LOVE'S ENDING.
Some years ago a marriage was arranged between Hans Steinman and Marguerite Bluhme. There was no disparity in their condition: Hans was a hunter, and Marguerite's father a labourer. Unhappily the latter, from imprudence or misfortune, became the debtor of a man named Dreihahn, who, being unable to get the money due to him, and having taken a great liking for Marguerite, proposed to cancel the debt, provided the girl's father would break off the marriage with Hans, and give his daughter to him. The bargain was agreed to with the consent of the girl, who probably thought a rich husband was better than a poor one. On the wedding day Hans forced his way into the house where the festivities were going forward, and invited the bride to dance with him. She was too frightened to consent or refuse, and looked to her husband to know what he wished her to do. He got up and appealed to the company to drive out the intruder, who thereupon raised his gun, and with the butt knocked him down, and then snatched the wreath from the bride's head, and walked away. The marriage, however, was far from being a happy one.
Dreihahn, from motives of jealousy, treated his wife very badly for upwards of five years, when a catastrophe occurred which removed her from his power. One Sunday evening, as she was returning from Murzsteg, where she had been to hear mass, she was met by a man at the entrance of a road which wound round the mountain, who remarked to her that she must be very careful, as the rail which guarded the path had been broken away for several yards; this, so far as is known, was the last time she was seen alive. Her husband, finding she did not return home, went to seek her, and, supposing that some accident must be the cause, he requested several of his neighbours to go with him. The search lasted two days, until, at last, her body was discovered lying at the foot of a precipice, partly covered with plants, and on her head her wedding wreath of rosemary, now all crushed and withered. Lying near her was the body of a man, who held the muzzle of a gun in his left hand, and in his right the end of a string, the other end being fastened to the trigger: he had been shot through the heart.
Though greatly changed by time, and more, probably, by mental anxiety, Dreihahn, who had never seen Hans since his wedding day, had no difficulty in recognising in the dead man, as he lay before him, weltering in his blood, his wife's young lover.
ONE HOUR.
A heart as changeful as the skies,
A traitorous smile that feigneth bliss,
Are fit mates to deceitful eyes,
Fit mates to a deceitful kiss;
And these are yours, I know you well,
Your heart lies open like a book.
Is there no blot? Pray closely look,
You'll say that I have spoken well.
You sought to trap me by your gaze,
To bind me with your flowing hair;
I fluttered round your beauty blaze.
You longed to laugh at my despair;
I know you well—but let that pass.
Enough! You walk your road, I mine,—
I will not say you will repine,—
I am content, so let it pass.
Enough! Whose hopes are falsified?
Not mine: my heart shall never stoop
That your heart may be gratified:
Only weak hearts lie 'neath love's coop.
My love is strong, yea, strong and proud,
Your love is childish vanity,
And all the years which are to be
Will scarcely make it strong and proud.
If you had heard the bitter word
I murmured as I mused one morn,
Indeed, you then would have averred
That all my love had turned to scorn.
A quiet hour had made the change,
A quiet hour of gentle thought:
When it was flown I turned and wrote,—
"Thrice blessèd hour that made this change."
Hearts are not playthings lady fur,
For you and yours to toss about,
'Mid rosy warmth and frosty air,
With many a childish mocking shout.
Well, live your life; but as you play
Your very vain and petty part,
Think not that many a foolish heart
Will long to watch you as you play.
But I will live a nobler life,
And I will love, with nobler love,
A heart which, firm 'mid storm and strife,
For ever longs its faith to prove.
Oh! may some blessèd angel come,
And o'er you shed her blessed light,
Changing to morn your heart's black night;
Oh! may this blessed angel come.
That you may know how rich is love,
And how these riches come to all;
Like slow, soft snowflakes, from above.
Like rose-leaves falling, love-thoughts fall.
That you may curse your by-gone days,
And scatter cypress o'er their grave,
And weep, and, maybe, vainly rave,—
"Come back again, ye by-gone days!"
That great Experience, truest friend,
Who soothes our sorrows, lays at rest
The cares that with our fortunes blend,
May fold you gently to his breast.
Way speak of all the days to come.
And point the path where flowers abound,
Sweet-sleeping, and with sunbeams crowned.
Oh! walk that path in days to come.
