Bitter-Sweet: A Poem

Other scene:-- Across the swale, half up the pine-capped hill, Stands the old farmhouse with its clump of barns-- The old red farmhouse--dim and dun to-night, Save where the ruddy firelights from the hearth Flap their bright wings against the window panes,-- A billowy swarm that beat their slender bars, Or seek the night to leave their track of flame Upon the sleet, or sit, with shifting feet And restless plumes, among the poplar boughs-- The spectral poplars, standing at the gate.

And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong, Whose thin white hair, and cheeks of furrowed bronze, And ancient dress, betray the patriarch, Stands at the window, listening to the storm; And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame-- Moved by the wind--it wraps and glorifies His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise, That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles. And now it passes, and a sweeter shape Stands in its place. O blest maternity! Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace, Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe; And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps, Illuminates the pair, how like they seem, O Virgin Mother! to thyself and thine! Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold To hearken to the voice of God without: "Speak, mighty One! Thy little servant hears!" And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares Comes to the window in her loosened robe,-- Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand,-- And, as the noise of winds and waters swells, It shapes the song of triumph to her lips: "The horse and he who rode are overthrown!" And now a man of noble port and brow, And aspect of benignant majesty, Assumes the vacant niche, while either side Press the fair forms of children, and I hear: "Suffer the little ones to come to me!"

PERSONS.

Here dwells the good old farmer, Israel, In his ancestral home--a Puritan Who reads his Bible daily, loves his God, And lives serenely in the faith of Christ. For threescore years and ten his life has run Through varied scenes of happiness and woe; But, constant through the wide vicissitude, He has confessed the Giver of his joys, And kissed the hand that took them; and whene'er Bereavement has oppressed his soul with grief, Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain, He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said, "Thy will, O God--Thy will be done, not mine!" His gentle wife, a dozen summers since, Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven; And her best gift--a maiden sweetly named-- His daughter Ruth--orders the ancient house, And fills her mother's place beside the board, And cheers his life with songs and industry. But who are these who crowd the house to-night-- A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who, Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours With the sweet jargon of a festival? Who are these fathers? who these mothers? who These pleasant children, rude with health and joy?

It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve; And gathered home, from fresher homes around, The old man's children keep the holiday-- In dear New England, since the fathers slept-- The sweetest holiday of all the year. John comes with Prudence and her little girls, And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys-- Fair boys and girls with good old Scripture names-- Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel; And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house, Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe And the tall poet David, at whose side She went away. And seated in the midst, Mary, a foster-daughter of the house, Of alien blood--self-aliened many a year-- Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes Bring all the wondering children to her knee, Weeps with the strange excess of happiness, And sighs with joy. What recks the driving storm Of such a scene as this? And what reck these Of such a storm? For every heavy gust That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet, And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands, And rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat Through all its sooty caverns shrieks and howls, They give full bursts of careless merriment, Or songs that send it baffled on its way.

PRELUDE.

Doubt takes to wings on such a night as this; And while the traveler hugs her fluttering cloak, And staggers o'er the weary waste alone, Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face, And wheel above, or hunt his fainting soul, As, with relentless greed, a vulture throng, With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes Of the last camel of the caravan. And Faith takes forms and wings on such a night. Where love burns brightly at the household hearth, And from the altar of each peaceful heart Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks, And every pulse with sympathetic throb Tells the true rhythm of trustfulest content, They flutter in and out, and touch to smiles The sleeping lips of infancy; and fan The blush that lights the modest maiden's cheeks; And toss the locks of children at their play.

Silence is vocal if we listen well; And Life and Being sing in dullest ears From morn to night, from night to morn again, With fine articulations; but when God Disturbs the soul with terror, or inspires With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves; And we look up to where the pleasant sky Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song.

A SONG OF DOUBT.

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; God has forgotten the world! The moon is gone, and the stars are dead; God has forgotten the world!

Evil has won in the horrid feud Of ages with The Throne; Evil stands on the neck of Good, And rules the world alone.

There is no good; there is no God; And Faith is a heartless cheat Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, And scatters thorns for the feet.

What are prayers in the lips of death, Filling and chilling with hail? What are prayers but wasted breath Beaten back by the gale?

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; God has forgotten the world! The moon is gone and the stars are dead; God has forgotten the world!

A SONG OF FAITH.

Day will return with a fresher boon; God will remember the world! Night will come with a newer moon; God will remember the world!

Evil is only the slave of Good; Sorrow the servant of Joy; And the soul is mad that refuses food Of the meanest in God's employ.

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, And love is lit by the breath of sighs; The deepest griefs and the wildest fears Have holiest ministries.

Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm; Safely the flower sleeps under the snow; And the farmer's hearth is never warm Till the cold wind starts to blow.

Day will return with a fresher boon; God will remember the world! Night will come with a newer moon; God will remember the world!

FIRST MOVEMENT.

LOCALITY--_The square room of a New England farmhouse_.

PRESENT--ISRAEL, head of the family; JOHN, PETER, DAVID, PATIENCE, PRUDENCE, GRACE, MARY, RUTH, and CHILDREN.

THE QUESTION STATED AND ARGUED.

Israel.

Ruth, touch the cradle. Boys, you must be still! The baby cannot sleep in such a noise. Nay, Grace, stir not; she'll soothe him soon enough, And tell him more sweet stuff in half an hour Than you can dream, in dreaming half a year.

Ruth. [_Kneeling and rocking the cradle_.]

What is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt. Unwritten history! Unfathomed mystery! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx! Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years; And he'll never know Where the summers go;-- He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!

Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day?-- Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony,-- Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls-- Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide! What does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle-roof that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he thinks of his mother's breast-- Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight-- Cup of his life and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds-- Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, Over his brow, and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking, down he goes! Down he goes! Down he goes!

[_Rising and carefully retreating to her seat_.]

See! He is hushed in sweet repose!

David. [_Yawning_.]

Behold a miracle! Music transformed To morphine, and the drowsy god invoked By the poor prattle of a maiden's tongue! A moment more, and we should all have gone Down into dreamland with the babe! Ah, well! There is no end of wonders.

Ruth. None, indeed! When lazy poets who have gorged themselves, And cannot keep awake, make the attempt To shift the burden of their drowsiness, And charge a girl with what they owe to greed.

David.

At your old tricks again! No sleep induced By song of yours, or any other bird's, Can linger long when you begin to talk. Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save The trouble of my rising.

Ruth.

[_Advancing and kneeling by the side of Grace_.]

Sister mine. Now give the proof of your obedience To your imperious lord! Strike, if you dare! I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand. Ha! king; ha! poet; who is master now-- Baby or husband? Pr'ythee, tell me that. Were I a man,--thank Heaven I am not!-- And had a wife who cared not for my will More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself, Or wear an [***]. See! she kisses me!

David.