 | Lily Neil |  |
15
II.
Alice.But, Eben, was it not the birds she heard?
Eben.
I cannot tell.
Alice.
She said she heard them too,
And so it could not be the birds she meant.
What could it be she heard? Not angels?
Eben.
No,
My bird, not angels. Angels have no voice
That human ears may hear; and if they come
16
They wait in silence till the parting comes,
Then with their charge in silence glide away:
'Tis like she was but dreaming.
Alice.
It was strange
That she should something hear that was not birds,
When all the others only heard the birds.
I wonder what it was?
Eben.
Perhaps, my bird,
It was the voice of angels which she heard,—
'Tis easy to imagine that it was.
Why may not such as she—the innocent
And good and pure in heart—when they perceive
The shadow of the wings of Death fall thick
About them, darkening everything on earth;
When they behold the dart that never erred
Above them poised, and see the eye that ne'er
Was dimmed with pity sternly on them fixed,—
Why may they not a sweet, a soothing song—
The far-borne echo of a hymn in heaven—
Hear as she heard? I know not why, my bird;
And therefore it might be—I cannot tell—
The song of coming angels which she heard.
It was the voice of angels which she heard,—
'Tis easy to imagine that it was.
Why may not such as she—the innocent
And good and pure in heart—when they perceive
The shadow of the wings of Death fall thick
About them, darkening everything on earth;
When they behold the dart that never erred
17
Was dimmed with pity sternly on them fixed,—
Why may they not a sweet, a soothing song—
The far-borne echo of a hymn in heaven—
Hear as she heard? I know not why, my bird;
And therefore it might be—I cannot tell—
The song of coming angels which she heard.
But warble something, Alice, for the book
Seems dim and blurred—so dim, I cannot read.
It will perhaps grow clearer as you sing.
Seems dim and blurred—so dim, I cannot read.
It will perhaps grow clearer as you sing.
Alice
(sings).
“Who will lead the song to-day
When the minstrel lark's away?”
“I,” replied the husky raven,
“I will lead the song to-day.”
But the voice so hoarse and hollow
All could hear, but none could follow.
So the birds all sad and silent,
Sat and saw the dawning day.
When the minstrel lark's away?”
“I,” replied the husky raven,
“I will lead the song to-day.”
But the voice so hoarse and hollow
All could hear, but none could follow.
18
Sat and saw the dawning day.
“Come, sweet lark! 'Tis dawn again,
Wake the woodlands with thy strain.
All that hums and all that warbles
Wait to hear thy voice again.
See on flowers with folded petals,
Bright no more, the dewdrop settles;
All is dim and sad and silent,
Till we hear thy voice again.”
Wake the woodlands with thy strain.
All that hums and all that warbles
Wait to hear thy voice again.
See on flowers with folded petals,
Bright no more, the dewdrop settles;
All is dim and sad and silent,
Till we hear thy voice again.”
Hark! a piping o'er the hill
Ripples down, the vale to fill;
All that dawn forbids to slumber
Hears the welcome rapture-rill.
'Tis the lark the morning hailing,
Yonder where the light's prevailing;
Bird and blossom, blithe and brightening,
Hail the piping o'er the hill.
Ripples down, the vale to fill;
All that dawn forbids to slumber
Hears the welcome rapture-rill.
'Tis the lark the morning hailing,
Yonder where the light's prevailing;
Bird and blossom, blithe and brightening,
Hail the piping o'er the hill.
19
(resumes reading).
When thrice the sun had risen on his grief,
With customary rites he buried her.
Then to the ordering of his house he turned,
Repeating musingly her dying charge:
“Oh, Jacob, guard our daughter!” 'Twas a task
That seemed too great. She was but six years old,
Too young to leave alone from morn to eve.
“If it be true,” he thought, “that those we love
Come back and whisper in our sleeping ears,
She in my dreams will tell me what to do,
And so, between us, Lily will be well.”
Among his scattered kindred there were none
With whom he cared to trust his child—and few
Among them who would welcome such a trust,
Because to them he was a mystery:
Who e'er could understand a silent man?
But one fit guardian for his child he found,
One of the noble women of our land—
A kind old maiden, who alone had lived
For many years, and lived on what she earned,
And so was rich enough, and not so old
But that she at her wheel might croon for years;
Yet old enough to come and watch his child,
And keep his house by scandal unassailed.
He urged her, and she came—not gladsomely,
As one, life-weary, welcoming a change:
No weary one was she that longed for change;
But when the matter she had weighed, she said,
“Yes, I will bring my wheel and watch your bairn,”
And nought but housing would she have for fee.
With customary rites he buried her.
Then to the ordering of his house he turned,
Repeating musingly her dying charge:
“Oh, Jacob, guard our daughter!” 'Twas a task
That seemed too great. She was but six years old,
Too young to leave alone from morn to eve.
“If it be true,” he thought, “that those we love
Come back and whisper in our sleeping ears,
She in my dreams will tell me what to do,
And so, between us, Lily will be well.”
Among his scattered kindred there were none
With whom he cared to trust his child—and few
Among them who would welcome such a trust,
Because to them he was a mystery:
Who e'er could understand a silent man?
But one fit guardian for his child he found,
One of the noble women of our land—
20
For many years, and lived on what she earned,
And so was rich enough, and not so old
But that she at her wheel might croon for years;
Yet old enough to come and watch his child,
And keep his house by scandal unassailed.
He urged her, and she came—not gladsomely,
As one, life-weary, welcoming a change:
No weary one was she that longed for change;
But when the matter she had weighed, she said,
“Yes, I will bring my wheel and watch your bairn,”
And nought but housing would she have for fee.
The years fled swiftly. Little Lily grew
A beauteous bairn, and pleasant trouble gave.
At school she learned far more, the neighbours said,
Than it was fit a cottar's child should know,
And foolishly they prophesied her lear
Would lead her to her ruin. Still she learned,
And won her father's praise, and pleased her nurse,
And loved her like a mother. But one day
The woman, smitten with a strange disease,
Lay down and languished for a week, then died.
Much grieved they; but if Time but keeps a-wing,
Grief, too, will get a-wing, and follow him.
No spring's so fickle as the source of tears.
So Jacob grieved, and Lily wept, but soon
The grief was softened, and the tear-source dried;
And Lily to the school was sent no more,
But had the keeping of her father's house.
A beauteous bairn, and pleasant trouble gave.
At school she learned far more, the neighbours said,
Than it was fit a cottar's child should know,
And foolishly they prophesied her lear
21
And won her father's praise, and pleased her nurse,
And loved her like a mother. But one day
The woman, smitten with a strange disease,
Lay down and languished for a week, then died.
Much grieved they; but if Time but keeps a-wing,
Grief, too, will get a-wing, and follow him.
No spring's so fickle as the source of tears.
So Jacob grieved, and Lily wept, but soon
The grief was softened, and the tear-source dried;
And Lily to the school was sent no more,
But had the keeping of her father's house.
Well skilled already in her household work
The little matron was; for from her nurse
She learned that noise and bustle are not work.
And still, in all, she won her father's praise.
Delightful was the change from school to home!
To be her father's servant, morn and night;
To read his wishes in his changing face;
To have—for so he ever let it seem—
The care of their affairs all laid on her;
To feel herself her father's only joy,
And see that if at any time there came
A season of privation, he would strive
To hide it from her, and to bear it all.
What wonder if her life was one of joy—
A summer ripple glistening in the sun?
The little matron was; for from her nurse
She learned that noise and bustle are not work.
And still, in all, she won her father's praise.
Delightful was the change from school to home!
To be her father's servant, morn and night;
To read his wishes in his changing face;
22
The care of their affairs all laid on her;
To feel herself her father's only joy,
And see that if at any time there came
A season of privation, he would strive
To hide it from her, and to bear it all.
What wonder if her life was one of joy—
A summer ripple glistening in the sun?
How pleasant in their Sabbath-evening strolls
To find for him the fairest of the first
Green leaflets in the bosom of the thorn!
How pleasant, as the warming spring advanced,
To bring the primrose from beside the linn,
The green-veined sorrel from the beeches' shade,
And gentle ferns that in the shadows lived,
Content with glimpses of the passing sun!
Oh, ne'er of father was a child so proud;
No father of a daughter e'er so fond!
Together never had been lives so linked!
It seemed they were too happy; for one day
As down a scroggy glen they slowly strolled,
She saw, within a nook where flowers were few,
Among the grass a lily, white as snow,
That nodded them a welcome. Welcome none
Thus nodded saw she, but to gather it
To crown her wild-flower posie, with a cry
Of pleasure toward it ran Her father's voice
Recalled her—“Lily, Lily, let it be!
How beautiful it is among the grass
So green!—So lovely in its loneliness!
It seems to be the last of all its race,—
The last, yet fair as was the first of them.
Think, Lily, ere the fairies left our glades
This was the centre of a revel-ring,
Where in the circuit of a yard or so
They tripped by hundreds in the still moon-tide,
And this may be a royal flower heart-full
Of old traditions of a happier time.
What know we of the inner life of flowers?
It has been told, perhaps, how in the bells
Of lilies of its race the fairy queens
And kings of old their merry courts have held,
And so this lonely flower (why may it not?)
In melancholy memories dreams away
The sunny briefness of its summer life.
A mystery gathers round it as we speak,
And all mysterious things are venerable:
So, Lily, let it live its hour unharmed.
What would I?”—Then he paused, and o'er his face,
That with the warmth of pleasure had been flushed,
A paleness, like a white cloud o'er the sun,
Spread suddenly; for this was what he thought:
“What would I think of him who from my hearth
Would rudely pluck my Lily, casting her
Away from him as she that flower might drop
When she grew weary of it.”
To find for him the fairest of the first
Green leaflets in the bosom of the thorn!
How pleasant, as the warming spring advanced,
To bring the primrose from beside the linn,
The green-veined sorrel from the beeches' shade,
And gentle ferns that in the shadows lived,
Content with glimpses of the passing sun!
Oh, ne'er of father was a child so proud;
No father of a daughter e'er so fond!
Together never had been lives so linked!
23
As down a scroggy glen they slowly strolled,
She saw, within a nook where flowers were few,
Among the grass a lily, white as snow,
That nodded them a welcome. Welcome none
Thus nodded saw she, but to gather it
To crown her wild-flower posie, with a cry
Of pleasure toward it ran Her father's voice
Recalled her—“Lily, Lily, let it be!
How beautiful it is among the grass
So green!—So lovely in its loneliness!
It seems to be the last of all its race,—
The last, yet fair as was the first of them.
Think, Lily, ere the fairies left our glades
This was the centre of a revel-ring,
Where in the circuit of a yard or so
They tripped by hundreds in the still moon-tide,
And this may be a royal flower heart-full
Of old traditions of a happier time.
What know we of the inner life of flowers?
24
Of lilies of its race the fairy queens
And kings of old their merry courts have held,
And so this lonely flower (why may it not?)
In melancholy memories dreams away
The sunny briefness of its summer life.
A mystery gathers round it as we speak,
And all mysterious things are venerable:
So, Lily, let it live its hour unharmed.
What would I?”—Then he paused, and o'er his face,
That with the warmth of pleasure had been flushed,
A paleness, like a white cloud o'er the sun,
Spread suddenly; for this was what he thought:
“What would I think of him who from my hearth
Would rudely pluck my Lily, casting her
Away from him as she that flower might drop
When she grew weary of it.”
With the thought
There passed before him such a fell array
Of troubles, stretching in the future far,
That he was fain against a tree to lean,
Sick with the horrid fancy. She the while
Stood staring, wondering at the sudden pause,
And frightened at the paleness of his face.
But ere she found her voice the vision passed:
Passed as it came—he knew not why or whence.
Then with a smile, “We'll leave it here,” he said,
“Lest in this woodland temple we do that
Which would be sacrilege.” In such a way
As this, believing in the influence
Of flowers for good, he sought to fill her soul
With love of them,—and with quaint fancies, thus
Their Sabbath-evening rambles pleasant made.
25
Of troubles, stretching in the future far,
That he was fain against a tree to lean,
Sick with the horrid fancy. She the while
Stood staring, wondering at the sudden pause,
And frightened at the paleness of his face.
But ere she found her voice the vision passed:
Passed as it came—he knew not why or whence.
Then with a smile, “We'll leave it here,” he said,
“Lest in this woodland temple we do that
Which would be sacrilege.” In such a way
As this, believing in the influence
Of flowers for good, he sought to fill her soul
With love of them,—and with quaint fancies, thus
Their Sabbath-evening rambles pleasant made.
| Lily Neil | |