The letter drops from the father's hand;
Though the sinews of his heart are wrung, He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, No malediction falls from his tongue;But his stately figure, erect and grand, Bends and sinks like a column of sand In the whirlwind of his great despair.
Dying, yes, dying! His latest breath Of parley at the door of death Is a blessing on his wayward son.
Lower and lower on his breast Sinks his gray head; he is at rest;No longer he waits for any one;
For many a year the old chateau Lies tenantless and desolate;Rank grasses in the courtyard grow, About its gables caws the crow;Only the porter at the gate Is left to guard it, and to wait The coming of the rightful heir;No other life or sound is there;
No more the Curate comes at night, No more is seen the unsteady light, Threading the alleys of the park;The windows of the hall are dark, The chambers dreary, cold, and bare!
At length, at last, when the winter is past, And birds are building, and woods are green, With flying skirts is the Curate seen Speeding along the woodland way, Humming gayly, "No day is so long But it comes at last to vesper-song."He stops at the porter's lodge to say That at last the Baron of St.Castine Is coming home with his Indian queen, Is coming without a week's delay;And all the house must be swept and clean, And all things set in good array!
And the solemn porter shakes his head;
And the answer he makes is: "Lackaday!
We will see, as the blind man said!"
Alert since first the day began, The cock upon the village church Looks northward from his airy perch, As if beyond the ken of man To see the ships come sailing on, And pass the isle of Oleron, And pass the Tower of Cordouan.
In the church below is cold in clay The heart that would have leaped for joy--O tender heart of truth and trust!--
To see the coming of that day;
In the church below the lips are dust;
Dust are the hands, and dust the feet, That would have been so swift to meet The coming of that wayward boy.
At night the front of the old chateau Is a blaze of light above and below;There's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street, A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, And the Baron hath come again to his own.
The Curate is waiting in the hall, Most eager and alive of all To welcome the Baron and Baroness;But his mind is full of vague distress, For he hath read in Jesuit books Of those children of the wilderness, And now, good, ****** man! he looks To see a painted savage stride Into the room, with shoulders bare, And eagle feathers in her hair, And around her a robe of panther's hide.
Instead, he beholds with secret shame A form of beauty undefined, A loveliness with out a name, Not of degree, but more of kind;Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, But a new mingling of them all.
Yes, beautiful beyond belief, Transfigured and transfused, he sees The lady of the Pyrenees, The daughter of the Indian chief.
Beneath the shadow of her hair The gold-bronze color of the skin Seems lighted by a fire within, As when a burst of sunlight shines Beneath a sombre grove of pines,--A dusky splendor in the air.
The two small hands, that now are pressed In his, seem made to be caressed, They lie so warm and soft and still, Like birds half hidden in a nest, Trustful, and innocent of ill.
And ah! he cannot believe his ears When her melodious voice he hears Speaking his native Gascon tongue;The words she utters seem to be Part of some poem of Goudouli, They are not spoken, they are sung!
And the Baron smiles, and says, "You see, I told you but the ****** truth;Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!"
Down in the village day by day The people gossip in their way, And stare to see the Baroness pass On Sunday morning to early Mass;And when she kneeleth down to pray, They wonder, and whisper together, and say, "Surely this is no heathen lass!"And in course of time they learn to bless The Baron and the Baroness.
And in course of time the Curate learns A secret so dreadful, that by turns He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns.
The Baron at confession hath said, That though this woman be his wife, He bath wed her as the Indians wed, He hath bought her for a gun and a knife!
And the Curate replies: "O profligate, O Prodigal Son! return once more To the open arms and the open door Of the Church, or ever it be too late.
Thank God, thy father did not live To see what he could not forgive;On thee, so reckless and perverse, He left his blessing, not his curse.
But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, And by going wrong all things come right;Things have been mended that were worse, And the worse, the nearer they are to mend.
For the sake of the living and the dead, Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, And all things come to a happy end."O sun, that followest the night, In yon blue sky, serene and pure, And pourest thine impartial light Alike on mountain and on moor, Pause for a moment in thy course, And bless the bridegroom and the bride!
O Gave, that from thy hidden source In you mysterious mountain-side Pursuest thy wandering way alone, And leaping down its steps of stone, Along the meadow-lands demure Stealest away to the Adour, Pause for a moment in thy course To bless the bridegroom and the bride!
The choir is singing the matin song, The doors of the church are opened wide, The people crowd, and press, and throng To see the bridegroom and the bride.
They enter and pass along the nave;
They stand upon the father's grave;
The bells are ringing soft and slow;
The living above and the dead below Give their blessing on one and twain;The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain, The birds are building, the leaves are green, And Baron Castine of St.Castine Hath come at last to his own again.
FINALE
"Nunc plaudite!" the Student cried, When he had finished; "now applaud, As Roman actors used to say At the conclusion of a play";And rose, and spread his hands abroad, And smiling bowed from side to side, As one who bears the palm away.
