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Poem	Oh what is fame! a flower that dies at eve, A golden mist that subtle fancies weave, An unknown star that wise men never see, An idle dream of things that may not be. Farewell to peace when once the dreams of fame Shall stir the soul into a restless flame. There is no rest by day, no sleep by night; The eyes are blinded by the dazzling light. Ah! woe to him who first espies the star, It hath the power his life to make or mar. Amid the sombre draperies of the sky, The faintly-gleaming stars half-hidden lie; Upon Night's bending head a hood of snow Seems weighing it unto the earth below; With gentle frowns she shakes her sable hair And sends the snow-flakes whirling through the air. And soon a soft, thick mantle, pure and white, Gives to the earth a new and holy light. While with a thousand lamps the city glows As if encircled with a diadem; Each lamp transformed into a sparkling gem, That o'er the earth its flickering splendor throws. Paris, that brilliant city, gleams to-night With glittering lights that hide her ghastly woes; In mockery she's robed in bridal white, Though in her heart a tide of crimson flows. The city is aglow with wealth and pride; A gilded hall is thronged from side to side With fashion's train of beauteous dames, who smile And gaily, archly chat the happy while With gallant men who smile on them again. All seems forgotten—want and weary pain That fill the earth with all their drear distress; Yet many a heart beneath the silken dress Of its fair wearer hides its weariness 'Neath such bright smiles that none would ever guess What lies concealed; and handsome, manly eyes In which the hidden lovelight dreaming lies, Are telling o'er in silent language sweet, The love which lips and tongue would fain repeat. Rich jewels gleam and proud eyes quickly glance, And costly robes each womanly charm enhance, From tempting coral lips gay laughter flies, To be reflected o'er in arch, coquettish eyes. But see! each tongue is hushed within that hall, From dainty hands gay fans unheeded fall; While eyes that one glad moment just before Were bent 'neath love's warm glances to the floor, Are looking now, forgetting lovers' sighs, To see the veiling curtain slowly rise: And breathless waits that glittering, changing throng, To hear once more their idol's rippling song. A face divine, a crown of braided hair, Dark eyes that gleam with proud and passionate air, A robe of snowy satin sweeping wide, A brow that shadows forth a noble pride. And she is here—the queen of song, Arline, With flashing eyes and proud triumphant mien. She smiles—she knows her potent power full well; With silvery song she breaks the golden spell Of silence—sings until the walls resound With echoing strains, and all the air around Grow tremulous with melody; high Beyond the very dome it seems to rise And reach with daring wings the listening skies. Within her breast a power that cannot die Seems lifting her beyond the earth; along On living waves of fire her glorious song Of songs seems borne. Triumphant in this hour, Her voice reveals a wild and stormy power Of weird, sad passion that awakes each soul Into a mad, sweet ecstasy of pain; Then low the waves of dying music roll And leave the air in silence once again. Ah! conquering song, thou wert not born of earth, Celestial stars proclaim thy heavenly birth! And proud Arline, with wondrous, thrilling art, Has cast thy spell upon each answering heart. Oh, sing, Arline, and fear not for thy song! The music of the waves upon the shore, Is not so grand as that, nor e'en the roar Of countless oceans swiftly borne along. Oh! poets, rave not of your singing seas, Your rivers with their rippling melodies; The human voice alone can touch the heart, And draw it from its lower self apart. Then sing, Arline, uplift your starry eyes, Awake the very echoes of the skies, And rouse to nobler deeds this eager throng;— In all the world there's naught so sweet as song. But hush—in low sad strains the music dies, Low at her feet a wealth of flowers lies; She smiles—the world's bright fame is clearly won, Along her veins the quickened fires now run; Her dark eyes flash—Oh! fame, thou art divine! Into her heart, like streams of blood-red wine, The world's sweet homage flows; a deepening strain Of crimson plays upon her face. Oh! fame, Fear not, for she is thine; within thy flame Her soul enraptured burns—and love's sad pain Is all forgotten in this brilliant hour That proves too well her strange and gifted power. But see! still deeper grows the crimson glow Upon her face, for at her feet a crown Is thrown of royal roses; bending down She sees in star-gemmed flowers of purest snow The word "Arline" amid the diadem Of circling red; and in their midst a gem That sparkles with a strange intensive light. She smiles—a smile that rouses all the fire In one young heart; with quick and eager flight His eyes seek hers; unto her face still higher The warm blood flows beneath that ling'ring gaze. Her drooping eyes grow liquid with the rays Of light within their depths; the rippling hair, With burnished hues of brown and amber rare, Falls o'er the shaded brow; while sweeping low, The long, dark lashes hide the deepening glow In downcast eyes. Oh! painter, do not tell Of silvery streams and shaded, flowery dell, Nor talk of clouds with faces to the sun, That hang low down where golden rivers run. But dare to paint with skillful, cunning art The secret workings of a woman's heart. Oh, catch the light that lingers in her eyes— The passing gleam that o'er the shadow flies; Then paint for me the secrets of her soul, That I may read as on some written scroll. If this you cannot do, then talk no more Of nature's wealth of deep and mystic lore— Of waving grass and azure skies; a face Is worth them all. She stands in sunny grace, A woman—the fairest picture e'er was wrought; A poem fresh from God's own living thought. She turns again, for once more at her feet A few fair flowers fall—spell-bound she stands, Then stoops and clasps them all with eager hands; Blue violets, and roses wild and sweet, Forget-me-nots and daises, pure and white— Oh! dear wild flowers, how come you here this night To welcome her with shy and modest eyes, And dewy faces where the sunshine lies. Caressingly she bends and kisses them With warm, bright lips—the royal diadem Is thrown aside for these few welcome flowers, And all forgotten is the fame—the hours Of dazzling triumph; like an eager child She stands and clasps them in her hands; and wild And restless are her thoughts; oh! mocking fame, Where is thy victory now! thy burning flame! On memory's wings she's carried back to where These same wild flowers perfumed the sunny air. And once again in childhood's tireless feet, She wanders on the shore where dark waves beat And moan. She bends her head, her eyes are wet With tears. Weep not, Arline! your heart may fret Itself in vain, the world will never care. Reveal not to these heartless eyes the pain That clasps your heart, but raise your head again And let your grand, young voice ring on the air! See! 'neath your feet the crown of roses lies All crushed and torn; then lift your proud, dark eyes Unto this throng once more, and let them see Within those depths, a spirit strong and free. The fragrant breath of flowers she loves so well Breathes on her face and wraps her in a spell; So often may a flower's fair perfume Bring back the sunny past—the present gloom. Arline, Arline, the world is at your feet, Why droop your head, why grow so still and pale? Are flowers worth tears, does life no joys repeat? And fame is yours—is this the hour to fail? And see! those eyes have never left your face, Those eyes like pansies heavy with the dew; They seek your own, reflect your royal grace, Arline, and read your every thought; anew. They wonder at your silence—smile once more, Thou queenly one, and send that eager heart Into a rapturous dream. Upon the floor There lies his off'ring—turn your steps apart And crush it not, for he will grieve, Arline, To see it this. At last her troubled eyes Are raised once more, and now a gentle queen She stands before them all—the shadow dies— A softened splendor like the night's weird grace Rests on her brow and faintly-glowing face. She lifts her head—she sees the eager crowd, Her blood begins to leap, her eyes grow proud, Yet still within their liquid depths there lies A childlike mournfulness, a dread of truth. Forever fled they are, the dreams of youth, All broken are the dear and olden ties, And yet what can it matter to her now She wears the crown of fame upon her brow. For those bright laurels that so soon can fade She's sold her love nor deemed the choice ill made. Once more upon the silent evening air Her rich voice ripples like a golden stream Let loose beneath the sun; a yearning prayer Within her low-voiced, echoing song doth seem To lie. The bounding blood now swiftly flows Along her veins, and on her face it glows With warm, bright fires. With trembling hands are pressed The flowers against her heart, a dark unrest Seems in her soul, yet in those glancing eyes A tender radiance, like faint sunlight lies. Oh, sing, Arline, and let the echoes die In deep'ning melody throughout the sky. Sing on, for hearts are growing pure again Beneath thy woman's spell; a power divine You wield to-night to soften and refine. Faint hearts are growing sad and full of pain, Proud eyes that have not wept for many years Are downward cast, and filled with unshed tears. What though thy heart is in that low, sad song, They know it not, their souls are borne along And strangely thrilled by its sweet melody; They cannot know what thoughts may dwell in thee. A song may wake the echoes of the soul And o'er each life the tides of memory roll. The music dies—she fain would go—but no. They call her back, again her dark eyes glow With longing light; once more she stands and sings The plaintive words whose hidden sorrow rings Through every heart. These words her lips repeat; The crowd move not; they listen at her feet. When nobler lips than mine shall sing Of faith and holy love; And angles round thee closer fling Their glory from above; Then think thou of my sad, long song, In realms far, far away; Though brighter memories round thee throng To gild each happy day. When fond lips with their glad, dear thrill, Shall press thine own once more; And softly of their own free will Shall whisper love's sweet lore; Then think of one who loved thee well In happy days gone by; Though round thee glows a golden spell That carries thee on high. Perhaps when each brave life is o'er And duties are well done; Our hearts shall meet as once of yore Beneath a brighter sun. And there, where life and love are well, We never more shall part; While will return the olden spell To bind us heart to heart. A parting glance—a glimpse of dreamy eyes, A fair young face on which a shadow lies; And she is gone, the plaintive song is done. Arline has faded as the setting sun Fades from the skies, and left no parting trace, Save memories of her pale and haunting face. 