Classic Poem

Sweet summer days had past & gone,
And now the sun of harvests shone
In plenteous splendour on the earth,
And ripeness fill'd men's hearts with mirth.
Sweet summer days had past, & now
Poor Willie fruitless from the plough
That he had put to different soil,
Must tread again the path of toil.
The path that needs the spirit of spring,
And happy birds that o'er us sing,
And flowering greens that under thrive,
To keep the wakeful hope alive.
The labouring hope that thro' the gloom
Should see the wealth of Autumn bloom
The golden sheaves, the yellow sky
Or in the furrow it will die.
Poor Willie with his darling wife—
Fair Joan in the merry days—
The [?] courting days, when rife
With bachelor pride, he sang her praise;
Daring the world with boasting much,
To bring or show another such:
Another with such laughing eyes,
So blue, & with such lightning fire,
Another of so dear a size,
Fill'd with all sweets heart could require.
Fair Joan still! with eyes still blue!
Blue eyes alas! poor Willie saw
With something closely kin to awe,
A distant Heaven in their hue.

And she was fair; with such a look
As saints have in some holy book.
For suffering, & hopeless thought,
And insufficient food, had wrought
A marvel in the shining face,
That gave the old Maytime half its grace,—
Ah! when to love restored, her last
Maternal anguish well was past,
And to her husband's fond embrace
All tenderly she turn'd again;
Telling him that for him to bear
The burden that is woman's share,
Was all that she would ask in prayer—
Poor Willie's heart died in him there.
He sobb'd aside—his choking breath
Grew thick,—such woe he never dream'd
Thro' all the watchful hours—it seemed
As if an Angel spake thro' Death.

And in her arms that latest born
Was lying, and before her lay,
Shouting at the small sisters play,
The first pledge of their nuptial morn.

He shouted, free from any care;
The manhood of his father's heart
Was in him, and that other part—
His mother's blushing days were there.
A beauteous boy was he
To him a roofless house was naught.
And chilly nights, & days of rain,
Were all the sadness that it brought—
This child had not been born in vain,
And often with a prophet's power
Aye thus that in him like a flower
Grew natural to the place—had sent
Swift counsels of serene content.

So thus with three to feed, the twain
Did journey on the white highway,
To where, as Willie trusted fain,
Bread he might earn & shelter gain.
And pitch his wandering tent & pray
In peace when daily work was done.
For now the setting of the sun
Was darkness to their souls, and night
A thing of terrors to their sight;
A fear born not of idle fright.

They rested by the green wayside;
Distant, a planet of the vale,
One little village gleam'd, & pale
The blue smoke in the sunlight died.
An avenue of lofty trees

Unto the village inn led down;
Tall lime, and dusty elm, and brown
Burnt chesnut withering in the breeze.
A mass of shade they made below,
That hung above the thirsting pond,
Where ducks were paddling to & fro,
One weeping willow drooped beyond.
Far off, mid circling poplars, bright
The village spire was seen to point,
The sunbeams seeming to anoint
Its silent faith with dazzling light.
While fading far, & fed with brooks,
Where stood the kine & lapped the flocks,
Well garnered farms & fields new-reaped,
Were in the hazy splendour steeped,
With here & there a rising flight
Of starlings—here of noisy rooks—

“'Tis well that we are here” at length
Spake Willie, “while I have the strength
To put a helping hand once more
To gather for the great world's store;
And be the thing upon the earth
That God intended at my birth.
“Cheer up my Joan”! and full of guile—

The guile that half itself deceives
And in its garbed lie believes,
He turned upon her with a smile
So deeply charged with sparkling joy—
The kindling light struck thro' his boy
Who straight began to shout & sing
And make the ambush'd echoes ring—
But Joan knew better; she indeed
Withheld not her sweet answering glance,
But all know how a heart may bleed
Beneath a smiling countenance.
She put her hand in his—“Too late
God's bounty cannot come” said she;
“And she was well content to be
God's creature & her Willie's mate.”
Poor Willie! had she needed cheer,
He would have summoned Iron force,
And rode down fences like a horse;
But now he could not check the tear.
His quivering lips refused to speak
Three heavy drops rolled down his cheek;
Yet stronger in her strength they fell;
For faith sown in our souls by those
In whom our deepest passion grows,
Works more than magic or the spell
They utter in enchant'd land;
Faith is the spirit that angel like
The soul can thro' its sister strike,
And spur it, mingling, to command
With twofold force of mystic fire
The thing that is its pure desire.
And faith in Willie Joan had,
With many a thing to make her sad
But greater still was Willie's trust
In Joan, & his heart was just.

Sweet Joan! in his glimmering eye
She trembled, like a trembling star,
That, stedfast in the rosy sky
Trembles thro' dews to us afar.
And ever in the swelling tear
More starlike she became,
Till like a flash of lightning flame
It dropt; & he beheld her clear:
With clasping arms that knew her near,
And lips that said she was the same.
His own! for Willie worshipped her.
And to his mind all image proved
Of angel beauty did appear

True likeness to the one beloved;
And often with a chidlike fear
He prayed she might not be removed
For one of God's own angels! she
So full of angel purity,
Humility and charity!
His senses by each outward sign,
Declared his darling wife divine:
His soul by all his soul desired,
Trembled to her as one inspired.
Ye whose souls have felt the same
Or yearn to feel so purely fired
Know that to kneel at such a shrine
A manly love can feel no shame.
But this was Willie's vestal light
That did not burn to prying[?] sight;
Like other gentlemen was he
In kindness & in courtesy.
Together did their thoughts resort
To give each other good support
While now their evening meal was shared,—
Hard bread & water from the well!
To wend along they all prepared.

The sun was melting down the sky
Broad amber, and the childrens cry
Lovelier in its clearness toned,
As on they moved with weary feet
And weary thoughts that never moan'd,
But still had force to feel love sweet;
On Joan's breast the babe still lying,
Unconscious of the woe within;
Its little life was folded in;
Cradled asleep with secret sighing.
In Willie's arms the little girl
Droop'd wan & tired; the one great curl
That roll'd on her cheek to the morning breeze
Hung tinted like the Autumn trees,
(She was, indeed, an autumn bud:—)
Over his shoulder dreamingly.
But Willie strode on sturdily;
Half angered when his boy began
Less dauntily & vauntily
In the rich racing of his blood,
To emulate the pace of man.

And lovelier the children's cry
Rang from the village, & the sky
More wonderful in glory grew;
The clouds in robes of purple flew
To close the falling orb, which threw
A blinding brightness up their edges;
Shooting down the mossy ledges
Colours ne'er caught by mortal woof.
The west was one deep sheeted view,
The blue sky yellowing aloof.
And now the sun pierced keenly thro';
Severing apart the cloudy roof
And looking, with great wings outspread,
An eagle with a golden head,
An eagle darkening for a flight
To the dim east thro' the dark night.

Upon the wanderers as they went
The amber beams fell tranquilly,
Infusing half their mild content.
But aimless thought, & weariness,
And hope athirst now objectless,
Like nature sick for nourishment,
Before a desert pageantry
Are things that will not easily
Attune themselves to pictured calm,
The heart hath need of peace and balm
Within itself, ere it receives

Those lavish treasures that the eye
From every aspect spread on high
So subtly grasps, so richly gives.
For what is home to homeless men?
Home to the housed is Heaven on earth,
But to the homeless 'tis a dearth
More dreary than this darkling fen.

To Willie in his youthful time,
This would have been a glorious show;
And mortal weakness, mortal woe,
Have faded from the scene sublime.
But now 'twas alien imagery
Now 'twas almost a mockery!
He felt he did not now belong
To it, nor it, alas! to him—
The lark who sings where sight is dim—
Would he not sing a different song,
If, dropping to his nest, he found
No nest on the unhappy ground?
Ah! circling ever round & round
The one sole spot & rifled mound;
What anguish would the little thing
Shake from his wild low fluttering wing!
Even so with Willie; sadly shines
The glory, & his soul repines
To feel the old joyance of his breast,—

The spirit of song that bore him up,
Has pledged him such a bitter cup
And caused disaster to the nest,
Made sacred now for Joan's sake
And those that, on their way, they take;—
New-comers! strangers! strangely dear!
“O wherefore, wherefore, are they here?”

More sadly than his mind conceives,
Our Willie doubts & disbelieves
In the one Power that raises dust;
His great ambition was his bane;
Cold disappointment's hardening crust
Of dark endurance works in vain
To cherish hope or deaden pain.

Frolic and down of heart by turns,
His patience squanders all it earns—
He has not learnt, with all his love,
That Heavenward soaring wings must soar—
Only to rise has been his aim,—
And he has fallen! give gentle blame!

Not so with Joan—mother's faith,
And mothers strength in all she saith,
And all she doth; her sufferings even
Remain unnoticed & unspoken,
Albeit her health is almost broken;
And faints at many a warning token.
She seems a blessed saint of Heaven!
As noble mothers truly are.
She walks beside him like a star
Unto a child of darkness sent,
Shorn of immortal strength, but still
Dowered with a mission to instil
Its own divine encouragement.

She walks beside him on the road
That darkens under elm & hedge,
And on by waters fringed with sedge,
That wind to reaches smooth & broad.
She walks where purple brambles catch
Remorselessly her tattered gown,
By cottages thick-roofed with thatch
And fields where autumn seeds are sown.
On to the often-uttered town
She walks, tho' that is far away—
Far distant over dale & down,
And will not cheer the dying day—

Her foot is on the flinty track,
The dusty way, the stony path—
She bears the scourge upon her back
With all the courage that she hath.
Complaining not; her Faith is great;—
Her patience stronger than her fate.

And now the clouds again close o'er,
And, leaning on the western hills,
Draw down the day for evermore.
The swallow tweets, the skylark trills;
The robin's vesper carol fills
The quiet air in lane & lea;
The pale leaf eddies from the tree;
Cold huddled fleeces in the fold
Bleat in the stillness piteously;
The travellers darken on the wold;
The stars brighten overhead
Moist smells rise from the dewy mould,
And chilly mist burns western red;
The day is dead, the day is dead

End of Canto 1st