The Two Peacocks of Bedfont

Alas! That breathing Vanity should goWhere Pride is buried,--like its very ghost,Uprisen from the naked bones below,In novel flesh, clad in the silent boastOf gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,Shedding its chilling superstition mostOn young and ignorant natures--as it wontTo haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!

Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer,Behold two maidens, up the quiet greenShining, far distant, in the summer airThat flaunts their dewy robes and breathes betweenTheir downy plumes,--sailing as if they wereTwo far-off ships,--until they brush betweenThe churchyard's humble walls, and watch and waitOn either side of the wide open'd gate,

And there they stand--with haughty necks beforeGod's holy house, that points towards the skies--Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes:And Youth looks lingering from the temple door,Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs,With pouting lips,--forgetful of the grace,Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;--

Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,May wear the happiness of rich attire;And those two sisters, in their silly pride,May change the soul's warm glances for the fireOf lifeless diamonds;--and for health denied,--With art, that blushes at itself, inspireTheir languid cheeks--and flourish in a gloryThat has no life in life, nor after-story.

The aged priest goes shaking his gray hairIn meekest censuring, and turns his eyeEarthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r,And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by,Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wearThy sorrow for a garb, and constantlyPut on thy censure, that might win the praiseOf one so gray in goodness and in days?

Also the solemn clerk partakes the shameOf this ungodly shine of human pride,And sadly blends his reverence and blameIn one grave bow, and passes with a strideImpatient:--many a red-hooded dameTurns her pain'd head, but not her glance, asideFrom wanton dress, and marvels o'er again,That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain.

"I have a lily in the bloom at home,"Quoth one, "and by the blessed Sabbath dayI'll pluck my lily in its pride, and comeAnd read a lesson upon vain array;--And when stiff silks are rustling up, and someGive place, I'll shake it in proud eyes and say--Making my reverence,--'Ladies, an you please,King Solomon's not half so fine as these,'"

Then her meek partner, who has nearly runHis earthly course,--"Nay, Goody, let your textGrow in the garden.--We have only one--Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next?Summer will come again, and summer sun,And lilies too,--but I were sorely vextTo mar my garden, and cut short the blowOf the last lily I may live to grow,"

"The last!" quoth she, "and though the last it were--Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proudWith waving plumes, and jewels in their hair,And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'dAnd curtsey'd to!--last Sabbath after pray'r,I heard the little Tomkins ask aloudIf they were angels--but I made him knowGod's bright ones better, with a bitter blow!"

So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walkThat leads to the white porch the Sunday throng,Hand-coupled urchins in restrained talk,And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong,And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk,And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along,And gentle peasant clad in buff and green,Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene;

And blushing maiden--modestly array'dIn spotless white,--still conscious of the glass;And she, the lonely widow, that hath madeA sable covenant with grief,--alas!She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade,While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass,Bend to unclouded childhood, and caressHer boy,--so rosy!--and so fatherless!

Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw nearThe fair white temple, to the timely callOf pleasant bells that tremble in the ear.--Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawlFade into dusk, in the dim atmosphereOf the low porch, and heav'n has won them all,--Saying those two, that turn aside and pass,In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass.

Ah me! to see their silken manors trail'dIn purple luxuries--with restless gold,--Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail'dIn blotted black,--over the heapy mouldPanting wave-wantonly! They never quail'dHow the warm vanity abused the cold;Nor saw the solemn faces of the goneSadly uplooking through transparent stone:

But swept their dwellings with unquiet light,Shocking the awful presence of the dead;Where gracious natures would their eyes benight,Nor wear their being with a lip too red,Nor move too rudely in the summer brightOf sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread,Meting it into steps, with inward breath,In very pity to bereaved death.

Now in the church, time-sober'd minds resignTo solemn pray'r, and the loud chaunted hymn,--With glowing picturings of joys divinePainting the mist-light where the roof is dim;But youth looks upward to the window shine,Warming with rose and purple and the swimOf gold, as if thought-tinted by the stainsOf gorgeous light through many-color'd panes;

Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hathEnrobed his angels,--and with absent eyesHearing of Heav'n, and its directed path,Thoughtful of slippers--and the glorious skiesClouding with satin,--till the preacher's wrathConsumes his pity, and he glows and criesWith a deep voice that trembles in its might,And earnest eyes grow eloquent in light:

"Oh, that the vacant eye would learn to lookOn very beauty, and the heart embraceTrue loveliness, and from this holy bookDrink the warm-breathing tenderness and graceOf love indeed! Oh, that the young soul tookIts virgin passion from the glorious faceOf fair religion, and address'd its strife,To win the riches of eternal life!"

"Doth the vain heart love glory that is none,And the poor excellence of vain attire?Oh go, and drown your eyes against the sun,The visible ruler of the starry quire,Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run,Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire;And the faint soul down-darkens into night,And dies a burning martyrdom to light."

Oh go, and gaze,--when the low winds of ev'nBreathe hymns, and Nature's many forests nodTheir gold-crown'd heads; and the rich blooms of heav'nSun-ripen'd give their blushes up to God;And mountain-rocks and cloudy steeps are riv'nBy founts of fire, as smitten by the rodOf heavenly Moses,--that your thirsty senseMay quench its longings of magnificence!

"Yet suns shall perish--stars shall fade away--Day into darkness--darkness into death--Death into silence; the warm light of day,The blooms of summer, the rich glowing breathOf even--all shall wither and decay,Like the frail furniture of dreams beneathThe touch of morn--or bubbles of rich dyesThat break and vanish in the aching eyes."

They hear, soul-blushing, and repentant shedUnwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and pourTheir sin to earth,--and with low drooping headReceive the solemn blessing, and imploreIts grace--then soberly with chasten'd tread,They meekly press towards the gusty doorWith humbled eyes that go to graze uponThe lowly grass--like him of Babylon.

The lowly grass!--O water-constant mind!Fast-ebbing holiness!--soon-fading graceOf serious thought, as if the gushing windThrough the low porch had wash'd it from the faceFor ever!--How they lift their eyes to findOld vanities!--Pride wins the very placeOf meekness, like a bird, and flutters nowWith idle wings on the curl-conscious brow!

And lo! with eager looks they seek the wayOf old temptation at the lowly gate;To feast on feathers, and on vain array,And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering stateOf jewel-sprinkled locks,--But where are they,The graceless haughty ones that used to waitWith lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen'd eye?--None challenge the old homage bending by.

In vain they look for the ungracious bloomOf rich apparel where it glow'd before,--For Vanity has faded all to gloom,And lofty Pride has stiffen'd to the core,For impious Life to tremble at its doom,--Set for a warning token evermore,Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wiseShall gaze with lifted hands and wond'ring eyes.

The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn,But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair;The solemn clerk goes lavender'd and shornNor stoops his back to the ungodly pair;--And ancient lips that pucker'd up in scorn,Go smoothly breathing to the house of pray'r;And in the garden-plot, from day to day,The lily blooms its long white life away.

And where two haughty maidens used to be,In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod,Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly,Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod;There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only seeTwo sombre Peacocks.Age, with sapient nodMarking the spot, still tarries to declareHow they once lived, and wherefore they are there.