Under Green Leaves :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is an ancient house:
Four hundred years ago
Men dug its basements deep,
And roof'd it from the wind;
And held within its walls
The joyous marriage-feast,
The christening and the dance.
Four hundred years ago
They scoop'd and fill'd the moat,
Where now the rank weeds grow,
And waterlilies vie
In whiteness with the swans—
A solitary pair—
That float, and feed, and float,
Beneath the crumbling bridge
And past the garden-wall.

Four hundred years ago
They planted trees around
To shield it from the sun;
And still these oaks and elms,
The patriarchs of the wold,
Extend their sturdy boughs
To woo the summer breeze.
The old house, ivy grown,
Red, green, and mossy gray,
Still lifts its gables quaint;
And in the evening sun
Its windows, as of yore,
Still gleam with ruddy light
Reflected from the west.

Still underneath the eaves,
Or rafters of the porch,
The glancing swallow builds;
Still through its chimneys tall
Up streams the curling smoke

From solitary fires,—
For still the ancient race
Live in the ancient home,
But of their glory shorn,
And hastening to decay.

Their last descendant dwells,
Childless and very old,
Amid its silent halls:
He loves the lonely place,
Its furniture antique,
Its panels of rich oak
Worm-eaten and grotesque,
Its manuscripts and books,
Its pictures on the walls,
And carvings on the stair.
'Tis all he hath to love;
Its life hath pass'd away—
The beautiful human life—

And left him frail and sad,
A waif on Time's bleak shore.

No children in its courts
Carol, like happy birds,
The livelong summer day.
No maidens with blue eyes
Dream of the trysting-hour,
Or bridal's happier time.
No youths with glowing hearts
Muse, in its shady walks,
Of high heroic deeds,
Or glory to be sought
In perilous fields of fame.
The very dog is mute,
And slumbers on the hearth,
Too impotent to bark.
The cawing rooks alone
Maintain the song of life,
And prate amid the elms

With harsh rough colloquy—
A music in itself,
Or if not music, joy.

The Lord of Lullingsworth
Is lonely, not austere:
A melancholy man,
With long locks flowing white,
And back unbent by age,
Beloved, yet little known.
He seeks not intercourse—
But takes it if it comes—
Except with little babes,
Who gather round his path
Or cling about his knees—
And love, yet know not why,
The melancholy man.
These, and the village priest,
His almoner and friend,
Are all his confidants.

A generous hand he hath,
And giveth liberal dole—
How liberal no one knows.
A something for the school
Or for the village church;
A something for old friends
Who fall to penury;
Or ancient servitors,
Too feeble for their work;
A something for the State,
When Patriotism calls,
Or high Philanthropy;
A something for the needs
Of sickness and distress,
Of helpless orphan babes
And widows left forlorn;
A something for himself,
Perchance the least of all;—
So flows the stream of wealth,
That once more affluent

Ran in impetuous flood
And spent itself in pomp;
But now, a quiet brook,
Trickles through by-ways green
And edges them with flowers.

The house hath many tales:—
Four hundred years of men,
Of human birth and death,
Of love, and faith, and hope,
Of glory and of shame,
And all that mortals feel,
Might yield large histories,
If there were tongues to tell.
But no one knows their scope.
The incidents are blurred,
Or else forgotten quite;
Gone with the song of birds,
Or with the leaves that fell
In ancient centuries.

A few perchance survive
In mouldy chronicles,
Or hang upon the lips
Of parish pensioners.
But if you'd hear one tale,
Amid the multitude,
And gather on the shore
One little grain of sand,—
That grain a human life,—
Listen, and you shall hear
This old man's history.

'Twas forty years ago,
The Lord of Lullingsworth
Led home his happy wife,
The joy of all who saw,
The glory of his heart.
'Twas twenty years ago,
A pale and patient saint,
Still young and fair, she died,

And left him in the world,
A maze without a clue,
A tree without a root;
Yet not all desolate,
Nor utterly forlorn.

Four daughters and three sons,
The eldest sweet eighteen,
The youngest but a day,
Remain'd around his hearth
To cheer his downward path.
And much he loved them all;—
Much for their own dear sakes,
Much for their mother's, lost,
And much for love return'd.

He thought as he caress'd
Each infant in his arms,
And listen'd with delight
To every lisping word,

Sweeter than word full spoke,
And heard the sharp clear laugh
Of Innocence and Joy
Ring merry through the hall,
That Time had not the power
Or Circumstance the art
To make him cherish more
These links from Earth to Heaven,—
The children of the dead.

But each returning day
Beheld his love increase,
Until he sometimes fear'd
Such fond idolatry
Of creatures of the earth
Was blasphemy to Heaven.
But Love transcends the mind;
And Reason, if it strive
Against Love's high decree,
Strives but with spears of straw,

Against stone battlements;
Or if it fly the strife,
It abdicates its throne,
And serves as minister
The king it might depose.

As each ingenuous heart
Expanded in his smile,
And each young intellect
Unfolded like a flower
Beneath the kindly beams
Of his paternal face,
He look'd around his hearth;—
And though one vacant place
Threw o'er his happiness
The shade of bygone grief,
He counted all his flock,
And said within himself,—
“The world is good and fair,
And I am happy yet;

Lord! who hath given me these,
Preserve them one and all,
That I may train them up
To glorify Thy name,
And meet me, glorified,
At the appointed time,
Before Thy Throne of Grace.”

So grew they in his sight,
His task, his hope, his joy,
His recompense of life;
Till one unhappy morn
Insidious Fever crept,
A serpent, to his fold;
And not content with one,
Snatched from his jealous arms
Three younglings of his flock,—
The sweetest,—best-beloved,—
The tendrils of his heart.
Not best-beloved in life,

But oh, far more than best,
When Death transfigured them,
And o'er the pallid clay
Threw his celestial robes.
None saw the father weep.
His face was always calm,
Serene, and sad as night,
Begemm'd with inner worlds
Of silent suffering.

Years passed; and from his lips
There issued no complaint.
Four treasures still remain'd,
Brought nearer to his heart
By thought of those in Heaven.
If to the little world
That watch'd his daily life,
And knew how good and brave
And generous he was,
There seem'd to be a change

In look, or word, or deed,
It was that in his eyes
Seem'd pity more benign;
In every word he spake
More genial sympathy,
And in his liberal hand
Beneficence more rich.

He had but tasted grief;—
The overbrimming cup
Was offered to his lips,
And he had drunk, and lived.
The cup was yet to drain;
And happy he the while,
That knew not, nor could dream
The misery of the draught.

Short were the history,
If told by fact, and date,
And sequence of event.

Long were the history,
If told by agonies
Endured from day to day
And bravely fought against,
Until the unequal strife
Made havoc in the halls
And garden of the soul;
Laid waste the pleasant paths,
And rooted up the flowers,—
Sweet flowers,—to bloom no more!
But long or short,—'tis sad,
As all life-histories are,
Could tongues interpret them.

Prop of his house, his son,
By high ambition fired,
Intolerant of ease,
Went forth in honour's ranks
To fight his country's foes.
He died the hero's death,

Waving a snow-white plume
To cheer his followers,
And planting on the breach,
Won by his bravery,
The flag without a peer;
His last words—“Victory!
My father! Bear him this;”—
(A locket of dark hair)
“And tell him how I died!”

Two other sons—fair boys—
As radiant as the morn,
And fresh as blooms of May,
Return'd from Eton's halls,
Greedy of holidays,
And joys of happy home.
They bathed themselves at noon,
In clear inviting stream.
They frolick'd on the shore,
They braved remoter depths,

They gamboll'd in the flood,
And turning on their backs,
Floated, with face to Heaven,
In easy luxury,
As white and pure as swans;
Then dived in daring sport,
And wantonness of strength,
For pebbles deep adown,
Which having gain'd, they threw
Up in the sunny air,
And caught them as they fell.
There was not in the world,
In all its wealth of life
And innocence and joy,
Two happier, brighter things,
More beautiful than they.

A sudden cry of pain
Rang through the mead a mile,
And startled at the sound,

The younger brother turn'd,
And saw his elder born
Battling the deeps for life,
And all his fair young face
Alight with agony.

Impulsive at a thought,
He swam, and grasp'd the hand
Outstretch'd in blind despair.
'Twas Death's convulsive throe!
The dying swimmer caught
That weak fraternal hand,
That fond fraternal neck,
And bore into the grave
The young and tender life,
For whose superior sake
He'd thrice have given his owr

'Twas a short agony
That took them both to heaven.

