Bitter-Sweet: A Poem Part 1

Bitter-Sweet.

by J. G. Holland.

PICTURE.

Winter's wild birthnight! In the fretful East The uneasy wind moans with its sense of cold, And sends its sighs through gloomy mountain gorge, Along the valley, up the whitening hill, To tease the sighing spirits of the pines, And waste in dismal woods their chilly life.

The sky is dark, and on the huddled leaves-- The restless, rustling leaves--sifts down its sleet, Till the sharp crystals pin them to the earth, And they grow still beneath the rising storm.

The roofless bullock hugs the sheltering stack, With cringing head and closely gathered feet, And waits with dumb endurance for the morn.

Deep in a gusty cavern of the barn The witless calf stands blatant at his chain; While the brute mother, pent within her stall, With the wild stress of instinct goes distraught, And frets her horns, and bellows through the night.

The stream runs black; and the far waterfall That sang so sweetly through the summer eyes, And swelled and swayed to Zephyr's softest breath, Leaps with a sullen roar the dark abyss, And howls its hoa.r.s.e responses to the wind.

The mill is still. The distant factory, That swarmed yestreen with many-fingered life, And bridged the river with a hundred bars Of molten light, is dark, and lifts its bulk, With dim, uncertain angles, to the sky.

Yet lower bows the storm. The leafless trees Lash their lithe limbs, and, with majestic voice, Call to each other through the deepening gloom; And slender trunks that lean on burly boughs Shriek with the sharp abrasion; and the oak, Mellowed in fiber by unnumbered frosts, Yields to the shoulder of the t.i.tan Blast, Forsakes its poise, and, with a booming crash, Sweeps a fierce pa.s.sage to the smothered rocks, And lies a shattered ruin.

Other scene:-- Across the swale, half up the pine-capped hill, Stands the old farmhouse with its clump of barns-- The old red farmhouse--dim and dun to-night, Save where the ruddy firelights from the hearth Flap their bright wings against the window panes,-- A billowy swarm that beat their slender bars, Or seek the night to leave their track of flame Upon the sleet, or sit, with s.h.i.+fting feet And restless plumes, among the poplar boughs-- The spectral poplars, standing at the gate.

And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong, Whose thin white hair, and cheeks of furrowed bronze, And ancient dress, betray the patriarch, Stands at the window, listening to the storm; And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame-- Moved by the wind--it wraps and glorifies His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise, That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles.

And now it pa.s.ses, and a sweeter shape Stands in its place. O blest maternity!

Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace, Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe; And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps, Illuminates the pair, how like they seem, O Virgin Mother! to thyself and thine!

Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold To hearken to the voice of G.o.d without: "Speak, mighty One! Thy little servant hears!"

And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares Comes to the window in her loosened robe,-- Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand,-- And, as the noise of winds and waters swells, It shapes the song of triumph to her lips: "The horse and he who rode are overthrown!"

And now a man of n.o.ble port and brow, And aspect of benignant majesty, a.s.sumes the vacant niche, while either side Press the fair forms of children, and I hear: "Suffer the little ones to come to me!"

PERSONS.

Here dwells the good old farmer, Israel, In his ancestral home--a Puritan Who reads his Bible daily, loves his G.o.d, And lives serenely in the faith of Christ.

For threescore years and ten his life has run Through varied scenes of happiness and woe; But, constant through the wide vicissitude, He has confessed the Giver of his joys, And kissed the hand that took them; and whene'er Bereavement has oppressed his soul with grief, Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain, He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said, "Thy will, O G.o.d--Thy will be done, not mine!"

His gentle wife, a dozen summers since, Pa.s.sed from his faithful arms and went to heaven; And her best gift--a maiden sweetly named-- His daughter Ruth--orders the ancient house, And fills her mother's place beside the board, And cheers his life with songs and industry.

But who are these who crowd the house to-night-- A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who, Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours With the sweet jargon of a festival?

Who are these fathers? who these mothers? who These pleasant children, rude with health and joy?

It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve; And gathered home, from fresher homes around, The old man's children keep the holiday-- In dear New England, since the fathers slept-- The sweetest holiday of all the year.

John comes with Prudence and her little girls, And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys-- Fair boys and girls with good old Scripture names-- Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel; And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house, Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe And the tall poet David, at whose side She went away. And seated in the midst, Mary, a foster-daughter of the house, Of alien blood--self-aliened many a year-- Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes Bring all the wondering children to her knee, Weeps with the strange excess of happiness, And sighs with joy.

What recks the driving storm Of such a scene as this? And what reck these Of such a storm? For every heavy gust That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet, And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands, And rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat Through all its sooty caverns shrieks and howls, They give full bursts of careless merriment, Or songs that send it baffled on its way.

PRELUDE.

Doubt takes to wings on such a night as this; And while the traveler hugs her fluttering cloak, And staggers o'er the weary waste alone, Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face, And wheel above, or hunt his fainting soul, As, with relentless greed, a vulture throng, With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes Of the last camel of the caravan.

And Faith takes forms and wings on such a night.

Where love burns brightly at the household hearth, And from the altar of each peaceful heart Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks, And every pulse with sympathetic throb Tells the true rhythm of trustfulest content, They flutter in and out, and touch to smiles The sleeping lips of infancy; and fan The blush that lights the modest maiden's cheeks; And toss the locks of children at their play.

Silence is vocal if we listen well; And Life and Being sing in dullest ears From morn to night, from night to morn again, With fine articulations; but when G.o.d Disturbs the soul with terror, or inspires With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves; And we look up to where the pleasant sky Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song.

A SONG OF DOUBT.

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; G.o.d has forgotten the world!

The moon is gone, and the stars are dead; G.o.d has forgotten the world!

Evil has won in the horrid feud Of ages with The Throne; Evil stands on the neck of Good, And rules the world alone.

There is no good; there is no G.o.d; And Faith is a heartless cheat Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, And scatters thorns for the feet.

What are prayers in the lips of death, Filling and chilling with hail?

What are prayers but wasted breath Beaten back by the gale?

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; G.o.d has forgotten the world!

The moon is gone and the stars are dead; G.o.d has forgotten the world!

A SONG OF FAITH.

Day will return with a fresher boon; G.o.d will remember the world!

Night will come with a newer moon; G.o.d will remember the world!

Evil is only the slave of Good; Sorrow the servant of Joy; And the soul is mad that refuses food Of the meanest in G.o.d's employ.

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, And love is lit by the breath of sighs; The deepest griefs and the wildest fears Have holiest ministries.

Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm; Safely the flower sleeps under the snow; And the farmer's hearth is never warm Till the cold wind starts to blow.

Day will return with a fresher boon; G.o.d will remember the world!

Night will come with a newer moon; G.o.d will remember the world!

FIRST MOVEMENT.