Chapter 9

"But hear me yet. There was a poor old man Who sat and listened to the raging sea, And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs As like to tear them down. He lay at night; And 'Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, 'That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine! For when the gale gets up, and when the wind Flings at the window, when it beats the roof, And lulls and stops and rouses up again, And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave. And scatters it like feathers up the field, Why, then I think of my two lads: my lads That would have worked and never let me want, And never let me take the parish pay. No, none of mine; my lads were drowned at sea-- My two--before the most of these wore born. I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife Walked up and down, and still walked up and down. And I walked after, and one could not hear A word the other said, for wind and sea That raged and beat and thundered in the night-- The awfullest, the longest, lightest night That ever parents had to spend--a moon That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. Ah me! and other men have lost their lads, And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, And got them home and dried them in the house, And seen the driftwood lie along the coast, That was a tidy boat but one day back. And seen next tide the neighbors gather it To lay it on their fires. Ay, I was strong And able-bodied--loved my work;--but now I am a useless hull: 'tis time I sank; I am in all men's way; I trouble them; I am a trouble to myself: but yet I feel for mariners of stormy nights, And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay! If I had learning I would pray the Lord To bring them in: but I'm no scholar, no; Book-learning is a world too hard for me: But I make bold to say, 'O Lord, good Lord, I am a broken-down poor man, a fool To speak to Thee: but in the Book 'tis writ, As I hear say from others that can read, How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea, And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure Thou knowest all the peril they go through. And all their trouble. As for me, good Lord, I have no boat; I am too old, too old-- My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife; My little lasses died so long ago That mostly I forget what they were like. Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones. I know they went to Thee, but I forget Their faces, though I missed them sore. O Lord, I was a strong man; I have drawn good food And made good money out of Thy great sea: But yet I cried for them at nights; and now, Although I be so old, I miss my lads, And there be many folk this stormy night Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride, And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, Best sound--the boat-keels grating on the sand. I cannot pray with finer words: I know Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn-- Too old, too old. They say I want for nought, I have the parish pay; but I am dull Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. God save me, I have been a sinful man-- And save the lives of them that still can work, For they are good to me; ay, good to me. But, Lord, I am a trouble! and I sit, And I am lonesome, and the nights are few That any think to come and draw a chair, And sit in my poor place and talk a while. Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, The only thing God made that has a mind To enter in.'

"Yea, thus the old man spake: These were the last words of his aged mouth-- BUT ONE DID KNOCK. One came to sup with him, That humble, weak, old man; knocked at his door In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. I tell you that One knocked while it was dark. Save where their foaming passion had made white Those livid seething billows. What He said In that poor place where He did talk a while, I cannot tell: but this I am assured, That when the neighbors came the morrow morn, What time the wind had bated, and the sun Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile He passed away in, and they said, 'He looks As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, And with that rapturous smile held out his arms To come to Him!'

"Can such an one be here, So old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail? The Lord be good to thee, thou poor old man; It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut To such as have not learning! Nay, nay, nay, He condescends to them of low estate; To such as are despised He cometh down, Stands at the door and knocks.

"Yet bear with me. I have a message; I have more to say. Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin-- That burden ten times heavier to be borne? What think you? Shall the virtuous have His care Alone? O virtuous women, think not scorn. For you may lift your faces everywhere; And now that it grows dusk, and I can see None though they front me straight, I fain would tell A certain thing to you. I say to _you_; And if it doth concern you, as methinks It doth, then surely it concerneth all. I say that there was once--I say not here-- I say that there was once a castaway, And she was weeping, weeping bitterly; Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry That choked itself in sobs--'O my good name! Oh my good name!' And none did hear her cry! Nay; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell, And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still She, storm-tost as the storming elements-- She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, 'O my good name!' And then the thunder-cloud Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shook The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. But she--if any neighbors had come in (None did): if any neighbors had come in, They might have seen her crying on her knees. And sobbing 'Lost, lost, lost!' beating her breast-- Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns. The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage Nor any patience heal--beating her brow, Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt.

"O ye good women, it is hard to leave The paths of virtue, and return again. What if this sinner wept, and none of you Comforted her? And what if she did strive To mend, and none of you believed her strife. Nor looked upon her? Mark, I do not say, Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame; That she had aught against you, though your feet Never drew near her door. But I beseech Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem A woman kneeled at consecrated feet, Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. What then? I think that yet our Lord is pitiful: I think I see the castaway e'en now! And she is not alone: the heavy rain Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls, But she is lying at the sacred feet Of One transfigured.

"And her tears flow down, Down to her lips,--her lips that kiss the print Of nails; and love is like to break her heart! Love and repentance--for it still doth work Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet. And bruise the thorn-crowned head.

"O Lord, our Lord, How great is Thy compassion. Come, good Lord, For we will open. Come this night, good Lord; Stand at the door and knock.

"And is this all?-- Trouble, old age and simpleness, and sin-- This all? It might be all some other night; But this night, if a voice said 'Give account Whom hast thou with thee?' then must I reply, 'Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strength, Rich with all treasure drawn up from the crypt Where lies the learning of the ancient world-- Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon The strand of life, as driftweed after storms: Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads, And the dread purity of Alpine snows, Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed For ages from mankind--outlying worlds, And many moonèd spheres--and Thy great store Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here Powders the pale leaves of Auriculas. This do I know, but, Lord, I know not more. Not more concerning them--concerning Thee, I know Thy bounty; where Thou givest much Standing without, if any call Thee in Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O rich and strong: Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear; The patient foot its thankless quest refrain, The wounded heart for evermore withdraw."

I have heard many speak, but this one man-- So anxious not to go to heaven alone-- This one man I remember, and his look, Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased. And out in darkness with the fisherfolk We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss, And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain From the dim storehouse of sensations past The impress full of tender awe, that night, Which fell on me! It was as if the Christ Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home, And any of the footsteps following us Might have been His.

A WEDDING SONG.

Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane, My Dane with the beautiful eyes! Thousands and thousands await thee full fain, And talk of the wind and the skies. Fear not from folk and from country to part, O, I swear it is wisely done: For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, As becometh my father's son.

Great London was shouting as I went down. "She is worthy," I said, "of this; What shall I give who have promised a crown? O, first I will give her a kiss." So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane, Through the waving wonderful crowd: Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, Like mighty thunders and loud.

And they said, "He is young, the lad we love, The heir of the Isles is young: How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, Can neither be said nor sung.

"He brings us a pledge--he will do his part With the best of his race and name;"-- And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, As may suit with my mother's fame.

THE FOUR BRIDGES.

I love this gray old church, the low, long nave, The ivied chancel and the slender spire; No less its shadow on each heaving grave, With growing osier bound, or living brier; I love those yew-tree trunks, where stand arrayed So many deep-cut names of youth and maid.

A simple custom this--I love it well-- A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth; How many an eve, their linkèd names to spell, Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth! When work was over, and the new-cut hay Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay.

Ah! many an eve, while I was yet a boy, Some village hind has beckoned me aside, And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy, To carve the letters of his rustic bride, And make them clear to read as graven stone, Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own.

For none could carve like me, and here they stand. Fathers and mothers of this present race: And underscored by some less practised hand, That fain the story of its line would trace, With children's names, and number, and the day When any called to God have passed away.

I look upon them, and I turn aside, As oft when carving them I did erewhile; And there I see those wooden bridges wide That cross the marshy hollow; there the stile In reeds embedded, and the swelling down, And the white road towards the distant town.

But those old bridges claim another look. Our brattling river tumbles through the one; The second spans a shallow, weedy brook; Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' nests.

And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, And then a floating crown of lily-flowers, And yet within small silver-budded weeds; But each clear centre evermore embowers A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see The little minnows darting restlessly.

My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet; Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices? Why in your beauty are you thus complete, You silver ships--you floating palaces? O! if need be, you must allure man's eye, Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? O why?

O! O! the world is wide, you lily flowers, It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, Where every night bathe crowds of stars; and bowers Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie: Why are not ye content to reign there? Why?

That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell How it is linked with all my early joy. There was a little foot that I loved well, It danced across them when I was a boy; There was a careless voice that used to sing; There was a child, a sweet and happy thing.

Oft through that matted wood of oak and birch She came from yonder house upon the hill; She crossed the wooden bridges to the church, And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill: But loved to watch the floating lilies best, Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest;

Linger and linger, with her wistful eyes Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white And soft on crimson water; for the skies Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down, To flush the spaces of their clustering crown.

Till the green rushes--O, so glossy green-- The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake; And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queen So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, And hover on the flowers--aërial things, With little rainbows flickering on their wings.

Ah! my heart dear! the polished pools lie still, Like lanes of water reddened by the west, Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill, The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast; We scared her oft in childhood from her prey, And the old eager thoughts rise fresh as yesterday.

To yonder copse by moonlight I did go, In luxury of mischief, half afraid, To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snow, Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare.

Panting I lay till her great fanning wings Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering nigh, And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, Skimmed the dusk fields; then rising, with a cry Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey. And tore it from the nest and fled away.

But afterward, belated in the wood, I saw her moping on the rifled tree, And my heart smote me for her, while I stood Awakened from my careless reverie; So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed. So motherlike she drooped and hung her head.

O that mine eyes would cheat me! I behold The godwits running by the water edge, Tim mossy bridges mirrored as of old; The little curlews creeping from the sedge, But not the little foot so gayly light O that mine eyes would cheat me, that I might!--

Would cheat me! I behold the gable ends-- Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote; The lane with maples overhung, that bends Toward her dwelling; the dry grassy moat, Thick mullions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray, And walls bunked up with laurel and with bay.

And up behind them yellow fields of corn, And still ascending countless firry spires, Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn, And green in rocky clefts with whins and briers; Then rich cloud masses dyed the violet's hue, With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through.

Ay, I behold all this full easily; My soul is jealous of my happier eyes. And manhood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, By looking merely, orange-flooded skies; Nay, any dew-drop that may near me shine: But never more the face of Eglantine!

