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."



AT SUNDOWN, TO E. C. S.

Poet and friend of poets, if thy glass Detects no flower in winter's tuft of grass, Let this slight token of the debt I owe Outlive for thee December's frozen day, And, like the arbutus budding under snow, Take bloom and fragrance from some morn of May When he who gives it shall have gone the way Where faith shall see and reverent trust shall know.



THE CHRISTMAS OF 1888.

Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn, The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn, And on a wintry waste Of frosted streams and hillsides bare and brown, Through thin cloud-films, a pallid ghost looked down, The waning moon half-faced!

In that pale sky and sere, snow-waiting earth, What sign was there of the immortal birth? What herald of the One? Lo! swift as thought the heavenly radiance came, A rose-red splendor swept the sky like flame, Up rolled the round, bright sun!

And all was changed. From a transfigured world The moon's ghost fled, the smoke of home-hearths curled Up the still air unblown. In Orient warmth and brightness, did that morn O'er Nain and Nazareth, when the Christ was born, Break fairer than our own?

The morning's promise noon and eve fulfilled In warm, soft sky and landscape hazy-hilled And sunset fair as they; A sweet reminder of His holiest time, A summer-miracle in our winter clime, God gave a perfect day.

The near was blended with the old and far, And Bethlehem's hillside and the Magi's star Seemed here, as there and then,— Our homestead pine-tree was the Syrian palm, Our heart's desire the angels' midnight psalm, Peace, and good-will to men!



THE VOW OF WASHINGTON.

Read in New York, April 30, 1889, at the Centennial Celebration of the Inauguration of George Washington as the first President of the United States.

The sword was sheathed: in April's sun Lay green the fields by Freedom won; And severed sections, weary of debates, Joined hands at last and were United States.

O City sitting by the Sea How proud the day that dawned on thee, When the new era, long desired, began, And, in its need, the hour had found the man!

One thought the cannon salvos spoke, The resonant bell-tower's vibrant stroke, The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls, And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul's!

How felt the land in every part The strong throb of a nation's heart, As its great leader gave, with reverent awe, His pledge to Union, Liberty, and Law.

That pledge the heavens above him heard, That vow the sleep of centuries stirred; In world-wide wonder listening peoples bent Their gaze on Freedom's great experiment.

Could it succeed? Of honor sold And hopes deceived all history told. Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past, Was the long dream of ages true at last?

Thank God! the people's choice was just, The one man equal to his trust, Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good, Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude.

His rule of justice, order, peace, Made possible the world's release; Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust, And rule, alone, which serves the ruled, is just;

That Freedom generous is, but strong In hate of fraud and selfish wrong, Pretence that turns her holy truths to lies, And lawless license masking in her guise.

Land of his love! with one glad voice Let thy great sisterhood rejoice; A century's suns o'er thee have risen and set, And, God be praised, we are one nation yet.

And still we trust the years to be Shall prove his hope was destiny, Leaving our flag, with all its added stars, Unrent by faction and unstained by wars.

Lo! where with patient toil he nursed And trained the new-set plant at first, The widening branches of a stately tree Stretch from the sunrise to the sunset sea.

And in its broad and sheltering shade, Sitting with none to make afraid, Were we now silent, through each mighty limb, The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him.

Our first and best!—his ashes lie Beneath his own Virginian sky. Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave, The storm that swept above thy sacred grave.

For, ever in the awful strife And dark hours of the nation's life, Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word, Their father's voice his erring children heard.

The change for which he prayed and sought In that sharp agony was wrought; No partial interest draws its alien line 'Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine!

One people now, all doubt beyond, His name shall be our Union-bond; We lift our hands to Heaven, and here and now. Take on our lips the old Centennial vow.

For rule and trust must needs be ours; Chooser and chosen both are powers Equal in service as in rights; the claim Of Duty rests on each and all the same.

Then let the sovereign millions, where Our banner floats in sun and air, From the warm palm-lands to Alaska's cold, Repeat with us the pledge a century old?



THE CAPTAIN'S WELL.

The story of the shipwreck of Captain Valentine Bagley, on the coast of Arabia, and his sufferings in the desert, has been familiar from my childhood. It has been partially told in the singularly beautiful lines of my friend, Harriet Prescott Spofford, an the occasion of a public celebration at the Newburyport Library. To the charm and felicity of her verse, as far as it goes, nothing can be added; but in the following ballad I have endeavored to give a fuller detail of the touching incident upon which it is founded.

From pain and peril, by land and main, The shipwrecked sailor came back again;

And like one from the dead, the threshold cross'd Of his wondering home, that had mourned him lost.

Where he sat once more with his kith and kin, And welcomed his neighbors thronging in.

But when morning came he called for his spade. "I must pay my debt to the Lord," he said.

"Why dig you here?" asked the passer-by; "Is there gold or silver the road so nigh?"

"No, friend," he answered: "but under this sod Is the blessed water, the wine of God."

"Water! the Powow is at your back, And right before you the Merrimac,

"And look you up, or look you down, There 's a well-sweep at every door in town."

"True," he said, "we have wells of our own; But this I dig for the Lord alone."

Said the other: "This soil is dry, you know. I doubt if a spring can be found below;

"You had better consult, before you dig, Some water-witch, with a hazel twig."

"No, wet or dry, I will dig it here, Shallow or deep, if it takes a year.

"In the Arab desert, where shade is none, The waterless land of sand and sun,

"Under the pitiless, brazen sky My burning throat as the sand was dry;

"My crazed brain listened in fever dreams For plash of buckets and ripple of streams;

"And opening my eyes to the blinding glare, And my lips to the breath of the blistering air,

"Tortured alike by the heavens and earth, I cursed, like Job, the day of my birth.

"Then something tender, and sad, and mild As a mother's voice to her wandering child,

"Rebuked my frenzy; and bowing my head, I prayed as I never before had prayed:

"Pity me, God! for I die of thirst; Take me out of this land accurst;

"And if ever I reach my home again, Where earth has springs, and the sky has rain,

"I will dig a well for the passers-by, And none shall suffer from thirst as I.

"I saw, as I prayed, my home once more, The house, the barn, the elms by the door,

"The grass-lined road, that riverward wound, The tall slate stones of the burying-ground,

"The belfry and steeple on meeting-house hill, The brook with its dam, and gray grist mill,

"And I knew in that vision beyond the sea, The very place where my well must be.

"God heard my prayer in that evil day; He led my feet in their homeward way,

"From false mirage and dried-up well, And the hot sand storms of a land of hell,

"Till I saw at last through the coast-hill's gap, A city held in its stony lap,

"The mosques and the domes of scorched Muscat, And my heart leaped up with joy thereat;

"For there was a ship at anchor lying, A Christian flag at its mast-head flying,

"And sweetest of sounds to my homesick ear Was my native tongue in the sailor's cheer.

"Now the Lord be thanked, I am back again, Where earth has springs, and the skies have rain,

"And the well I promised by Oman's Sea, I am digging for him in Amesbury."

His kindred wept, and his neighbors said "The poor old captain is out of his head."

But from morn to noon, and from noon to night, He toiled at his task with main and might;

And when at last, from the loosened earth, Under his spade the stream gushed forth,

And fast as he climbed to his deep well's brim, The water he dug for followed him,

He shouted for joy: "I have kept my word, And here is the well I promised the Lord!"

The long years came and the long years went, And he sat by his roadside well content;

He watched the travellers, heat-oppressed, Pause by the way to drink and rest,

And the sweltering horses dip, as they drank, Their nostrils deep in the cool, sweet tank,

And grateful at heart, his memory went Back to that waterless Orient,

And the blessed answer of prayer, which came To the earth of iron and sky of flame.

And when a wayfarer weary and hot, Kept to the mid road, pausing not

For the well's refreshing, he shook his head; "He don't know the value of water," he said;

"Had he prayed for a drop, as I have done, In the desert circle of sand and sun,

"He would drink and rest, and go home to tell That God's best gift is the wayside well!"



AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION.

The substance of these lines, hastily pencilled several years ago, I find among such of my unprinted scraps as have escaped the waste-basket and the fire. In transcribing it I have made some changes, additions, and omissions.

On these green banks, where falls too soon The shade of Autumn's afternoon, The south wind blowing soft and sweet, The water gliding at nay feet, The distant northern range uplit By the slant sunshine over it, With changes of the mountain mist From tender blush to amethyst, The valley's stretch of shade and gleam Fair as in Mirza's Bagdad dream, With glad young faces smiling near And merry voices in my ear, I sit, methinks, as Hafiz might In Iran's Garden of Delight. For Persian roses blushing red, Aster and gentian bloom instead; For Shiraz wine, this mountain air; For feast, the blueberries which I share With one who proffers with stained hands Her gleanings from yon pasture lands, Wild fruit that art and culture spoil, The harvest of an untilled soil; And with her one whose tender eyes Reflect the change of April skies, Midway 'twixt child and maiden yet, Fresh as Spring's earliest violet; And one whose look and voice and ways Make where she goes idyllic days; And one whose sweet, still countenance Seems dreamful of a child's romance; And others, welcome as are these, Like and unlike, varieties Of pearls on nature's chaplet strung, And all are fair, for all are young. Gathered from seaside cities old, From midland prairie, lake, and wold, From the great wheat-fields, which might feed The hunger of a world at need, In healthful change of rest and play Their school-vacations glide away.

No critics these: they only see An old and kindly friend in me, In whose amused, indulgent look Their innocent mirth has no rebuke. They scarce can know my rugged rhymes, The harsher songs of evil times, Nor graver themes in minor keys Of life's and death's solemnities; But haply, as they bear in mind Some verse of lighter, happier kind,— Hints of the boyhood of the man, Youth viewed from life's meridian, Half seriously and half in play My pleasant interviewers pay Their visit, with no fell intent Of taking notes and punishment.

As yonder solitary pine Is ringed below with flower and vine, More favored than that lonely tree, The bloom of girlhood circles me. In such an atmosphere of youth I half forget my age's truth; The shadow of my life's long date Runs backward on the dial-plate, Until it seems a step might span The gulf between the boy and man.

My young friends smile, as if some jay On bleak December's leafless spray Essayed to sing the songs of May. Well, let them smile, and live to know, When their brown locks are flecked with snow, 'T is tedious to be always sage And pose the dignity of age, While so much of our early lives On memory's playground still survives, And owns, as at the present hour, The spell of youth's magnetic power.

But though I feel, with Solomon, 'T is pleasant to behold the sun, I would not if I could repeat A life which still is good and sweet; I keep in age, as in my prime, A not uncheerful step with time, And, grateful for all blessings sent, I go the common way, content To make no new experiment. On easy terms with law and fate, For what must be I calmly wait, And trust the path I cannot see,— That God is good sufficeth me. And when at last on life's strange play The curtain falls, I only pray That hope may lose itself in truth, And age in Heaven's immortal youth, And all our loves and longing prove The foretaste of diviner love.

The day is done. Its afterglow Along the west is burning low. My visitors, like birds, have flown; I hear their voices, fainter grown, And dimly through the dusk I see Their 'kerchiefs wave good-night to me,— Light hearts of girlhood, knowing nought Of all the cheer their coming brought; And, in their going, unaware Of silent-following feet of prayer Heaven make their budding promise good With flowers of gracious womanhood!



R. S. S., AT DEER ISLAND ON THE MERRIMAC.

Make, for he loved thee well, our Merrimac, From wave and shore a low and long lament For him, whose last look sought thee, as he went The unknown way from which no step comes back. And ye, O ancient pine-trees, at whose feet He watched in life the sunset's reddening glow, Let the soft south wind through your needles blow A fitting requiem tenderly and sweet! No fonder lover of all lovely things Shall walk where once he walked, no smile more glad Greet friends than his who friends in all men had, Whose pleasant memory, to that Island clings, Where a dear mourner in the home he left Of love's sweet solace cannot be bereft.



BURNING DRIFT-WOOD

Before my drift-wood fire I sit, And see, with every waif I burn, Old dreams and fancies coloring it, And folly's unlaid ghosts return.

O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleft The enchanted sea on which they sailed, Are these poor fragments only left Of vain desires and hopes that failed?

Did I not watch from them the light Of sunset on my towers in Spain, And see, far off, uploom in sight The Fortunate Isles I might not gain?

Did sudden lift of fog reveal Arcadia's vales of song and spring, And did I pass, with grazing keel, The rocks whereon the sirens sing?

Have I not drifted hard upon The unmapped regions lost to man, The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John, The palace domes of Kubla Khan?

Did land winds blow from jasmine flowers, Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills? Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers, And gold from Eldorado's hills?

Alas! the gallant ships, that sailed On blind Adventure's errand sent, Howe'er they laid their courses, failed To reach the haven of Content.

And of my ventures, those alone Which Love had freighted, safely sped, Seeking a good beyond my own, By clear-eyed Duty piloted.

O mariners, hoping still to meet The luck Arabian voyagers met, And find in Bagdad's moonlit street, Haroun al Raschid walking yet,

Take with you, on your Sea of Dreams, The fair, fond fancies dear to youth. I turn from all that only seems, And seek the sober grounds of truth.

What matter that it is not May, That birds have flown, and trees are bare, That darker grows the shortening day, And colder blows the wintry air!

The wrecks of passion and desire, The castles I no more rebuild, May fitly feed my drift-wood fire, And warm the hands that age has chilled.

Whatever perished with my ships, I only know the best remains; A song of praise is on my lips For losses which are now my gains.

Heap high my hearth! No worth is lost; No wisdom with the folly dies. Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust Shall be my evening sacrifice.

Far more than all I dared to dream, Unsought before my door I see; On wings of fire and steeds of steam The world's great wonders come to me,

And holier signs, unmarked before, Of Love to seek and Power to save,— The righting of the wronged and poor, The man evolving from the slave;

And life, no longer chance or fate, Safe in the gracious Fatherhood. I fold o'er-wearied hands and wait, In full assurance of the good.

And well the waiting time must be, Though brief or long its granted days, If Faith and Hope and Charity Sit by my evening hearth-fire's blaze.

And with them, friends whom Heaven has spared, Whose love my heart has comforted, And, sharing all my joys, has shared My tender memories of the dead,—

Dear souls who left us lonely here, Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom We, day by day, are drawing near, Where every bark has sailing room!

I know the solemn monotone Of waters calling unto me I know from whence the airs have blown That whisper of the Eternal Sea.

As low my fires of drift-wood burn, I hear that sea's deep sounds increase, And, fair in sunset light, discern Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace.



O. W. HOLMES ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTH-DAY.

Climbing a path which leads back never more We heard behind his footsteps and his cheer; Now, face to face, we greet him standing here Upon the lonely summit of Fourscore Welcome to us, o'er whom the lengthened day Is closing and the shadows colder grow, His genial presence, like an afterglow, Following the one just vanishing away. Long be it ere the table shall be set For the last breakfast of the Autocrat, And love repeat with smiles and tears thereat His own sweet songs that time shall not forget. Waiting with us the call to come up higher, Life is not less, the heavens are only higher!



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

From purest wells of English undefiled None deeper drank than he, the New World's child, Who in the language of their farm-fields spoke The wit and wisdom of New England folk, Shaming a monstrous wrong. The world-wide laugh Provoked thereby might well have shaken half The walls of Slavery down, ere yet the ball And mine of battle overthrew them all.



HAVERHILL. 1640-1890.

Read at the Celebration of the Two Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary of the City, July 2, 1890.

O river winding to the sea! We call the old time back to thee; From forest paths and water-ways The century-woven veil we raise.

The voices of to-day are dumb, Unheard its sounds that go and come; We listen, through long-lapsing years, To footsteps of the pioneers.

Gone steepled town and cultured plain, The wilderness returns again, The drear, untrodden solitude, The gloom and mystery of the wood!

Once more the bear and panther prowl, The wolf repeats his hungry howl, And, peering through his leafy screen, The Indian's copper face is seen.

We see, their rude-built huts beside, Grave men and women anxious-eyed, And wistful youth remembering still Dear homes in England's Haverhill.

We summon forth to mortal view Dark Passaquo and Saggahew,— Wild chiefs, who owned the mighty sway Of wizard Passaconaway.

Weird memories of the border town, By old tradition handed down, In chance and change before us pass Like pictures in a magic glass,—

The terrors of the midnight raid, The-death-concealing ambuscade, The winter march, through deserts wild, Of captive mother, wife, and child.

Ah! bleeding hands alone subdued And tamed the savage habitude Of forests hiding beasts of prey, And human shapes as fierce as they.

Slow from the plough the woods withdrew, Slowly each year the corn-lands grew; Nor fire, nor frost, nor foe could kill The Saxon energy of will.

And never in the hamlet's bound Was lack of sturdy manhood found, And never failed the kindred good Of brave and helpful womanhood.

That hamlet now a city is, Its log-built huts are palaces; The wood-path of the settler's cow Is Traffic's crowded highway now.

And far and wide it stretches still, Along its southward sloping hill, And overlooks on either hand A rich and many-watered land.

And, gladdening all the landscape, fair As Pison was to Eden's pair, Our river to its valley brings The blessing of its mountain springs.

And Nature holds with narrowing space, From mart and crowd, her old-time grace, And guards with fondly jealous arms The wild growths of outlying farms.

Her sunsets on Kenoza fall, Her autumn leaves by Saltonstall; No lavished gold can richer make Her opulence of hill and lake.

Wise was the choice which led out sires To kindle here their household fires, And share the large content of all Whose lines in pleasant places fall.

More dear, as years on years advance, We prize the old inheritance, And feel, as far and wide we roam, That all we seek we leave at home.

Our palms are pines, our oranges Are apples on our orchard trees; Our thrushes are our nightingales, Our larks the blackbirds of our vales.

No incense which the Orient burns Is sweeter than our hillside ferns; What tropic splendor can outvie Our autumn woods, our sunset sky?

If, where the slow years came and went, And left not affluence, but content, Now flashes in our dazzled eyes The electric light of enterprise;

And if the old idyllic ease Seems lost in keen activities, And crowded workshops now replace The hearth's and farm-field's rustic grace;

No dull, mechanic round of toil Life's morning charm can quite despoil; And youth and beauty, hand in hand, Will always find enchanted land.

No task is ill where hand and brain And skill and strength have equal gain, And each shall each in honor hold, And simple manhood outweigh gold.

Earth shall be near to Heaven when all That severs man from man shall fall, For, here or there, salvation's plan Alone is love of God and man.

O dwellers by the Merrimac, The heirs of centuries at your back, Still reaping where you have not sown, A broader field is now your own.

Hold fast your Puritan heritage, But let the free thought of the age Its light and hope and sweetness add To the stern faith the fathers had.

Adrift on Time's returnless tide, As waves that follow waves, we glide. God grant we leave upon the shore Some waif of good it lacked before;

Some seed, or flower, or plant of worth, Some added beauty to the earth; Some larger hope, some thought to make The sad world happier for its sake.

As tenants of uncertain stay, So may we live our little day That only grateful hearts shall fill The homes we leave in Haverhill.

The singer of a farewell rhyme, Upon whose outmost verge of time The shades of night are falling down, I pray, God bless the good old town!



TO G. G. AN AUTOGRAPH.

The daughter of Daniel Gurteen, Esq., delegate from Haverhill, England, to the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary celebration of Haverhill, Massachusetts. The Rev. John Ward of the former place and many of his old parishioners were the pioneer settlers of the new town on the Merrimac.

Graceful in name and in thyself, our river None fairer saw in John Ward's pilgrim flock, Proof that upon their century-rooted stock The English roses bloom as fresh as ever.

Take the warm welcome of new friends with thee, And listening to thy home's familiar chime Dream that thou hearest, with it keeping time, The bells on Merrimac sound across the sea.

Think of our thrushes, when the lark sings clear, Of our sweet Mayflowers when the daisies bloom; And bear to our and thy ancestral home The kindly greeting of its children here.

Say that our love survives the severing strain; That the New England, with the Old, holds fast The proud, fond memories of a common past; Unbroken still the ties of blood remain!



INSCRIPTION

For the bass-relief by Preston Powers, carved upon the huge boulder in Denver Park, Col., and representing the Last Indian and the Last Bison.

The eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks, For the wild hunter and the bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds alone Their graven semblance in the eternal stone.



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Inscription on her Memorial Tablet in Christ Church at Hartford, Conn.

She sang alone, ere womanhood had known The gift of song which fills the air to-day Tender and sweet, a music all her own May fitly linger where she knelt to pray.



MILTON

Inscription on the Memorial Window in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, the gift of George W. Childs, of America.

The new world honors him whose lofty plea For England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be Their common freehold while both worlds endure.



THE BIRTHDAY WREATH

December 17, 1891.

Blossom and greenness, making all The winter birthday tropical, And the plain Quaker parlors gay, Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall; We saw them fade, and droop, and fall, And laid them tenderly away.

White virgin lilies, mignonette, Blown rose, and pink, and violet, A breath of fragrance passing by; Visions of beauty and decay, Colors and shapes that could not stay, The fairest, sweetest, first to die.

But still this rustic wreath of mine, Of acorned oak and needled pine, And lighter growths of forest lands, Woven and wound with careful pains, And tender thoughts, and prayers, remains, As when it dropped from love's dear hands.

And not unfitly garlanded, Is he, who, country-born and bred, Welcomes the sylvan ring which gives A feeling of old summer days, The wild delight of woodland ways, The glory of the autumn leaves.

And, if the flowery meed of song To other bards may well belong, Be his, who from the farm-field spoke A word for Freedom when her need Was not of dulcimer and reed. This Isthmian wreath of pine and oak.



THE WIND OF MARCH.

Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing Under the sky's gray arch; Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing It is the wind of March.

Between the passing and the coming season, This stormy interlude Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason For trustful gratitude.

Welcome to waiting ears its harsh forewarning Of light and warmth to come, The longed-for joy of Nature's Easter morning, The earth arisen in bloom.

In the loud tumult winter's strength is breaking; I listen to the sound, As to a voice of resurrection, waking To life the dead, cold ground.

Between these gusts, to the soft lapse I hearken Of rivulets on their way; I see these tossed and naked tree-tops darken With the fresh leaves of May.

This roar of storm, this sky so gray and lowering Invite the airs of Spring, A warmer sunshine over fields of flowering, The bluebird's song and wing.

Closely behind, the Gulf's warm breezes follow This northern hurricane, And, borne thereon, the bobolink and swallow Shall visit us again.

And, in green wood-paths, in the kine-fed pasture And by the whispering rills, Shall flowers repeat the lesson of the Master, Taught on his Syrian hills.

Blow, then, wild wind! thy roar shall end in singing, Thy chill in blossoming; Come, like Bethesda's troubling angel, bringing The healing of the Spring.



BETWEEN THE GATES.

Between the gates of birth and death An old and saintly pilgrim passed, With look of one who witnesseth The long-sought goal at last.

O thou whose reverent feet have found The Master's footprints in thy way, And walked thereon as holy ground, A boon of thee I pray.

"My lack would borrow thy excess, My feeble faith the strength of thine; I need thy soul's white saintliness To hide the stains of mine.

"The grace and favor else denied May well be granted for thy sake." So, tempted, doubting, sorely tried, A younger pilgrim spake.

"Thy prayer, my son, transcends my gift; No power is mine," the sage replied, "The burden of a soul to lift Or stain of sin to hide.

"Howe'er the outward life may seem, For pardoning grace we all must pray; No man his brother can redeem Or a soul's ransom pay.

"Not always age is growth of good; Its years have losses with their gain; Against some evil youth withstood Weak hands may strive in vain.

"With deeper voice than any speech Of mortal lips from man to man, What earth's unwisdom may not teach The Spirit only can.

"Make thou that holy guide thine own, And following where it leads the way, The known shall lapse in the unknown As twilight into day.

"The best of earth shall still remain, And heaven's eternal years shall prove That life and death, and joy and pain, Are ministers of Love."



THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER.

Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shines Through yon columnar pines, And on the deepening shadows of the lawn Its golden lines are drawn.

Dreaming of long gone summer days like this, Feeling the wind's soft kiss, Grateful and glad that failing ear and sight Have still their old delight,

I sit alone, and watch the warm, sweet day Lapse tenderly away; And, wistful, with a feeling of forecast, I ask, "Is this the last?

"Will nevermore for me the seasons run Their round, and will the sun Of ardent summers yet to come forget For me to rise and set?"

Thou shouldst be here, or I should be with thee Wherever thou mayst be, Lips mute, hands clasped, in silences of speech Each answering unto each.

For this still hour, this sense of mystery far Beyond the evening star, No words outworn suffice on lip or scroll: The soul would fain with soul

Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil The wise-disposing Will, And, in the evening as at morning, trust The All-Merciful and Just.

The solemn joy that soul-communion feels Immortal life reveals; And human love, its prophecy and sign, Interprets love divine.

Come then, in thought, if that alone may be, O friend! and bring with thee Thy calm assurance of transcendent Spheres And the Eternal Years!

August 31, 1890.



TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

8TH Mo. 29TH, 1892.

This, the last of Mr. Whittier's poems, was written but a few weeks before his death.

Among the thousands who with hail and cheer Will welcome thy new year, How few of all have passed, as thou and I, So many milestones by!

We have grown old together; we have seen, Our youth and age between, Two generations leave us, and to-day We with the third hold way,

Loving and loved. If thought must backward run To those who, one by one, In the great silence and the dark beyond Vanished with farewells fond,