Classic Poem

Locality.--The Kitchen.

PRESENT.-DAVID, RUTH, JOHN, PETER, PRUDENCE,
and PATIENCE,

THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY THE
DENOUEMENT.

John.

Since the old gentleman retired to bed,
Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Ruth,
Have wasted thirty minutes underground
In explorations. One would think the house
Covered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave,
And they had lost themselves. Mary and Grace
Still hold their chamber and their conference,
And pour into each other's greedy ears
Their stream of talk, whose low monotonous hum,
Would lull to slumber any storm but this.
The children are play-tired and gone to bed;
And one may know by looking round the room
Their place of sport was here. And we, plain folk,
Who have no gift of speech, especially
On themes which we and none may understand,
Have yawned and nodded in the great square room,
And wondered if the parted family
Would ever meet again.

Ruth.

John, do you see
The apples and the cider on the hearth?
If I remember rightly, you discuss
Such themes as these with noticeable zest
And pleasant tokens of intelligence;
Rather preferring scanty company
To the full circle. So, sir, take the lead,
And help yourself.

John.

Aye! That I will, and give
Your welcome invitation currency,
In the old-fashioned way. Come! Help yourselves!

David.

[Looking out from the window.]

The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls!
The atmosphere is plunging like the sea
Against the woods, and pouring on the night
The roar of breakers, while the blinding spray
O'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting on
In lines as level as the window-bars.
What curious visions, in a night like this,
Will the eye conjure from the rocks and trees
And zigzag fences! I was almost sure
I saw a man staggering along the road
A moment since; but instantly the shape
Dropped from my sight. Hark! Was not that a call--
A human voice? There's a conspiracy
Between my eyes and ears to play me tricks,
Else wanders there abroad some hapless soul
Who needs assistance. There he stands again,
And with unsteady essay strives to breast
The tempest. Hush! Did you not hear that cry?
Quick, brothers! We must out, and give our aid.
None but a dying and despairing man
Ever gave utterance to a cry like that.
Nay, wait for nothing. Follow me!

Ruth.

Alas!
Who can he be, who on a night like this,
And on this night, of all nights in the year,
Holds to the highway, homeless?

Prudence.

Probably
Some neighbor, started from his home in quest
Of a physician; or, more likely still,
Some poor inebriate, sadly overcome
By his sad keeping of the holiday.
I hope they'll give him quarters in the barn;
If he sleep here, there'll be no sleep for me.

Patience.

I'll not believe it was a man at all;
David and Ruth are always seeing things
That no one else sees.

Ruth.

I see plainly now
What we shall all see plainly, soon enough.
The man is dead, and they are bearing him
As if he were a log. Quick! Stir the fire,
And clear the settle! We must lay him there.
I will bring cordials, and flannel stuffs
With which to chafe him; open wide the door.

[The men enter bearing a body apparently
lifeless, which they lay upon the settle.]

David.

Now do my bidding, orderly and swift;
And we may save from death a fellow-man.
Peter, relieve him of those frozen shoes,
And wrap his feet in flannel. This way, Ruth!
Administer that cordial yourself.
John, you are strong, and that rough hand of yours
Will chafe him well. Work with a will, I say!

* * * * *

My hand is on his heart, and I can feel
Both warmth and motion. If we persevere,
He will be saved. Work with a will, I say!

* * * * *

A groan? Ha! That is good. Another groan?
Better and better!

Ruth.

It is down at last!--
A spoonful of the cordial. His breath
Comes feebly, but is warm upon my hand.

David.

Give him brisk treatment, and persistent, too;
And we shall be rewarded presently,
For there is life in him.

* * * * *
He moves his lips
And tries to speak.

* * * * *

And now he opes his eyes.
What eyes! How wandering and wild they are!

[To the stranger.]

We are your friends. We found you overcome
By the cold storm without, and brought you in.
We are your friends, I say; so be at ease,
And let us do according to your need.
What is your wish?

Stranger.

My friends? O God in Heaven!
They've cheated me! I'm in the hospital.
Oh, it was cruel to deceive me thus!
No, you are not my friends. What bitter pain
Racks my poor body!

David.

Poor man, how he raves!
Let us be silent while the warmth and wine
Provoke his sluggish blood to steady flow,
And each dead sense comes back to life again,
O'er the same path of torture which it trod
When it went out from him. He'll slumber soon,
And, when he wakens, we may talk with him.

Prudence.

[Sotto voce.]

Shall I not call the family? I think
Mary and Grace must both be very cold;
And they know nothing of this strange affair.
I'll wait them at the landing, and secure
Their silent entrance.

David.

If it please you--well.

[PRUDENCE retires, and returns with
GRACE and MARY.]

Mary.

Why! We heard nothing of it--Grace and I:--
What a cadaverous hand! How blue and thin!

David.

At his first wild awaking he bemoaned
His fancied durance in a hospital;
And since he spoke so strangely, I have thought
He may have fled a mad-house. Matters not!
We've done our duty, and preserved his life.

Mary.

Shall I disturb him if I look at him?
I'm strangely curious to see his face.

David.

Go. Move you carefully, and bring us word
Whether he sleeps.

[MARY rises, goes to the settle, and sinks
back fainting ]

Why! What ails the girl?
I thought her nerves were iron. Dash her brow,
And bathe her temples!

Mary.

There--there,--that will do.
'Tis over now.

David.

The man is speaking. Hush!

Stranger.

Oh, what a heavenly dream! But it is past,
Like all my heavenly dreams, for never more
Shall dream entrance me. Death has never dreams,
But everlasting wakefulness. The eye
Of the quick spirit that has dropped the flesh
May close no more in slumber.

* * * * *

I must die!
This painless spell which binds my weary limbs--
This peace ineffable of soul and sense--
Is dissolution's herald, and gives note
That life is conquered and the struggle o'er.
But I had hoped to see her ere I died;
To kneel for pardon, and implore one kiss,
Pledge to my soul that in the coming heaven
We should not meet as strangers, but rejoin
Our hearts and lives so madly sundered here,
Through fault and freak of mine. But it is well!
God's will be done!

* * * * *

I dreamed that I had reached
The old red farmhouse,--that I saw the light
Flaming as brightly as in other times
It flushed the kitchen windows; and that forms
Were sliding to and fro in joyous life,
Restless to give me welcome. Then I dreamed
Of the dear woman who went out with me
One sweet spring morning, in her own sweet spring,
To--wretchedness and ruin. Oh, forgive--
Dear, pitying Christ, forgive this cruel wrong,
And let me die! Oh let me--let me die!
Mary! my Mary! Could you only know
How I have suffered since I fled from you.--
How I have sorrowed through long months of pain,
And prayed for pardon,--you would pardon me.

David.

[Sotto voce]

Mary, what means this? Does he dream alone,
Or are we dreaming?

Mary.

Edward, I am here!
I am your Mary! Know you not my face?
My husband, speak to me! Oh, speak once more!
This is no dream, but kind reality.

Edward.

[Raising himself, and looking wildly around.]

You, Mary? Is this heaven, and am I dead?
I did not know you died: when did you die?
And John and Peter, Grace and little Ruth
Grown to a woman; are they all with you?
'Tis very strange! O pity me, my friends!
For God has pitied me, and pardoned, too;
Else I should not be here. Nay, you seem cold,
And look on me with sad severity.
Have you no pardoning word--no smile for me?

Mary.

This is not Heaven's, but Earth's reality;
This is the farm-house--these your wife and friends.
I hold your hand, and I forgive you all.
Pray you recline! You are not strong enough
To bear this yet.

Edward.

[Sinking back.]

O toiling heart! O sick and sinking heart!
Give me one hour of service, ere I die!
This is no dream. This hand is precious flesh,
And I am here where I have prayed to be.
My God, I thank thee! Thou hast heard my prayer,
And, in its answer, given me a pledge
Of the acceptance of my penitence.
How have I yearned for this one priceless hour!
Cling to me, dearest, while my feet go down
Into the silent stream; nor loose your hold,
Till angels grasp me on the other side.

Mary.

Edward, you are not dying--must not die;
For only now are we prepared to live.
You must have quiet, and a night of rest.
Be silent, if you love me!

Edward.

If I love?
Ah, Mary! never till this blessed hour,
When power and passion, lust and pride are gone,
Have I perceived what wedded love may be;--
Unutterable fondness, soul for soul;
Profoundest tenderness between two hearts
Allied by nature, interlocked by life.
I know that I shall die; but the low clouds
That closed my mental vision have retired,
And left a sky as clear and calm as Heaven.
I must talk now, or never more on earth;
So do not hinder me.

Mary.

[Weeping.]

Have you a wish
That I can gratify? Have you any words
To send to other friends?

Edward.

I have no friends
But you and these, and only wish to leave
My worthless name and memory redeemed
Within your hearts to pitying respect.
I have no strength, and it becomes me not,
To tell the story of my life of sin.
I was a drunkard, thief, adulterer;
And fled from shame, with shame, to find remorse.
I had but few months of debauchery,
Pursued with mad intent to damp or drown
The flames of a consuming conscience, when
My body, poisoned, crippled with disease,
Refused the guilty service of my soul,
And at midday fell prone upon the street.
Thence I was carried to a hospital,
And there I woke to that delirium
Which none but drunkards this side of the pit
May even dream of.

But at last there came,
With abstinence and kindly medicines,
Release from pain and peaceful sanity;
And then Christ found me, ready for His hand.
I was not ready for Him when He came
And asked me for my youth; and when He knocked
At my heart's door in manhood's early prime
With tenderest monitions, I debarred
His waiting feet with promise and excuse;
And when, in after years, absorbed in sin,
The gentle summons swelled to thunderings
That echoed through the chambers of my soul
With threats of vengeance, I shut up my ears;
And then He went away, and let me rush
Without arrest, or protest, toward the pit.
I made swift passage downward, till, at length,
I had become a miserable wreck--
Pleasure behind me; only pain before;
My life lived out; the fires of passion dead,
Without a friend; no pride, no power, no hope;
No motive in me e'en to wish for life.
Then, as I said, Christ came, with stern and sad
Reminders of His mercy and my guilt,
And the door fell before Him.

I went out,
And trod the wildernesses of remorse
For many days. Then from their outer verge,
Tortured and blinded, I plunged madly down
Into the sullen bosom of despair;
But strength from Heaven was given me, and preserved
Breath in my bosom, till a light streamed up
Upon the other shore, and I struck out
On the cold waters, struggling for my life.
Fainting I reached the beach, and on my knees
Climbed up the thorny hill of penitence,
Till I could see, upon its distant brow,
The Saviour beck'ning. Then I ran--I flew--
And grasped His outstretched hand. It lifted me
High on the everlasting rock, and then
It folded me, with all my griefs and tears,
My sin-sick body and my guilt-stained soul,
To the great heart that throbs for all the world.

Mary.

Dear Lord, I bless Thee! Thou hast heard my prayer,
And saved the wanderer! Hear it once again,
And lengthen out the life Thou hast redeemed!

Edward.

Mary, my wife, forbear! I may not give
Response to such petition. I have prayed
That I may die. When first the love Divine
Received me on its bosom, and in mine
I felt the springing of another life,
I begged the Lord to grant me two requests:
The first that I might die, and in that world
Where passion sleeps, and only influence
From Him and those who cluster at His throne
Breathes on the soul, the germ of His great life,
Bursting within me, might be perfected.
The second, that your life, my love, and mine
Might be once more united on the earth
In holy marriage, and that mine might be
Breathed out at last within your loving arms.
One prayer is granted, and the other waits
But a brief space for its accomplishment.

Mary.

But why this prayer to die? Still loving me,--
With the great motive for desiring life
And the deep secret of enjoyment won,--
Why pray for death?

Edward.

Do you not know me, Mary?
I am afraid to live, for I am weak.
I've found a treasure only life can steal;
I've won a jewel only death will keep.
In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearl
Would not be safe. That which I would not take
When health was with me,--which I spurned away
So long as I had power to sin, I fear
Would be surrendered with that power's return
And the temptation to its exercise.
For soul like mine, diseased in every part,
There is but one condition in which grace
May give it service. For my malady
The Great Physician draws the blood away
That only flows to feed its baleful fires;
For only thus the balsam and the balm
May touch the springs of healing.

So I pray
To be delivered from myself,--to be
Delivered from necessity of ill,--
To be secured from bringing harm to you.
Oh, what a boon is death to the sick soul!
I greet it with a joy that passes speech.
Were the whole world to come before me now,--
Wealth with its treasures; Pleasure with its cup;
Power robed in purple; Beauty in its pride,
And with Love's sweetest blossoms garlanded;
Fame with its bays, and Glory with its crown,--
To tempt me lifeward, I would turn away,
And stretch my hands with utter eagerness
Toward the pale angel waiting for me now,
And give my hand to him, to be led out,
Serenely singing, to the land of shade.

Mary.

Edwa