II.
The old churchyard is still as death, A stranger pa.s.ses to and fro As if to church--he does not go-- The dead night does not draw a breath.
A lone sweet lady prays within.
The stranger pa.s.ses by the door-- Will he not pray? Is he so poor He has no prayer for his sin?
Is he so poor! His two strong hands Are full and heavy, as with gold; They clasp, as clasp two iron bands About two bags with eager hold.
Will he not pause and enter in, Put down his heavy load and rest, Put off his garmenting of sin, As some black burden from his breast?
Ah, me! the brave alone can pray.
The church-door is as cannon"s mouth To sinner North, or sinner South, More dreaded than dread battle day.
Now two men pace. They pace apart, And one with youth and truth is fair; The fervid sun is in his heart, The tawny South is in his hair.
Ay, two men pace, pace left and right-- The lone, sweet lady prays within-- Ay, two men pace: the silent night Kneels down in prayer for some sin.
Lo! two men pace; and one is gray, A blue-eyed man from snow-clad land, With something heavy in each hand,-- With heavy feet, as feet of clay.
Ay, two men pace; and one is light Of step, but still his brow is dark His eyes are as a kindled spark That burns beneath the brow of night!
And still they pace. The stars are red, The tombs are white as frosted snow; The silence is as if the dead Did pace in couples, to and fro.
III.
The azure curtain of G.o.d"s house Draws back, and hangs star-pinned to s.p.a.ce; I hear the low, large moon arouse, I see her lift her languid face.
I see her shoulder up the east, Low-necked, and large as womanhood,-- Low-necked, as for some ample feast Of G.o.ds, within yon orange-wood.
She spreads white palms, she whispers peace,-- Sweet peace on earth for evermore; Sweet peace for two beneath the trees, Sweet peace for one within the door.
The bent stream, like a scimitar Flashed in the sun, sweeps on and on, Till sheathed like some great sword new-drawn In seas beneath the Carib"s star.
The high moon climbs the sapphire hill, The lone sweet lady prays within; The crickets keep a clang and din-- They are so loud, earth is so still!
And two men glare in silence there!
The bitter, jealous hate of each Has grown too deep for deed or speech-- The lone, sweet lady keeps her prayer.
The vast moon high through heaven"s field In circling chariot is rolled; The golden stars are spun and reeled, And woven into cloth of gold.
The white magnolia fills the night With perfume, as the proud moon fills The glad earth with her ample light From out her awful sapphire hills.
White orange blossoms fill the boughs Above, about the old church door,-- They wait the bride, the bridal vows,-- They never hung so fair before.
The two men glare as dark as sin!
And yet all seems so fair, so white, You would not reckon it was night,-- The while the lady prays within.
IV.
She prays so very long and late,-- The two men, weary, waiting there,-- The great magnolia at the gate Bends drowsily above her prayer.
The cypress in his cloak of moss, That watches on in silent gloom, Has leaned and shaped a shadow-cross Above the nameless, lowly tomb.
What can she pray for? What her sin?
What folly of a maid so fair?
What shadows bind the wondrous hair Of one who prays so long within?
The palm-trees guard in regiment, Stand right and left without the gate; The myrtle-moss trees wait and wait; The tall magnolia leans intent.
The cypress trees, on gnarled old knees, Far out the dank and marshy deep Where slimy monsters groan and creep, Kneel with her in their marshy seas.
What can her sin be? Who shall know?
The night flies by,--a bird on wing; The men no longer to and fro Stride up and down, or anything.
For one so weary and so old Has hardly strength to stride or stir; He can but hold his bags of gold,-- But hug his gold and wait for her.
The two stand still,--stand face to face.
The moon slides on; the midnight air Is perfumed as a house of prayer-- The maiden keeps her holy place.
Two men! And one is gray, but one Scarce lifts a full-grown face as yet: With light foot on life"s threshold set,-- Is he the other"s sun-born son?
And one is of the land of snow, And one is of the land of sun; A black-eyed burning youth is one, But one has pulses cold and slow:
Ay, cold and slow from clime of snow Where Nature"s bosom, icy bound, Holds all her forces, hard, profound,-- Holds close where all the South lets go.
Blame not the sun, blame not the snows; G.o.d"s great schoolhouse for all is clime, The great school-teacher, Father Time; And each has borne as best he knows.
At last the elder speaks,--he cries,-- He speaks as if his heart would break; He speaks out as a man that dies,-- As dying for some lost love"s sake:
"Come, take this bag of gold, and go!
Come, take one bag! See, I have two!
Oh, why stand silent, staring so, When I would share my gold with you?
"Come, take this gold! See how I pray!
See how I bribe, and beg, and buy,-- Ay, buy! buy love, as you, too, may Some day before you come to die.
"G.o.d! take this gold, I beg, I pray!
I beg as one who thirsting cries For but one drop of drink, and dies In some lone, loveless desert way.
"You hesitate? Still hesitate?
Stand silent still and mock my pain?
Still mock to see me wait and wait, And wait her love, as earth waits rain?"
V.