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PAGE 6

Maurine – Part 3 [One Golden Twelfth-Part Of A Checkered Year]
by [?]

I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart,
And viewed her as I ne’er had done before.
I gazed upon her features o’er and o’er;
Marked her white, tender face–her fragile form,
Like some frail plant that withers in the storm;
Saw she was fairer in her new-found joy
Than e’er before; and thought, “Can I destroy
God’s handiwork, or leave it at the best
A broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?”
I bent my head and gave her one last kiss,
And sought my room, and found there such relief
As sad hearts feel when first alone with grief.

The moon went down, slow sailing from my sight,
And left the stars to watch away the night.
O stars, sweet stars, so changeless and serene!
What depths of woe your pitying eyes have seen!
The proud sun sets, and leaves us with our sorrow,
To grope alone in darkness till the morrow.
The languid moon, e’en if she deigns to rise,
Soon seeks her couch, grown weary of our sighs;
But from the early gloaming till the day
Sends golden-liveried heralds forth to say
He comes in might; the patient stars shine on,
Steadfast and faithful, from twilight to dawn.
And, as they shone upon Gethsemane,
And watched the struggle of a God-like soul,
Now from the same far height they shone on me,
And saw the waves of anguish o’er me roll.

The storm had come upon me all unseen:
No sound of thunder fell upon my ear;
No cloud arose to tell me it was near;
But under skies all sunlit, and serene,
I floated with the current of the stream,
And thought life all one golden-haloed dream.
When lo! a hurricane, with awful force,
Swept swift upon its devastating course,
Wrecked my frail bark, and cast me on the wave
Where all my hopes had found a sudden grave.
Love makes us blind and selfish; otherwise
I had seen Helen’s secret in her eyes;
So used I was to reading every look
In her sweet face, as I would read a book.
But now, made sightless by love’s blinding rays,
I had gone on unseeing, to the end
Where Pain dispelled the mist of golden haze
That walled me in, and lo! I found my friend
Who journeyed with me–at my very side –
Had been sore wounded to the heart, while I,
Both deaf and blind, saw not, nor heard her cry.
And then I sobbed, “O God! I would have died
To save her this.” And as I cried in pain,
There leaped forth from the still, white realm of Thought
Where Conscience dwells, that unimpassioned spot
As widely different from the heart’s domain
As north from south–the impulse felt before,
And put away; but now it rose once more,
In greater strength, and said, “Heart, wouldst thou prove
What lips have uttered? Then go, lay thy love
On Friendship’s altar, as thy offering.”
“Nay!” cried my heart, “ask any other thing –
Ask life itself–’twere easier sacrifice.
But ask not love, for that I cannot give.”

“But,” spoke the voice, “the meanest insect dies,
And is no hero! heroes dare to live
When all that makes life sweet is snatched away.”
So with my heart, in converse, till the day,
In gold and crimson billows, rose and broke,
The voice of Conscience, all unwearied, spoke.
Love warred with Friendship, heart with Conscience fought,
Hours rolled away, and yet the end was not.
And wily Self, tricked out like tenderness,
Sighed, “Think how one, whose life thou wert to bless,
Will be cast down, and grope in doubt and fear!
Wouldst thou wound him, to give thy friend relief?
Can wrong make right?”
“Nay!” Conscience said, “but Pride
And Time can heal the saddest hurts of Love.
While Friendship’s wounds gape wide and yet more wide,
And bitter fountains of the spirit prove.”

At length, exhausted with the wearing strife,
I cast the new-found burden of my life
On God’s broad breast, and sought that deep repose
That only he who watched with sorrow knows.