They were her brothers, and quick as they knewWhat the fiend was doing, their swords they drew,And attacked him fiercely, and ran him through,So that soon he was mortally wounded.With a wild remorse was his conscience filledWhen he thought of the hapless wives he had killed;But quickly the last of his blood was spilled,And his dying groan was sounded.
As soon as Fatima recovered from fright,She embraced her brothers with great delight;And they were as glad and as grateful quiteAs she was glad and grateful.Then they all went out from that scene of pain,And sought in quietude to regainTheir minds, which had come to be quite insane,In a place so horrid and hateful.
'Twas a private funeral Blue Beard had;For the people knew he was very bad,And, though they said nothing, they all were gladFor the fall of the evil-doer;But Fatima first ordered some graves to be made,And there the unfortunate ladies were laid,And after some painful months, with the aidOf her friends, her spirits came to her.
Then she cheered the hearts of the suffering poor,And an acre of land around each doorAnd a cow and a couple of sheep, or more,To her tenantry she granted.So all of them had enough to eat,And their love for her was so completeThey would kiss the dust from her little feet,Or do anything she wanted.
Samuel.
Capital! Capital! Wasn't it good!I should like to have been her brother;If I had been one, you may guess there wouldHave been little work for the other.I'd have run him right through the heart, just so;And cut off his head at a single blow,And killed him so quickly he'd never knowWhat it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe?
Joseph.
You are very brave with your bragging tongue;But if you had been there, you'd have sungA very different tunePoor Blue Beard! He would have been afraidOf a little boy with a penknife blade,Or a tiny pewter spoon!
Samuel.
It makes no difference what you say(Pretty little boy, afraid to play!)But it served him rightly any way,And gave him just his due.And wasn't it good that his little wifeShould live in his castle the rest of her life,And have all his money, too?
Rebekah.
I'm thinking of the ladies whoWere lying in the Chamber Blue,With all their small necks cut in two.
I see them lying, half a score,In a long row upon the floor,Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore.I know the sweet Fatima wouldHave put their heads on if she could;And made them live—she was so good;
And washed their faces at the sink;But Blue Beard was not sane, I think:I wonder if he did not drink!
For no man in his proper mindWould be so cruelly inclinedAs to kill ladies who were kind.
Ruth.
[Stepping forward withDAVID.]
Story and comment alike are bad;These little fellows are raving madWith thinking what they should do,Supposing their sunny-eyed sister hadGiven her heart—and her head—to a ladLike the man with the Beard of Blue.Each little jacketIs now a packetOf murderous thoughts and fancies;Oh, the gentle tradeBy which fiends are madeWith the ready aidOf these bloody old romances!And the little girl takes the woman's turn,And thinks that the old curmudgeonWho owned the castle, and rolled in goldOver fields and gardens manifold,And kept in his house a family tomb,With his bowling course and his billiard-room,Where he could preserve his precious dead,Who took the kiss of the bridal bedFrom one who straightway took their head,And threw it away with the pair of glovesIn which he wedded his hapless loves,Had some excuse for his dudgeon.
David.
We learn by contrast to admireThe beauty that enchains us;And know the object of desireBy that which pains us.
The roses blushing at the door,The lapse of leafy June,The singing birds, the sunny shore,The summer moon;—
All these entrance the eye or earBy innate grace and charm;But o'er them, reaching through the year,Hangs Winter's arm.
To give to memory the sign,The index of our bliss,And show by contrast how divineThe Summer is.
From chilling blasts and stormy skies,Bare hills and icy streams,Touched into fairest life ariseOur summer dreams.
And virtue never seems so fairAs when we lift our gazeFrom the red eyes and bloody hairThat vice displays.
We are too low,—our eyes too darkLove's height to estimate,Save as we note the sunken markOf brutal Hate.
So this ensanguined tale shall moveAright each little dreamer,And Blue Beard teach them how to loveThe sweet Fatima.
They hate his crimes, and it is well;They pity those who died;Their sense of justice when he fellWas satisfied.
No fierce revenges are the fruitOf their just indignation;They sit in judgment on the brute,And condemnation;
And turn to her, his rescued wife,Her deeds so kind and human,And love the beauty of her life,And bless the woman.
Ruth.
That is the way I supposed you would twist it;And now that the boys are disposed of,And the moral so handsomely closed off,What do you say of the girl? That she missed
When she thought of old Blue Beard as some do of Judas,Who with this notion essay to delude us:That when he relented,And fiercely repented,He was hardly so badAs he commonly hadThe fortune to be represented?
David.
The noblest pity in the earthIs that bestowed on sin.The Great Salvation had its birthThat ruth within.
The girl is nearest God, in fact;The boy gives crime its due;She blames the author of the act,And pities too.
Thus, from this strange excess of wrongHer tender heart has caughtThe noblest truth, the sweetest song,The Saviour taught.
So, more than measured homily,Of sage, or priest, or preacher,Is this wild tale of crueltyLove's gentle teacher.
It tells of sin, its deep remorse,Its fitting recompense,And vindicates the tardy courseOf Providence.
These boyish bosoms are on fireWith chivalric possession,And burn with just and manly ireAgainst oppression.
The glory and the grace of life,And Love's surpassing sweetness,Rise from the monster to the wifeIn high completeness;
And thence look down with mercy's eyeOn sin's accurst abuses,And seek to wrest from charitySome fair excuses.
Ruth.
These greedy mouths are wateringFor the fruit within the basket;And, although they will not ask it,Their jack-knives all are burningAnd their eager hands are yearningFor the peeling and the quartering.So let us have done with our talk;For they are too tired to say their prayers,And the time is come they should walkFrom the story below to the story upstairs.
LOCALITY.—The Kitchen.
PRESENT.-DAVID, RUTH, JOHN, PETER, PRUDENCE,andPATIENCE,
John.
Since the old gentleman retired to bed,Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Ruth,Have wasted thirty minutes undergroundIn explorations. One would think the houseCovered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave,And they had lost themselves. Mary and GraceStill hold their chamber and their conference,And pour into each other's greedy earsTheir stream of talk, whose low monotonous hum,Would lull to slumber any storm but this.The children are play-tired and gone to bed;And one may know by looking round the roomTheir place of sport was here. And we, plain folk,Who have no gift of speech, especiallyOn themes which we and none may understand,Have yawned and nodded in the great square room,And wondered if the parted familyWould ever meet again.
Ruth.
John, do you seeThe apples and the cider on the hearth?If I remember rightly, you discussSuch themes as these with noticeable zestAnd pleasant tokens of intelligence;Rather preferring scanty companyTo the full circle. So, sir, take the lead,And help yourself.
John.
Aye! That I will, and giveYour welcome invitation currency,In the old-fashioned way. Come! Help yourselves!
David.
[Looking out from the window.]
The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls!The atmosphere is plunging like the seaAgainst the woods, and pouring on the nightThe roar of breakers, while the blinding sprayO'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting onIn lines as level as the window-bars.What curious visions, in a night like this,Will the eye conjure from the rocks and treesAnd zigzag fences! I was almost sureI saw a man staggering along the roadA moment since; but instantly the shapeDropped from my sight. Hark! Was not that a call—A human voice? There's a conspiracyBetween my eyes and ears to play me tricks,Else wanders there abroad some hapless soulWho needs assistance. There he stands again,And with unsteady essay strives to breastThe tempest. Hush! Did you not hear that cry?Quick, brothers! We must out, and give our aid.None but a dying and despairing manEver gave utterance to a cry like that.Nay, wait for nothing. Follow me!
Ruth.
Alas!Who can he be, who on a night like this,And on this night, of all nights in the year,Holds to the highway, homeless?
Prudence.
ProbablySome neighbor, started from his home in questOf a physician; or, more likely still,Some poor inebriate, sadly overcomeBy his sad keeping of the holiday.I hope they'll give him quarters in the barn;If he sleep here, there'll be no sleep for me.
Patience.
I'll not believe it was a man at all;David and Ruth are always seeing thingsThat no one else sees.
Ruth.
I see plainly nowWhat we shall all see plainly, soon enough.The man is dead, and they are bearing himAs if he were a log. Quick! Stir the fire,And clear the settle! We must lay him there.I will bring cordials, and flannel stuffsWith which to chafe him; open wide the door.
[_The men enter bearing a body apparently lifeless, which they lay upon the settle.]
David.
Now do my bidding, orderly and swift;And we may save from death a fellow-man.Peter, relieve him of those frozen shoes,And wrap his feet in flannel. This way, Ruth!Administer that cordial yourself.John, you are strong, and that rough hand of yoursWill chafe him well. Work with a will, I say!
* * * * *
My hand is on his heart, and I can feelBoth warmth and motion. If we persevere,He will be saved. Work with a will, I say!
* * * * *
A groan? Ha! That is good. Another groan?Better and better!
Ruth.
It is down at last!—A spoonful of the cordial. His breathComes feebly, but is warm upon my hand.
David.
Give him brisk treatment, and persistent, too;And we shall be rewarded presently,For there is life in him.
* * * * *He moves his lipsAnd tries to speak.
* * * * *
And now he opes his eyes.What eyes! How wandering and wild they are!
[To the stranger.]
We are your friends. We found you overcomeBy the cold storm without, and brought you in.We are your friends, I say; so be at ease,And let us do according to your need.What is your wish?
Stranger.
My friends? O God in Heaven!They've cheated me! I'm in the hospital.Oh, it was cruel to deceive me thus!No, you are not my friends. What bitter painRacks my poor body!
David.
Poor man, how he raves!Let us be silent while the warmth and wineProvoke his sluggish blood to steady flow,And each dead sense comes back to life again,O'er the same path of torture which it trodWhen it went out from him. He'll slumber soon,And, when he wakens, we may talk with him.
Prudence.
[Sotto voce_.]
Shall I not call the family? I thinkMary and Grace must both be very cold;And they know nothing of this strange affair.I'll wait them at the landing, and secureTheir silent entrance.
David.
If it please you—well.
[PRUDENCEretires, and returns withGRACEandMARY.]
Mary.
Why! We heard nothing of it—Grace and I:—What a cadaverous hand! How blue and thin!
David.
At his first wild awaking he bemoanedHis fancied durance in a hospital;And since he spoke so strangely, I have thoughtHe may have fled a mad-house. Matters not!We've done our duty, and preserved his life.
Mary.
Shall I disturb him if I look at him?I'm strangely curious to see his face.
David.
Go. Move you carefully, and bring us wordWhether he sleeps.
[MARYrises, goes to the settle, and sinksback fainting]
Why! What ails the girl?I thought her nerves were iron. Dash her brow,And bathe her temples!
Mary.
There—there,—that will do.'Tis over now.
David.
The man is speaking. Hush!
Stranger.
Oh, what a heavenly dream! But it is past,Like all my heavenly dreams, for never moreShall dream entrance me. Death has never dreams,But everlasting wakefulness. The eyeOf the quick spirit that has dropped the fleshMay close no more in slumber.
* * * * *
I must die!This painless spell which binds my weary limbs—This peace ineffable of soul and sense—Is dissolution's herald, and gives noteThat life is conquered and the struggle o'er.But I had hoped to see her ere I died;To kneel for pardon, and implore one kiss,Pledge to my soul that in the coming heavenWe should not meet as strangers, but rejoinOur hearts and lives so madly sundered here,Through fault and freak of mine. But it is well!God's will be done!
* * * * *
I dreamed that I had reachedThe old red farmhouse,—that I saw the lightFlaming as brightly as in other timesIt flushed the kitchen windows; and that formsWere sliding to and fro in joyous life,Restless to give me welcome. Then I dreamedOf the dear woman who went out with meOne sweet spring morning, in her own sweet spring,To—wretchedness and ruin. Oh, forgive—Dear, pitying Christ, forgive this cruel wrong,And let me die! Oh let me—let me die!Mary! my Mary! Could you only knowHow I have suffered since I fled from you.—How I have sorrowed through long months of pain,And prayed for pardon,—you would pardon me.
