Anent the Scottish border stands a house,
A shady house and fair, whose moss-grown towers
Look out upon a moor, where dappled grouse
Lurk 'mid the autumn heather's dappled flowers,—
Kind nature's bowers.
Betwixt the house and moor the landscape swells
In waves of verdure; where the grass lies green,
Earth's heart has sometimes quaked; those bosky dells
Are channels of her tears;—more high her mien
For what hath been.
And all within the copses and the dells,
And up the slopes, and out upon the moor,
A jubilant and ceaseless music tells
Of nature's life, which breaks out and runs o'er
At every pore.
Here laugh the shaded brooks, and here the birds
Contend as though the loudest must have right;
Till Philomel flings forth his shrill last words
Far out upon the silence of the night,
And ends the fight.
Here on the blushing clover-blossom clings
The bee, till drunk with joy you see him rise,
To wander homeward on unsteady wings,
And fill the air with murmurs, or with sighs
Drawn murmur-wise.
Here be the falls so turbulent, with rains
Of autumn swollen; here the moor-cock crows;
Here furtive pheasants glance across the lanes,
And—where the ruffled grasses softly close—
The covey rose.
The wind which shakes the poplars never brings
The groan of engines; nature here holds sway,
And peoples all her haunts with living things;
While in their midst—with other life than they—
Lives May, young May.
She is at home within that house so shady,
At home amid its bowers and turfy walks;
At home to-day, the cherished queen and lady,
But listening to the grey old rook who stalks
On high and talks,
She dreams he tells of Melvilles past away,
Of heroes, wits, and beauties of her line,
Who fought their lives out ere the rook was grey,—
For Melville blood had been in auld lang syne
Hot as new wine.
And listening thus, she sees herself to be
A link or coil of that long line,—no more;
A coil, as of a cable 'neath the sea
Of time, which guards a message through the roar
From shore to shore.
But young and happy May! she barely sees
Herself at all; not young alone in years,
Still younger in the large, high-hearted ease
With which she takes her life as it appears,—
Joy, toil or tears;
Keeping no hard count current with her fate,
Nor gazing all the colour from the weft
Of being, but to certify its state,—
Until of strength, sap, liberty bereft,
Scant life is left.
Nay, not so she. The Melvilles of the 'Place'
Were made of such rare stuff that this, the last
Fresh blossom of the tree, bore not a trace
Of languor from the seven ages past—
All used so fast.
You ask me was she fair, as she was fresh,
And hearty; nay, I know not well indeed;
I never saw May Melville in the flesh,
But those who have are very well agreed;
Rede you their rede.
'Bonny? I think so,—bonny as the morn
And winsome as the lilac flowers in May;
She'd dimple into smiles like standing corn,
Blown on by idle July winds at play
At peep of day.
'And then her step, when she had aught to bear,
Scarce rung the heather-bells, it was so light;
I doubt the lark e'en knew that she was there,
I'll gage the nestlings never took to flight,—
So free, so light!
'I mind that when she came and spread her hand
Cool on a sick man's brow, like fallen snow,
It might ha' been a fairy with a wand
Had bade the ugly fever-fancies go;—
Bonny? I trow
'In sooth, that she was bonny! Gaffer Graeme,
When for all others he had lost his sight,
Would say that he could see her when she came,—
She seemed to bear about with her a light
By day or night.'
May had a cousin; I had said a brother,
So close of old had been their interchange,
But some time parted, when they met each other
Again, if still as fond, they seemed more strange;
He at the ‘Grange,’
She at the ‘Place’ abode; a winter's walk
Divided them,—they sometimes met half way;
On one or other roof, I think, a hawk
Poised midway on the wing in broad noon-day,
Had marked his prey.
May had a father; he was erudite,
Loved books, and garnered fleeting Border lore;
But never from his mildewed folios blight
Had reached his heart; than all his musty store
He loved May more.
May had a friend; a little pale-faced child,
That stress of weather in its early fate
Had driven to the harbour safe and mild
Of Melville Place, still tarried there to wait
Death or a mate.
Thrice happy May! a father, cousin, friend,—
What wanted she in all the wide world more?
A mother? Who shall say where love must end?
