The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic. Aldrich Thomas Bailey

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Название The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic
Автор произведения Aldrich Thomas Bailey
Жанр Драматургия
Издательство Драматургия
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      Thomas Bailey Aldrich

      The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic


A. D. 1670

        AGLAE, a widow

        MURIEL, her unmarried sister.

        IT happened once, in that brave land that lies

        For half the twelvemonth wrapt in sombre skies,

        Two sisters loved one man. He being dead,

        Grief loosed the lips of her he had not wed,

        And all the passion that through heavy years

        Had masked in smiles unmasked itself in tears.

        No purer love may mortals know than this,

        The hidden love that guards another's bliss.

        High in a turret's westward-facing room,

        Whose painted window held the sunset's bloom,

        The two together grieving, each to each

        Unveiled her soul with sobs and broken speech.

        Both still were young, in life's rich summer yet;

        And one was dark, with tints of violet

        In hair and eyes, and one was blond as she

        Who rose—a second daybreak—from the sea,

        Gold-tressed and azure-eyed. In that lone place,

        Like dusk and dawn, they sat there face to face.

        She spoke the first whose strangely silvering hair

        No wreath had worn, nor widow's weed might wear,

        And told her blameless love, and knew no shame—

        Her holy love that, like a vestal flame

        Beside the sacred body of some queen

        Within a guarded crypt had burned unseen

        From weary year to year. And she who heard

        Smiled proudly through her tears and said no word,

        But, drawing closer, on the troubled brow

        Laid one long kiss, and that was words enow!


        Be still, my heart! Grown patient with thine ache,

        Thou shouldst be dumb, yet needs must speak, or break.

        The world is empty now that he is gone.


      Ay, sweetheart!


                        None was like him, no, not one.

        From other men he stood apart, alone

        In honor spotless as unfallen snow.

        Nothing all evil was it his to know;

        His charity still found some germ, some spark

        Of light in natures that seemed wholly dark.

        He read men's souls; the lowly and the high

        Moved on the self-same level in his eye.

        Gracious to all, to none subservient,

        Without offence he spake the word he meant—

        His word no trick of tact or courtly art,

        But the white flowering of the noble heart.

        Careless he was of much the world counts gain,

        Careless of self, too simple to be vain,

        Yet strung so finely that for conscience-sake

        He would have gone like Cranmer to the stake.

        I saw—how could I help but love? And you—


        At this perfection did I worship too . . .

        'Twas this that stabbed me. Heed not what I say!

        I meant it not, my wits are gone astray,

        With all that is and has been. No, I lie—

        Had he been less perfection, happier I!


        Strange words and wild! 'Tis the distracted mind

        Breathes them, not you, and I no meaning find.


        Yet 'twere as plain as writing on a scroll

        Had you but eyes to read within my soul.—

        How a grief hidden feeds on its own mood,

        Poisons the healthful currents of the blood

        With bitterness, and turns the heart to stone!

        I think, in truth, 'twere better to make moan,

        And so be done with it. This many a year,

        Sweetheart, have I laughed lightly and made cheer,

        Pierced through with sorrow!

                                      Then the widowed one

        With sorrowfullest eyes beneath the sun,

        Faltered, irresolute, and bending low

        Her head, half whispered,

                                  Dear, how could you know?

        What masks are faces!—yours, unread by me

        These seven long summers; mine, so placidly

        Shielding my woe! No tremble of the lip,

        No cheek's quick pallor let our secret slip!

        Mere players we, and she that played the queen,

        Now in her homespun, looks how poor and mean!

        How shall I say it, how find words to tell

        What thing it was for me made earth a hell

        That else had been my heaven! 'Twould blanch your cheek

        Were I to speak it. Nay, but I will speak,

        Since like two souls at compt we seem to stand,

        Where nothing may be hidden. Hold my hand,

        But look not at me! Noble 'twas, and meet,

        To hide your heart, nor fling it at his feet

        To lie despised there. Thus saved you our pride

        And that white honor for which earls have died.

        You were not all unhappy, loving so!

        I with a difference wore my weight of woe.

        My lord was he. It was my cruel lot,

        My hell, to love him—for he loved me not!

        Then came a silence. Suddenly like death

        The truth flashed on them, and each held her breath—

        A flash of light whereby they both were slain,

        She that was loved and she that loved in vain!



        Now there was one who came in later days

        To play at Emperor: