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XXX.

With little hand she gently tapped
At the open Rectory door;
To Parson Yale, and him alone,
Her earnest bode she bore;
And Lilian gave her welcome kind,
But wondered what could bring
So young a carrier dove as this
So late upon the wing.

XXXI.

The simple tale was briefly told–
A man in evil plight,
A stranger in her father’s house,
Lay suffering in their sight:
Self-tortured–wandering in his speech–
With fancies dark and wild–
And unintelligible all,
“Except,” said the little child,
“When he calls on Parson Vale to come,
For God’s and pity’s sake.
And hear the sorrows of his heart
Before his heart shall break;–
And I,” said Lucy Gore, “am come
For Christ’s and pity’s sake.”

XXXII.

The Parson’s face, a morning sky
Suffused with light from Heaven,
Grew radiant with his meek resolve;–
“Be all our sins forgiven–
I’ll go, and cheer the soul-sick man.”–
He kissed his children three
Lovingly on the cheek and brow–
And Lucy Gore and he
Went hand-in-hand across the down,
In the light of Charity.

Part the Third

I.
“Thou’rt better, Edward,” said, in gentle tone,
Aubrey’s own Lilian, o’er his pillow bending;
“The fever and the agony are gone.
And peace is with thee.” One warm tear descending,
Fell on his hand. “Oh, piteous dew,” he said,
“That shows she loves me; would the healing flow
If I could tell her all that she must know
When the cold grass waves dankly o’er my head!”

II.

“Aye! Edward! I am thine: whate’er thou art!”
His pale face shone with ecstacy of gladness–
A moment only: looming from his heart
Came the dark shadow of unsolaced sadness.
“Few are mine hours,” he said, “and full of sorrow,
But if thou’lt pity and forgive my guilt
I could die happier; from thy face I borrow
Mine only joy:–Thou’lt pity me?–Thou wilt?”

III.

“Aye! from my heart’s deep heart, and inmost soul!
How could I love thee, if I did not share
All thou endurest; all but thy despair?
Look up repenting: Faith shall make thee whole;
And if this human love, so frail and fond,
Shall lead thee to it, rise from thy despond.
And know it thine; thine only, as of yore.
And thine, thine only–now and evermore.

IV.

True love bears all but treason to itself;
In sorrow, comforting; in loss of pelf
Coining its looks to treasure; kindly words
To fortunes and estates; in guilt and pain
Looking up hopefully through Sorrow’s rain
To sunshine and the chant of heavenly birds!”

V.

“Let me die happy!” said the feeble man;–
The parson entered, all his visage bright
With inward glory,–“No! thou shalt not die–
Lily brings comfort, all that true love can,
But I bring greater; on thy soul’s dim night
Impetuous morning rushes from the sky.
And shows thee hope on earth as well as heaven.”
He looked up doubtful,–“I am unforgiven!”

VI.

“Nay!” said the parson, “Darest thou define
The infinite height and depth of love divine
Or scope of mercy? Leave us for a space,
Lily, my child.” She glided from the place
Like a fair sunbeam from the lingering gloom.
And Aubrey felt a chilness in the room;
And darkness where so late pure light had shone.
“Why didst thou bid my star of peace be gone?
Without her presence life forgets to burn–
Let me not die until the light return!”

VII.

Three hours beside his bed the good man sat,
Watchful, benign, and patient. Their discourse
Lilian nor knew, nor guessed;–but hoped and prayed
That on her lord’s sad soul long–vanished peace
Might fall like moonlight on a troubled sea,
Or choral music in cathedral aisles.
That stills all worldly passion where it breathes,
And wafts the willing fancy straight to heaven
Amid the seraphim that know and love,
And milder cherubim that love and know;–
Their whispers, melodies, their converse high,
Eternal harmonies unheard of men,
Imagined only by the ecstatic few
Who catch far off faint echoes of their song,
And tell to none the mysteries they dream.