University of Virginia Library

Love's history, as Life's, is ended not
By marriage: though the ignorant Paradise
May then be lost, the world of knowledge waits,
With ample opportunities, to mould
Young Eve and Adam into wife and man.
Some grace of sentiment expires, yet here
The nobler poetry of life begins:
The squire is knight, the novice takes the vow,
Old service falls, new powers and duties join,
And that high Beauty, which is crown of all,
No more a lightsome maid, with tresses free
And mantle floating from the bosom bare,
Confronts us now like holy Barbara,
As Palma drew, or she, Our Lady, born
On Melos, type of perfect growth and pure.

So Lars and Ruth beside each other learned
What neither, left unwedded, could have won:
He how reliant and how fond the heart
Whose love seemed almost pity, she how firm
And masterful the nature, which appealed
There for support where hers had felt no strain;
And both, how solemn, sweet, and wonderful
The life of man. Their life, indeed, was still,
Too still for aught save blessing, for a time.
All things were ordered: plenty in the house
And fruitfulness of field and meadow made
Light labor, and the people came and went,
According to their old and friendly ways.
Within the meeting-house upon the hill
Now Ezra oftener spake, and sometimes Lars,
Fain to obey the spirit which impelled;
And what of customed phrase they missed, or tone,
Unlike their measured chant, did he supply
With words that bore a message to the heart.

All this might seem sufficient; yet to Ruth
Was still unrest, where, unto shallow eyes
Dwelt peace; she felt the uneasy soul of Lars,
And waited, till his own good time should come.
Yea, verily, he was happy: could she doubt
The signs in him that spake the same in her?
Yea, he was happy: every day proclaimed
The freshness of a blessing rebestowed,
The conscious gift, unworn by time or use,
And this was sweet to see; yet he betrayed
That wavering will, the opposite of faith,
Which comes of duty known and not performed.
It seemed his lines of life were cast in peace,
In green Hockessin, where Lars Thorstensen,
A sound that echoed of Norwegian shores,
Became Friend Thurston: all things there conspired
To blot the Past, but in his soul it lived.

Then, as his thoughts went back, his tongue revealed:
He spake of winding fiord and windy fell,
Of Ulvik's cottages and Graven's lake,
And all the moving features of a life
So strange to Ruth; till she made bold to break,
Through playful chiding, what was grave surmise:
“I fear me, Lars, that thou art sick for home.
Thy love is with me and thy memory far:
Thou seest with half thy sight; and in thy dreams
I hear thee murmur in thine other tongue,
So soft and strange, so good, I cannot doubt,
If I but knew it; but thy dreams are safe.”
“Nay, wife,” he said; “misunderstand them not!
For dreams hold up before the soul, released
From worldly business, pictures of itself,
And in confused and mystic parables
Foreshadow what it seeks. I do confess
I love Old Norway's bleak, tremendous hills,
Where winter sits, and sees the summer burn
In valleys deeper than yon cloud is high:
I love the ocean-arms that gleam and foam
So far within the bosom of the land:
It is not that. I do confess to thee
I love the frank, brave habit of the folk,
The hearts unspoiled, though fed from ruder times
And filled with angry blood: I love the tales
That taught, the ancient songs that cradled me,
The tongue my mother spake, unto the Lord
As sweet as thine upon the lips of prayer:
It is not that.”

Then he perused her face
Full earnestly, and drew a deeper breath.
“My wife, my Ruth,” his words came, low yet firm;
“Thou knowest of one who brake a precious box
Of ointment, and refreshed the weary feet
Of Him who pardoned her. But, had He given
Not pardon only, had He stretched His arm
And plucked, as from the vine of Paradise,
All blessing and all bounty and all good,
What then were she that idly took and used?”
“I read thy meaning,” answered Ruth; “speak on!”
“Am I not he that idly uses? Are there not
Here many reapers, there a wasting field?
In them the fierce inheritance of blood
I overcame, is mighty still to slay;
For ancient custom is a ring of steel
They know not how to snap. By day and night
A powerful spirit calls me: ‘Go to them!’
What should mine answer to the spirit be?”

If there were aught of struggle in her heart,
She hid the signs. A little pale her cheek,
But with untrembling eyelids she upraised
Her face to his, and took him by the hands:
“Thy Lord is mine: what should I say to thee,
Except what she, whose name I bear, ere yet
She went to glean in Bethlehem's harvest-field,
Said to Naomi: ‘Nay, entreat me not
To leave thee, or return from following thee?’
Should not thy people, then, be mine,
As mine are made thine own? I will not fail: He calls
On both of us who gives thee this command.”

So Ruth, erelong, detached her coming life
From all its past, until each well-known thing
No more was sure or needful, to her mind.
Her neighbors, even, seemed to come and go
Like half-existences; her days, as well,
Were clad with dream; she understood the words,
“I but sojourn among you for a time,”
And, from the duties which were habits, turned
To brood o'er those unknown, awaiting her.

But Ezra, when he heard their purpose, spake
“Because this thing is very hard to me,
I dare not preach against it; but I doubt,
Being acquainted with the heart of man.
'T is one thing, Lars, to build thy virtue here,
Where others urge the better will: but there,
Alone, persuaded, ridiculed, assailed,
Couldst thou resist, yet love them? Nay, I know
Thy power and conscience: Try them not too soon;
Is all I ask. See, I am full of years,
And thou, my daughter, thou, indeed a son,
Stay me on either side: wait but awhile
And ye are free, yea, seasoned as twin beams
Of soundest oak, for lintels of His door.”

They patiently obeyed. The years went by,
Until five winters blanched to perfect snow
The old man's hair. Then, when the gusts of March
Shook into life the torpid souls of trees,
His body craved its rest. He summoned Lars,
And meekly said: “I pray thee, pardon me
That I have lived so long: I meant it not.
Now I am certain that the end is near;
And, noting as I must, the deep concern
On both your minds, I fain would aid that work,
The which, I see, ye mean to undertake.”
Then counsel wise he gave: it seemed his mind,
Those five long years, had pondered all things well,
Computed every chance and sought the best,
Foresaw and weighed, foreboded and prepared,
Until the call was made his legacy.
At last he said: “My sight is verily clear,
And I behold your duty as yourselves;”
Then spake farewell with pleasant voice, and died.

When summer came, upon an English ship
Sailed Lars and Ruth between the rich green shores
That widened, sinking, till the land was drowned,
And they were blown on rolling fields of blue.
Blown backward more than on; and evil eyes
Of sailors on their sober Quaker garb
Began to turn. “Our Jonah!” was the cry,
When Lars was seen upon the quarter-deck,
And one, a ruffian from the Dorset moors,
Became so impudent and foul of tongue
That Ruth was frightened, would have fled below,
But Lars prevented her. Three strides he made,
Then by the waistband and the neck he seized
That brutish boor, and o'er the bulwarks held,
Above the brine, like death for very fear.
“Now, promise me to keep a decent tongue!”
Cried Lars; and he: “I promise anything,
But let me not be lost!” Thenceforth respect
Those sailors showed to strength, though clad in peace.
“Now see I wherefore thou wert made so strong,”
Ruth said to him, and inwardly rejoiced;
And soon the mists and baffling breezes fled
Before a wind that down from Labrador
Blew like a will unwearied, night and day,
Across the desert of the middle sea.
Out of the waters rose the Scilly Isles,
Afar and low, and then the Cornish hills,
And, floating up by many a valley-mouth
Of Devon streams, they came to Bristol town.

Awhile among their brethren they abode,
For thus had Ezra ordered. There were some
Concerned in trade, whose vessels to and fro
From Hull across the German Ocean sailed,
And touched Norwegian ports; and Lars in those
The old man said, must find his nearest stay.
But soon it chanced that with a vessel came
A man of Arendal, in Norway land,
Known to the Friends as fair in word and deed,
And well-inclined; and Gustaf Hansen named.
Norse tongue makes easy friendship: Lars and he
Became as brothers in a little while,
And, when his worldly charge was ordered, they
Together all embarked for Arendal.
Calm autumn skies were o'er them, and the sea
Swelled in unwrinkled glass: they scarcely knew
How sped the voyage, until Lindesnaes,
At first a cloud, stood fast, and spread away
To flanking capes, with gaps of blue between;
Then rose, and showed, above the precipice,
The firs of Norway climbing thick and high
To wilder crests that made the inland gloom.
In front, the sprinkled skerries pierced the wave;
Between them, slowly glided in and out
The tawny sails, while houses low and red
Hailed their return, or sent them fearless forth.
“This is thy Norway, Lars; it looks like thee,”
Said Ruth: “it has a forehead firm and bold;
It sets its foot below the reach of storms,
Yet hides, methinks, in each retiring vale,
Delight in toil, contentment, love, and peace,—
My land, my husband! let me love it, too!”
So on their softened hearts the sun went down
And rose once more; then Gustaf Hansen came
Beside them, pilot of familiar shores,
And said: “To starboard, yonder, lies the isle
As I described it; here, upon our lee
Is mainland all, and there the Nid comes down,
The timber-shouldering Nid, from endless woods
And wilder valleys where scant grain is grown.
Now bend your glances as my finger points,—
Lo! there it is, the spire of Arendal!
Our little town, as homely, kind, and dear,
As some old dame, round whom her children's babes
Cling to be petted, comforted, and spoiled.
And here, my friends, shall ye with me abide
And with my Thora, till the winter melts,
Which there, beyond yon wall of slaty cloud,
Possesses fell and upland even now.
Too strange is Ruth to dare those snowy wastes,
Nor is there need: good Thora's heart will turn
To her, I know, as mine hath turned to Lars;
And Arendal is warmly-harbored, snug,
And not unfriendly in the time of storms.”

They could not say him nay. The anchor dropped
Before the town, and Thora, from the land,
Tall, broad of breast, with ever-rosy cheeks
O'er which the breezes tossed her locks of gray,
Stretched arms of welcome; and the ancient house,
With massive beams and ample chimney-place,
As in Hockessin, made immediate home.
To Ruth, how sweetly the geraniums peeped
With scarlet eyes across the window-sill!
How orderly the snowy curtains shone!
Familiar, too, the plainness and the use
In all things; presses of the dusky oak,
Fair linen, store of healing herbs that smelled
Of charity, and signs of forethought wise
That justified the plenty of the house.
It was as Gustaf said: good Thora loved
The foreign woman, taught and counselled her,
Taking to heart their purpose, so that she
Unconsciously received the truth of Friends.
And Gustaf also, through the soul of Lars,
To him laid bare, and all that blessing clear
Obedience brings when speaks the inward voice,
Believed erelong; then others came to hear,
Till there, in Arendal, a brotherhood
Of earnest seekers for the light grew up,
Before the hasty spring of northern lands
Sowed buttercups along the banks of Nid.

But when they burst, those precious common flowers
That not a meadow of the world can spare,
Said Lars, one Sabbath, to the little flock:
“Here we have tarried long, and it is well;
But now we go, and it is also well.
This much is blessing added unto those
That went before; hence louder rings the call
Which brought me hither, and I must obey.
My path is clear, my duty strange and stern,
The end thereof uncertain; it may be,
My brethren, I shall never see ye more.
Your love upholds me, and your faith confirms
My purpose: bless me now, and bid farewell!”
Then Gustaf wept, and said: “Our brother, go!
Yet thou art with us, and we walk with thee
In this or yonder world, as bids the Lord.”

Their needful preparations soon were made:
Two strong dun horses of the mountain breed,
With hoofs like claws, that clung where'er they touched,
Unholstered saddles, leathern wallets filled
With scrip for houseless ways, close-woven cloaks
To comfort them upon the cloudy fells,
And precious books, by Penn and Barclay writ
And Woolman,—these made up their little store.
The few and faithful went with them a space
Along the banks of Nid; there first besought
All power and light, and furtherance for the task
Awaiting Lars: they knew not what it was,
But what it was, they knew, was good: then all
Gave hands and said farewell, and Lars and Ruth
Rode boldly onward, facing the dark land.

