suffered, still suffer, from fate's sudden blow, Though I am a woman, and women must stay And fight out pain's battles where men run away. But my strength has its limit, my courage its end, The time has now come when I, too, leave Bay Bend. Maurice, let the bitterness housed in your heart For the man you long loved as a comrade, depart, And let pity replace it. Oh, weep for his sorrow— From your fountain of grief, held in check, let me borrow; I have so overdrawn on the bank of my tears That my anguish is now refused payment. For years You loved Mabel Lee. Well, to some hearts love speaks His whole tale of passion in brief little weeks. As Minerva, full grown, from the great brow of Jove Sprang to life, so full blown from our breasts may spring Love. Love hid like a bee in my heart's lily cup; I knew not he was there till his sting woke me up. 

 Maurice, oh Maurice! Can you fancy the woe Of seeing the prize which you coveted so Misused, or abused, by another? The wife Of the man whom I worshiped is spoiling the life That was wax in her hands, wax to shape as she chose. You were blind to her faults, so was Roger Montrose. Both saw but the saint; well, let saints keep their places, And not crowd the women in life's hurried races. As saint, Mabel Lee might succeed; but, oh brother, She never was meant for a wife or a mother. Her beautiful home has the desolate air Of a house that is ruled by its servants. The care— The thought of the woman (that sweet, subtle power Pervading some rooms like the scent of a flower), Which turns house into home—that is lacking. She goes On her merciful rounds, does our Lady Montrose, Looking after the souls of the heathen, and leaving The poor hungry soul of her lord to its grieving. 

 He craves her companionship; wants her to be At his side, more his own, than the public's. But she Holds such love is but selfish; and thinks he should make Some sacrifice gladly for charity's sake. Her schools, and her clubs, and her fairs fill her time; He wants her to travel; no, that were a crime To go seeking for pleasure, and leave duty here. God had given her work and her labor lay near. A month of the theater season in town? No, the stage is an evil that needs putting down By good people. So, scheme as he will, the poor man Has to finally yield every project and plan To this sweet stubborn saint; for the husband, you see, Stands last in Her thoughts. He has come, after three Patient years, to that knowledge; his wishes, his needs Must always give way to her whims, or her creeds. 

 She knows not the primer of loving; her soul Is engrossed with the poor petty wish to control. And she 

 Prev. P 24/69 next