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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6442.txt b/6442.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..922bc89 --- /dev/null +++ b/6442.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4676 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bitter-Sweet, by J. G. Holland + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Bitter-Sweet + +Author: J. G. Holland + +Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6442] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on December 14, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BITTER-SWEET *** + + + + +Produced by D. Garcia, Tom Allen, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +BITTER-SWEET + +A Poem + +By J. G. HOLLAND + + + + +CONTENTS. + + * * * * * + +PICTURE + +PERSONS + +PRELUDE + +FIRST MOVEMENT--COLLOQUIAL. + +The Question Stated and Argued + +FIRST EPISODE. + +The Question Illustrated by Nature + +SECOND MOVEMENT--NARRATIVE. + +The Question Illustrated by Experience + +SECOND EPISODE. + +The Question Illustrated by Story + +THIRD MOVEMENT--DRAMATIC. + +The Question Illustrated by the Denouement + +L'ENVOY + + + + +PICTURE. + + + Winter's wild birthnight! In the fretful East + The uneasy wind moans with its sense of cold, + And sends its sighs through gloomy mountain gorge, + Along the valley, up the whitening hill, + To tease the sighing spirits of the pines, + And waste in dismal woods their chilly life. + The sky is dark, and on the huddled leaves-- + The restless, rustling leaves--sifts down its sleet, + Till the sharp crystals pin them to the earth, + And they grow still beneath the rising storm. + The roofless bullock hugs the sheltering stack, + With cringing head and closely gathered feet, + And waits with dumb endurance for the morn. + Deep in a gusty cavern of the barn + The witless calf stands blatant at his chain; + While the brute mother, pent within her stall, + With the wild stress of instinct goes distraught, + And frets her horns, and bellows through the night. + The stream runs black; and the far waterfall + That sang so sweetly through the summer eyes, + And swelled and swayed to Zephyr's softest breath, + Leaps with a sullen roar the dark abyss, + And howls its hoarse responses to the wind. + The mill is still. The distant factory, + That swarmed yestreen with many-fingered life, + And bridged the river with a hundred bars + Of molten light, is dark, and lifts its bulk, + With dim, uncertain angles, to the sky. + + * * * * * + + Yet lower bows the storm. The leafless trees + Lash their lithe limbs, and, with majestic voice, + Call to each other through the deepening gloom; + And slender trunks that lean on burly boughs + Shriek with the sharp abrasion; and the oak, + Mellowed in fiber by unnumbered frosts, + Yields to the shoulder of the Titan Blast, + Forsakes its poise, and, with a booming crash, + Sweeps a fierce passage to the smothered rocks, + And lies a shattered ruin. + + * * * * * + + Other scene:-- + Across the swale, half up the pine-capped hill, + Stands the old farmhouse with its clump of barns-- + The old red farmhouse--dim and dun to-night, + Save where the ruddy firelights from the hearth + Flap their bright wings against the window panes,-- + A billowy swarm that beat their slender bars, + Or seek the night to leave their track of flame + Upon the sleet, or sit, with shifting feet + And restless plumes, among the poplar boughs-- + The spectral poplars, standing at the gate. + + And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong, + Whose thin white hair, and cheeks of furrowed bronze, + And ancient dress, betray the patriarch, + Stands at the window, listening to the storm; + And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame-- + Moved by the wind--it wraps and glorifies + His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows + Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise, + That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles. + And now it passes, and a sweeter shape + Stands in its place. O blest maternity! + Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace, + Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe; + And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps, + Illuminates the pair, how like they seem, + O Virgin Mother! to thyself and thine! + Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold + To hearken to the voice of God without: + "Speak, mighty One! Thy little servant hears!" + And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares + Comes to the window in her loosened robe,-- + Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand,-- + And, as the noise of winds and waters swells, + It shapes the song of triumph to her lips: + "The horse and he who rode are overthrown!" + And now a man of noble port and brow, + And aspect of benignant majesty, + Assumes the vacant niche, while either side + Press the fair forms of children, and I hear: + "Suffer the little ones to come to me!" + + + + +PERSONS. + + + Here dwells the good old farmer, Israel, + In his ancestral home--a Puritan + Who reads his Bible daily, loves his God, + And lives serenely in the faith of Christ. + For threescore years and ten his life has run + Through varied scenes of happiness and woe; + But, constant through the wide vicissitude, + He has confessed the Giver of his joys, + And kissed the hand that took them; and whene'er + Bereavement has oppressed his soul with grief, + Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain, + He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said, + "Thy will, O God--Thy will be done, not mine!" + His gentle wife, a dozen summers since, + Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven; + And her best gift--a maiden sweetly named-- + His daughter Ruth--orders the ancient house, + And fills her mother's place beside the board, + And cheers his life with songs and industry. + But who are these who crowd the house to-night-- + A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who, + Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours + With the sweet jargon of a festival? + Who are these fathers? who these mothers? who + These pleasant children, rude with health and joy? + + It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve; + And gathered home, from fresher homes around, + The old man's children keep the holiday-- + In dear New England, since the fathers slept-- + The sweetest holiday of all the year. + John comes with Prudence and her little girls, + And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys-- + Fair boys and girls with good old Scripture names-- + Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel; + And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house, + Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day + By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe + And the tall poet David, at whose side + She went away. And seated in the midst, + Mary, a foster-daughter of the house, + Of alien blood--self-aliened many a year-- + Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes + Bring all the wondering children to her knee, + Weeps with the strange excess of happiness, + And sighs with joy. + What recks the driving storm + Of such a scene as this? And what reck these + Of such a storm? For every heavy gust + That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet, + And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands, + And rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat + Through all its sooty caverns shrieks and howls, + They give full bursts of careless merriment, + Or songs that send it baffled on its way. + + + + +PRELUDE. + + + Doubt takes to wings on such a night as this; + And while the traveler hugs her fluttering cloak, + And staggers o'er the weary waste alone, + Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face, + And wheel above, or hunt his fainting soul, + As, with relentless greed, a vulture throng, + With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes + Of the last camel of the caravan. + And Faith takes forms and wings on such a night. + Where love burns brightly at the household hearth, + And from the altar of each peaceful heart + Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks, + And every pulse with sympathetic throb + Tells the true rhythm of trustfulest content, + They flutter in and out, and touch to smiles + The sleeping lips of infancy; and fan + The blush that lights the modest maiden's cheeks; + And toss the locks of children at their play. + + Silence is vocal if we listen well; + And Life and Being sing in dullest ears + From morn to night, from night to morn again, + With fine articulations; but when God + Disturbs the soul with terror, or inspires + With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith + Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves; + And we look up to where the pleasant sky + Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song. + + + + +A SONG OF DOUBT. + + + The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; + God has forgotten the world! + The moon is gone, and the stars are dead; + God has forgotten the world! + + Evil has won in the horrid feud + Of ages with The Throne; + Evil stands on the neck of Good, + And rules the world alone. + + There is no good; there is no God; + And Faith is a heartless cheat + Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, + And scatters thorns for the feet. + + What are prayers in the lips of death, + Filling and chilling with hail? + What are prayers but wasted breath + Beaten back by the gale? + + The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; + God has forgotten the world! + The moon is gone and the stars are dead; + God has forgotten the world! + + + + +A SONG OF FAITH. + + + Day will return with a fresher boon; + God will remember the world! + Night will come with a newer moon; + God will remember the world! + + Evil is only the slave of Good; + Sorrow the servant of Joy; + And the soul is mad that refuses food + Of the meanest in God's employ. + + The fountain of joy is fed by tears, + And love is lit by the breath of sighs; + The deepest griefs and the wildest fears + Have holiest ministries. + + Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm; + Safely the flower sleeps under the snow; + And the farmer's hearth is never warm + Till the cold wind starts to blow. + + Day will return with a fresher boon; + God will remember the world! + Night will come with a newer moon; + God will remember the world! + + + + +FIRST MOVEMENT. + +LOCALITY--_The square room of a New England farmhouse_. + +PRESENT--ISRAEL, _head of the family_; JOHN, +PETER, DAVID, PATIENCE, PRUDENCE, GRACE, +MARY, RUTH, _and_ CHILDREN. + +THE QUESTION STATED AND ARGUED. + + +_Israel_. + + Ruth, touch the cradle. Boys, you must be still! + The baby cannot sleep in such a noise. + Nay, Grace, stir not; she'll soothe him soon enough, + And tell him more sweet stuff in half an hour + Than you can dream, in dreaming half a year. + +_Ruth_. + [_Kneeling and rocking the cradle_.] + + What is the little one thinking about? + Very wonderful things, no doubt. + Unwritten history! + Unfathomed mystery! + Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, + And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, + As if his head were as full of kinks + And curious riddles as any sphinx! + Warped by colic, and wet by tears, + Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, + Our little nephew will lose two years; + And he'll never know + Where the summers go;-- + He need not laugh, for he'll find it so! + + Who can tell what a baby thinks? + Who can follow the gossamer links + By which the manikin feels his way + Out from the shore of the great unknown, + Blind, and wailing, and alone, + Into the light of day?-- + Out from the shore of the unknown sea, + Tossing in pitiful agony,-- + Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, + Specked with the barks of little souls-- + Barks that were launched on the other side, + And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide! + What does he think of his mother's eyes? + What does he think of his mother's hair? + What of the cradle-roof that flies + Forward and backward through the air? + What does he thinks of his mother's breast-- + Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, + Seeking it ever with fresh delight-- + Cup of his life and couch of his rest? + What does he think when her quick embrace + Presses his hand and buries his face + Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell + With a tenderness she can never tell, + Though she murmur the words + Of all the birds-- + Words she has learned to murmur well? + Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! + I can see the shadow creep + Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, + Over his brow, and over his lips, + Out to his little finger-tips! + Softly sinking, down he goes! + Down he goes! Down he goes! + + [_Rising and carefully retreating to her seat_.] + + See! He is hushed in sweet repose! + +_David_. + [_Yawning_.] + + Behold a miracle! Music transformed + To morphine, and the drowsy god invoked + By the poor prattle of a maiden's tongue! + A moment more, and we should all have gone + Down into dreamland with the babe! Ah, well! + There is no end of wonders. + +_Ruth_. + None, indeed! + When lazy poets who have gorged themselves, + And cannot keep awake, make the attempt + To shift the burden of their drowsiness, + And charge a girl with what they owe to greed. + +_David_. + + At your old tricks again! No sleep induced + By song of yours, or any other bird's, + Can linger long when you begin to talk. + Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save + The trouble of my rising. + +_Ruth_. + + [_Advancing and kneeling by the side of Grace_.] + + Sister mine. + Now give the proof of your obedience + To your imperious lord! Strike, if you dare! + I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand. + Ha! king; ha! poet; who is master now-- + Baby or husband? Pr'ythee, tell me that. + Were I a man,--thank Heaven I am not!-- + And had a wife who cared not for my will + More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself, + Or wear an [***]. See! she kisses me! + +_David_. + + And answers to my will, though well she knows + I'll spare to her so terrible a task, + And take the awful burden on myself; + Which I will do, in future, if she please! + +_Ruth_. + + Now have you conquered! Look! I am your slave. + Denounce me, scourge me, anything but kiss; + For life is sweet, and I alone am left + To comfort an old man. + +_Israel_. + Ruth, that will do! + Remember I'm a Justice of the Peace, + And bide no quarrels; and if you and David + Persist in strife, I'll place you under bonds + For good behavior, or condemn you both + To solitary durance for the night. + +_Ruth_. + + Father, you fail to understand the case, + And do me wrong. David has threatened me + With an assault that proves intent to kill; + And here's my sister Grace, his wedded wife, + Who'll take her oath, that just a year ago + He entered into bonds to keep the peace + Toward me and womankind. + +_David_. + + I'm quite asleep. + +_Israel_. + + We'll all agree, then, to pronounce it quits. + +_Ruth_. + + Till he awake again, of course. I trust + I have sufficient gallantry to grant + A nap between encounters, to a foe + With odds against him. + +_Israel_. + + Peace, my daughter, peace! + You've had your full revenge, and we have had + Enough of laughter since the day began. + We must not squander all these precious hours + In jest and merriment; for when the sun + Shall rise to-morrow, we shall separate, + Not knowing we shall ever meet again. + Meetings like this are rare this side of Heaven, + And seem to me the best mementoes left + Of Eden's hours. + +_Grace_. + + Most certainly the best, + And quite the rarest, but, unluckily, + The weakest, as we know; for sin and pain + And evils multiform, that swarm the earth, + And poison all our joys and all our hearts, + Remind us most of Eden's forfeit bliss. + +_David_. + + Forfeit through woman. + +_Grace_. + + Forfeit through her power;-- +A power not lost, as most men know, I think, +Beyond the knowledge of their trustful wives. + +_Mary_. + + [_Rising, and walking hurriedly to the window_.] + + 'Tis a wild night without. + +_Ruth_. + + And getting wild + Within. Now, Grace, I--all of us--protest + Against a scene to-night. Look! You have driven + One to the window blushing, and your lord, + With lowering brow, is making stern essay + To stare the fire-dogs out of countenance. + These honest brothers, with their honest wives, + Grow glum and solemn, too, as if they feared + At the next gust to see the windows burst, + Or a riven poplar crashing through the roof. + And think of me!--a simple-hearted maid + Who learned from Cowper only yesterday + (Or a schoolmaster, with a handsome face, + And a strange passion for the text), the fact, + That wedded bliss alone survives the fall. + I'm shocked; I'm frightened; and I'll never wed + Unless I--change my mind! + +_Israel_. + + And I consent. + +_David_. + + And the schoolmaster with the handsome face + Propose. + +_Ruth_. + + Your pardon, father, for the jest! + But I have never patience with the ills + That make intrusion on my happy hours. + I know the world is full of evil things, + And shudder with the consciousness. I know + That care has iron crowns for many brows; + That Calvaries are everywhere, whereon + Virtue is crucified, and nails and spears + Draw guiltless blood; that sorrow sits and drinks + At sweetest hearts, till all their life is dry; + That gentle spirits on the rack of pain + Grow faint or fierce, and pray and curse by turns; + That Hell's temptations, clad in Heavenly guise + And armed with might, lie evermore in wait + Along life's path, giving assault to all-- + Fatal to most; that Death stalks through the earth, + Choosing his victims, sparing none at last; + That in each shadow of a pleasant tree + A grief sits sadly sobbing to its leaves; + And that beside each fearful soul there walks + The dim, gaunt phantom of uncertainty, + Bidding it look before, where none may see, + And all must go; but I forget it all-- + I thrust it from me always when I may; + Else I should faint with fear, or drown myself + In pity. God forgive me! but I've thought + A thousand times that if I had His power. + Or He my love, we'd have a different world + From this we live in. + +_Israel_. + + Those are sinful thoughts, + My daughter, and too surely indicate + A willful soul, unreconciled to God. + +_Ruth_. + + So you have told me often. You have said + That God is just, and I have looked around + To seek the proof in human lot, in vain. + The rain falls kindly on the just man's fields, + But on the unjust man's more kindly still; + And I have never known the winter's blast, + Or the quick lightning, or the pestilence, + Make nice discriminations when let slip + From God's right hand. + +_Israel_. + + 'Tis a great mystery; + Yet God is just, and,--blessed be His name!-- + Is loving too. I know that I am weak, + And that the pathway of His Providence + Is on the hills where I may never climb. + Therefore my reason yields her hand to Faith, + And follows meekly where the angel leads. + I see the rich man have his portion here, + And Lazarus, in glorified repose, + Sleep like a jewel on the breast of Faith + In Heaven's broad light. I see that whom God loves + He chastens sorely, but I ask not why. + I only know that God is just and good: + All else is mystery. Why evil lives + Within His universe, I may not know. + I know it lives, and taints the vital air; + And that in ways inscrutable to me-- + Yet compromising not His soundless love + And boundless power--it lives against His will. + +_Ruth_. + + I am not satisfied. If evil live + Against God's will, evil is king of all, + And they do well who worship Lucifer. + I am not satisfied. My reason spurns + Such prostitution to absurdities. + I know that you are happy; but I shrink + From your blind faith with loathing and with fear. + And feel that I must win it, if I win, + With the surrender, not of will alone, + But of the noblest faculty that God + Has crowned me with. + +_Israel_. + + O blind and stubborn child! + My light, my joy, my burden and my grief! + How would I lead you to the wells of peace, + And see you dip your fevered palms and drink! + Gladly to purchase this would I lay down + The precious remnant of my life, and sleep, + Wrapped in the faith you spurn, till the archangel + Sounds the last trump. But God's good will be done! + I leave you with Him. + +_Ruth_. + + Father, talk not thus! + Oh, do not blame me! I would do it all, + If but to bless you with a single joy; + But I am helpless. + +_Israel_. + + God will help you, Ruth. + +_Ruth_. + + To quench my reason? Can I ask the boon? + My lips would blister with the blasphemy. + I cannot take your faith; and that is why + I would forget that I am in a world + Where evil lives, and why I guard my joys + With such a jealous care. + +_David_. + + There, Ruth, sit down! + 'Tis the old question, with the old reply. + You fly along the path, with bleeding feet, + Where many feet have flown and bled before; + And he who seeks to guide you to the goal + Has (let me say it, father) stopped far short, + And taken refuge at a wayside inn, + Whose haunted halls and mazy passages + Receive no light, save through the riddled roof, + Pierced thick by pilgrim staves, that Faith may lie + Upon its back, and only gaze on Heaven. + I would not banish evil if I could; + Nor would I be so deep in love with joy + As to seek for it in forgetfulness, + Through faith or fear. + +_Ruth_. + + Teach me the better way, + And every expiration from my lips + Shall be a grateful blessing on your head; + And in the coming world I'll seek the side + Of no more gracious angel than the man + Who gives me brotherhood by leading me + Home with himself to heaven. + +_Israel_. + + My son, + Be careful of your words! 'Tis no light thing + To take the guidance of a straying soul. + +_David_. + + I mark the burden well, and love it, too, + Because I love the girl and love her Lord, + And seek to vindicate His love to her + And waken hers for Him. Be this my plea: + God is almighty--all-benevolent; + And naught exists save by His loving will. + Evil, or what we reckon such, exists, + And not against His will; else the Supreme + Is subject, and we have in place of God + A phantom nothing, with a phantom name. + Therefore I care not whether He ordain + That evil live, or whether He permit; + Therefore I ask not why, in either case, + As if He meant to curse me, but I ask + What He would have this evil do for me? + What is its mission? what its ministry? + What golden fruit lies hidden in its husk? + How shall it nurse my virtue, nerve my will, + Chasten my passions, purify my love, + And make me in some goodly sense like Him + Who bore the cross of evil while He lived, + Who hung and bled upon it when He died, + And now, in glory, wears the victor's crown? + +_Israel_. + + If evil, then, have privilege and part + In the economy of holiness, + Why came the Christ to save us from its power, + And bring us restoration of the bliss + Lost in the lapse of Eden? + +_David_. + And would you + Or Ruth 'have restoration of that bliss, + And welcome transplantation to the state + Associate with it? + +_Ruth_. + + Would I? Would I not! + Oh, I have dreamed of it a thousand times, + Sleeping and waking, since the torch of thought + Flashed into flame at Revelation's touch, + And filled my spirit with its quenchless fire. + Most envious dreams of innocence and joy + Have haunted me,--dreams that were born in sin, + Yet swathed in stainless snow. I've dreamed, and dreamed, + Of wondrous trees, crowned with perennial green, + Whose soft still shadows gleamed with golden lamps + Of pensile fruitage, or were flushed with life + Radiant and tuneful when broad flocks of birds + Swept in and out like sheets of living flame. + I've dreamed of aisles tufted with velvet grass, + And bordered with the strange intelligence + Of myriad loving eyes among the flowers, + That watched me with a curious, calm delight, + As rows of wayside cherubim may watch + A new soul, walking into Paradise. + I've dreamed of sunsets when the sun supine + Lay rocking on the ocean like a god, + And threw his weary arms far up the sky, + And with vermilion-tinted fingers toyed + With the long tresses of the evening star. + I've dreamed of dreams more beautiful than all-- + Dreams that were music, perfume, vision, bliss,-- + Blent and sublimed, till I have stood inwrapped + In the thick essence of an atmosphere + That made me tremble to unclose my eyes + Lest I should look on God. And I have dreamed + Of sinless men and maids, mated in heaven, + Ere yet their souls had sought for beauteous forms + To give them human sense and residence, + Moving through all this realm of choice delights + For ever and for aye; with hands and hearts + Immaculate as light; without a thought + Of evil, and without a name for fear. + Oh, when I wake from happy dreams like these, + To the old consciousness that I must die, + To the old presence of a guilty heart, + To the old fear that haunts me night and day, + Why should I not deplore the graceless fall + That makes me what I am, and shuts me out + From a condition and society + As much above a sinful maiden's dreams + As Eden blest surpasses Eden curst? + +_David_. + + So you would be another Eve, and so-- + Fall with the first temptation, like herself! + God seeks for virtue; you for innocence. + You'll find it in the cradle--nowhere else-- + Save in your dreams, among the grown-up babes + That dwelt in Eden--powerless, pulpy souls + That showed a dimple for each touch of sin. + God seeks for virtue, and, that it may live, + It must resist, and that which it resists + Must live. Believe me, God has other thought + Than restoration of our fallen race + To its primeval innocence and bliss. + If Jesus Christ--as we are taught--was slain + From the foundation of the world, it was + Because our evil lived in essence then-- + Coeval with the great, mysterious fact. + And He was slain that we might be transformed,-- + Not into Adam's sweet similitude-- + But the more glorious image of Himself, + A resolution of our destiny + As high transcending Eden's life and lot + As He surpasses Eden's fallen lord. + +_Ruth_. + + You're very bold, my brother, very bold. + Did I not know you for an earnest man, + When sacred themes move you to utterance, + I'd chide you for those most irreverent words + Which make essential to the Christian scheme + That which the scheme was made to kill, or cure. + +_David_. + + Yet they do save some very awkward words, + That limp to make apology for God, + And, while they justify Him, half confess + The adverse verdict of appearances. + I am ashamed that in this Christian age + The pious throng still hug the fallacy + That this dear world of ours was not ordained + The theater of evil; for no law + Declared of God from all eternity + Can live a moment save by lease of pain. + Law cannot live, e'en in God's inmost thought, + Save by the side of evil. What were law + But a weak jest without its penalty? + Never a law was born that did not fly + Forth from the bosom of Omnipotence + Matched, wing-and-wing, with evil and with good, + Avenger and rewarder--both of God. + +_Ruth_. + + I face your thought and give it audience; + But I cannot embrace it till it come + With some of truth's credentials in its hands-- + The fruits of gracious ministries. + +_David_. + + Does he + Who, driven to labor by the threatening weeds, + And forced to give his acres light and air + And traps for dew and reservoirs for rain, + Till, in the smoky light of harvest time, + The ragged husks reveal the golden corn, + Ask truth's credentials of the weeds? Does he + Who prunes the orchard boughs, or tills the field, + Or fells the forests, or pursues their prey, + Until the gnarly muscles of his limbs + And the free blood that thrills in all his veins + Betray the health that toil alone secures, + Ask truth's credentials at the hand of toil? + Do you ask truth's credentials of the storm + Which, while we entertain communion here, + Makes better music for our huddling hearts + Than choirs of stars can sing in fairest nights? + Yet weeds are evils--evils toil and storm. + We may suspect the fair, smooth face of good; + But evil, that assails us undisguised, + Bears evermore God's warrant in its hands. + +_Israel_. + + I fear these silver sophistries of yours. + If my poor judgment gives them honest weight, + Far less than thirty will betray your Lord. + You call that evil which is good, and good + That which is evil. You apologize + For that which God must hate, and justify + The life and perpetuity of that + Which sets itself against His holiness, + And sends its discords through the universe. + +_David_. + + I sorrow if I shock you, for I seek + To comfort and inspire. I see around + A silent company of doubtful souls; + But I may challenge any one of them + To quote the meanest blessing of its life, + And prove that evil did not make the gift, + Or bear it from the giver to its hands. + The great salvation wrought by Jesus Christ-- + That sank an Adam to reveal a God-- + Had never come, but at the call of sin. + No risen Lord could eat the feast of love + Here on the earth, or yonder in the sky, + Had He not lain within the sepulcher. + 'Tis not the lightly laden heart of man + That loves the best the hand that blesses all; + But that which, groaning with its weight of sin, + Meets with the mercy that forgiveth much. + God never fails in an experiment, + Nor tries experiment upon a race + But to educe its highest style of life, + And sublimate its issues. Thus to me + Evil is not a mystery, but a means + Selected from the infinite resource + To make the most of me. + +_Ruth_. + + Thank God for light! + These truths are slowly dawning on my soul, + And take position in the firmament + That spans my thought, like stars that know their place. + Dear Lord! what visions crowd before my eyes-- + Visions drawn forth from memory's mysteries + By the sweet shining of these holy lights! + I see a girl, once lightest in the dance, + And maddest with the gayety of life, + Grow pale and pulseless, wasting day by day, + While death lies idly dreaming in her breast, + Blighting her breath, and poisoning her blood. + I see her frantic with a fearful thought + That haunts and horrifies her shrinking soul, + And bursts in sighs and sobs and feverish prayers; + And now, at last, the awful struggle ends, + A sweet smile sits upon her angel face, + And peace, with downy bosom, nestles close + Where her worn heart throbs faintly; closer still + As the death shadows gather; closer still, + As, on white wings, the outward-going soul + Flies to a home it never would have sought, + Had a great evil failed to point the way. + I see a youth whom God has crowned with power, + And cursed with poverty. With bravest heart + He struggles with his lot, through toilsome years,-- + Kept to his task by daily want of bread, + And kept to virtue by his daily task,-- + Till, gaining manhood in the manly strife,-- + The fire that fills him smitten from a flint-- + The strength that arms him wrested from a fiend-- + He stands, at last, a master of himself, + And, in that grace, a master of his kind. + +_David_. + + Familiar visions these, but ever full + Of inspiration and significance. + Now that your eyes are opened and you see, + Your heart should take swift cognizance, and feel. + How do these visions move you? + +_Ruth_. + + Like the hand + Of a strong angel on my shoulder laid, + Touching the secret of the spirit's wings. + My heart grows brave. I'm ready now to work-- + To work with God, and suffer with His Christ; + Adopt His measures, and abide His means. + If, in the law that spans the universe + (The law its maker may not disobey), + Virtue may only grow from innocence + Through a great struggle with opposing ill; + If I must win my way to perfectness + In the sad path of suffering, like Him + The over-flowing river of whose life + Touches the flood-mark of humanity + On the white pillars of the heavenly throne, + Then welcome evil! Welcome sickness, toil, + Sorrow and pain, the fear and fact of death. + +_Israel_ + + And welcome sin? + +_Ruth_. + + Ah, David! welcome sin? + +_David_. + + The fact of sin--so much;--it must needs be + Offenses come; if woe to him by whom, + Then with good reason; but the fact of sin + Unlocked the door to highest destiny, + That Christ might enter in and lead the way. + God loves not sin, nor I; but in the throng + Of evils that assail us, there are none + That yield their strength to Virtue's struggling arm + With such munificent reward of power + As great temptations. We may win by toil + Endurance; saintly fortitude by pain; + By sickness, patience; faith and trust by fear; + But the great stimulus that spurs to life, + And crowds to generous development + Each chastened power and passion of the soul, + Is the temptation of the soul to sin, + Resisted, and re-conquered, evermore. + +_Ruth_. + + I am content; and now that I have caught + Bright glimpses of the outlines of your scheme, + As of a landscape, graded to the sky, + And seen through trees while passing, I desire + No vision further till I make survey + In some good time when I may come alone, + And drink its beauty and its blessedness. + I've been forgetful in my earnestness, + And wearied everyone with talk. These boys + Are restive grown, or nodding in their chairs, + And older heads are set, as if for sleep. + I beg their pardon for my theft of time, + And will offend no more. + +_David_. + + Ruth, is it right + To leave a brother in such a plight as this-- + Either to imitate your courtesy, + Or by your act to be adjudged a boor? + +_Ruth_. + + Heaven grant you never note a sin of mine + Save of your own construction! + +_Israel_. + + Let it pass! + I see the spell of thoughtfulness is gone, + Or going swiftly. I will not complain; + But ere these lads are fastened to their games, + And thoughts arise discordant with our theme, + Let us with gratitude approach the throne + And worship God. I wish once more to lead + Your hearts in prayer, and follow with my own + The leading of your song of thankfulness. + Then will I lease and leave you for the night + To such divertisement as suits the time, + And meets your humor. + + [_They all arise and the old man prays_.] + +_Ruth_. + + [_After a pause_.] + + David, let us see + Whether your memory prove as true as mine. + Do you recall the promise made by you + This night one year ago,--to write a hymn + For this occasion? + +_David_. + + I recall, and keep. + Here are the copies, written fairly out. + Here,--father, Mary, Ruth, and all the rest; + There's one for each. Now what shall be the tune? + +_Israel_. + + The old One Hundredth--noblest tune of tunes! + Old tunes are precious to me as old paths + In which I wandered when a happy boy. + In truth, they are the old paths of my soul, + Oft trod, well worn, familiar, up to God. + + +THE HYMN. + + [_In which all unite to sing_.] + + For Summer's bloom and Autumn's blight, + For bending wheat and blasted maize, + For