Across the lonely hills of Tellemark,
That smiled in sunshine, went their earnest way,
And by the sparkling waters of the Tind;
Then, leaving on the left that chasm of dread
Where, under Gousta's base, the Riukan falls
In winnowing blossoms, tendrilled vines of foam,
And bursting rockets of the starry spray,
They rode through forests into Hemsedal.
The people marvelled at their strange attire,
But all were kind; and Ruth, to whom their speech
Was now familiar, found such ordered toil,
Such easy gladness, temperate desire,
That many doubts were laid: the spirit slept,
She thought, and waited but a heartsome call.
Then ever higher stood the stormy fells
Against uncertain skies, as they advanced;
And ever grander plunged the roaring snow
Of mighty waterfalls from cliff to vale:
The firs were mantled in a blacker shade,
The rocks were rusted as with ancient blood,
And winds that shouted or in wailing died
Harried the upper fields, in endless wrath
At finding there no man.

The soul of Lars
Expanded with a solemn joy; but Ruth,
Awed by the gloom and wildness of the land,
Rode close and often touched her husband's arm;
And when within its hollow dell they saw
The church of Borgund like a dragon sit,
Its roof all horns, its pitchy shingles laid
Like serpent scales, its door a dusky throat,
She whispered: “This the ancients must have left
From their abolished worship: is it so?
This is no temple of the living Lord,
That makes me fear it like an evil thing!”
“Consider not its outward form,” said Lars,
“Or mine may vex thee, for my sin outgrown.
I would the dragon in the people's blood
As harmless were!” So downward, side by side,
From ridges of the windy Fille Fell
Unto the borders of the tamer brine,
The sea-arm bathing Frithiof's home, they rode;
Then two days floated past those granite walls
That mock the boatman with a softer song,
And took the land again, where shadow broods,
And frequent thunder of the tumbling rocks
Is heard the summer through, in Nærödal.
To Ruth the gorge seemed awful, and the path
That from its bowels toiled to meet the sun,
Was hard as any made for Christian's feet,
In Bunyan's dream; but Lars with lighter step
The giddy zigzag scaled, for now, beyond,
Not distant, lay the Vossevangen vale,
And all the cheerful neighborhood of home.

At last, one quiet afternoon, they crossed
The fell from Graven, and below them saw
The roofs of Ulvik and the orchard-trees
Shining in richer colors, and the fiord,
A dim blue gloom between Hardanger heights,—
The strife and peace, the plenty and the need;
And both were silent for a little space.
Then Ruth: “I had not thought thy home so fair,
Nor yet so stern and overhung with dread,
It seems to draw me as a danger draws,
Yet gives me courage: is it well with thee?”
“That which I would, I know,” responded Lars,
“Not that which may be: ask no more, I pray!”
Then downward, weary, strangely moved, yet glad,
They went, a wonder to the Ulvik folk,
Till some detected, 'neath his shadowy brim,
The eyes of Lars; and he was scarcely housed
With his astonished kindred, ere the news
Spread from the fountain, ran along the shore.
For all believed him dead: in truth, the dead
Could not have risen in stranger guise than he,
Who spake as one they knew and did not know,
Who seemed another, yet must be the same.
His folk were kind: they owned the right of blood,
Nor would disgrace it, though a half-disgrace
Lars seemed to bring; but in her strange, sweet self
Ruth brought a pleasure which erelong was love.
Her gentle voice, her patient, winning ways,
Pure thought and ignorance of evil things
That on her wedlock left a virgin bloom,
Set her above them, yet her nature dwelt
In lowliness: sister and saint she seemed.

Soon Thorsten, brother of the slaughtered Per,
Alike a stalwart fisher of the fiord,
Heard who had come, and published unto all
The debt of blood he meant to claim of Lars.
“The coward, only, comes as man of peace,
To shirk such payment!” were his bitter words.
And they were carried unto Lars: but he
Spake firmly: “Well I knew what he would claim:
The coward, knowing, comes not.” Nothing more;
Nor could they guess the purpose of his mind.
In little Ulvik all the people learned
What words had passed, and there were friends of both;
But Lars kept silent, walked the ways unarmed,
And preached the pardon of an utmost wrong.
Now Thorsten saw in this but some device
To try his own forbearance: his revenge
Grew hungry for an answering enmity,
And weary of its shame; and so, at last,
He sent this message: “If Lars Thorstensen
Deny not blood he spilled, and guilt thereof,
Then let him meet me by the Graven lake,”—
On such a day.

When came the message, Lars
Spake thus to all his kindred: “I will go:
I do deny not my blood-guiltiness.
This thing hath rested on my soul for years,
And must be met.” Then unto Ruth he turned:
“I go alone: abide thou with our kin.”
But she arose and answered: “Nay, I go!
Forbid me not, or I must disobey,
Which were a cross. I give thee to the Lord,
His helpless instrument, to break or save;
Think not my weakness shall confuse thy will!”
Lars laid his hand upon her head, and all
Were strangely melted, though he spake no more,
Nor then, nor on the way to Graven lake.

Lo! there were many gathered, kin of both,
Or friends, or folk acquainted with the tale,
And curious for its end. The summer sky
Was beautiful above them, and the trees
Stood happy, stretching forth forgiving arms;
Yet sultry thunder in the hearts of men
Brooded, the menace of a rain of blood.
Lars paused not when he came. He saw the face
Of Thorsten, ruddy, golden-haired like Per's,
Amid the throng, and straightway went to him
And spake: “I come, as thou invitest me.
My brother, I have shed thy brother's blood;
What wouldst thou I should do thee, to atone?”

“Give yours!” cried Thorsten, stepping back a pace.

“That murderous law we took from heathen sires,”
Said Lars, “is guilt upon a Christian land.
I do abjure it. Wilt thou have my blood,
Nor less, I dare not lift a hand for thine.”

“You came not, then, to fight, though branded here
A coward?”

“Nay, nor ever,” answered Lars;
“But, were I coward, could I calmly bear
Thy words?” Then Thorkil, friend of Thorsten, cried:
“These people, in their garments, I have heard,
Put on their peace; or else some magic dwells
In shape of hat or color of the coat,
To make them harmless as a browsing hare.
That Lars we knew had danger in his eyes;
But this one,—why, uncover, let us see!”
Therewith struck off the hat. And others there
Fell upon Lars, and tore away his coat,
Nor ceased the outrage until they had made
His body bare to where the leathern belt
Is clasped between the breast-bone and the hip.

Around his waist they buckled then a belt,
And brought a knife, and thrust it in his hand.
The open fingers would not hold: the knife
Fell from them, struck, and quivered in the sod.
Thorsten, apart, had also bared his breast,
And waited, beautiful in rosy life.
Then Thorkil and another drew the twain
Together, hooked the belts of each, and strove
Once more to arm the passive hand of Lars:
In vain: his open fingers would not hold
The knife, which fell and quivered in the sod.
He looked in Thorsten's eyes; great sorrow fell
Upon him, and a tender human love.
“I did not this,” he said; “nor will resist.
If thou art minded so, then strike me dead:
But thou art sacred, for the blood I spilled
Is in thy veins, my brother: yea, all blood
Of all men sacred is in thee.” His arms
Hung at his side: he did not shrink or sway:
His flesh touched Thorsten's where the belts were joined,
And felt its warmth. Then twice did Thorsten lift
His armèd hand, and twice he let it sink:
An anguish came upon his face: he groaned,
And all that heard him marvelled at the words;
“Have pity on me; turn away thine eyes:
I cannot slay thee while they look on me!”
“If I could end this bloody custom so,
In all the land, nor plant a late remorse
For what is here thy justice,” answered Lars,
“I could not say thee nay. Yet, if the deed
Be good, thou shouldst have courage for the deed!”
Once more looked Thorsten in those loving eyes,
And shrank, and shuddered, and grew deadly pale,
Till, with a gasp for breath, as one who drowns
Draws, when he dips again above the wave,
He loosed the clutching belts, and sat him down
And hid his face: they heard him only say:
“'T were well that I should die, for very shame!”
Lars heard, and spake to all: “The shame is mine,
Whose coward heart betrayed me unto guilt.
I slew my brother Per, nor sought his blood:
Thou, Thorsten, wilt not mine; I read thy heart.
But ye, who trample on the soul of man
In still demanding he shall ne'er outgrow
The savage in his veins, through faith in Good,
Who Thorsten rule, even as ye ruled myself,—
I call ye to repent! That God we left,
White Balder, were more merciful than this:
If one, henceforward, cast on Thorsten shame,
The Lord shall smite him when the judgment comes!”

Never before, such words in such a place
Were preached by such apostle. Bared, as though
For runes of death, while red Berserker rage
Kindled in some, in others smouldered out,
He raised his hand and pointed to the sky:
Far off, behind the silent fells, there rolled
A sudden thunder. Ruth, who all the while
Moved not nor spake, stood forth, and o'er her face
There came the glory of an opening heaven.
Now that she knew the habit of the folk,
She spake not; but she clothed the form of Lars
In silence, and the women, weeping, helped.
Then Thorsten rose, and seeing her, he said:
“Thou art his wife; they tell me thou art good.
I am no bloodier than thy husband was
Before he knew thee: hast thou aught to say?”
She took his hand and spake, as one inspired:
“Thou couldst not make thyself a man of blood!
This is thy seed of blessing: let it grow!
Gladness of heart, and peace, and honored name
Shall come to thee: the unrighteous, cruel law
Is broken by thy hands, no less than his
Who loves thee, and would sooner die than harm!”
“They speak the truth,” said Thorsten; “thou art good,
And it were surely bitter grief to thee
If I had slain him. Go! his blood is safe
From hands of mine.”

His words the most approved;
The rest, bewildered, knew not what to say.
In these the stubborn mind and plastic heart
Agreed not quickly, for the thing was strange,
An olden tale with unforeboded end:
They must have time. The crowd soon fell apart,
Some faces glad, all solemn, and dispersed;
Except one woman, who, from time to time,
Pressed forward, then, as with uncertain will,
Turned back as often. Troubled was her face
And worn: within the hollows of her eyes
Dwelt an impatient sorrow, and her lips
Had from themselves the girlish fulness pressed.
Her hair hung negligent, though plenteous still;
And beauty that no longer guards itself,
But listlessly beholds its ruin come,
Made her an apparition wild and sad,
A cloud on others' joy.

Lars, as he left
That field unsullied, saw the woman stand.
“Brita!” he cried; and all the past returned
And all the present mixed with it, and made
His mouth to quiver and his eyes to fill:
“Unhappy Brita, and I made thee so!
Is there forgiveness yet for too much love
And foolish faith, that brought us double woe?
I dare not ask it; couldst thou give unasked?”
Her face grew hard to keep the something back
Which softened her: “Make Per alive,” she said,
“One moment only, that he pardon me,
And thou art pardoned! else, I think, canst thou
Bear silence, as I bear it from the dead.
Oh, thou hast done me harm!” But Ruth addressed
These words to her: “I never did thee harm,
Yet on my soul my husband's guilt to thee
Is made a shadow: let me be thy friend!
Only a woman knows a woman's need.”

Lars understood the gesture and the glance
Which Ruth then gave, and hastened on the path
To join his kindred, leaving them alone.
So Ruth by Brita walked, and spake to her
In words whose very sound a comfort gave,
Like some soft wind that o'er an arid land,
Unfelt at first, fans on with cooling wings
Till all the herbage freshens, and the soil
Is moist with dew; and Brita's arid heart
Thus opened: “Yea, all this is very well.
So much thou knowest, being woman,—love
Of man, and man's of thee, and both declared:
But say, how canst thou measure misery
Of love that lost its chances, made the Past
One dumbness, and forever reckons o'er
The words unspoken, which to both were sweet,
The touch of hands that never binding met,
The kisses, never given and never took,
The hopes and raptures that were never shared,—
Nay, worse than this, for she withheld, who knew
They might have been, from him who never knew!”

Therewith her passion loosed itself in sobs,
And on the pitying breast of Ruth she wept
Her heart to calmness; then, with less of pain,
She told the simple story of her life:
How, scarce two years before, her grandam died,
Who would have seen her wedded, and was wroth,
At times, in childish petulance of age,
But kinder—'t was a blessing!—ere she died,
Leaving the cottage highest on the slope,
Naught else, to Brita; but her wants were few.
The garden helped her, and the spotted cow,
Now old, indeed: she span the winter through,
And there was meal enough, and Thorsten gave
Sometimes a fish, because she grieved for Per;
And, now the need of finery was gone,—
For men came not a-wooing where consent
Abode not,—she had made the least suffice.
Yes, she was lonely: it was better so,
For she must learn to live in loneliness.
As much as unto Ruth she had not said
To any woman, trusting her, it seemed,
Without a knowledge, more than them she knew
“Yea, trust me, Sister Brita!” Ruth replied,
“And try to love: my heart is drawn to thee.”
Thereafter, many a day, went Ruth alone
To Brita's cottage, vexing not with words
That woke her grief, and silent as to Lars,
Till Brita learned to smile when she appeared,
And missed her when she came not. Now, meanwhile,
The news of Lars, and Thorsten's foiled revenge
Beside the lake of Graven, travelled far
Past Vik and Vossevangen, o'er the fells,
To all the homesteads of the Bergenstift;
And every gentle heart leaped up in joy,
While those of restless old Berserker blood
Beat hot with wrath. Who oversets old laws,
They said, is dangerous; and who is he
That dares to preach, and hath not been ordained?
This thing concerns the ministers, they whom
The State sets over us, with twofold power,
Divine and secular, to teach and rule.
Then he, the shepherd of the Ulvik flock,
Not now that good old man, but one whose youth
More hateful showed his Christless bigotry,
Made Sabbaths hot with his anathemas
Of Lars, and stirred a tumult in the land.
Some turned away, and all grew faint of heart,
Seeing the foothold yield, and slip; till Lars,
Now shunned at home, and drawn by messages
From Gustaf Hansen and the faithful souls
In Arendal, said: “It is time to go.”

“Nay, tarry but a little while,” spake Ruth.
“I have my purpose here, as thou hadst thine:
Grant me but freedom, for the end, I think,
Is justified.”

Lars answered: “Have thy will!”

She summoned Brita, and the twain went down
To pace the scanty strand beside the wave,
Which, after storm, was quiet, though the gloom
Of high, opposing mountains filled the fiord.
Ruth spake of parting; Brita answered not,
But up and down in silence walked the strand,
Then suddenly: “No message sendeth Lars?
My pardon he implored; and that, to thee,
I know, were welcome. Hadst thou asked, perchance,
Perverse in sorrow, I should still withhold;
But thou departest, who hast been so kind,
And I—ah, God! what else have I to give?”
“The Lord requite thee, Brita!” Ruth exclaimed;
“The gift that blesses must be given unasked:
What now remains is easy. Come with us,
With Lars and me, and be our home thy home,
All peace we win, all comfort, thine as ours!”

Once more walked Brita up and down the strand,
Bowing her face upon her shielding hands,
As if to muse, unwatched: then stood, and seemed
About to speak, when, with a shrilling cry
She sprang, and fell, and grovelled on her knees,
And thrust her fingers in the wet sea-sand.
Ruth, all in terror, ran to her, and saw
How, from the bones of some long-wasted fish
An osprey dropped, or tempest beat to death,
Caught in the breakers, and the drifted shells,
And tangles of the rotting kelp, she plucked
Something that sparkled, pressed it to her lips,
And cried: “A sign! a sign! 't is grandam speaks!”
Then trembling rose, and flung herself on Ruth,
And kissed her, saying: “I will follow thee.
My heart assented, yet I had denied,
But, ere I spake, the miracle was done!
Thy words give back the jewel lost with Per:
Tell Lars I do forgive him, and will serve
Thee, Ruth, a willing handmaid, in thy home!”
So Brita went with them to Arendal.
There milder habits, easier government
Of bench and pulpit for a while left all
In peace: and not alone within the fold
Of Friends came Brita, but the Lord inspired.
She spake with power, as one by suffering taught
A chastened spirit, and she wrought good works.
She was a happy matron ere she died,
And blessing came on all; for, from that day
Of doubt and anguish by the Graven lake,
The Lord fulfilled in Ruth one secret prayer,
And gave her children; and the witness borne
By Lars, the voice of his unsprinkled blood,
Became a warning on Norwegian hills.

Here, now, they fade. The purpose of their lives
Was lifted up, by something over life,
To power and service. Though the name of Lars
Be never heard, the healing of the world
Is in its nameless saints. Each separate star
Seems nothing, but a myriad scattered stars
Break up the Night, and make it beautiful.