JOHN STERLING.
THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.
Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,— To silver over in a single day The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen! What must the sufferings of that night have been— That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er With time's untimely snow! But now no more, Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee— I have to tell a humbler history; A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth (If any), will be sad and simple truth.
"Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,— So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, "Father" and "Master" to himself applied, As life's grave duties matronize the bride,— "Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth To his day labor, from the cottage door,— "I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before, There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton [1] roar? It's brewing up, down westward; and look there, One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, As threats, the waters will be out anon. That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,— Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."
"Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father's side Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy The answering language of the mother's eye. There was denial, and she shook her head: "Nay, nay,—no harm will come to them," she said, "The mistress lets them off these short dark days An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, May quite be trusted—and I know 't is true— To take care of herself and Jenny too. And so she ought,—she's seven come first of May,— Two years the oldest; and they give away The Christmas bounty at the school to-day."
The mother's will was law (alas, for her That hapless day, poor soul!)—she could not err, Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane (Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again. When each had had her turn; she clinging so As if that day she could not let him go. But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss, "God bless my little maids!" the father said, And cheerily went his way to win their bread. Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, What looks demure the sister pair put on,— Not of the mother as afraid, or shy, Or questioning the love that could deny; But simply, as their simple training taught, In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought (Submissively resigned the hope of play) Towards the serious business of the day.
To me there 's something touching, I confess, In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, Seen often in some little childish face Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace (Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!) The unnatural sufferings of the factory child. But a staid quietness, reflective, mild, Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes, Sense of life's cares, without its miseries. So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow, The docile Lizzy stood attentive now. Proud of her years and of the imputed sense, And prudence justifying confidence,— And little Jenny, more demurely still, Beside her waited the maternal will. So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain Gainsborough ne'er painted: no—nor he of Spain, Glorious Murillo!—and by contrast shown More beautiful. The younger little one, With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair, By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, Sable and glossy as the raven's wing, And lustrous eyes as dark. "Now, mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said,—"don't stay To pull a bough or berry by the way: And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast Your little sister's hand, till you 're quite past,— That plank's so crazy, and so slippery (If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be. But you're good children—steady as old folk— I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak, A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied, And ample little Jenny's lack supplied With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, "To wrap it round and knot it carefully (Like this), when you come home, just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away— Good will to school, and then good right to play."
Was there no sinking at the mother's heart When, all equipt, they turned them to depart? When down the lane she watched them as they went Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell: Such warnings have been sent, we know full well And must believe—believing that they are— In mercy then—to rouse, restrain, prepare.
And now I mind me, something of the kind Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind, Making it irksome to bide all alone By her own quiet hearth. Though never known For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray, Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay At home with her own thoughts, but took her way To her next neighbor's, half a loaf to borrow,— Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,— And with the loan obtained, she lingered still. Said she, "My master, if he 'd had his will, Would have kept back our little ones from school This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool, Since they 've been gone, I 've wished them back. But then It won't do in such things to humor men,— Our Ambrose specially. If let alone He 'd spoil those wenches. But it 's coming on, That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,— Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff Will come into one's head! And here with you I stop, as if I 'd nothing else to do— And they 'll come home, drowned rats. I must be gone To get dry things, and set the kettle on."
His day's work done, three mortal miles and more, Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door. A weary way, God wot, for weary wight! But yet far off the curling smoke in sight From his own chimney, and his heart felt light. How pleasantly the humble homestead stood, Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood! How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze, In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees, Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July, From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry, How grateful the cool covert to regain Of his own avenue,—that shady lane, With the white cottage, in the slanting glow Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below, And Jasmine porch, his rustic portico!