Agatha

Come with me to the mountain, not where rocksSoar harsh above the troops of hurrying pines,But where the earth spreads soft and rounded breastsTo feed her children; where the generous hillsLift a green isle betwixt the sky and plainTo keep some Old World things aloof from change.Here too 't is hill and hollow: new-born streams.With sweet enforcement, joyously compelledLike laughing children, hurry down the steeps,And make a dimpled chase athwart the stones;Pine woods are black upon the heights, the slopesAre green with pasture, and the bearded cornFringes the blue above the sudden ridge:A little world whose round horizon cutsThis isle of hills with heaven for a sea,Save in clear moments when southwestward gleamsFrance by the Rhine, melting anon to haze.The monks of old chose here their still retreat,And called it by the Blessed Virgin's name,Sancta Maria, which the peasant's tongue,Speaking from out the parent's heart that turnsAll loved things into little things, has madeSanct Märgen—Holy little Mary, dearAs all the sweet home things she smiles upon,The children and the cows, the apple-trees,The cart, the plough, all named with that caressWhich feigns them little, easy to be held,Familiar to the eyes and hand and heart.What though a Queen? She puts her crown awayAnd with her little Boy wears common clothes,Caring for common wants, rememberingThat day when good Saint Joseph left his workTo marry her with humble trust sublime.The monks are gone, their shadows fall no moreTall-frocked and cowled athwart the evening fieldsAt milking-time; their silent corridorsAre turned to homes of bare-armed, aproned men,Who toil for wife and. children. But the bells,Pealing on high from two quaint convent towers,Still ring the Catholic signals, summoningTo grave remembrance of the larger lifeThat bears our own, like perishable fruitUpon its heaven-wide branches. At their soundThe shepherd boy far off upon the hill,The workers with the saw and at the forge,The triple generation round the hearth—Grandames and mothers and the flute-voiced girls —Fall on their knees and send forth prayerful criesTo the kind Mother with the little Boy,Who pleads for helpless men against the storm,Lightning and plagues and all terrific shapesOf power supreme.Within the prettiest hollow of these hills.Just as you enter it, upon the slopeStands a low cottage neighbored cheerilyBy running water, which, at farthest endOf the same hollow, turns a heavy mill,And feeds the pasture for the miller's cows,Blanchi and Nägeli, Veilchen and the rest,Matrons with faces as Griselda mild,Coming at call. And on the farthest heightA little tower looks out above the pinesWhere mounting you will find a sanctuaryOpen and still; without, the silent crowdOf heaven-planted, incense-mingling flowers;Within, the altar where the Mother sits'Mid votive tablets hung from far-off yearsBy peasants succored in the peril of fire,Fever, or flood, who thought that Mary's love,Willing but not omnipotent, had stoodBetween their lives and that dread power which slewTheir neighbor at their side. The chapel bellWill melt to gentlest music ere it reachThat cottage on the slope, whose garden gateHas caught the rose-tree boughs and stands ajar;So does the door, to let the sunbeams in;For in the slanting sunbeams angels comeAnd visit Agatha who dwells within —Old Agatha, whose cousins Kate and NellAre housed by her in Love and Duty's name,They being feeble, with small withered wits,And she believing that the higher giftWas given to be shared. So AgathaShares her one room, all neat on afternoons,As if some memory were sacred thereAnd everything within the four low wallsAn honored relic.

One long summer's dayAn angel entered at the rose-hung gate,With skirts pale blue, a brow to quench the pearl,Hair soft and blonde as infants', plenteousAs hers who made the wavy lengths once speakThe grateful worship of a rescued soul.The angel paused before the open doorTo give good day. "Come in," said Agatha.I followed close, and watched and listened there.The angel was a lady, noble, young,Taught in all seemliness that fits a court,All lore that shapes the mind to delicate use,Yet quiet, lowly, as a meek white doveThat with its presence teaches gentleness.Men called her Countess Linda; little girlsIn Freiburg town, orphans whom she caressed,Said Mamma Linda: yet her years were few,Her outward beauties all in budding time,Her virtues the aroma of the plantThat dwells in all its being, root, stem, leaf,And waits not ripeness.

"Sit," said Agatha.Her cousins were at work in neighboring homesBut yet she was not lonely; all things roundSeemed filled with noiseless yet responsive life,As of a child at breast that gently clings:Not sunlight only or the breathing flowersOr the swift shadows of the birds and bees,But all the household goods, which, polished fairBy hands that cherished them for service done,Shone as with glad content. The wooden beamsDark and yet friendly, easy to be reached.Bore three white crosses for a speaking sign;The walls had little pictures hung a-row,Telling the stories of Saint Ursula,And Saint Elizabeth, the lowly queen;And on the bench that served for table too,Skirting the wall to save the narrow space,There lay the Catholic books, inheritedFrom those old times when printing still was youngWith stout-limbed promise, like a sturdy boy.And in the farthest corner stood the bedWhere o'er the pillow hung two pictures wreathedWith fresh-plucked ivy: one the Virgin's death,And one her flowering tomb, while high above

She smiling bends and lets her girdle downFor ladder to the soul that cannot trustIn life which outlasts burial. AgathaSat at her knitting, aged, upright, slim.And spoke her welcome with mild dignity.She kept the company of kings and queensAnd mitred saints who sat below the feetOf Francis with the ragged frock and wounds;And Rank for her meant Duty, various,Yet equal in its worth, done worthily.Command was service; humblest service doneBy willing and discerning souls was glory.Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench,Close fronting the old knitter, and they talkedWith sweet antiphony of young and old.

Agatha. You like our valley, lady? I am gladYou thought it well to come again. But rest —The walk is long from Master Michael's inn.

Countess LINDA. Yes, but no walk is prettier.

Agatha. It is true:There lacks no blessing here, the waters allHave virtues like the garments of the Lord,And heal much sickness; then, the crops and cowsFlourish past speaking, and the garden flowers,Pink, blue, and purple, 't is a joy to seeHow they yield honey for the singing bees.I would the whole world were as good a home.

Countess LINDA. And you are well off, Agatha?—your friendsLeft you a certain bread: is it not so?

Agatha. Not so at all, dear lady. I had naught,Was a poor orphan; but I came to tendHere in this house, an old afflicted pair,Who wore out slowly; and the last who died,Full thirty years ago, left me this roofAnd all the household stuff. It was great wealth,And so I had a home for Kate and Nell.

Countess LINDA. But how, then, have you earned your daily breadThese thirty years?

Agatha. Oh, that is easy earning.We help the neighbors, and our bit and supIs never failing: they have work for usIn house and field, all sorts of odds and ends,Patching and mending, turning o'er the hay,Holding sick children—there is always work;And they are very good—the neighbors are:Weigh not our bits of work with weight and scale,But glad themselves with giving us good sharesOf meat and drink; and in the big farmhouseWhen cloth comes home from weaving, the good wifeCuts me a piece—this very gown—and says:"Here, Agatha, you old maid, you have timeTo pray for Hans who is gone soldiering:The saints might help him, and they have much to do,'Twere well they were besought to think of him."She spoke half jesting, but I pray, I prayFor poor young Hans. I take it much to heartThat other people are worse off than I—I ease my soul with praying for them all.

Countess LINDA. That is your way of singing, Agatha;Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs,And when they reach men's ears they make men's heartsFeel the more kindly.

Agatha. Nay, I cannot sing:My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayersAre foolish, feeble things; for Christ is goodWhether I pray or not—the Virgin's heartIs kinder far than mine; and then I stopAnd feel I can do naught toward helping men,Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold,And I must pray again for all the world.'Tis good to me—I mean the neighbors are:To Kate and Nell too. I have money savedTo go on pilgrimage the second time.

Countess LINDA. And do you mean to go on pilgrimageWith all your years to carry, Agatha?

Agatha. The years are light, dear lady: 't is my sinsAre heavier than I would. And I shall goAll the way to Einsiedeln with that load:I need to work it off.

Countess LINDA. What sort of sins,Dear Agatha? I think they must be small.

Agatha. Nay, but they may be greater than I know;'Tis but dim light I see by. So I tryAll ways I know of to be cleansed and pure.I would not sink where evil spirits are.There's perfect goodness somewhere: so I strive.

Countess LINDA. You were the better for that pilgrimageYou made before? The shrine is beautiful;And then you saw fresh country all the way.

Agatha. Yes, that is true. And ever since that timeThe world seems greater, and the Holy ChurchMore wonderful. The blessed pictures all,The heavenly images with books and wings,Are company to me through the day and night.The time! the time! It never seemed far back,Only to father's father and his kinThat lived before him. But the time stretched outAfter that pilgrimage: I seemed to seeFar back, and yet I knew time lay behind,As there are countries lying still behindThe highest mountains, there in Switzerland.Oh, it is great to go on pilgrimage!

Countess LINDA. Perhaps some neighbors will be pilgrims too,And you can start together in a band.

Agatha. Not from these hills: people are busy here.The beasts want tendance. One who is not missedCan go and pray for others who must work.I owe it to all neighbors, young and old;For they are good past thinking—lads and girlsGiven to mischief, merry naughtiness,Quiet it, as the hedgehogs smooth their spines,For fear of hurting poor old Agatha.'Tis pretty: why, the cherubs in the skyLook young and merry, and the angels playOn citherns, lutes, and all sweet instruments.I would have young things merry. See the Lord!A little baby playing with the birds;And how the Blessed Mother smiles at him.

Countess LINDA. I think you are too happy, Agatha,To care for heaven. Earth contents you well.

Agatha. Nay, nay, I shall be called, and I shall goRight willingly. I shall get helpless, blind,Be like an old stalk to be plucked away:The garden must be cleared for young spring plants.'Tis home beyond the grave, the most are there,All those we pray to, all the Church's lights—And poor old souls are welcome in their rags:One sees it by the pictures. Good Saint Ann,The Virgin's mother, she is very old.And had her troubles with her husband too.Poor Kate and Nell are younger far than I,But they will have this roof to cover them.I shall go willingly; and willingnessMakes the yoke easy and the burden light.

Countess LINDA. When you go southward in your pilgrimage,Come to see me in Freiburg, Agatha.Where you have friends you should not go to inns.

Agatha. Yes, I will gladly come to see you, lady,And you will give me sweet hay for a bed.And in the morning I shall wake betimesAnd start when all the birds begin to sing.

Countess LINDA. You wear your smart clothes on the pilgrimage,Such pretty clothes as all the women hereKeep by them for their best: a velvet capAnd collar golden-broidered? They look wellOn old and young alike.

Agatha. Nay, I have none—Never had better clothes than these you see.Good clothes are pretty, but one sees them bestWhen others wear them, and I somehow thought'Twas not worth while. I had so many thingsMore than some neighbors, I was partly shyOf wearing better clothes than they, and nowI am so old and custom is so strong'Twould hurt me sore to put on finery.

Countess LINDA. Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha.Shake hands; good-by. The sun is going down,And I must see the glory from the hill.

I stayed among those hills; and oft heard moreOf Agatha. I liked to hear her name,As that of one half grandame and half saint,Uttered with reverent playfulness. The ladsAnd younger men all called her mother, aunt,Or granny, with their pet diminutives,And bade their lasses and their brides behaveRight well to one who surely made a link'Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both:Not one but counted service done by her,Asking no pay save just her daily bread.At feasts and weddings, when they passed in groupsAlong the vale, and the good country wine,Being vocal in them, made them quire alongIn quaintly mingled mirth and piety,They fain must jest and play some friendly trickOn three old maids; but when the moment cameAlways they bated breath and made their sportGentle as feather-stroke, that AgathaMight like the waking for the love it showed.Their song made happy music 'mid the hills,For nature tuned their race to harmony,And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songsThat grew from out their life, as crocusesFrom out the meadow's moistness. 'Twas his songThey oft sang, wending homeward from a feast—The song I give you. It brings in, you see.Their gentle jesting with the three old maids.

Midnight by the chapel bell!Homeward, homeward all, farewell!I with you, and you with me,Miles are short with company.Heart of Mary, bless the way,Keep us all by night and day!

Moon and stars at feast with nightNow have drunk their fill of light.Home they hurry, making timeTrot apace, like merry rhyme.Heart of Mary, mystic rose,Send us all a sweet repose!

Swiftly through the wood down hill,Run till you can hear the millToni's ghost is wandering now,Shaped just like a snow-white cow.Heart of Mary, morning star,Ward off danger, near or far!

Toni's wagon with its loadFell and crushed him in the road'Twixt these pine-trees. Never fear!Give a neighbor's ghost good cheer.Holy Babe, our God and Brother,Bind us fast to one another!

Hark! the mill is at its work,Now we pass beyond the murkTo the hollow, where the moonMakes her silvery afternoon.Good Saint Joseph, faithful spouse.Help us all to keep our vows!

Here the three old maidens dwell,Agatha and Kate and Nell;See, the moon shines on the thatch.We will go and shake the latch.Heart of Mary, cup of joy,Give us mirth without alloy!

Hush, 't is here, no noise, sing low,Rap with gentle knuckles—so!Like the little tapping birds,On the door; then sing good words.Meek Saint Anna, old and fair,Hallow all the snow-white hair!

Little maidens old, sweet dreams!Sleep one sleep till morning beams.Mothers ye, who help us all,Quick at hand, if ill befall.Holy Gabriel, lily-laden,Bless the aged mother-maiden!

Forward, mount the broad hillsideSwift as soldiers when they ride.See the two towers how they peep,Round-capped giants, o'er the steep.Heart of Mary, by thy sorrow,Keep us upright through the morrow!

Now they rise quite suddenlyLike a man from bended knee,Now Saint Märgen is in sight.Here the roads branch off—good-night.Heart of Mary, by thy grace,Give us with the saints a place!