 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
105
AUNT RACHEL'S STORY.
With booming hum the pertinacious bee
Goes beating here and there, the butterfly
Drifts idly on the wind, the feathery buds
Are dangling from the willow's yellow twigs,
Its limp, green fingers the horse-chestnut spreads,
The daring tulip in the garden nods,
And from the centre of its painted cup
Thrusts its black tongue. The Spring returns again
With musical breezes and the trill of birds,
And furrows dark, fringed by the young grain's green,
And thickening hedges where at height of noon
The thin air simmers, and the wakened flies
Begin to wheel and whisper in the warmth.
Goes beating here and there, the butterfly
Drifts idly on the wind, the feathery buds
Are dangling from the willow's yellow twigs,
Its limp, green fingers the horse-chestnut spreads,
The daring tulip in the garden nods,
And from the centre of its painted cup
Thrusts its black tongue. The Spring returns again
With musical breezes and the trill of birds,
And furrows dark, fringed by the young grain's green,
And thickening hedges where at height of noon
The thin air simmers, and the wakened flies
Begin to wheel and whisper in the warmth.
'T is May again—but how unlike the May
Of years ago—of that young May of life
When aimless as a summer cloud, the heart,
Freighted with light and touched with roseate hues,
Sailed far above the sordid cares of earth
In the pure heaven of feeling. Yes, 't is May,
Not the old May; for May is changed indeed
Since those old times, when love and hope looked out
Of the heart's windows—when we both were girls
In our first freedom. Yet not all these years
Have cloven our hearts asunder—in the loam
Of early memories our friendship roots—
Thought-interlaced like these two branching elms.
Of years ago—of that young May of life
When aimless as a summer cloud, the heart,
Freighted with light and touched with roseate hues,
Sailed far above the sordid cares of earth
In the pure heaven of feeling. Yes, 't is May,
Not the old May; for May is changed indeed
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Of the heart's windows—when we both were girls
In our first freedom. Yet not all these years
Have cloven our hearts asunder—in the loam
Of early memories our friendship roots—
Thought-interlaced like these two branching elms.
Dear memories! lofty as the “Silverhorns,”
Whose spotless heights into the blue sky pierce
To play with morning,—yet not cold and bare
As those steep splendors, but with tender grass
And flowers o'ergrown, like to those lower slopes
Where tinkle the faint cow-bells, and long notes
Of the far shepherd's horn calling his herds
Float o'er the air-abysses—pastures fair
Are they to us, serene although so sad,
And brooded over by a thoughtful haze,
Where herds of sweet thoughts wander far above
Life's lower valley lying in the shade.
Whose spotless heights into the blue sky pierce
To play with morning,—yet not cold and bare
As those steep splendors, but with tender grass
And flowers o'ergrown, like to those lower slopes
Where tinkle the faint cow-bells, and long notes
Of the far shepherd's horn calling his herds
Float o'er the air-abysses—pastures fair
Are they to us, serene although so sad,
And brooded over by a thoughtful haze,
Where herds of sweet thoughts wander far above
Life's lower valley lying in the shade.
Gone are the blossoms of our Young Romance—
Alas! the very leaves are almost gone,
Yet through the branches we can clearly see
Heaven's light that once was hidden by their wealth.
Alas! the very leaves are almost gone,
Yet through the branches we can clearly see
Heaven's light that once was hidden by their wealth.
At moments only can we feel how far
Our youth lies from us—as we drift along
All things drift with us—'t is but now and then
Some sudden contrast screams to us the truth.
Our youth lies from us—as we drift along
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Some sudden contrast screams to us the truth.
With some such thought as this, an hour ago
I saw our dear old friend and hostess here,
With her starched widow's cap, prim snowy ruff,
And sombre dress, walk staidly down the path
And pause beneath the elms—then reaching up,
Pluck from the lilac hedge a fragrant bunch
Wet with the morning—rain its dew away
With a quick shake—and slowly pass along.
I wondered with what thought she smelled that bunch
Of lilac? for I smelled my youth in it.
The flower, her movement, to my mind recalled,
How suddenly, the time when we were girls.
I saw her young, slight form, the happy face
Laughing through golden hair, and youth's light step
That spurns the ground it clings unto at last.
Swift as a shuttle flies, the vision passed,
But left behind in the dark weft of thought
Its brilliant thread that on the sombre ground
Conspicuous showed: the Past and Present clashed
Like two sweet bells that are not in accord.
I saw at once as in a magic glass
This sad, subdued, and overwearied woman,
And the young, gay, impetuous, laughing girl.
I saw our dear old friend and hostess here,
With her starched widow's cap, prim snowy ruff,
And sombre dress, walk staidly down the path
And pause beneath the elms—then reaching up,
Pluck from the lilac hedge a fragrant bunch
Wet with the morning—rain its dew away
With a quick shake—and slowly pass along.
I wondered with what thought she smelled that bunch
Of lilac? for I smelled my youth in it.
The flower, her movement, to my mind recalled,
How suddenly, the time when we were girls.
I saw her young, slight form, the happy face
Laughing through golden hair, and youth's light step
That spurns the ground it clings unto at last.
Swift as a shuttle flies, the vision passed,
But left behind in the dark weft of thought
Its brilliant thread that on the sombre ground
Conspicuous showed: the Past and Present clashed
Like two sweet bells that are not in accord.
I saw at once as in a magic glass
This sad, subdued, and overwearied woman,
And the young, gay, impetuous, laughing girl.
You only knew her when her youth was past,
But not the same was she in face or mind,
As in those days when Love and Passion throbbed
Across her eloquent cheeks, (like a swift hand
Across a mystic harp,) and struck a fire
In those wild eyes, that now are all so calm.
What zest, what brilliancy, was in her wit—
What relish of Life that would not be repressed
In formal bounds—what mad delight in fun—
What salient girlhood. Love that early came,
But deepened to an ample river depth
The wild young torrent: unto those two hearts,
To hers and Marion's, Life flowed on so smooth—
They were so happy, fitting each to each
In taste and temper like two clasping hands—
That there seemed nothing left to ask of Fate,
It had not given. Oft and oft we said,
Beholding them, “Such fortune sometimes comes
At happy moments and to happy souls,
To give a footing to those climbing dreams
The sneering world calls vaporous, foolish, false,
And in the world of facts to keep alive
A wise belief in visionary things.”
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As in those days when Love and Passion throbbed
Across her eloquent cheeks, (like a swift hand
Across a mystic harp,) and struck a fire
In those wild eyes, that now are all so calm.
What zest, what brilliancy, was in her wit—
What relish of Life that would not be repressed
In formal bounds—what mad delight in fun—
What salient girlhood. Love that early came,
But deepened to an ample river depth
The wild young torrent: unto those two hearts,
To hers and Marion's, Life flowed on so smooth—
They were so happy, fitting each to each
In taste and temper like two clasping hands—
That there seemed nothing left to ask of Fate,
It had not given. Oft and oft we said,
Beholding them, “Such fortune sometimes comes
At happy moments and to happy souls,
To give a footing to those climbing dreams
The sneering world calls vaporous, foolish, false,
And in the world of facts to keep alive
A wise belief in visionary things.”
Glad was their horoscope—no evil star
Foreboded danger when he said good-bye,
And parted as he thought for three short months
Across the ocean. Ah! how blind we were
Who thought that Fate would always brim their hearts,
As it had brimmed them. Tremble ye who have
The Samian Ring; oh! ask not too much luck!
For love's perfection breaks so easily!
One drop of poison cracks a Venice glass.
Foreboded danger when he said good-bye,
And parted as he thought for three short months
Across the ocean. Ah! how blind we were
Who thought that Fate would always brim their hearts,
As it had brimmed them. Tremble ye who have
The Samian Ring; oh! ask not too much luck!
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One drop of poison cracks a Venice glass.
Three months he said—those three months slowly passed,
And month on month went following in their track,
And year on year for three long years—no word
Breaking the dreadful silence—no report
Of life or death, when no report was death.
And month on month went following in their track,
And year on year for three long years—no word
Breaking the dreadful silence—no report
Of life or death, when no report was death.
As one who borne along the rattling rails
Dashes from sunlit plains, pure air, blue sky,
Down a chill tunnel's gloomy dripping cliffs,
She shot from life to death—nor felt at first,
After such glad excess of love and light,
The dim faint lamp left burning in its stead;
But yet as time went on her eye grew used
To that more solemn atmosphere of grief,
And patience served her in the place of love.
Dashes from sunlit plains, pure air, blue sky,
Down a chill tunnel's gloomy dripping cliffs,
She shot from life to death—nor felt at first,
After such glad excess of love and light,
The dim faint lamp left burning in its stead;
But yet as time went on her eye grew used
To that more solemn atmosphere of grief,
And patience served her in the place of love.
Youth suffers sharply but not long—it bends
Before the storm, as the young birch-tree bends
And then springs back. Yet sorrow leaves behind
A poison drop no art can purge away
That taints our joy—that kills our confidence.
The glad, unthinking trust of youth, once crushed,
Is crushed forever.—So it was with her;
Joy, which before she owned, seemed now but lent;
She trembled while she held the commonest gift
Of daily fortune, and within herself
Shrunk up; a still, secluded life she lived,
A life of memory, books, and household cares.
Before the storm, as the young birch-tree bends
And then springs back. Yet sorrow leaves behind
A poison drop no art can purge away
That taints our joy—that kills our confidence.
The glad, unthinking trust of youth, once crushed,
Is crushed forever.—So it was with her;
Joy, which before she owned, seemed now but lent;
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Of daily fortune, and within herself
Shrunk up; a still, secluded life she lived,
A life of memory, books, and household cares.
Years went—and love's sweet memories were hid,
Like playthings that a mother fondly hoards
Of her lost child, long wept in secret o'er,
And sadly visited with grief that time
Made tenderer ever, till it drew at last
A scarce-felt veil of shadow o'er her thought.
Like playthings that a mother fondly hoards
Of her lost child, long wept in secret o'er,
And sadly visited with grief that time
Made tenderer ever, till it drew at last
A scarce-felt veil of shadow o'er her thought.
Her hope was smothered in her heart, not dead.
How oft a sudden noise would make her start,
And bring a quick flush in her cheek,—how oft
Of winter nights, when we beside the blaze
Sat cheerful, would she leave the fireside group
If the wind soughed too loudly in the trees,
Or shook the windows with its gusts of rain.
How oft she went, without apparent cause,
And gazed at twilight down the avenue,
Like one expecting something—and at times,
How fixed to go, despite the cold and rain,
Alone, to take the letters from the post.
How oft a sudden noise would make her start,
And bring a quick flush in her cheek,—how oft
Of winter nights, when we beside the blaze
Sat cheerful, would she leave the fireside group
If the wind soughed too loudly in the trees,
Or shook the windows with its gusts of rain.
How oft she went, without apparent cause,
And gazed at twilight down the avenue,
Like one expecting something—and at times,
How fixed to go, despite the cold and rain,
Alone, to take the letters from the post.
Oft at her father's fireside came a friend,
Older by many years, refined in thought,
Of generous heart and gentle in his mien.
With quiet talk of nature and of art,
He cheered her fancies, bore her oft away
From the dull present to historic times.
By Fancy led, she trod on other shores,
Paced galleries thronged by pictured pageantry
Or marble life—or leaned on balustrades
Along the Alban hills or Tuscan slopes
And breathed the faint, sweet odors floating up
From orange groves, while thrilled the nightingale
His liquid song—or silent slid along
In her black gondola 'neath carven walls
Of shadowy palaces, or in twilight blaze
Beheld St. Marco's glittering crust of gold;—
Through the wild gorges of the Alps he bore
Her visionary footsteps, thrilled her heart
With tales of terror on those glacial heights
Where climbs the chamois, or the tourbillon
Drives its white whirl of thunder down the steeps;
Across the desert, up the slumberous Nile
She journeyed where the fernlike palm-trees grow,
Throwing their shadow on the blear white tombs,
Or where black Egypt, with its palms outspread
On its close knees, in marble sadness sits,
Or further on into the land of dreams,
Broke the pomegranate on Arabian ground,
And trod the city of Scheherezade.
Older by many years, refined in thought,
Of generous heart and gentle in his mien.
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He cheered her fancies, bore her oft away
From the dull present to historic times.
By Fancy led, she trod on other shores,
Paced galleries thronged by pictured pageantry
Or marble life—or leaned on balustrades
Along the Alban hills or Tuscan slopes
And breathed the faint, sweet odors floating up
From orange groves, while thrilled the nightingale
His liquid song—or silent slid along
In her black gondola 'neath carven walls
Of shadowy palaces, or in twilight blaze
Beheld St. Marco's glittering crust of gold;—
Through the wild gorges of the Alps he bore
Her visionary footsteps, thrilled her heart
With tales of terror on those glacial heights
Where climbs the chamois, or the tourbillon
Drives its white whirl of thunder down the steeps;
Across the desert, up the slumberous Nile
She journeyed where the fernlike palm-trees grow,
Throwing their shadow on the blear white tombs,
Or where black Egypt, with its palms outspread
On its close knees, in marble sadness sits,
Or further on into the land of dreams,
Broke the pomegranate on Arabian ground,
And trod the city of Scheherezade.
The spoils of travel hung upon his walls
Or crammed portfolios, over which they turned
For hours, delighted—and her thoughts this way
Acquired a happier bias: oft they walked
Along this road, where tangled blackberries net
The loose piled wall, or late in the afternoon
Strolled slowly through the yellow-lighted fields.
Or crammed portfolios, over which they turned
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Acquired a happier bias: oft they walked
Along this road, where tangled blackberries net
The loose piled wall, or late in the afternoon
Strolled slowly through the yellow-lighted fields.
You know his house, built in the olden time,
Its spacious rooms—its broad and spacious hall,
Where the old clock ticked ever on the stairs,
And that fair prospect from the windows seen;
I see it yet. There lies the flat, green marsh
On which the o'er-brimming river at neap tides
Spreads its broad silver, and where lightning-flies
Flash all night long. There slope the hills beyond,
Besprinkled with white houses and dark groves,
Along whose base the white snake of the train
Steals vanishing—and nearer at my feet,
Upon the lawn's short grass at anchor lie
Great shadows, tethered to the spreading foot
Of lofty elms that swing their pendant boughs.
Above the spring-fed pond tall dark-haired pines,
Lone lingering sachems of their forest tribe,
Grouped as in council, whisper to the breeze
Their mournful memories. There in early frost
Amid their darkness gleamed with yellow fire
Some slim white birches:—there the sumac glowed
And showed its velvet cones, while o'er broad fields
The ripe oats rippled, and tall masts of maize
Waved their green flags and spilled their yellow silk.
Its spacious rooms—its broad and spacious hall,
Where the old clock ticked ever on the stairs,
And that fair prospect from the windows seen;
I see it yet. There lies the flat, green marsh
On which the o'er-brimming river at neap tides
Spreads its broad silver, and where lightning-flies
Flash all night long. There slope the hills beyond,
Besprinkled with white houses and dark groves,
Along whose base the white snake of the train
Steals vanishing—and nearer at my feet,
Upon the lawn's short grass at anchor lie
Great shadows, tethered to the spreading foot
Of lofty elms that swing their pendant boughs.
Above the spring-fed pond tall dark-haired pines,
Lone lingering sachems of their forest tribe,
Grouped as in council, whisper to the breeze
Their mournful memories. There in early frost
Amid their darkness gleamed with yellow fire
Some slim white birches:—there the sumac glowed
And showed its velvet cones, while o'er broad fields
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Waved their green flags and spilled their yellow silk.
Such was the scene through which they wandered oft
And talked of men and books—his heart the while
Absorbing love—as flowers take from the light
Their color, slowly, without suddenness.
And one late afternoon returning home,
That love found utterance—unto her alone
His words came with surprise, and fired a train
Of smouldering thoughts, blind hopes, dear memories
Half pain, half joy, a dim confused heap,
Pushed out of sight, yet wanting but a touch
To blaze through every ward of heart and brain.
'T was the old story—love, at first refused,
Renewed its claim, and friendship, second best,
With admirable reasoning pressed its suit;
Worldly advantage, wealth, position, urged
Their present claims above a hopeless love,
And after tossing to and fro in doubt,
Reluctant still, yet able to oppose
Only a feeling deemed fantastical,
A hope (that floated ever like a buoy
Above the wreck of all her life and love)
That Marion might be living, might return
To make her his, she yielded her consent.
And talked of men and books—his heart the while
Absorbing love—as flowers take from the light
Their color, slowly, without suddenness.
And one late afternoon returning home,
That love found utterance—unto her alone
His words came with surprise, and fired a train
Of smouldering thoughts, blind hopes, dear memories
Half pain, half joy, a dim confused heap,
Pushed out of sight, yet wanting but a touch
To blaze through every ward of heart and brain.
'T was the old story—love, at first refused,
Renewed its claim, and friendship, second best,
With admirable reasoning pressed its suit;
Worldly advantage, wealth, position, urged
Their present claims above a hopeless love,
And after tossing to and fro in doubt,
Reluctant still, yet able to oppose
Only a feeling deemed fantastical,
A hope (that floated ever like a buoy
Above the wreck of all her life and love)
That Marion might be living, might return
To make her his, she yielded her consent.
114
I was her bridesmaid—tremblingly and pale
She stood before the altar, when she pledged
Her heart to his; but when the rites were o'er
She grew composed—a flush of color came
Into her delicate cheek, and, with a smile,
She bade us all good-by—as if she said,
The Past is Past, welcome the Future now.
She stood before the altar, when she pledged
Her heart to his; but when the rites were o'er
She grew composed—a flush of color came
Into her delicate cheek, and, with a smile,
She bade us all good-by—as if she said,
The Past is Past, welcome the Future now.
Sitting beside her when a month had passed,
In pleasant talk of friends, which, deepening on,
Touched on her early grief, and the lost hopes
That lit her morning—all at once our ears
Were startled by quick steps upon the walk;
She trembled—I confess I trembled too,
Touched by a strange foreboding—neither spake—
But a quick flush ran over her pale face,
Then vanished—like those summer-lightning heats
That lift along the horizon's evening edge,
And glow an instant but to leave more weird
The after darkness. In a moment more
The door swung open, and the well-known form
Of Marion stood before us:—with a shriek
She started, staggered forward, while a look
That haunts me still of wild and deep despair
Convulsed her face,—and flinging up her arms,
Muttered, “I knew it!—Ah! too late,” and swooned.
In pleasant talk of friends, which, deepening on,
Touched on her early grief, and the lost hopes
That lit her morning—all at once our ears
Were startled by quick steps upon the walk;
She trembled—I confess I trembled too,
Touched by a strange foreboding—neither spake—
But a quick flush ran over her pale face,
Then vanished—like those summer-lightning heats
That lift along the horizon's evening edge,
And glow an instant but to leave more weird
The after darkness. In a moment more
The door swung open, and the well-known form
Of Marion stood before us:—with a shriek
She started, staggered forward, while a look
That haunts me still of wild and deep despair
Convulsed her face,—and flinging up her arms,
Muttered, “I knew it!—Ah! too late,” and swooned.
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We bathed her temples, bore her to a couch,
And long we hung above her, ere the life
Came back to her white cheeks. Alas! that hour
Of agony, which followed when her sense
Again returned—what explanations wild—
What bursts of tears, that smothered the thick voice,—
With silences more dreadful, like those deep
And dread crevasses leading down to death
Smoothed over by the treacherous snow. What fierce
Self-accusations and complaints of Fate
These two hearts uttered! But at last a calm
Came over them, a calm like that which comes
After the foundering of a glorious hope,
When all alone in the great sea of Time
We find ourselves upon a drifting raft.
And long we hung above her, ere the life
Came back to her white cheeks. Alas! that hour
Of agony, which followed when her sense
Again returned—what explanations wild—
What bursts of tears, that smothered the thick voice,—
With silences more dreadful, like those deep
And dread crevasses leading down to death
Smoothed over by the treacherous snow. What fierce
Self-accusations and complaints of Fate
These two hearts uttered! But at last a calm
Came over them, a calm like that which comes
After the foundering of a glorious hope,
When all alone in the great sea of Time
We find ourselves upon a drifting raft.
You know his story; tempest, war, and chance
Conspired to mar his plans;—a shipwreck first,
Then cruel waiting for another ship,
And long imprisonment on hostile shores,—
These kept him back and ruined all his life.
Conspired to mar his plans;—a shipwreck first,
Then cruel waiting for another ship,
And long imprisonment on hostile shores,—
These kept him back and ruined all his life.
Death had been almost better than return,
Her mind was braced to that—but every hour
To own the terrible presence of a thought,
Half of remorse and half of vain regret,
That would intrude, a ghost at every feast,
This was more hard to bear for him and her.
So, when he died, a weight from off her heart
Seemed lifted, and she grew more still and calm.
Her mind was braced to that—but every hour
To own the terrible presence of a thought,
Half of remorse and half of vain regret,
That would intrude, a ghost at every feast,
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So, when he died, a weight from off her heart
Seemed lifted, and she grew more still and calm.
And now, long years—long, serious, thoughtful years
Have strewn with their dead leaves her life and ours,
And life has lost those early passionate joys,
That sang and fluttered in Spring's blossomy boughs
Like these gold orioles that among the elms
Quiver like living fruit.—Well, age has brought
Perhaps its compensation. Youth's gay days
Hung round the walls of memory have gained
The tone of rare old pictures and a fine
Ideal hue, that time alone can give.
Have strewn with their dead leaves her life and ours,
And life has lost those early passionate joys,
That sang and fluttered in Spring's blossomy boughs
Like these gold orioles that among the elms
Quiver like living fruit.—Well, age has brought
Perhaps its compensation. Youth's gay days
Hung round the walls of memory have gained
The tone of rare old pictures and a fine
Ideal hue, that time alone can give.
But the gate creaks—our friend is coming back.
Say, would you think, to see that serious face,
With its quaint smiles—to hear that sharp, high tone
Half-jesting, half sarcastic, she had known
Such strange romance as this when she was young?
Say, would you think, to see that serious face,
With its quaint smiles—to hear that sharp, high tone
Half-jesting, half sarcastic, she had known
Such strange romance as this when she was young?
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |