While ripening corn grew thick and deep,And here and there men stood to reap,One morn I put my heart to sleep,And to the lanes I took my way.The goldfinch on a thistle-headStood scattering seedlets while she fed;The wrens their pretty gossip spread,Or joined a random roundelay.
On hanging cobwebs shone the dew,And thick the wayside clovers grew;The feeding bee had much to do,So fast did honey-drops exude:She sucked and murmured, and was gone,And lit on other blooms anon,The while I learned a lesson onThe source and sense of quietude.
For sheep-bells chiming from a wold,Or bleat of lamb within its fold,Or cooing of love-legends oldTo dove-wives make not quiet less;Ecstatic chirp of wingèd thing,Or bubbling of the water-spring,Are sounds that more than silence bringItself and its delightsomeness.
While thus I went to gladness fain,I had but walked a mile or twainBefore my heart woke up again,As dreaming she had slept too late;The morning freshness that she viewedWith her own meanings she endued,And touched with her solicitudeThe natures she did meditate.
"If quiet is, for it I wait;To it, ah! let me wed my fate,And, like a sad wife, supplicateMy roving lord no more to flee;If leisure is—but, ah! 'tis not—'Tis long past praying for, God wot;The fashion of it men forgot,About the age of chivalry.
"Sweet is the leisure of the bird;She craves no time for work deferred;Her wings are not to aching stirredProviding for her helpless ones.Fair is the leisure of the wheat;All night the damps about it fleet;All day it basketh in the heat,And grows, and whispers orisons.
"Grand is the leisure of the earth;She gives her happy myriads birth,And after harvest fears not dearth,But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim.Dread is the leisure up aboveThe while He sits whose name is Love,And waits, as Noah did, for the dove,To wit if she would fly to him.
"He waits for us, while, houseless things,We beat about with bruisèd wingsOn the dark floods and water-springs,The ruined world, the desolate sea;With open windows from the primeAll night, all day, He waits sublime,Until the fulness of the timeDecreed from His eternity.
"Where is OUR leisure?—give us rest.Where is the quiet we possessed?We must have had it once—were blestWith peace whose phantoms yet entice.Sorely the mother of mankindLonged for the garden left behind;For we prove yet some yearnings blindInherited from Paradise."
"Hold, heart!" I cried; "for trouble sleeps;I hear no sound of aught that weeps;I will not look into thy deeps—I am afraid, I am afraid!""Afraid!" she saith; "and yet 'tis trueThat what man dreads he still should view—Should do the thing he fears to do,And storm the ghosts in ambuscade."
"What good?" I sigh. "Was reason meantTo straighten branches that are bent,Or soothe an ancient discontent,The instinct of a race dethroned?Ah! doubly should that instinct goMust the four rivers cease to flow,Nor yield those rumors sweet and lowWherewith man's life is undertoned."
"Yet had I but the past," she cries,"And it was lost, I would ariseAnd comfort me some other wise.But more than loss about me clings:I am but restless with my race;The whispers from a heavenly place,Once dropped among us, seem to chaseRest with their prophet-visitings.
"The race is like a child, as yetToo young for all things to be setPlainly before him with no letOr hindrance meet for his degree;But nevertheless by much too oldNot to perceive that men withholdMore of the story than is told,And so infer a mystery.
"If the Celestials daily flyWith messages on missions high,And float, our masts and turrets nigh,Conversing on Heaven's great intents;What wonder hints of coming things,Whereto man's hope and yearning clings,Should drop like feathers from their wingsAnd give us vague presentiments?
"And as the waxing moon can takeThe tidal waters in her wake,And lead them round and round to breakObedient to her drawings dim;So may the movements of His mind,The first Great Father of mankind,Affect with answering movements blind,And draw the souls that breathe by Him.
"We had a message long agoThat like a river peace should flow,And Eden bloom again below.We heard, and we began to wait:Full soon that message men forgot;Yet waiting is their destined lot,And waiting for they know not whatThey strive with yearnings passionate.
"Regret and faith alike enchain;There was a loss, there comes a gain;We stand at fault betwixt the twain,And that is veiled for which we pant.Our lives are short, our ten times seven;We think the councils held in heavenSit long, ere yet that blissful leavenWork peace amongst the militant.
"Then we blame God that sin should be;Adam began it at the tree,'The woman whom THOU gavest me;And we adopt his dark device.O long Thou tarriest! come and reign,And bring forgiveness in Thy train,And give us in our hands againThe apples of Thy Paradise."
"Far-seeing heart! if that be allThe happy things that did not fall,"I sighed, "from every coppice callThey never from that garden went.Behold their joy, so comfort thee,Behold the blossom and the bee,For they are yet as good and freeAs when poor Eve was innocent
"But reason thus: 'If we sank low,If the lost garden we forego,Each in his day, nor ever knowBut in our poet souls its face;Yet we may rise until we reachA height untold of in its speech—A lesson that it could not teachLearn in this darker dwelling-place.
"And reason on: 'We take the spoil;Loss made us poets, and the soilTaught us great patience in our toil,And life is kin to God through death.Christ were not One with us but so,And if bereft of Him we go;Dearer the heavenly mansions grow,HIS home, to man that wandereth.'
"Content thee so, and ease thy smart."With that she slept again, my heart,And I admired and took my partWith crowds of happy things the while:With open velvet butterfliesThat swung and spread their peacock eyes,As if they cared no more to riseFrom off their beds of camomile.
