 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
GOODY GRUNSELL'S HOUSE.
A weary old face, beneath a black mutch;
Like a flame in a cavern her eye,
Betwixt craggy forehead and cheek-bone high;
Her long, lean fingers hurried to clutch
A something concealed in her rusty cloak,
As a step on the turf the stillness broke,
While a sound—was it curse or sigh?
Smote the ear of the passer-by.
Like a flame in a cavern her eye,
Betwixt craggy forehead and cheek-bone high;
Her long, lean fingers hurried to clutch
A something concealed in her rusty cloak,
As a step on the turf the stillness broke,
While a sound—was it curse or sigh?
Smote the ear of the passer-by.
222
A dreary old house, on a headland slope,
Against the gray of the sea:
Where garden and orchard used to be,
Witch-grass and nettle and rag-weed grope,—
Paupers that eat the earth's riches out,—
Nightshade and henbane are lurking about,
Like demons that enter in
When a soul has run waste to sin.
Against the gray of the sea:
Where garden and orchard used to be,
Witch-grass and nettle and rag-weed grope,—
Paupers that eat the earth's riches out,—
Nightshade and henbane are lurking about,
Like demons that enter in
When a soul has run waste to sin.
The house looked wretched and woe-begone;
Its desolate windows wept
With a dew that forever dripped and crept
From the moss-grown eaves; and ever anon
Some idle wind, with a passing slap,
Made rickety shutter or shingle flap,
As who with a jeer should say,
“Why does the old crone stay?”
Its desolate windows wept
With a dew that forever dripped and crept
From the moss-grown eaves; and ever anon
Some idle wind, with a passing slap,
Made rickety shutter or shingle flap,
As who with a jeer should say,
“Why does the old crone stay?”
Goody Grunsell's house,—it was all her own;
There was no one living to chide,
Though she tore every rib from its skeleton side
To kindle a fire when she sat alone
With the ghosts that had leave to go out and in,
Through crevice and rent, to the endless din
Of winds that muttered and moaned,
Of waves that wild ditties droned.
There was no one living to chide,
Though she tore every rib from its skeleton side
To kindle a fire when she sat alone
With the ghosts that had leave to go out and in,
Through crevice and rent, to the endless din
Of winds that muttered and moaned,
Of waves that wild ditties droned.
And this was the only booty she hid
Under her threadbare cloak,—
A strip of worn and weather-stained oak:
Then in to her lonesome hearth she slid;
And, inch by inch, as the cold years sped,
She was burning the old house over her head;
Why not, when each separate room
Held more than a lifetime's gloom?
Under her threadbare cloak,—
A strip of worn and weather-stained oak:
Then in to her lonesome hearth she slid;
And, inch by inch, as the cold years sped,
She was burning the old house over her head;
Why not, when each separate room
Held more than a lifetime's gloom?
Goody Grunsell's house,—not a memory glad
Illumined bare ceiling or wall;
But cruel shadows would sometimes fall
On the floor, and faces eerie and sad
At dusk would peer in at the broken pane,
While ghostly steps pattered through the rain,
Sending the blood with a start
To her empty, shriveled heart.
Illumined bare ceiling or wall;
But cruel shadows would sometimes fall
On the floor, and faces eerie and sad
At dusk would peer in at the broken pane,
While ghostly steps pattered through the rain,
Sending the blood with a start
To her empty, shriveled heart.
For she had not been a forbearing wife,
Nor a loyal husband's mate;
The twain had been one but in fear and hate;
And the horror of that inverted life
Had not spent itself on their souls alone:
From the bitter root evil buds had blown;
There were births that blighted grew,
And died, and no gladness knew.
Nor a loyal husband's mate;
The twain had been one but in fear and hate;
And the horror of that inverted life
Had not spent itself on their souls alone:
From the bitter root evil buds had blown;
There were births that blighted grew,
And died, and no gladness knew.
223
The house unto nobody home had been,
But a lair of pain and shame:
Could any its withered mistress blame,
Who sought from its embers a spark to win,
A warmth for the body, to soul refused?
Such questioning ran through her thoughts confused,
As she slipped with her spoil from sight:—
Could the dead assert their right?
But a lair of pain and shame:
Could any its withered mistress blame,
Who sought from its embers a spark to win,
A warmth for the body, to soul refused?
Such questioning ran through her thoughts confused,
As she slipped with her spoil from sight:—
Could the dead assert their right?
The splintered board, like a dagger's blade,
Goody Grunsell cowering hid,
As if the house had a voice that chid,
When wound after wound in its side she made;
As if the wraiths of her children cried
From their graves, to denounce her a homicide;
While the sea, up the weedy path,
Groaned, spuming in wordless wrath.
Goody Grunsell cowering hid,
As if the house had a voice that chid,
When wound after wound in its side she made;
As if the wraiths of her children cried
From their graves, to denounce her a homicide;
While the sea, up the weedy path,
Groaned, spuming in wordless wrath.
The house, with its pitiful, haunted look,—
Old Goody, more piteous still,
Angry and sad, as the night fell chill,—
They are pictures out of a long-lost book:
But the windows of many a human face
Show tenants that burn their own dwelling-place;
And spectre and fiend will roam
Through the heart which is not love's home.
Old Goody, more piteous still,
Angry and sad, as the night fell chill,—
They are pictures out of a long-lost book:
But the windows of many a human face
Show tenants that burn their own dwelling-place;
And spectre and fiend will roam
Through the heart which is not love's home.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |