Chapter 3

Hearken, O Job, I pray thee, to my words For they are words of truth. Thou hast assumed More perfect innocence than appertains To erring man, and eager to refute False accusation hast contemn'd the course Of the All-Merciful. Why shouldst thou strive With Him whose might of wisdom ne'er unveils Its mysteries to man? Yet doth He deign Such hints and precepts as the docile heart May comprehend. Sometimes in vision'd sleep, His Spirit hovereth o'er the plastic mind Sealing instruction. Or a different voice Its sterner teaching tries. His vigor droops, Strong pain amid the multitude of bones Doth revel, till his soul abhorreth meat. His fair flesh wastes, and downward to the pit He hourly hastens. Holy Sympathy May aid to uphold him in its blessed arms Kindly interpreting the Will Divine, With angel tenderness. But if the God Whose gracious ear doth hear the sigh of prayer Baptized with dropping tears--perceives the cry Of humbled self-abasing penitence, He casts away the scourge--the end is gained. Fresh as a child's, the wither'd flesh returns, And life, and health, and joy, are his once more. With discipline like this, He often tries The creatures He hath made, to crush the seeds Of pride, and teach that lowliness of soul Befitting them, and pleasing in His sight.

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Oh Man of Uz--if thou hast aught to add Unto thy argument--I pray thee, speak! Fain would I justify thee. Is it well To combat Him who hath the right to reign? Or even to those who fill an earthly throne And wear a princely diadem, to say, Ye are unjust? But how much less to Him The fountain of all power, who heedeth not Earth's vain distinctions, nor regards the rich More than the poor, for all alike are dust And ashes in His sight. Is it not meet For those who bear His discipline, to say I bow submissive to the chastening Hand That smites my inmost soul? Oh teach me that Which through my blindness I have failed to see, For I have sinn'd, but will offend no more. Say, is it right, Oh Job, for thee to hold Thyself superior to the All-Perfect Mind? If thou art righteous what giv'st thou to Him Who sits above the heavens? Can He receive Favor from mortals? Open not thy mouth To multiply vain words, but rather bow Unto the teaching of His works that spread So silently around. His snows descend And make the green Earth hoary. Chains of frost Straighten her breadth of waters. Dropping rains Refresh her summer thirst, or rending clouds Roll in wild deluge o'er her. Roaming beasts Cower in their dens affrighted, while she quakes Convuls'd with inward agony, or reels Dizzied with flashing fires. Again she smiles In her recovered beauty, at His will, Maker of all things. So, He rules the world, With wrath commingling mercy. Who may hope With finite mind to understand His ways, So excellent in power, in wisdom deep, In justice terrible, respecting none Who pride themselves in fancied wisdom." Hark! On the discursive speech a whirlwind breaks, Tornadoes shake the desert, thunders roll And from the lightning's startled shrine, _a voice_! The voice of the Eternal. "Who is this That darkeneth knowledge by unmeaning words? Gird up thy loins and answer. Where wert thou When the foundations of the earth were laid? Who stretch'd the line, and fix'd the corner-stone, When the bright morning-stars together sang And all the hosts that circle round the Throne Shouted for joy? Whose hand controll'd the sea When it brake forth to whelm the new-fram'd world? Who made dark night its cradle and the cloud Its swaddling-band? commanding "Hitherto Come, but no further. At this line of sand Stay thy proud waves." Hast thou call'd forth the morn From the empurpled chambers of the east, Or bade the trembling day-spring know its place? Have Orion's depths been open'd to thy view? And hast thou trod his secret floor? or seen The gates of Death's dark shade? Where doth light dwell? And ancient Darkness, that with Chaos reign'd Before Creation? Dost thou know the path Unto their house, because thou then wert born? And is the number of thy days so great? Show me the treasure-house of snows. Unlock The mighty magazines of hail, that wait The war of elements. Who hath decreed A water-course for embryo fountain springs? Mark'd out the lightning's path and bade the rain O'erlook not in its ministries the waste And desolate plain, but wake the tender herb To cheer the bosom of the wilderness. Tell me the father of the drops of dew, The curdling ice, and hoary frost that seal The waters like a stone, and change the deep To adamant. Bind if thou canst, the breath And balmy influence of the Pleiades. Bring forth Mazzaroth in his time, or guide Arcturus, with his sons. Canst thou annul The fix'd decree that in their spheres detain The constellations? Will the lightnings go Forth on thine errands, and report to thee As loyal vassals? Who in dying clay Infused the immortal principle of mind, And made them fellow-workers? If thou canst Number the flying clouds, and gather back Their falling showers, when parch'd and cleaving earth Implores their charity. Wilt hunt the prey With the stern forest-king? or dare invade The darkened lair where his young lions couch Ravenous with hunger? Who the ravens feeds When from the parent's nest hurl'd out, they cry And all forsaken, ask their meat from God? Know'st thou the time when the wild goats endure The mother-sorrow? how their offspring grow Healthful and strong, uncared for, and unstall'd? Who made the wild ass like the desert free, Scorning the rein, and from the city's bound Turning triumphant to the wilderness? Lead to thy crib the unicorn, and bind His unbow'd sinews to the furrowing plough, And trust him if thou canst to bring thy seed Home to the garner. Who the radiant plumes Gave to the peacock? or the winged speed That bears the headlong ostrich far beyond The baffled steed and rider? not withheld By the instinctive tenderness that chains The brooding bird, she scatters on the sands Her unborn hopes, regardless though the foot May trampling crush them. Hast thou given the Horse His glorious strength, and clothed his arching neck With thunder? At the armed host he mocks,-- The rattling quiver, and the glittering spear. Prancing and proud, he swalloweth the ground With rage, and passionate desire to rush Into the battle. At the trumpet's sound, And shouting of the captains, he exults, Drawing the stormy terror with delight Into his fearless spirit. Doth the Hawk In her migrations counsel ask of Thee? Mounts the swift Eagle up at thy command? Making her nest among the star-girt cliffs, And thence undazzled by the vertic sun Scanning the molehills of the earth, or motes That o'er her bosom move. Say,--wilt thou teach Creative Wisdom? or contend with Him The Almighty,--ordering all things at His will?"

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Then there was silence, till the chastened One Murmured as from the dust, "Lo, I am vile! What shall I answer thee?--I lay my hand Upon my mouth. Once have I dared to speak, But would be silent now, forevermore."

--Yet still, in thunder, from the whirlwind's wing, Jehovah's voice demanded,-- "Wilt thou dare To disannul my judgments? and above Unerring wisdom, and unbounded power Exalt thine own? Hast thou an arm like mine? Array thyself in majesty, and look On all the proud in heart, and bring them low,-- Yea, deck thyself with glory, cast abroad The arrows of thine anger, and abase The arrogant, and send the wicked down To his own place, sealing his face like stone Deep in the dust; for then will I confess Thy might, and that thine own right hand hath power To save thyself. Hast seen my Behemoth, Who on the grassy mountains finds his food? And 'neath the willow boughs, and reeds, disports His monstrous bulk? His bones like brazen bars, His iron sinews cased in fearful strength Resist attack! Lo! when he slakes his thirst The rivers dwindle, and he thinks to draw The depths of Jordan dry. Wilt cast thy hook And take Leviathan? Wilt bind thy yoke Upon him, as a vassal? Will he cringe Unto thy maidens? See the barbed spear The dart and the habergeon, are his scorn. Sling-stones are stubble, keenest arrows foil'd, And from the plaited armor of his scales The glittering sword recoils. Where he reclines, Who is so daring as to rouse him up, With his cold, stony heart, and breath of flame? Or to the cavern of his gaping jaws Thick set with teeth, draw near? The Hand alone That made him can subdue his baleful might."

