The Countess - To E. W.

I know not, Time and Space so intervene,     Whether, still waiting with a trust serene,     Thou bearest up thy fourscore years and ten,     Or, called at last, art now Heavens citizen;     But, here or there, a pleasant thought of thee,     Like an old friend, all day has been with me.     The shy, still boy, for whom thy kindly hand     Smoothed his hard pathway to the wonder-land     Of thought and fancy, in gray manhood yet     Keeps green the memory of his early debt.     To-day, when truth and falsehood speak their words     Through hot-lipped cannon and the teeth of swords,     Listening with quickened heart and ear intent     To each sharp clause of that stern argument,     I still can hear at times a softer note     Of the old pastoral music round me float,     While through the hot gleam of our civil strife     Looms the green mirage of a simpler life.     As, at his alien post, the sentinel     Drops the old bucket in the homestead well,     And hears old voices in the winds that toss     Above his head the live-oaks beard of moss,     So, in our trial-time, and under skies     Shadowed by swords like Islams paradise,     I wait and watch, and let my fancy stray     To milder scenes and youths Arcadian day;     And howsoeer the pencil dipped in dreams     Shades the brown woods or tints the sunset streams,     The country doctor in the foreground seems,     Whose ancient sulky down the village lanes     Dragged, like a war-car, captive ills and pains.     I could not paint the scenery of my song,     Mindless of one who looked thereon so long;     Who, night and day, on dutys lonely round,     Made friends o the woods and rocks, and knew the sound     Of each small brook, and what the hillside trees     Said to the winds that touched their leafy keys;     Who saw so keenly and so well could paint     The village-folk, with all their humors quaint,     The parson ambling on his wall-eyed roan.     Grave and erect, with white hair backward blown;     The tough old boatman, half amphibious grown;     The muttering witch-wife of the gossips tale,     And the loud straggler levying his blackmail,     Old customs, habits, superstitions, fears,     All that lies buried under fifty years.     To thee, as is most fit, I bring my lay,     And, grateful, own the debt I cannot pay.     .         .         .         .         .     Over the wooded northern ridge,     Between its houses brown,     To the dark tunnel of the bridge     The street comes straggling down.     You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine,     Of gable, roof, and porch,     The tavern with its swinging sign,     The sharp horn of the church.     The rivers steel-blue crescent curves     To meet, in ebb and flow,     The single broken wharf that serves     For sloop and gundelow.     With salt sea-scents along its shores     The heavy hay-boats crawl,     The long antennae of their oars     In lazy rise and fall.     Along the gray abutments wall     The idle shad-net dries;     The toll-man in his cobblers stall     Sits smoking with closed eyes.     You hear the piers low undertone     Of waves that chafe and gnaw;     You start, a skippers horn is blown     To raise the creaking draw.     At times a blacksmiths anvil sounds     With slow and sluggard beat,     Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds     Wakes up the staring street.     A place for idle eyes and ears,     A cobwebbed nook of dreams;     Left by the stream whose waves are years     The stranded village seems.     And there, like other moss and rust,     The native dweller clings,     And keeps, in uninquiring trust,     The old, dull round of things.     The fisher drops his patient lines,     The farmer sows his grain,     Content to hear the murmuring pines     Instead of railroad-train.     Go where, along the tangled steep     That slopes against the west,     The hamlets buried idlers sleep     In still profounder rest.     Throw back the locusts flowery plume,     The birchs pale-green scarf,     And break the web of brier and bloom     From name and epitaph.     A simple muster-roll of death,     Of pomp and romance shorn,     The dry, old names that common breath     Has cheapened and outworn.     Yet pause by one low mound, and part     The wild vines oer it laced,     And read the words by rustic art     Upon its headstone traced.     Haply yon white-haired villager     Of fourscore years can say     What means the noble name of her     Who sleeps with common clay.     An exile from the Gascon land     Found refuge here and rest,     And loved, of all the village band,     Its fairest and its best.     He knelt with her on Sabbath morns,     He worshipped through her eyes,     And on the pride that doubts and scorns     Stole in her faiths surprise.     Her simple daily life he saw     By homeliest duties tried,     In all things by an untaught law     Of fitness justified.     For her his rank aside he laid;     He took the hue and tone     Of lowly life and toil, and made     Her simple ways his own.     Yet still, in gay and careless ease,     To harvest-field or dance     He brought the gentle courtesies,     The nameless grace of France.     And she who taught him love not less     From him she loved in turn     Caught in her sweet unconsciousness     What love is quick to learn.     Each grew to each in pleased accord,     Nor knew the gazing town     If she looked upward to her lord     Or he to her looked down.     How sweet, when summers day was oer,     His violins mirth and wail,     The walk on pleasant Newburys shore,     The rivers moonlit sail!     Ah! life is brief, though love be long;     The altar and the bier,     The burial hymn and bridal song,     Were both in one short year!     Her rest is quiet on the hill,     Beneath the locusts bloom:     Far off her lover sleeps as still     Within his scutcheoned tomb.     The Gascon lord, the village maid,     In death still clasp their hands;     The love that levels rank and grade     Unites their severed lands.     What matter whose the hillside grave,     Or whose the blazoned stone?     Forever to her western wave     Shall whisper blue Garonne!     O Love! so hallowing every soil     That gives thy sweet flower room,     Wherever, nursed by ease or toil,     The human heart takes bloom!     Plant of lost Eden, from the sod     Of sinful earth unriven,     White blossom of the trees of God     Dropped down to us from heaven!     This tangled waste of mound and stone     Is holy for thy sake;     A sweetness which is all thy own     Breathes out from fern and brake.     And while ancestral pride shall twine     The Gascons tomb with flowers,     Fall sweetly here, O song of mine,     With summers bloom and showers!     And let the lines that severed seem     Unite again in thee,     As western wave and Gallic stream     Are mingled in one sea!