Chapter 1

Produced by D. Garcia, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

BITTER-SWEET

A Poem

By J. G. HOLLAND

CONTENTS.

* * * * *

PICTURE

PERSONS

PRELUDE

FIRST MOVEMENT--COLLOQUIAL.

The Question Stated and Argued

FIRST EPISODE.

The Question Illustrated by Nature

SECOND MOVEMENT--NARRATIVE.

The Question Illustrated by Experience

SECOND EPISODE.

The Question Illustrated by Story

THIRD MOVEMENT--DRAMATIC.

The Question Illustrated by the Denouement

L'ENVOY

PICTURE.

Winter's wild birthnight! In the fretful East The uneasy wind moans with its sense of cold, And sends its sighs through gloomy mountain gorge, Along the valley, up the whitening hill, To tease the sighing spirits of the pines, And waste in dismal woods their chilly life. The sky is dark, and on the huddled leaves-- The restless, rustling leaves--sifts down its sleet, Till the sharp crystals pin them to the earth, And they grow still beneath the rising storm. The roofless bullock hugs the sheltering stack, With cringing head and closely gathered feet, And waits with dumb endurance for the morn. Deep in a gusty cavern of the barn The witless calf stands blatant at his chain; While the brute mother, pent within her stall, With the wild stress of instinct goes distraught, And frets her horns, and bellows through the night. The stream runs black; and the far waterfall That sang so sweetly through the summer eyes, And swelled and swayed to Zephyr's softest breath, Leaps with a sullen roar the dark abyss, And howls its hoarse responses to the wind. The mill is still. The distant factory, That swarmed yestreen with many-fingered life, And bridged the river with a hundred bars Of molten light, is dark, and lifts its bulk, With dim, uncertain angles, to the sky.

* * * * *

Yet lower bows the storm. The leafless trees Lash their lithe limbs, and, with majestic voice, Call to each other through the deepening gloom; And slender trunks that lean on burly boughs Shriek with the sharp abrasion; and the oak, Mellowed in fiber by unnumbered frosts, Yields to the shoulder of the Titan Blast, Forsakes its poise, and, with a booming crash, Sweeps a fierce passage to the smothered rocks, And lies a shattered ruin.

* * * * *

Other scene:-- Across the swale, half up the pine-capped hill, Stands the old farmhouse with its clump of barns-- The old red farmhouse--dim and dun to-night, Save where the ruddy firelights from the hearth Flap their bright wings against the window panes,-- A billowy swarm that beat their slender bars, Or seek the night to leave their track of flame Upon the sleet, or sit, with shifting feet And restless plumes, among the poplar boughs-- The spectral poplars, standing at the gate.

And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong, Whose thin white hair, and cheeks of furrowed bronze, And ancient dress, betray the patriarch, Stands at the window, listening to the storm; And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame-- Moved by the wind--it wraps and glorifies His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise, That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles. And now it passes, and a sweeter shape Stands in its place. O blest maternity! Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace, Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe; And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps, Illuminates the pair, how like they seem, O Virgin Mother! to thyself and thine! Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold To hearken to the voice of God without: "Speak, mighty One! Thy little servant hears!" And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares Comes to the window in her loosened robe,-- Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand,-- And, as the noise of winds and waters swells, It shapes the song of triumph to her lips: "The horse and he who rode are overthrown!" And now a man of noble port and brow, And aspect of benignant majesty, Assumes the vacant niche, while either side Press the fair forms of children, and I hear: "Suffer the little ones to come to me!"

PERSONS.

Here dwells the good old farmer, Israel, In his ancestral home--a Puritan Who reads his Bible daily, loves his God, And lives serenely in the faith of Christ. For threescore years and ten his life has run Through varied scenes of happiness and woe; But, constant through the wide vicissitude, He has confessed the Giver of his joys, And kissed the hand that took them; and whene'er Bereavement has oppressed his soul with grief, Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain, He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said, "Thy will, O God--Thy will be done, not mine!" His gentle wife, a dozen summers since, Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven; And her best gift--a maiden sweetly named-- His daughter Ruth--orders the ancient house, And fills her mother's place beside the board, And cheers his life with songs and industry. But who are these who crowd the house to-night-- A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who, Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours With the sweet jargon of a festival? Who are these fathers? who these mothers? who These pleasant children, rude with health and joy?

