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diff --git a/old/9567.txt b/old/9567.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa3cc8a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/9567.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14826 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Whittier, Volume I (of VII), by +John Greenleaf Whittier + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Works of Whittier, Volume I (of VII) + Narrative And Legendary Poems + +Author: John Greenleaf Whittier + +Release Date: December 2005 [EBook #9567] +Posting Date: July 9, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF WHITTIER *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + + + + +THE WORKS OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + + +By John Greenleaf Whittier + + + + + +VOLUME I. NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY POEMS + + + + +PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT + +The Standard Library Edition of Mr. Whittier's writings comprises his +poetical and prose works as re-arranged and thoroughly revised by +himself or with his cooperation. Mr. Whittier has supplied such +additional information regarding the subject and occasion of certain +poems as may be stated in brief head-notes, and this edition has been +much enriched by the poet's personal comment. So far as practicable the +dates of publication of the various articles have been given, and since +these were originally published soon after composition, the dates of +their first appearance have been taken as determining the time at which +they were written. At the request of the Publishers, Mr. Whittier has +allowed his early poems, discarded from previous collections, to be +placed, in the general order of their appearance, in an appendix to the +final volume of poems. By this means the present edition is made so +complete and retrospective that students of the poet's career will +always find the most abundant material for their purpose. The Publishers +congratulate themselves and the public that the careful attention which +Mr. Whittier has been able to give to this revision of his works has +resulted in so comprehensive and well-adjusted a collection. + +The portraits prefixed to the several volumes have been chosen with a +view to illustrating successive periods in the poet's life. The +original sources and dates are indicated in each case. + + + CONTENTS: + + THE VAUDOIS TEACHER + THE FEMALE MARTYR + EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND" + THE DEMON OF THE STUDY + THE FOUNTAIN + PENTUCKET + THE NORSEMEN + FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS + ST JOHN + THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON + THE EXILES + THE KNIGHT OF ST JOHN + CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK + THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD + + THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK + I. THE MERRIMAC + II. THE BASHABA + III. THE DAUGHTER + IV. THE WEDDING + V. THE NEW HOME + VI. AT PENNACOOK + VII. THE DEPARTURE + VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN + + BARCLAY OF URY + THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA + THE LEGEND OF ST MARK + KATHLEEN + THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE + THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS + TAULER + THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID + THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN + THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS + SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE + THE SYCAMORES + THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW + TELLING THE BEES + THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY + THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY + + MABEL MARTIN: A HARVEST IDYL + PROEM + I. THE RIVER VALLEY + II. THE HUSKING + III. THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER + IV. THE CHAMPION + V. IN THE SHADOW + VI. THE BETROTHAL + + THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL + THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR + THE PREACHER + THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA + MY PLAYMATE + COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION + AMY WENTWORTH + THE COUNTESS + + 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 + + THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM + INTRODUCTORY NOTE + PRELUDE + THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM + + KING VOLMER AND ELSIE + THE THREE BELLS + JOHN UNDERHILL + CONDUCTOR BRADLEY + THE WITCH OF WENHAM + KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS + IN THE "OLD SOUTH" + THE HENCHMAN + THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK + THE KHAN'S DEVIL + THE KING'S MISSIVE + VALUATION + RABBI ISHMAEL + THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE + + 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 + + +NOTE.--The portrait prefixed to this volume was etched by +S. A. Schoff, in 1888, after a painting by Bass Otis, a pupil of +Gilbert Stuart, made in the winter of 1836-1837. + + + + +PROEM + + I LOVE the old melodious lays + Which softly melt the ages through, + The songs of Spenser's golden days, + Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, + Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. + + Yet, vainly in my quiet hours + To breathe their marvellous notes I try; + I feel them, as the leaves and flowers + In silence feel the dewy showers, + And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky. + + The rigor of a frozen clime, + The harshness of an untaught ear, + The jarring words of one whose rhyme + Beat often Labor's hurried time, + Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. + + Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, + No rounded art the lack supplies; + Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, + Or softer shades of Nature's face, + I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. + + Nor mine the seer-like power to show + The secrets of the heart and mind; + To drop the plummet-line below + Our common world of joy and woe, + A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. + + Yet here at least an earnest sense + Of human right and weal is shown; + A hate of tyranny intense, + And hearty in its vehemence, + As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. + + O Freedom! if to me belong + Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, + Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, + Still with a love as deep and strong + As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine. + + AMESBURY, 11th mo., 1847. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +The edition of my poems published in 1857 contained the following note +by way of preface:-- + +"In these volumes, for the first time, a complete collection of my +poetical writings has been made. While it is satisfactory to know that +these scattered children of my brain have found a home, I cannot but +regret that I have been unable, by reason of illness, to give that +attention to their revision and arrangement, which respect for the +opinions of others and my own afterthought and experience demand. + +"That there are pieces in this collection which I would 'willingly let +die,' I am free to confess. But it is now too late to disown them, and I +must submit to the inevitable penalty of poetical as well as other sins. +There are others, intimately connected with the author's life and times, +which owe their tenacity of vitality to the circumstances under which +they were written, and the events by which they were suggested. + +"The long poem of Mogg Megone was in a great measure composed in early +life; and it is scarcely necessary to say that its subject is not such +as the writer would have chosen at any subsequent period." + +After a lapse of thirty years since the above was written, I have been +requested by my publishers to make some preparation for a new and +revised edition of my poems. I cannot flatter myself that I have added +much to the interest of the work beyond the correction of my own errors +and those of the press, with the addition of a few heretofore +unpublished pieces, and occasional notes of explanation which seemed +necessary. I have made an attempt to classify the poems under a few +general heads, and have transferred the long poem of Mogg Megone to the +Appendix, with other specimens of my earlier writings. I have endeavored +to affix the dates of composition or publication as far as possible. + +In looking over these poems I have not been unmindful of occasional +prosaic lines and verbal infelicities, but at this late day I have +neither strength nor patience to undertake their correction. + +Perhaps a word of explanation may be needed in regard to a class of +poems written between the years 1832 and 1865. Of their defects from an +artistic point of view it is not necessary to speak. They were the +earnest and often vehement expression of the writer's thought and +feeling at critical periods in the great conflict between Freedom and +Slavery. They were written with no expectation that they would survive +the occasions which called them forth: they were protests, alarm +signals, trumpet-calls to action, words wrung from the writer's heart, +forged at white heat, and of course lacking the finish and careful +word-selection which reflection and patient brooding over them might +have given. Such as they are, they belong to the history of the +Anti-Slavery movement, and may serve as way-marks of its progress. If +their language at times seems severe and harsh, the monstrous wrong of +Slavery which provoked it must be its excuse, if any is needed. In +attacking it, we did not measure our words. "It is," said Garrison, +"a waste of politeness to be courteous to the devil." But in truth the +contest was, in a great measure, an impersonal one,--hatred of slavery +and not of slave-masters. + + "No common wrong provoked our zeal, + The silken gauntlet which is thrown + In such a quarrel rings like steel." + +Even Thomas Jefferson, in his terrible denunciation of Slavery in the +Notes on Virginia, says "It is impossible to be temperate and pursue the +subject of Slavery." After the great contest was over, no class of the +American people were more ready, with kind words and deprecation of +harsh retaliation, to welcome back the revolted States than the +Abolitionists; and none have since more heartily rejoiced at the fast +increasing prosperity of the South. + +Grateful for the measure of favor which has been accorded to my +writings, I leave this edition with the public. It contains all that I +care to re-publish, and some things which, had the matter of choice been +left solely to myself, I should have omitted. + J. G. W. + + + + + +NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY POEMS + + + + +THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. + +This poem was suggested by the account given of the manner which the +Waldenses disseminated their principles among the Catholic gentry. They +gained access to the house through their occupation as peddlers of +silks, jewels, and trinkets. "Having disposed of some of their goods," +it is said by a writer who quotes the inquisitor Rainerus Sacco, "they +cautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable than +these, inestimable jewels, which they would show if they could be +protected from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a Bible +or Testament; and thereby many were deluded into heresy." The poem, +under the title Le Colporteur Vaudois, was translated into French by +Professor G. de Felice, of Montauban, and further naturalized by +Professor Alexandre Rodolphe Vinet, who quoted it in his lectures on +French literature, afterwards published. It became familiar in this form +to the Waldenses, who adopted it as a household poem. An American +clergyman, J. C. Fletcher, frequently heard it when he was a student, +about the year 1850, in the theological seminary at Geneva, Switzerland, +but the authorship of the poem was unknown to those who used it. +Twenty-five years later, Mr. Fletcher, learning the name of the author, +wrote to the moderator of the Waldensian synod at La Tour, giving the +information. At the banquet which closed the meeting of the synod, the +moderator announced the fact, and was instructed in the name of the +Waldensian church to write to me a letter of thanks. My letter, written +in reply, was translated into Italian and printed throughout Italy. + + "O LADY fair, these silks of mine + are beautiful and rare,-- + The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's + queen might wear; + And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose + radiant light they vie; + I have brought them with me a weary way,--will my + gentle lady buy?" + + The lady smiled on the worn old man through the + dark and clustering curls + Which veiled her brow, as she bent to view his + silks and glittering pearls; + And she placed their price in the old man's hand + and lightly turned away, + But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call,-- + "My gentle lady, stay! + + "O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer + lustre flings, + Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on + the lofty brow of kings; + A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue + shall not decay, + Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a + blessing on thy way!" + + The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her + form of grace was seen, + Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks + waved their clasping pearls between; + "Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou + traveller gray and old, + And name the price of thy precious gem, and my + page shall count thy gold." + + The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a + small and meagre book, + Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his + folding robe he took! + "Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove + as such to thee + Nay, keep thy gold--I ask it not, for the word of + God is free!" + + The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he + left behind + Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high- + born maiden's mind, + And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the + lowliness of truth, + And given her human heart to God in its beautiful + hour of youth + + And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil + faith had power, + The courtly knights of her father's train, and the + maidens of her bower; + And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly + feet untrod, + Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the + perfect love of God! + 1830. + + + + +THE FEMALE MARTYR. + +Mary G-----, aged eighteen, a "Sister of Charity," died in one of our +Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian cholera, while +in voluntary attendance upon the sick. + + + "BRING out your dead!" The midnight street + Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; + Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet, + Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, + Her coffin and her pall. + "What--only one!" the brutal hack-man said, + As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead. + + How sunk the inmost hearts of all, + As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, + With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall! + The dying turned him to the wall, + To hear it and to die! + Onward it rolled; while oft its driver stayed, + And hoarsely clamored, "Ho! bring out your dead." + + It paused beside the burial-place; + "Toss in your load!" and it was done. + With quick hand and averted face, + Hastily to the grave's embrace + They cast them, one by one, + Stranger and friend, the evil and the just, + Together trodden in the churchyard dust. + + And thou, young martyr! thou wast there; + No white-robed sisters round thee trod, + Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer + Rose through the damp and noisome air, + Giving thee to thy God; + Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave + Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave! + + Yet, gentle sufferer! there shall be, + In every heart of kindly feeling, + A rite as holy paid to thee + As if beneath the convent-tree + Thy sisterhood were kneeling, + At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping + Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. + + For thou wast one in whom the light + Of Heaven's own love was kindled well; + Enduring with a martyr's might, + Through weary day and wakeful night, + Far more than words may tell + Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown, + Thy mercies measured by thy God alone! + + Where manly hearts were failing, where + The throngful street grew foul with death, + O high-souled martyr! thou wast there, + Inhaling, from the loathsome air, + Poison with every breath. + Yet shrinking not from offices of dread + For the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead. + + And, where the sickly taper shed + Its light through vapors, damp, confined, + Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, + A new Electra by the bed + Of suffering human-kind! + Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, + To that pure hope which fadeth not away. + + Innocent teacher of the high + And holy mysteries of Heaven! + How turned to thee each glazing eye, + In mute and awful sympathy, + As thy low prayers were given; + And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, + An angel's features, a deliverer's smile! + + A blessed task! and worthy one + Who, turning from the world, as thou, + Before life's pathway had begun + To leave its spring-time flower and sun, + Had sealed her early vow; + Giving to God her beauty and her youth, + Her pure affections and her guileless truth. + + Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here + Could be for thee a meet reward; + Thine is a treasure far more dear + Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear + Of living mortal heard + The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, + The holy presence of Eternal Love! + + Sleep on in peace. The earth has not + A nobler name than thine shall be. + The deeds by martial manhood wrought, + The lofty energies of thought, + The fire of poesy, + These have but frail and fading honors; thine + Shall Time unto Eternity consign. + + Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down, + And human pride and grandeur fall, + The herald's line of long renown, + The mitre and the kingly crown,-- + Perishing glories all! + The pure devotion of thy generous heart + Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part. + 1833. + + + + +EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND." + +(Originally a part of the author's Moll Pitcher.) + + + How has New England's romance fled, + Even as a vision of the morning! + Its rites foredone, its guardians dead, + Its priestesses, bereft of dread, + Waking the veriest urchin's scorning! + Gone like the Indian wizard's yell + And fire-dance round the magic rock, + Forgotten like the Druid's spell + At moonrise by his holy oak! + No more along the shadowy glen + Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men; + No more the unquiet churchyard dead + Glimpse upward from their turfy bed, + Startling the traveller, late and lone; + As, on some night of starless weather, + They silently commune together, + Each sitting on his own head-stone + The roofless house, decayed, deserted, + Its living tenants all departed, + No longer rings with midnight revel + Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil; + No pale blue flame sends out its flashes + Through creviced roof and shattered sashes! + The witch-grass round the hazel spring + May sharply to the night-air sing, + But there no more shall withered hags + Refresh at ease their broomstick nags, + Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters + As beverage meet for Satan's daughters; + No more their mimic tones be heard, + The mew of cat, the chirp of bird, + Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter + Of the fell demon following after! + The cautious goodman nails no more + A horseshoe on his outer door, + Lest some unseemly hag should fit + To his own mouth her bridle-bit; + The goodwife's churn no more refuses + Its wonted culinary uses + Until, with heated needle burned, + The witch has to her place returned! + Our witches are no longer old + And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, + But young and gay and laughing creatures, + With the heart's sunshine on their features; + Their sorcery--the light which dances + Where the raised lid unveils its glances; + Or that low-breathed and gentle tone, + The music of Love's twilight hours, + Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan + Above her nightly closing flowers, + Sweeter than that which sighed of yore + Along the charmed Ausonian shore! + Even she, our own weird heroine, + Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn,' + Sleeps calmly where the living laid her; + And the wide realm of sorcery, + Left by its latest mistress free, + Hath found no gray and skilled invader. + So--perished Albion's "glammarye," + With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping, + His charmed torch beside his knee, + That even the dead himself might see + The magic scroll within his keeping. + And now our modern Yankee sees + Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries; + And naught above, below, around, + Of life or death, of sight or sound, + Whate'er its nature, form, or look, + Excites his terror or surprise, + All seeming to his knowing eyes + Familiar as his "catechise," + Or "Webster's Spelling-Book." + + 1833. + + + + +THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. + + THE Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, + And eats his meat and drinks his ale, + And beats the maid with her unused broom, + And the lazy lout with his idle flail; + But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn, + And hies him away ere the break of dawn. + + The shade of Denmark fled from the sun, + And the Cocklane ghost from the barn-loft cheer, + The fiend of Faust was a faithful one, + Agrippa's demon wrought in fear, + And the devil of Martin Luther sat + By the stout monk's side in social chat. + + The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him + Who seven times crossed the deep, + Twined closely each lean and withered limb, + Like the nightmare in one's sleep. + But he drank of the wine, and Sindbad cast + The evil weight from his back at last. + + But the demon that cometh day by day + To my quiet room and fireside nook, + Where the casement light falls dim and gray + On faded painting and ancient book, + Is a sorrier one than any whose names + Are chronicled well by good King James. + + No bearer of burdens like Caliban, + No runner of errands like Ariel, + He comes in the shape of a fat old man, + Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell; + And whence he comes, or whither he goes, + I know as I do of the wind which blows. + + A stout old man with a greasy hat + Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose, + And two gray eyes enveloped in fat, + Looking through glasses with iron bows. + Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can, + Guard well your doors from that old man! + + He comes with a careless "How d' ye do?" + And seats himself in my elbow-chair; + And my morning paper and pamphlet new + Fall forthwith under his special care, + And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat, + And, button by button, unfolds his coat. + + And then he reads from paper and book, + In a low and husky asthmatic tone, + With the stolid sameness of posture and look + Of one who reads to himself alone; + And hour after hour on my senses come + That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum. + + The price of stocks, the auction sales, + The poet's song and the lover's glee, + The horrible murders, the seaboard gales, + The marriage list, and the jeu d'esprit, + All reach my ear in the self-same tone,-- + I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on! + + Oh, sweet as the lapse of water at noon + O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree, + The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, + Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, + Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems + To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, + + So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone, + Of her in whose features I sometimes look, + As I sit at eve by her side alone, + And we read by turns, from the self-same book, + Some tale perhaps of the olden time, + Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. + + Then when the story is one of woe,-- + Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, + Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low + Her voice sinks down like a moan afar; + And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, + And his face looks on me worn and pale. + + And when she reads some merrier song, + Her voice is glad as an April bird's, + And when the tale is of war and wrong, + A trumpet's summons is in her words, + And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, + And see the tossing of plume and spear! + + Oh, pity me then, when, day by day, + The stout fiend darkens my parlor door; + And reads me perchance the self-same lay + Which melted in music, the night before, + From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet, + And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet! + + I cross my floor with a nervous tread, + I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, + I flourish my cane above his head, + And stir up the fire to roast him out; + I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane, + And press my hands on my ears, in vain! + + I've studied Glanville and James the wise, + And wizard black-letter tomes which treat + Of demons of every name and size + Which a Christian man is presumed to meet, + But never a hint and never a line + Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. + + I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, + And laid the Primer above them all, + I've nailed a horseshoe over the grate, + And hung a wig to my parlor wall + Once worn by a learned Judge, they say, + At Salem court in the witchcraft day! + + "Conjuro te, sceleratissime, + Abire ad tuum locum!"--still + Like a visible nightmare he sits by me,-- + The exorcism has lost its skill; + And I hear again in my haunted room + The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum! + + Ah! commend me to Mary Magdalen + With her sevenfold plagues, to the wandering Jew, + To the terrors which haunted Orestes when + The furies his midnight curtains drew, + But charm him off, ye who charm him can, + That reading demon, that fat old man! + + 1835. + + + + +THE FOUNTAIN. + +On the declivity of a hill in Salisbury, Essex County, is a fountain of +clear water, gushing from the very roots of a venerable oak. It is about +two miles from the junction of the Powow River with the Merrimac. + + TRAVELLER! on thy journey toiling + By the swift Powow, + With the summer sunshine falling + On thy heated brow, + Listen, while all else is still, + To the brooklet from the hill. + + Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing + By that streamlet's side, + And a greener verdure showing + Where its waters glide, + Down the hill-slope murmuring on, + Over root and mossy stone. + + Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth + O'er the sloping hill, + Beautiful and freshly springeth + That soft-flowing rill, + Through its dark roots wreathed and bare, + Gushing up to sun and air. + + Brighter waters sparkled never + In that magic well, + Of whose gift of life forever + Ancient legends tell, + In the lonely desert wasted, + And by mortal lip untasted. + + Waters which the proud Castilian + Sought with longing eyes, + Underneath the bright pavilion + Of the Indian skies, + Where his forest pathway lay + Through the blooms of Florida. + + Years ago a lonely stranger, + With the dusky brow + Of the outcast forest-ranger, + Crossed the swift Powow, + And betook him to the rill + And the oak upon the hill. + + O'er his face of moody sadness + For an instant shone + Something like a gleam of gladness, + As he stooped him down + To the fountain's grassy side, + And his eager thirst supplied. + + With the oak its shadow throwing + O'er his mossy seat, + And the cool, sweet waters flowing + Softly at his feet, + Closely by the fountain's rim + That lone Indian seated him. + + Autumn's earliest frost had given + To the woods below + Hues of beauty, such as heaven + Lendeth to its bow; + And the soft breeze from the west + Scarcely broke their dreamy rest. + + Far behind was Ocean striving + With his chains of sand; + Southward, sunny glimpses giving, + 'Twixt the swells of land, + Of its calm and silvery track, + Rolled the tranquil Merrimac. + + Over village, wood, and meadow + Gazed that stranger man, + Sadly, till the twilight shadow + Over all things ran, + Save where spire and westward pane + Flashed the sunset back again. + + Gazing thus upon the dwelling + Of his warrior sires, + Where no lingering trace was telling + Of their wigwam fires, + Who the gloomy thoughts might know + Of that wandering child of woe? + + Naked lay, in sunshine glowing, + Hills that once had stood + Down their sides the shadows throwing + Of a mighty wood, + Where the deer his covert kept, + And the eagle's pinion swept! + + Where the birch canoe had glided + Down the swift Powow, + Dark and gloomy bridges strided + Those clear waters now; + And where once the beaver swam, + Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam. + + For the wood-bird's merry singing, + And the hunter's cheer, + Iron clang and hammer's ringing + Smote upon his ear; + And the thick and sullen smoke + From the blackened forges broke. + + Could it be his fathers ever + Loved to linger here? + These bare hills, this conquered river,-- + Could they hold them dear, + With their native loveliness + Tamed and tortured into this? + + Sadly, as the shades of even + Gathered o'er the hill, + While the western half of heaven + Blushed with sunset still, + From the fountain's mossy seat + Turned the Indian's weary feet. + + Year on year hath flown forever, + But he came no more + To the hillside on the river + Where he came before. + But the villager can tell + Of that strange man's visit well. + + And the merry children, laden + With their fruits or flowers, + Roving boy and laughing maiden, + In their school-day hours, + Love the simple tale to tell + Of the Indian and his well. + + 1837 + + + + +PENTUCKET. + +The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac, called by the Indians +Pentucket, was for nearly seventeen years a frontier town, and during +thirty years endured all the horrors of savage warfare. In the year +1708, a combined body of French and Indians, under the command of De +Chaillons, and Hertel de Rouville, the famous and bloody sacker of +Deerfield, made an attack upon the village, which at that time contained +only thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still +larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, among +them Hertel de Rouville. The minister of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was +killed by a shot through his own door. In a paper entitled The Border +War of 1708, published in my collection of Recreations and Miscellanies, +I have given a prose narrative of the surprise of Haverhill. + + + How sweetly on the wood-girt town + The mellow light of sunset shone! + Each small, bright lake, whose waters still + Mirror the forest and the hill, + Reflected from its waveless breast + The beauty of a cloudless west, + Glorious as if a glimpse were given + Within the western gates of heaven, + Left, by the spirit of the star + Of sunset's holy hour, ajar! + + Beside the river's tranquil flood + The dark and low-walled dwellings stood, + Where many a rood of open land + Stretched up and down on either hand, + With corn-leaves waving freshly green + The thick and blackened stumps between. + Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, + The wild, untravelled forest spread, + Back to those mountains, white and cold, + Of which the Indian trapper told, + Upon whose summits never yet + Was mortal foot in safety set. + + Quiet and calm without a fear, + Of danger darkly lurking near, + The weary laborer left his plough, + The milkmaid carolled by her cow; + From cottage door and household hearth + Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. + + At length the murmur died away, + And silence on that village lay. + --So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, + Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all, + Undreaming of the fiery fate + Which made its dwellings desolate. + + Hours passed away. By moonlight sped + The Merrimac along his bed. + Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood + Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, + Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, + As the hushed grouping of a dream. + Yet on the still air crept a sound, + No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound, + Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing, + Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing. + + Was that the tread of many feet, + Which downward from the hillside beat? + What forms were those which darkly stood + Just on the margin of the wood?-- + Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, + Or paling rude, or leafless limb? + No,--through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed, + Dark human forms in moonshine showed, + Wild from their native wilderness, + With painted limbs and battle-dress. + + A yell the dead might wake to hear + Swelled on the night air, far and clear; + Then smote the Indian tomahawk + On crashing door and shattering lock; + + Then rang the rifle-shot, and then + The shrill death-scream of stricken men,-- + Sank the red axe in woman's brain, + And childhood's cry arose in vain. + Bursting through roof and window came, + Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame, + And blended fire and moonlight glared + On still dead men and scalp-knives bared. + + The morning sun looked brightly through + The river willows, wet with dew. + No sound of combat filled the air, + No shout was heard, nor gunshot there; + Yet still the thick and sullen smoke + From smouldering ruins slowly broke; + And on the greensward many a stain, + And, here and there, the mangled slain, + Told how that midnight bolt had sped + Pentucket, on thy fated head. + + Even now the villager can tell + Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, + Still show the door of wasting oak, + Through which the fatal death-shot broke, + And point the curious stranger where + De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare; + Whose hideous head, in death still feared, + Bore not a trace of hair or beard; + And still, within the churchyard ground, + Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, + Whose grass-grown surface overlies + The victims of that sacrifice. + 1838. + + + + +THE NORSEMEN. + +In the early part of the present century, a fragment of a statue, rudely +chiselled from dark gray stone, was found in the town of Bradford, on +the Merrimac. Its origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The fact +that the ancient Northmen visited the north-east coast of North America +and probably New England, some centuries before the discovery of the +western world by Columbus, is very generally admitted. + + GIFT from the cold and silent Past! + A relic to the present cast, + Left on the ever-changing strand + Of shifting and unstable sand, + Which wastes beneath the steady chime + And beating of the waves of Time! + Who from its bed of primal rock + First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block? + Whose hand, of curious skill untaught, + Thy rude and savage outline wrought? + + The waters of my native stream + Are glancing in the sun's warm beam; + From sail-urged keel and flashing oar + The circles widen to its shore; + And cultured field and peopled town + Slope to its willowed margin down. + Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing + The home-life sound of school-bells ringing, + And rolling wheel, and rapid jar + Of the fire-winged and steedless car, + And voices from the wayside near + Come quick and blended on my ear,-- + A spell is in this old gray stone, + My thoughts are with the Past alone! + + A change!--The steepled town no more + Stretches along the sail-thronged shore; + Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud, + Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud + Spectrally rising where they stood, + I see the old, primeval wood; + Dark, shadow-like, on either hand + I see its solemn waste expand; + It climbs the green and cultured hill, + It arches o'er the valley's rill, + And leans from cliff and crag to throw + Its wild arms o'er the stream below. + Unchanged, alone, the same bright river + Flows on, as it will flow forever + I listen, and I hear the low + Soft ripple where its waters go; + I hear behind the panther's cry, + The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by, + And shyly on the river's brink + The deer is stooping down to drink. + + But hark!--from wood and rock flung back, + What sound comes up the Merrimac? + What sea-worn barks are those which throw + The light spray from each rushing prow? + Have they not in the North Sea's blast + Bowed to the waves the straining mast? + Their frozen sails the low, pale sun + Of Thule's night has shone upon; + Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep + Round icy drift, and headland steep. + Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters + Have watched them fading o'er the waters, + Lessening through driving mist and spray, + Like white-winged sea-birds on their way! + + Onward they glide,--and now I view + Their iron-armed and stalwart crew; + Joy glistens in each wild blue eye, + Turned to green earth and summer sky. + Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside + Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide; + Bared to the sun and soft warm air, + Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair. + I see the gleam of axe and spear, + The sound of smitten shields I hear, + Keeping a harsh and fitting time + To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme; + Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung, + His gray and naked isles among; + Or muttered low at midnight hour + Round Odin's mossy stone of power. + The wolf beneath the Arctic moon + Has answered to that startling rune; + The Gael has heard its stormy swell, + The light Frank knows its summons well; + Iona's sable-stoled Culdee + Has heard it sounding o'er the sea, + And swept, with hoary beard and hair, + His altar's foot in trembling prayer. + + 'T is past,--the 'wildering vision dies + In darkness on my dreaming eyes + The forest vanishes in air, + Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare; + I hear the common tread of men, + And hum of work-day life again; + + The mystic relic seems alone + A broken mass of common stone; + And if it be the chiselled limb + Of Berserker or idol grim, + A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, + The stormy Viking's god of War, + Or Praga of the Runic lay, + Or love-awakening Siona, + I know not,--for no graven line, + Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, + Is left me here, by which to trace + Its name, or origin, or place. + Yet, for this vision of the Past, + This glance upon its darkness cast, + My spirit bows in gratitude + Before the Giver of all good, + Who fashioned so the human mind, + That, from the waste of Time behind, + A simple stone, or mound of earth, + Can summon the departed forth; + Quicken the Past to life again, + The Present lose in what hath been, + And in their primal freshness show + The buried forms of long ago. + As if a portion of that Thought + By which the Eternal will is wrought, + Whose impulse fills anew with breath + The frozen solitude of Death, + To mortal mind were sometimes lent, + To mortal musings sometimes sent, + To whisper-even when it seems + But Memory's fantasy of dreams-- + Through the mind's waste of woe and sin, + Of an immortal origin! + + 1841. + + + + +FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. + +Polan, chief of the Sokokis Indians of the country between Agamenticus +and Casco Bay, was killed at Windham on Sebago Lake in the spring of +1756. After the whites had retired, the surviving Indians "swayed" or +bent down a young tree until its roots were upturned, placed the body of +their chief beneath it, then released the tree, which, in springing back +to its old position, covered the grave. The Sokokis were early converts +to the Catholic faith. Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had removed +to the French settlements on the St. Francois. + + AROUND Sebago's lonely lake + There lingers not a breeze to break + The mirror which its waters make. + + The solemn pines along its shore, + The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, + Are painted on its glassy floor. + + The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, + The snowy mountain-tops which lie + Piled coldly up against the sky. + + Dazzling and white! save where the bleak, + Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, + Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. + + Yet green are Saco's banks below, + And belts of spruce and cedar show, + Dark fringing round those cones of snow. + + The earth hath felt the breath of spring, + Though yet on her deliverer's wing + The lingering frosts of winter cling. + + Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, + And mildly from its sunny nooks + The blue eye of the violet looks. + + And odors from the springing grass, + The sweet birch and the sassafras, + Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. + + Her tokens of renewing care + Hath Nature scattered everywhere, + In bud and flower, and warmer air. + + But in their hour of bitterness, + What reek the broken Sokokis, + Beside their slaughtered chief, of this? + + The turf's red stain is yet undried, + Scarce have the death-shot echoes died + Along Sebago's wooded side; + + And silent now the hunters stand, + Grouped darkly, where a swell of land + Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. + + Fire and the axe have swept it bare, + Save one lone beech, unclosing there + Its light leaves in the vernal air. + + With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, + They break the damp turf at its foot, + And bare its coiled and twisted root. + + They heave the stubborn trunk aside, + The firm roots from the earth divide,-- + The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. + + And there the fallen chief is laid, + In tasselled garb of skins arrayed, + And girded with his wampum-braid. + + The silver cross he loved is pressed + Beneath the heavy arms, which rest + Upon his scarred and naked breast. + + 'T is done: the roots are backward sent, + The beechen-tree stands up unbent, + The Indian's fitting monument! + + When of that sleeper's broken race + Their green and pleasant dwelling-place, + Which knew them once, retains no trace; + + Oh, long may sunset's light be shed + As now upon that beech's head, + A green memorial of the dead! + + There shall his fitting requiem be, + In northern winds, that, cold and free, + Howl nightly in that funeral tree. + + To their wild wail the waves which break + Forever round that lonely lake + A solemn undertone shall make! + + And who shall deem the spot unblest, + Where Nature's younger children rest, + Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast? + + Deem ye that mother loveth less + These bronzed forms of the wilderness + She foldeth in her long caress? + + As sweet o'er them her wild-flowers blow, + As if with fairer hair and brow + The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. + + What though the places of their rest + No priestly knee hath ever pressed,-- + No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed? + + What though the bigot's ban be there, + And thoughts of wailing and despair, + And cursing in the place of prayer. + + Yet Heaven hath angels watching round + The Indian's lowliest forest-mound,-- + And they have made it holy ground. + + There ceases man's frail judgment; all + His powerless bolts of cursing fall + Unheeded on that grassy pall. + + O peeled and hunted and reviled, + Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild! + Great Nature owns her simple child! + + And Nature's God, to whom alone + The secret of the heart is known,-- + The hidden language traced thereon; + + Who from its many cumberings + Of form and creed, and outward things, + To light the naked spirit brings; + + Not with our partial eye shall scan, + Not with our pride and scorn shall ban, + The spirit of our brother man! + 1841. + + + + +ST. JOHN. + +The fierce rivalry between Charles de La Tour, a Protestant, and +D'Aulnay Charnasy, a Catholic, for the possession of Acadia, forms one +of the most romantic passages in the history of the New World. La Tour +received aid in several instances from the Puritan colony of +Massachusetts. During one of his voyages for the purpose of obtaining +arms and provisions for his establishment at St. John, his castle was +attacked by D'Aulnay, and successfully defended by its high-spirited +mistress. A second attack however followed in the fourth month, 1647, +when D'Aulnay was successful, and the garrison was put to the sword. +Lady La Tour languished a few days in the hands of her enemy, and then +died of grief. + + "To the winds give our banner! + Bear homeward again!" + Cried the Lord of Acadia, + Cried Charles of Estienne; + From the prow of his shallop + He gazed, as the sun, + From its bed in the ocean, + Streamed up the St. John. + + O'er the blue western waters + That shallop had passed, + Where the mists of Penobscot + Clung damp on her mast. + St. Saviour had looked + On the heretic sail, + As the songs of the Huguenot + Rose on the gale. + + The pale, ghostly fathers + Remembered her well, + And had cursed her while passing, + With taper and bell; + But the men of Monhegan, + Of Papists abhorred, + Had welcomed and feasted + The heretic Lord. + + They had loaded his shallop + With dun-fish and ball, + With stores for his larder, + And steel for his wall. + Pemaquid, from her bastions + And turrets of stone, + Had welcomed his coming + With banner and gun. + + And the prayers of the elders + Had followed his way, + As homeward he glided, + Down Pentecost Bay. + Oh, well sped La Tour + For, in peril and pain, + His lady kept watch, + For his coming again. + + O'er the Isle of the Pheasant + The morning sun shone, + On the plane-trees which shaded + The shores of St. John. + "Now, why from yon battlements + Speaks not my love! + Why waves there no banner + My fortress above?" + + Dark and wild, from his deck + St. Estienne gazed about, + On fire-wasted dwellings, + And silent redoubt; + From the low, shattered walls + Which the flame had o'errun, + There floated no banner, + There thundered no gun! + + But beneath the low arch + Of its doorway there stood + A pale priest of Rome, + In his cloak and his hood. + With the bound of a lion, + La Tour sprang to land, + On the throat of the Papist + He fastened his hand. + + "Speak, son of the Woman + Of scarlet and sin! + What wolf has been prowling + My castle within?" + From the grasp of the soldier + The Jesuit broke, + Half in scorn, half in sorrow, + He smiled as he spoke: + + "No wolf, Lord of Estienne, + Has ravaged thy hall, + But thy red-handed rival, + With fire, steel, and ball! + On an errand of mercy + I hitherward came, + While the walls of thy castle + Yet spouted with flame. + + "Pentagoet's dark vessels + Were moored in the bay, + Grim sea-lions, roaring + Aloud for their prey." + "But what of my lady?" + Cried Charles of Estienne. + "On the shot-crumbled turret + Thy lady was seen: + + "Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud, + Her hand grasped thy pennon, + While her dark tresses swayed + In the hot breath of cannon! + But woe to the heretic, + Evermore woe! + When the son of the church + And the cross is his foe! + + "In the track of the shell, + In the path of the ball, + Pentagoet swept over + The breach of the wall! + Steel to steel, gun to gun, + One moment,--and then + Alone stood the victor, + Alone with his men! + + "Of its sturdy defenders, + Thy lady alone + Saw the cross-blazoned banner + Float over St. John." + "Let the dastard look to it!" + Cried fiery Estienne, + "Were D'Aulnay King Louis, + I'd free her again!" + + "Alas for thy lady! + No service from thee + Is needed by her + Whom the Lord hath set free; + Nine days, in stern silence, + Her thraldom she bore, + But the tenth morning came, + And Death opened her door!" + + As if suddenly smitten + La Tour staggered back; + His hand grasped his sword-hilt, + His forehead grew black. + He sprang on the deck + Of his shallop again. + "We cruise now for vengeance! + Give way!" cried Estienne. + + "Massachusetts shall hear + Of the Huguenot's wrong, + And from island and creekside + Her fishers shall throng! + Pentagoet shall rue + What his Papists have done, + When his palisades echo + The Puritan's gun!" + + Oh, the loveliest of heavens + Hung tenderly o'er him, + There were waves in the sunshine, + And green isles before him: + But a pale hand was beckoning + The Huguenot on; + And in blackness and ashes + Behind was St. John! + + 1841 + + + + +THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. + +Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth +century, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by +the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain +intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them was +restored, at once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw several +venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the +tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf. + + THEY sat in silent watchfulness + The sacred cypress-tree about, + And, from beneath old wrinkled brows, + Their failing eyes looked out. + + Gray Age and Sickness waiting there + Through weary night and lingering day,-- + Grim as the idols at their side, + And motionless as they. + + Unheeded in the boughs above + The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet; + Unseen of them the island flowers + Bloomed brightly at their feet. + + O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, + The thunder crashed on rock and hill; + The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed, + Yet there they waited still! + + What was the world without to them? + The Moslem's sunset-call, the dance + Of Ceylon's maids, the passing gleam + Of battle-flag and lance? + + They waited for that falling leaf + Of which the wandering Jogees sing: + Which lends once more to wintry age + The greenness of its spring. + + Oh, if these poor and blinded ones + In trustful patience wait to feel + O'er torpid pulse and failing limb + A youthful freshness steal; + + Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree + Whose healing leaves of life are shed, + In answer to the breath of prayer, + Upon the waiting head; + + Not to restore our failing forms, + And build the spirit's broken shrine, + But on the fainting soul to shed + A light and life divine-- + + Shall we grow weary in our watch, + And murmur at the long delay? + Impatient of our Father's time + And His appointed way? + + Or shall the stir of outward things + Allure and claim the Christian's eye, + When on the heathen watcher's ear + Their powerless murmurs die? + + Alas! a deeper test of faith + Than prison cell or martyr's stake, + The self-abasing watchfulness + Of silent prayer may make. + + We gird us bravely to rebuke + Our erring brother in the wrong,-- + And in the ear of Pride and Power + Our warning voice is strong. + + Easier to smite with Peter's sword + Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer. + Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord, + Our hearts can do and dare. + + But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side, + From waters which alone can save; + + And murmur for Abana's banks + And Pharpar's brighter wave. + + O Thou, who in the garden's shade + Didst wake Thy weary ones again, + Who slumbered at that fearful hour + Forgetful of Thy pain; + + Bend o'er us now, as over them, + And set our sleep-bound spirits free, + Nor leave us slumbering in the watch + Our souls should keep with Thee! + + 1841 + + + + +THE EXILES. + +The incidents upon which the following ballad has its foundation +about the year 1660. Thomas Macy was one of the first, if not the first +white settler of Nantucket. The career of Macy is briefly but carefully +outlined in James S. Pike's The New Puritan. + + THE goodman sat beside his door + One sultry afternoon, + With his young wife singing at his side + An old and goodly tune. + + A glimmer of heat was in the air,-- + The dark green woods were still; + And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud + Hung over the western hill. + + Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud + Above the wilderness, + + As some dark world from upper air + Were stooping over this. + + At times the solemn thunder pealed, + And all was still again, + Save a low murmur in the air + Of coming wind and rain. + + Just as the first big rain-drop fell, + A weary stranger came, + And stood before the farmer's door, + With travel soiled and lame. + + Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope + Was in his quiet glance, + And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed + His tranquil countenance,-- + + A look, like that his Master wore + In Pilate's council-hall: + It told of wrongs, but of a love + Meekly forgiving all. + + "Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?" + The stranger meekly said; + And, leaning on his oaken staff, + The goodman's features read. + + "My life is hunted,--evil men + Are following in my track; + The traces of the torturer's whip + Are on my aged back; + + "And much, I fear, 't will peril thee + Within thy doors to take + A hunted seeker of the Truth, + Oppressed for conscience' sake." + + Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, + "Come in, old man!" quoth she, + "We will not leave thee to the storm, + Whoever thou mayst be." + + Then came the aged wanderer in, + And silent sat him down; + While all within grew dark as night + Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. + + But while the sudden lightning's blaze + Filled every cottage nook, + And with the jarring thunder-roll + The loosened casements shook, + + A heavy tramp of horses' feet + Came sounding up the lane, + And half a score of horse, or more, + Came plunging through the rain. + + "Now, Goodman Macy, ope thy door,-- + We would not be house-breakers; + A rueful deed thou'st done this day, + In harboring banished Quakers." + + Out looked the cautious goodman then, + With much of fear and awe, + For there, with broad wig drenched with rain + The parish priest he saw. + + Open thy door, thou wicked man, + And let thy pastor in, + And give God thanks, if forty stripes + Repay thy deadly sin." + + "What seek ye?" quoth the goodman; + "The stranger is my guest; + He is worn with toil and grievous wrong,-- + Pray let the old man rest." + + "Now, out upon thee, canting knave!" + And strong hands shook the door. + "Believe me, Macy," quoth the priest, + "Thou 'lt rue thy conduct sore." + + Then kindled Macy's eye of fire + "No priest who walks the earth, + Shall pluck away the stranger-guest + Made welcome to my hearth." + + Down from his cottage wall he caught + The matchlock, hotly tried + At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, + By fiery Ireton's side; + + Where Puritan, and Cavalier, + With shout and psalm contended; + And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, + With battle-thunder blended. + + Up rose the ancient stranger then + "My spirit is not free + To bring the wrath and violence + Of evil men on thee; + + "And for thyself, I pray forbear, + Bethink thee of thy Lord, + Who healed again the smitten ear, + And sheathed His follower's sword. + + "I go, as to the slaughter led. + Friends of the poor, farewell!" + Beneath his hand the oaken door + Back on its hinges fell. + + "Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay," + The reckless scoffers cried, + As to a horseman's saddle-bow + The old man's arms were tied. + + And of his bondage hard and long + In Boston's crowded jail, + Where suffering woman's prayer was heard, + With sickening childhood's wail, + + It suits not with our tale to tell; + Those scenes have passed away; + Let the dim shadows of the past + Brood o'er that evil day. + + "Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest, + "Take Goodman Macy too; + The sin of this day's heresy + His back or purse shall rue." + + "Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macy cried. + She caught his manly arm; + Behind, the parson urged pursuit, + With outcry and alarm. + + Ho! speed the Macys, neck or naught,-- + The river-course was near; + The plashing on its pebbled shore + Was music to their ear. + + A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch, + Above the waters hung, + And at its base, with every wave, + A small light wherry swung. + + A leap--they gain the boat--and there + The goodman wields his oar; + "Ill luck betide them all," he cried, + "The laggards on the shore." + + Down through the crashing underwood, + The burly sheriff came:-- + "Stand, Goodman Macy, yield thyself; + Yield in the King's own name." + + "Now out upon thy hangman's face!" + Bold Macy answered then,-- + "Whip women, on the village green, + But meddle not with men." + + The priest came panting to the shore, + His grave cocked hat was gone; + Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung + His wig upon a thorn. + + "Come back,--come back!" the parson cried, + "The church's curse beware." + "Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macy, "but + Thy blessing prithee spare." + + "Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest, + "Thou 'lt yet the gallows see." + "Who's born to be hanged will not be drowned," + Quoth Macy, merrily; + + "And so, sir sheriff and priest, good-by!" + He bent him to his oar, + And the small boat glided quietly + From the twain upon the shore. + + Now in the west, the heavy clouds + Scattered and fell asunder, + While feebler came the rush of rain, + And fainter growled the thunder. + + And through the broken clouds, the sun + Looked out serene and warm, + Painting its holy symbol-light + Upon the passing storm. + + Oh, beautiful! that rainbow span, + O'er dim Crane-neck was bended; + One bright foot touched the eastern hills, + And one with ocean blended. + + By green Pentucket's southern'slope + The small boat glided fast; + The watchers of the Block-house saw + The strangers as they passed. + + That night a stalwart garrison + Sat shaking in their shoes, + To hear the dip of Indian oars, + The glide of birch canoes. + + The fisher-wives of Salisbury-- + The men were all away-- + Looked out to see the stranger oar + Upon their waters play. + + Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw + Their sunset-shadows o'er them, + And Newbury's spire and weathercock + Peered o'er the pines before them. + + Around the Black Rocks, on their left, + The marsh lay broad and green; + And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, + Plum Island's hills were seen. + + With skilful hand and wary eye + The harbor-bar was crossed; + A plaything of the restless wave, + The boat on ocean tossed. + + The glory of the sunset heaven + On land and water lay; + On the steep hills of Agawam, + On cape, and bluff, and bay. + + They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, + And Gloucester's harbor-bar; + The watch-fire of the garrison + Shone like a setting star. + + How brightly broke the morning + On Massachusetts Bay! + Blue wave, and bright green island, + Rejoicing in the day. + + On passed the bark in safety + Round isle and headland steep; + No tempest broke above them, + No fog-cloud veiled the deep. + + Far round the bleak and stormy Cape + The venturous Macy passed, + And on Nantucket's naked isle + Drew up his boat at last. + + And how, in log-built cabin, + They braved the rough sea-weather; + And there, in peace and quietness, + Went down life's vale together; + + How others drew around them, + And how their fishing sped, + Until to every wind of heaven + Nantucket's sails were spread; + + How pale Want alternated + With Plenty's golden smile; + Behold, is it not written + In the annals of the isle? + + And yet that isle remaineth + A refuge of the free, + As when true-hearted Macy + Beheld it from the sea. + + Free as the winds that winnow + Her shrubless hills of sand, + Free as the waves that batter + Along her yielding land. + + Than hers, at duty's summons, + No loftier spirit stirs, + Nor falls o'er human suffering + A readier tear then hers. + + God bless the sea-beat island! + And grant forevermore, + That charity and freedom dwell + As now upon her shore! + + 1841. + + + + +THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. + + ERE down yon blue Carpathian hills + The sun shall sink again, + Farewell to life and all its ills, + Farewell to cell and chain! + + These prison shades are dark and cold, + But, darker far than they, + The shadow of a sorrow old + Is on my heart alway. + + For since the day when Warkworth wood + Closed o'er my steed, and I, + An alien from my name and blood, + A weed cast out to die,-- + + When, looking back in sunset light, + I saw her turret gleam, + And from its casement, far and white, + Her sign of farewell stream, + + Like one who, from some desert shore, + Doth home's green isles descry, + And, vainly longing, gazes o'er + The waste of wave and sky; + + So from the desert of my fate + I gaze across the past; + Forever on life's dial-plate + The shade is backward cast! + + I've wandered wide from shore to shore, + I've knelt at many a shrine; + And bowed me to the rocky floor + Where Bethlehem's tapers shine; + + And by the Holy Sepulchre + I've pledged my knightly sword + To Christ, His blessed Church, and her, + The Mother of our Lord. + + Oh, vain the vow, and vain the strife! + How vain do all things seem! + My soul is in the past, and life + To-day is but a dream. + + In vain the penance strange and long, + And hard for flesh to bear; + The prayer, the fasting, and the thong, + And sackcloth shirt of hair. + + The eyes of memory will not sleep, + Its ears are open still; + And vigils with the past they keep + Against my feeble will. + + And still the loves and joys of old + Do evermore uprise; + I see the flow of locks of gold, + The shine of loving eyes! + + Ah me! upon another's breast + Those golden locks recline; + I see upon another rest + The glance that once was mine. + + "O faithless priest! O perjured knight!" + I hear the Master cry; + "Shut out the vision from thy sight, + Let Earth and Nature die. + + "The Church of God is now thy spouse, + And thou the bridegroom art; + Then let the burden of thy vows + Crush down thy human heart!" + + In vain! This heart its grief must know, + Till life itself hath ceased, + And falls beneath the self-same blow + The lover and the priest! + + O pitying Mother! souls of light, + And saints and martyrs old! + Pray for a weak and sinful knight, + A suffering man uphold. + + Then let the Paynim work his will, + And death unbind my chain, + Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill + The sun shall fall again. + + 1843 + + + + +CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. + +In 1658 two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Smithwick of +Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of nearly all his +property for having entertained Quakers at his house, were fined for +non-attendance at church. They being unable to pay the fine, the General +Court issued an order empowering "the Treasurer of the County to sell +the said persons to any of the English nation of Virginia or Barbadoes, +to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this order into +execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the +West Indies. + + To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise + to-day, + From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked + the spoil away; + Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful + three, + And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His hand- + maid free! + Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison + bars, + Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale + gleam of stars; + In the coldness and the darkness all through the + long night-time, + My grated casement whitened with autumn's early + rime. + Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept + by; + Star after star looked palely in and sank adown + the sky; + No sound amid night's stillness, save that which + seemed to be + The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea; + + All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the + morrow + The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in + my sorrow, + Dragged to their place of market, and bargained + for and sold, + Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer + from the fold! + + Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there, the + shrinking and the shame; + And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to + me came: + "Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wicked + murmur said, + "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy + maiden bed? + + "Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and + sweet, + Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant + street? + Where be the youths whose glances, the summer + Sabbath through, + Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew? + + + "Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?-Bethink + thee with what mirth + Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm + bright hearth; + How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads + white and fair, + On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. + + "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for + thee kind words are spoken, + Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing + boys are broken; + No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are + laid, + For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters + braid. + + "O weak, deluded maiden!--by crazy fancies + led, + With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; + To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure + and sound, + And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and + sackcloth bound,-- + + "Mad scoffers of the priesthood; who mock at + things divine, + Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and + wine; + Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the + pillory lame, + Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in + their shame. + + "And what a fate awaits thee!--a sadly toiling + slave, + Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage + to the grave! + Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless + thrall, + The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!" + + Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's + fears + Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing + tears, + I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in + silent prayer, + To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed + wert there! + + I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, + And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison + shackles fell, + Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's + robe of white, + And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. + + Bless the Lord for all his mercies!--for the peace + and love I felt, + Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit + melt; + When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language + of my heart, + And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts + depart. + + Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine + fell, + Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within + my lonely cell; + The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward + from the street + Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of + passing feet. + + At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was + open cast, + And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street + I passed; + I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared + not see, + How, from every door and window, the people + gazed on me. + + And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon + my cheek, + Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling + limbs grew weak: + "O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her + soul cast out + The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness + and the doubt." + + Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in + morning's breeze, + And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering + words like these: + "Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven + a brazen wall, + Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over + all." + + We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit + waters broke + On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly + wall of rock; + The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear + lines on high, + Tracing with rope and slender spar their network + on the sky. + + And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped + and grave and cold, + And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed + and old, + And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at + hand, + Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the + land. + + And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready + ear, + The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and + scoff and jeer; + It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of + silence broke, + As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit + spoke. + + I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the + meek, + Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of + the weak! + Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,--go turn + the prison lock + Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf + amid the flock!" + + Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a + deeper red + O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of + anger spread; + "Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, + "heed not her words so wild, + Her Master speaks within her,--the Devil owns + his child!" + + But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the + while the sheriff read + That law the wicked rulers against the poor have + made, + Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood + bring + No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. + + Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, + said,-- + "Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this + Quaker maid? + In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's + shore, + You may hold her at a higher price than Indian + girl or Moor." + + Grim and silent stood the captains; and when + again he cried, + "Speak out, my worthy seamen!"--no voice, no + sign replied; + But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind + words met my ear,-- + "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl + and dear!" + + A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying + friend was nigh,-- + I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his + eye; + And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so + kind to me, + Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring + of the sea,-- + + "Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coins + of Spanish gold, + From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of + her hold, + By the living God who made me!--I would sooner + in your bay + Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child + away!" + + "Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their + cruel laws!" + Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's + just applause. + "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, + Shall we see the poor and righteous again for + silver sold?" + + I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half- + way drawn, + Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate + and scorn; + Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in + silence back, + And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode + murmuring in his track. + + Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of + soul; + Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and + crushed his parchment roll. + "Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, + the ruler and the priest, + Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well + released." + + Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept + round the silent bay, + As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me + go my way; + For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of + the glen, + And the river of great waters, had turned the + hearts of men. + + Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed + beneath my eye, + A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of + the sky, + A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and + woodland lay, + And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of + the bay. + + Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all + praises be, + Who from the hands of evil men hath set his hand- + maid free; + All praise to Him before whose power the mighty + are afraid, + Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the + poor is laid! + + Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight + calm + Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful + psalm; + Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the + saints of old, + When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter + told. + + And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty + men of wrong, + The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His hand + upon the strong. + Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! + Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven + and devour! + + But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart + be glad, + And let the mourning ones again with robes of + praise be clad. + For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the + stormy wave, + And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to + save! + + 1843. + + + + +THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. + +The following ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legends +connected with the famous General ----, of Hampton, New Hampshire, +who was regarded by his neighbors as a Yankee Faust, in league with +the adversary. I give the story, as I heard it when a child, from a +venerable family visitant. + + + DARK the halls, and cold the feast, + Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest. + All is over, all is done, + Twain of yesterday are one! + Blooming girl and manhood gray, + Autumn in the arms of May! + + Hushed within and hushed without, + Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout; + Dies the bonfire on the hill; + All is dark and all is still, + Save the starlight, save the breeze + Moaning through the graveyard trees, + And the great sea-waves below, + Pulse of the midnight beating slow. + + From the brief dream of a bride + She hath wakened, at his side. + With half-uttered shriek and start,-- + Feels she not his beating heart? + And the pressure of his arm, + And his breathing near and warm? + + Lightly from the bridal bed + Springs that fair dishevelled head, + And a feeling, new, intense, + Half of shame, half innocence, + Maiden fear and wonder speaks + Through her lips and changing cheeks. + + From the oaken mantel glowing, + Faintest light the lamp is throwing + On the mirror's antique mould, + High-backed chair, and wainscot old, + And, through faded curtains stealing, + His dark sleeping face revealing. + + Listless lies the strong man there, + Silver-streaked his careless hair; + Lips of love have left no trace + On that hard and haughty face; + And that forehead's knitted thought + Love's soft hand hath not unwrought. + + "Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well, + More than these calm lips will tell. + Stooping to my lowly state, + He hath made me rich and great, + And I bless him, though he be + Hard and stern to all save me!" + + While she speaketh, falls the light + O'er her fingers small and white; + Gold and gem, and costly ring + Back the timid lustre fling,-- + Love's selectest gifts, and rare, + His proud hand had fastened there. + + Gratefully she marks the glow + From those tapering lines of snow; + Fondly o'er the sleeper bending + His black hair with golden blending, + In her soft and light caress, + Cheek and lip together press. + + Ha!--that start of horror! why + That wild stare and wilder cry, + Full of terror, full of pain? + Is there madness in her brain? + Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low, + "Spare me,--spare me,--let me go!" + + God have mercy!--icy cold + Spectral hands her own enfold, + Drawing silently from them + Love's fair gifts of gold and gem. + "Waken! save me!" still as death + At her side he slumbereth. + + Ring and bracelet all are gone, + And that ice-cold hand withdrawn; + But she hears a murmur low, + Full of sweetness, full of woe, + Half a sigh and half a moan + "Fear not! give the dead her own!" + + Ah!--the dead wife's voice she knows! + That cold hand whose pressure froze, + Once in warmest life had borne + Gem and band her own hath worn. + "Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes + Open with a dull surprise. + + In his arms the strong man folds her, + Closer to his breast he holds her; + Trembling limbs his own are meeting, + And he feels her heart's quick beating + "Nay, my dearest, why this fear?" + "Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!" + + "Nay, a dream,--an idle dream." + But before the lamp's pale gleam + Tremblingly her hand she raises. + There no more the diamond blazes, + Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,-- + "Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!" + + Broken words of cheer he saith, + But his dark lip quivereth, + And as o'er the past he thinketh, + From his young wife's arms he shrinketh; + Can those soft arms round him lie, + Underneath his dead wife's eye? + + She her fair young head can rest + Soothed and childlike on his breast, + And in trustful innocence + Draw new strength and courage thence; + He, the proud man, feels within + But the cowardice of sin! + + She can murmur in her thought + Simple prayers her mother taught, + And His blessed angels call, + Whose great love is over all; + He, alone, in prayerless pride, + Meets the dark Past at her side! + + One, who living shrank with dread + From his look, or word, or tread, + Unto whom her early grave + Was as freedom to the slave, + Moves him at this midnight hour, + With the dead's unconscious power! + + Ah, the dead, the unforgot! + From their solemn homes of thought, + Where the cypress shadows blend + Darkly over foe and friend, + Or in love or sad rebuke, + Back upon the living look. + + And the tenderest ones and weakest, + Who their wrongs have borne the meekest, + Lifting from those dark, still places, + Sweet and sad-remembered faces, + O'er the guilty hearts behind + An unwitting triumph find. + + 1843 + + + + +THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. + +Winnepurkit, otherwise called George, Sachem of Saugus, married a +daughter of Passaconaway, the great Pennacook chieftain, in 1662. The +wedding took place at Pennacook (now Concord, N. H.), and the ceremonies +closed with a great feast. According to the usages of the chiefs, +Passaconaway ordered a select number of his men to accompany the +newly-married couple to the dwelling of the husband, where in turn there +was another great feast. Some time after, the wife of Winnepurkit +expressing a desire to visit her father's house was permitted to go, +accompanied by a brave escort of her husband's chief men. But when she +wished to return, her father sent a messenger to Saugus, informing her +husband, and asking him to come and take her away. He returned for +answer that he had escorted his wife to her father's house in a style +that became a chief, and that now if she wished to return, her father +must send her back, in the same way. This Passaconaway refused to do, +and it is said that here terminated the connection of his daughter with +the Saugus chief.--Vide MORTON'S New Canaan. + + + WE had been wandering for many days + Through the rough northern country. We had seen + The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud, + Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lake + Of Winnepiseogee; and had felt + The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy isles + Which stoop their summer beauty to the lips + Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds, + Silent with wonder, where the mountain wall + Is piled to heaven; and, through the narrow rift + Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet + Beats the mad torrent with perpetual roar, + Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind + Comes burdened with the everlasting moan + Of forests and of far-off waterfalls, + We had looked upward where the summer sky, + Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun, + Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags + O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land + Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed + The high source of the Saco; and bewildered + In the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills, + Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud, + The horn of Fabyan sounding; and atop + Of old Agioochook had seen the mountains' + Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick + As meadow mole-hills,--the far sea of Casco, + A white gleam on the horizon of the east; + Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills; + Moosehillock's mountain range, and Kearsarge + Lifting his granite forehead to the sun! + + And we had rested underneath the oaks + Shadowing the bank, whose grassy spires are shaken + By the perpetual beating of the falls + Of the wild Ammonoosuc. We had tracked + The winding Pemigewasset, overhung + By beechen shadows, whitening down its rocks, + Or lazily gliding through its intervals, + From waving rye-fields sending up the gleam + Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon + Rising behind Umbagog's eastern pines, + Like a great Indian camp-fire; and its beams + At midnight spanning with a bridge of silver + The Merrimac by Uncanoonuc's falls. + + There were five souls of us whom travel's chance + Had thrown together in these wild north hills + A city lawyer, for a month escaping + From his dull office, where the weary eye + Saw only hot brick walls and close thronged streets; + Briefless as yet, but with an eye to see + Life's sunniest side, and with a heart to take + Its chances all as godsends; and his brother, + Pale from long pulpit studies, yet retaining + The warmth and freshness of a genial heart, + Whose mirror of the beautiful and true, + In Man and Nature, was as yet undimmed + By dust of theologic strife, or breath + Of sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore; + Like a clear crystal calm of water, taking + The hue and image of o'erleaning flowers, + Sweet human faces, white clouds of the noon, + Slant starlight glimpses through the dewy leaves, + And tenderest moonrise. 'T was, in truth, a study, + To mark his spirit, alternating between + A decent and professional gravity + And an irreverent mirthfulness, which often + Laughed in the face of his divinity, + Plucked off the sacred ephod, quite unshrined + The oracle, and for the pattern priest + Left us the man. A shrewd, sagacious merchant, + To whom the soiled sheet found in Crawford's inn, + Giving the latest news of city stocks + And sales of cotton, had a deeper meaning + Than the great presence of the awful mountains + Glorified by the sunset; and his daughter, + A delicate flower on whom had blown too long + Those evil winds, which, sweeping from the ice + And winnowing the fogs of Labrador, + Shed their cold blight round Massachusetts Bay, + With the same breath which stirs Spring's opening leaves + And lifts her half-formed flower-bell on its stem, + Poisoning our seaside atmosphere. + + It chanced that as we turned upon our homeward way, + A drear northeastern storm came howling up + The valley of the Saco; and that girl + Who had stood with us upon Mount Washington, + Her brown locks ruffled by the wind which whirled + In gusts around its sharp, cold pinnacle, + Who had joined our gay trout-fishing in the streams + Which lave that giant's feet; whose laugh was heard + Like a bird's carol on the sunrise breeze + Which swelled our sail amidst the lake's green islands, + Shrank from its harsh, chill breath, and visibly drooped + Like a flower in the frost. So, in that quiet inn + Which looks from Conway on the mountains piled + Heavily against the horizon of the north, + Like summer thunder-clouds, we made our home + And while the mist hung over dripping hills, + And the cold wind-driven rain-drops all day long + Beat their sad music upon roof and pane, + We strove to cheer our gentle invalid. + + The lawyer in the pauses of the storm + Went angling down the Saco, and, returning, + Recounted his adventures and mishaps; + Gave us the history of his scaly clients, + Mingling with ludicrous yet apt citations + Of barbarous law Latin, passages + From Izaak Walton's Angler, sweet and fresh + As the flower-skirted streams of Staffordshire, + Where, under aged trees, the southwest wind + Of soft June mornings fanned the thin, white hair + Of the sage fisher. And, if truth be told, + Our youthful candidate forsook his sermons, + His commentaries, articles and creeds, + For the fair page of human loveliness, + The missal of young hearts, whose sacred text + Is music, its illumining, sweet smiles. + He sang the songs she loved; and in his low, + Deep, earnest voice, recited many a page + Of poetry, the holiest, tenderest lines + Of the sad bard of Olney, the sweet songs, + Simple and beautiful as Truth and Nature, + Of him whose whitened locks on Rydal Mount + Are lifted yet by morning breezes blowing + From the green hills, immortal in his lays. + And for myself, obedient to her wish, + I searched our landlord's proffered library,-- + A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures + Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them; + Watts' unmelodious psalms; Astrology's + Last home, a musty pile of almanacs, + And an old chronicle of border wars + And Indian history. And, as I read + A story of the marriage of the Chief + Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, + Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt + In the old time upon the Merrimac, + Our fair one, in the playful exercise + Of her prerogative,--the right divine + Of youth and beauty,--bade us versify + The legend, and with ready pencil sketched + Its plan and outlines, laughingly assigning + To each his part, and barring our excuses + With absolute will. So, like the cavaliers + Whose voices still are heard in the Romance + Of silver-tongued Boccaccio, on the banks + Of Arno, with soft tales of love beguiling + The ear of languid beauty, plague-exiled + From stately Florence, we rehearsed our rhymes + To their fair auditor, and shared by turns + Her kind approval and her playful censure. + + It may be that these fragments owe alone + To the fair setting of their circumstances,-- + The associations of time, scene, and audience,-- + Their place amid the pictures which fill up + The chambers of my memory. Yet I trust + That some, who sigh, while wandering in thought, + Pilgrims of Romance o'er the olden world, + That our broad land,--our sea-like lakes and mountains + Piled to the clouds, our rivers overhung + By forests which have known no other change + For ages than the budding and the fall + Of leaves, our valleys lovelier than those + Which the old poets sang of,--should but figure + On the apocryphal chart of speculation + As pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges, + Rights, and appurtenances, which make up + A Yankee Paradise, unsung, unknown, + To beautiful tradition; even their names, + Whose melody yet lingers like the last + Vibration of the red man's requiem, + Exchanged for syllables significant, + Of cotton-mill and rail-car, will look kindly + Upon this effort to call up the ghost + Of our dim Past, and listen with pleased ear + To the responses of the questioned Shade. + + + + +I. THE MERRIMAC. + + O child of that white-crested mountain whose + springs + Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's + wings, + Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters + shine, + Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the + dwarf pine; + From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so + lone, + From the arms of that wintry-locked mother of + stone, + By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and + free, + Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to the + sea. + + No bridge arched thy waters save that where the + trees + Stretched their long arms above thee and kissed in + the breeze: + No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy + shores, + The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars. + + Green-tufted, oak-shaded, by Amoskeag's fall + Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall, + Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn, + And the hills of Pentucket were tasselled with + corn. + But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these, + And greener its grasses and taller its trees, + Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung, + Or the mower his scythe in the meadows had + swung. + + In their sheltered repose looking out from the + wood + The bark-builded wigwams of Pennacook stood; + There glided the corn-dance, the council-fire shone, + And against the red war-post the hatchet was + thrown. + + There the old smoked in silence their pipes, and + the young + To the pike and the white-perch their baited lines + flung; + There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the + shy maid + Wove her many-hued baskets and bright wampum + braid. + + O Stream of the Mountains! if answer of thine + Could rise from thy waters to question of mine, + Methinks through the din of thy thronged banks + a moan + Of sorrow would swell for the days which have + gone. + + Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and the wheel, + The gliding of shuttles, the ringing of steel; + But that old voice of waters, of bird and of breeze, + The dip of the wild-fowl, the rustling of trees. + + + + +II. THE BASHABA. + + Lift we the twilight curtains of the Past, + And, turning from familiar sight and sound, + Sadly and full of reverence let us cast + A glance upon Tradition's shadowy ground, + Led by the few pale lights which, glimmering round + That dim, strange land of Eld, seem dying fast; + And that which history gives not to the eye, + The faded coloring of Time's tapestry, + Let Fancy, with her dream-dipped brush, supply. + + Roof of bark and walls of pine, + Through whose chinks the sunbeams shine, + Tracing many a golden line + On the ample floor within; + Where, upon that earth-floor stark, + Lay the gaudy mats of bark, + With the bear's hide, rough and dark, + And the red-deer's skin. + + Window-tracery, small and slight, + Woven of the willow white, + Lent a dimly checkered light; + And the night-stars glimmered down, + Where the lodge-fire's heavy smoke, + Slowly through an opening broke, + In the low roof, ribbed with oak, + Sheathed with hemlock brown. + + Gloomed behind the changeless shade + By the solemn pine-wood made; + Through the rugged palisade, + In the open foreground planted, + Glimpses came of rowers rowing, + Stir of leaves and wild-flowers blowing, + Steel-like gleams of water flowing, + In the sunlight slanted. + + Here the mighty Bashaba + Held his long-unquestioned sway, + From the White Hills, far away, + To the great sea's sounding shore; + Chief of chiefs, his regal word + All the river Sachems heard, + At his call the war-dance stirred, + Or was still once more. + + There his spoils of chase and war, + Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw, + Panther's skin and eagle's claw, + Lay beside his axe and bow; + And, adown the roof-pole hung, + Loosely on a snake-skin strung, + In the smoke his scalp-locks swung + Grimly to and fro. + + Nightly down the river going, + Swifter was the hunter's rowing, + When he saw that lodge-fire, glowing + O'er the waters still and red; + And the squaw's dark eye burned brighter, + And she drew her blanket tighter, + As, with quicker step and lighter, + From that door she fled. + + For that chief had magic skill, + And a Panisee's dark will, + Over powers of good and ill, + Powers which bless and powers which ban; + Wizard lord of Pennacook, + Chiefs upon their war-path shook, + When they met the steady look + Of that wise dark man. + + Tales of him the gray squaw told, + When the winter night-wind cold + Pierced her blanket's thickest fold, + And her fire burned low and small, + Till the very child abed, + Drew its bear-skin over bead, + Shrinking from the pale lights shed + On the trembling wall. + + All the subtle spirits hiding + Under earth or wave, abiding + In the caverned rock, or riding + Misty clouds or morning breeze; + Every dark intelligence, + Secret soul, and influence + Of all things which outward sense + Feels, or bears, or sees,-- + + These the wizard's skill confessed, + At his bidding banned or blessed, + Stormful woke or lulled to rest + Wind and cloud, and fire and flood; + Burned for him the drifted snow, + Bade through ice fresh lilies blow, + And the leaves of summer grow + Over winter's wood! + + Not untrue that tale of old! + Now, as then, the wise and bold + All the powers of Nature hold + Subject to their kingly will; + From the wondering crowds ashore, + Treading life's wild waters o'er, + As upon a marble floor, + Moves the strong man still. + + Still, to such, life's elements + With their sterner laws dispense, + And the chain of consequence + Broken in their pathway lies; + Time and change their vassals making, + Flowers from icy pillows waking, + Tresses of the sunrise shaking + Over midnight skies. + Still, to th' earnest soul, the sun + Rests on towered Gibeon, + And the moon of Ajalon + Lights the battle-grounds of life; + To his aid the strong reverses + Hidden powers and giant forces, + And the high stars, in their courses, + Mingle in his strife! + + + + +III. THE DAUGHTER. + + The soot-black brows of men, the yell + Of women thronging round the bed, + The tinkling charm of ring and shell, + The Powah whispering o'er the dead! + + All these the Sachem's home had known, + When, on her journey long and wild + To the dim World of Souls, alone, + In her young beauty passed the mother of his child. + + Three bow-shots from the Sachem's dwelling + They laid her in the walnut shade, + Where a green hillock gently swelling + Her fitting mound of burial made. + There trailed the vine in summer hours, + The tree-perched squirrel dropped his shell,-- + On velvet moss and pale-hued flowers, + Woven with leaf and spray, the softened sunshine fell! + + The Indian's heart is hard and cold, + It closes darkly o'er its care, + And formed in Nature's sternest mould, + Is slow to feel, and strong to bear. + The war-paint on the Sachem's face, + Unwet with tears, shone fierce and red, + And still, in battle or in chase, + Dry leaf and snow-rime crisped beneath his + foremost tread. + + Yet when her name was heard no more, + And when the robe her mother gave, + And small, light moccasin she wore, + Had slowly wasted on her grave, + Unmarked of him the dark maids sped + Their sunset dance and moonlit play; + No other shared his lonely bed, + No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. + + A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimes + The tempest-smitten tree receives + From one small root the sap which climbs + Its topmost spray and crowning leaves, + So from his child the Sachem drew + A life of Love and Hope, and felt + His cold and rugged nature through + The softness and the warmth of her young + being melt. + + A laugh which in the woodland rang + Bemocking April's gladdest bird,-- + A light and graceful form which sprang + To meet him when his step was heard,-- + Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark, + Small fingers stringing bead and shell + Or weaving mats of bright-hued bark,-- + With these the household-god (3) had graced + his wigwam well. + + Child of the forest! strong and free, + Slight-robed, with loosely flowing hair, + She swam the lake or climbed the tree, + Or struck the flying bird in air. + O'er the heaped drifts of winter's moon + Her snow-shoes tracked the hunter's way; + And dazzling in the summer noon + The blade of her light oar threw off its shower + of spray! + + Unknown to her the rigid rule, + The dull restraint, the chiding frown, + The weary torture of the school, + The taming of wild nature down. + Her only lore, the legends told + Around the hunter's fire at night; + Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled, + Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned + in her sight. + + Unknown to her the subtle skill + With which the artist-eye can trace + In rock and tree and lake and hill + The outlines of divinest grace; + Unknown the fine soul's keen unrest, + Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway; + Too closely on her mother's breast + To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay! + + It is enough for such to be + Of common, natural things a part, + To feel, with bird and stream and tree, + The pulses of the same great heart; + But we, from Nature long exiled, + In our cold homes of Art and Thought + Grieve like the stranger-tended child, + Which seeks its mother's arms, and sees but feels + them not. + + The garden rose may richly bloom + In cultured soil and genial air, + To cloud the light of Fashion's room + Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair; + In lonelier grace, to sun and dew + The sweetbrier on the hillside shows + Its single leaf and fainter hue, + Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose! + + Thus o'er the heart of Weetamoo + Their mingling shades of joy and ill + The instincts of her nature threw; + The savage was a woman still. + Midst outlines dim of maiden schemes, + Heart-colored prophecies of life, + Rose on the ground of her young dreams + The light of a new home, the lover and the wife. + + + + +IV. THE WEDDING. + + Cool and dark fell the autumn night, + But the Bashaba's wigwam glowed with light, + For down from its roof, by green withes hung, + Flaring and smoking the pine-knots swung. + + And along the river great wood-fires + Shot into the night their long, red spires, + Showing behind the tall, dark wood, + Flashing before on the sweeping flood. + + In the changeful wind, with shimmer and shade, + Now high, now low, that firelight played, + On tree-leaves wet with evening dews, + On gliding water and still canoes. + + The trapper that night on Turee's brook, + And the weary fisher on Contoocook, + Saw over the marshes, and through the pine, + And down on the river, the dance-lights shine. + For the Saugus Sachem had come to woo + The Bashaba's daughter Weetamoo, + And laid at her father's feet that night + His softest furs and wampum white. + + From the Crystal Hills to the far southeast + The river Sagamores came to the feast; + And chiefs whose homes the sea-winds shook + Sat down on the mats of Pennacook. + + They came from Sunapee's shore of rock, + From the snowy sources of Snooganock, + And from rough Coos whose thick woods shake + Their pine-cones in Umbagog Lake. + + From Ammonoosuc's mountain pass, + Wild as his home, came Chepewass; + And the Keenomps of the bills which throw + Their shade on the Smile of Manito. + + With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, + Glowing with paint came old and young, + In wampum and furs and feathers arrayed, + To the dance and feast the Bashaba made. + + Bird of the air and beast of the field, + All which the woods and the waters yield, + On dishes of birch and hemlock piled, + Garnished and graced that banquet wild. + + Steaks of the brown bear fat and large + From the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge; + Delicate trout from Babboosuck brook, + And salmon speared in the Contoocook; + + Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick + in the gravelly bed of the Otternic; + And small wild-hens in reed-snares caught + from the banks of Sondagardee brought; + + Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, + Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills shaken, + Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog, + And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog: + + And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands + In the river scooped by a spirit's hands,(4) + Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, + Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn. + + Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, + All which the woods and the waters yield, + Furnished in that olden day + The bridal feast of the Bashaba. + + And merrily when that feast was done + On the fire-lit green the dance begun, + With squaws' shrill stave, and deeper hum + Of old men beating the Indian drum. + + Painted and plumed, with scalp-locks flowing, + And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing, + Now in the light and now in the shade + Around the fires the dancers played. + + The step was quicker, the song more shrill, + And the beat of the small drums louder still + Whenever within the circle drew + The Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo. + + The moons of forty winters had shed + Their snow upon that chieftain's head, + And toil and care and battle's chance + Had seamed his hard, dark countenance. + + A fawn beside the bison grim,-- + Why turns the bride's fond eye on him, + In whose cold look is naught beside + The triumph of a sullen pride? + + Ask why the graceful grape entwines + The rough oak with her arm of vines; + And why the gray rock's rugged cheek + The soft lips of the mosses seek. + + Why, with wise instinct, Nature seems + To harmonize her wide extremes, + Linking the stronger with the weak, + The haughty with the soft and meek! + + + + +V. THE NEW HOME. + + A wild and broken landscape, spiked with firs, + Roughening the bleak horizon's northern edge; + Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlock + spurs + And sharp, gray splinters of the wind-swept + ledge + Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling rose, + Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon + the snows. + + And eastward cold, wide marshes stretched away, + Dull, dreary flats without a bush or tree, + O'er-crossed by icy creeks, where twice a day + Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck sea; + And faint with distance came the stifled roar, + The melancholy lapse of waves on that low shore. + + No cheerful village with its mingling smokes, + No laugh of children wrestling in the snow, + No camp-fire blazing through the hillside oaks, + No fishers kneeling on the ice below; + Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view, + Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed + Weetamoo. + + Her heart had found a home; and freshly all + Its beautiful affections overgrew + Their rugged prop. As o'er some granite wall + Soft vine-leaves open to the moistening dew + And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife + Found on a hard cold breast the dew and warmth + of life. + + The steep, bleak hills, the melancholy shore, + The long, dead level of the marsh between, + A coloring of unreal beauty wore + Through the soft golden mist of young love seen. + For o'er those hills and from that dreary plain, + Nightly she welcomed home her hunter chief again. + + No warmth of heart, no passionate burst of feeling, + Repaid her welcoming smile and parting kiss, + No fond and playful dalliance half concealing, + Under the guise of mirth, its tenderness; + + But, in their stead, the warrior's settled pride, + And vanity's pleased smile with homage satisfied. + + Enough for Weetamoo, that she alone + Sat on his mat and slumbered at his side; + That he whose fame to her young ear had flown + Now looked upon her proudly as his bride; + That he whose name the Mohawk trembling heard + Vouchsafed to her at times a kindly look or word. + + For she had learned the maxims of her race, + Which teach the woman to become a slave, + And feel herself the pardonless disgrace + Of love's fond weakness in the wise and brave,-- + The scandal and the shame which they incur, + Who give to woman all which man requires of her. + + So passed the winter moons. The sun at last + Broke link by link the frost chain of the rills, + And the warm breathings of the southwest passed + Over the hoar rime of the Saugus hills; + The gray and desolate marsh grew green once more, + And the birch-tree's tremulous shade fell round the + Sachem's door. + + Then from far Pennacook swift runners came, + With gift and greeting for the Saugus chief; + Beseeching him in the great Sachem's name, + That, with the coming of the flower and leaf, + The song of birds, the warm breeze and the rain, + Young Weetamoo might greet her lonely sire again. + + And Winnepurkit called his chiefs together, + And a grave council in his wigwam met, + Solemn and brief in words, considering whether + The rigid rules of forest etiquette + Permitted Weetamoo once more to look + Upon her father's face and green-banked + Pennacook. + + With interludes of pipe-smoke and strong water, + The forest sages pondered, and at length, + Concluded in a body to escort her + Up to her father's home of pride and strength, + Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense + Of Winnepurkit's power and regal consequence. + + So through old woods which Aukeetamit's(5) hand, + A soft and many-shaded greenness lent, + Over high breezy hills, and meadow land + Yellow with flowers, the wild procession went, + Till, rolling down its wooded banks between, + A broad, clear, mountain stream, the Merrimac + was seen. + + The hunter leaning on his bow undrawn, + The fisher lounging on the pebbled shores, + Squaws in the clearing dropping the seed-corn, + Young children peering through the wigwam doors, + Saw with delight, surrounded by her train + Of painted Saugus braves, their Weetamoo again. + + + + +VI. AT PENNACOOK. + + The hills are dearest which our childish feet + Have climbed the earliest; and the streams most sweet + Are ever those at which our young lips drank, + Stooped to their waters o'er the grassy bank. + + Midst the cold dreary sea-watch, Home's hearth-light + Shines round the helmsman plunging through the night; + And still, with inward eye, the traveller sees + In close, dark, stranger streets his native trees. + + The home-sick dreamer's brow is nightly fanned + By breezes whispering of his native land, + And on the stranger's dim and dying eye + The soft, sweet pictures of his childhood lie. + + Joy then for Weetamoo, to sit once more + A child upon her father's wigwam floor! + Once more with her old fondness to beguile + From his cold eye the strange light of a smile. + + The long, bright days of summer swiftly passed, + The dry leaves whirled in autumn's rising blast, + And evening cloud and whitening sunrise rime + Told of the coming of the winter-time. + + But vainly looked, the while, young Weetamoo, + Down the dark river for her chief's canoe; + No dusky messenger from Saugus brought + The grateful tidings which the young wife sought. + + At length a runner from her father sent, + To Winnepurkit's sea-cooled wigwam went + "Eagle of Saugus,--in the woods the dove + Mourns for the shelter of thy wings of love." + + But the dark chief of Saugus turned aside + In the grim anger of hard-hearted pride; + "I bore her as became a chieftain's daughter, + Up to her home beside the gliding water. + + If now no more a mat for her is found + Of all which line her father's wigwam round, + Let Pennacook call out his warrior train, + And send her back with wampum gifts again." + + The baffled runner turned upon his track, + Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. + "Dog of the Marsh," cried Pennacook, "no more + Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor. + + "Go, let him seek some meaner squaw to spread + The stolen bear-skin of his beggar's bed; + Son of a fish-hawk! let him dig his clams + For some vile daughter of the Agawams, + + "Or coward Nipmucks! may his scalp dry black + In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back." + He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave, + While hoarse assent his listening council gave. + + Alas poor bride! can thy grim sire impart + His iron hardness to thy woman's heart? + Or cold self-torturing pride like his atone + For love denied and life's warm beauty flown? + + On Autumn's gray and mournful grave the snow + Hung its white wreaths; with stifled voice and low + The river crept, by one vast bridge o'er-crossed, + Built by the boar-locked artisan of Frost. + + And many a moon in beauty newly born + Pierced the red sunset with her silver horn, + Or, from the east, across her azure field + Rolled the wide brightness of her full-orbed shield. + + Yet Winnepurkit came not,--on the mat + Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat; + And he, the while, in Western woods afar, + Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war. + + Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief! + Waste not on him the sacredness of grief; + Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own, + His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone. + + What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights, + The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights, + Cold, crafty, proud of woman's weak distress, + Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness? + + + + +VII. THE DEPARTURE. + + The wild March rains had fallen fast and long + The snowy mountains of the North among, + Making each vale a watercourse, each hill + Bright with the cascade of some new-made rill. + + Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain, + Heaved underneath by the swollen current's strain, + The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merrimac + Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track. + + On that strong turbid water, a small boat + Guided by one weak hand was seen to float; + Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore, + Too early voyager with too frail an oar! + + Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide, + The thick huge ice-blocks threatening either side, + The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view, + With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe. + + The trapper, moistening his moose's meat + On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc's feet, + Saw the swift boat flash down the troubled stream; + Slept he, or waked he? was it truth or dream? + + The straining eye bent fearfully before, + The small hand clenching on the useless oar, + The bead-wrought blanket trailing o'er the water-- + He knew them all--woe for the Sachem's daughter! + + Sick and aweary of her lonely life, + Heedless of peril, the still faithful wife + Had left her mother's grave, her father's door, + To seek the wigwam of her chief once more. + + Down the white rapids like a sear leaf whirled, + On the sharp rocks and piled-up ices hurled, + Empty and broken, circled the canoe + In the vexed pool below--but where was Weetamoo. + + + + +VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN. + + The Dark eye has left us, + The Spring-bird has flown; + On the pathway of spirits + She wanders alone. + The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore + Mat wonck kunna-monee!(6) We hear it no more! + + O dark water Spirit + We cast on thy wave + These furs which may never + Hang over her grave; + Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore + Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more! + + Of the strange land she walks in + No Powah has told: + It may burn with the sunshine, + Or freeze with the cold. + Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore: + Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more! + + The path she is treading + Shall soon be our own; + Each gliding in shadow + Unseen and alone! + In vain shall we call on the souls gone before: + Mat wonck kunna-monee! They hear us no more! + + O mighty Sowanna!(7) + Thy gateways unfold, + From thy wigwam of sunset + Lift curtains of gold! + + Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er + Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more! + + So sang the Children of the Leaves beside + The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide; + Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, + On the high wind their voices rose and fell. + Nature's wild music,--sounds of wind-swept trees, + The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze, + The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong,-- + Mingled and murmured in that farewell song. + + 1844. + + + + +BARCLAY OF URY. + +Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of Friends in Scotland was +Barclay of Ury, an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought under +Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany. As a Quaker, he became the object of +persecution and abuse at the hands of the magistrates and the populace. +None bore the indignities of the mob with greater patience and nobleness +of soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, +on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that he should be treated +so harshly in his old age who had been so honored before. "I find more +satisfaction," said Barclay, "as well as honor, in being thus insulted +for my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usual +for the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on the +road and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then +escort me out again, to gain my favor." + + Up the streets of Aberdeen, + By the kirk and college green, + Rode the Laird of Ury; + Close behind him, close beside, + Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, + Pressed the mob in fury. + + Flouted him the drunken churl, + Jeered at him the serving-girl, + Prompt to please her master; + And the begging carlin, late + Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, + Cursed him as he passed her. + + Yet, with calm and stately mien, + Up the streets of Aberdeen + Came he slowly riding; + And, to all he saw and heard, + Answering not with bitter word, + Turning not for chiding. + + Came a troop with broadswords swinging, + Bits and bridles sharply ringing, + Loose and free and froward; + Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! + Push him! prick him! through the town + Drive the Quaker coward!" + + But from out the thickening crowd + Cried a sudden voice and loud + "Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!" + And the old man at his side + Saw a comrade, battle tried, + Scarred and sunburned darkly; + + Who with ready weapon bare, + Fronting to the troopers there, + Cried aloud: "God save us, + Call ye coward him who stood + Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood, + With the brave Gustavus?" + + "Nay, I do not need thy sword, + Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; + "Put it up, I pray thee + Passive to His holy will, + Trust I in my Master still, + Even though He slay me. + + "Pledges of thy love and faith, + Proved on many a field of death, + Not by me are needed." + Marvelled much that henchman bold, + That his laird, so stout of old, + Now so meekly pleaded. + + "Woe's the day!" he sadly said, + With a slowly shaking head, + And a look of pity; + "Ury's honest lord reviled, + Mock of knave and sport of child, + In his own good city. + + "Speak the word, and, master mine, + As we charged on Tilly's(8) line, + And his Walloon lancers, + Smiting through their midst we'll teach + Civil look and decent speech + To these boyish prancers!" + + "Marvel not, mine ancient friend, + Like beginning, like the end:" + Quoth the Laird of Ury; + "Is the sinful servant more + Than his gracious Lord who bore + Bonds and stripes in Jewry? + + "Give me joy that in His name + I can bear, with patient frame, + All these vain ones offer; + While for them He suffereth long, + Shall I answer wrong with wrong, + Scoffing with the scoffer? + + "Happier I, with loss of all, + Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, + With few friends to greet me, + Than when reeve and squire were seen, + Riding out from Aberdeen, + With bared heads to meet me. + + "When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, + Blessed me as I passed her door; + And the snooded daughter, + Through her casement glancing down, + Smiled on him who bore renown + From red fields of slaughter. + + "Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, + Hard the old friend's falling off, + Hard to learn forgiving; + But the Lord His own rewards, + And His love with theirs accords, + Warm and fresh and living. + + "Through this dark and stormy night + Faith beholds a feeble light + Up the blackness streaking; + Knowing God's own time is best, + In a patient hope I rest + For the full day-breaking!" + + So the Laird of Ury said, + Turning slow his horse's head + Towards the Tolbooth prison, + Where, through iron gates, he heard + Poor disciples of the Word + Preach of Christ arisen! + + Not in vain, Confessor old, + Unto us the tale is told + Of thy day of trial; + Every age on him who strays + From its broad and beaten ways + Pours its seven-fold vial. + + Happy he whose inward ear + Angel comfortings can hear, + O'er the rabble's laughter; + And while Hatred's fagots burn, + Glimpses through the smoke discern + Of the good hereafter. + + Knowing this, that never yet + Share of Truth was vainly set + In the world's wide fallow; + After hands shall sow the seed, + After hands from hill and mead + Reap the harvests yellow. + + Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, + Must the moral pioneer + From the Future borrow; + Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, + And, on midnight's sky of rain, + Paint the golden morrow! + + + + +THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. + +A letter-writer from Mexico during the Mexican war, when detailing some +of the incidents at the terrible fight of Buena Vista, mentioned that +Mexican women were seen hovering near the field of death, for the +purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. One poor woman was +found surrounded by the maimed and suffering of both armies, ministering +to the wants of Americans as well as Mexicans, with impartial +tenderness. + + SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward + far away, + O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican + array, + Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or + come they near? + Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the + storm we hear. + Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of + battle rolls; + Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy + on their souls! + "Who is losing? who is winning?" Over hill + and over plain, + I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the + mountain rain. + + Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, + look once more. + "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly + as before, + Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, + foot and horse, + Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping + down its mountain course." + + Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke + has rolled away; + And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the + ranks of gray. + Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop + of Minon wheels; + There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon + at their heels. + + "Jesu, pity I how it thickens I now retreat and + now advance! + Bight against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's + charging lance! + Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and + foot together fall; + Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them + ploughs the Northern ball." + + Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and + frightful on! + Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, + and who has won? + Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together + fall, + O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, + for them all! + + "Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed + Mother, save my brain! + I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from + heaps of slain. + Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they + fall, and strive to rise; + Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die + before our eyes! + + "O my hearts love! O my dear one! lay thy + poor head on my knee; + Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst + thou hear me? canst thou see? + O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, + look once more + On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! + all is o'er!" + + Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one + down to rest; + Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon + his breast; + Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral + masses said; + To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy + aid. + + Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, + a soldier lay, + Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding + slow his life away; + But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, + She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol- + belt. + + With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned + away her head; + With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon + her dead; + But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his + struggling breath of pain, + And she raised the cooling water to his parching + lips again. + + Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand + and faintly smiled; + Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch + beside her child? + All his stranger words with meaning her woman's + heart supplied; + With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" + murmured he, and died! + + "A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee + forth, + From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, + in the North!" + Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him + with her dead, + And turned to soothe the living, and bind the + wounds which bled. + + "Look forth once more, Ximena!" Like a cloud + before the wind + Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood + and death behind; + Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the + wounded strive; + "Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of + God, forgive!" + + Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, + gray shadows fall; + Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain + over all! + Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart + the battle rolled, + In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's + lips grew cold. + + But the noble Mexic women still their holy task + pursued, + Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and + faint and lacking food. + Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender + care they hung, + And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange + and Northern tongue. + + Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of + ours; + Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh + the Eden flowers; + From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity + send their prayer, + And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in + our air! + + 1847. + + + + +THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK. + +"This legend (to which my attention was called by my friend Charles +Sumner), is the subject of a celebrated picture by Tintoretto, of which +Mr. Rogers possesses the original sketch. The slave lies on the ground, +amid a crowd of spectators, who look on, animated by all the various +emotions of sympathy, rage, terror; a woman, in front, with a child in +her arms, has always been admired for the lifelike vivacity of her +attitude and expression. The executioner holds up the broken implements; +St. Mark, with a headlong movement, seems to rush down from heaven in +haste to save his worshipper. The dramatic grouping in this picture is +wonderful; the coloring, in its gorgeous depth and harmony, is, in Mr. +Rogers's sketch, finer than in the picture."--MRS. JAMESON'S Sacred and +Legendary Art, I. 154. + + THE day is closing dark and cold, + With roaring blast and sleety showers; + And through the dusk the lilacs wear + The bloom of snow, instead of flowers. + + I turn me from the gloom without, + To ponder o'er a tale of old; + A legend of the age of Faith, + By dreaming monk or abbess told. + + On Tintoretto's canvas lives + That fancy of a loving heart, + In graceful lines and shapes of power, + And hues immortal as his art. + + In Provence (so the story runs) + There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, + A peasant-boy of tender years + The chance of trade or conquest gave. + + Forth-looking from the castle tower, + Beyond the hills with almonds dark, + The straining eye could scarce discern + The chapel of the good St. Mark. + + And there, when bitter word or fare + The service of the youth repaid, + By stealth, before that holy shrine, + For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed. + + The steed stamped at the castle gate, + The boar-hunt sounded on the hill; + Why stayed the Baron from the chase, + With looks so stern, and words so ill? + + "Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn, + By scath of fire and strain of cord, + How ill they speed who give dead saints + The homage due their living lord!" + + They bound him on the fearful rack, + When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, + He saw the light of shining robes, + And knew the face of good St. Mark. + + Then sank the iron rack apart, + The cords released their cruel clasp, + The pincers, with their teeth of fire, + Fell broken from the torturer's grasp. + + And lo! before the Youth and Saint, + Barred door and wall of stone gave way; + And up from bondage and the night + They passed to freedom and the day! + + O dreaming monk! thy tale is true; + O painter! true thy pencil's art; + in tones of hope and prophecy, + Ye whisper to my listening heart! + + Unheard no burdened heart's appeal + Moans up to God's inclining ear; + Unheeded by his tender eye, + Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear. + + For still the Lord alone is God + The pomp and power of tyrant man + Are scattered at his lightest breath, + Like chaff before the winnower's fan. + + Not always shall the slave uplift + His heavy hands to Heaven in vain. + God's angel, like the good St. Mark, + Comes shining down to break his chain! + + O weary ones! ye may not see + Your helpers in their downward flight; + Nor hear the sound of silver wings + Slow beating through the hush of night! + + But not the less gray Dothan shone, + With sunbright watchers bending low, + That Fear's dim eye beheld alone + The spear-heads of the Syrian foe. + + There are, who, like the Seer of old, + Can see the helpers God has sent, + And how life's rugged mountain-side + Is white with many an angel tent! + + They hear the heralds whom our Lord + Sends down his pathway to prepare; + And light, from others hidden, shines + On their high place of faith and prayer. + + Let such, for earth's despairing ones, + Hopeless, yet longing to be free, + Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer + "Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see!" + + 1849. + + + + +KATHLEEN. + +This ballad was originally published in my prose work, Leaves from +Margaret Smith's Journal, as the song of a wandering Milesian +schoolmaster. In the seventeenth century, slavery in the New World was +by no means confined to the natives of Africa. Political offenders and +criminals were transported by the British government to the plantations +of Barbadoes and Virginia, where they were sold like cattle in the +market. Kidnapping of free and innocent white persons was practised to a +considerable extent in the seaports of the United Kingdom. + + O NORAH, lay your basket down, + And rest your weary hand, + And come and hear me sing a song + Of our old Ireland. + + There was a lord of Galaway, + A mighty lord was he; + And he did wed a second wife, + A maid of low degree. + + But he was old, and she was young, + And so, in evil spite, + She baked the black bread for his kin, + And fed her own with white. + + She whipped the maids and starved the kern, + And drove away the poor; + "Ah, woe is me!" the old lord said, + "I rue my bargain sore!" + + This lord he had a daughter fair, + Beloved of old and young, + And nightly round the shealing-fires + Of her the gleeman sung. + + "As sweet and good is young Kathleen + As Eve before her fall;" + So sang the harper at the fair, + So harped he in the hall. + + "Oh, come to me, my daughter dear! + Come sit upon my knee, + For looking in your face, Kathleen, + Your mother's own I see!" + + He smoothed and smoothed her hair away, + He kissed her forehead fair; + "It is my darling Mary's brow, + It is my darling's hair!" + + Oh, then spake up the angry dame, + "Get up, get up," quoth she, + "I'll sell ye over Ireland, + I'll sell ye o'er the sea!" + + She clipped her glossy hair away, + That none her rank might know; + She took away her gown of silk, + And gave her one of tow, + + And sent her down to Limerick town + And to a seaman sold + This daughter of an Irish lord + For ten good pounds in gold. + + The lord he smote upon his breast, + And tore his beard so gray; + But he was old, and she was young, + And so she had her way. + + Sure that same night the Banshee howled + To fright the evil dame, + And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen, + With funeral torches came. + + She watched them glancing through the trees, + And glimmering down the hill; + They crept before the dead-vault door, + And there they all stood still! + + "Get up, old man! the wake-lights shine!" + "Ye murthering witch," quoth he, + "So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care + If they shine for you or me." + + "Oh, whoso brings my daughter back, + My gold and land shall have!" + Oh, then spake up his handsome page, + "No gold nor land I crave! + + "But give to me your daughter dear, + Give sweet Kathleen to me, + Be she on sea or be she on land, + I'll bring her back to thee." + + "My daughter is a lady born, + And you of low degree, + But she shall be your bride the day + You bring her back to me." + + He sailed east, he sailed west, + And far and long sailed he, + Until he came to Boston town, + Across the great salt sea. + + "Oh, have ye seen the young Kathleen, + The flower of Ireland? + Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue, + And by her snow-white hand!" + + Out spake an ancient man, "I know + The maiden whom ye mean; + I bought her of a Limerick man, + And she is called Kathleen. + + "No skill hath she in household work, + Her hands are soft and white, + Yet well by loving looks and ways + She doth her cost requite." + + So up they walked through Boston town, + And met a maiden fair, + A little basket on her arm + So snowy-white and bare. + + "Come hither, child, and say hast thou + This young man ever seen?" + They wept within each other's arms, + The page and young Kathleen. + + "Oh give to me this darling child, + And take my purse of gold." + "Nay, not by me," her master said, + "Shall sweet Kathleen be sold. + + "We loved her in the place of one + The Lord hath early ta'en; + But, since her heart's in Ireland, + We give her back again!" + + Oh, for that same the saints in heaven + For his poor soul shall pray, + And Mary Mother wash with tears + His heresies away. + + Sure now they dwell in Ireland; + As you go up Claremore + Ye'll see their castle looking down + The pleasant Galway shore. + + And the old lord's wife is dead and gone, + And a happy man is he, + For he sits beside his own Kathleen, + With her darling on his knee. + + 1849. + + + + +THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE + +Pennant, in his Voyage to the Hebrides, describes the holy well of Loch +Maree, the waters of which were supposed to effect a miraculous cure of +melancholy, trouble, and insanity. + + CALM on the breast of Loch Maree + A little isle reposes; + A shadow woven of the oak + And willow o'er it closes. + + Within, a Druid's mound is seen, + Set round with stony warders; + A fountain, gushing through the turf, + Flows o'er its grassy borders. + + And whoso bathes therein his brow, + With care or madness burning, + Feels once again his healthful thought + And sense of peace returning. + + O restless heart and fevered brain, + Unquiet and unstable, + That holy well of Loch Maree + Is more than idle fable! + + Life's changes vex, its discords stun, + Its glaring sunshine blindeth, + And blest is he who on his way + That fount of healing findeth! + + The shadows of a humbled will + And contrite heart are o'er it; + Go read its legend, "TRUST IN GOD," + On Faith's white stones before it. + + 1850. + + + + +THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. + +The incident upon which this poem is based is related in a note to +Bernardin Henri Saint Pierre's Etudes de la Nature. "We arrived at the +habitation of the Hermits a little before they sat down to their table, +and while they were still at church. J. J. Rousseau proposed to me to +offer up our devotions. The hermits were reciting the Litanies of +Providence, which are remarkably beautiful. After we had addressed our +prayers to God, and the hermits were proceeding to the refectory, +Rousseau said to me, with his heart overflowing, 'At this moment I +experience what is said in the gospel: Where two or three are gathered +together in my name, there am I in the midst of them. There is here a +feeling of peace and happiness which penetrates the soul.' I said, 'If +Finelon had lived, you would have been a Catholic.' He exclaimed, with +tears in his eyes, 'Oh, if Finelon were alive, I would struggle to get +into his service, even as a lackey!'" In my sketch of Saint Pierre, it +will be seen that I have somewhat antedated the period of his old age. +At that time he was not probably more than fifty. In describing him, I +have by no means exaggerated his own history of his mental condition at +the period of the story. In the fragmentary Sequel to his Studies of +Nature, he thus speaks of himself: "The ingratitude of those of whom I +had deserved kindness, unexpected family misfortunes, the total loss of +my small patrimony through enterprises solely undertaken for the benefit +of my country, the debts under which I lay oppressed, the blasting of +all my hopes,--these combined calamities made dreadful inroads upon my +health and reason. . . . I found it impossible to continue in a room +where there was company, especially if the doors were shut. I could not +even cross an alley in a public garden, if several persons had got +together in it. When alone, my malady subsided. I felt myself likewise +at ease in places where I saw children only. At the sight of any one +walking up to the place where I was, I felt my whole frame agitated, and +retired. I often said to myself, 'My sole study has been to merit well +of mankind; why do I fear them?'" + +He attributes his improved health of mind and body to the counsels of +his friend, J. J. Rousseau. "I renounced," says he, "my books. I threw +my eyes upon the works of nature, which spake to all my senses a +language which neither time nor nations have it in their power to alter. +Thenceforth my histories and my journals were the herbage of the fields +and meadows. My thoughts did not go forth painfully after them, as in +the case of human systems; but their thoughts, under a thousand engaging +forms, quietly sought me. In these I studied, without effort, the laws +of that Universal Wisdom which had surrounded me from the cradle, but on +which heretofore I had bestowed little attention." + +Speaking of Rousseau, he says: "I derived inexpressible satisfaction +from his society. What I prized still more than his genius was his +probity. He was one of the few literary characters, tried in the furnace +of affliction, to whom you could, with perfect security, confide your +most secret thoughts. . . . Even when he deviated, and became the victim +of himself or of others, he could forget his own misery in devotion to +the welfare of mankind. He was uniformly the advocate of the miserable. +There might be inscribed on his tomb these affecting words from that +Book of which he carried always about him some select passages, during +the last years of his life: 'His sins, which are many, are forgiven, for +he loved much.'" + + "I DO believe, and yet, in grief, + I pray for help to unbelief; + For needful strength aside to lay + The daily cumberings of my way. + + "I 'm sick at heart of craft and cant, + Sick of the crazed enthusiast's rant, + Profession's smooth hypocrisies, + And creeds of iron, and lives of ease. + + "I ponder o'er the sacred word, + I read the record of our Lord; + And, weak and troubled, envy them + Who touched His seamless garment's hem; + + "Who saw the tears of love He wept + Above the grave where Lazarus slept; + And heard, amidst the shadows dim + Of Olivet, His evening hymn. + + "How blessed the swineherd's low estate, + The beggar crouching at the gate, + The leper loathly and abhorred, + Whose eyes of flesh beheld the Lord! + + "O sacred soil His sandals pressed! + Sweet fountains of His noonday rest! + O light and air of Palestine, + Impregnate with His life divine! + + "Oh, bear me thither! Let me look + On Siloa's pool, and Kedron's brook; + Kneel at Gethsemane, and by + Gennesaret walk, before I die! + + "Methinks this cold and northern night + Would melt before that Orient light; + And, wet by Hermon's dew and rain, + My childhood's faith revive again!" + + So spake my friend, one autumn day, + Where the still river slid away + Beneath us, and above the brown + Red curtains of the woods shut down. + + Then said I,--for I could not brook + The mute appealing of his look,-- + "I, too, am weak, and faith is small, + And blindness happeneth unto all. + + "Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, + Through present wrong, the eternal right; + And, step by step, since time began, + I see the steady gain of man; + + "That all of good the past hath had + Remains to make our own time glad, + Our common daily life divine, + And every land a Palestine. + + "Thou weariest of thy present state; + What gain to thee time's holiest date? + The doubter now perchance had been + As High Priest or as Pilate then! + + "What thought Chorazin's scribes? What faith + In Him had Nain and Nazareth? + Of the few followers whom He led + One sold Him,--all forsook and fled. + + "O friend! we need nor rock nor sand, + Nor storied stream of Morning-Land; + The heavens are glassed in Merrimac,-- + What more could Jordan render back? + + "We lack but open eye and ear + To find the Orient's marvels here; + The still small voice in autumn's hush, + Yon maple wood the burning bush. + + "For still the new transcends the old, + In signs and tokens manifold; + Slaves rise up men; the olive waves, + With roots deep set in battle graves! + + "Through the harsh noises of our day + A low, sweet prelude finds its way; + Through clouds of doubt, and creeds of fear, + A light is breaking, calm and clear. + + "That song of Love, now low and far, + Erelong shall swell from star to star! + That light, the breaking day, which tips + The golden-spired Apocalypse!" + + Then, when my good friend shook his head, + And, sighing, sadly smiled, I said: + "Thou mind'st me of a story told + In rare Bernardin's leaves of gold." + + And while the slanted sunbeams wove + The shadows of the frost-stained grove, + And, picturing all, the river ran + O'er cloud and wood, I thus began:-- + + . . . . . . . . . . . . . + + In Mount Valerien's chestnut wood + The Chapel of the Hermits stood; + And thither, at the close of day, + Came two old pilgrims, worn and gray. + + One, whose impetuous youth defied + The storms of Baikal's wintry side, + And mused and dreamed where tropic day + Flamed o'er his lost Virginia's bay. + + His simple tale of love and woe + All hearts had melted, high or low;-- + A blissful pain, a sweet distress, + Immortal in its tenderness. + + Yet, while above his charmed page + Beat quick the young heart of his age, + He walked amidst the crowd unknown, + A sorrowing old man, strange and lone. + + A homeless, troubled age,--the gray + Pale setting of a weary day; + Too dull his ear for voice of praise, + Too sadly worn his brow for bays. + + Pride, lust of power and glory, slept; + Yet still his heart its young dream kept, + And, wandering like the deluge-dove, + Still sought the resting-place of love. + + And, mateless, childless, envied more + The peasant's welcome from his door + By smiling eyes at eventide, + Than kingly gifts or lettered pride. + + Until, in place of wife and child, + All-pitying Nature on him smiled, + And gave to him the golden keys + To all her inmost sanctities. + + Mild Druid of her wood-paths dim! + She laid her great heart bare to him, + Its loves and sweet accords;--he saw + The beauty of her perfect law. + + The language of her signs lie knew, + What notes her cloudy clarion blew; + The rhythm of autumn's forest dyes, + The hymn of sunset's painted skies. + + And thus he seemed to hear the song + Which swept, of old, the stars along; + And to his eyes the earth once more + Its fresh and primal beauty wore. + + Who sought with him, from summer air, + And field and wood, a balm for care; + And bathed in light of sunset skies + His tortured nerves and weary eyes? + + His fame on all the winds had flown; + His words had shaken crypt and throne; + Like fire, on camp and court and cell + They dropped, and kindled as they fell. + + Beneath the pomps of state, below + The mitred juggler's masque and show, + A prophecy, a vague hope, ran + His burning thought from man to man. + + For peace or rest too well he saw + The fraud of priests, the wrong of law, + And felt how hard, between the two, + Their breath of pain the millions drew. + + A prophet-utterance, strong and wild, + The weakness of an unweaned child, + A sun-bright hope for human-kind, + And self-despair, in him combined. + + He loathed the false, yet lived not true + To half the glorious truths he knew; + The doubt, the discord, and the sin, + He mourned without, he felt within. + + Untrod by him the path he showed, + Sweet pictures on his easel glowed + Of simple faith, and loves of home, + And virtue's golden days to come. + + But weakness, shame, and folly made + The foil to all his pen portrayed; + Still, where his dreamy splendors shone, + The shadow of himself was thrown. + + Lord, what is man, whose thought, at times, + Up to Thy sevenfold brightness climbs, + While still his grosser instinct clings + To earth, like other creeping things! + + So rich in words, in acts so mean; + So high, so low; chance-swung between + The foulness of the penal pit + And Truth's clear sky, millennium-lit! + + Vain, pride of star-lent genius!--vain, + Quick fancy and creative brain, + Unblest by prayerful sacrifice, + Absurdly great, or weakly wise! + + Midst yearnings for a truer life, + Without were fears, within was strife; + And still his wayward act denied + The perfect good for which he sighed. + + The love he sent forth void returned; + The fame that crowned him scorched and burned, + Burning, yet cold and drear and lone,-- + A fire-mount in a frozen zone! + + Like that the gray-haired sea-king passed,(9) + Seen southward from his sleety mast, + About whose brows of changeless frost + A wreath of flame the wild winds tossed. + + Far round the mournful beauty played + Of lambent light and purple shade, + Lost on the fixed and dumb despair + Of frozen earth and sea and air! + + A man apart, unknown, unloved + By those whose wrongs his soul had moved, + He bore the ban of Church and State, + The good man's fear, the bigot's hate! + + Forth from the city's noise and throng, + Its pomp and shame, its sin and wrong, + The twain that summer day had strayed + To Mount Valerien's chestnut shade. + + To them the green fields and the wood + Lent something of their quietude, + And golden-tinted sunset seemed + Prophetical of all they dreamed. + + The hermits from their simple cares + The bell was calling home to prayers, + And, listening to its sound, the twain + Seemed lapped in childhood's trust again. + + Wide open stood the chapel door; + A sweet old music, swelling o'er + Low prayerful murmurs, issued thence,-- + The Litanies of Providence! + + Then Rousseau spake: "Where two or three + In His name meet, He there will be!" + And then, in silence, on their knees + They sank beneath the chestnut-trees. + + As to the blind returning light, + As daybreak to the Arctic night, + Old faith revived; the doubts of years + Dissolved in reverential tears. + + That gush of feeling overpast, + "Ah me!" Bernardin sighed at last, + I would thy bitterest foes could see + Thy heart as it is seen of me! + + "No church of God hast thou denied; + Thou hast but spurned in scorn aside + A bare and hollow counterfeit, + Profaning the pure name of it! + + "With dry dead moss and marish weeds + His fire the western herdsman feeds, + And greener from the ashen plain + The sweet spring grasses rise again. + + "Nor thunder-peal nor mighty wind + Disturb the solid sky behind; + And through the cloud the red bolt rends + The calm, still smile of Heaven descends. + + "Thus through the world, like bolt and blast, + And scourging fire, thy words have passed. + Clouds break,--the steadfast heavens remain; + Weeds burn,--the ashes feed the grain! + + "But whoso strives with wrong may find + Its touch pollute, its darkness blind; + And learn, as latent fraud is shown + In others' faith, to doubt his own. + + "With dream and falsehood, simple trust + And pious hope we tread in dust; + Lost the calm faith in goodness,--lost + The baptism of the Pentecost! + + "Alas!--the blows for error meant + Too oft on truth itself are spent, + As through the false and vile and base + Looks forth her sad, rebuking face. + + "Not ours the Theban's charmed life; + We come not scathless from the strife! + The Python's coil about us clings, + The trampled Hydra bites and stings! + + "Meanwhile, the sport of seeming chance, + The plastic shapes of circumstance, + What might have been we fondly guess, + If earlier born, or tempted less. + + "And thou, in these wild, troubled days, + Misjudged alike in blame and praise, + Unsought and undeserved the same + The skeptic's praise, the bigot's blame;-- + + "I cannot doubt, if thou hadst been + Among the highly favored men + Who walked on earth with Fenelon, + He would have owned thee as his son; + + "And, bright with wings of cherubim + Visibly waving over him, + Seen through his life, the Church had seemed + All that its old confessors dreamed." + + "I would have been," Jean Jaques replied, + "The humblest servant at his side, + Obscure, unknown, content to see + How beautiful man's life may be! + + "Oh, more than thrice-blest relic, more + Than solemn rite or sacred lore, + The holy life of one who trod + The foot-marks of the Christ of God! + + "Amidst a blinded world he saw + The oneness of the Dual law; + That Heaven's sweet peace on Earth began, + And God was loved through love of man. + + "He lived the Truth which reconciled + The strong man Reason, Faith the child; + In him belief and act were one, + The homilies of duty done!" + + So speaking, through the twilight gray + The two old pilgrims went their way. + What seeds of life that day were sown, + The heavenly watchers knew alone. + + Time passed, and Autumn came to fold + Green Summer in her brown and gold; + Time passed, and Winter's tears of snow + Dropped on the grave-mound of Rousseau. + + "The tree remaineth where it fell, + The pained on earth is pained in hell!" + So priestcraft from its altars cursed + The mournful doubts its falsehood nursed. + + Ah! well of old the Psalmist prayed, + "Thy hand, not man's, on me be laid!" + Earth frowns below, Heaven weeps above, + And man is hate, but God is love! + + No Hermits now the wanderer sees, + Nor chapel with its chestnut-trees; + A morning dream, a tale that's told, + The wave of change o'er all has rolled. + + Yet lives the lesson of that day; + And from its twilight cool and gray + Comes up a low, sad whisper, "Make + The truth thine own, for truth's own sake. + + "Why wait to see in thy brief span + Its perfect flower and fruit in man? + No saintly touch can save; no balm + Of healing hath the martyr's palm. + + "Midst soulless forms, and false pretence + Of spiritual pride and pampered sense, + A voice saith, 'What is that to thee? + Be true thyself, and follow Me! + + "In days when throne and altar heard + The wanton's wish, the bigot's word, + And pomp of state and ritual show + Scarce hid the loathsome death below,-- + + "Midst fawning priests and courtiers foul, + The losel swarm of crown and cowl, + White-robed walked Francois Fenelon, + Stainless as Uriel in the sun! + + "Yet in his time the stake blazed red, + The poor were eaten up like bread + Men knew him not; his garment's hem + No healing virtue had for them. + + "Alas! no present saint we find; + The white cymar gleams far behind, + Revealed in outline vague, sublime, + Through telescopic mists of time! + + "Trust not in man with passing breath, + But in the Lord, old Scripture saith; + The truth which saves thou mayst not blend + With false professor, faithless friend. + + "Search thine own heart. What paineth thee + In others in thyself may be; + All dust is frail, all flesh is weak; + Be thou the true man thou dost seek! + + "Where now with pain thou treadest, trod + The whitest of the saints of God! + To show thee where their feet were set, + the light which led them shineth yet. + + "The footprints of the life divine, + Which marked their path, remain in thine; + And that great Life, transfused in theirs, + Awaits thy faith, thy love, thy prayers!" + + A lesson which I well may heed, + A word of fitness to my need; + So from that twilight cool and gray + Still saith a voice, or seems to say. + + We rose, and slowly homeward turned, + While down the west the sunset burned; + And, in its light, hill, wood, and tide, + And human forms seemed glorified. + + The village homes transfigured stood, + And purple bluffs, whose belting wood + Across the waters leaned to hold + The yellow leaves like lamps of hold. + + Then spake my friend: "Thy words are true; + Forever old, forever new, + These home-seen splendors are the same + Which over Eden's sunsets came. + + "To these bowed heavens let wood and hill + Lift voiceless praise and anthem still; + Fall, warm with blessing, over them, + Light of the New Jerusalem! + + "Flow on, sweet river, like the stream + Of John's Apocalyptic dream + This mapled ridge shall Horeb be, + Yon green-banked lake our Galilee! + + "Henceforth my heart shall sigh no more + For olden time and holier shore; + God's love and blessing, then and there, + Are now and here and everywhere." + + 1851. + + + + +TAULER. + + TAULER, the preacher, walked, one autumn day, + Without the walls of Strasburg, by the Rhine, + Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life; + As one who, wandering in a starless night, + Feels momently the jar of unseen waves, + And hears the thunder of an unknown sea, + Breaking along an unimagined shore. + + And as he walked he prayed. Even the same + Old prayer with which, for half a score of years, + Morning, and noon, and evening, lip and heart + Had groaned: "Have pity upon me, Lord! + Thou seest, while teaching others, I am blind. + Send me a man who can direct my steps!" + + Then, as he mused, he heard along his path + A sound as of an old man's staff among + The dry, dead linden-leaves; and, looking up, + He saw a stranger, weak, and poor, and old. + + "Peace be unto thee, father!" Tauler said, + "God give thee a good day!" The old man raised + Slowly his calm blue eyes. "I thank thee, son; + But all my days are good, and none are ill." + + Wondering thereat, the preacher spake again, + "God give thee happy life." The old man smiled, + "I never am unhappy." + + Tauler laid + His hand upon the stranger's coarse gray sleeve + "Tell me, O father, what thy strange words mean. + Surely man's days are evil, and his life + Sad as the grave it leads to." "Nay, my son, + Our times are in God's hands, and all our days + Are as our needs; for shadow as for sun, + For cold as heat, for want as wealth, alike + Our thanks are due, since that is best which is; + And that which is not, sharing not His life, + Is evil only as devoid of good. + And for the happiness of which I spake, + I find it in submission to his will, + And calm trust in the holy Trinity + Of Knowledge, Goodness, and Almighty Power." + + Silently wondering, for a little space, + Stood the great preacher; then he spake as one + Who, suddenly grappling with a haunting thought + Which long has followed, whispering through the dark + Strange terrors, drags it, shrieking, into light + "What if God's will consign thee hence to Hell?" + + "Then," said the stranger, cheerily, "be it so. + What Hell may be I know not; this I know,-- + I cannot lose the presence of the Lord. + One arm, Humility, takes hold upon + His dear Humanity; the other, Love, + Clasps his Divinity. So where I go + He goes; and better fire-walled Hell with Him + Than golden-gated Paradise without." + + Tears sprang in Tauler's eyes. A sudden light, + Like the first ray which fell on chaos, clove + Apart the shadow wherein he had walked + Darkly at noon. And, as the strange old man + Went his slow way, until his silver hair + Set like the white moon where the hills of vine + Slope to the Rhine, he bowed his head and said + "My prayer is answered. God hath sent the man + Long sought, to teach me, by his simple trust, + Wisdom the weary schoolmen never knew." + + So, entering with a changed and cheerful step + The city gates, he saw, far down the street, + A mighty shadow break the light of noon, + Which tracing backward till its airy lines + Hardened to stony plinths, he raised his eyes + O'er broad facade and lofty pediment, + O'er architrave and frieze and sainted niche, + Up the stone lace-work chiselled by the wise + Erwin of Steinbach, dizzily up to where + In the noon-brightness the great Minster's tower, + Jewelled with sunbeams on its mural crown, + Rose like a visible prayer. "Behold!" he said, + "The stranger's faith made plain before mine eyes. + As yonder tower outstretches to the earth + The dark triangle of its shade alone + When the clear day is shining on its top, + So, darkness in the pathway of Man's life + Is but the shadow of God's providence, + By the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon; + And what is dark below is light in Heaven." + + 1853. + + + + +THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. + + O STRONG, upwelling prayers of faith, + From inmost founts of life ye start,-- + The spirit's pulse, the vital breath + Of soul and heart! + + From pastoral toil, from traffic's din, + Alone, in crowds, at home, abroad, + Unheard of man, ye enter in + The ear of God. + + Ye brook no forced and measured tasks, + Nor weary rote, nor formal chains; + The simple heart, that freely asks + In love, obtains. + + For man the living temple is + The mercy-seat and cherubim, + And all the holy mysteries, + He bears with him. + + And most avails the prayer of love, + Which, wordless, shapes itself in needs, + And wearies Heaven for naught above + Our common needs. + + Which brings to God's all-perfect will + That trust of His undoubting child + Whereby all seeming good and ill + Are reconciled. + + And, seeking not for special signs + Of favor, is content to fall + Within the providence which shines + And rains on all. + + Alone, the Thebaid hermit leaned + At noontime o'er the sacred word. + Was it an angel or a fiend + Whose voice be heard? + + It broke the desert's hush of awe, + A human utterance, sweet and mild; + And, looking up, the hermit saw + A little child. + + A child, with wonder-widened eyes, + O'erawed and troubled by the sight + Of hot, red sands, and brazen skies, + And anchorite. + + "'What dost thou here, poor man? No shade + Of cool, green palms, nor grass, nor well, + Nor corn, nor vines." The hermit said + "With God I dwell. + + "Alone with Him in this great calm, + I live not by the outward sense; + My Nile his love, my sheltering palm + His providence." + + The child gazed round him. "Does God live + Here only?--where the desert's rim + Is green with corn, at morn and eve, + We pray to Him. + + "My brother tills beside the Nile + His little field; beneath the leaves + My sisters sit and spin, the while + My mother weaves. + + "And when the millet's ripe heads fall, + And all the bean-field hangs in pod, + My mother smiles, and, says that all + Are gifts from God." + + Adown the hermit's wasted cheeks + Glistened the flow of human tears; + "Dear Lord!" he said, "Thy angel speaks, + Thy servant hears." + + Within his arms the child he took, + And thought of home and life with men; + And all his pilgrim feet forsook + Returned again. + + The palmy shadows cool and long, + The eyes that smiled through lavish locks, + Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song, + And bleat of flocks. + + "O child!" he said, "thou teachest me + There is no place where God is not; + That love will make, where'er it be, + A holy spot." + + He rose from off the desert sand, + And, leaning on his staff of thorn, + Went with the young child hand in hand, + Like night with morn. + + They crossed the desert's burning line, + And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan, + The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine, + And voice of man. + + Unquestioning, his childish guide + He followed, as the small hand led + To where a woman, gentle-eyed, + Her distaff fed. + + She rose, she clasped her truant boy, + She thanked the stranger with her eyes; + The hermit gazed in doubt and joy + And dumb surprise. + + And to!--with sudden warmth and light + A tender memory thrilled his frame; + New-born, the world-lost anchorite + A man became. + + "O sister of El Zara's race, + Behold me!--had we not one mother?" + She gazed into the stranger's face + "Thou art my brother!" + + "And when to share our evening meal, + She calls the stranger at the door, + She says God fills the hands that deal + Food to the poor." + + "O kin of blood! Thy life of use + And patient trust is more than mine; + And wiser than the gray recluse + This child of thine. + + "For, taught of him whom God hath sent, + That toil is praise, and love is prayer, + I come, life's cares and pains content + With thee to share." + + Even as his foot the threshold crossed, + The hermit's better life began; + Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost, + And found a man! + + 1854. + + + + +MAUD MULLER. + +The recollection of some descendants of a Hessian deserter in the +Revolutionary war bearing the name of Muller doubtless suggested the +somewhat infelicitous title of a New England idyl. The poem had no real +foundation in fact, though a hint of it may have been found in recalling +an incident, trivial in itself, of a journey on the picturesque Maine +seaboard with my sister some years before it was written. We had stopped +to rest our tired horse under the shade of an apple-tree, and refresh +him with water from a little brook which rippled through the stone wall +across the road. A very beautiful young girl in scantest summer attire +was at work in the hay-field, and as we talked with her we noticed that +she strove to hide her bare feet by raking hay over them, blushing as +she did so, through the tan of her cheek and neck. + + MAUD MULLER on a summer's day, + Raked the meadow sweet with hay. + + Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth + Of simple beauty and rustic-health. + + Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee + The mock-bird echoed from his tree. + + But when she glanced to the far-off town, + White from its hill-slope looking down, + + The sweet song died, and a vague unrest + And a nameless longing filled her breast,-- + + A wish, that she hardly dared to own, + For something better than she had known. + + The Judge rode slowly down the lane, + Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. + + He drew his bridle in the shade + Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, + + And asked a draught from the spring that flowed + Through the meadow across the road. + + She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, + And filled for him her small tin cup, + + And blushed as she gave it, looking down + On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. + + "Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught + From a fairer hand was never quaffed." + + He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, + Of the singing birds and the humming bees; + + Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether + The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. + + And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, + And her graceful ankles bare and brown; + + And listened, while a pleased surprise + Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. + + At last, like one who for delay + Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. + + Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! + That I the Judge's bride might be! + + "He would dress me up in silks so fine, + And praise and toast me at his wine. + + "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; + My brother should sail a painted boat. + + "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, + And the baby should have a new toy each day. + + "And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, + And all should bless me who left our door." + + The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, + And saw Maud Muller standing still. + + A form more fair, a face more sweet, + Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. + + "And her modest answer and graceful air + Show her wise and good as she is fair. + + "Would she were mine, and I to-day, + Like her, a harvester of hay; + + "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, + Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, + + "But low of cattle and song of birds, + And health and quiet and loving words." + + But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, + And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. + + So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, + And Maud was left in the field alone. + + But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, + When he hummed in court an old love-tune; + + And the young girl mused beside the well + Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. + + He wedded a wife of richest dower, + Who lived for fashion, as he for power. + + Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, + He watched a picture come and go; + + And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes + Looked out in their innocent surprise. + + Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, + He longed for the wayside well instead; + + And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms + To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. + + And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, + "Ah, that I were free again! + + "Free as when I rode that day, + Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." + + She wedded a man unlearned and poor, + And many children played round her door. + + But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, + Left their traces on heart and brain. + + And oft, when the summer sun shone hot + On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, + + And she heard the little spring brook fall + Over the roadside, through the wall, + + In the shade of the apple-tree again + She saw a rider draw his rein. + + And, gazing down with timid grace, + She felt his pleased eyes read her face. + + Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls + Stretched away into stately halls; + + The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, + The tallow candle an astral burned, + + And for him who sat by the chimney lug, + Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, + + A manly form at her side she saw, + And joy was duty and love was law. + + Then she took up her burden of life again, + Saying only, "It might have been." + + Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, + For rich repiner and household drudge! + + God pity them both! and pity us all, + Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. + + For of all sad words of tongue or pen, + The saddest are these: "It might have been!" + + Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies + Deeply buried from human eyes; + + And, in the hereafter, angels may + Roll the stone from its grave away! + + 1854. + + + + +MARY GARVIN. + + FROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the + lake that never fails, + Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's + intervales; + There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters + foam and flow, + As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundred + years ago. + + But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, + dams, and mills, + How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedom + of the hills, + Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately + Champernoon + Heard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trumpet + of the loon! + + With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of + fire and steam, + Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him + like a dream. + Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backward + far and fast + The milestones of the fathers, the landmarks of + the past. + + But human hearts remain unchanged: the sorrow + and the sin, + The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our + own akin; + + And if, in tales our fathers told, the songs our + mothers sung, + Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is always + young. + + O sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks today! + O mill-girl watching late and long the shuttle's + restless play! + Let, for the once, a listening ear the working hand + beguile, + And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear or + smile! + + . . . . . . . . . . . . . + + The evening gun had sounded from gray Fort + Mary's walls; + Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared and + plunged the Saco's' falls. + + And westward on the sea-wind, that damp and + gusty grew, + Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spurwink + blew. + + On the hearth of Farmer Garvin, blazed the crackling + walnut log; + Right and left sat dame and goodman, and between + them lay the dog, + + Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside + him on her mat, + Sitting drowsy in the firelight, winked and purred + the mottled cat. + + "Twenty years!" said Goodman Garvin, speaking + sadly, under breath, + And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who + speaks of death. + + The goodwife dropped her needles: "It is twenty + years to-day, + Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child + away." + + Then they sank into the silence, for each knew + the other's thought, + Of a great and common sorrow, and words were, + needed not. + + "Who knocks?" cried Goodman Garvin. The + door was open thrown; + On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and + furred, the fire-light shone. + + One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin + from his head; + "Lives here Elkanah Garvin?" "I am he," the + goodman said. + + "Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night + is chill with rain." + And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the + fire amain. + + The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the firelight + glistened fair + In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds of + dark brown hair. + + Dame Garvin looked upon her: "It is Mary's self + I see!" + "Dear heart!" she cried, "now tell me, has my + child come back to me?" + + "My name indeed is Mary," said the stranger sobbing + wild; + "Will you be to me a mother? I am Mary Garvin's child!" + + "She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dying + day + She bade my father take me to her kinsfolk far + away. + + "And when the priest besought her to do me no + such wrong, + She said, 'May God forgive me! I have closed + my heart too long.' + + "'When I hid me from my father, and shut out + my mother's call, + I sinned against those dear ones, and the Father + of us all. + + "'Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks no + tie of kin apart; + Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of heart. + + "'Tell me not the Church must censure: she who + wept the Cross beside + Never made her own flesh strangers, nor the claims + of blood denied; + + "'And if she who wronged her parents, with her + child atones to them, + Earthly daughter, Heavenly Mother! thou at least + wilt not condemn!' + + "So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed mother + spake; + As we come to do her bidding, So receive us for her + sake." + + "God be praised!" said Goodwife Garvin, "He taketh, + and He gives; + He woundeth, but He healeth; in her child our + daughter lives!" + + "Amen!" the old man answered, as he brushed a + tear away, + And, kneeling by his hearthstone, said, with reverence, + "Let us pray." + + All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew pararphrase, + Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his prayer + of love and praise. + + But he started at beholding, as he rose from off + his knee, + The stranger cross his forehead with the sign of + Papistrie. + + "What is this?" cried Farmer Garvin. "Is an English + Christian's home + A chapel or a mass-house, that you make the sign + of Rome?" + + Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed his + trembling hand, and cried: + Oh, forbear to chide my father; in that faith my + mother died! + + "On her wooden cross at Simcoe the dews and + sunshine fall, + As they fall on Spurwink's graveyard; and the + dear God watches all!" + + The old man stroked the fair head that rested on + his knee; + "Your words, dear child," he answered, "are God's + rebuke to me. + + "Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our + faith and hope be one. + Let me be your father's father, let him be to me + a son." + + When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through the + still and frosty air, + From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called to + sermon and to prayer, + + To the goodly house of worship, where, in order + due and fit, + As by public vote directed, classed and ranked the + people sit; + + Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squire + before the clown, + "From the brave coat, lace-embroidered, to the gray + frock, shading down;" + + From the pulpit read the preacher, "Goodman + Garvin and his wife + Fain would thank the Lord, whose kindness has + followed them through life, + + "For the great and crowning mercy, that their + daughter, from the wild, + Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), has + sent to them her child; + + "And the prayers of all God's people they ask, + that they may prove + Not unworthy, through their weakness, of such + special proof of love." + + As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couple + stood, + And the fair Canadian also, in her modest maiden- + hood. + + Thought the elders, grave and doubting, "She is + Papist born and bred;" + Thought the young men, "'T is an angel in Mary + Garvin's stead!" + + + + +THE RANGER. + +Originally published as Martha Mason; a Song of the Old +French War. + + ROBERT RAWLIN!--Frosts were falling + When the ranger's horn was calling + Through the woods to Canada. + + Gone the winter's sleet and snowing, + Gone the spring-time's bud and blowing, + Gone the summer's harvest mowing, + And again the fields are gray. + Yet away, he's away! + Faint and fainter hope is growing + In the hearts that mourn his stay. + + Where the lion, crouching high on + Abraham's rock with teeth of iron, + Glares o'er wood and wave away, + Faintly thence, as pines far sighing, + Or as thunder spent and dying, + Come the challenge and replying, + Come the sounds of flight and fray. + Well-a-day! Hope and pray! + Some are living, some are lying + In their red graves far away. + + Straggling rangers, worn with dangers, + Homeward faring, weary strangers + Pass the farm-gate on their way; + Tidings of the dead and living, + Forest march and ambush, giving, + Till the maidens leave their weaving, + And the lads forget their play. + "Still away, still away!" + Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving, + "Why does Robert still delay!" + + Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, + Does the golden-locked fruit bearer + Through his painted woodlands stray, + Than where hillside oaks and beeches + Overlook the long, blue reaches, + Silver coves and pebbled beaches, + And green isles of Casco Bay; + Nowhere day, for delay, + With a tenderer look beseeches, + "Let me with my charmed earth stay." + + On the grain-lands of the mainlands + Stands the serried corn like train-bands, + Plume and pennon rustling gay; + Out at sea, the islands wooded, + Silver birches, golden-hooded, + Set with maples, crimson-blooded, + White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, + Stretch away, far away. + Dim and dreamy, over-brooded + By the hazy autumn day. + + Gayly chattering to the clattering + Of the brown nuts downward pattering, + Leap the squirrels, red and gray. + On the grass-land, on the fallow, + Drop the apples, red and yellow; + Drop the russet pears and mellow, + Drop the red leaves all the day. + And away, swift away, + Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow + Chasing, weave their web of play. + + "Martha Mason, Martha Mason, + Prithee tell us of the reason + Why you mope at home to-day + Surely smiling is not sinning; + Leave, your quilling, leave your spinning; + What is all your store of linen, + If your heart is never gay? + Come away, come away! + Never yet did sad beginning + Make the task of life a play." + + Overbending, till she's blending + With the flaxen skein she's tending + Pale brown tresses smoothed away + From her face of patient sorrow, + Sits she, seeking but to borrow, + From the trembling hope of morrow, + Solace for the weary day. + "Go your way, laugh and play; + Unto Him who heeds the sparrow + And the lily, let me pray." + + "With our rally, rings the valley,-- + Join us!" cried the blue-eyed Nelly; + "Join us!" cried the laughing May, + "To the beach we all are going, + And, to save the task of rowing, + West by north the wind is blowing, + Blowing briskly down the bay + Come away, come away! + Time and tide are swiftly flowing, + Let us take them while we may! + + "Never tell us that you'll fail us, + Where the purple beach-plum mellows + On the bluffs so wild and gray. + Hasten, for the oars are falling; + Hark, our merry mates are calling; + Time it is that we were all in, + Singing tideward down the bay!" + "Nay, nay, let me stay; + Sore and sad for Robert Rawlin + Is my heart," she said, "to-day." + + "Vain your calling for Rob Rawlin + Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling, + Or some French lass, singing gay; + Just forget as he's forgetting; + What avails a life of fretting? + If some stars must needs be setting, + Others rise as good as they." + "Cease, I pray; go your way!" + Martha cries, her eyelids wetting; + "Foul and false the words you say!" + + "Martha Mason, hear to reason!-- + Prithee, put a kinder face on!" + "Cease to vex me," did she say; + "Better at his side be lying, + With the mournful pine-trees sighing, + And the wild birds o'er us crying, + Than to doubt like mine a prey; + While away, far away, + Turns my heart, forever trying + Some new hope for each new day. + + "When the shadows veil the meadows, + And the sunset's golden ladders + Sink from twilight's walls of gray,-- + From the window of my dreaming, + I can see his sickle gleaming, + Cheery-voiced, can hear him teaming + Down the locust-shaded way; + But away, swift away, + Fades the fond, delusive seeming, + And I kneel again to pray. + + "When the growing dawn is showing, + And the barn-yard cock is crowing, + And the horned moon pales away + From a dream of him awaking, + Every sound my heart is making + Seems a footstep of his taking; + Then I hush the thought, and say, + 'Nay, nay, he's away!' + Ah! my heart, my heart is breaking + For the dear one far away." + + Look up, Martha! worn and swarthy, + Glows a face of manhood worthy + "Robert!" "Martha!" all they say. + O'er went wheel and reel together, + Little cared the owner whither; + Heart of lead is heart of feather, + Noon of night is noon of day! + Come away, come away! + When such lovers meet each other, + Why should prying idlers stay? + + Quench the timber's fallen embers, + Quench the recd leaves in December's + Hoary rime and chilly spray. + + But the hearth shall kindle clearer, + Household welcomes sound sincerer, + Heart to loving heart draw nearer, + When the bridal bells shall say: + "Hope and pray, trust alway; + Life is sweeter, love is dearer, + For the trial and delay!" + + 1856. + + + + +THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN. + + FROM the hills of home forth looking, far beneath + the tent-like span + Of the sky, I see the white gleam of the headland + of Cape Ann. + Well I know its coves and beaches to the ebb-tide + glimmering down, + And the white-walled hamlet children of its ancient + fishing town. + + Long has passed the summer morning, and its + memory waxes old, + When along yon breezy headlands with a pleasant + friend I strolled. + Ah! the autumn sun is shining, and the ocean + wind blows cool, + And the golden-rod and aster bloom around thy + grave, Rantoul! + + With the memory of that morning by the summer + sea I blend + A wild and wondrous story, by the younger Mather + penned, + In that quaint Magnalia Christi, with all strange + and marvellous things, + Heaped up huge and undigested, like the chaos + Ovid sings. + + Dear to me these far, faint glimpses of the dual + life of old, + Inward, grand with awe and reverence; outward, + mean and coarse and cold; + Gleams of mystic beauty playing over dull and + vulgar clay, + Golden-threaded fancies weaving in a web of + hodden gray. + + The great eventful Present hides the Past; but + through the din + Of its loud life hints and echoes from the life + behind steal in; + And the lore of homeland fireside, and the legendary + rhyme, + Make the task of duty lighter which the true man + owes his time. + + So, with something of the feeling which the Covenanter + knew, + When with pious chisel wandering Scotland's + moorland graveyards through, + From the graves of old traditions I part the black- + berry-vines, + Wipe the moss from off the headstones, and retouch + the faded lines. + + Where the sea-waves back and forward, hoarse + with rolling pebbles, ran, + The garrison-house stood watching on the gray + rocks of Cape Ann; + On its windy site uplifting gabled roof and palisade, + And rough walls of unhewn timber with the moonlight + overlaid. + + On his slow round walked the sentry, south and + eastward looking forth + O'er a rude and broken coast-line, white with + breakers stretching north,-- + Wood and rock and gleaming sand-drift, jagged + capes, with bush and tree, + Leaning inland from the smiting of the wild and + gusty sea. + + Before the deep-mouthed chimney, dimly lit by + dying brands, + Twenty soldiers sat and waited, with their muskets + in their hands; + On the rough-hewn oaken table the venison haunch + was shared, + And the pewter tankard circled slowly round from + beard to beard. + + Long they sat and talked together,--talked of + wizards Satan-sold; + Of all ghostly sights and noises,--signs and wonders + manifold; + Of the spectre-ship of Salem, with the dead men + in her shrouds, + Sailing sheer above the water, in the loom of morning + clouds; + + Of the marvellous valley hidden in the depths of + Gloucester woods, + Full of plants that love the summer,--blooms of + warmer latitudes; + Where the Arctic birch is braided by the tropic's + flowery vines, + And the white magnolia-blossoms star the twilight + of the pines! + + But their voices sank yet lower, sank to husky + tones of fear, + As they spake of present tokens of the powers of + evil near; + Of a spectral host, defying stroke of steel and aim + of gun; + Never yet was ball to slay them in the mould of + mortals run. + + Thrice, with plumes and flowing scalp-locks, from + the midnight wood they came,-- + Thrice around the block-house marching, met, unharmed, + its volleyed flame; + Then, with mocking laugh and gesture, sunk in + earth or lost in air, + All the ghostly wonder vanished, and the moonlit + sands lay bare. + + Midnight came; from out the forest moved a + dusky mass that soon + Grew to warriors, plumed and painted, grimly + marching in the moon. + "Ghosts or witches," said the captain, "thus I foil + the Evil One!" + And he rammed a silver button, from his doublet, + down his gun. + + Once again the spectral horror moved the guarded + wall about; + Once again the levelled muskets through the palisades + flashed out, + With that deadly aim the squirrel on his tree-top + might not shun, + Nor the beach-bird seaward flying with his slant + wing to the sun. + + Like the idle rain of summer sped the harmless + shower of lead. + With a laugh of fierce derision, once again the + phantoms fled; + Once again, without a shadow on the sands the + moonlight lay, + And the white smoke curling through it drifted + slowly down the bay! + + "God preserve us!" said the captain; "never + mortal foes were there; + They have vanished with their leader, Prince and + Power of the air! + Lay aside your useless weapons; skill and prowess + naught avail; + They who do the Devil's service wear their master's + coat of mail!" + + So the night grew near to cock-crow, when again + a warning call + Roused the score of weary soldiers watching round + the dusky hall + And they looked to flint and priming, and they + longed for break of day; + But the captain closed his Bible: "Let us cease + from man, and pray!" + + To the men who went before us, all the unseen + powers seemed near, + And their steadfast strength of courage struck its + roots in holy fear. + Every hand forsook the musket, every head was + bowed and bare, + Every stout knee pressed the flag-stones, as the + captain led in prayer. + + Ceased thereat the mystic marching of the spectres + round the wall, + But a sound abhorred, unearthly, smote the ears + and hearts of all,-- + Howls of rage and shrieks of anguish! Never + after mortal man + Saw the ghostly leaguers marching round the + block-house of Cape Ann. + + So to us who walk in summer through the cool and + sea-blown town, + From the childhood of its people comes the solemn + legend down. + Not in vain the ancient fiction, in whose moral + lives the youth + And the fitness and the freshness of an undecaying + truth. + + Soon or late to all our dwellings come the spectres + of the mind, + Doubts and fears and dread forebodings, in the + darkness undefined; + Round us throng the grim projections of the heart + and of the brain, + And our pride of strength is weakness, and the + cunning hand is vain. + + In the dark we cry like children; and no answer + from on high + Breaks the crystal spheres of silence, and no white + wings downward fly; + But the heavenly help we pray for comes to faith, + and not to sight, + And our prayers themselves drive backward all the + spirits of the night! + + 1857. + + + + +THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. + + TRITEMIUS of Herbipolis, one day, + While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, + Alone with God, as was his pious choice, + Heard from without a miserable voice, + A sound which seemed of all sad things to tell, + As of a lost soul crying out of hell. + + Thereat the Abbot paused; the chain whereby + His thoughts went upward broken by that cry; + And, looking from the casement, saw below + A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow, + And withered hands held up to him, who cried + For alms as one who might not be denied. + + She cried, "For the dear love of Him who gave + His life for ours, my child from bondage save,-- + My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves + In the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit waves + Lap the white walls of Tunis!"--"What I can + I give," Tritemius said, "my prayers."--"O man + Of God!" she cried, for grief had made her bold, + "Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold. + Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice; + Even while I speak perchance my first-born dies." + + "Woman!" Tritemius answered, "from our door + None go unfed, hence are we always poor; + A single soldo is our only store. + Thou hast our prayers;--what can we give thee + more?" + + "Give me," she said, "the silver candlesticks + On either side of the great crucifix. + God well may spare them on His errands sped, + Or He can give you golden ones instead." + + Then spake Tritemius, "Even as thy word, + Woman, so be it! Our most gracious Lord, + Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice, + Pardon me if a human soul I prize + Above the gifts upon his altar piled! + Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child." + + But his hand trembled as the holy alms + He placed within the beggar's eager palms; + And as she vanished down the linden shade, + He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed. + So the day passed, and when the twilight came + He woke to find the chapel all aflame, + And, dumb with grateful wonder, to behold + Upon the altar candlesticks of gold! + + 1857. + + + + +SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. + +In the valuable and carefully prepared History of Marblehead, published +in 1879 by Samuel Roads, Jr., it is stated that the crew of Captain +Ireson, rather than himself, were responsible for the abandonment of the +disabled vessel. To screen themselves they charged their captain with +the crime. In view of this the writer of the ballad addressed the +following letter to the historian:-- + +OAK KNOLL, DANVERS, 5 mo. 18, 1880. +MY DEAR FRIEND: I heartily thank thee for a copy of thy History of +Marblehead. I have read it with great interest and think good use has +been made of the abundant material. No town in Essex County has a record +more honorable than Marblehead; no one has done more to develop the +industrial interests of our New England seaboard, and certainly none +have given such evidence of self-sacrificing patriotism. I am glad the +story of it has been at last told, and told so well. I have now no doubt +that thy version of Skipper Ireson's ride is the correct one. My verse +was founded solely on a fragment of rhyme which I heard from one of my +early schoolmates, a native of Marblehead. I supposed the story to which +it referred dated back at least a century. I knew nothing of the +participators, and the narrative of the ballad was pure fancy. I am glad +for the sake of truth and justice that the real facts are given in thy +book. I certainly would not knowingly do injustice to any one, dead or +living. + +I am very truly thy friend, +JOHN G. WHITTIER. + + + OF all the rides since, the birth of time, + Told in story or sung in rhyme,-- + On Apuleius's Golden Ass, + Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass; + Witch astride of a human back, + Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,-- + The strangest ride that ever was sped + Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + Body of turkey, head of owl, + Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, + Feathered and ruffled in every part, + Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. + Scores of women, old and young, + Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, + Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, + Shouting and singing the shrill refrain + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, + Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, + Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase + Bacchus round some antique vase, + Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, + Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, + With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, + Over and over the Manads sang + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an dorr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Small pity for him!--He sailed away + From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,-- + Sailed away from a sinking wreck, + With his own town's-people on her deck! + "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. + Back he answered, "Sink or swim! + Brag of your catch of fish again!" + And off he sailed through the fog and rain! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur + That wreck shall lie forevermore. + Mother and sister, wife and maid, + Looked from the rocks of Marblehead + Over the moaning and rainy sea,-- + Looked for the coming that might not be! + What did the winds and the sea-birds say + Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-- + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Through the street, on either side, + Up flew windows, doors swung wide; + Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, + Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. + Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, + Hulks of old sailors run aground, + Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, + And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o''Morble'ead!" + + Sweetly along the Salem road + Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. + Little the wicked skipper knew + Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. + Riding there in his sorry trim, + Like to Indian idol glum and grim, + Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear + Of voices shouting, far and near + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,-- + "What to me is this noisy ride? + What is the shame that clothes the skin + To the nameless horror that lives within? + Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, + And hear a cry from a reeling deck! + Hate me and curse me,--I only dread + The hand of God and the face of the dead!" + Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea + Said, "God has touched him! why should we?" + Said an old wife mourning her only son, + "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" + So with soft relentings and rude excuse, + Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, + And gave him a cloak to hide him in, + And left him alone with his shame and sin. + Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + 1857. + + + + +THE SYCAMORES. + +Hugh Tallant was the first Irish resident of Haverhill, Mass. He planted +the button-wood trees on the bank of the river below the village in the +early part of the seventeenth century. Unfortunately this noble avenue +is now nearly destroyed. + + IN the outskirts of the village, + On the river's winding shores, + Stand the Occidental plane-trees, + Stand the ancient sycamores. + + One long century hath been numbered, + And another half-way told, + Since the rustic Irish gleeman + Broke for them the virgin mould. + + Deftly set to Celtic music, + At his violin's sound they grew, + Through the moonlit eves of summer, + Making Amphion's fable true. + + Rise again, then poor Hugh Tallant + Pass in jerkin green along, + With thy eyes brimful of laughter, + And thy mouth as full of song. + + Pioneer of Erin's outcasts, + With his fiddle and his pack; + Little dreamed the village Saxons + Of the myriads at his back. + + How he wrought with spade and fiddle, + Delved by day and sang by night, + With a hand that never wearied, + And a heart forever light,-- + + Still the gay tradition mingles + With a record grave and drear, + Like the rollic air of Cluny, + With the solemn march of Mear. + + When the box-tree, white with blossoms, + Made the sweet May woodlands glad, + And the Aronia by the river + Lighted up the swarming shad, + + And the bulging nets swept shoreward, + With their silver-sided haul, + Midst the shouts of dripping fishers, + He was merriest of them all. + + When, among the jovial huskers, + Love stole in at Labor's side, + With the lusty airs of England, + Soft his Celtic measures vied. + + Songs of love and wailing lyke--wake, + And the merry fair's carouse; + Of the wild Red Fox of Erin + And the Woman of Three Cows, + + By the blazing hearths of winter, + Pleasant seemed his simple tales, + Midst the grimmer Yorkshire legends + And the mountain myths of Wales. + + How the souls in Purgatory + Scrambled up from fate forlorn, + On St. Eleven's sackcloth ladder, + Slyly hitched to Satan's horn. + + Of the fiddler who at Tara + Played all night to ghosts of kings; + Of the brown dwarfs, and the fairies + Dancing in their moorland rings. + + Jolliest of our birds of singing, + Best he loved the Bob-o-link. + "Hush!" he 'd say, "the tipsy fairies + Hear the little folks in drink!" + + Merry-faced, with spade and fiddle, + Singing through the ancient town, + Only this, of poor Hugh Tallant, + Hath Tradition handed down. + + Not a stone his grave discloses; + But if yet his spirit walks, + 'T is beneath the trees he planted, + And when Bob-o-Lincoln talks; + + Green memorials of the gleeman I + Linking still the river-shores, + With their shadows cast by sunset, + Stand Hugh Tallant's sycamores! + + When the Father of his Country + Through the north-land riding came, + And the roofs were starred with banners, + And the steeples rang acclaim,-- + + When each war-scarred Continental, + Leaving smithy, mill, and farm, + Waved his rusted sword in welcome, + And shot off his old king's arm,-- + + Slowly passed that August Presence + Down the thronged and shouting street; + Village girls as white as angels, + Scattering flowers around his feet. + + Midway, where the plane-tree's shadow + Deepest fell, his rein he drew + On his stately head, uncovered, + Cool and soft the west-wind blew. + + And he stood up in his stirrups, + Looking up and looking down + On the hills of Gold and Silver + Rimming round the little town,-- + + On the river, full of sunshine, + To the lap of greenest vales + Winding down from wooded headlands, + Willow-skirted, white with sails. + + And he said, the landscape sweeping + Slowly with his ungloved hand, + "I have seen no prospect fairer + In this goodly Eastern land." + + Then the bugles of his escort + Stirred to life the cavalcade + And that head, so bare and stately, + Vanished down the depths of shade. + + Ever since, in town and farm-house, + Life has had its ebb and flow; + Thrice hath passed the human harvest + To its garner green and low. + + But the trees the gleeman planted, + Through the changes, changeless stand; + As the marble calm of Tadmor + Mocks the desert's shifting sand. + + Still the level moon at rising + Silvers o'er each stately shaft; + Still beneath them, half in shadow, + Singing, glides the pleasure craft; + + Still beneath them, arm-enfolded, + Love and Youth together stray; + While, as heart to heart beats faster, + More and more their feet delay. + + Where the ancient cobbler, Keezar, + On the open hillside wrought, + Singing, as he drew his stitches, + Songs his German masters taught, + + Singing, with his gray hair floating + Round his rosy ample face,-- + Now a thousand Saxon craftsmen + Stitch and hammer in his place. + + All the pastoral lanes so grassy + Now are Traffic's dusty streets; + From the village, grown a city, + Fast the rural grace retreats. + + But, still green, and tall, and stately, + On the river's winding shores, + Stand the Occidental plane-trees, + Stand, Hugh Taliant's sycamores. + + 1857. + + + + +THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW. + +An incident of the Sepoy mutiny. + + PIPES of the misty moorlands, + Voice of the glens and hills; + The droning of the torrents, + The treble of the rills! + Not the braes of broom and heather, + Nor the mountains dark with rain, + Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, + Have heard your sweetest strain! + + Dear to the Lowland reaper, + And plaided mountaineer,-- + To the cottage and the castle + The Scottish pipes are dear;-- + Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch + O'er mountain, loch, and glade; + But the sweetest of all music + The pipes at Lucknow played. + + Day by day the Indian tiger + Louder yelled, and nearer crept; + Round and round the jungle-serpent + Near and nearer circles swept. + "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- + Pray to-day!" the soldier said; + "To-morrow, death's between us + And the wrong and shame we dread." + + Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, + Till their hope became despair; + And the sobs of low bewailing + Filled the pauses of their prayer. + Then up spake a Scottish maiden, + With her ear unto the ground + "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it? + The pipes o' Havelock sound!" + + Hushed the wounded man his groaning; + Hushed the wife her little ones; + Alone they heard the drum-roll + And the roar of Sepoy guns. + But to sounds of home and childhood + The Highland ear was true;-- + As her mother's cradle-crooning + The mountain pipes she knew. + + Like the march of soundless music + Through the vision of the seer, + More of feeling than of hearing, + Of the heart than of the ear, + She knew the droning pibroch, + She knew the Campbell's call + "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, + The grandest o' them all!" + + Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, + And they caught the sound at last; + Faint and far beyond the Goomtee + Rose and fell the piper's blast + Then a burst of wild thanksgiving + Mingled woman's voice and man's; + "God be praised!--the march of Havelock! + The piping of the clans!" + + Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, + Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, + Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, + Stinging all the air to life. + But when the far-off dust-cloud + To plaided legions grew, + Full tenderly and blithesomely + The pipes of rescue blew! + + Round the silver domes of Lucknow, + Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, + Breathed the air to Britons dearest, + The air of Auld Lang Syne. + O'er the cruel roll of war-drums + Rose that sweet and homelike strain; + And the tartan clove the turban, + As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. + + Dear to the corn-land reaper + And plaided mountaineer,-- + To the cottage and the castle + The piper's song is dear. + Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch + O'er mountain, glen, and glade; + But the sweetest of all music + The Pipes at Lucknow played! + + 1858. + + + + +TELLING THE BEES. + +A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed +in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the +family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives +dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to +prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home. + + HERE is the place; right over the hill + Runs the path I took; + You can see the gap in the old wall still, + And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. + + There is the house, with the gate red-barred, + And the poplars tall; + And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, + And the white horns tossing above the wall. + + There are the beehives ranged in the sun; + And down by the brink + Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, + Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. + + A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, + Heavy and slow; + And the same rose blooms, and the same sun glows, + And the same brook sings of a year ago. + + There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; + And the June sun warm + Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, + Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. + + I mind me how with a lover's care + From my Sunday coat + I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, + And cooled at the brookside my brow and + throat. + + Since we parted, a month had passed,-- + To love, a year; + Down through the beeches I looked at last + On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. + + I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain + Of light through the leaves, + The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, + The bloom of her roses under the eaves. + + Just the same as a month before,-- + The house and the trees, + The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- + Nothing changed but the hives of bees. + + Before them, under the garden wall, + Forward and back, + Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, + Draping each hive with a shred of black. + + Trembling, I listened: the summer sun + Had the chill of snow; + For I knew she was telling the bees of one + Gone on the journey we all must go. + + Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps + For the dead to-day; + Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps + The fret and the pain of his age away." + + But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, + With his cane to his chin, + The old man sat; and the chore-girl still + Sung to the bees stealing out and in. + + And the song she was singing ever since + In my ear sounds on:-- + "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! + Mistress Mary is dead and gone!" + + 1858. + + + + +THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY. + +In Young's Chronicles of Massachusetts Bay front 1623 to 1636 may be +found Anthony Thacher's Narrative of his Shipwreck. Thacher was Avery's +companion and survived to tell the tale. Mather's Magnalia, III. 2, +gives further Particulars of Parson Avery's End, and suggests the title +of the poem. + + WHEN the reaper's task was ended, and the + summer wearing late, + Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with his wife + and children eight, + Dropping down the river-harbor in the shallop + "Watch and Wait." + + Pleasantly lay the clearings in the mellow summer- + morn, + With the newly planted orchards dropping their + fruits first-born, + And the home-roofs like brown islands amid a sea + of corn. + + Broad meadows reached out 'seaward the tided + creeks between, + And hills rolled wave-like inland, with oaks and + walnuts green;-- + A fairer home, a--goodlier land, his eyes had never + seen. + + Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where duty led, + And the voice of God seemed calling, to break the + living bread + To the souls of fishers starving on the rocks of + Marblehead. + + All day they sailed: at nightfall the pleasant land- + breeze died, + The blackening sky, at midnight, its starry lights + denied, + And far and low the thunder of tempest prophesied. + + Blotted out were all the coast-lines, gone were rock, + and wood, and sand; + Grimly anxious stood the skipper with the rudder + in his hand, + And questioned of the darkness what was sea and + what was land. + + And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestled + round him, weeping sore, + "Never heed, my little children! Christ is walking + on before; + To the pleasant land of heaven, where the sea shall + be no more." + + All at once the great cloud parted, like a curtain + drawn aside, + To let down the torch of lightning on the terror + far and wide; + And the thunder and the whirlwind together smote + the tide. + + There was wailing in the shallop, woman's wail + and man's despair, + A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so sharp + and bare, + And, through it all, the murmur of Father Avery's + prayer. + + From his struggle in the darkness with the wild + waves and the blast, + On a rock, where every billow broke above him as + it passed, + Alone, of all his household, the man of God was + cast. + + There a comrade heard him praying, in the pause + of wave and wind + "All my own have gone before me, and I linger + just behind; + Not for life I ask, but only for the rest Thy + ransomed find! + + "In this night of death I challenge the promise of + Thy word!-- + Let me see the great salvation of which mine ears + have heard!-- + Let me pass from hence forgiven, through the + grace of Christ, our Lord! + + "In the baptism of these waters wash white my + every sin, + And let me follow up to Thee my household and + my kin! + Open the sea-gate of Thy heaven, and let me enter + in!" + + When the Christian sings his death-song, all the + listening heavens draw near, + And the angels, leaning over the walls of crystal, + hear + How the notes so faint and broken swell to music + in God's ear. + + The ear of God was open to His servant's last + request; + As the strong wave swept him downward the sweet + hymn upward pressed, + And the soul of Father Avery went, singing, to its + rest. + + There was wailing on the mainland, from the rocks + of Marblehead; + In the stricken church of Newbury the notes of + prayer were read; + And long, by board and hearthstone, the living + mourned the dead. + + And still the fishers outbound, or scudding from + the squall, + With grave and reverent faces, the ancient tale + recall, + When they see the white waves breaking on the + Rock of Avery's Fall! + + 1808. + + + + +THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY. + +"Concerning ye Amphisbaena, as soon as I received your commands, I made +diligent inquiry: . . . he assures me yt it had really two heads, one +at each end; two mouths, two stings or tongues."--REV. CHRISTOPHER +TOPPAN to COTTON MATHER. + + FAR away in the twilight time + Of every people, in every clime, + Dragons and griffins and monsters dire, + Born of water, and air, and fire, + Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud + And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, + Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage, + Through dusk tradition and ballad age. + So from the childhood of Newbury town + And its time of fable the tale comes down + Of a terror which haunted bush and brake, + The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake! + + Thou who makest the tale thy mirth, + Consider that strip of Christian earth + On the desolate shore of a sailless sea, + Full of terror and mystery, + Half redeemed from the evil hold + Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old, + Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew + When Time was young, and the world was new, + And wove its shadows with sun and moon, + Ere the stones of Cheops were squared and hewn. + Think of the sea's dread monotone, + Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood blown, + Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the North, + Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth, + And the dismal tales the Indian told, + Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew cold, + And he shrank from the tawny wizard boasts, + And the hovering shadows seemed full of ghosts, + And above, below, and on every side, + The fear of his creed seemed verified;-- + And think, if his lot were now thine own, + To grope with terrors nor named nor known, + How laxer muscle and weaker nerve + And a feebler faith thy need might serve; + And own to thyself the wonder more + That the snake had two heads, and not a score! + + Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen + Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den, + Or swam in the wooded Artichoke, + Or coiled by the Northman's Written Rock, + Nothing on record is left to show; + Only the fact that he lived, we know, + And left the cast of a double head + In the scaly mask which he yearly shed. + For he carried a head where his tail should be, + And the two, of course, could never agree, + But wriggled about with main and might, + Now to the left and now to the right; + Pulling and twisting this way and that, + Neither knew what the other was at. + + A snake with two beads, lurking so near! + Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear! + Think what ancient gossips might say, + Shaking their heads in their dreary way, + Between the meetings on Sabbath-day! + How urchins, searching at day's decline + The Common Pasture for sheep or kine, + The terrible double-ganger heard + In leafy rustle or whir of bird! + Think what a zest it gave to the sport, + In berry-time, of the younger sort, + As over pastures blackberry-twined, + Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind, + And closer and closer, for fear of harm, + The maiden clung to her lover's arm; + And how the spark, who was forced to stay, + By his sweetheart's fears, till the break of day, + Thanked the snake for the fond delay. + + Far and wide the tale was told, + Like a snowball growing while it rolled. + The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry; + And it served, in the worthy minister's eye, + To paint the primitive serpent by. + Cotton Mather came galloping down + All the way to Newbury town, + With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, + And his marvellous inkhorn at his side; + Stirring the while in the shallow pool + Of his brains for the lore he learned at school, + To garnish the story, with here a streak + Of Latin, and there another of Greek + And the tales he heard and the notes he took, + Behold! are they not in his Wonder-Book? + + Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. + If the snake does not, the tale runs still + In Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. + And still, whenever husband and wife + Publish the shame of their daily strife, + And, with mad cross-purpose, tug and strain + At either end of the marriage-chain, + The gossips say, with a knowing shake + Of their gray heads, "Look at the Double Snake + One in body and two in will, + The Amphisbaena is living still!" + + 1859. + + + + +MABEL MARTIN. + +A HARVEST IDYL. + +Susanna Martin, an aged woman of Amesbury, Mass., was tried and executed +for the alleged crime of witchcraft. Her home was in what is now known +as Pleasant Valley on the Merrimac, a little above the old Ferry way, +where, tradition says, an attempt was made to assassinate Sir Edmund +Andros on his way to Falmouth (afterward Portland) and Pemaquid, which +was frustrated by a warning timely given. Goody Martin was the only +woman hanged on the north side of the Merrimac during the dreadful +delusion. The aged wife of Judge Bradbury who lived on the other side of +the Powow River was imprisoned and would have been put to death but for +the collapse of the hideous persecution. + +The substance of the poem which follows was published under the name of +The Witch's Daughter, in The National Era in 1857. In 1875 my publishers +desired to issue it with illustrations, and I then enlarged it and +otherwise altered it to its present form. The principal addition was in +the verses which constitute Part I. + + + + +PROEM. + + I CALL the old time back: I bring my lay + in tender memory of the summer day + When, where our native river lapsed away, + + We dreamed it over, while the thrushes made + Songs of their own, and the great pine-trees laid + On warm noonlights the masses of their shade. + + And she was with us, living o'er again + Her life in ours, despite of years and pain,-- + The Autumn's brightness after latter rain. + + Beautiful in her holy peace as one + Who stands, at evening, when the work is done, + Glorified in the setting of the sun! + + Her memory makes our common landscape seem + Fairer than any of which painters dream; + Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream; + + For she whose speech was always truth's pure gold + Heard, not unpleased, its simple legends told, + And loved with us the beautiful and old. + + + + +I. THE RIVER VALLEY. + + Across the level tableland, + A grassy, rarely trodden way, + With thinnest skirt of birchen spray + + And stunted growth of cedar, leads + To where you see the dull plain fall + Sheer off, steep-slanted, ploughed by all + + The seasons' rainfalls. On its brink + The over-leaning harebells swing, + With roots half bare the pine-trees cling; + + And, through the shadow looking west, + You see the wavering river flow + Along a vale, that far below + + Holds to the sun, the sheltering hills + And glimmering water-line between, + Broad fields of corn and meadows green, + + And fruit-bent orchards grouped around + The low brown roofs and painted eaves, + And chimney-tops half hid in leaves. + + No warmer valley hides behind + Yon wind-scourged sand-dunes, cold and bleak; + No fairer river comes to seek + + The wave-sung welcome of the sea, + Or mark the northmost border line + Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine. + + Here, ground-fast in their native fields, + Untempted by the city's gain, + The quiet farmer folk remain + + Who bear the pleasant name of Friends, + And keep their fathers' gentle ways + And simple speech of Bible days; + + In whose neat homesteads woman holds + With modest ease her equal place, + And wears upon her tranquil face + + The look of one who, merging not + Her self-hood in another's will, + Is love's and duty's handmaid still. + + Pass with me down the path that winds + Through birches to the open land, + Where, close upon the river strand + + You mark a cellar, vine o'errun, + Above whose wall of loosened stones + The sumach lifts its reddening cones, + + And the black nightshade's berries shine, + And broad, unsightly burdocks fold + The household ruin, century-old. + + Here, in the dim colonial time + Of sterner lives and gloomier faith, + A woman lived, tradition saith, + + Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy, + And witched and plagued the country-side, + Till at the hangman's hand she died. + + Sit with me while the westering day + Falls slantwise down the quiet vale, + And, haply ere yon loitering sail, + + That rounds the upper headland, falls + Below Deer Island's pines, or sees + Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees + + Rise black against the sinking sun, + My idyl of its days of old, + The valley's legend, shall be told. + + + + +II. THE HUSKING. + + It was the pleasant harvest-time, + When cellar-bins are closely stowed, + And garrets bend beneath their load, + + And the old swallow-haunted barns,-- + Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams + Through which the rooted sunlight streams, + + And winds blow freshly in, to shake + The red plumes of the roosted cocks, + And the loose hay-mow's scented locks, + + Are filled with summer's ripened stores, + Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, + From their low scaffolds to their eaves. + + On Esek Harden's oaken floor, + With many an autumn threshing worn, + Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. + + And thither came young men and maids, + Beneath a moon that, large and low, + Lit that sweet eve of long ago. + + They took their places; some by chance, + And others by a merry voice + Or sweet smile guided to their choice. + + How pleasantly the rising moon, + Between the shadow of the mows, + Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! + + On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, + On girlhood with its solid curves + Of healthful strength and painless nerves! + + And jests went round, and laughs that made + The house-dog answer with his howl, + And kept astir the barn-yard fowl; + + And quaint old songs their fathers sung + In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, + Ere Norman William trod their shores; + + And tales, whose merry license shook + The fat sides of the Saxon thane, + Forgetful of the hovering Dane,-- + + Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known, + The charms and riddles that beguiled + On Oxus' banks the young world's child,-- + + That primal picture-speech wherein + Have youth and maid the story told, + So new in each, so dateless old, + + Recalling pastoral Ruth in her + Who waited, blushing and demure, + The red-ear's kiss of forfeiture. + + But still the sweetest voice was mute + That river-valley ever heard + From lips of maid or throat of bird; + + For Mabel Martin sat apart, + And let the hay-mow's shadow fall + Upon the loveliest face of all. + + She sat apart, as one forbid, + Who knew that none would condescend + To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. + + The seasons scarce had gone their round, + Since curious thousands thronged to see + Her mother at the gallows-tree; + + And mocked the prison-palsied limbs + That faltered on the fatal stairs, + And wan lip trembling with its prayers! + + Few questioned of the sorrowing child, + Or, when they saw the mother die; + Dreamed of the daughter's agony. + + They went up to their homes that day, + As men and Christians justified + God willed it, and the wretch had died! + + Dear God and Father of us all, + Forgive our faith in cruel lies,-- + Forgive the blindness that denies! + + Forgive thy creature when he takes, + For the all-perfect love Thou art, + Some grim creation of his heart. + + Cast down our idols, overturn + Our bloody altars; let us see + Thyself in Thy humanity! + + Young Mabel from her mother's grave + Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, + And wrestled with her fate alone; + + With love, and anger, and despair, + The phantoms of disordered sense, + The awful doubts of Providence! + + Oh, dreary broke the winter days, + And dreary fell the winter nights + When, one by one, the neighboring lights + + Went out, and human sounds grew still, + And all the phantom-peopled dark + Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark. + + And summer days were sad and long, + And sad the uncompanioned eyes, + And sadder sunset-tinted leaves, + + And Indian Summer's airs of balm; + She scarcely felt the soft caress, + The beauty died of loneliness! + + The school-boys jeered her as they passed, + And, when she sought the house of prayer, + Her mother's curse pursued her there. + + And still o'er many a neighboring door + She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, + To guard against her mother's harm! + + That mother, poor and sick and lame, + Who daily, by the old arm-chair, + Folded her withered hands in prayer;-- + + Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, + Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, + When her dim eyes could read no more! + + Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept + Her faith, and trusted that her way, + So dark, would somewhere meet the day. + + And still her weary wheel went round + Day after day, with no relief + Small leisure have the poor for grief. + + + + +III. THE CHAMPION. + + So in the shadow Mabel sits; + Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, + Her smile is sadder than her tears. + + But cruel eyes have found her out, + And cruel lips repeat her name, + And taunt her with her mother's shame. + + She answered not with railing words, + But drew her apron o'er her face, + And, sobbing, glided from the place. + + And only pausing at the door, + Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze + Of one who, in her better days, + + Had been her warm and steady friend, + Ere yet her mother's doom had made + Even Esek Harden half afraid. + + He felt that mute appeal of tears, + And, starting, with an angry frown, + Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. + + "Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, + "This passes harmless mirth or jest; + I brook no insult to my guest. + + "She is indeed her mother's child; + But God's sweet pity ministers + Unto no whiter soul than hers. + + "Let Goody Martin rest in peace; + I never knew her harm a fly, + And witch or not, God knows--not I. + + "I know who swore her life away; + And as God lives, I'd not condemn + An Indian dog on word of them." + + The broadest lands in all the town, + The skill to guide, the power to awe, + Were Harden's; and his word was law. + + None dared withstand him to his face, + But one sly maiden spake aside + "The little witch is evil-eyed! + + "Her mother only killed a cow, + Or witched a churn or dairy-pan; + But she, forsooth, must charm a man!" + + + + +IV. IN THE SHADOW. + + Poor Mabel, homeward turning, passed + The nameless terrors of the wood, + And saw, as if a ghost pursued, + + Her shadow gliding in the moon; + The soft breath of the west-wind gave + A chill as from her mother's grave. + + How dreary seemed the silent house! + Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare + Its windows had a dead man's stare! + + And, like a gaunt and spectral hand, + The tremulous shadow of a birch + Reached out and touched the door's low porch, + + As if to lift its latch; hard by, + A sudden warning call she beard, + The night-cry of a boding bird. + + She leaned against the door; her face, + So fair, so young, so full of pain, + White in the moonlight's silver rain. + + The river, on its pebbled rim, + Made music such as childhood knew; + The door-yard tree was whispered through + + By voices such as childhood's ear + Had heard in moonlights long ago; + And through the willow-boughs below. + + She saw the rippled waters shine; + Beyond, in waves of shade and light, + The hills rolled off into the night. + + She saw and heard, but over all + A sense of some transforming spell, + The shadow of her sick heart fell. + + And still across the wooded space + The harvest lights of Harden shone, + And song and jest and laugh went on. + + And he, so gentle, true, and strong, + Of men the bravest and the best, + Had he, too, scorned her with the rest? + + She strove to drown her sense of wrong, + And, in her old and simple way, + To teach her bitter heart to pray. + + Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith, + Grew to a low, despairing cry + Of utter misery: "Let me die! + + "Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, + And hide me where the cruel speech + And mocking finger may not reach! + + "I dare not breathe my mother's name + A daughter's right I dare not crave + To weep above her unblest grave! + + "Let me not live until my heart, + With few to pity, and with none + To love me, hardens into stone. + + "O God! have mercy on Thy child, + Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, + And take me ere I lose it all!" + + A shadow on the moonlight fell, + And murmuring wind and wave became + A voice whose burden was her name. + + + + +V. THE BETROTHAL. + + Had then God heard her? Had He sent + His angel down? In flesh and blood, + Before her Esek Harden stood! + + He laid his hand upon her arm + "Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; + Who scoffs at you must scoff at me. + + "You know rough Esek Harden well; + And if he seems no suitor gay, + And if his hair is touched with gray, + + "The maiden grown shall never find + His heart less warm than when she smiled, + Upon his knees, a little child!" + + Her tears of grief were tears of joy, + As, folded in his strong embrace, + She looked in Esek Harden's face. + + "O truest friend of all'" she said, + "God bless you for your kindly thought, + And make me worthy of my lot!" + + He led her forth, and, blent in one, + Beside their happy pathway ran + The shadows of the maid and man. + + He led her through his dewy fields, + To where the swinging lanterns glowed, + And through the doors the huskers showed. + + "Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said, + "I'm weary of this lonely life; + In Mabel see my chosen wife! + + "She greets you kindly, one and all; + The past is past, and all offence + Falls harmless from her innocence. + + "Henceforth she stands no more alone; + You know what Esek Harden is;-- + He brooks no wrong to him or his. + + "Now let the merriest tales be told, + And let the sweetest songs be sung + That ever made the old heart young! + + "For now the lost has found a home; + And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, + As all the household joys return!" + + Oh, pleasantly the harvest-moon, + Between the shadow of the mows, + Looked on them through the great elm--boughs! + + On Mabel's curls of golden hair, + On Esek's shaggy strength it fell; + And the wind whispered, "It is well!" + + + + +THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. + +The prose version of this prophecy is to be found in Sewall's The New +Heaven upon the New Earth, 1697, quoted in Joshua Coffin's History of +Newbury. Judge Sewall's father, Henry Sewall, was one of the pioneers +of Newbury. + + UP and down the village streets + Strange are the forms my fancy meets, + For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid, + And through the veil of a closed lid + The ancient worthies I see again + I hear the tap of the elder's cane, + And his awful periwig I see, + And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. + Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, + His black cap hiding his whitened hair, + Walks the Judge of the great Assize, + Samuel Sewall the good and wise. + His face with lines of firmness wrought, + He wears the look of a man unbought, + Who swears to his hurt and changes not; + Yet, touched and softened nevertheless + With the grace of Christian gentleness, + The face that a child would climb to kiss! + True and tender and brave and just, + That man might honor and woman trust. + + Touching and sad, a tale is told, + Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old, + Of the fast which the good man lifelong kept to + With a haunting sorrow that never slept, + As the circling year brought round the time + Of an error that left the sting of crime, + When he sat on the bench of the witchcraft courts, + With the laws of Moses and Hale's Reports, + And spake, in the name of both, the word + That gave the witch's neck to the cord, + And piled the oaken planks that pressed + The feeble life from the warlock's breast! + All the day long, from dawn to dawn, + His door was bolted, his curtain drawn; + No foot on his silent threshold trod, + No eye looked on him save that of God, + As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms + Of penitent tears, and prayers, and psalms, + And, with precious proofs from the sacred word + Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord, + His faith confirmed and his trust renewed + That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued, + Might be washed away in the mingled flood + Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood! + + Green forever the memory be + Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, + Whom even his errors glorified, + Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side + By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide I + Honor and praise to the Puritan + Who the halting step of his age outran, + And, seeing the infinite worth of man + In the priceless gift the Father gave, + In the infinite love that stooped to save, + Dared not brand his brother a slave + "Who doth such wrong," he was wont to say, + In his own quaint, picture-loving way, + "Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade + Which God shall cast down upon his head!" + + Widely as heaven and hell, contrast + That brave old jurist of the past + And the cunning trickster and knave of courts + Who the holy features of Truth distorts, + Ruling as right the will of the strong, + Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong; + Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak + Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek; + Scoffing aside at party's nod + Order of nature and law of God; + For whose dabbled ermine respect were waste, + Reverence folly, and awe misplaced; + Justice of whom 't were vain to seek + As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik! + Oh, leave the wretch to his bribes and sins; + Let him rot in the web of lies he spins! + To the saintly soul of the early day, + To the Christian judge, let us turn and say + "Praise and thanks for an honest man!-- + Glory to God for the Puritan!" + + I see, far southward, this quiet day, + The hills of Newbury rolling away, + With the many tints of the season gay, + Dreamily blending in autumn mist + Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. + Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, + Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, + A stone's toss over the narrow sound. + Inland, as far as the eye can go, + The hills curve round like a bended bow; + A silver arrow from out them sprung, + I see the shine of the Quasycung; + And, round and round, over valley and hill, + Old roads winding, as old roads will, + Here to a ferry, and there to a mill; + And glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves, + Through green elm arches and maple leaves,-- + Old homesteads sacred to all that can + Gladden or sadden the heart of man, + Over whose thresholds of oak and stone + Life and Death have come and gone + There pictured tiles in the fireplace show, + Great beams sag from the ceiling low, + The dresser glitters with polished wares, + The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs, + And the low, broad chimney shows the crack + By the earthquake made a century back. + Up from their midst springs the village spire + With the crest of its cock in the sun afire; + Beyond are orchards and planting lands, + And great salt marshes and glimmering sands, + And, where north and south the coast-lines run, + The blink of the sea in breeze and sun! + + I see it all like a chart unrolled, + But my thoughts are full of the past and old, + I hear the tales of my boyhood told; + And the shadows and shapes of early days + Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, + With measured movement and rhythmic chime + Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. + I think of the old man wise and good + Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, + (A poet who never measured rhyme, + A seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) + And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, + With his boyhood's love, on his native town, + Where, written, as if on its hills and plains, + His burden of prophecy yet remains, + For the voices of wood, and wave, and wind + To read in the ear of the musing mind:-- + + "As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast + As God appointed, shall keep its post; + As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep + Of Merrimac River, or sturgeon leap; + As long as pickerel swift and slim, + Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim; + As long as the annual sea-fowl know + Their time to come and their time to go; + As long as cattle shall roam at will + The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill; + As long as sheep shall look from the side + Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, + And Parker River, and salt-sea tide; + As long as a wandering pigeon shall search + The fields below from his white-oak perch, + When the barley-harvest is ripe and shorn, + And the dry husks fall from the standing corn; + As long as Nature shall not grow old, + Nor drop her work from her doting hold, + And her care for the Indian corn forget, + And the yellow rows in pairs to set;-- + So long shall Christians here be born, + Grow up and ripen as God's sweet corn!-- + By the beak of bird, by the breath of frost, + Shall never a holy ear be lost, + But, husked by Death in the Planter's sight, + Be sown again in the fields of light!" + + The Island still is purple with plums, + Up the river the salmon comes, + The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds + On hillside berries and marish seeds,-- + All the beautiful signs remain, + From spring-time sowing to autumn rain + The good man's vision returns again! + And let us hope, as well we can, + That the Silent Angel who garners man + May find some grain as of old lie found + In the human cornfield ripe and sound, + And the Lord of the Harvest deign to own + The precious seed by the fathers sown! + + 1859. + + + + +THE RED RIPER VOYAGEUR. + + OUT and in the river is winding + The links of its long, red chain, + Through belts of dusky pine-land + And gusty leagues of plain. + + Only, at times, a smoke-wreath + With the drifting cloud-rack joins,-- + The smoke of the hunting-lodges + Of the wild Assiniboins. + + Drearily blows the north-wind + From the land of ice and snow; + The eyes that look are weary, + And heavy the hands that row. + + And with one foot on the water, + And one upon the shore, + The Angel of Shadow gives warning + That day shall be no more. + + Is it the clang of wild-geese? + Is it the Indian's yell, + That lends to the voice of the north-wind + The tones of a far-off bell? + + The voyageur smiles as he listens + To the sound that grows apace; + Well he knows the vesper ringing + Of the bells of St. Boniface. + + The bells of the Roman Mission, + That call from their turrets twain, + To the boatman on the river, + To the hunter on the plain! + + Even so in our mortal journey + The bitter north-winds blow, + And thus upon life's Red River + Our hearts, as oarsmen, row. + + And when the Angel of Shadow + Rests his feet on wave and shore, + And our eyes grow dim with watching + And our hearts faint at the oar, + + Happy is he who heareth + The signal of his release + In the bells of the Holy City, + The chimes of eternal peace! + + 1859 + + + + +THE PREACHER. + +George Whitefield, the celebrated preacher, died at Newburyport in 1770, +and was buried under the church which has since borne his name. + + ITS windows flashing to the sky, + Beneath a thousand roofs of brown, + Far down the vale, my friend and I + Beheld the old and quiet town; + The ghostly sails that out at sea + Flapped their white wings of mystery; + The beaches glimmering in the sun, + And the low wooded capes that run + Into the sea-mist north and south; + The sand-bluffs at the river's mouth; + The swinging chain-bridge, and, afar, + The foam-line of the harbor-bar. + + Over the woods and meadow-lands + A crimson-tinted shadow lay, + Of clouds through which the setting day + Flung a slant glory far away. + It glittered on the wet sea-sands, + It flamed upon the city's panes, + Smote the white sails of ships that wore + Outward or in, and glided o'er + The steeples with their veering vanes! + + Awhile my friend with rapid search + O'erran the landscape. "Yonder spire + Over gray roofs, a shaft of fire; + What is it, pray?"--"The Whitefield Church! + Walled about by its basement stones, + There rest the marvellous prophet's bones." + Then as our homeward way we walked, + Of the great preacher's life we talked; + And through the mystery of our theme + The outward glory seemed to stream, + And Nature's self interpreted + The doubtful record of the dead; + And every level beam that smote + The sails upon the dark afloat + A symbol of the light became, + Which touched the shadows of our blame, + With tongues of Pentecostal flame. + + Over the roofs of the pioneers + Gathers the moss of a hundred years; + On man and his works has passed the change + Which needs must be in a century's range. + The land lies open and warm in the sun, + Anvils clamor and mill-wheels run,-- + Flocks on the hillsides, herds on the plain, + The wilderness gladdened with fruit and grain! + But the living faith of the settlers old + A dead profession their children hold; + To the lust of office and greed of trade + A stepping-stone is the altar made. + + The church, to place and power the door, + Rebukes the sin of the world no more, + Nor sees its Lord in the homeless poor. + Everywhere is the grasping hand, + And eager adding of land to land; + And earth, which seemed to the fathers meant + But as a pilgrim's wayside tent,-- + A nightly shelter to fold away + When the Lord should call at the break of day,-- + Solid and steadfast seems to be, + And Time has forgotten Eternity! + + But fresh and green from the rotting roots + Of primal forests the young growth shoots; + From the death of the old the new proceeds, + And the life of truth from the rot of creeds + On the ladder of God, which upward leads, + The steps of progress are human needs. + For His judgments still are a mighty deep, + And the eyes of His providence never sleep + When the night is darkest He gives the morn; + When the famine is sorest, the wine and corn! + + In the church of the wilderness Edwards wrought, + Shaping his creed at the forge of thought; + And with Thor's own hammer welded and bent + The iron links of his argument, + Which strove to grasp in its mighty span + The purpose of God and the fate of man + Yet faithful still, in his daily round + To the weak, and the poor, and sin-sick found, + The schoolman's lore and the casuist's art + Drew warmth and life from his fervent heart. + + Had he not seen in the solitudes + Of his deep and dark Northampton woods + A vision of love about him fall? + Not the blinding splendor which fell on Saul, + But the tenderer glory that rests on them + Who walk in the New Jerusalem, + Where never the sun nor moon are known, + But the Lord and His love are the light alone + And watching the sweet, still countenance + Of the wife of his bosom rapt in trance, + Had he not treasured each broken word + Of the mystical wonder seen and heard; + And loved the beautiful dreamer more + That thus to the desert of earth she bore + Clusters of Eshcol from Canaan's shore? + + As the barley-winnower, holding with pain + Aloft in waiting his chaff and grain, + Joyfully welcomes the far-off breeze + Sounding the pine-tree's slender keys, + So he who had waited long to hear + The sound of the Spirit drawing near, + Like that which the son of Iddo heard + When the feet of angels the myrtles stirred, + Felt the answer of prayer, at last, + As over his church the afflatus passed, + Breaking its sleep as breezes break + To sun-bright ripples a stagnant lake. + + At first a tremor of silent fear, + The creep of the flesh at danger near, + A vague foreboding and discontent, + Over the hearts of the people went. + All nature warned in sounds and signs + The wind in the tops of the forest pines + In the name of the Highest called to prayer, + As the muezzin calls from the minaret stair. + Through ceiled chambers of secret sin + Sudden and strong the light shone in; + A guilty sense of his neighbor's needs + Startled the man of title-deeds; + The trembling hand of the worldling shook + The dust of years from the Holy Book; + And the psalms of David, forgotten long, + Took the place of the scoffer's song. + + The impulse spread like the outward course + Of waters moved by a central force; + The tide of spiritual life rolled down + From inland mountains to seaboard town. + + Prepared and ready the altar stands + Waiting the prophet's outstretched hands + And prayer availing, to downward call + The fiery answer in view of all. + Hearts are like wax in the furnace; who + Shall mould, and shape, and cast them anew? + Lo! by the Merrimac Whitefield stands + In the temple that never was made by hands,-- + Curtains of azure, and crystal wall, + And dome of the sunshine over all-- + A homeless pilgrim, with dubious name + Blown about on the winds of fame; + Now as an angel of blessing classed, + And now as a mad enthusiast. + Called in his youth to sound and gauge + The moral lapse of his race and age, + And, sharp as truth, the contrast draw + Of human frailty and perfect law; + Possessed by the one dread thought that lent + Its goad to his fiery temperament, + Up and down the world he went, + A John the Baptist crying, Repent! + + No perfect whole can our nature make; + Here or there the circle will break; + The orb of life as it takes the light + On one side leaves the other in night. + Never was saint so good and great + As to give no chance at St. Peter's gate + For the plea of the Devil's advocate. + So, incomplete by his being's law, + The marvellous preacher had his flaw; + With step unequal, and lame with faults, + His shade on the path of History halts. + + Wisely and well said the Eastern bard + Fear is easy, but love is hard,-- + Easy to glow with the Santon's rage, + And walk on the Meccan pilgrimage; + But he is greatest and best who can + Worship Allah by loving man. + Thus he,--to whom, in the painful stress + Of zeal on fire from its own excess, + Heaven seemed so vast and earth so small + That man was nothing, since God was all,-- + Forgot, as the best at times have done, + That the love of the Lord and of man are one. + Little to him whose feet unshod + The thorny path of the desert trod, + Careless of pain, so it led to God, + Seemed the hunger-pang and the poor man's wrong, + The weak ones trodden beneath the strong. + Should the worm be chooser?--the clay withstand + The shaping will of the potter's hand? + + In the Indian fable Arjoon hears + The scorn of a god rebuke his fears + "Spare thy pity!" Krishna saith; + "Not in thy sword is the power of death! + All is illusion,--loss but seems; + Pleasure and pain are only dreams; + Who deems he slayeth doth not kill; + Who counts as slain is living still. + Strike, nor fear thy blow is crime; + Nothing dies but the cheats of time; + Slain or slayer, small the odds + To each, immortal as Indra's gods!" + + So by Savannah's banks of shade, + The stones of his mission the preacher laid + On the heart of the negro crushed and rent, + And made of his blood the wall's cement; + Bade the slave-ship speed from coast to coast, + Fanned by the wings of the Holy Ghost; + And begged, for the love of Christ, the gold + Coined from the hearts in its groaning hold. + What could it matter, more or less + Of stripes, and hunger, and weariness? + Living or dying, bond or free, + What was time to eternity? + + Alas for the preacher's cherished schemes! + Mission and church are now but dreams; + Nor prayer nor fasting availed the plan + To honor God through the wrong of man. + Of all his labors no trace remains + Save the bondman lifting his hands in chains. + The woof he wove in the righteous warp + Of freedom-loving Oglethorpe, + Clothes with curses the goodly land, + Changes its greenness and bloom to sand; + And a century's lapse reveals once more + The slave-ship stealing to Georgia's shore. + Father of Light! how blind is he + Who sprinkles the altar he rears to Thee + With the blood and tears of humanity! + + He erred: shall we count His gifts as naught? + Was the work of God in him unwrought? + The servant may through his deafness err, + And blind may be God's messenger; + But the Errand is sure they go upon,-- + The word is spoken, the deed is done. + Was the Hebrew temple less fair and good + That Solomon bowed to gods of wood? + For his tempted heart and wandering feet, + Were the songs of David less pure and sweet? + So in light and shadow the preacher went, + God's erring and human instrument; + And the hearts of the people where he passed + Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast, + Under the spell of a voice which took + In its compass the flow of Siloa's brook, + And the mystical chime of the bells of gold + On the ephod's hem of the priest of old,-- + Now the roll of thunder, and now the awe + Of the trumpet heard in the Mount of Law. + + A solemn fear on the listening crowd + Fell like the shadow of a cloud. + The sailor reeling from out the ships + Whose masts stood thick in the river-slips + Felt the jest and the curse die on his lips. + Listened the fisherman rude and hard, + The calker rough from the builder's yard; + The man of the market left his load, + The teamster leaned on his bending goad, + The maiden, and youth beside her, felt + Their hearts in a closer union melt, + And saw the flowers of their love in bloom + Down the endless vistas of life to come. + Old age sat feebly brushing away + From his ears the scanty locks of gray; + And careless boyhood, living the free + Unconscious life of bird and tree, + Suddenly wakened to a sense + Of sin and its guilty consequence. + It was as if an angel's voice + Called the listeners up for their final choice; + As if a strong hand rent apart + The veils of sense from soul and heart, + Showing in light ineffable + The joys of heaven and woes of hell + All about in the misty air + The hills seemed kneeling in silent prayer; + The rustle of leaves, the moaning sedge, + The water's lap on its gravelled edge, + The wailing pines, and, far and faint, + The wood-dove's note of sad complaint,-- + To the solemn voice of the preacher lent + An undertone as of low lament; + And the note of the sea from its sand coast, + On the easterly wind, now heard, now lost, + Seemed the murmurous sound of the judgment host. + + Yet wise men doubted, and good men wept, + As that storm of passion above them swept, + And, comet-like, adding flame to flame, + The priests of the new Evangel came,-- + Davenport, flashing upon the crowd, + Charged like summer's electric cloud, + Now holding the listener still as death + With terrible warnings under breath, + Now shouting for joy, as if he viewed + The vision of Heaven's beatitude! + And Celtic Tennant, his long coat bound + Like a monk's with leathern girdle round, + Wild with the toss of unshorn hair, + And wringing of hands, and, eyes aglare, + Groaning under the world's despair! + Grave pastors, grieving their flocks to lose, + Prophesied to the empty pews + That gourds would wither, and mushrooms die, + And noisiest fountains run soonest dry, + Like the spring that gushed in Newbury Street, + Under the tramp of the earthquake's feet, + A silver shaft in the air and light, + For a single day, then lost in night, + Leaving only, its place to tell, + Sandy fissure and sulphurous smell. + With zeal wing-clipped and white-heat cool, + Moved by the spirit in grooves of rule, + No longer harried, and cropped, and fleeced, + Flogged by sheriff and cursed by priest, + But by wiser counsels left at ease + To settle quietly on his lees, + And, self-concentred, to count as done + The work which his fathers well begun, + In silent protest of letting alone, + The Quaker kept the way of his own,-- + A non-conductor among the wires, + With coat of asbestos proof to fires. + And quite unable to mend his pace + To catch the falling manna of grace, + He hugged the closer his little store + Of faith, and silently prayed for more. + And vague of creed and barren of rite, + But holding, as in his Master's sight, + Act and thought to the inner light, + The round of his simple duties walked, + And strove to live what the others talked. + + And who shall marvel if evil went + Step by step with the good intent, + And with love and meekness, side by side, + Lust of the flesh and spiritual pride?-- + That passionate longings and fancies vain + Set the heart on fire and crazed the brain? + That over the holy oracles + Folly sported with cap and bells? + That goodly women and learned men + Marvelling told with tongue and pen + How unweaned children chirped like birds + Texts of Scripture and solemn words, + Like the infant seers of the rocky glens + In the Puy de Dome of wild Cevennes + Or baby Lamas who pray and preach + From Tartir cradles in Buddha's speech? + + In the war which Truth or Freedom wages + With impious fraud and the wrong of ages, + Hate and malice and self-love mar + The notes of triumph with painful jar, + And the helping angels turn aside + Their sorrowing faces the shame to bide. + Never on custom's oiled grooves + The world to a higher level moves, + But grates and grinds with friction hard + On granite boulder and flinty shard. + The heart must bleed before it feels, + The pool be troubled before it heals; + Ever by losses the right must gain, + Every good have its birth of pain; + The active Virtues blush to find + The Vices wearing their badge behind, + And Graces and Charities feel the fire + Wherein the sins of the age expire; + The fiend still rends as of old he rent + The tortured body from which he went. + + But Time tests all. In the over-drift + And flow of the Nile, with its annual gift, + Who cares for the Hadji's relics sunk? + Who thinks of the drowned-out Coptic monk? + The tide that loosens the temple's stones, + And scatters the sacred ibis-bones, + Drives away from the valley-land + That Arab robber, the wandering sand, + Moistens the fields that know no rain, + Fringes the desert with belts of grain, + And bread to the sower brings again. + So the flood of emotion deep and strong + Troubled the land as it swept along, + But left a result of holier lives, + Tenderer-mothers and worthier wives. + The husband and father whose children fled + And sad wife wept when his drunken tread + Frightened peace from his roof-tree's shade, + And a rock of offence his hearthstone made, + In a strength that was not his own began + To rise from the brute's to the plane of man. + Old friends embraced, long held apart + By evil counsel and pride of heart; + And penitence saw through misty tears, + In the bow of hope on its cloud of fears, + The promise of Heaven's eternal years,-- + The peace of God for the world's annoy,-- + Beauty for ashes, and oil of joy + Under the church of Federal Street, + Under the tread of its Sabbath feet, + Walled about by its basement stones, + Lie the marvellous preacher's bones. + No saintly honors to them are shown, + No sign nor miracle have they known; + But he who passes the ancient church + Stops in the shade of its belfry-porch, + And ponders the wonderful life of him + Who lies at rest in that charnel dim. + Long shall the traveller strain his eye + From the railroad car, as it plunges by, + And the vanishing town behind him search + For the slender spire of the Whitefield Church; + And feel for one moment the ghosts of trade, + And fashion, and folly, and pleasure laid, + By the thought of that life of pure intent, + That voice of warning yet eloquent, + Of one on the errands of angels sent. + And if where he labored the flood of sin + Like a tide from the harbor-bar sets in, + And over a life of tune and sense + The church-spires lift their vain defence, + As if to scatter the bolts of God + With the points of Calvin's thunder-rod,-- + Still, as the gem of its civic crown, + Precious beyond the world's renown, + His memory hallows the ancient town! + + 1859. + + + + +THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA. + +In the winter of 1675-76, the Eastern Indians, who had been making war +upon the New Hampshire settlements, were so reduced in numbers by +fighting and famine that they agreed to a peace with Major Waldron at +Dover, but the peace was broken in the fall of 1676. The famous chief, +Squando, was the principal negotiator on the part of the savages. He had +taken up the hatchet to revenge the brutal treatment of his child by +drunken white sailors, which caused its death. + +It not unfrequently happened during the Border wars that young white +children were adopted by their Indian captors, and so kindly treated +that they were unwilling to leave the free, wild life of the woods; and +in some instances they utterly refused to go back with their parents to +their old homes and civilization. + + RAZE these long blocks of brick and stone, + These huge mill-monsters overgrown; + Blot out the humbler piles as well, + Where, moved like living shuttles, dwell + The weaving genii of the bell; + Tear from the wild Cocheco's track + The dams that hold its torrents back; + And let the loud-rejoicing fall + Plunge, roaring, down its rocky wall; + And let the Indian's paddle play + On the unbridged Piscataqua! + Wide over hill and valley spread + Once more the forest, dusk and dread, + With here and there a clearing cut + From the walled shadows round it shut; + Each with its farm-house builded rude, + By English yeoman squared and hewed, + And the grim, flankered block-house bound + With bristling palisades around. + So, haply shall before thine eyes + The dusty veil of centuries rise, + The old, strange scenery overlay + The tamer pictures of to-day, + While, like the actors in a play, + Pass in their ancient guise along + The figures of my border song + What time beside Cocheco's flood + The white man and the red man stood, + With words of peace and brotherhood; + When passed the sacred calumet + From lip to lip with fire-draught wet, + And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe's smoke + Through the gray beard of Waldron broke, + And Squando's voice, in suppliant plea + For mercy, struck the haughty key + Of one who held, in any fate, + His native pride inviolate! + + "Let your ears be opened wide! + He who speaks has never lied. + Waldron of Piscataqua, + Hear what Squando has to say! + + "Squando shuts his eyes and sees, + Far off, Saco's hemlock-trees. + In his wigwam, still as stone, + Sits a woman all alone, + + "Wampum beads and birchen strands + Dropping from her careless hands, + Listening ever for the fleet + Patter of a dead child's feet! + + "When the moon a year ago + Told the flowers the time to blow, + In that lonely wigwam smiled + Menewee, our little child. + + "Ere that moon grew thin and old, + He was lying still and cold; + Sent before us, weak and small, + When the Master did not call! + + "On his little grave I lay; + Three times went and came the day, + Thrice above me blazed the noon, + Thrice upon me wept the moon. + + "In the third night-watch I heard, + Far and low, a spirit-bird; + Very mournful, very wild, + Sang the totem of my child. + + "'Menewee, poor Menewee, + Walks a path he cannot see + Let the white man's wigwam light + With its blaze his steps aright. + + "'All-uncalled, he dares not show + Empty hands to Manito + Better gifts he cannot bear + Than the scalps his slayers wear.' + + "All the while the totem sang, + Lightning blazed and thunder rang; + And a black cloud, reaching high, + Pulled the white moon from the sky. + + "I, the medicine-man, whose ear + All that spirits bear can hear,-- + I, whose eyes are wide to see + All the things that are to be,-- + + "Well I knew the dreadful signs + In the whispers of the pines, + In the river roaring loud, + In the mutter of the cloud. + + "At the breaking of the day, + From the grave I passed away; + Flowers bloomed round me, birds sang glad, + But my heart was hot and mad. + + "There is rust on Squando's knife, + From the warm, red springs of life; + On the funeral hemlock-trees + Many a scalp the totem sees. + + "Blood for blood! But evermore + Squando's heart is sad and sore; + And his poor squaw waits at home + For the feet that never come! + + "Waldron of Cocheco, hear! + Squando speaks, who laughs at fear; + Take the captives he has ta'en; + Let the land have peace again!" + + As the words died on his tongue, + Wide apart his warriors swung; + Parted, at the sign he gave, + Right and left, like Egypt's wave. + + And, like Israel passing free + Through the prophet-charmed sea, + Captive mother, wife, and child + Through the dusky terror filed. + + One alone, a little maid, + Middleway her steps delayed, + Glancing, with quick, troubled sight, + Round about from red to white. + + Then his hand the Indian laid + On the little maiden's head, + Lightly from her forehead fair + Smoothing back her yellow hair. + + "Gift or favor ask I none; + What I have is all my own + Never yet the birds have sung, + Squando hath a beggar's tongue.' + + "Yet for her who waits at home, + For the dead who cannot come, + Let the little Gold-hair be + In the place of Menewee! + + "Mishanock, my little star! + Come to Saco's pines afar; + Where the sad one waits at home, + Wequashim, my moonlight, come!" + + "What!" quoth Waldron, "leave a child + Christian-born to heathens wild? + As God lives, from Satan's hand + I will pluck her as a brand!" + + "Hear me, white man!" Squando cried; + "Let the little one decide. + Wequashim, my moonlight, say, + Wilt thou go with me, or stay?" + + Slowly, sadly, half afraid, + Half regretfully, the maid + Owned the ties of blood and race,-- + Turned from Squando's pleading face. + + Not a word the Indian spoke, + But his wampum chain he broke, + And the beaded wonder hung + On that neck so fair and young. + + Silence-shod, as phantoms seem + In the marches of a dream, + Single-filed, the grim array + Through the pine-trees wound away. + + Doubting, trembling, sore amazed, + Through her tears the young child gazed. + "God preserve her!" Waldron said; + "Satan hath bewitched the maid!" + + Years went and came. At close of day + Singing came a child from play, + Tossing from her loose-locked head + Gold in sunshine, brown in shade. + + Pride was in the mother's look, + But her head she gravely shook, + And with lips that fondly smiled + Feigned to chide her truant child. + + Unabashed, the maid began + "Up and down the brook I ran, + Where, beneath the bank so steep, + Lie the spotted trout asleep. + + "'Chip!' went squirrel on the wall, + After me I heard him call, + And the cat-bird on the tree + Tried his best to mimic me. + + "Where the hemlocks grew so dark + That I stopped to look and hark, + On a log, with feather-hat, + By the path, an Indian sat. + + "Then I cried, and ran away; + But he called, and bade me stay; + And his voice was good and mild + As my mother's to her child. + + "And he took my wampum chain, + Looked and looked it o'er again; + Gave me berries, and, beside, + On my neck a plaything tied." + + Straight the mother stooped to see + What the Indian's gift might be. + On the braid of wampum hung, + Lo! a cross of silver swung. + + Well she knew its graven sign, + Squando's bird and totem pine; + And, a mirage of the brain, + Flowed her childhood back again. + + Flashed the roof the sunshine through, + Into space the walls outgrew; + On the Indian's wigwam-mat, + Blossom-crowned, again she sat. + + Cool she felt the west-wind blow, + In her ear the pines sang low, + And, like links from out a chain, + Dropped the years of care and pain. + From the outward toil and din, + From the griefs that gnaw within, + To the freedom of the woods + Called the birds, and winds, and floods. + + Well, O painful minister! + Watch thy flock, but blame not her, + If her ear grew sharp to hear + All their voices whispering near. + + Blame her not, as to her soul + All the desert's glamour stole, + That a tear for childhood's loss + Dropped upon the Indian's cross. + + When, that night, the Book was read, + And she bowed her widowed head, + And a prayer for each loved name + Rose like incense from a flame, + + With a hope the creeds forbid + In her pitying bosom hid, + To the listening ear of Heaven + Lo! the Indian's name was given. + + 1860. + + + + +MY PLAYMATE. + + THE pines were dark on Ramoth hill, + Their song was soft and low; + The blossoms in the sweet May wind + Were falling like the snow. + + The blossoms drifted at our feet, + The orchard birds sang clear; + The sweetest and the saddest day + It seemed of all the year. + + For, more to me than birds or flowers, + My playmate left her home, + And took with her the laughing spring, + The music and the bloom. + + She kissed the lips of kith and kin, + She laid her hand in mine + What more could ask the bashful boy + Who fed her father's kine? + + She left us in the bloom of May + The constant years told o'er + Their seasons with as sweet May morns, + But she came back no more. + + I walk, with noiseless feet, the round + Of uneventful years; + Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring + And reap the autumn ears. + + She lives where all the golden year + Her summer roses blow; + The dusky children of the sun + Before her come and go. + + There haply with her jewelled hands + She smooths her silken gown,-- + No more the homespun lap wherein + I shook the walnuts down. + + The wild grapes wait us by the brook, + The brown nuts on the hill, + And still the May-day flowers make sweet + The woods of Follymill. + + The lilies blossom in the pond, + The bird builds in the tree, + The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill + The slow song of the sea. + + I wonder if she thinks of them, + And how the old time seems,-- + If ever the pines of Ramoth wood + Are sounding in her dreams. + + I see her face, I hear her voice; + Does she remember mine? + And what to her is now the boy + Who fed her father's kine? + + What cares she that the orioles build + For other eyes than ours,-- + That other hands with nuts are filled, + And other laps with flowers? + + O playmate in the golden time! + Our mossy seat is green, + Its fringing violets blossom yet, + The old trees o'er it lean. + + The winds so sweet with birch and fern + A sweeter memory blow; + And there in spring the veeries sing + The song of long ago. + + And still the pines of Ramoth wood + Are moaning like the sea,-- + + The moaning of the sea of change + Between myself and thee! + + 1860. + + + + +COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. + +This ballad was written on the occasion of a Horticultural Festival. +Cobbler Keezar was a noted character among the first settlers in the +valley of the Merrimac. + + THE beaver cut his timber + With patient teeth that day, + The minks were fish-wards, and the crows + Surveyors of highway,-- + + When Keezar sat on the hillside + Upon his cobbler's form, + With a pan of coals on either hand + To keep his waxed-ends warm. + + And there, in the golden weather, + He stitched and hammered and sung; + In the brook he moistened his leather, + In the pewter mug his tongue. + + Well knew the tough old Teuton + Who brewed the stoutest ale, + And he paid the goodwife's reckoning + In the coin of song and tale. + + The songs they still are singing + Who dress the hills of vine, + The tales that haunt the Brocken + And whisper down the Rhine. + + Woodsy and wild and lonesome, + The swift stream wound away, + Through birches and scarlet maples + Flashing in foam and spray,-- + + Down on the sharp-horned ledges + Plunging in steep cascade, + Tossing its white-maned waters + Against the hemlock's shade. + + Woodsy and wild and lonesome, + East and west and north and south; + Only the village of fishers + Down at the river's mouth; + + Only here and there a clearing, + With its farm-house rude and new, + And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, + Where the scanty harvest grew. + + No shout of home-bound reapers, + No vintage-song he heard, + And on the green no dancing feet + The merry violin stirred. + + "Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, + "When Nature herself is glad, + And the painted woods are laughing + At the faces so sour and sad?" + + Small heed had the careless cobbler + What sorrow of heart was theirs + Who travailed in pain with the births of God, + And planted a state with prayers,-- + + Hunting of witches and warlocks, + Smiting the heathen horde,-- + One hand on the mason's trowel, + And one on the soldier's sword. + + But give him his ale and cider, + Give him his pipe and song, + Little he cared for Church or State, + Or the balance of right and wrong. + + "T is work, work, work," he muttered,-- + "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" + He smote on his leathern apron + With his brown and waxen palms. + + "Oh for the purple harvests + Of the days when I was young + For the merry grape-stained maidens, + And the pleasant songs they sung! + + "Oh for the breath of vineyards, + Of apples and nuts and wine + For an oar to row and a breeze to blow + Down the grand old river Rhine!" + + A tear in his blue eye glistened, + And dropped on his beard so gray. + "Old, old am I," said Keezar, + "And the Rhine flows far away!" + + But a cunning man was the cobbler; + He could call the birds from the trees, + Charm the black snake out of the ledges, + And bring back the swarming bees. + + All the virtues of herbs and metals, + All the lore of the woods, he knew, + And the arts of the Old World mingle + With the marvels of the New. + + Well he knew the tricks of magic, + And the lapstone on his knee + Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles + Or the stone of Doctor Dee.(11) + + For the mighty master Agrippa + Wrought it with spell and rhyme + From a fragment of mystic moonstone + In the tower of Nettesheim. + + To a cobbler Minnesinger + The marvellous stone gave he,-- + And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, + Who brought it over the sea. + + He held up that mystic lapstone, + He held it up like a lens, + And he counted the long years coming + Ey twenties and by tens. + + "One hundred years," quoth Keezar, + "And fifty have I told + Now open the new before me, + And shut me out the old!" + + Like a cloud of mist, the blackness + Rolled from the magic stone, + And a marvellous picture mingled + The unknown and the known. + + Still ran the stream to the river, + And river and ocean joined; + And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, + And cold north hills behind. + + But--the mighty forest was broken + By many a steepled town, + By many a white-walled farm-house, + And many a garner brown. + + Turning a score of mill-wheels, + The stream no more ran free; + White sails on the winding river, + White sails on the far-off sea. + + Below in the noisy village + The flags were floating gay, + And shone on a thousand faces + The light of a holiday. + + Swiftly the rival ploughmen + Turned the brown earth from their shares; + Here were the farmer's treasures, + There were the craftsman's wares. + + Golden the goodwife's butter, + Ruby her currant-wine; + Grand were the strutting turkeys, + Fat were the beeves and swine. + + Yellow and red were the apples, + And the ripe pears russet-brown, + And the peaches had stolen blushes + From the girls who shook them down. + + And with blooms of hill and wildwood, + That shame the toil of art, + Mingled the gorgeous blossoms + Of the garden's tropic heart. + + "What is it I see?" said Keezar + "Am I here, or ant I there? + Is it a fete at Bingen? + Do I look on Frankfort fair? + + "But where are the clowns and puppets, + And imps with horns and tail? + And where are the Rhenish flagons? + And where is the foaming ale? + + "Strange things, I know, will happen,-- + Strange things the Lord permits; + But that droughty folk should be jolly + Puzzles my poor old wits. + + "Here are smiling manly faces, + And the maiden's step is gay; + Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, + Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. + + "Here's pleasure without regretting, + And good without abuse, + The holiday and the bridal + Of beauty and of use. + + "Here's a priest and there is a Quaker, + Do the cat and dog agree? + Have they burned the stocks for ovenwood? + Have they cut down the gallows-tree? + + "Would the old folk know their children? + Would they own the graceless town, + With never a ranter to worry + And never a witch to drown?" + + + Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, + Laughed like a school-boy gay; + Tossing his arms above him, + The lapstone rolled away. + + It rolled down the rugged hillside, + It spun like a wheel bewitched, + It plunged through the leaning willows, + And into the river pitched. + + There, in the deep, dark water, + The magic stone lies still, + Under the leaning willows + In the shadow of the hill. + + But oft the idle fisher + Sits on the shadowy bank, + And his dreams make marvellous pictures + Where the wizard's lapstone sank. + + And still, in the summer twilights, + When the river seems to run + Out from the inner glory, + Warm with the melted sun, + + The weary mill-girl lingers + Beside the charmed stream, + And the sky and the golden water + Shape and color her dream. + + Air wave the sunset gardens, + The rosy signals fly; + Her homestead beckons from the cloud, + And love goes sailing by. + + 1861. + + + + +AMY WENTWORTH + +TO WILLIAM BRADFORD. + + As they who watch by sick-beds find relief + Unwittingly from the great stress of grief + And anxious care, in fantasies outwrought + From the hearth's embers flickering low, or caught + From whispering wind, or tread of passing feet, + Or vagrant memory calling up some sweet + Snatch of old song or romance, whence or why + They scarcely know or ask,--so, thou and I, + Nursed in the faith that Truth alone is strong + In the endurance which outwearies Wrong, + With meek persistence baffling brutal force, + And trusting God against the universe,-- + We, doomed to watch a strife we may not share + With other weapons than the patriot's prayer, + Yet owning, with full hearts and moistened eyes, + The awful beauty of self-sacrifice, + And wrung by keenest sympathy for all + Who give their loved ones for the living wall + 'Twixt law and treason,--in this evil day + May haply find, through automatic play + Of pen and pencil, solace to our pain, + And hearten others with the strength we gain. + I know it has been said our times require + No play of art, nor dalliance with the lyre, + No weak essay with Fancy's chloroform + To calm the hot, mad pulses of the storm, + But the stern war-blast rather, such as sets + The battle's teeth of serried bayonets, + And pictures grim as Vernet's. Yet with these + Some softer tints may blend, and milder keys + Relieve the storm-stunned ear. Let us keep sweet, + If so we may, our hearts, even while we eat + The bitter harvest of our own device + And half a century's moral cowardice. + As Nurnberg sang while Wittenberg defied, + And Kranach painted by his Luther's side, + And through the war-march of the Puritan + The silver stream of Marvell's music ran, + So let the household melodies be sung, + The pleasant pictures on the wall be hung-- + So let us hold against the hosts of night + And slavery all our vantage-ground of light. + Let Treason boast its savagery, and shake + From its flag-folds its symbol rattlesnake, + Nurse its fine arts, lay human skins in tan, + And carve its pipe-bowls from the bones of man, + And make the tale of Fijian banquets dull + By drinking whiskey from a loyal skull,-- + But let us guard, till this sad war shall cease, + (God grant it soon!) the graceful arts of peace + No foes are conquered who the victors teach + Their vandal manners and barbaric speech. + + And while, with hearts of thankfulness, we bear + Of the great common burden our full share, + Let none upbraid us that the waves entice + Thy sea-dipped pencil, or some quaint device, + Rhythmic, and sweet, beguiles my pen away + From the sharp strifes and sorrows of to-day. + Thus, while the east-wind keen from Labrador + Sings it the leafless elms, and from the shore + Of the great sea comes the monotonous roar + Of the long-breaking surf, and all the sky + Is gray with cloud, home-bound and dull, I try + To time a simple legend to the sounds + Of winds in the woods, and waves on pebbled bounds,-- + A song for oars to chime with, such as might + Be sung by tired sea-painters, who at night + Look from their hemlock camps, by quiet cove + Or beach, moon-lighted, on the waves they love. + (So hast thou looked, when level sunset lay + On the calm bosom of some Eastern bay, + And all the spray-moist rocks and waves that rolled + Up the white sand-slopes flashed with ruddy gold.) + Something it has--a flavor of the sea, + And the sea's freedom--which reminds of thee. + Its faded picture, dimly smiling down + From the blurred fresco of the ancient town, + I have not touched with warmer tints in vain, + If, in this dark, sad year, it steals one thought + from pain. + + . . . . . . . . . . . . + + + Her fingers shame the ivory keys + They dance so light along; + The bloom upon her parted lips + Is sweeter than the song. + + O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles! + Her thoughts are not of thee; + She better loves the salted wind, + The voices of the sea. + + Her heart is like an outbound ship + That at its anchor swings; + The murmur of the stranded shell + Is in the song she sings. + + She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise, + But dreams the while of one + Who watches from his sea-blown deck + The icebergs in the sun. + + She questions all the winds that blow, + And every fog-wreath dim, + And bids the sea-birds flying north + Bear messages to him. + + She speeds them with the thanks of men + He perilled life to save, + And grateful prayers like holy oil + To smooth for him the wave. + + Brown Viking of the fishing-smack! + Fair toast of all the town!-- + The skipper's jerkin ill beseems + The lady's silken gown! + + But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth wear + For him the blush of shame + Who dares to set his manly gifts + Against her ancient name. + + The stream is brightest at its spring, + And blood is not like wine; + Nor honored less than he who heirs + Is he who founds a line. + + Full lightly shall the prize be won, + If love be Fortune's spur; + And never maiden stoops to him + Who lifts himself to her. + + Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, + With stately stairways worn + By feet of old Colonial knights + And ladies gentle-born. + + Still green about its ample porch + The English ivy twines, + Trained back to show in English oak + The herald's carven signs. + + And on her, from the wainscot old, + Ancestral faces frown,-- + And this has worn the soldier's sword, + And that the judge's gown. + + But, strong of will and proud as they, + She walks the gallery floor + As if she trod her sailor's deck + By stormy Labrador. + + The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side, + And green are Elliot's bowers; + Her garden is the pebbled beach, + The mosses are her flowers. + + She looks across the harbor-bar + To see the white gulls fly; + His greeting from the Northern sea + Is in their clanging cry. + + She hums a song, and dreams that he, + As in its romance old, + Shall homeward ride with silken sails + And masts of beaten gold! + + Oh, rank is good, and gold is fair, + And high and low mate ill; + But love has never known a law + Beyond its own sweet will! + + 1862. + + + + +THE COUNTESS. + +TO E. W. + +I inscribed this poem to Dr. Elias Weld of Haverhill, Massachusetts, +to whose kindness I was much indebted in my boyhood. He was the one +cultivated man in the neighborhood. His small but well-chosen library +was placed at my disposal. He is the "wise old doctor" of Snow-Bound. +Count Francois de Vipart with his cousin Joseph Rochemont de Poyen came +to the United States in the early part of the present century. They took +up their residence at Rocks Village on the Merrimac, where they both +married. The wife of Count Vipart was Mary Ingalls, who as my father +remembered her was a very lovely young girl. Her wedding dress, as +described by a lady still living, was "pink satin with an overdress of +white lace, and white satin slippers." She died in less than a year +after her marriage. Her husband returned to his native country. He lies +buried in the family tomb of the Viparts at Bordeaux. + + I KNOW not, Time and Space so intervene, + Whether, still waiting with a trust serene, + Thou bearest up thy fourscore years and ten, + Or, called at last, art now Heaven's citizen; + But, here or there, a pleasant thought of thee, + Like an old friend, all day has been with me. + The shy, still boy, for whom thy kindly hand + Smoothed his hard pathway to the wonder-land + Of thought and fancy, in gray manhood yet + Keeps green the memory of his early debt. + To-day, when truth and falsehood speak their words + Through hot-lipped cannon and the teeth of swords, + Listening with quickened heart and ear intent + To each sharp clause of that stern argument, + I still can hear at times a softer note + Of the old pastoral music round me float, + While through the hot gleam of our civil strife + Looms the green mirage of a simpler life. + As, at his alien post, the sentinel + Drops the old bucket in the homestead well, + And hears old voices in the winds that toss + Above his head the live-oak's beard of moss, + So, in our trial-time, and under skies + Shadowed by swords like Islam's paradise, + I wait and watch, and let my fancy stray + To milder scenes and youth's Arcadian day; + And howsoe'er the pencil dipped in dreams + Shades the brown woods or tints the sunset streams, + The country doctor in the foreground seems, + Whose ancient sulky down the village lanes + Dragged, like a war-car, captive ills and pains. + I could not paint the scenery of my song, + Mindless of one who looked thereon so long; + Who, night and day, on duty's lonely round, + Made friends o' the woods and rocks, and knew the sound + Of each small brook, and what the hillside trees + Said to the winds that touched their leafy keys; + Who saw so keenly and so well could paint + The village-folk, with all their humors quaint, + The parson ambling on his wall-eyed roan. + Grave and erect, with white hair backward blown; + The tough old boatman, half amphibious grown; + The muttering witch-wife of the gossip's tale, + And the loud straggler levying his blackmail,-- + Old customs, habits, superstitions, fears, + All that lies buried under fifty years. + To thee, as is most fit, I bring my lay, + And, grateful, own the debt I cannot pay. + + . . . . . . . . . . + + Over the wooded northern ridge, + Between its houses brown, + To the dark tunnel of the bridge + The street comes straggling down. + + You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine, + Of gable, roof, and porch, + The tavern with its swinging sign, + The sharp horn of the church. + + The river's steel-blue crescent curves + To meet, in ebb and flow, + The single broken wharf that serves + For sloop and gundelow. + + With salt sea-scents along its shores + The heavy hay-boats crawl, + The long antennae of their oars + In lazy rise and fall. + + Along the gray abutment's wall + The idle shad-net dries; + The toll-man in his cobbler's stall + Sits smoking with closed eyes. + + You hear the pier's low undertone + Of waves that chafe and gnaw; + You start,--a skipper's horn is blown + To raise the creaking draw. + + At times a blacksmith's anvil sounds + With slow and sluggard beat, + Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds + Fakes up the staring street. + + A place for idle eyes and ears, + A cobwebbed nook of dreams; + Left by the stream whose waves are years + The stranded village seems. + + And there, like other moss and rust, + The native dweller clings, + And keeps, in uninquiring trust, + The old, dull round of things. + + The fisher drops his patient lines, + The farmer sows his grain, + Content to hear the murmuring pines + Instead of railroad-train. + + Go where, along the tangled steep + That slopes against the west, + The hamlet's buried idlers sleep + In still profounder rest. + + Throw back the locust's flowery plume, + The birch's pale-green scarf, + And break the web of brier and bloom + From name and epitaph. + + A simple muster-roll of death, + Of pomp and romance shorn, + The dry, old names that common breath + Has cheapened and outworn. + + Yet pause by one low mound, and part + The wild vines o'er it laced, + And read the words by rustic art + Upon its headstone traced. + + Haply yon white-haired villager + Of fourscore years can say + What means the noble name of her + Who sleeps with common clay. + + An exile from the Gascon land + Found refuge here and rest, + And loved, of all the village band, + Its fairest and its best. + + He knelt with her on Sabbath morns, + He worshipped through her eyes, + And on the pride that doubts and scorns + Stole in her faith's surprise. + + Her simple daily life he saw + By homeliest duties tried, + In all things by an untaught law + Of fitness justified. + + For her his rank aside he laid; + He took the hue and tone + Of lowly life and toil, and made + Her simple ways his own. + + Yet still, in gay and careless ease, + To harvest-field or dance + He brought the gentle courtesies, + The nameless grace of France. + + And she who taught him love not less + From him she loved in turn + Caught in her sweet unconsciousness + What love is quick to learn. + + Each grew to each in pleased accord, + Nor knew the gazing town + If she looked upward to her lord + Or he to her looked down. + + How sweet, when summer's day was o'er, + His violin's mirth and wail, + The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore, + The river's moonlit sail! + + Ah! life is brief, though love be long; + The altar and the bier, + The burial hymn and bridal song, + Were both in one short year! + + Her rest is quiet on the hill, + Beneath the locust's bloom + Far off her lover sleeps as still + Within his scutcheoned tomb. + + The Gascon lord, the village maid, + In death still clasp their hands; + The love that levels rank and grade + Unites their severed lands. + + What matter whose the hillside grave, + Or whose the blazoned stone? + Forever to her western wave + Shall whisper blue Garonne! + + O Love!--so hallowing every soil + That gives thy sweet flower room, + Wherever, nursed by ease or toil, + The human heart takes bloom!-- + + Plant of lost Eden, from the sod + Of sinful earth unriven, + White blossom of the trees of God + Dropped down to us from heaven! + + This tangled waste of mound and stone + Is holy for thy sale; + A sweetness which is all thy own + Breathes out from fern and brake. + + And while ancestral pride shall twine + The Gascon's tomb with flowers, + Fall sweetly here, O song of mine, + With summer's bloom and showers! + + And let the lines that severed seem + Unite again in thee, + As western wave and Gallic stream + Are mingled in one sea! + + 1863. + + + + +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 hat 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. + + + + +THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM. + +INTRODUCTORY NOTE. + +THE beginning of German emigration to America may be traced to the +personal influence of William Penn, who in 1677 visited the Continent, +and made the acquaintance of an intelligent and highly cultivated circle +of Pietists, or Mystics, who, reviving in the seventeenth century the +spiritual faith and worship of Tauler and the "Friends of God" in the +fourteenth, gathered about the pastor Spener, and the young and +beautiful Eleonora Johanna Von Merlau. In this circle originated the +Frankfort Land Company, which bought of William Penn, the Governor of +Pennsylvania, a tract of land near the new city of Philadelphia. The +company's agent in the New World was a rising young lawyer, Francis +Daniel Pastorius, son of Judge Pastorius, of Windsheim, who, at the age +of seventeen, entered the University of Altorf. He studied law at, +Strasburg, Basle, and Jena, and at Ratisbon, the seat of the Imperial +Government, obtained a practical knowledge of international polity. +Successful in all his examinations and disputations, he received the +degree of Doctor of Law at Nuremberg in 1676. In 1679 he was a +law-lecturer at Frankfort, where he became deeply interested in the +teachings of Dr. Spener. In 1680-81 he travelled in France, England, +Ireland, and Italy with his friend Herr Von Rodeck. "I was," he says, +"glad to enjoy again the company of my Christian friends, rather than be +with Von Rodeck feasting and dancing." In 1683, in company with a small +number of German Friends, he emigrated to America, settling upon the +Frankfort Company's tract between the Schuylkill and the Delaware +rivers. The township was divided into four hamlets, namely, Germantown, +Krisheim, Crefield, and Sommerhausen. Soon after his arrival he united +himself with the Society of Friends, and became one of its most able and +devoted members, as well as the recognized head and lawgiver of the +settlement. He married, two years after his arrival, Anneke (Anna), +daughter of Dr. Klosterman, of Muhlheim. In the year 1688 he drew up a +memorial against slaveholding, which was adopted by the Germantown +Friends and sent up to the Monthly Meeting, and thence to the Yearly +Meeting at Philadelphia. It is noteworthy as the first protest made by +a religious body against Negro Slavery. The original document was +discovered in 1844 by the Philadelphia antiquarian, Nathan Kite, and +published in The Friend (Vol. XVIII. No. 16). It is a bold and direct +appeal to the best instincts of the heart. "Have not," he asks, "these +negroes as much right to fight for their freedom as you have to keep +them slaves?" Under the wise direction of Pastorius, the German-town +settlement grew and prospered. The inhabitants planted orchards and +vineyards, and surrounded themselves with souvenirs of their old home. +A large number of them were linen-weavers, as well as small farmers. +The Quakers were the principal sect, but men of all religions were +tolerated, and lived together in harmony. In 1692 Richard Frame +published, in what he called verse, a Description of Pennsylvania, in +which he alludes to the settlement:-- + + "The German town of which I spoke before, + Which is at least in length one mile or more, + Where lives High German people and Low Dutch, + Whose trade in weaving linen cloth is much, + --There grows the flax, as also you may know + That from the same they do divide the tow. + Their trade suits well their habitation, + We find convenience for their occupation." + +Pastorius seems to have been on intimate terms with William Penn, Thomas +Lloyd, Chief Justice Logan, Thomas Story, and other leading men in the +Province belonging to his own religious society, as also with Kelpius, +the learned Mystic of the Wissahickon, with the pastor of the Swedes' +church, and the leaders of the Mennonites. He wrote a description of +Pennsylvania, which was published at Frankfort and Leipsic in 1700 and +1701. His Lives of the Saints, etc., written in German and dedicated to +Professor Schurmberg, his old teacher, was published in 1690. He left +behind him many unpublished manuscripts covering a very wide range of +subjects, most of which are now lost. One huge manuscript folio, +entitled Hive Beestock, Melliotropheum Alucar, or Rusca Apium, still +remains, containing one thousand pages with about one hundred lines to a +page. It is a medley of knowledge and fancy, history, philosophy, and +poetry, written in seven languages. A large portion of his poetry is +devoted to the pleasures of gardening, the description of flowers, and +the care of bees. The following specimen of his punning Latin is +addressed to an orchard-pilferer:-- + + "Quisquis in haec furtim reptas viridaria nostra + Tangere fallaci poma caveto mane, + Si non obsequeris faxit Deus omne quod opto, + Cum malis nostris ut mala cuncta feras." + +Professor Oswald Seidensticker, to whose papers in Der Deutsche Pioneer +and that able periodical the Penn Monthly, of Philadelphia, I am +indebted for many of the foregoing facts in regard to the German +pilgrims of the New World, thus closes his notice of Pastorius:-- +"No tombstone, not even a record of burial, indicates where his remains +have found their last resting-place, and the pardonable desire to +associate the homage due to this distinguished man with some visible +memento can not be gratified. There is no reason to suppose that he was +interred in any other place than the Friends' old burying-ground in +Germantown, though the fact is not attested by any definite source of +information. After all, this obliteration of the last trace of his +earthly existence is but typical of what has overtaken the times which +he represents; that Germantown which he founded, which saw him live and +move, is at present but a quaint idyl of the past, almost a myth, barely +remembered and little cared for by the keener race that has succeeded. +The Pilgrims of Plymouth have not lacked historian and poet. Justice has +been done to their faith, courage, and self-sacrifice, and to the mighty +influence of their endeavors to establish righteousness on the earth. +The Quaker pilgrims of Pennsylvania, seeking the same object by +different means, have not been equally fortunate. The power of their +testimony for truth and holiness, peace and freedom, enforced only by +what Milton calls "the unresistible might of meekness," has been felt +through two centuries in the amelioration of penal severities, the +abolition of slavery, the reform of the erring, the relief of the poor +and suffering,--felt, in brief, in every step of human progress. But of +the men themselves, with the single exception of William Penn, scarcely +anything is known. Contrasted, from the outset, with the stern, +aggressive Puritans of New England, they have come to be regarded as +"a feeble folk," with a personality as doubtful as their unrecorded +graves. They were not soldiers, like Miles Standish; they had no figure +so picturesque as Vane, no leader so rashly brave and haughty as +Endicott. No Cotton Mather wrote their Magnalia; they had no awful drama +of supernaturalism in which Satan and his angels were actors; and the +only witch mentioned in their simple annals was a poor old Swedish +woman, who, on complaint of her countrywomen, was tried and acquitted +of everything but imbecility and folly. Nothing but common-place offices +of civility came to pass between them and the Indians; indeed, their +enemies taunted them with the fact that the savages did not regard them +as Christians, but just such men as themselves. Yet it must be apparent +to every careful observer of the progress of American civilization that +its two principal currents had their sources in the entirely opposite +directions of the Puritan and Quaker colonies. To use the words of a +late writer: (1) "The historical forces, with which no others may be +compared in their influence on the people, have been those of the +Puritan and the Quaker. The strength of the one was in the confession of +an invisible Presence, a righteous, eternal Will, which would establish +righteousness on earth; and thence arose the conviction of a direct +personal responsibility, which could be tempted by no external splendor +and could be shaken by no internal agitation, and could not be evaded or +transferred. The strength of the other was the witness in the human +spirit to an eternal Word, an Inner Voice which spoke to each alone, +while yet it spoke to every man; a Light which each was to follow, and +which yet was the light of the world; and all other voices were silent +before this, and the solitary path whither it led was more sacred than +the worn ways of cathedral-aisles." It will be sufficiently apparent to +the reader that, in the poem which follows, I have attempted nothing +beyond a study of the life and times of the Pennsylvania colonist,--a +simple picture of a noteworthy man and his locality. The colors of my +sketch are all very sober, toned down to the quiet and dreamy atmosphere +through which its subject is visible. Whether, in the glare and tumult +of the present time, such a picture will find favor may well be +questioned. I only know that it has beguiled for me some hours of +weariness, and that, whatever may be its measure of public appreciation, +it has been to me its own reward. + J. G. W. +AMESBURY, 5th mo., 1872. + + + HAIL to posterity! + Hail, future men of Germanopolis! + Let the young generations yet to be + Look kindly upon this. + Think how your fathers left their native land,-- + Dear German-land! O sacred hearths and homes!-- + + And, where the wild beast roams, + In patience planned + New forest-homes beyond the mighty sea, + There undisturbed and free + To live as brothers of one family. + What pains and cares befell, + What trials and what fears, + Remember, and wherein we have done well + Follow our footsteps, men of coming years! + Where we have failed to do + Aright, or wisely live, + Be warned by us, the better way pursue, + And, knowing we were human, even as you, + Pity us and forgive! + Farewell, Posterity! + Farewell, dear Germany + Forevermore farewell! + + (From the Latin of Francis DANIEL PASTORIUS in + the Germantown Records. 1688.) + + + PRELUDE. + + I SING the Pilgrim of a softer clime + And milder speech than those brave men's who brought + To the ice and iron of our winter time + A will as firm, a creed as stern, and wrought + With one mailed hand, and with the other fought. + Simply, as fits my theme, in homely rhyme + I sing the blue-eyed German Spener taught, + Through whose veiled, mystic faith the Inward Light, + Steady and still, an easy brightness, shone, + Transfiguring all things in its radiance white. + The garland which his meekness never sought + I bring him; over fields of harvest sown + With seeds of blessing, now to ripeness grown, + I bid the sower pass before the reapers' sight. + + . . . . . . . . . . + + Never in tenderer quiet lapsed the day + From Pennsylvania's vales of spring away, + Where, forest-walled, the scattered hamlets lay + + Along the wedded rivers. One long bar + Of purple cloud, on which the evening star + Shone like a jewel on a scimitar, + + Held the sky's golden gateway. Through the deep + Hush of the woods a murmur seemed to creep, + The Schuylkill whispering in a voice of sleep. + + All else was still. The oxen from their ploughs + Rested at last, and from their long day's browse + Came the dun files of Krisheim's home-bound cows. + + And the young city, round whose virgin zone + The rivers like two mighty arms were thrown, + Marked by the smoke of evening fires alone, + + Lay in the distance, lovely even then + With its fair women and its stately men + Gracing the forest court of William Penn, + + Urban yet sylvan; in its rough-hewn frames + Of oak and pine the dryads held their claims, + And lent its streets their pleasant woodland names. + + Anna Pastorius down the leafy lane + Looked city-ward, then stooped to prune again + Her vines and simples, with a sigh of pain. + + For fast the streaks of ruddy sunset paled + In the oak clearing, and, as daylight failed, + Slow, overhead, the dusky night-birds sailed. + + Again she looked: between green walls of shade, + With low-bent head as if with sorrow weighed, + Daniel Pastorius slowly came and said, + + "God's peace be with thee, Anna!" Then he stood + Silent before her, wrestling with the mood + Of one who sees the evil and not good. + + "What is it, my Pastorius?" As she spoke, + A slow, faint smile across his features broke, + Sadder than tears. "Dear heart," he said, "our folk + + "Are even as others. Yea, our goodliest Friends + Are frail; our elders have their selfish ends, + And few dare trust the Lord to make amends + + "For duty's loss. So even our feeble word + For the dumb slaves the startled meeting heard + As if a stone its quiet waters stirred; + + "And, as the clerk ceased reading, there began + A ripple of dissent which downward ran + In widening circles, as from man to man. + + "Somewhat was said of running before sent, + Of tender fear that some their guide outwent, + Troublers of Israel. I was scarce intent + + "On hearing, for behind the reverend row + Of gallery Friends, in dumb and piteous show, + I saw, methought, dark faces full of woe. + + "And, in the spirit, I was taken where + They toiled and suffered; I was made aware + Of shame and wrath and anguish and despair! + + "And while the meeting smothered our poor plea + With cautious phrase, a Voice there seemed to be, + As ye have done to these ye do to me!' + + "So it all passed; and the old tithe went on + Of anise, mint, and cumin, till the sun + Set, leaving still the weightier work undone. + + "Help, for the good man faileth! Who is strong, + If these be weak? Who shall rebuke the wrong, + If these consent? How long, O Lord! how long!" + + He ceased; and, bound in spirit with the bound, + With folded arms, and eyes that sought the ground, + Walked musingly his little garden round. + + About him, beaded with the falling dew, + Rare plants of power and herbs of healing grew, + Such as Van Helmont and Agrippa knew. + + For, by the lore of Gorlitz' gentle sage, + With the mild mystics of his dreamy age + He read the herbal signs of nature's page, + + As once he heard in sweet Von Merlau's' bowers + Fair as herself, in boyhood's happy hours, + The pious Spener read his creed in flowers. + + "The dear Lord give us patience!" said his wife, + Touching with finger-tip an aloe, rife + With leaves sharp-pointed like an Aztec knife + + Or Carib spear, a gift to William Penn + From the rare gardens of John Evelyn, + Brought from the Spanish Main by merchantmen. + + "See this strange plant its steady purpose hold, + And, year by year, its patient leaves unfold, + Till the young eyes that watched it first are old. + + "But some time, thou hast told me, there shall come + A sudden beauty, brightness, and perfume, + The century-moulded bud shall burst in bloom. + + "So may the seed which hath been sown to-day + Grow with the years, and, after long delay, + Break into bloom, and God's eternal Yea! + + "Answer at last the patient prayers of them + Who now, by faith alone, behold its stem + Crowned with the flowers of Freedom's diadem. + + "Meanwhile, to feel and suffer, work and wait, + Remains for us. The wrong indeed is great, + But love and patience conquer soon or late." + + "Well hast thou said, my Anna!" Tenderer + Than youth's caress upon the head of her + Pastorius laid his hand. "Shall we demur + + "Because the vision tarrieth? In an hour + We dream not of, the slow-grown bud may flower, + And what was sown in weakness rise in power!" + + Then through the vine-draped door whose legend read, + "Procul este profani!" Anna led + To where their child upon his little bed + + Looked up and smiled. "Dear heart," she said, "if we + Must bearers of a heavy burden be, + Our boy, God willing, yet the day shall see + + "When from the gallery to the farthest seat, + Slave and slave-owner shall no longer meet, + But all sit equal at the Master's feet." + + On the stone hearth the blazing walnut block + Set the low walls a-glimmer, showed the cock + Rebuking Peter on the Van Wyck clock, + + Shone on old tomes of law and physic, side + By side with Fox and Belimen, played at hide + And seek with Anna, midst her household pride + + Of flaxen webs, and on the table, bare + Of costly cloth or silver cup, but where, + Tasting the fat shads of the Delaware, + + The courtly Penn had praised the goodwife's cheer, + And quoted Horace o'er her home brewed beer, + Till even grave Pastorius smiled to hear. + + In such a home, beside the Schuylkill's wave, + He dwelt in peace with God and man, and gave + Food to the poor and shelter to the slave. + + For all too soon the New World's scandal shamed + The righteous code by Penn and Sidney framed, + And men withheld the human rights they claimed. + + And slowly wealth and station sanction lent, + And hardened avarice, on its gains intent, + Stifled the inward whisper of dissent. + + Yet all the while the burden rested sore + On tender hearts. At last Pastorius bore + Their warning message to the Church's door + + In God's name; and the leaven of the word + Wrought ever after in the souls who heard, + And a dead conscience in its grave-clothes stirred + + To troubled life, and urged the vain excuse + Of Hebrew custom, patriarchal use, + Good in itself if evil in abuse. + + Gravely Pastorius listened, not the less + Discerning through the decent fig-leaf dress + Of the poor plea its shame of selfishness. + + One Scripture rule, at least, was unforgot; + He hid the outcast, and betrayed him not; + And, when his prey the human hunter sought, + + He scrupled not, while Anna's wise delay + And proffered cheer prolonged the master's stay, + To speed the black guest safely on his way. + + Yet, who shall guess his bitter grief who lends + His life to some great cause, and finds his friends + Shame or betray it for their private ends? + + How felt the Master when his chosen strove + In childish folly for their seats above; + And that fond mother, blinded by her love, + + Besought him that her sons, beside his throne, + Might sit on either hand? Amidst his own + A stranger oft, companionless and lone, + + God's priest and prophet stands. The martyr's pain + Is not alone from scourge and cell and chain; + Sharper the pang when, shouting in his train, + + His weak disciples by their lives deny + The loud hosannas of their daily cry, + And make their echo of his truth a lie. + + His forest home no hermit's cell he found, + Guests, motley-minded, drew his hearth around, + And held armed truce upon its neutral ground. + + There Indian chiefs with battle-bows unstrung, + Strong, hero-limbed, like those whom Homer sung, + Pastorius fancied, when the world was young, + + Came with their tawny women, lithe and tall, + Like bronzes in his friend Von Rodeck's hall, + Comely, if black, and not unpleasing all. + + There hungry folk in homespun drab and gray + Drew round his board on Monthly Meeting day, + Genial, half merry in their friendly way. + + Or, haply, pilgrims from the Fatherland, + Weak, timid, homesick, slow to understand + The New World's promise, sought his helping hand. + + Or painful Kelpius (13) from his hermit den + By Wissahickon, maddest of good men, + Dreamed o'er the Chiliast dreams of Petersen. + + Deep in the woods, where the small river slid + Snake-like in shade, the Helmstadt Mystic hid, + Weird as a wizard, over arts forbid, + + Reading the books of Daniel and of John, + And Behmen's Morning-Redness, through the Stone + Of Wisdom, vouchsafed to his eyes alone, + + Whereby he read what man ne'er read before, + And saw the visions man shall see no more, + Till the great angel, striding sea and shore, + + Shall bid all flesh await, on land or ships, + The warning trump of the Apocalypse, + Shattering the heavens before the dread eclipse. + + Or meek-eyed Mennonist his bearded chin + Leaned o'er the gate; or Ranter, pure within, + Aired his perfection in a world of sin. + + Or, talking of old home scenes, Op der Graaf + Teased the low back-log with his shodden staff, + Till the red embers broke into a laugh + + And dance of flame, as if they fain would cheer + The rugged face, half tender, half austere, + Touched with the pathos of a homesick tear! + + Or Sluyter, (14) saintly familist, whose word + As law the Brethren of the Manor heard, + Announced the speedy terrors of the Lord, + + And turned, like Lot at Sodom, from his race, + Above a wrecked world with complacent face + Riding secure upon his plank of grace! + + Haply, from Finland's birchen groves exiled, + Manly in thought, in simple ways a child, + His white hair floating round his visage mild, + + The Swedish pastor sought the Quaker's door, + Pleased from his neighbor's lips to hear once more + His long-disused and half-forgotten lore. + + For both could baffle Babel's lingual curse, + And speak in Bion's Doric, and rehearse + Cleanthes' hymn or Virgil's sounding verse. + + And oft Pastorius and the meek old man + Argued as Quaker and as Lutheran, + Ending in Christian love, as they began. + + With lettered Lloyd on pleasant morns he strayed + Where Sommerhausen over vales of shade + Looked miles away, by every flower delayed, + + Or song of bird, happy and free with one + Who loved, like him, to let his memory run + Over old fields of learning, and to sun + + Himself in Plato's wise philosophies, + And dream with Philo over mysteries + Whereof the dreamer never finds the keys; + + To touch all themes of thought, nor weakly stop + For doubt of truth, but let the buckets drop + Deep down and bring the hidden waters up (15) + + For there was freedom in that wakening time + Of tender souls; to differ was not crime; + The varying bells made up the perfect chime. + + On lips unlike was laid the altar's coal, + The white, clear light, tradition-colored, stole + Through the stained oriel of each human soul. + + Gathered from many sects, the Quaker brought + His old beliefs, adjusting to the thought + That moved his soul the creed his fathers taught. + + One faith alone, so broad that all mankind + Within themselves its secret witness find, + The soul's communion with the Eternal Mind, + + The Spirit's law, the Inward Rule and Guide, + Scholar and peasant, lord and serf, allied, + The polished Penn and Cromwell's Ironside. + + As still in Hemskerck's Quaker Meeting, (16) face + By face in Flemish detail, we may trace + How loose-mouthed boor and fine ancestral grace + + Sat in close contrast,--the clipt-headed churl, + Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girl + By skirt of silk and periwig in curl + + For soul touched soul; the spiritual treasure-trove + Made all men equal, none could rise above + Nor sink below that level of God's love. + + So, with his rustic neighbors sitting down, + The homespun frock beside the scholar's gown, + Pastorius to the manners of the town + + Added the freedom of the woods, and sought + The bookless wisdom by experience taught, + And learned to love his new-found home, while not + + Forgetful of the old; the seasons went + Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent + Of their own calm and measureless content. + + Glad even to tears, he heard the robin sing + His song of welcome to the Western spring, + And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing. + + And when the miracle of autumn came, + And all the woods with many-colored flame + Of splendor, making summer's greenness tame, + + Burned, unconsumed, a voice without a sound + Spake to him from each kindled bush around, + And made the strange, new landscape holy ground + + And when the bitter north-wind, keen and swift, + Swept the white street and piled the dooryard drift, + He exercised, as Friends might say, his gift + + Of verse, Dutch, English, Latin, like the hash + Of corn and beans in Indian succotash; + Dull, doubtless, but with here and there a flash + + Of wit and fine conceit,--the good man's play + Of quiet fancies, meet to while away + The slow hours measuring off an idle day. + + At evening, while his wife put on her look + Of love's endurance, from its niche he took + The written pages of his ponderous book. + + And read, in half the languages of man, + His "Rusca Apium," which with bees began, + And through the gamut of creation ran. + + Or, now and then, the missive of some friend + In gray Altorf or storied Nurnberg penned + Dropped in upon him like a guest to spend + + The night beneath his roof-tree. Mystical + The fair Von Merlau spake as waters fall + And voices sound in dreams, and yet withal + + Human and sweet, as if each far, low tone, + Over the roses of her gardens blown + Brought the warm sense of beauty all her own. + + Wise Spener questioned what his friend could trace + Of spiritual influx or of saving grace + In the wild natures of the Indian race. + + And learned Schurmberg, fain, at times, to look + From Talmud, Koran, Veds, and Pentateuch, + Sought out his pupil in his far-off nook, + + To query with him of climatic change, + Of bird, beast, reptile, in his forest range, + Of flowers and fruits and simples new and strange. + + And thus the Old and New World reached their hands + Across the water, and the friendly lands + Talked with each other from their severed strands. + + Pastorius answered all: while seed and root + Sent from his new home grew to flower and fruit + Along the Rhine and at the Spessart's foot; + + And, in return, the flowers his boyhood knew + Smiled at his door, the same in form and hue, + And on his vines the Rhenish clusters grew. + + No idler he; whoever else might shirk, + He set his hand to every honest work,-- + Farmer and teacher, court and meeting clerk. + + Still on the town seal his device is found, + Grapes, flax, and thread-spool on a trefoil ground, + With "Vinum, Linum et Textrinum" wound. + + One house sufficed for gospel and for law, + Where Paul and Grotius, Scripture text and saw, + Assured the good, and held the rest in awe. + + Whatever legal maze he wandered through, + He kept the Sermon on the Mount in view, + And justice always into mercy grew. + + No whipping-post he needed, stocks, nor jail, + Nor ducking-stool; the orchard-thief grew pale + At his rebuke, the vixen ceased to rail, + + The usurer's grasp released the forfeit land; + The slanderer faltered at the witness-stand, + And all men took his counsel for command. + + Was it caressing air, the brooding love + Of tenderer skies than German land knew of, + Green calm below, blue quietness above, + + Still flow of water, deep repose of wood + That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood + And childlike trust in the Eternal Good, + + Softened all hearts, and dulled the edge of hate, + Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to wait + The slow assurance of the better state? + + Who knows what goadings in their sterner way + O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray, + Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay? + + What hate of heresy the east-wind woke? + What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke + In waves that on their iron coast-line broke? + + Be it as it may: within the Land of Penn + The sectary yielded to the citizen, + And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men. + + Peace brooded over all. No trumpet stung + The air to madness, and no steeple flung + Alarums down from bells at midnight rung. + + The land slept well. The Indian from his face + Washed all his war-paint off, and in the place + Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase, + + Or wrought for wages at the white man's side,-- + Giving to kindness what his native pride + And lazy freedom to all else denied. + + And well the curious scholar loved the old + Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told + By wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold, + + Discerned the fact round which their fancy drew + Its dreams, and held their childish faith more true + To God and man than half the creeds he knew. + + The desert blossomed round him; wheat-fields rolled + Beneath the warm wind waves of green and gold; + The planted ear returned its hundred-fold. + + Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun + Than that which by the Rhine stream shines upon + The purpling hillsides with low vines o'errun. + + About each rustic porch the humming-bird + Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred, + The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred; + + And the first-fruits of pear and apple, bending + The young boughs down, their gold and russet blending, + Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending + + To the fresh fragrance of the birch and pine, + Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine, + And all the subtle scents the woods combine. + + Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm, + Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm, + Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm + + To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel + Of labor, winding off from memory's reel + A golden thread of music. With no peal + + Of bells to call them to the house of praise, + The scattered settlers through green forest-ways + Walked meeting-ward. In reverent amaze + + The Indian trapper saw them, from the dim + Shade of the alders on the rivulet's rim, + Seek the Great Spirit's house to talk with Him. + + There, through the gathered stillness multiplied + And made intense by sympathy, outside + The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried, + + A-swing upon his elm. A faint perfume + Breathed through the open windows of the room + From locust-trees, heavy with clustered bloom. + + Thither, perchance, sore-tried confessors came, + Whose fervor jail nor pillory could tame, + Proud of the cropped ears meant to be their shame, + + Men who had eaten slavery's bitter bread + In Indian isles; pale women who had bled + Under the hangman's lash, and bravely said + + God's message through their prison's iron bars; + And gray old soldier-converts, seamed with scars + From every stricken field of England's wars. + + Lowly before the Unseen Presence knelt + Each waiting heart, till haply some one felt + On his moved lips the seal of silence melt. + + Or, without spoken words, low breathings stole + Of a diviner life from soul to soul, + Baptizing in one tender thought the whole. + + When shaken hands announced the meeting o'er, + The friendly group still lingered at the door, + Greeting, inquiring, sharing all the store + + Of weekly tidings. Meanwhile youth and maid + Down the green vistas of the woodland strayed, + Whispered and smiled and oft their feet delayed. + + Did the boy's whistle answer back the thrushes? + Did light girl laughter ripple through the bushes, + As brooks make merry over roots and rushes? + + Unvexed the sweet air seemed. Without a wound + The ear of silence heard, and every sound + Its place in nature's fine accordance found. + + And solemn meeting, summer sky and wood, + Old kindly faces, youth and maidenhood + Seemed, like God's new creation, very good! + + And, greeting all with quiet smile and word, + Pastorius went his way. The unscared bird + Sang at his side; scarcely the squirrel stirred + + At his hushed footstep on the mossy sod; + And, wheresoe'er the good man looked or trod, + He felt the peace of nature and of God. + + His social life wore no ascetic form, + He loved all beauty, without fear of harm, + And in his veins his Teuton blood ran warm. + + Strict to himself, of other men no spy, + He made his own no circuit-judge to try + The freer conscience of his neighbors by. + + With love rebuking, by his life alone, + Gracious and sweet, the better way was shown, + The joy of one, who, seeking not his own, + + And faithful to all scruples, finds at last + The thorns and shards of duty overpast, + And daily life, beyond his hope's forecast, + + Pleasant and beautiful with sight and sound, + And flowers upspringing in its narrow round, + And all his days with quiet gladness crowned. + + He sang not; but, if sometimes tempted strong, + He hummed what seemed like Altorf's Burschen-song; + His good wife smiled, and did not count it wrong. + + For well he loved his boyhood's brother band; + His Memory, while he trod the New World's strand, + A double-ganger walked the Fatherland + + If, when on frosty Christmas eves the light + Shone on his quiet hearth, he missed the sight + Of Yule-log, Tree, and Christ-child all in white; + + And closed his eyes, and listened to the sweet + Old wait-songs sounding down his native street, + And watched again the dancers' mingling feet; + + Yet not the less, when once the vision passed, + He held the plain and sober maxims fast + Of the dear Friends with whom his lot was cast. + + Still all attuned to nature's melodies, + He loved the bird's song in his dooryard trees, + And the low hum of home-returning bees; + + The blossomed flax, the tulip-trees in bloom + Down the long street, the beauty and perfume + Of apple-boughs, the mingling light and gloom + + Of Sommerhausen's woodlands, woven through + With sun--threads; and the music the wind drew, + Mournful and sweet, from leaves it overblew. + + And evermore, beneath this outward sense, + And through the common sequence of events, + He felt the guiding hand of Providence + + Reach out of space. A Voice spake in his ear, + And to all other voices far and near + Died at that whisper, full of meanings clear. + + The Light of Life shone round him; one by one + The wandering lights, that all-misleading run, + Went out like candles paling in the sun. + + That Light he followed, step by step, where'er + It led, as in the vision of the seer + The wheels moved as the spirit in the clear + + And terrible crystal moved, with all their eyes + Watching the living splendor sink or rise, + Its will their will, knowing no otherwise. + + Within himself he found the law of right, + He walked by faith and not the letter's sight, + And read his Bible by the Inward Light. + + And if sometimes the slaves of form and rule, + Frozen in their creeds like fish in winter's pool, + Tried the large tolerance of his liberal school, + + His door was free to men of every name, + He welcomed all the seeking souls who came, + And no man's faith he made a cause of blame. + + But best he loved in leisure hours to see + His own dear Friends sit by him knee to knee, + In social converse, genial, frank, and free. + + There sometimes silence (it were hard to tell + Who owned it first) upon the circle fell, + Hushed Anna's busy wheel, and laid its spell + + On the black boy who grimaced by the hearth, + To solemnize his shining face of mirth; + Only the old clock ticked amidst the dearth + + Of sound; nor eye was raised nor hand was stirred + In that soul-sabbath, till at last some word + Of tender counsel or low prayer was heard. + + Then guests, who lingered but farewell to say + And take love's message, went their homeward way; + So passed in peace the guileless Quaker's day. + + His was the Christian's unsung Age of Gold, + A truer idyl than the bards have told + Of Arno's banks or Arcady of old. + + Where still the Friends their place of burial keep, + And century-rooted mosses o'er it creep, + The Nurnberg scholar and his helpmeet sleep. + + And Anna's aloe? If it flowered at last + In Bartram's garden, did John Woolman cast + A glance upon it as he meekly passed? + + And did a secret sympathy possess + That tender soul, and for the slave's redress + Lend hope, strength, patience? It were vain to + guess. + + Nay, were the plant itself but mythical, + Set in the fresco of tradition's wall + Like Jotham's bramble, mattereth not at all. + + Enough to know that, through the winter's frost + And summer's heat, no seed of truth is lost, + And every duty pays at last its cost. + + For, ere Pastorius left the sun and air, + God sent the answer to his life-long prayer; + The child was born beside the Delaware, + + Who, in the power a holy purpose lends, + Guided his people unto nobler ends, + And left them worthier of the name of Friends. + + And to! the fulness of the time has come, + And over all the exile's Western home, + From sea to sea the flowers of freedom bloom! + + And joy-bells ring, and silver trumpets blow; + But not for thee, Pastorius! Even so + The world forgets, but the wise angels know. + + + + +KING VOLMER AND ELSIE. + +AFTER THE DANISH OF CHRISTIAN WINTER. + + WHERE, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones + of the Horg, + In its little Christian city stands the church of + Vordingborg, + In merry mood King Volmer sat, forgetful of his + power, + As idle as the Goose of Gold that brooded on his + tower. + + Out spake the King to Henrik, his young and faithful + squire + "Dar'st trust thy little Elsie, the maid of thy + desire?" + "Of all the men in Denmark she loveth only me + As true to me is Elsie as thy Lily is to thee." + + Loud laughed the king: "To-morrow shall bring + another day, (18) + When I myself will test her; she will not say me + nay." + Thereat the lords and gallants, that round about + him stood, + Wagged all their heads in concert and smiled as + courtiers should. + + The gray lark sings o'er Vordingborg, and on the + ancient town + From the tall tower of Valdemar the Golden Goose + looks down; + The yellow grain is waving in the pleasant wind of + morn, + The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare + of hunter's horn. + + In the garden of her father little Elsie sits and + spins, + And, singing with the early birds, her daily task, + begins. + Gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls around her + garden-bower, + But she is sweeter than the mint and fairer than + the flower. + + About her form her kirtle blue clings lovingly, and, + white + As snow, her loose sleeves only leave her small, + round wrists in sight; + Below, the modest petticoat can only half conceal + The motion of the lightest foot that ever turned a + wheel. + + The cat sits purring at her side, bees hum in + sunshine warm; + But, look! she starts, she lifts her face, she shades + it with her arm. + And, hark! a train of horsemen, with sound of + dog and horn, + Come leaping o'er the ditches, come trampling + down the corn! + + Merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf and plume + streamed gay, + As fast beside her father's gate the riders held + their way; + And one was brave in scarlet cloak, with golden + spur on heel, + And, as he checked his foaming steed, the maiden + checked her wheel. + + "All hail among thy roses, the fairest rose to me! + For weary months in secret my heart has longed for + thee!" + What noble knight was this? What words for + modest maiden's ear? + She dropped a lowly courtesy of bashfulness and + fear. + + She lifted up her spinning-wheel; she fain would + seek the door, + Trembling in every limb, her cheek with blushes + crimsoned o'er. + "Nay, fear me not," the rider said, "I offer heart + and hand, + Bear witness these good Danish knights who round + about me stand. + + "I grant you time to think of this, to answer as + you may, + For to-morrow, little Elsie, shall bring another day." + He spake the old phrase slyly as, glancing round + his train, + He saw his merry followers seek to hide their + smiles in vain. + + "The snow of pearls I'll scatter in your curls of + golden hair, + I'll line with furs the velvet of the kirtle that you + wear; + All precious gems shall twine your neck; and in + a chariot gay + You shall ride, my little Elsie, behind four steeds + of gray. + + "And harps shall sound, and flutes shall play, and + brazen lamps shall glow; + On marble floors your feet shall weave the dances + to and fro. + At frosty eventide for us the blazing hearth shall + shine, + While, at our ease, we play at draughts, and drink + the blood-red wine." + + Then Elsie raised her head and met her wooer face + to face; + A roguish smile shone in her eye and on her lip + found place. + Back from her low white forehead the curls of + gold she threw, + And lifted up her eyes to his, steady and clear and + blue. + + "I am a lowly peasant, and you a gallant knight; + I will not trust a love that soon may cool and turn + to slight. + If you would wed me henceforth be a peasant, not + a lord; + I bid you hang upon the wall your tried and trusty + sword." + + "To please you, Elsie, I will lay keen Dynadel + away, + And in its place will swing the scythe and mow + your father's hay." + "Nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak my eyes can + never bear; + A Vadmal coat, so plain and gray, is all that you + must wear." + + "Well, Vadmal will I wear for you," the rider + gayly spoke, + "And on the Lord's high altar I'll lay my scarlet + cloak." + "But mark," she said, "no stately horse my peasant + love must ride, + A yoke of steers before the plough is all that he + must guide." + + The knight looked down upon his steed: "Well, + let him wander free + No other man must ride the horse that has been + backed by me. + Henceforth I'll tread the furrow and to my oxen + talk, + If only little Elsie beside my plough will walk." + + "You must take from out your cellar cask of wine + and flask and can; + The homely mead I brew you may serve a peasant. + man." + "Most willingly, fair Elsie, I'll drink that mead + of thine, + And leave my minstrel's thirsty throat to drain + my generous wine." + + "Now break your shield asunder, and shatter sign + and boss, + Unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your knightly + knee across. + And pull me down your castle from top to basement + wall, + And let your plough trace furrows in the ruins of + your hall!" + + Then smiled he with a lofty pride; right well at + last he knew + The maiden of the spinning-wheel was to her troth. + plight true. + "Ah, roguish little Elsie! you act your part full + well + You know that I must bear my shield and in my + castle dwell! + + "The lions ramping on that shield between the + hearts aflame + Keep watch o'er Denmark's honor, and guard her + ancient name. + + "For know that I am Volmer; I dwell in yonder + towers, + Who ploughs them ploughs up Denmark, this + goodly home of ours'. + + "I tempt no more, fair Elsie! your heart I know + is true; + Would God that all our maidens were good and + pure as you! + Well have you pleased your monarch, and he shall + well repay; + God's peace! Farewell! To-morrow will bring + another day!" + + He lifted up his bridle hand, he spurred his good + steed then, + And like a whirl-blast swept away with all his + gallant men. + The steel hoofs beat the rocky path; again on + winds of morn + The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare + of hunter's horn. + + "Thou true and ever faithful!" the listening + Henrik cried; + And, leaping o'er the green hedge, he stood by + Elsie's side. + None saw the fond embracing, save, shining from + afar, + The Golden Goose that watched them from the + tower of Valdemar. + + O darling girls of Denmark! of all the flowers + that throng + Her vales of spring the fairest, I sing for you my + song. + No praise as yours so bravely rewards the singer's + skill; + Thank God! of maids like Elsie the land has + plenty still! + + 1872. + + + + +THE THREE BELLS. + + BENEATH the low-hung night cloud + That raked her splintering mast + The good ship settled slowly, + The cruel leak gained fast. + + Over the awful ocean + Her signal guns pealed out. + Dear God! was that Thy answer + From the horror round about? + + A voice came down the wild wind, + "Ho! ship ahoy!" its cry + "Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow + Shall lay till daylight by!" + + Hour after hour crept slowly, + Yet on the heaving swells + Tossed up and down the ship-lights, + The lights of the Three Bells! + + And ship to ship made signals, + Man answered back to man, + While oft, to cheer and hearten, + The Three Bells nearer ran; + + And the captain from her taffrail + Sent down his hopeful cry + "Take heart! Hold on!" he shouted; + "The Three Bells shall lay by!" + + All night across the waters + The tossing lights shone clear; + All night from reeling taffrail + The Three Bells sent her cheer. + + And when the dreary watches + Of storm and darkness passed, + Just as the wreck lurched under, + All souls were saved at last. + + Sail on, Three Bells, forever, + In grateful memory sail! + Ring on, Three Bells of rescue, + Above the wave and gale! + + Type of the Love eternal, + Repeat the Master's cry, + As tossing through our darkness + The lights of God draw nigh! + + 1872. + + + + +JOHN UNDERHILL. + + A SCORE of years had come and gone + Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone, + When Captain Underhill, bearing scars + From Indian ambush and Flemish wars, + Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down, + East by north, to Cocheco town. + + With Vane the younger, in counsel sweet, + He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet, + And, when the bolt of banishment fell + On the head of his saintly oracle, + He had shared her ill as her good report, + And braved the wrath of the General Court. + + He shook from his feet as he rode away + The dust of the Massachusetts Bay. + The world might bless and the world might ban, + What did it matter the perfect man, + To whom the freedom of earth was given, + Proof against sin, and sure of heaven? + + He cheered his heart as he rode along + With screed of Scripture and holy song, + Or thought how he rode with his lances free + By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-Zee, + Till his wood-path grew to a trodden road, + And Hilton Point in the distance showed. + + He saw the church with the block-house nigh, + The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby, + And, tacking to windward, low and crank, + The little shallop from Strawberry Bank; + And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad + Over land and water, and praised the Lord. + + Goodly and stately and grave to see, + Into the clearing's space rode he, + With the sun on the hilt of his sword in sheath, + And his silver buckles and spurs beneath, + And the settlers welcomed him, one and all, + From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall. + + And he said to the elders: "Lo, I come + As the way seemed open to seek a home. + Somewhat the Lord hath wrought by my hands + In the Narragansett and Netherlands, + And if here ye have work for a Christian man, + I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can. + + "I boast not of gifts, but fain would own + The wonderful favor God hath shown, + The special mercy vouchsafed one day + On the shore of Narragansett Bay, + As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp aside, + And mused like Isaac at eventide. + + "A sudden sweetness of peace I found, + A garment of gladness wrapped me round; + I felt from the law of works released, + The strife of the flesh and spirit ceased, + My faith to a full assurance grew, + And all I had hoped for myself I knew. + + "Now, as God appointeth, I keep my way, + I shall not stumble, I shall not stray; + He hath taken away my fig-leaf dress, + I wear the robe of His righteousness; + And the shafts of Satan no more avail + Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail." + + "Tarry with us," the settlers cried, + "Thou man of God, as our ruler and guide." + And Captain Underhill bowed his head. + "The will of the Lord be done!" he said. + And the morrow beheld him sitting down + In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town. + + And he judged therein as a just man should; + His words were wise and his rule was good; + He coveted not his neighbor's land, + From the holding of bribes he shook his hand; + And through the camps of the heathen ran + A wholesome fear of the valiant man. + + But the heart is deceitful, the good Book saith, + And life hath ever a savor of death. + Through hymns of triumph the tempter calls, + And whoso thinketh he standeth falls. + Alas! ere their round the seasons ran, + There was grief in the soul of the saintly man. + + The tempter's arrows that rarely fail + Had found the joints of his spiritual mail; + And men took note of his gloomy air, + The shame in his eye, the halt in his prayer, + The signs of a battle lost within, + The pain of a soul in the coils of sin. + + Then a whisper of scandal linked his name + With broken vows and a life of blame; + And the people looked askance on him + As he walked among them sullen and grim, + Ill at ease, and bitter of word, + And prompt of quarrel with hand or sword. + + None knew how, with prayer and fasting still, + He strove in the bonds of his evil will; + But he shook himself like Samson at length, + And girded anew his loins of strength, + And bade the crier go up and down + And call together the wondering town. + + Jeer and murmur and shaking of head + Ceased as he rose in his place and said + "Men, brethren, and fathers, well ye know + How I came among you a year ago, + Strong in the faith that my soul was freed + From sin of feeling, or thought, or deed. + + "I have sinned, I own it with grief and shame, + But not with a lie on my lips I came. + In my blindness I verily thought my heart + Swept and garnished in every part. + He chargeth His angels with folly; He sees + The heavens unclean. Was I more than these? + + "I urge no plea. At your feet I lay + The trust you gave me, and go my way. + Hate me or pity me, as you will, + The Lord will have mercy on sinners still; + And I, who am chiefest, say to all, + Watch and pray, lest ye also fall." + + No voice made answer: a sob so low + That only his quickened ear could know + Smote his heart with a bitter pain, + As into the forest he rode again, + And the veil of its oaken leaves shut down + On his latest glimpse of Cocheco town. + + Crystal-clear on the man of sin + The streams flashed up, and the sky shone in; + On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew, + The leaves dropped on him their tears of dew, + And angels of God, in the pure, sweet guise + Of flowers, looked on him with sad surprise. + + Was his ear at fault that brook and breeze + Sang in their saddest of minor keys? + What was it the mournful wood-thrush said? + What whispered the pine-trees overhead? + Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way + That Adam heard in the cool of day? + + Into the desert alone rode he, + Alone with the Infinite Purity; + And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke, + As Peter did to the Master's look, + He measured his path with prayers of pain + For peace with God and nature again. + + And in after years to Cocheco came + The bruit of a once familiar name; + How among the Dutch of New Netherlands, + From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands, + A penitent soldier preached the Word, + And smote the heathen with Gideon's sword! + + And the heart of Boston was glad to hear + How he harried the foe on the long frontier, + And heaped on the land against him barred + The coals of his generous watch and ward. + Frailest and bravest! the Bay State still + Counts with her worthies John Underhill. + + 1873. + + + + +CONDUCTOR BRADLEY. + +A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut +railway, May 9, 1873. + + + CONDUCTOR BRADLEY, (always may his name + Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came, + Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame, + + Sank, with the brake he grasped just where he stood + To do the utmost that a brave man could, + And die, if needful, as a true man should. + + Men stooped above him; women dropped their tears + On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears, + Lost in the strength and glory of his years. + + What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain, + Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again + "Put out the signals for the other train!" + + No nobler utterance since the world began + From lips of saint or martyr ever ran, + Electric, through the sympathies of man. + + Ah me! how poor and noteless seem to this + The sick-bed dramas of self-consciousness, + Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss! + + Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain + That last brave act of failing tongue and brain + Freighted with life the downward rushing train, + + Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave, + Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave. + Others he saved, himself he could not save. + + Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead + Who in his record still the earth shall tread + With God's clear aureole shining round his head. + + We bow as in the dust, with all our pride + Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside. + God give us grace to live as Bradley died! + + 1873. + + + + +THE WITCH OF WENHAM. + +The house is still standing in Danvers, Mass., where, it is said, a +suspected witch was confined overnight in the attic, which was bolted +fast. In the morning when the constable came to take her to Salem for +trial she was missing, although the door was still bolted. Her escape +was doubtless aided by her friends, but at the time it was attributed +to Satanic interference. + + + I. + + ALONG Crane River's sunny slopes + Blew warm the winds of May, + And over Naumkeag's ancient oaks + The green outgrew the gray. + + The grass was green on Rial-side, + The early birds at will + Waked up the violet in its dell, + The wind-flower on its hill. + + "Where go you, in your Sunday coat, + Son Andrew, tell me, pray." + For striped perch in Wenham Lake + I go to fish to-day." + + "Unharmed of thee in Wenham Lake + The mottled perch shall be + A blue-eyed witch sits on the bank + And weaves her net for thee. + + "She weaves her golden hair; she sings + Her spell-song low and faint; + The wickedest witch in Salem jail + Is to that girl a saint." + + "Nay, mother, hold thy cruel tongue; + God knows," the young man cried, + "He never made a whiter soul + Than hers by Wenham side. + + "She tends her mother sick and blind, + And every want supplies; + To her above the blessed Book + She lends her soft blue eyes. + + "Her voice is glad with holy songs, + Her lips are sweet with prayer; + Go where you will, in ten miles round + Is none more good and fair." + + "Son Andrew, for the love of God + And of thy mother, stay!" + She clasped her hands, she wept aloud, + But Andrew rode away. + + "O reverend sir, my Andrew's soul + The Wenham witch has caught; + She holds him with the curled gold + Whereof her snare is wrought. + + "She charms him with her great blue eyes, + She binds him with her hair; + Oh, break the spell with holy words, + Unbind him with a prayer!" + + "Take heart," the painful preacher said, + "This mischief shall not be; + The witch shall perish in her sins + And Andrew shall go free. + + "Our poor Ann Putnam testifies + She saw her weave a spell, + Bare-armed, loose-haired, at full of moon, + Around a dried-up well. + + "'Spring up, O well!' she softly sang + The Hebrew's old refrain + (For Satan uses Bible words), + Till water flowed a-main. + + "And many a goodwife heard her speak + By Wenham water words + That made the buttercups take wings + And turn to yellow birds. + + "They say that swarming wild bees seek + The hive at her command; + And fishes swim to take their food + From out her dainty hand. + + "Meek as she sits in meeting-time, + The godly minister + Notes well the spell that doth compel + The young men's eyes to her. + + "The mole upon her dimpled chin + Is Satan's seal and sign; + Her lips are red with evil bread + And stain of unblest wine. + + "For Tituba, my Indian, saith + At Quasycung she took + The Black Man's godless sacrament + And signed his dreadful book. + + "Last night my sore-afflicted child + Against the young witch cried. + To take her Marshal Herrick rides + Even now to Wenham side." + + The marshal in his saddle sat, + His daughter at his knee; + "I go to fetch that arrant witch, + Thy fair playmate," quoth he. + + "Her spectre walks the parsonage, + And haunts both hall and stair; + They know her by the great blue eyes + And floating gold of hair." + + "They lie, they lie, my father dear! + No foul old witch is she, + But sweet and good and crystal-pure + As Wenham waters be." + + "I tell thee, child, the Lord hath set + Before us good and ill, + And woe to all whose carnal loves + Oppose His righteous will. + + "Between Him and the powers of hell + Choose thou, my child, to-day + No sparing hand, no pitying eye, + When God commands to slay!" + + He went his way; the old wives shook + With fear as he drew nigh; + The children in the dooryards held + Their breath as he passed by. + + Too well they knew the gaunt gray horse + The grim witch-hunter rode + The pale Apocalyptic beast + By grisly Death bestrode. + + + II. + + Oh, fair the face of Wenham Lake + Upon the young girl's shone, + Her tender mouth, her dreaming eyes, + Her yellow hair outblown. + + By happy youth and love attuned + To natural harmonies, + The singing birds, the whispering wind, + She sat beneath the trees. + + Sat shaping for her bridal dress + Her mother's wedding gown, + When lo! the marshal, writ in hand, + From Alford hill rode down. + + His face was hard with cruel fear, + He grasped the maiden's hands + "Come with me unto Salem town, + For so the law commands!" + + "Oh, let me to my mother say + Farewell before I go!" + He closer tied her little hands + Unto his saddle bow. + + "Unhand me," cried she piteously, + "For thy sweet daughter's sake." + "I'll keep my daughter safe," he said, + "From the witch of Wenham Lake." + + "Oh, leave me for my mother's sake, + She needs my eyes to see." + "Those eyes, young witch, the crows shall peck + From off the gallows-tree." + + He bore her to a farm-house old, + And up its stairway long, + And closed on her the garret-door + With iron bolted strong. + + The day died out, the night came down + Her evening prayer she said, + While, through the dark, strange faces seemed + To mock her as she prayed. + + The present horror deepened all + The fears her childhood knew; + The awe wherewith the air was filled + With every breath she drew. + + And could it be, she trembling asked, + Some secret thought or sin + Had shut good angels from her heart + And let the bad ones in? + + Had she in some forgotten dream + Let go her hold on Heaven, + And sold herself unwittingly + To spirits unforgiven? + + Oh, weird and still the dark hours passed; + No human sound she heard, + But up and down the chimney stack + The swallows moaned and stirred. + + And o'er her, with a dread surmise + Of evil sight and sound, + The blind bats on their leathern wings + Went wheeling round and round. + + Low hanging in the midnight sky + Looked in a half-faced moon. + Was it a dream, or did she hear + Her lover's whistled tune? + + She forced the oaken scuttle back; + A whisper reached her ear + "Slide down the roof to me," it said, + "So softly none may hear." + + She slid along the sloping roof + Till from its eaves she hung, + And felt the loosened shingles yield + To which her fingers clung. + + Below, her lover stretched his hands + And touched her feet so small; + "Drop down to me, dear heart," he said, + "My arms shall break the fall." + + He set her on his pillion soft, + Her arms about him twined; + And, noiseless as if velvet-shod, + They left the house behind. + + But when they reached the open way, + Full free the rein he cast; + Oh, never through the mirk midnight + Rode man and maid more fast. + + Along the wild wood-paths they sped, + The bridgeless streams they swam; + At set of moon they passed the Bass, + At sunrise Agawam. + + At high noon on the Merrimac + The ancient ferryman + Forgot, at times, his idle oars, + So fair a freight to scan. + + And when from off his grounded boat + He saw them mount and ride, + "God keep her from the evil eye, + And harm of witch!" he cried. + + The maiden laughed, as youth will laugh + At all its fears gone by; + "He does not know," she whispered low, + "A little witch am I." + + All day he urged his weary horse, + And, in the red sundown, + Drew rein before a friendly door + In distant Berwick town. + + A fellow-feeling for the wronged + The Quaker people felt; + And safe beside their kindly hearths + The hunted maiden dwelt, + + Until from off its breast the land + The haunting horror threw, + And hatred, born of ghastly dreams, + To shame and pity grew. + + Sad were the year's spring morns, and sad + Its golden summer day, + But blithe and glad its withered fields, + And skies of ashen gray; + + For spell and charm had power no more, + The spectres ceased to roam, + And scattered households knelt again + Around the hearths of home. + + And when once more by Beaver Dam + The meadow-lark outsang, + And once again on all the hills + The early violets sprang, + + And all the windy pasture slopes + Lay green within the arms + Of creeks that bore the salted sea + To pleasant inland farms, + + The smith filed off the chains he forged, + The jail-bolts backward fell; + And youth and hoary age came forth + Like souls escaped from hell. + + 1877 + + + + +KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS + + OUT from Jerusalem + The king rode with his great + War chiefs and lords of state, + And Sheba's queen with them; + + Comely, but black withal, + To whom, perchance, belongs + That wondrous Song of songs, + Sensuous and mystical, + + Whereto devout souls turn + In fond, ecstatic dream, + And through its earth-born theme + The Love of loves discern. + + Proud in the Syrian sun, + In gold and purple sheen, + The dusky Ethiop queen + Smiled on King Solomon. + + Wisest of men, he knew + The languages of all + The creatures great or small + That trod the earth or flew. + + Across an ant-hill led + The king's path, and he heard + Its small folk, and their word + He thus interpreted: + + "Here comes the king men greet + As wise and good and just, + To crush us in the dust + Under his heedless feet." + + The great king bowed his head, + And saw the wide surprise + Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes + As he told her what they said. + + "O king!" she whispered sweet, + "Too happy fate have they + Who perish in thy way + Beneath thy gracious feet! + + "Thou of the God-lent crown, + Shall these vile creatures dare + Murmur against thee where + The knees of kings kneel down?" + + "Nay," Solomon replied, + "The wise and strong should seek + The welfare of the weak," + And turned his horse aside. + + His train, with quick alarm, + Curved with their leader round + The ant-hill's peopled mound, + And left it free from harm. + + The jewelled head bent low; + "O king!" she said, "henceforth + The secret of thy worth + And wisdom well I know. + + "Happy must be the State + Whose ruler heedeth more + The murmurs of the poor + Than flatteries of the great." + + 1877. + + + + +IN THE "OLD SOUTH." + +On the 8th of July, 1677, Margaret Brewster with four other Friends +went into the South Church in time of meeting, "in sack-cloth, with +ashes upon her head, barefoot, and her face blackened," and delivered +"a warning from the great God of Heaven and Earth to the Rulers and +Magistrates of Boston." For the offence she was sentenced to be "whipped +at a cart's tail up and down the Town, with twenty lashes." + + SHE came and stood in the Old South Church, + A wonder and a sign, + With a look the old-time sibyls wore, + Half-crazed and half-divine. + + Save the mournful sackcloth about her wound, + Unclothed as the primal mother, + With limbs that trembled and eyes that blazed + With a fire she dare not smother. + + Loose on her shoulders fell her hair, + With sprinkled ashes gray; + She stood in the broad aisle strange and weird + As a soul at the judgment day. + + And the minister paused in his sermon's midst, + And the people held their breath, + For these were the words the maiden spoke + Through lips as the lips of death: + + "Thus saith the Lord, with equal feet + All men my courts shall tread, + And priest and ruler no more shall eat + My people up like bread! + + "Repent! repent! ere the Lord shall speak + In thunder and breaking seals + Let all souls worship Him in the way + His light within reveals." + + She shook the dust from her naked feet, + And her sackcloth closer drew, + And into the porch of the awe-hushed church + She passed like a ghost from view. + + They whipped her away at the tail o' the cart + Through half the streets of the town, + But the words she uttered that day nor fire + Could burn nor water drown. + + And now the aisles of the ancient church + By equal feet are trod, + And the bell that swings in its belfry rings + Freedom to worship God! + + And now whenever a wrong is done + It thrills the conscious walls; + The stone from the basement cries aloud + And the beam from the timber calls. + + There are steeple-houses on every hand, + And pulpits that bless and ban, + And the Lord will not grudge the single church + That is set apart for man. + + For in two commandments are all the law + And the prophets under the sun, + And the first is last and the last is first, + And the twain are verily one. + + So, long as Boston shall Boston be, + And her bay-tides rise and fall, + Shall freedom stand in the Old South Church + And plead for the rights of all! + + 1877. + + + + +THE HENCHMAN. + + MY lady walks her morning round, + My lady's page her fleet greyhound, + My lady's hair the fond winds stir, + And all the birds make songs for her. + + Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers, + And Rathburn side is gay with flowers; + But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird, + Was beauty seen or music heard. + + The distance of the stars is hers; + The least of all her worshippers, + The dust beneath her dainty heel, + She knows not that I see or feel. + + Oh, proud and calm!--she cannot know + Where'er she goes with her I go; + Oh, cold and fair!--she cannot guess + I kneel to share her hound's caress! + + Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk, + I rob their ears of her sweet talk; + Her suitors come from east and west, + I steal her smiles from every guest. + + Unheard of her, in loving words, + I greet her with the song of birds; + I reach her with her green-armed bowers, + I kiss her with the lips of flowers. + + The hound and I are on her trail, + The wind and I uplift her veil; + As if the calm, cold moon she were, + And I the tide, I follow her. + + As unrebuked as they, I share + The license of the sun and air, + And in a common homage hide + My worship from her scorn and pride. + + World-wide apart, and yet so near, + I breathe her charmed atmosphere, + Wherein to her my service brings + The reverence due to holy things. + + Her maiden pride, her haughty name, + My dumb devotion shall not shame; + The love that no return doth crave + To knightly levels lifts the slave, + + No lance have I, in joust or fight, + To splinter in my lady's sight + But, at her feet, how blest were I + For any need of hers to die! + + 1877. + + + + +THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK. + +E. B. Tylor in his Primitive Culture, chapter xii., gives an account of +the reverence paid the dead by the Kol tribes of Chota Nagpur, Assam. +"When a Ho or Munda," he says, "has been burned on the funeral pile, +collected morsels of his bones are carried in procession with a solemn, +ghostly, sliding step, keeping time to the deep-sounding drum, and when +the old woman who carries the bones on her bamboo tray lowers it from +time to time, then girls who carry pitchers and brass vessels mournfully +reverse them to show that they are empty; thus the remains are taken to +visit every house in the village, and every dwelling of a friend or +relative for miles, and the inmates come out to mourn and praise the +goodness of the departed; the bones are carried to all the dead man's +favorite haunts, to the fields he cultivated, to the grove he planted, +to the threshing-floor where he worked, to the village dance-room where +he made merry. At last they are taken to the grave, and buried in an +earthen vase upon a store of food, covered with one of those huge stone +slabs which European visitors wonder at in the districts of the +aborigines of India." In the Journal of the Asiatic Society, Bengal, +vol. ix., p. 795, is a Ho dirge. + + + WE have opened the door, + Once, twice, thrice! + We have swept the floor, + We have boiled the rice. + Come hither, come hither! + Come from the far lands, + Come from the star lands, + Come as before! + We lived long together, + We loved one another; + Come back to our life. + Come father, come mother, + Come sister and brother, + Child, husband, and wife, + For you we are sighing. + Come take your old places, + Come look in our faces, + The dead on the dying, + Come home! + + We have opened the door, + Once, twice, thrice! + We have kindled the coals, + And we boil the rice + For the feast of souls. + Come hither, come hither! + Think not we fear you, + Whose hearts are so near you. + Come tenderly thought on, + Come all unforgotten, + Come from the shadow-lands, + From the dim meadow-lands + Where the pale grasses bend + Low to our sighing. + Come father, come mother, + Come sister and brother, + Come husband and friend, + The dead to the dying, + Come home! + + We have opened the door + You entered so oft; + For the feast of souls + We have kindled the coals, + And we boil the rice soft. + Come you who are dearest + To us who are nearest, + Come hither, come hither, + From out the wild weather; + The storm clouds are flying, + The peepul is sighing; + Come in from the rain. + Come father, come mother, + Come sister and brother, + Come husband and lover, + Beneath our roof-cover. + Look on us again, + The dead on the dying, + Come home! + + We have opened the door! + For the feast of souls + We have kindled the coals + We may kindle no more! + Snake, fever, and famine, + The curse of the Brahmin, + The sun and the dew, + They burn us, they bite us, + They waste us and smite us; + Our days are but few + In strange lands far yonder + To wonder and wander + We hasten to you. + List then to our sighing, + While yet we are here + Nor seeing nor hearing, + We wait without fearing, + To feel you draw near. + O dead, to the dying + Come home! + + 1879. + + + + +THE KHAN'S DEVIL. + + + THE Khan came from Bokhara town + To Hamza, santon of renown. + + "My head is sick, my hands are weak; + Thy help, O holy man, I seek." + + In silence marking for a space + The Khan's red eyes and purple face, + + Thick voice, and loose, uncertain tread, + "Thou hast a devil!" Hamza said. + + "Allah forbid!" exclaimed the Khan. + Rid me of him at once, O man!" + + "Nay," Hamza said, "no spell of mine + Can slay that cursed thing of thine. + + "Leave feast and wine, go forth and drink + Water of healing on the brink + + "Where clear and cold from mountain snows, + The Nahr el Zeben downward flows. + + "Six moons remain, then come to me; + May Allah's pity go with thee!" + + Awestruck, from feast and wine the Khan + Went forth where Nahr el Zeben ran. + + Roots were his food, the desert dust + His bed, the water quenched his thirst; + + And when the sixth moon's scimetar + Curved sharp above the evening star, + + He sought again the santon's door, + Not weak and trembling as before, + + But strong of limb and clear of brain; + "Behold," he said, "the fiend is slain." + + "Nay," Hamza answered, "starved and drowned, + The curst one lies in death-like swound. + + "But evil breaks the strongest gyves, + And jins like him have charmed lives. + + "One beaker of the juice of grape + May call him up in living shape. + + "When the red wine of Badakshan + Sparkles for thee, beware, O Khan, + + "With water quench the fire within, + And drown each day thy devilkin!" + + Thenceforth the great Khan shunned the cup + As Shitan's own, though offered up, + + With laughing eyes and jewelled hands, + By Yarkand's maids and Samarcand's. + + And, in the lofty vestibule + Of the medress of Kaush Kodul, + + The students of the holy law + A golden-lettered tablet saw, + + With these words, by a cunning hand, + Graved on it at the Khan's command: + + "In Allah's name, to him who hath + A devil, Khan el Hamed saith, + + "Wisely our Prophet cursed the vine + The fiend that loves the breath of wine, + + "No prayer can slay, no marabout + Nor Meccan dervis can drive out. + + "I, Khan el Hamed, know the charm + That robs him of his power to harm. + + "Drown him, O Islam's child! the spell + To save thee lies in tank and well!" + + 1879. + + + + +THE KING'S MISSIVE. + +1661. + +This ballad, originally written for The Memorial History of Boston, +describes, with pardonable poetic license, a memorable incident in the +annals of the city. The interview between Shattuck and the Governor took +place, I have since learned, in the residence of the latter, and not +in the Council Chamber. The publication of the ballad led to some +discussion as to the historical truthfulness of the picture, but I have +seen no reason to rub out any of the figures or alter the lines and +colors. + + + UNDER the great hill sloping bare + To cove and meadow and Common lot, + In his council chamber and oaken chair, + Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott. + A grave, strong man, who knew no peer + In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear + Of God, not man, and for good or ill + Held his trust with an iron will. + + He had shorn with his sword the cross from out + The flag, and cloven the May-pole down, + Harried the heathen round about, + And whipped the Quakers from town to town. + Earnest and honest, a man at need + To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed, + He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal + The gate of the holy common weal. + + His brow was clouded, his eye was stern, + With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath; + "Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turn + The pestilent Quakers are in my path! + Some we have scourged, and banished some, + Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come, + Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in, + Sowing their heresy's seed of sin. + + "Did we count on this? Did we leave behind + The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease + Of our English hearths and homes, to find + Troublers of Israel such as these? + Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid! + I will do as the prophet to Agag did + They come to poison the wells of the Word, + I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!" + + The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk + Entered, and whispered under breath, + "There waits below for the hangman's work + A fellow banished on pain of death-- + Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip, + Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship + At anchor here in a Christian port, + With freight of the devil and all his sort!" + + Twice and thrice on the chamber floor + Striding fiercely from wall to wall, + "The Lord do so to me and more," + The Governor cried, "if I hang not all! + Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate, + With the look of a man at ease with fate, + Into that presence grim and dread + Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head. + + "Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand + Smote down the offence; but the wearer said, + With a quiet smile, "By the king's command + I bear his message and stand in his stead." + In the Governor's hand a missive he laid + With the royal arms on its seal displayed, + And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat, + Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat." + + He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,-- + "The king commandeth your friends' release; + Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although + To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase. + What he here enjoineth, John Endicott, + His loyal servant, questioneth not. + You are free! God grant the spirit you own + May take you from us to parts unknown." + + So the door of the jail was open cast, + And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den + Tender youth and girlhood passed, + With age-bowed women and gray-locked men. + And the voice of one appointed to die + Was lifted in praise and thanks on high, + And the little maid from New Netherlands + Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands. + + And one, whose call was to minister + To the souls in prison, beside him went, + An ancient woman, bearing with her + The linen shroud for his burial meant. + For she, not counting her own life dear, + In the strength of a love that cast out fear, + Had watched and served where her brethren died, + Like those who waited the cross beside. + + One moment they paused on their way to look + On the martyr graves by the Common side, + And much scourged Wharton of Salem took + His burden of prophecy up and cried + "Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain + Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain; + Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned, + With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!" + + The autumn haze lay soft and still + On wood and meadow and upland farms; + On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill + Slowly and lazily swung its arms; + Broad in the sunshine stretched away, + With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay; + And over water and dusk of pines + Blue hills lifted their faint outlines. + + The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed, + The sumach added its crimson fleck, + And double in air and water showed + The tinted maples along the Neck; + Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist, + And gentian fringes of amethyst, + And royal plumes of golden-rod, + The grazing cattle on Centry trod. + + But as they who see not, the Quakers saw + The world about them; they only thought + With deep thanksgiving and pious awe + On the great deliverance God had wrought. + Through lane and alley the gazing town + Noisily followed them up and down; + Some with scoffing and brutal jeer, + Some with pity and words of cheer. + + One brave voice rose above the din. + Upsall, gray with his length of days, + Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn + "Men of Boston, give God the praise + No more shall innocent blood call down + The bolts of wrath on your guilty town. + The freedom of worship, dear to you, + Is dear to all, and to all is due. + + "I see the vision of days to come, + When your beautiful City of the Bay + Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home, + And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay. + The varying notes of worship shall blend + And as one great prayer to God ascend, + And hands of mutual charity raise + Walls of salvation and gates of praise." + + So passed the Quakers through Boston town, + Whose painful ministers sighed to see + The walls of their sheep-fold falling down, + And wolves of heresy prowling free. + But the years went on, and brought no wrong; + With milder counsels the State grew strong, + As outward Letter and inward Light + Kept the balance of truth aright. + + The Puritan spirit perishing not, + To Concord's yeomen the signal sent, + And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot + That severed the chains of a continent. + With its gentler mission of peace and good-will + The thought of the Quaker is living still, + And the freedom of soul he prophesied + Is gospel and law where the martyrs died. + + 1880. + + + + +VALUATION. + + THE old Squire said, as he stood by his gate, + And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by, + "In spite of my bank stock and real estate, + You are better off, Deacon, than I. + + "We're both growing old, and the end's drawing near, + You have less of this world to resign, + But in Heaven's appraisal your assets, I fear, + Will reckon up greater than mine. + + "They say I am rich, but I'm feeling so poor, + I wish I could swap with you even + The pounds I have lived for and laid up in store + For the shillings and pence you have given." + + "Well, Squire," said the Deacon, with shrewd + common sense, + While his eye had a twinkle of fun, + "Let your pounds take the way of my shillings + and pence, + And the thing can be easily done!" + + 1880. + + + + +RABBI ISHMAEL. + +"Rabbi Ishmael Ben Elisha said, Once, I entered into the Holy of Holies +(as High Priest) to burn incense, when I saw Aktriel (the Divine Crown) +Jah, Lord of Hosts, sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, who said +unto me, 'Ishmael, my son, bless me.' I answered, 'May it please Thee to +make Thy compassion prevail over Thine anger; may it be revealed above +Thy other attributes; mayest Thou deal with Thy children according to +it, and not according to the strict measure of judgment.' It seemed to +me that He bowed His head, as though to answer Amen to my blessing."-- +Talmud (Beraehoth, I. f. 6. b.) + + + THE Rabbi Ishmael, with the woe and sin + Of the world heavy upon him, entering in + The Holy of Holies, saw an awful Face + With terrible splendor filling all the place. + "O Ishmael Ben Elisha!" said a voice, + "What seekest thou? What blessing is thy choice?" + And, knowing that he stood before the Lord, + Within the shadow of the cherubim, + Wide-winged between the blinding light and him, + He bowed himself, and uttered not a word, + But in the silence of his soul was prayer + "O Thou Eternal! I am one of all, + And nothing ask that others may not share. + Thou art almighty; we are weak and small, + And yet Thy children: let Thy mercy spare!" + Trembling, he raised his eyes, and in the place + Of the insufferable glory, lo! a face + Of more than mortal tenderness, that bent + Graciously down in token of assent, + And, smiling, vanished! With strange joy elate, + The wondering Rabbi sought the temple's gate. + Radiant as Moses from the Mount, he stood + And cried aloud unto the multitude + "O Israel, hear! The Lord our God is good! + Mine eyes have seen his glory and his grace; + Beyond his judgments shall his love endure; + The mercy of the All Merciful is sure!" + + 1881. + + + + +THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE. + +H. Y. Hind, in Explorations in the Interior of the Labrador Peninsula +(ii. 166) mentions the finding of a rock tomb near the little fishing +port of Bradore, with the inscription upon it which is given in the +poem. + + A DREAR and desolate shore! + Where no tree unfolds its leaves, + And never the spring wind weaves + Green grass for the hunter's tread; + A land forsaken and dead, + Where the ghostly icebergs go + And come with the ebb and flow + Of the waters of Bradore! + + A wanderer, from a land + By summer breezes fanned, + Looked round him, awed, subdued, + By the dreadful solitude, + Hearing alone the cry + Of sea-birds clanging by, + The crash and grind of the floe, + Wail of wind and wash of tide. + "O wretched land!" he cried, + "Land of all lands the worst, + God forsaken and curst! + Thy gates of rock should show + The words the Tuscan seer + Read in the Realm of Woe + Hope entereth not here!" + + Lo! at his feet there stood + A block of smooth larch wood, + Waif of some wandering wave, + Beside a rock-closed cave + By Nature fashioned for a grave; + Safe from the ravening bear + And fierce fowl of the air, + Wherein to rest was laid + A twenty summers' maid, + Whose blood had equal share + Of the lands of vine and snow, + Half French, half Eskimo. + In letters uneffaced, + Upon the block were traced + The grief and hope of man, + And thus the legend ran + "We loved her! + Words cannot tell how well! + We loved her! + God loved her! + And called her home to peace and rest. + We love her." + + The stranger paused and read. + "O winter land!" he said, + "Thy right to be I own; + God leaves thee not alone. + And if thy fierce winds blow + Over drear wastes of rock and snow, + And at thy iron gates + The ghostly iceberg waits, + Thy homes and hearts are dear. + Thy sorrow o'er thy sacred dust + Is sanctified by hope and trust; + God's love and man's are here. + And love where'er it goes + Makes its own atmosphere; + Its flowers of Paradise + Take root in the eternal ice, + And bloom through Polar snows!" + + 1881. + + + + +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 Murchen, 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 of The Works of Whittier, Volume I (of +VII), by John Greenleaf Whittier + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF WHITTIER *** + +***** This file should be named 9567.txt or 9567.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/5/6/9567/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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