ELLA kept anxious vigil by the bed:
How strange it is to watch through creeping hours
A face which was Thought’s temple, and instead
To find blank nothingness, or jarring powers;
For mind, and soul, and senses, all are fled,
And weirdly wander in a world not ours,
Some Tartarus, whereof we seek the key,
Striving to follow and to set them free.
Ere night, there came a change; for Alan woke
From torpor to delirium; now he seemed
To see again his Vision, and invoke
With prayer, some Power divine; anon, he dreamed
Of his old home and his old faith, and broke
Into sad cries of “Mother!” and there streamed
From his hot lips full many a wonder wild
Of elves, and wraiths, and witches who beguiled
The hearts of chieftains. Then he wandered back
From childish days, and softly moaned the name
Of Ella; or he trod his wonted track
‘Mid squalor and disease, and vice and shame,
Crying, “I cannot eat while others lack,
I eat their flesh!” But still again he came
To that old home, and raved with strange despair
Because he could not find his mother there.
And Ella listened; these lamentings moved
Her inmost heart; her sorrowing eyes grew dim
With bitterer tears–this woman she had loved,
Tenderly loved, when first betrothed to him,
But, at the severance, haply it behoved
A prophet’s mother to resent the whim
That harmed her idol; and the two, estranged,
For many months no greeting word had changed.
And who would tell the mother? She must come;
But who would say to her–“Your son is lying
Wounded to death–he wakes from swoonings dumb
To rave and moan–perchance he may be dying
E’en while I speak.” Poor Ella, cold and numb,
Pondered of this, and felt her heart replying–
“You, you must bear the message–only you
Have wrecked his life–take anguish as your due.
As thus she mused, George entered. “Go awhile,”
He said, “and sleep, for you are tired and worn,
And I will watch.” She gave a faint wan smile
At thought of sleep, with this envenomed thorn
Deep in her breast–better the weary mile
To Alan’s home–better to greet the mom
With wakeful eyes, than half to see its beams
In the sad Limbo of unslumbrous dreams.
But forth she went; and loitering at the gate
She saw that stalwart limping rioter
Who championed Alan ‘gainst the blinded hate
Of the brute mob. No tumult was astir,
But only this one man had come to wait
For news. In whispering tones he questioned her,
As though a louder sound the ear might reach
Of him who heard but his own babbling speech.
And when she told her errand, he besought
That he might guide her through the darkening streets,
For some of those who swore and robbed and fought
That morning, were not sated with their feats;
He had no fear–he never would be caught
By any slow policeman on his beats;
She would be safe with him–for well enough
His face was known to every city rough.
So, with her strange companion, Ella wound
Through many streets, with foot that could not tire,
And scarcely saw the wrecks that lay around,
The havoc wrought by pillage and by fire;
Nor did her speed grow slack, until she found
Her goal; and then, refusing gift or hire,
Her guide departed; timidly she knocked,
And a slow trembling hand the door unlocked
And Ella stepped into the homely room
Where, two years past, Alan his Vision told;
There, sitting upright in the fire-lit gloom,
Was the grey father, stern yet unconsoled,
Still mourning for his son’s eternal doom:
The careworn mother, thinner than of old,
Flitted from spot to spot, or crouching sate
Like a poor bird with nest made desolate.
I know not how the story was begun,
Nor ended how; the father’s face, hard-set,
Just quivered– “Lord,” he said, “Thy will be done!”
But with reluctant tears his eyes grew wet,
Oozing like drops of blood–” My son, my son!”
He murmured, seeming all things to forget
Save sorrow; but the mother, pallid, fierce,
Gazed at the girl, as though she fain would pierce
Her heart. “Your fault!” she cried–“it is your fault!
His blood be on your head, if he must die;
Like the proud Pharisees, who did exalt
Their barren lore, and shouted ‘Crucify!’
You slew my son!” But now the tear-drops salt
Choked her mad words; and Ella made reply
By kneeling at her feet and weeping– “Nay,
Mother! it was myself I meant to slay.”
She kissed the slender hand, by toil made hard,
And the poor mother, seeing her so mild,
And feeling the hot tears, her heart unbarred
With quick repentance for those plainings wild;
Saying–“Forgive me–kiss me–I should guard
My lips from evil. Take me to my child.”
The women clung together; then the three
Set out on their sad errand silently.
They neared the house with many a wordless prayer,
And knew not whether that they came to seek
Were life or death: George met them on the stair
With mien so haggard, that it seemed to speak
All that they dreaded; but he said, “Prepare
To see him–he is conscious, but as weak
As any babe, and his unceasing cry
Is ‘Let my mother come before I die!'”
And the two parents, by his tone bereft
Well-nigh of hope, passed to the sick man’s side;
While Ella in her loneliness was left
Waiting without, uncalled. Should Death divide
Their hearts for ever, leaving still the cleft
Between his soul and hers unbridged and wide?
She lingered; oft against her will she heard
The tender sighing of a farewell word.
Was there for her no longing and no call,
Not even one poor good-bye message, sent
Like ears of corn that careless hands let fall
For one who gleans–was this her punishment?
Was parting not enough, without the gall
Of this immedicable pain, unblent
With joy, and stinging backward, till at last
It should empoison all the sacred Past?
But now the two came out to her; their tears
Were dried, and in their faces there was calm;
The father seemed as one who dimly hears
The music of some new revealing psalm;
The mother, past all hopes and past all fears
And memories of anger, with cold palm
Pressed Ella’s hand–“Go in,” she said, “be brave,
He loves you now–yes, even to the grave.”
He loved her–then the utmost bitterness
Was gone from pain, leaving remembered joy
Unsullied–happy they who still possess
Gladness in grief embalmed, that cannot cloy
With full fruition, nor by time grow less,
Nor can estrangement any more destroy
This Love ideal: thus doth Heaven accord
Through Death, its one immutable reward.
She went in softly; he lay white and still,
Though his dark eyes unquenched were burning clear;
She laid her hand in his, already chill,
And heard his faint voice whisper, “Dear, more dear
In death–forgive me, Ella, and fulfil
My last petition, for the end is near,
Is close; oh stay, and hold awhile my hand,
And listen–only you will understand.
“Stay with me, while I linger on the verge
Of the unknown abyss, yet void of awe
And fear, and ecstasy; I hear a dirge
Wailing that Vision which of old I saw;
Yet not in darkness but in glory merge
My dreams, and yield to some transcendent Law,
I know not how; for all is plunged and drowned
In the bright waters of this peace profound.
“But that my eyesight wanes, now might I see;
But that my thoughts grow dim, at last might learn;
But that sleep weighs me down so wearily,
Rise to that Truth, for whose pure light I yearn:
Unworshipped on her mount she dwells, in free
And maiden loneliness; her wooers turn
Toward fair reflected images, that gleam
And waver with the mist or with the stream.
“I cannot think, and scarcely can I feel–
But you are strong, and now again you shine
Truth’s radiant herald, come to wound and heal
A generation hungry for a sign–
Be no sign granted, saving to unseal
The meaning of the ages, and unshrine
All errors, all illusions–theirs, my own:
For though the wine-press that I trod alone
“Held blood-red grapes from the volcano’s edge,
Yet the true purple full-ripe fruit I missed:
Seek you and find; oh give this one last pledge–
Ella, my Love–my Wife!” His lips she kissed
With tender lingering pressure: sacrilege
It seemed, to mar that silent Eucharist
By uttered vow; the very soul of each
Shone visible, disrobed of veiling speech.
Page 234
Grieve not for them; but rather grieve for such
As live with what they love, and night and noon
Have joy of gentle voice and kindly touch,
Yet famish for some unimagined boon;
Too little Heaven they have, and all too much
Of Earth, whose bounties deaden, late or soon,
Their aspiration; or its torrent-force
Frays out some fleshly or ethereal course.
For such your grief; what husbands and their wives
Once in long years each other’s soul can see?
But these found all to which high Passion strives–
Perfect communion, from cold symbols free,
The fleeting quintessence of myriad lives,
A concentrated brief Eternity,
The mountain-vista of an endless age
Not known by weary winding pilgrimage.
At length she spoke– “Myself I dedicate
To this great service: all my spirit’s power–
Through joy and grief, in good or evil fate,
Whether the desert pathways bud and flower,
Or the fair fields be ravaged by man’s hate–
Shall bear the superscription of this hour:
I give whate’er I have of strength and skill;
Trust me in this–what Woman can, I will.”
Then she was silent: for his look was fraught
With peace that quenches all desire and dread,
Yet spares the impress of each noble thought
That ruled in life the converse of the dead;
As Night brings every trivial thing to nought,
While still the mountains tower, the oceans spread:
Long time she knelt; and when at last she rose
Her features almost mirrored his repose.
(Constance Naden)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Life Poems, World Poems, Night Poems, Mind Poems, Sadness Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Soul Poems, Faces Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Fairness PoemsBased on Keywords: resent, tartarus, quenches, unseal, alan, envenomed, torpor, unbarred, weirdly, severance, limbo