Here in the shade through all the changing years
She lies, to whom the wilderness gave love;
Here did they hide her, and their falling tears
Dropped record in the stone they carved above.
From hearts of stern old Puritans these words,
When few and stranger in the land their race,
And grey wolves howled at night around her resting-place.
The few to many grew, the many one,
Till children's children played by farthest seas.
The wars have come and gone. With every sun
Griefs fade like leaves. And still beneath the trees
The love-words cling as lichens to their rock.
Before the Charles its forest murmur ceased
The river-parish mourned this gentle woman-priest.
What was she in her face, her tones, her smile?
The eyes, wherein the silent song abode
Her linnet heart sang inwardly the while,
Till, at the end outbreaking, their tears flowed?
No echo lingers, no tradition tells:
A village saint, forgot of legend's art,
Unknown Madonna of the Puritanic heart.
Yet moss-grown words hold secrets. " Good betimes," —
That hints a charm of early maiden ways;
And " Best at last," — the growth in grace, the chimes
Of woman's powers perfecting with the days.
" She walkt with God": the Someone-with-her felt
Woke sense of holy place in Watertown,
And woodland paths knew quiet above their wonted own.
The cull of verses from the wise old book
Tell her two joys, — the joy of mother's breast
Enfolding little ones; the following look
In husband-eyes that speaks a heart at rest,
The while he praises God at morn and eve
Because she is his very loving wife,
The constant pleasantness of all his days of life.
" The helpmeet of their minister," it reads:
Angel of their rough homesteads; hands and feet
A gentleness at bed-sides; to slow needs
Of age a comforter; a face that windows greet,
And blessings wait in closets of the heart;
One whom the barefoot children laugh to meet;
To whom glad youths and maidens bring their secret sweet.
And on the Lord's Day in the parish-pew,
Straight-backed, uncushioned, like the creed's content,
I see her lips interpreting anew
In terms of love the preacher's argument;
Her eyes reflect the fervors of his prayer.
Full oft her heart to heaven had sung its way
Before the angel-voices bade, " Come in and stay!"
She " went off singing" — and " left us to wepe":
The love-words lie dim-lettered in the stone,
Still in the shadows here remembrance keep.
Across two hundred Junes the song, the moan;
Two hundred snows of silence on them sleep.
With battle-thoughts forlorn, one day I strolled,
To find, and love again, the parish-saint of old.
She lies, to whom the wilderness gave love;
Here did they hide her, and their falling tears
Dropped record in the stone they carved above.
From hearts of stern old Puritans these words,
When few and stranger in the land their race,
And grey wolves howled at night around her resting-place.
The few to many grew, the many one,
Till children's children played by farthest seas.
The wars have come and gone. With every sun
Griefs fade like leaves. And still beneath the trees
The love-words cling as lichens to their rock.
Before the Charles its forest murmur ceased
The river-parish mourned this gentle woman-priest.
What was she in her face, her tones, her smile?
The eyes, wherein the silent song abode
Her linnet heart sang inwardly the while,
Till, at the end outbreaking, their tears flowed?
No echo lingers, no tradition tells:
A village saint, forgot of legend's art,
Unknown Madonna of the Puritanic heart.
Yet moss-grown words hold secrets. " Good betimes," —
That hints a charm of early maiden ways;
And " Best at last," — the growth in grace, the chimes
Of woman's powers perfecting with the days.
" She walkt with God": the Someone-with-her felt
Woke sense of holy place in Watertown,
And woodland paths knew quiet above their wonted own.
The cull of verses from the wise old book
Tell her two joys, — the joy of mother's breast
Enfolding little ones; the following look
In husband-eyes that speaks a heart at rest,
The while he praises God at morn and eve
Because she is his very loving wife,
The constant pleasantness of all his days of life.
" The helpmeet of their minister," it reads:
Angel of their rough homesteads; hands and feet
A gentleness at bed-sides; to slow needs
Of age a comforter; a face that windows greet,
And blessings wait in closets of the heart;
One whom the barefoot children laugh to meet;
To whom glad youths and maidens bring their secret sweet.
And on the Lord's Day in the parish-pew,
Straight-backed, uncushioned, like the creed's content,
I see her lips interpreting anew
In terms of love the preacher's argument;
Her eyes reflect the fervors of his prayer.
Full oft her heart to heaven had sung its way
Before the angel-voices bade, " Come in and stay!"
She " went off singing" — and " left us to wepe":
The love-words lie dim-lettered in the stone,
Still in the shadows here remembrance keep.
Across two hundred Junes the song, the moan;
Two hundred snows of silence on them sleep.
With battle-thoughts forlorn, one day I strolled,
To find, and love again, the parish-saint of old.