Chapter 5

--Many teachers met their classes In this favorite Institution Where accomplishments or studies Were pursued as each selected, Or their parents gave commandment. But Miranda was impeded In successful application, By the consciousness of beauty And the vanity it fosters.

--Very fond was she of walking In the most frequented places, Fondly fancying all beholders Gazed on her with admiration. Striking dresses, gay with colors She disported and commended, Not considering that the highest Of attractions in a woman Is simplicity of costume, And a self-forgetful sweetness.

--Men with business over-laden, Men of science, pondering axioms, Men of letters, lost in reverie, She imagined when they passed her Gaz'd with secret admiration, Ask'd in wonder, "_who can that be_?" Backward turned perchance, to view her, As she lightly glided onward.

--So completely had this beauty Leagued with vanity, uprooted Serious thought and useful purpose, And the nobler ends of being, That even in the solemn Temple Where humility befitteth All who offer adoration, Close observance of the apparel Of acquaintances or strangers, And a self-display intruded On the service of devotion, While her fair cheek oft-times rested Daintily on gloveless fingers Where the radiant jewels sparkled On a hand like sculptured marble.

* * * * *

Meantime in the rural mansion Whence with gladness she departed, Sate the mother and the sister By the hearth-stone or the lamp-light, Thinking of their loved Miranda, Speaking of her, working for her, Writing tender, earnest letters To sustain her mid her studies, Fearing that her health might suffer By the labor and privation That a year at school demanded.

--As the autumnal evenings lengthen'd, Bertha with a filial sweetness Sought her mother's favorite authors, And with perfect elocution Made their sentiments and feelings, Guests around the quiet fireside.

--Page of Livy, or of Cæsar, Stirring scenes of tuneful Maro, From their native, stately numbers To the mother's ear she rendered; Or with her o'er ancient regions, Fallen sphynx, or ruin'd column, Led by guiding Rollin, wandered, Deeply mused with saintly Sherlock, Or through Milton's inspiration Scanned the lore of forfeit Eden.

* * * * *

With the vertic rays of Summer Homeward came the fair Miranda. How the village people wonder'd At her fashions, and her movements, How she made the new piano Tremble to its inmost centre With _andante_, and _bravura_, What a piece she had to show them Of Andromache the Trojan, Wrought in silks of every color, And 'twas said a foreign language Such as princes use in Paris, She could speak to admiration.

--Greatly their surprise amused her, But the Mother and the Sister With their eagle-eyed affection, Spied a thorn amid the garland, Heard the sighing on her pillow, Saw the flush invade her forehead, And were sure some secret sorrow Rankled in that snowy bosom.

* * * * *

Rumor, soon with hundred voices Whisper'd of a dashing lover, Irreligious and immoral, And the anxious Mother counsel'd Sad of heart her fair-hair'd daughter.

--Scarce with any show of reverence Listen'd the impatient maiden, Then with tearless eyes wide open Like full orbs of shadeless sapphire All unpausing, thus responded.

--"I have promised Aldebaran, To be his,--alone,--forever! And I'll keep that promise, Mother, Though the firm skies fall around me, And yon stars in fragments shatter'd, Each with thousand voices warn'd me.

--Thou hast spoken words reproachful, Doubting of his soul's salvation, Of his creed I never question'd, But where'er he goes, I follow. Whatsoe'er his lot, I'll share it, Though it were the darkest chamber In the lowest hell. 'Twere better There with him, than 'mid the carols Of the highest heaven, without him." Swan-like arms were wrapped around her With a cry of better pleading, "Oh Miranda!--Oh my Sister! Gather back the words you've spoken, Quickly, ere the angel write them Weeping on the doom's day tablet.

--You have grieved our blessed Mother: See you not the large tears trickle Down those channels deeply furrow'd Which the widow-anguish open'd? Kneel beside me, Oh my Sister! Darling of my cradle slumbers, Ask the grace of God to cleanse thee From thy blasphemy and blindness, Supplicate the Great Enlightener Here to purge away thy madness, Pray our Saviour to forgive thee."