It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve; And gathered home, from fresher homes around, The old man's children keep the holiday-- In dear New England, since the fathers slept-- The sweetest holiday of all the year. John comes with Prudence and her little girls, And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys-- Fair boys and girls with good old Scripture names-- Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel; And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house, Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe And the tall poet David, at whose side She went away. And seated in the midst, Mary, a foster-daughter of the house, Of alien blood--self-aliened many a year-- Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes Bring all the wondering children to her knee, Weeps with the strange excess of happiness, And sighs with joy. What recks the driving storm Of such a scene as this? And what reck these Of such a storm? For every heavy gust That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet, And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands, And rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat Through all its sooty caverns shrieks and howls, They give full bursts of careless merriment, Or songs that send it baffled on its way.

PRELUDE.

Doubt takes to wings on such a night as this; And while the traveler hugs her fluttering cloak, And staggers o'er the weary waste alone, Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face, And wheel above, or hunt his fainting soul, As, with relentless greed, a vulture throng, With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes Of the last camel of the caravan. And Faith takes forms and wings on such a night. Where love burns brightly at the household hearth, And from the altar of each peaceful heart Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks, And every pulse with sympathetic throb Tells the true rhythm of trustfulest content, They flutter in and out, and touch to smiles The sleeping lips of infancy; and fan The blush that lights the modest maiden's cheeks; And toss the locks of children at their play.

Silence is vocal if we listen well; And Life and Being sing in dullest ears From morn to night, from night to morn again, With fine articulations; but when God Disturbs the soul with terror, or inspires With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves; And we look up to where the pleasant sky Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song.

A SONG OF DOUBT.

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; God has forgotten the world! The moon is gone, and the stars are dead; God has forgotten the world!

Evil has won in the horrid feud Of ages with The Throne; Evil stands on the neck of Good, And rules the world alone.

There is no good; there is no God; And Faith is a heartless cheat Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, And scatters thorns for the feet.

What are prayers in the lips of death, Filling and chilling with hail? What are prayers but wasted breath Beaten back by the gale?

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; God has forgotten the world! The moon is gone and the stars are dead; God has forgotten the world!

A SONG OF FAITH.

Day will return with a fresher boon; God will remember the world! Night will come with a newer moon; God will remember the world!

Evil is only the slave of Good; Sorrow the servant of Joy; And the soul is mad that refuses food Of the meanest in God's employ.

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, And love is lit by the breath of sighs; The deepest griefs and the wildest fears Have holiest ministries.

Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm; Safely the flower sleeps under the snow; And the farmer's hearth is never warm Till the cold wind starts to blow.

Day will return with a fresher boon; God will remember the world! Night will come with a newer moon; God will remember the world!

FIRST MOVEMENT.

LOCALITY--_The square room of a New England farmhouse_.

PRESENT--ISRAEL, _head of the family_; JOHN, PETER, DAVID, PATIENCE, PRUDENCE, GRACE, MARY, RUTH, _and_ CHILDREN.

THE QUESTION STATED AND ARGUED.

_Israel_.

Ruth, touch the cradle. Boys, you must be still! The baby cannot sleep in such a noise. Nay, Grace, stir not; she'll soothe him soon enough, And tell him more sweet stuff in half an hour Than you can dream, in dreaming half a year.

_Ruth_. [_Kneeling and rocking the cradle_.]

What is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt. Unwritten history! Unfathomed mystery! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx! Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years; And he'll never know Where the summers go;-- He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!

Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day?-- Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony,-- Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls-- Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide! What does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle-roof that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he thinks of his mother's breast-- Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight-- Cup of his life and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds-- Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, Over his brow, and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking, down he goes! Down he goes! Down he goes!

[_Rising and carefully retreating to her seat_.]

See! He is hushed in sweet repose!

_David_. [_Yawning_.]

Behold a miracle! Music transformed To morphine, and the drowsy god invoked By the poor prattle of a maiden's tongue! A moment more, and we should all have gone Down into dreamland with the babe! Ah, well! There is no end of wonders.

_Ruth_. None, indeed! When lazy poets who have gorged themselves, And cannot keep awake, make the attempt To shift the burden of their drowsiness, And charge a girl with what they owe to greed.

_David_.

At your old tricks again! No sleep induced By song of yours, or any other bird's, Can linger long when you begin to talk. Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save The trouble of my rising.

_Ruth_.

[_Advancing and kneeling by the side of Grace_.]

Sister mine. Now give the proof of your obedience To your imperious lord! Strike, if you dare! I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand. Ha! king; ha! poet; who is master now-- Baby or husband? Pr'ythee, tell me that. Were I a man,--thank Heaven I am not!-- And had a wife who cared not for my will More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself, Or wear an [***]. See! she kisses me!

_David_.

And answers to my will, though well she knows I'll spare to her so terrible a task, And take the awful burden on myself; Which I will do, in future, if she please!

_Ruth_.

Now have you conquered! Look! I am your slave. Denounce me, scourge me, anything but kiss; For life is sweet, and I alone am left To comfort an old man.

_Israel_. Ruth, that will do! Remember I'm a Justice of the Peace, And bide no quarrels; and if you and David Persist in strife, I'll place you under bonds For good behavior, or condemn you both To solitary durance for the night.

_Ruth_.

Father, you fail to understand the case, And do me wrong. David has threatened me With an assault that proves intent to kill; And here's my sister Grace, his wedded wife, Who'll take her oath, that just a year ago He entered into bonds to keep the peace Toward me and womankind.

_David_.

I'm quite asleep.

_Israel_.

We'll all agree, then, to pronounce it quits.

_Ruth_.

Till he awake again, of course. I trust I have sufficient gallantry to grant A nap between encounters, to a foe With odds against him.

_Israel_.

Peace, my daughter, peace! You've had your full revenge, and we have had Enough of laughter since the day began. We must not squander all these precious hours In jest and merriment; for when the sun Shall rise to-morrow, we shall separate, Not knowing we shall ever meet again. Meetings like this are rare this side of Heaven, And seem to me the best mementoes left Of Eden's hours.

_Grace_.

Most certainly the best, And quite the rarest, but, unluckily, The weakest, as we know; for sin and pain And evils multiform, that swarm the earth, And poison all our joys and all our hearts, Remind us most of Eden's forfeit bliss.

_David_.

Forfeit through woman.

_Grace_.

Forfeit through her power;-- A power not lost, as most men know, I think, Beyond the knowledge of their trustful wives.

_Mary_.

[_Rising, and walking hurriedly to the window_.]

'Tis a wild night without.

_Ruth_.

And getting wild Within. Now, Grace, I--all of us--protest Against a scene to-night. Look! You have driven One to the window blushing, and your lord, With lowering brow, is making stern essay To stare the fire-dogs out of countenance. These honest brothers, with their honest wives, Grow glum and solemn, too, as if they feared At the next gust to see the windows burst, Or a riven poplar crashing through the roof. And think of me!--a simple-hearted maid Who learned from Cowper only yesterday (Or a schoolmaster, with a handsome face, And a strange passion for the text), the fact, That wedded bliss alone survives the fall. I'm shocked; I'm frightened; and I'll never wed Unless I--change my mind!

_Israel_.

And I consent.

_David_.

And the schoolmaster with the handsome face Propose.

_Ruth_.

Your pardon, father, for the jest! But I have never patience with the ills That make intrusion on my happy hours. I know the world is full of evil things, And shudder with the consciousness. I know That care has iron crowns for many brows; That Calvaries are everywhere, whereon Virtue is crucified, and nails and spears Draw guiltless blood; that sorrow sits and drinks At sweetest hearts, till all their life is dry; That gentle spirits on the rack of pain Grow faint or fierce, and pray and curse by turns; That Hell's temptations, clad in Heavenly guise And armed with might, lie evermore in wait Along life's path, giving assault to all-- Fatal to most; that Death stalks through the earth, Choosing his victims, sparing none at last; That in each shadow of a pleasant tree A grief sits sadly sobbing to its leaves; And that beside each fearful soul there walks The dim, gaunt phantom of uncertainty, Bidding it look before, where none may see, And all must go; but I forget it all-- I thrust it from me always when I may; Else I should faint with fear, or drown myself In pity. God forgive me! but I've thought A thousand times that if I had His power. Or He my love, we'd have a different world From this we live in.

