So I hid all the grief in my breast which I knew it would pain him to see.
He’d be back by the autumn, he said; and since his last passionate kiss
He has scarcely been out of my thoughts, day or night, for a moment, from that day to this.
When I wrote to him how I thought it would be, and he answered so full of love;
Ah! there was no angel happier than I, in all the bright chorus above;
And I seem’d to be lonely no longer, the days slipp’d so swiftly away;
And the March winds died, and the sweet April showers gave place to the blossoms of May.
And then came the sad summer eve, when I sat with the little frock in the sun,
And Annie ran in with the news of the ship. Ah, well! may His will be done!
They said that all hands were lost, and I swoon’d away like a stone,
And another life came ere I knew he was safe, and that mine was over and gone.
So now I lie helpless here, and shall never rise up again,
I grow weaker and weaker, day by day, till my weakness itself is a pain.
Every morning the creeping dawn, every evening I see from my bed
The orange-gold fade into lifeless grey, and the old evening star overhead.
Sometimes in the twilight dim, or the awful birth of the day,
As I lie, not asleep nor awake, my soul seems to flutter away,
And I seem to be floating beyond the stars, till I thrill with an exquisite pain,
And the feeble touch of a tiny hand recalls me to life again.
And the doctor says she will live. Ah! ’tis hard to leave her alone,
And to think she will never know in the world the love of the mother who’s gone!
He will tell her of me, by and by, – she will shed me a childish tear;
But if I should stoop to her bed in the night, she would start with a horrible fear.
She will grow into girlhood, I trust, and will bask in the light of love,
And I, if I see her at all, shall only look on from above —
I shall see her, and cannot help, though she fall into evil and woe.
Ah! how can the angels find heart to rejoice when they think of their loved ones below?
And Francis, he too, will forget me, and will go on the journey of life,
And I hope, though I dare not think of it yet, will take him another wife.
It will scarcely be Annie, I think, though she liked him in days gone by;
Was that why she came? – but what thoughts are these for one who is going to die?
I hope he will come ere I go, though I feel no longer the thirst
For the sound of his voice, and the light of his eye, that I used to feel at first:
’Tis not that I love him less, but death dries, like a whirlwind of fire,
The tender springs of innocent love, and the torrents of strong desire.
And I know we shall meet again. I have done many things that are wrong,
But, surely, the Lord of Life and of Love, cannot bear to be angry long.
I am only a girl of eighteen, and have had no teacher but love;
And, it may be, the sorrow and pain I have known will be counted for me, above;
For I doubt if the minister knows all the depths of the goodness of God,
When he says He is jealous of earthly love, and bids me bow down ’neath the rod.
He is learnèd and wise, I know, but, somehow, to dying eyes
God opens the secret doors of the shrine that are closed to the learnèd and wise.
So now I am ready to go, for I know He will do what is best,
Though he call me away while the sun is on high, like a child sent early to rest.
I should like to see Francis look on our child, though the longing is over and past —
But what is that footstep upon the stair? Oh! my darling – at last! at last!
ECHOES
On Thursday I sat in the choir of Canterbury Cathedral and watched the Bishops, Deans, Canons, and other clergy as they walked up in procession, leading the new Archbishop. The Archbishop seemed, I thought, to look with sheepish glances at two young men in full ball-room dress, who walked behind, holding up his long train; and I am satisfied that nothing but the proprieties of the place prevented his Grace from kicking them both, and carrying his tail in his own hands. The clergy, in their white gowns, with their various University colours, presented a rather pleasant appearance in the aggregate, and, with the environment of the old Cathedral arches, I thought they must have appeared to the best advantage. But while I gazed upon the old Archbishop and those who were doing him homage, the first notes of a distant chant broke faintly through the air. The choristers had just entered the western door far away, and as they slowly moved at the end of the long procession, they uttered a sweet old Gregorian chant. At first, as I listened, I thought how very sweet it was; then I thought it was in danger of becoming monotonous; nevertheless, the little cherubs had not consulted me about the length of it, and so continued their chant. But then the old music began to strike me with subtle effects, like the strain of some long sound-seasoned Cremona violin. And at length it began to work some strange spell upon me, and weave for my ear echoes caught up as it were from the dead past which before had seemed sleeping in its many tombs around. The echoes of wild pagan song, uttered with the tramp of mystic dances, gathering at last to the dying groan of some poor wretch perishing on a rude altar that a complacent smile may be won to the face of his god. The echo of the voice of a monk who finds that altar, and raises the crucifix above it. His voice blends with the outcry of the people for their old gods, and the loud command of the baptized King. What wild echoes are these hiding under that outburst of young voices? The echoes of a thousand savage martyrs who will not bow down to the Pope. Their protest is stifled with their blood; they pass to Valhalla for whose All-Father they have died; and the howling tempest marks his passage over the scene. Echoes again; the sounds of war. Hark! a tumult – words of anger – a hoarse cry – an Archbishop’s last sigh as his life ebbs away on the floor – there on the spot near the choir’s gate, where Archbishop Tait now gazes as if he could see the stark form of à-Becket lying there. Yes, plainly I heard that groan in the Gregorian chant. Then there were the echoes of stripes. A King in the dark crypt, beneath the shrine of the murdered Archbishop, now canonized, is being scourged in penance for his sins. Blended with these, the echoes of the voices of the great prelates and princes of many kingdoms, who have come to build a shrine for the martyr: their exclamations before the shrine decked with all the gleaming gems owned by the monarchs of Europe. One of them, Louis of France, has refused to offer a diamond, the finest in the world, but when the shrine is uncovered, the stone leaps from his ring and sets itself in the centre of the brilliants. The people shout, nay, weep with excitement at this miracle. All these I heard again in the chant. Then came pathetic echoes out of many ages: the tones of mourners as they followed here their honoured dead; the prayers of souls here aspiring towards the mysteries of existence; voices of hearts that found peace; the sobs of those who found it not; the low-toned benediction or exhortation of confessors. The voices of priests from pulpits, and of those who responded. All are hushed in death; but I heard their awakened echoes. The echoes of tolling bells, of marriage chimes. The tones of marriage vows. The startled cry of the infant wondering at the holy water sprinkled upon it. The echoes of Chaucer’s merry or sad pilgrims with their gracious or wanton stories, beguiling their way to the old inn near Christ