They talk'd together; on his long-drawn sigh Following their low-voiced, love-toned colloquy. And all the while, intent upon her book, The little maid sat still; an upward look, (As play'd her father's hand with her soft hair,) Now and then glancing at the parent pair,
Her heart's contentment full, assured they both were there.
Loud burst the storm, that, fitfully suppress'd, Had for a moment sobb'd itself to rest.
Creak'd doors and casements, clattering came the rain, And the old wall's stout timbers groan'd again. "Would they were back-that I could hear their tread!" List'ning anxiously, the mother said : " God help, this fearful night, the houseless poor! One would not turn a dog out from one's door."
"No-not a dog.--And yet I had the heart, To let him homeless from my home depart On such another night. Full well I mind, As the door open'd, how the rain and wind Flash'd in his face, and wellnigh beat him back. Then-had I stretched a hand out! What lone track, Unfriended since, hath he been doom'd to tread? Where hath he found a shelter for his head- In this hard world, or with the happy dead?"
"Nay, doubt it not, my husband!" said the wife, "He hath been long at rest, where care and strife, And pain and sorrow enter not. We know That when he left us, nineteen years ago, He went a-shipboard straight, and cross'd the seas To that far, fatal coast, where fell disease Strikes down its thousands, that he went ashore, And up the country, and was seen no more. Had he not perish'd early, we had heard Tidings ere long by letter or by word; For he too had a loving heart, that bore No malice when the angry fit was o'er. Be comforted, dear husband! he's at rest, And let us humbly hope, for Christ's sake-bless'd."
"Hark, mother, hark! I'm sure they're coming back!" Cried little Helen-who with Valiant Jack Had parted for the night" That's Willy's call To Hector, as they turn the garden wall. Lizzy! come quick and help me let them in- They must be wet, poor brothers, to the skin." The rosy maid, already at the door, Lifted the latch ; and bounding on before, (His rough coat scattering wide a plenteous shower,) Hector sprang in, his master close behind, Half spent with buffeting the rain and wind; Gasping for breath and words a moment's space, His eager soul all glowing in his face.
"Where's Walter?" cried the mother, pale as death"What's happen'd?" ask'd both parents in a breath. "Safe, Mother dear! and sound - I tell you trueBut, Father! we can't manage without you; Walter and Joe are waiting there down-bye, At the old cart-house by the granary.
As we came back that way, a man we found (Some shipwreck'd seaman) stretch'd upon the ground In that cold shelter. Very worn and weak He seem'd, poor soul! at first could hardly speak; And, as we held the lantern where he lay, Moan'd heavily, and turn'd his face away. But we spoke kindly-bade him be of cheer, And rise and come with us-our home was near, Whence our dear father never from his door Sent weary traveller-weary, sick, or poor. He listen'd, turn'd, and lifting up his head, Look'd in our faces wistfully, and said-
Ye are but lads-(kind lads-God bless you both !) And I, a friendless stranger, should be loath, Unbidden by himself, to make so free As cross the rich man's threshold: this for me Is shelter good enough; for worse I've known- What fitter bed than earth to die upon?' He spoke so sad, we almost wept; and fain Would have persuaded him, but all in vain ;- He will not move-I think he wants to die, And so he will, if there all night he lie."
"That shall he not," the hearty yeoman said, Donning his rough great coat; " a warmer bed Shall pillow here to-night his weary head. Off with us, Willy! our joint luck we'll try, And bring him home, or know the reason why."
Warm hearts make willing hands; and Helen Hay Bestirr'd her, while those dear ones were away, Among her maidens, comforts to provide 'Gainst their return: still bustling by her side Her little daughter, with officious care, (Sweet mimicry!) and many a matron air Of serious purpose, helping to spread forth Warm hose and vestments by the glowing hearth. From the old walnut press, with kindly thought, Stout home-spun linen, white and sweet, was brought In a small decent chamber overhead,
To make what still was call'd "The Stranger's bed." For many a lone wayfarer, old and poor, Sick or sore wearied, on the dreary moor Belated, at the hospitable door
Of the Old Farm ask'd shelter for the night, Attracted by the far-seen, ruddy light Of the piled hearth within." A bit of bread And a night's shelter," was the prayer oft said, Seldom in vain ; - for Walter would repeat, With lowly reverence, that assurance sweet- "How he the stranger's heart with food and rest Who cheers, may entertain an angel guest;" Or, giving in Christ's name, for his dear sake be bless'd.
Oft they look'd out into the murky night Tempestuous, for the streaming lantern light; And hearken'd (facing bold the driving sleet) For sound of nearing voices-coming feet- And there it gleams-and there they come at last- Fitfully sinking, swelling on the blast; Till clustering forms from out the darkness grow, Supporting one, with dragging steps and slow, Feebly approaching.-
Courage, my friend! we've but a step to go," The yeoman's cheerful voice was heard to say. " Hillo! good folks there-here, my Helen Hay, Little and great- I've brought you home a guest Needs your good tending, most of all needs rest; Which he shall find this blessed night, please God, On softer pallet than the cold bare sod."
As they the threshold pass'd, the cheerful light Flash'd from within; and shading quick his sight, (Pain'd by the sudden glare,) upon his brow The wayworn man his ragged hat pull'd low; Bow'd down his head, and sigh'd in such a tone, Deep drawn and heavy, 'twas almost a groan. They help'd him on, (for he could hardly stand,) And little Helen drew him by the hand, Whispering" poor man!" - At that, a moment's space Halting, he fix'd his eyes on the young face Of her who spoke those pitying words so mild, And tremulously said " God bless thee, child!"
