 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
636
HAUNTED.
Old Martin Vail, the lord of many acres,
Fertile and rich, the country's wonder round,
A man who prospered in all undertakings,
Yet little comfort found—
Fertile and rich, the country's wonder round,
A man who prospered in all undertakings,
Yet little comfort found—
He was not native to the place; a stranger;
And we know nothing of him, save his name;
But certain he was rich, the man had money,
And money's worth the same.
And we know nothing of him, save his name;
But certain he was rich, the man had money,
And money's worth the same.
But with it all, there came at times a tremor
Over his neighbors, when his name they spoke;
For thirty years or more, one thing mysterious
Puzzled our country folk.
Over his neighbors, when his name they spoke;
For thirty years or more, one thing mysterious
Puzzled our country folk.
Where'er he walked, in forest, field, or highway,
At times he'd stop, and backward sudden look;
And then, as though some foeman were pursuing,
His form in terror shook.
At times he'd stop, and backward sudden look;
And then, as though some foeman were pursuing,
His form in terror shook.
What shape it was of memory or fancy
Which chased him thus, he ne'er to mortal told;
He gave no confidence, and brooked no question,
But passed on, stern and cold.
Which chased him thus, he ne'er to mortal told;
He gave no confidence, and brooked no question,
But passed on, stern and cold.
A good old man, they said, for all his coldness;
Stern in his manner. Who of that took heed,
When sick, or poor, or wretched ever found him
Their readiest friend at need?
Stern in his manner. Who of that took heed,
When sick, or poor, or wretched ever found him
Their readiest friend at need?
637
Riches rained on him, howsoe'er he lavished.
That moved him not, the gaunt old man and grim;
And, when at last he died, whate'er his secret,
That also died with him.
That moved him not, the gaunt old man and grim;
And, when at last he died, whate'er his secret,
That also died with him.
Some thought him mad, and others deemed him guilty
Of one sad error, or perchance a crime;
And held some spectre of a wrong pursued him,
Done in his early time.
Of one sad error, or perchance a crime;
And held some spectre of a wrong pursued him,
Done in his early time.
The good he did was speedily forgotten,
Even by those who felt his bounty most;
And now the memory of his backward glances
Haunts all men, like a ghost.
Even by those who felt his bounty most;
And now the memory of his backward glances
Haunts all men, like a ghost.
A kindness shown seems written in the water;
A fault of manner carved in solid rock;
Our better deeds die out and quickly moulder;
Our worst survive to shock.
A fault of manner carved in solid rock;
Our better deeds die out and quickly moulder;
Our worst survive to shock.
But, ah! how many of us, poor, frail mortals,
Whate'er our state, are haunted, day by day,
By the grim ghost of some old wrong, or error,
We may not scare away!
Whate'er our state, are haunted, day by day,
By the grim ghost of some old wrong, or error,
We may not scare away!
How we would fain atone, and in repentance,
With earnest effort work some little good,
Yet cannot shun the phantom born of conscience,
However much we would.
With earnest effort work some little good,
Yet cannot shun the phantom born of conscience,
However much we would.
With pallid face it dogs our weary footsteps,
With outstretched finger points whene'er we turn;
And deep remorse lights torturing fire within us
To burn and burn and burn.
With outstretched finger points whene'er we turn;
And deep remorse lights torturing fire within us
To burn and burn and burn.
638
Ah! did we look before and not behind us,
And only on the future cast our gaze,
We might forget the phantoms vague that follow
Forever on our ways.
And only on the future cast our gaze,
We might forget the phantoms vague that follow
Forever on our ways.
The Past is dead. There let it lie forever.
The Future lives. Let that be aim of ours.
The weeds behind us—let them fall and wither.
Before us grow the flowers.
The Future lives. Let that be aim of ours.
The weeds behind us—let them fall and wither.
Before us grow the flowers.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |