Nonfiction > E.C. Stedman & E.M. Hutchinson, eds. > A Library of American Literature > 1835–1860
Stedman and Hutchinson, comps.  A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes.  1891.
Vols. VI–VIII: Literature of the Republic, Part III., 1835–1860
The New Wife and the Old
By John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)
[Born in Haverhill, Mass., 1807. Died at Hampton Falls, N. H., 1892. From Poetical Works. 1886.]

DARK the halls, and cold the feast,—
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest:
All is over,—all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!
Blooming girl and manhood gray,        5
Autumn in the arms of May!
Hushed within and hushed without,
Dancing feet and wrestlers’ shout;
Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,        10
Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the graveyard trees;
And the great sea-waves below,
Pulse of the midnight beating slow.
From the brief dream of a bride        15
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half-uttered shriek and start,—
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?        20
Lightly from the bridal bed
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks        25
Through her lips and changing cheeks.
From the oaken mantel glowing
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror’s antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,        30
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.
Listless lies the strong man there,
Silver-streaked his careless hair;
Lips of love have left no trace        35
On that hard and haughty face;
And that forehead’s knitted thought
Love’s soft hand hath not unwrought.
“Yet,” she sighs, “he loves me well,
More than these calm lips will tell.        40
Stooping to my lowly state,
He hath made me rich and great,
And I bless him, though he be
Hard and stern to all save me!”
While she speaketh, falls the light        45
O’er her fingers small and white;
Gold and gem, and costly ring
Back the timid lustre fling,—
Love’s selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.        50
Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o’er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,        55
Cheek and lip together press.
Ha!—-that start of horror!—Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?        60
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low,
“Spare me,—spare me,—let me go!”
God have mercy!—Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them        65
Love’s fair gifts of gold and gem,
“Waken! save me!” still as death
At her side he slumbereth.
Ring and bracelet all are gone,
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;        70
But she hears a murmur low,
Full of sweetness, full of woe,
Half a sigh and half a moan:
“Fear not! give the dead her own!”
Ah!—the dead wife’s voice she knows!        75
That cold hand, whose pressure froze,
Once in warmest life had borne
Gem and band her own hath worn.
“Wake thee! wake thee!” Lo, his eyes
Open with a dull surprise.        80
In his arms the strong man folds her,
Closer to his breast he holds her;
Trembling limbs his own are meeting,
And he feels her heart’s quick beating:
“Nay, my dearest, why this fear?”        85
“Hush!” she saith, “the dead is here!”
“Nay, a dream,—an idle dream.”
But before the lamp’s pale gleam
Tremblingly her hand she raises,—
There no more the diamond blazes,        90
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,—
“Ah!” she sighs, “her hand was cold!”
Broken words of cheer he saith,
But his dark lip quivereth,
And as o’er the past he thinketh,        95
From his young wife’s arms he shrinketh;
Can those soft arms round him lie,
Underneath his dead wife’s eye?
She her fair young head can rest
Soothed and childlike on his breast,        100
And in trustful innocence
Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!
She can murmur in her thought        105
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!        110
One, who living shrank with dread
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto to whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,        115
With the dead’s unconscious power!
Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,        120
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.
And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,        125
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,
O’er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.

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