"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered,
Pointing to the prison old,
With its walls so dark and gloomy-
Walls so dark, and damp, and cold—
"I've a lover in that prison,
Doomed this very night to die,
At the ringing of the curfew,
And no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset";
And her face grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers,
"Curfew must not ring tonight."
"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton—
Every word pierced her young heart
Like a thousand gleaming arrows,
Like a deadly poisoned dart-
"Long, long years I've rung the curfew
From that gloomy shadowed tow'r;
Every evening, just at sunset,
It has told the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever,
Tried to do it just and right;
Now I'm old, I will not miss it;
Girl, the curfew rings tonight!"
Wild her eyes and pale her features,
Stern and white her thoughtful brow,
And within her heart's deep center,
Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges
Read, without a tear or sigh,
"At the ringing of the curfew
Basil Underwood must die."
And her breath came fast and faster,
And her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, scarcely spoken-
"Curfew must not ring tonight."
She with light step bounded forward,
Sprang within the old church door,
Left the old man coming slowly,
Paths he'd often trod before;
Not one moment paused the maiden,
But with cheek and brow aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower,
Where the bell swung to and fro;
Then she climbed the slimy ladder,
Dark, without one ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying,
"Curfew shall not ring tonight."
She has reached the topmost ladder,
O'er her hangs the great dark bell,
And the awful gloom beneath her,
Like the pathway down to hell.
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging,
"Tis the hour of curfew now;
And the sight has chilled her bosom,
Stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never!
Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs and grasps it firmly-
"Curfew shall not ring tonight.'
Out she swung, far out, the city
Seemed a tiny speck below;
There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended,
As the bell swung to and fro;
And the half-deaf sexton ringing
(Years he had not heard the bell), And he thought the twilight curfew Rang young Basil's funeral knell; Still the maiden clinging firmly, Cheek and brow so pale and white, Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating"Curfew shall not ring tonight."
It was o'er the bell ceased swaying,
And the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder,
Where for hundred years before
Human foot had not been planted;
And what she this night had done
Should be told in long years after:
As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with mellow beauty,
Aged sires with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew
Did not ring that one sad night.
O'er the distant hills came Cromwell;
Bessie saw him, and her brow,
Lately white with sickening terror,
Glows with sudden beauty now.
At his feet she told her story,
Showed her hands all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face so haggard,
With a look so sad and worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity,
Lit his eyes with misty light;
"Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell;
"Curfew shall not ring tonight."
-Rose Hartwick Thorpe
The House by the Side of the Road1
HERE are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
1 From "Dreams in Homespun," by Sam Walter Foss.
Used by special arrangement with the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Boston.
I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road.
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
It's here the race of men go by.
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong
Wise, foolish-so am I;
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
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