David.
[Sotto voce]
Mary, what means this? Does he dream alone,Or are we dreaming?
Mary.
Edward, I am here!I am your Mary! Know you not my face?My husband, speak to me! Oh, speak once more!This is no dream, but kind reality.
Edward.
[Raising himself, and looking wildly around.]
You, Mary? Is this heaven, and am I dead?I did not know you died: when did you die?And John and Peter, Grace and little RuthGrown to a woman; are they all with you?'Tis very strange! O pity me, my friends!For God has pitied me, and pardoned, too;Else I should not be here. Nay, you seem cold,And look on me with sad severity.Have you no pardoning word—no smile for me?
Mary.
This is not Heaven's, but Earth's reality;This is the farm-house—these your wife and friends.I hold your hand, and I forgive you all.Pray you recline! You are not strong enoughTo bear this yet.
Edward.
[Sinking back.]
O toiling heart! O sick and sinking heart!Give me one hour of service, ere I die!This is no dream. This hand is precious flesh,And I am here where I have prayed to be.My God, I thank thee! Thou hast heard my prayer,And, in its answer, given me a pledgeOf the acceptance of my penitence.How have I yearned for this one priceless hour!Cling to me, dearest, while my feet go downInto the silent stream; nor loose your hold,Till angels grasp me on the other side.
Mary.
Edward, you are not dying—must not die;For only now are we prepared to live.You must have quiet, and a night of rest.Be silent, if you love me!
Edward.
If I love?Ah, Mary! never till this blessed hour,When power and passion, lust and pride are gone,Have I perceived what wedded love may be;—Unutterable fondness, soul for soul;Profoundest tenderness between two heartsAllied by nature, interlocked by life.I know that I shall die; but the low cloudsThat closed my mental vision have retired,And left a sky as clear and calm as Heaven.I must talk now, or never more on earth;So do not hinder me.
Mary.
[Weeping.]
Have you a wishThat I can gratify? Have you any wordsTo send to other friends?
Edward.
I have no friendsBut you and these, and only wish to leaveMy worthless name and memory redeemedWithin your hearts to pitying respect.I have no strength, and it becomes me not,To tell the story of my life of sin.I was a drunkard, thief, adulterer;And fled from shame, with shame, to find remorse.I had but few months of debauchery,Pursued with mad intent to damp or drownThe flames of a consuming conscience, whenMy body, poisoned, crippled with disease,Refused the guilty service of my soul,And at midday fell prone upon the street.Thence I was carried to a hospital,And there I woke to that deliriumWhich none but drunkards this side of the pitMay even dream of.
But at last there came,With abstinence and kindly medicines,Release from pain and peaceful sanity;And then Christ found me, ready for His hand.I was not ready for Him when He cameAnd asked me for my youth; and when He knockedAt my heart's door in manhood's early primeWith tenderest monitions, I debarredHis waiting feet with promise and excuse;And when, in after years, absorbed in sin,The gentle summons swelled to thunderingsThat echoed through the chambers of my soulWith threats of vengeance, I shut up my ears;And then He went away, and let me rushWithout arrest, or protest, toward the pit.I made swift passage downward, till, at length,I had become a miserable wreck—Pleasure behind me; only pain before;My life lived out; the fires of passion dead,Without a friend; no pride, no power, no hope;No motive in me e'en to wish for life.Then, as I said, Christ came, with stern and sadReminders of His mercy and my guilt,And the door fell before Him.
