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.