THEODORA 
 
 A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL. 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCIS HOWARD WILLIAMS. 
 
 f Iwv/ 111882 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 

 %lo 
 
 Copyright, 1882, by J. B. Lippincott & Co. 
 
 \ 
 
DEDICATORY. 
 
 I THINK some lives there be that weave a thread 
 
 Of God's own sunlight through the woof ol Time ; 
 
 Whose presence permeates a wintry clime 
 
 With summer's sense of joy; whose geneious bread 
 
 Is cast upon the waters. Such have fed 
 
 The deepest human hunger, and my rhyme. 
 
 Freighted like some quaint mediaeval chime 
 
 With Heaven's blessing, would to such be wed. 
 
 Take, then, this slender tribute from my hand ; 
 
 Mayhap the bud may one day break to flower; 
 
 Yet, if not so, thy love will leap the bars 
 
 That hedge fruition in a barren land. 
 
 And still thy soft eyes on my life shall shower 
 
 A light as holy as the patient stars. 
 
 J 
 
THEODORA: 
 
 A CHEISTMAS PASTOEAL. 
 
 HIME, chime, 
 Chime, chime, 
 Louder and lower, 
 :Now fiirther, now nearer. 
 
 Chime, chime, 
 Faster and slower, 
 ;N'ow fainter now clearer, 
 On to eternity 
 Swinging forever, 
 Time, time, 
 Time, time, 
 
 "Wondrous maternity, 
 
Always and never 
 Dying and born again, 
 
 Chime, chime. 
 Morning and eventide, 
 Evening and morn again, 
 
 Chime, chime, 
 Yonthfnl at dawning, 
 At snnset so old, 
 Youthfnl at eventide, 
 Aged at dawn. 
 
 Ceaselessly yawning 
 
 To swallow the beautifnl, 
 Stolid as fate 
 Yet as fleet as the fawn ; 
 
 Early and late. 
 
 For the false and the dutifid, 
 Bearino; the chalice 
 To lips that are cold ; 
 
 Conquering malice 
 
 And human malevolence, 
 Spreading a pall 
 
 Over love and benevolence. 
 
Hiding endeavor 
 Forever, forever, 
 
 All, all. 
 With a mantle of nu)nl(l. 
 
 IME, time, 
 Time, time. 
 
 On thy tide hearing 
 The young and the daring. 
 
 The timid and old ; 
 Revealing despairing 
 And pitiful faces. 
 By torches that, flaring 
 And flung from their places. 
 Go out as a tale that is told. 
 Rhyme, rhyme. 
 Weave me a story 
 Of sorrow and glory, — 
 Of glory as golden. 
 And sorrow as olden 
 As time, time ; 
 
Make^nie a history, 
 Show me a mystery, 
 
 Rare, rare 
 As a song from above 
 Or a picture of Love, 
 
 Fair, fair, 
 In a setting of gold. 
 
 HIS was the song the old clock sang, as slow 
 The ancient hands seemed lovinHy to trace- 
 Weird shapes and shadows from the firelight 
 glow 
 Athwart the numbers on the ancient face. 
 Aunt Hester's chair creaked out a sleepy rhyme 
 As back and forth she rocked in reaches long, 
 The while her needles marked a counter-time 
 To the quaint phrasing of the old clock's song. 
 
 Snug in its disc of comfortable light. 
 
 The lamp spoke Christmas welcome to us all, 
 
While oak and resinous pine gave each its mite 
 
 To fling a ruddier halo on the wall. 
 And we were five, — Aunt Hester, Dora, John, 
 
 Faith and myself. Since childhood's hour when we 
 Were full of childish games which time anon 
 
 Chills to decorum, we had thought no tree 
 Could bear its fruitage of unguessed delights 
 
 To glad the season otherwhere than here ; 
 And as our faith in genial Christmas sprites. 
 
 And saints more genial, lessened, the good cheer 
 And merry-making of the olden time 
 
 Waned nothing. And each season had we come. 
 Finding life silenter hut more sublime 
 
 Within the atmosphere of hearth and home. 
 
 Faith was my sister; John our cousin, far 
 Removed in blood, but nearer in our love 
 
 Than brothers oft; and Dora? Dora's star 
 Had risen hid in mist; below, above. 
 
