Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LARS; A PASTORAL OF NORWAY: BOOK 2., by BAYARD TAYLOR


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LARS; A PASTORAL OF NORWAY: BOOK 2., by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Lars lived, because the life within his frame
Last Line: The same sweet words; and so the twain were one.
Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard
Subject(s): Bells; Death; Love; Norway; Dead, The


LARS lived, because the life within his frame
Refused to leave it; but his heart was dead,
He thought, for nothing moved him any more.
He spake not Brita's name, and every path
Where he had scattered fancies of the maid
Like seeds of flowers, but whence, instead, had grown
Malignant briers, to clog and tear his feet,
Was hated now: so, all that once seemed life,
So bright with power and purpose, rich in chance,
And dropping rest from every cloud of toil,
Became a weariness of empty days.

Thus, not to 'scape the blood-revenge for Per
Which Thorsten vowed, his brother: not to shun
The tongues and eyes of censure or reproach,
Or spoken pity, angering more than these;
But since each rock upon the lonely fell
Kept echoes of her voice, each cleft of blue
Where valleys wandered downward to the wave
Held shadows of her form, each meadow-sod
Her footprints, -- all the land so filled with her,
Once hope, delight, but desolation now, --
Forth must he go, beyond his father's hearth,
Beyond the vales, beyond the teeth of snow,
The shores and skerries, till the world become
Too wide for knowledge of his evil fate,
Too strange for memory of his ruined love!

He recked not where; but into passive moods
Some spirit drops a leaven, to point anew
Men's aimless forces. Was it only chance
That now recalled a long-forgotten tale?
How Leif, his mother's grandsire, crossed the seas
To those new lands the great Gustavus claimed:
How, in The Key of old Calmar, their ship,
A trooper he, with Printz the Governor,
Sailed days and weeks; the blue would never turn
To shallower green, and landsmen moped in dread,
Till shores grew up they scarce believed were such,
Low-lying, fresh, as if the hand of God
Had lately finished them. But farther on
The curving bay to one broad river led,
Where cabins nestled on the rising banks,

With mighty woods, and mellow intervales.
Inviting corn and cattle. Then rejoiced
The Swedish farmers, and were set ashore:
But on the level isle of Tinicum
Printz built a fort, and there the trooper, Leif,
Abode three years: and he was fain to tell,
When wounds and age had crippled him, how fair
And fruitful was the land, how full of sun
And bountiful in streams, -- and pity 't was
The strong Norse blood could not have stocked it all!

Lars knew not why these stories should return
To haunt his gloomy brain: but it was so,
And on the current of his memory launched
His thought, and followed; then neglected will
Awoke, and on the track of thought embarked,
And soon his life was borne away from all
It knew, and burst the adamantine ring
Which bound its world within the greater world.
As one who, wandering by the water-side,
Steps in an empty boat, and sits him down,
Not knowing that his step has loosed the chain,
And drifts away, unwitting, on the tide,
So he was drifted: no farewell he spake,
But happy Ulvik and the fiord and fell
Passed from his eyes, and underneath his feet
The world went round, until he found himself,
Like one aroused from sleep, upon the hills
That roll, the heavings of the boundless blue.

As unto Leif, his mother's grandsire, so
To him it seemed the blue would never turn
To shallower green, till shining fisher-sails
Came, stars of land that rose before the land;
Then fresher shores and climbing river-banks,
And broken woods and mellow intervales,
With houses, corn, and cattle. There, perchance,
He dreamed, the memory of Leif might bide
Upon the level isle of Tinicum,
Or farms of Swedish settlers: if 't were so,
One stone was laid whereon to build a home.
But when the vessel at the city's wharf
Dropped anchor, and the bright new land was won,
The high red houses and the sober throngs
Were strange to him, and strange the garb and speech.
Awhile he lingered there; until, outgrown
The tongue's first blindness and the stranger's shame,
His helpless craft was turned again to use.

Then sought he countrymen, and, finding now
Within the Swedish Church at Weccacoe
No Norse but in the features, else all changed,
He left and wandered down the Delaware
Unto the isle of Tinicum; and there
Of all that fortress of the valiant Printz
Some yellow bricks remained. The name of Leif
Who should remember? Do we call to mind,
Years afterward, the clover-head we plucked

Some morn of June, and smelled, and threw away?
But when we find a life erased and lost
Beneath the multitude's unsparing feet, --
A life so elearly beating yet for us
In blood and memory, -- comes a sad surprise:
So Lars went onward, losing hope of good,
To where, upon her hill, fair Wilmington
Looks to the river over marshy meads.
He saw the low brick church, with stunted tower,
The portal-arches, ivied now and old,
And passed the gate: lo! there, the ancient stones
Bore Norland names and dear, familiar words!
It seemed the dead a comfort spake: he read,
Thrusting the nettles and the vines aside,
And softly wept: he knew not why he wept,
But here was something in the strange new land
That made a home, though growing out of graves.

Led by a faith that rest could not be far,
Beyond the town, where deeper vales bring down
The winding brooks from Pennsylvanian hills,
He walked: the ordered farms were fair to see,
And fair the peaceful houses: old repose
Mellowed the lavish newness of the land,
And sober toil gave everywhere the right
To simple pleasures. As by each he passed,
A spirit whispered: "No, not there!" and then
His sceptic heart said: "Never any where!"

The sun was low, when, with the valley's bend,
There came a change. Two willow-fountains flung
And showered their leafy streams before a house
Of rusty stone, with chimneys tall and white;
A meadow stretched below; and dappled cows,
Full-fed, were waiting for their evening call.
The garden lay upon a sunny knoll,
An orchard dark behind it, and the barn,
With wide, warm wings, a giant mother-bird,
Seemed brooding o'er its empty summer nest.
Then Lars upon the roadside bank sat down,
For here was peace that almost seemed despair,
So near his eyes, so distant from his life
It lay: and while he mused, a woman came
Forth from the house, no servant-maid more plain
In her attire, yet, as she nearer drew,
Her still, sweet face, and pure, untroubled eyes
Spake gentle blood. A browner dove she seemed,
Without the shifting iris of the neck,
And when she spake her voice was like a dove's,
Soft, even-toned, and sinking in the heart.
Lars could not know that loss and yearning made
His eyes so pleading; he but saw how hers
Bent on him as some serious angel's might
Upon a child, strayed in the wilderness.
She paused, and said: "Thou seemest weary, friend,"
But he, instead of answer, clasped his hands.
The silent gesture wrought upon her mind:
She marked the alien face; then, with a smile
That meant and made excuse for needful words,
She said: "Perhaps thou dost not understand?"
"I understand," Lars answered; "you are good.
Indeed, I'm weary: not in hands and feet,
But tired of idly owning them. I see
A thousand fields where I could take my bread
Nor stint the harvest, and a thousand roofs
That shelter corners where my head might rest,
Nor steal another's pillow!"
As to seek
The meaning of his words, she mused a space.
In that still land of homes, how should she guess
What fancies haunt a homeless heart? Yet his
Was surely need: so, presently, she spake:
"Work only waits, I've thought, for willing hands;
A meal and shelter for the night, we give
To all that ask; what more is possible
Rests with my father." Lars arose and went
Beside her, where the cows came loitering on
With udders swelled, and meadow-scented breath,
Through opened bars and up the grassy lane.
"Ho, Star!" and "Pink!" he called them coaxingly
In soft Norse words: they stared as if they knew.
"See, lady!" then he cried: "the honest things
Like him that likes them, over all the world."
But "Nay," she said, "not 'lady'! -- call me Ruth:
My father's name is Ezra Mendenhall,
And hither comes he: I will speak for thee."

So Lars was sheltered, and when evening fell,
And all, around the clean and peaceful board,
Kept the brief silence which is fittest prayer
Before the bread is broken, he was filled
With something calm which was akin to peace,
With something restless, which was almost hope.
The white-haired man with placid forehead sat
And faced him, grave as any Bergen judge,
Yet kindly; he the stranger's claim allowed,
And ample space for hunger, ere he spake:
"What, then, might be thy name?" "My name is Lars,
The son of Thorsten, in the Norway land.
My father said the blood of heathen kings
Runs in our veins, but we are Christian men,
Who work the more because of idle sires,
And speak the truth, and try to live good lives."

Lars ceased, as if a blow had closed his mouth,
But Ezra said: "The name sounds heathenish,
Indeed, yet hardly royal; blood is naught to us,
Yea, less than naught, or I, whose fathers served
The third man Edward, and his kindly wife,
Philippa, loved the vanities of courts
And cast away the birthright of their souls,
Were now, perchance, a worldly popinjay,
The Lord forgetting and provoking Him
Me to forget. But this is needless talk:
Thy hands declare that thou art bred to work;
Thy face, methinks, is truthful; if thy life
Be good, I know not. I can trust no more
Than knowledge justifies, and charity
Bids us assume until the knowledge comes."

"No more I ask," Lars answered; "simple ways
To me are home-ways: I can learn to serve,
Because, when others served me, I was just."

"Our ways are strange to thee," said Ezra; "thine
Unsuitable, if here too long retained.
The just in spirit find in outward things
A voice and testimony, which may not
Be lightly changed: what sayest thou to this?"

"To change in mine? Why, truly, 't were no change
To do thy bidding, yet to call thee friend;
To use the speech of brethren, as at home;
And, feigning not the faith that still may part,
To bide in charity till knowledge comes, --
So much, without a promise, I should give."

"Thou speakest fairly," Ezra said; "to me
Is need of labor less than faithful will,
But this includes the other: if thou stand
The easier test, the greater then may come.
The man who feels his duty makes his own
The beasts he tends or uses, and the fields,
Though all may be another's." "Then," said Ruth,
"My cows already must belong to Lars:
His speech was strange, and yet they understood."

So Lars remained. That night, beneath the roof,
His head lay light; the very wind that breathed
Its low, perpetual wail among the boughs
Sufficed to cheer him, and the one dim star
That watched him from the highest heaven of heavens
Made morning in his heart. Too soon passed off
The exalted mood, too soon his rich content
Was tarnished by the daily round of toil,
And all things grown familiar; yet his pride,
That rose at censure for each petty fault
Of ignorance, supported while it stung.
And Ezra Mendenhall was just, and Ruth
Serenely patient, sweetly calm and kind:
So, month by month, the even days were born
And died, the nights were drowned in deeper rest,
And fields and fences, streams and stately woods,
Fashioned themselves to suit his newer life,
Till ever fainter grew those other forms
Of fiord and fell, the high Hardanger range,
And Romsdal's teeth of snow. Yea, Brita's eyes
And Per's hot face he learned to hold away,
Save when they vexed his helpless soul in dreams

The land was called Hockessin. O'er its hills,
High, wide, and fertile, blew a healthy air:
There was a homestead set wherever fell
A sunward slope, and breathed its crystal vein,
And up beyond the woods, at crossing roads,
The heart of all, the ancient meeting-house;
And Lars went thither on an autumn morn.
Beside him went, it happened, Abner Cloud,
A neighbor; rigid in the sect, and rich,
And it was rumored that he crossed the hill
To Ezra's house, oftener than neighbor-wise.
This knew not Lars: but Abner's eye, he thought,
Fell not upon him as a friend's should fall,
And Abner's tongue perplexed him, for its tone
Was harsh or sneering when his words were fair.
He spake from every quarter, as a man
Who weeks a tender spot, or wound unhealed,
And probes the surface which he seems to soothe
Until some nerve betrays infirmity.
This, only, were the two alone: if Ruth
Came near, his face grew mild as curded milk,
And unctuous kindness overflowed his lips
Precise and thin, as who should godlier be?
Perhaps he wooed, but 't was a wooing strange,
Lars fancied, or his heart were other stuff
Than those are made of which can bless or slay.
It was a silent meeting. Here the men
And there the women sat, the elder folk
Facing the younger from their rising seats,
With faces grave beneath the stiff, straight brim
Or dusky bonnet. They the stillness breathed
Like some high air wherein their souls were free,
And on their features, as on those that guard
The drifted portals of Egyptian fanes,
Sat mystery: the Spirit they obeyed
By voice or silence, as the influence fell,
Was near them, or their common seeking made
A spiritual Presence, mightier than the grasp
Of each, possessed in reverence by all.
But o'er the soul of Lars there lay the shade
Of his own strangeness: peace came not to him
Awhile he idly watched the flies that crawled
Along the hard, bare pine, or marked, in front,
The close-cut hair and flaring lobes of ears,
Until his mind turned on itself, and made
A wizard twilight, where the shapes of life
Shone forth and faded: subtler sense awoke,
But dream-like first, and then the form of Per
Became a living presence which abode;
And all the pain and trouble of the past
Threatened like something evil yet to come.
At last, that phantasm of his memory sat
Beside him, and would not be banished thence
By will or prayer: he lifted up his face,
And met the cold gray eyes of Abner Cloud.

The man, thenceforward, seemed an enemy,
And Ruth, he scarce knew why, but all her ways
So cheered and soothed, a power to subjugate
The devil in his heart. But now the leaves
Flashed into glittering jewels ere they fell;
The pastures lessened, and, when day was done,
Came quiet evenings, bare of tale and song,
Such as beneath Norwegian rafters shook
Tired lids awake; and wearisome to Lars,
Till Ruth, who noted, fetched the useless books
Of school-girl days, and portioned him his task,
Herself the teacher. Oft would Ezra smile
To note her careful and unyielding sway.
"Nay, now," he said; "I thought our speech was plain,
But thou dost hedge each common phrase with thorns,
Like something rare: dost thou not make it hard?"
"A right foundation, father," she replied,
"Makes easy building: thus it is in life.
I teach thee, Lars, no other than the Lord
Requires of all, through discipline that makes
His goodness hard until it lives in us."
With paler cheeks Lars turned him to his task,
Thus innocently smitten; but his mind
Increased in knowledge, till the alien tongue
Obeyed the summons of his thought. So toil
Brought freedom, and the winter passed away.

Where Lars was blind, the eyes of Abner Cloud
Saw more than was. This school-boy giant drew,
He fancied, like a rank and chance-sown weed
Beside some wholesome plant, the strength away
From his desire, of old and rightful root.
'T was not that Ruth should love the stranger, -- no!
But woman's interest is lightly caught,
So hers by Lars, that might have turned to him.
Had he not worldly goods, and honest name,
And birthright in the meeting? Who could weigh
Unknown with these deserts? -- but gentleness
Is blind, and goodness ignorant; so he,
By malice made sagacious, learned to note
The large, strong veins that filled and rose, although
The tongue was still, the clench of powerful hands,
The trouble hiding in the gloomy eye,
And wrought on these by cunning words. But most
He played with forms of Scandinavian faith
In that old time before King Olaf came,
And made their huge, divine barbarities,
Their strength and slaughter, fields of frost and blood,
More hideous. "These are fables, thou wilt claim,"
It was his wont to say; "but such must nurse
A people false and cruel."
Then would Lars
Reply with heat: "Not so! but honest folk, instead,
Too frank to hide the face of any fault,
And free from all the evil crafts that breed
In hearts of cowards!"
Ruth, it rarely chanced,
Heard aught of this, but when she heard, her voice
Came firm and clear: "Indeed, it is not good
To drag those times forth from their harmless graves.
Their ignorance and wicked strength are dead,
And what of good they knew was not their own,
But ours as well: this is our sole concern,
To feed the life of goodness in ourselves
And all, that so the world at last escape
The darkness of our fathers far away."

As when some malady within the frame
Is planted, slowly tainting all the blood,
And underneath the seeming healthy skin
In secret grows till strong enough to smite
With rank disorder, so the strife increased;
And Lars perceived the devil of his guilt
Had made a darkness, where he ambushed lay
And waited for his time. Against him rose
The better knowledge, breeding downy wings
Of prayer, yet shaken by mistrust and hate
At touch of Abner's malice. Thus the hour,
The inevitable, came.
A Sabbath morn
Of early spring lay lovely on the land.
Upon the bridge that to the barn's broad floor
Led from the field, stood Lars: his eyes were fixed
Upon his knife and, as he turned the blade
This way and that, and with it turned his thought,
While musing if 't were best to cover up
This witness, or to master what it told,
Close to the haft he marked a splash of rust,
And shuddered as he held it nearer. "Blood,
And doubtless human!" spake a wiry voice,
And Abner Cloud bent down his head to look
A sound of waters filled the ears of Lars
And all his flesh grew chill: he said no word.
"I have thy history, now," thought Abner Cloud,
And in the pallid silence read but fear;
So thus aloud: "Thou art a man of crime
The proper offspring of the godless tribes
Who drank from skulls, and gnawed the very bones
Of them they slew. This is thine instrument.
And thou art hungering for its bloody use.
Say, hast thou ever eaten human flesh?"

Then all the landscape, house, and trees, and hills,
Before the eyes of Lars, burned suddenly
In crimson fire: the roaring of his ears
Became a thunder, and his throat was brass.
Yet one wild pang of deadly fear of self
Shot through his heart, and with a mighty cry
Of mingled rage, resistance, and appeal,
He flung his arms towards heaven, and hurled afar
The fatal knife. This saw not Abner Cloud:
But death he saw within those dreadful eyes,
And turned and fled. Behind him bounded Lars,
The man cast off, the wild beast only left,
The primal savage, who is born anew
In every child. Not long had been the race.
But Ezra Mendenhall, approaching, saw
The danger, swiftly thrust himself between,
And Lars, whose passion-blinded eyes beheld
An obstacle, that only, struck Him down.
Then deadly hands he dashed at Abner's throat.
But they were grasped: he heard the cry of Ruth,
Not what she said: he heard her voice, and stood.

She knew not what she said: she only saw
The wide and glaring eyes suffused with blood,
The stiff-drawn lips that, parting, showed the teeth,
And on the temples every standing vein
That throbbed, dumb voices of destroying wrath.
The soul that filled her told her what to do:
She dropped his hands and softly laid her own
Upon his brow, then looked the devil down
Within his eyes, till Lars was there again.
Erelong he trembled, while, o'er all his frame
A sweat of struggle and of agony
Brake forth, and from his throat a husky sob.
He tried to speak, but the dry tongue refused;
He could but groan, and staggered toward the house,
As walks a man who neither hears nor sees.

With bloodless lips of fear gasped Abner Cloud:
"A murderer!" as Ezra Mendenhall
Came, stunned, and with a wound across his brow.
"Oh, never!" Ruth exclaimed; but she was pale.
She bound her father's head; she gave him drink;
She steadied him with arms of gentle strength,
Then spake to Abner: "Now, I pray thee, go!"
No more: but such was her authority
Of speech and glance, the spirit and the power,
That he obeyed, and turned, and left the place.

Then Ezra's strength came back; and "Ruth," he said,
"I see thou hast a purpose: let me know!"
"I only feel," she answered, "that a soul
Is here in peril, but the way to help
Is not made plain: the knowledge will be given."
"I have no fear for thee, my daughter: do
What seemeth good, and strongly brought upon
Thy mind by plain direction of the Lord!
There is a power of evil in the man
That might be purged, if once he saw the light."

She left him, seated in the sunny porch:
Within the house and orchard all was still,
Nor found she Lars, at first. But she was driven
By that vague purpose which was void of form,
And climbed, at last, to where his chamber lay,
Beneath the rafters. On the topmost step
He sat, his forehead bent upon his knees,
A bundle at his side, as when he came.
He raised his head: Ruth saw his eyes were dull,
His features cold and haggard, and his voice,
When thus he spake to her, was hoarse and strange:
"Thou need'st not tell me: I already know.
I hope thou thinkest it is hard to me.
I am a man of violence and blood,
Not meet for thy pure company; and now
When unto peaceful ways my heart inclined,
And thou hadst shown the loveliness of good,
My guilt, not yet atoned, brings other guilt
To drive me forth: and this disgrace is worst."

Ruth stood below him where he sat: she laid
One hand upon the hand upon his knee,
And spake: "I judge thee not; I cannot know
What grievous loss or strong temptation wrought
But if, indeed, to good and peaceful ways
Thy heart inclines, canst thou not wrestle with
The Adversary? This knowledge of thy guilt
Is half-repentance: whole would make thee sound."
"And then -- and then" -- his natural voice returned;
"Then -- pardon?" "Pardon, now, from me and him,
My father, -- for I know his perfect heart, --
Thou hast; but couldst thou turn thy dreadful strength
That so it lift, and change, and chasten thee?"
"If I but could!" -- he cried, and bowed again
His forehead. "Wait!" she whispered, left him there,
And sought her father.
Now, when Ezra heard
All this repeated, for a space he sat
In earnest meditation. "Bid him come!"
He said, at last, and Ruth brought Lars to him.
Upon the doubting and the suffering face
The old man gazed; then "Put thy bundle by!"
Came from his lips; "thou shalt not leave, to-day.
Thy hands have done me hurt; if thou art just,
One service do thyself, in following me.
Come with us to the meeting: there the Lord
Down through the silence of fraternal souls
May reach His hand. We cannot guess His ways;
Only so much the inward Voice declares."

But little else was said: upon them lay
The shadow of an unknown past, the weight
Of present trouble, the uncertainty
Of what should come; yet o'er the soul of Ruth
Hung something happier than she dared to feel,
And Lars, in silence, with submissive feet
Followed, as one who in a land of mist
Feels one side warmer, where the sun must be.
Then, parted ere they reached the separate doors,
Lars went with Ezra. Abner Cloud, within,
Beheld them enter, and he marvelled much
Such things could be. Straightway the highest seat
Took Ezra, where the low partition-boards
Sundered the men and women. There alone
Sat they whom most the Spirit visited,
And spake through them, and gave authority.

Then silence fell; how long, Lars could not know,
Nor Ruth, for each was in a trance of soul,
Till Ezra rose. His words, at first, were few
And broken, and they trembled on his lips;
But soon the power and full conviction came,
And then, as with Ezekiel's trumpet-voice
He spake: "Lo! many vessels hath the Lord
Set by the fount of Evil in our hearts.
Here envy and false-witness catch the green,
There pride the purple, lust the ruddy stream:
But into anger runs the natural blood,
And flows the faster as 't is tapped the more.
Here lies the source: the conquest here begins,
Then meekness comes, good-will, and purity.
Let whoso weigh, when his offence is sore,
The Lord's offences, and his patience mete,
Though myriads less in measure, by the Lord's!
This yoke is easy, if in love ye bear.
For none, the lowest, rather hates than loves;
But Love is shy, and Hate delights to show
A brazen forehead; 't is the noblest sign
Of courage, and the rarest, to reveal
The tender evidence of brotherhood.
With one this sin is born, with other, that;
Who shall compare them? -- either sin is dark,
But one redeeming Light is over both.
The Evil that assails resist not ye
With equal evil! -- else ye change to man
The Lord within, whom ye should glorify
By words that prove Him, deeds that bless like Him!
What spake the patient and the holy Christ?
Unto thy brother first be reconciled,
Then bring thy gift! and further: Bless ye them
That curse you, and do good to them that hate
And persecute, that so the children ye may be
Of Him, the Father. Yea, His perfect love
Renewed in us, and of our struggles born,
Gives, even on earth, His pure, abiding peace.
Behold, these words I speak are nothing new,
But they are burned with fire upon my mind
To help -- the Lord permit that they may save!"

Therewith he laid his hat aside, and all
Beheld the purple welt across his brow,
And marvelled. Thus he prayed: "Our God and Lord
And Father, unto whom our secret sins
Lie bare and scarlet, turn aside from them
In holy pity, search the tangled heart
And breathe Thy life upon its seeds of good!
Thou leavest no one wholly dark: Thou giv'st
The hope and yearning where the will is weak,
And unto all the blessed strength of love.
So give to him, and even withhold from me
Thy gifts designed, that he receive the more:
Give love that pardons, prayer that purifies,
And saintly courage that can suffer wrong,
For these beget Thy peace, and keep Thee near!"

He ceased: all hearts were stirred; and suddenly
Amid the younger members Lars arose,
Unconscious of the tears upon his face,
And scarcely audible: "Oh, brethren here,
He prayed for my sake, for my sake pray ye!
I am a sinful man: I do repent.
I see the truth, but in my heart the lamp
Is barely lighted, any wind may quench.
Bear with me still, be helpful, that I live!"
Then all not so much wondered but they felt
The man's most earnest need; and many a voice
Responsive murmured: "Yea, I will!" and some,
Whose brows were tombstones over passions slain,
When meeting broke came up and took his hand.

The three walked home in silence, but to Lars
The mist had lifted, and around him fell
A bath of light; and dimly spread before
His feet the sweetness of a purer world.
When Ezra, that diviner virtue spent
Which held him up, grew faint upon the road,
The arm of Lars became a strength to him;
Yet all he said, before the evening fell,
Was: "Gird thy loins, my friend, the way is long
And wearisome: haste not, but never rest!"

"I will not close mine eyes," said Lars to Ruth,
And laid aside the book, No Cross, No Crown,
She gave him as a comfort and a help;
"Till thou hast heard the tale I have to tell.
Thou speakest truth, the knowledge of my sin
Is half-repentance, yet the knowledge burns
Like fire in ashes till it be confessed.
Revoke thy pardon, if it must be so,
When all is told: yea, speak to me no more,
But I must speak!" So he began, and spared
No circumstance of love, and hate, and crime,
The songs and dances which the Friends forbid,
The bloody customs and the cries profane,
Till all lay bare and horrible. And Ruth
Grew pale and flushed by turns, and often wept,
And, when he ceased, was silent. "Now, farewell!"
He would have said, when she looked up and spake:
"Thy words have shaken me: we read such tales,
Nor comprehend, so distant and obscure:
Thou makest manifest the living truth.
Save thee, I never knew a man of blood:
Thou shouldst be wicked, and my heart declares
Thy gentleness: ah, feeling all thy sin,
Can I condemn thee, nor myself condemn?
Thy burden, thus, is laid upon me. Pray
For power and patience, pray for victory!
Then falls the burden, and my soul is glad."

Lars saw what he had done. His limbs unstrung
Gave way, and softly on his knees he sank,
And all the passion of his nature bore
His yearning upward, till in faith it died.
He rose, at last; his face was calm and strong:
Ruth smiled, and then they parted for the night.

Yet Ezra's words were true: the way was long
And wearisome. The better will was there,
But not the trust in self; for, still beside
Those pleasant regions opening on his soul,
Beat the unyielding blood, as beats afar
The vein of lightning in a summer cloud.
And, as in each severe community
Of interests circumscribed, where all is known
And roughly handled till opinions join,
So, here were those who kindly turned to Lars,
And those who doubted, or declared him false.
In this probation, Ruth became his stay:
She knew and turned not, knew and yet believed
As did no other, -- hoping more than he.
Meanwhile the summer and the harvest came.
One afternoon, within the orchard, Ruth
Gathered the first sweet apples of the year,
That give such pleasure by their painted cheeks
And healthy odor. Little breezes shook
The interwoven flecks of sun and shade,
O'er all the tufted carpet of the grass;
The birds sang near her, and beyond the hedge,
Where stretched the oat-field broad along the hill,
Were harvest voices, broken wafts of sound,
That brought no words. Then something made her start,
She gazed and waited: o'er the thorny wall
Lars leaped, or seemed to fly, and ran to her,
His features troubled and his hands outstretched.
"O Ruth!" he cried; "I pray thee, take my hands!
This power I have, at last: I can refrain
Till help be sought, the help that dwells in thee."
She took his hands, and soon, in kissing palms,
His violent pulses learned the beat of hers.
Sweet warmth o'erspread his frame; he saw her face,
And how the cheeks flushed and the eyelids fell
Beneath his gaze, and all at once the truth
Beat fast and eager in the palms of both.
"Take not away;" he cried: "now, nevermore,
Thy hands! O Ruth, my saving angel, give
Thyself to me, and let our lives be one!
I cannot spare thee: heart and soul alike
Have need of thee, and seem to cry aloud:
'Lo! faith and love and holiness are one!'"
But who shall paint the beauty of her eyes
When they unveiled, and softly clung to his,
The while she spake: "I think I loved thee first
When first I saw thee, and I give my life,
In perfect trust and faith, to these thy hands."
"The fight is fought," said Lars; "so blest by thee,
The strength of darkness and temptation dies.
If now the light must reach me through thy soul,
It is not clouded: clearer were too keen,
Too awful in its purity, for man."

So into joy revolved the doubtful year,
And, ere it closed, the gentle fold of Friends
Sheltered another member, even Lars.
The evidence of faith, in words and ways,
Could none reject, and thus opinions joined,
And that grew natural which was marvel first.
Then followed soon, since Ezra willed it so,
Seeing that twofold duty guided Ruth,
The second marvel, bitterness to one
Who blamed his haste, nor felt how free is fate,
Whose sweeter name is love, of will or plan.
And all the country-side assembled there,
One winter Sabbath, when in snow and sky
The colors of transfiguration shone,
Within the meeting-house. There Ruth and Lars
Together sat upon the women's side,
And when the peace was perfect, they arose.
He took her by the hand, and spake these words,
As ordered: "In the presence of the Lord
And this assembly, by the hand I take
Ruth Mendenhall, and promise unto her,
Divine assistance blessing me, to be
A loving and faithful husband, even
Till death shall separate us." Then spake Ruth
The same sweet words; and so the twain were one.





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