The complete poetical works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | ||
AGNES
The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is told in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts. These were obtained from information afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of Medford; and from the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the Massachusetts Historical Society.
At the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living, and on our return we called at the house were she resided. Her account is little more than paraphrased in the poem. If the incidents are treated with a certain liberality at the close of the fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and their subsequent marriage as related may be accepted as literal truth. So with regard to most of the trifling details which are given; they are taken from the record.
It is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of January 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this ballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of the century into the years before the Revolution. A new house, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one, has been built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box, and the lilacs doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth of this story.
The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr. E. L. Bynner.
PART I. THE KNIGHT
As all the bookmen know,
And pilgrims who have strayed to view
The wrecks still left to show.
And fond,—and not too wise,—
That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue,
To maids with downcast eyes.
Beneath the coldest sky;
Love lurks amid the tasselled corn
As in the bearded rye!
Had learned the old world's ways,
And warmed their hearths with lawless fires
In Shirley's homespun days?
His idle rhymes recite,—
This old New England-born romance
Of Agnes and the Knight;
Their home is standing still,
Between Wachusett's lonely mound
And Shawmut's threefold hill.
One half-hour guide the rein,
We reach at last, o'er hill and dale,
The village on the plain.
With stained and warping floor,
A stately mansion stands aloof
And bars its haughty door.
That breaks the gable wall;
And lo! with arches opening wide,
Sir Harry Frankland's hall!
They sought the forest shade,
The knotted trunks they cleared away,
The massive beams they laid,
They smoothed the terraced ground,
They reared the marble-pillared wall
That fenced the mansion round.
The Master's broad domain;
With page and valet, horse and hound,
He kept a goodly train.
The ploughman stopped to gaze
Whene'er his chariot swept in view
Behind the shining bays,
Repaid by nod polite,—
For such the way with high and low
Till after Concord fight.
That graced the three-hilled town
With far-off splendors of the Throne,
And glimmerings from the Crown;
For Shirley over sea;
Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late
The King Street mob's decree;
Fair dames and stately men,
The mighty people of the land,
The “World” of there and then.
And “Eyes' cœlestial Blew,”
This Strephon of the West could warm,
No Nymph his Heart subdue!
Whom fleeting loves enchain,
But still unfettered, free to choose,
Would brook no bridle-rein.
But smiled alike on all;
No band his roving foot might snare,
No ring his hand enthrall.
PART II. THE MAIDEN
Beyond the Bay of Lynn?
What chance his wayward course may shape
To reach its village inn?
The past lies deaf and still,
But Fate, who rules to blight or bless,
Can lead us where she will.
And liveried grooms that ride!
They cross the ferry, touch the shore
On Winnisimmet's side.
The level marsh they pass,
Where miles on miles the desert reach
Is rough with bitter grass.
And now the smells begin
Of fishy Swampscott, salt Nahant,
And leather-scented Lynn.
And glittering vanes that crown
The home of Salem's frugal sires,
The old witch-haunted town.
That runs through rocks and sand,
Showered by the tempest-driven spray,
From bays on either hand,
The crews of Marblehead,
The lords of ocean's watery farms,
Who plough the waves for bread.
The spreading elm below,
Whose flapping sign these fifty years
Has seesawed to and fro.
Before the low-browed inn!
The tumbling billows fringe with light
The crescent shore of Lynn;
Her arm of yellow sand,
And breaks the roaring surge that braves
The gauntlet on her hand;
Yon treeless mound forlorn,
The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-rock,
That fronts the Spouting Horn;
And wide the ocean smiles,
Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide
The two bare Misery Isles.
The wearied cavalcade;
The coachman reins his smoking bays
Beneath the elm-tree's shade.
The cocked-hats crowd to see,
On legs in ancient velveteen,
With buckles at the knee.
Of square-toed village boys,
Still wearing, as their grandsires wore,
The old-world corduroys!
A rush of great and small,—
With hurrying servants' mingled din
And screaming matron's call!
They caught her unaware;
As, humbly, like a praying nun,
She knelt upon the stair;
She knelt, but not to pray,—
Her little hands must keep them clean,
And wash their stains away.
Her girlish shapes betrayed,—
“Ha! Nymphs and Graces!” spoke the Knight;
“Look up, my beauteous Maid!”
Its calyx half withdrawn,—
Her cheek on fire with damasked blood
Of girlhood's glowing dawn!
As royal lovers look
On lowly maidens, when they woo
Without the ring and book.
Nay, prithee, look not down!