 Where we knew not, only that it was bright, 
 And she as good as fair. A mystery clave 
 
Unto her, and when we had sought new light 
 
 Touching her origin, Aunt Hester gave 
 But meagre answer, and with bended brow 
 
 And lip compressed, showed how our words dis- 
 turbed 
 The quiet of her mind. We questioned now 
 
 ]^o more, and curiosity, once curbed. 
 Grew patient of the rein. We could but find 
 
 In Dora (Theodora was her name 
 But Dora sounded tenderer,) the kind 
 
 And loving sister, evermore the same. 
 
 So, as we sat and kept the custom born 
 
 Long, long ago, to watch the deep'ning night, 
 And see the eve of Christmas melt to morn, 
 
 A sense of awe commingled with delight 
 Possessed our souls. And, wondrous in its tone, 
 
 The ancient clock sang louder, then so low 
 Its cadence sank that on our ears a moan 
 
 Vibrated in a rhythmic ebb and flow : 
 
 10 
 
ICK, tock, 
 
 Tick, tock, 
 
 There's never a soul 
 
 That iincleth the goal 
 
 Till over the sleeper 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Hath swept. 
 
 Tick, tock, 
 
 Tho' only a clock, 
 
 My heart in its altar 
 
 Hath kept 
 
 The truth, the devotion. 
 
 The rhythm and motion. 
 
 The knowledge worth knowing 
 
 Of life. 
 
 That, ehbing and flowing 
 
 Like tides of the ocean, 
 
 Change never, nor falter 
 
 In coming or going, — 
 
 In peace or in strife. 
 11 
 
I^D as the song liuiig trembling in the air, 
 We gazed upon the quaintly carven wood 
 Surmounting the clock's case, and noted there, 
 
 Once more, the wreath of myrtle, like a hood 
 Drooping across the face; for since the years 
 
 Were dim in distance to our memory's eyes, 
 1^0 Christmas came, whether or joy or tears 
 
 Were more akin to us, than our surprise 
 Found fresh food ever to find ever thus 
 
 A new wreath of sweet myrtle, like a crown. 
 Placed on the old clock's brow. But still to us 
 
 Aunt Hester gave no answer, or to drown 
 All unwished questions, put us oif with show 
 
 Of explanation, vacant to the mind, — 
 So vaguely general that our thirst to know 
 
 The wherefore piqued us evermore to find 
 l^ew form of questioning. 
 
 Why should we ask ? 
 
 The time was one of feast and merriment; 
 She decked the clock because she found the task 
 
Of decking it so easy, and it lent 
 ^ew beauty to its polished panels, brown 
 
 With scores of Christmases to newlv wear. 
 Each year, in royal state, its royal crown. 
 Why should we ask ? 
 
 And, so met, in despair 
 At length our questions ceased. Yet still full well 
 
 We knew there was a reason in her heart. 
 Which haply she should find it meet to tell 
 Anon, and thus the wreath became a part 
 Of our observance of the day. So now^ 
 
 We looked upon it lovingly, while slow 
 
 Around that crowned and venerable brow 
 
 The melody still kept its ebb and flow : 
 
 LOW, flow. 
 Flow, flow, 
 Winter and Summer, 
 Autumn and Spring, 
 Over the s^rasses 
 They come and they go. 
 Go, go. 
 
And every new-comer 
 Is eager to bring 
 A joy as he passes, 
 A pledge of liis might ; 
 The purple and glow 
 Of the clustering masses, 
 The mantle of white 
 And immaculate snow, 
 
 Snow, snow, 
 The flame that discloses 
 The heart of the night. 
 The blossom and flower 
 Of Summer, whose power 
 All other surpasses. 
 In love ever firmer 
 Tho' fleet in his flio-ht: — 
 The Summer that whispers 
 " Delight !" to the roses,— 
 The roses that murmur 
 To Summer : '' Delio:ht !" 
 
 14 
 
HEN, as we hearkened to the song, Faith's care 
 For household duties, doubly deep to-night 
 Bj reason of the Christmas-time, and rare 
 With promise of some triumph of her might 
 And skill in cookery, drew her away 
 
 To those mysterious realms below-stairs, where 
 Undreamed of odors and steams unctuous play 
 In appetizing w^avelets in the air. 
 
 John, too, found need (he always found a need 
 
 To follow whither Faith went) once again 
 To rack the cider ; (he who ran might read 
 
 The myster}' in that) ; so, therefore, when 
 The clock next sang, there were hut left we three. 
 
