0^ . o " a 
 
 .^•*°- 
 

 
 
 
 <i,> ^ 
 
 -^^0^ 
 
 .^ 
 
 5^^ 
 
THURID 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 By G. E. Q. 
 
 ^. CA....— ^ ^^'^ 
 
 ? 'v^Mli&r 
 
 ^<-.Hir'''^' 
 
 :^'y 
 
 BOSTON^ 
 LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS 
 NEW YORK 
 LEE, SHEPARD, AND DILLINGHAM 
 1874 
 
.0^ 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1874, by 
 
 Lee asb Sheparb, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 RIVERSIBE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 PRINTED BT H. 0. HOCGHTOX A>"D COMPANY. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THUKID 1 
 
 CHARITY 35 
 
 GOODMAN JOHN 79 
 
THURID. 
 
THURID. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 From Hoffdabrekka's crags, the gray mists 
 drifted 
 Before the breath of new awakening day ; 
 From shore and sea, the night cloud slowly 
 lifted, 
 And early sunlight rippled on the bay. 
 
 ' Neath yon bold cliff, rests Headbrink's fruit- 
 ful valley, 
 Its verdant meadows bordered by the 
 strand ; 
 A lovely spot, where south-winds love to dally 
 With yielding flowers that bloom on every 
 hand. 
 
4 THURID. 
 
 Beside the shore, in sunshine basks the village, 
 
 A home for those who plough the northern 
 
 seas, 
 
 A resting place, where, tired of gale and pillage. 
 
 The storm- tossed Viking courts unwonted 
 
 ease. 
 
 With merry shout and song the echoes wak- 
 ing. 
 From far and near^ beclad in garments gay, 
 Both old and young their way are hither tak- 
 ing, 
 To join in honoring Headbrink's gala day. 
 
 The sports begin and all is noise and motion, 
 The glad sun smiles upon the jocund scene. 
 
 And seems to pause, ere gilding wide the 
 ocean. 
 To cheer the dancers on the village green. 
 
 With games of strength and skill, the day ad- 
 vances. 
 Here wander lovers silent on the strand ; 
 Some, songs intone filled with weird northern 
 fancies. 
 Or tell strange stories of some distant land. 
 
THURID. 5 
 
 Never I ween did joyous crowd assemble 
 Such wealth of fresh and merry fair faced 
 girls, 
 Who view delighted the rough sports, nor 
 tremble 
 At rude encounters of contending churls. 
 
 The fairest far among these fairest faces, 
 A heavenly face, embodied from a dream. 
 
 Her form divine, enshrined in woman's graces. 
 Meet subject for the proudest minstrel's 
 theme, 
 
 Resting apart, within a coppice shady. 
 
 Reclines young Thurid, loveliest of the 
 throng, 
 Joy of her lord, good Thorodd's winsome 
 lady. 
 Bleak Froda's pride, the queen of many a 
 song ! — 
 
 With weary, absent air, sits Thurid dreaming, 
 Her fair hair, loosened, waving in the wind, 
 
 And careless gazes at the sports, as seeming 
 No pleasure in the noisy mirth to find. 
 
b THURID. 
 
 Within her heart, lurks deep some secret sor- 
 row, 
 Some untold grief, that time can ne'er 
 erase I 
 She hates to-day, yet longs not for the mor- 
 row. 
 And helpless sadness shadows o'er her face. 
 
 She longs to roam o'er Froda's broad wastes 
 lonely. 
 And leave the jarring laughter of the 
 crowd, 
 To tmrse her grief, where moaning wild winds 
 only 
 Discourse of woe, in whispers hoarse and 
 loud. 
 
 Still grows the mirth, its merry round un- 
 broken. 
 The Muse herself seems mistress of the 
 dance ; 
 And tender thoughts in loving eyes are 
 spoken, 
 The heart's pent secrets proffered in a 
 glance. 
 
THURID. 7 
 
 Wrapped in the dance's tangled, circling 
 mazes, 
 Or drinking wonders from some Scaldic 
 song, 
 None heed th' approach of one, who anxious 
 gazes 
 On each fair face that meets him in the 
 throng. 
 
 Haughty his air and confident his bearing, 
 His form instinct with strength and manly 
 grace. 
 His gray eyes speak of cool resolve and dar- 
 ing; 
 Foreign his garb, and sun-browned is his 
 face. 
 
 Anon, above the din of revel sounding, • 
 
 A growing murmur rises from the crowd. 
 And leaving sports, the throng press on, sur- 
 rounding 
 The stranger's form, and cheer him long and 
 loud. 
 
 With gracious mien, receives he each rude 
 greeting. 
 
8 THURID. 
 
 For few such glad and loud acclaim had 
 won, 
 And proudly hears each mouth the shout re- 
 peating, 
 
 "Long life to Biorn, Asbrand's gallant 
 son ! " 
 
 And thus afar, in shady copse reclining, 
 
 Doth Thurid, startled, hear the welcoming 
 
 cry, 
 And shrinks, as if the cruel truth divining ; 
 And pales and trembles, though she knows 
 not why. 
 
 With throbbing heart and quickened breath, 
 up starting. 
 She notes the sound of footsteps drawing 
 near. 
 And hears a voice, a deeper dread imparting, 
 A voice that erst came sweetly to her ear. 
 
 In vain she strives to lull her heart's wild 
 beating. 
 To still her anguish with close clenched 
 palms, 
 
THURID. 9 
 
 And calmly tries to wait the dreaded meeting ; 
 Too late ! for Biorn clasps her in his arms. 
 
 Entranced they stand, their souls with passion 
 teeming, 
 The heart's deep longing blazoned on each 
 face. 
 From hungry eyes, a mutual love is gleaming, 
 And each lives ages in that short embrace. 
 
 A moment, and her pride and conscience 
 wielded 
 Their conquering might, and Thurid feels 
 the sway ; 
 Recalls her will, and, blushing to have yielded. 
 With stricken heart, from Biorn breaks 
 away. 
 
 And, then, though every word her heart is 
 rending. 
 And seems a dagger to her tortured breast, 
 In tones where love and blank despair are 
 blending. 
 With downcast eyes, she Biorn thus ad- 
 dressed : — 
 
10 THURIl). 
 
 '•'' The hour has come ; the hour replete with 
 sorrow, 
 
 This kickless hour, foreseen since long ago ! 
 Ah ! would that I an icy soul might borrow. 
 
 To tell, impassive, my dull tale of woe ! 
 
 '*My throbbing heart, love's funeral knell is 
 tolling. 
 Flown from my breast to fair-haired Frey 
 above. 
 Ah ! why did life with tasteless joys cajoling, 
 Forsake not Thurid, ere she learned to love ! 
 
 " 'Twas Midgard's work, some devil's charm 
 was burning, 
 When Biorn trusting left my hapless side ! 
 Some cruel god, 'gainst me his wrath was 
 turning 
 And strangled Truth, to make me Thorodd's 
 bride ! 
 
 "' Aye ! start not Biorn, every word is wound- 
 ing 
 The breast of Thurid, deeper than thine own. 
 
THURID. 11 
 
 Then calm thy soul, and curb thy blood's mad 
 bounding ! 
 My hand is his ; my heart is thine alone ! 
 
 *•' Slow dragged the hours, when Biorn sadly 
 left me, 
 But gladly dwelt I on his quick return, 
 When came the words that of all hope bereft 
 me. 
 And bade me then my broken heart inurn. 
 
 ** They said, 'gainst odds, thou'dst fallen, 
 bravely fighting. 
 And died the foremost in th' unequal fray ! 
 I heard their tale, my very life-blood blighting, 
 And called on Death to shroud my willing 
 clay. 
 
 •* But grim-faced Hela, all my prayers un- 
 heeding, 
 
 No welcome becked me with her icy hand. 
 My murky star, not e'en that boon conceding, 
 
 Refused me respite in that unknown land. 
 
 "' Month dragged on month, my broken heart 
 benumbing, 
 
12 THURID. 
 
 And maddened grief to still despair had 
 
 grown. 
 'Twas then my soul seemed soothed by Tho- 
 
 rodd's coming, 
 Who silent sat, or spoke of thee alone. 
 
 " His time-worn face, th' unwonted color 
 mounting, 
 He'd speak thy praises, tell of combats 
 won ; 
 And long would sit, some gallant deed re- 
 counting, 
 And mourned thy loss, as though thou wert 
 his son. 
 
 " A year passed on, and Autumn days were 
 waning. 
 Bare waved the branches of the tree-tops old. 
 The clouds hung low ; the chill winds moaned 
 complaining, 
 And dead leaves whispered of the coming 
 cold. 
 
 " Then Thorodd seated by the warm fire bask- 
 ing. 
 
THURID. 13 
 
 In the bleak twilight asked me for my hand. 
 ' Thy heart is dead,' he said. ' and past the 
 asking, 
 
 Then grant the first, which is at thy com- 
 mand. 
 
 '"I ask a boon, all powerless of returning, 
 To her who hears me, aught save age and 
 pain, 
 A hearth whereon no cheerful fire is burning. 
 And barren halls where joy can ne'er re- 
 main. 
 
 '"Of my own heart, I speak not in my plead- 
 ings 
 'Twere naught to thee, to know it were 
 thine own ; 
 I only say, my life, my soul is needing 
 But Thurid's self ; I ask for that alone.' 
 
 " 'Gainst what he begged, my inmost soul 
 contended, 
 
 And vainly sought I anger to essay, 
 My heavy brain no fair excuse extended, 
 
 And blinded Duty pointed out the way ! 
 
14 THURID. 
 
 " On Thorodd's care and kindness uncom- 
 plaining, 
 And love for thee, my grateful thoughts 
 were bent, 
 For that alone, a cheerful presence feigning, 
 With heavy heart, I gave a loth consent. 
 
 " 'Twere wanton pain, to rack thy heart in 
 dwelling 
 On that cursed time, which made me Tho- 
 rodd's wife. 
 My very tongue shrinks palsied from the tell- 
 ing ! 
 Oh ! darkest day in Thurid's darksome life ! 
 
 *' One boisterous night, when winds blew shrill 
 and dreary. 
 And owls, storm-blinded, hooted from the 
 walls. 
 Two strangers came, all travel-stained and 
 weary. 
 To ask for shelter in dark Froda's halls. 
 
 " And when about the blazing back-log seated, 
 They said they came from wave-washed 
 Jomsburg fair, 
 
THUKID. 15 
 
 Wild stories told, and once thy name re- 
 peated, 
 And called thee leader of the Vikings there. 
 
 '' ' Then Biorn lives ! ' I cried, in haste up- 
 starting. 
 But straightway swooning on the cold floor 
 fell, 
 
 Yet faintly heard, while sense was yet depart- 
 
 * The Viking Biorn is alive and well.' 
 
 '' For weeks unconscious, on a sick-bed lying, 
 Those dark words tinged each fever painted 
 dream. 
 How happy to have gained repose in dying, 
 And drunk oblivion from Death's sullen 
 stream. 
 
 ** But life's curst fire, within me feebly burn- 
 ings 
 Waxed slowly stronger, growing on despair ; 
 And then the thought of thee, some day re- 
 turning. 
 Oppressed my soul and left its burden 
 there ! 
 
16 THURID. 
 
 " Since then no joy or cheerful thought has 
 blended 
 With th' unstilled anguish of my aching 
 heart, 
 M}^ task is done ; my weary tale is ended, 
 And cruel Fate decrees that we must part ! " 
 
 All dazed at what he hears, is Biorn standing ; 
 Nor heeds, at once, that Thurid's plaint is 
 o'er. 
 And wonders, when his faltering speech com- 
 manding. 
 He hears his voice, in tones unheard before ! 
 
 '' Thurid," he said, " thy damned tale has 
 chilled me ; 
 Thou'st forced the wonted life blood from 
 my heart. 
 Far kinder had it been, if thou hadst killed 
 me. 
 Or hidden from me, what thou sayst thou 
 art! 
 
 '' I will not wound thee now with vain re- 
 proaches, 
 
THURID. 17 
 
 A sinewy soul exists not in the past, 
 But lives on what's to come, and ne'er en- 
 croaches 
 
 On Fate's dread game, to mourn the die 
 that 's cast. 
 
 " Not idle tears, but brave, unflinching action, 
 Make reparation for an evil done ; 
 
 Then rouse thyself, and prove thy proud ex- 
 traction 
 From princely blood, and victory is won. 
 
 '' When, long ago, my heart and troth were 
 deeded 
 In prized exchange for Avord and love of 
 thine. 
 No foolish form or meddling priest Avas 
 needed 
 To bind our souls, or make thy being mine I 
 
 " Our love itself was warrant for our loving ! 
 
 Our first warm kiss was registered above ; 
 For nuptial rite, the smihng gods approving 
 
 Looked from the clouds, and marked the 
 seal of love ! 
 
18 THURID. 
 
 '' Then think thee, Thurid, naught tliat is can 
 sever 
 That binding marriage, hallowed in its 
 power I 
 Mine thou art only, now, and e'en forever, 
 In th' unknown life, that borders death's 
 dark hour ! 
 
 " Thou lov'st not Thorodd ; ' twas but erring 
 duty 
 That stirred thy pity for that dotard gray. 
 He needs it not ! — Then blight not love and 
 beauty 
 With drivelling cares, nor waste youth's 
 fleeting day. 
 
