Kathrina—A Poem

Thou lovely vale of sweetest stream that flows: Winding and willow-fringed Connecticut! Swift to thy fairest scenes my fancy flies, As I recall the story of a life Which there began in years of sinless hope, And merged maturely into hopeless sin.

O! golden dawning of a day of storms, That fell ere noontide into rayless night! O! beautiful initial, vermeil-flowered, And bright with cherub-eyes and effigies, To the black-letter volume of my life! O! faƫry gateway, gilt and garlanded, And shining in the sun, to gloomy groves Of shadowy cypress, and to sunless streams, Feeding with bane the deadly nightshade's roots,-- To vexing labyrinths of doubt and fear, And deep abysses of despair and death! Back to thy peaceful villages and fields, My memory, like a weary pilgrim, comes With scrip and burdon, to repose awhile,-- To pluck a daisy from a lonely grave Where long ago, in common sepulture, I laid my mother and my faith in God; To fix the record of a single day So memorably wonderful and sweet Its power of inspiration lingers still,-- So full of her dear presence, so divine With the melodious breathing of her words, And the warm radiance of her loving smile, That tears fall readily as April rain At its recall; to pass in swift review The years of adolescence, and the paths Of glare and gloom through which, by passion led I reached the fair possession of my power, And won the dear possession of my love, And then--farewell!

Queen-village of the meads Fronting the sunrise and in beauty throned, With jewelled homes around her lifted brow, And coronal of ancient forest trees-- Northampton sits, and rules her pleasant realm. There where the saintly Edwards heralded The terrors of the Lord, and men bowed low Beneath the menace of his awful words; And there where Nature, with a thousand tongues Tender and true, from vale and mountain-top, And smiling streams, and landscapes piled afar, Proclaimed a gentler Gospel, I was born.

In an old home, beneath an older elm-- A fount of weeping greenery, that dripped Its spray of rain and dew upon the roof-- I opened eyes on life; and now return, Among the visions of my early years, Two so distinct that all the rest grow dim: My mother's pale, fond face and tearful eyes, Bent upon me in Love's absorbing trance, From the low window where she watched my play; And, after this, the wondrous elm, that seemed To my young fancy like an airy bosk, Poised by a single stem upon the earth, And thronged by instant marvels. There in Spring I heard with joy the cheery blue-bird's note; There sang rejoicing robins after rain; And there within the emerald twilight, which Defied the mid-day sun, from bough to bough-- A torch of downy flame--the oriole Passed to his nest, to feed the censer-fires Which Love had lit for Airs of Heaven to swing. There, too, through all the weird September-eves I heard the harsh, reiterant katydids Rasp the mysterious silence. There I watched The glint of stars, playing at hide-and-seek Behind the swaying foliage, till drawn By tender hands to childhood's balmy rest. My Mother and the elm! Too soon I learned That o'er me hung, and o'er the widowed one Who gave me birth, with broader boughs, Haunted by sabler wings and sadder sounds, A darker shadow than the mighty elm! I caught the secret in the street from those Who pointed at me as I passed, or paused To gaze in sighing pity on my play; From playmates who, forbidden to divulge The knowledge they possessed, with childish tricks Of indirection strove in vain to hide Their awful meaning in unmeaning phrase; From kisses which were pitiful; from words Gentler than love's because compassionate; From deep, unconscious sighs out of the heart Of her who loved me best, and from her tears That freest flowed when I was happiest. From frailest filaments of evidence, From dark allusions faintly overheard, From hint and look and sudden change of theme When I approached, from widely scattered words Remembered well, and gathered all at length Into consistent terms, I know not how I wrought the full conclusion, nor how young. I only know that when a little child I learned, though no one told, that he who gave My life to me in madness took his own-- Took it from fear of want, though he possessed The finest fortune in the rich old town.

Thenceforth I had a secret which I kept-- Kept by my mother with as close a tongue-- A secret which embittered every cup. It bred rebellion in me--filled my soul, Opening to life in innocent delight, With baleful doubt and harrowing distrust. Why, if my father was the godly man His gentle widow vouched with tender tears, Did He to whom she bowed in daily prayer-- Who loved us, as she told me, with a love Ineffable for strength and tenderness-- Permit such fate to him, such woe to us? Ah! many a time, repeating on my knees The simple language of my evening prayer Which her dear lips had taught me, came the dark Perplexing question, stirring in my heart A sense of guilt, or quenching all my faith. This, too, I kept a secret. I had died Rather than breathe the question in her ears Who knelt beside me. I had rather died Than add a sorrow to the load she bore. Taught to be true, I played the hypocrite In truthfulness to her. I had no God, Nor penitence, nor loyalty nor love; For any being higher than herself. Jealous of all to whom she gave her hand, I clung to her with fond idolatry. I sat with her; where'er she walked, I walked I kissed away her tears; I strove to fill, With strange precocity of manly pride And more than boyish tenderness, the void Which death had made.

I could not fail to see That ruth for me and sorrow for her loss-- Twin leeches at her heart--were drinking blood That, from her pallid features, day by day Sank slowly down, to feed the cruel draught. Nay, more than this I saw, and sadly worse. Oft when I watched her and she knew it not, I marked a quivering horror sweep her face-- A strange, quick thrill of pain--that brought her hand With sudden pressure to her heart, and forced To her white lips a swiftly whispered prayer. I fancied that I read the mystery; But it was deeper and more terrible Than I conjectured. Not till darker years Came the solution.

Still, we had some days Of pleasure. Sorrow cannot always brood Over the shivering forms that drink her warmth; But springs to meet the morning light, and soars Into the empyrean, to forget For one sweet hour the ring of greedy mouths That surely wait, and cry for her return. My mother's hand in mine, or mine in hers, We often left the village far behind, And walked the meadow-paths to gather flowers, And watch the plowman as he turned the tilth, Or tossed his burnished share into the sun At the long furrow's end, the while we marked The tipsy bobolink, struggling with the chain Of tinkling music that perplexed his wings, And listened to the yellow-breasted lark's Sweet whistle from the grass.

Glad in my joy, My mother smiled amid these scenes and sounds, And wandered on with gentle step and slow, While I, in boyish frolic, ran before, Chasing the butterflies, or in her path Tossing the gaudy gold of buttercups, Till sometimes, ere we knew, we stood entranced Upon the river's marge.

Ever the spell Of lapsing water tamed my playful mood, And I reclined in silent happiness At the tired feet that rested in the shade. There through the long, bright mornings we remained, Watching the noisy ferry-boat that plied Like a slow shuttle through the sunny warp Of threaded silver from a thousand brooks, That took new beauty as it wound away; Or gazing where at Holyoke's verdant base-- Like a slim hound, stretched at his master's feet-- Lay the long, lazy hamlet, Hockanum; Or, upward turning, traced the line that climbed O'er splintered rock and clustered foliage To the bare mountain-top; then followed down The scars of fire and storm, or paths of gloom That marked the curtained gorges, till, at last, Caught by a wisp of white, belated mist, Our vision rose to trace its airy flight Beyond the height, into the distant blue.