Piero Luca, known of all the townAs the gray porter by the Pitti wallWhere the noon shadows of the gardens fall,Sick and in dolor, waited to lay downHis last sad burden, and beside his matThe barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;Unheard, below the living shuttles shiftedBackward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,In mirth or pain, the mottled web of lifeBut when at last came upward from the streetTinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.And the monk said, "'T is but the BrotherhoodOf Mercy going on some errand goodTheir black masks by the palace-wall I see."Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me!This day for the first time in forty yearsIn vain the bell hath sounded in my ears,Calling me with my brethren of the mask,Beggar and prince alike, to some new taskOf love or pity,—haply from the streetTo bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feetHushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain,To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors,Down the long twilight of the corridors,Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain.I loved the work: it was its own reward.I never counted on it to offsetMy sins, which are many, or make less my debtTo the free grace and mercy of our Lord;But somehow, father, it has come to beIn these long years so much a part of me,I should not know myself, if lacking it,But with the work the worker too would die,And in my place some other self would sitJoyful or sad,—what matters, if not I?And now all's over. Woe is me!"—"My son,"The monk said soothingly, "thy work is done;And no more as a servant, but the guestOf God thou enterest thy eternal rest.No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost,Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit downClad in white robes, and wear a golden crownForever and forever."—Piero tossedOn his sick-pillow: "Miserable me!I am too poor for such grand company;The crown would be too heavy for this grayOld head; and God forgive me if I sayIt would be hard to sit there night and day,Like an image in the Tribune, doing naughtWith these hard hands, that all my life have wrought,Not for bread only, but for pity's sake.I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake,Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head,Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead.And if one goes to heaven without a heart,God knows he leaves behind his better part.I love my fellow-men: the worst I knowI would do good to. Will death change me soThat I shall sit among the lazy saints,Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaintsOf souls that suffer? Why, I never yetLeft a poor dog in the strada hard beset,Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man lessThan dog or ass, in holy selfishness?Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin!)The world of pain were better, if thereinOne's heart might still be human, and desiresOf natural pity drop upon its firesSome cooling tears."Thereat the pale monk crossedHis brow, and, muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!"Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone,The sick man closed his eyes with a great groanThat sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!"Then was he made aware, by soul or ear,Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him,And of a voice like that of her who bore him,Tender and most compassionate: "Never fear!For heaven is love, as God himself is love;Thy work below shall be thy work above."And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's placeHe saw the shining of an angel's face!1864.. . . . .The Traveller broke the pause. "I've seenThe Brothers down the long street steal,Black, silent, masked, the crowd between,And felt to doff my hat and kneelWith heart, if not with knee, in prayer,For blessings on their pious care."Reader wiped his glasses: "Friends of mine,I'll try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign wine."
For the fairest maid in HamptonThey needed not to search,Who saw young Anna FavorCome walking into church,Or bringing from the meadows,At set of harvest-day,The frolic of the blackbirds,The sweetness of the hay.Now the weariest of all mothers,The saddest two-years bride,She scowls in the face of her husband,And spurns her child aside."Rake out the red coals, goodman,—For there the child shall lie,Till the black witch comes to fetch herAnd both up chimney fly."It's never my own little daughter,It's never my own," she said;"The witches have stolen my Anna,And left me an imp instead."Oh, fair and sweet was my baby,Blue eyes, and hair of gold;But this is ugly and wrinkled,Cross, and cunning, and old."I hate the touch of her fingers,I hate the feel of her skin;It's not the milk from my bosom,But my blood, that she sucks in."My face grows sharp with the torment;Look! my arms are skin and bone!Rake open the red coals, goodman,And the witch shall have her own."She 'll come when she hears it crying,In the shape of an owl or bat,And she'll bring us our darling AnnaIn place of her screeching brat."Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,Laid his hand upon her head"Thy sorrow is great, O woman!I sorrow with thee," he said."The paths to trouble are many,And never but one sure wayLeads out to the light beyond itMy poor wife, let us pray."Then he said to the great All-Father,"Thy daughter is weak and blind;Let her sight come back, and clothe herOnce more in her right mind."Lead her out of this evil shadow,Out of these fancies wild;Let the holy love of the motherTurn again to her child."Make her lips like the lips of MaryKissing her blessed Son;Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,Rest on her little one."Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,Open her prison-door,And thine shall be all the gloryAnd praise forevermore."Then into the face of its motherThe baby looked up and smiled;And the cloud of her soul was lifted,And she knew her little child.A beam of the slant west sunshineMade the wan face almost fair,Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder,And the rings of pale gold hair.She kissed it on lip and forehead,She kissed it on cheek and chin,And she bared her snow-white bosomTo the lips so pale and thin.Oh, fair on her bridal morningWas the maid who blushed and smiled,But fairer to Ezra DaltonLooked the mother of his child.With more than a lover's fondnessHe stooped to her worn young face,And the nursing child and the motherHe folded in one embrace."Blessed be God!" he murmured."Blessed be God!" she said;"For I see, who once was blinded,—I live, who once was dead."Now mount and ride, my goodman,As thou lovest thy own soulWoe's me, if my wicked fanciesBe the death of Goody Cole!"His horse he saddled and bridled,And into the night rode he,Now through the great black woodland,Now by the white-beached sea.He rode through the silent clearings,He came to the ferry wide,And thrice he called to the boatmanAsleep on the other side.He set his horse to the river,He swam to Newbury town,And he called up Justice SewallIn his nightcap and his gown.And the grave and worshipful justice(Upon whose soul be peace!)Set his name to the jailer's warrantFor Goodwife Cole's release.Then through the night the hoof-beatsWent sounding like a flail;And Goody Cole at cockcrowCame forth from Ipswich jail.1865. . . . ."Here is a rhyme: I hardly dareTo venture on its theme worn out;What seems so sweet by Doon and AyrSounds simply silly hereabout;And pipes by lips Arcadian blownAre only tin horns at our own.Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us,While Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus."
Attitash, an Indian word signifying "huckleberry," is the name of a large and beautiful lake in the northern part of Amesbury.
In sky and wave the white clouds swam,And the blue hills of NottinghamThrough gaps of leafy greenAcross the lake were seen,When, in the shadow of the ashThat dreams its dream in Attitash,In the warm summer weather,Two maidens sat together.They sat and watched in idle moodThe gleam and shade of lake and wood;The beach the keen light smote,The white sail of a boat;Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying,In sweetness, not in music, dying;Hardback, and virgin's-bower,And white-spiked clethra-flower.With careless ears they heard the plashAnd breezy wash of Attitash,The wood-bird's plaintive cry,The locust's sharp reply.And teased the while, with playful band,The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,Whose uncouth frolic spilledTheir baskets berry-filled.Then one, the beauty of whose eyesWas evermore a great surprise,Tossed back her queenly head,And, lightly laughing, said:"No bridegroom's hand be mine to holdThat is not lined with yellow gold;I tread no cottage-floor;I own no lover poor."My love must come on silken wings,With bridal lights of diamond rings,Not foul with kitchen smirch,With tallow-dip for torch."The other, on whose modest headWas lesser dower of beauty shed,With look for home-hearths meet,And voice exceeding sweet,Answered, "We will not rivals be;Take thou the gold, leave love to me;Mine be the cottage small,And thine the rich man's hall."I know, indeed, that wealth is good;But lowly roof and simple food,With love that hath no doubt,Are more than gold without."Hard by a farmer hale and youngHis cradle in the rye-field swung,Tracking the yellow plainWith windrows of ripe grain.And still, whene'er he paused to whetHis scythe, the sidelong glance he metOf large dark eyes, where stroveFalse pride and secret love.Be strong, young mower of the-grain;That love shall overmatch disdain,Its instincts soon or lateThe heart shall vindicate.In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod,Half screened by leaves, a stranger trodThe margin of the pond,Watching the group beyond.The supreme hours unnoted come;Unfelt the turning tides of doom;And so the maids laughed on,Nor dreamed what Fate had done,—Nor knew the step was Destiny'sThat rustled in the birchen trees,As, with their lives forecast,Fisher and mower passed.Erelong by lake and rivulet sideThe summer roses paled and died,And Autumn's fingers shedThe maple's leaves of red.Through the long gold-hazed afternoon,Alone, but for the diving loon,The partridge in the brake,The black duck on the lake,Beneath the shadow of the ashSat man and maid by Attitash;And earth and air made roomFor human hearts to bloom.Soft spread the carpets of the sod,And scarlet-oak and golden-rodWith blushes and with smilesLit up the forest aisles.The mellow light the lake aslant,The pebbled margin's ripple-chantAttempered and low-toned,The tender mystery owned.And through the dream the lovers dreamedSweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed;The sunshine seemed to bless,The air was a caress.Not she who lightly laughed is there,With scornful toss of midnight hair,Her dark, disdainful eyes,And proud lip worldly-wise.Her haughty vow is still unsaid,But all she dreamed and covetedWears, half to her surprise,The youthful farmer's guise!With more than all her old-time prideShe walks the rye-field at his side,Careless of cot or hall,Since love transfigures all.Rich beyond dreams, the vantage-groundOf life is gained; her hands have foundThe talisman of oldThat changes all to gold.While she who could for love dispenseWith all its glittering accidents,And trust her heart alone,Finds love and gold her own.What wealth can buy or art can buildAwaits her; but her cup is filledEven now unto the brim;Her world is love and him!1866.. . . . .The while he heard, the Book-man drewA length of make-believing face,With smothered mischief laughing through"Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place,And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keepOn Yankee hills immortal sheep,While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyondHold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond."The Traveller laughed: "Sir GalahadSinging of love the Trouvere's lay!How should he know the blindfold ladFrom one of Vulcan's forge-boys?"—"Nay,He better sees who stands outsideThan they who in procession ride,"The Reader answered: "selectmen and squireMiss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire."Here is a wild tale of the North,Our travelled friend will own as oneFit for a Norland Christmas hearthAnd lips of Christian Andersen.They tell it in the valleys greenOf the fair island he has seen,Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore,Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore."
"Tie stille, barn minImorgen kommer Fin,Fa'er din,Og gi'er dig Esbern Snares nine og hjerte at lege med!"Zealand Rhyme.
"Build at Kallundborg by the seaA church as stately as church may be,And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair,"Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare.And the Baron laughed. But Esbern said,"Though I lose my soul, I will Helva wed!"And off he strode, in his pride of will,To the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill."Build, O Troll, a church for meAt Kallundborg by the mighty sea;Build it stately, and build it fair,Build it quickly," said Esbern Snare.But the sly Dwarf said, "No work is wroughtBy Trolls of the Hills, O man, for naught.What wilt thou give for thy church so fair?""Set thy own price," quoth Esbern Snare."When Kallundborg church is builded well,Than must the name of its builder tell,Or thy heart and thy eyes must be my boon.""Build," said Esbern, "and build it soon."By night and by day the Troll wrought on;He hewed the timbers, he piled the stone;But day by day, as the walls rose fair,Darker and sadder grew Esbern Snare.He listened by night, he watched by day,He sought and thought, but he dared not pray;In vain he called on the Elle-maids shy,And the Neck and the Nis gave no reply.Of his evil bargain far and wideA rumor ran through the country-side;And Helva of Nesvek, young and fair,Prayed for the soul of Esbern Snare.And now the church was wellnigh done;One pillar it lacked, and one alone;And the grim Troll muttered, "Fool thou artTo-morrow gives me thy eyes and heart!"By Kallundborg in black despair,Through wood and meadow, walked Esbern Snare,Till, worn and weary, the strong man sankUnder the birches on Ulshoi bank.At, his last day's work he heard the TrollHammer and delve in the quarry's hole;Before him the church stood large and fair"I have builded my tomb," said Esbern Snare.And he closed his eyes the sight to hide,When he heard a light step at his side"O Esbern Snare!" a sweet voice said,"Would I might die now in thy stead!"With a grasp by love and by fear made strong,He held her fast, and he held her long;With the beating heart of a bird afeard,She hid her face in his flame-red beard."O love!" he cried, "let me look to-dayIn thine eyes ere mine are plucked away;Let me hold thee close, let me feel thy heartEre mine by the Troll is torn apart!"I sinned, O Helva, for love of thee!Pray that the Lord Christ pardon me!"But fast as she prayed, and faster still,Hammered the Troll in Ulshoi hill.He knew, as he wrought, that a loving heartWas somehow baffling his evil art;For more than spell of Elf or TrollIs a maiden's prayer for her lover's soul.And Esbern listened, and caught the soundOf a Troll-wife singing underground"To-morrow comes Fine, father thineLie still and hush thee, baby mine!"Lie still, my darling! next sunriseThou'lt play with Esbern Snare's heart and eyes!""Ho! ho!" quoth Esbern, "is that your game?Thanks to the Troll-wife, I know his name!"The Troll he heard him, and hurried onTo Kallundborg church with the lacking stone."Too late, Gaffer Fine!" cried Esbern Snare;And Troll and pillar vanished in air!That night the harvesters heard the soundOf a woman sobbing underground,And the voice of the Hill-Troll loud with blameOf the careless singer who told his name.Of the Troll of the Church they sing the runeBy the Northern Sea in the harvest moon;And the fishers of Zealand hear him stillScolding his wife in Ulshoi hill.And seaward over its groves of birchStill looks the tower of Kallundborg church,Where, first at its altar, a wedded pair,Stood Helva of Nesvek and Esbern Snare!1865.. . . . ."What," asked the Traveller, "would our sires,The old Norse story-tellers, sayOf sun-graved pictures, ocean wires,And smoking steamboats of to-day?And this, O lady, by your leave,Recalls your song of yester eve:Pray, let us have that Cable-hymn once more.""Hear, hear!" the Book-man cried, "the lady has the floor."These noisy waves below perhapsTo such a strain will lend their ear,With softer voice and lighter lapseCome stealing up the sands to hear,And what they once refused to doFor old King Knut accord to you.Nay, even the fishes shall your listeners be,As once, the legend runs, they heard St. Anthony."
O lonely bay of Trinity,O dreary shores, give ear!Lean down unto the white-lipped seaThe voice of God to hear!From world to world His couriers fly,Thought-winged and shod with fire;The angel of His stormy skyRides down the sunken wire.What saith the herald of the Lord?"The world's long strife is done;Close wedded by that mystic cord,Its continents are one."And one in heart, as one in blood,Shall all her peoples be;The hands of human brotherhoodAre clasped beneath the sea."Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plainAnd Asian mountains borne,The vigor of the Northern brainShall nerve the world outworn."From clime to clime, from shore to shore,Shall thrill the magic thread;The new Prometheus steals once moreThe fire that wakes the dead."Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beatFrom answering beach to beach;Fuse nations in thy kindly heat,And melt the chains of each!Wild terror of the sky above,Glide tamed and dumb below!Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove,Thy errands to and fro.Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,Beneath the deep so far,The bridal robe of earth's accord,The funeral shroud of war!For lo! the fall of Ocean's wallSpace mocked and time outrun;And round the world the thought of allIs as the thought of one!The poles unite, the zones agree,The tongues of striving cease;As on the Sea of GalileeThe Christ is whispering, Peace!1858.. . . . ."Glad prophecy! to this at last,"The Reader said, "shall all things come.Forgotten be the bugle's blast,And battle-music of the drum."A little while the world may runIts old mad way, with needle-gunAnd iron-clad, but truth, at last, shall reignThe cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain!"Shifting his scattered papers, "Here,"He said, as died the faint applause,"Is something that I found last yearDown on the island known as Orr's.I had it from a fair-haired girlWho, oddly, bore the name of Pearl,(As if by some droll freak of circumstance,)Classic, or wellnigh so, in Harriet Stowe's romance."
What flecks the outer gray beyondThe sundown's golden trail?The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,Or gleam of slanting sail?Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point,And sea-worn elders pray,—The ghost of what was once a shipIs sailing up the bay.From gray sea-fog, from icy drift,From peril and from pain,The home-bound fisher greets thy lights,O hundred-harbored Maine!But many a keel shall seaward turn,And many a sail outstand,When, tall and white, the Dead Ship loomsAgainst the dusk of land.She rounds the headland's bristling pines;She threads the isle-set bay;No spur of breeze can speed her on,Nor ebb of tide delay.Old men still walk the Isle of OrrWho tell her date and name,Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yardsWho hewed her oaken frame.What weary doom of baffled quest,Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine?What makes thee in the haunts of homeA wonder and a sign?No foot is on thy silent deck,Upon thy helm no hand;No ripple hath the soundless windThat smites thee from the land!For never comes the ship to port,Howe'er the breeze may be;Just when she nears the waiting shoreShe drifts again to sea.No tack of sail, nor turn of helm,Nor sheer of veering side;Stern-fore she drives to sea and night,Against the wind and tide.In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the starOf evening guides her in;In vain for her the lamps are litWithin thy tower, Seguin!In vain the harbor-boat shall hail,In vain the pilot call;No hand shall reef her spectral sail,Or let her anchor fall.Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy,Your gray-head hints of ill;And, over sick-beds whispering low,Your prophecies fulfil.Some home amid yon birchen treesShall drape its door with woe;And slowly where the Dead Ship sails,The burial boat shall row!From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point,From island and from main,From sheltered cove and tided creek,Shall glide the funeral train.The dead-boat with the bearers four,The mourners at her stern,—And one shall go the silent wayWho shall no more return!And men shall sigh, and women weep,Whose dear ones pale and pine,And sadly over sunset seasAwait the ghostly sign.They know not that its sails are filledBy pity's tender breath,Nor see the Angel at the helmWho steers the Ship of Death!1866.. . . . ."Chill as a down-east breeze should be,"The Book-man said. "A ghostly touchThe legend has. I'm glad to seeYour flying Yankee beat the Dutch.""Well, here is something of the sortWhich one midsummer day I caughtIn Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish.""We wait," the Traveller said;"serve hot or cold your dish."
Block Island in Long Island Sound, called by the Indians Manisees, the isle of the little god, was the scene of a tragic incident a hundred years or more ago, whenThe Palatine, an emigrant ship bound for Philadelphia, driven off its course, came upon the coast at this point. A mutiny on board, followed by an inhuman desertion on the part of the crew, had brought the unhappy passengers to the verge of starvation and madness. Tradition says that wreckers on shore, after rescuing all but one of the survivors, set fire to the vessel, which was driven out to sea before a gale which had sprung up. Every twelvemonth, according to the same tradition, the spectacle of a ship on fire is visible to the inhabitants of the island.
Leagues north, as fly the gull and auk,Point Judith watches with eye of hawk;Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk!Lonely and wind-shorn, wood-forsaken,With never a tree for Spring to waken,For tryst of lovers or farewells taken,Circled by waters that never freeze,Beaten by billow and swept by breeze,Lieth the island of Manisees,Set at the mouth of the Sound to holdThe coast lights up on its turret old,Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould.Dreary the land when gust and sleetAt its doors and windows howl and beat,And Winter laughs at its fires of peat!But in summer time, when pool and pond,Held in the laps of valleys fond,Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond;When the hills are sweet with the brier-rose,And, hid in the warm, soft dells, uncloseFlowers the mainland rarely knows;When boats to their morning fishing go,And, held to the wind and slanting low,Whitening and darkening the small sails show,—Then is that lonely island fair;And the pale health-seeker findeth thereThe wine of life in its pleasant air.No greener valleys the sun invite,On smoother beaches no sea-birds light,No blue waves shatter to foam more white!There, circling ever their narrow range,Quaint tradition and legend strangeLive on unchallenged, and know no change.Old wives spinning their webs of tow,Or rocking weirdly to and froIn and out of the peat's dull glow,And old men mending their nets of twine,Talk together of dream and sign,Talk of the lost ship Palatine,—The ship that, a hundred years before,Freighted deep with its goodly store,In the gales of the equinox went ashore.The eager islanders one by oneCounted the shots of her signal gun,And heard the crash when she drove right on!Into the teeth of death she sped(May God forgive the hands that fedThe false lights over the rocky Head!)O men and brothers! what sights were there!White upturned faces, hands stretched in prayer!Where waves had pity, could ye not spare?Down swooped the wreckers, like birds of preyTearing the heart of the ship away,And the dead had never a word to say.And then, with ghastly shimmer and shineOver the rocks and the seething brine,They burned the wreck of the Palatine.In their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped,"The sea and the rocks are dumb," they said"There 'll be no reckoning with the dead."But the year went round, and when once moreAlong their foam-white curves of shoreThey heard the line-storm rave and roar,Behold! again, with shimmer and shine,Over the rocks and the seething brine,The flaming wreck of the Palatine!So, haply in fitter words than these,Mending their nets on their patient kneesThey tell the legend of Manisees.Nor looks nor tones a doubt betray;"It is known to us all," they quietly say;"We too have seen it in our day."Is there, then, no death for a word once spoken?Was never a deed but left its tokenWritten on tables never broken?Do the elements subtle reflections give?Do pictures of all the ages liveOn Nature's infinite negative,Which, half in sport, in malice half,She shows at times, with shudder or laugh,Phantom and shadow in photograph?For still, on many a moonless night,From Kingston Head and from Montauk lightThe spectre kindles and burns in sight.Now low and dim, now clear and higher,Leaps up the terrible Ghost of Fire,Then, slowly sinking, the flames expire.And the wise Sound skippers, though skies be fine,Reef their sails when they see the signOf the blazing wreck of the Palatine!1867.. . . . ."A fitter tale to scream than sing,"The Book-man said. "Well, fancy, then,"The Reader answered, "on the wingThe sea-birds shriek it, not for men,But in the ear of wave and breeze!"The Traveller mused: "Your ManiseesIs fairy-land: off Narragansett shoreWho ever saw the isle or heard its name before?"'T is some strange land of Flyaway,Whose dreamy shore the ship beguiles,St. Brandan's in its sea-mist gray,Or sunset loom of Fortunate Isles!""No ghost, but solid turf and rockIs the good island known as Block,"The Reader said. "For beauty and for easeI chose its Indian name, soft-flowing Manisees!"But let it pass; here is a bitOf unrhymed story, with a hintOf the old preaching mood in it,The sort of sidelong moral squintOur friend objects to, which has grown,I fear, a habit of my own.'Twas written when the Asian plague drew near,And the land held its breath and paled with sudden fear."
The famous Dark Day of New England, May 19, 1780, was a physical puzzle for many years to our ancestors, but its occurrence brought something more than philosophical speculation into the winds of those who passed through it. The incident of Colonel Abraham Davenport's sturdy protest is a matter of history.
In the old days (a custom laid asideWith breeches and cocked hats) the people sentTheir wisest men to make the public laws.And so, from a brown homestead, where the SoundDrinks the small tribute of the Mianas,Waved over by the woods of Rippowams,And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths,Stamford sent up to the councils of the StateWisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport.'T was on a May-day of the far old yearSeventeen hundred eighty, that there fellOver the bloom and sweet life of the Spring,Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,A horror of great darkness, like the nightIn day of which the Norland sagas tell,—The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung skyWas black with ominous clouds, save where its rimWas fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbsThe crater's sides from the red hell below.Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowlsRoosted; the cattle at the pasture barsLowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wingsFlitted abroad; the sounds of labor died;Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharpTo hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatterThe black sky, that the dreadful face of ChristMight look from the rent clouds, not as he lookedA loving guest at Bethany, but sternAs Justice and inexorable Law.Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts,Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut,Trembling beneath their legislative robes."It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,"Some said; and then, as if with one accord,All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voiceThe intolerable hush. "This well may beThe Day of Judgment which the world awaits;But be it so or not, I only knowMy present duty, and my Lord's commandTo occupy till He come. So at the postWhere He hath set me in His providence,I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face,—No faithless servant frightened from my task,But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls;And therefore, with all reverence, I would say,Let God do His work, we will see to ours.Bring in the candles." And they brought them in.Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read,Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands,An act to amend an act to regulateThe shad and alewive fisheries. WhereuponWisely and well spake Abraham Davenport,Straight to the question, with no figures of speechSave the ten Arab signs, yet not withoutThe shrewd dry humor natural to the manHis awe-struck colleagues listening all the while,Between the pauses of his argument,To hear the thunder of the wrath of GodBreak from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.And there he stands in memory to this day,Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seenAgainst the background of unnatural dark,A witness to the ages as they pass,That simple duty hath no place for fear.1866.. . . . .He ceased: just then the ocean seemedTo lift a half-faced moon in sight;And, shore-ward, o'er the waters gleamed,From crest to crest, a line of light,Such as of old, with solemn awe,The fishers by Gennesaret saw,When dry-shod o'er it walked the Son of God,Tracking the waves with light where'er his sandals trod.Silently for a space each eyeUpon that sudden glory turnedCool from the land the breeze blew by,The tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churnedIts waves to foam; on either handStretched, far as sight, the hills of sand;With bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree,The wood's black shore-line loomed beyond the meadowy sea.The lady rose to leave. "One song,Or hymn," they urged, "before we part."And she, with lips to which belongSweet intuitions of all art,Gave to the winds of night a strainWhich they who heard would hear again;And to her voice the solemn ocean lent,Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.
The harp at Nature's advent strungHas never ceased to play;The song the stars of morning sungHas never died away.And prayer is made, and praise is given,By all things near and far;The ocean looketh up to heaven,And mirrors every star.Its waves are kneeling on the strand,As kneels the human knee,Their white locks bowing to the sand,The priesthood of the sea'They pour their glittering treasures forth,Their gifts of pearl they bring,And all the listening hills of earthTake up the song they sing.The green earth sends her incense upFrom many a mountain shrine;From folded leaf and dewy cupShe pours her sacred wine.The mists above the morning rillsRise white as wings of prayer;The altar-curtains of the hillsAre sunset's purple air.The winds with hymns of praise are loud,Or low with sobs of pain,—The thunder-organ of the cloud,The dropping tears of rain.With drooping head and branches crossedThe twilight forest grieves,Or speaks with tongues of PentecostFrom all its sunlit leaves.The blue sky is the temple's arch,Its transept earth and air,The music of its starry marchThe chorus of a prayer.So Nature keeps the reverent frameWith which her years began,And all her signs and voices shameThe prayerless heart of man.. . . . .The singer ceased. The moon's white raysFell on the rapt, still face of her."Allah il Allah! He hath praiseFrom all things," said the Traveller."Oft from the desert's silent nights,And mountain hymns of sunset lights,My heart has felt rebuke, as in his tentThe Moslem's prayer has shamed my Christian knee unbent."He paused, and lo! far, faint, and slowThe bells in Newbury's steeples tolledThe twelve dead hours; the lamp burned low;The singer sought her canvas fold.One sadly said, "At break of dayWe strike our tent and go our way."But one made answer cheerily, "Never fear,We'll pitch this tent of ours in type another year."
Poet and friend of poets, if thy glassDetects no flower in winter's tuft of grass,Let this slight token of the debt I oweOutlive for thee December's frozen day,And, like the arbutus budding under snow,Take bloom and fragrance from some morn of MayWhen he who gives it shall have gone the wayWhere faith shall see and reverent trust shall know.