 " But o'er the seas, where other stars are shin- 
 ing 
 O'er other lands, than this by far more fair. 
 We'll sink the past, and leave all vain repin- 
 ing. 
 And wealth of love shall be our only care ! 
 
 " Then fly with me, to where my bark is rid- 
 ing 
 
THURID. 19 
 
 Off green Raunhaven's stormless rock-bound 
 bay, 
 And once embarked, to favoring winds confid- 
 ing, 
 
 Another sun will find us far away ! " 
 
 '' Ask me not, Biorn ! Here in tears entreat- 
 ing, 
 
 Hear me conjure thee : leave me here alone ! 
 For only thee, my tired heart is beating. 
 
 To Thorodd wed, my love is all thine own. 
 
 " Yet whispering conscience speaks its ready 
 warning. 
 And sadly says, our lives must lie apart, — 
 And bids me wait, through weary days of 
 mourning. 
 Till welcome death unites us, heart to 
 heart ! " 
 
 O'er Biorn's brow the angry blood is rushing, 
 As Thurid speaks ; yet silently he stands. 
 
20 THURID. 
 
 While every word each lingermg hope is 
 crushing, 
 And thwarted passion all his soul com- 
 mands. 
 
 " A love that falters in its goal's attaining, 
 Or hesitates when coward conscience calls, 
 
 Is basely weak, and matters not the gaining ! 
 A bloodless love, that e'en its goal appalls ! 
 
 " Thou know'st thy heart, and doubtless thou 
 hast taken 
 The course thy cautious reason deems most 
 fair, — 
 I laud thy sense of duty all unshaken, 
 
 And leave thee, false one, to thy Thorodd's 
 care." 
 
 And e'en ere Thurid calms her heart's mad 
 beating. 
 Or ere her voice one answering word has 
 found. 
 She hears his foot-fall die away, retreating. 
 And moaning low, falls swooning to the 
 ground ! 
 
THURID. 21 
 
 Back draws the crowd, as Biorn onward press- 
 ing, 
 With hurrying step, and dark, forbidding 
 mien, 
 To those around, no farewell word address- 
 ing. 
 Heeds not the throng, and hastens from the 
 scene ! 
 
 A misty line, Raunhaven's shore is sinking. 
 The bark breasts onward with the urging 
 blast. 
 She swiftly flies, and league to league is link- 
 ing. 
 Till e'en the headlands drop from sight at 
 
 last. 
 
 In Froda's halls a moaning woman wanders 
 The whole night long, nor seems to think of 
 rest. 
 But tearless walks, with vacant air, and pon- 
 ders 
 On some dull grief that racks her aching 
 breast. 
 
22 THURID. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The firelight, bright and ruddy, fell 
 On oaken beam and blackened wall, 
 
 And wavering, faint, anon would swell 
 In radiant glow throughout the hall, 
 
 With color warm, that came and went, 
 
 A phantom blush o'er darkness sent ! 
 
 Through scarce closed shutters found its way 
 A pale moon-beam of frozen light ; 
 
 All pure and motionless it lay, 
 
 A soul it seemed from the outer night, 
 
 Far wandering on some mission blest, 
 
 Here resting as the fire-light's guest. 
 
 Refined and calm, though from the same 
 
 Wild fiery cause, serene it lay. 
 And coldly watched the baser flame 
 
 At savage sport on the hearth-stone gray. 
 And gave fresh tone to the silvered hair 
 Of the sad-faced woman crouching there. 
 
 Alone she sat, with absent eyes 
 Fixed on the glowing coals intent. 
 
THURID. 23 
 
 And watched the red flames fall and rise, 
 
 'Mid mounting sparks that came and went, 
 With bended brow and drooping head. 
 Tracing the past in th' embers red. 
 
 Dreamy summers in green array, 
 Dreary winters with biting cold. 
 
 Slowly, sadly, had passed away. 
 
 Leaving her loveless, hopeless, and old. 
 
 Longing for death as the only goal 
 
 Of rest and sleep for her weary soul. 
 
 Looking back through the mist of years. 
 Gloomy vista of pain and care. 
 
 Sees she her young heart drowned in tears. 
 Pining for bliss that she may not share, 
 
 Forbidden to love wliere she loves alone. 
 
 Filled with a passion she dare not own. 
 
 Sees she herself, enchained for life. 
 Hampered in bonds by duty sealed, 
 
 Widowed her heart, while yet a wife. 
 Feigning a love which she cannot yield ; 
 
 And sees the lover she thought had died. 
 
 Returning at last to claim his bride ! 
 
24 THURID. 
 
 Coming, to find lier newly wed, 
 
 Entrapped, betrayed, by false report ; 
 
 Cruel the parting words he said. 
 
 And angered, left her with anguish fraught. 
 
 To w^ail her fate, and to curse the power 
 
 That ruled the chance of her natal hour ! 
 
 He left her thus, and not one word, 
 
 Or hopeful sign, or token fair. 
 Had e'er been sent by him, or heard, 
 
 To tell her e'en he lived and where. 
 She only knew, in by-gone years 
 He left her there, alone, in tears ! 
 
 She saw the ashes spread below 
 
 The hissing logs from whence they came. 
 As pure and white as virgin snow. 
 
 Yet tinged with red by the flick'ring flame ; 
 Beheld a husband, fond though stern, 
 A slighted love, a funeral urn. 
 
 With widowed heart and widowed hand, 
 
 In lonely state at Froda's hall. 
 She wear}^ notes the waning sand 
 
 From out her glass engulfed fall. 
 
THURID. 25 
 
 And sees unmoved, that day by day, 
 Her faint strength sinks in slow decay. 
 
 While lost in reveries sad like these, 
 Unnoticed comes the noise without 
 
 Of bolts withdrawn and rattling keys. 
 And stranger's voice in answering shout, 
 
 And heavy footsteps drawing near, — 
 
 Yet naught aAvakes her sleeping ear. 
 
 And not till foot-falls struck the floor, 
 And strangers stood within the room. 
 
 Did Thurid gain herself once more 
 And peering toward the dusky gloom 
 
 That shades the doorway, strives to rise. 
 
 And asks their aim with anxious eyes. 
 
 Rough men they were, but with an air 
 
 That marked their hearts of gentler mould ; 
 
 A front that bade the foe beware ! 
 An open mien that plainly told 
 
 Of soul unstained and guileless mind. 
 
 Revengeful foes, yet friends o'er kind ! 
 
 In seamen's garb they both were clad, 
 On faces brown they bore the trace 
 
26 THURID. 
 
 Of wind and sun, and each one had 
 A bearing proud, and easy grace, 
 That spoke the habit of command, 
 And marked the chief on sea or land. 
 
 " My brother and myself are here," — 
 Thus spoke the foremost of the pair. 
 
 Who seemed the ekler, drawing near, — 
 " To doff the load that now we bear 
 
 Of duty to a distant friend. 
 
 This brings us hither, this our end. 
 
 " Our story strange is shortly told : 
 
 Some two years since, by adverse gales, 
 
 We lost the course we sought to hold. 
 The savage North- wind caught our sails, 
 
 And tore them on the bending mast, 
 
 And bore us powerless on the blast. 
 
 " O'er countless leagues of angry sea. 
 We bore to southward, and for days 
 
 The murky heavens lent no key 
 Of guiding stars or slanting rays 
 
 Of fiery sun, to show us where 
 
 Upon the trackless waste we were. 
 
THURID. 27 
 
 " We drifted onward, ever on; 
 
 And when at last we hoped no more, 
 And in despair sat tired and wan. 
 
 We dimly traced a line of shore, 
 One moment hid by mist and rain. 
 Then faintly peering out again. 
 
 " And now when every heart was cheered. 
 The gale grew faint with wasted strength. 
 
 The warming sun at last appeared. 
 
 And showed the coast-line stretch its length 
 
 In rocky headlands, bluff and high. 
 
 Till distance screened them from the eye. 
 
 " We looked upon a shore unknown, 
 
 And gazed entranced at the line 
 Of verdant hills with trees o'ergrown, 
 
 And rocky ledges fringed with pine ; 
 Each moment some green wonder drew 
 Our eager eyes, and cheered our view. 
 
 " We found a haven smooth and fair ; 
 
 But scarce had reached the welcome strand. 
 Ere crowding on, with flowing hair 
 
 And brazen skins, a savage band 
 
28 THURID. 
 
 Of shouting men, with hostile mien, 
 Sprang on us from each covert green ! 
 
 '' O'erborne by numbers, we were bound 
 With leathern cords, and made to wait. 
 
 Close tied and cramped upon the ground. 
 Until the chief decreed oar fate ; 
 
 And bade us either live as slaves, 
 
 Or tortured sink to welcome graves ! 
 
 " Ere long an aged man drew nigh ; 
 
 Of paler hue, unlike the rest. 
 With eyes deep set and forehead high. 
 
 And snowy beard upon his breast ; 
 A mien majestic, carriage free, — 
 He seemed a man of high degree. 
 
 '' He scanned us o'er with kindly eyes. 
 And spoke to us in barb'rous tongue ; 
 
 And answering not, to our surprise. 
 
 He asked what strange mischance had flung 
 
 Our bark on this remotest strand, 
 
 In th' accents of our native land ! 
 
 " And when our wondrous tale was told. 
 And who we were, and whence we came, 
 
THURID. 29 
 
 Adown his cheek the tear-drop rolled, 
 
 And pity shook his aged frame ; 
 And turning to the savage horde, 
 He bade them cut each binding cord. 
 
 ^' Long weeks we tarried with our friend, 
 Who asked us o'er and o'er again 
 
 About ourselves, and e'er would lend 
 An anxious ear and eager brain 
 
 Whene'er we spoke of Iceland's shore. 
 
 And homes we thought to see no more ! 
 
 " We vainly asked him in our turn, 
 About himself, and whence he came. 
 
 His early life ; but ne'er could learn ; 
 His answer always came the same : 
 
 ' Seek not to rouse the buried years, 
 
 Let memory rest and dry her tears I ' 
 
 " Meantime we strove to fit again 
 Our bark to breast the angry wave. 
 
 And bear us homeward o'er the main. 
 Or else to grant one common grave. 
 
 So that together we might die ! 
 
 Together join the gods on high ! 
 
80 THURID. 
 
 "' While thus we toiled, a fever dire 
 
 Brought low the life-blood of our friend ; 
 
 With troubled brain, and veins on fire, 
 He felt approach the clouded end 
 
 Of life's entanglement of woe 
 
 And joys we dream of, never know ! 
 
 '' And when the rank disease had run 
 Its burning course, his weary breath 
 
 Betokened that his work was done. 
 And told him to prepare for death ; 
 
 And straightway then, ere yet he died, 
 
 He bade me hasten to his side : — 
 
 " ' While yet my laboring breath remains 
 To frame my thought,' he faintly said, 
 
 ' And ere my fading reason wanes. 
 
 And strangers lay me with their dead, 
 
 A kindness I would ask of thee. 
 
 To bear a token o'er the sea ; 
 
 " ' If faithless Fortune should be kind. 
 And guide thee to thy native shore, 
 
 I, dying, bid thee strive to find 
 A lady fair, who dwelt of yore 
 
THURID. 31 
 
 At Froda, on the rugged way 
 That leads to fair Raunhaven's Bay. 
 
 " ' Her name is Thurid ; if she live, 
 I charge thee bear to her this ring, 
 
 And with it but this message give, — 
 " To Thurid would this bauble bring 
 
 Remembrance of her plighted word, — 
 
 To wed the one her heart preferred." 
 
 " ' Or, if beneath the heather fair 
 
 You find she rests, search out the place 
 
 Wherein she lies, and set it there 
 
 Amid the flowers that chance to grace 
 
 That holy spot, wherein doth rest 
 
 That loving heart, that guileless breast ! ' 
 
 '' And as he spoke, he feebly took 
 From off his hand a ring of gold. 
 
 And gave it to me with a look 
 Of glad relief, that sadly told 
 
 He feared not now th' approach of death. 
 
 Nor wished to stay his fainting breath ! 
 
 "• I never heard him speak again ; 
 
 For now, at last, the favoring breeze. 
 
32 THURID. 
 
 We long had waited for in vain, 
 Arose to urge us o'er the seas ; 
 And bearing eastward from the shore, 
 We sought our distant land once more. 
 
 " 'Twere needless to recount the toil 
 
 And dangers dire through which we passed, 
 
 Ere once again our native soil 
 
 We touched, and reached our homes at last ; 
 
 And nought remains for us to do. 
 
 But proffer now this ring to you." 
 
 And moving now to where she stands. 
 Transfixed and stunned by what he says. 
 
 He lays the jewel in her hands ; 
 
 She speaks not, but her face betrays, 
 
 Though vainly she essays control, 
 
 The turmoil of her startled soul ; 
 
 She silent stands, yet, tearless, tries. 
 
 With lips unanswering, — all in vain, — 
 
 To frame the whirling thoughts that rise 
 Within her hot and fevered brain. 
 
 A chilling languor round her grows. 
 
 And o'er her sense a shadow throws ! 
 
THURID. 33 
 
 One moment thus, and then a light 
 Unearthly o'er her eyes has passed ; 
 
 And, rising to her utmost height. 
 
 With quickened breath she sj^eaks at last, 
 
 And, pointing to the vacant chair. 
 
 She bids them note the figure there. 
 
 " He rises now and becks me on ! 
 
 I follow, Biorn ; frown not so ! 
 Nor look at me so sad and wan ; 
 
 I'll follow wheresoe'er you go ! 
 For welcome death comes on apace ; 
 The grave must be our trysting-place ! 
 
 A rigid fixedness, the sign 
 
 Her spirit struggles to be gone. 
 Constrains each lineament, and line 
 
 Upon her face ; — the deathly dawn. 
 That guides her to a fairer sphere. 
 Breaks on her vision, pure and clear ! 
 
 The fire-light waned and faintly fell 
 On oaken beam and blackened wall ; 
 
 3 
 
34 THURID. 
 
 No longer does the mistress dwell 
 In Froda's bare and dreary hall. 
 The frozen moonbeam sinks to rest 
 On Thurid's now o'er quiet breast. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 The hot midsummer sun, that, through the 
 
 day 
 Of ardent toil, had slaked his burning thirst 
 From each cool stream that in his pathway 
 
 lay, 
 And drained its current low, now sank im- 
 mersed 
 In cool, refreshing clouds, that proudly nursed 
 The bright remembrance of his kissed good- 
 night. 
 In flaming glory, various hued, that burst 
 Upon the eye enraptured at the sight, 
 And decked the distant hills in mystic radi- 
 ance bright ! 
 
38 CHARITY. 
 
 Upon the greensward, sloping to the road, 
 From where a modest, rude-built cottage stood, 
 Half hid in flowering vines, a fair abode. 
 Sits Charity alone, in thoughtful mood, 
 With absent eyes fixed on the purple hood 
 Of sunset clouds, which tops the distant 
 
 hills. 
 The evening song of birds from out the wood 
 Hard by, a maze of pretty chirps and trills, 
 With thoughts of wakening love her dream- 
 ing spirit fills : 
 
 Untouched, beside her, stands the idle wheel ; 
 With face upturned and resting on her hand, 
 Her eyes, unwavering, hazel depths reveal, 
 That speak of courage and the soul's com- 
 mand. 
 Her rich, brown hair, by twilight breezes 
 
 fanned, 
 A matchless framing makes for that fair face, 
 Whereon the rosy hue of health doth stand ; 
 While every line and feature bears the trace 
 Of inborn gentleness and untaught modest 
 grace. 
 
CHARITY. 39 
 
 Her simple gown of finest homespun made, 
 Betrays the contour of a figure rare ; 
 The silken 'kerchief, o'er her shoulders laid, 
 A pleasing charm and stolen grace doth wear. 
 From happy contact with a form so fair ! 
 And, as she sits thus, often doth a sigh 
 Escape her breast, a sigh not born of care. 
 An echo merely, which doth soft reply 
 To longings whispered by a heart where love 
 doth lie ! 
 
 Save nature's harmony, the myriad tones 
 
 Of insect wings, and birds, and whisp'ring 
 
 leaves. 
 And brooklet rippling over moss-grown stones, 
 No other sound the soothed ear receives ; 
 The hour it is, when fancy deftly weaves 
 Her web impalpable ; with care oppressed. 
 The weary soul its trammeled life relieves. 
 Awakes new sense within the burdened breast, 
 Communes with nature's self, and solace finds 
 
 and rest. 
 
 And thus to-night doth Charity confide 
 Her secret life unto the listening wind 
 
40 CHARITY. 
 
 And sun-tinged clouds, nor e'en would seek to 
 hide 
 
 Her inmost soul, to new-born love inclined ; 
 
 But proffers all, nor leaves one thought be- 
 hind. 
 
 Her dreamy fancy leads her, unrestrained, 
 
 And paints bright pictures, vague and unde- 
 fined, 
 
 Yet all with glowing colors bright ingrained, 
 
 Where only trusting love and gladness are con- 
 tained. 
 
 While thus intent on meditations sweet 
 
 And deep, her soul in blissful thought lies 
 
 drowned. 
 She does not heed the sound of horse's feet, 
 That, faintly heard at first, now nearer sound. 
 And wake the sleeping echoes all around. 
 But when, at last, she notes the thudding 
 
 tread 
 Of hoofs, now close, upon the dusty ground, 
 She strives to rise, and, startled, turns her 
 
 head. 
 While, coursing o'er her cheeks, the rosy 
 
 blushes spread. 
 
CHARITY. 41 
 
 And, drawing near, the horseman checks his 
 
 pace. 
 And brings his steed upon the roadside green, 
 And guides him, all impatient, toward the 
 
 place 
 Where Charity doth sit ; and then with mien 
 Wherein far more than bare regard is seen. 
 He gayly greets her, and she doth return 
 His salutation with a smile serene. 
 Yet blushes deeper, lest he should discern 
 Her crimsoned cheeks, which now with height- 
 ened color burn. 
 
 The rider, Wilmot Lee, upon his brow 
 Bears stamped the token, clear and well-de- 
 fined. 
 That marks the one whom nature doth endow 
 With kindly heart and unsuspecting mind ; — 
 A man whose every instinct is refined, — 
 By fortune favored, from his birth, with place 
 And health and wealth and all that is inclined 
 To dull the soul, and sympathy efface. 
 He, modest, wears them all with decency andl 
 grace. 
 
42 CHARITY. 
 
 That something indefinable in line 
 
 Of feature and of form, — that nameless air 
 
 Which speaks the gentleman inborn, the sign 
 
 Of race, and breeding high, and culture rare. 
 
 His presence all unconsciously doth wear. 
 
 His riding-coat, close fitting, doth betray 
 
 A large, yet well-knit frame ; his shoulders 
 
 square. 
 And broad, deep chest, a latent strength dis- 
 play, 
 A figure nobly built and formed of noble clay ! 
 
 So closely every movement of his steed 
 He lightly follows, that it seems his own. 
 The horse, with full, wide breast, and limbs 
 
 for speed 
 Well made, and wiry neck, well upward 
 
 thrown. 
 And chestnut-coat, that sleek and lustrous 
 
 shone. 
 Seemed worthy of the load he lightly bore. 
 He needed but the rider's voice alone 
 To speed him on, or check ; to him 'twas law. 
 And stinging spurs or lash could urge him on 
 
 no more. 
 
CHARITY. 43 
 
 The rider's eyes and Charity's express, 
 In one short, earnest, heart-disclosing glance, 
 A shrinking love that neither dares confess ; 
 And then, in tones whose softness doth enhance 
 The import of the idle words which chance 
 And random thought suggest, with stifled sighs, 
 They talk of trifles ! In a happy trance 
 Of love -lit thought, with tender, downcast 
 
 eyes, 
 She sits. All earth seems fair, and cloudless 
 
 seem the skies ! 
 
 How shght a substance hath the fairest joy. 
 When, with the breath that frames some triv- 
 ial word. 
 Is blasted all the scanty, thin alloy 
 Of happiness, we idly dreamed secured, 
 And nought remains but worthless dross ! 
 
 Deep stirred. 
 With sudden grief the stricken soul is rife, 
 At some light, careless speech ; and sees de- 
 ferred 
 The hope of freedom from its- wonted strife I 
 For thus do trifles touch our hidden, inmost 
 life ! 
 
44 CHARITY. 
 
 And so, when Wilmot said he must be gone, 
 As, ere he slept that night, before him lay. 
 O'er rough and lonely roads, but little worn, 
 A ride to Boston, many miles away ; 
 And answering Charity, whose eyes convey 
 A look of curiosity ; " I go," 
 He said, " to seek a ship within the bay, 
 That sails for England ! " All the joyous glow 
 Forsook her heart, and checked her pulse's 
 happy flow ! 
 
 ^' The urgent voice of friends from o'er the sea. 
 And cares forgot amid these pleasant scenes, 
 And hard, exacting duty, all decree 
 That I should homeward turn. My feeling 
 
 leans 
 Towards further sojourn mid these leafy screens 
 Of forest broad and deep, where life is true 
 And natural ; where every kind act means 
 Regard, and has no further end in view ; 
 But judgment bids me haste to say to all, 
 
 adieu!" 
 
 As 'neath the tranquil bosom of the deep. 
 Wild, boist'rous currents flow, concealed, un- 
 known, 
 
CHARITY. 45 
 
 Nor Avake the surface from its glassy sleep ; 
 So Charity, whose love had, startled, flown. 
 All trembling, from her eyes, where first it 
 
 shone. 
 And, wounded, sought its refuge in her heart. 
 With strange, untaught control, and pride 
 
 alone 
 In woman found inborn, and native art. 
 Betrays no token of the pain his words impart ! 
 
 Nor says she aught at first ; and by no sign 
 That speaks surprise, or troubled look, is 
 
 shown 
 The sudden turmoil of the thoughts that line 
 Her fevered heart ; but, finally, in tone 
 As unconcerned and easy as his own, 
 She tells him that his many friends will mourn 
 The absence of a face so newly grown 
 Familiar ; and, to distant shores though gone, 
 Kind memories of his name will still be freshly 
 
 worn ! 
 
 On Wilmot's ear, the tenor of her speech 
 Conventional, falls coldly ; and the heart 
 That he had sought, though all in vain, to 
 teach 
 
46 CHARITY. 
 
 The lesson stern of duty, all its part 
 Of forced control forgets, and newly start 
 The pent-up fires of love within his breast ! 
 The very tones, which, by her ready art 
 Of self-command, had chilled his ear, im- 
 pressed. 
 Perversely, all his heart with added warmth 
 and zest ! 
 
 And lest his love, new lighted, should enforce 
 Its fair avowal, and his purpose stay. 
 He hastens to be gone, his sole resource. 
 And, as he lifts his rein and rides away, — 
 " 'Twere little need to bid farewell to-day," 
 He says, " To-morrow evening, once again, 
 I shall return, to spend the prized delay 
 Among these well-loved friends, ere o'er the 
 
 main 
 My good ship sails, and shores of fair New 
 
 England wane!" 
 
 A moment more, and he is lost to sight. 
 Amid the deepening shades, and but the beat 
 Of hoofs breaks on the stillness of the night, 
 And fainter, further grows ! The sounds re- 
 peat. 
 
CHARITY. 47 
 
 In dying cadence, to her soul replete 
 With woe, each word her ear but now received. 
 " And thus doth end the foolish, fond conceit. 
 The idle dream of love my fancy weaved ! 
 Thy course is run, poor heart, thy sorry goal 
 achieved ! " 
 
 And thus communing with herself, distraught 
 And sick at heart, sits Charity ; the rein 
 With which her maiden pride so long had 
 
 sought 
 To check all outward token of the pain 
 Within her breast, no longer doth restrain 
 Its charge ; and silent start her heart-wrung 
 
 tears. 
 The last, soft tints of mellow sun-glow wane ; 
 Each golden trace of daylight disappears. 
 While grief, around her heart, its darksome 
 
 barrier rears. 
 
 Meanwhile, as through the darkness Wilmot 
 
 speeds. 
 The thought of Charity, her modest air 
 And gentle voice, address his heart, which 
 
 pleads 
 
48 CHARITY. 
 
 For a return to her he loves, to bear 
 Assurance of that love. He does not dare 
 To listen to its tempting tones, or pause, 
 Lest he should yield, and even now forswear 
 His wav'ring purpose, and forget its cause ; 
 But urges on his steed ; his rein more tightly 
 draws ! 
 
 When sense of duty strong doth prop the will. 
 The path we follow, e'en though hard and 
 
 rude, 
 And narrow though its bounds, is lighted still 
 With sweet approval from the soul ; and, 
 
 viewed 
 Afar, we see our goal. No fears intrude 
 Upon the mind to check our plodding feet ! 
 But let a doubt assail us, then are strewed 
 Along our way perplexities which cheat 
 Our sense ! Dark grows the road, and warns 
 
 us to retreat ! 
 
 Thus far sustained in what he deemed was due 
 To prejudice of friends, and to the sphere 
 In which he moved, made of the chosen few 
 That formed his world, one way alone seemed 
 clear. 
 
CHARITY. 49 
 
 From early childhood, he was wont to hear 
 That never love 'twixt high and low degree 
 Could hope to prosper ; and his customed ear 
 Had early grown, while yet his heart was free,. 
 To hear, unquestioning, society's decree. 
 
 No vague suspicion, even that his; heart. 
 For her, could aught save bare regard contain. 
 Or but a fondest friendship, where no part 
 Of his soul's deeper warmth should entrance 
 
 gain, 
 And turn his thoughts to love, had crossed liis 
 
 brain. 
 But when, at length, his hiding heart con- 
 fessed 
 The secret truth, one only course seemed plain. 
 And straightway he had steeled his troubled 
 
 breast. 
 From her he vainly loved, to part, with soul 
 oppressed. 
 
 And not till now, when riding through the- 
 
 night. 
 And fresh from converse with his love, alone,. 
 4 
 
50 CHARITY. 
 
 With time for thought, do doubts, uneasy, 
 
 Wight 
 His earnest strength of purpose ! Now come 
 
 blown 
 Across the mirror of his mind, where shone 
 His duty's image, questionings and fears, 
 Until its shining surface is o'ergrown 
 With gathering mist, and, clouded, naught ap- 
 pears 
 Save the faint picture of his wounded love in 
 tears ! 
 
