Constance Fenimore Woolson

“ Hast thou not longed for me?
I gave my vow
To be thine own. See! I am come. My hand
I lay in thine. Oh, speak to me! Command
My every breath; full humbly I obey,
The true wife longs to feel a master’s sway,
Longs to do homage, so her idol prove
Ruler—nay, despot of her willing love.
Didst thou not hear me whisper while she spake.
“I love thee—oh, I love thee, Meredith?”
I would not that her childish grief should break
Thy peace up in thy heaven; even there
Thou longest for my love, and near the stair
Where souls come up from earth thou’rt standing now
Watching for me. ”

“ Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls
To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice;
It formed a part of worship once, and I
Do hold it now the part that deepest lies
In woman’s love, the dim sanctuary
Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept
E’en from the one she loves: all told, except
This mystic feeling which she may not know
How to express in words—the martyr’s glow
Idealized—the wish to give him joy
Through her own suffering, and so destroy
All part that self might play—to offer pure
Her love to her heart’s idol. ”

“ Excuse might be, since that is born of love;
But this is scorn, and, by the God above,
I’ll set you in your place!
Do you decide
The right and wrong for this broad world of ours,
Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyes
Veiled o’er with prejudice are yet so wise
That they must judge the earth, and call it good
Or evil as it follows their small rules,
The petty, narrow dogmas of the schools
That hang on Calvin! ”

“ I played, e’en though unconsciously.
Oh, mad,
Mad, mad my love for thee! the same to-day—
The same, the same. I could not be a wife—
I could not stop the sun! No love but thee,
My own, my own! no kiss but thine—no voice
To call me those sweet names that memory
Brings back with tears. Ah! had I any choice,
I still must love thee down beneath the sod
More than all else—though grandest soul that God
Had ever made did woo me. Love, my heart
Is thine, and ever must be thine ”

“ O Willie! can I live
Without you? Love, my love, why are you dead
And I alive? O noble, golden head,
Whose every curl I know, how still you lie
On this poor pillow, and how dreamlessly
You sleep! But waken now; look on me, dear;
Open those close-shut eyes, for I am here—{68}
Yes, here all this long way from home. Oh, speak—
Speak to me, Willie.—Ah, how cold his cheek—
How icy cold! O God! he’s dead, he’s dead!
Woman of the House.
Yes, he is dead, dead as King David. Truth
He was right handsome for a Yankee youth—
Rode his horse well.
The Lady (aside) .
I love you, Meredith. ”

“ E’en if I could; gone to his God—at rest
From all earth’s toil.
Dear love, upon thy breast
I lay my hand; I yield thee back to Him
Who gave thee to me; and, if thou hast wrought
Wrong to our troth in deed, or word, or thought,
I now forgive thee. Sleep in peace; the dim,
Dark grave has its awaking.
As the hart
Longed for the water-brooks, so have I yearned
For token, Willie, that thy love returned
To me at last. Lo! ”

“ To the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned,
“I know that my Redeemer lives,” she said;
“He that believes on him, though he were dead,
Yet shall he live!”
And so passed from their sight.
The troopers ride away,
On to the south; the men who fill the grave
With hurried shovelfuls in whispers say,
“That’s part of Morgan’s band.” And one, a slave,
Looks down the road, and mutters: “That was him—
Young Cap’en Morgan’s self! These eyes is dim,
But they knows Morgan! Morgan!—what! why, bless
Your hearts, I know him, and I know Black Bess—
’Twas Bess he rode.”{87} ”

“ Stands still, and cold through every vital part
Death breathes his icy breath?
Oh, my own love!
I clasp thee in my arms, come back to me!
O ice-cold lips I kiss, ye are as dear
As ever! Come! Thy idol waits for thee,
Waits—weeps.
Dost thou not hear me there above
Where thou hast gone? Come back and take the bride
Who nestles weeping, longing, at the side{70}
Of thy deserted body. Oh! ”

“ The contrast between the magnificent woman of the world and the Puritan country-girl is done in true masterly way, and that the one should continue faithful to love through her life, though still reigning in social royalty, while the other marries as piously as she mourned, and puts away the dead youth’s memory forever—is perfectly true to their natures. To present such marked types in rivalry, and show the self-abnegation in the rich nature and the innocent self-absorption of the narrow nature, was well worth while. ”

“ The golden-haired young soldier lies at rest
Where o’er his head the steely shadows pass,
Far in the fair Kentucky border-land,
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass.
1864.
WASHINGTON. The Lady (with an open letter) .
Married! Nay, now the little vexing fear
That troubled the calm hollow of my grief
With its small aching is withdrawn, and clear
The certainty—she never loved him. Brief
Her forgetting—brief!—But I will not chide;{88}
All happiness go with thee, gentle bride,
And of my gold a sister’s share! ”

“ They draw not rein until their glad huzzas
Are echoing through the land of the Blue Grass.
—O lovely land,
O swell of grassy billows far and near,
O wild, free elms, whose swaying arms expand
As if to clasp me, hold my love as dear
As thine own son! I hasten to his side—
Ye roads, lie smooth; ye streams, make safe the ford ”

“ Her at her word. In truth, for her own sake
’Twere charity to leave her, hasten on,
Find my own love, and with him swift be gone
Ere she can reach him; for his ardor strong{50}
(Curbed, loyal heart, so long!) ,
Heightened by fever, will o’ersweep all bounds,
And fall around me in a fiery shower
Of passion’s words.— And yet—this inner power—
This strange, unloving justice that surrounds
My careless conscience, will not let me go! ”

“ But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass.
Do you not love that land?
{15}
The Maiden.
I do not know
Aught of it.
The Lady.
Yes; but surely you have heard
Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow,
Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd
Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred
For victory—the rare Kentucky speed
That wins the races? ”

“ Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson’s poem, ‘Two Women,’ begun in the January and finished in the February number of Appletons’ Journal, is of such remarkable quality as to deserve a wider reading than it is likely to have. To read it in completeness gives one, beyond its faults—which are principally those of imperfect versification and a certain formality of phraseology—a sense of power in character-drawing (coloring enough, too, for that matter) , in dramatic situation and in expression of deep emotions, which is rarely met with. ”

“ And many a hair-breadth ’scape, made swift salute,
And, all dismounting, honor to the dead
Paid silently, not knowing ’twas their own
Bullet by night that laid him there:—so strange
The riddle of men’s life, its little range{86}
Thick with crossed fates, though each one stands alone
To mortal eyes.
The rope slackened, the clay
Had reached its final resting-place. Then she
Who loved him best, in all her rich array
Stepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands cast
The first clod on his heart. “I yield to thee,
Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fast
As sacred trust! ”

“ Of Nature) that his love may hold its sway
E’en as I saw him last, when, at my feet,
He lavished his young heart in burning tide
Of loving words. Oh, not for mine own joy,
But his, I pray this prayer; do thou destroy
All my own part in it.—Ah, love, full sweet
Shall be our meeting. Lo! the longed-for bride
Comes—of her own accord. There is no bliss,
Even in heaven, greater than the kiss
That I do keep for thee!
The Maiden (thinking) . ”

“ Two little lovers o’er the alphabet;
Then one day—I had grown to just sixteen—
Down in the apple-orchard—there—we met,
By chance—and—
The Lady (thinking) .
Blush, thou fine-grained little cheek,
It comforts me to see that e’en thy meek
Child-beauty knows enough of love to blush.{28}
(Speaks.) Nay, you flush
So prettily! Well, must I tell the rest? ”

“ Between the angry South and stubborn North.{47}
Across thy boundaries many times from far
Sweep Morgan’s men, the troopers bold who fill
Ohio with alarm; then, marching forth
In well-drilled ranks with flag, and fife, and drum,
From camp and town the steady blue-coats come,
March east, march west, march north, march south, and find
No enemy except the lawless wind. ”

“ For e’en one moment.
{75}
The Lady.
Lift them not, they’re mine;
My hand alone must touch the holy shrine
Of love and death where the poor relics lie—
Darling (bends, and kisses the letters) , because you loved them!
Let them die,
Go to the grave with him, there on his breast,
Where I would gladly die too—be at rest
Forever.—And he spake of me? ”

“ E’en though before thine eyes bright heaven’s gate
Let out its light: angels might envy thee
Such love as I shall give thee—wait! oh, wait!
THE FARM-HOUSE. The Lady.
The sun is setting, we have passed the mill
Some time; the house is near Waunona Hill,
But the road smooth this way—which doth account
For the discrepancy of names. The gleam
Of the low sun shines out beneath that mass
Of purple thunder-cloud; when we surmount
This little swell of land, its slanting beam{64}
Will light up all the lances of the grass,
The steely hue, the blue of the Blue Grass.
. . . . . . . . . . ”

“ The two women who gave it its name are types of two well-defined classes of American women, but they are sharply drawn as individuals also, and their characters are presented with a boldness and a degree of distinctness which is possible only at the hands of a writer of very considerable dramatic power. ”

“ While passing—bore him to the camp, and there{24}
A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word
Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard,
I left my mother, ill, for in despair
He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know
That they had written, for hot fever drove
His thoughts with whips of flame.—O cruel woe,—O my poor love—
My Willie!
The Lady.
Do not grieve, fair child. This day
Will see you by his side—nay, if you will,
Then lay your head here—weep your grief away.
Tears are a luxury—yes, take your fill ”

“ I stand in bridal white. Lord, hear my vow:
Oh, may I make him happy! Not a thought
Of any other love shall mar the troth
I give for this life. Evils, troubles, naught
But death, shall part us. Thus the marriage-oath.
But after—then—O Willie!
The Mother (entering) .
Art thou dressed?{92}
That’s well, dear one. Never has mother blessed
A child more dutiful, more good.
Come, love,
The bridegroom waits.
THE END.
{93}
T W O W O M E N :
A POEM.
By CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
[REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.]
From the Springfield Republican. ”