CANTO II.
If there be anything that is heartrending,
It is when called upon to yield our cheer
To those whose joys have found a sudden ending,
Indeed the task's a hopeless one—that's clear—
To attempt to improve upon or save by mending.
As well essay to move a planet from its sphere,
As talk to any one whose real sorrow
Has pass'd the line where he was wont to borrow.
I've tried it oft, and given o'er the task;
And hopeful too as any woman that e'er tried,
Or man either, e'en though he wore the mask,
That Satan wore to set our mother Eve beside
Herself enough to think, and curious ask,
Why she was ever made, or ever tied
Upon this curious revolving ball,
And where her crazy actions brought "the fall."
That was the fearful thing in nature's God—
The giving to that simple child the power
To tread where his own mighty footsteps trod!
The gloomy clouds o'er all mankind since low'r,
And lay their stubborn heads beneath the sod!
His grandchild might have bloom'd supernal flow'r,
Of all the grand and awful fabrication,
Nor need redemption nor regeneration.
Perhaps such questions we've no right to put,
Unto the Framer of the Universe;
To our inquis'tiveneness his doors are shut,
On dit—and recommended well of course,
By the theologist in pious hut,
With clearing small around—or what is worse,
He lives beyond where busy thoughts do center,
And so beyond the pale where gossips enter.
But then theology is not the theme
To claim my present labor or my time.
We'll then retire to Mary's broken dream;
Although the task is hard, in changing rhyme,
To waft her smoothly down life's whirling stream,
And land her safe in any pleasant clime,
When knowing that her dearest hopes have pal'd,
And every sweet anticipation fail'd.
My muse has sung the task, a hopeless one,
To offer balm to one in woe not found;
Or being found, it meets a chronic tone.
To raise the sadden'd brow when sorrow crown'd,
Is near a failure ere the task's begun;
'Tis throwing straws to one already drown'd;
The light frail things are in a feeble clasp,
And serve no other purpose than to grasp.
You may try this, or that, or other thing,
And find each move is not responsive met,
Except to prove abortive, and to fling
Your kindest purpose back, from efforts set
In bounds of common sense—another ring,
Within whose compass many chafe and fret.
To try to lead a moody woful mind—
'Tis but a task where blind must lead the blind.
"When fate—the dark-brow'd Mistress—lays her hand
With heavy weight upon a mortal wight,
It is as if King Terror's deadly wand
Had swept along, and wither'd left and right;
Or like one's bark, left on a sullen strand,
Where soundless waters rise in fury's might,
Rock on and on, in sullen moaning clash,
Unmindful of the human wrecks they dash.
And Mary—-still I hear her stifled moan,
As vainly the letter she tried to read,
The anguish of her low, distressful groan,
Would cause a heart of adamant to bleed.
It seem'd her brain were like a flaming stone;
Her heart a torn and bent and broken reed;
And such a look of wan and woeful pain!
God grant me such a likeness ne'er again."
Next day they bore her to her city home,
With life enough scarce left, her frame to bear;
All had been swept away like wild sea foam,
And nothing left but a fond mother's care,
To nurse away the fever which had come;
A fit attendant of her woes, and share—
A heated languor with sufficient breath
To hold her just within the porch of death.