'Tis twelve o'clock, the city lies asleep, And far above, within the azure deep, The jeweled stars keep watch. Down from the skies A dark veil falls o'er tired, earthly eyes; Sleep bids us take farewell of care and sin And seek a nobler, purer life within. Night watches like a black-robed, silent nun, When men would sleep, and kindly shades the sun Till morning comes. Upon the grim, dark walls The moon's pale light in softened splendor falls, And 'neath a mantle of redeeming light Hides each unsightly stain and time-worn blight; While unto eyes now old and dim with grief, Come visions of a childhood glad, though brief, When mother-love touched from their hearts all care And left the impress of her teachings there. As rifts in hanging clouds through which the rays Of silvery moonlight glance, so o'er each heart Steal flitting gleams of happy golden days, When in life's drama sorrow took no part. Into a stately dwelling dark and old, A woman glides with troubled, weary air Her face is pale, her hands are white and cold, The silken hood falls from her loosened hair; She heeds it not, but listlessly stands, With thoughtful eyes and tightly folded hands. At last the maid with noiseless step draws near, Removes her wraps and in her listening ear Speaks these few words: "In passing through the crowd To-night, a man of face and manner proud, This missive gave to me. I looked around,—- For one brief moment his face upon me frowned, Then he was gone, and though I scanned the street, His form again my glances did not meet." The lady takes the note with careless hands, Then turns to where the ling'ring maid still stands And bids her go. At last she is alone, With eyes indifferent, though thoughtful grown, She looks upon the note. "Oh woman's heart, Can you and earthly love ne'er dwell apart? Why is it though I would not love, love's pain Must ever follow me. Are hearts so weak That they must love though love is all in vain, And all unworthy is the prize they seek. Ah, many like to this do I receive, Couched in such words as do my proud heart grieve; And oft I wish that woman had no power, So fleet, it lingers but a tearful hour, To draw unto herself the love of man, Whose shallow depths too well her eyes may scan. Too oft his love with deep and fearful blight Steals from her woman's life its holiest light. My heart is not for love, though love is well, And oft it hath a dear and happy spell. Wrapped in the cherished mission of my art, Contentment dwells within my earnest heart. Within the rippling measures of my song The choicest treasures of the world belong. Why seek for more, the world and fame are mine, Then wherefore love, though love should be divine?" At last she reads the note; upon her face A deep indifference lies,—a cold, calm grace; But suddenly her eyes light up, her hands Are trembling, with a nervous haste she stands And glances o'er the page. What can this be, Arline, that brings such new-found pain to thee? At first her eyes are filled with unshed tears, Brought back by memories of other years; Anon, her mind by wondering fear is wrought Awakened by some new unwelcome thought. Ah! these the words that stir her heart and soul, And write new truths on life's unwritten scroll. "Arline, from all the world thou fame hast won. A crown thou wear'st that fades not with the sun; Yet chide me not, if now unto thy ear I speak such words as thou may'st grieve to hear, For I shall give thee tidings from the shore Which knows thy face and welcome step no more. "The two beloved ones left alone, each day, Grieved more and more until in peace at last The bounding line of life was safely past, And all their sorrow then was put away. They pined in vain for that dear birdling flown, Who, with swift wings had left them there alone. Yet oft in gentle tones they spoke of thee And longed they fair, young face once more to see. Unto our far-off shore there sometimes came Faint rumors of thy longed-for, new-found fame. This gave them joy indeed, yet more of pain. For thus they knew their hopes were all in vain. Allured unto the world was thy young heart;—- The gay, bright world in which they had no part. "But, ere thy mother's eyes were closed in sleep, She gave to me a secret strange to keep; 'Twas this, that though they called thee daughter, child, No blood of theirs flowed in thy veins, thy race Was of a noble kind, to splendor born; An ancestry who wore a kingly grace, The traces of a lineage undefiled. Upon thy brow their dauntless pride is worn—- But stay, thy mother, child, though strangely fair, Was but a singer whose voice of wondrous power Thine own is like, a voice