 | The poetical works of John Townsend Trowbridge |  |
AFTER THE SALE
The wagon, with high fantastic load
Of household goods, is at the gate;
The shadows darken down the road;
Why does the old man wait?
Bureau, bedstead, rocking-chair,
Upturned table with heels in air,—
Whatever the grudging fates would spare,—
Lie huddled and heaped and tumbled there,
A melancholy freight!
Of household goods, is at the gate;
The shadows darken down the road;
Why does the old man wait?
Bureau, bedstead, rocking-chair,
Upturned table with heels in air,—
Whatever the grudging fates would spare,—
Lie huddled and heaped and tumbled there,
A melancholy freight!
“Of all his riches,” the teamster said,
“Now only this precious pile remains!
A blanket and bed for his old gray head,
For all his life-long pains.
Hard case, I own! but they say that Pride
Must have a fall.” His ropes he tied
In the chill March wind. “Hurry up!” he cried,
And gathered in the reins.
“Now only this precious pile remains!
A blanket and bed for his old gray head,
For all his life-long pains.
Hard case, I own! but they say that Pride
Must have a fall.” His ropes he tied
In the chill March wind. “Hurry up!” he cried,
And gathered in the reins.
The old wife bows her stricken face
On the doorstone, weary and worn and gray.
The old man lingers about the place,
Taking a last survey;
Looks in once more at the great barn door,
On the empty mow and the vacant floor:
All the gains of his life have gone before,
And why should he care to stay?
Only a stool with a broken leg
Is left, and a bucket without a bail.
The harness is gone from hook and peg,
Even the whip from its nail:
Dreary shadows hang from the wall.
No friendly whinny from shed or stall,
Nor unmilked heifer's welcoming call;
The poultry and pigs have vanished, all
Swept out by the sheriff's sale.
On the doorstone, weary and worn and gray.
The old man lingers about the place,
Taking a last survey;
Looks in once more at the great barn door,
On the empty mow and the vacant floor:
All the gains of his life have gone before,
And why should he care to stay?
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Is left, and a bucket without a bail.
The harness is gone from hook and peg,
Even the whip from its nail:
Dreary shadows hang from the wall.
No friendly whinny from shed or stall,
Nor unmilked heifer's welcoming call;
The poultry and pigs have vanished, all
Swept out by the sheriff's sale.
Back to the dooryard well he goes
For a parting look, a farewell drink.
How drippingly that bucket rose
And poised for him on the brink,
In the summers gone, and plashed his feet,
When the men came in from the harvest heat!
How blessedly cool the draught, how sweet,
'T is misery now to think.
For a parting look, a farewell drink.
How drippingly that bucket rose
And poised for him on the brink,
In the summers gone, and plashed his feet,
When the men came in from the harvest heat!
How blessedly cool the draught, how sweet,
'T is misery now to think.
What scenes of peaceful, prosperous life
Once filled the yard, so desolate now!
When he often would say to his pleased, proud wife,
That the farm appeared, somehow,
More thrifty and cheery than other men's,
With its cattle in pasture and swine in pens,
Bleating of lambs and cackle of hens,
And well-stored crib and mow.
Once filled the yard, so desolate now!
When he often would say to his pleased, proud wife,
That the farm appeared, somehow,
More thrifty and cheery than other men's,
With its cattle in pasture and swine in pens,
Bleating of lambs and cackle of hens,
And well-stored crib and mow.
The early years of their proud success,
The years of failure and mutual blame,
Are past, with the toil that was happiness,
And the strife that was sorrow and shame.
She came to him hopeful and strong and fair—
Now who is the sad wraith sitting there,
With her burden of grief, and her old thin hair,
Bowed over her feeble frame?
The years of failure and mutual blame,
Are past, with the toil that was happiness,
And the strife that was sorrow and shame.
She came to him hopeful and strong and fair—
Now who is the sad wraith sitting there,
With her burden of grief, and her old thin hair,
Bowed over her feeble frame?
“Do you remember? This well,” he said,
“Was sunk that summer when Jane was born.
She used to stand in the old house-shed
And blow the dinner-horn,
In after years,—or climb a rail
Of the dooryard fence for a cheery hail,—
Then run to the curb for a brimming pail,
When I came up from the corn.”
“Was sunk that summer when Jane was born.
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And blow the dinner-horn,
In after years,—or climb a rail
Of the dooryard fence for a cheery hail,—
Then run to the curb for a brimming pail,
When I came up from the corn.”
Why think of her now? against whose name
His lips and heart long since were sealed;
Whose memory in their lives became
A sorrow that never has healed.
Her step is on the creaking stair,
Her girlish image is everywhere!
He hears her laughter, he sees her hair
Blow back in the wind, as she comes to bear
His luncheon to the field.
His lips and heart long since were sealed;
Whose memory in their lives became
A sorrow that never has healed.
Her step is on the creaking stair,
Her girlish image is everywhere!
He hears her laughter, he sees her hair
Blow back in the wind, as she comes to bear
His luncheon to the field.
“'T was a terrible wrong!” The old wife spoke,
Swaying her gaunt frame to and fro.
“I'll say it now!” Her strained voice broke
Into a wail of woe.
“It haunts me awake, it haunts me asleep!
And silence has been so hard to keep—
So long!—but there is a grief too deep
For ever a man to know!”
Swaying her gaunt frame to and fro.
“I'll say it now!” Her strained voice broke
Into a wail of woe.
“It haunts me awake, it haunts me asleep!
And silence has been so hard to keep—
So long!—but there is a grief too deep
For ever a man to know!”
A quaver of anguish shook his tone,
His look was pierced with a keen remorse:
“The blame, I suppose, was all my own;
And I have no heart, of course!
Great Heaven! nor any grief to hide!”
Lifting his gloomy hat aside,
He looked up, haggard and hollow-eyed,
Like one whose burning soul had dried
His tears at their very source.
His look was pierced with a keen remorse:
“The blame, I suppose, was all my own;
And I have no heart, of course!
Great Heaven! nor any grief to hide!”
Lifting his gloomy hat aside,
He looked up, haggard and hollow-eyed,
Like one whose burning soul had dried
His tears at their very source.
“No, no! I don't mean that,” she wept.
“I 've felt you suffering many a day,
And often at night when you thought I slept,
And when I have heard you pray,
Until it seemed that my heart would burst.
And as for the blame, you know, at first,
I claimed you were right, and did my worst
To force her to obey.
“I 've felt you suffering many a day,
And often at night when you thought I slept,
And when I have heard you pray,
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And as for the blame, you know, at first,
I claimed you were right, and did my worst
To force her to obey.
“For the dream of our lives had been to make
Our Jane a lady fit for a lord;
Our schemes were all for our children's sake,
And it seemed a cruel reward
To see her with careless scorn refuse—
For all the arguments we could use—
The men you most approved, and choose
The one you most abhorred.
Our Jane a lady fit for a lord;
Our schemes were all for our children's sake,
And it seemed a cruel reward
To see her with careless scorn refuse—
For all the arguments we could use—
The men you most approved, and choose
The one you most abhorred.
“But when she had chosen and all was done,
You need n't have been so hard and stern,
We might have forgiven the poor dear one,
And welcomed her return.
You never could know what she was to me,
You never will know how I yearn to see
My child again—how homesickly
I yearn, and yearn, and yearn!
You need n't have been so hard and stern,
We might have forgiven the poor dear one,
And welcomed her return.
You never could know what she was to me,
You never will know how I yearn to see
My child again—how homesickly
I yearn, and yearn, and yearn!
“She chose for herself, and who can tell?
She braved your will, it 's true, and yet
She may, for all that, have chosen well.
And how can we forget?
We chose for Alice, and unawares
Rushed with her into a rich man's snares,
Who tangled us up in his loose affairs,
And dragged us down with debt.”
She braved your will, it 's true, and yet
She may, for all that, have chosen well.
And how can we forget?
We chose for Alice, and unawares
Rushed with her into a rich man's snares,
Who tangled us up in his loose affairs,
And dragged us down with debt.”
“Well, well!”—with a heavy sigh—“Let 's go!
I have n't been always wise. Ah, Jane!
Some things might not be done just so,
If they were to do again.
But Alice is dead and the farm is gone;
Our hopes, and all that we built them on,
Friends, wealth, are scattered hither and yon,
And only ourselves remain.
“These boughs will blossom and fruits will fall
The same! When I changed the orchard lot,
And fenced it all with good stone wall,
And planned the garden plot,
And built the arbor and planted trees,
And made a home for our pride and ease,
We little thought these were all to please
Strangers who knew us not!
I have n't been always wise. Ah, Jane!
Some things might not be done just so,
If they were to do again.
But Alice is dead and the farm is gone;
Our hopes, and all that we built them on,
Friends, wealth, are scattered hither and yon,
And only ourselves remain.
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The same! When I changed the orchard lot,
And fenced it all with good stone wall,
And planned the garden plot,
And built the arbor and planted trees,
And made a home for our pride and ease,
We little thought these were all to please
Strangers who knew us not!
“Others will reap where we have sown;
But others never can understand
What watchful care these fields have known,
Or how I loved the land.
Here maids will marry and babes be born,
The sun will shine on the wheat and corn,
Crops be gathered and sheep be shorn,
But by a stranger's hand.
But others never can understand
What watchful care these fields have known,
Or how I loved the land.
Here maids will marry and babes be born,
The sun will shine on the wheat and corn,
Crops be gathered and sheep be shorn,
But by a stranger's hand.
“Come, wife!” With bitterest vain regret,
Remembering all good things that were,
The old man yet can half forget
His woes, in pity of her.
She entered, a young man's happy bride,
She crowned his home with hope and pride,
And now goes forth by an old man's side,
A weary wanderer.
Remembering all good things that were,
The old man yet can half forget
His woes, in pity of her.
She entered, a young man's happy bride,
She crowned his home with hope and pride,
And now goes forth by an old man's side,
A weary wanderer.
With slow, disconsolate, broken talk,
They look their last and pass the gate;
The wagon is gone and they must walk;
A mile, and it 's growing late.
She bears a parcel, he lifts a pack.
But what do they see there, up the track,
Against the sunset, looming black?
'T is strange! the wagon is coming back
With its melancholy freight!
They look their last and pass the gate;
The wagon is gone and they must walk;
A mile, and it 's growing late.
She bears a parcel, he lifts a pack.
But what do they see there, up the track,
Against the sunset, looming black?
'T is strange! the wagon is coming back
With its melancholy freight!
And what is the driver shrieking out?
Now Heaven for a moment keep them sane!
“Turn about! turn about!” they hear him shout,
As he flourishes whip and rein—
“You 've a home and a good friend yet, you'll find!”
A coach is following close behind;
A face—a voice—Oh, Heaven be kind!
Oh, lips that tremble and tears that blind!
Oh, breaking hearts, it 's Jane!
Now Heaven for a moment keep them sane!
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As he flourishes whip and rein—
“You 've a home and a good friend yet, you'll find!”
A coach is following close behind;
A face—a voice—Oh, Heaven be kind!
Oh, lips that tremble and tears that blind!
Oh, breaking hearts, it 's Jane!
| The poetical works of John Townsend Trowbridge | |