Narrative Poems, part 7, Bay of Seven Islands | Page 5

are done
to Him.
1883.
BIRCHBROOK MILL.
A NOTELESS stream, the Birchbrook runs
Beneath its leaning trees;

That low, soft ripple is its own,
That dull roar is the sea's.
Of human signs it sees alone
The distant church spire's tip,
And,
ghost-like, on a blank of gray,
The white sail of a ship.
No more a toiler at the wheel,
It wanders at its will;
Nor dam nor
pond is left to tell
Where once was Birchbrook mill.
The timbers of that mill have fed
Long since a farmer's fires;
His
doorsteps are the stones that ground
The harvest of his sires.
Man trespassed here; but Nature lost
No right of her domain;
She
waited, and she brought the old
Wild beauty back again.
By day the sunlight through the leaves
Falls on its moist, green sod,

And wakes the violet bloom of spring
And autumn's golden-rod.

Its birches whisper to the wind,
The swallow dips her wings
In the
cool spray, and on its banks
The gray song-sparrow sings.
But from it, when the dark night falls,
The school-girl shrinks with
dread;
The farmer, home-bound from his fields,
Goes by with
quickened tread.
They dare not pause to hear the grind
Of shadowy stone on stone;

The plashing of a water-wheel
Where wheel there now is none.
Has not a cry of pain been heard
Above the clattering mill?
The
pawing of an unseen horse,
Who waits his mistress still?
Yet never to the listener's eye
Has sight confirmed the sound;
A
wavering birch line marks alone
The vacant pasture ground.
No ghostly arms fling up to heaven
The agony of prayer;
No
spectral steed impatient shakes
His white mane on the air.
The meaning of that common dread
No tongue has fitly told;
The
secret of the dark surmise
The brook and birches hold.
What nameless horror of the past
Broods here forevermore?
What
ghost his unforgiven sin
Is grinding o'er and o'er?
Does, then, immortal memory play
The actor's tragic part,

Rehearsals of a mortal life
And unveiled human heart?
God's pity spare a guilty soul
That drama of its ill,
And let the
scenic curtain fall
On Birchbrook's haunted mill
1884.
THE TWO ELIZABETHS.
Read at the unveiling of the bust of
Elizabeth Fry at the Friends' School, Providence, R. I.
0. D. 1209.
AMIDST Thuringia's wooded hills she dwelt,
A high-born princess,

servant of the poor,
Sweetening with gracious words the food she
dealt
To starving throngs at Wartburg's blazoned door.
A blinded zealot held her soul in chains,
Cramped the sweet nature
that he could not kill,
Scarred her fair body with his penance-pains,

And gauged her conscience by his narrow will.
God gave her gifts of beauty and of grace,
With fast and vigil she
denied them all;
Unquestioning, with sad, pathetic face,
She
followed meekly at her stern guide's call.
So drooped and died her home-blown rose of bliss
In the chill rigor of
a discipline
That turned her fond lips from her children's kiss,
And
made her joy of motherhood a sin.
To their sad level by compassion led,
One with the low and vile
herself she made,
While thankless misery mocked the hand that fed,

And laughed to scorn her piteous masquerade.
But still, with patience that outwearied hate,
She gave her all while
yet she had to give;
And then her empty hands, importunate,
In
prayer she lifted that the poor might live.
Sore pressed by grief, and wrongs more hard to bear,
And dwarfed
and stifled by a harsh control,
She kept life fragrant with good deeds
and prayer,
And fresh and pure the white flower of her soul.
Death found her busy at her task: one word
Alone she uttered as she
paused to die,
"Silence!"--then listened even as one who heard
With
song and wing the angels drawing nigh!
Now Fra Angelico's roses fill her hands,
And, on Murillo's canvas,
Want and Pain
Kneel at her feet. Her marble image stands

Worshipped and crowned in Marburg's holy fane.
Yea, wheresoe'er her Church its cross uprears,
Wide as the world her

story still is told;
In manhood's reverence, woman's prayers and tears,

She lives again whose grave is centuries old.
And still, despite the weakness or the blame
Of blind submission to
the blind, she hath
A tender place in hearts of every name,
And
more than Rome owns Saint Elizabeth!
0. D. 1780.
Slow ages passed: and lo! another came,
An English matron, in
whose simple faith
Nor priestly rule nor ritual had claim,
A plain,
uncanonized Elizabeth.
No sackcloth robe, nor ashen-sprinkled hair,
Nor wasting fast, nor
scourge, nor vigil long,
Marred her calm presence. God had made her
fair,
And she could do His goodly work no wrong.
Their yoke is easy and their burden light
Whose sole confessor is the
Christ of God;
Her quiet trust and faith transcending sight

Smoothed to her feet the difficult paths she trod.
And there she walked, as duty bade her go,
Safe and unsullied as a
cloistered nun,
Shamed with her plainness Fashion's gaudy show,

And overcame the world she did not shun.
In Earlham's bowers, in Plashet's liberal hall,
In the great city's
restless crowd and din,
Her ear was open to the Master's call,
And
knew the summons of His voice within.
Tender as mother, beautiful as wife,
Amidst the throngs of prisoned
crime she stood
In