Agnes

PART FIRST THE KNIGHT     The tale I tell is gospel true,     As all the bookmen know,     And pilgrims who have strayed to view     The wrecks still left to show.     The old, old story, - fair, and young,     And fond, - and not too wise, -     That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue,     To maids with downcast eyes.     Ah! maidens err and matrons warn     Beneath the coldest sky;     Love lurks amid the tasselled corn     As in the bearded rye!     But who would dream our sober sires     Had learned the old world's ways,     And warmed their hearths with lawless fires     In Shirley's homespun days?     'T is like some poet's pictured trance     His idle rhymes recite, -     This old New England-born romance     Of Agnes and the Knight;     Yet, known to all the country round,     Their home is standing still,     Between Wachusett's lonely mound     And Shawmut's threefold hill.     One hour we rumble on the rail,     One half-hour guide the rein,     We reach at last, o'er hill and dale,     The village on the plain.     With blackening wall and mossy roof,     With stained and warping floor,     A stately mansion stands aloof     And bars its haughty door.     This lowlier portal may be tried,     That breaks the gable wall;     And lo! with arches opening wide,     Sir Harry Frankland's hall!     'T was in the second George's day     They sought the forest shade,     The knotted trunks they cleared away,     The massive beams they laid,     They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall,     They smoothed the terraced ground,     They reared the marble-pillared wall     That fenced the mansion round.     Far stretched beyond the village bound     The Master's broad domain;     With page and valet, horse and hound,     He kept a goodly train.     And, all the midland county through,     The ploughman stopped to gaze     Whene'er his chariot swept in view     Behind the shining bays,     With mute obeisance, grave and slow,     Repaid by nod polite, -     For such the way with high and low     Till after Concord fight.     Nor less to courtly circles known     That graced the three-hilled town     With far-off splendors of the Throne,     And glimmerings from the Crown;     Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state     For Shirley over sea;     Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late     The King Street mob's decree;     And judges grave, and colonels grand,     Fair dames and stately men,     The mighty people of the land,     The "World" of there and then.     'T was strange no Chloe's "beauteous Form,"     And "Eyes' celestial Blew,"     This Strephon of the West could warm,     No Nymph his Heart subdue.     Perchance he wooed as gallants use,     Whom fleeting loves enchain,     But still unfettered, free to choose,     Would brook no bridle-rein.     He saw the fairest of the fair,     But smiled alike on all;     No band his roving foot might snare,     No ring his hand enthrall. PART SECOND THE MAIDEN     Why seeks the knight that rocky cape     Beyond the Bay of Lynn?     What chance his wayward course may shape     To reach its village inn?     No story tells; whate'er we guess,     The past lies deaf and still,     But Fate, who rules to blight or bless,     Can lead us where she will.     Make way! Sir Harry's coach and four,     And liveried grooms that ride!     They cross the ferry, touch the shore     On Winnisimmet's side.     They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach, -     The level marsh they pass,     Where miles on miles the desert reach     Is rough with bitter grass.     The shining horses foam and pant,     And now the smells begin     Of fishy Swampscott, salt Nahant,     And leather-scented Lynn.     Next, on their left, the slender spires     And glittering vanes that crown     The home of Salem's frugal sires,     The old, witch-haunted town.     So onward, o'er the rugged way     That runs through rocks and sand,     Showered by the tempest-driven spray,     From bays on either hand,     That shut between their outstretched arms     The crews of Marblehead,     The lords of ocean's watery farms,     Who plough the waves for bread.     At last the ancient inn appears,     The spreading elm below,     Whose flapping sign these fifty years     Has seesawed to and fro.     How fair the azure fields in sight     Before the low-browed inn     The tumbling billows fringe with light     The crescent shore of Lynn;     Nahant thrusts outward through the waves     Her arm of yellow sand,     And breaks the roaring surge that braves     The gauntlet on her hand;     With eddying whirl the waters lock     Yon treeless mound forlorn,     The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-rock,     That fronts the Spouting Horn;     Then free the white-sailed shallops glide,     And wide the ocean smiles,     Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide     The two bare Misery Isles.     The master's silent signal stays     The wearied cavalcade;     The coachman reins his smoking bays     Beneath the elm-tree's shade.     A gathering on the village green!     The cocked-hats crowd to see,     On legs in ancient velveteen,     With buckles at the knee.     A clustering round the tavern-door     Of square-toed village boys,     Still wearing, as their grandsires wore,     The old-world corduroys!     A scampering at the "Fountain" inn, - -     A rush of great and small, -     With hurrying servants' mingled din     And screaming matron's call.     Poor Agnes! with her work half done     They caught her unaware;     As, humbly, like a praying nun,     She knelt upon the stair;     Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien     She knelt, but not to pray, -     Her little hands must keep them clean,     And wash their stains away.     A foot, an ankle, bare and white,     Her girlish shapes betrayed, -     "Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke the Knight;     "Look up, my beauteous Maid!"     She turned, - a reddening rose in bud,     Its calyx half withdrawn, -     Her cheek on fire with damasked blood     Of girlhood's glowing dawn!     He searched her features through and through,     As royal lovers look     On lowly maidens, when they woo     Without the ring and book.     "Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet!     Nay, prithee, look not down!     Take this to shoe those little feet," -     He tossed a silver crown.     A sudden paleness struck her brow, -     A swifter blush succeeds;     It burns her cheek; it kindles now     Beneath her golden beads.     She flitted, but the glittering eye     Still sought the lovely face.     Who was she? What, and whence? and why     Doomed to such menial place?     A skipper's daughter, - so they said, -     Left orphan by the gale     That cost the fleet of Marblehead     And Gloucester thirty sail.     Ah! many a lonely home is found     Along the Essex shore,     That cheered its goodman outward bound,     And sees his face no more!     "Not so," the matron whispered, - "sure     No orphan girl is she, -     The Surriage folk are deadly poor     Since Edward left the sea,     "And Mary, with her growing brood,     Has work enough to do     To find the children clothes and food     With Thomas, John, and Hugh.     "This girl of Mary's, growing tall, -     (Just turned her sixteenth year,) -     To earn her bread and help them all,     Would work as housemaid here."     So Agnes, with her golden beads,     And naught beside as dower,     Grew at the wayside with the weeds,     Herself a garden-flower.     'T was strange, 't was sad, - so fresh, so fair!     Thus Pity's voice began.     Such grace! an angel's shape and air!     The half-heard whisper ran.     For eyes could see in George's time,     As now in later days,     And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme,     The honeyed breath of praise.     No time to woo! The train must go     Long ere the sun is down,     To reach, before the night-winds blow,     The many-steepled town.     'T is midnight, - street and square are still;     Dark roll the whispering waves     That lap the piers beneath the hill     Ridged thick with ancient graves.     Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth     The weary couch of pain,     When all thy poppies fail to soothe     The lover's throbbing brain!     'T is morn, - the orange-mantled sun     Breaks through the fading gray,     And long and loud the Castle gun     Peals o'er the glistening bay.     "Thank God 't is day!" With eager eye     He hails the morning shine: -     "If art can win, or gold can buy,     The maiden shall be mine!" PART THIRD THE CONQUEST     "Who saw this hussy when she came?     What is the wench, and who?"     They whisper. "Agnes - is her name?     Pray what has she to do?"     The housemaids parley at the gate,     The scullions on the stair,     And in the footmen's grave debate     The butler deigns to share.     Black Dinah, stolen when a child,     And sold on Boston pier,     Grown up in service, petted, spoiled,     Speaks in the coachman's ear:     "What, all this household at his will?     And all are yet too few?     More servants, and more servants still, -     This pert young madam too!"     "Servant! fine servant!" laughed aloud     The man of coach and steeds;     "She looks too fair, she steps too proud,     This girl with golden beads!     "I tell you, you may fret and frown,     And call her what you choose,     You 'll find my Lady in her gown,     Your Mistress in her shoes!"     Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame,     God grant you never know     The little whisper, loud with shame,     That makes the world your foe!     Why tell the lordly flatterer's art,     That won the maiden's ear, -     The fluttering of the frightened heart,     The blush, the smile, the tear?     Alas! it were the saddening tale     That every language knows, -     The wooing wind, the yielding sail,     The sunbeam and the rose.     And now the gown of sober stuff     Has changed to fair brocade,     With broidered hem, and hanging cuff,     And flower of silken braid;     And clasped around her blanching wrist     A jewelled bracelet shines,     Her flowing tresses' massive twist     A glittering net confines;     And mingling with their truant wave     A fretted chain is hung;     But ah! the gift her mother gave, -     Its beads are all unstrung!     Her place is at the master's board,     Where none disputes her claim;     She walks beside the mansion's lord,     His bride in all but name.     The busy tongues have ceased to talk,     Or speak in softened tone,     So gracious in her daily walk     The angel light has shown.     No want that kindness may relieve     Assails her heart in vain,     The lifting of a ragged sleeve     Will check her palfrey's rein.     A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace     In every movement shown,     Reveal her moulded for the place     She may not call her own.     And, save that on her youthful brow     There broods a shadowy care,     No matron sealed with holy vow     In all the land so fair. PART FOURTH THE RESCUE     A ship comes foaming up the bay,     Along the pier she glides;     Before her furrow melts away,     A courier mounts and rides.     "Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear;     "Sir Harry Frankland, These."     Sad news to tell the loving pair!     The knight must cross the seas.     "Alas! we part!" - the lips that spoke     Lost all their rosy red,     As when a crystal cup is broke,     And all its wine is shed.     "Nay, droop not thus, - where'er," he cried,     "I go by land or sea,     My love, my life, my joy, my pride,     Thy place is still by me!"     Through town and city, far and wide,     Their wandering feet have strayed,     From Alpine lake to ocean tide,     And cold Sierra's shade.     At length they see the waters gleam     Amid the fragrant bowers     Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream     Her belt of ancient towers.     Red is the orange on its bough,     To-morrow's sun shall fling     O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow     The flush of April's wing.     The streets are loud with noisy mirth,     They dance on every green;     The morning's dial marks the birth     Of proud Braganza's queen.     At eve beneath their pictured dome     The gilded courtiers throng;     The broad moidores have cheated Rome     Of all her lords of song.     AH! Lisbon dreams not of the day -     Pleased with her painted scenes -     When all her towers shall slide away     As now these canvas screens!     The spring has passed, the summer fled,     And yet they linger still,     Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread     The flank of Cintra's hill.     The town has learned their Saxon name,     And touched their English gold,     Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame     From over sea is told.     Three hours the first November dawn     Has climbed with feeble ray     Through mists like heavy curtains drawn     Before the darkened day.     How still the muffled echoes sleep!     Hark! hark! a hollow sound, -     A noise like chariots rumbling deep     Beneath the solid ground.     The channel lifts, the water slides     And bares its bar of sand,     Anon a mountain billow strides     And crashes o'er the land.     The turrets lean, the steeples reel     Like masts on ocean's swell,     And clash a long discordant peal,     The death-doomed city's knell.     The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves     Beneath the staggering town!     The turrets crack - the castle cleaves -     The spires come rushing down.     Around, the lurid mountains glow     With strange unearthly gleams;     While black abysses gape below,     Then close in jagged seams.     And all is over. Street and square     In ruined heaps are piled;     Ah! where is she, so frail, so fair,     Amid the tumult wild?     Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street,     Whose narrow gaps afford     A pathway for her bleeding feet,     To seek her absent lord.     A temple's broken walls arrest     Her wild and wandering eyes;     Beneath its shattered portal pressed,     Her lord unconscious lies.     The power that living hearts obey     Shall lifeless blocks withstand?     Love led her footsteps where he lay, -     Love nerves her woman's hand.     One cry, - the marble shaft she grasps, -     Up heaves the ponderous stone: -     He breathes, - her fainting form he clasps, -     Her life has bought his own! PART FIFTH THE REWARD     How like the starless night of death     Our being's brief eclipse,     When faltering heart and failing breath     Have bleached the fading lips!     The earth has folded like a wave,     And thrice a thousand score,     Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave,     The sun shall see no more!     She lives! What guerdon shall repay     His debt of ransomed life?     One word can charm all wrongs away, -     The sacred name of WIFE!     The love that won her girlish charms     Must shield her matron fame,     And write beneath the Frankland arms     The village beauty's name.     Go, call the priest! no vain delay     Shall dim the sacred ring!     Who knows what change the passing day,     The fleeting hour, may bring?     Before the holy altar bent,     There kneels a goodly pair;     A stately man, of high descent,     A woman, passing fair.     No jewels lend the blinding sheen     That meaner beauty needs,     But on her bosom heaves unseen     A string of golden beads.     The vow is spoke, - the prayer is said, -     And with a gentle pride     The Lady Agnes lifts her head,     Sir Harry Frankland's bride.     No more her faithful heart shall bear     Those griefs so meekly borne, -     The passing sneer, the freezing stare,     The icy look of scorn;     No more the blue-eyed English dames     Their haughty lips shall curl,     Whene'er a hissing whisper names     The poor New England girl.     But stay! - his mother's haughty brow, -     The pride of ancient race, -     Will plighted faith, and holy vow,     Win back her fond embrace?     Too well she knew the saddening tale     Of love no vow had blest,     That turned his blushing honors pale     And stained his knightly crest.     They seek his Northern home, - alas     He goes alone before; -     His own dear Agnes may not pass     The proud, ancestral door.     He stood before the stately dame;     He spoke; she calmly heard,     But not to pity, nor to blame;     She breathed no single word.     He told his love, - her faith betrayed;     She heard with tearless eyes;     Could she forgive the erring maid?     She stared in cold surprise.     How fond her heart, he told, - how true;     The haughty eyelids fell; -     The kindly deeds she loved to do;     She murmured, "It is well."     But when he told that fearful day,     And how her feet were led     To where entombed in life he lay,     The breathing with the dead,     And how she bruised her tender breasts     Against the crushing stone,     That still the strong-armed clown protests     No man can lift alone, -     Oh! then the frozen spring was broke;     By turns she wept and smiled; -     "Sweet Agnes!" so the mother spoke,     "God bless my angel child.     "She saved thee from the jaws of death, -     'T is thine to right her wrongs;     I tell thee, - I, who gave thee breath, -     To her thy life belongs!"     Thus Agnes won her noble name,     Her lawless lover's hand;     The lowly maiden so became     A lady in the land! PART SIXTH CONCLUSION     The tale is done; it little needs     To track their after ways,     And string again the golden beads     Of love's uncounted days.     They leave the fair ancestral isle     For bleak New England's shore;     How gracious is the courtly smile     Of all who frowned before!     Again through Lisbon's orange bowers     They watch the river's gleam,     And shudder as her shadowy towers     Shake in the trembling stream.     Fate parts at length the fondest pair;     His cheek, alas! grows pale;     The breast that trampling death could spare     His noiseless shafts assail.     He longs to change the heaven of blue     For England's clouded sky, -     To breathe the air his boyhood knew;     He seeks then but to die.     Hard by the terraced hillside town,     Where healing streamlets run,     Still sparkling with their old renown, -     The "Waters of the Sun," -     The Lady Agnes raised the stone     That marks his honored grave,     And there Sir Harry sleeps alone     By Wiltshire Avon's wave.     The home of early love was dear;     She sought its peaceful shade,     And kept her state for many a year,     With none to make afraid.     At last the evil days were come     That saw the red cross fall;     She hears the rebels' rattling drum, -     Farewell to Frankland Hall!     I tell you, as my tale began,     The hall is standing still;     And you, kind listener, maid or man,     May see it if you will.     The box is glistening huge and green,     Like trees the lilacs grow,     Three elms high-arching still are seen,     And one lies stretched below.     The hangings, rough with velvet flowers,     Flap on the latticed wall;     And o'er the mossy ridge-pole towers     The rock-hewn chimney tall.     The doors on mighty hinges clash     With massive bolt and bar,     The heavy English-moulded sash     Scarce can the night-winds jar.     Behold the chosen room he sought     Alone, to fast and pray,     Each year, as chill November brought     The dismal earthquake day.     There hung the rapier blade he wore,     Bent in its flattened sheath;     The coat the shrieking woman tore     Caught in her clenching teeth; -     The coat with tarnished silver lace     She snapped at as she slid,     And down upon her death-white face     Crashed the huge coffin's lid.     A graded terrace yet remains;     If on its turf you stand     And look along the wooded plains     That stretch on either hand,     The broken forest walls define     A dim, receding view,     Where, on the far horizon's line,     He cut his vista through.     If further story you shall crave,     Or ask for living proof,     Go see old Julia, born a slave     Beneath Sir Harry's roof.     She told me half that I have told,     And she remembers well     The mansion as it looked of old     Before its glories fell; -     The box, when round the terraced square     Its glossy wall was drawn;     The climbing vines, the snow-balls fair,     The roses on the lawn.     And Julia says, with truthful look     Stamped on her wrinkled face,     That in her own black hands she took     The coat with silver lace.     And you may hold the story light,     Or, if you like, believe;     But there it was, the woman's bite, -     A mouthful from the sleeve.     Now go your ways; - I need not tell     The moral of my rhyme;     But, youths and maidens, ponder well     This tale of olden time!