The clear-cut radiance of a frosty moon
Lights up, and darkens, all the growth around.
The great trees stand out black against the stars.
The wind in gusts bestirs the Autumn leaves,
Whose late October tints are lost in gloom,
Or are grown pallid with their shivering;
Whose fitful rustlings are the only sounds
Which break the dead cold silence of the night.
Yet hist! faint eerie tones are sometimes heard—
Which blanch the cheek and palsy all the limbs—
Like to the moaning of departed souls!
Within the farm-house is a large high room
Unceiled, but studded thick with rafters old,
Grown black with age or smoke; around its walls
Stiff hams and bacon-flitches dimly seen;
And here and there the dim uncertain forms
Of kitchen-ware and chairs and metal mugs;
From the low windows, half across the floor,
Stretch bands of moonlight flecked with shadowed leaves
Which tremble till the moonlight seems to dance;
Beside the fireplace stands some piled-up wood,
But the great hearthstone opens cold and black;
Beneath the inner door, a chink of light
Seems but to make the dimness darker yet;
The only sound the tick-tack of the clock,
Which serves to make the silence audible.
High on the hill a lordly pile looks down
From its proud eminence and grand domain
Upon the farm-house in the vale below.
Builded of marble, lofty, turretted,
It looms beneath the moonlight o'er the trees
Like some etherial castle in the skies,
Limned in white alabaster, glistening, grand,
Unreal, weird, not made by mortal hands.
But sudden, as one's wrapt gaze takes it in,
It turns to gray, then vanishes!
Yet, no!
'Tis but a sudden cloud athwart the moon.
Within the castle, in a sumptuous room,
Sits young Sir Bertram Morven, all alone.
He had been reading that sweet Persian tale
Of him who knocked at the beloved one's door
And cried: "'Tis I, who loveth thee!" To whom
She, answering, said: "Thou canst not enter here!"
And how, a twelvemonth past, he knocked again,
And the beloved one asking: "Who art thou?"
Replied: "It is thyself," and entered in.
The dull flames at his feet leap fitfully,
And lights and shadows sweep across his brow,
Like thoughts of heaven and hell across the soul.
Back in Holt's farm-house what a change is there!
The raftered room is filled with light and sound!
From blackened hearth the joyful flames leap up,
And roar and crackle through the piled-up logs!
On either side the old Holts sit and smile;
Betwixt them, circled, sit the younger ones,
Who laugh and chat, until the old man cries:
"Be silent, children! Let us not forget
The ancient usage of our family:
The feast of Sah'm has come! The sacred fire—
The Fire of Peace—is kindled on the hearth!
All Hallowed One, whose warmth is like this fire,
Which giveth joy and comfort to us all,
Be present with us in the coming storms,
Bless us and keep us in the coming year!"
Whereat the others, joining in: "O Thou,
And all Thy Saints, protect us all the year!"
While the flames leap and crackle all the more,
And roar a joyous answer to the prayer.
After a silence of a little space,
When thoughts are busy with the by-gone days,
The farmer speaks again: "Good wife," says he,
"We know the Past, with all its ills and joys,
We need not rake its ashes o'er again.
The Present finds us hale and hearty yet,
Blest in our children and our steadfast love.
He who would solve the Future in advance
Hath yet to learn the lessons of content.
But feasting on contentment is poor fare,
What say you to some bread and cheese and beer?
And, Ada, daughter, bring my long-stemmed pipe;
And, Hettie, niece, the apples and the nuts;
And, John, my son, pile up more blazing logs!
A chilly tremor through my bones just ran,
As if some enemy walked o'er my grave."
A shadowy form, shrouded and hooded, bent
With weight of years, and wickedness perchance,
Creeps slowly towards the glowing window-panes,
And peers within. She sees the emptied mugs
And pipes; the scattered hazel-husks, which tell
A tale of love-divining; in their chairs
The old folks dozing. John and Hettie sit
Most strangely near together! On the floor
Stands Ada, beauteous maiden, all alone,
Swaying most gracefully from side to side
With uplift hand and circling apple rind,
Which sudden drops and forms a doubtful B.
With blushing face and close-claspt hands, her eyes,
Softened with yearning hope, are raised to where
The moonlight strives to enter.
Holy saints!
What is it ails the terror-stricken maid?
She "saw a face glued to the window-pane—
A hideous face," she said, "which gibed, and seemed
To mock, and threaten dire calamity—
And waving crutch, which beckoned her outside!"
"Tush, tush! my girl," the 'wakened farmer cries;
"Twas but a fancy. Ho, John, go outside,
And, but to satisfy her, look around!"
John goes, and soon returns; he has "well searched
Yet searched in vain; no mortal is in sight."
So, reassured, the old man's mug is filled;
His pipe re-lit; more wood piled on the fire;
And, as he craves it, Ada sings a song:
ADA'S SONG.
A noble knight 'mid lordly halls
Dreams all his life away;
A lowly maid in cottage walls,
Hard-by the rippling waterfalls,
Permits her heart to stray.
His image mirrored in her heart—
Heaven help thee, lowly maid,
So near and yet so far apart!—
He tells his love. She doth not start,
Nor move, nor seem afraid!