Book Second

Where now Olivia, joined by her one friend
And confidant, Amy, the wheelwright's daughter,
Turns from the church, a youth from yonder town,
The village of the vale, the postman's son,
With courteous greeting, unobserved bestows
A missive blurred with foreign stamps, through which
The cyphers of her name are dimly seen.
Swift darts the flush across her cheek and brow;
Her brain is reeling with the sudden joy;
She clasps the letter as 'twere Arthur's hand,
Then slips it in her bosom, where it hears
The impatient fluttering of her happy heart.

Both silently pursue their homeward walk,
With arm affectionate at each other's waist.
No lovelier picture e'er shall bless the vale
Than those two maidens strolling down the fields,
Their faces beautiful with various thoughts;
One lost 'mid visions rising in her soul,
Until her eyes grow dreamy with love's dew;
The other, with warm pressure of the arm,
And tender looks, pronouncing sympathy!
Their pleasing pathway leads by yonder grove;
But scarce their footsteps skirt the silent wood,
When Amy, with a shudder, checks her pace;
Olivia recoils, and both stand still!
Lo! the weird dame of Oakland stops their path!
A beldame, bowed, bearing a bunch of sticks
To light her evening fire. Her shreds of hair
Floating in snowy wisps beneath her hood,
The toothless visage, shrivelled, pinched and cramped
By years which well nigh span a century's gap,
Make her, to youthful eyes, a sight uncouth;
And even the whisper of her name oft sends
An ugly phantom to the urchin's pillow,
Smoothing his wry face in the covers hid.
Her voice is like the creak of withered limbs!
And, with a smile across her frosty face,
She summons the half timid maids approach.
Lo! there the living allegory stands
Of Winter beckoning to young May and June!
"Hey-day! fair lasses, I've a word for you!"
She cries, and holds her shrivelled finger up.
"Can you tell why the blue bird, on yon branch,
Is singing so? Ah, silly hearts, to say
It sings for simple pleasure! Know you why
This brook, which through your fathers' meadows flows,
Makes such sweet music and so swiftly runs?
Ah, no; you have not pondered on it well.
The blue bird is a young man's heart, forsooth;
The brook, the heedless fancies of a maiden.
One sings, with all its art, to win a mate;
The other hurries, without knowing why,
Until it meets the rivers. There — go! go!
And when your sweethearts next shall clasp your hands,
Ask them, in autumn, whither fly the birds? —
If they depart in singing pairs together?
And tell them how the winter shall come in,
And choke the brook with ice till it is dumb!
Yet, stay! you are, I see, the wheelwright's daughter
What doth he with the chips about his door,
That a poor soul is not allowed to have
A shaving but to light her faggots with?
Who grudgeth splinters may, himself, want logs;
Who gives no drink, may have his well go dry!
The kind man's wheat is seldom trampled down,
Nor oft his fence-rails feed the poor man's oven;
His herds come home, not worried by the dogs;
His horse, astray, is not put into pound!
When you are married, teach your husband this,
If you would have him thrive. But, mark you, first;
Beware the brightness of your coal black eye,
For it may fascinate to your own harm!
I have a parable for you:

A little bird there was would sing,
Would sing with all its throat,
And sang so loud that every wing
Came hurrying to the note.
A sailing hawk, among the rest,
On spotted pinions came,
And floated east, and floated west,
Still circling near his game,
Until she fancied every breast
Must feel an envious flame!

His eye was on the silly bird,
It made her heart rejoice;
She thought, too true, the great hawk heard,
With deep delight, her voice.
And, nearer still, she saw him stoop,
On wheeling pinions gay —
The noblest wing, of all the troop,
She fancied his that day —
Till, with one sudden, cruel swoop,
He bore her far away!

Your sky now shines as bright as this o'er head,
But I can see, as over yon blue hills,
The white clouds rising which, before the night,
Shall fill the land with thunder and with rain."
Thus speaking with a frown, she clears her brow,
And to the other turns: — "And you, I see,
Are daughter to good neighbour Baldwin here.
You have a lover — ay, I know it well —
I rocked his cradle when he was a child,
And promised him a sweetheart fair and kind;
And as I said, a sweetheart, how he laughed,
And clapped his dimpled hands, as if the word
He could not comprehend, had music in't.
And, then, upon the day that you were born,
I took you, in your little robes of white,
And, on a pillow, bore you to the window.
'See, there,' said I, 'your sweetheart, in the field,
Is chasing butterflies among the clover!'
And then you smiled. It may be fancy, still,
Methought, I saw you smile as you smile now!
Come to my cot, anon, if you would know
The mystery of the future — when the moon
Is in the crescent, come! And, mark you well
To view her o'er the shoulder on the right;
For she is jealous, and, viewed otherwise,
Can work you direful mischief. When you plant,
Either your hopes or flowers, oh! then beware!
Consult her pleasure, and look out the signs,
Else will they bear you thorns, and never roses
And tear the hand which planted! Call me witch,
Or what you will; but only this remember,
When evil I predict, beware — beware!"
Thus saying, she adjusts her twisted load
Of gnarled sticks, and turns into the grove,
Shaking her warning finger as she goes.
"Nay, Amy dear, mind not the snarling dame!" —
Speaks mild Olivia, comforting her friend; —
"Her brain is far more crooked than her body;
Her temper is as crabbed as a thorn,
Which, when an ill wind blows, can only chafe
And worry its own branches! Mind her not!
'Tis evident she holds a harmless grudge.
Poor soul! I needs must pity her — so old,
And so forlorn — she must be miserable!"
To which the other answers, with a shudder,
"Some say she is a witch, and can work harm,
Send sickness 'mong the cattle, and brew storms!"
"Mere superstition!" cries her friend. '' 'Tis wrong,
'Tis sinful, to hold such belief of one
Whom God has made, even as he has us!
The height of her pretence is but to tell
The fortune, from the hand, as many do,
Which hath no further harm in it than this,
That some there are, who, foolishly, have faith,
And wait her promises, with hope or dread.
Why, I, myself, will turn a cup, and read
The accidental figures in the grounds,
And thereby, with shrewd guesses, tell the future;
And yet I am no witch! I pity her:
And I have heard my grandsire often say,
There was a time when she was young and fair,
And light of heart, as either you or I;
And how she was betrothed, and how the war
Left her as friendless as we see her now.
Suppose — but, no, we will not think of that;
But let us pity the poor crone, and pray,
When we grow old, we may not be like her."
Thus saying, they approach diverging paths,
And, after sweet adieus, take separate ways.