Along the Shore | Page 8

dreaming spinning-wheel,?That has not stirred so long,?The weaving spiders spin a veil,?A silvery shroud for its human zeal?And usefulness, with their fingers pale,?The shadowy lights among.
See! in the moonlight cold and gray?A thoughtful maiden stands;?And though she blames not overmuch?With her sweet lips the great world's way,?Yet sad and slow she stoops to touch?The still wheel with her hands.
"Forsaken wheel! when you first came?To clothe young hearts and old,?Our ancestors were glad to wear?Your woof, nor knew the shame?Which later days have bred, to share?The homespun's simple fold!
"My lover's gone to win for me,?With tender pride and care,?Riches to garnish all our days;?But love thrives in simplicity?As well as in the prouder ways,?If noble thought is there!
"When our strong grandsires vowed to wed,?Stout knots of wool, and corn,?Were gathered in, and hardly more?Of what will count not when we're dead!?Life brought them to a happy shore,?Who set their sails at dawn.
"O silent wheel! we weave a sad,?Weak fabric of our days;?The faith that moved thee long is gone;?Forgot, the couple, lass and lad,?Who loved with courage deeply drawn,?Heeding but God's delays!
"On thy long loneliness the sun?Blazes in dread, the moon?Shines with a pitiless, threatening hue!?And while the golden sand-grains run,?Old age comes nearer; and like you?I may be standing silent--soon!
"Then turn, my lover, turn your eyes?Back to the humble door;?Waste not the youthful years in hand.?See where the truest comfort lies,?And join the freer old-time band,?Nor crave a worldly store!
"In Freedom's land let no one know?Even the chain of ease,?Nor bow to royal Luxury's glance.?From peasant-hands fair art can grow;?From the rough brow thought springs with lance?And helmet: God loves these!"
She wept; then raised her head, and swung?The aged wheel with whispering whir;?And as it turned, it softly sung?(In fancy) this response to her:--
"I had not spun the sower's shirt,?I had not kept the children warm,?If I had found a wearing harm?In my monotonous toil alert.
"To those who wait with eager eyes?And ready hands and tender hearts,--?They find the giant year, that parts,?Hath forged strong links with paradise!
"Sigh not that Time doth turn the glass?To let the golden sand-grains run,?While longer shadows of the sun?Fall o'er the spring-time, bonny lass!
"The circumstances of a life?Are little things compared to it;?The way love's shown is ever fit;?Thank God, who gives us love, not strife!
"And if I do not stand beside?The hearth, as fifty years ago,?No current of the years that flow?Can rob the radiance from a bride!
"I know not why the world should change,?I know not why my day is done;?And yet this limit of my zone?Hints of the limit to all range.
"Man's progress always alters tint,?As mountains move from rose to gray;?Yet like their shapes, love still doth stay?The same, complete,--'tis God's imprint.
"And yet I dream Time yet may turn?Its wheel to weave the humbler thought,?As in old days. When joy is sought,?Men find it where the hearth-fires burn."
THE ROADS THAT MEET.
ART.
One is so fair, I turn to go,?As others go, its beckoning length;?Such paths can never lead to woe,?I say in eager, early strength.?What is the goal??Visions of heaven, wake;?But the wind's whispers round me roll:?"For you, mistake!"
LOVE.
One leads beneath high oaks, and birds?Choose there their joyous revelry;?The sunbeams glint in golden herds,?The river mirrors silently.?Under these trees?My heart would bound or break;?Tell me what goal, resonant breeze??"For you, mistake!"
CHARITY.
What is there left? The arid way,?The chilling height, whence all the world?Looks little, and each radiant day,?Like the soul's banner, flies unfurled.?May I stand here;?In this rare ether slake?My reverential lips, and fear?No last mistake?
Some spirits wander till they die,?With shattered thoughts and trembling hands;?What jarred their natures hopelessly?No living wight yet understands.?There is no goal,?Whatever end they make;?Though prayers each trusting step control,?They win mistake.
This is so true, we dare not learn?Its force until our hopes are old,?And, skyward, God's star-beacons burn?The brighter as our hearts grow cold.?If all we miss,?In the great plans that shake?The world, still God has need of this,--?Even our mistake.
A PASSING VOICE.
"Turn me a rhyme," said Fate,?"Turn me a rhyme:?A swift and deadly hate?Blows headlong towards thee in the teeth of Time.?Write! or thy words will fall too late."
"Write me a fold," said Fate,?"Write me a fold,?Life to conciliate,?Of words red with thine heart's blood, hotly told.?Then, kings may envy thine estate!"
"Make thee a fame," said Fate,?"Make thee a fame?To storm the heaven-hung gate,?Unbarred alone to the victorious name?Which has Art's conquerors to mate."
"Die in thy shame," said Fate,?"Die in thy shame!?Naught here can compensate?But the proud radiance of that glorious flame,?Genius: fade, thou, unconsecrate!"
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Along the Shore, by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop
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