Читать книгу Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XI.—April, 1851—Vol. II. - Various - Страница 11

All amid the summer roses

In his garden, with his wife,

Sate the cheerful Thomas Harlowe,

Glancing backward through his life.

Woodlarks in the trees were singing,

And the breezes, low and sweet,

Wafted down laburnum blossoms,

Like an offering, at his feet.

There he sate, good Thomas Harlowe,

Living o'er the past in thought;

And old griefs, like mountain summits,

Golden hues of sunset caught.

Thus he spake: "The truest poet

Is the one whose touch reveals

Those deep springs of human feeling

Which the conscious heart conceals.

"Human nature's living fountains,

Ever-flowing, round us lie,

Yet the poets seek their waters

As from cisterns old and dry.

"Hence they seldom write, my Ellen,

Aught so full of natural woe,

As that song which thy good uncle

Made so many years ago.

"My sweet wife, my life's companion,

Canst thou not recall the time

When we sate beneath the lilacs,

Listening to that simple rhyme?

"I was then just five-and-twenty,

Young in years, but old in sooth;

Hopeless love had dimmed my manhood,

Care had saddened all my youth.

"But that touching, simple ballad,

Which thy uncle writ and read,

Like the words of God, creative,

Gave a life unto the dead.

"And thenceforth have been so blissful

All our days, so calm, so bright,

That it seems like joy to linger

O'er my young life's early blight.

"Easy was my father's temper,

And his being passed along

Like a streamlet 'neath the willows,

Lapsing to the linnet's song.

"With the scholar's tastes and feelings,

He had all he asked of life

In his books and in his garden,

In his child, and gentle wife.

"He was for the world unfitted;

For its idols knew no love;

And, without the serpent's wisdom

Was as guileless as the dove.

"Such men are the schemer's victims.

Trusting to a faithless guide,

He was lured on to his ruin,

And a hopeless bankrupt died.

"Short had been my father's sorrow;

He had not the strength to face

What was worse than altered fortune,

Or than faithless friends – disgrace.

"He had not the strength to combat

Through the adverse ranks of life;

In his prime he died, heart-broken,

Leaving unto us the strife.

"I was then a slender stripling,

Full of life, and hope, and joy;

But, at once, the cares of manhood

Crushed the spirit of the boy.

"Woman oft than man is stronger

Where are inner foes to quell,

And my mother rose triumphant,

When my father, vanquished, fell.

"All we had we gave up freely,

That on him might rest less blame;

And, without a friend in London,

In the winter, hither came.

"To the world-commanding London,

Came as atoms, nothing worth;

'Mid the strift of myriad workers,

Our small efforts to put forth.

"Oh, the hero-strength of woman,

When her strong affection pleads,

When she tasks her to endurance

In the path where duty leads!

"Fair my mother was and gentle,

Reared 'mid wealth, of good descent,

One who, till our time of trial,

Ne'er had known what hardship meant.

"Now she toiled. Her skillful needle

Many a wondrous fabric wrought,

Which the loom could never equal,

And which wealthy ladies bought.

"Meantime I, among the merchants

Found employment; saw them write,

Brooding over red-lined ledgers,

Ever gain, from morn till night.

"Or amid the crowded shipping

Of the great world's busy hive,

Saw the wealth of both the Indies,

For their wealthier marts, arrive

"So we lived without repining,

Toiling, toiling, week by week;

But I saw her silent sufferings

By the pallor of her cheek.

"Love like mine was eagle sighted;

Vainly did she strive to keep

All her sufferings from my knowledge,

And to lull my fears to sleep.

"Well I knew her days were numbered;

And, as she approached her end,

Stronger grew the love between us,

Doubly was she parent – friend!

"God permitted that her spirit

Should through stormy floods be led,

That she might converse with angels

While she toiled for daily bread.

"Wondrous oft were her communings,

As of one to life new-born,

When I watched beside her pillow,

'Twixt the midnight and the morn.

"Still she lay through one long Sabbath,

But as evening closed she woke,

And like one amazed with sorrow,

Thus with pleading voice she spoke:

"'God will give whate'er is needful;

Will sustain from day to day;

This I know – yet worldly fetters

Keep me still a thrall to clay!

"'Oh, my son, from these world-shackles

Only thou canst set me free!'

'Speak thy wish,' said I, 'my mother,

Lay thy lov'd commands on me!'

"As if strength were given unto her

For some purpose high, she spake:

'I have toiled, and – like a miser —

Hoarded, hoarded for thy sake.

"'Not for sordid purpose hoarded,

But to free from outward blame,

From the tarnish of dishonor,

Thy dead father's sacred name,

"'And I lay on thee this duty —

'Tis my last request, my son —

Lay on thee this solemn duty

Which I die and leave undone!

"'Promise, that thy dearest wishes,

Pleasure, profit, shall be naught,

Until, to the utmost farthing,

Thou this purpose shalt have wrought!'

"And I promised. All my being

Freely, firmly answered, yea!

Thus absolved, her angel-spirit,

Breathing blessings, passed away.

"Once more in the noisy, jostling

Human crowd; I seemed to stand,

Like to him who goes to battle,

With his life within his hand.

"All things wore a different aspect;

I was now mine own no more:

Pleasure, wealth, the smile of woman

All a different meaning bore.

"Thus I toiled – though young, not youthful

Ever mingling in the crowd,

Yet apart; my life, my labor,

To a solemn purpose vowed.

"Yet even duty had its pleasure,

And I proudly kept apart;

Lord of all my weaker feelings;

Monarch of my subject heart.

"Foolish boast! My pride of purpose

Proved itself a feeble thing,

When thy uncle brought me hither,

In the pleasant time of Spring.

"Said he, 'Thou hast toiled too closely;

Thou shalt breathe our country air;

Thou shalt come to us on Sundays,

And thy failing health repair!'

"Now began my hardest trial.

What had I with love to do?

Loving thee was sin 'gainst duty,

And 'gainst thy good uncle too!

"Until now my heart was cheerful;

Duty had been light till now,

– Oh that I were free to woo thee;

That my heart had known no vow!

"Yet, I would not shrink from duty;

Nor my vow leave unfulfilled!

– Still, still, had my mother known thee,

Would she thus have sternly willed?

"Wherefore did my angel-mother

Thus enforce her dying prayer?

– Yet what right had I to seek thee,

Thou, thy uncle's wealthy heir!

"Thus my spirit cried within me;

And that inward strife began,

That wild warfare of the feelings

Which lays waste the life of man.

"In such turmoil of the spirit,

Feeble is our human strength;

Life seems stripped of all its glory:

– Yet was duty lord at length.

"So at least I deemed. But meeting

Toward the pleasant end of May

With thy uncle, here he brought me,

I who long had kept away.

"He was willful, thy good uncle;

I was such a stranger grown;

I must go to hear the reading

Of a ballad of his own.

"Willing to be won, I yielded.

Canst thou not that eve recall,

When the lilacs were in blossom,

And the sunshine lay o'er all?

"On the bench beneath the lilacs,

Sate we; and thy uncle read

That sweet, simple, wondrous ballad,

Which my own heart's woe portrayed.

"'Twas a simple tale of nature —

Of a lowly youth who gave

All his heart to one above him,

Loved, and filled an early grave.

"But the fine tact of the poet

Laid the wounded spirit bare,

Breathed forth all the silent anguish

Of the breaking heart's despair.

"'Twas as if my soul had spoken,

And at once I seemed to know,

Through the poet's voice prophetic,

What the issue of my woe.

"Later, walking in the evening

Through the shrubbery, thou and I,

With the woodlarks singing round us,

And the full moon in the sky;

"Thou, my Ellen, didst reproach me,

For that I had coldly heard

That sweet ballad of thy uncle's,

Nor responded by a word.

"Said I, 'If that marvelous ballad

Did not seem my heart to touch;

It was not from want of feeling,

But because it felt too much.'

"And even as the rod of Moses

Called forth water from the rock;

So did now thy sweet reproaches

All my secret heart unlock.

"And my soul lay bare before thee;

And I told thee all; how strove,

As in fierce and dreary conflict,

My stern duty and my love.

"All I told thee – of my parents,

Of my angel-mother's fate;

Of the vow by which she bound me;

Of my present low estate.

"All I told thee, while the woodlarks

Filled with song the evening breeze,

And bright gushes of the moonlight

Fell upon us through the trees.

"And thou murmured'st, oh! my Ellen,

In a voice so sweet and low;

'Would that I had known thy mother.

Would that I might soothe thy woe!'

"Ellen, my sweet, life's companion!

From my being's inmost core

Then I blessed thee; but I bless thee,

Bless thee, even now, still more!

"For, as in the days chivalric

Ladies armed their knights for strife,

So didst thou, with thy true counsel,

Arm me for the fight of life.

"Saidst thou, 'No, thou must not waver,

Ever upright must thou stand:

Even in duty's hardest peril,

All thy weapons in thy hand.

"'Doing still thy utmost, utmost;

Never resting till thou'rt free! —

But, if e'er thy soul is weary,

Or discouraged – think of me!'

"And again thy sweet voice murmured,

In a low and thrilling tone;

'I have loved thee, truly loved thee,

Though that love was all unknown!

"'And the sorrows and the trials

Which thy youth in bondage hold,

Make thee to my heart yet dearer

Than if thou hadst mines of gold!

"'Go forth – pay thy debt to duty;

And when thou art nobly free,

He shall know, my good old uncle,

Of the love 'twixt thee and me!'

"Ellen, thou wast my good angel!

Once again in life I strove —

But the hardest task was easy,

In the light and strength of love.

"And, when months had passed on swiftly,

Canst thou not that hour recall —

'Twas a Christmas Sabbath evening —

When we told thy uncle all?

"Good old uncle! I can see him,

With those calm and loving eyes,

Smiling on us as he listened,

Silent, yet with no surprise.

"And when once again the lilacs

Blossom'd, in the merry May,

And the woodlarks sang together,

Came our happy marriage day.

"My sweet Ellen, then I blessed thee

As my young and wealthy wife,

But I knew not half the blessings

With which thou wouldst dower my life!"

Here he ceased, good Thomas Harlowe;

And as soon as ceased his voice —

That sweet chorusing of woodlarks

Made the silent night rejoice.