| The Theologian's Tale |
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| I. |
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"Ah, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us! |
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In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forest |
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Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming, |
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Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight; |
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Yet how grand is the winter! How spotless the snow is, and perfect!" |
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Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to Hannah the housemaid, |
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As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor, |
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By the window she sat with her work, and looked on a landscape |
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White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision, |
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By the four corners let down and, descending out of the heavens. |
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Covered with snow were the forests of pine; and the fields and the meadows. |
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Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing
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| Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river. |
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Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid: |
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"Beautiful winter! yea, the winter is beautiful, surely, |
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If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet on the ceiling. |
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But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it |
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Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough, |
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Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going; |
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Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their branches. |
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There is snow in the air, and see! it is falling already; |
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All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow, |
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Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen; and
then, too, |
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How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day?" |
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But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving: |
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"Surely the Lord will provide; for unto the snow he sayeth, |
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Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth; he is it |
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Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost." |
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So she folded her work and laid it away in her basket. |
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Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shutters, |
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Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there |
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Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter |
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Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder, |
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Took from the crane in the chimney, the steaming and simmering kettle, |
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Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen teapot, |
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Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures. |
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Then Elizabeth said, "Lo! Joseph is long on his errand. |
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I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing |
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For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is, Joseph; |
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In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing." |
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Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid |
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Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and was
silent, |
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While her mistress went on: "The house is far from the village; |
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We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends that in passing |
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Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us glad by their coming." |
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Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal: |
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"Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern; |
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Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons |
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In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft, |
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Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the sunshine." |
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But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered: |
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"All I have is the Lord's, not mine to give or withhold it; |
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I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those of his people |
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Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to his service. |
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His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I make them |
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Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is given. |
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Therefore my excellent father first built this house in the clearing; |
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Though he came not himself, I came; for the Lord was my guidance, |
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Leading me here for this service. We must not grudge, then, to others |
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Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table." |
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Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid; |
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And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer: |
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"Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London, |
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When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly, |
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Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission? |
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No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugh, |
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Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle, |
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Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong wind |
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Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle. |
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Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me, |
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Wherefore I do not know; but strong is the feeling within me |
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That once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten." |
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II. |
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E'en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells, |
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First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance, |
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Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into the farmyard, |
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Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners. |
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Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together, |
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And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the housemaid, |
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"It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him." |
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| Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lantern |
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Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse, |
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And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway, |
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Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadow |
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Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses, |
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And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic. |
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Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stranger. |
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Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air; |
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And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him, |
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As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence, |
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And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected, |
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Quietly gave him her hand, and said, " Thou art welcome, John Estaugh." |
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And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior, |
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"Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth? After so many |
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Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee. |
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Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold. |
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For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and in silence |
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On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the snow-mist, |
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Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by the wayside |
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Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered Queen Candace's eunuch, |
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How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem unto Gaza, |
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Reading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and spake unto Philip, |
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Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot with him. |
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So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge beside me, |
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And as we talked on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead, |
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How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that never deceiveth, |
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Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst come to this country. |
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And I remember thy name, And thy father and mother in England, |
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And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Elizabeth Haddon, |
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Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of love thou art doing."
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And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, and serenely
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| Looking into his face with her innocent eyes as she answered, |
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" Surely the hand of the Lord is in it; his Spirit hath led thee |
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Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside."
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Then, with stamping of feet, the door was opened, and Joseph |
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Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blowing the light out, |
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Hung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their supper; |
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For underneath that roof was no distinction of persons, |
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But one family only, one heart, one hearth, and one household.
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When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace, |
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Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of firewood, |
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Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of fagots, |
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Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible bounty |
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All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at winter ! |
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Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing the table, |
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Coming and going, and bustling about in closet and chamber. |
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Then Elizabeth told her story again to John Estaugh, |
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Going far back to the past, to the early days of her childhood; |
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How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts and besetments |
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Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet inflowings |
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Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative sounded, |
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And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with her people |
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Here in the desert land, and God would provide for the issue. |
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Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and demurely |
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Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence that followed |
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Nothing was heard for a while but the step of Hannah the housemaid |
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Walking the floor overhead, and setting the chambers in order. |
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And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, "The maiden |
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Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are heavy and awkward." |
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Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, and was silent. |
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Then came the hour of sleep, death's counterfeit, nightly rehearsal |
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Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of shadows, where no man |
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Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are unbroken! |
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Silently over that house the blessing of slumber descended. |
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But when the morning dawned, and the sun uprose in his splendor, |
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Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered his path in the heavens, |
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Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a pathway |
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Through the drifts of snow; the horses already were harnessed, |
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And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave at the threshold, |
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Saying that he should return at the Meeting in May; while above them |
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Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic, |
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Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing the casement, |
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As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its window, |
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Then disappears again, and closes the shutter behind it. |
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III. |
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Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Redbreast, |
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Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other |
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That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely |
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All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, |
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Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only |
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Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building. |
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With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon |
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Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. |
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Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and music, |
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Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. |
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Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly |
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Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims, |
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Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting |
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In the neighboring town; and with them came riding John Estaugh. |
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At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting |
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Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey |
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Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden; |
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Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their Journey, |
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And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. |
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But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning |
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Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh: |
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"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee, |
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Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; |
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Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth." |
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And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together. |
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It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest; |
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It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning ! |
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Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, |
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As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: |
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"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; |
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I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh." |
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And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken, |
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"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit; |
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Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness, |
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Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning. |
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But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct mine. |
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When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labor completed |
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He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness |
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Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance." |
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Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, |
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"So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak of it further. |
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It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow |
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Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not |
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When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it, |
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Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me." |
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And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others. |
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I V. |
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Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, |
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Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; |
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So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, |
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Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. |
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Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead. |
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Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things |
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Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others, |
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Always thoughtful and kind. and untroubled; and Hannah the housemaid |
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Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring, |
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Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph, |
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And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior, |
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For her sly looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings, |
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Being pressed down somewhat, like a cart with sheaves overladen, |
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As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures. |
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Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing |
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Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious, |
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Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness |
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Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor. |
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O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting! |
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O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy! |
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But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps, |
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And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain. |
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Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered, |
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Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's affection. |
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And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly, |
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Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little, |
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Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things. |
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Such were the marriage-rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh. |
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And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant, |
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Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid; |
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For when he asked her the question, she answered, " Nay "; and then added: |
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"But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph."
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