Sail on, Three Bells, forever, In grateful memory sail! Ring on, Three Bells of rescue, Above the wave and gale!

Type of the Love eternal, Repeat the Master's cry, As tossing through our darkness The lights of God draw nigh!

1872.



JOHN UNDERHILL.

A SCORE of years had come and gone Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone, When Captain Underhill, bearing scars From Indian ambush and Flemish wars, Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down, East by north, to Cocheco town.

With Vane the younger, in counsel sweet, He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet, And, when the bolt of banishment fell On the head of his saintly oracle, He had shared her ill as her good report, And braved the wrath of the General Court.

He shook from his feet as he rode away The dust of the Massachusetts Bay. The world might bless and the world might ban, What did it matter the perfect man, To whom the freedom of earth was given, Proof against sin, and sure of heaven?

He cheered his heart as he rode along With screed of Scripture and holy song, Or thought how he rode with his lances free By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-Zee, Till his wood-path grew to a trodden road, And Hilton Point in the distance showed.

He saw the church with the block-house nigh, The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby, And, tacking to windward, low and crank, The little shallop from Strawberry Bank; And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad Over land and water, and praised the Lord.

Goodly and stately and grave to see, Into the clearing's space rode he, With the sun on the hilt of his sword in sheath, And his silver buckles and spurs beneath, And the settlers welcomed him, one and all, From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall.

And he said to the elders: "Lo, I come As the way seemed open to seek a home. Somewhat the Lord hath wrought by my hands In the Narragansett and Netherlands, And if here ye have work for a Christian man, I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can.

"I boast not of gifts, but fain would own The wonderful favor God hath shown, The special mercy vouchsafed one day On the shore of Narragansett Bay, As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp aside, And mused like Isaac at eventide.

"A sudden sweetness of peace I found, A garment of gladness wrapped me round; I felt from the law of works released, The strife of the flesh and spirit ceased, My faith to a full assurance grew, And all I had hoped for myself I knew.

"Now, as God appointeth, I keep my way, I shall not stumble, I shall not stray; He hath taken away my fig-leaf dress, I wear the robe of His righteousness; And the shafts of Satan no more avail Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail."

"Tarry with us," the settlers cried, "Thou man of God, as our ruler and guide." And Captain Underhill bowed his head. "The will of the Lord be done!" he said. And the morrow beheld him sitting down In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town.

And he judged therein as a just man should; His words were wise and his rule was good; He coveted not his neighbor's land, From the holding of bribes he shook his hand; And through the camps of the heathen ran A wholesome fear of the valiant man.

But the heart is deceitful, the good Book saith, And life hath ever a savor of death. Through hymns of triumph the tempter calls, And whoso thinketh he standeth falls. Alas! ere their round the seasons ran, There was grief in the soul of the saintly man.

The tempter's arrows that rarely fail Had found the joints of his spiritual mail; And men took note of his gloomy air, The shame in his eye, the halt in his prayer, The signs of a battle lost within, The pain of a soul in the coils of sin.

Then a whisper of scandal linked his name With broken vows and a life of blame; And the people looked askance on him As he walked among them sullen and grim, Ill at ease, and bitter of word, And prompt of quarrel with hand or sword.

None knew how, with prayer and fasting still, He strove in the bonds of his evil will; But he shook himself like Samson at length, And girded anew his loins of strength, And bade the crier go up and down And call together the wondering town.

Jeer and murmur and shaking of head Ceased as he rose in his place and said "Men, brethren, and fathers, well ye know How I came among you a year ago, Strong in the faith that my soul was freed From sin of feeling, or thought, or deed.

"I have sinned, I own it with grief and shame, But not with a lie on my lips I came. In my blindness I verily thought my heart Swept and garnished in every part. He chargeth His angels with folly; He sees The heavens unclean. Was I more than these?

"I urge no plea. At your feet I lay The trust you gave me, and go my way. Hate me or pity me, as you will, The Lord will have mercy on sinners still; And I, who am chiefest, say to all, Watch and pray, lest ye also fall."

No voice made answer: a sob so low That only his quickened ear could know Smote his heart with a bitter pain, As into the forest he rode again, And the veil of its oaken leaves shut down On his latest glimpse of Cocheco town.

Crystal-clear on the man of sin The streams flashed up, and the sky shone in; On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew, The leaves dropped on him their tears of dew, And angels of God, in the pure, sweet guise Of flowers, looked on him with sad surprise.

Was his ear at fault that brook and breeze Sang in their saddest of minor keys? What was it the mournful wood-thrush said? What whispered the pine-trees overhead? Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way That Adam heard in the cool of day?

Into the desert alone rode he, Alone with the Infinite Purity; And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke, As Peter did to the Master's look, He measured his path with prayers of pain For peace with God and nature again.

And in after years to Cocheco came The bruit of a once familiar name; How among the Dutch of New Netherlands, From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands, A penitent soldier preached the Word, And smote the heathen with Gideon's sword!

And the heart of Boston was glad to hear How he harried the foe on the long frontier, And heaped on the land against him barred The coals of his generous watch and ward. Frailest and bravest! the Bay State still Counts with her worthies John Underhill.

1873.



CONDUCTOR BRADLEY.

A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut railway, May 9, 1873.

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY, (always may his name Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came, Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame,

Sank, with the brake he grasped just where he stood To do the utmost that a brave man could, And die, if needful, as a true man should.

Men stooped above him; women dropped their tears On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears, Lost in the strength and glory of his years.

What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain, Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again "Put out the signals for the other train!"

No nobler utterance since the world began From lips of saint or martyr ever ran, Electric, through the sympathies of man.

Ah me! how poor and noteless seem to this The sick-bed dramas of self-consciousness, Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss!

Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain That last brave act of failing tongue and brain Freighted with life the downward rushing train,

Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave, Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave. Others he saved, himself he could not save.

Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead Who in his record still the earth shall tread With God's clear aureole shining round his head.

We bow as in the dust, with all our pride Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside. God give us grace to live as Bradley died!

1873.



THE WITCH OF WENHAM.

The house is still standing in Danvers, Mass., where, it is said, a suspected witch was confined overnight in the attic, which was bolted fast. In the morning when the constable came to take her to Salem for trial she was missing, although the door was still bolted. Her escape was doubtless aided by her friends, but at the time it was attributed to Satanic interference.

I.

ALONG Crane River's sunny slopes Blew warm the winds of May, And over Naumkeag's ancient oaks The green outgrew the gray.

The grass was green on Rial-side, The early birds at will Waked up the violet in its dell, The wind-flower on its hill.

"Where go you, in your Sunday coat, Son Andrew, tell me, pray." For striped perch in Wenham Lake I go to fish to-day."

"Unharmed of thee in Wenham Lake The mottled perch shall be A blue-eyed witch sits on the bank And weaves her net for thee.

"She weaves her golden hair; she sings Her spell-song low and faint; The wickedest witch in Salem jail Is to that girl a saint."

"Nay, mother, hold thy cruel tongue; God knows," the young man cried, "He never made a whiter soul Than hers by Wenham side.

"She tends her mother sick and blind, And every want supplies; To her above the blessed Book She lends her soft blue eyes.

"Her voice is glad with holy songs, Her lips are sweet with prayer; Go where you will, in ten miles round Is none more good and fair."

"Son Andrew, for the love of God And of thy mother, stay!" She clasped her hands, she wept aloud, But Andrew rode away.

"O reverend sir, my Andrew's soul The Wenham witch has caught; She holds him with the curled gold Whereof her snare is wrought.

"She charms him with her great blue eyes, She binds him with her hair; Oh, break the spell with holy words, Unbind him with a prayer!"

"Take heart," the painful preacher said, "This mischief shall not be; The witch shall perish in her sins And Andrew shall go free.

"Our poor Ann Putnam testifies She saw her weave a spell, Bare-armed, loose-haired, at full of moon, Around a dried-up well.

"'Spring up, O well!' she softly sang The Hebrew's old refrain (For Satan uses Bible words), Till water flowed a-main.

"And many a goodwife heard her speak By Wenham water words That made the buttercups take wings And turn to yellow birds.

"They say that swarming wild bees seek The hive at her command; And fishes swim to take their food From out her dainty hand.

"Meek as she sits in meeting-time, The godly minister Notes well the spell that doth compel The young men's eyes to her.

"The mole upon her dimpled chin Is Satan's seal and sign; Her lips are red with evil bread And stain of unblest wine.

"For Tituba, my Indian, saith At Quasycung she took The Black Man's godless sacrament And signed his dreadful book.

"Last night my sore-afflicted child Against the young witch cried. To take her Marshal Herrick rides Even now to Wenham side."

The marshal in his saddle sat, His daughter at his knee; "I go to fetch that arrant witch, Thy fair playmate," quoth he.

"Her spectre walks the parsonage, And haunts both hall and stair; They know her by the great blue eyes And floating gold of hair."

"They lie, they lie, my father dear! No foul old witch is she, But sweet and good and crystal-pure As Wenham waters be."

"I tell thee, child, the Lord hath set Before us good and ill, And woe to all whose carnal loves Oppose His righteous will.

"Between Him and the powers of hell Choose thou, my child, to-day No sparing hand, no pitying eye, When God commands to slay!"

He went his way; the old wives shook With fear as he drew nigh; The children in the dooryards held Their breath as he passed by.

Too well they knew the gaunt gray horse The grim witch-hunter rode The pale Apocalyptic beast By grisly Death bestrode.

II.

Oh, fair the face of Wenham Lake Upon the young girl's shone, Her tender mouth, her dreaming eyes, Her yellow hair outblown.

By happy youth and love attuned To natural harmonies, The singing birds, the whispering wind, She sat beneath the trees.

Sat shaping for her bridal dress Her mother's wedding gown, When lo! the marshal, writ in hand, From Alford hill rode down.

His face was hard with cruel fear, He grasped the maiden's hands "Come with me unto Salem town, For so the law commands!"

"Oh, let me to my mother say Farewell before I go!" He closer tied her little hands Unto his saddle bow.

"Unhand me," cried she piteously, "For thy sweet daughter's sake." "I'll keep my daughter safe," he said, "From the witch of Wenham Lake."

"Oh, leave me for my mother's sake, She needs my eyes to see." "Those eyes, young witch, the crows shall peck From off the gallows-tree."

He bore her to a farm-house old, And up its stairway long, And closed on her the garret-door With iron bolted strong.

The day died out, the night came down Her evening prayer she said, While, through the dark, strange faces seemed To mock her as she prayed.

The present horror deepened all The fears her childhood knew; The awe wherewith the air was filled With every breath she drew.

And could it be, she trembling asked, Some secret thought or sin Had shut good angels from her heart And let the bad ones in?

Had she in some forgotten dream Let go her hold on Heaven, And sold herself unwittingly To spirits unforgiven?

Oh, weird and still the dark hours passed; No human sound she heard, But up and down the chimney stack The swallows moaned and stirred.

And o'er her, with a dread surmise Of evil sight and sound, The blind bats on their leathern wings Went wheeling round and round.

Low hanging in the midnight sky Looked in a half-faced moon. Was it a dream, or did she hear Her lover's whistled tune?

She forced the oaken scuttle back; A whisper reached her ear "Slide down the roof to me," it said, "So softly none may hear."

She slid along the sloping roof Till from its eaves she hung, And felt the loosened shingles yield To which her fingers clung.

Below, her lover stretched his hands And touched her feet so small; "Drop down to me, dear heart," he said, "My arms shall break the fall."

He set her on his pillion soft, Her arms about him twined; And, noiseless as if velvet-shod, They left the house behind.

But when they reached the open way, Full free the rein he cast; Oh, never through the mirk midnight Rode man and maid more fast.

Along the wild wood-paths they sped, The bridgeless streams they swam; At set of moon they passed the Bass, At sunrise Agawam.

At high noon on the Merrimac The ancient ferryman Forgot, at times, his idle oars, So fair a freight to scan.

And when from off his grounded boat He saw them mount and ride, "God keep her from the evil eye, And harm of witch!" he cried.

The maiden laughed, as youth will laugh At all its fears gone by; "He does not know," she whispered low, "A little witch am I."

All day he urged his weary horse, And, in the red sundown, Drew rein before a friendly door In distant Berwick town.

A fellow-feeling for the wronged The Quaker people felt; And safe beside their kindly hearths The hunted maiden dwelt,

Until from off its breast the land The haunting horror threw, And hatred, born of ghastly dreams, To shame and pity grew.

Sad were the year's spring morns, and sad Its golden summer day, But blithe and glad its withered fields, And skies of ashen gray;

For spell and charm had power no more, The spectres ceased to roam, And scattered households knelt again Around the hearths of home.

And when once more by Beaver Dam The meadow-lark outsang, And once again on all the hills The early violets sprang,

And all the windy pasture slopes Lay green within the arms Of creeks that bore the salted sea To pleasant inland farms,

The smith filed off the chains he forged, The jail-bolts backward fell; And youth and hoary age came forth Like souls escaped from hell.

1877



KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS

OUT from Jerusalem The king rode with his great War chiefs and lords of state, And Sheba's queen with them;

Comely, but black withal, To whom, perchance, belongs That wondrous Song of songs, Sensuous and mystical,

Whereto devout souls turn In fond, ecstatic dream, And through its earth-born theme The Love of loves discern.

Proud in the Syrian sun, In gold and purple sheen, The dusky Ethiop queen Smiled on King Solomon.

Wisest of men, he knew The languages of all The creatures great or small That trod the earth or flew.

Across an ant-hill led The king's path, and he heard Its small folk, and their word He thus interpreted:

"Here comes the king men greet As wise and good and just, To crush us in the dust Under his heedless feet."

The great king bowed his head, And saw the wide surprise Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes As he told her what they said.

"O king!" she whispered sweet, "Too happy fate have they Who perish in thy way Beneath thy gracious feet!

"Thou of the God-lent crown, Shall these vile creatures dare Murmur against thee where The knees of kings kneel down?"

"Nay," Solomon replied, "The wise and strong should seek The welfare of the weak," And turned his horse aside.

His train, with quick alarm, Curved with their leader round The ant-hill's peopled mound, And left it free from harm.

The jewelled head bent low; "O king!" she said, "henceforth The secret of thy worth And wisdom well I know.

"Happy must be the State Whose ruler heedeth more The murmurs of the poor Than flatteries of the great."

1877.



IN THE "OLD SOUTH."

On the 8th of July, 1677, Margaret Brewster with four other Friends went into the South Church in time of meeting, "in sack-cloth, with ashes upon her head, barefoot, and her face blackened," and delivered "a warning from the great God of Heaven and Earth to the Rulers and Magistrates of Boston." For the offence she was sentenced to be "whipped at a cart's tail up and down the Town, with twenty lashes."

SHE came and stood in the Old South Church, A wonder and a sign, With a look the old-time sibyls wore, Half-crazed and half-divine.

Save the mournful sackcloth about her wound, Unclothed as the primal mother, With limbs that trembled and eyes that blazed With a fire she dare not smother.

Loose on her shoulders fell her hair, With sprinkled ashes gray; She stood in the broad aisle strange and weird As a soul at the judgment day.

And the minister paused in his sermon's midst, And the people held their breath, For these were the words the maiden spoke Through lips as the lips of death:

"Thus saith the Lord, with equal feet All men my courts shall tread, And priest and ruler no more shall eat My people up like bread!

"Repent! repent! ere the Lord shall speak In thunder and breaking seals Let all souls worship Him in the way His light within reveals."

She shook the dust from her naked feet, And her sackcloth closer drew, And into the porch of the awe-hushed church She passed like a ghost from view.

They whipped her away at the tail o' the cart Through half the streets of the town, But the words she uttered that day nor fire Could burn nor water drown.

And now the aisles of the ancient church By equal feet are trod, And the bell that swings in its belfry rings Freedom to worship God!

And now whenever a wrong is done It thrills the conscious walls; The stone from the basement cries aloud And the beam from the timber calls.

There are steeple-houses on every hand, And pulpits that bless and ban, And the Lord will not grudge the single church That is set apart for man.

For in two commandments are all the law And the prophets under the sun, And the first is last and the last is first, And the twain are verily one.

So, long as Boston shall Boston be, And her bay-tides rise and fall, Shall freedom stand in the Old South Church And plead for the rights of all!

1877.



THE HENCHMAN.

MY lady walks her morning round, My lady's page her fleet greyhound, My lady's hair the fond winds stir, And all the birds make songs for her.

Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers, And Rathburn side is gay with flowers; But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird, Was beauty seen or music heard.

The distance of the stars is hers; The least of all her worshippers, The dust beneath her dainty heel, She knows not that I see or feel.

Oh, proud and calm!—she cannot know Where'er she goes with her I go; Oh, cold and fair!—she cannot guess I kneel to share her hound's caress!

Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk, I rob their ears of her sweet talk; Her suitors come from east and west, I steal her smiles from every guest.

Unheard of her, in loving words, I greet her with the song of birds; I reach her with her green-armed bowers, I kiss her with the lips of flowers.

The hound and I are on her trail, The wind and I uplift her veil; As if the calm, cold moon she were, And I the tide, I follow her.

As unrebuked as they, I share The license of the sun and air, And in a common homage hide My worship from her scorn and pride.

World-wide apart, and yet so near, I breathe her charmed atmosphere, Wherein to her my service brings The reverence due to holy things.

Her maiden pride, her haughty name, My dumb devotion shall not shame; The love that no return doth crave To knightly levels lifts the slave,

No lance have I, in joust or fight, To splinter in my lady's sight But, at her feet, how blest were I For any need of hers to die!

1877.



THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK.

E. B. Tylor in his Primitive Culture, chapter xii., gives an account of the reverence paid the dead by the Kol tribes of Chota Nagpur, Assam. "When a Ho or Munda," he says, "has been burned on the funeral pile, collected morsels of his bones are carried in procession with a solemn, ghostly, sliding step, keeping time to the deep-sounding drum, and when the old woman who carries the bones on her bamboo tray lowers it from time to time, then girls who carry pitchers and brass vessels mournfully reverse them to show that they are empty; thus the remains are taken to visit every house in the village, and every dwelling of a friend or relative for miles, and the inmates come out to mourn and praise the goodness of the departed; the bones are carried to all the dead man's favorite haunts, to the fields he cultivated, to the grove he planted, to the threshing-floor where he worked, to the village dance-room where he made merry. At last they are taken to the grave, and buried in an earthen vase upon a store of food, covered with one of those huge stone slabs which European visitors wonder at in the districts of the aborigines of India." In the Journal of the Asiatic Society, Bengal, vol. ix., p. 795, is a Ho dirge.

WE have opened the door, Once, twice, thrice! We have swept the floor, We have boiled the rice. Come hither, come hither! Come from the far lands, Come from the star lands, Come as before! We lived long together, We loved one another; Come back to our life. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Child, husband, and wife, For you we are sighing. Come take your old places, Come look in our faces, The dead on the dying, Come home!

We have opened the door, Once, twice, thrice! We have kindled the coals, And we boil the rice For the feast of souls. Come hither, come hither! Think not we fear you, Whose hearts are so near you. Come tenderly thought on, Come all unforgotten, Come from the shadow-lands, From the dim meadow-lands Where the pale grasses bend Low to our sighing. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Come husband and friend, The dead to the dying, Come home!

