Part 15

Then Miriam, glad of heart, (for in some sort She cherished in the Moslem's liberal court The sweet traditions of a Christian child; And, through her life of sense, the undefiled And chaste ideal of the sinless One Gazed on her with an eye she might not shun,-- The sad, reproachful look of pity, born Of love that hath no part in wrath or scorn,) Began, with low voice and moist eyes, to tell Of the all-loving Christ, and what befell When the fierce zealots, thirsting for her blood, Dragged to his feet a shame of womanhood. How, when his searching answer pierced within Each heart, and touched the secret of its sin, And her accusers fled his face before, He bade the poor one go and sin no more. And Akbar said, after a moment's thought, "Wise is the lesson by thy prophet taught; Woe unto him who judges and forgets What hidden evil his own heart besets! Something of this large charity I find In all the sects that sever human kind; I would to Allah that their lives agreed More nearly with the lesson of their creed! Those yellow Lamas who at Meerut pray By wind and water power, and love to say 'He who forgiveth not shall, unforgiven, Fail of the rest of Buddha,' and who even Spare the black gnat that stings them, vex my ears With the poor hates and jealousies and fears Nursed in their human hives. That lean, fierce priest Of thy own people, (be his heart increased By Allah's love!) his black robes smelling yet Of Goa's roasted Jews, have I not met Meek-faced, barefooted, crying in the street The saying of his prophet true and sweet,-- 'He who is merciful shall mercy meet!'"

But, next day, so it chanced, as night began To fall, a murmur through the hareem ran That one, recalling in her dusky face The full-lipped, mild-eyed beauty of a race Known as the blameless Ethiops of Greek song, Plotting to do her royal master wrong, Watching, reproachful of the lingering light, The evening shadows deepen for her flight, Love-guided, to her home in a far land, Now waited death at the great Shah's command. Shapely as that dark princess for whose smile A world was bartered, daughter of the Nile Herself, and veiling in her large, soft eyes The passion and the languor of her skies, The Abyssinian knelt low at the feet Of her stern lord: "O king, if it be meet, And for thy honor's sake," she said, "that I, Who am the humblest of thy slaves, should die, I will not tax thy mercy to forgive. Easier it is to die than to outlive All that life gave me,--him whose wrong of thee Was but the outcome of his love for me, Cherished from childhood, when, beneath the shade Of templed Axum, side by side we played. Stolen from his arms, my lover followed me Through weary seasons over land and sea; And two days since, sitting disconsolate Within the shadow of the hareem gate, Suddenly, as if dropping from the sky, Down from the lattice of the balcony Fell the sweet song by Tigre's cowherds sung In the old music of his native tongue. He knew my voice, for love is quick of ear, Answering in song.

This night he waited near To fly with me. The fault was mine alone He knew thee not, he did but seek his own; Who, in the very shadow of thy throne, Sharing thy bounty, knowing all thou art, Greatest and best of men, and in her heart Grateful to tears for favor undeserved, Turned ever homeward, nor one moment swerved From her young love. He looked into my eyes, He heard my voice, and could not otherwise Than he hath done; yet, save one wild embrace When first we stood together face to face, And all that fate had done since last we met Seemed but a dream that left us children yet, He hath not wronged thee nor thy royal bed; Spare him, O king! and slay me in his stead!"

But over Akbar's brows the frown hung black, And, turning to the eunuch at his back, "Take them," he said, "and let the Jumna's waves Hide both my shame and these accursed slaves!" His loathly length the unsexed bondman bowed "On my head be it!"

Straightway from a cloud Of dainty shawls and veils of woven mist The Christian Miriam rose, and, stooping, kissed The monarch's hand. Loose down her shoulders bare Swept all the rippled darkness of her hair, Veiling the bosom that, with high, quick swell Of fear and pity, through it rose and fell.

"Alas!" she cried, "hast thou forgotten quite The words of Him we spake of yesternight? Or thy own prophet's, 'Whoso doth endure And pardon, of eternal life is sure'? O great and good! be thy revenge alone Felt in thy mercy to the erring shown; Let thwarted love and youth their pardon plead, Who sinned but in intent, and not in deed!"

One moment the strong frame of Akbar shook With the great storm of passion. Then his look Softened to her uplifted face, that still Pleaded more strongly than all words, until Its pride and anger seemed like overblown, Spent clouds of thunder left to tell alone Of strife and overcoming. With bowed head, And smiting on his bosom: "God," he said, "Alone is great, and let His holy name Be honored, even to His servant's shame! Well spake thy prophet, Miriam,--he alone Who hath not sinned is meet to cast a stone At such as these, who here their doom await, Held like myself in the strong grasp of fate. They sinned through love, as I through love forgive; Take them beyond my realm, but let them live!"

And, like a chorus to the words of grace, The ancient Fakir, sitting in his place, Motionless as an idol and as grim, In the pavilion Akbar built for him Under the court-yard trees, (for he was wise, Knew Menu's laws, and through his close-shut eyes Saw things far off, and as an open book Into the thoughts of other men could look,) Began, half chant, half howling, to rehearse The fragment of a holy Vedic verse; And thus it ran: "He who all things forgives Conquers himself and all things else, and lives Above the reach of wrong or hate or fear, Calm as the gods, to whom he is most dear."

Two leagues from Agra still the traveller sees The tomb of Akbar through its cypress-trees; And, near at hand, the marble walls that hide The Christian Begum sleeping at his side. And o'er her vault of burial (who shall tell If it be chance alone or miracle?) The Mission press with tireless hand unrolls The words of Jesus on its lettered scrolls,-- Tells, in all tongues, the tale of mercy o'er, And bids the guilty, "Go and sin no more!"

. . . . . . . . . . .

It now was dew-fall; very still The night lay on the lonely hill, Down which our homeward steps we bent, And, silent, through great silence went, Save that the tireless crickets played Their long, monotonous serenade. A young moon, at its narrowest, Curved sharp against the darkening west; And, momently, the beacon's star, Slow wheeling o'er its rock afar, From out the level darkness shot One instant and again was not. And then my friend spake quietly The thought of both: "Yon crescent see! Like Islam's symbol-moon it gives Hints of the light whereby it lives Somewhat of goodness, something true From sun and spirit shining through All faiths, all worlds, as through the dark Of ocean shines the lighthouse spark, Attests the presence everywhere Of love and providential care. The faith the old Norse heart confessed In one dear name,--the hopefulest And tenderest heard from mortal lips In pangs of birth or death, from ships Ice-bitten in the winter sea, Or lisped beside a mother's knee,-- The wiser world hath not outgrown, And the All-Father is our own!"

NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON.

NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of old Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds And the relentless smiting of the waves, Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream Of a good angel dropping in his hand A fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of God.

He rose and went forth with the early day Far inland, where the voices of the waves Mellowed and Mingled with the whispering leaves, As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods, He searched his traps. Therein nor beast nor bird He found; though meanwhile in the reedy pools The otter plashed, and underneath the pines The partridge drummed: and as his thoughts went back To the sick wife and little child at home, What marvel that the poor man felt his faith Too weak to bear its burden,--like a rope That, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks above The hand that grasps it. "Even now, O Lord! Send me," he prayed, "the angel of my dream! Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot wait."

Even as he spake he heard at his bare feet A low, metallic clink, and, looking down, He saw a dainty purse with disks of gold Crowding its silken net. Awhile he held The treasure up before his eyes, alone With his great need, feeling the wondrous coins Slide through his eager fingers, one by one. So then the dream was true. The angel brought One broad piece only; should he take all these? Who would be wiser, in the blind, dumb woods? The loser, doubtless rich, would scarcely miss This dropped crumb from a table always full. Still, while he mused, he seemed to hear the cry Of a starved child; the sick face of his wife Tempted him. Heart and flesh in fierce revolt Urged the wild license of his savage youth Against his later scruples. Bitter toil, Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, and pitiless eyes To watch his halting,--had he lost for these The freedom of the woods;--the hunting-grounds Of happy spirits for a walled-in heaven Of everlasting psalms? One healed the sick Very far off thousands of moons ago Had he not prayed him night and day to come And cure his bed-bound wife? Was there a hell? Were all his fathers' people writhing there-- Like the poor shell-fish set to boil alive-- Forever, dying never? If he kept This gold, so needed, would the dreadful God Torment him like a Mohawk's captive stuck With slow-consuming splinters? Would the saints And the white angels dance and laugh to see him Burn like a pitch-pine torch? His Christian garb Seemed falling from him; with the fear and shame Of Adam naked at the cool of day, He gazed around. A black snake lay in coil On the hot sand, a crow with sidelong eye Watched from a dead bough. All his Indian lore Of evil blending with a convert's faith In the supernal terrors of the Book, He saw the Tempter in the coiling snake And ominous, black-winged bird; and all the while The low rebuking of the distant waves Stole in upon him like the voice of God Among the trees of Eden. Girding up His soul's loins with a resolute hand, he thrust The base thought from him: "Nauhaught, be a man Starve, if need be; but, while you live, look out From honest eyes on all men, unashamed. God help me! I am deacon of the church, A baptized, praying Indian! Should I do This secret meanness, even the barken knots Of the old trees would turn to eyes to see it, The birds would tell of it, and all the leaves Whisper above me: 'Nauhaught is a thief!' The sun would know it, and the stars that hide Behind his light would watch me, and at night Follow me with their sharp, accusing eyes. Yea, thou, God, seest me!" Then Nauhaught drew Closer his belt of leather, dulling thus The pain of hunger, and walked bravely back To the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea; And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily asked "Who hath lost aught to-day?" "I," said a voice; "Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse, My daughter's handiwork." He looked, and to One stood before him in a coat of frieze, And the glazed hat of a seafaring man, Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered, with no trace of wings. Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger's hand The silken web, and turned to go his way. But the man said: "A tithe at least is yours; Take it in God's name as an honest man." And as the deacon's dusky fingers closed Over the golden gift, "Yea, in God's name I take it, with a poor man's thanks," he said. So down the street that, like a river of sand, Ran, white in sunshine, to the summer sea, He sought his home singing and praising God; And when his neighbors in their careless way Spoke of the owner of the silken purse-- A Wellfleet skipper, known in every port That the Cape opens in its sandy wall-- He answered, with a wise smile, to himself "I saw the angel where they see a man." 1870.

THE SISTERS.

ANNIE and Rhoda, sisters twain, Woke in the night to the sound of rain,

The rush of wind, the ramp and roar Of great waves climbing a rocky shore.

Annie rose up in her bed-gown white, And looked out into the storm and night.

"Hush, and hearken!" she cried in fear, "Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?"

"I hear the sea, and the plash of rain, And roar of the northeast hurricane.

"Get thee back to the bed so warm, No good comes of watching a storm.

"What is it to thee, I fain would know, That waves are roaring and wild winds blow?

"No lover of thine's afloat to miss The harbor-lights on a night like this."

"But I heard a voice cry out my name, Up from the sea on the wind it came.

"Twice and thrice have I heard it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!"

On her pillow the sister tossed her head. "Hall of the Heron is safe," she said.

"In the tautest schooner that ever swam He rides at anchor in Anisquam.

"And, if in peril from swamping sea Or lee shore rocks, would he call on thee?"

But the girl heard only the wind and tide, And wringing her small white hands she cried,

"O sister Rhoda, there's something wrong; I hear it again, so loud and long.

"'Annie! Annie!' I hear it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!"

Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame, "Thou liest! He never would call thy name!

"If he did, I would pray the wind and sea To keep him forever from thee and me!"

Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast; Like the cry of a dying man it passed.

The young girl hushed on her lips a groan, But through her tears a strange light shone,--

The solemn joy of her heart's release To own and cherish its love in peace.

"Dearest!" she whispered, under breath, "Life was a lie, but true is death.

"The love I hid from myself away Shall crown me now in the light of day.

"My ears shall never to wooer list, Never by lover my lips be kissed.

"Sacred to thee am I henceforth, Thou in heaven and I on earth!"

She came and stood by her sister's bed "Hall of the Heron is dead!" she said.

"The wind and the waves their work have done, We shall see him no more beneath the sun.

"Little will reek that heart of thine, It loved him not with a love like mine.

"I, for his sake, were he but here, Could hem and 'broider thy bridal gear,

"Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet, And stitch for stitch in my heart be set.

"But now my soul with his soul I wed; Thine the living, and mine the dead!"

1871.

MARGUERITE.

MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1760.

Upwards of one thousand of the Acadian peasants forcibly taken from their homes on the Gaspereau and Basin of Minas were assigned to the several towns of the Massachusetts colony, the children being bound by the authorities to service or labor.

THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds into blossoms grew; Little of human sorrow the buds and the robins knew! Sick, in an alien household, the poor French neutral lay; Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the April day, Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider's warp and woof, On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribs of roof, The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the teacups on the stand, The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it dropped from her sick hand.

What to her was the song of the robin, or warm morning light, As she lay in the trance of the dying, heedless of sound or sight?

Done was the work of her bands, she had eaten her bitter bread; The world of the alien people lay behind her dim and dead.

But her soul went back to its child-time; she saw the sun o'erflow With gold the Basin of Minas, and set over Gaspereau;

The low, bare flats at ebb-tide, the rush of the sea at flood, Through inlet and creek and river, from dike to upland wood;

The gulls in the red of morning, the fish-hawk's rise and fall, The drift of the fog in moonshine, over the dark coast-wall.

She saw the face of her mother, she heard the song she sang; And far off, faintly, slowly, the bell for vespers rang.

By her bed the hard-faced mistress sat, smoothing the wrinkled sheet, Peering into the face, so helpless, and feeling the ice-cold feet.

With a vague remorse atoning for her greed and long abuse, By care no longer heeded and pity too late for use.

Up the stairs of the garret softly the son of the mistress stepped, Leaned over the head-board, covering his face with his hands, and wept.

Outspake the mother, who watched him sharply, with brow a-frown "What! love you the Papist, the beggar, the charge of the town?"

Be she Papist or beggar who lies here, I know and God knows I love her, and fain would go with her wherever she goes!

"O mother! that sweet face came pleading, for love so athirst. You saw but the town-charge; I knew her God's angel at first."

Shaking her gray head, the mistress hushed down a bitter cry; And awed by the silence and shadow of death drawing nigh,

She murmured a psalm of the Bible; but closer the young girl pressed, With the last of her life in her fingers, the cross to her breast.

"My son, come away," cried the mother, her voice cruel grown. "She is joined to her idols, like Ephraim; let her alone!"

But he knelt with his hand on her forehead, his lips to her ear, And he called back the soul that was passing "Marguerite, do you hear?"

She paused on the threshold of Heaven; love, pity, surprise, Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the cloud of her eyes.

With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but never her cheek grew red, And the words the living long for he spake in the ear of the dead.

And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds to blossoms grew; Of the folded hands and the still face never the robins knew!

1871.

THE ROBIN.

MY old Welsh neighbor over the way Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, Pushed from her ears the locks of gray, And listened to hear the robin sing.

Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped, And, cruel in sport as boys will be, Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped From bough to bough in the apple-tree.

"Nay!" said the grandmother; "have you not heard, My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit, And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird Carries the water that quenches it?

"He brings cool dew in his little bill, And lets it fall on the souls of sin You can see the mark on his red breast still Of fires that scorch as he drops it in.

"My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird, Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, Very dear to the heart of Our Lord Is he who pities the lost like Him!"

"Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth; "Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well: Each good thought is a drop wherewith To cool and lessen the fires of hell.

"Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, Tears of pity are cooling dew, And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all Who suffer like Him in the good they do!"

1871.

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.