 He harder rides, and vainly, would escape 
 The dark suspicion that his judgment erred 
 In urging him to fly, and tries to shape 
 And prop once more his shaken purpose, 
 
 blurred 
 And weakened by the flitting doubts that 
 
 stirred 
 Within his troubled brain. A settled frown 
 Is on his brow, and whispers faintly heard 
 That 'scape his heart, and say. Return, weigh 
 
 down 
 His soul. And thus oppressed he nears the 
 
 lighted town ! 
 
CHARITY. 51 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The sweet-breathed dawn, that comes with 
 
 rusthng feet 
 To guide the new-born day, in whispers low 
 Bids sleeping Charity arise and greet 
 The early sun ! No token doth she show 
 Of the salt, burning tears, which needs must 
 
 flow 
 Ere she could sink to rest, but with a mind 
 Made up to bear with cheerfulness the blow 
 Her heart had suffered, she doth rise, inclined 
 To bravely meet whate'er may be her fate, 
 
 resigned ! 
 
 With even brow and ever cheerful mien. 
 
 She minds her simple round of household cares. 
 
 And sings, while at her task ; then, on the 
 
 green 
 Before the door, when all is done, she bears 
 Once more her spinning gear, and, heedful, 
 
 spares 
 No idle moment, ere she deftly plies 
 The droning wheel. And thus, the long day 
 
 wears 
 
52 CHARITY. 
 
 Itself away. Her heart and courage rise 
 And gain new strength, as each full, busy mo- 
 ment flies. 
 
 It is not that all pain has left her breast, — 
 A sorrow doth not fade so soon and die, — 
 It still lies rooted there ; yet though op- 
 pressed 
 And sad her soul, with resolution high 
 She stills her grief, and stifles every sigh. 
 And, uncomplaining, strives her part to bear ; 
 And, though one dearest source of joy is dry. 
 She earnest seeks to find all else more fair 
 Than e'er before, and full of beauties new and 
 
 rare 
 
 The brightest time, by far, in all the day, 
 For Charity, was when, his labor through. 
 Her father, in the afternoon, his way 
 Tow^ards home would weary wend. She ever 
 
 grew 
 Impatient, as the hour approached, and knew 
 The very moment, from long habitude. 
 At which, unerringly, he homeward drew ; 
 The hill top, o'er which crept the road, she 
 
 viewed 
 
CHARITY. 53 
 
 With watchful eyes, her heart with fondest 
 love imbued. 
 
 And when, at last, she saw him mount the 
 
 hill, 
 She hastened on to greet him, and returned, 
 Her hand in his, as she had done when still 
 A child; and when her instinct quick dis- 
 cerned 
 He seemed well pleased with what the day had 
 
 turned 
 To his account, and that his brow was clear. 
 She asked him of the farm, and grew con- 
 cerned 
 In mention of the work, and then would hear 
 Him talk of fruitful fields, and crops, with 
 eager ear. 
 
 But when he met her with a smile that shone 
 But on his lips, and came not from his heart, 
 She spoke not of the fields, and sought alone 
 To soothe and cheer him, and would strive to 
 
 start 
 His mind toward fairer thoughts, and far 
 
 apart 
 
54 CHARITY. 
 
 From rustic cares. And when their homely 
 
 meal 
 Is o'er, beside him sits, and tasks each art 
 To please ; and reads the Golden Book to heal 
 His troubled soul, till shades of twilight round 
 
 them steal. 
 
 And so to-night she waits for him. — The hour 
 Has overrun, and just within the door 
 She waiting stands, and anxious doth devour, 
 With straining eyes, the roadway o'er and 
 
 o'er ; 
 Yet still he comes not. — Never yet before. 
 Had she, thus all impatient, watched in vain 
 To see him top the hill, and ever more 
 She fears and wonders what strange tangled 
 
 train 
 Of hind'ring circumstance, his steps can thus 
 
 detain. 
 
 Yet now a sound of hoofs and jangling chains 
 Is faintly heard, and from a dusty cloud 
 That, like a beacon's warning smoke, slow 
 
 trains 
 Behind him, speeding with his body bowed 
 
CHARITY. ^5 
 
 To meet the wind, a rider comes. Dark 
 
 browed, 
 He presses wildly on, with anxious face ; 
 The road-stained horse, with trace-chains 
 
 clanking loud, 
 And rude farm harness swinging, shows the 
 
 trace 
 Of sudden summons, from the fields to fly 
 
 apace. 
 
 With foam-flecked bridle strained, he hurries 
 
 by, 
 
 Unheeding Charity, — and once again 
 Are faintly heard, and in the distance die. 
 The sounds of horse's tread and rattling chain ; 
 She knows the horseman for a yeoman plain. 
 Who tilled outlying lands some miles away. 
 Unshaped forebodings dread disturb her 
 
 brain . 
 The rider's haste, her father's strange delay, 
 Suggest vague, startling fears, her judgment 
 
 cannot stay. 
 
 Some trouble seems on foot ! Her spirit growls 
 Impatient, and rebels at this suspense. 
 
56 CHARITY. 
 
 Not overlong has she to wait ! There shows, 
 Once more, far up the road, a dust cloud dense, 
 That greater grows, and ere her o'erstrained 
 
 sense 
 Has ceased to hear the horseman in retreat. 
 Her anxious ear receives with dread intense. 
 The sounds of jolting wheels, and hurried beat 
 Of hoofs, that nearer draw, and echo doth re- 
 peat. 
 
 And down the hill, at headlong, plunging 
 
 speed. 
 There comes a rude farm wagon, roughly 
 
 drawn 
 By two tired, panting horses. — Some dire 
 
 need 
 Must urge them on their way. With mien 
 
 forlorn, 
 A crouching, dust-stained group is swiftly 
 
 borne 
 Along, while one tall, stalwart figure guides 
 The pressing steeds, whose face is pale and 
 
 worn. 
 Some deepl}^ dark anxiety abides 
 Within his breast ; and, on his brow, black 
 
 trouble rides ! 
 
CHARITY. 57 
 
 At slackened pace they come, and when abreast 
 The cottage door, draw up. And then straight- 
 way 
 The driver springs upon the green ; the rest. 
 Meantime, converse in whispers low, while 
 
 stray 
 Their frightened glances o'er the hill-top gray 
 Behind them ! With a sorely troubled brain, 
 Wherein relief is mingled with dismay. 
 She sees, perplexed, her father once again 
 Draw toward her, with a look he strives to 
 hide, in vain. 
 
 A look wherein she reads of trouble near, 
 And yet to come ! In husky, hurried tone. 
 He speaks : " Come, Charity, the way is clear 
 For us to fly ! The road behind is strewn 
 With dangers dire ! All hope of rest is flown 
 From this dear home. For look towards the 
 
 farm, 
 Where even now the crackling flames are 
 
 thrown 
 High heavenward ! The long delayed alarm 
 Of savage strife doth sound, and bids each 
 
 Christian arm ! 
 
58 CHARITY. 
 
 " The Indians, with Philip at their head, 
 Are streaming on the town ! " And, at the 
 
 word, 
 She gazes where he points. The sky is red 
 With newly kindled fires, and, faintly heard, 
 And chilling every vein, the air is stirred 
 With sounds of savage shouts, that nearer 
 
 draw. 
 Then die, then rise again ; — dread sounds 
 
 that spurred 
 Her to escape ! They came, as might the roar 
 Of fitful waves that beat upon some distant 
 
 shore ! 
 
 She wastes no words, nor sheds one idle tear. 
 Her woman's soul asserts its inborn power. 
 She tarries but to seize the thing most dear 
 To her : 'twas but a drooping, withered flower 
 Of eglantine, a treasure since the hour 
 When Wilmot gave it her ! And in her breast 
 She hides it. Now no longer need it cower 
 Or droop, when near to such a heart 'tis 
 
 pressed ! 
 And then she hastens to the road to join the 
 
 rest. 
 
CHARITY. 59 
 
 Her father takes his flint-lock from the nail, 
 And hastens to the team, and once again 
 The creaking wagon moves. Once more the 
 
 veil 
 Of dust about them grows. The horses strain 
 Each nerve for greater speed. With loos- 
 ened rein. 
 And straightened necks, and nostrils opened 
 
 wide, 
 They onward press toward the pleasant plain 
 Whereon the village lies. The sun doth 
 
 hide 
 Behind the western hills, with blood-red color 
 dyed. 
 
 And on they hasten through the startled 
 
 town ; 
 The alarm has spread ; and o'er the parching 
 
 road 
 Press hastening, their figures freighted down 
 With hurried salvage from each loved abode. 
 Both yeomen young and old ; each bears his 
 
 load 
 Of household treasures. Mothers, by the hand 
 Lead frightened children, and the duty owed 
 
60 CHARITY. 
 
 To those whom age and sickness hath un- 
 manned 
 
 For troublous scenes Hke these, though bur- 
 dened, none withstand. 
 
 The crowding, hurried steps of all are turned 
 Toward the garrison ; and as the light 
 Of day doth fade, the flaming roofs seem burned 
 Upon the hills more angrily and bright, 
 Red wounds upon the bosom of the night ! 
 And nearer and more frequent comes the 
 
 sound 
 Of hostile shouts, that spurs the hurried flight 
 Of all who hear it, while the flying ground 
 Grows heavy, and doth seem to hold them 
 
 clogged and bound I 
 
 In little straggling bands, from every side. 
 They hurry in, with faces pale and worn, 
 And through the wooden fortress doors, thrown 
 
 wide. 
 They silent pass ; and when the bolts are 
 
 drawn, 
 And all at last are housed, some, overborne 
 By sore fatigue, in vain seek needed rest 
 
CHARITY. 61 
 
 In troubled sleep, or sit apart and mourn 
 Their homes in tearless silence ; while some, 
 
 blessed 
 With stronger souls, essay to cheer each shrink- 
 ing breast ! 
 
 In one long, narrow, dimly-lighted room. 
 They gather ; most are silent, and few dare 
 To speak in aught save whispers. A dull 
 
 gloom 
 Doth settle over all. The very prayer 
 The minister doth offer for God's care 
 And kindly shelter in this hour of need. 
 Though followed from their hearts, yet seems 
 
 to bear 
 No reassurance to their souls, or lead 
 Their hearts to hope, or bid their fear-bound 
 
 breasts be free ! 
 
 For all too well they know the cruel fate, 
 That, if o'erborne, awaits them, young and old. 
 And had, ere this, been theirs, had savage 
 
 hate, 
 So long pent up, a few short hours controlled 
 Itself, and not betra^^ed by overbold 
 
62 CHARITY. 
 
 And o'er-precipitate attack, ill-planned, 
 Its unripe purpose. Sturdy hearts grow cold, 
 That knew not fear, and lose their used com- 
 mand 
 At thought that such dire lot had been so close 
 at hand ! 
 
 The short alarm, the urgent, hurried flight. 
 Has served to banish every other thought 
 From out the breast of Charity, and blight 
 The recollection of all else ; and naught 
 Of Wilmot, or her love, has once been brought 
 To mind till now, when in her heart doth burn 
 The sense that when he left her, sad, dis- 
 traught. 
 He promised for to-night, his quick return ! 
 And now his danger fills her soul with deep 
 concern. 
 
 For even now toward the 'leaguered town. 
 Unwarned of peril near, he doubtless rides ! 
 Her startled heart doth sink, deep freighted 
 
 down 
 With self-reproach, and sore disma}^ abides 
 Within her breast. The thought itself decides 
 
CHARITY. 68 
 
 Her course ! It may not be e'en now too late 
 To warn and save him. Noiselessly she glides 
 Unnoticed from the room. Nor doth she wait 
 For further parley with herself, but follows 
 Fate! 
 
 She hastens, trembling, toward the close- 
 barred door, 
 And finds it guarded ; yet she doth not stay, 
 But bids the unwary sentinel withdraw 
 For further orders from the elders gray. 
 Who bid him to attend without delay. 
 And scarcely has he gone, ere she doth strain 
 To lift the oaken bar which blocks her way. 
 With nervous, hurried hands, and once again 
 She stands beneath the sky, with fevered heart 
 and brain. 
 
 She seeks the shadowed skirting of the road. 
 
 And for an instant pauses to array 
 
 Her circling thoughts, and then her love doth 
 
 goad 
 Her on to flight. No longer may she stay ; 
 For now, from out the garrison, the play 
 Of moving lights, that, gleaming here and 
 
 there. 
 
64 CHARITY. 
 
 Pass and repass, and voices loud, betray 
 Her absence known, and, with a silent prayer, 
 With stealthy tread she steals away with 
 noiseless care ! 
 
 She casts no look behind, but hastens on. 
 And holds the tangled way, all overgrown 
 With weeds, and birches showing weird and 
 
 wan, 
 A matted path, with briars thickly strewn, 
 Which borders on the road, where, softly 
 
 thrown. 
 The moonlight rests. The voices fainter 
 
 sound. 
 That loudly to her ear but now came blown, 
 And, as she faster flies, grow hushed and 
 
 drowned 
 In sad, soft whispers from the breeze-stirred 
 
 trees around. 
 
