The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Ring of Amethyst, by Alice Wellington Rollins

THE RING OF AMETHYST.

BY
ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS

“He but only kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write.

A ring of Amethyst

I could not wear here plainer to my sight

Than that first kiss.”

—Mrs. Browning.

NEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
182 FIFTH AVENUE
1878

Copyright by
ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS
1878

CONTENTS.

“THE RING AND THE BOOK.”

THE RING.——TO GEORGE ELIOT.

As she, thy Dorothea, loved of thee,

Refused to wear in careless ornament

The amethysts and emeralds that lent

Their charm to other women;—even as she,

Turning one day by chance the golden key

Of their close casket, started as they sent

Swift, glowing rays to greet her, and then bent

To lift them in her white hands lovingly;—

* * * * *

O great of heart, so calmly dost thou stand

In the proud splendor of thy fame, and bring

Thy glorious gifts to all the listening land,—

Thou canst not greatly care what I may sing!

Yet since I hold to thee my amethyst ring,

Take it one little moment in thy hand!

THE BOOK.——To D. M. R.

Dear, if this little book of thine and mine

Could bring me fame as glorious and rare

As that whose splendid laurels shine so fair

For Dorothea,——it were less divine

A gift than this most priceless love of thine.

Since, then, that came to me, why now despair

Of laurel? though I may not hope to wear

Laurel or myrtle as the precious sign

Of any proud desert. Yet if I might

Not find that love could keep its holy tryst

With fame, how quickly would I yield the bright

New dream, to keep my ring of amethyst:

The memory of that day when love first kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write!

Ἀμέθυστος
TO THE CRITIC.

I know full well I cannot pour for you

The nectar of the gods;—no epic wine

Is this I bring, to tempt you with its fine

Poetic flavor, as of grapes that grew

In the young vineyards when the world was new,

And only poets wrote;—a slender vine

You scarce will care for, bore these grapes of mine,

From which frail hands have crushed the purple dew.

Yet if from what I bring you, there is missed

The lyric loveliness of some who write,

The passionate fervor and the keen delight

Of eloquent fire in some to whom you list,—

Think it may be, not that the gift is slight,

But that my cup is rimmed with amethyst!

NARCISSUS.
TO THE READER.

If haply in these pages you should read

Aught that seems true to human nature, true

To heavenly instincts;—if they speak to you

Of love, of sorrow, faith without a creed,

Of doubt, of hope, of longing,—or indeed

Of any pain or joy the poet knew

A heart could feel,—think not to find a clue

To his own heart—its gladness or its need.

From a deep spring with tangled weeds o’ergrown

The poet parts the leaves; if they who pass,

Bending to look down through the tall wild grass,

By winds of heaven faintly overblown,

Should start to see there, dimly in a glass,

Some face,——’tis not the poet’s, but their own!

PROEM.

I wonder, little book, if after all

I greatly care whether with praise or blame

Men turn your leaves. Once, the fair hope of fame

Had made me wonder what fate should befall

My first faint singing; now I cannot call

The singing mine; I gave it him who came

To place my joy where no harsh touch can maim

Its safe, secure, bright beauty. Like a wall

Of strong defence to me this blessedness:

That of his love I am so proudly sure,

Though the whole world should bend to my success,

I think he could not love me any more!

And though the whole world say my book is poor,

I know he will not love me any less!

JOY.

My heart was like a flower once,

That from its jewel-tinted cup

The generous fragrance of its joy

To all the world sent floating up.

But now ’tis like a humming-bird,

That in the cup his bright wing dips,

And with most dainty selfishness

Himself the choicest honey sips,

With eager, thirsty, longing lips!

And once my heart was like a gem,

Set in a fair betrothal ring;

Content to light the happy darks

That shield love’s shy self-wondering.

But now I think my heart is like

The lady fair who wears the ring;

Pressed closely to her lips at night

With love’s mysterious wondering

That hers should be the precious thing!

And once my heart was like a nest,

Where singing-birds have made their home;

Set where the apple-boughs in bloom

Fleck the blue air with flower-foam.

But now it is itself a bird;

And if it does not always sing,

The Heavenly Father knows what thoughts,—

Too strangely sweet for uttering,—

Stir faintly underneath its wing!

PAIN.

My heart was once a folded flower,

Within whose jewel-tinted cup,—

Still hidden even from itself,—

A wealth of joy is treasured up.

But now my heart is like a flower

From which a dainty humming-bird

Has rifled all the choicest sweets,

And left without one last fond word

The flower-soul so deeply stirred.

And once my heart was like a gem,

Set in a rich betrothal ring;

Unconscious in its darkened case

How fair it lies there glittering.

But now I think my heart is like

The lady who has worn the ring,

And draws it from her finger slight

With love’s bewildered wondering

That love should be a poor bruised thing.

And once my heart was like a nest,

High in the apple branches hung;

Where in the early April dew

No happy birds have ever sung.

Now ’tis itself a wounded bird;

And though sometimes you hear it sing,

The Heavenly Father knows what pain

It tries to hide by uttering

The same sweet notes it used to sing.

A STUDY.

I think, indeed, ’twas only this that made

Her seem peculiar: namely, she had no

Peculiarity. The world to-day

Is disappointed if we are not odd,

And hold decided views on some one point,

Or else unsettled views on all. But she

Was living simply what she wished to live:

A lovely life of rounded womanhood;

With no sharp, salient points for eye or ear

To seize and pass quick judgment on. Not quite

Content was she to let the golden days

Slip from her fingers like the well-worn beads

Of some long rosary, told o’er and o’er

Each night with dull, mechanical routine;

But yet she had no central purpose; no

Absorbing aim to which all else must yield;

And so the very sweetness of her life,

Its exquisite simplicity and calm,

Musical in its silence, smote the ear

More sharply than the discords of the rest.

So do we grow accustomed far at sea

To jar and clang of harsh machinery,

And sleep profoundly in our narrow berths

Amid the turmoil; but if suddenly

The noisy whirr is silent, and the deep

Low murmur of the moonlit sea is all

That stirs the air, we waken with a start,

And ask in terror what has happened! Then

Sink back again upon the pillows; strange,

That silence should have wakened us!

Alas!

The world has grown so feverishly hot

With restless aims and poor ambitious dreams,

That lives which have the cool and temperate flow

Of healthful purpose in their veins, will seem

Peculiar!

“MANY THINGS THOU HAST GIVEN ME, DEAR HEART.”

Many things thou hast given me, dear heart;

But one thing thou hast taken: that high dream

Of heaven as of a country that should seem

Beyond all glory that divinest art

Has pictured:—with this I have had to part

Since knowing thee;—how long, love, will the gleam

Of each day’s sunlight on my pathway stream,

Richer than what seemed richest at the start?

Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat

Make not each happier than the last for me;

Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, complete

In joy, not the surprise I dreamed ’twould be,

But simply as the natural and sweet

Continuance of days spent here with thee.

BRUTUS AT PHILIPPI.

Rome, for whose haughtier sake proud Cæsar made

His legions hers, to win her victories,

Denied him when her gods let Casca’s blade

Pierce him who learned to make her legions his.

Still he is mighty; with unchanging dread

Her people murmur for great Cæsar slain;

Nor value, at the price of Cæsar dead,

Their greater cause lost on Philippi’s plain.

If haply there are fields, as some pretend,

Beyond the silent Styx, where vaguely grim

Souls of dead heroes, shadowy and dim,

Awake,—I may find entrance at life’s end,

Not as a hero who freed Rome from him,

But as a man who once was Cæsar’s friend!

“VINO SANTO.”
TO H. H.

I taste the cup of sacred wine,

Nor count with you the cost too great

For those who steadfastly can wait;

Though grapes of fragrance so divine

Should ripen to their vintage late.

Gathered when only richest suns

Pour down a wealth of golden fire;

Pressed while the holy heart’s desire

Breathes grateful for these perfect ones,

And solemn prayer floats high and higher;—

Type of a love that lets no stain

Of doubt or dullness mar its creed;

But patient through its own great need

Of loving, wins its sure domain,—

Such love, such wine, is pure indeed.

Yet as I turn to pour for you,—

Vivid and sparkling at your gaze,—

My own heart’s vintage,—let me praise

This glowing wine as holy, too;

Since love may come in many ways.

And mine came to me as a star

Shines suddenly from worlds apart;

And suddenly my lifted heart

Caught the rare brightness from afar

And mirrored its swift counterpart.

Love born of instant trust and need,

Each heart of each; a love that knew

No test of time to prove it true,

No fostering care; without a seed

It seemed as if the flower grew!

And you whose tender love was nursed

In strong sweet patience, till the wine

Of joy became for you divine,

Ripened in sunlight from the first,—

Will not refuse to this of mine

A sacredness; remembering,—

By miracle changed instantly,—

The holy wine of Galilee;—

Even so the wine of joy I bring

For you to taste, was changed for me!

CHARM.

One day in June a crimson-breasted bird

Flitted from Heaven through the golden air,

And lit upon an apple-bough, that stirred

With rapture of delight to hold her there;

And finding at the same time on its breast