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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/9564.txt b/9564.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b6a3f57 --- /dev/null +++ b/9564.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2314 @@ +Project Gutenberg EBook, Among the Hills and Others, by Whittier +From Volume I., The Works of Whittier: Narrative and Legendary Poems +#9 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: Among the Hills and Others + From Volume I., The Works of Whittier + +Author: John Greenleaf Whittier + +Release Date: Dec, 2005 [EBook #9564] +[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, AMONG THE HILLS, ETC. *** + + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + + + + + + NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY + + POEMS + + BY + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + + + +CONTENTS: + +AMONG THE HILLS + PRELUDE + AMONG THE HILLS + +THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL +THE TWO RABBINS +NOREMBEGA +MIRIAM +MAUD MULLER +MARY GARVIN +THE RANGER +NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON +THE SISTERS +MARGUERITE +THE ROBIN + + + + +AMONG THE HILLS + +This poem, when originally published, was dedicated to Annie Fields, +wife of the distinguished publisher, James T. Fields, of Boston, in +grateful acknowledgment of the strength and inspiration I have found in +her friendship and sympathy. The poem in its first form was entitled The +Wife: an Idyl of Bearcamp Water, and appeared in The Atlantic Monthly +for January, 1868. When I published the volume Among the Hills, in +December of the same year, I expanded the Prelude and filled out also +the outlines of the story. + + +PRELUDE. + +ALONG the roadside, like the flowers of gold +That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought, +Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod, +And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers +Hang motionless upon their upright staves. +The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind, +Vying-weary with its long flight from the south, +Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf +With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams, +Confesses it. The locust by the wall +Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm. +A single hay-cart down the dusty road +Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep +On the load's top. Against the neighboring hill, +Huddled along the stone wall's shady side, +The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift still +Defied the dog-star. Through the open door +A drowsy smell of flowers-gray heliotrope, +And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette-- +Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends +To the pervading symphony of peace. +No time is this for hands long over-worn +To task their strength; and (unto Him be praise +Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain +Of years that did the work of centuries +Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once more +Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters +Make glad their nooning underneath the elms +With tale and riddle and old snatch of song, +I lay aside grave themes, and idly turn +The leaves of memory's sketch-book, dreaming o'er +Old summer pictures of the quiet hills, +And human life, as quiet, at their feet. + +And yet not idly all. A farmer's son, +Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling +All their fine possibilities, how rich +And restful even poverty and toil +Become when beauty, harmony, and love +Sit at their humble hearth as angels sat +At evening in the patriarch's tent, when man +Makes labor noble, and his farmer's frock +The symbol of a Christian chivalry +Tender and just and generous to her +Who clothes with grace all duty; still, I know +Too well the picture has another side,-- +How wearily the grind of toil goes on +Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear +And heart are starved amidst the plenitude +Of nature, and how hard and colorless +Is life without an atmosphere. I look +Across the lapse of half a century, +And call to mind old homesteads, where no flower +Told that the spring had come, but evil weeds, +Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock in the place +Of the sweet doorway greeting of the rose +And honeysuckle, where the house walls seemed +Blistering in sun, without a tree or vine +To cast the tremulous shadow of its leaves +Across the curtainless windows, from whose panes +Fluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness. +Within, the cluttered kitchen-floor, unwashed +(Broom-clean I think they called it); the best room +Stifling with cellar damp, shut from the air +In hot midsummer, bookless, pictureless, +Save the inevitable sampler hung +Over the fireplace, or a mourning piece, +A green-haired woman, peony-cheeked, beneath +Impossible willows; the wide-throated hearth +Bristling with faded pine-boughs half concealing +The piled-up rubbish at the chimney's back; +And, in sad keeping with all things about them, +Shrill, querulous-women, sour and sullen men, +Untidy, loveless, old before their time, +With scarce a human interest save their own +Monotonous round of small economies, +Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood; +Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed, +Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet; +For them the song-sparrow and the bobolink +Sang not, nor winds made music in the leaves; +For them in vain October's holocaust +Burned, gold and crimson, over all the hills, +The sacramental mystery of the woods. +Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers, +But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent, +Saving, as shrewd economists, their souls +And winter pork with the least possible outlay +Of salt and sanctity; in daily life +Showing as little actual comprehension +Of Christian charity and love and duty, +As if the Sermon on the Mount had been +Outdated like a last year's almanac +Rich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields, +And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless, +The veriest straggler limping on his rounds, +The sun and air his sole inheritance, +Laughed at a poverty that paid its taxes, +And hugged his rags in self-complacency! + +Not such should be the homesteads of a land +Where whoso wisely wills and acts may dwell +As king and lawgiver, in broad-acred state, +With beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to make +His hour of leisure richer than a life +Of fourscore to the barons of old time, +Our yeoman should be equal to his home +Set in the fair, green valleys, purple walled, +A man to match his mountains, not to creep +Dwarfed and abased below them. I would fain +In this light way (of which I needs must own +With the knife-grinder of whom Canning sings, +"Story, God bless you! I have none to tell you!") +Invite the eye to see and heart to feel +The beauty and the joy within their reach,-- +Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes +Of nature free to all. Haply in years +That wait to take the places of our own, +Heard where some breezy balcony looks down +On happy homes, or where the lake in the moon +Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth, +In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet +Of Boaz, even this simple lay of mine +May seem the burden of a prophecy, +Finding its late fulfilment in a change +Slow as the oak's growth, lifting manhood up +Through broader culture, finer manners, love, +And reverence, to the level of the hills. + +O Golden Age, whose light is of the dawn, +And not of sunset, forward, not behind, +Flood the new heavens and earth, and with thee bring +All the old virtues, whatsoever things +Are pure and honest and of good repute, +But add thereto whatever bard has sung +Or seer has told of when in trance and dream +They saw the Happy Isles of prophecy +Let Justice hold her scale, and Truth divide +Between the right and wrong; but give the heart +The freedom of its fair inheritance; +Let the poor prisoner, cramped and starved so long, +At Nature's table feast his ear and eye +With joy and wonder; let all harmonies +Of sound, form, color, motion, wait upon +The princely guest, whether in soft attire +Of leisure clad, or the coarse frock of toil, +And, lending life to the dead form of faith, +Give human nature reverence for the sake +Of One who bore it, making it divine +With the ineffable tenderness of God; +Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer, +The heirship of an unknown destiny, +The unsolved mystery round about us, make +A man more precious than the gold of Ophir. +Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all things +Should minister, as outward types and signs +Of the eternal beauty which fulfils +The one great purpose of creation, Love, +The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven! + + . . . . . . . . . . . + +For weeks the clouds had raked the hills +And vexed the vales with raining, +And all the woods were sad with mist, +And all the brooks complaining. + +At last, a sudden night-storm tore +The mountain veils asunder, +And swept the valleys clean before +The besom of the thunder. + +Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang +Good morrow to the cotter; +And once again Chocorua's horn +Of shadow pierced the water. + +Above his broad lake Ossipee, +Once more the sunshine wearing, +Stooped, tracing on that silver shield +His grim armorial bearing. + +Clear drawn against the hard blue sky, +The peaks had winter's keenness; +And, close on autumn's frost, the vales +Had more than June's fresh greenness. + +Again the sodden forest floors +With golden lights were checkered, +Once more rejoicing leaves in wind +And sunshine danced and flickered. + +It was as if the summer's late +Atoning for it's sadness +Had borrowed every season's charm +To end its days in gladness. + +Rivers of gold-mist flowing down +From far celestial fountains,-- +The great sun flaming through the rifts +Beyond the wall of mountains. + +We paused at last where home-bound cows +Brought down the pasture's treasure, +And in the barn the rhythmic flails +Beat out a harvest measure. + +We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge, +The crow his tree-mates calling +The shadows lengthening down the slopes +About our feet were falling. + +And through them smote the level sun +In broken lines of splendor, +Touched the gray rocks and made the green +Of the shorn grass more tender. + +The maples bending o'er the gate, +Their arch of leaves just tinted +With yellow warmth, the golden glow +Of coming autumn hinted. + +Keen white between the farm-house showed, +And smiled on porch and trellis, +The fair democracy of flowers +That equals cot and palace. + +And weaving garlands for her dog, +'Twixt chidings and caresses, +A human flower of childhood shook +The sunshine from her tresses. + +Clear drawn against the hard blue sky, +The peaks had winter's keenness; +And, close on autumn's frost, the vales +Had more than June's fresh greenness. + +Again the sodden forest floors +With golden lights were checkered, +Once more rejoicing leaves in wind +And sunshine danced and flickered. + +It was as if the summer's late +Atoning for it's sadness +Had borrowed every season's charm +To end its days in gladness. + +I call to mind those banded vales +Of shadow and of shining, +Through which, my hostess at my side, +I drove in day's declining. + +We held our sideling way above +The river's whitening shallows, +By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns +Swept through and through by swallows; + +By maple orchards, belts of pine +And larches climbing darkly +The mountain slopes, and, over all, +The great peaks rising starkly. + +You should have seen that long hill-range +With gaps of brightness riven,-- +How through each pass and hollow streamed +The purpling lights of heaven,-- + +On either hand we saw the signs +Of fancy and of shrewdness, +Where taste had wound its arms of vines +Round thrift's uncomely rudeness. + +The sun-brown farmer in his frock +Shook hands, and called to Mary +Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, +White-aproned from her dairy. + +Her air, her smile, her motions, told +Of womanly completeness; +A music as of household songs +Was in her voice of sweetness. + +Not fair alone in curve and line, +But something more and better, +The secret charm eluding art, +Its spirit, not its letter;-- + +An inborn grace that nothing lacked +Of culture or appliance, +The warmth of genial courtesy, +The calm of self-reliance. + +Before her queenly womanhood +How dared our hostess utter +The paltry errand of her need +To buy her fresh-churned butter? + +She led the way with housewife pride, +Her goodly store disclosing, +Full tenderly the golden balls +With practised hands disposing. + +Then, while along the western hills +We watched the changeful glory +Of sunset, on our homeward way, +I heard her simple story. + +The early crickets sang; the stream +Plashed through my friend's narration +Her rustic patois of the hills +Lost in my free-translation. + +"More wise," she said, "than those who swarm +Our hills in middle summer, +She came, when June's first roses blow, +To greet the early comer. + +"From school and ball and rout she came, +The city's fair, pale daughter, +To drink the wine of mountain air +Beside the Bearcamp Water. + +"Her step grew firmer on the hills +That watch our homesteads over; +On cheek and lip, from summer fields, +She caught the bloom of clover. + +"For health comes sparkling in the streams +From cool Chocorua stealing +There's iron in our Northern winds; +Our pines are trees of healing. + +"She sat beneath the broad-armed elms +That skirt the mowing-meadow, +And watched the gentle west-wind weave +The grass with shine and shadow. + +"Beside her, from the summer heat +To share her grateful screening, +With forehead bared, the farmer stood, +Upon his pitchfork leaning. + +"Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face +Had nothing mean or common,-- +Strong, manly, true, the tenderness +And pride beloved of woman. + +"She looked up, glowing with the health +The country air had brought her, +And, laughing, said: 'You lack a wife, +Your mother lacks a daughter. + +"'To mend your frock and bake your bread +You do not need a lady +Be sure among these brown old homes +Is some one waiting ready,-- + +"'Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand +And cheerful heart for treasure, +Who never played with ivory keys, +Or danced the polka's measure.' + +"He bent his black brows to a frown, +He set his white teeth tightly. +''T is well,' he said, 'for one like you +To choose for me so lightly. + +"You think, because my life is rude +I take no note of sweetness +I tell you love has naught to do +With meetness or unmeetness. + +"'Itself its best excuse, it asks +No leave of pride or fashion +When silken zone or homespun frock +It stirs with throbs of passion. + +"'You think me deaf and blind: you bring +Your winning graces hither +As free as if from cradle-time +We two had played together. + +"'You tempt me with your laughing eyes, +Your cheek of sundown's blushes, +A motion as of waving grain, +A music as of thrushes. + +"'The plaything of your summer sport, +The spells you weave around me +You cannot at your will undo, +Nor leave me as you found me. + +"'You go as lightly as you came, +Your life is well without me; +What care you that these hills will close +Like prison-walls about me? + +"'No mood is mine to seek a wife, +Or daughter for my mother +Who loves you loses in that love +All power to love another! + +"'I dare your pity or your scorn, +With pride your own exceeding; +I fling my heart into your lap +Without a word of pleading.' + +"She looked up in his face of pain +So archly, yet so tender +'And if I lend you mine,' she said, +'Will you forgive the lender? + +"'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man; +And see you not, my farmer, +How weak and fond a woman waits +Behind this silken armor? + +"'I love you: on that love alone, +And not my worth, presuming, +Will you not trust for summer fruit +The tree in May-day blooming?' + +"Alone the hangbird overhead, +His hair-swung cradle straining, +Looked down to see love's miracle,-- +The giving that is gaining. + +"And so the farmer found a wife, +His mother found a daughter +There looks no happier home than hers +On pleasant Bearcamp Water. + +"Flowers spring to blossom where she walks +The careful ways of duty; +Our hard, stiff lines of life with her +Are flowing curves of beauty. + +"Our homes are cheerier for her sake, +Our door-yards brighter blooming, +And all about the social air +Is sweeter for her coming. + +"Unspoken homilies of peace +Her daily life is preaching; +The still refreshment of the dew +Is her unconscious teaching. + +"And never tenderer hand than hers +Unknits the brow of ailing; +Her garments to the sick man's ear +Have music in their trailing. + +"And when, in pleasant harvest moons, +The youthful huskers gather, +Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways +Defy the winter weather,-- + +"In sugar-camps, when south and warm +The winds of March are blowing, +And sweetly from its thawing veins +The maple's blood is flowing,-- + +"In summer, where some lilied pond +Its virgin zone is baring, +Or where the ruddy autumn fire +Lights up the apple-paring,-- + +"The coarseness of a ruder time +Her finer mirth displaces, +A subtler sense of pleasure fills +Each rustic sport she graces. + +"Her presence lends its warmth and health +To all who come before it. +If woman lost us Eden, such +As she alone restore it. + +"For larger life and wiser aims +The farmer is her debtor; +Who holds to his another's heart +Must needs be worse or better. + +"Through her his civic service shows +A purer-toned ambition; +No double consciousness divides +The man and politician. + +"In party's doubtful ways he trusts +Her instincts to determine; +At the loud polls, the thought of her +Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon. + +"He owns her logic of the heart, +And wisdom of unreason, +Supplying, while he doubts and weighs, +The needed word in season. + +"He sees with pride her richer thought, +Her fancy's freer ranges; +And love thus deepened to respect +Is proof against all changes. + +"And if she walks at ease in ways +His feet are slow to travel, +And if she reads with cultured eyes +What his may scarce unravel, + +"Still clearer, for her keener sight +Of beauty and of wonder, +He learns the meaning of the hills +He dwelt from childhood under. + +"And higher, warmed with summer lights, +Or winter-crowned and hoary, +The ridged horizon lifts for him +Its inner veils of glory. + +"He has his own free, bookless lore, +The lessons nature taught him, +The wisdom which the woods and hills +And toiling men have brought him: + +"The steady force of will whereby +Her flexile grace seems sweeter; +The sturdy counterpoise which makes +Her woman's life completer. + +"A latent fire of soul which lacks +No breath of love to fan it; +And wit, that, like his native brooks, +Plays over solid granite. + +"How dwarfed against his manliness +She sees the poor pretension, +The wants, the aims, the follies, born +Of fashion and convention. + +"How life behind its accidents +Stands strong and self-sustaining, +The human fact transcending all +The losing and the gaining. + +"And so in grateful interchange +Of teacher and of hearer, +Their lives their true distinctness keep +While daily drawing nearer. + +"And if the husband or the wife +In home's strong light discovers +Such slight defaults as failed to meet +The blinded eyes of lovers, + +"Why need we care to ask?--who dreams +Without their thorns of roses, +Or wonders that the truest steel +The readiest spark discloses? + +"For still in mutual sufferance lies +The secret of true living; +Love scarce is love that never knows +The sweetness of forgiving. + +"We send the Squire to General Court, +He takes his young wife thither; +No prouder man election day +Rides through the sweet June weather. + +"He sees with eyes of manly trust +All hearts to her inclining; +Not less for him his household light +That others share its shining." + +Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew +Before me, warmer tinted +And outlined with a tenderer grace, +The picture that she hinted. + +The sunset smouldered as we drove +Beneath the deep hill-shadows. +Below us wreaths of white fog walked +Like ghosts the haunted meadows. + +Sounding the summer night, the stars +Dropped down their golden plummets; +The pale arc of the Northern lights +Rose o'er the mountain summits, + +Until, at last, beneath its bridge, +We heard the Bearcamp flowing, +And saw across the mapled lawn +The welcome home lights glowing. + +And, musing on the tale I heard, +'T were well, thought I, if often +To rugged farm-life came the gift +To harmonize and soften; + +If more and more we found the troth +Of fact and fancy plighted, +And culture's charm and labor's strength +In rural homes united,-- + +The simple life, the homely hearth, +With beauty's sphere surrounding, +And blessing toil where toil abounds +With graces more abounding. +1868. + + + + +THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL. + +THE land was pale with famine +And racked with fever-pain; +The frozen fiords were fishless, +The earth withheld her grain. + +Men saw the boding Fylgja +Before them come and go, +And, through their dreams, the Urdarmoon +From west to east sailed slow. + +Jarl Thorkell of Thevera +At Yule-time made his vow; +On Rykdal's holy Doom-stone +He slew to Frey his cow. + +To bounteous Frey he slew her; +To Skuld, the younger Norn, +Who watches over birth and death, +He gave her calf unborn. + +And his little gold-haired daughter +Took up the sprinkling-rod, +And smeared with blood the temple +And the wide lips of the god. + +Hoarse below, the winter water +Ground its ice-blocks o'er and o'er; +Jets of foam, like ghosts of dead waves, +Rose and fell along the shore. + +The red torch of the Jokul, +Aloft in icy space, +Shone down on the bloody Horg-stones +And the statue's carven face. + +And closer round and grimmer +Beneath its baleful light +The Jotun shapes of mountains +Came crowding through the night. + +The gray-haired Hersir trembled +As a flame by wind is blown; +A weird power moved his white lips, +And their voice was not his own. + +"The AEsir thirst!" he muttered; +"The gods must have more blood +Before the tun shall blossom +Or fish shall fill the flood. + +"The AEsir thirst and hunger, +And hence our blight and ban; +The mouths of the strong gods water +For the flesh and blood of man! + +"Whom shall we give the strong ones? +Not warriors, sword on thigh; +But let the nursling infant +And bedrid old man die." + +"So be it!" cried the young men, +"There needs nor doubt nor parle." +But, knitting hard his red brows, +In silence stood the Jarl. + +A sound of woman's weeping +At the temple door was heard, +But the old men bowed their white heads, +And answered not a word. + +Then the Dream-wife of Thingvalla, +A Vala young and fair, +Sang softly, stirring with her breath +The veil of her loose hair. + +She sang: "The winds from Alfheim +Bring never sound of strife; +The gifts for Frey the meetest +Are not of death, but life. + +"He loves the grass-green meadows, +The grazing kine's sweet breath; +He loathes your bloody Horg-stones, +Your gifts that smell of death. + +"No wrong by wrong is righted, +No pain is cured by pain; +The blood that smokes from Doom-rings +Falls back in redder rain. + +"The gods are what you make them, +As earth shall Asgard prove; +And hate will come of hating, +And love will come of love. + +"Make dole of skyr and black bread +That old and young may live; +And look to Frey for favor +When first like Frey you give. + +"Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadows +The summer dawn begins +The tun shall have its harvest, +The fiord its glancing fins." + +Then up and swore Jarl Thorkell +"By Gimli and by Hel, +O Vala of Thingvalla, +Thou