The Sons of the Soil: a Poem.

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The Sons of the Soil: a Poem. Ellis, Sarah Stickney, 1812–1872.

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BOOK III.

THE deepest grief the human heart can know
Writes not its impress on an altered brow,
Assumes no outward character, nor wears
Before observant eyes the trace of tears.
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Thus William Herbert met the world again,
And mixed in all the wonted ways of men,
Unchanged in things that common friends would mark;
Yet altered was that world to him, and dark.
One bitter drop mixed with his daily cup,
One spring of life—the sweetest—all dried up.
As yields the leading branch of goodly tree
Unto the cankerworm, so yielded he;
All its fresh boughs but that, still green and gay,
That one consumed by premature decay.
Thus he went forth again, and bought, and sold,
And gained new influence, and amassed more gold;
For all things prospered with him, and he grew
A man of weight amongst the simple few,
Seared it might be in heart, yet upright, kind, and true.

And round his hearth a fairy band was seen
Of infant loveliness, or on the green
Sporting beneath the apple-boughs, where oft
Was heard the cuckoo's voice, or dove's more soft,
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Or on the flowery bank, or in the dell,
Where rippling streams were wont to sink and swell.
A lovely band they were, and full of glee,
Rich in the bloom of untamed infancy.
Sweet liberty 'twas yet their bliss to boast,
No native tone, no inborn gladness lost
Thought was just leading through their infant minds
That endless clue that human knowledge winds,
While vague conclusions, such as nature draws,
Awoke some glimmerings of effect and cause.
But feeling, in her wayward wild career,
Had far outstripped stern wisdom, even here.
For theirs were looks of beauty flashing bright,
And waves of raven-hair as dark as night,
And wreathing curls around their brows of snow,
And rosy smiles that quickly come and go,
With some faint touch of mournfulness the while,
As if those fair lips might not always smile;
And the deep shadow of their soft dark eyes
More of tenderness than men deem wise.

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Henry, the oldest, and the only son,
His race of classic lore had just begun.
The reverend pastor of a neighbouring church
Deigned to conduct his mind in its research;
And well he taught his daily tasks, and heard
His pupil parse, and construe every word.
But had he watched him more, that reverend man
Would much have marvelled, one who learned to scan
Should learn to moralize almost as soon,
And pause as oft to gaze upon the moon
With mournful eye half dimmed by gathering tears,
And brow of thought too earnest for his years.
Yes, it was sad, yet beautiful to see
How learned that boy deep sorrow's mystery,
Dreaming of his lost mother and her grave,
Till memory's tide swept o'er him like a wave,
And all things present vanished from his view,
While fancy framed a world less cold and true.

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Whence came such thoughts? He had been taught to plough,
To ride, to measure land, to reap, and sow,
And once he loved the farmer's life so free,
And nothing but a farmer's boy would be.
Yet lately had he looked on rustic toil
With something haughty on his brow the while,
Deeming such occupation mean, compared
With reading Virgil, or the Grecian bard.
Whence came such thoughts? There was a secret store,
A precious pile of circulating lore
Brought by his aunt from the next market town;
And every week a fresh supply came down.
These had he found, and greedily devoured,
While the sweet poison o'er his bosom poured.
Here had he learned what time could ne'er unteach,
By all that sage might say, or pastor preach;
And, absent, moody, dreamer as he was,
His aunt looked on, nor knew to check the cause.

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Matilda Herbert was more fair than wise,
She had not dim, but undiscerning eyes.
Books were to her amusement, nothing more,
To kill the weary time she read them o'er.
So that a maiden loved, a hero bled,
Enough for her, the volume soon was read.
She had been trained in city schools, and thought
Good manners should at any price be bought,
Good clothing and good looks beyond even these,
Nor failed good furniture her eye to please.
Thus she looked down upon the farmer's home,
And deemed it much to quit the town, and come
To scenes so humble, rustic, and obscure,
Which, but for novels, she could ne'er endure.
Still she was kind, and had the heart to love
Sweet children, if they would but learn to move
Softly and gracefully, and curtsy low,
And go about as well-bred children go.
'Twas in such teaching, here she found a band
Of idle rebels under her fair hand.
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Nature was yet too strong within their hearts,
For all to learn at once their different parts,
And scorn crept in sometimes, and marred the rule
She sought to establish in her polished school;
And they rushed forth, when hours of play came round,
Like pent-up torrents, with such bursts of sound
From silvery voices, and such laughter wild,
As left small hope to make them soft or mild.

Martha, the oldest girl, with auburn hair
In close crisp curls around her cheek so fair,
Rosy, and dimpled o'er with smiles of glee,
The worst of all that rebel band was she.
For if one moment she looked grave or shy,
Some frolic fun flashed from her hazel eye,
Or mimic majesty set forth the grace
With which her aunt embellished all her ways.
Yet was she grave sometimes—by Henry's side,
And to be near him was her joy and pride;
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Grave—for deep earnest love is ever so,
And she had learned this tenderest love to know.
To share his sport was bliss enough for her,
Yet much she strove his sorrows too to share;
And oft would check her mirth, to think, and pause,
But ne'er could fully comprehend their cause.
The world to her was all so fair and bright,
Its petty cares so transient and so light;
No thought had she for maladies of mind,
While those she loved were happy, good, and kind.
Thus when her brother's moody fit came on,
And she beheld him wandering all alone,
She ran to join him, that he might not be
So lonely, and so wrapt in mystery.
Then would she tell him sportive tales, and gay,
And try to win him to his favourite play,
Till he became a wiser, happier boy,
And smiled again with gratitude and joy.

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Thus the twain roamed together through the fields,
Reaping the golden fruit that nature yields
From summer flowers, and leaves, and murmuring rills,
And purple tints upon the distant hills;
From all things pure, and beautiful, and bright,
Reaping a perfect harvest of delight.

Lucy was next in age, too young to roam
Wide as they wandered from their father's home;
Too delicate her frame, too slightly cast,
To bear the roughness of a single blast.
She was a tall pale girl, with thoughtful eyes,
Of that dark blue we gaze on with surprise
To find them not more dark, so deep the shade
By the soft waving of their lashes made.
Her forehead was like moonlight, high, and fair,
Gleaming beneath the shadow of her hair—
Cloud-coloured hair, that floated round her brow
Like fleecy vapours over hills of snow,
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Her mother's smile she wore, her look of truth,
With all the touching tenderness of youth,
And something mournful too beyond her years,
That almost moved the observant eye to tears.
She was a calm, sweet child, like a young dove
Pining at heart for its lost mother's love;
Love was her element, nor could she live
Without this richest of all boons to give.
She would have loved her aunt, and often tried,
When evening came, to nestle to her side;
Till quick repulse forbade the child to press
So closely as to spoil her silken dress.
Then would she sit apart, and wait, and watch
Some glimpse of her dear father's form to catch,
Or run to meet him with extended arms,
And that fond look the lonely heart that warms.
She was so like her mother. He could bear
To meet each day's returning weight of care;
But he was melted by this tenderness,
And almost wished the child would love him less.
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Still would he press her kindly to his breast,
And on his bosom lay her head to rest,
Smooth her soft hair, and kiss her gentle brow,
Wishing she ne'er might live his grief to know.
Vain wish! In lieu of the sad tears he shed
Alone, at midnight, by her infant bed,
He should have taught her lips the words of prayer,
And shielded his sweet flower by more than mortal care.

Helen, the youngest, who shall paint her form?
What line so delicate, what tints so warm,
As those that marked, in childhood's happy time,
Her beaming beauty ere it reached its prime?
Health never glowed beneath a fairer cheek,
Nor deeper blushes feeling's power could speak,
Nor Grecian sculptor e'er portrayed a face
More perfect in its symmetry and grace.
Her brow was queen-like, and her raven hair
In glossy bands lay smoothly parted there,
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Save when the unconquered impulse of her will
Sent her young steps careering o'er the hill,
Free as the wandering winds, for none could say,
With hope to be obeyed, “here should they stay.”
Her lips were like a Hebe's, but her eye—
'Twas there her beauty's witchery seemed to lie—
Deep, dark, intelligent, with such a blaze
Of living light as mocked the observer's gaze.
High was her intellect, her genius bold
Had been imperious, had her heart been cold;
And none had hoped her haughty soul to tame,
Save for the fleeting blush, that went and came,
And mist of girlish tears, that often showed
Her heart was yet more feminine than proud.
Music to her was rapture. Not a flower
Bloomed on earth's bosom, but it had the power
To move her soul to gladness, and her hand,
Quick in its imitative art, she could command
To do whate'er her fertile fancy planned.

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Who could behold her with a parent's love,
Nor deem her born all rustic cares above?
Proud was her lady-aunt to show the child,
Nor with less pride her father looked, and smiled;
Yet something touched his heart with secret fear
That all these gifts'might prove her greater snare.
How could he save her? Sometimes he would check
The impetuous pride that raised her haughty neck,
Sometimes would harshly speak, and sternly look,
Or meet her quick success with cold rebuke.
But he forgot there was one only cure,
One only antidote both safe and sure;
For human weakness, or for human pride,
Through this world's wilderness, one only guide.

Thus they grew up around him, fair, and free,
Like flowers of summer round some goodly tree.
Nor knew he then, or cared not, if he knew,
How full of weeds the soil in which they grew.
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He saw their bright luxuriance. Would it last?
Would their green stems break with the autumn blast?
He asked not, for his bosom's grief had grown
A sort of listless, melancholy tone,
Pervading life, and thus the world passed by,
Its lights and shades unnoticed by his eye.

Yet were not all things quite indifferent grown;
One spring of feeling closed, its force was thrown
Into another channel, most extreme
In its wide difference from his early dream.
When o'er his path the light of life had set,
Deep in his heart he nursed each fond regret,
Too sacred to bring forth to public gaze;
And thus he walked in his accustomed ways,
And mixed with other men, and bought, and sold,
Forcing his mind to calculate his gold:
And there arose a sort of inward joy
From out such calculations, that would buoy
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His spirit up; until at length he deemed
His life less wearisome than once it seemed.

It was a stirring time in Britain then,
War was abroad, and all true Englishmen
Were called to nerve themselves in heart, or hand,
To vindicate their laws, or guard their land.
And over this green isle of beauty came
The war-trump, and the scarlet vest of fame,
The prancing charger, and the rattling drum,
Breaking our rural silence with the hum
Of stranger voices, and of restless feet,
That trod our village pathways like a street.
Then ran the village maid all unabashed
To see the glittering arms, that gleamed, and clashed,
While rustic youths forsook the tardy plough,
The soldier's nobler exercise to know.

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It was a stirring time for Britain then;
The conqueror's hostile fleet was on the main,
Invasion threatened, and the eastern shore
With many a tented field was studded o'er.
Dire were the tidings brought by every post,
Of troops surrendering, and of armies lost;
Yet woke the war-cry from beleagured ground,
And bloody field, with glory in its sound,
And gentle eyes awhile forgot to weep,
So strong the patriot call—so loud and deep.
And Britain answered from her northern dales,
Her peaceful hamlets, and her southern vales;
Her yeoman bands forsook their flocks, and rose
With sword in hand, to guard their country's cause.
The w aving plume, the glittering helm and spear,
With bold defiance of all doubt and fear,
Dazzling the wary, deafening the distressed,
Stunning the voice of pity in the breast;
Till war became a sort of demon-god,
And men could bleed and worship under his fierce rod.

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Nor was it glory's brazen voice alone
That drowned the notes of pity's feebler tone,
Keen avarice, too, with tearless eye, looked on.
And men who would have mourned a single death,
A single wound, if near their native hearth,
Grew callous to the groans of thousands, where
The fiend of battle drove his blood-stained car.
That battle-field was distant, and that groan
Came not across the deep—was not their own.
But all their own the yellow grain that grew
Deepening in golden beauty to their view,
Their own the wealth that British produce made,
While ports were closed, and strict embargoes laid
On importations from the hostile shore.
And thus their greedy gains they counted o'er,
Blessing themselves for prosperous men in trade,
Because they doubled what they once had made;
While breathing sometimes just a passing sigh,
For those who fought abroad, and needs must die.

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Was William Herbert such a man as these?
Why question we? Our simple tale agrees
With other tales of human nature told,
How grows the insidious love and thirst of gold.
Yet let us vindicate his name again,
From taint of avarice, that foulest stain.
He was no miser, but he knew that wealth
Though it could neither purchase life, nor health,
Nor peace of mind—could purchase good esteem
Before the world, could make the humble seem
Exalted, and the silent sufferer blest,
Softening the pillow of the sore distressed.
Thus, though he truly grieved such tales to hear
Of wide destruction from the fields of war,
Yet fired with that old-fashioned patriot zeal,
That but for one dear spot of earth can feel,
Deeming each Frenchman too a deadly foe,
Created, formed, and fated to be so,
That death most glorious for one's country's good,
(That country England, always understood,)
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How could he, burning with this patriot fire,
A lower price for English grain desire?

No. He was like mankind. No whit more wise,
The specious seeming often mocked his eyes.
Then let us turn again to that fair page,
Where infancy was ripening into age
Around his hearth, and watch the tide of time
Flow brightly on, ere youth had reached its prime.

Oh, thou art beautiful, sweet spring of life!
Unsullied by disease, unworn by strife!
The heart yearns over thee, to keep thee pure,
That thy fresh loveliness may but endure,
That storms may never reach thee, nor the blight
Of sin or sorrow check thy blossoms bright.
The heart yearns over thee, for never more,
When once thy bloom is gone, can time restore
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The rose or lily to thy faded cheek,
Or wake thy voice in youth's glad tones to speak.
Couldst thou be ever thus, life were too fair,
This world too lovely, and too free from care.
By the clear light of thine unruffled brow,
Thy soft eyes gleaming under lids of snow,
The dewy freshness of thy lip, thy hair
Floating and free, unsilvered o'er by care,
Thy sportive step, thy dimpling smile, thy song,
The silvery tones that to thy voice belong,
But, most of all, by thy strong power to trust,
To admire and vindicate whate'er is just,
By all the golden hopes that bloom in youth,
And by thy love, unshaken as thy truth,
I would implore thee, ere that youth is past,
And thy frail bark on life's rough ocean cast,
To dedicate the gifts in childhood given,
With all their freshness and their bloom, to heaven.

Victorian Women Writers Project

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BOOK III.