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+Project Gutenberg EBook, Bay of Seven Islands and Others, by Whittier
+From Volume I., The Works of Whittier: Narrative and Legendary Poems
+#11 in our series by John Greenleaf Whittier
+
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+Title: Narrative and Legendary Poems: Bay of Seven Islands and Others
+       From Volume I., The Works of Whittier
+
+Author: John Greenleaf Whittier
+
+Release Date: Dec, 2005  [EBook #9566]
+[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
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+
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS, ETC. ***
+
+
+
+
+This eBook was produced by David Widger
+
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+
+
+                        NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY
+
+                                 POEMS
+
+                                   BY
+                        JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
+
+
+CONTENTS:
+
+THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS
+     To H P S
+     THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS
+
+THE WISHING BRIDGE
+HOW THE WOMEN WENT FROM DOVER
+ST GREGORY'S GUEST
+CONTENTS
+BIRCHBROOK MILL
+THE TWO ELIZABETHS
+REQUITAL
+THE HOMESTEAD
+HOW THE ROBIN CAME
+BANISHED FROM MASSACHUSETTS
+THE BROWN DWARF OF RUGEN
+
+
+
+THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS.
+
+The volume in which "The Bay of Seven Islands" was published was
+dedicated to the late Edwin Percy Whipple, to whom more than to any
+other person I was indebted for public recognition as one worthy of a
+place in American literature, at a time when it required a great degree
+of courage to urge such a claim for a pro-scribed abolitionist. Although
+younger than I, he had gained the reputation of a brilliant essayist,
+and was regarded as the highest American authority in criticism. His wit
+and wisdom enlivened a small literary circle of young men including
+Thomas Starr King, the eloquent preacher, and Daniel N. Haskell of the
+Daily Transcript, who gathered about our common friend dames T. Fields
+at the Old Corner Bookstore. The poem which gave title to the volume I
+inscribed to my friend and neighbor Harriet Prescott Spofford, whose
+poems have lent a new interest to our beautiful river-valley.
+
+FROM the green Amesbury hill which bears the name
+Of that half mythic ancestor of mine
+Who trod its slopes two hundred years ago,
+Down the long valley of the Merrimac,
+Midway between me and the river's mouth,
+I see thy home, set like an eagle's nest
+Among Deer Island's immemorial pines,
+Crowning the crag on which the sunset breaks
+Its last red arrow. Many a tale and song,
+Which thou bast told or sung, I call to mind,
+Softening with silvery mist the woods and hills,
+The out-thrust headlands and inreaching bays
+Of our northeastern coast-line, trending where
+The Gulf, midsummer, feels the chill blockade
+Of icebergs stranded at its northern gate.
+
+To thee the echoes of the Island Sound
+Answer not vainly, nor in vain the moan
+Of the South Breaker prophesying storm.
+And thou hast listened, like myself, to men
+Sea-periled oft where Anticosti lies
+Like a fell spider in its web of fog,
+Or where the Grand Bank shallows with the wrecks
+Of sunken fishers, and to whom strange isles
+And frost-rimmed bays and trading stations seem
+Familiar as Great Neck and Kettle Cove,
+Nubble and Boon, the common names of home.
+So let me offer thee this lay of mine,
+Simple and homely, lacking much thy play
+Of color and of fancy. If its theme
+And treatment seem to thee befitting youth
+Rather than age, let this be my excuse
+It has beguiled some heavy hours and called
+Some pleasant memories up; and, better still,
+Occasion lent me for a kindly word
+To one who is my neighbor and my friend.
+1883.
+
+           . . . . . . . . . .
+
+The skipper sailed out of the harbor mouth,
+Leaving the apple-bloom of the South
+For the ice of the Eastern seas,
+In his fishing schooner Breeze.
+
+Handsome and brave and young was he,
+And the maids of Newbury sighed to see
+His lessening white sail fall
+Under the sea's blue wall.
+
+Through the Northern Gulf and the misty screen
+Of the isles of Mingan and Madeleine,
+St. Paul's and Blanc Sablon,
+The little Breeze sailed on,
+
+Backward and forward, along the shore
+Of lorn and desolate Labrador,
+And found at last her way
+To the Seven Islands Bay.
+
+The little hamlet, nestling below
+Great hills white with lingering snow,
+With its tin-roofed chapel stood
+Half hid in the dwarf spruce wood;
+
+Green-turfed, flower-sown, the last outpost
+Of summer upon the dreary coast,
+With its gardens small and spare,
+Sad in the frosty air.
+
+Hard by where the skipper's schooner lay,
+A fisherman's cottage looked away
+Over isle and bay, and. behind
+On mountains dim-defined.
+
+And there twin sisters, fair and young,
+Laughed with their stranger guest, and sung
+In their native tongue the lays
+Of the old Provencal days.
+
+Alike were they, save the faint outline
+Of a scar on Suzette's forehead fine;
+And both, it so befell,
+Loved the heretic stranger well.
+
+Both were pleasant to look upon,
+But the heart of the skipper clave to one;
+Though less by his eye than heart
+He knew the twain apart.
+
+Despite of alien race and creed,
+Well did his wooing of Marguerite speed;
+And the mother's wrath was vain
+As the sister's jealous pain.
+
+The shrill-tongued mistress her house forbade,
+And solemn warning was sternly said
+By the black-robed priest, whose word
+As law the hamlet heard.
+
+But half by voice and half by signs
+The skipper said, "A warm sun shines
+On the green-banked Merrimac;
+Wait, watch, till I come back.
+
+"And when you see, from my mast head,
+The signal fly of a kerchief red,
+My boat on the shore shall wait;
+Come, when the night is late."
+
+Ah! weighed with childhood's haunts and friends,
+And all that the home sky overbends,
+Did ever young love fail
+To turn the trembling scale?
+
+Under the night, on the wet sea sands,
+Slowly unclasped their plighted hands
+One to the cottage hearth,
+And one to his sailor's berth.
+
+What was it the parting lovers heard?
+Nor leaf, nor ripple, nor wing of bird,
+But a listener's stealthy tread
+On the rock-moss, crisp and dead.
+
+He weighed his anchor, and fished once more
+By the black coast-line of Labrador;
+And by love and the north wind driven,
+Sailed back to the Islands Seven.
+
+In the sunset's glow the sisters twain
+Saw the Breeze come sailing in again;
+Said Suzette, "Mother dear,
+The heretic's sail is here."
+
+"Go, Marguerite, to your room, and hide;
+Your door shall be bolted!" the mother cried:
+While Suzette, ill at ease,
+Watched the red sign of the Breeze.
+
+At midnight, down to the waiting skiff
+She stole in the shadow of the cliff;
+And out of the Bay's mouth ran
+The schooner with maid and man.
+
+And all night long, on a restless bed,
+Her prayers to the Virgin Marguerite said
+And thought of her lover's pain
+Waiting for her in vain.
+
+Did he pace the sands? Did he pause to hear
+The sound of her light step drawing near?
+And, as the slow hours passed,
+Would he doubt her faith at last?
+
+But when she saw through the misty pane,
+The morning break on a sea of rain,
+Could even her love avail
+To follow his vanished sail?
+
+Meantime the Breeze, with favoring wind,
+Left the rugged Moisic hills behind,
+And heard from an unseen shore
+The falls of Manitou roar.
+
+On the morrow's morn, in the thick, gray weather
+They sat on the reeling deck together,
+Lover and counterfeit,
+Of hapless Marguerite.
+
+With a lover's hand, from her forehead fair
+He smoothed away her jet-black hair.
+What was it his fond eyes met?
+The scar of the false Suzette!
+
+Fiercely he shouted: "Bear away
+East by north for Seven Isles Bay!"
+The maiden wept and prayed,
+But the ship her helm obeyed.
+
+Once more the Bay of the Isles they found
+They heard the bell of the chapel sound,
+And the chant of the dying sung
+In the harsh, wild Indian tongue.
+
+A feeling of mystery, change, and awe
+Was in all they heard and all they saw
+Spell-bound the hamlet lay
+In the hush of its lonely bay.
+
+And when they came to the cottage door,
+The mother rose up from her weeping sore,
+And with angry gestures met
+The scared look of Suzette.
+
+"Here is your daughter," the skipper said;
+"Give me the one I love instead."
+But the woman sternly spake;
+"Go, see if the dead will wake!"
+
+He looked. Her sweet face still and white
+And strange in the noonday taper light,
+She lay on her little bed,
+With the cross at her feet and head.
+
+In a passion of grief the strong man bent
+Down to her face, and, kissing it, went
+Back to the waiting Breeze,
+Back to the mournful seas.
+
+Never again to the Merrimac
+And Newbury's homes that bark came back.
+Whether her fate she met
+On the shores of Carraquette,
+
+Miscou, or Tracadie, who can say?
+But even yet at Seven Isles Bay
+Is told the ghostly tale
+Of a weird, unspoken sail,
+
+In the pale, sad light of the Northern day
+Seen by the blanketed Montagnais,
+Or squaw, in her small kyack,
+Crossing the spectre's track.
+
+On the deck a maiden wrings her hands;
+Her likeness kneels on the gray coast sands;
+One in her wild despair,
+And one in the trance of prayer.
+
+She flits before no earthly blast,
+The red sign fluttering from her mast,
+Over the solemn seas,
+The ghost of the schooner Breeze!
+1882.
+
+
+
+
+THE WISHING BRIDGE.
+
+AMONG the legends sung or said
+Along our rocky shore,
+The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead
+May well be sung once more.
+
+An hundred years ago (so ran
+The old-time story) all
+Good wishes said above its span
+Would, soon or late, befall.
+
+If pure and earnest, never failed
+The prayers of man or maid
+For him who on the deep sea sailed,
+For her at home who stayed.
+
+Once thither came two girls from school,
+And wished in childish glee
+And one would be a queen and rule,
+And one the world would see.
+
+Time passed; with change of hopes and fears,
+And in the self-same place,
+Two women, gray with middle years,
+Stood, wondering, face to face.
+
+With wakened memories, as they met,
+They queried what had been
+"A poor man's wife am I, and yet,"
+Said one, "I am a queen.
+
+"My realm a little homestead is,
+Where, lacking crown and throne,
+I rule by loving services
+And patient toil alone."
+
+The other said: "The great world lies
+Beyond me as it lay;
+O'er love's and duty's boundaries
+My feet may never stray.
+
+"I see but common sights of home,
+Its common sounds I hear,
+My widowed mother's sick-bed room
+Sufficeth for my sphere.
+
+"I read to her some pleasant page
+Of travel far and wide,
+And in a dreamy pilgrimage
+We wander side by side.
+
+"And when, at last, she falls asleep,
+My book becomes to me
+A magic glass: my watch I keep,
+But all the world I see.
+
+"A farm-wife queen your place you fill,
+While fancy's privilege
+Is mine to walk the earth at will,
+Thanks to the Wishing Bridge."
+
+"Nay, leave the legend for the truth,"
+The other cried, "and say
+God gives the wishes of our youth,
+But in His own best way!"
+1882.
+
+
+
+
+HOW THE WOMEN WENT FROM DOVER.
+
+The following is a copy of the warrant issued by Major Waldron, of
+Dover, in 1662. The Quakers, as was their wont, prophesied against him,
+and saw, as they supposed, the fulfilment of their prophecy when, many
+years after, he was killed by the Indians.
+
+ To the constables of Dover, Hampton, Salisbury, Newbury, Rowley,
+ Ipswich, Wenham, Lynn, Boston, Roxbury, Dedham, and until these
+ vagabond Quakers are carried out of this jurisdiction. You, and
+ every one of you, are required, in the King's Majesty's name, to
+ take these vagabond Quakers, Anne Colman, Mary Tomkins, and Alice
+ Ambrose, and make them fast to the cart's tail, and driving the
+ cart through your several towns, to whip them upon their naked
+ backs not exceeding ten stripes apiece on each of them, in each
+ town; and so to convey them from constable to constable till they
+ are out of this jurisdiction, as you will answer it at your peril;
+ and this shall be your warrant.
+                                    RICHARD WALDRON.
+ Dated at Dover, December 22, 1662.
+
+This warrant was executed only in Dover and Hampton. At Salisbury the
+constable refused to obey it. He was sustained by the town's people, who
+were under the influence of Major Robert Pike, the leading man in the
+lower valley of the Merrimac, who stood far in advance of his time, as
+an advocate of religious freedom, and an opponent of ecclesiastical
+authority. He had the moral courage to address an able and manly letter
+to the court at Salem, remonstrating against the witchcraft trials.
+
+
+THE tossing spray of Cocheco's fall
+Hardened to ice on its rocky wall,
+As through Dover town in the chill, gray dawn,
+Three women passed, at the cart-tail drawn!
+
+Bared to the waist, for the north wind's grip
+And keener sting of the constable's whip,
+The blood that followed each hissing blow
+Froze as it sprinkled the winter snow.
+
+Priest and ruler, boy and maid
+Followed the dismal cavalcade;
+And from door and window, open thrown,
+Looked and wondered gaffer and crone.
+
+"God is our witness," the victims cried,
+We suffer for Him who for all men died;
+The wrong ye do has been done before,
+We bear the stripes that the Master bore!
+
+And thou, O Richard Waldron, for whom
+We hear the feet of a coming doom,
+On thy cruel heart and thy hand of wrong
+Vengeance is sure, though it tarry long.
+
+"In the light of the Lord, a flame we see
+Climb and kindle a proud roof-tree;
+And beneath it an old man lying dead,
+With stains of blood on his hoary head."
+
+"Smite, Goodman Hate-Evil!--harder still!"
+The magistrate cried, "lay on with a will!
+Drive out of their bodies the Father of Lies,
+Who through them preaches and prophesies!"
+
+So into the forest they held their way,
+By winding river and frost-rimmed bay,
+Over wind-swept hills that felt the beat
+Of the winter sea at their icy feet.
+
+The Indian hunter, searching his traps,
+Peered stealthily through the forest gaps;
+And the outlying settler shook his head,--
+"They're witches going to jail," he said.
+
+At last a meeting-house came in view;
+A blast on his horn the constable blew;
+And the boys of Hampton cried up and down,
+"The Quakers have come!" to the wondering town.
+
+From barn and woodpile the goodman came;
+The goodwife quitted her quilting frame,
+With her child at her breast; and, hobbling slow,
+The grandam followed to see the show.
+
+Once more the torturing whip was swung,
+Once more keen lashes the bare flesh stung.
+"Oh, spare! they are bleeding!"' a little maid cried,
+And covered her face the sight to hide.
+
+A murmur ran round the crowd: "Good folks,"
+Quoth the constable, busy counting the strokes,
+"No pity to wretches like these is due,
+They have beaten the gospel black and blue!"
+
+Then a pallid woman, in wild-eyed fear,
+With her wooden noggin of milk drew near.
+"Drink, poor hearts!" a rude hand smote
+Her draught away from a parching throat.
+
+"Take heed," one whispered, "they'll take your cow
+For fines, as they took your horse and plough,
+And the bed from under you." "Even so,"
+She said; "they are cruel as death, I know."
+
+Then on they passed, in the waning day,
+Through Seabrook woods, a weariful way;
+By great salt meadows and sand-hills bare,
+And glimpses of blue sea here and there.
+
+By the meeting-house in Salisbury town,
+The sufferers stood, in the red sundown,
+Bare for the lash! O pitying Night,
+Drop swift thy curtain and hide the sight.
+
+With shame in his eye and wrath on his lip
+The Salisbury constable dropped his whip.
+"This warrant means murder foul and red;
+Cursed is he who serves it," he said.
+
+"Show me the order, and meanwhile strike
+A blow at your peril!" said Justice Pike.
+Of all the rulers the land possessed,
+Wisest and boldest was he and best.
+
+He scoffed at witchcraft; the priest he met
+As man meets man; his feet he set
+Beyond his dark age, standing upright,
+Soul-free, with his face to the morning light.
+
+He read the warrant: "These convey
+From our precincts; at every town on the way
+Give each ten lashes." "God judge the brute!
+I tread his order under my foot!
+
+"Cut loose these poor ones and let them go;
+Come what will of it, all men shall know
+No warrant is good, though backed by the Crown,
+For whipping women in Salisbury town!"
+
+The hearts of the villagers, half released
+From creed of terror and rule of priest,
+By a primal instinct owned the right
+Of human pity in law's despite.
+
+For ruth and chivalry only slept,
+His Saxon manhood the yeoman kept;
+Quicker or slower, the same blood ran
+In the Cavalier and the Puritan.
+
+The Quakers sank on their knees in praise
+And thanks. A last, low sunset blaze
+Flashed out from under a cloud, and shed
+A golden glory on each bowed head.
+
+The tale is one of an evil time,
+When souls were fettered and thought was crime,
+And heresy's whisper above its breath
+Meant shameful scourging and bonds and death!
+
+What marvel, that hunted and sorely tried,
+Even woman rebuked and prophesied,
+And soft words rarely answered back
+The grim persuasion of whip and rack.
+
+If her cry from the whipping-post and jail
+Pierced sharp as the Kenite's driven nail,
+O woman, at ease in these happier days,
+Forbear to judge of thy sister's ways!
+
+How much thy beautiful life may owe
+To her faith and courage thou canst not know,
+Nor how from the paths of thy calm retreat
+She smoothed the thorns with her bleeding feet.
+1883.
+
+
+
+
+SAINT GREGORY'S GUEST.
+
+A TALE for Roman guides to tell
+To careless, sight-worn travellers still,
+Who pause beside the narrow cell
+Of Gregory on the Caelian Hill.
+
+One day before the monk's door came
+A beggar, stretching empty palms,
+Fainting and fast-sick, in the name
+Of the Most Holy asking alms.
+
+And the monk answered, "All I have
+In this poor cell of mine I give,
+The silver cup my mother gave;
+In Christ's name take thou it, and live."
+
+Years passed; and, called at last to bear
+The pastoral crook and keys of Rome,
+The poor monk, in Saint Peter's chair,
+Sat the crowned lord of Christendom.
+
+"Prepare a feast," Saint Gregory cried,
+"And let twelve beggars sit thereat."
+The beggars came, and one beside,
+An unknown stranger, with them sat.
+
+"I asked thee not," the Pontiff spake,
+"O stranger; but if need be thine,
+I bid thee welcome, for the sake
+Of Him who is thy Lord and mine."
+
+A grave, calm face the stranger raised,
+Like His who on Gennesaret trod,
+Or His on whom the Chaldeans gazed,
+Whose form was as the Son of God.
+
+"Know'st thou," he said, "thy gift of old?"
+And in the hand he lifted up
+The Pontiff marvelled to behold
+Once more his mother's silver cup.
+
+"Thy prayers and alms have risen, and bloom
+Sweetly among the flowers of heaven.
+I am The Wonderful, through whom
+Whate'er thou askest shall be given."
+
+He spake and vanished. Gregory fell
+With his twelve guests in mute accord
+Prone on their faces, knowing well
+Their eyes of flesh had seen the Lord.
+
+The old-time legend is not vain;
+Nor vain thy art, Verona's Paul,
+Telling it o'er and o'er again
+On gray Vicenza's frescoed wall.
+
+Still wheresoever pity shares
+Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin,
+And love the beggar's feast prepares,
+The uninvited Guest comes in.
+
+Unheard, because our ears are dull,
+Unseen, because our eyes are dim,
+He walks our earth, The Wonderful,
+And all good deeds are done to Him.
+1883.
+
+
+
+
+BIRCHBROOK MILL.
+
+A NOTELESS stream, the Birchbrook runs
+Beneath its leaning trees;
+That low, soft ripple is its own,
+That dull roar is the sea's.
+
+Of human signs it sees alone
+The distant church spire's tip,
+And, ghost-like, on a blank of gray,
+The white sail of a ship.
+
+No more a toiler at the wheel,
+It wanders at its will;
+Nor dam nor pond is left to tell
+Where once was Birchbrook mill.
+
+The timbers of that mill have fed
+Long since a farmer's fires;
+His doorsteps are the stones that ground
+The harvest of his sires.
+
+Man trespassed here; but Nature lost
+No right of her domain;
+She waited, and she brought the old
+Wild beauty back again.
+
+By day the sunlight through the leaves
+Falls on its moist, green sod,
+And wakes the violet bloom of spring
+And autumn's golden-rod.
+
+Its birches whisper to the wind,
+The swallow dips her wings
+In the cool spray, and on its banks
+The gray song-sparrow sings.
+
+But from it, when the dark night falls,
+The school-girl shrinks with dread;
+The farmer, home-bound from his fields,
+Goes by with quickened tread.
+
+They dare not pause to hear the grind
+Of shadowy stone on stone;
+The plashing of a water-wheel
+Where wheel there now is none.
+
+Has not a cry of pain been heard
+Above the clattering mill?
+The pawing of an unseen horse,
+Who waits his mistress still?
+
+Yet never to the listener's eye
+Has sight confirmed the sound;
+A wavering birch line marks alone
+The vacant pasture ground.
+
+No ghostly arms fling up to heaven
+The agony of prayer;
+No spectral steed impatient shakes
+His white mane on the air.
+
+The meaning of that common dread
+No tongue has fitly told;
+The secret of the dark surmise
+The brook and birches hold.
+
+What nameless horror of the past
+Broods here forevermore?
+What ghost his unforgiven sin
+Is grinding o'er and o'er?
+
+Does, then, immortal memory play
+The actor's tragic part,
+Rehearsals of a mortal life
+And unveiled human heart?
+
+God's pity spare a guilty soul
+That drama of its ill,
+And let the scenic curtain fall
+On Birchbrook's haunted mill
+1884.
+
+
+
+
+THE TWO ELIZABETHS.
+Read at the unveiling of the bust of Elizabeth Fry at the  Friends'
+School, Providence, R. I.
+
+A. D. 1209.
+
+AMIDST Thuringia's wooded hills she dwelt,
+A high-born princess, servant of the poor,
+Sweetening with gracious words the food she dealt
+To starving throngs at Wartburg's blazoned door.
+
+A blinded zealot held her soul in chains,
+Cramped the sweet nature that he could not kill,
+Scarred her fair body with his penance-pains,
+And gauged her conscience by his narrow will.
+
+God gave her gifts of beauty and of grace,
+With fast and vigil she denied them all;
+Unquestioning, with sad, pathetic face,
+She followed meekly at her stern guide's call.
+
+So drooped and died her home-blown rose of bliss
+In the chill rigor of a discipline
+That turned her fond lips from her children's kiss,
+And made her joy of motherhood a sin.
+
+To their sad level by compassion led,
+One with the low and vile herself she made,
+While thankless misery mocked the hand that fed,
+And laughed to scorn her piteous masquerade.
+
+But still, with patience that outwearied hate,
+She gave her all while yet she had to give;
+And then her empty hands, importunate,
+In prayer she lifted that the poor might live.
+
+Sore pressed by grief, and wrongs more hard to bear,
+And dwarfed and stifled by a harsh control,
+She kept life fragrant with good deeds and prayer,
+And fresh and pure the white flower of her soul.
+
+Death found her busy at her task: one word
+Alone she uttered as she paused to die,
+"Silence!"--then listened even as one who heard
+With song and wing the angels drawing nigh!
+
+Now Fra Angelico's roses fill her hands,
+And, on Murillo's canvas, Want and Pain
+Kneel at her feet. Her marble image stands
+Worshipped and crowned in Marburg's holy fane.
+
+Yea, wheresoe'er her Church its cross uprears,
+Wide as the world her story still is told;
+In manhood's reverence, woman's prayers and tears,
+She lives again whose grave is centuries old.
+
+And still, despite the weakness or the blame
+Of blind submission to the blind, she hath
+A tender place in hearts of every name,
+And more than Rome owns Saint Elizabeth!
+
+
+
+A. D. 1780.
+
+Slow ages passed: and lo! another came,
+An English matron, in whose simple faith
+Nor priestly rule nor ritual had claim,
+A plain, uncanonized Elizabeth.
+
+No sackcloth robe, nor ashen-sprinkled hair,
+Nor wasting fast, nor scourge, nor vigil long,
+Marred her calm presence. God had made her fair,
+And she could do His goodly work no wrong.
+
+Their yoke is easy and their burden light
+Whose sole confessor is the Christ of God;
+Her quiet trust and faith transcending sight
+Smoothed to her feet the difficult paths she trod.
+
+And there she walked, as duty bade her go,
+Safe and unsullied as a cloistered nun,
+Shamed with her plainness Fashion's gaudy show,
+And overcame the world she did not shun.
+
+In Earlham's bowers, in Plashet's liberal hall,
+In the great city's restless crowd and din,
+Her ear was open to the Master's call,
+And knew the summons of His voice within.
+
+Tender as mother, beautiful as wife,
+Amidst the throngs of prisoned crime she stood
+In modest raiment faultless as her life,
+The type of England's worthiest womanhood.
+
+To melt the hearts that harshness turned to stone
+The sweet persuasion of her lips sufficed,
+And guilt, which only hate and fear had known,
+Saw in her own the pitying love of Christ.
+
+So wheresoe'er the guiding Spirit went
+She followed, finding every prison cell
+It opened for her sacred as a tent
+Pitched by Gennesaret or by Jacob's well.
+
+And Pride and Fashion felt her strong appeal,
+And priest and ruler marvelled as they saw
+How hand in hand went wisdom with her zeal,
+And woman's pity kept the bounds of law.
+
+She rests in God's peace; but her memory stirs
+The air of earth as with an angel's wings,
+And warms and moves the hearts of men like hers,
+The sainted daughter of Hungarian kings.
+
+United now, the Briton and the Hun,
+Each, in her own time, faithful unto death,
+Live sister souls! in name and spirit one,
+Thuringia's saint and our Elizabeth!
+1885.
+
+
+
+
+REQUITAL.
+
+As Islam's Prophet, when his last day drew
+Nigh to its close, besought all men to say
+Whom he had wronged, to whom he then should pay
+A debt forgotten, or for pardon sue,
+And, through the silence of his weeping friends,
+A strange voice cried: "Thou owest me a debt,"
+"Allah be praised!" he answered. "Even yet
+He gives me power to make to thee amends.
+O friend! I thank thee for thy timely word."
+So runs the tale. Its lesson all may heed,
+For all have sinned in thought, or word, or deed,
+Or, like the Prophet, through neglect have erred.
+All need forgiveness, all have debts to pay
+Ere the night cometh, while it still is day.
+1885.
+
+
+
+
+THE HOMESTEAD.
+
+AGAINST the wooded hills it stands,
+Ghost of a dead home, staring through
+Its broken lights on wasted lands
+Where old-time harvests grew.
+
+Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn,
+The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie,
+Once rich and rife with golden corn
+And pale green breadths of rye.
+
+Of healthful herb and flower bereft,
+The garden plot no housewife keeps;
+Through weeds and tangle only left,
+The snake, its tenant, creeps.
+
+A lilac spray, still blossom-clad,
+Sways slow before the empty rooms;
+Beside the roofless porch a sad
+Pathetic red rose blooms.
+
+His track, in mould and dust of drouth,
+On floor and hearth the squirrel leaves,
+And in the fireless chimney's mouth
+His web the spider weaves.
+
+The leaning barn, about to fall,
+Resounds no more on husking eves;
+No cattle low in yard or stall,
+No thresher beats his sheaves.
+
+So sad, so drear! It seems almost
+Some haunting Presence makes its sign;
+That down yon shadowy lane some ghost
+Might drive his spectral kine!
+
+O home so desolate and lorn!
+Did all thy memories die with thee?
+Were any wed, were any born,
+Beneath this low roof-tree?
+
+Whose axe the wall of forest broke,
+And let the waiting sunshine through?
+What goodwife sent the earliest smoke
+Up the great chimney flue?
+
+Did rustic lovers hither come?
+Did maidens, swaying back and forth
+In rhythmic grace, at wheel and loom,
+Make light their toil with mirth?
+
+Did child feet patter on the stair?
+Did boyhood frolic in the snow?
+Did gray age, in her elbow chair,
+Knit, rocking to and fro?
+
+The murmuring brook, the sighing breeze,
+The pine's slow whisper, cannot tell;
+Low mounds beneath the hemlock-trees
+Keep the home secrets well.
+
+Cease, mother-land, to fondly boast
+Of sons far off who strive and thrive,
+Forgetful that each swarming host
+Must leave an emptier hive.
+
+O wanderers from ancestral soil,
+Leave noisome mill and chaffering store:
+Gird up your loins for sturdier toil,
+And build the home once more!
+
+Come back to bayberry-scented slopes,
+And fragrant fern, and ground-nut vine;
+Breathe airs blown over holt and copse
+Sweet with black birch and pine.
+
+What matter if the gains are small
+That life's essential wants supply?
+Your homestead's title gives you all
+That idle wealth can buy.
+
+All that the many-dollared crave,
+The brick-walled slaves of 'Change and mart,
+Lawns, trees, fresh air, and flowers, you have,
+More dear for lack of art.
+
+Your own sole masters, freedom-willed,
+With none to bid you go or stay,
+Till the old fields your fathers tilled,
+As manly men as they!
+
+With skill that spares your toiling hands,
+And chemic aid that science brings,
+Reclaim the waste and outworn lands,
+And reign thereon as kings
+1886.
+
+
+
+
+HOW THE ROBIN CAME.
+
+AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND.
+
+HAPPY young friends, sit by me,
+Under May's blown apple-tree,
+While these home-birds in and out
+Through the blossoms flit about.
+Hear a story, strange and old,
+By the wild red Indians told,
+How the robin came to be:
+
+Once a great chief left his son,--
+Well-beloved, his only one,--
+When the boy was well-nigh grown,
+In the trial-lodge alone.
+Left for tortures long and slow
+Youths like him must undergo,
+Who their pride of manhood test,
+Lacking water, food, and rest.
+
+Seven days the fast he kept,
+Seven nights he never slept.
+Then the young boy, wrung with pain,
+Weak from nature's overstrain,
+Faltering, moaned a low complaint
+"Spare me, father, for I faint!"
+But the chieftain, haughty-eyed,
+Hid his pity in his pride.
+"You shall be a hunter good,
+Knowing never lack of food;
+You shall be a warrior great,
+Wise as fox and strong as bear;
+Many scalps your belt shall wear,
+If with patient heart you wait
+Bravely till your task is done.
+Better you should starving die
+Than that boy and squaw should cry
+Shame upon your father's son!"
+
+When next morn the sun's first rays
+Glistened on the hemlock sprays,
+Straight that lodge the old chief sought,
+And boiled sainp and moose meat brought.
+"Rise and eat, my son!" he said.
+Lo, he found the poor boy dead!
+
+As with grief his grave they made,
+And his bow beside him laid,
+Pipe, and knife, and wampum-braid,
+On the lodge-top overhead,
+Preening smooth its breast of red
+And the brown coat that it wore,
+Sat a bird, unknown before.
+And as if with human tongue,
+"Mourn me not," it said, or sung;
+"I, a bird, am still your son,
+Happier than if hunter fleet,
+Or a brave, before your feet
+Laying scalps in battle won.
+Friend of man, my song shall cheer
+Lodge and corn-land; hovering near,
+To each wigwam I shall bring
+Tidings of the corning spring;
+Every child my voice shall know
+In the moon of melting snow,
+When the maple's red bud swells,
+And the wind-flower lifts its bells.
+As their fond companion
+Men shall henceforth own your son,
+And my song shall testify
+That of human kin am I."
+
+Thus the Indian legend saith
+How, at first, the robin came
+With a sweeter life from death,
+Bird for boy, and still the same.
+If my young friends doubt that this
+Is the robin's genesis,
+Not in vain is still the myth
+If a truth be found therewith
+Unto gentleness belong
+Gifts unknown to pride and wrong;
+Happier far than hate is praise,--
+He who sings than he who slays.
+
+
+
+
+BANISHED FROM MASSACHUSETTS.
+
+1660.
+
+On a painting by E. A. Abbey. The General Court of Massachusetts enacted
+Oct. 19, 1658, that "any person or persons of the cursed sect of
+Quakers" should, on conviction of the same, be banished, on pain
+of death, from the jurisdiction of the common-wealth.
+
+
+OVER the threshold of his pleasant home
+Set in green clearings passed the exiled Friend,
+In simple trust, misdoubting not the end.
+"Dear heart of mine!" he said, "the time has come
+To trust the Lord for shelter." One long gaze
+The goodwife turned on each familiar thing,--
+The lowing kine, the orchard blossoming,
+The open door that showed the hearth-fire's blaze,--
+And calmly answered, "Yes, He will provide."
+Silent and slow they crossed the homestead's bound,
+Lingering the longest by their child's grave-mound.
+"Move on, or stay and hang!" the sheriff cried.
+They left behind them more than home or land,
+And set sad faces to an alien strand.
+
+Safer with winds and waves than human wrath,
+With ravening wolves than those whose zeal for God
+Was cruelty to man, the exiles trod
+Drear leagues of forest without guide or path,
+Or launching frail boats on the uncharted sea,
+Round storm-vexed capes, whose teeth of granite ground
+The waves to foam, their perilous way they wound,
+Enduring all things so their souls were free.
+Oh, true confessors, shaming them who did
+Anew the wrong their Pilgrim Fathers bore
+For you the Mayflower spread her sail once more,
+Freighted with souls, to all that duty bid
+Faithful as they who sought an unknown land,
+O'er wintry seas, from Holland's Hook of Sand!
+
+So from his lost home to the darkening main,
+Bodeful of storm, stout Macy held his way,
+And, when the green shore blended with the gray,
+His poor wife moaned: "Let us turn back again."
+"Nay, woman, weak of faith, kneel down," said he,
+And say thy prayers: the Lord himself will steer;
+And led by Him, nor man nor devils I fear!
+So the gray Southwicks, from a rainy sea,
+Saw, far and faint, the loom of land, and gave
+With feeble voices thanks for friendly ground
+Whereon to rest their weary feet, and found
+A peaceful death-bed and a quiet grave
+Where, ocean-walled, and wiser than his age,
+The lord of Shelter scorned the bigot's rage.
+Aquidneck's isle, Nantucket's lonely shores,
+And Indian-haunted Narragansett saw
+The way-worn travellers round their camp-fire draw,
+Or heard the plashing of their weary oars.
+And every place whereon they rested grew
+Happier for pure and gracious womanhood,
+And men whose names for stainless honor stood,
+Founders of States and rulers wise and true.
+The Muse of history yet shall make amends
+To those who freedom, peace, and justice taught,
+Beyond their dark age led the van of thought,
+And left unforfeited the name of Friends.
+O mother State, how foiled was thy design
+The gain was theirs, the loss alone was thine.
+
+
+
+
+THE BROWN DWARF OF RUGEN.
+
+The hint of this ballad is found in Arndt's Miirchen, Berlin, 1816. The
+ballad appeared first in St. Nicholas, whose young readers were advised,
+while smiling at the absurd superstition, to remember that bad
+companionship and evil habits, desires, and passions are more to be
+dreaded now than the Elves and Trolls who frightened the children of
+past ages.
+
+
+THE pleasant isle of Rugen looks the Baltic water o'er,
+To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian
+shore;
+
+And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid
+Plucked the meadow-flowers together and in the
+sea-surf played.
+
+Alike were they in beauty if not in their degree
+He was the Amptman's first-born, the miller's
+child was she.
+
+Now of old the isle of Rugen was full of Dwarfs
+and Trolls,
+The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people without
+souls;
+
+And for every man and woman in Rugen's island
+found
+Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was
+underground.
+
+It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled
+away
+Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the elves
+and goblins play.
+
+That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters had
+known
+Of evil voices in the air, and heard the small horns
+blown.
+
+She came not back; the search for her in field and
+wood was vain
+They cried her east, they cried her west, but she
+came not again.
+
+"She's down among the Brown Dwarfs," said the
+dream-wives wise and old,
+And prayers were made, and masses said, and
+Rambin's church bell tolled.
+
+Five years her father mourned her; and then John
+Deitrich said
+"I will find my little playmate, be she alive or
+dead."
+
+He watched among the Nine Hills, he heard the
+Brown Dwarfs sing,
+And saw them dance by moonlight merrily in a
+ring.
+
+And when their gay-robed leader tossed up his cap
+of red,
+Young Deitrich caught it as it fell, and thrust it
+on his head.
+
+The Troll came crouching at his feet and wept for
+lack of it.
+"Oh, give me back my magic cap, for your great
+head unfit!"
+
+"Nay," Deitrich said; "the Dwarf who throws his
+charmed cap away,
+Must serve its finder at his will, and for his folly
+pay.
+
+"You stole my pretty Lisbeth, and hid her in the
+earth;
+And you shall ope the door of glass and let me
+lead her forth."
+
+"She will not come; she's one of us; she's
+mine!" the Brown Dwarf said;
+The day is set, the cake is baked, to-morrow we
+shall wed."
+
+"The fell fiend fetch thee!" Deitrich cried, "and
+keep thy foul tongue still.
+Quick! open, to thy evil world, the glass door of
+the hill!"
+
+The Dwarf obeyed; and youth and Troll down, the
+long stair-way passed,
+And saw in dim and sunless light a country strange
+and vast.
+
+Weird, rich, and wonderful, he saw the elfin
+under-land,--
+Its palaces of precious stones, its streets of golden
+sand.
+
+He came unto a banquet-hall with tables richly
+spread,
+Where a young maiden served to him the red wine
+and the bread.
+
+How fair she seemed among the Trolls so ugly and
+so wild!
+Yet pale and very sorrowful, like one who never
+smiled!
+
+Her low, sweet voice, her gold-brown hair, her tender
+blue eyes seemed
+Like something he had seen elsewhere or some.
+thing he had dreamed.
+
+He looked; he clasped her in his arms; he knew
+the long-lost one;
+"O Lisbeth! See thy playmate--I am the
+Amptman's son!"
+
+She leaned her fair head on his breast, and through
+her sobs she spoke
+"Oh, take me from this evil place, and from the
+elfin folk,
+
+"And let me tread the grass-green fields and smell
+the flowers again,
+And feel the soft wind on my cheek and hear the
+dropping rain!
+
+"And oh, to hear the singing bird, the rustling of
+the tree,
+The lowing cows, the bleat of sheep, the voices of
+the sea;
+
+"And oh, upon my father's knee to sit beside the
+door,
+And hear the bell of vespers ring in Rambin
+church once more!"
+
+He kissed her cheek, he kissed her lips; the Brown
+Dwarf groaned to see,
+And tore his tangled hair and ground his long
+teeth angrily.
+
+But Deitrich said: "For five long years this tender
+Christian maid
+Has served you in your evil world and well must
+she be paid!
+
+"Haste!--hither bring me precious gems, the
+richest in your store;
+Then when we pass the gate of glass, you'll take
+your cap once more."
+
+No choice was left the baffled Troll, and, murmuring,
+he obeyed,
+And filled the pockets of the youth and apron of
+the maid.
+
+They left the dreadful under-land and passed the
+gate of glass;
+They felt the sunshine's warm caress, they trod the
+soft, green grass.
+
+And when, beneath, they saw the Dwarf stretch up
+to them his brown
+And crooked claw-like fingers, they tossed his red
+cap down.
+
+Oh, never shone so bright a sun, was never sky so
+blue,
+As hand in hand they homeward walked the pleasant
+meadows through!
+
+And never sang the birds so sweet in Rambin's
+woods before,
+And never washed the waves so soft along the Baltic
+shore;
+
+And when beneath his door-yard trees the father
+met his child,
+The bells rung out their merriest peal, the folks
+with joy ran wild.
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS, ETC ***
+By John Greenleaf Whittier
+
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