Bob-Thin Or the poorhouse fugitive: By W. J. Linton: Illustrated by T. Sibson-- W. B. Scott-- E. Duncan-- W. J. Linton |
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 | Bob-Thin |  |
Twas morning when the Sleeper woke:
A bright, spring-wreathéd morn, whose look
Of warm, fresh joyance, with a tone
Of kindliness long-time unknown,
To the heart of the worn Pauper spoke.
'Twas like a gentle mother smiling
On a sick infant, and beguiling
Its pain with fond entanglement
Of her caresses: so was bent
Over the lone man's poverty
The fair day, smiling healthfully.
In the deep grief-tracks of his brow
And wither'd cheeks he felt the press
Of gentlest kisses, to and fro
Stealing in their tenderness,
With delicious whispering
Of gracious Nature's sympathy
Ever to us ministering;
Even in that holy alchemy
His frozen eye was sunn'd again,
His wrinkled lip forgot its pain;
And as the child, whose ail subsideth,
In its mother's bosom hideth
All its former restlessness—
So the old-time fretfulness
Of the grey man's spirit sank
On the genial earth, which drank
The memory of his wretchedness;
Till again on the clear sky
He looked with unfaltering eye.
The pauper waketh on a bed
Of mossy gold, gold-canopied
By the new oak-buds God-yspread.
'Tis a morn of blithest weather;
Such a morn as blends together
Snow-piled hearts and youthful feeling,
With a mighty love-annealing.
Where, but yesternight, the road
Like a desert pathway show'd,
With its traffic-dust obscuring
The sweet flowers, of God's procuring,
Prison'd to its ruléd side,
Troops of flowers, heaven-eyed,
Wander now; and lazily
Through their blooms the road doth glide,
Serpent-like and mazily:
And the flowers in peace abide.
Yester-even, far and wide,
Naked fields on either hand
Mock'd the traveller's weary eye;
Now his pleasant way is spann'd
With delicatest tracery,
Throng'd with gamesome choristers;
And the tiniest blade that stirs,
At the calling of the breeze
That lull'd the old man's memories,
Seems instinct with melody:
Till the charmed sense doth pine
In an ecstacy divine.
Such was the wondrous change that met
The gaze of the Poorhouse Fugitive:
He knoweth not if he may live;
Is he awake, or dreaming yet?
Or was his former life a dream?
Or are all things but as they seem?
He knoweth nought. The youngling tree,
Where he had flung his misery,
Seems century-lined: what may this be?
And now, over the pearled grass
With which the road is carpeted,
A group of noble figures pass,
Appropriately habited:
Symmetried forms, whose graceful dress
Hides not their natural comeliness:
Women and men. His spirit quails
In their high presences: as pales
The dull night when the royal Sun
Steppeth on earth, even so doth he
Shrink from that goodly company:
With a vain bashfulness: for One,
A woman glorious as the day,
Sees him, and he perforce must stay;
And faintly her behest awaits.
Her snaky lips, with smiles apart,
Seem'd like the hospitable gates
Of the bower-palace of a heart
Full-honey'd as the fragrant cells
Young insects open; her deep eyes
Clear-azured, heaven-reflecting wells
Of ever-gushing harmonies—
A mooned chorus; and the sound
Of her rich language was of such
Intensest witchery, it wound
A never-failing echo round
The listener's heart, while it did touch
The dominant chord within him. She
Sail'd tow'rd the rapt man greetingly,
Inquiring with some wonderment,
Of his new coming and intent;
But he was mute: he dared not mar
The lingering cadence of her speech
With the poor words within his reach.
Ah, me! how meanly furnish'd are
Our tongues, of our desires to teach!
The lady led him by the hand
Toward that goodly company;
Who met him with a welcome bland,
And, without further scrutiny,
Besought the stranger, if his hest
Might brook delay, to be their guest.
God! how the tears slid down the cheeks
Of the Unscourged One; he speaks
His gratitude, all loutingly;
Whereat they wonder seriously,
Beholding age so humbly borne.
“Father! why bowed thus? Art worn
With some strange grief? We, who have known
None other home-companion
Save Joy, will solace thee, if thou
Wilt journey with us.” To the brow
Of the grey-man's soul the tonguéd flame
Of comfort leaps; with glad acclaim
He pays assent: together fare
They onward, through the clear spring air.
Sudden their pleasant footway raught
The brow of an out-looking hill,
Which at that very moment caught
Upon its wreathéd window-sill
The yellow morning's first eye-twinkling,
Its blady tips and flowers sprinkling
With many an Iris-stolen gem
Of changeful hue, transmuting them
Into a royal diadem
For the true-watching hill. Hereon
The travellers halted; and anon,
Preluding in each other's eyes
The purport of their song, did don
Fresh greetings with these melodies:—
A bright, spring-wreathéd morn, whose look
Of warm, fresh joyance, with a tone
Of kindliness long-time unknown,
To the heart of the worn Pauper spoke.
'Twas like a gentle mother smiling
On a sick infant, and beguiling
Its pain with fond entanglement
Of her caresses: so was bent
Over the lone man's poverty
The fair day, smiling healthfully.
In the deep grief-tracks of his brow
And wither'd cheeks he felt the press
Of gentlest kisses, to and fro
Stealing in their tenderness,
With delicious whispering
Of gracious Nature's sympathy
Ever to us ministering;
18
His frozen eye was sunn'd again,
His wrinkled lip forgot its pain;
And as the child, whose ail subsideth,
In its mother's bosom hideth
All its former restlessness—
So the old-time fretfulness
Of the grey man's spirit sank
On the genial earth, which drank
The memory of his wretchedness;
Till again on the clear sky
He looked with unfaltering eye.
The pauper waketh on a bed
Of mossy gold, gold-canopied
By the new oak-buds God-yspread.
'Tis a morn of blithest weather;
Such a morn as blends together
Snow-piled hearts and youthful feeling,
With a mighty love-annealing.
Where, but yesternight, the road
Like a desert pathway show'd,
With its traffic-dust obscuring
The sweet flowers, of God's procuring,
Prison'd to its ruléd side,
Troops of flowers, heaven-eyed,
Wander now; and lazily
Through their blooms the road doth glide,
Serpent-like and mazily:
And the flowers in peace abide.
Yester-even, far and wide,
Naked fields on either hand
Mock'd the traveller's weary eye;
Now his pleasant way is spann'd
With delicatest tracery,
Throng'd with gamesome choristers;
And the tiniest blade that stirs,
19
That lull'd the old man's memories,
Seems instinct with melody:
Till the charmed sense doth pine
In an ecstacy divine.
Such was the wondrous change that met
The gaze of the Poorhouse Fugitive:
He knoweth not if he may live;
Is he awake, or dreaming yet?
Or was his former life a dream?
Or are all things but as they seem?
He knoweth nought. The youngling tree,
Where he had flung his misery,
Seems century-lined: what may this be?
And now, over the pearled grass
With which the road is carpeted,
A group of noble figures pass,
Appropriately habited:
Symmetried forms, whose graceful dress
Hides not their natural comeliness:
Women and men. His spirit quails
In their high presences: as pales
The dull night when the royal Sun
Steppeth on earth, even so doth he
Shrink from that goodly company:
With a vain bashfulness: for One,
A woman glorious as the day,
Sees him, and he perforce must stay;
And faintly her behest awaits.
Her snaky lips, with smiles apart,
Seem'd like the hospitable gates
Of the bower-palace of a heart
Full-honey'd as the fragrant cells
Young insects open; her deep eyes
Clear-azured, heaven-reflecting wells
Of ever-gushing harmonies—
20
Of her rich language was of such
Intensest witchery, it wound
A never-failing echo round
The listener's heart, while it did touch
The dominant chord within him. She
Sail'd tow'rd the rapt man greetingly,
Inquiring with some wonderment,
Of his new coming and intent;
But he was mute: he dared not mar
The lingering cadence of her speech
With the poor words within his reach.
Ah, me! how meanly furnish'd are
Our tongues, of our desires to teach!
The lady led him by the hand
Toward that goodly company;
Who met him with a welcome bland,
And, without further scrutiny,
Besought the stranger, if his hest
Might brook delay, to be their guest.
God! how the tears slid down the cheeks
Of the Unscourged One; he speaks
His gratitude, all loutingly;
Whereat they wonder seriously,
Beholding age so humbly borne.
“Father! why bowed thus? Art worn
With some strange grief? We, who have known
None other home-companion
Save Joy, will solace thee, if thou
Wilt journey with us.” To the brow
Of the grey-man's soul the tonguéd flame
Of comfort leaps; with glad acclaim
He pays assent: together fare
They onward, through the clear spring air.
Sudden their pleasant footway raught
The brow of an out-looking hill,
21
Upon its wreathéd window-sill
The yellow morning's first eye-twinkling,
Its blady tips and flowers sprinkling
With many an Iris-stolen gem
Of changeful hue, transmuting them
Into a royal diadem
For the true-watching hill. Hereon
The travellers halted; and anon,
Preluding in each other's eyes
The purport of their song, did don
Fresh greetings with these melodies:—
| Bob-Thin | |