NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY POEMS BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER CONTENTS: AMONG THE HILLS PRELUDE AMONG THE HILLS THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELLTHE TWO RABBINSNOREMBEGAMIRIAMMAUD MULLERMARY GARVINTHE RANGERNAUHAUGHT, THE DEACONTHE SISTERSMARGUERITETHE ROBIN AMONG THE HILLS This poem, when originally published, was dedicated to Annie Fields, wife of the distinguished publisher, James T. Fields, of Boston, ingrateful acknowledgment of the strength and inspiration I have found inher friendship and sympathy. The poem in its first form was entitled TheWife: an Idyl of Bearcamp Water, and appeared in The Atlantic Monthlyfor January, 1868. When I published the volume Among the Hills, inDecember of the same year, I expanded the Prelude and filled out alsothe outlines of the story. PRELUDE. ALONG the roadside, like the flowers of goldThat tawny Incas for their gardens wrought, Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod, And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowersHang motionless upon their upright staves. The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind, Vying-weary with its long flight from the south, Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leafWith faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams, Confesses it. The locust by the wallStabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm. A single hay-cart down the dusty roadCreaks slowly, with its driver fast asleepOn the load's top. Against the neighboring hill, Huddled along the stone wall's shady side, The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift stillDefied the dog-star. Through the open doorA drowsy smell of flowers-gray heliotrope, And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette--Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lendsTo the pervading symphony of peace. No time is this for hands long over-wornTo task their strength; and (unto Him be praiseWho giveth quietness!) the stress and strainOf years that did the work of centuriesHave ceased, and we can draw our breath once moreFreely and full. So, as yon harvestersMake glad their nooning underneath the elmsWith tale and riddle and old snatch of song, I lay aside grave themes, and idly turnThe leaves of memory's sketch-book, dreaming o'erOld summer pictures of the quiet hills, And human life, as quiet, at their feet. And yet not idly all. A farmer's son, Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feelingAll their fine possibilities, how richAnd restful even poverty and toilBecome when beauty, harmony, and loveSit at their humble hearth as angels satAt evening in the patriarch's tent, when manMakes labor noble, and his farmer's frockThe symbol of a Christian chivalryTender and just and generous to herWho clothes with grace all duty; still, I knowToo well the picture has another side, --How wearily the grind of toil goes onWhere love is wanting, how the eye and earAnd heart are starved amidst the plenitudeOf nature, and how hard and colorlessIs life without an atmosphere. I lookAcross the lapse of half a century, And call to mind old homesteads, where no flowerTold that the spring had come, but evil weeds, Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock in the placeOf the sweet doorway greeting of the roseAnd honeysuckle, where the house walls seemedBlistering in sun, without a tree or vineTo cast the tremulous shadow of its leavesAcross the curtainless windows, from whose panesFluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness. Within, the cluttered kitchen-floor, unwashed(Broom-clean I think they called it); the best roomStifling with cellar damp, shut from the airIn hot midsummer, bookless, pictureless, Save the inevitable sampler hungOver the fireplace, or a mourning piece, A green-haired woman, peony-cheeked, beneathImpossible willows; the wide-throated hearthBristling with faded pine-boughs half concealingThe piled-up rubbish at the chimney's back;And, in sad keeping with all things about them, Shrill, querulous-women, sour and sullen men, Untidy, loveless, old before their time, With scarce a human interest save their ownMonotonous round of small economies, Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood;Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed, Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet;For them the song-sparrow and the bobolinkSang not, nor winds made music in the leaves;For them in vain October's holocaustBurned, gold and crimson, over all the hills, The sacramental mystery of the woods. Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers, But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent, Saving, as shrewd economists, their soulsAnd winter pork with the least possible outlayOf salt and sanctity; in daily lifeShowing as little actual comprehensionOf Christian charity and love and duty, As if the Sermon on the Mount had beenOutdated like a last year's almanacRich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields, And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless, The veriest straggler limping on his rounds, The sun and air his sole inheritance, Laughed at a poverty that paid its taxes, And hugged his rags in self-complacency! Not such should be the homesteads of a landWhere whoso wisely wills and acts may dwellAs king and lawgiver, in broad-acred state, With beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to makeHis hour of leisure richer than a lifeOf fourscore to the barons of old time, Our yeoman should be equal to his homeSet in the fair, green valleys, purple walled, A man to match his mountains, not to creepDwarfed and abased below them. I would fainIn this light way (of which I needs must ownWith the knife-grinder of whom Canning sings, "Story, God bless you! I have none to tell you!")Invite the eye to see and heart to feelThe beauty and the joy within their reach, --Home, and home loves, and the beatitudesOf nature free to all. Haply in yearsThat wait to take the places of our own, Heard where some breezy balcony looks downOn happy homes, or where the lake in the moonSleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth, In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feetOf Boaz, even this simple lay of mineMay seem the burden of a prophecy, Finding its late fulfilment in a changeSlow as the oak's growth, lifting manhood upThrough broader culture, finer manners, love, And reverence, to the level of the hills. O Golden Age, whose light is of the dawn, And not of sunset, forward, not behind, Flood the new heavens and earth, and with thee bringAll the old virtues, whatsoever thingsAre pure and honest and of good repute, But add thereto whatever bard has sungOr seer has told of when in trance and dreamThey saw the Happy Isles of prophecyLet Justice hold her scale, and Truth divideBetween the right and wrong; but give the heartThe freedom of its fair inheritance;Let the poor prisoner, cramped and starved so long, At Nature's table feast his ear and eyeWith joy and wonder; let all harmoniesOf sound, form, color, motion, wait uponThe princely guest, whether in soft attireOf leisure clad, or the coarse frock of toil, And, lending life to the dead form of faith, Give human nature reverence for the sakeOf One who bore it, making it divineWith the ineffable tenderness of God;Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer, The heirship of an unknown destiny, The unsolved mystery round about us, makeA man more precious than the gold of Ophir. Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all thingsShould minister, as outward types and signsOf the eternal beauty which fulfilsThe one great purpose of creation, Love, The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven! . . . . . . . . . . . For weeks the clouds had raked the hillsAnd vexed the vales with raining, And all the woods were sad with mist, And all the brooks complaining. At last, a sudden night-storm toreThe mountain veils asunder, And swept the valleys clean beforeThe besom of the thunder. Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sangGood morrow to the cotter;And once again Chocorua's hornOf shadow pierced the water. Above his broad lake Ossipee, Once more the sunshine wearing, Stooped, tracing on that silver shieldHis grim armorial bearing. Clear drawn against the hard blue sky, The peaks had winter's keenness;And, close on autumn's frost, the valesHad more than June's fresh greenness. Again the sodden forest floorsWith golden lights were checkered, Once more rejoicing leaves in windAnd sunshine danced and flickered. It was as if the summer's lateAtoning for it's sadnessHad borrowed every season's charmTo end its days in gladness. Rivers of gold-mist flowing downFrom far celestial fountains, --The great sun flaming through the riftsBeyond the wall of mountains. We paused at last where home-bound cowsBrought down the pasture's treasure, And in the barn the rhythmic flailsBeat out a harvest measure. We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge, The crow his tree-mates callingThe shadows lengthening down the slopesAbout our feet were falling. And through them smote the level sunIn broken lines of splendor, Touched the gray rocks and made the greenOf the shorn grass more tender. The maples bending o'er the gate, Their arch of leaves just tintedWith yellow warmth, the golden glowOf coming autumn hinted. Keen white between the farm-house showed, And smiled on porch and trellis, The fair democracy of flowersThat equals cot and palace. And weaving garlands for her dog, 'Twixt chidings and caresses, A human flower of childhood shookThe sunshine from her tresses. Clear drawn against the hard blue sky, The peaks had winter's keenness;And, close on autumn's frost, the valesHad more than June's fresh greenness. Again the sodden forest floorsWith golden lights were checkered, Once more rejoicing leaves in windAnd sunshine danced and flickered. It was as if the summer's lateAtoning for it's sadnessHad borrowed every season's charmTo end its days in gladness. I call to mind those banded valesOf shadow and of shining, Through which, my hostess at my side, I drove in day's declining. We held our sideling way aboveThe river's whitening shallows, By homesteads old, with wide-flung barnsSwept through and through by swallows; By maple orchards, belts of pineAnd larches climbing darklyThe mountain slopes, and, over all, The great peaks rising starkly. You should have seen that long hill-rangeWith gaps of brightness riven, --How through each pass and hollow streamedThe purpling lights of heaven, -- On either hand we saw the signsOf fancy and of shrewdness, Where taste had wound its arms of vinesRound thrift's uncomely rudeness. The sun-brown farmer in his frockShook hands, and called to MaryBare-armed, as Juno might, she came, White-aproned from her dairy. Her air, her smile, her motions, toldOf womanly completeness;A music as of household songsWas in her voice of sweetness. Not fair alone in curve and line, But something more and better, The secret charm eluding art, Its spirit, not its letter;-- An inborn grace that nothing lackedOf culture or appliance, The warmth of genial courtesy, The calm of self-reliance. Before her queenly womanhoodHow dared our hostess utterThe paltry errand of her needTo buy her fresh-churned butter? She led the way with housewife pride, Her goodly store disclosing, Full tenderly the golden ballsWith practised hands disposing. Then, while along the western hillsWe watched the changeful gloryOf sunset, on our homeward way, I heard her simple story. The early crickets sang; the streamPlashed through my friend's narrationHer rustic patois of the hillsLost in my free-translation. "More wise, " she said, "than those who swarmOur hills in middle summer, She came, when June's first roses blow, To greet the early comer. "From school and ball and rout she came, The city's fair, pale daughter, To drink the wine of mountain airBeside the Bearcamp Water. "Her step grew firmer on the hillsThat watch our homesteads over;On cheek and lip, from summer fields, She caught the bloom of clover. "For health comes sparkling in the streamsFrom cool Chocorua stealingThere's iron in our Northern winds;Our pines are trees of healing. "She sat beneath the broad-armed elmsThat skirt the mowing-meadow, And watched the gentle west-wind weaveThe grass with shine and shadow. "Beside her, from the summer heatTo share her grateful screening, With forehead bared, the farmer stood, Upon his pitchfork leaning. "Framed in its damp, dark locks, his faceHad nothing mean or common, --Strong, manly, true, the tendernessAnd pride beloved of woman. "She looked up, glowing with the healthThe country air had brought her, And, laughing, said: 'You lack a wife, Your mother lacks a daughter. "'To mend your frock and bake your breadYou do not need a ladyBe sure among these brown old homesIs some one waiting ready, -- "'Some fair, sweet girl with skilful handAnd cheerful heart for treasure, Who never played with ivory keys, Or danced the polka's measure. ' "He bent his black brows to a frown, He set his white teeth tightly. ''T is well, ' he said, 'for one like youTo choose for me so lightly. "You think, because my life is rudeI take no note of sweetnessI tell you love has naught to doWith meetness or unmeetness. "'Itself its best excuse, it asksNo leave of pride or fashionWhen silken zone or homespun frockIt stirs with throbs of passion. "'You think me deaf and blind: you bringYour winning graces hitherAs free as if from cradle-timeWe two had played together. "'You tempt me with your laughing eyes, Your cheek of sundown's blushes, A motion as of waving grain, A music as of thrushes. "'The plaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around meYou cannot at your will undo, Nor leave me as you found me. "'You go as lightly as you came, Your life is well without me;What care you that these hills will closeLike prison-walls about me? "'No mood is mine to seek a wife, Or daughter for my motherWho loves you loses in that loveAll power to love another! "'I dare your pity or your scorn, With pride your own exceeding;I fling my heart into your lapWithout a word of pleading. ' "She looked up in his face of painSo archly, yet so tender'And if I lend you mine, ' she said, 'Will you forgive the lender? "'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man;And see you not, my farmer, How weak and fond a woman waitsBehind this silken armor? "'I love you: on that love alone, And not my worth, presuming, Will you not trust for summer fruitThe tree in May-day blooming?' "Alone the hangbird overhead, His hair-swung cradle straining, Looked down to see love's miracle, --The giving that is gaining. "And so the farmer found a wife, His mother found a daughterThere looks no happier home than hersOn pleasant Bearcamp Water. "Flowers spring to blossom where she walksThe careful ways of duty;Our hard, stiff lines of life with herAre flowing curves of beauty. "Our homes are cheerier for her sake, Our door-yards brighter blooming, And all about the social airIs sweeter for her coming. "Unspoken homilies of peaceHer daily life is preaching;The still refreshment of the dewIs her unconscious teaching. "And never tenderer hand than hersUnknits the brow of ailing;Her garments to the sick man's earHave music in their trailing. "And when, in pleasant harvest moons, The youthful huskers gather, Or sleigh-drives on the mountain waysDefy the winter weather, -- "In sugar-camps, when south and warmThe winds of March are blowing, And sweetly from its thawing veinsThe maple's blood is flowing, -- "In summer, where some lilied pondIts virgin zone is baring, Or where the ruddy autumn fireLights up the apple-paring, -- "The coarseness of a ruder timeHer finer mirth displaces, A subtler sense of pleasure fillsEach rustic sport she graces. "Her presence lends its warmth and healthTo all who come before it. If woman lost us Eden, suchAs she alone restore it. "For larger life and wiser aimsThe farmer is her debtor;Who holds to his another's heartMust needs be worse or better. "Through her his civic service showsA purer-toned ambition;No double consciousness dividesThe man and politician. "In party's doubtful ways he trustsHer instincts to determine;At the loud polls, the thought of herRecalls Christ's Mountain Sermon. "He owns her logic of the heart, And wisdom of unreason, Supplying, while he doubts and weighs, The needed word in season. "He sees with pride her richer thought, Her fancy's freer ranges;And love thus deepened to respectIs proof against all changes. "And if she walks at ease in waysHis feet are slow to travel, And if she reads with cultured eyesWhat his may scarce unravel, "Still clearer, for her keener sightOf beauty and of wonder, He learns the meaning of the hillsHe dwelt from childhood under. "And higher, warmed with summer lights, Or winter-crowned and hoary, The ridged horizon lifts for himIts inner veils of glory. "He has his own free, bookless lore, The lessons nature taught him, The wisdom which the woods and hillsAnd toiling men have brought him: "The steady force of will wherebyHer flexile grace seems sweeter;The sturdy counterpoise which makesHer woman's life completer. "A latent fire of soul which lacksNo breath of love to fan it;And wit, that, like his native brooks, Plays over solid granite. "How dwarfed against his manlinessShe sees the poor pretension, The wants, the aims, the follies, bornOf fashion and convention. "How life behind its accidentsStands strong and self-sustaining, The human fact transcending allThe losing and the gaining. "And so in grateful interchangeOf teacher and of hearer, Their lives their true distinctness keepWhile daily drawing nearer. "And if the husband or the wifeIn home's strong light discoversSuch slight defaults as failed to meetThe blinded eyes of lovers, "Why need we care to ask?--who dreamsWithout their thorns of roses, Or wonders that the truest steelThe readiest spark discloses? "For still in mutual sufferance liesThe secret of true living;Love scarce is love that never knowsThe sweetness of forgiving. "We send the Squire to General Court, He takes his young wife thither;No prouder man election dayRides through the sweet June weather. "He sees with eyes of manly trustAll hearts to her inclining;Not less for him his household lightThat others share its shining. " Thus, while my hostess spake, there grewBefore me, warmer tintedAnd outlined with a tenderer grace, The picture that she hinted. The sunset smouldered as we droveBeneath the deep hill-shadows. Below us wreaths of white fog walkedLike ghosts the haunted meadows. Sounding the summer night, the starsDropped down their golden plummets;The pale arc of the Northern lightsRose o'er the mountain summits, Until, at last, beneath its bridge, We heard the Bearcamp flowing, And saw across the mapled lawnThe welcome home lights glowing. And, musing on the tale I heard, 'T were well, thought I, if oftenTo rugged farm-life came the giftTo harmonize and soften; If more and more we found the trothOf fact and fancy plighted, And culture's charm and labor's strengthIn rural homes united, -- The simple life, the homely hearth, With beauty's sphere surrounding, And blessing toil where toil aboundsWith graces more abounding. 1868. THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL. THE land was pale with famineAnd racked with fever-pain;The frozen fiords were fishless, The earth withheld her grain. Men saw the boding FylgjaBefore them come and go, And, through their dreams, the UrdarmoonFrom west to east sailed slow. Jarl Thorkell of TheveraAt Yule-time made his vow;On Rykdal's holy Doom-stoneHe slew to Frey his cow. To bounteous Frey he slew her;To Skuld, the younger Norn, Who watches over birth and death, He gave her calf unborn. And his little gold-haired daughterTook up the sprinkling-rod, And smeared with blood the templeAnd the wide lips of the god. Hoarse below, the winter waterGround its ice-blocks o'er and o'er;Jets of foam, like ghosts of dead waves, Rose and fell along the shore. The red torch of the Jokul, Aloft in icy space, Shone down on the bloody Horg-stonesAnd the statue's carven face. And closer round and grimmerBeneath its baleful lightThe Jotun shapes of mountainsCame crowding through the night. The gray-haired Hersir trembledAs a flame by wind is blown;A weird power moved his white lips, And their voice was not his own. "The AEsir thirst!" he muttered;"The gods must have more bloodBefore the tun shall blossomOr fish shall fill the flood. "The AEsir thirst and hunger, And hence our blight and ban;The mouths of the strong gods waterFor the flesh and blood of man! "Whom shall we give the strong ones?Not warriors, sword on thigh;But let the nursling infantAnd bedrid old man die. " "So be it!" cried the young men, "There needs nor doubt nor parle. "But, knitting hard his red brows, In silence stood the Jarl. A sound of woman's weepingAt the temple door was heard, But the old men bowed their white heads, And answered not a word. Then the Dream-wife of Thingvalla, A Vala young and fair, Sang softly, stirring with her breathThe veil of her loose hair. She sang: "The winds from AlfheimBring never sound of strife;The gifts for Frey the meetestAre not of death, but life. "He loves the grass-green meadows, The grazing kine's sweet breath;He loathes your bloody Horg-stones, Your gifts that smell of death. "No wrong by wrong is righted, No pain is cured by pain;The blood that smokes from Doom-ringsFalls back in redder rain. "The gods are what you make them, As earth shall Asgard prove;And hate will come of hating, And love will come of love. "Make dole of skyr and black breadThat old and young may live;And look to Frey for favorWhen first like Frey you give. "Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadowsThe summer dawn beginsThe tun shall have its harvest, The fiord its glancing fins. " Then up and swore Jarl Thorkell"By Gimli and by Hel, O Vala of Thingvalla, Thou singest wise and well! "Too dear the AEsir's favorsBought with our children's lives;Better die than shame in livingOur mothers and our wives. "The full shall give his portionTo him who hath most need;Of curdled skyr and black bread, Be daily dole decreed. " He broke from off his neck-chainThree links of beaten gold;And each man, at his bidding, Brought gifts for young and old. Then mothers nursed their children, And daughters fed their sires, And Health sat down with PlentyBefore the next Yule fires. The Horg-stones stand in Rykdal;The Doom-ring still remains;But the snows of a thousand wintersHave washed away the stains. Christ ruleth now; the AsirHave found their twilight dim;And, wiser than she dreamed, of oldThe Vala sang of Him1868. THE TWO RABBINS. THE Rabbi Nathan two-score years and tenWalked blameless through the evil world, and then, Just as the almond blossomed in his hair, Met a temptation all too strong to bear, And miserably sinned. So, adding notFalsehood to guilt, he left his seat, and taughtNo more among the elders, but went outFrom the great congregation girt aboutWith sackcloth, and with ashes on his head, Making his gray locks grayer. Long he prayed, Smiting his breast; then, as the Book he laidOpen before him for the Bath-Col's choice, Pausing to hear that Daughter of a Voice, Behold the royal preacher's words: "A friendLoveth at all times, yea, unto the end;And for the evil day thy brother lives. "Marvelling, he said: "It is the Lord who givesCounsel in need. At Ecbatana dwellsRabbi Ben Isaac, who all men excelsIn righteousness and wisdom, as the treesOf Lebanon the small weeds that the beesBow with their weight. I will arise, and layMy sins before him. " And he went his wayBarefooted, fasting long, with many prayers;But even as one who, followed unawares, Suddenly in the darkness feels a handThrill with its touch his own, and his cheek fannedBy odors subtly sweet, and whispers nearOf words he loathes, yet cannot choose but hear, So, while the Rabbi journeyed, chanting lowThe wail of David's penitential woe, Before him still the old temptation came, And mocked him with the motion and the shameOf such desires that, shuddering, he abhorredHimself; and, crying mightily to the LordTo free his soul and cast the demon out, Smote with his staff the blankness round about. At length, in the low light of a spent day, The towers of Ecbatana far awayRose on the desert's rim; and Nathan, faintAnd footsore, pausing where for some dead saintThe faith of Islam reared a domed tomb, Saw some one kneeling in the shadow, whomHe greeted kindly: "May the Holy OneAnswer thy prayers, O stranger!" WhereuponThe shape stood up with a loud cry, and then, Clasped in each other's arms, the two gray menWept, praising Him whose gracious providenceMade their paths one. But straightway, as the senseOf his transgression smote him, Nathan toreHimself away: "O friend beloved, no moreWorthy am I to touch thee, for I came, Foul from my sins, to tell thee all my shame. Haply thy prayers, since naught availeth mine, May purge my soul, and make it white like thine. Pity me, O Ben Isaac, I have sinned!" Awestruck Ben Isaac stood. The desert windBlew his long mantle backward, laying bareThe mournful secret of his shirt of hair. "I too, O friend, if not in act, " he said, "In thought have verily sinned. Hast thou not read, 'Better the eye should see than that desireShould wander?' Burning with a hidden fireThat tears and prayers quench not, I come to theeFor pity and for help, as thou to me. Pray for me, O my friend!" But Nathan cried, "Pray thou for me, Ben Isaac!" Side by sideIn the low sunshine by the turban stoneThey knelt; each made his brother's woe his own, Forgetting, in the agony and stressOf pitying love, his claim of selfishness;Peace, for his friend besought, his own became;His prayers were answered in another's name;And, when at last they rose up to embrace, Each saw God's pardon in his brother's face! Long after, when his headstone gathered moss, Traced on the targum-marge of OnkelosIn Rabbi Nathan's hand these words were read:"/Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead;Forget it in love's service, and the debtThou, canst not pay the angels shall forget;Heaven's gate is shut to him who comes alone;Save thou a soul, and it shall save thy own!/"1868. NOREMBEGA. Norembega, or Norimbegue, is the name given by early French fishermenand explorers to a fabulous country south of Cape Breton, firstdiscovered by Verrazzani in 1524. It was supposed to have a magnificentcity of the same name on a great river, probably the Penobscot. The siteof this barbaric city is laid down on a map published at Antwerp in1570. In 1604 Champlain sailed in search of the Northern Eldorado, twenty-two leagues up the Penobscot from the Isle Haute. He supposed theriver to be that of Norembega, but wisely came to the conclusion thatthose travellers who told of the great city had never seen it. He saw noevidences of anything like civilization, but mentions the finding of across, very old and mossy, in the woods. THE winding way the serpent takesThe mystic water took, From where, to count its beaded lakes, The forest sped its brook. A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore, For sun or stars to fall, While evermore, behind, before, Closed in the forest wall. The dim wood hiding underneathWan flowers without a name;Life tangled with decay and death, League after league the same. Unbroken over swamp and hillThe rounding shadow lay, Save where the river cut at willA pathway to the day. Beside that track of air and light, Weak as a child unweaned, At shut of day a Christian knightUpon his henchman leaned. The embers of the sunset's firesAlong the clouds burned down;"I see, " he said, "the domes and spiresOf Norembega town. " "Alack! the domes, O master mine, Are golden clouds on high;Yon spire is but the branchless pineThat cuts the evening sky. " "Oh, hush and hark! What sounds are theseBut chants and holy hymns?""Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the treesThough all their leafy limbs. " "Is it a chapel bell that fillsThe air with its low tone?""Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills, The insect's vesper drone. " "The Christ be praised!--He sets for meA blessed cross in sight!""Now, nay, 't is but yon blasted treeWith two gaunt arms outright!" "Be it wind so sad or tree so stark, It mattereth not, my knave;Methinks to funeral hymns I hark, The cross is for my grave! "My life is sped; I shall not seeMy home-set sails again;The sweetest eyes of NormandieShall watch for me in vain. "Yet onward still to ear and eyeThe baffling marvel calls;I fain would look before I dieOn Norembega's walls. "So, haply, it shall be thy partAt Christian feet to layThe mystery of the desert's heartMy dead hand plucked away. "Leave me an hour of rest; go thouAnd look from yonder heights;Perchance the valley even nowIs starred with city lights. " The henchman climbed the nearest hill, He saw nor tower nor town, But, through the drear woods, lone and still, The river rolling down. He heard the stealthy feet of thingsWhose shapes he could not see, A flutter as of evil wings, The fall of a dead tree. The pines stood black against the moon, A sword of fire beyond;He heard the wolf howl, and the loonLaugh from his reedy pond. He turned him back: "O master dear, We are but men misled;And thou hast sought a city hereTo find a grave instead. " "As God shall will! what matters whereA true man's cross may stand, So Heaven be o'er it here as thereIn pleasant Norman land? "These woods, perchance, no secret hideOf lordly tower and hall;Yon river in its wanderings wideHas washed no city wall; "Yet mirrored in the sullen streamThe holy stars are givenIs Norembega, then, a dreamWhose waking is in Heaven? "No builded wonder of these landsMy weary eyes shall see;A city never made with handsAlone awaiteth me-- "'_Urbs Syon mystica_;' I seeIts mansions passing fair, '/Condita caelo/;' let me be, Dear Lord, a dweller there!" Above the dying exile hungThe vision of the bard, As faltered on his failing tongueThe song of good Bernard. The henchman dug at dawn a graveBeneath the hemlocks brown, And to the desert's keeping gaveThe lord of fief and town. Years after, when the Sieur ChamplainSailed up the unknown stream, And Norembega proved againA shadow and a dream, He found the Norman's nameless graveWithin the hemlock's shade, And, stretching wide its arms to save, The sign that God had made, The cross-boughed tree that marked the spotAnd made it holy groundHe needs the earthly city notWho hath the heavenly found. 1869. MIRIAM. TO FREDERICK A. P. BARNARD. THE years are many since, in youth and hope, Under the Charter Oak, our horoscopeWe drew thick-studded with all favoring stars. Now, with gray beards, and faces seamed with scarsFrom life's hard battle, meeting once again, We smile, half sadly, over dreams so vain;Knowing, at last, that it is not in manWho walketh to direct his steps, or planHis permanent house of life. Alike we lovedThe muses' haunts, and all our fancies movedTo measures of old song. How since that dayOur feet have parted from the path that laySo fair before us! Rich, from lifelong searchOf truth, within thy Academic porchThou sittest now, lord of a realm of fact, Thy servitors the sciences exact;Still listening with thy hand on Nature's keys, To hear the Samian's spheral harmoniesAnd rhythm of law. I called from dream and song, Thank God! so early to a strife so long, That, ere it closed, the black, abundant hairOf boyhood rested silver-sown and spareOn manhood's temples, now at sunset-chimeTread with fond feet the path of morning time. And if perchance too late I linger whereThe flowers have ceased to blow, and trees are bare, Thou, wiser in thy choice, wilt scarcely blameThe friend who shields his folly with thy name. AMESBURY, 10th mo. , 1870. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One Sabbath day my friend and IAfter the meeting, quietlyPassed from the crowded village lanes, White with dry dust for lack of rains, And climbed the neighboring slope, with feetSlackened and heavy from the heat, Although the day was wellnigh done, And the low angle of the sunAlong the naked hillside castOur shadows as of giants vast. We reached, at length, the topmost swell, Whence, either way, the green turf fellIn terraces of nature downTo fruit-hung orchards, and the townWith white, pretenceless houses, tallChurch-steeples, and, o'ershadowing all, Huge mills whose windows had the lookOf eager eyes that ill could brookThe Sabbath rest. We traced the trackOf the sea-seeking river back, Glistening for miles above its mouth, Through the long valley to the south, And, looking eastward, cool to view, Stretched the illimitable blueOf ocean, from its curved coast-line;Sombred and still, the warm sunshineFilled with pale gold-dust all the reachOf slumberous woods from hill to beach, --Slanted on walls of thronged retreatsFrom city toil and dusty streets, On grassy bluff, and dune of sand, And rocky islands miles from land;Touched the far-glancing sails, and showedWhite lines of foam where long waves flowedDumb in the distance. In the north, Dim through their misty hair, looked forthThe space-dwarfed mountains to the sea, From mystery to mystery! So, sitting on that green hill-slope, We talked of human life, its hopeAnd fear, and unsolved doubts, and whatIt might have been, and yet was not. And, when at last the evening airGrew sweeter for the bells of prayerRinging in steeples far below, We watched the people churchward go, Each to his place, as if thereonThe true shekinah only shone;And my friend queried how it cameTo pass that they who owned the sameGreat Master still could not agreeTo worship Him in company. Then, broadening in his thought, he ranOver the whole vast field of man, --The varying forms of faith and creedThat somehow served the holders' need;In which, unquestioned, undenied, Uncounted millions lived and died;The bibles of the ancient folk, Through which the heart of nations spoke;The old moralities which lentTo home its sweetness and content, And rendered possible to bearThe life of peoples everywhereAnd asked if we, who boast of light, Claim not a too exclusive rightTo truths which must for all be meant, Like rain and sunshine freely sent. In bondage to the letter still, We give it power to cramp and kill, --To tax God's fulness with a schemeNarrower than Peter's house-top dream, His wisdom and his love with plansPoor and inadequate as man's. It must be that He witnessesSomehow to all men that He isThat something of His saving graceReaches the lowest of the race, Who, through strange creed and rite, may drawThe hints of a diviner law. We walk in clearer light;--but then, Is He not God?--are they not men?Are His responsibilitiesFor us alone and not for these? And I made answer: "Truth is one;And, in all lands beneath the sun, Whoso hath eyes to see may seeThe tokens of its unity. No scroll of creed its fulness wraps, We trace it not by school-boy maps, Free as the sun and air it isOf latitudes and boundaries. In Vedic verse, in dull Koran, Are messages of good to man;The angels to our Aryan siresTalked by the earliest household fires;The prophets of the elder day, The slant-eyed sages of Cathay, Read not the riddle all amissOf higher life evolved from this. "Nor doth it lessen what He taught, Or make the gospel Jesus broughtLess precious, that His lips retoldSome portion of that truth of old;Denying not the proven seers, The tested wisdom of the years;Confirming with his own impressThe common law of righteousness. We search the world for truth; we cullThe good, the pure, the beautiful, From graven stone and written scroll, From all old flower-fields of the soul;And, weary seekers of the best, We come back laden from our quest, To find that all the sages saidIs in the Book our mothers read, And all our treasure of old thoughtIn His harmonious fulness wroughtWho gathers in one sheaf completeThe scattered blades of God's sown wheat, The common growth that maketh goodHis all-embracing Fatherhood. "Wherever through the ages riseThe altars of self-sacrifice, Where love its arms has opened wide, Or man for man has calmly died, I see the same white wings outspreadThat hovered o'er the Master's head!Up from undated time they come, The martyr souls of heathendom, And to His cross and passion bringTheir fellowship of suffering. I trace His presence in the blindPathetic gropings of my kind, --In prayers from sin and sorrow wrung, In cradle-hymns of life they sung, Each, in its measure, but a partOf the unmeasured Over-Heart;And with a stronger faith confessThe greater that it owns the less. Good cause it is for thankfulnessThat the world-blessing of His lifeWith the long past is not at strife;That the great marvel of His deathTo the one order witnesseth, No doubt of changeless goodness wakes, No link of cause and sequence breaks, But, one with nature, rooted isIn the eternal verities;Whereby, while differing in degreeAs finite from infinity, The pain and loss for others borne, Love's crown of suffering meekly worn, The life man giveth for his friendBecome vicarious in the end;Their healing place in nature take, And make life sweeter for their sake. "So welcome I from every sourceThe tokens of that primal Force, Older than heaven itself, yet newAs the young heart it reaches to, Beneath whose steady impulse rollsThe tidal wave of human souls;Guide, comforter, and inward word, The eternal spirit of the LordNor fear I aught that science bringsFrom searching through material things;Content to let its glasses prove, Not by the letter's oldness move, The myriad worlds on worlds that courseThe spaces of the universe;Since everywhere the Spirit walksThe garden of the heart, and talksWith man, as under Eden's trees, In all his varied languages. Why mourn above some hopeless flawIn the stone tables of the law, When scripture every day afreshIs traced on tablets of the flesh?By inward sense, by outward signs, God's presence still the heart divines;Through deepest joy of Him we learn, In sorest grief to Him we turn, And reason stoops its pride to shareThe child-like instinct of a prayer. " And then, as is my wont, I toldA story of the days of old, Not found in printed books, --in sooth, A fancy, with slight hint of truth, Showing how differing faiths agreeIn one sweet law of charity. Meanwhile the sky had golden grown, Our faces in its glory shone;But shadows down the valley swept, And gray below the ocean slept, As time and space I wandered o'erTo tread the Mogul's marble floor, And see a fairer sunset fallOn Jumna's wave and Agra's wall. The good Shah Akbar (peace be his alway!)Came forth from the Divan at close of dayBowed with the burden of his many cares, Worn with the hearing of unnumbered prayers, --Wild cries for justice, the importunateAppeals of greed and jealousy and hate, And all the strife of sect and creed and rite, Santon and Gouroo waging holy fightFor the wise monarch, claiming not to beAllah's avenger, left his people free, With a faint hope, his Book scarce justified, That all the paths of faith, though severed wide, O'er which the feet of prayerful reverence passed, Met at the gate of Paradise at last. He sought an alcove of his cool hareem, Where, far beneath, he heard the Jumna's streamLapse soft and low along his palace wall, And all about the cool sound of the fallOf fountains, and of water circling freeThrough marble ducts along the balcony;The voice of women in the distance sweet, And, sweeter still, of one who, at his feet, Soothed his tired ear with songs of a far landWhere Tagus shatters on the salt sea-sandThe mirror of its cork-grown hills of drouthAnd vales of vine, at Lisbon's harbor-mouth. The date-palms rustled not; the peepul laidIts topmost boughs against the balustrade, Motionless as the mimic leaves and vinesThat, light and graceful as the shawl-designsOf Delhi or Umritsir, twined in stone;And the tired monarch, who aside had thrownThe day's hard burden, sat from care apart, And let the quiet steal into his heartFrom the still hour. Below him Agra slept, By the long light of sunset oversweptThe river flowing through a level land, By mango-groves and banks of yellow sand, Skirted with lime and orange, gay kiosks, Fountains at play, tall minarets of mosques, Fair pleasure-gardens, with their flowering treesRelieved against the mournful cypresses;And, air-poised lightly as the blown sea-foam, The marble wonder of some holy domeHung a white moonrise over the still wood, Glassing its beauty in a stiller flood. Silent the monarch gazed, until the nightSwift-falling hid the city from his sight;Then to the woman at his feet he said"Tell me, O Miriam, something thou hast readIn childhood of the Master of thy faith, Whom Islam also owns. Our Prophet saith'He was a true apostle, yea, a WordAnd Spirit sent before me from the Lord. 'Thus the Book witnesseth; and well I knowBy what thou art, O dearest, it is so. As the lute's tone the maker's hand betrays, The sweet disciple speaks her Master's praise. " Then Miriam, glad of heart, (for in some sortShe cherished in the Moslem's liberal courtThe sweet traditions of a Christian child;And, through her life of sense, the undefiledAnd chaste ideal of the sinless OneGazed on her with an eye she might not shun, --The sad, reproachful look of pity, bornOf love that hath no part in wrath or scorn, )Began, with low voice and moist eyes, to tellOf the all-loving Christ, and what befellWhen the fierce zealots, thirsting for her blood, Dragged to his feet a shame of womanhood. How, when his searching answer pierced withinEach heart, and touched the secret of its sin, And her accusers fled his face before, He bade the poor one go and sin no more. And Akbar said, after a moment's thought, "Wise is the lesson by thy prophet taught;Woe unto him who judges and forgetsWhat hidden evil his own heart besets!Something of this large charity I findIn all the sects that sever human kind;I would to Allah that their lives agreedMore nearly with the lesson of their creed!Those yellow Lamas who at Meerut prayBy wind and water power, and love to say'He who forgiveth not shall, unforgiven, Fail of the rest of Buddha, ' and who evenSpare the black gnat that stings them, vex my earsWith the poor hates and jealousies and fearsNursed in their human hives. That lean, fierce priestOf thy own people, (be his heart increasedBy Allah's love!) his black robes smelling yetOf Goa's roasted Jews, have I not metMeek-faced, barefooted, crying in the streetThe saying of his prophet true and sweet, --'He who is merciful shall mercy meet!'" But, next day, so it chanced, as night beganTo fall, a murmur through the hareem ranThat one, recalling in her dusky faceThe full-lipped, mild-eyed beauty of a raceKnown as the blameless Ethiops of Greek song, Plotting to do her royal master wrong, Watching, reproachful of the lingering light, The evening shadows deepen for her flight, Love-guided, to her home in a far land, Now waited death at the great Shah's command. Shapely as that dark princess for whose smileA world was bartered, daughter of the NileHerself, and veiling in her large, soft eyesThe passion and the languor of her skies, The Abyssinian knelt low at the feetOf her stern lord: "O king, if it be meet, And for thy honor's sake, " she said, "that I, Who am the humblest of thy slaves, should die, I will not tax thy mercy to forgive. Easier it is to die than to outliveAll that life gave me, --him whose wrong of theeWas but the outcome of his love for me, Cherished from childhood, when, beneath the shadeOf templed Axum, side by side we played. Stolen from his arms, my lover followed meThrough weary seasons over land and sea;And two days since, sitting disconsolateWithin the shadow of the hareem gate, Suddenly, as if dropping from the sky, Down from the lattice of the balconyFell the sweet song by Tigre's cowherds sungIn the old music of his native tongue. He knew my voice, for love is quick of ear, Answering in song. This night he waited nearTo fly with me. The fault was mine aloneHe knew thee not, he did but seek his own;Who, in the very shadow of thy throne, Sharing thy bounty, knowing all thou art, Greatest and best of men, and in her heartGrateful to tears for favor undeserved, Turned ever homeward, nor one moment swervedFrom her young love. He looked into my eyes, He heard my voice, and could not otherwiseThan he hath done; yet, save one wild embraceWhen first we stood together face to face, And all that fate had done since last we metSeemed but a dream that left us children yet, He hath not wronged thee nor thy royal bed;Spare him, O king! and slay me in his stead!" But over Akbar's brows the frown hung black, And, turning to the eunuch at his back, "Take them, " he said, "and let the Jumna's wavesHide both my shame and these accursed slaves!"His loathly length the unsexed bondman bowed"On my head be it!" Straightway from a cloudOf dainty shawls and veils of woven mistThe Christian Miriam rose, and, stooping, kissedThe monarch's hand. Loose down her shoulders bareSwept all the rippled darkness of her hair, Veiling the bosom that, with high, quick swellOf fear and pity, through it rose and fell. "Alas!" she cried, "hast thou forgotten quiteThe words of Him we spake of yesternight?Or thy own prophet's, 'Whoso doth endureAnd pardon, of eternal life is sure'?O great and good! be thy revenge aloneFelt in thy mercy to the erring shown;Let thwarted love and youth their pardon plead, Who sinned but in intent, and not in deed!" One moment the strong frame of Akbar shookWith the great storm of passion. Then his lookSoftened to her uplifted face, that stillPleaded more strongly than all words, untilIts pride and anger seemed like overblown, Spent clouds of thunder left to tell aloneOf strife and overcoming. With bowed head, And smiting on his bosom: "God, " he said, "Alone is great, and let His holy nameBe honored, even to His servant's shame!Well spake thy prophet, Miriam, --he aloneWho hath not sinned is meet to cast a stoneAt such as these, who here their doom await, Held like myself in the strong grasp of fate. They sinned through love, as I through love forgive;Take them beyond my realm, but let them live!" And, like a chorus to the words of grace, The ancient Fakir, sitting in his place, Motionless as an idol and as grim, In the pavilion Akbar built for himUnder the court-yard trees, (for he was wise, Knew Menu's laws, and through his close-shut eyesSaw things far off, and as an open bookInto the thoughts of other men could look, )Began, half chant, half howling, to rehearseThe fragment of a holy Vedic verse;And thus it ran: "He who all things forgivesConquers himself and all things else, and livesAbove the reach of wrong or hate or fear, Calm as the gods, to whom he is most dear. " Two leagues from Agra still the traveller seesThe tomb of Akbar through its cypress-trees;And, near at hand, the marble walls that hideThe Christian Begum sleeping at his side. And o'er her vault of burial (who shall tellIf it be chance alone or miracle?)The Mission press with tireless hand unrollsThe words of Jesus on its lettered scrolls, --Tells, in all tongues, the tale of mercy o'er, And bids the guilty, "Go and sin no more!" . . . . . . . . . . . It now was dew-fall; very stillThe night lay on the lonely hill, Down which our homeward steps we bent, And, silent, through great silence went, Save that the tireless crickets playedTheir long, monotonous serenade. A young moon, at its narrowest, Curved sharp against the darkening west;And, momently, the beacon's star, Slow wheeling o'er its rock afar, From out the level darkness shotOne instant and again was not. And then my friend spake quietlyThe thought of both: "Yon crescent see!Like Islam's symbol-moon it givesHints of the light whereby it livesSomewhat of goodness, something trueFrom sun and spirit shining throughAll faiths, all worlds, as through the darkOf ocean shines the lighthouse spark, Attests the presence everywhereOf love and providential care. The faith the old Norse heart confessedIn one dear name, --the hopefulestAnd tenderest heard from mortal lipsIn pangs of birth or death, from shipsIce-bitten in the winter sea, Or lisped beside a mother's knee, --The wiser world hath not outgrown, And the All-Father is our own!" NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON. NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of oldDwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing CapeStretches its shrunk arm out to all the windsAnd the relentless smiting of the waves, Awoke one morning from a pleasant dreamOf a good angel dropping in his handA fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of God. He rose and went forth with the early dayFar inland, where the voices of the wavesMellowed and Mingled with the whispering leaves, As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods, He searched his traps. Therein nor beast nor birdHe found; though meanwhile in the reedy poolsThe otter plashed, and underneath the pinesThe partridge drummed: and as his thoughts went backTo the sick wife and little child at home, What marvel that the poor man felt his faithToo weak to bear its burden, --like a ropeThat, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks aboveThe hand that grasps it. "Even now, O Lord!Send me, " he prayed, "the angel of my dream!Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot wait. " Even as he spake he heard at his bare feetA low, metallic clink, and, looking down, He saw a dainty purse with disks of goldCrowding its silken net. Awhile he heldThe treasure up before his eyes, aloneWith his great need, feeling the wondrous coinsSlide through his eager fingers, one by one. So then the dream was true. The angel broughtOne broad piece only; should he take all these?Who would be wiser, in the blind, dumb woods?The loser, doubtless rich, would scarcely missThis dropped crumb from a table always full. Still, while he mused, he seemed to hear the cryOf a starved child; the sick face of his wifeTempted him. Heart and flesh in fierce revoltUrged the wild license of his savage youthAgainst his later scruples. Bitter toil, Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, and pitiless eyesTo watch his halting, --had he lost for theseThe freedom of the woods;--the hunting-groundsOf happy spirits for a walled-in heavenOf everlasting psalms? One healed the sickVery far off thousands of moons agoHad he not prayed him night and day to comeAnd cure his bed-bound wife? Was there a hell?Were all his fathers' people writhing there--Like the poor shell-fish set to boil alive--Forever, dying never? If he keptThis gold, so needed, would the dreadful GodTorment him like a Mohawk's captive stuckWith slow-consuming splinters? Would the saintsAnd the white angels dance and laugh to see himBurn like a pitch-pine torch? His Christian garbSeemed falling from him; with the fear and shameOf Adam naked at the cool of day, He gazed around. A black snake lay in coilOn the hot sand, a crow with sidelong eyeWatched from a dead bough. All his Indian loreOf evil blending with a convert's faithIn the supernal terrors of the Book, He saw the Tempter in the coiling snakeAnd ominous, black-winged bird; and all the whileThe low rebuking of the distant wavesStole in upon him like the voice of GodAmong the trees of Eden. Girding upHis soul's loins with a resolute hand, he thrustThe base thought from him: "Nauhaught, be a manStarve, if need be; but, while you live, look outFrom honest eyes on all men, unashamed. God help me! I am deacon of the church, A baptized, praying Indian! Should I doThis secret meanness, even the barken knotsOf the old trees would turn to eyes to see it, The birds would tell of it, and all the leavesWhisper above me: 'Nauhaught is a thief!'The sun would know it, and the stars that hideBehind his light would watch me, and at nightFollow me with their sharp, accusing eyes. Yea, thou, God, seest me!" Then Nauhaught drewCloser his belt of leather, dulling thusThe pain of hunger, and walked bravely backTo the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea;And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily asked"Who hath lost aught to-day?""I, " said a voice;"Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse, My daughter's handiwork. " He looked, and toOne stood before him in a coat of frieze, And the glazed bat of a seafaring man, Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered, with no trace of wings. Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger's handThe silken web, and turned to go his way. But the man said: "A tithe at least is yours;Take it in God's name as an honest man. "And as the deacon's dusky fingers closedOver the golden gift, "Yea, in God's nameI take it, with a poor man's thanks, " he said. So down the street that, like a river of sand, Ran, white in sunshine, to the summer sea, He sought his home singing and praising God;And when his neighbors in their careless waySpoke of the owner of the silken purse--A Wellfleet skipper, known in every portThat the Cape opens in its sandy wall--He answered, with a wise smile, to himself"I saw the angel where they see a man. "1870. THE SISTERS. ANNIE and Rhoda, sisters twain, Woke in the night to the sound of rain, The rush of wind, the ramp and roarOf great waves climbing a rocky shore. Annie rose up in her bed-gown white, And looked out into the storm and night. "Hush, and hearken!" she cried in fear, "Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?" "I hear the sea, and the plash of rain, And roar of the northeast hurricane. "Get thee back to the bed so warm, No good comes of watching a storm. "What is it to thee, I fain would know, That waves are roaring and wild winds blow? "No lover of thine's afloat to missThe harbor-lights on a night like this. " "But I heard a voice cry out my name, Up from the sea on the wind it came. "Twice and thrice have I heard it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!" On her pillow the sister tossed her head. "Hall of the Heron is safe, " she said. "In the tautest schooner that ever swamHe rides at anchor in Anisquam. "And, if in peril from swamping seaOr lee shore rocks, would he call on thee?" But the girl heard only the wind and tide, And wringing her small white hands she cried, "O sister Rhoda, there's something wrong;I hear it again, so loud and long. "'Annie! Annie!' I hear it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!" Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame, "Thou liest! He never would call thy name! "If he did, I would pray the wind and seaTo keep him forever from thee and me!" Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast;Like the cry of a dying man it passed. The young girl hushed on her lips a groan, But through her tears a strange light shone, -- The solemn joy of her heart's releaseTo own and cherish its love in peace. "Dearest!" she whispered, under breath, "Life was a lie, but true is death. "The love I hid from myself awayShall crown me now in the light of day. "My ears shall never to wooer list, Never by lover my lips be kissed. "Sacred to thee am I henceforth, Thou in heaven and I on earth!" She came and stood by her sister's bed"Hall of the Heron is dead!" she said. "The wind and the waves their work have done, We shall see him no more beneath the sun. "Little will reek that heart of thine, It loved him not with a love like mine. "I, for his sake, were he but here, Could hem and 'broider thy bridal gear, "Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet, And stitch for stitch in my heart be set. "But now my soul with his soul I wed;Thine the living, and mine the dead!"1871. MARGUERITE. MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1760. Upwards of one thousand of the Acadian peasants forcibly taken fromtheir homes on the Gaspereau and Basin of Minas were assigned to theseveral towns of the Massachusetts colony, the children being bound bythe authorities to service or labor. THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds intoblossoms grew;Little of human sorrow the buds and the robinsknew!Sick, in an alien household, the poor Frenchneutral lay;Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the Aprilday, Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider'swarp and woof, On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribsof roof, The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the teacups on thestand, The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it dropped fromher sick hand. What to her was the song of the robin, or warmmorning light, As she lay in the trance of the dying, heedless ofsound or sight? Done was the work of her bands, she had eaten herbitter bread;The world of the alien people lay behind her dimand dead. But her soul went back to its child-time; she sawthe sun o'erflowWith gold the Basin of Minas, and set overGaspereau; The low, bare flats at ebb-tide, the rush of the seaat flood, Through inlet and creek and river, from dike toupland wood; The gulls in the red of morning, the fish-hawk'srise and fall, The drift of the fog in moonshine, over the darkcoast-wall. She saw the face of her mother, she heard the songshe sang;And far off, faintly, slowly, the bell for vespersrang. By her bed the hard-faced mistress sat, smoothingthe wrinkled sheet, Peering into the face, so helpless, and feeling theice-cold feet. With a vague remorse atoning for her greed andlong abuse, By care no longer heeded and pity too late for use. Up the stairs of the garret softly the son of themistress stepped, Leaned over the head-board, covering his face withhis hands, and wept. Outspake the mother, who watched him sharply, with brow a-frown"What! love you the Papist, the beggar, thecharge of the town?" Be she Papist or beggar who lies here, I knowand God knowsI love her, and fain would go with her wherevershe goes! "O mother! that sweet face came pleading, forlove so athirst. You saw but the town-charge; I knew her God'sangel at first. " Shaking her gray head, the mistress hushed downa bitter cry;And awed by the silence and shadow of deathdrawing nigh, She murmured a psalm of the Bible; but closerthe young girl pressed, With the last of her life in her fingers, the crossto her breast. "My son, come away, " cried the mother, her voicecruel grown. "She is joined to her idols, like Ephraim; let heralone!" But he knelt with his hand on her forehead, hislips to her ear, And he called back the soul that was passing"Marguerite, do you hear?" She paused on the threshold of Heaven; love, pity, surprise, Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the cloud ofher eyes. With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but neverher cheek grew red, And the words the living long for he spake in theear of the dead. And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds toblossoms grew;Of the folded hands and the still face never therobins knew!1871. THE ROBIN. MY old Welsh neighbor over the wayCrept slowly out in the sun of spring, Pushed from her ears the locks of gray, And listened to hear the robin sing. Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped, And, cruel in sport as boys will be, Tossed a stone at the bird, who hoppedFrom bough to bough in the apple-tree. "Nay!" said the grandmother; "have you not heard, My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit, And how, drop by drop, this merciful birdCarries the water that quenches it? "He brings cool dew in his little bill, And lets it fall on the souls of sinYou can see the mark on his red breast stillOf fires that scorch as he drops it in. "My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird, Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, Very dear to the heart of Our LordIs he who pities the lost like Him!" "Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth;"Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well:Each good thought is a drop wherewithTo cool and lessen the fires of hell. "Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, Tears of pity are cooling dew, And dear to the heart of Our Lord are allWho suffer like Him in the good they do! "1871.