The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield In two volumes |
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THE TRIAL OF THE TROTH. |
 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
255
THE TRIAL OF THE TROTH.
There is a tale in Scandinavian Legends that a miner, who was betrothed, perished mysteriously on the very eve of his appointed bridal; and that many years afterwards, when she, who should have been his bride, had grown old in holy celibacy, the petrified body of her lover was discovered in the depth of a disused and dilapidated mine. The body was instantly recognized by the bereaved and unblest lady, who died upon its bosom.
Ye high Divinities! who erst abode
Amid the haunted woods of Ida's mount,
Or 'neath Leucadia's brow, when Paris gave
The golden fruit to Venus and the Maid
Sappho, for love of faithless Phaon, sought
The still companionship of seanymphs, crowned
With wreaths of pearl and coral! Sad as words
Of comfort to a sick and wasted heart
Have ever been your oracles; the voice
Of shrined Apollo from his temple comes,
Like winds from the wild heavens when surging seas
Burst o'er the shattered bark. Alas for Love
And Beauty! their torn blossoms strew the waste
Of human life—and Genius is but woe.
Another song of sorrow! mortal bliss,
Is voiceless, echoless, and Love, once crown'd,
No more is left—but grief is eloquent.
Amid the haunted woods of Ida's mount,
Or 'neath Leucadia's brow, when Paris gave
The golden fruit to Venus and the Maid
Sappho, for love of faithless Phaon, sought
The still companionship of seanymphs, crowned
With wreaths of pearl and coral! Sad as words
Of comfort to a sick and wasted heart
Have ever been your oracles; the voice
Of shrined Apollo from his temple comes,
Like winds from the wild heavens when surging seas
Burst o'er the shattered bark. Alas for Love
And Beauty! their torn blossoms strew the waste
Of human life—and Genius is but woe.
Another song of sorrow! mortal bliss,
Is voiceless, echoless, and Love, once crown'd,
No more is left—but grief is eloquent.
Far in that northern land and mid those hills
Where wandering Vasa, among faithful hearts,
Found welcome refuge in his trying hour,
Two Lovers dwelt, of low degree with men,
Of hard conditions and restrained desires,
But gentle hearts and unsoiled consciences.
The waxing and the waning moon on them
Shed her pure pearly light and every star
Listened upon its throne to their discourse
Nightly, with smiles that came like music down.
By day, Leoni toiled in darksome mines
With the cheered spirit of prophetic hope,
And as he gazed upon the precious ore
Delved from the depth, he felt how void and vain
Were affluence without the heart's best wealth;
How welcome, with Luzelia a few coins,
How vile, without her, all Golconda's gems!
Thus Love transfuses its own light o'er all
The trials and privations of our lot,
From evil winneth good, from poverty
Wealth unimagined, and from toil repose
Through starry hours beneath green canopies.
Thus Love becomes unto itself a power
Supreme o'er great obstructions, and all things
Of beauty are its household teraphim,—
Sweet images of hopes that rest among
The days of sunny loveliness to come.
Where wandering Vasa, among faithful hearts,
Found welcome refuge in his trying hour,
Two Lovers dwelt, of low degree with men,
Of hard conditions and restrained desires,
But gentle hearts and unsoiled consciences.
The waxing and the waning moon on them
Shed her pure pearly light and every star
Listened upon its throne to their discourse
256
By day, Leoni toiled in darksome mines
With the cheered spirit of prophetic hope,
And as he gazed upon the precious ore
Delved from the depth, he felt how void and vain
Were affluence without the heart's best wealth;
How welcome, with Luzelia a few coins,
How vile, without her, all Golconda's gems!
Thus Love transfuses its own light o'er all
The trials and privations of our lot,
From evil winneth good, from poverty
Wealth unimagined, and from toil repose
Through starry hours beneath green canopies.
Thus Love becomes unto itself a power
Supreme o'er great obstructions, and all things
Of beauty are its household teraphim,—
Sweet images of hopes that rest among
The days of sunny loveliness to come.
So they lived on in unremitted toil
Each for the other, and the lights and shades
Of thought, sequestered to one little spot,
Passed o'er them like the shadows of white clouds,
Breeze wafted, o'er the mirror'd summer stream.
Passion, with all its fears and jealousies,
And fevered aspirations and regrets,
And dark repinings and intense desires,
They knew not, felt not, feared not its power.
Amid the solitude of simple life
Love is a deep conviction of the heart,
A dewy flower, that, circled by green leaves,
Breathes the blest air of heaven, itself as blest;
A still and hidden brook, that glides along,
Known only by the greenness of its banks;
A spirit, like its mountain home of birth,
Mighty though meek, pavilioned in the skies,
Yet all benignant to the smiling earth;
A quiet thought that dwells and works unseen
But in the charm of its accomplishment,
Ever attendant, watchful, true in faith,
A guide and guard through peril, and in want
A tender solace, as in joy a crown.
The Lovers talked and counselled and communed
Confidingly as wedded hearts should do,
And both together coffer'd up a hoard,
(Scant means are ample where the wants are few,)
To signalize tomorrow's bridal feast.
Each for the other, and the lights and shades
Of thought, sequestered to one little spot,
Passed o'er them like the shadows of white clouds,
Breeze wafted, o'er the mirror'd summer stream.
Passion, with all its fears and jealousies,
And fevered aspirations and regrets,
And dark repinings and intense desires,
They knew not, felt not, feared not its power.
Amid the solitude of simple life
Love is a deep conviction of the heart,
A dewy flower, that, circled by green leaves,
Breathes the blest air of heaven, itself as blest;
A still and hidden brook, that glides along,
Known only by the greenness of its banks;
A spirit, like its mountain home of birth,
Mighty though meek, pavilioned in the skies,
Yet all benignant to the smiling earth;
A quiet thought that dwells and works unseen
But in the charm of its accomplishment,
Ever attendant, watchful, true in faith,
257
A tender solace, as in joy a crown.
The Lovers talked and counselled and communed
Confidingly as wedded hearts should do,
And both together coffer'd up a hoard,
(Scant means are ample where the wants are few,)
To signalize tomorrow's bridal feast.
Tomorrow! 't is the changing dream of hope,
The vision of the weary hearted in the depth
Of solitary suffering, and the crown
Of many a proudly imaged enterprise
That never was accomplished. O Tomorrow!
Crowds of strange deeds and unfulfilled events
Lie unrevealed in thy dark mysteries,
And many an eye desireth to behold
The book of knowledge though 't is written there,
(And prayers the dread decree cannot reverse,)
That death or dread disaster hasteneth on!
The vision of the weary hearted in the depth
Of solitary suffering, and the crown
Of many a proudly imaged enterprise
That never was accomplished. O Tomorrow!
Crowds of strange deeds and unfulfilled events
Lie unrevealed in thy dark mysteries,
And many an eye desireth to behold
The book of knowledge though 't is written there,
(And prayers the dread decree cannot reverse,)
That death or dread disaster hasteneth on!
* * * * *
—The bridal-banquet waits—hath waited long—
Why cometh not the bridegroom? Up and down
Luzelia wanders, from the window place
Looks forth with restless eyes, and doubtfully
Questions his absence—but none give reply.
Night wears away—the bidden guests depart,
Eloquent in dim surmises and vague fears,
Some scoffing at the lover's faithlessness,
And some repining o'er their lack of cheer,
And some, more thoughtful, (age and trial give
A tone of prophecy to many a mind)
Suggesting sudden danger, lone mishap,
And suffering unadministered—and death.
Discoursing hurriedly, o'er moonlight hills
The bridal guests have passed—and every glen
Echoes with wonderment that one so true
Should break his troth and fail the festival
Of Plighted Love so hardly earned by toil,
And cheered by hopes that sanctify the heart.
“Tomorrow will reveal!”—Tomorrow comes!
—The bridal-banquet waits—hath waited long—
Why cometh not the bridegroom? Up and down
Luzelia wanders, from the window place
Looks forth with restless eyes, and doubtfully
Questions his absence—but none give reply.
Night wears away—the bidden guests depart,
Eloquent in dim surmises and vague fears,
Some scoffing at the lover's faithlessness,
And some repining o'er their lack of cheer,
And some, more thoughtful, (age and trial give
A tone of prophecy to many a mind)
Suggesting sudden danger, lone mishap,
And suffering unadministered—and death.
Discoursing hurriedly, o'er moonlight hills
The bridal guests have passed—and every glen
Echoes with wonderment that one so true
Should break his troth and fail the festival
Of Plighted Love so hardly earned by toil,
And cheered by hopes that sanctify the heart.
“Tomorrow will reveal!”—Tomorrow comes!
258
It comes in summer glory, like a bride
In the rich bloom of beauty and of hope,
Or a high hearted king of orient Inde,
O'er the blue swelling seas, for few brief days
Sunny and tranquil like the human heart,
And o'er the cedar forests and oak woods
Of the proud mountains of Dalecarlia, veiled
In floating mist or glistening with young dew.
From the harmonious waters of all streams
The morning vapour curls and seems to rise
In forms of fairhaired dryads, as of old,
Along Permessus' banks, the daughters nine
Of wise Mnemosyne, when they had drank
The holy dew amid the fountain vale,
Together clomb the hill of Helicon.
The songbirds lift their voices all around,
The violets and hyacinths unveil
The pictured bosoms of their virgin buds,
The sweet and racy air becomes a bliss
To the free organs of the heart, and heaven
Bends in more beautiful arcades and seems
Swelling far up, beyond all taint of earth,
In azure vastness, on whose shadowy edge
Hyperion pours the glories of his brow.
In the rich bloom of beauty and of hope,
Or a high hearted king of orient Inde,
O'er the blue swelling seas, for few brief days
Sunny and tranquil like the human heart,
And o'er the cedar forests and oak woods
Of the proud mountains of Dalecarlia, veiled
In floating mist or glistening with young dew.
From the harmonious waters of all streams
The morning vapour curls and seems to rise
In forms of fairhaired dryads, as of old,
Along Permessus' banks, the daughters nine
Of wise Mnemosyne, when they had drank
The holy dew amid the fountain vale,
Together clomb the hill of Helicon.
The songbirds lift their voices all around,
The violets and hyacinths unveil
The pictured bosoms of their virgin buds,
The sweet and racy air becomes a bliss
To the free organs of the heart, and heaven
Bends in more beautiful arcades and seems
Swelling far up, beyond all taint of earth,
In azure vastness, on whose shadowy edge
Hyperion pours the glories of his brow.
How felt Luzelia? Moonlight unto her,
Through the void watches of the night, had been
A sole companion, and her tossing thoughts,
Like stormy waters, nameless leagues from land,
Rolled through the darkened boundlessness of mind,
Sounding a terrible music to her heart.
Like one lone palm amid a sea of sands,
She stood in the pale beauty of the moon,
Whose mellow light around her softly stole
With a pervading blessedness, that fell
Upon her fainting spirit with a sense
Of still and solemn faith. Thou blessed Light!
Held holy in all times—in every clime—
Among all people; on the mourner's brow
Thou pourest consolation and dost woo
Grief from its darkened citadel and change
The wormwood of the heart to soothing balm.
And, all unconsciously, Luzelia blessed
Thy ministrations, Dian! while she gazed
On the deep shadows of the woods, the glow
And gloom of changing forest streams, and rocks
Abrupt and massy, on whose jutting crags
The transitory beams streamed like a shower
Of molten pearls; though, all the lingering night,
The image of no human form appeared
To gladden the fixed eye or charm away
Perilous thoughts inurned; but there she stood,
Poor girl! stunned, dumb, and breathless, like the work
Of some most perfect sculptor, Phidias old,
Myron, Praxiteles; her ear was wrought
To agony's intensity of sound,
And oft her own deep pulses or the stir
Of leaves came o'er her like the echo faint
Of far off footsteps hurrying o'er the dale.
Leoni came not—yet she questioned not
The faith well known for years and deeply tried,
And thus she shunn'd the strongest agony
That Love can feel—the faithlessness of one
Deeply beloved, who robs the heart of heaven.
Through the void watches of the night, had been
A sole companion, and her tossing thoughts,
Like stormy waters, nameless leagues from land,
Rolled through the darkened boundlessness of mind,
Sounding a terrible music to her heart.
Like one lone palm amid a sea of sands,
She stood in the pale beauty of the moon,
Whose mellow light around her softly stole
With a pervading blessedness, that fell
Upon her fainting spirit with a sense
Of still and solemn faith. Thou blessed Light!
Held holy in all times—in every clime—
Among all people; on the mourner's brow
Thou pourest consolation and dost woo
259
The wormwood of the heart to soothing balm.
And, all unconsciously, Luzelia blessed
Thy ministrations, Dian! while she gazed
On the deep shadows of the woods, the glow
And gloom of changing forest streams, and rocks
Abrupt and massy, on whose jutting crags
The transitory beams streamed like a shower
Of molten pearls; though, all the lingering night,
The image of no human form appeared
To gladden the fixed eye or charm away
Perilous thoughts inurned; but there she stood,
Poor girl! stunned, dumb, and breathless, like the work
Of some most perfect sculptor, Phidias old,
Myron, Praxiteles; her ear was wrought
To agony's intensity of sound,
And oft her own deep pulses or the stir
Of leaves came o'er her like the echo faint
Of far off footsteps hurrying o'er the dale.
Leoni came not—yet she questioned not
The faith well known for years and deeply tried,
And thus she shunn'd the strongest agony
That Love can feel—the faithlessness of one
Deeply beloved, who robs the heart of heaven.
Her mother—wasted, palsystricken, old,
A leafless tree that moaned in every wind,
Missed not Luzelia's well accustomed voice
Upon the morn, nor lacked her common aid,
Nor marked she, in the oblivion of her age,
The pale brow and unrested eye, and tones
Faltering and low, of her most priceless child,
Who shrined her unimagined fearfulness
And desolation in her fondest heart,
And held alike her constancy of love
And duty to the helpless. Crowds went forth
O'er vale and hill, and mountain echoes bore
Leoni's name through every darkened wood!
No answer came. They questioned man and child;
All knew, but none had seen him since the eve
Appointed for his bridal. Far and wide
Luzelia wandered and her voice went up
On every breeze; no answering voice was heard.
A leafless tree that moaned in every wind,
Missed not Luzelia's well accustomed voice
Upon the morn, nor lacked her common aid,
Nor marked she, in the oblivion of her age,
The pale brow and unrested eye, and tones
Faltering and low, of her most priceless child,
Who shrined her unimagined fearfulness
And desolation in her fondest heart,
And held alike her constancy of love
And duty to the helpless. Crowds went forth
O'er vale and hill, and mountain echoes bore
Leoni's name through every darkened wood!
No answer came. They questioned man and child;
All knew, but none had seen him since the eve
260
Luzelia wandered and her voice went up
On every breeze; no answering voice was heard.
Brief summer, briefer autumn passed, all streams
Vanished before the universal frost,
That silently, with a resistless power,
Suspended life; on every shaggy cliff
The beaded hail hung like a robe of gems
Beneath the gleaming glimpses of the sun
Or moon, when from her rolling rack she flung
A flood of phantom light; on every thatch
Icicles, like Doric pillars, in the light
Of woodfires, streaming through the lattice, glowed,
And drifted cones of snow among the boughs
Of thickleaved pines perennial everywhere
Lay deeply—pallid white above rich green—
Hoar winter in the arms of virgin spring—
Death on the bosom of undying Life!
But the long season of chill'd verdure passed,
And desolating winds to farthest North,
To Arctic seas, Spitzbergen and the Isles
Of everlasting iciness, with moans,
Departed at the hest of maymorn suns.
Yet came no tidings of the lost, the loved,
And poor Luzelia lingered o'er the looks,
The smiles, the tender words, the oft sealed vow—
The last of lost Leoni—and the dreams
Of years that had a fearful waking now,
And broken images of early love,
Till her whole heart gushed out and she would fain
Have flown to the lone wilderness and died
Where last he might have pressed the moss or leaves.
Vanished before the universal frost,
That silently, with a resistless power,
Suspended life; on every shaggy cliff
The beaded hail hung like a robe of gems
Beneath the gleaming glimpses of the sun
Or moon, when from her rolling rack she flung
A flood of phantom light; on every thatch
Icicles, like Doric pillars, in the light
Of woodfires, streaming through the lattice, glowed,
And drifted cones of snow among the boughs
Of thickleaved pines perennial everywhere
Lay deeply—pallid white above rich green—
Hoar winter in the arms of virgin spring—
Death on the bosom of undying Life!
But the long season of chill'd verdure passed,
And desolating winds to farthest North,
To Arctic seas, Spitzbergen and the Isles
Of everlasting iciness, with moans,
Departed at the hest of maymorn suns.
Yet came no tidings of the lost, the loved,
And poor Luzelia lingered o'er the looks,
The smiles, the tender words, the oft sealed vow—
The last of lost Leoni—and the dreams
Of years that had a fearful waking now,
And broken images of early love,
Till her whole heart gushed out and she would fain
Have flown to the lone wilderness and died
Where last he might have pressed the moss or leaves.
'T is easy to resign the breaking heart
On passion's altar; 't is an angel's task
To live when life hath ceased to be a joy,
Buffet the billows of despairing thoughts,
Baffle disguised temptation, and bear up
Beneath a burden martyrs never bore,
Sickness of soul, that o'er earth's joyance throws
The lurid hue of a distempered mind,
And sergeclad poverty, whose daily bread
Unceasing labour only can procure.
These, in the voiceless anguish of a heart
Full of intensest feeling, and a soul
Haunted by wild imaginations, dim,
Wavering and vasty as the countless forms
On Shetland Skerries when the storm is up,
With meekness and a patient tenderness,
An earnest and heartgushing Love, that fell
Upon her mother's darkened sympathy,
Like a skill'd leech's welltimed liniment
Upon a warrior's wound—sublimely, these
Luzelia bore through months of vague belief
Of undetermined ill; and she could smile
Sometimes, and feel the burden from her heart
Lifted by an invisible power awhile,
And then her voice, narrating legends old
Of Doffrafield, put on a cheerfulness
That sent its sunlight through her mother's heart.
Then the pale palsied pilgrim would look up
And bless her daughter with a trembling hand,
And her dimmed eyes were lighted up with fires
From the altar of her youth, and her weak voice
Came o'er Luzelia like a benison
From the far world on whose veiled shore she stood.
On passion's altar; 't is an angel's task
To live when life hath ceased to be a joy,
Buffet the billows of despairing thoughts,
Baffle disguised temptation, and bear up
Beneath a burden martyrs never bore,
261
The lurid hue of a distempered mind,
And sergeclad poverty, whose daily bread
Unceasing labour only can procure.
These, in the voiceless anguish of a heart
Full of intensest feeling, and a soul
Haunted by wild imaginations, dim,
Wavering and vasty as the countless forms
On Shetland Skerries when the storm is up,
With meekness and a patient tenderness,
An earnest and heartgushing Love, that fell
Upon her mother's darkened sympathy,
Like a skill'd leech's welltimed liniment
Upon a warrior's wound—sublimely, these
Luzelia bore through months of vague belief
Of undetermined ill; and she could smile
Sometimes, and feel the burden from her heart
Lifted by an invisible power awhile,
And then her voice, narrating legends old
Of Doffrafield, put on a cheerfulness
That sent its sunlight through her mother's heart.
Then the pale palsied pilgrim would look up
And bless her daughter with a trembling hand,
And her dimmed eyes were lighted up with fires
From the altar of her youth, and her weak voice
Came o'er Luzelia like a benison
From the far world on whose veiled shore she stood.
So Time passed on, and the poor heartsick girl
Alone remembered lost Leoni now.
Friendship is but the outward foil of men,
The fleecy foam emitted from life's sea,
Seen only in the swirling wake, the barque
In its fair voyage leaves behind; but Love,
(Not the gross passion of the buskin'd stage,
The glare of eyes, the bubble of blown cheeks,
The start, the feign'd devotion and wild speech)
Love lingers by the shrine when cold and dark
And offers up its orisons the same;
Love clings unto the wreck when wildest winds
Sweep darkest clouds before them and the voice
Of upturned ocean wails like dying men:
And, more than all, Love, in the hourly cares
And deep anxieties of humble life,
To household hearth and board and pallet bed
Bears the most hallowed memory of the lost,
The bliss of agony, the chastened woe
Of an all feeling and benignant heart.
Alone remembered lost Leoni now.
Friendship is but the outward foil of men,
The fleecy foam emitted from life's sea,
Seen only in the swirling wake, the barque
In its fair voyage leaves behind; but Love,
(Not the gross passion of the buskin'd stage,
The glare of eyes, the bubble of blown cheeks,
The start, the feign'd devotion and wild speech)
Love lingers by the shrine when cold and dark
And offers up its orisons the same;
Love clings unto the wreck when wildest winds
262
Of upturned ocean wails like dying men:
And, more than all, Love, in the hourly cares
And deep anxieties of humble life,
To household hearth and board and pallet bed
Bears the most hallowed memory of the lost,
The bliss of agony, the chastened woe
Of an all feeling and benignant heart.
'T was winter midnight, and Luzelia sat
Beside the deathbed of her mother, last
Of all her kindred; o'er the pallet fell
The wavering rushlight and the moss roofed cot
Within was silent, save when feeble moans,
Like spirit whispers low, stole from a heart
Too wasted now to bear much agony.
Without, the winds were loud, and mount and vale
Through all their vast and solemn solitudes
Replied to the wild spirit of the storm;
And the cold moon through huddled clouds appeared
Fitful and ghostlike; and the ravining wolf
Yelled in the agony of famishing
From perpendicular rocks, whence caverns yawned
Below, and glaciers hung on all above.
Luzelia watched and wept not in the depth
Of visible desolation; when she lost
Leoni, the deep wellsprings of her heart
Dried up, and left her like a branching palm
Amid the Desert; she had lent her shade
To a poor wayworn pilgrim who had borne
The burden and the heat of many a day,
And now beneath the shadow of her leaves,
And on the bosom of her solitude,
That pilgrim sunk to sleep—earth's silent sleep—
With her deep vein'd and bony hand upon
Luzelia's bow'd head resting; and the words,
Last heard from her pale lips, were words of peace
And blessing; and her parting breath went forth
In the cold kiss of death! Luzelia knelt
Beside the deathbed and her heart rose up
In prayer, and in her loneliness and grief
Strength was vouchsafed unto her to compose
The dead for burial. And she slept that night!
Beside the deathbed of her mother, last
Of all her kindred; o'er the pallet fell
The wavering rushlight and the moss roofed cot
Within was silent, save when feeble moans,
Like spirit whispers low, stole from a heart
Too wasted now to bear much agony.
Without, the winds were loud, and mount and vale
Through all their vast and solemn solitudes
Replied to the wild spirit of the storm;
And the cold moon through huddled clouds appeared
Fitful and ghostlike; and the ravining wolf
Yelled in the agony of famishing
From perpendicular rocks, whence caverns yawned
Below, and glaciers hung on all above.
Luzelia watched and wept not in the depth
Of visible desolation; when she lost
Leoni, the deep wellsprings of her heart
Dried up, and left her like a branching palm
Amid the Desert; she had lent her shade
To a poor wayworn pilgrim who had borne
The burden and the heat of many a day,
And now beneath the shadow of her leaves,
And on the bosom of her solitude,
That pilgrim sunk to sleep—earth's silent sleep—
With her deep vein'd and bony hand upon
Luzelia's bow'd head resting; and the words,
Last heard from her pale lips, were words of peace
And blessing; and her parting breath went forth
In the cold kiss of death! Luzelia knelt
Beside the deathbed and her heart rose up
263
Strength was vouchsafed unto her to compose
The dead for burial. And she slept that night!
The yearning pathos of the heart bereaved
Time mellows in its silent soothing lapse,
And deepest ills and worst privations lose
The lurid hue and leaden heaviness,
The mazy and bewildering dream of woe.
Not the sun's shadows on the dial's disk,
But the mind's thoughts upon the busy brain
Mete out o'erpassing periods; hours of grief
No famed clepsydra ever measured well,
Nor modern instrument; deserted life
Beneath thatch'd cottage on the drearest marge
Of bosky dell, o'erpillar'd by wild rocks,
And bordered round by furze and fern and gorse
And matted briers and tangled underwood,
Lingers and lingers like a new made bride
Beside the deathbed of her love's best lord.
But years, and the deep thoughts they bring with them,
Tame down the spirit as they bow the frame,
And leave behind affections purified
Though undiminished in their heartfelt power—
Fervent though calm—deep like the stillest stream,
A sealed up fountain brimming with the thoughts
That made earth paradise in happier days.
Time mellows in its silent soothing lapse,
And deepest ills and worst privations lose
The lurid hue and leaden heaviness,
The mazy and bewildering dream of woe.
Not the sun's shadows on the dial's disk,
But the mind's thoughts upon the busy brain
Mete out o'erpassing periods; hours of grief
No famed clepsydra ever measured well,
Nor modern instrument; deserted life
Beneath thatch'd cottage on the drearest marge
Of bosky dell, o'erpillar'd by wild rocks,
And bordered round by furze and fern and gorse
And matted briers and tangled underwood,
Lingers and lingers like a new made bride
Beside the deathbed of her love's best lord.
But years, and the deep thoughts they bring with them,
Tame down the spirit as they bow the frame,
And leave behind affections purified
Though undiminished in their heartfelt power—
Fervent though calm—deep like the stillest stream,
A sealed up fountain brimming with the thoughts
That made earth paradise in happier days.
Precept and sentiment are idle things,
And so is love's romance in sickly tales
Of aromatic fabulists, whose sighs
Are frequent as the free unchartered air.
But just example, in all ways of life,
Is as a visible divinity,
That o'er all minds hath power and in all hearts
Resteth, as rivers, gliding through green meads,
Where cowslips blossom, rest in sunny seas.—
Luzelia's mild, dim, melancholy smile,
And quiet step and soft though faded eye,
And mellow voice heard in her loneliness,
And chariness of mind and ready hand
In the acquittance of kind offices,
Had touched, as with the altar fire of love,
All hearts that yearned for kindred sympathies
And blest affiance in their rugged path.
And suiters, such as fathers could approve,
Many and oft appeared—were mildly heard—
And went their way, not scorned though unreceived,
Less in pride's anger than in mournfulness;
For still she was the tomb lamp of the dead,
Keeping lone watch o'er buried memories,
And ne'er ungracious in a thought or speech
Save when they named Leoni doubtfully.
There were not wanting tongues in that wild land,
As everywhere, to babble of the dead
And wrong the living, and full oft their shafts
Pierced lone Luzelia's bosom to the core.
And so is love's romance in sickly tales
Of aromatic fabulists, whose sighs
Are frequent as the free unchartered air.
But just example, in all ways of life,
Is as a visible divinity,
That o'er all minds hath power and in all hearts
Resteth, as rivers, gliding through green meads,
Where cowslips blossom, rest in sunny seas.—
Luzelia's mild, dim, melancholy smile,
And quiet step and soft though faded eye,
And mellow voice heard in her loneliness,
264
In the acquittance of kind offices,
Had touched, as with the altar fire of love,
All hearts that yearned for kindred sympathies
And blest affiance in their rugged path.
And suiters, such as fathers could approve,
Many and oft appeared—were mildly heard—
And went their way, not scorned though unreceived,
Less in pride's anger than in mournfulness;
For still she was the tomb lamp of the dead,
Keeping lone watch o'er buried memories,
And ne'er ungracious in a thought or speech
Save when they named Leoni doubtfully.
There were not wanting tongues in that wild land,
As everywhere, to babble of the dead
And wrong the living, and full oft their shafts
Pierced lone Luzelia's bosom to the core.
The Maiden's lot was dark, yet all was peace
Within her humble cot, and cheerfulness
Around it, for the spirit, that, of old,
Hallowed its hearth, had left a blessing there,
A delicate and music breathing Ariel,
Whose plumage never ruffled, sun or storm.
It was the Miners' Holiday; and joy
Sent forth the voice of lustihood—the sound
Of Scandinavian harps o'er all the hill;
And prouder merriment was never heard
E'en in Valhalla's azure palaces
When the Valkyriur, in rainbow paths,
Usher young fallen heroes to their home.
Luzelia threw her cheeriness of heart
O'er Toil's sole yearly festival, and sung
A song that had a touch of gladness in 't,
Though, as she sang, she could not choose but think
How lost Leoni at such time stood up
Beautiful as Balder—sungod—in his pride.
Then filled her faded eyes, and with much thanks,
Up from the wooded dell the Miners passed.
Within her humble cot, and cheerfulness
Around it, for the spirit, that, of old,
Hallowed its hearth, had left a blessing there,
A delicate and music breathing Ariel,
Whose plumage never ruffled, sun or storm.
It was the Miners' Holiday; and joy
Sent forth the voice of lustihood—the sound
Of Scandinavian harps o'er all the hill;
And prouder merriment was never heard
E'en in Valhalla's azure palaces
When the Valkyriur, in rainbow paths,
Usher young fallen heroes to their home.
Luzelia threw her cheeriness of heart
O'er Toil's sole yearly festival, and sung
A song that had a touch of gladness in 't,
Though, as she sang, she could not choose but think
How lost Leoni at such time stood up
Beautiful as Balder—sungod—in his pride.
Then filled her faded eyes, and with much thanks,
Up from the wooded dell the Miners passed.
265
Evening drew on, and at her cottage door
Luzelia rested, sadder far than wont,
(Revel and mirth are ministers of woe
To the sick heart, that enters not their haunt,)
When down the shelvy rock a Miner leapt
Wildly, and with dark words of strange import
Led her along the precipice, and up
Steep forest paths, to a deserted lode,
Round whose black marge a huddled crowd had met.
“'T is strange!” said one. “This mine hath not been wrought
“For years, but left to goblins and blind owls.
“I well remember (I was then a boy)
“When the old Dane—a hoary locust left
“Out of the slaughtered host—came one bright morn
“And bade us lift the ladders from the lode,
“And gash the pillars of the roof and leave
“The plundered hell to bats—their rightful home.
“Well, here this body of stone that once was flesh,
(“'T is petrified 'mong minerals of the mine)
“In his blind hurry to the bridal feast—
“'T was dark as Hela—fell and died unknown!”
“Give way, it is Luzelia!” every eye
Fastened upon her face, as she drew near,
And every lip was mute; one moment passed
Of deep, soul piercing earnestness of gaze,
Then her brow lightened, and her features glowed
With all the beauty of her virgin youth,
And her breast heaved in panting sobs,—and then
She fell upon the blackened corse and cried—
“Leoni! 't is Leoni! said I not
“He kept his Troth till death? Oh, 't is not Death!
“It gives me life, Leoni! no, not Death!”
Luzelia rested, sadder far than wont,
(Revel and mirth are ministers of woe
To the sick heart, that enters not their haunt,)
When down the shelvy rock a Miner leapt
Wildly, and with dark words of strange import
Led her along the precipice, and up
Steep forest paths, to a deserted lode,
Round whose black marge a huddled crowd had met.
“'T is strange!” said one. “This mine hath not been wrought
“For years, but left to goblins and blind owls.
“I well remember (I was then a boy)
“When the old Dane—a hoary locust left
“Out of the slaughtered host—came one bright morn
“And bade us lift the ladders from the lode,
“And gash the pillars of the roof and leave
“The plundered hell to bats—their rightful home.
“Well, here this body of stone that once was flesh,
(“'T is petrified 'mong minerals of the mine)
“In his blind hurry to the bridal feast—
“'T was dark as Hela—fell and died unknown!”
“Give way, it is Luzelia!” every eye
Fastened upon her face, as she drew near,
And every lip was mute; one moment passed
Of deep, soul piercing earnestness of gaze,
Then her brow lightened, and her features glowed
With all the beauty of her virgin youth,
And her breast heaved in panting sobs,—and then
She fell upon the blackened corse and cried—
“Leoni! 't is Leoni! said I not
“He kept his Troth till death? Oh, 't is not Death!
“It gives me life, Leoni! no, not Death!”
* * * * * *
—In the green dell there is a ruined hut,
And on the margin of that cold dark mine
A wide grave with a rudely graven stone,
That bears Luzelia's and Leoni's name.
—In the green dell there is a ruined hut,
And on the margin of that cold dark mine
A wide grave with a rudely graven stone,
That bears Luzelia's and Leoni's name.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |