Like Islam's symbol-moon it gives Hints of the light whereby it lives Somewhat of goodness, something true From sun and spirit shining through All faiths, all worlds, as through the dark Of ocean shines the lighthouse spark, Attests the presence everywhere Of love and providential care.
The faith the old Norse heart confessed In one dear name,--the hopefulest And tenderest heard from mortal lips In pangs of birth or death, from ships Ice-bitten in the winter sea, Or lisped beside a mother's knee,-- The wiser world hath not outgrown, And the All-Father is our own!"
NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON.
NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of old Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds And the relentless smiting of the waves, Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream Of a good angel dropping in his hand A fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of God.
He rose and went forth with the early day Far inland, where the voices of the waves Mellowed and Mingled with the whispering leaves, As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods, He searched his traps. Therein nor beast nor bird He found; though meanwhile in the reedy pools The otter plashed, and underneath the pines The partridge drummed: and as his thoughts went back To the sick wife and little child at home, What marvel that the poor man felt his faith Too weak to bear its burden,--like a rope That, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks above The hand that grasps it. "Even now, O Lord!
Send me," he prayed, "the angel of my dream!
Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot wait."
Even as he spake he heard at his bare feet A low, metallic clink, and, looking down, He saw a dainty purse with disks of gold Crowding its silken net. Awhile he held The treasure up before his eyes, alone With his great need, feeling the wondrous coins Slide through his eager fingers, one by one.
So then the dream was true. The angel brought One broad piece only; should he take all these?
Who would be wiser, in the blind, dumb woods?
The loser, doubtless rich, would scarcely miss This dropped crumb from a table always full.
Still, while he mused, he seemed to hear the cry Of a starved child; the sick face of his wife Tempted him. Heart and flesh in fierce revolt Urged the wild license of his savage youth Against his later scruples. Bitter toil, Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, and pitiless eyes To watch his halting,--had he lost for these The freedom of the woods;--the hunting-grounds Of happy spirits for a walled-in heaven Of everlasting psalms? One healed the sick Very far off thousands of moons ago Had he not prayed him night and day to come And cure his bed-bound wife? Was there a hell?
Were all his fathers' people writhing there-- Like the poor shell-fish set to boil alive-- Forever, dying never? If he kept This gold, so needed, would the dreadful God Torment him like a Mohawk's captive stuck With slow-consuming splinters? Would the saints And the white angels dance and laugh to see him Burn like a pitch-pine torch? His Christian garb Seemed falling from him; with the fear and shame Of Adam naked at the cool of day, He gazed around. A black snake lay in coil On the hot sand, a crow with sidelong eye Watched from a dead bough. All his Indian lore Of evil blending with a convert's faith In the supernal terrors of the Book, He saw the Tempter in the coiling snake And ominous, black-winged bird; and all the while The low rebuking of the distant waves Stole in upon him like the voice of God Among the trees of Eden. Girding up His soul's loins with a resolute hand, he thrust The base thought from him: "Nauhaught, be a man Starve, if need be; but, while you live, look out From honest eyes on all men, unashamed.
God help me! I am deacon of the church, A baptized, praying Indian! Should I do This secret meanness, even the barken knots Of the old trees would turn to eyes to see it, The birds would tell of it, and all the leaves Whisper above me: 'Nauhaught is a thief!'
The sun would know it, and the stars that hide Behind his light would watch me, and at night Follow me with their sharp, accusing eyes.
Yea, thou, God, seest me!" Then Nauhaught drew Closer his belt of leather, dulling thus The pain of hunger, and walked bravely back To the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea; And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily asked "Who hath lost aught to-day?"
"I," said a voice; "Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse, My daughter's handiwork." He looked, and to One stood before him in a coat of frieze, And the glazed hat of a seafaring man, Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered, with no trace of wings.
Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger's hand The silken web, and turned to go his way.
But the man said: "A tithe at least is yours; Take it in God's name as an honest man."
And as the deacon's dusky fingers closed Over the golden gift, "Yea, in God's name I take it, with a poor man's thanks," he said.
So down the street that, like a river of sand, Ran, white in sunshine, to the summer sea, He sought his home singing and praising God; And when his neighbors in their careless way Spoke of the owner of the silken purse-- A Wellfleet skipper, known in every port That the Cape opens in its sandy wall-- He answered, with a wise smile, to himself "I saw the angel where they see a man."
1870.
THE SISTERS.
ANNIE and Rhoda, sisters twain, Woke in the night to the sound of rain,
The rush of wind, the ramp and roar Of great waves climbing a rocky shore.
Annie rose up in her bed-gown white, And looked out into the storm and night.
"Hush, and hearken!" she cried in fear, "Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?"
"I hear the sea, and the plash of rain, And roar of the northeast hurricane.
"Get thee back to the bed so warm, No good comes of watching a storm.
"What is it to thee, I fain would know, That waves are roaring and wild winds blow?
"No lover of thine's afloat to miss The harbor-lights on a night like this."
"But I heard a voice cry out my name, Up from the sea on the wind it came.
"Twice and thrice have I heard it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!"
On her pillow the sister tossed her head.
"Hall of the Heron is safe," she said.
"In the tautest schooner that ever swam He rides at anchor in Anisquam.
"And, if in peril from swamping sea Or lee shore rocks, would he call on thee?"
But the girl heard only the wind and tide, And wringing her small white hands she cried,
"O sister Rhoda, there's something wrong; I hear it again, so loud and long.
"'Annie! Annie!' I hear it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!"
Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame, "Thou liest! He never would call thy name!
"If he did, I would pray the wind and sea To keep him forever from thee and me!"
Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast; Like the cry of a dying man it passed.
The young girl hushed on her lips a groan, But through her tears a strange light shone,--
The solemn joy of her heart's release To own and cherish its love in peace.
"Dearest!" she whispered, under breath, "Life was a lie, but true is death.
"The love I hid from myself away Shall crown me now in the light of day.
"My ears shall never to wooer list, Never by lover my lips be kissed.
"Sacred to thee am I henceforth, Thou in heaven and I on earth!"
She came and stood by her sister's bed "Hall of the Heron is dead!" she said.
"The wind and the waves their work have done, We shall see him no more beneath the sun.
"Little will reek that heart of thine, It loved him not with a love like mine.
"I, for his sake, were he but here, Could hem and 'broider thy bridal gear,
"Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet, And stitch for stitch in my heart be set.
"But now my soul with his soul I wed; Thine the living, and mine the dead!"
1871.