Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.

Poems of Tragedy: XII. England

The Young Gray Head

Caroline Bowles Southey (1786–1854)

GRIEF hath been known to turn the young head gray,—

To silver over in a single day

The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime

Scarcely o’erpast; as in the fearful time

Of Gallia’s madness, that discrownèd head

Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled

Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen!

What must the sufferings of that night have been—

That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o’er

With time’s untimely snow! But now no more,

Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee—

I have to tell a humbler history;

A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth

(If any), will be sad and simple truth.

“Mother,” quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,—

So oft our peasant’s use his wife to name,

“Father” and “Master” to himself applied,

As life’s grave duties matronize the bride,—

“Mother,” quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north

With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth

To his day labor, from the cottage door,—

“I ’m thinking that, to-night, if not before,

There ’ll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar?

It ’s brewing up, down westward; and look there,

One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair;

And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,

As threats, the waters will be out anon.

That path by the ford ’s a nasty bit of way,—

Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.”

“Do, mother, do!” the quick-eared urchins cried;

Two little lasses to the father’s side

Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy

The answering language of the mother’s eye.

There was denial, and she shook her head:

“Nay, nay,—no harm will come to them,” she said,

“The mistress lets them off these short dark days

An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says,

May quite be trusted—and I know ’t is true—

To take care of herself and Jenny too.

And so she ought,—she ’s seven come first of May,—

Two years the oldest; and they give away

The Christmas bounty at the school to-day.”

The mother’s will was law (alas, for her

That hapless day, poor soul!)—she could not err,

Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane

(Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again,

When each had had her turn; she clinging so

As if that day she could not let him go.

But Labor’s sons must snatch a hasty bliss

In nature’s tenderest mood. One last fond kiss,

“God bless my little maids!” the father said,

And cheerily went his way to win their bread.

Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone,

What looks demure the sister pair put on,—

Not of the mother as afraid, or shy,

Or questioning the love that could deny;

But simply, as their simple training taught,

In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought

(Submissively resigned the hope of play)

Towards the serious business of the day.

To me there ’s something touching, I confess,

In the grave look of early thoughtfulness,

Seen often in some little childish face

Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace

(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!)

The unnatural sufferings of the factory child,

But a staid quietness, reflective, mild,

Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes,

Sense of life’s cares, without its miseries.

So to the mother’s charge, with thoughtful brow,

The docile Lizzy stood attentive now,

Proud of her years and of the imputed sense,

And prudence justifying confidence,—

And little Jenny, more demurely still,

Beside her waited the maternal will.

So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain

Gainsborough ne’er painted: no—nor he of Spain,

Glorious Murillo!—and by contrast shown

More beautiful. The younger little one,

With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair,

By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair,

Sable and glossy as the raven’s wing,

And lustrous eyes as dark.
“Now, mind and bring

Jenny safe home,” the mother said,—“don’t stay

To pull a bough or berry by the way:

And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast

Your little sister’s hand, till you ’re quite past,—

That plank ’s so crazy, and so slippery

(If not o’erflowed) the stepping-stones will be.

But you ’re good children—steady as old folk—

I ’d trust ye anywhere.” Then Lizzy’s cloak,

A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied,

And ample little Jenny’s lack supplied

With her own warmest shawl. “Be sure,” said she,

“To wrap it round and knot it carefully

(Like this), when you come home, just leaving free

One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away—

Good will to school, and then good right to play.”

Was there no sinking at the mother’s heart

When, all equipt, they turned them to depart?

When down the lane she watched them as they went

Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent

Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell:

Such warnings have been sent, we know full well

And must believe—believing that they are—

In mercy then—to rouse, restrain, prepare.

And now I mind me, something of the kind

Did surely haunt that day the mother’s mind,

Making it irksome to bide all alone

By her own quiet hearth. Though never known

For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray,

Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay

At home with her own thoughts, but took her way

To her next neighbor’s, half a loaf to borrow,—

Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,—

And with the loan obtained, she lingered still.

Said she, “My master, if he ’d had his will,

Would have kept back our little ones from school

This dreadful morning; and I ’m such a fool,

Since they ’ve been gone, I ’ve wished them back. But then

It won’t do in such things to humor men,—

Our Ambrose specially. If let alone

He ’d spoil those wenches. But it ’s coming on,

That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,—

Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff

Will come into one’s head! And here with you

I stop, as if I ’d nothing else to do—

And they ’ll come home, drowned rats. I must be gone

To get dry things, and set the kettle on.”

His day’s work done, three mortal miles and more,

Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door.

A weary way, God wot, for weary wight!

But yet far off the curling smoke in sight

From his own chimney, and his heart felt light.

How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,

Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood!

How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze,

In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,

Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,

From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry,

How grateful the cool covert to regain

Of his own avenue,—that shady lane,

With the white cottage, in the slanting glow

Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below,

And jasmine porch, his rustic portico!

With what a thankful gladness in his face,

(Silent heart-homage,—plant of special grace!)

At the lane’s entrance, slackening oft his pace,

Would Ambrose send a loving look before,

Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door;

The very blackbird strained its little throat,

In welcome, with a more rejoicing note;

And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,

All bristle, back, and tail, but “good at need,”

Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;

But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,

The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,

Of his two little ones. How fondly swells

The father’s heart, as, dancing up the lane,

Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,

And each must tell her tale and “say her say,”

Impeding as she leads with sweet delay

(Childhood’s blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way.

And when the winter day closed in so fast;

Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;

And in all weathers—driving sleet and snow—

Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,

Darkling and lonely. O, the blessèd sight

(His polestar) of that little twinkling light

From one small window, through the leafless trees,—

Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his

Had spied it so far off. And sure was he,

Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,

Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,

Streaming to meet him from the open door.

Then, though the blackbird’s welcome was unheard,—

Silenced by winter,—note of summer bird

Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive,

But from the cuckoo clock just striking five.

And Tinker’s ear and Tinker’s nose were keen,—

Off started he, and then a form was seen

Darkening the doorway; and a smaller sprite,

And then another, peered into the night,

Ready to follow free on Tinker’s track,

But for the mother’s hand that held her back:

And yet a moment—a few steps—and there,

Pulled o’er the threshold by that eager pair,

He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair;

Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say,

“Master, we ’ve done our business for the day.”

The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs,

The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs;

The door ’s made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn;

How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on!

How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he?

Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree,

With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.

Such was the hour—hour sacred and apart—

Warmed in expectancy the poor man’s heart.

Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,

To him and his the literal doom applied,

Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet

So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet,

Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way;

So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray

That time I tell of. He had worked all day

At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke

Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke,

And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that?

There was a treasure hidden in his hat,—

A plaything for the young ones. He had found

A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round

For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,

As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught

But the glad wonderment in Jenny’s eyes,

And graver Lizzy’s quieter surprise,

When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer

Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.

’T was a wild evening,—wild and rough. “I knew,”

Thought Ambrose, “those unlucky gulls spoke true,—

And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,—

I should be mortal ’mazed now if I thought

My little maids were not safe housed before

That blinding hail-storm,—ay, this hour and more,—

Unless by that old crazy bit of board,

They ’ve not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford,

That I ’ll be bound for,—swollen as it must be—

Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me—”

But, checking the half-thought as heresy,

He looked out for the Home Star. There it shone,

And with a gladdened heart he hastened on.

He ’s in the lane again,—and there below,

Streams from the open doorway that red glow,

Which warms him but to look at. For his prize

Cautious he feels,—all safe and snug it lies,—

“Down, Tinker! down, old boy!—not quite so free,—

The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.—

But what ’s the meaning? no lookout to-night!

No living soul astir! Pray God, all ’s right!

Who ’s flittering round the peat-stack in such weather?

Mother!” you might have felled him with a feather,

When the short answer to his loud “Hillo!”

And hurried question, “Are they come?” was “No.”

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook

The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,

And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word,

That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,

Was but a moment’s act, and he was gone

To where a fearful foresight led him on.

Passing a neighbor’s cottage in his way,—

Mark Fenton’s,—him he took with short delay

To bear him company,—for who could say

What need might be? They struck into the track

The children should have taken coming back

From school that day; and many a call and shout

Into the pitchy darkness they sent out,

And, by the lantern light, peered all about,

In every roadside thicket, hole, nook,

Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook—

Something brushed past them. That was Tinker’s bark,—

Unheeded, he had followed in the dark,

Close at his master’s heels; but, swift as light,

Darted before them now. “Be sure he ’s right,—

He ’s on the track,” cried Ambrose. “Hold the light

Low down,—he ’s making for the water. Hark!

I know that whine,—the old dog ’s found them, Mark.”

So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on

Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!

And all his dull contracted light could show

Was the black void and dark swollen stream below.

“Yet there ’s life somewhere,—more than Tinker’s whine,—

That ’s sure,” said Mark. “So, let the lantern shine

Down yonder. There ’s the dog,—and, hark!” “O dear!”

And a low sob came faintly on the ear,

Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,

Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught

Fast hold of something,—a dark huddled heap,—

Half in the water, where ’t was scarce knee-deep

For a tall man, and half above it, propped

By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt

Endways the broken plank, when it gave way

With the two little ones that luckless day!

“My babes!—my lambkins!” was the father’s cry.

One little voice made answer, “Here am I!”

’T was Lizzy’s. There she crouched with face as white,

More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light

Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight,

Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,

And eyes on some dark object underneath,

Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,—

One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,

Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny’s frock.

There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock,

The doting father? Where ’s the unriven rock

Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part

As that soft sentient thing,—the human heart?

They lifted her from out her watery bed,—

Its covering gone, the lovely little head

Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside;

And one small hand,—the mother’s shawl was tied,

Leaving that free, about the child’s small form,

As was her last injunction—“fast and warm”—

Too well obeyed,—too fast! A fatal hold

Affording to the scrag by a thick fold

That caught and pinned her in the river’s bed,

While through the reckless water overhead

Her life-breath bubbled up.
“She might have lived,

Struggling like Lizzy,” was the thought that rived

The wretched mother’s heart, when she knew all,

“But for my foolishness about that shawl!

And Master would have kept them back the day;

But I was wilful,—driving them away

In such wild weather!”
Thus the tortured heart

Unnaturally against itself takes part,

Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe

Too deep already. They had raised her now,

And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,

To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,

The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled

Once more the fatal shawl—her winding-sheet—

About the precious clay. One heart still beat,

Warmed by his heart’s blood. To his only child

He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild

Pierced him afresh,—and now she knew him not.

“Mother!” she murmured, “who says I forgot?

Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,

And tied the shawl quite close—she can’t be cold—

But she won’t move—we slipt—I don’t know how—

But I held on—and I ’m so weary now—

And it ’s so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!—

And she won’t move;—if daddy was but here!”

Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, ’t was clear;

But soon the piteous murmur died away,

And quiet in her father’s arms she lay,—

They their dead burden had resigned, to take

The living, so near lost. For her dear sake,

And one at home, he armed himself to bear

His misery like a man,—with tender care

Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold

(His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold),

He clasped her close, and so, with little said,

Homeward they bore the living and the dead.

From Ambrose Gray’s poor cottage all that night

Shone fitfully a little shifting light,

Above, below,—for all were watchers there,

Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,

Parental watchfulness, availed not now.

But in the young survivor’s throbbing brow,

And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned;

And all night long from side to side she turned,

Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,

With now and then the murmur, “She won’t move.”

And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright

Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,—

That young head’s raven hair was streaked with white!

No idle fiction this. Such things have been,

We know. And now I tell what I have seen.

Life struggled long with death in that small frame,

But it was strong, and conquered. All became

As it had been with the poor family,—

All, saving that which nevermore might be:

There was an empty place,—they were but three.