The Passing of the Storm, and Other Poems. Alfred Castner King
moment's space remained the same,
The conversation swayed and turned.
For tales were told of avalanche,
Of army scenes, of mine and ranch,
Of wily politician's snares,
Of gold excitements, smallpox scares,
Of England's debt and grizzly bears.
When all but three their stories told
Of tropic heat, or arctic cold,
The conversation dragged at length,
An interim for future strength.
Outspoke a voice: "Let Uncle Jim
Some past experience relate,
For Fate has kindly granted him,
At least, diversity of fate."
II. A CHAPTER FROM AN OLD MAN'S LIFE
As ample wreaths of curling smoke
From his time-honored meerschaum broke,
A kindly-faced, gray-bearded man
Rose up and sadly thus began,—
"You ask a tale,—well, I'll express
The reason why in manhood's prime
I left a more congenial clime
And sought this rugged wilderness."
But, gentle reader, don't expect
A tale in mongrel dialect,
For "Uncle Jim," or James T. Hale,
Who lived as anchorite or monk,
Once led the senior class at Yale,
And had his sheepskin in his trunk.
There, while the crackling flames leaped high,
And serpentine gyrations played
Around the logs of hemlock, dry,
And with the tempest seethed and swayed,
As curled the drowsy wreaths of smoke
Above his pipe, the old man spoke:
"'Twas on a day about like this,
When, fresh from youthful haunts and scenes,
I first beheld yon precipice,
And sought these gulches and ravines,
To pan, despite the frost and cold,
For shining particles of gold;
And hewed the rocker and the sluice
From out the native pine and spruce.
Arrayed in nature's pristine dress
This was indeed a wilderness.
Nor eye of eagle ever viewed
A more forbidding solitude,
Nor prospect more completely drear
Confronted hardy pioneer.
Why came I here? My simple tale
Goes back to a New England vale.
It is, though simple tale it be,
A life's unwritten tragedy:
A story, with few incidents,
But many years of penitence.
As one, for some foul crime pursued,
Doth flee, in frenzy rash and blind
To wilderness or solitude,
I fled, to leave my past behind.
I loved a maid, both fair and true,
Just where, it matters not, nor who.
For forty years, with silent tread,
Have silvered many a raven head,
Since on her wealth of auburn hair
The moonlight shimmered, soft and fair,
As where the pine and hemlock stood
And sighed in answer to the breeze,
With but the stars as witnesses,
Our troth was plighted in the wood;
A simple rustic tale in truth,
Of love and sentimental youth.
beseamed with countless scars and rents
"Beseamed with countless scars and rents
From combat with the elements."
See page 20
Love is the subtle mystery,
The charm, the esoteric spell,
Which lures the seraph from on High.
To leave the Throne of Light,—for Hell,—
And with resistless shackles binds,
In viewless thrall, the captive minds.
For who can fathom love's caprice,
Supplant her fervid wars with peace,
And passion's ardent flame command?
Or who presume to understand
And read with cabalistic art
The hieroglyphics of the heart?
Nor eye of regent, skilled to rule,
Nor sage from earth's profoundest school,
Nor erudite philosophy
On wisdom's heights, pretend to see
The fervent secrets of the breast,
Which rankle mute and unexpressed.
Nor the angelic hosts above
In their exuberance of love,
Nor demons from the pit can span
The depths of woman's love for man.
And men, of love's sweet flame bereft,
Have but the brutal instincts left.
She, too, my youthful love returned,
Each breast with throb responsive yearned,
The oracles of passion sweet,
All augured happiness complete.
But, ere the nuptial knot was bound,
A whispered rumor crept around,
A whispered rumor, such as rise
From nothing to colossal size;
Though none their origin can trace,
Nor ferret out the starting place,
Which start sometimes, in idle jest,
When knowing looks imply the rest.
The lightest rumor, or the worst,
May be discredited at first,
But oft repeated