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+Project Gutenberg EBook, Tent on the Beach and Others
+Part 4, From Volume IV., The Works of Whittier: Personal Poems
+#29 in our series by John Greenleaf Whittier
+
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+Title: The Tent on the Beach and Others
+       Part 4, From Volume IV., The Works of Whittier: Personal Poems
+
+
+Author: John Greenleaf Whittier
+
+Release Date: December 2005  [EBook #9584]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on October 18, 2003]
+
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
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+
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, TENT ON THE BEACH, PART 4 ***
+
+
+
+
+This eBook was produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+                          THE TENT ON THE BEACH
+
+                                   BY
+
+                         JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
+
+
+CONTENTS:
+
+THE TENT ON THE BEACH.
+     PRELUDE
+     THE TENT ON THE BEACH
+     THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH
+     THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE
+     THE BROTHER OF MERCY
+     THE CHANGELING
+     THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH
+     KALLUNDBORG CHURCH
+     THE CABLE HYMN
+     THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL
+     THE PALATINE
+     ABRAHAM DAVENPORT
+     THE WORSHIP OF NATURE
+
+
+
+
+
+                          THE TENT ON THE BEACH
+
+     It can scarcely be necessary to name as the two companions whom I
+     reckoned with myself in this poetical picnic, Fields the lettered
+     magnate, and Taylor the free cosmopolite. The long line of sandy
+     beach which defines almost the whole of the New Hampshire sea-coast
+     is especially marked near its southern extremity, by the
+     salt-meadows of Hampton. The Hampton River winds through these
+     meadows, and the reader may, if he choose, imagine my tent pitched
+     near its mouth, where also was the scene of the _Wreck of
+     Rivermouth_. The green bluff to the northward is Great Boar's Head;
+     southward is the Merrimac, with Newburyport lifting its steeples
+     above brown roofs and green trees on banks.
+
+I would not sin, in this half-playful strain,--
+Too light perhaps for serious years, though born
+Of the enforced leisure of slow pain,--
+Against the pure ideal which has drawn
+My feet to follow its far-shining gleam.
+A simple plot is mine: legends and runes
+Of credulous days, old fancies that have lain
+Silent, from boyhood taking voice again,
+Warmed into life once more, even as the tunes
+That, frozen in the fabled hunting-horn,
+Thawed into sound:--a winter fireside dream
+Of dawns and-sunsets by the summer sea,
+Whose sands are traversed by a silent throng
+Of voyagers from that vaster mystery
+Of which it is an emblem;--and the dear
+Memory of one who might have tuned my song
+To sweeter music by her delicate ear.
+
+
+When heats as of a tropic clime
+Burned all our inland valleys through,
+Three friends, the guests of summer time,
+Pitched their white tent where sea-winds blew.
+Behind them, marshes, seamed and crossed
+With narrow creeks, and flower-embossed,
+Stretched to the dark oak wood, whose leafy arms
+Screened from the stormy East the pleasant inland farms.
+
+At full of tide their bolder shore
+Of sun-bleached sand the waters beat;
+At ebb, a smooth and glistening floor
+They touched with light, receding feet.
+Northward a 'green bluff broke the chain
+Of sand-hills; southward stretched a plain
+Of salt grass, with a river winding down,
+Sail-whitened, and beyond the steeples of the town,
+
+Whence sometimes, when the wind was light
+And dull the thunder of the beach,
+They heard the bells of morn and night
+Swing, miles away, their silver speech.
+Above low scarp and turf-grown wall
+They saw the fort-flag rise and fall;
+And, the first star to signal twilight's hour,
+The lamp-fire glimmer down from the tall light-house tower.
+
+They rested there, escaped awhile
+From cares that wear the life away,
+To eat the lotus of the Nile
+And drink the poppies of Cathay,--
+To fling their loads of custom down,
+Like drift-weed, on the sand-slopes brown,
+And in the sea waves drown the restless pack
+Of duties, claims, and needs that barked upon their track.
+
+One, with his beard scarce silvered, bore
+A ready credence in his looks,
+A lettered magnate, lording o'er
+An ever-widening realm of books.
+In him brain-currents, near and far,
+Converged as in a Leyden jar;
+The old, dead authors thronged him round about,
+And Elzevir's gray ghosts from leathern graves looked out.
+
+He knew each living pundit well,
+Could weigh the gifts of him or her,
+And well the market value tell
+Of poet and philosopher.
+But if he lost, the scenes behind,
+Somewhat of reverence vague and blind,
+Finding the actors human at the best,
+No readier lips than his the good he saw confessed.
+
+His boyhood fancies not outgrown,
+He loved himself the singer's art;
+Tenderly, gently, by his own
+He knew and judged an author's heart.
+No Rhadamanthine brow of doom
+Bowed the dazed pedant from his room;
+And bards, whose name is legion, if denied,
+Bore off alike intact their verses and their pride.
+
+Pleasant it was to roam about
+The lettered world as he had, done,
+And see the lords of song without
+Their singing robes and garlands on.
+With Wordsworth paddle Rydal mere,
+Taste rugged Elliott's home-brewed beer,
+And with the ears of Rogers, at fourscore,
+Hear Garrick's buskined tread and Walpole's wit once more.
+
+And one there was, a dreamer born,
+Who, with a mission to fulfil,
+Had left the Muses' haunts to turn
+The crank of an opinion-mill,
+Making his rustic reed of song
+A weapon in the war with wrong,
+Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough
+That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring and grow.
+
+Too quiet seemed the man to ride
+The winged Hippogriff Reform;
+Was his a voice from side to side
+To pierce the tumult of the storm?
+A silent, shy, peace-loving man,
+He seemed no fiery partisan
+To hold his way against the public frown,
+The ban of Church and State, the fierce mob's hounding down.
+
+For while he wrought with strenuous will
+The work his hands had found to do,
+He heard the fitful music still
+Of winds that out of dream-land blew.
+The din about him could not drown
+What the strange voices whispered down;
+Along his task-field weird processions swept,
+The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped:
+
+The common air was thick with dreams,--
+He told them to the toiling crowd;
+Such music as the woods and streams
+Sang in his ear he sang aloud;
+In still, shut bays, on windy capes,
+He heard the call of beckoning shapes,
+And, as the gray old shadows prompted him,
+To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their legends grim.
+
+He rested now his weary hands,
+And lightly moralized and laughed,
+As, tracing on the shifting sands
+A burlesque of his paper-craft,
+He saw the careless waves o'errun
+His words, as time before had done,
+Each day's tide-water washing clean away,
+Like letters from the sand, the work of yesterday.
+
+And one, whose Arab face was tanned
+By tropic sun and boreal frost,
+So travelled there was scarce a land
+Or people left him to exhaust,
+In idling mood had from him hurled
+The poor squeezed orange of the world,
+And in the tent-shade, as beneath a palm,
+Smoked, cross-legged like a Turk, in Oriental calm.
+
+The very waves that washed the sand
+Below him, he had seen before
+Whitening the Scandinavian strand
+And sultry Mauritanian shore.
+From ice-rimmed isles, from summer seas
+Palm-fringed, they bore him messages;
+He heard the plaintive Nubian songs again,
+And mule-bells tinkling down the mountain-paths of Spain.
+
+His memory round the ransacked earth
+On Puck's long girdle slid at ease;
+And, instant, to the valley's girth
+Of mountains, spice isles of the seas,
+Faith flowered in minster stones, Art's guess
+At truth and beauty, found access;
+Yet loved the while, that free cosmopolite,
+Old friends, old ways, and kept his boyhood's dreams in sight.
+
+Untouched as yet by wealth and pride,
+That virgin innocence of beach
+No shingly monster, hundred-eyed,
+Stared its gray sand-birds out of reach;
+Unhoused, save where, at intervals,
+The white tents showed their canvas walls,
+Where brief sojourners, in the cool, soft air,
+Forgot their inland heats, hard toil, and year-long care.
+
+Sometimes along the wheel-deep sand
+A one-horse wagon slowly crawled,
+Deep laden with a youthful band,
+Whose look some homestead old recalled;
+Brother perchance, and sisters twain,
+And one whose blue eyes told, more plain
+Than the free language of her rosy lip,
+Of the still dearer claim of love's relationship.
+
+With cheeks of russet-orchard tint,
+The light laugh of their native rills,
+The perfume of their garden's mint,
+The breezy freedom of the hills,
+They bore, in unrestrained delight,
+The motto of the Garter's knight,
+Careless as if from every gazing thing
+Hid by their innocence, as Gyges by his ring.
+
+The clanging sea-fowl came and went,
+The hunter's gun in the marshes rang;
+At nightfall from a neighboring tent
+A flute-voiced woman sweetly sang.
+Loose-haired, barefooted, hand-in-hand,
+Young girls went tripping down the sand;
+And youths and maidens, sitting in the moon,
+Dreamed o'er the old fond dream from which we wake too soon.
+
+At times their fishing-lines they plied,
+With an old Triton at the oar,
+Salt as the sea-wind, tough and dried
+As a lean cusk from Labrador.
+Strange tales he told of wreck and storm,--
+Had seen the sea-snake's awful form,
+And heard the ghosts on Haley's Isle complain,
+Speak him off shore, and beg a passage to old Spain!
+
+And there, on breezy morns, they saw
+The fishing-schooners outward run,
+Their low-bent sails in tack and flaw
+Turned white or dark to shade and sun.
+Sometimes, in calms of closing day,
+They watched the spectral mirage play,
+Saw low, far islands looming tall and nigh,
+And ships, with upturned keels, sail like a sea the sky.
+
+Sometimes a cloud, with thunder black,
+Stooped low upon the darkening main,
+Piercing the waves along its track
+With the slant javelins of rain.
+And when west-wind and sunshine warm
+Chased out to sea its wrecks of storm,
+They saw the prismy hues in thin spray showers
+Where the green buds of waves burst into white froth flowers.
+
+And when along the line of shore
+The mists crept upward chill and damp,
+Stretched, careless, on their sandy floor
+Beneath the flaring lantern lamp,
+They talked of all things old and new,
+Read, slept, and dreamed as idlers do;
+And in the unquestioned freedom of the tent,
+Body and o'er-taxed mind to healthful ease unbent.
+
+Once, when the sunset splendors died,
+And, trampling up the sloping sand,
+In lines outreaching far and wide,
+The white-waned billows swept to land,
+Dim seen across the gathering shade,
+A vast and ghostly cavalcade,
+They sat around their lighted kerosene,
+Hearing the deep bass roar their every pause between.
+
+Then, urged thereto, the Editor
+Within his full portfolio dipped,
+Feigning excuse while seaching for
+(With secret pride) his manuscript.
+His pale face flushed from eye to beard,
+With nervous cough his throat he cleared,
+And, in a voice so tremulous it betrayed
+The anxious fondness of an author's heart, he read:
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH
+
+     The Goody Cole who figures in this poem and The Changeling as
+     Eunice Cole, who for a quarter of a century or more was feared,
+     persecuted, and hated as the witch of Hampton. She lived alone in a
+     hovel a little distant from the spot where the Hampton Academy now
+     stands, and there she died, unattended. When her death was
+     discovered, she was hastily covered up in the earth near by, and a
+     stake driven through her body, to exorcise the evil spirit. Rev.
+     Stephen Bachiler or Batchelder was one of the ablest of the early
+     New England preachers. His marriage late in life to a woman
+     regarded by his church as disreputable induced him to return to
+     England, where he enjoyed the esteem and favor of Oliver Cromwell
+     during the Protectorate.
+
+Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see,
+By dawn or sunset shone across,
+When the ebb of the sea has left them free,
+To dry their fringes of gold-green moss
+For there the river comes winding down,
+From salt sea-meadows and uplands brown,
+And waves on the outer rocks afoam
+Shout to its waters, "Welcome home!"
+
+And fair are the sunny isles in view
+East of the grisly Head of the Boar,
+And Agamenticus lifts its blue
+Disk of a cloud the woodlands o'er;
+And southerly, when the tide is down,
+'Twixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown,
+The beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel
+Over a floor of burnished steel.
+
+Once, in the old Colonial days,
+Two hundred years ago and more,
+A boat sailed down through the winding ways
+Of Hampton River to that low shore,
+Full of a goodly company
+Sailing out on the summer sea,
+Veering to catch the land-breeze light,
+With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right.
+
+In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid
+Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass,
+"Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made!"
+A young man sighed, who saw them pass.
+Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand
+Whetting his scythe with a listless hand,
+Hearing a voice in a far-off song,
+Watching a white hand beckoning long.
+
+"Fie on the witch!" cried a merry girl,
+As they rounded the point where Goody Cole
+Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl,
+A bent and blear-eyed poor old soul.
+"Oho!" she muttered, "ye 're brave to-day!
+But I hear the little waves laugh and say,
+'The broth will be cold that waits at home;
+For it 's one to go, but another to come!'"
+
+"She's cursed," said the skipper; "speak her fair:
+I'm scary always to see her shake
+Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair,
+And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a snake."
+But merrily still, with laugh and shout,
+From Hampton River the boat sailed out,
+Till the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh,
+And they lost the scent of the pines of Rye.
+
+They dropped their lines in the lazy tide,
+Drawing up haddock and mottled cod;
+They saw not the Shadow that walked beside,
+They heard not the feet with silence shod.
+But thicker and thicker a hot mist grew,
+Shot by the lightnings through and through;
+And muffled growls, like the growl of a beast,
+Ran along the sky from west to east.
+
+Then the skipper looked from the darkening sea
+Up to the dimmed and wading sun;
+But he spake like a brave man cheerily,
+"Yet there is time for our homeward run."
+Veering and tacking, they backward wore;
+And just as a breath-from the woods ashore
+Blew out to whisper of danger past,
+The wrath of the storm came down at last!
+
+The skipper hauled at the heavy sail
+"God be our help!" he only cried,
+As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail,
+Smote the boat on its starboard side.
+The Shoalsmen looked, but saw alone
+Dark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown,
+Wild rocks lit up by the lightning's glare,
+The strife and torment of sea and air.
+
+Goody Cole looked out from her door
+The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,
+Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar
+Toss the foam from tusks of stone.
+She clasped her hands with a grip of pain,
+The tear on her cheek was not of rain
+"They are lost," she muttered, "boat and crew!
+Lord, forgive me! my words were true!"
+
+Suddenly seaward swept the squall;
+The low sun smote through cloudy rack;
+The Shoals stood clear in the light, and all
+The trend of the coast lay hard and black.
+But far and wide as eye could reach,
+No life was seen upon wave or beach;
+The boat that went out at morning never
+Sailed back again into Hampton River.
+
+O mower, lean on thy bended snath,
+Look from the meadows green and low
+The wind of the sea is a waft of death,
+The waves are singing a song of woe!
+By silent river, by moaning sea,
+Long and vain shall thy watching be
+Never again shall the sweet voice call,
+Never the white hand rise and fall!
+
+O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight
+Ye saw in the light of breaking day
+Dead faces looking up cold and white
+From sand and seaweed where they lay.
+The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept,
+And cursed the tide as it backward crept
+"Crawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake
+Leave your dead for the hearts that break!"
+
+Solemn it was in that old day
+In Hampton town and its log-built church,
+Where side by side the coffins lay
+And the mourners stood in aisle and porch.
+In the singing-seats young eyes were dim,
+The voices faltered that raised the hymn,
+And Father Dalton, grave and stern,
+Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn.
+
+But his ancient colleague did not pray;
+Under the weight of his fourscore years
+He stood apart with the iron-gray
+Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears;
+And a fair-faced woman of doubtful fame,
+Linking her own with his honored name,
+Subtle as sin, at his side withstood
+The felt reproach of her neighborhood.
+
+Apart with them, like them forbid,
+Old Goody Cole looked drearily round,
+As, two by two, with their faces hid,
+The mourners walked to the burying-ground.
+She let the staff from her clasped hands fall
+"Lord, forgive us! we're sinners all!"
+And the voice of the old man answered her
+"Amen!" said Father Bachiler.
+
+So, as I sat upon Appledore
+In the calm of a closing summer day,
+And the broken lines of Hampton shore
+In purple mist of cloudland lay,
+The Rivermouth Rocks their story told;
+And waves aglow with sunset gold,
+Rising and breaking in steady chime,
+Beat the rhythm and kept the time.
+
+And the sunset paled, and warmed once more
+With a softer, tenderer after-glow;
+In the east was moon-rise, with boats off-shore
+And sails in the distance drifting slow.
+The beacon glimmered from Portsmouth bar,
+The White Isle kindled its great red star;
+And life and death in my old-time lay
+Mingled in peace like the night and day!
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+"Well!" said the Man of Books, "your story
+Is really not ill told in verse.
+As the Celt said of purgatory,
+One might go farther and fare worse."
+The Reader smiled; and once again
+With steadier voice took up his strain,
+While the fair singer from the neighboring tent
+Drew near, and at his side a graceful listener bent.
+1864.
+
+
+THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE
+
+     At the mouth of the Melvin River, which empties into Moulton-Bay in
+     Lake Winnipesaukee, is a great mound. The Ossipee Indians had their
+     home in the neighborhood of the bay, which is plentifully stocked
+     with fish, and many relics of their occupation have been found.
+
+
+Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles
+Dimple round its hundred isles,
+And the mountain's granite ledge
+Cleaves the water like a wedge,
+Ringed about with smooth, gray stones,
+Rest the giant's mighty bones.
+
+Close beside, in shade and gleam,
+Laughs and ripples Melvin stream;
+Melvin water, mountain-born,
+All fair flowers its banks adorn;
+All the woodland's voices meet,
+Mingling with its murmurs sweet.
+
+Over lowlands forest-grown,
+Over waters island-strown,
+Over silver-sanded beach,
+Leaf-locked bay and misty reach,
+Melvin stream and burial-heap,
+Watch and ward the mountains keep.
+
+Who that Titan cromlech fills?
+Forest-kaiser, lord o' the hills?
+Knight who on the birchen tree
+Carved his savage heraldry?
+Priest o' the pine-wood temples dim,
+Prophet, sage, or wizard grim?
+
+Rugged type of primal man,
+Grim utilitarian,
+Loving woods for hunt and prowl,
+Lake and hill for fish and fowl,
+As the brown bear blind and dull
+To the grand and beautiful:
+
+Not for him the lesson drawn
+From the mountains smit with dawn,
+Star-rise, moon-rise, flowers of May,
+Sunset's purple bloom of day,--
+Took his life no hue from thence,
+Poor amid such affluence?
+
+Haply unto hill and tree
+All too near akin was he
+Unto him who stands afar
+Nature's marvels greatest are;
+Who the mountain purple seeks
+Must not climb the higher peaks.
+
+Yet who knows in winter tramp,
+Or the midnight of the camp,
+What revealings faint and far,
+Stealing down from moon and star,
+Kindled in that human clod
+Thought of destiny and God?
+
+Stateliest forest patriarch,
+Grand in robes of skin and bark,
+What sepulchral mysteries,
+What weird funeral-rites, were his?
+What sharp wail, what drear lament,
+Back scared wolf and eagle sent?
+
+Now, whate'er he may have been,
+Low he lies as other men;
+On his mound the partridge drums,
+There the noisy blue-jay comes;
+Rank nor name nor pomp has he
+In the grave's democracy.
+
+Part thy blue lips, Northern lake!
+Moss-grown rocks, your silence break!
+Tell the tale, thou ancient tree!
+Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee!
+Speak, and tell us how and when
+Lived and died this king of men!
+
+Wordless moans the ancient pine;
+Lake and mountain give no sign;
+Vain to trace this ring of stones;
+Vain the search of crumbling bones
+Deepest of all mysteries,
+And the saddest, silence is.
+
+Nameless, noteless, clay with clay
+Mingles slowly day by day;
+But somewhere, for good or ill,
+That dark soul is living still;
+Somewhere yet that atom's force
+Moves the light-poised universe.
+
+Strange that on his burial-sod
+Harebells bloom, and golden-rod,
+While the soul's dark horoscope
+Holds no starry sign of hope!
+Is the Unseen with sight at odds?
+Nature's pity more than God's?
+
+Thus I mused by Melvin's side,
+While the summer eventide
+Made the woods and inland sea
+And the mountains mystery;
+And the hush of earth and air
+Seemed the pause before a prayer,--
+
+Prayer for him, for all who rest,
+Mother Earth, upon thy breast,--
+Lapped on Christian turf, or hid
+In rock-cave or pyramid
+All who sleep, as all who live,
+Well may need the prayer, "Forgive!"
+
+Desert-smothered caravan,
+Knee-deep dust that once was man,
+Battle-trenches ghastly piled,
+Ocean-floors with white bones tiled,
+Crowded tomb and mounded sod,
+Dumbly crave that prayer to God.
+
+Oh, the generations old
+Over whom no church-bells tolled,
+Christless, lifting up blind eyes
+To the silence of the skies!
+For the innumerable dead
+Is my soul disquieted.
+
+Where be now these silent hosts?
+Where the camping-ground of ghosts?
+Where the spectral conscripts led
+To the white tents of the dead?
+What strange shore or chartless sea
+Holds the awful mystery?
+
+Then the warm sky stooped to make
+Double sunset in the lake;
+While above I saw with it,
+Range on range, the mountains lit;
+And the calm and splendor stole
+Like an answer to my soul.
+
+Hear'st thou, O of little faith,
+What to thee the mountain saith,
+What is whispered by the trees?
+Cast on God thy care for these;
+Trust Him, if thy sight be dim
+Doubt for them is doubt of Him.
+
+"Blind must be their close-shut eyes
+Where like night the sunshine lies,
+Fiery-linked the self-forged chain
+Binding ever sin to pain,
+Strong their prison-house of will,
+But without He waiteth still.
+
+"Not with hatred's undertow
+Doth the Love Eternal flow;
+Every chain that spirits wear
+Crumbles in the breath of prayer;
+And the penitent's desire
+Opens every gate of fire.
+
+"Still Thy love, O Christ arisen,
+Yearns to reach these souls in prison!
+Through all depths of sin and loss
+Drops the plummet of Thy cross!
+Never yet abyss was found
+Deeper than that cross could sound!"
+
+Therefore well may Nature keep
+Equal faith with all who sleep,
+Set her watch of hills around
+Christian grave and heathen mound,
+And to cairn and kirkyard send
+Summer's flowery dividend.
+
+Keep, O pleasant Melvin stream,
+Thy sweet laugh in shade and gleam
+On the Indian's grassy tomb
+Swing, O flowers, your bells of bloom!
+Deep below, as high above,
+Sweeps the circle of God's love.
+1865
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+He paused and questioned with his eye
+The hearers' verdict on his song.
+A low voice asked: Is 't well to pry
+Into the secrets which belong
+Only to God?--The life to be
+Is still the unguessed mystery
+Unsealed, unpierced the cloudy walls remain,
+We beat with dream and wish the soundless doors in vain.
+
+"But faith beyond our sight may go."
+He said: "The gracious Fatherhood
+Can only know above, below,
+Eternal purposes of good.
+From our free heritage of will,
+The bitter springs of pain and ill
+Flow only in all worlds. The perfect day
+Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway."
+
+"I know," she said, "the letter kills;
+That on our arid fields of strife
+And heat of clashing texts distils
+The clew of spirit and of life.
+But, searching still the written Word,
+I fain would find, Thus saith the Lord,
+A voucher for the hope I also feel
+That sin can give no wound beyond love's power to heal."
+
+"Pray," said the Man of Books, "give o'er
+A theme too vast for time and place.
+Go on, Sir Poet, ride once more
+Your hobby at his old free pace.
+But let him keep, with step discreet,
+The solid earth beneath his feet.
+In the great mystery which around us lies,
+The wisest is a fool, the fool Heaven-helped is wise."
+
+The Traveller said: "If songs have creeds,
+Their choice of them let singers make;
+But Art no other sanction needs
+Than beauty for its own fair sake.
+It grinds not in the mill of use,
+Nor asks for leave, nor begs excuse;
+It makes the flexile laws it deigns to own,
+And gives its atmosphere its color and its tone.
+
+"Confess, old friend, your austere school
+Has left your fancy little chance;
+You square to reason's rigid rule
+The flowing outlines of romance.
+With conscience keen from exercise,
+And chronic fear of compromise,
+You check the free play of your rhymes, to clap
+A moral underneath, and spring it like a trap."
+
+The sweet voice answered: "Better so
+Than bolder flights that know no check;
+Better to use the bit, than throw
+The reins all loose on fancy's neck.
+The liberal range of Art should be
+The breadth of Christian liberty,
+Restrained alone by challenge and alarm
+Where its charmed footsteps tread the border land of harm.
+
+"Beyond the poet's sweet dream lives
+The eternal epic of the man.
+He wisest is who only gives,
+True to himself, the best he can;
+Who, drifting in the winds of praise,
+The inward monitor obeys;
+And, with the boldness that confesses fear,
+Takes in the crowded sail, and lets his conscience steer.
+
+"Thanks for the fitting word he speaks,
+Nor less for doubtful word unspoken;
+For the false model that he breaks,
+As for the moulded grace unbroken;
+For what is missed and what remains,
+For losses which are truest gains,
+For reverence conscious of the Eternal eye,
+And truth too fair to need the garnish of a lie."
+
+Laughing, the Critic bowed. "I yield
+The point without another word;
+Who ever yet a case appealed
+Where beauty's judgment had been heard?
+And you, my good friend, owe to me
+Your warmest thanks for such a plea,
+As true withal as sweet. For my offence
+Of cavil, let her words be ample recompense."
+
+Across the sea one lighthouse star,
+With crimson ray that came and went,
+Revolving on its tower afar,
+Looked through the doorway of the tent.
+While outward, over sand-slopes wet,
+The lamp flashed down its yellow jet
+On the long wash of waves, with red and green
+Tangles of weltering weed through the white foam-wreaths seen.
+
+"Sing while we may,--another day
+May bring enough of sorrow;'--thus
+Our Traveller in his own sweet lay,
+His Crimean camp-song, hints to us,"
+The lady said. "So let it be;
+Sing us a song," exclaimed all three.
+She smiled: "I can but marvel at your choice
+To hear our poet's words through my poor borrowed voice."
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+Her window opens to the bay,
+On glistening light or misty gray,
+And there at dawn and set of day
+In prayer she kneels.
+
+"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a borne
+From wind and wave the wanderers come;
+I only see the tossing foam
+Of stranger keels.
+
+"Blown out and in by summer gales,
+The stately ships, with crowded sails,
+And sailors leaning o'er their rails,
+Before me glide;
+They come, they go, but nevermore,
+Spice-laden from the Indian shore,
+I see his swift-winged Isidore
+The waves divide.
+
+"O Thou! with whom the night is day
+And one the near and far away,
+Look out on yon gray waste, and say
+Where lingers he.
+Alive, perchance, on some lone beach
+Or thirsty isle beyond the reach
+Of man, he hears the mocking speech
+Of wind and sea.
+
+"O dread and cruel deep, reveal
+The secret which thy waves conceal,
+And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel
+And tell your tale.
+Let winds that tossed his raven hair
+A message from my lost one bear,--
+Some thought of me, a last fond prayer
+Or dying wail!
+
+"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out
+The fears that haunt me round about;
+O God! I cannot bear this doubt
+That stifles breath.
+The worst is better than the dread;
+Give me but leave to mourn my dead
+Asleep in trust and hope, instead
+Of life in death!"
+
+It might have been the evening breeze
+That whispered in the garden trees,
+It might have been the sound of seas
+That rose and fell;
+But, with her heart, if not her ear,
+The old loved voice she seemed to hear
+"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer,
+For all is well!"
+1865
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+The sweet voice into silence went,
+A silence which was almost pain
+As through it rolled the long lament,
+The cadence of the mournful main.
+Glancing his written pages o'er,
+The Reader tried his part once more;
+Leaving the land of hackmatack and pine
+For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine.
+
+
+THE BROTHER OF MERCY.
+
+Piero Luca, known of all the town
+As the gray porter by the Pitti wall
+Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,
+Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down
+His last sad burden, and beside his mat
+The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.
+
+Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,
+Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;
+Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted
+Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,
+In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life
+But when at last came upward from the street
+Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,
+The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,
+Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.
+And the monk said, "'T is but the Brotherhood
+Of Mercy going on some errand good
+Their black masks by the palace-wall I see."
+Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me!
+This day for the first time in forty years
+In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears,
+Calling me with my brethren of the mask,
+Beggar and prince alike, to some new task
+Of love or pity,--haply from the street
+To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet
+Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain,
+To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors,
+Down the long twilight of the corridors,
+Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain.
+I loved the work: it was its own reward.
+I never counted on it to offset
+My sins, which are many, or make less my debt
+To the free grace and mercy of our Lord;
+But somehow, father, it has come to be
+In these long years so much a part of me,
+I should not know myself, if lacking it,
+But with the work the worker too would die,
+And in my place some other self would sit
+Joyful or sad,--what matters, if not I?
+And now all's over. Woe is me!"--"My son,"
+The monk said soothingly, "thy work is done;
+And no more as a servant, but the guest
+Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest.
+No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost,
+Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down
+Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown
+Forever and forever."--Piero tossed
+On his sick-pillow: "Miserable me!
+I am too poor for such grand company;
+The crown would be too heavy for this gray
+Old head; and God forgive me if I say
+It would be hard to sit there night and day,
+Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught
+With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought,
+Not for bread only, but for pity's sake.
+I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake,
+Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head,
+Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead.
+And if one goes to heaven without a heart,
+God knows he leaves behind his better part.
+I love my fellow-men: the worst I know
+I would do good to. Will death change me so
+That I shall sit among the lazy saints,
+Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints
+Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet
+Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset,
+Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less
+Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness?
+Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin!)
+The world of pain were better, if therein
+One's heart might still be human, and desires
+Of natural pity drop upon its fires
+Some cooling tears."
+
+Thereat the pale monk crossed
+His brow, and, muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!"
+Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone,
+The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan
+That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!"
+Then was he made aware, by soul or ear,
+Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him,
+And of a voice like that of her who bore him,
+Tender and most compassionate: "Never fear!
+For heaven is love, as God himself is love;
+Thy work below shall be thy work above."
+And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place
+He saw the shining of an angel's face!
+1864.
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+The Traveller broke the pause. "I've seen
+The Brothers down the long street steal,
+Black, silent, masked, the crowd between,
+And felt to doff my hat and kneel
+With heart, if not with knee, in prayer,
+For blessings on their pious care."
+
+Reader wiped his glasses: "Friends of mine,
+I'll try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign wine."
+
+
+
+THE CHANGELING.
+
+For the fairest maid in Hampton
+They needed not to search,
+Who saw young Anna Favor
+Come walking into church,
+
+Or bringing from the meadows,
+At set of harvest-day,
+The frolic of the blackbirds,
+The sweetness of the hay.
+
+Now the weariest of all mothers,
+The saddest two-years bride,
+She scowls in the face of her husband,
+And spurns her child aside.
+
+"Rake out the red coals, goodman,--
+For there the child shall lie,
+Till the black witch comes to fetch her
+And both up chimney fly.
+
+"It's never my own little daughter,
+It's never my own," she said;
+"The witches have stolen my Anna,
+And left me an imp instead.
+
+"Oh, fair and sweet was my baby,
+Blue eyes, and hair of gold;
+But this is ugly and wrinkled,
+Cross, and cunning, and old.
+
+"I hate the touch of her fingers,
+I hate the feel of her skin;
+It's not the milk from my bosom,
+But my blood, that she sucks in.
+
+"My face grows sharp with the torment;
+Look! my arms are skin and bone!
+Rake open the red coals, goodman,
+And the witch shall have her own.
+
+"She 'll come when she hears it crying,
+In the shape of an owl or bat,
+And she'll bring us our darling Anna
+In place of her screeching brat."
+
+Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,
+Laid his hand upon her head
+"Thy sorrow is great, O woman!
+I sorrow with thee," he said.
+
+"The paths to trouble are many,
+And never but one sure way
+Leads out to the light beyond it
+My poor wife, let us pray."
+
+Then he said to the great All-Father,
+"Thy daughter is weak and blind;
+Let her sight come back, and clothe her
+Once more in her right mind.
+
+"Lead her out of this evil shadow,
+Out of these fancies wild;
+Let the holy love of the mother
+Turn again to her child.
+
+"Make her lips like the lips of Mary
+Kissing her blessed Son;
+Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,
+Rest on her little one.
+
+"Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,
+Open her prison-door,
+And thine shall be all the glory
+And praise forevermore."
+
+Then into the face of its mother
+The baby looked up and smiled;
+And the cloud of her soul was lifted,
+And she knew her little child.
+
+A beam of the slant west sunshine
+Made the wan face almost fair,
+Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder,
+And the rings of pale gold hair.
+
+She kissed it on lip and forehead,
+She kissed it on cheek and chin,
+And she bared her snow-white bosom
+To the lips so pale and thin.
+
+Oh, fair on her bridal morning
+Was the maid who blushed and smiled,
+But fairer to Ezra Dalton
+Looked the mother of his child.
+
+With more than a lover's fondness
+He stooped to her worn young face,
+And the nursing child and the mother
+He folded in one embrace.
+
+"Blessed be God!" he murmured.
+"Blessed be God!" she said;
+"For I see, who once was blinded,--
+I live, who once was dead.
+
+"Now mount and ride, my goodman,
+As thou lovest thy own soul
+Woe's me, if my wicked fancies
+Be the death of Goody Cole!"
+
+His horse he saddled and bridled,
+And into the night rode he,
+Now through the great black woodland,
+Now by the white-beached sea.
+
+He rode through the silent clearings,
+He came to the ferry wide,
+And thrice he called to the boatman
+Asleep on the other side.
+
+He set his horse to the river,
+He swam to Newbury town,
+And he called up Justice Sewall
+In his nightcap and his gown.
+
+And the grave and worshipful justice
+(Upon whose soul be peace!)
+Set his name to the jailer's warrant
+For Goodwife Cole's release.
+
+Then through the night the hoof-beats
+Went sounding like a flail;
+And Goody Cole at cockcrow
+Came forth from Ipswich jail.
+1865
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+"Here is a rhyme: I hardly dare
+To venture on its theme worn out;
+What seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr
+Sounds simply silly hereabout;
+And pipes by lips Arcadian blown
+Are only tin horns at our own.
+Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us,
+While Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus."
+
+
+
+THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH.
+
+     Attitash, an Indian word signifying "huckleberry," is the name of a
+     large and beautiful lake in the northern part of Amesbury.
+
+In sky and wave the white clouds swam,
+And the blue hills of Nottingham
+Through gaps of leafy green
+Across the lake were seen,
+
+When, in the shadow of the ash
+That dreams its dream in Attitash,
+In the warm summer weather,
+Two maidens sat together.
+
+They sat and watched in idle mood
+The gleam and shade of lake and wood;
+The beach the keen light smote,
+The white sail of a boat;
+
+Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying,
+In sweetness, not in music, dying;
+Hardback, and virgin's-bower,
+And white-spiked clethra-flower.
+
+With careless ears they heard the plash
+And breezy wash of Attitash,
+The wood-bird's plaintive cry,
+The locust's sharp reply.
+
+And teased the while, with playful band,
+The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,
+Whose uncouth frolic spilled
+Their baskets berry-filled.
+
+Then one, the beauty of whose eyes
+Was evermore a great surprise,
+Tossed back her queenly head,
+And, lightly laughing, said:
+
+"No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold
+That is not lined with yellow gold;
+I tread no cottage-floor;
+I own no lover poor.
+
+"My love must come on silken wings,
+With bridal lights of diamond rings,
+Not foul with kitchen smirch,
+With tallow-dip for torch."
+
+The other, on whose modest head
+Was lesser dower of beauty shed,
+With look for home-hearths meet,
+And voice exceeding sweet,
+
+Answered, "We will not rivals be;
+Take thou the gold, leave love to me;
+Mine be the cottage small,
+And thine the rich man's hall.
+
+"I know, indeed, that wealth is good;
+But lowly roof and simple food,
+With love that hath no doubt,
+Are more than gold without."
+
+Hard by a farmer hale and young
+His cradle in the rye-field swung,
+Tracking the yellow plain
+With windrows of ripe grain.
+
+And still, whene'er he paused to whet
+His scythe, the sidelong glance he met
+Of large dark eyes, where strove
+False pride and secret love.
+
+Be strong, young mower of the-grain;
+That love shall overmatch disdain,
+Its instincts soon or late
+The heart shall vindicate.
+
+In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod,
+Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod
+The margin of the pond,
+Watching the group beyond.
+
+The supreme hours unnoted come;
+Unfelt the turning tides of doom;
+And so the maids laughed on,
+Nor dreamed what Fate had done,--
+
+Nor knew the step was Destiny's
+That rustled in the birchen trees,
+As, with their lives forecast,
+Fisher and mower passed.
+
+Erelong by lake and rivulet side
+The summer roses paled and died,
+And Autumn's fingers shed
+The maple's leaves of red.
+
+Through the long gold-hazed afternoon,
+Alone, but for the diving loon,
+The partridge in the brake,
+The black duck on the lake,
+
+Beneath the shadow of the ash
+Sat man and maid by Attitash;
+And earth and air made room
+For human hearts to bloom.
+
+Soft spread the carpets of the sod,
+And scarlet-oak and golden-rod
+With blushes and with smiles
+Lit up the forest aisles.
+
+The mellow light the lake aslant,
+The pebbled margin's ripple-chant
+Attempered and low-toned,
+The tender mystery owned.
+
+And through the dream the lovers dreamed
+Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed;
+The sunshine seemed to bless,
+The air was a caress.
+
+Not she who lightly laughed is there,
+With scornful toss of midnight hair,
+Her dark, disdainful eyes,
+And proud lip worldly-wise.
+
+Her haughty vow is still unsaid,
+But all she dreamed and coveted
+Wears, half to her surprise,
+The youthful farmer's guise!
+
+With more than all her old-time pride
+She walks the rye-field at his side,
+Careless of cot or hall,
+Since love transfigures all.
+
+Rich beyond dreams, the vantage-ground
+Of life is gained; her hands have found
+The talisman of old
+That changes all to gold.
+
+While she who could for love dispense
+With all its glittering accidents,
+And trust her heart alone,
+Finds love and gold her own.
+
+What wealth can buy or art can build
+Awaits her; but her cup is filled
+Even now unto the brim;
+Her world is love and him!
+1866.
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+The while he heard, the Book-man drew
+A length of make-believing face,
+With smothered mischief laughing through
+"Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place,
+And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep
+On Yankee hills immortal sheep,
+While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyond
+Hold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond."
+
+The Traveller laughed: "Sir Galahad
+Singing of love the Trouvere's lay!
+How should he know the blindfold lad
+From one of Vulcan's forge-boys?"--"Nay,
+He better sees who stands outside
+Than they who in procession ride,"
+The Reader answered: "selectmen and squire
+Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire.
+
+"Here is a wild tale of the North,
+Our travelled friend will own as one
+Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth
+And lips of Christian Andersen.
+They tell it in the valleys green
+Of the fair island he has seen,
+Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore,
+Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore."
+
+
+KALLUNDBORG CHURCH
+
+               "Tie stille, barn min
+               Imorgen kommer Fin,
+               Fa'er din,
+Og gi'er dig Esbern Snares nine og hjerte at lege med!"
+                                        Zealand Rhyme.
+
+"Build at Kallundborg by the sea
+A church as stately as church may be,
+And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair,"
+Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare.
+
+And the Baron laughed. But Esbern said,
+"Though I lose my soul, I will Helva wed!"
+And off he strode, in his pride of will,
+To the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill.
+
+"Build, O Troll, a church for me
+At Kallundborg by the mighty sea;
+Build it stately, and build it fair,
+Build it quickly," said Esbern Snare.
+
+But the sly Dwarf said, "No work is wrought
+By Trolls of the Hills, O man, for naught.
+What wilt thou give for thy church so fair?"
+"Set thy own price," quoth Esbern Snare.
+
+"When Kallundborg church is builded well,
+Than must the name of its builder tell,
+Or thy heart and thy eyes must be my boon."
+"Build," said Esbern, "and build it soon."
+
+By night and by day the Troll wrought on;
+He hewed the timbers, he piled the stone;
+But day by day, as the walls rose fair,
+Darker and sadder grew Esbern Snare.
+
+He listened by night, he watched by day,
+He sought and thought, but he dared not pray;
+In vain he called on the Elle-maids shy,
+And the Neck and the Nis gave no reply.
+
+Of his evil bargain far and wide
+A rumor ran through the country-side;
+And Helva of Nesvek, young and fair,
+Prayed for the soul of Esbern Snare.
+
+And now the church was wellnigh done;
+One pillar it lacked, and one alone;
+And the grim Troll muttered, "Fool thou art
+To-morrow gives me thy eyes and heart!"
+
+By Kallundborg in black despair,
+Through wood and meadow, walked Esbern Snare,
+Till, worn and weary, the strong man sank
+Under the birches on Ulshoi bank.
+
+At, his last day's work he heard the Troll
+Hammer and delve in the quarry's hole;
+Before him the church stood large and fair
+"I have builded my tomb," said Esbern Snare.
+
+And he closed his eyes the sight to hide,
+When he heard a light step at his side
+"O Esbern Snare!" a sweet voice said,
+"Would I might die now in thy stead!"
+
+With a grasp by love and by fear made strong,
+He held her fast, and he held her long;
+With the beating heart of a bird afeard,
+She hid her face in his flame-red beard.
+
+"O love!" he cried, "let me look to-day
+In thine eyes ere mine are plucked away;
+Let me hold thee close, let me feel thy heart
+Ere mine by the Troll is torn apart!
+
+"I sinned, O Helva, for love of thee!
+Pray that the Lord Christ pardon me!"
+But fast as she prayed, and faster still,
+Hammered the Troll in Ulshoi hill.
+
+He knew, as he wrought, that a loving heart
+Was somehow baffling his evil art;
+For more than spell of Elf or Troll
+Is a maiden's prayer for her lover's soul.
+
+And Esbern listened, and caught the sound
+Of a Troll-wife singing underground
+"To-morrow comes Fine, father thine
+Lie still and hush thee, baby mine!
+
+"Lie still, my darling! next sunrise
+Thou'lt play with Esbern Snare's heart and eyes!"
+"Ho! ho!" quoth Esbern, "is that your game?
+Thanks to the Troll-wife, I know his name!"
+
+The Troll he heard him, and hurried on
+To Kallundborg church with the lacking stone.
+"Too late, Gaffer Fine!" cried Esbern Snare;
+And Troll and pillar vanished in air!
+
+That night the harvesters heard the sound
+Of a woman sobbing underground,
+And the voice of the Hill-Troll loud with blame
+Of the careless singer who told his name.
+
+Of the Troll of the Church they sing the rune
+By the Northern Sea in the harvest moon;
+And the fishers of Zealand hear him still
+Scolding his wife in Ulshoi hill.
+
+And seaward over its groves of birch
+Still looks the tower of Kallundborg church,
+Where, first at its altar, a wedded pair,
+Stood Helva of Nesvek and Esbern Snare!
+1865.
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+"What," asked the Traveller, "would our sires,
+The old Norse story-tellers, say
+Of sun-graved pictures, ocean wires,
+And smoking steamboats of to-day?
+And this, O lady, by your leave,
+Recalls your song of yester eve:
+Pray, let us have that Cable-hymn once more."
+"Hear, hear!" the Book-man cried, "the lady has the floor.
+
+"These noisy waves below perhaps
+To such a strain will lend their ear,
+With softer voice and lighter lapse
+Come stealing up the sands to hear,
+And what they once refused to do
+For old King Knut accord to you.
+Nay, even the fishes shall your listeners be,
+As once, the legend runs, they heard St. Anthony."
+
+
+THE CABLE HYMN.
+
+O lonely bay of Trinity,
+O dreary shores, give ear!
+Lean down unto the white-lipped sea
+The voice of God to hear!
+
+From world to world His couriers fly,
+Thought-winged and shod with fire;
+The angel of His stormy sky
+Rides down the sunken wire.
+
+What saith the herald of the Lord?
+"The world's long strife is done;
+Close wedded by that mystic cord,
+Its continents are one.
+
+"And one in heart, as one in blood,
+Shall all her peoples be;
+The hands of human brotherhood
+Are clasped beneath the sea.
+
+"Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plain
+And Asian mountains borne,
+The vigor of the Northern brain
+Shall nerve the world outworn.
+
+"From clime to clime, from shore to shore,
+Shall thrill the magic thread;
+The new Prometheus steals once more
+The fire that wakes the dead."
+
+Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beat
+From answering beach to beach;
+Fuse nations in thy kindly heat,
+And melt the chains of each!
+
+Wild terror of the sky above,
+Glide tamed and dumb below!
+Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove,
+Thy errands to and fro.
+
+Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,
+Beneath the deep so far,
+The bridal robe of earth's accord,
+The funeral shroud of war!
+
+For lo! the fall of Ocean's wall
+Space mocked and time outrun;
+And round the world the thought of all
+Is as the thought of one!
+
+The poles unite, the zones agree,
+The tongues of striving cease;
+As on the Sea of Galilee
+The Christ is whispering, Peace!
+1858.
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+"Glad prophecy! to this at last,"
+The Reader said, "shall all things come.
+Forgotten be the bugle's blast,
+And battle-music of the drum.
+
+"A little while the world may run
+Its old mad way, with needle-gun
+And iron-clad, but truth, at last, shall reign
+The cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain!"
+
+Shifting his scattered papers, "Here,"
+He said, as died the faint applause,
+"Is something that I found last year
+Down on the island known as Orr's.
+I had it from a fair-haired girl
+Who, oddly, bore the name of Pearl,
+(As if by some droll freak of circumstance,)
+Classic, or wellnigh so, in Harriet Stowe's romance."
+
+
+THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL.
+
+What flecks the outer gray beyond
+The sundown's golden trail?
+The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,
+Or gleam of slanting sail?
+Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point,
+And sea-worn elders pray,--
+The ghost of what was once a ship
+Is sailing up the bay.
+
+From gray sea-fog, from icy drift,
+From peril and from pain,
+The home-bound fisher greets thy lights,
+O hundred-harbored Maine!
+But many a keel shall seaward turn,
+And many a sail outstand,
+When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms
+Against the dusk of land.
+
+She rounds the headland's bristling pines;
+She threads the isle-set bay;
+No spur of breeze can speed her on,
+Nor ebb of tide delay.
+Old men still walk the Isle of Orr
+Who tell her date and name,
+Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yards
+Who hewed her oaken frame.
+
+What weary doom of baffled quest,
+Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine?
+What makes thee in the haunts of home
+A wonder and a sign?
+No foot is on thy silent deck,
+Upon thy helm no hand;
+No ripple hath the soundless wind
+That smites thee from the land!
+
+For never comes the ship to port,
+Howe'er the breeze may be;
+Just when she nears the waiting shore
+She drifts again to sea.
+No tack of sail, nor turn of helm,
+Nor sheer of veering side;
+Stern-fore she drives to sea and night,
+Against the wind and tide.
+
+In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star
+Of evening guides her in;
+In vain for her the lamps are lit
+Within thy tower, Seguin!
+In vain the harbor-boat shall hail,
+In vain the pilot call;
+No hand shall reef her spectral sail,
+Or let her anchor fall.
+
+Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy,
+Your gray-head hints of ill;
+And, over sick-beds whispering low,
+Your prophecies fulfil.
+Some home amid yon birchen trees
+Shall drape its door with woe;
+And slowly where the Dead Ship sails,
+The burial boat shall row!
+
+From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point,
+From island and from main,
+From sheltered cove and tided creek,
+Shall glide the funeral train.
+The dead-boat with the bearers four,
+The mourners at her stern,--
+And one shall go the silent way
+Who shall no more return!
+
+And men shall sigh, and women weep,
+Whose dear ones pale and pine,
+And sadly over sunset seas
+Await the ghostly sign.
+They know not that its sails are filled
+By pity's tender breath,
+Nor see the Angel at the helm
+Who steers the Ship of Death!
+1866.
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+"Chill as a down-east breeze should be,"
+The Book-man said. "A ghostly touch
+The legend has. I'm glad to see
+Your flying Yankee beat the Dutch."
+"Well, here is something of the sort
+Which one midsummer day I caught
+In Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish."
+"We wait," the Traveller said;
+"serve hot or cold your dish."
+
+
+THE PALATINE.
+
+     Block Island in Long Island Sound, called by the Indians Manisees,
+     the isle of the little god, was the scene of a tragic incident a
+     hundred years or more ago, when _The Palatine_, an emigrant ship
+     bound for Philadelphia, driven off its course, came upon the coast
+     at this point. A mutiny on board, followed by an inhuman desertion
+     on the part of the crew, had brought the unhappy passengers to the
+     verge of starvation and madness. Tradition says that wreckers on
+     shore, after rescuing all but one of the survivors, set fire to the
+     vessel, which was driven out to sea before a gale which had sprung
+     up. Every twelvemonth, according to the same tradition, the
+     spectacle of a ship on fire is visible to the inhabitants of the
+     island.
+
+Leagues north, as fly the gull and auk,
+Point Judith watches with eye of hawk;
+Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk!
+
+Lonely and wind-shorn, wood-forsaken,
+With never a tree for Spring to waken,
+For tryst of lovers or farewells taken,
+
+Circled by waters that never freeze,
+Beaten by billow and swept by breeze,
+Lieth the island of Manisees,
+
+Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold
+The coast lights up on its turret old,
+Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould.
+
+Dreary the land when gust and sleet
+At its doors and windows howl and beat,
+And Winter laughs at its fires of peat!
+
+But in summer time, when pool and pond,
+Held in the laps of valleys fond,
+Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond;
+
+When the hills are sweet with the brier-rose,
+And, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose
+Flowers the mainland rarely knows;
+
+When boats to their morning fishing go,
+And, held to the wind and slanting low,
+Whitening and darkening the small sails show,--
+
+Then is that lonely island fair;
+And the pale health-seeker findeth there
+The wine of life in its pleasant air.
+
+No greener valleys the sun invite,
+On smoother beaches no sea-birds light,
+No blue waves shatter to foam more white!
+
+There, circling ever their narrow range,
+Quaint tradition and legend strange
+Live on unchallenged, and know no change.
+
+Old wives spinning their webs of tow,
+Or rocking weirdly to and fro
+In and out of the peat's dull glow,
+
+And old men mending their nets of twine,
+Talk together of dream and sign,
+Talk of the lost ship Palatine,--
+
+The ship that, a hundred years before,
+Freighted deep with its goodly store,
+In the gales of the equinox went ashore.
+
+The eager islanders one by one
+Counted the shots of her signal gun,
+And heard the crash when she drove right on!
+
+Into the teeth of death she sped
+(May God forgive the hands that fed
+The false lights over the rocky Head!)
+
+O men and brothers! what sights were there!
+White upturned faces, hands stretched in prayer!
+Where waves had pity, could ye not spare?
+
+Down swooped the wreckers, like birds of prey
+Tearing the heart of the ship away,
+And the dead had never a word to say.
+
+And then, with ghastly shimmer and shine
+Over the rocks and the seething brine,
+They burned the wreck of the Palatine.
+
+In their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped,
+"The sea and the rocks are dumb," they said
+"There 'll be no reckoning with the dead."
+
+But the year went round, and when once more
+Along their foam-white curves of shore
+They heard the line-storm rave and roar,
+
+Behold! again, with shimmer and shine,
+Over the rocks and the seething brine,
+The flaming wreck of the Palatine!
+
+So, haply in fitter words than these,
+Mending their nets on their patient knees
+They tell the legend of Manisees.
+
+Nor looks nor tones a doubt betray;
+"It is known to us all," they quietly say;
+"We too have seen it in our day."
+
+Is there, then, no death for a word once spoken?
+Was never a deed but left its token
+Written on tables never broken?
+
+Do the elements subtle reflections give?
+Do pictures of all the ages live
+On Nature's infinite negative,
+
+Which, half in sport, in malice half,
+She shows at times, with shudder or laugh,
+Phantom and shadow in photograph?
+
+For still, on many a moonless night,
+From Kingston Head and from Montauk light
+The spectre kindles and burns in sight.
+
+Now low and dim, now clear and higher,
+Leaps up the terrible Ghost of Fire,
+Then, slowly sinking, the flames expire.
+
+And the wise Sound skippers, though skies be fine,
+Reef their sails when they see the sign
+Of the blazing wreck of the Palatine!
+1867.
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+"A fitter tale to scream than sing,"
+The Book-man said. "Well, fancy, then,"
+The Reader answered, "on the wing
+The sea-birds shriek it, not for men,
+But in the ear of wave and breeze!"
+The Traveller mused: "Your Manisees
+Is fairy-land: off Narragansett shore
+Who ever saw the isle or heard its name before?
+
+"'T is some strange land of Flyaway,
+Whose dreamy shore the ship beguiles,
+St. Brandan's in its sea-mist gray,
+Or sunset loom of Fortunate Isles!"
+"No ghost, but solid turf and rock
+Is the good island known as Block,"
+The Reader said. "For beauty and for ease
+I chose its Indian name, soft-flowing Manisees!
+
+"But let it pass; here is a bit
+Of unrhymed story, with a hint
+Of the old preaching mood in it,
+The sort of sidelong moral squint
+Our friend objects to, which has grown,
+I fear, a habit of my own.
+'Twas written when the Asian plague drew near,
+And the land held its breath and paled with sudden fear."
+
+
+ABRAHAM DAVENPORT
+
+     The famous Dark Day of New England, May 19, 1780, was a physical
+     puzzle for many years to our ancestors, but its occurrence brought
+     something more than philosophical speculation into the winds of
+     those who passed through it. The incident of Colonel Abraham
+     Davenport's sturdy protest is a matter of history.
+
+In the old days (a custom laid aside
+With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent
+Their wisest men to make the public laws.
+And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound
+Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas,
+Waved over by the woods of Rippowams,
+And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths,
+Stamford sent up to the councils of the State
+Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport.
+
+'T was on a May-day of the far old year
+Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell
+Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring,
+Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,
+A horror of great darkness, like the night
+In day of which the Norland sagas tell,--
+
+The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky
+Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim
+Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs
+The crater's sides from the red hell below.
+Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls
+Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars
+Lowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wings
+Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died;
+Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp
+To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter
+The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ
+Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked
+A loving guest at Bethany, but stern
+As Justice and inexorable Law.
+
+Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts,
+Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut,
+Trembling beneath their legislative robes.
+"It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,"
+Some said; and then, as if with one accord,
+All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.
+He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice
+The intolerable hush. "This well may be
+The Day of Judgment which the world awaits;
+But be it so or not, I only know
+My present duty, and my Lord's command
+To occupy till He come. So at the post
+Where He hath set me in His providence,
+I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face,--
+No faithless servant frightened from my task,
+But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls;
+And therefore, with all reverence, I would say,
+Let God do His work, we will see to ours.
+Bring in the candles." And they brought them in.
+
+Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read,
+Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands,
+An act to amend an act to regulate
+The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon
+Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport,
+Straight to the question, with no figures of speech
+Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without
+The shrewd dry humor natural to the man
+His awe-struck colleagues listening all the while,
+Between the pauses of his argument,
+To hear the thunder of the wrath of God
+Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.
+
+And there he stands in memory to this day,
+Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen
+Against the background of unnatural dark,
+A witness to the ages as they pass,
+That simple duty hath no place for fear.
+1866.
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+He ceased: just then the ocean seemed
+To lift a half-faced moon in sight;
+And, shore-ward, o'er the waters gleamed,
+From crest to crest, a line of light,
+Such as of old, with solemn awe,
+The fishers by Gennesaret saw,
+When dry-shod o'er it walked the Son of God,
+Tracking the waves with light where'er his sandals trod.
+
+Silently for a space each eye
+Upon that sudden glory turned
+Cool from the land the breeze blew by,
+The tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churned
+Its waves to foam; on either hand
+Stretched, far as sight, the hills of sand;
+With bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree,
+The wood's black shore-line loomed beyond the meadowy sea.
+
+The lady rose to leave. "One song,
+Or hymn," they urged, "before we part."
+And she, with lips to which belong
+Sweet intuitions of all art,
+Gave to the winds of night a strain
+Which they who heard would hear again;
+And to her voice the solemn ocean lent,
+Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.
+
+
+THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.
+
+The harp at Nature's advent strung
+Has never ceased to play;
+The song the stars of morning sung
+Has never died away.
+
+And prayer is made, and praise is given,
+By all things near and far;
+The ocean looketh up to heaven,
+And mirrors every star.
+
+Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
+As kneels the human knee,
+Their white locks bowing to the sand,
+The priesthood of the sea'
+
+They pour their glittering treasures forth,
+Their gifts of pearl they bring,
+And all the listening hills of earth
+Take up the song they sing.
+
+The green earth sends her incense up
+From many a mountain shrine;
+From folded leaf and dewy cup
+She pours her sacred wine.
+
+The mists above the morning rills
+Rise white as wings of prayer;
+The altar-curtains of the hills
+Are sunset's purple air.
+
+The winds with hymns of praise are loud,
+Or low with sobs of pain,--
+The thunder-organ of the cloud,
+The dropping tears of rain.
+
+With drooping head and branches crossed
+The twilight forest grieves,
+Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost
+From all its sunlit leaves.
+
+The blue sky is the temple's arch,
+Its transept earth and air,
+The music of its starry march
+The chorus of a prayer.
+
+So Nature keeps the reverent frame
+With which her years began,
+And all her signs and voices shame
+The prayerless heart of man.
+
+       .     .     .     .     .
+
+The singer ceased. The moon's white rays
+Fell on the rapt, still face of her.
+"_Allah il Allah_! He hath praise
+From all things," said the Traveller.
+"Oft from the desert's silent nights,
+And mountain hymns of sunset lights,
+My heart has felt rebuke, as in his tent
+The Moslem's prayer has shamed my Christian knee unbent."
+
+He paused, and lo! far, faint, and slow
+The bells in Newbury's steeples tolled
+The twelve dead hours; the lamp burned low;
+The singer sought her canvas fold.
+One sadly said, "At break of day
+We strike our tent and go our way."
+But one made answer cheerily, "Never fear,
+We'll pitch this tent of ours in type another year."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, PERSONAL POEMS, PART 4 ***
+By John Greenleaf Whittier
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