Her Death And After

    By the way of the Western Wall， so drear

    On that winter night， and sought a gate——

    The home， by Fate，

    Of one I had long held dear.

    And there， as I paused by her tenement，

    And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar，

    I thought of the man who had left her lone——

    Him who made her his own

    When I loved her， long before.

    The rooms within had the piteous shine

    The home-things wear which the housewife miss；

    From the stairway floated the rise and fall

    Of an infant's call，

    Whose birth had brought her to this.

    Her life was the price she would pay for that whine——

    For a child by the man she did not love.

    "But let that rest forever，" I said，

    And bent my tread

    To the chamber up above.

    She took my hand in her thin white own，

    And smiled her thanks——though nigh too weak——

    And made them a sign to leave us there；

    Then faltered， ere

    She could bring herself to speak.

    "'Twas to see you before I go——he'll condone

    Such a natural thing now my time's not much——

    When Death is so near it hustles hence

    All passioned sense

    Between woman and man as such！

    "My husband is absent. As heretofore

    The City detains him. But， in truth，

    He has not been kind…… I will speak no blame，

    But——the child is lame；

    O， I pray she may reach his ruth！

    "Forgive past days——I can say no more——

    Maybe if we'd wedded you'd now repine！……

    But I treated you ill. I was punished. Farewell！

    ——Truth shall I tell？

    Would the child were yours and mine！

    "As a wife I was true. But， such my unease

    That， could I insert a deed back in Time，

    I'd make her yours， to secure your care；

    And the scandal bear，

    And the penalty for the crime！"

    ——When I had left， and the swinging trees

    Rang above me， as lauding her candid say，

    Another was I. Her words were enough：

    Came smooth， came rough，

    I felt I could live my day.

    Next night she died； and her obsequies

    In the Field of Tombs， by the Via renowned，

    Had her husband's heed. His tendance spent，

    I often went

    And pondered by her mound.

    All that year and the next year whiled，

    And I still went thitherward in the gloam；

    But the Town forgot her and her nook，

    And her husband took

    Another Love to his home.

    And the rumor flew that the lame lone child

    Whom she wished for its safety child of mine，

    Was treated ill when offspring came

    Of the new-made dame，

    And marked a more vigorous line.

    A smarter grief within me wrought

    Than even at loss of her so dear；

    Dead the being whose soul my soul suffused，

    Her child ill-used，

    I helpless to interfere！

    One eve as I stood at my spot of thought

    In the white-stoned Garth， brooding thus her wrong，

    Her husband neared； and to shun his view

    By her hallowed mew

    I went from the tombs among

    To the Cirque of the Gladiators which faced——

    That haggard mark of Imperial Rome，

    Whose Pagan echoes mock the chime

    Of our Christian time：

    It was void， and I inward clomb.

    Scarce had night the sun's gold touch displaced

    From the vast Rotund and the neighboring dead

    When her husband followed； bowed； half-passed，

    With lip upcast；

    Then， halting， sullenly said：

    "It is noised that you visit my first wife's tomb.

    Now， I gave her an honored name to bear

    While living， when dead. So I've claim to ask

    By what right you task

    My patience by vigiling there？

    "There's decency even in death， I assume；

    Preserve it， sir， and keep away；

    For the mother of my first-born you

    Show mind undue！

    ——Sir， I've nothing more to say."

    A desperate stroke discerned I then——

    God pardon——or pardon not——the lie；

    She had sighed that she wished （lest the child should pine

    Of slights） 'twere mine，

    So I said： "But the father I.

    "That you thought it yours is the way of men；

    But I won her troth long ere your day：

    You learnt how， in dying， she summoned me？

    'Twas in fealty.

    ——Sir， I've nothing more to say，

    "Save that， if you'll hand me my little maid，

    I'll take her， and rear her， and spare you toil.

    Think it more than a friendly act none can；

    I'm a lonely man，

    While you've a large pot to boil.

    "If not， and you'll put it to ball or blade——

    To-night， to-morrow night， anywhen——

    I'll meet you here…… But think of it，

    And in season fit

    Let me hear from you again."

    ——Well， I went away， hoping； but nought I heard

    Of my stroke for the child， till there greeted me

    A little voice that one day came

    To my window-frame

    And babbled innocently：

    "My father who's not my own， sends word

    I'm to stay here， sir， where I belong！"

    Next a writing came： "Since the child was the fruit

    Of your passions brute，

    Pray take her， to right a wrong."

    And I did. And I gave the child my love，

    And the child loved me， and estranged us none.

    But compunctions loomed； for I'd harmed the dead

    By what I'd said

    For the good of the living one.

    ——Yet though， God wot， I am sinner enough，

    And unworthy the woman who drew me so，

    Perhaps this wrong for her darling's good

    She forgives， or would，

    If only she could know！