As two who walk through forest aisles,Lit all the way by forest flowers,Divide at morn through twin defilesTo meet again in distant hours,With plunder plucked from all the miles,
So Philip and his Mildred wentInto their walks of daily life,—Parting at morn with sweet consent,And—tireless husband, busy wife—Together when the day was spent,
Bringing the treasures they had wonFrom sundered tracks of enterprise,To learn from each what each had done,And prove each other grown more wiseThan when the morning was begun.
He strengthened her with manly thoughtAnd learning, gathered from the great;And she, whose quicker eye had caughtThe treasures of the broad estateOf common life and learning, brought
Her gleanings from the level field,And gave them gladly to his hands,Who had not dreamed that they could yieldSuch sheaves, or hold within their bandsSuch wealth of lovely flowers concealed.
His grave discourse, his judgment sure,Gave tone and temper to her soul,While her swift thoughts and vision pure,And mirth that would not brook control,And wit that kept him insecure
Within his dignified repose,Refreshed and quickened him like wine.No tender word or dainty glozeCould give him pleasure half so fineAs that which tingled to her blows.
He gave her food for heart and mind,And raised her toward his higher plane;She showed him that his eyes were blind;She proved his lofty wisdom vain,And held him humbly with his kind.
Oh blessed sleep! in which exemptFrom our tired selves long hours we lie,Our vapid worthlessness undreamt,And our poor spirits saved therebyFrom perishing of self-contempt!
We weary of our petty aims;We sicken with our selfish deeds;We shrink and shrivel, in the flamesThat low desire ignites and feeds,And grudge the debt that duty claims.
Oh sweet forgetfulness of sleep!Oh bliss, to drop the pride of dress,And all the shams o'er which we weep,And, toward our native nothingness,To drop ten thousand fathoms deep!
At morning only—strong, erect—We face our mirrors not ashamed;For then alone we meet unfleckedThe image we at evening blamed,And find refreshed our self-respect.
Ah! little wonderment that those,Who see us most and love us best,Find that a true affection growsThe more when, in its parted nest,It spends long hours in lone repose!
Our fruit grows dead in pulp and rindWhen seen and handled overmuch;The roses fade, our fingers bind;And with familiar kiss and touchThe graces wither from our kind.
Man lives on love, at love's expense,And woman, so her love be sweet;Best honey palls upon the senseWhen it is tempted to repeatToo oft its fine experience.
And Mildred, with instinctive skill,And loving neither most nor least,Stood out from Philip's grasping will,And gave, where he desired a feast,The taste that left him hungry still.
She hid her heart behind a mask,And held him to his manly course;One hour in love she bade him bask,And then she drove, with playful force,The laggard to his daily task.
They went their way and kept their care,And met again their toil complete,Like angels on a heavenly stair,Or pilgrims in a golden street,Grown stronger one, and one more fair!
As one worn down by petty pains,With fevered head and restless limb,Flies from the toil that stings and stains,And all the cares that wearied him,And same far, silent summit gains;
And in its strong, sweet atmosphere,Or in the blue, or in the green,Finds his discomforts disappear,And loses in the pure sereneThe garnered humors of a year;
And sees not how and knows not whenThe old vexations leave their seat,So Philip, happiest of men,Saw all his petty cares retreat,And vanish, not to come again.
Where he had thought to shield and serve,Himself had ministry instead,He heard no vexing call to swerveFrom larger toil, for labors spedBy smaller hand and finer nerve.
In deft and deferential waysShe took the house by silent siege;And Dinah, warmest in her praise,Grew, unaware, her loyal liege,And served her truly all her days.
And many a sad and stricken maid,And many a lorn and widowed lifeThat came for counsel or for aidTo Philip, met the pastor's wife,And on her heart their burden laid.
He gave her what she took—her will;And made it space for life full-orbed.He learned at last that every rillLoses its freshness, when absorbedBy the great stream that turns the mill.
With hand ungrasping for her dower,He found its royal income his;And every swiftly kindling power—Self-moved in its activities—Becoming brighter every hour.
The air is sweet which we inspireWhen it is free to come and go;And sound of brook and scent of briarRise freshest where the breezes blow,That feed our breath and fan our fire.
That love is weak which is too strong;A man may be a woman's grave;The right of love swells oft to wrong,And silken bonds may bind a slaveAs truly as a leathern thong.
We may not dine upon the birdThat fills our home with minstrelsy;The living vine may never girdToo firm and close the living tree,Without sad sacrifice incurred.
The crystal goblet that we drainWill be forever after dry;But he who sips, and sips again,And leaves it to the open sky,Will find it filled with dew and rain.
The lilies burst, the roses blowInto divinest balm and bloom,When free above and free below;And life and love must have large room,That life and love may largest grow.
