Bitter-Sweet | Page 2

wide vicissitude,?He has confessed the Giver of his joys,?And kissed the hand that took them; and whene'er?Bereavement has oppressed his soul with grief,?Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain,?He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said,?"Thy will, O God--Thy will be done, not mine!"?His gentle wife, a dozen summers since,?Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven;?And her best gift--a maiden sweetly named--?His daughter Ruth--orders the ancient house,?And fills her mother's place beside the board,?And cheers his life with songs and industry.?But who are these who crowd the house to-night--?A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who,?Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours?With the sweet jargon of a festival??Who are these fathers? who these mothers? who?These pleasant children, rude with health and joy?
It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve;?And gathered home, from fresher homes around,?The old man's children keep the holiday--?In dear New England, since the fathers slept--?The sweetest holiday of all the year.?John comes with Prudence and her little girls,?And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys--?Fair boys and girls with good old Scripture names--?Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel;?And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house,?Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day?By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe?And the tall poet David, at whose side?She went away. And seated in the midst,?Mary, a foster-daughter of the house,?Of alien blood--self-aliened many a year--?Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes?Bring all the wondering children to her knee,?Weeps with the strange excess of happiness,?And sighs with joy.
What recks the driving storm?Of such a scene as this? And what reck these?Of such a storm? For every heavy gust?That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet,?And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands,?And rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat?Through all its sooty caverns shrieks and howls,?They give full bursts of careless merriment,?Or songs that send it baffled on its way.
PRELUDE.
Doubt takes to wings on such a night as this;?And while the traveler hugs her fluttering cloak,?And staggers o'er the weary waste alone,?Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face,?And wheel above, or hunt his fainting soul,?As, with relentless greed, a vulture throng,?With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes?Of the last camel of the caravan.?And Faith takes forms and wings on such a night.?Where love burns brightly at the household hearth,?And from the altar of each peaceful heart?Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks,?And every pulse with sympathetic throb?Tells the true rhythm of trustfulest content,?They flutter in and out, and touch to smiles?The sleeping lips of infancy; and fan?The blush that lights the modest maiden's cheeks;?And toss the locks of children at their play.
Silence is vocal if we listen well;?And Life and Being sing in dullest ears?From morn to night, from night to morn again,?With fine articulations; but when God?Disturbs the soul with terror, or inspires?With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith?Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves;?And we look up to where the pleasant sky?Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song.
A SONG OF DOUBT.
The day is quenched, and the sun is fled;?God has forgotten the world!?The moon is gone, and the stars are dead;?God has forgotten the world!
Evil has won in the horrid feud?Of ages with The Throne;?Evil stands on the neck of Good,?And rules the world alone.
There is no good; there is no God;?And Faith is a heartless cheat?Who bares the back for the Devil's rod,?And scatters thorns for the feet.
What are prayers in the lips of death,?Filling and chilling with hail??What are prayers but wasted breath?Beaten back by the gale?
The day is quenched, and the sun is fled;?God has forgotten the world!?The moon is gone and the stars are dead;?God has forgotten the world!
A SONG OF FAITH.
Day will return with a fresher boon;?God will remember the world!?Night will come with a newer moon;?God will remember the world!
Evil is only the slave of Good;?Sorrow the servant of Joy;?And the soul is mad that refuses food?Of the meanest in God's employ.
The fountain of joy is fed by tears,?And love is lit by the breath of sighs;?The deepest griefs and the wildest fears?Have holiest ministries.
Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm;?Safely the flower sleeps under the snow;?And the farmer's hearth is never warm?Till the cold wind starts to blow.
Day will return with a fresher boon;?God will remember the world!?Night will come with a newer moon;?God will remember the world!
FIRST MOVEMENT.
LOCALITY--The square room of a New England farmhouse.
PRESENT--ISRAEL, head of the family; JOHN,?PETER, DAVID, PATIENCE, PRUDENCE, GRACE,?MARY, RUTH, and CHILDREN.
THE QUESTION STATED AND ARGUED.
Israel.
Ruth, touch the cradle. Boys, you must be still!?The baby cannot sleep in such a noise.?Nay, Grace, stir not; she'll soothe him soon enough,?And tell him more sweet stuff in half an hour?Than you can dream, in dreaming half a year.
Ruth.
[Kneeling and rocking the cradle.]
What is the little one thinking about??Very wonderful