Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The New Wife and the Old
By John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)D
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest:
All is over,—all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!
Blooming girl and manhood gray,
Autumn in the arms of May!
Dancing feet and wrestlers’ shout;
Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,
Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the graveyard trees;
And the great sea-waves below,
Pulse of the midnight beating slow.
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half-uttered shriek and start,—
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks
Through her lips and changing cheeks.
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror’s antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.
Silver-streaked his careless hair;
Lips of love have left no trace
On that hard and haughty face;
And that forehead’s knitted thought
Love’s soft hand hath not unwrought.
More than these calm lips will tell.
Stooping to my lowly state,
He hath made me rich and great,
And I bless him, though he be
Hard and stern to all save me!”
O’er her fingers small and white;
Gold and gem, and costly ring
Back the timid lustre fling,—
Love’s selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o’er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low,
“Spare me,—spare me,—let me go!”
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them
Love’s fair gifts of gold and gem,
“Waken! save me!” still as death
At her side he slumbereth.
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;
But she hears a murmur low,
Full of sweetness, full of woe,
Half a sigh and half a moan:
“Fear not! give the dead her own!”
That cold hand, whose pressure froze,
Once in warmest life had borne
Gem and band her own hath worn.
“Wake thee! wake thee!” Lo, his eyes
Open with a dull surprise.
Closer to his breast he holds her;
Trembling limbs his own are meeting,
And he feels her heart’s quick beating:
“Nay, my dearest, why this fear?”
“Hush!” she saith, “the dead is here!”
But before the lamp’s pale gleam
Tremblingly her hand she raises,—
There no more the diamond blazes,
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,—
“Ah!” she sighs, “her hand was cold!”
But his dark lip quivereth,
And as o’er the past he thinketh,
From his young wife’s arms he shrinketh;
Can those soft arms round him lie,
Underneath his dead wife’s eye?
Soothed and childlike on his breast,
And in trustful innocence
Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto to whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead’s unconscious power!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,
O’er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.