Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The shadow Death o'er Time's broad dial creeps
With never-halting pace from mark to mark,
Blotting the sun; and as it coldly sweeps,
Each living symbol melts into the dark,
And changes to the name of what it was;
And earth's progression's indexed by its loss.

II

The Spring unfolding into Summer cheer,
The Summer dreaming into Autumn glow,
The Autumn yellowing with the wasted year
To Winter, and the Winter stealing slow
To Spring again, in smoothest order bound,
Have five times trod their planet circle round.

III

See once again our village; with its street
Lazied in dusty sunshine. All around
Is silence, save a tone for slumber meet,
The spinning-wheel's unbroken whirring sound
From cottage door, where basking on his side
The dog lolls motionless and drowsy-eyed.

IV

Each hollyhock within its little wall
Sleeps in the richness of its crusted blooms;
Up the hot glass the sluggish blue flies crawl;
The heavy bee is humming into rooms
Through open window, like a sturdy rover,
Bringing with him warm scents of thyme and clover.

V

From little cottage-gardens you almost
Smell the fruit ripening on the sultry air;
Opprest to silence, every bird is lost
In eave and hedgerow; save that here and there
With twitter swift, the sole unquiet thing,
Shoots the dark lightning of a swallow's wing.

VI

Yet in this hour of sunny peacefulness,
One is there whom its influence little calms;
One who now leans in agony to press
His throbbing forehead with his throbbing palms,
Now paces quickly up and down within
The narrow parlour of the village inn.

VII

He thought he could have tranquilly beheld
The scene again. He thought his steadfast grief,
Spread level in his soul, could not have swelled
To find once more a passionate relief.
Three years, they now seem hours, have sighed their breath
Since when he heard the tidings of her death.

VIII

Last evening in the latest dusk he came,
A holy pilgrim from a distant land;
And many an object of familiar name,
As at the wave of a miraculous wand,
Rose round his steps; his bed-room window showed
His small white birth-place just across the road.

IX

And yet that room afforded poor repose;
For crowding images perplexed his mind.
Often he sighed, and turned, and sometimes rose
To bathe his forehead in the cool night wind,
And vaguely watch the gradual curtain grey
Uplifting from the glowing stage of day.

X

The long bright morning hours have shifted slow,
When by the hedge he rounds the old green turn,
Wasted by summer of its sweet may-snow,
And through the chapel-gate. His heart forlorn
Draws strength and comfort from the pitying shrine,
Whereat he bows with reverential sign.

XI

Behind the chapel, on a sloping hill,
Circling the ancient abbey's ivied walls,
The graveyard sleeps. A little gurgling rill
Poured through a corner of the ruin, falls
Into a dusky-watered pond, that lags
With lazy eddies 'mid its yellow flags.

XII

Across this pool, the hollow banks enfold
An orchard overrun with rankest grass,
And gnarled and mossy apple-trees, as old
As th'oldest graves almost; and thither pass
The smooth-worn stepping-stones that give their aid
To many a labourer and milking-maid.

XIII

And not unfrequently to rustic bound
On a more solemn errand:—who can see
A kneeler in that melancholy ground,
With aught but gentleness and sympathy,
And feeling of that life in every prayer,
In which the world of matter has no share?

XIV

But resting in the sunshine very lone
Is now each hammock green and wooden cross;
And save the rillet in its cup of stone
That poppling falls, and whispers through the moss
Down to the quiet pool, no sound is near
To break the stillness to Claude's mournful ear.

XV

The writhen elder spreads its creamy bloom;
The thicket-tangling, tenderest briar-rose,
Kisses to air its exquisite perfume
In shy luxuriance; leaning fox-glove glows
With elvish purple;—nor all vainly meet
The eye which unobserved they seem to greet.

XVI

Under the abbey-wall he winds his way,
And passes through a doorway arching deep,
To where no roof excludes the common day;
Though some few tombs in corner shadow sleep
Beneath the matted roof the ivy weaves
With its grey fibres and its varnished leaves.

XVII

First hither comes, in piety of heart,
Over his mother's,—father's grave to bend,
The gentle exile. Stand we far apart,
Whilst his sincere and humble prayers ascend,
As all that are sincere and humble must,
To that Great Soul which lives within our dust.

XVIII

And much more shall we tremble to intrude,
When, rising slow, he seeks another spot,
Where lies enwrapped in grassy solitude,
The grave of “Mary D., of Ivycot;”
And on the stone these added words are seen,
“Also, her daughter Milly, aged eighteen.”

XIX

Profound the moanless aching of the breast,
When weary life is like a grey dull eve
All wrung of colour, withering, and waste
Around the prostrate soul, too weak to grieve.
Less awful far the outcry passionate,
With which an anguished strength accuses fate.

XX

Nor hope, nor wish these mysteries to disperse,
By words that may by human tongue be spoken;
It were a shallow toy, this Universe,
If so its inmost casket could be broken.
Sorrow and pain, as well as hope and love,
Stretch out of sight into the heavens above.

XXI

Yet oh! the cruel coldness of the grave,
The memory of the too, too happy past,
The thought which is the tyrant and the slave,
The sudden sense that drives the soul aghast,
The drowning horror, and the speechless strife,
That cannot sink to death nor rise to life!

XXII

Who, if he could, would paint a grief like this—
The gloomy torturing caverns open lay,
Whence after more than Death's worst bitterness
The toiling spirit struggles back to day,
And fainting lies beneath a careless sun,
Whose succour is not to be begged, but won?—

XXIII

Now slowly lifting up his pallid face,
Claude grew aware that he was not alone.
Amid the silence of the sacred place
Another form was stooping o'er the stone;
A grey-haired woman's. When she met his eyes
She shrieked aloud in her extreme surprise.

XXIV

“The Holy Mother keep us day and night!
Is it himself then? Is it Master Claude?
I little thought I'd ever see this sight!
Warm from the heart I offer up to God
My praises for the answer he has sent
To all my prayers; for now I'll die content!”

XXV

Then, as if talking to herself, she said,
“I nursed her when she was a little child.
I smoothed the pillow of her dying bed.
And just the smile that long ago she smiled
When in her cradle fast asleep she lay,
Was on her features when she passed away.

XXVI

“'Twas in the days of March,” she said again.
“And so it is the sweetest blossom dies,
The wrinkled leaf hangs on, though falling fain.
I thought your hand would close my poor old eyes;
And not that I'd be sitting in the sun
Beside your grave,—the Lord's good will be done!”

XXVII

Thus incoherently the woman spoke,
With many interjections full of woe;
And wrapping herself up within her cloak
Began to rock her body to and fro;
And moaning softly, seemed to lose all sense
Of outward life in memories so intense.

XXVIII

Then Claude burst through his silence, and exclaimed
With the most poignant earnestness of tone,
“O nurse, I loved her!—though I never named
The name of love to her, or any one.
'Tis to her grave here—” He could say no more
But these few words a load of meaning bore.

XXIX

Beside the tombstone mute they both remained.
At last the woman rose, and coming near,
Said with a voice that seemed to have regained
A tremulous calm, “Then you must surely hear
The whole from first to last, cushla-ma-chree;
For God has brought together you and me.”

XXX

And there she told him all the moving tale,
Broken with many tears and sobs and sighs;
How gentle Milly's health began to fail;
How a sad sweetness grew within her eyes
And trembled on her little mouth so meek,
And flushed across her pale and patient cheek.

XXXI

And how about this time her sister Ann
“Entered Religion,” and her father's sight
Was very slow the stealing change to scan
In Milly's face, form, voice, and movement light;
Until the sad conviction flew at last,
And with a barb into his bosom passed.

XXXII

Then, with most anxious haste, her dear old nurse
Was sent for to become her nurse again;
But still the pretty one grew worse and worse.
For with a gradual lapse, though free of pain,
And changes slow, that fond eyes would not see,
Crept on the hopeful, hopeless malady.

XXXIII

Spring came, and brought no gift of life to her,
Of all it lavished in the fields and woods.
Yet she was cheered when birds began to stir
About the shrubbery, and the pale gold buds
Burst on the sallows, and with hearty toil
The ploughing teams upturned the sluggish soil.

XXXIV

“'Twas on a cold March evening, well I mind,”
The nurse went on, “we sat and watched together
The long grey sky; and then the sun behind
The clouds shone down, though not like summer weather,
On the hills far away. I can't tell why,
But of a sudden I began to cry.

XXXV

“I dried my tears before I turned to her,
But then I saw that her eyes too were wet,
And pale her face, and calm without a stir;
Whilst on the lighted hills her look was set,
Where strange beyond the cold dark fields they lay,
As if her thoughts, too, journeyed far away.

XXXVI

“After a while she asked me to unlock
A drawer, and bring a little parcel out.
I knew it was of it she wished to talk,
But long she held it in her hand in doubt;
And whilst she strove, there came a blush and spread
Her face and neck with a too passing red.

XXXVII

“At last she put her other hand in mine;
‘Dear nurse,’ she said, ‘I'm sure I need not ask
Your promise to fulfil what I design
To make my last request,—'tis no great task.
You knew young Master Claude’ (and in her speech
She shook) ‘that used to come here once to teach?’

XXXVIII

“I said I knew you well; and she went on,
‘Then listen: if you ever see him more,
And he should speak of days are past and gone,
And of his pupils and his friends of yore—
Should ask you questions—knowing what you've been
To me,—Oh! could I tell you what I mean!’

XXXIX

“But, sir, I understood her meaning well,
Not from her words so much as from her eyes.
I saw it all; my heart began to swell,
I took her in my arms with many sighs
And murmurs, for I had no tongue to speak,
And then I cried as if my heart would break.

XL

“She saw I knew her mind; and bade me give
Into your hand, if things should so befall,
The parcel. Else, as long as I should live
It was to be a secret kept from all,
And then, in case you never more returned,
When my last hour drew near, was to be burned.

XLI

“I promised to observe her wishes duly;
But said I hoped in God that she would still
Live many years beyond myself. And truly
While she was speaking, like a miracle
Her countenance lost every sickly trace.
Ah, dear! 'twas setting light was in her face!

XLII

“After this she was tired and went to bed,
And I sat watching by her until dark,
And then I lit her lamp, and round her head
Let down the curtains. 'Twas my glad remark
How softly she was breathing, and my mind
Was full of hope and comfort,—we're so blind!

XLIII

“The night wore on, and I had fallen asleep,
When about three o'clock I heard a noise
And leaped up quickly. In the silence deep
There she lay praying with a calm weak voice,
Still sweet, although it did not sound the same;
And in that prayer I surely heard your name.

XLIV

“Sweet Heaven! we scarce had time to fetch the priest!
How sadly through the shutters of that room
Crept in the blessed daylight from the east
To us that sat there weeping in the gloom,
And touched the close-shut eyes and peaceful brow,
But brought no fear of her being restless now!

XLV

“The wake was quiet. Noiseless went the hours
Where she was lying stretched so still and white;
And near the bed, a glass with some Spring flowers
From her own little garden. Day and night
I watched, until they took my lamb away,
The child here by the mother's side to lay.

XLVI

“The holy angels make your bed, my dear!
But little call have we to pray for you:
Pray you for him that's left behind you here,
To have his heart consoled with heavenly dew!
And pray too for your poor old nurse, asthore;
Your own true mother scarce could love you more!”

XLVII

Slow were their steps among the crowded graves,
Over the stile and up the chapel walk,
Where stood the poplars with their silvery leaves,
Set motionless on every timid stalk.
The air in one hot calm appeared to lie,
And thunder muttered in the heavy sky.

XLVIII

Along the street was heard the laughing sound
Of boys at play, who knew no thought of death;
Slow silent-stepping cows to milking bound,
Lifting their heads, lowed with moist clover breath;
The girls stood knitting at the doors, and cast
A look upon our stranger as he passed.

XLIX

Scarce had the mourners time a roof to gain,
When with electric glare and thunder-crash,
Heavy and straight and fierce came down the rain,
Soaking the white road with its sudden plash,
Driving all folk within doors at a race,
And making every kennel gush apace.

L

The storm withdrew as quickly as it came,
And through the broken clouds a brilliant ray
Glowed o'er the dripping earth in yellow flame,
And flushed the village panes with parting day.
Sudden and full that swimming lustre shone
Into the room where Claude sat, all alone.

LI

The door is locked and on the table lies
The open parcel. Long he wanted strength
To trust its secrets to his feverish eyes;
But hurriedly he has disclosed at length
A note; a case; and folded with them there,
A silky ringlet from her wealth of hair.

LII

The case holds Milly's portrait—her reflection—
With the small mouth as though about to speak,
The forehead white, the eyes of calm affection,
Even the pretty seam in the soft cheek.
Sweet art! that fixes in eternal prime
The shadow of a moment snatched from Time.

LIII

The note ran thus, “Dear Claude, so near my death,
I feel that like a Spirit's words are these,
In which I say, that I have perfect faith
In your true love for me,—as God, who sees
The secrets of all hearts, can see in mine
That fondest truth which sends this feeble sign.

LIV

“I do not think that He will take away,
Even in Heaven, this precious earthly love;
Surely he sends its pure and happy ray
Down as a message from the world above.
Perhaps it is the full light drawing near
Which makes the doubting Past at length so clear.

LV

“We might have been so happy!—But His will
Said no, who orders all things for the best.
Oh, may his power into your soul instil
A peace like this of which I am possessed!
And may he bless you, love, for evermore,
And guide you safely to his Heavenly shore!”

LVI

That night Claude's pillow bore a restless head;
Aching with memories. His mind retraced
The jewels and the pearls, like flower-leaves shed,
That strewed the by-gone hours with priceless waste;
Whose images beneath a plumbless tide
The searching beam disclosed and magnified.

LVII

Thus clearly into his remembrance strayed,
How once he found (O time that once hath been!)
Amongst his wild flowers on the table laid,
A lovely dark carnation he had seen
In Milly's belt; and how he little guessed
What meaning on its crimson leaves might rest.

LVIII

Once more, the centre of the summer eve,
She lingered by the stream. Once more she sung,
With face all melody; he could believe
Th'appealing tones in distant echoes rung.
He saw her stretched in a most silent place,
With the calm light of prayer upon her face.

LXIX

And all night long the water-drops he heard
Vary their talk of chiming syllables,
Dripping into the butt; and in the yard
The ducks gabbling at daylight: and the spells
Of misty sense recalled a childish illness
When the same noises broke the watching stillness.

LX

Almost he hoped that he had sadly dreamed,
And all the interval was but a shade.
But now the slow dawn through his window gleamed,
And whilst in real slumber he was laid,
There stole a rosier vision 'mong the shrouds
Of folded thought, than Morning through her clouds.

LXI

Wandering in deep green meadows, sunshine-gay,
The mountains wooed him, waving purple dim,
And thither through the soft air glided they,
Himself and Milly. And there rose a hymn
Like silver mist along the climbing glades,
And white forms wafted through the plumy shades.

LXII

Seated together on a bank of flowers,
She took his hand and she began to sing
In Heav'n how softly flow the eternal hours,
And with them all no hour of parting bring:
Then joined a floating chorus overhead,
“Parting and Pain and Doubt, for ever fled!”

LXIII

What comfort and what strength in dreams descend,
Which do not wholly vanish in the light!
—When this our little story hath an end,
That trembles, dreamlike, on the woof of night,
Might so a slender memory be enwrought
To glance among the threads of waking thought!

LXIV

Claude came and went. Till he was far away,
Few in the village guessed that it was Claude.
And years had left behind that sunny day,
Before it chanced a straggler from abroad
Gave news of him; and bade us set him down
As growing rich in a great Southern town.

LXV

After another silent interval,
Arrived a letter from a friend of mine
Who, in obedience to that ceaseless call
Which summons westward, had made bold to join
A band that quitted our domestic fields
For what emprise untamed Columbia yields.

LXVI

“'Midst dateless forests (thus he wrote) we came
One sundown to a clearing. Western light
Burnt through the pine-tops with a fading flame,
Over untrodden regions; and the night
Out of those solemn woods appeared to rise;
Ushered with sound of ghostly harmonies.

LXVII

“Such must have been the atmosphere, we thought,
The visionary light of ancient years,
When Red Man east or west encountered nought
Save bear and squirrel, with their wild compeers.
But other life was here; and soon we found
The little citadel of this new ground.

LXVIII

“The cot beneath a shadowy wall of pines
Looked calmly on a stump-rough sweep of grass:
Its timber roof was eaved with running vines;
And out of Nature's rule it seemed to pass
By shape alone. Long ere we reached the door
We questioned of the mystic sounds no more.

LXIX

“They blended with the twilight and the trees
So softly, floating far and far away,
It was not strange to deem them but the breeze
Hymning its vespers in the forest grey.
But now we heard not airy strains alone,
But human feeling swaying every tone.

LXX

“There swelled an agony of tearful strife;
Which lapsed in swoon;—but from that dark profound
Arose a music deep as love or life,
Spreading into a placid lake of sound,
That took the infinite into its breast,
With Earth and Heaven in one embrace at rest.

LXXI

“The flute-notes failed. At last approaching slow,
Whom found we seated in the threshold shade?
'Twas Claude, our Music-Master long ago
In poor old Ireland!—long inquiries made
Along our track for him were all in vain;
And here at once we grasped his hand again!

LXXII

“And he received us with the warmth of heart
Our brothers lose not under any sky.
But what was strange, he did not stare or start
Like one astonished, when so suddenly
Long-missed, familiar faces from the wood
Emerged like ghosts, and at his elbow stood.

LXXIII

“He seemed like one, I fancied, who was greeting
Long-absent, but not unexpected friends.
Yet he knew nothing of our chance of meeting—
I asked him that. But soon he made amends
For any trace of oddness, by the zeal
With which he cooked us no unwelcome meal.

LXXIV

“We gave him all our news, and in return
He told us how he lived,—a lonely life!
Miles from a neighbour sowed and reaped his corn,
And hardy grew. One spoke about a wife
To cheer him in that solitary wild;
At which he only shook his head and smiled.

LXXV

“Next dawn, when each one of our little band
Had on a mighty Walnut carved his name,
Henceforth a sacred tree, he said, to stand
'Mid his enlarging bounds,—the moment came
For farewell words. But long, behind our backs,
We heard the echoes of his swinging axe.”

Took conventual vows.