We have opened the door You entered so oft; For the feast of souls We have kindled the coals, And we boil the rice soft. Come you who are dearest To us who are nearest, Come hither, come hither, From out the wild weather; The storm clouds are flying, The peepul is sighing; Come in from the rain. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Come husband and lover, Beneath our roof-cover. Look on us again, The dead on the dying, Come home!

We have opened the door! For the feast of souls We have kindled the coals We may kindle no more! Snake, fever, and famine, The curse of the Brahmin, The sun and the dew, They burn us, they bite us, They waste us and smite us; Our days are but few In strange lands far yonder To wonder and wander We hasten to you. List then to our sighing, While yet we are here Nor seeing nor hearing, We wait without fearing, To feel you draw near. O dead, to the dying Come home!

1879.



THE KHAN'S DEVIL.

THE Khan came from Bokhara town To Hamza, santon of renown.

"My head is sick, my hands are weak; Thy help, O holy man, I seek."

In silence marking for a space The Khan's red eyes and purple face,

Thick voice, and loose, uncertain tread, "Thou hast a devil!" Hamza said.

"Allah forbid!" exclaimed the Khan. Rid me of him at once, O man!"

"Nay," Hamza said, "no spell of mine Can slay that cursed thing of thine.

"Leave feast and wine, go forth and drink Water of healing on the brink

"Where clear and cold from mountain snows, The Nahr el Zeben downward flows.

"Six moons remain, then come to me; May Allah's pity go with thee!"

Awestruck, from feast and wine the Khan Went forth where Nahr el Zeben ran.

Roots were his food, the desert dust His bed, the water quenched his thirst;

And when the sixth moon's scimetar Curved sharp above the evening star,

He sought again the santon's door, Not weak and trembling as before,

But strong of limb and clear of brain; "Behold," he said, "the fiend is slain."

"Nay," Hamza answered, "starved and drowned, The curst one lies in death-like swound.

"But evil breaks the strongest gyves, And jins like him have charmed lives.

"One beaker of the juice of grape May call him up in living shape.

"When the red wine of Badakshan Sparkles for thee, beware, O Khan,

"With water quench the fire within, And drown each day thy devilkin!"

Thenceforth the great Khan shunned the cup As Shitan's own, though offered up,

With laughing eyes and jewelled hands, By Yarkand's maids and Samarcand's.

And, in the lofty vestibule Of the medress of Kaush Kodul,

The students of the holy law A golden-lettered tablet saw,

With these words, by a cunning hand, Graved on it at the Khan's command:

"In Allah's name, to him who hath A devil, Khan el Hamed saith,

"Wisely our Prophet cursed the vine The fiend that loves the breath of wine,

"No prayer can slay, no marabout Nor Meccan dervis can drive out.

"I, Khan el Hamed, know the charm That robs him of his power to harm.

"Drown him, O Islam's child! the spell To save thee lies in tank and well!"

1879.



THE KING'S MISSIVE.

1661.

This ballad, originally written for The Memorial History of Boston, describes, with pardonable poetic license, a memorable incident in the annals of the city. The interview between Shattuck and the Governor took place, I have since learned, in the residence of the latter, and not in the Council Chamber. The publication of the ballad led to some discussion as to the historical truthfulness of the picture, but I have seen no reason to rub out any of the figures or alter the lines and colors.

UNDER the great hill sloping bare To cove and meadow and Common lot, In his council chamber and oaken chair, Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott. A grave, strong man, who knew no peer In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear Of God, not man, and for good or ill Held his trust with an iron will.

He had shorn with his sword the cross from out The flag, and cloven the May-pole down, Harried the heathen round about, And whipped the Quakers from town to town. Earnest and honest, a man at need To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed, He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal The gate of the holy common weal.

His brow was clouded, his eye was stern, With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath; "Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turn The pestilent Quakers are in my path! Some we have scourged, and banished some, Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come, Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in, Sowing their heresy's seed of sin.

"Did we count on this? Did we leave behind The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease Of our English hearths and homes, to find Troublers of Israel such as these? Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid! I will do as the prophet to Agag did They come to poison the wells of the Word, I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!"

The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk Entered, and whispered under breath, "There waits below for the hangman's work A fellow banished on pain of death— Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip, Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship At anchor here in a Christian port, With freight of the devil and all his sort!"

Twice and thrice on the chamber floor Striding fiercely from wall to wall, "The Lord do so to me and more," The Governor cried, "if I hang not all! Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate, With the look of a man at ease with fate, Into that presence grim and dread Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.

"Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand Smote down the offence; but the wearer said, With a quiet smile, "By the king's command I bear his message and stand in his stead." In the Governor's hand a missive he laid With the royal arms on its seal displayed, And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat, Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."

He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,— "The king commandeth your friends' release; Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase. What he here enjoineth, John Endicott, His loyal servant, questioneth not. You are free! God grant the spirit you own May take you from us to parts unknown."

So the door of the jail was open cast, And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den Tender youth and girlhood passed, With age-bowed women and gray-locked men. And the voice of one appointed to die Was lifted in praise and thanks on high, And the little maid from New Netherlands Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands.

And one, whose call was to minister To the souls in prison, beside him went, An ancient woman, bearing with her The linen shroud for his burial meant. For she, not counting her own life dear, In the strength of a love that cast out fear, Had watched and served where her brethren died, Like those who waited the cross beside.

One moment they paused on their way to look On the martyr graves by the Common side, And much scourged Wharton of Salem took His burden of prophecy up and cried "Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain; Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned, With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!"

The autumn haze lay soft and still On wood and meadow and upland farms; On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill Slowly and lazily swung its arms; Broad in the sunshine stretched away, With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay; And over water and dusk of pines Blue hills lifted their faint outlines.

The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed, The sumach added its crimson fleck, And double in air and water showed The tinted maples along the Neck; Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist, And gentian fringes of amethyst, And royal plumes of golden-rod, The grazing cattle on Centry trod.

But as they who see not, the Quakers saw The world about them; they only thought With deep thanksgiving and pious awe On the great deliverance God had wrought. Through lane and alley the gazing town Noisily followed them up and down; Some with scoffing and brutal jeer, Some with pity and words of cheer.

One brave voice rose above the din. Upsall, gray with his length of days, Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn "Men of Boston, give God the praise No more shall innocent blood call down The bolts of wrath on your guilty town. The freedom of worship, dear to you, Is dear to all, and to all is due.

"I see the vision of days to come, When your beautiful City of the Bay Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home, And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay. The varying notes of worship shall blend And as one great prayer to God ascend, And hands of mutual charity raise Walls of salvation and gates of praise."

So passed the Quakers through Boston town, Whose painful ministers sighed to see The walls of their sheep-fold falling down, And wolves of heresy prowling free. But the years went on, and brought no wrong; With milder counsels the State grew strong, As outward Letter and inward Light Kept the balance of truth aright.

The Puritan spirit perishing not, To Concord's yeomen the signal sent, And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot That severed the chains of a continent. With its gentler mission of peace and good-will The thought of the Quaker is living still, And the freedom of soul he prophesied Is gospel and law where the martyrs died.

1880.



VALUATION.

THE old Squire said, as he stood by his gate, And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by, "In spite of my bank stock and real estate, You are better off, Deacon, than I.

"We're both growing old, and the end's drawing near, You have less of this world to resign, But in Heaven's appraisal your assets, I fear, Will reckon up greater than mine.

"They say I am rich, but I'm feeling so poor, I wish I could swap with you even The pounds I have lived for and laid up in store For the shillings and pence you have given."

"Well, Squire," said the Deacon, with shrewd common sense, While his eye had a twinkle of fun, "Let your pounds take the way of my shillings and pence, And the thing can be easily done!"

1880.



RABBI ISHMAEL.

"Rabbi Ishmael Ben Elisha said, Once, I entered into the Holy of Holies (as High Priest) to burn incense, when I saw Aktriel (the Divine Crown) Jah, Lord of Hosts, sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, who said unto me, 'Ishmael, my son, bless me.' I answered, 'May it please Thee to make Thy compassion prevail over Thine anger; may it be revealed above Thy other attributes; mayest Thou deal with Thy children according to it, and not according to the strict measure of judgment.' It seemed to me that He bowed His head, as though to answer Amen to my blessing."— Talmud (Beraehoth, I. f. 6. b.)

THE Rabbi Ishmael, with the woe and sin Of the world heavy upon him, entering in The Holy of Holies, saw an awful Face With terrible splendor filling all the place. "O Ishmael Ben Elisha!" said a voice, "What seekest thou? What blessing is thy choice?" And, knowing that he stood before the Lord, Within the shadow of the cherubim, Wide-winged between the blinding light and him, He bowed himself, and uttered not a word, But in the silence of his soul was prayer "O Thou Eternal! I am one of all, And nothing ask that others may not share. Thou art almighty; we are weak and small, And yet Thy children: let Thy mercy spare!" Trembling, he raised his eyes, and in the place Of the insufferable glory, lo! a face Of more than mortal tenderness, that bent Graciously down in token of assent, And, smiling, vanished! With strange joy elate, The wondering Rabbi sought the temple's gate. Radiant as Moses from the Mount, he stood And cried aloud unto the multitude "O Israel, hear! The Lord our God is good! Mine eyes have seen his glory and his grace; Beyond his judgments shall his love endure; The mercy of the All Merciful is sure!"

1881.



THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE.

H. Y. Hind, in Explorations in the Interior of the Labrador Peninsula (ii. 166) mentions the finding of a rock tomb near the little fishing port of Bradore, with the inscription upon it which is given in the poem.

A DREAR and desolate shore! Where no tree unfolds its leaves, And never the spring wind weaves Green grass for the hunter's tread; A land forsaken and dead, Where the ghostly icebergs go And come with the ebb and flow Of the waters of Bradore!

A wanderer, from a land By summer breezes fanned, Looked round him, awed, subdued, By the dreadful solitude, Hearing alone the cry Of sea-birds clanging by, The crash and grind of the floe, Wail of wind and wash of tide. "O wretched land!" he cried, "Land of all lands the worst, God forsaken and curst! Thy gates of rock should show The words the Tuscan seer Read in the Realm of Woe Hope entereth not here!"

Lo! at his feet there stood A block of smooth larch wood, Waif of some wandering wave, Beside a rock-closed cave By Nature fashioned for a grave; Safe from the ravening bear And fierce fowl of the air, Wherein to rest was laid A twenty summers' maid, Whose blood had equal share Of the lands of vine and snow, Half French, half Eskimo. In letters uneffaced, Upon the block were traced The grief and hope of man, And thus the legend ran "We loved her! Words cannot tell how well! We loved her! God loved her! And called her home to peace and rest. We love her."

The stranger paused and read. "O winter land!" he said, "Thy right to be I own; God leaves thee not alone. And if thy fierce winds blow Over drear wastes of rock and snow, And at thy iron gates The ghostly iceberg waits, Thy homes and hearts are dear. Thy sorrow o'er thy sacred dust Is sanctified by hope and trust; God's love and man's are here. And love where'er it goes Makes its own atmosphere; Its flowers of Paradise Take root in the eternal ice, And bloom through Polar snows!"

1881.



THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS.

The volume in which "The Bay of Seven Islands" was published was dedicated to the late Edwin Percy Whipple, to whom more than to any other person I was indebted for public recognition as one worthy of a place in American literature, at a time when it required a great degree of courage to urge such a claim for a pro-scribed abolitionist. Although younger than I, he had gained the reputation of a brilliant essayist, and was regarded as the highest American authority in criticism. His wit and wisdom enlivened a small literary circle of young men including Thomas Starr King, the eloquent preacher, and Daniel N. Haskell of the Daily Transcript, who gathered about our common friend dames T. Fields at the Old Corner Bookstore. The poem which gave title to the volume I inscribed to my friend and neighbor Harriet Prescott Spofford, whose poems have lent a new interest to our beautiful river-valley.

FROM the green Amesbury hill which bears the name Of that half mythic ancestor of mine Who trod its slopes two hundred years ago, Down the long valley of the Merrimac, Midway between me and the river's mouth, I see thy home, set like an eagle's nest Among Deer Island's immemorial pines, Crowning the crag on which the sunset breaks Its last red arrow. Many a tale and song, Which thou bast told or sung, I call to mind, Softening with silvery mist the woods and hills, The out-thrust headlands and inreaching bays Of our northeastern coast-line, trending where The Gulf, midsummer, feels the chill blockade Of icebergs stranded at its northern gate.

To thee the echoes of the Island Sound Answer not vainly, nor in vain the moan Of the South Breaker prophesying storm. And thou hast listened, like myself, to men Sea-periled oft where Anticosti lies Like a fell spider in its web of fog, Or where the Grand Bank shallows with the wrecks Of sunken fishers, and to whom strange isles And frost-rimmed bays and trading stations seem Familiar as Great Neck and Kettle Cove, Nubble and Boon, the common names of home. So let me offer thee this lay of mine, Simple and homely, lacking much thy play Of color and of fancy. If its theme And treatment seem to thee befitting youth Rather than age, let this be my excuse It has beguiled some heavy hours and called Some pleasant memories up; and, better still, Occasion lent me for a kindly word To one who is my neighbor and my friend.

1883.

. . . . . . . . . .

The skipper sailed out of the harbor mouth, Leaving the apple-bloom of the South For the ice of the Eastern seas, In his fishing schooner Breeze.

Handsome and brave and young was he, And the maids of Newbury sighed to see His lessening white sail fall Under the sea's blue wall.

Through the Northern Gulf and the misty screen Of the isles of Mingan and Madeleine, St. Paul's and Blanc Sablon, The little Breeze sailed on,

Backward and forward, along the shore Of lorn and desolate Labrador, And found at last her way To the Seven Islands Bay.

The little hamlet, nestling below Great hills white with lingering snow, With its tin-roofed chapel stood Half hid in the dwarf spruce wood;

Green-turfed, flower-sown, the last outpost Of summer upon the dreary coast, With its gardens small and spare, Sad in the frosty air.

Hard by where the skipper's schooner lay, A fisherman's cottage looked away Over isle and bay, and behind On mountains dim-defined.

And there twin sisters, fair and young, Laughed with their stranger guest, and sung In their native tongue the lays Of the old Provencal days.

Alike were they, save the faint outline Of a scar on Suzette's forehead fine; And both, it so befell, Loved the heretic stranger well.

Both were pleasant to look upon, But the heart of the skipper clave to one; Though less by his eye than heart He knew the twain apart.

Despite of alien race and creed, Well did his wooing of Marguerite speed; And the mother's wrath was vain As the sister's jealous pain.

The shrill-tongued mistress her house forbade, And solemn warning was sternly said By the black-robed priest, whose word As law the hamlet heard.

But half by voice and half by signs The skipper said, "A warm sun shines On the green-banked Merrimac; Wait, watch, till I come back.

"And when you see, from my mast head, The signal fly of a kerchief red, My boat on the shore shall wait; Come, when the night is late."

Ah! weighed with childhood's haunts and friends, And all that the home sky overbends, Did ever young love fail To turn the trembling scale?

Under the night, on the wet sea sands, Slowly unclasped their plighted hands One to the cottage hearth, And one to his sailor's berth.

What was it the parting lovers heard? Nor leaf, nor ripple, nor wing of bird, But a listener's stealthy tread On the rock-moss, crisp and dead.

He weighed his anchor, and fished once more By the black coast-line of Labrador; And by love and the north wind driven, Sailed back to the Islands Seven.

In the sunset's glow the sisters twain Saw the Breeze come sailing in again; Said Suzette, "Mother dear, The heretic's sail is here."

"Go, Marguerite, to your room, and hide; Your door shall be bolted!" the mother cried: While Suzette, ill at ease, Watched the red sign of the Breeze.

At midnight, down to the waiting skiff She stole in the shadow of the cliff; And out of the Bay's mouth ran The schooner with maid and man.

And all night long, on a restless bed, Her prayers to the Virgin Marguerite said And thought of her lover's pain Waiting for her in vain.

Did he pace the sands? Did he pause to hear The sound of her light step drawing near? And, as the slow hours passed, Would he doubt her faith at last?

But when she saw through the misty pane, The morning break on a sea of rain, Could even her love avail To follow his vanished sail?

Meantime the Breeze, with favoring wind, Left the rugged Moisic hills behind, And heard from an unseen shore The falls of Manitou roar.

On the morrow's morn, in the thick, gray weather They sat on the reeling deck together, Lover and counterfeit, Of hapless Marguerite.

With a lover's hand, from her forehead fair He smoothed away her jet-black hair. What was it his fond eyes met? The scar of the false Suzette!

Fiercely he shouted: "Bear away East by north for Seven Isles Bay!" The maiden wept and prayed, But the ship her helm obeyed.

Once more the Bay of the Isles they found They heard the bell of the chapel sound, And the chant of the dying sung In the harsh, wild Indian tongue.

A feeling of mystery, change, and awe Was in all they heard and all they saw Spell-bound the hamlet lay In the hush of its lonely bay.

And when they came to the cottage door, The mother rose up from her weeping sore, And with angry gestures met The scared look of Suzette.

"Here is your daughter," the skipper said; "Give me the one I love instead." But the woman sternly spake; "Go, see if the dead will wake!"

He looked. Her sweet face still and white And strange in the noonday taper light, She lay on her little bed, With the cross at her feet and head.

In a passion of grief the strong man bent Down to her face, and, kissing it, went Back to the waiting Breeze, Back to the mournful seas.

Never again to the Merrimac And Newbury's homes that bark came back. Whether her fate she met On the shores of Carraquette,

Miscou, or Tracadie, who can say? But even yet at Seven Isles Bay Is told the ghostly tale Of a weird, unspoken sail,

In the pale, sad light of the Northern day Seen by the blanketed Montagnais, Or squaw, in her small kyack, Crossing the spectre's track.

On the deck a maiden wrings her hands; Her likeness kneels on the gray coast sands; One in her wild despair, And one in the trance of prayer.

She flits before no earthly blast, The red sign fluttering from her mast, Over the solemn seas, The ghost of the schooner Breeze!

1882.



THE WISHING BRIDGE.

AMONG the legends sung or said Along our rocky shore, The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead May well be sung once more.

An hundred years ago (so ran The old-time story) all Good wishes said above its span Would, soon or late, befall.

If pure and earnest, never failed The prayers of man or maid For him who on the deep sea sailed, For her at home who stayed.

Once thither came two girls from school, And wished in childish glee And one would be a queen and rule, And one the world would see.

Time passed; with change of hopes and fears, And in the self-same place, Two women, gray with middle years, Stood, wondering, face to face.

With wakened memories, as they met, They queried what had been "A poor man's wife am I, and yet," Said one, "I am a queen.

"My realm a little homestead is, Where, lacking crown and throne, I rule by loving services And patient toil alone."

The other said: "The great world lies Beyond me as it lay; O'er love's and duty's boundaries My feet may never stray.

"I see but common sights of home, Its common sounds I hear, My widowed mother's sick-bed room Sufficeth for my sphere.

"I read to her some pleasant page Of travel far and wide, And in a dreamy pilgrimage We wander side by side.

"And when, at last, she falls asleep, My book becomes to me A magic glass: my watch I keep, But all the world I see.