Her mother was that bright one gone before,
Who held the door
Of heaven ajar to catch her upward gaze,
And left a trail of light from out the tomb,
Had guided May through all the tangled maze
Of a child's thoughts, and from our common doom
Still chased the gloom.
When May and Cissy, clasping hand in hand,
Flew o'er the moor beneath the driving spray
Of Autumn clouds, or made a breathless stand,—
One rosy face still met the wind at bay,—
One shrunk away.
May gave her tresses freely to the wind
To do his pleasure with, in sport or rage;
To make of them a silken lattice blind,
Or carry them behind her as a page
Courtly and sage.
But Cissy made a sheath of two slight hands,
And clasped her head when ruder breezes drave
Incontinent against its gleaming bands;
Then pressed on May—on May so strong and brave
To stand or save.
May kilted up her flowing skirts, and set
Her foot's firm arch beyond the burn or brake;
While Cissy on each branching thorn would fret
Her fringes, and her homeward course might take,
In her own wake.
Oh, happy rambles! when the light limbs bore
Still lighter hearts,—so full, so free, so gay!
With that long walk of life spread out before,
And ending—nowhere,—or far, far away
Where—none could say.
And sometimes there were three of such young hearts
Thus borne across the bracken of the moor;
'Twas Walter then who calmed the timid starts
Of Cissy; while to gather and explore
May went before.
To him she turned when some importunate
Bold bramble held her back against her will,
And on his hands she pressed her own,—her weight,—
Her whole slight weight, within the clasp, until
She clomb the hill.
Then they would sit together on the crown,
Walter betwixt the twain,—so fond, so blest!
And each young heart would feel in looking down—
That of the world around them each possessed
The nearest, best.
Can three so feel together, and not err
Where erring has been madness, yea, slow death,
Yea, life more hard than death, as they aver
Who look but on the seeming? Love and faith
The leal heart saith
May conquer death, but what shall conquer life?—
Life which is only felt in throes of pain,
Is known but as some blind and deadly strife,
Some labour never-ceasing, tho' in vain
The throb and strain!
'Love, love and faith,' again the leal heart saith,
'There is no other cure for mortal pain,
They conquer life as they have conquered death,
And win from anguish spoils which shall remain
The martyr's gain.'
Walter, with many fashions of quaint speech,
With many quips of dress, of tone, and bearing,
With some new modes for those old thoughts, which each
New generation gives a separate airing,
Never out-wearing,—
With these and other fancies, quickly caught
In youth, and worked up in the mind like straws
Which bind our tale of wisdom, Walter brought
From England much ripe knowledge of the laws,
Much frank applause
For skilful boating; learnt upon the Isis
And practised on the Tweed, where Walter flings
A glittering fringe from off his oars, and rises
From out the stream, which trembles into rings
As cleft by wings.
For sitting, when he passes, on the bank,
You only see a man with feathered oars,
And nothing of the skiff so low and lank,
Which glances stealthily between the shores
Bordered by moors.
And standing looking on in sweet surprise,
Would May and Cissy watch him as he flew,
And catch the smile flashed up from Walter's eyes;
Then take their way in silence, smiling too,—
Why, neither knew.
But Walter rowing was a goodly sight,
With floating chesnut hair, and face a-glow
From hot and eager use of youthful might,
And flux of youthful life; and they, I trow,
Had thought him so.
There came a day of spring,—of quick, warm spring,
The violet breathed new wine upon the air,
The happy song-birds made the copses ring,
The swollen Tweed danced by as if to dare
The old sunk weir.
In youth we all have known some days like this,
When Nature's tides and pulses seem to rise;
When, if each wandering breeze had borne a kiss,
Our frequent blushes could no otherwise
Suffuse our eyes.
Well, May and Cissy trod on violets,
And took their way in laughing haste, to see
How it should fare with Walter, and the bets
They'd wagered on the match that was to be,
The match where he,
He and some college comrades, should rehearse
Their battles of the Isis. Hist! what loud
Sharp voices,—what wild voices shout and curse
Up yonder! and what is't that moving crowd
Is over-bowed?
'Tis Walter, white as foam, with dripping hair,
Which hangs like brown sea-tangle, dank and chill,
With not a breath to heave the breast made bare;—
Walter, but with no voice, no pulse, no will,—
Dead and still.
Weak Cissy shut the vision out, and stopped
Her wounded ears; but May—would she too fail?
With one scared look, one panting sigh, May dropped
Slanting to earth as slants the summer hail,—
As cold, as pale.
Stricken as if by lightning, when each breath
Had seemed so charged with life, that any thought
Too quick with passion, had been passing death,—
Smiting her with a heart so over-wrought,—
So tempest-fraught.
When May came back again, and bent above
The sunny bank where Walter had been laid,
I think she must have warmed him with the love
Which trembled from her eyes as she essayed
To give him aid
And underneath the open, cloudless sky,
Beside the road,—by all the breezes blown,—
To many a heedful ear and curious eye,
A secret was laid bare which had been known
To God alone.
And underneath that sky too bright, too clear,—
Beside the bank with violets all a-bloom,
A murmured word was caught by one—too near,
Which made a glowing Paradise a tomb,
And sealed a doom.
But what of Cissy's name on Walter's lips
Just launched upon a half-unconscious sigh?
What? What of breakers seen a-head of ships—
Those foam-writ lines betwixt the sea and sky—
But danger nigh?
At times the current of our fate is strong
While we are weak; then, faltering, we advance
Guided by other hands, or float along,
Caught in the high trade winds of circumstance
Which we call chance.
Just so it fared with May when Walter came
With open hand to pay her as he could
The price of priceless love;—his gracious name,
His youth, his strength, himself as there he stood
Gallant and good.
Why did such meanings kindle in their eyes—
Her father's and their uncle's?—and what made
Them speak so low? what caused her to surprise
Their furtive smiles if she in some sweet shade
With Walter stayed?
Why did the household faces look so glad?
Why did the outside greeting ring so deep?
Was she alone of all the blythe world sad?
And that because a name still made her leap
Up from her sleep.
Oh, Walter! Walter! could he sit alone,
Safe from the tumult of a heart which beat
Too high, and in the silence hear his own—
Would it then say that life became more sweet
Laid at her feet?
She knew not yet; but soon her strong love gave
Strength to her soul; then said she: 'Cousin Walter,
I know you true, and truth alone can save
Us now, so speak it for God's love, and alter
No word, nor falter;—
'If I should share your life, your home, your heart,
Would it appear at all that you had less?—
Or would the whole seem doubled by the part
I had in it, for ever to possess—
To blight or bless?'
And Walter, with a voice less passion thrilled
Than hers had been, made answer: 'I should know
The wealth I owned, but young men's hearts are chilled
With early wanderings, and cold streams which flow,
Cold thoughts which blow
'Too keenly down the open fields of life
Where we must strive, the while you sit and nurse
The golden dreams with which all youth is rife,
Beside the hearth; 'tis knowledge with its curse,—
No more, no worse;
'I would to God that I could pay you back
Your heart with one more buoyant than my own;
That cannot be,—but mine shall never lack
The loyal faith that can its wrongs alone
In part atone.'
May gathered up his words and looks to keep,
Think, weep, and act upon when she was free.
Some glean as much and more than others reap,—
So May knew more than Walter knew,—yet she
Loved more than he.
And talking with her heart alone, she said:
'My love—the key which should unlock his fate—
But shows to him a chamber of the dead;
True love when not conjoined with its true mate,
Is dull as hate.
'Mine still would leave the banquet of his life
Unwarmed and dim, altho' its quenchless flame
Consumed me where I sate,—the phantom wife
Who made the love the he could not share, a claim,
And thought no shame.'
It fell out ere the two again had speech,—
Next day, when all were met at Melville Place—
That Walter's uncle took a hand of each,
While wishes into words flowed out a-pace,
And May's white face
Flushed with a sudden tempest of her blood,
Grew white again, and whiter as she held
Her own against the strong retreating flood,
And all the faint, sweet memories she compelled
To lie there quelled.
She was so earnest in her love and woe,
That no false shames arose to complicate
Her meaning, as she spoke it sad and low,
But still as one whose word had all the weight
Of solemn fate.
'We two are cousins, and we never knew
A time each did not hold the other dear;
Forgive me now—my words are over due—
We never can on earth be brought more near
Than we stand here.'
What sound was that? 'Twas Cissy who let slip
A book she held; she raised it and again
Read on oblivious of companionship,
And deaf to voices by surprise and pain
Sharpened in vain.
Yes, all in vain they spread before the sun
The vision of two lives in concert led,—
Of two whose lands, hopes, memories should be one;—
'I pray you spare me,' still was all May said,
'I will not wed.'
What cared she, having trampled down the fond
Vain hope that had assailed her heart so long,
For all that could be said or urged beyond?
It swooned within her ears, and, right or wrong,
Died like a song.
But once she hearkened; 'twas when Walter's voice
Had spoken; then, her white and fluttering soul
Crept to her ears;—but nothing said 'Rejoice!'
No gust of feeling through her purpose stole,
Swamping the whole.
His pleading was so calm, and when she turned
And looked him in the eyes, they were so true,—
Ay, true as death,—no fond impatience burned
Within them as she sounded them, and drew
His secret through.
Young hope tries hard for life, with May it died—
Died out but now; she pressed his offered hand,—
Pressed it and laid it gently at his side;
Then stepped before him pale, and calm, and grand
As champions stand.
She waved him into silence, and then smote
Her hands together: 'I will die before
I marry cousin Walter! God take note
Of this my vow!' They heard her and forbore
To urge her more.
How could it happen that a girl like May,
So loved, so watched, and tended, could be pressed
With busy cares from dawn till close of day,
And, sick or weary, like a soul possessed
Still find no rest?
How could it happen that so fond a heart
At once laid down its burthen of young joy,
To bear in others' lives its busy part?
Had love to her been like a painted toy
Tears could destroy!
Her father in his lettered ease content
Would smile to hear the light, the eager tread
With which she fluttered passed him, came and went;
But Cissy watched her, and ''Twere well,' she said,
'That May were dead.'
When all was smooth to sight at Melville Place,
Its master looked from off his books one day;
'You run your life as one who runs a race,'
He said, 'and we will call you no more May
In love or play;
'But Martha, as your first name lies in state
Down in the register; since you, like her
Of Bethany, are cumbered with the weight
Of ‘many things,’ and to your peace prefer
This noise and stir.'
So she was Martha who had once been May;
A habit grew in time from out the jest;
We often drop our natures by the way,
And why not of our names be dispossessed
With all the rest?
Well, Martha Melville, many loved the sound,
So homely as it fell upon the ear,
And people learnt through all the country round
To speak betwixt a blessing and a tear
The name so dear.
But ere this followed, Martha rose one night,
And, goaded by the spirit of her mind,
Looked out to see if that pale thread of light,
It often had been grief to her to find
So late, now shined.
Yes, there it was,—her father at his work
Deep in the night,—he was a Melville too,
Who never felt the stress, the strain, or irk
Of aught he did, while aught remained to do
Or struggle through.
And, goaded by the spirit, she went on
And came to where he was, and drew a chair,
And sate herself beside him. May was gone,—
Sure, Martha's was that brow so crown'd with care,
That wistful air.
Viewed in the flicker of the lamp, she seemed
Strange and unreal to one who knew her best
When full upon her face the day-light streamed,
Or some late dawn rose blushing from its rest,
To find her dressed.
She took no note at all of his surprise,
But said quite simply: 'Father, have you thought
How Cissy should be dowered? Is it wise
To leave it? Maybe one her hand had sought
Had it held aught.'
He answered her: 'And would you have it so—
That Cissy's hand were sought for that it held?'
And she returned: 'How many must forego
The thing they love, for while their hearts rebelled,
Poortith compelled.'
He said: 'I see that, true;' and she again
Broke in: 'I pray you grant me one request,—
I think I never sued you yet in vain;—
If she but take my sponsor's late bequest,
I shall have rest.'
He looked up sternly: 'Spoken like a child,
Who holds too light the labour and the pain
Of those such wealth is gathered by, and piled
Coin upon coin,—who risk their souls to gain
What you disdain.'
She bowed: 'I know that well, and feel so sad
The labour and the soil of lives like these,
That I would have it go to make hearts glad
That now are troubled,—not to nurse the less
Of selfish ease.'
Then he again: 'And if you could make good
Your venture,—if your paper or your gold
Did work the wonders that you think they could,—
What would they say—men, wiser or more cold,—
When they were told?'
She smiled: 'I had not thought of them at all,
But only of two Melvilles,—you and me,—
Content by their award to stand or fall,—
And then of these,—what think you their decree
Might haply be?'
She paused and looked upon the faded faces
Which glimmered from the wall: 'By worldly rules
Those warrior-saints, who now have found their places,
Would count for little better than blind tools,—
Madmen or fools!'
Her voice sunk lower: 'Thus 't will ever be,
The base ones of the earth—the men of delf,—
Will scoff, as once they scoffed at Calvary;
And call to those who lay down life, or pelf,
‘Look—save thyself.’'
He listened and was silent; then replied:
'Still—noble deed in noble cause be done!
These for their country sacrificed or died,
And for all countries underneath the sun
That blessed One.'
She rose up robed in one rich, purple blush,—
The mocking garment of her humbled pride;
You might have heard her heart, so deep the hush
And stillness of the night,—so high the tide
Which struck her side.
'Only for love,' she said, 'such deeds are done,—
For love of one, of many, or of all;
I do beseech you for the love of one;
No griefs but those on Walter's head that fall
My heart appal.
'Walter loves Cissy, whom he cannot wed
Undowered as she is,—what need of more!
If I love Walter, must my love lie dead
Because I cannot as his wife outpour
The whole vast store?'
The cry within her heart, so long suppressed,
Found utterance then, and issued not in vain;
Her father caught her weeping to his breast,
And in the sorrow of that tender strain,
Bore half her pain.
And Cissy should be portioned at her will,
Walter made happy! Would he could have died
For her—the child who never would fulfil
Her woman's destiny, but at his side
Through life abide.
Oh, sacred moments! Love had need be fond,
Well placed, and true, that would not look in vain
The blessedness of such to go beyond!
And joy had need be pure that could disdain
Such noble pain!
When many days had passed, and Martha lay
Wakeful in bed, and thought of two who went
From Melville Place, and blest her by the way,—
I think in something richer than content
That night was spent.
Yet sometimes there arose dark days, when all
Her love and faith scarce served her bitter need;
Then she would turn her face against the wall,
Or strike her wounded heart, and let it bleed
In some good deed.
But striving, hoping, thinking for the mass,
And working for the few beneath her hand,
Short time in tears she could afford to pass,—
Nor much in looking from a higher stand
At sky or land.
A working woman's wholesome life she led;
Long live the flowers we gather in the rain!
She who fed others never went unfed,
And, loving much, she never loved again—
As once,—in vain!
But then the passing years,—they took from her
What they must take from all,—familiar faces,
To leave her lonely with the vacant stir
Of life about her, and the empty places,
And silent traces
At last of only one, whose heart had been
The anchor of her rest. Lord, who shall dare
To think what they may suffer, all unseen,
Who sit and watch athwart an empty chair
The firelight glare?
The brave heart suffered, but it failed not yet;
Her heaven waxed full the while her earth grew bare;
She thought of how her kindred's seats were set
On high, and one left vacant even there—
Just one to spare!
Earth's fountains troubled, wasted, or dried up,
She took the life that dies not for her own;
And living waters from a golden cup
Would reach her, with glad flutterings all unknown
Since youth had flown.

No more she sought to still her grieving heart
With labour only; she had goodlier balm;
And having found withal the better 'part,'
Her whole life breathed in one harmonious, calm,
Concluding psalm.
When worldly mothers rached with care went by,
And looked upon the 'Place,' in trees deep-seated,
They turned and clasped their burthens with a sigh;—
To them a life so mournfully completed
Was life defeated.
But angels, even they who loved her best,
Their tender watch about the old 'Place' keeping,
The while she did her work or took her rest,
Would see the golden harvest she was reaping,
And cease their weeping.
And when the fulness of her time was come,
And loving eyes no longer saw her face,
The only words they set upon her tomb
Were: 'Martha Mary Melville, of the ‘Place;’
Such—by God's grace!'