Rose and Roof-Tree Part 8

Yea, cunning is Christian evil, And subtle the conscience' snare; But virtue's volcanic upheaval Shall cast fine device to the air!

Too long has the land's soul slumbered, And triumph bred dangerous ease,-- Our victories all unnumbered, Our feet on the down-bowed seas.

Come, then, simple and stalwart Life of the earlier days!

Come! Far better than all were it-- Our precepts, our prayers, and our lays--

That the heart of the people should tremble Accord to some mighty one's voice, The helpless atoms a.s.semble In music, their valor to poise.

Come to us, mountain-dweller, Leader, wherever thou art, Skilled from thy cradle, a queller Of serpents, and sound to the heart!

Modest, and mighty, and tender, Man of an iron mold, Learned or unlearned, our defender, American-souled!

THE SILENT TIDE

A tangled orchard round the farm-house spreads, Wherein it stands home-like, but desolate, 'Midst crowded and uneven-statured sheds, Alike by rain and suns.h.i.+ne sadly stained.

A quiet country-road before the door Runs, gathering close its ruts to scale the hill-- A sudden bluff on the New Hamps.h.i.+re coast, That rises rough against the sea, and hangs Crested above the bowlder-sprinkled beach.

And on the road white houses small are strung Like threaded beads, with intervals. The church Tops the rough hill; then comes the wheelwright's shop.

From orchard, church, and shop you hear the sea, And from the farm-house windows see it strike Sharp gleams through slender arching apple-boughs.

Sea-like, too, echoing round me here there rolls A surging sorrow; and even so there breaks A smitten light of woe upon me, now, Seeing this place, and telling o'er again The tale of those who dwelt here once. Long since It was, and they were two--two brothers, bound By early orphanage and solitude The closer, cleaving strongly each to each, Till love, that held them many years in gage, Itself swept them asunder. I have heard The story from old Deacon Snow, their friend, He who was boy and man with them. A boy!

What, he? How strange it seems! who now is stiff And warped with life's fierce heat and cold: his brows Are h.o.a.ry white, and on his head the hairs Stand spa.r.s.e as wheat-stalks on the bare field's edge!

Reuben and Jerry they were named; but two Of common blood and nurture scarce were found More sharply different. For the first was bold, Breeze-like and bold to come or go; not rash, But shrewdly generous, popular, and boon: And Jerry, dark and sad-faced. Whether least He loved himself or neighbor none could tell, So cold he seemed in wonted sympathy.

Yet he would ponder an hour at a time Upon a bird found dead; and much he loved To brood i' th' shade of yon wind-wavered pines.

Often at night, too, he would wander forth, Lured by the hollow rumbling of the sea In moonlight breaking, there to learn wild things, Such as these dreamers pluck out of the dusk While other men lie sleeping. But a star, Rose on his sight, at last, with power to rule Majestically mild that deep-domed sky, High as youth's hopes, that stood above his soul; And, ruling, led him dayward. That was Grace, I mean Grace Brierly, daughter of the squire, Rivaling the wheelwright Hungerford's shy Ruth For beauty. Therefore, in the sunny field, Mowing the clover-purpled gra.s.s, or, waked In keen December dawns,--while creeping light And winter-tides beneath the pallid stars Stole o'er the marsh together,--a thought of her Would turn him cool or warm, like the south breeze, And make him blithe or bitter. Alas for him!

Eagerly storing golden thoughts of her, He locked a phantom treasure in his breast.

He sought to chain the breezes, and to lift A perfume as a pearl before his eyes-- Intangible delight! A time drew on When from these twilight musings on his hopes He woke, and found the morning of his love Blasted, and all its rays shorn suddenly.

For Reuben, too, had turned his eye on Grace, And she with favoring face the suit had met, Known in the village; this dream-fettered youth Perceiving not what pa.s.sed, until too late.

One holiday the young folks all had gone Strawberrying, with the village Sabbath-school; Reuben and Grace and Jerry, Ruth, Rob Snow, And all their friends, youth-mates that buoyantly Bore out 'gainst Time's armadas, like a fleet Of fair s.h.i.+ps, sunlit, braced by buffeting winds, Indomitably brave; but, soon or late, Battle and hurricane or whirl them deep Below to death, or send them homeward, seared By shot and storm: so went they forth, that day.

Two wagons full of rosy children rolled Along the rutty track, 'twixt swamp and slope, Through deep, green-glimmering woods, and out at last On gra.s.sy table-land, warm with the sun And yielding tributary odors wild Of strawberry, late June-rose, juniper, Where sea and land breeze mingled. There a brook Through a bare hollow flas.h.i.+ng, spurted, purled, And shot away, yet stayed--a light and grace Unconscious and unceasing. And thick pines, Hard by, drew darkly far away their dim And sheltering, cool arcades. So all dismount, And fields and forest gladden with their shout; Ball, swing, and see-saw sending the light hearts Of the children high o'er earth and everything.

While some staid, kindly women draw and spread In pine-shade the long whiteness of a cloth, The rest, a busy legion, o'er the gra.s.s Kneeling, must rifle the meadow of its fruit.

O laughing Fate! O treachery of truth To royal hopes youth bows before! That day, Ev'n there where life in such glad measure beat Its round, with winds and waters, tunefully, And birds made music in the matted wood, The shaft of death reached Jerry's heart: he saw The sweet conspiracy of those two lives, In looks and gestures read his doom, and heard Their laughter ring to the grave all mirth of his.

So Reuben's life in full leaf stood, its fruit Hidden in a green expectancy; but all His days were rounded with ripe consciousness: While Jerry felt the winter's whitening blight, As when that frosty fern-work and those palms Of visionary leaf, and trailing vines, Quaint-chased by night-winds on the pane, melt off, And naked earth, stone-stiff, with bristling trees, Stares in the winter sunlight coldly through.

But yet he rose, and clothed himself amain With misery, and once more put on life As a stained garment. Highly he resolved To make his deedless days henceforward strike Pure harmony--a psalm of silences.

But on the Sunday, coming from the church, He saw those happy, plighted lovers walk Before proud Grace's father, and of friends Heard comment and congratulation given.

Then with Rob Snow he hurried to the beach, To a rough heap of stones they two had reared In boyhood. There the two held sad debate Of life's swift losses, Bob inspiriting still, Jerry rejecting hope, ev'n though his friend, Self-wounding (for he loved Ruth Hungerford), Told how the wheelwright's daughter longed for him, And yet might make him glad, though Grace was lost.

The season deepened, and in Jerry's heart Ripened a thought charged with grave consequence.

His grief he would have stifled at its birth, Sad child of frustrate longing! But anon-- Knowledge of Ruth's affection being revealed, Which, if he stayed to let it feed on him, Vine-like might wreathe and wind about his life, Lifting all shade and sweetness out of reach Of Robert, so long his friend--honor, and hopes He would not name, kindled a torch for war Of various impulse in him. Reuben wedded; Yet Jerry lingered. Then, swift whisperings Along reverberant walls of gossips' ears Hummed loud and louder a love for Ruth. Grace, too, Involved him in a web of soft surmise With Ruth; and Reuben questioned him thereof.

But a white, sudden anger struck like a bolt O'er Jerry's face, that blackened under it: He strode away, and left his brother dazed, With red rush of offended self-conceit Staining his forehead to the hair. This flash Of anger--first since boyhood's wholesome strifes-- On Jerry's path gleamed lurid; by its light He shaped a life's course out.

There came a storm One night. He bade farewell to Ruth; and when Above the seas the bare-browed dawn arose, While the last laggard drops ran off the eaves, He dressed, but took some customary garb On his arm; stole swiftly to the sands; and there Cast clown his garments by the ancient heap Of stones. At first brief pause he made, and thought: "And thus I play, to win perchance a tear From her whom, first, to save the smallest care, I thought I could have died!" But then at once Within the sweep of swirling water-planes That from the great waves circled up and slid Instantly back, pa.s.sing far down the sh.o.r.e, Southward he made his way. Next day he s.h.i.+pped Upon a whaler outward bound. She spread Her mighty wings, and bore him far away-- So far, Death seemed across her wake to stalk, Withering her swift shape from the empty air, Until her memory grew a faded dream.

Ah, what a desolate brightness that young day Flung o'er the impa.s.sive strand and dull green marsh And green-arched orchard, ere it struck the farm!

Storm-strengthened, clear, and cool the morning rose To gaze down on that frighted home, where dawned Pale Ruth's discovery of her loss, who late, Guessing some ill in Jerry's last-night words Of vague farewell, woke now to certainty Of strange disaster. So, when Reuben and Rob, Hither and thither searching, with locked lips And eyes grown suddenly cold in eager dread, On those still sands beside the untamed sea, Came to the garments Jerry had thrown there, dumb They stood, and knew he'd perished. If by chance Borne out with undertow and rolled beneath The gaping surge, or rus.h.i.+ng on his death Free-willed, they would not guess; but straight they set Themselves to watch the changes of the sea-- The watchful sea that would not be betrayed, The surly flood that echoed their suspense With hollow-sounding horror. Thus three tides Hurled on the beach their empty spray, and brought Nor doubt-dispelling death, nor new-born hope.

But with the fourth slow turn at length there came A naked, drifting body impelled to sh.o.r.e, An unknown sailor by the late storm swept Out of the rigging of some laboring s.h.i.+p.

And him, disfigured by the water's wear, The watching friends supposed their dead; and so, Mourning, took up this outcast of the deep, And buried him, with church-rite and with pall Trailing, and train of sad-eyed mourners, there In the old orchard-lot by Reuben's door.

Observed among the mourners walked slight Ruth.

Her grief had dropped a veil of finer light Around her, hedging her with sanct.i.ty Peculiar; all stood shy about her save Rob Snow, he venturing from time to time Some small, uncertain act of kindliness.

Long seemed she vowed from joy, but when the birds Began to mate, and quiet violets blow Along the brook-side, lo! she smiled again; Again the wind-flower color in her cheeks Blanch'd in a breath, and bloomed once more; then stayed; Till, like the breeze that rumors ripening buds, A delicate sense crept through the air that soon These two would scale the church-crowned hill, and wed.

The seasons faced the world, and fled, and came.

In summer nights, the soft roll of the sea Was shattered, resonant, beneath a moon That, silent, seemed to hearken. And every hour In autumn, night or day, large apples fell Without rebound to earth, upon the sod There mounded greenly by the large slate slab In the old orchard-lot near Reuben's door.

But there were changes: after some long years Reuben and Grace beheld a brave young boy Bearing their double life abroad in one-- Beginning new the world, and bringing hopes That in their path fell flower-like. Not at ease They dwelt, though; for a slow discordancy Of temper--weak-willed waste of life in bursts Of petulance--had marred their happiness.

And so the boy, young Reuben, as he grew, Was chafed and vexed by this ill-fitting mode Of life forced on him, and rebelled. Too oft Brooding alone, he shaped loose schemes of flight Into the joyous outer world, to break From the unwholesome wranglings of his home.

Then once, when at some slight demur he made, Dispute ensued between the man and wife, He burst forth, goaded, "Some day I will leave-- Leave you forever!" And his father stared, Lifted and clenched his hand, but let it unloose, Nerveless. The blow, unstruck, yet quivered through The boy's whole body.

Waiting for the night, Reuben made ready, lifted latch, went forth; Then, with his little bundle in his hand, Took the bleak road that led him to the world.

When Jerry eighteen years had sailed, had bared His hurt soul to the pitiless sun and drunk The rainy brew of storms on all seas, tired Of wreck and fever and renewed mischance That would not end in death, a longing stirred Within him to revisit that gray coast Where he was born. He landed at the port Whence first he sailed; and, as in fervid youth, Set forth upon the highway, to walk home.

Some h.o.a.rding he had made, wherewith to enrich His brother's brood for spendthrift purposes; And as he walked he wondered how they looked, How tall they were, how many there might be.

At noon he set himself beside the way, Under a clump of willows sprouting dense O'er the weed-woven margin of a brook; While in the fine green branches overhead Song-sparrows lightly perched, for whom he threw From his scant bread some crumbs, remembering well Old days when he had played with birds like these-- The same, perhaps, or grandfathers of theirs, Or earlier still progenitors: whereat They chirped and chattered louder than before.

But, as he sat, a boy came down the road, Stirring the noontide dust with laggard feet.

Young Reuben 't was, who seaward made his way.

And Jerry hailed him, carelessly, his mood Moving to salutation, and the boy, From under his torn hat-brim looking, answered.

Then, seeing that he eyed his sc.r.a.p of bread, The sailor bade him come and share it. So They fell to talk; and Jerry, with a rough, Quick-touching kindness, the boy's heart so moved That unto him he all his wrong confessed.

Gravely the sailor looked at him, and told His own tale of mad flight and wandering; how, Wasted he had come back, his life a husk Of withered seeds, a raveled purse, though once With golden years well stocked, all squandered now.

At ending, he prevailed, and Reub was won To turn and follow. Jerry, though he knew Not yet the father's name, said he that way Was going, too, and he would intercede Between the truant and his father. Back Together then they went. But on the way, As now they pa.s.sed from pines to farming-land, The boy asked more. "'T is queer you should have come From these same parts, and run away like me!

You did not tell me how it happened."

JERRY.

Foolish, All of it! But I thought it weightier Than the world's history, once. I could not stay And see my brother married to the girl I loved; and so I went.

THE BOY.

I had an uncle That was in love. But he--he drowned himself.

Why do men do so?

JERRY.

Drowned himself? And when?

THE BOY.