University of Virginia Library

THE WIDOW AND THE PRIEST.

Outside our village, up within a croft,
Shelter'd from all the winds except the soft
Sweet clover breath that comes out of the west,
There lived a widow in a lonely nest—
A clay-built cottage in against a bank,
Choked up with brambles, docks and nettles rank;
Before the door a small potato bed,
A bush or two of roses, white and red,
Some herbs we used to know in days of old,
As rue, and thyme, and balm and marigold;
And one tall willow, in whose wiry top
A pair of pyets came to jibe and hop:
A sleepy place but for the little stream
That brattled through the croft and broke its dream.
For thirty years of lonely widow-hood
She strove to make ends meet as best she could,
Her chief support one small milk-cow that housed
Within a little byre at night, and browsed
All day among the whins, or took a turn
About the herby borders of the burn:
And if she straggled from the widow's ken
A gentle calling brought her back again.
And duly as the milking time came round,
The little beast would at the door be found,
Crooning of well-fill'd udders. Little need
The widow had for watching, and indeed
Long hours within the willow shade would sit,
Or on some hillock, in the sun, and knit
The coarse gray woollen stockings, which she sold
About the village when the days grew cold.—
This, with her scanty butter, milk and cheese,
Made up her little stock-in-trade: and these
Found ready market; for 'twas thought and said,
The natural herbs whereon her cow was fed
Gave to the milk rare virtues, and in turn
The products of her chizzard and her churn.
Thus did she by her merchandise provide
The livelihood that never is denied
To honest, careful labour, and could give
A portion to the priest, as well as live.
But here it was her brooding trouble lay;
For left alone all thro' the thoughtful day,
With priestly terrors rankling in her brain,
And penal fears, and everlasting pain,
She conjured up a load of outward sin
Far more than one might carry, and within
A poor, weak, helpless soul. “Alas!” cried she,
“The holy Jesus never comes to me,
To loose me from this burden of my cares;
Nor will, save thro' a world of costly pray'rs:
And what can my small pittance do to bring
A poor old woman to her Lord and King!”
“Good woman, I have pray'd for thee, and sure
Such loud and fervid pray'rs for one so poor
Never went up before. Peter and Paul,
The powerfullest among the older saints, and all
The weightiest of the new, have been implored
That thou to Christian comfort be restored.”
“Ah, woe is me! so many holy saints
To strengthen me, and yet my poor heart faints
Beneath its load! Good father, what beside
Is in thy power? Can nothing else be tried?”
“Ah, reverend father, in good Mary's sight
Perhaps my little, like the widow's mite,
Would find much favour: try, good father, try;
And if great faith be needed, that have I.”
“Great faith is needed; but the price is much
Above thy means, the intercession such
As only wealth indulges in. Yet thou,
I just bethink me, hast a good milk cow—
And what are worldly goods to sins forgiven,
A cleansëd heart, a place secured in heaven?
What profits it a man to gain the whole
Of earth, if, gaining that, he lose his soul?
And, earth possessing, it were well he gave
All up, if thereby he his soul could save.”
Some while the widow sat without a word—
Although her breast with much unrest was stirr'd—
Brooding, with downcast eyes and thoughtful brow,
Between her soul's salvation and her cow;
And when she spoke 'twas with a sigh:—
“Alas!
We know not what a day may bring to pass:
Why need we set our hearts on worldly gear,
And death, that severs us and it, so near—
So ever near that any footslip may
From all our clinging hoards snatch us away!
And then to die as unprepared as now!
O, reverend father, thou shalt have my cow.
But pray for me to Mary, Mother in Heaven,
On bended knees, till I am wholly shriven.”
It was agreed that he should pray and pray,
And keep the courts of heaven, both night and day,
For one whole week, with supplications plied—
Enough to purify a soul, though dyed
As black as sin itself—far more than lift
Her burden off, and give her peaceful shrift.—
All that was needed on both sides was this—
Unbounded faith on hers, fervour on his.
And for the rest, the cow might nibble there,
About the croft, until the Lammas fair,
A fortnight hence, when he would have her sold.
Meanwhile the widow's grief grew manifold.
If all those holy saints and all those pray'rs
Have fail'd to rid her of her sinful cares,
How great must these now be! So greatly more
Than ever she had dreamt they were before,
That even the Virgin's interceding word
Unto the bar of Heaven may rise unheard!
And to her crowding sorrows she has now
To add the speedy parting with her cow:—
“Alas! alas! the world has never seen
Such friends, poor Crum, as thou and I have been.
And must we part at last! And must we part—
To save my soul—ay, ay—but break my heart!”
Then would she hang upon its neck, or gaze
Into its eyes, until she thought a haze
Rose from their deeps and gather'd in a tear;
And as the day grew nearer and more near
When they must part, her fondness for the beast,
Her fondness and her kindness, still increased.—
She moved beside it both by burn and brake,
And sadly shared with it her oaten cake.
Now when the week of prayers was at an end,
Up through the croft the priest was seen to wend,
And coming on the widow and her cow,
“Woman,” said he, “how is it with thee now?”
“No better, reverend father, none, but worse;
And all my life seems blacken'd with some curse
That even holy church has not the power,
I fear, to charm away, or priest to scour.
O, reverend father, hast thou pray'd thy best?”
“Good woman, I perceive thy great unrest
Arises from a want of faith as great.
For one whole week I've pray'd, early and late,
For thee and thee alone, and am assured
Thy soul's salvation is right well secured.
Believe it, just believe it is, and lo!
That very instant thou wilt find it so.
This want of faith, my woman, is thy hell,—
Yes, think all well with thee, and all is well.—”
And ere she well knew what to think or say,
He turn'd upon his heel and went away;
While, in a trance of curious, mute surprise,
Up through the croft she track'd him with her eyes,
Beyond the knolls till through the upland gap
His long, black breezy skirts were seen to flap.
And then she sank into her own sad breast,
As to the last extremity distress'd,
All outward trust cut off, the last hope gone,
Her sole reliance in herself alone.
And long she brooded over her despair:—
“If I have but to think his week of prayer
Has brought me peace from Heaven, why might I not
Myself raise comfort by the power of thought?
My thinking or his praying—which, ay which,
It matters not. If I could think me rich,
Believe myself a duchess or a queen,
I should not feel that I am poor and mean;
If I can think away my sins, what need
Of priest or holy church to intercede?”
But while she reason'd thus, the priest's man came,
With quick official strides. Said he, “Old dame,
I'm come to fetch the cow.” She look'd him—Nay!
“Go back to him that sent thee, man, and say
He's got the cow: if not, be his the blame;
Tell him to think he has—it's all the same!”
And there was such commanding in her look
As plainly told the man that she could brook
No parley with him, so he turned and left.
Alone again, she felt as one bereft
Of outward help or hope, and doubted whether
'Twere wise to break with priest and church together;
“For though they fail'd to rid me of my grief,
The thought that yet they would, gave some relief;
But, now I've cast them off, I see their worth,
And feel the desolation of this earth.”
Her eyes fell on the damp earth where she stood,
And there a daisy in sweet solitude
Was meekly folding to the setting sun,
And all around it not another one.
Its loneliness so touch'd her heart that she
Let go her sorrow, and on bended knee
Gazed deep into the being of the flower,
And seem'd its sweet existence to devour:
“Dear God, dear God, what need have I to doubt
Thy far-descending care, which leaves not out
Even this lowly daisy? Dear, dear, look!
Within its leaves a spray-drop from the brook
Gleams like a star; Thy sun that rules the day
E'en stoops to glorify a drop of spray!
O, nothing is too lowly for Thy light,
Nor any soul unworthy in Thy sight.
If this poor daisy, looking to the sky,
Is dower'd with such radiance, may not I,
By looking unto Thee, O God, receive
The spirit, at whose touch all troubles leave?
When Thou thyself didst walk this earth, God-Christ,
'Twas not the rich man, not the learned priest
That got Thy benedictions, but the poor;
Yea, even those that begg'd from door to door,
And orphans, widows—all that were distressed;
If they but kneel'd unto thee and confess'd
Their sins, as I do now, they rose up pure—
Lord of the lowly, thou! friend of the poor!”
While thus she kneel'd, she seem'd to look right thro'
This frame of earth that hides from mortal view
The real world behind; and when she came
Back to her common self, the glori-flame
In which departed spirits, as 'tis said,
And all angelic beings are array'd,
Came flickering with her, as if she had been
Within the unseen world behind the scene.
She rose with such meek majesty and grace
As though she had seen Jesus face to face,
And softly to her dumb companion talk'd,
Patting its neck as side by side they walk'd
Along the croft into their clay-built home,
Where never more the priest was known to come.