The Western home | ||
THE SCOTTISH WEAVER.
Its murky mantle flung,
And on its skirts with ruffian wrath
A threatening tempest hung,
Rose o'er the howling blast,
“Ah! give us shelter from the storm,
The darkness gathers fast.
A dark and evil day,
That made so many looms stand still,
Hath taken our bread away.
In search of work we go,
And thrice the setting sun hath seen
Our way-worn course, and slow.
Three younglings at her side,
Weary and cold,”—but churlish tones
The earnest suit denied.
Your food we will not crave,
And blessings on your head shall rest
E'en till we find a grave.
Let us till morning stay,”
The harsh key grated in its ward,—
The suppliant turn'd away.
To bar the blinding sleet,
And sorrow'd for those hearts that soon
Such dread repulse must meet.
'Tis lonesome on the wold;
Up, bairnies, to yon bonny house,
And shield ye from the cold.”
Scarce kenn'd he what to say,
He could not find it in his heart
To take her hope away.
All desolate and drear,
He knew no other dwelling rose,
The traveller's sight to cheer.
God give thee strength to bear;
'Neath yonder roof we may not bide,
There is no mercy there.”
“Not for myself I cry,
But for the babe that feebly pines,
Methinks its death is nigh.”
And, clinging round her said,
“O mother! mother! 'tis so long
Since you have given us bread.”
And drew them to his side,
Till sleep, the angel, on their cheeks
The trickling sorrow dried;
Scant though it was and poor,
And there mid driving snows they cower'd,
Upon the dreary moor.
His starting eyeballs strain,
While through the darkness, lurid fires
Seem'd flashing from his brain:
And woke to fearful strife
The thoughts that nerve the reckless hand
Against the traveller's life.
Like giant in his prime,
Such strength as drives the madden'd wretch
To judgment ere his time.
Uprose a contrite prayer,
That Heaven would crush the seeds of crime,
And break the tempter's snare.
A human form drew near,
An humble serving-man who mark'd
Their misery severe;
That check'd the plaint of need,
And ventured to an outhouse rude
The hapless group to lead.
'Neath hunger-pang, and cold,
Or felt the lashing of the winds
Through garments thin and old;
Who bide misfortune's blast,
Than Plenty's proud and pamper'd sons
Who share the rich repast,
By fireside bright and warm,
Or from their curtain'd pillow list
The howling of the storm.
E'en on that pauper-bed,
The tatter'd blanket o'er them cast,
The straw beneath them spread.
Hark to that wild despair!
“My babe! my babe! she breathes no more!”
Oh Spoiler! art thou there?
As up from sleep they sprang,
The thin blue fingers clench'd so close
In the last hunger-pang.
How meagre want and care
Had set the wasting seal of years
On brow so small and fair.
“Will she not wake again,
Our play-mate sister? Never more?”
Keen was that transient pain.
A mother's cry of dread,
Who, waking, on her bosom finds
Her nursling cold and dead,—
The fount of life to press,
And gleeful smile and speaking eye
Mute to the fond caress,—
Invade his lone retreat,
Will keep the echo in his soul
While memory holds her seat.
He spoke no word of wo;
Words!—would they dare in such an hour
Their poverty to show?
Such sudden shock of grief,—
And drowning thought to trifles clung,
In search of vain relief.
By pain's discordant sound,
Among the rafters bare and brown
Went circling round and round;
He strove, with futile care,
To parry for a little space
The anguish of despair.
With sympathy were fraught,
For late remorse the kindness woke
That pity should have taught.
Crush'd 'neath affliction's weight,
For whom, perchance, their earlier care
Had won a longer date;
A narrow spot they gave,
With tardy charity, that yields—
Instead of bread—a grave.
Bedew'd the darling's clay,
And then that stricken-hearted group
Pursued their mournful way.
A toilsome path they wound,
Or 'neath some cotter's lowly roof
A nightly shelter found,
Once more a home they knew,
And from the father's earnest hand
The unresting shuttle flew.
Yet prudence found a way
To make it satisfy the needs
Of each returning day.
Some filial aid to lend,
The eldest, Bessie, left her home,
A shepherd's flock to tend.
The industrious mother strove,
And season'd still the homeliest meal
With sweet maternal love.
O'er heathery field and hill,
And 'tween the daylight and the dark
Her busier toils were still,
Of Scotia's old renown,
And of the Bruce who bravely won,
In evil times, the crown;
Some high, heroic stave;
Or whisper'd, through her swelling tears,
Of their lost sister's grave;
Whene'er they knelt in prayer,
To supplicate for Bessie dear
Their God's protecting care.
With shout and gambol fleet,
Went bounding from the cottage door
The approaching sire to greet,
Of weary toil and care,
Walk'd three times three long Scottish miles
To spend his Sabbath there.
Across the heath he spied
The rush-light in the window placed
His homeward steps to guide,
From all obstruction free,
Till by his Jeanie's side he sate,
The wee things on his knee.
A flickering radiance threw,
The oatmeal parritch had a zest
The unloving never knew.
Such grateful praise arose,
As they have never learn'd to breathe
Who never shared his woes.
Had pass'd serenely by,
And evening with its sober vail
Encompass'd earth and sky,
While from the pallet near,
The little sleepers' breathing fell
Like music on their ear,
Beguiled the gathering shade,
As fitful o'er the darken'd wall
The blinking ingle play'd.
To Willie's heart address'd,
Her head upon his shoulder laid,
His arm around her press'd.
And with confiding air
Incited for their tender years
A father's watchful care,
As one about to trust
Fond treasures to another's hand,
And slumber in the dust.
But mortal life was frail,
And something, whispering, warn'd her soul
That soon her strength might fail.
I've stay'd thy lingering tread,
For well I know 'tis hard to take
The time that earns our bread.
For then, the weight that bow'd
My spirit with its presage dire,
May prove an April cloud.”
That hath not yet been told,
To see the livid hues of death
The rigid brow unfold.
Ere the next evening-tide,
And then to lay her in the grave,
Her new-born babe beside.
And in the white shroud's fold,
Fast by her marble breast 'twas seen,
A blossom crush'd and cold.
Whom mocking Hope doth flee,
The lingering luxury of grief
Is not for such as thee.
And thou the call must hear,
As the lone Arab strikes his tent
To roam the desert drear.
His cheerful hearth had burn'd,
And to the waiting landlord's hand
The household key return'd.
His youngest nursling led,
Too weak to try the weary road
It was his lot to tread,—
Which he would well repay,
Then bless'd the poor, unconscious boy,
And sadly turn'd away.
The unwonted scene survey'd,
And to the darkest corner shrank,
Bewilder'd and afraid.
With bosom swelling high,
Uplifted, as he fled away,
A loud and bitter cry;
And press'd the unyielding door,
And breathless listen'd for the voice
That he must hear no more.
He lisp'd with simple wile,
As if that talisman were sure
To win her favouring smile.
Exhausted with his moan,
The orphan sobb'd himself to sleep
Upon the threshold-stone.
A boy, so young and fair,
Thus slumbering on a stony bed
Amid the nipping air,—
Of matron love disclose,
Though sorrow's pearl-drops sprinkled lay
Upon his cheeks of rose.
With spirit bow'd and bent,
Wee Willie walking by his side,
The widow'd father went.
While from its cloud-wrapp'd head
A shower of chill and drizzling mist
The bleak Benachie shed.
A broken path to wind,
The lonely spot where Bessie dwelt,
In a far glen to find.
While blasts autumnal sweep,
Before their own poor girl they spied
Tending her snowy sheep.
Intent, yet sad of cheer,
Expecting still, from hour to hour,
To greet her mother dear.
On which that tender friend
Had promised with her loving child
A little time to spend.
From fleecy wool, to bring;
Perchance, a broader plaid, to shield
From coming winter's sting.
She flew, their steps to meet;
“Father! and Willie! welcome here!
But where's my mother sweet?”
That grows so pale and white;
Fain would I turn away awhile,
I cannot bear the sight.
Speak kindly words, and say
Why your lost mother does not come,
And how she sleeps in clay.”
Upon the heather dry,
Beside a clear and rippling brook
That crept unheeded by,
In sympathy relief;
But he, the deeper mourner, sank,
In solitary grief.
While kneeling on the sod,
Save her loved name, his poor lost wife,
And broken cries to God.
That smitten group might stay,
For meagre Want with tyrant frown
Were beckoning them away.
The parting father said,
Then kiss'd his daughter's trembling lips,
And on his journey sped.
It seem'd a mother's sigh,
“Oh, put your trust in God, my child,”
Came breathing from the sky.
With countless ills opprest,
Yet on in lordly chariots roll,
Nor heed their sad request;—
That with its mountain weight
Doth crush them hopeless to the dust,
Yet leave them to their fate;
Your uncloth'd soul must fleet,
Its last and dread account to bide
Before the Judge's seat.
And be the orphan's stay,
Shall be remember'd mid the ire
Of that terrific day,
The heart to sorrow's prayer,
And bid your lowly brother plead
For your forgiveness there.
“Strange to say, on first becoming aware of the bereavements of that terrible night, I sate for some minutes gazing upward at the fluttering and wheeling movements of a party of swallows, our fellow-lodgers, that had been disturbed by our unearthly outcry.”—
Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver.This poem is almost a literal version of circumstances related in a book, with the above title, published in England recently, and written by William Thom, a Scotch weaver and poet. “Its object,” says the author, “is to impart to one portion of the community glimpses of what is going on in another.”
In our own happy land, the labouring poor have no idea of the distress which he thus simply yet forcibly depicts. It occurred soon after six thousand looms were stopped in the region of Dundee, and just before William Thom, with his wife and four little ones, left their home at Newlyte, in search of the means of subsistence at Inverary, as related in the preceding stanzas.
“It had been a stiff winter and an unkindly spring; but I will not expatiate on six human lives maintained on five shillings weekly, on babies prematurely thoughtful, on comely faces withering, on desponding youth, and too quickly declining age. I will describe one morning of modified starvation at Newlyte, and then pass on.
“Imagine a cold, dreary forenoon. It is eleven o'clock, but our little dwelling shows none of the signs of that time of day. The four children are still asleep. There is a bed-cover hung before the window, to keep all within as much like night as possible. The mother sits beside the bed of her children, to lull them back to sleep, when either shall show any inclination to wake. For this there is a cause. Our weekly five shillings have not come as was expected, and the only food in the house consists of a handful of oatmeal saved from the supper of last night. Our fuel is also exhausted. My wife and I were conversing in sunken whispers about making an attempt to cook the handful of meal, when the youngest child awoke, beyond the mother's power to hush it again to sleep. It finally broke out into a steady scream, which, of course, rendered it impossible to keep the rest in a state of unconsciousness. Face after face sprang up, each little one exclaiming, ‘O mother! mother! give me a piece.’ How weak a word is sorrow, to apply to the feelings of myself and my wife on that dreary day!”
The Western home | ||