singest wise and well! + +"Too dear the AEsir's favors +Bought with our children's lives; +Better die than shame in living +Our mothers and our wives. + +"The full shall give his portion +To him who hath most need; +Of curdled skyr and black bread, +Be daily dole decreed." + +He broke from off his neck-chain +Three links of beaten gold; +And each man, at his bidding, +Brought gifts for young and old. + +Then mothers nursed their children, +And daughters fed their sires, +And Health sat down with Plenty +Before the next Yule fires. + +The Horg-stones stand in Rykdal; +The Doom-ring still remains; +But the snows of a thousand winters +Have washed away the stains. + +Christ ruleth now; the Asir +Have found their twilight dim; +And, wiser than she dreamed, of old +The Vala sang of Him +1868. + + + + +THE TWO RABBINS. + +THE Rabbi Nathan two-score years and ten +Walked blameless through the evil world, and then, +Just as the almond blossomed in his hair, +Met a temptation all too strong to bear, +And miserably sinned. So, adding not +Falsehood to guilt, he left his seat, and taught +No more among the elders, but went out +From the great congregation girt about +With sackcloth, and with ashes on his head, +Making his gray locks grayer. Long he prayed, +Smiting his breast; then, as the Book he laid +Open before him for the Bath-Col's choice, +Pausing to hear that Daughter of a Voice, +Behold the royal preacher's words: "A friend +Loveth at all times, yea, unto the end; +And for the evil day thy brother lives." +Marvelling, he said: "It is the Lord who gives +Counsel in need. At Ecbatana dwells +Rabbi Ben Isaac, who all men excels +In righteousness and wisdom, as the trees +Of Lebanon the small weeds that the bees +Bow with their weight. I will arise, and lay +My sins before him." + + And he went his way +Barefooted, fasting long, with many prayers; +But even as one who, followed unawares, +Suddenly in the darkness feels a hand +Thrill with its touch his own, and his cheek fanned +By odors subtly sweet, and whispers near +Of words he loathes, yet cannot choose but hear, +So, while the Rabbi journeyed, chanting low +The wail of David's penitential woe, +Before him still the old temptation came, +And mocked him with the motion and the shame +Of such desires that, shuddering, he abhorred +Himself; and, crying mightily to the Lord +To free his soul and cast the demon out, +Smote with his staff the blankness round about. + +At length, in the low light of a spent day, +The towers of Ecbatana far away +Rose on the desert's rim; and Nathan, faint +And footsore, pausing where for some dead saint +The faith of Islam reared a domed tomb, +Saw some one kneeling in the shadow, whom +He greeted kindly: "May the Holy One +Answer thy prayers, O stranger!" Whereupon +The shape stood up with a loud cry, and then, +Clasped in each other's arms, the two gray men +Wept, praising Him whose gracious providence +Made their paths one. But straightway, as the sense +Of his transgression smote him, Nathan tore +Himself away: "O friend beloved, no more +Worthy am I to touch thee, for I came, +Foul from my sins, to tell thee all my shame. +Haply thy prayers, since naught availeth mine, +May purge my soul, and make it white like thine. +Pity me, O Ben Isaac, I have sinned!" + +Awestruck Ben Isaac stood. The desert wind +Blew his long mantle backward, laying bare +The mournful secret of his shirt of hair. +"I too, O friend, if not in act," he said, +"In thought have verily sinned. Hast thou not read, +'Better the eye should see than that desire +Should wander?' Burning with a hidden fire +That tears and prayers quench not, I come to thee +For pity and for help, as thou to me. +Pray for me, O my friend!" But Nathan cried, +"Pray thou for me, Ben Isaac!" + + Side by side +In the low sunshine by the turban stone +They knelt; each made his brother's woe his own, +Forgetting, in the agony and stress +Of pitying love, his claim of selfishness; +Peace, for his friend besought, his own became; +His prayers were answered in another's name; +And, when at last they rose up to embrace, +Each saw God's pardon in his brother's face! + +Long after, when his headstone gathered moss, +Traced on the targum-marge of Onkelos +In Rabbi Nathan's hand these words were read: +"/Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead; +Forget it in love's service, and the debt +Thou, canst not pay the angels shall forget; +Heaven's gate is shut to him who comes alone; +Save thou a soul, and it shall save thy own!/" +1868. + + + + +NOREMBEGA. + +Norembega, or Norimbegue, is the name given by early French fishermen +and explorers to a fabulous country south of Cape Breton, first +discovered by Verrazzani in 1524. It was supposed to have a magnificent +city of the same name on a great river, probably the Penobscot. The site +of this barbaric city is laid down on a map published at Antwerp in +1570. In 1604 Champlain sailed in search of the Northern Eldorado, +twenty-two leagues up the Penobscot from the Isle Haute. He supposed the +river to be that of Norembega, but wisely came to the conclusion that +those travellers who told of the great city had never seen it. He saw no +evidences of anything like civilization, but mentions the finding of a +cross, very old and mossy, in the woods. + +THE winding way the serpent takes +The mystic water took, +From where, to count its beaded lakes, +The forest sped its brook. + +A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore, +For sun or stars to fall, +While evermore, behind, before, +Closed in the forest wall. + +The dim wood hiding underneath +Wan flowers without a name; +Life tangled with decay and death, +League after league the same. + +Unbroken over swamp and hill +The rounding shadow lay, +Save where the river cut at will +A pathway to the day. + +Beside that track of air and light, +Weak as a child unweaned, +At shut of day a Christian knight +Upon his henchman leaned. + +The embers of the sunset's fires +Along the clouds burned down; +"I see," he said, "the domes and spires +Of Norembega town." + +"Alack! the domes, O master mine, +Are golden clouds on high; +Yon spire is but the branchless pine +That cuts the evening sky." + +"Oh, hush and hark! What sounds are these +But chants and holy hymns?" +"Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees +Though all their leafy limbs." + +"Is it a chapel bell that fills +The air with its low tone?" +"Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills, +The insect's vesper drone." + +"The Christ be praised!--He sets for me +A blessed cross in sight!" +"Now, nay, 't is but yon blasted tree +With two gaunt arms outright!" + +"Be it wind so sad or tree so stark, +It mattereth not, my knave; +Methinks to funeral hymns I hark, +The cross is for my grave! + +"My life is sped; I shall not see +My home-set sails again; +The sweetest eyes of Normandie +Shall watch for me in vain. + +"Yet onward still to ear and eye +The baffling marvel calls; +I fain would look before I die +On Norembega's walls. + +"So, haply, it shall be thy part +At Christian feet to lay +The mystery of the desert's heart +My dead hand plucked away. + +"Leave me an hour of rest; go thou +And look from yonder heights; +Perchance the valley even now +Is starred with city lights." + +The henchman climbed the nearest hill, +He saw nor tower nor town, +But, through the drear woods, lone and still, +The river rolling down. + +He heard the stealthy feet of things +Whose shapes he could not see, +A flutter as of evil wings, +The fall of a dead tree. + +The pines stood black against the moon, +A sword of fire beyond; +He heard the wolf howl, and the loon +Laugh from his reedy pond. + +He turned him back: "O master dear, +We are but men misled; +And thou hast sought a city here +To find a grave instead." + +"As God shall will! what matters where +A true man's cross may stand, +So Heaven be o'er it here as there +In pleasant Norman land? + +"These woods, perchance, no secret hide +Of lordly tower and hall; +Yon river in its wanderings wide +Has washed no city wall; + +"Yet mirrored in the sullen stream +The holy stars are given +Is Norembega, then, a dream +Whose waking is in Heaven? + +"No builded wonder of these lands +My weary eyes shall see; +A city never made with hands +Alone awaiteth me-- + +"'_Urbs Syon mystica_;' I see +Its mansions passing fair, +'/Condita caelo/;' let me be, +Dear Lord, a dweller there!" + +Above the dying exile hung +The vision of the bard, +As faltered on his failing tongue +The song of good Bernard. + +The henchman dug at dawn a grave +Beneath the hemlocks brown, +And to the desert's keeping gave +The lord of fief and town. + +Years after, when the Sieur Champlain +Sailed up the unknown stream, +And Norembega proved again +A shadow and a dream, + +He found the Norman's nameless grave +Within the hemlock's shade, +And, stretching wide its arms to save, +The sign that God had made, + +The cross-boughed tree that marked the spot +And made it holy ground +He needs the earthly city not +Who hath the heavenly found. +1869. + + + + +MIRIAM. + +TO FREDERICK A. P. BARNARD. + +THE years are many since, in youth and hope, +Under the Charter Oak, our horoscope +We drew thick-studded with all favoring stars. +Now, with gray beards, and faces seamed with scars +From life's hard battle, meeting once again, +We smile, half sadly, over dreams so vain; +Knowing, at last, that it is not in man +Who walketh to direct his steps, or plan +His permanent house of life. Alike we loved +The muses' haunts, and all our fancies moved +To measures of old song. How since that day +Our feet have parted from the path that lay +So fair before us! Rich, from lifelong search +Of truth, within thy Academic porch +Thou sittest now, lord of a realm of fact, +Thy servitors the sciences exact; +Still listening with thy hand on Nature's keys, +To hear the Samian's spheral harmonies +And rhythm of law. I called from dream and song, +Thank God! so early to a strife so long, +That, ere it closed, the black, abundant hair +Of boyhood rested silver-sown and spare +On manhood's temples, now at sunset-chime +Tread with fond feet the path of morning time. +And if perchance too late I linger where +The flowers have ceased to blow, and trees are bare, +Thou, wiser in thy choice, wilt scarcely blame +The friend who shields his folly with thy name. +AMESBURY, 10th mo., 1870. + + . . . . . . . . . . . . . . + +One Sabbath day my friend and I +After the meeting, quietly +Passed from the crowded village lanes, +White with dry dust for lack of rains, +And climbed the neighboring slope, with feet +Slackened and heavy from the heat, +Although the day was wellnigh done, +And the low angle of the sun +Along the naked hillside cast +Our shadows as of giants vast. +We reached, at length, the topmost swell, +Whence, either way, the green turf fell +In terraces of nature down +To fruit-hung orchards, and the town +With white, pretenceless houses, tall +Church-steeples, and, o'ershadowing all, +Huge mills whose windows had the look +Of eager eyes that ill could brook +The Sabbath rest. We traced the track +Of the sea-seeking river back, +Glistening for miles above its mouth, +Through the long valley to the south, +And, looking eastward, cool to view, +Stretched the illimitable blue +Of ocean, from its curved coast-line; +Sombred and still, the warm sunshine +Filled with pale gold-dust all the reach +Of slumberous woods from hill to beach,-- +Slanted on walls of thronged retreats +From city toil and dusty streets, +On grassy bluff, and dune of sand, +And rocky islands miles from land; +Touched the far-glancing sails, and showed +White lines of foam where long waves flowed +Dumb in the distance. In the north, +Dim through their misty hair, looked forth +The space-dwarfed mountains to the sea, +From mystery to mystery! + +So, sitting on that green hill-slope, +We talked of human life, its hope +And fear, and unsolved doubts, and what +It might have been, and yet was not. +And, when at last the evening air +Grew sweeter for the bells of prayer +Ringing in steeples far below, +We watched the people churchward go, +Each to his place, as if thereon +The true shekinah only shone; +And my friend queried how it came +To pass that they who owned the same +Great Master still could not agree +To worship Him in company. +Then, broadening in his thought, he ran +Over the whole vast field of man,-- +The varying forms of faith and creed +That somehow served the holders' need; +In which, unquestioned, undenied, +Uncounted millions lived and died; +The bibles of the ancient folk, +Through which the heart of nations spoke; +The old moralities which lent +To home its sweetness and content, +And rendered possible to bear +The life of peoples everywhere +And asked if we, who boast of light, +Claim not a too exclusive right +To truths which must for all be meant, +Like rain and sunshine freely sent. +In bondage to the letter still, +We give it power to cramp and kill,-- +To tax God's fulness with a scheme +Narrower than Peter's house-top dream, +His wisdom and his love with plans +Poor and inadequate as man's. +It must be that He witnesses +Somehow to all men that He is +That something of His saving grace +Reaches the lowest of the race, +Who, through strange creed and rite, may draw +The hints of a diviner law. +We walk in clearer light;--but then, +Is He not God?--are they not men? +Are His responsibilities +For us alone and not for these? + +And I made answer: "Truth is one; +And, in all lands beneath the sun, +Whoso hath eyes to see may see +The tokens of its unity. +No scroll of creed its fulness wraps, +We trace it not by school-boy maps, +Free as the sun and air it is +Of latitudes and boundaries. +In Vedic verse, in dull Koran, +Are messages of good to man; +The angels to our Aryan sires +Talked by the earliest household fires; +The prophets of the elder day, +The slant-eyed sages of Cathay, +Read not the riddle all amiss +Of higher life evolved from this. + +"Nor doth it lessen what He taught, +Or make the gospel Jesus brought +Less precious, that His lips retold +Some portion of that truth of old; +Denying not the proven seers, +The tested wisdom of the years; +Confirming with his own impress +The common law of righteousness. +We search the world for truth; we cull +The good, the pure, the beautiful, +From graven stone and written scroll, +From all old flower-fields of the soul; +And, weary seekers of the best, +We come back laden from our quest, +To find that all the sages said +Is in the Book our mothers read, +And all our treasure of old thought +In His harmonious fulness wrought +Who gathers in one sheaf complete +The scattered blades of God's sown wheat, +The common growth that maketh good +His all-embracing Fatherhood. + +"Wherever through the ages rise +The altars of self-sacrifice, +Where love its arms has opened wide, +Or man for man has calmly died, +I see the same white wings outspread +That hovered o'er the Master's head! +Up from undated time they come, +The martyr souls of heathendom, +And to His cross and passion bring +Their fellowship of suffering. +I trace His presence in the blind +Pathetic gropings of my kind,-- +In prayers from sin and sorrow wrung, +In cradle-hymns of life they sung, +Each, in its measure, but a part +Of the unmeasured Over-Heart; +And with a stronger faith confess +The greater that it owns the less. +Good cause it is for thankfulness +That the world-blessing of His life +With the long past is not at strife; +That the great marvel of His death +To the one order witnesseth, +No doubt of changeless goodness wakes, +No link of cause and sequence breaks, +But, one with nature, rooted is +In the eternal verities; +Whereby, while differing in degree +As finite from infinity, +The pain and loss for others borne, +Love's crown of suffering meekly worn, +The life man giveth for his friend +Become vicarious in the end; +Their healing place in nature take, +And make life sweeter for their sake. + +"So welcome I from every source +The tokens of that primal Force, +Older than heaven itself, yet new +As the young heart it reaches to, +Beneath whose steady impulse rolls +The tidal wave of human souls; +Guide, comforter, and inward word, +The eternal spirit of the Lord +Nor fear I aught that science brings +From searching through material things; +Content to let its glasses prove, +Not by the letter's oldness move, +The myriad worlds on worlds that course +The spaces of the universe; +Since everywhere the Spirit walks +The garden of the heart, and talks +With man, as under Eden's trees, +In all his varied languages. +Why mourn above some hopeless flaw +In the stone tables of the law, +When scripture every day afresh +Is traced on tablets of the flesh? +By inward sense, by outward signs, +God's presence still the heart divines; +Through deepest joy of Him we learn, +In sorest grief to Him we turn, +And reason stoops its pride to share +The child-like instinct of a prayer." + +And then, as is my wont, I told +A story of the days of old, +Not found in printed books,--in sooth, +A fancy, with slight hint of truth, +Showing how differing faiths agree +In one sweet law of charity. +Meanwhile the sky had golden grown, +Our faces in its glory shone; +But shadows down the valley swept, +And gray below the ocean slept, +As time and space I wandered o'er +To tread the Mogul's marble floor, +And see a fairer sunset fall +On Jumna's wave and Agra's wall. + +The good Shah Akbar (peace be his alway!) +Came forth from the Divan at close of day +Bowed with the burden of his many cares, +Worn with the hearing of unnumbered prayers,-- +Wild cries for justice, the importunate +Appeals of greed and jealousy and hate, +And all the strife of sect and creed and rite, +Santon and Gouroo waging holy fight +For the wise monarch, claiming not to be +Allah's avenger, left his people free, +With a faint hope, his Book scarce justified, +That all the paths of faith, though severed wide, +O'er which the feet of prayerful reverence passed, +Met at the gate of Paradise at last. + +He sought an alcove of his cool hareem, +Where, far beneath, he heard the Jumna's stream +Lapse soft and low along his palace wall, +And all about the cool sound of the fall +Of fountains, and of water circling free +Through marble ducts along the balcony; +The voice of women in the distance sweet, +And, sweeter still, of one who, at his feet, +Soothed his tired ear with songs of a far land +Where Tagus shatters on the salt sea-sand +The mirror of its cork-grown hills of drouth +And vales of vine, at Lisbon's harbor-mouth. + +The date-palms rustled not; the peepul laid +Its topmost boughs against the balustrade, +Motionless as the mimic leaves and vines +That, light and graceful as the shawl-designs +Of Delhi or Umritsir, twined in stone; +And the tired monarch, who aside had thrown +The day's hard burden, sat from care apart, +And let the quiet steal into his heart +From the still hour. Below him Agra slept, +By the long light of sunset overswept +The river flowing through a level land, +By mango-groves and banks of yellow sand, +Skirted with lime and orange, gay kiosks, +Fountains at play, tall minarets of mosques, +Fair pleasure-gardens, with their flowering trees +Relieved against the mournful cypresses; +And, air-poised lightly as the blown sea-foam, +The marble wonder of some holy dome +Hung a white moonrise over the still wood, +Glassing its beauty in a stiller flood. + +Silent the monarch gazed, until the night +Swift-falling hid the city from his sight; +Then to the woman at his feet he said +"Tell me, O Miriam, something thou hast read +In childhood of the Master of thy faith, +Whom Islam also owns. Our Prophet saith +'He was a true apostle, yea, a Word +And Spirit sent before me from the Lord.' +Thus the Book witnesseth; and well I know +By what thou art, O dearest, it is so. +As the lute's tone the maker's hand betrays, +The sweet disciple speaks her Master's praise." + +Then Miriam, glad of heart, (for in some sort +She cherished in the Moslem's liberal court +The sweet traditions of a Christian child; +And, through her life of sense, the undefiled +And chaste ideal of the sinless One +Gazed on her with an eye she might not shun,-- +The sad, reproachful look of pity, born +Of love that hath no part in wrath or scorn,) +Began, with low voice and moist eyes, to tell +Of the all-loving Christ, and what befell +When the fierce zealots, thirsting for her blood, +Dragged to his feet a shame of womanhood. +How, when his searching answer pierced within +Each heart, and touched the secret of its sin, +And her accusers fled his face before, +He bade the poor one go and sin no more. +And Akbar said, after a moment's thought, +"Wise is the lesson by thy prophet taught; +Woe unto him who judges and forgets +What hidden evil his own heart besets! +Something of this large charity I find +In all the sects that sever human kind; +I would to Allah that their lives agreed +More nearly with the lesson of their creed! +Those yellow Lamas who at Meerut pray +By wind and water power, and love to say +'He who forgiveth not shall, unforgiven, +Fail of the rest of Buddha,' and who even +Spare the black gnat that stings them, vex my ears +With the poor hates and jealousies and fears +Nursed in their human hives. That lean, fierce priest +Of thy own people, (be his heart increased +By Allah's love!) his black robes smelling yet +Of Goa's roasted Jews, have I not met +Meek-faced, barefooted, crying in the street +The saying of his prophet true and sweet,-- +'He who is merciful shall mercy meet!'" + +But, next day, so it chanced, as night began +To fall, a murmur through the hareem ran +That one, recalling in her dusky face +The full-lipped, mild-eyed beauty of a race +Known as the blameless Ethiops of Greek song, +Plotting to do her royal master wrong, +Watching, reproachful of the lingering light, +The evening shadows deepen for her flight, +Love-guided, to her home in a far land, +Now waited death at the great Shah's command. +Shapely as that dark princess for whose smile +A world was bartered, daughter of the Nile +Herself, and veiling in her large, soft eyes +The passion and the languor of her skies, +The Abyssinian knelt low at the feet +Of her stern lord: "O king, if it be meet, +And for thy honor's sake," she said, "that I, +Who am the humblest of thy slaves, should die, +I will not tax thy mercy to forgive. +Easier it is to die than to outlive +All that life gave me,--him whose wrong of thee +Was but the outcome of his love for me, +Cherished from childhood, when, beneath the shade +Of templed Axum, side by side we played. +Stolen from his arms, my lover followed me +Through weary seasons over land and sea; +And two days since, sitting disconsolate +Within the shadow of the hareem gate, +Suddenly, as if dropping from the sky, +Down from the lattice of the balcony +Fell the sweet song by Tigre's cowherds sung +In the old music of his native tongue. +He knew my voice, for love is quick of ear, +Answering in song. + + This night he waited near +To fly with me. The fault was mine alone +He knew thee not, he did but seek his own; +Who, in the very shadow of thy throne, +Sharing thy bounty, knowing all thou art, +Greatest and best of men, and in her heart +Grateful to tears for favor undeserved, +Turned ever homeward, nor one moment swerved +From her young love. He looked into my eyes, +He heard my voice, and could not otherwise +Than he hath done; yet, save one wild embrace +When first we stood together face to face, +And all that fate had done since last we met +Seemed but a dream that left us children yet, +He hath not wronged thee nor thy royal bed; +Spare him, O king! and slay me in his stead!" + +But over Akbar's brows the frown hung black, +And, turning to the eunuch at his back, +"Take them," he said, "and let the Jumna's waves +Hide both my shame and these accursed slaves!" +His loathly length the unsexed bondman bowed +"On my head be it!" + + Straightway from a cloud +Of dainty shawls and veils of woven mist +The Christian Miriam rose, and, stooping, kissed +The monarch's hand. Loose down her shoulders bare +Swept all the rippled darkness of her hair, +Veiling the bosom that, with high, quick swell +Of fear and pity, through it rose and fell. + +"Alas!" she cried, "hast thou forgotten quite +The words of Him we spake of yesternight? +Or thy own prophet's, 'Whoso doth endure +And pardon, of eternal life is sure'? +O great and good! be thy revenge alone +Felt in thy mercy to the erring shown; +Let thwarted love and youth their pardon plead, +Who sinned but in intent, and not in deed!" + +One moment the strong frame of Akbar shook +With the great storm of passion. Then his look +Softened to her uplifted face, that still +Pleaded more strongly than all words, until +Its pride and anger seemed like overblown, +Spent clouds of thunder left to tell alone +Of strife and overcoming. With bowed head, +And smiting on his bosom: "God," he said, +"Alone is great, and let His holy name +Be honored, even to His servant's shame! +Well spake thy prophet, Miriam,--he alone +Who hath not sinned is meet to cast a stone +At such as these, who here their doom await, +Held like myself in the strong grasp of fate. +They sinned through love, as I through love forgive; +Take them beyond my realm, but let them live!" + +And, like a chorus to the words of grace, +The ancient Fakir, sitting in his place, +Motionless as an idol and as grim, +In the pavilion Akbar built for him +Under the court-yard trees, (for he was wise, +Knew Menu's laws, and through his close-shut eyes +Saw things far off, and as an open book +Into the thoughts of other men could look,) +Began, half chant, half howling, to rehearse +The fragment of a holy Vedic verse; +And thus it ran: "He who all things forgives +Conquers himself and all things else, and lives +Above the reach of wrong or hate or fear, +Calm as the gods, to whom he is most dear." + +Two leagues from Agra still the traveller sees +The tomb of Akbar through its cypress-trees; +And, near at hand, the marble walls that hide +The Christian Begum sleeping at his side. +And o'er her vault of burial (who shall tell +If it be chance alone or miracle?) +The Mission press with tireless hand unrolls +The words of Jesus on its lettered scrolls,-- +Tells, in all tongues, the tale of mercy o'er, +And bids the guilty, "Go and sin no more!" + + . . . . . . . . . . . + +It now was dew-fall; very still +The night lay on the lonely hill, +Down which our homeward steps we bent, +And, silent, through great silence went, +Save that the tireless crickets played +Their long, monotonous serenade. +A young moon, at its narrowest, +Curved sharp against the darkening west; +And, momently, the beacon's star, +Slow wheeling o'er its rock afar, +From out the level darkness shot +One instant and again was not. +And then my friend spake quietly +The thought of both: "Yon crescent see! +Like Islam's symbol-moon it gives +Hints of the light whereby it lives +Somewhat of goodness, something true +From sun and spirit shining through +All faiths, all worlds, as through the dark +Of ocean shines the lighthouse spark, +Attests the presence everywhere +Of love and providential care. +The faith the old Norse heart confessed +In one dear name,--the hopefulest +And tenderest heard from mortal lips +In pangs of birth or death, from ships +Ice-bitten in the winter sea, +Or lisped beside a mother's knee,-- +The wiser world hath not outgrown, +And the All-Father is our own!" + + + + +NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON. + +NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of old +Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape +Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds +And the relentless smiting of the waves, +Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream +Of a good angel dropping in his hand +A fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of God. + +He rose and went forth with the early day +Far inland, where the voices of the waves +Mellowed and Mingled with the whispering leaves, +As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods, +He searched his traps. Therein nor beast nor bird +He found; though meanwhile in the reedy pools +The otter plashed, and underneath the pines +The partridge drummed: and as his thoughts went back +To the sick wife and little child at home, +What marvel that the poor man felt his faith +Too weak to bear its burden,--like a rope +That, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks above +The hand that grasps it. "Even now, O Lord! +Send me," he prayed, "the angel of my dream! +Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot wait." + +Even as he spake he heard at his bare feet +A low, metallic clink, and, looking down, +He saw a dainty purse with disks of gold +Crowding its silken net. Awhile he held +The treasure up before his eyes, alone +With his great need, feeling the wondrous coins +Slide through his eager fingers, one by one. +So then the dream was true. The angel brought +One broad piece only; should he take all these? +Who would be wiser, in the blind, dumb woods? +The loser, doubtless rich, would scarcely miss +This dropped crumb from a table always full. +Still, while he mused, he seemed to hear the cry +Of a starved child; the sick face of his wife +Tempted him. Heart and flesh in fierce revolt +Urged the wild license of his savage youth +Against his later scruples. Bitter toil, +Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, and pitiless eyes +To watch his halting,--had he lost for these +The freedom of the woods;--the hunting-grounds +Of happy spirits for a walled-in heaven +Of everlasting psalms? One healed the sick +Very far off thousands of moons ago +Had he not prayed him night and day to come +And cure his bed-bound wife? Was there a hell? +Were all his fathers' people writhing there-- +Like the poor shell-fish set to boil alive-- +Forever, dying never? If he kept +This gold, so needed, would the dreadful God +Torment him like a Mohawk's captive stuck +With slow-consuming splinters? Would the saints +And the white angels dance and laugh to see him +Burn like a pitch-pine torch? His Christian garb +Seemed falling from him; with the fear and shame +Of Adam naked at the cool of day, +He gazed around. A black snake lay in coil +On the hot sand, a crow with sidelong eye +Watched from a dead bough. All his Indian lore +Of evil blending with a convert's faith +In the supernal terrors of the Book, +He saw the Tempter in the coiling snake +And ominous, black-winged bird; and all the while +The low rebuking of the distant waves +Stole in upon him like the voice of God +Among the trees of Eden. Girding up +His soul's loins with a resolute hand, he thrust +The base thought from him: "Nauhaught, be a man +Starve, if need be; but, while you live, look out +From honest eyes on all men, unashamed. +God help me! I am deacon of the church, +A baptized, praying Indian! Should I do +This secret meanness, even the barken knots +Of the old trees would turn to eyes to see it, +The birds would tell of it, and all the leaves +Whisper above me: 'Nauhaught is a thief!' +The sun would know it, and the stars that hide +Behind his light would watch me, and at night +Follow me with their sharp, accusing eyes. +Yea, thou, God, seest me!" Then Nauhaught drew +Closer his belt of leather, dulling thus +The pain of hunger, and walked bravely back +To the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea; +And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily asked +"Who hath lost aught to-day?" +"I," said a voice; +"Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse, +My daughter's handiwork." He looked, and to +One stood before him in a coat of frieze, +And the glazed bat of a seafaring man, +Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered, with no trace of wings. +Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger's hand +The silken web, and turned to go his way. +But the man said: "A tithe at least is yours; +Take it in God's name as an honest man." +And as the deacon's dusky fingers closed +Over the golden gift, "Yea, in God's name +I take it, with a poor man's thanks," he said. +So down the street that, like a river of sand, +Ran, white in sunshine, to the summer sea, +He sought his home singing and praising God; +And when his neighbors in their careless way +Spoke of the owner of the silken purse-- +A Wellfleet skipper, known in every port +That the Cape opens in its sandy wall-- +He answered, with a wise smile, to himself +"I saw the angel where they see a man." +1870. + + + +THE SISTERS. + +ANNIE and Rhoda, sisters twain, +Woke in the night to the sound of rain, + +The rush of wind, the ramp and roar +Of great waves climbing a rocky shore. + +Annie rose up in her bed-gown white, +And looked out into the storm and night. + +"Hush, and hearken!" she cried in fear, +"Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?" + +"I hear the sea, and the plash of rain, +And roar of the northeast hurricane. + +"Get thee back to the bed so warm, +No good comes of watching a storm. + +"What is it to thee, I fain would know, +That waves are roaring and wild winds blow? + +"No lover of thine's afloat to miss +The harbor-lights on a night like this." + +"But I heard a voice cry out my name, +Up from the sea on the wind it came. + +"Twice and thrice have I heard it call, +And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!" + +On her pillow the sister tossed her head. +"Hall of the Heron is safe," she said. + +"In the tautest schooner that ever swam +He rides at anchor in Anisquam. + +"And, if in peril from swamping sea +Or lee shore rocks, would he call on thee?" + +But the girl heard only the wind and tide, +And wringing her small white hands she cried, + +"O sister Rhoda, there's something wrong; +I hear it again, so loud and long. + +"'Annie! Annie!' I hear it call, +And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!" + +Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame, +"Thou liest! He never would call thy name! + +"If he did, I would pray the wind and sea +To keep him forever from thee and me!" + +Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast; +Like the cry of a dying man it passed. + +The young girl hushed on her lips a groan, +But through her tears a strange light shone,-- + +The solemn joy of her heart's release +To own and cherish its love in peace. + +"Dearest!" she whispered, under breath, +"Life was a lie, but true is death. + +"The love I hid from myself away +Shall crown me now in the light of day. + +"My ears shall never to wooer list, +Never by lover my lips be kissed. + +"Sacred to thee am I henceforth, +Thou in heaven and I on earth!" + +She came and stood by her sister's bed +"Hall of the Heron is dead!" she said. + +"The wind and the waves their work have done, +We shall see him no more beneath the sun. + +"Little will reek that heart of thine, +It loved him not with a love like mine. + +"I, for his sake, were he but here, +Could hem and 'broider thy bridal gear, + +"Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet, +And stitch for stitch in my heart be set. + +"But now my soul with his soul I wed; +Thine the living, and mine the dead!" +1871. + + + + +MARGUERITE. + +MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1760. + +Upwards of one thousand of the Acadian peasants forcibly taken from +their homes on the Gaspereau and Basin of Minas were assigned to the +several towns of the Massachusetts colony, the children being bound by +the authorities to service or labor. + +THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds into +blossoms grew; +Little of human sorrow the buds and the robins +knew! +Sick, in an alien household, the poor French +neutral lay; +Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the April +day, +Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider's +warp and woof, +On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribs +of roof, +The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the teacups on the +stand, +The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it dropped from +her sick hand. + +What to her was the song of the robin, or warm +morning light, +As she lay in the trance of the dying, heedless of +sound or sight? + +Done was the work of her bands, she had eaten her +bitter bread; +The world of the alien people lay behind her dim +and dead. + +But her soul went back to its child-time; she saw +the sun o'erflow +With gold the Basin of Minas, and set over +Gaspereau; + +The low, bare flats at ebb-tide, the rush of the sea +at flood, +Through inlet and creek and river, from dike to +upland wood; + +The gulls in the red of morning, the fish-hawk's +rise and fall, +The drift of the fog in moonshine, over the dark +coast-wall. + +She saw the face of her mother, she heard the song +she sang; +And far off, faintly, slowly, the bell for vespers +rang. + +By her bed the hard-faced mistress sat, smoothing +the wrinkled sheet, +Peering into the face, so helpless, and feeling the +ice-cold feet. + +With a vague remorse atoning for her greed and +long abuse, +By care no longer heeded and pity too late for use. + +Up the stairs of the garret softly the son of the +mistress stepped, +Leaned over the head-board, covering his face with +his hands, and wept. + +Outspake the mother, who watched him sharply, +with brow a-frown +"What! love you the Papist, the beggar, the +charge of the town?" + +Be she Papist or beggar who lies here, I know +and God knows +I love her, and fain would go with her wherever +she goes! + +"O mother! that sweet face came pleading, for +love so athirst. +You saw but the town-charge; I knew her God's +angel at first." + +Shaking her gray head, the mistress hushed down +a bitter cry; +And awed by the silence and shadow of death +drawing nigh, + +She murmured a psalm of the Bible; but closer +the young girl pressed, +With the last of her life in her fingers, the cross +to her breast. + +"My son, come away," cried the mother, her voice +cruel grown. +"She is joined to her idols, like Ephraim; let her +alone!" + +But he knelt with his hand on her forehead, his +lips to her ear, +And he called back the soul that was passing +"Marguerite, do you hear?" + +She paused on the threshold of Heaven; love, pity, +surprise, +Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the cloud of +her eyes. + +With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but never +her cheek grew red, +And the words the living long for he spake in the +ear of the dead. + +And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds to +blossoms grew; +Of the folded hands and the still face never the +robins knew! +1871. + + + + +THE ROBIN. +MY old Welsh neighbor over the way +Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, +Pushed from her ears the locks of gray, +And listened to hear the robin sing. + +Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped, +And, cruel in sport as boys will be, +Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped +From bough to bough in the apple-tree. + +"Nay!" said the grandmother; "have you not heard, +My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit, +And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird +Carries the water that quenches it? + +"He brings cool dew in his little bill, +And lets it fall on the souls of sin +You can see the mark on his red breast still +Of fires that scorch as he drops it in. + +"My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird, +Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, +Very dear to the heart of Our Lord +Is he who pities the lost like Him!" + +"Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth; +"Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well: +Each good thought is a drop wherewith +To cool and lessen the fires of hell. + +"Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, +Tears of pity are cooling dew, +And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all +Who suffer like Him in the good they do! " +1871. + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, AMONG THE HILLS, ETC *** +By John Greenleaf Whittier + +***** This file should be named 9564.txt or 9564.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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