The silken court-dress of the lady Wind,
Bustling among the foliage, as she went
To waltz the whirlwind on the distant sea.
The negro preacher with the text had said
That when men died, the soul lived on and on;
If so, of what material was the soul?
The eye could not behold it; why not then
The viewless air be filled with living souls?
Not only these, but other shapes and forms
Might dwell unseen about us at all times.
If air was only matter rarefied,
Why could not things still more impalpable
Have real existence? Whence came our thoughts?
As angels came to shepherds in Chaldee;
They were not ours. He fancied that most thoughts
Were whispered to the soul, or good, or bad.
The bad were like a demon, a vast shape
With measureless black wings, that when it dared,
Placed its clawed foot upon the necks of men,
And with the very shadow of itself,
Made their lives darker than a starless night.
He did not strive to picture out the good,
Or give to them a figure; but he knew
No glory of the sunset could compare
With the clear splendor of one noble deed.
He proudly dreamed that to no other mind
Had these imaginings been uttered.
Alas! poor heart, how many have awoke,
And found their newest thoughts as old as time-
Their brightest fancies woven in the threads
Of ancient poems, history or romance,
And knowledge still elusive and far off.
V.
The days that lengthen into years went on.
The quadroon girl who fainted on the cliff
Was Ruth; now, blooming into womanhood,
She looked on Karagwe, and seeing there
Something above the level of the slave,
Watched him with interest in all his ways.
At first through pity was she drawn to him.
While both were sitting on a rustic seat,
Near the tall mansion where the planter dwelt,
A drunken overseer came straggling past,
And seeing in the dusk a female form,
Swayed up to her, and caught her by the arm,
And with an insult, strove to drag her on.
Ruth spoke not; but the negro, with one grasp
Upon the white man, caused her quick release.
He turned, and in the face struck Karagwe.
The patient slave did not return the blow,
But the next day they tied him to a post,
And fifty stripes his naked shoulders flayed.
Stricken in mind at being deeply wronged,
Filled with a noble scorn, that men most learned
Would so degrade a brother race of men,
He wept at heart; no groan fled through his lips.
Yet in a few days he was forced to go
And work beneath the intolerable sun,
Picking the cotton-boll, and bearing it
In a rude basket, on his wounded back,
Up a steep hill-side to the cotton gin.
VI.
Ruth, as she walked the pebbled garden lanes,
Or daily in her hundred household cares,
Thought of the dark face and noble heart
Of Karagwe, and truly pitied him.
He, when the labor of the day was done,
Moved through the dusk, among the dewy leaves,
And, darker than the shadows, scaled the wall,
And waited in the garden, crouching down
Among the foliage of the fragrant trees,
Hoping that she again might come that way.
He saw her through the window of the house,
Pass and repass, and heard her sweetly sing
A tender song of love and pity blent;
But would not call to her, nor give a sign
That he was there; to see her was enough.
Perhaps, if those about her knew he came
To meet her in the garden, they would place
Some punishment upon her, some restraint,
That she, though innocent, might have to bear.
So he passed back again to his low cot,
And on his poor straw pallet, dreamed of her,
As loyally perhaps as Chastelard,
Lying asleep upon his palace couch,
Dreamed of Queen Mary, and the love he gave.
VII.
Ruth was but tinged with shade, and always seemed
Some luscious fruit, with but the slightest hint
Of something foreign to the grafted bough
Whereon it grew. Her eyes were black, and large,
And passionate, and proved the deathless soul,
That through their portals looked upon the world,
Was capable of hatred and revenge.
Her long black lashes hung above their depths,
Like lotus leaves o'er some Egyptian spring.
And they were dreamy, too, at intervals,
And glowed with tender beauty when she loved.
Her grace made for her such appropriate wear,
That, though her gown was of the coarsest cloth,
And though her duty was the lowest kind,
It seemed apparel more desirable
Than trailing robes of velvet or of silk.
Her voice was full, and sweet, and musical,
Soft as the low breathings of an instrument
Touched by the unseen fingers of the breeze.
VIII.
The large plantation, next to Dalton Earl's,
Was owned by Richard Wain, a hated man-
Hated among his slaves and in the town.
Uncouth, revengeful, and a drunkard he.
Two miles up by the river ran his lands;
And here, within a green-roofed kirk of woods,
The slave found that seclusion he desired.
His only treasure was a Testament
Hid in the friendly opening of a tree.
Often the book was kept within his cot,
At times lay next his heart, nor did its beat
Defile the fruity knowledge on the leaves.
The words were sweet as wine of Eshcol grapes
To his parched lips. He saw the past arise.
Vague were the people, and the pageant moved,
Uncertain as the figures in the dusk;
Yet One there was, who stood in bold relief;
A lovely, noble face with sweeping beard,
And hair that trailed in beauty round his neck;
A patient man, whose deeds were always good.
Whose words were brave for freedom and mankind.
IX.
In passing through the grounds of Richard Wain,
Karagwe found, upon a plat of grass,
Some sheets of paper fastened at the ends,
Blown from the house, he thought, or thrown away.
The sheets were closely written on and sealed.
Here was a long-sought opportunity
To learn the older letters of the pen.
That night the writings, wrapped about the Book,
Were safe within the hollow of the tree.
X.
All day he dreamed, "What token shall I give.
That she will know my thought and understand."
He caught at last a velvet honey-bee,
Weighed down with its gold treasure in its belt,
And killed it; then, when morning came again,
Bore it to Ruth beneath the fragrant trees.
"I bring you, Ruth, a dead bee for a sign.
For if to-day you wear it in your hair,
When once again you come to walk the lane,
I then shall know that you are truly mine,
Willing to be my wife, and share my lot,
And let me toil with you like any bee;
But if you do not wear it, then I shall care
No more for anything; but waste my life,
A bee without a queen." Then not one word
Spoke Ruth; but when the sunset came, and she
Went from the house again to walk alone,
The dead bee glittered gem-like in her hair.
And him she met for whom the sign was meant,
And in his hand she laid her own, and smiled.
XI.
The next day, Richard Wain, when riding past,
Heard Ruth's bird-voice trilling in the lane,
And caught a glimpse of her between the trees,
A picture, for an instant, in a frame.
He thought, "The prize I coveted is near;
She will be mine before the set of sun."
Returning soon, toward the house he went,
Strode to the door, calling for Dalton Earl,