Robin Hood :: :: University of Virginia Library

“'Twill be a wild rough night upon the Moor:
And hark! though three miles off, the sullen roar
Of that deep-booming surge. God's mercy keep
The wayfarer, and wanderer on the deep.
The moon's but young—she'll give no help to night:
Look out, my boys! if Beacon-head burns bright;
And, lads! take Carter Joe with ye, and see
All snug about the place; more 'specially
At the new Penfold—and dun Peggy, too,
Give her and her sick foal a passing view—
Old Mark away, I've lost my right-hand man;
You must replace him.”—

Off the striplings ran,
Proud happy boys! forth rushing in their haste,

Ere well the words their father's lips had pass'd;
The elder's arm, with loving roughness, thrown
Round his young brother's neck—the fair-hair'd one.
“God bless the lads! and keep them ever so,
Hand in hand brothers, wheresoe'er they go,”
Eyeing them tenderly, the father said
As the door closed upon them: then his head,
Sighing, let fall on his supporting palm,
And, like the pausing tempest, all was calm.

Facing her husband, sate a Matron fair,
Plying her sempstress task. A shade of care
Darken'd her soft blue eyes, as to his face
(Drawn by that sigh) they wander'd, quick to trace
The unseen, by sympathy's unerring sight—
Reading his heart's thoughts by her own heart's light.

Ten years twice told had pass'd since Helen Græme
For Walter Hay's exchanged her virgin name.
Of life's vicissitudes they'd had their share,
Sunshine and shade; yet in his eyes as fair,
And dearer far than the young blooming Bride

Was she the long-tried partner; who espied
No change in him, but such as gave a cast
More tender to the love would time outlast.
They had rejoiced together at the birth
Of six fair infants: sorrowing to the earth
(With mutual sorrow, but submissive heart)
Committed three. Hard trial 'twas to part
(Young parents!) with their first-born bud of bliss;
And they who follow'd!—with the last cold kiss
Their hearts seem'd breaking, that on each they press'd.
But He so will'd it “who doth all things best.”
Out of their sight they hid their early dead,
And wept together—and were comforted.
And of their loved ones, now a lovely three
Were left, that well a parent's boast might be.
Those two bold blithesome boys of stature near,
(Their ages differing only by a year,)
Walter and William named in reminiscence dear,
And a small sister, like a green-hill Fay,
Younger by six—a little Helen Hay,
The household darling. To her father's ear,
'Twas ever music that sweet name to hear.

And now she sate, as still as still could be,
Her little stool drawn close beside his knee:
Her paly ringlets so profusely shed,
In the warm hearth-glow gleaming golden red,
As o'er the book upon her lap she bent,
On Jack the Giant-killer's feats intent.

Fit subject for some limner's skill had been,
That quiet, tender-toned, heart-soothing scene,
All in fine keeping! the old spacious room,
Half hall, half kitchen, dark'ning into gloom,
As it receded from that cavern vast—
The open hearth whence blazing oak logs cast
Rich, ruddy beams on rafter, beam, and wall,
'Twixt monstrous shadows that fantastic fall.
And all around, in picturesque array,
Hung rustic implements for use and play,
For manly sport and boyish holiday.
Basket, and net, and rifle, rod, and spear,
Coil'd lines, and weather-season'd fishing gear,
And bills and hedging gloves; and, modell'd neat,
A little schooner, (Willy's proudest feat,)

Matching a mimic plough, with graver thought
“On improved principles,” by Walter wrought—
Proud folk the parents of those works, I wot!
And tatter'd straw hats, plaited once so white
And neat, in leisurely long winter night,
By the boy brothers, while their father read
From one of those brown volumes overhead,
(No mindless untaught churl was Walter Hay,)
Some pleasant theme, instructive, grave, or gay:
His list'ning household men, and maids, and all,
Assembled round him in his rustic hall;
Together closing the laborious day,
As in the good old time, the good old way.
There stood a spinning-wheel, whose humming sound
Accompanied the reader's voice, not drown'd.
There hung a half-done cabbage-net; and there,
Nursing her kitten in the old stuff chair,
Purred a grave Tabby; while a faithful friend,
A worn-out Sheep-Dog, to his long life's end
Fast hastening, slumbered at his master's feet.
It was a pleasant picture!—very sweet
To look upon, its beautiful repose—
One earthly scene, undimm'd by human woes.

Alas! was ever spot on earth so blessed,
Where human hearts in perfect peace might rest?
One bosom sorrow, one corroding thought,
(The dark thread with his woof of life enwrought,)
Helped on the work of time with Walter Hay,
Stole half the brightness of his smile away,
And streaked in manhood's prime his dark curl'd locks with gray.
A hasty quarrel, an intemperate cup,
A hard word spoken when the blood was up,
A blow as madly dealt, but not in hate,
Repented soon and sorely, but too late—
Too late!—Ah! simple words of solemn sense,
Avenging disregarded Providence!

Remembrance of these things, and what ensued,
It was, that clouded oft his sunniest mood,
Casting a dark cold shadow o'er the life
Perhaps too prosperous else. His gentle wife
Whose wife-like tenderness could scarce descry
A fault in him she honoured, oft would try
To pluck away the thorn he sternly pressed

(Severe in self-infliction) to his breast.
“Not yours alone,” she soothingly would say,
“The blame of what befell that luckless day;
You had borne much my husband! well I know,
Much, before anger overcame you so:
And both of you that night had made too free
(Alas! that youth should so unthinking be!)
With the good ale in careless company.
How could you bear such taunts before them all,
As he—unjust and violent—let fall?
He knew your heart, to him so warm and kind,
That passion could but for a moment blind;
Passion, that love as suddenly would check,
And cast you all-repentant on his neck:
But he was gone before a word could pass—
Gone in his furious mood, before the glass
Ceased ringing, where he dash'd it on the floor
With that rash oath—to see thy face no more!”

“But I—but I—that ever it should be
Betwixt us so!—had told him bitterly
I never more desired his face to see.

100

I prosperous—He, a disappointed man—
Quick tempered, spirit vex'd. Say what you can,
Dear comforter! you cannot take away
The stinging mem'ry of that fatal day.”
Thus soothingly, a thousand times before
The loving wife had uttered o'er and o'er
Mild consolation; on his heart that fell
Balmy, though there no settled peace might dwell:
And thus again, that night whereof I tell,
They talked together; on his long-drawn sigh
Following, their low-voiced, love-toned colloquy.
And all the while, intent upon her book,
The little maid sat still; an upward look,
(As played her father's hand with her soft hair,)
Now and then glancing at the parent pair,
Her heart's contentment full, assured they both were there.

Loud burst the storm, that fitfully suppress'd,
Had for a moment sobbed itself to rest.
Creaked doors and casements, clattering came the rain,
And the old wall's stout timbers groaned again.
“Would they were back—that I could hear their tread!”

101

Listening anxiously, the mother said:
“God help, this fearful night, the houseless poor!
One would not turn a dog out from one's door.”

“No—not a dog.—And yet I had the heart,
To let him homeless from my home depart
On such another night. Full well I mind,
As the door opened, how the rain and wind
Flashed in his face, and wellnigh beat him back.
Then—had I stretched a hand out!—What lone track,
Unfriended since, hath he been doomed to tread?
Where hath he found a shelter for his head?
In this hard world, or with the happy dead?”

“Nay, doubt it not, my husband!” said the wife,
“He hath been long at rest, where care and strife,
And pain and sorrow enter not. We know
That when he left us, nineteen years ago,
He went a-shipboard straight, and crossed the seas
To that far fatal coast, where fell disease
Strikes down its thousands,—that he went ashore,
And up the country, and was seen no more.

102

Had he not perished early, we had heard
Tidings ere long by letter or by word;
For he too had a loving heart, that bore
No malice when the angry fit was o'er.
Be comforted, dear husband! he's at rest,
And let us humbly hope, for Christ's sake—blessed.”

“Hark, mother, hark! I'm sure they're coming back!”
Cried little Helen—who with Valiant Jack
Had parted for the night—“That's Willy's call
To Hector, as they turn the garden wall.
Lizzy! come quick and help me let them in—
They must be wet, poor brothers, to the skin.”
The rosy maid, already at the door,
Lifted the latch; and bounding on before,
(His rough coat scattering wide a plenteous shower,)
Hector sprang in, his master close behind,
Half spent with buffeting the rain and wind;
Gasping for breath and words a moment's space,
His eager soul all glowing in his face.

“Where's Walter?” cried the mother, pale as death—
“What's happened?” ask'd both parents in a breath.

103

“Safe, Mother dear! and sound—I tell you true—
But, Father! we can't manage without you;
Walter and Joe are waiting there down-bye,
At the old cart-house by the granary.
As we came back that way, a man we found
(Some shipwrecked seaman) stretch'd upon the ground
In that cold shelter. Very worn and weak
He seem'd, poor soul! at first could hardly speak;
And, as we held the lantern where he lay,
Moaned heavily, and turned his face away.
But we spoke kindly—bade him be of cheer,
And rise and come with us—our home was near,
Whence our dear father never from his door
Sent weary traveller—weary, sick, or poor.
He listened, turned, and lifting up his head,
Looked in our faces wistfully, and said—
‘Ye are but lads—(kind lads—God bless you both!)
And I, a friendless stranger, should be loth,
Unbidden by himself, to make so free
As cross the rich man's threshold: this for me
Is shelter good enough; for worse I've known—
What fitter bed than earth to die upon?’

104

He spoke so sad, we almost wept; and fain
Would have persuaded him, but all in vain;—
He will not move—I think he wants to die,
And so he will, if there all night he lie.”

“That shall he not,” the hearty yeoman said,
Donning his rough great-coat; “a warmer bed
Shall pillow here to-night his weary head.
Off with us, Willy! our joint luck we'll try,
And bring him home, or know the reason why.”

Warm hearts make willing hands; and Helen Hay
Bestirred her, while those dear ones were away,
Among her maidens, comforts to provide
'Gainst their return: still bustling by her side
Her little daughter, with officious care,
(Sweet mimicry!) and many a matron air
Of serious purpose, helping to spread forth
Warm hose and vestments by the glowing hearth.
From the old walnut press, with kindly thought,
Stout home-spun linen, white and sweet, was brought
In a small decent chamber overhead,

105

To make what still was call'd “The Stranger's bed.”
For many a lone wayfarer, old and poor,
Sick or sore wearied, on the dreary moor
Belated, at the hospitable door
Of the Old Farm ask'd shelter for the night,
Attracted by the far-seen, ruddy light
Of the piled hearth within.—“A bit of bread
And a night's shelter,” was the prayer oft said,
Seldom in vain;—for Walter would repeat,
With lowly reverence, that assurance sweet—
“How he the stranger's heart with food and rest
Who cheers, may entertain an angel guest;”
Or, giving in Christ's name, for his dear sake be blessed.

Oft they look'd out into the murky night
Tempestuous, for the streaming lantern light;
And hearkened (facing bold the driving sleet)
For sound of nearing voices—coming feet.
And there it gleams—and there they come at last—
Fitfully sinking, swelling on the blast;
Till clustering forms from out the darkness grow,
Supporting one, with dragging steps and slow,
Feebly approaching.—

106

“Hold the lantern low—
Courage, my friend! we've but a step to go,”
The yeoman's cheerful voice was heard to say.
“Hillo! good folks there—here, my Helen Hay,
Little and great—I've brought you home a guest
Needs your good tending,—most of all needs rest;
Which he shall find this blessed night, please God,
On softer pallet than the cold bare sod.”

As they the threshold passed, the cheerful light
Flash'd from within; and shading quick his sight,
(Pained by the sudden glare,) upon his brow
The wayworn man his ragged hat pulled low;
Bowed down his head, and sighed in such a tone
Deep drawn and heavy, 'twas almost a groan.
They helped him on, (for he could hardly stand,)
And little Helen drew him by the hand,
Whispering—“Poor man!”—At that, a moment's space
Halting, he fix'd his eyes on the young face
Of her who spoke those pitying words so mild,
And tremulously said—“God bless thee, child!”

107

The strong supporting arm—'twas Walter Hay's—
Tighten'd its clasp, and with a searching gaze
Quick turned, he peered in those strange features;—then
(For they were strange) drew back his head again,
Shaking it gently with a sorrowful smile.
The matron and her maids came round the while,
Toward the high-back'd Settle's warmest nook
To lead the weary man; but with a look
Still downcast and aside, he shrunk away,
Articulating faintly, “Not to-day—
Not there to-night. Rest only! only rest!”
So to the allotted room they brought their guest,
And laid him kindly down on the good bed,
With a soft pillow for his old grey head.
The long, thin, straggling locks, that hung adown
His hollow cheeks, had scarce a tinge of brown
Streaking their wintry white; and sorely marr'd
Was all his face: thick seamed, and deeply scarred,
As if in many battles he had fought
Among the foremost.—

“From the first, I thought,”

108

Said the young Walter, as he came below,
“The fine old fellow had dealt many a blow
For England's glory, on her wooden walls.”
The father smiled. “Not every one who falls
In fight, my son! may fall in a good cause—
As fiercely in resistance to the laws
Men strive, as in upholding them”—

“But here
I'm sure we've a true sailor, father dear!
No lawless, wicked man. When you were gone,
Willy and I some little time stay'd on—
(Mother had sent us up with some warm drink,
Made comforting)—and then you cannot think
How pleasantly, though sadly, he look'd up,
And ask'd our names as he gave back the cup;
And when we told them, took a hand of each,
While his lips moved as if in prayer—not speech,
With eyes so fixed on us, and full of tears.”
“Perhaps,” said William, “lads about our years
He might be thinking of—far, far away,
Or dead;—his own dear children. Who can say!”

109

“Ay, who indeed can say, boys?—who can tell
The deep, deep thoughts, in human hearts that dwell
Long buried, that some word of little weight
Will call up sudden from their slumbering state,
So quickened into life, that past things seem
Present again—the present but a dream.
Boys! in a book was lent me long agone,
I read what since I've often thought upon
With deepest awe. At the great Judgment-Day
Some learned scholars—wise and holy—say
That in a moment all our whole life past
Shall be spread out as in a picture vast—
Re-acted as it were, in open sight
Of God, and men, and angels; the strong light,
Indwelling conscience—serving to illume
The changeful All, complete from birth to doom.
Methinks—with humble reverence I speak—
I've been led sometimes to conception weak
Of that deep meaning, when a sudden ray
Has called, as 'twere from darkness into day,
Long past, forgotten things.—Oh! children dear!
Lay it to heart, and keep the record clear
That all unveiled, that day, must certainly appear.”

110

Thus, as was oft his wont, religious truth
The pious father taught their tender youth,
As apposite occasion led the way;
No formal teacher stern. Nor only they,
The filial listeners, fixed attention gave
To his wise talk; with earnest looks and grave
His rustic household, at the supper board
Assembled all, gave heed to every word
Uttered instructive; and when down he took
And opened reverently the blessed Book;
With hearts prepared, on its great message dwelt:
And when around, in after prayer they knelt,
Forgot not, e'er they rose, for him to pray
Master and Teacher,—Father, they might say,
Who led them like his own, the happy, heavenward way.

“Did you take notice, wife”—the husband said,
The busy well-spent day thus finished,
When all except themselves were gone to rest—
“Did you take notice, when our stranger guest
Spoke those few words to Helen, of his tone?
It thrilled my very heart through: so like one
These nineteen years unheard.”

111

“I scarce gave heed
To anything,” she said, “but his great need
Of help, poor soul! so faint he seemed and low.”
“Well, well,” rejoined her husband, “even now
I seem to hear it:—Then, into my brain,
Wild thoughts came crowding; quickly gone again,
When I looked hard, but not a line could trace
Familiar in that weatherbeaten face.
That lost one, were he living now, would be
Younger a year and many months than me—
Than this time-stricken man, by many a year,
But, oh! these thoughts will haunt me, Helen, dear!
These sudden fancies, though so oft before
I've proved them vain, and felt all hope was o'er.”

“Only for this world, husband mine!” she said,
“They live in Heaven, whom here we count as dead,
And there we all shall meet, when all is finished.”

“God grant it!” fervently he said; “and so
To bed, good wife! I must be up, you know,
And off by daybreak, on my townward way,

112

Where, business done, be sure I shall not stay
A needless minute. Yet I guess 'twill be
Dark night before my own snug home I see.
Mind a low chair and cushion in the cart
Be set for Mark. God bless his poor old heart!
Though from the hospital they send him back
Blind and incurable, he shall not lack
Comfort or kindness here; his service done
Of sixty years wellnigh, to sire and son.
I miss him every where; but most of all
Methinks at prayer-time, the deep solemn fall,
Tremblingly fervent, of his long ‘Amen!’
'Twill glad my heart to hear that sound again.”

The Supper-board was spread—the hearth piled high—
All at the Farm look'd bright expectancy
Of him who ever seemed too long away,
If absent from his dear ones but a day:
Old Mark, too, coming home! what joy to all!—
Ye know not, worldlings, what glad festival
Pure hearts of simplest elements can make—
Ye, whose palled sense, poor pleasure scarce can take
At feasts, where lips may smile, but hearts so often ache.

113

There was a sudden rush from the old hall,
Children, and men, and maids, and dogs, and all
Save her, who, with a deeper gladness, stayed
Quietly busied; and far back in shade
(Forgotten there awhile) the stranger guest.
But quiet though she seemeth, with the rest
Be sure her heart went forth those wheels to meet;
And now they stop: and loving voices greet,
Mingling confusedly; yet every one
She hears distinct: as harmonist each tone
Of his full chord,—distinct as if alone.

And there he comes, (sight gladdening every eye,)
The darling young one in his arms throned high,
Her warm cheek to his cold one closely pressed.
And there those two blithe boys, and all the rest,
So crowd about old Mark with loving zeal.
The blind man weeps, and fondly tries to feel
Those fair young faces he no more must see.
“Give us warm welcome, Dame!” cried cheerily
Her husband, as their greeting glances met;
“We're cold enough, I warrant, and sharp set—

114

But here's a sight would warm the dead to life,
Clean hearth, bright blaze, heaped board, and smiling wife!”

Lightly he spake,—but with a loving look
Went to her heart, who all its meaning took:
And briskly she bestirr'd herself about,
And with her merry maids, heaped smoking out
The savoury messes. With unneeded care
Set nearer still, the goodman's ready chair:
Then helped uncase him from his rough great-coat,
Then gave a glance that all was right to note:
Welcomed old Mark to his accustomed seat
With that heart-welcoming, so silver sweet;
And, all at last completed to her mind,
Call'd to the board with cheerful bidding kind;
Where all stood round in serious quietness,
Till God's good gifts the master's voice should bless.
But, with a sudden thought, as glancing round,
“I thought,” he said, “another to have found
Among us here to-night.” “And he is here,”
Exclaim'd the wife—“forgotten though so near!”

115

Then turning where the stranger sat far back,
She said—“Forgive us friend! our seeming lack
Of Christian courtesy: Draw near, and share
With hearty welcome, of our wholesome fare.”
Silent and slow, the bashful guest obeyed,
Still shrinkingly, as to presume afraid;
And when his host with kindly greeting pressed,
Bowed down his head—deep down upon his breast,
Answering in words so low you scarce could hear—
But the quick sense of blindness caught them clear;
And in a tone which thrill'd through every heart,
The sightless man, with a convulsive start,
Called out—“As God's in heaven, (His will be done,)
That was the voice of my dead master's son!”

“Mark! Mark! what say'st, old man?” cried sharply out
His Master, as he rose and turned about
(Trembling exceedingly) his guest to face;
Who at that outcry, staggering back a pace,
(He also trembled, and look'd like to fall,)
Leant back—a heavy weight—against the wall.

116

One might have heard a pin fall on the ground,
There was such deep and sudden silence round:
Except that two or three breathed audibly,
(Those wondering boys, whose eager hearts beat high,)
And little Helen sobbed, she knew not why.

There fixèd, foot to foot, and breast to breast,
And face to face, stood Walter and his Guest—
And neither stirr'd a limb, nor wink'd an eye,
(The stranger's sought the ground still droopingly,)
Nor spoke, till many minutes had gone by;
Then, as if life upon his utterance hung,
In low, deep accents, loosened first his tongue,
Upon the other's shoulder as he laid
His right hand slowly, Walter softly said—
“Dear brother William!” An electric start
Answer'd that touch, deep-thrilling to the heart,
And that soft whisper'd word. Their meeting eyes,
Full of fond yearnings, tender memories,
All in a moment told—explain'd—confessed—
Absolved.—And Walter fell on William's breast.