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80

Part II.

I

The shadow Death o'er Time's broad dial creeps
With never-halting pace from mark to mark,
Blotting the sunshine; as it coldly sweeps,
Each living symbol melts into the dark,
And changes to the name of what it was;—
Shade-measured light, progression proved by loss.

II

Blithe Spring expanding into Summer's cheer,
Great Summer ripening into Autumn's glow,
The yellow Autumn and the wasted year,
And hoary-headed Winter stooping slow
Under the dark arch up again tò Spring,
Have five times compass'd their appointed ring.

III

See once again our village, with its street
Dozing in dusty sunshine. All around
Is silence; save, for slumber not unmeet,
Some spinning-wheel's continuous whirring sound
From cottage door, where, stretch'd upon his side,
The moveless dog is basking, drowsy-eyed.
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IV

The hollyhocks that rise above a wall
Sleep in the richness of their crusted blooms;
Up the hot glass the sluggish blue flies crawl;
The heavy bee is humming into rooms
Through open window, like a sturdy rover,
Bringing with him warm scents of thyme and clover.

V

With herb and flow'r you smell the ripening fruit
In cottage gardens, on the sultry air;
But every bird has vanish'd, hiding mute
In eave and hedgerow; save that here and there
With twitter swift, the sole unrestful thing,
Shoots the dark lightning of a swallow's wing.

VI

Yet in this hour of sunny peacefulness
There's one whom all its influence little calms,
One who now leans in agony to press
His throbbing forehead with his throbbing palms,
Now paces quickly up and down within
The narrow parlour of the village inn.

VII

He thought he could have tranquilly beheld
The scene again. He thought his faithful grief,
Spread level in the soul, could not have swell'd
To find once more a passionate relief.
Three years, they now seem hours, have sigh'd their breath
Since when he heard the tidings of her death.
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VIII

Last evening in the latest dusk he came,
A holy pilgrim from a distant land;
And objects of familiar face and name,
As at the wave of a miraculous wand,
Rose round his steps; his bedroom window show'd
His small white birthplace just across the road.

IX

Yet in that room he could not win repose;
The image of the past perplex'd his mind;
Often he sigh'd and turn'd and sometimes rose
To bathe his forehead in the cool night-wind,
And vaguely watch the curtain broad and gray
Lifting anew from the bright scene of day.

X

When creeping sultry hours from noontide go,
He rounds the hawthorn hedge's well-known turn,
Melting in Midsummer its bloomy snow,
And through the chapel gate. His heart forlorn
Draws strength and comfort from the pitying shrine
Whereat he bows with reverential sign.

XI

Behind the chapel, down a sloping hill,
Circling the ancient abbey's ivied walls
The graveyard sleeps. A little gurgling rill
Pour'd through a corner of the ruin, falls
Into a dusky-water'd pond, and lags
With lazy eddies 'mid its yellow flags.
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XII

Across this pool, the hollow banks enfold
An orchard, overrun with rankest grass,
Of gnarl'd and mossy apple-trees as old
As th' oldest graves almost; and thither pass
The smooth-worn stepping-stones that give their aid
To many a labourer and milking-maid,

XIII

And not unfrequently to rustic bound
On a more solemn errand. When we see
A suppliant in such universal ground,
Let all be reverence and sympathy;
Assured the life in every real pray'r
Is that which makes our life of life to share.

XIV

But resting in the sunshine very lone
Is each green hummock now, each wooden cross;
And save the rillet in its cup of stone
That poppling falls, and whispers through the moss
Down to the quiet pool, no sound is near
To break the stilliness to Gerald's ear.

XV

The writhen elder spreads its creamy bloom;
The thicket-tangling, tenderest briar-rose
Kisses to air its exquisite perfume
In shy luxuriance; spiry foxglove glows
With elvish crimson;—nor all vainly greet
The eye which unobserved they seem to meet.
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XVI

Under the abbey wall he wends his way,
Admitted through a portal arching deep,
To where no roof excludes the common day;
Though some few tombstones in the shadows sleep
Of hoary fibres and a throng of leaves,
Which venerable ivy slowly weaves.

XVII

First hither comes, in piety of heart,
Over his mother's, father's grave to bend,
The faithful exile. Let us stand apart,
While his sincere and humble pray'rs ascend,
As such devout aspirings do, we trust,
To Him who sow'd them in our breathing dust.

XVIII

And veil our very thoughts lest they intrude
(Oh, silent death; oh, living pain full sore!)
Where lies enwrapt in grassy solitude
That gentle matron's grave, of Cloonamore;
And on the stone these added words are seen—
‘Also, her daughter Milly, aged eighteen.’

