Petronilla

Of Peter's daughter, it is said, men told, While yet she breathed, a tale as sad as life, As sweet as death; which, now she sleeps, has lent The borrower Time its lighter tints, and holds Only the shadowed outline of a grief Before our eyes. Thus much remains. She lived, Yet lived not; breathed, yet stifled; ate, but starved; The ears of life she had, but heard not; eyes, But saw not; hands, but handled neither bud Nor fruit of joy: for the great word of God, In some dim crevice of eternal thought Which he called Petronilla, had gone forth Against her--for her--call it what we may, And, bending to his will unerringly, As bends the golden feather of the grain Before the footsteps of the mailed west-wind, Since childhood she had lain upon her bed In peace and pain, nor had ever raised her body Once to its young lithe length, to view the dawn Of all her young lithe years, nor had once laid Her little feverish feet upon the face Of the cool, mocking, steadfast floor which laughed When other girls, with other thinking done Some time in Heaven about their happy names,-- Set like a song about their happy names,-- Tripped on it like a trill. As one may see Upon the hushed lips of a Sabbath-day A church door sliding softly as a smile, To let the solemn summer sunshine in To dream upon, but neither guess nor tell The dusky week-day secrets which the dome Whispers the darkened niches and the nave, Where in the purple silence which they love The marble angels sleep, or weep, or sing, (Who knoweth what they do on Monday mornings?) So slides the tale on Petronilla, left Upon a certain dull, wan day alone, Her face turned on her pillow to the room Wherein the wise and faithful met (for faith With wisdom married then; none forbid the banns Within the temple of the hearts of men), To break their bread with Peter, and discourse Of all the sacred, secret things; the hopes, The fears, the solemn ecstasies, and dreams, And deeds, which held life in the arms of death, For the first namers of the name of Christ. And lying there, at rest, adream, asleep, She scarce could tell her state, so dim it was, Such lifeless reflex of the hueless day, A voice struck Petronilla,--Peter's voice, Solemn and mighty as a lonely wave Upon an untrod shore. "O brethren, hark! Ye know not what ye say; your minds are dark. O ye of little faith, I show you then! By his great power I show you. Watch with me, For he is here. Abase your heads; he lives; It is his will I do his will, and show The power of God in that he once hath lived And died, but lives to work his glory still,-- To work his wish, unargued, undisturbed, Without resistance or appeal or blame, Upon the creature which his hands have made. Were it his choice to raise yon maiden now From out the coffin of her bed, and bid Her step,--or live; it means the same,--what then? Is that too much for him to do? What now? Is that too hard? Increase your faith! Behold!" Awake, asleep, adream, or all, or none, What ailéd Petronilla? The world spun Like a frail spindle in a woman's hands. And all her breath went from her, and her sight, At the faint fancy of her father, still, Alone, alight within the room; as solemn And sad and glad as had a vision been Of a choice taper set to spend itself, And blaze and waste upon an altar's brow, Not taught nor knowing wherefore,--burning out, Since that 's a taper's nature, and enough. And faint the fancy of his face, if his It were. And faint the fancy of his voice, Which lost its way, so Petronilla thought, Or twice or thrice, before it bridged the bit Of fanciful, faint sunlight which crawled in Between his pitying, awful face and hers, And "Petronilla," sighing softly, said, And "Petronilla!" ringing cried, "Arise! "Now, in the name of Christ who lived for thee, I bid thee live, and rise, and walk!" Erect, Unaided, with a step of steel, she rose. What should she do but rise? And walked; how else? For God had said it, sent it, dropped it down, The sweetest, faintest fancy of her life. And fancying faintly how her feet dropped far Below the dizzy dancing of her eyes, Adown the listening floor; and fancying How all the rising winds crept mutely up The court, and put their arms around her neck For joy; and how for joy the sun broke through The visor which the envious day had held Across his happy face, and kissed her hair; And fancying faintly how those men shrank back, And pulled their great gray beards at sight of her, And nodded, as becometh holy men, Approvingly, at wonders, as indeed They 'd bade her walk themselves,--so musingly, As she had been a fancy of herself, She found herself live, warm and young, within The borders of the live, warm world. But still, As faintly as a fancy fell the voice Of Peter: "Serve us, daughter, at the board." And dimly as a fancy served she them, And sweetly as a fancy to and fro Across the gold net of the lightening day She passed and paused. Caught in its meshes fast; Tangled into the happy afternoon, Tangled into the sense of life and youth, Blind with the sense of motion, leap of health, And wilderness of undiscovered joy, Stood Petronilla. Down from out her hand A little platter dropped, and down upon Her hands her face dropped, broken like the ware Of earth that sprinkled all the startled floor, And down upon her knees her face and hands Fell, clinging to each other; crouching there At Peter's feet,--her father's feet,--she gave One little, little longing cry,--no more; And like the fancy of a cry,--so faint; And like the angel of a cry,--so brave. For Peter's face had lifted like the heavens, Above the presence of the holy men, Above the maiden serving in the sun, Above--God help him!--God's own princely gift, The pity which a father bears his child. And far and calm as heaven is shone his smile, And far and still as heaven is fell his voice, Yet held a cadence like a prisoned pain, As one twice-wrecked upon the same bare shore. "The Lord hath chosen Petronilla. Hearken! Whom he will choose, he chooseth: some to honor, Some to dishonor; this to be and bear, And that to dare and do; these bear his swords, And these his chains. Nay, but, O man! what then? Who art thou that shalt mould the mood of God, Or search his meaning, or defy his will? On Petronilla he will work his power. O, what is Petronilla? What am I? Nay, nay, my child, I tremble; this is wrong. Thou moanest; that is strange, for he is here To show his glory on thy young, bent head, And little smile and hands. O, lift them up Before him, while I speak the word he sent. For, by the love of him who died for thee, Commandment comes; and I must bid thee turn And lay thee down upon thy patient bed Again; for what am I, and what art thou? So turn and lay thee down. Behold it, Lord! 'T is finished, Master! Petronilla, go. God's hand is on thee, O my child; God's grace Go with thee. Brethren, see! His will is done, And shall be done upon us evermore." And there the wonder fell, so runs the tale; For Petronilla turned her dumb as death, And laid her down upon her empty bed, Where a long sunbeam warm as life had curled; And crept within it, white as sifted snow, Nor ever raised her slender length again, Nor ever dropped her foot upon the floor, Nor ever felt the winds from up the court Weave arms about her neck; nor ever found Herself entangled more within the gold Warp of the moving, merry world; nor once Again knew even the pallid happiness Which comes of serving holy men; nor felt The leap of life within her shrivelled veins. And there the legend breaks: what good or ill Struck arms or folded wings about the heart Of Petronilla; how fared she, prisoned Behind the bars of that untragic woe, The bearing of an old familiar fate From which long use has rubbed the gilding out, To which the wonted hours have set themselves So sorely they can neither smile nor sigh To think of it, but only drop the lids Across their leaden eyes for wondering What a glad chance an unworn grief must be; What solemn musings marshalled in his mind Who was the Rock on which Christ built a church Of such as love nor son nor daughter more Than him,--we know not; rude our guesses are, And rough; and mar the shady, sacred hush Which the raised fingers of the years enforce. The story slips,--an echo like the voice Of far-off, falling water yet unseen; A puzzle, like our next-door neighbor's life; A lesson which an angel on the wing Might drop, but linger not to read to us, Or mark the stint. Each heart steals forth alone A little after twilight, and takes home The leaf, the line, appointed unto it.