Reuben and Other Poems

Front matter

REUBEN

AND OTHER POEMS

B.E.BAUGHAN

Reuben

REUBEN

Behind a bleak unshelter’d promontory— Seventy fathom of white chalk plunged down Sheer to deep sea, an edge to open space: Where, at her extreme bourne and outlook, Earth Stands up, and with a bared and dauntless brow Superbly fronts far ocean, shoreless air:— There lies a little hollow.

North, and east, And westward (save where one blue-opening vale Leads inland to the village and is lined With hanging firwoods dark), treeless and wan, Untenanted, unplough’d, as mid-sea blank, Spreads far away the everlasting down: A lonely tableland, whose pastures huge, Gradually undulating, never crown’d By soaring peak, nor falling to deep dales, With sober, tawny, equable long lines, Uninterrupted sweep the enormous sky: A voiceless lifted world of roomy peace, Whose simple amplitude and pure expanse

Fill the held void and virgin austere air, And overwhelm the silenced mind of man, With an almighty sense of sovereign space, Giant, indifferent, dumb—a keen cold breath Of pungent liberty and loneliness Untouch’d.

But in the hollow there are trees; Sycamores, from whose dim and misty boughs On February dawns the wild-voiced thrush Exults, and ’mid whose rosy buds, in May, Some o’er-sea nightingale betwixt the brine Alighting, and the waiting woodland green, In this first gage of Home grateful may linger One night, and with long shafts of passion thrill The wistful reaches of the far blue dusk. And ’neath the trees, ’mid all that barren waste Vividly green and various, grew trim grass Once, and bright hardy flowers—marigolds, Wallflower, larkspur, snapdragon and, ranged In rows on either side the red-brick path That parted the broad beds of kitchen herbs, Gooseberries and currants, all a homely wealth Of verdure: with one wide old apple-tree, That, for two people, pink and white in spring, Gold in September, tinted the whole world.

At one side of the dip, behind the trees, A tarr’d shed, built of wreck-wood, met the down.

Opposite, looking landward, with the lap Of garden spread between, a small house stood, Square, solid, of grey stone, its painted door And shutters of a weather-stain’d sea-blue, Its slanted roof of pigeon-purple slate Splash’d into brightness by the broidering rings And rounds of orange lichen. Dappled too, And crusted, was each twig of every tree With massèd lichen, hoary, silver-gold, Greenish or russet. For the sea, though hid, Was not far off; on stone and bark she wrote Her salty runes, refresh’d the brooding air With her frank breath, and with her mighty voice The stately stillness more majestic made; Never remitting from that shelter’d spot Plain signs of her eternal neighbourhood.

Yet, solitary tho’ the place might be, And to strong influences subjected, drear Or lonely it was not. Small sights and sounds Pleasantly occupied it all day long— Hens clucking ’neath the bushes; the black goat Calling, from shed or pasture-tether; bees From clover, sainfoin, or the low gold crowns Of honey-vetch, with music coming home Up thro’ the garden to the door-seat, where Their pale straw houses glisten’d to the sun. And from within came sounds—Pilot’s loud bark, Or Reuben’s whistle, or the low sweet voice Of Mercy, singing at her housewifry.

For here, amid the garden and the downs, Their still and simple life of well-loved toil, Toil that was life, and daily sweetness small, Reuben and Mercy led: a childless pair, Through forty years of mutual tenderness Each to the other child and parent grown. She was a little woman, shrivell’d, spare And apt, with beaming eyes and rosy cheeks And busy birdlike movements. I have thought, At times, the life they led, and he required, Solitary, same, pressed hard on Mercy. Hers Was a keen taste in little things; she loved That trivial, intimate, long-drawn-out talk Of daily happenings, in-and-out details, And chance of new-old changes, by whose help Women in villages make shift to weave Some kind of colour’d arabesque as fringe To Life’s web, hodden-gray. But seldom hers Such brightening; only of a Sunday morn, The greetings after church—he standing back Uneasy: or a spice of gossip to Some rare event of shopping—when the thought Of him there all alone wing’d her way back. Yet she was happy. Love was Life, to her, And all her life was love. Like some small brook Was Mercy, that, from meadows turn’d aside, Runs brightly in a bare place, buoyantly Babbling and dancing ’mid a fringe of flowers Itself has brought to birth: with no cascade Resplendent, and by no deep following pool

Begloom’d; but, childlike, telling to the sun Its every little pebble, yet with means Abundant in its strait and shallow scope To charm the glad, the weary to revive, And cleanse the travel-stain’d. Not very wise, And no way great was Mercy—save in prompt And plain goodwill: the gracious wish to please, The gracious inclination to be pleas’d; No queen o’ertopp’d her there.

And like some rock Was Reuben, which the singing stream endues With fern and fresh green mosses, which no less Of the sweet song the mute occasion is. Older than Mercy by ten years, more aged By thirty, bow’d in body, slow, infirm, But of a sure mind, he was much her charge Yet order’d both their lives. A gaunt old man With settled lips and deep dumb eyes of blue (A diver he had been, and some shy sense, Of that inhuman isolation bred In the remote dim regions of the sea, Possess’d him still, and like an unseen wall Secreted him from neighbourhood, in show If not in fact): a man of his own way, Of even judgment and a quiet heart: Just before generous, generous after just: Who, when boys robb’d his garden, prosecuted— “In rightness to the neighbours and the boys,”

He said, and Mercy then must plead in vain. But when, the birching done, with honest ruth Gruff father, plaintive mother, brought their pack Of down-faced culprits to beg pardon, lads And parents gaped alike to see him rise Awkward and grave, the unready pilfering hands Pile up with apples, then, without a word, Go out, ’mid silence puzzled more than pleased. Few were his friends, but three he found enough: His wife, his dog, and (Who Himself adjoins Great things to small, and neighbours the high hills With the low valleys), God. And people spoke With distance and respect of him, as one Whose right to privacy and his own path Was amply earn’d and proven. Not before It wore him out, he left his calling, then, Following a long dream, came to end his days In the remember’d cottage, where of old His mother rear’d him, and the white road ran To school and Mercy. Many a fairer scene, A richer scope, a fuller way of life, His wandering years had shown him, but no way So sweet as the old simple way, no home Like the old home. The cottage he had found A ruin, and the garden, russet sward, And with his own hands so rebuilt the one, The other re-created, that the place Was truly all his own except in law; Was so in that, perhaps, or soon would be, Argued the knowing—witness how he work’d!

No labour like the landlord’s; and who picks His own tune plays the fiddle twice as long. “What if he do live poor?” they said. “Some folk Like keeping next to getting. Past all doubt He’d some sure reasons for those foreign parts. There’s three good hands to go a-gathering— Toil, time, and thrift; and he’s a pretty purse Put by!—Why, you can see it in his face, Close though he shuts his mouth up—people do, That know the road to riches.”

Meanwhile he Reck’d little of their reckoning. Strenuous And far a-field no more, he was not yet Memory’s poor stay-at-home, upon the Past Feeding a faint life; but the Present still Stood richly friend to him, and his smooth days Not bound, yet busy, unfatigued yet full, Forward nor backward looking overmuch, But each contain’d within its own ripe round, Like windless autumn weather, steep’d in sun, And haze-enfolded, slipp’d serenely by.

To him employment and enjoyment were But one: with his own hands to rear and reap Crops he had sown on soil that he had till’d: —To tend the creatures, seek the eggs, and on The shed-door chalk the daily tally up:

At ebb-tide, from the foreshore spring, to dip Out of the strength of seaweed-cover’d rocks, Sweet water for the household, and bear home, Crystal to see and crystal cool to hear, The radiant sheen, lip-lipping two grey pails: After high storms to rove the beach, and rout The wind-rows, Pilot following, not for wood And useful wreckage only, but the joy, The curious joy, in-knit with human roots, Of search itself: nay, if nought else he cull’d, Tidings this travell’d débris of the waves Never refused to give him, news far-come Of strange sea-lives, of man’s vicissitudes, The wide world yonder, and the deep world here: To mark the moon and chronicle the tides: On blue and dulcet afternoons, to couch In some warm elbow of the cliff, that holds A bight of spreaded sea; and there for hours, In Pilot’s panting company, to watch The untir’d Deep travelling toward him, huge, alive, Wonderful! one great drop of sapphire glow Shimmering and shoaling like a peacock’s neck To richest purple, azure and pure green, Barr’d here and there with shafts of lustre, shot Down by some high white cloud: To mark the gulls, Sweeping so sure and easy thro’ the deep Ravine of air, or toward the Blue above The flash of bright white light beneath their wings Upbearing, while their restless and hoarse cry

Voiced as it were of that smooth basking Blue Beneath, the heart inveterately wild:— Or else compute, of every passing ship, Curtseying schooner, seated red-wing’d barge, Or hurried steamer busily riving up The unresisting gloss, their several speed, Tonnage and cargo, whence and whither bound, But never grudge the roving of their keels: At night-fall, by the drift-oak’s various flame, To pore upon old work-plans, books and charts, With notes in labour’d writing; to survey Old calculations, once work’d out, or go Securely back in thought to old chill hours Ere dawn . . . once more the breast-plate heavy hangs, The caging helmet drops . . . the difficult breath Buzzes . . . now, slowly over the boat-side Heav’'d is the weighty body, and grows light; While, flash’d to fire on either hand, the Dark Pulses with radiance! till the far-off dawn, Flushing yon upper world to life, pales this, And weirdly thro’ the cold green glimmer move Shadowy forms deep-dwelling. Ay, but cleave With steady axe this ocean-thicket, ’mid Whose moving tangle, What, unmoving looms, What gleams? Kind Heaven, the pity! Where between The drown’d ship’s ribs, ’mid fecund ooze and growth That have no sense and yet how thick may thrive! Mothers’ sons, bare boned, lie in cabins cold

While far-off homes wait empty . . . With a start Suddenly might he shake that ill sight off, Deliver’d thankfully to present peace, As Mercy’s gentle hesitating voice Spelt out the evening Psalms: and so to bed:— Sometimes ’mid lashing rain to lie awake, And thro’ the wind’s incessant lumbering, hear, Safely, the great Voice boom: or, ’mid the stars And silence, and the pausing of a mind Profoundly by the far sea-rhythm lull’d— ’Mid Night’s wide simple quiet, perfected By movements low without, of leaves and wind, Live things unconscious nestling in their sleep, And the beloved breathing at his side— To drink long draughts of peace, to realize Rest . . . till the sweetness of that shared repose Would deepen down to love, and he would lie Thinking: “Sure, we are happy! God is good!”

Such was his daily life, his year-long joy.

Till one spring came. The bees woke up, brown buds Were on the wallflowers, and fresh radiant days Jollily brought the welcome season in. ’Twas time to plant young cabbage, peas and beans, And work the winter stiffness from the joints. Reuben was fain and hearty. But, indoors, Day after day a little heavier hung Their wonted tasks on two persisting hands,

That falter’d. Brightly still the dwelling shone, And sweetly smell’d, with country cleanliness. But at a cost now; and the frugal meals, For one partaker all too plentiful, Gradually later grew, the evening Psalms Earlier—till, once, the low and quavering voice Broke to a sob of pain. In one long look, Silent, set one on either side the hearth, That night they faced each other and the truth. Mercy was ailing, and all things were changed.

Now to take long’d-for action, yet not rouse Fear in the other, was the care of each: And by degrees, by cautious heedful steps, Carefully hidden, perfectly perceiv’d, They dared at last their common goal to touch, And speak of doctor’s help—still furtively; “To make ye eat a bit more,” Reuben said, Concealing how the each-day-slower step, Thinn’d face, and hid, unhideable pain had long Wrung him with vague foreboding. “Nay, to make My temper sweeter,” Mercy said, and smiled; No word on her white lips of what hot wrath Now gall’d implacably her days and nights, Made toil a penance, rest a torture, stole The savour out of prayer, and with dark dread Wielding the awful power of the flesh O’ershrouded all her circumstance of life.

Next day they took the village road. It was

A morn of early March. The keen sweet air, All of a-startle with the eager, wild, Sudden exhilaration of the spring, Ran riot in the blood. The glad young sun Clear-ey’d, adown his steep blue paths of Heaven Sprang laughing; in the dimples of the down He nestled, ran along the twinkling grass, Woo’d to faint smiles the wistful earth, and kiss’d The ready waves into a world of glee. The larch boughs in the spinney show’d a blush Of coming verdure and smelt fresh of spring. Warmth lay along the village; young green grass Was springing ’neath the old grey churchyard wall, And light sat reigning in the bare elm-tops. Greetings on all sides met them, and the life Came back to Mercy’s eye, to her wan cheek The colour came, responding to a world So glad and kind; and ready as of old Her smiles return’d the laughter in the eyes Of children, skipping schoolward, unabash’d Even by Reuben, this delightful day. Beyond the street young barley waved, the air Came softer, over leagues of gentle land— No more the wide starv’d russet, bur rich brown, Pure yellow of the charlock, purple, fawn, Emerald, and tender tints innumerable, In rounding violet vapour at the last Melting towards Heaven’s azure. Larks in the blue, Lambs in the green fields lent a voice to joy; Everything in this opening world with life,

New life, abounded. Pain, grief, age, all care, Seem’d but some mad mistaking of the mind, And, like a passion, Hope on Reuben seiz’d. One basking crocus, at the doctor’s door, With golden light o’erswimming, held his eye, And seem’d to shine into his very heart. How could that be so bright, and God so good, And anything in all the world go ill? Then the door open’d.

With a joke at first The old doctor greeted neighbours so well known, So rarely seen—then listen’d, ask’d, grew grave: Examin’d and grew graver; paus’d awhile . . . On death-like stillness suddenly his voice Clapp’d, loud and harsh with sensibility: “Reuben, my man! Mercy, my poor good soul— Bear up! I can do nothing.”

“Nothing, sir?” ’Twas Mercy’s voice, quiet and steady; ’twas Mercy he answer’d, talking on of rest, Nursing, good nourishment; all palliatives— But for a cure, not one. Some hospital He named, which might receive her: but at that She started, gasp’d, and “Let me die at home,” She said. The last word scarcely pass’d her lips, And no one spoke again.

They rose to go, But on the doorstep Reuben stopp’d, and rais’d Slow eyes at last upon the doctor’s face— “How long?” “Nine months or so—a year—” he stammer’d, Shut-to the door, and hurried with hard work, To bar away from quivering kindred depths That gaze, of mute accepted agony— Pain without end and with no anodyne Into the quick of a live human heart Dealt and receiv’d: thenceforth for evermore To inhabit there and, like the heart’s own red, Only with life itself pass out of life.

Meanwhile, their two-mile walk the old pair went— The other way now, homeward. And still, still, The sweet light broad and delicately lay, The young corn rippled and the air came kind, The birds and lambs, ay, even the very clouds Of heaven seem’d happy. Back, the way they came, Slowly they went; the strength of both was ebb’d; Slowly they went, and not one word the while. Back, through the work-still’d village, past the elms, The church, the humming school, the spinney, down The white road and the tawny pasture lands, Into the hollow, home. There stood the trees; Blackie was browsing; and the currants, they Would leaf next week; the thin blue smoke curl’d up

Just as it did on Sundays, coming home. And home itself, and sky, and down, and sea Were all as usual, everything the same— All, all, how different!

As they rose at length That night together from their knees: “My lad,” She whisper’d, “God is good; we’ve got a year, Maybe.” But Reuben had no words to say. In the deep middle of the night fierce pangs Awoke her, but the groan upon her lips Died, as she felt the breath come hot and quick Between those other lips, and heard the voice Dearer than life break into one low cry, Quick-stifled, on the almighty name of God.

That spring-time wore and went. When summer came, Mercy, grown pitifully weak, at last Perforce to Reuben’s anxious daily plea Gave way, and from the near town where she dwelt Alone, in much-respected widowhood, Heavily summon’d the oft-tender’d aid Of Sarah, her one sister. She was good, Godly, ungracious, with a caustic tongue, Capable hands, and critical shrewd eyes, That saw too well to see aright, too much To see sufficient; thoroughly ransack’d

Foibles, and left large virtues out of view. Clear sight is often near sight; specks of dust Are duly through a microscope discern’d— Not stars: nor measurable at one sharp glance Are the immense horizon lines of Truth. But she was vigorous, skilful, loyal, sure, None ever master’d Sarah, saving one That wanted wit—her brother; him she serv’d And humour’d with sweet patience until Death Emptied her clasping and reluctant hands. And, partly for her well-to-do sleek state, Her town-bred and authoritative air, Part for a certain piquant zest she had In telling vivid tales of love and blood, Nay, somewhat for her very sharpness’ sake (Like children, a severity deserv’d, A touch assur’d, respecting): readily Her old-time village neighbours welcom’d her, And felt her presence lent a spice to things, Whenever (’twas not often) she might choose Touch and talk with them.

But ’twas otherwise With Reuben. When the late October days Droop dull low heavens o’er the unsunn’d down, And rhyme grey melancholy leagues above With grey and melancholy leagues below— Still the flowers tarry; and the blank outspread Of lonely landscape, separate step by step,

Is thro’ their tender trivial influence Redeem’d, and still has charm. But when, betwixt Day and day sunless, foggy night on night Brings the slight frost unfailing, and the pinch’d Earthnut and harebells, and wan scabious Fade, and are not succeeded: then indeed Hard skies beneath, and o’er a naked land, A starveling and a settled gloom presides. And so on Reuben Sarah’s influence fell. Sheath’d by no shame and edged with judgment cold, That steely scrutiny could wound, and though, Untemper’d in the fires of sympathy, Oft it must glance aside and leave him still Unsearch’d, unviolated: none the less Its neighbourhood was a perpetual daunt. It chill’d his spirit, his small innocences Rebuk’d, penn’d in and paralysed his powers, And from a life of happiness bereft Filch’d comfort also. Little heeded he. What is the loss of Less when All is gone? Yet drearier is the bleak November down For the dead stalks of its once-colour’d flowers.

Smooth days no more, and tender peaceful nights; Vague gentle dalliance with the days long past, And calm unreckoning with futurity, No more. Old hardship seem’d a happy dream,

Old joys incredible; and days to come Held but one fact, frightful, inevitable, Real. Within doors often now forbid, Excluded by himself at first, until Time to a front of perfect apathy Should school him, his free wanderings over down And cliff-side and the curious varied shore He yet abandon’d quite, and all day long Toil’d only with a double industry At the old duties, rarely from earshot Of what the humble home of Joy had been Once, but was now of Anguish. And when light Fail’d him, or labour, he would creep away Into the old wood-shed, and there for hours Sit, with a listless hand on Pilot’s neck, Blankly before him gazing, motionless; Till a shrill summons, or the step that woke The dog’s low growling, call’d him. No Psalms now, And a far different, harder prayer, alone.

But level steps ’twixt rock and rock are found, Moments of lull in storms, and ’mid long pain A respite. Mercy’s pangs would slack at times, And Sarah’s conscience warrant to all three A holiday from over-help. Such care As Reuben’s, strait-laced up at every point With endless detail’d charges, then might serve, And she among the village gossips take

A well-won recreation, chat and cheer, And the delight of hinted self-applause Loudly re-echoing round. Till, soon, as well Of Sarah’s as of Mercy’s many trials Word ran abroad: of Reuben’s vexing ways, His years and all their burdens (he was nigh His dotage, any one could see): his sloth, Clumsiness, closeness and stupidity: How he spent hours outside—and just as well— Indoors he sat as mum as any corpse . . .” Poor soul, she meant no malice. Watch like hers Body and mind o’er-racks, and if Care’s breath Can curdle in the heart at times even Love, How much more like is work-day Charity So to forswear itself! By this grey day, Inexorable, of Destiny oppress’d, Tir’d with this tireless tempest of sore woe (Unearn’d, and seen in secret as a wrong), She, being for strength and weakness, what she was, Must rail; and rail’d on Reuben, since upon The felt cause of her burden, unconfess’d But without recognition recognized— On God, she dared not rail.

At home, the while, Such halcyon noons or blessed gloamings through, Mercy and Reuben might together be Alone once more. Upon those precious hours,

Peace, the long-exiled housemate, stealing back, Might smile, with careworn lips. There, hand in hand, They patiently abode, like two that wait. Silent they sat together, Reuben’s gaze Fix’d idly on the once dear apple boughs, And Mercy watching the long thro’-shine turn To pillars and to pennons of green light Her window lily-leaves. They seldom look’d At one another, very seldom spoke; Sometimes a fitful word or two might slip. “She tries you, Reuben.” “Nay, she tends thee, lass!” “Three now to feed—however shall we do? An’ all this weary doctoring!” “Never fret! Two can feed three, dear heart, an’ ’tis kind soil This year.” “Next year—O, lad!2” On such a word Would silence close again, until—quick steps, The door flung open, and the stinging tones: Thro’ conscience-pricks, it may be, doubly sharp. Mercy had talk’d too much—or else been moped; The fire was low—a furnace—and despite The wistful voice, “O sister, let him stay!” Water or wood must instantly be brought, And Reuben, rising, with one full fond look Into those understanding pleading eyes, Would reach his cap, and, Pilot slinking close, Go out, obey the heard commandment first, Then the unheard, buy quiet for his wife At his own cost and so come back no more.

That summer went, that autumn, winter, spring. Next summer came, and still she linger’d on And could not die: a piteous creature now, Whose weary world to the rack’d body’s sense, At furthest to her chamber wall was shrunk. Whose set monotony of pain no care Could vary now; the gentle garrulousness Gone, the brave cheer of that sunshiny spirit Quench’d; even for Reuben scarce a greeting now. A whole once-happy kindly human being Turn’d to a fine machine for feeling pain, Whose intervals of rest were nothingness. Alive, yet lifeless: dying, far from death: Obscure, to signal martyrdom adjudged: Innocent, with inhuman tortures wrung. —O strange, inscrutable world!

For Reuben now No sweet shared vigil, no reviving change For Sarah. But the neighbours to and fro Came with kind aid; and went with strange reports. Reuben was rarely altered. Age was age And trouble trouble—but what trouble need Glue up the lips and screw the eyelids down, And make a man as shy of company As if he was himself a bit of gold And all his neighbours thieves? And as to age— He did look wan and wisht, not Mercy’s face Show’d more the bone—yet see what strength he had!

Always at work! Ah, he knew how to gain, And how to grasp—and how to turn the key! Thrift was that call’d? which bid a man of means With no more youth in his veins, to live himself, And half expect his helpers would (but they Were wiser), on his garden-stuff—home-grown, You see, not piping any pennies out! Some days again he wholly idled; walked Twice, to the harbour-town and back, ten miles; Why—nobody dare ask, for, push’d too far, He would speak, short and savage.

Till, as mould O’er objects from the public air’s free touch Too long reserv’d, there subtly stole and clung O’er Reuben’s untold motives, leprous films Of rootless rumour, breaths of thin surmise That soon, a solid and a monstrous mask, Disgraced the form they covered. Talk began Of miser’s craft in Reuben, of bygone Fatal privation forced on Mercy—sow’d With gold that much-lov’d garden, and the hands That dress’d it, dyed with innocent spilt blood.

So ran the village verdict. For the rest, His dumb indifference gave the parson scope

(A young oft-puzzled man) for ponderings dark On heaven-sent grief that hardens; and grim cause Had the dry pity which, invading, sapp’d The doctor’s old regard. Reuben, who long Had shunn’d his visits, as he left the house One July noon, upon the dusty road Stood and confronted him with last year’s cry: “Doctor! how long?” Remembering last year’s look The doctor glanced away and shook his head. “I say, How long?” cried Reuben in a voice So rude and desperate that the other turn’d Quickly, a moment stared at the strange light (Not anger, dread, despair—hope could it be?) Fierce and peremptory in those faded eyes, Then slowly, with attention, answer’d: “Well— In such a case ’tis hard to tell. Perhaps— Say—at a hazard, Christmas time2”

“So long?” The light died out, the pinch’d and sombre face Grew ashen. “God ha’ mercy on us!” he said Like one who knows not what his tongue is doing— “Christmas? Live on to Christmas!” “But the pain May lessen,” said the doctor, watching. “Ay!” He answer’d dull, “That’s good . . . That’s not it. Pain? All’s pain now—No!” he suddenly cried out, “There'll not be less! More, doctor, worse!”2

He stopped, Ey’d him suspiciously and shambled off. The doctor sigh’d. “It seems her body will Outlive his mind. He was a fine man once.”

Some weeks ere Christmas, a prolong’d west wind Brought constant rain; till, three days ere the feast, Round to the north it shifted, and keen frost Turn’d into slides of ice the watery roads, While o’er the downs an ominous mass’d wall Bulged up, of loose grey cloud. Then the wind ceased, The frost held, and the snow began. Five days, Five muffled days, five still and soundless nights, The soft snow fell, and stay’d. It hush’d the sea, The virginal white land inviolate set, And rear’d ’twixt man and man frail barriers That firm and staunchly held. All round the house No sight, no sense, but of unending snow. Doctor nor friend along those treacherous tracks And thro’ that blinding daze could come. Instead Came Peace; instead, the blessed face of Death With tender sunset glow at last illum’d The long grey gloom of Dying. Mercy’s hour Drew near, but for five days before she died Suffering released her, and once more she lived.

There, in a sacred quietude enwrapt, Tranquil she lay within Death’s gentle arms; Already from the ills of Life remote,

And to Life’s heart, close, close. Hers now at last Of all the well-known shows to know the sense, The real heart of friends, the vital calm. Stay’d thus awhile upon Time’s outmost shore, A willing and a trustful charge she lay Facing Eternity. From that small room, From that high court and sovereign Presence pure Rancour retreated, trouble fled away. Reuben and Sarah by that bedside lost All sense of interacting strain and jar. She but perceiv’d her dying sister’s face, Reuben, his wife’s—and both, the breath of God.

But, the fifth day at evening, came a change; Thaw, with a south wind and persistent rain Pattering all night long. Blue came the day; Sea-scented and sun-scented the mild air Set quick green footsteps in the floor of white. Nature revived. And Sarah, as she stood Watching the world return, and spied at last A figure ’mid the landscape, smiled, and said: “Here comes the doctor—but you're better, lass. Eh, we'll do yet.” There came upon her words A moan—a gasp—a pause; and turning round, “Mercy!” she wailed. Bending above the bed With exultation Reuben answer’d her. “She’s gone!” he said. “She’s gone at last, thank God!’ “Gone!” Sarah cried: “dead, Reuben? Your wife dead,