The memory of that place long stood In her remembrance as a dream of good, Dividing life as sleep divides the day, A place of utter weakness. Let those say Who will, that deeds of strength life's milestones are. The dearest days are not the days of war, And victory is forgotten in the peace Of certain hours gone by in helplessness, When the soul ceased to battle, and lay still As on a deathbed dumb to good and ill. These are its treasures. Nor was silence all Griselda's ointment. Hard by the sea-wall, Where daily her steps turned fresh peace to find, A convent stood, inviting to the mind. Here she found entrance at the chapel gate, And knelt in prayer half-inarticulate, Bowed to the earth. For patron saints it had The Marys three--"two virtuous, and one bad," Griselda thought, "like her own self"--who came In flight together from Jerusalem, And landed there; and these in her great need, She suppliant asked for her soul's daily bread, Using all fondest words her lips could frame, To speak her secret wishes without blame. Six candlesticks she vowed, to each a pair, So they would listen to and grant her prayer. The superstition pleased her. In her pride She bowed and begged like any peasant's bride, For what? for whom? she hardly could explain Even to her, the dear St. Magdalen. "And yet," she argued, "she at least will know And understand me if no other do." All this was folly, but it comforted And gave her strength. Then with a calmer head, If not a calmer heart, she turned once more From love to life. Her first strong grief was o'er. CHAPTER IV. How shall I take up this vain parable And ravel out its issue? Heaven and hell, The principles of good and evil thought, Embodied in our lives, have blindly fought Too long for empire in my soul to leave Much for its utterance, much that it can grieve. A soldier on the battlefield of life, I have grown callous to the signs of strife, And feel the wounds of others and my own With scarce a tremor and without a groan. I have seen many perish in their sins, Known much of frailty and inconsequence, And if I laughed once, now I dare not be Other than sad at man's insanity. Therefore, in all humility of years, Colder and wiser for hopes drowned in tears, And seeking no more quarries for my mirth, Who most need pity of the sons of earth, I dip in kindlier ink my chastened pen, And fill of my lost tale what leaves remain.