that filled the air With strange, sweet sounds, and oft, in many an hour, Enchantment threw o'er all the eager throng Who came to hear. Enthralled by her glad song One young heart pined; low at her feet he laid The glory of his life that she might wear His crown of love. His wife she soon was made; They lived awhile a happy, loving pair, Until thou show'dst thy tiny, smiling face, And then thy mother died that thou might'st live. He grieved as only strong, brave men can grieve For what is lost. Then wandered off a pace To seek new life in lands across the sea; He left thee here, thy life was wild and free. Long years ago came tidings of his death, Born sadly on the wind's taint whispering breath. He was a peer, the last of all his race, His Saxon strength was written on thy face. Yet in thy veins thy mother's Southern blood Is bounding with its warm, impetuous flood. Enough; my words are wandering; a will He left that may thy heart with gladness fill, Thy girlish right be recognized at last And left for thee his rich and vast estate. Into the world's deep tide thy life is cast, Yet thou art still the mistress of thy fate. If thou would'st wear thy birthright's name and power Speak but the word and claim thy rightful dower." And this is all, her head is bending low, From shaded eyes the tears unbidden flow. Across her face the darkening shadows fly That tell too well the thoughts that hidden lie. "Oh, God! where is the joy that honor brings, Where is the spell a golden glory flings, When one short hour, like this, of passing pain, Can prove the brightest hopes of life are vain? I fondly dreamed that fame's short, fleeting power, Could satisfy my heart in every hour. Then wherefore is this pain, these sudden tears, That fell like rain upon the last few years, And wash their glory out? What joy is mine, When two dear hearts that loved me as their own, Have gone and left me, saddened and alone! Sweet mother, had I heard that voice of thine My life had not been thus. Can fame, though dear, Replace that loss or save me from one tear? And can it fill my heart through all the years—- Oh, God! be kind, my heart is full of fears." A passionate misery o'er her fair face swept, It awakened all the fires that long had slept. She threw the missive down, and paced the floor With restless steps, then suddenly stood still. Unto her heart there came a dreadful thrill Of grief as she had never felt before; Her face grew pale as death, her lips were white, And then she cried, "Oh! Father, pity me, For I am grieved and full of doubt to-night. I sink as one into a dark and lonely sea Where ships are not, so desolate it seems. Oh! can it be my aim in life is wrong, Are hearts no better when they hear my song! My visions fair,—Oh! are they then but dreams, That do no good, but only lure my heart From woman's truer paths in life apart? "Oh! Adrian, had'st thou then the better thought, And have I but a web of sorrow wrought? Do all our hopes but lead to care and pain, Has life no sunshine, only clouds and rain? Has woman no power to rouse to nobler deeds The heart of man, and fill his higher needs! Oh, God! in heaven, guide thy child to-night, Upon my longings shed thy holiest light. Oh! mother, with thy tender, loving eyes, Look down upon me from the starlit skies." Upon her knees she sinks upon the floor As one upon a wild and stormy shore; Her face against the velvet cushion pressed With hands clasped tightly to her throbbing breast. Her robes of satin sweep the floor; her hair Unloosened, falls low down, a golden snare Of wondrous lights and shades; and pale and cold Her face gleams 'neath that veil of brown and gold. Her breath comes quick, she battles with the storm That gathers in her breast and trembling form. She stills her heart—heeds not its painful throb, Drives back her longings, stifles every sob; And bravely through the watches of the night, She turns her soul to God for help and light. A prayer breathed low, a struggle long and wild, Then peace comes near, and like a weary child, Worn out with grief, Arline lays low her head. A silence falls, the night is almost fled, The lamp burns low, the moon with mystic grace Looks down upon her fair, uplifted face. She moves not, o'er her dusky, shaded eyes The lids lay closed, a moonlit splendor lies Upon her broad, white brow, and cheeks of snow Are pressed against the crimson velvet's glow On which her head is lain. Oh, ne'er was wrought A fairer form than thine, Arline, nor thought Was ever purer than thine own; though wild And free thy life has ever been, a child Indeed thou art in ways of sin and wrong. Within thy eyes and silvery sounding song, There ever lives a simple, heaven-born truth. An earnest motive and a girl's fair youth Are thine, and though thy heart is wrought with fears— Ah! sacred unto heaven those falling tears— For these are more to Him than many a prayer Said by unholy lips with humble air. God does not care so much for empty deeds, If pure the motive that such action feeds. Then rest, Arline; upon thy pale, young face There falls the peace of heaven, a lovely grace; Around thy head the moon's bright, silver rays Are not more stainless than thy youthful days.
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