* * * * *

"Bertha! Bertha! speak not to me, What knowest thou of love almighty? Naught except that craven spirit Measuring, weighing, calculating, That goes shivering to its bridal. On this deathless soul, all hazard Here I take, and if it perish, Let it perish. From the socket This right eye I'd pluck, extinguish This right hand, if he desire it, And go maim'd through all the ages That Eternity can number.

--Prayer is not for me, but action, Against thee, and Her who bare me Stand I at Love's bidding, boldly In the armor that he giveth, For life's battle, strong and ready. --Hush! I've sworn, and I'll confirm it."

* * * * *

In due time, the handsome suitor Paid his devoirs to Miranda, In her own paternal dwelling. Very exquisite in costume, Very confident in manner, Pompous, city-bred, and fearless Was the accepted Aldebaran.

--Axious felt she, lest the customs Of the rustic race around her, So she styled her rural neighbors, Might discourage or disgust him, But he gave them no attention, Quite absorbed in other matters.

--In their promenades together She beheld the people watching Mid their toils of agriculture, Saw them gaze from door and windows, Little ones from gates and fences, On the stylish Alderbaran, And her heart leap'd up exulting.

--Notice took he of the homestead, With an eye of speculation, Ask'd the number of its acres, And what revenue they yielded. Notice took of herds and buildings With their usufruct, and value, Closer note than seem'd consistent With his delicate position; But Miranda, Cupid blinded, No venality detected.

--He, in gorgeous phrase address'd her, With an oriental worship, As some goddess condescending To an intercourse with mortals. Pleas'd was she with such observance, Pleas'd and proud that those around her Should perceive what adoration Was to her, by him accorded.

--When he left, 'twas with the assurance The next visit should be final. Marking on his silver tablet With gay hand, the day appointed When he might return to claim her In the nuptial celebration.

* * * * *

There's a bridal in the spring-time, When the bee from wintry covert Talking to the unsheath'd blossoms, Meditates unbounded plunder, And the bird mid woven branches Brooding o'er her future treasures Harkeneth thrilling to the love-song Of her mate, who nestward tendeth.

--There's a bridal in the spring-time, And the beautiful Miranda Through her veil of silvery tissue Gleams, more beautiful than ever. From the hearth-stone of her fathers, With the deathless love of woman Trusting all for earth or heaven To a mortal's rule and guidance, One, but short time since, a stranger, Forth she goes. The young beholders Gazing on the handsome bridegroom, Gazing on the nuptial carriage, Where the milk-white horses sported Knots of evergreen and myrtle, Felt a pleasure mix'd with envy At a happiness so perfect.

--But more thoughtful ones, instructed By the change of time and sorrow, By the cloud and by the sunbeam, Felt the hazard that attended Such intrustment without limit, Vows that none had right to cancel Save the hand of Death's dark Angel.

* * * * *

Of the sadness left behind her In the mansion whence she parted, Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache, Deep, unutter'd apprehension, Fearful looking for of judgment, It were vain in lays so feeble To attempt a true recital.

--Still, to Mother and to Sister Came epistles from Miranda, Essenc'd and genteelly written, Painting happiness so perfect, So transcending expectation, So surpassing all that fancy In her wildest flights had pencil'd, That even Eden ere the tempter Coil'd himself amid the blossoms Fail'd to furnish fitting symbol.

* * * * *

Heartfelt bliss is never boastful, Like the holy dew it stealeth To the bosom of the violet, Only told by deeper fragrance.

--He who saith "See! see! I'm happy? Happier than all else around me," Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind him Whether he hath comprehended What true happiness implieth.

* * * * *

Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest! Oh, the dreary night of winter! Drifting snows, and winds careering Down the tall, wide-throated chimney, Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades. Shrieking ghosts of buried legions.

--"Mother! hear I not the wailing Of a human voice?" "My daughter! 'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees. The old sentry-Oak is broken, Close beside our chamber-window, And its branches all are moaning. 'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter."

* * * * *

But the maiden's car was quicken'd To all plaint of mortal sorrow, And when next, the bitter north wind Lull'd, to gather strength and vigor, For a new exacerbation, Listening close, she caught the murmur, "Hush mein daughter! hush mein baby." Then she threw the door wide open, Though the storm rush'd in upon her, With its blinding sleet and fury.

What beheld she, near the threshold, Prostrate there beside the threshold, But a woman, to whose bosom Clung a young and sobbing infant?

--Oh the searching look that kindled 'Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids, Searching mid the blast and darkness, For some helper in her anguish, Searching, kindling look, that settled Into heavy, deadly slumber, As the waning taper flashes Once, to be relumin'd never.

Still her weak arm clasp'd the baby, Rais'd its pining, pinching features, Faintly cried, "Mein kind! Have pity, Pity, for the love of Jesus!"

--Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer, Thy poor, failing feet have brought thee Where the love of Jesus dwelleth. Gently in a bed they laid her, Chafed her stiffening limbs and temples, Pour'd the warm, life-giving cordial, But what seem'd the most to cheer her, Were some words by Bertha spoken In her own, dear native language. Voice of Fatherland! it quicken'd All the heart's collapsing heart-strings, As though bath'd, and renovated In the Rhine's blue, rushing waters.

* * * * *

O'er the wildering waste of ocean, Moved by zeal of emigration She had ventured with her husband To this western World of promise, Rainbow-vested El-Dorado.

On that dreary waste of waters He had died, and left her mourning, All unguided, unbefriended. --There the mother-sorrow found her And compell'd her by the weeping Of the new-born, to encounter With a broken-hearted welcome Life once more, which in the torrent of her utter desolation She had cast aside, contemning As a burden past endurance.

--Outcast in this land of strangers, Strange of speech, and strange in manner, She had travel'd, worn and weary, Here and there, with none to aid her, Ask'd for work, and none employ'd her, Ask'd for alms, and few reliev'd her, Till at length, the wintry tempest Smote her near that blessed roof-tree.

* * * * *

Heavy slumber weigh'd her downward, Slumber from whence none awaketh. Yet at morn they heard her sighing, On her pillow faintly sighing, "I am ready! I am ready!" "Leonore! my child! my darling!"

Then they brought the infant to her, Cleanly robed, and sweetly smiling, And the parting soul turn'd backward, And the clay-seal on the eyelids Lifted up to gaze upon it.

Bertha kiss'd the little forehead, Said "_mein kind_," and lo! a shudder Of this earth's forgotten pleasure Trembled o'er the dying woman, And the white hand cold as marble Strove to raise itself in blessing, For the mother-joy was stronger That one moment, while it wrestled With the pausing king of terrors, Stronger than the king of terrors.

Then they laid her icy fingers Mid the infant's budding ringlets, And the pang and grasp subsided In a smile and whispering cadence, "God, mein God, be praised!"--and silence Settled on those lips forever.

* * * * *

Favor'd is the habitation Where a gentle infant dwelleth, When its brightening eye revealeth The immortal part within it, And its curious wonder scanneth All its wide spread, tiny fingers, And its velvet hand caressing Pats the nurse's cheek and bosom, Hoary Age grows young before it, As the branch that Winter blighted At the touch of Spring reviveth.

When its healthful form evolveth, And with quadrupedal pleasure Creeping o'er the nursery carpet, Aiming still, its flowery surface With faint snatches to appropriate, Or the bolder art essaying On its two round feet to balance And propel the swaying body As with outstretch'd arms it hastens Tottering toward the best beloved, Hope, her freshest garland weaveth Glittering with the dews of morning.

