Book Fourth

The storm is past; but still the torrent roars,
Louder and louder, with incessant swell.
The brook, near by, hath overswept its bounds,
Drowning its tallest rushes; and the board
Which made the path continuous to the school —
And where the children loitered to behold
The minnows playing — now is borne afar,
Sweeping above the bowing hazel tops.
Within the opening west, the careful sun —
Like one who throws his mansion doors apart,
And looks abroad, to scan his wide estate —
Is forth to note the progress of the storm,
And what its rage hath wrought. Afar and near,
The clouds are all ablaze with amber light;
The earth receives it, and the fields look glad;
And still the rainbow, brightening as it grows,
Rises and bends, and makes the perfect arch.
All crowd the porch, and wonder at the flood,
With various surmises and alarms;
And Master Ethan takes his hat and cane,
("Pilgrim," he calls the cane for it hath been;
Through many generations handed down,
Since first some long gone ancestor had found
The straight stem growing in an English grove
And gave the ivory top,) "Pilgrim" he takes,
And strides across the vale. Not winding round
By easy paths, but with a course direct
O'er fences and ploughed fields, to younger feet
Forbidding, bends his steps, and gains the mill;
And lo! the sad fulfilment of his fears!
The dam has burst! and, with a roar of triumph,
The freshet mocks the miller as it flies.
There stands the parson, there his good wife stands,
Surrounded by their children, and with words
Of wonder and of comfort Ethan comes.
The miller takes his sympathizing hand,
And in reply makes answer with a sigh —
"He rules the storm, the floods are in his hold,
He gives and takes, and doeth all things well!"
The sun goes down; the day departs in peace;
And through the vale the starry tapers gleam,
Signals of household calm, from cottage homes;
And here and there, perchance, the slender ray
Conducts the venturous feet of rustic swain,
Who seeks the fireside where the maiden sits
Expectant of his step and welcome knock.
Not thus Olivia waits; but even thus,
Beside the wheelwright's evening-lighted hearth,
Her gentle friend, with an uneasy breast,
Holds anxious quiet till her lover comes.
Not long she waits, but, with a fluttering heart,
Hears his approach, and welcomes him with smiles
And maiden blush discreet. The well-pleased sire
Takes, with rough grasp, the youth's smooth hand in his,
And points the place of honor by the fire.
The matron, with misgivings in her mind,
Bends the cold nod, and, bustling for a while
About her household cares, withdraws in doubt
Shaking her dubious head. Not so the squire:
Itc sits and lights his pipe, in social mood,
Which, oft as jovial converse lets go out,
As oft the glowing ember reillumes.
At last, with easy tapping at the jamb,
The ashes fall; the pipe is laid aside,
And he departs, and leaves the room to love; —
To happy whisperings, breathing words so low
That nought is heard except the cricket's song,
In chorus with the simmering of the log
And muttering flame, which hath a voice prophetic.
Oh, Muse, forbear! Although 'mid scenes like this,
Thy wont is ever to draw softly near,
And sit eavesdropping at the door of Love!
Forbear, forbear! and be no record kept,
Except within the pages of their hearts,
For Time hereafter to peruse with joy,
Or Grief to blot with tears. Or if to note
Thou needs must lend thine ear, approach, invade
The sanctuary, by intruding feet
Seldom assailed — chief bed-room of the house —
And say the tenor of the long dispute.
"He is no choice of mine," so speaks the spouse.
To which the squire demands, with testy words,
"A reason, wife, a reason? — without that
Your talk is but an idle wind, to which
My set conviction is no weathervane."
"Well, call it but a wind," the wife replies;
"But 'tis a wind which runs before the storm,
And tells which way the bitter cloud is coming.
And, as for reason, it is quite enough
My heart mislikes him, and I never found
My instincts wrong. Besides, you know the dream
I told you of." To which the husband answers,
With growing tartness, "Wind — heart — instinct — dream!
A woman's reason truly! Now hear mine:
The youth is comely, and our daughter loves him,
And, fresh returned from college, is well bred,
With so much learning that the neighbourhood
Looks on him wondering, and the loutish swains
Eye him with jealousy. Who, more than I,
Should know the advantage of a well stored mind?
Hence am I magistrate; and he may be,
As he is like to be, the people's choice,
And take his seat in Congress. Then remark
What honour follows, which must e'en reach us."
To which the wife — "Were he the Governor,
I would not bate a jot what I have said.
Where goes my liking not, I ask no honour.
He is no choice of mine. You may despise
The dream I told you; but I say his eye
Is just the eye that glittered in the snake;
So like that, when he looks at me, I shudder,
And chiefly when he smiles. And he wears rings —
I like not that — the snake was also ringed."
"Tush, woman!" cries the squire, interrupting;
"Look Reason in the face, and put to blush
Your childish superstition! Answer this:
Who hath the largest farm in all the State?
Who the best cattle? Who the fullest purse?
And is not this his heir?" The spouse replies,
With bitterness which gives each sentence strength:
"How was the farm procured? Bit after bit,
By cunning tricks of law. If each had theirs —
The poor man, and the widow, and the orphan —
Those cattle would go home to different stalls.
Case after case hath come to you for trial;
And you should know — for it hath oft been said,
Oft been a taunt our children heard at school —
That you gave favour 'gainst the poor man's cause.
Oh, Walters, many a time as I have heard
Some neighbour here recount to you his wrongs,
My heart has ached, and indignation flamed,
Until I wished that, in your icy stead,
I might sit there and hold the whip of Justice!
He, too, is maker of that poison drug
Which blights the land with poverty and woe.
His still-house knows no rest, by day or night,
Until one needs must think a demon tends it.
Oh, he hath much to answer for, and grows
More fat in sin than body! E'en the swine
He yearly bloats for slaughter at his troughs,
Roll in less ugliness than he to me."
The husband, angered, scarce can find reply;
He feels the truth, but will not leave his point;
His judgment, like a wayward child rebuked,
Grows sullen and determined in the wrong,
But presently responds: — "Well, say no more;
When weds the maid, the maid shall have her choice,
And if it be this youth — so let it be."
To which the wife makes answer with resolve: —
"I shall forbid, and if against my voice,
Encouraged on by you, the girl shall go,
Then be what mischief follows at your door —
I'll none of it." The voices cease; and now
The stars of midnight glimmer o'er the vale;
The wheelwright's gate swings o'er the silent dark,
And one lone rider occupies the road.