Soars in time's future, it mounts up with wings
Toward the unmapped city walled by death.
Thither the eagle of our hope took flight.
The sun was in the zenith. His back
Toward us, crouched the spider, at the mouth
Of our strange prison on the towering cliff.
The spider's shape was full a fathom long.
Two parts it had, the fore part, head and breast;
The hinder part, the trunk. The first was black,
But all the last was covered with short hair,
Yellow and fine. Eight sprawling legs adhered
To his tough breast. Eight eyes were in his head,
Two in the front, and three on either side;
They had no eyelids, and were never closed,
Protected by a strong transparent nail.
His pincers grew between his foremost eyes-
Were toothed like saws, were venomous, and sharp,
With claws on either end. Two arms stretched out
From his mailed shoulders, and with these he caught
His tangled prey, or guided what he spun.
Slowly the monster turned, and glared at us,
Working his arms, and opening his claws,
Then moved toward us fiercely for attack.
We ran to gain the limit of the tomb
Where darkness was; there as we crouched with dread,
My foot struck some hard substance. In despair
I grasped at it, and with great joy upheld
An ancient sword!-surely, a sharp, bold tooth
To bite the spider. I would sink it deep,
Up to the gum of the crossed guard. Alert,
I sprang upon the monster as he came,
And with one blow cut off his brutish head.
He writhed awhile with pain, but in the end,
Drew up the eight long legs and two thick arms,
And rolling over on his useless back,
Died with a pang.
So we issued forth,
And the green earth seemed happy to be free,
And glad the sky cloud-frescoed 'gainst the blue.
We sought the sea-side cottage, where the chief
Clasped once again his daughter to his breast.
Down from the hill we fetched the spider slain,
And I to science gave these simple facts:
Spiders have no antennæ, therefore rank
Not with the insects. As they breathe with gills
Beneath the body, they possess a heart.
The treasure of the tomb brought wealth to us,
And we who loved were wed one golden day;
And the great Czar hearing our story told,
Sent presents to the bride of silk and pearls.
GRACE BERNARD.
I know the drift and purpose of the years;
The will, which is the magnet of the soul,
Shall yet attain new powers, and man
Be something more than man. The husks fall off;
Old civilizations pass, the new come on.
I.
There are two farms which, smiling in the sun,
Adjoin each other, as I trust, some day
Two hearts will join, who from their bounty live.
One farm is John Bernard's, and one is mine;
And she, the one pearl woman in my eyes,
Is his sweet daughter, gentle Grace Bernard.
Three years ago, my father followed her
Who gave me birth home to his narrow house.
I was at college when death's summons came,
And all the grief fell on me, crushing me;
And all my heart cried out in bitterness,
Moaning to cease with its wet language,-tears.
Then with my prospects of professional life
Thwarted and void, I came back to the farm-
I came back to the love of Grace Bernard.
She was the dove that on the flood of grief
Brought to my window there love's olive spray.
From college to the farm-house where I dwelt
I took my books, friends who are never cold,
With fragile instruments of chemistry,
And cabinets of mineral and rock
With limestone encrinites; asterias
Old as the mountains, or the sea's white lash
Wherewith he smites the shoulders of the shore;
Tarentula and scarabee I brought,
And, too, I brought my diamond microscope
Which magnifies a pin's head to a man's,
And gives me sights in water and in air
The naturalists have not yet touched upon.
Over my fields I wander frequently,
Breaking the past's upturned face of shelving rocks
For special specimens to fill my home;
But find my footsteps always thither tend,
Toward the farm-house of the other farm,
Where Grace Bernard is noontime and delight.
When first I took the hand of her I love,
And held it only as a stranger might,
Some unseen mentor whispered in my ear,
You twain are strands which Destiny shall braid,
And then a numb misgiving, not explained,
Settled with chilly dampness on my heart.
My Grace Bernard in Grace was not misnamed,
There was a soft Madonna look about her eyes;
The long thick lash, the drooping-petal lid,
Wrought on her face all love and tenderness.
Her lips were of that deep intensest red
The cherry, red rose, and columbine wear.
Her golden hair was sunshine changed to silk,
Which fell below her waist, and was a thing
Perhaps some lover, braver far than I,
Might dare to mesh his hands in, or to kiss.
II.
The Spring has come and brought her affluent days,
But in the air a rumor runs of death-
A pestilence is half across the sea.
The presses blare its probable approach,
And poverty and wealth alike forebode.
The cholera it is whispered, Asia-born,
May leave more vacant chairs about our hearths
Than the red havoc of internal war.
There is no foot it may not overtake;
There is no cheek which may not blanch for it.
It is Filth's daughter, and where the low
Huddle in impure air in narrow rooms,
There it must come. As all forms of life,
Animate and inanimate, originate
In seeds and eggs, so all infection does.
The floating gases in the atmosphere
Acting on particles which from filth arise,
Mingle with foul wedlock-germinate,
And bear their seed like grain, or breed like flies.
This product, scattered on the spotless air,
And hurried on the currents of the wind,
Is breathed by human beings, near and far;
And planted in the system, the disease
Ripens and grows, until the sufferer dies.
Yellow fever is vegetable disease
Because the sharp frost kills it. Cholera
Is animal in origin, and survives
The utmost cold of long, dark winter days.
I pray that if the cholera must come,
It will not touch my Grace who is so dear;
But that we twain may at the altar stand,
And outlive many a trouble in the air,
And gather many a day of happiness and peace.
III.
Down by the brook which separates the farms,
Is a great rock that leans above the stream,
And seems some monster of the Saurian day,
That coming to the water's edge to drink,
Was petrified, and so is leaning still.
Upon its back a week ago I sat,
And dreamed of Grace Bernard, and watched the brook;
And while I dreamed there came within the dream
A premonition of what yet would be.
The future's face, forever turned away,
Now seemed reverted, and its backward look
Was bent on me.
They took a faulty cast
Of Shakespeare's features after he was dead.
I, seeing the future's face, make here my cast.
And this the premonition that was mine-
A perfect premonition full and clear-
And as I know the persons it concerns,
I cannot think it all improbable,
So write it down, that when the time has passed,
I may compare the facts with what is here.
And yet I scarcely should have written this,
Had I not seen his haunting face to-day-
That face which I had never seen before,