University of Virginia Library

There never was a house so much the home
Of sweet content as Alston's of the Grange.
Still young he seemed, although his sixtieth spring
Had gone; and so, unburdened with his years,
He roamed about, in many things a boy,
Unless when memory, her long dim scroll
Unrolling, showed him things that ancient seemed.
In early manhood from his native vale
He fled, because, 'twas said, the lass he loved
Had to another wooer given her heart,
And left no sunshine in the land for him.
But fortune, in the far-off Isle he chose,
So smiled upon him, that his wealth increased
Beyond, it seemed to him, all precedent,
And still increased, until “I have enough,”
He said, and then he sought a home-bound ship,
That brought him safely where he wished to land.

With many a generous dream the long sea-way
He shortened, and the blank monotony
Of sunless days and moonless nights kept bright
With pictures of the valley of his youth:
Of poverty removed; of homes made glad;
Of maidens dowered; of children clad and schooled,
By the all-potent witchcraft of his gold.
But when the vale that memory loved was reached,
None of his kin was left to welcome him,
None left to share the blessing of his wealth.
Great was his grief; but where the dearest dead
Were laid, he sculpture raised that beautified
The lonely old churchyard, whose low, rough walls
With ivy aye were verdant. Then for one
Who was the constant playmate of his youth,
And knew the sacred secrets of his soul,
He asked, and found he, too, was of the past.
But of his faithful widow he was told,
Who, with her children—two tall, hungry lads,
And one fair daughter—lived a life of care.
To rescue them resolved, the house he sought:
He entered, and was known, and, for the sake
Of him that was no more, a welcome found.
Again and yet again he came and went,
With something in his heart that found a voice
Thus at a parting moment: “Margaret,
You knew me when I was a lad,” he said,
“And know the story of my early love:
Then, for his sake, who was my Jonathan,
And for the sake of those he left with you,
Let me live here. Abundant wealth I have,
But I am homeless. Let your home be mine.”
And when she said, If he could bide the bairns,
And if the house would please him, he might come,
He said, “I'll come. But lest the blighting breath
Of scandal fall upon your fame's fair flower,
Make me your husband. We're alike in love,
For both of us have lost what best we loved.
What say you, Margaret?” Thus in brief he wooed,
And she, thus briefly wooed, became his wife,
And all went with him at the Grange to live.

Most happy were they. Care when Eben came
No longer sat, a goblin by the hearth
For ever threatening, but a fairy form
Assuming, smiled on all, and made a joy
Of every duty. Every eye grew bright,
Each head erect; and while the lads stept out
Like men who had no master under heaven,
Their mother, with a new-born dignity,
Queen of her little kingdom, moved about,
And wrought with ready hand and singing heart,
Like one that found a pleasure in her toil.
But most to little Alice life and joy
With Eben came. She, from a weakling girl,
Whose only charms were in her eyes and hair,
So changed, it seemed perfection's final touch
Was on her. Eben loved her as his own.—
“My Alice,” he would murmur, fondling her,
“My bud! my bird! I'll be to you the sun
And endless summer; I will shine on you,
And you shall bloom for me, and sing for me.”
And with such wild untutored sweetness she,
To no known air, sang words she learned of him,
That nothing but the singing of a bird
To hers could be compared. And then her heart
Was, like an April linnet's, ever light,
And sorrow where she looked could never live:—
There surely never was a home so glad.

One evening, sitting by the winter lamp,
“Bird Alice,” Eben said, “I'll tell you tales,
And you shall sing me songs. No song, no tale;”
And so it was agreed. He called to aid
Invention, when his wealth of stories failed,
And wondrous things he told them; things unknown
Save in the wonder-land across the seas
Where all his gold was gathered. But, one night,
Too visible romancing Alice saw
In some imagined wonder. Laughing loud,
“Ah, Eben, you are telling tales,” she cried,
“And not true stories! Tell me something true.”
“Well, then,” said Eben, “I will read you one
About a maid whose name was Lily Neil.”
Then from the trunk in which his gold came home
A written book he took, and read from it,
Thus briefly prefacing, “I knew them all,
And as they lived so are they painted here—
No worse, no better. Not from day to day,
From hour to hour, persistent following them,
Recording all they said and all they did,
But telling all it seemeth good to tell.”