Classic Poem

" GOOD day, John Andrews! How d 'ye do? "
The marble-cutter lays his chisel down,
The marble chips bestud his bare arm brown;
He looks the stranger through and through:
" Good morning, sir, the same to you!
You 've rather got the best of me, young man,
Although I've lived here since the town began! "

" I read your name upon the sign,
And judge you are familiar with the dead —
Through them you gain your living, be it said;
They lay their last pence at your shrine;
Your tablet marks the human line —
And since you are the last to write their name,
I thought you'd know the living just the same.

" No matter what my name may be:
Some fifteen years ago a wayward boy,
For something wrong he 'd done, lost his employ,
Then sought his fortune on the sea, —
A doubtful venture you 'll agree;
Another fact which rather helped his going:
His mother married one not worth the knowing.

" 'T is best perhaps some lives should part!
A second father is not yours, although
A loving mother strive to make him so;
A man may hide beneath a saintly art
The meaner motives of a vicious heart:
In fact we quarreled in a month or more,
And out he drove me from my mother's door.

" This is my story, very brief;
I 've come back rather wealthy, so they say,
But find my precious mother moved away.
The cause I learned, quite past belief,
Was hunger, poverty and grief!
The man she married folks called Archer Wells; —
Sir, can you tell me where my mother dwells? "

" Sit down beside this pyramid!
Here, on the blocks where lies this costly shaft! "
By spreading out the apron of his craft
The name he chiseled there was hid.
The stranger sat as he was bid,
Half leaning on the polished marble cold,
To catch the tale the marble-cutter told:

" Go back a dozen years or so —
'T is there my story should begin, I think —
Your stepfather, you know, was given to drink!
From bad to worse some drinkers go
And stagger o'er the brink of woe —
In yonder sunken grave's neglected spot
Oblivion made his bed, unwept, forgot!

" He squandered all your mother's wealth
And left her but a legacy of debts,
Of shame, disgrace, and worse than vain regrets;
With broken heart and broken health,
By pity of the commonwealth
She gained admission to the home of fate:
My daughter found her at the poorhouse gate.

" And like the tender soul she is,
From out the shadow of the poorhouse dome,
That blessed angel led your mother home:
Our lowly roof, though humble 't is,
Was ne'er denied to one of His
Who needed shelter, lest we fail to share
In entertaining angels unaware.

" My daughter nursed her all these years
And gave her with a tender, loving care,
The choicest viands of our frugal fare.
Her winning smile, which always cheers,
Soon robbed your mother of her tears;
And oft together they have asked in prayer
The wanderer's return — and here you are!

" Excuse the pauses in my chat —
A marble-cutter's eyes get full of chips;
You'll hear the rest, sir, from my daughter's lips:
Perhaps you won't object to that;
'T was she to whom you raised your hat
In admiration as she walked apart —
A sweeter child ne'er blest a father's heart! "

The stranger clasped the hard, rough hand: —
" Go first and tell my mother I am here
And break the good news gently in her ear!
Put down these tools! Why do you stand?
Unfinished leave the work you 've planned!
Take half my wealth, — you shall not say me nay,
Nor lift a hand to work another day! "

The marble-cutter sobbed and said:
" Not till I've finished this one tribute rare —
My daughter's choosing! Raise the apron there!
You 'll not object when you have read
The name that tells you who is dead! "
And half suspecting, tremblingly he came:
There, on the marble, was his mother's name.