Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 64

Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept Her faith, and trusted that her way, So dark, would somewhere meet the day.

And still her weary wheel went round, Day after day, with no relief: Small leisure have the poor for grief.

So in the shadow Mabel sits; Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, Her smile is sadder than her tears.

But cruel eyes have found her out, And cruel lips repeat her name, And taunt her with her mother's shame.

She answered not with railing words, But drew her ap.r.o.n o'er her face, And, sobbing, glided from the place.

And only pausing at the door, Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze Of one who, in her better days, Had been her warm and steady friend, Ere yet her mother's doom had made Even Esek Harden half afraid.

He felt that mute appeal of tears, And, starting, with an angry frown Hushed all the wicked murmurs down, "Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, "This pa.s.ses harmless mirth or jest; I brook no insult to my guest.

"She is indeed her mother's child; But G.o.d's sweet pity ministers Unto no whiter soul than hers.

Let Goody Martin rest in peace; I never knew her harm a fly, And witch or not, G.o.d knows,--not I.

I know who swore her life away; And, as G.o.d lives, I'd not condemn An Indian dog on word of them."

Poor Mabel, in her lonely home, Sat by the window's narrow pane, White in the moonlight's silver rain.

The river, on its pebbled rim, Made music such as childhood knew; The door-yard tree was whispered through By voices such as childhood's ear Had heard in moonlights long ago; And through the willow boughs below She saw the rippled waters shine; Beyond, in waves of shade and light The hills rolled off into the night.

Sweet sounds and pictures mocking so The sadness of her human lot, She saw and heard, but heeded not.

She strove to drown her sense of wrong, And, in her old and simple way, To teach, her bitter heart to pray.

Poor child! the prayer, began in faith, Grew to a low, despairing cry Of utter misery: "Let me die!

Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, And hide me where the cruel speech And mocking finger may not reach!

"I dare not breathe my mother's name; A daughter's right I dare not crave To weep above her unblest grave!

Let me not live until my heart, With few to pity, and with none To love me, hardens into stone.

O G.o.d! have mercy on thy child, Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, And take me ere I lose it all."

The broadest lands in all the town, The skill to guide, the power to awe, Were Harden's; and his word was law.

None dared withstand him to his face, But one sly maiden spake aside: "The little witch is evil-eyed!

Her mother only killed a cow, Or witched a churn or dairy-pan; But she, forsooth, must charm a man!"

A shadow on the moonlight fell, And murmuring wind and wave became A voice whose burden was her name.

Had then G.o.d heard her? Had he sent His angel down? In flesh and blood, Before her Esek Harden stood!

He laid his hand upon her arm: "Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me.

You know rough Esek Harden well; And if he seems no suitor gay, And if his hair is mixed with gray, The maiden grown shall never find His heart less warm than when she smiled Upon his knees, a little child!"

Her tears of grief were tears of joy, As folded in his strong embrace, She looked in Esek Harden's face.

"O truest friend of all!" she said, "G.o.d bless you for your kindly thought, And make me worthy of my lot!"

He led her through his dewy fields, To where the swinging lanterns glowed, And through the doors the huskers showed.

"Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said, "I'm weary of this lonely life; In Mabel see my chosen wife!

"She greets you kindly, one and all: The past is past, and all offence Falls harmless from her innocence.

Henceforth she stands no more alone; You know what Esek Harden is;-- He brooks no wrong to him or his."

Now let the merriest tales be told, And let the sweetest songs be sung, That ever made the old heart young!

For now the lost has found a home; And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, As all the household joys return!

Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon, Between the shadow of the mows, Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!

On Mabel's curls of golden hair, On Esek's s.h.a.ggy strength it fell; And the wind whispered, "It is well!"

_John G. Whittier._

David's Lament for Absalom

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood With his faint people for a little rest Upon the sh.o.r.e of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now.

They gathered round him on the fresh green bank And spoke their kindly words, and as the sun Rose up in heaven he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.

Oh! when the heart is full--where bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy,-- Are such a mockery--how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!

He prayed for Israel--and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield--and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom, For his estranged, misguided Absalom-- The proud, bright being who had burst away In all his princely beauty to defy The heart that cherished him--for him he prayed, In agony that would not be controll'd, Strong supplication, and forgave him there Before his G.o.d for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave, and as the folds Sank to their still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom, The mighty Joab stood beside the bier And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir.

A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang, but the bent form Of David entered; and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers, And left him with the dead.

The King stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child.

He bowed his head upon him and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas! my n.o.ble boy; that thou shouldst die!

Thou who were made so beautifully fair!

That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this cl.u.s.tering hair!

How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee!

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pa.s.s me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;-- But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-- And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.

May G.o.d have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer, And, as if strength were given him of G.o.d, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently--and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

_N.P. Willis_.

Christmas Day in the Workhouse