Bitter-Sweet | Page 3

things, no doubt.?Unwritten history!?Unfathomed mystery!?Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,?And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks,?As if his head were as full of kinks?And curious riddles as any sphinx!?Warped by colic, and wet by tears,?Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,?Our little nephew will lose two years;?And he'll never know?Where the summers go;--?He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!
Who can tell what a baby thinks??Who can follow the gossamer links?By which the manikin feels his way?Out from the shore of the great unknown,?Blind, and wailing, and alone,?Into the light of day?--?Out from the shore of the unknown sea,?Tossing in pitiful agony,--?Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,?Specked with the barks of little souls--?Barks that were launched on the other side,?And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide!?What does he think of his mother's eyes??What does he think of his mother's hair??What of the cradle-roof that flies?Forward and backward through the air??What does he thinks of his mother's breast--?Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,?Seeking it ever with fresh delight--?Cup of his life and couch of his rest??What does he think when her quick embrace?Presses his hand and buries his face?Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell?With a tenderness she can never tell,?Though she murmur the words?Of all the birds--?Words she has learned to murmur well??Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!?I can see the shadow creep?Over his eyes, in soft eclipse,?Over his brow, and over his lips,?Out to his little finger-tips!?Softly sinking, down he goes!?Down he goes! Down he goes!
[Rising and carefully retreating to her seat.]
See! He is hushed in sweet repose!
David.
[Yawning.]
Behold a miracle! Music transformed?To morphine, and the drowsy god invoked?By the poor prattle of a maiden's tongue!?A moment more, and we should all have gone?Down into dreamland with the babe! Ah, well!?There is no end of wonders.
Ruth.
None, indeed!?When lazy poets who have gorged themselves,?And cannot keep awake, make the attempt?To shift the burden of their drowsiness,?And charge a girl with what they owe to greed.
David.
At your old tricks again! No sleep induced?By song of yours, or any other bird's,?Can linger long when you begin to talk.?Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save?The trouble of my rising.
Ruth.
[Advancing and kneeling by the side of Grace.]
Sister mine.?Now give the proof of your obedience?To your imperious lord! Strike, if you dare!?I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand.?Ha! king; ha! poet; who is master now--?Baby or husband? Pr'ythee, tell me that.?Were I a man,--thank Heaven I am not!--?And had a wife who cared not for my will?More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself,?Or wear an [***]. See! she kisses me!
David.
And answers to my will, though well she knows?I'll spare to her so terrible a task,?And take the awful burden on myself;?Which I will do, in future, if she please!
Ruth.
Now have you conquered! Look! I am your slave.?Denounce me, scourge me, anything but kiss;?For life is sweet, and I alone am left?To comfort an old man.
Israel.
Ruth, that will do!?Remember I'm a Justice of the Peace,?And bide no quarrels; and if you and David?Persist in strife, I'll place you under bonds?For good behavior, or condemn you both?To solitary durance for the night.
Ruth.
Father, you fail to understand the case,?And do me wrong. David has threatened me?With an assault that proves intent to kill;?And here's my sister Grace, his wedded wife,?Who'll take her oath, that just a year ago?He entered into bonds to keep the peace?Toward me and womankind.
David.
I'm quite asleep.
Israel.
We'll all agree, then, to pronounce it quits.
Ruth.
Till he awake again, of course. I trust?I have sufficient gallantry to grant?A nap between encounters, to a foe?With odds against him.
Israel.
Peace, my daughter, peace!?You've had your full revenge, and we have had?Enough of laughter since the day began.?We must not squander all these precious hours?In jest and merriment; for when the sun?Shall rise to-morrow, we shall separate,?Not knowing we shall ever meet again.?Meetings like this are rare this side of Heaven,?And seem to me the best mementoes left?Of Eden's hours.
Grace.
Most certainly the best,?And quite the rarest, but, unluckily,?The weakest, as we know; for sin and pain?And evils multiform, that swarm the earth,?And poison all our joys and all our hearts,?Remind us most of Eden's forfeit bliss.
David.
Forfeit through woman.
Grace.
Forfeit through her power;--?A power not lost, as most men know, I think,?Beyond the knowledge of their trustful wives.
Mary.
[Rising, and walking hurriedly to the window.]
'Tis a wild night without.
Ruth.
And getting wild?Within. Now, Grace, I--all of us--protest?Against a scene to-night. Look! You have driven?One to the window blushing, and your lord,?With lowering brow, is making stern essay?To stare the fire-dogs out of countenance.?These honest brothers, with their honest wives,?Grow glum and solemn, too, as if they feared?At the next gust to see the windows burst,?Or a riven poplar crashing through the roof.?And think of me!--a simple-hearted maid?Who learned from Cowper only