_A hopeless task have we, meseems, At this late day; whom fate hath made Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled With kindred yearnings, try to build A tower like theirs, that will not fade, Out of our dreams._ Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies Printed for Private Distribution. A Few Copies For Sale. IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES The Brothers Not far from here, it lies beyond That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take This unused lane where brambles make A wall of twilight, and the blond Brier-roses pelt the path and flake The margin waters of a pond. This is its fence--or that which was Its fence once--now, rock rolled from rock, One tangle of the vine and dock, Where bloom the wild petunias; And this its gate, the iron-weeds block, Hot with the insects' dusty buzz. Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled The weather-crumbled paint, still rise; Gaunt things--that groan when someone tries The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed, Snarl open:--on each post still lies Its carven lion with a shield. We enter; and between great rows Of locusts winds a grass-grown road; And at its glimmering end,--o'erflowed With quiet light,--the white front shows Of an old mansion, grand and broad, With grave Colonial porticoes. Grown thick around it, dark and deep, The locust trees make one vast hush; Their brawny branches crowd and crush Its very casements, and o'ersweep Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep. Still is it called The Locusts; though None lives here now. A tale's to tell Of some dark thing that here befell; A crime that happened years ago, When by its walls, with shot and shell, The war swept on and left it so. For one black night, within it, shame Made revel, while, all here about, With prayer or curse or battle-shout, Men died and homesteads leapt in flame: Then passed the conquering Northern rout, And left it silent and the same. Why should I speak of what has been? Or what dark part I played in all? Why ruin sits in porch and hall Where pride and gladness once were seen; And why beneath this lichened wall The grave of Margaret is green. Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate Was sadder yet than his who won Her hand--my brother Hamilton-- Or mine, who learned to know too late; Who learned to know, when all was done, And nothing could exonerate. To expiate is still my lot,-- And, like the Ancient Mariner, To show to others how things are And what I am, still helps me blot A little from that crime's red scar, That on my soul is branded hot. He was my only brother. She A sister of my brother's friend. They met, and married in the end. And I remember well when he Brought her rejoicing home, the trend Of war moved towards us sullenly.