When the lisping tongue adventures The first tones of imitation, Or with magic speed o'ermasters The philosophy of language Twining round the mind of others, Preferences, and pains and pleasures, Tendrils strong, of sentient being, Seeking kindness and indulgence, Loving sports and smiles, and gladness, Tenderest love goes forth to meet it, Love that every care repayeth.

* * * * *

Thus the little German exile Leaning on her foster parents Brought a love that soothed and cheer'd them, And with sweet confiding meekness Taught to older ones the lesson Of the perfect trust, we children Of One Great Almighty Parent Should repose in His protection Goodness and unerring wisdom: Though His discipline mysterious Oft transcendeth feeble reason, And perchance overthrows the fabrics That in arrogance we builded, Call'd _our own_, and vainly rented To a troop of hopes and fancies, Gay-robed joys, or fond affections.

* * * * *

'Tis a solemn thing and lovely, To adopt a child, whose mother Dwelleth in the land of spirits: In its weakness give it succor, Be in ignorance its teacher, In all sorrow its consoler, In temptation its defender, Save what else had been forsaken, Win for it a crown in Heaven,-- Tis a solemn thing and lovely, Such a work as God approveth.

* * * * *

Blessed are the souls that nurture With paternal care the orphan, Neath their roof-tree lending shelter, At their table breathing welcome, Giving armor for the journey And the warfare that awaiteth Every pilgrim, born of woman, Blessed, for the grateful prayer Riseth unto Him who heareth The lone sigh of the forsaken, Bendeth, mid the song of seraphs, To the crying of the ravens, From whose nest the brooding pinion By the archer's shaft was sever'd.

* * * * *

Pomp and wealth, and pride of office With their glitter and their shouting, May not pass through death's dark valley, May not thrill the ear that resteth Mid the silence of the grave-yard; But the deed that wrought in pity Mid the outcast and benighted, In the hovel or the prison, On the land or on the ocean, Shunning still the applause of mortals, Comes it not to His remembrance Who shall say amid the terrors Of the last Great Day of Judgment, "Inasmuch as ye have done it Unto one, the least, the lowest. It was done to Me, your Saviour."

CANTO THIRD.

I'll change my measure, and so end my lay, Too long already. I can't manage well The metre of that master of the lyre, Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribes Deftly described. Hexameters, I hate, And henceforth do eschew their company, For what is written irksomely, will be Read in like manner. What did I say last In my late canto? Something, I believe Of gratitude. Now this same gratitude Is a fine word to play on. Many a niche It fills in letters, and in billet-doux,-- Its adjective a graceful prefix makes To a well-written signature. It gleams A happy mirage in a sunny brain; But as a principle, is oft, I fear, Inoperative. Some satirist hath said That _gratitude is only a keen sense Of future favors_. As regards myself, Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault, Yet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my gifts And efforts have been greatest, the return Has been in contrast. So that I have shrunk To grant myself the pleasure of great love Lest its reward might be indifference, Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have been More fortunate. I trust 'tis often so: But this is my experience, on the scale Of three times twenty years, and somewhat more.

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In that calm happiness which Virtue gives, Blent with the daily zeal of doing good, Mother and daughter dwelt. Once, as they came From their kind visit to a child of need, Cheered by her blessings,--at their home they found Miranda and her son. With rapid speech, And strong emotion that resisted tears Her tale she told. Forsaken were they both, By faithless sire and husband. He had gone To parts unknown, with an abandon'd one He long had follow'd. Brokenly she spake Of taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'd With woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'd Her curses on his head. With shuddering tears They press'd her to their hearts. "Come back! Come back! To your first home, and Heaven's compassions heal Your wounded spirit." Lovingly they cast Their mantle o'er her, striving to uplift Her thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure To deeds of charity, that draw the sting From selfishness of sorrow." But she shrank From social intercourse, nor took her seat Even in the House of God, lest prying eyes Should gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work Enticed her, and the lov'd piano's tone Waking sad echoes of the days that were, She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child. The chief delight and solace of her life To adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls, Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults, With weak indulgence. "Oh, Miranda, love! Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the first Lesson of life. To him, you fill the place Of that Great Teacher who doth will us all To learn submission." But Miranda will'd In her own private mind, not to adopt Such old-world theories, deeming the creed Of the grey-headed Mother, obsolete. --Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'd That render beauty pleasing. Great regard Had he for self, and play, and dainty food, Unlike those Jewish children, who refused The fare luxurious of Chaldea's king, And on their simple diet grow more fair And healthful than their mates, and wiser too, Than the wise men of Babylon. I've seen Ill-fortune follow those, whose early tastes Were pampered and inured to luxury. Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain, And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert Childhood's simplicity of sweet content. --Precocious appetites, when overruled, Or disappointed, lend imperious strength To evil tempers, and a fierce disdain. Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respect Had wiser usages. Her little ones At their own regular, plain table learn'd No culinary criticism, nor claim'd Admission to the richly furnish'd board Nor deem'd the viands of their older friends Pertain'd to them. A pleasant sight it was At close of day, their simple supper o'er, To find them in the quiet nursery laid, Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath To peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'd Firm texture, and the key-stone of the frame, This wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against,-- Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to life A higher zest. Year after year swept by, And Conrad's symmetry of form and face Grew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to win Approval from the pious, or desire To seek him as companion for their sons.

--At school and college he defied restraint, And round the associates of his idle hours Threw a mysterious veil. But rumor spake Of them, as those who would be sure to bring Disgrace and infamy. Strong thirst for gold Sprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purse Was drain'd for him, and when at length she spake In warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'd Out of her presence, or withdrew himself All night from her abode. Then she was fain To appease his anger by some lavish gift From scant resources, which she ill could spare, Making the evil worse. The growth of sin Is rank and rapid when the youthful heart Abjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft The mesh of falsehood, may it not forget What the truth is? The wavering, moral sense Depraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clue Of certainty, nor scruples to deny Words utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleeps Stifled, and callous. Fearful must it be, When Truth offended and austere, confronts The false soul at Heaven's bar.

* * * * *

An aged man Dwelt by himself upon a dreary moor, And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoard Absorb'd his thoughts. There, at the midnight hour The unwonted flash of lights was seen by those Who chanced to pass, and entering in, they found The helpless inmate murder'd in his bed, And the house rifled. Differing tracks they mark'd Of flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil, And eager search ensued. At length, close hid In a dense thicket, Conrad they espied, His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of those Who with him in this work of horror join'd, He answered nothing. All unmov'd he stood Upon his trial, the nefarious deed Denying, and of his accomplices Disclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chain Of evidence to bind him in its coil, And Justice had her course. The prison bolts Closed heavily behind him, and his doom For years, with felons was incorporate.

* * * * *

Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'd In his ancestral home, no words can give Description meet. In the poor mother's mind Reason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone, Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp, Having no anchor on the eternal Rock, She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound. --She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word, Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer: She only shriek'd, "My boy! my beautiful! They bind his hands!" And then with frantic cries She struggled 'gainst imaginary foes, Till strength was gone. Through the long syncope Her never-resting lips essay'd to form The gasping sounds, "My boy! my beautiful! Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!" And in that unquell'd madness life went out, Like lamp before the blast.

* * * * *

With sullen port Of bravery as one who scorns defeat Though it hath come upon him, Conrad met The sentence of the law. But its full force He fail'd to estimate; the stern restraint On liberty of movement, coarsest fare, Stripes for the contumacious, and for all Labor, and silence. The inquiring glance On the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes Of malefactors, harden'd to their lot, And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'd Or haughtily return'd. Yet there were lights Even in this dark abode, not often found In penal regions, where the wrath of man Is prompt to punish, and remembereth not The mercy that himself doth ask of God.