health and sickness, Lord of light, + And Lord of darkness, hear our praise! + + We trace to Thee our joys and woes-- + To Thee of causes still the cause,-- + We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows; + We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws. + + We bring no sorrows to Thy throne; + We come to Thee with no complaint; + In Providence Thy will is done, + And that is sacred to the saint + + Here on this blest Thanksgiving Night; + We raise to Thee our grateful voice; + For what Thou doest, Lord, is right; + And thus believing, we rejoice. + + +_Grace_. + + A good old tune, indeed, and strongly sung; + But, in my mind, the man who wrote the hymn + Had seemed more modest, had he paused a while. + Ere by a trick he furnished other tongues + With words he only has the heart to sing. + +_David_. + + Oh, Grace! Dear Grace! + +_Ruth_. + + You may well cry for grace, + If that's the company you have to keep. + +_Grace_. + + I thought you convert to his sophistry. + It makes no difference to him, you know, + Whether I plague or please. + +_Ruth_. + + It does to you. + +_Israel_. + + There, children! No more bitter words like those! + I do not understand them; they awake + A sad uneasiness within my heart. + I found but Christian meaning in the hymn; + Aye, I could say _amen_ to every line, + As to the breathings of my own poor prayer. + But let us talk no more. I'll to my bed. + Good-night, my children! Happy thoughts be yours + Till sleep arrive--then happy dreams till dawn! + +_All_. + + Father, good-night! + + [ISRAEL _retires_.] + +_Ruth_. + + There, little boys and girls-- + Off to the kitchen! Now there's fun for you. + Play blind-man's-buff until you break your heads; + And then sit down beside the roaring fire, + And with wild stories scare yourselves to death. + We'll all be out there, by and by. Meanwhile, + I'll try the cellar; and if David, here, + Will promise good behavior, he shall be + My candle-bearer, basket-bearer, and-- + But no! The pitcher I will bear myself. + I'll never trust a pitcher to a man + Under this house, and--seventy years of age. + + [_The children rush out of the room with a + shout, which wakes the baby_.] + + That noisy little youngster on the floor + Slept through theology but wakes with mirth-- + Precocious little creature! He must go + Up to his chamber. Come, Grace, take him off-- + Basket and all. Mary will lend a hand, + And keep you company until he sleeps. + + [GRACE _and_ MARY _remove the cradle to the chamber, + and_ DAVID _and_ RUTH retire to the cellar_.] + +_John_. + + [_Rising and yawning_] + + Isn't she the strangest girl you ever saw? + +_Prudence_. + + Queer, rather, I should say. Grace, now, is strange. + I think she treats her husband shamefully. + I can't imagine what possesses her, + Thus to toss taunts at him with every word. + If in his doctrines there be truth enough, + He'll be a saint. + +_Patience_. + + If he live long enough. + +_John_. + + Well, now I tell you, such wild men as he,-- + Men who have crazy crotchets in their heads,-- + Can't make a woman happy. Don't you see? + He isn't settled. He has wandered off + From the old landmarks, and has lost himself + I may judge wrongly; but if truth were told + There'd be excuse for Grace, I warrant ye. + Grace is a right good girl, or was, before + She married David. + +_Patience_. + + Everybody says + He makes provision for his family, + Like a good husband. + +_Peter_. + + We can hardly tell. + When men get loose in their theology + The screws are started up in everything. + Of course, I don't apologize for Grace. + I think she might have done more prudently + Than introduce her troubles here to-night, + But, after all, we do not know the cause + That stirs her fretfulness. + + Well, let it go! + What does the evening's talk amount to? Who + Is wiser for the wisdom of the hour? + The good old paths are good enough for me. + The fathers walked to heaven in them, and we, + By following mekly where they trod, may reach + The home they found. There will be mysteries; + Let those who like, bother their heads with them. + If Ruth and David seek to fathom all, + I wish them patience in their bootless quest. + For one, I'm glad the misty talk is done, + And we, alone. + +_Patience_. + + And I. + +_John_. + + I, too. + +_Prudence_. + + And I. + + + + +FIRST EPISODE. + +LOCALITY--_The cellar stair and the cellar_. +PRESENT--DAVID _and_ RUTH. + +THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY NATURE. + +_Ruth_. + + Look where you step, or you'll stumble! + Care for your coat, or you'll crock it! + Down with your crown, man! Be humble! + Put your head into your pocket, + Else something or other will knock it. + Don't hit that jar of cucumbers + Standing an the broad-stair! + They have not waked from their slumbers + Since they stood there. + +_David_. + + Yet they have lived in a constant jar! + What remarkable sleepers they are! + +_Ruth_. + + Turn to the left--shun the wall-- + One step more--that is all! + Now we are safe on the ground, + I will show you around. + + Sixteen barrels of cider + Ripening all in a row! + Open the vent-channels wider! + See the froth, drifted like snow. + Blown by the tempest below! + Those delectable juices + Flowed through the sinuous sluices + Of sweet springs under the orchard; + Climbed into fountains that chained them; + Dripped into cups that retained them, + And swelled till they dropped, and we gained them. + Then they were gathered and tortured + By passage from hopper to vat, + And fell-every apple crushed flat. + Ah! how the bees gathered round them, + And how delicious they found them! + Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover, + Was platted, and smoothly turned over, + Weaving a neatly ribbed basket; + And, as they built up the casket, + In went the pulp by the scoop-full, + Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full,-- + Filling the half of a puncheon + While the men swallowed their luncheon. + Pure grew the stream with the stress + Of the lever and screw, + Till the last drops from the press + Were as bright as the dew. + There were these juices spilled; + There were these barrels filled; + Sixteen barrels of cider-- + Ripening all in a row! + Open the vent-channels wider! + See the froth, drifted like snow, + Blown by the tempest below! + +_David_. + + Hearts, like apples, are hard and sour, + Till crushed by Pain's resistless power; + And yield their juices rich and bland + To none but Sorrow's heavy hand. + The purest streams of human love + Flow naturally never, + But gush by pressure from above + With God's hand on the lever. + The first are turbidest and meanest; + The last are sweetest and serenest. + +_Ruth_. + + Sermon quite short for the text! + What shall we hit upon next? + Lift up the lid of that cask; + See if the brine be abundant; + Easy for me were the task + To make it redundant + With tears for my beautiful Zephyr-- + Pet of the pasture and stall-- + Whitest and comeliest heifer, + Gentlest of all! + Oh, it seemed cruel to slay her! + But they insulted my prayer + For her careless and innocent life, + And the creature was brought to the knife + With gratitude in her eye; + For they patted her back, and chafed her head, + And coaxed her with softest words, as they led + Her up to the ring to die. + Do you blame me for crying + When my Zephyr was dying? + I shut my room and my ears, + And opened my heart and my tears, + And wept for the half of a day; + And I could not go + To the rooms below + Till the butcher went away. + +_David_. + + Life evermore is fed by death, + In earth and sea and sky; + And, that a rose may breathe its breath, + Something must die. + + Earth is a sepulcher of flowers, + Whose vitalizing mold + Through boundless transmutation towers, + In green and gold. + + The oak tree, struggling with the blast, + Devours its father tree, + And sheds its leaves and drops its mast, + That more may be. + + The falcon preys upon the finch, + The finch upon the fly, + And nought will loose the hunger-pinch + But death's wild cry. + + The milk-haired heifer's life must pass + That it may fill your own, + As passed the sweet life of the grass + She fed upon. + + The power enslaved by yonder cask + Shall many burdens bear; + Shall nerve the toiler at his task, + The soul at prayer. + + From lowly woe springs lordly joy; + From humbler good diviner; + The greater life must aye destroy + And drink the minor. + + From hand to hand life's cup is passed + Up Being's piled gradation, + Till men to angels yield at last + The rich collation. + +_Ruth_. + + Well, we are done with the brute; + Now let us look at the fruit,-- + Every barrel, I'm told, + From grafts half a dozen years old. + That is a barrel of russets; + But we can hardly discuss its + Spheres of frost and flint, + Till, smitten by thoughts of Spring, + And the old tree blossoming, + Their bronze takes a yellower tint, + And the pulp grows mellower in't. + But oh! when they're sick with the savors + Of sweets that they dream of, + Sure, all the toothsomest flavors + They hold the cream of! + You will be begging in May, + In your irresistible way, + For a peck of the apples in gray. + + Those are the pearmains, I think,-- + Bland and insipid as eggs; + They were too lazy to drink + The light to its dregs, + And left them upon the rind-- + A delicate film of blue-- + Leave them alone;--I can find + Better apples for you. + + Those are the Rhode Island greenings; + Excellent apples for pies; + There are no mystical meanings + In fruit of that color and size. + They are too coarse and too juiceful; + They are too large and too useful. + There are the Baldwins and Flyers, + Wrapped in their beautiful fires! + Color forks up from their stems + As if painted by Flora, + Or as out from the pole stream the flames + Of the Northern Aurora. + + Here shall our quest have a close; + Fill up your basket with those; + Bite through their vesture of flame, + And then you will gather + All that is meant by the name, + "Seek-no-farther!" + +_David_. + + The native orchard's fairest trees, + Wild springing on the hill, + Bear no such precious fruits as these, + And never will; + + + Till ax and saw and pruning knife + Cut from them every bough, + And they receive a gentler life + Than crowns them now. + + And Nature's children, evermore, + Though grown to stately stature, + Must bear the fruit their fathers bore-- + The fruit of nature; + + Till every thrifty vice is made + The shoulder for a scion, + Cut from the bending trees that shade + The hills of Zion. + + Sorrow must crop each passion-shoot, + And pain each lust infernal, + Or human life can bear no fruit + To life eternal. + + For angels wait on Providence; + And mark the sundered places, + To graft with gentlest instruments + The heavenly graces. + +_Ruth_. + + Well, you're a curious creature! + You should have been a preacher. + But look at that bin of potatoes-- + Grown in all singular shapes-- + Red and in clusters, like grapes, + Or more like tomatoes. + Those are Merinoes, I guess; + Very prolific and cheap; + They make an excellent mess + For a cow, or a sheep, + And are good for the table, they say, + When the winter has passed away. + + Those are my beautiful Carters; + Every one doomed to be martyrs + To the eccentric desire + Of Christian people to skin them,-- + Brought to the trial of fire + For the good that is in them! + Ivory tubers--divide one! + Ivory all the way through! + Never a hollow inside one; + Never a core, black or blue! + Ah, you should taste them when roasted! + (Chestnuts are not half so good;) + And you would find that I've boasted + Less than I should. + They make the meal for Sunday noon; + And, if ever you eat one, let me beg + You to manage it just as you do an egg. + Take a pat of butter, a silver spoon, + And wrap your napkin round the shell: + Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell + Of a white-lipped morning-glory? + Well, that's the rest of the story! + But it's very singular, surely, + They should produce so poorly. + Father knows that I want them, + So he continues to plant them; + But, if I try to argue the question, + He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will; + And puts me down with the stale suggestion-- + "Small potatoes, and few in a hill." + +_David_. + + Thus is it over all the earth! + That which we call the fairest, + And prize for its surpassing worth, + Is always rarest. + + Iron is heaped in mountain piles, + And gluts the laggard forges; + But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles + And lonely gorges. + + The snowy marble flecks the land + With heaped and rounded ledges, + But diamonds hide within the sand + Their starry edges. + + The finny armies clog the twine + That sweeps the lazy river, + But pearls come singly from the brine, + With the pale diver. + + God gives no value unto men + Unmatched by meed of labor; + And Cost of Worth has ever been + The closest neighbor. + + Wide is the gate and broad the way + That opens to perdition, + And countless multitudes are they + Who seek admission. + + But strait the gate, the path unkind, + That lead to life immortal, + And few the careful feet that find + The hidden portal. + + All common good has common price; + Exceeding good, exceeding; + Christ bought the keys of Paradise + By cruel bleeding; + + And every soul that wins a place + Upon its hills of pleasure, + Must give its all, and beg for grace + To fill the measure. + + Were every hill a precious mine, + And golden all the mountains; + Were all the rivers fed with wine + By tireless fountains; + + Life would be ravished of its zest, + And shorn of its ambition, + And sinks into the dreamless rest + Of inanition. + + Up the broad stairs that Value rears + Stand motives beckoning earthward, + To summon men to nobler spheres, + And lead them worthward. + +_Ruth_. + + I'm afraid to show you anything more; + For parsnips and art are so very long, + That the passage back to the cellar-door + Would be through a mile of song. + But Truth owns me for an honest teller; + And, if the honest truth be told, + I am indebted to you and the cellar + For a lesson and a cold. + And one or the other cheats my sight; + (O silly girl! for shame!) + Barrels are hooped with rings of light, + And stopped with tongues of flame. + Apples have conquered original sin, + Manna is pickled in brine, + Philosophy fills the potato bin, + And cider will soon be wine. + So crown the basket with mellow fruit, + And brim the pitcher with pearls; + And we'll see how the old-time dainties suit + The old-time boys and girls. + + [_They ascend the stairs_.] + + + + +SECOND MOVEMENT. + +LOCALITY--_A chamber_. + +PRESENT--GRACE, MARY, _and the_ BABY. + + * * * * * + +THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY EXPERIENCE. + +_Grace_. + + [_Sings_.] + Hither, Sleep! A mother wants thee! + Come with velvet arms! + Fold the baby that she grants thee + To thy own soft charms! + + Bear him into Dreamland lightly! + Give him sight of flowers! + Do not bring him back till brightly + Break the morning hours! + + Close his eyes with gentle fingers! + Cross his hands of snow! + Tell the angels where he lingers + They must whisper low! + + I will guard thy spell unbroken + If thou hear my call; + Come then, Sleep! I wait the token + Of thy downy thrall. + + Now I see his sweet lips moving; + He is in thy keep; + Other milk the babe is proving + At the breast of sleep! + +_Mary_. + + Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence! + Sleep like a bud; for soon the sun of life + With ardors quick and passionate shall rise, + And, with hot kisses part the fragrant lips-- + The folded petals of thy soul! Alas! + What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then! + What pride and pain, ambition and despair, + Desire, satiety, and all that fill + With misery life's fretful enterprise, + Shall wrench and blanch thee, till thou fall at last, + Joy after joy down fluttering to the earth, + To be apportioned to the elements! + I marvel, baby, whether it were ill + That He who planted thee should pluck thee now, + And save thee from the blight that comes on all. + I marvel whether it would not be well + That the frail bud should burst in Paradise, + On the full throbbing of an angel's heart! + +_Grace_. + + Oh, speak not thus! The thought is terrible. + He is my all; and yet, it sickens me + To think that he will grow to be a man. + If he were not a boy! + +_Mary_. + + Were not a boy? + That wakens other thoughts. Thank God for that! + To be a man, if aught, is privilege + Precious and peerless. While I bide content + The modest lot of woman, all my soul + Gives truest manhood humblest reverence. + It is a great and god-like thing to do! + 'Tis a great thing, I think, to be a man. + Man fells the forests, plows and tills the fields, + And heaps the granaries that feed the world. + At his behest swift Commerce spreads her wings, + And tires the sinewy sea-birds as she flies, + Fanning the solitudes from clime to clime. + Smoke-crested cities rise beneath his hand, + And roar through ages with the din of trade. + Steam is the fleet-winged herald of his will, + Joining the angel of the Apocalypse + 'Mid sound and smoke and wond'rous circumstance, + And with one foot upon the conquered sea + And one upon the subject land, proclaims + That space shall be no more. The lightnings veil + Their fiery forms to wait upon his thought, + And give it wing, as unseen spirits pause + To bear to God the burden of his prayer. + God crowns him with the gift of eloquence, + And puts a harp into his tuneful hands, + And makes him both his prophet and his priest. + 'Twas in his form the great Immanuel + Revealed himself; the Apostolic Twelve, + Like those who since have ministered the Word, + Were men. 'Tis a great thing to be a man. + +_Grace_. + + And fortunate to have an advocate + Across whose memory convenient clouds + Come floating at convenient intervals. + The harvest fields that man has honored most + Are those where human life is reaped like grain. + There never rose a mart, nor shone a sail, + Nor sprang a great invention into birth, + By other motive than man's love of gold. + It is for wrong that he is eloquent; + For lust that he indites his sweetest songs. + Christ was betrayed by treason of a man, + And scourged and hung upon a tree by men; + And the sad women who were at his cross, + And sought him early at the sepulcher, + And since that day, in gentle multitudes + Have loved and followed him, have been man's slaves,-- + The victims of his power and his desire. + +_Mary_. + + And you, a wedded wife-well wedded, too, + Can say all this, and say it bitterly! + +_Grace_. + + Perhaps because a wife; perhaps because-- + +_Mary_. + + Hush, Grace! No more! I beg you, say no more. + Nay! I will leave you at another word; + For I could listen to a blasphemy, + Falling from bestial lips, with lighter chill + Than to the mad complainings of a soul + Which God has favored as he favors few. + I dare not listen when a woman's voice, + Which blessings strive to smother, flings them off + In mad contempt. I dare not hear the words + Whose utterance all the gentle loves dissuade + By kisses which are reasons, while a throng + Of friendships, comforts, and sweet charities-- + The almoners of the All-Bountiful-- + With folded wings stand sadly looking on. + Believe me, Grace, the pioneer of judgment-- + Ordained, commissioned--is Ingratitude; + For where it moves, good withers; blessings die; + Till a clean path is left for Providence, + Who never sows a good the second time + Till the torn bosom of the graceless soil + Is ready for the seed. + +_Grace_. + + Oh, could you know + The anguish of my heart, you would not chide! + If I repine, it is because my lot + Is not the blessed thing it seems to you. + O Mary! Could you know! Could you but know! + +_Mary_. + + Then why not tell me all? You know me, love. + And know that secrets make their graves with me. + + So, tell me all; for I do promise you + Such sympathy as God through suffering + Has given me power to grant to such as you. + I bought it dearly, and its largess waits + The opening of your heart. + +_Grace_. + + I am ashamed,-- + In truth I am ashamed--to tell you all. + You will not laugh at me? + +_Mary_. + + I laugh at you? + +_Grace_. + + Forgive me, Mary, for my heart is weak; + Distrustful of itself and all the world. + Ah, well! To what strange issues leads our life! + It seems but yesterday that you were brought + To this old house, an orphaned little girl, + Whose large shy eyes, pale cheeks, and shrinking ways + Filled all our hearts with wonder, as we stood + And stared at you, until your heart o'erfilled + With the oppressive strangeness, and you wept. + Yes, I remember how I pitied you-- + I who had never wept, nor even sighed, + Save on the bosom of my gentle mother; + For my quick heart caught all your history + When with a hurried step you sought the sun, + And pressed your eyes against the windowpane + That God's sweet light might dry them. Well I knew + Though all untaught, that you were motherless. + And I remember how I followed you,-- + Embraced and kissed you--kissed your tears away-- + Tears that came faster, till they bathed the lips + That would have sealed their flooded fountain-heads; + And then we wound our arms around each other, + And passed out-out under the pleasant sky, + And stood among the lilies at the door. + + I gave no formal comfort; you, no thanks; + For tears had been your language, kisses mine, + And we were friends. We talked about our dolls, + And all the pretty playthings we possessed. + Then we revealed, with childish vanity, + Our little stores of knowledge. I was full + Of a sweet marvel when you pointed out + The yellow thighs of bees that, half asleep, + Plundered the secrets of the lily-bells, + And called the golden pigment honeycomb. + And your black eyes were opened very wide + When I related how, one sunny day, + I found a well, half covered, down the lane, + That was so deep and clear that I could see + Straight through the world, into another sky! + +_Mary_. + + Do you remember how the Guinea hens + Set up a scream upon the garden wall, + That frightened me to running, when you screamed + With laughter quite as loud? + +_Grace_. + + Aye, very well; + But better still the scene that followed all. + Oh, that has lingered in my memory + Like that divinest dream of Raphael-- + The Dresden virgin prisoned in a print-- + That watched with me in sickness through long weeks, + And from its frame upon the chamber-wall + Breathed constant benedictions, till I learned + To love the presence like a Roman saint. + + My mother called us in; and at her knee, + Embracing still, we stood, and felt her smile + Shine on our upturned faces like the light + Of the soft summer moon. And then she stooped; + And when she kissed us, I could see the tears + Brimming her eyes. O sweet experiment! + To try if love of Jesus and of me + Could make our kisses equal to her lips! + Then straight my prescient heart set up a song, + And fluttered in my bosom like a bird. + + I knew a blessing was about to fall, + As robins know the coming of the rain, + And bruit the joyous secret, ere its steps + Are heard upon the mountain tops. I knew + You were to be my sister; and my heart + Was almost bursting with its love and pride. + I could not wait to hear the kindly words + Our mother spoke--her counsels and commands-- + For you were mine--my sister! So I tore + Your clinging hand from hers with rude constraint, + And took you to my chamber, where I played + With you, in selfish sense of property, + The whole bright afternoon. + + And here again, + Within this same old chamber we are met. + We told our secrets to each other then; + Thus let us tell them now; and you shall be + To my grief-burdened soul what you have said, + So many times that I have been to yours. + +_Mary_. + + Alas! I never meant to tell my tale + To other ear than God's; but you have claims + Upon my confidence,--claims just rehearsed, + And other claims which you have never known. + +_Grace_. + + And other claims which I have never known! + You speak in riddles, love. I only know + You grew to womanhood, were beautiful, + Were loved and wooed, were married and were blest;-- + + That after passage of mysterious years + We heard sad stories of your misery, + And rumors of desertion; but your pen + Revealed no secrets of your altered life. + Enough for me that you are here to-night, + And have an ear for sorrow, and a heart + Which disappointment has inhabited. + My history you know. A twelvemonth since + This fearful, festive night, and in this house, + I gave my hand to one whom I believed + To be the noblest man God ever made;-- + A man who seemed to my infatuate heart + Heaven's chosen genius, through whose tuneful soul + The choicest harmonies of life should flow, + Growing articulate upon his lips + In numbers to enchant a willing world. + I cannot tell you of the pride that filled + My bosom, as I marked his manly form, + And read his soul through his effulgent eyes, + And heard the wondrous music of his voice, + That swept the chords of feeling in all hearts + With such a divine persuasion as might grow + Under the transit of an angel's hand. + And, then, to think that I, a farmer's child, + Should be the woman culled from all the world + To be that man's companion,--to abide + The nearest soul to such a soul--to sit + Close by the fountain of his peerless life-- + The welling center of his loving thoughts-- + And drink, myself, the sweetest and the best,-- + To lay my head upon his breast, and feel + That of all precious burdens it had borne + That was most precious--Oh! my heart was wild + With the delirium of happiness-- + But, Mary, you are weeping! + +_Mary_. + + Mark it not. + Your words wake memories which you may guess, + And thoughts which you may sometime know--not now. + +_Grace_. + + Well, we were married, as I said; and I + Was not unthankful utterly, I think; + Though, if the awful question had come then, + And stood before me with a brow severe + And steady finger, bidding me decide + Which of the two I loved the more, the God + Who gave my husband to me, or his gift, + I know I should have groaned, and shut my eyes. + + We passed a honeymoon whose atmosphere, + Flooded with inspiration, and embraced + By a wide sky set full of starry thoughts, + And constellated visions of delight, + Still wraps me in my dreams--itself a dream. + The full moon waned at last, and in my sky, + With horn inverted, gave its sign of tears; + And then, when wasted to a skeleton, + It sank into a heaving sea of tears + That caught its tumult from my sighing soul. + My husband, who had spent whole months with me, + Till he was wedded to my every thought, + Left me through dreary hours,--nay, days,--alone! + He pleaded business--business day and night; + Leaving me with a formal kiss at morn, + And meeting me with strange reserve at eve; + And I could mark the sea of tenderness + Upon whose beach I had sat down for life, + Hoping to feel for ever, as at first, + The love-breeze from its billows, and to clasp + With open arms the silver surf that ran + To wreck itself upon my bosom, ebb, + Day after day receding, till the sand + Grew dry and hot, and the old hulls appeared + Of hopes sent out upon that faithless main + Since woman loved, and he she loved was false. + Night after night I sat the evening out, + And heard the clock tick on the mantel-tree + Till it grew irksome to me, and I grudged + The careless pleasures of the kitchen maids + Whose distant laughter shocked the lapsing hours. + +_Mary_. + + But did your husband never tell the cause + Of this neglect? + +_Grace_. + + Never an honest word. + He told me he was writing; and, at home, + Sat down with heart absorbed and absent look. + I was offended, and upbraided him. + I knew he had a secret, and that from + The center of its closely coiling folds + A cunning serpent's head, with forked tongue, + Swayed with a double story--one for me, + And one for whom I knew not--whom he knew. + His words, which wandered first as carelessly + As the free footsteps of a boy, were trained + To the stern paces of a sentinel + Guarding a prison door, and never tripped + With a suggestion. + + I despaired at last + Of winning what I sought by wiles and prayers; + So, through long nights of sleeplessness I lay, + And held my ear beside his silent lips-- + An eager cup--ready to catch the gush + Of the pent waters, if a dream-swung rod + Should smite his bosom. It was all in vain. + And thus months passed away, and all the while + Another heart was beating under mine. + May Heaven forgive me! but I grieved the charms + The unborn thing was stealing, for I felt + That in my insufficiency of power + I had no charm to lose. + +_Mary_. + + And he did not, + In this most tender trial of your heart, + Turn in relenting?--give you sympathy? + +_Grace_. + + No--yes! Perhaps he pitied me, and that + Indeed was very pitiful; for what + Has love to do with pity? When a wife + Has sunk so hopelessly in the regard + Of him she loves that he can pity her,-- + Has sunk so low that she may only share + The tribute which a mute humanity + Bestows on those whom Providence has struck + With helpless poverty, or foul disease; + She may he pitied, both by earth and heaven, + Because he pities her. A pitied child + That begs its bread from door to door is blest; + A wife who begs for love and confidence, + And gets but alms from pity, is accurst. + + Well, time passed on; and rumor came at last + To tell the story of my husband's shame + And my dishonor. He was seen at night, + Walking in lonely streets with one whose eyes + Were blacker than the night,--whose little hand + Was clinging to his arm. Both were absorbed + In the half-whispered converse of the time; + And both, as if accustomed to the path, + Turned down an alley, climbed a flight of steps, + Entered a door, and closed it after them-- + A door of adamant 'twixt hope and me. + I had my secret; and I kept it, too. + I knew his haunt, and it was watched for me, + Till doubt and prayers for doubt,--pale flowers + I nourished with my tears--were crushed + By the relentless hand of Certainty. + + Oh, Mary! Mary! Those were fearful days. + My wrongs and all their shameful history + Were opened to me daily, leaf by leaf, + Though he had only shown their title-page: + That page was his; the rest were in my heart. + I knew that he had left my home for hers; + I knew his nightly labor was to feed + Other than me;--that he was loaded down + With cares that were the price of sinful love. + +_Mary_. + + Grace, in your heart do you believe all this? + I fear--I know--you do your husband wrong. + He is not competent for treachery. + He is too good, too noble, to desert + The woman whom he only loves too well. + You love him not! + +_Grace_. + + I love him not? Alas! + I am more angry with myself than him + That, spite his falsehood to his marriage vows, + And spite my hate, I love the traitor still. + I love him not? Why am I here to-night-- + Here where my girlhood's withered hopes are strewn + Through every room for him to trample on-- + But in my pride to show him to you all, + With the dear child that publishes a love + That blessed me once, e'en if it curse me now? + You know I do my husband wrong! You think, + Because he can talk smoothly, and befool + A simple ear with pious sophistries, + He must be e'en the saintly man he seems. + We heard him talk to-night; it was done well. + I saw the triumph of his argument, + And I was proud, though full of spite the while. + His stuff was meant for me; and, with intent + For selfish purpose, or in irony, + He tossed me bitterness, and called it sweet. + My heart rebelled, and now you know the cause + Of my harsh words to him. + +_Mary_. + + 'Tis very sad! + Oh very--very sad! Pray you go on! + Who is this woman? + +_Grace_. + + I have never learned. + I only know she stole my husband's heart, + And made me very wretched. I suppose + That at the time my little babe was born, + She went away; for David was at home + For many days. That pain was bliss to me-- + I need no argument to teach me that-- + Which caused neglect of her, and gave offense. + Since then, he has not where to go from me; + And, loving well his child, he stays at home. + + So he lugs round his secret, and I mine. + I call him husband; and he calls me wife; + And I, who once was like an April day, + That finds quick tears in every cloud, have steeled + My heart against my fate, and now am calm. + I will live on; and though these simple folk + Who call me sister understand me not, + It matters little. There is one who does; + And he shall have no liberty of love + By any word of mine. 