The Mistress of the Manse | Page 6

spectral arms,

Swung to and fro, and whipped the eaves,
And filled the house with
weird alarms
That hissed from all its tortured leaves.
And in the midnight came the rain;--
In spiteful needles at the first;

But soon on roof and window-pane
The slowly gathered fury burst

In floods that came, and came again,
And poured their roaring burden out.
They swept along the sounding
street,
Then paused, and then with shriek and shout
Hurtled as if a
myriad feet
Had joined the dread and deafening rout.
But ere the welcome morning broke,
The loud wind fell, though gray
and chill
The drizzling rain and drifting smoke
Drove slowly
toward the westward hill,
Half hidden in its phantom cloak.
And through the mist a clumsy smack,
Deep loaded with her clumsy

freight,
With shifting boom and frequent tack,
Like a huge ghost
that wandered late,
Reeled by upon her devious track.
XIX.
So Mildred, with prophetic ken,
Saw in the long and rainy day
The
dreaded host of friendly men
And friendly women, kept away,
And
time for love, and book, and pen.
But while she looked, with dreaming eyes
And heart content, upon
the scene,
She saw a stalwart man arise
Where the wild water
lashed the green,
And pause a breath, to signalize
Some one beyond her stinted view;
Then turn with hurried feet, and
straight
The deep, rain-burdened grasses through,
And through the
manse's open gate,
Pass to her door. At once she knew
That some faint soul, in sad extreme,
Had sent for succor to the
manse,
And knew its master would redeem
To sacred use the
circumstance
That made such havoc of her dream.
XX.
She saw the quiet men depart,
She saw them leave the river-side,

She saw them brave with sturdy art
The surges of the angry tide,

And disappear; the while her heart
Sank down in dismal loneliness.
Then came her vexing thoughts
again;
And quick, as if she broke duress
Of heavy weariness or pain,

She sought the study's dim recess,
Where rank on rank, against the wall,
The mighty men of every land

Stood mutely waiting for the call
Of him who, with his single hand,

Had bravely met and mastered all.
The gray old monarchs of the pen
Looked down with calm, benignant

gaze,
And Augustine and Origen
And Ansel justified the ways--

The wondrous ways--of God with men.
Among the tall hierophants
Angelical Aquinas stood;
While
Witsius held the "Covenants,"
And Irenaeus, wise and good,

Couched low his silver-bearded lance
For strife with heresy and schism,
And Turretin with lordly nod

Gave system to the dogmatism
That analyzed the thought of God

As light is painted by a prism.
Great Luther, with his great disputes,
And Calvin, with his finished
scheme,
And Charnock, with his "Attributes,"
And Taylor with his
poet's dream
Of theologic flowers and flutes,
And Thomas Fuller, old and quaint,
And Cudworth, dry with dust of
gold,
And South, the sharp and witty saint,
With Howe and
Owen--broad and bold--
And Leighton still without the taint
Of earth upon his robe of white,
Stood side by side with Hobbes and
Locke,
And, braced by many an acolyte,
With Edwards standing on
his rock,
And all New England's men of might,
Whose gifts and offices divine
Had crowned her with a kingly crown,

And solemn doctors from the Rhine,
With Fichte, Kant, and Hegel,
down
Through all the long and stately line!
As Mildred saw the awful host,
She felt within no motive stir
To
realize her girlish boast,
And knew they held no more for her
Than
if each volume were a ghost.
XXI.
She sat in Philip's vacant chair,
And pondered long her doubtful way;

And, in her impotent despair,
Lifted her longing eyes to pray,

When on a shelf, far up, and bare,

She saw an ancient volume lie;
And straight her rising thought was
checked.
What were its dubious treasures? Why
Had it been
banished from respect,
And from its owner's hand and eye?
The more she gazed, the stronger grew
The wish to hold it in her
hand.
Strange fancies round the volume flew,
And changed the dust
their pinions fanned
To atmospheres of red and blue,
That blent in purple aureole,--
As if a lymph of sweetest life
Stood
warm within a golden bowl,
Crowned with its odor-cloud, and rife

With strength and solace for her soul!
And there it lay beyond her arm,
And wrought its fine and wondrous
spell,
With all its hoard of good or harm,
Till curious Mildred,
struggling well,
Surrendered to the mighty charm.
The steps were scaled for boon or bale,
The book was lifted from its
place,
And, bowing to the fragrant grail,
She drank with pleased
and eager face
This draught from off an Eastern tale:
Selim, the haughty Jehangir, the Conqueror of the Earth,
With royal
pomps and pageantries and rites of festal mirth Was set to celebrate the
day--the white day--of his birth.
His red pavilions, stretching wide, crowned all with globes of gold,
And tipped with pinnacles of fire and streamers manifold, Flamed with
such splendor that the sun at noon looked pale and cold!
And right and left, along, the plain, far as the eye could gaze, His
nobles and retainers who were tented in the blaze,
Kept revel high in
honor of that day of all the days.
The earth was spread, the walls