TAULER, the preacher, walked, one autumn day,Without the walls of Strasburg, by the Rhine,Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life;As one who, wandering in a starless night,Feels momently the jar of unseen waves,And hears the thunder of an unknown sea,Breaking along an unimagined shore.And as he walked he prayed. Even the sameOld prayer with which, for half a score of years,Morning, and noon, and evening, lip and heartHad groaned: "Have pity upon me, Lord!Thou seest, while teaching others, I am blind.Send me a man who can direct my steps!"Then, as he mused, he heard along his pathA sound as of an old man's staff amongThe dry, dead linden-leaves; and, looking up,He saw a stranger, weak, and poor, and old."Peace be unto thee, father!" Tauler said,"God give thee a good day!" The old man raisedSlowly his calm blue eyes. "I thank thee, son;But all my days are good, and none are ill."Wondering thereat, the preacher spake again,"God give thee happy life." The old man smiled,"I never am unhappy."Tauler laidHis hand upon the stranger's coarse gray sleeve"Tell me, O father, what thy strange words mean.Surely man's days are evil, and his lifeSad as the grave it leads to." "Nay, my son,Our times are in God's hands, and all our daysAre as our needs; for shadow as for sun,For cold as heat, for want as wealth, alikeOur thanks are due, since that is best which is;And that which is not, sharing not His life,Is evil only as devoid of good.And for the happiness of which I spake,I find it in submission to his will,And calm trust in the holy TrinityOf Knowledge, Goodness, and Almighty Power."Silently wondering, for a little space,Stood the great preacher; then he spake as oneWho, suddenly grappling with a haunting thoughtWhich long has followed, whispering through the darkStrange terrors, drags it, shrieking, into light"What if God's will consign thee hence to Hell?""Then," said the stranger, cheerily, "be it so.What Hell may be I know not; this I know,—I cannot lose the presence of the Lord.One arm, Humility, takes hold uponHis dear Humanity; the other, Love,Clasps his Divinity. So where I goHe goes; and better fire-walled Hell with HimThan golden-gated Paradise without."Tears sprang in Tauler's eyes. A sudden light,Like the first ray which fell on chaos, cloveApart the shadow wherein he had walkedDarkly at noon. And, as the strange old manWent his slow way, until his silver hairSet like the white moon where the hills of vineSlope to the Rhine, he bowed his head and said"My prayer is answered. God hath sent the manLong sought, to teach me, by his simple trust,Wisdom the weary schoolmen never knew."So, entering with a changed and cheerful stepThe city gates, he saw, far down the street,A mighty shadow break the light of noon,Which tracing backward till its airy linesHardened to stony plinths, he raised his eyesO'er broad facade and lofty pediment,O'er architrave and frieze and sainted niche,Up the stone lace-work chiselled by the wiseErwin of Steinbach, dizzily up to whereIn the noon-brightness the great Minster's tower,Jewelled with sunbeams on its mural crown,Rose like a visible prayer. "Behold!" he said,"The stranger's faith made plain before mine eyes.As yonder tower outstretches to the earthThe dark triangle of its shade aloneWhen the clear day is shining on its top,So, darkness in the pathway of Man's lifeIs but the shadow of God's providence,By the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon;And what is dark below is light in Heaven."1853.
O strong, upwelling prayers of faith,From inmost founts of life ye start,—The spirit's pulse, the vital breathOf soul and heart!From pastoral toil, from traffic's din,Alone, in crowds, at home, abroad,Unheard of man, ye enter inThe ear of God.Ye brook no forced and measured tasks,Nor weary rote, nor formal chains;The simple heart, that freely asksIn love, obtains.For man the living temple isThe mercy-seat and cherubim,And all the holy mysteries,He bears with him.And most avails the prayer of love,Which, wordless, shapes itself in needs,And wearies Heaven for naught aboveOur common needs.Which brings to God's all-perfect willThat trust of His undoubting childWhereby all seeming good and illAre reconciled.And, seeking not for special signsOf favor, is content to fallWithin the providence which shinesAnd rains on all.Alone, the Thebaid hermit leanedAt noontime o'er the sacred word.Was it an angel or a fiendWhose voice be heard?It broke the desert's hush of awe,A human utterance, sweet and mild;And, looking up, the hermit sawA little child.A child, with wonder-widened eyes,O'erawed and troubled by the sightOf hot, red sands, and brazen skies,And anchorite."What dost thou here, poor man? No shadeOf cool, green palms, nor grass, nor well,Nor corn, nor vines." The hermit said"With God I dwell."Alone with Him in this great calm,I live not by the outward sense;My Nile his love, my sheltering palmHis providence."The child gazed round him. "Does God liveHere only?—where the desert's rimIs green with corn, at morn and eve,We pray to Him."My brother tills beside the NileHis little field; beneath the leavesMy sisters sit and spin, the whileMy mother weaves."And when the millet's ripe heads fall,And all the bean-field hangs in pod,My mother smiles, and, says that allAre gifts from God."Adown the hermit's wasted cheeksGlistened the flow of human tears;"Dear Lord!" he said, "Thy angel speaks,Thy servant hears."Within his arms the child he took,And thought of home and life with men;And all his pilgrim feet forsookReturned again.The palmy shadows cool and long,The eyes that smiled through lavish locks,Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song,And bleat of flocks."O child!" he said, "thou teachest meThere is no place where God is not;That love will make, where'er it be,A holy spot."He rose from off the desert sand,And, leaning on his staff of thorn,Went with the young child hand in hand,Like night with morn.They crossed the desert's burning line,And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan,The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine,And voice of man.Unquestioning, his childish guideHe followed, as the small hand ledTo where a woman, gentle-eyed,Her distaff fed.She rose, she clasped her truant boy,She thanked the stranger with her eyes;The hermit gazed in doubt and joyAnd dumb surprise.And lo!—with sudden warmth and lightA tender memory thrilled his frame;New-born, the world-lost anchoriteA man became."O sister of El Zara's race,Behold me!—had we not one mother?"She gazed into the stranger's face"Thou art my brother!""And when to share our evening meal,She calls the stranger at the door,She says God fills the hands that dealFood to the poor.""O kin of blood! Thy life of useAnd patient trust is more than mine;And wiser than the gray recluseThis child of thine."For, taught of him whom God hath sent,That toil is praise, and love is prayer,I come, life's cares and pains contentWith thee to share."Even as his foot the threshold crossed,The hermit's better life began;Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost,And found a man!1854.
The recollection of some descendants of a Hessian deserter in the Revolutionary war bearing the name of Muller doubtless suggested the somewhat infelicitous title of a New England idyl. The poem had no real foundation in fact, though a hint of it may have been found in recalling an incident, trivial in itself, of a journey on the picturesque Maine seaboard with my sister some years before it was written. We had stopped to rest our tired horse under the shade of an apple-tree, and refresh him with water from a little brook which rippled through the stone wall across the road. A very beautiful young girl in scantest summer attire was at work in the hay-field, and as we talked with her we noticed that she strove to hide her bare feet by raking hay over them, blushing as she did so, through the tan of her cheek and neck.
Maud Muller on a summer's day,Raked the meadow sweet with hay.Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealthOf simple beauty and rustic-health.Singing, she wrought, and her merry gleeThe mock-bird echoed from his tree.But when she glanced to the far-off town,White from its hill-slope looking down,The sweet song died, and a vague unrestAnd a nameless longing filled her breast,—A wish, that she hardly dared to own,For something better than she had known.The Judge rode slowly down the lane,Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.He drew his bridle in the shadeOf the apple-trees, to greet the maid,And asked a draught from the spring that flowedThrough the meadow across the road.She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,And filled for him her small tin cup,And blushed as she gave it, looking downOn her feet so bare, and her tattered gown."Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draughtFrom a fairer hand was never quaffed."He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,Of the singing birds and the humming bees;Then talked of the haying, and wondered whetherThe cloud in the west would bring foul weather.And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,And her graceful ankles bare and brown;And listened, while a pleased surpriseLooked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.At last, like one who for delaySeeks a vain excuse, he rode away.Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!That I the Judge's bride might be!"He would dress me up in silks so fine,And praise and toast me at his wine."My father should wear a broadcloth coat;My brother should sail a painted boat."I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,And the baby should have a new toy each day."And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,And all should bless me who left our door."The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,And saw Maud Muller standing still.A form more fair, a face more sweet,Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet."And her modest answer and graceful airShow her wise and good as she is fair."Would she were mine, and I to-day,Like her, a harvester of hay;"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,"But low of cattle and song of birds,And health and quiet and loving words."But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,And Maud was left in the field alone.But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,When he hummed in court an old love-tune;And the young girl mused beside the wellTill the rain on the unraked clover fell.He wedded a wife of richest dower,Who lived for fashion, as he for power.Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,He watched a picture come and go;And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyesLooked out in their innocent surprise.Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,He longed for the wayside well instead;And closed his eyes on his garnished roomsTo dream of meadows and clover-blooms.And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,"Ah, that I were free again!"Free as when I rode that day,Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."She wedded a man unlearned and poor,And many children played round her door.But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain,Left their traces on heart and brain.And oft, when the summer sun shone hotOn the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,And she heard the little spring brook fallOver the roadside, through the wall,In the shade of the apple-tree againShe saw a rider draw his rein.And, gazing down with timid grace,She felt his pleased eyes read her face.Sometimes her narrow kitchen wallsStretched away into stately halls;The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,The tallow candle an astral burned,And for him who sat by the chimney lug,Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,A manly form at her side she saw,And joy was duty and love was law.Then she took up her burden of life again,Saying only, "It might have been."Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,For rich repiner and household drudge!God pity them both! and pity us all,Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these: "It might have been!"Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope liesDeeply buried from human eyes;And, in the hereafter, angels mayRoll the stone from its grave away!1854.
FROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, from thelake that never fails,Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway'sintervales;There, in wild and virgin freshness, its watersfoam and flow,As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundredyears ago.But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges,dams, and mills,How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedomof the hills,Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and statelyChampernoonHeard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trumpetof the loon!With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds offire and steam,Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind himlike a dream.Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backwardfar and fastThe milestones of the fathers, the landmarks ofthe past.But human hearts remain unchanged: the sorrowand the sin,The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to ourown akin;And if, in tales our fathers told, the songs ourmothers sung,Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is alwaysyoung.O sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks today!O mill-girl watching late and long the shuttle'srestless play!Let, for the once, a listening ear the working handbeguile,And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear orsmile!. . . . . . . . . . . . .The evening gun had sounded from gray FortMary's walls;Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared andplunged the Saco's' falls.And westward on the sea-wind, that damp andgusty grew,Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spurwinkblew.On the hearth of Farmer Garvin, blazed the cracklingwalnut log;Right and left sat dame and goodman, and betweenthem lay the dog,Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and besidehim on her mat,Sitting drowsy in the firelight, winked and purredthe mottled cat."Twenty years!" said Goodman Garvin, speakingsadly, under breath,And his gray head slowly shaking, as one whospeaks of death.The goodwife dropped her needles: "It is twentyyears to-day,Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our childaway."Then they sank into the silence, for each knewthe other's thought,Of a great and common sorrow, and words were,needed not."Who knocks?" cried Goodman Garvin. Thedoor was open thrown;On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked andfurred, the fire-light shone.One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skinfrom his head;"Lives here Elkanah Garvin?" "I am he," thegoodman said."Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the nightis chill with rain."And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred thefire amain.The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the firelightglistened fairIn her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds ofdark brown hair.Dame Garvin looked upon her: "It is Mary's selfI see!""Dear heart!" she cried, "now tell me, has mychild come back to me?""My name indeed is Mary," said the stranger sobbingwild;"Will you be to me a mother? I am Mary Garvin's child!""She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dyingdayShe bade my father take me to her kinsfolk faraway."And when the priest besought her to do me nosuch wrong,She said, 'May God forgive me! I have closedmy heart too long.'"'When I hid me from my father, and shut outmy mother's call,I sinned against those dear ones, and the Fatherof us all."'Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks notie of kin apart;Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of heart."'Tell me not the Church must censure: she whowept the Cross besideNever made her own flesh strangers, nor the claimsof blood denied;"'And if she who wronged her parents, with herchild atones to them,Earthly daughter, Heavenly Mother! thou at leastwilt not condemn!'"So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed motherspake;As we come to do her bidding, So receive us for hersake.""God be praised!" said Goodwife Garvin, "He taketh,and He gives;He woundeth, but He healeth; in her child ourdaughter lives!""Amen!" the old man answered, as he brushed atear away,And, kneeling by his hearthstone, said, with reverence,"Let us pray."All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew pararphrase,Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his prayerof love and praise.But he started at beholding, as he rose from offhis knee,The stranger cross his forehead with the sign ofPapistrie."What is this?" cried Farmer Garvin. "Is an EnglishChristian's homeA chapel or a mass-house, that you make the signof Rome?"Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed histrembling hand, and cried:Oh, forbear to chide my father; in that faith mymother died!"On her wooden cross at Simcoe the dews andsunshine fall,As they fall on Spurwink's graveyard; and thedear God watches all!"The old man stroked the fair head that rested onhis knee;"Your words, dear child," he answered, "are God'srebuke to me."Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet ourfaith and hope be one.Let me be your father's father, let him be to mea son."When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through thestill and frosty air,From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called tosermon and to prayer,To the goodly house of worship, where, in orderdue and fit,As by public vote directed, classed and ranked thepeople sit;Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squirebefore the clown,"From the brave coat, lace-embroidered, to the grayfrock, shading down;"From the pulpit read the preacher, "GoodmanGarvin and his wifeFain would thank the Lord, whose kindness hasfollowed them through life,"For the great and crowning mercy, that theirdaughter, from the wild,Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), hassent to them her child;"And the prayers of all God's people they ask,that they may proveNot unworthy, through their weakness, of suchspecial proof of love."As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couplestood,And the fair Canadian also, in her modest maiden-hood.Thought the elders, grave and doubting, "She isPapist born and bred;"Thought the young men, "'T is an angel in MaryGarvin's stead!"
Originally published as Martha Mason; a Song of the Old French War.
ROBERT RAWLIN!—Frosts were fallingWhen the ranger's horn was callingThrough the woods to Canada.Gone the winter's sleet and snowing,Gone the spring-time's bud and blowing,Gone the summer's harvest mowing,And again the fields are gray.Yet away, he's away!Faint and fainter hope is growingIn the hearts that mourn his stay.Where the lion, crouching high onAbraham's rock with teeth of iron,Glares o'er wood and wave away,Faintly thence, as pines far sighing,Or as thunder spent and dying,Come the challenge and replying,Come the sounds of flight and fray.Well-a-day! Hope and pray!Some are living, some are lyingIn their red graves far away.Straggling rangers, worn with dangers,Homeward faring, weary strangersPass the farm-gate on their way;Tidings of the dead and living,Forest march and ambush, giving,Till the maidens leave their weaving,And the lads forget their play."Still away, still away!"Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving,"Why does Robert still delay!"Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer,Does the golden-locked fruit bearerThrough his painted woodlands stray,Than where hillside oaks and beechesOverlook the long, blue reaches,Silver coves and pebbled beaches,And green isles of Casco Bay;Nowhere day, for delay,With a tenderer look beseeches,"Let me with my charmed earth stay."On the grain-lands of the mainlandsStands the serried corn like train-bands,Plume and pennon rustling gay;Out at sea, the islands wooded,Silver birches, golden-hooded,Set with maples, crimson-blooded,White sea-foam and sand-hills gray,Stretch away, far away.Dim and dreamy, over-broodedBy the hazy autumn day.Gayly chattering to the clatteringOf the brown nuts downward pattering,Leap the squirrels, red and gray.On the grass-land, on the fallow,Drop the apples, red and yellow;Drop the russet pears and mellow,Drop the red leaves all the day.And away, swift away,Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollowChasing, weave their web of play."Martha Mason, Martha Mason,Prithee tell us of the reasonWhy you mope at home to-daySurely smiling is not sinning;Leave, your quilling, leave your spinning;What is all your store of linen,If your heart is never gay?Come away, come away!Never yet did sad beginningMake the task of life a play."Overbending, till she's blendingWith the flaxen skein she's tendingPale brown tresses smoothed awayFrom her face of patient sorrow,Sits she, seeking but to borrow,From the trembling hope of morrow,Solace for the weary day."Go your way, laugh and play;Unto Him who heeds the sparrowAnd the lily, let me pray.""With our rally, rings the valley,—Join us!" cried the blue-eyed Nelly;"Join us!" cried the laughing May,"To the beach we all are going,And, to save the task of rowing,West by north the wind is blowing,Blowing briskly down the bayCome away, come away!Time and tide are swiftly flowing,Let us take them while we may!"Never tell us that you'll fail us,Where the purple beach-plum mellowsOn the bluffs so wild and gray.Hasten, for the oars are falling;Hark, our merry mates are calling;Time it is that we were all in,Singing tideward down the bay!""Nay, nay, let me stay;Sore and sad for Robert RawlinIs my heart," she said, "to-day.""Vain your calling for Rob RawlinSome red squaw his moose-meat's broiling,Or some French lass, singing gay;Just forget as he's forgetting;What avails a life of fretting?If some stars must needs be setting,Others rise as good as they.""Cease, I pray; go your way!"Martha cries, her eyelids wetting;"Foul and false the words you say!""Martha Mason, hear to reason!—Prithee, put a kinder face on!""Cease to vex me," did she say;"Better at his side be lying,With the mournful pine-trees sighing,And the wild birds o'er us crying,Than to doubt like mine a prey;While away, far away,Turns my heart, forever tryingSome new hope for each new day."When the shadows veil the meadows,And the sunset's golden laddersSink from twilight's walls of gray,—From the window of my dreaming,I can see his sickle gleaming,Cheery-voiced, can hear him teamingDown the locust-shaded way;But away, swift away,Fades the fond, delusive seeming,And I kneel again to pray."When the growing dawn is showing,And the barn-yard cock is crowing,And the horned moon pales awayFrom a dream of him awaking,Every sound my heart is makingSeems a footstep of his taking;Then I hush the thought, and say,'Nay, nay, he's away!'Ah! my heart, my heart is breakingFor the dear one far away."Look up, Martha! worn and swarthy,Glows a face of manhood worthy"Robert!" "Martha!" all they say.O'er went wheel and reel together,Little cared the owner whither;Heart of lead is heart of feather,Noon of night is noon of day!Come away, come away!When such lovers meet each other,Why should prying idlers stay?Quench the timber's fallen embers,Quench the red leaves in December'sHoary rime and chilly spray.But the hearth shall kindle clearer,Household welcomes sound sincerer,Heart to loving heart draw nearer,When the bridal bells shall say:"Hope and pray, trust alway;Life is sweeter, love is dearer,For the trial and delay!"1856.
