by Mary Howitt.
Originally published in St. James's Magazine (W. Kent) vol.1 #3 (Jun 1861).
Through the streets of London city, to an outlet from the town,
Moved a noble train funereal, with observance grave and slow;
Though with neither plumes nor housings, velvet housings trailing down,
Nor with hired mourners mocking grief by counterfeited woe.
Through the streets of London city, towards the country green and fair,
Moved that simple, noble funeral, with its real mourning throng;
Twelve poor men to bear the coffin,—friends of him who was not there,—
And a crowd of weeping people swelling as it moved along.
Tolled the bells of all the churches; and the trading marts were closed
As upon a Sabbath morning; so the train moved slowly on;
Slowly on in fitting reverence of the form that there reposed,
Of the prince of all the merchants, of the good man who was gone.
And they talked, thus slowly moving, of the orphans he had reared,
Of the schools which he had founded, of his goodness and his grace;
Of the fallen sinners rescued and the hopeless sufferers cheered—
All his self-forgetting greatness, giving self the lowest place.
Tolled the bells of all the churches; and the summer morning's air
And the summer morning's sunshine falling on the streets beneath,
Seemed to wear a veil of sadness, seemed a solemn hush to bear,
As if sobered into pity for the woes of life and death.
But when they had gained the country, winding down the lanes towards Sheen,
All the summer sunshine bathed them in a flood of living gold;
And from out the wayside copses, and above the meadows green,
Sang the skylarks and the thrushes as for joy they could not hold.
Said an old man to his neighbour, "Nature cannot sympathise;
Here we should have cloud, not sunshine, and for song a silence dumb!"
Said a child unto his mother, "Hark, the angels in the skies,
Making everlasting music, singing,—'Good Sir William's come!'"
—So they bore him to his burial, in the country still and fair,
For, said he, "It is not fitting that the body turn to clay
Midst the homes of living thousands,"—and in earth they laid him there,
Not within a church or chapel, but beneath the open day.
Whilst Sir William Woodvill's body thus was carried to its rest,
—Good Sir William, type of goodness as the merchant and the man—
Sate his noble widowed lady, not with hopeless grief oppressed,
But as one who mourneth meckly, trusting God as Christians can.
All her friends and all her kindred, sons and sons' sons were that morn
Absent for the rites funereal, and she now alone remained
With the daughter of her daughter, one with special likeness born
To herself, her dear companion, by the tenderest nurture trained.
She was old, and strange the newness of being widow, so long wife,
Though the strangeness and the newness were unlinked with doubt or fear;
For she knew that in the Saviour death was not, but only life,
Still she sate a human mourner, weeping one who was not here.
Sitting with her grandchild silent, all her inner self was wrought
Into living, blessed knowledge of the world above, within;
And she saw the enfranchised spirit, by a bleeding Saviour bought,
In the glory of His presence, sanctified and pure from sin.
And she saw and heard and handled, so it seemed, by higher sense
Than the senses of her body, every outward sense above;
And a peace surpassing knowledge came as suffering's recompense,
In the opening of her spirit, sealing thus the work of love.
So she sate, and slowly, softly turned her thoughts unto the past;
And the spring-tide flood of memory pouring calmly through her brain,
All God's wondrous dealings with her into clear revision cast;
Three-score years of ceaseless mercy making doubly bright and plain.
Said she to her grandchild, 'Alice, I will tell thee of my life;
How the Lord hath schooled and led me from the time when I was young;
Evil time of pride and blindness—long before I was a wife—
When my soul was hard and thankless and my wayward temper strong.
"I was daughter to a merchant, only child, and born his heir,
And his idol for my beauty; but a worldly heart was mine,
For I early lost my mother, and without her fostering care
Knew in life no higher purpose than to be admired and shine.
"I had all that wealth could give me, all that flattery could bestow;
Thus I grew in self-indulgence, grew in self-absorbment still;
And each day brought some new pleasure, some new luxury, some new show,
Strengthening an insatiate craving, feeding a diseased will.
"In the hey-day of my triumph, of my vanity and pride,
Ruin came upon my father, and with ruin early death:—
Like to one appalled by earthquake, I was summoned to his side
To receive his last injunctions spoken with his parting breath.
"All was terror and contrition in my hapless father's soul,
Sense of unaccomplished duty, talents wasted, time abused;
But the saddest pang and sorest—life just trembling at the goal—
Was his anguish as a parent, conscience-stricken, self-accused.
"Death was busy with my father and the chamber hushed and still,
Whilst his soul conflicting struggled to retain its hold on life,
Till with all the strong enforcement of a dying parent's will,
He had wrung from me the promise to be William Woodvill's wife.
"But he died without the promise, for my haughty soul rebelled
'Gainst what seemed my father's weakness and an artful schemer's plan;—
I, rejecting wealthy suitors, would not be perforce compelled
Thus to wed a clerk, a servant, though a young and likely man!
"'Never!' cried I, 'never, never! though I have to beg my bread!'—
Well he knew me, William Woodvill, knew my pride and haughty scorn,
So he left me to my kindred, wealthy kindred, in his stead,
And a new experience followed, pain from others' hardness born.
"Sick in mind and sick in body, I a restless, homeless dove,
Filled with dark, resentful feelings, urged by unappeased wants,
Grew into the thing I hated, loveless in my lack of love,
Stubborn as my stubborn uncles, peevish as my peevish aunts.
"But when darkness is the deepest dawns the young, rejoicing day,
And an angel stands beside us when we feel of God forlorn;
Thus approached my sweet deliverance through a certain Mistress May,
Who, although to me a stranger, from my bosom plucked the thorn.
"Mistress May had known my father, holding him in deep respect,
And avowing debts of kindness due to him and still unpaid,
Proffered kindness to his daughter, which my kin would not reject,
And which I, to all indifferent, nor accepted nor gainsaid.
"She was lonely, thus she pleaded, and her income, although small,
Was enough even for a daughter—if I would the term allow;
And her home, a neat Welsh cottage, had those charms which seldom pall,
All those charms of natural beauty which the poets sing of now.
"As she spoke my heart yearned towards her: her calm eyes and gentle tone
Stirred the depths of better feelings, woke an impulse sweet and new,
A conceding will, a mildness hitherto in me unknown,
And with tears I murmured, 'Let me share that cottage home with you!'
"Not oppressed by mountain shadows, not by grandeur overborne,
Stood our dwelling, but where opened southward an Arcadian vale;
Distant mountains bathed in beauty, ever changing night and morn,
Pastoral foreground, azure distance, and the far sea gleaming pale.
"It was then the early spring-time, when the scented violets blow,
When all flowers in wood and meadow have a pathos of their own;
When the wild March winds are over and the April breeze is low,
And the wooing birds are building, and the turtle makes her moan.
"Ever tender is the spring-time, tender-scented, tender-hued,
Full of beauty, fleeting, fragile, tender yearnings undefined,
But no spring-time ever equalled that first spring at Tan-y-Rhyd,
When I sate like him of old time, clothed and in my rightful mind.
"But all after spring-times borrowed from that first its healing balm,
As my after-life its aspect from the angel of the place,
Who by patient love o'ercame me, whose sweet calmness made me calm,
Effluence of that heavenly beauty called pre-eminently grace.
"Long was she a marvel to me, lowly-hearted, pure and mild,
Strong in sympathy and pity as the angels are above;
Equal to a sage in wisdom, guileless as a little child;
One to learn from and to reverence, one to lean on and to love.
"Thus my life grew lovelier daily in the peace that breathed around;
And an influence soft and silent as the sunshine or the dew,
Of diviner knowledge entered, holy seed in willing ground,—
And my narrow sphere of duties, lovelier, larger, richer grew.
"Following in her footsteps ever, as she followed Christ her Lord,
By degrees I learned how only life in fulness is enjoyed,
When each faculty and feeling, thought and deed with Him accord,
Unto Him are consecrated, in His service are employed.
"We had many friends who loved us, rich and poor, and day by day
Brought its round of varied pleasures, but the chiefest was received
With the letters duly coming, faithful letters from Cathay,
Written by her loving William, by her son, as I believed.
"He was gone on merchant-business, business of great trust and worth;
Years might pass ere his returning, but he never failed to write,
And his lively letters linked us to the far ends of the earth,
And presented wondrous pictures of the people to our sight.
"But far more than graphic pictures, than the skill which shows no less
All the knowledge of the scholar, of the accomplished gentleman,
Was the quiet depth of feeling, almost womanly tenderness,
Which like gold in quartz formations through his sterner nature ran.
"Oh, my Alice, as the roses open to the morning dew,
Opens even the purest bosom to the influence of love,
And those letters spoke a language which my better nature knew,
Wakened tender hopes and feelings against which I vainly strove.
"Sighed I, 'Had my father only given me to a man like this!'—
Then I turned me to my duties, cheered the old or taught the young,
Visited the sick and needy, aught these fancies to dismiss,
Or absorbed myself in study of the difficult Welsh tongue.
"But these truant fancies lingered, and I said to her one day,
'Tell me of the past, my mother,'—for I ever called her so;
'Tell me of your son, my brother—of my brother, William May—
Of his youth and of his manhood, oh, my mother, let me know!'
"Said she, with a smile, half sadness, 'What you ask for you shall hear,—
He is not my son—my nephew; more than nephew, more than son!
William's mother was my sister,—we were sisters tried and dear,
Both upon the same day married to two brothers,—happier none!
"'On the same day both were mothers, mothers both of lovely sons;—
Death came next;—my son was taken, then the other infant's mother;
Sweet exchange! she took my William with her to heaven's starry zones,
I took hers, and in my bosom laid him where had lain the other!
"Thus he was my son, ay, doubly, by the sorrow of new loss—
For 'twas war-time, and his father was in naval battle slain;
—And still deeper to inure us to submission to the Cross,
God called hence my worthy husband whilst yet new the former pain.
"'But the hand that smiteth ever is more ready still to heal,
And our lives, though stripped and darkened, gathered peace and even joy
In the sense of sweet dependence we were daily made to feel
On the Father of all mercies, slow to wound or to destroy.
"'Happy was my William's boyhood—nature's law is happy youth—
Handsomest lad of all the scholars at the school in Shrewsbury town,
He stood high amongst his fellows for his probity and truth,
By his steady perseverance bearing every rival down.
"'We had friends, they said the army was for him the fitting sphere,
But I reasoned, war is evil, Christ hath said that war shall cease—
Love the law for man and nations; knowing this we do not fear
To be called enthusiast-dreamers, soldiers of the Prince of Peace!
"'Idle words! My friends were angry, argued with me, then withdrew,—
He who principle upholdeth must be willing to offend—
Yet, perhaps, my faith had failed me in that trial sharp and new,
Had not then appeared your father as our advocate and friend.
"'He, a powerful wealthy merchant, bore down every adverse plea,
War belongs to barbarous ages, ignorance and savage harm;
Commerce knits up all the nations, spans with golden cords the sea—
Commerce needs a higher talent than the brutal strength of arm!
"'Thus your father closed the contest, and my William took the pen,
Serving him with scrupulous honour; seeking then to introduce
Nobler principles of commerce; making trade 'twixt men and men
As a bond of love fraternal, as a means of Christian use.'
"Thus she told me. Oh, my Alice, God is wondrous in His love!
William Woodvill from that morning was the angel of my life;
And returning from his mission, guided by a Power above,
Ere the time at first appointed, I became his happy wife."
Thus the aged, widowed lady. And then resting in her chair,
Cleared again her inner senses, and she seemed to hear and see,
As upon her wedding morning, bridegroom William standing there,
Speaking words which then he uttered, "Love, I only wait for thee!"