University of Virginia Library

These quiet meadows, and the sloping bank
With its green hem of hardy pines, whose leaves
The sudden frosts, and sudden Autumn rains
Cannot displace, have been the scenes of conflict.
Housed in the yielding Sand that shapes the bank,
The early Settlers lodged their sturdy frames,
And on these Meadows where the brook o'erflows,
They saw the Indians glide, their dusky hue,
Agreeing with the brown and withered grass.
Their Memory yet endures to paint this scene,
And oft as I sit musing, they become
Scarcely less living than in Days of old.
Noble adventurers, godlike Puritans!
Poets in deed, who came, and saw, and braved
The accumulated wilderness, and read
The fatal policy of Indian guile,
May we, your Sons, thus conquer the wild foes
Who aim their shafts at your sublime Design.

It was a Winter's day. The air came keen
Across the Meadows, sheeted with pure snow,
New fallen, that now as day wheeled downward
Had ceased to fall, and the clouds parting off,
Mild showers of light spread o'er the groves and fields.
And as the light grew brighter, the wind failed,
And with the calm came a most perfect frost,
That sealed the very glances of the sun,
No longer warm to Man, or beast, or field.

The Sexton of our village was an old
And weather-beaten artizan, whose life
Led him to battle with the depths of cold.
Amid the Woods he plied a vigorous arm,
The tall trees crashed in thunder 'neath his stroke,
And a hale cheer was spread about his form.
Death does not stand and falter at the cold,
And our brave Sexton plied his pickaxe bright,
Whether the soft Snow fell, or 'mid the Rains.
This day, this Winter's day, he made a grave
For a young Blossom which the frost had nipped,
And towards the sunset hour he took his way,
Across the Meadows wide, and o'er the Brook,
Beyond the bridge and through the leafless arch
Of Willows that supports the sunken road
To the sad house of Death, bearing with him
The frail, light tenement that bounds the corpse.
The Sexton's heart beat cheerly in his breast,
For constant commerce with the grave had lined
The Coffin's smooth inside with frugal wit.
He saw no Terror in the mouldering form
Of that, where late the ruddy current ran
In social sympathy, and generous mirth.
The ghastly bones, the pale, remorseless hand
That strikes those shuddering notes on Human lyres,
E'en Death himself kept company with him.
This was no stolid want of sympathy,
Or cold forgetfulness of mortal woe,
Or curious hankering thought to purchase case,
The Sexton had forgotten what Death was,
And graves he dealt in, as some deal in Farms.
He turned when near the Bridge, for such a flush
Of crimson wandered o'er the snow, the fields
So glowed as if with Summer's fire, his heart
Bounded to meet that last gold glance of Day.
But it felt wondrous cold, and was so still,
As if the Frost had fastened on itself.
He reached the house of death,—a friendly house,
And sat in peace to see the Wood-fire flash,
His numb and stiffened fingers spread to meet
The cheerful warmth, and then he spoke as one
Who came from living worlds, for in that house,
There was a pensive figure in one seat.
The Sexton did not see that figure sad,
But the pale Mother with her tear-stained eyes,
Look'd on and drooped her head, the Father, too,
He looked and saw that youth, the cold, cold form
Of wintry Death who sits by some sad hearths.

When he stept forth upon his homeward path,
('Twas a short saunter to the Village church,)
A change was in the sky, a wild wind blew,
The Frost had tired of silence, and now played
A merry Battle-march with the light snow,
That whirled across the road in dizzy sport,
White wreaths for banners, and gay sparkling sheets.
The last ray faded in the sleeping West,
Day had abandoned earth, and the weird Night
That asks from human eye no sympathy,
Called up a host of Actors for its play.
From the soft hills that hem the Meadows in,
The Sexton heard the music of the Pines,
A sudden gush of sounds, as when a flock
Of startled Birds are beating through the air,
And tossing off the light from their quick wings;
Then pauses of deep silence, that his ear
Accustomed to the sounds of cheerful day
Could not contain, and first his Inward voice.—

—It is a bitter night, but I have felt
More cold without anxiety. The snow
Beats heavily o'er the unsheltered road,
Huge drifts to-morrow, and hard sledding here.—
Then came a heavier blast than all before,
And beat upon the cheerful Sexton's front,
As the broad, tossing billows breast the Ship.
He ploughed along the way, nor fence, nor shrub,
And a dark curtain in the air. The stars
Were flickering, as the distant Light-boat moored,
Shifts to the Pilot's eye each breaking wave.
His eye not eager sought the Willow arch,
A little onward to the Bridge, he thought,
And pausing beat his stout arms on his breast,
Then turned and faced the wintry surge again.—
One step,—and then his feet sank through,—the edge
It was of the deep Brook that wandered down
The dreary Meadows, sinuous in its course.
The Sexton's feet slipped o'er the glassy plate,
He was across,—across the meadow Brook.
He sank upon the Snow, and breathed a prayer,
His heart thrilled strangely with an icy fear,
His thoughts ran in dim shapes across his brain,
A tumult of wild Images of woe,
And one dark warning figure, wintry Death,
Stood on the bank, and said with gentle voice:—
Yes, now across the Brook thy feet have come,
The deep, black Brook, 'twas never known to freeze;
It has upborne thee on its icy scale
Where but a feather's weight had turned the beam.
Thou, not in battle, nor in sharp disease,
But here within the peaceful village Fields,
Hast by the veriest chance, as may'st thou think,
Been guided well through such a sudden fear,
As no dark dream had conjured in thy mind.
Yet by no chance, since this a lesson is,
To teach thee if the burial and the tomb
Consign to rest the palsied Shapes of Life,
How grand that Hour must be, when the bright soul
Led by my hand, draws nigh to the deep Stream,
Across whose icy flow no Mortal walks,
In whose still unvexed Depths, the hosts of Men,
Still ever following, sink without return.—

There stood a Laborer's cottage not afar,
Where the Day's toil was over, and they sat,
The family about the crackling fire,
In merry mood, and heard the Spinning-wheels
Hum like a swarm of bees in Summer time,
For all the wind's loud bluster, and the cold
That like a cunning Thief crept round the hut.
They sudden hear a lamentable sound,
A voice of deep despair imploring aid.
The Laborer listens and the sounds renew,
The voice comes from the Meadow, and his dog
The Laborer calls, and muffling in his frock,
He finds the Sexton by the Brook sunk down,
And stiffening like the cold and icy Night.

Next day, they traced the hardy Sexton's steps,
And found that but one narrow arch across
The meadow Brook, the spanning frost had thrown
As if in sport, to try its secret powers.
And there the Sexton crossed,—that little arch
Left him alive to guide the funeral train
That from the friendly house came forth in woe.
It taught this lesson, that in common hours
There hides deep meaning, and a sudden fear,
Nor need we track the deserts of the Pole,
To 'scape from sight of Death and life's dark Night.