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Jehovah ceas'd,--for the Omniscient Eye That scans the inmost thought of man, discern'd Its work completed in that lowliness Of deep humility which fits the soul For heavenly intercourse, and renovates The blessed image of obedient love That Eden forfeited. Out of the depths Of true contrition sigh'd a trembling tone In utter abnegation, "I repent! In dust and ashes. I abhor myself." --Thus the returning prodigal who cries Unclothed and empty, "Father! I have sinn'd, And am not worthy to be called thy son," Finds full forgiveness, and a free embrace, While the best robe his shrinking form enfolds.

But with this self-abasement toward his God Job mingled tenderest regard for man. No longer with indignant warmth he strove Against his false accusers, or retained Rankling remembrance of the enmity That vexed his wounded soul With earnest prayers And offerings, he implored offended Heaven To grant forgiveness to those erring friends, Paying with love the alienated course Of their misguided minds. Heaven heard his voice, And with that intercession sweet, return'd The sunbeams of his lost prosperity. Back came his buried joys. They had no power To harm a soul subdued. The refluent tide Of wealth swept o'er him. On his many hills Gathered the herds, and o'er his pastures green Sported the playful lambs. The tuneful voice Of children fill'd his desolate home with joy, And round his household board their beauty gleam'd, Making his spirit glad. So full of days, While twice our span of threescore years and ten, Mark'd out its silvery chronicle of moons Still to his knee his children's children climb'd To hear the wisdom he had learned of God Through the strong teaching both of joy and woe.

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Nor had this sublunary scene alone, Witness'd his trial. Doubt ye not that forms To earth invisible were hovering near With the sublime solicitude of Heaven. For he, the bold, bad Spirit, in his vaunting pride Of impious revolt, had dared to say Unto the King of Kings, "Stretch forth thy hand And take away all that he hath, and Job Will curse Thee to Thy face." Methinks we hear An echo of angelic harmony From that blest choir who struck their harps with joy That from the Tempter's ordeal he had risen An unhurt victor. Round the Throne they pour'd Their gratulations that the born of clay Tho' by that mystery bow'd which ever veils The inscrutable counsels of the All-Perfect One, Might with the chieftain of the Rebel Host Cope unsubdued and heavenward hold his way.

THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND.

INTRODUCTION.

It may be thought that the following poem, especially its opening Canto is too minute and circumstantial in its descriptions. Yet the habitudes of a past and peculiar generation, fast fading from remembrance, are worthy of being preserved, though little accordant with romance, perhaps with poetry. So rapid has been our progress as a people, that dimness gathers over the lineaments of even our immediate ancestry. Yet traits at one period despised, or counted obsolete, may at another be diligently sought after and re-juvenated.

It has been observed that nations reaching their zenith, regard with more complacency their rising morn, than the approaching west. France, notwithstanding the precision given to her language by Richilieu, and the Academy, turns back affectionately to her Troubadours and Trouvires, to the long-drawn, scarce-readable "Romance of the Rose," and the itinerant Chronicles of Froissart. England is not indifferent to Anglo-Saxon traditions, or the customs of her Norman dynasty.

A time may arrive when our posterity will not scorn to be reminded of the primitive usages of their rural fathers. To that time, and to unborn readers, this simple poem is dedicated.

L. H. S.

THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND.

CANTO FIRST.

Peaceful is the rural life, made strong by healthful industry, Firm in love of the birth-land, and the laws that govern it, Calm through moderated desires and a primitive simplicity, Walking filially with Nature as the Patriarchs walked with God. Such have I beheld it in my native vales, green and elm-shaded. Such hath it been depicted in their legends who went before me; What therefore, I have seen and heard, declare I unto you In measures artless and untuneful. Fearless of hardship, In costume, as in manners, unadorn'd and homely Were our ancestral farmers, the seed-planters of a strong nation. Congenial were their wives, not ashamed of the household charge, Yoke-fellows that were help-meets, vigorous and of a good courage; Revolting not at life's plain intent, but its duties discharging Patiently, lovingly, and with true faith looking upward. Thence came the rudiments of an inflexible people Whose praise is in themselves. Hail to the ancient farmer! Broad-shouldered as Ajax--deep-chested through commerce with free air, Not enervated by luxury, nor care-worn with gold-counting, Content with his lot, by pride and envy unvisited. Muscular was his arm, laying low the kings of the forest, Uncouth might be his coat, and his heavy shoes, Vestris flouted, At the grasp of his huge hand, the dainty belle might have shuddered. Yet blessings on his bronzed face, and his warm, honest heart, Whose well-rooted virtues were the strength and stay of republics.

