The autumn is old;The sere leaves are flying;He hath gathered up gold,And now he is dying:Old age, begin sighing!The vintage is ripe;The harvest is heaping;But some that have sowedHave no riches for reaping:—Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!The year's in the wane;There is nothing adorning;The night has no eve,And the day has no morning;Cold winter gives warning.The rivers run chill;The red sun is sinking;And I am grown old,And life is fast shrinking;Here's enow for sad thinking!Thomas Hood.
Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of placeOn top of these down comforts and this spread of silk and lace,You see, I'm used to having it lie so, across my feet,But maybe I won't need it here, with this nice furnace heat;I made it? Yes, dear, long ago. 'Twas lots of work, you think?Oh, not so much. My rose quilt, now, all white and green and pink,Is really handsome. This is just a plain, log cabin block,Pieced out of odds and ends; but still—now that's your papa's frockBefore he walked, and this bit here is his first little suit.I trimmed it up with silver braid. My, but he did look cute!That red there in the centers, was your Aunt Ruth's for her name,Her grandmother almost clothed the child, before the others came.Those plaids? The younger girls', they were. I dressed them just alike.And this was baby Winnie's sack—the precious little tyke!Ma wore this gown to visit me (they drove the whole way then).And little Edson wore this waist. He never came again.This lavender par'matta was your Great-aunt Jane's—poor dear!Mine was a sprig, with the lilac ground; see, in the corner here.Such goods were high in war times. Ah, that scrap of army blue;Your bright eyes spied it! Yes, dear child, that has its memories, too.They sent him home on furlough once—our soldier brother Ned;But somewhere, now, the dear boy sleeps among the unknown dead.That flowered patch? Well, now, to think you'd pick that from the rest!Why, dearie—yes, it's satin ribbed—that's grandpa's wedding vest!Just odds and ends! no great for looks. My rose quilt's nicer, far,Or the one in basket pattern, or the double-pointed star.But, somehow—What! We'll leave it here? The bed won't look so neat,But I think I would sleep better with it so, across my feet.
Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,Passed o'er our village as the morning broke;The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke.Their attitude and aspect were the same,Alike their features and their robes of white;But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame,And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.I saw them pause on their celestial way;Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed,"Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betrayThe place where thy beloved are at rest!"And he who wore the crown of asphodels,Descending, at my door began to knock,And my soul sank within me, as in wellsThe waters sink before an earthquake's shock.I recognized the nameless agony,The terror and the tremor and the pain,That oft before had filled or haunted me,And now returned with threefold strength again.The door I opened to my heavenly guest,And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice;And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best,Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.Then with a smile, that filled the house with light,"My errand is not Death, but Life," he said;And ere I answered, passing out of sight,On his celestial embassy he sped.'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine,The angel with the amaranthine wreath,Pausing, descended, and with, voice divine,Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,A shadow on those features fair and thin;And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,Two angels issued, where but one went in.All is of God! If he but waves his hand,The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud,Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.Angels of Life and Death alike are his;Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er;Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,Against his messengers to shut the door?Henry W. Longfellow.
It was the pleasant harvest-time,When cellar-bins are closely stowed,And garrets bend beneath their load,And the old swallow-haunted barns—Brown-gabled, long, and full of seamsThrough which the moted sunlight streams—And winds blow freshly in, to shakeThe red plumes of the roosted cocks,And the loose hay-mow's scented locks—Are filled with summer's ripened stores,Its odorous grass and barley sheaves,From their low scaffolds to their eaves.On Esek Harden's oaken floor,With many an autumn threshing worn,Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn.And thither came young men and maids,Beneath a moon that, large and low,Lit that sweet eve of long ago,They took their places; some by chance,And others by a merry voiceOr sweet smile guided to their choice.How pleasantly the rising moon,Between the shadow of the mows,Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!—On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned,On girlhood with its solid curvesOf healthful strength and painless nerves!And jests went round, and laughs that madeThe house-dog answer with his howl,And kept astir the barn-yard fowl.And quaint old songs their fathers sung,In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors,Ere Norman William trod their shores;And tales, whose merry license shookThe fat sides of the Saxon thane,Forgetful of the hovering Dane!But still the sweetest voice was muteThat river-valley ever heardFrom lip of maid or throat of bird;For Mabel Martin sat apart,And let the hay-mow's shadow 'fallUpon the loveliest face of all.She sat apart, as one forbid,Who knew that none would condescendTo own the Witch-wife's child a friend.The seasons scarce had gone their round,Since curious thousands thronged to seeHer mother on the gallows-tree;And mocked the palsied limbs of age,That faltered on the fatal stairs,And wan lip trembling with its prayers!Few questioned of the sorrowing child,Or, when they saw the mother die,Dreamed of the daughter's agony.They went up to their homes that day,As men and Christians justified:God willed it, and the wretch had died!Dear God and Father of us all,Forgive our faith in cruel lies,—Forgive the blindness that denies!Forgive Thy creature when he takes,For the all-perfect love Thou art,Some grim creation of his heart.Cast down our idols, overturnOur bloody altars; let us seeThyself in Thy humanity!Poor Mabel from her mother's graveCrept to her desolate hearth-stone,And wrestled with her fate alone;With love, and anger, and despair,The phantoms of disordered sense,The awful doubts of Providence!The school-boys jeered her as they passed,And, when she sought the house of prayer,Her mother's curse pursued her there.And still o'er many a neighboring doorShe saw the horseshoe's curved charm,To guard against her mother's harm;—That mother, poor, and sick, and lame,Who daily, by the old arm-chair,Folded her withered hands in prayer;—Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail,Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er,When her dim eyes could read no more!Sore tried and pained, the poor girl keptHer faith, and trusted that her way,So dark, would somewhere meet the day.And still her weary wheel went round,Day after day, with no relief:Small leisure have the poor for grief.So in the shadow Mabel sits;Untouched by mirth she sees and hears,Her smile is sadder than her tears.But cruel eyes have found her out,And cruel lips repeat her name,And taunt her with her mother's shame.She answered not with railing words,But drew her apron o'er her face,And, sobbing, glided from the place.And only pausing at the door,Her sad eyes met the troubled gazeOf one who, in her better days,Had been her warm and steady friend,Ere yet her mother's doom had madeEven Esek Harden half afraid.He felt that mute appeal of tears,And, starting, with an angry frownHushed all the wicked murmurs down,"Good neighbors mine," he sternly said,"This passes harmless mirth or jest;I brook no insult to my guest."She is indeed her mother's child;But God's sweet pity ministersUnto no whiter soul than hers.Let Goody Martin rest in peace;I never knew her harm a fly,And witch or not, God knows,—not I.I know who swore her life away;And, as God lives, I'd not condemnAn Indian dog on word of them."Poor Mabel, in her lonely home,Sat by the window's narrow pane,White in the moonlight's silver rain.The river, on its pebbled rim,Made music such as childhood knew;The door-yard tree was whispered throughBy voices such as childhood's earHad heard in moonlights long ago;And through the willow boughs belowShe saw the rippled waters shine;Beyond, in waves of shade and lightThe hills rolled off into the night.Sweet sounds and pictures mocking soThe sadness of her human lot,She saw and heard, but heeded not.She strove to drown her sense of wrong,And, in her old and simple way,To teach, her bitter heart to pray.Poor child! the prayer, began in faith,Grew to a low, despairing cryOf utter misery: "Let me die!Oh! take me from the scornful eyes,And hide me where the cruel speechAnd mocking finger may not reach!"I dare not breathe my mother's name;A daughter's right I dare not craveTo weep above her unblest grave!Let me not live until my heart,With few to pity, and with noneTo love me, hardens into stone.O God! have mercy on thy child,Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small,And take me ere I lose it all."The broadest lands in all the town,The skill to guide, the power to awe,Were Harden's; and his word was law.None dared withstand him to his face,But one sly maiden spake aside:"The little witch is evil-eyed!Her mother only killed a cow,Or witched a churn or dairy-pan;But she, forsooth, must charm a man!"A shadow on the moonlight fell,And murmuring wind and wave becameA voice whose burden was her name.Had then God heard her? Had he sentHis angel down? In flesh and blood,Before her Esek Harden stood!He laid his hand upon her arm:"Dear Mabel, this no more shall be;Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me.You know rough Esek Harden well;And if he seems no suitor gay,And if his hair is mixed with gray,The maiden grown shall never findHis heart less warm than when she smiledUpon his knees, a little child!"Her tears of grief were tears of joy,As folded in his strong embrace,She looked in Esek Harden's face."O truest friend of all!" she said,"God bless you for your kindly thought,And make me worthy of my lot!"He led her through his dewy fields,To where the swinging lanterns glowed,And through the doors the huskers showed."Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said,"I'm weary of this lonely life;In Mabel see my chosen wife!"She greets you kindly, one and all:The past is past, and all offenceFalls harmless from her innocence.Henceforth she stands no more alone;You know what Esek Harden is;—He brooks no wrong to him or his."Now let the merriest tales be told,And let the sweetest songs be sung,That ever made the old heart young!For now the lost has found a home;And a lone hearth shall brighter burn,As all the household joys return!Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon,Between the shadow of the mows,Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!On Mabel's curls of golden hair,On Esek's shaggy strength it fell;And the wind whispered, "It is well!"John G. Whittier.
King David's limbs were weary. He had fledFrom far Jerusalem; and now he stoodWith his faint people for a little restUpon the shore of Jordan. The light windOf morn was stirring, and he bared his browTo its refreshing breath; for he had wornThe mourner's covering, and he had not feltThat he could see his people until now.They gathered round him on the fresh green bankAnd spoke their kindly words, and as the sunRose up in heaven he knelt among them there,And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.Oh! when the heart is full—where bitter thoughtsCome crowding thickly up for utterance,And the poor common words of courtesy,—Are such a mockery—how muchThe bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!He prayed for Israel—and his voice went upStrongly and fervently. He prayed for thoseWhose love had been his shield—and his deep tonesGrew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,For his estranged, misguided Absalom—The proud, bright being who had burst awayIn all his princely beauty to defyThe heart that cherished him—for him he prayed,In agony that would not be controll'd,Strong supplication, and forgave him thereBefore his God for his deep sinfulness.The pall was settled. He who slept beneathWas straightened for the grave, and as the foldsSank to their still proportions, they betrayedThe matchless symmetry of Absalom,The mighty Joab stood beside the bierAnd gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,As if he feared the slumberer might stir.A slow step startled him. He grasped his bladeAs if a trumpet rang, but the bent formOf David entered; and he gave commandIn a low tone to his few followers,And left him with the dead.The King stood stillTill the last echo died; then, throwing offThe sackcloth from his brow, and laying backThe pall from the still features of his child.He bowed his head upon him and broke forthIn the resistless eloquence of woe:"Alas! my noble boy; that thou shouldst die!Thou who were made so beautifully fair!That death should settle in thy glorious eye,And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,My proud boy, Absalom!"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chillAs to my bosom I have tried to press thee!How was I wont to feel my pulses thrillLike a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee,And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom!"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gushOf music, and the voices of the young;And life will pass me in the mantling blush,And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;—But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt comeTo meet me, Absalom!"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,How will its love for thee, as I depart,Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,To see thee, Absalom!"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!—And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup,If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,My lost boy, Absalom!"He covered up his face, and bowed himselfA moment on his child; then, giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis hands convulsively, as if in prayer,And, as if strength were given him of God,He rose up calmly, and composed the pallFirmly and decently—and left him there,As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.N.P. Willis.
It is Christmas day in the workhouse,And the cold bare walls are brightWith garlands of green and holly,And the place is a pleasant sight:For with clean-washed hands and faces,In a long and hungry lineThe paupers sit at the tables,For this is the hour they dine.And the guardians and their ladies,Although the wind is east,Have come in their furs and wrappersTo watch their charges feast;To smile and be condescending,Put pudding on pauper plates,To be hosts at the workhouse banquetThey've paid for—with the rates.Oh, the paupers are meek and lowlyWith their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's";So long as they fill their stomachs,What matter whence it comes?But one of the old men mutters,And pushes his plate aside:"Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me;For this is the dayshedied."The guardians gazed in horror,The master's face went white:"Did a pauper refuse their pudding?""Could their ears believe aright?"Then the ladies clutched their husbandsThinking the man would die,Struck by a bolt, or something,By the outraged One on high.But the pauper sat for a moment,Then rose 'mid a silence grim,For the others had ceased to chatter,And trembled in every limb.He looked at the guardians' ladies,Then, eyeing their lords, he said:"I eat not the food of villainsWhose hands are foul and red,"Whose victims cry for vengeanceFrom their dark unhallowed graves.""He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,"Or else he's mad, and raves.""Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,"But only a hunted beast,Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,Declines the vulture's feast."I care not a curse for the guardians,And I won't be dragged away.Just let me have the fit out,It's only on Christmas dayThat the black past comes to goad me,And prey on my burning brain,I'll tell you the rest in a whisper,—I swear I won't shout again,"Keep your hands off me, curse you!Hear me right out to the end,You come here to see how paupersThe season of Christmas spend.You come here to watch us feeding,As they watch the captured beast,Hear why a penniless pauperSpits on your palfry feast."Do you think I will take your bounty,And let you smile and thinkYou're doing a noble actionWith the parish's meat and drink?Where is my wife, you traitors—The poor old wife you slew?Yes, by the God above us,My Nance was killed by you!"Last winter my wife lay dying,Starved in a filthy den;I had never been to the parish,—I came to the parish then.I swallowed my pride in coming,For, ere the ruin came.I held up my head as a trader,And I bore a spotless name."I came to the parish, cravingBread for a starving wife,Bread for the woman who'd loved meThrough fifty years of life;And what do you think they told me,Mocking my awful grief?That 'the House' was open to us,But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'"I slunk to the filthy alley—'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve—And the bakers' shops were open,Tempting a man to thieve:But I clenched my fists together,Holding my head awry,So I came to her empty-handedAnd mournfully told her why."Then I told her 'the House' was open;She had heard of the ways ofthat,For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,And up in her rags she sat,Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,We've never had one apart;I think I can bear the hunger,—The other would break my heart.'"All through that eve I watched her,Holding her hand in mine,Praying the Lord, and weepingTill my lips were salt as brine.I asked her once if she hungered,And as she answered 'No,'The moon shone in at the windowSet in a wreath of snow."Then the room was bathed in glory,And I saw in my darling's eyesThe far-away look of wonderThat comes when the spirit flies;And her lips were parched and parted,And her reason came and went,For she raved of our home in DevonWhere our happiest years were spent."And the accents, long forgotten,Came back to the tongue once more,For she talked like the country lassieI woo'd by the Devon shore.Then she rose to her feet and trembled,And fell on the rags and moaned,And, 'Give me a crust—I'm famished—For the love of God!' she groaned."I rushed from the room like a madman,And flew to the workhouse gate,Crying 'Food for a dying woman?'And the answer came, 'Too late.'They drove me away with curses;Then I fought with a dog in the street,And tore from the mongrel's clutchesA crust he was trying to eat."Back, through the filthy by-lanes!Back, through the trampled slush!Up to the crazy garret,Wrapped in an awful hush.My heart sank down at the threshold,And I paused with a sudden thrill,For there in the silv'ry moonlightMy Nance lay, cold and still."Up to the blackened ceilingThe sunken eyes were cast—I knew on those lips all bloodlessMy name had been the last:She'd called for her absent husband—O God! had I but known!—Had called in vain, and in anguishHad died in that den—alone."Yes, there, in a land of plenty,Lay a loving woman dead,Cruelly starved and murderedFor a loaf of the parish bread.At yonder gate, last Christmas,I craved for a human life.You, who would feast us paupers,What of my murdered wife!"There, get ye gone to you dinners;Don't mind me in the least;Think of the happy paupersEating your Christmas feast;And when you recount their blessingsIn your snug, parochial way,Say what you did forme, too,Only last Christmas Day."George R. Sims.