So Philip learned (what Mildred saw),That love was like a well profound,From which two souls had right to draw,And in whose waters would be drownedThe one who took the other's law.
Ambition was an alien word,Which Mildred faintly understood;Its poisoned breathing had not blurredThe whiteness of her womanhood,Nor had its blatant trumpet stirred
To quicker pulse her heart content.In social tasks and home employ,She did not question what it meant;But bore her woman's lot with joyAnd sweetness, wheresoe'er she went.
If ever with unconscious thrillIt touched her, in some vagrant dream,She only wished that God would fillWith larger tide the goodly streamThat flowed beside her, strong and still.
She knew that love was more than fame,And happy conscience more than love;—Far off and wild, the wings of flame!Close by, the pinions of the doveThat hovered white above her name!
She honored Philip as a man,And joyed in his supreme estate;But never dreamed that under banShe lives who never can be great,Or chieftain of a crowd or clan.
The public eye was like a knifeThat pierced and plagued her shrinking heart.To be a woman, and a wife,With privilege to dwell apart,And hold unseen her modest life—
Alike from praise and blame aloof,And free to live and move in peaceBeneath love's consecrated roof—Was boon so great she could not ceaseHer thanks for the divine behoof.
Black turns to brown and blue to blightBeneath the blemish of the sun;And e'en the spotless robe of white,Worn overlong, grows dim and dunThrough the strange alchemy of light.
Nor wives nor maidens, weak or brave,Can stand and face the public stare,And win the plaudits that they crave,And stem the hisses that they dare,And modest truth and beauty save.
No woman, in her soul, is sheWho longs to poise above the roarOf motley multitudes, and beThe idol at whose feet they pourThe wine of their idolatry.
Coarse labor makes its doer coarse;Great burdens harden softest hands;A gentle voice grows harsh and hoarseThat warns and threatens and commandsBeyond the measure of its force.
Oh sweet, beyond all speech, to feelWithin no answer to the drum,Or echo to the bugle-peal,That calls to duties which benumbIn service of the commonweal!
Oh sweet to feel, beyond all speech,That most and best of human kindHave leave to live beyond the reachOf toil that tarnishes, and findNo tongue but Envy's to impeach!
Oh sweet, that most unnoticed deedsGive play to fine, heroic blood!—That hid from light, and shut from weeds,The rose is fairer in its budThan in the blossom that succeeds!
He is the helpless slave who must;And she enfranchised who may sitUnblamed above the din and dust,Where stronger hands and coarser witStrive equally for crown and crust.
So ran her thought, and broader yet,Who scanned her own by Philip's pace;And never did the wife forgetHer grateful tribute for the graceThat charged her with so sweet a debt.
So ran her thought; and in her breastHer wifely pride to pity grew,That Philip, by his Lord's behest—To duty and to nature true—Must do his bravest and his best.
Through winter's cold and summer's heat,Where all might praise and all might blame,And thus be topic of the street,And see his fair and honest nameA football, kicked by careless feet.
She loved her creed, and doubting notShe read it well from Nature's scroll,She found no line or word to blot;But, from her woman's modest soul,Thanked her Creator for her lot.
He who, upon an Alpine peak,Stands, when the sunrise lifts the East,And gilds the crown and lights the cheekOf largest monarch down to least,Of all the summits cold and bleak,
Finds sadly that it brings no boonFor all his long and toilsome leagues,And chill at once and weary soon,Rests from his fevers and fatigues,And waits the recompense of noon,
For then the valleys, near and far,The hillsides, fretted by the vine,The glacier-drift and torrent-scarWhose restless waters shoot and shine,And many a tarn, that like a star
Trembles and flames with stress of light,And many a hamlet and chaletThat dots with brown, or paints with white,The landscape quivering in the day,With beauty all his toil requite.
Mountains, from mountain altitudesAre only hills, as bleak and bare;And he whose daring step intrudesUpon their grandeur, and the rareCold light or gloom that o'er them broods,
Finds that with even brow to standAmong the heights that bade him climb,Is loss of all that made them grand,While all of lovely and sublimeLooks up to him from lake and land.
Great men are few, and stand apart;And seem divinest when remote.From brain to brain, and heart to heart,No thoughts of genial commerce float;Each holds his own exclusive mart.
And when we meet them, face to face,And hand to hand their greatness greet,Our steps we willingly retrace,And gather humbly at their feet,With those who live upon their grace.
And man and woman—mount and vale—Have charms, each from the other seen,—The robe of rose, the coat of mail:The springing turf, the black ravine:The tossing pines, the waving swale:
Which please the sight with constant joy.Thus living, each has power to callThe other's thoughts with sweet decoy,And one can rise and one can fallBut to distemper or destroy.