Take this to shoe those little feet,”—
He tossed a silver crown.
A swifter blush succeeds;
It burns her cheek; it kindles now
Beneath her golden beads.
Still sought the lovely face.
Who was she? What, and whence? and why
Doomed to such menial place?
Left orphan by the gale
That cost the fleet of Marblehead
And Gloucester thirty sail.
Along the Essex shore,
That cheered its goodman outward bound,
And sees his face no more!
No orphan girl is she,—
The Surriage folk are deadly poor
Since Edward left the sea,
Has work enough to do
To find the children clothes and food
With Thomas, John, and Hugh.
(Just turned her sixteenth year,)—
To earn her bread and help them all,
Would work as housemaid here.”
And naught beside as dower,
Grew at the wayside with the weeds,
Herself a garden-flower.
Thus Pity's voice began.
Such grace! an angel's shape and air!
The half-heard whisper ran.
As now in later days,
And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme,
The honeyed breath of praise.
Long ere the sun is down,
To reach, before the night-winds blow,
The many-steepled town.
Dark roll the whispering waves
That lap the piers beneath the hill
Ridged thick with ancient graves.
The weary couch of pain,
When all thy poppies fail to soothe
The lover's throbbing brain!
Breaks through the fading gray,
And long and loud the Castle gun
Peals o'er the glistening bay.
He hails the morning shine:—
“If art can win, or gold can buy,
The maiden shall be mine!”
PART III. THE CONQUEST
What is the wench, and who?”
They whisper. Agnes—is her name?
Pray what has she to do?
The scullions on the stair,
And in the footmen's grave debate
The butler deigns to share.
And sold on Boston pier,
Grown up in service, petted, spoiled,
Speaks in the coachman's ear:
And all are yet too few?
More servants, and more servants still,—
This pert young madam too!”
The man of coach and steeds;
“She looks too fair, she steps too proud,
This girl with golden beads!
And call her what you choose,
You'll find my Lady in her gown,
Your Mistress in her shoes!”
God grant you never know
The little whisper, loud with shame,
That makes the world your foe!
That won the maiden's ear,—
The fluttering of the frightened heart,
The blush, the smile, the tear?
That every language knows,—
The wooing wind, the yielding sail,
The sunbeam and the rose.
Has changed to fair brocade,
With broidered hem, and hanging cuff,
And flower of silken braid;
A jewelled bracelet shines,
Her flowing tresses' massive twist
A glittering net confines;
A fretted chain is hung;
But ah! the gift her mother gave,—
Its beads are all unstrung!
Where none disputes her claim;
She walks beside the mansion's lord,
His bride in all but name.
Or speak in softened tone,
So gracious in her daily walk
The angel light has shown.
Assails her heart in vain,
The lifting of a ragged sleeve
Will check her palfrey's rein.
In every movement shown,
Reveal her moulded for the place
She may not call her own.
There broods a shadowy care,
No matron sealed with holy vow
In all the land so fair!
PART IV. THE RESCUE
Along the pier she glides;
Before her furrow melts away,
A courier mounts and rides.
“Sir Harry Frankland, These.”
Sad news to tell the loving pair!
The knight must cross the seas.
Lost all their rosy red,
As when a crystal cup is broke,
And all its wine is shed.
“I go by land or sea,
My love, my life, my joy, my pride,
Thy place is still by me!”
Their wandering feet have strayed,
From Alpine lake to ocean tide,
And cold Sierra's shade.
Amid the fragrant bowers
Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream
Her belt of ancient towers.
To-morrow's sun shall fling
O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow
The flush of April's wing.
They dance on every green;
The morning's dial marks the birth
Of proud Braganza's queen.
The gilded courtiers throng;
The broad moidores have cheated Rome
Of all her lords of song.
Pleased with her painted scenes—
When all her towers shall slide away
As now these canvas screens!
And yet they linger still,
Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread
The flank of Cintra's hill.
And touched their English gold,
Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame
From over sea is told.
Has climbed with feeble ray
Through mists like heavy curtains drawn
Before the darkened day.
Hark! hark! a hollow sound,—
A noise like chariots rumbling deep
Beneath the solid ground.
And bares its bar of sand,
Anon a mountain billow strides
And crashes o'er the land.
Like masts on ocean's swell,
And clash a long discordant peal,
The death-doomed city's knell.
Beneath the staggering town!
The turrets crack—the castle cleaves—
The spires come rushing down.
With strange unearthly gleams;
While black abysses gape below,
Then close in jagged seams.
And thrice a thousand score,
Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave,
The sun shall see no more!
In ruined heaps are piled;
Ah! where is she, so frail, so fair,
Amid the tumult wild?
Whose narrow gaps afford
A pathway for her bleeding feet,
To seek her absent lord.
Her wild and wandering eyes;
Beneath its shattered portal pressed,
Her lord unconscious lies.
Shall lifeless blocks withstand?
Love led her footsteps where he lay,—
Love nerves her woman's hand:
Up heaves the ponderous stone:—
He breathes,—her fainting form he clasps,—
Her life has bought his own!
PART V. THE REWARD
Our being's brief eclipse,
When faltering heart and failing breath
Have bleached the fading lips!
His debt of ransomed life?
One word can charm all wrongs away,—
The sacred name of Wife!
Must shield her matron fame,
And write beneath the Frankland arms
The village beauty's name.
Shall dim the sacred ring!
Who knows what change the the passing day,
The fleeting hour, may bring?
There kneels a goodly pair;
A stately man, of high descent,
A woman, passing fair.
That meaner beauty needs,
But on her bosom heaves unseen
A string of golden beads.
And with a gentle pride
The Lady Agnes lifts her head,
Sir Harry Frankland's bride.
Those griefs so meekly borne,—
The passing sneer, the freezing stare,
The icy look of scorn;
Their haughty lips shall curl,
Whene'er a hissing whisper names
The poor New England girl.
The pride of ancient race,—
Will plighted faith, and holy vow,
Win back her fond embrace?
Of love no vow had blest,
That turned his blushing honors pale
And stained his knightly crest.
He goes alone before;—
His own dear Agnes may not pass
The proud, ancestral door.
He spoke; she calmly heard,
But not to pity, nor to blame;
She breathed no single word.
She heard with tearless eyes;
Could she forgive the erring maid?
She stared in cold surprise.
The haughty eyelids fell;—
The kindly deeds she loved to do;
She murmured, “It is well.”
And how her feet were led
To where entombed in life he lay,
The breathing with the dead,
Against the crushing stone,
That still the strong-armed clown protests
No man can lift alone,—
By turns she wept and smiled;—
“Sweet Agnes!” so the mother spoke,
“God bless my angel child!
'Tis thine to right her wrongs;
I tell thee,—I, who gave thee breath,—
To her thy life belongs!”
Her lawless lover's hand;
The lowly maiden so became
A lady in the land!
PART VI. CONCLUSION
To track their after ways,
And string again the golden beads
Of love's uncounted days.
For bleak New England's shore;
How gracious is the courtly smile
Of all who frowned before!
They watch the river's gleam,
And shudder as her shadowy towers
Shake in the trembling stream.
His cheek, alas! grows pale;
The breast that trampling death could spare
His noiseless shafts assail.
For England's clouded sky,—
To breathe the air his boyhood knew;
He seeks them but to die.
Where healing streamlets run,
Still sparkling with their old renown,—
The “Waters of the Sun,”—
That marks his honored grave,
By Wiltshire Avon's wave.
She sought its peaceful shade,
And kept her state for many a year,
With none to make afraid.
That saw the red cross fall;
She hears the rebels' rattling drum,—
Farewell to Frankland Hall!
The hall is standing still;
And you, kind listener, maid or man,
May see it if you will.
Like trees the lilacs grow,
Three elms high-arching still are seen,
And one lies stretched below.
Flap on the latticed wall;
And o'er the mossy ridgepole towers
The rock-hewn chimney tall.
With massive bolt and bar,
The heavy English-moulded sash
Scarce can the night-winds jar.
Alone, to fast and pray,
Each year, as chill November brought
The dismal earthquake day.
Bent in its flattened sheath;
The coat the shrieking woman tore
Caught in her clenching teeth;—
She snapped at as she slid,
And down upon her death-white face
Crashed the huge coffin's lid.
If on its turf you stand
And look along the wooded plains
That stretch on either hand,
A dim, receding view,
Where, on the far horizon's line,
He cut his vista through.
Or ask for living proof,
Go see old Julia, born a slave
Beneath Sir Harry's roof.
And she remembers well
The mansion as it looked of old
Before its glories fell;—
Its glossy wall was drawn;
The climbing vines, the snow-balls fair,
The roses on the lawn.
Stamped on her wrinkled face,
That in her own black hands she took
The coat with silver lace.
Or, if you like, believe;
But there it was, the woman's bite,—
A mouthful from the sleeve.
The moral of my rhyme;
But, youths and maidens, ponder well
This tale of olden time!
The complete poetical works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | ||