Or, haply, it was that enchanting myth, made real before our eyes—of the insensate marble warmed to life beneath the passionate gaze of the sculptor!
No, no; it was not this miracle, of which the bards have so often sung; nor was it the art of the poet, nor of the painter, nor of the musician (tho' often I thought of music), nor of the sculptor. It was none of these that moved my heart, and the hearts of all who beheld, and yet it was all of these,
For it was the ancient and noble art of the drama,—that art which includes all other arts, and she who was the mistress of it was the divine Modjeska.
FOR AN ALBUM
(TO BE READ ONE HUNDRED YEARS AFTER)
A century's summer breezes shook
The maple shadows on the grass
Since she who owned this ancient book
From the green world to heaven did pass.
Beside a northern lake she grew,
A wild-flower on its craggy walls;
Her eyes were mingled gray and blue,
Like waves where summer sunlight falls.
Cheerful from morn to evening-close,
No humblest work, no prayer forgot!
Yet who of woman born but knows
The sorrows of our mortal lot!
And she too suffered, tho' the wound
Was hidden from the general gaze,
And most from those who thus had found
An added burden for their days.
