# The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884)/Agatha

Come with me to the mountain.
AGATHA.
COME with me to the mountain, not where rocks Soar harsh above the troops of hurrying pines, But where the earth spreads soft and rounded breasts To feed her children; where the generous hills Lift a green isle betwixt the sky and plain To keep some Old World things aloof from change. Here too 't is hill and hollow: new-born streams. With sweet enforcement, joyously compelled Like laughing children, hurry down the steeps, And make a dimpled chase athwart the stones; Pine woods are black upon the heights, the slopes
Are green with pasture, and the bearded corn Fringes the blue above the sudden ridge: A little world whose round horizon cuts This isle of hills with heaven for a sea, Save in clear moments when southwestward gleams France by the Rhine, melting anon to haze. The monks of old chose here their still retreat, . And called it by the Blessed Virgin's name, Sancta Maria, which the peasant's tongue, Speaking from out the parent's heart that turns All loved things into little things, has made Sanct Märgen—Holy little Mary, dear As all the sweet home things she smiles upon, The children and the cows, the apple-trees, The cart, the plough, all named with that caress Which feigns them little, easy to be held, Familiar to the eyes and hand and heart. What though a Queen? She puts her crown away ​And with her little Boy wears common clothes, Caring for common wants, remembering That day when good Saint Joseph left his work To marry her with humble trust sublime. The monks are gone, their shadows fall no more Tall-frocked and cowled athwart the evening fields At milking-time; their silent corridors Are turned to homes of bare-armed, aproned men, Who toil for wife and. children. But the bells, Pealing on high from two quaint convent towers, Still ring the Catholic signals, summoning To grave remembrance of the larger life That bears our own, like perishable fruit Upon its heaven-wide branches. At their sound The shepherd boy far off upon the hill, The workers with the saw and at the forge, The triple generation round the hearth— Grandames and mothers and the flute-voiced girls — Fall on their knees and send forth prayerful cries To the kind Mother with the little Boy, Who pleads for helpless men against the storm, Lightning and plagues and all terrific shapes Of power supreme. Within the prettiest hollow of these hills. Just as you enter it, upon the slope Stands a low cottage neighbored cheerily By running water, which, at farthest end Of the same hollow, turns a heavy mill, And feeds the pasture for the miller's cows, Blanchi and Nägeli, Veilchen and the rest, Matrons with faces as Griselda mild, Coming at call. And on the farthest height A little tower looks out above the pines Where mounting you will find a sanctuary Open and still; without, the silent crowd ​Of heaven-planted, incense-mingling flowers; Within, the altar where the Mother sits 'Mid votive tablets hung from far-off years By peasants succored in the peril of fire, Fever, or flood, who thought that Mary's love, Willing but not omnipotent, had stood Between their lives and that dread power which slew Their neighbor at their side. The chapel bell Will melt to gentlest music ere it reach That cottage on the slope, whose garden gate Has caught the rose-tree boughs and stands ajar; So does the door, to let the sunbeams in; For in the slanting sunbeams angels come And visit Agatha who dwells within — Old Agatha, whose cousins Kate and Nell Are housed by her in Love and Duty's name, They being feeble, with small withered wits, And she believing that the higher gift Was given to be shared. So Agatha Shares her one room, all neat on afternoons, As if some memory were sacred there And everything within the four low walls An honored relic.
One long summer's day An angel entered at the rose-hung gate, With skirts pale blue, a brow to quench the pearl, Hair soft and blonde as infants', plenteous As hers who made the wavy lengths once speak The grateful worship of a rescued soul. The angel paused before the open door To give good day. "Come in," said Agatha. I followed close, and watched and listened there. The angel was a lady, noble, young, Taught in all seemliness that fits a court, ​All lore that shapes the mind to delicate use, Yet quiet, lowly, as a meek white dove That with its presence teaches gentleness. Men called her Countess Linda; little girls In Freiburg town, orphans whom she caressed, Said Mamma Linda: yet her years were few, Her outward beauties all in budding time, Her virtues the aroma of the plant That dwells in all its being, root, stem, leaf, And waits not ripeness.
"Sit," said Agatha. Her cousins were at work in neighboring homes But yet she was not lonely; all things round Seemed filled with noiseless yet responsive life, As of a child at breast that gently clings: Not sunlight only or the breathing flowers Or the swift shadows of the birds and bees, But all the household goods, which, polished fair By hands that cherished them for service done, Shone as with glad content. The wooden beams Dark and yet friendly, easy to be reached. Bore three white crosses for a speaking sign; The walls had little pictures hung a-row, Telling the stories of Saint Ursula, And Saint Elizabeth, the lowly queen; And on the bench that served for table too, Skirting the wall to save the narrow space, There lay the Catholic books, inherited From those old times when printing still was young With stout-limbed promise, like a sturdy boy. And in the farthest corner stood the bed Where o'er the pillow hung two pictures wreathed With fresh-plucked ivy: one the Virgin's death, And one her flowering tomb, while high above
'Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench,
Close fronting the old knitter."
​She smiling bends and lets her girdle down For ladder to the soul that cannot trust In life which outlasts burial. Agatha Sat at her knitting, aged, upright, slim. And spoke her welcome with mild dignity. She kept the company of kings and queens And mitred saints who sat below the feet Of Francis with the ragged frock and wounds; And Rank for her meant Duty, various, Yet equal in its worth, done worthily. Command was service; humblest service done By willing and discerning souls was glory. Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench, Close fronting the old knitter, and they talked With sweet antiphony of young and old.
Agatha.
You like our valley, lady? I am glad You thought it well to come again. But rest — The walk is long from Master Michael's inn.
Countess Linda.
Yes, but no walk is prettier.
Agatha.
It is true: There lacks no blessing here, the waters all Have virtues like the garments of the Lord, And heal much sickness; then, the crops and cows Flourish past speaking, and the garden flowers, Pink, blue, and purple, 't is a joy to see How they yield honey for the singing bees. I would the whole world were as good a home.
Countess Linda.
And you are well off, Agatha?—your friends Left you a certain bread: is it not so?
Agatha.
Not so at all, dear lady. I had naught, Was a poor orphan; but I came to tend Here in this house, an old afflicted pair, Who wore out slowly; and the last who died, Full thirty years ago, left me this roof And all the household stuff. It was great wealth, And so I had a home for Kate and Nell.
Countess Linda.
But how, then, have you earned your daily bread These thirty years?
Agatha.
Oh, that is easy earning. We help the neighbors, and our bit and sup Is never failing: they have work for us In house and field, all sorts of odds and ends, Patching and mending, turning o'er the hay, Holding sick children—there is always work; And they are very good—the neighbors are: Weigh not our bits of work with weight and scale, But glad themselves with giving us good shares Of meat and drink; and in the big farmhouse When cloth comes home from weaving, the good wife Cuts me a piece—this very gown—and says: "Here, Agatha, you old maid, you have time To pray for Hans who is gone soldiering: The saints might help him, and they have much to do, 'T were well they were besought to think of him." She spoke half jesting, but I pray, I pray For poor young Hans. I take it much to heart That other people are worse off than I— I ease my soul with praying for them all.
Countess Linda.
That is your way of singing, Agatha; Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs, And when they reach men's ears they make men's hearts Feel the more kindly.
Agatha.
Nay, I cannot sing: My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayers Are foolish, feeble things; for Christ is good Whether I pray or not—the Virgin's heart Is kinder far than mine; and then I stop And feel I can do naught toward helping men, Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold, And I must pray again for all the world. 'T is good to me—I mean the neighbors are: To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved To go on pilgrimage the second time.
Countess Linda.
And do you mean to go on pilgrimage With all your years to carry, Agatha?
Agatha.
The years are light, dear lady: 't is my sins Are heavier than I would. And I shall go All the way to Einsiedeln with that load: I need to work it off.
Countess Linda.
What sort of sins, Dear Agatha? I think they must be small.
Agatha.
Nay, but they may be greater than I know; 'T is but dim light I see by. So I try ​All ways I know of to be cleansed and pure. I would not sink where evil spirits are. There's perfect goodness somewhere: so I strive.
Countess Linda.
You were the better for that pilgrimage You made before? The shrine is beautiful; And then you saw fresh country all the way.
Agatha.
Yes, that is true. And ever since that time The world seems greater, and the Holy Church More wonderful. The blessed pictures all, The heavenly images with books and wings, Are company to me through the day and night. The time! the time! It never seemed far back, Only to father's father and his kin That lived before him. But the time stretched out After that pilgrimage: I seemed to see Far back, and yet I knew time lay behind, As there are countries lying still behind The highest mountains, there in Switzerland. Oh, it is great to go on pilgrimage!
Countess Linda.
Perhaps some neighbors will be pilgrims too, And you can start together in a band.
Agatha.
Not from these hills: people are busy here. The beasts want tendance. One who is not missed Can go and pray for others who must work. I owe it to all neighbors, young and old; For they are good past thinking—lads and girls Given to mischief, merry naughtiness, Quiet it, as the hedgehogs smooth their spines, ​For fear of hurting poor old Agatha. 'T is pretty: why, the cherubs in the sky Look young and merry, and the angels play On citherns, lutes, and all sweet instruments. I would have young things merry. See the Lord! A little baby playing with the birds; And how the Blessed Mother smiles at him.
Countess Linda.
I think you are too happy, Agatha, To care for heaven. Earth contents you well.
Agatha.
Nay, nay, I shall be called, and I shall go Right willingly. I shall get helpless, blind, Be like an old stalk to be plucked away: The garden must be cleared for young spring plants. 'T is home beyond the grave, the most are there, All those we pray to, all the Church's lights— And poor old souls are welcome in their rags: One sees it by the pictures. Good Saint Ann, The Virgin's mother, she is very old. And had her troubles with her husband too. Poor Kate and Nell are younger far than I, But they will have this roof to cover them. I shall go willingly; and willingness Makes the yoke easy and the burden light.
Countess Linda.
When you go southward in your pilgrimage, Come to see me in Freiburg, Agatha. Where you have friends you should not go to inns.
Agatha.
Yes, I will gladly come to see you, lady, And you will give me sweet hay for a bed. ​And in the morning I shall wake betimes And start when all the birds begin to sing.
Countess Linda.
You wear your smart clothes on the pilgrimage, Such pretty clothes as all the women here Keep by them for their best: a velvet cap And collar golden-broidered? They look well On old and young alike.
Agatha.
Nay, I have none— Never had better clothes than these you see. Good clothes are pretty, but one sees them best When others wear them, and I somehow thought 'T was not worth while. I had so many things More than some neighbors, I was partly shy Of wearing better clothes than they, and now I am so old and custom is so strong 'T would hurt me sore to put on finery.
Countess Linda.
Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha. Shake hands; good-by. The sun is going down, And I must see the glory from the hill.
I stayed among those hills; and oft heard more Of Agatha. I liked to hear her name, As that of one half grandame and half saint, Uttered with reverent playfulness. The lads And younger men all called her mother, aunt, Or granny, with their pet diminutives, And bade their lasses and their brides behave Right well to one who surely made a link 'Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both: ​Not one but counted service done by her, Asking no pay save just her daily bread. At feasts and weddings, when they passed in groups Along the vale, and the good country wine, Being vocal in them, made them quire along In quaintly mingled mirth and piety, They fain must jest and play some friendly trick On three old maids; but when the moment came Always they bated breath and made their sport Gentle as feather-stroke, that Agatha Might like the waking for the love it showed. Their song made happy music 'mid the hills, For nature tuned their race to harmony, And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songs That grew from out their life, as crocuses From out the meadow's moistness. 'T was his song They oft sang, wending homeward from a feast— The song I give you. It brings in, you see. Their gentle jesting with the three old maids.
Midnight by the chapel bell! Homeward, homeward all, farewell! I with you, and you with me, Miles are short with company. Heart of Mary, bless the way, Keep us all by night and day!
Moon and stars at feast with night Now have drunk their fill of light. Home they hurry, making time Trot apace, like merry rhyme. Heart of Mary, mystic rose, Send us all a sweet repose!
​Swiftly through the wood down hill, Run till you can hear the mill Toni's ghost is wandering now, Shaped just like a snow-white cow. Heart of Mary, morning star, Ward off danger, near or far!
Toni's wagon with its load Fell and crushed him in the road 'Twixt these pine-trees. Never fear! Give a neighbor's ghost good cheer. Holy Babe, our God and Brother, Bind us fast to one another!
Hark! the mill is at its work, Now we pass beyond the murk To the hollow, where the moon Makes her silvery afternoon. Good Saint Joseph, faithful spouse. Help us all to keep our vows!
Here the three old maidens dwell, Agatha and Kate and Nell; See, the moon shines on the thatch. We will go and shake the latch. Heart of Mary, cup of joy, Give us mirth without alloy!
Hush, 't is here, no noise, sing low, Rap with gentle knuckles—so! Like the little tapping birds, On the door; then sing good words. Meek Saint Anna, old and fair, Hallow all the snow-white hair!
​Little maidens old, sweet dreams! Sleep one sleep till morning beams. Mothers ye, who help us all, Quick at hand, if ill befall. Holy Gabriel, lily-laden, Bless the aged mother-maiden!
Forward, mount the broad hillside Swift as soldiers when they ride. See the two towers how they peep, Round-capped giants, o'er the steep. Heart of Mary, by thy sorrow, Keep us upright through the morrow!
Now they rise quite suddenly Like a man from bended knee, Now Saint Märgen is in sight. Here the roads branch off—good-night. Heart of Mary, by thy grace, Give us with the saints a place!