Edith: A Tale of the Woods

“Du Heilige! rufe dein Kind zuruckIch habe genossen das irdische Gluck,Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.” Wallenstein.

The woods--oh! solemn are the boundless woodsOf the great western world when day declines,And louder sounds the roll of distant floods,More deep the rustling of the ancient pines.When dimness gathers on the stilly air,And mystery seems o’er every leaf to brood,Awful it is for human heart to bearThe might and burden of the solitude!Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there sateOne young and fair; and oh! how desolate!But undismay’d--while sank the crimson light,And the high cedars darken’d with the night.Alone she sate; though many lay around,They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,Were sever’d from her need and from her woe,Far as death severs life. O’er that wild spotCombat had raged, and brought the valiant low,And left them, with the history of their lot,Unto the forest oaks--a fearful sceneFor her whose home of other days had beenMidst the fair halls of England! But the loveWhich fill’d her soul was strong to cast out fear;And by its might upborne all else above,She shrank not--mark’d not that the dead were near.Of him alone she thought, whose languid headFaintly upon her wedded bosom fell;Memory of aught but him on earth was fled,While heavily she felt his life-blood wellFast o’er her garments forth, and vainly boundWith her torn robe and hair the streaming wound--Yet hoped, still hoped! Oh! from such hope how longAffection woos the whispers that deceive,Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong!And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne’er believeThe blow indeed can fall. So bow’d she thereOver the dying, while unconscious prayerFill’d all her soul. Now pour’d the moonlight down,Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown,And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place,Cast fitful radiance o’er the warrior’s face.Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye,The eye that faded look’d through gathering haze,Whence love, o’ermastering mortal agony,Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze,When voice was not; that fond, sad meaning pass’d--She knew the fulness of her woe at last!One shriek the forests heard--and mute she layAnd cold, yet clasping still the precious clayTo her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death!Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth.Many and sad!--but airs of heavenly breathShall melt the links which bind you, for your birthIs far apart.

Now light, of richer hueThan the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew;The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play’d;Bright-colour’d birds with splendour cross’d the shade,Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs brokeFrom reed, and spray, and leaf--the living stringsOf earth’s Æolian lyre, whose music wokeInto young life and joy all happy things.And she, too, woke from that long dreamless trance,The widow’d Edith: fearfully her glanceFell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange,And dusky forms. A sudden sense of changeFlash’d o’er her spirit, even ere memory sweptThe tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept;Yet half instinctively she rose, and spreadHer arms, as ’twere for something lost or fled,Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough,With all its whispers, waved not o’er her now.Where was she? Midst the people of the wild,By the red hunter’s fire: an aged chief,Whose home look’d sad--for therein play’d no child--Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief,To that lone cabin of the woods; and there,Won by a form so desolately fair,Or touch’d with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung,O’er her low couch an Indian matron hung;While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye,The ancient warrior of the waste stood by,Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head,And leaning on his bow.

And life return’d--Life, but with all its memories of the dead,To Edith’s heart; and well the sufferer learn’dHer task of meek endurance--well she woreThe chasten’d grief that humbly can adoreMidst blinding tears. But unto that old pair,Even as a breath of spring’s awakening air,Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tuneBringing back tender thoughts, which all too soonDepart with childhood. Sadly they had seenA daughter to the land of spirits go;And ever from that time her fading mien,And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low,Had haunted their dim years: but Edith’s faceNow look’d in holy sweetness from her place,And they again seem’d parents. Oh! the joy,The rich deep blessedness--though earth’s alloy,Fear, that still bodes, be there--of pouring forthThe heart’s whole power of love, its wealth and worthOf strong affection, in one healthful flow,On something all its own! that kindly glow,Which to shut inward is consuming pain,Gives the glad soul its flowering time again,When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle caresTh’ adopted Edith meekly gave for theirsWho loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the whileWith the departed, and her patient smileSpoke of farewells to earth; yet still she pray’d,E’en o’er her soldier’s lowly grave, for aidOne purpose to fulfil, to leave one traceBrightly recording that her dwelling-placeHad been among the wilds; for well she knewThe secret whisper of her bosom true,Which warn’d her hence.

And now, by many a wordLink’d unto moments when the heart was stirr’d--By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn,Sung when the woods at eve grew hush’d and dim--By the persuasion of her fervent eye,All eloquent with childlike piety--By the still beauty of her life she stroveTo win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the lovePour’d out on her so freely. Nor in vainWas that soft-breathing influence to enchainThe soul in gentle bonds; by slow degreesLight follow’d on, as when a summer breezeParts the deep masses of the forest shade,And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was madeEven such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide,By faith and sorrow raised and purified,So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led,Until their prayers were one. When morning spreadO’er the blue lake, and when the sunset’s glowTouch’d into golden bronze the cypress bough,And when the quiet of the Sabbath-timeSank on her heart, though no melodious chimeWaken’d the wilderness, their prayers were one.Now might she pass in hope--her work was done:And she was passing from the woods away--The broken flower of England might not stayAmidst those alien shades. Her eye was brightEven yet with something of a starry light,But her form wasted, and her fair young cheekWore oft and patiently a fatal streak,A rose whose root was death. The parting sighOf autumn through the forests had gone by,And the rich maple o’er her wanderings loneIts crimson leaves in many a shower had strown,Flushing the air; and winter’s blast had beenAmidst the pines; and now a softer greenFringed their dark boughs: for spring again had come,The sunny spring! but Edith to her homeWas journeying fast. Alas! we think it sadTo part with life when all the earth looks gladIn her young lovely things--when voices breakInto sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake:Is it not brighter, then, in that far climeWhere graves are not, nor blights of changeful time,If here such glory dwell with passing blooms,Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs?So thought the dying one. ’Twas early day,And sounds and odours, with the breezes’ playWhispering of spring-time, through the cabin door,Unto her couch life’s farewell sweetness bore.Then with a look where all her hope awoke,“My father!”--to the gray-hair’d chief she spoke--“Know’st thou that I depart?” “I know, I know,”He answer’d mournfully, “that thou must goTo thy beloved, my daughter!” “Sorrow notFor me, kind mother!” with meek smiles once moreShe murmur’d in low tones: “one happy lotAwaits us, friends! upon the better shore;For we have pray’d together in one trust,And lifted our frail spirits from the dustTo God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own,Under the cedar shade: where he is gone,Thither I go. There will my sisters be,And the dead parents, lisping at whose kneeMy childhood’s prayer was learn’d--the Saviour’s prayerWhich now ye know--and I shall meet you there.Father and gentle mother! ye have boundThe bruisèd reed, and mercy shall be foundBy Mercy’s children.” From the matron’s eyeDropp’d tears, her sole and passionate reply.But Edith felt them not; for now a sleepSolemnly beautiful--a stillness deep,Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,And mantling up his stately head in woe,“Thou’rt passing hence,” he sang, that warrior old,In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll’d.

“Thou’rt passing from the lake’s green side,And the hunter’s hearth away:For the time of flowers, for the summer’s pride,Daughter! thou canst not stay.

“Thou’rt journeying to thy spirit’s home,Where the skies are ever clear:The corn-month’s golden hours will come,But they shall not find thee here.

“And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!Under our whispering pine;Music shall midst the leaves be heard,But not a song like thine.

“A breeze that roves o’er stream and hill,Telling of winter gone,Hath such sweet falls--yet caught we stillA farewell in its tone.

“But thou, my bright one! thou shalt beWhere farewell sounds are o’er;Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt seeNo fear of parting more.

“The mossy grave thy tears have wet,And the wind’s wild moanings by,Thou with thy kindred shalt forget,Midst flowers--not such as die.

“The shadow from thy brow shall meltThe sorrow from thy strain,But where thine earthly smile hath dweltOur hearts shall thirst in vain.

“Dim will our cabin be, and lone,When thou, its light, art fled;Yet hath thy step the pathway shownUnto the happy dead.

“And we will follow thee, our guide!And join that shining band;Thou’rt passing from the lake’s green side--Go to the better land!”

The song had ceased, the list’ners caught no breath:That lovely sleep had melted into death.

Founded on incidents related in an American work, “Sketches ofConnecticut.”