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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE, by JACQUES BOE First Line: Chill was our sky: the swallows all had fled Last Line: Beside his darling's grave. Alternate Author Name(s): Jasmin, Jacques Subject(s): Abel; Boys; Death; Fathers & Sons; God; Prayer; Dead, The | |||
I. Chill was our sky: the swallows all had fled, A feeble glimmer by the sun was shed, The silent fields were lying bleak and bare, When All Saints' Day drew nigh: And from each palsied bough on high The yellow leaves condemned to die Dropped, eddying slowly through the air. II. One evening from our peaceful town, While countless stars were gazing down, A brother and a sister strayed In melancholy mood, And when before a Cross they stood They innocently prayed. Bathed in the moonlight's purity Abel and Rose long bent the knee; Then like some organ in a fane The mournful voices of the twain Poured forth two prayers that blent in one And soared to Heaven in unison: "Mother of Christ! benignant Maid! Father at home lies sick with pain: Oh! send thine angel to his aid, So shall our mother smile again And we thy children, will adore And love thee, sweetest Virgin, more and more." The Virgin could not slight the prayer: Scarce had they reached their home, When from a door that opened there, A woman, youthful still and fair, With joy beheld them come: "Poor darlings! Death hath turned aside The fever is subdued And since your father hath not died, Show God, dear lambs! your gratitude." So kneeling on the bare, rude planks Of a poor garret they gave thanks, Beside a bed, with serge o'erspread, Whereon with cool and painless brow, Hilaire, the honest father lay A soldier in his youthful day, A humble mason now. III. The morrow dawned with smiling gleam, The sunlight once again Was soon illuming with its beam Each patched-up window pane, When Abel came with noiseless tread, Stole forward to his father's bed And oped the curtain by his head. He newly waked beheld his son with joy And cried: "I looked for theeremain, my boy. Our home is poor: my toil procures us food: God for your sakes has spared me. God is good. For thou art young, not fifteen quite, Thou knowest how to read and write, But thou art coy and grave and prone to dream: Still life has work for everyone I deem. I know that thou art delicate and frail, Less strong than comely; and thine arms would fail To smite the stone with sinews hale: But our Collector wise and kind, Notes that thy manners are refined, And to befriend thee seems inclined. Go then and do his bidding; but no sloth And no conceit, my boy, leave that to fools, Writer and artisan are workmen, both Pens, hammers are their tools. Mind like the body, wears our life away Enough, dear child! I trust that thou, Dressed in black cloth, wilt ne'er allow False pride to scorn thy father's mean array." Abel's blue eyes were lifted up with joy Fond kisses passed between the man and boy, Mother and sister also had their share: Next morn the stripling to his patron went And for four days that followed, their content Was boundless as the air. IV. Alas! the pleasures of the poor are brief! The Sabbath morning brought a mandate stern: "Hilaire to-morrow must to work return. If he be absent, in that case Another hand will take his place. By order of the Chief." The volley from a cannon fired No deeper anguish doles Than by this message was inspired Within four wretched souls. "I'm cured," the father cries, And struggles hard to rise But falls back feeblyif he works, he dies! A week of rest is wanted: ah! poor friend! Thy life and death upon thy toil depend. All four were mutethrough Abel's heart A thought like lightning seemed to dart. It dried the tears within his eyes And lent the boy a nobler mien: Strength in each muscle seemed to rise, While blushes on his cheek were seen. Then forth he fared, and quickly went To the rough foreman's tenement. Soon he returned: his heart no more By sore distress was wrung. Ne'er had he looked so gay before, Smiles in his eyes and honey on his tongue. "Rest, father rest! Thou hast a week of grace. Rest from thy toilthy wonted vigour gain A friend that loves thee will supply the place Which thou may'st still retain." V. Saved by a friend! So, friends still love and feel! Would this were certain in our world of woes: To-morrow's light the secret will reveal; Good sons existbut friends? alas! who knows? 'Tis Monday morn: our Abel drudges hard Not at the desk but in the builder's yard. His sire was wrong: for though he seems to be So frail, his work is as the work of three: Deftly he crumbles up the lime And kneads the mortar for each wall, Light as a bird, he loves to climb, Till the pale workmen tremble for his fall. He walks a dizzy platform with the best, Smiles as he mounts and smiles when he alights: Here, there and everywhere no task he slights, But toils to save his fatherand is blest. And thus his honest comrades there, Who guessed the secret of the boy, Watched while the sweat uncurled his sunny hair And clapped their hands with tearful joy. VI. What bliss for Abel when at close of day The workmen homeward press: He quickly doffs his spattered dress And dons his black array. Then, three fond traitors all conspire To cheat the unsuspecting sire, Who hails his son's arrival from the desk: Abe prates of bills and contracts, in burlesque, And with an artful wink replies Whene'er his conscious mother winks her eyes! So passed three days: the patient quits his bed: Life seems more sweetan unfamiliar boon Thursday, his malady has fled: Friday, he gaily quits the house at noon. But Friday! God created thee for woe! Cheered by the sunshine's welcome heat, Hilaire speeds onward, vexed at seeming slow: He yearns his friend and substitute to greet He longs his name to know. VII. And now, the house is nigh: but no one stands on high, And yet the bell for dinner has not rung: Great Heaven! what crowds are at the building's base Foreman, mechanics, neighbours, old and young. But why? A man has fall'n: Oh! piteous case! His friend, perchance: his soul is on the rack. He runsthe workmen shudder at the sight And strive to keep him back. He elbows through, with frenzied might: Oh! helpless sireoh! horror wild The friend that saved him is his darling child! He finds him toppled from a scaffold's height, Stretched, almost dead, upon the bloody ground: And while the father shrieks for fright, To aid his son all sadly cluster round. Alas! the boy who dies, Past aiding, only sighs: "Master! I could notquitework out my week One day is lostbut in poor mother's name Thy pity for my father I bespeak." Men wept to hear the fond pathetic claim. At length the sufferer turns his eyes Upon his father, bends his face Towards him for a moment's space, Petitioning a last embrace; Fondles his hand and smiling softly, dies! VIII. They kept his place for lone Hilaire They proffered goodly pay, Alas! too late! his only care Was soon to pass away. No gold his sorrow could efface No skill his life could save He went, to take another place, Beside his darling's grave. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND A SIMPLE STORY, FR. MY SOUVENIRS by JACQUES BOE |
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