| |
| ’TWAS a death-bed summons, and forth I went | |
| By the way of the Western Wall, so drear | |
| On that winter night, and sought a gate— | |
| The home, by Fate, | |
| Of one I had long held dear. | 5 |
| |
| And there, as I paused by her tenement, | |
| And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar, | |
| I thought of the man who had left her lone— | |
| Him who made her his own | |
| When I loved her, long before. | 10 |
| |
| The rooms within had the piteous shine | |
| The home-things wear which the housewife miss; | |
| From the stairway floated the rise and fall | |
| Of an infant’s call, | |
| Whose birth had brought her to this. | 15 |
| |
| Her life was the price she would pay for that whine— | |
| For a child by the man she did not love. | |
| “But let that rest forever,” I said, | |
| And bent my tread | |
| To the chamber up above. | 20 |
| |
| She took my hand in her thin white own, | |
| And smiled her thanks—though nigh too weak— | |
| And made them a sign to leave us there; | |
| Then faltered, ere | |
| She could bring herself to speak. | 25 |
| |
| “‘Twas to see you before I go—he’ll condone | |
| Such a natural thing now my time’s not much— | |
| When Death is so near it hustles hence | |
| All passioned sense | |
| Between woman and man as such! | 30 |
| |
| “My husband is absent. As heretofore | |
| The City detains him. But, in truth, | |
| He has not been kind…. I will speak no blame, | |
| But—the child is lame; | |
| O, I pray she may reach his ruth! | 35 |
| |
| “Forgive past days—I can say no more— | |
| Maybe if we’d wedded you’d now repine!… | |
| But I treated you ill. I was punished. Farewell! | |
| —Truth shall I tell? | |
| Would the child were yours and mine! | 40 |
| |
| “As a wife I was true. But, such my unease | |
| That, could I insert a deed back in Time, | |
| I’d make her yours, to secure your care; | |
| And the scandal bear, | |
| And the penalty for the crime!” | 45 |
| |
| —When I had left, and the swinging trees | |
| Rang above me, as lauding her candid say, | |
| Another was I. Her words were enough: | |
| Came smooth, came rough, | |
| I felt I could live my day. | 50 |
| |
| Next night she died; and her obsequies | |
| In the Field of Tombs, by the Via renowned, | |
| Had her husband’s heed. His tendance spent, | |
| I often went | |
| And pondered by her mound. | 55 |
| |
| All that year and the next year whiled, | |
| And I still went thitherward in the gloam; | |
| But the Town forgot her and her nook, | |
| And her husband took | |
| Another Love to his home. | 60 |
| |
| And the rumor flew that the lame lone child | |
| Whom she wished for its safety child of mine, | |
| Was treated ill when offspring came | |
| Of the new-made dame, | |
| And marked a more vigorous line. | 65 |
| |
| A smarter grief within me wrought | |
| Than even at loss of her so dear; | |
| Dead the being whose soul my soul suffused, | |
| Her child ill-used, | |
| I helpless to interfere! | 70 |
| |
| One eve as I stood at my spot of thought | |
| In the white-stoned Garth, brooding thus her wrong, | |
| Her husband neared; and to shun his view | |
| By her hallowed mew | |
| I went from the tombs among | 75 |
| |
| To the Cirque of the Gladiators which faced— | |
| That haggard mark of Imperial Rome, | |
| Whose Pagan echoes mock the chime | |
| Of our Christian time: | |
| It was void, and I inward clomb. | 80 |
| |
| Scarce had night the sun’s gold touch displaced | |
| From the vast Rotund and the neighboring dead | |
| When her husband followed; bowed; half-passed, | |
| With lip upcast; | |
| Then, halting, sullenly said: | 85 |
| |
| “It is noised that you visit my first wife’s tomb. | |
| Now, I gave her an honored name to bear | |
| While living, when dead. So I’ve claim to ask | |
| By what right you task | |
| My patience by vigiling there? | 90 |
| |
| “There’s decency even in death, I assume; | |
| Preserve it, sir, and keep away; | |
| For the mother of my first-born you | |
| Show mind undue! | |
| —Sir, I’ve nothing more to say.” | 95 |
| |
| A desperate stroke discerned I then— | |
| God pardon—or pardon not—the lie; | |
| She had sighed that she wished (lest the child should pine | |
| Of slights) ’twere mine, | |
| So I said: “But the father I. | 100 |
| |
| “That you thought it yours is the way of men; | |
| But I won her troth long ere your day: | |
| You learnt how, in dying, she summoned me? | |
| ’Twas in fealty. | |
| —Sir, I’ve nothing more to say, | 105 |
| |
| “Save that, if you’ll hand me my little maid, | |
| I’ll take her, and rear her, and spare you toil. | |
| Think it more than a friendly act none can; | |
| I’m a lonely man, | |
| While you’ve a large pot to boil. | 110 |
| |
| “If not, and you’ll put it to ball or blade— | |
| To-night, to-morrow night, anywhen— | |
| I’ll meet you here…. But think of it, | |
| And in season fit | |
| Let me hear from you again.” | 115 |
| |
| —Well, I went away, hoping; but nought I heard | |
| Of my stroke for the child, till there greeted me | |
| A little voice that one day came | |
| To my window-frame | |
| And babbled innocently: | 120 |
| |
| “My father who’s not my own, sends word | |
| I’m to stay here, sir, where I belong!” | |
| Next a writing came: “Since the child was the fruit | |
| Of your passions brute, | |
| Pray take her, to right a wrong.” | 125 |
| |
| And I did. And I gave the child my love, | |
| And the child loved me, and estranged us none. | |
| But compunctions loomed; for I’d harmed the dead | |
| By what I’d said | |
| For the good of the living one. | 130 |
| |
| —Yet though, God wot, I am sinner enough, | |
| And unworthy the woman who drew me so, | |
| Perhaps this wrong for her darling’s good | |
| She forgives, or would, | |
| If only she could know! | 135 |
| |
