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diff --git a/9584.txt b/9584.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b666be3 --- /dev/null +++ b/9584.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2346 @@ +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 + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + + +Title: 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 + + + + +*** 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 + +****** This file should be named 9584.txt or 9584.zip ****** + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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