The strong supporting arm-'twas Walter Hay'sTighten'd its clasp, and with a searching gaze Quick turn'd, he peer'd in those strange features; then (For they were strange) drew back his head again, Shaking it gently with a sorrowful smile. The matron and her maids came round the while, Toward the high-back'd Settle's warmed nook To lead the weary man; but with a look Still downcast and aside, he shrunk away, Articulating faintly, "Not to-dayNot there to-night. Rest only! only rest!" So to the allotted room they brought their guest, And laid him kindly down on the good bed, With a soft pillow for his old grey head. The long, thin, straggling locks, that hung adown His hollow cheeks, bad scarce a tinge of brown Streaking their wintry white; and sorely marr'd Was all his face: thick seam'd, and deeply scarr'd, As if in many battles he had fought Among the foremost.
"From the first, I thought,"
Said the young Walter, as he came below, "The fine old fellow had dealt many a blow For England's glory, on her wooden walls." The father smiled. "Not every one who falls In fight, my son! may fall in a good cause- As fiercely in resistance to the laws Men strive, as in upholding them"-
I'm sure we've a true sailor, father dear! No lawless, wicked man. When you were gone, Willy and I some little time stay'd on- (Mother had sent us up with some warm drink, Made comforting)-and then you cannot think How pleasantly, though sadly, he look'd up, And ask'd our names as he gave back the cup; And when we told them, took a hand of each, While his lips moved as if in prayer-not speech,
"Ay, who indeed can say, boys? - who can tell The deep, deep thoughts, in human hearts that dwell Long buried, that some word of little weight Will call up sudden from their slumbering state, So quicken'd into life, that past things seem Present again the present but a dream. Boys! in a book was lent me long agone, I read what since I've often thought upon With deepest awe. At the great Judgment-Day Some learned scholars wise and holy-say That in a moment all our whole life past Shall be spread out as in a picture vast- Re-acted as it were, in open sight Of God, and men, and angels; the strong light, Indwelling conscience, serving to illume The changeful All complete-from birth to doom. Methinks-with humble reverence I speak- I've been led sometimes to conception weak Of that deep meaning, when a sudden ray Has call'd, as 'twere from darkness into day, Long past, forgotten things. - Oh! children dear Lay it to heart, and keep the record clear That all unveil'd, that day, must certainly appear."
Thus, as was oft his wont, religious truth The pious father taught their tender youth, As apposite occasion led the way; No formal teacher stern. Nor only they, The filial listeners, fix'd attention gave To his wise talk-with earnest looks and grave His rustic household, at the supper board Assembled all, gave heed to every word Utter'd instructive; and when down he took And open'd reverently the blessed Book; With hearts prepared, on its great message dwelt: And when around, in after prayer they knelt, Forgot not, e'er they rose, for him to pray Master and Teacher, Father, they might say, Who led them like his own, the happy, heavenward way.
"Did you take notice, wife"-the husband said, Their busy, well-spent day thus finishedWhen all except themselves were gone to rest"Did you take notice, when our stranger guest Spoke those few words to Helen, of his tone ? It thrill'd my very heart through: so like one These nineteen years unheard."
To any thing," she said, " but his great need Of help, poor soul! so faint he seem'd and low." ""Well, well," rejoin'd her husband, " even now I seem to hear it :- Then, into my brain, Wild thoughts came crowding; quickly gone again, When I look'd hard, but not a line could trace Familiar, in that weatherbeaten face. That lost one, were he living now, would be Younger a year and many months than me-
Than this time-stricken man, by many a year. But, oh! these thoughts will haunt me, Helen, dear! These sudden fancies, though so oft before I've proved them vain, and felt all hope was o'er."
"Only for this world, husband mine!" she said, " They live in Heaven, whom here we count as dead, And there we all shall meet, when all is finished."
"God grant it!" fervently he said; "and so To bed, good wife! I must be up, you know, And off by daybreak, on my townward way, When, business done, be sure I shall not stay A needless minute. Yet I guess 'twill be Dark night before my own snug home I see. Mind a low chair and cushion in the cart Be set for Mark. God bless his poor old heart! Though from the hospital they send him back Blind and incurable, he shall not lack Comfort or kindness here; his service done, Of sixty years wellnigh, to sire and son. I miss him every where; but most of all, Methinks, at prayer-time, the deep solemn fall, Tremblingly fervent, of his long • Amen!' 'Twill glad my heart to hear that sound again."
The Supper-board was spread the hearth piled high- All at the Farm look'd bright expectancy Of him who ever seem'd too long away, If absent from his dear ones but a day: Old Mark, too, coming home! what joy to all!- Ye know not, worldlings, what glad festival Pure hearts of simplest elements can make- Ye, whose pall'd sense poor pleasure scarce can take At feasts, where lips may smile, but hearts so often ache.
There was a sudden rush from the old hall, Children, and men, and maids, and dogs, and all, Save her, who, with a deeper gladness, stay'd Quietly busied; and far back in shade (Forgotten there awhile) the stranger guest. But quiet though she seemeth, with the rest Be sure her heart went forth those wheels to meet; And now they stop: and loving voices greet, Mingling confusedly; yet every one She hears distinct: as harmonist each tone Of his full chord, distinct as if alone.
And there he comes, (sight gladdening every eye,) The darling young one in his arms throned high, Her warm cheek to his cold one closely press'd. And there those two blithe boys, and all the rest, So crowd about old Mark with loving zeal. The blind man weeps, and fondly tries to feel Those fair young faces he no more must see. " Give us warm welcome, Dame!" cried cheerily Her husband, as their greeting glances met; "We're cold enough, I warrant, and sharp set- But here's a sight would warm the dead to life, Clean hearth, bright blaze, heap'd board, and smiling wife!"
Lightly he spake, but with a loving look Went to her heart, who all its meaning took :
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