Duly next day he went And sought the church he had known them to frequent, And wandered in the precincts, set on eyeing Where they lay pent,
Till by remembrance led He stood at length beside their slighted bed, Above which, truly, scarce a line or letter Could now be read.
"Thus years obliterate Their graven worth, their chronicle, their date!
At once I"ll garnish and revive the record Of their past state,
"That still the sage may say In pensive progress here where they decay, "This stone records a luminous line whose talents Told in their day.""
While speaking thus he turned, For a form shadowed where they lay inurned, And he beheld a stranger in foreign vesture, And tropic-burned.
"Sir, I am right pleased to view That ancestors of mine should interest you, For I have come of purpose here to trace them . . .
They are time-worn, true,
"But that"s a fault, at most, Sculptors can cure. On the Pacific coast I have vowed for long that relics of my forbears I"d trace ere lost,
"And hitherward I come, Before this same old Time shall strike me numb, To carry it out."--"Strange, this is!" said the other; "What mind shall plumb
"Coincident design!
Though these my father"s enemies were and mine, I nourished a like purpose--to restore them Each letter and line."
"Such magnanimity Is now not needed, sir; for you will see That since I am here, a thing like this is, plainly, Best done by me."
The other bowed, and left, Crestfallen in sentiment, as one bereft Of some fair object he had been moved to cherish, By hands more deft.
And as he slept that night The phantoms of the ensepulchred stood up-right Before him, trembling that he had set him seeking Their charnel-site.
And, as unknowing his ruth, Asked as with terrors founded not on truth Why he should want them. "Ha," they hollowly hackered, "You come, forsooth,
"By stealth to obliterate Our graven worth, our chronicle, our date, That our descendant may not gild the record Of our past state,
"And that no sage may say In pensive progress near where we decay: "This stone records a luminous line whose talents Told in their day.""
Upon the morrow he went And to that town and churchyard never bent His ageing footsteps till, some twelvemonths onward, An accident
Once more detained him there; And, stirred by hauntings, he must needs repair To where the tomb was. Lo, it stood still wasting In no man"s care.
"The travelled man you met The last time," said the s.e.xton, "has not yet Appeared again, though wealth he had in plenty.
--Can he forget?
"The architect was hired And came here on smart summons as desired, But never the descendant came to tell him What he required."
And so the tomb remained Untouched, untended, crumbling, weather-stained, And though the one-time foe was fain to right it He still refrained.
"I"ll set about it when I am sure he"ll come no more. Best wait till then."
But so it was that never the stranger entered That city again.
And the well-meaner died While waiting tremulously unsatisfied That no return of the family"s foreign scion Would still betide.
And many years slid by, And active church-restorers cast their eye Upon the ancient garth and h.o.a.ry building The tomb stood nigh.
And when they had sc.r.a.ped each wall, Pulled out the stately pews, and smartened all, "It will be well," declared the spruce church-warden, "To overhaul
"And broaden this path where shown; Nothing prevents it but an old tombstone Pertaining to a family forgotten, Of deeds unknown.
"Their names can scarce be read, Depend on"t, all who care for them are dead."
So went the tomb, whose shards were as path-paving Distributed.
Over it and about Men"s footsteps beat, and wind and water-spout, Until the names, aforetime gnawed by weathers, Were quite worn out.
So that no sage can say In pensive progress near where they decay, "This stone records a luminous line whose talents Told in their day."
"REGRET NOT ME"
Regret not me; Beneath the sunny tree I lie uncaring, slumbering peacefully.
Swift as the light I flew my faery flight; Ecstatically I moved, and feared no night.
I did not know That heydays fade and go, But deemed that what was would be always so.
I skipped at morn Between the yellowing corn, Thinking it good and glorious to be born.
I ran at eves Among the piled-up sheaves, Dreaming, "I grieve not, therefore nothing grieves."
Now soon will come The apple, pear, and plum And hinds will sing, and autumn insects hum.
Again you will fare To cider-makings rare, And junketings; but I shall not be there.
Yet gaily sing Until the pewter ring Those songs we sang when we went gipsying.
And lightly dance Some triple-timed romance In coupled figures, and forget mischance;
And mourn not me Beneath the yellowing tree; For I shall mind not, slumbering peacefully.
THE RECALCITRANTS
Let us off and search, and find a place Where yours and mine can be natural lives, Where no one comes who dissects and dives And proclaims that ours is a curious case, That its touch of romance can scarcely grace.
You would think it strange at first, but then Everything has been strange in its time.
When some one said on a day of the prime He would bow to no brazen G.o.d again He doubtless dazed the ma.s.s of men.
None will recognize us as a pair whose claims To righteous judgment we care not making; Who have doubted if breath be worth the taking, And have no respect for the current fames Whence the savour has flown while abide the names.