FROM the hills of home forth looking, far beneaththe tent-like spanOf the sky, I see the white gleam of the headlandof Cape Ann.Well I know its coves and beaches to the ebb-tideglimmering down,And the white-walled hamlet children of its ancientfishing town.Long has passed the summer morning, and itsmemory waxes old,When along yon breezy headlands with a pleasantfriend I strolled.Ah! the autumn sun is shining, and the oceanwind blows cool,And the golden-rod and aster bloom around thygrave, Rantoul!With the memory of that morning by the summersea I blendA wild and wondrous story, by the younger Matherpenned,In that quaint Magnalia Christi, with all strangeand marvellous things,Heaped up huge and undigested, like the chaosOvid sings.Dear to me these far, faint glimpses of the duallife of old,Inward, grand with awe and reverence; outward,mean and coarse and cold;Gleams of mystic beauty playing over dull andvulgar clay,Golden-threaded fancies weaving in a web ofhodden gray.The great eventful Present hides the Past; butthrough the dinOf its loud life hints and echoes from the lifebehind steal in;And the lore of homeland fireside, and the legendaryrhyme,Make the task of duty lighter which the true manowes his time.So, with something of the feeling which the Covenanterknew,When with pious chisel wandering Scotland'smoorland graveyards through,From the graves of old traditions I part the black-berry-vines,Wipe the moss from off the headstones, and retouchthe faded lines.Where the sea-waves back and forward, hoarsewith rolling pebbles, ran,The garrison-house stood watching on the grayrocks of Cape Ann;On its windy site uplifting gabled roof and palisade,And rough walls of unhewn timber with the moonlightoverlaid.On his slow round walked the sentry, south andeastward looking forthO'er a rude and broken coast-line, white withbreakers stretching north,—Wood and rock and gleaming sand-drift, jaggedcapes, with bush and tree,Leaning inland from the smiting of the wild andgusty sea.Before the deep-mouthed chimney, dimly lit bydying brands,Twenty soldiers sat and waited, with their musketsin their hands;On the rough-hewn oaken table the venison haunchwas shared,And the pewter tankard circled slowly round frombeard to beard.Long they sat and talked together,—talked ofwizards Satan-sold;Of all ghostly sights and noises,—signs and wondersmanifold;Of the spectre-ship of Salem, with the dead menin her shrouds,Sailing sheer above the water, in the loom of morningclouds;Of the marvellous valley hidden in the depths ofGloucester woods,Full of plants that love the summer,—blooms ofwarmer latitudes;Where the Arctic birch is braided by the tropic'sflowery vines,And the white magnolia-blossoms star the twilightof the pines!But their voices sank yet lower, sank to huskytones of fear,As they spake of present tokens of the powers ofevil near;Of a spectral host, defying stroke of steel and aimof gun;Never yet was ball to slay them in the mould ofmortals run.Thrice, with plumes and flowing scalp-locks, fromthe midnight wood they came,—Thrice around the block-house marching, met, unharmed,its volleyed flame;Then, with mocking laugh and gesture, sunk inearth or lost in air,All the ghostly wonder vanished, and the moonlitsands lay bare.Midnight came; from out the forest moved adusky mass that soonGrew to warriors, plumed and painted, grimlymarching in the moon."Ghosts or witches," said the captain, "thus I foilthe Evil One!"And he rammed a silver button, from his doublet,down his gun.Once again the spectral horror moved the guardedwall about;Once again the levelled muskets through the palisadesflashed out,With that deadly aim the squirrel on his tree-topmight not shun,Nor the beach-bird seaward flying with his slantwing to the sun.Like the idle rain of summer sped the harmlessshower of lead.With a laugh of fierce derision, once again thephantoms fled;Once again, without a shadow on the sands themoonlight lay,And the white smoke curling through it driftedslowly down the bay!"God preserve us!" said the captain; "nevermortal foes were there;They have vanished with their leader, Prince andPower of the air!Lay aside your useless weapons; skill and prowessnaught avail;They who do the Devil's service wear their master'scoat of mail!"So the night grew near to cock-crow, when againa warning callRoused the score of weary soldiers watching roundthe dusky hallAnd they looked to flint and priming, and theylonged for break of day;But the captain closed his Bible: "Let us ceasefrom man, and pray!"To the men who went before us, all the unseenpowers seemed near,And their steadfast strength of courage struck itsroots in holy fear.Every hand forsook the musket, every head wasbowed and bare,Every stout knee pressed the flag-stones, as thecaptain led in prayer.Ceased thereat the mystic marching of the spectresround the wall,But a sound abhorred, unearthly, smote the earsand hearts of all,—Howls of rage and shrieks of anguish! Neverafter mortal manSaw the ghostly leaguers marching round theblock-house of Cape Ann.So to us who walk in summer through the cool andsea-blown town,From the childhood of its people comes the solemnlegend down.Not in vain the ancient fiction, in whose morallives the youthAnd the fitness and the freshness of an undecayingtruth.Soon or late to all our dwellings come the spectresof the mind,Doubts and fears and dread forebodings, in thedarkness undefined;Round us throng the grim projections of the heartand of the brain,And our pride of strength is weakness, and thecunning hand is vain.In the dark we cry like children; and no answerfrom on highBreaks the crystal spheres of silence, and no whitewings downward fly;But the heavenly help we pray for comes to faith,and not to sight,And our prayers themselves drive backward all thespirits of the night!1857.
TRITEMIUS of Herbipolis, one day,While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray,Alone with God, as was his pious choice,Heard from without a miserable voice,A sound which seemed of all sad things to tell,As of a lost soul crying out of hell.Thereat the Abbot paused; the chain wherebyHis thoughts went upward broken by that cry;And, looking from the casement, saw belowA wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow,And withered hands held up to him, who criedFor alms as one who might not be denied.She cried, "For the dear love of Him who gaveHis life for ours, my child from bondage save,—My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slavesIn the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit wavesLap the white walls of Tunis!"—"What I canI give," Tritemius said, "my prayers."—"O manOf God!" she cried, for grief had made her bold,"Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold.Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice;Even while I speak perchance my first-born dies.""Woman!" Tritemius answered, "from our doorNone go unfed, hence are we always poor;A single soldo is our only store.Thou hast our prayers;—what can we give theemore?""Give me," she said, "the silver candlesticksOn either side of the great crucifix.God well may spare them on His errands sped,Or He can give you golden ones instead."Then spake Tritemius, "Even as thy word,Woman, so be it! Our most gracious Lord,Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice,Pardon me if a human soul I prizeAbove the gifts upon his altar piled!Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child."But his hand trembled as the holy almsHe placed within the beggar's eager palms;And as she vanished down the linden shade,He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed.So the day passed, and when the twilight cameHe woke to find the chapel all aflame,And, dumb with grateful wonder, to beholdUpon the altar candlesticks of gold!1857.
In the valuable and carefully prepared History of Marblehead, published in 1879 by Samuel Roads, Jr., it is stated that the crew of Captain Ireson, rather than himself, were responsible for the abandonment of the disabled vessel. To screen themselves they charged their captain with the crime. In view of this the writer of the ballad addressed the following letter to the historian:—
OAK KNOLL, DANVERS, 5 mo. 18, 1880. MY DEAR FRIEND: I heartily thank thee for a copy of thy History of Marblehead. I have read it with great interest and think good use has been made of the abundant material. No town in Essex County has a record more honorable than Marblehead; no one has done more to develop the industrial interests of our New England seaboard, and certainly none have given such evidence of self-sacrificing patriotism. I am glad the story of it has been at last told, and told so well. I have now no doubt that thy version of Skipper Ireson's ride is the correct one. My verse was founded solely on a fragment of rhyme which I heard from one of my early schoolmates, a native of Marblehead. I supposed the story to which it referred dated back at least a century. I knew nothing of the participators, and the narrative of the ballad was pure fancy. I am glad for the sake of truth and justice that the real facts are given in thy book. I certainly would not knowingly do injustice to any one, dead or living.
I am very truly thy friend, JOHN G. WHITTIER.
OF all the rides since, the birth of time,Told in story or sung in rhyme,—On Apuleius's Golden Ass,Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass;Witch astride of a human back,Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,—The strangest ride that ever was spedWas Ireson's, out from Marblehead!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Body of turkey, head of owl,Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,Feathered and ruffled in every part,Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.Scores of women, old and young,Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,Shouting and singing the shrill refrain"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chaseBacchus round some antique vase,Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,Over and over the Manads sang"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"Small pity for him!—He sailed awayFrom a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,—Sailed away from a sinking wreck,With his own town's-people on her deck!"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.Back he answered, "Sink or swim!Brag of your catch of fish again!"And off he sailed through the fog and rain!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Fathoms deep in dark ChaleurThat wreck shall lie forevermore.Mother and sister, wife and maid,Looked from the rocks of MarbleheadOver the moaning and rainy sea,—Looked for the coming that might not be!What did the winds and the sea-birds sayOf the cruel captain who sailed away?—Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Through the street, on either side,Up flew windows, doors swung wide;Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,Hulks of old sailors run aground,Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o''Morble'ead!"Sweetly along the Salem roadBloom of orchard and lilac showed.Little the wicked skipper knewOf the fields so green and the sky so blue.Riding there in his sorry trim,Like to Indian idol glum and grim,Scarcely he seemed the sound to hearOf voices shouting, far and near"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!""Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,—"What to me is this noisy ride?What is the shame that clothes the skinTo the nameless horror that lives within?Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,And hear a cry from a reeling deck!Hate me and curse me,—I only dreadThe hand of God and the face of the dead!"Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Then the wife of the skipper lost at seaSaid, "God has touched him! why should we?"Said an old wife mourning her only son,"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"So with soft relentings and rude excuse,Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,And gave him a cloak to hide him in,And left him alone with his shame and sin.Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!1857.