The dewy meadow breeds the cloudThat rises on ethereal wings,And wraps the mountain in a shroudFrom which the living lightning springsAnd torrents pour, that, lithe and loud,
Leap down in service to the plains,Or feed the fountains at their source;And only thus the mountain gainsThe vital fulness of the forceThat fills the meadow's myriad veins.
In fair, reciprocal exchangeOf good which each appropriates,The meadow and the mountain-rangeNourish their beautiful estates;And lofty wild and lowly grange
Thrive on the commerce thus ordained;And not a reek ascends the rock,And not a drift of dew is rained,But eyrie-brood and tended flockBy the sweet gift is entertained.
A meadow may be fair and broad,And hold a river in its rest;Or small, arid with the silver gaudOf a lone lakelet on its breast,Or but a patch, that, overawed,
Clings humbly to the mountain's hem:It matters not: it is the charmThat cheers his life, and holds the stemOf every flower that tempts his arm,Or greets his snowy diadem.
Dolts talk of largest and of least,And worse than dolts are they who prateOf Beauty captive to the Beast;For man in woman finds his mate,And thrones her equal at his feast.
She matches meekness with his might,And patience with his power to act,—His judgment with her quicker sight;And wins by subtlety and tactThe battles he can only fight.
And she who strives to take the vanIn conflict, or the common way,Does outrage to the heavenly plan,And outrage to the finer clayThat makes her beautiful to man.
All this, and more than this, she sawWho reigned in Philip's house and heart.Far off, he seemed without a flaw;Close by, her tasteless counterpart,And slave to Nature's common law.
To climb with fierce, familiar strideHis dizzy paths of life and thought,Would but degrade him from her pride,And bring the majesty to naughtWhich love and distance magnified.
If she should grow like him, she knewHe would admire and love her less;The eagle's image might be true,But eagle of the wildernessWould find no consort in the view.
A woman, in her woman's sphere,A loyal wife and worshipper,She only thirsted to appearAs fair to him as he to her,And fairer still, from year to year.
And he who quickly learned to purgeHis fancy of the tender whimThat she was floating at the vergeOf womanhood, half hid to him,Saw her with gracious mien emerge,
And stand full-robed upon the shore,With faculties and charms unguessed;With wondrous eyes that looked before,And hands that helped and words that blessed—The mistress of an alien lore
Beyond the wisdom of the schoolsAnd all his manly power to win;With handicraft of tricks and toolsThat conjured marvels with a pin,And miracles with skeins and spools!
She seemed to mock his dusty dearthWith flowers that sprang beneath his eyes;Till all he was, seemed little worth,And she he deemed so little wise,Became the wisest of the earth.
In all the struggles of his soul,And all the strifes his soul abhorred,She shone before him like a goal—A shady power of fresh reward—A shallop riding in the mole,
That waited with obedient helmTo bear him over sparkling seas,Into a new and fragrant realm,Before the vigor of a breezeThat drove, but would not overwhelm.
The river of their life was one;The shores, down which they passed were two;One mirrored mountains, huge and dun,The other crimped the green and blue,And sparkled in the kindly sun!
Twin barks, with answering flags, they movedWith even canvas down the stream,In smooth or ruffled waters grooved,And found such islands in their dreamAs rest and loving speech behooved.
Ah fair the goodly gardens smiledOn Philip at his rougher strand!And grandly loomed the summits, isledIn seas of cloud, to her who scannedFrom her far shore the lofty wild.
Two lives, two loves—both self-forgotIn loving homage to their oath;Two lives, two loves, but living notBy ministry that reached them bothIn service of a common lot,
They sailed the stream, and every mileBroadened with beauty as they passed;And fruitful shore and trysting-isle,And all love's intercourse were glassedAnd blessed in Heaven's benignant smile.
To symmetry the oak is grownWhich all winds visit on the lea,While that which lists the monotoneOf the long blast that sweeps the sea,And answers to its breath alone,
Turns with aversion from the breeze,And stretches all its stunted limbsLandward and heavenward, toward the treesThat listen to a thousand hymns,And grow to grander destinies.
Man may not live on whitest loaves,With all of coarser good dismissed;He pines and starves who never rovesBeyond the holy eucharist,To gather of the fields and groves.
And he who seeks to fill his heartWith solace of a single friend,Will find refreshment but in part,Or, sadder still, will find the endOf all his reach of thought and art.
They who love best need friendship most;Hearts only thrive on varied good;And he who gathers from a hostOf friendly hearts his daily food,Is the best friend that we can boast.
She left her husband with his friends;She called them round him at her board;And found their culture made amendsFor all the time that, from her hoard,She spared him for these nobler ends.
He was her lover; that sufficed:His home was in the Holy PlaceWith that of the Beloved Christ;And friendship had no subtle graceBy which his love could be enticed.
Of all his friends, she was but one:She held with them a common field.Exclusive right, with love begun,Ended with love, and stood repealed,Leaving his friendship free to run
Toward man or woman, all unmissed.She knew she had no right to bindHis friendship to her single wrist,So long as love was true and kind,And made her its monopolist,
No time was grudged with jealous greedWhich either books or friendship claimed.He was her friend, and she had needOf all—unhindered and unblamedThat he could win, through word or deed.
Her friend waxed great as grew the man;Her temple swelled as rose her priest—With power to bless and right to ban—And all who served him, most or least,—From chorister and sacristan
To those whose frankincense and myrrhPerfumed the sacred courts with alms,—Were gracious ministers to her,Who found the largess in her palms,And him the friendly almoner.
The summer passed, the autumn came;The world swung over toward the night;The forests robed themselves in flame,Then faded slowly into white;And set within a crystal frame
Of frozen streams, the shaggy bolesOf oak and elm, with leafless crowns,Were painted stark upon the knolls;And cots and villages and townsOn virgin canvas glowed like coals
In tawny-red, or strove in vainTo shame the white in which they stood.The fairest tint was but a stainUpon the snow, that quenched the wood,And paved the street, and draped the plain!
Oh! Southern cheeks are quick to feelThe magic finger of the frost;And Mildred heard but one long pealFrom the fierce Arctic, which embossedHer window-panes, and set the seal
Of cold on all her eye beheld,When through her veins there swept new fire,And, in her answering bosom, swelledNew purposes and new desire,And force to higher deeds impelled.
Ah! well for her the languor castThat followed from her Southern clime!The time would come—was coming fast,—Love's consummated, crowning time—Of which her heart had antepast!
A strange new life was in her breast;Her eyes were full of wondrous dreams;She sailed all whiles from crest to crestOf a broad ocean, through whose gleamsShe saw an island wrapped in rest!
And as she drove across the sea,Toward the fair port that fixed her gaze,Her life was like a rosary,Whose slowly counted beads were daysOf prayer for one that was to be!
Oh roses, roses! Who shall singThe beauty of the flowers of God!Or thank the angel from whose wingThe seeds are scattered on the sodFrom which such bloom and perfume spring!
Sure they have heavenly genesisWhich make a heaven of every place;Which company our bale and bliss,And never to our sinning raceSpeak aught unhallowed, or amiss!
When love is grieved, their buds atone;When love is wed, their forms are near;They blend their breathing with the moanOf love when dying, and the bierIs white with them in every zone.
No spot is mean that they begem;No nosegay fair that holds them not;They melt the pride and stir the phlegmOf lord and churl, in court and cot,And weave a common diadem
For human brows where'er they grow.They write all languages of red,They speak all dialects of snow,And all the words of gold are saidWith fragrant meanings where they blow!
Oh sweetest flowers! Oh flowers divine!In which God comes so closely down,We gather from his chosen signThe tints that cluster in his crown—The perfume of his breath benign!
Oh sweetest flowers! Oh flowers that holdThe fragrant life of ParadiseFor a brief day, shut told in fold,That we may drink it in a trice,And drop the empty pink and gold!
Oh sweetest flowers, that have a breathFor every passion that we feel!That tell us what the Master saithOf blessing, in our woe and weal,And all events of life and death!
The time of roses came again;And one had bloomed within the manse,Bloomed in a burst of midnight pain,And plumed its life in fair expanse,Beneath love's nursing sun and rain.
In calyx fair of lilied lawn,Wrapped in the mosses of the lamb,Long days it lightened toward the dawnOf the bright-blushing oriflamme,That on two happy faces shone.
Such tendance ne'er had flower before!Such beauty ne'er had flower returned!Found on that distant island-shore,Whose secret she at last had learned,And made her own for evermore,
Mildred consigned it to her breast;And though she knew it took its hueFrom her, it seemed the Lord's bequest,—Still sparkling with the heavenly dew,And still with heavenly beauty dressed.
Oh roses! ye were wondrous fairThat summer by the river side!For hearts were blooming everywhere,In sympathy of love and pride,With that which came to Mildred's care.
And rose as red as rose could beFilled Philip's breast with largest bloom,And cast its fragrance far and free,And filled his lonely, silent roomWith rapture of paternity!
The evening fell on field and street;The glow-worm lit his phosphor lamp,For fairy forms and fairy feet,That gathered for their nightly trampWhere grass was green and flowers were sweet.
In devious circles, round and round,The night-hawk coursed the twilight sky,Or shot like lightning the profound,With breezy thunder in the cryThat marked his furious rebound!
The zephyrs breathed through elm and ashFrom new-mown hay and heliotrope,And came through Philip's open sashWith sheen of stars that lit the cope,And twinkling of the fire-fly's flash.
He thought of Mildred and his boy;And something moved him more than pride,And purer than his manly joy;For while these swelled with turbid tide,His gratitude had no alloy.