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True independence was his, earth and sky being his bankers, Bills drawn on them, endorsed by toil were never protested. Bathed in vernal dews was his glistening plough-share, Birds, newly-returned, the merry nest-builders, bade him good morrow, Keenly wrought his scythe in summer, where fell the odorous clover, Clear was his song at autumn-husking, amid piles of golden corn. Winter saw him battling the drifted snows, with his oxen, Bearing to the neighboring town, fuel that gladden'd the hearth-stone. Deep in undisturbed beds then slept the dark-featured anthracite, Steam not having armed itself to exterminate the groves, Lavishly offering them as a holocaust to winged horses of iron, Like Moloch, cruel god, dooming the beautiful to the flame.

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Independent was the farmer, the food of his household being sure; With the fields of waving grain; with the towering tassell'd maize; With the herds, moving homeward, bearing their creamy nectar; He saw, and gather'd it, giving thanks to the bountiful Father. Among the lambs sporting in green pastures, among the feathery people, Among the fruit-laden branches, he beheld it also; Under the earth, on the earth, in the air, ripen'd his threefold crop. Swelling in the cluster'd vine, and the roots of the teeming garden, The Garden--precious spot! which God deign'd to bless at the beginning, Placing therein Man, made after his own glorious image, To dress it and to keep it. Hail, to the ancient farmer, Naught to him the fall of stocks that turns pale the speculator, Naught to him the changes of trade, wrinkling the brow of the merchant, Naught to him, the light weight, or exorbitant price of the baker; Sure was his bread, howsoe'er the markets might fluctuate, Sweet loaves of a rich brown, plentifully graced his table, Made by the neat hand of wife or daughter, happy in healthful toil. Skilfully wrought the same hands, amid the treasures of the dairy, Rich cheeses, and masses of golden butter, and bowls of fragrant milk Not doled out warily, as by city dames, but to all, free and flowing; Woman's right it was, to crown the board with gifts of her own preparing; Rights not disputed, not clamored for in public assemblies, But conceded by approving Love, whose manliness threw around her A cherishing protection, such as God willed in Paradise.

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Dense was the head of the Maple, and in summer of a lustrous green, Yet earliest in autumn, among all trees of the forest, To robe itself in scarlet, like a cardinal going to conclave. Subjected was it in spring, to a singular phlebetomy; Tubes inserted through its bark, drew away the heart's sweet blood, Pore after pore emptying itself, till the great arteries were exhausted. Fires then blazed amid the thickets, like the moveable camp of the gipsies, And in boiling kettles, fiercely eddying, struggled the caloric, With gases, and the saccharine spirit, until the granulated sugar, Showed a calm, brown face, welcome to the stores of the housewife; Moulded also into small cakes, it formed the favorite confection Of maiden and swain, during the long evenings of courtship.

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Gamboling among wild flowers, gadded the honey-bee, Bending down their innocent heads, with a buzzing lore of flattery, Beguiling them of their essences, which with tireless alacrity, Straightway deposited he in his cone-roof'd banking-house, Subtle financier--thinking to take both dividend and capital. But failing in his usury, for duly cometh the farmer, Despoiling him of his hoard, yea! haply of his life also. Stern was the policy of the olden times, to that diligent insect, Not skill'd like our own, to confiscate a portion of his earnings, Leaving life and limb unscathed for future enterprise. Welcome were the gifts of that winged chemist to a primitive people. Carefully cloistered in choice vases, was the pure, virgin honey, Sacred to honor'd guests, or a balm to the sore-throated invalid. Dealt out charily, was the fair comb to the gratified little ones, Or, to fermentation yielded, producing the spirited metheglin. Not scorn'd by the bee-masters, were even those darken'd hexagons Where slumber'd the dead like the coral-builders in reefy cell. Even these to a practical use devoted the clear-sighted matron, Calling forth from cavernous sepulchres cheerful light for the living. Cleansed and judiciously mingled with an oleagenous element, Thus drew she from the mould, waxen candles, whose gold-tinted beauty Crown'd proudly the mantel-piece, reserved for bettermost occasions. Unheard of, then, was the gas, with briliant jet and gorgeous chandelier, Nor hunted they from zone to zone, with barbed harpoon the mighty whale, Making the indignant monarch of ocean, their flambeau and link-boy: For each household held within itself, its own fountain of light. Faithful was the rural housewife, taking charge of all intrusted things, Prolonging the existence of whatever needed repair, Requiring children to respect the property of their parents, Not to waste or destroy, but be grateful for food and clothing; Teaching them industry, and the serious value of fleeting time, Strict account of which must be rendered to the Master and Giver of Life. Prudence was then held in esteem and a laudable economy Not jeered at by miserly names, but held becoming in all, For the poor, that they might avoid debt; and the rich that they might be justly generous.

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Ho! for the flax-field, with its flower of blue and leaf freshly green,-- Ho! for the snowy fleece, which the quiet flock yield to their master,-- Woman's hand shall transmute both, into armor for those she loves, Wrapping her household in comfort, and her own heart in calm content. Hark! at her flaxen distaff cheerily singeth the matron, Hymns, that perchance, were mingled with her own cradle melodies. Back and forth, at the Great Wheel, treadeth the buxom damsel, Best form of calisthenics, exercising well every muscle Regularly and to good purpose, filling the blue veins with richer blood. Rapidly on the spindle, gather threads from the pendent roll, Not by machinery anatomized, till stamina and staple fly away, But with hand-cards concocted, and symmetrically formed, Of wool, white or grey, or the refuse flax smoothed to a silky lustre, It greeteth the fingers of the spinner. In this Hygeian concert Leader of the Orchestra, was the Great Wheel's tireless tenor, Drowning the counter of the snapping reel, and the quill-wheels fitful symphony, Whose whirring strings, yielded to children's hands, prepare spools for the shuttle. At intervals, like a muffled drum, sounded the stroke of the loam, Cumbrous, and filling a large space, with its quantity of timber, Obedient only to a vigorous arm, which in ruling it grew more vigorous. From its massy beam were unrolled, fabrics varied and substantial, Linen for couch and table, and the lighter garniture of summer, Frocks of a flaxen color for the laborer, or striped with blue for the younglings; Stout garments in which man bides the buffet of wintry elements. From the rind of the stately butternut, drew they a brown complexion, Or the cerulean borrowed from the tint of the southern indigo. Thus rustic Industry girded itself, amid household music, As History of old, set her fabulous legends to the harp. Ears trained to the operas of Italy, would find discordance to be mocked at, But the patriot heard the ring of gold in the coffers of his country, Not sent forth to bankruptcy, for the flowery silks of France; While the listening christian caught the strong harmonies of a peaceful Land, Giving praise to Jehovah. Lo! at the winter evening In these uncarpeted dwellings, what a world of comfort! Large hickory logs send a dancing flame up the ample chimney, Tinging with ruddy gleam, every face around the broad hearth-stone. King and patriarch, in the midst, sitteth the true-hearted farmer. At his side, the wife with her needle, still quietly regardeth the children. Sheltered in her corner-nook, in the arm-chair, the post of honor, Calm with the beauty of age, is the venerable grandmother. Clustering around her, watching the stocking that she knits, are the little ones, Loving the stories that she tells of the days when she was a maiden, Stories ever mix'd with lessons of a reverent piety. Manna do they thus gather to feed on, when their hair is hoary. Stretch'd before the fire, is the weary, rough-coated house-dog, Winking his eyes, full of sleep, at the baby, seated on his shoulder, Proudly watching his master's darling, and the pet of the family, As hither and thither on its small feet it toddles unsteadily.