THE EVENING STAR.
Beneath a weight of glistening snow each bough was bent,
Ice-glued the crystal cushions took strange form,
Like ghosts of prehistoric ferns whose palour blent
With earth and sky—the aftermath of storm.
The splattering rain had stayed its noisy, windblown course
And now the padding flakes had ceased to come.
A silent world that stilled all passion and remorse,
Heart-throbbings, grief, thoughts dull and burthensome.
And in the shanty's warmth a child lay stretched at rest,
As delicate as winter tracery.
A mother's eyes sought hers in anxious, tender quest,
Then turned with prayerful light toward western sky,
As though to wrest the secret of the universe
From silver drapery and peeps beyond,
As though one added effort would avail to pierce
The cloaking space, that something must respond.
A something e'en more wonderful than branchlets sprayed
In weird fantastic tire 'gainst heaven's deep;
And lo the mystic blush of evening gently rayed,
Wee cloudlets strayed from mist like flocks of sheep.
A wind! or was't a cry? The infant gasped for breath.
Belike soft bleating lambs had wakened her,
Belike the new-born soul was lured toward lanes of death,
The rosy flush had held a messenger.
Ah woe that Mother's heart as close she pressed her child;
Poor quivering nameless thing and O so frail
To penetrate that void—her thoughts grew fierce and wild.
An infant unbaptised, what fears assail?
An erie wind had risen; hark its shrilling cry I
A flickering candle loosed deep shadows round
That emphasized despair and cruel misery;
The night had come, a sullen night that frowned.
And nought remained but burning love for help was far,
Nor remedies; and grief had surged and ebbed.
Again the Mother sought the sky and lo a star
Had forced the clouds; it peered through boughs close-webbed.
A bright and steadfast star that shot its friendly rays.
"O Evening Star," the woman softly sobbed,
"Be sponsor, shed celestial light through trackless haze."
Asudden within her heart the answer throbbed,
Or winds had drifted: "Innocence." She hearkened, yes
"Innocence," the Star had sanctioned it:
Her baby's name! Upon its brow with fond caress
And moistened touch the crossing sign was writ.
And Innocence looked up and smiled and caught the light
That streamed from Evening Star and breathed a sigh
That held content; a faint, sweet sigh that put to flight
A mother's fear, that hushed anxiety.
And so the Babe was named and Innocence still cheered
The lonely hut. A father heard the tale;
How Evening Star had given aid as he had steered
Through her his homeward course, obscured by gale.
And oft at sunset hour the parents sat and watched
Receding day with grave expectancy,
At times through lattice work of branches gaunt and notched,
At times through leafy boughs that swathed the sky.
And when the rosy prelude, orchestra of tint,
Had dimmed; with deep, upwelling thought that strives
And gladsome awe, they faced the Evening Star; whose print
Was on their baby's brow, had marked their lives.
Then Innocence would laugh and stretch her hands and prayer
Half-breathed would rise that happiness remain.
The Evening Star flung beams of trust and through the air
Oft "Innocence" was voiced by winds again.
And Innocence grew tall as passed the years; but frail
At times she seemed, still more when strangers neared.
Ah then she'd seek some ferny haunt, 'mid flowerlets pale
She'd cower, nor knew what dreaded ill she feared.
A lily-maid in homespun garb of softest white,
Her winter coat of silky rabbit skin
Or ermine brought by Indian guide. Her cheeks as white
Unless the flush to evening skies akin.
And so time passed, the nearby settlement became
A village, then a boastful town and road
And searching railway broke the still and helped defame
Sequestered charm that God, through Grace, bestowed.
And Innocence would shrink from noise and close her eyes
When drifting smoke showed progress near, like plant
That's sensitive, that shrivels from man's touch and lies
So piteous with tremulous leaves aslant.
Too weak for woodland stroll, a hammock-couch was strung
'Neath lofty pines and there the young girl lay
And watched a robin's second brood, or chipmunk swung
On sapling bent, or butterflies at play.
One heavy night she stayed without, till Evening Star
Had blown a kiss, then dipped beneath some clouds.
A silence crept, scarce broke by owlet's hoot afar,
While mists arose like ghosts in flaunting shrouds.
A rustling sound! but Innocence had dropped asleep;
Within her hand a dangling lily stem,
Whose cool, white bud unfolded tales that willows weep
Where broad green leaves and starry petals gem,
Where waters pause from maddened rush to catch the calm
That slips through foliage, to rest awhile
In reedy bays as man fatigued might search for calm
'Neath roofing church, immunity from guile.
A rustling sound, a stealthy tread, some broken twigs,
And Guilt peeped low through scrubby briar growth,
Then pushed his ruthless way, nor cared that tender sprigs
Refused to bloom, once heard his muttered oath.
He plucked a burr that pulled his coat askew, then brushed
Aside some pollen dust, some larva-thread;
His outward garb so sleek and glossed, with step that hushed
He fast approached—above dark clouds had spread;
But through the gloom, the lily bud was visible,
The pallid curve of maiden's cheek; one stride,
He stood befogged, a something stayed against his will.
A something childlike, Godlike that defied.
For Innocence had wakened now and unabashed,
Unharmed she gazed at Guilt and pity lay
Within her eyes, a pity blent with pain that lashed,
Till Guilt one blinding moment felt its play.
He sank to earth beseeching what? He scarcely knew.
Respite? was pardon past? He felt a touch
As light as though from highest Heaven a Seraph blew
A kiss that floated downwards bringing much.
And on his heart he pressed the flower that Innocence
Had proferred him, the lily bud that erst
Had lain on waters cool and clear. It brought from thence
Some mirrored truth that Nature's self had nursed.
But Innocence had breathed her last, one gasp, 'twas all,
While Guilt affright, scarce pausing, fled; once more
The Evening Star shone forth, winds sobbed a lingering call,
The parents listened—useless to implore.
The grave awoke with crimson flowers; new birth attained,
The Evening Star had guided faithfully;
For ever since no grovelling soul has been so stained
But moments come that give some chance to free.
'Twas long ago, in our old Province of Quebec,
This tale at evenfall was whispered me.
One spoke—and was that one alive? or but a speck
Of spirit-world, of God's Eternity?
THE END.