Cold words from one I had hoped to warm so far
That I could stamp my image on her heart!
‘Pray come and see my mother, and farewell.’
Cold, but as welcome as free airs of heaven
After a dungeon’s closeness. Selfish, strange!
What dwarfs are men! my strangled vanity
Utter’d a stifled cry — to have vext myself
And all in vain for her — cold heart or none —
No bride for me. Yet so my path was clear
To win the sister.
Whom I woo’d and won.
For Evelyn knew not of my former suit,
Because the simple mother work’d upon
By Edith pray it me not to whisper of it.
And Edith would be bridesmaid on the day.
But on that day, not being all at ease,
I from the altar glancing back upon her,
Before the first ‘I will’ was utter’d, saw
The bridesmaid pale, statuelike, passionless —
‘No harm, no harm’ I turn’d again, and placed
My ring upon the finger of my bride.
So, when we parted, Edith spoke no word,
She wept no tear, but round my Evelyn clung
In utter silence for so long, I thought
‘What, will she never set her sister free?’
We left her, happy each in each, and then,
As tho’ the happiness of each in each
Were not enough, must fain have torrents, lakes,
Hills, the great things of Nature and the fair,
To lift us as it were from commonplace,
And help us to our joy. Better have sent
Our Edith thro’ the glories of the earth,
To change with her horizon, if true Love
Were not his own imperial all-in-all.
Far off we went. My God, I would not live
Save that I think this gross hard-seeming world
Is our misshaping vision of the Powers
Behind the world, that make our griefs our gains.
For on the dark night of our marriage-day
The great Tragedian, that had quench’d herself
In that assumption of the bridesmaid — she
That loved me — our true Edith — her brain broke
With over-acting, till she rose and fled
Beneath a pitiless rush of Autumn rain
To the deaf church — to be let in — to pray
Before that altar — so I think; and there
They found her beating the hard Protestant doors.
She died and she was buried ere we knew.
I learnt it first. I had to speak. At once
The bright quick smile of Evelyn, that had sunn’d
The morning of our marriage, past away
And on our home-return the daily want
Of Edith in the house, the garden, still
Haunted us like her ghost; and by and by,
Either from that necessity for talk
Which lives with blindness, or plain innocence
Of nature, or desire that her lost child
Should earn from both the praise of heroism,
The mother broke her promise to the dead,
And told the living daughter with what love
Edith had welcomed my brief wooing of her,
And all her sweet self-sacrifice and death.
Henceforth that mystic bond betwixt the twins —
Did I not tell you they were twins? — prevail’d
So far that no caress could win my wife
Back to that passionate answer of full heart
I had from her at first. Not that her love,
Tho’ scarce as great as Edith’s power of love,
Had lessen’d, but the mother’s garrulous wail
For ever woke the unhappy Past again,
Till that dead bridesmaid, meant to be my bride,
Put forth cold hands between us, and I fear’d
The very fountains of her life were chill’d;
So took her thence, and brought her here, and here
She bore a child, whom reverently we call’d
Edith; and in the second year was born
A second — this I named from her own self,
Evelyn; then two weeks — no more — she joined,
In and beyond the grave, that one she loved.
Now in this quiet of declining life,
Thro’ dreams by night and trances of the day,
The sisters glide about me hand in hand,
Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell
One from the other, no, nor care to tell
One from the other, only know they come,
They smile upon me, till, remembering all
The love they both have borne me, and the love
I bore them both — divided as I am
From either by the stillness of the grave —
I know not which of these I love the best.
But you love Edith; and her own true eyes
Are traitors to her: our quick Evelyn —
The merrier, prettier, wittier, as they talk,
And not without good reason, my good son —
Is yet untouch’d: and I that hold them both
Dearest of all things — well, I am not sure —
But if there lie a preference eitherway,
And in the rich vocabulary of Love
‘Most dearest’ be a true superlative —
I think I likewise love your Edith most.
The Village Wife; or,The Entail
I.
‘OUSE-KEEPER sent tha my lass, fur New Squire coom’d last night.
Butter an’ heggs — yis — yis. I’ll goä wi’ tha back: all right;
Butter I warrants be prime, an’ I warrants the heggs be as well,
Hafe a pint o’ milk runs out when ya breäks the shell.
II.
Sit thysen down fur a bit: hev a glass o’ cowslip wine!
I liked the owd Squire an’ ‘is gells as thaw they was gells o’ mine,
Fur then we was all es one, the Squire an’ ‘is darters an’ me,
Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I niver not took to she:
But Nelly, the last of the cletch,2 I liked ‘er the fust on ‘em all,
Fur hoffens we talkt o’ my darter es died o’ the fever at fall:
An’ I thowt ‘twur the will o’ the Lord, but Miss Annie she said it wur draäins,
Fur she hedn’t naw coomfut in ‘er, an’ arn’d naw thanks fur ‘er paäins.
Eh! thebbe all wi’ the Lord my childer, I han’t gotten none!
Sa new squire’s coom’d wi’ ‘is taäil in ‘is ‘and, an’ owd Squire’s gone.
III.
Fur ‘staäte be i’ taäil, my lass: tha dosn’ knaw what that be?
But I knaws the law, I does, for the lawyer ha towd it me.
‘When theer’s naw ‘ead to a ‘Ouse by the fault o’ that ere maäle —
The gells they counts fur nowt, and the next un he taäkes the taäil.’
IV.
What be the next un like? can tha tell ony harm on ‘im lass? —
Naäy sit down — naw ‘urry — sa cowd! — hev another glass!
Straänge an’ cowd fur the time! we may happen a fall o’ snaw —
Not es I cares fur to hear ony harm, but I likes to knaw.
An’ I ‘oäps es ‘e beänt booöklarn’d: but ‘e dosn’ not coom fro’ the shere;
We’d anew o’ that wi’ the Squire, an’ we haätes booöklarnin’ ere.
V.
Fur Squire wur a Varsity scholard, an’ niver lookt arter the land —
Whoäts or tonups or taätes—’e ‘ed hallus a booök i’ ‘is ‘and,
Hallus aloän wi’ ‘is booöks, thaw nigh upo’ seventy year.
An’ booöks, what’s booöks? thou knaws thebbe naither ‘ere nor theer.
VI.
An’ the gells, they hedn’t naw taäils, an’ the lawyer he towd it me
That ‘is taäil were soä tied up es he couldn’t cut down a tree!
‘Drat the trees,’ says I, to be sewer I haätes ‘em, my lass,
Fur we puts the muck o’ the land an’ they sucks the muck fro’ the grass.
VII.
An’ Squire wur hallus a-smilin’, an’ gied to the tramps goin’ by —
An’ all o’ the wust i’ the parish — wi’ hoffens a drop in ‘is eye.
An’ ivry darter o’ Squire’s hed her awn ridin-erse to ‘ersen,
An’ they rampaged about wi’ their grooms, an’ was ‘unten’ arter the men,
An’ hallus a-dallackt3 an’ dizen’d out, an’ a-buyin’ new cloäthes,
While ‘e sit like a greät glimmer-gowk4 wi’ ‘is glasses athurt ‘is noäse,
An’ ‘is noäse sa grufted wi’ snuff es it couldn’t be scroob’d awaäy,
Fur atween ‘is reädin’ an’ writin’ ‘e sniff: up a box in a daäy,
An’ ‘e niver runn’d arter the fox, nor arter the birds wi’ ‘is gun,
An’ ‘e niver not shot one ‘are, but ‘e leäved it to Charlie ‘is son,
An’ ‘e niver not fish’d ‘is awn ponds, but Charlie ‘e cotch’d the pike,
For ‘e warn’t not burn to the land, an’ ‘e didn’t take kind to it like;
But I eärs es ‘e’d gie fur a howry5 owd book thutty pound an’ moor,
An’ ‘e’d wrote an owd book, his awn sen, sa I knaw’d es’e’d coom to be poor;
An’ ‘e gied — I be fear’d fur to tell tha ‘ow much — fur an owd scratted stoän,
An’ ‘e digg’d up a loomp i’ the land an’ ‘e got a brown pot an’ a boän,
An’ ‘e bowt owd money, es wouldn’t goä, wi’ good gowd o’ the Queen,
An’ ‘e bowt little statutes all-naäkt an’ which was a shaäme to be seen;
But ‘e niver looökt ower a bill, nor ‘e niver not seed to owt,
An’ ‘e niver knawd nowt but booöks, an’ booöks, as thou knaws, beänt nowt.
VIII.
But owd Squire’s laädy es long es she lived she kep ‘em all clear,
Thaw es long es she lived I niver hed none of ‘er darters ‘ere;
Burt arter she died we was all es one, the childer an’ me,
An’ sarvints runn’d in an’ out, an’ offens we hed ‘em to tea.
Lawk! ‘ow I laugh’d when the lasses ‘ud talk o’ their Missis’s waäys,
An’ the Missisis talk’d o’ the lasses. — I’ll tell tha some o’ these daäys.
Hoänly Miss Annie were saw stuck oop, like ‘er mother afoor —
‘Er an’ ‘er blessed darter — they niver derken’d my door.
IX.
An’ Squire ‘e smiled an’ ‘e smiled till ‘e’d gotten a fright at last,
An’ ‘e calls fur ‘is son, fur the ‘turney’s letters they foller’d sa fast;
But Squire wur afear’d o’ ‘is son, an’ ‘e says to ‘im, meek as a mouse,
‘Lad, thou mun cut off thy taäil, or the gells ‘ull goä to the ‘Ouse,
Fur I finds es I be that i’ debt, es I ‘oaps es thou’ll ‘elp me a bit,
An’ if thou’ll ‘gree to cut off thy taäil I may saäve mysen yit.’
X.
But Charlie ‘e sets back ‘is ears, an’ ‘e swears, an’ ‘e says to ‘im ‘Noa.
I’ve gotten the ‘staäte by the taäil an’ be dang’d if I iver let goa!
Coom! coom! feyther,’ ‘e says, ‘why shouldn’t thy booöks be sowd?
I hears es soom o’ thy booöks mebbe worth their weight i’ gowd.’
XI.
Heäps an’ heäps o’ booöks, I ha’ see’d ‘em, belong’d to the Squire,
But the lasses ‘ed teärd out leäves i’ the middle to kindle the fire;
Sa moäst on ‘is owd big booöks fetch’d nigh to nowt at the saäle,
And Squire were at Charlie agean to git ‘im to cut off ‘is taäil.
XII.
Ya wouldn’t find Charlie’s likes—’e were that outdacious at ‘oam,
Not thaw ya went fur to raäke out Hell wi’ a small-tooth coamb —
Droonk wi’ the Quoloty’s wine, an’ droonk wi’ the farmer’s a 8;le,
Mad wi’ the lasses an’ all — an’ ‘e wouldn’t cut off the taäil.
XIII.
Thou’s coom’d oop by the beck; and a thurn be a-grawin’ theer,
I niver ha seed it sa white wi’ the Maäy es I see’d it to-year —
Theerabouts Charlie joompt — and it gied me a scare tother night,
Fur I thowt it wur Charlie’s ghoäst i’ the derk, fur it looökt sa white.
‘Billy,’ says ‘e, ‘hev a joomp!’ — thaw the banks o’ the beck be sa high,
Fur he ca’d ‘is ‘erse Billy-rough-un, thaw niver a hair wur awry;
But Billy fell bakkuds o’ Charlie, an’ Charlie ‘e brok ‘is neck,
Sa theer wur a hend o’ the taäil, fur ‘e lost ‘is taäil i’ the beck.
XIV.
Sa ‘is taäil wur lost an’ ‘is booöks wur gone an’ ‘is boy wur deäd,
An’ Squire ‘e smiled an’ ‘e smiled, but ‘e niver not lift oop ‘is ‘eäd:
Hallus a soft un Squire! an’ ‘e smiled, fur ‘e hedn’t naw friend,
Sa feyther an’ son was buried togither, an’ this wur the hend.
XV.
An’ Parson as hesn’t the call, nor the mooney, but hes the pride,
‘E reads of a sewer an’ sartan ‘oäp o’ the tother side;
But I beänt that sewer es the Lord, how-siver they praäy’d an’ praäy’d,
Lets them inter ‘eaven eäsy es leäves their debts to be paäid.
Siver the mou’ds rattled down upo’ poor owd Squire i’ the wood,
An’ I cried along wi’ the gells, fur they weänt niver coons to naw good.
XVI.
Fur Molly the long un she walkt awaäy wi’ a hofficer lad,
An’ nawbody ‘eärd on ‘er sin, sa o’ coorse she be gone to the bad!
An’ Lucy wur laäme o’ one leg, sweet-’arts she niver ‘ed none —
Straänge an’ unheppen6 Miss Lucy! we naämed her ‘ Dot an’ gaw one!’
An’ Hetty wur weak i’ the hattics, wi’out ony harm i’ the legs,
An’ the fever ‘ed baäked Jinny’s ‘eäd as bald as one o’ them heggs,
An’ Nelly wur up fro’ the craädle as big i’ the mouth as a cow,
An’ saw she mun hammergrate,7 lass, of she weänt git a maäte onyhow!
An’ es for Miss Annie es call’d me afoor my awn foälks to my faäce
‘A hignorant village wife as ‘ud hev to be larn’d her awn plaäce,’
Hes fur Miss Hannie the heldest hes now be a-grawin’ sa howd,
I knaws that mooch o’ sheä, es it beänt not fit to be towd!
XVII.
Sa I didn’t not taäke it kindly ov owd Miss Annie to saäy
Es I should be talkin ageän ‘em, es soon es they went awaäy,
Fur, lawks! ‘ow I cried when they went, an’ our Nelly she gied me ‘er ‘and,
Fur I’d ha done owt for the Squire an’ ‘is gells es belong’d to the land;
Booöks, es I said afoor, thebbe neyther ‘ere nor theer!
But I sarved ‘em wi’ butter an’ heggs fur huppuds o’ twenty year.
XVIII.
An’ they hallus paäid what I hax’d, sa I hallus deal’d wi’ the Hall,
An’ they knaw’d what butter wur, an’ they knaw’d what a hegg wur an’ all;
Hugger-mugger they lived, but they wasn’t that eäsy to pleäse,
Till I gied ‘em Hinjian curn, an’ they laäid big heggs es tha seeas;
An’ I niver puts saäme8 i’ my butter, they does it at Willis’s farm,
Taäste another drop o’ the wine — tweänt do tha naw harm.
XIX.<
br />
Sa new Squire’s coom’d wi’ ‘is taäil in ‘is ‘and, an’ owd Squire’s gone;
I heard ‘im a roomlin’ by, but arter my nightcap wur on;
Sa I han’t clapt eyes on ‘im yit, fur he coom’d last night sa laäte —
Pluksh! ! ! 9 the hens i’ the peäs! why didn’t tha hesp the gaäte?
In the Children’s Hospital
EMMIE
I.
OUR doctor had call’d in another, I never had seen him before,
But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at the door,
Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands —
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands!
Wonderful cures he had done, O, yes, but they said too of him
He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb,
And that I can well believe, for he look’d so coarse and so red,
I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead,
And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawn’d at his knee —
Drench’d with the hellish oorali — that ever such things should be!
II.
Here was a boy — I am sure that some of our children would die
But for the voice of love, and the smile, and the comforting eye —
Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem’d out of its place —
Caught in a mill and crush’d — it was all but a hopeless case:
And he handled him gently enough; but his voice and his face were not kind,
And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind,
And he said to me roughly, ‘The lad will need little more of your care.’
‘All the more need,’ I told him, ‘to seek The Lord Jesus in prayer;
They are all His children here, and I pray for them all as my own.’
But he turn’d to me, ‘Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone?’
Then he mutter’d half to himself, but I know that I heard him say,
‘All very well — but the good Lord Jesus has had his day.’
III.
Had? has it come? It has only dawn’d. It will come by and by.
O, how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world were a lie?
How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of disease
But that He said, ‘Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these’?
IV.
So he went. And we past to this ward where the younger children are laid.
Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little maid;
Empty, you see, just now! We have lost her who loved her so much —
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 113