University of Virginia Library

XII.

Alas, I would in this uncertain world
All prosper'd where it seem'd that all went well!
I would that never without urgent cause,
Those who are bless'd and loving, wronging none,
Should, as it were, be cheated of their dues
And robb'd by Fate of their hard-earn'd content.
There are some good and worthy on the earth
But who seem destin'd for some hidden end
To be for ever spokes in ev'ry wheel—
Encumbrances in ev'rybody's path—
The millstones of the world, of sterling stuff
But wearisome to wear around the neck—
That these the great tho' too impatient gods
Should sometimes prematurely set aside
I do not wonder, knowing it is hard
In this vast varying community
To be alike benevolent to all
Or satisfy the cravings of all hearts.
Now, when this worthy man was sacrificed,
I was ashamed I could not sorrow more,
But, feeling as it were ‘behind the scenes’
I thought “Well, well, since some one must have died
(For Death intrudes in fiction as in fact,)
I almost think he can be spared the best—
So now they will be happy all their lives!
And I may tell of how they liv'd and lov'd,
And how they henceforth kept the decalogue
And died respected at a ripe old age!
But she had rashly said “Ah, let me live
“Only to know this blessèd hope is true,
“Then come what may,” and her unthinking words
Were register'd by the relentless Fates.—
The day she long'd and pray'd for dawn'd at last,
And Constance kiss'd the cheek of Geoffrey's child,
And he was near her, but no time was given
Him to rejoice in what she deem'd a joy,
For in her struggle with this second life
His little wife pass'd from him into death.
Half stupified he watch'd her lying there
So calm and still, who but some hours ago
Was warm with life;—so sudden it all seem'd,—
The words we say at parting left unsaid,
And round about him all the many things
Inanimate, yet seeming now to cry
With eager voices, “No, she is not dead!”
All in a row the little high-heel'd shoes
Those fairy feet would never wear again,—
Upon a chair her hat and parasol,
Whilst the white dress she wore but yesterday
Was flutt'ring in the flower-scented air
From where it hung upon the looking-glass—
The glass that never more would mirror back
That well-known earnest face, for she was dead!
Sooner than here in England, dawn'd that day
Of desolation, when upon the stair
Sounded the grating footsteps of strange men,
The sable-suited myrmidons of Death,
Coming to bear away that silent form
And hide it from the watching of wet eyes.
Geoffrey was sitting in the shrouded room,
Gazing with haggard eyes and bloodless lips
On the sweet face of what was Constance once—
As one entranced, he scarcely realized
This new and terrible calamity;
But when he heard strange voices in the house,
Guessing their ghastly meaning, from his breast
Escaped a stifled groan of agony,
And all his soul in startled consciousness
Awoke to know the greatest of all griefs
Had fall'n upon him; then he wildly cried—
He look'd towards the cradle, where the babe
With upturn'd face of lily fairness, slept
The sleep of innocence; in vain he strove
To trace some likeness to his buried love
In those impassive features, scarcely yet
Deserving such a name;—the fast closed eyes
Wanting as yet the mother's silken fringe
Of curling eyelashes on either lid—
The open mouth, a tiny triangle,
He bent to kiss, but tho' he seem'd to breathe
The perfume of the blue starch-hyacinth,
Yet nothing met the longing of his lips
Of her—his wife—the mother of his child!
Then, half in anger with the helpless cause
Of his chang'd life, and wholly in despair,
He cover'd with his hands his haggard face
And knew the bitterest of human griefs.
And so they buried Constance out of sight,
And Geoffrey Denzil never saw again
His darling's face; but he remembers her
As last he saw her; scatter'd all around
Her sleeping form, the scented southern flow'rs,
The single rose, and double violet,
And mignionette, and bright anemone,
And in her hand she held a faded wreath
Of English evergreens—box, laurel, fir,
And one dark spray of sad funereal yew
To which a single shrivell'd berry clung,—
These were the leaves that Constance gather'd once
Before she quitted silent Denzil Place,
Whereon her husband read her written words—
“This wreath of leaves was gather'd in the garden
“Of Eden; to be kept for evermore.”
And so he laid them there, that, if indeed
That sleeping form should ever rise from death
(As she believ'd,) and soar triumphantly
To other brighter realms, she then should find
On waking into glorious second life,
This little faded memory of earth
Still clinging to her pale unfolding hand,
And like her, maybe, re-awakening
To life and freshness; so that, 'midst the flow'rs
Of Heaven's garden, some soft falling seed,
(Perchance the little shrivell'd yew-berry,)
From these sad sprays of Earth, translated thus,
Might, taking root, uprise and bloom again,
Reminding one amongst the seraph-band
Of those faint, fleeting moments pass'd and gone,
When she had lov'd, and wander'd 'neath the shade
Amongst the haunted groves of Denzil Place.
Thus, a faint spark, if left at liberty
To nestle in the hollow of an oak,
May gently light a beacon in its heart,
Or leave a mark upon the glowing wood—
Whilst up towards heav'n the evanescent flame
Will die in smoke, so soft, and blue, and vague,
It seems beyond belief so faint a thing
Could leave so deep a trace upon the tree!
Thus thro' the years, the father looking back,
The little daughter full of child-like hope,—
Strangers in thought, yet by a mutual love
Uniting hearts, together hand in hand,
These two walked on towards the hoped-for Heaven.