'Tis woman's lot, + And man's most weak and wicked wantonness. + Mine is like other husbands, I suppose; + No worse--no better. + +_Mary_. + + Ask you sympathy + Of such as I? I cannot give it you, + For you have shut me from the privilege. + +_Grace_. + + I asked it once; you gave me unbelief. + I had no choice but to grow hard again. + 'Tis my misfortune and my misery + That every hand whose friendly ministry + My poor heart craves, is held--withheld--by him; + And I must freeze that I may stand alone. + +_Mary_. + + And so, because one man is false, or you + Imagine him to be, all men are false; + Do I speak rightly? + +_Grace_. + + Have it your own way. + Men fit to love, and fitted to be loved, + Are prone to falsehood. I will not gainsay + The common virtue of the common herd. + I prize it as I do the goodish men + Who hold the goodish stuff, and know it not. + These serve to fill an easy-going world, + And that to clothe it with complacency. + +_Mary_. + + I had not thought misanthropy like this + Could lodge with you; so I must e'en confess + A tale which never passed my lips before, + Nor sent its flush to any cheek but mine. + In this, I'll prove my friendship, if I lose + The friendship which demands the sacrifice. + + I have come back, a worse than widowed wife; + Yet I went out with dream as bright as yours,-- + Nay, brighter,--for the birds were singing then, + And apple-blossoms drifted on the ground + Where snow-flakes fell and flew when you were wed. + The skies were soft; the roses budded full; + The meads and swelling uplands fresh and green;-- + The very atmosphere was full of love. + It was no girlish carelessness of heart + That kept my eyes from tears, as I went forth + From this dear shelter of the orphan child. + I felt that God was smiling on my lot, + And made the airs his angels to convey + To every sense and sensibility + The message of his favor. Every sound + Was music to me; every sight was peace; + And breathing was the drinking of perfume. + I said, content, and full of gratitude, + "This is as God would have it; and he speaks + These pleasant languages to tell me so." + + But I had no such honeymoon as yours. + A few brief days of happiness, and then + The dream was over. I had married one + Who was the sport of vagrant impulses. + We had not been a fortnight wed, when he + Came home to me with brandy in his brain-- + A maudlin fool--for love like mine to hide + As if he were an unclean beast. O Grace! + I cannot paint the horrors of that night. + My heart, till then serene, and safely kept + In Trust's strong citadel, quaked all night long, + As tower and bastion fell before the rush + Of fierce convictions; and the tumbling walls + Boomed with dull throbs of ruin through my brain. + And there were palaces that leaned on this-- + Castles of air, in long and glittering lines, + Which melted into air, and pierced the blue + That marks the star-strewn vault of heaven;--all fell, + With a faint crash like that which scares the soul + When dissolution shivers through a dream + Smitten by nightmare,--fell and faded all + To utter nothingness; and when the morn + Flamed up the East, and with its crimson wings + Brushed out the paling stars that all the night + In silent, slow procession, one by one, + Had gazed upon me through the open sash, + And passed along, it found me desolate. + + The stupid dreamer at my side awoke, + And with such helpless anguish as they feel + Who know that they are weak as well as vile. + I saw, through all his forward promises, + Excuses, prayers, and pledges that were oaths + (What he, poor boaster, thought I could not see), + That he was shorn of will, and that his heart + Was as defenseless as a little child's;-- + That underneath his fair good fellowship + He was debauched, and dead in love with sin;-- + That love of me had made him what I loved,-- + That I could only hold him till the wave + Of some overwhelming impulse should sweep in, + To lift his feet and bear him from my arms. + I felt that morn, when he went trembling forth, + With bloodshot eyes and forehead hot with woe, + That henceforth strife would be 'twixt Hell and me-- + The odds against me--for my husband's soul. + +_Grace_. + + Poor dove! Poor Mary! Have you suffered thus? + You had not even pride to keep you up. + Were he my husband, I had left him then-- + The ingrate! + +_Mary_. + + Not if you had loved as I; + Yet what you know is but a bitter drop + Of the full cup of gall that I have drained. + Had he left me unstained,--had I rebelled + Against the influence by which he sought + To bring me to a compromise with him,-- + To make my shrinking soul meet his half way, + It had been better; but he had an art, + When appetite or passion moved in him, + That clothed his sins with fair apologies, + And smoothed the wrinkles of a haggard guilt + With the good-natured hand of charity. + He knew he was a fool, he said, and said again; + But human nature would be what it was, + And life had never zest enough to bear + Too much dilution; those who work like slaves + Must have their days of frolic and of fun. + He doubted whether God would punish sin; + God was, in fact, too good to punish sin; + For sin itself was a compounded thing, + With weakness for its prime ingredient. + And thus he fooled a heart that loved him well; + And it went toward his heart by slow degrees, + Till Virtue seemed a frigid anchorite, + And Vice, a jolly fellow--bad enough, + But not so bad as Christian people think. + + This was the cunning work of months--nay, years; + And, meantime, Edward sank from bad to worse. + But he had conquered. Wine was on his board, + Without my protest--with a glass for me! + His boon companions came and went, and made + My home their rendezvous with my consent. + The doughty oath that shocked my ears at first, + The doubtful jest that meant, or might not mean, + That which should set a woman's brow aflame, + Became at last (oh, shame of womanhood!) + A thing to frown at with a covert smile; + Anything to smile at with a decent frown; + A thing to steal a grace from, as I feigned + The innocence of deaf unconsciousness. + And I became a jester. I could jest + In a wild way on sacred things and themes; + And I have thought that in his better moods + My husband shrank with horror from the work + Which he had wrought in me. + + I do not know + If, during all these downward-tending years, + Edward kept well his faith with me. I know + He used to tell me, in his boastful way, + How he had broke the hearts of pretty maids. + And that if he were single--well-a-day! + The time was past for thinking upon that! + And I had heart to toss the badinage + Back in his teeth, with pay of kindred coin; + And tell him lies to stir his bestial mirth; + And make my boast of conquests; and pretend + That the true heart I had bestowed on him + Had flown, and left him but an empty hand. + + I had some days of pain and penitence. + I saw where all must end. I saw, too well, + Edward was growing idle,--that his form + Was gathering disgustful corpulence,-- + That he was going down, and dragging me + To shame and ruin, beggary and death. + But judgment came, and overshadowed us; + And one quick bolt shot from the awful cloud + Severed the tie that bound two worthless lives. + What God hath joined together, God may part:-- + Grace, have you thought of that? + +_Grace_. + + You scare me, Mary! + Nay! Do not turn on me with such a look! + Its dread suggestion gives my heart a pang + That stops its painful beating. + +_Mary_. + + Let it pass! + One morn we woke with the first flush of light, + Our windows jarring with the cannonade + That ushered in the nation's festal day. + The village streets were full of men and boys, + And resonant with rattling mimicry + Of the black-throated monsters on the hill,-- + A crashing, crepitating war of fire,-- + And as we listened to the fitful feud, + Dull detonations came from far away, + Pulsing along the fretted atmosphere, + To tell that in the ruder villages + The day had noisy greeting, as in ours. + + I know not why it was, but then, and there, + I felt a sinking sadness, passing tears-- + A dark foreboding I could not dissolve, + Nor drive away. But when, next morn, I woke + In the sweet stillness of the Sabbath day, + And found myself alone, I knew that hearts + Which once have been God's temple, and in which + Something divine still lingers, feel the throb + Along the lines that bind them to the Throne + When judgment issues; and, though dumb and blind, + Shudder and faint with prophecies of ill. + How--by what cause--calamity should come, + I could not guess; that it was imminent + Seemed just as certain as the morning's dawn. + We were to have a gala day, indeed. + There were to be processions and parades; + A great oration in a mammoth tent, + With dinner following, and toast and speech + By all the wordy magnates of the town; + A grand balloon ascension afterwards; + And, in the evening, fireworks on the hill. + I knew that drink would flow from morn till night + In a wild maelstrom, circling slow around + The village rim, in bright careering waves, + But growing turbulent, and changed to ink + Around the village center, till, at last, + The whirling, gurgling vortex would engulf + A maddened multitude in drunkenness. + And this was in my thought (the while my heart + Was palpitating with its nameless fear), + As, wrapped in vaguest dreams, and purposeless, + I laced my shoe and gazed upon the sky. + Then strange determination stirred in me; + And, turning sharply on my chair, I said, + "Edward, where'er you go to-day, I go!" + If I had smitten him upon the face, + It had not tingled with a hotter flame. + He turned upon me with a look of hate-- + A something worse than anger--and, with oaths, + Raved like a fiend, and cursed me for a fool. + But I was firm; he could not shake my will; + So, through the morning, until afternoon, + He stayed at home, and drank and drank again, + Watching the clock, and pacing up and down, + Until, at length, he came and sat by me, + To try his hackneyed tricks of blandishment. + He had not meant, he said, to give offense; + But women in a crowd were out of place. + He wished to see the aeronauts embark, + And meet some friends; but there would be a throng + Of boys and drunken boors around the car, + And I should not enjoy it; more than this, + The rise would be a finer spectacle + At home than on the ground. I gave assent, + And he went out. Of course, I followed him; + For I had learned to read him, and I knew + There was some precious scheme of sin on foot. + + The crowd was heavy, and his form was lost + Quick as it touched the mass; but I pressed on, + Wild shouts and laughter punishing my ears, + Till I could see the bloated, breathing cone, + As if it were some monster of the sky + Caught by a net and fastened to the earth-- + A butt for jeers to all the merry mob. + But I was distant still; and if a man + In mad impatience tore a passage from + The crowd that pressed upon him, or a girl, + Frightened or fainting, was allowed escape, + I slid like water to the vacant space, + And thus, by deftly won advances, gained + The stand I coveted. + + We waited long; + And as the curious gazers stood and talked + About the diverse currents of the air, + And wondered where the daring voyagers + Would find a landing-place, a young man said, + In words intended for a spicy jest, + A man and woman living in the town + Had taken passage overland for hell! + + Then at a distance rose a scattering shout + That fixed the vision of the multitude, + Standing on eager tiptoe, and afar + I saw the crowd give way, and make a path + For the pale heroes of the crazy hour. + Hats were tossed wildly as they struggled on, + And the gap closed behind them, till, at length, + They stood within the ring. Oh, damning sight! + The woman was a painted courtezan; + The man, my husband! I was dumb as death. + My teeth were clenched together like a vise, + And every heavy heart-throb was a chill. + But there I stood, and saw the shame go on. + They took their seats; the signal gun was fired; + The cords were loosed; and then the billowy bulk + Shot toward the zenith! + + Never bent the sky + With a more cloudless depth of blue than then; + And, as they rose, I saw his faithless arm + Slide o'er her shoulder, and her dizzy head + Drop on his breast. Then I became insane. + I felt that I was struggling with a dream-- + A horrid phantasm I could not shake off. + The hollow sky was swinging like a bell; + The silken monster swinging like its tongue; + And as it reeled from side to side, the roar + Of voices round me rang, and rang again, + Tolling the dreadful knell of my despair. + + At the last moment I could trace his form, + Edward leaned over from his giddy seat, + And tossed out something on the air. I saw + The little missive fluttering slowly down, + And stretched my hand to catch it, for I knew, + Or thought I knew, that it would come to me. + And it did come to me--as if it slid + Upon the cord that bound my heart to his-- + Strained to its utmost tension--snapped at last. + I marked it as it fell. It was a rose. + I grasped it madly as it struck my hand, + And buried all its thorns within my palm; + But the fierce pain released my prisoned voice, + And, with a shriek, I staggered, swooned, and fell. + + That night was brushed from life. A passing friend + Directed those who bore me rudely off; + And I was carried to my home, and laid + Entranced upon my bed. The Sabbath morn + That followed all this din and devilry + Swung noiseless wide its doors of yellow light, + And in the hallowed stillness I awoke. + My heart was still; I could not stir a hand. + I thought that I was dying, or was dead.-- + That I had slipped through smooth unconsciousness + Into the everlasting silences. + I could not speak; but winning strength, at last, + I turned my eyes to seek for Edward's face, + And saw an unpressed pillow. He was gone! + + I was oppressed with awful sense of loss; + And, as a mother, by a turbid sea + That has engulfed her fairest child, sits down + And moans over the waters, and looks out + With curious despair upon the waves, + Until she marks a lock of floating hair, + And by its threads of gold draws slowly in, + And clasps and presses to her frenzied breast + The form it has no power to warm again, + So I, beside the sea of memory, + Lay feebly moaning, yearning for a clew + By which to reach my own extinguished life. + It came. A burning pain shot through my palm, + And thorns awoke what thorns had put to sleep. + It all came back to me--the roar, the rush, + The upturned faces, the insane hurrahs, + The skyward-shooting spectacle, the shame-- + And then I swooned again. + +_Grace_. + + But was he killed? + Did his foolhardy venture end in wreck? + Or did it end in something worse than wreck? + Surely, he came again! + +_Mary_. + + To me, no more. + He had his reasons, and I knew them soon; + But, first, the fire enkindled in my brain + Burnt through long weeks of fever--burnt my frame + Until it lay upon the sheet as white + As the pale ashes of a wasted coal. + Then, when strength came to me, and I could sit, + Braced by the double pillows that were mine, + A kind friend took my hand, and told me all. + + The day that Edward left me was the last + He could have been my husband; for the next + Disclosed his infamy and my disgrace. + He was a thief, and had been one, for years,-- + Defrauding those whose gold he held in trust; + And he was ruined--ruined utterly. + The very bed I sat on was not his, + Nor mine, except by tender charity. + A guilty secret menacing behind, + A guilty passion burning in his heart, + And, by his side, a guilty paramour, + He seized upon this reckless whim, and fled + From those he knew would curse him ere he slept. + + My cup was filled with wormwood; and it grew + Bitter and still more bitter, day by day, + Changing from shame and hate, to stern revenge. + Life had no more for me. My home was lost; + My heart unfitted to return to this; + And, reckless of the future, I went forth-- + A woman stricken, maddened, desperate. + I sought the city with as sure a scent + As vultures track a carcass through the air. + I knew him there, delivered up to sin, + And longed to taunt him with his infamy,-- + To haunt his haunts; to sting his perjured soul + With sharp reproaches; and to scare his eyes-- + With visions of his work upon my face. + + But God had other means than my revenge + To humble him, and other thought for me. + I saw him only once; we did not meet; + There was a street between us; yet it seemed + Wide as the unbridged gulf that yawns between + The rich man and the beggar. + + 'Twas at dawn. + I had arisen from the sleepless bed + Which my scant means had purchased, and gone forth + To taste the air, and cool my burning brow. + I wandered on, not knowing where I went, + Nor caring whither. There were few astir; + The market wagons lumbered slowly in, + Piled high with carcasses of slaughtered lambs, + Baskets of unhusked corn, and mint, and all + The fresh, green things that grow in country fields. + I read the signs--the long and curious names-- + And wondered who invented them, and if + Their owners knew how very strange they were. + A corps of weary firemen met me once, + Late home from service, with their gaudy car, + And loud with careless curses. Then I stopped, + And chatted with a frowsy-headed girl + Who knelt among her draggled skirts, and scrubbed + The heel-worn doorsteps of a faded house. + Then, as I left her, and resumed my walk, + I turned my eyes across the street, and saw + A sight which stopped my feet, my breath, my heart. + It was my husband. Oh, how sadly changed! + His bloodshot eyes stared from an anxious face; + His hat was battered, and his clothes were torn + And splashed with mud. His poisoned frame + Had shrunk away, until his garments hung + In folds about him. Then I knew it all: + His life had been a measureless debauch + Since his most shameless flight; and in his eye, + Eager and strained, and peering down the stairs + That tumbled to the anterooms of hell, + I saw the thirst which only death can quench. + He did not raise his eyes; I did not speak; + There was no work for me to do on him; + And when, at last, he tottered down the steps + Of a dark gin-shop, I was satisfied, + And half relentingly retraced my way. + + I cannot tell the story of the months + That followed this. I toiled and toiled for bread, + And for the shelter of one stingy room. + Temptation, which the hand of poverty + Bears oft seductively to woman's lips, + To me came not. I hated men like beasts; + Their flattering words, and wicked, wanton leers, + Sickened me with ineffable disgust. + At length there came a change. One warm Spring eve, + As I sat idly dreaming of the past, + And questioning the future, my quick ear + Caught sound of feet upon the creaking stairs, + And a light rap delivered at my door. + I said, "Come in!" with half-defiant voice, + Although I longed to see a human face, + And needed labor for my idle hands. + But when the door was opened, and there stood + A man before me, with an eye as pure + And brow as fair as any little child's, + Matched with a form and carriage which combined + All manly beauty, dignity, and grace, + A quick blush overwhelmed my pallid cheeks, + And, ere I knew, and by no act of will, + I rose and gave him gentle courtesy. + + He took a seat, and spoke with pleasant voice + Of many pleasant things--the pleasant sky, + The stars, the opening foliage in the park; + And then he came to business. He would have + A piece of exquisite embroidery; + My hand was cunning if report were true; + Would it oblige him? It would do, I said, + That which it could to satisfy his wish; + And when he took the delicate pattern out, + And spread the dainty fabric on his knees, + I knew he had a wife. + + He went away + With kind "Good night," and said that, with my leave, + He'd call and watch the progress of the work. + I marked his careful steps adown the stairs, + And then, his brisk, firm tread upon the pave, + Till in the dull roar of the distant streets + It mingled and was lost. Then I was lost,-- + Lost in a wild, wide-ranging reverie-- + From which I roused not till the midnight hush + Was broken by the toll from twenty towers. + This is a man, I said; a man in truth; + My room has known the presence of a man, + And it has gathered dignity from him. + I felt my being flooded with new life. + My heart was warm; my poor, sore-footed thoughts + Sprang up full fledged through ether; and I felt + Like the sick woman who had touched the hem + Of Jesus' garment, when through all her veins + Leaped the swift tides of youth. + + He had a wife! + Why, to a wrecked, forsaken thing like me + Did that thought bring a pang? I did not know; + But, truth to tell, it gave me stinging pain. + If he was noble, he was naught to me; + If he was great, it only made me less; + If he loved truly, I was not enriched. + So, in my selfishness, I almost cursed + The unknown woman, thought for whom had brought + Her loving husband to me. What was I + To him? Naught but a poor unfortunate, + Picking her bread up at a needle's point. + He'll come and criticise my handiwork, + I said, and when it is at last complete, + He'll draw his purse and give me so much gold; + And then, forgetting me for ever, go + And gather fragrant kisses for the boon, + From lips that do not know their privilege. + I could be nothing but the medium + Through which his love should pass to reach its shrine; + The glass through which the sun's electric beams + Kindles the rose's heart, and still remains + Chill and serene itself--without reward! + Then came to me the thought of my great wrong. + A man had spoiled my heart, degraded me; + A wanton woman had defrauded me; + I would get reparation how I could! + He must be something to me--I to him! + All men, however good, are weak, I thought; + And if I can arrest no beam of love + By right of nature or by leave of law, + I'll stain the glass! And the last words I said, + As I lay down upon my bed to dream, + Were those four words of sin: "I'll stain the glass!" + +_Grace_. + + Mary, I cannot hear you more; your tale, + So bitter and so passing pitiful + I have forgotten tears, and feel my eyes + Burn dry and hot with looking at your face, + Now gathers blackness, and grows horrible. + +_Mary_. + + Nay, you must hear me out; I cannot pause; + And have no worse to say than I have said-- + Thank God, and him who put away my toils! + He came, and came again; and every charm + God had bestowed on me, or art could frame, + I used with keenest ingenuities + To fascinate the sensuous element + O'er which, mistrusted, and but half asleep, + His conscience and propriety stood guard. + I told with tears the story of my woe; + He listened to me with a thoughtful face, + And sadly sighed; and thus I won his ruth, + And then I told him how my life was lost;-- + How earth had nothing more for me but pain; + Not e'en a friend. At this, he took my hand, + And said, out of his nobleness of heart, + That I should have an honest friend in him; + On which I bowed my head upon his arm, + And wept again, as if my heart would break + With the full pressure of his gratitude. + He put me gently off, and read my face: + I stood before him hopeless, helpless, his! + His swift soul gathered what I meant it should. + He sighed and trembled; then he crossed the floor, + And gazed with eye abstracted on the sky; + Then came and looked at me; then turned, + As if affrighted at his springing thoughts, + And, with abruptest movement, left the room. + + This time he took with him the broidered thing + That I had wrought for him; and when I oped + The little purse that he rewarded me, + I found full golden payment five times told. + Given for pity? thought I,--that alone? + Is manly pity so munificent? + Pity has mixtures that it knows not of! + + It was a cruel triumph, and I speak + Of it with utter penitence and shame. + I knew that he would come again; I knew + His feet would bring him, though his soul rebelled; + I knew that cheated heart of his would toy + With the seductive chains that gave it thrall, + And strive to reconcile its perjury + With its own conscience of the better way, + By fabrication of apologies + It knew were false. + + And he did come again; + Confessing a strange interest in me, + And doing for me many kindly deeds. + I knew the nature of the sympathy + That drew him to my side, better than he; + Though I could see that solemn change in him + Which every face will wear, when Heaven and Hell + Are struggling in the heart for mastery. + He was unhappy; every sudden sound + Startled his apprehensions; from his heart + Rose heavy suspirations, charged with prayer, + Desire, and deprecation, and remorse;-- + Sighs like volcanic breathings--sighs that scorched + His parching lips and spread his face with ashes,-- + Sighs born in such convulsions of the soul + That his strong frame quaked like Vesuvius, + Burdened with restless lava. + + Day by day + I marked this dalliance with sinful thought, + Without a throb of pity in my heart. + I took his gifts, which brought immunity + From toil and care, as if they were my right. + Day after day I saw my power increase, + Until that noble spirit was a slave-- + A craven, helpless, self-suspected slave. + + But this was not to last--thank God and him! + One night he came, and there had been a change. + My hand was kindly taken, but not held + In the way wonted. He was self-possessed; + The powers of darkness and his Christian heart + Had had a struggle--his the victory; + And on his manly brow the benison + Of a majestic peace had been imposed. + Was I to lose the guerdon of my guile? + He was my all, and by the only means + Left to a helpless, reckless thing, like me: + My heart made pledge the strife should be renewed. + I took no notice of his altered mood, + But strove, by all the tricks of tenderness, + To fan to life again the drooping flame + Within his heart;--with what success, at last, + The sequel shall reveal. + + Strange fire came down + Responsive to my call, and the quick flash + That shriveled resolution, vanquished will, + And with a blood-red flame consumed the crown + Of peace upon his brow, taught him how weak-- + How miserably imbecile--he had become, + Tampering with temptation. Such a groan, + Wrung from such agony, as then he breathed, + Pray Heaven my ears may never hear again! + He smote his forehead with his rigid palm, + And sank, as if the blow had stunned him, to his knees, + And there, with face pressed hard upon his hands + Gave utterance to frenzied sobs and prayers-- + The wild articulations of despair. + I was confounded. He--a man--thought I, + Blind with remorse by simple look at sin! + And I--a woman--in the devil's hands, + Luring him Hellward with no blush of shame! + The thought came swift from God, and pierced my heart, + Like a barbed arrow; and it quivered there + Through whiles of tumult--quivered--and was fast. + Thus, while I stood and marked his kneeling form, + Still shocked by deep convulsions, such a light + Illumed my soul, and flooded all the room, + That, without thought, I said, "The Lord is here!" + Then straight my spirit heard these wondrous words: + "Tempted in all points like ourselves, was He-- + Tempted, but sinless." Oh, what majesty + Of meaning did those precious words convey! + 'Twas through temptation, thought I, that the Lord-- + The mediator between God and men-- + Reached down the hand of sympathetic love + To meet the grasp of lost Humanity; + And this man, kneeling, has the Lord in him, + And comes to mediate 'twixt Christ and me, + "Tempted, but sinless;"--one hand grasping mine, + The other Christ's. + + Why had he suffered thus? + Why had his heart been led far down to mine, + To beat in sinful sympathy with mine, + But that my heart should cling to his and him, + And follow his withdrawal to the heights + From whence he had descended? Then I learned + Why Christ was tempted; and, as broad and full, + The heart of the great secret was revealed, + And I perceived God's dealings with my soul, + I knelt beside the tortured man and wept, + And cried to Heaven for mercy. As I prayed, + My soul cast off its shameful enterprise; + And when it fell, I saw my godless self-- + My own degraded, tainted, guilty heart, + Which it had hidden from me. Oh, the pang-- + The poignant throe of uttermost despair-- + That followed the discovery! I felt + That I was lost beyond the grace of God; + And my heart turned with instinct sure and swift + To the strong struggler, praying at my side, + And begged his succor and his prayers. I felt + That he must lead me up to where the hand + Of Jesus could lay hold on me, or I was doomed. + Temptation's spell was past. He took my hand. + And, as he prayed that we might be forgiven, + And pledged our future loyalty to God + And His white throne within our hearts, I gave + Responses to each promise; then I crowned + His closing utterance with such Amen + As weak hearts, conscious of their weakness, give + When, bowed to dust, and clinging to the robes + Of outraged mercy, they devote themselves + Once and for ever to the pitying Christ. + + Then we arose and stood upon our feet. + He gave me no reproaches, but with voice + Attempered to his altered mood, confessed + His own blameworthiness, and pressed the prayer + That I would pardon him, as he believed + That God had pardoned; but my heart was full,-- + So full of its sore sense of wrong to him, + Of the deep guilt of shameful purposes + And treachery to worthy womanhood, + That I could not repeat his Christian words, + Asking forbearance on my own behalf. + + He sat before me for a golden hour; + And gave me counsel and encouragement, + Till, like broad gates, the possibilities + Of a serener and a higher life + Were thrown wide open to my eager feet, + And I resolved that I would enter in, + And, with God's gracious help, go no more out. + + For weeks he watched me with stern carefulness, + Nourished my resolution, prayed with me, + And led me, step by step, to higher ground, + Till, gathering impulse in the upward walk, + And strength in purer air, and keener sight + In the sweet light that dawned upon my soul, + I grasped the arm of Jesus, and was safe. + And now, when I look back upon my life, + It seems as if that noble man were sent + To give me rescue from the pit of death. + But from his distant height he could not reach + And act upon my soul; so Heaven allowed + Temptation's ladder 'twixt his soul and mine + That they might meet and yield his mission thrift. + I doubt not in my grateful soul to-night + That had he stayed within his higher world, + And tried to call me to him, I had spurned + Alike his mission and his ministry. + That he was tempted, was at once my sin + And my salvation. That he sinned in thought, + And fiercely wrestled with temptation, won + For his own spirit that humility + Which God had sought to clothe him with in vain, + By other measures, and that strength which springs + From a great conflict and a victory. + We talked of this; and on our bended knees + We blessed the Great Dispenser for the means + By which we both had learned our sinful selves, + And found the way to a diviner life. + So, with my chastened heart and life, I come + Back to my home, to live--perhaps to die. + God's love has been in all this discipline; + God's love has used those awful sins of mine + To make me good and happy. I can mourn + Over my husband; I can pray for him, + Nay, I forgive him; for I know the power + With which temptation comes to stronger men. + I know the power with which it came to me. + + And now, dear Grace, my story is complete. + You have received it with dumb wonderment, + And it has been too long. Tell me what thought + Stirs in your face, and waits for utterance. + +_Grace_. + + That I have suffered little--trusted less; + That I have failed in charity, and been + Unjust to all men--specially to one. + I did not think there lived a man on earth + Who had such virtue as this friend of yours,-- + Weak, and yet strong. 'Twas but humanity + To give him pity in his awful strife; + To stint the meed of reverence and praise + For his triumphant conquest of himself, + Were infamy. I love and honor him; + And if I knew my husband were as strong, + I could fall down before, and worship him; + I could fall down, and wet his feet with tears-- + Tears penitential for the grievous wrong + That I have done him. But alas! alas! + The thought comes back again. O God in heaven! + Help me with patience to await the hour + When the great purpose of thy discipline + Shall be revealed, and, like this chastened one, + I can behold it, and be satisfied. + +_Mary_. + + Hark! They are calling us below, I think. + We must go down. We'll talk of this again + When we have leisure. Kiss the little one, + And thank his weary brain it sleeps so well. + + [_They descend_.] + + + + +SECOND EPISODE. + + * * * * * + +LOCALITY--_The Kitchen_. + +PRESENT--JOSEPH, SAMUEL, REBEKAH, _and other_ +CHILDREN. + + * * * * * + +THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY STORY. + + +_Joseph_. + + Have we not had "Button-Button" enough, + And "Forfeits," and all such silly stuff? + +_Samuel_. + + Well, we were playing "Blind-Man's-Buff" + Until you fell, and rose in a huff, + And declared the game was too rude and rough. + Poor boy! What a pity he isn't tough! + +_All_. + + Ha! ha! ha! what a pretty boy! + Papa's delight, and mamma's joy! + Wouldn't he like to go to bed, + And have a cabbage-leaf on his head? + +_Joseph_. + + Laugh, if you like to! Laugh till you're gray; + But I guess you'd laugh another way + If you'd hit your toe, and fallen like me, + And cut a bloody gash in your knee, + And bumped your nose and bruised your shin, + Tumbling over the rolling-pin + That rolled to the floor in the awful din + That followed the fall of the row of tin + That stood upon the dresser. + +_Samuel_. + + Guess again--dear little guesser! + You wouldn't catch this boy lopping his wing, + Or whining over anything. + So stir your stumps, + Forget your bumps, + Get out of your dumps, + And up and at it again; + For the clock is striking ten, + And Ruth will come pretty soon and say, + "Go to your beds + You sleepy heads!" + So--quick! What shall we play? + +_Rebekah_. + + I wouldn't play any more, + For Joseph is tired and sore + With his fall upon the floor. + +_All_. + + Then he shall tell a story. + +_Joseph_. + + About old Mother Morey? + +_All_. + + No! Tell us another. + +_Joseph_. + + About my brother? + +_Rebekah_. + + Now, Joseph, you shall be good, + And do as you'd be done by; + We didn't mean to be rude + When you fell and began to cry: + We wanted to make you forget your pain; + But it frets you, and we'll not laugh again. + +_Joseph_. + + Well, if you'll all sit still, + And not be frisking about, + Nor utter a whisper till + You've heard my story out, + I'll tell you a tale as weird + As ever you heard in your lives, + Of a man with a long blue beard, + And the way he treated his wives. + +_All_. + + Oh, that will be nice! + We'll be still as mice. + +_Joseph_. + + [_Relates the old story of Blue Beard, and_ + DAVID, _and_ RUTH _enter from the cellar + unperceived_.] + + Centuries since there flourished a man, + (A cruel old Tartar as rich as the Khan), + Whose castle was built on a splendid plan, + With gardens and groves and plantations; + But his shaggy beard was as blue as the sky, + And he lived alone, for his neighbors were shy. + And had heard hard stories, by the by, + About his domestic relations. + + Just on the opposite side of the plain + A widow abode, with her daughters twain; + And one of them--neither cross nor vain-- + Was a beautiful little treasure; + So he sent them an invitation to tea, + And having a natural wish to see + His wonderful castle and gardens, all three + Said they'd do themselves the pleasure. + + As soon as there happened a pleasant day, + They dressed themselves in a sumptuous way, + And rode to the castle as proud and gay + As silks and jewels could make them; + And they were received in the finest style, + And saw everything that was worth their while, + In the halls of Blue Beard's grand old pile, + Where he was so kind as to take them. + + The ladies were all enchanted quite; + For they found old Blue Beard so polite + That they did not suffer at all from fright, + And frequently called thereafter; + Then he offered to marry the younger one, + And as she was willing the thing was done, + And celebrated by all the ton + With feasting and with laughter. + + As kind a husband as ever was seen + Was Blue Beard then, for a month, I ween; + And she was as proud as any queen, + And as happy as she could be, too; + But her husband called her to him one day, + And said, "My dear, I am going away; + It will not be long that I shall stay; + There is business for me to see to. + + "The keys of my castle I leave with you; + But if you value my love, be true, + And forbear to enter the Chamber of Blue! + Farewell, Fatima! Remember!" + Fatima promised him; then she ran + To visit the rooms with her sister Ann; + But when she had finished the tour, she began + To think about the Blue Chamber. + + Well, the woman was curiously inclined, + So she left her sister and prudence behind, + (With a little excuse) and started to find + The mystery forbidden. + She paused at the door;--all was still as night! + She opened it: then through the dim, blue light + There blistered her vision the horrible sight + That was in that chamber hidden. + + The room was gloomy and damp and wide, + And the floor was red with the bloody tide + From headless women, laid side by side, + The wives of her lord and master! + Frightened and fainting, she dropped the key, + But seized it and lifted it quickly; then she + Hurried as swiftly as she could flee + From the scene of the disaster. + + She tried to forget the terrible dead, + But shrieked when she saw that the key was red, + And sickened and shook with an awful dread + When she heard Blue Beard was coming. + He did not appear to notice her pain; + But he took his keys, and seeing the stain, + He stopped in the middle of the refrain + That he had been quietly humming. + + "Mighty well, madam!" said he, "mighty well! + What does this little bloodstain tell? + You've broken your promise; prepare to dwell + With the wives I've had before you! + You've broken your promise, and you shall die." + Then Fatima, supposing her death was nigh, + Fell on her knees and began to cry, + "Have mercy, I implore you!" + + "No!" shouted Blue Beard, drawing his sword; + "You shall die this very minute," he roared. + "Grant me time to prepare to meet my Lord," + The terrified woman entreated. + "Only ten minutes," he roared again; + And holding his watch by its great gold chain, + He marked on the dial the fatal ten, + And retired till they were completed. + + "Sister, oh, sister, fly up to the tower! + Look for release from this murderer's power! + Our brothers should be here this very hour;-- + Speak! Does there come assistance?" + "No. I see nothing but sheep on the hill." + "Look again, sister!" "I'm looking still, + But naught can I see, whether good or ill, + Save a flurry of dust in the distance." + + "Time's up!" shouted Blue Beard, out from his room; + "This moment shall witness your terrible doom, + And give you a dwelling within the room + Whose secrets you have invaded." + "Comes there no help for my terrible need?" + "There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed." + "Oh! tell them to ride very fast indeed, + Or I must meet death unaided." + + "Time's fully up! Now have done with your prayer," + Shouted Blue Beard, swinging his sword on the stair; + Then he entered, and grasping her beautiful hair, + Swung his glittering weapon around him; + But a loud knock rang at the castle gate, + And Fatima was saved from her horrible fate, + For, shocked with surprise, he paused too late; + And then the two soldiers found him. + + They were her brothers, and quick as they knew + What the fiend was doing, their swords they drew, + And attacked him fiercely, and ran him through, + So that soon he was mortally wounded. + With a wild remorse was his conscience filled + When he thought of the hapless wives he had killed; + But quickly the last of his blood was spilled, + And his dying groan was sounded. + + As soon as Fatima recovered from fright, + She embraced her brothers with great delight; + And they were as glad and as grateful quite + As she was glad and grateful. + Then they all went out from that scene of pain, + And sought in quietude to regain + Their minds, which had come to be quite insane, + In a place so horrid and hateful. + + 'Twas a private funeral Blue Beard had; + For the people knew he was very bad, + And, though they said nothing, they all were glad + For the fall of the evil-doer; + But Fatima first ordered some graves to be made, + And there the unfortunate ladies were laid, + And after some painful months, with the aid + Of her friends, her spirits came to her. + + Then she cheered the hearts of the suffering poor, + And an acre of land around each door + And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more, + To her tenantry she granted. + So all of them had enough to eat, + And their love for her was so complete + They would kiss the dust from her little feet, + Or do anything she wanted. + +_Samuel_. + + Capital! Capital! Wasn't it good! + I should like to have been her brother; + If I had been one, you may guess there would + Have been little work for the other. + I'd have run him right through the heart, just so; + And cut off his head at a single blow, + And killed him so quickly he'd never know + What it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe? + +_Joseph_. + + You are very brave with your bragging tongue; + But if you had been there, you'd have sung + A very different tune + Poor Blue Beard! He would have been afraid + Of a little boy with a penknife blade, + Or a tiny pewter spoon! + +_Samuel_. + + It makes no difference what you say + (Pretty little boy, afraid to play!) + But it served him rightly any way, + And gave him just his due. + And wasn't it good that his little wife + Should live in his castle the rest of her life, + And have all his money, too? + +_Rebekah_. + + I'm thinking of the ladies who + Were lying in the Chamber Blue, + With all their small necks cut in two. + + I see them lying, half a score, + In a long row upon the floor, + Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore. + I know the sweet Fatima would + Have put their heads on if she could; + And made them live--she was so good; + + And washed their faces at the sink; + But Blue Beard was not sane, I think: + I wonder if he did not drink! + + For no man in his proper mind + Would be so cruelly inclined + As to kill ladies who were kind. + +_Ruth_. + + [_Stepping forward with_ DAVID.] + + Story and comment alike are bad; + These little fellows are raving mad + With thinking what they should do, + Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had + Given her heart--and her head--to a lad + Like the man with the Beard of Blue. + Each little jacket + Is now a packet + Of murderous thoughts and fancies; + Oh, the gentle trade + By which fiends are made + With the ready aid + Of these bloody old romances! + And the little girl takes the woman's turn, + And thinks that the old curmudgeon + Who owned the castle, and rolled in gold + Over fields and gardens manifold, + And kept in his house a family tomb, + With his bowling course and his billiard-room, + Where he could preserve his precious dead, + Who took the kiss of the bridal bed + From one who straightway took their head, + And threw it away with the pair of gloves + In which he wedded his hapless loves, + Had some excuse for his dudgeon. + +_David_. + + We learn by contrast to admire + The beauty that enchains us; + And know the object of desire + By that which pains us. + + The roses blushing at the door, + The lapse of leafy June, + The singing birds, the sunny shore, + The summer moon;-- + + All these entrance the eye or ear + By innate grace and charm; + But o'er them, reaching through the year, + Hangs Winter's arm. + + To give to memory the sign, + The index of our bliss, + And show by contrast how divine + The Summer is. + + From chilling blasts and stormy skies, + Bare hills and icy streams, + Touched into fairest life arise + Our summer dreams. + + And virtue never seems so fair + As when we lift our gaze + From the red eyes and bloody hair + That vice displays. + + We are too low,--our eyes too dark + Love's height to estimate, + Save as we note the sunken mark + Of brutal Hate. + + So this ensanguined tale shall move + Aright each little dreamer, + And Blue Beard teach them how to love + The sweet Fatima. + + They hate his crimes, and it is well; + They pity those who died; + Their sense of justice when he fell + Was satisfied. + + No fierce revenges are the fruit + Of their just indignation; + They sit in judgment on the brute, + And condemnation; + + And turn to her, his rescued wife, + Her deeds so kind and human, + And love the beauty of her life, + And bless the woman. + +_Ruth_. + + That is the way I supposed you would twist it; + And now that the boys are disposed of, + And the moral so handsomely closed off, + What do you say of the girl? That she missed + + When she thought of old Blue Beard as some do of Judas, + Who with this notion essay to delude us: + That when he relented, + And fiercely repented, + He was hardly so bad + As he commonly had + The fortune to be represented? + +_David_. + + The noblest pity in the earth + Is that bestowed on sin. + The Great Salvation had its birth + That ruth within. + + The girl is nearest God, in fact; + The boy gives crime its due; + She blames the author of the act, + And pities too. + + Thus, from this strange excess of wrong + Her tender heart has caught + The noblest truth, the sweetest song, + The Saviour taught. + + So, more than measured homily, + Of sage, or priest, or preacher, + Is this wild tale of cruelty + Love's gentle teacher. + + It tells of sin, its deep remorse, + Its fitting recompense, + And vindicates the tardy course + Of Providence. + + These boyish bosoms are on fire + With chivalric possession, + And burn with just and manly ire + Against oppression. + + The glory and the grace of life, + And Love's surpassing sweetness, + Rise from the monster to the wife + In high completeness; + + And thence look down with mercy's eye + On sin's accurst abuses, + And seek to wrest from charity + Some fair excuses. + +_Ruth_. + + These greedy mouths are watering + For the fruit within the basket; + And, although they will not ask it, + Their jack-knives all are burning + And their eager hands are yearning + For the peeling and the quartering. + So let us have done with our talk; + For they are too tired to say their prayers, + And the time is come they should walk + From the story below to the story upstairs. + + + + +THE THIRD MOVEMENT. + +LOCALITY.--_The Kitchen_. + +PRESENT.-DAVID, RUTH, JOHN, PETER, PRUDENCE, +_and_ PATIENCE, + +THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY THE +DENOUEMENT. + +_John_. + + Since the old gentleman retired to bed, + Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Ruth, + Have wasted thirty minutes underground + In explorations. One would think the house + Covered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave, + And they had lost themselves. Mary and Grace + Still hold their chamber and their conference, + And pour into each other's greedy ears + Their stream of talk, whose low monotonous hum, + Would lull to slumber any storm but this. + The children are play-tired and gone to bed; + And one may know by looking round the room + Their place of sport was here. And we, plain folk, + Who have no gift of speech, especially + On themes which we and none may understand, + Have yawned and nodded in the great square room, + And wondered if the parted family + Would ever meet again. + +_Ruth_. + + John, do you see + The apples and the cider on the hearth? + If I remember rightly, you discuss + Such themes as these with noticeable zest + And pleasant tokens of intelligence; + Rather preferring scanty company + To the full circle. So, sir, take the lead, + And help yourself. + +_John_. + + Aye! That I will, and give + Your welcome invitation currency, + In the old-fashioned way. Come! Help yourselves! + +_David_. + + [_Looking out from the window_.] + + The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls! + The atmosphere is plunging like the sea + Against the woods, and pouring on the night + The roar of breakers, while the blinding spray + O'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting on + In lines as level as the window-bars. + What curious visions, in a night like this, + Will the eye conjure from the rocks and trees + And zigzag fences! I was almost sure + I saw a man staggering along the road + A moment since; but instantly the shape + Dropped from my sight. Hark! Was not that a call-- + A human voice? There's a conspiracy + Between my eyes and ears to play me tricks, + Else wanders there abroad some hapless soul + Who needs assistance. There he stands again, + And with unsteady essay strives to breast + The tempest. Hush! Did you not hear that cry? + Quick, brothers! We must out, and give our aid. + None but a dying and despairing man + Ever gave utterance to a cry like that. + Nay, wait for nothing. Follow me! + +_Ruth_. + + Alas! + Who can he be, who on a night like this, + And on this night, of all nights in the year, + Holds to the highway, homeless? + +_Prudence_. + + Probably + Some neighbor, started from his home in quest + Of a physician; or, more likely still, + Some poor inebriate, sadly overcome + By his sad keeping of the holiday. + I hope they'll give him quarters in the barn; + If he sleep here, there'll be no sleep for me. + +_Patience_. + + I'll not believe it was a man at all; + David and Ruth are always seeing things + That no one else sees. + +_Ruth_. + + I see plainly now + What we shall all see plainly, soon enough. + The man is dead, and they are bearing him + As if he were a log. Quick! Stir the fire, + And clear the settle! We must lay him there. + I will bring cordials, and flannel stuffs + With which to chafe him; open wide the door. + + [_The men enter bearing a body apparently + lifeless, which they lay upon the settle.] + +_David_. + + Now do my bidding, orderly and swift; + And we may save from death a fellow-man. + Peter, relieve him of those frozen shoes, + And wrap his feet in flannel. This way, Ruth! + Administer that cordial yourself. + John, you are strong, and that rough hand of yours + Will chafe him well. Work with a will, I say! + + * * * * * + + My hand is on his heart, and I can feel + Both warmth and motion. If we persevere, + He will be saved. Work with a will, I say! + + * * * * * + + A groan? Ha! That is good. Another groan? + Better and better! + +_Ruth_. + + It is down at last!-- + A spoonful of the cordial. His breath + Comes feebly, but is warm upon my hand. + + _David_. + + Give him brisk treatment, and persistent, too; + And we shall be rewarded presently, + For there is life in him. + + * * * * * + He moves his lips + And tries to speak. + + * * * * * + + And now he opes his eyes. + What eyes! How wandering and wild they are! + + [_To the stranger_.] + + We are your friends. We found you overcome + By the cold storm without, and brought you in. + We are your friends, I say; so be at ease, + And let us do according to your need. + What is your wish? + +_Stranger_. + + My friends? O God in Heaven! + They've cheated me! I'm in the hospital. + Oh, it was cruel to deceive me thus! + No, you are not my friends. What bitter pain + Racks my poor body! + +_David_. + + Poor man, how he raves! + Let us be silent while the warmth and wine + Provoke his sluggish blood to steady flow, + And each dead sense comes back to life again, + O'er the same path of torture which it trod + When it went out from him. He'll slumber soon, + And, when he wakens, we may talk with him. + +_Prudence_. + + [Sotto voce_.] + + Shall I not call the family? I think + Mary and Grace must both be very cold; + And they know nothing of this strange affair. + I'll wait them at the landing, and secure + Their silent entrance. + +_David_. + + If it please you--well. + + [PRUDENCE _retires, and returns with_ + GRACE _and_ MARY.] + +_Mary_. + + Why! We heard nothing of it--Grace and I:-- + What a cadaverous hand! How blue and thin! + +_David_. + + At his first wild awaking he bemoaned + His fancied durance in a hospital; + And since he spoke so strangely, I have thought + He may have fled a mad-house. Matters not! + We've done our duty, and preserved his life. + +_Mary_. + + Shall I disturb him if I look at him? + I'm strangely curious to see his face. + +_David_. + + Go. Move you carefully, and bring us word + Whether he sleeps. + + [MARY _rises, goes to the settle, and sinks + back fainting _] + + Why! What ails the girl? + I thought her nerves were iron. Dash her brow, + And bathe her temples! + +_Mary_. + + There--there,--that will do. + 'Tis over now. + +_David_. + + The man is speaking. Hush! + +_Stranger_. + + Oh, what a heavenly dream! But it is past, + Like all my heavenly dreams, for never more + Shall dream entrance me. Death has never dreams, + But everlasting wakefulness. The eye + Of the quick spirit that has dropped the flesh + May close no more in slumber. + + * * * * * + + I must die! + This painless spell which binds my weary limbs-- + This peace ineffable of soul and sense-- + Is dissolution's herald, and gives note + That life is conquered and the struggle o'er. + But I had hoped to see her ere I died; + To kneel for pardon, and implore one kiss, + Pledge to my soul that in the coming heaven + We should not meet as strangers, but rejoin + Our hearts and lives so madly sundered here, + Through fault and freak of mine. But it is well! + God's will be done! + + * * * * * + + I dreamed that I had reached + The old red farmhouse,--that I saw the light + Flaming as brightly as in other times + It flushed the kitchen windows; and that forms + Were sliding to and fro in joyous life, + Restless to give me welcome. Then I dreamed + Of the dear woman who went out with me + One sweet spring morning, in her own sweet spring, + To--wretchedness and ruin. Oh, forgive-- + Dear, pitying Christ, forgive this cruel wrong, + And let me die! Oh let me--let me die! + Mary! my Mary! Could you only know + How I have suffered since I fled from you.-- + How I have sorrowed through long months of pain, + And prayed for pardon,--you would pardon me. + +_David_. + + [_Sotto voce_] + + Mary, what means this? Does he dream alone, + Or are we dreaming? + +_Mary_. + + Edward, I am here! + I am your Mary! Know you not my face? + My husband, speak to me! Oh, speak once more! + This is no dream, but kind reality. + +_Edward_. + + [_Raising himself, and looking wildly around_.] + + You, Mary? Is this heaven, and am I dead? + I did not know you died: when did you die? + And John and Peter, Grace and little Ruth + Grown to a woman; are they all with you? + 'Tis very strange! O pity me, my friends! + For God has pitied me, and pardoned, too; + Else I should not be here. Nay, you seem cold, + And look on me with sad severity. + Have you no pardoning word--no smile for me? + +_Mary_. + + This is not Heaven's, but Earth's reality; + This is the farm-house--these your wife and friends. + I hold your hand, and I forgive you all. + Pray you recline! You are not strong enough + To bear this yet. + +_Edward_. + + [_Sinking back_.] + + O toiling heart! O sick and sinking heart! + Give me one hour of service, ere I die! + This is no dream. This hand is precious flesh, + And I am here where I have prayed to be. + My God, I thank thee! Thou hast heard my prayer, + And, in its answer, given me a pledge + Of the acceptance of my penitence. + How have I yearned for this one priceless hour! + Cling to me, dearest, while my feet go down + Into the silent stream; nor loose your hold, + Till angels grasp me on the other side. + +_Mary_. + + Edward, you are not dying--must not die; + For only now are we prepared to live. + You must have quiet, and a night of rest. + Be silent, if you love me! + +_Edward_. + + If I love? + Ah, Mary! never till this blessed hour, + When power and passion, lust and pride are gone, + Have I perceived what wedded love may be;-- + Unutterable fondness, soul for soul; + Profoundest tenderness between two hearts + Allied by nature, interlocked by life. + I know that I shall die; but the low clouds + That closed my mental vision have retired, + And left a sky as clear and calm as Heaven. + I must talk now, or never more on earth; + So do not hinder me. + +_Mary_. + + [_Weeping_.] + + Have you a wish + That I can gratify? Have you any words + To send to other friends? + +_Edward_. + + I have no friends + But you and these, and only wish to leave + My worthless name and memory redeemed + Within your hearts to pitying respect. + I have no strength, and it becomes me not, + To tell the story of my life of sin. + I was a drunkard, thief, adulterer; + And fled from shame, with shame, to find remorse. + I had but few months of debauchery, + Pursued with mad intent to damp or drown + The flames of a consuming conscience, when + My body, poisoned, crippled with disease, + Refused the guilty service of my soul, + And at midday fell prone upon the street. + Thence I was carried to a hospital, + And there I woke to that delirium + Which none but drunkards this side of the pit + May even dream of. + + But at last there came, + With abstinence and kindly medicines, + Release from pain and peaceful sanity; + And then Christ found me, ready for His hand. + I was not ready for Him when He came + And asked me for my youth; and when He knocked + At my heart's door in manhood's early prime + With tenderest monitions, I debarred + His waiting feet with promise and excuse; + And when, in after years, absorbed in sin, + The gentle summons swelled to thunderings + That echoed through the chambers of my soul + With threats of vengeance, I shut up my ears; + And then He went away, and let me rush + Without arrest, or protest, toward the pit. + I made swift passage downward, till, at length, + I had become a miserable wreck-- + Pleasure behind me; only pain before; + My life lived out; the fires of passion dead, + Without a friend; no pride, no power, no hope; + No motive in me e'en to wish for life. + Then, as I said, Christ came, with stern and sad + Reminders of His mercy and my guilt, + And the door fell before Him. + + I went out, + And trod the wildernesses of remorse + For many days. Then from their outer verge, + Tortured and blinded, I plunged madly down + Into the sullen bosom of despair; + But strength from Heaven was given me, and preserved + Breath in my bosom, till a light streamed up + Upon the other shore, and I struck out + On the cold waters, struggling for my life. + Fainting I reached the beach, and on my knees + Climbed up the thorny hill of penitence, + Till I could see, upon its distant brow, + The Saviour beck'ning. Then I ran--I flew-- + And grasped His outstretched hand. It lifted me + High on the everlasting rock, and then + It folded me, with all my griefs and tears, + My sin-sick body and my guilt-stained soul, + To the great heart that throbs for all the world. + +_Mary_. + + Dear Lord, I bless Thee! Thou hast heard my prayer, + And saved the wanderer! Hear it once again, + And lengthen out the life Thou hast redeemed! + +_Edward_. + + Mary, my wife, forbear! I may not give + Response to such petition. I have prayed + That I may die. When first the love Divine + Received me on its bosom, and in mine + I felt the springing of another life, + I begged the Lord to grant me two requests: + The first that I might die, and in that world + Where passion sleeps, and only influence + From Him and those who cluster at His throne + Breathes on the soul, the germ of His great life, + Bursting within me, might be perfected. + The second, that your life, my love, and mine + Might be once more united on the earth + In holy marriage, and that mine might be + Breathed out at last within your loving arms. + One prayer is granted, and the other waits + But a brief space for its accomplishment. + +_Mary_. + + But why this prayer to die? Still loving me,-- + With the great motive for desiring life + And the deep secret of enjoyment won,-- + Why pray for death? + +_Edward_. + + Do you not know me, Mary? + I am afraid to live, for I am weak. + I've found a treasure only life can steal; + I've won a jewel only death will keep. + In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearl + Would not be safe. That which I would not take + When health was with me,--which I spurned away + So long as I had power to sin, I fear + Would be surrendered with that power's return + And the temptation to its exercise. + For soul like mine, diseased in every part, + There is but one condition in which grace + May give it service. For my malady + The Great Physician draws the blood away + That only flows to feed its baleful fires; + For only thus the balsam and the balm + May touch the springs of healing. + + So I pray + To be delivered from myself,--to be + Delivered from necessity of ill,-- + To be secured from bringing harm to you. + Oh, what a boon is death to the sick soul! + I greet it with a joy that passes speech. + Were the whole world to come before me now,-- + Wealth with its treasures; Pleasure with its cup; + Power robed in purple; Beauty in its pride, + And with Love's sweetest blossoms garlanded; + Fame with its bays, and Glory with its crown,-- + To tempt me lifeward, I would turn away, + And stretch my hands with utter eagerness + Toward the pale angel waiting for me now, + And give my hand to him, to be led out, + Serenely singing, to the land of shade. + +_Mary_. + + Edward, I yield you. I would not retain + One who has strayed so long from God and heaven, + When his weak feet have found the only path + Open for such as he. + + _Edward_. + + My strength recedes; + But ere it fail, tell me how fares your life. + You have seen sorrow; but it comforts me + To hear the language of a chastened soul + From one perverted by my guilty hand. + You speak the dialect of the redeemed-- + The Heaven-accepted. Tell me it is so, + And you are happy. + + _Mary_. + + With sweet hope and trust + I may reply, 'tis as you think and wish. + I have seen sorrow, surely, and the more + That I have seen what was far worse; but God + Sent His own servant to me to restore + My sadly straying feet to the sure path; + And in my soul I have the pledge of grace + Which shall suffice to keep them there. + +_Edward_. + + Ah, joy! + You found a friend; and my o'erflowing heart, + Welling with gratitude, pours out to him + For his kind ministry its fitting meed. + Oh, breathe his name to me, that my poor lips + May bind it to a benison, and that, + While dying, I may whisper it with those-- + Jesus and Mary--which I love the best. + Name him, I pray you. + +_Mary_. + + You would ask of me + To bear your thanks to him, and to rehearse + Your dying words? + +_Grace_. + + He asks your good friend's name; + You do not understand him. + +_Mary_. + + It is hard + To give denial to a dying wish; + But, Edward, I've no right to speak his name. + He was a Christian man, and you may give + Of the full largess of your gratitude + All, without robbing God, you have to give, + And fail, e'en then, of worthy recompense. + +_Edward_. + + Your will is mine. + +_Grace_. + + Nay, Mary, tell it him! + Where is he going he should bruit the name? + Remember where he lies, and that no ears + Save those of angels-- + +_Mary_. + + There are others here + Who may not hear it. + +_Ruth_. + + We will all retire. + It is not proper we should linger here, + Barring the sacred confidence of hearts + Parting so sadly. + +_David_. + + Mary, you must yield, + Nor keep the secret longer from your friends, + +_Mary_. + + David, you know not what you say. + +_David_. + + I know; + So give the dying man no more delay. + +_Mary_. + + I will declare it under your command. + This stranger friend--stranger for many months-- + This man, selectest instrument of Heaven, + Who gave me succor in my hour of need, + Snatched me from ruin, rescued me from want, + Counseled and cheered me, prayed with me, and then + Led me with careful hand into the light, + Was he now bending over you in tears-- + David, my brother! + +_Edward_. + + Blessed be his name! + Brother by every law, above--below! + +_Grace_. + + [_Pale and trembling_,] + + David? My husband? Did I hear aright? + You are not jesting! Sure you would not jest + At such a juncture! Speak, my husband, speak! + Is this a plot to cheat a dying man, + Or cheat a wife who, if it be no plot, + Is worthy death? What can you mean by this? + +_Mary_. + + Not more nor less than my true words convey. + +_Grace_. + + Nay, David, tell me! + +_David_. + + Mary's words are truth. +_Grace_. + + O mean and jealous heart, what hast thou done! + What wrong to honor, spite to Christian love, + And shame to self beyond self-pardoning! + How can I ever lift my faithless eyes + To those true eyes that I have counted false; + Or meet those lips that I have charged with lies; + Or win the dear embraces I have spurned? + O most unhappy, most unworthy wife! + No one but he who still has clung to thee,-- + Proud, and imperious, and impenitent,-- + No one but he who has in silence borne + Thy peevish criminations and complaints + Can now forgive thee, when in deepest shame + Thou bowest with confession of thy faults. + Dear husband! David! Look upon your wife! + Behold one kneeling never knelt to you! + I have abused you and your faithful love, + And, in my great humiliation, pray + You will not trample me beneath your feet. + Pity my weakness, and remember, too, + That Love was jealous of thee, and not Hate-- + That it was Love's own pride tormented me. + My husband, take me once more to your arms, + And kiss me in forgiveness; say that you + Will be my counselor, my friend, my love; + And I will give myself to you again, + To be all yours--my reason, confidence, + My faith and trust all yours, my heart's best love, + My service and my prayers, all yours--all yours! + +_David_. + + Rise, dearest, rise! It gives me only pain + That such as you should kneel to such as I. + Your words inform me that you know how weak + I am whom you have only fancied weak. + Forgive you? I forgive you everything; + And take the pardon which your prayer insures. + Let this embrace, this kiss, be evidence + Our jarring hearts catch common rhythm again, + And we are lovers. + +_Ruth_. + + Hush! You trouble him. + He understands this scene no more than we. + Mary, he speaks to you. + +_Edward_. + + Dear wife, farewell! + The room grows dim, and silently and soft + The veil is dropping 'twixt my eyes and yours, + Which soon will hide me from you--you from me. + Only one hand is warm; it rests in yours, + Whose full, sweet pulses throb along my arm, + So that I live upon them. Cling to me! + And thus your life, after my life is past, + Shall lay me gently in the arms of Death. + Thus shall you link your being with a soul + Gazing unveiled upon the Great White Throne. + + Dear hearts of love surrounding me, farewell! + I cannot see you now; or, if I do, + You are transfigured. There are floating forms + That whisper over me like summer leaves; + And now there comes, and spreads through all my soul. + Delicious influx of another life, + From out whose essence spring, like living flowers, + Angelic senses with quick ultimates, + That catch the rustle of ethereal robes, + And the thin chime of melting minstrelsy-- + Rising and falling--answered far away-- + As Echo, dreaming in the twilight woods, + Repeats the warble of her twilight birds. + And flowers that mock the Iris toss their cups + In the impulsive ether, and spill out + Sweet tides of perfume, fragrant deluges, + Flooding my spirit like an angel's breath. + + * * * * * + + And still the throng increases; still unfold + With broader span and more elusive sweep + The radiant vistas of a world divine. + But O my soul! what vision rises now! + Far, far away, white blazing like the sun, + In deepest distance and on highest height, + Through walls diaphanous, and atmosphere + Flecked with unnumbered forms of missive power, + Out-going fleetly and returning slow, + A Presence shines I may not penetrate; + But on a throne, with smile ineffable, + I see a form my conscious spirit knows. + Jesus, my Saviour! Jesus, Lamb of God! + Jesus who taketh from me all my sins, + And from the world! Jesus, I come to thee! + Come thou to me! O come, Lord, quickly! Come! + +_David_. + + Flown on the wings of rapture! Is this death? + His heart is still; his beaded brow is cold; + His wasted breast struggles for breath no more; + And his pale features, hardened with the stress + Of Life's resistance, momently subside + Into a smile, calm as a twilight lake, + Sprent with the images of rising stars, + We have seen Evil in his countless forms + In these poor lives; have met his armed hosts + In dread encounter and discomfiture; + And languished in captivity to them, + Until we lost our courage and our faith; + And here we see their Chieftain--Terror's King! + He cuts the knot that binds a weary soul + To faithless passions, sateless appetites, + And powers perverted, and it flies away + Singing toward heaven. He turns and looks at us, + And finds us weeping with our gratitude-- + Full of sweet sorrow,--sorrow sweeter far + Than the supremest ecstasy of joy. + + And this is death! Think you that raptured soul + Now walking humbly in the golden streets, + Bearing the precious burden of a love + Too great for utterance, or with hushed heart + Drinking the music of the ransomed throng, + Counts death an evil?--evil, sickness, pain, + Calamity, or aught that God prescribed + To cure it of its sin, or bring it where + The healing hand of Christ might touch it? No! + He is a man to-night--a man in Christ. + This was his childhood, here; and as we give + A smile of wonder to the little woes + That drew the tears from out our own young eyes, + The kind corrections and severe constraints + Imposed by those who loved us--so he sees + A father's chastisement in all the ill + That filled his life with darkness; so he sees + In every evil a kind instrument + To chasten, elevate, correct, subdue, + And fit him for that heavenly estate-- + Saintship in Christ--the Manhood Absolute! + + + + +L'ENVOY. + + + Midnight and silence! In the West, unveiled, + The broad, full moon is shining, with the stars. + On mount and valley, forest, roof, and rock, + On billowy hills smooth-stretching to the sky, + On rail and wall, on all things far and near, + Cling the bright crystals,--all the earth a floor + Of polished silver, pranked with bending forms + Uplifting to the light their precious weight + Of pearls and diamonds, set in palest gold. + The storm is dead; and when it rolled away + It took no star from heaven, but left to earth + Such legacy of beauty as The Wind-- + The light-robed shepherdess from Cuban groves-- + Driving soft showers before her, and warm airs, + And her wide-scattered flocks of wet-winged birds, + Never bestowed upon the waiting Spring. + Pale, silent, smiling, cold, and beautiful! + Do storms die thus? And is it this to die? + + Midnight and silence! In that hallowed room + God's full-orbed peace is shining, with the stars. + On head and hand, on brow, and lip, and eye, + On folded arms, on broad unmoving breast, + On the white-sanded floor, on everything + Rest the pale radiance, while bending forms + Stand all around, loaded with precious weight + Of jewels such as holy angels wear. + The man is dead; and when he passed away + He blotted out no good, but left behind + Such wealth of faith, such store of love and trust, + As breath of joy, in-floating from the isles + Smiled on by ceaseless summer, and indued + With foliage and flowers perennial, + Never conveyed to the enchanted soul. + Do men die thus? And is it this to die? + + Midnight and silence! At each waiting tied, + Husband and wife, embracing, kneel in prayer; + And lips unused to such a benison + Breathe blessings upon evil, and give thanks + For knowledge of its sacred ministry. + An infant nestles on a mother's breast, + Whose head is pillowed where it has not lain + For months of wasted life--the tale all told, + And confidence and love for aye secure. + + The widow and the virgin: where are they? + The morn shall find them watching with the dead, + Like the two angels at the tomb of Christ,-- + One at the head, the other at the foot,-- + Guarding a sepulcher whose occupant + Has risen, and rolled the heavy stone away! + + + + +THE END. + + + + + + +[Transcriber's Note: In the First Movement, one word was missing from +our print copy; the symbol [***] denotes the missing word. + +This work contains some rare words and variants, such as +blent, indites, mekly, reck, ruth (no capital), sprent, and ween.] + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bitter-Sweet, by J. 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