Poems. Howells William Dean

of the river.

      Here, you! rise at once, and be ready now to go with me.’

      Roughly he seized the woman’s arm and strove to uplift her.

      She–she seemed not to heed him, but rose like one that is dreaming,

      Slid from his grasp, and fleetly mounted the steps of the gangway,

      Up to the hurricane-deck, in silence, without lamentation.

      Straight to the stern of the boat, where the wheel was, she ran, and the people

      Followed her fast till she turned and stood at bay for a moment,

      Looking them in the face, and in the face of the gambler.

      Not one to save her,–not one of all the compassionate people!

      Not one to save her, of all the pitying angels in heaven!

      Not one bolt of God to strike him dead there before her!

      Wildly she waved him back, we waiting in silence and horror.

      Over the swarthy face of the gambler a pallor of passion

      Passed, like a gleam of lightning over the west in the night-time.

      White, she stood, and mute, till he put forth his hand to secure her;

      Then she turned and leaped,–in mid-air fluttered a moment,–

      Down then, whirling, fell, like a broken-winged bird from a tree-top,

      Down on the cruel wheel, that caught her, and hurled her, and crushed her,

      And in the foaming water plunged her, and hid her forever.”

VI

      Still with his back to us all the pilot stood, but we heard him

      Swallowing hard, as he pulled the bell-rope for stopping. Then, turning,–

      “This is the place where it happened,” brokenly whispered the pilot.

      “Somehow, I never like to go by here alone in the night-time.”

      Darkly the Mississippi flowed by the town that lay in the starlight,

      Cheerful with lamps. Below we could hear them reversing the engines,

      And the great boat glided up to the shore like a giant exhausted.

      Heavily sighed her pipes. Broad over the swamps to the eastward

      Shone the full moon, and turned our far-trembling wake into silver.

      All was serene and calm, but the odorous breath of the willows

      Smote with a mystical sense of infinite sorrow upon us.

      FORLORN

I

      Red roses, in the slender vases burning,

      Breathed all upon the air,–

      The passion and the tenderness and yearning,

      The waiting and the doubting and despair.

II

      Still with the music of her voice was haunted,

      Through all its charméd rhymes,

      The open book of such a one as chanted

      The things he dreamed in old, old summer-times.

III

      The silvern chords of the piano trembled

      Still with the music wrung

      From them; the silence of the room dissembled

      The closes of the songs that she had sung.

IV

      The languor of the crimson shawl’s abasement,–

      Lying without a stir

      Upon the floor,–the absence at the casement,

      The solitude and hush were full of her.

V

      Without, and going from the room, and never

      Departing, did depart

      Her steps; and one that came too late forever

      Felt them go heavy o’er his broken heart.

VI

      And, sitting in the house’s desolation,

      He could not bear the gloom,

      The vanishing encounter and evasion

      Of things that were and were not in the room.

VII

      Through midnight streets he followed fleeting visions

      Of faces and of forms;

      He heard old tendernesses and derisions

      Amid the sobs and cries of midnight storms.

VIII

      By midnight lamps, and from the darkness under

      That lamps made at their feet,

      He saw sweet eyes peer out in innocent wonder,

      And sadly follow after him down the street.

IX

      The noonday crowds their restlessness obtruded

      Between him and his quest;

      At unseen corners jostled and eluded,

      Against his hand her silken robes were pressed.

X

      Doors closed upon her; out of garret casements

      He knew she looked at him;

      In splendid mansions and in squalid basements,

      Upon the walls he saw her shadow swim.

XI

      From rapid carriages she gleamed upon him,

      Whirling away from sight;

      From all the hopelessness of search she won him

      Back to the dull and lonesome house at night.

XII

      Full early into dark the twilights saddened

      Within its closéd doors;

      The echoes, with the clock’s monotony maddened,

      Leaped loud in welcome from the hollow floors;

XIII

      But gusts that blew all day with solemn laughter

      From wide-mouthed chimney-places,

      And the strange noises between roof and rafter,

      The wainscot clamor, and the scampering races

XIV

      Of mice that chased each other through the chambers,

      And up and down the stair,

      And rioted among the ashen embers,

      And left their frolic footprints everywhere,–

XV

      Were hushed to hear his heavy tread ascending

      The broad steps, one by one,

      And toward the solitary chamber tending,

      Where the dim phantom of his hope alone

XVI

      Rose up to meet him, with his growing nearer,

      Eager for his embrace,

      And moved, and melted into the white mirror,

      And stared at him with his own haggard face.

XVII

      But, turning, he was ’ware her looks beheld him

      Out of the mirror white;

      And at the window yearning arms she held him,

      Out of the vague and sombre fold of night.

XVIII

      Sometimes