_Israel_.

Those are sinful thoughts, My daughter, and too surely indicate A willful soul, unreconciled to God.

_Ruth_.

So you have told me often. You have said That God is just, and I have looked around To seek the proof in human lot, in vain. The rain falls kindly on the just man's fields, But on the unjust man's more kindly still; And I have never known the winter's blast, Or the quick lightning, or the pestilence, Make nice discriminations when let slip From God's right hand.

_Israel_.

'Tis a great mystery; Yet God is just, and,--blessed be His name!-- Is loving too. I know that I am weak, And that the pathway of His Providence Is on the hills where I may never climb. Therefore my reason yields her hand to Faith, And follows meekly where the angel leads. I see the rich man have his portion here, And Lazarus, in glorified repose, Sleep like a jewel on the breast of Faith In Heaven's broad light. I see that whom God loves He chastens sorely, but I ask not why. I only know that God is just and good: All else is mystery. Why evil lives Within His universe, I may not know. I know it lives, and taints the vital air; And that in ways inscrutable to me-- Yet compromising not His soundless love And boundless power--it lives against His will.

_Ruth_.

I am not satisfied. If evil live Against God's will, evil is king of all, And they do well who worship Lucifer. I am not satisfied. My reason spurns Such prostitution to absurdities. I know that you are happy; but I shrink From your blind faith with loathing and with fear. And feel that I must win it, if I win, With the surrender, not of will alone, But of the noblest faculty that God Has crowned me with.

_Israel_.

O blind and stubborn child! My light, my joy, my burden and my grief! How would I lead you to the wells of peace, And see you dip your fevered palms and drink! Gladly to purchase this would I lay down The precious remnant of my life, and sleep, Wrapped in the faith you spurn, till the archangel Sounds the last trump. But God's good will be done! I leave you with Him.

_Ruth_.

Father, talk not thus! Oh, do not blame me! I would do it all, If but to bless you with a single joy; But I am helpless.

_Israel_.

God will help you, Ruth.

_Ruth_.

To quench my reason? Can I ask the boon? My lips would blister with the blasphemy. I cannot take your faith; and that is why I would forget that I am in a world Where evil lives, and why I guard my joys With such a jealous care.

_David_.

There, Ruth, sit down! 'Tis the old question, with the old reply. You fly along the path, with bleeding feet, Where many feet have flown and bled before; And he who seeks to guide you to the goal Has (let me say it, father) stopped far short, And taken refuge at a wayside inn, Whose haunted halls and mazy passages Receive no light, save through the riddled roof, Pierced thick by pilgrim staves, that Faith may lie Upon its back, and only gaze on Heaven. I would not banish evil if I could; Nor would I be so deep in love with joy As to seek for it in forgetfulness, Through faith or fear.

_Ruth_.

Teach me the better way, And every expiration from my lips Shall be a grateful blessing on your head; And in the coming world I'll seek the side Of no more gracious angel than the man Who gives me brotherhood by leading me Home with himself to heaven.

_Israel_.

My son, Be careful of your words! 'Tis no light thing To take the guidance of a straying soul.

_David_.

I mark the burden well, and love it, too, Because I love the girl and love her Lord, And seek to vindicate His love to her And waken hers for Him. Be this my plea: God is almighty--all-benevolent; And naught exists save by His loving will. Evil, or what we reckon such, exists, And not against His will; else the Supreme Is subject, and we have in place of God A phantom nothing, with a phantom name. Therefore I care not whether He ordain That evil live, or whether He permit; Therefore I ask not why, in either case, As if He meant to curse me, but I ask What He would have this evil do for me? What is its mission? what its ministry? What golden fruit lies hidden in its husk? How shall it nurse my virtue, nerve my will, Chasten my passions, purify my love, And make me in some goodly sense like Him Who bore the cross of evil while He lived, Who hung and bled upon it when He died, And now, in glory, wears the victor's crown?

_Israel_.

If evil, then, have privilege and part In the economy of holiness, Why came the Christ to save us from its power, And bring us restoration of the bliss Lost in the lapse of Eden?

_David_. And would you Or Ruth 'have restoration of that bliss, And welcome transplantation to the state Associate with it?

_Ruth_.