(p. 20)

 

5.

 

THREE SUNSETS

 

            IT WAS the hour of twilight, –– the sweet hour

            Of holy calm, that steals on human souls

            Like the soft music of an angel’s harp,

            Heard in life’s sudden pauses; a wild hymn

            Of strange unearthly sweetness, echoed down

            From the celestial portals, and anon

            Sinking to silence in a dying fall.

 

            Slowly athwart the grey empurpling heavens

            The bearded evening clouds swept slowly by

            With ghostly arms outstretched, and shadowy robes

            Curling around them; one by one they passed

            In sad procession, solemnly and still;

            A crowd of phantoms following to the tomb

            The fair departed Day.

                                                           Far in the west

            Through hazy vapours and ascending mists

            Of coming night, the blood-red winter sun

            Sank like a burning ship into the sea,

            Blazoning the heavens with flame, and through the vault

(p. 21)

            Of sombre waters, kindling as it fell

            A fiery column, into darkness blent.

            Southward, the surges of a little bay

            Slept in the ruddy light, and evermore

            The white-robed waves like sleepy choristers

            Beat out upon the shore a drowsy chant,

            Slow and monotonous, and yet withal

            So heavenly sweet that every passing breeze

            Folded its rustling wings and paused awhile

            Listening, to catch the murmured harmony.

 

            Beyond, a long white line of rugged cliffs

            Circled the little bay, and at their base

            Lay blocks of sandstone, scattered up and down

            Among the shingle, motionless and stark,

            Like Polydectes and his spell-bound guests

            Beneath the crumbling rafters of their hall.

 

            Inland, some hundred paces from the shore,

            Just where the hollow of a breaking hill

            Shelved backward from the summit of the cliff,

            A tiny coppice cradled in the rocks

            Lifted its nut-brown head, and there, hard by,

            A lonely homestead like a sea-gull’s nest

            Peeped from the riddled sandstone. Here beneath

            The moss-grown, lichened gable of the porch,

            Full in the mellow light of eventide,

            Two stood together silent, hand in hand

            As lovers stand, –– a fair-haired maiden, she,

(p. 22)

            With trustful eyes of blue like shaded wells

            That mirror all the heavens in silent depths;

            He, a tall stalwart youth, whose swarthy brows

            Told of long toils beneath a summer sun,

            Misfortunes bravely met, –– laborious days,

            And nights of weary watching out at sea.

 

            Long time they stood there silent, with their hands

            Linked fast together like a lover’s knot;

            She, full of tender thought, and happy dreams

            Of sweeter summer days to come; and he

            Gazing with earnest eyes upon her face,

            Like one that dares not, and yet longs to speak.

 

            Then breaking from her suddenly, with a sigh, ––

            “Good night,” he said, –– “good night, I must be gone,

            Hester will wait for me at home, –– good night;

            One kiss before we part, and so farewell.”

            “Must you go, Mark? it is not late,” she said,

            “One moment, for the sun is scarcely set,

            We will not part so soon, –– why look so strange?

            What ails you? is there evil news afloat?”

 

            He took her hand in his. “O, Ellinor,

            You love me, as you say, and you will be

            My wife, –– my wife, –– the word is very sweet

            And I must say it often; O, my wife! ––

            Nay, do not look at me, for if I meet

(p. 23)

            Those tender eyes of yours, my coward lips

            Will leave unsaid what I have come to say.

            You know me, Nelly; I am very poor,

            Ay, very poor, but I have youth and strength,

            And these can buy me riches. Ellinor,

            Say, can you trust me, love? for we must part.”

 

            “Part?” And the deep blue eyes looked up in his,

            Half sad, half doubtingly, as if they fain

            Would read another meaning on his lips;

“           Part?” she said, lost in wonder; –– and he gazed

            Into her face and answered, –– “I have said.

            And yet not I, it is your father’s will;

            He would not have you wed with poverty,

            And for the love he bears you, we must part.

            A few short years, –– no more, and I return

            No longer poor; across the seas, they say,

            Industry always reaps a golden crop.

            And we will have our homestead on these hills,

            You and I, Ellinor, –– my wife and I,

            And Hester and your father.” But she gave

            No sign nor answer, for her heart was full

            Of sudden dread and bitterness, and then

            A sense of rising tears that choked all words,

            Like notes of discord breaking harshly in

            On lingering chords of tender melody.

 

            “You are not angry, Ellinor? –– you know

            I love you more than life, ay, how much more!

(p. 24)

            Tell me; but no, not now, not now, –– good night,

            I heard your father calling from the house,

            Go to him, Nelly, I have stayed too long.”

 

            And so they parted, and adown the cliff

            With faltering step he passed, nor dared again

            To turn and meet her glance, lest he should read

            Reproach or sadness in it, and so yield

            In one faint-hearted moment of regret

            His wiser resolution to her tears.

 

            Silent and motionless meanwhile, she stood

            Where he had left her, with uncertain gaze

            Watching him down the pathway of the hill,

            A mist before her eyes, and at her heart

            A strange dull sense of cloudiness and gloom,

            A falling darkness like a shadow cast

            By some approaching evil.

                                                           Suddenly

            Athwart her reveries there came a voice

            Calling her name, –– “Ellinor! Ellinor!

            Come hither, child, the evening air grows cold,

            Mark Anderson is gone, –– why do you wait?”

            It was her father’s voice. She turned, –– one look,

            Ay, he was gone –– and through the porch she passed.

 

            Winter was spent, the last day now was gone,

            And evening came, the last sweet eventide:

(p. 25)

            They sat together, –– Mark and Ellinor,

            Together on the seaward-looking cliff,

            Among the creviced rocks and scattered crags

            Of rifted boulder, shadowy and weird

            In the strange glamour of the twilight fall.

            And westward through the white sea fog, the sun

            Went down behind the clouds, all round and red,

            Shaping its image in the glassy tide;

            And he beheld it, and anon his eyes

            Sought out her face, and passionately he broke

            The silence of their sorrow, speaking thus:

            “Nelly, see yonder, how the setting sun

            Now almost sunken in those dusky clouds,

            Yet leaves behind it, its bright shadow, blent

            In the dark waves; even so, though we must part,

            My thoughts, dear love, shall bear you in their depths,

            For you are all my glory and my sun!”

 

            “Alas!” she answered, –– “GOD in heaven forbid!

            For look you, Mark, –– already, though the sun

            Is scarcely hid, the image of the moon

            Sleeps in the fickle waters:” and she stole

            Her hand in his, and looked into his face,

            Whispering, –– “Mark, shall it be thus with you?”

 

            A year was spent: another winter passed,

            And April smiled again across the land,

            Hanging the boughs with blossom, and the earth

(p. 26)

            Stood queenly, robed in loveliness and crowned

            With all the golden glories of the Spring.

 

            Filled were the woods with music, and the air

            Was sweet with perfume; bright-eyed daffodils

            Peered from the meadow grass; the butterflies

            Burst their dark prison chrysalids, and soared

            With untried wings into the joyous light.

            And homeward from the sunny far-off south,

            Came back the swallows, and the woodlands thrilled

            With newly wakened carols; earth and heaven

            Together laughed and sang for very joy

            That spring was come, and winter was no more.

 

            Mark Anderson was gone, and Ellinor

            Sat with his sister in the cliff-built house

            That had been his, –– (but it was Hester’s now,

            For they were orphans,) –– and again the sun

            Set in the sea, and through the open door

            Streamed in the rosy westward light, and fell

            Askant the threshold, flooding all the room.

 

            “O, Hester, what a glorious sunset, –– look

            How red the clouds are, –– how the breakers flame

            Along the shingle! I remember well

            It was an evening, just as bright as this,

            When Mark and I sat last upon the cliff,

            The day before he sailed; –– a year agone:

(p. 27)

            A year, ah me! how slowly time goes by!

            And there has been no letter for so long!”

 

            “Nelly, I had a letter yesterday.”

            “A letter! –– and from Mark? –– and not for me?

            What none for me? no message? –– not a word?

            Why do you grow so white, and turn your eyes

            So strangely on me? Sweet, what have I said?

            Something is wrong. –– I know! I know it all!

            That letter, Hester, –– it was not from him,

            A stranger wrote it, –– nay, –– for I am strong,

            And I can bear to hear it, –– Mark is dead!”

 

            “Not dead! not that; O Nelly, would to heaven ––”

            “Not dead! O GOD, what then? –– no, do not speak,

            I read it in your face, –– and mine own heart

            Tells me at last the evil day has come.

            He wrote, Mark wrote himself, –– but not to me.

            I could have borne it, had it been but death,

            For death can part indeed, but not estrange.

            Have I guessed rightly? –– Hester, Hester, speak!”

 

            “O, Nelly, can you bear it? GOD is good,

            And we are weak and foolish in our grief;

            And sometimes, Nelly, when we think it least,

            GOD stands beside us, watching us, –– and yet

            Like Mary Magdalen, we know Him not,

(p. 28)

            Because our eyes like hers are dimmed with tears,

            And we are blind with our own bitterness.

 

            “Ay, darling, lay your head upon my breast,

            And put your hand in mine, that I may know

            You love me still. Ah, me! and did I say

            Mark was not dead? Ay, he is dead to you,

            For lie has found himself a wife, abroad,

            And you may never think on him again.”

 

            Then fell a sudden hush upon the room,

            A silence that was strange and terrible,

            Like a great shadow, and the sun went down

            And twilight fell around, and they were left

            Together in the gloaming, all alone.

 

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