Narrative and Legendary Poems, Complete






II. THE HUSKING.

     It was the pleasant harvest-time,
     When cellar-bins are closely stowed,
     And garrets bend beneath their load,

     And the old swallow-haunted barns,—
     Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams
     Through which the rooted sunlight streams,

     And winds blow freshly in, to shake
     The red plumes of the roosted cocks,
     And the loose hay-mow's scented locks,

     Are filled with summer's ripened stores,
     Its odorous grass and barley sheaves,
     From their low scaffolds to their eaves.

     On Esek Harden's oaken floor,
     With many an autumn threshing worn,
     Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn.

     And thither came young men and maids,
     Beneath a moon that, large and low,
     Lit that sweet eve of long ago.

     They took their places; some by chance,
     And others by a merry voice
     Or sweet smile guided to their choice.

     How pleasantly the rising moon,
     Between the shadow of the mows,
     Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!

     On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned,
     On girlhood with its solid curves
     Of healthful strength and painless nerves!

     And jests went round, and laughs that made
     The house-dog answer with his howl,
     And kept astir the barn-yard fowl;

     And quaint old songs their fathers sung
     In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors,
     Ere Norman William trod their shores;

     And tales, whose merry license shook
     The fat sides of the Saxon thane,
     Forgetful of the hovering Dane,—

     Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known,
     The charms and riddles that beguiled
     On Oxus' banks the young world's child,—

     That primal picture-speech wherein
     Have youth and maid the story told,
     So new in each, so dateless old,

     Recalling pastoral Ruth in her
     Who waited, blushing and demure,
     The red-ear's kiss of forfeiture.

     But still the sweetest voice was mute
     That river-valley ever heard
     From lips of maid or throat of bird;

     For Mabel Martin sat apart,
     And let the hay-mow's shadow fall
     Upon the loveliest face of all.

     She sat apart, as one forbid,
     Who knew that none would condescend
     To own the Witch-wife's child a friend.

     The seasons scarce had gone their round,
     Since curious thousands thronged to see
     Her mother at the gallows-tree;

     And mocked the prison-palsied limbs
     That faltered on the fatal stairs,
     And wan lip trembling with its prayers!

     Few questioned of the sorrowing child,
     Or, when they saw the mother die;
     Dreamed of the daughter's agony.

     They went up to their homes that day,
     As men and Christians justified
     God willed it, and the wretch had died!

     Dear God and Father of us all,
     Forgive our faith in cruel lies,—
     Forgive the blindness that denies!

     Forgive thy creature when he takes,
     For the all-perfect love Thou art,
     Some grim creation of his heart.

     Cast down our idols, overturn
     Our bloody altars; let us see
     Thyself in Thy humanity!

     Young Mabel from her mother's grave
     Crept to her desolate hearth-stone,
     And wrestled with her fate alone;

     With love, and anger, and despair,
     The phantoms of disordered sense,
     The awful doubts of Providence!

     Oh, dreary broke the winter days,
     And dreary fell the winter nights
     When, one by one, the neighboring lights

     Went out, and human sounds grew still,
     And all the phantom-peopled dark
     Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark.

     And summer days were sad and long,
     And sad the uncompanioned eyes,
     And sadder sunset-tinted leaves,

     And Indian Summer's airs of balm;
     She scarcely felt the soft caress,
     The beauty died of loneliness!

     The school-boys jeered her as they passed,
     And, when she sought the house of prayer,
     Her mother's curse pursued her there.

     And still o'er many a neighboring door
     She saw the horseshoe's curved charm,
     To guard against her mother's harm!

     That mother, poor and sick and lame,
     Who daily, by the old arm-chair,
     Folded her withered hands in prayer;—

     Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail,
     Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er,
     When her dim eyes could read no more!

     Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept
     Her faith, and trusted that her way,
     So dark, would somewhere meet the day.

     And still her weary wheel went round
     Day after day, with no relief
     Small leisure have the poor for grief.

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