Laughing, the Critic bowed. "I yield The point without another word; Who ever yet a case appealed Where beauty's judgment had been heard?
And you, my good friend, owe to me Your warmest thanks for such a plea, As true withal as sweet. For my offence Of cavil, let her words be ample recompense."
Across the sea one lighthouse star, With crimson ray that came and went, Revolving on its tower afar, Looked through the doorway of the tent.
While outward, over sand-slopes wet, The lamp flashed down its yellow jet On the long wash of waves, with red and green Tangles of weltering weed through the white foam-wreaths seen.
"Sing while we may,--another day May bring enough of sorrow;'--thus Our Traveller in his own sweet lay, His Crimean camp-song, hints to us,"
The lady said. "So let it be; Sing us a song," exclaimed all three.
She smiled: "I can but marvel at your choice To hear our poet's words through my poor borrowed voice."
Her window opens to the bay, On glistening light or misty gray, And there at dawn and set of day In prayer she kneels.
"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a borne From wind and wave the wanderers come; I only see the tossing foam Of stranger keels.
"Blown out and in by summer gales, The stately ships, with crowded sails, And sailors leaning o'er their rails, Before me glide; They come, they go, but nevermore, Spice-laden from the Indian shore, I see his swift-winged Isidore The waves divide.
"O Thou! with whom the night is day And one the near and far away, Look out on yon gray waste, and say Where lingers he.
Alive, perchance, on some lone beach Or thirsty isle beyond the reach Of man, he hears the mocking speech Of wind and sea.
"O dread and cruel deep, reveal The secret which thy waves conceal, And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel And tell your tale.
Let winds that tossed his raven hair A message from my lost one bear,-- Some thought of me, a last fond prayer Or dying wail!
"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out The fears that haunt me round about; O God! I cannot bear this doubt That stifles breath.
The worst is better than the dread; Give me but leave to mourn my dead Asleep in trust and hope, instead Of life in death!"
It might have been the evening breeze That whispered in the garden trees, It might have been the sound of seas That rose and fell; But, with her heart, if not her ear, The old loved voice she seemed to hear "I wait to meet thee: be of cheer, For all is well!"
1865
The sweet voice into silence went, A silence which was almost pain As through it rolled the long lament, The cadence of the mournful main.
Glancing his written pages o'er, The Reader tried his part once more; Leaving the land of hackmatack and pine For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine.
THE BROTHER OF MERCY.
Piero Luca, known of all the town As the gray porter by the Pitti wall Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall, Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down His last sad burden, and beside his mat The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.
Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted, Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted; Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife, In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life But when at last came upward from the street Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet, The sick man started, strove to rise in vain, Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.
And the monk said, "'T is but the Brotherhood Of Mercy going on some errand good Their black masks by the palace-wall I see."
Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me!
This day for the first time in forty years In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears, Calling me with my brethren of the mask, Beggar and prince alike, to some new task Of love or pity,--haply from the street To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain, To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, Down the long twilight of the corridors, Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain.
I loved the work: it was its own reward.
I never counted on it to offset My sins, which are many, or make less my debt To the free grace and mercy of our Lord; But somehow, father, it has come to be In these long years so much a part of me, I should not know myself, if lacking it, But with the work the worker too would die, And in my place some other self would sit Joyful or sad,--what matters, if not I?
And now all's over. Woe is me!"--"My son,"
The monk said soothingly, "thy work is done; And no more as a servant, but the guest Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest.
No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost, Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown Forever and forever."--Piero tossed On his sick-pillow: "Miserable me!
I am too poor for such grand company; The crown would be too heavy for this gray Old head; and God forgive me if I say It would be hard to sit there night and day, Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought, Not for bread only, but for pity's sake.
I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake, Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head, Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead.
And if one goes to heaven without a heart, God knows he leaves behind his better part.
I love my fellow-men: the worst I know I would do good to. Will death change me so That I shall sit among the lazy saints, Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset, Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness?
Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin!) The world of pain were better, if therein One's heart might still be human, and desires Of natural pity drop upon its fires Some cooling tears."
Thereat the pale monk crossed His brow, and, muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!"
Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone, The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!"
Then was he made aware, by soul or ear, Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him, And of a voice like that of her who bore him, Tender and most compassionate: "Never fear!
For heaven is love, as God himself is love; Thy work below shall be thy work above."
And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place He saw the shining of an angel's face!
1864.
The Traveller broke the pause. "I've seen The Brothers down the long street steal, Black, silent, masked, the crowd between, And felt to doff my hat and kneel With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, For blessings on their pious care."
Reader wiped his glasses: "Friends of mine, I'll try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign wine."
THE CHANGELING.
For the fairest maid in Hampton They needed not to search, Who saw young Anna Favor Come walking into church,
Or bringing from the meadows, At set of harvest-day, The frolic of the blackbirds, The sweetness of the hay.
Now the weariest of all mothers, The saddest two-years bride, She scowls in the face of her husband, And spurns her child aside.
"Rake out the red coals, goodman,-- For there the child shall lie, Till the black witch comes to fetch her And both up chimney fly.
"It's never my own little daughter, It's never my own," she said; "The witches have stolen my Anna, And left me an imp instead.
"Oh, fair and sweet was my baby, Blue eyes, and hair of gold; But this is ugly and wrinkled, Cross, and cunning, and old.
"I hate the touch of her fingers, I hate the feel of her skin; It's not the milk from my bosom, But my blood, that she sucks in.
"My face grows sharp with the torment; Look! my arms are skin and bone!
Rake open the red coals, goodman, And the witch shall have her own.
"She 'll come when she hears it crying, In the shape of an owl or bat, And she'll bring us our darling Anna In place of her screeching brat."
Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, Laid his hand upon her head "Thy sorrow is great, O woman!
I sorrow with thee," he said.
"The paths to trouble are many, And never but one sure way Leads out to the light beyond it My poor wife, let us pray."