Part 50 (1/2)

And Ericson read.

SLEEP.

Oh, is it Death that comes To have a foretaste of the whole?

To-night the planets and the stars Will glimmer through my window-bars, But will not s.h.i.+ne upon my soul.

For I shall lie as dead, Though yet I am above the ground; All pa.s.sionless, with scarce a breath, With hands of rest and eyes of death, I shall be carried swiftly round.

Or if my life should break The idle night with doubtful gleams Through mossy arches will I go, Through arches ruinous and low, And chase the true and false in dreams.

Why should I fall asleep?

When I am still upon my bed, The moon will s.h.i.+ne, the winds will rise, And all around and through the skies The light clouds travel o'er my head.

O, busy, busy things!

Ye mock me with your ceaseless life; For all the hidden springs will flow, And all the blades of gra.s.s will grow, When I have neither peace nor strife.

And all the long night through, The restless streams will hurry by; And round the lands, with endless roar, The white waves fall upon the sh.o.r.e, And bit by bit devour the dry.

Even thus, but silently, Eternity, thy tide shall flow-- And side by side with every star Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far, An idle boat with none to row.

My senses fail with sleep; My heart beats thick; the night is noon; And faintly through its misty folds I hear a drowsy clock that holds Its converse with the waning moon.

Oh, solemn mystery!

That I should be so closely bound With neither terror nor constraint Without a murmur of complaint, And lose myself upon such ground!

'Rubbis.h.!.+' said Ericson, as he threw down the sheets, disgusted with his own work, which so often disappoints the writer, especially if he is by any chance betrayed into reading it aloud.

'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson,' returned Robert. 'Ye maunna say that.

Ye hae nae richt to lauch at honest wark, whether it be yer ain or ony ither body's. The poem noo--'

'Don't call it a poem,' interrupted Ericson. 'It's not worthy of the name.'

'I will ca' 't a poem,' persisted Robert; 'for it's a poem to me, whatever it may be to you. An' hoo I ken 'at it's a poem is jist this: it opens my een like music to something I never saw afore.'

'What is that?' asked Ericson, not sorry to be persuaded that there might after all be some merit in the productions painfully despised of himself.

'Jist this: it's only whan ye dinna want to fa' asleep 'at it luiks fearsome to ye. An' maybe the fear o' death comes i' the same way: we're feared at it 'cause we're no a'thegither ready for 't; but whan the richt time comes, it'll be as nat'ral as fa'in' asleep whan we're doonricht sleepy. Gin there be a G.o.d to ca' oor Father in heaven, I'm no thinkin' that he wad to sae mony bonny tunes pit a scraich for the hinder end. I'm thinkin', gin there be onything in 't ava--ye ken I'm no sayin', for I dinna ken--we maun jist lippen till him to dee dacent an'

bonny, an' nae sic strange awfu' fash aboot it as some fowk wad mak a religion o' expeckin'.'

Ericson looked at Robert with admiration mingled with something akin to merriment.

'One would think it was your grandfather holding forth, Robert,' he said. 'How came you to think of such things at your age?'

'I'm thinkin',' answered Robert, 'ye warna muckle aulder nor mysel' whan ye took to sic things, Mr. Ericson. But, 'deed, maybe my luckie-daddie (grandfather) pat them i' my heid, for I had a heap ado wi' his fiddle for a while. She's deid noo.'

Not understanding him, Ericson began to question, and out came the story of the violins. They talked on till the last of their coals was burnt out, and then they went to bed.