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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9563.txt b/9563.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0819347 --- /dev/null +++ b/9563.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2607 @@ +Project Gutenberg EBook, Mabel Martin and Others, by Whittier +From Volume I., The Works of Whittier: Narrative and Legendary Poems +#8 in our series by John Greenleaf Whittier + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + + +Title: Narrative and Legendary Poems: Mabel Martin, A Harvest Idyl + From Volume I., The Works of Whittier + +Author: John Greenleaf Whittier + +Release Date: Dec, 2005 [EBook #9563] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 2, 2003] + + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, MABEL MARTIN, ETC. *** + + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + + + + + + NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY + + POEMS + + BY + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + + + + +CONTENTS: + +MABEL MARTIN: A HARVEST IDYL + PROEM + I. THE RIVER VALLEY + II. THE HUSKING + III. THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER + IV. THE CHAMPION + V. IN THE SHADOW + VI. THE BETROTHAL + +THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL +THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR +THE PREACHER +THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA +MY PLAYMATE +COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION +AMY WENTWORTH +THE COUNTESS + + + +MABEL MARTIN. + +A HARVEST IDYL. + +Susanna Martin, an aged woman of Amesbury, Mass., was tried and executed +for the alleged crime of witchcraft. Her home was in what is now known +as Pleasant Valley on the Merrimac, a little above the old Ferry way, +where, tradition says, an attempt was made to assassinate Sir Edmund +Andros on his way to Falmouth (afterward Portland) and Pemaquid, which +was frustrated by a warning timely given. Goody Martin was the only +woman hanged on the north side of the Merrimac during the dreadful +delusion. The aged wife of Judge Bradbury who lived on the other side of +the Powow River was imprisoned and would have been put to death but for +the collapse of the hideous persecution. + +The substance of the poem which follows was published under the name of +The Witch's Daughter, in The National Era in 1857. In 1875 my publishers +desired to issue it with illustrations, and I then enlarged it and +otherwise altered it to its present form. The principal addition was in +the verses which constitute Part I. + + +PROEM. +I CALL the old time back: I bring my lay +in tender memory of the summer day +When, where our native river lapsed away, + +We dreamed it over, while the thrushes made +Songs of their own, and the great pine-trees laid +On warm noonlights the masses of their shade. + +And she was with us, living o'er again +Her life in ours, despite of years and pain,-- +The Autumn's brightness after latter rain. + +Beautiful in her holy peace as one +Who stands, at evening, when the work is done, +Glorified in the setting of the sun! + +Her memory makes our common landscape seem +Fairer than any of which painters dream; +Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream; + +For she whose speech was always truth's pure gold +Heard, not unpleased, its simple legends told, +And loved with us the beautiful and old. + + +I. THE RIVER VALLEY. +Across the level tableland, +A grassy, rarely trodden way, +With thinnest skirt of birchen spray + +And stunted growth of cedar, leads +To where you see the dull plain fall +Sheer off, steep-slanted, ploughed by all + +The seasons' rainfalls. On its brink +The over-leaning harebells swing, +With roots half bare the pine-trees cling; + +And, through the shadow looking west, +You see the wavering river flow +Along a vale, that far below + +Holds to the sun, the sheltering hills +And glimmering water-line between, +Broad fields of corn and meadows green, + +And fruit-bent orchards grouped around +The low brown roofs and painted eaves, +And chimney-tops half hid in leaves. + +No warmer valley hides behind +Yon wind-scourged sand-dunes, cold and bleak; +No fairer river comes to seek + +The wave-sung welcome of the sea, +Or mark the northmost border line +Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine. + +Here, ground-fast in their native fields, +Untempted by the city's gain, +The quiet farmer folk remain + +Who bear the pleasant name of Friends, +And keep their fathers' gentle ways +And simple speech of Bible days; + +In whose neat homesteads woman holds +With modest ease her equal place, +And wears upon her tranquil face + +The look of one who, merging not +Her self-hood in another's will, +Is love's and duty's handmaid still. + +Pass with me down the path that winds +Through birches to the open land, +Where, close upon the river strand + +You mark a cellar, vine o'errun, +Above whose wall of loosened stones +The sumach lifts its reddening cones, + +And the black nightshade's berries shine, +And broad, unsightly burdocks fold +The household ruin, century-old. + +Here, in the dim colonial time +Of sterner lives and gloomier faith, +A woman lived, tradition saith, + +Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy, +And witched and plagued the country-side, +Till at the hangman's hand she died. + +Sit with me while the westering day +Falls slantwise down the quiet vale, +And, haply ere yon loitering sail, + +That rounds the upper headland, falls +Below Deer Island's pines, or sees +Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees + +Rise black against the sinking sun, +My idyl of its days of old, +The valley's legend, shall be told. + + +II. THE HUSKING. +It was the pleasant harvest-time, +When cellar-bins are closely stowed, +And garrets bend beneath their load, + +And the old swallow-haunted barns,-- +Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams +Through which the rooted sunlight streams, + +And winds blow freshly in, to shake +The red plumes of the roosted cocks, +And the loose hay-mow's scented locks, + +Are filled with summer's ripened stores, +Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, +From their low scaffolds to their eaves. + +On Esek Harden's oaken floor, +With many an autumn threshing worn, +Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. + +And thither came young men and maids, +Beneath a moon that, large and low, +Lit that sweet eve of long ago. + +They took their places; some by chance, +And others by a merry voice +Or sweet smile guided to their choice. + +How pleasantly the rising moon, +Between the shadow of the mows, +Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! + +On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, +On girlhood with its solid curves +Of healthful strength and painless nerves! + +And jests went round, and laughs that made +The house-dog answer with his howl, +And kept astir the barn-yard fowl; + +And quaint old songs their fathers sung +In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, +Ere Norman William trod their shores; + +And tales, whose merry license shook +The fat sides of the Saxon thane, +Forgetful of the hovering Dane,-- + +Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known, +The charms and riddles that beguiled +On Oxus' banks the young world's child,-- + +That primal picture-speech wherein +Have youth and maid the story told, +So new in each, so dateless old, + +Recalling pastoral Ruth in her +Who waited, blushing and demure, +The red-ear's kiss of forfeiture. + +But still the sweetest voice was mute +That river-valley ever heard +From lips of maid or throat of bird; + +For Mabel Martin sat apart, +And let the hay-mow's shadow fall +Upon the loveliest face of all. + +She sat apart, as one forbid, +Who knew that none would condescend +To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. + +The seasons scarce had gone their round, +Since curious thousands thronged to see +Her mother at the gallows-tree; + +And mocked the prison-palsied limbs +That faltered on the fatal stairs, +And wan lip trembling with its prayers! + +Few questioned of the sorrowing child, +Or, when they saw the mother die; +Dreamed of the daughter's agony. + +They went up to their homes that day, +As men and Christians justified +God willed it, and the wretch had died! + +Dear God and Father of us all, +Forgive our faith in cruel lies,-- +Forgive the blindness that denies! + +Forgive thy creature when he takes, +For the all-perfect love Thou art, +Some grim creation of his heart. + +Cast down our idols, overturn +Our bloody altars; let us see +Thyself in Thy humanity! + +Young Mabel from her mother's grave +Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, +And wrestled with her fate alone; + +With love, and anger, and despair, +The phantoms of disordered sense, +The awful doubts of Providence! + +Oh, dreary broke the winter days, +And dreary fell the winter nights +When, one by one, the neighboring lights + +Went out, and human sounds grew still, +And all the phantom-peopled dark +Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark. + +And summer days were sad and long, +And sad the uncompanioned eves, +And sadder sunset-tinted leaves, + +And Indian Summer's airs of balm; +She scarcely felt the soft caress, +The beauty died of loneliness! + +The school-boys jeered her as they passed, +And, when she sought the house of prayer, +Her mother's curse pursued her there. + +And still o'er many a neighboring door +She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, +To guard against her mother's harm! + +That mother, poor and sick and lame, +Who daily, by the old arm-chair, +Folded her withered hands in prayer;-- + +Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, +Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, +When her dim eyes could read no more! + +Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept +Her faith, and trusted that her way, +So dark, would somewhere meet the day. + +And still her weary wheel went round +Day after day, with no relief +Small leisure have the poor for grief. + + +IV. THE CHAMPION. +So in the shadow Mabel sits; +Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, +Her smile is sadder than her tears. + +But cruel eyes have found her out, +And cruel lips repeat her name, +And taunt her with her mother's shame. + +She answered not with railing words, +But drew her apron o'er her face, +And, sobbing, glided from the place. + +And only pausing at the door, +Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze +Of one who, in her better days, + +Had been her warm and steady friend, +Ere yet her mother's doom had made +Even Esek Harden half afraid. + +He felt that mute appeal of tears, +And, starting, with an angry frown, +Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. + +"Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, +"This passes harmless mirth or jest; +I brook no insult to my guest. + +"She is indeed her mother's child; +But God's sweet pity ministers +Unto no whiter soul than hers. + +"Let Goody Martin rest in peace; +I never knew her harm a fly, +And witch or not, God knows--not I. + +"I know who swore her life away; +And as God lives, I'd not condemn +An Indian dog on word of them." + +The broadest lands in all the town, +The skill to guide, the power to awe, +Were Harden's; and his word was law. + +None dared withstand him to his face, +But one sly maiden spake aside +"The little witch is evil-eyed! + +"Her mother only killed a cow, +Or witched a churn or dairy-pan; +But she, forsooth, must charm a man!" + + +V. IN THE SHADOW. +Poor Mabel, homeward turning, passed +The nameless terrors of the wood, +And saw, as if a ghost pursued, + +Her shadow gliding in the moon; +The soft breath of the west-wind gave +A chill as from her mother's grave. + +How dreary seemed the silent house! +Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare +Its windows had a dead man's stare! + +And, like a gaunt and spectral hand, +The tremulous shadow of a birch +Reached out and touched the door's low porch, + +As if to lift its latch; hard by, +A sudden warning call she beard, +The night-cry of a boding bird. + +She leaned against the door; her face, +So fair, so young, so full of pain, +White in the moonlight's silver rain. + +The river, on its pebbled rim, +Made music such as childhood knew; +The door-yard tree was whispered through + +By voices such as childhood's ear +Had heard in moonlights long ago; +And through the willow-boughs below. + +She saw the rippled waters shine; +Beyond, in waves of shade and light, +The hills rolled off into the night. + +She saw and heard, but over all +A sense of some transforming spell, +The shadow of her sick heart fell. + +And still across the wooded space +The harvest lights of Harden shone, +And song and jest and laugh went on. + +And he, so gentle, true, and strong, +Of men the bravest and the best, +Had he, too, scorned her with the rest? + +She strove to drown her sense of wrong, +And, in her old and simple way, +To teach her bitter heart to pray. + +Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith, +Grew to a low, despairing cry +Of utter misery: "Let me die! + +"Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, +And hide me where the cruel speech +And mocking finger may not reach! + +"I dare not breathe my mother's name +A daughter's right I dare not crave +To weep above her unblest grave! + +"Let me not live until my heart, +With few to pity, and with none +To love me, hardens into stone. + +"O God! have mercy on Thy child, +Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, +And take me ere I lose it all!" + +A shadow on the moonlight fell, +And murmuring wind and wave became +A voice whose burden was her name. + + +VI. THE BETROTHAL. +Had then God heard her? Had He sent +His angel down? In flesh and blood, +Before her Esek Harden stood! + +He laid his hand upon her arm +"Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; +Who scoffs at you must scoff at me. + +"You know rough Esek Harden well; +And if he seems no suitor gay, +And if his hair is touched with gray, + +"The maiden grown shall never find +His heart less warm than when she smiled, +Upon his knees, a little child!" + +Her tears of grief were tears of joy, +As, folded in his strong embrace, +She looked in Esek Harden's face. + +"O truest friend of all'" she said, +"God bless you for your kindly thought, +And make me worthy of my lot!" + +He led her forth, and, blent in one, +Beside their happy pathway ran +The shadows of the maid and man. + +He led her through his dewy fields, +To where the swinging lanterns glowed, +And through the doors the huskers showed. + +"Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said, +"I'm weary of this lonely life; +In Mabel see my chosen wife! + +"She greets you kindly, one and all; +The past is past, and all offence +Falls harmless from her innocence. + +"Henceforth she stands no more alone; +You know what Esek Harden is;-- +He brooks no wrong to him or his. + +"Now let the merriest tales be told, +And let the sweetest songs be sung +That ever made the old heart young! + +"For now the lost has found a home; +And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, +As all the household joys return!" + +Oh, pleasantly the harvest-moon, +Between the shadow of the mows, +Looked on them through the great elm--boughs! + +On Mabel's curls of golden hair, +On Esek's shaggy strength it fell; +And the wind whispered, "It is well!" + + + + +THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. + +The prose version of this prophecy is to be found in Sewall's The New +Heaven upon the New Earth, 1697, quoted in Joshua Coffin's History of +Newbury. Judge Sewall's father, Henry Sewall, was one of the pioneers +of Newbury. + +UP and down the village streets +Strange are the forms my fancy meets, +For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid, +And through the veil of a closed lid +The ancient worthies I see again +I hear the tap of the elder's cane, +And his awful periwig I see, +And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. +Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, +His black cap hiding his whitened hair, +Walks the Judge of the great Assize, +Samuel Sewall the good and wise. +His face with lines of firmness wrought, +He wears the look of a man unbought, +Who swears to his hurt and changes not; +Yet, touched and softened nevertheless +With the grace of Christian gentleness, +The face that a child would climb to kiss! +True and tender and brave and just, +That man might honor and woman trust. + +Touching and sad, a tale is told, +Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old, +Of the fast which the good man lifelong kept to +With a haunting sorrow that never slept, +As the circling year brought round the time +Of an error that left the sting of crime, +When he sat on the bench of the witchcraft courts, +With the laws of Moses and Hale's Reports, +And spake, in the name of both, the word +That gave the witch's neck to the cord, +And piled the oaken planks that pressed +The feeble life from the warlock's breast! +All the day long, from dawn to dawn, +His door was bolted, his curtain drawn; +No foot on his silent threshold trod, +No eye looked on him save that of God, +As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms +Of penitent tears, and prayers, and psalms, +And, with precious proofs from the sacred word +Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord, +His faith confirmed and his trust renewed +That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued, +Might be washed away in the mingled flood +Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood! + +Green forever the memory be +Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, +Whom even his errors glorified, +Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side +By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide I +Honor and praise to the Puritan +Who the halting step of his age outran, +And, seeing the infinite worth of man +In the priceless gift the Father gave, +In the infinite love that stooped to save, +Dared not brand his brother a slave +"Who doth such wrong," he was wont to say, +In his own quaint, picture-loving way, +"Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade +Which God shall cast down upon his head!" + +Widely as heaven and hell, contrast +That brave old jurist of the past +And the cunning trickster and knave of courts +Who the holy features of Truth distorts, +Ruling as right the will of the strong, +Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong; +Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak +Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek; +Scoffing aside at party's nod +Order of nature and law of God; +For whose dabbled ermine respect were waste, +Reverence folly, and awe misplaced; +Justice of whom 't were vain to seek +As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik! +Oh, leave the wretch to his bribes and sins; +Let him rot in the web of lies he spins! +To the saintly soul of the early day, +To the Christian judge, let us turn and say +"Praise and thanks for an honest man!-- +Glory to God for the Puritan!" + +I see, far southward, this quiet day, +The hills of Newbury rolling away, +With the many tints of the season gay, +Dreamily blending in autumn mist +Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. +Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, +Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, +A stone's toss over the narrow sound. +Inland, as far as the eye can go, +The hills curve round like a bended bow; +A silver arrow from out them sprung, +I see the shine of the Quasycung; +And, round and round, over valley and hill, +Old roads winding, as old roads will, +Here to a ferry, and there to a mill; +And glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves, +Through green elm arches and maple leaves,-- +Old homesteads sacred to all that can +Gladden or sadden the heart of man, +Over whose thresholds of oak and stone +Life and Death have come and gone +There pictured tiles in the fireplace show, +Great beams sag from the ceiling low, +The dresser glitters with polished wares, +The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs, +And the low, broad chimney shows the crack +By the earthquake made a century back. +Up from their midst springs the village spire +With the crest of its cock in the sun afire; +Beyond are orchards and planting lands, +And great salt marshes and glimmering sands, +And, where north and south the coast-lines run, +The blink of the sea in breeze and sun! + +I see it all like a chart unrolled, +But my thoughts are full of the past and old, +I hear the tales of my boyhood told; +And the shadows and shapes of early days +Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, +With measured movement and rhythmic chime +Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. +I think of the old man wise and good +Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, +(A poet who never measured rhyme, +A seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) +And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, +With his boyhood's love, on his native town, +Where, written, as if on its hills and plains, +His burden of prophecy yet remains, +For the voices of wood, and wave, and wind +To read in the ear of the musing mind:-- + +"As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast +As God appointed, shall keep its post; +As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep +Of Merrimac River, or sturgeon leap; +As long as pickerel swift and slim, +Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim; +As long as the annual sea-fowl know +Their time to come and their time to go; +As long as cattle shall roam at will +The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill; +As long as sheep shall look from the side +Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, +And Parker River, and salt-sea tide; +As long as a wandering pigeon shall search +The fields below from his white-oak perch, +When the barley-harvest is ripe and shorn, +And the dry husks fall from the standing corn; +As long as Nature shall not grow old, +Nor drop her work from her doting hold, +And her care for the Indian corn forget, +And the yellow rows in pairs to set;-- +So long shall Christians here be born, +Grow up and ripen as God's sweet corn!-- +By the beak of bird, by the breath of frost, +Shall never a holy ear be lost, +But, husked by Death in the Planter's sight, +Be sown again in the fields of light!" + +The Island still is purple with plums, +Up the river the salmon comes, +The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds +On hillside berries and marish seeds,-- +All the beautiful signs remain, +From spring-time sowing to autumn rain +The good man's vision returns again! +And let us hope, as well we can, +That the Silent Angel who garners man +May find some grain as of old lie found +In the human cornfield ripe and sound, +And the Lord of the Harvest deign to own +The precious seed by the fathers sown! +1859. + + + + +THE RED RIPER VOYAGEUR. + +OUT and in the river is winding +The links of its long, red chain, +Through belts of dusky pine-land +And gusty leagues of plain. + +Only, at times, a smoke-wreath +With the drifting cloud-rack joins,-- +The smoke of the hunting-lodges +Of the wild Assiniboins. + +Drearily blows the north-wind +From the land of ice and snow; +The eyes that look are weary, +And heavy the hands that row. + +And with one foot on the water, +And one upon the shore, +The Angel of Shadow gives warning +That day shall be no more. + +Is it the clang of wild-geese? +Is it the Indian's yell, +That lends to the voice of the north-wind +The tones of a far-off bell? + +The voyageur smiles as he listens +To the sound that grows apace; +Well he knows the vesper ringing +Of the bells of St. Boniface. + +The bells of the Roman Mission, +That call from their turrets twain, +To the boatman on the river, +To the hunter on the plain! + +Even so in our mortal journey +The bitter north-winds blow, +And thus upon life's Red River +Our hearts, as oarsmen, row. + +And when the Angel of Shadow +Rests his feet on wave and shore, +And our eyes grow dim with watching +And our hearts faint at the oar, + +Happy is he who heareth +The signal of his release +In the bells of the Holy City, +The chimes of eternal peace! +1859 + + + + +THE PREACHER. + +George Whitefield, the celebrated preacher, died at Newburyport in 1770, +and was buried under the church which has since borne his name. + +ITS windows flashing to the sky, +Beneath a thousand roofs of brown, +Far down the vale, my friend and I +Beheld the old and quiet town; +The ghostly sails that out at sea +Flapped their white wings of mystery; +The beaches glimmering in the sun, +And the low wooded capes that run +Into the sea-mist north and south; +The sand-bluffs at the river's mouth; +The swinging chain-bridge, and, afar, +The foam-line of the harbor-bar. + +Over the woods and meadow-lands +A crimson-tinted shadow lay, +Of clouds through which the setting day +Flung a slant glory far away. +It glittered on the wet sea-sands, +It flamed upon the city's panes, +Smote the white sails of ships that wore +Outward or in, and glided o'er +The steeples with their veering vanes! + +Awhile my friend with rapid search +O'erran the landscape. "Yonder spire +Over gray roofs, a shaft of fire; +What is it, pray?"--"The Whitefield Church! +Walled about by its basement stones, +There rest the marvellous prophet's bones." +Then as our homeward way we walked, +Of the great preacher's life we talked; +And through the mystery of our theme +The outward glory seemed to stream, +And Nature's self interpreted +The doubtful record of the dead; +And every level beam that smote +The sails upon the dark afloat +A symbol of the light became, +Which touched the shadows of our blame, +With tongues of Pentecostal flame. + +Over the roofs of the pioneers +Gathers the moss of a hundred years; +On man and his works has passed the change +Which needs must be in a century's range. +The land lies open and warm in the sun, +Anvils clamor and mill-wheels run,-- +Flocks on the hillsides, herds on the plain, +The wilderness gladdened with fruit and grain! +But the living faith of the settlers old +A dead profession their children hold; +To the lust of office and greed of trade +A stepping-stone is the altar made. + +The church, to place and power the door, +Rebukes the sin of the world no more, +Nor sees its Lord in the homeless poor. +Everywhere is the grasping hand, +And eager adding of land to land; +And earth, which seemed to the fathers meant +But as a pilgrim's wayside tent,-- +A nightly shelter to fold away +When the Lord should call at the break of day,-- +Solid and steadfast seems to be, +And Time has forgotten Eternity! + +But fresh and green from the rotting roots +Of primal forests the young growth shoots; +From the death of the old the new proceeds, +And the life of truth from the rot of creeds +On the ladder of God, which upward leads, +The steps of progress are human needs. +For His judgments still are a mighty deep, +And the eyes of His providence never sleep +When the night is darkest He gives the morn; +When the famine is sorest, the wine and corn! + +In the church of the wilderness Edwards wrought, +Shaping his creed at the forge of thought; +And with Thor's own hammer welded and bent +The iron links of his argument, +Which strove to grasp in its mighty span +The purpose of God and the fate of man +Yet faithful still, in his daily round +To the weak, and the poor, and sin-sick found, +The schoolman's lore and the casuist's art +Drew warmth and life from his fervent heart. + +Had he not seen in the solitudes +Of his deep and dark Northampton woods +A vision of love about him fall? +Not the blinding splendor which fell on Saul, +But the tenderer glory that rests on them +Who walk in the New Jerusalem, +Where never the sun nor moon are known, +But the Lord and His love are the light alone +And watching the sweet, still countenance +Of the wife of his bosom rapt in trance, +Had he not treasured each broken word +Of the mystical wonder seen and heard; +And loved the beautiful dreamer more +That thus to the desert of earth she bore +Clusters of Eshcol from Canaan's shore? + +As the barley-winnower, holding with pain +Aloft in waiting his chaff and grain, +Joyfully welcomes the far-off breeze +Sounding the pine-tree's slender keys, +So he who had waited long to hear +The sound of the Spirit drawing near, +Like that which the son of Iddo heard +When the feet of angels the myrtles stirred, +Felt the answer of prayer, at last, +As over his church the afflatus passed, +Breaking its sleep as breezes break +To sun-bright ripples a stagnant lake. + +At first a tremor of silent fear, +The creep of the flesh at danger near, +A vague foreboding and discontent, +Over the hearts of the people went. +All nature warned in sounds and signs +The wind in the tops of the forest pines +In the name of the Highest called to prayer, +As the muezzin calls from the minaret stair. +Through ceiled chambers of secret sin +Sudden and strong the light shone in; +A guilty sense of his neighbor's needs +Startled the man of title-deeds; +The trembling hand of the worldling shook +The dust of years from the Holy Book; +And the psalms of David, forgotten long, +Took the place of the scoffer's song. + +The impulse spread like the outward course +Of waters moved by a central force; +The tide of spiritual life rolled down +From inland mountains to seaboard town. + +Prepared and ready the altar stands +Waiting the prophet's outstretched hands +And prayer availing, to downward call +The fiery answer in view of all. +Hearts are like wax in the furnace; who +Shall mould, and shape, and cast them anew? +Lo! by the Merrimac Whitefield stands +In the temple that never was made by hands,-- +Curtains of azure, and crystal wall, +And dome of the sunshine over all-- +A homeless pilgrim, with dubious name +Blown about on the winds of fame; +Now as an angel of blessing classed, +And now as a mad enthusiast. +Called in his youth to sound and gauge +The moral lapse of his race and age, +And, sharp as truth, the contrast draw +Of human frailty and perfect law; +Possessed by the one dread thought that lent +Its goad to his fiery temperament, +Up and down the world he went, +A John the Baptist crying, Repent! + +No perfect whole can our nature make; +Here or there the circle will break; +The orb of life as it takes the light +On one side leaves the other in night. +Never was saint so good and great +As to give no chance at St. Peter's gate +For the plea of the Devil's advocate. +So, incomplete by his being's law, +The marvellous preacher had his flaw; +With step unequal, and lame with faults, +His shade on the path of History halts. + +Wisely and well said the Eastern bard +Fear is easy, but love is hard,-- +Easy to glow with the Santon's rage, +And walk on the Meccan pilgrimage; +But he is greatest and best who can +Worship Allah by loving man. +Thus he,--to whom, in the painful stress +Of zeal on fire from its own excess, +Heaven seemed so vast and earth so small +That man was nothing, since God was all,-- +Forgot, as the best at times have done, +That the love of the Lord and of man are one. +Little to him whose feet unshod +The thorny path of the desert trod, +Careless of pain, so it led to God, +Seemed the hunger-pang and the poor man's wrong, +The weak ones trodden beneath the strong. +Should the worm be chooser?--the clay withstand +The shaping will of the potter's hand? + +In the Indian fable Arjoon hears +The scorn of a god rebuke his fears +"Spare thy pity!" Krishna saith; +"Not in thy sword is the power of death! +All is illusion,--loss but seems; +Pleasure and pain are only dreams; +Who deems he slayeth doth not kill; +Who counts as slain is living still. +Strike, nor fear thy blow is crime; +Nothing dies but the cheats of time; +Slain or slayer, small the odds +To each, immortal as Indra's gods!" + +So by Savannah's banks of shade, +The stones of his mission the preacher laid +On the heart of the negro crushed and rent, +And made of his blood the wall's cement; +Bade the slave-ship speed from coast to coast, +Fanned by the wings of the Holy Ghost; +And begged, for the love of Christ, the gold +Coined from the hearts in its groaning hold. +What could it matter, more or less +Of stripes, and hunger, and weariness? +Living or dying, bond or free, +What was time to eternity? + +Alas for the preacher's cherished schemes! +Mission and church are now but dreams; +Nor prayer nor fasting availed the plan +To honor God through the wrong of man. +Of all his labors no trace remains +Save the bondman lifting his hands in chains. +The woof he wove in the righteous warp +Of freedom-loving Oglethorpe, +Clothes with curses the goodly land, +Changes its greenness and bloom to sand; +And a century's lapse reveals once more +The slave-ship stealing to Georgia's shore. +Father of Light! how blind is he +Who sprinkles the altar he rears to Thee +With the blood and tears of humanity! + +He erred: shall we count His gifts as naught? +Was the work of God in him unwrought? +The servant may through his deafness err, +And blind may be God's messenger; +But the Errand is sure they go upon,-- +The word is spoken, the deed is done. +Was the Hebrew temple less fair and good +That Solomon bowed to gods of wood? +For his tempted heart and wandering feet, +Were the songs of David less pure and sweet? +So in light and shadow the preacher went, +God's erring and human instrument; +And the hearts of the people where he passed +Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast, +Under the spell of a voice which took +In its compass the flow of Siloa's brook, +And the mystical chime of the bells of gold +On the ephod's hem of the priest of old,-- +Now the roll of thunder, and now the awe +Of the trumpet heard in the Mount of Law. + +A solemn fear on the listening crowd +Fell like the shadow of a cloud. +The sailor reeling from out the ships +Whose masts stood thick in the river-slips +Felt the jest and the curse die on his lips. +Listened the fisherman rude and hard, +The calker rough from the builder's yard; +The man of the market left his load, +The teamster leaned on his bending goad, +The maiden, and youth beside her, felt +Their hearts in a closer union melt, +And saw the flowers of their love in bloom +Down the endless vistas of life to come. +Old age sat feebly brushing away +From his ears the scanty locks of gray; +And careless boyhood, living the free +Unconscious life of bird and tree, +Suddenly wakened to a sense +Of sin and its guilty consequence. +It was as if an angel's voice +Called the listeners up for their final choice; +As if a strong hand rent apart +The veils of sense from soul and heart, +Showing in light ineffable +The joys of heaven and woes of hell +All about in the misty air +The hills seemed kneeling in silent prayer; +The rustle of leaves, the moaning sedge, +The water's lap on its gravelled edge, +The wailing pines, and, far and faint, +The wood-dove's note of sad complaint,-- +To the solemn voice of the preacher lent +An undertone as of low lament; +And the note of the sea from its sand coast, +On the easterly wind, now heard, now lost, +Seemed the murmurous sound of the judgment host. + +Yet wise men doubted, and good men wept, +As that storm of passion above them swept, +And, comet-like, adding flame to flame, +The priests of the new Evangel came,-- +Davenport, flashing upon the crowd, +Charged like summer's electric cloud, +Now holding the listener still as death +With terrible warnings under breath, +Now shouting for joy, as if he viewed +The vision of Heaven's beatitude! +And Celtic Tennant, his long coat bound +Like a monk's with leathern girdle round, +Wild with the toss of unshorn hair, +And wringing of hands, and, eyes aglare, +Groaning under the world's despair! +Grave pastors, grieving their flocks to lose, +Prophesied to the empty pews +That gourds would wither, and mushrooms die, +And noisiest fountains run soonest dry, +Like the spring that gushed in Newbury Street, +Under the tramp of the earthquake's feet, +A silver shaft in the air and light, +For a single day, then lost in night, +Leaving only, its place to tell, +Sandy fissure and sulphurous smell. +With zeal wing-clipped and white-heat cool, +Moved by the spirit in grooves of rule, +No longer harried, and cropped, and fleeced, +Flogged by sheriff and cursed by priest, +But by wiser counsels left at ease +To settle quietly on his lees, +And, self-concentred, to count as done +The work which his fathers well begun, +In silent protest of letting alone, +The Quaker kept the way of his own,-- +A non-conductor among the wires, +With coat of asbestos proof to fires. +And quite unable to mend his pace +To catch the falling manna of grace, +He hugged the closer his little store +Of faith, and silently prayed for more. +And vague of creed and barren of rite, +But holding, as in his Master's sight, +Act and thought to the inner light, +The round of his simple duties walked, +And strove to live what the others talked. + +And who shall marvel if evil went +Step by step with the good intent, +And with love and meekness, side by side, +Lust of the flesh and spiritual pride?-- +That passionate longings and fancies vain +Set the heart on fire and crazed the brain? +That over the holy oracles +Folly sported with cap and bells? +That goodly women and learned men +Marvelling told with tongue and pen +How unweaned children chirped like birds +Texts of Scripture and solemn words, +Like the infant seers of the rocky glens +In the Puy de Dome of wild Cevennes +Or baby Lamas who pray and preach +From Tartir cradles in Buddha's speech? + +In the war which Truth or Freedom wages +With impious fraud and the wrong of ages, +Hate and malice and self-love mar +The notes of triumph with painful jar, +And the helping angels turn aside +Their sorrowing faces the shame to bide. +Never on custom's oiled grooves +The world to a higher level moves, +But grates and grinds with friction hard +On granite boulder and flinty shard. +The heart must bleed before it feels, +The pool be troubled before it heals; +Ever by losses the right must gain, +Every good have its birth of pain; +The active Virtues blush to find +The Vices wearing their badge behind, +And Graces and Charities feel the fire +Wherein the sins of the age expire; +The fiend still rends as of old he rent +The tortured body from which be went. + +But Time tests all. In the over-drift +And flow of the Nile, with its annual gift, +Who cares for the Hadji's relics sunk? +Who thinks of the drowned-out Coptic monk? +The tide that loosens the temple's stones, +And scatters the sacred ibis-bones, +Drives away from the valley-land +That Arab robber, the wandering sand, +Moistens the fields that know no rain, +Fringes the desert with belts of grain, +And bread to the sower brings again. +So the flood of emotion deep and strong +Troubled the land as it swept along, +But left a result of holier lives, +Tenderer-mothers and worthier wives. +The husband and father whose children fled +And sad wife wept when his drunken tread +Frightened peace from his roof-tree's shade, +And a rock of offence his hearthstone made, +In a strength that was not his own began +To rise from the brute's to the plane of man. +Old friends embraced, long held apart +By evil counsel and pride of heart; +And penitence saw through misty tears, +In the bow of hope on its cloud of fears, +The promise of Heaven's eternal years,-- +The peace of God for the world's annoy,-- +Beauty for ashes, and oil of joy +Under the church of Federal Street, +Under the tread of its Sabbath feet, +Walled about by its basement stones, +Lie the marvellous preacher's bones. +No saintly honors to them are shown, +No sign nor miracle have they known; +But be who passes the ancient church +Stops in the shade of its belfry-porch, +And ponders the wonderful life of him +Who lies at rest in that charnel dim. +Long shall the traveller strain his eye +From the railroad car, as it plunges by, +And the vanishing town behind him search +For the slender spire of the Whitefield Church; +And feel for one moment the ghosts of trade, +And fashion, and folly, and pleasure laid, +By the thought of that life of pure intent, +That voice of warning yet eloquent, +Of one on the errands of angels sent. +And if where he labored the flood of sin +Like a tide from the harbor-bar sets in, +And over a life of tune and sense +The church-spires lift their vain defence, +As if to scatter the bolts of God +With the points of Calvin's thunder-rod,-- +Still, as the gem of its civic crown, +Precious beyond the world's renown, +His memory hallows the ancient town! +1859. + + + + +THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA. + +In the winter of 1675-76, the Eastern Indians, who had been making war +upon the New Hampshire settlements, were so reduced in numbers by +fighting and famine that they agreed to a peace with Major Waldron at +Dover, but the peace was broken in the fall of 1676. The famous chief, +Squando, was the principal negotiator on the part of the savages. He had +taken up the hatchet to revenge the brutal treatment of his child by +drunken white sailors, which caused its death. + +It not unfrequently happened during the Border wars that young white +children were adopted by their Indian captors, and so kindly treated +that they were unwilling to leave the free, wild life of the woods; and +in some instances they utterly refused to go back with their parents to +their old homes and civilization. + +RAZE these long blocks of brick and stone, +These huge mill-monsters overgrown; +Blot out the humbler piles as well, +Where, moved like living shuttles, dwell +The weaving genii of the bell; +Tear from the wild Cocheco's track +The dams that hold its torrents back; +And let the loud-rejoicing fall +Plunge, roaring, down its rocky wall; +And let the Indian's paddle play +On the unbridged Piscataqua! +Wide over hill and valley spread +Once more the forest, dusk and dread, +With here and there a clearing cut +From the walled shadows round it shut; +Each with its farm-house builded rude, +By English yeoman squared and hewed, +And the grim, flankered block-house bound +With bristling palisades around. +So, haply shall before thine eyes +The dusty veil of centuries rise, +The old, strange scenery overlay +The tamer pictures of to-day, +While, like the actors in a play, +Pass in their ancient guise along +The figures of my border song +What time beside Cocheco's flood +The white man and the red man stood, +With words of peace and brotherhood; +When passed the sacred calumet +From lip to lip with fire-draught wet, +And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe's smoke +Through the gray beard of Waldron broke, +And Squando's voice, in suppliant plea +For mercy, struck the haughty key +Of one who held, in any fate, +His native pride inviolate! + +"Let your ears be opened wide! +He who speaks has never lied. +Waldron of Piscataqua, +Hear what Squando has to say! + +"Squando shuts his eyes and sees, +Far off, Saco's hemlock-trees. +In his wigwam, still as stone, +Sits a woman all alone, + +"Wampum beads and birchen strands +Dropping from her careless hands, +Listening ever for the fleet +Patter of a dead child's feet! + +"When the moon a year ago +Told the flowers the time to blow, +In that lonely wigwam smiled +Menewee, our little child. + +"Ere that moon grew thin and old, +He was lying still and cold; +Sent before us, weak and small, +When the Master did not call! + +"On his little grave I lay; +Three times went and came the day, +Thrice above me blazed the noon, +Thrice upon me wept the moon. + +"In the third night-watch I heard, +Far and low, a spirit-bird; +Very mournful, very wild, +Sang the totem of my child. + +"'Menewee, poor Menewee, +Walks a path he cannot see +Let the white man's wigwam light +With its blaze his steps aright. + +"'All-uncalled, he dares not show +Empty hands to Manito +Better gifts he cannot bear +Than the scalps his slayers wear.' + +"All the while the totem sang, +Lightning blazed and thunder rang; +And a black cloud, reaching high, +Pulled the white moon from the sky. + +"I, the medicine-man, whose ear +All that spirits bear can hear,-- +I, whose eyes are wide to see +All the things that are to be,-- + +"Well I knew the dreadful signs +In the whispers of the pines, +In the river roaring loud, +In the mutter of the cloud. + +"At the breaking of the day, +From the grave I passed away; +Flowers bloomed round me, birds sang glad, +But my heart was hot and mad. + +"There is rust on Squando's knife, +From the warm, red springs of life; +On the funeral hemlock-trees +Many a scalp the totem sees. + +"Blood for blood! But evermore +Squando's heart is sad and sore; +And his poor squaw waits at home +For the feet that never come! + +"Waldron of Cocheco, hear! +Squando speaks, who laughs at fear; +Take the captives he has ta'en; +Let the land have peace again!" + +As the words died on his tongue, +Wide apart his warriors swung; +Parted, at the sign he gave, +Right and left, like Egypt's wave. + +And, like Israel passing free +Through the prophet-charmed sea, +Captive mother, wife, and child +Through the dusky terror filed. + +One alone, a little maid, +Middleway her steps delayed, +Glancing, with quick, troubled sight, +Round about from red to white. + +Then his hand the Indian laid +On the little maiden's head, +Lightly from her forehead fair +Smoothing back her yellow hair. + +"Gift or favor ask I none; +What I have is all my own +Never yet the birds have sung, +Squando hath a beggar's tongue.' + +"Yet for her who waits at home, +For the dead who cannot come, +Let the little Gold-hair be +In the place of Menewee! + +"Mishanock, my little star! +Come to Saco's pines afar; +Where the sad one waits at home, +Wequashim, my moonlight, come!" + +"What!" quoth Waldron, "leave a child +Christian-born to heathens wild? +As God lives, from Satan's hand +I will pluck her as a brand!" + +"Hear me, white man!" Squando cried; +"Let the little one decide. +Wequashim, my moonlight, say, +Wilt thou go with me, or stay?" + +Slowly, sadly, half afraid, +Half regretfully, the maid +Owned the ties of blood and race,-- +Turned from Squando's pleading face. + +Not a word the Indian spoke, +But his wampum chain he broke, +And the beaded wonder hung +On that neck so fair and young. + +Silence-shod, as phantoms seem +In the marches of a dream, +Single-filed, the grim array +Through the pine-trees wound away. + +Doubting, trembling, sore amazed, +Through her tears the young child gazed. +"God preserve her!" Waldron said; +"Satan hath bewitched the maid!" + +Years went and came. At close of day +Singing came a child from play, +Tossing from her loose-locked head +Gold in sunshine, brown in shade. + +Pride was in the mother's look, +But her head she gravely shook, +And with lips that fondly smiled +Feigned to chide her truant child. + +Unabashed, the maid began +"Up and down the brook I ran, +Where, beneath the bank so steep, +Lie the spotted trout asleep. + +"'Chip!' went squirrel on the wall, +After me I heard him call, +And the cat-bird on the tree +Tried his best to mimic me. + +"Where the hemlocks grew so dark +That I stopped to look and hark, +On a log, with feather-hat, +By the path, an Indian sat. + +"Then I cried, and ran away; +But he called, and bade me stay; +And his voice was good and mild +As my mother's to her child. + +"And he took my wampum chain, +Looked and looked it o'er again; +Gave me berries, and, beside, +On my neck a plaything tied." + +Straight the mother stooped to see +What the Indian's gift might be. +On the braid of wampum hung, +Lo! a cross of silver swung. + +Well she knew its graven sign, +Squando's bird and totem pine; +And, a mirage of the brain, +Flowed her childhood back again. + +Flashed the roof the sunshine through, +Into space the walls outgrew; +On the Indian's wigwam-mat, +Blossom-crowned, again she sat. + +Cool she felt the west-wind blow, +In her ear the pines sang low, +And, like links from out a chain, +Dropped the years of care and pain. +From the outward toil and din, +From the griefs that gnaw within, +To the freedom of the woods +Called the birds, and winds, and floods. + +Well, O painful minister! +Watch thy flock, but blame not her, +If her ear grew sharp to hear +All their voices whispering near. + +Blame her not, as to her soul +All the desert's glamour stole, +That a tear for childhood's loss +Dropped upon the Indian's cross. + +When, that night, the Book was read, +And she bowed her widowed head, +And a prayer for each loved name +Rose like incense from a flame, + +With a hope the creeds forbid +In her pitying bosom hid, +To the listening ear of Heaven +Lo! the Indian's name was given. +1860. + + + + +MY PLAYMATE. + +THE pines were dark on Ramoth hill, +Their song was soft and low; +The blossoms in the sweet May wind +Were falling like the snow. + +The blossoms drifted at our feet, +The orchard birds sang clear; +The sweetest and the saddest day +It seemed of all the year. + +For, more to me than birds or flowers, +My playmate left her home, +And took with her the laughing spring, +The music and the bloom. + +She kissed the lips of kith and kin, +She laid her hand in mine +What more could ask the bashful boy +Who fed her father's kine? + +She left us in the bloom of May +The constant years told o'er +Their seasons with as sweet May morns, +But she came back no more. + +I walk, with noiseless feet, the round +Of uneventful years; +Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring +And reap the autumn ears. + +She lives where all the golden year +Her summer roses blow; +The dusky children of the sun +Before her come and go. + +There haply with her jewelled hands +She smooths her silken gown,-- +No more the homespun lap wherein +I shook the walnuts down. + +The wild grapes wait us by the brook, +The brown nuts on the hill, +And still the May-day flowers make sweet +The woods of Follymill. + +The lilies blossom in the pond, +The bird builds in the tree, +The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill +The slow song of the sea. + +I wonder if she thinks of them, +And how the old time seems,-- +If ever the pines of Ramoth wood +Are sounding in her dreams. + +I see her face, I hear her voice; +Does she remember mine? +And what to her is now the boy +Who fed her father's kine? + +What cares she that the orioles build +For other eyes than ours,-- +That other hands with nuts are filled, +And other laps with flowers? + +O playmate in the golden time! +Our mossy seat is green, +Its fringing violets blossom yet, +The old trees o'er it lean. + +The winds so sweet with birch and fern +A sweeter memory blow; +And there in spring the veeries sing +The song of long ago. + +And still the pines of Ramoth wood +Are moaning like the sea,-- + +The moaning of the sea of change +Between myself and thee! +1860. + + + + +COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. + +This ballad was written on the occasion of a Horticultural Festival. +Cobbler Keezar was a noted character among the first settlers in the +valley of the Merrimac. + +THE beaver cut his timber +With patient teeth that day, +The minks were fish-wards, and the crows +Surveyors of highway,-- + +When Keezar sat on the hillside +Upon his cobbler's form, +With a pan of coals on either hand +To keep his waxed-ends warm. + +And there, in the golden weather, +He stitched and hammered and sung; +In the brook he moistened his leather, +In the pewter mug his tongue. + +Well knew the tough old Teuton +Who brewed the stoutest ale, +And he paid the goodwife's reckoning +In the coin of song and tale. + +The songs they still are singing +Who dress the hills of vine, +The tales that haunt the Brocken +And whisper down the Rhine. + +Woodsy and wild and lonesome, +The swift stream wound away, +Through birches and scarlet maples +Flashing in foam and spray,-- + +Down on the sharp-horned ledges +Plunging in steep cascade, +Tossing its white-maned waters +Against the hemlock's shade. + +Woodsy and wild and lonesome, +East and west and north and south; +Only the village of fishers +Down at the river's mouth; + +Only here and there a clearing, +With its farm-house rude and new, +And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, +Where the scanty harvest grew. + +No shout of home-bound reapers, +No vintage-song he heard, +And on the green no dancing feet +The merry violin stirred. + +"Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, +"When Nature herself is glad, +And the painted woods are laughing +At the faces so sour and sad?" + +Small heed had the careless cobbler +What sorrow of heart was theirs +Who travailed in pain with the births of God, +And planted a state with prayers,-- + +Hunting of witches and warlocks, +Smiting the heathen horde,-- +One hand on the mason's trowel, +And one on the soldier's sword. + +But give him his ale and cider, +Give him his pipe and song, +Little he cared for Church or State, +Or the balance of right and wrong. + +"T is work, work, work," he muttered,-- +"And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" +He smote on his leathern apron +With his brown and waxen palms. + +"Oh for the purple harvests +Of the days when I was young +For the merry grape-stained maidens, +And the pleasant songs they sung! + +"Oh for the breath of vineyards, +Of apples and nuts and wine +For an oar to row and a breeze to blow +Down the grand old river Rhine!" + +A tear in his blue eye glistened, +And dropped on his beard so gray. +"Old, old am I," said Keezar, +"And the Rhine flows far away!" + +But a cunning man was the cobbler; +He could call the birds from the trees, +Charm the black snake out of the ledges, +And bring back the swarming bees. + +All the virtues of herbs and metals, +All the lore of the woods, he knew, +And the arts of the Old World mingle +With the marvels of the New. + +Well he knew the tricks of magic, +And the lapstone on his knee +Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles +Or the stone of Doctor Dee.[11] + +For the mighty master Agrippa +Wrought it with spell and rhyme +From a fragment of mystic moonstone +In the tower of Nettesheim. + +To a cobbler Minnesinger +The marvellous stone gave he,-- +And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, +Who brought it over the sea. + +He held up that mystic lapstone, +He held it up like a lens, +And he counted the long years coming +Ey twenties and by tens. + +"One hundred years," quoth Keezar, +"And fifty have I told +Now open the new before me, +And shut me out the old!" + +Like a cloud of mist, the blackness +Rolled from the magic stone, +And a marvellous picture mingled +The unknown and the known. + +Still ran the stream to the river, +And river and ocean joined; +And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, +And cold north hills behind. + +But--the mighty forest was broken +By many a steepled town, +By many a white-walled farm-house, +And many a garner brown. + +Turning a score of mill-wheels, +The stream no more ran free; +White sails on the winding river, +White sails on the far-off sea. + +Below in the noisy village +The flags were floating gay, +And shone on a thousand faces +The light of a holiday. + +Swiftly the rival ploughmen +Turned the brown earth from their shares; +Here were the farmer's treasures, +There were the craftsman's wares. + +Golden the goodwife's butter, +Ruby her currant-wine; +Grand were the strutting turkeys, +Fat were the beeves and swine. + +Yellow and red were the apples, +And the ripe pears russet-brown, +And the peaches had stolen blushes +From the girls who shook them down. + +And with blooms of hill and wildwood, +That shame the toil of art, +Mingled the gorgeous blossoms +Of the garden's tropic heart. + +"What is it I see?" said Keezar +"Am I here, or ant I there? +Is it a fete at Bingen? +Do I look on Frankfort fair? + +"But where are the clowns and puppets, +And imps with horns and tail? +And where are the Rhenish flagons? +And where is the foaming ale? + +"Strange things, I know, will happen,-- +Strange things the Lord permits; +But that droughty folk should be jolly +Puzzles my poor old wits. + +"Here are smiling manly faces, +And the maiden's step is gay; +Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, +Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. + +"Here's pleasure without regretting, +And good without abuse, +The holiday and the bridal +Of beauty and of use. + +"Here's a priest and there is a Quaker, +Do the cat and dog agree? +Have they burned the stocks for ovenwood? +Have they cut down the gallows-tree? + +"Would the old folk know their children? +Would they own the graceless town, +With never a ranter to worry +And never a witch to drown?" + + +Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, +Laughed like a school-boy gay; +Tossing his arms above him, +The lapstone rolled away. + +It rolled down the rugged hillside, +It spun like a wheel bewitched, +It plunged through the leaning willows, +And into the river pitched. + +There, in the deep, dark water, +The magic stone lies still, +Under the leaning willows +In the shadow of the hill. + +But oft the idle fisher +Sits on the shadowy bank, +And his dreams make marvellous pictures +Where the wizard's lapstone sank. + +And still, in the summer twilights, +When the river seems to run +Out from the inner glory, +Warm with the melted sun, + +The weary mill-girl lingers +Beside the charmed stream, +And the sky and the golden water +Shape and color her dream. + +Air wave the sunset gardens, +The rosy signals fly; +Her homestead beckons from the cloud, +And love goes sailing by. +1861. + + + + +AMY WENTWORTH + +TO WILLIAM BRADFORD. + +As they who watch by sick-beds find relief +Unwittingly from the great stress of grief +And anxious care, in fantasies outwrought +From the hearth's embers flickering low, or caught +From whispering wind, or tread of passing feet, +Or vagrant memory calling up some sweet +Snatch of old song or romance, whence or why +They scarcely know or ask,--so, thou and I, +Nursed in the faith that Truth alone is strong +In the endurance which outwearies Wrong, +With meek persistence baffling brutal force, +And trusting God against the universe,-- +We, doomed to watch a strife we may not share +With other weapons than the patriot's prayer, +Yet owning, with full hearts and moistened eyes, +The awful beauty of self-sacrifice, +And wrung by keenest sympathy for all +Who give their loved ones for the living wall +'Twixt law and treason,--in this evil day +May haply find, through automatic play +Of pen and pencil, solace to our pain, +And hearten others with the strength we gain. +I know it has been said our times require +No play of art, nor dalliance with the lyre, +No weak essay with Fancy's chloroform +To calm the hot, mad pulses of the storm, +But the stern war-blast rather, such as sets +The battle's teeth of serried bayonets, +And pictures grim as Vernet's. Yet with these +Some softer tints may blend, and milder keys +Relieve the storm-stunned ear. Let us keep sweet, +If so we may, our hearts, even while we eat +The bitter harvest of our own device +And half a century's moral cowardice. +As Nurnberg sang while Wittenberg defied, +And Kranach painted by his Luther's side, +And through the war-march of the Puritan +The silver stream of Marvell's music ran, +So let the household melodies be sung, +The pleasant pictures on the wall be hung-- +So let us hold against the hosts of night +And slavery all our vantage-ground of light. +Let Treason boast its savagery, and shake +From its flag-folds its symbol rattlesnake, +Nurse its fine arts, lay human skins in tan, +And carve its pipe-bowls from the bones of man, +And make the tale of Fijian banquets dull +By drinking whiskey from a loyal skull,-- +But let us guard, till this sad war shall cease, +(God grant it soon!) the graceful arts of peace +No foes are conquered who the victors teach +Their vandal manners and barbaric speech. + +And while, with hearts of thankfulness, we bear +Of the great common burden our full share, +Let none upbraid us that the waves entice +Thy sea-dipped pencil, or some quaint device, +Rhythmic, and sweet, beguiles my pen away +From the sharp strifes and sorrows of to-day. +Thus, while the east-wind keen from Labrador +Sings it the leafless elms, and from the shore +Of the great sea comes the monotonous roar +Of the long-breaking surf, and all the sky +Is gray with cloud, home-bound and dull, I try +To time a simple legend to the sounds +Of winds in the woods, and waves on pebbled bounds,-- +A song for oars to chime with, such as might +Be sung by tired sea-painters, who at night +Look from their hemlock camps, by quiet cove +Or beach, moon-lighted, on the waves they love. +(So hast thou looked, when level sunset lay +On the calm bosom of some Eastern bay, +And all the spray-moist rocks and waves that rolled +Up the white sand-slopes flashed with ruddy gold.) +Something it has--a flavor of the sea, +And the sea's freedom--which reminds of thee. +Its faded picture, dimly smiling down +From the blurred fresco of the ancient town, +I have not touched with warmer tints in vain, +If, in this dark, sad year, it steals one thought +from pain. + + . . . . . . . . . . . . + + +Her fingers shame the ivory keys +They dance so light along; +The bloom upon her parted lips +Is sweeter than the song. + +O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles! +Her thoughts are not of thee; +She better loves the salted wind, +The voices of the sea. + +Her heart is like an outbound ship +That at its anchor swings; +The murmur of the stranded shell +Is in the song she sings. + +She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise, +But dreams the while of one +Who watches from his sea-blown deck +The icebergs in the sun. + +She questions all the winds that blow, +And every fog-wreath dim, +And bids the sea-birds flying north +Bear messages to him. + +She speeds them with the thanks of men +He perilled life to save, +And grateful prayers like holy oil +To smooth for him the wave. + +Brown Viking of the fishing-smack! +Fair toast of all the town!-- +The skipper's jerkin ill beseems +The lady's silken gown! + +But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth wear +For him the blush of shame +Who dares to set his manly gifts +Against her ancient name. + +The stream is brightest at its spring, +And blood is not like wine; +Nor honored less than he who heirs +Is he who founds a line. + +Full lightly shall the prize be won, +If love be Fortune's spur; +And never maiden stoops to him +Who lifts himself to her. + +Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, +With stately stairways worn +By feet of old Colonial knights +And ladies gentle-born. + +Still green about its ample porch +The English ivy twines, +Trained back to show in English oak +The herald's carven signs. + +And on her, from the wainscot old, +Ancestral faces frown,-- +And this has worn the soldier's sword, +And that the judge's gown. + +But, strong of will and proud as they, +She walks the gallery floor +As if she trod her sailor's deck +By stormy Labrador. + +The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side, +And green are Elliot's bowers; +Her garden is the pebbled beach, +The mosses are her flowers. + +She looks across the harbor-bar +To see the white gulls fly; +His greeting from the Northern sea +Is in their clanging cry. + +She hums a song, and dreams that he, +As in its romance old, +Shall homeward ride with silken sails +And masts of beaten gold! + +Oh, rank is good, and gold is fair, +And high and low mate ill; +But love has never known a law +Beyond its own sweet will! +1862. + + + + +THE COUNTESS. +TO E. W. + +I inscribed this poem to Dr. Elias Weld of Haverhill, Massachusetts, +to whose kindness I was much indebted in my boyhood. He was the one +cultivated man in the neighborhood. His small but well-chosen library +was placed at my disposal. He is the "wise old doctor" of Snow-Bound. +Count Francois de Vipart with his cousin Joseph Rochemont de Poyen came +to the United States in the early part of the present century. They took +up their residence at Rocks Village on the Merrimac, where they both +married. The wife of Count Vipart was Mary Ingalls, who as my father +remembered her was a very lovely young girl. Her wedding dress, as +described by a lady still living, was "pink satin with an overdress of +white lace, and white satin slippers." She died in less than a year +after her marriage. Her husband returned to his native country. He lies +buried in the family tomb of the Viparts at Bordeaux. + +I KNOW not, Time and Space so intervene, +Whether, still waiting with a trust serene, +Thou bearest up thy fourscore years and ten, +Or, called at last, art now Heaven's citizen; +But, here or there, a pleasant thought of thee, +Like an old friend, all day has been with me. +The shy, still boy, for whom thy kindly hand +Smoothed his hard pathway to the wonder-land +Of thought and fancy, in gray manhood yet +Keeps green the memory of his early debt. +To-day, when truth and falsehood speak their words +Through hot-lipped cannon and the teeth of swords, +Listening with quickened heart and ear intent +To each sharp clause of that stern argument, +I still can hear at times a softer note +Of the old pastoral music round me float, +While through the hot gleam of our civil strife +Looms the green mirage of a simpler life. +As, at his alien post, the sentinel +Drops the old bucket in the homestead well, +And hears old voices in the winds that toss +Above his head the live-oak's beard of moss, +So, in our trial-time, and under skies +Shadowed by swords like Islam's paradise, +I wait and watch, and let my fancy stray +To milder scenes and youth's Arcadian day; +And howsoe'er the pencil dipped in dreams +Shades the brown woods or tints the sunset streams, +The country doctor in the foreground seems, +Whose ancient sulky down the village lanes +Dragged, like a war-car, captive ills and pains. +I could not paint the scenery of my song, +Mindless of one who looked thereon so long; +Who, night and day, on duty's lonely round, +Made friends o' the woods and rocks, and knew the sound +Of each small brook, and what the hillside trees +Said to the winds that touched their leafy keys; +Who saw so keenly and so well could paint +The village-folk, with all their humors quaint, +The parson ambling on his wall-eyed roan. +Grave and erect, with white hair backward blown; +The tough old boatman, half amphibious grown; +The muttering witch-wife of the gossip's tale, +And the loud straggler levying his blackmail,-- +Old customs, habits, superstitions, fears, +All that lies buried under fifty years. +To thee, as is most fit, I bring my lay, +And, grateful, own the debt I cannot pay. + + . . . . . . . . . . + +Over the wooded northern ridge, +Between its houses brown, +To the dark tunnel of the bridge +The street comes straggling down. + +You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine, +Of gable, roof, and porch, +The tavern with its swinging sign, +The sharp horn of the church. + +The river's steel-blue crescent curves +To meet, in ebb and flow, +The single broken wharf that serves +For sloop and gundelow. + +With salt sea-scents along its shores +The heavy hay-boats crawl, +The long antennae of their oars +In lazy rise and fall. + +Along the gray abutment's wall +The idle shad-net dries; +The toll-man in his cobbler's stall +Sits smoking with closed eyes. + +You hear the pier's low undertone +Of waves that chafe and gnaw; +You start,--a skipper's horn is blown +To raise the creaking draw. + +At times a blacksmith's anvil sounds +With slow and sluggard beat, +Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds +Fakes up the staring street. + +A place for idle eyes and ears, +A cobwebbed nook of dreams; +Left by the stream whose waves are years +The stranded village seems. + +And there, like other moss and rust, +The native dweller clings, +And keeps, in uninquiring trust, +The old, dull round of things. + +The fisher drops his patient lines, +The farmer sows his grain, +Content to hear the murmuring pines +Instead of railroad-train. + +Go where, along the tangled steep +That slopes against the west, +The hamlet's buried idlers sleep +In still profounder rest. + +Throw back the locust's flowery plume, +The birch's pale-green scarf, +And break the web of brier and bloom +From name and epitaph. + +A simple muster-roll of death, +Of pomp and romance shorn, +The dry, old names that common breath +Has cheapened and outworn. + +Yet pause by one low mound, and part +The wild vines o'er it laced, +And read the words by rustic art +Upon its headstone traced. + +Haply yon white-haired villager +Of fourscore years can say +What means the noble name of her +Who sleeps with common clay. + +An exile from the Gascon land +Found refuge here and rest, +And loved, of all the village band, +Its fairest and its best. + +He knelt with her on Sabbath morns, +He worshipped through her eyes, +And on the pride that doubts and scorns +Stole in her faith's surprise. + +Her simple daily life he saw +By homeliest duties tried, +In all things by an untaught law +Of fitness justified. + +For her his rank aside he laid; +He took the hue and tone +Of lowly life and toil, and made +Her simple ways his own. + +Yet still, in gay and careless ease, +To harvest-field or dance +He brought the gentle courtesies, +The nameless grace of France. + +And she who taught him love not less +From him she loved in turn +Caught in her sweet unconsciousness +What love is quick to learn. + +Each grew to each in pleased accord, +Nor knew the gazing town +If she looked upward to her lord +Or he to her looked down. + +How sweet, when summer's day was o'er, +His violin's mirth and wail, +The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore, +The river's moonlit sail! + +Ah! life is brief, though love be long; +The altar and the bier, +The burial hymn and bridal song, +Were both in one short year! + +Her rest is quiet on the hill, +Beneath the locust's bloom +Far off her lover sleeps as still +Within his scutcheoned tomb. + +The Gascon lord, the village maid, +In death still clasp their hands; +The love that levels rank and grade +Unites their severed lands. + +What matter whose the hillside grave, +Or whose the blazoned stone? +Forever to her western wave +Shall whisper blue Garonne! + +O Love!--so hallowing every soil +That gives thy sweet flower room, +Wherever, nursed by ease or toil, +The human heart takes bloom!-- + +Plant of lost Eden, from the sod +Of sinful earth unriven, +White blossom of the trees of God +Dropped down to us from heaven! + +This tangled waste of mound and stone +Is holy for thy sale; +A sweetness which is all thy own +Breathes out from fern and brake. + +And while ancestral pride shall twine +The Gascon's tomb with flowers, +Fall sweetly here, O song of mine, +With summer's bloom and showers! + +And let the lines that severed seem +Unite again in thee, +As western wave and Gallic stream +Are mingled in one sea! +1863. + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, MABEL MARTIN, ETC *** +By John Greenleaf Whittier + +***** This file should be named 9563.txt or 9563.zip **** + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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