The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 21

The love that won her girlish charms Must shield her matron fame, And write beneath the Frankland arms The village beauty's name.

Go, call the priest! no vain delay Shall dim the sacred ring!

Who knows what change the pa.s.sing day, The fleeting hour, may bring?

Before the holy altar bent, There kneels a goodly pair; A stately man, of high descent, A woman, pa.s.sing fair.

No jewels lend the blinding sheen That meaner beauty needs, But on her bosom heaves unseen A string of golden beads.

The vow is spoke,--the prayer is said,-- And with a gentle pride The Lady Agnes lifts her head, Sir Harry Frankland's bride.

No more her faithful heart shall bear Those griefs so meekly borne,-- The pa.s.sing sneer, the freezing stare, The icy look of scorn;

No more the blue-eyed English dames Their haughty lips shall curl, Whene'er a hissing whisper names The poor New England girl.

But stay!--his mother's haughty brow,-- The pride of ancient race,-- Will plighted faith, and holy vow, Win back her fond embrace?

Too well she knew the saddening tale Of love no vow had blest, That turned his blushing honors pale And stained his knightly crest.

They seek his Northern home,--alas He goes alone before;-- His own dear Agnes may not pa.s.s The proud, ancestral door.

He stood before the stately dame; He spoke; she calmly heard, But not to pity, nor to blame; She breathed no single word.

He told his love,--her faith betrayed; She heard with tearless eyes; Could she forgive the erring maid?

She stared in cold surprise.

How fond her heart, he told,--how true; The haughty eyelids fell;-- The kindly deeds she loved to do; She murmured, "It is well."

But when he told that fearful day, And how her feet were led To where entombed in life he lay, The breathing with the dead,

And how she bruised her tender b.r.e.a.s.t.s Against the crushing stone, That still the strong-armed clown protests No man can lift alone,--

Oh! then the frozen spring was broke; By turns she wept and smiled;-- "Sweet Agnes!" so the mother spoke, "G.o.d bless my angel child.

"She saved thee from the jaws of death,-- 'T is thine to right her wrongs; I tell thee,--I, who gave thee breath,-- To her thy life belongs!"

Thus Agnes won her n.o.ble name, Her lawless lover's hand; The lowly maiden so became A lady in the land!

PART SIXTH

CONCLUSION

The tale is done; it little needs To track their after ways, And string again the golden beads Of love's uncounted days.

They leave the fair ancestral isle For bleak New England's sh.o.r.e; How gracious is the courtly smile Of all who frowned before!

Again through Lisbon's orange bowers They watch the river's gleam, And shudder as her shadowy towers Shake in the trembling stream.

Fate parts at length the fondest pair; His cheek, alas! grows pale; The breast that trampling death could spare His noiseless shafts a.s.sail.

He longs to change the heaven of blue For England's clouded sky,-- To breathe the air his boyhood knew; He seeks then but to die.

Hard by the terraced hillside town, Where healing streamlets run, Still sparkling with their old renown,-- The "Waters of the Sun,"--

The Lady Agnes raised the stone That marks his honored grave, And there Sir Harry sleeps alone By Wiltshire Avon's wave.

The home of early love was dear; She sought its peaceful shade, And kept her state for many a year, With none to make afraid.

At last the evil days were come That saw the red cross fall; She hears the rebels' rattling drum,-- Farewell to Frankland Hall!

I tell you, as my tale began, The hall is standing still; And you, kind listener, maid or man, May see it if you will.

The box is glistening huge and green, Like trees the lilacs grow, Three elms high-arching still are seen, And one lies stretched below.

The hangings, rough with velvet flowers, Flap on the latticed wall; And o'er the mossy ridge-pole towers The rock-hewn chimney tall.

The doors on mighty hinges clash With ma.s.sive bolt and bar, The heavy English-moulded sash Scarce can the night-winds jar.

Behold the chosen room he sought Alone, to fast and pray, Each year, as chill November brought The dismal earthquake day.

There hung the rapier blade he wore, Bent in its flattened sheath; The coat the shrieking woman tore Caught in her clenching teeth;--

The coat with tarnished silver lace She snapped at as she slid, And down upon her death-white face Crashed the huge coffin's lid.

A graded terrace yet remains; If on its turf you stand And look along the wooded plains That stretch on either hand,

The broken forest walls define A dim, receding view, Where, on the far horizon's line, He cut his vista through.

If further story you shall crave, Or ask for living proof, Go see old Julia, born a slave Beneath Sir Harry's roof.

She told me half that I have told, And she remembers well The mansion as it looked of old Before its glories fell;--

The box, when round the terraced square Its glossy wall was drawn; The climbing vines, the snow-b.a.l.l.s fair, The roses on the lawn.

And Julia says, with truthful look Stamped on her wrinkled face, That in her own black hands she took The coat with silver lace.

And you may hold the story light, Or, if you like, believe; But there it was, the woman's bite,-- A mouthful from the sleeve.

Now go your ways;--I need not tell The moral of my rhyme; But, youths and maidens, ponder well This tale of olden time!

THE PLOUGHMAN ANNIVERSARY OF THE BERKSHIRE AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY, OCTOBER 4, 1849

CLEAR the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam!

Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team, With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow, The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!