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Read Ebook: The Mistress of the Manse by Holland J G Josiah Gilbert
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Ebook has 534 lines and 25776 words, and 11 pages
PRELUDE LOVE'S EXPERIMENTS LOVE'S PHILOSOPHIES LOVE'S CONSUMMATIONS
LOVE'S EXPERIMENTS.
A fluttering bevy left the gate With hurried steps, and sped away; And then a coach with drooping freight, Wrapped in its film of dusty gray, Stopped; and the pastor and his mate
Stepped forth, and passed the waiting door, And closed it on the gazing street. "Oh Philip!" She could say no more. "Oh Mildred! You're at home, my sweet,-- The old life closed: the new before!"
"Dinah, the mistress!" And the maid, Grown motherly with household care And loving service, and arrayed In homely neatness, took the pair Of small gloved hands held out, and paid
Her low obeisance; then--"this way!" And when she brought her forth at last, To him who grudged the long delay, He found the soil of travel cast, And Mildred fresh and fair as May.
"This is our little Manse," he said. "Now look with both your curious eyes Around, above and overhead, And seeing all things, realize That they are ours, and we are wed!
The house beyond the grace of flowers! They greet you, mantled by my name, And rain their tenderness in showers,-- Responding to the double claim Of love no longer mine, but ours.
"This is our parlor, plain and sweet: Your hands shall make it half divine. That wide, old-fashioned window-seat Beneath your touch shall grow a shrine; And every nooklet and retreat,
And every barren ledge and shelf, Shall wear a charm beyond the boon Of treasure-bearing drift, or delf, Or dreams that flutter from the moon; For it shall blossom with yourself.
"This is my study: here, alone, Prayerful to Him whom I adore, And gathering speech to make him known, Your far, quick footsteps on the floor, Your breezy robe, your cheerful tone,
As through our pretty home you speed The busy ministries of life, Will stir me swifter than my creed, And be more musical, dear wife, Than sweep of harp, or pipe of reed.
"Here is our fairy banquet hall! See how it opens to the East, And looks through elms! The board is small, But what it bears shall be a feast At morn, and noon, and evenfall.
"There will you sit in girlish grace, And catch, the sunrise in your hair; And looking at you, from my place, I shall behold more sweet and fair The morning in your smiling face.
"And guests shall come, and guests shall go, And break with us our daily bread; And sometime--sometime--do you know? I hope that--dearest, lift your head; And let me speak it, soft and low!
"The grass is sweeter than the ground: Can love be better than its flowers? Oh sometime--sometime--in the round Of coming years, this board of ours I hope may blossom and abound
With shining curls, and laughing eyes, And pleasant jests and merry words, And questions full of life's surprise, And light and music, when the birds Have left us to our gloomy skies.
"Now mount with me the old oak stair! This is your chamber--pink and blue! They asked the color of your hair, And draped and fitted all for you, My fine brunette, with tasteful care.
"The linen is as white as snow; The flowers are set on every sconce; And e'en the cushioned pin-heads show Your formal "welcome," for the nonce, To the sweet home their hands bestow.
"Declining to the river's marge, See, from this window, how the turf Runs with a thousand flowers in charge To meet the silver feet of surf That fly from every passing barge!
"Along that reach of liquid light Flies Commerce with her countless keels; There the chained Titan in his might Turns slowly round the groaning wheels That drag her burdens, day and night.
"And now the red sun flings his kiss Across its waves from finger-tips That pause, and grudgingly dismiss The one he loves to closer lips, And Moonlight's quiet hour of bliss.
"And here comes Dinah with the steam Of evening cups and evening food, And coal-red berries quenched with cream, And ministry of homely good That proves, my dear, we do not dream."
He heard the long-drawn organ-peal Within his chapel call to prayer; And, answering with ready zeal, He breathed o'er Mildred's weary chair These words, and sealed them with a seal:
"Only an hour: but comfort take;-- This home and I are wholly yours; And many bosoms fondly ache To tell you, that while life endures, You shall be cherished for my sake.
"So throw your heart's door open wide, And take in mine as well as me; Let no poor creature be denied The grace of tender courtesy And kindness from the pastor's bride."
The moon came up the summer sky: "Oh happy moon!" the lady said; "Men love thee for thyself, but I Am loved because my life is wed To one whose message, pure and high,
Has spread the world's evangel far, And thrown such radiance through the dark That men behold him as a star, And in his gracious coming mark How beautiful his footsteps are.
"Oh Moon! dost thou take all thy light From the great sun so lately gone? Are there not shapes upon thy white, That mould and make his sheen thy own, And charms that soften to the sight
The ardor of his blinding blaze? Who loves thee that thou art the sun's? Who does not give thee sweetest praise Among the troop of shining ones That sweep along the heavenly ways?
"Yet still within the holy place The altar sanctifies the gift! Poor, precious gift, that begs for grace! Oh towering altar! that doth lift The gift so high, that, in its face,
It bears no beauty to the thought Of those who round the altar stand! Poor, precious gift, that goes for naught From willing heart and ready hand, And wins no favor unbesought!
"The stars are whiter for the blue; The sky is deeper for the stars; They give and take in commerce true, And lend their beauty to the cars Of downy dusk, that all night through,
"Am I a dew-drop in a rose, With no significance apart? Must I but sparkle in repose Close to its folded, fragrant, heart, Its peerless beauty to disclose?
"Would I not toil to win his bread, And give him all I have to give? Would I not die in his sweet stead, And die in joy? But I must live; And, living, I must still be fed
On love that comes in love's own right. They must not pet, or pamper me-- Those who rejoice beneath his light-- Or pity him, that I can be So precious in his princely sight."
With swifter wings, through heart and brain, The little hour unheeded flew; And when, behind the blazoned stain Of saintly vestures, red and blue, The lights on rose and window-pane
Within the chapel slowly died, And figures muffled by the moon Went shuffling home on either side-- One seeking her--she said: How soon! And then the pastor kissed his bride.
The bright night brightened into dawn; The shadows down the mountain passed; And tree and shrub and sloping lawn, With bending, beaded beauty glassed In myriad suns the sun that shone!
The robin fed her nested young; The swallows bickered 'neath the eaves; The hang-bird in her hammock swung, And, tilting high among the leaves, Her red mate sang alone, or flung
The dew-drops on her lifted head; While on the grasses, white and far, The tents of fairy hosts were spread That, scared before the morning star, Had left their reeking camp, and fled.
The pigeon preened his opal breast; And o'er the meads the bobolink, With vexed perplexity confessed His tinkling gutturals in a kink, Or giggled round his secret nest.
With dizzy wings and dainty craft, In green and gold, the humming-bird Dashed here and there, and touched and quaffed The honey-dew, then flashed and whirred, And vanished like the feathered shaft
That glitters from a random bow. The flies were buzzing in the sun, The bees were busy in the snow Of lilies, and the spider spun, And waited for his prey below.
With sail aloft and sail adown, And motion neither slow nor swift, With dark-brown hull and shadow brown, Half-way between two skies adrift, The barque went dreaming toward the town.
'Twas Sunday in the silent street, And Sunday in the silent sky. The peace of God came down to meet The throng that laid their labor by, And rested, weary hands and feet.
Ah, sweet the scene which caught the glance Of eyes that with the morning woke, And, from their window in the manse, Looked up through sprays of elm and oak Into the sky's serene expanse,
And off upon the distant wood, And down into the garden's close, And over, where his chapel stood In ivy, reaching to its rose, Waiting the Sunday multitude!
A red rose in her raven hair Whose curls forbade the plait and braid, The bride slid down the oaken stair, And mantled like a bashful maid, As, seated in the waiting chair,
Behind the fragrant urn, she poured The nectar of the morn's repast; But fairer lady, fonder lord, In happier hall ne'er broke their fast With sweeter bread, at prouder board.
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