Classic Poem

But now she drew nigh to the river again,
And the wood of moss'd birches so old;
While black over Stanage, with hail and with rain,
A tempest of April was roll'd:
Right and left, like a shaft-broken arrow of doom,
Unheard, its red lightning was sent;
And, Up! the broad curtain of fire-lifted gloom,
From the summit, at intervals went:
Like many-tail'd snakes, with their heads on the ground,
And their many tails pendent in air,
In skeleton grimness, the ag'd trees around,
From the region of storms, and its black western mound,
Lean'd motionless, silent, and bare;
But her heart heard no voice, when the damp hollow wind
Through their dry branches drearily moan'd;
Nor felt she his touch, when it wetted each rind,
And the fast-coming thunder-cloud groan'd.
Like steel which (worm-red, and not glowing with flame,)
In water skill'd artisans dip,
Each big drop of rain seem'd to hiss as it came,
And smoke on her hot under-lip:
More black grew her choler, more gloomy the skies;
Then, a blast shook the old wizard wood —
Where, lo! the tall gipsy, with night in her eyes.
In the glare of the lightning-flash stood;
With night in her eyes, and the torrid sun's fire;
With power in her mien and her form;
Beautiful wildly — Like Love soothing Ire;
Or light, on the clouds of the storm;
Or Knowledge, all calmly preparing the fall
Of the crime-honour'd throne of the sword;
Or Goodness, declaring through one unto all,
That the Father of all is the Lord.
As a poplar in summer, when gently the breeze
Wakes its twiglets, with whisperings sweet,
Amid the grey trunks of the hoar forest trees
Looks down on a flower at its feet;
So, a sable-hair'd child, with his eyes rais'd to hers,
And his rose-lips half open to speak,
And the bronze of the bloom of the rich mountain furze
Turning brown on his soft yellow cheek;
A child — her own miniature self — by the hand
She held, looking down on his smile,
With a fulness of love, that no heart could withstand,
Save the heart of low cunning and guile.
For in her deep love there was sorrow as deep;
Ev'n there, on the spot where she stood,
(When the vale in October's dim mist lay asleep,
And the moon only watch'd o'er the wood,)
All silent, with none to assist or annoy,
And in anguish too mighty for tears,
She had buried a daughter — the twin of the boy
That made her acquainted with fears;
And while on the soul in his visage she gaz'd,
She saw, in her heart, the last look
Of her lost second-born, with her wild eyes uprais'd,
As her flight to the angels she took.
But Susan saw nought in that beautiful child
A kin to her own barren heart;
No trust could his aspect, so trustfully wild,
To her all-doubting bosom impart;
She found in the might of the mother's dark face
Only dark indications of crime;
No grandeur, nor beauty! nor greatness, nor grace,
In her action serene and sublime.
She knew not that Love plants with roses the wind,
And builds on the seas as they roll;
That the waifs of the world can be gentle and kind,
And the homeless find home in the soul;
But kept the true faith, in her maxims, deriv'd
From progenitors growing in grace,
And bred in-and-in, with the hornets they hiv'd,
Till perfection was stamp'd on their race.