The blackcaps in an orchard met,Praising the berries while they ate:The finch that flew her beak to whetBefore she joined them on the tree;The water mouse among the reeds—His bright eyes glancing black as beads,So happy with a bunch of seeds—I felt their gladness heartily.
But I came on, I smelt the hay,And up the hills I took my way,And down them still made holiday,And walked, and wearied not a whit;But ever with the lane I wentUntil it dropped with steep descent,Cut deep into the rock, a tentOf maple branches roofing it.
Adown the rock small runlets wept,And reckless ivies leaned and crept,And little spots of sunshine sleptOn its brown steeps and made them fair;And broader beams athwart it shot,Where martins cheeped in many a knot,For they had ta'en a sandy plotAnd scooped another Petra there.
And deeper down, hemmed in and hidFrom upper light and life amidThe swallows gossiping, I thridIts mazes, till the dipping landSank to the level of my lane.That was the last hill of the chain,And fair below I saw the plainThat seemed cold cheer to reprimand.
Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay,As satiate with the boundless playOf sunshine in its green array.And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue,To keep it safe rose up behind,As with a charmèd ring to bindThe grassy sea, where clouds might findA place to bring their shadows to.
I said, and blest that pastoral grace,"How sweet thou art, thou sunny place!Thy God approves thy smiling face:"But straight my heart put in her word;She said, "Albeit thy face I bless,There have been times, sweet wilderness,When I have wished to love thee less,Such pangs thy smile administered."
But, lo! I reached a field of wheat,And by its gate full clear and sweetA workman sang, while at his feetPlayed a young child, all life and stir—A three years' child, with rosy lip,Who in the song had partnership,Made happy with each falling chipDropped by the busy carpenter.
This, reared a new gate for the old,And loud the tuneful measure rolled,But stopped as I came up to holdSome kindly talk of passing things.Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien;Of all men's faces, calm or keen,A better I have never seenIn all my lonely wanderings.
And how it was I scarce can tell,We seemed to please each other well;I lingered till a noonday bellHad sounded, and his task was done.An oak had screened us from the heat;And 'neath it in the standing wheat,A cradle and a fair retreat,Full sweetly slept the little one.
The workman rested from his stroke,And manly were the words he spoke,Until the smiling babe awokeAnd prayed to him for milk and food.Then to a runlet forth he went,And brought a wallet from the bent,And bade me to the meal, intentI should not quit his neighborhood.
"For here," said he, "are bread and beer,And meat enough to make good cheer;Sir, eat with me, and have no fear,For none upon my work depend,Saving this child; and I may sayThat I am rich, for every dayI put by somewhat; therefore stay,And to such eating condescend."
We ate. The child—child fair to see—Began to cling about his knee,And he down leaning fatherlyReceived some softly-prattled prayer;He smiled as if to list were balm,And with his labor-hardened palmPushed from the baby-forehead calmThose shining locks that clustered there.
The rosy mouth made fresh essay—"O would he sing, or would he play?"I looked, my thought would make its way—"Fair is your child of face and limb,The round blue eyes full sweetly shine."He answered me with glance benign—"Ay, Sir; but he is none of mine.Although I set great store by him."
With that, as if his heart was fainTo open—nathless not complain—He let my quiet questions gainHis story: "Not of kin to me,"Repeating; "but asleep, awake,For worse, for better, him I take,To cherish for my dead wife's sake,And count him as her legacy.
"I married with the sweetest lassThat ever stepped on meadow grass;That ever at her looking-glassSome pleasure took, some natural care;That ever swept a cottage floorAnd worked all day, nor e'er gave o'erTill eve, then watched beside the doorTill her good man should meet her there.
"But I lost all in its fresh prime;My wife fell ill before her time—Just as the bells began to chimeOne Sunday morn. By next day's lightHer little babe was born and dead,And she, unconscious what she said,With feeble hands about her spread,Sought it with yearnings infinite.
"With mother-longing still beguiled,And lost in fever-fancies wild,She piteously bemoaned her childThat we had stolen, she said, away.And ten sad days she sighed to me,'I cannot rest until I seeMy pretty one! I think that heSmiled in my face but yesterday.'
"Then she would change, and faintly tryTo sing some tender lullaby;And 'Ah!' would moan, 'if I should die,Who, sweetest babe, would cherish thee?'Then weep, 'My pretty boy is grown;With tender feet on the cold stoneHe stands, for he can stand alone,And no one leads him motherly.'
"Then she with dying movements slowWould seem to knit, or seem to sew:'His feet are bare, he must not goUnshod:' and as her death drew on,'O little baby,' she would sigh;'My little child, I cannot dieTill I have you to slumber nigh—You, you to set mine eyes upon.'
"When she spake thus, and moaning lay,They said, 'She cannot pass away,So sore she longs:' and as the dayBroke on the hills, I left her side.Mourning along this lane I went;Some travelling folk had pitched their tentUp yonder: there a woman, bentWith age, sat meanly canopied.
"A twelvemonths' child was at her side:'Whose infant may that be?' I cried.'His that will own him,' she replied;'His mother's dead, no worse could be.''Since you can give—or else I erred—See, you are taken at your word,'Quoth I; 'That child is mine; I heard,And own him! Rise, and give him me.'
"She rose amazed, but cursed me too;She could not hold such luck for true,But gave him soon, with small ado.I laid him by my Lucy's side:Close to her face that baby crept,And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept;Then, while upon her arm he slept,She passed, for she was satisfied.
"I loved her well, I wept her sore,And when her funeral left my doorI thought that I should never moreFeel any pleasure near me glow;But I have learned, though this I had,'Tis sometimes natural to be glad,And no man can be always sadUnless he wills to have it so.
"Oh, I had heavy nights at first,And daily wakening was the worst:For then my grief arose, and burstLike something fresh upon my head;Yet when less keen it seemed to grow,I was not pleased—I wished to goMourning adown this vale of woe,For all my life uncomforted.
"I grudged myself the lightsome air,That makes man cheerful unaware;When comfort came, I did not careTo take it in, to feel it stir:And yet God took with me his plan,And now for my appointed spanI think I am a happier manFor having wed and wept for her.
"Because no natural tie remains,On this small thing I spend my gains;God makes me love him for my pains,And binds me so to wholesome careI would not lose from my past lifeThat happy year, that happy wife!Yet now I wage no useless strifeWith feelings blithe and debonair.
"I have the courage to be gay,Although she lieth lapped awayUnder the daisies, for I say,'Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst see':My constant thought makes manifestI have not what I love the best,But I must thank God for the restWhile I hold heaven a verity."
He rose, upon his shoulder setThe child, and while with vague regretWe parted, pleased that we had met,My heart did with herself confer;With wholesome shame she did repentHer reasonings idly eloquent,And said, "I might be more content:But God go with the carpenter."
(He thinks.)
If there be memory in the world to come,If thought recur to SOME THINGS silenced here,Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb,But find expression in that happier sphere;It shall not be denied their utmost sumOf love, to speak without or fault or fear,But utter to the harp with changes sweetWords that, forbidden still, then heaven were incomplete.
(He speaks.)
Now let us talk about the ancient days,And things which happened long before our birth:It is a pity to lament that praiseShould be no shadow in the train of worth.What is it, Madam, that your heart dismays?Why murmur at the course of this vast earth?Think rather of the work than of the praise;Come, we will talk about the ancient days.
There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he);I will relate his story to you now.While through the branches of this apple-treeSome spots of sunshine flicker on your brow;While every flower hath on its breast a bee,And every bird in stirring doth endowThe grass with falling blooms that smoothly glide,As ships drop down a river with the tide.
For telling of his tale no fitter placeThen this old orchard, sloping to the west;Through its pink dome of blossom I can traceSome overlying azure; for the rest,These flowery branches round us interlace;The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest:Who talks of fame while the religious SpringOffers the incense of her blossoming?
There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he),Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane,Took to his heart the hope that destinyHad singled him this guerdon to obtain,That by the power of his sweet minstrelsySome hearts for truth and goodness he should gain.And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyesAnd suddenly wax conscious of the skies.
"Master, good e'en to ye!" a woodman said,Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears."This hour is fine"—the Poet bowed his head."More fine," he thought, "O friend! to me appearsThe sunset than to you; finer the spreadOf orange lustre through these azure spheres,Where little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep,Or vessels sailing in God's other deep.
"O finer far! What work so high as mine,Interpreter betwixt the world and man,Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine,The mystery she wraps her in to scan;Her unsyllabic voices to combine,And serve her with such love as poets can;With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind,Then die, and leave the poem to mankind?
"O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired!Early and late my heart appeals to me,And says, 'O work, O will—Thou man, be firedTo earn this lot,'—she says, 'I would not beA worker for mine OWN bread, or one hiredFor mine OWN profit. O, I would be freeTo work for others; love so earned of themShould be my wages and my diadem.
"'Then when I died I should not fall,' says she,'Like dropping flowers that no man noticeth,But like a great branch of some stately treeRent in a tempest, and flung down to death,Thick with green leafage—so that piteouslyEach passer by that ruin shuddereth,And saith, The gap this branch hath left is wide;The loss thereof can never be supplied.'"
But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so,Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye,And saw two slender branches that did grow,And from it rising spring and flourish high:Their tops were twined together fast, and, lo,Their shadow crossed the path as he went by—The shadow of a wild rose and a brier,And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre.
In sooth, a lyre! and as the soft air played,Those branches stirred, but did not disunite."O emblem meet for me!" the Poet said;"Ay, I accept and own thee for my right;The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid,Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light,Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain,And, supple, it will bend and rise again.
"This lyre is cast across the dusty way,The common path that common men pursue,I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay,Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew,And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day.Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew,That 'neath men's feet its image still may beWhile yet it waves above them, living lyre, like thee!"
But even as the Poet spoke, beholdHe lifted up his face toward the sky;The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold,His shadowy lyre was gone; and, passing by,The woodman lifting up his shears, was boldTheir temper on those branches twain to try,And all their loveliness and leafage sweetFell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet.
"Ah! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he,"That for myself I coveted but now,Too soon, methinks, them hast been false to me;The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow."Then straightway turned he from it hastily,As dream that waking sense will disallow;And while the highway heavenward paled apace,He went on westward to his dwelling-place.
He went on steadily, while far and fastThe summer darkness dropped upon the world,A gentle air among the cloudlets passedAnd fanned away their crimson; then it curledThe yellow poppies in the field, and castA dimness on the grasses, for it furledTheir daisies, and swept out the purple stainThat eve had left upon the pastoral plain.
He reached his city. Lo! the darkened streetWhere he abode was full of gazing crowds;He heard the muffled tread of many feet;A multitude stood gazing at the clouds."What mark ye there," said he, "and wherefore meet?Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrouds;It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars—What lies behind it but the nightly stars?"
Then did the gazing crowd to him averThey sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid:For that in sooth an old AstronomerDown from his roof had rushed into their mid,Frighted, and fain with others to confer,That he had cried, "O sirs!"—and upward bidThem gaze—"O sirs, a light is quenched afar;Look up, my masters, we have lost a star!"
The people pointed, and the Poet's eyesFlew upward, where a gleaming sisterhoodSwam in the dewy heaven. The very skiesWere mutable; for all-amazed he stoodTo see that truly not in any wiseHe could behold them as of old, nor couldHis eyes receive the whole whereof he wot,But when he told them over, one WAS NOT.
While yet he gazed and pondered reverently,The fickle folk began to move away."It is but one star less for us to see;And what does one star signify?" quoth they:"The heavens are full of them." "But, ah!" said he,"That star was bright while yet she lasted." "Ay!"They answered: "Praise her, Poet, an' ye will:Some are now shining that are brighter still."
"Poor star! to be disparagèd so soonOn her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed;"That men should miss, and straight deny her noonIts brightness!" But the people in their prideSaid, "How are we beholden? 'twas no boonShe gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide:She could not choose but shine, nor could we knowSuch star had ever dwelt in heaven but so."
The Poet answered sadly, "That is true!"And then he thought upon unthankfulness;While some went homeward; and the residue,Reflecting that the stars are numberless,Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few,So short the shining that his path may bless:To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips,And thought no more upon the star's eclipse.
But he, the Poet, could not rest contentTill he had found that old Astronomer;Therefore at midnight to his house he wentAnd prayed him be his tale's interpreter.And yet upon the heaven his eyes he bent,Hearing the marvel; yet he sought for herThat was a wanting, in the hope her faceOnce more might fill its reft abiding-place.
Then said the old Astronomer: "My son.I sat alone upon my roof to-night;I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely shunTo fringe the edges of the western light;I marked those ancient clusters one by one,The same that blessed our old forefather's sightFor God alone is older—none but HeCan charge the stars with mutability:
"The elders of the night, the steadfast stars,The old, old stars which God has let us see,That they might be our soul's auxiliars,And help us to the truth how young we be—God's youngest, latest born, as if, some sparsAnd a little clay being over of them—HeHad made our world and us thereof, yet given,To humble us, the sight of His great heaven.
"But ah! my son, to-night mine eyes have seenThe death of light, the end of old renown;A shrinking back of glory that had been,A dread eclipse before the Eternal's frown.How soon a little grass will grow betweenThese eyes and those appointed to look downUpon a world that was not made on highTill the last scenes of their long empiry!
"To-night that shining cluster now despoiledLay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood;Sweet was its light to me that long had toiled,It gleamed and trembled o'er the distant wood,Blown in a pile the clouds from it recoiled,Cool twilight up the sky her way made good;I saw, but not believed—it was so strange—That one of those same stars had suffered change.
"The darkness gathered, and methought she spread,Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned;But notwithstanding to myself I said—'The stars are changeless; sure some mote hath stainedMine eyes, and her fair glory minishèd.'Of age and failing vision I complained,And I bought 'some vapor in the heavens doth swim,That makes her look so large and yet so dim.'
"But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peersIn her red presence showed but wan and whiteFor like a living coal beheld through tearsShe glowed and quivered with a gloomy light:Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears,Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night;Like one who throws his arms up to the skyAnd bows down suffering, hopeless of reply.
"At length, as if an everlasting HandHad taken hold upon her in her place,And swiftly, like a golden grain of sand,Through all the deep infinitudes of spaceWas drawing her—God's truth as here I stand—Backward and inward to itself; her faceFast lessened, lessened, till it looked no moreThan smallest atom on a boundless shore.
"And she that was so fair, I saw her lie,The smallest thing in God's great firmament,Till night was lit the darkest, and on highHer sisters glittered, though her light was spent;I strained, to follow her, each aching eye,So swiftly at her Maker's will she went;I looked again—I looked—the star was gone,And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone."
"Gone!" said the Poet, "and about to beForgotten: O, how sad a fate is hers!""How is it sad, my son?" all reverentlyThe old man answered; "though she ministersNo longer with her lamp to me and thee,She has fulfilled her mission. God transfersOr dims her ray; yet was she blest as bright,For all her life was spent in giving light."
"Her mission she fulfilled assuredly,"The Poet cried; "but, O unhappy star!None praise and few will bear in memoryThe name she went by. O, from far, from farComes down, methinks, her mournful voice to me,Full of regrets that men so thankless are."So said, he told that old AstronomerAll that the gazing crowd had said of her.
And he went on to speak in bitter wise,As one who seems to tell another's fate,But feels that nearer meaning underlies,And points its sadness to his own estate:"If such be the reward," he said with sighs,"Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate—If such be thy reward, hard case is thine!It had been better for thee not to shine.
"If to reflect a light that is divineMakes that which doth reflect it better seen,And if to see is to contemn the shrine,'Twere surely better it had never been:It had been better for her NOT TO SHINE,And for me NOT TO SING. Better, I ween,For us to yield no more that radiance bright,For them, to lack the light than scorn the light."
Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he);And then he paused and sighed, and turned to lookUpon the lady's downcast eyes, and seeHow fast the honey-bees in settling shookThose apple blossoms on her from the tree:He watched her busy lingers as they tookAnd slipped the knotted thread, and thought how muchHe would have given that hand to hold—to touch.
At length, as suddenly become awareOf this long pause, she lifted up her face,And he withdrew his eyes—she looked so fairAnd cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace."Ah! little dreams she of the restless care,"He thought, "that makes my heart to throb apace:Though we this morning part, the knowledge sendsNo thrill to her calm pulse—we are but FRIENDS."
Ah! turret clock (he thought), I would thy handWere hid behind yon towering maple-trees!Ah! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand—Dark shadow—fast advancing to my knees;Ah! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly plannedBy feigning gladness to arrive at ease;Ah! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends;I must remember that we are but friends.
And while the knotted thread moved to and fro,In sweet regretful tones that lady said:"It seemeth that the fame you would foregoThe Poet whom you tell of coveted;But I would fain, methinks, his story know.And was he loved?" said she, "or was he wed?And had he friends?" "One friend, perhaps," said he,"But for the rest, I pray you let it be."
Ah! little bird (he thought), most patient bird,Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through,By so much as my reason is preferredAbove thine instinct, I my work would doBetter than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirredThis hour thy wing. Ah! russet bird, I sueFor a like patience to wear through these hours—Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers.
I will not speak—I will not speak to thee,My star! and soon to be my lost, lost star.The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me,So high above me and beyond so far;I can forego thee, but not bear to seeMy love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar:That were a base return for thy sweet light.Shine, though I never more-shall see that thou art bright.
Never! 'Tis certain that no hope is—none!No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear.The hardest part of my hard task is done;Thy calm assures me that I am not dear;Though far and fast the rapid moments run,Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear;Silent, perhaps a little sad at heartShe is. I am her friend, and I depart.
Silent she had been, but she raised her face;"And will you end," said she, "this half-told tale?""Yes, it were best," he answered her. "The placeWhere I left off was where he felt to failHis courage, Madam, through the fancy baseThat they who love, endure, or work, may railAnd cease—if all their love, the works they wrought,And their endurance, men have set at nought."
"It had been better for me NOT to sing,"My Poet said, "and for her NOT to shine;"But him the old man answered, sorrowing,"My son, did God who made her, the DivineLighter of suns, when down to yon bright ringHe cast her, like some gleaming almandine,And set her in her place, begirt with rays,Say unto her 'Give light,' or say 'Earn praise?'"
The Poet said, "He made her to give light.""My son," the old man answered, "Blest are such;A blessed lot is theirs; but if each nightMankind had praised her radiance, inasmuchAs praise had never made it wax more bright,And cannot now rekindle with its touchHer lost effulgence, it is nought. I wotThat praise was not her blessing nor her lot."
"Ay," said the Poet, "I my words abjure,And I repent me that I uttered them;But by her light and by its forfeitureShe shall not pass without her requiem.Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure;Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem,Shall be remembered; though she sought not fame,It shall be busy with her beauteous name.
"For I will raise in her bright memory,Lost now on earth, a lasting monument,And graven on it shall recorded beThat all her rays to light mankind were spent;And I will sing albeit none heedeth me,On her exemplar being still intent:While in men's sight shall stand the record thus—'So long as she did last she lighted us.'"
So said, he raised, according to his vow,On the green grass where oft his townsfolk met,Under the shadow of a leafy boughThat leaned toward a singing rivulet,One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow,The image of the vanished star was set;And this was graven on the pure white stoneIn golden letters—"WHILE SHE LIVED SHE SHONE."
Madam, I cannot give this story well—My heart is beating to another chime;My voice must needs a different cadence swell;It is yon singing bird, which all the timeWooeth his nested mate, that doth dispelMy thoughts. What, deem you, could a lover's rhymeThe sweetness of that passionate lay excel?O soft, O low her voice—"I cannot tell."
(He thinks.)
The old man—ay, he spoke, he was not hard;"She was his joy," he said, "his comforter,But he would trust me. I was not debarredWhate'er my heart approved to say to her."Approved! O torn and tempted and ill-starredAnd breaking heart, approve not nor demur;It is the serpent that beguileth theeWith "God doth know" beneath this apple-tree.
Yea, God DOTH know, and only God doth know.Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee!I bear Thy curse primeval, and I go;But heavier than on Adam falls on meMy tillage of the wilderness; for lo,I leave behind the woman, and I seeAs 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'erTo hide her from my sight for evermore.
(He speaks.)
I am a fool, with sudden start he cried,To let the song-bird work me such unrest:If I break off again, I pray you chide,For morning neeteth, with my tale at bestHalf told. That white stone, Madam, gleamed besideThe little rivulet, and all men pressedTo read the lost one's story traced thereon,The golden legend—"While she lived she shone."
And, Madam, when the Poet heard them read,And children spell the letters softly through,It may be that he felt at heart some need,Some craving to be thus remembered too;It may be that he wondered if indeedHe must die wholly when he passed from view;It may be, wished when death his eyes made dim,That some kind hand would raise such stone for him.
But shortly, as there comes to most of us,There came to him the need to quit his home:To tell you why were simply hazardous.What said I, Madam?—men were made to roamMy meaning is. It hath been always thus:They are athirst for mountains and sea-foam;Heirs of this world, what wonder if perchanceThey long to see their grand inheritance?
He left his city, and went forth to teachMankind, his peers, the hidden harmonyThat underlies God's discords, and to reachAnd touch the master-string that like a sighThrills in their souls, as if it would beseechSome hand to sound it, and to satisfyIts yearning for expression: but no wordTill poet touch it hath to make its music heard.
(He thinks.)
I know that God is good, though evil dwellsAmong us, and doth all things holiest share;That there is joy in heaven, while yet our knellsSound for the souls which He has summoned there:That painful love unsatisfied hath spellsEarned by its smart to soothe its fellows care:But yet this atom cannot in the wholeForget itself—it aches a separate soul.
(He speaks.)
But, Madam, to my Poet I return.With his sweet cadences of woven wordsHe made their rude untutored hearts to burnAnd melt like gold refined. No brooding birdsSing better of the love that doth sojournHid in the nest of home, which softly girdsThe beating heart of life; and, strait though it be,Is straitness better than wide liberty.
He taught them, and they learned, but not the lessRemained unconscious whence that lore they drew,But dreamed that of their native noblenessSome lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew;His glorious maxims in a lowly dressLike seed sown broadcast sprung in all men's view.The sower, passing onward, was not known,And all men reaped the harvest as their own.
It may be, Madam, that those ballads sweet,Whose rhythmic words we sang but yesterday,Which time and changes make not obsolete,But (as a river blossoms bears awayThat on it drop) take with them while they fleet—It may be his they are, from him bear sway:But who can tell, since work surviveth fame?—The rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name.
He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust—So long he wandered sowing worthy seed,Watering of wayside buds that were adust,And touching for the common ear his reed—So long to wear away the cankering rustThat dulls the gold of life—so long to pleadWith sweetest music for all souls oppressed,That he was old ere he had thought of rest.
Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff,To that great city of his birth he came,And at its gates he paused with wondering laughTo think how changed were all his thoughts of fameSince first he carved the golden epitaphTo keep in memory a worthy name,And thought forgetfulness had been its doomBut for a few bright letters on a tomb.
The old Astronomer had long since died;The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed,Strange were the domes that rose on every side;Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst;The men of yesterday their business plied;No face was left that he had known at first;And in the city gardens, lo, he seesThe saplings that he set are stately trees.
Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade,Behold! he marks the fair white monument,And on its face the golden words displayed,For sixty years their lustre have not spent;He sitteth by it and is not afraid,But in its shadow he is well content;And envies not, though bright their gleamings are,The golden letters of the vanished star.
He gazeth up; exceeding bright appearsThat golden legend to his aged eyes,For they are dazzled till they fill with tears,And his lost Youth doth like a vision rise;She saith to him, "In all these toilsome years,What hast thou won by work or enterprise?What hast thou won to make amends to thee,As thou didst swear to do, for loss of me?
"O man! O white-haired man!" the vision said"Since we two sat beside this monumentLife's clearest hues are all evanishèd;The golden wealth thou hadst of me is spent;The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are shedThe music is played out that with thee went.""Peace, peace!" he cried, "I lost thee, but, in truth,There are worse losses than the loss of youth."
He said not what those losses were—but I—But I must leave them, for the time draws near.Some lose not ONLY joy, but memoryOf how it felt: not love that was so dearLose only, but the steadfast certaintyThat once they had it; doubt comes on, then fear,And after that despondency. I wisThe Poet must have meant such loss as this.
But while he sat and pondered on his youth,He said, "It did one deed that doth remain,For it preserved the memory and the truthOf her that now doth neither set nor wane,But shine in all men's thought; nor sink forsooth,And be forgotten like the summer rain.O, it is good that man should not forgetOr benefits foregone or brightness set!"
He spoke and said, "My lot contented: me;I am right glad for this her worthy fame;That which was good and great I fain would seeDrawn with a halo round what rests—its name."This while the Poet said, behold there cameA workman with his tools anear the tree,And when he read the words he paused awhileAnd pondered on them with a wondering smile.
And then he said, "I pray you, Sir, what meanThe golden letters of this monument?"In wonder quoth the Poet, "Hast thou beenA dweller near at hand, and their intentHast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seenThe marble earlier?" "Ay," said he, and leantUpon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh,And say it was a marvel, and pass by.
Then said the Poet, "This is strange to me."But as he mused, with trouble in his mind,A band of maids approached him leisurely,Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind;And of their rosy lips requested he,As one that for a doubt would solving find,The tale, if tale there were, of that white stone,And those fair letters—"While she lived she shone."
Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay."O, Sir," saith one, "this monument is old;But we have heard our virtuous mothers sayThat by their mothers thus the tale was told:A Poet made it; journeying then away,He left us; and though some the meaning holdFor other than the ancient one, yet weReceive this legend for a certainty:—
"There was a lily once, most purely white,Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew;Its starry blossom it unclosed by night,And a young Poet loved its shape and hue.He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight,Until a stormy wind arose and blew,And when he came once more his flower to greetIts fallen petals drifted to his feet.
"And for his beautiful white lily's sake,That she might be remembered where her scentHad been right sweet, he said that he would makeIn her dear memory a monument:For she was purer than a driven flakeOf snow, and in her grace most excellent;The loveliest life that death did ever mar,As beautiful to gaze on as a star."
"I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her."And I am glad that I have heard your tale."With that they passed; and as an inlander,Having heard breakers raging in a gale,And falling down in thunder, will averThat still, when far away in grassy vale,He seems to hear those seething waters bound,So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound.
He leaned his face upon his hand, and thought,And thought, until a youth came by that way;And once again of him the Poet soughtThe story of the star. But, well-a-day!He said, "The meaning with much doubt is fraught,The sense thereof can no man surely say;For still tradition sways the common ear,That of a truth a star DID DISAPPEAR.
"But they who look beneath the outer shellThat wraps the 'kernel of the people's lore,'Hold THAT for superstition; and they tellThat seven lovely sisters dwelt of yoreIn this old city, where it so befellThat one a Poet loved; that, furthermore,As stars above us she was pure and good,And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood.
"So beautiful they were, those virgins seven,That all men called them clustered stars in song,Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven:But woman bideth not beneath it long;For O, alas! alas! one fated evenWhen stars their azure deeps began to throng,That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim,And all their lustrous shining waned to him.
"In summer dusk she drooped her head and sighedUntil what time the evening star went down,And all the other stars did shining bideClear in the lustre of their old renown.And then—the virgin laid her down and died:Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown,Forgot the sisters whom she loved before,And broke her Poet's heart for evermore."
"A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady saith:"But did he truly grieve for evermore?""It may be you forget," he answereth,"That this is but a fable at the coreO' the other fable." "Though it be but breath,"She asketh, "was it true?"—then he, "This lore,Since it is fable, either way may go;Then, if it please you, think it might be so."
"Nay, but," she saith, "if I had told your tale,The virgin should have lived his home to bless,Or, must she die, I would have made to failHis useless love." "I tell you not the less,"He sighs, "because it was of no avail:His heart the Poet would not dispossessThereof. But let us leave the fable now.My Poet heard it with an aching brow."
And he made answer thus: "I thank thee, youth;Strange is thy story to these aged ears,But I bethink me thou hast told a truthUnder the guise of fable. If my tears,Thou lost belovèd star, lost now, forsooth,Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers,So new thou should'st be deemed as newly seen,For men forget that thou hast ever been.
"There was a morning when I longed for fame,There was a noontide when I passed it by,There is an evening when I think not shameIts substance and its being to deny;For if men bear in mind great deeds, the nameOf him that wrought them shall they leave to die;Or if his name they shall have deathless writ,They change the deeds that first ennobled it.
"O golden letters of this monument!O words to celebrate a loved renownLost now or wrested! and to fancies lent,Or on a fabled forehead set for crown,For my departed star, I am content,Though legends dim and years her memory drown:For nought were fame to her, compared and setBy this great truth which ye make lustrous yet."
"Adieu!" the Poet said, "my vanished star,Thy duty and thy happiness were one.Work is heaven's best; its fame is sublunar:The fame thou dost not need—the work is done.For thee I am content that these things are;More than content were I, my race being run,Might it be true of me, though none thereonShould muse regretful—'While he lived he shone.'"
So said, the Poet rose and went his way,And that same lot he proved whereof he spake.Madam, my story is told out; the dayDraws out her shadows, time doth overtakeThe morning. That which endeth call a lay,Sung after pause—a motto in the breakBetween two chapters of a tale not new,Nor joyful—but a common tale. Adieu!
And that same God who made your face so fair,And gave your woman's heart its tenderness,So shield the blessing He implanted there,That it may never turn to your distress,And never cost you trouble or despair,Nor granted leave the granter comfortless;But like a river blest where'er it flows,Be still receiving while it still bestows.
Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat muteIn the soft shadow of the apple-tree;The skylark's song rang like a joyous flute,The brook went prattling past her restlessly:She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute;It was the wind that sighed, it was not she:And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said,We cannot tell, for none interpreted.
Their counsels might be hard to reconcile,They might not suit the moment or the spot.She rose, and laid her work aside the whileDown in the sunshine of that grassy plot;She looked upon him with an almost smile,And held to him a hand that faltered not.One moment—bird and brook went warbling on,And the wind sighed again—and he was gone.
So quietly, as if she heard no moreOr skylark in the azure overhead,Or water slipping past the cressy shore,Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled—So quietly, until the alders hoarTook him beneath them; till the downward spreadOf planes engulfed him in their leafy seas—She stood beneath her rose-flushed apple-trees.
And then she stooped toward the mossy grass,And gathered up her work and went her way;Straight to that ancient turret she did pass,And startle back some fawns that were at play.She did not sigh, she never said "Alas!"Although he was her friend: but still that day,Where elm and hornbeam spread a towering dome,She crossed the dells to her ancestral home.
And did she love him?—what if she did not?Then home was still the home of happiest yearsNor thought was exiled to partake his lot,Nor heart lost courage through forboding fears;Nor echo did against her secret plot,Nor music her betray to painful tears;Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim,And riches poverty, because of him.
But did she love him?—what and if she did?Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand,Nor show the secret waters that lie hidIn arid valleys of that desert land.Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid,Or bring the help which tarries near to hand,Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyesThat gaze up dying into alien skies.
I took a year out of my life and story—A dead year, and said, "I will hew thee a tomb!'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;'Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom;Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old;Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold.
"Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory,Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter-mouse—Each with his name on his brow.'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,Every one in his own house:'Then why not thou?
"Year," I said, "thou shalt not lackBribes to bar thy coming back;Doth old Egypt wear her bestIn the chambers of her rest?Doth she take to her last bedBeaten gold, and glorious red?Envy not! for thou wilt wearIn the dark a shroud as fair;Golden with the sunny rayThou withdrawest from my day;Wrought upon with colors fine,Stolen from this life of mine;Like the dusty Lybian kings,Lie with two wide open wingsOn thy breast, as if to say,On these wings hope flew away;And so housed, and thus adorned,Not forgotten, but not scorned,Let the dark for evermoreClose thee when I close the door;And the dust for ages fallIn the creases of thy pall;And no voice nor visit rudeBreak thy sealèd solitude."
I took the year out of my life and story,The dead year, and said, "I have hewed thee a tomb'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,'Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom;But for the sword, and the sceptre, and diadem,Sure thou didst reign like them."So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary,According to my vow;For I said, "The kings of the nations lie in glory,And so shalt thou!"
"Rock," I said, "thy ribs are strong.That I bring thee guard it long;Hide the light from buried eyes—Hide it, lest the dead arise.""Year," I said, and turned away,"I am free of thee this day;All that we two only know,I forgive and I forego,So thy face no more I meet,In the field or in the street."
Thus we parted, she and I;Life hid death, and put it by:Life hid death, and said, "Be freeI have no more need of thee."No more need! O mad mistake,With repentance in its wake!Ignorant, and rash, and blind,Life had left the grave behind;But had locked within its holdWith the spices and the gold,All she had to keep her warmIn the raging of the storm.
Scarce the sunset bloom was gone,And the little stars outshone,Ere the dead year, stiff and stark,Drew me to her in the dark;Death drew life to come to her,Beating at her sepulchre,Crying out, "How can I partWith the best share of my heart?Lo, it lies upon the bier,Captive, with the buried year.O my heart!" And I fell prone,Weeping at the sealèd stone;"Year among the shades," I said,"Since I live, and thou art dead,Let my captive heart be free,Like a bird to fly to me."And I stayed some voice to win,But none answered from within;And I kissed the door—and nightDeepened till the stars waxed brightAnd I saw them set and wane,And the world turn green again.
"So," I whispered, "open door,I must tread this palace floor—Sealèd palace, rich and dim.Let a narrow sunbeam swimAfter me, and on me spreadWhile I look upon my dead;Let a little warmth be freeTo come after; let me seeThrough the doorway, when I sitLooking out, the swallows flit,Settling not till daylight goes;Let me smell the wild white rose,Smell the woodbine and the may;Mark, upon a sunny day,Sated from their blossoms rise,Honey-bees and butterflies.Let me hear, O! let me hear,Sitting by my buried year,Finches chirping to their young,And the little noises flungOut of clefts where rabbits play,Or from falling water-spray;And the gracious echoes wokeBy man's work: the woodman's stroke,Shout of shepherd, whistlings blithe.And the whetting of the scythe;Let this be, lest shut and furledFrom the well-beloved world,I forget her yearnings old,And her troubles manifold,Strivings sore, submissions meet,And my pulse no longer beat,Keeping time and bearing partWith the pulse of her great heart.
"So; swing open door, and shadeTake me; I am not afraid,For the time will not be long;Soon I shall have waxen strong—Strong enough my own to winFrom the grave it lies within."And I entered. On her bierQuiet lay the buried year;I sat down where I could seeLife without and sunshine free,Death within. And I between,Waited my own heart to weanFrom the shroud that shaded herIn the rock-hewn sepulchre—Waited till the dead should say,"Heart, be free of me this day"—Waited with a patient will—AND I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL.
I take the year back to my life and story,The dead year, and say, "I will share in thy tomb.'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;'Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom!They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and diadem,But thou excellest them;For life doth make thy grave her oratory,And the crown is still on thy brow;'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,'And so dost thou."
What change has made the pastures sweetAnd reached the daisies at my feet,And cloud that wears a golden hem?This lovely world, the hills, the sward—They all look fresh, as if our LordBut yesterday had finished them.
And here's the field with light aglow;How fresh its boundary lime-trees show,And how its wet leaves trembling shine!Between their trunks come through to meThe morning sparkles of the seaBelow the level browsing line
I see the pool more clear by halfThan pools where other waters laughUp at the breasts of coot and rail.There, as she passed it on her way,I saw reflected yesterdayA maiden with a milking-pail.
There, neither slowly nor in haste,One hand upon her slender waist,The other lifted to her pail,She, rosy in the morning light,Among the water-daisies white,Like some fair sloop appeared to sail.
Against her ankles as she trodThe lucky buttercups did nod.I leaned upon the gate to see:The sweet thing looked, but did not speak;A dimple came in either cheek,And all my heart was gone from me.
Then, as I lingered on the gate,And she came up like coming fate,I saw my picture in her eyes—Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes,Cheeks like the mountain pink, that growsAmong white-headed majesties.
I said, "A tale was made of oldThat I would fain to thee unfold;Ah! let me—let me tell the tale."But high she held her comely head;"I cannot heed it now," she said,"For carrying of the milking-pail."
She laughed. What good to make ado?I held the gate, and she came through,And took her homeward path anon.From the clear pool her face had fled;It rested on my heart instead,Reflected when the maid was gone.
With happy youth, and work content,So sweet and stately on she went,Right careless of the untold tale.Each step she took I loved her more,And followed to her dairy doorThe maiden with the milking-pail.
For hearts where wakened love doth lurk,How fine, how blest a thing is work!For work does good when reasons fail—Good; yet the axe at every strokeThe echo of a name awoke—Her name is Mary Martindale.
I'm glad that echo was not heardAright by other men: a birdKnows doubtless what his own notes tell;And I know not, but I can sayI felt as shame-faced all that dayAs if folks heard her name right well.
And when the west began to glowI went—I could not choose but go—To that same dairy on the hill;And while sweet Mary moved aboutWithin, I came to her without.And leaned upon the window-sill.
The garden border where I stoodWas sweet with pinks and southernwood.I spoke—her answer seemed to fail:I smelt the pinks—I could not see;The dusk came down and sheltered me,And in the dusk she heard my tale.
And what is left that I should tell?I begged a kiss, I pleaded well:The rosebud lips did long decline;But yet I think, I think 'tis true,That, leaned at last into the dew,One little instant they were mine.
O life! how dear thou hast become:She laughed at dawn and I was dumb,But evening counsels best prevail.Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads,Green be the pastures where she treads,The maiden with the milking-pail!