XIX

Profound the voiceless aching of the breast,
When weary life is like a gray dull eve
Emptied of colour, withering and waste
Around the prostrate soul, too weak to grieve—
Stretch'd far below the tumult and strong cry
Of passion—its lamenting but a sigh.
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XX

Grief's mystery desire not to disperse,
Nor wish the secret of the world outspoken;
'Tis not a toy, this vital Universe,
That thus its inner caskets may be broken.
Sorrow and pain, as well as hope and love,
Stretch out of view into the heavens above.

XXI

Yet, oh! the cruel coldness of the grave,
The keen remembrance of the happy past,
The thoughts which are at once tyrant and slave,
The sudden sense that drives the soul aghast,
The drowning horror, and the speechless strife,
That fain would sink to death or rise to life!

XXII

As Gerald lifted up his pallid face,
He grew aware that he was not alone.
Amid the silence of the sacred place
Another form was stooping o'er the stone;
A grayhair'd woman's. When she met his eyes
She shriek'd aloud in her extreme surprise.

XXIII

‘The Holy Mother keep us day and night!
And who is this?—Oh, Master Gerald, dear,
I little thought to ever see this sight!
Warm to the King above I offer here
My praises for the answer He has sent
To all my pray'rs; for now I'll die content!’
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XXIV

Then, as if talking to herself, she said,
‘I nursed her when she was a little child.
I smooth'd the pillow of her dying bed.
And just the way that she had often smiled
When sleeping in her cradle—that same look
Was on her face with the last kiss I took.’

XXV

‘'Twas in the days of March,’ she said again.
‘And so it is the sweetest blossom dies,
The wrinkled leaf hangs on, though falling fain.
I thought your hand would close my poor old eyes,
And not that I'd be sitting in the sun
Beside your grave,—the Lord's good will be done!’

XXVI

Thus incoherently the woman spoke,
With many interjections full of woe;
And wrapping herself up within her cloak
Began to rock her body to and fro;
And moaning softly, seem'd to lose all sense
Of outward life in memories so intense.

XXVII

Till Gerald burst his silence and exclaim'd,
With the most poignant earnestness of tone,
‘O nurse, I loved her!—though I never named
The name of love to her, or any one.
'Tis to her grave here—’ He could say no more,
But these few words a load of meaning bore.
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XXVIII

Beside the tombstone mute they both remain'd.
At last the woman rose, and coming near,
Said with a tender voice that had regain'd
A tremulous calm, ‘Then you must surely hear
The whole from first to last, cushla-ma-chree;
For God has brought together you and me.’

XXIX

And there she told him all the moving tale,
Broken with many tears and sobs and sighs;
How gentle Milly's health began to fail;
How a sad sweetness grew within her eyes,
And trembled on her mouth, so kind and meek,
And flush'd across her pale and patient cheek.

XXX

And how about this time her sister Ann
‘Entered Religion,’ and her father's thought
Refused in Milly's face or voice to scan,
Or once so lively step, the change that wrought;
Until a sad conviction flew at last,
And with a barb into his bosom pass'd.

XXXI

Then, with most anxious haste, her dear old nurse
Was sent for to become her nurse again;
But still the pretty one grew worse and worse.
For with a gradual lapsing, free of pain,
And slow removes, that fond eyes would not see,
Crept on the hopeful, hopeless malady.
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XXXII

Spring came, and brought no gift of life to her,
Of all it lavish'd in the fields and woods.
Yet she was cheer'd when birds began to stir
About the shrubbery, and the pale gold buds
Burst on the willows, and with hearty toil
The ploughing teams upturn'd the sluggish soil.

XXXIII

‘'Twas on a cold March evening, well I mind,’
The nurse went on, ‘we sat and watch'd together
The long gray sky; and then the sun behind
The clouds shone down, though not like summer weather,
On the hills far away. I can't tell why,
But of a sudden I began to cry.

XXXIV

‘I dried my tears before I turn'd to her,
But then I saw that her eyes too were wet,
And pale her face, and calm without a stir;
Whilst on the lighted hills her look was set.
Where strange beyond the cold dark fields they lay,
As if her thoughts, too, journey'd far away.

XXXV

‘After a while she ask'd me to unlock
A drawer, and bring a little parcel out.
I knew it was of it she wish'd to talk,
But long she held it in her hand in doubt;
And whilst she strove, there came a blush and spread
Her face and neck with a too passing red.
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XXXVI

‘At length she put her other hand in mine;
“Dear nurse,” she said, “I'm sure I need not ask
Your promise to fulfil what I design
To make my last request, and your last task.
You knew young Master Gerald” (here her speech
Grew plain) “that used to come here once to teach?”

XXXVII

‘I said I knew you well; and she went on,—
“Then listen: if you ever see him more,
And he should speak of days long past and gone,
And of his scholars and his friends before—
Should ask you questions—knowing what you've been
To me,—Oh! could I tell you what I mean!”

XXXVIII

‘But, sir, I understood her meaning well;
Not from her words so much as from her eyes.
I saw it all; my heart began to swell,
I took her in my arms with many sighs
And murmurs, and she lean'd upon my neck
Till we both cried our fill without a check.

XXXIX

‘She saw I knew her mind, and bade me give
Into your hand, if things should so befall,
The parcel:—else, as long as I should live,
It was to be a secret kept from all,
And say you never wrote, never return'd,
When my last hour drew near, was to be burn'd.
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XL

‘I promised to observe her wishes duly;
But said I hoped in God that she would still
Live many years beyond myself. And truly
While she was speaking, like a miracle
Her countenance lost every sickly trace.
Ah, dear! 'twas setting light was in her face.

XLI

‘She told me she was tired, and went to bed,
And I sat watching by her until dark,
And then I lit her lamp, and round her head
Let down the curtains. 'Twas my glad remark
How softly she was breathing, and my mind
Was full of hope and comfort,—but we're blind!

XLII

‘The night wore on, and I had fall'n asleep,
When about three o'clock I heard a noise
And sprang up quickly. In the silence deep
Was some one praying with a calm weak voice;
Her own voice, though not sounding just the same;
And in the pray'r I surely heard your name.

XLIII

‘Sweet Heaven! we scarce had time to fetch the priest.
How sadly through the shutters of that room
Crept in the blessed daylight from the east
To us that sat there weeping in the gloom;
And touch'd the close-shut eyes and peaceful brow,
But brought no fear of her being restless now.
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XLIV

‘The wake was quiet. Noiseless went the hours
Where she was lying stretch'd so still and white;
And near the bed, a glass with some Spring flowers
From her own little garden. Day and night
I watch'd, until they took my lamb away,
The child here by the mother's side to lay.

XLV

‘The holy angels make your bed, my dear!
But little call have we to pray for you:
Pray you for him that's left behind you here,
To have his heart consoled with heavenly dew!
And pray too for your poor old nurse, asthore;
Your own true mother scarce could love you more!’

XLVI

Slow were their feet amongst the many graves,
Over the stile and up the chapel-walk,
Where stood the poplars with their timid leaves
Hung motionless on every slender stalk.
The air in one hot calm appear'd to lie,
And thunder mutter'd in the heavy sky.

XLVII

Along the street was heard the laughing sound
Of boys at play, who knew no thought of death;
Deliberate-stepping cows, to milking bound,
Lifted their heads and low'd with fragrant breath;
The women knitting at their thresholds cast
A look upon our stranger as he pass'd.
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XLVIII

Scarce had the mourners time a roof to gain,
When, with electric glare and thunder-crash,
Heavy and straight and fierce came down the rain,
Soaking the white road with its sudden plash,
Driving all folk within-doors at a race,
And making every kennel gush apace.

XLIX

The storm withdrew as quickly as it came,
And through the broken clouds a brilliant ray
Glow'd o'er the dripping earth in yellow flame,
And flush'd the village panes with parting day.
Sudden and full that swimming lustre shone
Into the room where Gerald sat alone.

L

The door is lock'd, and on the table lies
The open parcel. Long he wanted strength
To trust its secrets to his feverish eyes;
But now the message is convey'd at length;—
A note; a case; and folded with them there
One finest ringlet of brown-auburn hair.

LI

The case holds Milly's portrait—her reflection:
Lips lightly parted, as about to speak;
The frank broad brow, young eyes of grave affection,
Even the tender shadow on the cheek:
Swift image of a moment snatch'd from Time,
Fix'd by a sunbeam in eternal prime.
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LII

The note ran thus, ‘Dear Gerald, near my death,
I feel that like a Spirit's words are these,
In which I say, that I have perfect faith
In your true love for me,—as God, who sees
The secrets of all hearts, can see in mine
That fondest truth which sends this feeble sign.

LIII

‘I do not think that He will take away,
Even in Heaven, this precious earthly love;
Surely He sends its pure and blissful ray
Down as a message from the world above.
Perhaps it is the full light drawing near
Which makes the doubting Past at length grow clear.

LIV

‘We might have been so happy!—But His will
Said no, who orders all things for the best.
O may His power into your soul instil
A peace like this of which I am possess'd!
And may He bless you, love, for evermore,
And guide you safely to His heavenly shore!’

LV

Hard sits the downy pillow to a head
Aching with memories. And Gerald sought
The mournful paths where happy hours had fled,—
Pacing through silent labyrinths of thought.
Yet sometimes, in his loneliness of grief,
The richness of the loss came like relief.
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LVI

Minutely he recall'd, with tender pride,
How one day—which is gone for evermore—
Among his bunch of wild flowers left aside,
He found a dark carnation, seen before
In Milly's girdle,—but alas, too dull
To read its crimson cypher in the full!

LVII

She smiled, the centre of a summer's eve:
She sung, with all her countenance a-glow,
In her own room, and he could half believe
The voice did far-off in the darkness flow:
He saw her stretch'd in a most silent place,
With the calm light of prayer upon her face.

LVIII

All this night long the water-drops he heard
Vary their talk of chiming syllables.
Dripping into the butt; and in the yard
The ducks gabbling at daylight; till the spells
Of misty sense recall'd a childish illness
When the same noises broke the watching stillness.

LIX

Wellnigh he hoped that he had sadly dream'd,
And all the interval was but a shade.
But now the slow dawn through his window gleam'd,
And whilst in dear oblivion he was laid,
And Morning rose, parting the vapours dim,
A happy heavenly vision came to him.
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LX

Kind boons of comfort may in dream descend,
Nor wholly vanish in the broad daylight.
—When this our little story hath an end,
That flickers like a dream in woof of night,
Its slender memory may perchance be wrought
Among the tougher threads of waking thought?

LXI

Thus Gerald came and went. Till far away,
His coming and his errand were not told.
And years had left behind that sunny day,
Ere some one from the New World to the Old
Brought news of him, in a great Southern town,
Assiduous there, but seeking no renown.

LXII

After another silent interval,
The little daily lottery of the post
Gave me a prize; from one who at the call
Of ‘Westward ho!’ had left our fair green coast,
With comrades eager as himself to press
Into the rough unharrow'd wilderness.

LXIII

‘Through these old forests’ (thus he wrote) ‘we came
One sundown to a clearing. Western light
Burn'd in the pine-tops with a fading flame
Over untrodden regions, and dusk night
Out of the solemn woods appear'd to rise
To some strange music, full of quivering sighs.
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LXIV

‘Such must have been the atmosphere, we thought,
The visionary light of ancient years,
When Red Man east or west encounter'd nought
Save bear and squirrel, with their wild compeers.
But other life was now; and soon we found
The little citadel of this new ground.

LXV

‘The neat log-cabin from its wall of pines
Look'd out upon a space of corn and grass
Yet thick with stumps; 'twas eaved with running vines,
As though among the vanquish'd woods to pass
For something native. Drawing to its door,
We question'd of the mystic sounds no more.

LXVI

‘They blended with the twilight and the trees,
At hand, around, above, and far away,
So that at first we thought it was the breeze
Hymning its vespers in the forest gray;
But now we heard not airy strains alone,
But human feeling throb in every tone.

LXVII

‘A swelling agony of tearful strife
Being wearied out and hush'd—from the profound
Arose a music deep as love or life,
That spread into a placid lake of sound,
And took the infinite into its breast,
With Earth and Heaven in one embrace at rest;
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LXVIII

‘And then the flute-notes fail'd. Approaching slow,
Whom found we seated in the threshold shade?
Gerald,—our Music-Master long ago
In poor old Ireland; much inquiry made
Along our track for him had proved in vain;
And here at once we grasp'd his hand again!

LXIX

‘And he received us with the warmth of heart
Our brothers lose not under any sky.
But what was strange, he did not stare or start
As if astonish'd, when, so suddenly,
Long-miss'd familiar faces from the wood
Emerged like ghosts, and at his elbow stood.

LXX

‘'Twas like a man who joyfully was greeting
(So thought I) some not unexpected friends.
And yet he had not known our chance of meeting
More than had we: but soon he made amends
For lack of wonder, by the dextrous zeal
That put before us no unwelcome meal.

LXXI

‘We gave him all our news, and in return
He told us how he lived,—a lonely life!
Miles from a neighbour, sow'd and reap'd his corn,
And hardy grew. One spoke about a wife
To cheer him in that solitary wild,
But Gerald only shook his head and smiled.
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LXXII

‘Next dawn, when each one of our little band
Had on a mighty Walnut carved his name,—
Henceforth a sacred tree, he said, to stand
'Mid his enlarging bounds,—the moment came
For farewell words. But long, behind our backs,
We heard the echoes of his swinging axe.’
 

Took conventual vows.

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