Part 12

Across the sea one lighthouse star, With crimson ray that came and went, Revolving on its tower afar, Looked through the doorway of the tent. While outward, over sand-slopes wet, The lamp flashed down its yellow jet On the long wash of waves, with red and green Tangles of weltering weed through the white foam-wreaths seen.

"Sing while we may,--another day May bring enough of sorrow;'--thus Our Traveller in his own sweet lay, His Crimean camp-song, hints to us," The lady said. "So let it be; Sing us a song," exclaimed all three. She smiled: "I can but marvel at your choice To hear our poet's words through my poor borrowed voice."

. . . . .

Her window opens to the bay, On glistening light or misty gray, And there at dawn and set of day In prayer she kneels.

"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a borne From wind and wave the wanderers come; I only see the tossing foam Of stranger keels.

"Blown out and in by summer gales, The stately ships, with crowded sails, And sailors leaning o'er their rails, Before me glide; They come, they go, but nevermore, Spice-laden from the Indian shore, I see his swift-winged Isidore The waves divide.

"O Thou! with whom the night is day And one the near and far away, Look out on yon gray waste, and say Where lingers he. Alive, perchance, on some lone beach Or thirsty isle beyond the reach Of man, he hears the mocking speech Of wind and sea.

"O dread and cruel deep, reveal The secret which thy waves conceal, And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel And tell your tale. Let winds that tossed his raven hair A message from my lost one bear,-- Some thought of me, a last fond prayer Or dying wail!

"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out The fears that haunt me round about; O God! I cannot bear this doubt That stifles breath. The worst is better than the dread; Give me but leave to mourn my dead Asleep in trust and hope, instead Of life in death!"

It might have been the evening breeze That whispered in the garden trees, It might have been the sound of seas That rose and fell; But, with her heart, if not her ear, The old loved voice she seemed to hear "I wait to meet thee: be of cheer, For all is well!" 1865

. . . . .

The sweet voice into silence went, A silence which was almost pain As through it rolled the long lament, The cadence of the mournful main. Glancing his written pages o'er, The Reader tried his part once more; Leaving the land of hackmatack and pine For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine.

THE BROTHER OF MERCY.

Piero Luca, known of all the town As the gray porter by the Pitti wall Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall, Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down His last sad burden, and beside his mat The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted, Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted; Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife, In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life But when at last came upward from the street Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet, The sick man started, strove to rise in vain, Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain. And the monk said, "'T is but the Brotherhood Of Mercy going on some errand good Their black masks by the palace-wall I see." Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me! This day for the first time in forty years In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears, Calling me with my brethren of the mask, Beggar and prince alike, to some new task Of love or pity,--haply from the street To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain, To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, Down the long twilight of the corridors, Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain. I loved the work: it was its own reward. I never counted on it to offset My sins, which are many, or make less my debt To the free grace and mercy of our Lord; But somehow, father, it has come to be In these long years so much a part of me, I should not know myself, if lacking it, But with the work the worker too would die, And in my place some other self would sit Joyful or sad,--what matters, if not I? And now all's over. Woe is me!"--"My son," The monk said soothingly, "thy work is done; And no more as a servant, but the guest Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest. No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost, Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown Forever and forever."--Piero tossed On his sick-pillow: "Miserable me! I am too poor for such grand company; The crown would be too heavy for this gray Old head; and God forgive me if I say It would be hard to sit there night and day, Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought, Not for bread only, but for pity's sake. I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake, Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head, Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead. And if one goes to heaven without a heart, God knows he leaves behind his better part. I love my fellow-men: the worst I know I would do good to. Will death change me so That I shall sit among the lazy saints, Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset, Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness? Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin!) The world of pain were better, if therein One's heart might still be human, and desires Of natural pity drop upon its fires Some cooling tears."

Thereat the pale monk crossed His brow, and, muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!" Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone, The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!" Then was he made aware, by soul or ear, Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him, And of a voice like that of her who bore him, Tender and most compassionate: "Never fear! For heaven is love, as God himself is love; Thy work below shall be thy work above." And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place He saw the shining of an angel's face!

1864.

. . . . .

The Traveller broke the pause. "I've seen The Brothers down the long street steal, Black, silent, masked, the crowd between, And felt to doff my hat and kneel With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, For blessings on their pious care."

Reader wiped his glasses: "Friends of mine, I'll try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign wine."

THE CHANGELING.

For the fairest maid in Hampton They needed not to search, Who saw young Anna Favor Come walking into church,

Or bringing from the meadows, At set of harvest-day, The frolic of the blackbirds, The sweetness of the hay.

Now the weariest of all mothers, The saddest two-years bride, She scowls in the face of her husband, And spurns her child aside.

"Rake out the red coals, goodman,-- For there the child shall lie, Till the black witch comes to fetch her And both up chimney fly.

"It's never my own little daughter, It's never my own," she said; "The witches have stolen my Anna, And left me an imp instead.

"Oh, fair and sweet was my baby, Blue eyes, and hair of gold; But this is ugly and wrinkled, Cross, and cunning, and old.

"I hate the touch of her fingers, I hate the feel of her skin; It's not the milk from my bosom, But my blood, that she sucks in.

"My face grows sharp with the torment; Look! my arms are skin and bone! Rake open the red coals, goodman, And the witch shall have her own.

"She 'll come when she hears it crying, In the shape of an owl or bat, And she'll bring us our darling Anna In place of her screeching brat."

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, Laid his hand upon her head "Thy sorrow is great, O woman! I sorrow with thee," he said.

"The paths to trouble are many, And never but one sure way Leads out to the light beyond it My poor wife, let us pray."

Then he said to the great All-Father, "Thy daughter is weak and blind; Let her sight come back, and clothe her Once more in her right mind.

"Lead her out of this evil shadow, Out of these fancies wild; Let the holy love of the mother Turn again to her child.

"Make her lips like the lips of Mary Kissing her blessed Son; Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, Rest on her little one.

"Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, Open her prison-door, And thine shall be all the glory And praise forevermore."

Then into the face of its mother The baby looked up and smiled; And the cloud of her soul was lifted, And she knew her little child.

A beam of the slant west sunshine Made the wan face almost fair, Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder, And the rings of pale gold hair.

She kissed it on lip and forehead, She kissed it on cheek and chin, And she bared her snow-white bosom To the lips so pale and thin.

Oh, fair on her bridal morning Was the maid who blushed and smiled, But fairer to Ezra Dalton Looked the mother of his child.

With more than a lover's fondness He stooped to her worn young face, And the nursing child and the mother He folded in one embrace.

"Blessed be God!" he murmured. "Blessed be God!" she said; "For I see, who once was blinded,-- I live, who once was dead.

"Now mount and ride, my goodman, As thou lovest thy own soul Woe's me, if my wicked fancies Be the death of Goody Cole!"

His horse he saddled and bridled, And into the night rode he, Now through the great black woodland, Now by the white-beached sea.

He rode through the silent clearings, He came to the ferry wide, And thrice he called to the boatman Asleep on the other side.

He set his horse to the river, He swam to Newbury town, And he called up Justice Sewall In his nightcap and his gown.

And the grave and worshipful justice (Upon whose soul be peace!) Set his name to the jailer's warrant For Goodwife Cole's release.

Then through the night the hoof-beats Went sounding like a flail; And Goody Cole at cockcrow Came forth from Ipswich jail. 1865

. . . . .

"Here is a rhyme: I hardly dare To venture on its theme worn out; What seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr Sounds simply silly hereabout; And pipes by lips Arcadian blown Are only tin horns at our own. Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us, While Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus."

THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH.

Attitash, an Indian word signifying "huckleberry," is the name of a large and beautiful lake in the northern part of Amesbury.

In sky and wave the white clouds swam, And the blue hills of Nottingham Through gaps of leafy green Across the lake were seen,

When, in the shadow of the ash That dreams its dream in Attitash, In the warm summer weather, Two maidens sat together.

They sat and watched in idle mood The gleam and shade of lake and wood; The beach the keen light smote, The white sail of a boat;

Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying; Hardback, and virgin's-bower, And white-spiked clethra-flower.

With careless ears they heard the plash And breezy wash of Attitash, The wood-bird's plaintive cry, The locust's sharp reply.

And teased the while, with playful band, The shaggy dog of Newfoundland, Whose uncouth frolic spilled Their baskets berry-filled.

Then one, the beauty of whose eyes Was evermore a great surprise, Tossed back her queenly head, And, lightly laughing, said:

"No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold That is not lined with yellow gold; I tread no cottage-floor; I own no lover poor.

"My love must come on silken wings, With bridal lights of diamond rings, Not foul with kitchen smirch, With tallow-dip for torch."

The other, on whose modest head Was lesser dower of beauty shed, With look for home-hearths meet, And voice exceeding sweet,

Answered, "We will not rivals be; Take thou the gold, leave love to me; Mine be the cottage small, And thine the rich man's hall.

"I know, indeed, that wealth is good; But lowly roof and simple food, With love that hath no doubt, Are more than gold without."

Hard by a farmer hale and young His cradle in the rye-field swung, Tracking the yellow plain With windrows of ripe grain.

And still, whene'er he paused to whet His scythe, the sidelong glance he met Of large dark eyes, where strove False pride and secret love.

Be strong, young mower of the-grain; That love shall overmatch disdain, Its instincts soon or late The heart shall vindicate.

In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod, Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod The margin of the pond, Watching the group beyond.

The supreme hours unnoted come; Unfelt the turning tides of doom; And so the maids laughed on, Nor dreamed what Fate had done,--

Nor knew the step was Destiny's That rustled in the birchen trees, As, with their lives forecast, Fisher and mower passed.

Erelong by lake and rivulet side The summer roses paled and died, And Autumn's fingers shed The maple's leaves of red.

Through the long gold-hazed afternoon, Alone, but for the diving loon, The partridge in the brake, The black duck on the lake,

Beneath the shadow of the ash Sat man and maid by Attitash; And earth and air made room For human hearts to bloom.

Soft spread the carpets of the sod, And scarlet-oak and golden-rod With blushes and with smiles Lit up the forest aisles.

The mellow light the lake aslant, The pebbled margin's ripple-chant Attempered and low-toned, The tender mystery owned.

And through the dream the lovers dreamed Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed; The sunshine seemed to bless, The air was a caress.

Not she who lightly laughed is there, With scornful toss of midnight hair, Her dark, disdainful eyes, And proud lip worldly-wise.

Her haughty vow is still unsaid, But all she dreamed and coveted Wears, half to her surprise, The youthful farmer's guise!

With more than all her old-time pride She walks the rye-field at his side, Careless of cot or hall, Since love transfigures all.

Rich beyond dreams, the vantage-ground Of life is gained; her hands have found The talisman of old That changes all to gold.

While she who could for love dispense With all its glittering accidents, And trust her heart alone, Finds love and gold her own.

What wealth can buy or art can build Awaits her; but her cup is filled Even now unto the brim; Her world is love and him! 1866.

. . . . .

The while he heard, the Book-man drew A length of make-believing face, With smothered mischief laughing through "Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place, And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep On Yankee hills immortal sheep, While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyond Hold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond."

The Traveller laughed: "Sir Galahad Singing of love the Trouvere's lay! How should he know the blindfold lad From one of Vulcan's forge-boys?"--"Nay, He better sees who stands outside Than they who in procession ride," The Reader answered: "selectmen and squire Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire.

"Here is a wild tale of the North, Our travelled friend will own as one Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth And lips of Christian Andersen. They tell it in the valleys green Of the fair island he has seen, Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore, Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore."

KALLUNDBORG CHURCH

"Tie stille, barn min Imorgen kommer Fin, Fa'er din, Og gi'er dig Esbern Snares nine og hjerte at lege med!" Zealand Rhyme.

"Build at Kallundborg by the sea A church as stately as church may be, And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair," Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare.

And the Baron laughed. But Esbern said, "Though I lose my soul, I will Helva wed!" And off he strode, in his pride of will, To the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill.

"Build, O Troll, a church for me At Kallundborg by the mighty sea; Build it stately, and build it fair, Build it quickly," said Esbern Snare.

But the sly Dwarf said, "No work is wrought By Trolls of the Hills, O man, for naught. What wilt thou give for thy church so fair?" "Set thy own price," quoth Esbern Snare.

"When Kallundborg church is builded well, Than must the name of its builder tell, Or thy heart and thy eyes must be my boon." "Build," said Esbern, "and build it soon."

By night and by day the Troll wrought on; He hewed the timbers, he piled the stone; But day by day, as the walls rose fair, Darker and sadder grew Esbern Snare.

He listened by night, he watched by day, He sought and thought, but he dared not pray; In vain he called on the Elle-maids shy, And the Neck and the Nis gave no reply.

Of his evil bargain far and wide A rumor ran through the country-side; And Helva of Nesvek, young and fair, Prayed for the soul of Esbern Snare.

And now the church was wellnigh done; One pillar it lacked, and one alone; And the grim Troll muttered, "Fool thou art To-morrow gives me thy eyes and heart!"

By Kallundborg in black despair, Through wood and meadow, walked Esbern Snare, Till, worn and weary, the strong man sank Under the birches on Ulshoi bank.

At, his last day's work he heard the Troll Hammer and delve in the quarry's hole; Before him the church stood large and fair "I have builded my tomb," said Esbern Snare.

And he closed his eyes the sight to hide, When he heard a light step at his side "O Esbern Snare!" a sweet voice said, "Would I might die now in thy stead!"

With a grasp by love and by fear made strong, He held her fast, and he held her long; With the beating heart of a bird afeard, She hid her face in his flame-red beard.

"O love!" he cried, "let me look to-day In thine eyes ere mine are plucked away; Let me hold thee close, let me feel thy heart Ere mine by the Troll is torn apart!

"I sinned, O Helva, for love of thee! Pray that the Lord Christ pardon me!" But fast as she prayed, and faster still, Hammered the Troll in Ulshoi hill.

He knew, as he wrought, that a loving heart Was somehow baffling his evil art; For more than spell of Elf or Troll Is a maiden's prayer for her lover's soul.

And Esbern listened, and caught the sound Of a Troll-wife singing underground "To-morrow comes Fine, father thine Lie still and hush thee, baby mine!

"Lie still, my darling! next sunrise Thou'lt play with Esbern Snare's heart and eyes!" "Ho! ho!" quoth Esbern, "is that your game? Thanks to the Troll-wife, I know his name!"

The Troll he heard him, and hurried on To Kallundborg church with the lacking stone. "Too late, Gaffer Fine!" cried Esbern Snare; And Troll and pillar vanished in air!

That night the harvesters heard the sound Of a woman sobbing underground, And the voice of the Hill-Troll loud with blame Of the careless singer who told his name.

Of the Troll of the Church they sing the rune By the Northern Sea in the harvest moon; And the fishers of Zealand hear him still Scolding his wife in Ulshoi hill.

And seaward over its groves of birch Still looks the tower of Kallundborg church, Where, first at its altar, a wedded pair, Stood Helva of Nesvek and Esbern Snare! 1865.

. . . . .

"What," asked the Traveller, "would our sires, The old Norse story-tellers, say Of sun-graved pictures, ocean wires, And smoking steamboats of to-day? And this, O lady, by your leave, Recalls your song of yester eve: Pray, let us have that Cable-hymn once more." "Hear, hear!" the Book-man cried, "the lady has the floor.

"These noisy waves below perhaps To such a strain will lend their ear, With softer voice and lighter lapse Come stealing up the sands to hear, And what they once refused to do For old King Knut accord to you. Nay, even the fishes shall your listeners be, As once, the legend runs, they heard St. Anthony."

THE CABLE HYMN.

O lonely bay of Trinity, O dreary shores, give ear! Lean down unto the white-lipped sea The voice of God to hear!

From world to world His couriers fly, Thought-winged and shod with fire; The angel of His stormy sky Rides down the sunken wire.

What saith the herald of the Lord? "The world's long strife is done; Close wedded by that mystic cord, Its continents are one.

"And one in heart, as one in blood, Shall all her peoples be; The hands of human brotherhood Are clasped beneath the sea.

"Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plain And Asian mountains borne, The vigor of the Northern brain Shall nerve the world outworn.

"From clime to clime, from shore to shore, Shall thrill the magic thread; The new Prometheus steals once more The fire that wakes the dead."

Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beat From answering beach to beach; Fuse nations in thy kindly heat, And melt the chains of each!

Wild terror of the sky above, Glide tamed and dumb below! Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove, Thy errands to and fro.

Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord, Beneath the deep so far, The bridal robe of earth's accord, The funeral shroud of war!

For lo! the fall of Ocean's wall Space mocked and time outrun; And round the world the thought of all Is as the thought of one!

The poles unite, the zones agree, The tongues of striving cease; As on the Sea of Galilee The Christ is whispering, Peace! 1858.

. . . . .

"Glad prophecy! to this at last," The Reader said, "shall all things come. Forgotten be the bugle's blast, And battle-music of the drum.

"A little while the world may run Its old mad way, with needle-gun And iron-clad, but truth, at last, shall reign The cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain!"