"A farm-wife queen your place you fill, While fancy's privilege Is mine to walk the earth at will, Thanks to the Wishing Bridge."

"Nay, leave the legend for the truth," The other cried, "and say God gives the wishes of our youth, But in His own best way!"

1882.



HOW THE WOMEN WENT FROM DOVER.

The following is a copy of the warrant issued by Major Waldron, of Dover, in 1662. The Quakers, as was their wont, prophesied against him, and saw, as they supposed, the fulfilment of their prophecy when, many years after, he was killed by the Indians.

To the constables of Dover, Hampton, Salisbury, Newbury, Rowley, Ipswich, Wenham, Lynn, Boston, Roxbury, Dedham, and until these vagabond Quakers are carried out of this jurisdiction. You, and every one of you, are required, in the King's Majesty's name, to take these vagabond Quakers, Anne Colman, Mary Tomkins, and Alice Ambrose, and make them fast to the cart's tail, and driving the cart through your several towns, to whip them upon their naked backs not exceeding ten stripes apiece on each of them, in each town; and so to convey them from constable to constable till they are out of this jurisdiction, as you will answer it at your peril; and this shall be your warrant. RICHARD WALDRON. Dated at Dover, December 22, 1662.

This warrant was executed only in Dover and Hampton. At Salisbury the constable refused to obey it. He was sustained by the town's people, who were under the influence of Major Robert Pike, the leading man in the lower valley of the Merrimac, who stood far in advance of his time, as an advocate of religious freedom, and an opponent of ecclesiastical authority. He had the moral courage to address an able and manly letter to the court at Salem, remonstrating against the witchcraft trials.

THE tossing spray of Cocheco's fall Hardened to ice on its rocky wall, As through Dover town in the chill, gray dawn, Three women passed, at the cart-tail drawn!

Bared to the waist, for the north wind's grip And keener sting of the constable's whip, The blood that followed each hissing blow Froze as it sprinkled the winter snow.

Priest and ruler, boy and maid Followed the dismal cavalcade; And from door and window, open thrown, Looked and wondered gaffer and crone.

"God is our witness," the victims cried, We suffer for Him who for all men died; The wrong ye do has been done before, We bear the stripes that the Master bore!

And thou, O Richard Waldron, for whom We hear the feet of a coming doom, On thy cruel heart and thy hand of wrong Vengeance is sure, though it tarry long.

"In the light of the Lord, a flame we see Climb and kindle a proud roof-tree; And beneath it an old man lying dead, With stains of blood on his hoary head."

"Smite, Goodman Hate-Evil!—harder still!" The magistrate cried, "lay on with a will! Drive out of their bodies the Father of Lies, Who through them preaches and prophesies!"

So into the forest they held their way, By winding river and frost-rimmed bay, Over wind-swept hills that felt the beat Of the winter sea at their icy feet.

The Indian hunter, searching his traps, Peered stealthily through the forest gaps; And the outlying settler shook his head,— "They're witches going to jail," he said.

At last a meeting-house came in view; A blast on his horn the constable blew; And the boys of Hampton cried up and down, "The Quakers have come!" to the wondering town.

From barn and woodpile the goodman came; The goodwife quitted her quilting frame, With her child at her breast; and, hobbling slow, The grandam followed to see the show.

Once more the torturing whip was swung, Once more keen lashes the bare flesh stung. "Oh, spare! they are bleeding!"' a little maid cried, And covered her face the sight to hide.

A murmur ran round the crowd: "Good folks," Quoth the constable, busy counting the strokes, "No pity to wretches like these is due, They have beaten the gospel black and blue!"

Then a pallid woman, in wild-eyed fear, With her wooden noggin of milk drew near. "Drink, poor hearts!" a rude hand smote Her draught away from a parching throat.

"Take heed," one whispered, "they'll take your cow For fines, as they took your horse and plough, And the bed from under you." "Even so," She said; "they are cruel as death, I know."

Then on they passed, in the waning day, Through Seabrook woods, a weariful way; By great salt meadows and sand-hills bare, And glimpses of blue sea here and there.

By the meeting-house in Salisbury town, The sufferers stood, in the red sundown, Bare for the lash! O pitying Night, Drop swift thy curtain and hide the sight.

With shame in his eye and wrath on his lip The Salisbury constable dropped his whip. "This warrant means murder foul and red; Cursed is he who serves it," he said.

"Show me the order, and meanwhile strike A blow at your peril!" said Justice Pike. Of all the rulers the land possessed, Wisest and boldest was he and best.

He scoffed at witchcraft; the priest he met As man meets man; his feet he set Beyond his dark age, standing upright, Soul-free, with his face to the morning light.

He read the warrant: "These convey From our precincts; at every town on the way Give each ten lashes." "God judge the brute! I tread his order under my foot!

"Cut loose these poor ones and let them go; Come what will of it, all men shall know No warrant is good, though backed by the Crown, For whipping women in Salisbury town!"

The hearts of the villagers, half released From creed of terror and rule of priest, By a primal instinct owned the right Of human pity in law's despite.

For ruth and chivalry only slept, His Saxon manhood the yeoman kept; Quicker or slower, the same blood ran In the Cavalier and the Puritan.

The Quakers sank on their knees in praise And thanks. A last, low sunset blaze Flashed out from under a cloud, and shed A golden glory on each bowed head.

The tale is one of an evil time, When souls were fettered and thought was crime, And heresy's whisper above its breath Meant shameful scourging and bonds and death!

What marvel, that hunted and sorely tried, Even woman rebuked and prophesied, And soft words rarely answered back The grim persuasion of whip and rack.

If her cry from the whipping-post and jail Pierced sharp as the Kenite's driven nail, O woman, at ease in these happier days, Forbear to judge of thy sister's ways!

How much thy beautiful life may owe To her faith and courage thou canst not know, Nor how from the paths of thy calm retreat She smoothed the thorns with her bleeding feet.

1883.



SAINT GREGORY'S GUEST.

A TALE for Roman guides to tell To careless, sight-worn travellers still, Who pause beside the narrow cell Of Gregory on the Caelian Hill.

One day before the monk's door came A beggar, stretching empty palms, Fainting and fast-sick, in the name Of the Most Holy asking alms.

And the monk answered, "All I have In this poor cell of mine I give, The silver cup my mother gave; In Christ's name take thou it, and live."

Years passed; and, called at last to bear The pastoral crook and keys of Rome, The poor monk, in Saint Peter's chair, Sat the crowned lord of Christendom.

"Prepare a feast," Saint Gregory cried, "And let twelve beggars sit thereat." The beggars came, and one beside, An unknown stranger, with them sat.

"I asked thee not," the Pontiff spake, "O stranger; but if need be thine, I bid thee welcome, for the sake Of Him who is thy Lord and mine."

A grave, calm face the stranger raised, Like His who on Gennesaret trod, Or His on whom the Chaldeans gazed, Whose form was as the Son of God.

"Know'st thou," he said, "thy gift of old?" And in the hand he lifted up The Pontiff marvelled to behold Once more his mother's silver cup.

"Thy prayers and alms have risen, and bloom Sweetly among the flowers of heaven. I am The Wonderful, through whom Whate'er thou askest shall be given."

He spake and vanished. Gregory fell With his twelve guests in mute accord Prone on their faces, knowing well Their eyes of flesh had seen the Lord.

The old-time legend is not vain; Nor vain thy art, Verona's Paul, Telling it o'er and o'er again On gray Vicenza's frescoed wall.

Still wheresoever pity shares Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin, And love the beggar's feast prepares, The uninvited Guest comes in.

Unheard, because our ears are dull, Unseen, because our eyes are dim, He walks our earth, The Wonderful, And all good deeds are done to Him.

1883.



BIRCHBROOK MILL.

A NOTELESS stream, the Birchbrook runs Beneath its leaning trees; That low, soft ripple is its own, That dull roar is the sea's.

Of human signs it sees alone The distant church spire's tip, And, ghost-like, on a blank of gray, The white sail of a ship.

No more a toiler at the wheel, It wanders at its will; Nor dam nor pond is left to tell Where once was Birchbrook mill.

The timbers of that mill have fed Long since a farmer's fires; His doorsteps are the stones that ground The harvest of his sires.

Man trespassed here; but Nature lost No right of her domain; She waited, and she brought the old Wild beauty back again.

By day the sunlight through the leaves Falls on its moist, green sod, And wakes the violet bloom of spring And autumn's golden-rod.

Its birches whisper to the wind, The swallow dips her wings In the cool spray, and on its banks The gray song-sparrow sings.

But from it, when the dark night falls, The school-girl shrinks with dread; The farmer, home-bound from his fields, Goes by with quickened tread.

They dare not pause to hear the grind Of shadowy stone on stone; The plashing of a water-wheel Where wheel there now is none.

Has not a cry of pain been heard Above the clattering mill? The pawing of an unseen horse, Who waits his mistress still?

Yet never to the listener's eye Has sight confirmed the sound; A wavering birch line marks alone The vacant pasture ground.

No ghostly arms fling up to heaven The agony of prayer; No spectral steed impatient shakes His white mane on the air.

The meaning of that common dread No tongue has fitly told; The secret of the dark surmise The brook and birches hold.

What nameless horror of the past Broods here forevermore? What ghost his unforgiven sin Is grinding o'er and o'er?

Does, then, immortal memory play The actor's tragic part, Rehearsals of a mortal life And unveiled human heart?

God's pity spare a guilty soul That drama of its ill, And let the scenic curtain fall On Birchbrook's haunted mill

1884.



THE TWO ELIZABETHS.

Read at the unveiling of the bust of Elizabeth Fry at the Friends' School, Providence, R. I.

A. D. 1209.

AMIDST Thuringia's wooded hills she dwelt, A high-born princess, servant of the poor, Sweetening with gracious words the food she dealt To starving throngs at Wartburg's blazoned door.

