NUMBER ONE.
I.

Yes, it look’d dark and dreary

That long and narrow street:

Only the sound of the rain,

And the tramp of passing feet,

The duller glow of the fire,

And gathering mists of night

To mark how slow and weary

The long day’s cheerless flight!
II.

Watching the sullen fire,

Hearing the dreary rain,

Drop after drop, run down

On the darkening window-pane;

Chill was the heart of Bertha,

Chill as that winter day,—

For the star of her life had risen

Only to fade away.
III.

The voice that had been so strong

To bid the snare depart,

The true and earnest will,

And the calm and steadfast heart,

Were now weigh’d down by sorrow,

Were quivering now with pain;

The clear path now seem’d clouded,

And all her grief in vain.
IV.

Duty, Right, Truth, who promised

To help and save their own,

Seem’d spreading wide their pinions

To leave her there alone.

So, turning from the Present

To well-known days of yore,

She call’d on them to strengthen

And guard her soul once more.
V.

She thought how in her girlhood

Her life was given away,

The solemn promise spoken

She kept so well to-day;

How to her brother Herbert

She had been help and guide,

And how his artist-nature

On her calm strength relied.
VI.

How through life’s fret and turmoil

The passion and fire of art

In him was soothed and quicken’d

By her true sister heart;

How future hopes had always

Been for his sake alone;

And now, what strange new feeling

Possess’d her as its own?
VII.

Her home; each flower that breathed there;

The wind’s sigh, soft and low;

Each trembling spray of ivy;

The river’s murmuring flow;

The shadow of the forest;

Sunset, or twilight dim;

Dear as they were, were dearer

By leaving them for him.
VIII.

And each year as it found her

In the dull, feverish town,

Saw self still more forgotten,

And selfish care kept down

By the calm joy of evening

That brought him to her side,

To warn him with wise counsel,

Or praise with tender pride.
IX.

Her heart, her life, her future,

Her genius, only meant

Another thing to give him,

And be therewith content.

To-day, what words had stirr’d her,

Her soul could not forget?

What dream had fill’d her spirit

With strange and wild regret?
X.

To leave him for another:

Could it indeed be so?

Could it have cost such anguish

To bid this vision go?

Was this her faith? Was Herbert

The second in her heart?

Did it need all this struggle

To bid a dream depart?
XI.

And yet, within her spirit

A far-off land was seen;

A home, which might have held her;

A love, which might have been;

And Life: not the mere being

Of daily ebb and flow,

But Life itself had claim’d her,

And she had let it go!
XII.

Within her heart there echo’d

Again the well-known tune

That promised this bright future,

And ask’d her for its own:

Then words of sorrow, broken

By half-reproachful pain;

And then a farewell, spoken

In words of cold disdain.
XIII.

Where now was the stern purpose

That nerved her soul so long?

Whence came the words she utter’d,

So hard, so cold, so strong?

What right had she to banish

A hope that God had given?

Why must she choose earth’s portion,

And turn aside from Heaven?
XIV.

To-day! Was it this morning?

If this long, fearful strife

Was but the work of hours,

What would be years of life?

Why did a cruel Heaven

For such great suffering call?

And why — O, still more cruel!—

Must her own words do all?
XV.

Did she repent? O Sorrow!

Why do we linger still

To take thy loving message,

And do thy gentle will?

See, her tears fall more slowly;

The passionate murmurs cease,

And back upon her spirit

Flow strength, and love, and peace.
XVI.

The fire burns more brightly,

The rain has passed away,

Herbert will see no shadow

Upon his home to-day;

Only that Bertha greets him

With doubly tender care,

Kissing a fonder blessing

Down on his golden hair.
NUMBER TWO.
I.

The studio is deserted,

Palette and brush laid by,

The sketch rests on the easel,

The paint is scarcely dry;

And Silence — who seems always

Within her depths to bear

The next sound that will utter —

Now holds a dumb despair.
II.

So Bertha feels it: listening

With breathless, stony fear,

Waiting the dreadful summons

Each minute brings more near:

When the young life, now ebbing,

Shall fail, and pass away

Into that mighty shadow

Who shrouds the house to-day.
III.

But why — when the sick chamber

Is on the upper floor —

Why dares not Bertha enter

Within the close-shut door?

If he — her all — her Brother,

Lies dying in that gloom,

What strange mysterious power

Has sent her from the room?
IV.

It is not one week’s anguish

That can have changed her so;

Joy has not died here lately,

Struck down by one quick blow;

But cruel months have needed

Their long relentless chain,

To teach that shrinking manner

Of helpless, hopeless pain.
V.

The struggle was scarce over

Last Christmas Eve had brought:

The fibres still were quivering

Of the one wounded thought,

When Herbert — who, unconscious,

Had guessed no inward strife —

Bade her, in pride and pleasure,

Welcome his fair young wife.
VI.

Bade her rejoice, and smiling,

Although his eyes were dim,

Thank’d God he thus could pay her

The care she gave to him.

This fresh bright life would bring her

A new and joyous fate —

O Bertha, check the murmur

That cries, Too late! too late!
VII.

Too late! Could she have known it

A few short weeks before,

That his life was completed,

And needing hers no more,

She might — O sad repining!

What “might have been,” forget;

“It was not,” should suffice us

To stifle vain regret.
VIII.

He needed her no longer,

Each day it grew more plain;

First with a startled wonder,

Then with a wondering pain.

Love: why, his wife best gave it;

Comfort: durst Bertha speak?

Counsel: when quick resentment

Flush’d on the young wife’s cheek.
IX.

No more long talks by firelight

Of childish times long past,

And dreams of future greatness

Which he must reach at last;

Dreams, where her purer instinct

With truth unerring told

Where was the worthless gilding,

And where refined gold.
X.

Slowly, but surely ever,

Dora’s poor jealous pride,

Which she call’d love for Herbert,

Drove Bertha from his side;

And, spite of nervous effort

To share their alter’d life,

She felt a check to Herbert,

A burden to his wife.
XI.

This was the least; for Bertha

Fear’d, dreaded, KNEW at length,

How much his nature owed her

Of truth, and power, and strength;

And watch’d the daily failing

Of all his nobler part:

Low aims, weak purpose, telling

In lower, weaker art.
XII.

And now, when he is dying,

The last words she could hear

Must not be hers, but given

The bride of one short year.

The last care is another’s;<............