 Aunt Hester, Dora and myself, to hear 
 The rise and fall of its weird melody. 
 
 So far away, yet evermore so near. 
 
 15 
 
IXG, sing, 
 Sing, sing, 
 A beautiful boy 
 Came over the flowers, 
 
 Came over and passed 
 Like a vision of joj^ 
 To invisible bowers ; 
 
 Came softh', and fast 
 
 On the vanishing hours 
 
 Took wins;. 
 
 '&" 
 
 HETHER some cadence pregnant in the ear 
 Awoke a memory of vanished days, 
 Or whether there was that within the clear. 
 Sweet murmur of the song that touched the haze 
 Of reverie about us and let down 
 
 The bars of reticence, I know not; yet 
 Upon Aunt Hester's brow the lialf-formed frown 
 
 Had passed away, and in its stead was set. 
 Bright as a star, a diadem of peace ; 
 
And, looking steadfastly at Dora, she 
 Said softl}^ : " Patient waiting brings release 
 
 From every fetter of necessity. 
 Yon, child, have questioned oftentime to learn 
 
 Whence you are come, and all the rest to know 
 The wherefore of my actions, sometimes stern, 
 
 Yet ever love-dictated. This brave show 
 Of green at Christmas, — my care thus to grace 
 
 The ancient clock with myrtle, and at eve 
 To watch the shadow fall across its face ; — 
 
 All this you've wondered over. By your leave 
 You shall ne'er wonder more." 
 
 And as she spoke 
 
 I saw how Dora trembled, and the fire 
 Which lived beneath her eyelids leaped and woke 
 
 Another flame that lit her cheek, and higher. 
 Was quenched where it began. Then she grew pale. 
 
 And well I noted what a sad, sweet smile 
 Aunt Hester's face wore as she told her tale. 
 
 The ancient clock low murmuring the while. 
 
 17 
 
9lttnt Hcjjtcr'^ ^tort). 
 
 OU both remember hearing how the clam 
 
 Which lies behind the village, storing force 
 To nerve the mills in thirsty summer, calm 
 
 But dangerous in strength, once from its course 
 Swerved the quick river, and in mad career. 
 
 As freshets from the mountains in the Spring 
 Pressed from behind, swept on, till far and near 
 
 Houses and barns lay wrecked, and everything 
 In the flood's path w^as desolate. That day 
 
 Is fixed in many memories ; in my own 
 It burns an endless sorrow, though I pray 
 
 lN"ot now an unavailing one. You've grown 
 To womanhood and manhood since that time. 
 
 But both have heard how, of the noble men 
 Who offered a self-sacrifice sublime 
 
 On the destroyer's altar, dying when 
 
Strong living arms were powerless to save, 
 
 E'one nobler than my husband worked and died, 
 'Nor, dying, to his race a pattern gave 
 
 Of more divine devotion. 
 
 When, a bride, 
 I laid within his brawny hand my hand. 
 
 And felt how firm its touch, and heard the word, 
 " I, Henry, take thee, Hester," that same grand 
 
 Power of love inefiEable that spurred 
 His soul to noblest effort, shed its light 
 
 Around me and about me, and I knew 
 My husband for a hero. 
 
 Ah, how bright 
 
 The years were then, — ^ye golden years that drew 
 Our hearts into a union closer yet. 
 
 And gave an added holiness to life, — 
 The jewel of motherhood that God had set 
 
 Within my royal diadem of Wife ! 
 
 Here was our home, this room our sitting-room ; 
 The shy clematis hid itself as now 
 
And clambered at the lintel ; there, where bloom 
 
 The potted roses on the sill and bow 
 To ever}' waft of air, the roses grew 
 
 And bowed as gently. 
 
 Thus we lived, till came 
 That awful night, when on the gale there ilew 
 
 A cry of death, and leaping like a flame, 
 The torrent sped across the fields. 
 
 Away 
 
 To aid in saving sprang my husband, strong 
 To battle with the waters ; but the day 
 
 Which dawned on wreck and ruin brought along 
 The warrant of my doom. He had been seen, — 
 
 My Henr}^, — doing work of half a score 
 One moment in the abyss that lay between 
 
 Mad flood and flood. I saw him nevermore ! 
 
 Thus was I widowed ere one summer's rain 
 
 Had taught my heart the meaning of life's storms. 
 
 Or grief had given the power to wear a pain 
 In lono; enduring silence. So the forms 
 
Which my great sorrow took were stern denial 
 Of God's own goodness, and a stubborn mind 
 
 To bow not to his mandate. A new trial 
 Was needed, and as they who seek oft find 
 
 In most repellent structures the sought pearl, 
 So I must needs be broken yet again 
 
 By grief to find my peace. 
 
 Our little girl — 
 
 Ours, for I had not dropped the title then — 
 Grew paler than her wont, and ceased to play ; 
 
 Forsook delight of sunlight and of air, 
 And as some fragrant flower fades away 
 
 At coming of the frost, so, in despair, 
 I saw her slipping from me. Days to weeks 
 
 Fled onward, weeks to months, till Winter's hold 
 Was loosed on tree and shrub, and all the creeks 
 
 Sped on again to where the fields enfold 
 The shining river like a silver band 
 
 Woven through russet tapestry. The earth 
 Grew blithe in Spring, and yearning to expand 
 
 Her inner love to love's new outer birth, 
 
 21 
 
Bloom'd 'neath the kiss of sunshine into quick 
 
 And warm maturity ; the Summer fled 
 Herself as fleetly, and in bowers thick 
 
 With her own gorgeous panoply, lay dead 
 Ere we had half embraced her. Autumn came. 
 
 Lived a brief life replete with gold and glow, 
 And, ere our lips could speak her lovely name, 
 
 Died on a bed of fallen leaves and snow. 
 Then, as the days came close to Christmas-tide, 
 
 The child whose eyes had shed the only ray 
 To keep my wounded spirit from the wide. 
 
 Tossed sea of desolation, sank away 
 Ever and ever weaker ; and my moan 
 
 I made in whispers, praying she might live 
 With such hushed vehemence as they alone 
 
 Who once have loved, and loving lost, may give 
 Or understand the giving of. 
 
 And oft 
 
 I heard the old clock on the thread of time 
 Slow telling off the beads ; and from aloft 
 
 Where sky is wed to sky, a voice sublime 
 Bore in upon me whispers sad as tears. 
 
A terror seized upon me, and my will, 
 Stubborn till now, broke 'mid a world of fears, 
 
 And I cried out : " Have mercy. Lord, nor fill 
 This dread cup to the brim !" 
 
 Still, still the flame 
 Burned lower, and I saw a pallor chase 
 The life from cheek and brow, and strange lines 
 came. 
 Unearthly lines in her unearthly face. 
 
 Till one day, as in quest of Paradise, 
 
 The sun rolled down the West, all gold and red. 
 An angel put the light out in her eyes. 
 
 And I was sitting silent with my dead. 
 
 Ah me, ah me, 'twas twenty years agone, 
 
 Yet seems but yesterday. Time grows so fleet 
 
 As we grow older, and each hasting dawn 
 Comes closer to the sunset. It were meet 
 
 I pause a little, for I scarce may trust 
 My heart to bide the telling of my grief, 
 
For hearts will sometimes falter tlio' the}- must 
 Go on at last to breaking or relief. 
 
 [Here pausing for a moment in the tale, 
 
 Aunt Hester pressed her temples wearily, 
 As though some memor}^ struggling to prevail. 
 
 Must he thrust hack and conquered. 
 
 Cheerily 
 At the same moment Faith and John appeared 
 
 Within the doorway, full of conscious pride 
 Of duty well performed. And, as they neared 
 
 My chair, I plucked John's sleeve and spake aside 
 Of what it was that hushed our lips and led 
 
 To this unwonted silence and repose. 
 Then good Aunt Hester, taking up the thread 
 
 Of her sad story, wove it to its close.] 
 
 Some souls there be (blessed that such should l)e) 
 That meet affliction half-way, well content 
 
 To garner where they've sown tho' misery 
 Deck out the harvest. 
 
Mine, tho' well I meant 
 Evei^ to bow to Heaven, was never thus 
 
 Submissive, and I railed against my fate, 
 And beat my pale hands in tumultuous 
 
 Frenzy upon the bars. Love bade me wait, 
 And still I railed at Love ; and as the days 
 
 Came to their shortest I grew wellnigh mad 
 And on the eve of Christmas, as my praise 
 
 I strove to offer, I thought on the glad. 
 Gay hearts that then praised also, and I wept, 
 
 Alas ! such bitter tears. Then I rose up. 
 And would have flung the holy book I kept 
 
 Beside me far away, for this dread cup 
 Was more than I could drink. 
 