 Too well she knows the urgent trying part 
 She has to play ; yet, with such end in view. 
 She values not the toil, nor loses heart 
 At blanching thought of crowding dangers new 
 And dread that press around. She dares to do 
 
CHARITY. 65 
 
 And die, if need be, in so sweet a cause ! 
 A happier lot it were by far, to woo 
 Kind death, for sake of him her soul adores, 
 Than live unloved, to nurse a love her pride 
 deplores ! 
 
 Two rough-made roads lead from the garrison. 
 The one through woods, the other through the 
 
 town. 
 And, widely spread, unite once more upon 
 The distant highway, dusty, bare, and brown. 
 With frequent travel, that winds bleakly down 
 The hills toward Boston. Here doth lie alone 
 Her hope that even now success may crown 
 Her heart's wild purpose, and with this hath 
 
 grown 
 Another sweeter hope, she scarce doth dare to 
 
 own ! 
 
 Can she but reach and warn him to avoid 
 
 The more frequented road, she need not fear. 
 
 The fires, high reaching, mark the foe em- 
 ployed 
 
 Within tlie town ! The woodland way lies 
 clear, 
 
 5 
 
66 CHARITY. 
 
 But yet the other is the one more near 
 
 To touch the highway. One short moment's 
 
 gain 
 Is hfe, may be, to him she holds most dear. 
 That path is hers ! No woman's fears restrain. 
 The choice is scarcely weighed. This only 
 
 course seems plain. 
 
 And thus resolved, she leaves the covert green, 
 To hasten on the grass-grown travelled way, 
 And holds the beaten path that runs between 
 The furrowed wheel marks, till the village 
 
 gray 
 Beneath the moonlight shows, when she doth 
 
 stray 
 Once more within the shady coppice near — 
 She falters not, nor gives one thought to 
 
 weigh 
 Her danger dread, but ever, bright and clear, 
 Her purpose shines before, to guide her on 
 
 and cheer I 
 
 But as she nears the fitful, ruddy glow. 
 
 That mars the pallor of the moon's cold light, 
 
 And marks the vandal work of savage foe. 
 
CHARITY. 67 
 
 And notes the drifting cloud of cinders bright, 
 Float o'er the tree-tops, shriveled by its flight. 
 And hears so close at hand the baleful sound 
 Of falling roof-trees, e'en her soul takes fright. 
 And where the sombre branches darkest 
 
 frowned, 
 She hastens thither o'er the mossy leaf-strewn 
 
 ground. 
 
 Anon, through some deep vista of the wood. 
 Dark, narrow, and quick traversed, she de- 
 scries. 
 Where, but an hour ago, a cottage stood, 
 A glowing ruin, whence doth slowly rise 
 A spangled smoke-cloud, trailing to the skies. 
 And, for an instant, as she hurries past. 
 Wild, dusky figures meet her straining eyes, 
 Which, where the lurid flames are highest 
 
 cast. 
 In maddened revel round about them circle 
 fast. 
 
 The mingled sounds of ruin fainter grow. 
 And now the flame-doomed town doth lie be- 
 hind. 
 
68 CHARITY. 
 
 Yet still she holds the wood, whose branches 
 
 throw 
 Their shielding arms above her, close en- 
 twined. 
 Until the path she follows, seems to wind 
 Towards the beaten way, and once again 
 She takes the dusty road, and looks to find 
 Some well-known landmark, but yet all in 
 
 vain ; 
 No spot familiar doth her anxious gaze re- 
 tain ! 
 
 Near by, a smoking heap of rubbish lies ! 
 
 Once more she looks around with troubled 
 breast. 
 
 And now a veil seems lifted from her eyes, 
 
 And all grows plain, though darkness doth in- 
 vest 
 
 Her love-lit heart, with this new grief op- 
 pressed ; 
 
 For where had been her home, doth now ap- 
 pear 
 
 Naught but a smouldering ruin like the rest ! 
 
 The funeral pyre of all she held most dear 
 
 'Midst old remembrances now rising sweet 
 and clear ! 
 
CHARITY. 69 
 
 And down her cheek the tears unbidden steal, 
 As, pausing for an instant, she surveys 
 This scene of desolation, and doth feel 
 Her heart grow full to bursting ; yet she stays 
 Not long in such drear reverie to gaze 
 At this dead home, in idle, dull despair. 
 But hastens on, wrapped in a troubled maze 
 Of thought. Once o'er the hill, the highway 
 
 bare 
 Is almost reached. Her goal shows then dis- 
 tinct and fair ! 
 
 The dismal roll and murmur of the fire 
 Grows fainter still ! Yet as she flies the place, 
 Comes, indistinct at first, yet doubly dire 
 In import, a dread sound, that from her face 
 Sends back the color ! Her strained ear doth 
 
 trace 
 Afar, yet coming nearer, the faint beat 
 Of hoofs, that hurry from the town apace. 
 She tops the hill, and now with fear-winged 
 
 feet. 
 Doth hasten down the road, in unconcealed re- 
 treat. 
 
70 CHARITY. 
 
 The highway now is reached, but ere she turns 
 To enter it, from out the vale behind 
 Three hurried steeds her anxious eye dis- 
 cerns 
 Bear o'er the hill-top, faster than the wind. 
 It seems as if some evil hand confined 
 Her powerless there, and checked her eager 
 
 flight. 
 She presses on, but terror seems to bind 
 Her faltering feet ; and palsied with affright. 
 She strives, though all in vain, to shun the 
 horsemen's sight. 
 
 With savage, wild halloo, the foe give chase, 
 And faster, nearer comes the beating tread 
 Of horses' feet, that speed at headlong pace. 
 Escape seems hopeless, and her heart grows 
 
 dead. 
 And pulseless sinks before the prospect dread 
 That threatens her, while through her whirling 
 
 brain 
 A thousand thoughts, upon the instant bred. 
 In tangled sequence pass. A vivid train 
 Of long-forgotten hopes and fears, of joy and 
 
 pain ! 
 
CHARITY. 71 
 
 Her sinews fail ! She can no further fly, 
 And, in despair, sinks fainting to the ground. 
 She breathes a prayer, and waits prepared to 
 
 die, — 
 When breaks upon her ear the even sound 
 Of hoofs that draw towards her from around 
 A mossy knoll, which near at hand doth rise 
 Before her, thickly wooded, and doth bound 
 The moonlit road, and now, with startled 
 
 eyes, 
 A horseman, coming toward her slowly, she 
 
 descries. 
 
 With bridle loose, and head bent on his breast, 
 As though in deepest thought, he slowly rides. 
 His face is sad, as though some sorrow pressed 
 Upon his soul, and absently he guides 
 His well-trained steed. The roadside shadow 
 
 hides 
 His down-turned face, but as he nearer draws. 
 And passes where a ray of moonlight glides 
 Athwart the road, one glance bright hope re- 
 stores 
 To Charity, and through her breast new cour- 
 age pours. 
 
72 CHARITY. 
 
 'Tis Wilmot, and she hurries to his side, 
 And as she flies towards him doth essay 
 To call aloud, but now her voice hath died 
 Within her ! She can only point the way 
 With eager, urging hands, as, with dismay, 
 She hears her hot pursuers nearer draw. 
 Now Wilmot sees her ; hears the echoing neigh 
 And stamp of hurried steeds ! He needs no 
 
 more 
 To warn him that some near, dread danger is 
 
 in store. 
 
 There is jio time for words, and little need ! 
 He half divines the truth, and with the 
 
 thought 
 Leaps to the ground, and lightly on his steed 
 Helps Charity, and then, with bridle short 
 In hand, remounts. The horse ere this has 
 
 caught 
 The sense of peril near ; with head held high, 
 And quiv'ring flank, and tense ears backward 
 
 brought. 
 He forward springs. The moonlit road doth 
 
 fly 
 
 Beneath them, and the trees, like shadows, 
 hurry by ! 
 
CHARITY. 73 
 
 And now tliej^ enter on the other way 
 Towards the garrison ; yet not before 
 The baffled foe, now pressing close, betray, 
 By shrill and savage cries, which o'er and o'er 
 The wooded hills and echoing rocks restore. 
 That they are seen ; and now begins a race 
 For very life, while Fate doth seem to draw 
 Its cruel web of circumstance, apace. 
 About the flying pair, in narrowing embrace. 
 
 By slow degrees, the pressing foemen gain 
 Upon them ; though the o'erladen steed. 
 That bears the fugitives, doth onward strain. 
 With spirit high, and never-flagging speed. 
 Now Wilmot looks behind, and there is need ; 
 For close, one better mounted than the rest, 
 Bears fleetly on, and, far advanced, doth lead 
 The band, and to his ready bow hath pressed 
 E'en now a shaft, and draws the bow-string to 
 his breast. 
 
 Quick to his holster, hurries Wilmot 's hand ! 
 A shining barrel points towards the foe. 
 The horse, obedient, heeds the used command, 
 That bids him start nor flinch not, whispered 
 low ; 
 
74 CHARITY. 
 
 Then follow fast a sudden blinding glow, 
 A sharp report, a stifled cry of pain ; 
 And, as the thin smoke clears and rises slow. 
 Is seen a plunging steed, with wild-tossed 
 
 mane. 
 To bear on riderless with loosel}^ hanging 
 
 rein ! 
 
 The others pause not for their comrade's fall. 
 But onward press, with maddened hearts on 
 
 fire 
 For swift and dread revenge. Yet now 
 
 though all 
 Seems dark about them, and with perils dire 
 Their way is thronged, a sweet sense doth in- 
 spire 
 The soul of Wilmot, doubts are laid aside 
 That rose of late to rack his heart, and tire 
 His brain, and now within him doth abide 
 A spirit calm to bear whatever may betide. 
 
 With Charity close clinging, as he rides. 
 
 Her trembling hands light resting on his 
 
 breast. 
 He would not change for all his life besides 
 
CHARITY. Y5 
 
 This chance of time and circumstance, though 
 
 pressed 
 By dangers doubly dread, and each is blessed 
 With sweet assurance of the love of each, 
 More clearly far than words have yet confessed. 
 By some strange influence, that deep doth 
 
 reach 
 Their souls, more potent far than softest looks, 
 
 or speech. 
 
 Far down a long, straight line of moonlit road 
 They dimly see their goal ! And now the 
 
 thought 
 And hope of life that e'en till now had glowed 
 But far and faintly hath returned, and wrought 
 New value for the life thus closely bought. 
 The pressing foemen onward faster strain. 
 Lest, even now, the chase avail them naught ; 
 And press their steeds by urging shout and 
 
 rein, 
 As surely, swiftly, on the flying pair they gain. 
 
 Lights dance within the garrison ! The sound 
 Of ringing hoofs strikes on the startled ear 
 Of those within, and echoes far around. 
 
76 CHARITY. 
 
 They, all alive for short attack, outpeer 
 Upon the night, and, 'neath the moonlight 
 
 clear. 
 Discern the hard-pressed pair, and, short be- 
 hind. 
 The hnrr3dng foe, who follow fast and near I 
 A second glance bears to each wond'ring mind 
 The truth ! and Charity's dire peril is divined ! 
 
 An instant more, and half the ready guard 
 Out-sally to the road, with arms in hand ! 
 The dread pursuers, riding swift and hard 
 Upon the curling dust-cloud that is fanned 
 Towards them, maddened, see the succoring 
 
 band 
 Press on, and, heeding the outnumbering foe. 
 Draw rein ; and at their leader's short com- 
 mand. 
 With savage shouts retreat, and, as the}^ go. 
 The echoes swiftly, far and ever fainter grow ! 
 
 The chase is o'er ; and, now, 'midst wondering 
 
 friends. 
 Who crowd around, — all pale and weak with 
 
 fright. 
 
CHARITY. 77 
 
 A very woman, now the peril ends, 
 Fair Charity doth trembhngly ahght, 
 And Wilmot hears the story of her flight. 
 From those within, and listening, through his 
 
 heart 
 A quick succeeding sense of soft delight 
 And pain and fear, all born of love, doth 
 
 start, — 
 A mingled, soothing sense, where trouble 
 
 holds no part ! 
 
 Close guard is kept throughout the weary 
 
 night ; 
 But now the foe, their task of ruin wrought. 
 And sated with their work, in hurried flight 
 Retreat, upon the vague, swift-winged report 
 Of strong relief, that even now is brought 
 To the beleaguered town, and, ere the dawn. 
 Each straggling band has fled afar, and naught 
 Bespeaks the late attack, when breaks the 
 
 morn. 
 Save where the ruins lie, all blackened and 
 
 forlorn. 
 
78 CHARITY. 
 
 In after years, 'neath ancient oaks, which 
 
 spread 
 Their shady branches o'er an emerald lawn. 
 Doth Wilmot, seated there, with bended head, 
 Close to an eager group of children drawn 
 Around to hear the story, never worn, 
 Relate how o'er the sea, 'neath other skies. 
 Their mother, sitting there, had placed in 
 
 pawn 
 Her life for his ; while to his face doth rise 
 A look of love and trust, she answers from 
 
 her eyes. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 How often doth posterity mistake 
 
 The soul and aim of what their sires have 
 
 done, 
 And with an unearned kistre gild each deed, 
 And, for some common, human motive plain, 
 Look far beyond the simple end, to find 
 Some lofty inspiration to great deeds, 
 Which sober truth would flout ! 
 
 Poor Goodman John, 
 That, throughout all these years, we've looked 
 
 upon 
 As more than man, a martyr to his faith. 
 In that he, tramelled, broke the narrow 
 
 bounds, 
 The spiritual bars, that curbed his soul 
 
82 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 In far off England, and sought freedom here ! 
 This third Saint John, it now comes out, by 
 
 chance, 
 Was but a poor weak mortal after all ! 
 And much we fear, that deep religious faith. 
 Though it had burned within him ne'er so 
 
 strong, 
 Alone, lacked warmth enough to exile him. 
 And bring him over to this wilderness ! 
 
 Now, how it comes about, that, from his brow, 
 I thus have ventured, with irreverent hand, 
 To bear these holy laurels, worn so long. 
 Is shortly told. I found, by merest chance. 
 The simple, inner spring, that moved the man. 
 
 ' Twas but this blustering, rainy afternoon. 
 When thought lagged slow, and books seemed 
 
 tame and dull. 
 An empty, drowsy, spring-time afternoon. 
 To wile away the sluggish, creeping hours, 
 I sought that dusty store-room, with old 
 
 chests 
 And motley lumber choked, which, Avhen a 
 
 child. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 83 
 
 Had been forbidden ground, a mystic realm ; 
 And, by the few dull rays of light that came 
 Reluctantly, as though afraid to smile, 
 In face of such grave emblems of the past. 
 In through the one small window close-filmed 
 
 o'er 
 With ragged webs and all the grime of years, 
 I handled faded deeds, and rambled through 
 The store of printed sermons, thumbed and 
 
 worn, 
 Tliat roused our grandsires in the days gone 
 
 ^y ; 
 
 Glanced o'er old almanacs, and read therein 
 The margin entries, in a small, cramped hand. 
 Of Avlien a calf should come, or crop was 
 
 down. 
 And, pausing, moralized unto myself. 
 In narrow, hackneyed strain, of time and 
 
 . change ; 
 Until, at last, from out a brass-bound chest, 
 I there unhoused this yellow packet, creased. 
 Almost illegible, that lies at hand 
 Upon the table there ! A few torn leaves 
 (3f what seem random notes, made long ago,. 
 Stray fragments of a journal, and, besides, 
 
84 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 Some six or seven letters, quite as old. 
 Was all the ribbon, loosely tied, contained. 
 At first, in careless vein, I glanced tliem o'er. 
 But found anon, I had misjudged their worth. 
 And that I, here, had strangely brought to 
 
 light 
 The cause, why Goodman John left home and 
 
 all 
 So many years ago. The real cause ! 
 And dreaming here, before the paling fire. 
 Fresh from the letters and the journal's leaves, 
 I have a kindlier, softer feeling far 
 For Goodman John, now that I know the tale. 
 The homely, simple story of his heart. 
 Than had he been for conscience' sake alone 
 The stern old martyr I had fancied him ! 
 
 Plain inference supplies the missing links. 
 Where'er the letters and the journal fail ; 
 While, here and there, a fancy is wrought in 
 To help the continuity, built on 
 What must have been ; and thus, with this 
 
 premised. 
 Doth run the tale. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 85 
 
 Our scene is 'midst green fields. 
 And 'neath an English sky. On yon fair 
 
 knoll, 
 Rich, like tlie fields around, with new-born 
 
 green, 
 The farm-house stands, deep shaded here and 
 
 there, 
 By crisp-leaved ivy vines. A time-worn pile, 
 With many gables. Thence a sunny view 
 Spreads out, of grass land sloping to the 
 
 stream 
 Which, close hemmed in, runs deep and still 
 
 and dark, — 
 A rude, stone bridge here spans its sluggish 
 
 tide, — 
 And, rippling, breaks anon o'er sandy shoals. 
 And widens out between low meadow banks. 
 A mile away, the little hamlet lies, 
 Remote, a busy world though to itself. 
 O'er which, with even, undisputed sway, 
 The good squire reigns, who holds his court 
 
 within 
 The rambling mansion on the hill hard by. 
 Fair hawthorn hedges skirt the rutted road, 
 That toward the village winds its sinuous 
 
 length, 
 
86 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 From where the farm-house stands we saw but 
 
 now. 
 And, there, within a roomy rustic porch, 
 That proffers shelter to each passer by, 
 As foretaste of the welcome found within. 
 Upon the settle sits a white-haired man, 
 And opposite, our hero, Goodman John, 
 Untitled then, and sitting there plain John ! 
 The rose-vines love the sheltered, homely spot, 
 And, in a tangled net-work, cluster o'er 
 The unliewm side-posts, and the straw- thatched 
 
 roof. 
 And now, fresh budding, perfume all around ! 
 A handsome, stalwart, light-haired man is 
 
 John, 
 More boy than man, though twenty years and 
 
 more 
 Have closely knit his frame and rounded him. 
 Yet left a fresh-toned heart, untaught in guile ; 
 Not guileless from sheer incapacity 
 And needed strength for wrong ! Right pleased 
 
 him best, 
 And so his life was open, pure, and true. 
 And this true life he lived with all his strength. 
 Had he toward evil bent, his strength had 
 
 been 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 87 
 
 Expended there ; 'twas temperament with 
 
 him I 
 Unlike most worthy workers, he could dream, 
 And sagely fancy he philosophized, — 
 Yet work as well as any of the rest 
 In field or elsewhere. Dearly he loved books, 
 And had, from childhood ; yet he read but 
 
 few. 
 But those few o'er and o'er, and knew them 
 
 well, 
 And pondered what he read. A clever lad 
 The curate rated him, and made him free 
 With all the books he had, a slender store ; 
 And so John grew, at twenty, to be held 
 A prodig}^, by those who did not read. 
 And, by himself, less learned than when first 
 He conned a line. A sign he studied well 
 And to some end. 
 
 The elder has the mien 
 And same strong features, though deep over- 
 lined 
 With age, of him who sits beside him there. 
 One sees our hero, when he too grows old. 
 The day's work o'er, they gossip of the farm, 
 
88 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 Until the younger rises to his feet. 
 
 Then speaks the father, " Where art going, 
 
 John ? 
 To court the master's lass, I warrant me ; — 
 Art weary, lad, so hold at home to-night. 
 The girl will keep till morrow e'en comes 
 
 round. 
 And greet thee warmer, that thou lagg'st 
 
 awhile. 
 Thou art a foolish one, to tag her thus ; 
 She has a pretty face, I grant thee that. 
 Yet all thy learning comes to little good. 
 To bid thee ' Like a face and lose a farm ! ' 
 A musty proverb, lad, yet one for thee ! 
 Thou know'st Avell, John, that I'll not cross thy 
 
 choice, 
 I love thee over- well ; but bide awhile, 
 And look around thee, lad, and know thy 
 
 mind ! 
 If mother wert alive, she'd say the same. 
 And she knew men and women through and 
 
 through. 
 ' She 's not the wife for thee, John,' she would 
 
 say, 
 I'm weak, and bid thee only bide awhile ! " 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 89 
 
 " Thou'lt know Ruth better, father, by and 
 
 by!" 
 Says John, replying, troubled at the words 
 His father speaks : " 'Tis not her face alone 
 That holds me, father ; 'tis her heart as well. 
 Her soul's fresh fount, her life's unsullied 
 
 spring ! 
 There 's more, by far, in reading such a heart. 
 Of wisdom gained, than from a thousand books. 
 'Tis all the one I've lately read, and yet 
 I've learned to know its beauties but in part ! 
 My head and hands can earn the bread for 
 
 two. 
 And, as to wealth, what says philosophy ? 
 It enervates the man, and cramps the heart ; 
 The goal of knaves; the only pride of fools ! " 
 
 " Ah, John ! take thy philosophy to fools ! 
 It is their boasted guide, and dear support ! 
 I know not what thy books may teach thee, 
 
 John, 
 I have but little learning from that source, 
 But some small store of sterling steady sense 
 I have, and that alone doth teach me this. 
 That thy so-called philosophy should be 
 
90 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 A code of fixed truth unalterable ; 
 
 It is the creature of each dreamer's whim ! 
 
 And changes as the wind I Each man doth 
 
 hold 
 Some doctrine made to fit his circumstance ! 
 To-day, the ragged pauper rails 'gainst gold, 
 But then, to-morrow, note his change of key, 
 AVhen some stray pounds, by chance, fall in 
 
 his way ! 
 A noble ally hast thou, John, to lielp 
 Thee jeer at wealth, in thy philosophy ! 
 Thou art young, lad, in years, though old in 
 
 books ; 
 And that doth bid me hope thy mood will 
 
 change. 
 Thou'lt ever find a home here on the farm 
 For thee, and her thou bring'st here as thy 
 
 wife. 
 But let thy choice be wise, and weigh it well. 
 I'll stay thee now no longer. Go thy ways ! " 
 And now the father rises in his turn. 
 And on the threshold bids his son good night. 
 
 So busy press his crowding thoughts, at first. 
 In troubled flow, at what his father says. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 91 
 
 And then, forgetting this, on dreams of Ruth, 
 That John, unheeding all the scene around, 
 Doth start surprised, with scarce a moment 
 
 gone, 
 To find himself within the village street. 
 Boy-like, he slackens now his conscious steps. 
 Lest to the evening loungers at each door. 
 His haste betray the secret of his heart. 
 And gives each pleasant greeting back again. 
 And once, with some who gossip by the road. 
 Doth force himself to stay, and careless talk. 
 In idle strain, of needed rain, and grass. 
 To show them all his thoughts are far from 
 
 love ; 
 And shortly, this dull, foolish role performed. 
 Bears on again, and nears the garden gate, 
 That bars a pretty cottage from the road. 
 And there, beside her father, sits his Ruth ! 
 Her eyes are turned towards him up the road, 
 But, as they meet his own, shy droop again. 
 As though she had, but absent, glanced at 
 
 him. 
 And seen him not. Yet when, at John's ap- 
 proach. 
 Her father rises, and with welcome smile 
 
92 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 And open hand, doth bid hhn enter m, 
 And sit with them, she feigns a coy surprise 
 To see him there, — a spice of coquetry 
 Hath Ruth, — and barely rising, as he turns, 
 Just yields her glowing finger-tips to his. 
 She sees him hurt at this, and, quick as thought. 
 So sweetly smiles on him with lips and eyes. 
 That foohsh John forgets all else at once. 
 And stands enraptured ! 
 
 Now to picture her ! 
 Her figure that of budding womanhood. 
 Of middle height, with carriage straight and 
 
 free. 
 An oval face, o'erbowed with sunny hair, 
 And so, of course, blue eyes, large, laughing 
 
 eyes. 
 That were not deep, and never seemed to 
 
 dream I 
 A nose and mouth, well suited to the rest, 
 The first, short, velvet moulded, finely cut, 
 A trifle upward shaded, and the last 
 Both small and full, an easy sweetness wore 
 It was a face that altogether charmed. 
 Yet did not satisfy ; a scentless flower ! 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 98 
 
 She ever minded well her household cares, 
 She loved her father, and, in different tone. 
 Though in no less degree, our hero John, 
 And then, besides, she loved her father's 
 
 friends , 
 And such girl friends as she herself possessed. 
 She could not like, she needs must love them 
 
 all. 
 Although another's liking might excel 
 Her love in strength ; and all loved her in 
 
 turn, — 
 Her girl friends, and her father, and our 
 
 John. 
 
 John sits upon the door-stone, by the rest,' 
 And, soon, with eyes fixed all the time on 
 
 Ruth, 
 Her own cast down, she trifling wdth a flower. 
 Hears the old schoolmaster talk on and on, 
 In light discourse, although in earnest strain. 
 In John's keen interest in what he says, — 
 He notes this from the silence that John 
 
 keeps, — 
 He takes delight ; ' tis seldom that he finds 
 So eager-eared an auditor as John, 
 
94 GOODMAN JOHN 
 
 And he had rambled on another hour, 
 Pleased with himself, and thinking that his 
 
 friend 
 Was pleased as well, — in soothing monotone, — 
 Had not a neighbor tarried at the gate, — 
 A talker too, a tireless man of words, — 
 And John, relieved, his fetters thus unloosed, 
 Proposes, now, ere yet the sun dotli sink, 
 A walk to Ruth, to where the river runs. 
 
 She, blushing, smiles assent, and both slip out. 
 Unnoticed now, so busy runs the talk. 
 And from the road bear off and enter on 
 A grassy, rutted lane, that runs between 
 High banks of fragrant bloom, that now bar 
 
 off 
 The world ; and now through tangled frame- 
 work, show 
 A glimpse of distant mellow-lighted liills, 
 Mist-capped, o'er some long sweep of waving 
 field. 
 
 Each knows the other's love, and words seem 
 
 vain 
 To touch so great a theme, so on they pass. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 95 
 
 Unspeaking, save to note some little bird, 
 That from the hedgerow, startled, flies athwart 
 Their path, — the good-night whisper of the 
 
 elms, 
 Or mark some daisy, fairer than the rest ; 
 And, thus the river reached, high on the bank 
 They sit, and watch its sluggish current flow. 
 And idly drift their fancies on the tide. 
 
 " See, Ruth, how clear and fairly tinged the 
 
 sky 
 Bends o'er the western hills. The mass of 
 
 cloud. 
 Chameleon tinted, on the clear sky's edge 
 Hangs motionless, it seems, and all the more 
 Brings out its radiant coloring pure and deep. 
 The w^estward is the future of each sun, 
 And may ours prove as spotless and as fair 
 As yonder crystal stretch of western sky ! 
 We'll take it for an augury, dear Ruth, 
 Of what our life will be in years to come, 
 And watch until the last tint faints and dies ! " 
 
 Ruth smiles at this, but closer draws to John, 
 This dreaming John of hers, whose dreams she 
 loves 
 
96 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 As part of him, yet scarce can understand ; 
 And, hand in hand, they turn towards the 
 
 west. 
 To wait the promise of their life to be. 
 
 They note no change, until a fainting breath 
 Bestirs the heavy, heated air, then dies. 
 Yet, in a moment, stronger moves again. 
 To stir the grass, and fret the river's flow. 
 And, suddenly, o'er all the tranquil west. 
 The feathery clouds, that until now hung high, 
 And far aloof, deep sink with inky bulk 
 To blot the sky and crush the dying day. 
 
 Then Ruth looks up with troubled eyes at 
 
 John, 
 And he, quite grave at first, assumes a smile, 
 " Ah Ruth ! we are rebuked, and justly too. 
 For doubting what was all too well assured ! 
 Our future rests not on a shifting cloud. 
 But on a love enduring to the end. 
 It needs no idle forecasting to say 
 Our love will last, and while that only lives, 
 Each day must needs seem brighter than the 
 
 last. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 97 
 
 Then both arise, warned by the gathering 
 
 gloom 
 And rising wind, and silent turn toAvard 
 
 home. 
 Yet all despite their haste, ^re once again 
 They reach the village road, the frowning sky 
 Grows blacker yet with heavy banks of cloud. 
 An instant's lull, in which the storm takes 
 
 breath, — 
 And then it sweeps upon them with full 
 
 strength. 
 Just ere the open cottage gate is reached ; 
 And with its strong arms seizes on the elms, 
 And holds their branches, straining to be free. 
 And beats the dust-cloud down itself has raised. 
 
 They hasten to the shelter of the porch ; 
 Just noting, as they run, a well-groomed steed. 
 Hitched to the little paling by the road. 
 While, ere they enter at the door, appears 
 The schoolmaster, and, standing just behind, 
 A younger figure, seeming strange to both, 
 A face, imbued with power, all weather- 
 bronzed, 
 7 
 
98 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 Witli unlined forehead, rounded, high not 
 
 broad. 
 O'er which grew black and lustrous curling 
 
 hair. 
 The face seems strange, yet something in the 
 
 eyes, 
 Dark browed and gray, a vague remembrance 
 
 brings 
 Of one long since familiar to them both. 
 " I beg ye, Harry, till the shower be o'er 
 To tarry here ! Ah ! John and Ruth at last ! " 
 Thus speaks Ruth's father : '' Step inside the 
 
 door. 
 My daughter Ruth, of whom I spoke but now. 
 And this is John. Ye went to school with him, 
 When both were boys ; and not so long ago ! 
 And, Ruth and John, this is Squire Headford's 
 
 son, 
 Ye'll be as soaked as they, man, if ye go ! " 
 Then full his eyes young Headford casts on 
 
 Ruth, 
 And, looking, yields no loth assent to stay. 
 
 All enter then a simply furnished room. 
 With fireplace broad and deep, through which 
 the wind 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 99 
 
 Now sadly moans, complaining of the storm ; 
 And, to repair the damage of the rain, 
 Ruth, now retiring, leaves them for a time. 
 
 Young Headford talked with ease, and spoke 
 
 of scenes 
 Of Avhich John liked to hear. Of Oxford life, 
 For he was fresh from academic shades, 
 And so discoursed of matters and of men. 
 And sagely generalized, that honest John 
 Much marveled at such wide experience 
 In hand with such few years, and, wond'ring, 
 
 sighed 
 To find his own life had so cramped a scope. 
 The man had tact, and Jolm was overpleased 
 To find his reading was not wondered at, 
 As was its wont, but takep as of course. 
 And that his new found friend could talk with 
 
 him, 
 And not stare open mouthed to find he knew 
 The books that farmers rarely cared to read. 
 His tone was cordial, nay, e'en over so. 
 His Avarmth, indeed, seemed almost forced at 
 
 times. 
 And more bespoke an effort of the brain. 
 Than sympathetic impulse of the heart ! 
 
100 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 We needs must know, or fancy that we know, 
 The heart within, to build up love or like ; 
 And often knowledge and a love are one. 
 So John, who felt he had not compassed yet, 
 The mould or secret of young Headford's self. 
 Disliked the man, though he could scarce say 
 
 why. 
 And when, soon after, Ruth came flutt'ring in. 
 Fresh clad in white, of stuff of tissue web. 
 With just a knot of ribbon in her hair, 
 Her cheeks still glowing from the hurried 
 
 walk, 
 He caught the glance young Headford cast 
 
 on her ; 
 Of admiration was it ? Yes, and more, — 
 A look that bade Ruth flush and droop her eyes, 
 A bare dislike quick took a warmer hue. 
 That scarce could be concealed. And when, 
 
 at last. 
 The sky gave hope of clearing, and the rain 
 Fell thin and wearily, young Headford rose, 
 And, mounting, waved good e'en, and rode 
 
 away: 
 Nor tarried John, but, troubled, turned toward 
 
 home. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 101 
 
 The slow dajs passed, with never-varying 
 
 round 
 Of homely cares ; and though, each eventide, 
 John walked with Ruth, he never spoke one 
 
 word 
 That touched young Headford, " She'll not 
 
 see the man. 
 Mayhap, for years again ; " thus reasoned 
 
 John, 
 '' It would but vex her if I spoke my thought. 
 And nothing gained ! I'll e'en forget the 
 
 whole." 
 And, kindly, nought was said, in turn, by Ruth, 
 Of that strange chance, which, every morn, had 
 
 brought 
 Young Headford riding past her cottage door, 
 At just the hour when, household cares com- 
 plete. 
 She plied her wheel within the shadowed 
 
 porch ! 
 And if he tarried just to 'change a word, 
 What mattered it to John ? — no harm in 
 
 that ! 
 She needs must talk to John of weightier 
 
 things 
 
102 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 Than such as these ! — He'd love her all the 
 more 
 
 If she spoke less of trifles ! Tender Ruth ! 
 
 And it were far more needless then to say 
 
 The thing she scarce acknowledged to her- 
 self, 
 
 The well-pleased, quicker pulsing of her 
 heart. 
 
 When, up the road, she heard his horse's 
 tread, 
 
 Exactly as the 'customed hour drew near. 
 
 And that, when only once he failed to come. 
 
 The morning dragged, and something in her 
 day 
 
 Seemed lost, and that she listless sat and 
 sighed. 
 
 And so with nothing said, John quite forgot 
 Young Headford lived, and working, hoped 
 
 and dreamed, 
 And every hope and dream had life from 
 
 Ruth. 
 Thus, having cause to grieve, he still was 
 
 glad. 
 And held these days the best he yet had lived. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 103 
 
 Each evening brought him eager to Ruth's 
 
 side. 
 No longer used she coquetry with John, 
 And had grown dearer to him, so it seemed ; 
 " I need you, John ! " she often said of late, 
 " Thou art so brave and strong, and I so 
 
 weak ! " 
 And always dwelt upon the coming time 
 When they should wed and fortune smile on 
 
 John ! 
 And thus in present calm and promised joy, 
 With nought to break their sweet tranquillitv. 
 Those long remembered happy days passed by. 
 
 This clear horizon could not last for aye. 
 And shortly, thus the first faint clouds arose ; 
 One night, a jot behind the 'customed hour 
 When Ruth would look for him, John pressed 
 
 along 
 With more than wonted hurry in his steps, 
 To save the precious moments by lier side, 
 And, as he neared the cottage, from the gate 
 Toward him sauntered Ruth, and, by her 
 
 side. 
 Young Headford ! 
 
104 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 John half stopped, surprised, while rose. 
 Renewed tenfold, the old concealed dislike 
 And vague distrust that bade him shun the 
 
 man ; 
 And while he hesitates what part to play, 
 Ruth sees him, and with ready tact descries 
 His grave, unwonted mien, and knows the 
 
 cause. 
 " We came to meet you on the way ! " she 
 
 says, 
 And smiles. Young Headford takes his hand 
 
 perforce. 
 In greeting cordial, and as though he'd found 
 The friend he valued most, but John is stirred 
 Too deeply far to be tlius easy won. 
 And coldly gives his greeting back again. 
 Nor answers to Ruth's smiles, and when the 
 
 gate 
 Is reached, young Headford frames a bald ex- 
 cuse 
 Of pressing cares at home, and turns away. 
 
 Both John and Ruth stand silently awhile, 
 For each feels wounded at the other's part. 
 Yet would not venture, on the moment's spur, 
 To speak their thought. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. " 105 
 
 At last Riitb, pouting, says, 
 " Thou drov'st our friend away by frowning so ; 
 What ails thee, John, to-night, thou art not 
 
 wont 
 To take this surly mood ! " 
 
 And John replies, 
 " The man 's no friend of mine, nor should be 
 
 thine ; 
 Thou hast no call or right to walk with him : 
 I like him not, he 's naught to thee or me ! " 
 
 '' Ah John ! he is a willing friend of thine, 
 And shows it thus. He heard my father say 
 Thou wert a scholar, and would fain be freed 
 From rustic cares, to closer con thy books, 
 And straightway, then, he offers to secure 
 Thy earnest wish, and money gained to boot ! 
 He has a friend, some twenty miles away. 
 Who'll take thee for a master to his son, 
 Where thou'lt have books, and time to read 
 
 them too ! 
 He would not bid thee hope, until 'twas done. 
 But now, the thing complete, to save thy 
 
 thanks, 
 
106 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 He bade my father tell it thee to-night ; 
 
 So blush, John, at thyself, and come within ! ' 
 
 " Mayhap, I sorely have misjudged the man ; 
 This kindly act disarms me quite," says John, 
 " And if I've wronged him in my thought or 
 
 deed, 
 I'll make amends ! " 
 
 "That sounds like John again ! " 
 Says Ruth, and, smiling, takes him by the 
 hand. 
 
 Thus came it round, that ere another month 
 Came rustling in, and mellow Autumn dawned, 
 John left his home, and had e'en now grown 
 
 old 
 In hackneyed ways, o'er which to guide his 
 
 charge, 
 Toward the cloud-veiled spring ! Dull paths 
 
 they were. 
 Thick strewn with bare-boned elements of 
 
 things. 
 That gave poor promise of the fields beyond ! 
 But John toiled on, and when his tasks were 
 
 o'er. 
 
• GOODMAN JOHN. 107 
 
 Found sweet relief in converse with the books 
 He knew and loved the best, or else would 
 
 dream 
 Of that bright goal that seemed so near him 
 
 now, 
 And from the petty stipend that he earned. 
 Built glowing possibilities for Ruth ! 
 His slender store of pounds grew infinite, 
 When fingered by his wishes or his love ! 
 And busied thus, the days sped lightly by. 
 
 Each week a love-fraught letter came from 
 
 Ruth, 
 Brought by some traveller who should chance 
 
 that way ; 
 And always grimed and crumpled though it 
 
 was. 
 From o'er close keeping in the bearer's hand, 
 John pressed the missive often to his lips. 
 And read the simple, loving woitIs thrice o'er. 
 
 And yet he took these letters, as of course. 
 Nor knew how much they really were to him, 
 Until when once a whole week dragged away. 
 And no word came ! The hours hung heavily. 
 
108 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 And when he tried to fix upon his books, 
 He scanned the page, but only read of Ruth. 
 Thus when another week had ahnost passed. 
 And brought no news to him of her he loved, 
 He framed excuse for absence for a day ; 
 And ere the golden foreglow of the sun 
 Woke o'er the eastern hills, John sought the 
 
 road, 
 And turned his steps toward Ruth and home 
 
 once more. 
 
 Nor tarries he upon the way for rest ; 
 But when the hamlet once again is reached. 
 He seeks Ruth's cottage, and doth anxious wait 
 Upon the door-stone, his first halting place. 
 Until the door is opened wide at last ; — 
 And then Ruth's father, answering his face. 
 Ere yet his lips can frame a word, doth say 
 That Ruth had wandered off an hour before. 
 Yet would return ere long. 
 
 ••' And she is well ?" 
 He anxious asks : 
 
 " She seems to miss thee, John. 
 I've often seen her tears fall fast of late, 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 109 
 
 And silently, when she has thought none by ; 
 She 's not the same she was when thou wert 
 
 here." 
 Then John, with few words more, turns 
 
 toward the farm 
 With promise to return ! 
 
 At eventide. 
 When once again he gained the cottage door, 
 Ruth welcomed him, with trembling hand, and 
 
 smile 
 Wherein a tinge of unsaid sorrow lay. 
 And drew his chair toward the glowing fire, 
 For now the nights came clear and frostily. 
 
 The master gossiped at the village inn. 
 And Ruth and John sat' hand in hand alone. 
 
 "Ah, Ruth ! thou hast forgotten me of late ! 
 No letter came ; I feared, yet knew not what ; 
 And this it is that brings me here to thee.'' 
 
 " I tried, dear John, but had no heart to write ! 
 Thou know'st my love, and why then wouldst 
 thou seek 
 
110 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 To have me tire thee with o'erfrequent words 
 On what is knoAvn so well, and held so dear ! " 
 And here Ruth drops her eyes at John's re- 
 gard, 
 And vainly strives to check the deep-dragged 
 
 sigh 
 That memory wrested from her weary heart ! 
 
 " 'Tis not like thee, to speak thus idly, Kuth ! 
 Thy least fond word is something ever dear. 
 And brighter and still dearer it becomes 
 In hallowed repetition from thy lips. — 
 We must no longer live apart, dear Ruth, 
 Our lives are now so closely interknit 
 In love and purpose, that they faint apart. 
 And crave the holy contact of the soul. 
 The inner, vital essence of all love ! 
 We'll wed anon, and live upon the farm. 
 And I'll no longer strive for gain from books, 
 A barren mine for wealth, it seems, at best. 
 And here I throw that old ambition off. 
 Another month and we'll be man and wife ! " 
 And John drew Ruth toward him as he 
 
 spoke, 
 While she hid deep her face upon his breast, 
 And wept there silently, and clung to him ! 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. Ill 
 
 But when he sought to soothe her and to find 
 
 The undisclosed reason of her grief, 
 
 She answered nought, but drew away from 
 
 him, 
 And vainly tried, through tears, to force a 
 
 smile. 
 And sought to draw his mind to other themes." 
 
 John rose at last, heart-heavy thus to find 
 Ruth's soft eyes tear-dimmed, and not know 
 
 the cause. 
 And she held close to him, as loth to part ; 
 And on the threshold, fixing on his face, 
 A look of love and troubled doubt and fear, 
 Made effort once, as though she fain would 
 
 speak 
 Some hidden, inner thought, but no words 
 
 came. 
 Then bowed her head, and sighed so wearily ! 
 
 " Good-night, dear John ! When next ye see 
 
 my face, 
 'Twill bear no grief to fret ye with ; no 
 
 tears ! " 
 And when John gained the road, and turned 
 
 toward home — 
 
112 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 All grave, and with a strange, dull sense of loss 
 And loneliness within his troubled heart, — 
 He turned to see Ruth, still within the door. 
 The moonlight fell upon her upturned face. 
 Where dawning marks of pain were dimly 
 
 lined, 
 While heavenward her tearful eyes were 
 
 cast ! — 
 John took that moonlit picture to his grave ! 
 
 Again he sought . his books, and strove to 
 find 
 
 Forge tfulness in round of wearying cares ; 
 
 For now no longer came those fancies fair 
 
 Whene'er he thought of Euth, but, in their 
 stead. 
 
 Grotesque and gloomy pictures filled his brain ; 
 
 Yet all in vain, he could not master thought ! 
 
 And ever came a pale and sorrowing face. 
 
 With tear-dimmed eyes before him as he 
 read ; 
 
 And every thought was tinged with some 
 dread gloom ; 
 
 And ever turned each dawning thought to- 
 iler ! 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 113 
 
 Thus each dull clay dragged heavier than the 
 
 last, 
 Until one leaden morning, when the wind 
 Moaned low and drearily from slaty clouds. 
 And breathed a vague unrest through all his 
 
 soul. 
 He left his tasks, and sought his patron out. 
 And told him of his wish to turn towards home. 
 And meeting every urgent ground to stay, 
 With but the simple answer, " I must go ! " 
 He took his pack, and sought the frosty road ! 
 
 'Twas late before he got upon his way. 
 And thus the short, drear day was nearly spent. 
 When, in the valley just before him, showed 
 The little hamlet on the river side. 
 The low clouds darkly hung o'er all around. 
 And all seemed gray and dead and desolate. 
 And brought no 'customed, joyous thought to 
 him. 
 
 The village street seemed empty as he passed ; 
 No loungers gathered at the garden gates ; 
 The busy forge, where constant labor plied,, 
 Gave out no ring of echoing hammer-stroke ;• 
 
114 GOODxMAN JOHN. 
 
 And from the inn, no single sound was heard, 
 Whence ever, as he passed, was wont to come 
 A cheerful undertone that S23oke content 
 And drowsy comfort of the guests within ! 
 A deathly blight seemed fallen on the place ! 
 
 But now the jar of slowly moving wheels. 
 
 Not far away, struck on his ready ear ; 
 
 And shortly, from the hedge-fringed, grassy 
 
 lane. 
 Wherein so often he had walked with Ruth, 
 Upon the highroad toward him slowly came 
 A creaking wagon and a noiseless crowd ; 
 A hush hung over all, and every face 
 A startled look of some great trouble bore ! 
 
 And while John stood, deep wondering at the 
 
 scene. 
 Some saw liim there and knew him at a 
 
 glance ; 
 At which a buzzing murmur rose and grew. 
 The wagon stopped, and then the close-drawn 
 
 crowd. 
 About it intermingled, came and went 
 Like busy ants ! — But just a moment thus. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 115 
 
 And then, the earnest consultation o'er, 
 The rude wheels turned, and all moved on 
 again. 
 
 John nears the crowd, yet halts again to find 
 
 That old familiar faces turn from him ; 
 
 And that each e^^e is dropped at meeting his. 
 
 Nor can he muster words to find the cause 
 
 That brings together all this pallid train ! 
 
 He stands bewildered, wondering if he dreams, 
 
 Until one, braver, and from that more keen 
 
 Than all the rest in sensibility, 
 
 A rough man, too, from outward mould he 
 
 seemed. 
 Draws close to John and lays upon his arm 
 A spreading, horny hand, not roughly though. 
 But gently as a mother's touch is made. 
 And slowl}^, pityingly, thus speaks at last : 
 '' Thou art a true man, John, and brave I wot. 
 But thou hast need of all thy strength of heart ; 
 There 's bad news for thee, man I Aye, bitter 
 
 news ! 
 It touches all, but strikes thee harder yet ! 
 'Tis hard to speak it, John, a sorry task ! 
 Thy sweetheart, John ! Thou know'st what 1 
 
 w^ould say I 
 
116 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 We found her body by the river bank ! 
 One moment yet, man ! Brace thyself and 
 look ! "' 
 
 John speaks not ; and doth hold the speak- 
 er's face 
 
 With eyes whence all the light and soul has 
 fled; 
 
 And then, while o'er his frame a tremor 
 passed. 
 
 Drew toward the wagon, through the open- 
 ing crowd. 
 
 With heavy step, and scanned, with haggard 
 eyes, 
 
 The burden there : his Ruth, with upturned 
 face. 
 
 From which each trace of pain and sorrow's 
 lines 
 
 The hand of restful Death had lightly 
 smoothed. 
 
 Beneath her head some tender hand had laid 
 
 A jerkin rough, and, seeming as in sleep 
 
 One arm lay lightly bended o'er her face, 
 
 And wet and matted lay her silken hair. 
 
 Decked here and there with sprays of river 
 weed. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 117 
 
 John coldly looked, and gave no single sign, 
 
 By word or passing shadow of the face. 
 
 Of all the sore, dull sense that numbed his 
 
 heart, — 
 His sorrow lay within, too deep and dark ! 
 But when at last before the cottage gate 
 The wagon stopped, John checked each will- 
 ing hand 
 That fain had helped him, and with reverent 
 
 care 
 Bore in his arms alone the yielding form 
 Of her but now he thought of as a bride, 
 And laid her lightly, tenderly within ! 
 
 Then, as he sloAvly turns to move apart. 
 
 To 'scape the gaze and pressure of the crowd 
 
 Which follow close, comes thrust into his hand 
 
 A scrap of folded paper, closely sealed ! 
 
 He looks and sees Ruth's father by his side : — 
 
 " It is for thee, John ! 'twas this morning 
 
 found 
 Within her room ; " and here he fails for 
 
 grief. 
 
 John breaks the seal, and reads with throb- 
 bing brain 
 
118 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 These parting words, in Ruth's strained, girl- 
 ish hand : 
 '' Fare^Yell, my love ; I dare not, cannot live 
 To meet thy trusting, tender eyes again. 
 And know myself so false, so darkly lost, 
 And thee so true ! Ah ! had I heeded, John, 
 Thy timeW word that bade me shun that 
 
 man ! 
 Forget me, thus unworthy of thy love ; 
 Or, if in time thy memory should recall 
 Some clouded thought of me, deal gently then 
 In judgment of my sin, and if thy heart 
 Can open to my prayer, forgive the one 
 Who once had dared to call herself thy 
 Ruth ! " 
 
 He reads the paper over once again, 
 
 Ere yet the full, dread import of the words 
 
 Strikes to his heart ! And, then, with bended 
 
 head. 
 Crushed by the truth the letter has disclosed. 
 He stands a moment motionless, then turns 
 To where the body lay, and speaks to Ruth, 
 As though she Avere not dead, in husky tone : 
 " In coming time, not now, I can forgive. 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 119 
 
 But never all the change nor years to come 
 
 Can cloud this cruel recollection out ! " 
 
 And then he passes from the darkened room ! 
 
 Some direful purpose darkens on his brow, 
 
 As eagerly he presses up the road, 
 
 Nor heeds the biting of the autumn wind. 
 
 So hotly runs the current of his heart. 
 
 So fierce the maddened pulsing of his brain. 
 
 Wherein doth dwell but one hard vengeful 
 
 thought, 
 Whose cruel lustre blinds his struggling soul ! 
 
 He nears the sombre mansion on the hill, 
 Wherein the Squire doth dwell ; yet at the 
 
 door 
 A moment pauses, at the whispered voice 
 Just faintly heard within, that bids him fly 
 Ere execution follows on his thought ! 
 But then the rushing impulse of his heart 
 O'ermasters all, and with his clenched hand 
 He beats his echoing summons at the door. 
 
 Nor waits he long, for readily swings wide 
 On noiseless hinge, the hospitable oak, 
 
120 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 And he who waited for his word within, 
 Starts, glancing at the stranger's paUid face 
 And sunken eyes, turned heavily afar 
 Toward the thickening night. John noted 
 
 not, — 
 So eagerly his circling thoughts swept on, — 
 The open door, till startled by the voice 
 That asked his errand there ! 
 
 '* Young master 's gone " — 
 The man says, answering his half-formed 
 
 words — 
 ^^ To foreign lands, these two weeks since and 
 
 more ! " 
 Then John turns slowly, silently away. 
 And aimless now, makes toward the road 
 
 again. 
 But soon his limbs grow heavy, and his brain 
 Is darkly filled with some dread impotence 
 That clouds out thought, till by the hedgerow 
 
 bare 
 He prostrate sinks and yields up conscious- 
 ness ! 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 121 
 
 For weeks John tossed upon the sunless sea, 
 The waste, wide-stretching, 'twixt the shadowy 
 
 shores 
 Of life and death, till slowly drifted on, 
 By kindly currents, back to health and 
 
 strength ; 
 And then they broke to him with tender care. 
 The tearful story of his father's death, 
 O'erborne by all the sorrow of his son ! 
 
 Then, with this last bond broken, all his heart 
 Turned heavenward, to things immutable ; 
 And this new passion flooding all his soul. 
 He chafed beneath the narrow, cramping yoke 
 Of form and close knit dogma of the church ; 
 And hearing of a little band, who held 
 What seemed a purer doctrine to his soul, 
 And sought asylum far beyond the seas. 
 He sold his all, and threw his lot with theirs ! 
 
 Within his journal's leaves of aftertime. 
 Grows frequent mention of a pleasant name, 
 A name the daughters of our race still wear. 
 And, farther on, I chanced upon this rhyme 
 In Goodman John's own clear-wrought 
 rounded hand ! 
 
122 GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 AN APRIL RHYME. 
 
 The clouds hang dark and low ; 
 
 The leafless trees, and dead brown earth, 
 
 A lifeless prospect show, 
 
 A prospect full of woe ! 
 
 Yet something in the air gives birth 
 
 To summer thoughts of green, 
 
 A something all unseen, 
 
 A breath that speaks of buds and bloom. 
 
 And song of birds in store ! 
 
 II. 
 
 We feel the earth but feigns 
 
 The dreary face of shriveled death. 
 
 And that the hot blood strains 
 
 E'en now within her veins. 
 
 And that anon her od'rous breath 
 
 Will fan to life the flowers ! 
 
 She rests through all these hours. 
 
 That when she smiles and breaks the gloom. 
 
 We'll know her worth the more ! "^ 
 
GOODMAN JOHN. 
 
 123 
 
 III. 
 When hearts seem dull and cold, 
 And trouble's blast doth chill the breast, 
 Cease not this thought to hold ; 
 And with it rest consoled. 
 Then liear that whisper blest, 
 That voice within, which says, 
 '^ Heed not these troublous days, 
 Nor let thy soul with cares consume ! 
 Thy summers are not o'er ! " 
 
?. 
 
 
 °o 
 
 
 ^°^*. 
 
 

m0-