A LIFE’S SORROW.
AN OLD MAN’S NARRATIVE.
My life hath had its curse; and I will tell
To you its dark and troubled history.
Brethren you are; oh then as brethren dwell,
Linked soul to soul in blessed unity;
Like the rejoicing branches of a tree,
All braving storm, all sharing sunny weather,
All putting on their leaves, and withering all together.
I had a brother. As a spring of joy
Was he unto the gladness of my youth;
And in our guileless confidence, each boy,
Vowed a sweet vow of everlasting truth,
All sympathetic love, all generous ruth;
Alas! that years the noble heart should tame,
And the boy’s virtue put the man to shame!
I was the elder; and as years passed on
Men paid invidious homage to the heir;
And pride, which was the sin of angels, won
Our human hearts; their guilt I will not spare;
If I was proud, the boy began to wear
A lip of scorn, and paid me back my pride,
With arrowy wit that wounded and defied.
Still he was dear to me, and I would gaze
With yearning heart upon him as he went
Past me in silent pride, and inly praised
His godlike form, and the fair lineament
Of his fine countenance, as eloquent
As if it breathed forth music; and his voice
Oh how its tones could soften and rejoice!
Strange was it, that a brother, thus my pride,
Grew to my friendship so estranged and cold;
Strange was it, that kind spirits erst allied
By kindred fellowship, so proved of old,
Were sundered and to separate interests sold!
I know not how it was! but pride was strong
In either breast, and did the other wrong.
There was another cause—we fiercely strove
In an ambitious race;—but worse than all
We met, two rival combatants in love;
My brother was the victor, and my fall,
Maddening my jealous pride, turned love to gall,
There was no lingering kindness more. We parted,
Each on his separate way, the severed-hearted.
For years we met not: met not till we stood,
Silent and moody, by our father’s bed,
Each with his hatred seemingly subdued
Whilst in the presence of that reverend head:
Surely our steadfast rancour might have fled
When that good father joined our hands and smiled,
And died believing we were reconciled!
And so we might have been; but there were those
Who found advantage in our longer hate;
Who stepped between our hearts and kept us foes,
And taught that hatred was inviolate:—
Fools to be duped by such! But ah, too late
True knowledge and repentance come; and back
I look in woe upon life’s blighted track!
We were the victims of the arts we scorned;
We were like clay within the potter’s hand:
And so again we parted. He adorned
The courtly world: his wit and manners bland
The hearts of men and women could command.
I too ran folly’s round, till tired of pleasure,
I sought repose in tranquil, rural leisure.
Ere long he left his native land, and went
Into the East with pomp and power girt round.
And so years past: the morn of life was spent,
And manhood’s noon advanced with splendour crowned;
They said ’mid kingly luxury without bound,
He dwelt in joy; and that his blessing ever
Flowed like that land’s unmeasured, bounteous river.
And the world worshipped him, for he was great—
Great in the council, greater in the field,
And I too had my blessings, for I sate
Amid my little ones: the fount unsealed
Of my heart’s wronged affections seemed to yield
A tenfold current: and my babes, like light
Unto the captive’s gaze, rejoiced my sight.
I dwelt within my home an altered man;
Again all tenderness and love was sweet,
’Twas as if fresh existence had began,
Since pleasant welcomes were sent forth to greet
My coming, and the sound of little feet
Was on my floor, and bright and loving eyes
Beamed on me without feigning a disguise.
As the chill snows of winter melt away
Before the genial spring, so from my heart
Passed hatred and revenge; and I could pray
For pardon, pardoning all; my soul was blessed
With answered love, and hopes whereon to rest
My joy in years to come; I asked no more,
The cup of that rich blessedness ran o’er.
Alas! even then the brightness of my life
Again grew dim; my fount of joy was dried;
My soul was doomed to bear a heavier strife
Than it had borne!—my children at my side
In their meek, loving beauty, drooped and died—
First they, and then their mother! Did I weep?
No, tears are not for griefs intense and deep!
Ah me! those weary days, those painful nights,
When voices from the dead were in mine ear,
And I had visions of my lost delights,
And saw the lovely and the loving near,
Then woke and knew my home so dim and drear!
What marvel if I prayed that I might die,
In my soul’s great, unchastened misery!
I had known sorrow, and remorse, and shame,
But never knew I misery till that time;
And in my soul sprang up the torturing blame,
That they had died for my unpardoned crime!
Then madness followed; and my manhood’s prime
Passed like a dark and hideous dream away,
Without a memory left of night or day.
I dwelt within my childhood’s home, and yet
I wist not of each dear familiar place;
My soul was in a gloomy darkness set,
Engulphed in deadness for a season’s space.
At length light beamed; a ray of heavenly grace
Upon my bowed and darkened spirit lay,
Healing its wounds and giving power to pray.
I rose a sorrowing man, and yet renewed;
Resigned, although abashed to the dust;
I felt that God was righteous, true, and good,
And though severe in awful judgment, just;
Therefore in him I put undoubting trust,
And walked once more among my fellow-men,
Yet in their vain joys mingling not again.
My home was still a solitude; none sought
Nor found in me companion; yet I pined
For something which might win my weary thought
From its deep anguish; some strong, generous mind,
Round which my lorn affections might be twined:
Some truthful heart on which mine own might lean,
And still from life some scattered comfort glean.
The dead, alas! I sorrowed for the dead,
Until well-nigh my madness had returned;
Till memory of them grew a thing of dread,
And therefore towards a living friend I yearned,
My brother! then my soul unto thee turned;
Then pined I for thy spirit’s buoyant play,
Like the chained captive for the light of day!
The kindness of his youth came back to me;
I saw his form in visions of the night;
I seemed to hear his footsteps light and free
Upon my floors; the memoried delight
Of his rich voice came back with sweeter might!
Perchance ’twas madness—so I often thought,
For with insatiate zeal in me it wrought.
“I will arise,” I cried, like him of yore,
“The conscience-stricken prodigal, and lay
Myself, as in the dust, his face before,
And, ‘I have sinned, my brother!’ I will say—
‘Forgive, forgive!’ The clouds shall pass away,
And I will banquet on his love; and rest
My weary soul on his sustaining breast!”
I gathered up my strength; I asked of none
Council or aid; I crossed the desert sea;
The purpose of my soul, to all unknown,
Was yet supporting energy to me.
I was like one from cruel bonds set free,
Who walks exulting on, yet telleth not
The all-sufficing gladness of his lot.
Through the great cities of the East I passed
Into the kingdom where he reigned supreme;
I came unto a gorgeous palace, vast
As the creation of a poet’s dream:—
My strength gave way, how little did I seem!
I felt like Joseph’s brethren, mean and base,
I turned aside and dared not meet his face.
Hard by there was a grove of cypress trees;
A place, as if for mourning spirits made;
Thither I sped, my burdened heart to ease,
And weep unseen within the secret shade,—
A mighty woe that cypress grove displayed!
Oh let me weep! you will not say that tears
Wrung by that sorrow can be stanched by years.
There was a tomb; a tomb as of a king;
A gorgeous palace of the unconscious dead.
My heart died in me, like the failing wing
Of the struck bird, as on that wall I read
My brother’s name! Feeling and memory fled;
The flood-gates of my misery gave way,
And senseless on the marble floor I lay.
I lay for hours; and when my sense returned
The day was o’er; no moon was in the sky,
But the thick-strewn, eternal planets burned
In their celestial beauty steadfastly;—
It seemed each star was as a heavenly eye
Looking upon my sorrow;—thus I deemed,
And sate within the tomb till morning beamed.
—For this I crossed the sea; in those far wilds,
Through perils numberless, for this I went!
What followed next I tell not; as a child’s
Again my soul was feeble; too much spent
To suffer as of old, or to lament,
I came back to the scenes where life began,
By griefs, not years, a bowed and aged man.
I murmur not; but with submissive will
Resign to woe the evening of my day;
On the great morrow love will have its fill;
God will forgive our poor repentant clay,
Nor thrust us from his paradise away!
But brethren, be ye warned! Oh do not sever
Your kindred hearts, which should be linked For ever!