Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 10

THE QUIET LODGER.

The man that rooms next door to me: Two weeks ago, this very night, He took possession quietly, As any other lodger might-- But why the room next mine should so Attract him I was vexed to know,-- Because his quietude, in fine, Was far superior to mine.

"Now, I like quiet, truth to tell, A tranquil life is sweet to me-- But _this_," I sneered, "suits me too well.-- He shuts his door so noiselessly, And glides about so very mute, In each mysterious pursuit, His silence is oppressive, and Too deep for me to understand."

Sometimes, forgetting book or pen, I've found my head in breathless poise Lifted, and dropped in shame again, Hearing some alien ghost of noise-- Some smothered sound that seemed to be A trunk-lid dropped unguardedly, Or the crisp writhings of some quire Of ma.n.u.script thrust in the fire.

Then I have climbed, and closed in vain My transom, opening in the hall; Or close against the window-pane Have pressed my fevered face,--but all The day or night without held not A sight or sound or counter-thought To set my mind one instant free Of this man's silent mastery.

And often I have paced the floor With muttering anger, far at night, Hearing, and cursing, o'er and o'er, The m.u.f.fled noises, and the light And tireless movements of this guest Whose silence raged above my rest Hoa.r.s.er than howling storms at sea-- The man that rooms next door to me.

But twice or thrice, upon the stair, I've seen his face--most strangely wan,-- Each time upon me unaware He came--smooth'd past me, and was gone.

So like a whisper he went by, I listened after, ear and eye, Nor could my chafing fancy tell The meaning of one syllable.

Last night I caught him, face to face,-- He entering his room, and I Glaring from mine: He paused a s.p.a.ce And met my scowl all shrinkingly, But with full gentleness: The key Turned in his door--and I could see It tremblingly withdrawn and put Inside, and then--the door was shut.

Then silence. _Silence_!--why, last night The silence was tumultuous, And thundered on till broad daylight;-- O never has it stunned me thus!-- It rolls, and moans, and mumbles yet.-- Ah, G.o.d! how loud may silence get When man mocks at a brother man Who answers but as silence can!

The silence grew, and grew, and grew, Till at high noon to-day 'twas heard Throughout the house; and men flocked through The echoing halls, with faces blurred With pallor, gloom, and fear, and awe, And shuddering at what they saw-- The quiet lodger, as he lay Stark of the life he cast away.

So strange to-night--those voices there, Where all so quiet was before; They say the face has not a care Nor sorrow in it any more-- His latest scrawl:--"Forgive me--You Who prayed, 'they know not what they do!'"

My tears wilt never let me see This man that rooms next door to me!

THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT.

O the waiting in the watches of the night!

In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and affright; The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight: The ever weary memory that ever weary goes Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows-- The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose-- In the dreary, weary watches of the night!

Dark--stifling dark--the watches of the night!

With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes white With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight!-- What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought that may not be redressed-- Of tears we did not brush away--of lips we left unpressed, And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty unguessed!

Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night!

What solace in the watches of the night?-- What frailest staff of hope to stay--what faintest shaft of light?

Do we _dream_ and dare _believe_ it, that by never weight of right Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn at last-- Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for the past, In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom that flees aghast-- Shall we survive the watches of the night?

One leads us through the watches of the night-- By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His might;-- With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow disappears, Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master hears, And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of tears In the waning of the watches of the night.

HIS VIGIL.

Close the book and dim the light, I shall read no more to-night.

No--I am not sleepy, dear-- Do not go: sit by me here In the darkness and the deep Silence of the watch I keep.

Something in your presence so Soothes me--as in long ago I first felt your hand--as now-- In the darkness touch my brow; I've no other wish than you Thus should fold mine eyelids to, Saying nought of sigh or tear-- Just as G.o.d were sitting here.

THE PLAINT HUMAN

Season of snows, and season of flowers, Seasons of loss and gain!-- Since grief and joy must alike be ours, Why do we still complain?

Ever our failing, from sun to sun, O my intolerent brother:-- We want just a little too little of one, And much too much of the other.

BY ANY OTHER NAME.

First the teacher called the roll, Clos't to the beginnin', "Addeliney Bowersox!"

Set the school a-grinnin'.

Wintertime, and stingin'-cold When the session took up-- Cold as _we_ all looked at _her_, Though _she_ couldn't look up!

Total stranger to us, too-- Country-folks ain't allus Nigh so shameful unpolite As some people call us!-- But the honest facts is, _then_, Addeliney Bower- Sox's feelin's was so hurt She cried half an hour!

My dest was acrost from her 'n: Set and watched her tryin'

To p'tend she didn't keer, And a kind o' dryin'

Up her tears with smiles---tel I Thought, "Well, '_Addeliney Bowersox_' is plain, but _she's_ Purty as a piney!"

It's be'n many of a year Sence that most oncommon Cur'ous name o' _Bowersox_ Struck me so abomin- Nubble and outlandish-like!-- I changed it to Adde- Liney _Daubenspeck_--and _that_ Nearly killed her Daddy!

TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST.

Get gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost!

Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin Impalpable transparency of grin; And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin, And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in, Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast That I am _helpless_ to combat thee! Well, Have at thee, then! Yet if a doom most dire Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst!--Revile Me not, Miasmic Mist!--Rank Air! _retire_!

One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I'll _Inhale_ thee, O thou wraith despicable!

THE QUARREL.

They faced each other: Topaz-brown And lambent burnt her eyes and shot Sharp flame at his of amethyst.-- "I hate you! Go, and be forgot As death forgets!" their glitter _hissed_ (So _seemed_ it) in their hatred. Ho!

Dared any mortal front her so?-- Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down-- Tense nostril, mouth--no muscle slack,-- And black--the suffocating black-- The stifling blackness of her frown!

Ah! but the lifted face of her!