Well-on that green-lidded box, her name was painted in yellow;

Dorothy Crump were the words. Crump?
What a horrible name!

Yes, but they gave it to her, because (like

the box) 't was her mother's;

Ready to hand-though of course she had no joy in the name:

She had no kin-and indeed, she never had needed a surname ;

Never had used one at all, never had

made one her own: "Dolly" she was to herself, and to every one else she was "Dolly"; Nothing but "Dolly”; and so, that was enough for a name.

Thus then, her great, green box, her one undoubted possession,

Stood where it was; like her, "never went nowhere at all; Waited, perhaps, as of old, some beautiful Florentine bride-chest,

Till, in the fulness of time, He, the Beloved, appears.— Was there naught else in her room? nothing handy for washing or dressing?

Yes

s; on a plain deal stand, basin, and ewer, and dish:

All of them empty, unused; for the sink was the place of her toilet;

Save on a Sunday - and then, she too could dress at her ease;

Then, by the little sidewall of the diamonded dormer-window

She at a sixpenny glass brush'd out her bonny bright hair.

Ah, what a poor little room! Would you like to sleep in it, ladies?

Innocence sleeps there unharm'd; Honor,

and Beauty, and Peace

Love, too, has come; and with these, even dungeons were easily cheerful;

But, for our Dorothy's room, it is no dungeon at all.

No! through the latticed panes of the diamonded dormer-window

Dorothy looks on a world free and familiar and fair:

Looks on the fair farm-yard, where the poultry and cattle she lives with Bellow and cackle and low-music delightful to her;

Looks on the fragrant fields, with cloudshadows flying above them,

Singing of birds in the air, woodlands and waters around.

She in those fragrant meads has wrought, every year of her girlhood;

Over those purple lands she, too, has follow'd the plough;

And, like a heifer afield, or a lamb that is yean'd in the meadows,

She, to herself and to us, seems like a part of it all.

BEAUTY AT THE PLOUGH

Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet, cool air of October,

High up on Breakheart Field, under the skirts of the wood,

Dolly was ploughing: she wore (why did I not sooner describe it?)

Just such a dress as they all-all the farm-servants around;

Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine and a fitness

Color and pattern and shape suited so aptly to her.

First, on her well-set head a lilac hoodbonnet of cotton,

Framing her amberbright hair, shading her neck from the sun;

Then, on her shoulders a shawl; a coarse red kerchief of woolen,

Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting her berry-brown skin;

Then came a blue cotton frock- dark blue, and spotted with yellow

Sleev'd to the elbows alone, leaving her bonny arms bare;

So that those ruddy brown arms, with the dim, dull blue for a background

Seem'd not so rough as they were softer in color and grain.

All round her ample waist her frock was gather'd and kilted,

Showing her kirtle, that hung down to the calf of the leg :

Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of various color

Striped on a blue-gray ground: sober, and modest, and warm ; Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter by home-knitted stockings; Ending in strong laced boots, such as a ploughman should wear :

Big solid ironshod boots, that added an inch to her stature;

Studded with nails underneath, shoed like a horse, at the heels. After a day at plough, all clotted with earth from the furrows,

Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa Matilda, to yours!

And to the vanish'd hand, and to the ear Whose soft melodious measures are so dear To us who cannot rival them how strange, If thou, the lord of such a various range, Hadst heard this new voice telling Arden's tale!

For this was no prim maiden, scant and pale,

Full of weak sentiment, and thin delight
In pretty rhymes, who mars the resonant
might

Of noble verse with arts rhetorical
And simulated frenzy: not at all!
This was a peasant woman; large and
strong,

Redhanded, ignorant, unused to song
Accustom'd rather to the rudest prose.
And yet, there lived within her rustic clothes
A heart as true as Arden's; and a brain,
Keener than his, that counts it false and vain
To seem aught else than simply what she is.
How singular, her faculty of bliss!

Bliss in her servile work; bliss deep and full

In things beyond the vision of the dull, Whate'er their rank: things beautiful as

these

Sonorous lines and solemn harmonies
Suiting the tale they tell of; bliss in love—
Ah, chiefly that! which lifts her soul above
Its common life, and gives to labors coarse
Such fervor of imaginative force
As makes a passion of her basest toil.

Surely this servant-dress was but a foil
To her more lofty being! As she read,
Her accent was as pure, and all she said
As full of interest and of varied grace
As were the changeful moods, that o'er her
face

Pass'd, like swift clouds across a windy sky,
At each sad stage of Enoch's history.
Such ease, such pathos, such abandonment
To what she utter'd, moulded as she went
Her soft sweet voice, and with such self-
control

Did she, interpreting the poet's soul,

Bridle her own, that when the tale was done I look'd at her, amaz'd: she seem'd like one Who from some sphere of music had come down,

And donn'd the white cap and the cotton gown

247

As if to show how much of skill and art May dwell unthought of, in the humblest heart.

Yet there was no great mystery to tell :
She felt it deeply, so she read it well.

"It keeps the scent for years," said he, (And thou hast kept it);

"And when you scent it, think of me." (He could not mean thus bitterly.)

Ah! I had swept it

Into the dust where dead things rot,
Had I then believ'd his love was not
What I have wept it.

Between the leaves of this holy book,
O flower undying!

A worthless and wither'd weed in look,
I keep thee lying.

The bloom of my life with thee was pluck'd,
And a close-press'd grief its sap hath suck'd,
Its strength updrying.

Thy circles of leaves, like pointed spears, My heart pierce often;

They enter, it inly bleeds, no tears

The hid wounds soften;

Yet one will I ask to bury thee

In the soft white folds of my shroud with me,

Ere they close

my coffin.

The Silence and the Darkness knew!

So is a man's fate born.

He cometh, reaper of the things he sow'd, Sesamum, corn, so much cast in past birth;

And so much weed and poison-stuff, which

mar

Him and the aching earth.

If he shall labor rightly, rooting these, And planting wholesome seedlings where they grew,

shall be,

Mohtasim's jewell'd cup did hold.

The Caliph's face was stern and red,

He snapp'd the lid upon the cup; "Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said, "Till such time as I drink it up. Wallah! the stream my drink shall be, My hallow'd palm my only bowl, Till I have set that lady free,

And seen that Roumi dog's head roll.”

At dawn the drums of war were beat,
Proclaiming, "Thus saith Mohtasim,
'Let all my valiant horsemen meet,
And every soldier bring with him
A spotted steed.' So rode they forth,
A sight of marvel and of fear;

She pointed where that lord was laid : They drew him forth, he whin'd for grace: Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said

"She whom thou smotest on the face Had scorn, because she call'd her king: Lo! he is come! and dost thou think To live, who didst this bitter thing

While Mohtasim at peace did drink?"

Flash'd the fierce sword-roll'd the lord's head;

The wicked blood smok'd in the sand. "Now bring my cup!" the Caliph said. Lightly he took it in his hand,

As down his throat the sweet drink ran
Mohtasim in his saddle laugh'd,
And cried, "Taiba asshrab alan!

By God! delicious is this draught!"

AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA

HE who died at Azan sends This to comfort all his friends:

Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye say, "Abdallah 's dead!"
Weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,

I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this,
"I am not the thing you kiss ;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine, it is not I."

Sweet friends! What the women lave
For its last bed of the grave,
Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage from which, at last,
Like a hawk my soul hath pass'd.
Love the inmate, not the room,
The wearer, not the garb,

the plume

Of the falcon, not the bars
Which kept him from these splendid stars.

Loving friends! Be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye,
What ye lift upon the bier

one

Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea-shell,
Out of which the pearl is gone;
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.
"T is an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah seal'd, the while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that lov'd him; let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 't is true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in light ye cannot see
Of unfulfill'd felicity, -
In enlarging paradise,
Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepp'd
Ye will wonder why ye wept ;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain, —
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death, for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.

--

Be ye certain all seems love,

View'd from Allah's throne above;
Be ye stout of heart, and come
Bravely onward to your home!
La Allah illa Allah! yea!

Thou love divine! Thou love alway!

He that died at Azan gave

This to those who made his grave.