A blinded zealot held her soul in chains, Cramped the sweet nature that he could not kill, Scarred her fair body with his penance-pains, And gauged her conscience by his narrow will.

God gave her gifts of beauty and of grace, With fast and vigil she denied them all; Unquestioning, with sad, pathetic face, She followed meekly at her stern guide's call.

So drooped and died her home-blown rose of bliss In the chill rigor of a discipline That turned her fond lips from her children's kiss, And made her joy of motherhood a sin.

To their sad level by compassion led, One with the low and vile herself she made, While thankless misery mocked the hand that fed, And laughed to scorn her piteous masquerade.

But still, with patience that outwearied hate, She gave her all while yet she had to give; And then her empty hands, importunate, In prayer she lifted that the poor might live.

Sore pressed by grief, and wrongs more hard to bear, And dwarfed and stifled by a harsh control, She kept life fragrant with good deeds and prayer, And fresh and pure the white flower of her soul.

Death found her busy at her task: one word Alone she uttered as she paused to die, "Silence!"—then listened even as one who heard With song and wing the angels drawing nigh!

Now Fra Angelico's roses fill her hands, And, on Murillo's canvas, Want and Pain Kneel at her feet. Her marble image stands Worshipped and crowned in Marburg's holy fane.

Yea, wheresoe'er her Church its cross uprears, Wide as the world her story still is told; In manhood's reverence, woman's prayers and tears, She lives again whose grave is centuries old.

And still, despite the weakness or the blame Of blind submission to the blind, she hath A tender place in hearts of every name, And more than Rome owns Saint Elizabeth!

A. D. 1780.

Slow ages passed: and lo! another came, An English matron, in whose simple faith Nor priestly rule nor ritual had claim, A plain, uncanonized Elizabeth.

No sackcloth robe, nor ashen-sprinkled hair, Nor wasting fast, nor scourge, nor vigil long, Marred her calm presence. God had made her fair, And she could do His goodly work no wrong.

Their yoke is easy and their burden light Whose sole confessor is the Christ of God; Her quiet trust and faith transcending sight Smoothed to her feet the difficult paths she trod.

And there she walked, as duty bade her go, Safe and unsullied as a cloistered nun, Shamed with her plainness Fashion's gaudy show, And overcame the world she did not shun.

In Earlham's bowers, in Plashet's liberal hall, In the great city's restless crowd and din, Her ear was open to the Master's call, And knew the summons of His voice within.

Tender as mother, beautiful as wife, Amidst the throngs of prisoned crime she stood In modest raiment faultless as her life, The type of England's worthiest womanhood.

To melt the hearts that harshness turned to stone The sweet persuasion of her lips sufficed, And guilt, which only hate and fear had known, Saw in her own the pitying love of Christ.

So wheresoe'er the guiding Spirit went She followed, finding every prison cell It opened for her sacred as a tent Pitched by Gennesaret or by Jacob's well.

And Pride and Fashion felt her strong appeal, And priest and ruler marvelled as they saw How hand in hand went wisdom with her zeal, And woman's pity kept the bounds of law.

She rests in God's peace; but her memory stirs The air of earth as with an angel's wings, And warms and moves the hearts of men like hers, The sainted daughter of Hungarian kings.

United now, the Briton and the Hun, Each, in her own time, faithful unto death, Live sister souls! in name and spirit one, Thuringia's saint and our Elizabeth!

1885.



REQUITAL.

As Islam's Prophet, when his last day drew Nigh to its close, besought all men to say Whom he had wronged, to whom he then should pay A debt forgotten, or for pardon sue, And, through the silence of his weeping friends, A strange voice cried: "Thou owest me a debt," "Allah be praised!" he answered. "Even yet He gives me power to make to thee amends. O friend! I thank thee for thy timely word." So runs the tale. Its lesson all may heed, For all have sinned in thought, or word, or deed, Or, like the Prophet, through neglect have erred. All need forgiveness, all have debts to pay Ere the night cometh, while it still is day.

1885.



THE HOMESTEAD.

AGAINST the wooded hills it stands, Ghost of a dead home, staring through Its broken lights on wasted lands Where old-time harvests grew.

Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn, The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie, Once rich and rife with golden corn And pale green breadths of rye.

Of healthful herb and flower bereft, The garden plot no housewife keeps; Through weeds and tangle only left, The snake, its tenant, creeps.

A lilac spray, still blossom-clad, Sways slow before the empty rooms; Beside the roofless porch a sad Pathetic red rose blooms.

His track, in mould and dust of drouth, On floor and hearth the squirrel leaves, And in the fireless chimney's mouth His web the spider weaves.

The leaning barn, about to fall, Resounds no more on husking eves; No cattle low in yard or stall, No thresher beats his sheaves.

So sad, so drear! It seems almost Some haunting Presence makes its sign; That down yon shadowy lane some ghost Might drive his spectral kine!

O home so desolate and lorn! Did all thy memories die with thee? Were any wed, were any born, Beneath this low roof-tree?

Whose axe the wall of forest broke, And let the waiting sunshine through? What goodwife sent the earliest smoke Up the great chimney flue?

Did rustic lovers hither come? Did maidens, swaying back and forth In rhythmic grace, at wheel and loom, Make light their toil with mirth?

Did child feet patter on the stair? Did boyhood frolic in the snow? Did gray age, in her elbow chair, Knit, rocking to and fro?

The murmuring brook, the sighing breeze, The pine's slow whisper, cannot tell; Low mounds beneath the hemlock-trees Keep the home secrets well.

Cease, mother-land, to fondly boast Of sons far off who strive and thrive, Forgetful that each swarming host Must leave an emptier hive.

O wanderers from ancestral soil, Leave noisome mill and chaffering store: Gird up your loins for sturdier toil, And build the home once more!

Come back to bayberry-scented slopes, And fragrant fern, and ground-nut vine; Breathe airs blown over holt and copse Sweet with black birch and pine.

What matter if the gains are small That life's essential wants supply? Your homestead's title gives you all That idle wealth can buy.

All that the many-dollared crave, The brick-walled slaves of 'Change and mart, Lawns, trees, fresh air, and flowers, you have, More dear for lack of art.

Your own sole masters, freedom-willed, With none to bid you go or stay, Till the old fields your fathers tilled, As manly men as they!

With skill that spares your toiling hands, And chemic aid that science brings, Reclaim the waste and outworn lands, And reign thereon as kings

1886.



HOW THE ROBIN CAME.

AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND.

HAPPY young friends, sit by me, Under May's blown apple-tree, While these home-birds in and out Through the blossoms flit about. Hear a story, strange and old, By the wild red Indians told, How the robin came to be:

Once a great chief left his son,— Well-beloved, his only one,— When the boy was well-nigh grown, In the trial-lodge alone. Left for tortures long and slow Youths like him must undergo, Who their pride of manhood test, Lacking water, food, and rest.

Seven days the fast he kept, Seven nights he never slept. Then the young boy, wrung with pain, Weak from nature's overstrain, Faltering, moaned a low complaint "Spare me, father, for I faint!" But the chieftain, haughty-eyed, Hid his pity in his pride. "You shall be a hunter good, Knowing never lack of food; You shall be a warrior great, Wise as fox and strong as bear; Many scalps your belt shall wear, If with patient heart you wait Bravely till your task is done. Better you should starving die Than that boy and squaw should cry Shame upon your father's son!"

When next morn the sun's first rays Glistened on the hemlock sprays, Straight that lodge the old chief sought, And boiled sainp and moose meat brought. "Rise and eat, my son!" he said. Lo, he found the poor boy dead!

As with grief his grave they made, And his bow beside him laid, Pipe, and knife, and wampum-braid, On the lodge-top overhead, Preening smooth its breast of red And the brown coat that it wore, Sat a bird, unknown before. And as if with human tongue, "Mourn me not," it said, or sung; "I, a bird, am still your son, Happier than if hunter fleet, Or a brave, before your feet Laying scalps in battle won. Friend of man, my song shall cheer Lodge and corn-land; hovering near, To each wigwam I shall bring Tidings of the corning spring; Every child my voice shall know In the moon of melting snow, When the maple's red bud swells, And the wind-flower lifts its bells. As their fond companion Men shall henceforth own your son, And my song shall testify That of human kin am I."

Thus the Indian legend saith How, at first, the robin came With a sweeter life from death, Bird for boy, and still the same. If my young friends doubt that this Is the robin's genesis, Not in vain is still the myth If a truth be found therewith Unto gentleness belong Gifts unknown to pride and wrong; Happier far than hate is praise,— He who sings than he who slays.



BANISHED FROM MASSACHUSETTS.

1660.

On a painting by E. A. Abbey. The General Court of Massachusetts enacted Oct. 19, 1658, that "any person or persons of the cursed sect of Quakers" should, on conviction of the same, be banished, on pain of death, from the jurisdiction of the common-wealth.

OVER the threshold of his pleasant home Set in green clearings passed the exiled Friend, In simple trust, misdoubting not the end. "Dear heart of mine!" he said, "the time has come To trust the Lord for shelter." One long gaze The goodwife turned on each familiar thing,— The lowing kine, the orchard blossoming, The open door that showed the hearth-fire's blaze,— And calmly answered, "Yes, He will provide." Silent and slow they crossed the homestead's bound, Lingering the longest by their child's grave-mound. "Move on, or stay and hang!" the sheriff cried. They left behind them more than home or land, And set sad faces to an alien strand.