She was my one companion, being herself The jewel and adornment of my days, My life's completeness. O, a smiling elf, That I do but disparage with my praise-- My playmate; and I loved her dearly and long, And she loved me, as the tender love the strong.

Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came A sudden restless yearning to my heart; And as we went a-nesting, all for shame And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start; Content departed, comfort shut me out, And there was nothing left to talk about.

She had but sixteen years, and as for me, Four added made my life. This pretty bird, This fairy bird that I had cherished--she, Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. The song had ceased; the bird, with nature's art, Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart.

The restless birth of love my soul opprest, I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, And warred with that disquiet in my breast As one who knows there is a better way; But, turned against myself, I still in vain Looked for the ancient calm to come again.

My tired soul could to itself confess That she deserved a wiser love than mine; To love more truly were to love her less, And for this truth I still awoke to pine; I had a dim belief that it would be A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me.

Good hast Thou made them--comforters right sweet; Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent; Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat; Good are Thy stars above the firmament. Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown; The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown.

For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, Thy bountiful creation is so fair. That, drawn before us like the temple veil, It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of gold.

Purple and blue and scarlet--shimmering bells And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, Glorious with chain and fretwork that the swell Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, Till on a day comes loss, that God makes gain, And death and darkness rend the veil in twain.

* * * * *

Ah, sweetest! my beloved! each outward thing Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee; Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree, And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain A flashing thought of thee with their remembered strain.

I will not pine--it is the careless brook. These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale; It is the long tree-shadows, with their look Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail: The peace of nature--No, I will not pine-- But O the contrast 'twixt her face and mine!

And still I changed--I was a boy no more; My heart was large enough to hold my kind, And all the world. As hath been oft before With youth, I sought, but I could never find Work hard enough to quiet my self-strife, And use the strength of action-craving life.

She, too, was changed: her bountiful sweet eyes Looked out full lovingly on all the world. O tender as the deeps in yonder skies Their beaming! but her rosebud lips were curled With the soft dimple of a musing smile, Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the while.

A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain, The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of grain, Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well; Or cooing of the early coted dove;-- She sauntering mused of these; I, following, mused of love.

With her two lips, that one the other pressed So poutingly with such a tranquil air, With her two eyes, that on my own would rest So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer, Fronted unuttered words and said them nay, And smiled down love till it had nought to say.

The words that through mine eyes would clearly shine Hovered and hovered on my lips in vain; If after pause I said but "Eglantine," She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain, And looked me this reply--look calm, yet bland-- "I shall not know, I will not understand."

Yet she did know my story--knew my life Was wrought to hers with bindings many and strong That I, like Israel, served for a wife, And for the love I bare her thought not long, But only a few days, full quickly told, My seven years' service strict as his of old.

I must be brief: the twilight shadows grow, And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, And scented wafts of wind that come and go Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads; The seven stars shine out above the mill, The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still.

Hush! hush! the nightingale begins to sing, And stops, as ill-contented with her note; Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing. Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen.

The seven stars upon the nearest pool Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves, And move like glowworms; wafting breezes cool Come down along the water, and it heaves And bubbles in the sedge; while deep and wide The dim night settles on the country side.

I know this scene by heart. O! once before I saw the seven stars float to and fro, And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore To mark the starry picture spread below: Its silence made the tumult in my breast More audible; its peace revealed my own unrest.

I paused, then hurried on; my heart beat quick; I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent, And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick; Then darkling through the close green maples went And saw--there felt love's keenest pangs begin-- An oriel window lighted from within--

I saw--and felt that they were scarcely cares Which I had known before; I drew more near, And O! methought how sore it frets and wears The soul to part with that it holds so dear; Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, And I was come to part with Eglantine.

For life was bitter through those words repressed, And youth was burdened with unspoken vows; Love unrequited brooded in my breast, And shrank, at glance, from the beloved brows: And three long months, heart-sick, my foot withdrawn, I had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn--

Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less Still followed in her wake, though far behind; And I, being parted from her loveliness, Looked at the picture of her in my mind: I lived alone, I walked with soul oppressed, And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest.

Then I had risen to struggle with my heart. And said--"O heart! the world is fresh and fair, And I am young; but this thy restless smart Changes to bitterness the morning air: I will, I must, these weary fetters break-- I will be free, if only for her sake.

"O let me trouble her no more with sighs! Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time: Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes With the green forests of a softer clime, Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave And long monotonous rockings of the wave.

"Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, Where, wading on breast-high in yellow bloom, Untamed of man, the shy white lama feeds-- There would I journey and forget my doom; Or far, O far as sunrise I would see The level prairie stretch away from me!

"Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, Where fathom long the blood-red dulses grow, Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze, Lashing the tide to foam; while calm below The muddy mandrakes throng those waters warm, And purple, gold, and green, the living blossoms swarm."

So of my father I did win consent, With importunities repeated long, To make that duty which had been my bent, To dig with strangers alien tombs among, And bound to them through desert leagues to pace. Or track up rivers to their starting-place.

For this I had done battle and had won, But not alone to tread Arabian sands, Measure the shadows of a southern sun, Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands; But for the dream wherewith I thought to cope-- The grief of love unmated with love's hope.