University of Virginia Library

THE EVENING WALK.

My lonely ramble yester-eve I took,
Along that pleasant path that by the brook,
Skirting its flowery margin, winds away
Through fields all fragrant now with new-mown hay.
I could not choose but linger as I went,
A willing idler, with a child's content,
Gathering the widflowers on that streamlet's edge,
Spared by the mower's scythe, a fringing ledge
Of spiky purple, epilobium tall,
Veronicas, and cuplike coronal
Of golden crowsfoot, waving meadow-sweet,
And wilding rose, that dipt the stream to meet.
And that small brook, so shallow and so clear!
The mother-ewe, without a mother's fear,
Led her young lamb from off the shelving brink,
Firm in the midway stream to stand and drink.
'Twas pleasant, as it dipped and gazed, to see
Its wonder at the watery mimicry,
As here and there, the ripple glancing by,
Imaged an up-drawn foot, a round black eye,
Wide staring, and a nose to meet his own
That seemed advancing from below. Anon,
From the dark hollow of a little cove,
By an old oak root richly groined above,
Where lay the gathered waters, still and deep,
A vaulted well: e'en thence there seems to peep
A round white staring face, that starts away
As he himself starts back in quick dismay.
Again advancing, with a bolder stare,
He butts defiance. Lo! it meets him there,
And answers threat with threat. He stands at bay,
Perplexed, and ripe for warfare or for play.
Who had not loitered, gazed, and smiled like me,
Pleased with the pretty wanton's antic glee?
And cried “O Nature!” from a thankful heart,
“How graceful and how beautiful thou art!”
But all around me in that pleasant place
Was rife with beauty, harmony, and grace.
The glow of sunset mantled earth and sky,
The evening breeze came softly shivering by,
Laden with incense. 'Mongst the tedded hay,
The fresh-discovered carpet, emerald green,
Outspread its velvet softness,—sight, I ween,
Tempting to wistful gaze of lowing kine,
That in their stale, embrownèd pastures pine,
Loathing and restless, and impatient wait
The tardy opening of that barrier gate.
The mower's whetstone there abandoned thrown;
Silent his whistling scythe—himself was gone;
But gamesome Echo, as he trudged away,
Caught up the burden of his rustic lay;
Then, as the double cadence died remote,
From an old thorn-bush near came dropping out
A sweeter strain, so tremulously low
At first, as if the very soul of woe
Wailed in its music; but that dying close
Melted in air, and on the fall arose
A burst of rapture, swelling clear and strong,
In all the wild exuberance of song.
Methought, as all unseen I hearkened nigh,
The little minstrel sang exultingly—
“Man to his home is gone, and leaveth free
The weary world at last to peace and me.”
Peace! peace! but not all peace. E'en there was heard
The voice of mourning: a bereavèd bird
(Ah! piteous contrast to that minstrel blithe)
Hovered about the spot where late the scythe,
Wide sweeping, had to prying eyes revealed
Her lowly nest, so cunningly concealed.
There, by rude hands displaced and scattered, lay
The downy cradle of her young; and they—
The callow nurslings, they with chirpings shrill
And quivering pinions, from her loaded bill
That late received their portions—where are they?
Gone—in close wiry cell to pine away,
Where never parent bird's returning strain
Shall wake them up to life and love again.
So, loitering, lingering, musing as I went,
Homeward at last my devious steps I bent,
Leaving the meadows, by the forest road
That skirts the common. Many a neat abode,
Dwelling of rural industry, I passed,
And little fields and gardens, from the waste
Cribbed, long and narrow. Oh! invidious eye,
That passeth not these poor encroachments by
With look averted, if it may not see
In strictness of judicial trust, or free
To gaze unharmful on the poor man's toil,
That blesseth not the increase of the soil.
Stirring with life was every cottage door:
The humble owner there, his labour o'er,
Stood in the sunset, watching down the west
The round, red orb descending: to his breast
One hugged a little infant: one, with knife
Of clumsy fashion, for the neat goodwife
Wrought some rude implement, or made repair
In the old milking-stool or crazy chair:
One stood intently poring o'er the stye
Where munched his pig, with calculating eye
Measuring its growth, and counting o'er and o'er,
How much the profits of so many score;
And many a one still found some task to do
In his small garden, and performed it too
With cheerful heart, as if such toil were play,
After the heat and burden of the day:
And many a one, as close I passed him by,
Bade me “Good-night” with rustic courtesy—
A homely salutation, that to me
Endeareth evening; seemeth then to be,
So oft I've thought, a kindlier sympathy
'Twixt all God's creatures. Should I reason WHY,
Vain were the attempt. I only feel 'tis so;
Yet one perhaps of deeper search might show
The source whence those mysterious feelings flow.
Is it perchance, as darkness draweth nigh—
Type of the grave, where soon we all shall lie—
And sleep, the type of death, comes stealing on,
When, all our strength and all our cunning gone,
The strongest sinews and the wisest head
Shall lie alike defenceless as the dead?—
Is it that then, by some mysterious cause,
Man toward man in closer union draws?—
That then, perhaps, as in the dying hour,
Distinctions fade of rank, and wealth, and power,
And human hearts instinctively confess
The mutual bond of mutual helplessness,
Mutual dependence—ay, of great and small—
On One—the God and Father of us all?
Slowly the straggling cottagers I passed,
Still homeward wending, till I reached at last—
There was I ever wont to stand and gaze—
A lonely dwelling, that in bygone days,
But two years back, or little more, had been
The neatest tenement on Rushbrook Green.
A better sort of cottage, it contained
Two upper rooms, whose windows, lattice-paned,
Peered through the thatch and overhanging leaves
Of a young vine. On one side, from the eaves
Sloped down—addition trim of later date—
A long, low penthouse, oft with heart elate
Eyed by the builder:—“There for sure,” said he,
“When winter comes, how snug our cow will be.”
And the goodwife, like fashionable wives,
Had her own pin-money. Her straw-roofed hives,
Ranged all a-row against the southern wall,
Yielded in prosperous seasons, at the fall,
Such profits as she spread with honest pride
Before her well-pleased partner. Then, beside,
She had her private treasure, hoarded up
For Christmas holiday; a sparkling cup
Of rich brown mead, a neighbour's heart to cheer
On winter evenings; and throughout the year,
For passing guest, a kindly-proffered treat
Of mild metheglin, mild, and pale, and sweet.
There was no garden kept like Isaac Rae's.
Soon after sunrise in the longest days,
And in the twilight, his hard taskwork done
(His long day's labours in the summer sun),
There might you see him, toiling, toiling on,
Till every fading streak of day was gone.
'Tis true, no garden could with Isaac's vie
Round all the common, crammed so curiously,
And yet so neat and fruitful. Then the wall—
For hedge it were almost a sin to call
The living rampart—that was Isaac's pride;
And there he clipt and clipt, and spied and spied,
That from the quickset line, so straight and true,
No vagrant twig should straggle into view.
There were no children kept like Isaac Rae's,
And he had seven. “Well, my Phœhebe says,”
Himself once told me, just three years agone,
Presenting proud his last-born little one,—
“She says—the Lord sends hungry mouths, 'tis true,
But then He sends the meat to fill them too;
For we have never wanted, thanks to Him!
Nor sha'n't, while Isaac Rae has life and limb
To labour for them; nor it sha'n't be said
His children ever broke the parish bread,
Not while the Lord is good to us, and still
Gives me the strength to labour, with the will.”
The will continued,—but the strength,—alas!
There came a painful accident to pass.
His master's team—for many years the same
His voice had guided, every horse by name,
Like household dogs, accustomed to obey
Its tones familiar—one unlucky day,
Startled to sudden madness, broke away
From all command; and struggling to restrain
Their headlong progress—struggling all in vain—
His footing failed—he fell—and he was gone—
Right o'er his chest the wheel came crushing on.
And yet he lived and lived. Oh, lingering death!
How terrible thou art, when every breath
Is drawn with painful gasp, and some poor heart,
Of mother, child, or wife, for every start
That shakes the sufferer, feels a deadlier throe—
Feels, as I've heard poor Phoebe say, as though
Each time a drop of blood were wrung from thence.
It was the will of All-wise Providence
That Isaac long should linger in his pain,
Yet never known to murmur or complain,
No, nor to wish the tedious time away,
Was he, while helpless on his bed he lay,
Nor one impatient, fretful word to say,
Helpless and hopeless;—yet, a little space
Hope faintly dawned. In the kind surgeon's face—
A man of kind and Christian heart was he—
The ever-watchful wife was quick to see
A changed expression, but she dared not say
“Is there a hope?” lest it should fade away,
That blessed gleam, and leave her dark once more;
So she was mute, but followed to the door
With asking eyes. He, kindly cautious, said—
“There is a chance—but—” so unfinished
Leaving the sentence. 'Tis a cruel task
To look discouragement on eyes that ask
Only for leave to hope,—a hard one, too,
Having permitted hope, to keep in view,
Dashing her timid joy, the spectre fear.
At length they whispered in the poor man's ear
That he might live. He only shook his head.
But when a low consulting reached his bed
About the county hospital—how there
Patients were treated with the kindest care—
How all that medicine, all that skill could do,
Was done for them—and how they were brought through
The tedious time of slow recovery,
Better than in their own poor homes could be,—
Then lifted he his feeble voice to say,
“Send me not there—Oh! send me not away
From my poor home—my true and tender wife
And loving little ones, to end my life
In a strange place, with all strange faces near:
My father and my mother both died here—
Here in this very room in peace they died,
And sleep in our own churchyard side by side;
And I shall soon be with them where they lie;
Send me not hence, in a strange place to die;
I shall not linger long—'twill soon be past—
Oh! let me see my children to the last.”
He had his wish—they sent him not away;
So there upon his own poor bed he lay
Yet a few weeks, awaiting his release,
And there at last he closed his eyes in peace:
In Christian peace he yielded up his breath;
But oh! for him there was a sting in death—
His wife!—his little ones!—and they were seven,
All helpless infants. . . . But for trust in Heaven,
Trust in His word who sayeth, “Leave to me
Thy fatherless children,” great assuredly
The dying father's parting pang had been.
I saw the widow ere the closing scene,
The funeral, was over. There she sate
('Twas on a Sabbath morning), calm, sedate,
Composed, and neat, as she had ever been
On the Lord's Day, when I so oft had seen
Her and her husband, and their eldest three,
Hastening to church; and now prepared was she
And her seven orphans, all in decent show
Of humble mourning, that same path to go,
Following the father's coffin. They were there,
The little creatures! huddling round her chair,
Troubled and mute, with eyes upon her face
(Some tearful) fixed, and all as if to trace
Its meekly mournful meaning—all save he,
The youngest Innocent: upon her knee
He clambered up, and crowed with baby glee,
And stroked her face, and lisped his father's name.
Then might be seen, convulsive through her frame,
A universal shudder. Nor alone
Struck to her heart the call. A wailing moan
Among the elder orphans rose, and one—
The boy of whom his father was so proud—
Fell on his mother's neck, and wept aloud.
Her eyes were misty, but no tears she shed,
Kissing with quivering lips the boy's fair head,
As on her breast, the face concealed, it lay.
And then, to all around, who came to pay—
Neighbours and friends—to the respected dead
Their last sad tribute, some few words she said
Of thankfulness to each, and spoke of him
Calmly, while many an eye with tears grew dim.
The funeral moved; and through the humble door
He passed, who left it to return no more.
Against the side part, as 'twas carried by,
They jarred the coffin; then a stifled cry
Escaped the widow, and a sign, as though
From that insensate form to ward the blow
She felt upon her heart. A moment all
In silence stopt, while one arranged the pall;
Then sounded slow the bearers' heavy tread,
As to his last long home they bore the dead.
The staff and stay of all the house was gone,
And evil days came darkly hurrying on;
And yet with all the energy of love—
A widowed mother's!—that lone woman strove
(The poor have little leisure for their grief)
To feed her little ones without relief
Of parish pittance. “He would grieve,” she thought,
“To know his wofe and babes so low were brought.
The hand is cold that toiled for us, 'tis true;
But I can still work hard; and Jemmy too
Grows helpful, and he'll earn a trifle soon
T'ward his own keep. The cottage is our own.
And for the garden . . . I can dig there now,
Though not like him indeed. And then our cow—”
But then she stopt and sighed. Alas! she knew
There was a heavy debt, contracted too
To a hard creditor, of whom 'twas known
That he severely reckoned for his own.
“But then,” thought she, “it may not all be true
Folks tell of him; and when I humbly sue
Only for patience—for a longer day,
He will not take my children's bread away.”
Thou hadst to learn sad truth, poor simple one!
How ten times harder than the hard flint stone
That human heart may be whose god is gold.
The prayer was spurned—the widow's cow was sold.
That stroke fell heavy, but it crushed not quite
The noble spirit that still kept in sight
Its faithful purpose. “All's not gone,” she said;
“Their father's words upon his dying bed
Were—‘Phoebe, keep them from the workhouse walls
Whilst thou hast strength. There's not a sparrow falls
But One above takes note thereof; and He
Will not forsake thy little ones and thee.’”
Such now, so silent and so desolate,
Is Isaac's cottage. At its crazy gate
I linger oft; and yester-even I stayed
Till tender twilight with her stealthy shade
Veiled the red sunset. “Here is peace,” said I,
“In man's abode, in earth, in air, and sky;
But the heart shrinketh from this deathlike rest.”
I thought upon the skylark's ruined nest,
Upon her prisoned young, their captive lay,
And on the orphan babes of Isaac Rae.
Then from the cottage wall depended still,
A broken hoop, that oft with emulous skill
I'd seen the happy creatures urge along;
And in one corner lay a little prong,
Fashioned for childish hand, a wooden toy,
The father's shaping for his eldest boy.
I said how the loose vine swung to and fro,
Its long stems creaking with a sound of woe;
But round the little casement still remained
A tall blush-rose tree, there by Phoebe trained,
And loose depending o'er the interior gloom,
One pale, dew-sprinkled flower, the first to bloom,
Hung down like weeping beauty o'er the tomb.