Poems by William Dean Howells Part 3

But wanders through the lonesome rooms, Where harsh the astonished cricket calls, And, from the hollows of the walls Vanis.h.i.+ng, start unshapen glooms;

And lingers yet, and cannot come Out of the drear and desolate place, So full of ruin's solemn grace, And haunted with the ghost of home.

BUBBLES.

I.

I stood on the brink in childhood, And watched the bubbles go From the rock-fretted, sunny ripple To the smoother tide below;

And over the white creek-bottom, Under them every one, Went golden stars in the water, All luminous with the sun.

But the bubbles broke on the surface, And under, the stars of gold Broke; and the hurrying water Flowed onward, swift and cold.

II.

I stood on the brink in manhood, And it came to my weary brain, And my heart, so dull and heavy After the years of pain,--

That every hollowest bubble Which over my life had pa.s.sed Still into its deeper current Some heavenly gleam had cast;

That, however I mocked it gayly, And guessed at its hollowness, Still shone, with each bursting bubble, One star in my soul the less.

LOST BELIEFS.

One after one they left us; The sweet birds out of our b.r.e.a.s.t.s Went flying away in the morning: Will they come again to their nests?

Will they come again at nightfall, With G.o.d's breath in their song?

Noon is fierce with the heats of summer, And summer days are long!

O my Life, with thy upward liftings, Thy downward-striking roots, Ripening out of thy tender blossoms But hard and bitter fruits!--

In thy boughs there is no shelter For the birds to seek again.

The desolate nest is broken And torn with storms and rain!

LOUIS LEBEAU'S CONVERSION.

Yesterday, while I moved with the languid crowd on the Riva, Musing with idle eyes on the wide lagoons and the islands, And on the dim-seen seaward glimmering sails in the distance, Where the azure haze, like a vision of Indian-Summer, Haunted the dreamy sky of the soft Venetian December,-- While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather, Breathing air that was full of Old World sadness and beauty Into my thought came this story of free, wild life in Ohio, When the land was new, and yet by the Beautiful River Dwelt the pioneers and Indian hunters and boatmen.

Pealed from the campanili, responding from island to island, Bells of that ancient faith whose incense and solemn devotions Rise from a hundred shrines in the broken heart of the city; But in my revery heard I only the pa.s.sionate voices Of the people that sang in the virgin heart of the forest.

Autumn was in the land, and the trees were golden and crimson, And from the luminous boughs of the over-elms and the maples Tender and beautiful fell the light in the wors.h.i.+ppers' faces, Softer than lights that stream through the saints on the windows of churches, While the balsamy breath of the hemlocks and pines by the river Stole on the winds through the woodland aisles like the breath of a censer.

Loud the people sang old camp-meeting anthems that quaver Quaintly yet from lips forgetful of lips that have kissed them; Loud they sang the songs of the Sacrifice and Atonement, And of the end of the world, and the infinite terrors of Judgment:-- Songs of ineffable sorrow, and wailing, compa.s.sionate warning Unto the generations that hardened their hearts to their Savior; Songs of exultant rapture for them that confessed him and followed, Bearing his burden and yoke, enduring and entering with him Into the rest of his saints, and the endless reward of the blessed.

Loud the people sang; but through the sound of their singing Broke inarticulate cries and moans and sobs from the mourners, As the glory of G.o.d, that smote the apostle of Tarsus, Smote them and strewed them to earth like leaves in the breath of the whirlwind.

Hushed at last was the sound of the lamentation and singing; But from the distant hill the throbbing drum of the pheasant Shook with its heavy pulses the depths of the listening silence, When from his place arose a white-haired exhorter, and faltered: "Brethren and sisters in Jesus! the Lord hath heard our pet.i.tions, So that the hearts of his servants are awed and melted within them,-- Even the hearts of the wicked are touched by his infinite mercy.

All my days in this vale of tears the Lord hath been with me, He hath been good to me, he hath granted me trials and patience; But this hour hath crowned my knowledge of him and his goodness.

Truly, but that it is well this day for me to be with you, Now might I say to the Lord,--'I know thee, my G.o.d, in all fulness; Now let thy servant depart in peace to the rest thou hast promised!'"

Faltered and ceased. And now the wild and jubilant music Of the singing burst from the solemn profound of the silence, Surged in triumph, and fell, and ebbed again into silence.

Then from the group of the preachers arose the greatest among them,-- He whose days were given in youth to the praise of the Savior, He whose lips seemed touched, like the prophet's of old, from the altar, So that his words were flame, and burned to the hearts of his hearers, Quickening the dead among them, reviving the cold and the doubting.

There he charged them pray, and rest not from prayer while a sinner In the sound of their voices denied the Friend of the sinner: "Pray till the night shall fall,--till the stars are faint in the morning,-- Yea, till the sun himself be faint in that glory and brightness, Faint in the light which shall dawn in mercy for penitent sinners."

Kneeling, he led them in prayer; and the quick and sobbing responses Spake how their souls were moved with the might and the grace of the Spirit.

Then while the converts recounted how G.o.d had chastened and saved them,-- Children, whose golden locks yet shone with the lingering effulgence Of the touches of Him who blessed little children forever; Old men, whose yearning eyes were dimmed with the far-streaming brightness Seen through the opening gates in the heart of the heavenly city,-- Stealthily through the harking woods the lengthening shadows Chased the wild things to their nests, and the twilight died into darkness.

Now the four great pyres that were placed there to light the encampment, High on platforms raised above the people, were kindled.

Flaming aloof, as it were the pillar by night in the Desert Fell their crimson light on the lifted orbs of the preachers, Fell on the withered brows of the old men, and Israel's mothers, Fell on the bloom of youth, and the earnest devotion of manhood, Fell on the anguish and hope in the tearful eyes of the mourners.

Flaming aloof, it stirred the sleep of the luminous maples With warm summer-dreams, and faint, luxurious languor.

Near the four great pyres the people closed in a circle, In their midst the mourners, and, praying with them, the exhorters, And on the skirts of the circle the unrepentant and scorners,-- Ever fewer and sadder, and drawn to the place of the mourners, One after one, by the prayers and tears of the brethren and sisters, And by the Spirit of G.o.d, that was mightily striving within them, Till at the last alone stood Louis Lebeau, unconverted.

Louis Lebeau, the boatman, the trapper, the hunter, the fighter, From the unlucky French of Gallipolis he descended, Heir to Old World want and New World love of adventure.

Vague was the life he led, and vague and grotesque were the rumors Through which he loomed on the people,--the hero of mythical hearsay, Quick of hand and of heart, impatient, generous, Western, Taking the thought of the young in secret love and in envy.

Not less the elders shook their heads and held him for outcast, Reprobate, roving, unG.o.dly, infidel, worse than a Papist, With his whispered fame of lawless exploits at St. Louis, Wild affrays and loves with the half-breeds out on the Osage, Brawls at New Orleans, and all the towns on the rivers, All the G.o.dless towns of the many-ruffianed rivers.

Only she who loved him the best of all, in her loving Knew him the best of all, and other than that of the rumors.

Daily she prayed for him, with conscious and tender effusion, That the Lord would convert him. But when her father forbade him Unto her thought, she denied him, and likewise held him for outcast, Turned her eyes when they met, and would not speak, though her heart broke.

Bitter and brief his logic that reasoned from wrong unto error: "This is their praying and singing," he said, "that makes you reject me,-- You that were kind to me once. But I think my fathers' religion, With a light heart in the breast and a friendly priest to absolve one, Better than all these conversions that only bewilder and vex me, And that have made men so hard and women fickle and cruel.

Well, then, pray for my soul, since you would not have spoken to save me,-- Yes; for I go from these saints to my brethren and sisters, the sinners."

Spoke and went, while her faint lips fas.h.i.+oned unuttered entreaties,-- Went, and came again in a year at the time of the meeting, Haggard and wan of face, and wasted with pa.s.sion and sorrow.

Dead in his eyes was the careless smile of old, and its phantom Haunted his lips in a sneer of restless, incredulous mocking.

Day by day he came to the outer skirts of the circle, Dwelling on her, where she knelt by the white-haired exhorter, her father, With his hollow looks, and never moved from his silence.

Now, where he stood alone, the last of impenitent sinners, Weeping, old friends and comrades came to him out of the circle, And with their tears besought him to hear what the Lord had done for them.

Ever he shook them off, not roughly, nor smiled at their transports.

Then the preachers spoke and painted the terrors of Judgment, And of the bottomless pit, and the flames of h.e.l.l everlasting.

Still and dark he stood, and neither listened nor heeded; But when the fervent voice of the white-haired exhorter was lifted, Fell his brows in a scowl of fierce and scornful rejection.

"Lord, let this soul be saved!" cried the fervent voice of the old man; "For that the Shepherd rejoiceth more truly for one that hath wandered, And hath been found again, than for all the others that strayed not."

Out of the midst of the people, a woman old and decrepit, Tremulous through the light, and tremulous into the shadow, Wavered toward him with slow, uncertain paces of palsy, Laid her quivering hand on his arm and brokenly prayed him: "Louis Lebeau, I closed in death the eyes of your mother.

On my breast she died, in prayer for her fatherless children, That they might know the Lord, and follow him always, and serve him.

O, I conjure you, my son, by the name of your mother in glory, Scorn not the grace of the Lord!" As when a summer-noon's tempest Breaks in one swift gush of rain, then ceases and gathers Darker and gloomier yet on the lowering front of the heavens, So broke his mood in tears, as he soothed her, and stilled her entreaties, And so he turned again with his clouded looks to the people.

Vibrated then from the hush the accents of mournfullest pity,-- His who was gifted in speech, and the glow of the fires illumined All his pallid aspect with sudden and marvellous splendor: "Louis Lebeau," he spake, "I have known you and loved you from childhood; Still, when the others blamed you, I took your part, for I knew you.

Louis Lebeau, my brother, I thought to meet you in heaven, Hand in hand with her who is gone to heaven before us, Brothers through her dear love! I trusted to greet you and lead you Up from the brink of the River unto the gates of the City.

Lo! my years shall be few on the earth. O my brother, If I should die before you had known the mercy of Jesus, Yea, I think it would sadden the hope of glory within me!"

Neither yet had the will of the sinner yielded an answer; But from his lips there broke a cry of unspeakable anguish, Wild and fierce and shrill, as if some demon within him Bent his soul with the ultimate pangs of fiendish possession; And with the outstretched arms of bewildered imploring toward them, Death-white unto the people he turned his face from the darkness.