his brain?
Had it all been a dream? What had he seen?
Was it all real? It was so very queer —
The vanished hours, and all that came between!
He shuddered at his doubt. A sudden fear
Came over him. He from the stone arose
And sought the spot, the glassy river near,
Where all had passed so late that made repose
A stranger to him ever more. There lay
The tiny craft, that had o'erturned, and, close,
A dainty handkerchief, damp with the spray,
The modest moon revealed. This was a prize,
An argument to drive all doubt away.
Guy Dukalon stood there, with downcast eyes,
Deeply musing, his soul all stirred with fire;
While hope, sweet hope! ascended to the skies.
In his delirious bliss he did aspire
To — he knew not what! Her name unknown, wed
Or unwed, asked not, cared not. One desire,
A rash, o'ermastering wish, possessed his head.
His troubled life no longer seemed a waste,
Hopeless. He wished no more that he were dead!
Why? He the fruit forbidden to his taste
Had craved, the fruit in which lurked pain and woe
And lingering death! Again, he felt abased,
Revulsion came, that he could sink so low
As prove a traitor, e'en in thought, to one
He had forsworn himself all love to show!
In the dead stillness of the night a groan
Escaped the hapless Dukalon. Where turn
He would his path with shattered hopes was strown!
Into his soul despondency did burn,
Forever forcing on him gaunt despair,
From which no wholesome lesson could he learn.
He hovered near the spot until the air
Of dewy morning fanned his fevered brow,
On which gloom sat enthroned anew, and care;
Then wandered from the scene, with head bowed low,
And listless step, and trembling hand, and heart
From which the blood in sluggish streams did flow.
Henceforth his days were spent from men apart,
In solitude, and many hours of night,
Haunting the scenes that could alone impart
Some solace to his soul, some softening light
Diffuse, praying that she would come again —
And, then! He shut the selfish world from sight,
And mused and mused; and all to him was plain,
Though mad confusion reigned supreme in all
The treasured hopes that struggled in his brain.
Thus sat he, dreaming, as the leaves did fall
About him from the monarchs of the place,
When that longed presence — gracious, queenly, tall —
Before him stood, confusion in her face —
Since unsuspecting was she there to find
A living soul. But Dukalon, with grace
And easy courtesy, relieved her mind,
Calming her fears; and then, by slow degrees,
Minnette to his address herself resigned.
No one in converse could more aptly please
Than Dukalon, or hold attention more
Subservient to his will — master of ease.
The young Minnette, protesting o'er and o'er
That she must go, remained, and gladly, too,
Restrained as she had never been before
By man's persuasive voice; for it is true
That Dukalon possessed in large degree
A wondrous fascinating power, and drew
His kind, as magnet needles draw; and he
A royal host could be, or he could freeze
The social atmosphere till misery,
Without apparent cause, would replace ease
And merriment. Young Minnette felt his power
To charm, to fascinate, instruct, to please,
And yielded, e'en in that most parlous hour
When he rescued her from a watery grave.
And some had told her he was vain and sour —
Reserved and cold — took nothing — nothing gave —
Haunted the solitudes, seeking some nook
Umbrageous where to dream, or watch the wave
Not far removed, or read some favorite book —
Unsocial, morose, inaccessible;
But none of these was in his pleased look,
His brilliant eyes, his heart's impulsive swell.
As Minnette sat beside him near the stream,
Reading his soul and comprehending well
Its richness and its depth. And he did seem
In nothing strange to her, or cold, or vain,
But eloquent in all — such as her dream
Had bodied him who should not plead in vain
To share her life. And long beneath the trees
They sat, unheeding that the sun again
Had run his course, and that the gathering breeze
Was harsh and damp, until an owl's shrill hoot —
A bird of evil omen, if you please —
Warned them hence, ere the darkness should dispute
Their free egress. And many hours they spent
In this retreat, reaping the precious fruit
Of classic masters or discourse; content,
Withal, in Friendship's deferential ties,
Nor thought of else, nor more was ever meant.
All cloudless were th' ambrosial Southern skies;
All odorous was the perfume-ladened air;
Young Dukalon had what he most could prize;
Young Minnette lived, heart-free of any care.
Young Dukalon forgot the chains he wore —
Borne on the swirling tide, he cared not where.
The Winter fled away, and Spring once more
In gladness came; and Minnette woke one morn
To find her tropic dreams forever o'er.
" I go back to my Northern home, " forlorn,
But resolute, to Dukalon she said,
" And we may meet no more; but whither borne,
" By wind or tide, the friendship that has shed
" So much of gladness 'round this spot I leave
" With me will live. " The poet bowed his head;
He could not speak — could only inly grieve.
" Friends part to meet, " she said, " and meet to part;
" But there is nothing, nothing! to relieve
" Our parting hour! " And, then, with troubled heart,
She told him, ere the Winter came again,
She would have wed. And Dukalon did start,
As if compelled by some internal pain,
And then was calm, but deathly cold and pale,
From desperate struggling to himself restrain.
It was a time for fortitude to fail,
For passion stronger is than fortitude,
However masterful, before the gale
Of vanished hopes! Young Dukalon now stood
Before the only woman he could love
Chained like a felon, in his hopeless mood,
Powerless to speak the words he'd die to prove —
If he were free! " O to be free! " he sighed
Upon the voiceless zephyrs of the grove,
In his despair. Minnette another's bride!
But he — what claim upon her love had he!
His own rash act that boon to him denied.
Nothing had he to offer her! And she —
What could she offer him! Silent they sat,
Undone! Could he, dare he, make her to see
The step that she would take was desperate,
Was fraught with desolation and with woe
And burnings of the heart, that end in hate!
For he could tell what he did feel and know,
Experience taught, of loveless wedded life;
But he could not this queenly woman show
How cuts the heart such two-edged knife,
Unasked. And Minnette had not even shown
She dreaded aught of such unnatural strife!
So he was dumb; escaped not e'en a groan
The agony he felt to indicate;
But he was sad beyond his wish to own —
Rebellious 'gainst the secret-working Fate
That snatched the woman he adored away
And left the one he could not love, or hate!
She placed her hand in his. " I cannot stay, "
She said. " I must be gone. But you, my friend,
" Think of Minnette, in secret, when you pray. "
Then, o'er the hand he held, he low did bend,
And to it pressed his lips of ashen hue,
And thus resigned his more than earthly friend!
In silence thus to honor was he true,
And to Minnette! But O how much it cost!
A moment more, and she had gone! He knew,
He felt, that young Minnette to him was lost;
And earth to him became a barren waste —
In which forevermore he would be tossed,
A homeless, restless mortal, with no place
To rest his aching head — a dread expanse
Of desolation eye could never trace,
Or fancy body forth! Fixed was the glance,
And vacant, on the verdant sward he cast,
Insensible to all the " circumstance
And pomp " of earth! The hours unnoticed passed —
For what to him were hours or days or years,
When that sweet dream so short a time could last!
And long he sat; and down his cheeks the tears
Ran fast, but all unknown to him they fell,
The sacred emblems of Devotion's cares!
While there he sat a tropic storm did swell
To sudden fury; night in blackness came;
The earth and sky seemed all a seething hell
Of wild confusion, which the lightning's flame
Pierced thro' and thro'; thunders entoned afar,
Like furious cannonade, shaking the frame
Of earth with horrors on a field of war;
And torrent rains in massive sheets came down.
Unmoved was Dukalon! So deep the scar
Made by her words, no life in him was shown,
Save in the fitful breath that moved his breast.
Although to fiercer rage the storm had grown,
No terrors it for Dukalon possessed!
Prone on the earth, senseless, the young man lay,
Like one who finds in death long-sought-for rest.
The storm its fierceness spent; the genial day
Came forth again; the birds sang o'er his head;
Near by him paused a timid squirrel grey,
That seemed to wish to ask if he were dead,
But scampered off, not waiting a reply.
Young Dukalon upon his grassy bed,
Outstretched, from earthly joy and woe was free,
And love and hate; in all was crushed, undone,
A shattered reed! High in the radiant sky,
In matchless splendor, rode th' imperial sun,
Before his people sought him far and wide,
Nor sought in vain — the prostrate Dukalon!
They bore him to his home — 'twas once his pride —
And faithful friends would have relieved his woe,
Had not that solace been to them denied.
Not one of all of them could hope to know
The tragic cause that in a single night
Had bleached his raven locks as white as snow,
And palsied every limb, and dimmed his sight,
And warped his mind; so that " My own Minnette! "
Was all he cried in calm or sudden fright;
For none was there who ever knew the fair Minnette,
Who ever heard before her name,
Save Dukalon, and he could not forget!
And she had gone, as sudden as she came —
As phantoms come and vanish as they pause —
Leaving behind, alas! a quenchless flame
To plead forevermore her wondrous cause.
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