A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut railway, May 9, 1873.
CONDUCTOR BRADLEY, (always may his nameBe said with reverence!) as the swift doom came,Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame,
Sank, with the brake he grasped just where he stoodTo do the utmost that a brave man could,And die, if needful, as a true man should.
Men stooped above him; women dropped their tearsOn that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears,Lost in the strength and glory of his years.
What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain,Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again"Put out the signals for the other train!"
No nobler utterance since the world beganFrom lips of saint or martyr ever ran,Electric, through the sympathies of man.
Ah me! how poor and noteless seem to thisThe sick-bed dramas of self-consciousness,Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss!
Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vainThat last brave act of failing tongue and brainFreighted with life the downward rushing train,
Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave,Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave.Others he saved, himself he could not save.
Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not deadWho in his record still the earth shall treadWith God's clear aureole shining round his head.
We bow as in the dust, with all our prideOf virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside.God give us grace to live as Bradley died!1873.
The house is still standing in Danvers, Mass., where, it is said, a suspected witch was confined overnight in the attic, which was bolted fast. In the morning when the constable came to take her to Salem for trial she was missing, although the door was still bolted. Her escape was doubtless aided by her friends, but at the time it was attributed to Satanic interference.
ALONG Crane River's sunny slopesBlew warm the winds of May,And over Naumkeag's ancient oaksThe green outgrew the gray.
The grass was green on Rial-side,The early birds at willWaked up the violet in its dell,The wind-flower on its hill.
"Where go you, in your Sunday coat,Son Andrew, tell me, pray."For striped perch in Wenham LakeI go to fish to-day."
"Unharmed of thee in Wenham LakeThe mottled perch shall beA blue-eyed witch sits on the bankAnd weaves her net for thee.
"She weaves her golden hair; she singsHer spell-song low and faint;The wickedest witch in Salem jailIs to that girl a saint."
"Nay, mother, hold thy cruel tongue;God knows," the young man cried,"He never made a whiter soulThan hers by Wenham side.
"She tends her mother sick and blind,And every want supplies;To her above the blessed BookShe lends her soft blue eyes.
"Her voice is glad with holy songs,Her lips are sweet with prayer;Go where you will, in ten miles roundIs none more good and fair."
"Son Andrew, for the love of GodAnd of thy mother, stay!"She clasped her hands, she wept aloud,But Andrew rode away.
"O reverend sir, my Andrew's soulThe Wenham witch has caught;She holds him with the curled goldWhereof her snare is wrought.
"She charms him with her great blue eyes,She binds him with her hair;Oh, break the spell with holy words,Unbind him with a prayer!"
"Take heart," the painful preacher said,"This mischief shall not be;The witch shall perish in her sinsAnd Andrew shall go free.
"Our poor Ann Putnam testifiesShe saw her weave a spell,Bare-armed, loose-haired, at full of moon,Around a dried-up well.
"'Spring up, O well!' she softly sangThe Hebrew's old refrain(For Satan uses Bible words),Till water flowed a-main.
"And many a goodwife heard her speakBy Wenham water wordsThat made the buttercups take wingsAnd turn to yellow birds.
"They say that swarming wild bees seekThe hive at her command;And fishes swim to take their foodFrom out her dainty hand.
"Meek as she sits in meeting-time,The godly ministerNotes well the spell that doth compelThe young men's eyes to her.
"The mole upon her dimpled chinIs Satan's seal and sign;Her lips are red with evil breadAnd stain of unblest wine.
"For Tituba, my Indian, saithAt Quasycung she tookThe Black Man's godless sacramentAnd signed his dreadful book.
"Last night my sore-afflicted childAgainst the young witch cried.To take her Marshal Herrick ridesEven now to Wenham side."
The marshal in his saddle sat,His daughter at his knee;"I go to fetch that arrant witch,Thy fair playmate," quoth he.
"Her spectre walks the parsonage,And haunts both hall and stair;They know her by the great blue eyesAnd floating gold of hair."
"They lie, they lie, my father dear!No foul old witch is she,But sweet and good and crystal-pureAs Wenham waters be."
"I tell thee, child, the Lord hath setBefore us good and ill,And woe to all whose carnal lovesOppose His righteous will.
"Between Him and the powers of hellChoose thou, my child, to-dayNo sparing hand, no pitying eye,When God commands to slay!"
He went his way; the old wives shookWith fear as he drew nigh;The children in the dooryards heldTheir breath as he passed by.
Too well they knew the gaunt gray horseThe grim witch-hunter rodeThe pale Apocalyptic beastBy grisly Death bestrode.
Oh, fair the face of Wenham LakeUpon the young girl's shone,Her tender mouth, her dreaming eyes,Her yellow hair outblown.
By happy youth and love attunedTo natural harmonies,The singing birds, the whispering wind,She sat beneath the trees.
Sat shaping for her bridal dressHer mother's wedding gown,When lo! the marshal, writ in hand,From Alford hill rode down.
His face was hard with cruel fear,He grasped the maiden's hands"Come with me unto Salem town,For so the law commands!"
"Oh, let me to my mother sayFarewell before I go!"He closer tied her little handsUnto his saddle bow.
"Unhand me," cried she piteously,"For thy sweet daughter's sake.""I'll keep my daughter safe," he said,"From the witch of Wenham Lake."
"Oh, leave me for my mother's sake,She needs my eyes to see.""Those eyes, young witch, the crows shall peckFrom off the gallows-tree."
He bore her to a farm-house old,And up its stairway long,And closed on her the garret-doorWith iron bolted strong.
The day died out, the night came downHer evening prayer she said,While, through the dark, strange faces seemedTo mock her as she prayed.
The present horror deepened allThe fears her childhood knew;The awe wherewith the air was filledWith every breath she drew.
And could it be, she trembling asked,Some secret thought or sinHad shut good angels from her heartAnd let the bad ones in?
Had she in some forgotten dreamLet go her hold on Heaven,And sold herself unwittinglyTo spirits unforgiven?
Oh, weird and still the dark hours passed;No human sound she heard,But up and down the chimney stackThe swallows moaned and stirred.
And o'er her, with a dread surmiseOf evil sight and sound,The blind bats on their leathern wingsWent wheeling round and round.
Low hanging in the midnight skyLooked in a half-faced moon.Was it a dream, or did she hearHer lover's whistled tune?
She forced the oaken scuttle back;A whisper reached her ear"Slide down the roof to me," it said,"So softly none may hear."
She slid along the sloping roofTill from its eaves she hung,And felt the loosened shingles yieldTo which her fingers clung.
Below, her lover stretched his handsAnd touched her feet so small;"Drop down to me, dear heart," he said,"My arms shall break the fall."
He set her on his pillion soft,Her arms about him twined;And, noiseless as if velvet-shod,They left the house behind.
But when they reached the open way,Full free the rein he cast;Oh, never through the mirk midnightRode man and maid more fast.
Along the wild wood-paths they sped,The bridgeless streams they swam;At set of moon they passed the Bass,At sunrise Agawam.
At high noon on the MerrimacThe ancient ferrymanForgot, at times, his idle oars,So fair a freight to scan.
And when from off his grounded boatHe saw them mount and ride,"God keep her from the evil eye,And harm of witch!" he cried.
The maiden laughed, as youth will laughAt all its fears gone by;"He does not know," she whispered low,"A little witch am I."
All day he urged his weary horse,And, in the red sundown,Drew rein before a friendly doorIn distant Berwick town.
A fellow-feeling for the wrongedThe Quaker people felt;And safe beside their kindly hearthsThe hunted maiden dwelt,
Until from off its breast the landThe haunting horror threw,And hatred, born of ghastly dreams,To shame and pity grew.
Sad were the year's spring morns, and sadIts golden summer day,But blithe and glad its withered fields,And skies of ashen gray;
For spell and charm had power no more,The spectres ceased to roam,And scattered households knelt againAround the hearths of home.
And when once more by Beaver DamThe meadow-lark outsang,And once again on all the hillsThe early violets sprang,
And all the windy pasture slopesLay green within the armsOf creeks that bore the salted seaTo pleasant inland farms,
The smith filed off the chains he forged,The jail-bolts backward fell;And youth and hoary age came forthLike souls escaped from hell.1877
OUT from JerusalemThe king rode with his greatWar chiefs and lords of state,And Sheba's queen with them;
Comely, but black withal,To whom, perchance, belongsThat wondrous Song of songs,Sensuous and mystical,
Whereto devout souls turnIn fond, ecstatic dream,And through its earth-born themeThe Love of loves discern.
Proud in the Syrian sun,In gold and purple sheen,The dusky Ethiop queenSmiled on King Solomon.
Wisest of men, he knewThe languages of allThe creatures great or smallThat trod the earth or flew.
Across an ant-hill ledThe king's path, and he heardIts small folk, and their wordHe thus interpreted:
"Here comes the king men greetAs wise and good and just,To crush us in the dustUnder his heedless feet."
The great king bowed his head,And saw the wide surpriseOf the Queen of Sheba's eyesAs he told her what they said.
"O king!" she whispered sweet,"Too happy fate have theyWho perish in thy wayBeneath thy gracious feet!
"Thou of the God-lent crown,Shall these vile creatures dareMurmur against thee whereThe knees of kings kneel down?"
"Nay," Solomon replied,"The wise and strong should seekThe welfare of the weak,"And turned his horse aside.
His train, with quick alarm,Curved with their leader roundThe ant-hill's peopled mound,And left it free from harm.
The jewelled head bent low;"O king!" she said, "henceforthThe secret of thy worthAnd wisdom well I know.
"Happy must be the StateWhose ruler heedeth moreThe murmurs of the poorThan flatteries of the great."1877.
On the 8th of July, 1677, Margaret Brewster with four other Friends went into the South Church in time of meeting, "in sack-cloth, with ashes upon her head, barefoot, and her face blackened," and delivered "a warning from the great God of Heaven and Earth to the Rulers and Magistrates of Boston." For the offence she was sentenced to be "whipped at a cart's tail up and down the Town, with twenty lashes."
SHE came and stood in the Old South Church,A wonder and a sign,With a look the old-time sibyls wore,Half-crazed and half-divine.
Save the mournful sackcloth about her wound,Unclothed as the primal mother,With limbs that trembled and eyes that blazedWith a fire she dare not smother.
Loose on her shoulders fell her hair,With sprinkled ashes gray;She stood in the broad aisle strange and weirdAs a soul at the judgment day.
And the minister paused in his sermon's midst,And the people held their breath,For these were the words the maiden spokeThrough lips as the lips of death:
"Thus saith the Lord, with equal feetAll men my courts shall tread,And priest and ruler no more shall eatMy people up like bread!
"Repent! repent! ere the Lord shall speakIn thunder and breaking sealsLet all souls worship Him in the wayHis light within reveals."
She shook the dust from her naked feet,And her sackcloth closer drew,And into the porch of the awe-hushed churchShe passed like a ghost from view.
They whipped her away at the tail o' the cartThrough half the streets of the town,But the words she uttered that day nor fireCould burn nor water drown.
And now the aisles of the ancient churchBy equal feet are trod,And the bell that swings in its belfry ringsFreedom to worship God!
And now whenever a wrong is doneIt thrills the conscious walls;The stone from the basement cries aloudAnd the beam from the timber calls.
There are steeple-houses on every hand,And pulpits that bless and ban,And the Lord will not grudge the single churchThat is set apart for man.
For in two commandments are all the lawAnd the prophets under the sun,And the first is last and the last is first,And the twain are verily one.
So, long as Boston shall Boston be,And her bay-tides rise and fall,Shall freedom stand in the Old South ChurchAnd plead for the rights of all!1877.
MY lady walks her morning round,My lady's page her fleet greyhound,My lady's hair the fond winds stir,And all the birds make songs for her.
Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers,And Rathburn side is gay with flowers;But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird,Was beauty seen or music heard.
The distance of the stars is hers;The least of all her worshippers,The dust beneath her dainty heel,She knows not that I see or feel.
Oh, proud and calm!—she cannot knowWhere'er she goes with her I go;Oh, cold and fair!—she cannot guessI kneel to share her hound's caress!
Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk,I rob their ears of her sweet talk;Her suitors come from east and west,I steal her smiles from every guest.
Unheard of her, in loving words,I greet her with the song of birds;I reach her with her green-armed bowers,I kiss her with the lips of flowers.
The hound and I are on her trail,The wind and I uplift her veil;As if the calm, cold moon she were,And I the tide, I follow her.
As unrebuked as they, I shareThe license of the sun and air,And in a common homage hideMy worship from her scorn and pride.
World-wide apart, and yet so near,I breathe her charmed atmosphere,Wherein to her my service bringsThe reverence due to holy things.
Her maiden pride, her haughty name,My dumb devotion shall not shame;The love that no return doth craveTo knightly levels lifts the slave,
No lance have I, in joust or fight,To splinter in my lady's sightBut, at her feet, how blest were IFor any need of hers to die!1877.
E. B. Tylor in his Primitive Culture, chapter xii., gives an account of the reverence paid the dead by the Kol tribes of Chota Nagpur, Assam. "When a Ho or Munda," he says, "has been burned on the funeral pile, collected morsels of his bones are carried in procession with a solemn, ghostly, sliding step, keeping time to the deep-sounding drum, and when the old woman who carries the bones on her bamboo tray lowers it from time to time, then girls who carry pitchers and brass vessels mournfully reverse them to show that they are empty; thus the remains are taken to visit every house in the village, and every dwelling of a friend or relative for miles, and the inmates come out to mourn and praise the goodness of the departed; the bones are carried to all the dead man's favorite haunts, to the fields he cultivated, to the grove he planted, to the threshing-floor where he worked, to the village dance-room where he made merry. At last they are taken to the grave, and buried in an earthen vase upon a store of food, covered with one of those huge stone slabs which European visitors wonder at in the districts of the aborigines of India." In the Journal of the Asiatic Society, Bengal, vol. ix., p. 795, is a Ho dirge.
WE have opened the door,Once, twice, thrice!We have swept the floor,We have boiled the rice.Come hither, come hither!Come from the far lands,Come from the star lands,Come as before!We lived long together,We loved one another;Come back to our life.Come father, come mother,Come sister and brother,Child, husband, and wife,For you we are sighing.Come take your old places,Come look in our faces,The dead on the dying,Come home!
We have opened the door,Once, twice, thrice!We have kindled the coals,And we boil the riceFor the feast of souls.Come hither, come hither!Think not we fear you,Whose hearts are so near you.Come tenderly thought on,Come all unforgotten,Come from the shadow-lands,From the dim meadow-landsWhere the pale grasses bendLow to our sighing.Come father, come mother,Come sister and brother,Come husband and friend,The dead to the dying,Come home!
We have opened the doorYou entered so oft;For the feast of soulsWe have kindled the coals,And we boil the rice soft.Come you who are dearestTo us who are nearest,Come hither, come hither,From out the wild weather;The storm clouds are flying,The peepul is sighing;Come in from the rain.Come father, come mother,Come sister and brother,Come husband and lover,Beneath our roof-cover.Look on us again,The dead on the dying,Come home!
We have opened the door!For the feast of soulsWe have kindled the coalsWe may kindle no more!Snake, fever, and famine,The curse of the Brahmin,The sun and the dew,They burn us, they bite us,They waste us and smite us;Our days are but fewIn strange lands far yonderTo wonder and wanderWe hasten to you.List then to our sighing,While yet we are hereNor seeing nor hearing,We wait without fearing,To feel you draw near.O dead, to the dyingCome home!1879.
THE KHAN'S DEVIL.THE Khan came from Bokhara townTo Hamza, santon of renown.
"My head is sick, my hands are weak;Thy help, O holy man, I seek."
In silence marking for a spaceThe Khan's red eyes and purple face,
Thick voice, and loose, uncertain tread,"Thou hast a devil!" Hamza said.
"Allah forbid!" exclaimed the Khan.Rid me of him at once, O man!"
"Nay," Hamza said, "no spell of mineCan slay that cursed thing of thine.
"Leave feast and wine, go forth and drinkWater of healing on the brink
"Where clear and cold from mountain snows,The Nahr el Zeben downward flows.
"Six moons remain, then come to me;May Allah's pity go with thee!"
Awestruck, from feast and wine the KhanWent forth where Nahr el Zeben ran.
Roots were his food, the desert dustHis bed, the water quenched his thirst;
And when the sixth moon's scimetarCurved sharp above the evening star,
He sought again the santon's door,Not weak and trembling as before,
But strong of limb and clear of brain;"Behold," he said, "the fiend is slain."
"Nay," Hamza answered, "starved and drowned,The curst one lies in death-like swound.
"But evil breaks the strongest gyves,And jins like him have charmed lives.
"One beaker of the juice of grapeMay call him up in living shape.
"When the red wine of BadakshanSparkles for thee, beware, O Khan,
"With water quench the fire within,And drown each day thy devilkin!"
Thenceforth the great Khan shunned the cupAs Shitan's own, though offered up,
With laughing eyes and jewelled hands,By Yarkand's maids and Samarcand's.
And, in the lofty vestibuleOf the medress of Kaush Kodul,
The students of the holy lawA golden-lettered tablet saw,
With these words, by a cunning hand,Graved on it at the Khan's command:
"In Allah's name, to him who hathA devil, Khan el Hamed saith,
"Wisely our Prophet cursed the vineThe fiend that loves the breath of wine,
"No prayer can slay, no maraboutNor Meccan dervis can drive out.
"I, Khan el Hamed, know the charmThat robs him of his power to harm.
"Drown him, O Islam's child! the spell To save thee lies in tank and well!" 1879.
THE KING'S MISSIVE. 1661.
This ballad, originally written for The Memorial History of Boston, describes, with pardonable poetic license, a memorable incident in the annals of the city. The interview between Shattuck and the Governor took place, I have since learned, in the residence of the latter, and not in the Council Chamber. The publication of the ballad led to some discussion as to the historical truthfulness of the picture, but I have seen no reason to rub out any of the figures or alter the lines and colors.
UNDER the great hill sloping bareTo cove and meadow and Common lot,In his council chamber and oaken chair,Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott.A grave, strong man, who knew no peerIn the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fearOf God, not man, and for good or illHeld his trust with an iron will.
He had shorn with his sword the cross from outThe flag, and cloven the May-pole down,Harried the heathen round about,And whipped the Quakers from town to town.Earnest and honest, a man at needTo burn like a torch for his own harsh creed,He kept with the flaming brand of his zealThe gate of the holy common weal.
His brow was clouded, his eye was stern,With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath;"Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turnThe pestilent Quakers are in my path!Some we have scourged, and banished some,Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come,Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in,Sowing their heresy's seed of sin.
"Did we count on this? Did we leave behindThe graves of our kin, the comfort and easeOf our English hearths and homes, to findTroublers of Israel such as these?Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid!I will do as the prophet to Agag didThey come to poison the wells of the Word,I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!"
The door swung open, and Rawson the clerkEntered, and whispered under breath,"There waits below for the hangman's workA fellow banished on pain of death—Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip,Brought over in Master Goldsmith's shipAt anchor here in a Christian port,With freight of the devil and all his sort!"
Twice and thrice on the chamber floorStriding fiercely from wall to wall,"The Lord do so to me and more,"The Governor cried, "if I hang not all!Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate,With the look of a man at ease with fate,Into that presence grim and dreadCame Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.
"Off with the knave's hat!" An angry handSmote down the offence; but the wearer said,With a quiet smile, "By the king's commandI bear his message and stand in his stead."In the Governor's hand a missive he laidWith the royal arms on its seal displayed,And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat,Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."
He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,—"The king commandeth your friends' release;Doubt not he shall be obeyed, althoughTo his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase.What he here enjoineth, John Endicott,His loyal servant, questioneth not.You are free! God grant the spirit you ownMay take you from us to parts unknown."
So the door of the jail was open cast,And, like Daniel, out of the lion's denTender youth and girlhood passed,With age-bowed women and gray-locked men.And the voice of one appointed to dieWas lifted in praise and thanks on high,And the little maid from New NetherlandsKissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands.
And one, whose call was to ministerTo the souls in prison, beside him went,An ancient woman, bearing with herThe linen shroud for his burial meant.For she, not counting her own life dear,In the strength of a love that cast out fear,Had watched and served where her brethren died,Like those who waited the cross beside.
One moment they paused on their way to lookOn the martyr graves by the Common side,And much scourged Wharton of Salem tookHis burden of prophecy up and cried"Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vainHave ye borne the Master's cross of pain;Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned,With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!"
The autumn haze lay soft and stillOn wood and meadow and upland farms;On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmillSlowly and lazily swung its arms;Broad in the sunshine stretched away,With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay;And over water and dusk of pinesBlue hills lifted their faint outlines.
The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed,The sumach added its crimson fleck,And double in air and water showedThe tinted maples along the Neck;Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist,And gentian fringes of amethyst,And royal plumes of golden-rod,The grazing cattle on Centry trod.
But as they who see not, the Quakers sawThe world about them; they only thoughtWith deep thanksgiving and pious aweOn the great deliverance God had wrought.Through lane and alley the gazing townNoisily followed them up and down;Some with scoffing and brutal jeer,Some with pity and words of cheer.
One brave voice rose above the din.Upsall, gray with his length of days,Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn"Men of Boston, give God the praiseNo more shall innocent blood call downThe bolts of wrath on your guilty town.The freedom of worship, dear to you,Is dear to all, and to all is due.
"I see the vision of days to come,When your beautiful City of the BayShall be Christian liberty's chosen home,And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay.The varying notes of worship shall blendAnd as one great prayer to God ascend,And hands of mutual charity raiseWalls of salvation and gates of praise."
So passed the Quakers through Boston town,Whose painful ministers sighed to seeThe walls of their sheep-fold falling down,And wolves of heresy prowling free.But the years went on, and brought no wrong;With milder counsels the State grew strong,As outward Letter and inward LightKept the balance of truth aright.
The Puritan spirit perishing not,To Concord's yeomen the signal sent,And spake in the voice of the cannon-shotThat severed the chains of a continent.With its gentler mission of peace and good-willThe thought of the Quaker is living still,And the freedom of soul he prophesiedIs gospel and law where the martyrs died.1880.
THE old Squire said, as he stood by his gate,And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by,"In spite of my bank stock and real estate,You are better off, Deacon, than I.
"We're both growing old, and the end's drawing near,You have less of this world to resign,But in Heaven's appraisal your assets, I fear,Will reckon up greater than mine.
"They say I am rich, but I'm feeling so poor,I wish I could swap with you evenThe pounds I have lived for and laid up in storeFor the shillings and pence you have given."
"Well, Squire," said the Deacon, with shrewdcommon sense,While his eye had a twinkle of fun,"Let your pounds take the way of my shillingsand pence,And the thing can be easily done!"1880.
"Rabbi Ishmael Ben Elisha said, Once, I entered into the Holy of Holies [as High Priest] to burn incense, when I saw Aktriel [the Divine Crown] Jah, Lord of Hosts, sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, who said unto me, 'Ishmael, my son, bless me.' I answered, 'May it please Thee to make Thy compassion prevail over Thine anger; may it be revealed above Thy other attributes; mayest Thou deal with Thy children according to it, and not according to the strict measure of judgment.' It seemed to me that He bowed His head, as though to answer Amen to my blessing."— Talmud (Beraehoth, I. f. 6. b.)
THE Rabbi Ishmael, with the woe and sinOf the world heavy upon him, entering inThe Holy of Holies, saw an awful FaceWith terrible splendor filling all the place."O Ishmael Ben Elisha!" said a voice,"What seekest thou? What blessing is thy choice?"And, knowing that he stood before the Lord,Within the shadow of the cherubim,Wide-winged between the blinding light and him,He bowed himself, and uttered not a word,But in the silence of his soul was prayer"O Thou Eternal! I am one of all,And nothing ask that others may not share.Thou art almighty; we are weak and small,And yet Thy children: let Thy mercy spare!"Trembling, he raised his eyes, and in the placeOf the insufferable glory, lo! a faceOf more than mortal tenderness, that bentGraciously down in token of assent,And, smiling, vanished! With strange joy elate,The wondering Rabbi sought the temple's gate.Radiant as Moses from the Mount, he stoodAnd cried aloud unto the multitude"O Israel, hear! The Lord our God is good!Mine eyes have seen his glory and his grace;Beyond his judgments shall his love endure;The mercy of the All Merciful is sure!"1881.
H. Y. Hind, in Explorations in the Interior of the Labrador Peninsula (ii. 166) mentions the finding of a rock tomb near the little fishing port of Bradore, with the inscription upon it which is given in the poem.
A DREAR and desolate shore!Where no tree unfolds its leaves,And never the spring wind weavesGreen grass for the hunter's tread;A land forsaken and dead,Where the ghostly icebergs goAnd come with the ebb and flowOf the waters of Bradore!
A wanderer, from a landBy summer breezes fanned,Looked round him, awed, subdued,By the dreadful solitude,Hearing alone the cryOf sea-birds clanging by,The crash and grind of the floe,Wail of wind and wash of tide."O wretched land!" he cried,"Land of all lands the worst,God forsaken and curst!Thy gates of rock should showThe words the Tuscan seerRead in the Realm of WoeHope entereth not here!"
Lo! at his feet there stoodA block of smooth larch wood,Waif of some wandering wave,Beside a rock-closed caveBy Nature fashioned for a grave;Safe from the ravening bearAnd fierce fowl of the air,Wherein to rest was laidA twenty summers' maid,Whose blood had equal shareOf the lands of vine and snow,Half French, half Eskimo.In letters uneffaced,Upon the block were tracedThe grief and hope of man,And thus the legend ran"We loved her!Words cannot tell how well!We loved her!God loved her!And called her home to peace and rest.We love her."
The stranger paused and read."O winter land!" he said,"Thy right to be I own;God leaves thee not alone.And if thy fierce winds blowOver drear wastes of rock and snow,And at thy iron gatesThe ghostly iceberg waits,Thy homes and hearts are dear.Thy sorrow o'er thy sacred dustIs sanctified by hope and trust;God's love and man's are here.And love where'er it goesMakes its own atmosphere;Its flowers of ParadiseTake root in the eternal ice,And bloom through Polar snows!"1881.