Rachel at the Well
BY an elm-tree half decayed,
In a skeleton of shade
From the bird-forsaken boughs,
With the melancholy stains
Of a century of rains,
And its quaintly mended panes,
Stands the house.
In a skeleton of shade
From the bird-forsaken boughs,
With the melancholy stains
Of a century of rains,
And its quaintly mended panes,
Stands the house.
From the modern street aloof,
It uprears its olden roof
In the sleepy summer air;
And the shadow falls across,
And the sunlight sheds a gloss
On the patches of old moss,
Here and there.
It uprears its olden roof
In the sleepy summer air;
And the shadow falls across,
And the sunlight sheds a gloss
On the patches of old moss,
Here and there.
Near the gate that guards the lane,
With its rusty hinge and chain,
Hangs, half-shut, the crippled wicket.
Lilac clumps, beyond the wall,
Grow neglected, filling all
The wild dooryard with a tall,
Tangled thicket.
With its rusty hinge and chain,
Hangs, half-shut, the crippled wicket.
Lilac clumps, beyond the wall,
Grow neglected, filling all
The wild dooryard with a tall,
Tangled thicket.
There ’s a little path between
The encroaching ranks of green ;
Then a garden, half-grown over
With striped grass and poppies red ;
There the sunt lower hangs her head ;
And you scent somewhere a bed
Of sweet clover.
The encroaching ranks of green ;
Then a garden, half-grown over
With striped grass and poppies red ;
There the sunt lower hangs her head ;
And you scent somewhere a bed
Of sweet clover.
There is fennel mixed with phlox ;
And, with pinks and hollyhocks,
Here the mistress of the place,
In her lone and widowed age,
Keeps her caraway and sage,
Immemorial heritage
Of her race.
And, with pinks and hollyhocks,
Here the mistress of the place,
In her lone and widowed age,
Keeps her caraway and sage,
Immemorial heritage
Of her race.
Midway from the darkened gable
To the battered barn and stable,
Is the well; and there, aslant,
Warped and cracked with sun and rain,
Stands the well-sweep in the lane,
On its one leg, like a crane,
Long and gaunt.
To the battered barn and stable,
Is the well; and there, aslant,
Warped and cracked with sun and rain,
Stands the well-sweep in the lane,
On its one leg, like a crane,
Long and gaunt.
In her ancient bombazine,
And her hood of faded green,
From the kitchen, on her crutch,
Comes the widow with her pail ;
In the hook she hangs the bail ;
And the well-sweep gives a wail
At her touch.
And her hood of faded green,
From the kitchen, on her crutch,
Comes the widow with her pail ;
In the hook she hangs the bail ;
And the well-sweep gives a wail
At her touch.
With a dismal, wailing creak,
Like an almost human shriek,
Down the slow sweep goes, and up
Brings the wavering pail once more ;
While in yellow pinafore
Runs her grandchild from the door,
With a cup.
Like an almost human shriek,
Down the slow sweep goes, and up
Brings the wavering pail once more ;
While in yellow pinafore
Runs her grandchild from the door,
With a cup.
Grandchild, did I say ? Behold !
Like a fleece of living gold
Just let loose from fairy-land,
Half to perfect beauty spun,
And half flying in the sun,
Making sun and shadow one,
See her stand !
Like a fleece of living gold
Just let loose from fairy-land,
Half to perfect beauty spun,
And half flying in the sun,
Making sun and shadow one,
See her stand !
In old Rachel can there be
Aught akin to such as she ?
Winter’s snow and summer’s glow !
Poor old Rachel, bent and thin,
Withered cheeks and peakèd chin,
Has outlived all other kin
Long ago.
Aught akin to such as she ?
Winter’s snow and summer’s glow !
Poor old Rachel, bent and thin,
Withered cheeks and peakèd chin,
Has outlived all other kin
Long ago.
From the curb, with many a groan,
Comes the bucket to the stone;
And the crutch is in its place ;
And now, pausing at the brink,
For the elf to dip and drink,
She, poor soul, must breathe and think
For a space.
Comes the bucket to the stone;
And the crutch is in its place ;
And now, pausing at the brink,
For the elf to dip and drink,
She, poor soul, must breathe and think
For a space.
Lo ! the cloudy years, they part
Like a morning mist ; her heart
For a moment is beguiled
By sad fancies thronging fast :
She beholds the glowing past,
Her own girlish image, glassed
In the child.
Like a morning mist ; her heart
For a moment is beguiled
By sad fancies thronging fast :
She beholds the glowing past,
Her own girlish image, glassed
In the child.
And will ever that sweet elf
Be a creature like herself,
Bowed with age and grief and care ? Can such freshness fade away
To a phantom of decay —
Golden tresses, to a gray
Ghost of hair ?
Be a creature like herself,
Bowed with age and grief and care ? Can such freshness fade away
To a phantom of decay —
Golden tresses, to a gray
Ghost of hair ?
‘T was but yesterday she saw
Her own grandam go to draw
Water, with her pail and crutch,
And she wondered to behold
One so pitifully old !
Eighty years, when all is told,
Are not much.
Her own grandam go to draw
Water, with her pail and crutch,
And she wondered to behold
One so pitifully old !
Eighty years, when all is told,
Are not much.
Like a vision of the dawn,
Youth appears, and youth is gone;
From four summers to four score
Is a dream! ,rT is ever so:
Roses come and roses go,
Roses fade and roses blow,
Evermore.
Youth appears, and youth is gone;
From four summers to four score
Is a dream! ,rT is ever so:
Roses come and roses go,
Roses fade and roses blow,
Evermore.
Ruined petals strew the walk;
Laughing buds are on the stalk;
Mighty nature is consoled.
Surging life no bounds can stay;
Beauty floods the young and gay;
Life and beauty ebb away
From the old.
Laughing buds are on the stalk;
Mighty nature is consoled.
Surging life no bounds can stay;
Beauty floods the young and gay;
Life and beauty ebb away
From the old.
We are figures on the loom:
Out of darkness, into gloom,
We but flit across the frame;
And the gnomes that toil within
Care not for the web they spin;
Ever ending, they begin
Still the same.
Out of darkness, into gloom,
We but flit across the frame;
And the gnomes that toil within
Care not for the web they spin;
Ever ending, they begin
Still the same.
While sad Rachel dimly peers
Through the glimmering film of years,
There the grandchild, all aglow,
Stooping, dipping, sees by chance
Her own merry countenance
In the water wave and glance
To and fro.
Through the glimmering film of years,
There the grandchild, all aglow,
Stooping, dipping, sees by chance
Her own merry countenance
In the water wave and glance
To and fro.
Tossing arms and gleeful scream
Startle Rachel from her dream ;
And as sunshine in dark seas
Gilds some lone and rocky isle,
On the wrinkled face the while
Rests a heavenly light, a smile
Of deep peace.
Startle Rachel from her dream ;
And as sunshine in dark seas
Gilds some lone and rocky isle,
On the wrinkled face the while
Rests a heavenly light, a smile
Of deep peace.
In her love she lives again :
Worlds may pass, if love remain,
And the soul is reconciled.
Rachel knows not age nor care,
Life and hope are everywhere,
As her heart goes out in prayer
For the child.
Little fingers drop the cup,
Which old Rachel must take up ;
Rachel, smiling, stoops with pain,
While away the maiden hies,
After birds and butterflies,
Clapping hands with happy cries,
Down the lane.
J. T. Trowbridge.