Lily Neil :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lily Neil

A poem by David Wingate

Wingate, David (1828-1892)

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

LILY AND MARY.

XII.

XIII.

XIII. CONCLUSION.

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VII.

Alice.
But, Eben, tell me this: If she had died—
If she had drowned herself—what then?

Eben.
What then?

Alice.
I mean—I cannot tell you what I mean—
But mother says she fears there is no hope
For those who cannot wait for God's good time,
But on themselves lay hands.

Eben.
I cannot tell,
My bird. 'Tis best to wait for God's good time,

Whate'er befalls us. Yet if I were judge,
And you a woman in such piteous plight
As Lily was, there would be hope for you.
But no such sorrow for my gentle bird
Has Heaven prepared. The matter makes me sad.
Do you remember, Alice, that brief prayer
Of one despairing which I taught you once?—
My soul to-night is in the proper mood
For listening to it.

Alice.
Mother knows it too,
And she can sing it better far than I.

Eben.
What say you, Margaret?

Margaret.
It is very sad,
But if you wish to hear it, I will try.

Margaret
(sings).

Oh, place me in the lightning's path,
My dirge let angry thunder be,
And save me from the black despair
That fearfu' things is whispering me:
Thou blight'st the bud that April lo'ed,
Nor spar'st the bairn that ne'er did wrang;
Then spare nae me—oh, spare nae me!
I've pined for shelter sair and lang.

Or pass thy hand owre memory's glass,
The source o' a' my care and pain,
And charge it ne'er to show a tear,
Or charge it ne'er to gleam again.
Oh, better far a memory blank,
A maundering tongue and soulless e'e,
Than aye on days lang past to gaze,
When never joy looks back to me.

Eben.

Thanks, Margaret. This is how the tale goes on:

(Reads from the written book.)

'Twas then as now: no secret could be kept
Within two hearts. The parish sexton told
But one dear friend, how, at the early dawn,
In the first blush of morning, Jacob Neil
Had brought a coffined infant to be laid
Upon his lost wife's breast—that there 'twas laid.
“His daughter has been led astray, poor lass!”
The sexton said: “you must not speak of it.”
And then he bound his friend to secrecy.
But in a little while—'twas very strange—
The secret in a thousand forms was found
Afloat within the parish. Mary heard
The tale alarmed. Her brother heard it too—

With rage suppressed he heard, and wished the man
Who spoke of it would utter but one word
That might a blow excuse; but wished in vain,
Because the man had daughters of his own.
And then a lawyer came with questionings:
It was a dreadful time! But even the Law
At length was satisfied, and asked no more.
And rumour, sated, let the matter sleep.

But when the tales were wildest, Walter came
To Jacob's house, and asked a boon of him:
“Let me be but esteemed your son,” he said,
“That I a much-wronged sister may avenge.
See, I have savings. Let me follow him.”
But Jacob answered, “Let the man alone.
His memory will be with him, and her wrong
Will still pursue him, and the two will work
A retribution terrible enough.
We will not think of other chastening;

Nor ever try to find him; and although
Our poor importance in yourself has found
A champion prepared to fight for us,
Think what a honeyed morsel in men's mouths
Her name already is. No, Walter, no!
To memory and to Heaven we'll leave the man.”

But Walter was not satisfied. “Oh, if
The world,” he said, “would once or twice forgive
The man that smote such ruin-traffickers,
Not questioning too nicely, 'twould be well.
Had Mary been betrayed as Lily has
With such persistent malice, think you Law
Would her betrayer from my anger save?
Oh no. He would be Cause to me, and I
As surely as Effect would follow him
Till he had ceased to be.”

“And your reward,”
Said Jacob, “for the deed your soul approved,
What would it be?”

“I would not think of that,”
Said Walter, warmly. “I would not permit
The world's opinion or its punishment
In this to weigh a feather's weight. My care
Would be to find such meet reward for him,
That, when he died, his crime might be forgiven.
The stinging of a sleepless memory
Deters not, nor the terror of the Law:
The first is nothing, and the other fails.
Then since the evil rages still, why not
Let vengeance prompt and personal be tried?”

Said Jacob, “Walter, I have often read
That in the form of friend the devil comes,
And tempts an angry man to desperate deeds.
You are, I think, no devil, but a friend;
Yet tempt me now no more. Within my heart
The fire this wrong has kindled burns too fast;
It should be friendship's part to smother it,
Not fan it into fury. Walter, friend,

O'er all the world, like Ruin, ever bent
On something dreadful, have I followed him.
Thank God, 'twas but in fancy. Had there been
No living Lily from the river snatched,
I must have found him, and there must have been
Another victim in our tragedy—
And then, perhaps, one more. But now the worst
Has come and gone, and we must weigh against
The ills we suffer those that we escape.
I've weighed them, Walter, and I am content.”
And if when tears from aged eyes stream fast,
It proves contentment, he was blest indeed.
But as a father when a little child,
Whom long, long ailment has made doubly dear,
Will wail and weep, as 'mid the life around
He sees it lying motionless and pale—
A small white pebble by a running stream—
And weeps and wails till manhood whispers him,
“It is unseemly”—then the rising sob

He stops, and dries his eyes, and wails no more,—
So Jacob wailed, and so he dried his eyes.

“I chiefly was to blame for all,” he said.
“'Tis always in my heart. I, more than she,
Am humbled with the memory of much trust;
For I too saw him, and had faith in him.
I heard him speak, and thought that from his tongue
The noblest thoughts that ever had been penned
Were honoured in the flowing. Genius, truth,
Intelligence, and honour seemed to hang
About him like the sunrise. What could I,
With such a master of duplicity?
And what could she, who hardly from report
Had heard that there is falsehood in the world?
Not she alone is humbled! Has not he
There, where you sit, full in my eye oft sat,
All glare and glitter, seeking like the sun
To hide his spots with splendour, and the while

To consummation piloting his plot?
Not she alone is humbled. Have not I—
O fatal folly!—boasted that his face
Would be to me as 'twere an open book,
Where I his thoughts would read? and now I know,
And never can forget, that from one hour
Of blindness all this misery has sprung.
Heaven urged him here—for he was loath to come—
That I might find him out and save my child;
But I was blind, and Lily was not saved.
O Walter, scarcely since that wedding-day
That came without a bridegroom, have I dared
An upward look, lest I her mother's face
Should see upon me shadowed with reproach;
For to my care she left her.”

Walter heard,
And fell a-dreaming. Then: “You never knew

To what part of the world the bridegroom fled?”
“No.”

“Would you care to know?”

“I do not care.”
“Would Lily care to know?”

“I cannot tell:
She never speaks of him, but all day long
Sits here companioned by her own sad thoughts;
And if a stranger's foot is heard, she flies,
And shuns the torture of a neighbour's eye.”

Again a-dream sat Walter. Then he said,
As if unconscious of a listener—
“I wonder if she ever longs for him?
I wonder, if he were to come again,
He yet might be her husband?” (The stern “No”
Of Jacob seemed to pass his ear unheard.)
“For if she loves him still, no other man
Should dare to weary her with vows of love.
I wish I knew.” And now in silent thought

100

His dream ran on: “Even if she loves him not,
It is unlikely she will think of me.
I fear I have not even a little niche
In the fair temple of her memory.
My eye to her was mute. She never saw
That to my fancy she was still a queen
Whom I unbonneted must stand before.
Why should she see me now with other eyes?
There is no reason.” When he rose to go,
“Come as before,” said Jacob. “We must strive
To make this sorrow but a passing cloud
That took its shadow with it. Bring with you
Your sister, if— But she will surely come,
And speak as if this sorrow ne'er had been.”