He smiled as he ascended,smiled as he descended--The very masons trembled at his hardiness:
But he was working for his father--in his gladness,His life was full of happiness;His brave companions loved the boy Who filled their little life with joy.
They saw the sweat run down his brow,And clapped their hands,though weary he was now.
What bliss of Abel,when the day's work's o'er,And the bright stars were shining:
Unto the office he must go,And don his better clothing--Thus his poor father to deceive,who thought he went a-clerking.
He took his paper home and wrote,'midst talk with Jane so shyly,And with a twinkling eye he answered mother's looks so slyly.
Three days thus passed,and the sick man arose,Life now appeared to him a sweet repose.
On Thursday,tempting was the road;
At midday,Friday,he must walk abroad.
But,fatal Friday--God has made for sorrow.
The father,warmed up by the sun's bright ray,Hied to the work-yard,smiling by the way;He wished to thank the friend who worked for him,But saw him not--his eyes were dim--Yet he was near;and looking up,he saw no people working,No dinner-bell had struck,no workmen sure were lurking.
Oh,God!what's happened at the building yard?
A crowd collected--master,mason--as on guard.
"What's this?"the old man cried."Alas!some man has fallen!"Perhaps it was his friend!His soul with grief was burning.
He ran.Before him thronged the press of men,They tried to thrust him back again;But no;Hilaire pressed through the crowd of working men.
Oh,wretched father--man unfortunate;
The friend who saved thee was thy child--sad fate!
Now he has fallen from the ladder's head,And lies a bleeding mass,now nearly dead!
Now Hilaire uttered a most fearful cry;
The child had given his life,now he might die.
Alas!the bleeding youth Was in his death-throes,he could scarcely breathe;"Master,"he said,"I've not fulfilled my task,But,in the name of my poor mother dear,For the day lost,take father on at last."The father heard,o'erwhelmed he was with fear,Abel now saw him,felt that he was near,Inclined his head upon his breast,and praying -Hand held in hand,he smiled on him while dying.
For Hilary,his place was well preserved,His wages might perhaps be doubled.
Too late!too late!one saddened morn The sorrow of his life was gone;And the good father,with his pallid face,Went now to take another place Within the tomb,beside his much loved son.
Footnotes to THE MASON'S SON.
[1]Jasmin says,"the subject of this poem is historical,and recently took place in our neighbourhood."THE POOR MAN'S DOCTOR.
[LOU MEDICI DES PAURES.]
Dedicated to M.CANY,Physician of Toulouse.
With the permission of the Rev.Dr.J.Duncan Craig,of Glenagary,Kingston,Dublin,I adopt,with some alterations,his free translation of Jasmin's poem.
Sweet comes this April morning,its faint perfumes exhaling;Brilliant shines the sun,so crisp,so bright,so freshening;Pearl-like gleam and sparkle the dew-drops on the rose,While grey and gnarled olives droop like giants in repose.
Soundeth low,solemnly,the mid-day bell in th'air,Glideth on sadly a maiden sick with care;Her head is bent,and sobbing words she sheds with many a tear,But 'tween the chapel and the windmill another doth appear.
She laughs and plucks the lovely flowers with many a joyous bound,The other,pale and spiritless,looks upward from the ground;"Where goest thou,sweet Marianne,this lovely April day?""Beneath the elms of Agen--there lies my destined way.
"I go to seek this very day the Doctor of the Poor.[1]
Did'st thou not hear how skilfully he did my mother cure?
Behold this silver in my hand,these violets so sweet,The guerdon of his loving care--I'll lay them at his feet.
"Now,dost thou not remember,my darling Marianne,How in our lonely hut the typhus fever ran?
And we were poor,without a friend,or e'en our daily bread,And sadly then,and sorrowful,dear mother bowed her head.
"One day,the sun was shining low in lurid western sky,All ,all,our little wealth was gone,and mother yearned to die,When sudden,at the open door,a shadow crossed the way,And cheerfully a manly voice did words of comfort say:
"'Take courage,friends,your ills I know,your life I hope to save.'
'Too late!'dear mother cried;'too late!My home is in the grave;Our things are pledged,our med'cine gone,e'en bread we cannot buy.'
The doctor shudder'd,then grew pale,but sadly still drew nigh.
"No curtains had we on our bed:I marked his pallid face;Five silver crowns now forth he drew with melancholy grace--'Poor woman,take these worthless coins,suppress your bitter grief!
Don't blush;repay them when you can--these drops will give relief.'
"He left the hut,and went away;soon sleep's refreshing calm Relieved the patient he had helped--a wonder-working balm;The world now seemed to smile again,like springtide flowers so gay,While mother,brothers,and myself,incessant worked away.
"Thus,like the swallows which return with spring unto our shore,The doctor brought rejoicing back unto our vine-wreathed door;And we are happy,Isabel,and money too we've made;But why dost weep,when I can laugh?"the gentle maiden said.
"Alas!alas!dear Marianne,I weep and mourn to-day,From your house to our cottage-home the fever made its way;My father lies with ghastly face,and many a raving cry--Oh,would that Durand too might come,before the sick man die!""Dear Isabel,haste on,haste on--we'll seek his house this hour!
Come,let us run,and hasten on with all our utmost power.
He'll leave the richest palace for the poor man's humble roof--He's far from rich,except in love,of that we've had full proof!"The good God bless the noble heart that careth for the poor;Then forth the panting children speed to seek the sick man's cure;And as beneath our giant elms they pass with rapid tread,They scarcely dare to look around,or lift their weary head.
