NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY

 POEMS

 BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

CONTENTS:

BARCLAY OF URYTHE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTATHE LEGEND OF ST MARKKATHLEENTHE WELL OF LOCH MAREETHE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITSTAULERTHE HERMIT OF THE THEBAIDTHE GARRISON OF CAPE ANNTHE GIFT OF TRITEMIUSSKIPPER IRESON'S RIDETHE SYCAMORESTHE PIPES AT LUCKNOWTELLING THE BEESTHE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERYTHE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY

BARCLAY OF URY. 

Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of Friends in Scotland wasBarclay of Ury, an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought underGustavus Adolphus, in Germany. As a Quaker, he became the object ofpersecution and abuse at the hands of the magistrates and the populace. None bore the indignities of the mob with greater patience and noblenessof soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that he should be treatedso harshly in his old age who had been so honored before. "I find moresatisfaction, " said Barclay, "as well as honor, in being thus insultedfor my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usualfor the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on theroad and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and thenescort me out again, to gain my favor. "

Up the streets of Aberdeen, By the kirk and college green, Rode the Laird of Ury;Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the drunken churl, Jeered at him the serving-girl, Prompt to please her master;And the begging carlin, lateFed and clothed at Ury's gate, Cursed him as he passed her. 

Yet, with calm and stately mien, Up the streets of AberdeenCame he slowly riding;And, to all he saw and heard, Answering not with bitter word, Turning not for chiding. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing, Loose and free and froward;Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down!Push him! prick him! through the townDrive the Quaker coward!"

But from out the thickening crowdCried a sudden voice and loud"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!"And the old man at his sideSaw a comrade, battle tried, Scarred and sunburned darkly;

Who with ready weapon bare, Fronting to the troopers there, Cried aloud: "God save us, Call ye coward him who stoodAnkle deep in Lutzen's blood, With the brave Gustavus?"

"Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine, " said Ury's lord;"Put it up, I pray theePassive to His holy will, Trust I in my Master still, Even though He slay me. 

"Pledges of thy love and faith, Proved on many a field of death, Not by me are needed. "Marvelled much that henchman bold, That his laird, so stout of old, Now so meekly pleaded. 

"Woe's the day!" he sadly said, With a slowly shaking head, And a look of pity;"Ury's honest lord reviled, Mock of knave and sport of child, In his own good city. 

"Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's[8] line, And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst we'll teachCivil look and decent speechTo these boyish prancers!"

"Marvel not, mine ancient friend, Like beginning, like the end:"Quoth the Laird of Ury;"Is the sinful servant moreThan his gracious Lord who boreBonds and stripes in Jewry?

"Give me joy that in His nameI can bear, with patient frame, All these vain ones offer;While for them He suffereth long, Shall I answer wrong with wrong, Scoffing with the scoffer?

"Happier I, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, With few friends to greet me, Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen, With bared heads to meet me. 

"When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door;And the snooded daughter, Through her casement glancing down, Smiled on him who bore renownFrom red fields of slaughter. 

"Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, Hard the old friend's falling off, Hard to learn forgiving;But the Lord His own rewards, And His love with theirs accords, Warm and fresh and living. 

"Through this dark and stormy nightFaith beholds a feeble lightUp the blackness streaking;Knowing God's own time is best, In a patient hope I restFor the full day-breaking!"

So the Laird of Ury said, Turning slow his horse's headTowards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron gates, he heardPoor disciples of the WordPreach of Christ arisen!

Not in vain, Confessor old, Unto us the tale is toldOf thy day of trial;Every age on him who straysFrom its broad and beaten waysPours its seven-fold vial. 

Happy he whose inward earAngel comfortings can hear, O'er the rabble's laughter;And while Hatred's fagots burn, Glimpses through the smoke discernOf the good hereafter. 

Knowing this, that never yetShare of Truth was vainly setIn the world's wide fallow;After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and meadReap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Must the moral pioneerFrom the Future borrow;Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, And, on midnight's sky of rain, Paint the golden morrow!

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

A letter-writer from Mexico during the Mexican war, when detailing someof the incidents at the terrible fight of Buena Vista, mentioned thatMexican women were seen hovering near the field of death, for thepurpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. One poor woman wasfound surrounded by the maimed and suffering of both armies, ministeringto the wants of Americans as well as Mexicans, with impartialtenderness. 

SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northwardfar away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexicanarray, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far orcome they near?Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls thestorm we hear. Down the hills of Angostura still the storm ofbattle rolls;Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercyon their souls!"Who is losing? who is winning?" Over hilland over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through themountain rain. "

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more. "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darklyas before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweepingdown its mountain course. "

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smokehas rolled away;And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down theranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troopof Minon wheels;There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannonat their heels. 

"Jesu, pity I how it thickens I now retreat andnow advance!Bight against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla'scharging lance!Down they go, the brave young riders; horse andfoot together fall;Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through themploughs the Northern ball. "

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast andfrightful on!Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won?Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe togetherfall, O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. BlessedMother, save my brain!I can see the wounded crawling slowly out fromheaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now theyfall, and strive to rise;Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they diebefore our eyes!

"O my hearts love! O my dear one! lay thypoor head on my knee;Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canstthou hear me? canst thou see?O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once moreOn the blessed cross before thee! Mercy!all is o'er!"

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear onedown to rest;Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross uponhis breast;Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeralmasses said;To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thyaid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleedingslow his life away;But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turnedaway her head;With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back uponher dead;But she heard the youth's low moaning, and hisstruggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parchinglips again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her handand faintly smiled;Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watchbeside her child?All his stranger words with meaning her woman'sheart supplied;With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!"murmured he, and died!

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led theeforth, From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!"Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid himwith her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind thewounds which bled. 

"Look forth once more, Ximena!" Like a cloudbefore the windRolls the battle down the mountains, leaving bloodand death behind;Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust thewounded strive;"Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ ofGod, forgive!"

Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtainover all!Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apartthe battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon'slips grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy taskpursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn andfaint and lacking food. Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tendercare they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strangeand Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world ofours;Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afreshthe Eden flowers;From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pitysend their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly inour air!1847. 

THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK. 

"This legend [to which my attention was called by my friend CharlesSumner], is the subject of a celebrated picture by Tintoretto, of whichMr. Rogers possesses the original sketch. The slave lies on the ground, amid a crowd of spectators, who look on, animated by all the variousemotions of sympathy, rage, terror; a woman, in front, with a child inher arms, has always been admired for the lifelike vivacity of herattitude and expression. The executioner holds up the broken implements;St. Mark, with a headlong movement, seems to rush down from heaven inhaste to save his worshipper. The dramatic grouping in this picture iswonderful; the coloring, in its gorgeous depth and harmony, is, in Mr. Rogers's sketch, finer than in the picture. "--MRS. JAMESON'S Sacred andLegendary Art, I. 154. 

THE day is closing dark and cold, With roaring blast and sleety showers;And through the dusk the lilacs wearThe bloom of snow, instead of flowers. 

I turn me from the gloom without, To ponder o'er a tale of old;A legend of the age of Faith, By dreaming monk or abbess told. 

On Tintoretto's canvas livesThat fancy of a loving heart, In graceful lines and shapes of power, And hues immortal as his art. 

In Provence (so the story runs)There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, A peasant-boy of tender yearsThe chance of trade or conquest gave. 

Forth-looking from the castle tower, Beyond the hills with almonds dark, The straining eye could scarce discernThe chapel of the good St. Mark. 

And there, when bitter word or fareThe service of the youth repaid, By stealth, before that holy shrine, For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed. 

The steed stamped at the castle gate, The boar-hunt sounded on the hill;Why stayed the Baron from the chase, With looks so stern, and words so ill?

"Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn, By scath of fire and strain of cord, How ill they speed who give dead saintsThe homage due their living lord!"

They bound him on the fearful rack, When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, He saw the light of shining robes, And knew the face of good St. Mark. 

Then sank the iron rack apart, The cords released their cruel clasp, The pincers, with their teeth of fire, Fell broken from the torturer's grasp. 

And lo! before the Youth and Saint, Barred door and wall of stone gave way;And up from bondage and the nightThey passed to freedom and the day!

O dreaming monk! thy tale is true;O painter! true thy pencil's art;in tones of hope and prophecy, Ye whisper to my listening heart!

Unheard no burdened heart's appealMoans up to God's inclining ear;Unheeded by his tender eye, Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear. 

For still the Lord alone is GodThe pomp and power of tyrant manAre scattered at his lightest breath, Like chaff before the winnower's fan. 

Not always shall the slave upliftHis heavy hands to Heaven in vain. God's angel, like the good St. Mark, Comes shining down to break his chain!

O weary ones! ye may not seeYour helpers in their downward flight;Nor hear the sound of silver wingsSlow beating through the hush of night!

But not the less gray Dothan shone, With sunbright watchers bending low, That Fear's dim eye beheld aloneThe spear-heads of the Syrian foe. 

There are, who, like the Seer of old, Can see the helpers God has sent, And how life's rugged mountain-sideIs white with many an angel tent!

They hear the heralds whom our LordSends down his pathway to prepare;And light, from others hidden, shinesOn their high place of faith and prayer. 

Let such, for earth's despairing ones, Hopeless, yet longing to be free, Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer"Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see!"1849. 

KATHLEEN. 

This ballad was originally published in my prose work, Leaves fromMargaret Smith's Journal, as the song of a wandering Milesianschoolmaster. In the seventeenth century, slavery in the New World wasby no means confined to the natives of Africa. Political offenders andcriminals were transported by the British government to the plantationsof Barbadoes and Virginia, where they were sold like cattle in themarket. Kidnapping of free and innocent white persons was practised to aconsiderable extent in the seaports of the United Kingdom. 

O NORAH, lay your basket down, And rest your weary hand, And come and hear me sing a songOf our old Ireland. 

There was a lord of Galaway, A mighty lord was he;And he did wed a second wife, A maid of low degree. 

But he was old, and she was young, And so, in evil spite, She baked the black bread for his kin, And fed her own with white. 

She whipped the maids and starved the kern, And drove away the poor;"Ah, woe is me!" the old lord said, "I rue my bargain sore!"

This lord he had a daughter fair, Beloved of old and young, And nightly round the shealing-firesOf her the gleeman sung. 

"As sweet and good is young KathleenAs Eve before her fall;"So sang the harper at the fair, So harped he in the hall. 

"Oh, come to me, my daughter dear!Come sit upon my knee, For looking in your face, Kathleen, Your mother's own I see!"

He smoothed and smoothed her hair away, He kissed her forehead fair;"It is my darling Mary's brow, It is my darling's hair!"

Oh, then spake up the angry dame, "Get up, get up, " quoth she, "I'll sell ye over Ireland, I'll sell ye o'er the sea!"

She clipped her glossy hair away, That none her rank might know;She took away her gown of silk, And gave her one of tow, And sent her down to Limerick townAnd to a seaman soldThis daughter of an Irish lordFor ten good pounds in gold. 

The lord he smote upon his breast, And tore his beard so gray;But he was old, and she was young, And so she had her way. 

Sure that same night the Banshee howledTo fright the evil dame, And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen, With funeral torches came. 

She watched them glancing through the trees, And glimmering down the hill;They crept before the dead-vault door, And there they all stood still!

"Get up, old man! the wake-lights shine!""Ye murthering witch, " quoth he, "So I'm rid of your tongue, I little careIf they shine for you or me. "

"Oh, whoso brings my daughter back, My gold and land shall have!"Oh, then spake up his handsome page, "No gold nor land I crave!

"But give to me your daughter dear, Give sweet Kathleen to me, Be she on sea or be she on land, I'll bring her back to thee. "

"My daughter is a lady born, And you of low degree, But she shall be your bride the dayYou bring her back to me. "

He sailed east, he sailed west, And far and long sailed he, Until he came to Boston town, Across the great salt sea. 

"Oh, have ye seen the young Kathleen, The flower of Ireland?Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue, And by her snow-white hand!"

Out spake an ancient man, "I knowThe maiden whom ye mean;I bought her of a Limerick man, And she is called Kathleen. 

"No skill hath she in household work, Her hands are soft and white, Yet well by loving looks and waysShe doth her cost requite. "

So up they walked through Boston town, And met a maiden fair, A little basket on her armSo snowy-white and bare. 

"Come hither, child, and say hast thouThis young man ever seen?"They wept within each other's arms, The page and young Kathleen. 

"Oh give to me this darling child, And take my purse of gold. ""Nay, not by me, " her master said, "Shall sweet Kathleen be sold. 

"We loved her in the place of oneThe Lord hath early ta'en;But, since her heart's in Ireland, We give her back again!"

Oh, for that same the saints in heavenFor his poor soul shall pray, And Mary Mother wash with tearsHis heresies away. 

Sure now they dwell in Ireland;As you go up ClaremoreYe'll see their castle looking downThe pleasant Galway shore. 

And the old lord's wife is dead and gone, And a happy man is he, For he sits beside his own Kathleen, With her darling on his knee. 1849. 

THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE

Pennant, in his Voyage to the Hebrides, describes the holy well of LochMaree, the waters of which were supposed to effect a miraculous cure ofmelancholy, trouble, and insanity. 

CALM on the breast of Loch MareeA little isle reposes;A shadow woven of the oakAnd willow o'er it closes. 

Within, a Druid's mound is seen, Set round with stony warders;A fountain, gushing through the turf, Flows o'er its grassy borders. 

And whoso bathes therein his brow, With care or madness burning, Feels once again his healthful thoughtAnd sense of peace returning. 

O restless heart and fevered brain, Unquiet and unstable, That holy well of Loch MareeIs more than idle fable!

Life's changes vex, its discords stun, Its glaring sunshine blindeth, And blest is he who on his wayThat fount of healing findeth!

The shadows of a humbled willAnd contrite heart are o'er it;Go read its legend, "TRUST IN GOD, "On Faith's white stones before it. 1850. 

THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 

The incident upon which this poem is based is related in a note toBernardin Henri Saint Pierre's Etudes de la Nature. "We arrived at thehabitation of the Hermits a little before they sat down to their table, and while they were still at church. J. J. Rousseau proposed to me tooffer up our devotions. The hermits were reciting the Litanies ofProvidence, which are remarkably beautiful. After we had addressed ourprayers to God, and the hermits were proceeding to the refectory, Rousseau said to me, with his heart overflowing, 'At this moment Iexperience what is said in the gospel: Where two or three are gatheredtogether in my name, there am I in the midst of them. There is here afeeling of peace and happiness which penetrates the soul. ' I said, 'IfFinelon had lived, you would have been a Catholic. ' He exclaimed, withtears in his eyes, 'Oh, if Finelon were alive, I would struggle to getinto his service, even as a lackey!'" In my sketch of Saint Pierre, itwill be seen that I have somewhat antedated the period of his old age. At that time he was not probably more than fifty. In describing him, Ihave by no means exaggerated his own history of his mental condition atthe period of the story. In the fragmentary Sequel to his Studies ofNature, he thus speaks of himself: "The ingratitude of those of whom Ihad deserved kindness, unexpected family misfortunes, the total loss ofmy small patrimony through enterprises solely undertaken for the benefitof my country, the debts under which I lay oppressed, the blasting ofall my hopes, --these combined calamities made dreadful inroads upon myhealth and reason. . . . I found it impossible to continue in a roomwhere there was company, especially if the doors were shut. I could noteven cross an alley in a public garden, if several persons had gottogether in it. When alone, my malady subsided. I felt myself likewiseat ease in places where I saw children only. At the sight of any onewalking up to the place where I was, I felt my whole frame agitated, andretired. I often said to myself, 'My sole study has been to merit wellof mankind; why do I fear them?'"

He attributes his improved health of mind and body to the counsels ofhis friend, J. J. Rousseau. "I renounced, " says he, "my books. I threwmy eyes upon the works of nature, which spake to all my senses alanguage which neither time nor nations have it in their power to alter. Thenceforth my histories and my journals were the herbage of the fieldsand meadows. My thoughts did not go forth painfully after them, as inthe case of human systems; but their thoughts, under a thousand engagingforms, quietly sought me. In these I studied, without effort, the lawsof that Universal Wisdom which had surrounded me from the cradle, but onwhich heretofore I had bestowed little attention. "

Speaking of Rousseau, he says: "I derived inexpressible satisfactionfrom his society. What I prized still more than his genius was hisprobity. He was one of the few literary characters, tried in the furnaceof affliction, to whom you could, with perfect security, confide yourmost secret thoughts. . . . Even when he deviated, and became the victimof himself or of others, he could forget his own misery in devotion tothe welfare of mankind. He was uniformly the advocate of the miserable. There might be inscribed on his tomb these affecting words from thatBook of which he carried always about him some select passages, duringthe last years of his life: 'His sins, which are many, are forgiven, forhe loved much. '"

"I DO believe, and yet, in grief, I pray for help to unbelief;For needful strength aside to layThe daily cumberings of my way. 

"I 'm sick at heart of craft and cant, Sick of the crazed enthusiast's rant, Profession's smooth hypocrisies, And creeds of iron, and lives of ease. 

"I ponder o'er the sacred word, I read the record of our Lord;And, weak and troubled, envy themWho touched His seamless garment's hem;

"Who saw the tears of love He weptAbove the grave where Lazarus slept;And heard, amidst the shadows dimOf Olivet, His evening hymn. 

"How blessed the swineherd's low estate, The beggar crouching at the gate, The leper loathly and abhorred, Whose eyes of flesh beheld the Lord!

"O sacred soil His sandals pressed!Sweet fountains of His noonday rest!O light and air of Palestine, Impregnate with His life divine!

"Oh, bear me thither! Let me lookOn Siloa's pool, and Kedron's brook;Kneel at Gethsemane, and byGennesaret walk, before I die!

"Methinks this cold and northern nightWould melt before that Orient light;And, wet by Hermon's dew and rain, My childhood's faith revive again!"

So spake my friend, one autumn day, Where the still river slid awayBeneath us, and above the brownRed curtains of the woods shut down. 

Then said I, --for I could not brookThe mute appealing of his look, --"I, too, am weak, and faith is small, And blindness happeneth unto all. 

"Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong, the eternal right;And, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man;

"That all of good the past hath hadRemains to make our own time glad, Our common daily life divine, And every land a Palestine. 

"Thou weariest of thy present state;What gain to thee time's holiest date?The doubter now perchance had beenAs High Priest or as Pilate then!

"What thought Chorazin's scribes? What faithIn Him had Nain and Nazareth?Of the few followers whom He ledOne sold Him, --all forsook and fled. 

"O friend! we need nor rock nor sand, Nor storied stream of Morning-Land;The heavens are glassed in Merrimac, --What more could Jordan render back?

"We lack but open eye and earTo find the Orient's marvels here;The still small voice in autumn's hush, Yon maple wood the burning bush. 

"For still the new transcends the old, In signs and tokens manifold;Slaves rise up men; the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves!

"Through the harsh noises of our dayA low, sweet prelude finds its way;Through clouds of doubt, and creeds of fear, A light is breaking, calm and clear. 

"That song of Love, now low and far, Erelong shall swell from star to star!That light, the breaking day, which tipsThe golden-spired Apocalypse!"

Then, when my good friend shook his head, And, sighing, sadly smiled, I said:"Thou mind'st me of a story toldIn rare Bernardin's leaves of gold. "

And while the slanted sunbeams woveThe shadows of the frost-stained grove, And, picturing all, the river ranO'er cloud and wood, I thus began:--

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

In Mount Valerien's chestnut woodThe Chapel of the Hermits stood;And thither, at the close of day, Came two old pilgrims, worn and gray. 

One, whose impetuous youth defiedThe storms of Baikal's wintry side, And mused and dreamed where tropic dayFlamed o'er his lost Virginia's bay. 

His simple tale of love and woeAll hearts had melted, high or low;--A blissful pain, a sweet distress, Immortal in its tenderness. 

Yet, while above his charmed pageBeat quick the young heart of his age, He walked amidst the crowd unknown, A sorrowing old man, strange and lone. 

A homeless, troubled age, --the grayPale setting of a weary day;Too dull his ear for voice of praise, Too sadly worn his brow for bays. 

Pride, lust of power and glory, slept;Yet still his heart its young dream kept, And, wandering like the deluge-dove, Still sought the resting-place of love. 

And, mateless, childless, envied moreThe peasant's welcome from his doorBy smiling eyes at eventide, Than kingly gifts or lettered pride. 

Until, in place of wife and child, All-pitying Nature on him smiled, And gave to him the golden keysTo all her inmost sanctities. 

Mild Druid of her wood-paths dim!She laid her great heart bare to him, Its loves and sweet accords;--he sawThe beauty of her perfect law. 

The language of her signs lie knew, What notes her cloudy clarion blew;The rhythm of autumn's forest dyes, The hymn of sunset's painted skies. 

And thus he seemed to hear the songWhich swept, of old, the stars along;And to his eyes the earth once moreIts fresh and primal beauty wore. 

Who sought with him, from summer air, And field and wood, a balm for care;And bathed in light of sunset skiesHis tortured nerves and weary eyes?

His fame on all the winds had flown;His words had shaken crypt and throne;Like fire, on camp and court and cellThey dropped, and kindled as they fell. 

Beneath the pomps of state, belowThe mitred juggler's masque and show, A prophecy, a vague hope, ranHis burning thought from man to man. 

For peace or rest too well he sawThe fraud of priests, the wrong of law, And felt how hard, between the two, Their breath of pain the millions drew. 

A prophet-utterance, strong and wild, The weakness of an unweaned child, A sun-bright hope for human-kind, And self-despair, in him combined. 

He loathed the false, yet lived not trueTo half the glorious truths he knew;The doubt, the discord, and the sin, He mourned without, he felt within. 

Untrod by him the path he showed, Sweet pictures on his easel glowedOf simple faith, and loves of home, And virtue's golden days to come. 

But weakness, shame, and folly madeThe foil to all his pen portrayed;Still, where his dreamy splendors shone, The shadow of himself was thrown. 

Lord, what is man, whose thought, at times, Up to Thy sevenfold brightness climbs, While still his grosser instinct clingsTo earth, like other creeping things!

So rich in words, in acts so mean;So high, so low; chance-swung betweenThe foulness of the penal pitAnd Truth's clear sky, millennium-lit!

Vain, pride of star-lent genius!--vain, Quick fancy and creative brain, Unblest by prayerful sacrifice, Absurdly great, or weakly wise!

Midst yearnings for a truer life, Without were fears, within was strife;And still his wayward act deniedThe perfect good for which he sighed. 

The love he sent forth void returned;The fame that crowned him scorched and burned, Burning, yet cold and drear and lone, --A fire-mount in a frozen zone!

Like that the gray-haired sea-king passed, [9]Seen southward from his sleety mast, About whose brows of changeless frostA wreath of flame the wild winds tossed. 

Far round the mournful beauty playedOf lambent light and purple shade, Lost on the fixed and dumb despairOf frozen earth and sea and air!

A man apart, unknown, unlovedBy those whose wrongs his soul had moved, He bore the ban of Church and State, The good man's fear, the bigot's hate!

Forth from the city's noise and throng, Its pomp and shame, its sin and wrong, The twain that summer day had strayedTo Mount Valerien's chestnut shade. 

To them the green fields and the woodLent something of their quietude, And golden-tinted sunset seemedProphetical of all they dreamed. 

The hermits from their simple caresThe bell was calling home to prayers, And, listening to its sound, the twainSeemed lapped in childhood's trust again. 

Wide open stood the chapel door;A sweet old music, swelling o'erLow prayerful murmurs, issued thence, --The Litanies of Providence!

Then Rousseau spake: "Where two or threeIn His name meet, He there will be!"And then, in silence, on their kneesThey sank beneath the chestnut-trees. 

As to the blind returning light, As daybreak to the Arctic night, Old faith revived; the doubts of yearsDissolved in reverential tears. 

That gush of feeling overpast, "Ah me!" Bernardin sighed at last, I would thy bitterest foes could seeThy heart as it is seen of me!

"No church of God hast thou denied;Thou hast but spurned in scorn asideA bare and hollow counterfeit, Profaning the pure name of it!

"With dry dead moss and marish weedsHis fire the western herdsman feeds, And greener from the ashen plainThe sweet spring grasses rise again. 

"Nor thunder-peal nor mighty windDisturb the solid sky behind;And through the cloud the red bolt rendsThe calm, still smile of Heaven descends. 

"Thus through the world, like bolt and blast, And scourging fire, thy words have passed. Clouds break, --the steadfast heavens remain;Weeds burn, --the ashes feed the grain!

"But whoso strives with wrong may findIts touch pollute, its darkness blind;And learn, as latent fraud is shownIn others' faith, to doubt his own. 

"With dream and falsehood, simple trustAnd pious hope we tread in dust;Lost the calm faith in goodness, --lostThe baptism of the Pentecost!

"Alas!--the blows for error meantToo oft on truth itself are spent, As through the false and vile and baseLooks forth her sad, rebuking face. 

"Not ours the Theban's charmed life;We come not scathless from the strife!The Python's coil about us clings, The trampled Hydra bites and stings!

"Meanwhile, the sport of seeming chance, The plastic shapes of circumstance, What might have been we fondly guess, If earlier born, or tempted less. 

"And thou, in these wild, troubled days, Misjudged alike in blame and praise, Unsought and undeserved the sameThe skeptic's praise, the bigot's blame;--

"I cannot doubt, if thou hadst beenAmong the highly favored menWho walked on earth with Fenelon, He would have owned thee as his son;

"And, bright with wings of cherubimVisibly waving over him, Seen through his life, the Church had seemedAll that its old confessors dreamed. "

"I would have been, " Jean Jaques replied, "The humblest servant at his side, Obscure, unknown, content to seeHow beautiful man's life may be!

"Oh, more than thrice-blest relic, moreThan solemn rite or sacred lore, The holy life of one who trodThe foot-marks of the Christ of God!

"Amidst a blinded world he sawThe oneness of the Dual law;That Heaven's sweet peace on Earth began, And God was loved through love of man. 

"He lived the Truth which reconciledThe strong man Reason, Faith the child;In him belief and act were one, The homilies of duty done!"

So speaking, through the twilight grayThe two old pilgrims went their way. What seeds of life that day were sown, The heavenly watchers knew alone. 

Time passed, and Autumn came to foldGreen Summer in her brown and gold;Time passed, and Winter's tears of snowDropped on the grave-mound of Rousseau. 

"The tree remaineth where it fell, The pained on earth is pained in hell!"So priestcraft from its altars cursedThe mournful doubts its falsehood nursed. 

Ah! well of old the Psalmist prayed, "Thy hand, not man's, on me be laid!"Earth frowns below, Heaven weeps above, And man is hate, but God is love!

No Hermits now the wanderer sees, Nor chapel with its chestnut-trees;A morning dream, a tale that's told, The wave of change o'er all has rolled. 

Yet lives the lesson of that day;And from its twilight cool and grayComes up a low, sad whisper, "MakeThe truth thine own, for truth's own sake. 

"Why wait to see in thy brief spanIts perfect flower and fruit in man?No saintly touch can save; no balmOf healing hath the martyr's palm. 

"Midst soulless forms, and false pretenceOf spiritual pride and pampered sense, A voice saith, 'What is that to thee?Be true thyself, and follow Me!

"In days when throne and altar heardThe wanton's wish, the bigot's word, And pomp of state and ritual showScarce hid the loathsome death below, --

"Midst fawning priests and courtiers foul, The losel swarm of crown and cowl, White-robed walked Francois Fenelon, Stainless as Uriel in the sun!

"Yet in his time the stake blazed red, The poor were eaten up like breadMen knew him not; his garment's hemNo healing virtue had for them. 

"Alas! no present saint we find;The white cymar gleams far behind, Revealed in outline vague, sublime, Through telescopic mists of time!

"Trust not in man with passing breath, But in the Lord, old Scripture saith;The truth which saves thou mayst not blendWith false professor, faithless friend. 

"Search thine own heart. What paineth theeIn others in thyself may be;All dust is frail, all flesh is weak;Be thou the true man thou dost seek!

"Where now with pain thou treadest, trodThe whitest of the saints of God!To show thee where their feet were set, the light which led them shineth yet. 

"The footprints of the life divine, Which marked their path, remain in thine;And that great Life, transfused in theirs, Awaits thy faith, thy love, thy prayers!"

A lesson which I well may heed, A word of fitness to my need;So from that twilight cool and grayStill saith a voice, or seems to say. 

We rose, and slowly homeward turned, While down the west the sunset burned;And, in its light, hill, wood, and tide, And human forms seemed glorified. 

The village homes transfigured stood, And purple bluffs, whose belting woodAcross the waters leaned to holdThe yellow leaves like lamps of hold. 

Then spake my friend: "Thy words are true;Forever old, forever new, These home-seen splendors are the sameWhich over Eden's sunsets came. 

"To these bowed heavens let wood and hillLift voiceless praise and anthem still;Fall, warm with blessing, over them, Light of the New Jerusalem!

"Flow on, sweet river, like the streamOf John's Apocalyptic dreamThis mapled ridge shall Horeb be, Yon green-banked lake our Galilee!

"Henceforth my heart shall sigh no moreFor olden time and holier shore;God's love and blessing, then and there, Are now and here and everywhere. "1851. 

TAULER. 

TAULER, the preacher, walked, one autumn day, Without the walls of Strasburg, by the Rhine, Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life;As one who, wandering in a starless night, Feels momently the jar of unseen waves, And hears the thunder of an unknown sea, Breaking along an unimagined shore. 

And as he walked he prayed. Even the sameOld prayer with which, for half a score of years, Morning, and noon, and evening, lip and heartHad groaned: "Have pity upon me, Lord!Thou seest, while teaching others, I am blind. Send me a man who can direct my steps!"

Then, as he mused, he heard along his pathA sound as of an old man's staff amongThe dry, dead linden-leaves; and, looking up, He saw a stranger, weak, and poor, and old. 

"Peace be unto thee, father!" Tauler said, "God give thee a good day!" The old man raisedSlowly his calm blue eyes. "I thank thee, son;But all my days are good, and none are ill. "

Wondering thereat, the preacher spake again, "God give thee happy life. " The old man smiled, "I never am unhappy. "

 Tauler laidHis hand upon the stranger's coarse gray sleeve"Tell me, O father, what thy strange words mean. Surely man's days are evil, and his lifeSad as the grave it leads to. " "Nay, my son, Our times are in God's hands, and all our daysAre as our needs; for shadow as for sun, For cold as heat, for want as wealth, alikeOur thanks are due, since that is best which is;And that which is not, sharing not His life, Is evil only as devoid of good. And for the happiness of which I spake, I find it in submission to his will, And calm trust in the holy TrinityOf Knowledge, Goodness, and Almighty Power. "

Silently wondering, for a little space, Stood the great preacher; then he spake as oneWho, suddenly grappling with a haunting thoughtWhich long has followed, whispering through the darkStrange terrors, drags it, shrieking, into light"What if God's will consign thee hence to Hell?"

"Then, " said the stranger, cheerily, "be it so. What Hell may be I know not; this I know, --I cannot lose the presence of the Lord. One arm, Humility, takes hold uponHis dear Humanity; the other, Love, Clasps his Divinity. So where I goHe goes; and better fire-walled Hell with HimThan golden-gated Paradise without. "

Tears sprang in Tauler's eyes. A sudden light, Like the first ray which fell on chaos, cloveApart the shadow wherein he had walkedDarkly at noon. And, as the strange old manWent his slow way, until his silver hairSet like the white moon where the hills of vineSlope to the Rhine, he bowed his head and said"My prayer is answered. God hath sent the manLong sought, to teach me, by his simple trust, Wisdom the weary schoolmen never knew. "

So, entering with a changed and cheerful stepThe city gates, he saw, far down the street, A mighty shadow break the light of noon, Which tracing backward till its airy linesHardened to stony plinths, he raised his eyesO'er broad facade and lofty pediment, O'er architrave and frieze and sainted niche, Up the stone lace-work chiselled by the wiseErwin of Steinbach, dizzily up to whereIn the noon-brightness the great Minster's tower, Jewelled with sunbeams on its mural crown, Rose like a visible prayer. "Behold!" he said, "The stranger's faith made plain before mine eyes. As yonder tower outstretches to the earthThe dark triangle of its shade aloneWhen the clear day is shining on its top, So, darkness in the pathway of Man's lifeIs but the shadow of God's providence, By the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon;And what is dark below is light in Heaven. "1853. 

THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. 

O STRONG, upwelling prayers of faith, From inmost founts of life ye start, --The spirit's pulse, the vital breathOf soul and heart!

From pastoral toil, from traffic's din, Alone, in crowds, at home, abroad, Unheard of man, ye enter inThe ear of God. 

Ye brook no forced and measured tasks, Nor weary rote, nor formal chains;The simple heart, that freely asksIn love, obtains. 

For man the living temple isThe mercy-seat and cherubim, And all the holy mysteries, He bears with him. 

And most avails the prayer of love, Which, wordless, shapes itself in needs, And wearies Heaven for naught aboveOur common needs. 

Which brings to God's all-perfect willThat trust of His undoubting childWhereby all seeming good and illAre reconciled. 

And, seeking not for special signsOf favor, is content to fallWithin the providence which shinesAnd rains on all. 

Alone, the Thebaid hermit leanedAt noontime o'er the sacred word. Was it an angel or a fiendWhose voice be heard?

It broke the desert's hush of awe, A human utterance, sweet and mild;And, looking up, the hermit sawA little child. 

A child, with wonder-widened eyes, O'erawed and troubled by the sightOf hot, red sands, and brazen skies, And anchorite. 

"'What dost thou here, poor man? No shadeOf cool, green palms, nor grass, nor well, Nor corn, nor vines. " The hermit said"With God I dwell. 

"Alone with Him in this great calm, I live not by the outward sense;My Nile his love, my sheltering palmHis providence. "

The child gazed round him. "Does God liveHere only?--where the desert's rimIs green with corn, at morn and eve, We pray to Him. 

"My brother tills beside the NileHis little field; beneath the leavesMy sisters sit and spin, the whileMy mother weaves. 

"And when the millet's ripe heads fall, And all the bean-field hangs in pod, My mother smiles, and, says that allAre gifts from God. "

Adown the hermit's wasted cheeksGlistened the flow of human tears;"Dear Lord!" he said, "Thy angel speaks, Thy servant hears. "

Within his arms the child he took, And thought of home and life with men;And all his pilgrim feet forsookReturned again. 

The palmy shadows cool and long, The eyes that smiled through lavish locks, Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song, And bleat of flocks. 

"O child!" he said, "thou teachest meThere is no place where God is not;That love will make, where'er it be, A holy spot. "

He rose from off the desert sand, And, leaning on his staff of thorn, Went with the young child hand in hand, Like night with morn. 

They crossed the desert's burning line, And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan, The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine, And voice of man. 

Unquestioning, his childish guideHe followed, as the small hand ledTo where a woman, gentle-eyed, Her distaff fed. 

She rose, she clasped her truant boy, She thanked the stranger with her eyes;The hermit gazed in doubt and joyAnd dumb surprise. 

And to!--with sudden warmth and lightA tender memory thrilled his frame;New-born, the world-lost anchoriteA man became. 

"O sister of El Zara's race, Behold me!--had we not one mother?"She gazed into the stranger's face"Thou art my brother!"

"And when to share our evening meal, She calls the stranger at the door, She says God fills the hands that dealFood to the poor. "

"O kin of blood! Thy life of useAnd patient trust is more than mine;And wiser than the gray recluseThis child of thine. 

"For, taught of him whom God hath sent, That toil is praise, and love is prayer, I come, life's cares and pains contentWith thee to share. "

Even as his foot the threshold crossed, The hermit's better life began;Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost, And found a man!1854. 

MAUD MULLER. 

The recollection of some descendants of a Hessian deserter in theRevolutionary war bearing the name of Muller doubtless suggested thesomewhat infelicitous title of a New England idyl. The poem had no realfoundation in fact, though a hint of it may have been found in recallingan incident, trivial in itself, of a journey on the picturesque Maineseaboard with my sister some years before it was written. We had stoppedto rest our tired horse under the shade of an apple-tree, and refreshhim with water from a little brook which rippled through the stone wallacross the road. A very beautiful young girl in scantest summer attirewas at work in the hay-field, and as we talked with her we noticed thatshe strove to hide her bare feet by raking hay over them, blushing asshe did so, through the tan of her cheek and neck. 

MAUD MULLER on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealthOf simple beauty and rustic-health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry gleeThe mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrestAnd a nameless longing filled her breast, --

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shadeOf the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And asked a draught from the spring that flowedThrough the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking downOn her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draughtFrom a fairer hand was never quaffed. "

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whetherThe cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surpriseLooked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delaySeeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. 

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;My brother should sail a painted boat. 

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

"And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door. "

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful airShow her wise and good as she is fair. 

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay;

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words. "

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the wellTill the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyesLooked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead;

And closed his eyes on his garnished roomsTo dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay. "

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hotOn the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fallOver the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree againShe saw a rider draw his rein. 

And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen wallsStretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been. "

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope liesDeeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels mayRoll the stone from its grave away!1854. 

MARY GARVIN. FROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, from thelake that never fails, Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway'sintervales;There, in wild and virgin freshness, its watersfoam and flow, As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundredyears ago. 

But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, dams, and mills, How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedomof the hills, Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and statelyChampernoonHeard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trumpetof the loon!

With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds offire and steam, Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind himlike a dream. Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backwardfar and fastThe milestones of the fathers, the landmarks ofthe past. 

But human hearts remain unchanged: the sorrowand the sin, The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to ourown akin;

And if, in tales our fathers told, the songs ourmothers sung, Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is alwaysyoung. 

O sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks today!O mill-girl watching late and long the shuttle'srestless play!Let, for the once, a listening ear the working handbeguile, And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear orsmile!

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

The evening gun had sounded from gray FortMary's walls;Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared andplunged the Saco's' falls. 

And westward on the sea-wind, that damp andgusty grew, Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spurwinkblew. 

On the hearth of Farmer Garvin, blazed the cracklingwalnut log;Right and left sat dame and goodman, and betweenthem lay the dog, Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and besidehim on her mat, Sitting drowsy in the firelight, winked and purredthe mottled cat. 

"Twenty years!" said Goodman Garvin, speakingsadly, under breath, And his gray head slowly shaking, as one whospeaks of death. 

The goodwife dropped her needles: "It is twentyyears to-day, Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our childaway. "

Then they sank into the silence, for each knewthe other's thought, Of a great and common sorrow, and words were, needed not. 

"Who knocks?" cried Goodman Garvin. Thedoor was open thrown;On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked andfurred, the fire-light shone. 

One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skinfrom his head;"Lives here Elkanah Garvin?" "I am he, " thegoodman said. 

"Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the nightis chill with rain. "And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred thefire amain. 

The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the firelightglistened fairIn her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds ofdark brown hair. 

Dame Garvin looked upon her: "It is Mary's selfI see!""Dear heart!" she cried, "now tell me, has mychild come back to me?"

"My name indeed is Mary, " said the stranger sobbingwild;"Will you be to me a mother? I am Mary Garvin's child!"

"She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dyingdayShe bade my father take me to her kinsfolk faraway. 

"And when the priest besought her to do me nosuch wrong, She said, 'May God forgive me! I have closedmy heart too long. '

"'When I hid me from my father, and shut outmy mother's call, I sinned against those dear ones, and the Fatherof us all. 

"'Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks notie of kin apart;Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of heart. 

"'Tell me not the Church must censure: she whowept the Cross besideNever made her own flesh strangers, nor the claimsof blood denied;

"'And if she who wronged her parents, with herchild atones to them, Earthly daughter, Heavenly Mother! thou at leastwilt not condemn!'

"So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed motherspake;As we come to do her bidding, So receive us for hersake. "

"God be praised!" said Goodwife Garvin, "He taketh, and He gives;He woundeth, but He healeth; in her child ourdaughter lives!"

"Amen!" the old man answered, as he brushed atear away, And, kneeling by his hearthstone, said, with reverence, "Let us pray. "

All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew pararphrase, Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his prayerof love and praise. 

But he started at beholding, as he rose from offhis knee, The stranger cross his forehead with the sign ofPapistrie. 

"What is this?" cried Farmer Garvin. "Is an EnglishChristian's homeA chapel or a mass-house, that you make the signof Rome?"

Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed histrembling hand, and cried:Oh, forbear to chide my father; in that faith mymother died!

"On her wooden cross at Simcoe the dews andsunshine fall, As they fall on Spurwink's graveyard; and thedear God watches all!"

The old man stroked the fair head that rested onhis knee;"Your words, dear child, " he answered, "are God'srebuke to me. 

"Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet ourfaith and hope be one. Let me be your father's father, let him be to mea son. "

When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through thestill and frosty air, From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called tosermon and to prayer, To the goodly house of worship, where, in orderdue and fit, As by public vote directed, classed and ranked thepeople sit;

Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squirebefore the clown, "From the brave coat, lace-embroidered, to the grayfrock, shading down;"

From the pulpit read the preacher, "GoodmanGarvin and his wifeFain would thank the Lord, whose kindness hasfollowed them through life, "For the great and crowning mercy, that theirdaughter, from the wild, Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), hassent to them her child;

"And the prayers of all God's people they ask, that they may proveNot unworthy, through their weakness, of suchspecial proof of love. "

As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couplestood, And the fair Canadian also, in her modest maiden-hood. 

Thought the elders, grave and doubting, "She isPapist born and bred;"Thought the young men, "'T is an angel in MaryGarvin's stead!"

THE RANGER. 

Originally published as Martha Mason; a Song of the OldFrench War. 

ROBERT RAWLIN!--Frosts were fallingWhen the ranger's horn was callingThrough the woods to Canada. 

Gone the winter's sleet and snowing, Gone the spring-time's bud and blowing, Gone the summer's harvest mowing, And again the fields are gray. Yet away, he's away!Faint and fainter hope is growingIn the hearts that mourn his stay. 

Where the lion, crouching high onAbraham's rock with teeth of iron, Glares o'er wood and wave away, Faintly thence, as pines far sighing, Or as thunder spent and dying, Come the challenge and replying, Come the sounds of flight and fray. Well-a-day! Hope and pray!Some are living, some are lyingIn their red graves far away. 

Straggling rangers, worn with dangers, Homeward faring, weary strangersPass the farm-gate on their way;Tidings of the dead and living, Forest march and ambush, giving, Till the maidens leave their weaving, And the lads forget their play. "Still away, still away!"Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving, "Why does Robert still delay!"

Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, Does the golden-locked fruit bearerThrough his painted woodlands stray, Than where hillside oaks and beechesOverlook the long, blue reaches, Silver coves and pebbled beaches, And green isles of Casco Bay;Nowhere day, for delay, With a tenderer look beseeches, "Let me with my charmed earth stay. "

On the grain-lands of the mainlandsStands the serried corn like train-bands, Plume and pennon rustling gay;Out at sea, the islands wooded, Silver birches, golden-hooded, Set with maples, crimson-blooded, White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, Stretch away, far away. Dim and dreamy, over-broodedBy the hazy autumn day. 

Gayly chattering to the clatteringOf the brown nuts downward pattering, Leap the squirrels, red and gray. On the grass-land, on the fallow, Drop the apples, red and yellow;Drop the russet pears and mellow, Drop the red leaves all the day. And away, swift away, Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollowChasing, weave their web of play. 

"Martha Mason, Martha Mason, Prithee tell us of the reasonWhy you mope at home to-daySurely smiling is not sinning;Leave, your quilling, leave your spinning;What is all your store of linen, If your heart is never gay?Come away, come away!Never yet did sad beginningMake the task of life a play. "

Overbending, till she's blendingWith the flaxen skein she's tendingPale brown tresses smoothed awayFrom her face of patient sorrow, Sits she, seeking but to borrow, From the trembling hope of morrow, Solace for the weary day. "Go your way, laugh and play;Unto Him who heeds the sparrowAnd the lily, let me pray. "

"With our rally, rings the valley, --Join us!" cried the blue-eyed Nelly;"Join us!" cried the laughing May, "To the beach we all are going, And, to save the task of rowing, West by north the wind is blowing, Blowing briskly down the bayCome away, come away!Time and tide are swiftly flowing, Let us take them while we may!

"Never tell us that you'll fail us, Where the purple beach-plum mellowsOn the bluffs so wild and gray. Hasten, for the oars are falling;Hark, our merry mates are calling;Time it is that we were all in, Singing tideward down the bay!""Nay, nay, let me stay;Sore and sad for Robert RawlinIs my heart, " she said, "to-day. "

"Vain your calling for Rob RawlinSome red squaw his moose-meat's broiling, Or some French lass, singing gay;Just forget as he's forgetting;What avails a life of fretting?If some stars must needs be setting, Others rise as good as they. ""Cease, I pray; go your way!"Martha cries, her eyelids wetting;"Foul and false the words you say!"

"Martha Mason, hear to reason!--Prithee, put a kinder face on!""Cease to vex me, " did she say;"Better at his side be lying, With the mournful pine-trees sighing, And the wild birds o'er us crying, Than to doubt like mine a prey;While away, far away, Turns my heart, forever tryingSome new hope for each new day. 

"When the shadows veil the meadows, And the sunset's golden laddersSink from twilight's walls of gray, --From the window of my dreaming, I can see his sickle gleaming, Cheery-voiced, can hear him teamingDown the locust-shaded way;But away, swift away, Fades the fond, delusive seeming, And I kneel again to pray. 

"When the growing dawn is showing, And the barn-yard cock is crowing, And the horned moon pales awayFrom a dream of him awaking, Every sound my heart is makingSeems a footstep of his taking;Then I hush the thought, and say, 'Nay, nay, he's away!'Ah! my heart, my heart is breakingFor the dear one far away. "

Look up, Martha! worn and swarthy, Glows a face of manhood worthy"Robert!" "Martha!" all they say. O'er went wheel and reel together, Little cared the owner whither;Heart of lead is heart of feather, Noon of night is noon of day!Come away, come away!When such lovers meet each other, Why should prying idlers stay?

Quench the timber's fallen embers, Quench the recd leaves in December'sHoary rime and chilly spray. 

But the hearth shall kindle clearer, Household welcomes sound sincerer, Heart to loving heart draw nearer, When the bridal bells shall say:"Hope and pray, trust alway;Life is sweeter, love is dearer, For the trial and delay!"1856. 

THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN. 

FROM the hills of home forth looking, far beneaththe tent-like spanOf the sky, I see the white gleam of the headlandof Cape Ann. Well I know its coves and beaches to the ebb-tideglimmering down, And the white-walled hamlet children of its ancientfishing town. 

Long has passed the summer morning, and itsmemory waxes old, When along yon breezy headlands with a pleasantfriend I strolled. Ah! the autumn sun is shining, and the oceanwind blows cool, And the golden-rod and aster bloom around thygrave, Rantoul!

With the memory of that morning by the summersea I blendA wild and wondrous story, by the younger Matherpenned, In that quaint Magnalia Christi, with all strangeand marvellous things, Heaped up huge and undigested, like the chaosOvid sings. 

Dear to me these far, faint glimpses of the duallife of old, Inward, grand with awe and reverence; outward, mean and coarse and cold;Gleams of mystic beauty playing over dull andvulgar clay, Golden-threaded fancies weaving in a web ofhodden gray. 

The great eventful Present hides the Past; butthrough the dinOf its loud life hints and echoes from the lifebehind steal in;And the lore of homeland fireside, and the legendaryrhyme, Make the task of duty lighter which the true manowes his time. 

So, with something of the feeling which the Covenanterknew, When with pious chisel wandering Scotland'smoorland graveyards through, From the graves of old traditions I part the black-berry-vines, Wipe the moss from off the headstones, and retouchthe faded lines. 

Where the sea-waves back and forward, hoarsewith rolling pebbles, ran, The garrison-house stood watching on the grayrocks of Cape Ann;On its windy site uplifting gabled roof and palisade, And rough walls of unhewn timber with the moonlightoverlaid. 

On his slow round walked the sentry, south andeastward looking forthO'er a rude and broken coast-line, white withbreakers stretching north, --Wood and rock and gleaming sand-drift, jaggedcapes, with bush and tree, Leaning inland from the smiting of the wild andgusty sea. 

Before the deep-mouthed chimney, dimly lit bydying brands, Twenty soldiers sat and waited, with their musketsin their hands;On the rough-hewn oaken table the venison haunchwas shared, And the pewter tankard circled slowly round frombeard to beard. 

Long they sat and talked together, --talked ofwizards Satan-sold;Of all ghostly sights and noises, --signs and wondersmanifold;Of the spectre-ship of Salem, with the dead menin her shrouds, Sailing sheer above the water, in the loom of morningclouds;

Of the marvellous valley hidden in the depths ofGloucester woods, Full of plants that love the summer, --blooms ofwarmer latitudes;Where the Arctic birch is braided by the tropic'sflowery vines, And the white magnolia-blossoms star the twilightof the pines!

But their voices sank yet lower, sank to huskytones of fear, As they spake of present tokens of the powers ofevil near;Of a spectral host, defying stroke of steel and aimof gun;Never yet was ball to slay them in the mould ofmortals run. 

Thrice, with plumes and flowing scalp-locks, fromthe midnight wood they came, --Thrice around the block-house marching, met, unharmed, its volleyed flame;Then, with mocking laugh and gesture, sunk inearth or lost in air, All the ghostly wonder vanished, and the moonlitsands lay bare. 

Midnight came; from out the forest moved adusky mass that soonGrew to warriors, plumed and painted, grimlymarching in the moon. "Ghosts or witches, " said the captain, "thus I foilthe Evil One!"And he rammed a silver button, from his doublet, down his gun. 

Once again the spectral horror moved the guardedwall about;Once again the levelled muskets through the palisadesflashed out, With that deadly aim the squirrel on his tree-topmight not shun, Nor the beach-bird seaward flying with his slantwing to the sun. 

Like the idle rain of summer sped the harmlessshower of lead. With a laugh of fierce derision, once again thephantoms fled;Once again, without a shadow on the sands themoonlight lay, And the white smoke curling through it driftedslowly down the bay!

"God preserve us!" said the captain; "nevermortal foes were there;They have vanished with their leader, Prince andPower of the air!Lay aside your useless weapons; skill and prowessnaught avail;They who do the Devil's service wear their master'scoat of mail!"

So the night grew near to cock-crow, when againa warning callRoused the score of weary soldiers watching roundthe dusky hallAnd they looked to flint and priming, and theylonged for break of day;But the captain closed his Bible: "Let us ceasefrom man, and pray!"

To the men who went before us, all the unseenpowers seemed near, And their steadfast strength of courage struck itsroots in holy fear. Every hand forsook the musket, every head wasbowed and bare, Every stout knee pressed the flag-stones, as thecaptain led in prayer. 

Ceased thereat the mystic marching of the spectresround the wall, But a sound abhorred, unearthly, smote the earsand hearts of all, --Howls of rage and shrieks of anguish! Neverafter mortal manSaw the ghostly leaguers marching round theblock-house of Cape Ann. 

So to us who walk in summer through the cool andsea-blown town, From the childhood of its people comes the solemnlegend down. Not in vain the ancient fiction, in whose morallives the youthAnd the fitness and the freshness of an undecayingtruth. 

Soon or late to all our dwellings come the spectresof the mind, Doubts and fears and dread forebodings, in thedarkness undefined;Round us throng the grim projections of the heartand of the brain, And our pride of strength is weakness, and thecunning hand is vain. 

In the dark we cry like children; and no answerfrom on highBreaks the crystal spheres of silence, and no whitewings downward fly;But the heavenly help we pray for comes to faith, and not to sight, And our prayers themselves drive backward all thespirits of the night!1857. 

THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. 

TRITEMIUS of Herbipolis, one day, While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice, Heard from without a miserable voice, A sound which seemed of all sad things to tell, As of a lost soul crying out of hell. 

Thereat the Abbot paused; the chain wherebyHis thoughts went upward broken by that cry;And, looking from the casement, saw belowA wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow, And withered hands held up to him, who criedFor alms as one who might not be denied. 

She cried, "For the dear love of Him who gaveHis life for ours, my child from bondage save, --My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slavesIn the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit wavesLap the white walls of Tunis!"--"What I canI give, " Tritemius said, "my prayers. "--"O manOf God!" she cried, for grief had made her bold, "Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold. Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice;Even while I speak perchance my first-born dies. "

"Woman!" Tritemius answered, "from our doorNone go unfed, hence are we always poor;A single soldo is our only store. Thou hast our prayers;--what can we give theemore?"

"Give me, " she said, "the silver candlesticksOn either side of the great crucifix. God well may spare them on His errands sped, Or He can give you golden ones instead. "

Then spake Tritemius, "Even as thy word, Woman, so be it! (Our most gracious Lord, Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice, Pardon me if a human soul I prizeAbove the gifts upon his altar piled!Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child. "

But his hand trembled as the holy almsHe placed within the beggar's eager palms;And as she vanished down the linden shade, He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed. So the day passed, and when the twilight cameHe woke to find the chapel all aflame, And, dumb with grateful wonder, to beholdUpon the altar candlesticks of gold!1857. 

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 

In the valuable and carefully prepared History of Marblehead, publishedin 1879 by Samuel Roads, Jr. , it is stated that the crew of CaptainIreson, rather than himself, were responsible for the abandonment of thedisabled vessel. To screen themselves they charged their captain withthe crime. In view of this the writer of the ballad addressed thefollowing letter to the historian:--

OAK KNOLL, DANVERS, 5 mo. 18, 1880. MY DEAR FRIEND: I heartily thank thee for a copy of thy History ofMarblehead. I have read it with great interest and think good use hasbeen made of the abundant material. No town in Essex County has a recordmore honorable than Marblehead; no one has done more to develop theindustrial interests of our New England seaboard, and certainly nonehave given such evidence of self-sacrificing patriotism. I am glad thestory of it has been at last told, and told so well. I have now no doubtthat thy version of Skipper Ireson's ride is the correct one. My versewas founded solely on a fragment of rhyme which I heard from one of myearly schoolmates, a native of Marblehead. I supposed the story to whichit referred dated back at least a century. I knew nothing of theparticipators, and the narrative of the ballad was pure fancy. I am gladfor the sake of truth and justice that the real facts are given in thybook. I certainly would not knowingly do injustice to any one, dead orliving. 

I am very truly thy friend, JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

OF all the rides since, the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, --On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass;Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, --The strangest ride that ever was spedWas Ireson's, out from Marblehead!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chaseBacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, Over and over the Manads sang"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an dorr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"

Small pity for him!--He sailed awayFrom a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, --Sailed away from a sinking wreck, With his own town's-people on her deck!"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim!Brag of your catch of fish again!"And off he sailed through the fog and rain!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark ChaleurThat wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of MarbleheadOver the moaning and rainy sea, --Looked for the coming that might not be!What did the winds and the sea-birds sayOf the cruel captain who sailed away?--Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!

Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide;Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o''Morble'ead!"

Sweetly along the Salem roadBloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knewOf the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like to Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hearOf voices shouting, far and near"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"

"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried, --"What to me is this noisy ride?What is the shame that clothes the skinTo the nameless horror that lives within?Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck!Hate me and curse me, --I only dreadThe hand of God and the face of the dead!"Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at seaSaid, "God has touched him! why should we?"Said an old wife mourning her only son, "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"So with soft relentings and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!1857. 

THE SYCAMORES. 

Hugh Tallant was the first Irish resident of Haverhill, Mass. He plantedthe button-wood trees on the bank of the river below the village in theearly part of the seventeenth century. Unfortunately this noble avenueis now nearly destroyed. 

IN the outskirts of the village, On the river's winding shores, Stand the Occidental plane-trees, Stand the ancient sycamores. 

One long century hath been numbered, And another half-way told, Since the rustic Irish gleemanBroke for them the virgin mould. 

Deftly set to Celtic music, At his violin's sound they grew, Through the moonlit eves of summer, Making Amphion's fable true. 

Rise again, then poor Hugh TallantPass in jerkin green along, With thy eyes brimful of laughter, And thy mouth as full of song. 

Pioneer of Erin's outcasts, With his fiddle and his pack;Little dreamed the village SaxonsOf the myriads at his back. 

How he wrought with spade and fiddle, Delved by day and sang by night, With a hand that never wearied, And a heart forever light, --

Still the gay tradition minglesWith a record grave and drear, Like the rollic air of Cluny, With the solemn march of Mear. 

When the box-tree, white with blossoms, Made the sweet May woodlands glad, And the Aronia by the riverLighted up the swarming shad, And the bulging nets swept shoreward, With their silver-sided haul, Midst the shouts of dripping fishers, He was merriest of them all. 

When, among the jovial huskers, Love stole in at Labor's side, With the lusty airs of England, Soft his Celtic measures vied. 

Songs of love and wailing lyke--wake, And the merry fair's carouse;Of the wild Red Fox of ErinAnd the Woman of Three Cows, By the blazing hearths of winter, Pleasant seemed his simple tales, Midst the grimmer Yorkshire legendsAnd the mountain myths of Wales. 

How the souls in PurgatoryScrambled up from fate forlorn, On St. Eleven's sackcloth ladder, Slyly hitched to Satan's horn. 

Of the fiddler who at TaraPlayed all night to ghosts of kings;Of the brown dwarfs, and the fairiesDancing in their moorland rings. 

Jolliest of our birds of singing, Best he loved the Bob-o-link. "Hush!" he 'd say, "the tipsy fairiesHear the little folks in drink!"

Merry-faced, with spade and fiddle, Singing through the ancient town, Only this, of poor Hugh Tallant, Hath Tradition handed down. 

Not a stone his grave discloses;But if yet his spirit walks, 'T is beneath the trees he planted, And when Bob-o-Lincoln talks;

Green memorials of the gleeman ILinking still the river-shores, With their shadows cast by sunset, Stand Hugh Tallant's sycamores!

When the Father of his CountryThrough the north-land riding came, And the roofs were starred with banners, And the steeples rang acclaim, --

When each war-scarred Continental, Leaving smithy, mill, and farm, Waved his rusted sword in welcome, And shot off his old king's arm, --

Slowly passed that August PresenceDown the thronged and shouting street;Village girls as white as angels, Scattering flowers around his feet. 

Midway, where the plane-tree's shadowDeepest fell, his rein he drewOn his stately head, uncovered, Cool and soft the west-wind blew. 

And he stood up in his stirrups, Looking up and looking downOn the hills of Gold and SilverRimming round the little town, --

On the river, full of sunshine, To the lap of greenest valesWinding down from wooded headlands, Willow-skirted, white with sails. 

And he said, the landscape sweepingSlowly with his ungloved hand, "I have seen no prospect fairerIn this goodly Eastern land. "

Then the bugles of his escortStirred to life the cavalcadeAnd that head, so bare and stately, Vanished down the depths of shade. 

Ever since, in town and farm-house, Life has had its ebb and flow;Thrice hath passed the human harvestTo its garner green and low. 

But the trees the gleeman planted, Through the changes, changeless stand;As the marble calm of TadmorMocks the desert's shifting sand. 

Still the level moon at risingSilvers o'er each stately shaft;Still beneath them, half in shadow, Singing, glides the pleasure craft;

Still beneath them, arm-enfolded, Love and Youth together stray;While, as heart to heart beats faster, More and more their feet delay. 

Where the ancient cobbler, Keezar, On the open hillside wrought, Singing, as he drew his stitches, Songs his German masters taught, Singing, with his gray hair floatingRound his rosy ample face, --Now a thousand Saxon craftsmenStitch and hammer in his place. 

All the pastoral lanes so grassyNow are Traffic's dusty streets;From the village, grown a city, Fast the rural grace retreats. 

But, still green, and tall, and stately, On the river's winding shores, Stand the Occidental plane-trees, Stand, Hugh Taliant's sycamores. 1857. 

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW. 

An incident of the Sepoy mutiny. 

PIPES of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills;The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills!Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the Lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer, --To the cottage and the castleThe Scottish pipes are dear;--Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played. 

Day by day the Indian tigerLouder yelled, and nearer crept;Round and round the jungle-serpentNear and nearer circles swept. "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, --Pray to-day!" the soldier said;"To-morrow, death's between usAnd the wrong and shame we dread. "

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair;And the sobs of low bewailingFilled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground"Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it?The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning;Hushed the wife her little ones;Alone they heard the drum-rollAnd the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhoodThe Highland ear was true;--As her mother's cradle-crooningThe mountain pipes she knew. 

Like the march of soundless musicThrough the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch, She knew the Campbell's call"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, The grandest o' them all!"

Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last;Faint and far beyond the GoomteeRose and fell the piper's blastThen a burst of wild thanksgivingMingled woman's voice and man's;"God be praised!--the march of Havelock!The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust-cloudTo plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomelyThe pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne. O'er the cruel roll of war-drumsRose that sweet and homelike strain;And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. 

Dear to the corn-land reaperAnd plaided mountaineer, --To the cottage and the castleThe piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibrochO'er mountain, glen, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe Pipes at Lucknow played!1858. 

TELLING THE BEES. 

A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailedin the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of thefamily, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hivesdressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary toprevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home. 

HERE is the place; right over the hillRuns the path I took;You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall;And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in the sun;And down by the brinkOf the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow;And the same rose blooms, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago. 

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;And the June sun warmTangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. 

I mind me how with a lover's careFrom my Sunday coatI brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow andthroat. 

Since we parted, a month had passed, --To love, a year;Down through the beeches I looked at lastOn the little red gate and the well-sweep near. 

I can see it all now, --the slantwise rainOf light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 

Just the same as a month before, --The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, --Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 

Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black. 

Trembling, I listened: the summer sunHad the chill of snow;For I knew she was telling the bees of oneGone on the journey we all must go. 

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weepsFor the dead to-day;Haply her blind old grandsire sleepsThe fret and the pain of his age away. "

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl stillSung to the bees stealing out and in. 

And the song she was singing ever sinceIn my ear sounds on:--"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"1858. 

THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY. 

In Young's Chronicles of Massachusetts Bay front 1623 to 1636 may befound Anthony Thacher's Narrative of his Shipwreck. Thacher was Avery'scompanion and survived to tell the tale. Mather's Magnalia, III. 2, gives further Particulars of Parson Avery's End, and suggests the titleof the poem. 

WHEN the reaper's task was ended, and thesummer wearing late, Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with his wifeand children eight, Dropping down the river-harbor in the shallop"Watch and Wait. "

Pleasantly lay the clearings in the mellow summer-morn, With the newly planted orchards dropping theirfruits first-born, And the home-roofs like brown islands amid a seaof corn. 

Broad meadows reached out 'seaward the tidedcreeks between, And hills rolled wave-like inland, with oaks andwalnuts green;--A fairer home, a--goodlier land, his eyes had neverseen. 

Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where duty led, And the voice of God seemed calling, to break theliving breadTo the souls of fishers starving on the rocks ofMarblehead. 

All day they sailed: at nightfall the pleasant land-breeze died, The blackening sky, at midnight, its starry lightsdenied, And far and low the thunder of tempest prophesied. 

Blotted out were all the coast-lines, gone were rock, and wood, and sand;Grimly anxious stood the skipper with the rudderin his hand, And questioned of the darkness what was sea andwhat was land. 

And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestledround him, weeping sore, "Never heed, my little children! Christ is walkingon before;To the pleasant land of heaven, where the sea shallbe no more. "

All at once the great cloud parted, like a curtaindrawn aside, To let down the torch of lightning on the terrorfar and wide;And the thunder and the whirlwind together smotethe tide. 

There was wailing in the shallop, woman's wailand man's despair, A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so sharpand bare, And, through it all, the murmur of Father Avery'sprayer. 

From his struggle in the darkness with the wildwaves and the blast, On a rock, where every billow broke above him asit passed, Alone, of all his household, the man of God wascast. 

There a comrade heard him praying, in the pauseof wave and wind"All my own have gone before me, and I lingerjust behind;Not for life I ask, but only for the rest Thyransomed find!

"In this night of death I challenge the promise ofThy word!--Let me see the great salvation of which mine earshave heard!--Let me pass from hence forgiven, through thegrace of Christ, our Lord!

"In the baptism of these waters wash white myevery sin, And let me follow up to Thee my household andmy kin!Open the sea-gate of Thy heaven, and let me enterin!"

When the Christian sings his death-song, all thelistening heavens draw near, And the angels, leaning over the walls of crystal, hearHow the notes so faint and broken swell to musicin God's ear. 

The ear of God was open to His servant's lastrequest;As the strong wave swept him downward the sweethymn upward pressed, And the soul of Father Avery went, singing, to itsrest. 

There was wailing on the mainland, from the rocksof Marblehead;In the stricken church of Newbury the notes ofprayer were read;And long, by board and hearthstone, the livingmourned the dead. 

And still the fishers outbound, or scudding fromthe squall, With grave and reverent faces, the ancient talerecall, When they see the white waves breaking on theRock of Avery's Fall!1808. 

THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY. 

"Concerning ye Amphisbaena, as soon as I received your commands, I madediligent inquiry: . . . He assures me yt it had really two heads, oneat each end; two mouths, two stings or tongues. "--REV. CHRISTOPHERTOPPAN to COTTON MATHER. 

FAR away in the twilight timeOf every people, in every clime, Dragons and griffins and monsters dire, Born of water, and air, and fire, Or nursed, like the Python, in the mudAnd ooze of the old Deucalion flood, Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage, Through dusk tradition and ballad age. So from the childhood of Newbury townAnd its time of fable the tale comes downOf a terror which haunted bush and brake, The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake!

Thou who makest the tale thy mirth, Consider that strip of Christian earthOn the desolate shore of a sailless sea, Full of terror and mystery, Half redeemed from the evil holdOf the wood so dreary, and dark, and old, Which drank with its lips of leaves the dewWhen Time was young, and the world was new, And wove its shadows with sun and moon, Ere the stones of Cheops were squared and hewn. Think of the sea's dread monotone, Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood blown, Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the North, Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth, And the dismal tales the Indian told, Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew cold, And he shrank from the tawny wizard boasts, And the hovering shadows seemed full of ghosts, And above, below, and on every side, The fear of his creed seemed verified;--And think, if his lot were now thine own, To grope with terrors nor named nor known, How laxer muscle and weaker nerveAnd a feebler faith thy need might serve;And own to thyself the wonder moreThat the snake had two heads, and not a score!

Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fenOr the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den, Or swam in the wooded Artichoke, Or coiled by the Northman's Written Rock, Nothing on record is left to show;Only the fact that be lived, we know, And left the cast of a double headIn the scaly mask which he yearly shed. For he carried a head where his tail should be, And the two, of course, could never agree, But wriggled about with main and might, Now to the left and now to the right;Pulling and twisting this way and that, Neither knew what the other was at. 

A snake with two beads, lurking so near!Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear!Think what ancient gossips might say, Shaking their heads in their dreary way, Between the meetings on Sabbath-day!How urchins, searching at day's declineThe Common Pasture for sheep or kine, The terrible double-ganger heardIn leafy rustle or whir of bird!Think what a zest it gave to the sport, In berry-time, of the younger sort, As over pastures blackberry-twined, Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind, And closer and closer, for fear of harm, The maiden clung to her lover's arm;And how the spark, who was forced to stay, By his sweetheart's fears, till the break of day, Thanked the snake for the fond delay. 

Far and wide the tale was told, Like a snowball growing while it rolled. The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry;And it served, in the worthy minister's eye, To paint the primitive serpent by. Cotton Mather came galloping downAll the way to Newbury town, With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, And his marvellous inkhorn at his side;Stirring the while in the shallow poolOf his brains for the lore he learned at school, To garnish the story, with here a streakOf Latin, and there another of GreekAnd the tales he heard and the notes he took, Behold! are they not in his Wonder-Book?

Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. If the snake does not, the tale runs stillIn Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. And still, whenever husband and wifePublish the shame of their daily strife, And, with mad cross-purpose, tug and strainAt either end of the marriage-chain, The gossips say, with a knowing shakeOf their gray heads, "Look at the Double SnakeOne in body and two in will, The Amphisbaena is living still!"1859.