Go to the village church,
You'll see their cenotaph,
A master-piece of art;
Lock'd in each other's arms
The marble seraphs lie;
Lovely in form and face,
But not so beautiful,
Or so divinely fair,
No, not by absent soul—
As those whose purity
They strive to shadow forth.

All thought this bitter grief
Would break the father's heart.
Perchance it did—none knew.
He travell'd into France,
To Italy and Spain,
He and his eldest born,
His loveliest and his last.

Oh, sweet beyond compare,
In roseate bloom of youth,
And dazzling womanhood,
She glitter'd at his side;
Men saw her in a crowd
And knew no other face;
And when she glided out
From church or festival,
They knew not how it was,
But felt that it was dark.

Before her brothers died
The maiden was betroth'd
To one her sire approved,
And would have chos'n himself
As helpmate of her life,
If she, with finer sense,
Had not from all mankind
Singled him out—true soul—
Her own soul's counterpart.

Time pass'd, and she was wed;—
And happiness once more
Seem'd dawning o'erthe Hall,
To light its avenues
With human intercourse,
And cheer the sad old man.
Age dreams as well as youth;
He hoped, he dream'd, he pray'd;
That this belovéd tree
Would blossom at its time,
And bear its tender fruit—
The blooms of wedded life—
Through all his latest years,
To make him blest amends
For dearer treasures lost.

Fond hope, that never grew
To hope's fruition fair!
The Rose so full of sweets,
The Rose so fondly prized,

So beautiful and frail,
Bore one untimely bud,
And perish'd where she grew,
Leaving two hearts forlorn,—
One young, with strength, mayhap,
To live and love anew;
One sad and weary old,
Too old to hope again.

How merciful is Heaven:
The oak foredoom'd to brave
Five hundred years of storm,
Grows hard and rough of kind,
And finds in storm itself
A sustenance and power.
The blind man's universe,
Uncheer'd by light of Heaven,
By man's or Nature's face,
Throbs with ecstatic sound
And music of the spheres.

And in our daily life,
The arrows aim'd to kill,
The accidents, the pit,
The perilous fire or flood,
Receive not every day
The victims they demand.
The arrow, warp'd aside,
Avoids Achilles' heel,
And guardian angels fly
On wings of sudden thought,
Or come, life messengers
In God's electric car,
Whose wheels are impulses,
To lead us unperceived
Beyond the crowded path
Where ambush'd dangers lie;
To heal th'envenom'd wound,
Or shield us from the blow.

The kind and tender heart

Broke not, but bore its grief;
And Patience, like a crown,
Shone on his wrinkled front,
And mark'd him for a king.
But if the heart escaped,
The delicate brain gave way.
An atom was displaced
From Reason's perfect throne;
Th'intangible chord was snapp'd
Which binds the soul to sense;
The clear aërial bells
That make sweet harmonies
In Thought's imperial dome,
Were smitten out of tune,
And yielded back no more
Their beautiful accord.

The balance of his mind
In all his common life,
In converse with the world,

In duty's ceaseless round,
In home or state affairs,
In courtesies complete,
Or high philosophy,
Preserved its evenness.
On one dark point alone
The balance was destroy'd.
On one pervading thought
The bells were out of tune—
If out of tune they were—
And not by spirit hands
Attuned, ineffable,
To higher harmonies
Than pure cold Reason dreams.

The children were not dead,
Nor she, the saint who bore!
The losing of the last,
Restored them all to life,
Young, beautiful, beloved,

As in the bygone time
When in his path they grew,
Companions of his hours.

All other creatures die;
The green earth covers them;
But in his waking thought
These live immortally,
And know not Death's embrace,
Nor cold Corruption's lip.
He sees them in his walks;
His wife still comforts him;
His little children still
Gambol about his feet,
And prattle in his ear.

Each day at morn and noon,
And at his evening meal,
His board is spread for nine;
His inner eyes behold

Eight spirits at his side,—
Each in the usual place,
Visible—palpable.
In their high company,
A calm pure happiness
Dwells in his soul serene,
And feeds itself on thoughts
Too great for utterance.
Life blossoms out of death;
Nothing shall part them more!

Thus God's great balances
Right every seeming wrong,
Atone for every ill,
And in the poison'd cup
Infuse the precious balm,
That out of transient pain
Makes lasting happiness.
Who knows this old man's joy?
None but himself, perhaps—

Perhaps not even he.
Thou who hast heard the tale
Believe that Heaven is just,
And bear thy lot resign'd.