 | Poems, Ballads and Bucolics |  |
THE ISLAND HOME.
A Ballad of the East River, New York.
And sets us sudden face to face,
Then what we scarce had hoped, we say,
And silent stand a little space—
One single word will change our fate,
The silence is too long: too great:
And then an answer comes, and then
We are the happiest of men.
Is hung between our beating hearts;
We dare not wholly tell the tale
We secret spoke, but spoke in parts,
Till, on a day far off, we feel
Our souls so one, we tear the seal,
Are one, and one for evermore.
Half dark, crossways of blinding sun;
How crisp the air, how swift of flight
Above our heads steam-horses run;
How filled with folk, how smooth of feet,
The cars go jingling down the street;
How keen the talk, where each one plies
The task of New World rivalries!
And withering cold of city ways,
I ask if heaven gives no retreat,
Where souls in quietude may raise
Their thoughts above a seething tide
Of restlessness personified;
No tranquil island o'er the stream,
Where hearts a little while may dream.
As good as orphaned for the press,
Then how shall fare the fatherless'.
The waifs, the strays, whose mothers die
In unremembered misery,
And what can keep a city pure,
Whose sons of shame such woes endure?
The Adirondack's stream was rolled
To build the continents to be,
When this New World shall prove the Old.
“Is there no island home,” I cried,
“In yonder river's cleansing tide,
Where babes forlorn a home may share
And grow to grace in fruitful air?”
We had no need of oarsman's hand,
And soon our boat of mercy neared
An island palace nobly planned.
Above the stream with walls and towers
It rose, about it trees and flowers:
“And here,” said they, “we train our youth—
Else lost—for duty and for truth.”
Deep peace, where any soul might grow;
Around it, with a saviour arm,
The solemn Hudson seemed to flow.
A sweet bell tinkled—out there ran
Brave boyhood, soon to be the man,
And girls, as full of life as grace,
Made sunshine in that merry place.
Passed on to game of romp and ball;
And those, with deftest hands were seen
To ply for play the axe and awl.
A kind old greybeard to me came;
“We teach,” said he, “our tasks in game,
So scholars trained in head or hand
May prove an honour to the land.
A girl toward the gateway moved,
Linked with her lover; you could trace
Even in their walk how well they loved.
They seemed of gentle blood and life,
As on they strolled, that man and wife,
Spirits familiar with the spot.
As strong to keep two shores apart,
The bridegroom and his new-made bride
Felt each an ache within the heart;
A secret stream, a silent flood,
A fear unuttered, understood,
The strange unrest no reasonings move,
Of something hid 'twixt souls that love.
They watched the children backward pour;
The masters, o'er the scholars bent;
From class-room and from corridor
Heard sounds that told how well the hive
Of youth and industry must thrive,
When all the moments on the wing
Sweet store for future use will bring.
The morn his father met his fate:
And blind, we found beside the gate,—
Left by a passing boat; his eyes
Have seen a glimpse of Paradise,
His ears have heard the angel chime,
His heart is set to serve his time.
The very call to which they came,
For some were born to fate unkind,
And some have felt the breath of shame;
So entering to this island home,
They must forget from whence they come,
Forget their old dead selves, and here
Learn life is new and love sincere.”
Mere cyphers?” “Nay, when fully grown
They pass, to leaven with their worth
The great bewildering busy town:
And ere they go, the name is told
By which their mothers called of old,
And from that morn, they learn to date
Their names, and move to meet their fate.
Poor lads, but oft rich princes come:
Where'er they work, whate'er they do,
Their hearts are with their island home:
And I have seen,” the greybeard said,
“Sons, nurtured here, our city's head,
And youths, whose hands we taught to work,
The pride and blessing of New York.
Broods o'er the isle with generous wing;
You saw but now that happy pair,
They brought a marriage offering,
He looked me straight into mine eyes—
But time forgets and years disguise—
And then he laughed, I heard him say,
‘'Tis scarce a moon since wedding day.’
He said, ‘You sure are teacher here?
Now tell me, Master, tell me true,
Is that life whole, that love sincere,
That still must keep within its breast,
The least faint something unexprest
One secret from his new-made bride?’
And I have done with love and life,
But if once more I might enfold
In these grey arms my own true wife,
No thought in all this interspace,
But I would tell her face to face,
No moment's joy, nor hour of care,
But with my loved one I would share.’
‘Old Master mine, you answer well,
You kindle fires that still have burned
Within my heart the tale to tell.
Dear love, henceforth 'twixt me and thee,
No secret of my life shall be,
Here, in this island home, my youth
Was trained, I speak God's very truth.
Takes tender age in saviour arm;
This greybeard standing at our side,
He threw o'er waking life his charm.
Learned here how honest work was fame,
And passing hence was consecrate
To duty, for our God and state.’
Blushed at the word, and kissed his brow,
Then taking both his hands, ‘My life,
My love,’ she cried, ‘thrice honoured now,
No secrets shall be unconfessed,
Soul wide to soul, breast bare to breast,
I too, thine own, whatever come,
Was nurtured in this island home.’
I saw his lips a moment part,
And then, with tears upon his cheek,
He pressed her, heart to beating heart,
And wond'ring, towards the river's side,
They went, the bridegroom and the bride,
And walked that dear familiar shore,
One Life, one Love, for evermore.”
Extract from a speech delivered by Lord Chief Justice Coleridge
“It is one of the most interesting recollections of a very interesting passage of my life, the visit that I paid when I was in America, to a great institution in the harbour of New York. The physical conditions of that institution are, no doubt, peculiarly advantageous. It is situated on one of the islands, and is a sort of boys' and girls' home. When I was there, some 1,600 or 1,700 boys and girls were in the home, which, cut off from New York by the swift stream, is only accessible by boats. They are all taught some trade. They are sent there not as a punishment, but they are allowed to be sent by the law of New York for minor offences, offences which would condemn many a poor little fellow here to be a felon for life. They are sent to this institution, where their names are concealed, and where they are not treated as under punishment, but as Christian boys and girls, and taught as far as they can be taught to get on themselves in life. I was told that there was no dishonour nor discredit in after life in having been in this place; that constantly young men who had flourished in life came back and left donations for the assistance of this institution—an institution helped, indeed, by the State of New York, but chiefly carried on by voluntary contributions, and by some of the first men, and men of the largest business, in that crowded and immensely wealthy city. And I was told a story, for the truth of which I do not vouch, but for the possibility of which I may vouch, otherwise it would not have been told me. A young man and young woman, very thriving people, came to see this institution. They had just been married. They went through the building, and when they left, each of them gave a considerable donation. As they left the place, the young man said to the young wife, ‘I have told you everything about myself but one thing, I was a boy here.’ ‘Well, my love,’ said the young wife, ‘I have told you everything about myself but one thing, I was a girl here.’”
| Poems, Ballads and Bucolics | |