A Mother's Tale

I never knew but one who died for love,
Among the maidens glorified in heaven
For this most pure, most patient martyrdom.
And most courageous. If courageous he
Who graspt and held the Persian prow until
Wielded by desperate fear the scymetar
Gleamed on the sea, and it ran red below
From the hand sever'd and the arm that still
Threaten'd, till brave men drew aside the brave;
If this be courage (and was man's e'er more?)
Sublimer, holier, doth God's breath inspire
Into the tenderer breast and frailer form,
Erect when Fortune and when Fate oppose,
Erect when Hope, its only help, is gone,
Nor yielding till Death's friendlier voice says yield.
Brave Eleusinian! I must now away
From thee and Greece; away, to milder scenes,
Not milder sufferings.
In my ear was pour'd
The piteous story from the mother's lips,
Who laid her hand on mine, and oftentimes
With idle finger moved my pliant veins
And lookt on them, nor knew on what she lookt,
As her sad tale went on; for she had found
One who hath never dared to stir from grief,
Or interrupt its utterance in its hour,
Or blusht, where child was lost, to be a child.
Abruptly she began, abruptly closed.
" He was an ensign, and, whatever woes
He brought on me and mine, a good young man,
Modest in speech and manners, fond of books,
Such as we find in all these little towns,
And ready to be led aside by love
To any covert with a castle near,
Or cottage on the river-side or moor,
No matter which; the comfortable house
And street, with shops along it, scare off love.
I am grown bitter I do fear me, sir,
In talking thus, but I have lost my child
By such wild fancies of a wayward world,
Different from what contented us erewhile.
William (he told me I must call him so,
And Christian names methinks not ill beseem
The Christian, and bring kindness at the sound)
William dwelt here above, not long before
I could perceive that Lucy went away
When he came in to speak to me, ayd tried
To see as little of him as she might.
I askt, had he offended her: she said
ITe was incapable of doing wrong:
I blamed her for her rudeness; she replied
She was not rude; and yet those very words
Were nearer rudeness than she ever spake
Until that hour.
Month after month flew by,
And both seemed lonely, though they never lived
More than few steps asunder; I do think
She fled from love and he strove hard with it,
But neither own'd they did. He often came
To tell me something, and lookt round the room,
And fixt his eyes on the one vacant chair
Before the table, and the work unroll'd.
At last he found her quite alone, and then
Avow'd the tenderest, and the purest love,
Askt her consent only to speak with me
And press his suit thereafter: she declared
She never could; and tears flow'd plenteously.
I enter'd; nor did she, as many do,
Move her eyes from me nor abase them more,
Neither did he, but told what he had said
And she had answer'd. I reproved her much
For ignorance of duty, and neglect
Of such an honour: he then claspt my hand,
And swore no earthly views should ever turn
His eyes from that bright idol.
' May I hope,
Sweet Lucy! may I pause from my despair
I should say rather . . even that were bliss . .
Speak, is that bliss forbidden? ' She replied,
' You think me worthy of great happiness,
But Fortune has not thought so; I am poor
And you are (or you will be) rich: 'tis thus
All marriages should be; but marriages
Alone are suitable that suit with pride,
With prejudice, with avarice; enough
If dead men's names have hallowed them, if warpt
Alliances besprinkle them with dust,
Or herald prime and furbish them anew.
Yes, they must please all in two families,
Excepting those who marry. We are both
Alike Clod's creatures, but the World claims one,
The other is rejected of the World.
Hated I well could be for loving you,
For loving me you must not be despised.'
' Lucy then loves me! ' cried the youth, ' she loves me! '
And prest her to his heart, and seiz'd her hand,
' And ever will I hold it till her lips,
In whose one breath is all my life contain'd,
Say, it is thine .'
Ah! 'twere but time ill-spent
To follow them thro' love; 'twere walking o'er
A meadow in the spring, where, every step,
The grass and beauteous flowers are all the same,
And ever were and ever will be so.
But now the season was at hand when rush
Into salt water all whom smokey town
Had hardened in the skin, whom cards and dice
Had crampt, whom luxury unstrung, whom dance
From midnight into sunshine, and whom routs
(Not always do we call things by their names
So aptly) swoln with irksomeness and spite
Vomited forth . . here meet they all again,
Glum and askance, the closer the less neighbours;
And those who late were chatty, now are seen
Primly apart like hop-poles without hops,
Lank, listless, helpless, useless, and unlovely.
Here many would lay out their happiness,
And many be content to waste another's:
Of these was one whose name shall rest untold;
Young is he, and (God aiding) may be better.
With a bright riband and a horse upon it
Full-gallop . . first of orders I surmise . .
He must have done rare service to his king
Before he wore a sabre or a beard,
To win all this; but won it all he had,
And wore it too as bravely.
This young man
Was passing thro' our town toward the coast,
Heedless and ignorant (as wiser men
And better may have been) what spirit moves
Upon those waters, that unpausing sea
Which heaves with God's own image, ever pure,
And ministers in mightiness to Earth
Plenty and health and beauty and delight;
Of all created things beneath the skies
The only one that mortal may not mar.
Here met he William, whom he knew at school,
And showed him his gay lady, and desired
That William would show his.
With gravity
Did William listen, and at last confess
Ties far more holy that should soon unite
With him a lowly maid.
The captain heard
Deridingly his chapter of romance,
Such did he call it.
' Introduce me, pray,
To the fair bride elect.'
' When bride,' said he,
'And proudly then; yes, you and all my friends.'
So far I know, what follow'd I know not,
Only that William often spent the day
With these great folks; at first, when he returned
He was more fond than ever of my child;
Soon after, he came late into the house,
Then later, and one day, 'twas Saturday,
He said to me he should go home to ask
His father's approbation of the match,
And hoped, and doubted not, his full consent.
Alas! I knew not then that those who go
Dor this consent have given up their own.
He went ... O sir! he went . . . My tale is told.
He wrote to me . . but I have said it all . .
He wrote . . My Lucy caught the letter up
And last it; read it, dropt it on the floor;
Seiz'd it again, again with eye brim-full
Lookt, and again dropt it, despondingly.
O sir! did I not say my tale is told!
'Twas Sunday, and the bells had nearly done,
When Lucy called to me, and urged my haste:
I said I could not leave her; for she lookt
Paler, and spoke more feebly; then I raved
Against the false one who had caused her death.
She caught my arm. . .
' No, Lucy, no!' cried I,
' Not death; you yet are young and may live on
These many years.'
She smiled, and thus replied:
' Hope it not, mother! lest one pang the more
Befall you! wish me better things than life;
But, above all, sweet mother! ' . . and she sigh'd . .
' Think not I die for William and for love.
Many have gone before their twentieth year,
Mine is half over; many, now in bliss,
Have learnt to read God's will at earlier dawn,
And crost life's threshold strown with freshest flowers
Trippingly and alert, to meet a friend,
A father, who (they knew) awaited them.
Many have had short notice to quit home,
And, when they left it, left it unprepared;
I, mother, I have been two years in dying,
And one day more: should ever he know this,
'T would comfort him . . for he must think of me.
But am I not too proud for one so near . .'
She would not say . . I shriekt and said it: death!
She prest my hand, and her smile sank away.
She would console, I would not be consoled.
' O let me think then I may die for him,
But say no more to pain me . . let me love,
And love him, when I can not, for my sake.'
Slumber came over her; one faint sob broke it;
And then came heavier slumber; nought broke that."
She paus'd; I too sat silent: she resumed . .
For Love and Sorrow drop not at the grave
The image of the cherisht one within.
Too confident upon her strength recall'd,
She would have mounted into brighter days
For hours when youth was cool and all things calm,
Saying to me, with evener voice and look,
" Lucy, when last you saw her, was a child."
"And is, if Angel be, a child again,"
Said I.
She claspt her hands above her head
And rusht away, leaving me all alone.
The chamber-door stood open, and her brow
Had sunk into her pillow, but no rest
Was there; she sought one at the duskier side
Of the same bed, o'er which (almost to touch)
The dim resemblance of a joyous youth
Shook gently, pendent from its light-hair'd chord.
Nor youth nor age nor virtue can avoid
Miseries that fly in darkness thro' the world,
Striking at random, irremissably,
Until our sun sinks thro' its waves, until
The golden brim melts from the brightest cloud,
And all that we have seen hath disappeared.