He heard the baby's weary plaint;He heard the mother's soothing words;And sitting in his hushed restraint,One voice was murmur of the birds,And one the hymning of a saint!
And as he sat alone, immersedIn the fond fancies of the time,Her voice in mellow music burst,And by a rhythmic stair of rhymeLed down to sleep the child she nursed.
"Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover!—Crooning so drowsily, crying so low—Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover!Down into wonderland—Down to the under-land—Go, oh go!Down into wonderland go!
"Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover!Tears on the eyelids that waver and weep!Rockaby, lullaby—bending it over!Down on the mother-world,Down on the other world!Sleep, oh sleep!Down on the mother-world sleep!
"Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover!Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn!Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover!Into the stilly world—Into the lily world,Gone! oh gone!Into the lily-world, gone!"
They sprouted like the prophet's gourd;They grew within a single night;So swift his busy years were scoredThat, ere he knew, his hope was whiteWith harvest bending round his board!
And eyes were black, and eyes were blue,And blood of mother and of sire,Each to its native humor true,Blent Northern force with Southern fireIn strength and beauty, strange and new.
The Gallic brown, the Saxon snow,The raven locks, the flaxen curls,Were so commingled in the nowOf the new blood of boys and girls,That Puritan and Huguenot
In love's alembic were advancedTo higher types and finer forms;And ardent humors thrilled and dancedThrough veins, that tempered all their storms,Or held them in restraint entranced.
Oh! many times, as flew the years,The dainty cradle-song was sung;And bore its balm to restless ears,As one by one the nested youngSlept in their willows and their tears.
To each within the reedy glade,Hid from some tyrant's cruel schemes,It was a princess, or her maid,Who bore him to the realm of dreams,And made him seer by accolade
Of flaming bush and parted deep,Of gushing rocks and raining corn,And fire and cloud, and lengthened sweepOf thousands toward the promised morn,Across the wilderness of sleep!
The years rolled on in grand routineOf useful toil and chastening care,Till Philip, grown to heights, sereneOf conscious power, and ripe with prayer,Took on the strong and stately mien
Of one on whom had been conferredThe doing of a knightly deed;And waited till it bade him girdThe harness on him and his steed,For man and for his Master's word.
His name was spoken far and near,And sounded sweet on every tongue;Men knew him only to revere,And those who knew him nearest, flungTheir hearts before his grand career,
And paved his way with loyal trust.He was their strongest, noblest man,—Sworn foe of every selfish lust,And brave to do as wise to plan,And swift to judge as pure and just.
Against such foil the mistress stood—A pearl upon a cross of gold—White with consistent womanhood,And fixed with unrelaxing holdUpon the centre of the rood!
Through all those years of loving thrift,Nor blame nor discord marred their lot;Each to the lover-life was gift;And each was free from blur or blotThat called for silence or for shrift.
Each bore the burden that it heldWith patient hands along the road;And though, with passing years, it swelledUntil it grew a weary load,Nor tongue complained, nor heart rebelled.
At length the time of trial came,And they were tried as gold is tried.Their peace of life went up in flame,And what was good was vilified,And what was blameless came to blame.
The Southern sky was dun with cloud;And looming lurid o'er its edgeThe brows of awful forms were bowed,That forged in flame the fateful wedgeWhich waited in the angry shroud
The banner of the storm unfurled,And all the powers of death arrayedIn black battalions, to be hurledDown through the rack—a blazing blade—To cleave the realm, and shake the world!
The North was full of nameless dread;Wild portents flamed from out the pole;Old scars on Freedom's bosom bled,And sick at heart and vexed of soulShe tossed in fever on her bed!
Pale Commerce hid her face and whined;The arms of Toil were paralyzed;The wise were of divided mind,And those who counselled and advisedWere sightless leaders of the blind.
Men lost their faith in good and great;No captain sprang, or prophet bard,To win their trust, and save the stateFrom the wild storm that, like a pard,On quivering haunches lay in wait!
The loyal only were not brave;E'en peace became a cringing dog;The patriot paltered like a knave,And partisan anti demagogueQuarrelled o'er Freedom's waiting grave.
Amid the turmoil and disgrace,The voice was clear from first to last,Of one who, in the desert placeOf barren counsels, held him fastHis shepherd's crook, and made it mace
To bear before the Great EventWhose harbinger he chose to be,And called on all men to repent,And build a way from sea to sea,For Freedom's full enfranchisement.
For Philip, to his conscience leal,Conceived that God had chosen himWith Treason's sophistries to deal,And grapple with the AnakimWhose menace shook the common weal.
His pulpit smoked beneath his blows;His voice was heard in hall and street;A thousand friends became his foes,And pews were empty or replete,With passion's ebbs and overflows.
They trailed his good name in the mire;They spat their venom in his eyes;They taunted him with mad desireFor power, and gathered his repliesIn braver words and fiercer fire,
He was a wolf, disguised in wool;He was a viper in the breast;He was a villain, or the toolOf greater villains; at the best,A blind enthusiast and fool!
As swelled the tempest, rose the man;He turned to sport their brutal spleen;And none could choose be slow to spanThe difference that lay betweenA Prospero and a Caliban!
She would not move him otherwise,Although her heart was sad and sore.That which was venal in his eyesTo her a lovely aspect wore,And helped to weave the thousand ties
Which bound her to her youth, and allThe loves that she had left behindWhen, from her father's stately hall,She came, her Northern home to find,With him who held her heart in thrall.
In the dark pictures which he drewOf instituted shame and wrong,She saw no figures that she knew,But a confused and hateful throngOf forms that in his fancy grew.
Her father's rule, benign and mild,Was all of slavery she had known;To her, an Afric was a child—A charge in other ages thrownOn Christian honor, from the wild
Of savagery in which the FatesHad given him birth and dwelling-place—And so, descending through estatesOf gentle vassalage, his raceHad come to those of later dates.
Black hands her baby form had dressed;Black hands her blacker hair had curled;And she had found a dusky breastThe sweetest breast in all the worldWhen she was thirsty or at rest.
Her playmates, in her native bowers,Were Darkest children of the sun,Who built the palaces and towersIn which her reign, in love begun,Gave foretaste of love's later hours.
Her memory was full of songThat she had learned in house and field,From those whose days seemed never long,And those who could not hold concealedThe consciousness of shame and wrong.
A loving ear heard their complaints;A faithful tongue advised and warned;And grave corrections and restraintsWere rendered by a heart adornedBy all the graces of the saints.
There was no touch of memory's chords—No picture on her blooming wall,—Of life upon the sunny swardsThey reproduced,—but brought recallOf happy slaves and gentle lords.
And Philip charged a deadly sinUpon that beautiful domain,Condemning all who dwelt therein,And branding with the awful stainHer friends, and all her dearest kin.
Yet still she knew his conscience clear,—That he believed his voice was God's;And listened with a voiceless fearTo the portentous periodsIn which he preached the chosen year
Of expiation and release,And prophesied that Slavery's power,Grown great apace with crime's increase,Before the front of Right should cower,And bid God's people go in peace!
The fierce invectives of his tongueFrayed every day her wounds afresh,And with new pain her bosom wrung,For they envenomed kindred flesh,To which in sympathy she clung.
Yet not a finger did she liftTo hold him from his fateful task,Though Satan oft essayed to siftHer soul as wheat, and bade her askSomewhat from conscience as a gift.
And when a serpent in his slimeCrept to her ear with phrase polite,Prating of duty to her timeAnd to her people, swift and whiteShe turned and cursed him for his crime!
She would have naught of all the broodOf temporizing, driveling showsOf men who Philip's words withstood:Against them all her love uprose,And all her pride of womanhood.
She loved her kindred none the less,She loved her husband still the more,For well she knew that with distressHe saw the heavy cross she boreWith steadfast faith and tenderness.
She kept her love intact, becauseShe would not be a partisan;Not hers the voice that made the laws,Nor hers prerogative to ban,Or bolster them with her applause.
No strife of jarring policies,No conflict of embittered states,No chart, defining by degreesOf latitude her country's hates,Could change her friends to enemies.
The motives ranged on either hand,Behind the war of word and will,Were such as she could understandAnd, with respect to all, fulfilLove's broad and beautiful command.
So, with all questions hushed to sleep,And all opinions put aside,She gave her loved ones to the keepOf God, whatever should betide,To bear her joy or bid her weep!
Though Philip knew he wounded her,His faith to God and faith to manBade him go forward, and incurSuch cost as, since the world began,Has burdened Freedom's harbinger.
No heart or hand was his to flinchFrom ease or reputation lost;Nor waste of gold, nor hunger-pinch,Nor e'en his home's black holocaust,Could stay his arm, though inch by inch,
The maddened hosts of scorn and scathShould crowd him backward to defeat.He would but strive with sterner wrath,And bless the hand that, soft and sweet,Withheld its hinderance from his path!
Still darker loomed the Southern cloud,While o'er its black and billowed faceIn furrowed fire the lightning ploughed,And ramping from its hiding-placeRoared the wild thunder, fierce and loud!
And still men chattered of their trade,And strove to banish their alarms;And some were puzzled, some afraid,And some held up their feeble armsIn indignation while they prayed!
And others weakly talked of schismAs boon of God in place of war,And bared their foreheads for its chrism!While direr than the mace of Thor,In mid-air hung the cataclysm
Which waited but some chance, or act,To shiver the electric spell,And pour in one fierce cataractA rain of blood and fire of hellOn Freedom's temple spoiled and sacked.
