 | Ellen |  |
50
IV.
A COUNTRY HOME.
I.
On turf soft sloping to an inland bay,That brought sure messages from far-off ocean,—
Or through a whisper of the tidal play,
Or moody mutterings of tempestuous motion,—
A spot where sunny Spring loves to display
His fresh habiliments and annual portion
Of green delight, a modest dwelling stood,
Unboastful low, and humbly built of wood.
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II.
The door looked westward, and in the after hoursOf the ampler days thence was inhaled the glow
Of flushed immensities, when regnant powers
Conspire to joy recipient eyes with show
Of golden splendency,—one of the showers
The spirit on earth is quickened with, the low
Necessities of sense to compensate,
And foretaste feel of its enfranchised state.
III.
A place where commune might be lonely heldAt best advantage with wise Nature's soul,
And hearkened to the deep discourse that welled
Unceasing from her bosom; for, the roll
Of her munificence unparalleled
Well-nigh it was, and so profuse her dole
Of broader bounties to the chosen spot,
It raised the bliss of contemplation's lot.
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IV.
Beyond the narrow bay the landscape drewThe eye through reaches undulant to hills;
Then to the right brought sudden close the view
With treeless rocks high raised on granite sills,
Whence morning's breath, sea-scented, sometimes blew
Thin masking mists; when the air was still, near rills
Trilled softly to an unpossessèd ear;
And when was far away the sun, and clear
V.
The night, swift stars came down from their high bedTo lie upon the bay's inviting breast.
A grove of pine-trees redolent so wed
Their limbs they were a home and motherly nest
For birds that from the ravening snow-rage fled;
And of the north-winds made a near arrest
Ere they could strike the lowly house. Old trees
Stood around that music drew from summer's breeze.
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VI.
Beneath the quiet roof a household dwelt,In home's sweet troth intwined with triple ties:
Grandparents with grandchildren were a belt
That smooth embraced in common smiles or sighs
What father and dear mother keenly felt.
And now, warm sorrow surging in all eyes,
On them, the centres, heaviest hung the gloom
Of all, that followed each from room to room.
VII.
'Twas not the patient sorrow, ashy-hued,Sunk by a death, that sighs internally,
And with religious tonic balm imbued,
Uplifts the humbled spirit to be free;
But feverish lowness, pale incertitude,
The restlessness of toiled anxiety,
That gnawed each member of the stricken group,
And made their very life-strings writhe and droop,
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VIII.
As though there had been struck a stunning strokeAnd yet a heavier were about to fall.
The mother's hours were strained with sighs. She awoke
From spectral sleep to taste a bitterer gall
Each day: grief cradled every word she spoke.
A daughter, blandly bright, unwonted tall
For fifteen summers, hung about her neck,
As she with tears her mother's tears would check.
IX.
The son, but two years older, all aloneWould sadly range afar, as though the task
Were laid to seek one who was lost and gone.
A prattler, six years grown, would weep and ask,
“Is sister coming home?” with puzzled tone,
And then in childhood's silver sunshine bask,
Feeling with baffled sense the tearful gloom,
Unsounded yet the deeps of such a doom.
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X.
Silent the father sat,—his wonted moodOf voiceful cheerfulness by dark surmise
O'ershadowed,—stung by a spiteful buzzing brood
Of fancies ruthless, such as tortuous rise,
Black swarming, to infect each drop of blood
That thrids a wounded heart, his painful eyes
Busied with vacancy, or inward bent,
As witnesses to some sore grapplement.
XI.
At times a shudder seized his manly frame,And he would stride across the room, to shake
The horror from his fear, which then in flame
Of scalding words would burst, that made all quake
With grief:—“O Ellen! Ellen!—O thy name
It burns me—O my child—my heart will break.”
His mother then would circle him, in vain
Striving to assuage the torment of his brain.
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XII.
One evening, at the height of such a scene,Was brought a letter. All, between despair
And hope, stood still. Swiftly the envelope's screen
With trembling hand the mother rent, to bare
The hoped dreaded contents; then with mother's mien
Outcried—“She's safe—she's saved.” Upon a chair
The father sank, to sob his joy, the others
Outweeping theirs around the weeping mother's.
XIII.
The grandsire, more controlled than all the rest,Outgave the riches of the written stores.
“Two weeks your child hath lain upon my breast,
And there for aye should lie, were she not yours.
So true, so fair, so pure, I should be blest
To keep her ever in my core of cores.”
'Twas dated from the city near, that is,
The great American Metropolis.
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XIV.
While they were listening yet, the door was oped:All hearts leapt towards it, and the father rose
Paternally, to meet, not what he hoped,
But a majestic woman, the repose
Of whose large face with glow of love was coped.
All quick re-read the letter, and their woes'
Relief, in that sweet noble countenance,
As warm she met their grateful glistening glance.
XV.
The father, moving towards her, suing said,In voice o'erladen with affection's store,
“My child, my child—where is my child?” afraid
Almost to trust his hope. Through the half-closed door
Rushed Ellen, falling on his knees. He laid
His heart to hers—and all were on the floor
'Round her, a pile of weeping happiness.
Heaven raised the lady's hands the group to bless.
| Ellen | |