The Wanderer’s Return
There was a girl of fair Provence,
Fresh as a flower in May,
Who ’neath a spreading plane-tree sate,
Upon a summer-day,
And thus unto a mourner young,
In a low voice did say.
“And said I, I shall dance no more;
For though but young in years,
I knew what makes men wise and sad,—
Affection’s ceaseless fears,
And that dull aching of the heart,
Which is not eased by tears.
“But sorrow will not always last,
Heaven keeps our griefs in view;
Mine is a simple tale, dear friend,
Yet I will tell it you;
A simple tale of household grief
And household gladness too.
“My father in the battle died,
And left young children three;
My brother Marc, a noble lad,
With spirit bold and free,
More kind than common brothers are;
And Isabel and me.
“When Marc was sixteen summers old,
A tall youth and a strong,
Said he, ‘I am a worthless drone,
I do my mother wrong—
I’ll hence and win the bread I eat,
I’ve burdened you too long!’
“Oh! many tears my mother shed;
And earnestly did pray,
That he would still abide with us,
And be the house’s stay;
And be like morning to her eyes,
As he had been alway.
“But Marc he had a steadfast will,
A purpose fixed and good,
And calmly still and manfully
Her prayers he long withstood;
Until at length she gave consent,
Less willing than subdued.
“Twas on a shining morn in June,
He rose up to depart;
I dared not to my mother show
The sadness of my heart;
We said farewell, and yet farewell.
As if we could not part.
“There seemed a gloom within the house,
Although the bright sun shone;
There was a want within our hearts—
For he, the dearest one,
Had said farewell that morn of June,
And from our sight was gone.
“At length most doleful tidings came,
Sad tidings of dismay;
The plague was in the distant town,
And hundreds died each day;
We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die,
’Mid strangers far away.
“Weeks passed, and months, and not a word
Came from him to dispel
The almost certainty of death
Which o’er our spirits fell;
My mother drooped from fear, which grew
Each day more terrible.
“At length she said, ‘I’ll see my son
In life if yet he be,
Or else the turf that covers him!’
When sank she on her knee,
And clasped her hands in silent prayer
And wept most piteously.
“She went into the distant town,
Still asking everywhere
For tidings of her long lost son:—
In vain she made her prayer;
All were so full of woe themselves,
No pity had they to spare.
“To hear her tell that tale would move
The sternest heart to bleed;
She was a stranger in that place,
Yet none of her took heed;
And broken-hearted she came back,
A bowed and bruised reed.
“I marked her cheek yet paler grow,
More sunken yet her eye;
And to my soul assurance came
That she was near to die,
And hourly was my earnest prayer
Put up for her on high.
“Oh, what a woe seemed then to us,
The friendless orphan’s fate!
I dared not picture to my mind,
How drear, how desolate—
But, like a frightened thing, my heart
Shrunk from a pang so great!
“We rarely left my mother’s side,
’Twas joy to touch her hand,
And with unwearying, patient love,
Beside her couch to stand,
To wait on her, and every wish
Unspoke to understand.
“At length, oh joy beyond all joys!
When we believed him dead,
One calm and sunny afternoon,
As she lay on her bed
In quiet sleep, methought below
I heard my brother’s tread.
“I rose, and on the chamber stair,
I met himself—no other—
More beautiful than ere before,
My tall and manly brother!
I should have swooned, but for the thought
Of my poor sleeping mother.
“I cannot tell you how we met;—
I could not speak for weeping;
Nor had I words enough for joy,—
My heart within seemed leaping,
I should have screamed, but for the thought
Of her who there lay sleeping!
“That Marc returned in joy to us,
My mother dreamed e’en then,
And that prepared her for the bliss
Of meeting him again;—
To tell how great that bliss, would need
The tongue of wisest men!
“His lightest tone, his very step,
More power had they to win
My drooping mother back to life,
Than every medicine;
She rose again, like one revived
From death where he had been!
“The story that my brother told
Was long, and full of joy;
Scarce to the city had he come,
A poor and friendless boy,
Than he chanced to meet a merchant good,
From whom he asked employ.
“The merchant was a childless man;
And in my brother’s face,
Something he saw that moved his heart
To such unusual grace;
‘My son,’ said he, ‘is dead, wilt thou
Supply to me his place?’
“Even then, bound to the golden East,
His ship before him lay;
And this new bond of love was formed
There, standing on the quay;
My brother went on board with him,
And sailed that very day!
“The letter that he wrote to us,
It never reached our hand;
And while we drooped with anxious love,
He gained the Indian strand,
And saw a thousand wondrous things,
In that old, famous land.
“And many rich and curious things,
Bright bird and pearly shell;
He brought as if to realize
The tales he had to tell;
My mother smiled, and wept, and smiled,
And listened, and grew well.
“The merchant loved him more and more,
And did a father’s part;
And blessed my brother for the love
That healed his wounded heart;
He was a friend that heaven had sent
Kind mercy to impart.
“So do not droop, my gentle friend,
Though grief may burden sore;
Look up to God, for he hath love
And comfort in great store,
And ofttimes moveth human hearts
To bless us o’er and o’er.”