I went out,And trod the wildernesses of remorseFor many days. Then from their outer verge,Tortured and blinded, I plunged madly downInto the sullen bosom of despair;But strength from Heaven was given me, and preservedBreath in my bosom, till a light streamed upUpon the other shore, and I struck outOn the cold waters, struggling for my life.Fainting I reached the beach, and on my kneesClimbed up the thorny hill of penitence,Till I could see, upon its distant brow,The Saviour beck'ning. Then I ran—I flew—And grasped His outstretched hand. It lifted meHigh on the everlasting rock, and thenIt folded me, with all my griefs and tears,My sin-sick body and my guilt-stained soul,To the great heart that throbs for all the world.
Mary.
Dear Lord, I bless Thee! Thou hast heard my prayer,And saved the wanderer! Hear it once again,And lengthen out the life Thou hast redeemed!
Edward.
Mary, my wife, forbear! I may not giveResponse to such petition. I have prayedThat I may die. When first the love DivineReceived me on its bosom, and in mineI felt the springing of another life,I begged the Lord to grant me two requests:The first that I might die, and in that worldWhere passion sleeps, and only influenceFrom Him and those who cluster at His throneBreathes on the soul, the germ of His great life,Bursting within me, might be perfected.The second, that your life, my love, and mineMight be once more united on the earthIn holy marriage, and that mine might beBreathed out at last within your loving arms.One prayer is granted, and the other waitsBut a brief space for its accomplishment.
Mary.
But why this prayer to die? Still loving me,—With the great motive for desiring lifeAnd the deep secret of enjoyment won,—Why pray for death?
Edward.
Do you not know me, Mary?I am afraid to live, for I am weak.I've found a treasure only life can steal;I've won a jewel only death will keep.In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearlWould not be safe. That which I would not takeWhen health was with me,—which I spurned awaySo long as I had power to sin, I fearWould be surrendered with that power's returnAnd the temptation to its exercise.For soul like mine, diseased in every part,There is but one condition in which graceMay give it service. For my maladyThe Great Physician draws the blood awayThat only flows to feed its baleful fires;For only thus the balsam and the balmMay touch the springs of healing.
So I prayTo be delivered from myself,—to beDelivered from necessity of ill,—To be secured from bringing harm to you.Oh, what a boon is death to the sick soul!I greet it with a joy that passes speech.Were the whole world to come before me now,—Wealth with its treasures; Pleasure with its cup;Power robed in purple; Beauty in its pride,And with Love's sweetest blossoms garlanded;Fame with its bays, and Glory with its crown,—To tempt me lifeward, I would turn away,And stretch my hands with utter eagernessToward the pale angel waiting for me now,And give my hand to him, to be led out,Serenely singing, to the land of shade.
Mary.
Edward, I yield you. I would not retainOne who has strayed so long from God and heaven,When his weak feet have found the only pathOpen for such as he.
Edward.
My strength recedes;But ere it fail, tell me how fares your life.You have seen sorrow; but it comforts meTo hear the language of a chastened soulFrom one perverted by my guilty hand.You speak the dialect of the redeemed—The Heaven-accepted. Tell me it is so,And you are happy.
Mary.
With sweet hope and trustI may reply, 'tis as you think and wish.I have seen sorrow, surely, and the moreThat I have seen what was far worse; but GodSent His own servant to me to restoreMy sadly straying feet to the sure path;And in my soul I have the pledge of graceWhich shall suffice to keep them there.
Edward.
Ah, joy!You found a friend; and my o'erflowing heart,Welling with gratitude, pours out to himFor his kind ministry its fitting meed.Oh, breathe his name to me, that my poor lipsMay bind it to a benison, and that,While dying, I may whisper it with those—Jesus and Mary—which I love the best.Name him, I pray you.
Mary.
You would ask of meTo bear your thanks to him, and to rehearseYour dying words?
Grace.
He asks your good friend's name;You do not understand him.
Mary.
It is hardTo give denial to a dying wish;But, Edward, I've no right to speak his name.He was a Christian man, and you may giveOf the full largess of your gratitudeAll, without robbing God, you have to give,And fail, e'en then, of worthy recompense.
Edward.
Your will is mine.
Grace.
Nay, Mary, tell it him!Where is he going he should bruit the name?Remember where he lies, and that no earsSave those of angels—
Mary.
There are others hereWho may not hear it.
Ruth.
We will all retire.It is not proper we should linger here,Barring the sacred confidence of heartsParting so sadly.
David.
Mary, you must yield,Nor keep the secret longer from your friends,
Mary.
David, you know not what you say.
David.
I know;So give the dying man no more delay.
Mary.
I will declare it under your command.This stranger friend—stranger for many months—This man, selectest instrument of Heaven,Who gave me succor in my hour of need,Snatched me from ruin, rescued me from want,Counseled and cheered me, prayed with me, and thenLed me with careful hand into the light,Was he now bending over you in tears—David, my brother!
Edward.
Blessed be his name!Brother by every law, above—below!
Grace.
[Pale and trembling,]
David? My husband? Did I hear aright?You are not jesting! Sure you would not jestAt such a juncture! Speak, my husband, speak!Is this a plot to cheat a dying man,Or cheat a wife who, if it be no plot,Is worthy death? What can you mean by this?
Mary.
Not more nor less than my true words convey.
Grace.
Nay, David, tell me!
David.
Mary's words are truth.Grace.
O mean and jealous heart, what hast thou done!What wrong to honor, spite to Christian love,And shame to self beyond self-pardoning!How can I ever lift my faithless eyesTo those true eyes that I have counted false;Or meet those lips that I have charged with lies;Or win the dear embraces I have spurned?O most unhappy, most unworthy wife!No one but he who still has clung to thee,—Proud, and imperious, and impenitent,—No one but he who has in silence borneThy peevish criminations and complaintsCan now forgive thee, when in deepest shameThou bowest with confession of thy faults.Dear husband! David! Look upon your wife!Behold one kneeling never knelt to you!I have abused you and your faithful love,And, in my great humiliation, prayYou will not trample me beneath your feet.Pity my weakness, and remember, too,That Love was jealous of thee, and not Hate—That it was Love's own pride tormented me.My husband, take me once more to your arms,And kiss me in forgiveness; say that youWill be my counselor, my friend, my love;And I will give myself to you again,To be all yours—my reason, confidence,My faith and trust all yours, my heart's best love,My service and my prayers, all yours—all yours!
David.
Rise, dearest, rise! It gives me only painThat such as you should kneel to such as I.Your words inform me that you know how weakI am whom you have only fancied weak.Forgive you? I forgive you everything;And take the pardon which your prayer insures.Let this embrace, this kiss, be evidenceOur jarring hearts catch common rhythm again,And we are lovers.
Ruth.
Hush! You trouble him.He understands this scene no more than we.Mary, he speaks to you.
Edward.
Dear wife, farewell!The room grows dim, and silently and softThe veil is dropping 'twixt my eyes and yours,Which soon will hide me from you—you from me.Only one hand is warm; it rests in yours,Whose full, sweet pulses throb along my arm,So that I live upon them. Cling to me!And thus your life, after my life is past,Shall lay me gently in the arms of Death.Thus shall you link your being with a soulGazing unveiled upon the Great White Throne.
Dear hearts of love surrounding me, farewell!I cannot see you now; or, if I do,You are transfigured. There are floating formsThat whisper over me like summer leaves;And now there comes, and spreads through all my soul.Delicious influx of another life,From out whose essence spring, like living flowers,Angelic senses with quick ultimates,That catch the rustle of ethereal robes,And the thin chime of melting minstrelsy—Rising and falling—answered far away—As Echo, dreaming in the twilight woods,Repeats the warble of her twilight birds.And flowers that mock the Iris toss their cupsIn the impulsive ether, and spill outSweet tides of perfume, fragrant deluges,Flooding my spirit like an angel's breath.
* * * * *
And still the throng increases; still unfoldWith broader span and more elusive sweepThe radiant vistas of a world divine.But O my soul! what vision rises now!Far, far away, white blazing like the sun,In deepest distance and on highest height,Through walls diaphanous, and atmosphereFlecked with unnumbered forms of missive power,Out-going fleetly and returning slow,A Presence shines I may not penetrate;But on a throne, with smile ineffable,I see a form my conscious spirit knows.Jesus, my Saviour! Jesus, Lamb of God!Jesus who taketh from me all my sins,And from the world! Jesus, I come to thee!Come thou to me! O come, Lord, quickly! Come!