 Yet, as I stood 
 
 LTCsolute, the cadence of a song. 
 Sung by the clock, enchained me ere I would, 
 
 And bore my being on its tide along : 
 
AIT, wait, 
 
 Pitiful fate 
 Bringeth thee joy 
 And the golden gate 
 Stands open to Love, 
 Tho' he Cometh late. 
 
 AIT, wait, 
 
 Sorrow nor hate 
 jN'e'er shall destroy 
 ]N^or leave desolate. 
 For God is above, 
 And God is o-reat. 
 Wait ! 
 
 XD while I paused, half lost in wonder, came 
 A gentle tapping at the outer door, 
 And, as I opened it, the dying flame 
 Of the heartli's embers leapt and seemed to soar 
 In sudden exultation. 
 
On the sill 
 
 Stood motionless two eliildren, one a boy 
 Divinely beautiful as dreams which thrill 
 
 Celestial sleepers with celestial joy ; 
 And at his side a little girl, whose eyes 
 
 Looked trustfully in mine. Then, as I spread 
 My arms to welcome them in glad surprise. 
 
 The girl was there, but, like a vision fled 
 To lovelier realms, the boy was gone. 
 
 The snow 
 
 Bore tiny footprints, and as close I bent 
 To mark their course, they seemed to gleam and glow. 
 
 For each was filled with flowers, whose perfume 
 lent 
 To Winter all the redolence of Spring. 
 
 I led the girl within. The voice of Fate 
 Eesounded in mine ears, and lingering 
 
 In dying echoes whispered : " God is great !" 
 
 Then wreathing 'round the clock the flowers which 
 dressed 
 The earth where'er that foot divine had trod. 
 
I took the little wanderer to my breast, 
 And called her — Theodora, Gift of God. 
 
 Aunt Hester ceased, nor spake one other word, 
 
 Only held forth her hand to Dora, who 
 Stood motionless and rapt, as one who heard 
 
 Some far, unfathomable song borne through 
 The phalanx of the ages. O'er her brow 
 
 The hair hung heavily, and fashioned there 
 A shadow soft as sleep, that trembled now 
 
 As trembled on her lips a silent prayer. 
 
 I dared not speak ; there was too much of awe 
 
 In Dora's mien. Against the ancient clock 
 She leaned, and as I gazed on her, I saw 
 
 How her slight fingers tightened at the shock 
 Of each pulsation of her fluttering heart. 
 
 Across the antique panel her white arm 
 Gleamed, for her sleeve, Avorn loose, had fallen apart 
 
 And left it bare from wrist to shoulder, warm 
 With throbbing life but chaste as marble. 
 
Now 
 
 The great log on the hearth, burned to the core, 
 Brake suddenly, as though it would endow 
 
 The scene with its own glow ; a mighty roar 
 Came from the chimney's throat, and left and right 
 
 The sputtering sparks leapt on the ample stone. 
 And flung the crimson halo of their light 
 
 'Round Dora's figure, standing there alone. 
 
 Then the clock sang, in tones which seemed to roll 
 From lip to lip of some angelic choir, 
 
 The anthem of a liberated soul 
 
 Touched with the glory of celestial fire : 
 
 HIME, chime. 
 Chime, chime, 
 Linkins: to-morrow 
 
 To seons of ages ; 
 Chime, chime, 
 Sponging out sorrow 
 
From all the marred paj2;es 
 
 Of time, time ; 
 Onward the river 
 Is flowing, still flowini)^, 
 
 Liquid as rhyme, 
 
 Ehyme, rhyme, 
 Forging a chain 
 That has never an ending, 
 
 Lost, and alone 
 With eternity blending,- - 
 Back to the Giver, 
 
 And on to His throne. 
 Evermore glowing 
 Where myriads sing 
 
 Peace, and the reign 
 Of The Kin^. 
 
 HEN in the silence to our ears was borne 
 
 The stroke of midnight, and, as angels sing. 
 We heard strange voices welcoming the morn. 
 The morning of the birthday of The King.