The politician plied his craft;The demagogue still schemed and lied;The patriot wept, the traitor laughed;The coward to his covert hied,And statesmen went distract or daft.
Contention raged in Senate halls;Confusion reigned in field and town;High conclaves flattened into brawls,And till and hammer, smock and gown,Nor duty knew nor heard its calls!
At last, incontinent of fire,The cloud of menace belched its brand;And every state and every shire,And town and hamlet in the land,Shook with the smiting of its ire!
Men looked each other in the eyes,And beat their burning breasts and cursed!At last the silliest were wise;And swift to flash and thunder-burstFashioned in anger their replies.
The smoke of Sumter filled the air.Men breathed it in in one long breath;And straight upspringing everywhere,Life burgeoned on the mounds of death,And bloomed in valleys of despair.
The fire of Sumter, fierce and hot,Welded their purpose into one;And discord hushed, and strife forgot,They swore that what had thus begunWith sacrilegious cannon-shot,
Should find in analogue of flameSuch answer of the nation's host,That the old flag, washed clean from shameIn blood, should wave from coast to coast,Over one realm in heart and name!
Pale doubters, scourged by countless whips,Fled to their refuge, or obeyedThe motives and the mastershipsThat time and circumstance betrayedThrough Patriotism's apocalypse,
And, sympathetic with the spasmOf loyal life that thrilled the clime,Lost in the swift enthusiasmThe loose intention of their crime,And leaped in swarms the awful chasm
That held them parted from the mass.The North was one in heart and thought;And that which could not come to passThrough loyal eloquence, was wroughtBy one hot word from lips of brass!
The cry sprang upward and sped on:"To arms! for freedom and the flag!"And swift, from Maine to Oregon,O'er glebe and lake and mountain-crag,Hurtled the fierce Euroclydon,
Men dropped their mallets on the bench,Forsook their ploughs on hill and plain,And tore themselves, with piteous wrenchOf heart and hope, from love and gain,And trooped in throngs to tent and trench.
"To arms!" and Philip heard the cry.Not his the valor cheap and smallTo bluster with brave phrase, and flyWhen trumpet-blare and rifle-ballProclaimed the time for words gone by!
Men knew their chieftain. He had borneTheir insolence through struggling years,And they—-the dastards, the forsworn—Who had ransacked the hemispheresFor instruments to wreak their scorn
On him and all of kindred speech,Gathered around him with his friends,And with stern plaudits heard him preachA gospel whose stupendous endsTheir martyred blood could only reach.
They gave him honor far and wide,As one who backed his word by deed;And he whose task had been to guide,Was chosen by reclaim to leadThe men who gathered at his side.
The crook was banished for the glave;The churchman's black for soldier-blue;The man of peace became a brave;And, in the dawn of conflict, drewHis sword his country's life to save.
They came from mead and mountain-top;They came from factory and forge;And one by one, from farm and shop—Still gravel to the Northman's gorge—Followed the servile Ethiop.
Gaunt, grimy men, whose ways had beenAmong the shadows and the slums,With pedagogue and paladin,Rushed, at the rolling of the drums,To Philip, and were mustered in!
The beat of drum and scream of fife,Commingling with the thundering trampOf trooping throngs, so changed the lifeOf the calm village that the camp,And what it prophesied of strife,
And hap of loss and hap of gain,Became of every tongue the theme;Till burning heart and throbbing brainCould waking think, and sleeping dream,Of naught but battles and the slain.
With eager eyes and helpful handsThe women met in solemn crowds,And shred the linen into bandsThat had been better saved for shrouds,Or want's imperious demands.
And with them all sad Mildred walked,The bearer of a heavy cross;For at her side the phantom stalked—Nor left her for an hour—of lossWhich by no fortune might be balked.
For one or all she loved must fall;One cause must perish in defeat;Success of either would appall,And victory, however sweetTo others, would to her be gall.
To each, with equal heart allied,Her love was like the love of God,That wraps the country in its tide,And o'er its hosts, benign and broad,Broods with its pity and its pride!
A thousand chances of the feudShe wove and raveled one by one,—Of hands in kindred blood imbrued,—Of father, face to face with son,And friends turned foemen fierce and rude.
And in her dreams two forms were met,Of friends as leal as ever breathed—-Her husband and her brother—wetWith priceless blood from swords ensheathedIn hearts that loved each other yet!
But itching ears her language scanned,And jealous eyes were on her steps;And fancies into rumors fannedBy loyal shrews and demirepsProclaimed her traitress to the land.
They knew her blood, but could not knowThat mighty passion of her heartWhich, reaching widely in its woe,Grasped all she loved on either part,And could not, would not let it go!
The time of gathering came and went—Of noisy zeal and hasty drill—And every where, in field and tent,—A constant presence,—Philip's willMoulded the callow regiment.
And then there fell a gala day,When all the mighty, motley swarmAppeared in beautiful displayOf burnished arms and uniform,And gloried in their brave array!—
And, later still, the hour of dreadTo all the simple country round,When forth, with Philip at their head,They marched from the familiar ground,And drained its life, and left it dead;—
Dead but for those who pined with grief;Dead but for fears that could not die;Dead as the world when flower and leafAre still beneath a gathering sky,And ocean sleeps on reach and reef.
The weary waiting time had come,When only apprehension waked;And lonely wives sat chill and dumbAmong their broods, with hearts that achedAnd echoed the retreating drum.
Teachers forgot to preach their creeds,And trade forsook its merchandise;The fallow fields grew rank with weeds,And none had interest or eyesFor aught but war's ensanguined deeds.
As one who lingered by a bierWhere all she loved lay dead and cold,Sad Mildred sat without a tear,Living again the days of old,Or, with the vision of a seer,
Forecasting the disastrous end.Whatever might come, she did not dareBelieve that fortune would defendThe noble life she could not spare,And save her lover and her friend.
Her blooming girls and stalwart boysCould never comprehend the woeWhich dropped its measure of their joys,And felt but horror in the show,And heard but murder in the noise,
And dreamed of death when stillness fellBehind the gay and shouting corps.They saw her haunted by the spellOf a great sorrow, and foreboreTo question what they could not quell.
Small time she gave to vain regret;Brief space to thought of that adieuWhich crushed her breast, when last they met,And in love's baptism bathed anewCheeks, lips, and eyes, and left them wet!
In deeds of sympathy and grace,She moved among the homes forlorn,Alike to beautiful and baseAnd, to the stricken and the shorn,The guardian angel of the place.
Oh piteous waste of hopes and fears!Oh cruel stretch of long delay!Oh homes bereft! Oh useless tears!Oh war! that ravened on its preyThrough pain's immeasurable years!
The town was mourning for its dead;The streets were black with widowhood;While orphaned children begged for bread,And Rachel, for the brave and good,Mourned, and would not be comforted.
The regiment that, straight and crisp,Shone like a wheat-field in the sun,Its swift voice deafened to a lisp,Fell, ere the war was well begun,And waned and withered to a wisp.
And Philip, grown to higher rank,Crowned with the bays of splendid deeds,Of the full cup of glory drank,And lived, though all his reeking steedsIn the red front of conflict sank.
The star of conquest waxed or waned,Yet still the call came back for men;Still the lamenting town was drained,And still again, and still again,Till only impotence remained!
There came at length an eve of gloom—Dread Gettysburg's eventful eve—When all the gathering clouds of doomHung low, the breathless air to cleaveWith scream of shell and cannon-boom!
Man knew too well; and woman felt,That when the next-wild morn should rise,A blow of battle would, be dealtBefore whose fire ten thousand eyes—As in a furnace flame—would melt.
And on this eve—her flock asleep—Knelt Mildred at her lonely bed.She could not pray, she did not weep,But only moaned, and moaning, said:"Oh God! he sows what I must reap!
"He will not live: he must not die!But oh, my poor, prophetic heart!It warns me that there lingers nighThe hour when love and I must part!"And then she startled with a cry,
For, from beneath her lattice, cameA low and once repeated call!She knew the voice that spoke her name,And swiftly, through the midnight hallShe fluttered noiseless as a flame,
And on its unresisting hingeThrew wide her hospitable door,To one whose spirit did not cringeThough he was weak, and knew he boreNo right her freedom to infringe.
She wildly clasped his neck of bronze;She rained her kisses; on his face,Grown tawny with a thousand suns,And holding him in her embrace,She led him to her little ones,
Who, reckless of his coming, slept.Then down the stair with silent feet,And through the shadowy hall she swept,And saw, between her and the street,A form that into darkness crept.
She closed the door with speechless dread;She fixed the bolt with trembling hand;Then led the rebel to his bed,Whom love and safety had unmanned,And left him less alive than dead.
Through nights and days of fear and grief,She kept her faithful watch and ward,But love and rest brought no relief;And all he begged for of his LordWas death, with passion faint and brief.
Around the house were prying eyes,And gossips hiding under trees;And Mildred heard the steps of spiesAt midnight, when, upon her knees,She sought the comfort of the skies.
Strange voices rose upon the night;Strange errands entered at the gate;Her hours were months of pale affright;But still her prisoner of stateWas shielded from their eager sight.
They did not dare to force the lockOf one whose deeds had been divine,Or carry to her heart the shockOf violence, although condignToward one who dared the laws to mock.
But there were hirelings in pursuit,Who thirsted for his golden price;And, swift allied with pimp and brute,And quick to purchase and entice,They found the tree that held their fruit.