David.
Flown on the wings of rapture! Is this death?His heart is still; his beaded brow is cold;His wasted breast struggles for breath no more;And his pale features, hardened with the stressOf Life's resistance, momently subsideInto a smile, calm as a twilight lake,Sprent with the images of rising stars,We have seen Evil in his countless formsIn these poor lives; have met his armed hostsIn dread encounter and discomfiture;And languished in captivity to them,Until we lost our courage and our faith;And here we see their Chieftain—Terror's King!He cuts the knot that binds a weary soulTo faithless passions, sateless appetites,And powers perverted, and it flies awaySinging toward heaven. He turns and looks at us,And finds us weeping with our gratitude—Full of sweet sorrow,—sorrow sweeter farThan the supremest ecstasy of joy.
And this is death! Think you that raptured soulNow walking humbly in the golden streets,Bearing the precious burden of a loveToo great for utterance, or with hushed heartDrinking the music of the ransomed throng,Counts death an evil?—evil, sickness, pain,Calamity, or aught that God prescribedTo cure it of its sin, or bring it whereThe healing hand of Christ might touch it? No!He is a man to-night—a man in Christ.This was his childhood, here; and as we giveA smile of wonder to the little woesThat drew the tears from out our own young eyes,The kind corrections and severe constraintsImposed by those who loved us—so he seesA father's chastisement in all the illThat filled his life with darkness; so he seesIn every evil a kind instrumentTo chasten, elevate, correct, subdue,And fit him for that heavenly estate—Saintship in Christ—the Manhood Absolute!
Midnight and silence! In the West, unveiled,The broad, full moon is shining, with the stars.On mount and valley, forest, roof, and rock,On billowy hills smooth-stretching to the sky,On rail and wall, on all things far and near,Cling the bright crystals,—all the earth a floorOf polished silver, pranked with bending formsUplifting to the light their precious weightOf pearls and diamonds, set in palest gold.The storm is dead; and when it rolled awayIt took no star from heaven, but left to earthSuch legacy of beauty as The Wind—The light-robed shepherdess from Cuban groves—Driving soft showers before her, and warm airs,And her wide-scattered flocks of wet-winged birds,Never bestowed upon the waiting Spring.Pale, silent, smiling, cold, and beautiful!Do storms die thus? And is it this to die?
Midnight and silence! In that hallowed roomGod's full-orbed peace is shining, with the stars.On head and hand, on brow, and lip, and eye,On folded arms, on broad unmoving breast,On the white-sanded floor, on everythingRest the pale radiance, while bending formsStand all around, loaded with precious weightOf jewels such as holy angels wear.The man is dead; and when he passed awayHe blotted out no good, but left behindSuch wealth of faith, such store of love and trust,As breath of joy, in-floating from the islesSmiled on by ceaseless summer, and induedWith foliage and flowers perennial,Never conveyed to the enchanted soul.Do men die thus? And is it this to die?
Midnight and silence! At each waiting tied,Husband and wife, embracing, kneel in prayer;And lips unused to such a benisonBreathe blessings upon evil, and give thanksFor knowledge of its sacred ministry.An infant nestles on a mother's breast,Whose head is pillowed where it has not lainFor months of wasted life—the tale all told,And confidence and love for aye secure.
The widow and the virgin: where are they?The morn shall find them watching with the dead,Like the two angels at the tomb of Christ,—One at the head, the other at the foot,—Guarding a sepulcher whose occupantHas risen, and rolled the heavy stone away!
[Transcriber's Note: In the First Movement, one word was missing from our print copy; the symbol [***] denotes the missing word.
This work contains some rare words and variants, such as blent, indites, mekly, reck, ruth (no capital), sprent, and ween.]