THE LODESTAR

From hag to hag, o'er miles of quaking moss,

Benighted, in an unknown countryside,

Among gaunt hills, the stars my only guide;

Bewildered by peat-waters, black and deep,

Wherein the mocking stars swam; spent for sleep;

O'er-wearied by long trudging; at a loss

Which way to turn for shelter from the night;

I struggled on, until, my head grown light

From utter weariness, I almost sank

To rest among the tussocks, soft and dank,

Drowsing, half-dazed, and murmuring: it were best

To stray no further: but, to lie at rest,

Beneath the cold, white stars, for evermore:

When, suddenly, I came across

A runnel oozing from the moss;

And knew that, if I followed where it led,

‘ Twould bring me to a valley, in the end,

Where there'd be houses, and, perhaps, a bed.

And so, the little runnel was my friend;

And as I walked beside its path, at first

It kept a friendly silence; then it burst

Into a friendly singing, as it rambled,

Among big boulders, down a craggy steep,

‘ Mid bracken, nigh breast-deep,

Through which I scrambled,

Half-blind and numb for sleep,

Until it seemed that I could strive no more:

When, startled by a startled sheep,

Looking down, I saw a track —

A stony trackway, dimly white,

Disappearing in the night,

Across a waste of heather, burnt and black.

And so, I took it, mumbling o'er and o'er,

In witlessness of weariness,

And featherheaded foolishness:

A track must lead, at sometime, to a door.

And, trudging to this senseless tune,

That kept on drumming in my head,

I followed where the pathway led;

But, all too soon,

It left the ling, and nigh was lost

Among the bent that glimmered grey

About my sore-bewildered way:

But when, at length, it crossed

A brawling burn, I saw, afar,

A cottage window light —

A star, but no cold, heavenly star —

A warm red star of welcome in the night.

Far off, it burned upon the black hillside,

Sole star of earth in all that waste so wide:

A little human lantern in the night,

Yet, more to me than all the bright

Unfriendly stars of heaven, so cold and white.

And, as it dimly shone,

Though towards it I could only go

With stumbling step and slow,

It quickened in my heart a kindred glow;

And seemed to draw me on

That last rough mile or so,

Now seen, now hidden, when the track

Dipped down into a slack,

And all the earth again was black:

And from the unseen fern,

Grey ghost of all bewildered things,

An owl brushed by me on unrustling wings,

And gave me quite a turn,

And sent a shiver through my hair.

Then, again, more fair

Flashed the friendly light,

Beckoning through the night,

A golden, glowing square,

Growing big and clearer,

As I drew slowly nearer,

With eager, stumbling feet;

And snuffed the homely reek of peat:

And saw, above me, lone and high,

A cottage, dark against the sky —

A candle shining on the window-sill.

With thankful heart, I climbed the hill;

And stood, at last, before

The dark and unknown door,

Wondering if food and shelter lay behind,

And what the welcome I should find,

Whether kindly, or unkind:

But I had scarcely knocked, to learn my fate,

When the latch lifted, and the door swung wide

On creaking hinges; and I saw, inside,

A frail old woman, very worn and white,

Her body all atremble in the light,

Who gazed with strange, still eyes into the night,

As though she did not see me, but looked straight

Beyond me, to some unforgotten past:

And I was startled when she said at last,

With strange, still voice: “You're welcome, though you're late.”

And then, an old man, nodding in a chair,

Beside the fire, awoke with sleepy stare;

And rose in haste; and led her to a seat,

Beside the cosy hearth of glowing peat;

And muttered to me, as he took her hand:

“It's queer, it's queer, that she, to-night, should stand,

Who has not stood alone for fifteen year.

Though I heard nothing, she was quick to hear.

I must have dozed; but she has been awake,

And listening for your footstep since daybreak:

For she was certain you would come to-day;

Aye, she was sure, for all that I could say:

Talk as I might, she would not go to bed,

Till you should come. Your supper has been spread

This long while: you'll be ready for your meat.”

With that he beckoned me to take a seat

Before the table, lifting from the crook

The singing kettle; while, with far-off look,

As though she neither saw nor heard,

His wife sat gazing at the glowing peat.

So, wondering sorely, I sat down to eat;

And yet she neither spoke, nor stirred;

But in her high-backed chair sat bolt-upright,

With still grey eyes; and tumbled hair, as white

As fairy-cotton, straggling o'er her brow,

And hung in wisps about her wasted cheek.

But, when I'd finished, and drew near the fire,

She suddenly turned round to speak,

Her old eyes kindling with a tense desire.

Her words came tremblingly: “You'll tell me now

What news you bring of him, my son?” Amazed,

I met that searching and love-famished look:

And then the old man, seeing I was dazed,

Made shift to swing aside the kettle crook;

And muttered in my ear:

“John Netherton, his name:” and as I gazed

Into the peat that broke in clear blue flame,

Remembrance flashed upon me with the name;

And I slipped back in memory twenty year —

Back to the fo'c' sle of a villainous boat;

And once again in that hot hell I lay,

Watching the smoky lantern duck and sway,

As though in steamy stench it kept afloat...

The fiery fangs of fever at my throat;

And my poor broken arm, ill-set,

A bar of white-hot iron at my side:

And, as I lay, with staring eyes pricked wide,

Throughout eternities of agony,

I saw a big, black shadow stoop o'er me;

And felt a cool hand touch my brow, and wet

My cracking lips: and sank in healing sleep:

And when I rose from that unfathomed deep,

I saw the youngest of that rascal crew

Beside my bunk; and heard his name; and knew

‘ Twas he who'd brought me ease: but, soon, ashore,

We parted; and I never saw him more;

Though, some while after, in another place,

I heard he'd perished in a drunken brawl...

And now the old man touched me, to recall

My wandering thoughts; and breathed again the name

And I looked up into the mother's face

That burned before me with grey eyes aflame.

And so I told her how I'd met her son;

And of the kindly things that he had done.

And as I spoke her quivering spirit drank

The news that it had thirsted for so long;

And for a flashing moment gay and strong

Life flamed in her old eyes, then slowly sank.

“And he was happy when you saw him last?”

She asked: and I was glad to answer, “Yes.”

Then all sat dreaming without stir or sound,

As gradually she sank into the past,

With eyes that looked beyond all happiness,

Beyond all earthly trouble and distress,

Into some other world than ours. The thread

That long had held the straining life earthbound

Was loosed at last: her eyes grew dark: her head

Drooped slowly on her breast; and she was dead.

The old man at her side spoke not a word,

As we arose, and bore her to the bed;

And laid her on the clean, white quilt at rest

With calm hands folded on her quiet breast.

And, hour by hour, he hardly even stirred,

Crouching beside me in the ingle-seat;

And staring, staring at the still red glow:

But, only when the fire was burning low,

He rose to bring fresh peat;

And muttered with dull voice and slow:

“This fire has ne'er burned out through all these years —

Not since the hearthstone first was set —

And that is nigh two hundred year ago.

My father's father built this house; and I...

I thought my son...” and then he gave a sigh;

And as he stooped, his wizened cheek was wet

With slowly-trickling tears.

And now he hearkened, while an owl's keen cry

Sang through the silence, as it fluttered nigh

The cottage-window, dazzled by the light,

Then back, with fainter hootings, into night.

But, when the fresh peats broke into a blaze,

He watched it with a steady, dry-eyed gaze;

And spoke once more: “And he, dead, too!

You did not tell her; but I knew... I knew!”

And now came all the tale of their distress:

Their only son, in wanton waywardness,

Had left them, nearly thirty year ago;

And they had never had a word from him

In all that time... the reckless blow

Of his unkindness struck his mother low...

Her hair, as ruddy as the fern

In late September by a moorland burn,

Had shrivelled rimy-white

In one short summer's night:

And they had looked, and looked for his return...

His mother set for him at every meal,

And kept his bed well-aired... the knife and fork

I'd used were John's... but, as all hope grew dim,

She sickened, dwindling feebler every day:

Though, when it seemed that she must pass away,

She grew more confident that, ere she passed,

A stranger would bring news to her, at last,

Of her lost son. “And when I woke in bed

Beside her, as the dawn was burning red,

She turned to me, with sleepless eyes, and said:

‘ The news will come, to-day.’”

He spoke no more: and silent in my seat,

With burning eyes upon the burning peat,

I pondered on this strangest of strange things

That had befallen in my vagrant life:

And how, at last, my idle wanderings

Had brought me to this old man and his wife.

And as I brooded o'er the blaze,

I thought with awe of that steadfast desire

Which, unto me unknown,

Had drawn me through long years, by such strange ways,

From that dark fo'c' sle to this cottage-fire.

And now, at last, quite spent, I dropped asleep:

And slumbered long and deep:

And when I waked, the peats were smouldering white

Upon the white hearthstone:

And over heath and bent dawn kindled bright

Beyond dark ridges in a rosy fleece:

While from the little window morning light

Fell on her face, made holy with the peace

That passeth understanding; and was shed

In tender beams upon the low-bowed head

Of that old man, forlorn beside the bed.