Safer with winds and waves than human wrath, With ravening wolves than those whose zeal for God Was cruelty to man, the exiles trod Drear leagues of forest without guide or path, Or launching frail boats on the uncharted sea, Round storm-vexed capes, whose teeth of granite ground The waves to foam, their perilous way they wound, Enduring all things so their souls were free. Oh, true confessors, shaming them who did Anew the wrong their Pilgrim Fathers bore For you the Mayflower spread her sail once more, Freighted with souls, to all that duty bid Faithful as they who sought an unknown land, O'er wintry seas, from Holland's Hook of Sand!

So from his lost home to the darkening main, Bodeful of storm, stout Macy held his way, And, when the green shore blended with the gray, His poor wife moaned: "Let us turn back again." "Nay, woman, weak of faith, kneel down," said he, And say thy prayers: the Lord himself will steer; And led by Him, nor man nor devils I fear! So the gray Southwicks, from a rainy sea, Saw, far and faint, the loom of land, and gave With feeble voices thanks for friendly ground Whereon to rest their weary feet, and found A peaceful death-bed and a quiet grave Where, ocean-walled, and wiser than his age, The lord of Shelter scorned the bigot's rage. Aquidneck's isle, Nantucket's lonely shores, And Indian-haunted Narragansett saw The way-worn travellers round their camp-fire draw, Or heard the plashing of their weary oars. And every place whereon they rested grew Happier for pure and gracious womanhood, And men whose names for stainless honor stood, Founders of States and rulers wise and true. The Muse of history yet shall make amends To those who freedom, peace, and justice taught, Beyond their dark age led the van of thought, And left unforfeited the name of Friends. O mother State, how foiled was thy design The gain was theirs, the loss alone was thine.



THE BROWN DWARF OF RUGEN.

The hint of this ballad is found in Arndt's Murchen, Berlin, 1816. The ballad appeared first in St. Nicholas, whose young readers were advised, while smiling at the absurd superstition, to remember that bad companionship and evil habits, desires, and passions are more to be dreaded now than the Elves and Trolls who frightened the children of past ages.

THE pleasant isle of Rugen looks the Baltic water o'er, To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian shore;

And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid Plucked the meadow-flowers together and in the sea-surf played.

Alike were they in beauty if not in their degree He was the Amptman's first-born, the miller's child was she.

Now of old the isle of Rugen was full of Dwarfs and Trolls, The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people without souls;

And for every man and woman in Rugen's island found Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was underground.

It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled away Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the elves and goblins play.

That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters had known Of evil voices in the air, and heard the small horns blown.

She came not back; the search for her in field and wood was vain They cried her east, they cried her west, but she came not again.

"She's down among the Brown Dwarfs," said the dream-wives wise and old, And prayers were made, and masses said, and Rambin's church bell tolled.

Five years her father mourned her; and then John Deitrich said "I will find my little playmate, be she alive or dead."

He watched among the Nine Hills, he heard the Brown Dwarfs sing, And saw them dance by moonlight merrily in a ring.

And when their gay-robed leader tossed up his cap of red, Young Deitrich caught it as it fell, and thrust it on his head.

The Troll came crouching at his feet and wept for lack of it. "Oh, give me back my magic cap, for your great head unfit!"

"Nay," Deitrich said; "the Dwarf who throws his charmed cap away, Must serve its finder at his will, and for his folly pay.

"You stole my pretty Lisbeth, and hid her in the earth; And you shall ope the door of glass and let me lead her forth."

"She will not come; she's one of us; she's mine!" the Brown Dwarf said; The day is set, the cake is baked, to-morrow we shall wed."

"The fell fiend fetch thee!" Deitrich cried, "and keep thy foul tongue still. Quick! open, to thy evil world, the glass door of the hill!"

The Dwarf obeyed; and youth and Troll down, the long stair-way passed, And saw in dim and sunless light a country strange and vast.

Weird, rich, and wonderful, he saw the elfin under-land,— Its palaces of precious stones, its streets of golden sand.

He came unto a banquet-hall with tables richly spread, Where a young maiden served to him the red wine and the bread.

How fair she seemed among the Trolls so ugly and so wild! Yet pale and very sorrowful, like one who never smiled!

Her low, sweet voice, her gold-brown hair, her tender blue eyes seemed Like something he had seen elsewhere or some. thing he had dreamed.

He looked; he clasped her in his arms; he knew the long-lost one; "O Lisbeth! See thy playmate—I am the Amptman's son!"

She leaned her fair head on his breast, and through her sobs she spoke "Oh, take me from this evil place, and from the elfin folk,

"And let me tread the grass-green fields and smell the flowers again, And feel the soft wind on my cheek and hear the dropping rain!

"And oh, to hear the singing bird, the rustling of the tree, The lowing cows, the bleat of sheep, the voices of the sea;

"And oh, upon my father's knee to sit beside the door, And hear the bell of vespers ring in Rambin church once more!"

He kissed her cheek, he kissed her lips; the Brown Dwarf groaned to see, And tore his tangled hair and ground his long teeth angrily.

But Deitrich said: "For five long years this tender Christian maid Has served you in your evil world and well must she be paid!

"Haste!—hither bring me precious gems, the richest in your store; Then when we pass the gate of glass, you'll take your cap once more."

No choice was left the baffled Troll, and, murmuring, he obeyed, And filled the pockets of the youth and apron of the maid.

They left the dreadful under-land and passed the gate of glass; They felt the sunshine's warm caress, they trod the soft, green grass.

And when, beneath, they saw the Dwarf stretch up to them his brown And crooked claw-like fingers, they tossed his red cap down.

Oh, never shone so bright a sun, was never sky so blue, As hand in hand they homeward walked the pleasant meadows through!

And never sang the birds so sweet in Rambin's woods before, And never washed the waves so soft along the Baltic shore;

And when beneath his door-yard trees the father met his child, The bells rung out their merriest peal, the folks with joy ran wild.



VOLUME II. POEMS OF NATURE plus POEMS SUBJECTIVE AND REMINISCENT and RELIGIOUS POEMS



CONTENTS

POEMS OF NATURE: THE FROST SPIRIT THE MERRIMAC HAMPTON BEACH A DREAM OF SUMMER THE LAKESIDE AUTUMN THOUGHTS ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL FROM LAKE SUPERIOR APRIL PICTURES SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE THE FRUIT-GIFT FLOWERS IN WINTER THE MAYFLOWERS THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN THE FIRST FLOWERS THE OLD BURYING-GROUND THE PALM-TREE THE RIVER PATH MOUNTAIN PICTURES I. FRANCONIA FROM THE PEMIGEWASSET II. MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSET THE VANISHERS THE PAGEANT THE PRESSED GENTIAN A MYSTERY A SEA DREAM HAZEL BLOSSOMS SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP THE SEEKING OF THE WATERFALL THE TRAILING ARBUTUS ST. MARTINS SUMMER STORM ON LAKE ASQUAM A SUMMER PILGRIMAGE SWEET FERN THE WOOD GIANT A DAY

POEMS SUBJECTIVE AND REMINISCENT: MEMORIES RAPHAEL EGO THE PUMPKIN FORGIVENESS TO MY SISTER MY THANKS REMEMBRANCE MY NAMESAKE A MEMORY MY DREAM THE BAREFOOT BOY MY PSALM THE WAITING SNOW-BOUND MY TRIUMPH IN SCHOOL-DAYS MY BIRTHDAY RED RIDING-HOOD RESPONSE AT EVENTIDE VOYAGE OF THE JETTIE MY TRUST A NAME GREETING CONTENTS AN AUTOGRAPH ABRAM MORRISON A LEGACY

RELIGIOUS POEMS: THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN THE CRUCIFIXION PALESTINE HYMNS FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE I. ENCORE UN HYMNE II. LE CRI DE L'AME THE FAMILIST'S HYMN EZEKIEL WHAT THE VOICE SAID THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND MY SOUL AND I WORSHIP THE HOLY LAND THE REWARD THE WISH OF TO-DAY ALL'S WELL INVOCATION QUESTIONS OF LIFE FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS TRUST TRINITAS THE SISTERS "THE ROCK" IN EL GHOR THE OVER-HEART THE SHADOW AND THE LIGHT THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL ANDREW RYKMAN'S PRAYER THE ANSWER THE ETERNAL GOODNESS THE COMMON QUESTION OUR MASTER THE MEETING THE CLEAR VISION DIVINE COMPASSION THE PRAYER-SEEKER THE BREWING OF SOMA A WOMAN THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ IN QUEST THE FRIEND'S BURIAL A CHRISTMAS CARMEN VESTA CHILD-SONGS THE HEALER THE TWO ANGELS OVERRULED HYMN OF THE DUNKERS GIVING AND TAKING THE VISION OF ECHARD INSCRIPTIONS ON A SUN-DIAL ON A FOUNTAIN THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER BY THEIR WORKS THE WORD THE BOOK REQUIREMENT HELP UTTERANCE ORIENTAL MAXIMS THE INWARD JUDGE LAYING UP TREASURE CONDUCT AN EASTER FLOWER GIFT THE MYSTIC'S CHRISTMAS AT LAST WHAT THE TRAVELLER SAID AT SUNSET THE "STORY OF IDA" THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT THE TWO LOVES ADJUSTMENT HYMNS OF THE BRAHMO SOMAJ REVELATION



POEMS OF NATURE



THE FROST SPIRIT

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! from the frozen Labrador, From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er, Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass. He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

1830.



THE MERRIMAC.

"The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merrimac."—SIEUR. DE MONTS, 1604.

Stream of my fathers! sweetly still The sunset rays thy valley fill; Poured slantwise down the long defile, Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile. I see the winding Powow fold The green hill in its belt of gold, And following down its wavy line, Its sparkling waters blend with thine. There 's not a tree upon thy side, Nor rock, which thy returning tide As yet hath left abrupt and stark Above thy evening water-mark; No calm cove with its rocky hem, No isle whose emerald swells begin Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail Bowed to the freshening ocean gale; No small boat with its busy oars, Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores; Nor farm-house with its maple shade, Or rigid poplar colonnade, But lies distinct and full in sight, Beneath this gush of sunset light. Centuries ago, that harbor-bar, Stretching its length of foam afar, And Salisbury's beach of shining sand, And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand, Saw the adventurer's tiny sail, Flit, stooping from the eastern gale; And o'er these woods and waters broke The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak, As brightly on the voyager's eye, Weary of forest, sea, and sky, Breaking the dull continuous wood, The Merrimac rolled down his flood; Mingling that clear pellucid brook, Which channels vast Agioochook When spring-time's sun and shower unlock The frozen fountains of the rock, And more abundant waters given From that pure lake, "The Smile of Heaven," Tributes from vale and mountain-side,— With ocean's dark, eternal tide!

On yonder rocky cape, which braves The stormy challenge of the waves, Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood, The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood, Planting upon the topmost crag The staff of England's battle-flag; And, while from out its heavy fold Saint George's crimson cross unrolled, Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare, And weapons brandishing in air, He gave to that lone promontory The sweetest name in all his story; Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters, Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters,— Who, when the chance of war had bound The Moslem chain his limbs around, Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain, Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain, And fondly to her youthful slave A dearer gift than freedom gave.

But look! the yellow light no more Streams down on wave and verdant shore; And clearly on the calm air swells The twilight voice of distant bells. From Ocean's bosom, white and thin, The mists come slowly rolling in; Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim, Amidst the sea—like vapor swim, While yonder lonely coast-light, set Within its wave-washed minaret, Half quenched, a beamless star and pale, Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!

Home of my fathers!—I have stood Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade Along his frowning Palisade; Looked down the Appalachian peak On Juniata's silver streak; Have seen along his valley gleam The Mohawk's softly winding stream; The level light of sunset shine Through broad Potomac's hem of pine; And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna; Yet wheresoe'er his step might be, Thy wandering child looked back to thee! Heard in his dreams thy river's sound Of murmuring on its pebbly bound, The unforgotten swell and roar Of waves on thy familiar shore; And saw, amidst the curtained gloom And quiet of his lonely room, Thy sunset scenes before him pass; As, in Agrippa's magic glass, The loved and lost arose to view, Remembered groves in greenness grew, Bathed still in childhood's morning dew, Along whose bowers of beauty swept Whatever Memory's mourners wept, Sweet faces, which the charnel kept, Young, gentle eyes, which long had slept; And while the gazer leaned to trace, More near, some dear familiar face, He wept to find the vision flown,— A phantom and a dream alone!

1841.



HAMPTON BEACH

The sunlight glitters keen and bright, Where, miles away, Lies stretching to my dazzled sight A luminous belt, a misty light, Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy gray.

The tremulous shadow of the Sea! Against its ground Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree, Still as a picture, clear and free, With varying outline mark the coast for miles around.

On—on—we tread with loose-flung rein Our seaward way, Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain, Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane, And bends above our heads the flowering locust spray.

Ha! like a kind hand on my brow Comes this fresh breeze, Cooling its dull and feverish glow, While through my being seems to flow The breath of a new life, the healing of the seas!

Now rest we, where this grassy mound His feet hath set In the great waters, which have bound His granite ankles greenly round With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool spray wet.

Good-by to Pain and Care! I take Mine ease to-day Here where these sunny waters break, And ripples this keen breeze, I shake All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away.

I draw a freer breath, I seem Like all I see— Waves in the sun, the white-winged gleam Of sea-birds in the slanting beam, And far-off sails which flit before the south-wind free.

So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, The soul may know No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, Nor sink the weight of mystery under, But with the upward rise, and with the vastness grow.

And all we shrink from now may seem No new revealing; Familiar as our childhood's stream, Or pleasant memory of a dream The loved and cherished Past upon the new life stealing.

Serene and mild the untried light May have its dawning; And, as in summer's northern night The evening and the dawn unite, The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new morning.

I sit alone; in foam and spray Wave after wave Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray, Shoulder the broken tide away, Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft and cave.

What heed I of the dusty land And noisy town? I see the mighty deep expand From its white line of glimmering sand To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts down!

In listless quietude of mind, I yield to all The change of cloud and wave and wind And passive on the flood reclined, I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall.

But look, thou dreamer! wave and shore In shadow lie; The night-wind warns me back once more To where, my native hill-tops o'er, Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky.

So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell! I bear with me No token stone nor glittering shell, But long and oft shall Memory tell Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea.

1843.



A DREAM OF SUMMER.

Bland as the morning breath of June The southwest breezes play; And, through its haze, the winter noon Seems warm as summer's day. The snow-plumed Angel of the North Has dropped his icy spear; Again the mossy earth looks forth, Again the streams gush clear.

The fox his hillside cell forsakes, The muskrat leaves his nook, The bluebird in the meadow brakes Is singing with the brook. "Bear up, O Mother Nature!" cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; "Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee!"

So, in those winters of the soul, By bitter blasts and drear O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole, Will sunny days appear. Reviving Hope and Faith, they show The soul its living powers, And how beneath the winter's snow Lie germs of summer flowers!

The Night is mother of the Day, The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, Through showers the sunbeams fall; For God, who loveth all His works, Has left His hope with all!

4th 1st month, 1847.



THE LAKESIDE

The shadows round the inland sea Are deepening into night; Slow up the slopes of Ossipee They chase the lessening light. Tired of the long day's blinding heat, I rest my languid eye, Lake of the Hills! where, cool and sweet, Thy sunset waters lie!

Along the sky, in wavy lines, O'er isle and reach and bay, Green-belted with eternal pines, The mountains stretch away. Below, the maple masses sleep Where shore with water blends, While midway on the tranquil deep The evening light descends.

So seemed it when yon hill's red crown, Of old, the Indian trod, And, through the sunset air, looked down Upon the Smile of God. To him of light and shade the laws No forest skeptic taught; Their living and eternal Cause His truer instinct sought.

He saw these mountains in the light Which now across them shines; This lake, in summer sunset bright, Walled round with sombering pines. God near him seemed; from earth and skies His loving voice he beard, As, face to face, in Paradise, Man stood before the Lord.

Thanks, O our Father! that, like him, Thy tender love I see, In radiant hill and woodland dim, And tinted sunset sea. For not in mockery dost Thou fill Our earth with light and grace; Thou hid'st no dark and cruel will Behind Thy smiling face!

1849.



AUTUMN THOUGHTS

Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers, And gone the Summer's pomp and show, And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, Is waiting for the Winter's snow.

I said to Earth, so cold and gray, "An emblem of myself thou art." "Not so," the Earth did seem to say, "For Spring shall warm my frozen heart." I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams Of warmer sun and softer rain, And wait to hear the sound of streams And songs of merry birds again.

But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone, For whom the flowers no longer blow, Who standest blighted and forlorn, Like Autumn waiting for the snow;

No hope is thine of sunnier hours, Thy Winter shall no more depart; No Spring revive thy wasted flowers, Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart.

1849.



ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL FROM LAKE SUPERIOR.

All day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky, Like frost upon the pane;

But now my torpid fancy wakes, And, on thy Eagle's plume, Rides forth, like Sindbad on his bird, Or witch upon her broom!

Below me roar the rocking pines, Before me spreads the lake Whose long and solemn-sounding waves Against the sunset break.

I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh The grain he has not sown; I see, with flashing scythe of fire, The prairie harvest mown!

I hear the far-off voyager's horn; I see the Yankee's trail,— His foot on every mountain-pass, On every stream his sail.

By forest, lake, and waterfall, I see his pedler show; The mighty mingling with the mean, The lofty with the low.

He's whittling by St. Mary's Falls, Upon his loaded wain; He's measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks, With eager eyes of gain.

I hear the mattock in the mine, The axe-stroke in the dell, The clamor from the Indian lodge, The Jesuit chapel bell!

I see the swarthy trappers come From Mississippi's springs; And war-chiefs with their painted brows, And crests of eagle wings.

Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe, The steamer smokes and raves; And city lots are staked for sale Above old Indian graves.

I hear the tread of pioneers Of nations yet to be; The first low wash of waves, where soon Shall roll a human sea.

The rudiments of empire here Are plastic yet and warm; The chaos of a mighty world Is rounding into form!

Each rude and jostling fragment soon Its fitting place shall find,— The raw material of a State, Its muscle and its mind!

And, westering still, the star which leads The New World in its train Has tipped with fire the icy spears Of many a mountain chain.

The snowy cones of Oregon Are kindling on its way; And California's golden sands Gleam brighter in its ray!

Then blessings on thy eagle quill, As, wandering far and wide, I thank thee for this twilight dream And Fancy's airy ride!

Yet, welcomer than regal plumes, Which Western trappers find, Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance sown, Like feathers on the wind.

Thy symbol be the mountain-bird, Whose glistening quill I hold; Thy home the ample air of hope, And memory's sunset gold!

In thee, let joy with duty join, And strength unite with love, The eagle's pinions folding round The warm heart of the dove!

So, when in darkness sleeps the vale Where still the blind bird clings The sunshine of the upper sky Shall glitter on thy wings!

1849.



APRIL.

"The spring comes slowly up this way." Christabel.

'T is the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is heard; For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow, And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow; Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white, On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light, O'er the cold winter-beds of their late-waking roots The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal shoots; And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps, Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south! For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth; For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod! Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast, Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and snow, All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau, Until all our dreams of the land of the blest, Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny southwest. O soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath, Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this death; Renew the great miracle; let us behold The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled, And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old! Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain, Revive with the warmth and the brightness again, And in blooming of flower and budding of tree The symbols and types of our destiny see; The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole, And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul!