Asahel Croft

Of tyrants, the most fearsome class of all
Is those who, leaving goods and bodies whole,
Usurp dominion in the human soul,
And slowly kill through means unseen; of these,
What tyrant is more fierce than sad Regret?
What power stronger? save that it be Love,
Which conquers at the last; – but when Regret
Gives birth to Love – when joining hand-in-hand
They two hold sway in one unhappy breast,
What must that be? Ah, saddest fate of all,
And yet most blessed, for in the final sum
Love proves as strong as Death – but of that score,
The reader may decide. I heard this tale
From one in whom Regret and late Love strove,
A widow, whom I saw all dressed in black,
Adorning in routine display of love
A simple grave site with a single rose.
I asked her (for in truth I had been drawn
Inexorably, by her sad mystique)
The reason for her long devotion. Thus,
In broken tones, she, faltering, replied:
I knew one once, in childhood, whose soul,
Was delicate as it was strong; as reeds
That bow before the slightest breeze, and yet,
When ravaged by the fiercest gales, that snap
The mighty oaks around them, are themselves
Unbroken by the tempest – but so bowed,
So doubled o’er, storm after frightful storm,
Become irreparably disfigured, –
So he, unbroken, was through his long life
Bent among men, and wearied more than all
That still have life. His name (if you should care)
Was this: Asahel Croft. His history
I tell you know. He was a bright-eyed child
Whom nature had made more inquisitive
And tenderer than all his peers; and I,
Young Mabel Rhodes, the blacksmith’s daughter, was
His childhood friend. He loved me – ah, but now
I know he loved me! – yet I was too young,
Alas! I loved him not, but our joint friend,
A sailor’s son, whom I thought stronger, John,
More bold, more ready to confront the world,
More fearless in the face of opposition,
More stolid (I was certain at the time),
Him, only him, I loved – and Asahel,
Who never forced his way on anyone,
Said not a word. I married John La Croix,
And in the course of time, kind Providence
Gave John and me two children: Reuben first,
Then Angela – and two children more fair,
More wonderful, I never could have dreamed
Than these, my stalwart son and daughter sweet.
I never knew, for many happy years,
What came of Asahel – he did not say
(But no, he would not say, not such as he)
That he had loved me, that he could not bear
To see me wed to someone else, and so
He left. Later, I learned that he had gone
To Yale (bastion of learning!), and had made
A well-known name, as a professor learned
In all the subtlest philosophies
And speculations of the times, – that he
Was, of the whole of Yale’s famed faculty,
The most loved and the most learned – but of that,
It’s not my place to tell. My husband John
Became a carpenter, and, if I say,
(You must not disbelieve me) sure he was
The most skilled carpenter that one might meet
In all the state of Maine – and yet (O God,
Be merciful!) an upper-story fall
Took him from me – Ah, those were cruel years!
A thousand times I would have starved to death
(I should have starved to death!) – but every time
The food began to run low, when I feared
For Reuben and for Angela, my life,
My more than everything, there always came
Enough, and just enough, at just the time
We needed most. And so, for many years,
We stayed alive – but how we stayed alive,
I did not know, until they both were grown,
And I was old. One day, a messenger,
A lawyer from the city, came to me
And told me this: the famed Professor Croft
(I think you know him – he, at least, knew you)
Two Mondays past has died; and, in his will,
As in his life he sent to meet your needs
So oft, has made provision that, from now,
And on throughout your lifetime, his estate
Should care for all your needs. O Stranger! how
Shall I begin to tell the sudden flood
Of thoughts, regrets, deep fears, sharp conscience-pangs
That stabbed my soul? Him whom I had despised
As weak, unworthy of a woman’s love,
Through all his life, day after weary day,
Had labored with all strength, resolve of will,
And passion left within him, just to care
For one poor woman, who, so long ago,
Had slighted him in favor of a man
More seeming-masculine. And that is why
The grave of John, my husband, lies untouched,
But here, the grave of one I should have loved,
Asahel Croft, who died unloved and lone,
I decorate each day that I still live,
With a red rose.

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